Antic Round -- Chapter 2 -- Reacquaintance

written by Ashley @ casualvillain.com


        After an hour more, the rain subsided, fading away into a fog that tickled the Graylands like fingers. It caressed the buildings and combed through the alleys, thick as mud, a living thing that seemed to possess the people in the streets when they breathed it in. The poison muted their actions and turned them sluggish so that Ashley had no problem moving past them unseen. Dawn was pink on the horizon, a beautiful promise that he embraced, he had little love of the night and all the dark nuances it carried with it. A grimace of unease twisted his lips and the former Riskbreaker crept through the fogs as swiftly as he could, moving closer to Bardorba's manor, as close as he dared with the guards roving like bees about their hive. It had been nearly two hours since Sydney had left him, that sad, sad look in his eyes. He'd insisted he was going off to do what had to be done though it had looked like he had no desire to do it. Ashley thought he'd understood that sadness. Sydney truly cared for his father, he'd already sacrificed nearly everything he'd ever had for him. To kill him now...

        It made little sense, really. Bardorba had only days left to him at best. The sickness eating away at his flesh had reached the bones and soon would move into his lungs. He was dead already really. What a horrible thing that had to be to lay in a bed and wait for your own death, helplessly watching yourself crumble, particularly during a time when everything you've ever struggled for hangs in the balance. Yet the balance had been restored last week, it had even been tipped in Parliament's favour a touch.

        So why had Sydney gone to kill his father tonight?

        Ashley had asked and been given no answer. Only that smile. That bewitching smile that seemed to hold the promise of a perfect world. He'd been able to ask no further questions of it, the smile had been like a sort of answer in itself.

        These streets were too quiet. The fog tasted bad though when Ashley licked his lips, he tasted nothing. Maybe it was a smell... no... there was just something wrong about the air. It stuck in his throat, made it a little hard to breathe and his fingers and toes tingled. Soon the discomfort moved to his head and he reeled on his feet, every nerve on edge because he knew how suddenly vulnerable he'd become. This strange sickness came and went without warning. It took the smallest things to trigger it. Quiet as a shadow, the former Riskbreaker stretched his hearing to its limits, checking for sounds of guards and then, reasonably certain it was safe to do so, he moved out of the shelter of the awning he'd stood crouched beneath and crossed the street, whispering words as he did. The words were Sydney's, or Müllenkamp's... someone's... Sydney had taught them to him that week and they called the Dark's attention, requesting aid. Queer, how these magicks worked. It took only the power of will and the proper words to gain control, at least in a limited way, over the Dark. Simply because Ashley now asked it to, speaking in Kildean, a language well-known to the dark gods, the power that coursed through him would speed his steps and turn him insubstantial enough that he could move past the air rather than through it, granting him inhuman speed and startling agility.

        "Monstrous," he thought again.

        The power he controlled was not from WITHIN. That was not what this was. He was simply a conduit, a body that the Dark could flow through to manifest. A man could not wield a power like that, putting it in his pocket to use at his convenience. He could only hope to become acceptable and attuned to the power, then influence that power's actions when it passed through him. Yet with that passing, it took a little something of Ashley with it and that was the horrible feeling he experienced when he conjured. Sydney had called it wonderful. He liked it. He compared it to sex.

        He would.

        Ashley thought it was like being utterly naked. Nothing could protect him from the Dark. His limbs were chained and he was helpless like a babe, used at random by the thing that had claimed him. True, he could use it himself, as he now was to sneak past the very whiskers of the fool guards, but even this sorcery felt as though he were being... humoured. If it wanted, the Dark would run through him like water and he'd have very little ability to curb its desires. This was where the danger of his situation came in, Sydney had said. Ashley had to learn to tame his susceptibility to it.

        He was regarded as little more than a gentle breeze when he moved away from the guards. There were three of them, each brandishing a pike, each looking uneasy and unsure of themselves. It was the fog, it had to be. It made everything hard to see and understand and from far enough away, a simple man looked like a demon enshrouded in these mists. The guards themselves looked sinister wrapped in its folds, and avoiding them certainly seemed a wise choice. Dizzy but ever cautious, Ashley crept by them, only a hair's breadth from the captain, so close he could have laid a hand on the man's shoulder if he'd dared. Unseen, hidden by the Dark, he found himself suddenly whole and perfect in the shadows of a two story cottage, only a block away from Duke Bardorba's lofty home, the Watch nearby but around the corner, completely eluded.

        "This be madness..." he whispered and he could hear that wretched woman in his head, laughing. Utter madness.

        Near enough now to catch sight of it again, the ducal residence seemed quiet. It was approaching half past six in the morning and still the torches were dark and there was no movement about the grounds. Strange... the Duke was an early riser and during the autumn season Parliament convened in the wee hours, no later than eight. If Bardorba had passed in the night, it would explain the sombre air about his manor now yet if that death were suspected to have been bloody murder... where were the Templar? The investigators of the VKP?

        No, this was wrong. Something terrible had happened with Sydney's mission. There wasn't any other possibility.

        Suddenly the ill thoughts were shoved aside and Ashley muttered a silent oath, swinging himself back into the darkness of the alley and out of view of the manor. The Dark screamed through him, making rational thought nearly impossible. He had to fight past this, concentrating on his own mind, just as he'd been told to do. He couldn't lose himself in the voices, the urges, or the screams that it seemed only he could hear. He had to remember his own identity in the sea of other identities. Why was the Dark so ill at ease? Was it because of these happenings or was it because of Ashley's own anxiety?

        Most likely it was a mixture of both. The Dark flowed through him and so if he was uneasy in his role as weaver of the Divine, the Divinity itself would buck and kick and tear at his soul in frustration. Ach, this was so complex and delicate, he hated it. Give him the firm grip of a sword in his hand, the beautiful zip of a crossbow bolt, or the sound of clashing steel that always seemed to clear his mind when it rang out; any of those things, any sort of action or definite form of offence... anything... this magick was vague and difficult. He was weary from trying to learn its teasing ways.

        Frustrated, completely ignorant as to whatever it was happening inside, Ashley crouched just short of the street leading to Bardorba's mansion and lingered in the shadows, waiting for some bit of peace to seek him out. He was tired of the Dark's prodding and pushing, just a moment of silence, he'd trade anything for it.

        The guards were jabbering from the next street over; their words slithered through the fog and to his ears like worms through sand. Beyond them, the city noises were soothing. It was a strange time of day, that uncertain ragged edge between morning and night where light bled into dark and the sky lauded the colours. The rain had fled for the most part yet it left the world glistening. The remains of the starlight caught the puddles in the streets and they seemed as though paved in silver, girded in cool blue steel. Everything stood shining beneath a sheen of water. The colours and textures swirled before Ashley's eyes. After staring long enough, Bardorba's manse itself began teeming with the spectacles of the rain's effects. The brown stone manor veritably danced upon the lawn, moving along with the melody of the remains of the rain. It had collected in the eaves and ran dripping into the stormdrains, had the rain. Fat heavy drops overlaid a louder rush of running water from the gutters and there was still the delicate sprinkling of the last of the storm behind both. Far-away, horse hooves clattered against the cobblestones and mens' shouts from the quay rang out like birds' cries.

        It was all a beautiful song, really.

        Ashley found his head laid back against a wall of the alley, his cloak fallen away from his face. The fog embraced him from all sides, still bringing a frightening, mysterious dizziness with it but if he just stood still, the dizziness itself passed through him without disturbing his thoughts.

        The song of Leá Monde was nothing at all like this, he mused silently, eyelids growing quite heavy as the rain hummed, The city did not sing, it only moaned.

        Leá Monde had haunted Ashley's dreams ever since returning from its borders. The dreams filled him with an overwhelming sense of loneliness upon awakening and occasionally, on a perfectly clear, beautiful afternoon, the dreams would come again, mocking him with the smells, sounds, and the very sight of the Death that he thought he'd left behind. The city was haunting him. Those countless souls... they would not leave him be. Was it not punishment enough that he'd left that dark place with this curse on his soul and the burden of Müllenkamp's successorship? Must he also be plagued by the wails of those he hadn't been able to save?

        But he'd saved no one. No one but he himself and the one man he needed in order to go on living his life. All of those Knights had died and even now their souls lay sealed behind the Paling; screaming, pleading, or not caring at all. Ashley thought suddenly upon Grissom and wondered if the misguided cleric still stumbled through the underground; had Lady Samantha gone to hell with her Romeo or was she simply another shade wand'ring the streets and hungry for the life she'd had snatched from her? What of the others? What even of Rosencrantz, that manipulating and self-serving little scoundrel? Ashley had seen him die; cut in two by that statue and yet in all actuality, that grisly death had meant little. His black soul most likely had been caught up in the whirlwind of souls that blew through Leá Monde's walls. Despite death, his ambitions still ran high and he'd probably turned to his fellow dead and started swindling them. Ashley almost smiled at that thought but it was still a little too morbid to find humour in.

        All those souls, a tapestry of the weeping dead stranded forever in a purgatory that bordered on hell. Sydney had been the cause of the demons and dragons infesting Leá Monde last week and his defeat along with Guildenstern's had done nothing but cleanse the city of the summoned evil, sending the Dark back into more acceptable levels. The dead still walked, surely. The corpses were still powered by either the wand'ring ghosts who found themselves strong enough still to move them or by the mindless evil of the Dark, thirsting forever for the deaths of others. They'd walk the blue-tinted streets of the undercity for a long time now and find no life there. What a fruitless, lonely existence. And yet Ashley wondered if it still was better than complete death. Even those souls didn't know what there was beyond their realm. Perhaps their tenacity stemmed from the fear that there WAS nothing else. One might as well hold onto something tangible rather than reach for something that mightn't be there at all.

        ~There is nothing else there, Ashley.~

        Müllenkamp. Ashley knew her face and voice now quite well. She'd shown up in his thoughts for the first time as he and Sydney had been fleeing crumbling Leá Monde. She was absolutely the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen. More gorgeous even than Tia on their wedding night and as strange as it seemed, Ashley knew no guilt when he thought this. It was just plain honest truth.

        As elusive as the raindrops, she appeared now, fading forward from the darkness to stand before his eyes. All the rest of the alley he'd hid in and the Graylands themselves were submerged in the fog and only she burned bright to him, coming closer until the top of her head lay just below his chin. She leaned forward, both hands on his chest, and laid her ear against his steady heartbeat. "How now, Lady?" he whispered, astounded even then at how real she seemed. Here was a spectre who'd truly cheated death. To her servants she could appear in flesh as true as theirs, warm and inviting to view and to touch. Every detail about her was perfect and alive here; the golden circlet with the bright red beads that stood out like a living thing against the warm olive skin of her brow; each tiny detail of the elaborate serape that enveloped her legs and hung teasingly from her hips, coins twinkling against the revealing gauzy fabric. Her hair was alive as well; it took its own breaths when she moved her head, whispering over her shoulders and nearly approaching the black of her eyes which were so dark they swallowed the light and were the only imperfect part of her illusory life. No living woman had eyes so dark that they wouldn't accept highlights. Müllenkamp's eyes were too perfect. The dark lashes fringing them were too dark and too even. The knowledge they held was too hard-earned for there not to be at least the beginnings of wrinkles or lines about them. Frozen for an eternity in youth and beauty, but visible only to those who took her blood, the priestess seemed too alive to bear. Ashley lowered his head a touch, smelling her hair and marvelling at how real she seemed. But nay, nay, it was not seemed. She was real. Yet Sydney had warned him of becoming too enraptured with her. She'd been known to enslave her chosen "sons".

        ~You are uneasy, Riskbreaker. What ails thee?~

        Like fine netting, the fog drew a little closer around the pair and beyond the mists was nothing. Distantly, Ashley knew he was dreaming, contact like this was only possible when his consciousness was eased, yet knowing how vulnerable he'd become was hardly as disarming now as it might normally be. He only marvelled at the woman's beauty and answered her questions, hoping it would make her happy.

        "The Watch is thick on the streets tonight," he whispered, "But I cannot flee them before Sydney has come out from his Father's home. I won't abandon him."

        Müllenkamp smiled, nuzzling her face further into the soft folds of his cloak. ~Sydney Bardorba is no longer any man's concern. He has already abandoned you, my love. You are alone.~

        Ashley shook his head and spoke softly as though to a child. "No, Milady. He's only gone to do away with his Father. 'Tis some pact that binds him to the deed, horrid though it be. He will return. Then we fly to Dursbury, twenty leagues to the south. I cannot stay in the Graylands, my face is too well known here and the VKP will hunt me out."

        ~You're a traitor and a murderer to them. Aye, they WILL hunt you out but they shall hunt as though after a bear and cut off your head for a trophy. You'd do best to run now.~

        "I will," he answered patiently, "As soon as Sydney comes."

        She scratched her fingernails playfully over his shirtfront, eager for the skin underneath. The woman cooed her words. ~My poor, poor babe. What a naive child you are. Perhaps that naiveté is your strongest charm. I'm sure it is. 'Tis a dangerous trinket to wear. Please, Riskbreaker, be wise and be cautious.~

        Ashley chuckled, cupping the back of her head in a callused right hand. "I've never been a cautious one," he murmured, "None of your acolytes have ever been. But you love the danger, don't you, Milady? The danger makes you feel alive again."
        Wordlessly, the priestess evaporated from his very arms, the sensation of her retreating warmth almost as painful as a blow to him. There was a noise then from the ever-moving Dark, a screaming laughter, and Ashley shivered, straightening, despising how the power could move through him like this, chilling his soul and leaving him breathless. He was like a meeting point, something the Dark used to experience sensation and Life, something--

        It occurred to him at that moment that in a way, he served such a purpose to Müllenkamp as well. She was like some succubus and he was but the living flesh she feasted upon in the night. There was more to it of course, there had to be, yet Ashley wasn't quite certain that the priestess didn't see their situation in exactly that manner. And what of Sydney? Had there not always been the fond smiles, the nostalgic eyes, whenever he spoke of the namesake of his cult? There was love there... acceptance if not love but more likely it was love. Yes. Sydney loved his God.

        Commotion suddenly, loud and jarring as a thunderclap and Ashley shook his head, trying to awaken from whatever state it was the rain had reduced him too. The fog was still everywhere, one of those mud-thick fogs that Valendia was famous for and the city itself had gone. He took a few steps blindly forward. The alley wall at his back had vanished too and the street before the manor was air only. The manor..? Where had Bardorba's manor disappeared to? Everything had been reduced to this fog. After a moment of confusion, Ashley's instincts kicked in and he realised this was no more fog than he was a four-horned dragon. This was the Dark... it was everywhere and only he saw it. What a privilege.

        The mists were full of screams and sobs. In fact he wasn't sure if this was some condensation from the fog now wetting his skin or if it were the tears of the souls caught up in the Dark. He felt them all suddenly, souls and souls and souls no longer with identities, only pain. It meshed into a general despair that made his heart ache to hear. But that died out soon enough and then there was only the Dark; screaming and angry, ready to destroy. It raced through him in a marathon of mad power--

        Then he heard Sydney's voice among the racket as though his own cry were mixed up in the cries of the others. Sydney!! What reason would he have to be entangled in this web of souls? Ashley looked about, right to left, to his feet and up into a sky hidden by the very presence of the Dark and he saw nothing save the fog and after that first brief moment he did not hear his friend again. But perhaps he'd never heard him at all. He was still new to this nonsense, what made him think he actually had the power or skill to distinguish one soul from another?

        The commotion from before came again and it was just as loud only somewhat more distinguishable now. Ashley concentrated on it as hard as he could, sensing it was real as opposed to the ethereality of the Dark. The commotion began to form into definable sounds instead of random noise; gates and windows being thrown open; the crackle and snapping of fire licking up a torch and the roar as that fire was passed onto another and soon every torch in the city was lit and still Ashley could see nothing save the fog. With the sounds as a medium, a picture was veritably painted in his mind of how the streets must now seem: full of light, sound, agitation. But why light the streets mere minutes before dawn? Men's voices... GUARDS' voices broke through the more eloquent sounds of the torches. They grew louder as more of the phantom windows were pushed open and then there was a great metallic clang backed by a more solid wooden thud and Ashley could place the noises exactly. The huge double bolted gates of Bardorba's estate had just been thrown open. They hadn't been opened in months, not during all the time that the Duke's sickness had kept him away from Parliament and in a Doctor's care. Servants and visitors entered through the less elaborate side doors but always was the main gate reserved for the Lord Duke himself.

        Ashley ran forward through the fog, the voices of the dead wailing in his ears. They had no quarrel with him but he was Living and one of the few who could listen to their pleas. The former Riskbreaker snarled at the lot of them, shoving the Dark aside to make a path back to sanity.

        He woke up on his knees in a puddle, soaking wet with condensation from a fog that had vanished just as suddenly as a candle in the breeze. The wailing voices had been quieted too but replaced by others. The guards from before, and servants from the manse.

        "Foul murder! Duke Bardorba's been murdered!!"

        The cry cut through the morning like a blade, echoing through alleys and streets from the manse itself. Ashley turned his head sharply as though to see the words in the air.
        "Murder, I say! Seek it out! 'Tis a servant of the Demon who's committed this crime!"

        "Shit..." Ashley quickly stood, unsure how he'd come to be in the very middle of the cobblestone street before the manse. He saw everything how he'd pictured it would look: the alleyways about the ducal home glowed with strong yellow torchlight and the manse itself had every window flung open, every door gaping wide as light broke the night from inside. The huge front gate was a glowing mouth through the gloom, suddenly broken by the silhouettes of a dozen city guardsmen who poured from the interior in a wave of aggression, bristling with pikes and swords.

        Shit. Shit shit shit. It would seem that Sydney was in trouble.

        Slicing a gloved hand back through his damp hair, Ashley flung wet away and moved as quickly as he could back into the safety of Valendia's alleys. He had to get out of there, alone or no.

        Wet, dark, and on edge, the seasoned warrior moved with the stealth of a cat through the back corridors of the city. In his wake he could hear the Watch captains barking orders and the crash of iron against stone as the men moved to follow them. There were too many. Ashley could pick out at least two score just from the sound of their footsteps. Probably more would come from the city gatehouse and the guard towers around the Commons buildings. They'd be there in mere moments too, the militia were blasted quick little buggers.

        Ashley ran like the quarry of a fox-hunt, paying little heed to where his feet led him. After a while, the racket of the guards' footsteps grew muddled. There were too many of them and the constant clink and shudder of their armour only helped to cloak their numbers; the high walls of the Graylands' alleys caught the noises and turned the echoes of footsteps into twisted, barking laughter, somewhat like the Dark's, or Müllenkamp's. Gritting his teeth, Ashley shook his head in confusion. Perhaps it was the Dark laughing and not footsteps. It was not laughing... not laughing at him, only laughing in gaiety at the chaos of all this. Or the footsteps could be real and the Dark simply enjoyed the sound and the similarity to laughter; sensed it; tasted it; heard it; and now mocked it like a parrot mocks his master's voice-- squawking, laughing, teasing, and always screaming-- Ashley had no idea. Reality and the dreams of the Dark swirled into an existence he didn't understand. He felt the dizzy helplessness returning and knew instantly that he was lost in the maze of alleys. Yet he knew this place!!

        All the same, he realised he was utterly turned around. The meagre light of dawn was lost to these dark back streets and every passage looked like the next. Brick melted into brick and became the cobbled stones of the road, clotheslines stretched from above, criss-crossing the copper-coloured sky as each black window was like a wound in the buildings' sides, unrelenting in their anonymity. Ashley raced past them, sure he'd be overtaken by the guards. The echoes of their steps flew forward over his head to ambush him, despite their phantom owners still struggling to catch up. He couldn't place the source... Above or behind or before him. He heard their cries and the clink of their weapons, close as though just over his shoulder. He thought he smelled their sour breath blowing in his nostrils. The echoes were everywhere.

        Ashley broke from the alley's shadows and into the street, plowing directly into a crowd of half a dozen city guards. They hadn't been giving chase. He'd been the one chasing them.

        "Blast..."

        He pulled up short, nearly knocking head first into a seven foot titan with a sword as tall as he was. Ashley took a wary step backward. A cold breeze came to dry the sweat on his brow. His hair stuck uncomfortably to the back of his neck.

        "'Ere now, who are you?" the man queried, pushing the helmet on his head back a bit away from his eyes. His five comrades came to an abrupt halt in their march and suddenly every face was turned to the black-clad sorcerer with the warrior's build. Ashley straightened and scowled.
        "I'm a--"

        "You're Riot, ain't ya!? The VKP scoundrel!! Careful, men!"

        In the blink of an eye, Ashley found himself surrounded in a sea of angry faces and particularly sharp swords. The alley's exit was behind him and a solid wall loomed before him. One of the Graylands' innumerable thoroughfares stretched away to either side and the sky above was exploding with orange and sapphire as the sun renewed its place in the heavens for another day. A hesitant moment passed on the guards' parts, no one man eager to make the first move. The Riskbreaker seemed unarmed but he could easily be hiding a weapon beneath his cloak.

        "I've done nothing..." he said, his voice cool despite the unease in his eyes, "What is the meaning of this?"

        "Lying scoundrel..." the guard captain spat, "Don't worry about bringing 'im in alive, boys. We can take 'is head to LeSait and he'll hang it from the gatepost like a lady's earring."

        The captain laughed lowly, then decided to take matters into his own gauntlets. With a great roar, he launched himself forward, sword clenched in two blocky fists and positioned to take its target's head off. The guards scattered a bit and Ashley barely had time to whisper a word or two and teleport himself to the captain's other side. An icy wind through his soul, a touch of dizziness, and with less than the time it took to take a breath, he was behind his foe.

        "Trickery!!"

        "Diablerie!!"

        The guards backed off a fraction, more wary of their prey now that they'd seen his true colours. The captain whipped around furiously, his sword scraping the ground in a shower of sparks. "He uses the Demon's magick. He's a demon himself, straight from hell!" Forgetting to hesitate, he threw himself forward again and Ashley cried out to feel the cold steel of his sword slice through his right side. Warm blood spilled out onto his fingers and he growled at the pain, more angry than anything else. Thinking fast, he called upon some of the strongest magicks he knew and growled the words more like curses than ancient spells. The Dark was pliable in his hands and bent to his will, hurling the confused guards up into the air like playthings and sending them smashing into the walls. Three of them fell to the roadside and did not move, one with his neck bent so far back he could not possibly still be breathing. Two others staggered to their feet and began to run. Their captain, far enough behind the sorcerer not to be affected at all, fell back a step and stared.

        "Be this what they teach a man at the Academy?" he whispered, "Or are you not human at all? Some spirit, perhaps, in the guise of flesh?"

        "Quit your simpering," Ashley muttered, turning on the captain and grimacing to hear the thunder of more guards from down the road. Why did it seem the whole city was after him?! He had to find Sydney. He only hoped these guards hadn't found him first.

        "I've not lost me a battle in nearly seven years as leader of this city's forces," the captain began lowly and the sound of his sword scraping the street screeched through the air, "I'll be damned if a murderous runt like you'se going to slip outta me hands."

        The Dark screamed for this man's blood, screamed for Ashley's attention like a child eager to play. The former Riskbreaker shook his head, ill at ease. "Sheathe your sword, "he warned the guard captain, "You know not who you deal with."

        The bigger man sneered and charged, coming at the sorcerer from the right. Ashley slid to the left, little realising his foe's true ability. Sweat shining on his brow, the captain adjusted quickly, his initial attack but a distraction, then brought his blade sweeping from below in a brilliant arch of silver that momentarily blinded its target. Ashley had no time to dodge and no time to run, the sword connecting just below his rib cage and sweeping up with such strength it sliced halfway into his chest and severed a few ribs. He fell backwards in a rush of pain, knowing that the wound was a fatal one yet another part of his brain reminded him that didn't matter anymore.

        It would slow him down though.

        "You'll regret that," he snarled, wrapping an arm around his chest to slow the loss of blood.

        "Regret it? Die for it mayhaps, but I'd never regret cutting the likes o' you!" A charging boar, the captain lunged again but the pain and danger helped Ashley focus this time around and he was ready. He let the larger man come within an arm's breadth of him and then he harnessed the Dark and moved through the air, coming back into visibility nearly three metres down the roadway, bleeding into the dusty cobblestones. The guards he'd heard before appeared over the dip in the streets and were silhouetted black suddenly against the dawn skies. Eight of them. A whole bloody platoon.

        Beginning to feel the true brunt of his wound, Ashley took off down the street, searching desperately for some bit of shadow he could use as concealment. Already his heart was roaring and his head was spinning like a weathervane in the wind. The Dark screamed through him faster than he could keep track and again he thought he heard Sydney's voice in the tumult. That was a distraction he didn't need. He couldn't build up the concentration or willpower to discipline the churning Dark and it reigned over him, preoccupied with keeping his injuries from overwhelming him, his weariness from consuming him like a smouldering fire. The guard captain gave chase and Ashley found himself running pell-mell into the group of approaching reinforcements. He'd be amidst them in seconds and he hadn't the power left at the moment to do anything about it.

        Thinking quick amidst his own exhaustion, Ashley shoved away the Dark's nearly palpable mirth over the chaos of the entire situation, and forced it into an ethereal shape, a spear of mist not unlike what had consumed the streets mere moments before. He bid it plunge into the midst of the approaching platoon and grinned in a bit of satisfaction to see them flattened beneath it, plastered to the very stone. The attack was weak in essence though, dissipating as soon as the targets fell. Ashley was moving too fast to stop himself though. He plunged into the group of guards, hoping he'd stunned them enough that he could dash past unimpeded but no such luck.

        Something struck him hard in the back, directly between his shoulder blades. He felt the pressure more than the actual sting of it but knew nonetheless that he'd been pinned dead on with a crossbow. Every movement of his neck or arms was absolute torture and he dropped forward like a stone, plowing chinfirst into the street. The guards were on him in an instant, violent arms grappling at his own and heels shod with iron digging into his ribs and sides. The slash in his chest was ground into the dirt and the arrow in his back galled him like a hot iron poker. The guards cried words to halt his struggles and words to eachother to yet beware the bucking monster in their grasp yet all Ashley heard were the cries of the Dark and Müllenkamp's never-ending tirade of laughter. Was that her laughter? Sometimes he wasn't sure where she began and the Dark ended, as though they were one entity really, bound through a pact that might outlast eternity.

        Why were these brutes after him? Had LeSait summoned every man with a sword in the Graylands to bring in their renegade Riskbreaker? They should have thought him dead upon his failure to return from Leá Monde!! He'd been counting on that assumption...

        Ashley let them drag him to his feet, hanging his head as though he'd already given himself up. He stared at the ground, flinching once the massive booted feet of the guard captain come into view. Really, it wasn't entirely an act that he let his head droop. He'd lost too much blood through his chest and he thought the crossbow bolt wedged in his back might have grazed his heart. It was a struggle to breathe and yet he kept his knees locked, refusing to collapse.
        "We've caught ourselves a little fox," the soldier sneered, leaning on his sword and grabbing Ashley by the hair, turning his face up to the light and staring disdainfully at the ragged features there. His arrogance turned to hatred suddenly and he punched his hostage roughly across the jaw, eliciting a split lip that only doubled his pleasure. "Traitorous dog. You'll burn in hell for yer crimes and you'll burn here too. You've damned the cult you've sided wit'. They'll roast you in the square and ferret out the rest o' you Müllenkamp scum. Now they have proof how dangerous you lot are. You'll all burn!" Another blow, this one to the side of his head, and Ashley wasn't sure if the dizziness came from that or the Dark. He was awash in confusion. Why did they hate him so? What had he done? Had they caught Sydney and milked information from him?

        Fear for Sydney, quick and sudden, darted through Ashley's heart. "...you've... you've not captured Losstarot, have you...?" he muttered, forcing the blood up from his throat so he could speak. The guard captain ignored him. With a snort of disgust, he stalked away, ordering the prisoner be led to the guardhouse. Such an arrogant swine. Ashley wanted to see his head speared on a pike.

        Two men on his either side dragged him roughly by the arms after the captain but the former Riskbreaker had different ideas. He slipped from their fingers like silk and used the few brief moments of invisibility to begin a spell. No time. The captain was on him again before he'd even reappeared, sweeping about to discern the slight rippling of the air, knowing it to be his prey. The sword again, everywhere at once, and Ashley called on the Dark to aid his speed, dashing into the crowd of guards and throwing up an illusion so that'd he appear in uniform and armour, just like one of them. The captain seemed uncertain suddenly and the men in the crowd looked to eachother in confusion. Ashley moved casually towards their fringe and that casualness gave him away. A red-bearded guard with eyes like bits of green bottle glass brought a rapier slicing towards him, nearly scooping out his throat. The Riskbreaker avoided it, his illusion shattering with the lapse of concentration. He looked desperately for some escape but the men were packed around him and the swords were dancing. He leapt backwards and slammed into a wall, hitting so hard he snapped the arrow from his back in two, sending the blood fairly gushing and a cry from his lips.

        All right.

        No more of this sorcery shit.

        "What in the bloody hell did I do with my sword...?!"

        The guards were thrown backwards as though by sheer force of will but it was really nothing more than Ashley Riot losing his patience. He ripped his cloak off so it wouldn't hamper his movements then drew a long curved sabre from a sheathe at his back, slicing a Z into the air before him. It felt good to cut loose. Probably a little too good. The group of guards flew apart like a dandelion head, backing off until the captain roared at them for their cowardice.

        "He's just a man!! Just kill him as you'd kill any evil man! Send his soul to hell!!"
        His wounds were throbbing and his head was spinning yet with the sword in his hand it seemed Ashley regained some bit of his stamina and self-discipline. The gashes were hardly important now. He found he could straighten entirely, hardly heedful of his cuts nor the bolt in his back. He couldn't reach around to pluck it out but he barely felt it. Just a sharp pressure that kept him from extending his arms entirely.

        A man to his right, a squat little fellow with bright pink cheeks almost entirely hidden by a scratched wooden helmet, fell backwards with Ashley's sword through his neck. He struggled on the ground for only moments before death silenced him. Riot moved on.

        The guards were in complete disarray now, not knowing where to turn, whether to flee or whether to fight as their captain now insisted they do. The captain himself came forward, huge sword singing, only to be shoved back by parries from the Riskbreaker that were almost inhumanly fast and accurate. He seemed to be reading his mind, sensing where the strikes would come from before they were even considered. The air whistled with the sound of Ashley's blade. It sliced so swiftly that the naked eye couldn't follow it, cleaving the unfortunate guards into horsemeat. The air was a crimson jumble of blood and dying shouts. Ashley moved through it unaffected. Or uncaring. He sent man after man to a quick death, imagining he was once again in the confines of Leá Monde and fighting Knights of the Cross for his very life. He WAS fighting for his life, the gash through his ribs was testament to these bastards' sincerity.

        The green-eyed, red-bearded guard from before fell away, his sword clattering to the ground when Ashley sliced his right arm off then went for his head, nearly taking the top of it off like a bottle cork. Gore splattered the street in a streak of thick red, spotting Ashley's forearms. He smeared it away on his pantsleg and went for the next unfortunate, sending him after his comrade.

        The massacre was fast, loud, and messy. It wasn't long until his sword was little more than a dripping wet bit of Damascus hanging from his limp right arm. The remains of the platoon lay fallen at his feet like woodchips around a carpenter's bench, not one life spared and no one man even moaning for he'd silenced them all.

        But there were more coming.

        He could hear their voices on the wind.

        "...what are you?"

        The guard captain. Ashley turned to face him, chest heaving with his exertions. What a pathetic, reduced specimen of man. He stood with his back pressed almost convulsively into the wall of a cottage, his face slimy with sweat and his shining huge sword gone from his hands and fallen at his feet. He seemed ready to drop to his knees and start pleading for his life. But then, sudden and unexplained, the fear departed from his features. Perhaps he remembered his position as a city guardsmen and that brought with it a certain honour he knew he must maintain. The sword on the ground wasn't an option, he'd be dead before he could pick it up, but his wild eyes watched the blade and Ashley read the intentions in them plain as script.

        The Dark had quieted a touch.

        The presence was there, there could be no doubt, but the voices of the distant coming guards rose above it. On a better day, with less matters pressing, the former Riskbreaker might have let the guard captain pick up his sword, they would duel, and the man could die an honourable death. Riot would be the honourable killer.

        But at the moment, he was too injured and weary. The possibility that the captain would overpower him, mayhaps even kill him, was too real in his mind. Ashley frowned grimly and raised his deadly sword over the man, noting absently how the dawn sun cast the shadow of his sword-arm over the guard's pale throat; an omen, a bit of poetry perhaps. But he had no time for pretty poetry, aptness, or magick, barely time to breathe.

        ...you killed me...
        Murderer.

        "What?"

        The sudden voices were mere whispers; lyrics in a quiet song. They tickled Ashley's ears like the finest feathers and sent chills up his spine so that his sword-arm faltered and he nearly lost grip of the hilt. Forgetting his would-be victim, he spun around on the heels of his feet, searching out the source.

        ... my children... what will become of them now?

        What demon are you? What sort of man are you?

        Knave, knave, slaughtered by a knave. 'Tis agony to bear.

        There was nothing to see but a road full of corpses and they would not walk here, despite Ashley's sudden fear they might. Yet there were these voices echoing in the walls of his skull. He couldn't hold his sword. He couldn't think.

        I curse you to misery... a pox upon you and your kin... you've murdered me... murdered me!

        ...my children shall starve if I'm not there for them!

        Knave!! Villian!!

        "The dead may not speak."

        And yet to him they did, as loud as they wished.

        Ashley felt ill. Another garrison of guards was nearly upon him; he could feel the very street trembling beneath their feet. Yet there was another trembling, a trembling of his soul almost. His limbs were as sure and confident as he'd ever trained them to be yet inside he trembled like a water droplet, the Dark spearing his heart, flavoured with the foulness of recent death. The voices died away as suddenly as they'd come and then he knew the souls were gone. Dead.

        Unnerved into inaction, the guard captain was still flattened against the cottage wall. He stared. "You're as batty as me mother-in-law," he said simply, sounding almost fascinated, "Who you talkin' to?"

        A good question that. Ashley wasn't sure of the answer. It seemed that wherever there was misery or evil, there was the Dark, approaching on great thundering hooves like a stampede of wild horses. But the souls were gone... it could not feed here... the men he'd just killed were dead and dead they would remain.
        With a sweep of his already too-bloodied sword, Ashley added to their numbers. The guard captain reached for his weapon, sensing opportunity, and the Riskbreaker abruptly turned and sliced him across the chest, cleaving him open like a butchered heifer. Silently, he watched him die, eyeing the blood and fluids that oozed from his stomach as the man slumped down to his knees and finally onto his side, gurgling a prayer that ended in a spray of red from his mouth. He waited, watching, impatiently tapping his booted feet.
        But nothing happened. The guard captain simply went limp, his chest quit its ragged breaths and in moments he was dead, just a motionless sack of flesh dirtying the roadside with his blood. There was no soul to see, no magnificent light or reassuring trumpet blasts. The body died and the soul was gone.

        Yet that was immediately proven false. The Dark whistled in his ears and with it came the voice. It was soft, faded, astonished.

        Cold blood... rogue, you kill in cold blood with a heart of ice! You killed me...

        "Aye, I killed you!" Ashley shouted into the empty air, his sword raised and ready to be used again, "Any man who draws a sword against me had best be prepared to die by my hands! I feel nothing for you!"

        That was false too. The voice called again, fleeting and angry, and then it was gone, disappeared just as the others had. All that remained was a feeling of regret in the man it left behind. Trembling, more shaken than he'd ever like to admit, Ashley knelt quickly and cleaned his blade on one of the dead guard's tunics. He sheathed his weapon then backed away from the massed corpses, looking right and left, tense as a bowstring. He found an alleyway, comforting shadows, then plunged himself into it just as the second garrison of guards thundered upon the scene. He could hear their curses, their disbelief, as they came across their slain comrades. The sounds didn't last long though, for Ashley ran and ran until they died away.

        "Am I to be haunted by the spirit of every man I slay?" he whispered, ignoring the chill of his soul, the Dark's tormenting, "Is this some curse that the power brings with it? Were those voices real or were they products of the Dark as it plays with my thoughts? No... no, I won't believe this. I've simply become a coward. I run from death like a little boy from his chores."

        Yet even as he ran, the memories of the voices remained, woven into the Dark and thusly into his soul. He still had so much to learn from Sydney. He had to find him, there wasn't any way he could keep this up alone.


        The morning was ageing quickly, an angry white sun grown higher and higher in the sky. The heavens had become a bright, livid shade of azure, clear of clouds save for a soupy greenish mist on the horizon. The Governmental District of the Graylands was small and squat beneath it, a simple scattering of brown stone buildings that seemed quite tame in the harsh light. The workings of the entire city and even much of the country itself, spun on behind their walls and though the streets around them were empty, all knew that inside was a teeming stew of activity.

        From the outside though, the only bit that most citizens ever were allowed to see, all was quiet. There was an aura of repressed excitement about the grounds but that aura was hardly a visible one. There'd been goings-on as of late, everyone knew it, only none save the most elite or the most unlucky were privy to the details. Parliament was in a near state of panic. Though the Parliamentary Headquarters itself lay nearly seven leagues away in Valnain, both senior members and younger had been constantly flocking back and forth between it and the Graylands during the past fortnight. There were at least a dozen rumours and theories circulating to explain the commotion, ranging from invasion to renewed civil struggles to the death of the King. Something terrible had happened or was in the stages of happening and impending disaster seemed obvious. The people of the Graylands were anxious. Most had been that way ever since the night the Duke's home had been raided and burned to the ground. Constant movement and agitation amongst their Parliamentary representatives was not helping to ease that worry.

        Callo Merlose found herself too busy to be worried anymore.

        She was one of many junior employees of Parliament being shuffled about from territory to territory like a borrowed book. Ever since returning from Leá Monde, alone save for Bardorba's little boy, they'd not given her a moment's peace. Everything was in question. Her skills, her loyalty, her honesty. No one believed a word she said except perhaps for GrandMaster LeSait and he wouldn't admit to it, finding suspicion and scepticism to be a fine cloak to clad himself in against Parliament's scrutiny. Careers and power were hanging in the balance over the entire Leá Monde incident. LeSait himself was in danger of losing a position he'd held for over twenty years, losing contact entirely with the very Riskbreakers he'd created. Parliament flayed him for his rash judgement and called him a senile old man, too old to continue his command. Merlose thought that was a ridiculous accusation. She thought it was all ridiculous. There was one man to blame for everything that had happened in that city last week: Cardinal Batistum. It had been his knights who'd caused the chaos with the Gran Grimoire and his very own Commander Guildenstern who'd nearly succeeded in crumbling the city's Paling and throwing the balance of Dark out of alignment for... well, forever, as far as Merlose' knowledge went. Which was admittedly not very far. It had all been an act of unpious selfishness and scheming on the Cardinal's part. He'd not sent his men to capture Müllenkamp, denouncing the cultists because of what they'd done to Bardorba. No, he'd sent them to procure immortality, something that had turned out to be no more procurable than a mountain, as the Grimoire containing the power and the spell had been Leá Monde herself. And it had been Batistum, conniving, evil Batistum, who'd began the wellspring in the first place. Who'd damned those countless souls for twenty-five years and more.

        Some Holy man.

        Merlose knew all about him and it was a horrible thing not to have a single soul take her word as truth. No one would outright call her a liar, her reputation gilded her in honesty, yet the only response she'd gotten from Parliament after the three hour long debriefing they'd had upon her return, were lowered eyes. No one there, not a single representative, had dared look her in her eyes--

        Because they'd known she was telling the truth of course. She could have been lying through her teeth though and it would have made no difference. Truth or lies, there wasn't a single blasted thing anyone could do about it. All there had been too proud to admit to their helplessness.
        Merlose was too proud as well. And every bit as helpless.

        She was also at an impasse. There was so little she could do about all that she'd seen in Leá Monde. Yes, she knew it all to be true, she had no petty thoughts that it might all have been illusions or clever lies. She'd seen Guildenstern's intentions. She'd heard his damned maniacal ranting. She saw him kill John Hardin in cold blood. The images were crystal clear in her memory, there in all their horrible splendour. She couldn't just make herself forget them. She had a duty, did she not, to see that Batistum paid for his crimes? God only knew what he'd do next. It was entirely possible that he'd send others to Leá Monde, dig out Guildenstern's corpse if there was aught left of him, snatch the key, and try the rites again.

        These thoughts sent shivers through her.

        Yet perhaps such a thing was not even feasible. Perhaps any power Leá Monde ever possessed had been sealed with Guildenstern's death. It was entirely possible, just impossible for her to know. She'd had idle thoughts of returning for herself and making her way back to the Cathedral, perhaps setting fire to it all. Yet she wasn't ignorant. Destroying the structure wouldn't destroy the power it held. It would most likely only get her killed.

        Weighed down by frustration and dark thoughts, Merlose walked the cool morning streets of the Graylands' Governmental District, her boots clacking forlornly against the colourless pavement. She'd been in this accursed city for three days, stationed here on LeSait's orders. She missed Valnain and hated the Graylands. This place wasn't exactly a nameless bumpkin village but the citizens here were unfriendly. It was too closely associated with Leá Monde and many of the people held personal memories of the city and the Inquisition that had swept through it like a plague. They scorned the Church's heavy-handed rule in all matters of religion and since the King and Parliament were connected with the Iocus Church in many ways, both direct and abstract, contempt blossomed for Valendia itself, a country that the Graylands had never asked to be a part of. The rebellious attitude manifested itself in many ways and hidden cults were one of them. Müllenkamp had been but a single example of a dozen religious factions that called the city home. The Graylands were a sort of refuge for the wayward. All knew how lenient Duke Bardorba was in such matters, a former heretic himself. Meetings were held here, the Church's law was bent if not broken, and Parliament's interference was far from welcome. Merlose felt somewhat threatened.

        Still, as much as the citizens of the Graylands shied from admitting it, Parliamentary presence at this time WAS a comfort. Everyone was in a constant state of fear since the reports of the disturbances at Leá Monde had come back and no one knew what the Müllenkamp cult's intentions were. It seemed they'd been thwarted for now yet since the true threat of them had been revealed, everyone feared their next move.

        As well they should have, Merlose thought darkly.

        The junior VKP Inquisitor had just returned from the Bardorba estate. She'd been summoned from her bed to examine the scene of a crime. And the body of the slain.

        The Duke was dead.

        Everyone insisted it was Ashley Riot who had done the deed.

        The story had gone something like this: At nearly midnight, Agent Ashley Riot of the VKP had appeared on the Manor's doorstep demanding an audience with their Lord Duke Bardorba. The servants had been ready to send him on his way, the Duke was ill and in no condition to receive visitors. Yet Riot had, according to witnesses, insisted that Bardorba would see him if they'd only tell him his name and to everyone's surprise, when disturbed, he'd agreed. He pleaded only for an hour or two to arrange a bit of paperwork beforehand. Riot had been permitted entrance into the manor and waited in the passageway, quiet as a mouse and quite ordinary in all ways. The servants had been itching to speak with him, he'd been missing for over a week, yet none had dared approach save to tell him when he could speak with their Master.

        Then the tale grew a bit fuzzy. The door to Bardorba's room had been closed for confidence's sake and had remained thus for hours. When next opened by a concerned manservant, Bardorba had been discovered in his bed with a dagger through his heart. Riot was long gone.

        Or so they had all assumed.

        Only minutes after discovery of the crime, a foul air had blown through the room and all present swore to having felt some presence, angry towards them. That very magick moved from the chambers and into the passageway, shattering a window and letting in the noise of the storm outside. Then it had vanished.

        Of course the most obvious scenario to be drawn from all of it was that Riot had sided with Müllenkamp and Sydney, aiding the lot of them in the assassination of Bardorba who, so speculation went, had withdrawn his aid and money from the cult's hands. Riot, the most adept Riskbreaker there'd even been in the VKP, had changed sides. It was a sobering notion. Sobering to Merlose, absolutely panic-inducing to the Graylands.

        They'd rang the church bells and made the announcement in the square. The search was on for Riot. Everyone in the city was out for his blood.

        And then the reports of the massacred guards had came in. Fishermen on their way to the bay had found the corpses in the road, left there to be discovered like little gifts. Merlose had examined them too and knew without a doubt that they'd been killed by Ashley's hand.

        None of it made sense.

        Or actually, it all made too much sense but it was a sort of sense that Merlose didn't even want to begin to contemplate. She'd known Riot only throughout that one day and night in the city yet she'd come to know him then in a way that made her believe he was the most just man she'd ever met. Would he have sided with Sydney now in such an underhanded manner? Killing one of their own superiors, Bardorba himself? A man who was more or less leader of Parliament and head of the country? It was treason and betrayal of a most disgusting manner. Merlose wasn't sure he was capable of it and yet she'd seen with her own eyes what the promise of power, even immortality, had done to twist Guildenstern's intentions in Leá Monde. He'd gone there to retrieve the power for his Cardinal but had taken it for himself when he realised it was possible. Perhaps Sydney had bought Ashley's loyalty in exchange for the power of Leá Monde? Or perhaps he'd simply done to him as Merlose had watched Sydney do to his own followers: warping his mind to fit his own needs.

        No, Ashley was much too strong for that nonsense.

        Merlose sighed and turned down an avenue towards her rooms in the District. She'd been in the city for days and had yet to really be given any orders from Headquarters. She had a strong feeling that she was only in the Graylands at all because LeSait feared for her safety. Her "truths" had caught the Church's eye. The Church had a habit of silencing preachers whose dogma they did not care for. Lady Neesa of the Crimson Blades had returned only a day after she, storming into Cardinal Batistum's estate and demanding an audience. Many had seen her enter Valnain and the looming archway of the Cardinal's home yet not a soul had seen her leave. She hadn't been heard from since.

        Merlose had little fear of the Church but anyone with half a brain knew enough to fear the Cardinal. Neesa should have dropped her loyalty like a filth-ridden handbag and gone to Parliament with her story. Perhaps with two witnesses, people might have listened.

        Her quarters here were small but clean enough. Sweeping her full blackish-brown hair back behind her shoulders, Merlose pushed open a heavy wooden door and entered from the streets, her mind still cloudy with thoughts. She was sharing the building with two dozen VKP cadets, every one male, every one of them like a blasted dog in heat. She was positive they'd drilled a hole through the wall and into her room to watch her undress but she couldn't find it. How she hated this place and missed her quarters in Valnain. There wasn't a decent bakery in this city. And the water was strange, it soured the wine! At least to her tongue.

        "Callo! Mon amour! You are so soon returned from Bardorba's?"

        Merlose sighed quietly but didn't turn to see the source of the voice at her back. It was one of the little worms who had been molesting her in this place ever since her arrival. "You'll watch your tongue with me, Hadley. I'm in no mood for it today. Should you not be spit-shining your Headmaster's boots? Perhaps scrubbing the floors or peeling potatoes? Be gone."

        The front door of their dormitories opened up into a main hallway with rooms branching off through either wall. Hadley, a nineteen year old buffoon who needed a good whipping in Merlose' humble opinion, seemed to lay in wait for her at all moments, eyes on the door, tongue at the ready. The cadets lodged here were all still in training, naught more than unruly students. Merlose had become something like a housemother to them all.

        "You break my heart," he cooed and though she wouldn't turn, she could hear his treads falling in step behind hers as she made for her room at the far end of the hall, "I'm only curious as to what the situation was at Bardorba's. Rumour says he's dead. Truth or falsehood?"

        "Sadly true... " Merlose answered, the venom fading from her voice.

        "And Ashley Riot was the culprit?"

        The venom returned. "I am not at liberty to discuss the details of my findings with a subordinate. Be gone from me, boy." Were lodgings in this God-forsaken city so hard to come by that they'd had to room her with fools like this? Ach, but Merlose was too keenly aware of the reasons for her presence there. This was a convenient way for the VKP to keep track of her actions. These boys were as much her prison guards as her roommates. Utter foolishness, to be sure.

        "Again, my heart splits in twain at your cold, cold words. It beats like a drum for you, fair lady, why can you not return my passion?"

        Merlose was ready to bite his head off. She spared him a single glance over her shoulder and nearly turned around to give him the beating he deserved. Hadley was a decent enough looking boy; dark hair, dark eyes, dark complexioned and somewhat handsome in a conventional way. But he was also an unruly little brat who seemed to think he was still playing in his mother's front lawn when he was supposed to be learning to act with the decorum of a Parliamentary Inquisitor. He held his hand over his heart now and his eyes were wide and imploring. "You're everything and more I've ever wanted in a woman. Your ravishing good looks, your skills of deduction and research, the way you wear that leather..." He made a noise like a cat and Merlose finally turned and smashed a fist into his jaw. Oh, that felt good.

        Hadley yelped and fell backwards and Merlose giggled and fell inwards, pushing her bedroom door open. When she saw that her drawers had been raided and her undergarments scattered haphazardly onto her bed and floor, she turned around to really give the little brat the beating he deserved.

        But of course, he'd fled by then. He and a few of the others could be heard laughing from down the hall.

        Merlose sighed.

        "It would seem... you've really made an impression upon them."

        With a clipped cry of surprise, the young Inquisitor jerked about to a dark corner of her bedroom. At first she thought the brats of the dormitory had moved her mirror and put it out of place. She saw herself staring back from the shadows, a perfect copy of her every feature, right down to the clothes she'd put on that morning. But then Merlose saw the figure moved on its own.

        "What is this...?" she whispered, taking a step backwards. Her twin took a step towards her. The bedroom door was caught in unseen hands and shut itself softly, leaving her trapped. "What sorcery is this..?"

        The strange figure twitched as though suddenly made aware of itself, then shook its head and stumbled to one side. For a moment it seemed it might topple completely but then it shot a hand out towards Merlose's chest of drawers, grabbing the edge for support. "My apologies. I forgot myself."

        There was a slight... moving of the air about the twin and suddenly it was no longer like looking at her reflection in a mirror. Riot stood there, bleeding from several different wounds. He fell forward onto his knees and panted. "'Twas all I could think of... to get in here without sticking my sword in someone else. Again, my apologies. I can barely stand, as you can see, and cannot keep up an illusion for more than minutes." To prove his words, the image of herself came again for a moment, washing over his form in a wave of transparency. It flickered and he grimaced, a fine sheen of sweat apparent on his brow. "I'm hurt and defeated. I need refuge for a while until I'm healed enough to be on the move again. I will not stay long, you have my word."

        "N-nay, 'tis fine. You needn't prove your weakness to me," Merlose whispered, coming to her senses. Ashley raised his head a fraction and glared at her.

        "Not weakness. I've just been wounded."

        Before she could answer, the danger of this sudden situation struck the woman and she turned back towards the door. Riot thought she'd try to throw it open and flee, bracing himself to hold it shut with a spell. Yet all Merlose did was to lay her ear against the wood and be sure that none of the cadets were around. She rose from her crouch after a moment, a strange expression on her face: relief and fear and worry.

        "Come, sit here," she insisted, moving closer to her former comrade and helping him back to his feet. Ashley rose slowly, his every movement agony, though already that agony was lessening and he could feel his strength returning. It flowed from the very Dark that flowed through him and for the first time, Riot was somewhat grateful for his gifts. Merlose sat him in a simple wooden chair beside her bed, trying to forget about the underwear and other rather personal items that the brats of the dormitories had left scattered about. If Ashley noticed them, he was kind enough to pretend he didn't. "I assume these are from your skirmishes with the guardsmen?" Merlose ran her fingers delicately over some of the slashes in his chest and shoulders, skirting away from the huge diagonal cut across his torso that was still oozing blood in alarming amounts. He nodded.

        "I ran across a brute who might have better served the VKP than the Graylands' city guards. You must have LeSait send recruiters this way." Ashley grimaced, inspecting his chest. It was the bolt in his back that was still truly galling though. "Have you blacksmith's tongs? Or... perhaps just strong hands?" Merlose nearly crawled from her skin to see the length of wood jutting from between his shoulder blades. Without a word she pushed his shoulder to turn him a bit, then drew a pair of pliers from a drawer at the foot of the bed, lowering the soft fabric of his robe away from the bolt.

        "This is going to hurt."

        "I assumed so."

        And it did. Merlose braced herself with a hand against his shoulder and used her other to hold the pliers and extract the bolt, trying to be gentle but that was nearly impossible, the muscles had already pushed themselves around the arrow, sealing it in. Deciding not to comment on the sizeable tattoo embracing his back and shoulders, she slid the bolt free and Ashley stifled a cry, biting down on his tongue to keep control of himself. Blood ran warm down his back and he shivered, coughing up a fistful of the stuff and taking the towel Merlose handed him gratefully. "Thank you." He waited for her questions. They came. And were less specific than he'd anticipated.

        "What's happened?"

        "I'd rather ask you that first, Agent Merlose. I've become a pariah in this city. People seem to think I'm the one who's slain Bardorba."

        "You mean you weren't?"

        Ashley wiped his mouth on the towel then slid it gently down his chest, mopping up a bit of the blood. The smaller of the wounds were already gone and the gash that would have killed any other man was starting to heal a bit around the edges. He sighed wearily and sat back in his chair, shutting his eyes a moment.

        "I would have no reason to do such a thing. And if I had, I'd have done it so that I was not seen."

        Merlose shook her head, looking away. "But the servants said they saw you. Ten different people say they watched you standing in the hall before hand and two more actually saw you enter his chambers."

        "Hm." Ashley looked around Merlose' tiny room, tired brown eyes surveying the little lantern, the bed, and the simple wooden furniture. It was almost soothing to be in here. "Why don't you tell me what you see?"

        With a frown, Merlose sat down on the edge of her bed, the stiff strawtick sinking beneath her weight. The sights she'd seen only half an hour before were still strong with her: Bardorba in his bed, silenced, peaceful, but with an aura of strength that hadn't left him even in death. The dagger had been bright and shining in his chest and it too had seemed untouched by the events. It had been but a dagger, quite beautiful, sunk half-way to the hilt through the man's heart. No sign of struggle anywhere in the room, even the bedclothes had been un-ruffled. What had seemed strangest to Merlose was the other dagger laying on the carpet at the side of the bed. It had been bloodied too yet there had been no other wound on the Duke save for the lethal one.

        If Merlose hadn't known better, she would have claimed Bardorba had slain himself.

        Yet the other bloodied dagger denied that theory and the presence of someone who'd fled so suddenly and without a word, Riot, seemed to fairly scream foul play. Yet... yet both weapons had belonged to the Duke.

        It was quite puzzling to say the least.

        "What do I see..." Merlose mused to herself, sitting back a touch and running her eyes over Ashley's form. Her lips puckered suddenly as though she'd tasted something sour. "I see that already your wounds close. I see things upon you that should have killed you, Agent Riot. You have the same sorts of powers as Sydney. Have you changed camps then?"

        Ashley laughed softly, his voice a little ragged. "You do think I killed him. Marvellous."

        "How could I think otherwise?" Merlose replied quickly, defensive. She rose from her bed. "What has happened since I saw you last? What is the brand on your back?"

        The former Riskbreaker stiffened noticeably. Ofttimes he forgot the tattoo. Frowning grimly he pulled his tattered cloak back up about his shoulders, easing his arms through the material and raising the collar. He couldn't be like Sydney. He couldn't flaunt this shame to the world. "It's not important," he answered after a moment, "All that matters is I make my escape from this blasted city."

        "And away from authority, correct?" Merlose shook her head, angry to a degree but a grief underlaid that. She could not believe any of this. "What's happened to you? Guildenstern's dead, isn't he?"

        "Of course. There's nothing more to fear from Leá Monde."

        "Leá Monde is not where my fears lie. I fear you, Riot, and what's become of you. Why kill Bardorba?"

        Ashley made to get up from his seat but the sword wound caused him to flinch back, rippling through his chest with white-hot fire. "I told you already. I did not kill him! Why do people believe that I have?!"

        "Because they saw you commit the crime. I've spoken with a dozen witnesses all convinced you are his murderer." Merlose turned away, clasping her elbows, forearms laid over her breasts in a helpless gesture. "I did not want to believe them. Bardorba was a great man, one of the last men in Parliament who still spoke against the Church's tyranny. I fear for Valendia's future with him gone. I did not believe one of our own agents, you especially, could ever do anything so foolish, so base. Yet to see you with Müllenkamp's mark now... to see you wield enough power to let you live through those wounds... I wonder if you are Ashley Riot at all any longer. Do you work with the cult? Have you found a new cause?"

        "I have no cause," Ashley answered lowly, "And perhaps that is where the problem lies. I have no where to go and no one to turn to. Sydney has abandoned me. I fear he has betrayed me. Sydney killed the Duke, Agent Merlose, not I."

        "Sydney?"

        "Aye. His intentions are unknown to me. Bardorba was on his death bed, why kill him?"

        "But... but he was his father..."

        The man sighed, lowering his head. "Aye. I know nothing beyond that lone fact. He was his father."

        "Madness..."

        "A very suitable word, yes. I've been calling upon it all night."

        Ashley smirked bitterly and turned back to tending his wounds. A sense of foreboding filled him suddenly and he wondered if he should be entrusting Merlose with this information at all. She was still with the VKP. She was not to be allowed into such confidences. Yet he needed to tell these things to someone, if only to straighten them in his own mind. Wandering the Graylands for hours, bleeding onto the cobblestones, had convinced him of that. "What have you told LeSait?" he asked shortly.

        "Everything," the Inquisitor answered, almost daring his scorn, "My duty is to Valendia, not to the dead ideals of Müllenkamp, the Dark, or the heretics who follow it. But I harbour nothing ill towards you, Riot, nor towards your new Master. I owe you much. I fear where we all would be now if not for your bravery in Leá Monde."

        "Save it," Ashley said, "I did what I did to find my own answers. And to aid Sydney."

        Merlose watched him, fascinated at the ire behind his words. She found him utterly fascinating. Not only his appearance had changed since last they'd met but his voice and bearing as well. There was also a hunted look in his eyes. She'd never seen him appear thus and hadn't thought it possible. "You said that he's abandoned you..."

        "I know not where he's gone. He wouldn't tell me." Something broke suddenly in the man, a dam of control perhaps, letting his frustration spill free. He glared at her. "I don't understand his silence! Did he not trust me? He told me so much, the darkest secrets in the world, yet he would not tell me to where it was he was planning to flee! He wouldn't betray me, he wouldn't! Other than myself only Sydney has the power to mask his form... perhaps I should think he has betrayed me by implicating me in his father's murder... yet... yet I know he'd never do that to me..."

        Merlose coolly met his eyes, trying to keep her own frustration at bay. "Sydney uses people without regard," she reminded, "He manipulates. He did it to everyone in Leá Monde and he used you before, Riot. Why wouldn't he do it again?"

        "Silence! I know him. I trust him like I trust no other and yet I've known him no more than a week's time."

        "Perhaps that trust comes from nothing more than Sydney's manipulation of your mind and thoughts."

        "He has no power over me," Ashley said, regaining a dram of his composure, "With what I've taken with me from Leá Monde no one can ever hurt me like that again..."

        "And why do you say that? Because Sydney told you it was so?" Merlose shook her head, amazed at the depths that Sydney's manipulation could achieve. "Riot, the cultist has played you for a fool. You became a way for him to safely kill his own father. Do not continue with these delusions. They do not become you."

        She expected his anger to renew itself like a smouldering branch touched by flame and yet Ashley's heat suddenly cooled and he looked upon her, smiling. Merlose saw something wise in his eyes that she didn't understand and had never looked upon before. "I wonder if you've ever given your soul to anyone," he said thoughtfully. Merlose feigned scorn and he continued. "I realised a lot of things in Leá Monde. I realised that I'd been hoarding my soul out of habit and that I truly had no more use for it. Some men might term that as rationalising death but I wouldn't. I had a soul and it was a good soul. I had strength, a little too much determination for my own good. I had gifts, Agent Merlose, I make no attempts to deny that. But they meant little to me anymore." Ashley sighed, leaning back in the chair again and staring vacantly through the air. He waved his hand. "I gave them all away. The gifts were accepted gladly, I found. Gifts were given back to me. And Sydney was the bearer."

        "What are you saying?"

        "I'm saying that I know him better than any one knows him. I trust him and I smile to hear you try to shake that trust because I realise how impossible a task it is now. I trust him. He holds my soul. He helped me as no one has ever been able to help me. I trust him."

        "Spoken like a true zealot..." Merlose sighed, "I never would have imagined you'd be caught up in his web. Though.... though I DID watch him... he is hard to resist, I'm sure."

        Ah, she was so ignorant Ashley almost wanted to laugh. He held it back. "I've been trying to keep up with your activities this past week, " he began, sensing a topic change would be wise. It could be another half hour or so before he regained the ability to walk without staggering to his knees. May as well make the wait with her an amiable one. "I wasn't surprised to learn you'd been sent here. Batistum is like a cougar in a corner. He'll snap off your hands for his safety."

        Merlose chuckled pleasantly, letting some of the tension in the air fall away. "Do I hold so much power?"

        "Power enough," he replied lowly, "The Graylands are the safest place for you right now. I wonder over the fate of those few Knights who managed to escape the city alive. There were not many but there were a few."

        "Aye, and no one's heard a peep from them since their initial arrival. I wonder if that cornered cougar hasn't already began biting."

        "Parliament's hands are tied..." It was more a statement than a question. Merlose nodded her head, turning to fetch him a clean towel.

        "As they've always been when it comes to the Church. They're simply too powerful. They hold the support of ninety percent of the representatives and the nobility all bow down to Batistum as though he were the Martyr Himself. There is defiance of course... there has always been defiance... yet our numbers are weak and our words are drowned by Batistum's sermons. There are spies as well. No one in the VKP is to be trusted. Rosencrantz had protege you know."

        "More like precedents. I've met worse than he in my days."

        Merlose approached him from behind and moved a damp cloth over his back. The cloak was torn enough that she needn't remove it to see the tattoo he seemed so eager to hide. Ashley flinched at the ministrations yet was grateful. There wasn't any way he could reach his arms back behind himself to clean the blood. "Everything is different since Leá Monde," she said softly, working at his wound with the towel, "I have dreams I never had before. I'll still sometimes hear voices or see figures speaking truths I've wondered at. It's passing, I think, but..."

        "Not passing, you're pushing it away," Ashley interrupted gently, "Which is fine. These things are not natural, better to be rid of them."

        Merlose nudged a bit more of the fabric from his back and lightly traced a forefinger over a tier of the rood emblazoned there. "Yet you embrace them. Why?"

        Ashley drew away from her touch. "It wasn't by choice. It was all... circumstance. Sydney didn't ask me if I wanted to be his successor he just... did it. He was left with no other options."

        "Successor..." the Inquisitor breathed, seemingly hypnotised by the Blood-sin. It was still sore, he flinched when she ran her hard fingernails over the lines and though Merlose could sense his unease towards it, she did not relent in her examination. She pulled the cloth further away from his back, abstractly wondering why he was letting her. "Successor? That's what this is? It's what Guildenstern wanted, isn't it?"

        Ashley sighed, massaging his temples. "Not really, no. He wanted the Dark in Leá Monde. The power of the thousands of souls there. But one has to be a successor of the Dark and Müllenkamp to receive all of that. 'Twas why he took Sydney's Blood-sin."

        "Took it?" Merlose echoed, removing her hands suddenly from his back. "How?"

        "Ah, you were safe by then, that's right. Well, it's all of little consequence, Agent Merlose. Sydney's immortality died, is all. Now, he's just a normal man like myse-- well, a normal man."

        The Inquisitor made a little noise of understanding though Ashley wondered if she truly understood at all. If she did, he would have appreciated her passing on a little of that knowledge. Instead, he felt her press both hands gently onto his shoulders, applying a little pressure there that felt absolutely delicious. He was as tied up as a ball of string, his muscles harbouring just as many knots. Still, there was something a little unsettling about her touch... the way she tickled the edges of the arrow wound in his back with the sharp curves of her fingernails. He wasn't about to protest though. He felt too tired and too stupid to let her stop something that felt so good. Even the sting of his wounds dulled beneath her touch.

        "Why did you come to me, Agent Riot?" she murmured, kneading the muscles of his upper back with the edges of her knuckles. Ashley fought back a grunt of approval to answer.

        "Because I knew you'd have the information I needed."

        "But I could reveal you. There's a price on your head. It isn't nearly as much as you are worth, but it would be enough to see me in luxury for the rest of my days." She redoubled her efforts, squeezing his shoulders and smoothing out a knot to the left of his spine. Working so close to his arrow wound was near torture but coupled with the sensation of her wonderful hands it was almost pleasant. The pleasure was fiery and real, as much as the pain was. Ashley was ready to black out. He pushed away blissful unconsciousness, unready for an audience with Müllenkamp, unwilling to be submitted to the howls of the Dark or the screaming of the damned that would come if he were to lose his grip on the waking world.

        "You would not do that," he said simply, "Because you were there in Leá Monde, as I was. I am perhaps the only person who believes you at all." Ashley turned his head to look her in the eyes. Merlose seemed startled but quickly regained herself.

        "N-nay, I--"

        "LeSait believes something happened," Ashley cut in, reading the argument from her thoughts before she could say the words, "But he also believes the cult drugged you and much of what you imagine you saw were... fantasies? I've been to him already. I know how he interprets all of this. You are alone with your convictions, Agent Merlose. Unless you wish to go seek company in Cardinal Batistum. He'd believe every word, I'm sure."

        The woman laughed nervously, taking her hands from his back at last. Ashley was somewhat regretful, squirming to sit up straight in the chair. "Perhaps that is where you should go," she suggested, tapping the top of his Blood-sin lightly, "You're a walking holy relic."

        "Forget about the tattoo," Ashley said quickly, finally finding the strength to stand from his seat, "It's inconsequential."

        "But what does it mean?" she demanded, burning curiosity adding a touch of innocence to her voice. Ashley wouldn't face her, crossing the small room instead to stand before the mirror and examine his bloody features. He cleaned himself as he answered, reciting it all like a lesson, using Sydney's words.

        "The Blood-sin ties my body and soul together indefinitely. It grants unto me... immortality... in a way. Ordinarily the bond between spirit and flesh is fragile and corporeal. You stop a man's heart and you free his soul from its cage. Yet this rood binds mine forever in this body, whether the body lives or no. With my soul's strength I can make my heart beat, pump my lungs, work my brain... no matter in what condition they may be in. And with that strength I can heal myself in ways... that are almost frightening. This is the boon that Müllenkamp grants her followers, I suppose. It is a comfort, reassurance, at the same time that it is startling. I feel strong ties to that woman... as though she lives within me now." Ashley shook his head, running a hand through his hair. The words did nothing to convey what this was like. "I feel as though I'm... more than I was before; more than the VKP dog, or the father or the husband. I'm losing touch with my mortal side and my mortal memories. They are as clear to me as ever yet I feel distanced from them, as though I've become another man. I cannot touch them. I do not like that Tia's face seems so far from my mind, or that Marco is more like a dream than a memory. I miss them both and yet I cannot conjure the sadness or the guilt anymore. They have left me in peace but I am as of yet unaccustomed to that peace." Overcome by it, he shut his eyes. But the Dark was there in the blackness. The Dark was everywhere and he couldn't escape it; taunting, calling, comforting, speaking, laughing, sobbing. Or was it the souls? From just where exactly did this constant jabbering originate?

        Merlose watched him. "You miss the agony."

        "In a way," he answered after a moment, "The agony... made me human. I believe I understand where Sydney's stance came from now. His confidence, his demeanour, all of it. He was Müllenkamp's pet, as I am now. He was under her care."

        "Yet she offered no aid when Guildenstern killed Hardin. No aid when he took the Blood-Sin. She didn't help Sydney."

        "No, he did nothing to help himself. Müllenkamp is like any deity. She will not intrude in human affairs. I believe that Sydney tired of his throne. He missed... he missed the agony perhaps, of being human. I am not sure, he eluded so many of my questions." Ashley himself missed the agony... but there was so much new agony to replace it.

        "So he ended it like a vampire fleeing into the sun?" Merlose clarified, not truly believing. Ashley let her doubt, it was only speculation on his part anyway. He couldn't imagine that Sydney had ever actually enjoyed living as the thing he was. Better to pass it on to a heart-broken Riskbreaker and be rid of it.

        "I would rather not discuss this with you actually."

        Merlose found that funny. "You magick your way into my own bedroom and start spinning your tales to me and now you suddenly decide I'm not worthy enough to hear the finer points?"

        "Call it whatever you wish," the sorcerer sighed, turning from the mirror and draping a bloodied rag over the back of a chair, "I should be leaving. I never wanted you to know I was still alive, Agent Merlose. I was hoping the whole world would forget Ashley Riot."

        "Ah, selfishness," she answered, hiding a touch of sadness, "Such a beautifully masculine trait."

        "Nay... 'tis better for you to forget all that happened. Stop with your accusations towards Batistum. They'll only get you killed. Müllenkamp and I will deal with the Cardinal. You stay with the VKP and rise in the ranks. Run the damned thing someday, eh, Agent Merlose?"

        She raised her head and the braids hanging on either side of her face swung gently like pendulums. "I told you already. Call me Cal." He smiled and straightened his hair, casting an eye towards the door. "Where will you go? Ashley... go to LeSait. Explain the matter to him. I'm sure he'd understand all of it and then you can clear your name! As it is now you're a hunted man; you'll have every sellsword in five provinces after your hide."

        "You suppose? My, won't that make things interesting."

        "Arrogant to the last," she sighed, unsurprised, "Yet if a garrison of city guards managed to nearly kill you last night, imagine what a band of trained elite might accomplish."

        "Nay. These wounds are only because I tried to play the game as Sydney would play it. I tried to outmanoeuvre them with magick and I'm simply not good enough at it. When I drew my sword, I remembered who I was. I need only retain that memory and retain this sword and I'll cut a path towards a future." Ashley smiled softly, the words summing up an idea that had been playing through his head for the past few hours. The brown-eyed Inquisitor was not quite so thrilled.

        "What of Sydney?"

        Ashley had a simple answer. "I'll find him."

        "But it would appear he does not want to be found. If so, he would have found you by now. That's his way, he does what he wishes, takes what he needs or wants whenever he so chooses."

        Ah, there was that ignorance again. Ashley found it almost charming. He was about to tell her something to that effect when he caught the sound of footsteps pattering towards them from the hall outside the door. It wasn't so much the footsteps that he heard though as it was the noise of another mind. After a few moments, the more definable of the two sounds became audible to Merlose and she flinched, looking around for a place he could hide. Before she turned her head twice, she found he'd already vanished.

        "Riot?"

        There was a knocking at her door, three sharp raps from impatient knuckles. The Inquisitor spun around in a circle, searching out her former comrade, unwilling to believe he hadn't said goodbye. Something whispered in her ear, and she felt hot breath against her neck.

        "Answer your door, Cal," he insisted in a voice barely above a purr. She nearly jumped from her skin; the voice was so real and near yet its owner was not. She spent a few fruitless seconds searching him out but the room was empty. She was alone. Merlose heaved a baffled sigh then hurried to follow the advice.

        Hadley was on the other side of the door. He looked ready to burst like a fat tick from excitement.

        "Callo!" he breathed, pushing his way into her room, "There's a steward of GrandMaster LeSait's here to see you! Come all the way from Valnain!"

        "LeSait's steward...?" Merlose echoed, a hand slipping to her lips in surprise, "What does he want?"

        "I haven't the faintest. But don't let them make you leave here! Don't return to Valnain and allow my life to revert to its former meaningless tripe!"

        "Hush your nonsense," the Inquisitor replied vacantly, eyes blanked over with thought. She couldn't imagine what LeSait might want of her. Upon presenting her with orders to relocate here to the Graylands for a while he'd heaved a great sigh, as though relieved beyond words to be rid of her at last. Merlose was nothing but trouble in Valnain now. She caught the Church's eye and put Parliament's every action in the spotlight. She'd assumed he would try everything he could to disassociate himself with her so why send a representative?

        It could be nothing important at all. Yet with Bardorba's murder that night and Ashley's sudden appearance this morning bearing news that Müllenkamp's cult was somewhat alive and well... it was very possible that there could be renewed struggles between Parliament and Iocus once again. To Parliament's eyes, the murder of Bardorba, one of the strongest opposers of the Church, would put Iocus in a very negative, suspicious light, especially now after the events of Leá Monde, which had already called the Cardinal into question. Perhaps Bardorba had known something about Batistum and the city that would have damned the Cardinal once and for all? He'd had to be silenced before he could reveal what he knew...

        According to Ashley, Sydney had killed the Duke. But no one else knew that and Merlose was sure not a soul would believe her without proof. This little fiasco could cause a rift in Parliament that might doom them all. The Church-supporters would continue backing Iocus while the smaller percentage of more governmentally-inclined statesmen would point fingers at Batistum and demand an investigation. Such suspicion would not be well received. A rift in Parliament would accomplish nothing save separating Bardorba's backers from the rest. They'd be swallowed and powerless and Parliament would lose all who had always fought to keep the Church's power curbed.

        Merlose only hoped that the less powerful representatives would know better than to act rashly and allow that to happen to themselves. They had to bide their time.

        The Inquisitor shook her head slightly, bringing herself out of the thoughts. The politics of all of this was unsettling. She turned back to Hadley, who'd fallen to examining the blood-soaked towels scattering her bedroom floor. He looked up at her and grimaced.

        "That time of the month?"

        "Get out!"

        "Oi, calm down--!! I didn't--!!"

        "GET. OUT."

        "Aye aye!!"

        Merlose booted the young cadet in the backside a few times until he'd crawled out of her bedroom on his hands and knees, dropping apologies. Holding back a snarl, she slammed the door shut so that it caught him in the ankle, eliciting a nice, satisfying yelp of pain. "Tell that man I'll be out to see him in a moment!" she called through the door, "And the next time you speak to me, Cadet Hadley, may indeed be the last time you speak to anyone. I'll stretch your tongue for a purse strap, whelp."

        "Eep! Aye!"

        The Inquisitor leaned against the shut door for a moment and listened to her young tormentor's footsteps scampering off down the hallway. She heard him pull to his feet and swing into the sitting room near the entrance, then muffled words as he delivered the message. Well, at least he knew how to follow the orders of a superior, she could say that much for him.

        "You really do seem too hard on the lads here," Ashley's voice called playfully from behind, "Are they all as enraptured with you as that one?"

        "Ah, 'tis only a game they play with me and with themselves," she sighed, turning around and unsurprised to see the Riskbreaker reappeared, intact and standing straighter as his wounds closed, "But it is certainly odd that a steward of LeSait's is here. Could they have heard about the Duke's death already?"

        "Possibly," Ashley replied, grimness washing the play from his features and leaving them strained, "He may want to take you to LeSait himself. But don't go. They'll want to question you about me. Something is wrong about all of this..."

        "No, I trust LeSait. He's a good man. Actually... perhaps we both should go to him. If anyone in Valendia would lend an ear to your story, it would be he. You can't run forever, Ashley. Would it not be better to strike out? The last thing Cardinal Batistum would ever expect would be for you to run to the VKP for aid." Merlose grew somewhat excited with the idea and took a step towards her former comrade, hoping it might catch on. Ashley shook his head adamantly.

        "I don't trust the VKP anymore. Not after what Rosencrantz and Sydney told me."

        "But don't you trust me?" Merlose wondered, "You came to me today, you must trust me. I say that LeSait will help you."

        "And I say that you are blinded by loyalty," Ashley retorted in frustration, "I will not hold such false faiths anymore. Even to you, Callo. I advise you to grow up a bit. You're in a dangerous position and putting your faith in any one man only makes you more vulnerable."

        "You're bitter and disillusioned, Riot," Merlose snapped back, "I cannot take advice from you."

        A silence hung in the air and the Inquisitor waited for him to break it. Ashley seemed otherwise inclined. Pulling his collar up closer around his throat, he made for the door, the air rippling about his body as he called upon another glamour. "What will you do now? Wander about until someone finally manages to kill you? You're mad to think you can exist like this, Riot. After last night, Batistum knows you live. He'll hunt you. Especially since hunting out "Lord Duke Bardorba's murderer" will shine a favourable light upon him in the public's eyes."

        "Let him hunt then. I'm not helpless."

        He was so stubborn! Merlose was half-tempted to kick him as she'd kicked that boy Hadley. She'd rip the cloak away from the tattoo on his back and make him face this! He couldn't simply run! "You're going to wind up dead!" she choked, her concern for him obvious. She'd felt an overwhelming concern for this man right from the start. He just didn't seem to know what had to be done! He plunged into everything without a moment's thought or a single shred of information.

        "Calm your fears, woman," he answered shortly, a hand on the door, "I think I know where to find Sydney. I think I may understand his motives in all of this."

        "I will not bother to ask what you suppose those to be."

        "Good. Save your breath." Ashley spoke low words that held no meaning for Merlose and then he was in the guise of a teenager in a cadet's uniform. The breath caught in her throat to see the change and be so close when it happened. Everything about the glamour was perfect. She could see every strand of his suddenly black hair and watch the low light playing in his bright green eyes. His uniform was starched and pressed, there were even little scratches on the buttons of his coat. The Inquisitor reached out a hand to rub her fingers over his lapel and feel the cloth. Yet there was nothing there when she did. She felt only his bare chest beneath her touch. Ashley smiled and opened the door.

        "You see, Callo? It isn't a perfect disguise. Touch knows things our eyes can't know. I thank you for your hospitality."

        He passed through the doorway and was gone from her as suddenly as he'd come. Callo stepped from her room after him and saw the black-haired cadet striding down the hall towards the front entrance. His steps were far from perfect, his limp recalled his wounds but it was an impressive magick nonetheless.

        "Who is that boy?"

        Caught off guard, Merlose heard Hadley exit a room across from her own and take a belligerent step after the retreating Riskbreaker. The cadet's eyes were narrowed in barely repressed fury. He turned them accusingly on Merlose. "You had someone in there with you?" he breathed, "Another man?"

        "He's just a friend. Though it's really no business of yours."

        "No business of mine? Callo, I'd be your willing slave if only you'd say the word! How can you have another man here under my roof! Are you so callous?!"

        "Cadet Hadley!" she exclaimed, her patience reached its peak, "This isn't your roof! It's a public dormitory and I am not yours!"

        "I know!" he cried, all but weeping, glaring after Ashley in mock-grief, "Do you have to remind me!"

        "Daft boy!"

        "Cold-hearted succubus!"

        "Rrrr!"

        She could hear Ashley laughing as he pulled open the door and exited out to the streets. That didn't help her aggravation at all. Merlose ignored the cadet and took a few steps down the hallway, running a hand through her hair to straighten it and convince a few of the more wild strands to stay at bay behind her ears. Her thoughts were still focused on Ashley when she swung into the waiting area at the front of the dormitories and confronted LeSait's steward. He was a short, squat little man with bulbous cheeks like a squirrel's full of chestnuts. She'd seen him at political functions in Valnain on occasion but had never made his acquaintance. She did so now, offering a friendly hand and a smile.

        "You're a long way from the capitol, sir," she began pleasantly, noting his sour expression, "What may I do for you?"

        "GrandMaster LeSait is here in the Graylands," he answered, not wasting a word, "He requires your presence."

        "LeSait is here?"

        "Last night's unfortunate event was not the first evidence the VKP has had concerning Agent Ashley Riot's welfare after the Leá Monde incident. We've suspected he was still alive from day one. However, we never suspected he'd become a turncoat. Come with me to LeSait's quarters, Agent Merlose. Your skills are most in need."

        Dazed, she nodded and went to fetch her things. It never occurred to her to refuse.


        The ocean was somewhat calmer now.

        The sky was a leaden grey, flat as a board, reaching from himself to the horizon and the air was thinner here; he couldn't catch his breath. It had been so thick before and full of blood and memories that had seized him when he'd breathed them in. He'd never before realised how thick air could become and still be breathable. This air, fiery hot, had pulled in and out of his lungs like a plumb-line, razing his insides and stealing his sanity with the pain. Everything had been pain for a while; the sort of mindless pain that becomes a living thing demanding to be battled and he'd writhed beneath it, helpless and hating his helplessness. For a long time, he'd made it a specific goal in his life to never be helpless. He'd had no desire to be used as other people had managed to use him, or to be manipulated for the causes of others. He'd become the manipulator and been very comfortable in that role.

        The ocean was dull, like a newly-plowed field under a storm. It seemed so still and solid, Sydney wondered if he might tread atop it but he didn't move to try. He felt no reason to. He was so very tired and his eyes hurt though he couldn't feel them. It was much better to stay here and breathe the air and watch the life passing through him, wherever he was. He saw the ocean but was certain he was not actually in the waters but on a shore looking out. It was hard to discern though. He saw nothing save the still waters and the visible air, shimmering with the blood, the pain, and the memories. It shimmered brilliantly; oranges and yellows that scalded despite his inability to see them. He only felt the colours and felt the thick burning air in his soul.

        With a great sluggish roar, the ocean began to roll again. A few colours reappeared; green and blue and the shine of wet red from a sun swallowed by clouds. Sydney sighed once the sound of the breakers became breathing. He loved the simple sound of a human's breath. In and out like a melody. Sometimes he would sit in the little room that he and Hardin shared and just listen to him breathing as he slept. Hardin's breaths were so free and easy in his slumber and strangely soft like a child's. Like Joshua's. Sydney had been in his Father's mansion once when Joshua was barely two years old and he'd stood outside the baby's room as he'd slept and just... listened.

        Bardorba had come to interrupt that reverie. The Mansion had been dark and the servants all asleep. Sydney could enter the home undetected and remain there as long as he liked but it was a bit harder for the Duke to uphold such secrecy, despite the house being his. Meetings between the two could be nothing save brief affairs while the servants were unawares and the night cloaked their actions from prying eyes. Tonight was no different. Sydney had walked the hallways under a mask of invisibility, waiting for the Duke to find a moment for him. He'd spent the last half hour just standing in the doorway and watching Joshua slip into slumber. The Nursemaids managed to fall asleep long before the baby ever did and Sydney found that amusing. Joshua was lively and observant. He'd stare out the window of his little gilded cage through the chinks in his little gilded cradle and just watch and watch the moon until those thickly-lashed eyelids of his slipped closed and he fell into dreams that Sydney envied.

        "What do you think of him?" Bardorba asked, approaching from behind with a handful of parchment. Sydney didn't turn, his head resting lightly against one side of the doorframe.

        "He looks like you."

        "Nay, he looks like you," the Duke admonished, the hint of a smile in his words, "So much so that it's unnerving at times."

        "Unnerving enough to banish seventeen years?"

        "Has it been that long?"

        "Close enough. I could reckon the days as well if you like." There was the old challenge in the younger man's voice and Bardorba seemed weary to hear it. The moment Sydney made out that weariness, he regretted his words. "Have you only asked me here tonight to meet your new family then?" he questioned, turning away from the door and the sounds of Joshua's breathing, "Hadn't you best get to it then, Milord? Or shall we make our rounds in the shadows. I'm afraid I might disturb Her Lady Bardorba if I meet her in the light. Or does she know you have another son at all?"

        "Have you come across Monique?" the Duke asked, deciding to ignore the bitter question. Sydney calmed suddenly, realising just how unwilling he was for a confrontation.

        "I saw her upstairs," he replied softly, "She is very beautiful. I am jealous."

        "Are you?" Bardorba said, losing a dram of his patience, "Well I am not here to show you my family, Sydney. Are you here to mock me?"

        "I have better things to do."

        "Are those 'better things' what have kept you from coming to me these past three years?"

        The cultist smiled and closed his eyes, wandering idly through the dark and silent hallway they stood within. "I've travelled all over Valendia since last I spoke to you. I've even ventured out of the country into the pagans' lands, thinking I might find support in men as hunted as myself. I've gone far in search of believers, building a backing, a following, men who'll listen when I speak."

        "You play this well," Bardorba complimented, "I've already heard mention of your name in the District buildings. You'll have Batistum and the VKP panting down your neck before long."

        "Ah?" Sydney breathed, turning suddenly to look upon his father with laughing eyes. A high window to his right poured moonlight on the both of them and his claws shone silver and cold when he gestured. "The best of both worlds. But better they bare their fangs at Müllenkamp than at yourself or the Statesmen, those with real power. Is that not what this is all about?"

        Bardorba rustled his papers awkwardly, bowing his head to trace the patterns in the carpet with his eyes. "You're not some distraction. I would not have you make yourself a target. You, little mouse, do not see the true danger in the lions whose paws you dance so playfully about."

        "No, no, Milord, I think if anyone's blind 'tis the lions themselves," Sydney contradicted with a wagging finger that flashed in the moonlight, "The church knows that they crush people with their advances. They know it, they accept it, but they do naught to correct it. They consider the animosity of their foes to be a force that feeds their power, never suspecting it is actually a force that could threaten that power. They think that all things are mice. They do not see the cobras hiding under the fur."

        "You're a cobra?" Bardorba asked, masking a bit of scorn, "Such zeal. I assumed you'd play this all as a prisoner acting against his will."

        Sydney shook his head, some of the gaiety slipping from his voice and the bitterness making a return. "The Church is at the heart of all of this. Their hypocrisy sickens me. I've met people they've tortured, women they've shamed, men who can't make a living now because the Church's clerics have branded them heretics. They eat and they eat of the delicacies around them, spitting the bones and the shells at those who will not serve. No man could be shown the things I've seen and not begin to feel the hatred I've began to feel. I've seen the 'truth', Milord, and it springs not from my own past nor from the doctrines of the Great Lady nor the complexities of the Dark. I see a truth forged by the actions of a power that is quickly becoming absolute. If that power is not curbed then I fear--"

        "For tomorrow's mice?" Bardorba interrupted. The Duke let a smile broaden his features and his expression held a trace of pride. "I worried for a while that you'd become a bitter little boy too wrapped up in the ways you imagined you'd been wronged to ever see the bigger picture. I'm glad those worries were unfounded. What will you do to tame those lions?"

        "Why did you call me here tonight?"

        Challenged, the Duke decided to turn away. "You're young and arrogant but I warn you to stay clear of the Cardinal."

        "I don't need your warnings."

        "But you need my money," Bardorba growled in return, the parchment in his hand crackling as his fists tightened, "I can cut you off if I feel you've began to grow reckless."

        "Cut me off then, sir," Sydney scoffed, intentionally raising his voice to set the Duke on edge. He'd wake this entire household if the old man continued these inane threats. "I never asked for your money nor did I ask for Leá Monde. You can have both back if it keeps you out of my affairs. You would never follow through with such things though. Anymore than you'd take ME back after offering me unto men of Müllenkamp. You forget your heritage, defy tradition, cater to the government of this country that crushed your home and killed your kin yet even in that there is a degree of simpering baseness. All of your spoils, anything that you needn't keep to maintain your front, all of it you return to the people you've left in the shadows. And why is that? So that you may feel ease when you lay your head 'gainst the pillow at night beside your lovely wife and newborn son."

        "Ach, ach, little boy, beware that brash tongue," Bardorba warned, his old eyes piercing his son's bright grey ones, smouldering anger in both, "You'll regret these words when I'm gone."

        "Yes, that's likely," Sydney sighed, "But tonight you're here and so am I. Do you know how painful it is to see this home? To see you with a new son and wife as though mother and I never existed? I feel as though you're flaunting these things in my face like pearls before a pauper."

        "That was not my intention," the old man answered, leaning back heavily against the wall. He shut his eyes and massaged the lids with the palm of one hand as though to push the exhaustion away. He was literally folded over with exhaustion. Sydney saw now that the papers in his hand were carefully penned orders to his lackeys in Parliament. Bending closer, he saw the papers were stacks and stacks of puppet-requests, written solely to delay the coming election proceedings in order to give the independent parties more time to prepare.

        "You're tired, Milord," Sydney said suddenly, much more softly than he'd spoken before, "I'm leaving the province tomorrow for a while. Perhaps with myself gone you needn't be so anxious."

        "This isn't about you, scamp," Bardorba said testily, waggling his paper-laden hand, "Not everything is about you." A little humbled, Sydney wasn't sure how to respond. He stepped backwards instead, casting a quick glance through the darkened doorway leading to the little boy's bedroom, thinking he'd heard the rustling of sheets. Quick and clever Joshua. Sydney smiled as the Duke continued. "I didn't mean for this to be an argument, Sydney. I only wanted to see you tonight, that's all."

        "But why?"

        Bardorba shifted his gaze away. "Three years is a long time to keep from seeing you... I had no ulterior motive. No order to give, nor favour to ask. I just wanted to see you."

        "Hush now," the younger man whispered, "You're almost starting to sound sincere."

        "Don't play your games with me."

        "If you insist, Milord."

        There was an awkward silence then. Bardorba felt like a warrior in battle who'd just ripped off his breastplate and bared his heart to the enemies' spears. He flipped idly at the papers in his hands and Sydney watched him, his claws limp and lifeless at his sides and his hair fallen forward over his eyes. The Manor was large and profound about them both; a third party to the forbidden meeting. There were echoes of memories in this place, waves and waves of the past striking the present shore that he might acknowledge but chose not to, backing away instead from the surf. He could hear these waves, as audible to him as Joshua's breaths and felt a sudden chaos that threatened to send him away from the Manor and his father into something infinite, painful, and endless. But then, even this place and time weren't anything that brought him real peace. He couldn't be with his father as he would have truly liked to anymore than he could now freely walk in the Square without a robe to hide his iron arms. Still he found a dark pride in his monstrousness. He wouldn't let go of that, not even now.

        "I'm still yours then?" he asked suddenly, seeming almost like a child as he turned his face up to the Duke, the moon's light sitting favourably on his delicate features. Bardorba nodded, laying a hand to rest on the younger man's shoulder.

        "You doubted it?"

        "With a replacement as fine as your little Joshua, how couldn't I?"

        "Quiet, child. For a leader of men, you're remarkably insecure."

        "Insecure?" Sydney chuckled quietly, "Never, Milord, only a mite lonely at times."


        The sky here was like a gift. Truly beautiful skies always were. He'd never asked to see such splendour in the heavens nor made a request for those blues, those greys... this was a gift from the Divine. Or mayhaps it was simply a pattern that his eyes and mind found pleasing so he made them into the Divine. Mayhaps it was always that way with God. One found God in things too lovely or precious to explain.

        ~You look too often to the sky.~

        Müllenkamp. Of course she'd say that to him. The sky was naught but light. The colours, the shape and visual feel of the clouds were all defined solely by the way the sun struck. Müllenkamp had little love for the light, painting her portraits with Dark in its stead. Sydney knew that the light that defined the sky had nothing to do with what they termed the opposite of the Dark to be yet if he could aggravate his Mistress with a pun, so be it.

        "I look to the sky because it's there and it's permanent. It's the most beautiful thing we have; the maker of every other beautiful thing this world cares to claim. 'Tis why so many men see God in the clouds."

        Insistent and deafening, the waves crashed and Sydney was standing at the window of a hovel in Valnain, a tiny place some of his followers had rented the night before. His gorgeous Lady of the Dark had been in his dreams often as of late and such sport it was to feel her lips against his neck as he slept. There was purpose behind her touch though, and definite intention in every kiss.

        "...they're uneasy... this city is absolutely infested by the Church's plague..."

        "If it wasn't, it wouldn't be Valnain."

        Abrupt but casual, two things only he could ever truly manage at once, Sydney turned from the window to face Hardin. His eyes were still entranced by the view of the perfect skies outside and so his friend's face seemed a little too dark at first. He couldn't make out the unease written there though it poured from his mind like new wine.

        "I've sent a few of them away," Hardin continued, looking nervously over Sydney's shoulder and through the window at his back, "We should keep our numbers low. I'm not sure exactly how covert our entrance was. Some of the guardsmen put up more of a fight than we'd anticipated."

        "But you disposed of them, correct?"

        "Like applecores," Hardin answered with a little grin, "Tossed 'em in the river. The pikes will feast tonight."

        "Good man."

        Pleased with the approval, Hardin nodded and moved a step aside so Sydney could pace past him, further into the tiny room. The accommodations were sparse at best yet the quarters were temporary. There was no need for grandeur. Besides, lowering themselves to these standards allowed them to deal solely with the poorer caste who feared the authorities far too dearly to ever go and report a couple of suspicious tenants. Sydney passed his eyes slowly over the walls of the tiny hovel before turning back to Hardin. They were alone in the room but the city pressed in from outside, almost audibly buzzing with the danger it held. "Was it like this last time you were here?"

        "Like what?"

        "So full of..." Sydney gestured helplessly with his claws, sinking into a chair before a table in the corner and leaning back delicately, "So full of people?"

        "Ah, Brother Sydney," Hardin chuckled amiably, his unease dissipating a bit as it tended to do whenever the cultist was near, "You forget the time of year. These are the holy days and every zealot in thirty leagues makes a pilgrimage to Valnain to worship at the temples here. Fifty years ago they might have travelled to Leá Monde but this great city of dust and brownstone has risen up to replace Iocus' former holy lands."

        "Yes," Sydney nodded, "I did not recall." He hadn't recalled. Ever since entering this blasted city two nights before, his mind had been in a muddle. Between the turmoil of souls infesting this place's walls and Müllenkamp's tormenting in his sleep at night, the prodding of the Dark and the whimpers of the dead, there was little room in the cultist's mind for a calendar. Sydney slipped off his claws and laid them neatly to one side of the tabletop, then rested his forehead gently in his hard hands. After a moment, he heard Hardin take the seat opposite his and then listened to him start to whistle some song, some nonsense melody.

        "You've seemed troubled," he said shortly, just as Sydney anticipated he might, "I sense it's from something more than what we're about to attempt."

        "Are you the heart-seer now?" he asked with a small sigh, "Nay, think not upon me. I'm fine."

        "It's my job to think upon you. I wouldn't want to lose it. What's the matter?"

        Sydney straightened and sat back again, breathing deeply. He shut his eyes a moment and was confronted by his Lady's face. Her expression was sad but he didn't want to deal with it, opening his eyes again to Hardin's much more congenial, comfortable countenance. "I met with Bardorba a few days past..."

        "I know. I drove you."

        "Yes, yes," Sydney snapped with a wave of his hand, "There was something about the way he appeared that night that's bothered me ever since leaving his side. There's something tired and old in his eyes that was never there before... something that evinces itself when I make him speak of Müllenkamp or our cause. Which, of course, is what our conversations are most always about."

        "Never the weather?" Hardin asked, scratching at his beard in a wholesome way that Sydney loved to watch. The cultist was a little too impatient for pleasantries at the moment though.

        "Don't be foolish. I wish you could have seen, John. There's... what's a proper word... second thoughts, perhaps? Doubts? There's something foreign in his eyes I do not welcome. He threatened to cut off his funding and though I did defy him and bring it on, I could never imagine him making such a threat before."

        Hardin waved it off. "He's getting on in years. He's a pious man. Perhaps a lifetime of dealing in Dark has started to trouble 'im."

        "I can never get a clear read on that man..." Sydney said thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded as he stroked his chin, "I've never been able to understand his motives. Even his way of dealing with Leá Monde and the foothold he's allowed us there... something about it all has always troubled me."

        "You don't imagine he'd ever betray us, do you?"

        "My father?" Sydney clarified with a little bemused smirk, "No... he owes me too much. He'd never."

        Hardin nodded, appeased. Not many men knew the true relationship between Sydney Losstarot and the Duke who financed his exploits. Hardin considered the knowledge to be like a grand badge of acceptance. He and Sydney were partners in Müllenkamp, partners in everything. "I will however," the man continued, "Cast a more cautious eye his way from now on. The gods know I trust him but I'll play the fool for no one. Fervour will do terrible things to a man and Bardorba, for all his money and power, is only a man."

        "You are always the suspicious one," Hardin chided, pulling a gloved hand over his face. His playful tone died away suddenly and the change of temperance was clearly visible in his eyes. "What time do we strike? The sky is already darkening."

        Sydney too, pushed his unease away and forced his thoughts into something more focused and coherent. The Dark sensed his determination and whistled casually in his ears, soothing his troubled soul. It would rather he be in a proper frame of mind for that night's proceedings and leant a willing hand to his therapy. Sydney didn't bother to send it away. He found the slight dizziness and sense of peace it offered to be soothing, like aloe to a burn. "When the moon is gone," he answered after a moment, rising from his seat and snapping his claws on. He flexed his limbs distractedly, momentarily fascinated with the play of the dusk light over the finely sharpened steel. "Is it a full moon tonight?"

        "I'm not sure..."

        "Ah, good Hardin, falling lax in our duties?"

        "Kiss my ass, Brother Sydney." The blonde chuckled good-humouredly as Hardin walked to the window and looked out upon the sky. He genuflected for a moment and Sydney approached from behind, leaning contentedly against his side and staring outside with him.

        "There's something sinister here..." Hardin muttered, crossing his arms, "I've not been here in many years and have not minded it. Valnain is... a rat's nest. Here you've the very things that control the men in this forsaken country: church and state. Neither give a damn except for furthering their own power. The King is a puppet on a wooden throne. Batistum pulls his strings and all the while Parliament struggles to cut them. Or to wrench them into its own hands. I wonder at a world that's let something like this come into being... maybe men want to be controlled."

        "Maybe..." Sydney said, "In fact, yes, they do. But not all men. Those of us who'd live our lives by our own rules must contend with the sheep and teach them how wrong it is to be used."

        "A shame such knowledge isn't inherent in everyone."

        Sydney shrugged slightly. "But sometimes it's rewarding being the teacher." Hardin glanced over and shook his head helplessly at the other man's dark little grin.

        "Come along," he said after a moment, laying a hand on the back of his neck, "I've sent the others to the pub across the way. Take off your damn claws and come have a drink with me. Things could always go awry tonight. I'd rather we spend the next few hours doing something productive just in case they're the last hours we'll ever ‘ave."

        "Drinking is productive now?"

        "More so than standing in this hovel and philosophising like fools."

        Sydney smiled and had no problem doing as bid. "Aye to that, brother."


        It was a full moon that night actually; the peak of its cycle. By the seventh chime of the grandfather clock in the corner it was already risen in the sky. Huge and white, the streets of Valnain were like day beneath its light; an uncomfortable phenomena for a group of assassins desiring the cloaks of the shadows.

        Sydney gave it a glance from inside the warmth of the pub Hardin had led them to. Hardin could sniff out a pub like a hungry bloodhound after a fox. Not that Valnain was in any short supply of ale houses. It was the capitol of the country in both government and religion, housing Parliament's Headquarters, Brunsmur Palace where the current puppet king ruled with his paper sceptre and pasteboard crown, and the Grand Cathedral of St. Iocus, a towering structure modelled after its predecessor in Leá Monde. Any man living in this accursed place must occasionally need a good, stiff drink. Sydney found it no chore to swallow his wine as he stared the moon into submission and put gold into the hands of the pretty young maids who came to collect on his groups' tab. He and Hardin had brought only three of the followers to this city, but they were three men Sydney knew he could trust. They revered him like a God, had claimed on more than one occasion that he already owned their soul, and were proficient enough in the Dark Arts that he needn't fear for their safety should he become distracted. He could hear the three of them at a table in the back, playing cards and keeping a low profile, acting the parts of spies and scoundrels though Sydney knew each man of them were as honest and naive as babes. He wouldn't have allowed them into his group if he hadn't been able to read the integrity in their hearts from the start.

        Sydney dipped an unseen finger into the pools of their thoughts now, idly, swirling the wine slowly about in his goblet just as he swirled that mental finger into their souls. They weren't at all nervous about tonight. They had blind faith in him and in his leadership. There wasn't much to be had from them but loyalty and a blind love that was almost frightening in its intensity. He'd bewitched those three men as he bewitched anyone he ever met. Sydney had lured them intentionally but not always was it so with those he wooed. Ofttimes they came to him from the blue or fell into worship without a word of coaxing, without a single sermon. Men who wished to defy the Church and State in these dark days had few options open to them. Müllenkamp was one of the more appealing.

        He'd never done a head count but he had close to six-hundred followers. Most were scattered and still living on their own but he had a fair number of zealots who trekked about with him from town to town and helped disband the occasional tax house or burn the occasional temple. Sydney didn't enjoy the destruction and only ordered it done when it became necessary that they draw the Church's eye their way for Bardorba's aims. Mainly they were a peaceful order and frequented quarters in a little town called Dursbury to the east when they weren't at their rooms in the Graylands. Because they insisted upon it, Sydney told the cultists of the dreams he had and related the prophetic visions the Dark teased him with at times. He told them how the world would end and revealed just how long they had left. It was much longer than most thought. And the circumstances managed to surprise everyone who heard. None disbelieved. Not after Sydney read their pasts, a thing that held the potential to break most men and send them weeping to their knees. He found it easy to use pasts to manipulate thoughts. He could convince a man he was the devil himself, their own guilt was the only weapon he needed. Suggestions were always welcomed by those ravaged minds as well, he could have them believing... or doubting, anything he wished. They bent beneath the hammer of his will like malleable tin; he could shape their thoughts into whatever he needed. Or whatever was best for them. Sometimes Sydney kept Hardin's consciousness free of the memory of his dead little brother. His friend was happier that way, and he never even realised it.

        It was mainly day-labourers in the pub tonight. Among those, most were wanderers passing through with few locals among them. Hardin must have known that in choosing the place. Sydney and the people of his cult were strange looking folk at best. The leader himself was an object of spectacle and the men who walked with him tended to embrace a more... interesting style of dress. Hair was unkempt, clothes were wild and sometimes scarce. Sydney paid little attention to his own appearance save to make sure his advantages were always displayed since they were useful in nearly every situation. He liked the way that certain people looked at him. When eyes scraped over the pleasing angle of his shoulders to his spine or the little indentations above his clavicles, drinking him in like a potion and he could hear the lust in unfamiliar minds... it was a thrill that never ceased to gratify him. In this pub though, surrounded by a more conservative flock of sheep, Sydney wore a loose tunic over his torso and artificial limbs and a surcoat over that. He also kept the fly of his pants laced. No point in distracting these people.

        As fun as that could sometimes be.

        There was something off in the air. As full as it was of lazy tobacco smoke and the fragrant stink of unwashed bodies, behind the scent was a... a something. Sydney was surprised he could not place it. The sensation... gave him pause and made his hackles rise. Pursing his lips, he listened to Hardin's comforting voice speaking lowly with their men over his shoulder, his group seated at a table with every eye trained on their aloof leader should his goblet fall empty. No one was allowed to pour for Sydney Losstarot save his men; the bar wenches were far from worthy in their eyes. The cultists habitually threw tantrums if a hand not of Müllenkamps' should even touch the wine bottle. Sydney humoured them. It was somewhat enjoyable being deified.

        The feeling in the air wound fingers through his hair. There was the smell of sea-salt. The grit of sand in his teeth. He thought he heard the muted crash of breakers and then the steady beat of breaths. He saw a burning white sun baking the sea and glowing from a white marble fountain where the waters never ceased to flow nor the children's laughter to ring about its sides.

        "Hardin... do you smell the sea...?"

        Sydney reeled on his feet and the goblet in his iron hand seemed as insubstantial as the scent of salt.

        Suddenly Hardin was behind him and the pub shimmered, wavered, then was still again.

        "... the moon has fallen... the alleys are dark. They're waiting for you..."

        Sydney laughed lowly, demanding sanity like a dying prisoner demands his water. "Th-this wine is stronger than I thought," he murmured helplessly, then turned to his friend, "Is... is it that... th-that time already?" Hardin nodded then gestured to a door set back in the side of the pub. The other patrons disregarded the strange pair as they left the room and exited into the humid evening air of Valnain. The three servants of Sydney's were impatiently awaiting their superiors beneath the shelter of a crooked awning. Sydney tried to remember their names but couldn't. He could barely focus in on their faces in the limited light. Everything was too indistinct and yet he pushed onwards, somehow knowing that nothing else mattered save living through these things that demanded they be lived through.

        Hardin said words and Sydney stayed standing in the shadows. Slowly, dazedly, he walked to the edge of their alley and looked out into the main thoroughfare: Empty. Of course. There was a curfew in Valnain. Even if there hadn't been, the peasants living here had early tasks to rise to. They hadn't the luxury of late hours. Beyond the mass of hovels and shacks, all uniform in their poverty, the spires of the cathedral rose and beyond that? Majestic Brunsmur Palace where King Excoffier III resided. The entire civilised world knew of this city and its dark heart. It was a structure of power and renown from city wall to city wall and here Sydney Losstarot of Müllenkamp was, about to worm his way inside. He let his tired eyes sweep the faraway buttresses and towers, the pointed arches, so revolutionary in their design... halls of barrel-vaulted ceilings and stained glass reaching to Heaven. Stone and marble, glass and gold, great double bronze doors as ambitious as boys straight out of the academy... Sydney knew the palace by reputation yet he'd never stepped foot inside. If he still were heir to Bardorba's name, that might have been different.

        The Dark was excited and strong in the night. Sydney encouraged its chaos and set it screaming about he, Hardin, and their three servants so that even to each other, they flickered in and out of sight as the Dark moved between them, ravishing their souls in its boredom. Sydney raised a claw and beckoned his four men forward. They set off into the hooded back streets of Valnain, snaking a path towards its armoured belly.

        The group kept to the shadows like alleycats. The moon was gone and the skies were black. Sydney let the Dark guide him as much as he kept it reigned. He felt eager coaxing and slippery laughter. The cultists at his back were nervous, unused to the bizarre feeling of claustrophobia that could accompany being cloaked by the Dark. Sydney almost laughed. He was light-headed and excited. He moved almost too quickly for Hardin and the others to keep up with, the weight of his arms nothing to bear.

        That strangeness of the air returned suddenly and again the things around him became intangible and surreal. One moment, Sydney found the night sky overhead when he glanced upwards, overcast and starless, but the next moment he was in a narrow, wet passage, and could feel warm fuzzy rats crawling carelessly over his own feet, though it was too dark to see them make their way. Sewage dripped and the ground was uneven, damp. He feared he was alone in this blackness until he heard Hardin at his back, whispering instructions, and the muted responses of the others.

        "We'll split into two groups," he hissed, "You lot go south, remember the diagrams you've memorised. Left, right, then bear to the north until you find the corridor with the pair of silver angels above the lintel. You know your part after that. Sydney and I will go north and make our move first. I'll make fire in the courtyard when it's done and then you'll know to strike..."

        There was a light ahead, and a barely closed door. Sydney bade his followers be still and then he wordlessly passed through a thick granite wall, coming out the other side in a rustle of muted force. He held his breath and stretched his senses and felt the shift in atmosphere from the rank of the sewers to the cool, clean warmth of Brunsmur Palace's main reception hall. It was dark and blue. A high window showed the night sky and a little light from the grounds. A single brazier flickered from down the hall like a tiny orange finger, beckoning.

        "To the second floor, Jonesby... be lively now."

        Sydney sucked in a quick breath and dashed his visible form away just as a guard tramped into the hall, a spear glinting in the low light. He was tired and tense, sick of late shifts, and the cultist smiled at the crude little jokes swimming in the man's mind. The spear was naught to smile at though. Calling on the Dark to keep him concealed in its folds, Sydney stepped towards the man before he could turn the corner, then brushed the claws of his right hand ever so delicately over the back of his neck, chanting quick words that would drown him. The guard went rigid and tried to cry out but Sydney snatched the sound from him and kept a hold of his tongue until he'd collapsed harmlessly to the floor, unconscious.

        The Dark whistled in its puppet's ears, thrilled with the game.

        Quickly, looking all about in case more men appeared, Sydney dashed from the hall and back to the sewers, reeling for a moment with the stench. Hardin nearly jumped out of his skin when he tapped him on the shoulder.

        "Take them to the kitchens," he whispered, his lips barely brushing his ear, and the hairs all rose on the back of Hardin's neck, "The junction point is three rooms east of the exit; you'll know it by the chandeliers. I'll see you there."

        "Careful, Sydney--"

        But he was gone again before the words could fall from Hardin's lips. Back through the walls he travelled, moving faster than was possible, with the Dark as his wings and his purpose as his feet. The particles of the walls, of plaster and stone, mortar and wood, zipped through his body and the different textures were fascinating, threatening to distract him should he pay any heed. He concentrated on voices instead; the noise of souls. They were everywhere here and the sleeping innocents of Valnain were a distant murmur beyond them.

        The Palace was appropriately extravagant. The trappings and furnishings were distractions in themselves; room after room of gold and silver, gems inlaid in the very doorknobs, oil paintings covering the walls like papers, frame to frame to frame without a road between them. The floor varied from rich white marble, flawless marble quarried from the far reaches of the borderlands, to velvet carpet so soft that it had to be replaced every month because even slippered feet wore ruts through it. Sydney tread carefully over the finery. Not out of respect towards its owners, but out of respect for things so lovely.

        Raptor-like and wary, guards circled the rooms, increasing in number the closer Sydney got towards the Palace's personal chambers. Out of the crowd of souls, Sydney heard his precious cultists' and then the gentle murmur of Hardin as he led them onward. They were in the kitchens now. There was another in the kitchen, someone Sydney didn't recognise. He bit back fear and sped towards them, riding the back of the Dark.

        The unfortunate guard was dead before he could get there.

        "...arrogant dog..." Hardin cursed, sliding his sword clean along the hem of his victim's tunic. He'd cut his throat with one sure stroke, silencing him before he could scream out.

        "...was that absolutely necessary, I wonder?" Sydney whispered, stalking towards him, less than pleased. Hardin killed too eagerly. He killed too rashly. It was one thing that the cultist feared about his friend. "That sword of yours has worthier marks."

        Hardin sheathed it and kicked the guard's body off to one side of the kitchen, wedging him beneath a counter where the candlelight wouldn't strike and reveal his form. He ignored Sydney's rebuke. "What now?"

        "Follow me."

        He led them back through the massive halls where the royalty sat to sup, pleased that not a man of them seemed to care for the luxury. Sydney himself was a little ashamed that he found this place so beautiful. He couldn't pull his eyes away from a certain fireplace in the dining hall, grey eyes thirsting after the delicacy of the carving in the marble mantle. Tiny cherubs there, flying amidst clouds and curling, twisting vines, a rose at every tip, the eyes of the angels seeming more real than the eyes of the living, the actual. He wanted to stop and peer closer but he had much more pressing reasons for being in this Palace tonight than to gawk like a commoner at the pretty pretty finery.

        Past the dining hall was another guard and Sydney took care of the man before Hardin could draw his sword again. There was no need for unnecessary bloodshed. A whisper to the Dark and it would heed. The guard wound up unconscious and shoved into a closet and Sydney led them further into the sleeping confines of Brunsmur Palace.

        They split up in the next room, beneath a shining crystal chandelier that seemed like a living thing in the dark. A draft sent the fragile bits of glass to chiming, ringing out a song that was dreadfully loud in the stillness.

        "Blessed be thine duties," Hardin whispered automatically to the three cultists, sending them slinking down an extravagant hallway, "May Lady Müllenkamp protect you." Sydney pulled his eyes away from the chandelier long enough to see their exit, feeling somewhat ashamed that he was too out of it to comfort them. He smelled their unease, something that had appeared the moment they'd entered this place from outside. Two of them had been field hands before discovering Sydney and his cause. The third was an overseer in a forge confiscated by the state after it failed to pay property taxes. None knew such luxury as this Palace. It could make the mightiest man feel his unworth. It cowered the very King who dwelt there. Sydney whispered a silent plea to his Lady of the Dark as he listened to the mental flounderings of his followers.

        "There are more men on the grounds than I'd anticipated," Hardin breathed suddenly in his ear. His apprehension was obvious as well. Sydney only felt greatly confused. He kept hearing waves and seeing lights where there were no lights. Something was wrong with all of this. Something more than just his having called too often upon the Dark tonight. It could almost be that though... it was something like that strange exhaustion.

        "Stay near to me and all will be well," he answered softly, then was moving again before he'd even bade himself to or considered the action. Hardin stayed near as commanded and Sydney pulled up a shield of invisibility around them both, walking quickly beneath the glittering shadow of the chandelier and forcing the unease from his heart as he sensed his three cultists moving further and further away.

        Brunsmur Palace and the Great Cathedral of Blessed St. Iocus were one entity really, the place of worship built in a loose horseshoe-shape about the front of the castle with the spires of the latter reaching to the skies behind. They were connected by a lavish stone hallway with a sloped ceiling and wide berth, a bright green carpet stretched along its length. Sydney led the way through room after room, magicking them past guards who never discerned more than a swift breeze or the rustle of Sydney's clothing; the clink of Hardin's sword against his thigh. Müllenkamp's chosen found a high oaken door at last with a double pane of stained glass spread like wings over its upper half. He laid his claws delicately against it and pushed the slab open, the breath catching in his throat as the hallway leading to the Cathedral unfolded before him.

        "This is too easy..." Hardin whispered, smearing sweat from his brow as he followed his partner through the doorway, shutting it softly behind him. This lofty stone hallway caught his every breath and amplified it tenfold. He narrowed his eyes and looked about fearfully but the space was empty and cold. Sydney spoke above the pounding sound of waves in his ears.

        "Continue with your talking and we'll be found out," he answered, "Then you will have your challenge."

        "If I'd known it would be such child's play to break into this stronghold, I'd have done it years ago."

        "Hush now. It's only simple because I am here."

        Sydney walked with his back to the cool stone wall of the hallway, skirting the aisle of light from the high windows that took up the central portion. He plucked at Hardin's sleeve and the man followed his example until the two were creeping along sideways like crabs. Sydney heard the whispered melody of the dreams of others... the mind was a song, a veritable song when it slept. This song sung by an arrangement of slumbering Royalty was uncannily soothing and threatened to put him off-guard. Strange, the things he found were dangerous to him. Distractions were the primary one. He could lose himself for hours in a stranger's past and never realise where the time had gone. Time itself was an abstract thing once he discovered how quickly it could disappear after he appropriated the summation of a man's life from a few hours worth of scrying his soul.

        ~How now, little boy?~

        She was there suddenly, when he shut his eyes. Sydney silently bade her depart. Another distraction he didn't need. But ignoring Müllenkamp tended to be a dangerous thing.

        There was no door exiting the hallway, just a blank archway, and Sydney strode from it quickly, renewing their invisibility though the Dark suddenly seemed somewhat less malleable, as though he'd reached a knot of sorts in what he jokingly considered to be a sort of a clay of force. Perhaps it was the presence of the cathedral itself. They entered now not into the main hall of worship, no, Sydney knew what a church looked like, he'd seen them before, but into another hall, this one rivalling the Palace for extravagance. The floor here was tiled lac du bonnet pink marble and the hangings on the wall were crimson silk with the low starlight from outside passing through huge airy glass doors in the walls, lending a sanguine tint to the atmosphere. Really, it was like walking through a blood-drenched hallway and Sydney could all but smell the evil, despite the supposed divinity of their surroundings. Rooms branched off from this hall, shut doors with holy roods upon them depicting the Sacred Trinity of Archer, Tormentor, and Saint. He heard slumber in the confined chambers and thought these were most likely the bedrooms of the higher clergy. There were a pair of dozing guards at the far end of the hall and Sydney motioned for Hardin to stay back as he moved forward, stepping through the doors as though they were no more solid than a mist.

        Luxury lay behind most. Other rooms were more simple. Through every bedroom though he sensed ties with the Dark that disturbed him so that he found his stealth faltering and his invisibility cutting in and out like a circuit. This cathedral with its pious clergymen was astoundingly inundated with the evil power of men, the very force that Sydney worked with and was used by. He'd heard the old men of Leá Monde, those that yet lived, speak of traitors among them who'd gone to Batistum and his lot to teach what they knew of the Dark Arts. Sydney didn't doubt the old men's words but he'd never considered that the Church had mastered enough to make simply being in their domain so difficult. The powers here were unfamiliar yet familiar. Sydney knew them but did not recognise them and thus was somewhat hard-pressed to keep control. He was stronger though. He opened his soul to the power instead of shutting it away and though the touch was foreign of sorts, he didn't shy from the cold hands that ran up and down his spine.

        This was certainly interesting though. His enemies played with the same weapons as he. How fun the game had suddenly become.

        Hardin was still as a statue when Sydney returned to him. He seemed half-afraid he'd shatter the invisibility placed about him if he moved. Untrue. Sydney felt somewhat challenged by the powers here yet he never doubted his own. With a reassuring claw on his shoulder, he bid his friend move further down the hall to where the resonance of force was strongest. The dreaming minds murmured from the shut doors to his right and the crimson-draped windows at his left glowed like walls of blood. Distractions, distractions, and Sydney pushed them away, peering at the half-alert guards that faced the two of them now. Keeping a firm grip on Hardin's unseen shoulder, he stepped directly in front of them, catching the sudden scent of musk and cheap tobacco from their breaths. Then he let the cloak slip from his shoulders and appeared suddenly plain as day to the pair of apes.

        "Boo."

        The first jerked to attention with a little snarl of surprise but Hardin cut it short with a sword in his throat. The second stumbled away and tried to cry out a warning when his partner fell back in a splash of hot blood but Sydney had already silenced his tongue with a spell and the man found he couldn't make a sound other than the panting of his own panicked breaths. His eyes widened into twin pools of fear and Sydney saw himself reflected there as plainly as in a mirror. He ran a delicate claw over his forehead, tracing an aimless pattern, and whispered, "You die for a greater good, my son."

        Then he stepped quickly aside and Hardin cut the guard down before he could draw his sword or raise the crossbow dropped by his partner. The hallway was suddenly as still as a grave yet to Sydney, it was roaring like the sky in a storm and the Dark swirled ‘round the corpses, chortling, cavorting, and screaming things even he couldn't interpret. But these guards had needed to die. It would paint a prettier picture to the world in the morning and appearances now were very important.

        "Quickly now," Hardin reminded, sheathing his sword still bloody, something that made Sydney truly realise how precious time was. Hardin always cleaned his sword. Stepping over the slain guards, he pushed against the great brass doors they'd been standing watch before, and opened the way to a low-lit room of massive proportions. Sydney didn't give a glance to the dead, following his partner inside. Something about this entire scenario was very familiar, enough so that he couldn't ignore the knot of dread in his stomach. He wasn't sure whether to fear for himself or fear more for his followers. The Dark here was not a comfort. He felt more controlled than controlling.

        "Ah... we've found the queen of the hornet's nest here, haven't we?" Hardin chuckled lowly, sword in hand again. He made his way over fabulous carpeting imported from the East, footsteps muted as he crossed the new room discovered behind the doors. A taper or two lit the space and gave everything a warm glow. Yet both men knew enough of the supernatural to sense the true coldness behind the comfort.

        "Be easy, Brother..."

        Wearing his calm like a cape, Sydney put a claw on Hardin's sword arm and slowed his advance. This was a bedroom and there was a figure asleep in the back. He could see the outline of his features black and jagged against the candlelight. The waves roared in his ears and the Dark was like a sparrow just let out of its cage, everywhere at once and no where at all. Sydney stepped in front of the other man and approached the slumbering figure, moving softly about the perimeter of his satin-gilded bed. He felt sinister suddenly, like Lucifer snuck into the pearly gates. He imagined himself a vampire bat in heaven as he looked down upon the peacefully unconscious features of Cardinal Batistum. He smiled and bent closer to the old man.

        "...how helpless you are..." he whispered, barely putting voice to his words. He let his own slow breaths ruffle the sleeping man's forelock, eyes widening at the wispy grey, at his own daring. He put a claw forward and let the candlelight cast its shadow across the Cardinal's face. He traced patterns of light upon his countenance as he might the glyphs of a summoning circle.

        "Sydney!" Hardin hissed, grabbing his shoulder and all but pulling him backwards, "Do it so we may fly this place! Don't tempt ill fortune!"

        "Ah, but look at him. The entire country fears this doddering old man. Surely it gives you pause to see him so reduced. Look at him. He's some woman's son... some unfortunate bastard's brother. He's no God and he is no saint." Sydney peered closer, eyes narrowed, looking for the secret of it all. What had he given for his power? His arms? His freedom? His soul? No... this wasn't sacrifice, it never had been. It was thievery.

        He snagged a loop in the bedclothes with a finger of his right claw and pulled them back a bit, revealing silk pyjamas and the sagging lower jaw of a man past his prime. Hardin snarled a curse but had already backed away from the bed, sword wavering. "Sydney! I beg of you!"

        The old man shifted uneasily in his sleep. Then he stiffened, body gone rigid as a board, his two heavy eyelids pulled open, and he awoke with a start. Snorting his way out of dreams, he jerked his face about towards Sydney, inadvertently slicing his chin into one of the claws hovering above. Blood welled immediately from the cut. "What--?! Wh-what's this?!"

        "Good morning, Cardinal," the cultist said lightly, retracting a limb. He kept his voice low, "I wonder if you wouldn't like to speak a prayer before my friend here sends you along to hell."

        "What is this? Who are you?" The Cardinal put two fingers to his chin in haughty indignation but his brain wouldn't register the blood there. One pale white hand, lily-soft with bright blue veins clearly visible snaking along the back, grabbed at the coverlet and wouldn't let go. He surveyed his dark bedroom hurriedly. Candles, the threatening, brooding shapes of his exotic, expensive furniture. But no followers... no servants, no guards. His head whipped about again to face the intruders.

        "Sydney Losstarot of Her Lady Müllenkamp's brood. Surely you know of me?"

        "My son..." the old man answered feebly, sitting up in his bed. Sydney was surprised at his composure, "My son, my son.... you're the resourceful one. Sydney... your reputation precedes you." The cultist nodded and couldn't hide a small smirk. He gestured to Hardin and the Cardinal paled, sweat gleaming on his brow. "I have no quarrel with you, Sydney," he said softly, belying the fear that the cultist read plain as a manuscript in his heart, "My heart goes out to you and your people. I'd take you all into my fold if I could."

        "Oh, aye, and I am sure if the men of the world could all only hear your words the bleating sheep would come," Hardin spat, "Lace your venom with wine if you will but we recognise the poison all the same."

        "B-but I am no viper," Batistum retaliated kindly though fearfully, straightening, regathering his dignity as best he could in his position. His watery blue eyes, pale as an early morning sky, were trained immovably upon his closed bedroom doors. "The unfortunates look for a scapegoat and I become their target. I would gladly take the blame for every wrong of this world if I could. Think of me as evil if it soothes your poor hearts or eases your hard lot but do not kill me, I implore you. I mean very much to many people here in Valendia."

        "People you use to your own purposes and spend like gold," Sydney interjected evenly, "Sire, there are balances in this plane. You shift them to the wrong ends. Morality aside, I am keeper of certain balances and brother to the Dark. You die now for order. The fact that your death tonight and the death of your precious puppet King achieve peace for so many, is merely a pleasant, pleasant side effect. Hardin. Blessed be thine duty." Sydney grimly moved aside, his claws gleaming in the candlelight. The air was a turmoil of screeching in his ears, the same disturbance as all night, all evening, but now it took a sharper turn. He hadn't time to cry a warning.

        "Order isn't so fragile, my son," Batistum reprimanded gently, "It is where we make it."

        Hardin swung roughly past Sydney, his sword singing a silver arc through the air and poised to split the skull of the man in the bed like a fruit. But, clever and cunning, the Cardinal slunk sideways before the blade could connect, then curled that screeching Dark around his brittle fists and launched a blow at the cultist that sent him reeling. Hardin was knocked off his feet and his sword clattered loudly to the floor, spinning like a pinwheel on the carpet. Shocked but too proud to admit it, Sydney leapt back and pulled the weapon to himself but already Batistum had fled his bed and was halfway to the door. Then the man with the claws heard the beating of feet and the few candles in the room were blown out as the doors swung open.

        The braziers in the hallway had been lit and light streamed into the dim chamber. Sydney threw an arm up over his eyes and saw Hardin climbing painfully to his feet a bit away.

        "I believe we've underestimated them," the latter muttered, limping to his friend's side and retrieving the sword from his claws. Sydney shrugged.

        "We shall see."

        "I hope not."

        Batistum dashed the remaining paces towards the doorway then stood within its glow as though it were sanctuary. A hand to his still-bleeding chin, he stared at the pair of cornered cultists with a glare that seemed anything but pious.

        "Your Excellency! Are you all right?!"

        Two figures dashed through the doors, ablaze with light and screaming menace. Sydney met their accusing eyes dead-on. The first of them carried a sword but seemed more interested in the Cardinal's welfare than anything else. It was with alarm that he saw the blood on his Lord's face and it was with gratitude that he realised the wound wasn't serious. Batistum moved past him and his new-come female compatriot, looking to get out of the room and to safety. Sydney heard more ruckus in the distance. The forces of the entire Palace would be on them in a moment. This couldn't have gone more wrong.

        "Two poor misguided souls, Father Grissom," the Cardinal lamented, "But I fear for the King. These men say tonight's plot called for his life in addition to my own."

        Grissom nodded, taking a step towards the intruders. "Lady Samantha," he called over his shoulder, "Alert the Blades and send them into the Palace. Hurry. I'll dispose of the garbage."

        "Such compliments," Sydney grinned, throwing his shoulders back. He clacked his claws unconsciously. Hardin was less confident.

        "Go..." he whispered to his friend as the woman turned and fled with the Cardinal, "Leave me. You can escape from this place in minutes without me, I know it."

        Grissom stepped forward and slashed his sword through the air. Sydney knew little of weaponry but this man wasn't any dunce with his blade. "What cowards are you?" he asked, indignant, "Sneaking in to His Excellency's chambers like cockroaches in the night? I hope you've said your farewells to the light, brothers, for you've seen your last of it. Surrender to me or taste steel."

        "Oh please," Hardin purred, shoving past Sydney, his sword bright through the wet blood still staining its edge, "Let me have a sample."

        Grissom had a short fuse. With a cry that was something like a prayer, something like a curse, he shot himself forward madly and slashed out at Hardin's face so that the cultist was hard-pressed to parry. Sydney skipped a step backwards away from the fray, looking wildly to the exit but the Cardinal was gone along with his Lady protector. There were guards coming on the woman's hurried orders and a cry of alarm echoed throughout the Cathedral, spreading back into the Palace itself. The noise of swordplay was very unpleasant in the foreground.

        "You're digging your grave with every stroke!" Grissom cried, swinging around sideways and attempting to dig his sword into his foe's ribs, right above where his armour ended. Hardin deflected the steel, his movements ragged from the Cardinal's earlier blow. He spat at the cleric then lunged himself left, swinging to the right, catching the crown of Grissom's head with the edge of his weapon. The man cried out and shot a hand to his head, the red gushing between his fingers, his sword faltering for a moment that Hardin used to dash past him and to Sydney.

        "We've no time!" he insisted, punching the air with his free hand, "No time!"

        "...yes."

        Sydney shuddered and closed his eyes the moment he heard the death cries of his three followers from the other side of the Palace. One man cried out to him and that was nearly enough to make him rake his claws over the walls.

        ~You hesitated, little boy... you should have killed the old fool the moment you set eyes on him.~

        "I've a poet's fascination, Milady. I'm afraid I was never cut out for this cloak and dagger business."

        Sydney asked for silence and she granted it, leaving the rest of this venture up to him. He looked to Hardin then motioned to the doorway, a spell on his lips that might send them both into the safety of the Dark's embrace but a ripple in the power kept him from it. Batistum's bedroom doors slammed shut as though caught by an invisible wind.

        "Losstarot..."

        Both men turned about sharply to see Grissom bent over nearly double with his head bleeding a pool of crimson onto the carpets. His looked up with glittering green eyes, the blood snaking down his face in a gory river that caught the firelight from the hall and seemed molten. It was a grisly mask obscuring his features. "Sydney Losstarot... I recognise you now. Not the face no, 'tis the face of a boy let out of the yard too soon. But those blasted ungodly claws and the blasphemous brand on your back are trademark enough... what business has brought you here tonight?"

        Sydney glanced once to the closed doors, his suspicions screaming and he knew enough to heed them. "You're no fool, brother," he answered laughingly, enjoying this new twist in the game simply because the Dark was finding it so terribly interesting, "I've come here for the life of your Lord. Unfortunately, 'twould seem I'm being rudely ejected before I can claim my prize."

        "Disrespecting heretic..." Grissom sneered, straightening a bit and smoothing back his blood-slicked blonde hair, "I've heard the legend of you. You've a legend, did you know that? You're the great, wretched son of the great, wretched priestess of the great, wretched, archaic Order of Kiltia. You wield power. You control men's souls. I've wondered at you, Sydney... I'm almost glad for this opportunity to meet you."

        Sydney heard words then... words he hadn't heard spoken in anyone's voice but his own since he was a child. The Dark lurched and sputtered like a lion poked with a stick, then bucked backwards and roared at its master, at Sydney. The cultist was so surprised to be assaulted with his own weapon that he was knocked off his feet and to the ground, slamming his head against the post of Batistum's bed. Grissom charged forward with his sword then, cutting his way past Hardin's shocked attempt at an attack, and aiming his sword hard and fast at the fallen man's exposed heart. Sydney came to his senses in time to roll away and the blade jabbed him clean through the left shoulder instead. Still, the wound was a single second of cold agony that worsened when his attacker drew the blade out in a line of white-hot pain, rearing his arm back for a finishing blow.

        "Short encounter," Grissom remarked grimly, grimacing frighteningly behind his mask of blood, "But then, legends tend to be exaggerated, I suppose. May God have mercy on your soul--" The blade came screaming and Sydney prepared himself for the shock of cold steel in his heart but the sword never fell. Hardin tackled the cleric roughly from the side and both men tumbled to the ground in a heap of armour and flashing swords. Sydney wiped a line of blood from his brow then stumbled to his feet, holding on convulsively to Batistum's coverlet to steady himself. Grissom saw the cultist rise and seemed to lose a bit of his nerve with both foes able-bodied and the element of surprise gone. He slammed the hilt of his sword into Hardin's stomach then struck him in the base of his skull once he'd doubled over, flipping his sword quickly into position and slicing into his side. Hardin cried out a curse and leaned into the wound, blinking away blackness as the crimson spread angrily across his shirtfront.

        "You're quite skilled for a man of the cloth," Sydney snapped heatedly, moving quickly to Hardin's side. Grissom smeared more ticklish blood away from his brow and cheek and turned on him, teeth bared.

        "Surrender, swine," he warned, "I outmatch your lackey in steel and yourself in the powers."

        "Do you?" Sydney mused, "A clever cleric indeed, Commander Grissom, I'll grant you that. But I think you a trifle ignorant. Know your foes, fool. Otherwise you only fight yourself."

        "Ah, Sydney, your haughty words will not help you now." The wounded man advanced, his duty to his Cardinal seemingly as clear as spring water. "I know your sort all too well."

        Grissom raised a gloved hand, the white fabric stained with red, then closed it into a fist, speaking Kildean with an accent that couldn't fail in making Sydney smile. The cultist let him finish his spell, then wrapped the very energy he called upon in on itself and threw it back into the maelstrom. The chant failed.

        "What trick is this?" the swordsman asked, shaking his head slightly. He tried the words again and Sydney saw how he'd been taught these summons. He was commanding the Dark, not requesting aid. It could work, that mentality, but it could never be as powerful as forming a union with the Dark was, as Müllenkamp and her people had done for two thousand years. Sydney listened to the Dark's laughter now at the little face-off. Or perhaps the laughter was his own, gleaned from his mind and projected into the void. Whichever the case, Sydney and his control caused Grissom's next spell to fail. And his next. The cleric was soon all but spluttering in his rage and though the cultist was holding on painfully to his wounded shoulder, he stood a little straighter, his confidence set back in place.

        Yet the guards were almost there and Hardin was hurt. This little game couldn't play itself out until dawn.

        "I appreciate the amusement, Commander," he said lowly, "But we must be on our way."

        "Sydney!!" Grissom raged, "Don't dismiss me so easily!"

        "I almost wish I didn't have to. But your comrades are pushy."

        The noise of approaching booted feet was audible to all now, and the clink of armour punctuating the sound was enough to put any man on edge. Sydney eyed Grissom with a lazy sort of caution. He could have been admiring a painting he seemed so at ease. Grissom thought him insane. Sweeping his blood-matted hair from his eyes, he got a new grip on his weapon and charged, sure that even if his magick had chosen to abandon him, he could always rely on steel. Little did he know that his magick had not abandoned him. Sydney had merely stolen the summoned power and put it back into the black realm for a few moments. Once Grissom's sword was only a hair's breadth from his neck, Sydney gave it all back.

        The Dark was eager to make the return.

        Every bit of glass shattered in the Cardinal's lavish chamber, from the vases to the crystal wine goblets from last night's meal. There were two windows in the room and they blew out immediately, sending a sparkling curtain of violet-hued glass out into the adjacent parlours. It would have been a marvellous lot of sound if the scream of the spell itself hadn't filled the air and drowned it out. The Dark was vicious when it came, hungry for blood, and it slammed into Commander Grissom like a great granite fist, knocking the sword from his hand and the breath from his lungs. He fell backwards hard and slid into the wall. Sydney swore he could hear his skull crack when his head met the plaster. Other than that, he didn't hear anything else from him.

        "N-nice," Hardin commented with a grunt, doing his best to stay standing. He looked quickly about at the ruined remains of Batistum's quarters. That bit of power had all but levelled the place. "If nothing else," he sighed, "I s'pose... s'pose we've cost them a copper or three."

        "Come along, it'll be all right."

        When Grissom opened his eyes again, it was to an empty room.

        Cursing his own weakness, he bellowed out a command at the top of his lungs but the words were useless as a garrison of Palace guards arrived only moments after he regained himself. Guildenstern was away, as were half the Order but Grissom commanded every able man be tumbled from his bed till the cultists were ferreted out. He greeted the news of the deaths of the three assassins and the safety of their Sovereign with a satisfied nod. At least Duane and Guildenstern wouldn't be able to lash him too terribly for this screw-up. At least the Cardinal and the King were still breathing.

        His shoulder little more than a bright bloom of pain, Sydney cursed those very facts. A waste... a waste... the entire venture had been a waste and he'd let three men of his own die... three men who'd entrusted him with their very souls. He couldn't remember their names, their faces were little more than blurs in his memory, yet Sydney recalled their devotion with a sting in his throat and something like pain. He raced himself and Hardin through the depths of the Cathedral, looking blindly for the safety of the outside yet the pain in his shoulder and head was a distraction, he couldn't concentrate, couldn't think, and the waves crashed ceaselessly in his ears. The blood was pounding in his temples in the same pattern as the surf, two great hands with vice-grips on his skull; every beat of his heart was like being beat with a sailor's maul between the eyes.

        "A moment please... Sydney, please..."

        He'd been leading Hardin about like a rag doll and suddenly he felt that compliancy weighten and his friend demand a moment's rest. Sydney looked irritably behind him, ready to snap something annoyed and impatient yet the blood soaking Hardin's shirt, the awful blood slicking his face over red, gave him pause.

        "John, are you all right?" Sydney bent down to examine his side and found the cut there from Grissom's sword much deeper than he'd thought. The blade had been very sharp, newly honed, and there was the pale flash of cut ribs through the severed skin. Batistum's sole strike had been nothing to laugh at either. A nasty purple lump stood out on Hardin's forehead, his right eye swelling shut. It was most likely a concussion but there was more to it than that. Sydney drew close and pressed his cheek to Hardin's forehead so he could feel the fever he was sure was there, his metal limbs ineffective for such a task. He was as hot as the stones about a fireplace, his eyes glassy with sickness.

        "Just leave me," he muttered, drawing a shaky breath and closing his eyes. He fell backwards against a wall and Sydney was so suddenly fearful for him that their invisibility wavered. He put it back up, pleading with the Dark for strength and time.

        "You know I would never."

        "You'd have left the others."

        "Perhaps. But they're not you. Be strong. I've seen you with worse than this."

        Hardin grinned but slunk down further to the floor, the strength leaving him so fast it was frightening to watch. "I think the Cardinal did something. Bastard... bastard had snakes in his bloody frock. I didn't---"

        "Anticipate them?" Sydney finished, "Neither did I."

        "They have your tricks, haven't they?"

        "They have something... but it isn't the same." Sydney snapped off a claw and placed an icy iron hand over the gash in Hardin's side. He was tired. Working the limbs at all was beginning to be a strain. "They haven't the dark gifts of Leá Monde, only the superficial magicks that any boy with a strong will and knowledge of Kildean can perform. I just didn't know. I didn't quite believe the tales of the old men." He whispered a simple chant, closing his eyes with the concentration it required to keep them hidden from the sights of the circling guards, work his limbs, and heal his friend enough that he could move all at once. The spell was rough and hot. He felt Hardin stiffen beneath his touch and yelp a cry as his iron hand heated. "Sssh... 'tis only for a moment..."

        "To hell with you and y-your 'moments'!"

        "Curse me quietly, brother, there are knights in the next room."

        "I'll t-take them all at once with a jack knife and a bit o' rope! Gah!"

        "You may have to. But hush for now."

        Sydney moved his hand away and wiped it clean on his tunic. His own wound was quite superficial. Already the Blood-Sin was seeing to it. He leaned back a moment, letting Hardin catch his breath, catching his own, though he wouldn't have admitted that he was tired.

        He supposed closing his eyes for a moment, focusing his thoughts, might clear the noise from his head but the moment he lowered his lids he saw the shore and a dagger laying bloody in the sand. He saw blood on an altar and smelled the stink of burning flesh. He saw a sword descending and saw the pain, *saw* it, not feeling it, as it gouged into him carelessly and cut his birthright away.

        ~...you've suffered much...~

        His Lady's voice was soft and sad, a whisper that seemed very unlike her. Sydney nearly didn't recognise the tone. He called negations against the onslaught of images, fighting the urge to clutch his head.

        ...suffered? Nay... I've lived a life. We all suffer at some points. Are you trying to make me bitter?

        "Sydney--!"

        He wasn't sure if he opened his eyes to stop the visions or if they'd been opened all the while and now suddenly ceased so that reality... or what he was assuming was reality... returned to him. He was seated at Hardin's side in a poorly-lit stone archway somewhere inside the priests' quarters in Valnain's Cathedral. His concentration was gone and with it went his control over the Dark. He and his comrade lay exposed, hurt, and vulnerable to half a dozen Crimson Blades led by a barely conscious Commander Grissom.

        "C-careful..." the cleric stuttered to his men, holding his head, his wounds still bleeding fresh, "Cornered dogs bite."

        Hardin was grabbing at his arm and a distant part of Sydney's mind realised the danger but there seemed so many different dangers to contend with at once that he couldn't find just one to focus on. There were spears and harsh orders that Hardin give up his sword. There was Guildenstern with an army of knights and a lust for the very powers of the essence of the world. Cardinal Batistum too with his silver-tongue and cutting cruelty. There were the brands... the brands and the torture from the weeks he'd spent in a Church-run dungeon in Dursbury when he'd been caught ill and beaten down by a passel of sellswords hired by the governor there... he and a dozen men had nearly suffered death until he'd managed to free them. There was that great bloody sword with the embers clinging livid and glowing to the blade and the two heavy swipes as it took his arms off--

        "You will regret this night, cultists," Grissom threatened, "Perhaps you're already regretting it now. Seize that man's sword and rip the claws from the other one! His Excellency's ordered they be held in the dungeon. Fortunate bastards, I would have executed you as would-be assassins on the spot."

        A pair of the knights went for Hardin's blade but Hardin wasn't one to sit idly by while others dictated. He must have been healed enough to move again for he slashed out with his sword, expertly finding the chink in one of the men's armour and drawing blood. He was on his feet again in moments with one arm wrapped around Sydney's waist, trying to get him to flee. "Come on! Come on! Snap out of this!"

        The knights set on the pair in a wave of clashing steel and Hardin fought them off as best he could, tossing his partner behind him and trying to stretch the rest of their lives into as much time as he could manage. Sydney was dimly aware of the fighting and somehow unconcerned. He knew exactly what was going to happen and was unsurprised when it did.

        A spear snuck its way past Hardin's furied defence and sank into Sydney's chest, knocking him back against the wall and then throwing him to the floor when it was jerked out again. Warm rusty blood flooded his mouth the moment he tried to gasp and a fiery agony chewed on his left side. He wasn't even aware of Hardin's tortured cry or the hands grabbing at his arms. He let the Dark rage through him and manifest as it would and when he looked up again the knights were all dead or unconscious and Grissom lay sprawled at the base of a far wall, unmoving. Hardin was climbing to his feet, eyes wide in surprise. "Why in the bloody hell didn't you just do that before?"

        Sydney couldn't answer. He fell over and coughed blood, trying to find a breath through the crimson sea filling his lungs. His claw grabbed feebly at the spear wound in his side and he wondered if he might die, immortality be damned. The world became even less coherent than before. He felt Hardin make him stand, force him to stand and stumble out of that hallway and back towards the sewers. He thought, half-madly, that he might be able to wrap them in Dark again but his powers were spent for a while and it was enough for him to do even to stay conscious.

        "...stop fighting me. Just let me get us out of here..."

        "...J-john... I c-can... I can do this... let me..."

        There was icy water all around and the rank stench of filth of every sort imaginable. The water was an ice freezing about an agonizingly burning core. Sydney hadn't the strength to grab at his wounds and they burned on endlessly. He had no sort of control over the false limbs anymore and he couldn't open his eyes to see where he was being taken. He felt the cold water and heard the pounding of the shore. Then he felt a sun cooking the top of his bowed head and saw it baking marble, white as snow.

        The statue of St. Iocus. The marble fountain outside the Duke's Manor.

        Sydney could walk again. He stumbled weakly to the carvings and the crystal waters, falling heavily over the lip of the basin and sitting in the cold. He watched the water rush over his thin chest and felt the hard marble behind his head where he leaned against the frozen folds of the saint's robes. He knew he was bloodying this pure water and he didn't care. He wanted to lay there forever. They could baptise him if they liked.

        ~Worshipping Iocus now, are we? I knew the man when he was alive. He was no more a saint than I was a trumpeting elephant.~

        Leave me be, Lady.

        "--Sydney!! Stop this now!"

        Was father in the mansion? Would he look outside the window and see his hideous son sprawled like a transient in the waters of the Church's fountain, bleeding all over the pure white marble?

        ~No, he will not. He is quite dead. And the Manor you were a little boy in is burnt to the ground. You shouldn't have summoned that dragon. I told you not to.~

        Sydney opened his eyes. He thought they'd been opened but everything was a dream. He wasn't half-dead by a spear in the side after an unsuccessful attempt to assassinate both the Cardinal and the King of Valendia. There wasn't blood covering his face and chest. The horizon was a shoreline, the rocky shore where the fishermen left their lines out all day and he used to steal their bait when he was small, hiding beneath the docks and watching the men toss out their nets in their tiny boats on the water before the nursemaids came with their scoldings. The waves pounded the seawall but he was still in the fountain and everything was icy cold though nothing had any substance to it anymore, so the sensation was illusion. Only when he closed his eyes was anything real. That reality was one of pain and memories though, nothing he wanted. It was also where Müllenkamp was.

        Are you trying to make me bitter?

        ~No. You are attempting that on yourself. I don't understand why.~

        I didn't want to die.

        ~I did not force you. You are not dead now. You have your soul. You have your memories. What more do you want, selfish child?~

        ... I don't know. Bardorba?

        ~The name, the money, the power, or the man?~

        I don't know.

        He opened his eyes to the fountain again and saw the bright afternoon sky above his head. The Manor had burned to the ground, that was obvious now. He couldn't quite remember the cult's occupation of it but it made sense to see it ruined. He remembered... dragons. There was something eternal and beautiful about dragons. Standing in the presence of one was like standing before a god; it dwarfed him on every level.

        ~Distracted again. Even now, you're so easily distracted. If you want to take advantage of your gift, you need to concentrate on the things you have left.~

        Sydney was blinded again for a moment by the white sun off the fountain waters and Müllenkamp seemed jealous of that. He closed his eyes against the light but then was blinded by the woman who'd been haunting him his entire life. She was there in all her splendour, as vivid as the full moon on a clear night; skin as unflawed as new snow, her hair as black as onyx, lips like petals, eyes like stars. She didn't wear her garments, they were only colours that danced over her, obscured her for moments, then revealed her to him again. Her jewellery, the coins and necklaces, the bits of gold weaved into her hair, buzzed and shimmered like fireflies about her, worshipping a form they couldn't hope to enrich further. Sydney reached out a hand and was startled to see... his hand. Flesh! His claws were gone! Quickly, he pulled his limbs back to himself as though afraid they'd be snatched away. He held his hands close, bending his fingers, admiring the perfect curves of his nails, the soft pads of his palms, the forked blue veins on the undersides of his arms; even his elbows with their bony knobs and satiny creases were miracles.

        ~You are whole again, mm?~

        She was watching him with laughing eyes and drinking up the shock in his face. He had little to say to her and couldn't quite make himself say any of it anyways.

        ~Ah, my poor little boy. The gods did not give you very long, did they?~

        N-no...

        She moved closer, standing as near as she dared. She place a gold-adorned hand near his cheek but would not touch him.

        ~I shall miss the nights.~

        Do not leave me, Lady...

        She smiled, the warmest she ever had to him.

        ~But I already have. Life is a dance, my beautiful boy. A grotesque dance, an antic round where we cavort ceaselessly from one extreme of the floor to the next; always changing partners, always struggling to keep up with the surrounding beat; the music shifts, wild to waltzing, heavy to feather-soft, and we must stay in step or be swept cleanly from the floor. Clap your hands, hum out of key, try to alter the tune... you'll find you cannot... you'll be drowned by the song and by the noise of the others' dancing feet.~

        Her hand was so near. Sydney wanted to grasp it and hold her to him. Instead he turned his face away, nearly angry enough to cry.

        That is life. Yes! A cruel song penned by a blind man who weaves the notes so that the seeing suffer. But what is death, milady?! What now that the dance is over? Who is my partner? Where is my music?

        ~I know naught of it. The Dark and I, we use Death, we cause it, we cherish it. But we do not partake of it. I have never died. I only often, change partners. Fare thee well, Sydney Bardorba, my beautiful, beautiful child. Our waltz is over.~

        She glanced away from him and Sydney heard the waves again. He realised all in one instant that he was unanchored. And trapped. He could already taste the blood, the memories, and feel the pain of too many near encounters with death. He stepped towards Müllenkamp and she walked a few paces away in turn, becoming less and less substantial. He realised then too that what had held her to him and vice versa, was gone. She was just another entity now, just another lover leaving.

        ...and what was I but another stepping stone.


        Hardin found him wandering through the ruins of Bardorba's burnt estate. Sydney didn't recognise him. He wouldn't speak coherently or look him in the eye. As a ghost, or whatever it was they both were now, he was barely discernible; just a wavering in the air that somewhat resembled the man that Hardin had known.

        He spoke nonsense and raved quietly. Hardin thought he might be possessed by the Dark until he realised that now was the first time in many many years that the exact opposite of that was true.

        Hardin's grateful prayers for having found him at all did nothing. Neither did simply calling his name. He had no substance so there were no shoulders to shake nor face to slap. Sydney's visible form shifted from the way he'd looked in life to a little boy crying into his frock. Hardin went as close as he dared, refusing to heed the dead man's cries, refusing to believe he couldn't be seen. He couldn't be seen by anyone! Sydney had been one of the only people left who could still hear him, still see that John Hardin yet existed! Had he lost that power in death now? Was he blind now?

        Hardin lamented and supposed Sydney had gone mad. He supposed he was alone. But with no where else in the world to go, he didn't leave his side.


        Not very far away, Ashley Riot was noticing how the colour black was now as plentiful in the late Duke Bardorba's estate as the tears.

        In and out the people filed in their mournful line with their drawn and pale faces wearing their plain and dusty blacks. He made himself one of them, working his way into the parlour to stand over the casket and stare soberly down at the old Statesman's body.
        The sight was uninteresting however, and he moved quickly away, looking for the dead man's son.

        After palavering for an hour, playing the part of a weeping young scrivener, Ashley discovered Sydney wasn't there. He stood in slight shock in a dark corner of the black-draped sitting room, set into the shadows like a statue. The fingers of his right hand played idly over his wounded side as he thought upon his circumstances. Joshua Bardorba filed past him once, dry-eyed and delicate, seeing the Riskbreaker past his disguise with obvious ease. Ashley smiled at the little boy and Joshua smiled back before the servants came to return him to his grieving mother. After that one brief look at his face though, the former Riskbreaker knew with certainty where Sydney would be.

        He gave everyone in the room quite a start by disappearing with a little sinister laugh.



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