Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs! Shameless plugs!

All right, if anybody knows how to add:

a) a guestbook

or

b) some form in which somebody else can post comments on my site...

PLEASE EMAIL me! KasKade113@aol.com

Friday, November 28, 2003

Then he grinned at Morghan and nudged his horse forward to catch up with Darok ist Navamor, who had been somewhat awkwardly ushered ahead by his guards.

The palace loomed before them—huge iron gates and stone walls, dark ebony stone walls as a harsh contrast to the airy white marble within. They were admitted, and Morghan stayed very close to Listhan as they made their way into the courtyard. People swarmed around them—youth from the stables to take their horses, servants from the bright palace steps to take their bags and show other riders to their rooms, nobles dressed in clothing so rich and gaudy that Morghan had a hard time not laughing at them, and more. The palace was the hub of all life in the city—everything revolved around this one pinnacle of activity, this one monument of vivaciousness. It never stopped moving.

Listhan convinced Morghan to let a youth take her horse to the stables. He took one or two saddlebags with him, denied a polite servant the chance to carry those bags, and gestured at Morghan to follow him. She did, shadowed by Unyse. “I hope they take good care of Lodi,” she said to the mage.

Listhan choked mid phrase and almost tripped up the steps. “Who?”

She flushed. “Lodi. Lodi Blue. My horse.”

Listhan threw back his head and roared with laughter, a sound that startled birds from their perches in nearby blooming apple trees and made Morghan jump. “You named the horse Lodi?” he gasped, when his thunderous chuckles had died down. To her consternation, as she confirmed this fact, he broke into an intensely loud roar of laughter again. “Where did you hear that name?”

“I—I didn’t, it just came to me in my mind, and I thought it would fit—Listhan, who is Lodi?”

“Lodi ist Mori—“ Listhan could hardly breathe for his laughter— “Lodi ist Mori was the first of the rulers of Vaniad—the Emperor of Kings, he was called, for he ruled all that he saw. He was well known as a ruthless conqueror. But your… your horse…” The mage dissolved once more into laughter.

Morghan scowled at him, leaned over, and punched him in the arm. He flinched and jerked away but did not stop laughing.

They entered the palace.

Weird... Occasionally when you refresh this page you get *freakin* strange stuff--like comics, or strange pics, or just weird things like lists of the times and dates I've posted, but no blog. I think the server is malfunctioning. Either that or I'm getting hacked.

Freakin weird.

Brand New News: *bwahaha* I've created a main blog to keep track of all my other blogs:

Tasiha's Embassy

Tasiha *is* THE main character in one of my books--my non-Nano-novel... my original novel. The one I've been working on for some 853 years. I don't know if I'll post that here--it isn't all connected yet--mostly strung out over brief explicit excerpts over the years. I need to connect it, and then I will be VERY stinkin happy :D...

That's in case you were wondering about the URLs to all my blogs, or my username on nano. Yep, if you are bored enough to want to check up on me on nano, my username is tasihan_empire

All right! My poetry blog is up: The Night the River Burned

UPDATE: My Book of Sun blog is up too! This is last year's nano, and, in some ways, it is superior to this year's. However, this year's has far less plot holes.

UPDATE:! If you have already read this ENTIRE blog, congrats to you!

however, I just updated a way back post with a new plot element--I identified the archers/bandits who attacked Listhan and Morghan right after Listhan explains why he has wings, and they will end up playing a somewhat vital part in the story.

If you want to find it, it comes right after the first, introductory scene with Movik, Zerdonaral, and Sigatel. Hit ctrl+F and enter 'the patient be secure' and you should be able to find it--it's the part just following all the stars. Got it? Good.

Thursday, November 27, 2003

Well, I'm going to rig some blogs for my poetry and my other stories, too. I'll put them up as links on the right, if they work. *sigh*

I don't know about this web stuff, though. My stuff should be protected by copyright, but I *still* worry. Oh well. I shouldn't. I just looked over the last half of my novel and deemed it 'mediocre at best, pure crap in other cases.' *wink*

*runs around in circles*

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

WOO! My pretty pictures work now, thanks to dear precious helpful kind gracious beautiful dashing brave and all around rocking pao.

*throws kudos to pao* Thank you! we shall forever bow to your name! *bows* WOOHOO!

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

I wonder if this works, too?

UPDATE: It doesn't. *kicks it* stupid site :D :P

“This is Lady Morghan Farishel,” said Darok loudly, and the guards all looked at her with open gazes, memorizing the details of her face. She fought to keep from blushing under such intense and multitudinous scrutiny. “Guard her as you would guard me—more so, perhaps. As you would guard the lord mage.”

“No, just as you would guard his majesty,” said Listhan, quickly, scowling. “I have never had a need for a guard and I do not plan to start now. I can take care of myself.” He was once more on horseback—Morghan had not seen him swing up. Now he leaned forward and scowled hard. “And if any of you get in my way…”

He did not finish his sentence.

A tall black woman approached Morghan and bowed slightly from atop her horse. “I am Unyse. I will be your guard.”

“Thank you, Unyse,” said Morghan gravely. “I appreciate it.”

“I will follow you, and I shall try not to get in your way. But if you have need of aid, know that I am here.” The woman nodded briskly and nudged her horse away with the agility of one who was born to the saddle. Morghan sighed, wistfully watching Unyse as she skillfully guided her mount with her knees and voice, a fluidity in her motions that Morghan was sure she would never achieve.

The trumpet bellowed again, this time from nearby, and Morghan winced at the sound. With a gesture, Darok ist Navamor closed the circle of guards around him. Listhan and Morghan fell in just behind him, and as a convoy they approached the city. Unyse trailed Morghan, polite and distant, slightly off to one side.

The gates were flung open as the trumpeter rode ahead of them, proclaiming their presence. Listhan was not very talkative, but Morghan was kept busy staring.

Not even New York City was such a tussle and bustle as this Vanya! There were merchants everywhere, calling their wares. People filled the streets to overflowing and hurriedly got out of the way of the procession of guards and the royal body of the king. Mothers clutched their children out from under the hooves of horses, and inevitable youth with dirty faces dashed this way and that, picking pockets and causing minor amounts of havoc.

Those who caught sight of Darok ist Navamor and had enough space bowed and curtseyed, and he replied with gracious nods and appreciative smiles, but he remained aloof, speaking only a little with his personal guards.

It was at this point that Morghan noticed how very silent Listhan was. He rode slightly hunched over, his huge black robe billowing around his knees as he skillfully maneuvered his horse along. His face was not stern—but it was not happy, as it had been. It was remarkably serious.

“Listhan,” she said quietly as they moved along, and he glanced up from between his horse’s ears, caught her eyes, and smiled suddenly, a blaze of white teeth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Morghan. Just… just a little too deep in thought.” There was a visible struggle on his face, and somehow he allowed himself to straighten his back, stretch, sigh, and begin to look at the world around them again.

Morghan watched the people all around them. They had been surprised and grateful to see Darok—they had cried out greetings and hailed him as their king, willingly. But when their eyes, in turn, lit upon Listhan, they blanched. Some turned away—some made a peculiar sign that Morghan remembered from one of Zerdonaral’s instructions—the sign against evil, or chaos. That made her nervous.

“I don’t understand,” she said to Listhan as she rode. He glanced quickly at her—his eyes had been peeling through the crowd, searching faces. “Why do they—“

“They fear me,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders that did not quite mask his distress at his own words. “What can I say? I’ve never harmed any of them. I’ve never threatened them. I’ve done naught but uphold the law—uphold Ceolene’s law, and strive for what she bids me strive for—but they are terrified of me.” He sighed. “I cannot make them like me. I can only try to show them, through my actions, that I am not the puissant demon that they want to make me out to be.”

They rode on. The city was expansive. The day passed. They moved to less crowded streets, and the party spread out a bit—the carriages had left. They would go around the city to a more convenient access to the palace, but Darok ist Navamor felt that it would be best for his image to be seen riding through the city. Morghan briefly missed Zerdonaral’s drawl and Movik’s peculiar wit. She drew closer to Listhan.

She felt so very out of place here, and yet, she knew somehow internally that there was no place where she more truly belonged. The sights and sounds and even smells of a sophisticated but almost medieval city were captivating. The call of the marketplace was particularly alluring, and more than once she found that she desired to rein in and turn her horse and enter the huge shopping district. Then she remembered that she had no money, knew nothing of haggling, and didn’t need to buy anything anyways. She sighed, and reluctantly urged her horse a little faster so as to catch up with Listhan.

He was pensive, gazing around, but she knew even beneath his apparently slack form he was watching for dangers or surprises. The day passed, and streets passed.

They found themselves once more in an intensely crowded section of town, and Darok ist Navamor reined in, caught Morghan’s eye, and pointed ahead.

At the far end of the long street rose the palace—a huge sculpture, a carved marble work of art, like a confectionary’s dream. The detailed architecture made Morghan think of the creamy icing on some huge birthday cake, and she suppressed a giggle.

“We’ve not long now, Lady Morghan,” called Darok, his eyes twinkling.

“Excellent, your majesty,” she called back. She really was getting a hold on this formal, archaic language—though it was clearly English, it had such an edge to it that made it rich and resonant, and reminded Morghan strongly of Europe during the Renaissance.

They moved along. The streets were teeming with life and with people, and here not everyone stopped to bow or to let the riders pass—it took the persuasion of three guards and a glance at Darok ist Navamor and Listhan Avres to begin to clear a path through the tangle.

A man dragged his two children out of the way of the horses. “Marianna!” he scolded sharply, shaking his finger at the little blonde girl, who stood sniffling, and inadvertently let go the wrist of the other child, who howled with glee and made a mad dash to escape.

He darted under a stall and dashed out into the street, his father just behind him, right into the path of the convoy, just in front of the foremost two guards.

The nearest horse reared excitedly at this fresh encounter, and the child slipped and fell to the ground, howling in fear, as the hooves danced above his head and began to plummet down upon his skull. The rider desperately tried to turn his horse a little, to avoid hitting the little boy, but the horse had the bit in his mouth and was fighting vigorously, tossing his head as he reared. The father screamed. The rider was flung aside, and the hooves came down.

Listhan’s arm shot out—he gasped a word. There was a blaze of white magic momentarily, and then the horse landed, his hooves striking the cobblestones with a loud clatter and reared again.

By now the rider had gotten to his feet and had seized the reins, hauling the horse down to all fours and gently stroking him, to quiet him.

The father stumbled out amidst the group of riders, white and shocked.

Listhan swung down from his horse with one arm, cradling the boy in the other, his damaged. The child kicked and screamed, and the father ran to the mage’s side, not noticing in his shock who it was he stood before.

“By Ceolene, I thought he was dead! I thought he—“ he broke off and hugged his child tightly. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” He wrung Listhan’s hand vigorously and clapped the mage on the back. Listhan, in his surprise, almost fell over. “Thank you so much!” He stopped hugging his child and looked up at the boy’s rescuer.

His mouth fell open, and his face went ashen. For a moment, his lips worked ineffectively as Listhan watched him, his mismatched eyes glittering and his lips twitching. “Y-you—Lord Mage!”

Listhan smiled broadly, and chuckled a little. “It was my pleasure, sir.”

“T-thank you, sir!” The man stammered boldly, his face still pale.

Listhan crouched down by the boy who stood now without struggling by his father’s side, mimicking the same expression of shock that his father wore. “You’re the mage!” said the little boy, and his voice and his face were without fear.

Listhan smiled again, broadly, his eyes squeezed almost shut by his cheeks. “Yes,” he said, his mismatched eyes twinkling. “I am the mage. Who are you?”

“I am Onalask Tiraney,” said the little boy, and stuck out his hand. Listhan took it and shook it gravely, the child’s tiny hand disappearing into the mage’s gigantic palm. “Thank you for saving me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Listhan said again. “Just be more careful next time.” He smiled, and straightened up.

The father, emboldened, perhaps, by his son’s actions, also stuck out his hand, and Listhan took it and shook it as well. “Thank you, Lord Mage,” he said again . The fear was all but gone from his eyes, and what remained was mostly awe.

Listhan inclined his head, and the boy and his father moved out of the street. The mage agilely swung up again, despite his bandaged and slinged arm, and nodded to them, then grinned at Morghan and nudged his horse forward.

And that's it. That's the 50k words, that's all I have. I want to write more, but... I... can't. It's as if there were a bar between me and the story, and no matter how hard I try I can't reach over it, or around it. I am held away from a distance.

But I can still write that. *scowl*

Ah well.

Listhan shook his head. “I do not know.”

They settled her into the cart.

She woke by the end of the day, but would talk to no one about her experiences. She knew that it had not been a dream—but she knew that what she had seen had been important. She knew that it could come true, and she was afraid of it.

She did not want the world to shatter into dust like a fragile glass sculpture dropped onto the floor.

She did not want everything she loved and cared for and strived for to be demolished.
Why did she feel guilty? How could she—a mere mortal woman, not even from this planet—prevent what she had seen?

She did not know, but the swirling rainbow eyes remained in her memory, locked on her mind, urging her to act, to do what must be done.

She waited.

The days passed, as days have a tendency to do, and Morghan learned to ride and to heal. The fifth morning rose. Morghan waited, laying back in the cart, listening to one of Listhan’s stories about the history of the world. He, also, was lying down.The cart rolled along.

Zerdonaral jerked the horses to a stop with a curse, and the erratic, bumpy motions of the cart made Listhan and Morghan sit up quickly and look around.

The rolling green plains ended. In their place, a huge city sprawled—a fantastic brawl of white and gray and brown and silvery, multicolored buildings fighting each other for space and time and existence—huge structures and small ones, tiny farm houses and gigantic towers that rivaled New York City’s own sky scrapers, and every size of house in between—all mashed together in a mingled blurb of vivid civilization.

It did remind Morghan strongly of New York, such was its intensity and depth—it reached to all horizons and beyond, she knew instinctively. There were differences, of course—where NYC buzzed with cars and taxis and bright lights, this city clattered with hooves and the wooden wheels of carts, the cries of merchants and the brilliant light of day.

“Vanya,” said Listhan quietly by her ear. “The capital of ist Vaniad.” His eyes were unreadable as he swept the city. Very quietly, he added, “Home.”

Trumpets sounded at the head of the line, which slowly ground to a halt. Listhan swung hurriedly, if a bit awkwardly, from the carriage. Movik and Sigatel moved to stop him, but he growled low and waved them away. He swung agilely up onto a huge painted gelding that was currently tied to the side of their carriage—though Morghan could have sworn it had not been there before. “Come, Morghan,” he called—she had been watching him, dazed, from the back of the carriage.

Now she hurriedly dropped to the ground and found and mounted Lodi Blue. “Where are we going?” she called.

“We shall ride,” he said. “I am expected to ride with Darok ist Navamor when he enters the city. You must ride with me because I do not wish to leave you out of my sight, not even with the healers.” He cast an apologetic glance at the two men.

Morghan bid the healers and Zerdonaral a fond farewell and rode hurriedly after the mage, who pounded along on his horse as if his arm did not trouble him at all. In a short while, they reached the small party of riders that surrounded Darok ist Navamor—he had chosen to stay with the caravan this morning instead of riding far ahead.

“There he is!” exclaimed Darok when he caught sight of the mage at last.

Listhan dropped from his horse and bowed to the king. “My liege.”

Darok ist Navamor dismounted and embraced the mage with a warm hug, being careful with his heavily bandaged arm. “I have missed you, my lord mage.”

Listhan smiled. “And I you, my liege.”

“How are you feeling? are you fully healed?”

“Not quite yet, my liege. My arm has a ways to go, I fear, before it is whole again.”

“Ah. Well, may Ceolene and Cirvosieh smile upon you, and perhaps you shall heal faster.” Darok ist Navamor’s eyes twinkled.

Listhan bowed slightly again. “Thank you, my liege. I am sure they will.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in the slightest of grins.

“And Lady Morghan,” said Darok ist Navamor, turning to her. His eyes were fairly glittering with innocence, and she knew then that, for now, her secret would remain a secret with him.

Morghan puzzled briefly over why Listhan would bow to a mortal king but not to the gods or goddesses, but let the thought drop and instead inclined her head to Darok ist Navamor from the top of Lodi Blue. “Your Majesty,” she said in clear tones.

“Will you also be riding with us?” At her nod, he smiled. “Good. I would not wish any harm to come to you, and there are few places safer than those around my… companions.” He gestured broadly at the guards around him, who murmured in approval and grinned at Morghan.

*nano reminder: this story very well may BE a pile of crud, but it made it to 50k, and it has a long way to go. try not to mock it too much. I can't figure out how to get a guest book, so PLEASE email me your opinions. KASKADE113@aol.com*


The next day came, gray with a crown of fog. Morghan stretched and yawned from her cramped position next to the dead fire. The world was silent all around her in the depths of the gray fog, silent and still.

She was alone.

The others still slumbered.

Unconsciously, she glanced at Listhan, but he was not there.

She rose on silent feet and looked around, and thought that perhaps she caught a glimpse of a dark back disappearing into the fog.

She followed it.

She did not say anything—she just followed, slipping along as silently as he did, edging past the guards, disappearing into the pre-morning foggy gray soggy soft squishy obscuring air.

When she had gotten clear of camp, she hurried through the dark quiet air—she had lost sight of his cloak. He must be somewhere in the mist—

A hand clamped over her mouth and another tried to pin her arms from behind, but she twisted, her hands flailing and striking, pulling at her attacker. He was deft—fast—he pulled away, and they stood facing each other.

It was Listhan.

When he saw who it was, he swore all but silently. “Shit,” he whispered fiercely, and dropped to his knees, letting loose the tense energy that had surged in his bones in preparation for an attack.

Morghan reacted in a similar way, letting out her breath in an explosion.

“Why the HELL were you following me?” he hissed, getting to his feet again and striding angrily up to her.

“Why were you leaving? Where were you going? What are you doing?” She could not barricade the barrage of questions that burst from her lips.

He scowled. “It is none of your business.”

“Don’t give me that. I woke for a reason, and I follow you for that same reason. What are you doing?” She stuck her chin out stubbornly, holding his mismatched gaze.

He sighed, and passed a massive hand over his face. “Come with me. You will see. But I shall not wait for you if you fall behind!” He scowled, and turned abruptly away, striding silently through the tall soft grass that swished about him as he passed.

Morghan strode beside him, her feet silent, keeping pace with him, breathing in the all-consuming, all-conquering gray fog that hung over and devoured the world around her. She could hardly see Listhan as he stood beside her. The camp was long since lost from view. She did not speak, but strode along, not missing a step.

She watched Listhan’s face as they walked. His lips were turned ever so slightly down, and pursed, and his eyes gleamed purposefully beneath half-lids. He was deep in thought, not watching or caring where he was going, but his direction was accurate nonetheless. He breathed deep breaths, occasionally muttering something just quietly, too low for her to hear. She did not ask him to repeat himself—in fact, she did not speak at all—because she knew the words were not for her to hear. He was speaking to himself and to the distant edge of the horizon, hidden in the oppressive fog.

Listhan stopped abruptly, lifting an arm and stopping her as well. They stopped. They did not move. Morghan glanced around her. The fog had lifted just a little around them, leaving them in a clear circle, but beyond that it was a thick white-gray wall, impenetrable and sturdy—insubstantial, made of water droplets, but nonetheless it was real and firm.

Listhan stepped into the middle of the circle. His eyes searched the world around him, but he could see nothing—all was obscured by the ever present fog of gray, blazing, filling a dome around him, shutting them off from the world.

A slight breeze stirred around him, making the edges of his dark ebony robe flap and lift a little, and the fog tousled and swirled in twists of gray around his feet. Morghan followed the twists and spindles of gray along the damp, pre-morning dull grass until her eyes met again with the far, solid wall of fog—sheared off, as if cut with scissors—yet another lamb falling beneath the weaver’s sheers. Solid, like a woven blanket.

As she watched, from a slight distance, the wall swirled, and the fog pushed outwards, and a person entered. The fog hung to her like a child looking for comfort—it swirled around her feet and streamed forth from her hair and her eyes. She wore a dark gray dress, and her skin and lips were the same pallid, limp color as the damp fog all around her. Her hair was silvery and gray, outlined with wisps of fog.

She stepped further into the clearing, and the fog that had obscured her fell away, leaving her skin more flesh colored, her hair a dark silver-gray, her face, though lined with age, beautiful, graceful, incredible. Her presence blazed so strongly in Morghan’s mind that the girl stumbled just a little from where she stood.

Listhan knelt, his huge form humbled in a strange gesture. Morghan’s eyes went wide as she looked at him, and then glanced back at the strange woman.

Rainbow, swirling eyes met her green pair and held. They blazed with power—blazed with grace and elegance and a certain fierce pain that made the heart throb and the mind swell. Morghan looked into those eyes and saw—

--Saw the world in an instant of brilliance defined with shapes and figurines, a blaze of hues, a rush of colors, furious hot darkness and a cool sweet icy breath of wind—

--Saw the tall arc of a tree in an instant as a seedling, all at once, swelling forth, not knowing the fear that the newborn knows, not wasting its time, pushing into the warm spring air, and the mature tree, growing and spreading green leaves and limbs in the hot safe smell of too many summer nights, not knowing the fear that the youth knows, not wasting its time, and the old tree, pressing its dark brown crumpled red gold silvery-backed leaves against a too cold blue sky, not knowing the fear middle age knows, not wasting its time, and finally the slumbering bulk of a skeleton tree groaning with the heavy weight of wet snow as it slumbered in ice and blue soft dreams through the cold winter, not knowing the fear that old age knows, not wasting its time—

--Saw Listhan tinted ebony and angry, killing with broad sweeps of his hands, and his face grimaced in pain and rage, tears pouring forth from his eyes—saw him changed, knelt, kneeling, a blaze of ivory contained in a pinpoint of heart—a pinpoint he had given away, his soul that he had tore from himself and given to her, for her to hold and keep and treasure, and in return she filled him with an ivory that seared the eyes and the lips and the mind, and as he spoke two blazing parched words into the air and demons exploded into dust around him, he wept tears of pain and misery at their passing—feeling, really feeling, really weeping, mourning for the death he caused—mourning for his killers as they died. One eye twisted in a moment of anti-reality, and blue faced black, together and strong. His back seared in arching agony, and he screamed, naked, spiraling into a world of brilliant white, the black ebony wings bursting forth along the flaming red white hot lines of pain along his back—

--Saw the world disappear in a puff of ash, everything she had ever known and lived for gone in a second of brilliant agony, to crumple into dust upon the emptiness of space, gusted away by a tiny breeze, a shower of ash and memories.

She beat at that image, unable to make it disappear.

She was on her knees, screaming, silent, pounding her fists on the soft foggy green grassy earth, beating and beating at it, her lips spread wide and her face clenched as she howled, No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no! Tears burst from her eyelids in a gushing wave and blinded she beat the earth on and on, biting her lower lip, blood gushing forth from the wound.

Hands pulled her up and out and away from the earth, and she lashed out—“NO! NO!”--beating at the hands, striking them away, but they flinched and winced and held on, drew her to his chest—it was Listhan—and held her there, soothing her, rocking her back and forth as she struck and struck at him, and could not stop.

He placed a large hand on the back of her head and pressed her face, streaming tears and blood and matted with hair and dirt and grass, against his chest, holding her, holding her, until her fists dropped from exhaustion and she could do no more than lay, shuddering and defiant, against him—weeping.

Weeping.

“What did you do to her?” he asked softly to the gray swirling fog that filled the air around him, but she had gone—disappeared—faded away back into the mist, her rainbowy eyes unreadable and blazing, her lips pursed to speak but never parted in sound.

Listhan was torn. He could never believe that Ceolene would do a single precious soul harm in any way, shape, or form. But when he looked at Morghan, sobbing weakly and flailing at his chest, he could only see the pain etched on her face, and he knew that Ceolene had caused it.

For all his burden of power, for all his sturdy presence, for all his strength and intelligence, for all his mightiness, for all his good points, he could not stand to see Morghan in pain.

So he held her—tenderly, openly held her, fiercely, blazingly held her, until she lay limp in his grasp, and the tears that had poured forth from her eyes halted their steady descant to her sobs.

Back at the camp, the sun had begun to rise, and Zerdonaral had woken to find Listhan and Morghan gone. In a panic, he had roused the two healers, but Sigatel and Movik insisted in that they could not leave the camp site, especially in such a thick fog as that which presently blanketed them, and risk being lost. They would wait there, both healers insisted—and somewhat reluctantly Zerdonaral acquiesced.

“But if they not be back by the time the call be sounding, I be off to go looking fer them. Ye understand me? I be not the one to be leaving them here and alone, fer sure.” He scowled at the healers, and Movik nodded soothingly.

They waited.

Out from the gray tendrils of mist came Listhan, and in his arms he cradled Morghan, carrying her gently, his face pained.

Zerdonaral and Sigatel jumped forward and took the girl from him, and Movik hurriedly began to rebandage the mage’s damaged arm, which had suffered from carrying her. “What happened?” he demanded. The light of day was breaking out all around them, and the fog was even now fading—though a thin layer of it would remain perpetually throughout the next two days.

Monday, November 24, 2003

Finally figured out how to post the participant's icon without the net making it into an evil little red x:


Now all I need to do is do that with the winner's icon, too, and I'll be happy!

Update:





*sob*

Friday, November 21, 2003

Morghan sighed, and passed a hand over her face, wearily.

“Lady Morghan—“ Darok began.

“I am no lady,” she said fiercely. “I am just Morghan. Just myself. Morghan Farishel. That is who I am. And you have to understand, Darok ist Navamor, that Morghan Farishel does not love. She does not fall in love, she does not feel love, she does not love others. She does not love at all. That word was stolen from her a long time ago, and she shall never, ever love again. Not you. Not Sigatel. Not all the people in all the world. Never.”

Her words were fierce, but beneath them was a burning white hot pain, the memory of old scars and the blazing thoughts that had stirred again within her when Varys had touched her, had kissed her—when Listhan had held her into the night. Thoughts of Raphael. Thoughts of a tormented past. Thoughts of pain and of horror and of a decimated future, and a deep internal fear of the one emotion that had so hurt her before. It hurt her to suddenly comprehend that the words she spoke were gospel truth—blazing strong and real.

She lifted her face. She did not have the time to hurt right now. It was not right for her to hurt in front of others. That was not who she was. She was strong. She would always be strong, and self supportive. She didn’t need that damned word that had been stolen from her, anyway.

Though she felt like weeping.

But she did not.

Darok ist Navamor heaved a great sigh. “Is she of noble blood?” he queried incessantly at the still-kneeling Sigatel.

A shake of the head no.

“Is she royalty?”

A slightly derisive chuckle on Morhgan’s part, and another no.

“Is she a peasant?”

A pause, and then another shake of the head no.

Darok through up his hands in exasperation. “She is not a peasant, she is not a noble, she is not royalty—What the hell is she? Is she even from this planet?”

Morghan froze.

Sigatel lifted his head, his eyes wild in surprise, and shook his head no.

Darok stared at him, his hazel eyes burning into the poor healer’s skull.

“She is not of this planet?”

Sigatel nodded, helplessly, stunned.

Darok turned to look at Morghan, who stood very still, her stomach sinking with a heavy feeling like the weight of an iron plummeting inside of her. “Is she of Mvon Terr?”

There was a pause. Sigatel pulled himself to his feet, his eyes wide, staring at her, gaping as his head moved up and down in affirmation.

“Is she a creature of chaos?”

Morghan’s stomach plummeted as, still incredulous, Sigatel nodded again.

They were silent, the two men, staring at her, and she could not bring herself to meet their eyes. Instead, she stood with her head down, shamefaced and afraid of their reaction.

“Should she be killed,” said Darok ist Navamor roughly, his voice harsh with what Morghan knew was the pain of shock and surprise, “Butchered, her body burned, as we must do to any creature of chaos that comes here rampaging and—“

Sigatel flung himself in front of the king, who had taken a step forward, flexing his fists angrily. The healer’s head was swinging wildly left to right, and his eyes were bright with tears, his actions uncontrollable and violent.

Darok ist Navamor stopped, staring at the healer. “Or perhaps, is she so useful to the gods and to Ceolene that she must live, and be protected, at all possible costs?”

Sigatel’s eyes widened once more, and slowly—ever so slowly—he nodded.

Chapter ?

Morghan had been quiet ever since she had returned to the carriage to ride with Listhan, Zerdonaral, Movik, and Sigatel. She had little to say, but much to think about—her thoughts blazed on her face.
She said nothing to anyone. She sat on the back of the wagon and watched the hills pass behind them, silent and staring.

Sigatel had curled up in a corner of the wagon in a ball and refused to speak to anyone. Despite his lack of answers, his twin brother continued to prod him with questions until he fell asleep in self defense.

Morghan curled her legs under her and hunched her shoulders, feeling, for the first time in a long while, vulnerable.

She did not understand a large number of things. She did not like the way Darok ist Navamor had treated her, or how he had treated Sigatel. She did not like the way she had finally come to realize that she was incapable of love. She did not like the way the two men had looked at her, as if she were some sacred sort of monument.

She did not like the truth in Darok ist Navamor’s last, complicated question, nor did she like feeling as if she were watched. She felt as if she was watched. She shuddered slightly.

There was rough movement, and the carriage jostled slightly, and Listhan plopped down beside her, leaning somewhat raggedly against the wall of the carriage.

“Did you tell him?” he asked.

“I told him. It took a while for him to believe me, but I told him.”

Listhan nodded in acknowledgement. For a while, they rode like that—silent and together—and Morghan suddenly realized that she was comfortable in his presence.

“What else did you tell him?” he asked quietly.

She jumped guiltily, and glanced at him. Despite the pain on his face, his blue and black eyes were serious and sturdy.

“I told him where I was from,” she blurted.

The mismatched eyes went wide.

“He kind of weaseled it out of Sigatel, on accident. And then he asked the healer if he should kill me, as all who come from where I come from should be killed.” Her face was angry.

Listhan shrugged. “What was the answer?”

“No.”

“And then what?”

“And then he asked if I were so useful to the gods that I must be protected and guarded at all costs.”

Listhan stretched, wincing at the pain in his arm, and sprawled out backwards along the floor, taking up a considerable portion of space. “And what was the answer to that question?”

Morghan hesitated. “Yes.”

He lifted his eyebrows and nodded in approval.

“Why?” she asked of him, twisting around from where she sat on the edge of the carriage. “Why? Why me?”

“Because of the potion,” said Listhan. She said nothing. She stared at him. He grinned, white-toothed, at her. “Why not? You are as good as anyone else. Perhaps you are better.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“Perhaps you are a hundred times worse.”

She scowled.

“Who can anticipate the reasoning of the gods, Morghan? They do what they want—often prompted by Ceolene or deep, internal powers. Their actions are generally in the best interests of Mven Terr. But why? And how are their decisions made?” He shrugged, wincing again. “Not even I know that, Morghan. I might speak to them, I might work with them on occasion, I might ask them for a favor or aid, but I do not understand them, sometimes, at all.”

“Not even Ceolene?” said Movik, overhearing them.

Listhan closed his eyes as he lay there. “Especially not Ceolene,” he said.

“But…” Movik could not truly bring himself to say what he thought he might want to say to the mage.

“I am her servant,” said Listhan in clear tones, his eyes closed. “I attempt to anticipate her whims, I do as she commands. I love her.”
The words were so round and strange in his throat that Morghan felt a knot well up inside of hers.

Listhan’s tone dropped to a whisper. “I love her, and I worship her, and I serve her. But do I know her? Like a person knows a good friend? Like someone knows their parents or their siblings? Do I understand the way she works? Do I know whence she gains her brilliance and her blazing rainbow eyes? No, no, dear healer, I can only stand by and hope and watch with a tear in my eye to be so close to her and yet so very, very far away.” His voice was low, and beneath it was a pain so inexpressibly exquisite that it burned them to hear even a remnant of it.

They all sat, silent, and even the world outside the wagon hung still and quiet for a moment in deepest sympathy for a loneliness that welled too deep for comprehension.

While others lived daily without understanding the Gods, Listhan had no one to turn to. No equal. Those lower than him fled in terror if he spoke a word to them, afraid of the crystalline fire that might burst, foaming, from his lips, as if he were a mad dog. Those higher than him—well, there was really only one. Ceolene.

So he was alone—explicitly, totally, utterly, completely, shamelessly filling in of multiple synonyms alone. He had no one to turn to. He had only himself.

Morghan laid down next to him, her feet dangling off the edge of the cart. She said nothing, but her elbow pressed lightly against his side.

He sighed deeply, and smiled, thankful for her presence—startled by how much it pleased him.

“Thank you, Listhan,” she said quietly.

“For what, Morghan?” he queried.

She was silent for a long and quiet moment. “For everything,” she said at last.

He smiled.

He said nothing.

He shut his eyes in pain and breathed deep of the air.

The day moved on. Soon night fell, and they slumbered.

The healer approached and bowed.

Morghan turned to look at him, as the king looked at him. With wide eyes.

“You can only speak the truth. Yes?” said Darok ist Navamor.

Sigatel shrugged, a broad gesture, and spread his hands.

“Let me say that again. If you answer yes and no to my questions, your answer is true, whether or not you know any relevance of the question at all.” The king’s eyes were hard.

Sigatel nodded firmly.

“Good,” said Darok. “Tell me, please. Or show me, I think.” He smiled lightly. “Is what Morghan said true?”

Sigatel shrugged again and spread his hands.

“Let me try that again. Is all of the story she told me about the potion true?”

Morghan felt her heart sink as Sigatel, looking at her in confusion, slowly shook his head no. Her cheeks flamed.

Darok ist Navamor’s eyes flared dangerously, and he flushed. She could not meet his eyes. She could only watch Sigatel.

“What part is not true?” Darok asked, and then snorted as Sigatel began the shrugging and hand spreading routine again. “Did the potion spill on her?”

The healer nodded yes.

“Did Listhan bring her along to draw the potion out of her?”

The healer nodded yes again.

“Is the scenario she described what really happened concerning the spilled potion?”

The healer shook his head no.

“Was it her fault the potion spilled?”

Morghan suppressed a cry of indignation at the query, and glared, but he did not even glance at her, merely focused his eyes upon the truthful mage, who was now shaking his head a vigorous no.

“Was it Listhan’s fault?”

Another no.

“Was it caused by another person?”

A nod.

“Someone who wished harm to the potion?”

Another nod.

“Intentionally?”

A shake of the head no.

“An accident?”

A nod.

“Are you in love with her?”

Morghan gasped angrily at the audacity of the king, fighting the urge to kick him.

Sigatel’s eyes met hers. He was twitching—holding still—trying to—fighting it…

He nodded, his cheeks flaming, and his eyes could no longer hold her gaze.

Morghan felt her own cheeks flush. “How could you ask such a thing?” she demanded of Darok, shaking her finger at him.

“I wanted to know if he was speaking the truth. I was testing him.” Darok’s tone was unflappable despite her fury.

His eyes fixed once again on the flushing Sigatel. “What is she lying about?”

Sigatel once more spread his hands hopelessly, but Darok lifted a hand to cut off the familiar gesture. “All right. I understand. Is she dangerous?”

Morghan was flushing.

Sigatel looked at her, surprised by his own actions, because he was nodding.

“Is she here to harm me?”

Morghan snorted at the king’s egotistical question, and was gratified by a firm ‘no’ gesture from Sigatel.

“Does she belong here?”

Sigatel froze. Again, he considered her, his gaze powerful but confused. He listened to the question—it echoed in his head. But he could make no gesture. He spread his hands helplessly out, his eyes full of confusion.

Darok grew angry at the lack of answer. “Does she belong here?” he thundered, moving closer to the startled healer, one fist raised in a furious, blazing blow. Sigatel dropped to his knees in fright and bowed his head, cowering before his lord, and Morghan tried to thrust herself between them.

Morghan’s actions distracted Darok ist Navamor from his anger—though not entirely, as he still had gotten no answer—and he scowled, and let his fist drop, his face dark.

“I do not appreciate being denied,” he said in a low, irate tone.

“As if he could help it,” said Morghan, angrily. “You saw him. His answers are not in his control. If he does not know the answer, can you truly blame him? Can you?”

Darok had no answer for her. He stared, silently at her, and then he took a step back, still mute.

A thought occurred to Morghan, and she whirled to the still-crouching Sigatel. “Is he in love with me?” she demanded. Darok stiffened, but he could do nothing to stop the nod that shuddered out from Sigatel’s bent head.

By the time Morghan had saddled and readied Lodi Blue, Sigatel was waiting for her. She swung somewhat awkwardly onto Lodi Blue’s back, and followed him, waving good bye to the guard who had dropped off from the vanguard around the carriage and waited with them.

They rode hard, Morghan wincing at the pace, until a close scrutiny of Sigatel and his horse showed that she was riding incorrectly. She adjusted her buttocks, almost fell off, scowled at Sigatel’s laughter, and rode on.

The line of slow moving carriages passed by them, until they were free of the encumbrance, and then the hills rolled along beneath their horses’ feet, a blaze of green below and another blaze of blue overhead. In the distance, near the horizon, Morghan caught sight of a small group of riders, moving fast and raising a cloud of dust.

She nudged her horse onwards and faster—the king and his companions were traveling fast, and she wanted to reach them soon, though she dreaded the actual conversation.

What if Darok ist Navamor did not believe her? Listhan had said that Sigatel could not lie, and Sigatel would verify her story for her, whether or not he knew it or heard it.

What if Darok ist Navamor refused to see her alone? She knew then that she would insist to the point of tears and begging—and would not be above dropping Listhan’s name into the conversation to get her request.

But how was she supposed to tell this story? Darok did not know that she was from Mvon Terr, and from the attitudes of Shorka and Xethro and Mihnol, and the way Listhan had treated her origin, she knew she should not mention it. She did not think the king would be open to the idea of her being a… what had Xethro called her? Or was it Mihnol? A creature of chaos. She did not think that Darok would like that at all.

She would talk around it. She wouldn’t mention where the drink had been spilled. She would avoid naming her origin. She didn’t need him to know that she was from the Lord of Chaos’ realms.

As they rode, she lost herself in her thoughts to the point where she slipped from Lodi Blue into the mud once. Embarrassed, she righted herself, swung back up, and focused her mind on the action of being on a horse.

The day past, the sun blazing in the sky overhead, creeping along as they pounded after the king.

The small group of riders on the distant horizon grew steadily closer, until Morghan could clearly see the forms of the riders. She nudged Lodi Blue sharply with her knees, but she knew somehow that the horse was beginning to tire.

She rode on, ruthlessly, as did Sigatel beside her, and their eyes met briefly. They grinned, and simultaneously began to race each other, speeding faster and faster, the horses flecked with sweat and panting, until they pounded far past the group of riders they had chased—racing and riding, racing hard, speeding along, until just before them there was a stream. They reined in sharply.

Morghan was almost thrown from her horse at the abrupt motion, and she fought to stay mounted.

The group of riders reached them a half an hour later. The horses had had their tack removed, had drunk from the stream, and now rolled in the grass, cleaning the sweat from their hides, relaxing, breathing, and nibbling at the dainty offerings of the earth.

Darok ist Navamor was hidden in the midst of the group, but when he saw Morghan and Sigatel he nudged his horse forward and reined in, and they parted respectfully and also reigned in around him—a crowd of men and women swathed in clothing and weapons.

“Lady Morghan!” he said, and smiled broadly, his teeth flashing in the sunlight, his voice full of pleasure. “And Healer Sigatel! Why, what are you doing here?”

Morghan and Sigatel had both risen to their feet, and now Morghan inclined her head, somewhat shakily, as she had been trying to learn how to do for the past few days—just as Listhan always had to the gods. “Your Majesty,” she said. “I need to speak to you.”

He smiled at her, regarding her broadly as if, Morghan recognized indignantly, she were but a little child. “I am here, Lady Morghan. Please speak to me.” His voice was rich and warm, and his look was affectionate.

“I must speak to you alone, Your Majesty.” She let her eyes drift to the riders who surrounded him.

He seemed taken aback, but she held his gaze firmly before he could deny her request, and his refusal died on his lips. He mumbled something about something being highly something something irregular, but that, too, turned to ash on his tongue.

He swallowed, and smiled again. “Of course,” he said, and he swung down from his horse, gesturing for the two ubiquitous guards who always followed him to stay in place, and strode up to her. He bowed a little, offering her his arm, and she awkwardly placed her hand upon it.

His smooth palms—had he never touched an instrument of work in his life?—closed over hers, and he rearranged her arm so that her positioning was correct. “Like this,” he murmured, and she was made uncomfortably aware of how very close he was. Her cheeks warmed, but she could not pull away without appearing rude.

They began to walk, side by side, together, further along the river, with Sigatel trailing after them thoughtfully. Morghan fought to hide her dismay at the king’s treatment of her. “Now,” he said, again his tone as if he were addressing a child, “What is it you wished to speak to me of?” They walked on.

“L—that is, the Lord Mage Listhan wakened today, very early this morning.” It was early afternoon.

She felt him stiffen and come alert. “He is awake? That is most excellent, for I must speak with him at once, you will excuse me—“ he started to pull free, but Morghan, remembering Movik’s words, caught his arm with her hand and held it tight.

“Wait, your majesty, just hold on a moment. Let me speak. Healer Movik does not want the Lord Mage to be disturbed by anyone right now—he says it would be most detrimental to his already unstable condition. They sent me to—to tell you the answers to the questions you would ask Listhan.”

The dark hazel eyes met hers. “How do you know such answers?”

Morghan sighed. “I was there for most of it, and the rest Listhan filled in to me as we traveled.”

The soft lips tightened briefly in an angry line. “I did not think that the Lord Mage would be so willing to spread this… news… around as he traveled—“

“You have him wrong, your majesty,” said Morghan quickly. “He told no one, mentioned it to no one. Only me. For due reason, if you would let me explain,” she added tartly.

Darok ist Navamor looked surprised at her boldness, but he nodded. “All right.”

“There was an accident with the potion,” she said, and again she felt him stiffen and jerk.

This time as she looked at him, his face was hard and pale, and his eyes blazed in fury. “No,” he whispered through barely-parted white lips.

“It spilled.” He all but jerked his arm from her grasp, half spinning around, but she held tight and heaved, and brought his furious form back to face him. “On me.”

“What?”

“It spilled on me. During the Lord Mage’s journey—it just slipped, it was tossed into the air by momentum, though no one’s fault, and it opened and it spilled upon me.” Morghan was facing the king, mere inches away from him. She was aware—very, very aware—of his hot chest pressed just against hers, his face nearby. She couldn’t help herself. She turned away.

Darok ist Navamor had relaxed, slightly. “On you? And the mage thinks—“

“He thinks he can draw it out of me. That I carry it in my bloodstream or something. That is why I travel with him—so that he may use me in this spell and take the potion out of me.”

The hazel eyes met her green ones once again. “And what then, little Morghan?” he whispered, and her heart staggered. “After the spell—after he takes the potion out of you—what then? What will you be? Will you go back to your peasant hovel, your little village—“

Morghan jerked away from him, from his raspy pleading voice and the look in his eyes. “For your information, I did not come from a little village, I did not come from a hovel. I would hardly consider myself a peasant in the least.” Her voice was angry, and it broke. She turned away from his searching eyes, and he could see that she was hurt.

He stepped up behind her—she could feel him against her back, feel him breathing in her dark curls. “Forgive me, Morghan,” he said. “Sometimes perhaps I do not know all.”

She bit her lip. “Now you know why I travel with Lord Mage Listhan, and what happened to the potion,” she said, rather carelessly.

“Why did you not tell me before?”

She felt her face grow hot. How could she explain all the signs she had seen, of the secrecy Listhan had imposed?

“He didn’t want it well known. I didn’t know that you—I didn’t know that you were one of the ones who should know, not until he woke this morning and told me to tell you. I didn’t want to betray his trust. He took such pains to keep it hidden on the trip, and I… I just don’t know. I didn’t know.” It sounded weak, lame, pathetic.

He stepped away from her, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the reduction of his presence. “Sigatel,” he called.

As of 11:07 pm of 11/20/03, I have an official word count of:

*drum roll*

50,026 words.

My 50,000 word was 'sprawling.'

And there's a lot more to go. *keeps writing* I'll post the rest of it when I get the chance.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

hmmm... somebody email me (KasKade113@aol.com) if they know how to put pictures up here. I want to put the nano participant pic, but it isn't working. I'm at 49,000. I'll probably finish tonight. Can't wait to print that certificate.

Well, I won't *finish*... The way I reckon (*snicker*), my novel is barely half done at 50k...

YAY!

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

They did not argue with her, but something in their attitudes suggested that the name was peculiar for a horse.

Morghan rode on beside the carriage. Meanwhile, inside of it, Movik and Zerdonaral chatted, and Sigatel watched them, smiling and adding an occasional silent comment.

And Listhan dreamed…

He stood upon a dry plain—the once-green grass was burned to ash, and the world all around him was dead. The sky overhead boiled with dark and angry clouds, and a fierce dusty wind swelled around him, lashing him with dirt and dust and ash. To one side was the remnants of a forest—smoking stumps of trees, white with decay, shattered splinters and a faint smell of burning wood all that remained of a once-vibrant world.

It refused to rain, despite the angry clouds and the sky-splitting lightning. No matter how hard he tried—white eye-searing magic tumbling forth from his lips in a blaze—he could not make it rain. The words spilt forth, commanding and begging for the sky to open—to bring life again, until the brilliant ivory power in him, that had always swelled and always guided him, that had never failed him before, faltered, flickered, and died.

He was alone—terribly, terribly alone with the burnt edges of the grass and the smoking stumps of trees, the ruins of a city on the horizon—the rubble spilling out, burnt and bare, across the dead grass—and the churning sky overhead. A lump rose in his throat. He was so alone. He could not stand to be so terribly alone.

He fell to his knees amongst the dead grass, his mismatched eyes pouring forth tears—tears for the world he had lost—the world he had failed—the world that had died. He was so alone.

And then a scent of a breeze came to him—a blazing scent, filled with smoky ash and a welling, smoldering fire—filled with the aura of flowers and the eternal wings of butterflies. He lifted his lowered face.

And she stood before him—Ceolene. The one person he had ever sworn to serve, the one person he bowed to, the one person who understood him, the one person who knew him, the one person he loved. Her eyes glistened in a myriad of shifting shades—silver eyes, rimmed in blue or hazel or green or gray every now and then, always changing. Never the same. Her hair was brown—that plain, rather mousy brown of a dull shade, but it glistened slightly with alternating golden and ebony highlights. Her face—

How could it be said that she was pretty? Her face was plain—perhaps. But within her presence was contained such a potency and grace that could neither be denied nor explained. She was a living, shifting metaphor of the power she wielded—a brilliant blaze of magic that danced at her fingertips.

She smiled at him, a sad quiet smile, and turned away from him. His heart leapt—one hand reached out, begging her, pleading with her—“Don’t leave! Don’t leave me alone! Please!”—but he could say nothing.

She turned back around, and now Morghan stood in Ceolene’s place. Her green eyes danced—her dark ringlets bounced as she turned. She smiled at him, and called “Listhan!”

But again, he could say nothing, only reach for her with all the longing in his heart.

The world dropped away from him. He fell, spiraling into nothingness, his eyes focused unseeing far above. The world was a haze of dimmed rainbows and husky hues—shades of gray, silver, and white lay over everything, hiding it from him like a veil—a twisting iridescent melding pool of colors.

Blue faded into existence, and a brilliant light blazed above him. He longed for it—he reached for it, stretching his hand out, but he could not move. There it hung, just outside of his reach.

He was floating, far below the surface of some clear sapphire water.

He could not move. He could not breathe. The more he tried to struggle, the more distant the surface became. At last he succumbed to it, and let his body go limp. He gave in, his lungs working furiously against his shut mouth, his chest burning with the need for air.
The light grew closer—the surface grew closer. His hands were floating just lightly above him—he was relaxed, utterly calm, in charge. He noticed in a detached manner that his arm did not hurt him so badly as it had before.

The water was warm and sweet against his body as it embraced him, holding him, cradling him, carrying him up, the liquid flowing over his skin with a gentle benediction and blessing.

At last, his fingers broke the surface, and his body popped into the slightly cooler, smoother, livelier air. His eyes emerged last, and he floated, silent, still.

His lungs opened, and he breathed.

Morghan had long since tied Lodi Blue to the carriage and joined Movik, Zerdonaral, and Sigatel for her lessons in carriage driving and in healing. She was applying a bandage with somewhat deft motions to Sigatel’s arm as he twisted and writhed—imitating the pained actions of her future patients—while Movik sat nearby and laughed and laughed at the two of them.

“Don’t let him tell you know, Morghan,” Movik said when Sigatel crossed his arms and shook his head vigorously like a child. “You’re the healer, remember? You know what’s best for him. You know what needs to be done.”

Morghan struggled to obey his instructions. “When I was your age,” she told Sigatel angrily, “I listened to the—er—healers.” He stubbornly refused to allow her his arm until she wrestled it from him, bent it a little, and began to firmly bind it with the bandage.

Listhan began to cough, hard, vigorously. Instantly, Movik was by his side, and Sigatel shook himself free of Morghan and quickly joined his brother.

“Get the cup,” said Movik sharply, loosening the bandages that stretched across Listhan’s huge chest to help hold him in place. He was referring to another brew they had prepared early that morning in case of emergencies. “And get the powdered scyrith’s nail from my bag, too,” he called.

“I don’t need powdered scyrith’s nail,” said Listhan sharply, wheezing, and Morghan’s heart jumped to hear his voice again. “I need to—sit—up—“ His word were broken by a fit of coughing as he struggled upwards against the bandages, which Movik was desperately trying to undo rapidly. Morghan stepped quickly to his side and with deft motions helped him free the mage from the confines that had secured him.

“You should be lying down, lord mage,” said Movik in a worried tone.

Listhan waved that aside with one huge hand, the other clenched in a fist and raised to his mouth to help still the fit of coughing. “Can’t—breathe—that way—“ he rasped.

Sigatel reappeared with a small bundle and an empty goblet. The bundle—which turned out to be a wineskin—he uncorked and tipped over the goblet. Water flowed forth, splashing into the cup, and

Listhan heard the sound and grabbed the skin from the man, tipped back his head, and drank greedily, the water trickling from the corners of his mouth in his haste.

Despite both Movik and Sigatel’s obvious disapproval, the water seemed to do Listhan good, for his hacking up of his lungs halted, and he breathed easily, huge gasps of air, cradling his bandaged arm at his side.

When he had had enough of both air and water, he tossed the skin back to Sigatel with a grin and shifted backwards so that his back was pressed against the carriage wall—he leaned against it for support, his eyes glistening. “By Ceolene,” he said, “It’s good to be awake.”

“But you’re not supposed to be awake,” Movik protested. “Not for at least another day—usually more!”

Listhan said nothing—Morghan saw that he was too weak to say anything, to protest, to really move. He waved his good arm a bit limply. “Check my pulse and all that stuff, would you?”

Movik sighed, a little bitterly, and he and Sigatel crouched by the mage’s side, taking pulse and heartbeat, and checking his wounds. The broken arm still caused him pain—she could see it in the way he moved it, and he flinched violently when she touched the mottled purple surface with smooth fingers. But when they had undone the bandages upon his shoulder, Movik gasped.

The arrow wound had closed and healed to a white puckered scar on both the back and the front of Listhan’s shoulder.

“It’s healed, isn’t it?” the mage asked quietly.

“Y-yes,” said Movik. “What did you do? You were glowing—there’s no way that could have healed that fast—“

“I was glowing?”

“Just faintly.”

Listhan closed his eyes and smiled. “Ah.”

Sigatel scowled, and removed the unnecessary bandages. Movik made Listhan lift his arm and rotate it, but even prodding at the scar, he could find nothing wrong with the way it had healed. “What happened? What did you do? Did you—“

“Not I,” said Listhan quickly, and his eyes opened. “I had the most disturbing dreams. I knew I would. But if I was glowing whilst I slept, you can have no one to blame for my rapid recovery save for Ceolene.”

Sigatel inhaled sharply, Zerdonaral gasped, and Movik dropped the goblet, which he had picked up to put aside. Morghan recovered the spilt cup and wiped up the mess.

“What be ye saying, lord mage?” said Zerdonaral sharply, twisted around in his seat to watch them.

“I’m saying that I must have been in worse shape than I thought to have her take a hand in healing me. Though there are other reasons. Most likely she needs me to recover, and to heal, and to be able to cast spells.” His eyes drifted to Morghan, and they were full of awe and respect. She knew it was not Morghan Farishel who he was watching there, but someone distant and intangible.

Then he truly focused on her, and he smiled. “Morghan. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Listhan, but how are you? Are you feeling all right? Your arm—“

“Well, it’s broken, and the bones must grow back together. There is nothing I can do to speed that without costing myself too much power. But the pain isn’t as bad.”

“You’re tired,” she said quietly as she settled herself beside him, leaning against the wall of the carriage.

“I am weak,” he said, his voice strangely harsh, and as she glanced at him she realized that it took a lot for him to admit that. “I have no strength. I burned myself out—exhausted myself.”

“You didn’t sleep enough.”

“I didn’t sleep at all.” He laughed a little, and the laughter turned into a choking cough until Sigatel pressed the goblet of water into his good hand. “Thank you,” he rasped when he had quenched the hacking.

Sigatel nodded, and moved to sit near the front of the cart with Zerdonaral, who was maneuvering the horses over a difficult, rocky section of the path. After a moment and a flurry of exchanged glances, Movik joined them.

The sun was at midday, and the activity around them was wild. Riders roamed back and forth, carrying messages from the front of the column to the back. More riders stoically grouped near the carriages, their weapons at ready and their eyes focused upon the surrounding plains and the distant wood. Others were returning somewhat perpetually with hunted game to help feed the crowd.

“All this?” whispered Listhan. “All this for what? For me?”

“For the potion,” said Morghan quietly.

Listhan stiffened. “Darok ist Navamor! I forgot, I must tell him—“ he broke off and pushed himself to his feet—or rather, tried to. But as he rose, his knees buckled, and he fell again with a short cry of pain.

Sigatel was on him in an instant, pushing, pressuring him back down to the ground.

Irritably, Listhan thrust the healer aside.

“Mage, you must rest!” said Movik in alarm. “You cannot overexert yourself or you will never recover—never! You will damage yourself permanently. You will be unable to rise from your bed, much less cast spells and rampage around the kingdom. You must rest!”

Listhan had slumped to the ground. “I must tell Darok ist Navamor about—what I bear. I must tell him. He awaits it, and the news is… vital. It’s—“ Listhan could not finish his sentence.

“I’ll tell him,” said Morghan somewhat boldly, to her own surprise. Listhan glanced sharply at her. “I know what happened. I can tell him.”

Listhan sighed. “Very well, Morghan.”

“There be a slight flaw in yer plans, lord mage,” said Zerdonaral. “Ye be fergetting that His Majesty is like to be riding ahead with his group of guards. Ye’ll not catch him unless ye be riding yer horse, yer ladyship.” He had refrained, despite frequent requests on Morghan’s part, to call her anything less than a lady. “And if ye be riding yer horse, ye be needing someone to go with ye, else ye’ll fall and ye’ll get lost both a once. Let me go with ye.”

Listhan shook his head. “No, Zerdonaral, I need you to drive the carriage. But Sigatel can go with her.”

“What good would Sigatel do?” demanded Movik, with an apologetic nod to his now-angry twin. “I mean… well… he can’t talk!” He hastily fended off his mute brother’s furious punch.

“Even better. Whatever Morghan tells Darok, Sigatel will not repeat. Because, Morghan,” now he turned to her, “Your message is for Darok’s ears only. Not even for those two flunky bodyguards he takes everywhere. And more than that, Sigatel,” now he turned to him, “Darok knows you cannot lie.” Morghan glanced sharply at the mute man and found him nodding and blushing. “He will ask you to confirm what she says, and you will be able to. Excellent.” Listhan rubbed his hands together, wincing as he brushed his arm. “And I will wait here. And rest.”

He settled back onto the small cot and leaned against the wall, his eyes all but closed, glittering in the light of noon.

Sigatel and Movik glanced up, exchanged looks, and moved hurriedly to the mage’s side. After a long moment, Movik said, “He’s… he’s fine. He’s just—“ he glanced up. “I think that he is in a sort of healing trance—with the first real sleep he’s had in days. It’s a natural sort of thing for a mage—they heal normally while they sleep. Only, with such a deep sleep, it is emphasized here… I’ve read about something like this before.”

“What, you read that mages do this… that mages glow and heal?”

“N-no…” said Movik quietly. “I read that the gods do, if they are injured or help someone who is injured.” He cautiously let his hand sink into the glowing light that filtered through Listhan’s body into the air, tensing and touching, and before he could touch Listhan’s chest he pulled his hand out and shook it vigorously. “It burns,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “It feels like fire, and like wind and ice all at once.”

Darok ist Navamor’s eyes glittered in the light of the pale glow.

Chapter ? *note--I forgot to put chapters earlier. wah*

Morghan woke the next morning with a groan to someone shaking her. She turned over and sat up

It was Zerdonaral that stood over her. “Come on, girl,” he said. “Ye wouldna be learning to ride a horse if ye stay in bed all day. Get yerself up.”

She rose and joined him in preparing the horses for the day’s ride.

Sigatel—who had shared alternative shifts with Movik, watching over Listhan’s slumbering form throughout the night—was already up and dressed, and he grinned at her as he packed the cart and kicked dirt onto the ashes of their fire. The sun was just ready to peak over the horizon.

After she had helped ready the horses, Zerdonaral went with her to find the stablemaster and get her a horse and tack to ride.

The man in charge of the horses was large, bulky, and scowling—probably hung over from the night before, Morghan gathered from his reeking breath as he hollered at them. Why was the mere girl to have a horse when there were barely enough trained mounts for the riders, knights, and lords? Why now? Who would pay for them? He roared on well into the morning.

Zerdonaral listened to him with a bland look on his face until the man began to repeat himself. “She be Morghan, an apprentice of the healers Movik and Sigatel, and also of the Lord Mage Listhan. And His Majesty said she be needing a horse. He be wanting her to ride with him later.”

Morghan stood firm under the man’s sudden, intense scrutiny of her form.

He let his brown eyes sweep over her, and then he opened his mouth in a wide, wide laugh. “Bless ye, ye be joking, Zerdonaral. This little wench be riding with His Majesty?”

Zerdonaral glared, but before he could speak, Morghan said loudly, “Don’t call me wench.”

The man stopped laughing and looked at her, incredulous. Her eyes were flat and hard. “I be calling ye whatever I please, wench,” he hissed, leaning over her. “Ye be well to keep yer place—“

“Shut your mouth,” she interrupted him. Her pulse flared inside of her—she knew he would never respect her unless she stood up for herself now, but she had never challenged someone as big as him—not in all her years of karate! Nevertheless, she did not yield. Her eyes flared.

His nostrils flared. “Ye be lucky I be not the man to hit a woman—“

“Why? Are you afraid of me?” she scoffed, keeping her stance despite his huge proximity.

He laughed again, a short bitter laugh. “Of a wench?”

“I said don’t call me that. You only get two warnings.” Her voice was dangerous and low. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

“What will ye do, wench? Slap me?”

She lunged forward, launching her fist into his face, where it connected with a crack upon his nose. She felt his bones break beneath her hand, and regretted her actions, but she had walked herself into a situation and she would not walk out of it.

He howled in pain and swung at her—somewhat clumsily, and she dodged under his sweeping arm, darted behind him, and her foot crashed first into the back of his knee and then—she launched herself from the ground—the small of his back, sending him first stumbling and then falling to the ground with a resounding boom.

She did not follow up on her advantage, but she stood, her eyes blazing, her fists up and ready, the knuckles of one hand smeared with his blood, behind him, waiting.

He hauled himself upright and turned, tremulously, ducking another blow, to find her waiting for him, but he did not try to attack again.

How like a bully, to thrust her around until she stood up for herself, and then run at the first sight of battle. She scowled.

“Begging yer pardon, yer ladyship,” he whispered. “Please dona hit me again.”

She let her fists drop. “I don’t like being called wench,” she said loudly, her cheeks hot, “But I certainly didn’t come to pick a fight with you. I need a horse.”

He bit his lip. “A course. Let me see what be available.” Cowed, he led them to a nearby string of horses, and stopped. He was watching Morghan, and she realized that he was waiting for her to choose a mount.

She flushed a little, and glanced at Zerdonaral, hesitating. He sighed, and stepped up to the grazing horses, and she followed him. He ran his hands over first one horse, and then the next, shaking his head at each, occasionally stepping back to look over Morghan’s height again. Finally he reached one horse—a blue roan mare—and nodded his head in approval, checking teeth, ears, flanks, mouth, and hooves for signs of sores or weak points.

“She be a fine horse fer yer ladyship,” he said to Morghan with a grin. “She be just yer height, too.”

They received tack from the cowed, reliable giant, and made their way back to their place in the line of carriages. This time Zerdonaral had her ready the horse and mount by herself, without his aid—and it took her only two tries. She was a fast learner.

She rode the blue roan around the cart several times, back and forth, getting a feel for the horse, while Zerdonaral shouted directions from his seat on the carriage. By the time the horn sounded to get the column moving, she felt secure upon the horse’s back.

“What be her name?” the affable driver queried.

Morghan bit her lip. “I like… Lodi. It just fits.”

“Lodi?” said Movik, one eyebrow arched.

“Lodi Blue,” said Morghan. “I like it.”

They returned him to his comfortable position on the ground, the fire dying to embers, and Zerdonaral handed out blankets as Sigatel checked the patient one last time. He knelt beside the man and took his pulse.

“How is he doing?” asked the smooth voice of Darok ist Navamor, and both Movik and Morghan jumped. Sigatel did not glance up from his counting, but the other two men jumped hurriedly to their feet as they spotted the king inside the dimming circle of firelight, flanked by a man and a woman in armor with swords. After a moment’s pause, Morghan scrambled to her feet as well, but she did not bow as Movik and Zerdonaral did.

“Your Majesty,” Movik said gracefully as he bowed.

“Yer Majesty,” drawled Zerdonaral, bowing a bit more awkwardly.

“Your Majesty,” Morghan echoed, inclining her head slightly.

His Majesty nodded in acknowledgement to the carriage driver and the other healer, and he smiled warmly at Morghan, but his attention was focused on Listhan’s prone form and the healer that knelt beside him. He moved closer, and crouched down beside the mage.

Sigatel glanced up at him, his eyes steady, and inclined his head, the best bow he could manage on the ground.

“He says the mage is healing nicely, Your Majesty,” said Movik, stepping hurriedly a little closer. “He has rested well all day, but he will need continued rest for at least two or three days more, at a minimum, if he is to fully heal.”

Darok met Sigatel’s eyes for a moment, and then, silently, he rose—he could not keep the mute man’s gaze. He turned to Movik. “Why is he so ill? It has never taken the mage such a long time to heal before—especially not from a broken bone and a flesh wound.” His tone was slightly surprised, but beneath it Morghan thought she felt a touch of scorn, even anger.

Movik lifted his shoulders to indicate his confusion. “I do not know, Your Majesty. He has completely exhausted himself—burned himself out. Were he a lesser man, I would have no hopes for a recovery, but…”

“But he be Listhan Avres,” said Zerdonaral quietly, awed, and then ducked his head in a flush as the king glanced at him.

Movik nodded in agreement. “But he is Listhan Avres. He will live.”

Morghan remembered Listhan’s own words—I will live until Ceolene chooses to let me die, and rest.

“As for the cause of his weakness, your majesty, I really could not say,” Movik added with another shrug. “His journey before he came to us has sapped his strength greatly.”

Darok ist Navamor fixed his eyes on Morghan. “What happened to him?” he said quietly. “You were with him. You should know.”

Morghan also found herself shrugging under the hardened hazel gaze. “I—“ she stopped, and her mind touched back on the past few days. “First he broke his arm—or had it broken, by the man upon the bridge—Evirik Windseer, by a staff—and then he… he did quite a bit of magic over the past few days—the spell with the ring, and the bridge, and the wings—and then there was the scyrith, and we only just got away from the dragon, and then the arrow…” she trailed off as the men stared at her, and she flushed slightly. “And I don’t think he’s slept, the last four or five days. Not when I was with him at all.”

Movik nodded. “A combination of excess use of energies and a lack of sleep would certainly bring upon a collapse, especially triggered and encouraged by such a harsh wound.”

“Wait,” said Darok ist Navamor quickly. “You said you were attacked by a dragon?”

“Yes, we were. Twice. Once in this pine forest on the near side of the gorge, and then over the bog—“

“You went over the bog with the p—“ Darok broke off. “With the cargo he carried?” His voice was angry.

“The choice was not ours. We were riding a wind—Mihnol sent us that way—“ she broke off at Zerdonaral’s sharp gasp.

Darok ist Navamor let his legs fold under him. “Explain,” he said shortly, his eyes glittering. “Sit down, healer. Sit down, Zerdonaral. Sit down, girl.” Morghan unconsciously bristled at the term, her jaw clenching tight. He glanced sharply at her as she did not move, and there was a moment of strained silence in which both Sigatel and Movik tugged at her arms, seated as they were, as they had been commanded to be, trying to get her to sit as well, but she would not yield. She would not bow to Darok ist Navamor. She was not a subject of his—she might only be a commoner, but she was a citizen of the United States of America, and even if that meant nothing here, she knew what she was worth. She wasn’t anybody’s slave. She did not have to hang on his whim. Their eyes met and held, and he saw in her the brusque rudeness of his attitude.

Somehow, in some way, though it contradicted all he had learned as a prince and as a king, he could not help but yield to her. “Please,” he added quietly, soberly.

She sat, her legs trembling slightly. He leaned backwards and glanced up at the two guards, saying nothing, but both wandered away in opposite directions—though they did not wander too far.

He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward—they were in a small circle, the five of them, with Listhan’s prone form making a sixth person on the far end. “Now, Morghan,” he said quietly. “Would you please describe your journey?”

She sighed, rubbing briefly at her eyes. “When I met up with Listhan, and he convinced me to accompany him to… to aid him with this spell, we traveled for only about a day until we reached a huge gorge.” Darok nodded to indicate that he knew of what she spoke. “Listhan said he would rather not go around it, so we went over it—we used the rainbow bridge—I think he called it the… the Bridge of the Gods.”

Darok lifted an eyebrow, glanced at Listhan, and then relaxed, nodding for her to continue.

She did so. “Upon crossing, we encountered a guardian, who insisted that we could not pass. Listhan pressed him, and the man attacked. They fought. The man broke his arm. Listhan fell, and lost his staff. The man advanced, and Listhan kicked him. The man lost his staff and went over the edge of the bridge.” Morghan sighed. “He caught hold of the bridge before he went tumbling off forever into space, and Listhan helped him up. The man declared that Listhan was the champion, and let the both of us pass.

“We left the bridge and landed on the far side of the gorge, beside a large white pine forest. While we were passing through—it was strange. The whole world was silent. We came across a bird, dead—Listhan said its heart had stopped, and it was bleeding internally.”

“Scared to death,” whispered Movik, his eyes wide. “What caused it?”

“We hid,” said Morghan bluntly. “And then the dragon came, the first time. It was hunting. It killed a lizard—I think it was a basilisk—and it was hunting us. Listhan cast some spell—“ she stopped for a moment, thinking of the blazing words that had emanated from his lips in a burning fury.

“Go on,” said Darok. “What spell?”

“I don’t know what kind, but it created a cyclone—or maybe summoned it, and we jumped into the tornado. It carried us away before the dragon got to us.”

Darok glanced at the mage. “I wonder—“ he broke off. “Never mind. Go ahead.”

“Something disrupted the spell, I think, for we certainly didn’t get to the place Listhan intended. We ended up in the…” she blushed furiously upon recalling the event, “In the palace of the God of Love.” Her cheeks were flaming.

Darok ist Navamor stared at her. “You are not serious.”

Morghan scowled. “I am. I spoke to him—well, he spoke to me—well...he—that is, Varys—“

“Ye talked to Varys?” Zerdonaral queried, incredulous. “Seems to me he weren’t much into talking.”

Morghan flushed. “What do you take me for? A prostitute? I am my own woman. I don’t do anything with anybody I don’t want to do anything with. Understand?” She did not realize she had shouted until she saw that they were all leaning slightly away from her. Her cheeks were surely on fire. “Anyway, Varys found Listhan for me and sent us on our way. We appeared next in a very strange place—less of a palace, and more of a frame of a palace—not finished. There was sky all around, and there were all these people he—Listhan—didn’t expect to see.”

“Like who?” asked Darok.

“Well he certainly wasn’t looking for Shorka or Xethro or the others—he said he was looking for Mihnol. And the others said they were looking for Mihnol, too. He was missing. It just came up that they suspected the Lord Chaos of… of meddling. And somehow that made all the difference, for everyone spread out to look for strange objects.” Morghan shook her head. “I think Mihnol was transformed, or something, by the Lord of Chaos. I found a ring that just didn’t feel… right. It smelt of fire and ashes.” Her eyes grew briefly distant. “And Listhan didn’t want to look at it—he said later there was a spell on it, to repel those who might break the transformation, and he wouldn’t look at it until Shorka made him—“

“What did Shorka look like?” Darok ist Navamor interrupted, his hazel eyes deep and ever so slightly awed.

Morghan snorted. “She’s tall and black and she was wearing armor. And she had a spear and a sword. And her eyes—“ she broke off with a shudder in remembrance. “Her eyes are full of violence and pain, death, glory, honor, and rotting flesh.” Her tone had gone quiet. “They defined her.”

Darok grunted slightly.

Morghan went on. “So Listhan transformed the ring back into Mihnol, and then Mihnol sent us on a wind over the bog. But the dragon came back, and Listhan tried to avoid it by going low over the bog. Then we landed—the wind dissipated—and we treid to hide from it. Then this large scyrith—“

“How large?” asked Zerdonaral, flushing as they all shot him looks for interrupting.

“Twice as long as me,” she said.

“Mihnol, Ceolene, and Lodi!” hissed Darok ist Navamor between his teeth. “The largest I’ve seen—and that was boasted of as a prize of a catch and a kill—would be not quite your length!” His eyes were wide.

“Listhan struck it with his magic, but he used his broken arm to gesture and he couldn’t hold on, and the spell shattered. The scyrith attacked again, and the mage twisted midair, blasted it, and fell sideways… on his arm. I thought he’d died, he screamed so loud. And then the pouch ripped and the stones fell—I caught all but one—and we were on the rainbow bridge—the Bridge of the Gods again. That dropped us off right over the hill before we found you, your majesty. Then we were attacked, and we ran, and he got hit and collapsed.” She glanced worriedly at Listhan, and then frowned.

Darok ist Navamor followed her gaze—Zerdonaral, Movik, and Sigatel were still staring at her—and inhaled sharply. “Is he supposed to be glowing?” the king asked quickly.

“Pleasure to meet both of you,” she said. “Are you both mages?”

Movik laughed. “No, no, Mihnol, no! We’re healers.” He stressed the last word. “We spent a half dozen years in school learning—also trained with Cirvosieh for some time.” He said the name as if she should know it.

“What’s Cirvosieh?” Morghan asked.

Movik laughed again, so hard that he choked.

Zerdonaral snorted, glancing at the laughing healer, and nudged the horses, clicking his tongue slightly, forward as the cart ahead of them began to move. “Cirvosieh be the God of Healing, yer ladyship. He be probably the most seen god of all of them. All healers be required to be trained with him.” He skillfully wielded the reins, but Morghan noticed immediately that he drove the animals with his voice, not with the straps, and he never touched the whip that rode in a cup beside him. “The patient be secure, Movik?”

The healer stopped laughing and turned quickly, but Sigatel had already moved to Listhan’s side and had adjusted the straps, making sure the giant mage wouldn’t move. The mute healer lifted his face and his dark eyes fixed on his brother’s. A moment of silent communication passed between them, and Movik hung his head for a moment. “All right,” he said quietly, and turned back to the front of the wagon. “The patient is secure, Zerdonaral,” he said quietly.

“Good,” said Zerdonaral without turning his head from his charges.

They plodded along, and Morghan watched his skilled hands manipulating the reins and the horses. The day passed, as did the countryside, with Movik pointing out landmarks and Zerdonaral drawling forth a never ending trail of history until Morghan’s head spun. When he remembered that she had never ridden a horse before, he insisted on teaching her when they stopped for the night.

**************

A thick man of medium height, with brown hair, flicked one last arrow over his shoulder at the guards who had pursued them and disappeared into the trees. He raced between trunks and under branches until the sound of pursuit disappeared entirely. Then he paused, oriented himself, and made his way back to their campsite on silent, still feet.

As he approached the clearing, he caught sight of a man clad in a brown robe a short distance ahead of him, sitting on a rock, his eyes roving through the brush. The first man crept up behind him, and before he could cry out, slipped a hand over the man’s mouth and a knife against his throat.

The seated man froze in fear and shock, arched uncomfortably by the shiny point of the blade ready to plunge into his flesh. For a moment, neither moved.

Then the first man cuffed the other fiercely, knocking him to the ground, and sheathed his knife.

The man who had been seated cried out as he landed on the dense foliage. “Toma!” he said when his eyes finally fell on the man who had cornered him. “Why—“

“May all the gods damn ye, Lozieh,” said the man called Toma. “Ye weren’t paying attention, and it be yer watch!”

“I didna think ye’d be back so soon,” said Lozieh, rubbing at the bump on his head. “Ye said one ye captured the man ye’d be taking him to the one who be paying us—“

“Aye, I would have been, had we captured the man. There were riders, Lozieh—king’s riders. They had archers among them. The rest’ll be coming back wounded.”

Toma paced into the camp, stalking and cursing silently under his breath. Half a dozen men and women had remained in camp. Toma had not thought to include them in an expedition to seize a whole two travelers, one of them a woman. Two of his fighters had crawled back, injured. Three had been captured, they told him.

As the hour passed, three more fighters made their way back to camp, where they would be treated and healed and berated for their idiocy in allowing themselves to be injured. As for those that did not come, in addition to the three captured, Toma could do nothing. He wanted to go back for them—see if he could recapture those three imprisoned—but he did not have the time. The king’s party had already moved on, and they had failed to capture the two they had been sent to be captured. That meant that they would not be paid. Toma scowled. He knew how low their food supplies were. They could hunt, surely—but food was always scarce amongst them. It was a way of life he did not like.

Toma was the head of a band of mercenary robbers—paid by merchants to guard their supplies, or to attack their competitors. On occasion, they would kill, if their employer paid high enough. It was not a pleasant life. Toma had been the son of a farmer, but had left while he was young to seek better fortunes after too many droughts and diseases crippled his father’s farm. He had traveled to Port Gayyin, where he had been captured by raiding pirates and sold into slavery. He had been sold until he reached the hands of a local baron who had died, and, during the funeral, had escaped into the woods and began to live on his own—hunting and fishing—until a group of local men tried to recapture him. He had killed them—he had had no choice. Over time, word of his actions spread, and a few men and women had joined him, willingly, as they had been outcasts from their own towns and lives. His charismatic presence had drawn other rebels to him, and they had started this mercenary band.

The sun set upon the camp, and they ate a quick meal hunted from the forest around them. When all had quieted down, Toma went out once more into the woods, alone, stepping on silent feet through the darkened forest until he stood once more by the stream, the reflection of the moon dancing hazily on the dark surface of the liquid.

The reflection pulsed strangely as he stood there, and a blazing green gash opened up in midair. Bladewing fell out of the gash—kicked from the other side—and tumbled to the ground. His face was lined with fear and pain, and he scrabbled up the bank into the woods as the gash disappeared.

It was there that he encountered Toma’s knife pressed sharp against his throat. He froze, and then his whole form blurred in rapid motion. Toma found himself disarmed, his own blade pressed to his own throat.

He scowled. “Ye’re late.” It was difficult to speak around the needle sharp point that snuggled under his chin.

The knife was withdrawn. “Do you have them?” Bladewing’s eyes were angry, and in them was a form of despair, and a fear as well.

Toma sighed.

“You don't?”

“We fired upon them—of what ye told me of the man, an arrow in him would only help us handle him. But they dodged every single fletching fired, and they ran away.”

“You didn’t chase them?” Bladewing’s tone was angry. “You should have chased them! Why didn’t you chase them?”

“I chased them! We chased them! but there were riders waiting for them—the king’s riders, and they fired upon us. We fell back—there were too many of them for us to challenge. And I lost several fighters.” He pressed his lips in a thin angry line.

Bladewing scowled. “I don’t care for your damn fighters—I wanted those travelers!”

Toma read in Bladewing’s face what he did not say—the fear and desperation in his eyes betrayed him. “Who sent ye for them? Ye dona want them—someone wants them from ye.”

Bladewing could not keep his glance from straying backwards to where an afterimage of a fiery glow still hung from the eye-searing green-white blaze. He quickly jerked his eyes back to Toma’s face. “You do not get paid if you do not get those two travelers,” he said.

Toma sighed. “I know. Just… give me time. I know where they be headed, and I have contacts there. Once they’ve settled down, they’ll be much easier to get a hold of. And if ye help me—“

“What do you mean?”

“We can work together, Bladewing,” said Toma. “I not be able to do much alone, even with my band. But I want to get paid, and ye want yer people. Together, perhaps, we can get them.”

Bladewing scowled. “Very well. I will work with you.”

The two shook hands enthusiastically, sealing the agreement firmly between them, both pairs of eyes unreadable beneath the light of the moon.

*********

As the day passed and there were less things to talk about, Movik began to show Morghan some of the common healer’s skills. She learned how to properly bandage a wound and to set a broken bone, though she did not think that she would have the courage to perform this last task. She also learned about cleansing wounds and keeping them from infection—though truth be told, she remembered most of what they taught her from her few medical and first aid classes in college.

The day wore on, and Listhan slept. As the sun began to inch below the distant, eternal hills, a trumpet sounded from the far front of the line of carriages and riders, and the column ground to a halt.

Zerdonaral clucked and whistled and soothed the horses, and they stopped just behind the cart before them. The driver immediately sprang down and unhitched the horses. Curious, Morghan also jumped down and moved to his side.

“Ye be wanting them to get to know ye,” he said in his rough drawl. “They be needing to hear the sound of yer voice. Ye be wanting to talk to them all the time. Introduce yerself, yer ladyship.”

“Hello,” said Morghan tremulously to the giant animal in front of her. He snorted, and nosed her.

“He be wanting a treat,” said Zerdonaral, and produced an apple from some pocket and gave it to her. “Hold it out fer him. Touch him while he be eating it.”

Morghan obediently rested the apple in her palm and held out her hand.

There was a crunch, and she jumped, her fingers lightly skipping from the place where they rested on his neck. She glanced at the apple, and her jaw dropped. Fully ¼ of it was gone. She nearly dropped it, but there was another crunch, and there was nothing to do except stroke the silky neck in front of her with trembling fingers.

By the time the second apple was gone, she was no longer afraid, even when he nipped one of her fingers lightly.

“Now,” said Zerdonaral, “Sha-sha not be really a riding horse, but he be the best thing fer ye to be practicing on. I be giving ye a leg up, and ye be swinging the other over his back, ye see. Ye can be pulling a bit on his reins if ye be needing the help. Ready?”

Morghan gulped and nodded. Zerdonaral crouched, and cupped his hands together. “Ye put yer foot here—the foot that be going on this side. The right foot. Then ye push off, and I be pushing ye up, and ye swing yer other leg over.”

She tried it and was boosted half up the horse’s side. She scrabbled briefly for a purchase at his flank and fell in the mud and dust, to the pealing echoes of laughter from both Zerdonaral and Movik. Even Sigatel was grinning.

She bounced to her feet, dripping slightly and brushed ineffectively at herself before giving up her efforts. “Let’s try again,” she said quickly. “What did I do wrong?”

Zerdonaral stopped laughing, and the look he gave her indicated admiration. Morghan frowned. Had he truly expected her to give up after the first try?

“Ye wish to try again?” he queried, in surprise.

She refrained from tossing her hair disdainfully. “Of course! How else would I properly learn how to ride until I learn how to mount?” She smiled at him.

He ducked his head in acknowledgement. “To be sure, yer ladyship, ye didna get yer leg over. Ye need to be doing that befer ye get on him. Ye really wish to try again?”

“Of course,” she insisted.

He cupped his hand and boosted her again. This time she went over the horse and kept going over, slipping off his tall back and landing again in the mud on the other side, and this time she let her laughter join theirs, an action that earned her more approving looks.

After several more tries, she finally managed to mount the horse. Then she sat on his back, somewhat awkwardly, looking around.
“Now what?”

“Now,” said Zerdonaral, ignoring the laughter of the others, “Ye nudge him with yer knees—guide him, really. Ye can use the reins, but ye’ll have more control fer sure if ye use yer knees and yer voice.” The lesson in horseback riding went on for perhaps another half an hour, and then Zerdonaral made her dismount—she managed to not land in the mud—and had her wipe down and brush the horse, checking for sores and cleaning his tack. By the time she had finished, he had started a campfire—as every other driver of every other carriage around them had—and the other horse had also been cleansed and readied for the night.

Movik and Sigatel had carefully heaved Listhan out of the wagon—the iron railings, Morghan saw, had been part of a long, low bed like a sling or stretcher, and had pulled right out of the floor of the carriage—and had settled him by the fire.

“The heat will do him good—will prevent him from chilling,” said Movik, and Morghan noted that it was, indeed, chilly now that the sun had gone down. She found her robe, which she had discarded in the carriage during the long day’s ride, and donned it again, pulling it tight against her somewhat muddied clothes as she huddled closer to the fire.

Zerdonaral had a pot over the fire, and now he checked the water. Finding it boiling, he rummaged through a nearby bag and pulled out a bulky pouch twice as large as her fist, which he opened and poured into the pot. “Stew,” he explained, and he stirred the concoction a little.

Sigatel moved carefully to Listhan’s side and began to undo the bandage that covered Listhan’s shoulder. He stopped, and gestured for Morghan to join him, and she did, and practiced the skills she had learned that afternoon by removing his caked bandages and replacing the bloodstained cloth with fresh white linen. Sigatel watched her, and Movik conveyed his brother’s requests to her idly.

“Too loose,” he called upon one occasion, and “Too tight,” on another, and so it continued until she had performed the task to Sigatel’s satisfaction. He, too, had a pot in hand—a smaller one, with a long handle encased in wood that he held and tilted in the fire, and at occasional intervals he would remove it from the fire, take off the lid, add a pinch or two of this powder or a splash of this liquid, and return it to the fire. Once and a while he would glance at Sigatel as if conversing, and the mute man would take Listhan’s pulse or check his pupils or put a hand on the mage’s chest, and Movik would stir the potion.

After a while, he took it out of the fire, found a large mug, and poured the steaming liquid into it, and then placed it on the side to cool while Zerdonaral served the stew.

They ate, in a friendly silence that grew to light conversation and good laughter. Morghan ached all over from riding, and said so, which earned her laughter and no sympathy at all. Once they finished, Movik took the dishes to clean them in a nearby stream, and Sigatel snagged the cup with the potion in it. He sniffed it, and then made a gesture at Morghan.

She followed his hand gestures somewhat awkwardly as he arranged Listhan in her lap—she tried not to think about how glad she was to have the mage there—and made her support him and hold his head up. Movik returned and helped Zerdonaral clean up the campsite, getting ready for the encroaching night—though really night was already on them.

Sigatel opened Listhan’s mouth with a poke of his finger and slowly tipped in the drink. Listhan swallowed—great, greedy gulps of swallowing, the liquid pouring down his throat, swallowing unconsciously, swallowing in his sleep, until the cup was dry.