2:38 The other half.

Suspolin moved past Bahlzair and into the back of the apothecary with a deeper scowl etched into her dark face than usual.  Sitting at her back table with her back to the door, she dropped the roots and seeds that she had in her hand into the mortar and slammed her pestle into it as though she intended to break the thing.  Bahlzair's back stiffened at the sharp report.

Tighter crammed than normal, he thought immediately.

I know, Graz'zt responded simply, with a telepathic tone that implied a shrug.  Manifesting himself in all his dark blue hued glory, Graz'zt brushed gentle fingers on Suspolin's neck, then stood back.  Bahlzair followed his suggestion, getting up from his work to carefully begin working the apothecary's narrow shoulders with his fingers.  Suspolin was too angry to respond, so Graz'zt decided to stroke her rage as well.  Velryne was a mess, wasn't she?

"Damned sponge," Suspolin spat instantly, the fury setting each word aflame.  "All covered up, swishing by without even a nod- like I'm some slave!"  She scraped the sides of her mortar, stood to snatch some leaves from one of the hanging racks above her, then slammed herself back down on her bench.  Bahlzair, unfazed, simply began to work his way down her shoulders and up her neck as she continued to grind the ingredients into a paste.  "Piwafi weren't made to cover hangovers.  And if it weren't for me, these so-called assassins and rogues would actually have to think!  Perhaps even show some skill!"

It's a shame to make murder so easy! Graz'zt goaded, a smile playing on his lush, dark Cupid's bow lips.

"A shame," Suspolin growled.  "I must needs make alchemics so slaves can think themselves Drow- that's enough, aterruce."

But doesn't it feel good?  Graz'zt's question eased into Suspolin's mind as Bahlzair allowed the forefinger and thumb of his left hand to trail gently down the side of her taut neck.

"Get off me, I said," Suspolin huffed, shrugging her shoulders sharply.  Graz'zt, who Bahlzair could now see sitting on one of the apothecary's shelves, raised an eyebrow at her.  "Those two vials on the far table- take them to her, along with the incense."

Bahlzair deeply contemplated snapping her neck, but Graz'zt shook his head, waving his hand toward the potions she'd mentioned.  I take rejection oh so very personally, Shadowfire.  The ethereal image disappeared, and a well-fleshed female Drow appeared at the apothecary's entryway.  Her long, shock white hair was knotted up in intricate braids, and her radiant ruby eyes sliced through Bahlzair at once.  How do I look?  The female picked her left arm up at the elbow, rubbing her thumb against her fingers as though she were asking for money as she rotated her hand.  When her hand had rotated for the third time, she opened her hand, and in it lay Bahlzair's pact blade.  Kiss me one for luck?

Bahlzair, glowering at the Drow woman, moved away from Suspolin to pick up the delivery basket on the far side of his work table.  He returned to the shelves on his left to pick up the two potions and the incense, and when he turned, the woman had entered the room to tuck his pact dagger under the incense.  Her cheek was a mere inch away from his, and Bahlzair looked up from the basket, feeling the heat radiating from her face and upper body while he stared straight forward as though he could ignore it.  In a few moments, he turned his head, and the female deftly turned while backing up just enough to avoid smacking into his face.  She quickly moved back in, pressing her lips on his- gently at first, then with a gradual intensity that seemed to slow time.  The dark Elf waited for the pain that normally registered when his tongue moved, but felt only a pulsating heat that seemed to sink into his bones.  His eyes closed, and his stance softened enough for the Drow woman to work one arm under his.  She pressed her body against him, and it felt as though for a few seconds, they shared a single, powerful heart beat.  Bahlzair stayed locked into the passionate kiss until the female dark Elf retreated from him, and she, when she had, winked at him as she ran her tongue over her lips.

Presentation could use work, but- sufficient.  If you stopped pretending that pleasure was torture, perhaps I wouldn't force you to "suffer" it so often, Shadowfire.

Bahlzair lifted his head as the female strode proudly past him toward Suspolin- who still had her back toward the entrance.

"If this woman would but turn around, she would be wiser than the shadow of the void," Bahlzair groaned in his mind, still feeling the revoltingly pleasant reverberations of Graz'zt's infernal touch.

He left the apothecary, turned to his left, and began to descend the barely-necessary platforms toward the shrine.  Instead of being a simple burrow into the stone, like most of the other offices and dwellings in the cavern, the shrine was fashioned after an actual temple of Lloth.  It sported well-crafted, though structurally unnecessary, buttresses, which were supposed to give the impression of spider's legs, and had a small vestibule before a larger sanctuary area that stood to represent the spider's head and body.  It was impressive, given its surroundings, but nothing in comparison to the temple Bahlzair bitterly glared at in his youth.  It was also relatively ignored, unlike the center of worship near which he was raised, where more lives could be won, bargained for and lost than on a battlefield.

As Bahlzair neared, he noticed that the Peth, who was normally to be found in the company of Imylshalee or Nedstra, was actually scrubbing the entrance to the shrine.  She looked up when she heard Bahlzair approach, and while there was an awkward concern in her eyes, she did not seem to be enchanted.

"Watch it in there," she whispered, leaning over her sponge.  "She's in a right foul mood; bid me scrub the place like she were gonna try and summon Lolth to see the place when I were done."

Bahlzair knew Peth did not know enough Undercommon for him to get away with signing to her, but just as he began to move past her, the priestess herself appeared at the entryway to the shrine.  Her piwafi was still up over her head, and her stance was strangely more rigid than normal.  Bahlzair knelt down and put his face nearly to the ground, but listened for movement.  When he heard none, he arose, and found that she had opened her arms expectantly.  The Drow male stood and walked cautiously toward her, checking his peripheral vision as he laid his hand on top of the incense.  The female figure moved swiftly forward, closing the gap between them faster than Bahlzair had planned, and placed her slender hand on his.  Bahlzair looked up, knowing that Velryne would never touch him, yet did not make it down to his blade...

You want to leave that where it is.

...because the sudden mental suggestion was so strong that it may as well have been a command.  The creature that was most certainly not Velryne tucked her hand under the incense, found the dagger, and put it directly into Bahlzair's hand.  The blood-red eyed dark Elf looked up into wide, copper brown eyes, and found that he was lost in them the way a long lost lover might be.

You want to go back to the apothecary.

And without any contest at all, Bahlzair tucked his pact blade into a large knot in his hair, turned around, and began to move back toward the apothecary.  While it was frustrating to be enchanted not once, but twice, it marked this new creature as an interesting challenge.  Its mental tone was light and fragile, yet its power was undeniable- even for the strong-willed poisoner.

When Bahlzair arrived back at the apothecary, the strength of the suggestion wore off, leaving behind the intense desire to return to the shrine to discover and destroy the creature.  But the scene that had been prepared in his absence was too fetching to ignore.  Suspolin, completely believing that the smooth-skinned Drow woman was her new apprentice, had just put her cup down and was looking at it strangely.  Bahlzair felt as though he'd entered a five act play half way through the fourth.

"Zhah folbol l'seg'tarn?" Graz'zt's feminine Drow form asked in a charged, yet honey-soaked alto voice.  "Ol zhah lil nesst- uk uriu tuain't udossa!"  She got up as though she would move against Bahlzair, who rushed toward the back corner as Suspolin began to search for something in her multitudes of pockets.  The Drow woman smacked Suspolin's hands down, reaching out her own left hand behind the poisoner and summoning Bahlzair's pact blade directly out of his hair and to herself.  Suspolin began gagging and gasping helplessly, and Graz'zt grabbed her throat with her right hand.

"When you awaken, you will be with the Vasharans.  Let's have some fun- I'll tell them you are the avatar of Lloth.  Now, we know that's not true- but, I'm a demon, my dear.  I'm expected to lie."

Suspolin's eyes widened first in fury, then chilled into a profound terror.  The Drow woman ran Bahlzair's pact blade along the apothecary's spine gently, then pressed her cheek against Suspolin's shoulder.  Her perfectly almond shaped eyes rested on Bahlzair, gleaming with a dangerous pleasure.

"What is it they say- 'Any food may be poisoned,' hmm?  And you're the master alchemist.  Isn't it the most perfect shame?  Fortunately, it'll be no great loss to House Dhuurniv, given that you're foolish, bitter, weak- ah, and absolutely hideous."

Bahlzair moved to Suspolin's left side and and helped the Drow woman move Suspolin to her cot, where they laid her rapidly cooling body.  Once that was done, Graz'zt allowed the disguise to dissolve, stretching his features into their true forms with a sigh of relief.

I could say something trite, like 'I don't know how you mortals do it,' but that's just unnecessary, he smiled.  How did you enjoy the 'priestess?'

He's an enchanter, Bahlzair thought.  A strangely good one.

Oh, he got you? Graz'zt chuckled, flipping Bahlzair's pact blade- catching it at the tip of its blade, then by its hilt, then the blade, then the hilt again.  I wondered how that match would play out, and so let you try yourselves on each other.  Try again?

Bahlzair thought for a few moments, then pursed his lips.  Let him do what he will do.

And if he kills you? the demon prince asked, looking up from his prey to one of his favored pawns.

Bahlzair walked over to his own bedroll on the stone floor, not even bothering to look behind him.  I suppose I am simple to replace?

Graz'zt cocked his head slightly at this dare, not willing to give it an answer.  Noticing that Suspolin was at last unconscious, he stretched his left hand over her, and both disappeared.  Bahlzair turned around and sat down on his bedroll, controlling his breathing.  His crimson gaze stared without focus out the entryway, across the bare space, past the rotting ramps and the blazing darkfire, and to the stone on the other side of the cavern.  With a little imagination, just a touch, he could meld with it, existing with it- as solid, as cold, and as emotionless.

Yet, the stone in this city, it seemed, was not emotionless at all.  Unlike nearly every other place he had lived, there was a raw energy- a bare anger- that breathed extra vibrancy into that which lived in his soul.  He had killed more efficiently here than he had done in nearly three quarters of a century- it was as though he had just been released from his cage all over again.  He had just begun to touch this inward reality when Imylshalee slid into the room.  Her gaze darted about the place for a few seconds, then rested on the only inhabitant it could find.

"Suspolin- just as well," the amber eyed female sighed.  "A messenger's run up to Nedstra- quickly, go find the message out.  Do what it takes- within reason."

Bahlzair bowed, grabbed up a rag, then hustled out of the room to do as he was requested.  By the time he arrived, pretending that he was prepared to clean Nedstra's quarters, the messenger had already told her tale.  The head assassin stood behind her desk, which was filled with a bit more than its normal amount of clutter, with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

"You didn't see anyone moving afterward?"

"I didn't stay long enough," the messenger admitted quietly.  "They were turning on each other, darting all over the place- I didn't know what to think.  I just ran to get here as quickly as possible."

"Enough," Nedstra mused, turning her back to hunt in the area behind the desk for a while.  "Get Peth and her team, go prepare yourself for a fight, then watch the border."

The messenger nearly tripped over Bahlzair, who had turned his body so that he was parallel with the entry way.  Nedstra stood and turned around at the female's short, surprised grunt, then chuckled to herself.  Producing a plate filled with boiled cream treats, she walked over to Bahlzair and tugged on his hair.

The Drow at that moment remembered that Graz'zt had disappeared with his dagger.  Again.

"No doubt Velryne or Imylshalee sent you to learn of their success," she grinned.  "But I've got news.  My scout killed theirs, and their strike team seems to have problems of its own.  Go, cha'kohkev rothe.  Take these to Velryne."

Bahlzair got up, tucked the cloth into the bottom of his hair's knot, then accepted the plate with a deep bow. Arising and moving away at once, he saw Imylshalee going toward her own room, apparently forgetting that she'd tasked him with finding out the message.  He decided to deal with the false Velryne first, wondering which of his poisons Nedstra had chosen to use.  His roachpaste was laced with lockjaw- so that the victim was not only nauseated but physically unable to vomit- and his black lotus extract was touched with just a bit of terinav root.  He had noted that the store of terinav was perilously low, and wondered what had become of the Human pirates who loaded all their cargo back onto the ship at the command of an Elven captain that carried himself like landed lord.

The shrine was spotless- aside from the untouched spiderwebs- by the time Bahlzair arrived.  For the first time, the carved pincers and eyes of the looming spider nearly gave the secondboy-turned-slave pause.  The large, intricate web symbols on the ground were actually visible, and Bahlzair briefly noted the handiwork with a nod of approval.  He moved past them and into the head of the spider- the entrance to the shrine itself.  Velryne would never have permitted him to get past the symbols, but this new creature- who sat at the center of the place, on the bare stone floor with his back to the entry way- was either allowing Bahlzair to take his opportunity against him or inviting him into a certain trap.

Bahlzair tore his eyes away from the branching artwork on the walls and knelt to lay the plate of sweets down in the aisle between the thrown pillows.  Neither male Drow made a sound for a while, but there was a soft rasping, as though something were gently pulling its way across heavy cloth.

At last, Bahlzair looked up, deciding to tell the creature something he probably already knew.

"You are not Velryne."

Bahlzair's prestidigitation flashed radiant crimson on the floor before the statue of the spider goddess, but it looked as though the impostor did not even look up at it.  The soft abrasion continued, and Bahlzair allowed his image to fade.  After a few more minutes, he tried again.

"Nedstra sent sweets for Velryne- take them, or risk being discovered."

A low, unsettling gurgle arose from the creature.  Bahlzair let that image fade more quickly than the last message, disturbed by the sound.  It was difficult to reconcile it with the mental voice that had compelled him to put his blade away and walk back to Suspolin's room.  Obviously the thing had power.  But instead of acknowledging the challenger who knew its secret, it chose to taunt him by making itself seem like a madman.  The more thought Bahlzair put into it, the more his fury against the creature mounted- its backward superiority, this pretense that a nutter could make a plaything of a full witted Drow, seared him like a hot poker in the eye.  He rose, and his pact blade appeared in his right hand.

Each silent step the Drow took toward the covered creature on the floor seemed to take forever to fall.  Bahlzair could hear his heart beat, and quieted his breath, focusing on each swelling and hollowing of the creature's back.  He planned to catch the inhalation- the swelling, the ungrateful intake of borrowed air that would soon be choked back out with blood.  When he was but three steps away, he allowed his long tongue to slide briefly from his mouth, and he wiped the flat of his blade on it.

The creature raised its head, then twitched.  It was a strange movement- a sudden jump, as though he'd been hit with the faintest trace of a shock spell.  Bahlzair narrowed his eyes as he took his last step forward, angered even further by the apparent frailty of the thing- a weak, jumpy creature had no business being able to turn a well trained mage around like a whipped child.  The approaching Drow began to get down into a position to slit the thing's throat.

Before taking another breath, the creature jumped up, pivoting and grabbing Bahlzair's right arm to push it back over his head with his left.  Bahlzair saw at close range a flash of ash grey skin and radiant red eyes- and a stalemated stillness reigned between the two for a few seconds- immediately before Bahlzair dealt the thing a vicious headbutt.  The man seemed stunned, but before Bahlzair could cast a spell, the ashen Drow raised his right hand and slid something over the pact blade.  Bahlzair attempted to pull his arm out of the impostor's grasp, and found- as he stumbled back a single step- that it had been let go.  He began a spell, but the grey skinned male Drow simply reached forward and dealt him a solid, open handed slap to the mouth.  With a slight twitch, he puckered out his lips and pushed his head toward the pact knife.  Bahlzair glanced at it, then stopped himself and truly looked at it.  Crossing his arms proudly, the ash grey male began making the gurgling noise again.

The pact blade had been truly sheathed for the first time since Bahlzair had accepted it from Graz'zt's hands. The scabbard was creamy brown leather on the inside, but an unmistakable, weathered ebony black on the outside.  Bahlzair looked up, noted the undeniably pleased look on the ash grey male's face, and realized that the gurgling noise was a stunted attempt at verbal communication.  Seeing that he had gotten Bahlzair's attention, the male Drow unfurled his slender arms and immediately turned into a whirlwind of communication.

"Don't let it stop you from trying to kill me," he signed rapidly, his hands momentarily unaffected by the rest of his body's strange dancing and twitching.  He reached his left hand into his sleeve and produced a slender cord that had also been wrapped in the deep black skin.  "An ally merely deserves a quicker death."

Bahlzair reached out and took the cord carefully, watching the trembling hand retreat to its owner's side.  He carefully ran the cord through the scabbard's slits and tied it off, thinking deeply as he did so.

"Enchanter?" Bahlzair signed with his free hand once he was finished.

The gurgling popped up in volume momentarily, seeming to indicate a laugh.  "The ilithid," the grey skinned male signed back.  "Sometimes I find pieces I can still use, but they're still broken."

"They broke you, then?" Bahlzair signed, his eyes narrowing.  "You believe in Lloth and the supremacy of females?"

"I believe in pain," fired back the response.  "Who causes it, why, and when it is caused, is not always my concern."

"You did better with her skin than she did," Bahlzair signed, watching the Drow's fingers twitch in the air.

The ash grey male Drow looked at Bahlzair like a farmer might gaze at a prized market cow, allowing his eyes to scurry from one part of him to another.  Bahlzair, having never been appraised so adoringly by anyone other than Graz'zt himself, felt slightly uncomfortable.

"Two days," the Drow signed, turning his back on Bahlzair suddenly.  He dropped to the ground like a creature, loping easily over to the far right side of the shrine.

"Kill more, instead," Bahlzair replied, the prestidigitation cutting across the floor on the man's left side.  "You owe me nothing.  Revel in your revenge."

The male raised his right arm just slightly enough for his now blood-tipped fingers to be seen, and signed one-handed.  "Yours to take, if you decide you want it.  Like revenge."

And both Drow smiled.

2:37 Best laid plans.

Mi'ishaen contemplated the fangs of her daggers carefully as she spun them over her hands.  While she was able to spin them the moment she'd gotten them into her hands, that had been- for her- only the beginning of the process necessary to break them in.  As she sat in the arms of a grey-trunked tree, she also counted the different sounds around her- the distant cawing of some nocturnal bird of prey, the persistent hum of insects, the leisurely stroll of some animal through the low tufts of grass.  The Tiefling didn't bother to look down when another tread sounded beneath her- it was familiar enough not to be a concern.

Stone, who made it all the way to Mi'ishaen's tree without seeing a single border guardsman, felt somewhat annoyed that she didn't bother herself to check what was moving toward her location.  "Need you sharp," he reminded when he arrived, turning around and leaning on the tree as though she wasn't in it.

"I'm fine," Mi'ishaen replied, still looking carefully over the straightness of the main part of the dagger's blade.  "Still as a grave."

"Check both ways.  The gift's in the scrub oak; top of Witchrun," Stone said flatly, moving away.  "Thorn's inside, Clover's outside; hands off 'em."

"Four sets of hands instead of two, and plagues instead of poisons," Mi'ishaen noted.  "What're we, taking apart an army?"

Stone scoffed, then simply began walking away from the tree.  Mi'ishaen looked down to watch him go with a sigh- his lack of an answer was an answer, and not one that she liked.  She spun her daggers around her hands just once more, then put them away.  Carefully and calmly, she pulled her strips of cloth from one of the packs on her waist.  She consciously breathed as she began to wrap her palms- one time, two times, three times- thick enough for protection, but thin enough to permit free movement.  As a precaution, she wrapped her forefinger and thumb just once each before she tied the knots on the outside of her hands.  When she'd finished, she rested her hands on her thighs and looked out over the area.  Much of the small wildlife that had been moving before- rats, snakes and the like- had moved away, a testament to Stone's presence.  While he'd apparently been in Spectre for years, and could elude a two-legged creature's gaze like a wight, he'd never learned the art of keeping nature from telling on him.  Mi'ishaen slid herself out of her tree, having plotted a quick movement from the tree she'd been in to one closer to the Witchrun footpath.

"Perhaps you never have to learn that, crammed in paved streets all the time."

Witchrun had been so named because it was reputed to be both the escape path for discovered Semmite spies, which were often mages, and a slave route for abducted magic practitioners on their way to their Thultanthar masters.  Since neither of Urmlaspyr's recent high captains had been overly concerned about the Dark Quarter, any guard who bothered to patrol the area was on his or her own.  While this left the route free to be used by escaping Semmites, it also left it to be openly used by House Darkness, Phoenix, and when they had existed, the Rattails and Stingers.  Mi'ishaen's task had been to keep a sharp lookout for Drow travelers, but the dirt footpath seemed deserted.  In the effort to keep alert and stave off boredom, the Tiefling set up a search pattern for herself.

"North to west- clear.  Shift.  East to south- clear.  Shift back.  Again."

She repeated this movement in the same tree three times, then slid herself out and began carefully moving toward the so-called "top" of Witchrun.   There, the two-person wide footpath branched off from a similarly sized, unpaved delivery route that circled the outside of the Dark Quarter.  Farther north, where it touched the Mage Quarter, the path suddenly grew cobblestones and was dubbed Magebelt.  Not many mages actually used it, but to Mi'íshaen, it seemed that Urmlaspyr folk seemed to have a habit of consigning everything a magic worker touched even once to the embrace of magic for all time.  Farther south, where it ran past the far side of the graveyard's strange willows and swung in toward the docks, it was called Ravenway and was avoided like a plague- unless one was speaking of the Raven Queen adherents, who occasionally visited the Dark Quarter to see friends or family, or to drink off some of the pressures of having promised themselves to an apparently unfathomable goddess of death.  Here, where the Dark Quarter trustingly leaned on the path like a heavy spouse on an unwilling partner, it was merely referred to as the West Way, and it was used for its original purpose- to ship things around the Dark Quarter's old, narrow streets to anxious recipients in other quarters or districts with wider pathways.

The small vial that Mi'ishaen found in the cold tree's largest knothole was placed into a pocket on the other side of her belt, and the Tiefling quickly moved on down Witchrun as though she were going to go all the way into Sembia.  Once she'd moved slightly past what seemed to be the border- in the dead of night without guards, it was difficult for her to tell- she found another tree, posted herself there, and began her sweep again.  When she didn't find anything there, she began moving her sweeps northward toward the area known to belong to House Darkness.  A near half hour of sweeps brought no sight of anyone, and Mi'ishaen began to wonder if she had been set up in the area as a preparation for an eventuality that would never happen.  As she scaled her sixth tree of the night, she picked up a rock and began tapping on the grey bark.  It was an eventual sound- like that of a jewelry maker attempting to cut a tree for resin.  The silence that followed was too long for Mi'ishaen's liking, but she refrained from repeating herself.   The patience paid off, and in a few more minutes, there was a rapid fire tapping, like a woodpecker who'd misunderstood what time of night it was.

"Okay, nothing to see," Mi'ishaen thought grimly.  Just as she began to think of how she'd get a retreating message through the scout- whom she assumed was Clover- another bout of rapid fire tapping began from a different location.  Some of it was unfamiliar, but the part of it that the Tiefling did understand indicated that something was going on on the scout's left side- so, farther to the north than she currently was.  She began plotting a tree-hopping course that would take her closer to the heart of the territory under which House Darkness laid, thinking over Rashiira's instructions and methods as she moved.  Mi'ishaen didn't know how many other operatives were on this one job- she and Stone were the only two of which she could be sure.  While this seemed to be to protect operatives from informing on each other if they were caught, it also prevented Mi'ishaen from knowing whether she was walking into a controlled area or an utter mess.

Unfortunately, it was the latter.

Mi'ishaen noted and avoided a strange circle on the ground, and climbed a tree she hadn't planned on to avoid it.  It placed her farther to the northeast than she would have preferred.  The fortunate thing about that was her ability to see five Drow males fighting together against their two remaining female masters.  The unfortunate thing about it was the sight of nine Drow males and four females coming toward her area with the clear intent of eliminating the riot in the camp beyond her.  Some magic had already been unleashed, but the distance between the two groups was too great for the casters to do anything but alert the two besieged women to the fact that help was coming.

"That bunch either hadn't touched Witchrun at all, or passed at least a day ago, Dark.  What do you expect me to do?"

With this frustrated thought, Mi'ishaen watched the second Drow group move southeast toward the first, and began to look for a way around them.  As she looked, however, she noted that two out of the five male Drow suddenly turned to attack the other three.  Their strikes and parries joining the sounds of the others began to concern Mi'ishaen, who wondered if Semmite guards were as lax about their border as Nithraz and his so-called Merry Mercies were.  The female Drow, without even looking back, left the males to their own devices, continuing to move toward the rescue of the two females who were now contending with only three rebels.  The four moved closely together, some checking their flanks and their backs for foul play.

Mi'ishaen began moving westward, toward a tree that stood about fifty yards east of the Drow campsite.  As she went, she noticed that a few grass tufts some distance away from here were already broken toward that direction.  She changed her path slightly, keeping an eye on the faint trail left in the disturbed ground cover, but spotted movement in the tree she'd planned to get into when she'd covered a little more than half of the distance to it.  She stopped and double backed, posting up beneath a tree that was farther to the southeast of the camp than she would have liked.  The shifting breeze, pushing inland from the water, brought with it the scent of mage-burned flesh- some of the second group's magic attacks were now close enough to the frenzied males to hit them.  Mi'ishaen moved more slowly to make sure that she did not cross into the lines of sight or fire, but decided to enjoy the view a bit as well.

One of the males dropped after a well-placed shock spell of some sort- eyes wide and body twitching, he screamed his agony into the night.  The one remaining rebel was suddenly the focus of nearly every magic element discovered, but surprisingly enough, one of the females that barely survived the initial rebellion found herself set upon by her companion and her three supposed rescuers.  As the three females unleashed their attacks on both targets from a distance, the two males who had attacked the other three in their own party closed in on them, short swords still drawn for the kill.  When they shot past the women without striking them down or being stricken in passing, Mi'ishaen realized that they must have been protecting the women from the three nutters.

The Tiefling drew the dagger on her right hip, pulled out the disease essence, and carefully applied the strange paste to her weapon.  This done, she replaced the not-quite-empty vial, held her dagger between her teeth and began running after the males, marking their approach to the tree she'd wanted to get into.  The two males, well trained, began taking turns sweeping the area for the oncoming attacker as they continued to move, slowing down slightly for their trouble.  Mi'ishaen, moving toward the tree at an angle, sped past them, and ran around the tree.  Now facing them, she leaped for the lowest bough and grabbed it, swinging herself over it without any apparent effort.  The male closest to the tree saw the daring movement and headed straight for her, only to realize that she hadn't swung herself up to get into the tree.  A pair of hooves connected with his chest two seconds later, pushing him back into the grass and winding him.  Mi'ishaen let go of the bough, landing ungraciously on her behind just two inches beyond him.  Strangely enough, she didn't hear the second male come to save the first, so she- gritting her teeth at the momentary pain- turned herself around on her behind, kicked the male in the head to keep him down, then ran her knife from his chin toward her.  This done, she got to her feet and began to move down toward her previous position, only to be confronted by two of the four Drow females.

For a single second, Mi'ishaen stood absolutely still.

Relying only on her awareness of the area around her, the Tiefling turned to the east and began running farther into Semmite territory at top speed.  She hoped to lead the two females away from both the male and the camp, but her hoof struck an unexpected obstacle, sending her hurtling face-first toward the ground.  As she fell, she was aware that deft fingers whipped her other dagger out of its place on her left hip.  A solid hand was placed high on her back, and her struggle to get up was rewarded with a solid elbow to the small of her back.

"In an open field?  With no guards, no fight- just my own dagger in my back?"

Someone else fell the way she did, right on top of her.  A gust of breath pushed on her neck.  Then, there was a strange, slightly painful pressure on her lower back, followed immediately by a low grunt.  Whoever it was was pushed off of her, and she rolled over at once to see an older Human male in a heavy-looking black robe give a snap to his wrist to get blood off the dagger.

He, like Stone, didn't bother to be nice.  He simply clamped a leathery hand around Mi'ishaen's upper arm and began moving away from the struggling Drow male.  It took Mi'ishaen a full minute to realize that they were skirting the camp and moving back toward Urmlaspyr.

"Piss-poor rogue," he commented in a terse whisper as they moved.  "Didn't use the infectant."

"The first one, I did," Mi'ishaen shot back, instantly defensive.  "I only got two hands; I needed them both.  Who are you?"

"Could ask the same," the man spat.  "Gimme your other blade or suffer."

"Give me that one back or die," Mi'ishaen demanded.  "Those females-"

"Are my job," the Human growled.  "Thanks to you, there's a few new reasons I can't complete it.  Fix it.  Bag me the other three."

In the silence that followed, there was a slinging sound, followed by an annoyed cry.

"Make that two."

"You laid those traps," Mi'ishaen huffed, finally sheathing the one dagger she had.

"And you avoided them," the Human replied, "Wish you hadn't.  What, you want higher pay?"

In the distance, a shrill note of alarm sounded.  The Human male looked up at once, his face a mask of concern.

"I'm taking this; deal with you later," he stated flatly, beginning to move away.  Mi'ishaen moved swiftly after him, smacking a balled fist in the back of his neck.  When he stumbled, she turned, whipped her tail around his leg and watched as he attempted to keep moving.

"How's it feel, m'lord?" she when he fell.  She jiggled her weapon free of his hand, noting the hideous smell.  "What in Baator did you put on here?"

"Put it in somebody and find out," the Human coughed bitterly, rolling over on his back.

Mi'ishaen, remembering that the Drow were probably actively looking for their attackers, thought better of trading wits with an old man.  She moved away from him, setting her sights back on the tree in which she'd swung before.  One of the Drow females cut her off, then began charging at her.  Mi'ishaen could hear footsteps behind her, and having no confidence that it was the old man, turned to shoot up straight into the camp, which was now oddly empty.  The Tiefling thought to drag an unattended blanket through the still-lit fire, until she saw a delicate, ethereal-looking hand pointing back toward the Urmlaspyr border.  Terrified, Mi'ishaen dropped down into the brush and dry dirt to slide for a few seconds, then turned and ran in the complete opposite direction as though she'd finally decided to push through to Sembia.  She heard a cry from one of her pursuers, but didn't dare get into a tree to look back until she could no longer hear footsteps behind her.

Three full minute's break-neck run put her solidly in Sembia, although neither terrain nor the presence of a guard could indicate that such was the case.   Mi'ishaen collapsed gracelessly to the ground, face up to the sky and panting.  It took two more minutes for her to catch her breath, and when she did, she rolled over onto her belly to look back over the distant camp scene.  It seemed both males had survived, along with four females.  Mi'ishaen was too far to tell which of the females had been from what group, but wondered if the turned-upon female had proven her worth in battle to the others by surviving.  Three of the females were contemplating something that fit in their hands while one of the males carefully looked over the gash that Mi'ishaen had put in his comrade's cheek.  The fourth female, sitting alone, was looking down at one of her legs.  After some deliberation between the six of them, wounds were patched, the camp fire was put out, and they began moving toward the southern part of the Dark Quarter.

"Maybe that's why I was supposed to be on the top of Witchrun," she thought as she remembered she needed to wipe her daggers before putting them back into their places.

"Oh, don't get shook, honey," a soft, gentle female voice cooed.  "We done what we was s'posed to do."

Mi'ishaen grabbed up her daggers, sat up and looked around herself, completely spooked, but saw only the pulsing glimmer of a feminine-seeming outline.

"I'm Spark," the voice continued.  "Here- let me."

Mi'ishaen didn't contest the solid hands that she felt around her own.  Although she couldn't see them, they were firm, and warm.  She let her daggers go, unwilling to fight a benevolent-seeming, allied creature that she couldn't see, and watched as they seemed to float in thin air for a few moments.

"There you are," the voice cheered.  The feminine outline reappeared, and it was apparent that it was handing the daggers back to Mi'ishaen.  "Forgot to keep the spell up; I don't always.  Betcha wonder how I got my tag, huh?"

"No- no, I think I get it," Mi'ishaen replied with a note of pity.  She accepted her daggers back and slid them back into their places after a cursory glance at each one.  "Do you...um...have..."

"Oh yes, I sure do.  Phoenix mages got no sense of humor, and I don't like to scare alchemic drinkers.  Most of 'em been through enough."  Five small points of light glowed in the air a few feet in front of Mi'ishaen's chest.  "This here's me offering you a hand up, honey."

"I got it."  Mi'ishaen got to her knees, then stood, carefully avoiding the area with the lights in the effort to miss smacking into the invisible female.  "You saw what happened?  With the nutty male Drow?"

"Saw?  Child, most o' that was me," the voice laughed sweetly.  "I ain't much for weapons, though I try.  Don't do much burnin', shockin', poisonin' or freezin' neither.  But when it come to persuadin' folks- well, Mama always said I could make a stone think it was water.  You green, but you ain't bad.  I was sitting in that tree you come to, 'til you looked like you was gonna jump in it.  Saw everything, 'til then, 'cause after, I ran like I haven't had to in a long while.  But Pox oughta thank you."

"Pox?" Mi'ishaen asked, having a feeling she already knew the answer.

"Grizzled up old man; bites like a viper, if the mood take him," the voice replied simply.  "But the mages is dead, and now the rest of 'em gotta go into Nedstra's hole all shakin' and sweatin'; it's gonna be big fun for whoever else gonna be down there."

"You're going?"

"Course I am, honey," the voice chuckled.  "How many permanently invisible enchanters you think Dark's got?  Wish me luck, won't you?"

"Sure, Spark," Mi'ishaen smirked.  "Good luck.  And hey- good sneaking up.  I didn't hear you at all."

"Let's see if I can get away with it after we play together some more," Spark replied with a smile in her voice.  "But I 'preciate the compliment."

Mi'ishaen watched the outline fade away, not sure what else to say.  The brush and low grass moved as she passed, but there were no other visible signs that a woman was there at all.

The Tiefling huffed quietly to herself about the strangeness of it all, then moved southward to pick up Witchrun and return to the Forge before dawn.

2:36 Grave messenger.

The Master Inquisitor, who had decided to sit in the Great Pool in fresh bandages early that morning, looked up from the ripples just long enough to stare holes into his apprentice.  Seyashen, dressed in a simple, light robe that he'd picked up from the market the day before, at first believed that the Halfling was going to comment on how strangely normal he looked without his usual broodingly dark clothing.  But instead, the Master Inquisitor stood up and walked to the stone edge of the pool, reached over and grabbed Seyashen's cheeks in his hands.

"Close the book in your mind," he warned, his eyes focused.  "Not every lamb is to be spared the roast, or the children will not eat."

Seyashen was surprised that this statement had not been prefaced with a question, or at least a warning that it was a statement and not a question.  But as he looked over his master's shoulder at the various spirits that walked the streets of the Palace District, he could only think of one response.

"This day, I may feed them."

Semnemac stood back and looked Seyashen over carefully, then gave him a vicious openhanded slap.  "Close the book; do not forget."  And with this statement, the Master Inquisitor turned his back on his student and sat crosslegged in the freezing cold water in the carved stone Great Pool once more- but facing north toward the Merchant Council's fort-palace instead of the Bone College.

Seyashen, who took a moment to breathe deeply, understood his master's actions much more clearly than his words.   As he moved west from the Mage's Quarter toward the Temple District, he consciously took time to notice the change of scenery.  It was obvious that the pathways there- wide enough for two horses to ride side by side if necessary- were the best kept in the entire city.  The cobblestones were even, and painted to create simple, yet pleasing patterns.  If one were careful- as the Tiefling decided to be that morning- it could be noticed that the pathway to the Temple District bore the symbols of each of the various gods and goddesses that had worship space in Urmlaspyr.  As feared as the Bone College was, the skull and sickle symbol of Afflux was not allowed to fade or chip, and gleamed just as radiantly in the fresh sunlight as that of any greater god.

Low walls separated set the Central Quarter, where the Urmlaspyr street merchants set up shop in a bazaar-like spectacle, apart from every other surrounding quarter and district.  Vendors cried out, animals bleated and children whined- the noise pollution wasn't to be blocked by stone barriers that only reached a Human male's waist.  The walkways were made narrow by the small stalls, but Seyashen imagined that they cleared easily when the stalls were taken down at sunset.  A young girl with a basket of field flowers stopped him with a small hand placed on his knee.

"Fresh flowers, so please m'lord?" the little child asked.  Seyashen looked down and noticed the dark nubs at her temples almost before her wide, innocent chestnut brown eyes.

"Where is your mother?" he asked, not even understanding where the question came from himself.

"Abed, m'lord," the girl replied immediately and without fear.  "It's days since she's been out, so I've got her basket today; Papa told me to."

"How much for the whole basketful?"

The child paused, and at first, Seyashen wondered if he'd offended her.  The storm cloud of thought that passed over her youthfully round, sweet features cleared a few moments later, and she turned over her shoulder to peek around at the vendors behind her.

"I'll ask Papa- come with me, m'lord?"

"Yasha," Seyashen offered.  "And I will."

The girl turned all the way around, put a protective hand over her flowers, and took off like a gazelle in an open field.  Seyashen, much larger and slower than she, had quite the time making his way through the various buyers and sellers to get to the stall at which she finally stopped.  She stood on the edges of her hooves, which were visible under her skirt when she stretched herself upward, and whispered in the ear of a wiry, young looking Human male that had bent himself down over a fish stand to listen to her.  When she put herself back down firmly again, the man pulled himself up to his full height- about Seyashen's own size- and turned his gaze to find this strange customer who'd decided to buy an entire basket full of common weeds.  Seyashen stepped forward carefully, not wanting to seem dangerous in any way, and nodded slightly.

"Eh- don't know if they've any alchemic use, m'lord," the male warned quietly, his low voice barely heard over the din of the market.  "Just to look at, you understand."

"I do," Seyashen replied simply.  "Name your price, m'lord, and you have it.  Madam has a sharp eye for beauty, and the work of her hands is simply lovely."

"Thank the kind ser, Dilly-Dale, eh?" the smirking father asked, casting a glance down at his beaming child.

"I thank ye, kind ser," the little girl replied, putting her hand over her flowers again and dipping into a graceful curtsy.

"Such charm is beyond the common daughter of Dis," Seyashen commented wryly.  "Perhaps your family made a pact with one of the brachina by mistake."

The male smiled, the skin of his sunburned face pulling like leather over his gaunt features.  "You've a humor like my Daiirdra, gods save her.  Dale, wrap 'em good, please.  A silver will do- and say, does m'lord need fish?"

"Daiirdra's my mama," the little girl explained as she sat down and pulled twine from the bottom of the basket.  "I'm Dale.  She was gonna name me Fia'adrei, but Papa said no."

"A wise man," Seyashen commented, his eyebrow raised.  "The sickness was another child, then?"

"She tried, bless her, but it's gone," the male sighed.  "About broke her heart.  She needs strong alchemics.  Me'n Dilly-Dale just doing all we can."

Seyashen quietly observed the two ethereal horned figures on either side of the male who both looked like cats that had each swallowed their own canary, then pulled a silver out of the purse he'd hidden up his right sleeve.  "I'm not much for fish, m'lord.  Here's for the flowers, and good health to your lady.  May it be a strong boy next time."

"Bless you, m'lord," the male smiled, accepting the silver.  "I'll tell Dai a countryman spoke health on her; it'll do her good."  On either side, the spirits couldn't help but smile, and Seyashen broke into a small smile himself.  Dale finished binding the flowers and handed them up to Seyashen, who noted that she had taken the time to arrange them so that they looked like a true bouquet.

"Quite an eye has m'lady," Seyashen praised, accepting the bunch and looking at it from all angles.  "Dale?  You won't forget Yasha, will you?"

"No, Ser Yasha," Dale grinned, radiant from the compliment.  "And my mama's Daiirdra, and my papa's Cephas, and we all live right there with 'Buela Mara."

"Well met, Ser Yasha," Cephas smirked, reaching over the fish stall and scrubbing his daughter's light brown locks.  "You've made a friend for life.  Dilly-Dale's got an eye for character as well."

"Hey there- boy!   A pound fresh tuna, quick!" the stall owner ordered sternly, looking at Seyashen as he spoke.  "And don't touch the spawn whilst you're back here!"

Seyashen smiled a tight smile and moved away from the stall, repressing an instant urge to force the stall owner to see his death.  Don't forget.

The hornless Tiefling made his way out of the Central Quarter and into the Temple District which, despite its name, sported more noble manors than places of worship.  It wasn't hard to find the particular house that he was looking for, since the guard at the gate was distinctly armored in flexible, light weight leather armor instead of the heavier chain or plate mail that other guards wore.  His well-fitting helmet prevented Seyashen from being able to tell what race of male he was, but the way in which he casually rearranged himself in public was overwhelmingly masculine.

"May I call upon Master Illance?" Seyashen asked politely, not sure how else to get past the spiked iron gate and solid stone half-walls.

"You may," the guard replied just as politely, "but you've an 'alf chance of not gettin' in.  I'll ring the steward, see if the master's up to't."

Seyashen expected the man to literally turn and find a bell to ring, but no such courtesy happened.  Instead, the guard simply turned over his shoulder and hollered.

"Oi, Mimsie!  Drop thy lead, lass!"

"Hex o' fee!" came the sharp reply from an open window on the second floor.  "I've me 'ands full a' fe mo', Dex!"

"It's to do with the health and safety of the household," Seyashen urged quietly.  "My message is quite urgent."

The guard nodded and turned all the way around, backing up a few steps as though he wanted to spy where in the room the steward might be.  "Oi, c'mon, lass, 'tis a bone rat'ler come, yeah?  I don't want no snarl wi' 'im."

"Agh, pus porridge... right, 'ang on, fen!"

"Never mind what she says, ser," the guard explained with a smile.  "The tongue's bitter, but the heart's sweet enough."

But Seyashen, who had done all he can not to appear like a necromancer, could only wonder what about him had given his abilities away to an utter stranger.  Even more surprising was the fact that although the guard obviously knew he was a "bone rattler," there wasn't the slightest trace of fear in his voice.  The Tiefling found himself just as pleased as stunned.

In a few minutes, a middle aged woman with her short, brown-and-silver hair pulled back into a tight bun appeared at the doorway.  She looked Seyashen up and down, looked behind her furtively, then walked quickly across the shallow courtyard, stopping just behind the guard's right shoulder.

"Look, ser, I've no desire to be rude, but the lord's near as ill as his missus, and I've already had two healing mages, one priest and four delivery boys come around.  I think he's had about all he can stand of company this day, and it's not yet come noon."

"Miryam, my door isn't standing open again, is it?" a smooth, calm tenor rang from farther inside the small manor home.  "And if you thought you were being discreet just a few moments ago, I feel I must inform you that your delicate, endearing lark's cry could be heard from the bottom of the root cellar."

Miryam's well-furrowed face pinched up slightly for a few moments.  "Humble apologies, my lord," came the quiet reply.  "I was just sending this- gentleman- on his way."

A serene faced man with his raven hair pulled back in a crimson and gold ribbon appeared at the door, a finely carved staff in his right hand and a small book in his left.  "Don't make a habit of sending folk away, Miryam; it's bad for business.  When I've no desire to see someone, I'll let a guard know, and they will handle the person appropriately."

"As you wish, my lord," Miryam answered calmly, pivoting to drop a slight curtsy.

"Good.  Now, ser, I apologize for the inconvenience; I'll have one of my girls fetch you some sweetrolls and tea.  Do come in."

The guard moved slightly to his left and moved Miryam back with his left arm, allowing Seyashen to meekly pass in front of them and into the home behind the gentleman.  Once inside the manor, the gentleman stopped the hornless Tiefling and pointed to a small earthenware bowl filled with a brownish liquid.

"We've had sickness in the home, and the last healing mage to come through- just a few hours ago- commanded that each person who enters sprinkle vinegar over their person.  My wife acts as though her life depends on the word of the white mages, but I promise, there shall be no other reminders of pestilence or trouble in this household."

And Seyashen, who could see Abethann standing in front of the main staircase's left banister and Te'valshath sitting on top of a low bookshelf with a grim smile plastered on her little waif face, found that the hand he stuck into the vinegar shook like a leaf.  "You're already here," he began, forgetting that he was speaking out loud.

"Eh?" the lord of the house asked, momentarily sounding much more commonly bred than he seemed.

Seyashen stopped, right hand pushed up to the wrist in the vinegar bowl, as the gentleman turned over his shoulder to look at him.  From behind him, Miryam peeked around to have a look at his face.

"Perhaps he's sick himself," she judged, reaching around to take the nearly-forgotten bunch of flowers out of Seyashen's other hand.  "All the blood's come from his cheeks, like he's had a fright."

"We need that second healer back, then."  The man turned around and moved forward decisively with the help of his cane.  "Guide him to the hearth, Miryam, then go after him.  I'll ring for the tea, and ask for dry biscuits."

"Very good, my lord," Miryam replied as she laid the flowers on the small table with the vinegar bowl, taking firm hold of Seyashen's elbows and putting her right shoulder into his back to urge him in the way she wanted him to go.  Te'valshath remained sitting on the bookshelf, but Abethann moved from the staircase to the hearth, sitting down in an empty rocking chair with a basket next to it.  She folded her hands in her lap and glared at another spirit, who Seyashen had to turn his own head to see.  As the living lord of the house sat down in the heavy, carved wood chair opposite the rocking chair, Seyashen watched the wide chested, sharp nosed male spirit cross his arms behind him.

From that moment, Seyashen knew exactly why his mentor had taken the time to warn him directly.

Behind Abethann ran three smaller spirits and one female spirit Seyashen had never seen before.  She wrung her hands, pulled at her hair and trailed her fingers along the couch where Seyashen was seated.  Abethann did not react to her, but the male spirit behind the living lord frowned at her immediately.  The smaller spirits were oblivious- the one elder was far too busy keeping the younger two from toppling dishes or knocking over vases as they chased each other.  Their constant running all over the manse manifested in the physical world as an extremely persistent draft, and Seyashen considered folding his hands into his sleeves.

"So, ser, while we wait for your tea, may I ask your name and your business?" the living lord began lightly, sitting back in his chair with some difficulty.

Seyashen tore his attentions away from the apparitions and looked deeply into the enchanting green eyes of the raven haired lord before him.  "I am but a messenger- I'm called Ivan, so please m'lord."

"An unusual name for a Tiefling, if you don't mind my saying so," the Human male replied.  "I wonder how you came by it.  Yet, I'm sure that's its own story.  For now, upon whose errand are you come to my home?"

"So please my lord, the lady is awake, and sends urgently for you and your visitor," Miryam breathed, apparently having run from wherever she'd been.  Seyashen watched the responses of all the spirits- Abethann gave a small smile, the male behind the living lord squinted at her furiously, and the new spirit simply kept walking all around the room, fussing with various items.  The younger spirits all rushed upstairs instantly, with the elder of the three of them now trying to convince them to stay on the first floor.

The living lord, now really feeling the constant breeze, kept looking behind himself toward the closed windows and door.  "Are you quite certain she means to send for both of us?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.  "She couldn't have known any visitors had even come this day- did you tell her, or gossip with any of the maids?"

"Many apologies, my lord," Miryam replied, a bit more of her breath returned.  "but what with everything coming and going at once, I'd not had a chance to tell anyone that anyone had been anywhere but my lord himself- but Adessa just told me that my lady sent for both of you, as though she knew this man had arrived the moment she awoke."

"Well," the lord scoffed.  "I'm loathe to bring an utter stranger to my wife's quarters, but- I suppose I'd better.   You'll stand outside the door way, my kind ser, with a guard between yourself and we two."

Seyashen got up as though he'd been sitting on hot coals, and Abethann looked over toward the door.

"The flowers," Seyashen said with a small jump, startling Miryam.  "They're for her."

"Many apologies, ser, but- with respect- they're weeds," Miryam counseled.  "We'd better leave them here.  You can take them when you leave- I'll fix up a nice arrangement for my lady, and call it yours."

"There's a good girl," Master Illance smiled.  "A fine compromise, my good man.  The thought's the thing; I assume you simply haven't the means to get better than you've brought.  It was kind of you, anyhow- say, do you know Bethany from somewhere?"

"Yes," Seyashen replied, watching the raven haired man move cautiously toward the stairs.  "It is... unacceptable to me that it took me this long to find her."

"Well, moving across the known world from one's hometown and changing one's name will do wonders for making one disappear, as it were," the man began, taking Miryam's arm for balance as he began to ascend.  "Don't blame yourself, ser; when I rode through that miserable village, I wasn't slow in taking what I wanted.  I never have been, and that's why I'm here.  Saw opportunity where others didn't.  It's always done me well."

Te'valshath scooted off the bookshelf as Seyashen passed it, skipping up the steps and gnashing her teeth at Master Illance, who felt a sudden, sharp pain in the leg that was obviously already bothering him.  Seyashen said nothing, satisfied at his pain, and behind him, Abethann scoffed.

"Well, it's deserved," Seyashen noted.

"Thank you," the man grunted, pulling himself up the stairs with his right arm as he fought with the stiffness in his left leg.  "Do excuse how long this is taking me."

Seyashen made a positive-sounding noise, trying to focus on a gentle solution.  Yet, the black fountain in his soul exulted at every groan, every forced pause, and every agonizing stumble.  He laid his hand on the banister, nearly deciding to deafen and blind himself to keep from responding that way.  He thought about Dale, who'd thought him safe enough to describe her entire family and where they lived to him.

When the two reached the top, the lady's room was found past two servant's rooms- one for the males and one for the females.  With hardened leather clad guards on either side, the small chamber seemed as though it was really serving as solitary confinement for a dangerous prisoner.  The lord tied a vinegar dipped kerchief around his face, then entered all the way in, with a similarly vinegar kerchief-bedecked Miryam's help.  Seyashen obediently stood outside the doorway, beholding the slender, pale woman in the bed with a renewed compassion.  Bethany- whose radiant blond hair was made filthy brown by her own sweat and recent vinegar splashes- immediately began to speak her mind about having guards between herself and Seyashen.

"Take him in," she managed, her voice made tiny by prolonged congestion.  "He can stop all this.  Let him see."

"He can see you from there," Master Illance insisted, sending Miryam away with a waved hand.  "It's not safe for either of you to have him any closer."

"He won't see what she's- I want him to be-" Bethany began, falling into a coughing fit.  Her waiting woman, who was without a covering for her face, took a kerchief from her bosom and moved to the vinegar bowl that sat on a small table on the right side of the large bed.

"It is enough, m'lady," Seyashen replied, sitting in a simple wooden chair that a young male servant apologetically brought him.  "I'm not here to harm you."

Bethany sputtered for a few more moments, then accepted the vinegar water mixture pressed to her lips by her fearless waiting woman.  On the left side of the bed, Abethann appeared, sitting down on the bed and passing her hand over her brow to make a cooling breeze.  At her knees, the spirits of all three of Bethany's children gathered, so Abethann picked the youngest one- a girl- up, allowing her to bend over and breathe on her ailing mother.

Master Illance settled himself in his chair, planted his staff between his legs and rested both hands upon it like a noble in a portrait.  "Now that you have us, darling, how are you?  How do you feel?"

"Dreadful, you mule," Bethany croaked with unmistakable annoyance.  "Let him in, I say.  He can see them- listen to him."

"Do understand, good ser," the man smiled grimly as he cast his green eyes toward Seyashen, "She's been ailing a bit for a few weeks-"

"For more than a year," Bethany corrected.  "In perfect misery since the day my feet touched this soil."

"You act as though I'd dragged you to prison," the dark haired Human muttered, clamping his hands tightly on the top of his staff.

"Worse," the withered blonde replied, her fists clenching in her sheets.  "To the Hells."

"You said I could see 'them'- who do you mean?" Seyashen asked, immediately concerned.

"A woman who crumples her hands together all the time," Bethany breathed, releasing her hands and closing her eyes wearily.  "She comes when I awaken, and doesn't sit down or rest.  When I sleep, there's another woman ablaze.  When she touches my hand, she sets me on fire-"

"That's the fever," Master Illance cut in.  "The last healing mage said that she was personifying her fever, so that she would have something other than me to blame."

"And sometimes, a little girl.  She climbs onto the bed with me, but I know she hates me."  Bethany coughed for a few moments, prompting her waiting woman to move forward, sit her up, and fluff her pillows.

"The healing mage believes the little girl might be our first or second daughter," the man explained quietly.  "The first went to sleep one night and simply never awakened.  The second brought home sickness from somewhere, and died before the healers could do any good on her."

"The one I mean is not one of our children," Bethany insisted, "although I see them too.  I know the difference, and so do they.  Perhaps they all ought to blame me, but that strange little girl is the only one that does."

"No, your children love you.  Even this other little girl- she's not blaming you personally," Seyashen counseled, forgetting the lord immediately.  "It's Cormyr.  To her, you are the land, and the land is in you, because that's what it's like for her."

"Are you mad?" the lord asked at once.  "What are you talking about?"

"He's right," The slender blonde breathed with difficulty.  "It's the stone- the very stone of the place cries.  But what can I do?  Please, ser, tell me what to do!"

The lord looked from his wife to the hornless Tiefling with suspicion mounting in his face, leaning on his staff to look through the doorway.

"I don't know the restless woman; I've only seen her here, and she won't speak to me," Seyashen explained quickly.  He slid to the edge of his chair, now wishing he could get closer.  "But the other two- the one on fire is Abethann, the last daughter of Martin Illance.  And the girl... that's her daughter.  We named her Te'valshath, because Abethann- can't."

"That sounds right," Bethany sighed in relief.  "I believe you.  Please, ser, speak to them- beg them to leave us alone.  I know you can."

"Listen to me, Beth," Master Illance urged, his voice near breaking.  "These are nightmares and day terrors you've been having-"

On the small table to Bethany's right, the mother of pearl handle mirror flew toward the dark haired lord, smacking the wall beyond him and smashing into pieces.  Without any pause, Bethany's waiting woman wrapped her hands in cloth and moved to the other side of her master to pick up the pieces.  Seyashen looked over just in time to see Te'valshath tear to the other side of the room as though holy water had been splashed near her.

"The girl was here," Bethany whimpered.  "The women never break things- but they don't restrain the little storm-bringer, either."

"Ser, that was a gift," the Human warned, staring at Seyashen.  "Just because you cannot afford nice trinkets doesn't mean you ought to smash those of your betters."

"I didn't do that- I can't," Seyashen admitted, finally turning his attention back to the man.  "There are spirits bound to the stone of the place where they were burned as orphaned criminals; they are the ones whose message I bear.  To release Abethann and her daughter, to stop this haunting, you must fix the wrong done to them."

"You're mad," the lord snorted, getting up with effort.  "Abethann is not of House Illance.  What are you- a bastard son of hers, trying to wheedle money?"

"No, m'lord," Seyashen replied, sitting back in the chair and closing his eyes.  "I seek no gain- merely justice for House Illance's betrayal and abandonment."

"Please," Bethany began quietly.  "Listen to him- for my sake.  That girl-"

"Te'valshath," Seyashen instantly charged.

"That's a dark Elf name, for Tymora's sake!" Master Illance retorted, just a few decibels short of a holler.  "You think House Illance, a proud Human family, would stoop to inflicting the names of spiderspit upon our children?"

The little girl, still standing on the other side of the room, reached behind her, picked up the earthenware vinegar bowl and threw it down, sending vinegar and earthenware shards all over the room.  This done, she marched out of the room with a determined look on her face.

"Don't-" Seyashen began, concerned.

Bethany jumped at the sudden smashing sound, then settled her bones.  "Don't admonish her, ser; her mother doesn't.  Poor child could nip us, pox us and burn us all to death, and this damned mule would hold to every lie his father and grandfather ever told!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, darling," Master Illance soothed, moving to the foot of Bethany's bed.  "You're frail; rest yourself.  I'll have you hung, you warlock.  To come in here, bewitch my wife-"

"M'lord, I do not have power to dominate the living," Seyashen replied, shaking his head.  "I'm only a messenger for the-"

"You're a black-blooded bone rattler," the Human thundered, moving toward Seyashen like a tiger stalking its prey.  "Like that traitorous witch-"

"Beware, m'lord," Seyashen warned, hearing the hollowness of his own voice.  Abethann put the child in her lap down, arose from Bethany's bed and walked out of the room after her daughter, her fists clenched.  The eldest spirit of Bethany's three departed children hustled her two siblings out of the room, where their spectral forms disappeared from Seyashen's view.  He was just going to wonder what had undone their focus when a sharp scream split the air.

"My lord, your son!" came a cry from down the hall.  Master Illance gathered his strength and powered past Seyashen and part of the way down the hall toward some room around the other side of the manor.

"He's dead," Bethany sighed, folding her hands over her stomach.  "I know it.  They killed one child, now her mother has all of mine."

"It's possible that Abethann did this," Seyashen admitted, looking around to see where Te'valshath had gone.  "But it's more likely that her daughter did."

"It's not just because she wants to play with her second cousins, like the first mage said," Bethany scoffed.  "I was pregnant when we came here- made the ride a misery.  And the minute I laid in this bed the first time, I knew I'd never see that child alive.  The poor court mage didn't have to say a word, which seemed better for her, anyhow.  Then I lost my first girl.  Stopped breath.  Her little brother.  Pox.  Nausea that first pushed up some kind of yellow bile, then blood out of my last girl-"

"Dead!" the lord's voice called furiously.  "You murderer!  I will have you burned!"

"She'll continue," Seyashen warned, feeling too weak to get up.  "Her focus is here.  She's trapped until she gets what she needs."

"I'll die first," Bethany wailed, quickly falling into a coughing fit.

"Better run now," Bethany's waiting woman encouraged quietly, moving to her mistress's side at once.

The sound of boots against the staircase did nothing but encourage the dark energies that Seyashen was doing his best to restrain.  He pushed his arms into his sleeves as though he were cold.  "Abethann was abducted by Thultanthar mages because of her talent with necromancy."

One of the guards from the lower level grabbed Seyashen and forced him to his feet at swordpoint.  Beyond them, the shards of the mirror that Bethany's woman had wrapped in cloth tore free and buried themselves into the guard's eyes.  Te'valshath hurled them across the room with deadly accuracy, grinning at Seyashen.

"-and she was harmed, in nearly every way possible," the Tiefling continued, trying not to allow himself to take pleasure in the man's death.

"She wasn't a victim- she was a whore who sold her body to the Shadovar for power," the lord hollered back, making his way back toward his wife's room.  "She got what she deserved!"

"No mage would have bought her for her womanly charms," Seyashen shot back, incredulous, turning over his shoulder to see the lord at the top of the stairs.  "She was a mere child!"

The flushed lord continued to limp his way toward Seyashen, finding his left leg far less responsive than it had been just a few minutes ago.  "Those creatures in Sembia have always been mindless beasts, and all women can become loathsome sluts at any age!  Guards!"

"Baator take you!" Bethany exclaimed as loudly as she could, paying for her frustration with racking, phlegm-coated coughs.

Seyashen watched helplessly as Te'valshath ran around the house, throwing dishes to the floor in glorious fury.  Abethann, having descended to the center of the manse's first floor, moved her hands like a dancer, taking control of each one of the books on all the bookshelves in the entire house one at a time.  She began flinging them after every living soul in the house, and unlike her untrained daughter, laced her projectiles with a fear spell so well woven that Seyashen could feel his own flesh crawl in response.  After watching a few well-placed tomes, he returned to Bethany's room and walked all the way inside.

"Goddamned stubborn man!" Bethany despaired in a choked voice, tears streaming down her face.  "Not one of our lives will be enough to convince him."

"Please," Seyashen whispered, trailing his finger on the bottom post of her bed.  "Let your spirit forgive me."

"Fear not," Bethany smiled dimly for a few seconds, opening her eyes with obvious effort.  "The nightmare won't have a happy ending, but it'll certainly end."

"Beth!" Master Illance exclaimed, making his way to her room at last.  By the time he entered, Seyashen had sat back in the chair that he had occupied before, and had cast blindness on himself.

"Abethann fled to Cormyr, looking for sanctuary," he stated, as calmly as if he were reciting verses from a prayer book.  "Instead, she was turned over to the guards, disowned, and wrongly put to death while pregnant.  This is her revenge, and she will exact it upon every member of the Illance household who dares set foot in this land.  Give her back her name, and she will leave you in peace.  Perhaps she may even find peace of her own."

Te'valshath, exulting in her mother's mischief, began rattling the windows, thoroughly terrifying all the servants.  Abethann, meanwhile, decided to go from throwing books to the freshly sharpened knives from the kitchen, draining the lives of those that the knives hit.  Te'valshath shrieked with joy, feeling that at last, her mother was exacting the revenge they both so richly deserved.

"Mother and daughter bonding," Bethany mused, sweat breaking out on her pale brow.  "Abethann and Te'valshath Illance... this... is happy, isn't it?"

"I should run you through, bastard," the lord growled, drawing a dagger from his belt.  "But instead, you'll have the truth.  The guttersnipe of whom you speak was a headstrong, power-hungry wench who ran off to Sembia because my grandfather wouldn't let her grow those fiendish abilities of hers.  She disappeared in the night, then she came back used- her father did the right thing, for the family and for her.  Who would marry a traitor at all, let alone a traitor with the spawn of the enemy in her belly?  Yet, she must've done worse for herself sometime before, coupling with some son of the Hells to get you."

"That's enough," Seyashen replied simply, getting up from the chair.  "There's nothing more I can do for you, except beg Abethann to spare Bethany's life."

"No," Bethany cried quietly.  "It is enough."

Seyashen removed his blindness with a sigh, and looked from the shocked man over toward the door behind him, where Te'valshath was energetically beckoning him.

"Bethany," he said calmly, resting a hand on her blanketed feet, "Let your spirit forgive me."

"Get out," the frail woman urged, shifting her hand in a failed attempt to wave him off.  "The girl wants you to get out- to save yourself."

"There won't be any salvation," Master Illance snarled, preparing to throw the dagger at Seyashen.

"You're right," Seyashen finally growled, turning back to Master Illance.  His eyes intensified, so that their natural gold nearly matched the radiance of sunlight.  "Vomit me your soul."

The man gagged, put one hand to his throat, then fell to his knees, dropping his dagger.  Seyashen knowingly moved past him as the choking rapidly intensified.  Just as he began walking down the stairs, watching dishes and knives whirl by him after the house staff, he heard the wickedly gratifying sound of uncontrolled upheaval.  At the rate it was going, it would be a toss up whether he died by losing everything in his bowels or by choking because he was literally unable to breathe in.  One of the servants recently made undead charged after Seyashen, who smiled over his shoulder, raised his right hand just slightly and twisted it- the servant whirled around like a top off a string and began chasing a living servant again.

"Very funny, Abethann.  Don't have too much fun."

At the door, Seyashen considered the flowers next to the vinegar bowl.  Picking them up with a smile, he watched as the door opened in front of him and closed behind him- courtesy of Abethann.  As he stepped outside, a loud blast was heard from the root cellar, and a fire suddenly sprung up the entire back side of the manor.  The guard who was at the front gate turned, drawing his sword, but Seyashen simply looked at him- a long, penetrating glare so damning that he barely had to whisper the spell he was thinking about.  Flesh began falling off the guard's arms in jelly-like, reddened hunks as the man hollered in pain.

"Aww, a snarl for you," Seyashen smiled pleasantly, continuing to walk out of the manse's gate.

Miryam, who had returned with the second healer, stared at the flesh molting in frozen horror.  "What have you done?"

"Go fetch water," Seyashen counseled, "If you feel like doing anything for this place.  If not, go find yourself another job- you could even return to Dahst for a while."  This said, he left the woman behind, walking toward the Bone College again.

"Here, this is what you mean to do," the healer smiled, putting one of his fingers on the other side of Miryam's stunned face to turn her to him.  "You killed your master and set the house afire.  Now you are being hunted.   Run to Dahst and do not return."

Terror widened the female's eyes immediately, and as soon as the healer let her face go, she turned and ran as though she had in fact done everything she'd been told.  Moments later, city guards arrived, out of breath, arms at the ready.  The healer simply extended a hand after the running woman with a nearly comically incredulous look on his face.

"The manse?" one of the guards asked.

"I came as quickly as I could, but there's nothing to be done for it," the healer replied.  "I expect it to collapse into itself before the fire can spread to the neighbors.  Best you can do is catch the wench that did it."

The guard moved off with the rest, and the healer moved quickly to catch up with the golden eyed necromancer.  He wasn't rushing, so when the healer caught up, it was easy to stop him with a calm hand on his shoulder.

"I was called back for you," the healer smiled when Seyashen turned around.  "And I'm glad I caught you in the act, this time.  You should thank me for keeping you out of prison.  You'd be burned by sunset if I hadn't dominated that woman for you."

"I did nothing wrong," Seyashen replied, contemplating the flowers in his hand.  In this state of necromantic euphoria, he expected them to die, as the grass in the Axis of Afflux had done when he walked through it.  But they remained as beautiful as they'd been when he'd first seen them in Dale's basket.

"I didn't say you did anything wrong," the healer nodded, removing his hand from Seyashen's shoulder.  "Don't mistake me.  But power like yours is held in high suspicion, if not outright feared.  You, like every capable mage in this ignorant town, are in danger every moment you all walk the streets without the Phoenix's protection."

"While the offer is kind, the fact is that I don't normally walk the streets," Seyashen noted thoughtfully.  "If you'd like to visit me, you may find me on the second floor of the Bone College, just down the hall from the Human vivisection labs."

"All wise comments aside, Ser Ivan- ah, forgive me- Master Seyashen," the healer said slyly, walking in front of the hornless Tiefling, "Any innocent, white magic healer can be burned if a woman they happen to have tended a month ago dies in childbirth, even if it were known that the day before her death, she'd drunk poison from some alchemist in the attempt to be rid of her baby.  How much less trust would be spared for you, the most feared of all mages, the dreaded bone rattler?"

Seyashen looked over his shoulder to catch sight of the collapse of the manse beyond him.  A rush of warm, ashy air washed over him, and he found himself tempted to breathe it deeply, as though it would refresh him.  "I must warn you; today is my thirteenth fast day, m'lord.  My judgement clouds significantly after day seven."

The healer took a single step back as though to appraise the worth of the creature before him.  "I offer you protection with the mages of the Phoenix," he stated flatly.  "You could be more grateful than this."

"The Phoenix- the Phoenix," Seyashen mused, watching as a few spirits began gathering behind the healer.  He was surprised to see Pharen among them.  "Something to say, Pharen?  A message, perhaps?"

The mage looked around himself furtively, trying to figure out precisely where the spirits that Seyashen was talking to might be.

"Keep moving," Pharen counseled.  "Remember Arlwynna, how they nabbed her."

"Let them try it," Seyashen smiled as he turned and began walking toward the Bone College again, "and I will get more resurrection practice than I'd planned today- ooh, or perhaps a few more candidates for the vivisection labs.   That'd be even better; we've run out of prisoners."

"You'd be wise not to try to make fools of us," the mage called out after the Tiefling.

"You are the masters, m'lord," Seyashen volleyed brightly.  "Your servant can do no better."