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“Will you need anything else? There are further volumes which I can pull for a more in-depth study.”

“No, thank you,” said Ravana, surveying the dozen books already stacked on their table. “The assignment calls for a two-page paper; more material than this will simply swamp us, I think.”

“Very well,” said Crystal, nodding her head. The expressionless mask that formed her face was an eerie contrast to her pleasant voice. “Don’t hesitate to ask at the front desk if you require any help.”

“We won’t, thank you.”

The golem turned and walked back through the stacks toward the front of the library and her customary seat behind its broad desk, leaving the four girls seated around a small table in a reading alcove. As she went, the light emitted from between her joints and the plates of her “skin” cast shifting patterns of illumination on the nearby bookshelves.

It wasn’t dim in the library by any means; there were tall windows and abundant fairy lamps, creating plenty of light to read by. Its architecture, though, trended toward narrow spaces and dark tones, making it feel cozy and even a little gloomy despite the light level. Crystal’s blue-white glow made for a stark contrast.

“She’s amazing,” Maureen breathed, staring after the golem even once she was gone from sight.

“Oh?” Iris said warily. “Uh, that’s… Well, she’s not really my type, but I guess…”

“What?” The gnome blinked at her, then blushed. “Oh, for the— No! Are ye daft? She’s a machine. That’s what I meant; the way she talks an interacts, it’s incredible. There’ve been talking enchantments basically forever, but those were rare, an’ always stuck on static objects; havin’ something that moves around attached to ’em mucked up the old methods, as I understood it. No, she’s a modern golem, but almost like a real person!”

“Is she not a person?” Szith asked, raising an eyebrow. “If she can communicate as one, what other measure is there by which to judge her? She certainly appeared as sentient as you or I.”

“You can tell if y’pay attention an’ know what to listen for,” said Maureen. “She uses exactly the same inflection on everything she says, an’ there’s a faint pause, like, after ye speak to ‘er. Somethin’ bein’ processed in there, the machinery finding the right response an’ spittin’ it out. ‘Course, it’s all arcane magic, not really a true machine, but still, it’s far and away beyond any other golem I ever heard of.”

“It seems my question remains valid, then,” said Szith. “Even if she is an artificial creation, is she not a sentient thing?”

Maureen had begun shaking her head before the drow was finished speaking. “Actual sentience, that’s still beyond modern enchantment. Some o’ the old archmages came close, with talkin’ mirrors an’ swords an’ the like, but in the end they were a lot simpler than an actual person. No real psychology, I mean, just…patterns o’ behavior. Also, most o’ those were made by killin’ somebody and fixin’ a bit o’ their soul to the object, so… That’s highly illegal in the Empire.”

Iris went wide-eyed, turning to stare in the direction Crystal had gone. “You…you don’t suppose…”

“If Tellwyrn had done something like that,” said Ravana with an amused little smile, “I hardly think she would encourage the results to circulate among her students. In any case, I doubt she would have done so to begin with.”

“Aye,” said Maureen, “an’ no matter how reclusive she is, if she’d cracked actual golem sentience, there’d be word of it all over. That’s one of the great unsolveds, y’know? Like mass-producible magic mirrors or automated teleportation.”

“You know, your accent kind of comes and goes,” Iris remarked, frowning. Maureen shrugged, averting her eyes, and pulled one of the books over to herself. She had to stand on her chair to see comfortably over the table, but she was used to long hours on her feet.

“I still don’t feel my question was addressed,” said Szith. “So Crystal is perhaps a bit simple-minded; there are no shortage of biological people in the same state. What truly differentiates her? Your explanation implied a definitive line between speaking enchantments and sentient beings, but you didn’t define it.”

“Well…it’s vague,” Maureen said. “I’ve never spoken with a sentient enchantment till today, but I could tell. Like I said, she processes speech like a machine, sortin’ out what she hears and findin’ the right combination o’ words to reply. Supposedly the older talking enchantments really only started to look sketchy when studied in detail.”

“Is that not what we all do, though?” Szith asked. “Perhaps Crystal does not find her words quite as adroitly, but the end result seems to be the same…”

“In my opinion,” said Ravana, “the difference is one of degree, not of nature. We are all of us nothing but machines, differentiated from an abacus only by a level of complexity. The mind is just a function of the body, after all.”

Szith frowned slightly. “When you put it that way, it sounds rather nihilistic.”

“Oh?” Ravana smiled at her. “Do you know much about the sea goddess Naphthene?”

“I do not.”

“Naphthene has no cult or worshipers,” Ravana said, folding her hands serenely in her lap. “Nor does she want any; she either ignores people who try, or sometimes takes exception to their temerity if they are particularly stubborn. Nonetheless, seafaring cultures revere her, for obvious reasons. No ship sets out to sea without making a small offering to Naphthene, for to omit that step is to reliably court disaster. And yet, storms still happen. Those who have made the requisite sacrifices are still vulnerable. The sea is not a thing to be tamed.”

“She sounds…unjust,” said Szith, her frown deepening.

“Precisely!” Ravana replied. “Unfair, arbitrary, random. And that is the lesson absorbed by a lot of coastal societies: life is simply a matter of luck and fickle fate. What is fascinating, and relevant to our discussion, is how they deal with this worldview. In the west and south, the Tidestrider clans are known to be brutal and, as you say, nihilistic. The Empire has brought them somewhat to heel, but in the old days they rendered that ocean all but impassable, mostly raiding each other, but they would descend in force on anyone else who dared to sail their waters. They took no prisoners and gave no quarter, and the few who visited among them described them as a dour and unsmiling folk. On the other hand, in the east and north are the Punaji, who are famously high-spirited and cheerful. And both societies arrived at their value systems from the same starting point: observing the unfairness of life.” She leaned back in her chair, her smile broadening. “There’s an old Punaji proverb I very much like: ‘When nothing means anything, everything means everything.’”

The group fell silent, three of them frowning thoughtfully at the empty space in the center of the table.

“I’m a wee bit flummoxed how we came ’round to this from me admiring the golem,” Maureen said at last.

“Quite so!” Ravana replied, suddenly brisk, and leaned forward to pick up a book. “Now, we have here several volumes on history, adventuring and magic which make reference to Arachne Tellwyrn. I propose that we divide them up; that will give us this evening to skim through and isolate references to her failures and defeats, and then we can pool our notes and compose the actual essay tomorrow in time for Wednesday’s class. Does anyone object if I do the writing myself?”

“Forgive me,” said Szith, “but I object to your presumption. We’ve followed you this far, as requesting books from the golem scarcely constitutes effort, but the group has not agreed to pursue this course of action. In frankness, you have not justified it.”

“Uh, yeah,” Iris piped up, her expression worried. “I don’t like the sound of that assignment to pick at each other’s weaknesses, but I really don’t see how starting a fight with Tellwyrn is gonna help us.”

“Very well, it’s a fair concern.” Ravana leaned forward again, folding her hands on the table and interlacing her fingers. “To begin with, do you believe me when I say that the assignment itself is not meant to be taken at face value?”

The other three girls exchanged glances.

“I dunno,” Iris said doubtfully.

“This project is by no means the first time I have engaged in research about our professor,” said Ravana. “Upon being accepted here I commissioned a detailed analysis of her, the better to know what to expect. While Tellwyrn herself has historically bludgeoned her way through obstacles with sheer magical might, she has an entirely other set of priorities for other people. Particularly students. In fact, she is rather fond of subtle tests of character, of placing obstacles in people’s paths and engineering situations to gauge their moral and mental capabilities. I came prepared to be on the lookout for these; I did not expect to find one so quickly, or for it to be so blatant.”

“Blatant?” Maureen asked.

Ravana grinned faintly. “May I at least assume you have all noticed, as I have, the insanity of the assignment in question? The sheer, emotionally destructive absurdity of it?”

They all nodded, slowly, and she spread her hands. “Arachne Tellwyrn is not someone who does insane, absurd things—at least, not to students or others under her protection. She is someone who likes to carefully feel people out using oblique methods before subjecting them to her bombastic approach to life. I suspect that’s why she is still alive; it has prevented her from picking a fight with someone too close to her level.”

“That makes sense, then,” said Szith, again nodding. “Very well, I can accept your assertion, and thank you for the analysis. I for one would likely have stepped right into the trap otherwise.”

“Ought we to clue the others in?” Maureen asked.

Ravana shrugged. “If you wish. We were assigned our room groups to do this with, however; I don’t think we will be expected to extend our efforts beyond that.”

“Still,” said Szith, “you have yet to explain why you think antagonizing Professor Tellwyrn is a wise academic move.”

Iris nodded emphatically. “I think your exact words were ‘rub her face in it.’ Failing us is the least of what she can do to us, you know.”

“Ah, yes,” Ravana replied with a rueful smile. “Forgive me, I do like to indulge in tiny little melodramas. No, being aggressive with Tellwyrn is probably not a good idea. If nothing else, it would be a metatextual failure; seeing the subtle trap and using it to act brutishly seems self-defeating. No, what I had in mind is a simple message, and if anything a gentle one. Or at least a subtle one.”

“Go on,” said Szith when no one else commented.

Ravana leaned forward to tap one of the books. “Rather than the assigned analysis of each other, I propose that we collaborate on a general essay detailing strategies a group of people can use against a more powerful opponent, with examples—each of which will be an instance of someone overcoming Tellwyrn herself. At no point do I plan to make threats or personal statements. It will be far more oblique, and yet pointed, indicating that we have discerned both the trap and the true nature of the assignment, and that we have identified the real aggressor here.”

Another quiet fell; Ravana smiled beatifically at the others, who looked pensive.

“When you explain it that way,” Szith said finally, “I still think the idea is excessively confrontational. We can surely present a statement without encroaching upon her personal history.”

“Her personal history is public,” Ravana replied, “and I assure you, we will get nowhere with Tellwyrn if we do things by half-measures. Let’s be realistic, ladies; we are under no circumstances going to intimidate her, and I frankly doubt we can even offend her. She simply doesn’t take us that seriously, or personally. This is about not being walked over. The risk is slight, but for that, at least, I am willing to take it.”

Szith nodded at that; Iris and Maureen frowned at each other.

“Or,” Ravana went on mildly, “if you are more comfortable establishing up front that you will always be a victim, we can run with that, too.”

 

Last Rock’s expansion over the summer had been minor, but it was a relatively static town most of the time, and even a minor growth had upended everything. Coming as it did right on the heels of the evacuation and subsequent return, there was more muttering than usual in the town about the students and the disruption they caused, but for the most part, this was overruled. The students were still the biggest source of revenue for local business—or at least, they always had been. Last Rock’s newest additions were beginning to call that into question.

The new Silver Mission stood on the outskirts, close enough to the Rail platform to be immediately visible to arriving travelers. It was a modest building in size, but very much Avenist in its sensibilities, all white marble, domed roofs and with a fence of iron bars topped in spear-like points. Aside from the one assigned priestess, who lived on site, the Mission had few regulars, most of its visitors being the would-be adventurers who passed through the town en route to the Golden Sea. There didn’t seem to be any residents of Last Rock itself who felt the need to call on Avei’s protection.

At least, not so far, though that might change, given the additions to the population brought by the other new addition. The Vidian temple, too, was small, little more than a shrine—but it had come with personnel, and continued to attract more. Three new houses and another inn were under construction on the outskirts of town, the Mayor was busy drawing up plans to extend a couple of the streets, and Sheriff Sanders had been sufficiently pressed to keep order among the new arrivals that he had officially deputized Ox Whippoorwill and another man. Imperial surveyors had visited, and there was even talk of an Imperial Marshal being assigned too the town.

Aside from the clerics and others who had moved in, people continued to pass through, seldom staying long, but all hoping for at least a glimpse of the new paladin—or either of the old ones, for that matter. Tellwyrn had made it sufficiently plain that sightseers were not welcome on campus that few tried that anymore, especially after the newspapers had begun circulating horror stories of tourists teleported to Tidestrider islands, Tar’naris, the Stalrange and other unwholesome vacation spots. Still, even after that and the natural waning of interest over the summer months, the Imperial Rail Service had finally been force to designate Last Rock a justification-only destination—meaning tickets there could only be purchased by people who could provide a reason for their trip to the Rail conductor. It wasn’t much of a barrier, only keeping out the particularly stupid and deranged, but it did the trick. Anybody intelligent enough to come up with an excuse to be in Last Rock was intelligent enough not to cause trouble once they got there.

Even so, Gabriel’s visits to the Vidian temple were necessarily crowd-pleasing affairs. In just a few short weeks he had perfected the art of nodding, smiling and waving to people without stopping to engage with them. He also usually didn’t go without escort. Toby and Trissiny would have only drawn more attention, Juniper might have created a panic and none of his other classmates were particularly intimidating, but the three privates with whom he roomed often accompanied him into town. Sanders or one of his deputies sometimes shadowed him once there. It was awkward at times, but it worked.

This evening, though, he was alone, which was the point. The sky had long since fallen red, and the sun was only partially visible on the horizon. Now, at the point between day and night, was a sacred time to Vidians; dusk and dawn were favored for their gatherings and rituals. More to the point, certain powers of Vidius granted to certain of his followers were at their peak in these between times.

He walked with a frown of concentration on his face, focusing internally and barely paying enough attention to where he was going to get there intact. By far the biggest threat to his focus was his success; he’d made it all the way to the temple without anyone noticing his presence, and jubilation threatened to wreck it for him. The final stretch of the race was ahead: the temple itself, and the Vidian worshipers gathered there.

The temple was, of course, of two parts. The public area was a roofless stone amphitheater, the materials for which (like the white marble of the Silver Mission) had been brought in by Rail and assembled rapidly with the aid of Wizards’ Guild artisans. The half dozen Vidians who had emigrated to Last Rock for the chance to be near their new paladin were all present, rehearsing a play that was to be performed in a few weeks. Even for those who weren’t professional actors, drama was considered a sacred art to the god of masks, one most of his followers involved themselves in.

Gabriel did not slow or look up at them as he arrived, stepping up onto the stone outer rim of the amphitheater. This was not far from the spot from which he and his classmates had embarked into the Golden Sea almost a year ago, right on the north edge of town. He passed quickly around the edge of the ring, ignoring the performers, none of whom even looked up at him, to reach the half-pyramid positioned at one edge and the door set into it.

Opening the door, for whatever reason, brought attention. Immediately voices were raised behind him, but he swiftly ducked inside, pulling it shut, and then slumped against it, letting out a long breath of relief.

The staircase in which he found himself was well-lit by small fairy lights, descending straight forward without any curves or turns. Gabriel, having regathered his composure, set off down toward the bottom, confident in the door’s ability to protect him from his adoring public. He could still hear them clearly, clamoring outside; the enchantments on it were designed to conduct rather than to muffle sound, so that those below could be aware of anything important happening above. Still, he knew they would respect the barrier, as Vidians respected all barriers. This half of the temple was not entered except on specific business.

Right now, its position was obvious, as the prairie grasses hadn’t yet had time to settle in above the underground complex, leaving a long rectangle of bare earth adjacent to the amphitheater. In time, though, the lower half of the temple would be invisible from above, only the door revealing that such a thing existed. Some temples favored trapdoors, even hidden entrances, as if to deny that they even had a lower half. The facility at Last Rock was not only small, it was simple, and didn’t seem to feel any need for such touches.

At the bottom was a long, narrow room terminating in a shrine to Vidius himself and lined with benches—not an uncommon arrangement for places of worship. Doors to either side led to the apartments of the priest in residence, and…what else Gabriel did not know, never having been invited in. All his conversations and lessons had taken place here, in the chapel.

The priest, Val Tarvadegh, was a lean man in his middle years, whose beakish nose and widow’s peak conspired to make his face rather birdlike in aspect. He was dressed, as always, in the black robes of his office—as was the other person present.

Gabriel paused at the base of the stairs, sizing up the woman. Bronze of skin and black of hair, she was a perfectly average-looking Tiraan like himself and Tarvadegh, but he couldn’t shake a feeling of familiarity at seeing her.

“Gabriel!” the priest said, turning to him with a smile. “And here you are, unmolested! How did it go?”

“Brilliant,” he said, a grin breaking across his own features. “I made it the whole way this time! Well…almost. It broke when I got to the door. As you can probably hear,” he added ruefully, glancing behind. Indeed, in the sudden quiet, the excited babble of voices was still dimly audible. “I’m sorry, am I early? I don’t mean to interrupt…”

“Oh, pay no attention to me,” the woman said, rising from her seat on one of the chapel’s benches. “I merely stopped by to see Val; far be it from me to impede our new paladin’s education.”

“Are…you a priestess?” he asked hesitantly. “I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve got this feeling I know you from somewhere.”

“You have possibly noticed me on campus,” she said with a smile. “Afritia Morvana. I’m the new house mother for the Well.”

“Oh! The freshman girls, right. So, what’re they like?”

“If they decide that’s any of your business,” she said placidly, “I’m sure they will inform you.”

“Whoah, point taken.” Gabriel raised his hands in surrender; Tarvadegh grinned, hiding a chuckle behind a cough. “I assure you, madam, your charges are in no danger from me. You can ask anybody how awkward I am with women.”

“Yes, I begin to see that,” she said, her smile widening. “Anyway. I must be off; I’ll see what I ca do about dispersing your fan club, shall I?”

“You are my new favorite person,” he said fervently. Morvana laughed and glided past him up the stairs.

“It’s not uncommon for the deflection to be disrupted by such things as opening doors,” Tarvadegh said as Gabriel approached him. “You are diverting people’s attention from yourself. If you change anything in your environment, they will tend to notice that—and then, in looking around to find what caused it, will quite quickly pierce your deflection. Anything which calls attention to you will unmake it.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Gabe said with a grimace. “Is it possible to get around that?”

“To extend it to other objects? Most certainly, yes, even to other people. That is very advanced, though.” Tarvadegh winked. “Crawl before you fly, my friend. You made good progress today.”

“It still takes a lot out of me,” he admitted. “Well…not out of me. It’s not very tiring, and I don’t feel like I’m using much energy. But it’s the concentration. If I let up for a second, poof. There it goes.”

“Yes,” the priest said, nodding. “You mentioned how it doesn’t drain energy; that’s because this is a very passive effect. Unfortunately, that means you can’t just power through it with more magical oomph. It’s a trick of concentration. Once you learn how, and can make it habitual, you’ll find yourself able to do almost anything you normally could while holding the deflection.” He smiled and shrugged. “Till you do, though… It’s a process.”

“Sounds like my lightworking class,” Gabriel muttered.

“Depending on what you’re working, yes, it can be similar. Come, have a seat.” Tarvadegh suited the words with action, sitting down on a bench and pointing to the one across from him. “How have you been doing with your masks?”

Gabriel sighed heavily, slumping down onto the padded surface. “I just… I don’t know, Val. This is the thing that most makes me think Vidius made a mistake.”

“Perhaps he did,” Tarvadegh said mildly, earning a startled look. “I think it’s unlikely, however. Gods have insight beyond our imagining, and access to undreamable amounts of information. I’ve mentioned this before, Gabriel, but the masks are not something made up by Vidian theology; rather something codified by it. We have different facets of ourselves to display to different people, at different times. This practice is nothing more than becoming conscious of the effect and making use of it.”

“It feels like lying.”

“It can be,” the priest said, nodding, “if you are unethical or careless. But if so, that is not a true mask, in the sense that we use the term. It is a true aspect of yourself, one that you possess naturally, and are simply taking control of, putting to better use.”

“It’s just… I’ve always been a bit of a…a buffoon. I’m the guy who says the thing we’re all thinking but everyone else was too polite. The least Vidian person in the room, in other words. All of this, now…” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just afraid of losing myself.”

Tarvadegh tilted his head to one side. “That’s interesting, you hadn’t mentioned that before.”

“Sorry…”

“No, no! These things are not meant to be done all at once, Gabriel; we’ll figure it out. For now, what you just said makes me think I have been trying to start you off too far ahead. It was always my assumption that a demonblood would have learned to play it very safe to get along in society. How does one do that without being…extremely circumspect?”

Gabriel sighed again and leaned back against the wall behind him. “One does it by hiding behind one’s soldier dad and monk friend when one accidentally sparks off a problem. You’ve kinda hit the nail on the head for me, though. If I couldn’t manage to suss all this out when it was arguably a matter of life and death, how’m I supposed to figure it out now?”

“Well, now you have the benefit of teaching,” Tarvadegh said with a smile. “Let’s go back to a much more basic thing, then, the different masks that I know you have. You are not the same person exactly with your father as with, say, your classmate Trissiny, correct?”

Gabriel blinked. “Hm. Actually… Maybe I’d have gotten along better with Trissiny from the start if I’d been a little less relaxed and kept my mouth shut. See, this is what I mean. The more you talk about these masks as a normal thing that everyone has, the more I just realize how I’ve been screwing up my whole life by not doing this.”

“So perhaps you’re a much more forthright person than most,” Tarvadegh said, grinning now. “But I guarantee, Gabriel, you have some different shades. Let me try a more pointed example. You don’t behave the same when talking with Toby as you do when in Juniper’s arms, right?”

Gabe averted his eyes, flushing.

“Sorry to be so blunt,” said Tarvadegh. “But are you beginning to see my point?”

“Kinda hard not to, with that image dropped into my head,” Gabriel muttered.

“Then it’s something for you to think about. And perhaps this will help you out socially. Everyone does not need to hear the first thought that crosses your mind, nor to see your feelings written on your face. In fact, sometimes it is kinder to spare them that. The Narisians have a philosophy that I have enjoyed reading—”

He broke off mid-sentence and both of them turned toward the stairwell. Above, there suddenly came the sound of screaming.

Both men were on their feet in a heartbeat, Gabriel pushing ahead to dash up the stairs. He withdrew the black wand Vidius had given him as he went, grabbing Ariel’s hilt with his left hand, and pushed the door latch down with his fist when he reached it.

He emerged onto the amphitheater in the gathering darkness in time to see the last of the assembled Vidians fleeing back into the town, a couple still shrieking in panic. Gabriel gave them little more than a glance, his attention fixed on the thing that had set them to running. They were fortunate that there was someone in their number who knew what they were looking at, otherwise somebody might have made a very severe mistake.

“Hello!” she said brightly.

“Hi,” Gabriel replied in a much more wary tone. The dryad was of a slimmer build than Juniper, less voluptuous, her skin a pale gold that was nearly white and her hair a much lighter shade of green, but she was still excruciatingly lovely. Also, she was completely nude. “Are you lost, miss?”

“Nope!” she said, pointing over his head at the slope of the mountain. “This is where I was going to! Last Rock, just like the name says. I made really good time! Well, the Golden Sea helped me a bit. My name’s Aspen!”

“Hi, Aspen,” he said warily. He didn’t point the wand at her, but kept it out, and his hand on the sword. “I’m Gabriel. You realize it’s kind of a problem for you to be here, right? Dryads aren’t supposed to be in human settlements.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said lightly, striding toward him, “I don’t care about that. So, do you live here? Did you know my sister?”

“Juniper? Sure, I know her. She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Good.” Aspen stopped barely beyond arm’s reach, still smiling, but with something intent and distinctly predatory in her gaze now. “Do you know what killed her?”

Gabriel blinked. “I… What? Killed her? Juniper’s not dead. I talked with her just a few—”

“Now, see, that’s gonna be a problem,” Aspen interrupted, taking one more step closer. He fought the urge to back away; he was still framed in the door, with Tarvadegh behind him. “Our mother felt it when she was snuffed out. You’re just lucky it’s me you’re talking to and not her, but I’m still gonna start getting annoyed if you lie to me. It sure does seem like you know something about this, Gabriel, so let’s try the truth this time.” The smile vanished from her face. “What happened to my sister?”

“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” he said carefully. “If you want to talk to Juniper…in fact, that’s probably the best thing, now that I think of it. If you could just stay right here for a bit, I’ll go and get—”

He saw her lunge and tried to jerk backward away from her, but not fast enough. Aspen grabbed his neck with one hand, squeezing just hard enough to hold him. He reflexively brought up the wand, but just as quickly pointed it elsewhere; the situation wasn’t nearly so bad that he couldn’t make it a thousand times worse by shooting a dryad.

“I told you, I don’t like lying,” Aspen said coldly. “And I don’t like being tricked. So no, I will not wait here while you run away, or go fetch someone to get me like they got Juniper. Now you get one more chance to tell me the truth, Gabriel, and then I’m just gonna kill you and go find someone else.”

“Please, calm down,” he said hoarsely around the constriction of his throat. She only squeezed harder.

“Last chance. Spit it out, before—”

A sound like howling wind rose up around them, though there wasn’t a breeze. A peculiar tinge grew in the air above the amphitheater, as if everything were seen through a haze of fog, but the distance was not obscured. Aspen stopped, staring around in surprise.

Then the figures appeared.

Seven of them, lining the edges of the amphitheater in a semicircle. They were watery and indistinct, but there were several obvious features they had in common. Each was garbed in black, had enormous black wings, and each carried a scythe in her right hand.

Aspen gasped, releasing Gabriel and stumbling backward. One of the shadowy figures followed, stepping forward until she was only two yards from the dryad.

The valkyrie transferred her scythe to her left hand, reached forward with her right, and then very slowly wagged one finger back and forth in front of Aspen’s face.

The dryad swallowed once, convulsively, then whirled and fled back into the prairie. In moments she was lost among the tallgrass.

As abruptly as it had come, the haze faded, the seven reapers vanishing along with it, leaving Gabriel and Tarvadegh standing alone in the doorway, suddenly conscious of raised voices and movement in the town.

“Well,” Gabe said, shaking himself off. “Um…can you talk to the Sheriff, please? I think I’d better go find Juniper. And Professor Tellwyrn,” he added.

“Good plan,” said Tarvadegh, nodding. “Oh, and Gabriel, for future reference…”

“Yes?”

“Never,” said the priest, “ever tell a woman to calm down.”

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“I can’t believe she scratched me,” Gabe said, for far from the first time. He was rubbing at his throat with one hand, despite the fact that he had healed the tiny pinpricks as soon as they had been inflicted in a rather excessive display of divine light. “How is everyone always scratching or stabbing or breaking me? Why do I even bother being an invulnerable half-demon if everybody gets a free shot?!”

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you continually seek out and provoke the only people wherever you are who can actually do these things to you,” Toby said mildly.

“You make it sound like I have a death wish,” Gabriel grumbled. “I’m unlucky and dense, not suicidal.”

“I honestly can’t decide which would put you in more danger,” said Trissiny.

“And for the record! I did nothing to antagonize Ruda, she’s just a bi—a jerk,” he finished, glancing guiltily at Trissiny.

“I give you credit for the effort,” she said dryly.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Sorry. Habits. But seriously, how Ekoi managed to scratch me is a pertinent question.”

“She’s a kitsune,” Fross explained, fluttering over to hover between them. “A potentially very powerful kind of fairy from Sifan. It’s actually really rare to see one outside their home country; they don’t like to travel. But then I guess it’s no surprise that Professor Tellwyrn has friends everywhere.”

“Maybe that means Professor Yornhaldt will come back soon,” Trissiny murmured.

“Be that as it may,” November chimed in, bodily inserting herself into the conversation, “whatever Gabriel did doesn’t justify a professor assaulting a student!”

“I actually think Professor Tellwyrn will agree with you on that,” said Shaeine from the sidelines. “Regardless of the very slight nature of the injury, she has strict rules about such things. If this has not been brought to her attention, I suggest we do so. If Professor Ekoi is as potent a force as Fross implies, it is doubtless best if she is prevented from making a habit of corporal punishment.”

“That’ll be an interesting conversation,” Toby said fatalistically. “Tellwyrn doesn’t have a high opinion of tattletales, even when they’re in the right.”

“Tellwyrn’s opinions are irrational and arbitrary,” Trissiny snorted. “The rules are the rules; she made them. November and Shaeine are right: Ekoi cannot get away with this.”

The handful of other students present simply stood at the periphery of the room, watching November and the sophomores in silence, several with frowns or raised eyebrows in response to tales of the new magical sciences teacher sinking her claws into Gabriel.

They were meeting in Martial Spell Lab 3, an octagonal room attached to the gymnasium, with a padded floor and enormous plate glass windows for three of its wall sections, which looked out over the prairie to the east. That glass, however, was no less fragile than the stone which comprised the rest of the room, and all of it would stand up to mag artillery fire. This was one of the chambers in which spell combat was taught and practiced; the defensive charms covering every inch of the room were the best that could be had. Allegedly they’d only needed to be replaced three times since the University’s founding, which was impressive considering the nature of the student body.

Further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Professor Harklund through the door opening onto the main gymnasium. He was a man in his middle years, with the receding hairline and expanding waistline to prove it, but his jowly face carried a smile, as it habitually did. Despite his Stalweiss surname, he had the dark complexion of a Westerner. He dressed in traditional wizard robes of plain blue, a custom so outdated as to be an affectation, but despite that Harklund was one of the least-mocked professors at the University. A bronze pin displaying the moon and stars sigil of Salyrene was affixed as always to the breast of his robe.

“Hello, eager learners!” he said cheerfully, sweeping his gaze across the assembled students, pausing at each of them as he did a quick mental count. Class sizes at the University were small enough that most teachers didn’t bother reading names off a list; they knew who to expect and could tell at a glance if someone was absent. Professor Harklund, this time, had the opposite problem. “Ah, Ms. Fross, you are not enrolled in this class. I’m afraid you don’t meet the prerequisites, my dear.”

“Yes, I know!” Fross said brightly. “I happen to have a free period now this semester and I like to study my own projects, so I wondered if you wouldn’t mind if I audit this class? I’m very interested in different methods of using magic.”

“It’s not that I mind,” the Professor replied. “I never object to students wishing to learn. This is a strictly practical class, however; we will be wielding divine energies in significant concentration every day. That is potentially injurious to fairies.”

“Oh, but—”

“And,” he interrupted gently but firmly, “any methods you might use to mitigate that risk could disrupt the actual workings of the class. If you clear it with Professor Tellwyrn and Miss Sunrunner, and get their assurance that your being here is both safe and not disruptive, I certainly don’t mind if you watch. For this session, though, I’ll have to ask you to clear the premises.”

“Okay,” Fross said rather glumly. “I’ll see you later, guys.” She fluttered to the door, which opened to admit her, then drifted gently shut once she was gone.

“Well, then!” Professor Harklund went on more briskly. “Welcome to Introductory Lightworking! This is, as I’m sure you know, a new addition to the University’s offerings. I’m sure you know this because several of you were instrumental in getting it added to the curriculum! The only firm prerequisite for enrollment in this class is an established ability to wield divine magic. An awful lot of lightwielders do nothing but call on the energy and just…spray it out, unfocused. That includes a number of fairly high-ranking priests who really have no excuse not to know better.”

“Not all cults emphasize magic use,” Trissiny said pointedly. “Salyrene is the only goddess of healing and magic; other faiths have other priorities.”

“You are correct, Ms. Avelea,” Harklund said amiably. “To put it in more Avenist terms, then, would you send any soldier onto the battlefield as poorly-trained in the use of a sword as the average Avenist cleric is in the use of the light?” He gave her a moment to consider that, just long enough for her to develop a good scowl, before continuing. “As a counter-example, Themynra’s faith is about reasoning and judgment, which has nothing to do with magic…except when it has everything to do with magic. It certainly does not show good judgment to use tools without developing skill in their use. And indeed, I understand our Ms. Awarrion has a proven facility at magical shields, is it not so?”

“I believe I have attained a certain basic competency, if I may be forgiven for boasting,” Shaeine said diffidently.

“Shaeine is modesty personified,” Gabe said with a grin. “She’s crazy good with shields.”

Professor Harklund grinned. “We’ll take the time to explore the skills each of you already have, of course. I will be demonstrating new subjects as they arise, but as I told our pixie friend just now, this is a practical class. There should be time in each class period for everyone to receive individual instruction, and you will of course be expected to practice on your own. Now then, for the most part I plan to limit my talking to explanations of specific actions I expect you to take, but I will begin our semester with this one piece of theory.”

He paused, glancing around at them with a knowing half-smile, before continuing. “The light is caught up inevitably in religious concepts, coming to us as it does through the auspices of the gods. Interestingly, even among the dwarves, who can touch the light without any god’s help, an animistic faith devoted to it is common. All this leads us to a whole slew of misconceptions about just what divine magic is, and what it does. The truth is this: the guiding principle of the divine is order.”

“I thought divine light encouraged life,” said a boy unfamiliar to the sophomores, probably one of the new freshmen.

Harklund pointed at him. “That’s one of the more common misperceptions, Mr. Mosk. It arises from confusion between the two schools of magic used for healing. It is the fae which encourages life, and the distinction between it and the divine helps illuminate—pardon the pun—their respective strengths and weaknesses when it comes to the healing arts. For example, fae healing is excellent for major tissue damage, and even can reset broken bones if the proper spells are used. However, it has a tendency to accidentally encourage conditions that are caused by an overgrowth of life where one is not wanted. Infections, viruses, cancer. Divine healing, on the other hand, attempts to restore the body to its own base state, which also serves to purge it of alien incursions. However, a simple surge of divine energy hasn’t a physical component, and thus does not repair physical disruptions in the body of a certain size or severity. For instance, if you heal someone with a bone broken and left in the wrong position, you can cripple them for life. Heal someone with a blade embedded in their organs, and you likely condemn them to an excruciating death.”

November gulped audibly. Professor Harklund nodded, his expression solemn.

“In both schools of healing there are, of course, ways around these handicaps, which is what distinguishes a true healer from someone flinging around holy light or fairy dust. Healing is not the focus of this class, though we will of course cover it in some detail later in the semester. For now, however, we’ll begin with a relatively simple form of lightworking: the manifestation of solid objects.”

He held out a hand, a golden glow springing up around him, and suddenly a long, narrow cylinder appeared in his palm, apparently made of pure light. Harklund casually twirled the radiant golden quarterstaff as he continued speaking. “Some deities, notably Avei, grant shielding as an inherent gift to their clerics. If you do not come from a deific tradition which has this ability, however, you can make a shield simply by making something solid. You can, in fact, make just about anything—with certain limitations on size and complexity. There are differences and outliers, but the rule of thumb is you can’t create any object more massive than your own body. Only rigid things can be made, nothing flexible or malleable. A light-crafted object also cannot be changed once it exists; if you want something else, you must dismiss your creation and start over. There are further limitations and provisos, but they tend to situational and can be particular to the source of your magic, so we will address those in detail at a later date.”

The staff vanished, and in the next moment he was holding a traditional leaf-bladed short sword. “I often marvel that this practice is not favored among the Sisterhood. A priestess who can do it would never be disarmed. Ah, but do please correct me if I start to wander into theology,” he said with a wink. “As I was saying earlier, it naturally comes up when we discuss the divine, but isn’t directly germane to this class. Now then, holding a physical object made of divine light requires some concentration, but much less than it takes to create it in the first place. Today we will be attempting to make a simple object—the staff, as I just demonstrated.” He did so again, first dismissing the sword. “Its very simple form is an easy first project, and it also happens to be a particularly useful thing to know. There are a thousand and one uses to which a good staff can be put. Next time we meet, we’ll start to work on holding divinely created objects in existence without focusing your whole concentration on it. The trick can be dicey to acquire initially, but I think you’ll find, once you get there, it’s quite easy. All right, then! Who would like to start?”

Gabriel and November stepped forward simultaneously, then had a short, polite scuffle as each tried to yield the floor to the other. Professor Harklund had to end it by nominating Gabriel to try, admonishing each of them to pay close attention but please not attempt to follow the instructions until he could work with them individually.

The directions given were all about focusing, concentrating and feeling, the kind of talk that was familiar to anyone experienced with using magic but quite difficult for particularly concrete thinkers to initially grasp. Gabriel went about it with a most peculiar expression, a frown of intense concentration that kept flickering into a look of pure, childlike delight.

Trissiny eased over next to Toby, who was watching with a smile. “He looks so…”

“Yeah,” Toby agreed, nodding, his smile broadening. “He does.”

Gabriel’s lesson was interrupted by a yelp from November, who had manifested a golden quarterstaff in her hand, positioned so that she clocked herself in the head with it and tumbled over backwards.

Professor Harklund was by her side in seconds, placing a hand on her forehead and illuminating her with a gentle golden light.

“By far the greater part of your time spent in this class will be in individual practice,” he said to the others as he gently helped a wincing November to sit up. “However, Ms. Stark has just demonstrated the reason I ask that you not attempt new lessons unsupervised. As we get into more complex studies, the potential hazards become more severe. All right, Mr. Arquin, where were we?”

Gabriel got it a few moments later, after Harklund suggested he give up the two-handed staff grip he was holding, as the second point of contact increased the complexity of the initial summon. He absently rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and almost immediately found himself holding a staff made of light. No sooner had he whooped in triumph than it flickered out, leaving him grimacing.

“Very good!” Professor Harklund said approvingly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gabriel, holding it is another matter entirely, as I said. We’ll get to that in due course. Some of you may find that a magical aid to concentration can help with the initial summons, if you’re having trouble making that breakthrough. If any of you are still struggling by the end of this class and don’t possess any such devices yourself, I can provide one. This really is very much like learning to walk; getting the trick of it in the first place is the only hard part. All right, Ms. Stark, I believe you demonstrated a prodigious grasp of the basic technique without even meaning to. Ms. Avelea, would you care to go next?”

They went around the room in that fashion, each of the nine students attempting the feat individually. Trissiny did it all but instantly and without apparent effort, as did Shaeine; Professor Harklund left them to practice on their own, occasionally directing them to assist classmates who were getting irregular results from their repeated attempts. Once a student had managed to create a staff from midair, the Professor instructed them to keep at it and get a feel for the act. This caused steadily increasing tension among the remainders before they were called up to be walked through the process, but he had a very calming manner and was adept at handling classes of nervous pupils. By the time the session ended, more than half of them, working alone, had figured out the trick of holding a manifested staff in existence. Of those, only Trissiny, Shaeine and a junior girl named Clara had managed to keep one without actively concentrating on it. Everyone else lost theirs as soon as they attempted to speak or do anything with their staves—which probably averted several impromptu duels.

Everyone except Toby ended up having fun.

He simply could not get it to work. He never grew frustrated or nervous, simply staring at his open hand with a fixed, blank expression, creating futile spurts of light. Golden beams shot forth from either end of his fist at one point, but they were just light, with no solidity. At another, he conjured up a glittering outline, as if a layer of dust had settled over a staff, but not the staff itself. Eventually the Professor partnered him with Gabriel and Trissiny to practice and moved on to the next student, pausing only to give Toby a few encouraging words.

Still, despite all their best efforts, the class time came to an end without Toby having achieved more than a few interesting light effects. Harklund spoke with him quietly at one side of the room while the other students filed out, though Toby’s classmates waited to accompany him.

“It’s like he said,” Gabe said, slinging an arm over Toby’s shoulders. “It’s just…a trick. Once you get it, it’s the easiest thing. Hard to wrap your mind around in the first place, though.”

Toby just nodded, as calm and as distant as before.

 

“The man is absolutely barmy,” Maureen said in an awed tone.

Most of the freshman class had split after escaping the crowded, humid greenhouse, which had somehow seemed to become twice as crowded while Professor Rafe’s excessive personality was present. Now, the girls were on the way back to…

“Wait, where are we going?” Maureen asked, looking around. “This isn’t the path to the Well.”

“I frankly do not know,” Ravana declared, “nor am I terribly interested. We’re unlikely to fall down a hole or encounter a minotaur provided we stay outdoors and on campus, and to be quite honest, I feel an urgent need for some fresh air.”

“Imperial society is, on the whole, far more expressive than Narisian,” Szith said slowly. “Am I correct, then, in concluding that Professor Rafe was exuberant well beyond local standards of behavior?”

“Exuberant,” Maureen said, “irrational… I think the term would be eccentric if he were rich or a noble. Me, I’m goin’ with shoes-on-ears batscratch crazy.”

“Traditionally, academics are allowed to be eccentric, as well,” Ravana commented.

“He didn’t even notice me,” Iris burst out.

All five of them came to a stop, staring at her. At the rear of the group, several paces behind, Addiwyn snorted disdainfully.

“Professor Rafe?” Maureen asked cautiously.

“Lord Gabriel,” Iris said, seeming on the verge of tears. “He didn’t even…augh, not that I blame him, I babbled like an idiot. I’m such an idiot.”

“He noticed you,” said Szith. “In fact, he spoke to you.”

“You’re right,” Addiwyn snapped. “You are an idiot.”

“Excuse you?” Iris shrieked, whirling on her.

“If you spent a little more time worrying about your studies and less obsessing about boys,” the elf sneered, “perhaps you would be a happier, calmer type of idiot. Are you even aware that you were just in a class?”

“I’ve me doubts whether that qualified as a class,” Maureen mused, while Szith subtly interposed herself between Addiwyn and Iris, who had gone from the brink of crying to the brink of attack, judging by her posture and suddenly balled fists.

“It is hardly unconventional or inappropriate for college students to dwell on their love lives, or lack thereof,” Ravana said mildly.

“Besides which,” Szith added, “apart from Professor Tellwyrn’s frankly lunatic homework assignment and Professor Rafe’s instructions to drink something distilled from grains, which I personally am going to regard as a joke, we hardly have any school work about which to be concerned.”

“Really, Addiwyn,” Ravana added, “I don’t presume to know the reason for this directionless hostility of yours, but I cannot imagine how you expect it to end well for you.”

Addiwyn stalked forward until she was within arm’s reach of Ravana and stood, glaring down at her. They made an odd tableau: both girls slender, blonde and attired in a similarly old-fashioned style. The elf towered over the human, though, and wore an expression of almost childish fury—while Ravana, who looked the more physically childlike of the two, was calm and seemed faintly amused.

“Are you threatening me, little girl?” Addiwyn asked coldly.

“I am exercising common sense,” Ravana replied. “That you took it as a threat is a case in point. It is never a good idea to indiscriminately alienate everyone you meet.”

Addiwyn curled her lip, sniffed disdainfully, and shoved rudely past her, flouncing off down the sidewalk.

“Just what the hell is that girl’s problem?” Iris growled at her back.

“She can still hear you,” Szith observed.

“Good!”

“As Addiwyn has fortuitously walled herself off from our shared room, I believe we can dismiss her airs and nonsense from concern,” said Ravana. “She will either come around or come to grief; on her head be it. Meanwhile! You mentioned Professor Tellwyrn’s homework, Szith. I think it’s time we got a head start on it.”

Maureen and Iris drew back from her hesitantly; Szith just raised an eyebrow.

“Y-you’re eager to get started drawing up plans to ambush and…what was the word? Oh, right, neutralize each o’ yer roommates?” Maureen asked hesitantly.

“Oh, goodness, no,” said Ravana, waving a hand as though brushing away cobwebs. “We will not be doing that, ladies.”

“So…you want to do the homework, but you don’t want to do the homework?” Iris blinked twice. “I’m confused.”

“It’s not homework,” Ravana said with a smile, “it is a test. Tellwyrn’s pushing us, seeing how we react to pressure. To manipulation.”

“Apparently I react by getting confused,” said Iris.

“Aye, add me t’that!”

Szith remained silent, watching Ravana closely.

The blonde turned and resumed walking along the path, forcing the others to fall into step or be left behind, and carried on speaking. “Rather than let her turn us against one another, girls, we are going to do an equivalent group project, which will require some research. Let us make for the library while we have some free time.”

“Research on each other?” Maureen asked. “In the library?”

“No, no, Maureen. We’ll all get to know one another organically, over time, as such things are meant to happen. No, the subject of research will be the true enemy here. Arachne Tellwyrn is rather famous for being inexorable and unstoppable, but there are cracks in that awesome resume of hers. She has been beaten. She’s been outwitted, she has made mistakes, she has several times allowed herself to be manipulated by becoming overly emotional. We are going to perform a brief review of everything known about her adventuring career, find all the weaknesses, all the areas in which she can be and has been beaten…” She grinned, eyes fixed on the distance far ahead. “…and rub them in her face.”

A weighty silence hung over the group for several long seconds.

“Ravana,” Maureen said at last. “I like ye an’ all, please don’t think I don’t. But that… I really believe that is the worst idea I have ever heard.”

“It certainly sounds that way, doesn’t it?” Ravana said, half-turning as she walked to give the gnome a pleased smile over her shoulder. “And that is why it will work.”

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8 – 4

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“It’s official. We’re being tortured.”

“Oh, stop it,” Prin said, amused. “This might be the cushiest job I’ve ever had.”

“It’s not about the cushiness,” Farah protested. “It’s the principle of the thing! They give this out to people being punished. It’s a mark of shame.”

Principia glanced around. “Okay, let’s keep that to a maximum of none, shall we? At least until we’re back at barracks. I’m pretty sure directly insulting our hosts is against some regulation or other.”

Farah subsided momentarily, looking slightly guilty, which was fortunately mitigated by her helmet. “I…there’s nobody nearby.”

“You don’t see anybody.”

“You think there’s an Izarite priest hiding behind a bush?”

“I imagine they do some of their best work behind bushes.” She paused to wait for Farah’s laughter to subside, then added, “Anyhow, I hear a rumor that some cults have elves in their ranks.”

Farah sighed. “You’re right, sorry.”

“Hey, I’m not one to be a stickler for the rules, generally speaking. But…you may have a point about us being excessively put upon, what with one thing and another. I just don’t want to call down more wrath on our heads.”

“All right, all right, point taken!”

The grounds of the Temple of Izara were exquisitely beautiful, by very careful design. On most days, one could expect to find couples strolling the wandering paths, or priests accompanying worshipers—which, as was often joked, were just couples of a different kind. It was a cloudy day, however, not yet raining but with the taste of precipitation on the air. This was common enough for Tiraas and indeed many of the city’s inhabitants had grown comfortable being outdoors in the rain, presuming the rain was fairly light. Today, however, thunder was rumbling in the distance, and creeping ever closer. It made for a peaceably relaxed route for the two patrolling Legionnaires, though they also had the anticipation of being soaked while in armor to live with.

Principia paused, scowling upward at the branches of a tree with fern-like fronds and little pink blossoms.

“What is it?” Farah asked, following her gaze. “Something wrong with the tree?”

“In the tree,” Prin replied, transferring her lance to her shield hand, then stooping to pick up a pebble. She took aim and hurled it into the foliage.

With a displeased croak, a crow fluttered out of the mimosa, taking another seat atop a statue of Izara, well out of reach. The bird tilted its head and squawked a soft rebuke.

“Shoo,” Principia snapped, picking up another pebble.

“Oh, come on, it’s just a bird,” Farah protested.

“No, it isn’t,” she muttered, hurling the stone. The crow deftly sidestepped, not even bothering to spread its wings, and the pebble arced past to clatter against the wall of the temple. “Filthy carrion-eating…busybody.”

“Seriously, leave the crow alone,” Farah said. “There’ll be hell to pay if you break a window or something.”

Prin lingered for a moment, scowling up at the crow, then pointed a finger at it. “Mathal asua’e timaan che. Auwa dal efeen!”

The bird cocked its head and croaked at her.

“Did you just cuss that bird out in elvish?” Farah demanded, looking askance at her.

“It’s a good language for cursing,” Prin replied, finally turning her back on the crow and continuing on their route, Farah falling into step beside her. “Graceful, elegant. Snobbish. The condescension is built in.”

“Maybe I should learn.”

“Please don’t. I do love being able to talk behind people’s backs right to their faces.”

“Okay, I definitely need to learn. Were you criticizing my butt to that crow?”

“Really, Szaravid? Really? All the things I could criticize and your mind goes right to your butt?”

“What does that mean?!”

Principia grinned at her, and they fell quiet as they emerged from the side of the main temple into one of its front garden spaces, where there actually were people sitting and strolling around, despite the weather. Including a few clerics in white robes with pink lotus pins at the shoulder.

The two Legionnaires returned polite nods from several individuals as they passed, completing their circuit in no hurry. Minutes later they had reached the front of the temple and were climbing the steps to its front doors, pausing only to exchange salutes with the two soldiers posted on either side, then re-entered the sanctuary.

The main sanctuary of Izara’s temple was built along the same general pattern as Avei’s: a long chamber soaring to an arched ceiling, with shadowed galleries lining its sides and a towering statue of the goddess positioned opposite the doors. It was a smaller and narrower space, however, and vastly more ornate. The stonework was elaborately carved and embellished, the stained-glass windows ran heavily to pink, and there were cushioned benches and small stands housing flowers in beautiful urns at the base of each column. Even with the gloomy skies outside, it was brightly lit with fairy lamps, and designed to be warm and welcoming.

Naturally, the Legionnaires within looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Izara’s priesthood acknowledged the need for some protection, but did not care for even the hinted threat of violence on their premises, and so the Legionnaires on site were kept to a minimum. Aside from the two soldiers outside the door, there were only two more visible within, Ephanie and the lieutenant in charge of the temple’s semi-permanent detachment, to which Squad Thirteen had been temporarily attached. Merry and Casey would be in nearby chambers, with the rest of the local squad spread throughout the facility.

Both of them came to attention and saluted.

“All’s quiet, Lieutenant,” Farah said crisply.

“At ease,” Lieutenant Straud replied mildly. “All’s usually quiet, soldier. It’s rare you have to do more than escort drunk petitioners to a room. Next patrol’s in fifteen minutes.”

They both saluted again and stepped across the room to stand opposite Straud and Ephanie.

“At ease, I said,” the Lieutenant said with some amusement. “It’s not a kindness, privates; the Izarites don’t like people bringing tension into their temple. Here, of all places, you’re required to relax a bit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Farah said, saluting, and very deliberately rolled her shoulders. Prin shook her head and relaxed her stance, leaning the butt of her lance on the floor. Across the aisle from her, Ephanie smiled faintly; she, too, looked more comfortable. Then again, she always looked comfortable in armor, as if she’d been born in it.

Apparently stormy weather was no time for love—or at least, not any public manifestation of it. There were few people about, two couples sitting on benches together, a lone man strolling back and forth admiring the stained glass, and one priest attending Izara’s statue at the far end of the sanctuary.

“I’m going to do my rounds, check in with the troops,” the Lieutenant announced. “Carry on, ladies.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Farah all but shouted, saluting. Stroud sighed, shook her head, and strode off to one of the side doors.

No sooner had she gone than two figures entered through the great front door, and Principia stiffened.

They were a striking pair, dressed in black—one in leather gear that almost qualified as armor, the other in a dark cloak. Both were plains elves. They walked right past the Legionnaires without so much as glancing at them and separated as they reached the middle of the chamber. Gliding into the shaded galleries on each side, the two elves took up positions near the side doors, the one in leather shaking her head at the Izarite priest when he began to approach her. He nodded respectfully and retreated to his dais, seemingly unperturbed at being rebuffed.

“What’s that about?” Farah murmured.

Across from them, Ephanie was frowning slightly behind her helmet. She turned to examine another arrival through the front doors. Principia followed her gaze, and immediately tightened her grip on her lance.

He was a blonde man in his early middle years, wearing a pricey-looking suit and casually flipping a doubloon from hand to hand as he strolled in. Catching the coin in his left hand, he rolled it deftly along the backs of his fingers, and smiled as he drew abreast of them.

“Well hello, there, Prin. Long time no see.”

“Your Grace,” she replied in a neutral tone.

“I suppose,” he said pleasantly, “you didn’t get our invitation to come chat, eh? That was…gosh, it’s been months. I’d ask what you’ve been up to, but…look at yourself. Gotta say, this I did not expect. You are perennially full of surprises.”

“I’m on duty, Sweet,” she said tersely.

“Oh? Splendid!” He grinned as though delighted by the news. “This has to be the coziest post a Legionnaire can pull, eh? So you’ll have time to chitchat a bit with a old friend while you hold down the carpet.”

“Soldiers on duty do not socialize with passersby,” Farah said sharply, catching Principia’s mood.

“Really?” He turned that charming grin on her. “That’s odd. I’ve whiled away many a pleasant hour with Imperial troops guarding some boring patch of street or other.”

“Competent soldiers on duty do not socialize,” Ephanie said. “Move along, sir.”

“I am fairly certain you don’t have grounds to evict me from the temple, private,” he said, turning his head to wink at her. He turned back to fix his gaze on Principia, and despite his smile, his eyes were sharply intent. “I’ve a little long-overdue business to speak of with your squadmate, here.”

“I am on duty,” she repeated firmly. “Unless you have business in the temple, your Grace, you need to move on.”

“Let me just clarify that I am not trying to create a problem,” he said, his smile fading slightly. “You’re not wanted on suspicion of any offense, Prin. Don’t try to claim you don’t understand why we need to speak with you.”

Ephanie strode across the aisle, thumping the butt of her lance on the floor. “All right, that’s enough. Time for you to go.”

“This is Bishop Darling of the Universal Church,” Principia said, looking over at her. “He’s allowed to be in a temple, I’m fairly sure. You do not have the prerogative to harass Legionnaires guarding them, however, your Grace,” she added directly to Darling.

“Sure, I’ll let you get back to your work,” he said amiably. “It looks very diverting. What time is good for you, then?”

“Not now.”

“I really do wish you the best in whatever it is you’re doing with your life,” Darling said, his expression growing serious. “And I really do wish that was an acceptable answer. However…”

Ephanie let out a sharp, three-tone whistle. Immediately, the priest at the other end of the sanctuary began striding toward them…as did the two elves in black. The tromping of boots announced the arrival of more Legionnaires through side entrances at a swift walk.

“This isn’t like you, Darling,” Principia said firmly. “Nor is it in keeping with your faith to be confrontational and make a scene.”

“See, this is not helping,” he replied, tilting his head at Merry, who had just appeared from the side door. Casey approached them from the other, with Lieutenant Straud right behind her. “It looks bad, Prin, you running off to the Avenists to hide from us. I am being confrontational because I’m desperately trying to spare you having to have this conversation with Style and six of her goons. Work with me.”

“You just crossed a line,” Ephanie said, leveling her lance. “You do not threaten a Silver Legionnaire. Get out.”

“Your Grace,” said the Izarite priest with a note of pleading. “Whatever concern you have, I’m sure it can be discussed in a civil manner.”

“I’m afraid Private Avelea is correct,” Straud snapped. “I don’t care what rank or history you have, Bishop, you will not treat one of my troops this way. Are you leaving, or are you being dragged?”

“Fauna, don’t even think about it,” Darling said sharply without looking over at her. The Legionnaires did, however, in time to see the elf in leather sliding a throwing knife back into her sleeve.

“Too late,” she said. Merry stepped back, leveling a lance at her. The priest wrung his hands, looking anguished.

“I’m off duty at sixteen hundred hours,” Principia said, staring at Darling. “If you want to talk, you can meet me in the main sanctuary of Avei’s temple.”

“There!” he said brightly, spreading his hands. “That’s all I needed to hear. Thanks for being so accommodating, Prin. Always a pleasure. Come along, ladies!”

He turned, strolling back toward the door, apparently unconcerned with the lances aimed at his back. The two elves followed, stepping right through the knot of tense Legionnaires without so much as glancing at them.

“Does he mean us?” the one in the cloak asked.

“Has to,” Fauna replied. “Do you see any other ladies here?”

“Oh, mee-ow!”

Darling only paused when a crow swooped in through the open doors and settled on his shoulder, croaking smugly.

“Really, now?” he said to it. “What, are your wings broken?”

Behind, the Legionnaires watched in silence while the odd group finally left.

“Oh, that’s good and horrifying,” Principia whispered to herself.

“Is this going to be a recurring problem, Private Locke?” Lieutenant Straud demanded.

Prin straightened to attention. “I don’t believe so, ma’am. If I change my mind after speaking with him, I’ll report the matter.”

“I will, of course, have to log an incident report about this,” Straud said.

“Of course, ma’am.”

The Lieutenant sighed. “All right. As you were, ladies.”

They shifted back to their stations, Ephanie and Farah now sneaking speculative looks at Principia, who was staring distractedly into space.

She remained withdrawn through the remainder of their shift, and the other four members of their tiny squad restrained their curiosity to questioning stares, which Principia affected not to notice. The relative quiet lasted until they were crossing the parade ground to their bunk that afternoon.

“Private Locke!”

Principia whirled and snapped to attention, facing Bishop Syrinx, who was stomping across the yard toward her. The Bishop came to a stop, planting her fists on her hips and ignoring Prin’s salute. Captain Dijanerad followed her at a more sedate pace, wearing a more calm expression.

“I understand you took it upon yourself to embarrass the Third Legion in front of the Izarites today,” Syrinx said coldly.

“No, ma’am,” Principia replied, remaining stiffly at attention.

“Oh?” the Bishop snapped. “You think having a confrontation with a Bishop of the Universal Church in the main sanctuary of a protectorate cult is less than an embarrassment?”

“With respect, your Grace,” said Ephanie, also saluting, “only Bishop Darling was confrontational. Private Locke acted in accordance with the Legion’s code of conduct.”

“I distinctly heard no one give you permission to speak, Private Avelea,” Syrinx said sharply, her glare still fixed on Principia. If anything, her scowl deepened. “This is not an auspicious start to your career, Locke. I will be reading Lieutenant Straud’s report closely. If I find any indication that your behavior was a hint less than satisfactory, you’ll be out of this Legion on your oversized ear before you know what’s happened. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not to leave temple premises until further notice except in the execution of your duties. I want you readily at hand in case I have questions.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Anything to add, Locke?”

“No, ma’am.”

Bishop Syrinx narrowed her eyes, studying Principia’s face in detail. The silence stretched out; behind the Bishop, Captain Dijanerad kept her peace, her own attention fixed on Syrinx.

“I can see the strain on your face, Locke,” the Bishop finally said more quietly. “Two hundred years of Eserite habit don’t just vanish. It kills you to spout ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ instead of a snarky comeback to every question, doesn’t it?”

“No, ma’am,” Principia said in total calm.

“I don’t know what made you think you belonged here,” Syrinx said coldly, “but time will disabuse you of the notion.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Bishop stared daggers at her for another moment, then turned without a further word and stalked off toward the temple complex. Once she was away, the remaining members of Squad Thirteen let out a breath in unison.

“Had an interesting day, I hear,” Dijanerad said mildly.

“It won’t happen again, ma’am,” Principia promised.

“I’m pretty sure it will,” the Captain said cryptically. She stepped forward and patted Principia’s armored shoulder. “You acted correctly, private. Dismissed.”

All five of them saluted, turned, and resumed course toward their barracks.

“Hypothetically,” Merry mused aloud, “what d’you think would be the punishment for slugging a fellow Legionnaire in the mouth?”

“Depends on a lot of factors,” Ephanie replied. “Anything from a stern talking-to, all the way up to lashing or the stockade.”

“Mm hm, mm hm. What about stabbing her while she slept?”

“Hanging,” Ephanie said sharply.

“Rats.”

“Got somethin’ on your mind, Lang?” Principia asked.

“I just can’t help noticing,” Merry said with a scowl, “that every time I’m anywhere near you I get tangled up in Thieves’ Guild drama.”

“Wait, you were actually a member of the Thieves’ Guild?” Casey demanded, wide-eyed.

Principia shrugged. “Technically, I guess I still am, unless they decide to kick me out for some reason. I don’t owe them any dues as long as I’m not stealing anything, so… A member of good standing, even.”

“Then what’s that guy Darling want with you?” Merry demanded.

“Extended fallout from the debacle at Last Rock, I bet.”

“Glad that ruined someone else’s life,” she muttered. “I was starting to feel singled out.”

They filed into the cabin, Prin speaking as she went to her bunk.

“Anyway, this isn’t Thieves’ Guild drama. Whatever Darling wants I’m sure I can settle in a few minutes. The Guild is just the excuse for the real drama, here. You can blame me if it makes you feel better, but you might want to be careful. You’re just as much a target as I am.”

“Oh, hell no,” Merry said firmly. “I’ve made all my deals; that is behind me.”

“Not that,” Prin said patiently. “Come on, think about the timing. I’ve been in this temple complex for the past few months solid; the Guild didn’t know where I was. Nobody but the Sisterhood did. And yet, the very first time I poke my nose out, the Bishop himself lands in my lap?”

“I guess the Eserites are pretty quick on the uptake,” Farah said timidly. “At least…they have a reputation for being savvy.”

Principia shook her head. “That’s way beyond savvy. For them to get intelligence there has to be some first. I’d need to be spotted around the city for them to zero in on me; it would take time. Unless…”

“Oh, stop with the dramatic pauses and spit it out!” Merry exclaimed.

“Unless,” Prin said with a smile, “someone told them where to find me. Now, who do we know who has access to our duty schedule and can get ahold of a Bishop of the Universal Church on short notice, hmm? And here’s another thing. We got back here at the same time as the other squad. No runners were sent. Nobody had time to report this to Syrinx. She knew what had happened before she reasonably could have.”

“Why on earth would Bishop Syrinx try to set you up like that?” Ephanie demanded, frowning.

“That is what concerns me,” Principia said. “I don’t know that woman from a wart on my ass. She has no business with me that I can imagine. The only thing that makes me a target applies equally to all of you. It’s a continuation of what we’ve already seen: our understaffed squad, our apparent punishment duty at the Temple of Izara. She’s after us, for some reason. I suggest you all step very carefully.”

“Do you have any idea how paranoid you sound?” Merry snorted. “Bishop Syrinx is out to get us? That’s crazy.”

“Okay,” Prin said with a shrug. “If you can think of a more logical explanation for what happened today, I’d love to hear it. Bet I’d sleep better.”

A tense silence fell.

“Bishop Syrinx sponsored me to join the Legion,” Casey said in a small voice.

Principia sighed. “Elwick, with all respect to your sponsor—”

“With all respect to my sponsor,” Casey interrupted, “the difference between that woman and a rattlesnake is the serpent gives you fair warning. I’ll believe she’s capable of anything. No matter how shifty, or…cruel.”

“Something you want to share with us?” Merry asked warily.

Casey’s tone was curt. “No.”

“If she’s telling Thieves’ Guild people where our soldiers are, can we get her in trouble for that?” Farah suggested. “That has to be against some regulation, at least.”

“Not technically,” said Ephanie. “Only if we were on operations that involved the Guild, which guard duty at the Temple of Izara does not. It’s pretty common for guard postings at protectorate temples to go through the Church, actually. The priests often request squads or individuals they know and trust.”

“I’d advise you to drop that line of thinking,” Principia added. “We’ve already got enough trouble breathing down our necks. Trying to strike back at Syrinx would lead to nothing but disaster. Our best bet is to be the best soldiers we can and hope someone more reasonable in the chain of command reins her in.”

“But why?” Merry exclaimed. “Why would she do such a thing? None of us have done anything to her?” She paused, looking warily around the group. “…have we?”

A chorus of negations later, Casey cleared her throat. “I have a thought…”

“Yes?” Farah prompted.

“Well… Eserites are known to be crafty, right? And… I don’t know any of your stories, but… That is, this cohort is supposed to be training in politics, if they told us the truth. Suppose… What if we’re not being punished, but we were handpicked for this, and Syrinx doesn’t want us to succeed?”

Ephanie frowned deeply, saying nothing; the others looked thoughtful.

“What makes you think you’d be a pick for that, then?” Merry asked after a moment.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Casey said, averting her eyes.

Principia sighed. “If you think there’s a—”

“I don’t have to talk about it!” she said, her voice climbing. Casey paused, squeezing her eyes shut, and continued in a more normal tone. “It was just a thought, probably not even right. It’s just… I have no idea what’s going on. None of this makes any sense. Any theory has to be better than nothing.”

“A lot more harm is done by wrong belief than incompetent action,” said Ephanie thoughtfully. “Still…”

“Still,” said Prin, nodding, “it’s good to theorize. We need to keep our eyes and ears and minds open, girls. Something is going on here, obviously, and somebody means us harm. Hopefully it’s just Syrinx.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” Merry growled, leaning against her bunk. “Of all the shit I don’t need…”

“None of us need it,” Ephanie said sharply.

“Hey,” Farah said, straightening and turning to Prin. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Bishop Darling in the main sanctuary?”

Principia grinned and sat down on the empty bed beneath her own bunk. “Oh, there’s no rush. A little patience will do him good.”

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“I think he’s mellowing with age.”

“I don’t think that man is capable of mellowing, Ruda,” Toby disagreed. “I think we’re just getting used to him. Which…could be a good or a bad thing, depending on how you look at it.”

“What’s bad about getting used to things?” asked Teal.

He shrugged, pushing his teacup back and forth on the table. “I don’t know…just something about this place. In hindsight I can see the point of a lot of what Tellwyrn’s subjected us to, but on the other hand, I sometimes get the feeling the University is training us to cope with a certain kind of ridiculousness that just doesn’t occur anywhere else.”

Ruda laughed and added another splash of brandy to her “tea.” She’d been doing that after every sip and not refilling it from the pot; by this point she basically had a teacup full of brandy.

The cafeteria was open to students at all hours except during the night. There weren’t meals to be had except at mealtimes, but they could almost always find hot tea and cold pastries. It had long been a popular place for groups to study, between the plentiful table space and free food, though the library was enjoying a resurgence in popularity since Weaver had been replaced by the somewhat awkward but vastly more pleasant Crystal.

The newly-minted sophomores had stopped in to relax and swap stories of their various summers after their first class. Rafe, as per his pattern, hadn’t kept them long, using a tenth of the allotted class time to do little but say hello, strike a few poses and give an extremely brief description of the focus of this year’s alchemical studies.

“The unexpected and extreme can occur anywhere,” Sheaine said. “Perhaps we are better served by—”

She was interrupted by an enormous antlered hare, which bounded onto the table and snatched the half-eaten muffin from Gabriel’s plate. Gabe yelped in surprised, jerking backward so hard he nearly tipped his chair over.

“Jack, no!” Juniper exclaimed, lunging across the table to seize the animal, which kicked in her grasp. Teal grabbed the teapot, barely averting a disaster. “I’m so sorry, he’s not really used to indoors, yet. We’re working on his manners.” The dryad settled her pet back in her lap, soothingly stroking his fur. Only the antlers were visible over the edge of the table.

“Well, this is as good a time as any to ask,” Gabriel said, grimacing and pushing away the smashed remains of his muffin. “June, what is with the rabbit?”

“Actually he’s a jackalope!” Fross chimed. “Closely related to rabbits, as you can see, but a distinct species. They’re fey, rather magical; an actual rabbit’s neck wouldn’t support the weight of those horns very well.”

“They’re antlers, not horns, and it’s a druid thing,” Juniper explained. “Animal companions are a tradition of druidic practice.”

“They’re called ‘pets,’ and they’re a tradition everywhere,” Ruda observed.

“Well, yes, but I mean it’s a specific druidic practice. Several traditions of shamanism and witchcraft make use of animal familiars. It’s a way of…well, it’s kind of technical…”

“It involves imbuing an animal with a part of one’s essence!” Fross said brightly. “Thus creating a second point of observation which is capable of instigating the wave-function collapse which is at the heart of all magical action.”

“Wave…what?” Teal asked, mystified.

“That’s arcane theory, though,” said Gabriel. “Does it really apply to druidic or any fae arts?”

“Arcane physics is so called because it’s most easily investigated by use of arcane magic,” Fross explained. “The principles themselves apply to basically all magic equally. That’s why magical creatures are popular familiars. Actually, some witches use pixies, if they can! Pixies are hard to get, though, you usually have to go to the Pixie Queen’s grove to find any, and she’s not big on visitors.”

“That’s an interesting choice, Juno,” Trissiny said. “Aren’t jackalopes sort of…infamously ornery?”

“Well, he’s not a true familiar,” Juniper said somewhat defensively. “I’m not at that point, not nearly. Really, I’m just starting out. The Elders had me take care of an animal for somewhat more mundane reasons. It’s all about forming a bond with—”

She broke off, having to grab and subdue Jack again as he launched himself at Teal’s plate.

“Taking on a more challenging prospect can be a way to learn more swiftly,” Shaeine observed. Juniper was too busy wrangling the jackalope to respond; he didn’t seem as interested in settling down in her lap again this time.

“Hey, check this out,” Ruda said, craning her neck to peer past Toby at the glass front wall of the cafeteria. “It’s the freshmen!”

“There are an awful lot of them,” Teal remarked, turning to look.

“Twenty-two!” said Fross. “The student roster is posted in the library.”

“Twenty-two isn’t a large class at most schools,” Toby pointed out. “Though…compared to nine, I guess it is.”

“Why are they all boys?” Trissiny asked, her brows lowering.

“Oh, here we go,” Ruda muttered, rolling her eyes.

“The Class of 1183 has seventeen men and five women,” said Fross, “which is a seventy-seven percent gender imbalance, which is the same as the seventy-seven percent gender imbalance in our class skewing the opposite way. Actually those are rounded percentages and ours is just slightly greater, but you get the idea.”

“I didn’t know you could do that kind of math in your head,” said Teal. “Bravo!”

“It’s an important skill if you’re going to study arcane magic,” said Gabriel. “Which is why I really ought to work on that…”

“And I do it in my mind, not my head,” Fross clarified.

“Hey, wanna go say hi to the newbies?” suggested Ruda. “Look, they’re trooping toward the greenhouse. Already had Tellwyrn’s claws in them and are about to meet Rafe. Makes you feel sorry for the little darlings.”

“You mean, like how Natchua said hi to us between our first two classes?” Toby said, smiling faintly.

“Well, no,” Ruda replied. “Because we aren’t creepy and pathetic.”

Gabriel cleared his throat pointedly.

“I stand corrected,” she said, grinning. “Most of us aren’t creepy and pathetic.”

“Thank you,” he said with deep dignity. “I hate to fuss, but a fella likes to be acknowledged.”

“It’s a good idea, though,” said Trissiny, standing up. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, sure,” Gabriel replied, glancing down at his desecrated muffin. “I guess we’re pretty much done here.”

“It’s almost time to head to Yornhaldt’s class anyway,” Toby added, also rising. “C’mon, we can meet the freshmen on the way.”

“Well, a few of them,” said Ruda. “They mostly went past while you lot were jabbering.”

Indeed, most of the students had gone past by the time they emerged onto the lawn. The freshmen walked alone or in small groups, forming a staggered line; some turned to look at the emerging sophomores, a few slowing down to stare as they recognized Trissiny’s armor and put the rest together. Only the last cluster actually stopped, though. For whatever reason, the girls were walking along at the end, with only a couple of their male classmates.

“Mornin’, little lambs!” Ruda said cheerily. “How’re you settling in?”

“Well, thank you,” said the drow woman politely, then turned fully to Shaeine and bowed. Shaeine nodded deeply in reply.

“Teal, how lovely to see you again,” said a diminutive girl with waist-length blond hair, smiling brightly.

“Likewise, your Grace,” Teal said in a carefully neutral tone.

“Pshaw, let’s not fuss about that,” the girl replied, waving a hand airily. “We are all equals here, as Professor Tellwyrn has just emphasized at some length. Call me Ravana.”

“If you say so,” Teal replied evenly. Shaeine eased closer to her, moving her hand so that the backs of her knuckles brushed Teal’s.

“Can I ask a question?” said the gnomish woman timidly, raising a hand and peering up at Ruda. “Are you really a princess?”

“Only on my parents’ side,” Ruda said lightly. “C’mon, girl, project from the diaphragm! Are you actually raising your hand? Trust me, outside of Tellwyrn’s class, that’s not gonna do you any good.”

“Ruda, be nice,” Trissiny said reprovingly.

“I am being nice! It’s all about confidence, Boots. C’mon, let me hear you roar!”

The gnome’s eyes widened, and she began sidling behind a tall, dark-skinned girl in a white dress, who was gawking at Gabriel.

“Hmph.” The speaker, whose derisive snort seized everyone’s attention, was a plains elf incongruously dressed in a conservative, old-fashioned human style. “We are going to be late. Come along,” she ordered, grabbing one of the boys—also an elf—by the arm and dragging him off toward the greenhouse. He glanced back at them, smiling timidly and offering a small wave.

“Well, damn,” Ruda said, raising her eyebrows. “Who pissed in her oatmeal?”

“Oh, she’s just like that,” said the girl in white. “Are… You’re Gabriel Arquin, aren’t you? The new paladin!”

“Um…for whatever that’s worth, yes, that’s me,” he said, smiling somewhat awkwardly and settling a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“That’s amazing!” she gushed, eyes shining. “I mean… You’re amazing! To be a demonblood and get to… Augh, I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I heard and when I got accepted here I just, oh I can’t even think!”

“Oh, gods, don’t do that,” Ruda groaned. “He gets a big head over the slightest little thing.”

“And this is my fan club,” said Gabe, turning to Ruda and raising an eyebrow. “Not to worry, if my head starts needing the air let out, I can always count on you to fucking stab me!”

“And he carries a grudge like you wouldn’t believe,” Ruda added, winking. “Anyway, you don’t need me to stab you anymore, Arquin, since you seem determined to carry that thing around.”

“I’m getting better with it,” he said defensively, running a hand over the black sword’s hilt, almost as if he were petting it. “Anyhow, it seems like an appropriate thing to carry, me being a paladin now, and all.”

“You were given a divine weapon,” Trissiny pointed out.

“Yes, but it fits in my pocket,” he said, grinning. “The ancient elven sword is so much more impressive.”

“It’ll be real impressive when you hack your foot off,” said Ruda. “I dunno, Arquin, something about you with a sword will just never look right.”

“Hey,” he protested, “do I give you crap about the special lady in your life?”

“…I can’t even start to deal with all the shit that’s wrong in that sentence.”

The remaining male member of the freshman party stepped forward and bowed directly to Trissiny. “General Avelea, may I say it is an honor to be in your presence, and one I have eagerly anticipated since long before my arrival.”

“Oh,” she said, nonplussed, “that’s kind of you.”

“Forgive me,” the young man replied with a smile. “I should have introduced myself to begin with. I am Sekandar Aldarasi, prince of Calderaas.”

He was dressed casually, in a simple open-collared shirt with pressed slacks. The lack of regalia did not detract from his claim, however; the boy was every bit as good-looking as a prince from a fairy tale would be, and carried himself with the confidence of a man who knew it.

“Wait, prince?” said Fross. “I’m confused. Calderaas is an Imperial province, right? How do they have royalty?”

“Calderaas is one of the original provinces,” said Ravana. “The then-Sultanate of Calderaas formed the alliance with the city-states of the Tira Valley that became the Tiraan Empire. Several of those first provinces still have royal titles, though the rank of king, sultana or whatever is applicable is functionally the same as that of an appointed provincial governor.”

“As the Lady Madouri knows quite well,” said Sekandar, nodding to her with a smile which she returned. He turned back to Trissiny, bowing again. “If it is permissible, General, I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to speak with you further.”

“Of…course,” she said uncertainly.

“For now,” said Ravana, “I think we should all be moving along. It’ll make a poor impression on our professors if we are late on the first day.”

“I shall count the hours till we are together again, my lady!” Gabriel proclaimed grandly, bowing deeply to her and ignoring Ruda’s snort.

“Aren’t you a charming one,” Ravana said with a coquettish flutter of her lashes. “Come along, girls.” The girl in white looked to be on the verge of some kind of outburst, but swallowed heavily and followed meekly along after the much shorter blonde.

The sophomores watched their younger counterparts retreat into the greenhouse in bemused silence.

“Gabe,” Teal said tersely, “not to meddle in your love life, but… Not that one.”

“That’s right,” he said, turning to her. “She implied you know her?”

“I…” She stared after Ravana, expression unreadable. “…am aware of her.”

“So, this is a departure,” Toby commented, peering around at Professor Yornhaldt’s classroom as they wandered into their seats.

“I like it,” said Teal. “Doesn’t seem like his style, though…”

“I’m not sure he did it,” said Juniper, frowning and stroking Jack, who rested in her arms. “There’s a lot of magic at work here. Fae magic. Professor Yornhaldt is an arcanist.”

Most of the room’s accoutrements were the same, but it had gained a great deal of greenery over the summer. The back corners of the room contained artfully arranged clusters of potted ferns, which spilled out in a riot of leafy fronds. Other plants were placed strategically under the windows and along the walls, and in a huge, squat container on the dais itself was a small cherry tree, bursting with lovely pink blossoms, for all that it was completely the wrong season.

“So,” Ruda said, turning in her seat to leer at Trissiny. “That boy was crushing on you hard, General Shiny Boots.”

“What?” Trissiny demanded, her cheeks coloring slightly. “What boy? You mean Prince Sekandar? Nonsense.”

“Oh, come on,” she snorted. “’Such an honor to be in your presence, general.’ He was way into you.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Trissiny snapped. “He was just showing respect to a Hand of Avei. I simply happened to be that Hand.”

“There were three paladins standing right there,” Teal pointed out with a smile. “One of whom is a lot more interesting, for being new and unprecedented in several ways. Not to mention foreign royalty, a demigoddess…”

“Hm, Gabriel the Unprecedented,” Gabe mused. “I like the way that rings. I should have business cards printed up.”

“Calderaas has been heavily Avenist for over a thousand years,” Trissiny said testily. “The old Sultanate was a matriarchy and a lot of its traditions are still alive. Naturally an Aldarasi prince would be more interested in a paladin of Avei.”

“One presumes,” Shaeine observed, “that a prince of any extraction would be sufficiently poised not to snub the other members of a party to whom he was introduced. Unless, of course, he were emotionally overwhelmed by, for example, meeting the object of his distant affections…”

“Not you, too!” Trissiny exclaimed. The drow smiled at her, with only the faintest hint of mischief.

“Yeah, that boy wants you bad,” said Ruda, grinning insanely. “Juno, back me up here!”

“Oh, I don’t like to spread other people’s business around,” the dryad demurred, scratching behind Jack’s antlers. “I can’t help picking up on people’s desires and inclinations, but there’s no reason anyone else should be privy to that information. Everyone’s privacy is important.”

“Thank you, Juniper,” Trissiny said stiffly.

“No dryad business, then,” said Ruda. “Just girl talk, based on what you saw.”

“Oh, just that? Then yeah, he was totally into you.”

“Good morning, class.”

Several of them jumped, all whirling to stare at the dais. No one had seen her enter, but a woman now stood there, beneath the cherry blossoms, smiling mysteriously up at them. She was slender, with luxuriant black hair, almond-shaped eyes and vulpine features, and dressed in a sleek silk robe in dark green with a subtle pattern of white ferns around the hem and cuffs.

Most eye-catchingly, triangular ears, covered in reddish fur, poked up through her hair. A bushy tail extended from behind her, through some apparent opening in her robe, also dusky red and tipped in white. It twitched twice as they stared at her in shocked silence.

The doors of the classroom were infamously squeaky, and were easily within their frame of view. She had not come in that way.

“Let us begin by attending to the obvious, shall we?” said the fox-woman, still with that enigmatic smile. “Professor Yornhaldt is taking an unexpected sabbatical for this semester. I am assuming his duties in the classroom. I am Professor Ekoi, interim teacher of magical arts.” She bowed gracefully, her ears twitching. “And of course, I know each of you by description, and by reputation. You created quite the stir on this campus at the end of the spring term, did you not?

“It is my understanding that last year, you explored the basics of magic—what it is, and how it is used. In my class, you will be learning more specific, more practical things pertaining to that same basic school of thought. We will be examining each of the four common systems of magic, as well as the few which lie outside such classifications, with regard to their actual use. It should be your goal to learn to identify magical objects, creatures, spells and attacks, and understand how each should be dealt with. In short, you have absorbed sufficient theory that you can now begin learning facts. And, more importantly, strategies. You have a question, Mr. Arquin?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, lowering his hand. “Um, what exactly are you?”

Professor Ekoi gazed up at him placidly, in silence, until he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and opened his mouth to speak again.

Suddenly she flicked her wrist, and a folded hand fan slipped out of the wide sleeve of her robe, landing neatly in her grip. She swirled it open, covering her face below the eyes and revealing its pattern of calligraphy in a language that wasn’t familiar to them. Then, in a very disorienting spectacle, she twirled the fan in a full circle. It did not visibly grow, and yet it somehow concealed all of her body in passing—and she did not reappear when it moved on. The fan whirled in a complete arc and then vanished into its own center, like water swirling down a drain, leaving nothing behind.

The students gaped down at the empty dais.

“Um,” said Gabriel, “I didn’t mean to yipe!”

“There is endless variety in this world, Mr. Arquin,” Professor Ekoi murmured from right behind him, close enough that he could feel her breath. He could also feel the tips of her sharp nails, resting against his throat. Trissiny half-rose, gripping the hilt of her sword, but made no further movements as the professor continued. “People of every conceivable belief, origin and description. If you are privileged to lead a long life, and to explore the world in all its beauty, you shall come to know the grand diversity of its inhabitants—provided you possess the sense to absorb what you are shown. And you will find, Mr. Arquin, that none of these people enjoy being referred to as a what.”

He hissed softly as the tips of her claws—and those were clearly not just nails—pricked his skin. Five tiny points of blood welled up.

Before he could react physically, she was gone.

And then the professor stepped out from behind the cherry tree, down on the dais. “Except,” she said pleasantly, “for individuals in certain…specialty social clubs one tends to find in the major cities, which you are unlikely to enter or even discover without a specific invitation. For now, we should focus our attention upon the study of magic, children. Now, let us begin.”

Walter tromped through the tallgrass back toward the homestead, four hares strung on the rope thrown over his shoulder. It was early, not even noon yet, but he’d had the luckiest morning of hunting in a good long while, solid enough that he could justify taking the afternoon off. Ma would be happy enough with the meat he brought in to let him go without a fuss…probably. He had his bow in one hand, quiver hanging at his hip—he had a wand, of course, but that was for emergency use against any predators he happened to encounter. Lightning had a bad effect on game. All in all, he was in a great mood, whistling as he walked.

As such, he wasn’t paying terribly close attention, lost in his thoughts, and didn’t spot the other person coming toward him until Smitty barked. The hound was staring, on point but not growling, meaning he didn’t sense a threat. That was generally good enough for Walter; he found dogs were the best judges of character.

Then the individual coming toward him through the tallgrass pushed aside a particularly dense clump, coming fully into view, and he froze, almost dropping his bow and hares.

She was a girl, looking to be about his age, maybe a few years older, and stunningly beautiful in a way he only saw in magazine illustrations and never before on an actual woman. Also, she had pale green hair and was stark naked. He’d have been hard pressed to say which of those traits commanded more of his attention.

“Hello!” the nude girl said brightly.

“Uh… H-hi,” Walter choked out, then swallowed, struggling valiantly to keep his eyes on her face, a battle he knew he was doomed to lose. Not that it wasn’t a gorgeous face, but she also had gorgeous breasts, and he’d never actually seen… He gulped again, trying desperately to maintain an even keel. “Um, can I…help you with something, miss?”

She tilted her head to one side as if thinking, and suddenly frowned. “Maybe. Did you kill my sister?”

That made even less sense to Walter than her appearance and manner, but luckily he had a ready and truthful answer to it. “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

“Oh, okay, then,” she said, that dazzling smile returning. “Maybe you can give me directions! Am I still headed toward Last Rock? Is it close?”

Last Rock. It figured. Ma always said the only downside of living out here was the proximity to that place.

“You’re headin’ the right way,” he said, looking at her chest again in spite of himself. “It’s about thirty miles on. Careful not to stray too far north or you’ll be in the Golden Sea.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” she said dismissively, taking a step closer.

Smitty whined, and instantly Walter was on full alert. The hound pressed hard against his leg, clearly frightened. His teenage hormones were telling him one thing, but the dog told him something very different—and he knew quite well which was more trustworthy.

“Since you offered to help, though,” she said, licking her lips and smiling broadly, “I’m kinda hungry. Can I have a couple of your rabbits?”

“Oh,” he said, easing backward from her. “I, uh…” It had been a lucky morning, true, and he had ample time to go back out and hunt more… But this was a significant amount of good meat, not to mention what the pelts would sell for.

“Don’t worry, I’d make it worth your while,” the girl promised, stepping forward again, her smile widening. “Would you like to have sex?”

He very nearly exploded on the spot. Ma was forever going on about how boys his age had exactly one thing on their minds, and to be truthful, that thing was very much on his mind right now. Meeting a nude beauty in the tallgrass and receiving such an offer…this was a situation straight out of some of his more absurd fantasies.

But Smitty wasn’t the only one whose instincts were jangling, now. Walter had looked into the eyes of predators before.

“Tell ya what,” he said carefully. With the slow, even movements he knew wouldn’t startle or provoke a wild animal, he pulled the string of hares from his shoulder and held it out toward her. “You just help yourself, my treat. I’ve gotta get home.”

“Aw, you sure?” she said, pouting slightly even as she took the hares. Her warm brown eyes flicked up and down his body, making his pulse accelerate. “I wasn’t just offering a trade. I think it’d be swell to stop and make love. Don’t you?”

Walter had to gulp twice before he could speak again. That would be swell. But Ma, it seemed, wasn’t wrong about everything; the very, very bad feeling he had about this was more powerful than lust. Her knowing smirk widened, almost as if she could tell what he was thinking. Maisie Taathir down at the trading post sometimes gave him that impression, especially when she caught him sneaking a peek at her bum, but…not like this.

“I really have to go,” he repeated. Smitty whined again.

“Okay, then,” she said with a shrug that did extremely interesting things to her chest.

Walter tipped his hat to her, backed up a few steps, then half-turned to set off in a wide arc around her, keeping her in his peripheral view.

As he watched, she licked her lips again, then calmly ripped a leg off one of the hares and bit into it, fur and all. Bone crunched audibly and she made a soft sound of approval.

He didn’t walk backward, but kept going in the slightly wrong direction at an angle until a more comfortable distance had stretched out between them. Even then, Walter very carefully kept his pace measured as he and Smitty left the girl behind.

It was, as he knew very well, a bad idea to run from a predator.

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The temple complex extended for several blocks behind Imperial Square, taking up a large chunk of real estate in the heart of the city, but no one seriously contested that a deity of the Trinity had a prerogative to whatever space she needed. The Temple of Avei was the largest in Tiraas, primarily due to its walled and battlemented rear annex, which housed the currently stationed Silver Legion.

Within were a variety of parade grounds, training fields, gymnasiums, barracks, armories and other facilities. Supposedly the Third Silver Legion, that currently in residence, was understaffed, which suggested there should have been enough housing available for them to have their pick. Still, Merry couldn’t find it in her to be surprised that the newly minted cohort was housed in the Camp, a series of wooden longhouses built to hold a squad each, arranged around a central parade ground at the very end of the temple complex as far as one could get from the actual Temple and still be on Avenist grounds.

She moved quickly, lugging the backpack containing her meager possessions as she checked the numbers next to the cabin doors. Not even a proper barracks… They were clearly expected to work their way up from the bottom. Merry tried not to place any particular import on the fact that she had been assigned to Squad Thirteen. Nowhere in the regulations was it stated that squads were ranked by order of prestige or favor. The assumption had been whispered enough times, though, that she couldn’t banish it completely from her head.

Other women in light armor were doing the same song-and-dance on all sides, the whole group of fresh ex-trainees scrambling to their bunks; Merry was just glad she wasn’t the only person having to figure out where to go. She didn’t doubt their hustle was being watched and graded.

The buildings were arranged in a squared arch half-encircling the parade ground; Cabin Thirteen was at one end of the row, unsurprisingly. All it had taken was figuring out which way the numbers ran to locate it. Would have been easier if she’d had the chance to look over the place before being turned out of her trainee barracks and ordered to move in, but that had never happened. She hadn’t known (had suspected, but not known) where her cadet group would be assigned to stay, and while cadets were given a modicum of free time, they were heartily discouraged from poking about the fortress in places where they did not have specific business. So, she now had fifteen minutes to stow her gear, form up with her new squad—consisting at least partly of women she didn’t know, and assemble on the parade ground in formation for the address.

Sure, no pressure. The thought of complaining never even crossed Merry’s mind. The officers loved pressure.

She was not, somewhat to her disappointment, the first to find Cabin Thirteen, but at least she was only the second. When she stepped inside, another woman was busy stretching up to place her pack on a top bunk.

Merry stopped cold just inside the door, staring at her back. She was the slimmest girl Merry had seen in a while—Legion training had a way of broadening the shoulders and lining the limbs with lean muscle—but that was explained by the sharp ears sticking up on either side of her regulation braid. It was the combination of that and the fact that the braid in question was black that made her freeze.

Surely not.

Black hair was a rarity among elves, but “rare” had to mean there was more than one out there. Really, what were the chances?

Her new squadmate turned to examine her, and the elf’s eyebrows immediately shot upright. Then she grinned.

“Well, well! Pronounced tasleef! What a stiflingly small world it is, no?”

Impossible. Ridiculous. What could Principia bloody Locke, Thieves’ Guild ne’er-do-well and the indirect cause of all Merry’s tribulations, possibly be doing enlisted in a Silver Legion?

Possibly the same thing she was doing here, she thought bitterly.

Goddess, why do you hate me?

Aloud she only said stiffly, “My name is Meredith Lang, thank you.”

Principia chuckled, making Merry want (even more) to punch her. She sublimated the desire by tossing her pack onto a bunk more forcefully than was necessary.

The tension was alleviated by the arrival of another of their new roommates. She paused in the doorway, glanced around, then nodded to each of them. “Hi.”

“Hey there,” Locke said brightly, leaning back against the frame of her selected bunk in a decidedly un-military pose and eyed her up and down once. “Wow, any more like you at home?”

“No,” the woman said more curtly, striding past her to select another bunk. She was taller than either of them, and more muscular. Also, despite the armor she wore, visibly more curvaceous. Plus, her hair was a rare shade of flame-red, and apparently natural (such indulgences as hair dye were not encouraged in the Legion), to judge by her pale complexion, mottled with freckles by long exposure to the sun. Avei’s followers weren’t supposed to care about such things, but it was impossible for Merry not to notice when she was in the presence of someone far and away more beautiful than she. She managed a mumbled greeting.

“I’m Locke,” said Prin cheerfully, seeming not the least intimidated by their new squadmate—but then, she wouldn’t be. “This is Lang.”

“Ephanie Avelea,” the new arrival said with a bit more warmth, even managing a smile. “Glad to know you.”

“Private Casey Elwick, glad to know you right back!” said an exuberant new voice as its owner practically skipped through the door. Merry almost did a double-take; the sandy-haired girl was nowhere near twenty years old. The Legions started recruiting at seventeen, but she frankly didn’t look even that. “This is Farah,” she added, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

“Private Szaravid,” the newly minted soldier following said in a much more restrained voice. She was Tiraan, with a long face and hair a shade more chocolatey than Principia’s. “Oh, wow, we get an elf?”

“It’s a new weapons program,” Locke said lightly. “All squads are issued an elf.”

“For what purpose?” Merry demanded bitingly.

Locke winked at her. “Morale.”

“It’s not working.”

“You two have already met?” Ephanie asked the new arrivals as they went to a bunk bed. Despite the abundance of open bunks, they decided apparently without debate to share one, Elwick taking the top.

“Oh, yeah, we came up through the barracks together,” said Szaravid. “I’m actually really relieved to have a familiar face here; the sergeant talked as if we’d never see anyone we’d trained with again.”

“That’s not even numerically possible,” Locke said, grinning. “There are only so many cadets per class.”

“They try to mix us up,” Avelea added. “Some familiar faces for consistency’s sake, enough change to get us used to being mixed around.”

“You sound like you’ve studied this,” Merry noted.

Avelea shrugged. “I grew up in a temple, around Legionnaires. You pick things up.”

Merry looked at her more closely, noting she clearly wasn’t as fresh-faced as Elwick. In fact, she could well have been in her late twenties, possibly the eldest of them (except, of course, for the elf, who might predate the Empire for all she knew). She clearly hadn’t had a direct trip from an Avenist upbringing to the Legions.

“And you two know each other as well?” Elwick asked, looking at Merry, then at Principia.

“No,” Merry snapped, at the same moment Locke said “Oh, we go way back.”

They broke off, staring at each other.

The silence stretched out.

Avelea finally cleared her throat. “Well. We don’t have much time till we’re to assemble. Where is everyone?”

Szaravid went to the door, leaning out to look around the parade ground. “There’s…hardly anybody left outside. They all seem to be in their cabins.”

“That can’t be right,” Ephanie said, frowning. “Even if we’re under-staffed, there’d be more to a squad than this. We’re at less than half strength, here.”

“Maybe we’re the leftovers?” Casey suggested, looking somewhat worried.

Ephanie shook her head. “It’s against regulation. The only situation in which a squad may have fewer than eight members is immediately following the loss of soldiers and preceding the redistribution of personnel by the commander. A squad would not be formed with five troops.”

“Well,” Farah said, still at the door, “the rest of our squad is good and lost, then. They are officially cleared out and in their own bunks.”

They glanced around at each other.

“Well,” Merry said at last, “we’re here. Surely we can’t be punished for the others not showing up?”

“Right,” Principia said, deadpan. “because officers are extremely reasonable about these things. They’ll probably pat us on the head and tuck us in—”

“You don’t need to be snide,” she snapped.

“Guess I don’t,” the elf replied with a shrug. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“We have a little time,” Ephanie offered.

“Not much,” said Farah, again looking out the door. “They’re assembling.”

“Should we go?” Casey asked nervously.

“Give it another minute,” said Ephanie. “We don’t want to be late, but…give them what time we can.”

“Well, this is off to a rousing good start,” Principia muttered.

“I really can’t afford to start my military career with a black mark,” Merry said to herself.

“None of us can,” Ephanie said flatly.

“Guys,” said Farah, “I really think we had better go. They’re forming up.”

“If everyone but us is in formation before the deadline,” said Casey, “we’ll be—”

“Yes,” Ephanie interrupted, sighing, “you’re right. All right, then, ladies… Off to face the music.”

“Bloody hell,” Merry groaned, but followed the redhead and Farah out, the rest of them falling in behind.

A cohort consisted of twelve squads of twelve women apiece, numbered two through thirteen. Squad One was a reserved designation for any special ops personnel attached to the cohort. The other eleven groups were already out, the last of them settling into formation. It was less of a hustle than would have been expected of them in training, but they were still under the watchful eye of officers. Squad Thirteen picked up their pace. They were still the last in position, but made it well before the stated time to assemble.

All five of them.

None of the soldiers standing at attention in the yard allowed their eyes to wander, which was their only saving grace. At least Squad Thirteen didn’t have to suffer being stared at. Merry couldn’t help being keenly aware of the eleven full squads arrayed in a line to her right, and their own comparatively pitiful group. Poor Elwick was alone in the second line, the rest of them having formed the front rank.

Time ticked by. The noise of the city could be heard outside the walls, as well as sounds of marching and shouting from deeper in the fortress. Nearer to hand, a crow called, probably from the roof of one of the long cabins. Just because the assembled privates had formed up ahead of schedule didn’t mean the schedule was in any way subject to change at their instigation. Sentries patrolled the upper walls, a few clearly off-duty soldiers watched from the near distance, and at the corner of the (empty) Cabin One, a robed priestess and an armored Legionnaire with a captain’s stripes stood in silence, studying the assembled privates.

Their gazes both lingered on Squad Thirteen. Their expressions were unreadable. Merry couldn’t decide if that was better or worse.

This was it. Barely enlisted, not even on her first duty, and it was already over for her. She hadn’t even done anything, hadn’t had the chance to. She’d be booted out of the Legion, which would mean prison time. Not much of it—a lot less than her three-year enlistment, in fact—but still. Prison. Why did this shit always have to happen to her?

And what about the others? She didn’t dare look around at them, but a sneaky suspicion was forming. She, who had enlisted because the other option the judge gave her was jail, had been relegated to Squad Thirteen. It wasn’t much of a stretch to conclude that Principia Locke was here for similar reasons. This really was the loser squad—apparently, half of them couldn’t even be arsed to show up. Had they all deserted straight out of basic camp? Were they drunk in a pub somewhere?

She had to wonder what had brought the others to these straits. Farah and Casey were unknowns—hell, Casey didn’t look old enough to have had the chance to get in any serious trouble, but on the other hand, she didn’t look old enough to carry a spear and shield, which she was clearly doing. And Avelea? The surname meant she’d been taken in as an orphan and raised by the Sisterhood. What had she been up to between then and now?

Occupied with her grim thoughts, she was actually startled when their new captain shouted, “Attention!”

Nobody moved a muscle. They were at attention. They had been for a good five minutes.

The captain paced slowly down the line once, then came to a stop and grudgingly nodded. “That’s what I like to see. You begin to give me hope, ladies. That may just be the comparison to the last batch of lackwits Command dumped in my lap, though. Whatever the reason, I have decided to expect good things from you.” She slowly panned her gaze up and down the front ranks. “My disappointment will be your suffering. Do I make myself clear?”

“YES MA’AM!” nearly a hundred and forty women shouted in unison.

“I am Captain Dijanerad, and if you girls thought your training period was over, I can only salute your optimism. We do things more briskly in wartime, ladies, but when the Legions have the luxury of time to work, we like to put you through your paces before deciding your final fate. Make no mistake, the assignments you are about to receive are active duty. You will complete them to the best of your ability, and your conduct will reflect upon the Silver Legions, upon the Third, upon all the Sisterhood and on Avei herself. If your performance in any area is lacking, you will long for the gentle touch of my mere disappointment. Understood?”

“YES MA’AM!”

“With that established, your performance will also be judged, by myself and others, to determine your various aptitudes as individuals and as squads. The Third is to remain in Tiraas for another eleven months, during which time this cohort will not act as one except for drill and the odd parade, if somebody gets an urge to throw one. Your squads will be given individual assignments, paired with senior Legionnaires from other cohorts, under whose command you will be. The first thing we will be deciding, within the next ten days, is which of you delicate little doilies show a glimmer of leadership potential. For now, you’re squads without a sergeant. No, this is not standard procedure.”

She paused, her face grim with displeasure.

“With regard to that, I have an extra special treat for you today, privates,” the captain announced. “Here to explain the reason for the disruption of our proven methods is Bishop Basra Syrnix.” She nodded to the priestess, who nodded back and stepped over to stand directly in front of the assembled cohort.

Syrinx was a woman of medium height and lean build; she was fit, as any priestess of Avei must be, but seemed a bit too slender to be an active Legionnaire who habitually wore armor. That only made sense, if she was the Bishop. She had sharp features, dark hair cropped short as per regulation (braids were permitted, but some fighters considered long hair nothing but an enemy’s handhold), and piercing eyes.

“Ladies,” she said, her voice echoing through the yard with the projected delivery of a veteran officer, “I regret to inform you that you have fallen prey to a soldier’s worst nightmare: politics. The situation, in brief, is this: The Universal Church of the Pantheon has received legal permission from the Silver Throne to establish its on military force within Tiraan borders. Some of you may have seen the so-called Holy Legion yourselves. You have permission to sneer.”

Captain Dijanerad rolled her eyes. Merry did not move hers by a fraction to see whether the permission was acted upon by anyone. She rather suspected not.

Bishop Syrinx continued with a darkly amused expression. “The Universal Church itself is an administrative entity which, despite its various presumptions, exists to foster harmony between the cults of the Pantheon. Its official doctrine, as such, while mostly benign, has absorbed some truly pernicious ideas from various member cults. You are undoubtedly aware that certain philosophical assertions of Shaathism are enjoying a spate of popularity.” She paused, scowling. “The Church must also pay lip service to the likes of the Izarites, and even Eserites. The resulting mishmash of dogmas is, as I have said, mostly harmless. Mostly.

“Avei stands for justice, for the welfare and equality of women, and for the just, effective and honorable prosecution of war. The goddess herself, like all deities, does not deign to enforce her will upon the world, soldiers. It is we who do so. The uncontested might of the Silver Legions is what keeps those ideals alive and in force. We enforce justice. We protect all womankind. We fight when fighting is necessary, with neither weakness nor unneeded brutality. And when our power wanes, so too do all those things which you have sworn, upon your enlistment, to uphold and protect.

“This is not acceptable.”

Syrinx let the silence hang for a moment before continuing.

“As is customary, your first assignments will be to patrol and guard various temples of gods whose followers do not practice violence. This is a time-honored duty of the Legions and a mark of the high regard in which Avei is held, even among other cults. However… You, soldiers, must remain aware that you are executing a sacred trust which some would see taken from you. Taken from us, and given to those who serve politics, not principle. That is the reason for the change in our procedures.”

“Normally,” she continued, “seasoned officers would be placed among your squads as commanders, with promising candidates from the cadet program fast-tracked toward their own promotions. The difficulty is that we are attempting to raise a new kind of officer corps, one able to address the threats of the new world that is developing around us. Our cadet program, unfortunately, is not equipped to teach the various personality traits which combine to form an aptitude for political savvy. We are reduced to watching you for innate gifts in that direction. This does not mean you will be encouraged to play politics within your own or other squads. On the contrary, such behavior will be tolerated less now than ever before. But we need women who can deal with politicians to lead the Legions of tomorrow. If those women are among you… They will be found.

“This is an experimental program, soldiers. We are placing a great deal of faith in you.” She swept her gaze across the front ranks again. “Do not disappoint the goddess.”

Syrinx paused a moment longer, then turned and nodded to Captain Dijanerad before stepping back to the sidelines.

“You will report to the mess hall for lunch, during which your squad assignments will be handed out. Squad Thirteen, remain in position. Everyone else, dismissed.”

Merry listened to the clamor of marching feet as the rest of her cohort streamed away toward the mess hall. This was it. They were done for.

“Ladies,” Dijanerad said in a marginally lower tone, coming to stand right in front of them, “to answer the question I’m sure must be on all your minds… No, there are no more troops currently assigned to your squad. With time, as the Third rebuilds its strength and more cadet classes graduate, Squad Thirteen will be bolstered with more recruits. In the meantime, I’ll expect you to make do with this irregular situation. You’ll be given assignments that take your position into account. Don’t let us down.” She half-grimaced momentarily as if she had something more to say, then just shook her head. “Dismissed.”

Ephanie managed to wait until they were most of the way to the mess hall, out of earshot of Dijanerad and Syrinx, before commenting in a low voice. “Every part of this is more insane than the last. Squads sent out with no officers? Placing us under the command of other cohorts? Trying to teach new soldiers politics on the fly? This is… I don’t understand anything that’s happening here.”

“And what about us?” Casey demanded somewhat shrilly. “What the hell are we supposed to do with five soldiers? We can’t even form a proper phalanx!”

“Why, she spelled it right out for us,” said Principia, who only looked thoughtful. “Politics.”

“Did you happen to notice,” Merry demanded, “that her explanation explained nothing?”

Locke grinned at her. “That, my dear tasleef, is the very essence of politics. This will not do, ladies. We’re going to have to get some answers to survive whatever is going on, and that means we’re going to have to find them ourselves.”

Merry was spared having to comment by their arrival in the noisy mess hall. Just as well; she had nothing positive to say.

 

Commander Rouvad was, as had unfortunately become her habit, reading a report while walking; nodding absently in response to salutes in passing, she opened the door to her office and stepped inside with her nose still buried in the damnable paperwork.

“Hello!”

Instinct wanted to her to drop the papers and whip out her sword. Long-practiced poise won. She lifted her eyes and calmly surveyed the woman perched on the edge of her desk. For half a second she thought it was Principia Locke, in part due to the expectation she’d been carrying that that ridiculous elf would pull something like this any day now. It wasn’t Locke, though.

It was worse.

“Won’t you come in,” she said pointedly. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Mary the Crow replied without a trace of irony. “I won’t take up too much of your time, Farzida.”

“Splendid,” Rouvad replied, not giving her the satisfaction of reacting to the familiar form of address.

“Not long ago, you received an item from the Hand of Avei, which she had retrieved from the Crawl. A golden eagle pendant with a powerful fae charm.”

“Yes, we did,” said Rouvad, holding her gaze. “Kindly help me to be annoyed specifically and correctly. Have you been stalking my paladin or rummaging through my storerooms?”

“Neither,” Mary replied with an amused smile. “I don’t keep track of every item I’ve crafted in all my long years, but that one was unique. It was impossible for me not to take notice when it suddenly reappeared. I’d thought it lost to the Crawl. Imagine my further delight when it did not find its way into Arachne’s hands!”

“Everything that doesn’t find its way into Arachne’s hands is a triumph for the world,” Rouvad agreed sourly.

Mary laughed. “Yes, well, I think it reflects very well upon young Trissiny’s judgment that her response to acquiring such a powerful artifact was to deliver it to safe custody rather than try to claim its power without understanding its source. I have known many Hands of Avei, and more of them than otherwise have been…unfortunately impulsive.”

“And you want your bauble back,” Rouvad said dryly. “Fine, I’ll have it fetched for you.”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.” Mary waved a hand languidly. “I made it to be of service to the warriors of Avei. Clearly, it is in the proper hands now. I simply thought you might like to know what it does and how it works.”

“That’s…considerate,” Rouvad said carefully.

Mary grinned. “And you are mistrustful. Good; your caution is a virtue. What I have to tell you, however, you can have your own witches verify; it will be easier for them with a hint of where to look. The amulet draws power from an extremely powerful fairy creature, and converts it to divine energy.”

“That much we knew.”

The elf held up a finger. “Did you know it also bolsters’ the user’s capacity to channel that energy?”

“No,” Rouvad confessed, frowning in thought. If that was true…it would make that amulet one of a mere handful of such artifacts in the world. Each of the four schools of magic imposed barriers upon the power of spellcasters, forcing them to expand their strength with time and practice. The arcane was stored in the user’s aura, a capacity which had to be flexed and grown much like a muscle. Accumulating fae power was a process of acquiring sources, powerful items, fairy thralls and relationships with high-ranking fairies, a process which took nothing but time. The divine and infernal, however, could be wielded with phenomenal strength by the rawest neophyte; the difficulty was in wielding them safely. It was better not even to think of what happened to people who called upon more infernal energy than they could handle, but the divine simply burned. Overuse could easily trigger mana fatigue, but in more extreme cases, it could also cause permanent nerve damage or actual combustion. Even complete incineration. Items that permitted one to “cheat” at this were vanishingly rare.

“The fairy to whom the amulet is attuned is named Jacaranda. You have heard of her?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rouvad said sourly.

Mary smiled again. “She has tremendous power being mostly frittered away; it makes her a very useful energy source. However, that wasn’t why I made the amulet. Jacaranda is utterly demented; mad as a jackalope and frankly rather stupid. I have long forseen the eventual need for someone to do something about her… And my position being what it is, I cannot risk antagonizing Naiya by putting down one of her daughters, however estranged.”

“So you handed that responsibility to some hapless future Avenist,” Rouvad said coldly.

“Hardly hapless,” Mary replied, her smile not wavering. “I have met few who are. No, I’m sure you can find a suitable soldier upon whom to bestow the amulet. I can think of a couple of very suitable candidates myself.”

“Mm hm,” the Commander grunted. “I can do research on my own, you know. I’m well aware that black hair occurs in only one elven bloodline.”

“How very clever of you,” said the Crow, her smile broadening just a hint. “I might mention in passing that anyone related by blood to the amulet’s creator would be able to use its power to a somewhat greater extent. Greater still if they had any connection to Jacaranda…even one as tenuous as a friendship with one of her pixies.”

Rouvad indulged in a sigh. If the Crow’s description was accurate—and she would be having it thoroughly tested to check—that necklace could make a priestess of a common soldier. What it might do in a paladin’s hands…

“Since you are here and we are dancing around the subject,” she said, “I do not go easy on any of my Legionnaires. The life is occasionally hard, and often quite dangerous. Soldiers die.”

Mary tilted her head thoughtfully. “I have been anticipating Principia’s death in pursuit of some selfish foolishness or other for years. Now… She appears to be doing something worthwhile, whatever her motivations.”

“I suspect you know her motivations.”

“Of course, of course, but do not underestimate your goddess. The right artist can create wonder from even the most inferior clay. Regardless, Commander, you need have no fear of retribution from me. Principia’s fate is her own. She has already profited by her association with your cult. I’ll look forward to seeing what else develops.”

“Oh, you’ll see, will you,” the Commander said sourly.

Mary grinned outright. “It’s not my nature to intervene unless I deem it needful, Farzida. But I always watch.”

Rouvad had to dodge aside as the little bird fluttered right past her face, through the open door and out into the hall. Not for the first time, she mentally celebrated her decision to leave the traditional High Commander’s office, with its enormous plate windows, for a more secure one deep in the heart of the temple. Not that it had done much good this time.

She stepped over behind her desk, the report now hanging forgotten from her hands. There were more important things to for her to think about.

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8 – 1

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Maureen felt a little bad about leaving the other newly-arrived students to contend with the throngs of townspeople, but then, one had to play to one’s strengths. Slipping through tight places and escaping notice weren’t strategies in which the gnomish people took particular pride, but they were unquestionably good at them. Really, in other situations, she might have wanted to stay and explore Last Rock a bit; the festival atmosphere which greeted the students stepping off the Rail was actually pretty enticing.

On the other hand, she was already feeling out of her element, and remembered her Aphorisms. When adventuring in a new and possibly dangerous area where you will remain for some time, first secure a base. Presumably the University provided students with housing. That should be her first goal. So telling herself, she gave the feisty crowds the slip, heading for the edge of town.

Forgoing the tempting main avenue, lined as it was with more stands and eager-looking townie merchants, she slipped through the back alleys. Last Rock had few such, just barely enough to keep out of sight of the town’s one important-looking street. There simply wasn’t enough space to get lost, not that that would be possible anyway, with the inescapable mountain itself rearing up from the edge of town.

It was fairly quiet when she slipped out of the gap between two outbuildings, finding herself at the base of the mountain. For a moment, Maureen simply stood, leaning her head back to gaze upward at its heights. The thing was just colossal. A peak like this would be impressive anywhere, but occurring as it did right in the middle of the world’s flattest country, the mountain of Last Rock could be positively dizzying if one allowed oneself to dwell on it.

There were paths provided—two of them, both carved of white marble and standing out against the green of the low grass which covered the roughly forty-five degree slope. A flight of stairs ran straight upward, toward the gates of the University high above, while a flatter path zigzagged widely back and forth across them, providing a gentler slope but a walk that would be many times longer.

The stairs, of course, were sized for tall people.

Maureen glanced back at the town, where she could see the crowd through gaps between buildings, then set her jaw, double-checked the straps on her Pack, and set off up the mountain, walking through the grass just to the left of the stairs. Some of her new classmates had legs nearly as long as she was tall, but if she got a good enough head start, maybe she could beat them to the campus anyway.

Beat them at what, or why, she couldn’t have said. But gnomish pride was at stake, regardless.

No matter how the others back home might have thought her reclusive, lazy or just odd, she had done more than enough training that even this excessively vertical hike didn’t strain her legs unduly. However, as she climbed onward and the prairie sun beat down, she reached back, fishing in her Pack without stopping, and pulled out a conveniently placed towel, which she wound around her head into a turban-like cover. All the while she composed a mental apology to Mum for all her complaints about drilling desert-condition survival skills in the middle of the Stalrange.

Her ears twitched alertly as notes of music drifted down to her. Someone up ahead was singing. Maureen paused to peer up at the University gates, but she was too far distant to make anything out clearly. She tucked her head down and resumed plowing up the slope.

The words grew steadily louder as she climbed. It was a cheerful little ditty, that much she could tell from the melody, sung by a woman with a somewhat husky voice, though she couldn’t make out the lyrics quite yet. Despite their longer ears, gnomes didn’t hear much better than humans, certainly not as well as elves. Just when she thought she was starting to catch a few words here and there, the music stopped.

She paused to look up again—the slope being what it was, she couldn’t really gaze forward while moving unless she wanted to risk taking a very long fall. The gates of the University were visible now. And…someone was sitting atop them.

Maureen continued on, and after a minute, the singer resumed, or began again. This time, she could hear clearly enough to discern the words.

“Ol’ Sally’s on the docks again, an’ she ain’t gettin’ far

She’s dressed in moldy sailcloth an’ smells of rust and tar,

What can sag has, or fallen off, no winsome lass is she

But I swear I still would hit that, for I’ve been a year at sea!”

In spite of herself, Maureen’s cheeks colored and the tufted tips of her ears began twitching furiously. Well, it was no worse than she’d heard in the pubs back home, right before Pop or one of her uncles spotted her lurking about and sent her packing. If anything, she was self-conscious about feeling self-conscious. What kind of impression would this make?

Meanwhile, the “music” carried gamely on.

“Ol’ Sally’s got no teeth left, which helps for suckin’ wood

Her nugs start at her navel, an’ hang down where she’s stood

Her right eye looks the wrong way and the left one’s merely odd

But I’d hit that like the hammer of a dark avenging god!”

Well, that would teach her to think it couldn’t get worse.

Once again, the serenade came to a stop, this time because of her arrival on the small plaza before the University’s open gates. The singer, a young human woman who was perched improbably atop one of the columns supporting the gates, grinned and waved a bottle of rum at Maureen.

“Ahoy, traveler! Welcome to the jungle! I’ve not seen you before. Frosh?”

“Excuse me?” Maureen demanded, affronted.

The girl’s grin widened. “Freshman. First year student. New to the campus, yeah?”

“Oh! Aye—I mean, yes, that’s me. I mean, I am.” Belatedly, she pulled off her head covering, then immediately wished she hadn’t; her embarrassed blush had to be painfully visible now.

“Glad to have you!” the girl said cheerfully, and Maureen had the odd feeling she meant it. The woman was Punaji, obviously, and just as obviously rich. Her greatcoat was of a much finer material than the traditional sailcloth, her hat bristled with brightly colored feathers, and the blue dot between her eyebrows appeared to be an inset sapphire, rather than a tattoo. “Head on through the gates, and follow the ostentatiously floating blue flags. This year’s freshman girls are housed in the Well—the marked path’ll lead you right there. Tell ya what, though,” she added, straightening up and leaning forward, grinning conspiratorially. “Wanna know a secret?”

“I suppose, sure,” Maureen said warily.

“The path’s a load of bullshit, in terms of actually getting anywhere. I fell for that my first day here. It leads you all over the damn place so you can get a look at the campus from all angles. The campus is worth lookin’ at, make no mistake, but you don’t strictly have to indulge Tellwyrn’s showin’ off. You wanna get to your bunk efficient-like, head straight up through the grass just past the gates, cross the little lawn there, and there’ll be a big gothic-looking monster of a building. You go left to the edge of that, head into the little alley there and follow the stairs all the way up, then turn right and follow the cobblestone path till you re-connect with the flagged path. Follow that north an’ you’ll come right to a round building. That’s your new digs.”

“I… Thank you very much,” Maureen said, politely but uncertainly.

“No sweat,” the Punaji girl replied, winking. “And hey, go whichever way suits you best. Like I said, the scenic route’s worth scenicizing, but you’ve got plenty of time for that later if you want. See ya ’round campus!”

“Yes. Um, see you. Thanks again!”

The woman lifted her bottle of rum in toast, then tipped it back and took a long drink. Maureen had been certain this was supposed to be a dry campus… As she had apparently been dismissed, though, she put that aside to wonder about later, and stepped forward through the gates.

Another small plaza beyond mimicked the one outside. As described, rows of floating flags marked paths leading off in both directions, blue to the right, red to the left. Maureen stood there, glancing back and forth, and then at the grassy incline leading straight forward and up through a small stand of bushes.

Here was a dilemma. The Aphorisms chanted in her head to find and secure a living space before sightseeing. On the other hand, the path had clearly been set the way it was for a reason. On the third hand, not all reasons were good ones, especially when it came to administrative bodies—run by a the legendary Arachne Tellwyrn or no, the University was a bureaucracy, and the Folk knew very well how those were about rules for rules’ sake. But…could the pirate’s directions be trusted? Pranking new students—new arrivals anywhere, really—was a time-honored tradition that spanned all cultures and peoples. It would be really nice to get herself settled in without having to meet and deal with her fellow students, though… Maureen had been raised to be polite, and friendly when the occasion called for it, but she could not call herself a people person. Even among people she knew, liked and trusted, to say nothing of strangers. To say nothing of these strangers.

Suddenly, above and behind her, the ballad resumed. Ol’ Sally, despite her various flaws, proved to have a multi-talented tongue, and Maureen shot into forward motion before she had to hear any more about it. Then, once up the incline, there was nothing else for it but to follow the pirate girl’s directions, since she’d already lost the marked path.

It was hardly her first time following directions; she had carefully memorized them as the girl spoke, and the landmarks were all exactly where they were indicated. She saw other people, but only distantly and on the periphery, and always ducked back into the shadows whenever this happened. Maureen felt a little bad about it, but there was no shame in seeking some comfort in invisibility and anonymity, she told herself. The campus really was impressive, what she could see of it, but that should hardly be surprising.

The path she’d been directed to take didn’t bring her past the entrance of the famous Crawl. She wondered if the officially sanctioned route did.

Quite soon, though, it turned up exactly where the pirate had said it would: at a compact, circular building constructed of golden marble which so resembled a miniature Omnist temple in design that it had to have been done deliberately. There was a single door, facing the path. It was sized for tall people, obviously, but Maureen had no trouble reaching and turning the latch. There was a keyhole, but it wasn’t locked.

Inside, the building was one wide-open space. Very wide open. The roof was a skylight, a single featureless sheet of circular glass, and there was no floor, just a railed spiral staircase descending down into a round shaft. Maureen stared glumly at this from the relative safety of the small landing inside the door. Stairs… Countless stairs, descending into dark oblivion. Stairs designed for tall people.

It was going to be a very, very long semester.

She sighed heavily and cinched up her Pack. The family hadn’t sent her this far to be turned back by stairs. The Folk were well used to making do with facilities sized for tall people; this was hardly her first time using their stairs. She knew the best way to move up and down them to minimize the difficulty. It was just… There were so many of them.

Then she stepped down onto the first one, and had to stop, grinning in delight. The moment her foot came to rest on the top step, the descending spiral before her was suddenly sized perfectly for the length of her legs. It was well worth remembering, she decided, that this University had been built by possibly the greatest wizard in existence.

Even better, while the staircase appeared to spiral endlessly down into darkness, the actual descent seemed to be only about two stories worth of steps, as best she could reckon it, and the whole was well-lit by the skylight above. There were also wall sconces with currently inert fairy lamps. Then, suddenly, without having seen it approach, she was at the bottom. It occurred to Maureen that considering the obviously magical nature of that stairwell, there was absolutely no telling how deep she actually was into the mountain now.

Such concerns fled her mind, though, as she stepped forward into the Well and got her first look at her new home for the next four years.

It was a round chamber of clearly natural origin; fairy lamps were cleverly worked into the stalactites hanging from the ceiling in a way that emphasized their shapes while providing adequate illumination for the area. The floor had been smoothed flat, in places clearly filled in with stonework. To the left was an irregular section of missing wall paneled over with light-stained wood, in which was set a single door. Another, larger such segment lined the right side of the chamber, this one with a door at either end. In the back, opposite the stairs, was an obvious living area, with a sofa and chairs, a low table, and a small kitchen consisting of little more than a modern enchanted stove, sink, upright cold box and one cabinet.

All this was around the rim of the chamber, however. It formed a walkway secured behind a metal rail that would have been roughly chest-high for the tall people and which was just above Maureen’s head. Beyond that, in the middle, was a deep pit from which the Well evidently took its name. A particularly long cluster of stalactites hung down into it, the tip of the largest extending below the level of the floor, and the entire formation bristling with tiny, multicolored fairy lights like a very peculiar chandelier.

Immediately before her, though, was another person, sitting in a ladder back chair and reading a heavy book whose cover was printed in elvish, from which she looked up on Maureen’s arrival. The woman’s age was hard to guess; she was a human of Tiraan stock, with black hair, bronze skin and rather angular features. Her attire was either very old-fashioned or very avant garde, consisting of plain but dramatic black robes. She waited for Maureen to take in the whole scene before speaking.

“And you must be Miss Willowick.”

“I… Aye. I mean, yes, that’s me.” Maureen smiled feebly. “I, eh, gather y’don’t have too many gnomish students…”

“Well, you’re the only one this year,” the woman said with a smile, setting aside her book, “but there’s also a process of elimination involved. You’re the last to arrive.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about!” the woman assured her. “The Rail schedule is what it is. I’m Afritia Morvana, the house mother. I live just over there.” She pointed to the smaller walled-off area to the left of the door. “You girls are housed in the one opposite. Since you’re here, we’ll be having a little house get-together in a few minutes, in the lounge area in the back. But there’s no rush, Maureen. You take whatever time you need to get settled in and greet your roommates. They’re all unpacking.”

“I, ah… Thanks. Thank you! I’ll do that.” She smiled awkwardly. “Um, bye!”

“See you soon,” Afritia replied with a more serene smile, picking up her book again.

Maureen ducked past her, making for the nearest of the two doors indicated. She sighed softly at the need to reach up for the knob; best she start getting used to that. With Afritia right there, she did not indulge in a moment to compose herself, but set her jaw, turned the knob and pulled open the door to her new living quarters.

She was instantly blinded by a burst of white light.

“Ack!” Maureen yelped, clapping a hand over her eyes and staggering backward.

“Oh, for—do you have to do that?” a voice exclaimed. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“I am sorry,” another girl’s voice said, closer. “Are you quite all right, miss?”

Maureen peeked between her fingers, blinking to clear her vision. Right before her, just inside the doorway, stood a blonde human girl who was scarcely a foot taller than she, and so dainty of build as to be almost boyish. She was holding a device like a heavily augmented telescope, bristling with dials and socketed crystals.

Immediately her confusion cleared and she leaned forward, fascinated. “Ooh! That’s one of the new lightcappers, isn’t it? A handheld model! And is that… Why, there’s no sheetroll! Are those data storage crystals? Wherever did you find them?!”

“Oh, gods, another one,” said the voice which had spoken first.

The blonde girl, meanwhile, beamed at Maureen. “A fellow enthusiast! How lovely! Again, I do apologize for startling you. It’s my hobby, you see—I find there is no substitute for a candid shot. When people know they are being capped, they pose and preen as if sitting for a portrait. One must take one’s subjects unaware to capture the truth of them, do you not think so?”

“Oh, I, ah, never really had much interesting in the actual art,” Maureen admitted. “But the device is fascinating, don’t you think? There’s basically nothing else that marries dwarven technology and Tiraan enchanting work so seamlessly!”

“It would probably help if you turned down the light-flashy thing,” said the other voice. “I’m still seeing spots. That thing’s liable to get broken if you keep doing that to people.”

“Oh, but you can’t!” Maureen protested, turning to the speaker. “It’s precious! There are hardly any devices like that yet built, it must have cost a fortune!”

The other girl was also human, and also of a slender build, but there the resemblance to the first ended. She was of dark Western heritage, with curly black hair gathered up into a high ponytail. She wore a striking white dress that contrasted starkly with her skin and made her seem almost to glow in the warm light of the room.

“And you must be Miss Maureen,” the blonde girl said, smiling benignly at her over the lightcapper, which she still held at the ready as if to take another shot at any moment.

“Aye, that I am,” Maureen replied with a smile, feeling already more at ease than she’d imagined would be possible. “Maureen Willowick of the Shadow Falls, and glad t’know ye.” She slipped a little light Patter reflexively into her speech, which the humans of course completely missed.

“The Shadow Falls?” said the dark-skinned girl, her eyes widening. “The dungeon? You lived there?”

“That is not so uncommon, for gnomes,” said the blonde, smiling. “I am Ravana Madouri, and very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Willowick.”

“It’s just Maureen t’me friends,” she said with a slightly bashful smile.

“Maureen, then,” her new acquaintance replied with a smile in return. She had a very graceful way about her, a knack of conveying layers of goodwill with only a few words. “And you have met Miss Domingue.”

“This one likes her formalities,” the girl in white said with a cheerful wave. “I’m Iris, good to meet you!”

“Wotcher, Iris!”

The human blinked, her expression perplexed. “Uh…wha?”

“And of course,” Ravana interjected smoothly, half-turning, “this is our remaining roommate. May I present Szith nar Szarain dal An’sadarr.”

Maureen turned and barely managed not to leap backward out of the room in shock; she didn’t quite succeed in repressing a gasp.

The drow bowed politely, seeming not to notice her gaffe. “It is my honor. Welcome to our shared home, Maureen Willowick. You may address me by given name, if you wish. It is my hope that we shall all call one another friend.” She smiled, a formal little expression that held no real meaning.

“I, um, a’course,” Maureen said hesitantly. “Good t’meet you, too. Uh… I’m sorry, but… Sssszzzith?”

“The consonant does not occur in Tanglish,” Szith said, still with that aloof little smile. “I will answer to Sith or Zith without offense. Whichever is easiest for you.”

“Oh, now, that doesn’t seem right,” Maureen said hurriedly. “It’s your home too, aye? I’d want ye t’feel as welcome as any of us. I’ll work on me pronunciation, if y’don’t mind bein’ pestered a bit about it here an’ there.”

At that, the drow’s smile actually widened and developed the merest hint of real warmth. “I do not mind in the slightest. Please, come in, be comfortable.”

“Oh…aye, I ought to do that, I s’pose,” Maureen said ruefully. She had been too busy staring at the dark elf to even get a look at her surroundings. It was just that, of all the creatures gnomes encountered, fought and bested, the drow were the most relentless and formidable. Of course, a mere moment’s thought told her that Szith had to be a Themynrite from Tar’naris, not one of the savage Scyllithenes who occasionally bored into gnomish dungeons; Maureen was left embarrassed by her instinctive aversion. In her defense, Szith was obviously a fighter. Her hair was cut short, the better to keep it out of her eyes and provide no handhold for an enemy, and her sleek garment of dark lizard scales, while shaped like a simple wraparound tunic, was obviously stiff and thick enough to serve as light armor.

Now, finally, she examined the room itself. It was a long gallery containing four beds, three obviously claimed. Szith had taken the one on the far right, or at least was standing next to it. A compact backpack sat next to the head of the bed; apart from that, the only identifying feature was a flag hung on the wall behind it, a black thing with a diagonal bar of blood red so dark it did not stand out well against the black, and a spiky elvish glyph in white in its center.

Ravana’s chosen bed was obvious for the sepia-tinted lightcaps hung all over the wall behind it, surrounding a huge silver coat of arms. She also had a hefty cedar chest at the foot of her bed, and Maureen had to wonder how she’d gotten the thing down the stairs. It was substantially larger than its wispy human owner.

Iris was seated on her own bed; aside from a quilt thrown over it, she’d done nothing to customize the space.

Maureen examined the chamber itself as she clambered up onto the only remaining bed, setting her Pack possessively on the pillow. She would unpack properly later; it would be an undertaking climbing around the tall people-sized furnishings to get everything set up just so. Luckily the mattress was firm, so she wouldn’t have to worry about drowning in it, though the huge bed might pose some difficulties getting in and out of. The room itself, though, was oddly cozy. It was obviously a natural formation, irregular in shape, but had been improved with thick carpets in cheerful colors, abundant fairy lamps and comfortable furniture. In addition to the beds, each of them got a padded chair and a nightstand.

“What’s behind there?” Maureen asked, nodding at a closed door on the far wall, which did not open onto the central area of the Well.

Iris sniffed disdainfully. “The early bird who got the worm.”

“…eh?”

“A small private room,” Ravana explained, tenderly setting her lightcapper into the cedar chest at the foot of her bed. “The sleeping arrangements were clearly first come, first served. Our final roommate was the first to come, and claimed it.”

“And there she remains,” Iris said, folding her arms huffily. “Too good to talk with the likes of us.”

“She is certainly able to hear you,” Szith said.

“Well,” Maureen noted, “if that door’s as thick as this wall…”

“The fifth member of our party is an elf,” Ravana explained. “And yes, this conversation is well within the range of her hearing. I will point out that we are all of us out of our element, and people respond to change in different ways. Some are simply shy. Let us not be too quick to judge; I feel certain we shall all get along swimmingly with a little time and exposure.”

“She looked at Szith like at—sorry,” Iris interrupted herself. “I just… She was rude.”

“There is an ethnic tension present which you perhaps underestimate,” the drow said calmly. “I, for my part, wish firmly to have peace with all my classmates. Hopefully matters will improve in time.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ravana said brightly, turning from her chest and holding up several crystal wineglasses and a bottle with an extremely fancy label. “This occasion calls for a celebratory toast!”

“Um,” Iris said warily, “I’m positive alcohol is prohibited on this campus.”

“The woman stationed at the gate was clearly drinking,” Szith pointed out.

“Princess Zaruda has an exemption,” Ravana said smoothly, setting the glasses on her nightstand and pouring wine into one. “You’re correct, Iris, this is a dry campus. That is precisely why it is necessary to have a drink now.”

“That’s…that’s not logic,” Iris said. “That’s the opposite of logic.”

“Wait a tick,” Maureen said. “Did you say princess?”

Ravana laughed, a light, well-bred sound that seemed almost to have been rehearsed. “There are rules which matter, ladies, and rules which exist simply for the sake of having rules. A prohibition on alcohol is clearly one of the latter; after all, a good wine is a basic necessity of life.”

“My Tanglish may be imperfect,” Szith said, deadpan. “The definitions I was taught of ‘basic’ and ‘necessity’ do not fit this context.”

“I’d much rather not start off by getting’ on the wrong side of the law, as it were,” Maureen said nervously, sitting in the center of her bed as if its width were a moat protecting her from rule-breaking.

“One must probe at the boundaries of the law,” Ravana explained brightly. “There is no other way to learn the true extent of one’s freedoms. After all, one cannot go through life accepting the boundaries laid down by authority as absolute. The true bounds are never set where they are alleged to be by those who proclaim them. Are you sure none of you wish to join me? It truly is a lovely vintage, one of my favorites.”

“No, thanks.”

“Very well, the offer stands.” She lifted the one glass she had filled to them in toast. “To our health, to new friendships and many adventures to come.” Ravana, smiling contentedly, took a long sip.

Her expression abruptly changed to one of shock.

She set the wineglass down so hard it sloshed, almost spilling, and pressed a hand to her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Iris demanded, jerking upright in alarm.

Ravana finally forced herself to swallow, and immediately began coughing. “I…ah! Gah. Fleh!”

“Are ye hurt?” Maureen asked worriedly, clenching her fingers in her skirts.

“No, thank you for your concern,” Ravana said hoarsely. “I’ve simply had a swallow of…” She gave the wine bottle a long look. “…very expensive vinegar. Well played, Professor Tellwyrn. Well played indeed.”

“It would seem this was not a wasted experience,” Szith noted dryly. “You have discovered what appears to be a solid boundary.”

Iris stepped out into the Well’s central room to fetch Ravana some water, and Maureen felt herself relaxing onto her oversized bed, grinning at her roommate’s misfortune. Despite what had to have been quite a nasty shock, the blonde girl took it in stride, professing rueful amusement at her comeuppance.

The gnome let the chatter wash over her, content for the moment with her own silence. It wasn’t home; they weren’t her familiar people. They weren’t even Folk, of course. But in that moment, she finally began to have the feeling that something of life as she knew it would continue here at the University. No telling how far that little sliver of familiarity would take her, of course, but it was something.

It was a start.

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Prologue – Volume 3

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The sleek carriage drew a few interested looks as it pulled up to the curb at the edge of Imperial Square. Such conveyances were no rare sight in the city, but those who cared about such things could easily identify this as a new and top of the line Falconer model. Even those who didn’t know that could see it was low-slung and pretty; one did not need to be an enthusiast to know the vehicle was expensive.

The driver hopped lightly down from her perch, palming the control rune, and the low arcane hum of the carriage fell silent as its enchantments went dormant. A second figure, this one in armor, stepped down from alongside her, and side by side they set off up the broad steps to the entrance of the Temple of Avei. It was unusual, to be sure, to see such a high-value carriage left apparently unattended, but on the other hand, it was right under the eyes of at least a dozen Silver Legionnaires.

Onlookers paused, beginning to grow into an actual crowd and murmur speculatively as they watched the driver and her companion approach the temple. Especially after the events of the last year, a lot of people in the city knew exactly what her silver armor signified.

The Legionnaires, already at attention, stiffened further as Trissiny passed, returning her salute without otherwise shifting position.

Inside, the two paused, looking around the main chamber of the temple. Teal stuck her hands in the pockets of her coat, looking slightly nervous at the stares they were collecting. A woman with short hair and boyish clothes was hardly a rare sight in an Avenist temple; it was mostly at Trissiny that the attention was directed. Here, of all places, she was recognized instantly.

The paladin sighed softly and leaned closer to murmur. “Sorry… Someday I’m going to have to spend a while here and learn the layout of this place. I’ll need to get us some help.”

“No problem,” Teal assured her.

Trissiny stepped over to a pair of Legionnaires standing at attention at the base of a column; they stiffened slightly at her approach, like those in the front of the temple.

“Are you familiar with the temple?”

“Yes, ma’am!” said the nearer of the two women, eyes straight ahead. “The Third Silver Legion has been stationed here for eleven months, General. All of us are acquainted with the floor plan.”

“Good,” Trissiny said with a satisfied nod. “Show me to the Tapestry Hall.”

At that, both Legionnaires’ eyes shifted slightly, as if they wanted to glance at each other, but couldn’t without actually turning their heads. The woman who had replied to Trissiny spoke again, somewhat hesitantly.

“General, the gallery has been closed for several years at the request of the Archpope.”

Trissiny’s voice remained quiet, and perfectly calm. “Is that what I asked you, soldier?”

Somehow, the woman managed to straighten up even further. “No, ma’am! This way, ma’am!”

Teal tried not to look uncomfortable as they were led out of the chamber under dozens of curious eyes.

Their path kept to broader, more commonly accessed avenues through the temple, and as such they were rarely out of sight of the public for long. Various individuals of unidentifiable purpose were passing to and fro, and a good many of those seemed to recognize Trissiny; she had to politely decline to stop and talk several times, and frequently nodded and smiled in response to respectful greetings. Some of those were downright fawning, and Teal couldn’t help noticing she replied to those more coolly. There were, of course, numerous priestesses of Avei and Legionnaires present; the latter and some of the former universally saluted their paladin, though none of them attempted to delay her in her business.

Finally they reached a nexus of several halls which could have been a miniature chapel. Most of its boundaries were wide mouths of hallways, but where there was wall space there were fluted columns and niches containing bronze busts of women, some armored. It appeared actually to be the open interior of a tower, soaring to a domed ceiling some three stories up, with white banners bearing Avei’s golden eagle sigil hanging from above.

One side of the chamber, however, was dominated by a pair of closed doors. They were tall and looked heavy, despite their intricate carving. A sign stood before them indicating that the Tapestry Hall was closed to the public until further notice. The doors had large bronze handles, but no knob or latch, and had clearly not been designed to be locked. A chain had been wound around the handles, binding them together and itself secured by a padlock, which lacked a keyhole. Instead, its face was embossed with the ankh symbol of the Universal Church.

Their guide marched up to the sign, about faced, and saluted Trissiny. “Tapestry Hall, General Avelea!”

Teal wanted to wince. They were not alone here; five women in two groups were standing near alcoves, conversing quietly, and two other women were at that moment walking through the nexus. Three men in Imperial Army uniforms had just progressed a few feet down one of the adjoining hallways. At the Legionnaire’s announcement, all of them stopped what they were doing and turned to stare.

Trissiny nodded to the soldier. “Thank you. As you were.”

The woman saluted again and marched off back the way they had come.

Teal smiled awkwardly at the nearer group of women; one smiled back and nodded, while the other was watching Trissiny, her head tilted to one side.

The paladin, wasting no time, had picked up the sign and moved it carefully aside, then for good measure turned it around so that it was informing only the wall that Tapestry Hall was closed. She then stepped in front of the doors and lifted the padlock, studying it. The chains rattled softly; they were securely bound, offering only slight give.

“Maybe we should have started with someone in charge,” Teal suggested quietly, stepping over to her. “Unless you have a key to that…”

“There’s no key,” Trissiny said, releasing the lock. It clinked smugly as it fell back into place. “This was never meant to be undone. Which means… Well, from another point of view, I do have a key.”

She took one step backward and drew her sword.

The stillness of the onlookers increased palpably.

“Um,” Teal said hesitantly, “are you sure…?”

“Step back, please,” Trissiny replied calmly, reversing her grip and placing the blade, point-down, in the chain. Only its tip fit into the space inside a link.

Teal obediently edged back, then had to shield her eyes as Trissiny suddenly flared alight. Golden wings flared outward, all but filling the space. The sword blazed almost white, and she yanked it backward like a lever.

Steel snapped, and the padlock plummeted to the marble floor with a clatter, landing with its ankh symbol down. The rest of the chain, hissing in defeat as it went, unwound itself from the handles, sliding down under its own weight, until it lay in a sad puddle on top of the lock.

Trissiny let her light fade and neatly sheathed her weapon, ignoring the whispers that sprang up behind her. She grabbed one of the door handles and pulled it open, shoving the fallen chain out of the way in the process, revealing a dim space beyond.

“Well, here we are,” she said calmly to Teal. “Coming?”

Aside from being dark, it was a sealed off section of a major temple to which they had just forcibly gained access; a lot of that suggested going anywhere but inside. On the other hand, the option was to stay and try to explain this to the increasingly inquisitive crowd. She followed.

Teal had thought to slip through, but Trissiny pulled the door open fully and left it that way. Behind the girls, spectators edged closer, but none seemed quite daring enough to enter the darkened hall.

Tapestry Hall was wide, long, and curved; it was surely not a full semicircle unless it spanned the entire width of the temple, but its dimensions made the far end invisible from the door. Or at least, it would have been hidden around the curve even had the room not been dark. Teal could make out the shapes of statues, and even the frames of paintings. Only on those nearest the doors were the actual canvases visible. She also saw the silhouettes of fairy lamps with conical shades to direct their light, positioned so as to illuminate the artworks directly. None were lit.

A few steps ahead in the darkness, Trissiny sighed and drew her sword again. The blade began once more to glow white, casting a slightly eerie radiance all around them. It did not truly fill the space, but made the nearest portraits visible.

Teal drew in a slow breath, then let it out, glancing back once more at the door. People were watching… But she had made a promise, and now they were here.

The light increased and changed color as Vadrieny emerged, the warm orange glow of firelight adding to Trissiny’s divine golden-white.

“The Baniroven Tapestry is displayed at the center of the inner wall, inside a glass case,” the paladin said, glancing at her and showing no further reaction to the archdemon’s presence. “That’s what gives the Hall its name. It shows a… Well, I’ll bore you with it sometimes if you’re really interested. Almost all the rest of these are paint on canvas.” She gazed around at the shadowed corners. “I’ve always wanted to visit here… There are some artifacts and treasures at the Abbey in Viridill, of course. It is the original center of Avei’s worship. But most of the best art was brought here long ago.”

“Sounds like an interesting place to visit,” Vadrieny replied. “But we did come here for a reason…”

“Yes,” Trissiny said, nodding, and stepped forward, taking her light with her. “Be careful, please.”

“Of?”

“Of that thing you sometimes do when you’re upset,” the paladin said, glancing back at her with a half-grimace. “Clawing up the floor with your talons. There may be more trouble than I can deflect if you desecrate the temple.”

Vadrieny didn’t reply, being busy glancing around nervously. Nothing discernible had changed in the room, but at the reminder, she suddenly had a heavy awareness of Avei’s presence—and, given the combination of her main temple and her paladin, it was a certainty that the goddess was watching.

They made their way deeper into the long-deserted hall, stirring up dust as they passed. Both examined various landscapes, portraits and scenes of battle, painted in a wide variety of styles (and degrees of skill), all relating in some way to Avei and her worship. Most were historical; Avenists were practical as per their goddess’s preferences, not taking up a lot of space with adoring depictions of her.

The tapestry in question was indeed at the middle of the hall; they had gone just past it when Trissiny stopped, facing the opposite side of the gallery, and spoke.

“Here.”

Vadrieny had to remind herself not to flex her talons; it was her default reaction to emotions of the kind stirred up by what she saw.

According it its placard, the wide painting, charmed against dust and sealed behind glass, dated from twelve centuries ago, at a time when such an artistic undertaking would have been a rare masterwork such as some king or high priest might have commissioned as a legacy to leave against their own approaching mortality. The style was somewhat less polished than more modern pieces, but beautiful and realistic enough for its purpose.

In its center, an enormous figure of Elilial stood, arms spread and wearing a confident smirk. Around the upper edges were dark vignettes of demonic and divine figures locked in combat, against a dramatic background of stormy clouds spitting lightning, but most of the width of the painting was taken up by the seven figures posing in a line below the dark goddess.

Trissiny leaned closer, reading the rather lengthy placard displayed below it.

“’The Queen of Hell and her Daughters’ was painted about eighteen centuries after the Third Hellwar, the time from which it drew its source material. Definitely not a firsthand source, then. The artist isn’t remembered, but this has apparently spent a lot of time being hidden in one place or another. Clerics and governments evidently thought it would be a bad influence on the public. Luckily none of them were thuggish enough to destroy such a masterpiece… It says theologians have pored over surviving descriptions of the archdemons, and consider this the definitive visual representation of them. Most think the artist was, her or himself, a scholarly cleric. Hm.”

She stepped back, gaining a better perspective of the large painting. It was nearly as wide as she was tall.

“I was never told any of their names,” the paladin murmured. “Or yours, obviously, or I’d have told you about this long ago. When I asked Mother Narny this summer, she said they had to be selective with my education. You can’t learn eight thousand years in the course of three, and they taught me what they thought I’d most need to know. None of them had been seen in three millennia. None of you, I mean…”

She glanced over at Vadrieny and cleared her throat. “And…I’m rambling, sorry. Your s—their names are on the placard, here.”

Vadrieny stood motionless, her gaze slowly tracking back and forth over the images. She stared intently at the smug-looking horned goddess towering over her offspring, then made another intensive pass across the depictions of her sisters.

“Not familiar,” she whispered. “I don’t remember…”

Trissiny sighed softly. “Well… It was a long shot. Perhaps it’s better this way. This is not the best history to have, Vadrieny. You have a chance at a fresh start.”

The archdemon stepped closer, bending forward to peer at the unmistakable portrait of herself, third from the right. All seven of them had the same burning eyes, but beyond that, their features were a mishmash. Horns, hooves, claws… Some had wings, though only hers seemed made of fire. Four had fiery hair. There was a more mundane commonality to their features, too, a certain angularity to their faces, a tall and rangy aspect of their build that spoke of their mother’s blood.

Unconsciously, she raised one hand, the clawed tip of her forefinger drifting closer to her own painted face.

“Please don’t touch!”

They both jerked back, turning to face the way they had come. A lean, sharp-featured woman with short dark hair was approaching out of the gloom. As she entered the light, they could see she wore the white robes of a priestess of Avei with a short sword sheathed at her waist, though the weapon was far more elaborate than Trissiny’s. The hilt appeared to be gold, and is pommel was shaped into an eagle’s head, with delicately wrought wings forming its crossbar. She wore the golden eagle pin of Avei at her shoulder, with a second, smaller one below that, depicting a silver ankh.

“Those claws are known to rend steel,” she said in a more conversational tone, coming to a stop a few feet from them and smiling thinly. “I shudder to think what they’d do to centuries-old canvas.”

“Sorry,” Vadrieny said, taking another step backward from the painting.

Trissiny’s eyes flickered across the woman’s two brooches, then to the Talisman of Absolution pinned to Vadrieny’s—Teal’s—lapel, and finally met their visitor’s eyes, nodding respectfully.

“You must be Bishop Syrinx.”

Basra nodded deeply in reply, never blinking nor changing that razor-thin smile by a hair. “Glad to finally meet you, General Avelea. Your visits to the temple are nothing if not dramatic. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that I had to hear about the Lor’naris episode after the fact.”

Trissiny grimaced faintly. “Well, that was… I’d rather focus on the present.”

“I’ll bet.” The Bishop’s smile widened fractionally. “You’ve made quite a stir this time. Again. The whole temple’s already abuzz with whispers, how you smashed a Universal Church talisman while blazing with Avei’s favor. I wonder if you understand the symbolism of that act?”

“I do,” Trissiny said quietly, “and it was quite deliberate. I am a warrior more than a poet, Bishop Syrinx, but a gesture that obvious I would not make accidentally.”

At that, Basra smiled widely enough to show the tips of her teeth, though her eyes did not change in the slightest. It was a faintly unnerving expression.

“Well, Trissiny, I am a politician. Words are my weapons, and symbolic gestures an unfortunately large part of my job. Given my position as liaison between the Sisterhood and the Church, I was chiefly responsible for negotiating the agreement that had this gallery sealed off.”

“I’m sorry—” Trissiny began, but Basra actually laughed, interrupting her. The Bishop’s expression finally changed, to one of more genuine humor. It soothed a great deal of the tension in the room.

“Just because it’s my job doesn’t mean I necessarily enjoy it,” she chuckled. “I confess I was rather disappointed when High Commander Rouvad chose to go along with this. It never sat right with me, nor a lot of others, having some man tell us what we can and can’t do in our own temple. I’ll tell you what I plan to do as soon as you two leave: I’m going to get acolytes in here to sweep out the cobwebs and replace the fairy lamps. Art is to be seen; paintings in a dark room are like swords left to rust. If Justinian wants this room sealed so badly, he can come down here and re-lock it his holy self.”

“Why did he want this gallery sealed off?” Vadrieny asked, easing back again from the priestess.

“What I am curious about is why Rouvad chose to accommodate him. As for Justinian, isn’t it obvious?” The Bishop raised one eyebrow, then nodded to the painting. “Same reason he’s had the temples of Nemitoth lock away their direct references to the archdemons. Because of that, and because of you.”

“I’m not sure that was a wise policy,” Trissiny said, frowning. “I understand not wanting to provoke her, but it doesn’t seem sustainable…”

“With the greatest possible respect,” Basra said, her smile suddenly gone, “you need to wise up, Avelea. Fast. And you as well,” she added to Vadrieny. “There is absolutely no way the Archpope could control information thoroughly enough to keep this from you. If nothing else, you’re attending a school run by an immortal who has met several of your sisters. Yes, interestingly enough, Arachne’s first appearance in history was during the Third Hellwar. Actually, her very first mention in records considered authentic involved her slapping Invazradi around like a gnomish mail-order bride. No, this wasn’t to be kept from you, Vadrieny. It was to be kept from you for a while. I rather suspect Justinian won’t bother to ask that this room be re-sealed at all. That ship has sailed, now that you’re here.”

“I don’t understand,” Vadrieny said, after glancing at Trissiny, who was frowning deeply at the Bishop.

“Suppose you had something volatile, potentially dangerous, and generally inconvenient rolling around,” Basra said, ostensibly studying the painting now. “Just for example, an amnesiac archdemon. You have reason to tolerate this for a little while, but once that’s over with, you can’t just reverse yourself and have her put down—you’d lose credibility, flip-flopping like that. So…suppose you had hidden any convenient references to this archdemon’s family, and the fact that they’re all dead? Then you just have to sit back, wait for her to learn the truth from another source…” She smiled coldly, shifting her gaze back to Vadrieny. “…and react to that the way most people reasonably would. Your pain and shock would look an awful lot like a very big threat in the wrong circumstances, with those claws attached to it.”

They stared at her in stunned silence.

“But you dodged that shot, didn’t you? Seems like you would be wise to be on the lookout for more.” The Bishop shook her head and stepped away from the painting. “Well. You girls take your time; I won’t intrude on your privacy any further.” She turned and took a step toward the exit.

“Wait,” Trissiny said. “You suggested— I mean, if Justinian wanted to get rid of Vadrieny, why go to all this trouble? He had Teal at the Cathedral itself for months, being examined and assisted by all kinds of clerics. Wouldn’t it have been easier to have her destroyed before she had a chance to prove to so many people that she meant no harm?”

“Why, yes, I believe it would have,” Basra mused without turning around. “Makes you wonder why he was so eager to examine an archdemon, doesn’t it?” She resumed walking, raising her voice to call back at them as she vanished back into the shadows. “Don’t underestimate the number of enemies you have, nor mistake allies for friends. In politics and in war, all relationships are temporary.”

Then she was gone, around the curve of the wall, leaving them alone, in silence.

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Bonus #13: Along Came a Spider, part 1

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3006 years ago

Shiraki crept through the forest as quietly as he could—quietly enough that none of the mortal kind would have noted his passing, but that was not what concerned him. A fellow elf could have heard his approach, and he didn’t attempt to increase his stealth to obviate that risk. If he met other elves here, they would surely be equally cautious, and it was better that he find them before something else did.

He was not particularly worried. The demons were cunning, some of them, but there were no known types that could match an elf for stealth, at least not out in nature. Between his natural lightness and agility and his burgeoning shamanic skills, he would know of any demons in the area long before they knew of him. There had been no sign of any since he had been separated from the human alliance at the battle to the south.

The forest lay along the base of the Dragon Peaks, climbing the mountains until they became too steep and rocky to support trees, and fading away into the prairie to the west. He didn’t know if any help could be expected from the plains tribes; some had come to join the alliance, but those who hadn’t would probably insist on keeping to themselves. They had very likely retreated into the Golden Sea, anyhow.

There had been no known demon activity this far north; they were concentrated in Viridill, the Tyr Valley and the plains of the West, where humans lived. Elilial had shown herself willing to make use of whatever tools were available to her, but she concentrated her efforts as always on humankind. Groves too close to the battlefields had been burned, elves killed or displaced, but for the most part, those who chose not to participate had managed to flee.

Shiraki had little patience for such isolationism; they all had to live in the world. His mother had called him childish and hotheaded, and other less kind words, but he had chosen to actively resist the demons. Now, as he made his way northwest through the forest toward the meeting point, he kept his senses fully alert. The forest was filled with the songs of birds and insects, the chattering of squirrels; there was no hint of the enemy here. Even creeping invisibly, demonkind alarmed animals badly enough to create evidence of their passing. Still, he was wary of meeting humans who had sworn themselves to Elilial’s cause, and also on the lookout for fleeing refugees or potential allies he could bring to the meeting.

There were few other souls out on the road; he sensed several at a significant distance, and didn’t deem it worthwhile to divert to meet them. When he crossed the Old Road and beheld one of his own kind a dozen yards ahead, however, he paused.

Her slender build and upward-pointed ears caught his attention, and he stopped to study her closely. The woman wore a robe that barely qualified as such; it looked like it had been stitched together from old flour sacks. The stitching was fairly well-done and it fit her, but it was dirty and ragged to the point of falling apart. Most interestingly, she was trudging along the Old Road toward the north, away from elven territory, yet swiveling her head rapidly to stare at any source of noise as she went. In the few minutes that he silently watched, she gave wary attention to several songbirds, and jumped violently when a squirrel began chattering directly over her head.

Shiraki managed not to laugh, despite the inherent humor of the picture. Between the ragged attire—and, he now saw, the lack of shoes—and jumpy behavior, it seemed most likely this was a refugee. She doubtless did not need any further grief.

He turned, pacing slowly up the road toward her. He did not attempt to disguise his footfalls, though they were naturally light even for an elf’s. The woman’s attention was fixed on the squirrel, almost as if she’d never seen one before, and he got within six yards before she heard him and spun around.

She was rather pretty, even squinting suspiciously at him. Shiraki would not have admitted it, but while he had joined the effort against the demons out of a genuine desire to help, he entertained some daydreams of what might come of such adventures. For example, he was old enough to take a mate and interested in finding someone suitable. Coming across a woman of his own kind apparently in distress in the woods raised possibilities which he tried earnestly to ignore.

“Well met,” he said politely. “Are you in need of help?”

“Help?” she said carefully, as though unsure of the concept. “Help… I do not think so, no. I am also not in need of being robbed, thank you.”

Shiraki couldn’t help laughing, though he tried to stifle it when her lips narrowed further. “My apologies,” he said. “I certainly don’t intend to rob you. I simply thought you looked a little…ah…”

“Poorly dressed and lost?” she said dryly. She straightened from her defensive crouch, however, and her expression opened a little bit.

“Thank you, I was looking for a more polite way to say it,” he replied with a rueful smile. “Are you hungry? I have enough waybread to share.”

“No, thank you. I ate a…thing. An animal. Um, big, shaggy, four hooves…” She put both hands to her temples, forefingers extended, pantomiming horns.

“A…a bison?” he said, fascinated. How on earth had she grown up without learning what a bison was?

“If so, then yes,” the woman said, lowering her hands.

“You ate the whole thing?”

“Most. Some parts, they are not good for chewing. Others I am not sure what to do with.”

He nodded. “Well, that’s for the best; you should be fine for months with that much energy in your aura, unless you do a lot of magic. This is relatively stable country, but things are bad elsewhere; there is no telling how scarce food may be in the near future. Do you do magic?”

“Why do you ask?” she demanded, expression suddenly suspicious again.

“Mere curiosity,” he said, then placed a hand on his chest and bowed. “I am Shiraki.”

She mouthed his name ostentatiously, eyes losing focus, as though afraid she would immediately forget it.

“And,” he prompted gently after a moment, “you are…?”

Her gaze sharpened, snapping back to his face.

“I am what?”

“What is your name?” he asked, grinning. This was possibly the most surreal conversation he’d ever had, but he sensed no threat from her.

“Name,” she mused, her eyes drifting. “My name? Hm…”

“You’ve forgotten?” he asked, his grin broadening.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “…you can call me Arachne.”

“Well met,” he said again. “Are you traveling anywhere in particular, if I may ask?”

“You may ask,” she said, then turned and pointed up the road. “That way, I guess. I am not lost.”

“No?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “I do not know where I am, but I also do not know where I am going, and I have no schedule. So… Maybe very lost. I do not feel lost.”

He couldn’t keep the bemused smile off his face; it was all he could do to withhold the barrage of questions he wanted to ask. Arachne was the most puzzling individual he had ever met. She spoke elvish like someone who had learned it in a dwarven university: stiltedly formal, with a truly inexplicable accent and occasional lapses in grammar.

“Well,” he said, “this is the Old Road, skirting the narrow area between the Golden Sea and the Dragon Peaks.” He pointed at the mountains to the west, visible through the trees. “Further north it comes out onto the plains, then the desert, and if you follow it all the way you’ll eventually come to the Dwarnskold mountain range. The subterranean dwarven kingdoms are beneath that.”

“Eugh,” she said, making a face. “I do not want to go beneath anything. I was in Tar’naris…briefly. It was more than enough. You mention a sea? I have not seen one of those yet.”

“Well… The Golden Sea is just a name. It’s actually a prairie.”

She snorted. “Then why call it a sea? That is confusing.”

“I agree,” Shiraki said. “Unfortunately, if you don’t wish to go underground, this road doesn’t lead anywhere useful. The Dwarnskolds are all but impassable, and there’s nothing beyond them anyway but the ocean.”

“Hm. Where are you going?” she demanded.

He hesitated. She was an odd duck, to be sure, but nothing about her suggested she was in league with the enemy. They had spies, but only among the humans. No elf would aid the forces of Hell.

“I’m meeting up with some allies in the mountains not far from here,” he said after a moment. “The force of humans I was attempting to help were overrun by demons. I spirited a few away, but it was all I could do. I need to get news and orders and figure out how to proceed. Everything is in chaos at the moment.”

“Demons?” she said sharply.

Shiraki nodded slowly. “Yes, demons. Are you not aware of the war in the south?”

“I am aware there is a war,” she said carefully. “No one has explained it to me and I did not hang around and ask. Other people’s wars are not my trouble. A war with demons?”

“Elilial has launched a major incursion,” he said, frowning. “The humans have suffered serious losses, entire kingdoms overrun. Those remaining have help from the elves, and even the orcs. This has been going on for three years. Where have you been?”

“Not here,” she murmured, then nodded as if deciding something. “Very good, if it is demons, that is a different thing. I can help you to fight! Let us go see your friends.”

“I suppose I can bring you to the meeting,” he said slowly. “We are certainly in no position to turn down allies. It’s not far from here, just into the foothills. Less than a day.”

“Good,” she said decisively. “You lead, then.”

“Are you…sure you want to?” he asked. “With all respect, you don’t look to be in fighting shape. There is certainly no disgrace in finding a safe place to hide, if you are not a soldier.”

“Not only soldiers can fight,” she said cryptically. “This talking is not you leading the way, Chucky.”

“Shiraki,” he enunciated, frowning.

“Yes, I said that. Which way?”

He sighed, but nodded to her and stepped off into the bushes. “Northwest, this way. The walk is mostly uphill. Be certain, though; once we reconnect with the group, we’ll be out in the wilderness, and likely proceeding straight from there to another battle. You may not have another chance to back away.”

“I am doing nothing important anyhow,” she said, following him. “It is worthwhile to help, it seems to me. I do not like demons.”

He laughed again, in spite of himself. “Nobody likes demons.”

“Really?” Arachne chuckled. “You have met everybody?”

Shiraki glanced back at her. “After today, I think I may have.”

They made excellent time, reaching the rendezvous point in a sheltered hollow at the foot of a low peak not long after sunset. Shiraki hadn’t been certain what to expect upon arriving; who made it to the meeting would depend a great deal upon how things went in other parts of the front. He was pleased to see almost half a dozen humans and elves, but less pleased to find them under the de facto leadership of his least favorite Elder.

“And you brought her here?” Elder Sheyann said disapprovingly, her hair ruffling slightly in the faint magical wind that kept their conversation private. Such tricks were a necessity when one wished to speak behind the backs of about elves who were close enough to be seen. After everyone had exchanged greetings and preliminary news, she and Vaisza had pulled Shiraki aside to discuss his new companion, who was down below, talking with Mervingen the wizard in her off-kilter elvish while Lord Kraanz looked on, bemused.

“She was willing to help,” Shiraki said, trying not to sound defensive. “Can we afford to turn down allies? Besides, the alternative was to leave her wandering in the forest. Elder…I’m not entirely certain she’s right in the head. I don’t think it would have been right to just leave her behind.”

“If she is unstable enough to be a threat to herself in the forest,” Sheyann said with an edge to her tone, “what makes you think bringing her into a war is in any way a kindness?”

“I’m not certain she is,” he said, straining for patience. “All I know for certain is that she wants to fight the demons.”

“You know nothing for certain, Shiraki,” Sheyann said in exasperation. “She told you she wants to attend this meeting and join our cause. This unknown and frankly weird individual who turns up in the middle of a war? A war against a foe who is the embodiment of cunning? Surely I don’t need to explain to you what a spy is, young man.”

“I’m not wrong, then?” Vaisza interjected in her lightly accented elvish. “That elf is rather…peculiar?” The Huntress tilted her head, directing her gaze at Shiraki.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said fervently, glad of the opportunity to wiggle out from under Sheyann’s interrogation. “I don’t know where she learned to speak, but I have never heard an accent like that. And the whole walk up here, she made me identify every tree, bush, bird and insect we saw. She didn’t know what any of them were. A wood elf! It’s as if she fell from the moon or something.”

“Hm,” Vaisza murmured, frowning at Arachne, who seemed to be having a conversation with Kraanz now, with Mervingen serving as translator. It was hardly a surprise that she knew no human tongues, considering that she barely seemed to know elvish. “I hardly think she is a spy, then, Elder.”

“Oh?” Sheyann raised an eyebrow.

“The central role of a spy is to avoid notice,” the Silver Huntress explained. “A spy would craft a role that we would recognize, and do everything possible to resemble something we understand well, so as not to court our attention. This… Being an odd, out of place figure whose very presence raises questions, this is not good espionage. Elilial is too crafty to make such a blunder, and doesn’t employ agents who make such blunders. No, I suspect she is exactly what she claims to be.”

“And what does she claim to be?” Sheyann asked pointedly, turning back to Shiraki.

He shrugged. “She doesn’t seem to want to talk about her past. Believe me, I asked. The woman is barefoot and dressed like a knapsack; it’s not hard to imagine she’s running from something of which she doesn’t care to be reminded.”

“Hm,” Sheyann murmured. “And she was on the road north, from Viridill?”

“Yes. She mentioned Tar’naris, too; she had been in the south, but didn’t know what the war was about, so she can’t have been there long. She also didn’t know where the road led. Honestly, Elder, she doesn’t seem to know anything. It’s like talking with a child in a woman’s body. A rather sharp-tongued child,” he added ruefully.

Sheyann shifted, letting the wind vanish, and he half-turned to follow her gaze. Arachne was coming toward them.

“Hello!” she said, waving. “You have decided I am not a secret monster now?”

Sheyann smiled slightly. “Not conclusively.”

Arachne grinned. “Heh. I like you. I have been told the news by these humans, why there is war. Very strange thing for Elilial to do, is it not? But obviously, no, she cannot be let to do this. I very much see the purpose of stopping her. But why are we here in the mountains, when the demons are way far south?”

Elder Sheyann glanced at Vaisza before replying. “At the core of the matter is that an armed invasion is very uncharacteristic of Elilial; she is the goddess of cunning.”

“Yes.” Arachne nodded. “I know who she is.”

“The war, we believe, is a false front,” Sheyann continued, folding her hands. “War breeds chaos; it makes the perfect cover for any number of nefarious activities. We, and others who have organized together for this purpose, are trying to ascertain her true motive, and thwart it.”

“Ah!” Arachne grinned. “Very clever! I like it! I think I am perhaps less helpful than I thought if this is the case, though,” she added more thoughtfully. “I am good at fighting, and good at scheming, but to scheme well one must know the situation and the territory, yes? I do not know very much about how things are, here.”

“We’re glad of any help anyone is willing to offer,” Shiraki assured her. Sheyann gave him a long look.

“This group is only planning to stay here another day,” Vaisza added. “We cannot afford to waste time; others have yet to report in, but we must lay plans and continue moving. Tomorrow we will hold our meeting and decide our next steps, and must proceed without anyone who has not arrived by then. The goddess grant that they are only delayed,” she added more quietly.

“Goddess?” Arachne perked up visibly. “Which?”

Vaisza blinked. “Which…goddess? I am a Silver Huntress. I serve Avei.”

“Oh,” Arachne said, disappointed. “I do not need that one… Ah well. I will look around, if we are going to wait until tomorrow.” She turned and meandered off toward the front of their little valley, where they had a view over the darkened forest and the plains beyond.

“Did she just say what I thought I heard?” Vaisza demanded.

“Yes,” Elder Sheyann said with a sigh, “and no, I have no more idea than you what it meant. What a fine catch you’ve brought us, Shiraki.”

He sighed and walked away from her. It was a risky degree of rudeness to show an Elder, but his patience was wearing out. Really, of all the people to be stuck in the mountains with… He dearly hoped Elder Onnaue was all right.

“So you have decided to trust her, though?” Vaisza asked behind him.

“I have decided not to chase her away,” Sheyann replied. “It makes sense to be up-front with her about things she will inevitably learn anyway.”

“Good evening, Lord Kraanz,” he said politely in Tanglic to the burly human as they passed each other.

Kraanz paused, glancing over his shoulder at Arachne, who had wandered toward the edge of the valley where it descended in a sharp incline toward a mountain trail below. “Interesting find, there, lad,” he said, straightening the bearskin draped over his shoulders. “A word of advice: if you go picking up every pretty pair of legs you come across, sooner rather than later you’ll find yourself holding an armful of crazy.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Shiraki said gravely, concealing his amusement. Arachne had recently given him some practice at that. “I wonder, since you have raised the subject… You’ve spent time in Tar’naris, is that not correct?”

“Aye, it is,” the man replied with a grin that showed several missing teeth. “Twice as a raider and once as a slave. There was some overlap, there.”

Shiraki nodded. “I’m trying to figure out where our guest hails from—she has a most peculiar manner of speech. Tell me, does it resemble the drow accent, to your ear?”

“Fraid I’m of little help to you, lad,” Kraanz said with a shrug. “I can’t make much sense of your tongue. Didn’t sound overly familiar when she talked, but I’d not swear I’d recognize the jabbering of the drow who used to prod me with a whip, either.”

“I see,” Shiraki murmured. Well, it had just been a thought. What were the odds she could have come from Tar’naris, of all places? Peculiar enough that she had been there at all; the drow had little use for their surface cousins even as slaves.

“Hey,” Arachne said suddenly from up ahead. “Are we expecting sneaky enemies? Because I think that bird is a person.”

“Where?” Sheyann demanded, striding past Shiraki and Kraanz toward the edge of the valley.

“There,” Arachne replied, pointing out into the darkness. “Little black bird.”

“What’s she saying?” Kraanz demanded.

“She sees a suspicious bird,” Shiraki explained, his eyes on the two women.

“She sees a bird? In the dark?”

“Look at its aura,” Arachne was saying. “Way, much too huge for a little bird. But also concealed, so you do not notice unless you are looking.”

“You’re right,” Sheyann noted. “I see it now, too. It would be suspicious enough, anyway. Crows do not fly at night.”

Crows? Shiraki felt mingled hope and trepidation well up.

“It is called a crows?”

“Crow.” The Elder half-turned to give Arachne an unreadable look. “In the singular, a crow. How did you happen to notice its aura? You’re right, it’s barely perceptible; one would have to be looking closely.”

“Because you know it is a crow,” she replied quietly, still staring at the bird. Shiraki could see it now, too, coming straight toward them. “You see something you understand, and you do not look closer. Me, I must look at everything. Someday I will understand what everything is and be as blind as everyone else. Or dead.” She shrugged. “It is all one, I suppose.”

The crow cawed hoarsely as it approached, swinging down into the valley, where it settled to the ground a few feet from them. Suddenly it was not a bird standing there, but an elf woman in battered leather armor, with black hair tied back in a taut braid.

“Kuriwa,” Sheyann said, permitting open relief into her tone. “Well met. What news?”

“Little, I’m afraid, and not overly bright,” replied the shaman. “I am pleased to see you safe, Sheyann. And Shiraki.” She nodded to each of the humans in turn before settling an inquisitive look upon Arachne.

“Hello!” the new arrival said brightly.

“This,” Sheyann said in a careful tone, “is a new associate Shiraki found. Kuriwa, meet Arachne.”

“Indeed.” Kuriwa narrowed her eyes. “The pleasure is mine…Arachne.”

“I guess so?” she replied, tilting her head. “You have a suspicious look. Does everyone think I am going to poison them?”

“Forgive me,” Kuriwa said smoothly. “Matters being as they are, I have grown mistrustful of surprises. As I said, my friends, the news is not good. The Circle seems to have been discovered by Elilial’s forces. Her Black Wraiths have moved against several of those we have placed within the human lands she has overtaken.”

“That is grim news indeed,” Sheyann said, frowning.

“What is she saying?” Kraanz demanded. Shiraki stepped over next to him and began translating in a low tone while Kuriwa continued.

“Talivar, Lady Keress and Noslin I have confirmed slain. I was able to reach Misareth in time to extract her from Caladel, but I was not so fortunate upon trying to rescue Anzar.” She sighed. “He…will live, I believe, but the Wraiths used a poison on him of infernal make. Unless this war drags out longer than we can permit it to, his part in it is over.”

“Bloody hell,” Kraanz cursed. Vaisza was already whispering prayers for the dead.

“We clearly must change our strategy, then,” said Sheyann.

“Yes,” Kuriwa agreed, nodding. “I have come to propose a new one. The Wraiths are now hunting us; I suggest we retreat, and let them think they are driving us away.”

Shiraki paused in his translating to ask, “What earthly good could that do?”

“These Wraiths,” said Arachne. “They…hide? Like your Circle?”

Kuriwa gave her another piercing look. “They are Elilial’s cult among the humans. Yes, they must hide themselves.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “A good plan, then, Chucky. We play the easy targets, they come out to chase us, yes?”

“That is my hope,” Kuriwa said.

“It’s pronounced Shiraki,” Sheyann murmured.

“Shee-rah-kee,” Arachne said carefully. “Thought I was saying that. Sorry, Chucky.”

He sighed heavily and went back to translating for Kraanz. Mervingen tried to bury a chuckle under a cough.

“Retreat to where, then?” Vaisza asked.

“Initially, here,” said Kuriwa. “This rendezvous point is far from the front and easily secured. When more have gathered, I wish to send an expedition to Svenheim, since we are close to the road leading there.”

“That’s all but asking us to leave the field entirely,” Vaisza said sharply.

“For the time being, yes,” Kuriwa agreed. “But it is an action toward specific purpose—two of them. Recruiting the dwarves to the cause will be a major victory; Elilial’s numbers are already flagging, but so are the human armies. Another mortal force will turn the tide. Additionally, being such a valid tactic, it is a believable reason for the Circle to pull back, and also a solid provocation for the Wraiths to pursue us.”

“Clever,” Arachne mused.

“Yes,” said Sheyann, watching Kuriwa closely. “I could see this plan working, perhaps.”

“It is not all quite so simple as that, of course,” Kuriwa said. “Rather than leaving you to cool your heels in the mountains for weeks, I mean to gather the others here myself. That…will be difficult.”

“You are surely not considering bringing them through the place between places,” Sheyann said sharply.

“Desperate times,” Kuriwa said with a shrug. “Desperate measures.”

“I would think carefully about just how desperate we are!”

“I have,” the shaman said, meeting her stare. “Am I known to take risks unless they are needful?”

The Elder sighed. “What do you need from us, then?”

“Merely to hold this position, and prepare it. There will soon be more people here—they will be tired and likely quite stressed. Can you gather some food, prepare medicines and places to rest?”

“We can do this,” Sheyann nodded, glancing around at the others. “It will be much better than simply counting the hours.”

“Game is not plentiful here,” Vaisza offered, “but I can begin hunting.”

“None for me, if that helps,” said Arachne. “I ate a bison not long ago.”

The Huntress whipped her head around to stare at her. “What do you mean, you ate a bison?!”

“I don’t know.” She cocked her head, turning to Shiraki. “That is what Chucky said it was.”

He sighed, as did Sheyann; Kuriwa just stared at her blankly. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but elves did not prefer to discuss their metabolism with humans, whose process for taking in and storing energy was entirely biological. As a consequence, they had to eat virtually all the time, or risk starvation. The elvish way of turning large quantities of food into energy for long periods of time was, of course, far more efficient, but pointing out to humans the ways in which they were inferior seldom led to productive discussions.

“If you are agreed to this,” Kuriwa said, “I will proceed to the others. Time is of the essence.”

“Travel safely,” said Sheyann, bowing. Kuriwa nodded in return, then ascended on a flutter of dark wings.

“Not much for socializing, is she?” Kraanz commented.

Elder Sheyann sighed again. “It seems we have some work to do, my friends. For now, though, I suggest we rest. All this will be better approached in the daylight.”

Almost immediately after breakfast he was already regretting the entire situation. Somehow, with demons on the rampage, the Black Wraiths stalking their allies and a mission to the mysterious dwarven kingdoms looming ahead, Shiraki found himself gathering firewood. Well, it wasn’t quite as dull as it could have been, considering the “help” he had been assigned.

“And…this one will become a tree?”

“It is a tree,” he said patiently. “That’s a sapling, a juvenile tree. Leave it alone; there’s not enough there to burn properly, and it’s better to let it mature into a full-sized pine.”

“How long will that take?” Arachne asked.

“Several years.”

“Hmph. We need wood now.”

“Nature is not always accommodating,” he said gravely. Her ignorance of absolutely everything had long since ceased to be charming and was, by this point, no longer even funny. She really was becoming an aggravation.

“How long until this one turns into a tree?”

“That is a rose bush,” he said wearily. “That’s about as big as they get. It’s not the right season, but the flowers are—don’t put your hand in there! It has thorns!”

“This is annoying,” she said, retreating from the rose bush and glaring at it suspiciously. “We are just to gather wood that has fallen off branches? This will take forever.”

“This is just for our campfire,” Shiraki said, picking up another stick and tucking it under his arm with the others. “When we get to gathering stores of wood for when the others arrive, we’ll need tools to fell one of these trees. One should be plenty for our needs.”

“Shiraki,” she said quietly.

“You got it right,” he said in surprise, turning to her. She was staring grimly past him, however. He followed her gaze and immediately dropped his meager armful of firewood.

The woman who had appeared silently among the trees might have passed for a slender human as far as most of her features went. Even the hooves were not a complete deal-breaker; there were a number of fairly common curses that had that effect. Her hair, though, was a sleek sheet of orange fire, hanging down her back and trailing along the ground behind, where it somehow did not set the underbrush alight. Her eyes, too, were infinite pits of flame.

He drew his tomahawk and belt knife, stepping in front of his companion. “Arachne, get back. Go find Elder Sheyann.”

“That’s very noble of you…Shiraki, was it?” The woman’s voice was like a choir, like a dozen women speaking in harmonious unison. “But there is no need to be so hostile. Why don’t we have a calm, quiet discussion?”

“Arachne, go,” he said urgently. “We’ve nothing to gain by dallying with demon filth.”

She moved faster than even an elf could track. One moment he was standing in front of Arachne; the next, the woman’s fingers were around his neck. They were far too long and had far too many joints, encircling his throat and beginning to squeeze off his air supply. He struck at her arm with both weapons, to absolutely no effect.

“You are a rude little knife-ear,” she said calmly. “And for your edification, it’s archdemon.”

“Excuse me,” Arachne said tersely, “he cannot breathe. Let go of his neck, please.”

The archdemon turned her head, examining the elf. “I thought you were told to fetch the Elder? Go do that. I believe it is she with whom I wish to—”

A sudden wind howled through the forest, bringing with it the incongruous scents of flowers, fresh water and moist earth. The demon’s fiery hair was sent streaming out behind her and she grimaced, relaxing her grip somewhat. Shiraki gasped for breath.

“The Elder is here,” Sheyann snapped, striding toward them. “Unhand the boy and say your piece, demon, then go. I’ve no patience for your kind.”

“Just so,” the demon said, grinning unpleasantly. She had extremely large fangs. “But I think I will hold onto him for a few moments more, yes? Otherwise, what motivation have you to be polite with me? I am Invazradi, third daughter of the Queen of Hell, and I have been following this elf-pup for days. Now that we are all here, I believe we should discuss this little…Circle of yours.”

“Done asking politely,” Arachne announced, pointing a finger at the archdemon.

The entire world rang like a bell.

Shiraki found himself lying on his back in the carpet of fallen pine needles, blinking and gasping for breath while waiting for his vision to clear. He was free of the demon’s grasp, however. Raising his head, he beheld Arachne, still with her arm held out, and Sheyann staring at her with an expression of shock that would have been quite gratifying under less dire circumstances.

The pine tree into which Invazradi had been slammed finished toppling with a crash, while the archdemon got back to her hooves, glaring murder at Arachne.

“That,” she snarled. “Was. A mistake.”

“Why?” the elf asked innocently. “I did not miss.”

Invazradi struck with that impossible speed again, but rebounded off a sphere of blue light that sprang into being around Arachne with her impact. She staggered backward, and Arachne made a sharp gesture with her fist.

A glowing cobalt orb materialized above and slammed downward, smashing the archdemon into the forest floor.

“I am trying to be nice to people,” Arachne said in a conversational tone, making complex motions with her fingers. Threads of blue light snaked out from her hands to twine about Invazradi’s hooves as she tried to get up again. In the next moment, the shrieking demon found herself suspended upside down in midair, her glowing hair trailing among the fallen needles. “I am alone in a new place and it is hard to make friends. But you, big girl, I think you can take it, yes?”

Shiraki scrambled back to his feet, scuttling around behind Sheyann before he realized he’d done so. The Elder, for her part, planted herself between him and the sorceress and archdemon, arms spreading slightly as if to make a barrier with her own body.

Sorceress. He could identify, now that he had time to think, the distinctive prickle of arcane magic being used. She was clearly far more powerful than Mervingen, or any mage he’d encountered. How?

“My mother will have your hide in strips to make bootlaces!” Invazradi howled as more blue threads bound her arms to her sides.

“Your mother does not wear boots,” Arachne said reasonably. “You did not get those stompers from papa. Now, you go back to her, and give my compliments, yes? And also a message. I will not like to have to spank anymore of her badly behaving brats, please.”

“No,” said a new voice, and Kuriwa stepped out from behind a tree. In her hand was a spear with a golden haft, its head a single carved piece of crystal. The entire thing put off a subtle light that drove away every shadow in their vicinity without seeming to glare upon the eyes. “Now that she has finally shown her face, she need not carry a message. She will be one.”

“No,” Invazradi whispered, sounding truly unnerved now. Her glowing eyes were locked on the spear.

“You… Kuriwa, you conniving snake,” Sheyann hissed. “Was this what you were after this whole time?”

“One thing,” the shaman said mildly, striding forward. “Thank you, Arachne. Hold her steady, please.”

“Do not come any closer, please,” Arachne replied. “And put that thing somewhere else. Our point is made; she goes home, now.”

“No,” Kuriwa said icily, “she does not.”

With a soft whoosh of wings, yet another figure descended through the trees, landing lightly beside them. “All right, everyone, that’s just about enough of that,” she said cheerfully. Shiraki heard a soft whimper, only belatedly realizing it came from himself. The new woman had the same polyphonic voice and hellfire-filled eyes as Invazradi. She had birdlike talons for feet, though, and her hair was an ordinary if glossy black. Wings spread from behind her shoulders, feathered like a bird’s in shades of deep purple and midnight blue, though small claws were visible at their joints.

“Azradeh!” Invazradi squealed. “Help!”

“You shut up,” the second archdemon said disdainfully. “You’re an embarrassment. Now, if you would be so kind as to release my sister?” she added directly to Arachne.

“You take your sister and you go very much away, this is clear?” the sorceress said severely. “We are having a nice little camping in the woods. Only with friends. She is rude.”

“Yes, sorry about that,” Azradeh said with a wry grin. She, too, had vicious fangs. “For what it’s worth, had this gone at all the way she planned you would all be dead without having to listen to her.”

“I hate you so much,” Invazradi snarled.

“Yes, yes,” Azradeh said soothingly, patting her leg. “The bindings, please?”

Arachne considered the two of them thoughtfully for a moment, then flicked her fingers. The blue threads instantly vanished and Invazradi plummeted to the ground with a strangely musical squawk.

“Now, let us all get along, yes?” Arachne said mildly. “The crow lady over there, I think she is here to murder somebody. I have a feeling it is not her first time, no?”

“Quite,” Azradeh said, nodding gravely. “And then, of course, there’s you.”

“Yes,” Arachne replied, holding her gaze. “There is me.”

“So, nobody gets what they wanted, but everybody gets to live another day. An acceptable compromise. Come, sister, we should find a private place for me to chew you out before I hand you over to Mother. Honestly, how you contrive yourself into these debacles is beyond my imagining.”

Invazradi glared at her, then panned her hateful stare around at the elves, finally settling on Shiraki.

“I will see you again,” she promised, then took two steps backward and vanished abruptly, leaving behind a puff of sulfur-scented smoke.

Azradeh tilted her head in a way that showed she was rolling her eyes, despite her lack of visible pupils, then disappeared in the same manner.

There was a moment of silence.

“That was a good plan,” Arachne said finally. “You are lucky I am so disagreeable, Kuriwa. I do not think you and your spear could have matched for two of them.”

“Quite,” the shaman said curtly. “I suppose I should thank you for that. Though had the second not intervened, you would simply have botched the only chance we are ever likely to see to remove an archdemon from the playing field!”

Arachne tilted her head inquisitively, glanced at Sheyann and then back at Kuriwa. “Have you met Elilial?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure,” the shaman said dryly.

“I have,” Arachne said firmly, “and I am happier being not her new hobby. The archdemons, they are her children, this is true? You kill the goddess’s child, she comes after you with everything she can bring. I would maybe be willing to make Avei this angry with me, but Elilial? That is not a clean death. She will make you watch as everything you love is slowly torn to shreds before allowing you to die. If she is in a hurry.”

“And while she was doing that,” Kuriwa said in exasperation, “she would be distracted, focused away from her main goal and open to attack! I am willing to bring that upon myself if it means the opportunity to remove the dark goddess from the mortal plane permanently.”

“You, I note, were not the only person here,” Sheyann said sharply. “You would not hold the entirety of the blame in her eyes. How very strategic for you to make that choice on behalf of the rest of us, Kuriwa.”

“Yes. Well, anyway,” said Arachne, bending to pick up one of Shiraki’s fallen sticks. “You two have things to discuss, so I will leave you to do that. Obviously the plans must change again. Do we still need firewood? I would hate to have gone stomping in the woods for nothing. My feet have become very disgusting.”

Later, the two elders watched from a higher peak, ostensibly keeping a lookout for more demons, while the party below packed away the meager camp, preparing to set off for a new, hopefully more secure location. Their chosen vantage was angled such that the wind made them inaudible even to the elven ears below.

“If you are sure,” Sheyann said quietly. “It still seems awfully risky to me.”

“I am willing to risk my own safety at need,” Kuriwa replied. She was seated cross-legged on a boulder, hands folded in her lap. “I promise you, I am more careful with the lives of others. The groundwork was laid beforehand; Elilial’s wrath would have fallen entirely upon me. Well. It was not a total loss. Those two have learned a little humility and may be less aggressive… And I did go to the trouble of retrieving the spear. Perhaps I will give it to a Hand of Avei. It can still do some good against the demons.”

“Hm,” the other woman said noncommittally. For a few minutes, they gazed down in silence. Eventually, though, she spoke again. “I hardly know what to make of that…sorceress. She seems by turns childlike, insane, and…terrifying. Does anything she’s said ring familiar to you? I can’t help feeling I would know more if I could place that accent…”

“She troubles me,” Kuriwa whispered.

Sheyann looked over at her, narrowing her eyes. “You sound as if you mean that quite sincerely. She is a mystery, yes, a potentially alarming one. What is it you know that I don’t, Kuriwa?”

The elder shaman shook her head slowly. “Little that is conclusive. Just enough to raise many unsettling questions. I know what the word arachne means. Or what it once did.”

Sheyann raised an eyebrow.

Still staring down at the group below, Kuriwa continued softly. “In the aftermath of the Elder War, there was a celestial game of round-the-bush. The Pantheon banished Elilial to Hell, first of all. Within two centuries, she organized a coup and in turn removed Scyllith, banishing her to the mortal plane, and specifically the depths of the Underworld. Meanwhile, Themynra, foreseeing these events, had insinuated herself into the realms of the drow, converting all those near the surface to her worship and creating a barrier between Scyllith and our lands, leaving Scyllith with nothing to do but suborn the remaining drow.”

She turned her head to gaze directly at Sheyann. “Two Elder gods survive to this day… But there were three not slain by the Pantheon, and one whose fate is not known. Before Scyllith and Themynra divided them up between themselves, the drow worshiped a goddess of many arms and many eyes. What became of her, I can only guess. Nor do I know the fate of the last spider priestesses.”

Sheyann had fallen totally still. Kuriwa sighed softly, turning again to look down at the valley.

“Show her kindness, Sheyann.”

“Of…of course,” the Elder said, shaking herself lightly as if rousing from a dream. “I would do so for any soul who needed—”

“No,” Kuriwa said firmly. “You would be kind to any soul in need. Show her kindness. If several of the possibilities I see are true, she may not understand, at first, what it is. We may all be in a great deal of trouble if she does not learn.”

Below, while Shiraki folded tent canvas into bundles, Arachne paused in her own packing to turn and look directly up at the two elders. Before turning her back to them again, she smiled.

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Bonus #12, continued

Uncategorized,

Author’s note: This post is another artifact of a scheduling snafu, and is nothing but the last half of the previous chapter.  Go back a page and use the links I provided in the chapter body to reach the next real chapter!

 

The journey overland from northern Viridill to the wild territory in which the “kingdom” of Mathenon sat took nearly two months on foot. The party was prevented from acquiring mounts because Rann refused to use any feet from his own for spiritual reasons, and Shizaar approved this, as it suited her own inclination to scout ahead and to the group’s flanks as they ventured into the wilderness. Eidelaire bemoaned this delay and discomfort, but Arachne seemed to have no opinion one way or another.

Only a few days from the town, just out of sight of the mountaintop Temple complex itself, they were intercepted and pursued by about twice their number of Narisian drow, ultimately taking shelter in an abandoned shrine to some forgotten deity driven away Avei’s worship long ago. It conveniently was made of sturdy marble and had only one door. Arachne was able to put a barrier across this which held against the drow’s attacks, magical and physical, without seeming effort.

They were only besieged a few hours before being rescued by four Silver Huntresses and three times that number of soldiers from the League of Avei; the drow, ever pragmatic, fled at the first sight of a significant force rather than waste their numbers in a losing fight.

Ultimately, they spent the night at the shrine, along with their new friends, with whom Shizaar eagerly exchanged news. The troops seemed leery of Rann, but the stoic orc never gave anyone cause for hostility. From this encounter, they learned that the pass they had intended to use was blocked by a rockfall; efforts were underway to clear it, but this was likely to be the work of months.

The obstruction meant they had to go around the mountains rather than through them. They were already near the edge of the Viridill range, but this still meant a wide swing to the east and back, which added weeks to the journey. Shizaar became increasingly stingy with provisions; she hunted game for them nearly every day, and Rann foraged skillfully for edible vegetation. They never faced real hunger, nor thirst, even as they left the foothills behind and set forth into the prairie, for Arachne was able to conjure water at need. It tasted flat and stale, but hydrated the body when natural sources couldn’t be found.

North they traveled, with the forbidding black peaks of the Wyrnrange rising on their left. The mountains provided some shade as the days wore into their hottest hours, which came as a blessing, as the heat of the prairie was fierce at this time of year. Rann’s magic could soothe bodily aches, and he offered herbal salves against sunburn; Arachne could summon small clouds to provide shade, and even cooling mist at times, though she reserved this luxury for extremely hot days. Throwing arcane magic around, she said, was a sure way to attract the prairie’s denizens. The mage felt she could probably reason with plains elves, but if centaurs fell upon them there would be nothing for it but to fight.

Despite the roughness of the travel, the group made good time, none of their number holding them back. Shizaar and Rann, of course, were hardy and well accustomed to the outdoors; Eidelaire, despite his foppish appearance and mannerisms, walked without complaint or apparent discomfort, even entertaining his companions with songs and stories as they went. Arachne described herself as a “city girl,” but even so had no more trouble with the pace and the elements than any of them. She did complain, but only periodically, and in the good-natured manner of someone who just liked the sound of her own voice.

For the most part they did manage to avoid conflict. Three times bands of plains elves appeared in the distance; on each occasion, Arachne placed herself between them and the party, and the groups always retreated back into the prairie after several hours, and without coming close enough to be clearly seen. Arachne insisted they were within the range of elvish eyes, though, which was the point. Avoiding parties of centaurs was a more serious matter, and whenever Rann’s invisible (except to him) spirit companions warned of their approach, the group cut westward toward the mountains.

Though this worked well enough most of the time, they were twice pursued. Both times, Arachne and Rann’s magics proved sufficient to drive the small bands away before they came in range of Shizaar’s bow. An entire herd veered toward them midway through their journey, however, forcing them to retreat right into the foothills, where the centaurs would not follow, but which held their own dangers.

The Wyrnrange was so named because it was known to be dragon territory; only gnomes passed through the mountains with impunity, and only because they treated dragons politely and had been taught draconic etiquette which they did not share with outsiders. There were rumored groups of dragonsworn deep in the mountains, of entire villages devoted to the service of one wyrm or another, though of course the party never progressed far enough in to find any such.

All in all, the journey was an adventure, though a minor one by the standards of all four of them; Eidelaire didn’t consider any of their encounters worth composing a song about. It served them well, however. Despite the fortunate lack of reasons to fight, they did learn to get along and anticipate one another’s movements to an extent, and were not a group of complete strangers when their destination hove into view.

Once they veered back onto the plains, it was only another six days of walking before the dark battlements of Zanzayed’s arena appeared on the northern horizon. Now began the true adventure.

It was a lonely scar upon the prairie. Made of the dark volcanic stone of the Wyrnrange, the arena was distant enough from even the foothills that hauling its pieces out here had to have been a significant effort—though not so much as that represented by the massive timbers which also went into its construction. They were clearly of Wyrnrange pine, but those grew even deeper into the mountains. Harvesting resources from land patrolled by dragons was an ominous prospect indeed. The arena was roughly made, sturdy but clearly not intended to be a great edifice. It might well last the test of ages, though, simply due to its solid construction. Its sheer size would have represented years of work by mortal hands, or perhaps weeks of work by a combination of such hands and the magics of a blue dragon.

Or perhaps mortals had not been involved at all.

It had entrances on three sides, apparently—each cardinal direction except west. The main gate on the east side, through which they passed, opened onto a dirt road which cut through an improvised huddle of inns, shops and lean-to dwellings, with tents scattered around their periphery. Three years on, some few of the buildings were starting to take on a little permanence, though none looked like they would survive a significant storm. There was another town within view to the northeast, and another small road leading to it. The arena’s little community lay along a path to the old dwarven trade road which ran nearby, from which most of its commerce flowed.

Deciding not to do anything so overtly suspicious as circle around the walls studying them, the group from Viridill had bought their tickets—four coppers apiece, to Rann’s utter disgust—and made their way in. They had to pause almost immediately in the welcome shadow of a long tunneled achway while Eidelaire attempted to shmooze the gate guards for information.

“I want to punch that guy,” Rann growled, glaring at the roughly-armored guard who had taken their money.

“We all want to punch the guy,” Arachne said soothingly, patting his shoulder. “Patience.”

“Because he is part of an utterly villainous scheme, or because the tickets are overpriced?” Shizaar asked dryly.

Rann grunted. “Second one. People caught up in villainous schemes are usually just trying to survive. Four coppers, though? Robbery.”

“Not the friendliest staff I’ve ever had the pleasure of interacting with,” Eidelaire commented, swaggering back over to them. “That fellow gets no tip, just in case anyone was tempted.”

“Damn,” Arachne said, deadpan. “Now I have to recalculate my whole budget.”

“You weren’t able to learn anything useful?” Shizaar asked.

“Oh, I very much doubt he knew anything useful,” the bard replied with an eloquent shrug. “I was looking for an in, but this isn’t a friendly, talkative sort of guard. He’s more the ‘not my bloody job’ kind of guard. To play that angle I’m going to have to hunt down somebody in some degree of charge. Ah, well! Shall we?”

Almost everyone they passed gave them curious looks; they were an interesting-looking party. Orcs were a rare sight in this region, as were wood elves, and Eidelaire’s lute and flute case drew eager smiles. Everyone was happy to see a bard, even if their entertainment was already being provided. At least they were focused enough on the games that nobody stopped him to ask for a song. Shizaar drew more than her share of suspicion, as was only to be expected, considering how she kept her hood drawn well over her face. It wasn’t really optional, though. Considering what was going on in this arena, any sign of a Silver Huntress would immediately be taken as a threat.

They climbed a flight of broad stairs along with the other spectators ascending, mostly an easily-distinguishable mix of beaten-down-looking farm folk from nearby and better-dressed traveling merchants and members of their retinues. The steps led to the actual seats of the arena—nothing fancy, of course, just rising rings with low benches. They had a roof, however, shading the spectators and leaving only the arena floor to be beaten upon by the prairie sun. People milled about, sitting, talking, watching the show, some lurking in dark corners at the rear of the stands, clearly up to no good.

To avoid the appearance of being up to equally no good—for those shady characters were getting scrutiny both from fellow customers and the guards that occasionally passed through—the party took seats at the very front, after traveling far enough to find a spot where they had no neighbors within earshot. There, they set to studying their environs.

Banners hung from the pillars holding up the roof, decorating the arena; they were plain blue, with no device. Two especially long ones flanked the box which perched on the western side of the stands, walled off from the common seating areas and furnished much more extravagantly, to judge by the scraps of curtain and carpeting visible. It had its own blue silk awning, positioned to shade the box and also protect it from view; its occupants sat well back from the edge, deep in the shadows. Arachne peered at this through narrowed eyes for a while, her elven vision apparently enough to penetrate the gloom, though the others didn’t press her for details at that time.

Interestingly, the rare guards were all female, and wore leather armor that, while clearly ceremonial (it was designed more to display than to protect) was well-fitted to each of them. They carried spears and short swords which were starkly functional, and though they strutted a bit, each of the women were muscular and held those weapons in a way that suggested they were acquainted with their use.

“Apparently there’s a career to be had here even if you don’t win,” Eidelaire murmured.

“That’s not what my intelligence suggested,” Shizaar replied.

“Hm.”

Below, there were several things going on, seemingly without rhyme or reason. Three separate pairs dueled on the arena floor; around its periphery was set up an obstacle course, with women running it at various stages. Looking from above, it wasn’t obvious where the thing began or ended, and nobody seemed to be supervising.

As they watched, a girl who couldn’t have been out of her teens was knocked backward by her opponent, who appeared little older but had a full head of height on her. The taller woman’s spear made good use of that asset, particularly against her sword-wielding foe.

The younger woman tried to rise and got a jab in the chest with the butt of the spear for her trouble. She rolled nimbly to the side, evading another such jab, but as she finally bounded to her feet was immediately sent crashing down again, her legs swept out from under her by the long haft of the weapon.

The spear-carrier stomped hard on her foe’s hand, forcing her to drop the blade and eliciting a shriek of pain, audible even over the mix of groans and cheers from the half-filled stands. Grinning savagely, the taller woman raised her weapon overhead, point aimed downward.

“Alethia,” a voice rang out, its tone mild but its volume clearly amplified by magic, “you know my rules. Control yourself.”

The spear-wielder flinched, then paused, halting her attack, and said something to her foe which was lost in the noise of the crowd. She apparently didn’t like whatever response she got, for she spun the spear to reverse it and slammed the butt down on the swordswoman’s midsection.

The younger girl curled up on herself, retching and gasping, and the victor stepped back, raising her weapon overhead in both hands and pumping it up and down, grinning up at the roar of approbation from the crowd. She finally turned and planted it point-down in the dirt, bowing deeply toward the box, from which came no audible response.

“Now that is interesting,” Eidelaire said, pointing; the fallen swordswoman was being helped up by another woman in a pale dress. Though all the contenders they could see, either dueling or running the obstacle course, were human, the one now helping the defeated combatant limp from the arena was an elf. “For several reasons.”

“She’s local,” Arachne said. “Or relatively so. A plains elf, anyway.”

“How can you tell?” Rann asked curiously. “Tribal markings?”

“It’s the shape of the ears, old fellow,” Eidelaire said with a wink. “Wood elves have ears that stick straight up, like our companion’s, here. Plains elves have horizontal ones, like that. Out to the sides. More immediately, I noted that they don’t seem to be big on killing, here.”

“At least not in these games,” Shizaar murmured. “They seem rather…preliminary. Disorganized at least.”

Arachne flagged down a vendor who had been shouting about hot wine, bread and sausage.

“The fights aren’t to the death?” she asked him casually as she handed over coins and accepted snacks for the group.

The man brayed a laugh, revealing a mouth only half-full of teeth. “Haw! Waste of good womanflesh, that. The master, he ain’t the wasteful type, see? Nah, the girls get their exercise, and them as gets too bloodthirsty, they gets disqualified, see? The Big Z’s after a dragonmother—wants a good fighter, not a crazy bitch. ‘Ere, now, you plannin’ on steppin’ into the ring?” He eyed her up and down, which made Shizaar stiffen, but his look was more curious than lustful. “Dunno much ’bout elves, beggn’ yer pardon. You don’t look too scrappy, but mebbe that’s just how your kind is.”

“Up to a point, yes,” she said dryly. “What about the elf who helped that gladiator off?”

“Aye, the menders is all elves. A plains tribe what helps out the Master. You lot enjoy that, now!”

He moved off, hawking his wares again.

“This is terrible,” said Rann, who had already eaten half his share.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve had worse,” Eidelaire said with a grin.

“Hn,” the orc grunted, nodding. “It’s better than I was expecting. Better than most arena food. Still crap.”

“It seems your intelligence was in error, then,” Arachne commented to Shizaar, who was holding a piece of bread-wrapped sausage without making any move with it toward her face.

“Indeed. This is why we do recon before attacking anyone.”

“We’ve learned some interesting things already,” Eidelaire commented, watching another injured gladiator being removed by elves. This one was fully unconscious, and had to be carried off by two of them, one male, one female. “For the time being, I suggest was park it here, get a feel for how the games proceed. Perhaps we’ll hear some more from our scaly friend, too.”

“Mm,” Arachne murmured. “For now, sure. Later, though… Are we staying in the town?”

“In the village,” Shizaar said. “I don’t trust the inn nearby. We can lay more plans there, but at the moment, our talents might be better used splitting up.”

“Quite so,” Eidelaire commented, discreetly nibbling around the gristle in his sausage. “I’ll get myself into circulation anon. Everyone talks to a bard.”

“And I’ll slip below and have a word with the staff,” Arachne said more grimly. “I would very much like to know what the hell elves think they’re doing participating in this nonsense.”

“Rann and I had probably better remain up here,” Shizaar said, getting a grunt of agreement from the orc. “There’s little acceptable excuse for us to be poking around below, and someone should stay and try to learn the rhythms of these…games. That being the case, though, I think you two can get started as soon as possible.”

“In a bit,” Arachne said distractedly, then leaned forward over the rail, shouting. “Oh, come on, hit her! You’re not even trying!”

Shizaar sighed.

The village was easily visible from the arena, but distance on the prairie was deceptive. It was a good hour’s walk to reach it, and they didn’t set out until near dusk when their various investigations were complete. It was dark by the time they arrived, and then they had to find an inn with space available. Fortunately the little town had multiple inns, due to its proximity to the trade route; unfortunately, due to the arena and the presence of several merchant caravans, there was not much space to be had. Eventually they had to settle for a single room, at a price that made Rann grind his teeth.

Once there, though, they saved money by eating the remains of their provisions around the room’s little fire and talking in privacy, Arachne having warded the walls against eavesdroppers.

“It’s pragmatism, not any particular desire to participate,” the mage was saying. “At least according to the two I spoke to, and I see no reason to argue with them. The dozen or so elves here feel they can do some good by making themselves useful, mostly as healers; their tribe is staying out of sight of the caravan route, but they’re nearby. Close enough to be fetched by runner within a few days. They aren’t about to go toe-to-toe with the dragon, but… Both of them hinted broadly that if somebody turned up with a plan and a worthwhile chance of bringing Zanzayed down, they’d be inclined to be helpful.”

“Allies, then,” Rann grunted.

“Possibly,” Arachne said, frowning. “There are a lot of uncertainties, there. Depends on what they’d consider a worthwhile chance…and even so, what they’d be willing to do. Elves are cautious as a rule; any plan that involves attacking him outright isn’t likely to impress them. Let me emphasize that I got hints, not promises.”

“This will not be done in a day,” Shizaar mused. “I am reassured that women are not being slain over this frivolity. We have time, at least, to lay plans.”

“Doesn’t that change the entire character of the matter, though?” Eidelaire asked. “Don’t hit me, Shizaar, but… If he’s not killing women, is this really something that needs to be stopped?”

“It’s a lot less urgent,” Arachne said before the Huntress could reply, perhaps luckily for Eidelaire. “Yes, he’s contributing to the economy and providing entertainment…”

“From what I learned,” the bard said, “the gifts victorious girls bring back to their own families are substantial. Perhaps trivial to a dragon with a solid hoard to his name, but beyond the dreams of peasant folk like these. Only those who make the semifinals and above win anything, but still, that’s a significant boost for each family affected and a lesser one for everybody with whom they do business. I ask again, if he’s not killing the girls, where’s the harm?”

“I wasn’t finished,” Arachne said sharply. “The harm is that he’s training all these people to be dependent on his handouts, to pursue this foolishness instead of their own livelihoods, to judge the intrinsic value of their sisters and daughters by their youth and physical beauty. These are the first steps toward completely overthrowing a society. In settled places, there will be temples, governments and cultural institutions to counteract the influence of people like Zanzayed; out here, he’s going to become some kind of savage warlord this way. Bad enough if that’s his intention; worse if means to just fly off when he has what he wants and leave everybody to welter in the barbarism he’s fostered. So, yes, it’s less urgent. Maybe not a matter that was worth rushing across the countryside to put an immediate stop to. Still something that deserves to be addressed, however. I might not have agreed to come if I’d known this was all we’d find, but we’re here, and I think this is still worth doing.”

“Zanzayed seems the kind of asshole who needs to be stopped,” Rann said. “But perhaps not the kind who needs to die.”

“Well said,” Arachne replied with a grin.

“Have you ever studied Avenist theology?” Shizaar asked the mage. “You explain some of its points very clearly.”

“That’s a discussion for another time,” Arachne said evasively. “More urgently, can we go back to the very first suggestion I made, back in Viridill? Zanzayed isn’t depraved enough to be murdering women for his amusement; perhaps he can still be talked down from this idiocy.”

“It’s worth considering,” Shizaar allowed.

“Tael nae d’Wyrn,” Eidelaire quoted, grinning.

“Stop saying that,” Arachne snapped.

“Anyway,” he went on, “if we’re agreed this doesn’t need to be resolved in any crashing hurry, I’ll have time to do some more poking around. I might even be able to get an audience with His Blueness himself!” He winked. “Like I keep telling you guys, everybody loves a bard.”

“Everybody who hasn’t traveled with one,” Rann muttered.

“That being decided,” Shizaar said, standing, “I am going to return to the arena.”

“What?” Arachne frowned. “Now?”

“It is dark, and will be relatively empty,” the Huntress said, already moving toward the window. She pushed open its shutters, peering out. “I am more than capable of moving stealthily, at need, and this is a good opportunity to familiarize myself with the layout. I might learn something useful, besides.”

“There’s stealth, and then there’s stealth,” Arachne warned. “The elves don’t sleep there, but they keep odd hours. I’m no expert on the magic of plains elves; I won’t promise they can’t detect you creeping around.”

“They may also be willing to aid us, you said,” Shizaar replied calmly. “I will be careful, Arachne. I consider this a risk worth taking; it is not my intention to confront anyone. Meet me in the stands tomorrow.”

With that curt farewell, she vanished over the sill. There wasn’t even a sound of her hitting the ground below.

Eidelaire sighed, getting up to pull the window shut. “Well, I guess she’s getting out of paying the entrance fee tomorrow. If we’re going to be around long, we should see if there are season passes available.”

There were a variety of games being played at any given time. There were the straightforward gladiatorial bouts, of course, and even those came in different types. Duels were crowd-pleasers, especially when taking place between two popular gladiators, but there were also wider melees with multiple combatants, and engagements of small teams.

In addition to the hand-to-hand combat, there were timed races, both of foot speed and through the obstacle course. Athletic contests of various kinds also occurred; archery and javelin-throwing, unsurprisingly, were popular, but there were also displays of weight lifting, high-jumping and various other feats which amounted to little more than party tricks.

The arena never allowed spectators to forget its true purpose, however. While shows of martial prowess predominated, they never went long without pausing for displays of feminine beauty. Contestants danced to the sound of a small group of musicians, posed in various states of undress, and wrestled. Nude. In mud.

“It’s degrading and exploitative, to be sure,” Arachne mused, rubbing her chin as she stared thoughtfully down at two lithe, barely-clothed young women having what could only be described as a dance-off. They alternated playing to the crowd with showing very aggressive body language at each other. She’d seen a few exotic dancers in her time, but rarely any so lean and muscular. “Still… It almost seems churlish to complain about that when women elsewhere are being forced into prostitution and all manner of subjugation.”

“Hn.”

“However all this ends, Zanzayed is going to leave behind more than a handful of young women who are less likely than most to be dragged into a corner by some thug.”

“Hm.”

“The real problem here is economics. None of the prizes he’s paying out compare to what he rakes in. Especially when the bookies work for him, which I’ll bet my ears they all do. Admission fees alone are exorbitant, and what the shitty food costs… The brilliance of it is he’s got a total monopoly on entertainment in the whole area. The locals have nothing to do but farm and contemplate their grim futures, and the caravaners and adventurers love having something to stop and watch in the middle of this wilderness.”

“Nhn.”

“If half of what Eidelaire’s heard this morning is true, Zanzayed’s gradually drawing in every musician and artist in the kingdom, not to mention monopolizing the blacksmiths, leatherworkers, stonemasons, healers… He’s suborning the entire economy bit by bit, and Mathen can’t do a damn thing about it. I wonder if Blue boy is doing this on purpose, or just doesn’t care, as long as it gets him what he wants.”

“Mm.”

“It’s believable he’s having trouble conceiving. Dragons don’t breed easily, and most of the ways they have around it are the province of the greens. Arcane magic doesn’t lend itself readily to biological effects.”

“Mhm.”

“Either way…he’s going to leave the economy of this whole region in tatters when he leaves. If he leaves. Do you suppose that’s worse than him actually overthrowing the kingdom? Dragon-led nations have existed, but they tend to attract all manner of violence from their neighbors.”

“Hmp.”

“I wonder… If we chase him off, we’ll be doing a lot of that damage ourselves. Makes you stop and consider, doesn’t it?”

“Hn.”

She glanced up at him and spoke more gently.

“She’ll be all right, Rann.”

The orc’s broad shoulders swelled in a huge sigh. “She should have met us long since.”

“She said ‘tomorrow.’ It’s still tomorrow.”

“It’s past noon!”

“Shizaar can handle herself as well as any of us,” the elf said, patting his shoulder.

“This place is simply not big enough for an experienced scout to take so long to investigate it,” he growled. “And now, and for half the day, it has been active. Something has gone wrong. What do your ears tell you?”

“A great deal of irrelevant minutia,” she said, removing her gaze from the dancers below to scan the stands. “The thousand tiny dramas that occur whenever you get this many people under one roof. There’s a dead spot, though, over there.” She nodded across the way at Zanzayed’s shaded box. “Silence from within, and I can feel the magic laid over it.”

“That’s where she is,” Rann growled, starting to rise. “She’s being held—”

“Stop!” Arachne snapped, yanking him back down by the shoulder. She hadn’t a fraction of his muscle; he clearly sat because he chose to, but at least he did. “There’s no reason to think Zanzayed is planning to entrap us. A sonic dead zone is a very basic privacy measure when he’s clearly taking women to bed and has a staff consisting partly of elves. Besides, not hearing Shizaar doesn’t particularly worry me, either; I can’t hear her half the time when she goes off scouting. I’ve noticed that with other Silver Huntresses. Some gift of Avei. It’s not time to panic yet, Rann.”

“Then when will it be time?” he muttered. Abruptly, the orc stiffened. “Something is about to happen.”

“Something?” She looked down at the arena floor again, then around at the stands. “What?”

“The rhythm. Can you not see it? These two days there have been general entertainments, usually multiple events at once. When they all lead toward a conclusion, there is always a change of venue. See?”

Indeed, the dancers had finished their performance, to a chorus of hoots and whistles from the audience. There were also a few runners staggering to a halt at the end of their track, looking slightly winded and more than slightly annoyed; their event had clearly not been the center of attention while the dance was going on. A pair of duelists had just finished up and one was being carried out, the winner looking as cheated as the racers; a last duel was still in session, but obviously coming to an end, one woman limping and being chased in futile circles by a more agile opponent.

“Eidelaire’s coming back this way,” Arachne murmured, cocking her head to listen. The bard was not yet in view.

Rann nodded. “He saw what I saw. Bards are sensitive to these rhythms.”

“Rhythms in general, I should think.”

The reaction from the crowd stole the show from the dancers when the wounded, retreating gladiator suddenly sprung forward from her “injured” leg, slamming the pommel of her sword into her opponent’s throat and decisively wiping the victorious smirk from her face. The other woman went down, gagging and clutching at her neck; the victor brandished her blade, grinning despite being unable to stand up properly.

“Nothing?” Eidelaire asked under the cover of wild cheering as he rejoined them.

“Nothing pertinent to us,” Arachne replied. “Did you see that? I’m thinking of financing one of these arenas myself. That was awesome.”

“I’ll refrain from telling Shizaar you said that,” he promised solemnly.

“If we ever see her again,” Rann growled.

“It’s about at the point where I think we can start worrying,” Arachne said grudgingly. “I have trouble imagining what could keep her from reporting back to us by now.”

“I think we passed that point a few hours ago,” the bard replied, frowning. “The question becomes, what to do about it? Whatever she ran afoul of was either the dragon himself or one of his agents. Something that we should hesitate to challenge.”

“It would be wise to hesitate,” Rann said. “That doesn’t mean we should.”

The roar of the crowd had diminished notably, but at its sudden swell, all three of them turned to see what the source was.

Zanzayed the Blue had finally made his appearance.

He had stepped up to the small balcony on the front of his shaded box, and now stood with his arms spread, smirking smugly as he accepted the adulation of the crowd. There was enough adulation that he didn’t look at all foolish in the process; clearly he was a popular figure here. He could have passed for a half-elf, if not for his jewel-like eyes and cobalt hair. He was also extremely effeminate, and not merely because of his delicate features. His hair was waist-length and brushed to a glossy sheen, held back with extravagantly jeweled combs; he wore a rich blue silk robe so thoroughly embroidered with golden thread that the overall effect was nearly green when one squinted.

“Are we all enjoying the show?” the dragon asked, his voice a calm and conversational tone which nonetheless boomed throughout the arena.

The crowd roared even more vigorously.

“I think,” Eidelaire noted, “if we end up having to fight this guy, we won’t be able to count on much local support.”

“Let’s try not to fight the dragon,” Arachne said. “If he won’t see reason, we’ll work out how to assassinate him.”

Rann grunted.

“I’m glad to see so many faces here today,” the dragon said, grinning. “Because I have a special treat for you all!”

“I have a terrible feeling,” Rann muttered as the crowd brayed around them again, “that I know what’s about to happen.”

Four women had appeared from floor-level doorways next to Zanzayed’s box and paced toward the middle of the arena, where they took up positions roughly encircling its center.

“You know the front-runners in the tournament, I’m sure,” the dragon said, “but I think these ladies have more than earned an introduction! From the sunny shores of the far West, she has come in search of…”

“He’s actually quite the showman,” Eidelaire commented as the dragon continued, pausing as the first gladiatrix’s introduction concluded to a roar of approbation from the spectators. “You don’t often see that in these ancient, powerful immortal types. They rarely have a need to impress anyone.”

“How ancient is he?” Rann asked, scowling. “He behaves like a self-important youth. From the dress on down.”

“Something happening in the middle, there,” Arachne said as the introductions continued. “He’s setting up a spell right between the four of them…”

“A spell?” Ran frowned. “What kind?”

“Mm… Oh, I see, it’s actually a few woven together. Basic teleportation spell; he’s about to deposit something in the center. You don’t usually see that set up in advance, but he’s woven some visual effects into it. You’re right, Eid, he’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

“Yep,” the bard said, his attention below. “And it looks like we’re about to see the main event.”

“…any of them stand up to what I’m about to show you?” Zanzayed was crowing, having whipped the crowd into a veritable frenzy. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we? For the arena has a new contender, an agent of far-away enemies sent to sabotage your fun, my good people, and now destined to be part of it: A real, live, in the flesh Silver Huntress!”

Arachne and Eidelaire grabbed Rann by both shoulders, barely preventing him from lunging to his feet and vaulting over the rail into the arena itself.

Sparks and jets of blue flame flew; smoke billowed forth, then formed into elaborate patterns as it drifted upward and faded. When the flash and flare had subsided, standing in the center of the arena was Shizaar, her hood gone, revealing her tattooed face to the crowd.

She appeared unhappy, but unhurt. Her wrists were chained together behind her back and she’d been dressed in a pale leather outfit that was clearly of plains elf design, though someone had embroidered it with flashy golden eagle icons, clearly demonstrating her affiliation.

The crowd booed obediently; the four gladiators held their weapons at the ready, glaring at the Huntress. Shizaar turned slowly, ignoring the crowd, and gave each of them a short, calculating look before turning her gaze on Zanzayed.

“How ironic are the twists of fate,” the dragon said, grinning. “Who knows, my dear Huntress, you may find yourself winning my little tourney. I can’t help thinking you would be a splendid mother.”

“You are beyond contemptible,” Shizaar snapped, her voice echoing clearly. The onlookers jeered.

“Okay, new plan,” Arachne said, releasing Rann. “Subtle is now off the table; we’re not leaving her down there.”

“She can probably take those four—”

“That is utterly irrelevant, Eidelaire,” the mage snapped. “He is not going to do this to one of our companions. I will hold the asshole’s attention. You two get everyone out of the arena.”

“What?” Rann exclaimed. “Why? How?”

“Because any means I have at my disposal of holding his attention are going to result in widespread damage,” she said grimly. “Let’s not have any slain bystanders on our consciences if we can avoid it.” Below, Zanzayed was still chattering at Shizaar, working the crowd again.

“That leaves how,” Eidelaire remarked.

“You’re a shaman with spirit companions and a freaking bard. If you can’t move a bunch of frenzied, half-drunk idiots, I have no hope for the world.”

With that and no more ado, Arachne leaped over the rail, landing nimbly on the packed dirt below.

The tone of the crowd changed, confused murmurs rising, as the elf strode toward the gathering in the center. Zanzayed broke off mid-exhortation, turning his attention on her.

“What’s all this? I’m sorry, darling, but there is a procedure if you want to compete. Speak to the guards for an escort to the barracks. This is a scheduled event.”

“Schedule’s changed,” Arachne announced, her voice echoing throughout the arena the same way his was. Zanzayed lifted his eyebrows at that. “I have had enough of this nonsense. The Huntress is with me; you will release her immediately.”

“And why on earth should I?” he asked mildly. “I frankly resent her imposition here. Do I send agents out to meddle with Avei’s love life? Then again,” he added with a smirk, “perhaps if she had one we’d have no need for this conversation.”

The laughter from the stands only deepened Shizaar’s scowl.

“I was just wondering,” Arachne snapped, “whether the point of your operation here is to throw the economy of the whole region into shambles, or if that’s simply a side effect you don’t care about. What happens to this place when you get bored or get what you came for and leave? What happens to all these people? These women?”

The gladiators had shifted their focus to her, now, seeming not at all impressed by her concern over their futures.

“A shambles, is it,” Zanzayed said, grinning openly. “Tell me, my friends, do you feel you’re in shambles?”

A swelling tide of cheers rose up all around them—and was suddenly silenced.

Arachne held one finger in the air, staring at the dragon, who appeared startled. “I am speaking to you, y’little hooligan. All of you, shut up for a minute.”

She lowered her hand and the sound from the stands abruptly returned, though now it consisted mostly of confused, frightened whispering.

“Well, well, well,” Zanzayed purred, grinning down at her. “I do believe this is an even better prospect than the Huntress. A mage, and an elf at that! One doesn’t often see the combination. How odd that I’ve not heard of you before, my dear! Tell me, do you have a name?”

“You might know me as Arachne,” she said, folding her arms.

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh! Arachne! Actually, I have heard of you!”

“Damn right you have,” she said smugly.

“Yes!” Zanzayed cried, leaning forward over the balcony and grinning down at her. “You’re that screwloose elf who tried to sacrifice a sacred bear on an altar to Shaath and unleashed a plague on half the Stalrange!”

Her smirk vanished. “Unleash—half—it was one valley! There was hardly anyone there, and that is not the point!” Arachne pointed at Shizaar. “I’m taking my friend and leaving.”

“I think you’ll find that a difficult—huh,” he added as Shizaar vanished in a faint blue crackle of light. “Well, that’s annoying. Ladies, why is nobody stabbing this wench?”

The gladiators managed barely a step forward before all four of them went flying bodily in different directions, skidding across the ground to roll up against the walls.

“I do say that seemed rather unsporting,” Zanzayed commented. The booing crowd clearly agreed.

“This is ridiculous,” Rann muttered. “I can unleash fear into the spectators, but not without something to work with. Emotions don’t just happen.”

“Wait,” said Eidelaire. “If I know our girl, they’ll have cause to fear in just a moment.”

“Unsporting?” Arachne said, sneering. “That is not a word I expected to hear from a guy in a fruity dress who needs to build an edifice and pit the available female population against each other to have a chance of getting laid.”

The silence was astonishing. For all the people there and all their love of good drama, it seemed everyone present was keenly aware they had just seen a dragon viciously insulted to his face.

Everyone except the guy in the back who burst into gales of tenor laughter.

“Jealous, are we?” Zanzayed asked with a thin smile.

Arachne threw back her head and cackled. “Oh, come on now. Really? Seriously? ‘Jealous?’ That’s like admitting you have no rebuttal. In fact, you could probably save more face if you’d just say that! Really, who the hell are you, anyway? Zanzayed the Blue? I’ve never heard of you, and I’ve been around. Is this your first time out of the den? Are you accustomed to daddy bringing you women, already beaten compliant?”

The sounds from the stands now were shuffling and footsteps as people began discreetly moving toward the exits.

“I believe we’re irrelevant here,” Rann commented.

“Hang on,” said Eidelaire. “Can your spirits induce calm? We may need to forestall a stampede in just a minute…”

“I’ll tell you what, Arachne,” Zanzayed said with a bite in his tone. “I prefer my partners relatively enthusiastic, but if you are hellbent on scaring away all the other prospects, I guess you’ll do. Unless you would like to take yourself out of my arena, now that you have extracted your friend?”

“Well, I’ve come all this way,” she said, grinning openly and planting her fists on her hips. “Seems like it’d be a waste of the trip to slink off without kicking your scaly ass first.”

“What is she doing?” Rann whispered in horror.

“Being a distraction, and clearing the place out.” Eidelaire said. “Quite effectively, too. Really, be ready with some calming. Somebody’s gonna get trampled otherwise. I really hope Shizaar had the sense to keep going, wherever she ended up…”

The exodus from the stands was accelerating, and picked up speed further when Zanzayed stepped onto the rail of his balcony and from there jumped out.

He shifted in midair, forcing Arachne to step rapidly backward to avoid being crushed. In his full form, an enormous display of cobalt-scaled muscle and spiny wings, he filled almost half the arena floor; when he stretched up to his full height and spread his wings, the tips brushed the roof on both sides.

“I beg your pardon,” the dragon rumbled, his voice recognizably the same but now with a deep resonance that seemed to make the floor vibrate, “but you will…what, exactly?”

“You see this hand?” Arachne said, holding up her right one, palm forward.

Zanzayed bent down, bringing his nose to within a few feet of her, and grinned, displaying a terrifying arsenal of teeth. “Just barely.”

Arachne made a swatting motion, and a wagon-sized hand of blue light appeared in midair and struck him on the side of the face. The dragon squawked as his neck was whipped around, and stumbled sideways, one wing flailing awkwardly into a section of the stands that had already been cleared.

“That wasn’t the one you should’ve been looking at,” Arachne said smugly.

“Now is a good time,” Eidelaire began.

“Yes, yes,” Rann snapped. “I have been asking the spirits. This crowd is trying to panic and I cannot hold it back for long. Luckily they will be gone from the arena soon. And we should be, too!”

“But…can’t we help her?”

The orc stood, grabbing the bard by the arm and beginning to march him toward the stairs, following the last of the now-screaming onlookers. “She knows what she is doing. Hopefully.”

Zanzayed straightened up, his lips drawing back to display even more of his fangs, and opened his mouth wide, inhaling deeply as he glared down at Arachne. Flames and sparks flickered at the edges of his jaws.

Then he began choking and gagging as a huge clump of dirt struck him full in the throat.

“My, my,” Arachne said, amused. “You really are new at this, aren’t—”

She broke off, quickly throwing a sphere of blue light up around herself as the dragon’s cough turned into a gout of fire that left her standing in a patch of molten glass.

That was the last Eidelaire saw before Rann dragged him into the stairwell.

The evacuation was anything but orderly. Fortunately, more than the bard and the shaman were interested in keeping things from degenerating into chaos. The arena’s own guards, both the armored women and the slouching local men who manned the gates, had apparently been the first to flee, but there were also soldiers attached to various merchant trains present, and their efforts to keep their employers safe at least directed the crowd, if they did nothing to slow it.

People fled first into the inns and shops in the little village outside the arena, but even that began to clear out at the cacophony of roars, explosions and unidentifiable noise and flashes of light that started to emerge from within. By the time the story of what was going on in the arena had spread, luckily, most of those who seemed inclined to flee the area were already on the road, clearing room for the little pseudo-village to empty itself.

Most folks in local attire streamed either toward the little town in the near distance, or on the road north, toward Mathenhold. Merchant trains were getting underway as soon as oxen could be yoked, and elves discreetly slipped out into the tallgrass of the prairie. Clearing most of the bystanders from an area that size took well over an hour.

Fortunately, Shizaar found them outside, and the three were able to set themselves up about halfway to the village while Rann made a more involved communication with his spirits, sending them out to hurry the crowds along. With space to work and concentrate, he managed to keep relative calm among the evacuees, even while goading them to get away.

Eventually, though, what could be done had bee done, and there was nothing else for it but to retreat to the town, watch the arena, and wait.

The show never stopped.

Most of the distant noise was meaningless to them, but every few minutes would come something more identifiable. Multiple times lightning slashed down out of the clear sky into the arena floor. Gouts of unmistakable dragonfire flared up regularly, along with flashes of light the distinctive blue of arcane magic. The whole time, as the hour stretched out toward two, the arena steadily disintegrated, till parts of its walls were lying around it in chunks and more of the roof and timbers had burned away than still remained. Smoke drifted up steadily, marring the clear prairie sky and dimming the intermittent displays of energy from within.

At one point, a streak of fire and black smoke roared down from the sky, slamming into the side of the arena and half-collapsing its north wall.

Still, the conflict continued. Those in the village who deemed this far enough to be safe stood around with the party from Viridill, watching in silence. Everyone else had already fled. The only comfort the three companions could hold to was that as long as the action was still going on, Arachne was still alive and kicking.

Eventually, though, it wound down. Not with a bang, but fading gradually as if both combatants were simply growing tired.

“Can’t believe she said fighting dragons was a bad idea,” Rann muttered. “How many times did she say that?”

“What I want to know is why we kept running away from centaurs and elves if she could do this,” Eidelaire replied.

Shizaar just shook her head.

When the silence descended, they didn’t trust it at first, taking it for just another lull in the action. It stretched out, though, growing heavy and ominous. Around them, villagers and refugees began retreating into their homes and inns, leaving only the three and a few especially curious souls staring across the plain at the smoking, half-broken arena.

The sun had descended behind the mountains, bringing the early dusk that always fell on this region and leaving the remaining sky stained red when movement finally occurred again. In the dimness, an enormous shape rose up from the smoke, only growing distinct as it glided out from the dark haze.

The dragon was heading straight for them.

People screamed, fleeing into buildings; others fled out of buildings as the shouts spread, pelting off up the road northward.

The companions held their ground, Rann clutching his totems, Shizaar brandishing the two sabers she had somehow acquired, her own weapons having been confiscated during her capture.

Even in the darkness, the blue tint of his scales was clear. Zanzayed settled to the ground relatively gently, some ten yards distant, his azure eyes glowing in the twilight.

He was a mess. His scales were charred, one of his wing sails was torn, and his left eye seemed swollen partially shut.

And amazingly, Arachne sat perched on his neck, just before the shoulders.

The dragon knelt, then lowered himself fully to the ground, allowing her to slide down. She, too, was in visibly bad shape, her dress scorched and ripped away above the knee, showing ugly burns on her lower legs. Her hair was much shorter and badly singed; she had an impressive black eye, and her right arm was swathed in a makeshift sling.

For a moment, the dragon and elf glanced at each other, then he straightened up and coughed, emitting a puff of ill-smelling smoke.

“We’ve been having a conversation,” Zanzayed said.

“We saw it,” Shizaar replied, not lowering her weapons.

He shuffled his front feet, looking almost abashed. “Yes, well… It occurs to me that I’ve been a trifle… Inconsiderate.”

“Holy shit,” Eidelaire whispered. “You can tell the Wyrm.”

“Well,” said Arachne, pacing toward them and looking equally parts exhausted and self-satisfied. “I don’t know if you can.”

Bonus #12: Along Came a Spider, Part 2

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2402 years ago

“’Found someone’ is frighteningly vague,” Shizaar said skeptically. “Every imbecile and villain I’ve ever met could be described as ‘someone.’ Charitably, in some cases, but still.”

Rann grunted. “Someone is better than no one.”

“That is categorically untrue.”

“I sense a distressing lack of faith, here,” Eidelaire protested.

A soft sigh emerged from the depths of Shizaar’s hood. “I think you can forgive us for being skeptical, considering how the last one turned out.”

“Let me just point out that you recruited her, not I,” Eidelaire replied, grinning. “Trust me, I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

“Oh, good,” Rann mumbled. “He’s got a feeling.”

“It is worrying that you had this person meet us here, instead of bringing him,” Shizaar added.

“Her,” the bard corrected. “The job specified a ‘her,’ remember?”

“I remember. I didn’t think you’d actually find…”

“And people have things to do, you know. I could’ve just scraped up any reject enchanter from this steel market if I thought you wanted to settle for that. Anyway, we’re not the only ones needing to extend a little faith, here. You asked for a mage who’s also a woman, and fairly pretty. That has creepy implications even to me, and I know what’s going on. Beggars, choosers, and so forth.”

Shizaar sighed again, her cowl shifting as she glanced around the room.

It was commonly held that once you’d seen one adventurer tavern, you’d seen them all, and indeed, there were striking similarities among most. The Lost Harpy advertized its preferred clientele by way of adorning its walls with old weapons, maps and hunting trophies, and the knots of heavily-armed individuals conversing in small groups or nursing drinks and meals alone formed a recognizable pattern. They always left enough space between them to ensure a modicum of privacy, often glancing suspiciously at new arrivals to the tavern, or any other sudden source of movement. The Harpy, though, was notably cleaner than most of its cousins. It was also filled with light and a sense of space, due to the broad, towering windows that comprised the front wall of its common room. Positioned as this town was on one of the lower hills of Viridill, the Harpy enjoyed a stellar view up at the ancient Temple of Avei itself. What with one thing and another, the place catered to a higher class of riffraff than the average run of adventurer bars. As such, it was far less likely to be demolished in a brawl, though the windows had been encased (on both sides) by iron bars to protect the expensive glass.

“Ah, here we are,” Eidelaire said brightly—and unnecessarily, as heads all over the tavern had turned to examine the new arrival.

She was a slender woman, her boots, belt and trousers all sturdy and practical, though her long cerulean tunic had more embroidery than was necessary, or wise, for someone who carried no visible weapons aside from a simple utility knife at her hip. She also wore a short, hooded cape, though she pushed back the cowl as she entered, revealing angular features and long, pointed ears.

“An elf mage?” Shizaar murmured skeptically.

“One who can hear you,” Eidelaire pointed out. “Those ears aren’t decorative.”

“They aren’t merely decorative,” the elf corrected, striding over to them and helping herself to a seat. “So this is the party you spoke of, bard? Good, good, with me here we’ll have a nice racial balance. Well, except that half of the group is human. Unless your mysterious friend here is secretly a stack of gnomes.”

“You have not been hired yet,” Shizaar said softly.

“May I introduce Shizaar, our organizer and patron,” Eidelaire said smoothly. “Myself you have already had the dubious pleasure of meeting. And this, of course, is Rann Half-Clan.”

The orc folded his arms across his bare chest and nodded; the elf studied him frankly in turn. He was an interesting sight, especially to people who were familiar with orcs. Rann’s trousers and sandals were of a common make, not the much-prized orcish leatherwork his people preferred to wear, though his strings of ceremonial beads and the pouches of herbs, fetishes, runes and other charms used in his craft fit the stereotype better. Most arrestingly, he had mottled skin, gray and brown dividing him roughly in half.

“Everyone,” Eidelaire said, making a sweeping gesture at the new arrival, “meet Arachne.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said with a lazy smirk. “The Arachne.”

There was a moment’s silent.

“The Arachne who…what?” Shizaar finally asked.

The elf’s expression abruptly fell into a scowl. “Oh, come on. Almost five centuries I’ve been in the business. How is it possible you haven’t heard of me?”

“If you haven’t earned enough to retire in five centuries, that may not be a selling point,” Shizaar commented. “On the other hand, it’s worth something that you’re still alive, I suppose…”

“I’ve heard of you,” Rann grunted.

“Hah!” Arachne fixed her attention on him, grinning again. “There, see?”

“Yes, you’re the elf who burned down half of Madouris six years ago.”

She sighed heavily. “Oh, for… It wasn’t half of Madouris, it was two blocks. Three, at most. And it was the rich quarter—nothing but nobles, so they don’t count. And, it wasn’t my fault! People who don’t wan their stuff burned down shouldn’t try to cheat wizards. That was just natural law at work.”

“Why, Eid,” Shizaar said, “you’ve found us an unstable pyromaniac. Splendid work.”

“Oh, come off it,” the bard said easily. “If you really thought she was an unstable pyromaniac, you wouldn’t be insulting her to her face. Anyhow, Arachne, are you curious about the job?”

“Less so with each passing moment,” she said, grabbing a handful of Rann’s roasted peas, “but I haven’t left yet. Do go on.”

“Then I shall lay the groundwork!” With a single, fluid motion, he straightened from his lazy slouch and retrieved the lute which had been slung over his shoulder, beginning to strum a gentle background melody. “Far to the north of us, occupying the plains between the Wyrnrange and the Golden Sea, lies the would-be kingdom of Mathenon. Founded by a self-exiled noble from Calderaas whose schemes for greater power backfired in his own country, Mathenon seeks to wrest a glorious new civilization from the savage wilderness! Ever been?”

“Last time I was up there was during the Hellwars,” Arachne said. “Which, I believe, was the last time anything was up there. That’s nothing but prairie and the occasional centaur herd. No fresh water sources, barely adequate farmland, no mineral resources…”

Rann frowned, straightening slightly and looking interested for the first time. “You fought in the Hellwars?”

“Indeed, you have struck at the heart of Mathenon’s ills!” Eidelaire continued dramatically, ignoring the orc. “Despite the vast swaths of territory claimed by the self-proclaimed King Mathen, he controls little but the mile or so of subsistence farms outside his muddy little town of a capital and a few outlying villages—and for this honor, he has to fend off regular attacks by centaurs and plains elves. The people mostly stay because they can barely afford to do that, and certainly not to move back to more settled territory. Mathenon’s sole profitable resource is that it lies directly on the trade route between the Dwarnskolds and the Tyr Valley. Unfortunately, when he attempted to impose a tax on the dwarven caravans passing through the area, the Kingdom of Venterskald sent a few regiments to express King Yardgren’s opinion of some human trying to claim ownership of routes they had used freely for centuries. In the end, the best Mathenon manages to do is trade with the caravans; they do a fairly brisk business in traveling supplies, serving merchant trains and adventurers like ourselves heading into the Wyrnrange or the Golden Sea.”

“Adventurers into the Wyrnrange?” Arachne raised an eyebrow. “Why? Unless you’re taking on the Venomfont or the Tomb of Sypraxis, there’s nothing in there but dragons. Only idiots try to plunder a dragon’s hoard.”

Another silence fell, the three staring at her mutely. Even the lute faltered.

“Anyhow,” she continued, seemingly unfazed, “the history lesson is very interesting, but…”

“Oh, it’s immediately relevant, I assure you,” Eidelaire said. “The point of this recitation is that Mathen is, to put it mildly, a very weak king. He has little power to stop any operations set up within his borders, and if said operation happens to bring some additional commerce his way… Well, he’s not about to kick up a fuss about that, now is he?”

“I’m sensing at the end of this ramble is an operation you want stopped,” she said dryly.

“There is,” Shizaar interjected. “Sorry, Eidelaire, but you’ll be all night at this if we let you.” She turned her concealing hood to face the elf directly. “Our target has constructed an arena to the south of the capital, Mathenhold, in the foothills of the Wyrnrange itself. There, he is hosting gladiatorial games. His scouts go out to recruit contenders from Mathenon’s villages, dwarf caravans, passing adventurers…whoever they can find. It’s not a populous region, but there are folk there and folk passing through—and plenty of those folk are desperate enough to do what might otherwise be unthinkable for the right price. The winners of his grand tournament earn a monetary prize, which is partially distributed among their relatives and neighbors, thus keeping the locals passive and tolerant of his activities.”

“Why is this a problem, then?” Arachne asked skeptically. “Gladiatorial fighting is a little crude, but it happens all over the place. It sounds like this character is giving a boost to an economy that desperately needs one.”

Shizaar drew in a deep breath and let it out in an audible hiss. “The fights…are to the death. The acceptable contenders are exclusively women. Young, attractive women. And the prize is that the victor spends the year as the arena master’s personal…consort. Or at least, unless she perishes during one of the non-tournament bouts he hosts to keep himself and his audiences entertained in the off-season. That happened to the first year’s girl. Last year’s failed to produce a child, which seems to be what he’s after. The third tournament season is just now starting.”

Arachne mulled that in silence for a moment. “Well,” she said at last, “it does have a certain barbaric splendor, doesn’t it?”

“You think so?” Shizaar asked with dangerous calm.

“Oh, don’t mistake me,” the elf said. “This asshole needs to die, urgently. Consider me tentatively in, providing there are no more deal-breaking details to be revealed. It’s a worthy cause, so I won’t even gouge you too heavily. What are the specifics? What’s the plan, what’s my role in it, how does it pay?”

“Glad you asked!” Eidelaire said brightly. “I’m sure you’ve sussed out the reason behind the somewhat…peculiar requirements I mentioned.”

“Creepy requirements, you mean. Most of the people who want specifically female mages, or specifically female anything… Well, I agreed to meet in part because I half-expected to need to vaporize you assholes for the same reason you’re going after this guy.”

“You have decided we’re not assholes, then?” Rann asked mildly.

“Tentatively,” she said, winking. He grunted.

“We need someone who can infiltrate the arena in the role of a contender,” Shizaar said firmly. “Rann and I can get in easily enough as spectators, and Eidelaire may have some luck opening doors; bards are welcome wherever there’s entertainment planned.”

“Or where there’s not!” Eidelaire chimed in.

“But,” Shizaar continued, “this will in part be a fact-finding mission. A frontal assault is unlikely to be a viable prospect, considering the small group being sent. We need to be able to penetrate every aspect of the operation, which means having a pretty woman to get into the gladiator barracks. I’m afraid I won’t do.”

She lifted both hands and drew back her hood. Shizaar wasn’t any great beauty, though she had the simple attractiveness of youth and good health. Her dark hair was pulled back in a taut braid, and most strikingly, a silver eagle’s wing tattoo covered half her face, marking her as a Silver Huntress. Enough of the feathers had been filled in to indicate she had an impressive rank for someone her age. The tattoos were sometimes imitated, but nothing except the rites of the Sisterhood of Avei produced that distinct, faintly luminous silver ink.

“I,” she said with a dry smile, “would stick out. Our quarry is not fool enough to think a Huntress would be there for any reason except to end his operation.”

“Well, that does make me feel better about this whole affair,” Arachne said. “If the Sisterhood is funding us, we should be well-equipped and fairly compensated.”

“Nobody said the Sisterhood is supporting this mission,” Shizaar said.

“No,” Arachne replied, grinning back, “but if they weren’t, you’d have denied it just now. Besides, it’s the only thing that makes any sense. This is exactly the kind of thing Avei would go out of her way to address, and not a job that would appeal to most adventurers on its own merits. Also, calling it a ‘mission’ is pretty much a giveaway.”

“Oh, don’t make that face, Shizaar, she’s got you there,” Eidelaire said cheerfully. “You’re not wrong, Arachne. The original cast of this little drama were selected entirely on the basis of the esteem in which they were held by the Sisters. We’re potentially useful here because we don’t look like a passel of Avenists, but each of us has—some more than others—acted in Avei’s service before, and feels reason to do so again.”

“Oh?” The elf gave Rann a curious look. He munched on a handful of peas, ignoring it.

“However,” Eidelaire continued, “while the up-front pay is, shall we say, modest, there is the prospect of significant reward. You will be entitled to a pick of the loot from the arena.”

“We’re looting it, now?” she said, folding her arms. “A minute ago this was being pitched to me as a reconnaissance mission.”

“Fact-finding is a necessary first step, but it’s only that,” Shizaar replied. “We are being sent to put an end to this operation. Exactly how we go about doing so will depend upon what we find; our current information is rather vague. The arena may enjoy considerable support among the local populace, which would make things difficult. If we cannot organize any kind of uprising, it might come down to assassinating the arena master.”

“I don’t see why that isn’t Plan A,” Arachne said.

“Well,” the bard replied, wincing, “that’s for the same reason that there’s the prospect of substantial treasure to be distributed when it’s done. We don’t know if anyone’s actually tried to kill Zanzayed the Blue, but we can safely say no one has succeeded.”

Another pause fell, during which she stared at him, then at Shizaar.

“By ‘the Blue,” she said, “you mean…?”

“Yes,” Shizaar nodded. “Blue dragon.”

“All…right,” Arachne said slowly. “I take it back. I’m gonna gouge you a little.”

“And now you see why we needed you,” Eidelaire said. “We not only need a fairly good-looking woman, but someone who knows her way around arcane magic.”

“Hold up,” she interrupted. “What happened to your last mage? In the market you said you had, and I quote, ‘a sudden opening.’”

Shizaar snorted loudly.

“Raitha is indisposed,” Eidelaire said carefully.

“How indisposed?”

“The clap,” Rann said. “Darese shingles, looked like.”

“You looked?” Shizaar exclaimed.

“I’m the healer,” he said with a shrug. Arachne, meanwhile, was visibly trying not to grin. “Anyhow, that’s the downside of this area being so dedicated to Avei. There’s not a temple to Izara for miles in any direction. Means there are whores here who cater to anybody, and noplace nearby to get treated for what you always get from whores.”

“Rann, we talked about this,” Eidelaire said gently. “This whole thing isn’t a suitable discussion for mixed company. It’s not delicate.”

The orc grunted. “The more you explain what is and isn’t delicate, the more certain I am I don’t want to be, either.”

“This Raitha sounds like a good time,” Arachne said, grinning openly now.

Shizaar sighed. “Yes, fine, enjoy your amusement at a good woman’s expense. The point is, we have a need, and you fit the bill. Knowing what you do now, are you still interested?”

“I hope you’re not thinking of…duking it out with this Zanzibar character.”

“Zanzayed,” Shizaar corrected.

“Whatever. My point is, there are very few mages who are capable of matching a blue dragon, even if he’s a young one, for power.”

“And you’re not one of those few?” Rann asked.

“That’s beside the issue,” Arachne said, scowling. “Those few who can wouldn’t try to do it. The only certainty is collateral damage. A contest between mages isn’t like arm wrestling; how much power a person has matters much less than how they use it. Dragons think quickly, faster than most mortals, and they have entire senses that none of us do. Out-magicking a blue dragon is very much not a probability.”

“As was said earlier,” Eidelaire said, “a frontal assault was never part of our plan. If it does come to taking out Zanzayed, the word used, I believe, was ‘assassination.’ Dragons have been killed, you know. Generally by adventurers, not armies or wizards.”

“Adventurers?” She snorted expressively. “Hands of Avei, maybe. Archmages. Archdemons.”

“Not necessarily,” Shizaar said. “Others have done it; all it takes is being well-coordinated and competent. Zanzayed shares the weakness of most of his kind: he has lacked meaningful challenges for a very long time. We have every chance of taking him by surprise if we are careful.”

“Hm,” Arachne mused, frowning into the distance and rubbing her chin. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but is ‘asking politely’ one of our possible plans? With dragons, you can often get further with diplomacy than anything else.”

“We’ll consider that among other alternatives when we get there and have looked around,” said Shizaar. “I really don’t expect him to be amenable to talking about it, however. If that still looks likely when we’ve examined the situation, it’s probably better not to try; that would only warn him of our presence and intentions.”

Eidelaire chuckled. “’Tael nae d’Wyrn,’ as the saying goes.”

Rann frowned at him. “What is that gibberish?”

“It’s Tanglic,” said Arachne. “’Don’t tell the Wyrm,’ though what that means…”

“It’s a proverb from back home,” Eidelaire said airily. “Yes, that’s the translation, but what it means, roughly, is ‘you can’t tell a dragon anything.’”

“Did you say ‘wyrn’ or ‘wyrm?’” Shizaar asked, frowning.

“Same word, mispronounced as it travels around languages,” he said, straightening up and smiling. “It’s actually really fascinating how—”

“Things which are interesting to bards are not necessarily interesting to normal people,” Arachne interrupted. “All right, enough jibber jabber, I’m in. So let’s talk details. How do you get rid of a horny dragon?”

 

The journey overland from northern Viridill to the wild territory in which the “kingdom” of Mathenon sat took nearly two months on foot. The party was prevented from acquiring mounts because Rann refused to use any feet from his own for spiritual reasons, and Shizaar approved this, as it suited her own inclination to scout ahead and to the group’s flanks as they ventured into the wilderness. Eidelaire bemoaned this delay and discomfort, but Arachne seemed to have no opinion one way or another.

Only a few days from the town, just out of sight of the mountaintop Temple complex itself, they were intercepted and pursued by about twice their number of Narisian drow, ultimately taking shelter in an abandoned shrine to some forgotten deity driven away Avei’s worship long ago. It conveniently was made of sturdy marble and had only one door. Arachne was able to put a barrier across this which held against the drow’s attacks, magical and physical, without seeming effort.

They were only besieged a few hours before being rescued by four Silver Huntresses and three times that number of soldiers from the League of Avei; the drow, ever pragmatic, fled at the first sight of a significant force rather than waste their numbers in a losing fight.

Ultimately, they spent the night at the shrine, along with their new friends, with whom Shizaar eagerly exchanged news. The troops seemed leery of Rann, but the stoic orc never gave anyone cause for hostility. From this encounter, they learned that the pass they had intended to use was blocked by a rockfall; efforts were underway to clear it, but this was likely to be the work of months.

The obstruction meant they had to go around the mountains rather than through them. They were already near the edge of the Viridill range, but this still meant a wide swing to the east and back, which added weeks to the journey. Shizaar became increasingly stingy with provisions; she hunted game for them nearly every day, and Rann foraged skillfully for edible vegetation. They never faced real hunger, nor thirst, even as they left the foothills behind and set forth into the prairie, for Arachne was able to conjure water at need. It tasted flat and stale, but hydrated the body when natural sources couldn’t be found.

North they traveled, with the forbidding black peaks of the Wyrnrange rising on their left. The mountains provided some shade as the days wore into their hottest hours, which came as a blessing, as the heat of the prairie was fierce at this time of year. Rann’s magic could soothe bodily aches, and he offered herbal salves against sunburn; Arachne could summon small clouds to provide shade, and even cooling mist at times, though she reserved this luxury for extremely hot days. Throwing arcane magic around, she said, was a sure way to attract the prairie’s denizens. The mage felt she could probably reason with plains elves, but if centaurs fell upon them there would be nothing for it but to fight.

Despite the roughness of the travel, the group made good time, none of their number holding them back. Shizaar and Rann, of course, were hardy and well accustomed to the outdoors; Eidelaire, despite his foppish appearance and mannerisms, walked without complaint or apparent discomfort, even entertaining his companions with songs and stories as they went. Arachne described herself as a “city girl,” but even so had no more trouble with the pace and the elements than any of them. She did complain, but only periodically, and in the good-natured manner of someone who just liked the sound of her own voice.

For the most part they did manage to avoid conflict. Three times bands of plains elves appeared in the distance; on each occasion, Arachne placed herself between them and the party, and the groups always retreated back into the prairie after several hours, and without coming close enough to be clearly seen. Arachne insisted they were within the range of elvish eyes, though, which was the point. Avoiding parties of centaurs was a more serious matter, and whenever Rann’s invisible (except to him) spirit companions warned of their approach, the group cut westward toward the mountains.

Though this worked well enough most of the time, they were twice pursued. Both times, Arachne and Rann’s magics proved sufficient to drive the small bands away before they came in range of Shizaar’s bow. An entire herd veered toward them midway through their journey, however, forcing them to retreat right into the foothills, where the centaurs would not follow, but which held their own dangers.

The Wyrnrange was so named because it was known to be dragon territory; only gnomes passed through the mountains with impunity, and only because they treated dragons politely and had been taught draconic etiquette which they did not share with outsiders. There were rumored groups of dragonsworn deep in the mountains, of entire villages devoted to the service of one wyrm or another, though of course the party never progressed far enough in to find any such.

All in all, the journey was an adventure, though a minor one by the standards of all four of them; Eidelaire didn’t consider any of their encounters worth composing a song about. It served them well, however. Despite the fortunate lack of reasons to fight, they did learn to get along and anticipate one another’s movements to an extent, and were not a group of complete strangers when their destination hove into view.

Once they veered back onto the plains, it was only another six days of walking before the dark battlements of Zanzayed’s arena appeared on the northern horizon. Now began the true adventure.

 

It was a lonely scar upon the prairie. Made of the dark volcanic stone of the Wyrnrange, the arena was distant enough from even the foothills that hauling its pieces out here had to have been a significant effort—though not so much as that represented by the massive timbers which also went into its construction. They were clearly of Wyrnrange pine, but those grew even deeper into the mountains. Harvesting resources from land patrolled by dragons was an ominous prospect indeed. The arena was roughly made, sturdy but clearly not intended to be a great edifice. It might well last the test of ages, though, simply due to its solid construction. Its sheer size would have represented years of work by mortal hands, or perhaps weeks of work by a combination of such hands and the magics of a blue dragon.

Or perhaps mortals had not been involved at all.

It had entrances on three sides, apparently—each cardinal direction except west. The main gate on the east side, through which they passed, opened onto a dirt road which cut through an improvised huddle of inns, shops and lean-to dwellings, with tents scattered around their periphery. Three years on, some few of the buildings were starting to take on a little permanence, though none looked like they would survive a significant storm. There was another town within view to the northeast, and another small road leading to it. The arena’s little community lay along a path to the old dwarven trade road which ran nearby, from which most of its commerce flowed.

Deciding not to do anything so overtly suspicious as circle around the walls studying them, the group from Viridill had bought their tickets—four coppers apiece, to Rann’s utter disgust—and made their way in. They had to pause almost immediately in the welcome shadow of a long tunneled achway while Eidelaire attempted to shmooze the gate guards for information.

“I want to punch that guy,” Rann growled, glaring at the roughly-armored guard who had taken their money.

“We all want to punch the guy,” Arachne said soothingly, patting his shoulder. “Patience.”

“Because he is part of an utterly villainous scheme, or because the tickets are overpriced?” Shizaar asked dryly.

Rann grunted. “Second one. People caught up in villainous schemes are usually just trying to survive. Four coppers, though? Robbery.”

“Not the friendliest staff I’ve ever had the pleasure of interacting with,” Eidelaire commented, swaggering back over to them. “That fellow gets no tip, just in case anyone was tempted.”

“Damn,” Arachne said, deadpan. “Now I have to recalculate my whole budget.”

“You weren’t able to learn anything useful?” Shizaar asked.

“Oh, I very much doubt he knew anything useful,” the bard replied with an eloquent shrug. “I was looking for an in, but this isn’t a friendly, talkative sort of guard. He’s more the ‘not my bloody job’ kind of guard. To play that angle I’m going to have to hunt down somebody in some degree of charge. Ah, well! Shall we?”

Almost everyone they passed gave them curious looks; they were an interesting-looking party. Orcs were a rare sight in this region, as were wood elves, and Eidelaire’s lute and flute case drew eager smiles. Everyone was happy to see a bard, even if their entertainment was already being provided. At least they were focused enough on the games that nobody stopped him to ask for a song. Shizaar drew more than her share of suspicion, as was only to be expected, considering how she kept her hood drawn well over her face. It wasn’t really optional, though. Considering what was going on in this arena, any sign of a Silver Huntress would immediately be taken as a threat.

They climbed a flight of broad stairs along with the other spectators ascending, mostly an easily-distinguishable mix of beaten-down-looking farm folk from nearby and better-dressed traveling merchants and members of their retinues. The steps led to the actual seats of the arena—nothing fancy, of course, just rising rings with low benches. They had a roof, however, shading the spectators and leaving only the arena floor to be beaten upon by the prairie sun. People milled about, sitting, talking, watching the show, some lurking in dark corners at the rear of the stands, clearly up to no good.

To avoid the appearance of being up to equally no good—for those shady characters were getting scrutiny both from fellow customers and the guards that occasionally passed through—the party took seats at the very front, after traveling far enough to find a spot where they had no neighbors within earshot. There, they set to studying their environs.

Banners hung from the pillars holding up the roof, decorating the arena; they were plain blue, with no device. Two especially long ones flanked the box which perched on the western side of the stands, walled off from the common seating areas and furnished much more extravagantly, to judge by the scraps of curtain and carpeting visible. It had its own blue silk awning, positioned to shade the box and also protect it from view; its occupants sat well back from the edge, deep in the shadows. Arachne peered at this through narrowed eyes for a while, her elven vision apparently enough to penetrate the gloom, though the others didn’t press her for details at that time.

Interestingly, the rare guards were all female, and wore leather armor that, while clearly ceremonial (it was designed more to display than to protect) was well-fitted to each of them. They carried spears and short swords which were starkly functional, and though they strutted a bit, each of the women were muscular and held those weapons in a way that suggested they were acquainted with their use.

“Apparently there’s a career to be had here even if you don’t win,” Eidelaire murmured.

“That’s not what my intelligence suggested,” Shizaar replied.

“Hm.”

Below, there were several things going on, seemingly without rhyme or reason. Three separate pairs dueled on the arena floor; around its periphery was set up an obstacle course, with women running it at various stages. Looking from above, it wasn’t obvious where the thing began or ended, and nobody seemed to be supervising.

As they watched, a girl who couldn’t have been out of her teens was knocked backward by her opponent, who appeared little older but had a full head of height on her. The taller woman’s spear made good use of that asset, particularly against her sword-wielding foe.

The younger woman tried to rise and got a jab in the chest with the butt of the spear for her trouble. She rolled nimbly to the side, evading another such jab, but as she finally bounded to her feet was immediately sent crashing down again, her legs swept out from under her by the long haft of the weapon.

The spear-carrier stomped hard on her foe’s hand, forcing her to drop the blade and eliciting a shriek of pain, audible even over the mix of groans and cheers from the half-filled stands. Grinning savagely, the taller woman raised her weapon overhead, point aimed downward.

“Alethia,” a voice rang out, its tone mild but its volume clearly amplified by magic, “you know my rules. Control yourself.”

The spear-wielder flinched, then paused, halting her attack, and said something to her foe which was lost in the noise of the crowd. She apparently didn’t like whatever response she got, for she spun the spear to reverse it and slammed the butt down on the swordswoman’s midsection.

The younger girl curled up on herself, retching and gasping, and the victor stepped back, raising her weapon overhead in both hands and pumping it up and down, grinning up at the roar of approbation from the crowd. She finally turned and planted it point-down in the dirt, bowing deeply toward the box, from which came no audible response.

“Now that is interesting,” Eidelaire said, pointing; the fallen swordswoman was being helped up by another woman in a pale dress. Though all the contenders they could see, either dueling or running the obstacle course, were human, the one now helping the defeated combatant limp from the arena was an elf. “For several reasons.”

“She’s local,” Arachne said. “Or relatively so. A plains elf, anyway.”

“How can you tell?” Rann asked curiously. “Tribal markings?”

“It’s the shape of the ears, old fellow,” Eidelaire said with a wink. “Wood elves have ears that stick straight up, like our companion’s, here. Plains elves have horizontal ones, like that. Out to the sides. More immediately, I noted that they don’t seem to be big on killing, here.”

“At least not in these games,” Shizaar murmured. “They seem rather…preliminary. Disorganized at least.”

Arachne flagged down a vendor who had been shouting about hot wine, bread and sausage.

“The fights aren’t to the death?” she asked him casually as she handed over coins and accepted snacks for the group.

The man brayed a laugh, revealing a mouth only half-full of teeth. “Haw! Waste of good womanflesh, that. The master, he ain’t the wasteful type, see? Nah, the girls get their exercise, and them as gets too bloodthirsty, they gets disqualified, see? The Big Z’s after a dragonmother—wants a good fighter, not a crazy bitch. ‘Ere, now, you plannin’ on steppin’ into the ring?” He eyed her up and down, which made Shizaar stiffen, but his look was more curious than lustful. “Dunno much ’bout elves, beggn’ yer pardon. You don’t look too scrappy, but mebbe that’s just how your kind is.”

“Up to a point, yes,” she said dryly. “What about the elf who helped that gladiator off?”

“Aye, the menders is all elves. A plains tribe what helps out the Master. You lot enjoy that, now!”

He moved off, hawking his wares again.

“This is terrible,” said Rann, who had already eaten half his share.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve had worse,” Eidelaire said with a grin.

“Hn,” the orc grunted, nodding. “It’s better than I was expecting. Better than most arena food. Still crap.”

“It seems your intelligence was in error, then,” Arachne commented to Shizaar, who was holding a piece of bread-wrapped sausage without making any move with it toward her face.

“Indeed. This is why we do recon before attacking anyone.”

“We’ve learned some interesting things already,” Eidelaire commented, watching another injured gladiator being removed by elves. This one was fully unconscious, and had to be carried off by two of them, one male, one female. “For the time being, I suggest was park it here, get a feel for how the games proceed. Perhaps we’ll hear some more from our scaly friend, too.”

“Mm,” Arachne murmured. “For now, sure. Later, though… Are we staying in the town?”

“In the village,” Shizaar said. “I don’t trust the inn nearby. We can lay more plans there, but at the moment, our talents might be better used splitting up.”

“Quite so,” Eidelaire commented, discreetly nibbling around the gristle in his sausage. “I’ll get myself into circulation anon. Everyone talks to a bard.”

“And I’ll slip below and have a word with the staff,” Arachne said more grimly. “I would very much like to know what the hell elves think they’re doing participating in this nonsense.”

“Rann and I had probably better remain up here,” Shizaar said, getting a grunt of agreement from the orc. “There’s little acceptable excuse for us to be poking around below, and someone should stay and try to learn the rhythms of these…games. That being the case, though, I think you two can get started as soon as possible.”

“In a bit,” Arachne said distractedly, then leaned forward over the rail, shouting. “Oh, come on, hit her! You’re not even trying!”

Shizaar sighed.

 

The village was easily visible from the arena, but distance on the prairie was deceptive. It was a good hour’s walk to reach it, and they didn’t set out until near dusk when their various investigations were complete. It was dark by the time they arrived, and then they had to find an inn with space available. Fortunately the little town had multiple inns, due to its proximity to the trade route; unfortunately, due to the arena and the presence of several merchant caravans, there was not much space to be had. Eventually they had to settle for a single room, at a price that made Rann grind his teeth.

Once there, though, they saved money by eating the remains of their provisions around the room’s little fire and talking in privacy, Arachne having warded the walls against eavesdroppers.

“It’s pragmatism, not any particular desire to participate,” the mage was saying. “At least according to the two I spoke to, and I see no reason to argue with them. The dozen or so elves here feel they can do some good by making themselves useful, mostly as healers; their tribe is staying out of sight of the caravan route, but they’re nearby. Close enough to be fetched by runner within a few days. They aren’t about to go toe-to-toe with the dragon, but… Both of them hinted broadly that if somebody turned up with a plan and a worthwhile chance of bringing Zanzayed down, they’d be inclined to be helpful.”

“Allies, then,” Rann grunted.

“Possibly,” Arachne said, frowning. “There are a lot of uncertainties, there. Depends on what they’d consider a worthwhile chance…and even so, what they’d be willing to do. Elves are cautious as a rule; any plan that involves attacking him outright isn’t likely to impress them. Let me emphasize that I got hints, not promises.”

“This will not be done in a day,” Shizaar mused. “I am reassured that women are not being slain over this frivolity. We have time, at least, to lay plans.”

“Doesn’t that change the entire character of the matter, though?” Eidelaire asked. “Don’t hit me, Shizaar, but… If he’s not killing women, is this really something that needs to be stopped?”

“It’s a lot less urgent,” Arachne said before the Huntress could reply, perhaps luckily for Eidelaire. “Yes, he’s contributing to the economy and providing entertainment…”

“From what I learned,” the bard said, “the gifts victorious girls bring back to their own families are substantial. Perhaps trivial to a dragon with a solid hoard to his name, but beyond the dreams of peasant folk like these. Only those who make the semifinals and above win anything, but still, that’s a significant boost for each family affected and a lesser one for everybody with whom they do business. I ask again, if he’s not killing the girls, where’s the harm?”

“I wasn’t finished,” Arachne said sharply. “The harm is that he’s training all these people to be dependent on his handouts, to pursue this foolishness instead of their own livelihoods, to judge the intrinsic value of their sisters and daughters by their youth and physical beauty. These are the first steps toward completely overthrowing a society. In settled places, there will be temples, governments and cultural institutions to counteract the influence of people like Zanzayed; out here, he’s going to become some kind of savage warlord this way. Bad enough if that’s his intention; worse if means to just fly off when he has what he wants and leave everybody to welter in the barbarism he’s fostered. So, yes, it’s less urgent. Maybe not a matter that was worth rushing across the countryside to put an immediate stop to. Still something that deserves to be addressed, however. I might not have agreed to come if I’d known this was all we’d find, but we’re here, and I think this is still worth doing.”

“Zanzayed seems the kind of asshole who needs to be stopped,” Rann said. “But perhaps not the kind who needs to die.”

“Well said,” Arachne replied with a grin.

“Have you ever studied Avenist theology?” Shizaar asked the mage. “You explain some of its points very clearly.”

“That’s a discussion for another time,” Arachne said evasively. “More urgently, can we go back to the very first suggestion I made, back in Viridill? Zanzayed isn’t depraved enough to be murdering women for his amusement; perhaps he can still be talked down from this idiocy.”

“It’s worth considering,” Shizaar allowed.

“Tael nae d’Wyrn,” Eidelaire quoted, grinning.

“Stop saying that,” Arachne snapped.

“Anyway,” he went on, “if we’re agreed this doesn’t need to be resolved in any crashing hurry, I’ll have time to do some more poking around. I might even be able to get an audience with His Blueness himself!” He winked. “Like I keep telling you guys, everybody loves a bard.”

“Everybody who hasn’t traveled with one,” Rann muttered.

“That being decided,” Shizaar said, standing, “I am going to return to the arena.”

“What?” Arachne frowned. “Now?”

“It is dark, and will be relatively empty,” the Huntress said, already moving toward the window. She pushed open its shutters, peering out. “I am more than capable of moving stealthily, at need, and this is a good opportunity to familiarize myself with the layout. I might learn something useful, besides.”

“There’s stealth, and then there’s stealth,” Arachne warned. “The elves don’t sleep there, but they keep odd hours. I’m no expert on the magic of plains elves; I won’t promise they can’t detect you creeping around.”

“They may also be willing to aid us, you said,” Shizaar replied calmly. “I will be careful, Arachne. I consider this a risk worth taking; it is not my intention to confront anyone. Meet me in the stands tomorrow.”

With that curt farewell, she vanished over the sill. There wasn’t even a sound of her hitting the ground below.

Eidelaire sighed, getting up to pull the window shut. “Well, I guess she’s getting out of paying the entrance fee tomorrow. If we’re going to be around long, we should see if there are season passes available.”

 

There were a variety of games being played at any given time. There were the straightforward gladiatorial bouts, of course, and even those came in different types. Duels were crowd-pleasers, especially when taking place between two popular gladiators, but there were also wider melees with multiple combatants, and engagements of small teams.

In addition to the hand-to-hand combat, there were timed races, both of foot speed and through the obstacle course. Athletic contests of various kinds also occurred; archery and javelin-throwing, unsurprisingly, were popular, but there were also displays of weight lifting, high-jumping and various other feats which amounted to little more than party tricks.

The arena never allowed spectators to forget its true purpose, however. While shows of martial prowess predominated, they never went long without pausing for displays of feminine beauty. Contestants danced to the sound of a small group of musicians, posed in various states of undress, and wrestled. Nude. In mud.

“It’d degrading and exploitative, to be sure,” Arachne mused, rubbing her chin as she stared thoughtfully down at two lithe, barely-clothed young women having what could only be described as a dance-off. They alternated playing to the crowd with showing very aggressive body language at each other. She’d seen a few exotic dancers in her time, but rarely any so lean and muscular. “Still… It almost seems churlish to complain about that when women elsewhere are being forced into prostitution and all manner of subjugation.”

“Hn.”

“However all this ends, Zanzayed is going to leave behind more than a handful of young women who are less likely than most to be dragged into a corner by some thug.”

“Hm.”

“The real problem here is economics. None of the prizes he’s paying out compare to what he rakes in. Especially when the bookies work for him, which I’ll bet my ears they all do. Admission fees alone are exorbitant, and what the shitty food costs… The brilliance of it is he’s got a total monopoly on entertainment in the whole area. The locals have nothing to do but farm and contemplate their grim futures, and the caravaners and adventurers love having something to stop and watch in the middle of this wilderness.”

“Nhn.”

“If half of what Eidelaire’s heard this morning is true, Zanzayed’s gradually drawing in every musician and artist in the kingdom, not to mention monopolizing the blacksmiths, leatherworkers, stonemasons, healers… He’s suborning the entire economy bit by bit, and Mathen can’t do a damn thing about it. I wonder if Blue boy is doing this on purpose, or just doesn’t care, as long as it gets him what he wants.”

“Mm.”

“It’s believable he’s having trouble conceiving. Dragons don’t breed easily, and most of the ways they have around it are the province of the greens. Arcane magic doesn’t lend itself readily to biological effects.”

“Mhm.”

“Either way…he’s going to leave the economy of this whole region in tatters when he leaves. If he leaves. Do you suppose that’s worse than him actually overthrowing the kingdom? Dragon-led nations have existed, but they tend to attract all manner of violence from their neighbors.”

“Hmp.”

“I wonder… If we chase him off, we’ll be doing a lot of that damage ourselves. Makes you stop and consider, doesn’t it?”

“Hn.”

She glanced up at him and spoke more gently.

“She’ll be all right, Rann.”

The orc’s broad shoulders swelled in a huge sigh. “She should have met us long since.”

“She said ‘tomorrow.’ It’s still tomorrow.”

“It’s past noon!”

“Shizaar can handle herself as well as any of us,” the elf said, patting his shoulder.

“This place is simply not big enough for an experienced scout to take so long to investigate it,” he growled. “And now, and for half the day, it has been active. Something has gone wrong. What do your ears tell you?”

“A great deal of irrelevant minutia,” she said, removing her gaze from the dancers below to scan the stands. “The thousand tiny dramas that occur whenever you get this many people under one roof. There’s a dead spot, though, over there.” She nodded across the way at Zanzayed’s shaded box. “Silence from within, and I can feel the magic laid over it.”

“That’s where she is,” Rann growled, starting to rise. “She’s being held—”

“Stop!” Arachne snapped, yanking him back down by the shoulder. She hadn’t a fraction of his muscle; he clearly sat because he chose to, but at least he did. “There’s no reason to think Zanzayed is planning to entrap us. A sonic dead zone is a very basic privacy measure when he’s clearly taking women to bed and has a staff consisting partly of elves. Besides, not hearing Shizaar doesn’t particularly worry me, either; I can’t hear her half the time when she goes off scouting. I’ve noticed that with other Silver Huntresses. Some gift of Avei. It’s not time to panic yet, Rann.”

“Then when will it be time?” he muttered. Abruptly, the orc stiffened. “Something is about to happen.”

“Something?” She looked down at the arena floor again, then around at the stands. “What?”

“The rhythm. Can you not see it? These two days there have been general entertainments, usually multiple events at once. When they all lead toward a conclusion, there is always a change of venue. See?”

Indeed, the dancers had finished their performance, to a chorus of hoots and whistles from the audience. There were also a few runners staggering to a halt at the end of their track, looking slightly winded and more than slightly annoyed; their event had clearly not been the center of attention while the dance was going on. A pair of duelists had just finished up and one was being carried out, the winner looking as cheated as the racers; a last duel was still in session, but obviously coming to an end, one woman limping and being chased in futile circles by a more agile opponent.

“Eidelaire’s coming back this way,” Arachne murmured, cocking her head to listen. The bard was not yet in view.

Rann nodded. “He saw what I saw. Bards are sensitive to these rhythms.”

“Rhythms in general, I should think.”

The reaction from the crowd stole the show from the dancers when the wounded, retreating gladiator suddenly sprung forward from her “injured” leg, slamming the pommel of her sword into her opponent’s throat and decisively wiping the victorious smirk from her face. The other woman went down, gagging and clutching at her neck; the victor brandished her blade, grinning despite being unable to stand up properly.

“Nothing?” Eidelaire asked under the cover of wild cheering as he rejoined them.

“Nothing pertinent to us,” Arachne replied. “Did you see that? I’m thinking of financing one of these arenas myself. That was awesome.”

“I’ll refrain from telling Shizaar you said that,” he promised solemnly.

“If we ever see her again,” Rann growled.

“It’s about at the point where I think we can start worrying,” Arachne said grudgingly. “I have trouble imagining what could keep her from reporting back to us by now.”

“I think we passed that point a few hours ago,” the bard replied, frowning. “The question becomes, what to do about it? Whatever she ran afoul of was either the dragon himself or one of his agents. Something that we should hesitate to challenge.”

“It would be wise to hesitate,” Rann said. “That doesn’t mean we should.”

The roar of the crowd had diminished notably, but at its sudden swell, all three of them turned to see what the source was.

Zanzayed the Blue had finally made his appearance.

He had stepped up to the small balcony on the front of his shaded box, and now stood with his arms spread, smirking smugly as he accepted the adulation of the crowd. There was enough adulation that he didn’t look at all foolish in the process; clearly he was a popular figure here. He could have passed for a half-elf, if not for his jewel-like eyes and cobalt hair. He was also extremely effeminate, and not merely because of his delicate features. His hair was waist-length and brushed to a glossy sheen, held back with extravagantly jeweled combs; he wore a rich blue silk robe so thoroughly embroidered with golden thread that the overall effect was nearly green when one squinted.

“Are we all enjoying the show?” the dragon asked, his voice a calm and conversational tone which nonetheless boomed throughout the arena.

The crowd roared even more vigorously.

“I think,” Eidelaire noted, “if we end up having to fight this guy, we won’t be able to count on much local support.”

“Let’s try not to fight the dragon,” Arachne said. “If he won’t see reason, we’ll work out how to assassinate him.”

Rann grunted.

“I’m glad to see so many faces here today,” the dragon said, grinning. “Because I have a special treat for you all!”

“I have a terrible feeling,” Rann muttered as the crowd brayed around them again, “that I know what’s about to happen.”

Four women had appeared from floor-level doorways next to Zanzayed’s box and paced toward the middle of the arena, where they took up positions roughly encircling its center.

“You know the front-runners in the tournament, I’m sure,” the dragon said, “but I think these ladies have more than earned an introduction! From the sunny shores of the far West, she has come in search of…”

“He’s actually quite the showman,” Eidelaire commented as the dragon continued, pausing as the first gladiatrix’s introduction concluded to a roar of approbation from the spectators. “You don’t often see that in these ancient, powerful immortal types. They rarely have a need to impress anyone.”

“How ancient is he?” Rann asked, scowling. “He behaves like a self-important youth. From the dress on down.”

“Something happening in the middle, there,” Arachne said as the introductions continued. “He’s setting up a spell right between the four of them…”

“A spell?” Ran frowned. “What kind?”

“Mm… Oh, I see, it’s actually a few woven together. Basic teleportation spell; he’s about to deposit something in the center. You don’t usually see that set up in advance, but he’s woven some visual effects into it. You’re right, Eid, he’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

“Yep,” the bard said, his attention below. “And it looks like we’re about to see the main event.”

“…any of them stand up to what I’m about to show you?” Zanzayed was crowing, having whipped the crowd into a veritable frenzy. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we? For the arena has a new contender, an agent of far-away enemies sent to sabotage your fun, my good people, and now destined to be part of it: A real, live, in the flesh Silver Huntress!”

Arachne and Eidelaire grabbed Rann by both shoulders, barely preventing him from lunging to his feet and vaulting over the rail into the arena itself.

Sparks and jets of blue flame flew; smoke billowed forth, then formed into elaborate patterns as it drifted upward and faded. When the flash and flare had subsided, standing in the center of the arena was Shizaar, her hood gone, revealing her tattooed face to the crowd.

She appeared unhappy, but unhurt. Her wrists were chained together behind her back and she’d been dressed in a pale leather outfit that was clearly of plains elf design, though someone had embroidered it with flashy golden eagle icons, clearly demonstrating her affiliation.

The crowd booed obediently; the four gladiators held their weapons at the ready, glaring at the Huntress. Shizaar turned slowly, ignoring the crowd, and gave each of them a short, calculating look before turning her gaze on Zanzayed.

“How ironic are the twists of fate,” the dragon said, grinning. “Who knows, my dear Huntress, you may find yourself winning my little tourney. I can’t help thinking you would be a splendid mother.”

“You are beyond contemptible,” Shizaar snapped, her voice echoing clearly. The onlookers jeered.

“Okay, new plan,” Arachne said, releasing Rann. “Subtle is now off the table; we’re not leaving her down there.”

“She can probably take those four—”

“That is utterly irrelevant, Eidelaire,” the mage snapped. “He is not going to do this to one of our companions. I will hold the asshole’s attention. You two get everyone out of the arena.”

“What?” Rann exclaimed. “Why? How?”

“Because any means I have at my disposal of holding his attention are going to result in widespread damage,” she said grimly. “Let’s not have any slain bystanders on our consciences if we can avoid it.” Below, Zanzayed was still chattering at Shizaar, working the crowd again.

“That leaves how,” Eidelaire remarked.

“You’re a shaman with spirit companions and a freaking bard. If you can’t move a bunch of frenzied, half-drunk idiots, I have no hope for the world.”

With that and no more ado, Arachne leaped over the rail, landing nimbly on the packed dirt below.

The tone of the crowd changed, confused murmurs rising, as the elf strode toward the gathering in the center. Zanzayed broke off mid-exhortation, turning his attention on her.

“What’s all this? I’m sorry, darling, but there is a procedure if you want to compete. Speak to the guards for an escort to the barracks. This is a scheduled event.”

“Schedule’s changed,” Arachne announced, her voice echoing throughout the arena the same way his was. Zanzayed lifted his eyebrows at that. “I have had enough of this nonsense. The Huntress is with me; you will release her immediately.”

“And why on earth should I?” he asked mildly. “I frankly resent her imposition here. Do I send agents out to meddle with Avei’s love life? Then again,” he added with a smirk, “perhaps if she had one we’d have no need for this conversation.”

The laughter from the stands only deepened Shizaar’s scowl.

“I was just wondering,” Arachne snapped, “whether the point of your operation here is to throw the economy of the whole region into shambles, or if that’s simply a side effect you don’t care about. What happens to this place when you get bored or get what you came for and leave? What happens to all these people? These women?”

The gladiators had shifted their focus to her, now, seeming not at all impressed by her concern over their futures.

“A shambles, is it,” Zanzayed said, grinning openly. “Tell me, my friends, do you feel you’re in shambles?”

A swelling tide of cheers rose up all around them—and was suddenly silenced.

Arachne held one finger in the air, staring at the dragon, who appeared startled. “I am speaking to you, y’little hooligan. All of you, shut up for a minute.”

She lowered her hand and the sound from the stands abruptly returned, though now it consisted mostly of confused, frightened whispering.

“Well, well, well,” Zanzayed purred, grinning down at her. “I do believe this is an even better prospect than the Huntress. A mage, and an elf at that! One doesn’t often see the combination. How odd that I’ve not heard of you before, my dear! Tell me, do you have a name?”

“You might know me as Arachne,” she said, folding her arms.

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh! Arachne! Actually, I have heard of you!”

“Damn right you have,” she said smugly.

“Yes!” Zanzayed cried, leaning forward over the balcony and grinning down at her. “You’re that screwloose elf who tried to sacrifice a sacred bear on an altar to Shaath and unleashed a plague on half the Stalrange!”

Her smirk vanished. “Unleash—half—it was one valley! There was hardly anyone there, and that is not the point!” Arachne pointed at Shizaar. “I’m taking my friend and leaving.”

“I think you’ll find that a difficult—huh,” he added as Shizaar vanished in a faint blue crackle of light. “Well, that’s annoying. Ladies, why is nobody stabbing this wench?”

The gladiators managed barely a step forward before all four of them went flying bodily in different directions, skidding across the ground to roll up against the walls.

“I do say that seemed rather unsporting,” Zanzayed commented. The booing crowd clearly agreed.

“This is ridiculous,” Rann muttered. “I can unleash fear into the spectators, but not without something to work with. Emotions don’t just happen.”

“Wait,” said Eidelaire. “If I know our girl, they’ll have cause to fear in just a moment.”

“Unsporting?” Arachne said, sneering. “That is not a word I expected to hear from a guy in a fruity dress who needs to build an edifice and pit the available female population against each other to have a chance of getting laid.”

The silence was astonishing. For all the people there and all their love of good drama, it seemed everyone present was keenly aware they had just seen a dragon viciously insulted to his face.

Everyone except the guy in the back who burst into gales of tenor laughter.

“Jealous, are we?” Zanzayed asked with a thin smile.

Arachne threw back her head and cackled. “Oh, come on now. Really? Seriously? ‘Jealous?’ That’s like admitting you have no rebuttal. In fact, you could probably save more face if you’d just say that! Really, who the hell are you, anyway? Zanzayed the Blue? I’ve never heard of you, and I’ve been around. Is this your first time out of the den? Are you accustomed to daddy bringing you women, already beaten compliant?”

The sounds from the stands now were shuffling and footsteps as people began discreetly moving toward the exits.

“I believe we’re irrelevant here,” Rann commented.

“Hang on,” said Eidelaire. “Can your spirits induce calm? We may need to forestall a stampede in just a minute…”

“I’ll tell you what, Arachne,” Zanzayed said with a bite in his tone. “I prefer my partners relatively enthusiastic, but if you are hellbent on scaring away all the other prospects, I guess you’ll do. Unless you would like to take yourself out of my arena, now that you have extracted your friend?”

“Well, I’ve come all this way,” she said, grinning openly and planting her fists on her hips. “Seems like it’d be a waste of the trip to slink off without kicking your scaly ass first.”

“What is she doing?” Rann whispered in horror.

“Being a distraction, and clearing the place out.” Eidelaire said. “Quite effectively, too. Really, be ready with some calming. Somebody’s gonna get trampled otherwise. I really hope Shizaar had the sense to keep going, wherever she ended up…”

The exodus from the stands was accelerating, and picked up speed further when Zanzayed stepped onto the rail of his balcony and from there jumped out.

He shifted in midair, forcing Arachne to step rapidly backward to avoid being crushed. In his full form, an enormous display of cobalt-scaled muscle and spiny wings, he filled almost half the arena floor; when he stretched up to his full height and spread his wings, the tips brushed the roof on both sides.

“I beg your pardon,” the dragon rumbled, his voice recognizably the same but now with a deep resonance that seemed to make the floor vibrate, “but you will…what, exactly?”

“You see this hand?” Arachne said, holding up her right one, palm forward.

Zanzayed bent down, bringing his nose to within a few feet of her, and grinned, displaying a terrifying arsenal of teeth. “Just barely.”

Arachne made a swatting motion, and a wagon-sized hand of blue light appeared in midair and struck him on the side of the face. The dragon squawked as his neck was whipped around, and stumbled sideways, one wing flailing awkwardly into a section of the stands that had already been cleared.

“That wasn’t the one you should’ve been looking at,” Arachne said smugly.

“Now is a good time,” Eidelaire began.

“Yes, yes,” Rann snapped. “I have been asking the spirits. This crowd is trying to panic and I cannot hold it back for long. Luckily they will be gone from the arena soon. And we should be, too!”

“But…can’t we help her?”

The orc stood, grabbing the bard by the arm and beginning to march him toward the stairs, following the last of the now-screaming onlookers. “She knows what she is doing. Hopefully.”

Zanzayed straightened up, his lips drawing back to display even more of his fangs, and opened his mouth wide, inhaling deeply as he glared down at Arachne. Flames and sparks flickered at the edges of his jaws.

Then he began choking and gagging as a huge clump of dirt struck him full in the throat.

“My, my,” Arachne said, amused. “You really are new at this, aren’t—”

She broke off, quickly throwing a sphere of blue light up around herself as the dragon’s cough turned into a gout of fire that left her standing in a patch of molten glass.

That was the last Eidelaire saw before Rann dragged him into the stairwell.

 

The evacuation was anything but orderly. Fortunately, more than the bard and the shaman were interested in keeping things from degenerating into chaos. The arena’s own guards, both the armored women and the slouching local men who manned the gates, had apparently been the first to flee, but there were also soldiers attached to various merchant trains present, and their efforts to keep their employers safe at least directed the crowd, if they did nothing to slow it.

People fled first into the inns and shops in the little village outside the arena, but even that began to clear out at the cacophony of roars, explosions and unidentifiable noise and flashes of light that started to emerge from within. By the time the story of what was going on in the arena had spread, luckily, most of those who seemed inclined to flee the area were already on the road, clearing room for the little pseudo-village to empty itself.

Most folks in local attire streamed either toward the little town in the near distance, or on the road north, toward Mathenhold. Merchant trains were getting underway as soon as oxen could be yoked, and elves discreetly slipped out into the tallgrass of the prairie. Clearing most of the bystanders from an area that size took well over an hour.

Fortunately, Shizaar found them outside, and the three were able to set themselves up about halfway to the village while Rann made a more involved communication with his spirits, sending them out to hurry the crowds along. With space to work and concentrate, he managed to keep relative calm among the evacuees, even while goading them to get away.

Eventually, though, what could be done had bee done, and there was nothing else for it but to retreat to the town, watch the arena, and wait.

The show never stopped.

Most of the distant noise was meaningless to them, but every few minutes would come something more identifiable. Multiple times lightning slashed down out of the clear sky into the arena floor. Gouts of unmistakable dragonfire flared up regularly, along with flashes of light the distinctive blue of arcane magic. The whole time, as the hour stretched out toward two, the arena steadily disintegrated, till parts of its walls were lying around it in chunks and more of the roof and timbers had burned away than still remained. Smoke drifted up steadily, marring the clear prairie sky and dimming the intermittent displays of energy from within.

At one point, a streak of fire and black smoke roared down from the sky, slamming into the side of the arena and half-collapsing its north wall.

Still, the conflict continued. Those in the village who deemed this far enough to be safe stood around with the party from Viridill, watching in silence. Everyone else had already fled. The only comfort the three companions could hold to was that as long as the action was still going on, Arachne was still alive and kicking.

Eventually, though, it wound down. Not with a bang, but fading gradually as if both combatants were simply growing tired.

“Can’t believe she said fighting dragons was a bad idea,” Rann muttered. “How many times did she say that?”

“What I want to know is why we kept running away from centaurs and elves if she could do this,” Eidelaire replied.

Shizaar just shook her head.

When the silence descended, they didn’t trust it at first, taking it for just another lull in the action. It stretched out, though, growing heavy and ominous. Around them, villagers and refugees began retreating into their homes and inns, leaving only the three and a few especially curious souls staring across the plain at the smoking, half-broken arena.

The sun had descended behind the mountains, bringing the early dusk that always fell on this region and leaving the remaining sky stained red when movement finally occurred again. In the dimness, an enormous shape rose up from the smoke, only growing distinct as it glided out from the dark haze.

The dragon was heading straight for them.

People screamed, fleeing into buildings; others fled out of buildings as the shouts spread, pelting off up the road northward.

The companions held their ground, Rann clutching his totems, Shizaar brandishing the two sabers she had somehow acquired, her own weapons having been confiscated during her capture.

Even in the darkness, the blue tint of his scales was clear. Zanzayed settled to the ground relatively gently, some ten yards distant, his azure eyes glowing in the twilight.

He was a mess. His scales were charred, one of his wing sails was torn, and his left eye seemed swollen partially shut.

And amazingly, Arachne sat perched on his neck, just before the shoulders.

The dragon knelt, then lowered himself fully to the ground, allowing her to slide down. She, too, was in visibly bad shape, her dress scorched and ripped away above the knee, showing ugly burns on her lower legs. Her hair was much shorter and badly singed; she had an impressive black eye, and her right arm was swathed in a makeshift sling.

For a moment, the dragon and elf glanced at each other, then he straightened up and coughed, emitting a puff of ill-smelling smoke.

“We’ve been having a conversation,” Zanzayed said.

“We saw it,” Shizaar replied, not lowering her weapons.

He shuffled his front feet, looking almost abashed. “Yes, well… It occurs to me that I’ve been a trifle… Inconsiderate.”

“Holy shit,” Eidelaire whispered. “You can tell the Wyrm.”

“Well,” said Arachne, pacing toward them and looking equally parts exhausted and self-satisfied. “I don’t know if you can.”

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