# The Talismans of Aerdrim



## havenstone

Once upon a time, my good friends and sometime gaming partners orichalcum and cerebralpaladin suggested that I post the synopses from our 1996-2006 D&D campaign as a StoryHour. I hesitated for a few years, mainly because I had ideas of one day publishing novels set in the world of Aerdrim. Plus, our games had been littered with maps and bits of paper I didn’t want to leave out, and at the time I didn’t have any free online document storage.

Since then, I’ve decided I’ll never actually write an Aerdrim series--though I’d appreciate it if any aspiring writers out there showed appropriate restraint in borrowing whatever bits they find interesting. (Not least because, for the D&D campaign version of Aerdrim, I’ve ripped off plenty of other fantasy authors who might object to seeing such clearly plagiarized stuff showing up in print). GMs should feel free to adapt the maps, scraps, and plots in the following StoryHour to their own campaigns as appropriate.

I apologize in advance to readers who are fascinated by game mechanics; this SH will offer slim pickings. Many of these sessions were played a decade or more ago, most under 2nd Ed rules which I now barely recall (how did THAC0 work again?), and were very focused on role-playing and character-building. I’ll remember when a character had a very high or low stat because it affected the story, but I don’t have a record of all the stats of all the characters.

In 2002, our gaming group came up with a canonical synopsis of the campaign to date before our third post-college “reunion game.” Like our memories, the story has fewer gaps after the early episodes. I’ve fleshed them out a bit, and I’d welcome any suggestions or contributions from the players.


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## havenstone

*The initial background*

The people of the Dominion of Senallin call their world Aerdrim — a name shared by the Senallines' neighbors in the other civilized realms of Aradur, Kedris, Velnar, and Caragon. The realms also share a name for the deity of their world: Ain, the One, the Holy and Compassionate.

The barbarian and semi-barbarian peoples who dwell further from the calm waters of the Enladrin Sea have different names for their world and its god, but few Senallines speak enough to the barbarians to learn these names. Travel is difficult outside the civilized domains. The nine moons of Aerdrim pull the open oceans into wild and unpredictable tides; massive waves batter the major coastlines into ragged cliffs. Sea travel is an art which while once reasonably widespread is now preserved only by a handful of peoples. By land, no one in living memory has traveled far into the vast, arid grasslands of Arawai and Chraman; the people and the terrain are equally unfriendly to northern intruders.







(Forgive the seam down the middle of the two conjoined maps; my original map of the Senallines’ known world was drawn on a university blackboard and didn’t last long).

The only non-human species around capable of having a conversation with your average Senalline are the dwarrow, who get along reasonably well with most humans. Individual dwarrow live only twenty-two human years on average, but their shortened lifespans are balanced by slowed experience of time, heightened senses, and profound appreciation for beauty. The dwarrow are known for their good cheer, extraordinary craftsmanship, and their love of stone -- especially in the vast underground network of caves, built over countless dwarrow generations, which most of them call home.

For Senallines, mages and sorcerers are figures of myth; the only supernatural powers in the civilized realms are those of the priests of Ain. Most priests who live consistently with the rules of their Orders can call on the One God and receive priestly powers of one variety or another. Though all of the dozens of Orders would describe themselves as Good, they vary tremendously in the details of their ethics and theologies. For example, the Lunarists explain human behavior as determined by the movements of the nine moons, while the Torezzan Order insists that humans are essentially anarchic unless sternly controlled by rightly-guided human laws. Where all of this puts Ain on the traditional D&D alignment scale is anyone’s guess. On the practical evidence, Ain is apparently willing to tolerate a great deal of non-good behavior before withdrawing His blessing from any individual priest.

Some Orders explicitly seek to emulate this divine toleration. Many others are convinced that Ain blesses the _truly_ holy more than the corrupt or heretical; these Orders condemn their rivals while striving for purity. The most extreme are the priests of the Sistechern Order, whose battle against heresy and quest for truth at all costs has led to them becoming the most talented inquisitors on Aerdrim--and the Order which stretches the limits of “good” the furthest.

While many of the civilized realms are monarchies, the Dominion of Senallin is an aristocracy, ruled by the Patriarchs of the Five Families from the ancient castle of Lynar. Throughout Senalline history, the Five Families have alternated between periods of peaceful coexistence and periods of all-out civil war, usually only interrupted when the land-hungry nobility of Aradur or Velnar began taking bites of Senallin. 

Our story begins at a time when the ambitious, divided lords of Senallin are once again on the verge of civil strife. All of the Families, as well as Senallin’s neighbors in the other civilized realms, are known to be mustering grand armies, and it seems only a matter of time before this leads to war.


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## havenstone

*Dramatis Personae*

The hamlet of Rim Square lies in the mountainous southern reaches of the Dominion of Senallin, and is the most remote of the Five Villages of the Harak Rim. 






Its villagers trade with the dwarrow of nearby Rim Hall and (in times of peace) with the barbarian Arawai and Haraks. In less peaceful times, Rim Square is a center for headhunters who pick off hostile barbarians for bounty. It is managed in theory by a dissolute reeve, and in practice by the innkeeper, smith, and miller. Somehow, this unprepossessing little valley nurtured a veritable forest of future heroes, all of whom are in their late teens (and at 1st level) when the story begins.

*ASH*: a quiet, good-hearted lad who displayed an early sensitivity to the wild. He was taken under the wing of Kemeras the hunter and trained in tracking, animal lore, and swordsmanship. Like his reclusive mentor, Ash is reserved and sometimes awkward in social situations, but he’s also utterly reliable. He’s also very observant, which makes him -- with a few crucial exceptions -- the party member most likely to notice when something is about to go badly wrong.

*CARWYN*: a startlingly beautiful orphan girl, fostered by kindly Hamber Meadwater, innkeeper at the Brass Hog’s Head. A quick-witted charmer with a nose for money-making opportunities and a keen ear for rumors. The traveling merchant Porphyry taught her to read, and (as a useful corollary) also trained her in the fine art of forgery. Carwyn is fiercely loyal to her friends, but not overburdened with scruples when it comes to flirtation or private property.

*DARREN*: a fine-fingered genius, endlessly curious and inventive from his earliest boyhood, who loves to investigate how things work. His parents apprenticed him to Doggerel the Tinker, who plies his trade around the Five Villages. Darren has long since figured out his mentor’s tools and tricks, and spends as much time as he can with visitors from outside the Harak Rim, whose stories hint at a much wider world of things to investigate.

*KYLA*: an orphan of the horse-loving Arawai tribes. She was raised in Rim Square by Vientha the herbwoman and Kalitha the half-Arawai bard, two of the most respected women in the Harak Rim. Kyla learned to shoot a bow shortly after she learned to walk, and is the most promising young archer in town. Some of the local headhunters have harassed her over her barbarian ancestry, but in general her foster mothers’ reputation (and her own archery skills) have provided her with protection.

*NINA*: not born in Rim Square, but brought there at a young age and raised by her Chramic uncle, Malagan. Nina is a boy who has masqueraded as a girl all his life. At first he saw this as a game, an enduring test of the disguise skills that Malagan told him were their family’s most important legacy. Recently, he has begun to wonder whether the disguise was a protection against some unknown threat. Malagan is usually away from home for months at a time; during his long absences, Nina has been learning swordsmanship from Kemeras the hunter.

Rim Square’s primary connection to the civilized North comes through people who are running away from some problem or another. Over the past year, three young refugees have arrived at the Hogshead:

*ATRIX*: from the d’Loriad family (one of the Five), a cheery young scoundrel, deft swordsman, and inveterate duelist. His despairing relatives sent him temporarily away from Lynar with his merchant uncle Porphyry to keep him out of trouble during this time of heightening rivalry between Families. They would be disappointed to know that Atrix has passed much of his time in Rim Square honing his dueling skills with Kemeras, hungrily absorbing the ascetic huntsman’s surprisingly extensive knowledge of swordplay.

*MEESHAK*: a tall, gaunt priest educated by the Sistechern Order in Velnar. After years of training as an inquisitorial acolyte, he rejected the gratuitous cruelty of many Sistechern practices and fled for his life, winding up in the backwater of Rim Square. Meeshak remains grimly pragmatic, not above using intimidation or inflicting pain in the name of the greater good. He’s quite effective at fighting with a whip and threatening people with a needle.

*ONTAYA*: adopted as a young girl into the d’Orbis, the most devout of the Five Families, and trained as a Sword-Priest of Ain. The Sword-Priests are a paladin Order, and Ontaya is the epitome of their earnest discipline--though she is a berserker by nature, and struggles to control her chaotic impulses when her temper runs high. Taller and stronger than most men, Ontaya’s impartial defense of the weak has made her some powerful enemies in Lynar, and her Order sent her to Rim Square (an area under notional d’Orbis rule) for her protection.


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## Orichalcum

*Yay!!!*

I'm so pleased you're posting this! It's going to provide a lot of entertainment and pleasure to a lot of people - starting with me!

(For the record, I didn't play any of these characters, not having joined the campaign till a later date. I'll start commenting in character once the SH gets there. For any folks who get here through CerebralPaladin's Story Hour or the Alea Iacta Story Hour, havenstone played Meloch the Pygmy in Alea Iacta, and CerebralPaladin played Ontaya in this campaign.


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## havenstone

*The Steel Torc*

*IT'S A MORNING *like many other mornings. Before heading out for some training with Kemeras, Ash, Atrix, and Nina are stopping off at the Brass Hog’s Head -- mainly so Atrix can continue his mutual flirtation with Carwyn, who’s just finished serving breakfast to the inn’s guests. Ontaya, who’s rather attracted to Carwyn herself, is vainly trying to ignore Atrix and engage a taciturn Meeshak in theological discussion. Kyla and Darren, both in town on errands, have dropped in to the Hogshead to see if their friends and acquaintances are there.

Their chatter is interrupted by a boy running in with an incoherent story about a dying man. Following the boy, they find a mortally wounded headhunter at the mill bridge. The barbarian-hunter wheezes almost inaudibly, “Haraks. Biggest horde ever seen -- thousands. Coming...” and expires before Meeshak arrives to heal him.

The eight young friends hurry to the manor and report this to Avarin, the reeve of Rim Square -- but as usual Lynar’s representative in the village is drunk and suspicious to the point of insanity, and refuses to hear their warning. Increasingly alarmed, they hurry back to the inn and tell Hamber, Carwyn’s always reliable foster father. He tells them he’ll spread the word around the village, and sends them out as a group to bring the outlying inhabitants of the valley to the inn, just in case there really is a Harak horde on the way.

The small group heads south first, to alert the people who are closest to the potential barbarian incursion. They inform a couple of farmers about the coming threat, then head up the small road through the woods toward the home of Kemeras the hunter. 

*AS THEY APPROACH *the old ranger's cottage, Ash notices movement in the foliage and calls a warning to his friends, seconds before a rain of arrows descends on the road. The eight of them dive for cover: Kyla returns fire, while the other fighters begin stalking closer to the archers. Glimpsing their foes through the trees, Ash notes with surprise that these would-be killers aren’t Harak barbarians, but cloaked Northerners from the distant countries of Velnar and Caragon.

As Nina closes in stealthily on the first archer and Ontaya charges, shrugging off the arrows of another, they all hear a cold voice echo through the forest. “Kemeras Lepray!”

The party hears a door open and close. “I'm here.” Kemeras sounds somehow sad.

“You know who I am.” 

“I do, Enforcer.”

Dodging from tree to tree toward Kemeras’ cottage, Atrix manages to get to a point where he can see both his old teacher and the man facing him -- a pale, scar-faced swordsman wearing a notched steel torc around his neck. Both men hold sabers, and begin to circle each other with similar fluid grace.

“My name is Shect,” says the pale man bleakly. “To whom have you sold the secrets of Scarth since you fled, traitor?” Moving with startling speed, he attacks Kemeras, who fends off the blows. Atrix immediately notes that both men are using the distinctive dueling style that Kemeras has been teaching him, Ash, and Nina.

“No one,” Kemeras growls, returning the attack, barely flinching as Shect’s blade grazes his arm. Nina, Ontaya, and Ash have each killed an archer, but there are at least five more between them and their mentor.

“It does not matter. Laying aside the torc is crime enough.” Shect glances into the trees, where Atrix is fighting one of his cloaked men. “A Swordsmark can not be allowed to choose his own path. In life and death, you belong...” His saber slips past Kemeras’ defenses and into his heart. “...to us.”

Atrix cuts down the archer and charges toward Shect, who beheads Kemeras and meets Atrix’s attack with an almost contemptuous riposte. Initially elated at holding his own in the duel, Atrix slowly gets the sense that the master swordsman is holding back, testing him. 

Then Kyla’s arrows start to whistle past them; Shect notes that all of his men are dead and that he is about to be surrounded. He bats Atrix’s sword aside and vanishes into the woods.


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## havenstone

*The Coming Horde*

*ONTAYA, PUSHING DOWN *her rising berserker rage, barks out, “No one go after him! Once he has cover, he could easily take us out one or two at a time.” The party members gather, stunned, in Kemeras’ cottage to be healed by Meeshak and Ontaya. They search the bodies of the cloaked archers, but find no further clues as to their origin. Meeshak is sure that he heard of Scarth and the Swordsmarks during his time as an acolyte in Velnar... but his pathologically poor memory fails to bring up the details.

Ontaya wraps Kemeras’ body in his threadbare bedclothes and the party members hurriedly dig a grave for him, while Kyla and Ash keep nervous watch in case Shect returns. Then the small group hurries south again, shaken but determined to finish their job of warning outliers about the coming Harak incursion. 

The trade hall at the foot of the mountain slope is empty. Relations with the barbarians have been strained for several months, and none have been bringing furs or animals to trade. The party turns east along the track that leads to Rim Hall, a small underground colony of dwarrow. Darren has come here many times before with Doggerel, and is fond of the dwarrow for their ingenious devices. Today, however, all the party’s banging at the carved wooden gates does not elicit an answer. Darren picks the lock, an easy trick with his tinker’s tools. Nina stoops to enter the five-foot high cavern, and freezes. There is the faint smell of rot in the air, and old blood.

Venturing a short distance into the cave, he finds the bodies of two dwarrow, who have been dead for days if not weeks. Even in the half-light, it is clear that they were killed with gratuitous cruelty -- and by attackers from below. Nina beckons two of his friends after him, and cautiously calls, “Is anyone there?” When the call is met with silence, they quickly depart Rim Hall. Whatever the source of the attack, the dwarrow colony would appear to have no survivors.

*THE DEATH OF *Kemeras and the gruesome mystery in the dwarrow caves leave the party’s mood grim. They return north, passing through the farms by the river to reach the house of Kalitha the bard. As they come close, Kyla hears her foster mother singing -- a song she knows well from her childhood, with the power to pacify. “Mother -- are you safe?” she calls out in sudden alarm.

“Kyla!” comes the reply. “Leave your weapons outside the house. We’re all fine in here.”

Inside Kalitha and Kyla’s home, the party is amazed to find three haggard-looking Haraks sitting calmly, their bodies painted for war but their axes laid aside. Kyla tries to explain the threat, and the half-Arawai bard nods. “They’ve told me. These are scouts. There are a thousand more warriors coming -- and yes, they intend to wipe out the Five Villages, beginning here. By this evening, we’ll be surrounded.”

“Why?” Carwyn demands shakily.

Kalitha questions the hill men in the earthy, glottal Harak dialect. “They say they are fleeing another enemy -- the ‘Uluk’ -- who are giants, half-man, half-beast. The Uluk are sweeping through the highlands of Harakra, and the Haraks fear that if they do not unite to break the strength of the Senalline headhunters, they will be caught between two mortal enemies. So they will destroy the town and the guild and take over these valleys, far from the Uluk.”

No one has heard of the Uluk before, and the Haraks are unable to usefully clarify their description. “Can’t we do anything to change their mind?” Ash implores. “Surely there has to be some way for us to live together in peace -- even to fight these Uluk together.”

“The Haraks and you Senallines have been killing each other in these hills for a long time,” Kalitha says starkly. “I don’t think they’ll be much inclined to share now. I’ll go back with these scouts and try to convince the Haraks to change their plan. But you'd best go prepare the town to defend itself.”


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## Son_of_Thunder

I like so far. It reminds me of Old One's story hour for some reason and I loved his. Keep it up.


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## havenstone

*The First Battle*

*AS THEY REACH *the outskirts of Rim Square, the eight friends see a group of five headhunters stalking toward them, headed by Avarin the reeve. The wild-eyed reeve accuses them of disregarding his orders, undermining his authority, and spreading panic around the farms. He declares them under arrest for their lies. Ontaya retorts in her most authoritative voice that there will soon be a thousand Haraks descending on the town, and if they don’t immediately begin working together to fend off the barbarian assault, everyone in Rim Square will die.

In the tense and uncertain atmosphere, Atrix makes an acerbic comment, and one of the headhunters hurls his short sword at the young nobleman. Meeshak’s whip cracks loudly, deflecting the weapon in midair. “Enough of this nonsense,” the gaunt young priest barks, glowering at the reluctantly impressed headhunters. When the final disintegration of his authority becomes clear, the reeve collapses, frothing at the mouth, while the party returns to town to begin planning the defense of Rim Square.

The leader of the headhunters’ guild, a one-eyed fighter named Betram, accepts their story, as do the frightened villagers led by the innkeeper, smith, and miller. Together they agree on the houses that need to be pulled down to barricade the main roads of Rim Square, leaving one side apparently vulnerable to lure the barbarians into a trap. At nightfall, hundreds of torches flare alight in the forests and mountains around the little village. The Harak horde has arrived, outnumbering the defenders of Rim Square by roughly five to one.

*THE BONDS OF *loyalty between the eight young comrades are forged during that first battle together, through the long night of fighting the Haraks on the rooftops and rubble of their village. Afterward, much of it is a blur in their memories: the axes glinting in the torchlight, the ululating cries and matted hair of the enemy, the desperate scramble to retain the high ground and push back the waves of young, thin barbarian fighters. After hours of fierce combat, they manage to collapse another house on top of a Harak offensive surge, breaking the attackers’ morale and spurring a retreat.

Things still look grim in the smoldering wreckage of Rim Square. Meeshak and Ontaya have exhausted their healing blessings for the day, and most of the party are injured and on the verge of collapse. The headhunters bore the worst of the assault, and have been decimated; their rough but reliable chief Betram is dead, as is Avarin the reeve, and the remaining headhunters are muttering darkly about making a run for it before sunrise. Half an hour after the Harak withdrawal, the villagers on watch cry out in terror that they see movement in the dark. Groaning, the survivors muster up again for a fight to the death. Instead, they hear a voice echo through the smoke and darkness.

“I am Shect, a Swordsmark of Scarth Tower. I have fourteen men with me -- seasoned fighters who have not yet drawn a weapon this night.”

“What is your business here?” one of the headhunters calls back unsteadily.

“We are here to save you. One Swordsmark is worth a hundred men in battle, and my archers can bring down Haraks by the dozen.” Carwyn is already frantically beckoning her seven friends back into the Brass Hog’s Head before the next words come. “All I ask is that you give me the students of Kemeras the traitor, who stole from our Brotherhood, and whose students are accomplices to his theft.”


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## havenstone

*Treacher’s Ridge*

*WHILE A WILD *murmur goes up from the surviving headhunters, Hamber Meadwater shuts and bolts the door of his inn and begins briskly stuffing food into packs. “Right. Carwyn, love, you and your friends will need to leave tonight. The Haraks will be sealing the Rim Road to the north if they can, but they might not have enough men left to guard Treacher’s Ridge. It’s a few days’ journey east to Wildengard. You need to let the commander know what’s happened here, and bring him in to clear out the Haraks and save whoever’s left here.”

“But... what about you?” Carwyn stammers, while Hamber hands the supplies to Ash and Kyla.

Her foster father pulls her into a tight, quick hug. “You know I’m too old and fat to go sneaking around in the woods, lass. Don’t you worry about me, I’ve talked my way out of plenty a bad spot in my time. Now out you go -- the special way, behind the hearth.”

Carwyn swallows her protests as someone bangs loudly on the front door of the Hog’s Head. She swings open a wooden panel at the side of the fireplace, and the eight friends hurry into a narrow passage. Barely have they closed and locked the secret door when they hear a splintering crash from the main entrance. Shect’s thin voice follows them into the corridor. “Apologies for your door, innkeeper. But I’m told you’ve been hosting a d’Loriad boy who studied swordplay with Kemeras, and that his two other students come here often.”

“That’s true.” Hamber sounds weary. “But I’m worried they might not have lived through the fighting out there. Haven’t seen them for hours.”

“That is not what I hear from the fighters in the street outside,” Shect says flatly. “They say the d’Loriad boy ran through your door hardly a breath and a blink ago.”

“Well, I didn’t see them. You’re welcome to look through the inn.”

“Kind of you to offer.” Shect’s footsteps echo through the taproom, followed by a moment of silence. “A shame that you’re standing on the cellar door.”

Carwyn stuffs her hands into her mouth and shudders silently at the terrible sound that follows -- the slash, the sigh, the thump of a weight settling to the floor. And then the party members are running out the inn’s secret exit and into the night, while Shect shouts, “Into the cellar, up the stairs. Find them. Find them!”

*WITH THE MOON *hidden behind smoke clouds the eight friends move unseen into the forests, where Ash guides them swiftly up to the eastern slopes. By dawn, they are standing, physically and emotionally exhausted, at the height of Treacher’s Ridge. Below them, several hundred Haraks are scattered around the smudge of Rim Square. The fortress of Wildengard with its Senalline military garrison is six days away by foot. The natives of the Rim -- Ash, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, and Nina -- numbly realize that whatever they do, it will come too late to save their village.

Ash finds the party food and water during their week in the wilderness. They move quickly and in silence, mourning a lost home and friends. On the third day, Ash’s keen eyes spot something odd on a distant mountain slope -- a figure surely too tall and massive to be human, but scrambling with an assured, manlike gait from boulder to boulder. He points it out to his friends, and the strange climber pauses and turns to look in their direction. They catch a glimpse of a wrinkled, shaggy face with a broad, flat nose and what look unnervingly like tusks, before the creature vanishes into a gap in the rocks.

“Uluk?” says Darren, voicing the thoughts of the party. Despite watching carefully, they see no more of the strange creatures during their travel.

On the sixth day, they cross the final mountain gap and see the slopes around them plunge down into a dusty green plain stretching out to the furthest horizon. At the edge of the plains stands the fortress of Wildengard: the last marker of Northern power, tiny against the vast domain of the Arawai horse clans.


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## havenstone

*You’re in the Army Now*

*AS THE PARTY *enters the castle, Ontaya notes to her surprise that three hundred men out of the four hundred-strong garrison of Wildengard are already prepared for march. When she asks if they’re getting ready to fight Haraks, a quizzical-looking sergeant says no -- they’re about to march north to Lynar for a grand muster of all the Senalline armies. “Rumor is, there’s to be a grand campaign against the barbarians -- but the Arawai, not the Haraks,” he says with some relish. 

Both Kyla and Nina fall silent at this. As an Arawai orphan, Kyla has put up with a degree of prejudice her whole life; she can only imagine how much worse things will get if the Senallines invade the plains. As for Nina, while he can pass as a sun-tanned Northerner with some relatively elementary disguises, his Chramic people are considered barbaric by most of the North, and in a war against “barbarians” the distinction between Arawai and Chraman could easily be blurred.

Ontaya and Atrix use their family names to gain access to the commander of Wildengard, the silver-haired General Marcor d’Syrnon. They tell him about the Harak attack on Rim Square and implore him to return with them to aid any survivors. The stern General Marcor agrees that he can’t afford to leave Wildengard lightly guarded without disposing of the Harak horde. He will send an expeditionary cavalry force at once to break the barbarians, and bring the rest of his army through the Five Villages on his march to Lynar.

"General... when we left, there was a man named Shect in Rim Square," Ontaya adds abruptly. "A very skilled swordsman. He called himself a Swordsmark, and was trying to kill some villagers for an alleged theft."

Marcor d'Syrnon's brow furrows. "Damnation. We'll have to tread carefully around that one. I won't stand by while he kills a Senalline, however lowly... but it's hard to keep that sort from their prey."

"Are the Swordsmarks so formidable?" Atrix queries lightly. "I'd never heard of them."

“They're a brotherhood of master duelists based in Velnar. Possibly the best swordsmen in the world," Marcor states. "Many of the great generals of the North have had some Swordsmark training. But there are secrets of swordsmanship known only to the sworn masters of Scarth Tower, who wear the steel torc. And the Swordsmarks protect those secrets to the death.”

At the end of their meeting, General Marcor informs the eight young refugees that if they expect to travel with him for any length of time, they will need to find some function in his army. Ontaya, Ash, and Atrix agree to serve as squires. Carwyn volunteers to cook, and Nina and Kyla decide that they’d be better off joining her in low-profile kitchen work. Darren offers his services as a tinker, and Meeshak as a healer. 

Ontaya quickly establishes herself as the protector of weaker squires against bullies. On the practice field, she is clearly the strongest and most disciplined young fighter, just as Atrix is by far the most dextrous.

*THE ARMY REACHES* Rim Square after two weeks of travel. To their immense relief, the party sees the village has not been utterly destroyed. They learn that on the morning of their escape, Shect and his men fought their way out of Rim Square along with several of the headhunters, leaving the Haraks even more bloodied and dismayed; then Kalitha arrived, singing a strange and powerful song, and led the last few hundred barbarians away into the hills. Marcor’s cavalry have been helping the surviving townsfolk rebuild. So far, there has been no sign of further trouble.

Hamber Meadwater has been buried in a small plot behind his ravaged inn. The eight friends hold a somber memorial service for the kindly innkeeper, and then discuss what to do next.

Many of them are worried about staying in Rim Square lest Shect return and kill more of the villagers in trying to get to them. Staying with the army of Wildengard seems like the best way to avoid the Swordsmark. Kyla is extremely reluctant to tie herself to a force that is rumored to be invading the Arawai plains (even though she herself has no connections other than birth with the strange Arawai tribes). She finally and somewhat hesitantly decides that her bedrock loyalty is to the friends she has fought beside. The little party leaves Rim Square together.


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## arcanaman

I really like the story Nina freaks me out little but otherwise I liked it.there 

has been one thing i've been dying to know did 

you do your map by hand or what I can't figure out how to get my on the 

internet at all.


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## havenstone

Thanks, arcanaman!  The maps and other images are all hand-drawn, scanned, and hosted for free at photobucket.com.

Nina, Master/Mistress of Disguise, was an interesting and often hilarious character.  Sadly, his player left the game after the first season of play -- but as you'll see, not before having a major impact on the Five Families of Senallin.


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## havenstone

*Humblest of the Sufza*

*THE ARMY OF *Wildengard spends several weeks marching down out of the Harak Rim and through the rich farm country along the Florin River. With each week, it attracts new profit-hungry followers: traders, gamblers, whores, tinkers, and thieves. One morning, Ontaya, Atrix, and Ash are hailed by a tall, skinny rider with weather-beaten brown skin, a mop of strawy hair, and an irrepressible beam. This curious figure carries a long, thin staff, a lasso, and (from the looks of it) at least twelve knives tucked into his garb.

“Squires of the Senallines! Most regal of riders, highest of horsemen! The humblest of the Sufza greets you, and offers his felicitations on the fineness of your fraternal fellowship.”

“Thank you,” Ash calls, a bit taken aback by the florid greeting. “What did you say your name was?”

“You are the kindest of cavaliers to take so intimate an interest in this most inconsequential of individuals,” comes back the delighted response. “Nurak is my name, but you may refer to me by whatever lowly label you like.”

One of the other squires scowls and shakes a fist at the alliterative rogue, whose grin never falters as he spurs his mount into a gallop and moves up the column. “Watch out. He was just having a look at the horses. He’ll be back later with five other Sufza weasels to take what he likes.”

“That’s a Sufza?” Atrix asks with interest. He has heard of the barbarian nomads, famed as the most talented horse thieves in the world. Over the next few days, Atrix ignores the advice of the squire and has several cheery conversations with Nurak. While a few other squires’ horses do disappear, the party’s do not.

The army also attracts Atrix’s roguish merchant uncle Porphyry (a wealthy commoner whose sister married into the d’Loriad family). He has cut short his usual regional rounds after hearing about the grand muster in Lynar. Porphyry is shocked to hear of the devastation of Rim Square and the murder of his old friend Hamber. He grimly promises to keep an ear to the ground regarding Shect’s whereabouts. “I promise, Carwyn lass, that a great deal of gold will go to the man who puts him in the ground.”

*UNFORTUNATELY, KYLA'S FEARS *about anti-Arawai prejudice are more than confirmed on the road to Lynar. Her friends stick close to her, but she has a rough time in the kitchen tents, where many of the drudges are venomously unkind to her despite Nina and Carwyn’s supportive presence. One evening, the army stops in the town of Swallowfeld, where a local innkeeper opens his establishment to the army’s kitchen crew. After dinner, the kitchen workers and their friends (including the whole party) get to enjoy drinks in the taproom. Caro, a pretty but cruel drudge, goads several tipsy squires into attempting to rough up “the Arawai wench.”

Naturally, this results in a grand tavern brawl. Atrix and Nina buckle swash all over the place, fighting acrobatically across the tables, bar, and balcony of the taproom. Ontaya lets her temper go just far enough to give the most aggressive squire a battering into unconsciousness, but manages to regain control before lapsing into a truly chaotic act. At the high point of the brawl, Caro pulls a knife and goes for Kyla. In the ensuing grapple, Caro falls on the knife and is stabbed to death.

At this point, two of Marcor's knights charge into the inn with a small detachment of soldiers and restore order. The squires who started the brawl accuse Kyla of murder -- but Ontaya swears, as a d’Orbis and a Sword-Priest of Ain, that Kyla acted in self-defense against an unprovoked attack. The knights accept the young paladin's testimony, and warns the squires that there will be grave consequences if they trouble Kyla again.

*THE KITCHEN GIRLS* retire upstairs, to the first beds and private rooms they’ve enjoyed in weeks. Atrix is one of the last squires to venture outside. Still feeling cheerfully invincible from the fight, he ambles around to the side of the inn and shoots a speculative glance at Carwyn’s high window. Climbing deftly onto the back of his horse, he manages to leap to the windowsill of a neighboring house. From this perch, he lassoes one of the ornamental eaves of the inn and ties the line off tautly. Then he strolls across the tightrope – his extraordinary dexterity serving him well – and knocks lightly on Carwyn’s window.

He startles out of Carwyn the most genuine laugh she’s had in many days. For a minute, she weighs him with her eyes, then shrugs, smiles, opens the window, and kisses him. Atrix swings into the bedroom. Moments later, he sticks his head back out. “Nurak? I’d be grateful if that horse was there when I got back.”

"Most amiable of Atrixes," comes back the delighted call, "there is no safer horse than a horse under the protection of the humblest of the Sufza."


----------



## Fimmtiu

havenstone said:


> "Most amiable of Atrixes," comes back the delighted call, "there is no safer horse than a horse under the protection of the humblest of the Sufza."




This is brilliant stuff. Keep it coming! 

(Atrices?)


----------



## Ladybird

Yay! Nurak! He was always my favorite NPC 

And I, like Orichalcum, didn't join this campaign until much later. I'm having a great time seeing what happened before I arrived!


----------



## Feir Fireb

Darren's player here:

Ah, how innocent we Northerners were, way back when!

arcanaman: Nina _was_ quite the odd character.  If I recall correctly, there were even some _players_ who weren't certain at the time whether Nina was actually male or female, or even his true identity.  Nina kept everyone on their toes.

Nurak was indeed probably the most beloved NPC of the game, not the least because of his alliterative amiability and nigh-unbreakable good cheer that caused you to overlook his utterly shameless and reflexive horse-thievery.  But something that may not come across in print is the joy of hearing havenstone begin alliterating in that distinctive Sufzan accent where previously Nurak had been nowhere to be seen (and indeed might not have been for months of game time).  Music to our ears.


----------



## havenstone

Fimmtiu said:


> This is brilliant stuff. Keep it coming!
> 
> (Atrices?)




Thanks, Fimmtiu!  Hope you keep enjoying it.

And actually, I think Nurak has said "Atrices" once or twice.


----------



## havenstone

*Gray Dwarrow*

*MEANWHILE, THE EVER*-inquisitive Darren has been traveling and working with Cannedun, the tinker and ironsmith of Wildengard – a gentle, quiet dwarrow given to long moments of reverie while working at his forge. Darren has always admired the enthusiasm with which the dwarrow live their lives, and their love of ancient tales (the ones he’s heard are downright exotic, even compared to those of Kalitha the bard). Now, working with Cannedun, he comes to appreciate how despite the dwarrow’s short lifespans, their enhanced gifts of intuition and perception enable them to reach heights of mastery that no human could achieve over a similar period.

Two weeks outside of Lynar, Cannedun brings Darren to a large tent of woven skins at the outskirts of the army camp. “Some friends of mine have just joined us,” he explains with a slow smile. “You’ll get on well with them.” He whistles a complex trill.

“Cannedun!” comes the answering roar. A grizzled, middle-aged dwarrow with a many-braided beard bursts out of the tent, stalks up to Darren and inspects him boisterously. “What’s this you’ve brought us?”

“My new apprentice, Darren. Darren, meet Mullod of the gray dwarrow.”

“You took on a _human_?” Mullod gives a genial bellow. “Always the optimist. You’ll be dust before you teach him how to piss straight.” The scrappy dwarrow wears plain gray plate mail; despite its lack of ornamentation Darren senses that it is of extraordinary quality. A mace, an axe, and a length of spiked chain add to Mullod’s instantly formidable air.

“He knows a few things already,” Cannedun replies with amusement.

“I’ll be the judge of that!” barks Mullod. By now five or six other dwarrow have emerged from the tent; none are armored, but most of them are heavily armed, and all of them have a similar gleam of ferocity in their eyes. One of them tosses a roll of loose-knit cloth to Mullod, who reaches up and hauls Darren’s head down to his level. “So Cannedun thinks you’ve got dwarrow ken, eh?”

Darren inclines his head, a little stunned but undaunted. “If Cannedun says so,” he says, not resisting or pulling away as Mullod ties the blindfold around his eyes. As Cannedun had guessed, Darren’s outward mildness hides an unflappable readiness to venture anything -- part of his driving love of exploration and invention.

When the world around Darren is a barely discernable blur through the blindfold, Mullod slaps a club into his hands. “Right, long-legs! Have at me.”

Darren swallows hard and does his best to clear his head and apply his strong sense of direction to the task. He’s not a trained fighter, and is quite slight of build, especially compared to the boulder-like Mullod... but he gets remarkably lucky [natural 20!] and despite the blindfold, lands a blow that sends the dwarrow captain rolling backward with a delighted, “Ha!” The gray dwarrow band burst into cheers. “Well, lad,” Mullod growls, pulling off the blindfold, “you can fight like a dwarrow. That’s a fair start. But... can ye _drink_ like a dwarrow?”

The gray dwarrow hoist Darren onto their shoulders, carry him into the tent, sit down around a small mountain of barrels and pour six massive flagons of ale. Then they pour a few dozen more. “These are for you,” Mullod declares, gesturing at the first six, and claims two others of his own. Darren sways through the test by sheer force of will and manages not to pass out. Halfway through, Cannedun produces a small bag full of ingenious tinkers’ puzzles made of tangled wire and tosses them one at a time toward Darren. Here the young human is in his element, and despite his ale-induced bleariness, he unweaves each fiendish puzzle with joking ease. Mullod shakes uproariously, crying tears of laughter into his beard. “Lads, lads, Cannedun was right. This is a human to grow old with!”

*THE FOLLOWING MORNING*, Cannedun shakes Darren awake beneath the barrels. From outside, they can hear Mullod and his band engaged in a deafening mock combat, with bellows nearly as loud as the clash of steel on steel. “You did well, lad. It’s not every human who can stand up to the gray tribe.”

Darren grins crookedly. “They’re... a little different from you.” Or, he thinks, the mild-mannered dwarrow craftsmen of Rim Hall.

“The grays have the same passion and gift for war that most dwarrow have for more peaceful arts.” Still thinking of Rim Hall, Darren suddenly has a terrible fear, which Cannedun senses. “What’s the matter, lad?”

Darren hesitantly describes the bloody scene he and his friends found in the caverns of the Rim. Cannedun’s face grows dark, and he quickly beckons in the gray dwarrow leader. “Mullod! There’s a colony to the south that’s been wiped out by the Delve.”

Mullod listens grimly to Darren’s account. “We’ll get a message to Houlan’s band. They’ve been pushing the bastards back under the western plains. They’ll be the best ones to know if this means a new front is opening up.”

“The Delve?” Darren asks cautiously.

“A mad race of dwarrow,” Mullod explains, and grasps Darren’s unspoken fear. “Not like us grays, lad. The Delve see beauty in blood and cruelty and death. They love to kill the same way I love to fight. And they’re... _almost_ as good at it. They don’t usually show up this far west, though. Most of their territory is under the Arawai plains.” 

“The horse clans have stories about them,” Cannedun adds. “Murderous spirits of the earth who will wipe out a camp by night. For the most part, the gray dwarrow keep the Delve too busy to trouble humans, though.”

*DARREN BEGINS SPENDING* most of his time with Mullod’s band, and one night, the hearty captain gives him a finely crafted amulet. “You’ve got a dwarrow heart, lad. You should have the eyes to go with it.” Darren puts the amulet on, feeling a strange tingle in his blood as he does so -- and the world around him changes. Where previously there was featureless darkness, now he sees sweeps of movement and color (but colors for which he has no name). The moons are gone, but the dwarrow and humans in the night are radiant blurs and the night wind ripples visibly around the tents.

“Heat, lad. Heat, and the dance of the air. We can see it as well as normal light. That little amulet lets you see it too. It won’t work for anyone else while you’re still breathing. And our priests have crafted it so we’ll be able to find it anywhere. So you be sure to hold on to it if we get separated.”

“Mullod – I don’t know how to thank you,” Darren says in disoriented awe.

“Hah,” Mullod snorts. “It would only embarrass me if you stumbled around the dwarrow caves like any other blind-stork human. Because mark my words, lad: we’ll get you underground one day.”


----------



## havenstone

*Patriarch’s Gold*

*AFTER PUTTING UP *with Atrix’s smug good cheer for a few days, Ontaya confesses her own affections to Carwyn, a bit stiffly and uncertainly. (Aerdrim isn’t a world where same-sex trysts are widely condemned; most priests, including Ontaya’s own Order, consider them lawful, and Ontaya’s own natural attractions have always tended that way). Carwyn, who is definitely attracted to charmers and rogues but also yearns for a more stable and solid romantic presence in her life, arranges a few assignations with Ontaya. Deep down, though, Carwyn can’t envision a long-term affair with either the relentlessly lawful paladin nor the dashing but reckless d’Loriad -- she’s too practical to end up with Atrix, and much too unruly for Ontaya.

As the army of Wildengard draws close to Lynar, they are joined by a small force led by a d’Nerein family commander. This creates some tension with Marcor d’Syrnon’s knights, who have clashed with the d’Nereins in the not too distant past. Ontaya takes some time to explain these lineage conflicts to her friends who aren’t steeped in Senalline politics. 

*THE FIVE FAMILIES *of Senallin are the d’Loriad, d’Syrnon, d’Orbis, d’Nerein, and d’Aramant. Each Family is led by a patriarch from the city of Lynar. 

The d’Aramants are the most powerful and populous Family, large enough to have a southern branch living along the Arawai plains and a northern branch along the Aradur border. Their arch-enemies are the house of d’Loriad -- Atrix’s family. The d’Loriads consider the d’Aramants to be monstrous empire-builders who would sacrifice any value and break any promise for the sake of power. The d’Aramants consider the d’Loriads to be unbearable hypocrites who hide their own envy and constant angling for power behind a veil of self-righteous cant. The d’Orbis try to remain neutral in this power struggle; the learned d’Syrnons tilt toward the d’Loriads, and the wealthy d’Nereins toward the d’Aramants.

This tangle of names and motives takes on new seriousness for the party a few days outside of Lynar. On a rainy afternoon, General Marcor d’Syrnon falls back to confer with some of the knights in the column, and is nearly murdered by a knife-wielding assassin. Fortunately, the ever-observant Ash spots the killer’s weapon and shouts to his friends, who are the only ones not caught flat-footed by the attack. They tackle the assassin and manage to capture him alive. A flint-faced General Marcor has the prisoner taken to his tent, and sends for Meeshak. "Rumor has it that you have skills in interrogation, young priest."

Meeshak enters the tent and shrugs off his rain-cloak. The candlelight in the tent throws the angles of his gaunt, implacable face into sharp relief. He walks over to the prisoner, now tightly bound and defiant-looking. “You are familiar with the priests of the Sistechern Order?” he asks bleakly. The assassin responds with an obscenity. Meeshak ignores it, draws a long, heavy iron pin out of his robes, and holds it over the candle flame. “Some priestly Orders have a saying: ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to find favor with Ain.’ The Sistechern version of this saying is simpler: ‘It is easy for a needle to go through the eye of a rich man.’”

Meeshak doesn’t quite suit action to word. The assassin cracks in the face of his intimidation, and confesses to being hired by a stammering man whose face remained hidden behind a heavy cowl and hood. The stammering man found him in the Dastard’s Dregs, a tavern of ill-repute in Lynar, and paid him on the spot in newly-minted Patriarch’s Gold -- the exclusive coinage of the Five Families, whose value lies as much in its implicit authority as in its weight. When Meeshak is convinced that the man has told them everything he knows, General Marcor orders a swift execution for the prisoner, “before word of this reaches the d’Nereins and they ask for a word with him.” He tells Meeshak to say nothing of this to anyone, and that he'll contact him again soon. 

*WHEN MEESHAK GETS *back to the camp, he quietly reports the results of the interrogation to his friends. “Patriarch’s Gold?” Ontaya repeats incredulously. Almost no one who receives Patriarch’s Gold spends it on the normal market, but rather keeps it in reserve to mark a favor owed by one of the Families, and returns it to the Family concerned when they need help. “Someone in Lynar is sending a message. They must have known the chances of us capturing the man and finding out this information was high -- whether or not he succeeded in his mission.”

“But what message?” Meeshak wonders. “That not all the Families support the war effort? Or is it an attempt by someone outside the Families to make Marcor think that another Family is trying to kill him?”

“It could be simpler,” Atrix offers. “General Marcor is sure to be one of the paramount commanders of this campaign. Another Family with a less notable general might simply have hoped to remove the competition.”

They are no closer to an answer by the time they finally reach Lynar.


----------



## havenstone

*This Glorious Campaign*

*THE PARTY SEES *the smoke of Lynar rising from behind a low range of coastal hills many hours before turning the last bend in the river and seeing the great city itself. Sprawled along the north bank of the Florin, the capital of Senallin is an expansive tangle of towering wood and brick houses connected to each other by rickety bridges above narrow, muddy streets and cobblestone squares. Ash, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, and Nina are struck by the size of the place: fifty Rim Squares could easily by swallowed up by Lynar. On a hill to the northeast stands the Palace of the Patriarchs, five ancient castles that have melded together over the centuries into a single sprawling, ever-growing edifice.

As the army of Wildengard reaches the outskirts of the city, they are met by cheering, festive throngs. Women are dancing, men are tossing ale at the soldiers and each other, minstrels are singing the chorus of the hour: 

_To tame the horse and till the plain, _
_And teach them all the fear of Ain! _
_The armies march to Arawai, huzzah!_

Kyla has to dodge hurled fruit and the occasional rock. During another popular ditty – “One last drink, my lads, before you ride away/ One last hoisting of the skirts before you join the fray” – a group of whooping young men in the crowd try to hike up girls’ skirts, including Carwyn’s. She rounds on the offender, a scruffy-looking young Lynarman with black hair and a shameless grin, and punches him full in the face. He tumbles back into the crowd, while other revelers roar with laughter and cheer Carwyn on.

At the end of the long procession, the army arrives at the hilltop Patriarchs’ Palace. From the gate, the party sees the fields to the north blanketed with the multi-colored banners and tents of soldiers from all corners of the Dominion. Chardion, the knight who took Atrix as squire, nods down at the great camp with pleasure. “It’s been years in the planning, lad, but finally the Families are marching as one.”

*WHILE THE ARMY *descends to join the camp on the plain, the knights of Wildengard and their squires ride in to present themselves to the Patriarchs, accompanied by the priests. Outside the grand audience hall, they meet Chamberlain Gall, a thin man who wrings his hands and sweats copiously while fretting over finding room in the palace for yet another group of knights. Then Chancellor Eliduc d’Orbis arrives, the high priest to the Five Families. Eliduc’s long brown hair is streaked with gray and he exudes a sense of serene power. He welcomes the newcomers graciously, and beams when his eyes fall on Ontaya. “Welcome back, daughter. Your strength and courage have been much missed in these last few months.”

General Marcor leads his delegation into the grand hall and receive the formal greetings of the five Patriarchs. The white-haired, eloquent Patriarch Athagon d’Aramant descends from his dais and welcomes the d’Syrnon commander. “Brother Marcor, you and our own cousin, Mercon d’Aramant, will be the field commanders of Senallin’s great force. You will answer to the two High Generals: Sarquin d’Loriad and Athriam d’Aramant.”

“Wait – the d’Aramants get _two_ generals?” whispers Atrix, outraged.

“If I remember rightly, Mercon leads the northern branch of the d’Aramant family,” Ontaya breathes back. “And Athriam is from the southern one. Both have a good reputation in the field, though Athriam is known to be boastful and brash.”

“Neither could hold a candle to Uncle Sarquin,” Atrix grumbles. He catches the eye of his raven-haired uncle, whose military exploits against Aradur and the barbarians are legend. Sarquin recognizes him and breaks into a knowing grin; Atrix warily decides he doesn’t like the look of it.

“This war is not just Senallin’s war,” Patriarch Athagon continues. “All the civilized realms are joining in this glorious campaign: Velnar and Caragon, Aradur and Kedris. The armies of five great nations will join us at the fortress of Guardwatch and move in to the plains, to defeat the horse clans and colonize their lands. This war will transform the face of the world. Villages will grow out of the dust of Arawai, spreading south into the unknown reaches of the plains. Senallin will no longer trail along the southern edge of the civilized world. We will be at its heart!”

The squires try to absorb the idea that the sprawling army encamped below Lynar is only a small part, perhaps a quarter, of the army that will be mustered against the Arawai. No one knows exactly how many Arawai tribesmen there are, but it is all but impossible to imagine the divided horse clans withstanding a force of such terrific scale – especially when the Arawai religion bans steel as a Northern abomination. A nation armed with flint arrows and spears can scarcely hope to stand against the colonizing might of the civilized North.

*THE AUDIENCE ADJOURNS*, and the knights dismiss their squires to their quarters. As Atrix leaves the grand hall, he spots two of his many d’Loriad cousins (Adgar and… “that quiet one, good lad, damned if I can remember his name…”). Adgar clasps his hand with a broad but oddly rueful grin. “Welcome back, ‘Trix. We’ve got orders from your father. He wants to see you immediately.”


----------



## havenstone

*Family Business*

*ADGAR AND THE *quiet d’Loriad cousin escort Atrix up to the Family keep, up a series of long stairways that culminate near the top of the d’Loriad Beacon. Adgar ushers Atrix into his family suite, gives a quick bow to Atrix’s father, and closes the door behind him. 

Physically, Marix d’Loriad is a weathered, graying image of his son, but his character could hardly be more different: stern, calculating, deeply concerned with protecting the family name. There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Hello, Father!” Atrix casts his eye around the room. “Where’s Jonathan got himself to?”

“Your brother is distinguishing himself as a squire at Guardwatch,” Marix says coolly. “I expect you’ll be planning to ride off and join him. Your uncle Porphyry told your mother that you had returned to Lynar as a squire in the army of Wildengard. It came as a surprise to us. I had expected you to stay longer in that little village your uncle is so fond of.”

“The village was sacked by barbarians, Father,” Atrix says apologetically. “It lost some of its charm.”

Marix does not smile. “This is a poor time for your usual japes and games. Our Family needs all her sons’ strength at this time. The d’Aramants and d’Nereins stand to gain tremendously from this Arawai war. If their alliance grows stronger as a result, they may become strong enough to dominate the other Families.”

“Father, you know you can count on me to do everything possible to beat the d’Aramants,” Atrix replies eagerly.

Now one corner of Marix’s mouth quirks upward. “I know you will, my son. And that is why I know you will not object to the marriage your mother and I have arranged for you.”

Atrix blinks, dumbfounded. “Come again?”

“You will marry Sarele d’Nerein before you depart for the Arawai War,” Marix states flatly. “We need an alliance with the Family d’Nerein now more than ever to drive a wedge between them and the d’Aramants. Our branch of the d’Loriads is closest to them in kinship, as two of your great-grandparents were d’Nerein. Sarele’s parents have agreed to the match despite your reputation as a trouble-maker. Your early return has left us little time to work out the final details, but we have appointed a wedding day in six days’ time.”

“Wait, wait, Father,” Atrix splutters. “This is a mistake. Marriage? To Sarele? Me?”

“No mistake, boy. You need to settle down and grow up.” Marix’s voice is like a whip crack. “I’ll brook no objection from you on a matter of such importance to the Family. Your wastrel days of causing trouble and embarrassment to your kin are over.” He throws the door open and beckons in the two d’Loriad cousins. “I’ve assigned Adgar and, er... your other cousin here to keep you under guard day and night until your wedding. You’re confined to the palace. Castellan Reynalt knows it, too, so don’t try to get past the gates.”

Atrix stalks out of the room, color high in his cheeks. Experience has taught him the uselessness of arguing when his father invokes the Good of the Family, but this marriage idea is outrageous.

“Sorry, ‘Trix,” Adgar says, hurrying to keep up. “We didn’t volunteer to be your jailers, but all our fathers are of the same mind on this.”

“Sarele d’Nerein?” Atrix repeats, stunned. “I hardly know the girl.”

“She’s lovely,” says Adgar, with a faint mournful note in his voice. “Extraordinarily clever girl. Great dancer. Plays chess well. Very, very good at getting what she wants.”

“Not the kindest person in the Palace,” offers the quiet cousin whose name no one can remember.

“Nor the unkindest,” retorts Adgar, a bit hotly.

“Where am I supposed to stay?” Atrix asks in a weary voice. On arrival in his rooms, he locks his cousins in the hallway and spends the remainder of the afternoon quietly tearing up his bedclothes and braiding them into a rope. As soon as the sky is dark, he goes out the window and down the wall, into the Water Grove of the d’Loriad keep.

His escape is interrupted by a sweetly musical voice. “Atrix d’Loriad.”

“Milady Sarele.” The startled Atrix sweeps into a bow. “What an unexpected pleasure to find you here.”

The dark-haired Sarele d’Nerein offers a cursory curtsey. Her smoothly beautiful face wears an expression of amused disdain. “I am not sure I would call it a pleasure, and it is anything but unexpected. Is this your ordinary way of leaving the Family keep?”

“These are not ordinary times, milady,” Atrix says regretfully.

“No, they certainly are not.” Sarele glides over to Atrix, looks him up and down, and lays a finger firmly against his chest. “My family says we are to be wed. I find this news as welcome as you evidently do. However, I see no escape from it. Short of having my cousins kill you, and I’m not sure I sufficiently trust their discretion.”

“Yes, it’s hard to see that ending well,” Atrix agrees, taking Sarele’s hand and kissing it.

“You have a reputation for indiscretions yourself.” Sarele laughs and runs her hand up to Atrix’s cheek. “Your reputation also paints you as feckless, dangerous, and an embarrassment to your Family. I do not tolerate embarrassment, my dear betrothed. Not in the least particular. Since we are to be wed, I wish to be clear that I will have no more misbehavior from you – no more running off to taverns in the city, no more gambling with common folk, no more duels, no more love affairs. Nothing that will make you or me look a fool. After tonight, the Castellan will be discreetly reminded to post a guard on this garden.”

“Check and mate, milady,” Atrix laughs, folding her into his arms. “Check and mate.”


----------



## havenstone

*The Palace of the Patriarchs*

An aerial view of the palace of Lynar, from the many-towered keep of the d'Orbis to the great dome of the d'Syrnons.


----------



## havenstone

*The Scion of the d’Aramants*

*WHILE ATRIX IS *being ushered to his family, Mullod and Cannedun bring their human protégé to the d’Syrnon palace. “Old Patriarch Thusis has been a friend to generations of dwarrow,” Cannedun informs Darren. “He’s always interested in adding our stories to his library and our craftwork to his collection.”

Upon arrival, the gray dwarrow look over the recent additions to Thusis d’Syrnon’s collection. They lift a heavy cloth from one prize piece and recoil in shock and disapproval. Darren looks over their heads and sees a tablet of intricately carved stone which, when the wind moves across it, produces a low muttering sound that raises the hairs on his neck. “Skrintwork,” Mullod growls, throwing the cloth back over the tablet to silence it.

“What is it?” asks Darren at once.

For a few uncomfortable moments, no one answers him. “Leagues below us and the Delve, lad, there’s another race of dwarrow,” Cannedun explains. “The Skrint have unparalleled skill at shaping stone. Their craft can catch the least whisper of sound or breath of air and echo it back transformed or distorted. A Skrint maze is a formidable thing, cunningly carved to deceive dwarrow senses. They add guidepost stones like this to help them find their way through.” His fingers trace a brief runic inscription on the back of the tablet. “This says, _To the heart_. Which is a long way of saying ‘down’.”

“The Skrint worship the Dark,” Mullod adds grimly, “and we leave them to it. It’s rare for them or their damned craft to find its way to our caverns, let alone the surface.”

*MEANWHILE, ONTAYA IS *making sure all the Wildengard squires have appropriate quarters for the night. As a result, she comes upon several squires waiting in ambush for Carwyn, Kyla, and Nina -- evidently hoping to avenge the beating they received in the tavern brawl. Ontaya faces down the squires as her three friends come around the corner and join her. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns the would-be ambushers. “You’ve been ordered not to cause more trouble for Kyla. That doesn’t change just because we’re in the Palace.”

“Have you been in hiding in the hills so long, Ontaya,” comes a mocking voice from the opposite end of the garden, “that your tastes have turned to these coarse barbarian wenches?”

Ontaya turns to face a handsome youth with long chestnut hair, light eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard: Agerain d’Aramant, the most influential young scion of his Family, nephew of Patriarch Athagon. Agerain’s love of dangerously violent bullying, dueling, and brawling against weaker targets from other Families has set him at odds with Ontaya many times in the past. As usual, he is hanging around with a small cluster of other young d’Aramants, who regard the four party members with lazily expectant smiles.

“Agerain,” Ontaya acknowledges him, refusing to rise to his gibes. “These young women are under the protection of Marcor d’Syrnon as well as myself.”

“You really expect me to believe that Count Marcor cares about your harlots?” Agerain pretends to slap Nina -- and Ontaya catches his arm in a vise-like grip. The color drains from the young d’Aramant’s face as he tries and fails to pull away.

“You dishonor yourself by this behavior,” Ontaya informs him quietly, and lets go of him. Agerain glances around at his cronies and the squires, clearly considering whether the odds are in their favor in a fight. Ontaya shakes her head. “Don’t be a fool, man. The castellanry is just around the corner. Hasn’t Reynalt had enough to say about your brawls?”

Agerain scowls. By common consent of the Families, the castellan of the Patriarchs has broad powers to maintain order within the Palace walls, and has often punished Agerain for starting duels and other trouble. “Hiding behind the law as usual. Your cowardice won’t always save you, you know.”

Ontaya shrugs, keeping her temper. “You call me coward, but I’ve never seen you start a fight with fewer than five friends at your side.”

“Ontaya!” A voice echoes through the garden before Agerain can respond. “Where are you?”

“I’m here, Ellikard,” Ontaya calls back, recognizing the voice of her adoptive cousin. Moments later, a small group of d’Orbis youth arrive: the slender Ellikard, his sister Emerath, and several of Ontaya’s other close friends. Ontaya glances at the Wildengard squires, who are visibly wilting now that they are outnumbered. “Go to your quarters. I don’t expect to see any repeat of this foolishness.”

As the squires skulk away, Agerain sighs and gives a deep, mocking bow. “Another time. Welcome back to Lynar, your Reverence.” He and the other d’Aramants saunter off in the direction of their Family keep.

Ontaya pushes down her irritation and introduces her adoptive relatives to Carwyn, Kyla, and Nina. Emerath gives Ontaya a quick kiss of greeting while Ellikard shakes his head. “We heard that you were back, and that Agerain and his boys were on the prowl, so we came looking for you. He’s got worse while you were away -- picking fights with anyone from any Family who looks at him the wrong way. Soon he’ll be backed up by dozens of d’Aramant country cousins who have been showing up in preparation for the war. I don’t know how our fathers think that the d’Orbis can stay neutral when the d’Aramants show such arrogance and offense.”

“Patriarch Athagon should control his nephew better,” Ontaya agrees. “But the d’Orbis country cousins are showing up, too. I’m sure we can handle Agerain if he starts a fight.”

“A fair fight,” Ellikard corrects her sourly.


----------



## havenstone

*A New d’Aramant*

*LATER THAT EVENING*-- at roughly the same time that Atrix’s escape attempt turns into an unexpected tryst with Sarele -- Ash, Meeshak, and Nina are met by servants who discreetly summon them to a meeting. The servants lead them to a dusty, candle-lit corner of the great library of the d’Syrnon Family. The blue, red, and gray moons are all strong in the sky, casting a dappled light on the library floor as they shine in through different windows. The black moon Manachorn is also waxing, a slowly growing arc of unlight in the sky.

Meeshak is not entirely surprised to see General Marcor d’Syrnon emerge from a small door in one wall. “The three of you joined me at Wildengard,” Marcor said quietly. “Not one of you has been to Lynar before, or is thought to be allied to any Family. If you are willing, I believe you are better qualified than my own knights to find out information about my would-be assassins, in this city where my enemies think they know my men. I have been watching each of you, and know that each of you has skills that will be of use in this investigation.” His eyes fall on Nina with a knowing gleam; Nina keeps his face impassive.

“We would be honored,” replies Ash. Meeshak and Nina nod their agreement.

“In one week, we will all be marching to Arawai,” Marcor reminds them. “This leaves you six days in Lynar to investigate the source of the Patriarch’s Gold with which the assassin was paid. Here is a supply of gold for each of you to open doors that might otherwise stay shut.” The general hands them each a small pouch of coins, generally Velnaryn Mint, the most common currency of the North. “If you need to meet with me before we march, you may leave a note in the pages of this book, which I will have checked each day.” He indicates a worn volume of _The Megrimner Wars_. “I will send messengers to you if I find out anything that may help you.”

“As a start, may I have full access to the archives of this library?” Nina asks, drawing curious looks from his two friends. Marcor assents without question.

*NINA SPENDS THE *night delving through the genealogical records of the Five Families with an audacious goal in mind. _I may be breaking the last eighteen years’ disguise – but Uncle, if you were here, you’d approve of this, you’d agree that this was the way of the Clan. A true Test_. During the last few weeks of travel, Nina has been quietly observing the young country nobles in Marcor’s entourage, practicing their gestures and games. All he needs is the right name.

The sky is brightening with the dawn by the time Nina finds the passage he was searching for, the one he hoped would be there somewhere:

_His first wife, Kendera, having died, Aderin d’Aramant of Marlhold wed the lady Zeraya of the Northwest Azal Turn. This alliance to one of the trading clans of Chraman was vital for the Northern d’Aramants after the loss of most of Geren’s Sward to the Tellemonts of Aradur…_

Nina does a quick calculation of age and flips through the pages of the genealogy. Aderin and Zeraya had fourteen grandchildren who might plausibly have inherited some of her Chramic features. Several of them live far enough away on the Aradur frontier that they’re unlikely to have joined the muster for the barbarian war. Nina’s fingers trace the names and ages until he finds the most plausible Northern d’Aramant grandson.

“Anseron d’Aramant,” Nina whispers aloud, his heart pounding in his ears as he tries out a northern Senalline accent. “Hello, cousin Agerain. I’m Anseron d’Aramant.”


----------



## havenstone

*Well-Laid Plans*

“*WHAT -- WHAT DID *you do to your linens?” gasps Adgar d’Loriad.

Atrix rubs his eyes and sits up from the torn strips of his sheets with a yawn. “Oh, that. Don’t let it trouble you, cousin. The Water Grove was most effectively guarded. I had to climb back up, and it seemed unkind to trouble you for new bedclothes at that hour of the night.”

“Unkind? Atrix, if you’d run off, our fathers would have killed us,” Adgar groans.

“And their deaths would have been so tragically unnecessary,” comes another familiar voice from the door.

“Jaron!” Atrix bounds out of bed and embraces his boyhood friend Jaron d’Syrnon, whose reputation for mischief at least equals Atrix’s own.

“Hello, ‘Trix,” Jaron beams. “I hear your parents are conspiring to settle you down.”

“One of you could have sent me a warning,” Atrix says reproachfully.

“We didn’t know how to reach you out in the hills.” Jaron glances at Adgar and the cousin whose name no one can remember, then closes the door and looks back to Atrix. “We can trust these two, I think. ‘Trix, I take it you’d be happy to hear of a loophole that could get you out of the wedding?”

Atrix hesitates for a wistful moment, recalling his evening in the Water Grove. Then he remembers Sarele’s firm prohibition on taverns, gambling, and duels. “Absolutely.”

“It’s simple. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself.” The young d’Syrnon’s eyes gleam. “First, you have to name Adgar your ring-brother. Second, you have to die.”

“I’m sorry -- that last part again?”

Jaron shrugs. “Technically, you only have to be dead until the wedding goes through. Don’t you remember? In any marriage formally agreed between Families, if the groom dies, his ring-brother has to take his place -- to make sure the alliance goes through no matter what. If you lie low for a couple months and reappear after the war... well, it will make some people unhappy, but they certainly won’t reverse the wedding just to make sure Sarele ends up with her original betrothed.”

Atrix is torn between incredulity and excitement. “But -- leaving aside the difficulty of faking my death in front of witnesses -- doesn’t that just leave Adgar in the same fix?”

“I don’t think he’ll find it quite as difficult,” Jaron says slyly, casting his eyes over to the hotly blushing Adgar. “Come on, Adgar, you’ve been in love with her for years. This would be a happy ending for everyone.”

“What could go wrong?” says cousin Nameless drily.

Atrix’s face breaks into a conspiratorial smile. “Right. We can make this work. I happen to know a young d’Orbis Sword-Priest who would make a _very_ reliable witness to my demise...”

* * *

*A Note on the Finality of Death*: In the world of Aerdrim, unlike some other worlds with which readers may be familiar, Ain’s priests do not have the power to Raise Dead. The soul is known to cling to the body for a few minutes after death, and very powerful priests can Resuscitate a dead person if the soul has not yet fled. However, once the soul is gone, there is only one way to bring it back: for a circle of priests to summon Death himself and offer a bargain, usually of a life for a life. The Summons is taxing and there is no guarantee that Death will accept a bargain; as a result, this happens so rarely as to be legend rather than reality to most people in Aerdrim...


----------



## havenstone

*Going to the Ball*

*THE DAY AFTER *their arrival, Carwyn drags a reluctant Kyla out to explore the maze of the Patriarchs’ Palace. Kyla deftly leads them away from any people they see, until Carwyn notices a gaggle of young men, one of whom looks like an even more handsome version of Atrix. She waves away Kyla’s objections and walks over to the group. “We’re looking for Atrix d’Loriad,” Carwyn says, at her most winsome. “You don’t happen to know where we can find him?”

“Cousin Atrix won’t be much use to you if you do find him,” replies the dashing young man with mild smugness, eyeing Carwyn appreciatively. “His father’s got him under lock and key until his wedding day.” 

“Wedding day?” says Carwyn incredulously, momentarily losing her composure.

“He didn’t tell us he was betrothed,” Kyla explains.

“He didn’t know himself until yesterday evening,” laughs the good-looking d’Loriad. “If he had, I don’t think he’d be here. I’m his cousin, Alan. How do you know ‘Trix?”

“We traveled here together,” calls Atrix, who has just entered the room with his two guardians. “The lovely mistress Carwyn is from the village I was staying in. She owns a very fine inn. And I’m not under lock and key. Unless you count my ring-brother and... our other cousin here.”

“Well, congratulations to you and to Adgar, cos,” Alan says, grinning. “Who would have thought that Atrix d’Loriad would be choosing a ring-brother before any of the rest of his cousins? Since you’ll doubtless be dancing with your d’Nerein betrothed, you won’t mind if I claim mistress Carwyn for the Grand Ball?” Atrix looks mildly pained, while Alan turns to Carwyn with a bow. “Surely you’ll be there. It’s in three days’ time, before we all ride off to Arawai.”

Carwyn beams. “I’d be delighted, m’lord Alan.” While the two of them continue to flirt (and eventually steal away together), Kyla drifts off forlornly to the edge of the crowd, trying to escape the stares of the Senallines. There’s only one other person hanging out there: Atrix’s quiet cousin-guardian. She tries to ignore him.

Eventually, he makes that impossible. “Excuse me. Can I ask: What are you still doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Kyla says sharply.

Cousin Nameless shrugs. “This can’t be an easy place to live as an Arawai at the moment. People have been talking about you from the moment you walked in the gate. Why haven’t you left for some place that isn’t about to go to war with the plainsfolk?”

Kyla stares at him, unsure whether he’s mocking her. “There aren’t too many places left to go for that. My friends have come here. I grew up with them, and I’ll stick with them.”

“That’s admirable,” says the young d’Loriad gravely. “I grew up here, and in Lynar it can be hard to make trusted friends across Families, still less with someone from another people entirely. I’ve often thought that it might be easier outside the Palace. To be honest, I was a little jealous of Atrix when they sent him away.”

Kyla shakes her head. “It isn’t easy anywhere. That’s why I hold on to my friends when I find them.”

“That sounds like wise advice to me.” He considers for a moment, then reaches out for her hand. “Loyal lady Arawai, you deserve to see a better side of Lynar than you have thus far. Would you do me the honor of joining me at the Grand Ball in three days?”

Kyla blinks. “I... I don’t even know your name.”

The young d’Loriad grins gently. “Well, that practically makes you family. I’m Gareth. Gareth d’Loriad, twenty-ninth grand-nephew of Patriarch Gereyd.” He pulls out a small purse from his clothes and presses it into Kyla’s hand. “Please don’t take this wrongly. It is our custom for a young lord to buy his lady a new dress before a Ball, but at the moment, I’m forbidden from leaving the Palace. I’d be honored if you would choose the finest tailor in Lynar to make you a dress.”

“I...” A flustered Kyla finds herself glad that her deep brown complexion hides blushes well. “All right, then.”


----------



## havenstone

*The Cloth Merchant’s Daughter*

*THE FOLLOWING MORNING*, Kyla and Carwyn leave the Palace early to go get their dresses made for the Ball. It's the first raucous day of a general Festival in Lynar, declared by the Patriarchs of the Five Families for the five days before the armies depart for Arawai. The streets are filled with people dancing, singing, playing rowdy mass games of ‘hoodman blind,’ and enjoying wine casks from the Patriarchs’ cellars. The black moon is visible in the day sky -- usually a poor omen, but no one seems to be letting it ruin their day.

Kyla wears a cowl, which doesn’t stop her from attracting attention and (in one case) hurled wine and abuse. The wine has mostly dried by the time she and Carwyn arrive on Clothier Street, but her mood only sinks further as storekeeper after storekeeper coldly turns them away. Carwyn finally locates the shop of merchant Kendall Perigord, who was recommended by one of the d’Loriads for his fine cloth. The grizzled trader warmly invites them in, clucking his tongue disapprovingly at the stain down Kyla’s skirts. “Pack of dogs out there today. You sit here, my ladies, while my daughter brings you tea. We’ll see you well fitted out for the Ball.”

The merchant’s daughter, a short girl with dark hair and striking hazel eyes, arrives with chamomile tea and a towel to dry Kyla. She has a kind, down-to-earth presence that soon sets the harassed young women at ease. “I’m Kayene, ladies -- please call me Kay, everyone does.” Carwyn and Kyla at once reply that Kay should call them by their names as well. “If you follow me, I’ll measure you for your dresses.”

In the back room, Carywn notices a silk dress half-finished on a mannequin. Gauging its size, she casts an astute glance over to their young hostess. “For you, Kay?”

Kay smiles, looking a little embarrassed, while she begins taking Kyla’s measure. “It is. I’m hoping to be at the Ball as well, la-- Carwyn. Our family has some distant ties to the Five, and my father and I will be helping to supply the army along the road to Guardwatch.” She suddenly turns her head back toward the outer room, eyes shining. “Father -- will cousin Atrix be at the Ball? Uncle Porphyry said he’s returned to Lynar.”

“Ha!” her father calls back. “If he’s back, I can’t imagine him not being at the Ball.”

“Wait -- you’re related to Atrix d’Loriad?” asked Carwyn in surprise.

“You know that young rascal?” says Kendall cheerily, coming in with several bolts of Chramic silk. “His mother is a sister to the merchant Porphyry, whose wife and mine were sisters. We’ve seen plenty of Atrix over the years. My daughter grew up with him and young Jonathan d’Loriad, all visiting their uncle Porphyry together. And of course Atrix would hide in my shop when he got into trouble down here in town.”

“We’re from Rim Square -- we met Atrix there,” Carwyn explains. “And Porphyry was like an uncle to me as well! He taught me...” She pauses for a heartbeat, decides against mentioning forgery and rumor-mongery to the respectable Perigords. “...how to get by in the world. So you’re another of Atrix’s cousins, Kay? We seem to be meeting them everywhere.”

“Atrix always treated me more like a little sister than a cousin,” Kay says fondly. “His brother Jonathan and I were closer to the same age. I think we were both a little overwhelmed by all the trouble Atrix caused. And jealous of his adventures, too.” Kay’s smile turns suddenly to concern. “Porphyry told us about the Harak attack in Rim Square. Were you there when that happened? Are your families safe?”

Kyla and Carwyn begin telling their story; Kay listens in fascination while briskly taking their measurements and beginning to cut the cloth. “...and so we arrived here,” Kyla finally concludes. “We saw Atrix yesterday, under close guard by two of his d’Loriad cousins. It seems his parents have arranged for him to marry in just a few days.”

Kay smiles, but Carwyn thinks she sees her cheeks go a little bit paler. “Poor Atrix. That must not be easy for him. We knew he’d likely not be allowed to choose his bride, but he can’t have expected to be married off so soon.”

“Well, these are not usual times for the Five Families,” Kay’s father offers, coming back from rummaging through his stock. “Mistress Kyla, I’ve found something that may make Lynar a bit more pleasant for you.” He produces a dark veil and gloves. “These are common enough on ladies from the palace to not occasion a second glance. You shouldn’t have to hide who you are... but for the moment, it’s probably the better part of wisdom.”

Kyla feels a surge of gratitude that closes her throat and brings her close to tears. “You’re too kind, sir. This will make a great difference to me.”

*AFTER ANOTHER HALF *hour of tea and friendly conversation, Carwyn and Kyla take their leave. Kyla’s veil works exactly as Perigord had predicted; people’s eyes seem to slide off her (and onto Carwyn, who doesn’t particularly mind). “What lovely people,” Carwyn says warmly as they walk back toward the Palace. “I really like that Kay.”

From the shop of one of the cloth merchants that turned them away earlier, a young man emerges, dressed in new-cut noble garb. His eyes fall on Carwyn and Kyla, and with a barely perceptible start, he turns and hurries away into the crowd. Carwyn’s brow creases as she tries to figure out why the lordling looked so familiar. Then she gasps and grabs Kyla’s arm.

“Wait -- was that _Nina_?”


----------



## havenstone

*The Golden Knave and the Dastard’s Dregs*

*CARWYN AND KYLA *run after the young noble who looked like a male version of Nina, but he gives them the slip, and they soon lose him completely in the masses of rowdy Lynarfolk. This turns out to be a blessing for Carwyn, as the two women give up the chase, pause for breath... and spot a signboard above a broad street across the way. 

The sign shows a roguish-looking man with golden eyes, wearing a gold medallion and juggling five cards: a Blade, Star, Hawk, Flame, and Lion, the suits of the Caragond gambling deck. All the doors on the street bear smaller but similar signs representing “face” cards: the Scepter, two Cardinals, the Assassin, Fortune’s Scales.

“What a satisfactory sensation to spy in a city of strangers a friend’s familiar face!” comes a merry voice from over their shoulders. When they turn, Nurak looks straight through Kyla’s veil, winks, and whispers, “Salutations, my secretive savage sister!”

“Nurak -- is that what I think it is?” Carwyn says reverently, pointing to the sign.

“The most spendthrift of Senallines choose to gamble on the Street of the Golden Knave and its extraordinary environs,” Nurak confirms. As a barbarian, he receives a few black looks from passing Lynarfolk, but his long staff and daggers seem to give the bigots second thoughts.

“It’s... it’s the size of Rim Square,” Carwyn says softly, glancing around the gambling quarter. In her head, she runs through all the games Porphyry taught her in front of the fire at the Hogshead: Round the Yard, Sarranese, Hawks Run, and the lords’ game, Imperium. Carwyn had a natural talent for them all, and her deft fingers had occasionally added a little extra advantage when her luck was down.

“Carwyn -- we don’t have that much gold,” Kyla murmurs, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get back to the Palace.

“Well, let’s fix that.” Carwyn heads into the Masked Queen and stakes herself at a table playing Sarranese. Kyla sits quietly to the side, extremely nervous lest someone recognize her in the rough tavern. Nurak joins the game and proceeds to lose with his usual chatter and good cheer. Carwyn cleans out her fellow players, but flirts with them enough that they hardly mind.

*SUDDENLY A YOUNG *man comes over -- unshaven, with shaggy black hair and deceptively lazy-lidded brown eyes -- and lays down four cards in front of Carwyn like a gauntlet. “You’re playing too well for this table, gorgeous. Do you know Imperium? We need an eighth player in the corner.”

Carywn looks up at him, notices the bruise around his right eye. They recognize each other at the same instant: he’s the rowdy young scruff that she punched out during the grand entrance of the army of Wildengard into Lynar. As she scowls, he grins with a trace of embarrassment. “I’m just looking for an eighth player. You don’t need to worry.”

“_You_ might,” says Carwyn levelly, sweeping her winnings up in front of her. She hands them to Kyla, and stalks over to the corner table.

“I’m Lune,” offers the young gambler as they sit down. “And you are...?”

“Going to leave you with only a bruise to remember me by,” Carwyn retorts. Nurak gives an appreciative hoot of laughter, while Lune inclines his head with a languid smile. Kyla slowly loses her anxiety and watches with fascination through her veil as Carwyn and Lune begin winning from everyone else at the table. Carwyn’s initial disdain is eroded by the excitement of the game and her reluctant admission that Lune is by far the best player she’s ever faced. They fence with cards for hours, and both leave with five times the money they brought to the table. By the time Carwyn and Kyla leave for the Palace (under Nurak’s protection), Carwyn has to admit to a slight interest in gaming with Lune again.

*MEESHAK AND ASH *have been unable to find Nina for more than a day, and have had poor luck in pursuing possible leads in the castle. They decide to recruit Darren and his newfound friends to help them look for clues to identify the man who hired Marcor’s assassin. Together, they go down to the salt-stained houses that cling to the shoreline, and send Darren and the dwarrow off to ask around the docks while they visit the Dastard’s Dregs. 

The Dregs is a decrepit tavern, with a pervasive stench of rot that goes beyond the fish littered around the outside. “A friend of mine was here a week or two ago,” Meeshak says to the barman, a scarred Megrimner. “He had a... business agreement with a man he met here. A man who hid his face, but couldn’t hide his stammer.”

“A lot of people make business agreements in here,” growls the barkeeper.

Meeshak scowls, but the Megrimner is uncharacteristically unimpressed by the gangly, gaunt young priest. Ash leans in and places five silvers on the bar. “We’re just looking to get back what he owes our friend. Wouldn’t it be worth your while to help us?”

Ash isn’t particularly charismatic either, but the barman responds better to silver than intimidation. “The hooded man was tall. Broad shoulders. Stammered to me when he came in that he was looking for a man who knew what a knife was for.” The keeper of the Dregs shrugs. “Don’t waste more of your coin, I’ve got nothing else for you.”

On the docks, meanwhile, Darren makes an unexpected discovery -- one which, years later, he would chronicle with warmth in his own memoirs.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Ah, for the days when gambling was a skill...

Keep it up! You write very well.


----------



## havenstone

Fimmtiu said:


> Keep it up! You write very well.




Thanks, Fimmtiu!


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline" (guest post)*

It is perhaps a touch too bold to claim that I am the first captain to have piloted a ship having never been to sea before in his life.  Knowing the arrogances of nobles and the privileges they claim for themselves, I don't doubt that more than a few of them have taken charge of a ship with a seasoned first mate as a loincloth to cover their nakedness.  But I have little doubt that I am the first in this world to have captained many voyages before first getting his sea legs.  I doubt the Path of Horizons would approve (let alone the rank I have claimed since then), but my membership in that order has been somewhat complicated, to say the least.

I suppose it is fitting, then, to note that I come from a land where there are no working ships and am hence utterly unqualified for a life at sea, especially when you consider I have far too many reasons to never, ever want to go there.  Not that that sort of thing has ever stopped me from biting off more than I can chew.  In any event, luck has played at least as great a role as audacity in placing me where I am now.

My first real taste of sea-tang came in the air of Lynar.  In the wake of the first assassination attempt on General Marcor d'Syrnon, I sought along with Ash and Meeshak to find out who had paid Patriarch's gold to ensure such a murder.  As the assassin had confessed to being hired at the "Dastard's Dregs" tavern, we headed to that part of Lynar to see if anyone else had seen or heard of his "stammering, hooded man".

Meeshak and Ash went to the tavern itself while my newfound dwarrow friends accompanied me to the disused shipyards nearby, a likely place to look for rumors of strange persons seen entering and leaving the tavern.  After having impressed Mullod so at my skill with a club, I would have been embarrassed to admit that I was glad also to have the company of dwarrow protection as we passed through the dingy alleys of the lower city.  The docks of Lynar are one of the more squalid and dangerous parts of that city, given their disuse and unsuitability for commerce of any but the most sordid kind.

For all I'd heard, I was unprepared for what I saw.  My home of Rim Square, of course, was a farming community on the edge of the mountains, well enough inland that I had never been to the ocean, nor seen its vastness.  So I froze in place rounding a corner as I saw a great pillar of wood rising at an angle.  It was the mast of a ship.  Out beyond the quay were piers of wood that once would have risen and fallen evenly with the tides but had long since become treacherous with disrepair.  And all along the piers were rotting hulks and many more masts, some floating at crazy angles, many full of holes or mostly below water but all dead and useless.

Not to me, though.  I saw what was, or perhaps what might have been: magnificent contraptions the size of great houses, all for the purpose of carrying people across this great ocean that I could scarcely comprehend.  I could just imagine the work, the planning, the skill involved in crafting and using such a thing, compared to which my noisemakers and locks were the merest of toys for all their complexity.  I inched forward to the edge of the quay and nearly fell in for not paying enough attention to my feet.  I saw how they could be if only they were repaired or created anew, if only I had any idea how.  Little did I know, whenever lowest tide hit, those same boats would be beached on the sand below, the piers half-dangling between the sand and the quay, and I would not have had the water below to catch me if I fell.

_(The next few pages of text are interspersed with rough diagrams of the ships of Lynar that in the original copy appear to have been delicately pasted in and written over in the same ink and language as the main text.  Some sketches are half-finished, others sketched out several times with ships' holes or missing masts replaced with several iterations of design.  Most are accompanied by cryptic notes, such as "broad and flat... the Floating Gardens?  Olosso." or "probably beaches gracefully... suitable for the Storm Sea text?")_

A sweet and curious female voice snapped me out of my trance, "Have you been here before?"  I turned and saw a pretty young woman, blonde of hair and blue-eyed, with a gentle smile.  Her coloration was perhaps not as exotic to me as it may be to many of my readers, but even the men of Senallin hold such things of account.  (_scribbled in the margins: Rest assured that to me she was utterly plain and could never compare to, say, the beauty of a woman who whose dagger would gleam effulgently in the light of the moons before plunging silently into the neck of a perceived rival, were it not for the fact that such a dagger would also likely be too thick with lampblack or okordo to gleam properly_.)

"No", I said.  "I didn't even know such things were possible."

"They haven't sailed in many, many years.  The last shipwrights and sailors who could make them sail died when our great-grandparents were children.  And they were never easy to maintain even before they were abandoned."  She said this with the sort of half-felt sadness reserved for the long-lost dreams of others.  And I as she gazed out into the harbor, I found I could not took my eyes off of hers.

"They're amazing", I quietly responded.  And then I remembered myself,  "But who are you?"

She smiled again at my awkwardness, "I'm Calla.  I come here from time to time.  I like to watch the ships and think of the way they were.  What's your name?"

"I'm Darren.  I'm from Rim Square, but I'm here in Lynar for the muster.  I'm with the army as a tinker, at least since the Haraks came."

Calla sat down, dangling her feet off the edge of the quay, and I sat down beside her and listened in awe as she pointed from ship to ship and told me what she could of what each one was and how they had worked at one time, or at least how she supposed they did.  I asked question after question and she was happy to oblige.  I told her a little about Rim Square, but also about the dwarrow, to which she responded with curiosity and amusement.  After some time, it had become clear that I was smitten with Calla, though I scarcely had the courage or the presence of mind to do anything about it.  But then almost in non sequitur she asked,  "Will you be at the Grand Ball the day after tomorrow?"

"I wasn't sure.  I'm hardly a dancer.  Though I could learn."

"Come and look for me.  I'll be there, and maybe we could steal a dance from under those nose of my guardian.  He'll want to chaperone me, but he'll be so busy with everything else that I doubt he'd notice us."

I smiled.  "I'd like that", I said with the startled enthusiasm of someone for the first time brought near speechless by a girl almost as shy as himself.  _ (again, in the margins: Utter infatuation, of course.  The blatherings of a boy who knew nothing of women at the time or what the future would bring.)_

"Speaking of my guardian", she said unhappily, seeing how far the tide had dropped during our conversation, "I need to be off now.  He's not likely to approve of my little walks in this part of town".

We said our goodbyes and I waved her off, too shy to dare a kiss with a girl I'd just met.  

A moment later I startled at a gruff, bemused voice behind me, then wheeled to catch a glimpse of a diminutive figure standing in the alley from whence I'd just come.  "Y'know lad, if you've just found our stammering man, that's quite a disguise he was wearing."

"Mullod, were you watching this whole time?" I choked out with some embarrassment.

Mullod grinned, "Mostly.  But as we didn't want to interrupt, we've started asking around without ye.  And there'll be time enough for us to meet the lass later.  Come on, lad, we've work to do."

And by the time we met up with Ash and Meeshak again, we were no closer to unraveling the mystery of the attempt on General Marcor's life.


----------



## havenstone

*At the Fencing Court*

*ON THE FOLLOWING *morning (the third day since the party’s arrival in Lynar), Nina strides confidently into the d’Aramant section of the Patriarchs’ Palace, wearing the best new clothes that Marcor’s gold could buy. It doesn’t take long for him to find a circle of similarly preening young men and women.

Agerain senses the newcomer and turns from chatting up a d’Nerein girl to fix Nina with a hard stare. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you in this part of the palace before.”

“I’m your cousin Anseron,” Nina replies, trying to sound natural. “From Mercon’s side of the family. I’m here for the muster.”

Agerain looks him over, then snorts contemptuously. “You’re no d’Aramant, Anseron.” Nina stares back at him, trusting in his disguise. Agerain continues to size Nina up, until his lips bend in a fierce smile and he finishes his sentence. “Not until you’ve blooded a d’Loriad at the fencing court!”

*NINA FINDS HIMSELF *swept up in a crowd of whooping young d’Aramant cousins and marched down to the heart of the d’Nerein palace, where several dozen young men (and rather fewer women) are practicing their swordplay. Four huge trees mark the corners of the court. Many of the young fencers look up in alarm at the sound of Agerain’s gang approaching, and quickly disperse, leaving a core of d’Loriads and a few d’Orbis in the middle of the field. Nina sees Atrix and his guardians among them, then notices Ontaya and the d’Orbis cousins, and has the sinking feeling that his disguise is going to be ruined by his own friends.

Atrix’s cousin Alan is the first to break from the d’Loriad pack and approach with an insolent grin. “Agerain, didn’t you lose badly enough last time we dueled?”

“It must be pleasant to be ever the winner in your own mind, Alan,” smiles Agerain indulgently. “We have a new cousin in town, named An...?”

“Anseron,” says Nina in resigned tones. Ontaya glances over with surprise at the almost-familiar voice. Atrix is looking half-quizzical, half-angry.

“And you’ve brought him down to take your punishment for you?”

“To see what he’s made of,” Agerain shrugs. He tosses Nina a rapier, then speaks quietly to Alan so Ontaya can’t hear. “To third blood?”

“Blood combat for your new cousin?” Alan says, drawing his own rapier and glancing around to confirm the absence of Castellan Reynalt. “You must not like him very much.”

Nina raises his sword. “Enough talk, d’Loriad. Let’s get this over with.” A ring of excited young nobles forms around Alan and “Anseron” as they circle each other. Nina holds in his mind what Kemeras taught him: observe, guard yourself, turn your opponent’s momentum against him. Alan is the first to lunge in, and comes away with a wound to his shoulder. The handsome d’Loriad is a good hand with a blade, but he never manages to land a blow on Nina, who matter-of-factly stabs him twice more and steps back to roars of approval from Agerain and the d’Aramants.

“Right, _Anseron_,” says Atrix hotly, springing forward while Ontaya lays hands on Alan to close his wounds. “I don’t know what your game is, but you won’t get so lucky twice. On your guard!”

Nina and Atrix have sparred many times outside Kemeras’ cottage, and know each others’ strengths well -- but Nina always kept in reserve the most significant technique Kemeras taught him. He can remember the old ranger’s voice: _You have the patience and intellect to learn one of the higher strategems, my girl. Master this trick, and you can turn a swordsman’s strength against himself_. Nina can’t help but guiltily imagine Kemeras’ expression if he had heard that the first opponent Nina used the technique on was Atrix.

Nina’s blade becomes a blur around him. He doesn’t move toward Atrix or attempt to strike him at all. Atrix follows Nina’s rapier warily with his eyes, then strikes at him -- and despite Atrix’s extraordinarily high dexterity, Nina deflects the blow and sends Atrix’s sword flying back into his own shoulder, wounding him with his own blade. A gasp goes up from the watching crowd. Atrix attacks again with all his speed, and Nina ripostes, leaving him further bloodied. Stunned, Atrix tries to disarm Nina -- something he’s always been good at -- and finds himself struck a third time. Nina leaps back out of range and lowers his blade, trying to convey an apology to his enraged friend with his eyes. “Enough of this.”

“Yes, enough of this,” Agerain exults. “You’ve shamed enough d’Loriads for one day.”

“*LET SOMEONE ELSE* have a turn,” comes a flat voice. A muscular d’Aramant with dusty-blond hair pushes past Nina and stares bleakly at Atrix. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back, d’Loriad.”

“Bloody hellfire,” Atrix growls, shrugging off Ontaya’s offer of healing. “What do you want, Avric?” He’s all too familiar with the best and most belligerent young swordsman of the d’Aramants (before Nina inexplicably joined the Family). Shortly before Atrix’s departure for Rim Square, Avric had challenged him to a duel over a point of familial honor. The duel had ended with Atrix spectacularly disarming Avric, knocking his legs out from under him, and strolling away while Avric was trying to get his wind back.

“Do you people have to give _all_ your sons names starting with A?” Nina mutters inaudibly.

“Just try to disarm me again, d’Loriad,” Avric barks. “Just you try.” The d’Aramants and d’Loriads begin pushing forward, yelling at each other, and it’s clear that at any minute the fencing court is going to degenerate into an all-out battle.

“The Castellan is coming,” Ontaya shouts, shouldering her way through the intensifying brawl. “If you want to stay out of Reynalt’s cells, _stand down_.” Agerain eyes Ontaya venomously, clearly considering a fight, but again decides the time isn’t right.

Meanwhile, Adgar and Gareth drag Atrix back to one of the trees. “Cos, you’ve got to keep yourself well away from Avric.”

“Oh, for Ain’s sake,” Atrix snarls, “just because Nin... this new d’Aramant cretin can stab me doesn’t mean I’m completely out of practice. I can still take Avric.”

“Do you know who the Swordsmarks are?” Adgar says urgently.

Atrix pauses, his anger receding in shock. “Yes.”

“While you’ve been away, Avric has been getting training from one of them here. He’s since killed one man and maimed five in supposedly ‘safe’ duels.” Adgar shakes his head. “We don’t want you to _really_ die.”

Atrix looks back to the fracas, which has dissipated with the arrival of the bull-like, gray-haired Castellan Reynalt -- who is roaring that if he sees another naked blade, he’ll have the holder in shackles. Agerain and the other d’Aramants hoist “Anseron” onto their shoulders and parade him out of the fencing grounds, cheering wildly. Atrix swears under his breath and shakes himself free from Gareth’s grip, wincing as he feels the cut Nina just gave him across the ribs.

“Atrix?” A newly-arrived Darren taps him on the shoulder. “Can you spare a moment?”

Atrix looks over at the uncharacteristically nervous young tinker. “Are you all right?”

Darren considers for moment, then nods. “But I need to learn to dance.”

Atrix blinks. “To dance.”

“For the Ball,” Darren confirms.

“What, by tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

Atrix wearily puts one hand to his forehead. “Right. We’ll see what we can do.”


----------



## havenstone

*The Dancing Lesson*

*THAT NIGHT, KAY *brings Carwyn and Kyla their dresses, as well as the one she has made for herself. A delighted Carwyn insists that they go show them off to the d’Loriad boys. Kyla is feeling cheerful for the first time in weeks, but she’s still worried that some spiteful Arawai-hater might ruin the dress if she wears it out in the palace. So she pleads weariness and stays in their small room.

Carwyn sweeps into the d’Loriad palace, shimmering with jewelry from her gambling winnings, taking immense satisfaction in the fact that the bemused-looking young nobles who pause to watch her pass would never suspect her of being a kitchen girl. She and Kay come upon the incongruous sight of Atrix dancing with Darren, deftly dodging the tinker’s uncertain feet, while Meeshak looks on, grinning.

“Cousin!” Atrix exclaims, breaking away to hug Kay affectionately. “You look stunning. Does this mean we’ll have the pleasure of your company at the Ball tomorrow?”

“It certainly does,” Kay smiles. “Along with most of your new friends from Rim Square, it seems. Father and I have already met two of them.”

“I think we’ll all be there,” Carwyn says. “Meeshak?”

“I’ve been invited by Chancellor Eliduc to help light the hall, and to hold up the wards against weapons and other dangers,” Meeshak confirms. “He’s a good man. Knowing that we’ve traveled together, he also invited me to co-preside at your wedding in three days, Atrix.”

“How appropriate to bring in a Sistechern,” Atrix says wryly. “No, I’m sorry, Meeshak -- I’ll appreciate your blessing. Kay, I don’t know if you’d heard. Father engineered this ridiculous alliance in my absence. He wants me to marry some d’Nerein girl for Family reasons.”

“Yes, Carwyn and Kyla mentioned it,” Kay replies. Behind the tone of sisterly sympathy in Kay’s voice, Carwyn thinks she hears a strain of deeper unhappiness-- which she’s also sure is completely lost on Atrix. 

“What about Nina?” asks Darren, trying to change the subject. “Is she coming to the Ball?”

“I haven’t seen her in a few days,” Carwyn states. “She seems to have abandoned the kitchens. I don’t know where in the palace she’s staying now.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll show up,” Atrix says flatly. “And I’ll have a few questions for her when she does. But for now -- Kay, you’re one of the finest dancers I know. Do you think you could help Darren learn this step? He’s not leaning into me enough.”

*MEANWHILE, ASH IS *relaxing on the moonlit parapet of the d’Syrnon palace, having just finished a day of service to the knight who chose him as squire, Erivas d’Syrnon. He nods idly to a young noble striding past -- then furrows his brow as the young man unexpectedly addresses him in a harsh whisper: “Ash! I need to talk to you.”

“Nina?” Ash replies, uncertain at first. “Where have you been? And... when on earth did you dress up as a man?”

“I’m investigating the attempt on Marcor’s life, too, remember?” Nina hisses. “A kitchen girl can’t find out much. A young d’Aramant might be able to hear a few more things.” 

“A young d’Aramant?” Ash echoes incredulously. “Nina... I know you’re good at disguise, but are you sure you can actually do that?”

“I’ve done it. I had to beat up a couple of d’Loriads to get there, though.” Nina glances around, nervous. “I can’t get near Atrix or Ontaya to explain, so I need you to do it for me. And also tell Carwyn and Kyla not to worry... but I’m not coming back to the quarters.”

“All right,” Ash offers. “I’ll do that now.” Nina murmurs his thanks and disappears. Ash shakes his head in mingled admiration and disbelief, then heads down toward the section of the palace where Carwyn and Kyla have been staying. 

He arrives just in time to see a frightened-looking Kyla marched out the door by three swordsmen wearing featureless gray tabards. Freezing in the shadows, Ash avoids their notice, and stalks after them with a total silence learned in the woods of the Harak Rim. They pass through the lower reaches of the d’Loriad section and arrive at a lone spire on the outskirts of the Patriarchs’ Palace: the Merle Tower.


----------



## havenstone

*Master of the Orrery*

*KYLA REPRESSES A *shiver as the armed strangers shut the heavy oak door of the Merle Tower behind her. She has no idea who the men are or why they’ve brought her here, but when they knocked on her door, they made it very clear that she would not be allowed to refuse their invitation. The insignia-less guards march her up a shadowy stairwell with many recessed doors to a third-story hall with a grand orrery in it -- a mechanical model of the nine moons in their orbits, revolving and pulling on each other through an intricate system of gears and weights. One large window looks out over the dark city of Lynar.

Three strangers are waiting there: an old man with long gray hair and a comforting aura of calm; a shorter, grim-looking man whose fine robes do not quite conceal a hunchback; and a tall figure, seated, whose features are completely concealed by a great hooded cloak.

The old man waves the guards out of the room, closes the door, and asks Kyla to sit. When she remains standing and silent, he smiles kindly. “I understand your wariness, my dear. I apologize for the abruptness with which we summoned you here. But we are engaged in an errand that could see us all slain if any find out about it.”

“Who are you?” Kyla asks, barely audible above the creaking and whirring of the orrery.

“I am Aleander, sage and historian of the Five Families -- particularly the ones who, unlike the d’Syrnons, are not interested in writing their own histories. It is my calling to travel the earth and bring back wisdom in the defense of Senallin.” The old man gestures to his shorter companion. “This is Malchus the Cofferer, keeper of the treasury of the Patriarchs. And our third friend... well, he will remain nameless, but rest assured that he means no harm to you or your people.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You are Arawai,” Aleander says simply. “Yet you travel with an army whose sworn aim is to conquer the plains and enslave your people. Where do your true loyalties lie?”

Kyla’s fear and distrust are momentarily overwhelmed by a pang of confusion. “I was raised in Senallin, and my loyalty is to my friends.”

Aleander stares penetratingly at her for a long moment. Kyla feels a sudden vertigo, as though she has been caught up in the revolutions of the orrery, and has to look away. She hears the old sage speak as if from a great distance: “I can not expect you to trust us if we do not trust you, so I will be open with you. I have long been a friend to the plains people, and do not think this war will profit either Senallin or Arawai. It is madness to think that Senallin can digest Arawai without weakening itself gravely against Aradur, Kedris, and Velnar. At Guardwatch, according to the plan of the generals, some two thousand Northern soldiers will be sent to flank the Arawai forces, to trap and destroy them. We need someone to warn the plainsfolk of where the army will really be. We need the Army of the North to fail.”

Kyla feels a purse pressed into her hand by the hunched, dour-looking Malchus. She opens it to see the unmistakable gleam of Patriarch’s Gold. “I can not accept this,” she says quietly.

“Girl, you have no choice -- and nor do we,” says Aleander, a stern note entering his voice. “You may need that gold and the authority it represents if anyone questions your intentions in Guardwatch. Our hooded friend will find you there before the battle and tell you of the exact time and place where this surprise attack will be. The Arawai will listen to you -- will trust you. Thanks to you, the Army of the North will be turned back, Senallin will not become a fat and weak target for its neighbors, and the plains will be safe from invasion for a generation or more to come.”

“Meanwhile,” Malchus grates, “if any word of this reaches the generals, our plan will collapse, the Arawai will be wiped out -- and you yourself will surely be executed for your part in it. We can see to that.”

Kyla remains frozen, completely unsure of what to do. After a long moment, the hooded man raises one hand and makes a small, cryptic gesture. Aleander sighs sympathetically. “Dear girl, I know we are asking a great deal of you. You will not see any of us again before Guardwatch. I ask only that you say nothing of this to anyone, and use that time to think through your loyalties.” He calls to the guards, who escort Kyla out of the Merle Tower.

*BACK IN HER* rooms, Kyla stares mutely at the dress Kay made for her until a knock on the door makes her jump. She opens it a crack. “Ash? What... what are you doing here?”

“I saw those men take you to the tower,” Ash says simply. “I managed to hide in the stairwell. I couldn’t hear everything, but I heard some of it. Did you see the face of the hooded man? Did he speak at all?”

Kyla yanks Ash into the room. “No! No, he didn’t say anything. And we can’t say anything either.”

Ash looks uneasy. “Kyla... I would never want to do anything to get you in trouble, but if they are seriously trying to betray the Army of the North, we need to stop them. Those men could be behind the attempt on General Marcor’s life -- it was a hooded man who hired the assassin.”

“The hooded man is behind all of this,” states Kyla unequivocally. “If we don’t have any more idea about who he is, it won’t help even to give up Aleander. The hooded man will escape, and the Army will still be in peril. We need him, not his mouthpiece.”

“And if you don’t see him again until Guardwatch?” asks Ash doubtfully.

“Then we’ll stop them then,” Kyla insists. “We’ll catch him. Ash, we can’t say anything now. We can’t trust what we just heard there -- they’re trying to use me somehow. We don’t know enough to say anything.”

A troubled Ash returns to the d’Syrnon library and leaves a note in the battered history book: _The sage Aleander and Malchus the Cofferer are likely to be part of this plot. Be careful, my Lord_. 

Kyla spends the night staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. _You travel with an army whose sworn aim is to conquer the plains and enslave your people_. Aleander’s gentle accusation echoes over and over through her head until dawn.


----------



## havenstone

*The Grand Ball*

*THE FOLLOWING DAY *passes quickly. Meeshak works with Eliduc and the other priests to prepare the Great Hall of the Patriarchs with wardspells for the Grand Ball. As the afternoon shadows lengthen, both the blue moons, Yulynis and Tenesgar, become clearly visible in the sky. “We’ll have true moonlight tonight,” says Chancellor Eliduc with satisfaction. (Senallines and other Northerners believe the world was created by Ain with the blue moons as the strongest light in the night sky. The white moon Casander was added later, by necessity, to ward off nocturnal demons. While the white moon’s “hallowlight” is accordingly held in reverence, blue moonlight is considered more natural and comfortable).

The gentry and wealthy classes of Lynar begin arriving in their finery to wait at the main gate, while the Families gather with their personal friends and retainers at the five private portals to the Great Hall. At sunset, the assembled priests sing a prayer for light (Meeshak in a slightly raspy bass), and the vast chamber glows as though a small sun had appeared in its upper reaches. Chamberlain Gall calls for the five portals to be opened, and the Families make their entrance. Atrix, Carwyn, Darren, and Kyla enter with the d’Loriads; Ontaya enters with Ellikard, Emerath, and her d’Orbis cousins; Ash accompanies the d’Syrnon knights; and Nina strides in at Agerain d’Aramant’s right hand.

The Patriarchs’ college of musicians has provided its finest performers for the Ball, and as the music rises, the dancers move out into the center of the hall. Carwyn and Alan are among the first on the floor. To her delight, Carwyn finds Alan to be as good a dancer as she is, and she revels in the looks of admiration and envy they’re attracting from other couples. A small part of her feels uncomfortably out of place, though, and she finds Alan just a little full of himself. And despite herself, she finds that once or twice her mind drifts from the glorious ballroom to the dingy tavern where she gambled with Lune.

Kyla feels her gloved hand taken by Gareth d’Loriad. The quiet young man lifts her veil, saying, “You won’t need this tonight,” with a smile as he swings her into their first dance. Kyla doesn’t protest, even though she hears the gasps and disdainful murmurs from all around -- _An Arawai at the Ball? At _this _Ball? What is that d’Loriad boy playing at?_ She does her best to let go of her weary anxiety and just enjoy the feeling of proximity to Gareth. To her surprise, when the first dance is over, Adgar and the other young d’Loriads back their cousin up by clamoring for the next one, and it’s half an hour before she works her way back to Gareth again.

*AGERAIN DOESN'T IMMEDIATELY *join the dancing, instead slowly circling the hall to regard his rivals, with Nina and Avric in tow. He scowls when he sees Atrix bow to Sarele and lead her out onto the floor. “She must not marry that d’Loriad ass. What is her father thinking, with all of his obligations to us?”

“Herena tells me that Sarele doesn’t want it, but her father is determined,” Avric offers.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to dispose of the d’Loriad, then,” frowns Agerain. “The timing is all wrong.” His face creases into a mirthless smile again as he sees Gareth and Kyla. “The d’Loriads always were dirty barbarian-lovers. That makes our job easier.”

Nina shrugs casually. “They’re not as strong as they think they are. So... they’re trying to win over the d’Nereins. What about the d’Syrnons?” He isn’t sure whether Agerain would know much about any d’Aramant plot against Marcor, but information has got to start somewhere.

“They’re cautious. Always cautious.” Agerain glances over to Nina sharply. “And we want them to stay cautious, and the d’Orbis who think they can make common cause with d’Loriads to be frightened. Your sword can help with that, Anseron. We don’t need them to love us. But we do need to keep the d’Nereins in tow.”

Eventually Avric goes off to dance with his betrothed, Herena, daughter of High General Athriam d’Aramant. With a crooked smile on his face, Agerain beckons Nina across the crowded hall and points to Atrix and Alan. “Take them in one... two... three...” He cuts in during a second when Sarele is standing finger-to-finger with Atrix and sweeps her away, leaving Atrix standing alone on the floor. Acting on instinct, Nina does the same and finds himself dancing with an annoyed Carwyn. “It’s me,” he whispers. 

Using her best gambling face, Carwyn manages to show no sign of surprise. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“Infiltrating the d’Aramants,” Nina replies dryly. “My name is Anseron, lovely lady.”

Carwyn smiles and says, “We’ll talk later,” through her teeth, twirling back toward Alan. 

*ATRIX ADROITLY STEALS *Sarele back from Agerain, who steals her back again... at which point Atrix notices his cousin Kay in the crowd of gentry who have just entered through the main gate. She’s wearing the dress he saw last night during the dancing lesson, but with her hair unbraided and her cheeks flushed with excitement, the overall effect is rather different -- and quite new to Atrix. He looks back at Sarele, who is laughing with Agerain and seems to be deliberately ignoring him.

“Milord,” says Kay with a curtsey, beaming as Atrix strides up to her.

“I... am stunned,” says Atrix with a bemused grin. “Forgive me. Last night when I said you looked stunning, I hadn’t the least idea what I was talking about.”

Kay laughs warmly. “Cousin, you can’t charm me. You’ve already told me and Jonathan all of your tricks.”

“No tricks, then,” Atrix offers. “Just a dance?”


----------



## havenstone

*Dancing with d’Aramants*

*MEANWHILE, DARREN HAS *been scanning the room for Calla’s blonde hair and finally spots her sitting on the d’Aramant side of the hall, looking a bit forlorn. He hurries around the ballroom, getting increasingly unfriendly looks as he moves deeper into the d’Aramant section. When she sees him, her eyes light up. “Shipboy!” A couple of her cousins snicker, others glower; Darren ignores them and asks her to dance. To his relief, she’s clearly only a little more experienced than he is, and they whirl inelegantly but happily across the floor together for nearly an entire dance.

Then a hand descends on Darren’s shoulder, and he turns to see the angry blue eyes of Avric d’Aramant. “Who are you, and why are you dancing with my cousin?” 

“My name is Darren. Darren Adrecks,” replies Darren, startled. “I don’t mean to give offense to anyone -- certainly not a cousin of Calla’s. We were just dancing.”

“Does the General know about this boy?” Avric demands of Calla, ignoring Darren but not letting go of him. Calla looks suddenly miserable.

Atrix spies this budding disaster and dances Kay hurriedly but gracefully across the floor to tap Avric on the shoulder just as the music ends. “I’ve been looking for you, d’Aramant.”

Avric spins around, his face contorting further. “d’Loriad -- what do you want?”

Atrix arches his eyebrow and pauses for a strained moment, not wanting Avric to realize that he’s protecting Darren. He’s interrupted by a rattling tabor, signaling the beginning of the tirriesc -- one of the most challenging and fast-paced of dances, with flourishes that are at times almost acrobatic. “A challenge, Avric,” Atrix says cheerily. “A tirriesc. Can you manage it?”

*THE FLOOR EMPTIES *out, with only a handful of couples remaining -- including Atrix and Kay, Avric and Herena, and Carwyn and Alan. All are excellent dancers and begin well. In the midst of the first movement, however, Avric tries and fails to trip Atrix. In instant, unthinking retaliation, Atrix catches Avric’s foot with his own and sends him and Herena flying. A surge of laughter goes up from the crowd; the shamed couple limp off to the sidelines. 

Atrix shrugs apologetically to Kay, and then gets distracted again by the feeling of her in his arms as they whirl around and he lifts her into the air. “Thank you, cousin,” he says, a little hoarsely, when the tirriesc is over. Kay doesn’t say anything, just smiles shakily and walks off.

Moments later, the flushed and bruised Avric stalks up to Atrix. His voice cracks slightly with the effort of keeping it low. “Well, d’Loriad, when and where shall it be?”

Atrix stares at the infuriated d’Aramant, and a thought occurs to him. “I’m busy tomorrow. Morning on the day after?”

“Your wedding day. How appropriate. Choice of weapons is yours. Make your peace with Ain.” As Avric turns on his heel and leaves, a thin-lipped Sarele takes his place.

“Milady,” Atrix says, bowing.

“I see you maintain your interest in sundry other women. _Most_ improper.”

“It was only a dance, milady,” Atrix offers wearily.

“Was it?” Sarele asks sharply. “I have heard rumors, Atrix d’Loriad, that your cousin Adgar has renewed his hopes of being my husband one day. Are you looking for ways to break our betrothal? Even if it were possible, I would not wish him.”

“Rumors?” says Atrix, a little shocked. “Vicious things. Not worth listening to. And there’s nothing wrong with Adgar, he’s a very nice man.”

*ATRIX'S DEFENSE IS *cut short by a trumpet blast, as the four Generals enter the hall: Marcor d’Syrnon, Sarquin d’Loriad, and Athriam and Mercon d’Aramant. An enormous cheer goes up from the assembled crowd, along with a spontaneous chorus of _The Armies March to Arawai_. Sarele pushes Atrix away and moves stiffly back to the d’Nerein section of the hall.

Darren cranes his neck to see the generals, and sees that Mercon, the towering, sandy-bearded leader of the northern d’Aramants, is walking straight toward him. Indeed, Mercon appears to be looking straight at him, with an increasingly flinty expression on his face. It takes Darren a few seconds too long to realize why this is -- indeed, it doesn’t quite strike home until he feels Calla remove her hand from his.

“My guardian,” she breathes. “My uncle.”

Darren averts his eyes as Mercon sweeps by, beckoning Calla curtly after him. “I’ll find you,” he promises almost inaudibly as she turns to follow. There’s no fear or sadness in his voice, and Calla shoots him a quick, fragile smile before vanishing into the d’Aramant crowd.

*THROUGHOUT ALL THIS*, Meeshak has been sustaining the light charms on the hall and taking weapons off various rowdies (many of them d’Aramant) at the portals. After several hours, he notices that he is being watched intensely by a stony-faced man with close-cropped white hair and beard, wearing priestly robes and the iron needle of the Sistechern Order. The strange priest walks over. “You make your prayers and charms in a familiar way.”

“The god we serve is One,” Meeshak replies evasively. “He inspires many of us in familiar ways.”

“I am Astacius of the Sistecherns. To what Order do you belong?”

“I do not belong to any Order,” Meeshak states, knowing that if Astacius knew the full truth, he’d do his best to have Meeshak captured and killed -- the typical Sistechern practice for apostates.

“Hmmm.” Astacius frowns. “An Order-less priest is defiled in the sight of Ain.”

Annoyed, Meeshak points upward to his contribution to the light. “We’ll let Ain be the judge of that. I don’t see your light here, brother?” 

Astacius scowls and stalks away. Meeshak wonders idly whether the severe-looking priest still has the blessing of Ain -- he used to know several particularly cruel Sistechern priests who managed to lose it and were reduced to mere torturers, with no power to their prayers.

*AS THE BALL *winds down, Carwyn turns from dancing to rumor-mongering -- one of her favorite skills -- and manages to cull a few rumors from the crowd. (_General Sarquin d’Loriad is growing weak and incompetent; Mercon d’Aramant is a better general than Athriam, but has accepted a lower role in exchange for a huge grant of land; the Merchant’s Brotherhood is raising the price of grain on a pretext; the dwarrow are leaving, migrating east_). Carwyn also notes a distraught-looking Sarele standing with her friend Herena and speaking to General Athriam, Herena’s father. She tries and fails to eavesdrop on the conversation, but she thinks she catches one familiar name: “Adgar.”


----------



## havenstone

*Better to be Feared*

*DURING THE FINAL *dance of the Ball, Agerain claps a hand on Nina’s shoulder, a taut smile on his face. “Right, Anseron. Time to get our own back on any friend of the d’Loriads who was here tonight. Do you want to be with the group watching the way back to the d’Orbis keep, or the d’Syrnon?”

“Uh -- d’Orbis,” Nina says coolly. He heads off toward the portal where Meeshak has been standing, casually looks back to make sure the other d’Aramants are out of earshot, and whispers, “Agerain’s boys are going to be ambushing any friend of the d’Loriads they find.”

Meeshak shows no sign that he’s heard Nina’s warning, but leaves a few moments later to pass the word on to Atrix and Alan. As Nina rejoins the d’Aramants and strides out the door, he glimpses Alan and Atrix heading toward Jaron d’Syrnon and Ontaya. Nina assumes correctly that they are quietly inviting them to spend the night in the safety of the adjacent d’Loriad keep.

The word doesn’t get out to all of their friends, however. Crouched in the shadows of the Patriarchs’ Gardens with eight other young d’Aramants, Nina sees Ontaya’s cousins Ellikard and Emerath walking back toward the d’Orbis keep. He tries to force a sneeze to warn them away, but they fail to hear him and walk straight into the trap. Within seconds, the two d’Orbis cousins have been grabbed, pinioned, and dragged off the main path into the bushes.

Agerain looms up out of the shadows. “You’ve been spending too much time with the d’Loriads and their friends, Ellikard. I thought you d’Orbis valued a balance between Families.”

“You think you can treat us like this and not affect our stance?” Ellikard gasps. “Let my sister go, you bastard.”

“Oh, we won’t hurt her.” Agerain leans in to kiss Emerath; Nina, who’s got one of her arms, can feel her shudder. “That’s right, you prefer girls. Where’s that girl-kissing coward Ontaya when you need her?”

“I hear someone coming,” Nina lies. “Finish teaching the boy his lesson and let’s move.” Agerain frowns, but leaves Emerath and beckons over two other d’Aramants to help him beat Ellikard bloody. 

After a moment, Nina lets go of Emerath, who twists away from her other captors and throws herself at Agerain with a howl of rage. The handsome lordling pushes her away, laughing, and gestures at his cousins to drop Ellikard. “Enough. We don’t want to kill anyone tonight. Not from a ‘neutral’ family.”

“Ontaya will have your throat for this,” Emerath spits.

“Let her come,” Agerain says eagerly. “Let her come.”


----------



## havenstone

*Orders at Dawn*

*BACK IN THE *the d’Loriad keep, the rest of the party spends a restful night – until first light, when Gareth bursts in to Atrix’s room, with Alan in tow and Kyla and Carwyn close behind. “Adgar’s gone!”

Atrix is awake at once. “What? Where?”

Gareth gestures distractedly northward. “Two guards just showed up with written orders from General Athriam, ordering Adgar to ride out with them to meet the Aradurn host and accompany them to Guardwatch. I woke up Alan to try to stop them and send me instead, but none of us could countermand war orders from a High General -- and the orders specifically called on Adgar. We won’t see him again for weeks!”

“Bloody hellfire!” Atrix says with feeling.

Cousin Alan sits down on the bed, looking sleepy, slightly baffled, and intrigued. “I don’t understand. How much of a problem is this? I mean… I know he’s your ring-brother for the ceremony, but plenty of people get married without naming a ring-brother. And honestly, I’d never thought the two of you were that close.”

Atrix pauses. “Ah. I don’t suppose I can have your word to say nothing of this to anyone?”

“Knowing you, this has to be good. You can have my word.”

“Adgar wants to be married to Sarele. I don’t. We’ve been planning to make it look as though the d’Aramants had had me murdered, so my ring-brother has to take my place. I’m dueling tomorrow with Avric d’Aramant, which would have been the perfect occasion. But with Adgar gone, the whole thing falls apart.”

While Alan is still laughing incredulously, Carwyn leans in. “Sarele did this. I saw her talking to General Athriam last night at the ball.”

Atrix shakes his head in reluctant admiration. “I should have known she’d try something like this.”

“But one High General can replace orders from another, right?”

“Probably,” Alan answers Carwyn, wiping his eyes. “But I don’t think Uncle Sarquin will approve of your plan, ‘Trix. He’s one of the ones who’s been pushing for an alliance with the d’Nereins, and there’s too much that could go wrong with this craziness.”

“We don’t need his real orders,” Carwyn says. “Just something that will convince the guards with Adgar to accept Gareth instead. I can give you that.”

Alan looks slightly shocked. Atrix leans forward eagerly. “You can?”

Carwyn shrugs. “If you can find something with the seal of d’Loriad, I can make something good enough to fool a guard. Gareth can bring back the Aradurns, and we’ll get Adgar back here in time to replace you at the altar.”

Gareth breaks into a broad smile. “We’ll get Adgar his bride yet. I can get you a letter with Uncle Gereyd’s seal -- Sarquin uses it too. How soon can you have the new orders ready?”

“Give me an hour,” Carwyn says, shooting an apologetic glance at Alan, whose look of shock has begun to curdle into disapproval.

“Right,” Gareth nods. “I don’t know if we’ll catch them before evening, but it should be in enough time to get them back here. As soon as we’ve got the letter, I’ll leave. Someone should come with me, to make sure Adgar gets back to the palace. Who’s the fastest rider here?”

Kyla looks around and raises a hand, smiling slightly.

“Oh, of course.” Gareth’s grin and his embarrassment are both endearingly genuine. “You’re Arawai. I’d... never mind.”


----------



## havenstone

*Preparation for a Duel*

*WITH THE LETTER *forged and Gareth and Kyla galloping north, Carwyn heads back to her quarters. Caught up in her reflections on whether she's wrecked her chances with cousin Alan, she starts when Nina steps out of the shadows. “N – Anseron, what are you doing here?”

Nina’s face is drawn. “Can you pass on a message to Ontaya that I did everything I could to protect his cousins last night? Agerain still... well, caught some of them.”

“I’ll tell her.” Carwyn looks around, her lips pressed together angrily. “Are you actually achieving anything by joining the d’Aramants – besides helping Agerain hurt people?”

“It’s been two days,” Nina says sharply. “Give me time. I could try to talk Avric out of dueling Atrix, if you wanted. Or feed him something that would make him sick.”

“No – I don’t think Atrix would want that. Maybe you could help with his plan.”

Nina nods intently as Carwyn explains Atrix’s scheme to fake his death. “Yes, I can help with that. But he’d better be careful. Atrix is faster than any of us, but Avric’s been training with his Swordsmark to counter speed. He’s obsessed with beating Atrix. I’m sure he plans to kill him.”

Carwyn nods shakily, and Nina hurries out to collect a half-dozen herbs from a shop just outside the gates of the Palace of Patriarchs. The apothecary raises an eyebrow at the request. “Young lord, take care. Mix these three wrongly, and you could stop your heart.”

“I’ll be careful,” Nina promises. He thinks back to his uncle Malagan’s lessons: _Nephew, there will be times when, in following the vocation of the clan, you will find it very convenient to be thought dead. This poison slows your heart and breath for a day to the point where no one will detect them._ Nina returns to the d’Aramant section and spends the afternoon brewing the poison.

*ATRIX, ASH, AND *Ontaya are in the stables making sure that their mounts and those of the knights they squire for are ready to ride out in two days. They hear an unwelcome voice at the doorway: “Hiding down here, d’Loriad? I hope you’ll be easier to find at your appointment with Avric tomorrow.”

“Agerain,” sighs Atrix, glancing over to see the d’Aramant and his inevitable entourage of armed cousins. “I suppose he’s chosen you as his second?”

Ontaya glares at the roguish d’Loriad, realizing what her friends have been keeping from her. “Duels are illegal, Atrix.”

“Oh, this will just be a friendly little competition,” ventures Atrix unconvincingly. “Nothing for the Castellan to excite himself about.”

“Ontaya, a few of your cousins fell afoul of some thugs last night,” Agerain cuts in, sounding mournful. “For some reason, Ellikard is blaming our Family. Shocking, in the absence of any witnesses besides his sister -- who is, naturally, unharmed.”

Ontaya’s eyes blaze, and she draws herself up to her full height. Agerain’s cousins draw back inadvertently. “You contemptible, vicious little bully,” the paladin says, her voice thick with outrage. “The Castellan will hear of this, and we’ll see which witnesses he believes.”

“Why do you always bring him into this?” Agerain laughs scornfully. “Come yourself, tomorrow, instead. Atrix and Avric will have their friendly competition, and we’ll have ours. Just you and me. Isn’t that what you say you want?”

Ontaya stares at Agerain for a moment, her breath coming fast in her nostrils. Then she shakes her head. “I will not countenance this. There will be no duels tomorrow, and you and your friends will face justice.” She stalks out of the stables.

Agerain sighs. “Always taking the coward’s way out.” He walks over to Atrix and drops his voice. “So, d’Loriad. It should be hard for her to find us on the wall west of the Merle Tower.”

“I’ll be there, d’Aramant,” Atrix promises flatly.


----------



## havenstone

*Avric’s Dilemma*

*SHORTLY BEFORE SUNSET*, Nina heads up to Avric’s quarters with a phial of odorless poison. Through the door, he sees the blond d’Aramant swordsman, clad in the short, sweat-stained tunic he wears to his training sessions in the city. Nina knocks on the doorframe. “Evening, Avric. You’ve been out practicing for tomorrow’s duel?”

Avric is staring out the window. “You’ve had Swordsmark training too, haven’t you, Anseron?”

“You’ve seen me fight,” says Nina simply. He’d expected Avric to ask him about his training sooner or later.

“Did you ever meet a Swordsmark named Shect?” Avric turns his ashen, taut face toward Nina.

Nina manages to hide his shock. “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“At practice today my mentor Zaganin wasn’t alone. There was a scar-faced man with him, who wore the torc. They’d heard about my duel.” Avric swallows hard. “This Shect told me that if I actually kill the d’Loriad, he’ll take my head. He wants him alive – him, and two of his common-born friends.”

Nina nods with false calm, his heart racing. “So you have to beat Atrix d’Loriad without killing him. I can recommend something that might help...”

“Without killing him?” Avric interrupts thickly. “Without killing him, after what he did to me and Herena at the Ball?” He brings his knotted fists down on the table, which cracks deafeningly. “She’ll be limping for weeks, and will hardly speak to me for shame. Anseron, my own life is less important to me than killing that arrogant little bastard.”

“All right, all right.” Nina revises his plan of convincing Avric to poison his own sword. “We’ll find a way to fend off this Shect. You just focus on the task at hand.”

*KYLA AND GARETH *catch up with Adgar and the guards at the inn of The Last Day’s Stretch in the little town of Medvare. Gareth brandishes the letter from Sarquin urgently recalling Adgar to Lynar. The guards glance at the seal, shrug, and accept the quiet young d’Loriad as a replacement. Adgar tries to hide his elation as he embraces his cousin. Gareth gives Kyla a quick kiss, ignoring the contemptuous looks between the guards. “Make sure my luckless cousin gets back in one piece, milady. I’ll see you on the Arawai road.”

“Take care of yourself,” Kyla says quietly, feeling a twinge of fear as she wheels her horse around. _I don’t want to lose you to this stupid war._


----------



## havenstone

*Wedding Day*

“*WAKE UP, D'LORIAD*,” Kyla says, looking down at Adgar in the waning gray moonlight. “It’s your wedding day. If we make it back in time.”

They break camp before dawn, riding slowly so as to not strain their weary mounts. A few other riders drift past in the gloom on the great north road; Kyla watches each traveler warily for signs that it’s a bandit or d’Aramant sent to ensure that Adgar doesn’t get back to Lynar. Instead, just before sunrise, they crest a hill and hear a welcome voice from a stand of trees to their left. “Most auspicious of the Arawai!” Nurak emerges, waving enthusiastically, leading two well-rested horses. “A certain Sufza heard that you might be seeking strong steeds on this matrimonial morning.”

Adgar laughs jubilantly, then hesitates. “Where did he?...”

“Don’t ask,” whispers Kyla, beaming as she dismounts to greet the skinny rogue.

*BACK IN LYNAR*, a masked, black-clad Nina steals silently into Avric’s quarters. He checks to see that the sleeping draught he slipped into Avric’s drink the previous night had the intended effect. Satisfied, he doses the young d’Aramant’s sword with the poison intended for Atrix and withdraws as noiselessly as he came. At sunrise, Nina returns, this time dressed in his usual noble finery, and bangs loudly on the door. “Cousin! Time to get ready. You should really kill the d’Loriad _before _he’s married.”

Avric shakes himself groggily awake. “An... Anseron? I feel terrible.”

“Well, have a drink,” Nina says comfortingly, offering a steaming flagon of mixed herbs – including the antidote to the sleeping potion. “One of my uncles is a herbalist. This should help you feel your best for the duel.”

*LATER THAT MORNING *in the d’Loriad palace, Atrix is briefing Carwyn, Darren, and Meeshak on their parts in the plan when his father bursts in. “Where are your cousins?” he roars. “They’re supposed to be watching you. You’re to be married in an hour!”

“They vanished yesterday, father,” Atrix says mournfully. “I believe they were ordered to Aradur by General Athriam to bring back the Aradurn host.”

Marix d’Loriad eyes his son, skepticism and anger both plain on his face. “And who will be your ring-brother?”

“Do I really need a ring-brother, father?” Atrix inquires, sounding impatient.

“To keep an eye on you if nothing else. I’ll be back in a heartbeat with your cousin... er, Serif. Don’t move.”

“Serif?” Atrix says incredulously when his father has disappeared down the hall. “He’s perpetually drunk. Father must really be desperate. Let’s get out of here.”

They swiftly elude Atrix’s parents, and the plan rolls into motion. Carwyn goes to Avric and Agerain and informs them that the Merle Tower is too close to Atrix’s relatives, who are hunting for him... so the duel will have to be relocated to the distant west wall of the palace, above the library postern. She then goes looking for Ontaya, to tell her about the location of the duel, just after it’s due to start. Meeshak goes to prepare for the wedding service with Chancellor Eliduc – and to delay it by any means necessary. Darren goes to wait at the library postern.

*FINALLY, ATRIX GOES *to stand with Ash on the wall above the great library of Lynar. It’s a cloudless noon when Agerain, Avric, and Nina arrive. For once, there’s no large entourage of cousins around them; Agerain is taking no risks of the duel being discovered by the castellan. Avric steps forward, bristling with energy and confidence. “Atrix _of_ the d’Loriads, are you ready for death?”

Atrix wrinkles his brow in scorn as he draws his sword and parrying dagger. There’s something irritatingly deliberate in the way Avric gave his name. To say that someone is “of” a Family means either that, like Ontaya, they were adopted into it or that they are illegitimate offspring. “That’s Atrix _d’Loriad _to you,” Atrix retorts.

“Poor boy. You don’t even know your own history,” Avric chuckles snidely. “Now you never will.” He brings his sword and dagger up, bares his teeth, and launches himself at Atrix.

After three swift passes where both take minor wounds, Atrix thinks he sees the chance to disarm Avric like he did in their last encounter. To his nearly fatal shock, Avric parries with a flawless Swordsmark technique designed to counter disarm attempts – batting Atrix’s sword aside and coming within an inch of taking his head off in the same fluid movement. Atrix falls back with a deep gash in his chest, and almost immediately feels his breathing and heart begin to slow. His eyes blaze. “Poison, d’Aramant? What dishonor is this?”

Avric’s elated grin falters slightly. “What are you talking about, d’Loriad?”

He’s distracted further by a deafening shout from the courtyard below: “_Stand down_!” Ontaya has arrived on the scene, brandishing her sword. “Stand down, both of you, or be taken down.” She charges toward the stairs.

Atrix lashes out at his adversary, and the slightly flustered Avric counters with a disarming strike of his own. He succeeds, sending the young d’Loriad’s sword flying. With a roar of triumph, Avric closes in for the kill – and with typical stubborn panache, Atrix goes for a final disarmament attempt, using his parrying dagger. He catches Avric by surprise and manages to twist the blond d’Aramant’s saber out of his hand. Atrix catches it with his free hand, sniffs the blade, then runs his tongue along it and recoils at the bitterness. “Poison!” he cries again.

“Ignore him!” Agerain shouts, tossing Avric another sword. The d’Aramant does his best to fend off a flurry of attacks from Atrix, but he is shaken by being once again disarmed by his rival – and the traces of poison remaining on the sword have begun to affect Avric, too. Despite struggling to breathe and remain conscious, Atrix finally manages to run Avric through with his own sword. The slack-jawed d’Aramant topples from the wall and falls twenty feet to land at Ontaya’s feet with a crunch. Atrix sinks into a motionless heap.

To the whole party’s frustration – not least Ontaya’s own – the murderous Avric is still barely alive, and her high ethical code forbids her to let him die. She pauses to lay hands on him, reviving him to consciousness. Meanwhile Agerain is the first to Atrix’s “corpse,” feeling for a pulse. “He’s dead!” he crows down to Ontaya. “Already beyond your powers, witch.”

Ontaya stares down with implacable rage at the groggy Avric. “You’ll pay before the law for this murder,” she vows, and punches him in the face with a mail-clad fist, knocking him out. Seconds later, she is by Atrix’s side, laying on hands – but her powers don’t affect Nina’s poison, and Atrix still shows no sign of pulse or breathing. Before Ontaya can do anything more, Agerain shouts, “To the wedding!” to Nina, and they run off. 

“Quick – after them!” Ash cries to Ontaya. Ontaya snatches up Avric’s sword, and the two of them also charge away. A few minutes later, Darren and Carwyn emerge from the library and quietly remove Atrix’s body, shrouding it in a cloth and placing it in a small wagon brought for the purpose before trundling it down to the town of Lynar.

*EMPLOYING HIS HIGH *wisdom, Meeshak has managed to delay the Holy Chancellor with a theological debate on divine ends and means on the way to the wedding. They have only just arrived at the crowded chapel when the crowd from the duel storms in. “Atrix d’Loriad is dead!” calls Agerain to many gasps. “He was accidentally killed in a duel of his own choosing.”

“It was no accident,” bellows Ontaya, just behind him. “Avric d’Aramant killed him with a poisoned blade, which I have here. Any priest can confirm the poisoning.”

Marix d’Loriad rises to his feet, pale, while Atrix’s uncle Porphyry utters an earthy curse, and several young d’Loriads begin clamoring for vengeance. Young d’Nereins and d’Aramants start jeering back at them. Sarele, lovely at the altar in her wedding gown, looks merely perplexed. Ignoring Ontaya’s accusation, Agerain crows, “The wedding’s off!” – and Atrix’s cousin Kay goes for his throat. While he’s trying to fend Kay off, Ontaya picks him up and hurls him back against the chapel wall. To his dismay, Nina finds himself alone, facing an enraged, nearly berserk paladin in the center of a growing brawl.

The fracas is interrupted by the whinny of a horse outside. With Kyla close behind, Adgar bursts into the chapel and shouts, “This wedding is _not _off.”

The room falls momentarily silent in confusion. Sarele goes pale and cries out, “No – no, you fools! He’s not dead. He’s not dead!”

“Your grief is understandable, my dear,” Atrix’s roguish friend Jaron cuts in loudly, elbowing aside the d’Aramants to join Adgar, “but we all have to accept that our beloved Atrix is gone. And Adgar’s right – in the event of the groom’s death, the ring-brother is required by law to take his place.”

Cousin Adgar strides to the front of the hall, flanked by Kyla, Ash, and cheering young d’Loriad cousins. “The d’Aramants planned to kill Atrix and remove me from Lynar to prevent this alliance from happening,” he says quietly to Chancellor Eliduc. “It’s too late for us to save Atrix, but this wedding _must_ continue before they find another way to disrupt it.”

Chancellor Eliduc raises his hands for calm. When that fails, Meeshak looms up beside him and grates, “_*Silence*_,” in his most witheringly Sistechern voice. This proves more effective. “Daughter,” Eliduc calls to Ontaya, “you agree with Agerain d’Aramant that Atrix d’Loriad is dead?”

“I saw his body and tried to heal him,” says Ontaya simply. “On my honor, he is dead.”

Ignoring a chorus of protest from the d’Aramants and some of the d’Nereins, Chancellor Eliduc places Sarele’s stiff hand in Adgar’s. “In the name of Ain and by the laws of the Five Families of Senallin, I declare you to be husband and wife. May your union be a source of harmony between your Families...” He looks up with a wry smile. “...however unlikely that may seem at the moment.”

*A HOST OF *d’Aramants and d’Loriads spill squabbling out of the chapel. Castellan Reynalt arrives with an inadequate detachment of guards to restore order. A troubled Ontaya returns to the site of the duel, and finds that the poisoned Avric has fatally thrown himself on Agerain’s sword from the shame of losing another duel to Atrix (and for fear of Shect, though only Nina knows that). Atrix’s body is gone without trace, which is strange... but Jaron and Carwyn, both master rumor-mongers, successfully spread the story that the d’Aramants hid it so their poisoning could never be proven.

Meanwhile, under close escort from Ash, Kyla, and Alan, Adgar d’Loriad escorts his stunned bride to a well-guarded chamber in the d’Loriad keep. He shuts the door behind her, and goes into a nearby room to clean up from the long ride. When he emerges, he looks weary and a little uneasy. “Well. I think it’s time I had a long talk with my wife.”

“You’ll make her a much, much better husband than Atrix would have,” says Kyla frankly.

Adgar gives a rueful laugh. “I hope she thinks so. Eventually.”

“I hope she thinks so tonight, coz,” says Alan with a grin. “In the morning we march to Arawai.”


----------



## havenstone

*The Arawai Ambassadors*

*ASH AND THE* other squires are up early the next morning, preparing their knights’ mounts and pack animals for the long ride to Guardwatch. They hear distant voices shouting, look up at each other in confusion, and then make out the cry: “Arawai! The Arawai are here!” Abandoning their tasks, they grab their weapons and head for the walls.

It isn’t the warhost they momentarily feared. Three Arawai warriors have ridden up to the Palace’s front gate and drawn back their cowled cloaks to reveal clan scars, feathered necklets, and bandoliers of short flint blades. They have also unfurled a broad white banner. No Senalline will attack riders under a flag of truce – everyone knows that the curse of Ain is likely to descend on someone who violates such an appeal – but a crowd of angry Lynar-folk is growing around the riders, shouting insults.

“I am T’harai of the Red Kestrel, clan-chief and speaker for the tribes,” calls the tall barbarian in the lead. “We have ridden day and night through forest and field in hiding and at peril of our lives, Lords of the North, to hail you and bring you warning. Will you hear us before you slay us?”

The d’Aramant patriarch, Athagon, appears atop the wall, smiling beneficently. “Speak what you will, captain of the Arawai. Your lives are in no peril here.”

“Your preparations and your plans have long been known to the Arawai, _kherasi_ lord,” states T’harai flatly -- using the Arawai word, “steel-folk,” for the people of the north. “You have raised a great army to slay our warriors and desecrate our ancestors’ lands. This will not be permitted. Know that we too have planned and prepared for your coming, and you shall not pass unchallenged.”

This causes a great chorus of mocking whoops, laughter, and hisses from the crowd both on the walls and below. A miserable Kyla wraps her own cloak even more tightly around herself. One of the other Arawai, a sinewy and heavily scarred warrior, stands in his saddle and roars, “By Keyashai, you shall not steal the land of the Arawai again!” The mockery turns uglier, and the crowd around the three horsemen begins to press in more closely, picking up rocks.

On the wall close to Ash and the squires, General Athriam d’Aramant turns grinning to Atrix’s uncle Sarquin and makes a small gesture with a question in his eye. General Sarquin shakes his head emphatically, leans over the battlement, and cries, “Keep the peace! Let no stone be cast at them. They stand under Ain’s banner, and Ain will protect them if we do not.”

Patriarch Athagon d’Aramant nods and raises his hands, and the crowd falls back again. “We do not come to steal, my barbarian friends,” he calls, sounding slightly wounded but still genial. “We come to till, and plant, and tame, and put your empty land to wise use. You do not see the goodness of this, but we shall teach you. So, return, and make your preparations. Welcome us as you choose, but know that we will come – and stay.”

T’harai shakes his head, grim-faced. “So be it. Your blood is on your own hands, _kherasi_. Kha! Kha!” He wheels his horse around and spurs it forward. The crowd parts, jeering, to let him and his two escorts pass.

“I hope I meet that one again on the battlefield,” comments Erivas, one of the d’Syrnon knights. “We’ll see whose blood is on my hands.” Turning back to the squires, he waves them from the wall. “Back to your preparations. We have a long ride ahead.”

*AS ASH IS *descending to the stables, he is met by one of Marcor’s pages carrying a leather sack. “The general said to go through this saddlebag and make sure any necessary supplies get to Erivas.” Ash nods and takes the bag to a quiet corner of the stables, where he finds a note inside: _The two men you spoke of have fled the palace. We will find them and confirm their guilt. You have my thanks._

After reading it, Ash runs to find Kyla -- who has retreated to her rooms, shaken by the display of Arawai-hatred outside the walls and torn anew about whether she can travel with the Army of the North. “Kyla... Aleander the Sage and Malchus the Cofferer have fled the palace, and the d’Syrnons are hunting for them. They should be unable to carry out whatever their plan of betrayal was – but they might try to attack you as they promised. You need to be careful.”

Kyla shakes her head bitterly. “Do I dare to even leave this room? Ash, I’m not worried about the conspirators, I’m worried about every Senalline out there.”

“You can’t stay in Lynar,” Ash points out. “You need to be with your friends – somewhere we can protect you.”

They fall silent as they hear footsteps approaching, then relax slightly when they see Adgar d’Loriad come around the corner, still looking tired but much less nervous than the previous afternoon. “Kyla! I’d hoped we could ride out together today. I’ve spoken to Uncle Sarquin – I had to explain to him that Gareth took my place going north, so he could sort that out with General Athriam – and I let him know that without you, our alliance with the d’Nereins would never have come off. He wants you out of the d’Syrnon kitchens and traveling with the Family.”

Kyla blinks. “Don’t the d’Aramants have something to say about that?”

“They’ll allow it if we take responsibility for you and for your actions.” Adgar shrugs. “I’m comfortable with that. So is Uncle Sarquin.”

After a moment, Kyla sighs. “Thank you Adgar. I’d be honored to ride with you and your family. How is Sarele?”

Adgar inclines his head thoughtfully, almost smiling. “I don’t think she’ll miss me while I’m gone. But I don’t think she hates me. That’s enough to start with.”


----------



## havenstone

*Dead Man Waking*

*AFTER WHAT FEELS* like the deepest sleep of his life, Atrix slowly becomes aware of dull pains all over his body. When he tries gingerly to move, he finds that his blood seem to have turned into lead and is weighing down his limbs. His eyes flicker open to see a very relieved Darren and a tearful Kay at his bedside.

“Did it... work?” Atrix wheezes.

“It worked – you impossible, irresponsible idiot,” cousin Kay says with some heat, wiping rapidly at her eyes.

“He’s alive!” Darren cheers.

An exuberant Porphyry bustles into the room. Atrix recognizes the lavish furnishings as his merchant uncle’s style, and realizes with relief that as planned, Darren and Carwyn have brought him to Porphyry’s home to recover. “That’s my lad! It’ll take more than a bit of poison to do you in. I’m sure it helped that your skinny priest friend came down yesterday to have a look at you and do a bit of healing.” Leaning in, he whispers, “Brilliant work, my boy. Brilliant. As mad a scheme as ever I heard, and you pulled it off.”

“Then Adgar’s married?” Atrix says eagerly.

“Oh yes, we were witnesses to the blessed event,” Porphyry says. “Gave us all quite a shock to hear of your demise. Nearly as shocked as I was to come back and find that Carwyn had smuggled you in here in my absence. But that’s not the half of it.” He roars with laughter. “Lad, within the day you were the hero of Lynar. A young man poisoned by the rotten d’Aramants on the morn of his wedding, who still managed to make sure his ring-brother got back in time to frustrate their scheme. Give us a year and we’ll make you a legend – as long as you stay dead. Kendall and I had already convinced a score of the merchants of Lynar to cut the d’Aramants out of the Caragond trade; now more will be willing to join the trade war. The season of d’Aramant power is passing, nephew, and your story is one of the weapons we’ll use to bring them down.”

“I can... live with that,” Atrix agrees, settling back into his blankets.

Kay shakes her head. “And all because you couldn’t bring yourself to marry Sarele like any sane man would have done. Was she _that_ terrible?”

“Oh, forgive him already, Kayene,” Porphyry retorts jovially. “You’d have been proud of her at the wedding, Atrix – she almost had Agerain d’Aramant’s eyes for the way he was talking about your death.” Kay turns crimson and waves him away.

“Thank you... cousin,” Atrix says.

“Atrix lad, the Army of the North moves out today, and you ought to move with it,” Porphyry advises. “There’s no safe place for you here in Lynar – too many people here know your face. Kendall, Kayene, and myself will be traveling to supply the army. We’ll keep you hidden in the wagons for a day or two while you recover, but we can’t have you with us for long – a lot of d’Loriads will be visiting our caravan, including several who can’t hold their tongues.”

“But I know a band of dwarrow who travel in the mercenary camp,” Darren chimes in. “You could easily join the camp as a lone mercenary. The sellswords mostly stay away from the rest of the army, and it’s rare for anyone from the Families to come round that way.”

“Excellent plan,” Atrix says appreciatively, feeling his eyelids sinking again. “Just tell me when... it’s time... to go.”

*THE ARMY OF *the North leaves Lynar at mid-morning, in a chaos of dust, creaking wain-wheels, nickering horses, and raucous cheers. Ash and Ontaya are still riding as squires, and Darren sticks with his dwarrow mentor Cannedun. Meeshak provides priestly care to the d’Syrnons and d’Loriads. Kyla is riding with Adgar in the d’Loriad host. Carwyn stays with Kyla, rather than returning to the kitchens; she plans to use her card winnings to set up a tent offering food, drink, and (most importantly) gambling on the outskirts of the camp.

Nina, of course, is riding with the d’Aramants, but not as a squire. Agerain dismisses any idea of squirely service with a snort. “If I need to learn anything from one of our knights, I’ll have him teach me, without needing to shine his boots first. And _you_ -- you could outfight half of them already.”

At camp that evening in the forests east of Lynar, Agerain irritably chases away all of his cousins save “Anseron” and sits, snapping up sticks and throwing them on the fire. “I’m told that Atrix d’Loriad is turning into some kind of hero. The whole wedding story is irresistable, and the bards of Lynar don’t like poisoners.”

“Do we really know that he died of poison?” Nina offers. “I thought Avric cut him up badly enough to kill him. And there has to be some reason the d’Loriads hid his body.”

“You’re sharp, cousin,” Agerain says with a smile. “No, I never believed that Avric would use poison to kill the d’Loriad. It’s not in his nature -- and I saw the surprise in his eyes. He couldn’t feign anything that well. He was a good man, but not that bright.” He stands up and begins pacing. “Atrix had likely planned to denounce Avric as a poisoner if the duel started going badly. After Atrix died, I shouldn’t have left his friends in possession of Avric’s sword for even a second. That priest they keep with them, the one who prays and glares like a Sistechern – I warrant he knows a few things about poisons.”

Nina is about to speak, but hears a noise in the woods and looks up as twelve lightly armed men emerge, some limping and bloodied under their black cloaks. The lead man nods wearily to Agerain, who frowns and nods back silently. When they’ve passed, moving toward the generals’ tents, Nina asks, “What was that about?”

Agerain looks keenly at Nina for a moment and seems to come to a decision. “Huntsmen. Athriam sent them after the three Arawai spies to catch them and find out what they knew.”

Nina nods. “No fear of breaking their flag of truce?”

“Barbarians can not offer a true embassy,” Agerain says with straightforward contempt. Then he shakes his head ruefully. “They can fight, though. Athriam sent twenty men after them. I wonder how many of the Arawai got away.”


----------



## havenstone

*A Paladin Among Rogues*

*THE ARMY OF *the North moves eastward at a crawl, with over two thousand Senalline pikemen, three hundred fifty cavalry, nearly six hundred mercenaries, and well over three thousand camp followers of various occupations. (The Generals have actively encouraged as many Senallines as possible to follow the Army, hoping they will remain as settlers after the conquest of the Arawai plains). Two hundred priests of Ain from all Orders also accompany the vast army to keep the troops orderly, create emergency water and food, and stop outbreaks of disease. It will take three months for this great host to reach Guardwatch; a small party traveling hard might make the same journey in three weeks.

For the party of friends who met in Rim Square, the long months of travel are a chance to hone and expand their skills. Ash spends most of his time with the army’s scouts and hunters, a taciturn bunch who teach him how to read the signs of the wild in the forests and grassland of lowland Senallin (subtly different from the mountain forests he’s used to). Ash passes some of this tracking knowledge along to Kyla, on the days when she’s not practicing close combat with the d’Loriads. Meeshak is one of the most effective younger priests keeping order in the camp; he acquires a reputation among the soldiers for being tough (indeed, terrifying) but fair. His authority is not hurt by publicly practicing his fighting skills with a whip.

*IN HER DAILY *sessions of prayer and contemplation, Ontaya begins to sense that great challenges lie ahead which she can not face alone; the time has come for her to summon her paladin companion. She fasts for a week in preparation, retreats to a nearby hill, and cries out mentally – *come *– a summons beyond language, which leaves her feeling as though she has just hurled a boulder over the brow of the hill. When she wearily opens her eyes, she sees a luminous, snowy white warhorse galloping toward her. The great mare thunders to a halt and stands in proud expectation. “Dorma,” Ontaya says decisively. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” 

When Ontaya returns to camp atop the massive white horse, it permanently cements the awe that most of the other squires feel for her. She hand-picks six of her young peers and begins drilling them into shape every day at the end of their march. By the end of the journey, “Ontaya’s squires” are fighting as a skilled unit, fiercely loyal to their Sword-Priest leader. The brightest and most charismatic of the squires, young Corim d’Orbis, emerges naturally as Ontaya’s lieutenant.

*THERE IS ONLY *one hiccup in their training. Ontaya arrives one afternoon for practice to find her wayward trainee Santor d’Nerein with only half his armor on. As she dismounts from Dorma, she regards Santor coldly. “If you don’t show up prepared for these sessions, Santor, there’s no point in you showing up at all.”

“I... I’m so sorry,” Santor blurts, mortified. “I lost the rest of my armor.”

“_Lost_ it?” Ontaya repeats incredulously. “Where?”

“In a game of Imperium,” the squire mumbles. “Along with my month’s allowance. To a man named Lune.”

Ontaya purses her lips and beckons Santor to join the rest of them on the field. He leaves an hour later groaning from the relentless battering he’s taken on his unarmored torso. Ontaya dismisses the other squires and, with Corim at her side, stalks to the outskirts of the army camp. 

Carwyn has set up a successful gaming tent where, every day, dozens of Senalline pikemen and squires stream in to try their luck against the lovely proprietor. The scruffy Lynarman Lune has become a regular fixture at the main table; behind his charming panache is a ferocious player with a keen eye for his opponents' foibles. Carwyn’s initial annoyance with him shifts a little closer to attraction every time they game with each other. Today the two of them are gambling with the cheery Nurak, an increasingly impoverished knight, and four other soldiers when Ontaya pushes aside the tent flap.

“Welcome, Ontaya,” Carwyn says, almost managing to keep the guilty irritation from her voice. Not for the first time, she wishes she’d never dallied with the paladin, who seems to have taken it as a license to try improving her character. “We don’t see you down here often.”

“Thank you,” Ontaya replies, a little stiffly. “I wouldn’t be here now, frankly, but one of your... new friends has stolen my squire Santor’s armor.”

“Stolen?” Lune says lightly, letting Ontaya’s disapproving stare roll off him. “That’s strong language.”

“Gambling is theft in the eyes of Ain,” growls the paladin.

“Untrue,” Lune retorts. “Why, Ain himself is described as playing dice with the fates of mankind in the psalms of Saint Stephen.” At this, Nurak lets out a hoot of laughter.

“A ridiculous analogy,” Ontaya says indignantly, caught off guard. “It’s not meant in any way to justify human gambling, which...” She searches her mind for the right ethical text. “...is roundly condemned in the Index of Nurinn, along with other forms of preying upon the poor.”

Lune smiles lazily [making the INT check that wins the theological duel]. “But the Council of Oletto clarified that games of chance are not inherently wrong, since it’s essentially a process of trusting one’s wealth to Ain’s judgment. In a way, it’s an act of reverence. Besides, your squire was hardly poor. You should quote the Index of Nurinn to him -- coming down here with his Family gold to try winning silvers from pikemen and commoners like me.” He casts his eyes over to a corner of the tent, where Santor’s breastplate is sitting. “Honestly, though, I don’t have much need for armor. You can bring it back to your boy, as long as he doesn’t try coming back to my table. And tell him that he tenses up his hands when he thinks he’s got an advantage over an opponent. That’s got to have some application to... whatever it is he does when he’s not losing at cards.” He glances down at Ontaya’s clenched fists with an insolent grin.

A fuming Ontaya’s mood is made even worse when she sees her loyal but slightly roguish squire Corim trying to hold down a grin. She curtly gestures at Corim to retrieve Santor’s armor. “Don’t worry. I won’t have any of my trainees corrupted by your... twisted interpretations of sacred texts. Santor won’t trouble you again.” Ontaya looks over at Carwyn, trying to find words for her sense of betrayal. “And Carwyn – I can only advise you as a friend to be careful about the company you keep.” Without waiting for an answer, she storms out of the tent.

Carwyn turns admiringly to Lune. “Where did _that_ come from?”

Lune shrugs. “My father sent me to train for the priesthood. I couldn’t help picking up a few things before I escaped.”

“Mmm. Impressive.” Carwyn shifts a little closer to him, squeezes his knee, and takes advantage of his smug distraction to fleetly glance over his cards. “Back to the game?”


----------



## havenstone

*Marching East*

*DARREN SPENDS MUCH* of his time in Cannedun’s traveling workshop, which is also on the outskirts of the main army. The young Senalline has always been an inventor, but his gadgets have been fairly simple – spring-driven noisemakers, for example, to entertain children or distract guards. During the long march east, he devises a more ambitious invention: a small but powerful spring-loaded needle shooter, which he can attach to his arm and hide under his sleeve. When he’s not repairing saddle or armor fastenings, he practices his aim with the concealed device, sometimes wearing his dwarrow medallion to sense the air currents and increase the distance at which he can hit a warm target with a needle.

One evening, while Darren is laughing at Mullod’s banter with Cannedun, he suddenly hears a familiar tentative voice that sends his heart into his throat. “Shipboy?”

“Calla!” Darren jumps up, beaming, to see the blonde d’Aramant girl hovering at the edge of the firelight. “Welcome! Are you all right? It’s... I haven’t seen you since the Ball.” His own efforts to locate her have been fruitless; the young d’Aramants have been particularly nasty to outsiders since Avric’s death, and Nina has advised Darren to keep his distance from the whole clan.

“I’m fine,” Calla says, glancing around. “I don’t think my cousins will come down this way, and they’re used to me wandering off in Lynar. And my uncle... uncle Mercon... is with the outriders.” Her eyes search his face to see if there’s any fear or reluctance when she mentions her formidable guardian.

Darren’s grin never falters. “I’m so glad you found us. You haven’t met my friends. This is my teacher, Cannedun, and Mullod of the gray dwarrow.”

Mullod chortles as he sweeps into a bow. “Honored to meet you, lass. I saw you down at the docks in Lynar. Looked like you were talking a lot about the ships, but our lad here seemed a bit distracted – I would wager he was looking more at you than at anything else.”

Calla smiles but reddens, while a flustered Darren ushers them all into Cannedun’s workshop. Over the next few weeks, the diffident Calla visits them there as often as she can steal away from her family. She and Darren talk for hours about everything that excites and fascinates them in the world – while studiously avoiding any mention of her family, General Mercon, or any of the other reasons that they can only meet in the safety of the dwarrow workshop.

*MEANWHILE IN THE* mercenary camp, an anonymous Atrix has restrained himself from too much sword practice, lest his reputation get up to the main camp. With his health fully returned, though, he is chafing at his inactivity. Then one day he spots a graceful young mercenary who wears not only a pair of sabers similar to Atrix’s, but a bandolier of thick steel rings – which Atrix realizes with a start are torcs exactly like the one worn by Shect.

The muscular, black-haired swordsman turns sharply when he senses Atrix’s eyes on him. “Yes?” His fluid accent places him as a Caragond, from the easternmost of the civilized nations. He can not be more than two or three years older than Atrix.

“I’ve never seen a man wear more than one of those,” says Atrix mildly, gesturing at the torcs. “Or wear it like a trophy rather than a collar.”

The youth regards Atrix warily but with obvious pride. “Then you have never before encountered a di Ferrau.”

“Ferrau?” The name sounds extremely familiar, but Atrix can’t quite place it.

“I am Lucian di Tosca di Ferrau. Three of these were taken by my grandfather Ferrau, two by my father.” Lucian shrugs. “So far I only have the one. There are fewer Scarth-masters afoot than in my grandfather’s day. But then, I am still young.”

Two things occur to Atrix at the same time. The first is that before Atrix’s birth, his d’Loriad grandfather was killed in a duel by a Caragond sellsword named Ferrau over some obscure point of honor. The second is that Atrix feels an instant liking to this Swordsmark-killing, arrogant young mercenary. It only takes a moment to shrug off the ancient family history that might have separated them. “I might have to start a collection of my own. I inconvenienced a Swordsmark some months ago, and I understand he’s still looking for me.”

“Really?” Lucian regards Atrix with a new interest. “If he’s looking for you, he’s likely to find you eventually. Are you ready?”

Atrix shrugs. “Perhaps you can tell me, di Ferrau.” The two of them head to a sheltered depression outside the camp and spar – Lucian with twin sabers, Atrix with his saber and parrying dagger. Atrix realizes at once that his opponent is an extraordinary swordsman: quick, nearly as strong as Ontaya, and clearly benefiting from years of intensive practice with experts. Only Atrix’s exceptional dexterity and the tricks he learned from Kemeras allow him to hold his own. He also catches Lucian off guard with the hidden spring-loaded prongs of his parrying dagger, which flick out to trap one of Lucian’s blades.

“A clever little ploy,” Lucian laughs. “With a bit of luck and a lot more practice, you might come out alive when your Swordsmark finds you.” He and Atrix begin meeting regularly on the outskirts of the mercenary camp for sword exercises and sparring. Atrix doesn’t share his true identity with his new Caragond friend, but he does introduce Lucian to Darren, Carwyn, Jaron, and Kay on the rare occasions that his old friends sneak away to visit him.

*NINA IN THE* guise of Anseron has become one of Agerain’s closest confidants. The two young men spend most of their time together – except when Agerain goes to confer with a family elder, such as one of the Generals, who might see through Nina’s cover identity. The other young d’Aramant cousins begin quietly approaching “Anseron” when they have a favor to ask of the increasingly snappish Agerain. Nina continues to ply Agerain with questions about his vision of a Senallin where the other families are subordinated to strong d’Aramant leadership. While Agerain’s comments and responses are often somewhat brutal, nothing he says indicates anything as grand as a plot to kill General Marcor d’Syrnon.

As Nina spends his days sharing Agerain’s frustrations, jokes, and plans, he realizes that he has become the closest thing that the young lord has to a genuine friend. Their initial encounter, when Nina so spectacularly beat Alan and Atrix at the fencing ground, left Agerain with a respect for Nina which undercut his usual bullying arrogance and made a real friendship possible. Nina finds himself troubled by guilt over the scale of his betrayal, and uncertain about the rationale for remaining in his disguise_. If it isn’t the d’Aramants who were trying to kill Marcor, what’s the point of continuing to exploit Agerain’s trust – and how long can I keep it up before someone sees through me?_


----------



## havenstone

*An Unexpected Knife*

*A MONTH INTO *the long march, where the fertile Senalline low country begins rising into the dry, rugged grasslands of Arawai, a delegation of border villagers holds an audience with the Generals. Nina and Ontaya are both there with their respective Families when the lean, dusty village elders are admitted to the Generals’ presence.

The head of the delegation spreads his hands in supplication. “Lords, as you know, we do not fall under the protection of either Wildengard or Guardwatch. With no soldiers to keep order, this region has been troubled for years by a robber named Athos – Tur Athos, lord of the plains, he calls himself. By now he has a hundred-odd thugs and barbarians at his command, and a tribeless Arawai as his lieutenant. They camp in the rough heights to the south and emerge to prey on all the villages and traders in the region. Your passage through our lands is an Ain-given chance to restore law and end Athos’ banditry forever!”

The d’Aramant High General, Athriam, eagerly slams his fists together. “If we do not break Athos’ thieving rabble and bring back his head, let us not call ourselves men and Senallines. General Marcor, what say you? Will you join me to lead an expedition against him?” A cheer goes up from the assembled knights.

“Yes – but not too large an expedition,” Marcor d’Syrnon replies judiciously. “We can’t slow down the main force’s progress toward Guardwatch. If we lead half our cavalry against this bandit army, along with a share of the strongest mercenaries, that should suffice.”

General Sarquin d’Loriad speaks up. “For this aid, elders, we will require you to send a share of your villagers along with our army to help us settle and farm the plains after the great conquest.”

The elders exchange relieved glances. “Of course, m’lords. Only destroy Athos, and a tenth of our people will follow you to Arawai.”

The knights spend the rest of the day arguing over which of them will join the excursion against the bandits. All the party members end up being part of the force, and prepare to ride out the next morning under the joint command of Athriam and Marcor. Atrix ties a length of cloth firmly around his lower face to conceal his identity, but shrugs off with a “Don’t be silly,” his friends’ suggestion that he might want to sit this fight out.

*BEFORE DAWN, ASH *goes ahead with several scouts to locate the bandit camp. Tur Athos’ men are not hard to find, camped at the height of a field of massive boulders and caves; they have heard about the coming army, and have chosen a vantage where cavalry charges are impossible. Ash stealthily moves between the boulders, taking out enemy scouts and opening up a vantage for the coming attack.

When the Senalline cavalry and mercenaries arrive, the bandits shower them with poisoned arrows, while barbarian spearmen and axmen descend into the stone field to meet them. Tur Athos, a huge man brandishing a battle-hammer, steps to the top of a craggy outcrop with his shield-guard and bellows his half-crazed defiance to the approaching knights. “This land is not yours and never will be, weaklings of Lynar!” General Marcor and a cluster of knights from all the families wend their way toward him, shields held above their heads to fend off arrows; Atrix and Lucian also start fighting their way through the boulder field.

“Cover me,” Kyla says shortly to Adgar and Alan d’Loriad, and spurs her horse forward until she’s within bow range of Tur Athos. Then she begins firing a flurry of arrows from horseback, striking the bandit lord with ease despite the raised shields that surround him. Athos howls to his men to take “the Arawai archer” down. Adgar and Alan ride beside Kyla, shielding her from arrows, while Meeshak stays close to heal the wounds from any missiles that make it through. Carwyn stands beside her friend with a crossbow, and Ontaya and her six squires form a wall of swords in front of them, felling dozens of bandits as they break from the rocks. Ash joins them, along with Darren and the gray dwarrow. 

Without warning, Athos’ second-in-command, a renegade Arawai, emerges with several dozen hard fighters to plow into Darren and the dwarrow. Darren manages to duck away with a nasty head wound, firing back with needles coated in a sleeping potion. The bandit Arawai stumbles, his muscles suddenly sluggish, and has no time to recover before Ontaya and Dorma burst through his spear guard to strike him down. At almost the same time, one of Kyla’s arrows finds Tur Athos’ eye. The over-confident bandit lord topples from his crag to groans from his own men and wild cheers from the Senallines.

There remains some intense combat between the desperate bandits and the conquering knights. Capping off her achievement in killing Athos, Kyla saves the lives of two squires who have been persecuting her since Wildengard. Nina and Agerain fight back-to-back when Agerain loses his horse. The masked Atrix and Lucian mow through the bandits, each a bit miffed that Kyla stole his chance to strike down the bandit lord in single combat.

Through the fray, Atrix is surprised to glimpse his cousin Serif d’Loriad, the cheery drunkard his father proposed as a substitute ring-brother. Serif is looking glassy-eyed and walking with jerky movements into the circle of knights surrounding General Marcor d’Syrnon. _Drunk again, cousin–here? _he thinks incredulously. _No_. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters to Lucian. “Something – ah, Ain!” He is too far away to do anything as the pudgy Serif pulls a knife and plunges it into General Marcor’s leg. The d’Syrnon commander shouts in surprise as much as pain, then goes pale and sags in his horse as he is stabbed again. 

Atrix’s old friend Jaron d’Syrnon cries out in rage and rides Serif down, killing him almost instantly. Marcor clutches at the air, gasping for breath, his face the color of ash. “The General is hurt – get him to the priests!” Jaron screams, and the circle of knights begins pulling back through the boulders. Atrix and Lucian charge over to cover their retreat, along with several other knights. In the confusion, Atrix is able to drag Serif’s trampled body away into a rocky alcove.

The dwarrow arrive moments later, charging past Atrix into battle. Darren hangs back when he recognizes his masked friend, and grabs Meeshak as he is about to run past them. “What just happened?”

“My harmless, drunken cousin stabbed General Marcor with a poisoned knife,” Atrix says with bitter bemusement. “The way he was moving, the way he looked... he wasn’t himself, I’d swear it. There’s some deviltry involved here. Some plot to dishonor the d’Loriads.”

Meeshak looks around, then speaks in a low voice. “It’s possible for a priest to control a man’s mind and movements. The Sistecherns know how to do it, and are freer in using the charm than other Orders.”

Atrix’s face is taut, furious. “No one can know that it was a d’Loriad who did this.”

Meeshak looks clinically at Serif’s battered body. “Well, we’re halfway there already. Give me a minute.” Darren and Atrix queasily avert their eyes while Meeshak goes to work. “Right. No one will recognize him now. Leave him – quick, back to the fighting, before any of us are missed.”

*THE BANDITS ARE* soon routed, with only a handful of survivors straggling out into the plains. The Senalline victors are grim and subdued, however; Marcor d’Syrnon is dead, his heart stopped by poison and his soul fled beyond Resuscitation before he reached the priests. Jaron d’Syrnon swears hotly that he killed the murderer, but hesitates when asked if he saw who it was, and admits he didn’t get a clear view of the man’s face. They ride back through the evening and are back in the camp by nightfall. The initial burst of revelry is soon quenched as the news of the General’s mysterious murder spreads through the camp.

“Darren!” Calla bursts from the crowd, pale at the sight of the many injuries on Darren and the dwarrow. She begins cleaning their wounds, ignoring Darren’s protests that he’ll be able to get that taken care of by a cleric soon. Then Calla straightens, going even paler.

Feeling a certain déjà vu from the Grand Ball, Darren looks around to see Mercon d’Aramant regarding them with implacable displeasure. The sandy-haired General walks up to them and says stonily, “My niece is to be courted by a _dwarrow_?”

“Uncle,” Calla says breathlessly. He cuts her off with a gesture. Two smirking northern d’Aramant cousins appear and escort Calla away; the mocking note in their whispers to her is obvious. Darren opens his mouth to speak, but Mercon shakes his head. “Be silent, boy. She’s meant for higher things than you can possibly offer. It will go hard with you if I hear that she has been seen with you again.” Darren remains silent as the General walks away.

*UNDER COVER OF *night, Atrix takes the risk of finding Adgar (along with Kyla) and telling him that it was Serif who killed Marcor. Adgar is floored. “’Trix – I can’t believe it. Serif was the least violent person in the Family, even in his cups.”

“That’s what I’d thought,” Atrix agrees. “He wasn’t even a squire, was he?”

“No, he’d been studying with the Sage of the Merle Tower – Aleander.” Neither of them see Kyla’s knuckles whiten around her bow.


----------



## havenstone

*General Mercon’s Game*

*THE NEXT MORNING*, Nina wakes to the sound of violent curses. He recognizes the voice of Athriam, the High General. “Worthless dogs! Treacherous swine! Marcor died for this?”

“What’s going on?” Nina asks Agerain when he finds him outside the tent.

“The village elders gave us their tenth to settle the plains,” Agerain says, looking both angry and amused. “Most of our new settlers are obviously cripples, senile, or diseased; I’m sure the rest are lazy, weak, or criminal. In short, they’ve given us everyone they want to get rid of.” Then he shrugs. “It’ll just be more work for the priests, healing them so they can keep up with the rest of the army. We aren’t going to turn anyone away. We’ll just see how many survive being planted in Arawai.”

The host resumes its long march under a pall. Now there are only three Generals for the Senalline army – the two d’Aramants, Athriam and Mercon, and Atrix’s uncle Sarquin d’Loriad. Dozens of rumors run through the camp about who is responsible for General Marcor’s assassination, with d’Aramants and d’Loriads both painted as the culpable Family. Kyla reluctantly informs Ash that Serif was linked to Aleander the Sage. He passes this tip on to Meeshak, Nina, and Darren; the friends hunt through the entire camp for any sign of the traitorous scholar, but find nothing.

Aside from her anxiety about Aleander, Kyla finds herself happier than she has been since the fall of Rim Square. By shooting down the bandit lord, she won the respect of the other soldiers; the old harassment and dirty looks are now replaced with waves and smiles when she rides past. She’s not wholly comfortable with the soldiers referring to her affectionately as “_our_ Arawai,” but it’s better than the alternative. Her happiness reaches its height on the afternoon when the Aradurn army finally joins them, and a dusty, weary Gareth d’Loriad rides into the archery range to find her. Atrix’s quiet cousin dismounts, sweeps Kyla up in his arms, and covers her with kisses. The soldiers who would have greeted this with contempt or even violence a month earlier erupt into whistles and cheers.

The Senalline knights, who have fought often against Aradur in the past, also accept the arrival of two hundred sixty Aradurn knights and more than nine hundred spears with good grace. To preserve goodwill and reduce suspicion between the nations, the Aradurn host under General Malecot has skirted the Senalline heartland around Lynar, marching instead through the free city of Shayard before turning south toward Guardwatch, and collecting a company of seventy Shayardene mercenaries along the way. Carwyn and Lune, who by this point are sharing a bedroll (but not yet their winnings), are elated at the massive influx of new gamblers.

*SOME DAYS LATER*, when Ash returns from scouting, he is approached by a nervous-looking Calla. He recognizes her as the object of Darren’s affections, and greets her gently. “What can I do for you?”

“My uncle’s eyes are all over,” Calla says with hushed urgency. “But the men he has looking out for me are mostly watching the dwarrow camp. I don’t think he knows who you are. Is there any way you can arrange a meeting between me and Darren, somewhere safe?”

Ash tackles this challenge with his usual quiet reliability, working with a couple of other trusted scouts to identify General Mercon’s spies, separate Calla from them, and get her to the outskirts of the camp where she can meet with Darren. They manage to arrange four or five fleeting rendezvous as they travel, which Darren and Calla find all the more precious for their briefness.

Ash and Darren are not the only Rim Square friends to find themselves pitted against the northern d’Aramant General. Carwyn has been staying on top of the current of rumors in the army, and has heard a number of disturbingly catchy stories discrediting the d’Loriads. For example, one slander states that Atrix tried to force himself on Avric d’Aramant’s betrothed, and that the duel that killed Atrix was revenge for the attempted rape. Another rumor has it that General Sarquin d’Loriad has been trying to dispose of his rivals, and may have been behind the death of General Marcor. Using her Rumor-mongery skills, she tries to trace these stories back to their source. It isn’t easy, but Carwyn eventually finds that a few apparently go back to Mercon d’Aramant. She tries to spread equally catchy counter-rumors, discrediting the d’Aramants, while covering her tracks so they can’t easily be traced back to her.

One evening, General Mercon shows up in the gambling tent and strides up to the main table, where Carwyn and Lune are in the middle of a game of Imperium. A soldier hastily gets up and offers his place at the table to the sandy-bearded d’Aramant. “You are far too generous, favoring us with your presence, General,” Carwyn says, caught slightly off guard.

“I’m fond of games,” Mercon says mildly, his eyes locked on Carwyn’s. “I’ve heard there are some interesting ones being played from this tent and thought I’d see what my men have been talking about.” He tosses a coin of Patriarch’s Gold into the middle of the table as his ante. Lune and Carwyn bring all their skills (except cheating) to bear against him, but the stone-faced d’Aramant General outplays them with apparent ease. After winning several rounds of Imperium, Mercon stands, smiling. “It’s been a pleasure, but perhaps we should all play in our own league.” Inclining his head to Carwyn in warning, he walks out of the tent.

When Carwyn mentions this episode to Nina, it reawakens his suspicions that the d’Aramants were somehow involved in Marcor’s assassination. He tries to bring it up with Agerain around the fire a few evenings later. “Something’s going on that you’re not telling me. Not just the war. Some play for power between the Families. Am I wrong?”

Agerain looks doubtfully at his friend. “Anseron... If it were up to me, I’d tell you more, but I’d need to have a talk with Mercon first.”

Nina hastily backpedals, not wanting to have his cover ruined by an elder of the northern d’Aramants. “No, I don’t need to know the details. Just know that I’m here if you need help with... anything. No questions asked.”

Agerain smiles with genuine affection. “Don’t worry. I know we can trust you.” And despite everything, Nina feels a pang of guilt.


----------



## Orichalcum

*Yay!*

Thank you for more Aerdrim - and more details about the part I've never heard in full detail! Even though I'm looking forward to getting to the next section, it's awesome seeing things like the first appearance of Lucian. 

Is the duel between the Ferrau and D'Loriad grandfathers for the reason that I think it is?

Would it have been possible for the PCs to prevent the assassination?


----------



## havenstone

Orichalcum said:


> Thank you for more Aerdrim - and more details about the part I've never heard in full detail! Even though I'm looking forward to getting to the next section, it's awesome seeing things like the first appearance of Lucian.




Thanks! I'm also looking forward to reaching the bit where you joined the party -- sorry it's taking so long, but I wanted to add enough detail to give people who weren't in the campaign a sense of the characters' development. Ladybird, we'll get to you sometime before 2011, I promise.



> Is the duel between the Ferrau and D'Loriad grandfathers for the reason that I think it is?




Almost certainly.



> Would it have been possible for the PCs to prevent the assassination?




Not really. In retrospect, I would have played it differently and given them a fair shake, but at the time I was more interested in having them avenge General Marcor's assassination than prevent it.


----------



## havenstone

*Guardwatch*

*AFTER THREE MONTHS* on the road, the host finally arrives at its destination, Senallin’s most southeasterly outpost. The great castle of Guardwatch is built on a broad, flat outcrop of stone above a small river. Its mighty walls and hidden spring have allowed it to withstand countless sieges by the barbarians (and occasional attacks from the northeast, during the rare occasions when the merchant guilds of Velnar have fallen out with the Five Families). Normally, three hundred men at arms would be stationed here. Today, the dusty vale to the north of the river is a solid expanse of tents, and the smell of smoke, sweat, and horses is everywhere. Human voices merge into a dull roar that can be heard from miles away, as though the ocean had extended itself into the plains. The armies of Velnar, Kedris, and Caragon arrived days ago. With the addition of Senallin and Aradur, there are ten thousand warriors here, poised to descend on Arawai. The camp followers and merchants are innumerable.

Kyla’s cheer has been fading as their time on the road has been drawing to a close; Gareth has been surprised and upset by her ever more frequent silences and black moods. Now as they ride through the outer camp, she stiffens at the sound of insults she thought she’d left behind: “Arawai whore! What do you think you’re doing here?” When she realizes they aren’t addressed to her, she spurs her horse through a knot of people and finds an exhausted-looking Arawai woman brandishing a long flint in one hand and cradling a thickly swaddled bundle in the other. Four grubby Caragonds are circling her, bludgeons and knives at the ready.

Kyla’s steel daggers fly into her hands. “Get away from her. She’s no risk to anyone.” Gareth and Adgar reach her side moments later, swords drawn. The thugs decide they don’t like the odds and shrink back into the crowd, muttering about barbarian-loving Senallines. Kyla pulls the Arawai woman up onto her horse and they rejoin the d’Loriad knights.

The woman speaks in Arawai; then, when Kyla doesn’t respond, whispers, “Thank you, sister,” in Northron.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Kyla says stiffly in her strongly accented Arawai.

“I am Tevrala, sister of T’harai, clan-chief of the Red Kestrel.”

“The speaker for the tribes?” Kyla queries incredulously, remembering the proud Arawai who had ridden to Lynar to threaten the Patriarchs. “If you are spying here, woman, we’re both dead.”

“I am no spy,” Tevrala replies wearily. She unwraps the bundle to show a sleeping newborn with the translucent skin and colorless hair of an albino. “Two days ago I was cast out among the _kherasi_ for breaking the tribe-bond by bearing a child whose father was not Arawai. My brother could not stand against the will of the elders on this, when so much else is changing.”

Kyla’s brow furrows. “How were they sure... was your child’s father really not Arawai?” Albinos are born among the plains tribes, as anywhere else.

Tevrala laughs softly. “He certainly was not. I told them.” She falls silent, and Kyla doesn’t press her. Then she cranes her head back to look at Kyla and speaks almost inaudibly. “I am cast out for my son’s sake. But for you, sister – the door is open for you to return, if you choose. The Great Peace is in effect, and all are welcome. Our war-chieftain, T’airan of the Notched Talon, is a believer in the Third Gift. He leads us, and much has changed.”

Kyla’s jaw clenches. She doesn’t understand half of what Tevrala just said, but it throws another twist into her already painful tangle of allegiances. “You should get down here. I can’t bring you into the castle.” She points curtly to Kendall and Kay Perigord’s wagon. “Those merchants should be willing to shelter you and your son, if you tell them you are known to Kyla.”

“Thank you, sister,” Tevrala repeats, sliding off of Kyla’s horse. “May Keyashai and Rawa give you a clear mind in these dark times.” Kyla rides on without acknowledging either Tevrala’s blessing or Gareth’s quizzical glance.

*THE NOBILITY OF* Senallin ride into the massive keep of Guardwatch, which has been cleared to house them along with the highest generals and lords from the allied nations and a large contingent of priests. As they ride in, Meeshak notes to his dismay that the welcoming party includes two dozen forbidding-looking clerics wearing the iron needle. Astacius the Sistechern – whom Meeshak has been studiously avoiding since their encounter at the Grand Ball in Lynar – walks forward to join his brethren, his flinty face very nearly smiling in satisfaction.

The Senalline generals meet their counterparts from the other nations, and head into the high tower to confer for two days before marching out to Arawai. Morgant and Erivas, the d’Syrnon knights, speak briefly with their squires Ash and Ontaya about what the generals will be discussing. “Both sides know the battlefield already,” Erivas says. “The fight will be on the sacred plain of the Arawai, a days’ march from here. The Arawai usually don’t gather for an all-out battle, but if you make any incursion onto their sacred burial ground, every tribe in the endless plains will show up to try to push you off. Eight years ago, a Velnaryn general named Zeresc discovered it by accident, and barely managed to retreat with his life. Ten thousand men should be enough to break whatever they throw at us.”

“More than enough, I would have thought, sir,” Ontaya says. “Even allowing for a reserve force to protect Guardwatch. How many barbarians can there be?”

“We don’t really know. There are rumors that some of them have broken their taboo against steel, which might make them harder to fight. But something else is afoot on our side, too,” Morgant says in an undertone. “Sarquin d’Loriad added a scheme which will use some two thousand men. I mention it only because I know both of you can keep your mouths shut – and because we will likely be part of it. We should know for sure in two days.”

*MEANWHILE, AT ATRIX'S *request, Kay and Carwyn find his younger brother Jonathan at Guardwatch and bring him out to the mercenary camp. Carwyn feels an immediate fondness for the serious young Jon d’Loriad – a younger version of Atrix who’s desperately trying to be responsible and dignified. When the brothers are reunited, Jon’s composure is shattered by delight and relief. “Atrix!”

“Hello, little brother,” Atrix says, beaming as they embrace. “Keep it down, they don’t know me by that name around here.” He relates the whole story of his duel with Avric.

“I had hoped it would sound less irresponsible with a little more time and distance,” Kay whispers to Carwyn.

Jon still looks stunned. “And Father, Mother, they still don’t know?”

“Well, I thought I’d wait until the war’s done to get word to them,” Atrix says diffidently. “Gives me enough time to think of how exactly to explain it all to Father...”

“Yes, I certainly agree that you’ll want to be selective in how you do that,” says Jon, shaking his head.


----------



## Ladybird

havenstone said:


> Thanks! I'm also looking forward to reaching the bit where you joined the party -- sorry it's taking so long, but I wanted to add enough detail to give people who weren't in the campaign a sense of the characters' development. Ladybird, we'll get to you sometime before 2011, I promise.




It's OK! I, like Ori, am having a wonderful time seeing what happened before I joined up, and seeing what all the PCs and NPCs were like before I met them.

And I'm looking forward to seeing how everyone out there EN-World reacts to some of the stuff that happens between now and then


----------



## havenstone

*Everything Falls Apart*

*THE NEXT AFTERNOON*, a cheerful Atrix invites Carwyn along to his regular sparring match with Lucian. Carwyn, never averse to watching attractive men hit each other with sticks, accepts at once. They head out to a remote field at the edge of the Guardwatch valley, just out of sight of the main camp. The sky is heavily overcast, but Atrix is pretty sure the main rain will hold off until after they’ve had a good practice.

Chatting to each other, neither Atrix nor Carwyn notice the men shadowing them through the long grass. Only when they arrive at the empty practice ground does the hair rise on the back of Atrix’s neck – and he barely has time to draw his saber and dagger before a tall, pale figure strides over the brow of the rise. “Atrix d’Loriad,” Shect greets him coldly.

“Run, Carwyn!” Atrix breathes, and Carwyn sprints away, dodging and tumbling past the four swordsmen who have sprung up from the grass around them. She takes a wound in her side, but it hardly slows her down as she dashes back toward the camp.

“Let her go!” Shect calls to his men, who return to their circle around Atrix. The livid scars on the Swordsmark's cheeks crease as he smiles. “It’s been a long chase, boy, but it was always going to end like this. Did you really think you could throw me off by orchestrating your death?”

“That had nothing to do with you, actually,” Atrix says, keeping his voice casual. “Why do you need all these men, Swordsmark? Afraid to take me on yourself?”

“If I were here to kill you, I would have come alone,” Shect states emotionlessly. “You and your friends have started down the road to Scarth, boy. There are two ways that road can end for you. I can see the same potential in you that the traitor Kemeras saw. With the training you’ll get in Scarth Tower, you could rise to be my equal with a sword. But we can not allow any who are not of the Tower to carry our secrets. So. Either you come with us willingly, or we take you against your will... or you can die here, with what little training you got from Kemeras.”

Atrix pauses thoughtfully, then says, “No, I think I’ll just kill you instead,” as his sword flickers toward Shect’s throat. Shect ducks away, his own blades flying up to block Atrix’s, and their duel is on.

*RUNNING FASTER THAN* she has in her life, Carwyn reaches the camp and discovers Ontaya, who was riding out to a practice bout with her squires. Carwyn screams, “Shect!” and points frantically back the way she’s come. Ontaya nods without speaking and spurs Dorma into a gallop. Several tents away, Darren also hears Carwyn’s voice and runs over to where Cannedun has just finished re-shoeing a horse. “I need to borrow this,” he says urgently. Leaping onto the horse, trying not to betray his wobbling inexperience as a rider, he charges off in the direction of the alarm cry.

Meanwhile, Nina and Agerain are returning from a ride through the grasslands, and see from a distance Dorma racing westward. Agerain peers at the dust cloud, intrigued. “Isn’t that Ontaya of the d’Orbis?”

Nina pauses for as long as he plausibly can before saying, “No – no, it’s just one of the d’Orbis knights.”

“You’re blind, Anseron,” Agerain says with savage good cheer. “Don’t you recognize that grand white plow-horse of hers? Let’s see where she’s off to in such a hurry.” Nina protests, desperate to keep Agerain away from his friends, but the young d’Aramant ignores him and charges after Ontaya.

Back at the practice field, Atrix is fighting defensively but losing ground. He has managed to graze Shect a few times, but the scar-faced Enforcer of Scarth is hitting back with ease and precision, clearly intending to bleed Atrix to the point of collapse. In desperation, Atrix lunges in and succeeds in stabbing Shect between the ribs. He over-extends himself, however, and the pale swordmaster counters with a devastatingly powerful blow that breaks Atrix’s sword. An ashen-faced Atrix fails to parry Shect’s next attack, which drops him to his knees, barely clinging to consciousness.

“It’s over, boy,” the Swordsmark growls. “Don’t make us kill you.”

Atrix spends his last strength lurching forward, thrusting his parrying dagger into Shect’s gut, and springing the hidden prongs. An enraged, agonized Shect runs his sword into Atrix’s heart. The young d’Loriad slides limply to the ground.

*A MINUTE LATER*, Shect and his men hear the rumble of Dorma’s approaching hooves. The swordsmen nervously turn toward the source of the sound, while Shect begins sprinting toward his own horse, tethered behind the rise. Ontaya thunders into view, recognizes the fleeing Swordsmark, and grimly spurs Dorma into direct pursuit. Howling, Shect attempts to dodge the oncoming warhorse and strike out at her rider, but his wounds have slowed him down too much, and Dorma tramples the Enforcer of Scarth into the mud.

Agerain and Nina ride into the vale seconds afterward and are attacked by Shect’s desperate henchmen. The d’Aramants make quick work of them, with Darren riding into view just in time to brain the last escaping swordsman with his club. Agerain canters up to the body of the dead mercenary in the middle of the melee and gives it a quick glance – then looks again, confusion and realization warring on his face. “Wha... Atrix? Atrix d’Loriad?”

Darren’s face collapses as he recognizes his fallen friend; from a distance, he can’t tell whether Atrix is dead or just unconscious. Fifty yards away, Ontaya looks up in shock from her inspection of Shect’s broken body. All the little details surrounding Atrix’s duel in Lynar that have been troubling her now fall into place. Anger bubbles up inside Ontaya at the thought that most of her friends helped to manipulate her into a situation where she unknowingly gave false witness. Glowering, she leaps back into Dorma’s saddle. Nina sees this and desperately calls, “Agerain, there might be more of them – let’s get back and report this.”

Still ignoring Nina, Agerain jumps down to the ground, teeth bared. “This... this d’Loriad cretin _faked his death_? To humiliate my Family?” Cursing, he draws his sword and vehemently, repeatedly stabs Atrix’s corpse. Nina can feel the whole web of deception starting to unravel around them. Ontaya angrily spurs Dorma back toward the field, prepared to seize Agerain and denounce him before their Families for desecrating the body of a Senalline noble.

Unfortunately, Darren has also been riding in, hoping to save Atrix, and he’s horrified to see Agerain snuff out whatever life might have remained in his friend. Overwhelmed by grief, the dwarrow-trained tinker gallops in and smashes his club into Agerain’s skull. It is, of course, a high crime for a commoner to assault a member of the Five Families in this fashion. Agerain’s head snaps forward and he slumps to the ground. Believing he’s killed the young d’Aramant, Darren gallops away.

Nina leaps from the saddle, his horror already turning to resignation as he mentally flips through all the possible outcomes from this catastrophe. He can think of almost none that don’t involve Darren being executed, serious consequences for everyone involved in Atrix’s ‘death,’ and a high likelihood of his own exposure. Checking Agerain’s pulse, he finds him still alive. With only a second to decide, Nina goes for what he sees as the sole remaining possibility of keeping the whole sordid story from coming out. Coolly, deliberately, he slits Agerain’s throat. With his friend’s lifeblood covering his hands, he remounts and bolts off in the opposite direction to Darren. 

Ontaya reins Dorma in sharply, aghast at having just witnessed her two fleeing friends inexcusably commit treason and murder. “Ain blast you both, I can’t lie about this!” she roars after them. “I won’t lie for you!” They vanish over the horizon. Still stunned, Ontaya dismounts and confirms that Agerain is dead. After a moment’s consideration, she leaves both Agerain and Atrix where they have fallen. Then she dully mounts Dorma and rides back to camp, returning just before the evening cordon goes up, to report the debacle.


----------



## Orichalcum

Well, that could have gone better...did Lucian ever show up?

Poor Ontaya...it really isn't her fault things got so messy.

And yeah - no worries, I'm loving hearing more about this section of the game. I do think you're right that you figured out how to give the PCs more agency over time, though. Most of the plot stuff here seems to be in reaction to GM stimuli...although, to be fair, whenever the PCs (cough Atrix cough) try to be proactive, it just seems to get them in trouble!


----------



## havenstone

*Hiding Atrix*

*DARREN RIDES STRAIGHT* for the merchant camp.  Along the way he passes Lucian, who is heading to his planned sparring practice with Atrix.  Darren waves him frantically away, not pausing to explain.  Minutes later, he dismounts at the Perigords’ tent, his legs shaking.  Kay sees the dirt and blood and tears on his face, and immediately brings him inside.  “Darren – have some water, sit down.  What’s happened?”

“Kay...”  Darren falters, despair cracking his voice.  “It’s Atrix.  They’ve killed him, Kay.  This time, it’s real.”

All the blood drains from Kay’s face, but her voice remains steady.  “Who did this?”

“The Swordsmark who’s been following us, and Agerain d’Aramant.  Ontaya got there and killed the Swordsmark, but not before Agerain showed up.  He recognized Atrix and stabbed him over and over.”  Darren shudders.  “I couldn’t help myself, I attacked Agerain.  I think I killed him.  And we can’t keep any of it a secret, Ontaya was witness.”

“Where is Atrix’s body now?” Kay asks sharply.

“Still there, as far as I know.”

Kay looks up at the sky, where a feeble sunset is barely visible through the massive thunderheads.  “We need to get him back before the d’Aramants investigate the area.  Can you lead me back there?”

The two of them creep past the cordon of guards and return to the afternoon’s battlefield.  The only sound is the flapping and cawing of scores of crows, almost invisible in the evening dark, who have arrived to feed on the bodies.  Darren sees two faintly shining lines course down Kay’s cheeks when they discover Atrix’s abused form, but she makes no sound as they chase away the indignant crows and struggle to carry the body away.  They leave his broken saber where it fell.  Minutes after they steal away, they see and hear a string of torch-bearing figures marching through the grasslands toward the scene of the crime; the investigation of Agerain’s murder is clearly underway.  Tears are still streaming silently down Kay’s face an hour later, when they smuggle Atrix’s corpse back through the cordon.  “Where can we hide him?” she whispers.  “My father and uncle have nowhere that’s truly safe from search.”

“Inside Guardwatch,” Darren offers desperately, recalling his brief excursion into the castle with Cannedun to attend to the knights’ gear (and find out roughly where Calla’s quarters were).  “There should be other new bodies there, in the headsman’s court – thieves and killers from the camp, executed yesterday when the Senalline commanders arrived.  When the time is right, we can get Atrix back for burial.”

“Yes – for burial,” Kay says, voice numb and trembling.  The dim, dappled glow of the moons behind the thick clouds vanishes as the rains finally break.  Darren and Kay are thoroughly drenched by the time they get Atrix’s remains to the foot of the great fortress wall.  During a thunderclap, Darren hurls a grapple to an unguarded battlement, then looks back at Kay.  “Tie him to this rope.  I’ll climb up and rig some sort of pulley so I can haul him up after me.  Then you need to get back to your father’s tent and let him and Porphyry know what’s happened.  I’ll hide the body and find my own way out.”

Kay throws her arms around him, and he can feel the pent-up sobs shuddering through her whole body.  “Darren...  I don’t know what to do.”

“We’re doing all we can,” Darren breathes.  “Kay, we have to hurry.”

She shakes her head, whispers, “Be safe,” and lets go of him.  Darren scrambles up the wet stone and manages slowly to drag Atrix’s limp form up the wall.  He can hear shouts and clashing steel inside the fortress, and can imagine the clashes between d’Loriads and d’Aramants that must be underway; the guards who might normally have been on the walls are down dealing with the fracas.  Arms and back aching, Darren lowers Atrix to the headman’s court.  As he slides down the line after his dead friend, he hears loud voices approaching.  With no time for hesitation, Darren hits the ground, cuts the rope, grabs Atrix’s body, and rolls for the stinking lime-pit where the beheaded men were tossed.  He pushes Atrix’s head under one of the corpses, then valiantly forces himself to follow suit.

Half-smothered and fighting the urge to vomit or howl, Darren hears the rapid footfalls and shouts of a gang of d’Aramants.  “There’s a rope there – has someone gone up the wall?”  The young lords run around the lime-pit, sparing the headless criminals at the bottom only a cursory glance.  They shake the rope and call for someone to head up to the battlements.  Then they dash off in search of more d’Loriad prey.  Darren shudders in silence for endless minutes until he’s sure they’re gone, then clambers frantically up out of the caustic pit.  He tears off his shirt and tries to scrub himself clean in the downpour, casting an anxious eye up at the wall.  Even if his arms could support him for another climb up the battlements, it’s too dangerous now.  The only way out he can see is to sneak to the d’Loriad wing of the castle and hope that one of his friends there will protect him.

He makes it halfway through the d’Aramant wing before another rampaging band of nobles charges around a corner and spies him in the shadows.  His feeble protests fall on deaf ears.  “For Agerain!” they howl as they pummel him with their boots and the flats of their swords.

“I’m just a tinker,” Darren shouts.  His leather jerkin provides only meager protection from the beating.  “M’lords, have mercy, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

They squint at him.  “You look familiar,” says one dubiously – Darren recognizes him with a sinking feeling as one of Calla’s cousins, who carried her away after the battle with the bandits.

“I’ve been in here repairing saddle tack and armor, m’lords,” Darren pleads.  “You likely saw me then.”

The lordlings confer and decide to tie him up to await judgment from a family elder.  Darren meekly offers them his wrists – managing by sleight of hand to conceal the small needle-shooter under his right sleeve.  As he still smells terrible from his roll in the lime-pit, his captors aren’t inclined to search him too closely.  As soon the d’Aramant gang runs off to fetch General Mercon, Darren twists down to retrieve a specially sharpened coin from his boot and saws painstakingly through his bonds.  Battered to the point where another attack or fall will likely render him unconscious or dead, he scrambles out onto the rain-soaked rooftops and heads for the nearest place of refuge: the cluster of rooms where Calla and the other d’Aramant families have been housed.

As he climbs past a narrow stairwell window, Darren freezes when he hears General Athriam d’Aramant’s growl: “I didn’t just bring you here to hide in a box, sage.  We need the power you’ve promised us.  My young cousin is dead.”

His heart pounding, Darren sees the General walk past, followed by a gray-haired man who fits Ash’s description of Aleander the Sage.  The old man says flatly, “What you ask is far beyond my abilities.  You will need to speak to Astacius.”  Then they disappear and Darren can hear no more.

*TO HIS UNSPEAKABLE* relief, Darren eventually spies Calla behind a casement, listening anxiously to the clamor outside her door.  He makes his way onto a narrow ledge, shivering, and taps on her window; her face is ashen and drawn as she lets him in.  “Shipboy – you’re hurt!”

“Lock the door,” he whispers, slumping against the wall.  She does so, then hurries back with sweet-smelling balm and several of her scarves to tend to his wounds.  “Did my cousins do this to you?” she murmurs, and begins crying when he nods.  “Darren, what’s happening?”

“I’ve got to get away, Calla,” Darren says weakly, the words tumbling out of him.  “I’m the reason for the fighting out there.  I... I killed Agerain.   I hit him in the head with my club.  I had to stop him – he was murdering my friend.  I’m so sorry.  If they find out, they’ll kill me.”

“Ssssh,” Calla says, pressing a finger to his lips, her eyes wide and alarmed.  “I... there’s a room where they won’t find you.  I’ll see if the way is clear.”  She unlocks the door and vanishes for several minutes.  Darren drags himself limply into the shadows, hoping that no one will see him if they stick their heads into Calla’s room.

Calla returns and closes the door, smiling bravely.  “It’s ready.  Just rest here a moment longer.”  She sits down beside him, her pulse pounding visibly in her throat.  “Darren... you know that most of my Family thinks me odd and doesn’t pay much attention to what I do, except to mock me.”  

Darren grips her arm.  “If they only took the trouble to know you...”

Calla looks down at him, with tears welling in her eyes again.  “But Cousin Agerain was different.  He... he protected me from the others ever since I was a little girl.  He always showed me affection.  When I heard he was dead today...”  Her anguished voice breaks.  “Darren, he was the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had.”

“Calla,” Darren breathes, heart-stricken.  “Calla – I’m so sorry.”

She stands up.  The door opens, and General Mercon walks in, with six other d’Aramants lining the corridor behind him.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned, boy,” Mercon says bleakly.  “Throw him into an oubliette.  We’ll bring him out if the others don’t tell us everything we need to know.”

“_Calla!_” Darren yells in disbelief as the young nobles drag him out of the room.  The last thing he sees before the door swings closed is Calla falling onto her guardian’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.


----------



## havenstone

Orichalcum said:


> I do think you're right that you figured out how to give the PCs more agency over time, though. Most of the plot stuff here seems to be in reaction to GM stimuli...although, to be fair, whenever the PCs (cough Atrix cough) try to be proactive, it just seems to get them in trouble!




Well, most of my favorite parts of the first season of the game emerged out of PC pro-activity, which woke me up a bit.


----------



## havenstone

*Interrogations*

*ON HER RETURN *to camp, Ontaya rides straight to Morgant, the knight to whom she is a squire, and asks him for an urgent audience with High General Sarquin d’Loriad.  (They enter Guardwatch keep at about the same time that Kay and Darren set off to reclaim Atrix’s body).  To Ontaya’s dismay, she finds Sarquin in conference with Mercon d’Aramant over a map of the plains.  The two Generals look up as she enters.  “Yes, squire Ontaya?” Sarquin greets her politely.

“I had hoped to speak privately with you, m’lord,” Ontaya says, standing at attention.

Sarquin looks likely to agree, but Mercon cuts in sharply, sensing Ontaya’s discomfort.  “We are finalizing our battle plans against the Arawai.  Can this not wait?”

“General, I believe it can not.”  Ontaya is disconcerted to feel a strong twinge of her paladin sensitivity to evil, which makes her aware of cruelty, malice, selfishness, and murderousness like a stench or shadow.  She is used to rather higher than normal levels among the self-seeking nobility of Senallin, but Mercon’s has surged disturbingly since the last time she saw him.  More than before, she hopes she can get Sarquin away from him.

“What does it concern?” Mercon demands.

Inwardly, Ontaya groans.  “A crime, General.”  Seeing the question coming, she adds, “A murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“Your cousin, General – Agerain d’Aramant.”

Sarquin straightens in shock, and Mercon stalks over to Ontaya, his eyes ablaze but his voice level.  “Explain at once.”

“This afternoon, just over the rise on the western fringes of the camp, Agerain was murdered by one of his young companions.”

“Who?”

Ontaya hesitates.  “I was never close with your cousin and his retinue, General.  I have heard others refer to the young man who killed him as Anseron d’Aramant.”

“Anseron?”  Mercon’s face is grim.  He points to Morgant.  “Knight: find General Athriam.  Tell him to send a party to retrieve Agerain’s body.  Then request him to join us here with Astacius of the Sistecherns, the captain of Guardwatch, and two of the d’Aramant squires.  Squire: continue.”

“A Swordsmark of Scarth and several of his henchmen had arrived on the outskirts of the camp and attacked one of our mercenaries there.”  Ontaya thinks desperately of which facts she can honestly omit.  “They had just killed the mercenary when I found them and fought with them.  Agerain and his companion must have also seen me riding to the fight, and they came to my assistance.  When we had killed the Scarthmen, however, the companion turned on Agerain and cut his throat.”

“Just like that, with you standing there?” Mercon snaps.  “What were you doing – and what was Agerain doing, that he was killed so easily?”

“I was some distance away, General, having just killed the Swordsmark.  And Agerain was... he had dismounted to stab the body of the mercenary.”  Ontaya strives to keep Darren’s crime out of the story. 

“Why in Ain’s name was he doing that?”

Ontaya wishes her conscience would let her answer with _I don’t know_, butthe reason is far too transparent.  “The mercenary was Atrix d’Loriad, m’lords.”  Both Sarquin and Mercon are momentarily at a loss for words.  “It is now clear that he did not die in Lynar, as we all believed, but secretly joined the army as a mercenary.  Agerain has long held a grudge against Atrix, General, which I believe explains his desecration of Atrix’s remains when he discovered this deception.”

Disconcertingly, while Mercon’s face is rigid with anger, Ontaya sees his eyes gleaming with a strange triumph.  The sandy-bearded General presses mordantly for full details of how Ontaya came to find out about the fight, and nods when Carwyn’s name comes out.  When two d’Aramant squires arrive, along with High General Athriam. the Sistechern priest, and the guard captain, Mercon interrogates the squires about when and how “Anseron d’Aramant” joined their company.  Finally, Mercon addresses the room in tones of damning fervor.

“The treachery runs deep here, m’lords.  This Anseron was no true d’Aramant, but a brazen fraud taking another man’s name in order to get close to Agerain.  He was plainly in league with the disguised Atrix d’Loriad.  When the d’Loriad’s identity was exposed to Agerain, his partner panicked and murdered our cousin to prevent his own disguise from being penetrated.  It is a matter of utmost urgency to find out how far this conspiracy extends, and whether Agerain was its only target.  Are any of Atrix d’Loriad’s immediate family present at Guardwatch?”

“His brother.  Jonathan,” Sarquin d’Loriad says reluctantly.

“What are we waiting for?  Seize him!  At onc...” bellows Athriam, before a curt gesture from Mercon leaves him stammering into a foolish-looking silence.  Ontaya notes that this seems an odd way for the supposedly junior Mercon to treat his Family’s High General.

“You agree, of course, that we must put him to the question.”  Mercon directs his question to Sarquin, while glancing over to Astacius, who smiles humorlessly.

Sarquin grimaces.  “Under the circumstances, the law requires it.”

Mercon turns to the guard captain.  “Find Jonathan d’Loriad and hand him over to the Sistecherns.  This commoner Carwyn runs a well-known gambling den outside the camp.  Arrest her immediately for questioning.  Ensure that the bodies of Atrix d’Loriad and these supposed Swordsmarks are retrieved from the murder site, along with my cousin’s.  And above all: find this vile impersonator who called himself Anseron, wherever he may have fled.”  He then turns back to Ontaya, his eyes narrowing.  “As for you...”

“There is no need for a Sistechern to interrogate a Sword-Priest of Ain,” General Sarquin cuts in.  “She _can not_ lie, Mercon.  Nor did she need to bring us this news as promptly as she did.  I’ll take her into my custody.  She and her seven squires will be under my direct and constant supervision in the battle to come.”

Mercon’s lips tighten.  “Keep her close, Sarquin.  We may yet hear from another witness who can confirm her involvement or innocence.”  He rolls up the map of Arawai and stalks out of the room, followed by the others.

“Thank you, General,” Ontaya says quietly as they head toward the d’Loriad wing of Guardwatch.  “For what it may be worth, I do not believe that Atrix or his friends conspired to kill Agerain.”

“Nor do I, but they’ve done a damned fine job of making it look like they did,” Sarquin d’Loriad growls.  “I can’t save them from the consequences now, not with the d’Aramant Patriarch’s nephew murdered.  There’s not enough time to sort this mess before we ride to Arawai.  But you stay close to me, girl –you and your little band of squirely efficiency – and we’ll finish our own investigation when the grand battle’s won.”  He sighs and presses his hand to his head.  “Now if you’ll forgive me, I need to look in on my wife.  She’s great with our first child, who seems intent on arriving in time to join the battle.  The priests say the birth may not be an easy one.”

*SHORTLY AFTERWARD, CARWYN* is arrested and dragged from her tent by six guards.  They knock out Lune for protesting her arrest.  The rain begins gusting down from the sky as they trudge toward Guardwatch.  When they enter the castle, a band of armed d’Aramants charges up to the guards, demanding to know whether their prisoner is connected to the d’Loriads.  “I don’t know,” the head guard barks.  “All I know is that General Mercon wanted her delivered to the Sistecherns, and if there’s any delay in getting her to the dungeon, the person responsible will answer to him.”

Carwyn’s throat constricts and her head goes light at the mention of the inquisitorial Order.  “No,” she tries to protest as the young d’Aramants fall meekly back, but no sound emerges from her dry mouth.  The guards carry her past the headman’s court (from which, unbeknownst to her, Darren has just fled) and down to the dungeons.  She is shackled to a cold table and left there, shivering, in her wet clothes in the dark.  Very faintly, she thinks she can hear screams through the thick stone walls.

After straining against her iron bonds for hours, Carwyn flinches violently when she finally hears footsteps and sees a dim light illumine the room.  The severe figure of Astacius the Sistechern appears above her, his close-cropped white hair and beard radiant in the light of the candle in his left hand.  “It is late, and I have already had to deal with Death himself this night, girl,” he says, his voice sounding impossibly weary.  “I do not have patience for any lack of cooperation on your part.”

“I’ll answer your questions,” Carwyn says desperately.  “Please, your reverence, I don’t know why I’m here.”

Astacius looses the iron needle from his neck and contemplates it with detachment.  “You are a conspirator in the infiltration of House d’Aramant and the murder of Agerain d’Aramant.”

“No, your reverence!”  Carwyn is shocked.

“In his confession, Jonathan d’Loriad has already confirmed your complicity.”

Tears begin leaking from Carwyn’s eyes.  She couldn’t think of any way that Jon would have known about Nina.  “I don’t know... I don’t know what he means.”

“Perhaps you can add more clarity on the question of General Sarquin’s involvement?”

Carwyn is thrown into terrified confusion.  “What?”

“Sarquin d’Loriad.  The High General.”  Astacius’ voice is reasonable, almost warm, in contrast to his wintry eyes.  “Only tell us what his part was in the plot, and we won’t need to ask any more questions.”

“I don’t know anything about General Sarquin!” Carwyn cries.

“A shame,” says Astacius emotionlessly, setting the candle down and rolling up his sleeves.


----------



## doghead

A great story hour - thanks for taking the time to share. I am really looking forward to seeing how things play out.

doghead
aka thotd


----------



## havenstone

doghead said:


> A great story hour - thanks for taking the time to share. I am really looking forward to seeing how things play out.




Thanks, doghead!  It's been fun to write it up in more detail than we had before.


----------



## havenstone

*Revenge of the d’Aramants*

*ASH AND MEESHAK *spend the stormy night trying to get a clear story about what has become of their other friends.  It soon becomes clear that Agerain is dead, and there are rumors flying about a disguised Atrix d’Loriad and someone else infiltrating the d’Aramants.  However, Meeshak and Ash can’t find Carwyn, Darren, or Atrix anywhere in the camp, and Kyla and Ontaya are unreachable inside the besieged d’Loriad wing of Guardwatch.  The dwarrow don’t know what’s become of Darren; the merchant wagons of Porphyry and Kendall are shuttered and apparently deserted.

Before dawn, Ash is summoned to join several hundred other scouts in the muddy courtyard of Guardwatch.  The rain has stopped, and the castle has been brought under control after the night’s outburst of d’Aramant rage.  A tired-looking Sarquin d’Loriad addresses the assembled trackers.  “Scouts of the North.  You are about to be sent out ahead of all the other forces to clear the land of Arawai eyes from the east to the west.  They will have their own trackers watching for our approach.  The barbarians will think nothing of killing you if they see you, so use your bows well!  None of their spies can remain alive to carry news of our movements back to the rest of their horde.”  

Ash notes that Ontaya is standing next to Sarquin, looking similarly exhausted and unhappy.  Ontaya spots Ash as well, but they have no chance to communicate before the squires are dispatched to the field.

Back in camp, Meeshak wakes up to the hissed sound of his name.  An unfamiliar Chramic mercenary with long hair and black leather armor is crouched at the entrance to his tent.  Meeshak takes only a moment to recognize the voice.  “Nina?”

“Not any more.  Nor Anseron, either,” Nina says bitterly.  He fills in Meeshak on everything that just happened.  “Carwyn was taken by guards early in the evening.  I’m going to try breaking into the dungeons to get her out.”

“We can’t leave her to the Sistecherns,” Meeshak agrees in fervent tones.  Pragmatic to the core, he doesn’t spend any time delving into the rights and wrongs of Nina’s murder of Agerain, but gets down to planning the rescue.

*MEANWHILE, ONTAYA AND* General Sarquin head up to a dawn council with the d’Aramant generals and Astacius of the Sistecherns.  “We have a confession from Atrix d’Loriad’s brother,” the inquisitor informs them with evident satisfaction.  “He admits to having conspired to kill Agerain d’Aramant, and his answers hint at a deeper conspiracy.  However, he has not yet told us where his brother’s body was hidden last night, or who concealed it.  We have so far only had time to briefly begin the interrogation of the woman Carwyn, so she has not yet contributed any useful information.”

“Has Jonathan’ d’Loriad’s confession been confirmed by a priest who can Detect Lies?” Ontaya demands hotly.  She feels cruelty permeating Astacius like a rot, and finds it hard to believe that the priest has not yet lost the blessing of Ain.  “One who is not of your Order?”

Astacius fixes Ontaya with a stare of loathing.  “Do you dare to imply that my priests would let a lie escape them?”  They argue fiercely for several minutes while the Generals from both Families look on without intervening.

“In a matter of such gravity,” General Sarquin finally interjects, “the d’Loriads would prefer to have the boy’s confession repeated before Ambar, High Priest of the Dethasian Order.”

Astacius falls poisonously silent.  The d’Aramant Generals consent to Ambar as a neutral figure and the highest-ranking non-Sistechern priest in the castle.  However, messengers sent to find the High Priest report that he is not in his quarters and can not be found.  Most of the morning is spent futilely looking for him.  After several hours, one of Astacius’ subordinate priests hurries into the tower to whisper into his ear.  “I regret to inform you that it would now be fruitless to trouble the Dethasian,” announces the Sistechern in a frosty voice.  “Jonathan d’Loriad just committed suicide.  He opened his wrists when alone in his cell, and my brethren did not find him in time.”

Ontaya’s outrage is too great to allow words.  Sarquin turns to Mercon, blood suffusing his cheeks and neck.  “Halt the interrogations, d’Aramant.  At once.  You’ve claimed one victim; let that, and last night’s violence, slake your thirst for now.  We’ll continue this when we get back, under the eyes of proper Senalline priests, not these Caragond butchers.  And when we do, I’ll have questions of my own about what’s just happened.”  

General Athriam begins to bluster, but Mercon once again cuts him off.  He inclines his head to Sarquin.  “As you insist, d’Loriad.  Guard captain: move the surviving prisoners to secure cells, and cease the questioning until we return.”

*ONTAYA STALKS OFF* to the quarters of Ambar the Dethasian.  When she knocks on the door, a quavery but still strident voice calls back, “Enough wasting of my time!”  Ontaya eventually convinces the aged High Priest to let her in.  It emerges that the affronted cleric was called out urgently in the morning to carry out a healing deep in the d’Aramant wing of Guardwatch.  He was kept waiting for hours without seeing the supposedly urgent injury; when he tried to leave, he found the door securely locked.  Eventually a d’Aramant informed him that due to a misunderstanding, the injured person had already been taken to a different cleric for healing.  When Ontaya explains the background to this charade, the High Priest looks fit to explode.

“Your holiness,” Ontaya says grimly, “with your permission I’ll send some of my cousins who aren’t joining the main army in Arawai to protect you for the next few days.  The evidence strongly suggests that the Sistecherns and d’Aramants are capable of murder in this affair, and to be candid, my sense of evil around the whole lot of them is growing strongly.  After we defeat the Arawai, we are going to need to investigate what has transpired here.  Your aid would be invaluable.  I’m afraid the d’Aramants know this.”

The kindly Ambar’s face is dark with anger.  “By Ain, they don’t frighten me.  Anything I can do to help, I will do.”

Ontaya bows and takes her leave, only to find Atrix’s cousin Kay waiting outside the door.  “M’lady Kay,” Ontaya greets her in surprise.  “My condolences for your family’s loss.”

Kay’s expression is blank, almost lifeless.  “Thank you, Ontaya.”

“Forgive me, but were you looking for me?” Ontaya says, still slightly confused.

“No, I’ve come to find the High Priest.”  Kay cranes her neck to see around the door while speaking in an undertone.  “Is he... does he know what has been happening?”

“He knows,” Ontaya says bleakly.  “The d’Aramants all but abducted him this morning to keep him from clarifying the circumstances of Jonathan d’Loriad’s murder.”  When Kay looks up in shock, fresh tears starting to her eyes, Ontaya realizes with horror that she hadn’t yet heard about her young cousin’s death.  “Oh, I’m so sorry – the Sistecherns...  I’m so very sorry.  Kay, when the war is finished, we will get to the bottom of all of this.  The High Priest has said he’ll help however he can.”  The promise sounds feeble even to Ontaya’s own ears.

“Good,” whispers Kay blindly and pushes past Ontaya, closing the door behind her.

*THOUGH CARWYN IS* moved to a solitary cell and spared further torment, Nina and Meeshak’s effort to rescue her fails dismally.  They manage to slip into Guardwatch and immobilize the guards outside the dungeon entrance with Meeshak’s charms and Nina’s potions.  Unfortunately, once inside the dungeon area, their efforts at stealth fail, and they rouse more guards than they can possibly overcome.  Both are overwhelmed, knocked out, stripped of all weapons, and dragged into cells of their own.  Meeshak is securely gagged and his hands bound to prevent him invoking the power of Ain.

As evening falls in the d’Loriad wing of Guardwatch, Kyla is frantic to do something to defend her outlawed friends.  However, Gareth and Adgar refuse to let her leave.  “Kyla – all three of us are now prime suspects for our involvement in Atrix’s scheme,” Gareth repeats heatedly.  “It’s all Sarquin can do to keep us from being handed over to the Sistecherns as well.  We won’t even be able to ride tomorrow with the army.  There is nothing we can do that won’t make matters worse.”

Kyla pounds her numb fists against the wall.  “This can’t be how it ends.”  She’s never been closer to despair.  With Atrix dead, Carwyn captive, Darren, Meeshak, and Nina missing, and Ash and Ontaya bound for the Arawai battlefield, her little group of friends has been scattered seemingly beyond recovery.  “Damn the Five Families and their schemes,” Kyla says inaudibly, shaking off Gareth’s attempts at consolation.  “We should never have left the Rim.”


----------



## doghead

havenstone said:


> Kyla pounds her numb fists against the wall.  “This can’t be how it ends.”




I certainly hope not.



havenstone said:


> “We should never have left the Rim.”




I wonder if the players were thinking something along the same lines. Everything was going so well then it all went very bad very fast.

doghead
aka thotd


----------



## havenstone

doghead said:


> I wonder if the players were thinking something along the same lines. Everything was going so well then it all went very bad very fast.




Yeah, in a way, it's surprising there are any more chapters to this story.




...but don't worry.


----------



## havenstone

*Onto the Plains*

*KYLA SLEEPS ONLY* fitfully that night, and wakes with a start at words that reverberate in her mind, seeming to bypass her ears entirely: _Only you can hear this. Go to the corridor below the eastmost wall if you want a chance to save your people._ She looks down at Gareth’s outstretched body, and her hand hovers for a moment above his shoulder. Then she slips out of bed, clothes and arms herself, and leaves her d’Loriad lover asleep.

The stables and barracks of Guardwatch are swarming with warriors preparing to ride out at dawn; the rest of the fortress is unusually deserted, and Kyla has to evade relatively few guards before arriving at the rendezvous point. A tall, hooded man detaches himself from the shadows at the end of the corridor. His features are hidden by his cowl, and he carries a nondescript sword with the poise of a skilled fighter. When he speaks, it is with an affected, raspy stammer. “W-we are al-lone.”

“Who are you?” Kyla hisses, her knives in her hands. When the hooded man stays silent, she adds accusingly, “Why did you and Aleander kill General Marcor?”

“W-we have done w-what was needful to w-weaken the army,” the man whispers. “W-we do not want it d-destroyed, but it c-cannot be allowed to d-destroy the Arawai.”

“What do you want from me?”

“W-we have sent a Message t-to the Arawai, as w-we did t-to you in your sleep. The sp-speaker for the t-tribes will be waiting f-for you t-ten miles to the s-south. S-simply tell h-him to watch the Basin’s s-southeast r-ridge for t-twenty-five hundred m-men.” The hooded man spreads his hands. “T-that is all. W-with this knowledge, the t-tribesmen w-will be able to d-defeat the f-flanking force and push back th-the army. N-neither side will be d-destroyed. The Arawai w-will keep their l-land.”

Kyla looks around distrustfully, still seeing no one around them – no one to accuse her of treason, no one who could help her capture the hooded man.

“This is _truth_, Arawai girl.” The man steps back into the shadows. “D-do with it what you will.”

*A STORM IS* rolling in from the south, and the livid dawn light barely penetrates the thick purple bank of cloud as Kyla slips out across the plains. She takes a circuitous route, checking frequently to see whether she is being followed as part of some plot to have her trapped and painted as a traitor. She sees no one. For three hours, she runs through the grasslands, tormented to the last by doubts about where her loyalties ought to lie. When she finally spies seven riders on the horizon moving toward her, Kyla halts, feeling her emotional turmoil collapse into dull resignation. She leaves her bow on her back and her knives in their sheaths.

As the riders approach her, she recognizes T’harai of the Red Kestrel. The speaker for the tribes rides with five other warriors she has not seen before, as well as a withered Arawai crone wearing a dozen knotted necklaces of feathers, bones, and twigs. T’harai regards Kyla with impassive wariness. “Hail, little sister. What word do you bring for us?”

“There are traitors among the Senallines,” Kyla says simply. “They told me to warn you to watch the Basin’s southeast ridge for twenty-five hundred men. They say that if you break this flanking force, you will be able to hold off the Great Army of the North, and the plains will remain free.”

T’harai glances over to the wise woman, who has been gazing oddly at Kyla. “She is not lying,” the old seer wheezes.

“But you can’t trust these men,” Kyla bursts out. “I’ve told you truly what they told me, but I don’t know who they are. In my heart... I don’t believe they are friends to the Arawai as they claim.”

The clan-chief nods without surprise. “Do not fear, little sister. There is more treachery here than the _kherasi_ know.” He exchanges glances with his warriors, and a tremendous bitterness swells up his voice. “At Lynar I warned them how their games would end.”

No one speaks for several long moments. Having delivered her message, Kyla feels lost and empty. “Should... should I stay with you, or go?”

T’harai looks intently at her before answering. “The _kherasi_ have my sister’s son.”

*ON A FAR* distant stretch of the plains, Ash is finishing his solitary breakfast of dry bread and jerky. He has found no Arawai scouts in his area, and no one has fired on him. However, as he prepares to advance, he glimpses a flash of silvery movement; squinting more carefully, he thinks he sees a lithe, human shape moving through the brush some hundred yards away. At once, Ash draws his bow and fires a remarkably precise shot [natural 20].

The movement stops. A cautious Ash begins making his way toward the bushes, and is halfway there when he feels a long, razor-keen blade rest on his throat. He freezes, wondering how his target managed to get behind him so swiftly and silently. “You have wounded me with steel, man,” a strangely thin voice hisses in Ash’s ear, sending a chill down his spine. “Centuries after your corpse returns to the mud, you will be remembered for the never-healing pain you have caused.”

“I thought you were Arawai,” Ash manages to choke out, dropping his bow and holding out his hands in a yielding gesture.

“It is only for the sake of an Arawai that you still live,” says the unamused voice. The slender sword moves away from Ash’s throat; Ash notes that the blade appears to be made of bone. “The Arawai woman Tevrala has been cast out by her people for bearing my child, and has taken refuge with yours. I could not reach my lover in her people’s place; but if she has come north, I will be able to find her. Have you seen or heard of an Arawai woman among your tribe?”

Ash cautiously turns his head. He glimpses pale hands, and for a moment fears that he has been captured by Shect – but then he sees his captor’s long mane of silver hair bound back by an intricate web of thorn-vines, huge dark eyes, and bloodless lips, and knows that he has never seen anyone remotely like this before. The lean figure wears mottled leather clothes that seem to be slowly shifting their color to match the grass and brush around them; he carries a recurved bow and a quiver which seems to contain not only finely fletched arrows but faint, roiling light, like a will-o-the-wisp. A neat cut along one shoulder, dark and glistening, marks the place where Ash’s arrow struck. “Who are you?” Ash gasps in disbelief.

“I should boil your blood dry for presuming to ask, man,” comes the sharp response.

“I think my friend Kyla helped your Tevrala,” Ash says hurriedly, his skin crawling. “She told me she had helped an outcast Arawai woman with an albino newborn find shelter with the merchants outside Guardwatch.”

A gleam appears in his adversary’s fathomless eyes. “I am Kabriel, Thorn Prince of the Fe Duatha. If I find her, I will be in your debt, and your friend’s. If I do not, you will know the name behind the arrow that finds your throat.” Without another word, the pale stranger stalks off into the brush. Seconds later, Ash can no longer see him.

*BACK IN GUARDWATCH*, the two High Generals of the Senallines complete their muster of six hundred cavalry (half the total from all the Northern nations), a hundred warrior priests, and eighteen hundred infantry. Shortly after dawn, Sarquin d’Loriad and Athriam d’Aramant ride across the courtyard to eager cheers. “The battle we have awaited is at hand!” roars General Athriam. “You few are the hammer that will break the plainsmen against the anvil of our main force. They will not see us or know of our presence until we come pouring down upon them like the brimstone of Ain!”

“Today, we march hard,” General Sarquin shouts. “Tomorrow, we will hit the Arawai by surprise on their weakest flank, while the rest of the army joins us to crush them. You have been chosen because you are the finest, the fiercest, the strongest warriors in all the civilized realms. Your battle begins _now_; from this hour, do not falter, do not reduce your vigilance or strength, until you have broken the barbarians forever!”

Ontaya and her seven squires ride out close to the Generals. The flanking force moves at speed all day across the rolling plains, up to the edge of a great dry basin, where they make camp without fires and settle down for a few hours of sleep. Throughout the evening, the scouts who have been clearing this region of barbarians begin to return and report. Though no Arawai outriders have been known to escape alive, the Northern scouts have found rather fewer than expected.

“M’lord – what if, after all, the Arawai have found out we’re here?” Ontaya questions the General in private. “Will they be able to fend off the surprise attack if they know it’s coming?”

“We brought our strongest warriors here not only to make a strong surprise attack,” Sarquin replies softly, looking out across the gritty expanse. “Our spies tell us that the plainsmen consider this Basin the most sacred spot in the Arawai plains -- holier even than the great burial plain where Zeresc fought with them, and plans to fight again tomorrow. To prevent the Basin's desecration, the Arawai would throw everything at us – more of their riders than they can afford. I believe that even if they know we are here, we can hold them long enough for Mercon, Zeresc, and the other generals to overrun their other force and come to our relief.”

Ontaya looks out at the dust basin again. There is a sense of wild power to the place, a hum just out of the range of audible sound – not quite the sanctification she knows from the cathedrals of Senallin, to which her paladin senses are attuned, but a close cousin to it. She is not surprised that the Arawai consider it sacred, and she walks away slightly troubled.

Ash arrives after dark and finds his way to Ontaya and the squires. They tersely exchange news of the last few days before falling into a brief sleep. The camp rouses silently before daybreak. The cavalrymen muffle their horses’ hooves with cloth to limit the amount of dust and grit they’ll kick up, and under the stars, the army moves out slowly into the hallowed basin.


----------



## havenstone

*The Great Betrayal*

*AFTER DARREN'S CAPTURE*, he is dragged to the dungeons and thrown without ceremony into a damp, deep pit in the rock.  Tumbling desperately, he manages to cushion his fall enough to stay alive, but dislocates his shoulder in the process.  After popping his arm agonizingly back into place, he spends most of the night drifting in and out of consciousness.  During the following day (of Ontaya’s almost fruitless investigations), the inventive Darren dismantles his leather jerkin and tries gamely to use its straps and belts, Calla’s scarves, and some of the rags and bones at the bottom of the oubliette to assemble a climbing harness to improve his chances of scaling the slick-walled pit.  After several near-fatal tries, he makes it to the top but has no leverage in his precarious position to shift the heavy trap door; only his jury-rigged harness keeps him alive through the repeated falls.  While lying half-conscious at the bottom of the pit, Darren despairingly overhears Meeshak and Nina’s failed rescue attempt.

A long time later, he hears the door open far above him.  “Boy – you’re to be moved to another cell in preparation for questioning,” a guard shouts.  Darren allows himself to be lifted out of the oubliette in a rope harness; in his famished, battered state, he decides against trying to use his concealed needle-launcher against the guards who tie his hands and feet.  His spirits soar when he realizes he is being locked up near Meeshak and Nina, but a boot to the head sends him back into oblivion, and it is hours before he painfully comes to himself.

Darren uses up most of his few remaining needles trying to shoot Meeshak, giving him something sharp to work on his bonds.  When Meeshak finally gets one, Darren takes two of the remaining needles and tries to pick the lock on the barred cell door.  He is making scant progress when he hears booted feet approaching the cells, and quickly slumps down to feign unconsciousness.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the haggard, hateful voice of Agerain d’Aramant at his cell door: “Oh yes – this boy was there when I was killed.  I’ll be interested to hear his story when he wakes up.”

*STILL BARELY CONSCIOUS *himself, Nina glances up in shock to see Agerain limping across the dungeon, two guards in tow.  The young d’Aramant’s skin is an unhealthy greyish color, but the cut across his neck is gone, and he has no wound on the back of his head where Darren clubbed him.  “And you say these two tried to break in two days ago?” Agerain continues venomously.  “I recognize the priest.  We’ll let Astacius have a word with him when he arrives; he’s wondered for months whether we have a renegade Sistechern in our midst.  And the other?  Give me their cell keys.”

Nina has sagged into his bonds, but Agerain unlocks his cell door, grips his chin, and turns his face into the light.  There is a white circular mark on Agerain’s forehead that had never been there before.  His bloodshot eyes are fixed on Nina’s for a long minute before he speaks.

“When I first met you, I thought you looked familiar.  Thought I’d seen you at some Family gathering.  But that wasn’t it – was it, _Anseron_?”  Nina remains silent.  “I should have thought about your eyes.  You were dressed up as one of Ontaya’s barbarian girls.  I almost slapped you.”

“I’m sorry, Agerain.”

The young d’Aramant’s fists crack back and forth across his face in a frenzy of loathing.  “_Shut up!_  I don’t want to hear your damned voice.  Time for that later, plenty of time for that, when Astacius is here.  We’ll hear everything before we send you off to seal the bargain.”  He pauses, then whirls on the guards.  “Go.  Get the girl ready and bring her here.  We’ll see how they like seeing each other cut to pieces.”

As the guards walk away, Agerain leans in close to Nina.  There’s a sickly grave-smell on his breath.  “What was it all for, Anseron?  You and Atrix and Ontaya and your little group of friends.  What were you trying to accomplish?”

“I betrayed you,” Nina admits.  “What does it matter what it was for?  It’s over now.”

“Yes, it’s over,” whispers Agerain, a note of delight entering his voice.  “For you, for your friends, for House d’Loriad.  Yesterday Athriam rode out with Sarquin, and Mercon led the rest of the host north.  By the end of this morning, there will be only four Families.  You were on to the scent, my little traitor, but it’s too late to stop it now.”

“What are you talking about?” Nina coughs weakly, hoping against hope that if Agerain just keeps talking, Darren will be able to pick his lock and get away.

Agerain looks at Nina with disdain and pity.  “Still trying to get the information?  I’ve wanted to tell you for months, falsest friend.  There’s no reason to hold back now.  There’s nothing you can do.”  He glances around before continuing in a harsh whisper.  “We will destroy the d’Loriads utterly, Anseron.  Control of Senallin requires controlling three of five Families; the d’Orbis will never really join us, and the wretched d’Syrnons have already chosen their side.  The only way forward is to wipe out the d’Loriads, and the only question was how to do that without inciting the other Families against us.  Everything became clear when the Arawai campaign took shape.  If a Family betrays the North to the Arawai, all of Senallin will rise up to demand that Family’s extinction.  So we have orchestrated that great betrayal.  We have set all these things into motion, that the name of Sarquin the Betrayer will be remembered even when his Family has been forgotten.”

“What?” Nina says in disbelief.  “I don’t understand.”

Agerain laughs.  “Of course you don’t.  Sarquin d’Loriad is leading the flanking force – the lynchpin of the Northern strategy.  But we’ve made sure that the Arawai know that force is coming, and will send their full strength to wipe it out.  We’ve prepared a few witnesses in reserve, who can testify that Sarquin rode to join the Arawai while his men died or fled.  Poor, brash Uncle Athriam thinks he’ll be one of the survivors, but he’ll be our chief martyr instead.  Today, Mercon will ensure that that no relief force arrives until every soldier in that flanking force is dead.”  Agerain’s smile is pure malevolence.  “That includes your dear friend Ontaya, incidentally.  But we’re sure that in fact Sarquin will lead a brilliant, bloody last stand, and we don’t foresee any problem for the remainder of the Northern host to wipe out the remnants of the Arawai.”

“Why... why do you think people will believe your lies about Sarquin?”

The young d’Aramant shrugs.  “Because they’re about the d’Loriads, not just about Sarquin, and because many of them aren’t lies.  Uncle Mercon is a master at spinning rumors, and he’s been preparing for this for months.  It’s already well known around Lynar that the d’Loriads wish to weaken the d’Nereins and d’Aramants – the Families with the largest landholdings in the south of the realm, who stand to gain the most from an expansion into Arawai.  It’s also widely known that General Marcor d’Syrnon was murdered by a d’Loriad boy.  That was a necessary murder for us, incidentally, to ensure that no surviving General could contradict the story of Sarquin the Betrayer.”  Agerain’s lips twitch with anger as he continues.  “Of course, everyone will soon know that Atrix d’Loriad, his brother, and their disguised friends infiltrated the d’Aramant Family with murderous intent – and believe me, you and your friends will confess Sarquin’s involvement before we let you die.  Above all, the d’Loriads played into our hands when they brought an Arawai girl to Lynar, let her seduce half the d’Loriads in the place, gave her Patriarch’s Gold to toss around, and brought her along to Guardwatch – from which she mysteriously disappeared on the eve of the battle.”

“What have you done to Kyla?” Nina groans.

“Sent her home,” Agerain says indifferently.  “For what it’s worth, she probably has actually betrayed us – though we weren’t relying on her to do so.  May she die with her people, where she belongs.  If she comes back here, we’ll make sure she dies with her d’Loriad lovers.”

Nina shakes his head, forcing tears to add to the image of despair.  “But... who’s the hooded man?  The one who arranged for Marcor’s murder?”

Agerain cocks his head.  “Were your allegiances with the d’Syrnons then?  No matter.  Uncle Mercon handled almost everything himself.  I believe he wore a hood and mask when he needed to.”

“Why did he tell you all of this?  What was your role?”

“Mercon couldn’t have pulled off this scheme without the knowledge of our Patriarch,” Agerain says, smiling arrogantly.  “But Uncle Athagon is an old man, and doesn’t know when Death may come for him.  He wanted to make sure that his most trusted nephew knew what was going on, and could intervene if Mercon started to lose control.”

“But... how do you hope to dominate a Senallin led by Four Families?” Nina asks, stretching desperately to keep the young d’Aramant talking.

“There must always be Five Families, Anseron.  If you were really of our blood, you would know that.”  Agerain is beginning to look bored, and he glances around to see whether the guards are back yet.  “When Mercon leads our allies to victory despite the crippling blow of Sarquin’s betrayal, he will be every Senalline’s hero.  He’ll become Patriarch of the new Family to replace the extinguished d’Loriads.  I believe he intends to call it House d’Angor, after his father Angor, lord of the north.  That’s the prize for Mercon’s game.”

He straightens slowly away from Nina.  “And he’ll help to make sure I’m Patriarch one day, when my uncle’s gone.  You almost stole it all from me, Anseron – or whatever your name is.  But Astacius the Sistechern is desperate to establish his Order in Senallin, and he was willing to summon up Death to stay in favor with House d’Aramant.”  Agerain’s eyes grow haunted and distant.  “We made a bargain, traitor.  Your life for mine.  Death agreed to restore my soul if I hunted you down and killed you.  That’s why I’ve told you all of this – so you understand that your death today isn’t just for me.  It’s for something much bigger.  It’s for our Family.”

“Trying to be impressive, d’Aramant?” comes a caustic voice from across the hall.  “You weren’t so high and mighty when I bashed your brains out.”

*AGERAIN SPINS AROUND* to see a feeble-looking Darren clinging to his cell door.  Having failed again to pick the lock with his battered hands, Darren is trying a last desperate scheme.  “You _struck_ me?” Agerain snarls, murder in his eyes.  “You probably wouldn’t have survived questioning long enough to give us anything useful anyway, would you, you miserable little tinker?”  He stalks vengefully out of Nina’s cell and slams the door – not noticing that the drop bolt has failed to catch.  While Agerain unlocks Darren’s door, Nina works his hands out of their ropes, which he managed to loosen a few hours ago.  He tries to remember the eight ways his uncle taught him to kill a man without weapons, and limps out of the cell, his ankles still chained together.

Just as he gets his former friend within arm’s reach, Nina’s stealth fails him, and he stumbles with a noisy clatter of chains.  Agerain wheels around, mouth opening in shock.  Nina punches him in the gullet, choking off his cry but not seriously hurting the d’Aramant, who almost knocks Nina out with his return blow.  While Nina grapples weakly with Agerain, Darren hurls himself at the young noble’s throat and makes a valiant effort to fire a needle up into his brain.

Then a harsh voice echoes through the cell.  Meeshak has finally managed to cut his bonds, yank off his gag, and cast Hold Person just in time to save his friends’ lives.  Seconds later the guards return with Carwyn in tow; Meeshak’s spells drop them before they have a chance to raise the alarm.  “Get me out of here,” Meeshak says urgently.  “If Astacius is really on his way, we need to be gone before he arrives.”

A shaken Carwyn relieves the guards of their daggers and the paralyzed Agerain of the dungeon keys.  While she unlocks Meeshak’s cell, Darren dons his dwarrow amulet and considers the currents of air, heat, and sound for a moment.  “It feels like there are hollows below these passages,” he whispers.  “Drainage channels.”

Meeshak claims one of the guards’ daggers from Carwyn and quickly drops some light healing spells on his friends.  “Help me carry the d’Aramant, Nina.  We’ll need a hostage if we run into trouble.”

With Darren’s help, they find their way into the narrow, flooded drainage tunnels below the Guardwatch dungeons – pausing for a few moments to gag and hog-tie Agerain so he’ll be helpless when his paralysis expires.  They move in total darkness, trying to splash as little as possible.  Darren guides them away from side passages with dead air and follows the flow of air toward an exit.  With his perception of the visible spectrum reduced, his companions see the dim torchlight coming around a corner of the passage before he does.  Nina puts a warning hand on Darren’s shoulder to halt him.  The light increases to the point where the four severely injured friends can see each others’ faces; they exchange silent glances as they prepare to make a last stand.

Lune appears at the corner, brandishing a knife in one hand and a torch in the other, with Carwyn’s crossbow strapped to his back.  “I hoped this passage would get me into wherever they’d tossed you.  Should have known you’d meet me halfway.”

Carwyn barely restrains a delighted yelp as she sloshes over to the scruffy gambler and clutches him tightly.  Lune leads them back to the end of the drain, where the cold water spills out through a gap at the foot of the rocky shelf below the castle.  It’s almost noon when they emerge, but though they cautiously scan the wall of Guardwatch for guards, none appears.  The great camp of settlers and army followers appears to be breaking up in inexplicable disarray, with massive streams of people heading north along the road.  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Lune mutters in confusion.  “Things were normal here just before dawn.”

“Bad news from the south,” Meeshak guesses grimly.

Lune blinks incredulously.  “Is it possible that the Arawai might have _won_?”

*AS SOON AS* they’re a safe distance from the castle, Meeshak drops Agerain and brings the dagger to his throat.  The young d’Aramant’s eyes bulge helplessly in terror and he froths against his gag.  Carwyn averts her eyes.

Nina catches Meeshak’s hand.  “No.  Don’t do it.”

Meeshak’s brow furrows.  “We don’t need him, Nina.  We’ve got to make a run for it, and he’ll only slow us down.”

“He’s mine to kill,” Nina says softly.  His utter betrayal of Agerain’s trust weighs hard on him, even after hearing how great a treachery the d’Aramants themselves had planned.  He knows he can’t kill the defenseless Agerain in cold blood a second time, or stand by while someone else does.  “And I say this isn’t the time.”

Meeshak stares into Nina’s eyes for a moment before shrugging curtly.  “We don’t have time to argue.  He’s your responsibility.  Just remember: his life depends on killing you.”


----------



## havenstone

*Broken Swords*

*AFTER WHAT FEELS *like the deepest sleep of his life, Atrix slowly becomes aware of the profound chill throbbing in his arms and legs. The air is unnaturally icy, far colder than the stone under his back. A persistent, ominous intonation in an unfamiliar language echoes from all around him. His eyes flicker open to see an elaborate pattern laid out in white and gold dust on a dark stone floor. Alarmed and completely disoriented, Atrix struggles to sit up. His limbs protest, as though he hasn’t used them in days.

He finds himself in a murky room, lit by a scattering of candles in the pallid web of dust. The gold dust amongst the chalk is blackening, and the candle flames are blue and trembling, drawn toward the center of the chamber as though by a steady, intangible wind. Seven priests are ringed outside the pattern, chanting in low tones, their faces taut with fear. An aged high priest holds a glowing staff over Atrix, pointed unwaveringly toward the center of the circle. 

A man is standing at the heart of the room, clad simply in black, half-turned away from Atrix as though about to depart. The skin on the stranger’s face and slender-fingered hands is alabaster white; his eyes are colorless, his hair long and black. A dark-hilted sword is strapped to his back, with a foot and a half of blade ending in a jagged fracture. Atrix can feel the heat in his body fleeing, drawn toward the man with the broken sword. Kay hangs limply from the man’s arms.

Without any pause for thought, Atrix leaps toward the terrible figure, trying to attack him with his bare hands – but finds the strength sapped from every muscle in his body. He slips to the floor, and pulls himself up again with enormous effort. The man with the broken sword shifts his head to regard the desperate young d’Loriad. A toneless voice reverberates in Atrix’s mind:

_- Do not risk so readily what has just been paid for with so great a sacrifice._

Atrix’s face twists as he remembers the end of his duel with Shect – remembers his death – and understands what must have just happened. “She didn’t know what she was doing,” he rasps. “You can’t accept this.”

_- She knew._

“No. I don’t accept it. Take me, not her.”

_- The sacrifice is not yours to accept._

“_No_.” Atrix stares into Death’s colorless eyes and tries by sheer force of will to deny what is happening. His adversary gazes back impassively. Waves of unnatural dread and desolation surge through Atrix, but he manages somehow to keep from blinking and forces his tremulous limbs to take two more steps toward the man with the broken sword. No trace of emotion or decision plays across Death’s alabaster face as Atrix staggers closer. He simply bends, touches his bloodless lips to Kay’s forehead, and disappears. 

Atrix lurches forward to catch Kay, and they fall to the ground together. The room brightens as the candles blaze back to a full and yellow flame. Kay sucks in breath again in a sob as her eyes spring open. A round, pallid mark has appeared on her forehead. “Cousin?” she whispers, her eyes darting around the room. “Are you... are we...”

Beyond words, Atrix pulls her closer, and they weep in each other’s arms in the dark circle.

*OUT ON THE *plains, where the dawn is only a livid smear through the dense cloudbanks, the great Northern flanking force approaches the top of the far slope of the Arawai’s sacred basin. Since the march began, Ontaya has been catching flickers of evil intent from all around them, in particular from General Athriam d’Aramant and a tough, bullying squire named Vorent who has been trying to rival her ever since Wildengard. Today Vorent’s eyes are looking glazed and he doesn’t respond to Ontaya’s queries. She beckons Ash and her squire Corim d’Orbis close. “Something’s about to break,” she says flatly, and tells them what she’s feeling. 

Scanning the horizon, Ash notices a scout ahead flash an unfamiliar signal back to Athriam. Ontaya spots Ash’s reaction and spurs Dorma toward the arrogant d’Aramant general, even while he turns to Sarquin with a look of horror on his face. Athriam dramatically bellows, “What? What have you done, man? Treaso... oof,” as Ontaya tackles him and brings him to the ground. Vorent, his eyes still glassy, goes for the flat-footed Sarquin with a poisoned knife, but Ash cuts him down and wheels his horse around to shield the d’Loriad general from any other attacks. Ontaya pounds Athriam’s head against the sun-baked earth until the treacherous d’Aramant passes out. Her squires form up around them, swords out and ready for a fight.

The host mills in confusion for a moment, as hundreds of Senalline nobles and thousands of soldiers from other countries try to take in what just happened. The d’Aramant knights, though angry, seem just as bewildered as those from other Families. Then with a thunder of hooves, many hundreds of Arawai riders charge over the ridge all along the rim of the basin, ululating triumphantly and hurling flint spears ahead of them. 

His eyes bleak with comprehension, Sarquin d’Loriad raises the banner of Lynar and cries, “ATTACK!” Quickly rallying his stunned troops into combat formation, Senallin’s greatest general begins pushing toward the high ground. Ontaya and her squires are among the leading horsemen who clear a path, fighting in the saddle, with hundreds of stone arrows shattering against their shields and armor. Finally, bloodied and battered, Ontaya charges forward with fifty other Northern knights to claim the height of the ridge.

And sees, behind the charging Arawai hordes, a thousand utterly unfamiliar golden-skinned soldiers armored in brightly lacquered plate, bearing long steel spears and curved swords.


----------



## havenstone

*The Breaking of the North*

*KYLA WAKES UP *from a cold, starless night on the plains, having walked east for most of the previous day to avoid the great host that she knew was marching south.  The dust of Mercon’s seven thousand soldiers, which had smudged the whole western sky when she made her camp the previous night, has settled.  Hearing grumbles of thunder from the west, Kyla quickly finishes the last of her water and sets off on foot for the last few hours’ trek to Guardwatch.  She arrives shortly before dawn and heads to the merchants’ camp to find Tevrala, T’harai’s outcast sister.

Atrix’s relatives, the Perigords and Porphyry, have already left.  “There was some sort of terrible row between Kendall and his daughter,” a friendly merchant tells Kyla over his breakfast.  “Shouts and tears, who knows what.  Then yesterday, Kendall sold all the stock he had to the rest of us – must have needed the gold awfully bad – and he and Porphyry rode off.  I didn’t see the daughter go with them.  She seemed like a nice girl.  I can’t imagine what kind of trouble she got into that would need that kind of money.”

“And the Arawai woman who was with them?” Kyla asks cautiously.

The merchant purses his lips.  “You be careful who you mention that woman to, lass.  A day ago she left her babe with some pious cloth merchants of Velnar — asked them to make sure he’d be all right — and then she got onto one of Kendall’s horses and rode off through the guard cordon before the army left.  Everyone knows she went back to die with her folk.  I’m glad to see you haven’t done the same.”

Kyla shakes her head.  “No.  No, I don’t really have a folk.  And her people will surely kill her if our army doesn’t.  Where’s the baby?”

She finds the little albino with the Velnaryn merchants, who despite their piety are plainly fretful about having extended charity to the child of a wild Arawai.  When Kyla explains that she is willing to take the infant off their hands, they are more than happy to hand him over.  “Did his mother tell you his name?” she asks.

“Ah, he doesn’t have a name yet,” the portly clothier replies.  “She said someone else from the family usually chooses it.”

Kyla picks up the sleeping child.  “His name is T’harai,” she says in a quiet voice.  “It means Lord of the Flames.  He has an uncle by that name.  A noble man who did what he could to end this war.”

The merchants shift uncomfortably.  “Do you need any milk for him?  He fed an hour ago.  There’s a woman with the Kedris traders who has a babe only a week or two older.”

“The d’Loriads will help me find a wet nurse,” Kyla says shortly.  “Thank you for your kindness to the boy.”  Cradling little T’harai in her arms, she walks toward the castle, wondering what she can possibly say to Gareth.

She is halfway to the gates when she hears the wailing rising faintly from the southern plains, and sees a scattering of horsemen appear along the horizon.  An anxious crowd forms around her and surges southward to meet the retreating knights.  The first man to appear, a mountain rider of Kedris, is bleeding from an ugly head wound; his remaining armor is blackened and warped as though he had fallen into a forge.  “Flee,” he shrieks, spittle flying from his cracked lips.  “Flee!  Demons fight with the Arawai this day!”  He spurs his horse frantically into the crowd, trampling several helpless people in his desperation to keep riding north.

The next rider is scarcely less wild-eyed, but pauses for a moment to answer the frightened, demanding crowd.  “The Arawai do not fight alone.  A thousand thousand strange warriors have joined them, armored and masked and bearing steel.  The monsters have called fire down upon us, and lightning.  I saw General Zeresc swallowed up by the earth, along with thousands of our men.  The other Generals of the North have fallen or are fleeing.”  He cranes his neck to look back to the south.  “The Arawai are pursuing us.  Sweet Ain, run for your lives!”

*FIREBALL AFTER FIREBALL *bursts out of nowhere into the ranks of Northern knights around Ontaya.  The smell of sulfur and scorched flesh is thick in the air.  On the slopes of the basin, two thousand soldiers who have not yet even seen the alien, golden-skinned legion begin to panic as they witness the nobility of a half-dozen nations dying inexplicably in flames atop the ridge.

Unflinching, Ontaya bellows at her squires to make an orderly retreat.  Despite the confusion and terror in their eyes, they fall back fighting with the discipline their paladin leader drilled into them over the three months’ march.  They push back an Arawai charge, and during a second of calm, Ontaya is able to take in the battlefield.  She sees the army collapsing, as the Arawai horsemen flank them, and from the other side of the ridge she hears the metallic clamor of the armored strangers marching into combat.  

“Corim!” she shouts to the leader of her squires.

“Yes, m’lady?”  All of Corim d’Orbis’ customary roguishness has been stripped away by fear, fury, and determination.  Ontaya places her hands on him, healing him of his wounds and restoring him to full strength.

“You have command.  Retreat and return to Lynar.  Warn them of what’s happened here.  Tell them that the d’Aramants betrayed us to this.  Go—now!”  Ontaya wheels Dorma around, knowing that Corim will want to protest, knowing that he will obey.  Spotting a group of knights who are faltering against another Arawai advance, she charges back to them and holds the line long enough to give her squires a fighting chance.  

Then the ranks of unspeaking, armored spearmen arrive along the ridge, and a horrified din rises from the Northern soldiers as two enormous bursts of flame devastate the middle of their ranks.  An Arawai chieftain shouts in heavily accented Northron: “Throw down your arms, blaspheming _kherasi_!  Surrender, or by Keyashai we will slay you to the last man.”

As swords and spears clatter to the ground all around her, Ontaya casts a searching glance to the south.  She sees her seven squires break through the last barbarian line and ride for freedom, with the Arawai in hot pursuit.


----------



## Orichalcum

Hey, can we see what happens when Corim reports back, or are you going to stick to the p.o.v. of the PCs?

And yeah, it's hard to see how the PCs even survived this section of the game. Well, except for those who didn't. Did you cliffhang for six months in real time, and where?


----------



## havenstone

*The Taken and the Dead*

*ATRIX AND KAY* have managed to leave Guardwatch before the news arrived from the south to spark panic. At dawn, after reviving Atrix, the weary Dethasian high priest sought an inspired word from Ain on their next course of action — and was told that all of them should flee, without looking back. They walked out the main gate of the castle wearing hooded clerical robes. Atrix and Kay, both totally drained from their ordeal, told the Dethasians to press on along the road while they tried to find and warn their friends in the camp.

The first person they find, in the mercenary grounds, is Lucian di Tosca di Ferrau. The furious, impulsive Caragond refused to fight alongside the Senalline army after hearing about Atrix’s death and the brutal d’Aramant response. He looks astounded to see Atrix alive, but also unfeignedly pleased.

“You missed our sparring match,” Atrix says casually, trying to look like he isn’t about to collapse.

“You didn’t wait for me to accompany you to the field,” Lucian retorts. “I could have had a seventh torc, you could have lived, and we both could have marched off to fight the Arawai.” Warily, he walks over to them and considers their Dethasian disguise. “So how in Ain’s name did you manage this trick? I didn’t realize that they’d bring you back from the dead if you agreed to join the priesthood.”

Atrix almost manages a laugh. “No time now, di Ferrau. We have to find the others and run. The real priests are convinced that something terrible is coming.”

To their consternation they find the dwarrow all gone and Darren nowhere to be found, Carwyn and Lune’s gambling tent stripped, and Meeshak’s quarters empty. They debate heading back into Guardwatch to warn Atrix’s cousins, but as the first survivors of the southern calamity arrive and hysteria spreads, the castle gate is besieged by thousands of frantic camp followers seeking refuge. Atrix, Kay, and Lucian reluctantly start trudging along the crowded road to the north. To their relief, they are soon overtaken by Kyla; her albino baby T’harai wakes up and gives a reedy wail as the friends enthusiastically embrace each other.

A half hour later, they hear a whip crack and a familiar grim voice warning, “Not too close to the cart, gentlemen.” Kyla looks around in delight to see Meeshak carrying a drover’s whip, standing atop a wagon piled high with wool sacks and bolsters. Carwyn and Lune are guiding the cart-horse, and Nina and Darren are perched among the sacks, casually brandishing daggers at anyone who casts a covetous glance at the cart or horse. Kyla waves them down, and for a moment all the horrors of the last few days are forgotten as the old friends discover each other alive. The group in the cart are dumbfounded to see Atrix walking and talking, but he shrugs off their whispered questions with a promise to explain later, as he helps lift an exhausted Kay into the wagon bed.

“On the north side of the camp, we met a merchant who was happy to part with this cart and goods for an unreasonable amount of our gold,” Carwyn explains. “We thought – hoped – that we might need it if we found injured friends along the way.”

*ATRIX CLIMBS UP* into the wool sacks and sees the wretched Agerain trussed in the bottom of the wagon, hidden from view. “di Ferrau, I need your sword,” Atrix demands instantly. Agerain writhes and screams through his gag at the sight of the supposedly deceased d’Loriad. Nina only just manages to reach them in time. Atrix directs a dangerous stare at the fingers gripping his sword hand. “Let go of me.”

“I can’t let you kill him.”

Fury simmers up in Atrix’s eyes. “Nina, allow me to say something that’s been on my mind for months: _what the hell exactly do you think you’re doing?_”

Nina shakes his head, unable to explain his sense of obligation. “Atrix, look at him. He’s done all the harm he can do, and now he’s at our mercy. This isn’t the time to kill him.”

“My brother was tortured to death because of him,” Atrix snarls. “Don’t talk to me about mercy.”

“We might yet need a hostage, Atrix,” Meeshak murmurs from the front of the wagon. “Or someone who can admit the d’Aramants’ treachery. There are greater betrayals here than your brother’s murder. We’ll punish the d’Aramant when we’re sure he’s given us everything we need. And believe me, he’ll be punished appropriately for what he’s done.”

After a long silence, Atrix pulls away from Nina and hands Lucian back his saber, before checking that Kay is comfortably cradled between two rolled up bolsters. He sits at the rear of the cart, holding Kay’s hand, poised painfully between equally powerful impulses toward violence and tenderness. Nina glances down at Agerain, whose eyes are tearing up with fear and hatred but show no trace of gratitude. _Uncle_, Nina thinks bleakly, _you always said that there was more to the clan than the assassins’ code – that we were more than a pack of killers. I hope you’d understand me if you were here now._

The wagon reaches the top of a rise overlooking a river ford. To their despair, the small group of refugees see a great horde of Arawai galloping toward the road, pursuing a small band of d’Aramant cavalry. “That’s Mercon,” Darren declares urgently, pointing to the leader of the knights. “And... and Calla.”

Kyla whips out her bow and Carwyn her crossbow. Every other party member who has anything left to throw or shoot sends it in the direction of the treacherous d’Aramant General. The already wounded Mercon makes it across the ford, only to collapse as Kyla’s fifth arrow takes him between the shoulder blades. He slumps into Calla’s arms; Darren’s throat goes dry at the anguish in her face, and he shouts, “No – he’s dead, don’t hit the girl!” as Kyla prepares to shoot again. The d’Aramant knights ride in to prop up their General’s limp form, and flee out of sight.

Then the hundreds of Arawai thunder up to the ford, and wheel around to face the tide of hopeless refugees, bows and spears in hand. “Surrender, _kherasi_,” one of them calls. “Turn back to the castle, or be slain.”

*HERDED BY THE* Arawai to the blood-soaked plains south of Guardwatch, the haggard Senallines find themselves surrounded by a seemingly endless multitude of armored strangers. The Arawai’s mysterious allies are thoroughly unfamiliar and unsettling – the curious designs engraved on their plate mail; the frightening, inhuman masks attached to their commanders’ broad helmets; the smell of unknown spices that surrounds them; the tightly disciplined silence with which they carry out their work, only rarely snapping out terse orders in their musical, incomprehensible tongue. The Northerners are thoroughly, brusquely searched by a hundred men with gold or brown skin, wearing gray tunics and loincloths. All the captives’ weapons and goods are stripped from them, and they are left wearing only their simplest clothes. Darren finally loses his needle shooter, but manages in a desperate feat of dexterity to retrieve his dwarrow amulet unnoticed from the man who takes it from him.

After the search, the thousands of prisoners are forced into single file and moved along by silent soldiers with long spears. The line stretches on almost interminably to a man clad in shining gold-colored robes, who takes a single instant to touch his hand to the forehead of each captive and point them into either one thorn-walled corral or the other. As the friends approach the end of the line, they realize uneasily that this is a division by nobility; the minority who possess high blood are shackled and separated from those without. Atrix notes that a few questionable Senalline aristocrats who successfully claimed descent from a Family bloodline are sorted into the non-noble camp, despite having been accepted as noble in practice. In fact, the friends from Rim Square are all placed without hesitation into the non-noble category – even Atrix himself, to his surprise and mild annoyance. He considers protesting, but is pushed on before he can figure out how to communicate the mistake. The golden-robed man pauses for an additional second on both Agerain and baby T’harai, but waves them through into the non-noble enclosure.

By late evening, close to a thousand prisoners from the flanking force are also marched into camp. Ontaya and Ash are reunited with the party – Ontaya’s adoption into the d’Orbis clearly renders her non-noble – while the grim-faced General Sarquin and most of the knights are ushered into the other corral. On the noble side of the divide, Atrix spots his best friend Jaron d’Syrnon, his dashing cousin Alan d’Loriad, and Ontaya’s cousin Ellikard, all captured on the battlefield. With her pulse hammering in her throat, Kyla also sees a badly wounded Gareth, who must have left Guardwatch to find her at some point, apparently without Adgar. The corrals are too far apart for voices to carry over the groans of the injured, but the friends try to communicate as best they can with waves and gestures.

The gray and red moons are high in the sky by the time the sorting is complete. Then several hundred armored spearmen surround each corral. A dozen figures entirely swathed in black cloth approach the noble enclosure, wearing silver skull pendants that glint in the moonlight and bearing long, curved swords. The strange soldiers drag a cluster of noble captives out by their shackles and force them to kneel before the black-clad men. 

Kyla screams harshly and Darren feels the bile rise in his throat as the executioners’ swords rise and fall, parting heads from bodies without apparent effort. Ontaya roars, barely suppressing her berserker rage, and Atrix tears at the thick thorn fence in denial as the soldiers approach his uncle Sarquin. The d’Loriad General stills his captors with an intense glare, rises to his feet and walks to his doom past the host of sobbing, horrified nobles. The little group of friends from Rim Square sink to the ground and avert their eyes in anguish as it becomes clear that the beheadings will spare no one.

By morning, not a single Northern noble remains alive.

Silhouetted on the southern horizon stand scores of massive, wheeled cages.


_*This marks the end of “The Arawai Campaign” – Part One of The Talismans of Aerdrim.*_


----------



## havenstone

Orichalcum said:


> Hey, can we see what happens when Corim reports back, or are you going to stick to the p.o.v. of the PCs?




We're sticking with PC p.o.v.  All things in good time...



> And yeah, it's hard to see how the PCs even survived this section of the game. Well, except for those who didn't. Did you cliffhang for six months in real time, and where?




The capture of the party by the Arawai's mysterious spellcasting allies marked the end of our first semester of play... so I guess that must have been May or June '96.  I spent the fall in London, and we resumed play in Jan '97.

Nina's player, sadly, wasn't able to stick with us, and Kyla's player left temporarily as well -- you'll all see those points of departure in the narrative that follows.  On the plus side, their leaving opened up space for a new arrival.  *grin*  Be getting to you soon, Ori...


----------



## Feir Fireb

Orichalcum said:


> And yeah, it's hard to see how the PCs even survived this section of the game. Well, except for those who didn't. Did you cliffhang for six months in real time, and where?




Yeah, I believe the appropriate response at this point is, "Geez, grandpa!  What did you read me this thing for?"


----------



## Orichalcum

I always wondered - how did the "noble test" work? Was their blood actually different in some way from non-nobles? Did it only descend through the paternal line?

No wonder folks were impatient for your return that fall.


----------



## doghead

havenstone said:


> By morning, not a single Northern noble remains alive.
> 
> Silhouetted on the southern horizon stand scores of massive, wheeled cages.




Wow. That is one hell of an ending. I am looking forward to see what you have in store for for the players next - and finding out who the mysterious allies of the Arawai are.

doghead
aka thotd


----------



## havenstone

doghead said:


> Wow. That is one hell of an ending. I am looking forward to see what you have in store for for the players next - and finding out who the mysterious allies of the Arawai are.




Much appreciated, doghead.  I'm really looking forward to writing up the next section -- and in particular, to another long excerpt from the Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline.  (Thanks to the brilliant Feir Fireb).

Ori - will explain a bit more on the noble blood test later in the narrative.


----------



## havenstone

*Part Two: City of Dragons*

*The Rules of the Cage*

*THE MORNING LIGHT *filters dimly through the smoke billowing from the ruins of Guardwatch. Mud and ash cover the thousands of stunned prisoners who sit mutely in the non-noble corral; their captors’ display of brutality and arcane power has broken any will to resistance. Shortly after sunrise, screams rise from the entrance to the thorn ring as dozens of armored strangers run in and begin pulling the captives to their feet. The moment of hysteria subsides as it becomes clear that the soldiers are not marshaling the surviving Northerners for execution, but splitting them into groups and shepherding them south toward the great wheeled cages.

As the soldiers draw closer, Carwyn notices with a sharp twinge of dread that they are systematically dividing any individual prisoners who try to stick together. “Don’t touch me,” she whispers to Lune, edging away from him. Atrix looks up from where he has cradled the exhausted Kay through the night, not comprehending until it’s too late. The brusque soldiers pull Kay away from him, beating him half unconscious as he tries desperately to pull her back.

Nina notices almost too late that Agerain d’Aramant has drifted away from the rest of the group, allowing the soldiers to pull him into the same cluster as Kay. “No!” Nina gasps, running toward Agerain. He is met by gauntleted fists and dragged off alone into a third group. Agerain’s eyes follow him with poisonous malevolence, then drift back to Kay.

Each group is marched to one of the huge cages. The bars of the cages are made of a segmented, hollow wood, flexible but tremendously strong, which the Northerners have never seen before; the wheels are reinforced with smooth bands of iron. Atrix curses helplessly as Kay and Agerain are lost to sight in the center of another cage, while Nina is ushered away to a third. The rest of the group – Ash, Atrix, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, Lucian, Lune, Meeshak, and Ontaya – are confined together. 

There are 26 other captives in the cage with them. It is clear they will have no real privacy while they are locked up together; if all of the prisoners wanted to sleep at the same time, there would be barely enough floor space for everyone to lie packed closely together. Most of their fellow prisoners are wounded soldiers; there are also several captured servant girls and merchants from various countries. One of the captives is a young man with the small stature and light brown skin of the Jendae -- a nomadic race, like the Sufza, who travel throughout the barbarian plains and the southern reaches of the civilized realms. The Jendae are a deeply reverent people, renowned for their gifts of prophecy as well as their more prosaic skills as tinkers. This young man is silent and has a haunted look about him.

Staring dully out through the bars, Kyla notes that most of the Arawai host do not seem to be talking to or even acknowledging the presence of the alien armored warriors any more than absolutely necessary. At mid-morning, the northern Arawai tribes strike camp and ride off to their respective home territories. Baby T’harai begins to wail hungrily, but when the strangers ignore her entreaties, there’s nothing Kyla can do but rock him until he whimpers himself to sleep.

Around noon, a silent golden-skinned warrior slides three buckets of millet porridge and some skins of water between the bars of their cage. A beefy, dangerous-looking Caragond soldier grabs one of the pails and begin wolfing down the food with four of his friends. Lucian and Ontaya get to the other food buckets first, and ensure that a fair division between the weaker captives gets underway. Then Ontaya walks over to where the five soldiers are devouring the contents of the first bucket.

“Curago,” mutters one of them, elbowing the Caragond ringleader.

Curago scowls up at Ontaya. “What are you looking at?”

“If we turn on each other, we’re not going to get through this alive,” Ontaya says simply.

Some of the soldiers look guilty, but Curago bursts into a short, harsh laugh. “Little girl, have you ever been in a war before? The winning side takes prisoners. We’ll be held until our country decides to ransom us back -- and until then, we have to make our own rules.” He wipes the millet from his stubble and stands, casting a voracious stare around the cage. “Now, I see this as a lucky break. The Arawai aren’t the ones holding us. The strangers have taken too many of us to kill, but the domineering nobles have all gotten the chop. Those of us who remain get a big cage, with plenty of women and food for the strong.” 

Ontaya reaches out and grabs his wrists. Curago tries to pull away, then lashes out toward her knee with his boot, but Ontaya dodges and keeps her grip with ease. Ash, Lucian, Darren, and Atrix move quickly over to deter the other soldiers from joining the fight. “That’s not how it’s going to work,” Ontaya states in a calm, loud voice. “Here’s what the rules are going to be. Until we get out of this, everyone gets an equal share of the food. The women sleep alone, in their own quarter of the cage, unless they choose otherwise. No one gets violent, and no one gets hurt. Understood?”

Curago utters a vile curse and jabs at her eyes. Ontaya sighs and knocks his legs out from under him, bearing him to the floor of the cage and twisting one arm behind his back. “Understood?”

“Gnnnn... just let go of me,” the Caragond veteran snarls.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ontaya says. “By the power of Ain, be healed.” Curago’s wounds close, and he gasps in shock. “We have ten thousand enemies outside this cage. We don’t need any more.”


----------



## doghead

havenstone said:


> “We have ten thousand enemies outside this cage. We don’t need any more.”




Indeed they do not. I really like this story hour. Not so sure how fond of it I  would be if I was a player  Things are looking pretty bleak at the moment.

doghead
aka thotd


----------



## havenstone

*Out of the Ashes*

*THAT NIGHT, THE *camp is filled with the cries of the wounded, the sounds of men being beaten, coarse laughter, choked-off screams. Atrix stands at the bars, his face ashen, trying vainly to seek out through the smoky darkness the cage with Kay and Agerain. Eventually he sinks to the cage floor, looking more miserable than any of his friends have ever seen him. One of Curago’s comrades, a one-eyed Kedrisman, regards Ash balefully from two feet away. “You were a scout, weren’t you? I think it was the scouts as betrayed us.”

“Shut your face,” Curago barks. “One of... _them_ is coming.”

A tall, golden-skinned soldier with blue ribbons on his helmet strides up to the cage, carrying a torch and staring at all the prisoners inside. Kyla is startled when he speaks in fluent Arawai. “Does anyone in this group speak both Arawai and the tongue of the _kherasi_?”

“I do,” Kyla offers guardedly.

“Some new captives have been brought in. Women. One is about to give birth. We need a translator, and another female captive to assist.” The alien soldier considers. “Also, if you have priests among you, you may wish to bring one. The birth is not going well.”

Kyla tersely explains, and Carwyn and Meeshak agree to join her. The stranger calls over ten armed guards and unchains the door of the cage. The three Northerners step out past bristling spears and follow the soldier into the darkness. “Tell the priest that if he speaks without permission, not only will he be killed, but everyone in your cage will have their limbs and eyes removed and left for the crows,” their captor says emotionlessly. When Kyla translates, Meeshak’s lips tighten, but he says nothing.

The soldier leads them through the night to a tent littered with wounded and dying prisoners. Many are terribly burned by the fire the strangers called from the air. Others are bleeding from deep sword and spear wounds. Their moans and screams, however, are drowned out by a woman’s cries coming from behind a curtain at the far end of the tent.

Drawing aside the tattered cloth, Kyla and Carwyn see a Senalline noblewoman they recognize at once: Darcian d’Loriad, the young wife of the late General Sarquin, her belly distended under soot-stained silk. Darcian’s chalky face is distorted with agony as another contraction wracks her; blood is pooling thickly on the floor of the little enclosure. A haggard-looking half-Arawai midwife looks up as they enter. “You speak the _kherasi_ tongue, outcast?” she says to Kyla in a sharp tone. “I need to communicate with the woman.”

“Is she of noble blood?” the soldier asks Kyla intently. “The Archmaster is sleeping and will not come to test them before the morning.”

“I don’t know,” Kyla retorts. “Can my friend try to heal her?”

“Let him do his best.”

“If she is noble, it hardly matters,” the midwife says blackly.

Meeshak kneels beside the almost insensible Darcian and uses his invocations to cure her injuries and ease her pain. The midwife hands Carwyn a satchel of rags to mop up blood and sweat, while Kyla tries to get the pregnant woman to understand the Arawai woman’s questions. “It’s no use,” Meeshak says at last. “I don’t know enough to heal her. She is going to die. Tell the midwife to do what she can to save the child.” Despite their best efforts, the baby is born without drawing breath, and Darcian d’Loriad dies clutching Carwyn’s hand.

While Meeshak is grimly murmuring last rites over the mother and child, he notices the seemingly stillborn infant suddenly stir and cough. To cover the sound, he dramatically beats his breast and cries out in a grief-stricken voice, “The baby is alive!” -- then drops a hasty Feign Death charm on the newborn. 

“Part of the _kherasi_ death ritual for infants,” Kyla explains to the dubious-looking guards and midwife. “The priest shouts, ‘O the horror of untimely death,’ before saying... uh, a prayer for its soul.” 

The golden-skinned soldier pokes suspiciously at the baby, who remains inert. “Barbarians often feel they must make a great noise in order to lay souls to rest.” Kyla feels a mild sense of vertigo at hearing the term _barbarians_ applied to Senallines.

Carwyn snatches up the infant’s body, allowing her tears to flow freely. “Kyla, tell them that I insist on bearing the baby to wherever they are burying the dead.” 

“The barbarian dead are being burned, not buried,” the soldier says when Kyla translates. “But if she wishes to carry the child to the pyre...” He checks again to confirm that the infant is dead, then shrugs in assent. The Arawai midwife wipes her hands clean on the noblewoman’s silks, then leaves the tent. Kyla and Meeshak lift Darcian gently from the bloody floor and carry her behind Carwyn.

Her mind racing, Carwyn cradles the motionless baby at her side, just above the satchel of rags she received from the midwife. The little group is enveloped by choking smoke as they approach the massive pyre. Thousands of fallen soldiers and executed nobility are burning, with the fire being fed and kept under control by a hundred soot-stained strangers wearing gray loincloths. Meeshak and Kyla do their best to lay Darcian on the pile of bodies with dignity. Carwyn steps into the billowing smoke and -- with flawless sleight-of-hand -- throws the bundle of rags onto the fire while hiding the baby away in the satchel.

The guards are impatient to get the prisoners back to their cage, and within minutes the three of them are locked away again. Kyla leans through the bars to appeal to the soldier. “I have a baby of my own. He needs milk...” She sags to the floor as the stranger stalks coldly away.

*THEIR FRIENDS CROWD *around them, asking what happened. Meeshak looks around witheringly to deter their other cage-mates from eavesdropping, then draws his friends close together and speaks in barely audible tones.

“General Sarquin’s wife has died in childbirth. We weren’t able to prevent her death, but we were able to save the child. The strangers think he’s dead and on the pyre, but...” Carwyn opens her satchel to reveal the little Senalline newborn. Kyla’s baby T’harai stops crying for a moment and turns his head as if sensing the other infant’s presence.

Atrix looks into the bag, eyes shining. “Little cousin.” He touches the baby’s damp, sooty head, and for a moment regains something of his usual cheer. “Well, it’s a damned lucky thing he’s got me around to show him how to be a d’Loriad.”

“Atrix, he can’t know he’s a d’Loriad,” Carwyn breathes urgently. “The outsiders would kill him in a second if they knew. He’s got to be mine -- no one’s going to believe he belongs to Kyla or Ontaya. I’m... I’m going to be looking after him.” She glances over at Lune, thinking nervously, _We never spoke about children_. Her heart sinks at the stunned, unhappy expression on his face.

Reluctantly, Atrix grimaces his assent. “Well, all right then. I don’t suppose his mother told you his name?”

“His name will be Hamber,” Carwyn says. “For my father.”

Atrix looks even more pained. “We can’t call him something a little more, well, d’Loriad? Maybe... um... Ambros? It’s close to your fathe...”

“His name. Is Hamber,” Carwyn insists in a tone that brooks no question.

“It’s a good, solid name,” Ontaya whispers.

“For an innkeeper,” Atrix grumbles inaudibly. 

Meeshak holds up a hand, almost smiling, to forestall Carwyn from exploding in stifled indignation. “Let it go, Atrix. The baby’s got to pass as a Meadwater. Hamber’s a good name. Now, for the moment, the guards know we’ve got one baby in here, and might get suspicious if another one shows up; we’re going to have to keep one of them always hidden, and hope the guards aren’t too observant about the differences in pale skin. I can invoke Feign Death on one of them to keep him quiet for most of the day, and we can swaddle the hidden one tightly when he’s awake.”

“Is it going to be feigned?” Lune cuts in. “Kyla here can’t even get milk for the one. How are we going to keep them alive?”

At that, there is a moment of silence. It is broken when Ontaya sighs deeply. “Blood,” she says in quiet resignation. “Watered-down blood is all we have for them. Meeshak, you can consecrate it, bless it for their drinking -- it won’t give it all the virtues of milk, but it might keep their bodies from rejecting it.” She bites her arm until a trickle of blood is flowing. “And we can try to heal them as they weaken, to keep them from dying.”

“That’s grotesque,” Lune protests.

“But Ontaya’s right -- for now, it’s all we can do,” Meeshak says grimly. “Join me in praying it works.” He blesses the blood running down Ontaya’s arm. After a moment of hesitation, Kyla brings baby T’harai over and encourages him to feed.


----------



## havenstone

*The Lords of the South*

*SHORTLY BEFORE SUNRISE*, the imprisoned friends wake at the sound of cage doors creaking, prisoners shuffling nervously, and orders being shouted in the strange tongue of the Arawai’s allies.  The captives are being led out at lance-point, one cage at a time, and marched in a line back toward Guardwatch.  As their cage is opened, Carwyn scans the guards anxiously but judges that none of the guards who marched them to the birth the previous night have returned.  She carries out Hamber in her arms; in the chaos of the general emptying of the cage, none of the strangers seem to take notice of the second baby.  Curago grimaces as he steps down to the ground.  “See?  The Velnaryns have ransomed us, as usual.  A few months of mercenary service for them, and we’ll be free to return home.”

The prisoners are not led to the smoldering ruins of Guardwatch, but to a huge tent, from which they hear shrieks emerging.  Lucian glances over meaningfully at Atrix, clearly not intending to go quietly if this is another round of executions.  As the tent flap is opened, they catch a sharp, smoky aroma -- and then see the rank of masked, alien soldiers carrying irons with a complex, glowing symbol on the end.  Another set of guards grab the prisoners and tear their tunics across from the neck to expose their shoulders.

Curago bellows in horrified surprise as his shoulder is branded with the strange mark.  One by one, all of the captives receive the brand -- even the two newborns, who shriek as a minute iron (clearly designed for the purpose) is applied to their skin.  Ontaya lays her hands on them almost instantly to keep them alive, but the mark remains distinct and glaring on their tiny shoulders.  They are all returned to their cage, where Meeshak and Ontaya make sure that their wounded fellow prisoners stay alive despite the shock of the branding.  

It takes all day to brand the thousands of captives in the camp; meanwhile, the southern Arawai tribes break camp and ride out, grim-faced.  Only the thousands of implacable strangers remain.  That night, the predominant sound throughout the lightless camp is numb, terrified weeping.

*AT DAWN THE *next morning, a golden-skinned man cries out in the strangers’ incomprehensible language, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in every corner of the massive prisoner camp.  The young Jendae in their cage speaks for the first time since their capture, in a strained, bitter voice.  “The Imperial Herald is saying: ‘You are now chattel.  You are now chattel.  Your lives are spared for devotion to the ones who pay for them.  You have no property, no words, no breath, and no soul but what your masters grant you.  Praise the One for your place on the slopes of life.’”

“Who are these strangers?” asks Ash.  

The young man turns, his eyes dull.  “They are the Xaimani -- the Lords of the South.”

“South?” Ontaya asks urgently.  “South of Arawai?”

“Nothing is south of the Endless Plains,” Curago cuts in, trying to sound scornful.  “That’s what makes them endless.”

The Jendae laughs, his own voice trembling as much as Curago’s.  “The barbarians know better, Caragond -- some of us, anyway.  For centuries, the Arawai, Chramics, Jendae, and Sufza have known of the Northern and the Southern nations at opposite ends of the plains -- the Caragond Empire that once was, and the Xaimani Empire that remains mighty.  But we always hid your existence from each other.”

“Why?” Ash queries.

The young nomad talks rapidly, as if drowning his fear with words.  “It has been a precious secret to different peoples for different reasons.  The Arawai naturally feared becoming a battlefield between North and South.  The Chramics love trade above all else, and have made their wealth by selling in each civilization the goods unique to the other.  They don’t actually make silk, you know -- it’s from Xaiman.  The Sufza...”  The young man almost smiles.  “They consider your mutual ignorance of each other the Great Joke, and hold that spoiling it would be unthinkable.  And my people, the Jendae, have followed prophecies that speak of doom when the North and South meet.  Kingdoms falling; worlds ending.”

“And yet the Arawai called them in as allies,” Darren says, sounding horrified.  Jendae prophecies are not lightly ignored.

“The North finally resolved to conquer the plains,” the young man explains sadly.  “Faced with such a threat, the Arawai did not heed the Jendae Elders’ counsel.  They knew that the Xaimani sorcerers could overwhelm even the greatest Northern horde.  So they broke the secret of centuries, and sent an embassy to Imperial Tziwan.  The Xaimani have long considered Arawai as a distant protectorate of their vast Empire, and must have been angered and amazed in equal measure to discover that an unknown group of kingdoms were threatening to conquer it.”

“You dirty, lying...” Curago snarls, before falling mutinously silent at a look from Ontaya.

“What will happen to us now?” Carwyn asks.

“The same thing as any other nation or rebel army that loses a battle to a Xaimani legion: we will be taken to Xaiman and sold as slaves.”  The young Jendae shivers slightly.  “As many of us as survive the road through the plains, anyway.  It is a long, long way from here to the legendary city of Tziwan.  I thought I would take that road some day, but not like this.”

The haunted-looking Jendae’s name is Korael.  He is an apostate from his people -- when asked what this means, he will only say, “I can not follow the prophecies that have been spoken over me.  The One is too cruel.”  He has never been to the South, and does not know anything about the strange, terrible magic the Southerners used to destroy the Northern armies; he knows only that in Xaiman, there is a powerful caste of sorcerers known as the Radiant Path.  

Korael did learn the Xaimani common tongue from the Jendae elders as a child, and offers to teach it to anyone else in the cage.  “It will likely be the main language we need to use from now until the day we die.”


----------



## havenstone

*Across the Plains*

*AROUND MIDNIGHT, THE *silent cage suddenly erupts as Curago and eight or nine of the more predatory soldiers launch themselves at the sleeping Ontaya. They are clearly hoping to kill or incapacitate her. Ash has been discreetly keeping watch, and shouts the alarm just as the thugs reach the young paladin. Ontaya comes up swinging, along with her friends. Lune hesitates for a moment, looking physically pained at the prospect of choosing a side -- especially Ontaya’s -- but then kicks out at the kneecap of one of the soldiers who’s charging Ash. Outside the cage, the Xaimani guards watch in silence, making no attempt to break up the fight.

Meeshak forcefully jabs one of the attackers at a nerve point between two vertebrae, leaving him doubled up with pain. Ash drags another man off Ontaya, and knocks out the one-eyed soldier who accused him of betraying the North. Ontaya manages to control her berserker rage while banging heads together. When her strong right hook renders Curago unconscious, the handful of remaining thugs fall back warily. 

“Enough!” Ontaya roars, hurling Curago’s limp bulk across the cage. “If this idiocy ever happens again, I’ll invoke Ain’s justice and break the neck of the fool responsible. There will be peace in this cage, one way or the other.”

She sits back, grimacing. As the cage subsides into an uneasy quiet again, Ontaya looks around wearily at her friends. “And between us: no more secrets, no more working at cross purposes. We need to be able to trust each other, or we’re not going to survive this.”

*AT MID-MORNING*, the Xaimani strike camp. Hundreds of soldiers shoulder long ropes attached to the slave cages. The wood of the bars flexes and creaks as the great constructions start to roll across the plains. The rest of the legions march or ride alongside, wearing light armor and carrying a single short spear or sword. Ontaya gazes out at their armor, arms, and brightly colored decorations, trying to deduce their ranks and organization.

Lune is staring back at a small pile of bodies which were pulled out of other cages in the morning. Many of the dead are women or children. “If they’re going to sell us as slaves, shouldn’t they be protecting us from each other? I mean, we’re worth money, aren’t we? And we’ve got to be worth a lot, to justify all these cages and soldiers.”

“They’re preparing us to be slaves,” says Meeshak matter-of-factly. “Lock us up, let us treat each other like animals instead of human beings -- in the end, we break our own spirits. The Sistecherns have similar practices. It will save the Xaimani a lot of trouble in the long run.”

Lune shakes his head, looking nauseated and worn down. He spends the evening with his face pressed up against the bars, watching a handful of the guards laying a set of ceramic tiles in intricate patterns. Gold is changing hands, and while the guards rarely speak, they do so in absorbed, urgent tones. Carwyn asks what he’s staring at, and Lune turns to her with eyes shining. “They gamble. They’re human.”

Several days pass without incident; Curago and his friends appear to have been genuinely cowed by their beating. The weather is cooling into late autumn. With his daily casual examinations of the cage locks, Darren has halfway concocted an escape plan that he could put in place during the first major snowstorm. Then a few nights into the journey, they hear a commotion and shouts. Shortly before dawn, a terrible chorus of screams rises from the darkness ahead of them and continues as the sky brightens. When their cage rolls south, the party passes a cage whose wheels have been removed. Around it on all sides, Northern prisoners have been staked alive to the ground. A Xaimani herald stands atop the broken cage, repeating a single phrase; next to him, a sobbing Northerner translates: “This is the fate of all who attempt to deny their state of slavery.”

Korael says, almost inaudibly, “Someone must have escaped. They punish the whole cage when that happens.”

“That was Nina’s cage,” Ash says, bile rising in his throat as he recognizes one of the people he glimpsed being herded into line with their friend. He forces himself to scan the dead and dying closely, but can not see Nina anywhere among them.

“They’ll be hunting hard for the escapee,” Korael declares. “And we’ll know if they catch him -- what they do to him will make this seem merciful.”

*THE XAIMANI APPARENTLY *don’t find Nina; at any rate, there is no public torture or execution. The party members shelve any plans they had of breaking out, since it would be a death sentence for any who couldn’t make it, and focus instead on daily survival. Employing all her charisma, Carwyn coaxes the guards into teaching Lune how to play their tile games (she herself initially holds back, wary of exposing Hamber to too much scrutiny). The Xaimani pay Lune in pebbles rather than gold. Soon he has a significant stash of rocks, and a relationship with the guards that while far from friendly is at least somewhat human.

The guards relent and begin bringing small quantities of milk to the cage; T’harai and Hamber are weaned off their diet of blessed blood and water. As the weeks pass, the kids discover their toes, then their tongues. The party relaxes its attempts to keep one of them hidden, as it becomes clear that the guards don’t particularly care how many babies there are in the cage, assuming that all of them were borne by one of the slaves.

All the party members work hard to learn the Xaimani common language from Korael, with varying degrees of success. Meeshak finds the struggle particularly taxing, especially because his sleep has begun to be disturbed by strange, vivid dreams which leave him exhausted when he awakes. It’s a struggle to remember any of the details, but even through the haze of sleep they feel _important_.


----------



## havenstone

*The First Dream*







[I started hand-writing Meeshak's dreams on scraps of paper which I would hand to his player, usually at the beginning of a session]


----------



## Orichalcum

Do we ever get Nina's story?


----------



## havenstone

Orichalcum said:


> Do we ever get Nina's story?




No, I'm afraid I don't know what happened to Nina after his successful escape from the slave cages.  It's possible that in a future game, we might see Nina's return, with an explanation of the intervening years.  For now, I'll just have to use Michael Ende's classic copout: "That is another story, and will be told another time."


----------



## Feir Fireb

havenstone said:


> No, I'm afraid I don't know what happened to Nina after his successful escape from the slave cages.  It's possible that in a future game, we might see Nina's return, with an explanation of the intervening years.  For now, I'll just have to use Michael Ende's classic copout: "That is another story, and will be told another time."




Knowing Nina, he/she/it has been with us the whole stinking time and we've just never been able to tell


----------



## Orichalcum

havenstone said:


> For now, I'll just have to use Michael Ende's classic copout: "That is another story, and will be told another time."




Which he borrowed from C.S. Lewis fairly blatantly, only lightly paraphrasing it... 

Still, that's totally reasonable. I was just curious.


----------



## havenstone

*Overlord Daiqao*

*THE WEATHER GROWS *colder, forcing the prisoners to cling to each other in the cage at night for warmth and taxing Ontaya’s ability to cure disease. The Xaimani guards finally toss furs into the cages; a week later, after the first snowstorm hits, they also take a day to bind hides around the bamboo bars to create some shelter and keep all the slaves from dying of exposure. The winter is somewhat milder than the party is used to, but there are still many weeks of bitter cold. Hamber and T’harai, bundled up with their adoptive mothers, acquire a taste for the icicles that hang from the ceiling most mornings.

One winter evening, a tall Xaimani officer bearing an ornate ceremonial spear approaches their cage, escorted by a dozen guards. The officer’s armor and helmet are adorned with golden characters, and a golden mask with a snarling mouth mostly obscures his face. “I am _cadan_ Tshien Lo Dan,” he says in the common Xaimani tongue, speaking at a measured enough pace that some of the cage’s faster learners can just about understand him. “This legion of the Spear Path is under my command on the field of battle, following the will of _qil-ayan_ Daiqao.”

None of the prisoners dare to respond, which the _cadan_ seems to consider normal. “The guards tell me that you are the leader,” he continues, pointing to Ontaya. The paladin makes a noncommittal gesture; Lune and Atrix both roll their eyes, and Curago’s upper lip curls. “You will come with me at once.”

“Bow and thank the _cadan_,” one of the guards adds sharply. Ontaya bows to the gilt-armored officer and is released from the cage. The _cadan_ also demands that “the Jendae” come along to translate. Korael and Ontaya’s makeshift fur shoes do little to keep out the snow as they trudge out of the cage zone and through the seemingly endless ranks of Xaimani military tents.

The great central tent is decorated with gold banners, and its axial pole culminates in a stylized pair of crossed swords bound together with gilded cords. Outside, a black-armored honor guard stand with spears whose ghostly glow is plainly visible in the snowy twilight. The gruff officer issues Ontaya into the tent, where the air smells of woodsmoke, incense, and spicy meat. Several other soldiers and a black-robed man wearing a heavy fur mantle are seated on cushions around a brazier. Just behind them at the rear of the tent stands a suit of plate armor that appears to have been cast from pure gold; beside the armor hangs a long, curved sword with runes engraved along the blade. Casting her eyes around quickly, Ontaya concludes that the armor and sword belong to the short man who sits slightly to one side of the brazier, gazing at her without expression. She bows politely in his direction.

He smiles slightly and says a word Ontaya doesn’t recognize. “The Overlord compliments your perceptiveness,” Korael whispers. “He is _qil-ayan_ Daiqao -- the high general of these legions. You might want to make a deeper bow.”

Ontaya complies silently. She notes that general’s voice is crisp and authoritative, even when she does not understand half of what he is saying. His skin is also distinctly lighter than most of the Xaimani Ontaya has seen, and his features are flatter. Korael translates as the Overlord speaks: “Your cage of slaves has been the only one to suffer no deaths by violence, starvation or sickness. Can you explain this?”

Ontaya feels disoriented, sure that she should be sensing more evil on these men, given the near-constant brutality and atrocities against the innocent she has seen since her capture. Her paladin sense of evil is there, but muted to a strikingly low level, as though their appalling cruelty were accompanied by no particular malice. “The blessing of the One.”

When Korael translates, Daiqao inclines his head to regard the black-robed man. “What do you say, Reflective One? Does the beneficence of Ii rest on these barbarians?”

The Xaimani cleric shrugs. “The glory of Ii is over all the nations. It is known that these barbarians have priests, and from what we have heard, it would seem that the Northerners have a clearer image of the One than do the Arawai or Lakshari.”

Daiqao turns back sharply to Ontaya, who is resisting the desire to ask some theological questions of her own. “Is it the blessing of Ii that keeps the slaves in your cage from fighting, raping, and killing each other?”

“No, Overlord,” Ontaya replies, meeting his eyes. “It is our decision not to act like animals.”

The Southern general nods. “I think you will make a good slavemaster -- for an owner far more auspicious than the Legions. Your cage will be saved for Tziwan itself.” He waves the slaves away in dismissal. “Thank you, _cadan_.”

The _cadan_ exits the tent and regards Ontaya with an approving stare. “You Northerners may not make much account of yourselves on the battlefield, but some of you will make excellent slaves.”

Ontaya shows no expression as she bows again.


----------



## havenstone

*A Welcome Visit*

*THE SNOW DISAPPEARS *as the army passes into the driest reaches of the Arawai plains, but spring comes slowly to the arid landscape. For more than two months, the captives spend their nights shivering in the dusty, bitter wind that croons ceaselessly around the cage. The Arawai seem to be giving the Xaimani a wide berth; the party never see a single camp or riding party from the horse clans within eyeshot of the legion.

Carwyn bonds fiercely to Hamber, as though becoming a mother to the orphan is her rejoinder to all the injustice and horror of the last few months: the murders of her adoptive father and ex-lovers, her torture by the Sistecherns, the party’s enslavement by the Xaimani. Deep inside, she remains terribly frightened that Lune will leave her and Hamber if the possibility arises... but she has to admit that so far, the rogue hasn’t shown much sign of wanting to run, and his wariness around Hamber seems to reflect an inexperience with babies rather than fear of the commitment they represent. Carwyn does discover that she’s contracted a (cough) social disease from Lune, curses him out, and sheepishly asks Ontaya to cure them both.

Kyla is always conscientious and tender to T’harai, but finds that she is unable to throw herself into adoptive motherhood with Carwyn’s fervor. The little albino baby never feels like her own child; rather, T’harai represents the one unambiguous duty Kyla can now fulfill, after months of being pulled in agonizingly opposite directions by conflicting loyalties. In the many moments when waves of regret threaten to sweep her out of control, Kyla clings to the small, needy creature under her furs and ruthlessly pushes back the memories of Kalitha, Tevrala, Gareth.

*AS THE NIGHT *breezes grow warmer, the guards remove the hides and flea-ridden furs from the cages, and patches of green begin to appear in the wilderness around them. At times, the cage feels almost cheerful. One day, Ontaya senses a welcome presence -- one she has not felt since their enslavement. Casting her eyes around, she feels a tremendous surge of joy to see a huge white horse trotting past the army, accompanied by a single Sufza on foot. A Xaimani detachment questions the jogging, jovial Sufza, who replies in fluent Xaimani to their queries about the origin of the warhorse; he appears to be offering to sell the animal to them. Finally, they wave him on and tell him to keep moving.

That night is particularly dark, with only the gray moon Sheresc in the sky, half-eclipsed by the twin red moons Ascha and Tischa. Just after midnight, from the blackness beneath their cage, a cheery voice whispers in Northron: “Greetings and salutations, most palatable of paladins, most able of Atrixes, most lovely of larcenous ladies! My heart is singing to find you well and at peace!”

“Nurak,” Carwyn breathes back, calming Hamber, who has begun to fuss at the unfamiliar voice. “We are so, so glad to see you.”

“And thank you for looking after Dorma,” Ontaya adds warmly. “And not selling her.”

“It is a thing not to be mentioned,” Nurak replies at once. “Your stubborn steed would not suffer any but your sanctified self to sit her. This Sufza will keep her safe until you can ride her once more.”

“Have you seen Kay?” Atrix asks in an urgent hiss. “And bloody Agerain?”

“After days of devoted diligence, I can say they appear to be alive. Sadly, my speaking to the kindly Kay would arouse the attention of several slaves who could not be assured of staying silent.”

“Nurak,” Darren whispers, “can you think of any way for us to all get out of here? It would have to be all of us, or the Xaimani would kill the remaining ones.”

“In the open plains, the sorcerers of the South would likely find even the best-concealed of groups,” the mournful voice comes back. “A superior opportunity will assuredly arise once we are in Xaiman itself. Have you heard where this aggravating army intends to sell you?”

“In Tziwan,” Ontaya replies.

“Several scores of Sufza abide in the imperial capital,” Nurak informs them jubilantly. “My cousins and I will find you there, once you have been safely sold, and we will plan the most resplendent of rescues.”

“Excellent,” Meeshak breathes. “Go safely, Nurak. Watch for the guards.”

“They will not find the stealthiest of the Sufza,” the voice says dismissively, and with no more noise than the wind shifting in the grass, the skinny rogue is gone.


----------



## havenstone

*Tsanyang*

*THE PLAINS TURN *to hills, the desert to grassland, the grassland to scattered pine forests. The spring grows hotter than a Northern summer, and much more humid. Unfamiliar broadleaf trees begin appearing along the roadside, as do stands of bamboo -- “cage-wood,” as the captives think of it. The first settlements they roll through are populated by a mix of settled nomads (Arawai, Sufza, and Jendae) and other peoples from further south, whose features and skin colors vary greatly. Soon, however, the villages are populated almost entirely by gold-skinned Xaimani.

The party members spend hours pressed up against the bars, taking in the mix of familiar and alien: farmers wearing broad, flat straw hats and driving plough-oxen around their terraces; women pruning and grafting fruit trees that look nothing like the North’s; seemingly fragile houses of finely worked wood, with sliding doors and broad verandahs; children in luridly dyed clothes running alongside the cages to stare at the strange slaves, dodging the occasional blow from the tolerant Xaimani guards. The captives begin to receive a strange, mushy, white grain in their morning food buckets instead of millet.

The forests grow denser around the army, and torrential rains begin to frequently turn the tracks into thick, choking mud. “They won’t be able to keep us in the cages for long,” Korael predicts. “There are hundreds of leagues still to travel before we reach Tziwan, and even a Xaimani legionnaire will mutiny if he has to pull slaves through the mire that far.”

*THREE DAYS LATER*, they emerge from the jungle into a broad, terraced valley and can see in the distance a sprawling city nearly the size of Lynar. “Tsanyang,” they hear their guards call it. The cages halt at the edge of the farmland, and the guards bring new clothing to each cage, all made out of the same rough gray fabric. The male captives receive a loincloth, the women a shoulder-baring shift which cannot be rearranged to hide their slave brand. By this point, the lack of privacy for changing seems normal -- hardly even reason for embarrassment. 

With their rags discarded and wearing new gray slaveclothes, the prisoners are drawn along the cobbled road toward the gate of Tsanyang. Examining the steep outer reaches of the city, Ontaya deduces that it must have had a rather grand wall a hundred or more years ago, but the city long ago spilled up onto and over its fortifications, leaving only an indefensible sea of buildings and a few grand, ceremonial gates. 

As the cages creak through the gate and into the packed outer markets, the prisoners are overwhelmed by the explosion of colors, smells, and sheer novelty around them. The packed streets are lined with shops selling strange foods and spices, vivid caged birds and elaborately inked wall hangings, ice and coal, alchemical powders and apothecarial drugs. While chatting with their customers, the Xaimani shopkeepers’ fingers deftly shift beads along small wire frames; Darren recalls hearing about something similar used by the Chramic merchant clans, a strange game that somehow aids counting. In small courtyards just off the main road, acrobats stack themselves into improbable pyramids and magicians -- real or fake? -- conjure bursts of flame and smoke from their broad sleeves. For the first time the party members see the beautiful crafts they will later know as porcelain, enamel, and lacquer-work. Street musicians strike padded bamboo sticks against intricate arrays of drums and draw their bows across keening instruments with at least three dozen strings. Thousands of curious Xaimani press up to an invisible line, roughly one arms’ length from the marching soldiers, to gawk at the alien, pale-skinned slaves.

The cages halt along a broad, tree-lined avenue close to the heart of Tsanyang, with many-tiered wooden pagodas and brightly colored banners rising above the street. Three dozen long bamboo platforms have been erected along one side of the road, where passers-by can view them comfortably from the shade of the trees. Several prosperous-looking local Xaimani stride up to the cages, with slaves carrying chains and shackles behind them. The cages are opened, one by one, and the Northern captives led out to have the iron bonds fastened around their ankles. Most of the Northerners stumble, after months of hardly being able to use their legs at all. The guards push them up onto the platforms to stand, single-file, in the blazing sun. Then the spearmen step back, and the crowds surge up to the platforms, staring and shouting animatedly.

The legion’s heralds cry out over and over: “Behold the greatness of Xaiman! Behold the might of the Emperor! Behold the limitless power of his Empire, which now extends beyond Arawai to the northern lands of the Pale Folk. In lands unmapped and unknown, the Emperor’s glorious name is known and feared.”

“What’s the Emperor’s name again?” Atrix murmurs impertinently, as his leg is prodded by an inquisitive citizen.

“No idea,” Korael replies in a whisper. “I think it’s generally not spoken aloud, out of reverence.” 

Atrix laughs, and gets a spear butt in his back. “But you mentioned his family earlier?” he says almost inaudibly when the guards’ attention is elsewhere.

“The Khou Dynasty,” the Jendae says. “They’ve lasted for centuries, at least since the last grand civil war. I don’t remember the details.”

“Once you’ve got used to having one Family in charge, I suppose it’s simpl--” Atrix breaks off, his face going taut. He has spied Agerain and Kay being displayed three platforms down. Both look pale, listless, and unwell. Kay’s eyes are closed, Agerain’s open but unfocused.

“Easy, d’Loriad,” Lucian hisses.

“I know.” Atrix swallows and forces himself to look away.

“Time later for vengeance, if we find he’s laid a finger...”

“_I know!_” Atrix snaps, and receives another blow for it.


----------



## havenstone

*The Slave Road*

*THREE CARTS’ LOADS *of slaves are sold in Tsanyang. The cages are dismantled; from here on, the Northern slaves are expected to walk in their shackles. For months they trudge through the intensifying summer swelter, dodging snakes and being devoured by insects. Ontaya does her best to discreetly heal the sores that develop on their ankles from the heavy chains, and Meeshak tries to encourage them with exhortations from his half-remembered dreams. They pass the babies back and forth among party members, with Ash and Ontaya taking more and longer turns as the children gain weight.

The terraces in the hills around them are flooded, with thousands of Xaimani women crouched to transplant small, vibrantly green plants into the brown water. As the summer passes with daily torrents of rain, this unfamiliar “rice” crop rises in the fields until they are walking through a landscape of gently undulating waves of lurid green, with the jungle rising beyond on all sides. 

The slave train is constantly surrounded by murmuring crowds. Usually the curious Xaimani keep their distance, though there are a few exceptions -- notably during the Festival of Colors, which involves the Xaimani delightedly throwing lots of water and red powder at each other, leaving even the passing slaves drenched and dyed. No one throws anything at the legionnaires, of course; dishonoring a triumphal march would surely elicit severe penalties. When the wind is right, the captives can hear the Imperial Heralds at the head of the column, incessantly proclaiming the victory of the Xaimani legions over the pale Northerners.

*ONE DAY THE *throng parts rapidly around an unshaven, filthy Xaimani with cuts all over his body. The pariah lurches up to Ash -- who is carrying baby T’harai -- and shrieks out words the party doesn’t understand. T’harai gives a high, terrified scream, and Ash shoves the madman, who falls spasming and babbling to the ground. The rest of the crowd gives him a wide berth, while several legionnaires knock him away with the butts of their spears.

“Spirit-bound,” Korael says with fascinated distaste. “Don’t touch him if you can avoid it. The madness probably isn’t contagious, but no one knows for sure.” Ash looks down at his hands with concern.

“Who was that?” Kyla demands, quickly reclaiming the wailing T’harai. “What did he say?”

“The Spirit-bound are reported to be under the sway of powerful evil spirits that even a Xaimani High Priest or Jendae Elder finds nearly impossible to exorcise,” Korael explains. “They aren’t common, but I’m told one does come across them from time to time, especially in the slums of the bigger Xaimani cities. I don’t know why you don’t have them in the North. And what he said was: ‘Changeling -- a changeling.’”

That night, having rocked the upset T’harai to sleep, Kyla is awakened by his chuckling. She opens her eyes to see tiny sparks of light swirling around the half-Arawai baby. He meets her uncomprehending stare with a laugh of joy, and dust sifts up from the ground to briefly form an image of her face.

Looking around, she sees that Darren and Korael have also woken up. The young Jendae looks appalled. “Kyla... I didn’t think such talents existed in the North.” 

“Oh, Ain! Tell me this isn’t... what that Spirit-Bound had?”

“No, no. This is magic. A Radiant Path talent -- I’m sure.” Korael looks around in dread to see if any soldiers are within eyeshot. “Kyla, the Xaimani will never abide this kind of power in a slave child. It’s worse than using swords. They’ll burn the babe’s mind away if they find him doing this, if they don’t just kill him outright.”

With her skin prickling uncomfortably, Kyla waves away the lights and dust and pulls T’harai close to her. “Stop, little one.” The baby begins to cry. “Hush, ssh. You mustn’t make the lights any more. We’ll keep you safe.”

From then on, the party members take watches during the night to make sure T’harai doesn’t provide any more displays that might alert the guards.

*THE JUNGLE HILLS *descend to a lush plain of rice fields and rain forests. The broad, muddy tracks they have been following give way to stone-paved roads, and one village begins blending into the next with scarcely any space between them. The houses and temples grow finer, taller, and more elaborate as the slave column marches into the densely populated heart of Xaiman. All around them, the party members see technologies (in bridge-building, roads, irrigation, and crafts from porcelain to paper-making) and cultural practices far more elaborate than anything they had known in the North. They pass through cities far larger than Tsanyang, and unremarkable towns that are easily the size of any city they have seen in the North. For the first time, even the Lynar-born Senallines feel like barbarians.

Late in the Xaimani month of the Burning Lotus (early autumn), they find themselves sharing the broad stone highway with another legion coming from the northeast, leading two strings of fifty slaves each. These captives have deep brown skin, narrow eyes, and dark hair turned golden by long exposure to the sun. They are being forced to keep up a slightly faster pace than the Northerners. One of them, a muscular young man with blacker hair than his compatriots and an incongruously jaunty grin, gives a discreet salute as he passes the Northern slaves. “Hail, strangers. The heralds keep calling you the Pale Folk. Surely Pink Folk would be more appropriate?”

“When we have to walk in the sun for months,” Ash replies ruefully. “What do they call you?”

“Lakshari scum,” the youth says with pride. “Three and a half centuries since the Xaimani managed to bring Lakshadar into the Empire, but we can still manage a rebellion now and then. Sadly, they all tend to end like this.” He gestures at the slave column. “These were desert tribesmen from the north country. We had a few good hits at the legions before the damned Radiant Path began destroying all the springs in the north and forced a surrender.”

“And you’re also from the desert?” Kyla asks.

“No, my Arawai rose. I’m a city boy who got lost and found myself in the wrong place at a very wrong time.” He grins at her. “My name’s Chandur, by the way.”

“You seem pretty cheery for a slave,” Meeshak comments dourly.

“Does it make sense to cry over it?” Chandur shrugs. His eyes brighten as he draws abreast of Carwyn. “True, the shackles make it more difficult for me to win ladies’ hearts with my dancing. You’ll have to take my word that I can strut and spin as beautifully as any man from here to Orokin.” Carwyn smiles in spite of herself. 

“Did you not have any Radiant Path talents on your side of the rebellion?” Ontaya asks in a low voice.

Chandur looks over to her, his grin taking on a harder edge. “No. The Empire does its best to keep control over the mages. The Kardei insurgency sixty years ago taught them that. After all it cost them to pacify the Kardei, they’ve tried to make sure all talents are registered and watched. What about your little war up North?”

“No mages,” Lucian answers curtly. “We don’t have them in the North. Nor slaves.”

“Is that so?” the young Lakshari says, eyes gleaming. “Gods, no wonder you lost. No Radiant Path, lots of beautiful women -- it’s a miracle you weren’t overrun centuries ago.”

Atrix chuckles. “And here I was starting to think that no one in the South had a sense of humor.”

“No, that’s just the Xaimani. The other nations of the Empire haven’t acquired the permanent indigestion that’s the true mark of civilization.” Chandur drops his voice to a whisper as the guards driving his column approach. “Keep your spirits up, Pink Folk. If the Divinities are kind, in a few weeks we’ll see each other in Tziwan.” He winks at Carwyn. Lune bristles.


----------



## havenstone

*Meeshak's Dreams*

That night, Meeshak dreams:


----------



## havenstone

*The Heart of the World*

*NO ONE IN *the party will ever forget their first glimpse of the shining pinnacle of Imperial Tziwan: dozens of gilded towers reflecting the sun, suspended at an incredible height above the treeline of the forested plain. Even the normally impassive Xaimani legionnaires cannot restrain the excitement and reverence in their voices. Nearly a year after the cataclysm at Guardwatch, the party’s long march south is nearly over. The trees thin out around them as they trudge onward, soon replaced by a warren of buildings built densely upon each other, with people seemingly living or plying a trade in every crevice, ledge, tunnel, and corner. 

Then the party turns a corner and can see in the distance, rising out of this teeming ocean of houses, the glorious entirety of the central mount of Tziwan: nine vast tiers resting one upon the other, in a cascade of domes, hemi-domes, towers, and ornate battlements descending from the gold and ivory splendor of the Imperial Palace. The enormous pagoda spires jutting above the walls of the lower tiers look like miniature sculptures when set against the overwhelming mass of the mount above them. Banners big enough to shroud a Guildhall in Lynar hang from the walls of the fourth tier, covered in stark, vivid calligraphy and images of brilliantly colored beasts. The plodding column of slaves comes to a halt, trying vainly to fathom the scale of the capital mount. Gripped by the same awe, the soldiers stand still for several minutes.

After a long silence, Curago speaks hoarsely. “If this Empire has seriously turned its eyes North, the war is already over.”

*THOUGH THE STREET *crowds part quickly for the legions, it still takes the better part of a day for the triumphal column to descend to the muddy, mile-wide Shanyang river. They camp for one final night in a riverside military compound, with an outer field where the slaves sleep in the dirt. As the sun sets and seven moons rise, the river becomes a shimmering field of stars, with paper lanterns, torches, and magical spheres kindled on hundreds of ferries, barges, and trade boats.

In the morning, the slaves are led down to the Shanyang to bathe, washing their matted hair in the brown water and rinsing off the muck of the long road. (Atrix, who has put considerable resources into the skill of Looking Good At All Times, manages to come out looking almost like he’s been groomed for a ball, despite nearly a year’s growth of hair and beard). They are then loaded onto ferries across the river and marched through the seemingly endless outskirts of the great city. At last they come to a towering gate whose glass, gold, and enamel ornamentation catch the sunlight and create a brilliant nimbus around its peak. As in Tsanyang, a steep rise marks an outer wall that has long since been overrun by the sprawling city.

“The Celestial Gate,” says Korael, dry-mouthed. “I only remember a little about the map of Tziwan. Within this outmost, ninth tier, the tier without walls, are the _qohei_ -- the residential quarters -- of the Empire’s favored subject nations.”

“What’s behind that first wall?” Ash murmurs, pointing to the massive battlement just ahead of them. The stone of Tziwan’s mount is ivory-colored and appears unnaturally smooth, as if the walls had not been built so much as grown. Along the very top, made tiny by distance, trailing flower-vines bloom in magenta, pale yellow, and silvery blue.

“The city of artisans, I think. And one of the tiers beyond that belongs to the legions.” Korael looks back from the immense wall. “We won’t be going there. Slaves are sold in the outermost tier.”

The road winds southwest for two miles, following the wall of the eighth tier to an enormous gate of dark bronze: the Slave Gate. The party can see Overlord Daiqao’s gold plate armor shimmering as he rides triumphantly through the gateway into the upper city, followed by most of his army. A few dozen legionnaires, under the command of _cadan_ Tshien Lo Dan, remain to escort the shackled slaves further south.

Thousands of spectators from all over the Xaimani Empire line the roads around and beyond the Slave Gate. The cheers for the legionnaires are deafening, and the captives shuffle forward with shouts and taunts echoing in their ears: “Where are you from, barbarian? How many of your sisters and brothers escaped the net this time? Don’t worry, they’ll soon be here with you! What rock have you been hiding under, little whiteface, little onion? Did you think the Xaimani wouldn’t find you one day? They find everyone... Did Ii forget to paint you, or was it just not worth His trouble? We’ll put some color into you. Do you even understand a civilized language? Welcome to the heart of the world -- welcome to Tziwan!”

*THE PARTY LIMPS* into the grand slave market, a mile-long strip of raised stone platforms where human wares of all ages, nations, and sexes stand for inspection of passers-by. Some of the slaves are wearing gilt and perfume, others nothing but their own filth. Terrible shrieks echo through the market as women are parted from their children or gray-clad men are beaten for some infraction. Almost as loud is the constant, raucous haggling beneath the slavers’ canopies, where chains and shackles hang in great, vine-like clusters from the rafters. Many of the stalls are guarded by burly, branded men wearing rough gray slaveclothes but also brandishing clubs and staves. The side streets are lined discreetly with wheeled bamboo cages of all sizes.

A great square has been set up exclusively for the sale of the Northerners. Beneath the canopies on all sides of the square stand the Xaimani rich and noble, wearing radiantly colored silks and elaborate hair arrangements, carrying jeweled fans and weapons that appear to be both beautifully crafted and lethally efficient. Other robed men and women who appear to be priests and sorcerers stand among the nobles. Seated at a dais, surrounded by an impressive honor guard, is a thin-faced man whose pale gray robes are embroidered in gold and pearls with two shimmering, winged mythical beasts, their necks intertwined just below his high collar.

When the slaves have all mounted their blocks,_ cadan_ Tshien Lo Dan ascends the dais and kneels before the official, holding out his short ceremonial spear with the point toward himself. “Exalted Chancellor Hun. On behalf of _qil-ayan_ Daiqao, I present to you these spoils of the great Northern campaign. If they do not please, my life stands forfeit.”

The Imperial Chancellor takes the spear, turns it upright, and hands it back to the soldier. “Rise, _cadan_. Your legion brings honor to the Emperor.” He turns to the assembled Xaimani nobility. “On behalf of the glorious and generous Emperor, his humble servant cedes the Imperial right to these spoils, and permits the Sword Path to open their sale to all the honored guests here present. All praise to the benevolent Emperor for his great generosity.”

“Praise and gratitude,” the nobles call back, clearly itching to approach the slaves. “The blessings of Heaven be upon him.”

The Chancellor and _cadan_ descend from the dais. Tshien Lo Dan raises his spear and calls out in a ringing voice, “Let them be sold.”


----------



## havenstone

*On the Block*

*THE BUYERS SURGE* in. Auctioneers for the legion step up to each slave block and begin unshackling the slaves one by one and dragging them forward for inspection and sale. The auctioneer on their block begins with Lucian, declaring him a Northern warrior who would make a fine bodyguard. After fierce competition, the party’s Caragond friend is led away by a sharp-featured, middle-aged woman who eyes him appreciatively and comments that her “last champion fell in the Grand Arena at the summer games.”

Several of their other cagemates are sold in quick succession. Then, as Lune is brought forward, one of the legionnaire guards who taught him to play the tiles gives a quick nod to two oily-looking Xaimani in the middle of the auction yard. The two men make a strong opening bid for Lune. Carwyn tries to shuffle forward with Hamber to catch Lune’s arm, but the guards restrain her. After a few other quick bids, the auctioneer declares Lune sold, and pushes him off the block. “For that much money, he’d best be as good as you say he is,” one of Lune’s new owners says darkly to the grinning soldier.

“Put him on any table you please; he’ll win you back your gold in a week,” the guard promises in an undertone. The gamblers shrug and turn to leave. When Lune digs in his heels and points back to Carwyn, he receives a punch that almost breaks his nose. “One of you costs more than enough,” his new master snarls.

“_No_ -- no, you can’t separate us,” Carwyn screams.

“Woman, if you want to keep your child, hold your tongue,” hisses another guard. Carwyn collapses to her knees, sobbing, as Lune is hauled away.

*ONTAYA IS GRIMLY *working to keep her fury in check when hears the _cadan_’s voice behind her. “This is the woman, slavemaster.” Turning, she sees the legionnaire commander accompanied by an older, shorn-headed Xaimani wearing muted gray slaveclothes and a fine silver chain around his neck with a Xaimani symbol pendant.

“This is the one who comes with the _qil-ayan_’s recommendation?” The slavemaster regards Ontaya dispassionately.

“She kept everyone in her cage alive.”

“I could not have done it without my friends,” Ontaya says at once. “They helped to keep order -- one leader alone could not have achieved it.”

The bald Xaimani nods dubiously, looking over the little group. “Such is the way of things.”

“Order can be better preserved by keeping a strong group than by dividing a house,” _cadan_ Tshien Lo Dan says piously, clearly hoping to sell the party together at a set price.

“I have found it so myself. However, I do not know how many Northerners the Minister will require.”

While they haggle, Ontaya suddenly senses (against the general backdrop of selfishness and callousness) a stronger, sharper evil than any she has felt in her life -- a deep and cultivated malice, a cruelty so immense and inhumane it defies description. Her muscles clench as every instinct pushes her to charge from her block and attack the abomination. Instead, she cautiously turns her head and finds her eyes drawn to a tall, fine-featured man wearing long robes of ebon and gold under an elaborate black silk mantle. The elegant Xaimani has walked up to the blocks where the party and their cage-mates are being sold. His dark, serene eyes drift across Ontaya’s face; for a moment she is certain that he has sensed her presence, just as she sensed his. Then he looks emotionlessly away and calls out, “Three hundred for the prophet boy.”

“The Jendae to Archmaster Orozu,” the auctioneer responds at once. Korael, who had clearly not expected to have much bid for him, goes pale as he is dragged from the block. The black-mantled Xaimani also outbids several other buyers for Curago. Then Atrix is unchained and brought forward. Ontaya feels her stomach churn as Orozu regards Atrix with sharp, thoughtful interest and raises his hand to claim the auctioneer’s attention. The young paladin whirls to try to convince the _cadan_’s favored slavemaster to bid on them.

*ATRIX, HOWEVER, HAS *eyes only for the Imperial Chancellor, who has been wandering around the blocks chatting indulgently to several nobles. “Exalted Chancellor!” Atrix calls out in his most practiced Xaimani accent. The nobles catch their breath at this impertinence, and the three nearest guards angrily swing their staves and clubs in Atrix’s direction. The dexterous young d’Loriad ducks under their blows and spins into a deep obeisance. “Exalted Chancellor, forgive me for daring to speak in your presence.” He springs up into the air, again managing to escape the irate guards’ attacks. “But whether the Imperial Palace seeks a slave to serve gracefully, or to tell glorious tales of far-off lands, or to dance--” dodging a staff-- “you will find none here more capable than I.”

“Let him be,” Chancellor Hun says to the guards, sounding amused. “You have learned some eloquence in the common tongue, slave.”

“I am a quick learner, noble lord,” Atrix declares. “I know the stories, songs, and dances of my own people well, and I can learn a thousand others.” _And if I’m going to be sold, then let me be sold to none lower than the Xaimani Emperor himself..._

The Chancellor smiles benignly. “Five hundred for this one, _cadan_. He looks healthier than the others, and he may amuse the princes.”

“Six hundred.”

Again a handful of gasps arise, as Archmaster Orozu speaks out above the clamor. The Chancellor does not turn his head, but his voice acquires a distinct note of displeasure. “Eight hundred.”

“Nine hundred.”

“One thousand.”

“One thousand, two hundred.”

“_Two thousand_,” Chancellor Hun grates. A silence falls all around them. Ontaya releases her breath slowly as Orozu bows, his lips pressed together, and stalks off to join another auction. Curago and Korael are marched close behind him by his guards.

The Imperial Chancellor approaches the block to regard Atrix, his amusement gone. “The Archmaster clearly appreciates stories and dance more than I had imagined,” he remarks coldly to the _cadan_. “There must be scant amusement on the estate of Minister Goru.”

“Exalted Chancellor,” Darren ventures in a humble voice. The guards hesitate, unsure whether any of the Northern slaves are to be beaten for insolence. The Chancellor is clearly considering the same question. Darren continues hurriedly, not wanting to let Atrix be sold all by himself, and hoping to stick with his good friend. “Exalted Chancellor, I also know many stories of the peoples above the earth and the peoples below it -- and none of the other slaves have my gifts as a craftsman, with springs and gears and machines.”

The Chancellor purses his lips. “You understand the workings of mechanical devices?” When Darren nods eagerly, the Imperial official strokes his long, wispy beard.

“Glorious and exalted Chancellor,” Atrix murmurs, “he was indeed known in the North as the most clever and, er, new-machine-making young man in our humble nation.”

“Exalted one,” the _cadan_ hurriedly says, “if you consider this second slave to be of any worth at all, please accept him as a gift to the glory of the Emperor’s name.”

“The eternal Emperor accepts your generosity,” the Chancellor says, still sounding disgruntled from his bidding war. Atrix dares a cheerful, slightly smug wink at the relieved Darren. “But having ceded the Imperial right to these spoils, we will not deprive our nobility of any more slaves today. Let these two be given to Slavemaster Chang and brought to the Palace.”

Ontaya is rubbing her head in weary incredulity at Atrix and Darren managing to get themselves sold to the Emperor. Then behind her, a voice speaks decisively. “Name your price, _cadan_. The Minister will have these remaining slaves and their young.” The slavemaster’s gesture takes in Ontaya, Meeshak, Carwyn, Kyla, and Ash.

“The Minister is both wise and generous,” Tshien Lo Dan says without inflection, and leans in to whisper in the older man’s ear. The shaven-headed senior slave nods again, and the remaining survivors from Rim Square are led down from the block.

“I am Slavemaster Daoran, head of the Tziwan estates of His Excellency the Minister of State,” their purchaser informs them. “Consider yourselves most fortunate to become the property of Minister Tang. His glory is reflected to even his least possessions, and an obedient slave will know a good life in His Excellency’s service.” The party members nod, though Carwyn still looks shattered. They are led away together along the same road by which they entered the market. Darren looks mournfully after them, but cheers himself up with the prospect that the Imperial Palace might conceivably offer more resources -- both to build his understanding of Xaimani society, and to arrange an escape.

*ANOTHER SLAVEMASTER*, a short and decorous-looking Xaimani, soon walks over to Darren and Atrix. “You are the two who so impressed the Exalted Chancellor?”

“His Exaltedness was kind enough to recognize us,” Atrix says, bowing low.

Their custodian raises one eyebrow slightly. “The Exalted Chancellor is always referred to as His Magnificence. ‘Exaltedness’ is not a word. I am Slavemaster Chang of the Imperial Palace. Follow me.”

As the three make their way out of the slave market, they pass a block where Kay and Agerain stand, both looking sicker than ever as they are jabbed and examined by a dozen potential buyers. Atrix grabs at the chance. “Slavemaster Chang: that girl may be unwell, but she is a dancer of exquisite skill.”

The short Xaimani looks dubious. As he considers Kay, a black-robed man who is examining Agerain lets out a sharp breath. “Auctioneer -- this one bears the mark of the oldest curse!” He is holding back Agerain’s lank hair to reveal the round white mark on his forehead.

The bidding and prodding immediately cease, as the would-be buyers shrink away. “No wonder he looks so sick,” a noble says with contempt. “What about the girl?”

To Darren and Atrix’s dismay, the Xaimani part Kay’s matted hair and expose the spot on her forehead where she was kissed by Death. The embarrassed auctioneer quickly shuffles them both off the block.

A slaver near Atrix shakes his head with a grimace. “Waste of good space. Should have checked those two before bringing them all this way.”

Atrix looks to him in desperation. “Where will they be sold, sir?” 

“The Mines of Graiqal,” the slaver replies as Slavemaster Chang beckons the two of them onward. “They might live out the week.”


----------



## havenstone

*Imperial Tziwan*


----------



## Orichalcum

Wonderful post, havenstone, despite what I imagine must have been some frustration at the time over Atrix' splitting the party.  When do you want me to chime in with my intro?


----------



## Feir Fireb

Orichalcum said:


> Wonderful post, havenstone, despite what I imagine must have been some frustration at the time over Atrix' splitting the party.




To be fair, havenstone had several options that didn't involve splitting the party, nor even all of us getting sold to the Emperor.  Most of them probably would have been quite painful for Atrix.  But I'm guessing once the Chancellor decided to bid, the outcome was a foregone conclusion


----------



## havenstone

Orichalcum said:


> Wonderful post, havenstone, despite what I imagine must have been some frustration at the time over Atrix' splitting the party.




Heh.  I was fully prepared for the PCs to be bought en masse by either Archmaster Orozu or the Tang Estate, depending on whether the more charismatic characters succeeded in swaying the auction.  Atrix's sudden decision that _he_ only wanted to be bought by the _Emperor_ was... well, typical.  I was more amused than frustrated -- as you've noted earlier, I was starting to move away from plot handcuffs and enjoying the results of stronger PC agency.

Of course, I didn't have any Imperial Palace material ready, so Atrix's and Darren's players got to sit patiently through the tail end of the session, and we then met separately a couple days later to game out their time in the gilded cage.

For narrative purposes, however, we'll follow Atrix and Darren for the next stretch of this SH.  Feir Fireb: how about another lengthy excerpt from the Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline?


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Ascending the Mount*

*WHILE THERE ARE* many who would literally kill to know the secret ways between the inner recesses of the Xaimani Imperial Palace and the outer reaches of Tziwan, I very much doubt that any would choose to learn them the way that Atrix d'Loriad and I did.  Certainly, the threat of gelding would be enough to discourage anyone who was not already reluctant to become a slave.  I suppose that fact makes this book alone a treasure that would command a great price to even a marginally astute purchaser, though I suspect this account may now be of less use to a reader than it would have been at the time.  

Which reminds me: Rian, if you are reading this and ever want the incessant retelling of this story to end, you shall have to assist me in undoing the great misfortunes that we endured.  I suspect it will involve you taking on a few of the grey hairs I gained from the experience, but doubtless it will be worth the effort.

Jokes aside, I suspect at least some of the traps and passages we encountered are likely to have been changed or rerouted since then.  If the administrators of the Palace can make a man like Li Shotay caretaker of the Floating Gardens, I doubt they would be thoroughly unreflective in dealing revising palace security in the wake of what was probably the most famous slave escape in living memory.  I can say this with embarrassing perfect humility only because it would be a lie to imply otherwise.  Atrix, I think, would not care as much about that last point.

*I HAD ORIGINALLY* intended this account to be primarily technical in nature, as it was at first intended to help our compatriots and allies in Tziwan who might have need of it, at least as far as it should go in the face of whatever changes may have been made within the Palace.  But I had not counted on how heartened and inspired many other slaves and former slaves would be in our repeated tellings of our escape and have thus endeavored for a more thorough recounting.  It is easy for me as a Northerner to forget that just a few years ago the normalcy of slavery was almost utterly unquestioned in Xaiman and Sziao, and we two had the audacity to embarrass the Emperor himself.  I am not, however, the one to make this a tale of derring-do.  Corim has a greater gift for words in that way, if I could hold a knife to him for long enough to get it to paper.  It does our cause no good to have a thoroughly heartening story that only he, I and Atrix remember and tell. 

In any event, the escape from the Imperial Palace began almost as soon as we entered the palace itself.  Of course, we'd been hoping to escape from slavery as soon as we were put in cages after the battle on the Arawai plains.  But soon after we were taken into the Imperial Palace we found that the Mines of Graiqal were for _siseo laou_.  All in the Empire know, of course, that _siseo laou_ is a salt that causes water to become a terribly caustic acid, even your own sweat or the moisture of your lungs should you be so unfortunate to breathe it in.  But this was the first we Northerners had ever heard of it, and the need to rescue Kay from the mines became urgent.  Even had she been healthy at the time, knowing that most slaves in the _siseo laou_ mines last maybe a month or two at best would have allowed us little room for delay.  But she was already ill and haggard from the mark she bore and the treatment she endured on the long journey south.  Indeed, the mark and her condition were the reasons she'd been considered so worthless as to hand off to that death pit.  The thought even of Kay pocked and scarred let alone burned cruelly to death weighed heavily upon both of us, but especially upon Atrix.  

As a result, my description of the interior of the Imperial Palace will be unfortunately sparse.  Had we the time to be careful, we could have mustered our resources, explored the Palace as far as we were allowed and perhaps more than that, and learned much about the resplendent heart of the Xaimani Empire that is so concealed from all but the most powerful.  The workings of the clockwork menagerie that decorates the Floating Gardens to which I was assigned, for example, will take at least whole book to describe in full, possibly several.

*WE HAVE SUFFICIENT* allies in the upper strata of Xaimani society to describe and access all of the inner confines of Tziwan, save the Imperial Palace.  But those who have not yet been to Tziwan may benefit from knowing the layout of the heart of the city.  Indeed, passing through tier after tier of the inner city gave us some of our strongest impressions of the regimentation of Xaimani society, even beyond the existence of slavery, the Paths, and the Emperor.  Even though Senallin has its nobility, offices and guilds, these sophistications seem slovenly and informal by comparison to the ordering of Xaimani culture.  But to be blunt, the Xaimani way would seem an elaborate parody of the divisions of Senalline society, were Xaiman not reinforced by its swords and all the rest.  In the North, only a bullying child or a depraved criminal would make a man bow so low he can taste the dirt.  In Xaiman, it is the proper obeisance of slaves in the presence of nobles.  Proud as he was, these prostrations chafed Atrix in particular.

In any event, the Chancellor (or, more likely, one of his underlings) had entrusted these Northern curiosities for the Emperor to Slavemaster Chang, a dignified Xaimani but no less a slave than we for all his authority in the Palace.  For all his propriety and loyalty, he was rewarded with death as punishment for our escape.  We, of course, have earned excruciation.  There are a remarkable number of things that can earn a slave of the Imperial Palace excruciation, probably (to the great chagrin of myself and Atrix) many more than any other slave need worry about.  And Chang was exhaustive in explaining them.  He also taught us the proper obeisances to different nobles as we made our way up the Imperial Stair and upon our arrival at the Palace.  

Chang quickly taught us our new places in the order of things: Atrix was to showcase his elegance and exoticism for the Imperial Household, whether at the many parties and functions held with nobles and officials in attendance or in the simple privacy of the Imperial Family itself.  He would serve food with grace, dance strange Northern dances elegantly (which he was very good at and loved to do of course, although he was rather more used to the kinds that played a role in courtship and hence less suitable for solitary performance) and tell strange and interesting stories of the Emperor's new Northern territories.

I, on the other hand, was to be apprenticed as a craftsman to Li Shotay, master of the Floating Gardens.  Chang told me that this too was an honor.  But I would hear the details of my duties more fully from Master Li.

Beforehand, of course, Chang had us bathed and shaved, stripping us of the tattered garments we'd worn in the squalor of the slave cages.  Dressed in new grey loincloths, there was no more hiding the amulet that I'd been given by my dwarrow friends, and Chang confiscated it.  I was desperate not to lose something so irreplaceable.  Even neglecting the memory it held for me of the dwarrow, the ability to see and hear as the dwarrow do would be invaluable for our escape.  I begged and pleaded with Chang that I might keep it, deferentially lying that I would be a better and more loyal slave.  He kept it, reminding me that slaves were not permitted to own property, but suggested to my relief that he might return the “trinket” to my keeping as a reward for extremely good behavior.  I was of course cautious to emphasize its sentimental value and not to let slip any hint of its strange powers.  To be sure, Atrix and I would have later died under Tziwan without it.  Little did I consider at the time that the dwarrow are unknown in the South save through legends of their cruel and debased cousins, and possession of such an amulet might have been the end of me.  Fortunately it had bonded to me and seemed in no way magical, so Chang kept it in store as an incentive.

The consequence for poor behavior, however, would have been the normal lot of male slaves in the Palace: gelding.  The fear of this alone led me and Atrix to regret having brought the attention of the Chancellor at the auction.  We escaped with our manhoods intact solely by virtue of Northerners being considered sufficiently exotic that we might be kept for breeding stock if deemed satisfactory as slaves.

*THE IMPERIAL PALACE* is situated atop the mount about which Tziwan is built, rising above the sea and the cliffs which form the eastern and southern boundaries of the outer _qoheis_.  Although there are other entries to the Palace, the only one that is well-known is a great gatehouse in its outer wall that is heavily guarded and may be sealed by two silver portcullises.  Much care has been put into centuries of ornamentation designed to impress with the grandeur of the Emperor (and truly we were impressed, having nothing approaching its strange beauty even in Lynar-by-the-Sea).  The reliefs of dragons, ki-rin and strange demons have the exquisite delicacy of fortifications that have not been assaulted in centuries, and the wild abandon of artisans who do not expect such violence to mar it for as long as they can imagine.  And truly, even without the virtue of being well-guarded by the many loyal soldiers of the Xaimani Emperor, the strength of the Palace benefits greatly from its location on a height, and walls and an approach that are well-designed to take advantage of it.  We blanched at the thought of exiting it unbidden.

For there is only a single great stairway up the mount of Tziwan from the Forge gate that passes through the tiers of the bureaucrats and the nobles.  This stairway typically has multiple guards of the Spear Path every few yards.  There _are_ gates that lead to these other tiers from the Stairway, but they are riddled with murder holes for hidden archers and have great signal gongs perched atop them.  As we passed up the stairway, Chang pointed out the great buildings that rose above the walls of the Stairway.  As we passed through the bureaucratic sector, Chang told us that the Minister of State and his allies have palaces in the north of the tier, the Minister of Security and his allies to the south, and the other ministers on the far side, past the Palace.  But we could only see a few of them.  We could see, higher up, the Sky Temple, which was not adorned by spires and steeples as temples to Ii are in the North, but rather a single great dome that circles the entire middlemount, gilded and lacquered with scenes from Xaimani scripture and presumably buzzing with the priests that we saw entering and leaving the gates.  The ability to support such a massive dome is an architectural feat that I have not had a chance to study, but having seen smaller variations elsewhere I have several ideas as to how it may be done. 

[Brief excursion on architectural theory]

Above the palace was the House of the Scroll, a great library housed in a single building large enough to be a small tier in itself.  By comparison, the Archives of Senallin occupy a mere portion of the section of the Palace at Lynar which is governed by the d'Syrnon family, which is itself one of five.  And above that, at the commanding height of the center of Tziwan, sat the Imperial Palace in all its glory: walled, wrapped in protocol and singularly ensconced in centuries of deference towards the ruler of the Empire.  A more formidable prison I could not imagine.

[This section is interspersed with various illustrations: a rough map of the upper tiers of Tziwan with all locations noted, as well as a few wizards' spires.  The area around the palace of the Minister of Security is rather more detailed and the palace itself has its own page and rough map.  There are rough schematics of walls and gates with notes speculating as to unseen design details and examples of statuary placement]


----------



## Feir Fireb

havenstone said:


> Heh.  I was fully prepared for the PCs to be bought en masse by either Archmaster Orozu or the Tang Estate, depending on whether the more charismatic characters succeeded in swaying the auction.




Orozu?  [_shudder_]  But I somehow doubt Ontaya would have let that happen.

As an OOC addendum to my "Journals" post, I will note that I'm pretty sure Darren's amulet was for all practical purposes the only magic item the party had acquired up to that point, something like a year of realtime after the campaign had begun with (usually) weekly sessions as long as school was in session and the GM was in the country.  Losing the needle launcher Darren had designed was unpleasant, but he always knew how to make another one whenever the opportunity should arise.  Losing the amulet really hurt, though.  It was cold, cold hard


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": The Floating Gardens*

*CHANG LED US* further and further away from the Palace gate, not across the heart which contains the halls, offices and quarters of the Imperial Family and its most immediate servants but rather through room after room and hall after hall of slave quarters set into the interior of the outer wall of the Palace.  In the East Wing he finally brought us our own quarters -- the first quarters we had had since the cages.  Our beds were simple wooden pallets, dressed with straw, in a small room shared by several other slaves of the East Wing.  What does it mean that the innermost ring that circles the Palace, closer to the Imperial Household even than the priests, administrators and nobles, is a ring of slaves?  Even one untrained in Xaimani philosophy should see in this very fact an upheaval in what the Xaimani would call the natural order of things.  

Interrupting a moment's appraisal, Chang bade us follow him again.  A little ways north through the hallways we came upon what Chang called the Garden Gate, through which we heard flowing water and gentle music that was intricate but strange to me.  Past the many Spear Path soldiers on either side, it opened onto a sight more astonishing than any I had yet seen, even after the abundant wonders of Tziwan and the Palace.  Here was a great walled courtyard that was open to the sky; though it was in the midst of artifice after artifice of Xaimani architecture, it was full of lush greenery of every kind.  Everywhere that one could look, there were great topiary pieces, exquisitely shaped into great beasts such as dragons, lions and elephants.  But the artistry did not end there, as the gardens also held intricate undulating geometric designs or more abstract pieces such as small trees shaped to evoke the image of clouds rolling down a mountain.  A handful of slaves scattered throughout constantly but discreetly trimmed them.

There was also small greenery in abundance, with mosses and grasses flanking the carved pathways, ivy upon the walls and a riot of flowers everywhere that hung with unnatural grace.  And such flowers!  There were delicate exoticisms of every kind, orchids and strange flaring orange blossoms that look like small birds hovering in mid-flight, and others for which I still do not know the names.  Most are unknown to the North and many are rare even in the jungles of lush Xaiman.   

As I took all of the greenery in, I noticed that not only did small streams flow through this part of the Palace, filled with smooth stones and dotted with lily pads to provide a facade of natural beauty, but large sections of the garden were not set upon the Palace floor itself.  They were planted upon great metal discs that gradually curve upwards at the edges, rising out of the water like shallow bowls and floating upon the water itself like great delicate boats in such a way I thought impossible for such a mass of material that was not wooden.  And what's more, some of the streams actually flowed _uphill_.  I thought this a clever optical illusion at first, but some time later when I had a chance to examine the water more closely found this not to be the case.  Indeed, the water flowed uphill, and in such a way as was impossible for an ordinary pumping mechanism.

We walked through the gardens and I saw that it was impossible to move more than a few yards without coming upon a music box upon a beautifully carved pedestal that would be a piece of art in itself did not one immediately compare it to the music box upon it.  I had made one or two such mechanical devices myself as a youth in Rim Square, but they were quaint little contraptions of tin and pine from rough pieces such as could be easily found in a small village at little cost.  These were carved of ivory and jade, or of rare woods in such fine detail they needed no adornment of jewelry.  A pair of slaves scurried from pedestal to pedestal, keeping the boxes wound and the garden awash in music, anxiously eyeing the gate for members of the Imperial Household for whose enjoyment this garden existed.  

Further interspersed amongst the foliage and music boxes were what appeared to be grand animals: strange creatures lying on the ground, beauteous birds perched in the trees.  As we passed what looked to be a great sleeping cat that occasionally emitted a strange, thudding purr, it stretched its legs, yawned like a small horn and sat back on its haunches, gazing unblinkingly forward.  I started, but soon saw that this was no great beast but rather a most elaborate and realistic clockwork device, with fur of many thousand carefully dyed and stitched threads, great glass-and-jade eyes, and a carefully concealed but elegantly shaped metallic carcass.  Indeed, all of the creatures of the garden were mechanical, from singing birds to elegant gazelles to the smaller versions of the most fantastic beings of Xaimani legend.

*IN THE MIDST* of the garden stood a small, wrinkled old man, hunched over what would have appeared to be peacock -- were not the very real tailfeathers highlighted with tiny slivers of semiprecious gems, and the back and neck opened to reveal a fiendishly compact clockwork mechanism inside a wooden cavity.  The old man, whose features I later learned to recognize as Szianar, wore the loincloth of a slave but had a conspicuous belt of varied tools at his side.  He looked to be gingerly twisting a fastening tool in the peacock's innards until Chang announced, "Li Shotay, here is the Northerner of whom you have been advised." 

Master Li gently raised his head and eyed me with curiosity.  "So he is.  I have been told you claim some skill with mechanical devices and clockwork such as can be found here in the Floating Gardens of the Emperor, the blessings of Heaven be upon him."

"I do," I replied, anxious not to let on that I had never handled anything even remotely as intricate as the devices in the Gardens.

"Good.  I am in need of an assistant.  To spite such skill as I have gained here, my hands begin to fail me in my old age.  We shall want to get you up to speed quickly as the work here is unceasing and we wish to serve his Imperial Majesty without fail.  Come, see how this warped spring has affected the components around it."

He bade me crane my head over the peacock, and if his hands were failing him I should have wondered what he was like in the prime of youth.  His long, delicate fingers moved deftly and I had to rouse myself out of the reverie induced by the gardens in order to focus as he moved quickly from part to part, explaining their function.

*BEFORE LI SHOTAY* had finished, Slavemaster Chang interrupted, "I have other errands to attend to and must finish with these two.  Da-ren, you shall report to Li Shotay here after I have departed."  And with that, we returned to our quarters.  Chang resumed, brusque but matter-of-fact: "The guards know when you two are and are not supposed to leave.  Any attempt to transgress your limits will result in castration.  Further attempts will result in your mutilation and sale to the Unrefined Path."  He then spent the better part of an hour instructing us in the various prostrations that were required of us for the various members of the Imperial Household and ensuring that we could demonstrate them to his satisfaction. 

With that, he turned to Atrix.  "As you know, it is to be your great privilege and honor to entertain the Emperor and his family, guests, and greater servants with tales and performances from your Northern Lands.  By now the representative of the Harmonic Path should be ready to make you suitably presentable and inform you as to your expected behavior.  You," he said, turning to me, "shall report to your duties without delay."

As Chang passed through the door and turned his back to us, Atrix gave me a wry, silent farewell with his eyebrows, an ironic smile and a quick nod of head.  He then wheeled about and the two of them left me on my own.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Ticking Clocks*

*IN CHOOSING BETWEEN* our spare and cramped quarters and the wonders of the gardens I lost no time, but I at least took enough time in returning to Li Shotay to partake more deeply of the sights, sounds and smells.  I casually and reflexively scanned the construction for weaknesses and venues of escape, but only halfheartedly.  Even had I not been stripped of all of my hard-earned tools and Mullod's amulet, even without Slavemaster Chang's stern warnings, the carefully constructed walls and gates thick with guards were enough to urge caution and patience.

Li Shotay welcomed me warmly but lost no time in putting me to work.  Although the gaps in my understanding of those ingenious devices quickly became evident, Master Li was a great believer in learning by doing and was far too busy for a more methodical course of instruction.  But I smiled quietly to myself the instant I first grasped one of the picks used to gently pry open the compartments of the clockwork animals.  Putting on a new belt of tools, I immediately felt less naked and helpless, as if I had already taken the first step towards our escape.  There were no proper locksmith's tools to be sure, but the contents of that pouch were varied and well made.  I was sure I could make them do what I needed when the time came.

Master Li was a hard taskmaster but never unnecessarily harsh or cruel.  He simply demanded perfection because that is what the Imperial Family demanded, and on a timescale that we two could not control.  They expected their machines to simply and reliably work.  As the slaves who maintained the machines, we had to be as reliable in our work as the Imperial Family expected the machines to be.  This is, of course, an absurdity to anyone who knows the ways of moving parts that rust and rot and fail.  But the whole of the Empire would appear to have been carefully crafted to shield its sovereign from inconvenient realities.

[Here there are several haphazardly drawn and labelled diagrams of mechanical beasts and music boxes, first drafts. Some contain insets of finer detail.]

*SEVERAL EXHAUSTING HOURS* of springs, gears and toothed drums passed before the idea of lying on a wooden pallet became more appealing than drinking in the beauty of the gardens and all that I was learning, and several more hours passed before Li Shotay allowed me to do so.  I returned to find Atrix already there.  My first reaction was to laugh.  His hair had been cut and lacquered, his face caked in eyeshadow and rouge, and his body draped in flowing, colorful ribbons.  Decorated to a Xaimani ideal of a slave's beauty, he looked to me less the popinjay of Rim Square and more a streetwalker or a clown. His face was ashen beneath the makeup.

"Darren", he said, "we have to get out."

I stifled my guffaw at the sound of his voice, as grim and determined as I've ever heard him.  It was then that he first told me of his cousin Kay's danger of which I have previously written.  He didn't even bother glossing over the fact that he had been sent to entertain a gaggle of princes and nobles with his stories until he'd told me that he'd learned the nature of the Mines of Graiqal and the _siseo laou_.  I saw desperate resolve in his eyes.  Every day that we remained in the Palace might be our last chance to rescue Kay.  But in that moment we abandoned our cautions and ambitions and agreed to seize the first opportunity for escape that presented itself.  We would already lose a precious day to the journey to Graiqal itself.

Exhausted, we collapsed onto our pallets, gazing at the ceiling and debating which modes of escape might show some promise based on our scant observations from our first day in the Palace.  It wasn't until we were drifting off to sleep that Atrix began to dazedly recount his day's labors, gingerly rubbing the spot where Shect had run him through.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Harmony*

[A series of overhead diagrams of the Floating Gardens, heavily annotated with descriptions of structural elements, locations and types of clockwork creatures and music boxes, plants large enough to require significant root structure, remembered carvings and reliefs, typical numbers of guards, and direction of water flow.  The Xaimani equivalent of the question mark abounds.]

[An overhead diagram of the slave quarters and connecting, similarly annotated but in much sparser detail].

*NOTICE ANYTHING ABOUT* the layout of the Floating Gardens?  Where would you hide a secret passage amongst that riot of decoration if you wanted to?  The natural location is much clearer when you have a diagram laid out in front of you, but at first I found the task phenomenally difficult without Mullod's amulet.  I'd originally thought that the flowing water might escape to some location outside the palace, and for all I know that possibility may still be worth exploring.  But, designed as it is by the Radiant Path, I fear the water flow may follow a closed system. 

The Xaimani love of symmetry and harmony makes picking out irregularities in high Xaimani architecture frustratingly difficult, but also sometimes provides the first clues that something is amiss in the design.  The Xaimani also value elegance to such a degree that one should take any unnecessary bulk in the palace as a sign.  Notice in particular the load-bearing columns in the garden.  A clever Xaimani architect will also attempt misdirection based on the basic assumptions of geomancy that all Xaimani have in common, but fortunately as a foreigner I was unencumbered by these assumptions.  That said, they will always nest their arrangement in what they believe to be a deeper and subtler geomantic truth, so I have since then had to learn at least something of this architectural philosophy.

Days passed in frustration as I scoured the areas to which we were permitted for hidden or lost passages, and Atrix kept track of the movements of guards and nobles for patterns that we could exploit.  Where most slaves would savor and stretch their mealtimes, I would bolt the rice and little cakes that looked to me like rancid milk [_Senalline: "cheese"_] but tasted like scrambled eggs and were in fact made of ground beans.  I then had the remainder of my mealtime to look for a way out.  Every errand Li Shotay sent me on took perhaps three or four minutes longer than it ought have so I could quietly examine some new corner of the Gardens. 

Some few of those errands took me past the balconies on the walls from which I could see the ocean off to the east, and where the city sloped down to meet it, cliffs and docks.  But not the twisted and lifeless docks that I had first encountered in Lynar!  These bustled with life and human activity, people like tiny ants below scurrying along a maze of piers that had elaborate and well-maintained mechanisms for raising and lowering with the drastic swings of the tides.  Watching the vessels drifting in and out of the port felt like walking into a fantasy from one day in Lynar, when I'd imagined how real ships might be.  At least it did for a few moments before duties both open and secret beckoned.  I could scarcely believe my own eyes and found my thoughts turning to ships whenever my mind had a chance to wander.

The wall is, itself, an exceedingly poor point of approach or exit.  Even with its embellishments it is fairly sheer and even if Atrix could scale it as well as I, and neither of us ran the risk of breaking our legs in a fall, we would have been easy shots for the numerous guards upon it. At night the upper city remains relatively well-lit and the guards have beacons designed much like large bull's eye lanterns.  To be sure, it might be done by someone well-equipped but would require a fairly elaborate scheme to distract the guards.

*I HAD CUT* back on sleep so I could be exploring the Gardens before Li Shotay arrived in the morning.  It became obvious that if I remained at the palace for a while, I would quickly learn more about clockwork than either Doggerel or Cannedun had taught me.  It was not long, however, before a haggard Li Shotay awoke _me_ early one morning before dawn.  His eyes wild and his hands trembling with panic, he rushed me to the Gardens.  Out from amid the foliage drifted the wails of young girl who sounded as if her arm had been ripped off.  Rounding a hedge I saw the weeping girl, intact, dressed in royal finery and standing next to a horned clockwork beast, a strange amalgamation of other creatures that Li Shotay called a Ki-rin.  It sat beside her, dumb as a statue.  Before she could catch sight of us, he halted me and pointed Ki-rin, hissing out, "It's supposed to sing to the dawn!  She comes here every morning to hear it!"  

"Is she..."

"She is the Princess Kimusa!  We must fix it, the sun will rise soon!"

I comprehended Li Shotay's horror and followed his lead.  If the situation continued, our lives might be forfeit on account of a child's disappointment.  Approaching her, we engaged in the most cursory of obeisances possible for one of the Imperial Family, breaking from it as soon as we saw that she paid little attention through her tears.  After Li Shotay pulled back several glittering scales, I opened the back of the Ki-rin, releasing the fasteners and prying off the lid.  Inside lay some of the most fiendishly complicated clockwork I have ever seen.  Not only did it contain a sort of flute and bellows attached to a toothed drum that turned in time with the notes and depressed the flute keys, it was all connected to a master clock with the counterweights hidden in a leg that drove a number of other mechanisms.  The clock timed the device's operation, but the other mechanisms were driven by separately wound springs that took their cues from it.  The Ki-rin could pose and gesture at different times, and would sway when it sang.  Or at least it would if the main gearbox hadn't been jammed by a loose cog.  

[A very detailed schematic of the Ki-rin]

Such problems are rarely obvious at first, so Li Shotay went from point to point along the musical apparatus and associated gears, loosening parts that might be too tight and tightening those that might be too loose.  Some parts had clearly been thrown out of alignment by the primary malfunction and at least one needed to be replaced entirely.  Meanwhile I began to dismantle the casing on the main gearbox to see if the problem might be there. Master Li, his hands sweaty and shaking, began to lose grasp of his tools, but not before he could help me remove a spring that would have taken five times as long with half as many hands.  After passing my eyes over it a dozen times I finally found the cog but, uncertain how to get at it, managed to drop my pliers into the gearbox in my haste and nearly displace a half a dozen other gears.  I anxiously retrieved the pliers and checked that no further damage was done.  Then, very carefully, I removed the cog and set it in place, more securely and properly aligned.  Hoping that we had found the root of the problem, I returned in sequence each part from the small pile we'd carefully laid out, set the gears in motion and closed the back without fully sealing it.

As the sun rose over the edge of the wall and flecked the leaves with gold, the Ki-rin reared back slightly and let out a soft, low, lilting croon.  Swaying its neck in motion with its tune, it called forth to the dawn with rising joy that became a true overture.  Li Shotay and I sat back and watched Princess Kimusa's tears fade into silent wonderment.  At the time I could not have imagined a sweeter song.

*LATER THAT AFTERNOON*, well after the Ki-rin had faded back to silence and Princess Kimusa had taken her leave of us, after we had resealed it completely and returned to rather more mundane maintenance tasks which we approached with such ease as we could afford, I was accosted by Slavemaster Chang.  "For the past several hours, the Emperor's favorite daughter by the Niyonari Empress has been singing the praises of a particular Northerner slave to anyone she comes across.  I am to understand that you have repaired Princess Kimusa's favorite creature of the Floating Gardens in time for a proper sunrise and that for this you are to be suitably rewarded."

With that, my heart skipped a beat as he removed from a pouch at his side the amulet that Mullod had given me.

He continued, "Know that your status is unchanged and what has been most graciously given for exemplary service can as easily be taken away in punishment."

I lied and promised Chang only the most satisfactory behavior.  Receiving the amulet from him I gratefully slipped it over my head, and everything in the Palace was different.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Second Tries*

*WORK WAS LIGHT* the rest of the day as Li Shotay and I recovered from the morning's exhaustion, but the next day he began exerting the overcompensating discipline of someone punishing himself for failure to catch a problem in time and hoping never to repeat it.  As we made our rounds of basic maintenance for the various royals' favorite devices, I resumed my routine of stealing time wherever I could find it from meals and errands.  But this time I started from the beginning, retracing my old steps with a new tool.  For all its calm and pleasance, the Gardens had been a riot of sensation even without the aid of heightened senses such as the dwarrow have.  With the amulet, they came close to overwhelming.  Warm and cool airs rose and fell, swirling in what has long been a familiar dance of colors that have no name in any human language.  I listened for faint winds whistling through cracks and odd resonances in the construction.  

Then, late in the second morning after Chang returned the amulet to me, six days after Kay had been sold to Graiqal, I saw something while searching the wall near where it joined the main structure of the palace at the southern edge of the Gardens.  At the edge of dwarrow perception, a faint hint of cool air drifted from a crack at the base of one of the columns that dot the Garden wall that overlooks Tziwan.  Stepping back, I realized that the columns alternated in thickness because half actually supported the wall or a small guardpost atop whereas the other half were purely decorative.  This large one had no guardpost atop and to put a support column this close to the main structure was unnecessary, even though it fit the symmetry of the garden as I was sure there was another such column on the far end.  Curious.  I darted my eyes about seeking guards and, seeing none close enough to pay me any mind, poked my head through the last tall crenelation on the southern end of the wall to glimpse the other side.  Sure enough, the wall thickened far too quickly at this point as it approached the palace.  Returning quickly to the point where I saw the air moving, I held my ear close to the wall and tapped three times.  Was that an echo?  Three times again.  Yes, there was some kind of chamber here.  

Tapping at various other places, I soon became sure that the crack was at thinnest point of the chamber wall, probably the door.  Looking around, I still saw no guards.  I traced out a rectangle from where other cracks had airflow and saw that none of it was significantly covered by vines.  I pried at the edges of the door and soon a stone at about waist level revealed itself to be a cleverly sculpted faceplate, attached by hinges to a lock behind it.  Looking around again, I saw that not only was this hidden door conveniently distant from the nearest guards on the wall, but for the most part their rounds did not take guards to this part of the Gardens.  I surreptitiously replaced the panel and noted the features of the relief carved here: a pastoral scene, with a couple I assumed to be an emperor and his empress, attended by soldiers and maidens and surrounded by trees in bloom.  I returned to my errand, anxiously awaiting lunch and hoping Atrix would not be delayed by his entertainments.

Looking vaguely nauseated from having just had to repeat what had become his most popular stories, yet again, he immediately brightened up.  We agreed that we needed to try it that day, but our earliest opportunity when neither of us would be missed would likely be that night, after Atrix had finished some expected evening entertainments.  Neither of us knew where the door led or whether it led to much more than a hidden room.  But from the depth of the sound and the amount of airflow for such small cracks there was likely to be a passage of some sort.

*WE MADE OUR* rendezvous at the wall and Atrix stood watch while I attempted to pick the lock.  The lock was old but not decayed from disuse, and clearly produced by a locksmith who could command the kind of prices that the Imperial Palace could deliver.  I worked at the lock furiously but had never yet encountered one so complicated or well-designed.  My poor tinker's tools were not up to the task, and just as I was about to give up I heard a tiny "click."  But not from the lock.  I yelped in pain and with one hand brushed away a tiny needle that had embedded itself in my right hand.  

I staunched the tiny rivulet of blood with my left thumb and saw Atrix lift the needle from the ground and hold it up to the light of the moons.  Atrix silently cursed at the thin film that glistened upon it, the same color as the substance now sticky on my thumb.  As I opened my mouth to ask what we ought to do next, the world began to whirl about me, and I nearly collapsed.  My muscles limp and my head spinning, Atrix pulled my arm over his shoulder and helped me hobble all the way back to my pallet, hustling past the night guards and feigning exhaustion.  I heard Atrix's voice echo in my head, "You're warm, man."  I passed out from the poison.

I woke just before midday, weak and feverish, to a small crowd of people hovering over me.  Li Shotay and Slavemaster Chang looked annoyed, Atrix relieved and a pair of Imperial Physicians mystified.   Before any of the others could speak, Atrix blurted out, "Darren!  So good to see you awake!  You took ill last night, remember?" He gave me a meaningful glance and nod, indicating I should go along with him.  I mirrored his nod.  

The taller physician poked and prodded my gut, asking if it hurt.  I shook my head in denial.  The shorter one shook his head, "It's strange.  I'm familiar with a variety of fevers, even the more deadly kinds that can be caught in the deep jungle, and I'm sure I've never seen one that affects the breathing so, nor causes that sort of discoloration in the veins.  Are you sure he didn't eat anything unusual?" 

Atrix shook his head.  "I told you, it's a Northern disease, common enough in children but it can be dangerous in adults.  I had it when I was 8, put me out of sorts for a week.  It tends to be nastiest in the summer and the heat of the South may be making it much worse too.  I wouldn't want to get too close or you might catch it."  At an expectant gesture from Atrix, I managed a nod.  Chang and Li Shotay backed away slightly.

The taller one turned to Chang, "Well, keep him off his feet for as long as the fever lasts and his heartbeat remains weak.  Here, chew on this bark to lessen the fever's effects.  We will return to check on him in two days time, but you may seek our attention if his condition worsens."  Chang and Li Shotay grudgingly admitted they would follow their recommendation and as they filed out of the room I inadvertently scratched at the spot where the needle had pricked me and felt a daub of makeup.  Atrix's doing, no doubt.

*ATRIX REMAINED, SMILING* but anxious.  "How are you feeling my friend?  You've been out for a while.  You almost didn't make it."

"Well, the branding was worse.  But that was over with pretty quickly.  I can barely move."

Atrix lost his smile and shuffled his feet.  "How soon do you think we'll be able to try again?"

"I don't know.  Soon I hope, but I really need to rest.  I feel awful."

Atrix breathed in deeply and nodded in resignation.  "You're in no condition to do much of anything right now.  Rest up.  Now that the physicians have had a chance to talk to us, I'll be wanted elsewhere.  I'll check on you in the evening." 

I felt a little better in the evening, but not much.  I remained in my pallet until the next morning and was still weak and feverish for much of the day but steadily improving.  When Atrix came to eat lunch in the slave quarters, I suggested we might make another attempt the next evening if I was well enough.  

Atrix shook his head,  "No good. There's some kind of festival, a 'Day of Harvest,' the next day.  The other slaves are claiming pretty much all the nobles and major officiaries in Tziwan will be there, so there will be work almost around the clock in preparation.  Even if none of the slaves swarming about noticed us actually going, I'd be missed soon enough." He smirked sourly.  "They want to show off the pale singing barbarian of the North."

I shook my head in frustration.  "Afterwards?"

He began slowly and thoughtfully, "Well, many of the nobles will continue late into the night at their drinking.  I expect many of the slaves attending to them will also be exhausted the next day."

I continued, "And if Li Shotay isn't expecting me because I've been too sick to work, that might also buy us some time".  

"We'll try a few hours before dawn, then," Atrix said with growing enthusiasm, "and sleep in shifts after the festival, just to catch a little rest and make sure we don't oversleep."

I nodded in hopeful agreement, silently rueing the days that my carelessness had cost Kay.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": A Time to Gather*

*BY THE END* of the third day after my poisoning, I remained mildly ill but confident that I would finish my recovery from the poison with another night's sleep.  I'd hoped to hide this fact until we attempted the secret door, but the second visit from the Imperial physicians laid to rest any doubts.  Slavemaster Chang seemed especially pleased by my improvement.  "Good, now you may assist with the festival Banquet".  

I blinked, mystified.  "Say again?"

"The number of eminent guests requires that we use the great feast hall, which is large enough that some will have difficulty seeing Atrix's performances clearly.  But it would please his Imperial Majesty that all might see the fruits of his glorious conquest.  I would not dare put an unskilled performer before the Emperor, but you should have little difficulty as a table servant and such work will keep you moving about the entire hall.  Atrix will also be serving in addition to his performances and he is to instruct you in proper procedures and etiquette for these duties, as he has become well-acquainted with them.  Li Shotay will manage another day without you, I am sure."

That night, Atrix taught me the proper forms of address for different nobles and officials of all sorts.  Full obeisances became utterly impractical in a room full of possible recipients and thus were limited to the formal introduction of members of the Imperial Family itself.  We established the fundamentals of table manners in Xaimani high society (or as a servant thereto) before delving into the details, of which there were enough to make one long for the simplicity of clockwork Ki-rin.

[A rough annotation map of a significant section of the palace, predominantly covering the Great Feast Hall, the Floating Gardens, the slave quarters, and surrounding and connecting areas]
*
THE DAY OF *Harvest arrived, the 10th day since Kay had been sold to the Mines of Graiqal.  Atrix and I noted that number without daring discuss the odds that she still lived or what condition we might expect to find her in.  Immediately after breakfast Atrix escorted me about the feast hall, the kitchens, and the receiving areas to explain where I needed to be and when over the course of the Banquet.

We quickly devoured an early lunch and reported to the same member of the Harmonic Path who had been decorating Atrix so... interestingly... since our first day in the Palace.  Dressed made up in ribbons, rouge and all the rest myself, I gave silent thanks to Ii for having not laughed the first time I saw Atrix so arrayed.  Had I done so, Atrix would have never let me hear the end of my own preparation for the Banquet.

In the map on the preceding page, I have done my best to include all of the portions that I encountered on the Day of Harvest, and have filled in several others with descriptions from Atrix, labeled in red.  The annotation is largely speculative but I have every reason to believe that careful examination would result in finding at least a handful of other secret passages within the Palace.

The first guests to take advantage of the Emperor's largesse began to arrive in mid-afternoon, and they came in all the variety of the people who call the Xaimani their masters.  Many, despite distant origins, effectively called Tziwan their home for long stretches of time.  But some had come explicitly for this occasion, to pay their respects to the Emperor.  Though I did not know their names at the time, Seko, Minister of the Military, and Goru, Minister of Security, were in attendance, as were Archmasters Leratak and Shetzu of the Radiant Path.  Several Generals of the Legions, Overlords of the Sword Path, attended as guests.  Though most of the functionaries were Xaimani, the nobles and emissaries were varied indeed.  At one table sat a handful of young, arrogant Lakshari, dark of skin and hair but with features much like those of Northerners.  I found the Szianar difficult to tell from the Xaimani, but you could identify the emissaries from that part of the Empire by their elaborate headdresses and gaudy golden embroidery, and the Niyonari by their elegant austerity.  

*TRUE ENOUGH TO* Chang's expectations, we were amongst the busiest of the slaves that night, as guest after guest requested refreshment or assistance.  Atrix in particular attracted many of the attentions of the female attendees, though I had no shortage of them myself.  After the initial socialization the guests wandered one by one into the feast hall where they reclined on luxuriant couches as slaves catered to every whim they dared indulge in the company of their peers.  Atrix's service duties soon gave way to his performances.  He began with dances and after the guests were well-settled and conversation began to die down he sang as well.  The dances were... odd, but I had no idea what to expect.  

They were obviously inspired by ones he knew from the North, but he had to make them fit the circumstances.  Some of the folk dances he'd picked up while in Rim Square are suitable to unpaired dancing and a few of them reach a more rarefied form in the Palace of the Patriarchs, but they're generally better fit to dances in circles and lines. He'd managed to teach a few of those to other slaves who danced as well, but none danced them nearly as well or as much ease as he.  This fact made him even more the center of attention than he already was.  I found the music odd, too.  There were no proper Northern songs, but I couldn't see how one would perform them on such instruments as the Xaimani used.  As near as I could tell, Atrix had picked out Xaimani songs for the musicians that had a good-enough beat for the purpose of the dance and weren't so complicated that they couldn't introduce a Northern melody if he hummed it out for them. 

Atrix's favorite dances had always been partnered ones that aided him in wooing women, such as I saw at the Patriarch's Ball in Lynar.  Atrix had always been a strong lead, but with no one to match his skill for the more complicated dances he danced alone as if he had a phantom partner.  Perhaps he pictured someone in particular in his mind to guide him.  The Xaimani, of course, had no idea of this.  Clearly intrigued and impressed by both his skill and how different the dances were from those of the other slaves, they followed each dance with a polite but enthusiastic round of applause. 

The singing was more straightforward as Atrix was easily capable of carrying a tune whether with minimal accompaniment or completely solo.  Hearing my friend singing the songs of our homeland, however far away it might be, brought me comfort and courage despite.  It also provided a me welcome distraction for the nobles who would otherwise demand my attention.

*AT THE HEIGHT* of the Banquet, immediately before the serving of the meal, an Imperial Herald commanded the attention of the room and proclaimed the entrance of the Emperor.  At this, a great fanfare arose from the musicians and all of the slaves made a great and lengthy prostration.  I would expect the guests made appropriate gestures of respect for their station but I could not see with my head pressed to the ground.  We returned to standing when the Emperor began to speak a few words of welcome to indicate that the guests should continue to enjoy the festivities.  Rising up, I might have been startled by the expense of the Emperor's raiment had I not been distracted by the fact that he had arrived seated on a dais that floated perhaps three feet above the ground, the like of which I had never seen.  Even more impressive was the brilliant golden corona that emanated from all about him, making him seem like one of Ii's saints come down from the heavens or some creature out of myth.  Perhaps a dozen perfectly poised officers of the Sword Path surrounded him, a select honor guard wearing armor of enchanted silver that caught and reflected the light of the corona to dazzle the room.

The meal continued, as did Atrix's entertainments and my own servitorial duties.  The Emperor paid close attention to Atrix's singing and dancing but relied upon his own most trusted personal servants for food and drink.  For my part, I attempted to avert my gaze out to avoid seeming disrespectful, resisting the temptation to gawk at the sorcery that surrounded the Emperor.

Late that night, after all had left save a few Niyonari nobles who lay passed out from consuming too much of the rice spirits we had served, Slavemaster Chang interrupted our participation in the cleaning up to complement us.

"You both performed admirably tonight.  If you continue to serve His Imperial Majesty well, you may find yourselves favored among his slaves indeed."  Chang spoke with a demeanor generous enough that I suspected he'd received his own complements on the success of the Banquet.

We continued to strike the decorations and joined the other slaves in gathering for ourselves the leftover food that would spoil were it not soon consumed.  Returning to our pallets, we ate easily the most massive feast we'd had since the Patriarch's ball at Lynar, well over a year previous and after countless days of meager gruel and later meals that were nutritious but uninspiring.  We still managed to save enough for a generous breakfast and Atrix, mindful of my health, remained awake for the first brief shift.

 For better or for worse, we did not expect to eat with the other slaves the following morning.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": No Turning Back*

*OUR STOMACHS FULL* and my tinker's pouch strapped to my waist, we made our way towards the Floating Gardens.  At the Garden Gate I explained to the guards that Li Shotay worried the Ki-rin might be breaking down again and wanted me to check the first chance I got, preferably before its next performance.  Atrix was to help me determine if it was in tune.

We walked towards the Ki-rin, then as soon as we were out of sight we made a beeline for the secret door in the Garden wall.  Atrix again kept watch as I approached the lock with my tinker's tools.  Opening the stone faceplate, I carefully examined the area around the lock for openings that could have released the poisoned needle.  Sure enough, there were several that might have done so.  The mechanism itself was built into the door and probably only accessible from the other side.  I thought to disarm it by jamming the holes with picks, but if I were to design a trap like that I would make sure that the decoy holes would also act as triggers in case someone tried just that, unless they were able to jam them all simultaneously.  The only way I could block all of the holes sufficiently would have been with a thick and sturdy barrier of an appropriate size and shape, and I think this method would work in the future.  With few possessions to our name, finding and obtaining such a barrier would take time that we didn't have and probably another trip past the night guards.  So I would simply have to make due, taking care not to trigger the trap again and doing what little I could to keep myself unexposed, which seemed nigh impossible given the placement of the trap with respect to the lock.

[Facing pages: left, diagram of the secret door.  Right, inset schematic of the lock.]

I took a moment to clear my head and think about how I'd approached the lock before.  The tinker's picks still felt clumsy in the lock, but I took greater care with the pins this time.  I heard a "shh" from Atrix and saw him raise his hand a moment with wide, anxious eyes, gesturing me to stop.  He then relaxed and nodded for me to continue.  Delicately, one by one, the pins fell into place.  My pick deep in the lock, I gave it a good, strong wiggle and managed to set the last pin that had been eluding me.  With a delicate "click," I managed to turn the tumbler.  With another, painfully familiar "click," another poisoned needle jabbed me in the hand.  I cursed as the door opened in front of me.

"What do we do now?" Atrix muttered.

"We can't turn back.  The physicians won't believe I caught the strange Northern disease a second time.  I think one of them already half-suspected poison before you convinced him."

Beginning to feel dizzy and weak in the knees, I leaned on Atrix.

"Do you think you can keep going?"  he asked.

"Maybe.  It's coming on more slowly this time.  Atrix, Kay can't wait another three or four days.  We have to go now."

He shook his head.  "No, she can't."  I knew he desperately wanted to go, but he didn't want to kill me in the process.

My muscles ached and began to revolt against me.  I lifted my hand to my forehead and felt warmth.

"All right, let's go," Atrix said, as he hoisted more of my weight upon him and half-carried me through the door, closing it behind us.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Unexpected Company*

*IT IS WELL* that the Imperial Family of Xaiman values the lives of its members, or I might be dead by now.  _Okordo_ would have been easy enough to use in that needle trap and would have killed me swiftly.  But as I expect the passage was primarily designed for use by the Imperial Family itself, a lesser but still dangerous poison would allow a friend of the Palace to seek aid in the event of a mishap.  Based on my description of the substance, my most dedicated reader informs me that it was actually _zheido_.  But even though I responded better to the poison this time around, it was enough to drag me within a few inches of Shinjed’s realm.  [Marginal note: I am reminded that most readers know him as Yanluo, but our closest encounters with him were in Kardei, and I use the Kardei name for him by habit.]

[Map: passages within the Imperial Palace]

The stairs curled downwards to a passage that went straight on for a length embedded in the Palace wall.  The walls had no lit torches, but discreet cracks in them allowed a modicum of light from the moons to barely illuminate the pre-dawn passage.  "I can hardly see a thing," Atrix whispered. I drew my dwarrow amulet from its safe location in my tinker's pouch and placed it about my neck.  The passage came alive with light and color, as did the very air itself.  I could now hear the clinking of the artificial menagerie and the twittering of real birds drifting in through the cracks.  "Keep going forward", I told Atrix.  "We'll need to move quickly; it will be 20 or 30 minutes before the amulet begins to give me a headache and I need to take a break.  But don't go so quickly that I can't look for traps or other hidden doors."

I limped along, leaning on Atrix's shoulder as the poison continued to burn in my veins.  The designers of this passage had fortunately thought a trapped, concealed door in the Gardens sufficient to keep out intruders at this end of the passage.  We went along a little ways before I heard something.  "Shh," I said, tapping Atrix's shoulder.  We stopped, silent.  "Footsteps, they'll be upon us soon.  Four, maybe five."

"I don't believe it," Atrix whispered in consternation.  A pause: "We've got to hide." 

I scanned the narrow, largely featureless hallway in frustration and tossed a longing glance at the stairs distant behind us.  "Where?"

"I need a weapon.  Darren, give me your thickest, sturdiest pick.  Preferably one with a handle and a point."

My heart racing, I reached into my pouch and found the very one he'd requested.  I handed it to Atrix as he gritted his teeth.

Torchlight crawled through an intersection ahead, followed by the glint of spearheads and then armor.  Atrix eased me down from his shoulder and against the wall.  Four Spear Path guardsmen rounded a corner to face us and Atrix charged at them.  

*CATCHING THE SHEEN* of torchlight on his swiftly approaching body, they lowered their spears to receive his charge in surprise.  Atrix seized the tip of a spearshaft with his off-hand and vaulted against the guard's weight.  In the same fluid motion he planted himself in their midst with all the grace of a dancer and planted my pick deep in the eye of a guard.  Hoping Atrix had their complete attention, I crawled into the corner between the wall and the floor, inching towards the fray in silent anguish.

As their eyeless compatriot slumped to the ground, bleeding and twitching, the three remaining guards turned to face Atrix, their spears clattering against each other and the close walls.  Atrix threw himself furiously into another guard, slamming him against the wall and stabbing repeatedly in his side around the edge of the lacquered chestplate.  I trudged forward on my hands and knees, then gradually drew myself to standing against a wall as the other two soldiers dropped their spears and drew long knives to hack the fearless pale slave to pieces.  Atrix turned to face them, waving the pick about in a futile attempt to keep both of them at a distance and one swung broadly for Atrix's bare gut.  My fellow fugitive hopped backwards, deftly dodging the blade.  The guard continued to press forward and on the upswing left a nasty slash in Atrix's cheek.  The second guard cornered Atrix and cut a deep gash into his arm as he raised it to block.  

Hurling myself from the wall, with one hand I knocked the second guard's helmet up to uncover the back of his neck just before I slammed my other fist into the point where the neck met the base of his skull.  He fell into the other wall with a sickening crunch and I slid to the floor with him.  The remaining guard, hearing me, whirled about and slashed his knife down hard into my side.  Atrix threw a mighty jab at him that glanced from the armor but luckily didn't break the pick.  Feeling the full effects of the poison, I backed off, reeling as Atrix squared off with the guard.  

Atrix made short work of him.  The first instant his opponent overextended on a lunge, Atrix flew nimbly at him, jabbing at his hand, side and neck.  

He cleaned my pick of blood on the guard's clothes and made to hand it to me.  "We need to get going before the palace begins to wake up. Hopefully nobody heard the fight.  Can you move?"   The still-bleeding wound on Atrix's cheek would assuredly scar, yet it would only add to his rakish charm.  

I grunted in pain, lifting myself up a little.  "Yes, I think so."  I looked at the bodies of the guards.  "Shouldn't you take a spear?"

"I'm a d'Loriad, Darren, not a mercenary.  Do you think I've even been trained to use one properly?  Until I get a proper sword, I'd do better with these."  He picked up two daggers that had clattered to the floor and unbelted one of the guards.  "You should take one, too."

I nodded and eased myself down towards another corpse to do likewise.  "Clothes?"

He shook his head.  "Getting them out from under the armor will take time that we don't have.  Let's move." 

With that, we hoisted ourselves to standing.  I took the support of his shoulder again and limped hurriedly, trying to keep up with him.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Downward Spiral*

*WE DESCENDED INTO* a maze of passages beneath the Imperial Palace, as I have attempted to describe in my map.  It should be fairly accurate, as the delay between our journey and my first recount of it was not too long, but I make no guarantees.  The ability to see clearly via the amulet did not negate the complexity of the passages.  We made several semi-educated guesses where the passages branched, but when given the chance we went down, reasoning that the palace was high above the city and any hope of descending to a lower tier would rest in finding either the base of the palace or a subterranean connection.  We also attempted to stay close to the outer edge of the palace, but it was not long before we lost even the scant predawn light of the moons.  Estimating our direction and how deep we were beneath the level of the Gardens was relatively easy; estimating where we were in relation to the level of the base of the city became difficult, as it had been over ten days since we first got our bearings while climbing the Imperial Stair.  

I would expect the guards that we had encountered were more trustworthy than highly trained; we benefited from the fact that the side passages within the Palace were hidden and scantly used.  But used they were, and not so secret that they were unpatrolled, more's the pity.  Several levels down, at or near the point checked in red on the map, we saw another set of guards approach us from down the hall.  Atrix cursed again.  We had little opportunity to surprise them this time and I was in no shape for another fight.  Before their torches could illumine us, I squeezed into the darkest shadows of the corners and Atrix made ready to dive into their midst.

Once again he moved with marvelous skill, this time doubly armed and with proper weapons that would bring his full deadly grace to bear.  But as he cut a path through them, nimbler than any man I've ever seen, he took spears to the leg and side before killing a pair of guards.  I pounced upon another, jamming into his ribs the dagger that I'd taken.  I immediately felt a painful jab in my arm as another spear hit bone, probably saving me from it biting through to my ribs and heart.  I watched Atrix tear into my assailant, twin blades flashing as I dropped my own knife, gripped the bleeding arm and succumbed to fever and blood loss.

*I CAME BACK* to consciousness with a torchlit Atrix carefully shaking me awake.  If it had been anybody but Atrix, I'd have said he looked a bloody mess.  But I don't know that Atrix _can_ look a bloody mess, however torn full of holes he may be.  

"Darren?  Darren?  Thank Ii."

"How long was I out?"  Makeshift bandages made from guards' sleeves dressed my side and arm, and Atrix as well.  

"Not long, my friend.  But long enough that we shouldn't stick around."  Nor did we.  As we left this time, he leaned upon me for support almost as much as I leaned upon him.  I had never imagined that I would miss the unsettling glare of Brother Meeshak so much.

The sputtering torchlight that receded behind us would be the last true light we'd see for far too long a time.  Because of the poison, Atrix remained the stronger of us still.  He moved bravely forward, half carrying me while taking my directions to ensure he didn't blindly bump into a wall or trip on a step.  It was then that I saw the first trap of these hallways.  A broad pressure plate -- probably another needle trap, though I could not tell where the needles emerged, nor did we have much time or energy to disarm it.  But we could carefully sidestep the plate, which we did.  We encountered other such traps as I have marked on my map, disarming the easier ones and managing to bypass the others before the sensations of the dwarrow amulet began to overwhelm my human mind and the growing pain in my skull forced us to rest a little.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Blind Man's Bluff*

[A map of an underground complex of tunnels, labeled with dozens of different trap indicators and notes as to local tunnel gradation and composition, as well as estimates of location with respect to different landmarks of Tziwan].

*GATHERING OUR ENERGY*, we began to wonder if we were on our way out of the Palace complex itself.  We had not seen any guards in a while and these passages could prove very dangerous even for anyone who knew the locations of all traps.  Spotting them would be difficult even in torchlight.  Our own success thus far had been a very near thing in what seemed a deathtrap for the truly desperate.  In our condition, a single mistake might well have been the end of us.

[A catalog of mechanical traps, including representative symbol on the map, rough sketches and descriptions of how to disarm or bypass]

I placed my amulet about my neck again and with a little more strength and confidence, we forged ahead, fumbling our way through the dark as I warned Atrix of uneven terrain and deadly traps while he prevented me from collapsing into a feverish heap.  His bullheaded resolve and the urgency of our situation kept me from slipping under once more.

I have done my best to indicate the mechanical workings of many traps as I have catalogued them, though I can only speculate as to what useful and possibly older purpose would prevent such passages from being being sealed entirely, closing their link to the palace.  Perhaps our most dangerous moment up to that point, though, came at a stone carving in the floor that consisted of a few strange Xaimani characters and caused the air above to thrum with a tension on the edge of dwarrow perception.  I had encountered a few basic priestly wards in the North, such as were used to guard holy altars and these carvings reminded me vaguely of them, but I felt no themes of beauty, awe or reverence.  I had barely picked up enough knowledge of written Xaimani from Korael to guess that if these runes were wards of a sort, I might disable them by defacing a few choice characters.  I had an inkling that the wards might have the same origins as the sorcery that destroyed our Northern armies and gave the Emperor his false halo, and assumed that if I marred these runes I would not offend Ii.  Carefully I scratched and scraped and luckily for us we were not incinerated, as we might well have been.  

Any thief of the Empire, of course, is familiar with Radiant Path wards of the sort that mystified me at the time and may be less than interested in my own first encounter with them and will want to move onto more practical details if any are relevant.  And I have managed to catalog these magical traps as well for the information of those who hold common purpose, assuming they have not been replaced nor the passage sealed up as a consequence of our escape.  I have since then also consulted with Rian to determine the specific likely consequences of the traps.  Her help in this has been a further immeasurable benefit of her continued health and welfare -- contrary to the instincts of _some_ otherwise eminently sensible people.   

[A second catalog, this time of magical rune traps, similar to the previous catalog in organization] 

As you can see, we disarmed or avoided many sorcerous traps in addition to the more mundane sort as we made our way, taking frequent rests sitting silently in the blackness to allow my head to recover from having worn the amulet overlong.  If I were to attempt entry into the Imperial Palace by this route, I would not rely too much upon the maps as a guide to their locations.  My memory in that respect is bound to be flawed.  Far better to study the trap designs in detail and gain a general sense of how they are typically hidden, so as to spot them where the map is wrong.  And best of all to bring a trusted member of the Radiant or Reflective Path, preferably one who can work magics of at least the third circle if you can manage it.  A dwarrow would be excellent, of course, and even one of the Grey Dwarrow would assist with great skill and gusto, but they are sadly few and far between in the lands of Xaiman.  The map should, however, be fairly reliable with respect to major turns and markers.

Bit by bit we wormed our way through this hidden underground complex until we came to an opening in the tunnels entirely shrouded by steam, a steam that glowed red in the darkness by the hint of fire that lay within.


----------



## Orichalcum

Glad to see I'm useful for something! --Rian

Seriously, though, given that Rian spent much of the last few years becoming a specialist in _creating_ magical traps and wards, she's probably an extremely good person to consult on these ones.


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## Feir Fireb

Orichalcum said:


> Seriously, though, given that Rian spent much of the last few years becoming a specialist in _creating_ magical traps and wards, she's probably an extremely good person to consult on these ones.




She did, didn't she  

I can't overstate how terrifying our first magical trap was at that point.  This was still 2nd Ed and Darren had maxed out on his "Find/Disarm Traps" and "Pick Locks" early on at 95% or whatever it was and there were no DCs at the time, so I suspect havenstone was fudging the numbers so Darren would actually have a real challenge after having breezed through everything else.  But we were low on hit points fairly early on during the escape (fighting two groups of guards with no armor and no proper weapons!) and I wasn't even entirely certain Darren _could_ disarm a magical trap (given _Dispel Magic_ was the traditional way of dealing with wards).  So yeah.  Exciting.  And strong motivation to make sure he's a direct beneficiary of the old adage that luck favors the prepared.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Fire and Water*

*WE INCHED OUR* way towards the glowing steam.  "Darren, be careful.  Can you see anything through this?"

I whispered back, "There's a lot of heat and churning air, but the heat comes from way up.  The ceiling, I think.  And as far as I can tell, there's no floor.  It's all water.  Flowing water.  There don't seem to be any people, and nothing big is moving.  But I hear a sort of clanking noise up above, and something's dripping into the water.  Hissing."

Moving in, the clouds became patchier and Atrix saw what I described to be true.  We had come to an great cavern filled with gently flowing water.  The steam arose from numerous points in the pool where glowing droplets of molten metal splashed from above.  Looking up, we saw the ceiling high above and a series of gratings at its center, from whence most of the heat and light came.  And the clanking.

"A forge?" guessed Atrix.

"That's what I'd suspect."  We had, in fact, made our way out of the Palace complex and to a point under the one of the Great Forges of Tziwan.  With the right preparation, the forge itself may be the closest possible means of entry to the Palace by this route, and would avoid a number of other issues involved in adhering directly to our route that will soon become evident.

"Do you think we could make our way up there?"

"There's no way we can climb up there, and even if we could get through the grates we'd probably find Xaimani on the other side."

"Right.  So, how do we get out of here?"

"The water keeps flowing out through a passage on the other side of the pool.  I don't see any other passages.  There's probably a spring feeding the inflow, but to head in that direction we'd be swimming against it."

"Right.  Falling molten metal.  We'd better keep our heads under water."

We lowered ourselves into the broad, slow stream and submersed ourselves completely, taking care to stick to the shallows and avoid being directly under the grate.  As we moved towards the point where the water flowed out of the cavern, the water flowed from all sides together to a common point, picked up speed and began to whisk us along.  Out we flowed, back into the darkness again, and down a waterfall into the sewers of Tziwan.

[Map: the sewers of Tziwan]

*WITH ONLY A* moment to hold our breaths, we tumbled swiftly down, the water slamming us painfully into the sides of the channel.  With a great splash we landed in another pool, but a small one that swiftly carried us out into a steep channel, down, down, hitting walls when the current pulled us to the side or the course of the passage turned sharply.  With no choice but to drift with the stream's flow and attempt to stay afloat, the water rushed us along until we tumbled over a second waterfall into a pool that filled most of a large, open cavern.  

We made our way, sputtering, up to the surface of the water, which had previously been quite clear but was now becoming gradually filthier as we made our way to lower and lower points in the sewer system.  Treading water, we took our bearings and spied a sewage tunnel across the pool from us.  Lacking any place to make contact with the bottom, we paddled our way through the cavern.  Ill, weak and waterlogged, it was all I could do just to stay afloat.  Out of the corner of my eye, amongst the detritus that had made its way down here and piled up in the water along the wall, I thought I saw a log blink.  Before I could turn to look directly at it, there was a splash of water and the log was gone.

"Atrix, did you see something?"

"What was that?"

"Over there by the wall?"

"No, against my leg!"

Just under the surface of the water, I saw what I'd thought had been a log.  It was certainly log-shaped, long and at least as broad as two men, but it swam with startling speed underwater by undulating its powerful tail like a snake.  The creature had thick, horny scales and kept its short, stubby legs flat against its sides as it came for another pass.

The creature opened its long mouth to reveal a great number of large, jagged teeth that surrounded the whole of its long, roughly triangular head and attempted to take Atrix's legs in its mouth.  Atrix kicked deftly, propelling himself to the side such that only one of his feet was caught in the creature's jaws.  Atrix disappeared for a moment as the thing dragged him under by his foot.  A second later, and Atrix had wriggled free and returned splashing to the surface.  "I'm going after it," he said. 

*DUMBFOUNDED BUT IN* no condition to do much more than watch, I eased my way towards the wall of the cavern as Atrix drew a dagger and dove downwards, kicking his way towards the beast below us.  I grabbed hold as well as I could to the cracks along the wall.  I waited anxiously.  Less than a minute later, Atrix broke through the surface, gasping for breath and followed soon after by the creature.  Atrix dove towards it again, grabbing and stabbing as the beast pulled him under, this time at its back.  I held my own breath out of nervousness, seconds dragging on as I searched in vain for Atrix's shadowy form.  He returned to the surface again, panting, but this time content to stay in one place for a moment.  "I think I killed it.  Or at least I wounded it badly enough it's decided that discretion is the better part of hunger.  It's hard to tell down there, so we'd better get out of here in case I'm wrong."

"Right," I responded, dumbfounded but not eager to press the matter of what exactly it was we'd fought.  I am told that these "alligators" are largely solitary and endemic to the sewers of Tziwan but by no means ubiquitous, nor is that place their proper origin.  They are creatures of rivers and marshes that favor the hot climate of Xaiman, as if the rivers of Xaiman are not dangerous enough in and of themselves.  The alligators wander in and out of the sewers looking for fish or stray animals that also make their way there or nearby.  The one we'd encountered had probably made its way into the cavern through an underwater passage that we would have been difficult for us to find.  Any attempt to navigate the sewers would do well to avoid them, but hard as they are to spot underwater, one ought take precautions in case warding one off becomes necessary.

With an alertness born of fear and uncertainty, we swam our way out of the cave and through a sewer tunnel whose water again steadily picked up speed.

The sewer carried us along again, this time with breakneck swiftness.  The twists and turns brought us to still lower levels of the city's drainage, slamming us again and again against the stone that decided our course.  There came a point where we no longer had room to remain above water and watched the air disappear as the ceiling closed in on the water's surface.  Taking another deep breath, I prayed silently to Ii that we would find air on the other side.  A tunnel shunted us a great distance almost straight down and as we came out of the drop, reaching the end of my breath, my head hit hard into the floor of the channel.  As I struggled against the blackness of unconsciousness, I saw Atrix hurtling along with me, his own warm, stale breath bubbling away from his mouth and then ceasing.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Wonders in the Dark*

*TIME PASSED IN* oblivion.  I opened my eyes and found myself drifting face-up through the water, Atrix swimming ahead with one arm about me, keeping my head above the water.  "Atrix?"

"Darren!  Thank Ii!"

"What happened?"

"You blacked out going through that flume. It was a miracle we didn't both drown."  His voice sounded strange, uncomfortable.  There was a pause.  "We came out of another waterfall and into a cavern again.  When I saw that you were still breathing, I had to keep you up out of the water and thought it would be best to bring you somewhere shallower.  The tunnel we're in isn't too bad depth-wise and the water's been moving a lot more slowly.  We could probably rest a little if you wanted to.  How do you feel?"

"Sore.  Ill.  Wet.  Getting hungry, actually."  The fact that our hoarded breakfast after the Day of Harvest had become more and more distant was now hard to ignore.

"Most of those describe me, too."

We stayed at the side of the tunnel for a while.  I looked back the way we came and saw the tunnel went on for a long ways, with no open cavern in sight.  Atrix had probably dragged me a long ways.  He looked tired, like he had been swimming for a while.  We have since attempted to corroborate our memories of the route that we took through the sewers, and from Atrix's memories it is clear that he had carried me quite a distance unconscious.  But I have marked the route by which he took me in blue, as his unenhanced senses may have missed pertinent aides to navigation.  In any event, I expect attempts to retrace our route of escape would be best pursued in a manner that begins from a closer point to the palace and avoids, for example, the dangerous waterways that propelled us so far.  But the ability to navigate the sewers of Tziwan is a useful thing in itself (as the Shrouded Path well know) and so I will continue to endeavor to describe them in some detail.

*ONCE ATRIX HAD* had a chance to relax from his long slog with my inert body and it had become evident that I could continue as well, we followed the sewer once more. After some time wading through chest-deep water, Atrix whispered, "Darren, do you see light up ahead?"  Sure enough, I did, but we had not been so fortunate as to come to daylight.  The strange glow gradually grew in intensity and we saw that what had seemed like the reflection of distant light on the water was not simple daylight but rather coming from the water itself in many different colors that seemed to blend together at a distance.  The bizarre, faint shimmer of the water began to unnerve us as we progressed until we gradually realized we were moving through the glow of purples, greens, yellows and more.  But unharmed as we were, we moved onwards a brief ways until we came upon the source of the glow, the sewer opening into a cavern that contained a great pool of the odd water.  Furthermore, strange fungi covered great portions of the cavern walls and the rock ledges that dotted the sides of the pool.  It glowed in odd pinks, purples and yellows and much of the light in the water arose simply from reflection of the fungus.  But not all.

Wading deep through the pool, we moved to inspect some of the fungus.  Hungry as we were, I was not about to attempt to eat any of it and I suspect neither was Atrix.  But it had aroused both of our curiosities.  As we moved closer to some of the fungi-laden rocks in the midst of the cavern, Atrix whirled and began to convulse, splashing into the water.  His muscles gave up their strength and he went limp, drifting just underneath the water as I first attempted to stay him, then to lift him above the water.  "Atrix!  Atrix!" I cried out.  He had stopped breathing and water drained from his nose and mouth.  I weakly hoisted his head above water much as he had done to me and scanned for the nearest outcropping.  Finding a ledge that was low to the water, I pushed with all of my poison-shorn might just to place half of his body onto the shelf so that I might get out myself, then drag Atrix the rest of the way and hope I could work the water out of his lungs.  Emptying the water from him, I began to fear that no man could keep full of water as long as he had been and still live.  

I pulled him further away from the water, such that we were almost flush against another mass of glowing fungi.  To my relief and alarm, the twitching began and continued to strengthen into mild convulsions as we moved towards the fungus.  At least he was alive.  But now what?  My mind reeled as I took stock of the situation and feared how my friend's life rested while in my hands alone.  I could barely move him.  Was the fungus doing this to him?  Did being closer to it making him worse?  I could not tell.  Why did it not affect me?  Nothing made sense.

I moved Atrix again, this time towards the water and away from the fungus.  The convulsions continued, though very mildly.  I dropped down to sit by him and rest, praying that he would pull through somehow.  I checked his wounds, but they had gotten no worse except that the makeshift bandages had long been soaked by waters of various degrees and kinds of impurity.  I had to rest.  I needed more strength.  I waited a long time in that cavern, surrounded all about by the glowing fungi that silently mocked me.  I watched for some sign of improvement on Atrix's part.  I could not tell if Atrix's condition was getting better or worse, but the rest had at least allowed me to garner my strength and fight the poison a little.  I had to get him out of there.  I eased him off of the ledge and back into the glimmering water, descending with him to keep his head above water again.  Then, slowly, very slowly, I made my way out of the cavern with my limp, twitching compatriot in tow.  The strange lights and colors were gradually replaced by a familiar blackness and the faint and ever-increasing scent of human waste that had always remained under the heightened senses that the dwarrow amulet imparted.  My long-growing appetite gradually faded.  And Atrix awoke.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*Wonders in the Dark: OOC Addendum*

The uncomfortable silence after Darren awoke, by the way, was due to Atrix's discovery that he didn't need to breathe and by all rights should have otherwise drowned.  If memory serves, Darren found out from Atrix at some point rather later on, as it was just too weird and random a discovery to bring up at the time.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": City of Shrouds*

*IT IS CLEAR* now from attempting to recreate the route we had taken that we had most likely been directly under the Square of Wonders.  Certainly that would explain the magical influences on the fungi and waters, though it would not have explained why Atrix was adversely affected by his presence there and I was not.  In any event, once we had left that cave well behind us, Atrix became as convivial and spry as a viciously wounded, blood-soaked, sewage-drenched, mostly naked escaped slave who hasn't eaten or drunk for an indeterminate amount of time in an Ii-forsaken place which does not see the sun and who fears deeply for his beloved cousin's life could possibly be.  His hair was even still in place, of all things, not that I was about to volunteer that information.

The water continued to drift gently down the sewer passage.  But I had spent enough time with dwarrow as a youth to suspect that we continued a slow descent even without aid of water or amulet.  This was a good sign.  As far as I knew, only the dwarrow designed underground waterways that did not eventually flow into some open body of water.

We pressed on through the water and muck, fearing for the state of our wounds and attempting to keep them above the filthy water.  After some time, long-rotten doors and windows began to dot the sides of the tunnels, hanging from holes in the brick that otherwise walled us in.  All along the way we passed what must have been abandoned shops and houses full of mildew and decay, the ruins of a Tziwan long-gone and forgotten, forgotten and not missed as Tziwan itself lives on as much as it ever had.  I do not know how ancient Tziwan is, but the streets of the Tziwan of today city are built upon the roofs of yesteryear, and Atrix and I waded through that era's streets.  For all I know, those streets may too be roofs.  I have learned as much from the writings of Dergey to mistrust foundations taken for granted.  May it be that Tziwan stands on firmer ground than the enterprise of which he wrote.

*AS OUR EVER* reliable luck would have it, this lost city had a few inhabitants yet.  We came upon a pair of doors on opposite sides of the tunnel that looked in better repair than the rest we'd seen thus far, opening onto stoops whose steps quickly descended into the water.  A glimmer of light peeked through the crack.  I pressed my ear to the door on the left and listened.  Nothing.  I checked for signs of traps and tested the doorknob.  This one was locked.  I swam quietly to the other side, again listening.  Voices, several of them.  The door looked like it would open without much trouble.  I returned to Atrix to whisper my findings.

"Can you open the locked one, then, Darren?" 

"I don't know that I should.  This is very strange.  We don't know who's there.  I'm not sure we should try either door.  In fact, if this area is inhabited, we may want to backtrack.  Leave this tunnel entirely.  Who knows if we've stumbled upon some sort of guardpost?"

"A guardpost?  Down here?"

I shrugged, "I don't know.  But I still say we should be careful."

Atrix thought about this for a moment, then nodded.  As encouraging as signs of human life were, at this point we couldn't afford to risk everything on a face-to-face confrontation with people whose identities we couldn't ascertain or being trapped after venturing into an empty but frequented room.

*WE TURNED ABOUT* and made our way back up to the previous junction where we'd decided to move straight ahead, still undecided as to whether to turn left or right instead.  I cautioned Atrix to silence as I froze in place.  I heard movement in the water, off in the distance in the right-side passageway.  It sounded like... us.  It was the same sort of gentle, rhythmic splashing and buffeting of air that we made as we passed through the sewer channels.  Very faint.  We waited.  A whisper, something brief in Xaimani, almost as if intended to be too silent for human ears to hear.  I told Atrix of what I'd heard in my own careful whisper.

"Well, we can't go that way then," he said.

We took the left-side passage, which then bent to the right.  At the next intersection we turned right again.  Down the tunnel we saw a faint light from the lower cracks and stoops of two opposite doors, likely in remarkably good condition.  This time, the locked door would be at our left instead.  Atrix cursed.  "We've gone around in a circle."

"We've got to get out of here.  We can't go back that way again."

We returned to the intersection we'd just come from and took the left way instead, moving as quickly as we could through the water without splashing more than we had to.  Then, just over the faint noise that we'd been making, I heard the sound of still more people moving through the water.  I cursed quietly.

"Maybe," Atrix whispered, "We should still move forward.  We might be able to win a fight if there aren't too many of them."

"Maybe."  I peered far down the alley-tunnel.  The sound approached closer, but still no torchlight. "Whoever this is, they're used to the dark down here."  The sound continued to come slowly at us.  "All right.  I see a bit of heat.  Three warm bodies.  I think they're wearing masks.  They're deliberately moving quietly but aren't bothering to hide.  They're probably wearing black.  I bet they don't think they can be seen down here.  But they have weapons out all the same."

"Three?  We might be able to take them.  They sound like thieves."

*WE HAD, IN* fact, unbeknownst to us wandered into the sewers that burrowed under the Shroud _qohei_ of Tziwan.  Had we continued the way we'd originally been going, we would have encountered many more murderous and unsavory sorts who used the passages of this hidden city to move unnoticed through the city plying their criminal trade.  As it stood, we remained only on the outskirts.  But that fact alone was enough to place us in great danger.

I looked at the bloody cloths that bound Atrix's wounds but thought better than to contradict his optimism.  Suspecting what lay behind us had little choice in the matter.  The thieves would be on us soon and time to act was short.  A moment's discussion and we moved to opposite sides of the passage, sinking chin-deep into the muck so as to keep unseen as much of our bodies as we could without getting sewage in our noses and mouths.  We remained perfectly motionless as they moved towards us down the midpassage.  Then as they moved between us, I sprung first.  I plunged the dagger I'd taken from the Palace guard deep into the back of the hindmost thief, twisting it hard to dig at organs and arteries.  He did not fall, though, and he flailed wildly at his back with dagger in hand.

Atrix, relying upon the sound of my spring through the water, leapt wildly at the same thief from the other side and I took care not to be on the wrong end of Atrix's blade.  Both of his daggers hit home and the thief between us expired before he even saw me, toppling into the water.  The remaining two masked men turned to face us and we abandoned the newly made corpse between us to barrel into them before they could react.  I landed as strong a blow as I could manage on one as he moved to step aside while Atrix cut into the other.  His off-dagger swung wide as he failed to guess the exact location of his new opponent in the near-pitch blackness.

My new target took a broad swing at me with a well-bound club and came within an inch of splitting my skull.  The other stumbled and jabbed at Atrix with a dagger, missing.  We pressed the attack as I made too short of a jab at the club-wielding thief and Atrix made deep cuts in the remaining knife-fighter.  Likely a seasoned thug who could tell that Atrix would land the stronger blows in a straight-up fight, the thief with the club turned his attention to Atrix and hit water.  The knife-fighter stepped back from another jab and Atrix winced from a deep stab in his side, near where a bandage covered the spear wound from a guardsman.  Fresh blood ran down Atrix's side again.  Atrix did not pause his assault, continuing to strike at the knife-fighter and again missing in the dark.  I landed a feeble blow on the arm of the thug with the club.  Again they pressed Atrix and he managed to narrowly sidestep their blows.  Springing back into the fray, Atrix felled the knife-fighter with his right hand and bit deep with his left into the gut of the thug.  I joined Atrix in his assault, achieving little more than scratches.

The sole remaining thief raised his club again and swung it hard into the side of Atrix's head.  He fell sideways with the force of the blow.  Attempting to recover his balance, Atrix blacked out and careened face-first into the polluted water, dropping both knives to the bottom.

*WITH THAT, THE* thief turned to face me.  I nearly panicked.  Even at my best I was not nearly the fighter that Atrix was.  After all we'd been through, one solid blow from this thug would be the death of me, and then of Atrix as well if he wasn't gone already.  His life bled out from head and side and mixed with the sewage.  I had to test this thief to see how well he could handle the darkness.  If his senses weren't perfect, I had a chance.  But I had to be fast.  Atrix would not last long.  I stepped quietly back into the darkness, then watched the thief step cautiously forward, club raised.  He moved again, probing the blackness with his weapon.  I moved to strike, running my dagger up under his ribcage.  He pushed me off of him and swung with his club, again narrowly missing as I let myself fall into the water away from his swing.  Sure that I had him this time, I regained my footing and pounced again without caution, driving the dagger home.

As the thief collapsed into the sewage, I rushed over to Atrix and turned him face-up.  He still bled frighteningly, but his heart was still beating and he immediately coughed up some of the fluid he'd taken into his lungs.  Dragging him along the surface of the water, I found a nearby doorway whose door had long since rotted off and drifted away and first attempted to hoist Atrix up into it.  My poison-stricken muscles wouldn't do it.  I then climbed up myself, careful not to let Atrix drift off, and then dragged him out of the water, bracing against the ledge with my legs.  Setting him down, I saw that the head wound's bleeding was worse, but knew that head wounds often bleed badly at first then stop on their own.  I prayed that this was a case and pressed with all of my weight on the newly-opened wound at Atrix's side, hoping to staunch it.  Minutes passed and Atrix continued to breathe and beat.  Weary, I saw that the bleeding had stopped and prayed that what little I knew about how to cut a man to the quick had been enough to save my friend.  I gazed lazily at the three lifeless bodies in the sewer and watched the heat gradually leave them.


----------



## Feir Fireb

*"The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Bringing Things to Light*

*SUSPECTING I WOULD* not be able to move Atrix for at least a little while, once I had had a moment to rest I carefully moved him out of immediate view from the sewer and entered the water again.  If we had more than a moment's time here, I could at least see what I could glean from the corpses of the men we'd just dispatched.  Clothes, certainly.  We would need more than loincloths if we wished to be at least a little less conspicuous as escaped Northerner slaves.  The thieves' clothes were all black and had a few holes, but were a significant improvement all the same.  They also had sizable hoods that would serve well for hiding our faces.  The one I had felled wore a string of golden beads about his neck.  Having no money, I thought them possibly valuable to sell, not knowing they signified a certain rank in the Shrouded Path.  Donning that strand about my neck, I had unwittingly marked myself as a Nightlord.  

The thieves carried a small amount of actual coin which I appropriated as well.  I took the club, as in I often favored its weight and reach, and of course found a blunt instrument useful for knocking people unconscious but relatively uninjured.  Each of them also bore a belt of several daggers and I took one for each of us, for throwing or to replace dropped weapons.  A couple of the daggers struck me as quite remarkable, tinted a dull black so as to not glint in stray light.  They were also much lighter and better-balanced than even a well-made dagger and bore none of the scratches or notches that a blade would accumulate with ordinary use.  They were, in fact, the work of the Radiant Path, not that I knew.

One of them also bore three vials of what I'd assumed to be poison, as well as a pouch of herbs.  The black vial was in fact the dread _okordo_, and one of the others was a poison designed to induce drowsiness and sleep.  The remaining vial was _okordo's_ antidote, _keder_.  But at the moment I couldn't tell what any of them was for sure.  The herbs had a vaguely familiar medicinal smell and I tasted a small amount before giving Atrix a larger quantity.  I looked at his wounds and resolved that I needed to move him away from this place and any danger of meeting more thieves, but there would be no point in applying the herbs to his wounds immediately before dragging him through the sewage again.  In addition, I might well reopen them too easily. 

*I PULLED ATRIX* back out into the water and proceeded to drag him along the surface again, much as I had when he convulsed in the cave beneath the Square of Wonders.  But this time I had no hope that simply moving away would improve his condition.  Only time and the natural efforts of his body would do that, if it happened at all.  Feeling as if a stiff wind would knock me over and into the sewage, I still wondered if a stiff wind might at least rid me of the stench that surrounded us.  I trudged onward, well away from the strange lit doors and dead thieves with Atrix trailing limp behind me, until the headaches from the amulet began to come on again.  I found a long-abandoned storefront and pulled Atrix up on the ledge, much as I had before.  Then, as my head felt as if it would split if I wore the amulet much longer, I applied the herbs again, force feeding him a little and treating his wounds beneath the bandages.  Then, removing the amulet, I sat and waited in the featureless blackness.

Hours passed.  I donned the amulet again at occasional intervals to confirm our rest remained unintruded.  I peered at each of Atrix's wounds in a futile attempt to determine if I could improve their condition beyond their present state.  I could, of course, replace the filthy guards' rags that bound his wounds with filthy thieves' rags, or simply remove them altogether in hopes they'd be cleaner.  But the bleeding had long stopped and his wounds would need to stay bound if we hoped to move again, should he awake.  I slept a little.  Then in the blackness I missed the flitter of his eyelids but I heard his groan clearly.  "Atrix?  Are you all right?"  I donned the amulet again to see him better.

"Bloody hell I'm not allright.  That one cracked me hard, right... erk.... up there."  Atrix groaned again as he attempted to point to the wound on his head, then thought better of it.  "Are we dead or is this darkness still the sewers?  No..." he raised a hand, pausing a moment when a chill washed over him as he seemed to remember something.  He shook his head, "No, it's the sewers."

"It's the sewers.  But you came really close.  I'm glad you're still here."

"Me too, believe me."

"You should rest and recover your strength, but I'll be ready to continue whenever you are.  Can you sit up?"

It was perhaps a half hour from then until he could, then another half hour until he ventured a few steps in the dark around the dingy old shop where we'd found ourselves.  I took his arm to make sure he didn't trip on the detritus or the cracks in the floor.  Atrix dressed in a thief's black garments and we sat again for another half hour to steel ourselves for one more push.  I prayed to Ii that we would encounter no more thieves or guards, no strange reptilian beasts or traps, no fast flowing waterways or sudden drops.  We would do anything just to see daylight again and take our chances in the city above.

*I EASED ATRIX* down into the fetid water and followed almost as carefully.  This time I supported Atrix as we walked.  For all of his injuries, we could not move fast enough through the waist-high water to reopen old wounds if we wanted to.  We followed the water east for a long time, though probably not as long as I'd waited while Atrix recovered.  Gradually we drifted away from the edge of the Shroud _qohei_ and the horrid stench of the sewers began to take on a salty tang.  I grew mildly nervous as I realized that if we came out to sea low enough, a sudden change of tide could wash us back the way we came, or even worse trap us and drown us.  I hoped that the old, buried city would not have sunk so low that we needed fear any but the highest tides.

My heart raced when I saw the faintest glimmer of sunshine in the distance, and the warm, wet winds of the sea drifting down the submerged alley in which we'd found ourselves.  I turned to see a broad grin erupt on Atrix's wounded face.  "Daylight, Darren!"  We continued forward to an old, rusty grate, taking the sight of the abandoned city alley that continued on the other side, half-lit a few rays of sun.

As much as I wanted to take the amulet off and enjoy the sunlight with my natural senses, I thought caution the better path here.  The lock had long rusted to near inoperability, but fortunately was of simple design.  After clearing away some of the rust that foiled my initial attempts, I took but a moment to pop it open with my tools.  We then climbed through the grate, into the short stretch of water that pooled at the end of the alley and probably came to a thin waterfall as it descended sharply with the tidal cliffs.  

And beyond that, we saw the ocean, the same as we'd seen it from the Floating Gardens some distant time ago.  The thrill of freedom arose in me even greater than awe I'd felt the first time I'd seen the sea so long before in far-away Lynar.  As we hustled towards the end of the alley, Atrix froze in his tracks and stared motionlessly ahead, over the vast expanse of ocean, roiling and churning.  I saw him shiver as though a chill had run down his spine.  "Something's wrong, Darren.  Very wrong."

*A MOMENT PASSED* with his eyes fixed on nothing; then a rough, rasping laugh interrupted Atrix's dread reverie.  We turned to see an old, bleary-eyed beggar watching us from near the end of the alley.  He sat on a pile of rags, resting his sole leg folded in front of him.  

Smiling like a cat who'd caught a bird, the beggar spoke in a gravelly, unnervingly casual voice, "Thought you'd probably end up here."  His gaze drifted over us, sizing us up as he continued, "Never heard a rumor run through Tziwan faster than your escape, little Northerners.  Die tomorrow and you'll be legends.  All the city will crowd to the cliffs to watch your excruciation."

Atrix and I looked at each other for a moment.  I wondered if we should pounce upon him, and could tell Atrix wondered the same.  I also wondered if we had much chance of killing a one-legged old beggar before he killed us.  It was just possible -- we were in sorry shape -- but this man spoke with a tone of voice like Carwyn had when she had a few cards up her sleeves and had probably stacked the deck as well.  Atrix bore himself up with full d'Loriad dignity.  "We'd rather not, thank you." 

"No?"  The old man regarded us drily.  "Then there’s the question of what you’re worth alive.  Even Kesh'ao himself, the great wizard of the Windowless Spike, was unable to track you down from what I'd heard.  There's a thousand gold I could get for turning you in."

With growing alarm, I scanned the windows and roofs of the alley for hidden friends of the beggar, and listened for passersby venturing the cliffs who could witness an altercation.  The old man waited a moment for a response, grinning, but none was forthcoming.  What was the point of telling him we'd kill him before letting him report us to the guards?

Sensing our trepidation, he continued, "But I feed off news and rumors, boys, not gold, and you might prove a source of particularly interesting news.  In fact, to speak without veils, you might lead me to one of the best-hidden and intriguing secrets in Tziwan.  So I'll let you live.  But remember in days to come -- you owe Tchuchek the Ear five hundred secrets apiece."

A thousand... secrets?  The thought of a thousand _anything_ staggered me, even assuming it was well-defined and easily quantifiable.  I queried guardedly, thinking maybe we could play his game if it bought us enough time to disappear.  "How would we know whether a secret would be interesting enough for your price?  And how would we contact you to... repay you?"

"Oh, I'll be the judge of that.  As far as finding me goes, any beggar of Tziwan will know how to find me.  But don't worry too much.  I'll be able to find you when your bill comes due."

With that, the Beggarmaster of Tziwan unfolded his leg, revealing the other one that we had thought lost had in fact been hidden under the pile of rags on which he sat.  He stood up and began to walk away.  At the end of the alley, he turned about to face us one more time, "And boys?  Always watch out for _Dragons!_"

As Tchuchek disappeared around a corner, Atrix and I regarded each other in a mixture of alarm, confusion and relief, wondering what exactly he meant by "dragons."  At the time, we knew them only as a motif of Xaimani art.  But we did not talk long before breathing deeply the fresh air of the shoreline and ascending the rough slope and collapsed buildings that marked the end of the city's sewers.  And so we walked away as well, beginning our first day of freedom in many months -- deep in debt to the fourth most dangerous man in Tziwan.


----------



## havenstone

*Hiatus...*

First, thanks so much to Feir Fireb for writing up the escape from the imperial palace with such derring-do and detail!

Both Mr. Fireb and myself are currently swamped -- in my part of the world, there are some elections about to take place that are making my job a little tougher than usual -- so we've had to wait a while for either the end of Darren's story (he and Atrix heading to the Mines of Graiqal to rescue Kay) or a return to our other heroes who have just been sold to the Tang estate.

Accordingly, I wanted to invite Orichalcum to post a different interlude: our introduction to Laoshi Tai-tai, also known as Zhiu-nu, best known as Rian.


----------



## Orichalcum

*A Brief Account of the Life of my Master’s Master, Laoshi Tai-tai, by Soong Ling.*

(A new PC joins the campaign.)

On the Leaders of the Second Dragon Path:

A Brief Account of the Life of my Master’s Master, Laoshi Tai-tai, by Soong Ling.

It is traditional to learn from the lives of one’s predecessors, and when your teacher and your teacher’s teacher followed paths as eventful as mine did, they are especially worthy of study. I am particularly blessed in researching the early life of Laoshi Tai-tai because, unlike most of the Radiant Path, she did not hide her true name or home until much later in her life. Still, I only ever addressed her as Laoshi Tai-tai, Venerable Lady Teacher, the name she chose to use later on in her life. But while she never spoke of her personal life, fearing it could be used against her by her enemies, I have spoken to those of her comrades who survived to the present day, and here are the fruits of my researches, that they may enlighten future students of the Radiant Path.

Laoshi Tai-Tai, also known as Zhiu-nu, was born Rian of Tilung, a small village in the northeastern hills of Sziao, the second daughter and fifth child of a peasant family. Her family had formerly been prosperous, and still lived in the elegant bamboo three-story house that her great-grandfather had built when he moved to the village from Orokin, the capitol city of Sziao. Yet even before Rian’s birth, they had fallen on hard times, oppressed by the harsh taxes of the regional overlord and the increasingly dry rice paddies. 

If the rain had fallen more heavily the summer that Rian of Tilung turned fourteen, Tsiwan might be a far different place today. If the rice crops had been plentiful that year, Rian’s parents might have been able to marry her off to one of the village boys. Though her dowry was small, the girl had much to offer a husband: she was strong enough to work a full day in the paddies, nimble enough to climb to the top of the tallest trees for fruit, rarely sick despite her slender build, quite pretty for a village girl, with long straight black hair and deep brown eyes with flecks of gold in them, and she never needed to have a task explained twice. Her mother beat her frequently for her rash tongue, lack of respect, and tendency to disappear during odd times of the day, but a husband would have needed to impose his authority anyway on a wife. Yet the rains that year barely stirred the dust, and no one was fool enough to take a bride during such a lean harvest.


If the traveling priestess of Ii had been willing to take Rian as an acolyte when her parents brought her to the monthly service, telling the priestess of Rian’s ready memorization of the sacred texts, our empire might have never faced the horrors of twenty years ago. But the priestess tested Rian and told her parents that, while a bright child, she was completely unsuited to adopt the discipline and serenity needed to be a priestess, even as a lowly servant.


If the follower of the Radiant Path who came five years before and took Rian’s cousin Mei-shan away from Tilung had noticed the girl, my own master might have lived out his days as a cheerful pickpocket. But when Rian saw that after meeting the dark-clad mage, Meishan’s eyes glazed over, and he no longer knew his own parents, she ran and hid in the attic, among the scrolls of her great-grandfather. And when she had taught herself to read, she found the letters of her great-grandfather, warning his descendants never to attract the attention of the Radiant Path, for it was for this reason that he had fled the capitol of Sziao for a remote village. She also found a sealed scrollcase containing words and rituals of power, and studied them closely when not working in the rice paddies.


As it happened, the slave dealers came the summer that Rian was fourteen. They looked at her and saw an object of high potential value, one who could be sold as a skilled house slave, not just as a farmhand. And her parents looked at their four sons, and at their own empty rice bowls. Her mother locked the chains around Rian’s wrists and handed her to the dealer in return for four shiny silver coins, a sack full of rice, and a chicken in a cage. 

Rian cried out to her mother, I was told, begging, “How can you do this? Am I not your daughter? Do you not love me?”

And her mother answered harshly, guarding her own expression tightly, “Indeed you are our daughter. And that means you have duties and obligations to us, and to your brothers. Would you rather that your little brother Asiran starve this winter? We have fed and kept you for all these years; now you must repay your debt by supporting us.”

And Rian fell silent, only begging the dealer for a chance to fetch her clothes, hoping to have an opportunity to take her great-grandfather’s scrolls. But the dealer laughed, telling her she would have more suitable garments for a slave soon, and pulled her away on the chain. Rian looked back at her parents and at the protruding ribs of her young brother Asiran and firmed her chin, biting back the tears. “I will pay my debts, honored parents. Feed Asiran with the rice my life has bought.” She turned away, stumbling down the road, and followed the slave dealer towards Xaiman.


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## Orichalcum

*Laoshi Tai-tai continued.*

Once the slave dealer rejoined his main caravan, Rian was handed over to a slavemistress named Mara. Mara was a plump Xaimani woman, loaded down with jangling bracelets. She pursed her narrow lips, eying the girl.

"Take those rags off, slave. We need to see whether you're worth more as a bribe for the next set of town guards or whether we should just turn you into meat for the Emperor's tigers," Mara ordered harshly.

Rian complied quietly, shrugging out of her robe despite the chains, but  she also bent down to the ground as she dropped her garments and surreptitiously gathered a handful of dust. As she crouched on the ground, she threw the dust on Mara's feet and silently murmured her great-grandfather's words of power in her head.

When she slowly rose, trying to hide her nakedness as best possible, Mara's wrinkled face was slowly beaming at her, with an awkward grimace, as if the woman had forgotten how to smile. "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing? Don't worry, dear, I think I have just the robe to drive your purchase price up to the sky. You'll be going someplace very special, don't you fret."

Rian thanked her, smiling inwardly at her success, and graciously accepted the new red silk robe and the double rations - to fatten her up, as Mara said. Every few hours, she kept re-casting her spell to charm the slavemistress, and made sure to pour a few drops of rice wine out at a crossroads as an offering to her great-grandfather's spirit in gratitude. She grew exhausted from her frequent use of magic, but kept casting the spell out of fear that the effect would otherwise wear off.

Over the next few weeks, the caravan traveled east and north through Sziao and Xaiman, acquiring dozens of slaves from impoverished villages. Most of the slaves were simply resold at the next plantation they came to. One buyer complained that the last batch the dealer had sold him had been unable to work sufficiently hard and died after a month, so the dealer gave him a discount and a larger number this time. They joined other, larger caravans, but the main dealer and slavemistress stayed in charge of the Szianar captives, as they could speak most easily to them. Through Mara's patronage, Rian was able to stay on with the caravan, while her owners looked for "just the right customer." 

She gradually charmed a guard or two and the cook, but was never able to get enough guards at once that escape seemed possible. At all costs, she could not let her Golden Blood be revealed, she knew, or she would be turned over to the mages of the Radiant Path. So she bided her time and acted as cautiously as possible. Mara taught her noble etiquette and some Xaimani dances, to try and increase her value.

After many, many weeks of travel, the caravan reached the great slave markets of Xaiman. Mara painted Rian's face and dressed her in a sheer white robe, much to the girl's embarrassment. She led her up onto the block and loudly advertised Rian's grace, beauty, and submissiveness. The bidding was reasonably fierce, although Rian heard one bidder commenting, "I don't know what all the fuss is about. She's pretty enough, I suppose, but nothing special, and the slavemistress is talking as if she's fit to be an Imperial Concubine!" 

Eventually, the last bidder was an older, shaven-headed slave. After handing over the money to Mara, who embraced Rian and gave her a handful of tinny bracelets - "for making yourself pretty" -, the slavemaster turned to Rian herself.

"You are to become a dancing girl in the court of my master, Tang, the Minister of State. I hope you will live up to the gushing praise of this dealer, girl, or we will quickly find a position far less comfortable for you."


----------



## havenstone

*The Minister of State*

*SLAVEMASTER DAORAN LEADS *Ash, Carwyn, Kyla, Meeshak, and Ontaya back through the streets of Tziwan to the river Shanyang.  Passing by the slave ferries, they approach an elegant barge whose upper decks are screened with fine jade and silver latticework.  The shorn-headed Slavemaster raises the silver Xaimani symbol chained around his neck, and the spearmen standing guard outside the barge wordlessly swing their spears aside to let the slaves board.  While the party stands on the empty lower decks, the barge slides out onto the vast, muddy river.  Ash discreetly casts his eyes around, but can’t figure out how the barge is powered; there are no obvious oars or sails, and the movement feels perfectly smooth.

“The barge was a gift from the late Archmaster Feishou to the Ministry of State,” Daoran says, giving no other sign that he has noticed the party members’ curiosity.  “The Rivermaster of Minister Tang can guide it with a thought.  Our glorious Master possesses a widely known interest in the most useful Radiant Path arts.  Other Ministers are equally renowned for their interest in... more brutal sorcery.”  Ontaya recalls Archmaster Orozu and thinks bleakly that for all of Curago’s malice, she would not have wished him to end up in the hands of such a man.

“Tell me your names, Northerners,” the Slavemaster continues, and watches them intensely as they do so.  “We will soon arrive at the Tang Estate.  While it is understood that you are from barbarian lands, this must not be taken as license for offensive or shameful behavior.  If you are slow to learn what is expected of you... our gracious Master is not cruel.  The pain you experience will be no more nor less than what is required to speed your learning to an acceptable level.  Do you understand?”  The party members mumble their assent as the barge draws up to an ornate wooden dock.  “Your first lesson: a name is a rare privilege.  When you hear the cry of ‘Slave’, you will hasten to see whether you are the one being summoned.  If any person should call you by your name, you will thank them for their kindness.”

Minister Tang’s riverside home is a maze of gardens, groves, and outbuildings surrounding a lofty central mansion.  The colors of jade green and silver recur deliberately throughout the estate; the leaves of the trees, the creeping orchid vines in the garden, and the exterior friezes of the mansion are all dominated by those two colors.  As they walk through the scented walkways, Kyla and Ontaya note the spearmen and archers discreetly stationed at strategic points.  Despite the air of serenity, the estate could quickly be sealed against any unwanted intruder.

*ON THE LOWER* floors of the mansion countless slaves are busily at work cleaning, cooking, and running errands.  While the Northerners see a few fascinated glances stolen in their direction, for the most part the slaves of the Estate keep their heads down and studiously ignore anything that is not part of their assigned task.  Daoran shows the new slaves to a washroom.  “It is expected that all slaves, however lowly, will remain clean.  You will bathe every day – beginning now.”

The Northerners blink at the wildly unhealthy notion of a daily bath, but do not protest.  They strip, wash themselves in tepid water, and don new slaveclothes in a far finer cut than the ones they wore on the road.  When they emerge, Daoran has been joined by two new slaves wearing the Tang Estate’s garb: a short man with pale golden skin and flat features, and a slender woman with dark brown skin, graying black hair, and a silver pendant.  “You didn’t tell me the women had children, Slavemaster,” she says pensively.

“One hopes that is not relevant to their skills,” the weathered slave replies.

The woman strides over to Carywn and Kyla, pinching and prodding them in a way that stops just short of being painful.  “Turn around,” she commands.  “No, your eye was good, Slavemaster.  Do you dance, girls?”

Carwyn nods, managing to find some trace of enthusiasm.  Kyla inclines her head doubtfully.

“Slavemistress Shushila will teach you to entertain the Minister’s guests in dance and song,” Daoran states to the two women.  “You two,” indicating Ash and Meeshak, “will begin your training as messengers, bearing the Minister’s letters to the city and carrying out any other public errands required of you.  Follow Slave Chosdzed, who will teach you the duties of an errand slave.”

“You honor me, Slavemaster,” Chosdzed says, bowing low.

Daoran turns to Ontaya.  “You will follow me.”  Leaving the other party members with their respective trainers, the two of them begin to climb a mahogany staircase.  “You will begin Slavemistress training, learning what is expected of the slaves who manage the Estate.  Do any of you have experience in the court of your land – serving Ministers there, or the equivalent?”

“I do,” Ontaya offers.

“Good,” Daoran says shortly.  “The Minister asked me to bring him one of the Northern slaves, and I know he will have many questions.”  The two of them pass several elaborately armored guards and enter a perfumed chamber where musicians are playing on the Xaimani lyre.  Two young slave boys stand at either side of a great cascade of silk curtains.  As Daoran sinks to his knees, the boys begin to pull back the curtains.  Ontaya smoothly prostrates herself.

*“RISE.”  ONTAYA LOOKS *upcautiously and sees a corpulent Xaimani resting in a nest of cushions. He is wearing light robes of what looks like linen, and multiple jeweled rings on each finger; his long black hair runs in plaits down his back.  As Daoran and Ontaya approach the Minister, she notices that his skin glistens with scented oil.  Though everything about his posture bespeaks laziness, his eyes are piercing and inquisitive.  “What is your name, slave?”

Ontaya’s voice is perfectly level.  “I am my Master’s servant.  I understand I have no name unless it pleases him.”

Daoran’s face does not move, but Ontaya feels his satisfaction.  The Minister’s lips curve slightly upward.  “It pleases me to know what you were called in your Northern Empire.”

“You honor me, Master, and I thank you.  I was called Ontaya.”

“Who rules in your Empire?  How many states does it encompass?”

Ontaya pauses.  “The North is not a single Empire, Master.  There are five civilized realms – Senallin, Caragon, Aradur, Kedris, and Velnar – and several barbarian nations around the periphery.  Ones which we considered barbarian, that is: Arawai, Chraman, Harakra, Maenon, Megrim.  Then there were the Sea People – the Kells and Sturmlanders – and the nomads – the Sufza and Jendae, who are known also in the South.  I was born and raised in Senallin, so it is the kingdom I know best.”

The Xaimani lord listens with obvious fascination.  “Do you know what a ‘map’ is?  Can you draw one for me?”  When Ontaya nods to both questions, he gestures sharply at a servant, and a scroll is produced of some material far thinner and less brittle than the parchment and vellum Ontaya knows from her homeland.  Ontaya does her best to sketch an outline of her known geography, with the names written in Northron.  

“Your people read and write, obviously,” the Minister notes, poring over the crude map with an infinitely satisfied expression.  “Tomorrow I will send functionaries from the Ministry for you to tutor in your tongue and script.  What gods do you worship?”

“Master, we worship Ain, the One.  I believe the people of Xaiman know Ain as Ii.”

“Yes, I have heard that you recognize Ii in a clearer form than the Arawai or Lakshari.”  Minister Tang purses his lips.  “Why did you invade Arawai?”

A fragment of verse floats into Ontaya’s memory: _To tame the horse and till the plain, and teach them all the fear of Ain_.  “The nations of the North wanted to live in the northern plains, Master.  To stop Arawai raids, but mostly to open up new land and make new cities.”

“How many of your legions survived the invasion?”

“I do not know, Master.  I was taken as a slave, and do not know how many may have escaped.”

“Which nations provide most of your slaves in the North?”

“We do not have slaves in the North, Master.”

The Minister pauses, brow furrowing in confusion.  “I thought she understood Xaimani well, Slavemaster.”

“Her understanding is quite good, Master,” Daoran says uncomfortably.

The Minister tries again.  “In the North, who are the slaves and who are the masters?”

“Master, in the North, a man may serve a noble family for oath or money, or be bound by law to the land his family works... but men do not own other men.”

The uneasiness in the Minister’s half-comprehending eyes is not echoed in his suddenly hard voice.  “You will explain to me everything about the politics of your realm, Slave Ontaya.”

“You honor me, Master,” Ontaya says quietly.


----------



## havenstone

*A Slave Education*

*OVER THE FOLLOWING* days, Ontaya spends long hours educating Minister Tang and his functionaries in Northern politics and geography.  She freely volunteers anything she believes the Xaimani could learn from other sources, to cover her careful omission of more militarily useful information.  Meanwhile, her friends are learning much more about the culture and social structure of the Empire, and the limits on slaves.

The first, disheartening thing they learn is slavery is irreversible – there is no provision for emancipation in Xaimani law.  Slaves are seen as having entered an inherently lower order of being, which may explain why no one of noble blood, from any nation, can ever be made a slave.  No slave may bear a sword (a weapon associated loosely with nobility), though they may carry other weapons and act as bodyguards.  No slave may practice magic or other skills associated with one of the higher Paths.  They may not own property, and have no right even to their own offspring (who will be lifelong slaves, even if one of the parents was free).  Slaves must always wear muted gray clothing that exposes the brand on their shoulders.  The penalty for hiding or attempting to magically Heal the slave brand is the same as the penalty for attempted escape: excruciation.  This elaborate punishment consists of being “flogged, pierced, stretched, stoned, and dropped from a great height.”

In Xaiman (and by extension in most of the other nations in the Empire), individuals who are neither slaves nor nobles often belong to a Ranked Path, which defines one’s occupation and social status within a complex guild-like structure.  Each rank is marked by a color, from brown (the lowest, least experienced rank, analogous to apprentices in the North) to gray (the sixth and highest rank, generally held by no more than one to ten people in each Path).  This color will be displayed somewhere in the regalia of the different Paths, as a motif in their robes, headdresses, armor, and so on.  The Sword Path are the Imperial officer class, the Spear Path common soldiers, the Horizon Path sailors.  The Reflective Path are priests, the Radiant Path wizards, the Scroll Path sages and scholars, and so on.

Some of the Paths have “aberrant” counterparts with an equally intricate hierarchy.  The imperial executioners of the Skull Path– the black-clad men who slaughtered the nobility of the north – are considered an aberrant Spear Path.  The anarchic Shattered Path ascetics, whose peculiar mental powers are reportedly based on ritualistically turning their minds in on themselves until they go mad, are an aberrant Reflective Path.  The Golden Path (merchants) and the Shrouded Path (thieves), while officially opposites, are widely rumored to be the same path when all is said and done.

Most rural commoners belong to Non-Ranked Paths, such as the Unrefined Path for miners or the Rice Path for farmers.  These are Paths where there is no differentiation between levels of skill, and brown is the most common color worn by anyone in a Non-Ranked Path.  It is possible for children of commoners to aspire to Ranked Path status, though in some Paths (such as the Sword or Scroll) it can be extremely difficult to find a master who is willing to accept students who are not from well-educated noble families.

*SHUSHILA, THE LITHE *Lakshari slavemistress with graying hair, teaches Carwyn and Kyla the essential etiquette for entertaining noble guests at one of the Minister’s many feasts.  “Avoid eye contact unless you are spoken to.  Extend drinks and food to the noble guests in such a way that your hand does not and need not contact theirs – but do not shrink away if they initiate the contact.  Do not in any way express your own hunger or thirst, nor take food or drink in eyeshot of any guests.”

She then asks them to demonstrate their dancing skills, and nods thoughtfully at the girls’ demonstration of Northern dancing techniques.  “You have considerable grace and skill – especially you,” pointing to Carwyn.  “We will begin, then, with a southeastern Lakshari dance that is far from simple, but is the most important for any dancer to master if you wish to increase your value and your influence with the masters of the Empire.  It is the _che’saan_: the dance that drives men mad.”

Despite her general unhappiness, Carwyn takes to this sinuous, intensely suggestive dance like a duck to water.  She spends the evenings in their drab, crowded quarters absent-mindedly practicing the arm curls and neck movements.  Kyla is less enthusiastic, a fact noted with disapproval by Shushila.  Ontaya passes by the lessons one day and develops a protective crush on Jaori, a slender Xaimani dancing girl.  During their brief conversations, the paladin tries to get a sense of Jaori’s personality but can’t get past a shield of guarded, bland submissiveness.

As Ontaya accompanies Daoran on his daily rounds, she begins to understand the essential role of trusted slaves in managing a Xaimani noble estate.  Most of the slaves who keep the estate running answer to a Slavemaster or Slavemistress, who take their orders from lesser members of the noble family.  The higher class of slaves is treated well and is largely spared the abuses and penalties that their less fortunate fellows endure.


----------



## wmager

This was such an excellent Story Hour that so suddenly stopped being updated; I have to wonder whether it will start being updated again.


----------



## Orichalcum

Thanks! The GM/main author is currently on a walking tour of all of Great Britain and will be until late August, unfortunately, so I suspect that updates soon are unlikely. However, once he's settled back down again in a location with regular email access, I think he'll start up again.


----------



## havenstone

*Hiatus over*

Apologies to the five or six people who may have wondered why _Talismans of Aerdrim_ went on hiatus for a year!

When I started writing this, it was escapism from my work in Afghanistan.  Then I got to the point in the story where the characters were facing the full violence, degradation, and darkness of the Xaimani slave system... and you know, suddenly it just wasn't so escapist any more.  Not that Afghanistan is anything like Xaiman in the details.  But for a while, it just stopped being fun to write.

Now that I'm indefinitely back in Britain, it's fun again -- and I hope I can keep last year's promise to Ladybird to get Xiao Hua into the story before 2011!


----------



## havenstone

*Messengers*

*WITHIN DAYS, ASH *andMeeshak are allowed to leave the estate, to learn the run of the city – or at least the roads to the various noble estates, which are mostly spread out along the north bank of the Shanyang river.  The diminutive, self-effacing errand slave Chosdzed is their tutor, guide, and only guard.  Slavemaster Daoran clearly feels that no armed guards are necessary to keep the new slaves from running away.  Where would the Pale Ones go, and who would possibly help them?   

As they walk briskly through the streets of northern Tziwan, the two Northerners manage to learn that their guide’s parents originally lived in Kardei – a mountain kingdom far to the west – before being enslaved and brought to Xaiman, where Chosdzed was born.  When Ash asks cautiously about the circumstances under which his parents were enslaved, the Kardei slave gives an uneasy smile and evades the question.

Ash and Meeshak soon realize the logic behind assigning them to carry messages.  Owning an exotic Northern captive is fashionable, and the two tall, pale slaves wearing Minister Tang’s colors draw both curious and envious stares on the street.  The nobles to whom they deliver their letters seem pleased and flattered to a greater extent than the mundane content of the messages would justify.

*SHORTLY BEFORE THE *Day of Harvest, the two Northerners are sent across the river for the first time since their purchase.  As on the day of their sale, they cross the Shanyang on a ferry and pass through the Celestial Gate, the northern entrance to Tziwan’s outermost tier [map].  But this time instead of bearing west toward the slave market, Chosdzed beckons them eastward, into a neighborhood where every compound wall seems to be covered in ornate wood and stone carvings.  “The lords of Lakshadar are very fond of such ornamentation, and their artisans are the finest in the Empire,” their Kardei guide explains.  “This is the _qohei_ [quarter] where the Lakshari dwell – the loyal nobles who have been granted land close to the light of the Emperor.  Lakshari travelers and merchants also usually stay somewhere in the qohei.”

“We passed a column of Lakshari slaves on the road south,” Ash recalls aloud.  “They had been captured in a rebellion.”  He thinks back to the oddly cheerful, newly enslaved Chandur.  _The Empire does its best to keep control over the mages.  The Kardei insurgency sixty years ago taught them that.  After all it cost them to pacify the Kardei..._

Chosdzed’s smile does not waver.  “It is tragic that some subject nations do not recognize the power of our Masters.  One cannot conceive of the hard heart that would nurture such rebelliousness.”

They deliver a message to the estate of a Lakshari nobleman named Raj Narayan Shah, inviting him and his son Rupesh to the great Harvest banquet at the Tang estate.  Afterward, Ash and Meeshak stand in the outer courtyard of the Narayan Shah estate while Chosdzed talks with the local Slavemaster, waiting for a response letter to be scribed.  A quiet voice from the gate addresses them: “Slaves of Tang – would you tell me, is it true that you were captured north of the Arawai plains?”

Ash and Meeshak glance around and see a black-eyed Lakshari swordsman, perhaps three or four years older than them, regarding them from a game of tiles with some of the off-duty gate guards.  His earnest, friendly tone and expression are out of keeping with the curt contempt they’ve grown used to in the South.  As with all non-Xaimani who choose to bear swords in Tziwan, the young Lakshari’s saber is fastened to its sheath on his back with an elaborate peace knot.  “I’d have thought that all Xaiman knew the answer to that one by now – my Lord,” Meeshak ventures acerbically, caught off guard by the swordsman’s unexpected affability.

The gate watchmen eye each other and shake their heads.  “You see, Njitra?” one of them chuckles to the inquisitive young man.  “These pale slaves are as unruly as a half-Halaturq desert tribesman, or a Theilask with carbuncles.”

Njitra smiles warmly, to all appearances unaffected by Meeshak’s sarcasm.  “I had heard otherwise.  But I’d also heard it rumored that north of Arawai, there is no slavery – and that’s why the pale ones don’t know how to be slaves.”

The guards, Ash and Meeshak all fall uncomfortably silent.  “None of our Northron words means the same thing as your word ‘slave’,” a cautious Ash says at last. 

“Had you ever seen a man or woman sold before you reached the Empire?” Njitra inquires, his eyes searching their faces.  “No, I thought not.  You could never have imagined being a slave.  How is it to find yourselves forever the property of a Xaimani?”

“Ii’s will is not always easy,” Meeshak replies guardedly.  A flash of half-remembered dream comes to him: _You are heroes, however much the vines choke you_.  “But nothing can stand against it.”

Njitra tilts his head to one side, as if weighing the fatalism of the Northerner’s words against the fierce determination in his eyes.  “That thought seems to comfort you much more than it would me.”

“Forgive me, Master – we would answer more of your questions, but we must go,” says Ash, pointing to the returning Chosdzed.

“I’m no Master to you, slaves of Tang,” the young Lakshari says, waving them away.  “When you see me again, just call me Njitra.”


----------



## havenstone

*The Harvest Banquet*

*ON THE DAY* of Harvest, every slave on the Tang Estate is caught up in frenetic preparation for the evening’s great feast.  The stern Slavemistress Shushila tutors Carwyn and Kyla for hours in the dances they’ll be expected to perform.  By the end, both are aching and thirsty beyond belief.  Before releasing them to bathe and prepare for the night, she looks over them with an unreadable stare.  “The most important dance of all, you will not learn in a week, or a year,” she finally says.  “To sense the desires of a hundred men around you… and dance through and upon those desires, managing not to be caught until you reach the right Master.  One who will protect you from the others.  To live, you must learn it in time.  But whatever happens tonight, remember that you have many years to learn.  Don’t be fools.” 

Dozens of richly robed guests begin to arrive at sunset, their litter-bearers carrying them from all over Tziwan.  The banquet is held in the Hall of the Kirin  Garden, a grand dome of woodwork and silk surrounded by lush open-air courtyards and fountains.  The household slaves of the Tang Estate wash the feet of the guests as they arrive, guide them to low couches around the hall, and serve them from huge bowls of food and rice wine.  The Northern slaves are frequently summoned between clusters of fascinated guests and asked to tell stories of their far land.  The musicians and dancers perform on a raised dais in the center, ringed by smokeless oil lamps.

Ontaya is serving at the end of the hall with the Minister and his closest guests, who regard her exotic coloring, sinewy build, and muscular arms with the same fascination they would show to an unfamiliar animal.  Nearby, the Minister’s nephew and a band of raucous youths are watching the dancers with a very different kind of fascination.  Ontaya looks up to the central dais just as the syncopated rhythm and wailing strings of the _che’saan_ fill the room.  Under normal circumstances, she would have relished watching Carwyn, quiet Jaori, and the other girls dance; here, with the darkness of others’ cruelty and greed flowering repulsively in her mind, all the paladin feels is dread and rage.

*DESPITE HER OWN *crushing fear, Carwyn naturally shines onstage, especially with The Dance That Drives Men Mad.  After the dancing, the girls are dispersed to serve around the room.  Many of the guests leave their couches to admire the gardens, converse, and – in the case of Minister Tang’s nephew and his friends – pursue the slave girls.  Ontaya bravely does her best to insert herself between the dancers and the decadent nobles, who for the most part are too taken aback by her size and strength to harass her.  Her heart sinks as Minister Tang summons her over to explain Northern culture to some of his allies at court.

The young nobles converge on Kyla and Carwyn, who do their best to duck and weave their way through the guests to a safer part of the hall.  A distracted Carwyn fails to notice the high-caste Lakshari who is stalking her from her left.  He catches her with a triumphant exhalation of alcohol.  “So exquisite,” the young man murmurs.  “I have never seen the _che’saan_ danced so powerfully, even in Lakshadar.”

Carwyn suppresses a shriek.  “The Master is too kind,” she manages, wriggling free of his grip.

One of the young Xaimani rakes is there to block her escape.  “Don’t run from such a great honor, little one.  You have caught the eye of Rupesh Narayan Shah, heir to half of the Imperial spice trade.”

Rupesh leans in and recaptures her.  “What is your name, slave?”

“Carwyn, Master.  Please, I am needed by the Slavemistress.”

“The Slavemistress?” he laughs in disbelief.  “She will wait until you’ve danced for me.”  Over Carwyn’s frantic protests, and with her friends watching helplessly from across the room, Rupesh Narayan Shah picks her up and carries her off toward one of the small houses in the garden.  Ontaya manages to excuse herself from further attendance on Tang just in time to interrupt a similar knot of noble assailants around the terrified Jaori.

For her part, Kyla has made it to a particularly dense cluster of banquet guests at the edge of the room when Minister Tang’s nephew appears, squinting drunkenly and possessively at her.  Discovering dexterity she hardly knew she had, Kyla manages to trip the Xaimani youth.  As he topples to the floor, she vanishes among the bemused guests.  For the remainder of the evening, she uses all her skills at tracking and hunting to stay far away from the pack of vile young aristocrats.

*CARWYN STUMBLES FROM *the garden much later, her face bruised and tear-streaked.  Ontaya catches her, immediately uses her paladin gifts to heal the superficial damage, and conveys her to Slavemistress Shushila.  “Slavemistress,” she says, harsh-throated.  “Our friend is... sick.  May Jaori and I see her safely back to our quarters?”

“Take her,” Shushila replies at once.  “The banquet is nearly done.  Others can serve from here.”  As Kyla emerges from the crowd to follow her friends, the Slavemistress steps in close to her and speaks in quiet, neutral tones.  “The Minister’s nephew does not understand exactly how he was shamed tonight, but others who were near to him do.  If the story comes to the Minister’s ears, it will not go well with you.  I warned you not to be foolish.”

Kyla’s emotions are all too plain across her face.  “Death would be better than... _this_, woman.”  She pushes her way past the somber Lakshari slave and hurries to rejoin the others as they reach the slave quarters.

“I stole the bastard’s jewelry,” Carwyn says dully, producing a necklace of fine cut stones from inside her slaveclothes.  “I should have strangled him with it – I would have, if I hadn’t known what they’d do to you all...”

“Oh, Carwyn,” Ontaya says in anguish.  “Carwyn, I’m so sorry.”  _And by Ain and every thing holy_, she vows with all her fury and faith, _we will see justice done for this_.

Kyla just sits next to Carwyn, holding her in silence.  _At least I had a moment of choice_, she thinks bleakly.  _And I took it.  Now let the bastard Xaimani do what they will._


----------



## havenstone

*Repercussions*

*ASH WAKES MOMENTS *before the rest of the party, hearing the unmistakable clatter of armed and armored men approaching their quarters.  Baby T’harai starts up and begins to wail.  The captain of Tang’s guard appears, his short spear in his hand, and snarls, “Northerners.  Up, now, and follow me.”  

The estate is swarming with guards.  The usual Xaimani equanimity is absent today; anyone who sees the Northern slaves not only stares, but turns to a neighbor and begins talking excitedly.  Carwyn (at first wondering numbly if this has to do with stolen gems) hears anger and incredulity in the hushed voices, and one word repeated over and over: _Escape_.

They are ushered into a small, musty room where Slavemaster Daoran stands with two strangers.  One is a cleric of Ii, wearing the dark stole that signifies high rank in the Reflective Path.  Next to him is a black-swathed man wearing a silver skull pendant; he carries a weapon that looks like the captain of the guard’s short spear, but with serrated edges and an array of twisted hooks.

“To every question I ask, you will each immediately answer yes or no -- or die under the worst tortures of the Skull Path,” Daoran says grimly.  “Your two friends who were sold to the Imperial   Palace.  Have you communicated with them in any way since your sale?”

“No, Slavemaster,” comes back the unanimous answer.  The priest nods quietly to Daoran.

“Did you know they had any plan to escape from the Palace?”

“No, Slavemaster.”  All of the Northerners struggle to keep any sign of hope or happiness from breaking across their faces.

“Do you have _any idea_ where they might be now?”

“No, Slavemaster.”  The priest looks at each of them in turn, then nods again.  

Daoran exhales raggedly, looking more unsettled than Ontaya had ever thought to see him.  “You -- tall one.  Follow me.”  As Meeshak steps forward, the Skull executioner smoothly sheathes his hooked spear in a harness across his back and produces a bamboo rod with a length of studded leather at the end.

*EACH PARTY MEMBER* is taken for questioning and a thorough beating by the Skull Path.  Even one-year-old Hamber and T’harai are given a symbolic whip blow.  They are given no explicit reason for their punishment, but the questions they are asked make clear that Atrix and Darren escaped from the Emperor’s Palace shortly before dawn.  Neither Kyla nor baby T’harai return from their questioning, leaving their friends sick with worry.

Shortly after her whipping, Ontaya is taken to Minister Tang.  The Minister of State is wearing silk robes more elaborate than any she has seen before; his long hair is intricately groomed and held together with gold needles.  He turns to her, clearly struggling to retain his poise as she prostrates herself.  “Slave.  A grave... no, an _unimaginable_ crime has taken place.  Two slaves have dared to bring indignity upon the Palace, to commit murder, to deny their slavery.  And they are your compatriots, from the very cage that brought you here.”  When Ontaya remains silent, Tang snaps, “What do you have to say of them?”

“Master – we have no knowledge of their deeds,” Ontaya replies tersely.  “We had no idea that they would violate the laws of the Empire in this appalling way.”

“Look at me,” Tang demands, his face pale and taut.  “Tell me, how do _you_ regard their deeds?”

“Their crimes are a grievous attack against the foundations of the Imperial order, Master,” Ontaya says at once, unblinking.  “The law demands their excruciation.”

“And do you think as lightly of the Order of Heaven as your... _friends_ do?”

“No, Master.  I strive always to follow law and order.  A disordered society produces only injustice and destruction.”

Tang holds her gaze for a long minute, then turns away; Ontaya immediately returns her eyes to the floor.  “Your Northern lands do not understand order.  For slaves to dishonor the Highest of Houses... not even the lowest barbarians would behave so.  This is a great shame on all Northerners.  When the next legions march north, it will not be forgotten.”

*AS TANG STALKS* off toward his litter-bearers, Daoran beckons Ontaya back toward the slave quarters.  “He was debating whether to bring all your heads to the Emperor as an honor gesture,” the Slavemaster informs her.  “You answered ably enough.  Still, you should pray that his audience goes well.”

“Yes, Slavemaster,” Ontaya says emotionlessly.

“Your friends have brought madness to Tziwan.  Kesh’ao of the Windowless Spike has been called out, and the South Forge of the Spear Level stilled for a whole day.  Cadans and Slavemasters have been given to the Skull Path.  _Every_ Northern slave is to be beaten, throughout the entire Empire.  Much more could and will be done.”  There is hurt in Daoran’s reproof.  “Chang of the Imperial Household was a friend of mine.  Good men die when order is violated.  Do you understand what I say?”

“Yes.”  Ontaya waits for a minute, then voices her fear for Kyla.  “Slavemaster – forgive me, but our Arawai friend – surely it is not necessary to keep her for additional questioning?”

“She is not being questioned.”  Daoran’s demeanor darkens further.  “It is well known that Arawai don’t make good slaves.  Wild as their horses.  I should not have assumed that she would be different.”  

“What has happened to her?”

“She has been given as a novelty to one of the Minister’s guests.  From Sziao, far away.  There they understand how to discipline troublesome slaves.  You will not see her again.”

Ontaya tries to mask her horror.  “And her child?”

“No, the Minister wished to keep the child.  We purchase a new dancing girl today to replace your friend.  She will also be given responsibility for the child.”  Daoran’s tone admits no question.  “Your Slavemaster training is suspended.  Remain in the slave quarters until you are called for.”

*IN THE EARLY* afternoon, the little group is gathered again for another interrogation – this time by a man wearing the golden robes of an Archmaster in the Radiant Path.  The mage is potbellied but his face is emaciated; his pockmarked cheeks and thin lips are tight with zealous anger.  

“Slaves,” Daoran declares, “it is your honor to be in the presence of Archmaster Kesh’ao, Enforcer of the Imperial Will and foremost avenger of crimes against the Order of Heaven.”

“I am no slave-hunter,” Kesh’ao says with contempt.  “But your fellows have committed a crime against nature.  Every breath they take is a shame to all Tziwan.  Their excruciation is most richly deserved.”  He looks at each of the Northerners in turn.  “If any of you so much as dream of lying or withholding any information from me, you will all share your friends’ fate.”

The mage begins to question the group for details about Darren and Atrix: faces, names, histories.  Then he suddenly fixes Carwyn with a clinical stare.  “Slave: have you mated with either of them?”

“Yes,” Carwyn manages, bile rising in her throat.

“Think on it,” the mage commands, places three fingers on her forehead.  Carwyn closes her eyes and emphatically fills her mind with the memory of the late _Alan_ d’Loriad.  
 
Kesh’ao slowly draws his hand away.  For a terrible moment, Carwyn is sure he’s seen through her deception; then a look of triumph breaks over his face.  “Perfect.  I have an image of the runaway’s soul.  He cannot evade me now.”  The Archmaster stalks out of the room to scry for a dead man.


----------



## havenstone

*Meeshak's Dreams: 3*

That night, Meeshak dreams:


----------



## havenstone

*Humbler-Than-Thou*

*ON THE FAR *side of Tziwan, the two objects of Archmaster Kesh’ao’s hunt clamber out of the rubble-strewn alley where they encountered Tchuchek the Ear.   The tidal cliffs in this _qohei_  are lined with derelict houses; Atrix and Darren limp past roofless beggars’ nests, dense clusters of rhododendron, and garbage mounds picked over by feral pigs and chickens.  Hearing murmured voices from a nearby street, they quickly scramble into a vine-tangled ruin where they hope they won’t be seen.

“Where now?” Darren asks, his voice fraying with exhaustion but still determined.  “I doubt this place will stay empty for long, even in the middle of the day.”  _And we can’t lose a minute if we’re going to save Kay._

Nose wrinkled, Atrix assesses how much of his skin has been effectively hidden by blood and sewage.  “If we’re lucky, we’ve got one friend in this city who’s not a slave.  We just need to find him.”

The two friends tie rags around as much of their bodies as possible.  With a few minutes’ work, their faces are almost entirely obscured, and they think they could plausibly pass as beggars suffering from a wasting disease.  They keep the thieves’ daggers concealed at their sides and waists.  Pushing back the fear of discovery, they emerge into the din of Tziwan’s back streets: a labyrinth of interlinked courtyards and alleys housing people from every nation in the Empire.  The soaring, dilapidated houses in this sector of the city are punctuated frequently with brothels, gambling dens, and shacks wafting intoxicating smokes.  Most of the passersby are intent on their sordid pursuits and don’t spare two battered vagabonds more than a passing glance.

Darren practices a crucial Xaimani phrase under his breath to get the accent right, and finally dares to try it on a bored-looking Chramic sailor.  “Honorable Master: we seek the Sufza qohei.”

The man glances at Darren, then quickly turns his face away and gives a disgusted wave northward.  “That way, go.  You’ll find the horse-takers where the Shanyang meets the sea.”

*IT TAKES THEM *the rest of the day to traverse eastern Tziwan.  Atrix and Darren try to keep the coast always in view, but stick to back alleys and shadows as much as possible.  By sunset, they finally reach the sheer headland that looks north over the River Shanyang.  Despite his fatigue, Darren is excited to see hundreds of tiny sails: intrepid fishermen plying the tidal wedge where the vast river enters the sea.  The Sufza qohei, a ramshackle but cheery warren of stables and garrets centered on a dirty canal, is backed up against the sea-cliff.  The disguised Northerners move through the horse markets on the outskirts of the qohei and enter a street where they are the only non-Sufza.

Atrix approaches one of the lanky barbarians and speaks hoarsely.  “Forgive me.  We seek one of your kin who was recently traveling in Arawai.  He is our friend.  His name is Nurak, but he called himself Humblest of the Sufza.”

The dark-eyed man grins, unfazed by the Northerners’ ghastly smell and appearance.  “In this place, for that title, your comrade will find copious competition among his cousins.  Will you accept this one’s even-humbler hospitality while I hunt for him?”

Trying to ignore their anxiety and pain-wracked bodies, Atrix and Darren and sit on a bench and drink hungrily from a shared bowl of mare’s milk.  The daylight is nearly gone by the time their host returns – with a blessedly familiar figure loping alongside him.  

“Nurak,” murmurs Atrix, too overcome with relief to say anything else.

Nurak seems about to burst with elation.  As soon as they get inside, he embraces the two runaways and laughs with unrestrained delight.  “Most daring of Darrens, most audacious of Atrices!  To find you here is the most unexpected good news.  Of all our friends, I had harbored the least hope of being able to devise your deliverance.  And then today your notorious and most intrepid departure from the Imperial Palace was the tidings on every tongue in Tziwan!”

“Well, actually, we only overheard it being discussed ninety-two times as we crossed the city today,” Atrix demurs.

“Thank Ii we found you, Nurak,” Darren says fervently, unwrapping his face and leaning against the wall.  “I don’t suppose you have any priests you trust among your cousins?  Not to detract from the heroic gossip, but we’re only barely able to stand up right now.”

Nurak looks rueful.  “None of the simple Sufza Singers in this place have comparable clerical capabilities to your Ain-Priests, who are all so effortlessly erasing injuries.  But we do possess some potions and herbs that may help heal your hurts and restore some part of your strength.”  He glances to his cousin, who nods and makes a move to the garret door.

“Wait,” Atrix rasps urgently.  “I’m sorry, but we need to ask you for more than just potions.  Nurak: in the morning, we have to go to the mines of Graiqal to save Kay.  She’s in greater danger than any of our other friends.  We’ll need a much better disguise than this one.  And I’ll need a sword.”

*ATRIX AND DARREN* drowse off almost as soon as Nurak’s cousin leaves the room, only half-waking for a much-needed meal.  When their Sufza host returns around midnight, he brings healing herbs and elixirs that restore them to some degree of health and consciousness.  He also brings a sword for Atrix, a steel-shod club for Darren, well-cut freemen’s clothes, and _tabal_, a spice which (when applied in sufficient quantity) dyes pale skin a long-lasting light brown.  “You can pass as cunning Chramics with this – or perhaps even as far western Szianars, where the Xaimani influence is less.  This is a reliable ruse well known in the North, but we can be sure that few folk here are familiar with ways to stain Northern skin.”

The two Northerners throw away their filthy rags, bathe, and begin rubbing the brown powder over their bodies.  Atrix winces as the tabal stings the still-fresh wounds across his body and cheek.  When he’s done, he looks at the slave brand on his shoulder.  “We really need to do something about that, too.  Can’t run the risk that it gets exposed at the wrong time.”

Darren nods bleakly.  “Without priests powerful enough for a major healing, there’s only one thing to do.”

With help from Nurak’s steady hand, they heat the blade of the sword and sear their shoulders, leaving a suspicious-looking but unrecognizable scar.  Both nearly pass out again from the pain, but as the initial nausea fades, both begin to feel a giddy euphoria.  The removal of the slave brand makes it all feel real – for the first time in a year, they are not marked as property.

At first light, Atrix, Darren, and Nurak ride out of Tziwan toward the Mines of Graiqal.


----------



## havenstone

*Rivers of Blood*

*SHIELDING THEMSELVES AGAINST* a morning cloudburst, the three riders skirt the massive central mount and bear off through the city to the southwest [see map].  Nurak informs them that this geomantically inauspicious corner of Tziwan is where the most desperate migrants to the capital wash up – runaway slaves, ragpickers, petty thieves in hiding from the Shrouded Path, and vascars (those cursed with a wasting disease, known in the North as vascarus and in the South as mafeng, that resists priestly healing).  “We would be wise to stay out of those _qohei_s, where the fortunately futile hunt for you will surely be at its height.”  He points to a distant black outcrop which ends in a long, jagged precipice.  Squinting through the rain, Atrix and Darren can just make out the tiny figures suspended from its edge.  “There are the Execution Cliffs of Tziwan.  Most knowledgeable of Northerners, you are doubtless already aware of the Xaimani habit of excruciation?”

“To flog, pierce, stretch, stone, and drop from a great height,” Darren recites bleakly.  “Chang warned us.”

“Such public punishment is reserved for offenses of the most egregious nature,” their Sufza friend explains.  “For lesser faults a slave will not be so dramatically disposed of, but simply sold to the Mines.”  

Unlike the fertile, densely populated plain to the north of the Shanyang, the terrain beyond Tziwan to the southwest is craggy and thickly overgrown with trees and vines.  The only human habitations are clusters of rickety huts clinging to the steep, rocky cliff-faces.  The broad highway through the jungle is busy by Senalline standards – thanks mainly to legionnaires and slave caravans traveling between the capital and the distant province of Guizan – but it seems empty compared to the throngs that permanently plied the roads of north Xaiman.

Two hours’ ride from Tziwan, the road skirts the edge of a yawning crevice.  The rock here has been seared lifelessly white and eaten away in great bubbles that cascade down into invisibility; even with his dwarrow amulet on, Darren cannot make out the bottom.  “_Siseo laou_,” Nurak declares, gesturing at the emptiness.  “When joined with water, it will corrode even the most sturdy of stones.  These hills contain many thick veins of the salt.”

“Why in Ain’s name do the madmen _mine_ the stuff?” Atrix says, shaken.

“The Xaimani have not been noted among the Sufza for their sanity,” Nurak agrees.  “But I am told they find it useful in etching steel and in some manners of magics.”

*THE THREE FRIENDS *soon leave the main southwest highway.  The branch road is lined with many more of the gaping, barren fissures where water has breached a deposit of siseo laou.  In some, the sound of dripping water is accompanied by fizzing, gurgling noises emerging from the depths.  The air takes on a faint acid tang.  By late afternoon, the road arrives in the town of Graiqal, a poor-looking place built from salt-scarred stones.  On either side of the pitted street stand merchants’ stalls, painstakingly waterproofed with many layers of greased canvas.  They offer grey-white cubes of siseou laou immersed in bowls of clear oil.  Several traders’ carts, similarly protected against rain, are loading up blocks of the caustic salt for transit to Tziwan.

As they agreed before leaving Tziwan, Atrix assumes the role of a minor Chramic noble on his first trip to Xaiman, with Darren as his factotum and Nurak as their guide.  Nurak gets directions to a run-down winehouse where travelers can rent rooms.  “It is to be assumed that the Refined Path overseers will come here for their evening libations,” he informs the Northerners in their quarters.

“Excellent.  I’ve thought of a plan,” Atrix begins, staring up the well-guarded jungle road toward the Mines.

“Here we go,” Darren sighs.  “Rivers of blood.”

“What?  No – this is a _cunning_ plan.”

“They always start off cunning, but they end up with us having to kill lots of people.  Or, you know, die.  Either way: rivers of blood.”

“We’ll see about that,” retorts Atrix, irked.  “If we’re lucky, we won’t even have to get within a mile of the mine.”

*THEY DESCEND* *TO* the main drinking room, eat a light meal, and join the mine overseers when they arrive.  Atrix does his best to be charming, buying rice wine for the scarred Refined Path workers and spinning a grand story about his plans to start shipping siseo laou in bulk to his home in Chraman.  The lunatic idea of taking any significant quantity of the salt on board a _ship_ sends the overseers into paroxysms of mirth, but Darren holds their interest by explaining his (quickly improvised) design for protection of the hold against dampness.  When they ask Atrix how he got the fresh scar on his face, he laughs it off with talk of the rough taverns on the Tziwan docks.

After several rounds of wine, Atrix draws aside Jumji, the Fourth Overseer, a white-whiskered Xaimani who has been the most amiable of the miners.  “I’m not just here for the salt, you know.  I heard talk in Tziwan of a couple of Northerners who were sold here.  These new Pale Folk slaves.”

“That is true,” says Jumji, suddenly cautious.

“Are they kept together with all the rest of the slaves?”

“In the same pen, yes.”

“I would be very interested in seeing the girl.”  Atrix absently jingles the purse of gold coins Nurak gave him.  “Just for a night.  Discreetly.  You look like a discreet man.”

The Xaimani swallows, then shakes his head.  “That would be impossible.”

“Irregular, I’m sure.  But impossible?”

“Wholly impossible.”  Jumji wrinkles his nose in distaste.  “She was very weak from the day she arrived.  Siseo laou does not spare the weak for long.  She died yesterday.”

Atrix stares in consternation at the Refined Path overseer, unable fully to mask his grief and guilt.  Jumji’s face twitches uncomfortably, and Atrix feels a sudden, angry certainty that he’s lying.  “What a shame,” he shrugs.  “I’d have given a lot for such a rare opportunity.”

“A shame indeed,” mutters the overseer.  Jumji soon excuses himself from the group and leaves; Atrix and his friends do likewise, returning to their quarters.

*“AT LEAST WE* know Kay’s in the same pen as the others,” Darren says encouragingly as they descend from the window of their room.  “We’ll sneak in, find it, and break her out before the guards know we’re there.”

The road from the town to the mines is steep and switchbacked, broken by small rivulets of hissing, pungent water that burst from the hillside.  The three friends move stealthily through the rocks past the first guard outpost, but as they are approaching the second, Nurak fails to see an acidic pool underfoot, and splashes noisily.  The five guards spring upright, raising their lanterns and bringing spears and maces to bear.  Atrix, Darren, and Nurak charge down, trying to silence them as quickly as possible, but one of them bellows, “Intruders!” repeatedly until Nurak’s staff cracks his skull.

“This clumsy Sufza begs your forgiveness,” Nurak whispers, aghast, as they hear guards’ excited shouts from both below and above.

“No time for that,” Atrix replies tersely, wiping his sword clean.  “Quick, up to the mine.  It’ll be rivers of blood after all.”

The mine sentries are for the most part semi-skilled local thugs employed to keep droves of doomed slaves in line.  The first wave charges down eagerly, expecting to put down an escape party, and are shocked to confront two well-armed Chramics and a Sufza.  Atrix fights like a demon, pressing fiercely up toward Kay, refusing to give ground even when it means taking club blows to his head and body.  Nurak and Darren, desperate to maintain their uphill momentum, cut down the guards who get past Atrix.  Together, they kill a dozen Xaimani and fight their way up to the high point of the road.  They can see the steaming caverns of Graiqal, and a high-walled stockade – the slave pens where Kay must surely be sleeping.

They also see that more than twenty guards remain, most of whom are marching down to the fight.  Meanwhile, the initially noisy guards from the lowermost outpost have fallen silent; clearly they have found their comrades’ corpses and are moving forward more cautiously, determined to surround the intruders and take them by stealth.  The bloodied Northerners sway in place for a moment, feeling their adrenalin evaporate and the exhaustion of the previous day’s ordeal weigh down their limbs again.

“I’m sorry, cousin,” Atrix murmurs, his voice strained and bitter.  Then he looks over to the silent Darren and Nurak.  “There's no way we can win here.  We did our best.  Let's get out while we can.”


----------



## Orichalcum

Yay for a return to Aerdrim! And soon we get out of depressing stuff and into fun hijinx.


----------



## Orichalcum

*A Charming Girl*

More Excerpts From 
"A Brief Account of the Life of my Master’s Master, Laoshi Tai-tai, by Soong Ling"

Now came the crucial turning point in the life of Rian of Tilung. The slavemaster Daoran took her to Minister Tang's estate and handed her chain off to Shushila, the Slavemistress. "Train this one as another dancing girl, a replacement for the Arawai. Her dealer spoke highly of her talents, though I have my doubts."

Shushila bowed. "What tasks shall I assign her until she is trained enough to perform in public?"

Daoran considered for a second, little knowing the import of his words. "Oh, give her the care of the pale baby - no need for a more useful slave to do that. You, girl - what's your name, anyway?"

"Rian, honored Slavemaster," she spoke, feigning submissiveness.

"Do you know anything about taking care of children?"

"I fed and watched my younger brothers when my parents were in the rice fields, Slavemaster," Rian answered, confused somewhat by the line of questioning.

"Good enough," he answered. "Bathe and dress her and tell her the routine; then give her the babe."

Once Daoran was out of the room, Shushila tsked at Rian's dusty slave robes and ragged hair. "Not really fitting for Minister Tang's, are you?" Rian attempted to scrape some of the dust out of her robes and cast a spell, but before she could Shushila whisked the robes off her entirely and bade her lift her arms. "Well, you've got the body of a dancer, at least, though you're a bit small. We'll see what we can do with you. Meanwhile, you very much need a bath." She raised her voice, calling into the slave quarters. "Carwyn!"

A voluptuous, strangely pale-skinned young woman, her beauty marred by visible bruises on her cheeks and wrists, hurried into the room. "Yes, Slavemistress?"

"This is Rian of Sziao, the new girl. Take her and bathe her and do something about her hair. You think you can manage that task, Northerner?"

"Yes, Slavemistress."

Carwyn led Rian into a simple but large bathing chamber, heated by the hot springs that ran under the Minister's estate. She handed her a pumice stone and a bucket of warm water. Carwyn's tone was brusque, not welcoming the replacement for her departed friend Kyla. "First, you scrub yourself down with the stone. Then, wash with the water. Then, you can rinse in the pool, and I'll try and deal with your hair."

Rian, terrified at her lack of success with the Slavemistress or Slavemaster and knowing that the dealer had vastly overstated her talents, was determined to find an ally - by whatever means necessary. She bent down timidly and grabbed the stone, scraping off some of its surface as she scrubbed her feet and palming it in her hand. Under her breath, she spoke the words of magic learned from her grandfather's scrolls and looked up piteously at Carwyn. "I'm all alone here. Would you be my friend?"

Carwyn felt her heart surge with an unexpected wave of empathy and compassion for the young girl, who looked all of fourteen. "Of course. Don't worry. You'll be all right. My friends and I will take care of you."


----------



## Orichalcum

Continued Excerpt:

After her waist-length hair had been trimmed of its coarse ends and elegantly braided by Carwyn, Rian dressed in the simple slave's robe, shoulder bare to show her new brand, that had been brought for her. Carwyn, now eager to help, offered to show her to the slave women's dormitory. Shushila appeared again as they were walking towards it. 

"Carwyn, before you show her the dormitory, you should both report to the nursery. The infants need feeding and washing. Rian is to care for the white-skinned one."

Carwyn looked up in surprise and dismay. "Slavemistress, Ta...the white-skinned infant belonged to Kyla."

"The Arawai has been sold. Her new master had no use for a mewling infant. He remains here until he can be profitable," Shushila answered.

"Then I can care for him; he already knows me well," Carwyn requested.

"No, you have other duties, like practicing your dancing; more than enough of your time is already spent with your own child. Give him to Rian." Shushila strode off, preventing Carwyn from making another appeal.

Carwyn was highly dubious, despite the warm feelings she now felt towards the Szianar girl, of handing over the half-fey child Taharai to her, but she told herself that it was only a temporary measure, until they could all escape.

Rian had merely stood silently during the exchange, looking confused. Carwyn spoke up reluctantly, "Well, we'd best go to the nursery, then."

The slave nursery of Minister Tang was full of a dozen babies and small children, being cared for by slave women too old to work the fields or clean the house, much less dance for the young lords. It was simple, with bamboo mats laid out on the floor and bamboo sticks and small clay balls as the only toys, but the children seemed happy enough. While most of the children were gathered in groups either playing with a ball or practicing a simple dance under the guidance of a nurse, two children were pointedly being ignored by the others. One, a large study baby boy, just starting to actively crawl, was noticeable mainly for his Northern skin and light eyes. He kept trying to grab the ball from the other children, who persisted in running away each time. The other strange child had skin as white as the snow that fell in the mountains some winters, and pink eyes, and unnatural silver hair. He lay quietly on a mat, looking at the other children solemnly.

Carwyn ran to the sturdy Northern boy and swooped him up in her arms. "Hamber! How have you been?"

"Mama!" he babbled, and turned and pointed. "Ba!" Rian quietly went and fetched another ball that the children weren't playing with. "Here you go; play with this one." 

Hamber smiled up at her and started rolling the ball. Carwyn smiled at Rian and pointed towards the white-skinned baby. "That is T'harai. For now, he is your responsibility."

"Mine??? But...where are his parents? I am a stranger to him! And why does he look so strange?" Rian blurted out, forgetting courtesy in her shock. 

"His mother is dead; his father is...nowhere near here. His foster-mother was sold last week. He has no one, and so do you. Perhaps you will suit each other."

"Is he sick, that he is so pale?"

"I don't think so. He has looked like that since he was born; I think some babies, at least in the North, just turn out that way. You probably shouldn't keep him outside in direct sun too much, though." Carwyn answered calmly, while trying to keep Hamber from eating his ball.

Rian went quietly over to the pale baby's mat and knelt beside him, holding her hand out for his tiny fingers to grab. "Greetings, T'h...T'h....Ta-rai. I will be taking care of you."

T'harai slowly reached out his tiny, almost translucent fingers and touched Rian's palm. For a second, as he did so, her palm glowed with light. She gasped, and quickly closed her fingers around his own, shutting out the light from the other nurses. She scooped him up into her lap in a panic, afraid that he would do something more spectacular in the next instant and doom them both to exposure by the Radiant Path.

"Well," she whispered, "I suppose we do have something in common, little one."


----------



## havenstone

*Among Barbarians*

*ATRIX AND DARREN *jolt out of an uneasy sleep in their garret in the Sufza qohei.  Though it cannot be long past midnight, the alleys outside echo with low, angry voices and the distinctive clink of Xaimani armor.  The two Northerners reclaim their blades from their bedsides and stand just as Nurak enters the room.  Their roguish friend points wordlessly to the back window.

As they scramble out, they hear an elderly Sufza pipe up loudly from the passage on the other side of the building.  “Your servant does not understand why the legions have come at such an hour to our humble houses.”

“Archmaster Kesh’ao has determined that this qohei is sheltering renegades against the Order of Heaven,” a flinty voice replies.  “Every house is to be searched.  Stand aside, old man.”

Nurak leads his friends on a silent sprint across the rooftops of the Sufza qohei – and this time, unlike their ill-fated attempt at stealth in Graiqal, none of the three makes a sound to alert the swaming soldiers.  The qohei is ringed by legionnaires and Tziwan city watchmen carrying torches, allowing no one to pass.  After a quick whispered conference, Nurak heads off to trigger a horse stampede in a nearby stable, distracting the sentries while Atrix and Darren vault across the narrow alleyway.  Shaken by their narrow escape, the Northerners head south toward the Chramic qohei.  The silence behind them is broken by faint screams, and a reddish light tints the rooftops, too early for dawn.

The next day, a tearful, soot-streaked Nurak finds them at the docks.  “The most cruel Kesh’ao has destroyed the Sufza qohei.  When the searching soldiers were unable to locate your selves, he was calling down a storm of magefire to drive every person out of their homes.  One hundred of my unfortunate cousins are being questioned by the legions, and our horses have been taken.  Every building is burned to the ground, and the winter rains are coming.”

“Nurak – I am so sorry,” Atrix says, appalled.  “We brought this down on you.  We should have headed North as soon as we escaped.”

The mournful rogue shakes his head.  “This Sufza and his cousin gave you sanctuary – it was not your doing.  We could not have been doing otherwise for old friends.  And while there is still hope of redeeming our captive comrades, we should not leave this city.  To steal them away as well will be our best revenge on the callous Kesh’ao.”

“We’ll take more revenge than that, Ii willing,” Darren promises.  “Atrix and I will never forget what this madman has done – any more than we’ll forget what you’ve done to help us.  For now: can we stay anywhere without him finding us?”

Nurak wipes his eyes, and his voice steadies.  “We Sufza have acquired some familiarity with the scrying skills of Southern sorcerers.  The Archmaster plainly does not have enough knowledge of you to be perceiving your location with certainty.  If you remain in a populous place which he cannot seal off or burn down – such as the docks – it is unlikely that his hunting will result in your capture, even if he is able once again to be sensing the vicinity of your trail.”

*THE FUGITIVES ACCORDINGLY *hire a room at a dockside inn with more of Nurak’s money, and spend a week developing their fake identities.  Darren is reasonably fluent in Chramic, which he picked up in Rim Square with Nina and her uncle.  They decide to act as young traders on their first trip to Xaiman, from the merchant clan Atlaisan, an obscure family which (according to Nurak) is mostly based in the North.  Carefully, they begin to befriend the Chramic sailors who frequent the inn.  Between Nurak’s knowledge, Darren’s quick wits, and Atrix’s charisma, they cover their ignorance and don’t make any major mistakes that would raise suspicions.

As days pass, they relax slightly; it seems likely that Archmaster Kesh’ao really has lost them.  One evening Nurak enters their room, looking flustered, and places a bag of gold coins on the table.  “Most considerate of companions, as it seems possible for you to remain here unknown and unbothered for a short time, I hope you will understand if your humble friend needs to leave Tziwan.  There is... Sufza business that requires this one’s presence, and not in this place.  This meager purse should provide for your needs.  We will hopefully be meeting again in a month and finding the opportunity to rescue our remaining friends.”  He will say no more about his errand, and despite their curiosity, Atrix and Darren accept that they’ll have to manage without their friend for a while.

To further deter scrying, at Nurak’s suggestion, they spend most of their days walking through crowded, unremarkable places in the docks and markets of outer Tziwan.  Atrix visits a swordsmith from the archipelago of Niyon and commissions two expensive masterwork swords to replace the one Shect broke.  He’s unsure whether Nurak’s largesse will ever cover the full cost of the blades, but with typical optimism Atrix assumes that by the time the swords are forged, he’ll be able to afford them.

*IN THE EVENINGS*, they spend most of their time with their newfound Chramic friends – though in mixed-ethnic groups as often as possible, as an excuse to speak in Xaimani.  Darren gets to fully indulge his fascination with ships and shipbuilding, as the Chramics are the best ocean-going sailors in North or South, with the possible exception of the fine-featured Niyonari (from the mountain archipelago of Niyon, east of Tziwan).  A friendly sea-trader named Seraband invites them out to the House of the Yellow Rose, a dockside institution where all the best sailors and shipwrights from all the Southern nations meet to trade stories and drink.  

“You _must_ meet this one fellow before someone else catches his ear,” Seraband says enthusiastically.  He guides them over to a table occupied by a slender, middle-aged Szianar with a grey-flecked beard and deep-set, mournful eyes.  The man glances up politely from the toddler playing at his side.  “This is the man who knows about everything.  Every rumor in the Empire comes to him sooner or later – usually sooner – and he lives well off them.  Chingan Dai: these two are Clan Atlaisan merchant-prentices, on their first visit to the South.”

“Welcome to the Heart of the World, lads,” Chingan Dai says in Xaimani-accented Chramic.  “You chose rightly: this is the place to make your fortune.”

“Thank you,” Darren responds with a bow.  “It is an honor to meet one so knowledgeable.”

“Please, sit and share your stories with me – and excuse my daughter Tiya.  Since her mother died, she has had to accompany me on my rounds of the city more often.”  

Atrix starts playing with the cheery toddler, while Darren leans across the table, switching to Xaimani.  “So: what does a Chramic trader most need to know in Tziwan these days?”

“Your race has been better loved than they are today,” the gloomy-eyed Szianar replies drily.  “Many in Xaiman are still outraged by the revelation that the Chramics have known for generations about the Pale Folk kingdoms in the North – and have used that knowledge to their great profit.  I have heard priests, mages, and nobles arguing that when the next Legions march north, they should pass through your errant protectorate and bring Chraman and its traffickers directly under the Imperial yoke.”

“And when might those Legions be marching?” Darren asks, not having to feign his surprise and anxiety.

“Don’t fear – it won’t be soon.  It’s clear now that the Pale Folk are no military threat, and extending Imperial authority across the vastness of Arawai is no simple matter.  The Emperor’s ministers are cautious men, and none wish to propose a major new conquest without years of gathering intelligence.  They will be seeking that knowledge from you Chramics – along with a greater share of the wealth from the Northern trade – but they are not fools enough to think they’d get it better by making war on you.  The recent expedition to defend the Arawai border has strained the Imperial coffers enough.  The Northern slaves brought back are only a token recompense, bringing the Legions less gold than honor.”

“Even after a few of those slaves escaped from the palace?” Atrix asks idly.  Darren kicks him under the table.

“You’d be well advised not to joke about that around a Xaimani,” says Chingan Dai, smiling for the first time.  “That escape is considered the greatest insult to the Emperor since the entire province of Theilash rebelled seventy years ago.”

“Ah – well, I’ll steer clear of the subject, then,” says Atrix, overpoweringly smug.


----------



## Orichalcum

*A Fate Worse Than Injury*

The Northern barbarian Carwyn introduced young Rian to her other Northern friends, especially Ontaya and Meeshak. In such a large group, it was difficult for Rian to work her magic, and both the tall blonde warrior and the saturnine, cynical Meeshak seemed immune to her charm in any case, if friendly enough. 

Carwyn, on the other hand, was very receptive, especially when Rian proved a ready audience to listen to her worries about her lost lover Lune. Though Rian grew increasingly nervous trying to hide her repeated invocations of the charm spell in the midst of the crowded slave quarters, she was reasonably certain that Carwyn viewed her as a trusted friend and companion. Some of the liking might even be genuine - they were both strangers here, after all.

On the first full day, the Slavemistress Shushila summoned Carwyn, Rian, and a few of the other most graceful young slaves for another lesson in dancing. She started a drumbeat and asked Rian to follow along with the other more experienced girls, watching her closely. The young Szianar excelled in the group dances and pair dances, which were similar to those danced in the moon festivals back home in her village. When Carwyn attempted to show her the steps of the che'saan, the Dance That Drives Men Wild, however, Rian's natural modesty and embarassment caused her to trip and stumble. 

Shushila clucked in reproof. "You must work harder on that one, Rian. I know you can't all be as naturally talented as Carwyn, but you will never please the young nobles by merely traipsing out the steps of a country dance."

Carwyn blanched a little at Shushila's remark, and Rian noticed her friend's pause in the rhythms of the mirror dance they were practicing. When the dance was over and Shushila dismissed them to the baths, Rian fell back by Carwyn's side. "What's wrong with pleasing the young nobles?" she whispered.

Carwyn turned bitterly to her. "If they like your dancing, they ask for a 'private performance.'" Her tone left no doubt as to her meaning.

Rian paled in shock. "I...I can't! I won't!"

Carwyn's eyes held little hope in them. "We're slaves. Would you rather be flogged to death?"

Rian's mind worked quickly. "You said if they like your dancing. What if I danced badly?"

Carwyn considered and then dismissed the idea. "Then Shushila would beat you; she knows you're capable of very good dancing after today, even if your hips aren't really up to the full sway and swish."

Rian paused and offered another idea, "What if I couldn't dance? What if I was injured somehow? Then it wouldn't be my fault!"

Carwyn replied, "Well, yes, but you aren't. And I don't think we could disguise that easily; she'd be sure to check, and our dancing robes don't conceal much."

Rian bit her lip and summoned her resolve. "Then I'll have to actually be injured. You said your friend Meeshak was good with healing. Can he sprain my ankle?"

Carwyn looked at her, horror mixed with admiration. "For real, you mean?"

"It's better than being the plaything of some obese nobleman," Rian replied, attempting a firm tone to hide her fear and panic that any contact with nobles would also reveal her secret.

"Well....we can ask him," Carwyn finally answered reluctantly.

At mealtime, the two women drew Meeshak aside and explained the situation. He grimaced as he considered Rian's idea. "It's very risky. I can't guarantee that I would just sprain it. I might even break it."

"But you've done something like this before?" Rian asked.

"Well, I've injured ankles, yes...but not of friends! Ankles are very complex parts of the body. I could do a wrist pretty easily." Meeshak offered.

"Wrist won't help. I'd still be able to dance with a sprained wrist. Look, just do it. I trust you. You seem skilled." Rian said, placing her foot on the bench next to the Northern priest.

"All right...but you've been warned." Meeshak summoned up all his long-ago lessons in anatomy and gripped Rian's foot with one hand and her calf with the other. Slowly, carefully, he twisted in opposite directions, until the girl grimaced in silent pain, biting her lip to stay silent. When he released her foot, the ankle started swelling almost immediately. She tried standing on it and fell down, wincing.

"Thank you, Meeshak," Rian said, through her tears of pain. "I owe you a debt. Now let's go see Shushila and explain how I fell down the stairs."


----------



## havenstone

*Master of the Arena*

*DESPITE NURAK’S ADVICE *to put off any further rescue plans until his return, Atrix and Darren can’t resist a bit of advance scouting.  They head to the Grand Arena in the northwest of the city to look for Lucian, remembering that he had been sold to a noblewoman to be her “champion” in the slave fights there.

They discover that in the weeks since their sale, Lucian has acquired a new nickname – the White Death – and a reputation as an unbeatable gladiator.  Given that most of the fights in the Arena are between guard-slaves who have never fought in an actual battle, it is not entirely surprising that the Caragond sellsword has done so well.  However, the Path of Chance, which runs the gambling at the Arena, is setting ever longer odds on his continued victory.  Apparently the Masters of the Arena are uncomfortable with this slave from a defeated but unconquered nation trouncing everything they throw at him, and have begun to stack the fights.  

For Atrix and Darren, these long odds are an opportunity.  They bet the remaining gold from Nurak’s purse on Lucian, hoping to win enough money to redeem him from his mistress before he has to face something he can’t handle.

Over the next week, Lucian has to face two condemned Lakshari thieves; a lion, armed with only a spear; two massive gladiators from the restive jungle province of Theilash; and, unarmed, a black-skinned wrestler from the swamp peninsula of Hsaidar.  Each fight comes a little closer to killing him.  Each time, Atrix and Darren win more gold by raising their bets when Lucian looks closest to defeat.

*THE ARENA MASTERS* then declare that Archmaster Nyenju wishes to test his newly molded clay warrior against the White Death.  Atrix and Darren feel an instinctive dread at the mention of the Radiant Path arts – how can Lucian possibly survive the kind of sorcery that destroyed the entire Army of the North?  When placing their bets – “The White Death, of course” – Darren leans in to mutter in the gambling-master’s ear.  “We’ve won so much on him – he’s a good investment.  Do you know how much his mistress is asking for him?  We can offer the five hundred gold you’ve been keeping for us.”

“She’ll never let him go for less than a thousand, the way he’s been fighting,” the gnarled Xaimani says with a grin.  “And I think he may be serving in ways that go beyond the arena.  So even if you keep your gold after this battle: good luck.”

A fiercely smiling Lucian emerges to deafening cheers from all sides of the arena.  When the crowd’s roar dies down, the wizard Nyenju rises from the Arena Masters’ dais and cries out a dramatic incantation.  A hulking clay golem stalks out into the center of the ring.  It has been sculpted to look like a Xaimani Legionnaire, and when it raises its enormous fists, Lucian’s crude leather armor and helm seem preposterously fragile.

At first the young Caragond fights defensively, using all his speed to stay out of the golem’s reach and all his strength to deflect its strikes.  Twice, the clay warrior lands a devastating body blow, sending Lucian flying into the dust.  The second time, the Northern slave is sluggish to rise, and the golem dives in for the kill – but Lucian twists abruptly aside, his adversary’s fists hammer into the earth, and Lucian brings his mace up into its shoulder, knocking off its arm.  Then he goes on the attack, striking again and again while keeping himself on the golem’s armless side.

Minutes pass, with the human fighter growing visibly tired while the clay warrior moves with the same inexorable speed and force despite its battering.  At last, it catches Lucian under its arm and pulls him in with a crushing grip.  Lucian howls and buries his mace in the golem’s head with the last of his strength.  Then he goes limp, twitching into unconsciousness.  The whole crowd holds its breath, waiting for the White Death to be pulped; several silent seconds pass before they realize the motionless golem, not the gladiator, has lost the fight.

*THIS IS CLEARLY *a victory too far for the Masters of the Arena.  When the pandemonium subsides and Lucian has been carried away for healing, they declare that the White Death’s next fight will be against the Lakshari staff master Ganrad.  A thrilled murmur surges around the arena.  To their dismay, Atrix and Darren learn that Ganrad is one of the most experienced free gladiators ever to fight in Tziwan.  Pitting a slave against him is a death sentence, especially since Lucian has never been that good with quarterstaves.  Darren confirms despondently that their winnings to date – just over nine hundred gold – will not be enough to buy Lucian away from his Niyonari mistress.

On the morning of the fight, Atrix quick-talks his way into the lower halls of the Arena and finds Lucian surrounded by impressed arena guards as he practices combat stances with the quarterstaff.  The muscular Caragond looks up at Atrix and blinks.  Then he looks away again, smiling.  “They all say he’s sure to kill me today – I hear the odds are four to one in his favor.  What do you think, Chramic?”

“Slave, you look like you’ve never held a staff before,” Atrix says mockingly.  “Really, if that’s the best you can do, you might as well just _break it_.”

Lucian pauses, then nods slowly.  “Well, at least you’re honest.”  The remains of the previous gladiators are brought into the hall, and the crowd begins calling for him.  “If it comes to that, I will.  Thanks.”

Darren bets all the gold they have on Lucian to win, while the lithe Lakshari warrior Ganrad descends to the Arena floor.  Atrix watches with bated breath from the lower halls, one hand on his peace-knotted sword hilt.

The two gladiators bow to each other.  Barely have they straightened when Ganrad lashes out with unearthly speed, landing near-crippling blows on Lucian’s arms and ribs.  While the young Caragond desperately brings up his staff to block, the staffmaster spins around his defenses and plants the butt end of his weapon between Lucian’s eyes.

Bleeding and already near collapse, Lucian backs off, plants his foot in mid-staff, and snaps it into two long, straight fragments.  At the same time, the overconfident Ganrad swings at Lucian’s kneecaps and misses critically [natural 1], breaking his own weapon against the ground.  He looks up, appalled.  Lucian’s bloodied face stretches into a feral grin.  Thirty seconds of brilliant swordplay later, the Lakshari drops with a smashed skull, and Lucian flings both halves of his staff up into the stands to thunderous applause.

*A TALL XAIMANI *with a weathered face and steel-gray hair rises from his box and stalks toward the Masters of the Arena.  Darren, demanding confirmation of their winnings from the near hysterical gambing-master, hears the same name whispered on a hundred lips: “Swordmaster Xeros.”  This is the head of the Sword Path, highest general of the Xaimani legions and Protector of the Empire.

Xeros reaches the grand dais and speaks, his voice unnaturally amplified to drown out the tumult.  “The White Death has earned his name once again this day.  He need defend his life no more.  By order of the Sword Path, he is permanently retired from the Arena.”  He sounds decidedly unamused; such a display of swordsmanship from a slave, even with sticks, verges on a violation of the Imperial Order.

Lucian bows, never losing his grin, and begins limping out of the Arena.  Atrix looks around and sees that the middle-aged Niyonari noblewoman who bought his friend has just entered the hall.  He walks over to her and bows.  “Great lady, your champion has brought you glory today which will not soon be forgotten.”

Lucian’s mistress looks pained.  “No, it will not be forgotten.  He can fight no more in this place, and his skill in these last two battles has brought great shame upon the Arena Masters.  Out in Tziwan, there will be many seeking to take him by surprise and kill him – friends of Ganrad of the Staff, now, and perhaps even the servants of _ar-ayan_ Xeros.”  From the anguish in her voice, it is clear that her concern for Lucian has grown beyond mere proprietary interest.

Atrix seizes the moment.  “Lady: I fear you are right.  The spite of the shamed Xaimani will pursue your champion wherever you go.  It would be a grievous waste to see such a warrior slain by cowardly dogs.  I pray you will consider selling him swiftly and in secret to one who could take him far away from them.”

The Niyonari lady stares at Atrix, deeply torn.  “Do you say that you could keep him safe, Chramic?” 

“My friend and I will protect him, I promise you – and be kind, generous masters to him.”  Atrix leans in and drops his voice.  “I can not tell you the secrets of our trade, but we came to the Arena in search of a slave of courage and skill to be our bodyguard on an errand of great glory and reward.  We will travel far from Tziwan, bringing him with us, to places even Swordmaster Xeros’ hand does not reach.”

“You are not a tool of the Arena Masters?”

“Lady: I swear to you, I am not.”  Atrix looks up to see Darren enter, brandishing their notes of credit from the Path of Chance.  “To us, a champion and guard of this skill is worth nineteen hundred gold.  Will you let us take him away to further glory – before those who hate him have a chance to find him?”

*THEY LEAVE THE *Arena by a small side gate, wrapping Lucian in a cloak to hide him from curious eyes.  Hours later, when they’re satisfied that they’ve shaken off any pursuers, they return to their inn, dye his skin, and sear the brand off his shoulder.  

“We’ll find a new inn tomorrow – and each day after that, for a while,” Darren says quietly.  “You’re easier to scry for than we are, if any of your new enemies come hunting for you.  Best to leave them as confusing a trail as possible.”

“As you command, masters,” Lucian says wryly.  He lies back on his pallet, looking haggard from his unhealed wounds but still smiling.  “You know, back in the North, a Jendae woman once told me to beware of family, because I would die in the service of my cousin.  I’ve always done my best not to serve any master for too long.  I don’t suppose either of you is secretly related to me?”

“Of course not,” Atrix laughs.


----------



## Wilhem

great story, I am very much looking forward to seeing what happens.


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## havenstone

Wilhem said:


> great story, I am very much looking forward to seeing what happens.




Thanks, Wilhem - glad you're enjoying it.


----------



## havenstone

*The Young Laksharis*

*SUPRISINGLY SOON, ASH *and Meeshak are allowed to return to their errand slave duties with Chosdzed.  Meeshak guesses that sending Northern slaves across the city with the stripes of their punishment still visible on their backs is meant to emphasize publicly that despite the notorious escape, the Empire (and its Minister of State) is still in firm control.  

Minister Tang is beginning a negotiation on the terms of the Imperial spice trade with Lakshadar, and dispatches his slaves back across the river to the estate of Raj Narayan Shah.  On their first visit, the Lakshari swordsman Njitra once again leaves off gambling with the guards and approaches them for conversation.  At first Chosdzed regards the earnest young man suspiciously, but Njitra doesn’t ask again how the Northerners feel about slavery; nor does he make even an oblique reference to the scandalous slave escape from the Imperial Palace.  Instead, he plies Ash and Meeshak for mundane details of life in the North.  On subsequent visits, Njitra keeps chatting with them about their lives pre-slavery, and Chosdzed’s own curiosity draws him into the conversation.

“And you, Master – Njitra – are you a retainer of Lord Raj Narayan’s household?” Ash asks eventually.

The other guards chuckle.  “Njitra Raho Dirtborn?  His blade’s too long for us, and his blood’s too weak for the masters.”

“My friends mean that I am of their social level, not the Chetriya warrior caste.”  Far from being insulted, Njitra sounds amused.  “Many of the ruling Ranas of Lakshadar would question my right to bear a sword at all.  They have embraced the odd idea that the lower orders should confine themselves to short blades, spears, or clubs.  Trying to be more Xaimani than the Xaimani, I think.”

Chosdzed furrows his brow, as if trying to decide whether this is an implicit insult to the Xaimani Imperial Order.  “So what do you do?” Ash persists.

“Sell my sword,” Njitra smiles.  “There are plenty of lords and merchants between Tziwan and Lakshadar who don’t care about caste matters.”

*ON THEIR FOURTH *visit, a second young Lakshari is sitting with the guards.  “My friend Chandur was also curious about life in the North,” Njitra explains.  “I finally told him that if he wanted to hear your stories, he should join me here instead of just asking me afterward.”

Ash and Meeshak try to hide their surprise.  Njitra’s friend looks identical to the captured slave Chandur they met briefly on the road south – but there is no trace of a slave brand on this youth’s smooth brown shoulder.  The roguish gleam in his eye, however, is unmistakable.  “Pale Folk, is it true that your womenfolk are legendarily beautiful?”

“It’s been said so,” says Meeshak cautiously.  “You Southerners might find them less appealing when they’ve been in the sun too long.”

“No, no – pink is a lovely color,” Chandur beams.  Ash grins back, unsure why this curious Lakshari has reappeared, but feeling a strange, fierce hope.

“There’s no time for you slaves to swap gossip with these guards now,” Chosdzed grumbles.  “Masters, we bear a message to the House Narayan Shah.  Please let us through.”

“Another time, then,” Chandur says regretfully.

*AS THEY HURRY* back to the river, Ash more than once glimpses Njitra following them at a discreet distance.  Their Kardei guardian is oblivious.  As usual, Chosdzed has some small purchases to make before they cross the river, and tells the two Northerners to wait where he can see them.  He enters a shop on a woodcrafters’ square.  Instantly, Njitra and Chandur emerge from a side lane and stride up to the Northern slaves.

Njitra speaks quickly and quietly.  “Do you wish to escape as your friends did?”  

Ash and Meeshak glance at each other, confirming wordlessly that they trust these strangers.  “Yes,” Meeshak replies.

“In two nights’ time, at the third hour after midnight we will be waiting with boats on the river to the southeast of the Tang Estate.”  Njitra’s voice is matter-of-fact.

“Look for a pink lamp.”  Chandur winks, and the two Laksharis melt back into the crowd before Chosdzed has a chance to notice them.


----------



## Quartz

It must have been very difficulty to have RPed the slavery episodes. And even more difficult to effectively GM them.


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## havenstone

Quartz said:


> It must have been very difficulty to have RPed the slavery episodes. And even more difficult to effectively GM them.




As I've been writing these episodes up, I find myself amazed that Carwyn's player stayed with us, and generally ashamed of quite how much degradation I directly pushed onto the PCs.

I was still a fairly inexperienced GM, and not sensitive to the real-world emotional impact of RPing.  Once the game went South, it stayed intense and kept strong horror/tragic elements, but those early slavery games crossed the wrong line.  Role-playing the death or abuse of loved ones is hard -- and there's more of that to come, I'm afraid -- but I think we were able to handle it cathartically, and it added emotional depth to the characters.  By contrast, I should never have asked any of my friends to role-play surviving a rape.  Or rather, I _should _have asked, not just let the plot take us there and declined (in the name of brutal realism) to offer a _deus ex machina_.

Don't know if cerebralpaladin, orichalcum, feir fireb, or any other PCs from this period want to comment on the experience of playing slaves in Xaiman?


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## Feir Fireb

havenstone said:


> Don't know if cerebralpaladin, orichalcum, feir fireb, or any other PCs from this period want to comment on the experience of playing slaves in Xaiman?




One of the things about pushing grittier stuff is you don't really know what your players' hot buttons are going to be, and if you don't know what you're doing you may not find out until it either they tell you or it blows up in your face.  The episode with Carwyn at the party could easily have been much worse with a different group composition, and we all learned valuable lessons about roleplaying at that time.

The degradation of slavery that Darren faced was not something I found threatening, it didn't push any of my buttons.  For me, it was easy to suspend disbelief.  I'd come from a rather twinkish high school group (in 2nd ed D&D, I had a bard wielding a powerful sword in one hand and and even more powerful intelligent sword in the other) that mostly played modules low on plot and character interaction.  So I'd already been hooked on the comparative glut of drama, especially after havenstone's semester-long hiatus abroad.  And many turns of the game took me enough by surprise that I didn't really have much time to figure how I felt about them.

Slavery in Xaiman was very high-stakes challenge: no equipment, no allies, the whole of society against you and expecting absolute subservience, and the slightest mistake could send you to a gruesome (and legally sanctioned) death.  As long as you can suspend disbelief, it has its appeal and definitely adds adrenaline to even many of the most mundane interactions.  But of course it depends upon what the stakes are for your character.


----------



## Orichalcum

As someone who now teaches students the age we were when we were playing this, I can  assure you, havenstone, that you weren't particularly naive or careless given your age and experience. That said, yeah, we'd all definitely do it differently now.

I actually joined the game just after the rape session, and honestly, I think in retrospect that Rian's crazy ankle-spraining plan was also Ori's rejection of that gameplay (related second-hand) - my attempt to send a signal that no, I was not okay with roleplaying this - without endangering my fragile new position in the group. Of course, the interesting thing was that both the slavery aspect and the ankle-sprain wound up providing three key anchors to Rian's character - her utter hatred and fear of slavery, her impulsive recklessness, and her loyalty to the other PCs not through any sense of altruism or initial friendship but due to feelings of obligation and debts owed. So it wound up being a very fruitful roleplaying moment.

I do think that the whole episode did a great job of communicating how horrific slavery actually is. It's slightly ironic, really, that in the post-college campaign I GMed (Alea Iacta)with many of the same players, havenstone played a slave. I feel like that campaign approached many of the same issues but with a lighter touch - havenstone's character Meloch's own master was a PC (whose player, Ladybird, will show up later in this campaign) and very gentle with him, but at the same time his behavior and actions were somewhat limited, and he lived in mostly justified terror of being inherited by her ruthless mother. I don't know if H felt that I pushed that line too far. I think slavery (which I work on professionally in the Roman context) is a very fascinating social dynamic to play with, but one where you have to be very careful as a GM to not abuse your power, or conversely make it seem all happy and whitewashed.


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## havenstone

Orichalcum said:


> It's slightly ironic, really, that in the post-college campaign I GMed (Alea Iacta) with many of the same players, havenstone played a slave. I feel like that campaign approached many of the same issues but with a lighter touch - havenstone's character Meloch's own master was a PC (whose player, Ladybird, will show up later in this campaign) and very gentle with him, but at the same time his behavior and actions were somewhat limited, and he lived in mostly justified terror of being inherited by her ruthless mother. I don't know if H felt that I pushed that line too far.




I enjoyed it tremendously -- not just the lighter touch, but having to grapple with the nastier aspects of Roman slave life (like mandatory torture before testifying).  I definitely didn't feel you pushed it too far.  (And by the way, anyone who's enjoyed this SH should totally go read Alea Iacta, if you haven't already).


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## havenstone

*Well Met by Moondark*

*“WE NEED TO* bring her with us.”  Carwyn’s stubborn whisper brooks no disagreement.

“We’ve scarcely known her for two weeks,” Ontaya murmurs back, concerned by Carwyn’s irrationally intense attachment to her new friend Rian.  “Why are you so sure we can trust her?  She’s not a Northerner – she doesn’t think like us.  Most slaves down here would never dream of escaping.  They’d turn us in the second they suspected we were planning it.”

“Ash and Meeshak decided to trust these young Laksharis they just met, even though they’ve spent _much_ less time with them than I have with Rian.”  Carwyn warms to her theme.  “The fact that she’s a Southerner should make us _more_ eager to get her on our side.  Without friends like her who know the South, we’ll be caught again for sure.  And she’s young, and terrified of being a slave – it’s new to her, too.  We _can not_ abandon her to the nobles here.  She’ll be desperate to get away with us.  And she’s good with little Tarai – I mean, T’harai.  He’s calm around her.”

Meeshak raises one hand in exasperation.  “Fine, Carwyn, fine.  We’ll tell her on the night.  If she doesn’t want to come with us, I’ll just gag her, tie her hands, and sprain her other ankle.”

*GAUGING THE PATHS *of Aerdrim’s nine moons is a complex art, as they all constantly influence each others’ orbits.  In the North, only the most determined of scholars could master the calculations necessary to predict what the moons would be doing one month hence, or to predict with precision what they would be doing in even a few days.  Meeshak guesses that either Njitra and Chandur must be a half-decent student of the moons, as it becomes clear that the night of their planned escape will have a lengthy stretch of moondark – a window when none of the moons save Manachorn, the black moon, are visible in the sky.  

That night the four brightest moons are all waning, and set early.  When the last of them has slipped below the horizon, leaving only the dull red slivers of the twin moons Ascha and Tischa, Carwyn crawls over to Rian and silently wakes her up.  “Rian: we are escaping,” she breathes, almost inaudibly.  “Come with us.”

Rian stares wide-eyed at the ceiling for a moment.  She loathes slavery, and knows she can’t survive here for long; sooner or later she’ll be caught using sorcery and executed.  But the Northern group into which she’s Charmed herself are the most conspicuous group of escapees imaginable, and will be the most hunted-after.  They’re sure to be caught and excruciated.  _As soon as we get over the wall_, she decides coolly, _I’ll slip away from them and make my own way_.  She has no sentimental attachment to the strangers or their slightly alarming baby Tarai, and the debt she owes to Meeshak is not exactly a life-debt.

“All right – I’ll come with you,” she whispers.

*THE NORTHERNERS STAND* and Meeshak chants a muffled prayer for Silence.  As he mutters the last syllable, all sound ceases in the area around the slaves’ sleeping enclosure.  Carwyn, Meeshak, Ontaya, and Ash sprint out of the building before its four Xaimani sentries have the chance to notice or understand the unnatural stillness.  Carwyn saps her target, who drops like a stone; Ontaya and Ash grapple their two down, knock off their ornamental helms, and pound their heads against the pavement.  Meeshak whips a rope around the neck of the fourth guard and begins to throttle him.  The mutely choking man lashes out with his mace, but Meeshak manages to hold on until Ontaya arrives, brandishing another guard’s mace, to knock the Xaimani out.

They step back into the slave quarters just long enough to collect Rian and wake Hamber and Tarai, whose noiseless fussing soon subsides.  As they emerge, they see the twin red moons have also set, and the five escapees steal into the gardens of the Tang Estate by starlight.  Pebbles crunch beneath their bare feet as they leave the radius of Meeshak’s Silence.  Rian is limping badly from her sprained ankle, and Ontaya silently beckons her to hand over baby Tarai.  Soon they reach a thin wall of decorative ironwork with a locked door.  “On the far side of this wall, the Minister releases great hunting cats each night,” Ontaya murmurs to Rian.  “Daoran says they are the estate’s most effective guards.  Ash?”

Ash listens intently and sniffs the air for catspoor.  “I don’t sense any of them close at hand.”

Carwyn has nothing like Darren’s skill with a lockpick, but manages to unlock the door with needles stolen from the Great House.  The party creeps through a maze of hedges and reaches the outer wall – a tall stone edifice topped with a battlement and flamelike crenellations.  Ontaya and Carwyn, with the children, are the first to scale the battlement.  Then the night is split by a horrific shriek, and a half-dozen Xaimani panthers attack the party members remaining on the ground.

Unlike wolves – those famously solitary hunters – the great cats of Aerdrim hunt in packs, closely coordinated, with some flanking their target while others engage head-on.  Barely able to see in the moondark, Meeshak bats clumsily at one with a mace, Rian cowering behind him.  Ash tries to fend off the others with a guard’s short spear, while trying vainly to use his animal empathy skills to convince them to leave.  Ontaya leaps from the wall and manages to land on one of the panthers, breaking its back.  The remaining cats immediately spring onto Ontaya, raking her with their talons; Ontaya bellows and lets herself go into berserker rage, battering her feline attackers with her mace and flinging them into the wall.  Ash gives up on diplomacy and spears one that has begun chewing on Meeshak.  Within minutes, the surviving panthers have vanished back into the lightless outer garden.  Ontaya regains control of herself before committing a truly chaotic act – like lashing out at one of her friends – and leans against the wall, drained of energy.

Any hope of a stealthy escape is now gone.  Carwyn sees a patrol of five armed guards marching along the battlement from the north, while a dozen-odd torches are flickering in the garden close by.  “Behind you – they’re almost here!” she hisses.  Hamber and Tarai are wailing in her arms.

“Run,” Ontaya growls.  The party sprints off along the wall to the south.  The first guards who emerge from the hedges are frozen in place by Meeshak’s Hold Person chants.  Six others charge in and clash with Ontaya and Ash, who take dozens of blows on their unarmored bodies to shield their less sturdy friends.  By the time they have fought off the first patrol and resume running, both the fighters’ slaveclothes are soaked in their own blood; without Meeshak’s Curing blessings and Ontaya’s ability to heal by laying on hands, they would all unquestionably have been slain.

*FRANTIC BUT HELD *back by the excruciating pain in her ankle, Rian hobbles behind the others as fast as she can.  She screams as a new shadow bursts out of the garden, metal armor glinting in the starlight.  The Xaimani mace meets her skull, and all she sees is a blaze of color, fading to featureless white.

When she regains consciousness, she is slung over Ash’s sinewy shoulder as he tries to clamber up the wall of the estate.  Ontaya is already fighting off Tang’s guards next to Carwyn on the battlement, while Meeshak helps haul Ash up.  “I’m awake,” she whispers, feeling sick as her bleeding head jostles next to the wall.

“Good.  Can you grab Meeshak’s arm and hold on?” Ash grunts.

She manages to twist and keep a grip on the priest.  Ash scrambles up over the lip of the ledge and hauls her up after him, then turns to help Ontaya with the remaining sentries on the wall, allowing Carwyn to fall back with the boys.  “Forgive me for not Curing your wounds,” Meeshak says drily to Rian, whipping his rope past the fighters and around the ankles of a guard.  “But I think we’ll all have a better chance of surviving this if I reserve my blessings for the front line.”

Rian nods sickly.  “Ash – he saved me?”

“Killed the guard and carried you to the wall,” Meeshak confirms, yanking the enemy off-balance and toppling him from the battlement.

“I owe him a life-debt,” Rian whispers dizzily, revising her plans.

“He probably won’t see it that way.  But yes, you do.”

Ontaya bull-rushes the last guard off the wall.  “We’ll be seeing mages and Minister Tang’s honor guard here at any moment,” the paladin barks.  “Let’s go.”

*THEY CLAMBER DOWN *the far side of the wall, into empty streets left almost featureless by moondark.  Meeshak takes the lead, guiding them down alleys toward the river.  Ash picks up Rian again and carries her for a few minutes, but his strength is clearly flagging, and he doesn’t protest when she asks to be put down.  Behind them, the chorus of shouts grows ever fainter.  

After they’ve been running for five minutes, a burst of white flame ascends into the sky near the estate, hovering like an artificial sun.  For long moments, they feel exposed; then the light winks out again.  In the houses around them, they hear people starting to stir and candles being lit, but they remain alone in the street.  They push on to the banks of the inky Shanyang and head downriver.

A half-mile from the estate, Ash spies a pink glow and hisses, “There!”  A paper-walled lantern hangs in the stern of a long rowboat.  A masked man steps from the boat and waves them closer.  “Welcome – but don’t speak our names,” Njitra says softly.  “We don’t know if anyone already has eyes on us.”

As the party members hurriedly board, Rian realizes that this is almost certainly her last chance to strike out on her own.  For a second, she hesitates – then mutters, “I always pay my debts,” to herself, limps into the boat, and reclaims little Tarai from Ontaya.


----------



## Orichalcum

As it turns out, it was a very bad day for Rian to get her ankle sprained.


----------



## havenstone

*Covering Our Tracks*

*WHEN THE ESCAPEES* are all aboard, Njitra casts off from the steep bank and another masked Lakshari – presumably Chandur – rows them out calmly but strongly into the sluggish current.  Njitra hands the party members muted brown cloaks and masks to cover their pallor and their wounds.  Carwyn does her best to comfort Hamber, whose initial wailing turned to terrified silence as the guards were killed around him.  Tarai looks up at Rian, eyes wide, and says, “Men go?”

“The men won’t find us,” Rian responds wearily, not sure whether the little boy is asking about the guards who died or the ones who remain.  “We’re safe now.”

“Ri hurt,” Tarai says, pointing to the blood on her face.  His translucent features are screwed up in an expression of concern as he pats her cheek.

Rian unexpectedly finds herself remembering her beloved little brother Asiran and closes her eyes.  “Shh, now, little one.  I’m all right.  I’ll keep you safe.”

Even in the small hours of the morning, the Shanyang River is far from empty.  Just upriver from the tumultuous tidal wedge, dozens of fishing boats lie at anchor, their crews dozing before the pre-dawn catch.  With Chandur at the oars and Njitra at the rudder, their craft weaves deftly through the maze of little boats and heads for the fishing dockyards.  Njitra is uneasily watching the skies, and has one hand clasped tightly around an amulet on his neck.

They land on a small, ramshackle dock below the ruins of the Sufza qohei.  As the party disembarks, Chandur uncorks a jar, drops a lump of greyish-white salt into the boat, and splashes water onto it.  The Northerners jump as the _siseo laou_ smokes and hisses to life, eating swiftly through the hull.  Black river water gushes up into the boat and Njitra kicks it back into the current; it is already half submerged as the party strides briskly up into the dark alleys of Tziwan.

*TWICE NJITRA GUIDES* them into abandoned hovels, where he produces a glowing, reddish powder from a pouch at his belt and sprinkles it liberally over all the party members.  Little Tarai stares in mute wonder at the tiny embers drifting around him.  “It’s like pepper for dogs,” Chandur explains through his mask.  “But, you know, for mages.  Throws them off our scent.”

They travel a contorted, seemingly random path through Tziwan, sticking as much as possible to back alleys where no city watchmen go; soon even Meeshak and Ash are hopelessly lost.  The starlight barely illuminates the rough, muddy roads, and the exhausted Northerners frequently stumble and fall.  As the first slivers of moon rise in the night sky, they finally arrive at a grand-looking teahouse and inn.  Njitra, relief evident in his face, leads them to the rear of the building and taps gently on a doorframe.  “Master Zhensu.  We’re here.”

The door slides open, and an aged Xaimani beckons them in.  His silks and linens are caught up in a practical knot, like many of the innkeepers the party saw on the slave road.  “Welcome to my lowly abode,” Zhensu says once they’re all inside.  His warm, throaty voice and kindly face set them at ease.  “I’m sorry you can’t stay long this time – my inability to offer you food is my shame.  Please follow me.”

The escapees follow Zhensu down two flights of stairs, into a cellar room whose door and walls are painted with odd, elongated Xaimani characters.  The hair stands up on Rian’s neck; she recognizes them as Radiant Path runes, the archaic script used to write words of power.  The last time she saw them was on her great-grandfather’s scroll case.

“Please stand in front of this mirror, all of you.”  Old Zhensu pours an assortment of exotic-looking powders and feathers into his palm, closes his fist, and mutters an incantation under his breath while walking around the party.  When he flings his hand open, it is empty.  His face creases with an extremely smug grin.  “That should have Kesh’ao chasing his tail for a while.  Now, I must send you out again, my Northern friends.  I’m sure you are bursting with questions – as am I, please believe me – but we must get you underground before the sun rises or the watchmen begin combing the streets.  

“The Minister will be reluctant to make his humiliation widely known as long as he thinks he can hunt you down with his mages, but by dawn I think they will be forced to acknowledge their failure and call out the watch – perhaps even a Legion or two.  When the search has died down, it will be my great pleasure to offer you hospitality here again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Meeshak says fervently.  _Whoever you are, and whatever is going on here._

*WHEN ZHENSU REOPENS* the rune-covered door, there are two people there who weren’t before: another masked swordsman like Njitra or Chandur, and a young Szianar girl, about Rian’s age, with one side of her face terribly scarred as if held too close to a fire.  The scarred girl has wide, angry eyes, and is wearing a brown cowled robe like the party members.

“Shihara has just been rescued from the Seko Estate,” Zhensu murmurs.  “She will be joining you in the safe house.”  Njitra nods and beckons the girl over.  The growing group of fugitives ascends by a different succession of halls and stairways to emerge in a narrow building across the street from the inn.  They dive back into the alleyways again, this time staying close to the immense wall of the first tier of Tziwan.  Ash gets his bearings and decides they are walking north, close to the Slave Market where they were first sold.  They bear east, past the grand Slave Gate into the upper city, then head into the Lakshari qohei where Ash and Meeshak ran so many errands.

Finally, just before daybreak, the exhausted party members duck into an alley behind a derelict Lakshari temple.  Chandur guides them into a half-collapsed building, kneels to feel around between piles of rubble, and finally pulls up a well-concealed trapdoor in the floor.  The lower side of the trapdoor is covered in protective runes.  Pulling off his headcover, Chandur leads the escapees down into a warm and well-furnished cellar, where a meal and drinks are already set around a long, low table.

Njitra closes and bolts the trapdoor behind them, then bows to the party, removing his mask to reveal a brilliant smile.  “Welcome, friends, to this safe house.  Allow us to extend to you the indefinite hospitality of the Dragon Path.”


----------



## havenstone

*Emancipation*

*“THE DRAGON PATH?”* Ontaya echoes cautiously.  They’ve never heard of such a Path, but they have seen sculptures of the flying, maned serpents of Xaimani myth, considered to be the noblest of beasts.  “Isn’t the ‘dragon’ a symbol of the Emperor?”

Chandur laughs.  “And the Imperial Order.  Incongruous, yes.  If the Path hadn’t been founded by three high-born Xaimani, I’m pretty sure we’d have chosen a different mascot.”

“It is _all_ _of our_ hope – not just the Founders’ – that the Xaimani Imperial Order can be transformed into a truly just and harmonious system,” Njitra corrects his friend.  “By our nature we have to break the law, but only because the law has been built around a monstrous injustice.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Rian says wearily.  “You’re not just another lot of Lakshari rebels?”

“No, my lovely – though as your friends know, I’ve moved in those circles,” Chandur replies, gesturing them all toward the breakfast table.  “But I was only up there because we knew that they were going to lose.  Our interest wasn’t in stirring up rebellion, but in the men who lost.  The best of them are with us, now.”

“Slavery,” Meeshak says with dawning realization.  He looks over to the quiet, scarred girl Shihara who joined them in their flight.  “You’re freeing slaves.”

*AS THE PARTY *members wearily sink onto the cushions around the low table, Njitra and Chandur begin to explain the underground emancipation movement known as the Dragon Path.  It is led from Tziwan by a former general (Tan Li Sheng), a high priest (Haitze), and a renegade archmage (Zhensu).  Motivated by a common loathing for the inhumanity of the slave society, these three eminent Xaimani used their wealth and knowledge two decades ago to set up a secret Path, dedicated to discreetly freeing slaves and training them in other, more honorable livelihoods.

The Dragons disregard all of the traditional Xaimani taboos: they remove slaves’ brands, arm some with swords, and teach others to channel their sorcerous talents.  The most capable freed slaves – former bodyguards and gladiators, well-educated Slavemasters, newly trained wizards – complete their training on special missions for the Path, seeking out treasure, magic, or knowledge that will benefit the cause.  The Dragon Path now comprises thousands of freed slaves all across the Empire, and has rapidly developed parallel institutions – its own small army, spy network, trade guild, priestly order and college of mages, operating secretly within the other, Imperially sanctioned Paths.

“And you’ve been able to keep all of this a secret?” Carwyn asks in amazement.

Njitra nods.  “So far.  Just about everyone involved has a life-and-death interest in not being found out; we keep a low profile, and the Founders have the connections to supply us discreetly.  The Emperor’s spies are still mostly focused on uprooting rebel movements out in the subject nations; within Xaiman, they spend most of their energy monitoring discontented noble houses.  Meanwhile, Tziwan’s most skilled Rumormaster is working for us, covering our tracks.”

“You’ll meet him soon,” Chandur says warmly.  “He’s more worried about the Shrouded Path than about the Imperial Spymaster, frankly.  The thieves’ guild has the Empire’s best information network, and it’s not at all clear what they would do if they found out we exist.  We think we’ve managed to evade their notice so far.”

“And what happens when the Empire finally does find out about you?” Ontaya inquires.  “No matter what Imperial myth you name yourselves after, you’ve created an absolutely foundational threat to its existence.  Are you prepared for the forces they’ll unleash to destroy you?”

“We’re still fragile, and wouldn’t welcome the overt conflict at this point – but yes, we’ve prepared for what it will take to survive it.”

“What about _winning_ it?”  The Northern paladin’s eyes and voice are fervent.  “Are you prepared for that?”

Njitra smiles, but looks troubled.  “I certainly believe we _will_ win.  For all their loyalty to the Emperor and their preference for peaceful transformation, the Founders have been building a movement that can win a civil war if the day comes.  

"But as for what comes after... there, I can’t say we are prepared.  For all our high-minded ideas, we have no first-hand model for a society built without slavery.  We have debated for years what elements of today’s Empire will be carried over to the new Order, and... let’s say there are some very different visions.  So you can understand how fascinated we were when we found out about the slaveless Northern kingdoms.  Finding a way to free you became our highest priority.”

“Did you also rescue Atrix and Darren from the Imperial Palace?” Carwyn asks eagerly.

“No – we haven’t yet managed to plant a reliable source inside the Palace,” Chandur admits.  “Your friends managed to escape on their own, somehow.  We’re trying to find them, like everyone else in Tziwan… but as far as we know, they’ve managed to stay hidden.”

*THE FREED SLAVES *finish wolfing down their food and lean back, trying to take in everything they’ve just heard.  “You really are free – all of you,” Njitra insists.  “If the Northerners among you wish to return to the North, the Dragon Path will assist you as best we can.  However… we do sincerely hope that you will choose to join us and work with us in the South for at least some time.  We could use your strength, and above all your knowledge.”

“Well, obviously, we need to stay here until we’ve freed or found the rest of our friends,” Meeshak replies.  With vivid immediacy, he finds himself remembering his dream from the slave cages, in which he was called to bring hope to the bound and despairing.  “After that... I don’t speak for my friends, but I believe Ain – I mean, Ii – would want me to remain and help you.  Slavery is an abomination, and I can’t think of any worthier cause than helping to end it across Xaiman.”

Ontaya nods emphatically.  “We have an absolute duty to help you.  The Imperial Order is a travesty – they’re justifying the worst kind of oppression in the name of Ii.  It perverts and debases Ii's order into a bastion of evil.”

“It has to stop,” Carwyn says simply.  “The bastards can’t keep getting away with it all.  I’m staying.  We’ve got scores to settle back North, but they’ll keep.”  _And of course, whatever we can do to challenge the Empire might protect the North from another attack, too_.

“Well, that makes it unanimous,” Ash affirms.  “How could we say no?  We’ll do whatever we can to help you, no matter what happens.”

“Rian?” Carwyn asks anxiously, turning to her new friend.

“Don’t worry, I’m staying,” Rian says at once.  _Until I’ve paid my life-debt to Ash, and repaid Meeshak and these Dragon folk for saving me_.  “I owe you all far too much to walk away now.”  The scarred Shihara nods silently in her corner.

Chandur’s smile splits into an irresistible yawn.  “Delightful!  Welcome to the Dragons.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m badly in need of last night’s sleep.  Bunks are through that door.”


----------



## Orichalcum

Yay, new Aerdrim! Isn't this the point where we have a dramatic training montage interspersed with painful tattooing sessions?


----------



## Feir Fireb

Ach.  Double post.


----------



## Feir Fireb

Orichalcum said:


> Yay, new Aerdrim! Isn't this the point where we have a dramatic training montage interspersed with painful tattooing sessions?



Don't forget, there are still a couple of ne'er-do-wells out there, still unaware of their friends' escape, let alone the Dragon Path


----------



## havenstone

*Lying Low*

*FOR SEVERAL DAYS, *the party rests and recovers in the Dragon Path safe house, never opening the rune-covered trapdoor.  The Laksharis prepared well, stocking the cellar with food and drink enough to sustain them for weeks.  No noise penetrates from the street above, and Chandur assures the party that the babies’ crying won’t be heard outside either.  From this tranquil sanctuary, it’s hard to imagine the magical and military forces of Tziwan scouring the city for them.

They pore over the few reading materials in the safe house, including a map of the Xaimani Empire which finally gives them a sense of where these countries they’ve been hearing about are located.  (“This one was drawn by the Xaimani priests, not the Legions,” Njitra warns wryly.  “Don’t use it to gauge travel distances – they make the subject nations look about half their real size.”)  Naturally the escapees also get to know the two young Lakshari men with whom they are sharing the cellar.  Both joined the Dragon Path as free men, though they’ve been captured and branded temporarily on past missions.  (“Occupational hazard,” winces Chandur). 

Njitra is a proud, charismatic idealist whose lifelong contempt for the Lakshari caste system led him to likewise reject the Xaimani slave system.  A mercenary since his teens, he betrayed one of his Szianar employers a few years ago, turning a blind eye while a dozen of the man’s slaves escaped.  The Dragon Path team who were facilitating the escape noted Njitra’s aid and discreetly recruited him afterward.

Chandur, by contrast, is an unscrupulous charmer, brilliant and mercurial.  He isn’t moved by the grand vision of a slavery-free world, but was drawn into the Dragons by more personal motives: his beloved sister was taken as a slave by an eminent Maharana.  After a failed rescue attempt, the twelve year-old Chandur was saved from the Lakshari lord’s prison by a Dragon Path mage.  Unfortunately, his sister was soon sold on, and Chandur has so far failed to locate her again.

*THE YOUNG SZIANAR *Shihara remains mostly silent and withdrawn.  “I was sold a year ago to Minister Seko’s estate,” she says bleakly when asked about her past.  “My old home doesn’t matter.  My family would sell me again if I returned.”  Rian nods in wordless commiseration.  No one asks about the scars on Shihara's face, and she doesn’t volunteer an explanation.

“I just realized I recognize you,” Chandur tells her one morning.

“You must be mistaking me for one of the many, many other women of your acquaintance,” Shihara retorts, plainly weary of Chandur’s flirtation with every female in eyeshot.

“No, really.  We were asked to find a fresh corpse of roughly your description last week.  Weren’t you locked up and awaiting Radiant Path attention?”  Shihara glares furiously at him.  “Yes, I thought so.  Your Slavemaster thought he’d seen you curdling the milk or causing the cows to run backward or something else vaguely sorcerous.  If he’d been able to articulate himself more believably, they’d have sent a mage to check you sooner, and we wouldn’t have got to you in time.”

“You somehow replaced her with a corpse?” Carwyn says, eyebrow raised.

“One that now looks like it died from a very badly miscast fire spell,” Chandur confirms.  “They’ll pay more heed to the Slavemaster next time, I’m afraid, but you can’t just make a mage-blood slave disappear without a plausible cover.”

“And how exactly does one go about finding a corpse of a certain description in Tziwan?”

The young Lakshari gives an almost-amused snort.  “Where _can’t_ you come by a corpse, lovely Carwyn?  The slave market, the tilehouses and lotus houses of the Shroud qohei, the arena, the vascars... this damned city kills people every day.  Pose as the servant of a mage or a priest, and you have every excuse to ask for one.”

Later, when Rian can approach Shihara in what privacy the cellar allows, she leans over and speaks in a low voice.  “How did you know when... when you first found you had the power?”

Shihara glances at Rian, her caginess outweighed by her curiosity.  “It just welled up in me.  I felt it like... like I feel my arm, or my breath in my lungs.”  She pauses.  “And... you?”

“Reading scrolls.  Old scrolls of my grandfather’s.”

Shihara looks away again, lips tightening.  “I don’t read well.”

“I taught myself,” Rian says matter-of-factly.  “Perhaps I can teach you.”

*A WEEK AFTER* their escape, Njitra sneaks out of the cellar by night to reestablish contact with the Dragon Path.  When he returns, he is not alone; a frail, elderly Xaimani wearing unassuming gray robes follows him through the trapdoor.  This is High Priest Haitze, another of the Dragon Path’s Founders.  He warmly welcomes them to the Dragon Path and lays hands on each of the escapees’ shoulders in turn, murmuring a complex prayer to Heal their slave brands.  

“To conceal you Northerners, we’ll obviously need more than an unbranding,” Njitra says, producing a string of small pouches.  “These two common spice-dyes will color your skin – the stain sets deep, though you’ll want to renew it every year or two.”  The Northern party members have to choose between the light gold-brown _tabal_, which will help them look Chramic or Szianar, or the deep brown _kaab_-nut which will make them look Lakshari.  Carwyn chooses the latter, earning her a wink and an optimistic grin from Chandur.  The other Northern party members go with _tabal_.

Njitra informs them that the first fury of the manhunt has subsided.  While it’s not yet wise for the party members to leave the safe house, more Dragon Path members will be coming to meet them.  Their next visitor, arriving around noon the following day, is a middle-aged Szianar with grave eyes and a grey-flecked beard.  He carries a solemn-looking baby girl.

“This is the Dragon Path’s Rumormaster, Chingan Dai,” Chandur declares, beaming.  “He’s the man who does the most to keep the world ignorant of our existence.”

“You’ll already be aware that my young student tends to exaggerate,” Chingan Dai demurs.  “I am just one man in an information network spanning the Empire.”

“The man who did most to create it, over the last decade,” Njitra counters.  “Before you took over, with all respect, the Path was terrible at spying.  At heart, the Founders are straightforward men.”

Chingan Dai waves away the Laksharis’ compliments and settles into a long, avid discussion with the party members about slaveless Northern society and politics.  Meanwhile, Hamber and the Rumormaster’s little daughter Tiya play happily together in one corner.  Rian, who’s mostly left out of the main conversation, brings Tarai over to join the game.  

Tarai squirms away, looking upset and a little jealous.  “Don’t like her,” he says, sticking out his lower lip.  Rian suppresses a smile.  “Tarai, it’s all right for Hamber to have other friends,” she explains.  “You should try too.”  When Tarai obstinately refuses to play with the other children, she scolds him and sends him to a corner of the far room.

*SEVERAL HOURS LATER*, Chingan Dai reluctantly announces that he has to leave.  Before departing, he steps over to Shihara and produces a slim, rune-covered book.  “We’ll be ensuring you get proper Radiant Path training,” he promises, “but for now, perhaps you could start by studying this.”

The scarred Szianar girl glances nervously over to Rian.  Chingan Dai’s eyes follow hers, and he raises an eyebrow.  “I also share Shihara’s abilities, I think,” Rian admits under her breath.  Her fear that the Northerners will suspect that she Charmed Carwyn is outweighed by her eagerness to receive magical training.  “And the little boy Tarai certainly does.”

“Is that so?  _Two_ new Path members with the Golden Blood, and one very early prodigy – the Archmasters will be delighted.”  The Rumormaster deftly gathers up little Tiya and looks at the door to the room where Tarai is sulking.  “We’ll make sure your little son grows into his skills.  I’m sorry he didn’t seem to take to my daughter.”

“No, please – I apologize for him,” Rian says anxiously.  “He just hasn’t had much experience with other children.  I hope he didn’t offend.”

Chingan Dai laughs.  “A child of that age can’t possibly offend.  Please, don’t push him on it – if he gets too upset, his powers might manifest in destructive ways.  Best to just let it go for now.”

Rian blinks – the idea that Tarai’s magic could conceivably pose a physical risk had not occurred to her, given how gentle her own awakening to power had been.  To her mild surprise, the realization strengthens her protective instincts toward the little boy.  “You’re very gracious.  Thank you.”


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## havenstone

*Political Map of the Xaimani Empire*


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## havenstone

*Meeshak's Dreams: 4*

That night, Meeshak dreams:


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## havenstone

*Un-Splitting the Party*

*THE MORNING AFTER *Atrix and Darren redeem Lucian from the Arena, they hear of their friends’ bloody escape from the Tang estate.  In a city still stunned from the shaming of the Imperial Palace and the burning of the Sufza qohei, the news hits like a landslide: in the middle of the night, a dozen Northern slaves killed their guards, fought their way out of the Minister of State’s home compound, and then disappeared without trace.  

The Minister of Security, Goru, immediately announces that all Northerners throughout the Empire are to be beaten again; that they must at all times wear heavy metal shackles around their legs; and that their children are to be taken away from them and raised with other, less rebellious slave races.  The main roads out of Tziwan are closed for a day, and a Legion is called out into the streets to join the city watch in hunting for the escapees.  Grim rumors fly around Tziwan that one more escape will result in the excruciation of all remaining Northern slaves and a punitive re-invasion of the North.  

Darren is the first to speak their more specific fear aloud: “They have to know that we were all sold from the same cage.  So they’re sure to come hunting for whoever bought the White Death.”  

The Northerners can do little but keep moving, following their plan of never spending more than one night in the same wayhouse.  That first day, the watch searches every inn in Tziwan for escapees, but the three friends maintain their alibi as Chramic merchant-prentices well enough to fool their new innkeeper.  He serves them wine and plies them with questions about their trading visits in the North – “Is it true that Northerners are so unruly that they settle all disputes by trying to murder each other?” – while the guardsmen scour every room in his hostelry.

After a few more days of lying low, Darren risks returning to the drinking houses of the docks to find Seraband, the friendly sea-trader.  To his relief, as far as he can tell, no one has yet asked the garrulous Chramic merchant any questions about them.  Despite his general anxiety, Darren’s fascination with ocean travel keeps him at Seraband’s table.  He sips his rice beer and takes mental notes as Musfarzan, a Chramic shipwright, and Gatze, a Kardei ship’s mage, argue about the best way to proof a vessel against breaking up in a tidal surge.

*AS THE FUROR* over the second escape grudgingly subsides and the Legions return to their barracks, Atrix, Darren, and Lucian almost begin to relax.  Then, eleven days after their triumph at the Arena, the three friends’ hearts are set hammering by an unexpected late-night knock on the door of their room.  Lucian flattens himself against the wall, a sword-length piece of wood in his hand.  Atrix cracks the door.  He is both relieved and surprised to see Chingan Dai hovering in the hall; they haven’t seen the Szianar talemonger since Seraband introduced them in the winehouse more than two weeks earlier.  “Sir?” he says politely. 

Chingan Dai pauses, apparently waiting for Atrix to welcome him in.  When no invitation is forthcoming, he nods slowly.  “Seraband told me you were somewhere in the area, young man.  I was wondering what you and your friend decided to invest in.  There is a story going around that two young Chramics bought a slave called the White Death from the Arena.  You will understand that when I heard that, my mind turned to you.”

“Ah,” Atrix says, trying not to sound flustered.  “To be honest, we haven’t really decided yet what we're going to invest in.”

Chingan Dai smiles.  “Of course.  If it _were_ high-value slaves... well,  I don’t need to tell you that it’s a touchy time to be owning a Northerner, and I was wondering what I could offer you to take him off your hands.  I know a man who could use a good bodyguard – the best the Arena has to offer.”

“I don’t want to waste your time, sir,” Atrix demurs, trying desperately to bluff.  “We haven’t bought this Arena slave you’re looking for.  Apologies.”

The graying Szianar nods again, chewing his lip and looking slightly puzzled.  Then he blinks twice and looks up, his mournful eyes suddenly ablaze.  Atrix feels the sick certainty that Chingan Dai has guessed their real identities.  His hand is already going for his sword hilt when the Szianar speaks with barely contained excitement.

“If I told you that I’d heard about you from Ontaya and Ash, might that change your answer?”


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## havenstone

*The Book of Gray and Gold*

*CHINGAN DAI EAGERLY *leads the three refugees to the Dragon Path safe house in the Lakshari qohei – and the party is finally reunited!  Over several celebratory bottles of rice wine, Atrix and Darren tell everyone the epic tale of their escape from the Imperial Palace.  (It's the first of many, many retellings, each of which will be slightly more exciting and elaborate).

When they get to their encounter with the gravel-voiced Beggarmaster of Tziwan, Chandur whistles softly.  "Old Tchuchek guessed which sewer you'd drop out of?  It's said he knows the underside of Tziwan better than anyone else, but that's so impressive as to be frightening.  Surely he must have had help from some kind of Divination."

Chingan Dai's expression is grim.  "We feared he'd caught scent of us.  I wonder how many other escaped slaves that old wolf has left out as bait.  The Founders need to know about this as soon as possible."

"What would it mean if the thieves did find out about the Dragons?" Meeshak asks.

"We don't know," Njitra replies, pensive.  "Thanks to Chingan Dai, we know that Thieflord Zhenan of Tziwan has a secret understanding with the Minister of Security.  The Shrouded Path carries out nasty little missions that the Empire doesn't want to dirty its hands with – or that the Security Ministry wants to keep secret from other Ministries.  In exchange, Minister Goru keeps the Shroud _qohei_ from being scoured too aggressively by the Watch.  If Zhenan sees us as a threat to such a profitable relationship, he might set Minister Goru's minions onto our trail."

"While we're speaking of Goru's minions," Ontaya interjects, "there was a wizard at the slave market the day we were sold – Archmaster Orozu – who was the most thoroughly evil man I've ever sensed.  They said he lived on the estate of Minister Goru."

Chingan Dai's voice remains steady, but the blood has visibly left his cheeks.  "Since you will probably be caught up in these things, we should speak of them more clearly.  Minister Goru himself is a corpulent, dissolute fool.  When we speak of the Ministry of Security, we are really speaking of Orozu.  If the Archmaster were not distracting himself by trying to replicate the greatest horrors of the ancient Empire, he might pose more of a threat to the Dragon Path than anyone else in Tziwan."

As a more somber mood settles on the room, Darren tells their friends about their failed attempt to rescue Kay from Graiqal.  Fighting tears, Carywn implores Chingan Dai to find Lune – the last of their close Senalline friends to remain unaccounted for.

"We already have men working to find him, Carwyn," the Szianar spymaster assures her.  "We must take great care in retrieving him, so as to not draw the attention of the Empire or the Beggarmaster.  But if he's alive, we will save him – don't fear."

Much later, Meeshak privately comments to Chandur that Chingan Dai seemed intensely affected by the mention of Archmaster Orozu.  The young Lakshari nods, looking bleak.  "His late wife Ujeli, Tiya's mother, was a slave on the Goru estate.  I helped Chingan rescue her – that was six years ago.  Ujeli didn't speak of it, but I know she'd seen some of Orozu's... experiments, as closely as anyone can and still stay sane.  I don't know what that dark bastard's doing, but he's killed literally hundreds of slaves to do it.  Chingan Dai hates him worse than anyone else in the world."

*FOR TWO MORE* weeks, the party keeps a low profile in the shielded cellar.  Atrix, Darren and Lucian have their scarred shoulders Healed, removing all trace of the slave brand.  Several of the literate Northern party members begin learning to read and write Xaimani script.  Rian and Shihara pore over their new spellbook, trying to memorize the long runic incantations.

Ontaya asks Njitra to help her read some books of religious lore, and eventually concludes to her satisfaction that the Ain of the North and the Ii of the South are One.  The theology of the South is fairly sound by the standards of her paladin order – setting aside, of course, one appalling moral oversight.  The Empire-wide institution of slavery seems like a far bigger evil for Ain to tolerate than even the tortures of the Sistechern Order; Ontaya is still amazed that the priests of the South have retained the blessing of Ain.  She reminds herself that, according to the doctrine of her own Order, Ain does not promise to intervene on any question which His servants could settle using their own reason, conscience, and willpower.  Slavery clearly must be such an issue.

Wholly bored by the theological discussions on the other side of the safe house, Chandur does his charismatic best to seduce Carwyn.  She half-heartedly flirts back – he is a very pretty man, and old habits die hard – but ultimately resists his propositions, her mind still set on Lune.  Her hope is rewarded one day when Njitra returns from a brief visit to Dragon Path headquarters.  "They've found Lune.  He's working a tile table at at the House of Shattered Knives."

For a second, Carwyn's whole body goes weak with relief; she almost drops little Hamber.  "Is he all right?"

"He's had a hard time – I won't lie to you," Njitra sighs.  "He's in one of the roughest gambling dens in the Shroud _qohei_.  But he's winning money for his masters, and as long as he keeps that up, they're going to keep him alive."  

Carywn groans.  "Damn it.  We can't rescue him yet, can we?"  Hamber starts crying, half-understanding the desolation in her voice.

Njitra kneels in front of her, putting a hand to his heart.  "Carwyn, as soon as the furor over your escape has completely died down, we'll find a way to extract him.  I promise you."

*NJITRA ALSO TOSSES *a musty-smelling old book to Rian and Shihara.  "Chingan Dai asks you to look after this for him."

"Really?" Rian says, surprised and excited.  "We're still a long way from working our way through the first spellbook."

"Keep working on it," Njitra grins.  "You couldn't get this one open if you tried.  One of our questing parties retrieved it from a forgotten library in Niyon, and Zhensu asked Chingan Dai to send it somewhere safe – we try not to keep too many treasures in any one base.  Can either of you read the seal?"

Shihara looks away, trying to hide her embarrassment, while Rian examines the weighty tome.  A tarnished silver strap wraps around the book, with an ornate runic sigil at the clasp.  "It looks like the runes for 'gray' and 'gold,' engraved on top of each other," she replies after a moment.  "With slight priority to the first.  So, Gray-Gold?"

"That's what Zhensu said.  A lot of spellbooks will have a seal like that.  The runes are usually a hint to the words that need to be spoken to unlock the book.  If you tried to break the seal, it would destroy the contents.  We're trying to Divine what the unlocking words might be."  

"Ii usually doesn't give a plain answer to such questions, blessed be His confusing ways," Chandur chimes in, "but occasionally He renders a helpful hint."

"The runic script doesn't look quite right," Rian ventures.  When she runs her hands over the cracked leather cover, they come away feeling tingly and cold.

"It's how they wrote runes about three hundred years ago," Njitra says, smiling.  "Archmaster Zhensu was quite excited about it.  He thinks it might be one of the lost books of the Gray Archmage."

"Really?" Rian gasps, feeling a sudden unexpected vertigo.  She knows almost nothing about the Gray Archmage – just half-remembered fireside stories about a hero who saved the Empire by defeating three evil wizards.  The idea that she could be holding a relic from that legendary age is absurd – and intoxicating.

"So he thinks.  We'll see what the priests say.  Meanwhile, would you look after it?"

"Of _course_ I wi..." Rian breaks off as Shihara coughs pointedly.  "Of course we will."


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## havenstone

For anyone who was following this StoryHour... all my apologies for the six+ year silence!  I'm afraid the reason I fell silent was that I began another writing project that drew in different ways on this D&D campaign: a game for Choice of Games.  

Choice of Rebels, Game I finally hit the app stores in November.  I'm now working on the sequel, so it will be a long time (if ever) before I find my way back to finishing this StoryHour.  But in case anyone enjoyed what was here, you might want to try _Choice of Rebels_. The first chapter is free to play, so you can see what you think...


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