 
A FALLIBLE GODDESS AND THE ENDURING SORROW (Journey Book Four)

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Smashwords Titles by George Straatman

THE CONVERGING

THE CONVERGING: MARK OF THE DEMON

THE CONVERGING: CLOSURES IN BLOOD

JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES

ABJECTION ALONG THE ROAD TO APOTHEOSIS (JOURNEY BOOK 2)

CIRCLE OF THE WITCH

THE CHAINS OF CAPITULATION (JOURNEY BOOK 3)

THE FINAL CONVERGING: AN IMMORTAL HEART ASUNDER

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ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Jeanine Henning for her amazing work in providing the stunning cover graphic for this novel. I would also like to thank Leonard Clark for provide the critical second pair of eyes for this project. Thank you to those who showed the perseverance of sticking it out through this long and complex journey.

Chapter One

1

The party set out at first light and the pall of anxiety that had ushered them into sleep had not abated a whit as they trudged toward their fateful encounter. Islena came to stand before the others, her face sporting its perplexing new mask of reticence. In a voice devoid of intonation, she announced, "We will reach the edge of Otaru Ree's purgatory today. It's imperative that you understand...once we cross into her territory, we will be at her mercy and the opportunity for reconsideration of your choices will be lost. If any of you has the slightest reservations about moving forward, this is the time to act upon it. None of you have any further obligation to me, so choose wisely with your own self-interest as your only priority."

She surveyed the five, lashing each with a severe frown. When none of the five displayed any hint of reluctance to continue, Islena offered them a tacit nod and turned away.

As Doraux strode purposefully through the lifeless gray dirt...her face set in mask of dogged determination...Artumas hurried to join her. Quietly, he remarked, "When I first agreed to aid you in your search for the Proclamations, this is certainly not the direction I envisioned events would follow."

She glanced at him briefly, her generous mouth twisting into a sardonic grin. "Welcome to my ugly reality. The truth is, Artumas, where you are at this precise moment is exactly where you were intended to be from the first moment you drew breath in this world...so don't look so surprised."

Artumas' answering expression of contained skepticism vexed Islena mightily and she confronted the startled Emercian with a contentious scowl. "I can tell you, with irrefutable certainty, that you have no role to play in everything that is to follow. If I told you to return to your hovel and wait for events to play out...do you really believe you could?" She raised a muscular right arm and pointed back along the beach. "If so, then go now. Demonstrate that your will is your own."

Artumas' gaze shifted back along the sterile ribbon of dirt and as he pondered her suggested course of action, his expression became quizzical and then pained.

"Exactly!" Islena rasped triumphantly and then resumed her inexorable trek. After a moment's reflection, the aging king hurried to join the woman who had become a living hieroglyph.

"I spent the remainder of the night reflecting on all that you imparted and though I can lay no claim to grasping this maddening conundrum around which our interaction is apparently constructed, I have reached on conclusion; you have my unconditional support."

Her head jerked toward the deposed king and her green eyes were alight with surprise. Artumas smiled reassuringly. "Whatever route you choose, I am confident that it will be the only viable path toward a just resolution of this odious conflict."

"You're casting me in the light of infallibility Artumas and I can assure you that I'm anything but perfect," Islena warned, struggling to quell the flare of unwelcome emotion that his unexpected expression of confidence had evoked.

Artumas shook his head mournfully. "Islena, the concept of infallibility is a myth...or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it is a tasteless jape. Even these purported gods would be incapable of perfection because the parameters by which it is defined are nebulous and ever changing...rendering the very concept an impossible contradiction."

They walked along in a contemplative silence for a short space of time and Artumas went on to elaborate. "While it may be true that I've been denied the level of complete enlightenment you've attained, I still discern the salient truth of what you are."

"Really...then please tell me because I feel hopelessly lost," Islena demanded with a mixture of vexation and dejection. "Myrhia claimed that of the three of us, only I had any genuine latitude to choose the course of my actions. Based on the possible futures I see confronting me, I can only regard that volition as more of a curse than a blessing."

"Islena Doraux, for all of your self-proclaimed flaws and festering doubts, I will not be dislodged from my conviction that your actions...as bewildering as they may appear...will ultimately serve the light," Artumas insisted ardently.

Again, Islena was shocked by the totality of his faith in her judgment and shackled by doubt that it was warranted. Fearing that she would succumb to her turbulent emotions and thus see her resolve completely undone, Islena seized on the one subject that required closure. She flicked her regard to Lorio, who trudged along with her head uncharacteristically bowed. "Artumas, promise me on your honor, that when this is over and should there be a favorable resolution to this conflict, you will take care of Lorio. When the dust has settled and things return to normal...whatever shape normal might assume in the post-war world...I would not have Lorio abandoned and forgotten. Her association with me has cost her everything she has ever known or loved and I want your solemn oath that you will personally see that both she and her child are provided for...in every meaningful sense of the concept."

"I can assure you, Islena...when we see the other side of this...both Lorio and her child will be provided for in a sumptuous style befitting royalty," Artumas hesitated, knowing that he was about to stray into intimate, complex territory of matters for which he was not ideally equipped. "Islena, if what I've observed over the past few days is even remotely accurate; the only thing that will provide Lorio with any sense of peace and contentment...is you."

Struck by this rapier precise assessment of Lorio's passion, a groan issued from deep within Islena's chest and she swiftly covered her eyes with her left hand, while frantically shaking her head and pushing Artumas away with her right arm.

Alarmed by Islena's extreme agitation, Artumas tentatively extended his hand, but she brushed it aside and jogged away. She stumbled into a brisk walk some twenty yards ahead. The rise and fall of her square shoulders informed a disconcerted king that she was weeping.

The subject of Islena's intense anguish suddenly materialized at Artumas' side, regarding the deposed king with a mildly accusatory glare, "What troubles Islena?"

Artumas turned his regard to the statuesque beauty, laboring to mask the sorrow that raked his insides. "The same thing that troubles us all, Lorio...when we are forced to confront the inescapable reality of who we are and the exorbitant cost that accompanies such understanding."

Lorio stopped and glared at the aging king sourly, having no patience for ambiguity, but Artumas merely bowed his head and strode on.

2

As morning relented to afternoon another surprising development declared the party's proximity to Otaru Ree's realm. For the first time since reaching the western shore of the great ocean, the sky was overcast. Slate gray clouds occluded the heavens from horizon to horizon and the temperature had plunged to levels that left the four mortals chilled. The ocean now appeared a forbidding black, save for the whitecaps that were agitated by the gusting wind. A brooding mist had rolled to the very edge of the forest, but on the few occasions when it would thin sufficiently to provide a glimpse beyond...the trees of the forest appeared stunted and twisted. Arminda was reminded of how the vampire forest had appeared prior to Islena's cleansing.

Sormias spiraled down out of the brooding sky and came to land directly before Islena, who gestured for the other four to gather while he delivered his report. The normally jovial Golgar appeared unusually subdued in the muted light. Somberly, he began, "We've come to a place where no mortal was ever intended to tread...at least not while they drew breath. Everything...even the very rock and sand beneath our feet...is bereft of vitality and no living thing could ever hope to flourish here."

"Nonetheless, this is where I have to go," Islena declared bluntly. "Did you detect any sign of...habitation?"

Sormias shook his head, clearly unsettled by this inimical place. "No...whatever dwells here is strictly spectral. There are residual echoes of consciousness here...but they are centuries-distant memories."

Islena turned to the others. "This is still the periphery of her realm. There is still time to turn back if you wish."

Lorio stepped forward and extended her leanly-muscled right arm to Islena. "Very well, Islena...then let's you and I go together. We can expand upon Artumas' hovel and all lively blithely by the ocean, spending the rest of our days communing with nature. I'm certainly willing and we can all live blissfully while Myrhia devours the world."

"I don't need your sarcasm, Lorio," Islena retorted ruefully.

"And we don't need your patronizing condescension," Lorio snapped angrily. "We are all aware that you cannot retrieve the Dragonsword alone. A sacrifice is required and that is a role that one of us must play in this ugly drama. Now dispense with the baseless concern and let us go forth and see who draws the death card."

Islena glared at the contentious raven-haired beauty, her exasperation attenuated by a profound love that she could neither express nor deny. Shaking her head, Doraux wheeled about and marched into the congealing mist.

Less than a bell later, they came to a razor thin line of demarcation, more perceived than actual, that marked the point of delineation between the Land of Shades and Otaru Ree's Purgatory.

Islena spared her five companions a brief glance...her emerald eyes alive with an indecipherable emotion...and strode purposefully over the invisible boundary. Once inside, she drew a quavering breath and even the air that filled her lungs felt fundamentally wrong in a way that she could not define in concrete terms.

The others marched briskly to join her and Islena was assailed by an acute sorrow that made her want to bray a cry of despair. With these six symbolic steps, the die had been cast and her path forward set in stone.

Otaru Ree had instructed that she must journey to her castle, which stood on the northern edge of her domain. Standing on the southern periphery of this repository for the souls of unrepentant miscreants, Doraux arrived at her decision, gripping Myrhia's leash with white knuckled intensity.

Gesturing for the others to remain where they stood, Islena drifted deeper into the realm of shadow and ash. Arching her back and throwing back her head, she bellowed defiantly, "Otaru Ree, I have come...but I will go no further. You shall come to me!"

Islena's powerful roar of summons spiraled up into the roiling heavens and radiated out with an astounding power that seemed to reverberate through the very bedrock beneath her feet. The four mortals staggered, while Sormias sprang into the air, suddenly cognizant of the invisible forces that were coalescing around the unsuspecting group.

In the blink of an eye, scores of apparitions began to manifest out of the bedrock, sand and ubiquitous mist. Though they were indistinct and ephemeral, the weapons they brandished were all too real...and lethal.

The shambling horrors converged upon the unarmed mortals, each displaying the appalling scars of the ugly trauma that had ended their mortal lives. One creature, whose head had been partially pulverized by a blunt weapon, raised an ancient, bronze-studded mace and converged menacingly upon Islena, who seemed oblivious to her imminent peril.

The specter raised the weapon, its lipless mouth twisting into a grin of triumph as it prepared to dispense death to the loathsome mortal.

Sormias unleashed a controlled blast of golden energy and the specter tore apart like a mist before a gale. Its antiquated mace fell to the lifeless dirt at Islena's feet.

The Golgar then turned his formidable puissance upon the ranks of apparitions nearest his four companions, cutting a swathe through their ranks that permitted the group to reach Islena.

Doraux seemed either indifferent to or unaware of the pandemonium unfolding around her as she stood staring fixedly at the northern horizon. The flesh at the nape of her neck began to tingle in response to the seemingly infinite power that was swiftly coalescing around her. In a voice made tremulous with wonder and awe, Islena whispered, "She comes!"

With his wings beating like the snapping sails of a great warship, Sormias swept back and forth, systematically decimating the press of violence-frenzied apparitions.

With terrifying alacrity, a forked bolt of gray lightening arced out of thin air, struck the hovering Golgar from his right side and sent him tumbling head over heels out over the raging ocean, where he abruptly plummeted into the dark waters.

The same incomprehensible energy obliterated the ranks of malevolent apparitions to a one, leaving only the howl of the forlorn wind in their wake.

And then...as Islena had intuited...she was there.

With her impossibly long arms spread wide and an expression of extreme irritation set on her inexpressibly beautiful face, the gray goddess hovered above the strand in all of her stupefying majesty.

While the four companions merely gaped in speechless incredulity, Islena sank to her knees like a supplicant before a deity. Yet when she spoke, it was in a fearsome voice without the slightest hint of deference. "I have come to claim what is mine by right!"

"This was not what we agreed upon," Otaru grumbled, her exquisite gray eyes rife with vexation at this creature's astounding impertinence.

"Perhaps, but it is what I am prepared to offer. If it is acceptable, then I will fulfill your two conditions in return for safe passage and return of the sword," Doraux replied unflinchingly, her unblinking gaze set directly on Otaru Ree's majestic face. A tense, expectant silence gathered about the group as Otaru pondered Doraux's uncompromising offer.

Sormias burst from the pounding surf and immediately came to hover directly behind Doraux...intent on offering her what protection he could. Otaru fixed him with a crooked grin and quipped disdainfully, "Golgar, don't presume to challenge an entity to which you are like an annoying gnat. My patience has been worn precariously thin by this impudent, presumptuous woman and it would be ill-advised to irritate me further."

"I have no quarrel with you, keeper," Sormias retorted stiffly, "unless, like your repugnant minions, you intend to do her harm."

"My children are an unruly lot who require frequent lessons in the prevailing disposition of absolute authority," Otaru remarked with a cursory shrug of her broad shoulders. "As for your defiant friend, I have no intention of harming her in the least. Quite the contrary, she shall be granted her two wishes."

Otaru returned her piercing gaze to the kneeling Doraux and although her beautiful visage seemed to defy understanding, a hint of malice appeared to ripple in her luminous gray eyes.

The disconcerting effect reminded Lorio of a shadow moving swiftly beneath the surface of dark waters. 'Whatever gambit Islena intends to play,' a voice admonished her gravely, 'it will be you who pays the most exorbitant price.'

Otaru Ree's next uncompromising declaration brought the dire warning into sharp focus. "Since you have unilaterally elected to change the terms of our agreement, I shall reciprocate."

She floated over to the kneeling Doraux and looming over her much like the deity she truly was, Ree pronounced, "By breeching our agreement, you have forfeit the right of choice and selection of payment for the dispensation of passage shall be mine."

Islena's eyes widened and her face assumed a pasty hue, but a single glance into those inhuman gray eyes informed Islena that there would be no dissuading Otaru Ree. At that moment, Islena made her first stumbling retreat from her humanity...divorcing herself from the horrible consequences that her intended course of action might eventually yield. She signified her tacit acceptance with a slight nod.

Otaru's unfathomable regard swept over Islena's four land-bound companions and an expression of unconcealed avarice and hunger flared in her lovely eyes as they touched upon a very pregnant Lorio.

In the next instant, the earth beneath their feet became liquid and the four sank with identical cries of alarm and surprise. The liquid then solidified into stone and Islena's four companions found themselves inextricably trapped in the stone's embrace. They thrashed ineffectively like animals in a snare, but the newly formed stone held them fast.

Sormias had no sooner internalized what had befallen his four companions than he found his limbs and torso caught in unbreakable tendrils of gray, elastic extrusions. He unleashed another wave of energy upon the constricting tendrils, but they were fully impervious to its power. A sheet of the elastic substance slapped over the Golgar's face, effectively terminating his outpouring of energy. As Doraux peered on from behind her new mask of impassivity, the frantically struggling Sormias was slowly, but inexorably reeled to ground. His garbled expression of outrage added to the chorus of strident protests that arose from his hopelessly ensnared companions.

"Every course of action comes with an accompanying price, Islena Doraux," Otaru Ree imparted in a somber tone that did not seem to match her overtly hungry expression.

"Believe me...it's a notion with which I've become well acquainted," Islena growled, forcibly ignoring the struggles of those who had sacrificed so much to deliver her to this moment of infamy. Masking her trepidation, Islena rose and lifted her face to Otaru. "You wished to know my mind. I will throw open the gates and lay my essence bare before you." Significantly, she added, "I will let you stand in judgment of my worth...and my intentions."

She fell to her knees, closed her eyes and inclined her head in an open invitation to the ancient creature. Otaru Ree tentatively extended her left hand, the long fingers of which trembled slightly. Otaru was surprised by the degree of reluctance she was feeling now that the moment of epiphany was at hand.

As Ree's fingertips touched Islena's fevered brow, Doraux suddenly threw open the flood gates of her collective consciousness and regurgitated the vast repository of her cumulative memory in one continuous torrent.

Otaru's eyes widened and her body stiffened involuntarily as the full impact of thousands of lives detonated in her mind like an exploding sun. A low moan of pity escaped her lips, when she at last reached the bleak moment of genesis from which the embodied concept of Islena's essence had been granted life.

Astonished...appalled...overwhelmed, Otaru Ree began to withdraw her hand, but Islena coiled her fingers around Ree's massive wrist and held it fast. Then she unleashed her desperate adjuration in a rapid succession of staccato images that slammed into the fabric of the unprepared deity's mind...shaking her entire body with their titanic force.

When Islena had delivered her entreaty, she released Ree's wrist and watched in tense anticipation as a beleaguered Otaru reeled away and collapsed to one knee. The two eternal creatures regarded each other and a moment of perfect, unfettered empathy passed between the pair.

As her four uncomprehending companions bore witness, their expressions oscillating wildly between bewildered confusion and dark awe, an openly discomposed Otaru murmured, "Such flagrant audacity. Should your gamble prove ill-conceived, my realm will be filled to bursting with those who will suffer the repercussions of your misjudgment."

"Nonetheless, I would see my request granted," Islena exhorted without the slightest discernable hesitation. Otaru continued to regard Doraux with her disconcertingly frank gaze of appraisal, seeking the slightest hint of vacillation that would warrant her denial of the piteous creature's plea.

Seeing none, Ree nodded and rising on unsteady legs, drew herself to her full daunting height and extended her right arm. A discordant whine broke the expectant silence, rising to intolerable levels that threatened to shatter the eardrums of all who suffered it. With coruscating waves or red and silver washing the horizons to herald its arrival, the Dragonsword came streaking over the northern horizon. It slapped into Otaru Ree's outstretched palm and flared a blinding vermillion. With her arm still extended, she floated across the expanse of listless earth and with stiff formality, declared, "I return this to you...its rightful owner...Daughter of the Tempest."

With equal gravitas, Islena rose and accepted the Icon, which burst into a pulsing blaze of pure energy which Islena realized was in perfect syncopation with her thundering heart.

"Bury it in the bitch's heart, Islena!" Lorio implored frantically, her expression one of expectant triumph, which rapidly turned to confused incredulity and plummeting despair when Islena offered Otaru Ree a deep bow of gratitude.

"I leave the rest to you and place my faith in your honor," Islena intoned solemnly. Otaru Ree acknowledged this with a single emphatic nod. Sparing the perplexed Artumas a brief glance, Doraux turned on heel and began to stride purposefully toward the southern horizon.

She gritted her teeth and closed her mind to the strident cries and angry epithets that hounded her once the four gleaned her intentions.

Gillian and Artumas exchanged grave looks of deep concern, while a horrified Arminda simply buried her face in her hands and began to sob miserably.

Of course it was Lorio's reaction that had the most profound affect upon Islena, very nearly causing her resolve to falter. "That's it, you craven bitch...crawl back to your mistress and lick her boots like the dog you are. If I ever set eyes upon you again, Islena...I'm going to kill you...or you're going to have to kill me! Do you hear me, you traitorous cowardly bitch...I'm going to kill you!"

That fraught promise pursued Islena like a pack of snapping hounds, until she stepped over the line of demarcation, where it was abruptly cut off. With her vision distorted into a fractured mosaic by free falling tears, Islena chanced a single backward glance and saw the four gesturing frantically, sporting varying expressions of wounded confusion...and in the case of Lorio, unconstrained hatred.

Doraux gasped in horror when she saw that Otaru Ree was now hovering directly behind the Lamish beauty, who, in her fixation upon Islena, was oblivious to the entity's ominous presence. The apparent implications of this threatened to obliterate Islena's resolve, so she quickly averted her gaze and began to sprint as fast as her trembling legs could carry her.

3

When Islena passed out of sight, Lorio's exclamation of rage and profanity-laden tirade of threats degenerated into wails of inarticulate anguish. She laid back her head and began to shriek like a mortally wounded animal. Her three companions looked on, horrified and bewildered by the extent to which the normally unflappable Lorio was distraught.

Arminda wept, knowing that Islena's apparent betrayal had eviscerated the hybrid as surely as if Doraux had impaled her with the Dragonsword. The wound Islena had inflicted was likely to prove mortal to her spirit as Lorio appeared inconsolable in her grief.

Otaru Ree regarded the wailing woman dispassionately, her augmented perception informing the deity that this wretched creature's extreme emotion was also exerting a negative stress on her unborn child. Unwilling to allow the woman's rampant emotions to damage her unborn cargo...cargo which Ree had decided would serve as the price of passage...Otaru glided forward and firmly pressed her long index finger to the center of Lorio's forehead.

The immortal's eyes immediately rolled up in their sockets and she lapsed into unconsciousness, slumping forward into the dirt at Otaru's feet.

Surveying the others with her inhuman gray eyes, she declared, "I will honor my vow to see you safely back to the land of mortals...but first, I will collect the levy of passage."

"Take me!" Arminda brayed desperately, sensing the shape and direction of Otaru Ree's terrible intentions. She inclined her head in the direction of her lifeless arm and implored, "I have no real worth...let me stand as payment and grant these other four safe passage."

Otaru's gaze fell upon the diminutive Jerhia and though the expression on her serene and beautiful face resembled pity, Ree shook her head firmly. "I sense your intrinsic mettle and your unassailable integrity child. Despite your infirmity, the mortal world has need of you yet. The right of selection is mine alone...and the choice has been made!"

Arminda cried out in anguish as Otaru Ree gesticulated. In response, the earthly vice that held Lorio transmogrified to liquid and the unconscious immortal rose slowly into the air. She hovered before the gray goddess, who regarded her distended abdomen the way a starving man might regard an unexpected feast.

"You can't do this...it's monstrous beyond all comprehension!" Arminda beseeched, her words badly distorted by the ferocity of her sobbing. Turning to and ashen-faced Artumas, she begged, "Please Artumas...make her see how cruel this is...I'm pleading with you."

Artumas shook his head helplessly, knowing that he was not condign to the task of forestalling this tragic turn of events that was about to unfurl before his bulging eyes. No argument...however facile...would compel this unfathomable creature to relent.

Slowly, as if by invisible hands, Lorio's tattered garments and worn boots were peeled from her body until she hung naked in the air. Otaru drifted closer and laid her right hand on Lorio's protruding belly.

Arminda's hysterical, inarticulate cries of negation rose to hysterical shrieks until a perturbed Otaru snapped, "Silence your insufferable prattling, woman. I have no intention of harming the woman...and certainly not the boy growing in her womb. His birth will be the envy of every woman in the mortal world. Now cease you mindless braying!"

Arminda's ice blue eyes bulged and her jaws were gripped by a tetanus that abruptly terminated her cries. Otaru returned her attention to the floating Lorio, whom she maneuvered into a horizontal position. The Lamish immortal's legs splayed and bent as she settled into a position most conducive to delivery. The perfection of her heavy breasts lolled on her chest as Otaru extended a long left arm and began to gently caress Lorio's perspiration-soaked forehead. With the flat of her right palm, Ree continued her slow ministration as her circular rhythm induced the onset of the birthing process.

Both Gillian and Artumas averted their eyes with a grimace when Lorio's water suddenly broke, spilling to the sterile dirt in a torrent. Mere moments later, Lorio's womanhood tore to accommodate the coming of her child. Her leanly muscled body was beset by a series of convulsive shudders that were quickly pacified by a wave of argent energy which emanated from Otaru's caressing hand. A cascade of blood turned the lifeless dirt a shade of maroon that was shockingly vital against the listless gray surroundings. The spill of blood was the harbinger of imminent birth and soon there after there followed a cry, fraught with primal need and hunger...which declared that a new life had been born into the world.

A subtle gesture severed the umbilical cord and Otaru cradled the newborn to her heavy breast as Lorio's slack body completed the birthing process. The placenta fell to the ground with an ugly liquid plop that caused Artumas' stomach to roll in protest.

Drawing back the flap of her diaphanous gray blouse, Otaru pressed the boy's hungry, toothless mouth to a turgid nipple. As she turned away from Lorio, an argent glow quickly enveloped the suspended woman. Gentle fingers of refulgent energy quickly worked to heal Lorio's torn womanhood.

In the span of a few heartbeats, all traces of the traumatic ordeal of having given birth were effaced from Lorio's flesh. As she settled to the sand on a carpet of silver puissance, the Lamish immortal's body was restored to its pre-pregnancy state of perfection. No visible sign of ever having given birth remained.

As Arminda watched the horrible spectacle of Otaru Ree nursing an unconscious Lorio's child in mute horror, a single thought kept replaying itself in her frazzled mind...if Islena Doraux lived eternally, she could never atone for the heinous crime she had committed against this woman who had loved her so unconditionally.

Chapter Two

1

The morning after the destruction of the first Redian clay mine dawned bitterly cold and clear. Despite the bone-deep chill, Muragren was at least grateful that the wind was negligible...a small mercy that would make travel bearable.

She had awoken in Ynathreen's powerful embrace, feeling unsettled and disoriented by her strange surroundings, until recollection of the prior day's cataclysmic events filtered in.

"I thought you might sleep through the entire day," a voice declared softly, and Muragren inclined her neck to find the Redian girl regarding her with those large, expressive blue eyes. There was also an unmistakable affection in those limpid depths...one that the older woman simply couldn't credit.

"Sleep was a luxury that slaves only dreamed of, Ynathreen. I cannot recall the last time I awoke after the sun had risen," Muragren remarked, managing to repress the bitterness this evoked with considerable effort.

"Those days are behind you now, teacher," Ynathreen declared with the exuberance of youth and pulled the smaller woman to her feet. Only later would Muragren realize that this had not been the cursory declaration of an ingenuous young girl, but the solemn oath of a tenaciously determined future queen.

As the pair dressed and gathered up their meager belongings, Ynathreen instructed, "Be sure to consume at least a single quantity of the Jerhia rations. We have to move quickly and I would prefer not to carry you...should you collapse from malnourishment."

Muragren nodded dutifully and began to chew her way methodically through one portion of the dried fruit and cured meat strips that constituted a Jerhia ration. She noticed that Ynathreen did not indulge in this tasteless meal and immediately suspected why. Fearing that their provisions would be quickly exhausted, the girl was foregoing food to sustain Muragren for a longer duration. This poignant realization threatened to overwhelm the slave, who had survived in an environment where obsessive selfishness was a requisite trait for longevity.

'This simple act of kindness makes my every trenchant prejudice seem petty,' Muragren thought, struggling mightily to keep the tears at bay. 'How utterly absurd and tragically vapid most human interactions are exposed to be during the course of our lives. Despite our intractable insistence on holding forth our superficial differences like badges of hollow honor and means to dehumanize those we would chose to call enemies...these vain pretensions are decried as the laughable charades they are in honest moments of simple humanity. Yet, we continue to turn a blind eye to the fundamental revelations such moments would bestow.' That this girl, who had lost her father, had found the compassion to prioritize a simple slave's wellbeing made Muragren intensely ashamed of never sharing her knowledge of the clay's healing properties with her fellow slaves.

When she could trust herself to speak, Muragren intoned solemnly, "I know what you're doing Ynathreen...but I won't be a burden, nor will we go hungry."

Ynathreen slung a crossbow over her shoulder and buckled a short sword scabbard over her full hips. She then came to stand before Muragren with a sly smile on her lovely face. "I have no idea what you're talking about. A little deprivation will keep me lean and hard." She clapped Muragren on the shoulder, nearly toppling the smaller woman in the process. "Besides which, I'm a savage after all...if I get hungry, I'll just kill and eat you, though I'd imagine that there's not much sustenance to be had on your scrawny bones."

She burst into laughter at her own dismissive witticism, but Muragren only frowned in disapproval. She stepped forward and gripped the girl's right wrist, privately shocked by how thick it was. "Ynathreen, I don't want you to ever refer to yourself that way again...even in jest. It is exactly the image that your father wanted to dispel."

The Redian girl's eyes widened in flaring anger which quickly gave way to embarrassment in the face of Muragren's relatively mild rebuke. Averting her eyes, she murmured, "I'm sorry. I see you looking so gaunt...felt how frail you were in my arms...and it makes me feel ashamed of who I am."

Muragren's reply was one she would have thought inconceivable only the morning before when she would have sworn that all Redians were cut from the same hopelessly corrupt cloth. "You can't be held accountable for what other Redians have done to me. You've demonstrated how different you truly are repeatedly, in the short time we've been together. I was serious about the food issue...the two bags of clay will insure that we won't soon go hungry."

The girl fixed Muragren with an inquisitive gaze and she explained that the clay possessed a myriad of amazing properties. "The taste is atrocious, but the benefits make it bearable. This, more than anything else, is how I managed to survive the unrelenting hell of the mines. These two bags should be enough to sustain us indefinitely."

As a thoroughly astonished Ynathreen absorbed this astounding disclosure, Muragren gently, but insistently pushed first a piece of cured meat and then dried fruit past the girl's full lips. The girl chewed absently and while Muragren continued to feed her small snippets of food, she asked excitedly, "Was anyone else aware of the potential this clay held?"

Muragren quickly glanced away...glad that her flush of shame was concealed by the cracked layer of clay. "No...the overseers of the mine cared only for its use as a base material for Myrhia's Morticants. I didn't tell the other slaves because I feared their knowing would create...complications. There was very little interaction between workers. There seemed little point when it seemed probable that you or they would be dead soon. I can only imagine how reprehensible that must seem to you."

Ynathreen gripped Muragren's shoulders and shaking her for emphasis, intoned gravely, "Your ordeal is inconceivable to me and I will not judge you for the acts into which it coerced you just to survive. I can promise you that the day will come when I cleanse Redia of this deplorable practice."

Muragren responded with a noncommittal nod, suspecting that the cruel and convoluted road ahead would hold many bitter and disillusioning moments for the ambitious girl. Ynathreen impulsively brushed a strand of clay and grime hardened hair from Muragren's brow and remarked softly. "You have such lovely eyes...they seem untouched by what has befallen you here. I'm anxious to see what you look like beneath this mask of clay and dirt."

A moment of incisive empathy seemed to pass between both women then...one that left each feeling profoundly unsettled by the bond that was forming between the would-be teacher and pupil.

Ynathreen shook her head in bemusement and handed Muragren a crossbow, before tugging up the smaller woman's hood. "I doubt you've ever held one of these, much less fired it, but I'll teach you as time allows. For now, stay close and seek suitable cover at the slightest hint of trouble."

"What are your intentions, Ynathreen?"

"For now, I want to return to the mine site to say goodbye to my father," Ynathreen returned automatically and Muragren was relieved to find that the girl was not angered by her presumption. "That done, we'll return here and await the coming of nightfall. It would be prudent to travel under the coming of darkness and then I can begin my search for the bitch who put my father in his grave."

2

The woman who had become the target of Ynathreen's obsessive thirst for retribution guided her horse carefully through the evenly spaced trees. Her escort of forty Jerhia troops was stretched out on either side of her, at evenly spaced intervals. They made their way slowly through the trees in search of the slightest hint of passage, but the fresh fall of knee-deep snow had effectively effaced every print and lay unbroken in every direction.

While the Maxim Tier Marshall had overseen the breaking of camp and preparations for the expedition's return to Metocan, Sygeanor and her Jerhia escort had set out at first light. Maroc had been surprised when his adjutant, Captain Margarus, had requested that she be allowed to take command of the Jerhia who had volunteered for the task. There had been a flinty, almost furtive glint in her hard eyes that he hadn't at all cared for, but he nonetheless granted his permission.

Captain Margarus rode beside Sygeanor now, her hard, lined face inscrutable beneath the cold light of morning. The two women pointedly ignored each other and rode in antagonistic silence, though the Captain would occasionally issue a series of hand signals to her troopers. They moved through the bleak mountain landscape with as much stealth as circumstances would allow and the only sound to be heard was the occasional snort and whinny of a horse.

Cauldanys also rode beside the daunting half-Ulgak and though her face was impassive in the milky post-dawn light, her mind sought frantically to devise a method of facilitating Muragren and Ynathreen's escape.

They came to a small break in the trees and despite only having seen it in darkness...Cauldanys immediately recognized it as the sight of Ynathreen's spectacular ambush.

As though attuned to the Jerhia's thoughts, Sygeanor inquired sharply, "Do you recognize this location?"

Cauldanys grimaced and shifted her gaze to Margarus, who signified her approval to reply with a tight nod. "I think this may be the spot where we were ambushed."

"Do you think this was a deliberate ambush...that the slave was set as bait?" the half-Ulgak demanded.

"I...I can't be certain," Cauldanys stammered, trying to gauge the purpose of this devious creature's query. "I'm inclined to think that it was random chance that our paths crossed...but I can't be certain."

Sygeanor absorbed this with a dissatisfied grunt and then turned her glacial regard to the small clearing. She then held her left hand out before her with the palm facing skyward. With the long index finger of her right hand, she rapidly described a circle over the surface of her palm.

In response, a localized but extremely powerful gyre seemed to rise out of the very ground of the clearing, causing many of the horses to rear in anxiety, despite their training. Sheets of swirling snow twisted skyward, only to be blown away by a powerful secondary cross wind.

As quickly as the gyre had commenced, it abated in a mere span of seconds, to reveal two frozen bodies lying on the hard packed snow. Sygeanor cast a severe, oddly accusatory glance at Cauldanys and dismounted her horse, crossing over to examine the bodies of the fallen soldiers. Without glancing up at Cauldanys, she inquired, "You still claim that a young girl did this to these season veterans?"

The note of skepticism was clear in the half-Ulgak's contentious tone. "I do. She was a girl unlike any I've ever encountered. She killed without hesitation or compunction."

Sygeanor pursed her thin lips and peered into the stand of trees to the east. "The scavengers have stripped these soldiers of their weapons...which means they are armed and quite obviously, lethally dangerous." Turning back to the Jerhia sergeant, she asked, "When you were released, you could discern no tracks nor glean no sense of the direction in which you were being led?"

Cauldanys tensed, knowing that this was the pivotal moment where she would be required to weave a convincing deception. She prayed that Ynathreen possessed enough common sense to heed her advice and eschew this mad quest for revenge. "As I stated yesterday, I was unconscious on the trip to the cave where I was questioned and hooded when returned to this place." After what seemed like an appropriate hesitation, she added, "The snow was falling heavily, but when my hood was removed, I could see partially filled tacks coming from the west...and fresh tracks...a single set...leading north."

"Back toward the mine!" Sygeanor exclaimed, a discordant note of confusion flickering across her broad face. She glanced east and then west and an unpleasant grin lit her face at the realization that there were few points of egress through the towering mountains that delineated the comparatively narrow pass. Turning to Margarus, Sygeanor addressed the captain for the first time. "Disperse your forces in teams and spread out across the pass...we will scour the ground between here and what remains of the mine site."

Margarus bristled at the half-Ulgak's maddening presumption of authority and for no other reason than spite, felt compelled to point out, "Your explosive exhibition yesterday will undoubtedly attract the attention of the Redian hordes. Do you still deem it prudent to return to the mines?"

"You concerns are duly noted, Captain...and pointedly ignored! Now, disperse your troops!" Sygeanor barked balefully, glaring at the veteran commander, who met that intimidating gaze unblinkingly. The pair remained locked in a duel of iron wills, but finally Margarus relented and set about organizing the squads. As she went about her work, the veteran lashed the half-Ulgak with a venomous glare, vowing that there would come a day of reckoning for this affront.

Believing that she had succeeded in intimidating the Jerhia crone, Sygeanor dismissed the captain from her mind and focused on the driving compulsion to recover the two bags of clay. Returning to her horse, Sygeanor flicked a contemptuous scowl at Cauldanys and instructed, "You and I will head directly to the mine. Perhaps your audacious friend has left some hint of her intended destination."

Seeing little alternative but to comply, the diminutive blond set out after the decidedly sinister magic-wielder, whom she had come to suspect was, at least in part, dangerously unbalanced. From the corner of her eye, Margarus watched the pair pass through the trees, her austere features twisted by a dark frown. When she had dispatched the last of her scouring teams, the lean veteran quickly set out after the pair, driven by an exigent, yet vague certainty that something of consequence was about to transpire.

3

Maroc sat astride his mount, watching as the last of the heavy supply wagons trundled slowly out of sight, thus beginning the long and arduous journey back to Metocan. Watching the mounted escort close ranks around the last wagon, the Maxim Tier Marshall reflected upon the realization that the great expedition had degenerated into a debacle...as had many of the coalition's ventures before it. Lessons had been learned through the course of this bleak trek, but those lessons had been unrelentingly hard and dark. The most troubling of these dire insights had been the discovery that Sygeanor held, within her inaccessible heart, the terrible potential to become a monster to rival Myrhia.

Maroc was contemplating how best the coalition might deal with this grim dilemma when Kevlan appeared at his side with dour Maktir and somber Tormal in tow. Maroc arched an eyebrow at the glum trio, suspecting that their purpose would do little to alleviate his dismal mood.

Kevlan cut directly to the quick of the matter, confirming the Jerhia's fear. "Maroc, Tormal has requested an audience and given the nature of his concerns, I would implore you to give serious consideration to what he is about to request."

The Tier Marshall eyed the hawk-faced Emercian, unable to entirely conceal his repugnance for his former enemy. "Then I would hear your concerns commander, though I must forewarn that should they concern Sygeanor...as I surmise they do...I hold very little sway over her actions at this point."

"Still, I'm compelled to impress upon you the gravity of your acquiescence to allow this...this creature to embark upon this mad adventure to Nalosan. I have related my concerns to both Kevlan and our esteemed Natzurdan elder and we are all of a like mind that she cannot be allowed within fifty leagues of Nalosan and its repository of clay."

Maroc surveyed the others, who nodded their concurrence and retorted sourly, "In light of what Emercia has inflicted upon the world at Myrhia's behest, perhaps it is precisely the fate they deserve."

Tormal's face blanched and he replied indignantly, "That is a scurrilous remark that is unworthy of a man of your esteem. What's more, I suspect that your experience with Sygeanor has helped you regard Emercia's plight from a more lenient, sympathetic perspective."

Maroc sighed, knowing that the Emercian's caustic retort was entirely valid. "Very well, Tormal...What is the exact shape of your apprehension?"

"I fear that Sygeanor intends to level the city of Nalosan as a demonstration of the clay's efficacy as an arcane amplifier," Tormal declared in a flat, dispassionate voice that contradicted the enormity of the horror in his brown eyes.

An intense silence enshrouded the four as Maroc gaped at the Emercian, trying to conjure the proper words to refute this surely ludicrous notion. Recollection of her odious actions on that awful night at Dornsark Abbey assailed Maroc and that argument withered and died on his tongue. Instead, he turned to Maktir and demanded, "Is such a thing even possible?"

The Natzurdan stroked his tangled beard, his severe expression made all the darker by the matter under discussion. "If you are asking me if it is theoretically possible in the context of the vast quantity of clay being able to sufficiently augment Sygeanor's unprecedented telekinetic ability...then it is possible beyond dispute."

He hesitated and here his demeanor grew noticeably darker. "If, however, you are asking me if she is capable of leveling a city that is teeming with humanity...men, women and children to whom no blame for Myrhia's perfidy can reasonably be ascribed...then I would attest that she possesses the requisite hardness of heart and vitiated soul necessary to commit such a monstrous act of evil."

"I would concur, Tier Marshall," Kevlan interjected. "Sygeanor's actions have consistently demonstrated a fundamental lack of basic empathy...such a profound defect of spirit that would make her perfectly capable of such a monumental atrocity."

Maroc surveyed the three men and realized that, at least in their own minds, they genuinely believed that the half-Ulgak girl was intent on an inconceivable act of mass annihilation. Something occurred to the Jerhia and he asked Maktir, "Elder, while you were performing the ritual...did Sygeanor employ more arcane energy than was strictly necessary? Is her claim that the clay's unanticipated power of amplification was responsible for the extreme devastation a deliberate falsehood?"

There was a distinct pause during which Maktir's discomfort was written boldly on his severe countenance. After carefully selecting his words, the Natzurdan's elder confirmed the Jerhia's worst fears. "I doubt she anticipated the affect the clay seams would have on her outpouring of arcane energy. Having said that, the half-Ulgak was ecstatic over the destruction our ritual wrought. To a one, my adepts were appalled by the devastation...sickened that we had taken so many lives and inflicted such a scar upon the Mother. There was a gleam in Sygeanor's eye that bespoke the presence of a terrible appetite...and a willingness to see that hunger sated."

Maroc scowled as he reflected on the trio's dire fears...fears which mirrored his own. Fetching a weary sigh, he remarked, "I sense the truth of your contentions...primarily because I share the same apprehensions. Sygeanor obviously is neither grounded nor encumbered by a strong sense of conscience. Yet, against these extreme misgivings, I must balance another of my suppositions...if Islena Doraux is truly lost to us, then Sygeanor is our only remaining hope to vanquish Myrhia. Her chances are improved geometrically if she devises a method of employing this wondrous clay to augment her power."

"Then you find yourself confronted by an unenviable quandary, Maxim Tier Marshall...one for which Nalosan will pay the price, should you not find a resolution," Tormal observed soberly.

Maroc offered the Emercian a sour frown, though in light of recent lessons learned, he could harbor little rancor against his former foe. "If I'm being entirely pragmatic and candid, I'm not entirely certain that we could actually restrain Sygeanor...not without frightful losses to my command. I doubt she would be inclined to submit willingly."

"Then perhaps a more...circumspect approach is required," Tormal suggested...a furtive shadow rippling across his angular features.

"You speak of assassination?" Maroc demanded with a grunt of disgust, his outrage attenuated by Gillian's purpose in shadowing Islena Doraux. Along with the recollection, there came the formative stirring of a possible delicate solution to his conundrum. "As I've mentioned, this situation requires a careful and precarious balance between the dangers and potential benefits of allowing Sygeanor to continue toward Nalosan."

He gazed up into the hard, frigid morning sky as if seeking guidance...knowing all too well that divine guidance was a fallacy. "When Adjutant Margarus returns, I will bestow upon her a secret purpose...one that she will share with a select number of the Jerhia who are chosen to accompany her. Should Sygeanor reach Nalosan and if she shows any inclination to attack the city...Margarus will intervene...emphatically."

Tormal frowned, his gaze shifting briefly to his solemn-face cohorts. "She will have my support of course...but is she equal to the task?"

Maroc's answering grin was decidedly predatory. "I can assure you, Tormal that even Myrhia would not rest easily with Margarus at her back."

Chapter Three

1

As they traipsed through the cold, skirting fallen trees and other obstacles that had been raised in the wake of the mine's destruction, Muragren again gave thanks for Ghordrian's heavy cloak. A gusting wind had sprung up out of the north, driving incisive needles into any exposed flesh. Ynathreen, however, displayed absolutely no hint that the extreme cold caused her even the slightest discomfort. Watching the girl plough through the knee-deep drifts, tirelessly breaking trail for her new charge, Muragren was reminded of a relentless force that simply could not be forestalled once set to purpose.

'Yet for all of that tenacity, she is still only a girl,' the Fairmarch slave thought, deeply dismayed by the precarious path onto which Ynathreen had been set. "Ynathreen, is your mother in Elderspire?"

The Redian's stride faltered briefly and she replied, "Yes...initially she was to make the journey with us, but father decided that she should remain in Elderspire and manage his affairs. If I was of a different character, I might think that he possessed an inkling of what was to come." She paused reflectively and then added, "Satheer...my mother...will be devastated, but she is a strong woman and she will carry on grooming me towards Ghordrian's vision for Redia. You will like her, Muragren...she will treat you with dignity and kindness."

Muragren, who would nonetheless remain a slave, did not comment. Still, she had sworn a vow to Ynathreen in exchange for Cauldanys' life and she was honor bound to fulfill that obligation. A single question had troubled her since the pair had first approached her with their plan for her unexpected deliverance and this seemed like an appropriate moment to give it voice. "Ynathreen, how is it that your father came to know of my presence at the mine? Not once in the years since I was taken from Washburn was I ever asked my name or questioned about my background. Yet it was apparent that Ghordrian had sought me out specifically."

Ynathreen did not respond for a long time and Muragren could perceive an unaccountable angst radiating from the girl in palpable waves. Suddenly, her heart began to race and she came to suspect that she would dread the answer. Finally, the Redian girl came to an abrupt halt and turned to face her mentor. Her limpid blue eyes were narrowed and her open face set in a troubled frown. "You are correct...Ghordrian did seek you out specifically...and yes, he did know exactly who you were."

"How?" Muragren demanded in a voice shrill as a horrible notion bloomed in her mind like a rank weed.

"It was Ghordrian who led the raid on your home town. He directed that the school be sacked and that all surviving teachers be dispersed to the mines. His belief was that only one with the mettle to persevere would be worthy of being my tutor." Ynathreen delivered this monstrous revelation in a flat, dispassionate voice.

Muragren's body went rigid, flummoxed by such self-serving, calculated cruelty. The face of her colleagues...men and women whom she had loved and respected...leapt to her mind...their dead eyes staring sightlessly into the void. A primal rage suffused her then...a towering, mindless fury the like of which she had never before experienced...even in the bleakest moments of her captivity. It occurred to her that she was wearing Ghordrian's cloak and savagely threw it off with a howl of disgust.

"Don't be obtuse...you'll freeze to death," Ynathreen cautioned gruffly.

Muragren's gray eyes widened in surprise as if she had forgotten about the Redian girl's presence. Her face contorted into a mask of virulent hatred and in defiance of all common sense, she bellowed and launched herself at the towering Redian girl. She threw a volley of wild, ineffective blows that the taller girl either blocked or nimbly avoided, though she made no effort to retaliate. When, by pure chance, a clumsy left hand struck her across the cheek, Ynathreen gripped Muragren's wrists and spun her about, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Stop your mindless raving or you'll bring every Jerhia within earshot down upon our necks," Ynathreen rasped in Muragren's ear, to which the smaller woman laid back her head and keened like a wounded animal. Ynathreen roughly threw the distraught slave to the deep snow and fell on top of her, while wrapping her large right hand around the smaller woman's gaping mouth, cutting off her frenzied cries. "My father was far from perfect and only later did he come to fathom how utterly ruthless his actions were. He recognized his shortcomings and took measures to insure that they would not be instilled in me as well. Your indignant outrage is well founded...but do not allow it to be our undoing!"

She withdrew her hand and sensing that Muragren would raise no further commotion, she sprang to her feet, gazing down on the weeping woman in consternation. Ynathreen frowned...something about this fragile, gentle creature touched a raw nerve in her soul...stirring quiescent emotions that could well complicate her path if she allowed them to see fruition. Her first instinct was to simply avoid this entanglement by abandoning the Fairmarch slave to the merciless wilds. A deeper intuition warned her that Muragren was essential to the realization of her lofty ambitions.

Muragren pushed herself to her hands and knees, feeling insufferably dejected by the knowledge that her rescue had been a mere step in a remorseless and ineffably cynical process. Ynathreen swept off her gray and silver cloak and draped it over Muragren's shoulders. Kneeling next to the distraught slave, she intoned softly, "I can do nothing to change the injustices of the past, Muragren, but with your help, I can assure that there is never a future recurrence of this odious episode."

"That is going to be an extravagant promise to keep...unless you can do so from beyond the grave," a voice, rife with amusement, declared.

Ynathreen's head snapped up to see a woman on a black horse regarding her from a gap between two up-thrust fingers of bedrock. The woman wore a heavy gray cloak that matched her gray-tinged and oddly translucent skin. Her broad face was dominated by large, limpid gray eyes...eyes that appeared devoid of any capacity for kindness or mercy.

"Ynathreen, who had never set eyes upon a Metocan...much less an Ulgak...knew instinctively that this was the woman who had ruthlessly engineered the destruction of the mine. As a testimony to the extraordinary composure that would come to play a role in the making of the Queen of legend and myth that Ynathreen was destined to become, she arose slowly, her gaze never leaving that hateful, grinning countenance as her rage was transmogrified into a glacial clam. "Brave words from a craven." Drawing her short sword, the Redian challenged, "Perhaps you would care to dismount your horse and discover if you possess the mettle to grant them meaning."

Sygeanor's lips peeled back in a humorless sneer. "I have no need to face you in a childish contest of barbarian toys."

She gestured with a dismissive flick of her wrist and the heavily-muscled Redian found herself being flung across the clearing as if she was no more substantial than a sack of wool. The deep snow spared Ynathreen from injury and she found herself lying flat on her back and gazing dazedly at the indifferent blue sky. She sat up quickly...relieved to see that she had not surrendered her grip on the Jerhia sword. That relief quickly congealed into an expression of horror when she was confronted by the sight of a petrified Muragren hovering some thirty feet in the air. Sygeanor remained astride her horse, but now her right arm was casually extended forward. She turned her smiling visage upon the crouched Redian, whose face remained impassive, but whose blue eyes were fixed upon the suspended slave.

"It seems that I now have your undivided attention," the half-Ulgak remarked. "Telekinesis is truly a blessed gift...the ability to influence the world around you with the force of your mind alone...and bend it to your will."

The slightest delicate gesticulation and Muragren was pulled back and forth, spinning and tumbling as if she was a marionette on an invisible tether. The Fairmarch slave cried out in primal terror to which Sygeanor responded with a mirthful chuckle. "To think...I could set her down as gently as a feather or dash her to a bloody pulp on the rocks with only a nuanced difference in thought alone."

"Do what you will...what does the death of one nameless slave mean to me?" Ynathreen declared, shrugging her broad shoulders in an elaborate gesture of indifference. "There is no shortage of fodder for servitude in Myrhia's realm...so do to her what you will."

"Indeed?" Sygeanor retorted, her left eyebrow arching sardonically. "Then I was mistaken in my impression that you were consoling her? Offering the wretch your own cloak hardly seems consistent with this posture of cold indifference. Perhaps I can contrive a test of your sincerity."

Before Ynathreen could respond, a fist sized stone leapt from the snow and rocketed toward the helpless Muragren, striking her on the bare right thigh. Her agonized howl echoed through the mountain pass...a sharp counterpoint to Ynathreen's throaty roar of negation.

"So the savage proves to be a sentimentalist," Sygeanor declared with a knowing smile. "I would tell you that sentiment is a pathetic euphemism for weakness, but since you're not going to live long enough for the advice to be of any value, I'll spare the rhetoric. Now, I can continue to exercise my skill by devising the most creative...and excruciating ways of dissecting your puppet...or you and I can come to an accommodation that will spare her a great deal of agony, if not her life."

Ynathreen's visage was a mask of ancient stone as she gazed up at the sobbing Muragren, whose thigh was lacerated and swelling rapidly. She dragged her gaze to the woman on the horse, understanding that she had blundered into the presence of a monster possessed of appalling power and devoid of humanity. Both Muragren and Cauldanys had attempted to warn her, but hubris had led her to seek out this dreadful juncture from which there could be no retreat. "The quarrel is between you and I. Surely your ego is not so pathetically fragile that you must abuse a defenseless slave just to validate its worth. Let her go and then you and I can settle accounts."

"You seem to forget that I hold all the authority...every advantage, whelp," Sygeanor rasped angrily and in the blink of an eye, Muragren was plummeting toward a protrusion of jutting rock...coming to an abrupt halt mere feet from being impaled on the unyielding stone.

"What do you want?" Ynathreen demanded quietly, deliberately averting her gaze from a terrified Muragren.

Sygeanor smiled. "To begin with...you behaving like the complaisant bitch you are. I require the two bags of clay in your possession and you will accompany me on my journey...a source of amusement. You made it clear to the Jerhia craven that you are proficient in the art of torture. Over the coming days, I will provide you with an intimate demonstration of true mastery."

"And Muragren?" Ynathreen asked, moving toward the writhing slave in small increments.

"As she serves no valid purpose, she is free to go," Sygeanor allowed, though her eyes had assumed a flinty glint that contradicted her claim of apathy. "Since she has debased herself by scavenging the corpse of a fallen soldier, I would have her return the boots...and her feet as well, by way of compensation."

Ynathreen watched as a flare of sadistic malice blossomed in her luminous gray eyes. That madness turned first to shock and then to agony as a crimson rose bloomed on her gray cloak in the hollow where her left shoulder met her collar bone. Sygeanor's eyes sprung open like broken shutters as she gazed down in horrified incredulity at the notched, protruding cross bow bolt. Her thin lips twisted into a soundless exclamation of outrage and she attempted to twist in her saddle...intent on immolating her assailant. A wave of intense agony assailed her then, accompanied by a flare of vertigo as the world seemed to spin like a gyre.

Sygeanor tumbled from her horse and landed heavily on her side and the impact was accompanied by an argent explosion of agony. Before she could regain her senses, a shadow fell over her and someone delivered a clubbing blow to the side of her skull that plunged her into unconsciousness.

Ynathreen reacted to this improbable deliverance by launching herself toward the falling Muragren, but too late to prevent the diminutive slave from slamming into the protruding finger of bedrock. She bellowed in pain before sliding into the deep snow where she, too, lay utterly still. The Redian snarled in frustration and bounced swiftly to her feet, sparing a quick glance at the unconscious half-Ulgak before scrambling over to a softly groaning Muragren, who was clutching her abdomen and struggling to breathe. Stroking her dirt-encrusted hair, Ynathreen glanced up to find Cauldanys looming over the fallen demon, a fresh bolt in her cross bow and a baleful, speculative expression set on her wind burnt face.

Ynathreen rose slowly to her feet, clutching the haft of the Jerhia short sword with white-knuckled intensity. Cauldanys met the girl's unflinching regard and knowing that their roles of the previous night had been reversed, Ynathreen realized that...if her act of reluctant mercy had been imprudent, her life would now be forfeit. Cauldanys did not brandish the weapon menacingly, but instead inquired, "Is Muragren Eb Tamen badly injured?"

Ynathreen glanced down at the fallen slave, who had managed to turn onto her hands and knees and was laboring to regain control of her breathing. "Yes, but not badly I think. Is this the monster you spoke of?"

Even as she posed the rhetorical question, the tempestuous Redian could sense a vast and immutable fury gathering within her, clamoring for release. She began to stride toward the half-Ulgak with every intention of separating her vile head from her shoulders.

Cauldanys took three quick steps forward and leveled the cross bow at Ynathreen's chest, shaking her head adamantly as she intoned, "I won't allow you to kill her this way. You have to take Muragren and go. The Jerhia search parties will be upon us at any moment."

Ynathreen fixed the diminutive Jerhia with a hard gaze of appraisal. "If you would now protect the miscreant, why did you bother to intervene?"

"A question I, myself, would be most curious to have you answer."

2

Both women turned simultaneously to find Captain Margarus stride purposefully into the clearing, her hard countenance set in lines of consternation and perplexity as she surveyed the field. "Well sergeant...I'm waiting...though I feel compelled to warn you that any explanation is unlikely to be well-received, considering that it is your bolt protruding from Sygeanor's chest."

A miserable, trapped expression dawned on Cauldanys' pretty face and she looked very much like a rabbit that finds itself inextricably caught in a huntsman's snare. Desperation gave way to bitter resignation and she swiveled the crossbow to center on Margarus.

The Jerhia veteran eyed the sergeant curiously, gleaning a sense of the moral quandary that had propelled the younger woman to this tragic juncture. Margarus had been accosted by precisely the same misgivings since that night of infamy at Dornsark Abbey. "Would you forsake your honor in defense of our avowed enemy, Cauldanys?"

Finding her courage, the diminutive Jerhia cried, "The Jerhia are bereft of honor now, Margarus. We have squandered it repeatedly...first at Dornsark and again at the mine!" she pointed at the unmoving Sygeanor and exclaimed, "In the service of this monster! If anything, I am the only one to have displayed any reserve of honor by preventing her from abusing and torturing these defenseless women. Does the great Jerhia sensibility now condone such actions, Margarus?"

The Jerhia veteran sighed, knowing that Cauldanys had succinctly put forth the one indictment against Jerhia honor for which there was no meaningful retort. "It is a sorry commentary on precisely how far our race has fallen when Jerhia honor is defended by a bolt in the back. Is she dead?"

Cauldanys lowered her weapon and glanced quickly at the unconscious half-Ulgak. "No...as badly as I wished to, I could not compel myself to kill her that way."

"If you lack the fortitude to send this deviant to the afterlife, I would gladly relieve you of the burden and perform the task in your stead," Ynathreen interjected, glaring menacingly across the expanse of snow to where the monster who killed her father now laid defenseless.

Margarus turned her attention to the powerfully constructed Redian girl for the first time. A speculative expression slipped over her austere countenance as she casually shrugged the cloak from her shoulders. "So you are the girl who has raised such a commotion and made a powerful enemy in the process?"

Ynathreen offered no reply, but drew herself erect and then settled into a relaxed posture from which she could swiftly react should the older woman decide to attack. The Jerhia was tall and slender and though she was obviously older, there was a lithe, graceful aspect to her movements that declared lethal proficiency. "I take it that you are the whelp who killed two of my soldiers and tortured another?"

Ynathreen inclined her head and fixed the approaching soldier with an unrepentant grin. "Are these the same three soldiers who were threatening an unarmed slave? My only regret is that I killed the two so swiftly."

Margarus' answering grin was a hard, remorseless thing as she drew her short sword. "That is well. I have personally killed many of your brothers and sisters and decorated the snow of Redia with their blood and entrails, girl. I have no genuine desire to kill children...even if they dwell within a woman's body. Nonetheless, I need only peer into those glacial blue eyes and glimpse that infinite capacity for cruelty and controlled violence to see that you are...exceptional."

Ynathreen's grin became predatory and she began to circle to her right. "Then you are an astute judge of character, bitch. Come, let us see who paints the snow red with who's blood, crone!"

Cauldanys groaned miserably, sensing correctly that this contest was inspired more out of ingrained competitiveness than any genuine belligerence. That inculcated need of masters to test themselves against perceived equals would see one of these extraordinary women dead. "Margarus, please...this serves no purpose!"

The Jerhia lashed Cauldanys with a baleful scowl. "You will remain silent and not intervene...unless, of course, it is your intention to shoot me in the back as well." Turning back to Ynathreen, she invited, "Now come child...let this crone teach you a much need lesson in humility."

The pair began to cautiously close the distance, each searching the other's stance and posture for the slightest hint of vulnerability.

"Enough!" Muragren screamed and her voice shrill and poised on the edge of hysteria. Ynathreen turned slightly as an ashen-faced slave stumbled into the space between the two prospective combatants. She tottered on trembling legs and collapsed to her knees before a nonplussed Margarus. While the disconcerted Jerhia looked down upon Muragren, the battered slave threw her arms around the Captain's lean legs and pressed her clay smeared face into the veteran's rough-spun tunic. Her frantic adjuration was punctuated by anguished sobs that distorted her entreaty. "Please don't harm her...I'm begging you. She's suffered enough...we both have. If you allow your ego to induce you to kill her, you will have extinguished this wretched country's one slim hope to find its way to civility. I know the Jerhia are an honorable people. On your honor, I'm pleading with you not to hurt Ynathreen and let her survive to show you why she is exceptional."

Margarus lowered her blade and raised her gaze from the weeping woman to the statuesque Redian, who was regarding the slave with an expression that was a blend of exasperation and another emotion that startled the hardened veteran...keen affection. That a Redian could view a slave with anything other than scathing contempt was a resounding affirmation of her extraordinary nature. In a voice made tremulous with raw-edged emotion, she intoned, "Girl, bring this wretched creature a cloak...she is freezing."

Ynathreen regarded the iron-eyed battle maid for a moment, but when Margarus laid a hand on Muragren's face and assisted her to her feet, she abandoned her adversarial posture and went to retrieve a cloak.

Muragren peered up at the Jerhia through eyes brimming with tears and whispered, "Thank you...I hope the day eventually comes when you see what this simple act of compassion will yield."

Then Ynathreen was there helping Muragren into her heavy cloak, before embracing her protectively with her right arm. Peering directly into Margarus' intense blue eyes, she declared without truculence, "I'm not frightened of you."

The veteran grinned and sheathed her sword. "I suspect that there is very little that inspires fear in that intrepid heart of yours. You would do well to remember girl...fearlessness can be lethally detrimental...especially when it occludes common sense."

The Redian pursed her full lips and then frowned. Cauldanys breathed a deep sigh of relief and retrieving Ghordrian's heavy cloak, carried it over to Ynathreen, who accepted it with a smile of gratitude, before asking, "Will you allow us to leave?"

Margarus did not reply and in the ensuing tense silence, shifted her regard from the three women to the unconscious Sygeanor. She fetched another mournful sigh and in a shocking display of candor, confessed, "The Jerhia have lost their way here and though I assure you that we had no hand in the massacre at Dornsark or the debacle at the mine, we are still culpable in that we've done nothing to make Sygeanor accountable for her heinous acts."

Ynathreen gripped Margarus' wrist in shockingly powerful fingers and the veteran was suffused by the unsettling certainty that she may well have been the one to be spared on this morning. "Then why not kill her and forestall the prospect of future horror?"

Margarus shook her head emphatically. "Just as I would not risk Redia's possible reform by harming you, I can raise no hand against Sygeanor. That detestable creature may be our only hope of vanquishing Myrhia. I am but a simple soldier and the course of history will not be determined by my hand."

"Perhaps it already has," Muragren contradicted from around the edges of her pain. Margarus' eyes widened and as she shifted her gaze, the Jerhia...who was the living embodiment of the finest aspects of her country's culture...found herself peering into the slave's luminous gray eyes. Those beguiling eyes seemed to hold the power to erode the older woman's carefully cultivated defenses and evoke a tenderness that had long been quiescent.

When she spoke, it was in a voice that was scarcely recognizable as her own. "Go quickly and I will call off the search, but you would be wise to continue north and then east. This should carry you well clear of our intended route of travel. Leave one of the bags of clay behind...it should placate Sygeanor...should she survive." Turning back to Muragren, Margarus inquired kindly, "Do you wish to accompany me back to camp? I will see you safely back to Metocan if it is your wish."

Without the slightest hint of equivocation, the former teacher declined. "I have pledged myself to help Ynathreen on her path and it is a promise upon which I will not renege."

Margarus nodded with a sorrowful smile. "Very well." Turning to the Redian youth, she intoned sternly. "You would do well to heed this woman's sage advice, girl. Devotion is a rare quality in this woeful world we've fashioned and I fervently hope you have the good sense to recognize and cherish it."

Ynathreen merely nodded firmly, not trusting herself to speak in the wake of Muragren's declaration of such an undeserved loyalty.

To a despondent Cauldanys, Margarus commanded, "You will go with them, sergeant. You have no place in the Jerhia military as long as Sygeanor draws breath. I do not condemn you for what you have done. On the contrary, it is courageous and laudable. Perhaps someday...when the resounding clatter of battle fades...Jerhia may be worthy of your respect again and you will return to us."

A thoroughly dumbfounded Cauldanys was further shaken when the inured veteran gripped her shoulders and kissed her right cheek. She then turned her around and propelled her northward. Feigning surly impatience, she snapped, "Be off with you then, before my newfound sentimentality exhausts itself and I change my mind."

She then turned her back on the trio, chastising herself for her close proximity to tears.

Ynathreen stared at the veteran's back for a brief moment, barely able to credit that she felt a burgeoning respect for a woman who had admitted to killing her countrymen. 'Ah, but war renders the concept of cultural identity absurd. In death and human carnage, how quickly we come to realize that we are very much the same. Our obstinate blindness to this truth may be our greatest crime.'

She directed Cauldanys to collect one of the bags of clay and the Jerhia complied, automatically deferring to the Redian's leadership. With her one blatantly treasonous act, she had been disenfranchised from everything she had ever known. Instead of sinking into despair, Cauldanys experienced a moment of soaring euphoria as if she was once against setting out on a noble path by following these two wayward souls.

Muragren attempted to walk, but faltered badly on her injured leg. Seeing her struggle, Ynathreen quickly scooped the smaller woman into her arms and began to carry her in the direction of the mines. "When we've covered sufficient distance, I'll tend your injury...for now just rest."

Muragren offered the girl a tentative smile...the beauty of which evoked a storm of emotions in the future queen's heart. She then closed her eyes and laid her head against her savior's shoulder and the trio set off, leaving Margarus and Sygeanor alone.

3

Margarus remained stationary until she was certain that the trio had vanished from sight and then she covered her eyes with her right hand. The single tremulous sob that tore from her lips was the only such utterance of despair she had ever allowed herself...despite the endless tide of death and misery she'd witnessed during the years of horrendous war.

Technically, by permitting the trio to leave, Margarus had committed an act of dire treason...the mere thought of which would have been inconceivable before this nightmare expedition had commenced. 'We've been savagely disabused of our every illusion...every fallacy to which we've fanatically clung for so long. Worse yet, we've permitted this monster to drag us down from our pedestal of moral integrity.'

Grimacing, she withdrew a horn from her pouch and blew the signal for return and assembly at the original staging area. She repeated the signal twice more and then returned the horn to your pouch, before striding through the snow to stand over a creature she had come to abhor. Her hand gravitated toward the handle of her dirk of its own accord as the normally steady fingers trembled perceptibly. 'Should I kill you now and sacrifice my honor to restore the lost honor of my country?'

Her hand had actually settled lightly on the haft of her dagger when Sygeanor suddenly stirred to life with a cough...followed by a hoarse exclamation of pain.

Margarus hesitated, her hand still poised over the handle of her dirk, when Sygeanor raised her head and peered at the Jerhia through pain-clouded gray eyes. Those eyes slid to the hand hovering over the dirk and the light of perfect comprehension dawned on the half-Ulgak's perceptive face.

Margarus read her reaction and interpreted it clearly, but before she could launch herself into motion, Sygeanor made a fist and snapped her fingers open. The Jerhia was struck by a massive, invisible force that lifted her into the air and propelled her across the snowy clearing, before unceremoniously slamming her into the same protrusion of stone that had injured Muragren. There followed a pronounced crack as several of the Jerhia's ribs shattered on impact. She slid down the cold stone as a glut of shockingly bright blood spat from her gaping mouth. Despite the monumental pain, Margarus fought to her knees and managed to draw her short sword...ferociously determined to bury it in Sygeanor's heart before perishing.

Sygeanor, too, had succeeded in turning to her knees. The two mortal adversaries regarded each other from across the trampled expanse of snow...both acutely aware that only one would leave the clearing alive.

Margarus staggered to her feet, crying out at the explosion of agony issuing from her ruined back, and began to stumble toward a grinning Sygeanor.

"Taken off the mask, have we, bitch?" the half-Ulgak croaked. "Then let me show you exactly what you would presume to kill."

She extended her good arm and snapped her fingers in an emphatic gesture of summons. Margarus uttered a gasp of incredulity as her dirk was suddenly torn from of its sheath. It spun wildly in the air for a brief span of seconds and with the alacrity of a striking serpent...buried itself in Margarus' exposed throat.

Spurting blood painted the snow with the macabre artistry of death. The noble Margarus toppled onto her back and as the last of the light bled from her eyes, her final view of the world was of the Redian skies under which she had fought so many grim battles. When the last of her death throes had relented to motionlessness, the only sounds in the clearing were the mournful howl of the wind and Sygeanor's harsh breathing.

Gritting her teeth against the anticipated wave of agony, she gripped the shaft of the Jerhia bolt and snapped it just beneath the serrated head. She fought grimly to retain consciousness and succeeded only by the narrowest of margins. Her screams of pain tore through the mountain silence, as she reached behind her head and slowly, methodically pulled the broken shaft of Cauldanys' bolt free. After the argent flare of agony subsided to tolerable levels, Sygeanor attempted to rise, but blood loss had left her enervated and dizzy and she toppled onto her back.

Understanding the exigency of cauterizing her wounds, she raised her head and spied a single canvas satchel lying in the snow, not far from Margarus' corpse.

With her customary grim determination, she turned on her hands and knees and began to crawl across the snow. Opening the satchel, Sygeanor was ecstatic to discover a congealed mass of dull blue clay. That delight quickly turned to consternation when her weakened fingers lacked the requisite power to pry a small chunk free. Frantically, she searched the vicinity and her eyes settled on the bloody dirk protruding from the Jerhia's throat. Without the slightest hint of revulsion, she pulled the dirk free of the chilling flesh and began to hack at the frozen mass of clay.

When she finally managed to pry off an egg-sized lump, Sygeanor began to roll it vigorously in her good hand. To her surprise, the clay became pliable at once. Giving no consideration to the possible consequences, she tore open the folds of her bloody cloak and pressed the malleable substance against the ugly, jagged exit wound. There followed an eruption of blue light that flared to blinding magnitude, causing the half-Ulgak to cry out in alarm. That alarm quickly gave way to a flourish of excitement when her entire body was suffused by an intoxicating rush of healing warmth. In her augmented state of perception, she could actually feel the connective tissue and shredded muscle begin to regenerate...banishing the intense pain in the process.

She gazed in wide-eyed amazement at her rapidly healing shoulder, which was now engulfed in a cocoon of blue effulgence.

When the light ebbed and then disappeared, Sygeanor's wound was completely healed with only a slight ridge of puckered flesh remained to declare its ever having existed.

She retrieved the bag of miraculous clay and clutched it to her breast with the ardor of a woman holding her most precious possession. Her gaze fell upon the chilling corpse of Margarus and her thin lips twisted into a sneer of disdain. Yet even in this expression of contempt, an insidious notion germinated in Sygeanor's agile mind.

Kneeling beside Margarus, she placed the satchel on the dead Jerhia's abdomen and hacked free another small portion of the precious clay. She again manipulated it until it was pliable and pressed it into the gruesome and fatal wound that had ended Margarus' life. Against the lifeless flesh, the clay remained a listless, inert mass.

Sygeanor smiled wickedly and intoned, "Ah Mascius, when you agreed to be my mentor, you could not fathom the extent of my hunger for knowledge...or the lengths and direction to which I would go to see it satisfied."

With this cryptic declaration offered, she placed her hand on the clay and opened the aperture of her mind, permitting the dark artistry of necromancy to flow freely. Mere moments later Margarus blinked and sat up as Sygeanor began to smile.

Chapter Four

1

Maroc turned in time to see the highly improbable sight of Sygeanor leading Adjutant Margarus' horse by the reins, as the pair slowly picked their way across the wind swept staging area to where the Maxim Tier Marshall stood.

The Jerhia's quizzical expression became one of extreme anxiety when he discerned the state of vacant disconnection on Captain Margarus' slack face. Particularly troubling were her ice blue eyes that stared vacantly into the distance...seemingly unfocused and seeing nothing.

With his heart thudding in his chest and his breath rising in great white plumes in the frigid air, Maroc hurried to greet the pair. "What has happened to my adjutant?"

Sygeanor regarded the Jerhia leader with an indecipherable expression set on her broad face. "It seems that Jerhia are not immune to treason after all...despite your popularly held contention to the contrary."

"Dispense with the tawdry petulance and speak plainly," Maroc demanded angrily, unable to drag his gaze from Margarus' slack-jawed face.

"Very well, Maxim Tier Marshall...if its blunt candor you require, then I'll gladly comply. It seems that, in addition to being a craven...your sergeant Cauldanys was a disgusting traitor as well. Captain Margarus and I found the two survivors, but before we could apprehend the pair, Cauldanys stabbed Margarus in the throat and wounded me in the shoulder with a cross bow bolt," Sygeanor concluded, gesturing toward her blood-stained cloak which seemed to confirm her account.

The half-Ulgak's face twisted into an unsettling, humorless grin and she assured the Jerhia, "Fear not, Maxim Tier Marshall...her traitorous act did not go unpunished. I have effaced every trace of her existence from the world along with her two accomplices."

"Is this true, Adjutant?" Maroc demanded of Margarus, who had served him loyally for the past decade.

He grimaced in revulsion as she slowly turned her head to meet his exigent regard. Perhaps it was a ploy of his anxiety-fuelled imagination, but the Jerhia felt certain that he could actually hear the tendons creaking in her neck as she turned her head to face him.

Slowly, shockingly...the light of cognizance dawned in her muddled eyes...eyes that had been so disconcertingly sharp and focused. There appeared to be a flicker of recognition in those ice blue depths. Margarus nodded and then returned her gaze to its former orientation, that sense of recognition vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Horrified, Maroc turned his gaze upon Sygeanor and demanded, "What has happened to her? She seems barely coherent."

The half-Ulgak stared at the Maxim Tier Marshall with an inexplicable expression of disdain. Flatly, she divulged, "The traitor's wound was mortal...now Margarus lives. Those are the pertinent facts."

"Necromancy!" Kevlan hissed as if giving voice to the foulest of allegations...which under Metocan law, he was.

With his horror and anger mounting exponentially, Maroc erupted, "Is this true...have you reanimated Margarus...turned her into a vile abomination?"

"Her hearing is still fully functional, Maroc," Sygeanor reminded the Jerhia with an amused smirk. "She may even possess feelings that your careless aspersions may injure...who is to say."

"Maroc, in addition to everything else she's done, this foul deed cannot go unanswered," Kevlan insisted, his mild manner supplanted by a rare burst of indignation. "What she has done to this noble woman is despicable...foul beyond words."

"Would you prefer that I had left her to molder...a tragic victim of treachery?" Sygeanor countered, displaying genuine animation for the first time. "Would that have been a fitting ending for your noble adjutant?"

Maroc shifted his gaze to Margarus, wincing at the sight of her vacuous gaze and slack features...a terrible parody of the vibrant woman she had once been. Quietly, he replied, "Yes...I believe it would have. The thing before me does not live...it merely exists."

"Restored to this merciless shadow of life by the foulest of magic," Kevlan interjected heatedly. Maktir had come to join the four and was staring up at the adjutant with an inscrutable expression twisting his severe features.

Sygeanor slid lithely from her horse and came to confront Kevlan. "You narrow minded dolt, it was not necromancy that brought Margarus back to life." She slapped her bulging saddle bag and revealed triumphantly, "It was the efficacy of this miraculous Redian clay. It revived Margarus just as it completely healed my wound."

"You're claiming that you did not employ foul arts to pull this woman from death's embrace?" Maktir inquired without rancor...his gaze still locked on the vacant face of the Maroc's adjutant.

"I admit to employing aspect of necromancy, but my knowledge of the dark arts is theoretical. The clay was the catalyst for her revivification. Are you all so tightly bound by your prejudices that you are blinded to the fact that we have happened upon the single most important discovery in the history of our world? This seemingly ordinary blue clay will radically alter the landscape of civilization. Yet, here the three of you stand, casting vapid aspersions about my methodology and its morality."

"My only concern at this moment is for my adjutant, Sygeanor," Maroc retorted coldly. "Inos can decide how best to address your flagrant disregard for protocol or authority."

Sygeanor's nostrils flared, but she managed to repress the caustic rejoinder poised on the tip of her tongue. "Margarus' mind has been addled...more by the trauma of her ruthless death than the process of revival. In time, I may be able to assist her on the road back to full cognizance."

"Impossible!" Kevlan snarled dismissively. "The creatures animated by necromancy are mindless instruments of the necromancer's will."

"Truly?" Sygeanor countered as a triumphant grin twisted her thin lips. "Then let us submit your theory to the test."

She strode back to Margarus and firmly gripped her right hand until the adjutant regarded her in that unsettling, mechanical way. The half-Ulgak raised her hand in Kevlan's direction. "Margarus, I want you to strike that vexing gnat's head from his hunched shoulders!"

Sygeanor then raised her hand in a gesture to silence the anticipated protests and then stepped back and motioned for the adjutant to proceed. The Jerhia veteran slid nimbly from her horse and turned to face the disconcerted Metocan, who appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Maroc understood that he should intervene...to bring a halt to this obscene charade...but dark fascination held him fast.

'Margarus, could it be possible you could be restored?' Maroc wondered as her hand gravitated over the haft of her rapier. As he watched her raptly, the light of understanding dawned in those hard eyes, along with an ineffable sorrow that caused Maroc's breath to seize in his lungs. Margarus' hand began to tremble violently and she mouthed a silent cry of refusal, before spinning and stumbling away.

Sygeanor lashed the nonplused Metocan with a scathing expression of vindication. "Now gelding, if you possess any faculty of honesty, you will confirm to the Maxim Tier Marshall that a creature raised by necromancy would be incapable of such defiance."

Kevlan, who continued to stare after Margarus in open consternation, merely conceded Sygeanor's contention with a slight nod. Sygeanor then turned to face Maroc with her face set it a withering glare. "Then our discussion is done. Your adjutant will remain with me and during the course of our travels to Nalosan, I will endeavor to heal her fractured mind. You may lead the majority of the expedition back to Metocan. I will provide you with a small portion of clay so that the Inner Circle can assess it efficacy first hand. I expect that my contingent will be prepared to depart come nightfall."

Without awaiting a response to her imperious declaration, Sygeanor turned on heel and briskly strode away. Passing the adjutant, the half-Ulgak gripped Margarus' thin right wrist and pulled the unresisting veteran along after her. Maroc watched until the pair vanished between the rows of tents.

"It seems that I will need to appoint a new adjutant," he intoned distantly and trudged away, leaving an astounded Kevlan and Maktir staring after him.

2

Sygeanor ushered Margarus into her tent and after securing the flaps to insure privacy, spun the Jerhia around and struck her across the face. Margarus stumbled backwards and fell onto Sygeanor's Spartan cot. The half-Ulgak bound forward and lifted the stunned Jerhia's legs onto the narrow pallet, before drawing the heavy woolen blanket up to the veteran's chin.

Margarus regarded her tormentor through uncomprehending eyes that displayed no sign of recognition. "Ah what amusement you will provide in the coming days, my deadly marionette. Since you permitted the Redian bitch to escape, it's only fitting that you take her place as my primary diversion, you murderous cunt!"

Bending forward, Sygeanor let a thick rope of saliva drip languorously onto Margarus' slack face. "Now rest...we have a daunting path set before us. I have preparations to attend to."

With this, Sygeanor departed and left her captive alone. While the unrelenting wind howled beyond the snapping canvas, a single tear sprang to the corner of Margarus' right eye and ran over the cruel ridge of her cheekbone.

3

Islena fled southward driven by Lorio's parting threat, which played repeatedly in her frantic mind. She ran until exhaustion forced her to slow to a brisk walk and she maintained this pace through the remainder of the ignoble day and the entire night beyond.

Only when the sun lifted its brilliant visage above the stunted tree line did she finally collapse to her hands and knees. Drawing in great gulps of air, Islena let her head hang and closed her eyes. At once, the terrible image of Otaru Ree hovering over an unsuspecting Lorio coalesced through the numbing fog of exhaustion. With this awful snapshot vivid in her beleaguered mind, Doraux rolled onto her back and a strangled moan escaped her cracked lips.

'Can you honestly proclaim that you had no prior inkling that this would be Otaru's logical choice, Islena?' Guinevere inquired briefly, though her voice held no hint of condemnation. Though she had lived much of her life beneath a thick fog of self-delusion, Islena now found that she was incapable of clinging to such a fatuous self-deception. On some subconscious level, Doraux had always known that Otaru Ree...a creature who held dominion over the most sterile corner of creation...would be irresistibly attracted to nature's greatest symbol of vibrant life...an unborn child.

'And yet that foresight was powerless to dissuade me...what kind of monster have I become that I would encourage Lorio to embrace the hope this new life represented...only to tear that hope from her grasp to serve my own purpose?' she demanded, knowing that no rationalization would absolve the enormity of her transgression.

A fragment of her conversation with Myrhia came to mind then, serving as a further disheartening substantiation of the enchantress' dire portrayal of Islena's true nature. She had claimed that even the possible death of Islena's own son would not deter Doraux from seeing Myrhia dead by her hand.

Her cold-hearted abandonment of Lorio to Otaru Ree's price of passage succinctly confirmed everything that Myrhia had divulged. This perilous course to which she was now irreversibly committed was her only slim hope to avoid succumbing to her intrinsic darkness.

'You've wandered far out from beneath our creator's light, Islena,' Guinevere observed with a distinct note of apprehension in her refined voice. 'You seek to avoid the inexorable allure of your dark proclivity by submerging yourself in its very waters. This gamble strays beyond audacious to recklessness of the most severe extreme.'

'Really Guinevere? And just where was this sage and cautionary advice when I was agonizing to find a path forward?" Islena inquired angrily. 'You are right about one thing, however...I am moving far beyond the twisted mandate of the demented bastard who set this perverse nightmare in motion.'

Guinevere fell silent and Islena uttered an embittered curse. She did not need her long procession of predecessors to remind her of the temerity of this gamble or the exorbitant price that would come due should it fail.

Cleansing all superfluous thought from her mind, Islena Doraux commenced her preparations for her role as Myrhia's subservient. She laid the Dragonsword on the dull brown sand and then removed the leash and collar and placed them next to the Jerhia Icon. The items sat in juxtaposition like two sides of an irreconcilable contradiction and yet Islena regarded them as coinciding paths to the same destination.

"One is the snare and the other is the bait with which I will tempt you, Mother," she whispered as the ghost of a smile spread over her lovely face. "Or so I fervently hope."

It suddenly occurred to her that this rash gambit might be a misdirection...contrived by the darkest facets of her nature to lure her into their embrace. While the disquieting notion jolted Doraux, it lacked the compelling impact to deter her from her chosen path.

She kicked off her worn joggers and then stripped off the torn body suit. While in the process of folding them neatly, Doraux abruptly spun in place and tossed both the garment and shoes into the surf. She stood staring out over the ocean, her full breasts heaving and her powerful hands clenched into fists, watching as the last reminder of her illusionary life sank beneath the waves. The symbolism of this impulsive gesture was not lost upon Doraux, but she was mildly surprised by how little sorrow it roused.

With the fey smile still playing at her lips, Islena waded into the rolling surf, shivering violently in reaction to the rush of cold water. When she had grown accustomed to its frigid embrace, Islena began to swim parallel to the shore before turning back on the count of one hundred. She repeated this several times, pushing herself until the powerful muscles in her thighs, arms and shoulders trembled from exertion. Relishing the sensation that had always come with physical effort, Islena returned to the shore.

Sitting on a relatively flat protrusion of rock, Islena used her fingers to brush out the tangles from her red hair, which had grown shockingly long over the course of her odyssey. When the wind had finally blown it dry, the red mane fell in flowing waves to a point beneath her shoulder blades.

Returning to the Dragonsword and Myrhia's collar and leash, Islena enjoyed the beguiling dance of her thigh muscles as she moved. She knelt before her two worldly possessions, feeling very much like a savage queen who is about to capitulate to the ruthless advance of civilization.

Closing her eyes, she rested her hands lightly on her thighs and allowed her chin to settle to her chest. In this alien posture of submission, Islena Doraux awaited the coming of her new mistress.

4

Islena had drifted into a light doze when the sound of hooves and snapping pennants reached her ears on the late afternoon breeze. Drawing a deep, quavering breath, she raised her head to find Myrhia watching her intently. The enchantress' eyes gleamed like polished onyx as she sat astride her black charger. The emeralds affixed to her ebony breast plate were blinding green fire in the slanting sunlight.

With her long black tresses held back by a bejeweled circlet, Myrhia looked to be the very epitome of the conquering queen.

Behind her, the Morticants and the depleted remains of the Imperial Army spread out over the crest of the slope. Doraux could feel the cumulative weight of every eye upon her and recalling that she was quite naked, thrust out her chest and inclined her head to meet their leering scrutiny.

Myrhia's beautiful face was inscrutable as she lithely dismounted her horse, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. She took several steps toward Islena and suddenly turned to her host, throwing her arms wide and proclaiming grandly, "You will all remain where you are and bear witness to what is the most consequential single moment in the history of this world...and all worlds beyond!"

With this grandiose pronouncement delivered, she again turned and resumed her slow march to the kneeling Islena. Her lazy stride held an aspect of ceremony and stateliness that informed Islena that the enchantress was savoring her moment of triumph.

'How insignificant...how utterly frangible she appears,' Agraria spat disdainfully. 'The mere flexing of fingers and I would snap her delicate neck.' Doraux could certainly empathize with the frustration of her surly sister. She wanted nothing more than to drag the reprobate into the ocean and drown her before the Morticants could intervene. Islena mercilessly bludgeoned the idea into dust.

The enchantress stopped prudently out of reach of the kneeling Doraux and intoned softly, "So you've decided to succumb to reason, Daughter."

Islena offered Myrhia a disdainful smirk and deliberately cut her gaze to the Dragonsword which flared menacingly. "Do not be so quick to presume. Our agreement was reciprocal in nature and I have yet to be convinced that you will honor your side of the bargain."

"I will do all that you have requested...unless you renege. You have my solemn oath...something that I have never granted...until today," Myrhia promised with a severe frown.

Islena answered the enchantress' malevolent gaze with a vow of her own. "If I detect even the slightest hint that you intend to renounce even one of your promises...especially any pertaining to Lorio...I will obliterate you...Mother."

The note of unremitting promise in Islena's voice caused Myrhia's expression of triumph to falter. "I said that I will honor my commitments. These concessions are insignificant in comparison to your surrender."

Islena inclined her head slightly and still on her knees, spread her muscular arms in a gesture of deference. "Then I surrender to you...unequivocally and without further conditions beyond those to which you have already agreed."

Myrhia's smile took on a sinister aspect and she pointed at the sand before her. "Then prostrate yourself in the dirt and kiss my foot as a sign of your abject surrender."

Islena made no immediate move to comply. Instead she glared at the enchantress and ignoring the plaintive howls of protest raging in the confines of her skull, inquired, "Why would you go to this length to humiliate me when I've capitulated to you so completely?"

Myrhia could discern no real rancor in Islena's query...only a genuine curiosity. Ignoring her reservations, the Mother of Iniquity ventured forward and gripped Islena's chin in delicate fingers. She leaned forward until Islena could feel her warm breath on her face. "For the simple personal gratification...I want to revel in your abjection as a recompense for the endless humiliation I've suffered as a consequence of your defiance over the course of innumerable lifetimes. If I could reach into the frenetic labyrinth of your mind and drag every last incarnation into the light of day...I would line them up along this length of beach and subject them each to a moment of absolute humiliation of the most sordid kind. Instead, I will content myself knowing that you will have the bitter taste of my flesh in your mouth when you scream the words of fealty to the heavens."

Stepping back two paces, the enchantress gracefully removed her ornately scaled right boot. As she swept her bare foot through the sand, she again pointed toward the ground. "Spread yourself on the sand like a wanton harlot."

Islena grimaced, laboring mightily restrain the tears that welled up in her eyes. Sensing Islena's proximity to emotional breakdown, Myrhia encouraged Doraux to indulge her shame. "Feel free to weep daughter...the intoxicating sensation of your tears on my skin will only sweeten my moment of retribution."

Clenching her teeth and summoning her indignation to forestall the fall of tears, Doraux permitted herself to topple forward. In the augmented gravitas of the moment, the sensation of sand...gritty and invasive...was particularly intense against her womanhood and turgid nipples.

Laughing gaily, Myrhia hitched up her skirts to her knees and slowly extended her right foot. Loudly, she declared, "I would feel the enthusiastic press of your lips on my skin, daughter!"

As Islena raised her chin, every muscle in her body contracted in a strident protest against the ineffable abjection that defied every value she had ever held sacred. The essence of her nature would rather have endured an eternity of brutal whippings at the hands of the ruthless misogynists than endure this brief episode of symbolic humiliation. Despite the enormity of this aversion, when Myrhia extended her sand covered foot to Islena's face, Doraux pressed her full lips to the firm flesh and bestowed a lingering and fervent kiss on the enchantress' delicate foot.

Myrhia's entire body stiffened and she uttered a throaty growl of intense satisfaction that reminded a thoroughly repulsed Islena of a wild cry of climax. The enchantress shuddered, wallowing in the spectacle of Islena's debasement for a while longer, before withdrawing her foot with no small degree of reluctance. "Sufficient...rise to your knees and swear the following oath of fealty...but first, you may brush the sand from my foot and replace the boot."

Islena pushed herself to her knees and glowered up at the enchantress, who wore an infuriating smile of total satisfaction. Again, she extended her foot and Doraux dutifully brushed the sand from the bare flesh before gently guiding the ornate boot onto Myrhia's small foot. Myrhia administered a patronizing pat on the top of Islena's head and whispered softly, "It seems that you were born to this daughter...perhaps you may also serve me in the capacity of hand maid. Would you enjoy drawing my bath and washing my hair, Islena?"

"Tread carefully Mother," Islena growled menacingly. "You, of all people, should know that I have my limits."

Myrhia chuckled, but beneath the mirth Islena thought that she could detect the slightest intimation of unease. "Very well...you will repeat the following pledge of fealty. From this day forth, I am your vessel...who lives only to serve your will. I am your shield and the keen edge of your sword. I am the inexorable hammer of your will and you will wield me as you see fit."

Islena spread her arms wide and conjuring all of the passion she could muster, screamed Myrhia's oath to the heavens. A profound silence descended upon the isolated section of beach as the two women regarded each other intently.

"Rise!" Myrhia commanded imperiously and compartmentalizing her will and volition deep in the recesses of her subconscious, Islena complied. While Islena stood rigid and brazenly naked, the enchantress circled her new treasure, lightly trailing the fingers of her right hand over Doraux's tight hips and high, curving buttocks. "What a magnificent specimen you are...every inch the goddess you are destined to become." Coming to stand directly in front of Islena, who suffered Myrhia's touch stoically, the enchantress remarked, "Still, I will not have you displayed before the world like a lust addled slattern. Yours will be regalia befitting the living engine of my will."

Myrhia spun gracefully and clapped her hands and in response, two Morticants hurried from the rear of Myrhia's army, bearing an ornate wooden chest. They set the chest down next to their mistress and quickly returned to join the ranks.

With obvious excitement, Myrhia threw back the lid, beaming a smile of delight at what was concealed within. Slowly, she withdrew items of everyday clothing and bid Islena to put them on...not surprised that every item was midnight black in color. Underwear, quilted tunic, a camisole...simply donning these helped Islena regain a measure of her equilibrium.

"These next items were crafted especially for you, daughter...forged from a spare set of my own battle armor." Myrhia began to remove pieces of armor from the chest and while Islena stood utterly still, arms raised and legs spread apart, Myrhia dressed her in the attire of servitude...pauldrons, greaves, vambraces and boots...all crafted in polished ebony.

At last, she drew forth an ebony breast plate that had been molded perfectly to fit Islena like a second skin. While she drew the buckles tight beneath Islena's outstretched arms, Myrhia explained, "I first designed the intaglio that adorns our breastplates not long after I became the Queen of Emercia. Of course, the inquisitive often asked about the significance of the design, but I remained infuriatingly evasive. Even then, I was delving toward full comprehension of my nature...of our essence and purpose. It was you who inspired me to create this design. The emeralds represent your green eyes and the blazing spiral symbolizes the path of your life...from superficial drone to deity. I wear the same device to depict that I will be the one to guide you as you ascend."

"You mean the fist that jerks my chains?" Islena retorted gruffly.

Myrhia smiled like an indulgent mother suffering her daughter's impertinence. Gathering Islena's red tresses into a bunch, Myrhia pulled them back and then pushed Islena's half helm onto her head. The enchantress' stylized intaglio adorned the helm, which protected Doraux's cheeks and perfect nose.

Doraux began to tremble when Myrhia retrieved the collar and leash. Despite her maddening compulsion to flee, Islena raised her chin in a silent invitation...a wordless gesture of her silent acceptance of her new role as Myrhia's creature.

With a wicked grin, Myrhia opened the collar and slipped it around Islena's exposed neck. The sound of the clasp slipping into place resounded impossibly loud in Doraux's ears and she could not entirely repress the whimper that slipped between her clenched teeth.

Myrhia then laid her right index finger on the angle of Islena's jaw and tenderly kissed her lips. "Don't fret Islena...your submission has spared the lives of everyone you claim to love. Though you may doubt it, you will come to discover that I am capable of kindness, daughter."

Islena offered no response and willed herself to remain calm as she pushed all independent thought aside and embraced the role of lethal puppet. Myrhia slipped her right hand through the leash's loop and with a gentle tug, led Islena back to her waiting army. In the voice of undeniable authority, the enchantress commanded, "Kneel before the hammer of my will...Kneel before the Daughter of the Tempest!"

Obediently, all present bent a knee and bowed their heads. Adorned in Myrhia's armor, Islena was suffused by a strange and powerful emotion. Even before the darkness had swept away the hollow trappings of Islena Doraux's life, she had always secretly craved idolatry...reveled in the adoring gazes of those who had admired her. That was but a pale facsimile of the atavistic rush she experienced as she looked out over the legions cowering in postures of subservience. A still lucid part of her mind understood that it would be an easy matter for the need of such displays to become blackly addictive.

'You must resist that allure, Islena...lest this elaborate charade become an inescapable reality,' Guinevere warned gravely and Islena was acutely aware that she was precariously poised on the razor's edge, beneath which yawned the black pit of total corruption.

'For that one slim window of opportunity, I must embrace this role with total zeal...while resisting the clutching hands that would pull me into the pit of madness,' Islena thought, shuddering at the temerity of the gamble she was taking.

'You tried to warn them, Islena...no one could say that you didn't,' a sly voice informed her softly...a voice that belonged to an incarnation whose face she could not conjure and whose name she could not recall. 'You warned them of the dangers of allowing you to access such unbridled power and in their desperation to be saved, they refused to heed your warning. If you should succumb to this...the sweetest of addictions...the fault would be theirs.'

There was a furtive, facile logic to this notion that terrified Doraux...knowing that it could easily lead her to the very place she was fighting desperately to avoid.

'Embrace your role!' she thought with a bitter, self-deprecating grin. Turning quickly, she plunged her fingers into Myrhia's raven tresses and kissed the startled enchantress passionately on the lips. She then fell to one knee and sweeping up Myrhia's right hand, bestowed a delicate kiss on the smooth flesh.

"Mother!" she growled. Myrhia gazed owlishly down on the kneeling woman, thoroughly nonplused by the totality and swiftness of Islena's surrender. A klaxon of alarm began to blare in the black interior of her heart, but with the taste of Islena's full lips in her mouth, the enchantress subjugated the urge to pull her hand away and flee. Instead, she laid her left palm on Doraux's helmed head and murmured, "Daughter."

Finally, Myrhia stepped back a pace and commanded, "Adriatus, form ranks as instructed. We will begin our northward march within the bell."

Adriatus began to issue orders, while surreptitiously stealing glances at the two women. The object of this nightmare trek terrified Adriatus on an atavistic level that even Myrhia could not inspire.

Baldasoran approached Adriatus, his brow furrowed in suspicion. "What has inspired this segregation of ranks?"

Adriatus shook his head and replied honestly. "I don't know. You could solicit an explanation from the Queen...basking in her apparent victory, she might even be inclined to answer."

The mercenary snorted in disgust and stalked away.

When the ranks had formed up, Myrhia led a complaisant Islena Doraux to her horse. Islena again surprised the enchantress by lifting the smaller woman onto her horse. Myrhia slipped the loop of the leash over the pommel of her saddle and slowly guided Islena to the front of the army, while casting a wary glance at the Dragonsword strapped across Islena's broad back.

As the procession began to move, Myrhia was accosted by a rare wave of doubt, sensing that she, too, had taken an enormous risk in binding this flame-haired, green-eyed viper to her service.

5

Frantic screams tore Ben Richards up from the churning waters of his own plagued sleep. With his heart hammering painfully in his chest, he inclined his head toward the clock. Its hovering, luminous display informed him that it was just past four in the morning.

The terror-saturated cry...fraught with negation...came again and Richards was up and sprinting down the hall, turning on lights as he went. He burst through the door of his remaining son's room, to find the night light on and Donald pressed rigidly against the head board of his bed. The boy's superman pajama was damp with perspiration as was his forehead and he gazed at Richards with eyes that were ablaze with fear...and raw misery.

Ben sat next to the distraught child and drew him into an embrace, not speaking until the rigidity had drained from his posture. Then he pushed Donald to arm's length and still clutching his shoulders, inquired calmly, "Another nightmare?"

The boy nodded, his face twisted by omnipresent sorrow. "Yes...but this one was different."

Ben arched a quizzical eyebrow even as a burgeoning fear began to burn in the pit of his guts like hot bile. "Different...how so?"

The boy lifted his gaze to meet his father's and his light blue eyes were clouded by intense anguish. "She's gone...mom is gone!"

"We know that Donald. Mom's been gone for nearly two years now," Richards replied, knowing that this response was deliberately obtuse even as he gave it voice.

"No...that's not what I mean!" Donald insisted vehemently. "Not from here...but from the place where she was taken. In my dream, I saw the woman who was here...Myrhia...put something around mom's neck...like a dog collar...and then she just vanished!"

Richards struggled to maintain an inscrutable mask even as the vivid recollection of his own nightmare crashed down upon him like an avalanche. So as to conceal his rampant emotions from a child in desperate need of consolation, Richards drew Donald against his chest and murmured hollow platitudes of reassurance.

Internally, Ben felt the incisive sting of yet another wound of loss tear at his fractured soul.

Chapter Five

1

Lorio emerged from unconsciousness like a swimmer exigently following a speck of light up from black waters. She bolted upright and for a protracted moment, her sense of disorientation was so extreme that the immortal had no concept of where she was or how she had come to be there.

She gazed about owlishly to find the abysmally bleak landscape of scoured rock and gray dirt flying by at dizzying speeds. She and her four companions were being borne along in a strange conveyance that appeared to be composed entirely of refulgent gray energy.

Then her bleary gaze fell upon her hard, flat abdomen and memory came rushing back in a torrent. Islena had deserted them and in the wake of that ineffable betrayal something had happened to her...had happened to her unborn child.

The scream that tore from Lorio's lips was a shrill shriek of horror and abnegation that shattered the grim silence of purgatory like an eruption. Her four remaining companions spun about from their glazed contemplation of the unvaryingly dismal landscape to find the statuesque Lamish beauty thrashing and writhing on the floor of the conveyance like a woman under the full pall of madness.

Troubled by the violence of Lorio's fit of temper, Artumas rushed over and attempted to calm her, but the immortal blindly lashed out. The force of her unintentional blow sent the deposed king reeling across the spectral carriage and would have propelled him over the edge had Gillian not seized his tunic.

Both Arminda and Sormias then tried to restrain Lorio, but the Lamish immortal's harrowing, inarticulate cries rolled over the barren wastes like thunder. She twisted and jerked like a tangle of coiled serpents as the Jerhia and Golgar labored to subdue her. At last, the first coherent words burst from her contorted lips...an inconsolable expression of perfect misery. "Where is my baby...I want my child!"

The chaotic tumult drew Otaru Ree who pulled the carriage in her wake. She peered dispassionately down upon the distraught immortal and immediately, restraining hoops of energy encircled Lorio...pinioning her to the deck in an unbreakable vice.

"You hateful bitch...what have you done with my child?" Lorio shrieked hysterically, spittle flying from her lips as tears fragmented the gray goddess into a distorted kaleidoscopic image that made her appear unspeakably monstrous. Ravaged by the palpable torment of Lorio's plight, Arminda slumped away and began to sob uncontrollably.

In a single fluid gesture, Otaru Ree threw back a flap of her dove grey cloak to reveal a sight that threatened to propel the immortal into the cold comfort of permanent madness. A baby boy...pristine and heavenly in its innocence and beauty...suckled hungrily at Ree's heavy right breast. Its eyes were closed and it gripped the firm gray flesh of Otaru's breast in a posture of perfect contentment.

A wail of misery, the diametric opposite of her son's perfect contentment, shook the bound immortal's entire body.

"Give me my baby!" she raged and began to bang her head on the floor of the conveyance...the sounds of the impact were dull and ugly in the listless light.

"The child is mine by right of agreement forged with Islena Doraux," Otaru declared in a voice bereft of any hint of sympathy. Watching the gray goddess, Artumas wondered morosely if such a creature was even capable of the faculty of commiseration...or did the grief of mortals seem small and inconsequential from her lofty perspective?

"Please...please let me have him...he's all that I have left...the only thing I have left!" she wailed around the frantic edges of her sobbing.

"This child... Brannok Dur...is mine, woman...forfeit to me by Islena Doraux's obstinate refusal to abide by our agreement," Otaru Ree intoned coldly and in a softer voice, added, "Such things are beyond the parameters of even my authority to alter. I can assure you that this child will never know hunger or fear or want of love for the days of his life...which will be long beyond imagining. In all candor...being the flawed, conflicted creature that you are...can you promise the same if he remains in your keeping?"

Lorio's only response was a heart-wrenching, piteous cry of sorrow. Finally, scarcely able to speak in the extremity of her pain, Lorio blurted haltingly, "Let...let me hold him...just once...for a moment, please!"

When Otaru Ree made no move to comply, Arminda...who had suffered grievously at Lorio's hands on numerous occasions...sprang to her feet and confronted the ethereal entity. "If you possess even the slightest hint of compassion in whatever passes for your heart...you will let her hold her child and say goodbye."

Otaru's eyes widened at the mortal's affront, but Arminda glared back, suddenly undaunted in the face of such inconceivable power. Unexpectedly, Ree inclined her head and the hoop ensnaring Lorio's arms vanished. Gliding forward, she tenderly laid the child...Brannok Dur...in Lorio's outstretched arms.

With a tremulous moan, the Lamish immortal cuddled him to her breast as a single tear fell from her sooty lashes and into the boy's open mouth. He cooed happily and a smile of pure joy played over his lips. Through the distortion of her tears, he appeared to radiate a silver light...an intrinsic perfection that Lorio understood could never have come from her sullied soul. She tenderly kissed the crown of his head, eliciting another contented sigh and whispered mournfully, "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry...I'll hold this one moment in my heart for eternity."

Perhaps sensing the mother's extreme pain, the child began to cry. Lorio turned her face away and extended him to the entity that would stand as his mother in her stead.

In the single instant that the child passed out of Lorio's grip and into the keeping of Otaru Ree...the suffering Lamish beauty experienced a moment of total transmogrification.

She rolled onto her stomach and folded her arms protectively around her head. Arminda crawled closer and tentatively laid her hands on the grieving mother's hunched shoulders. Feeling hopelessly inadequate, she began to massage Lorio's shoulders and bent forward and kissed the back of her head.

Her body was suffused by a bone deep chill as Lorio growled from between clenched teeth. "The next words I speak will be Islena Doraux's name when I've left her lying dead at my feet."

With this last fierce vow hovering in the air like a poisonous miasma, the immortal retreated deep into the vault of her pain and simmering hatred. Arminda could feel the other woman's spirit receding and shuddered violently...unsettled by the shocking alacrity with which love could be transformed to hatred.

Shaking her head in bewilderment, Arminda stood and moved to the front of the carriage. "Of all the faces of misery I've had the misfortune of gazing upon since the outset of this ordeal, this may be the most insufferable," she remarked to Gillian and Artumas. "How could Islena knowingly engineer something so monstrous?"

Artumas gently squeezed her right shoulder and suggested quietly, "Arminda, I suspect that the woman whom you guided across the Land of Shades never could have willingly steered her companions into the situation we faced on this day. You have to accept that the Islena Doraux you knew has been supplanted by a creature that is relentlessly driven by a single purpose."

"Do you truly believe that she will capitulate to Myrhia...become her weapon?" Arminda inquired as a horrified shadow fell across her pretty face.

"I believe that Islena is sincerely devoted to bringing about Myrhia's demise," Artumas began thoughtfully and after a pregnant pause, he added, "I also fear that she will be ruthlessly indifferent to the collateral damage that is accrued to see that end to fruition."

Arminda winced an involuntarily shifted her gaze to the prone figure of Lorio, who had become a living affirmation of the deposed king's theory.

Just then, the miraculous conveyance passed into a bank of swirling mist and began to slow. Though visibility was limited to a few paces beyond the front of the carriage, Artumas could see that the ground beneath was now a rather sickly green and deduced that they had reached the edge of Otaru Ree's realm.

The conveyance descended through the mist and set down in an area of rolling hills where visibility was somewhat better. Once firmly on the ground, the energy carriage abruptly vanished and the five companions again found themselves on solid ground.

Artumas peered about and saw a river twisting through the mist near the base of a hill upon which they now stood. The opposite bank of the river was occluded by dense fog.

Otaru Ree hovered over the five, her countenance solemn. "Yonder flows the River Hiberas...over which lies the realm of mortals."

"Good lady, we cannot ford the river," Artumas pointed out, fearing that it was her intention to simply strand the group within sight of civilization.

"I will open a path for your group," Otaru informed the deposed king with a hint of impatience. Her tone then darkened menacingly and she admonished, "I would have you carry this warning to the mortal world. It is my intention to restore the Hiberas to its original course. If your kind ever attempts to breach the barrier or alter its course...irrespective of the dire need that might compel them to do so...then the mortal world will know my wrath. Humanity has no place in the Land of Shades."

It required only a brief glimpse into the terrifying resolve behind those inhuman gray eyes to divine the conviction that had inspired this warning. Her imposing gaze softened as she turned to Sormias, who hovered in the air with the gentle flapping of wings. "As you have dwelled here for centuries, Golgar, you are free to remain in the Land of Shades...if you desire to do so. Should you elect to accompany you companions, there will be no return...the decision is yours."

Sormias glanced at his four companions with an expression of what might have been genuine affection dawning in his unfathomable golden eyes. "For all of their intrinsic faults, these mortals are a fiercely determined and courageous lot...bursting with the vitality that is only seen in short-lived creatures. I have come to admire the passion with which they embrace life. What's more, I am an inquisitive creature by nature and I would witness how this great drama finds its resolution."

Otaru Ree accepted this with a knowing nod and gestured for the others to follow her to the western bank of the Hiberas. Arminda assisted an unresisting Lorio to her feet and holding her right forearm, guided the Lamish immortal toward the dark, fast-flowing body of water. Lorio's beautiful face was devoid of expression and her normal limpid eyes were fixed forward, but not vacuous.

'She peers inward,' the Jerhia deduced. 'I wonder if it is Islena Doraux's face she sees in her mind's eyes?' Arminda suspected that it was the consuming desire for revenge that provided the fuel which allowed Lorio to remain vertical and moving forward.

As the transfixed five watched intently, Otaru raised her long left arm and in response, a ribbon of vitiated black stone rose slowly from beneath the waters of the Hiberas. Its surface shone with the lustrous magnitude of a polished black diamond. When, at last, it was complete, the arched bridge spanned the Hiberas...resembling a smaller version of the causeways that spanned the Great Mother.

Otaru stood to one side and gestured the five forward. "Go quickly...even I cannot maintain this violation for an extended period."

The five complied without hesitation. Lorio did not cast even a fleeting glance at Otaru or the vague outline of her newborn son, concealed by the entity's cloak. To the Lamish immortal's severely wounded heart, her son was dead to her and the blame for his death could be laid squarely on the shoulders of Islena Doraux.

'Oh, but there will be a moment of retribution...I swear this oath to every indifferent god that looks down upon this wretched world,' Lorio swore, though her face reflected nothing of this vow or the immutable hatred which inspired it as Arminda guided her onto the polished ribbon.

Artumas was about to step onto the bridge when Otaru called him back. He gravitated back to the entity, who regarded him intently...which further piqued the deposed king's curiosity. After a protracted moment in which Otaru seemed to be weighing the prudence of what she was about to impart, she finally revealed, "Islena Doraux has bid me to inform you that you must pave the way for her return. She adjured that I impress upon you the exigent need for your allies not to incite or provoke the creature to whom she has ostensibly pledged her fealty. Above all else, she begged that I remind you that not everything will be as it first appears and that you must never lose faith in her or the personal pledge that she has made to you."

The Emercian's brow furrowed and though his mind was alive with the need to solicit specifics, Artumas understood that no elaboration would be forthcoming. Having delivered her message, Otaru Ree had dismissed the seemingly trifling concerns of mortals from her thoughts. Instead, he inquired earnestly, "You will care for sad Lorio's child...you will swear this one binding oath that I may carry to the grieving mother?"

She regarded the aging king flatly, and though she was clearly vexed by his audacity, Otaru nonetheless agreed. "I will tell you plainly...Brannok Dur is my greatest treasure...and he will be treated accordingly."

Having delivered this assurance, Otaru Ree abruptly stiffened...her expression growing severe. Sensing that her immortal prescience had conveyed...something, Artumas asked urgently, "What is it you see?"

Her full mouth twisted into a grin that was bereft of humor or mirth. "You are a perceptive one, but you've had innumerable lives over which to sharpen your senses. A force of significant size has entered my realm. It seems that this dread queen has no end to her temerity and presumption." Her smooth brow wrinkled in perplexity and she added, "Islena Doraux accompanies her...drifting along beside her like a storm cloud. Go...I must close this bridge and return to meet this brazen challenge."

Still struggling to reconcile this disturbing revelation with Islena's request that he retain faith in her, Artumas hurried across the temporary bridge to join the others. As he stepped from the stone ribbon and onto the rather sallow grass, it occurred to Artumas that his long exile had come to an end. He greeted this return to the world and the complex and bewildering affairs of mortals with no small degree of ambivalence.

He turned back to the Hiberas to find that both the stone bridge and the entity that had conjured it had vanished. The occluding mist, which had long guarded the Land of Shades against scrutiny, had begun to descend like the curtain of a great stage...though its drama had yet to reach its denouement.

2

As she marched along the strand of beach, inscrutable within the mantle of Myrhia's armor, Islena could see that it was the enchantress' apparent intention to enter the realm of Otaru Ree. The logic of this stratagem defied Islena and she mustered the courage to inquire, "Mother, it seems that we are bound for Otaru Ree's purgatory?"

"We are, daughter," Myrhia replied simply, though something in her tone intimated that she relished Islena's maternal salutation.

Islena shuddered at the prospect of confronting Otaru. That last glimpse of the deity as she hovered over Lorio like a malevolent wraith continued to gouge her heart and she did not relish learning how the price of passage had been rendered. "Mother, Otaru Ree is an exceedingly powerful entity...one who is not inclined to forgive a trespass of this scale. Can you really afford the distraction of confronting an irate goddess?"

Myrhia's dark eyes slid to Islena, rife with constrained ire. "I'm unaccustomed to the need to justify my actions, daughter."

Refusing to be intimidated, Islena met her mistress' truculent glare assertively. "I have vowed to serve you...mother, but I will not have you treat me with the same disregard with which you treat these cowering drones. I will not be a mindless puppet. I will know you mind if only to serve you more effectively."

Myrhia regarded Islena, whose half-helm concealed her expression, and after a moment, the enchantress chuckled indulgently. "Perhaps I have underestimated you, Islena. I can see that you are a far shrewder manipulator than I ever imagined."

She patted Islena's left pauldron and turned her gaze northward as a shockingly whimsical expression stole over her beautiful face, lending it a child-like aspect. "After you've spent a few centuries in my company and delved through the layers of my identity, you will understand that I am drawn to the powerful...the supposedly omnipotent...in the way that iron is irresistibly compelled by a magnet. It may well be an intentional flaw in my nature...one of those inculcated pitfalls that will ultimately bring about my demise. I would know this Otaru Ree and gauge the extent of her puissance. The inherent danger only makes the attraction all the more exciting and visceral."

"I would never have taken you for an adrenalin junkie. It's rather disturbing, considering who and what you are," Islena remarked, genuinely unsettled by the notion.

The enchantress arched an eyebrow in response to Islena's unfamiliar reference. "There is also a prosaic reason for electing to gain an audience with this keeper of the realm of wither. Even my power has constraints and limits...if it did not, our present adventure would be unnecessary. I cannot breech the Hiberas and squire my army into Metocan. Otaru Ree will facilitate that crossing."

Islena stopped abruptly and was jerked forward by the obsidian leash, nearly losing her balance. Staggered by Myrhia's temerity, Islena blurted, "Otaru is intractable, Mother. She will not accommodate your need."

"I believe she will," Myrhia countered flatly.

"And if she does not?" Islena persisted.

With the speed of an adder, Myrhia struck Islena across her upturned face, the report of leather on flesh resounding impossibly loud and leaving a stunned silence in its wake. Behind the pair, the army had come to a sudden halt, staring to a one in open fascination at this unexpected friction between these two terrifying creatures.

Islena reached up and gripped Myrhia's tight hips, before pulling the startled enchantress from the saddle in one swift, fluid movement. Resisting the maddening urge to bury her mailed fist in Myrhia's exquisite face, Islena gently set the enchantress on her feet and gripped her shoulders...even as the Morticants converged to defend their creator.

Myrhia quickly raised her small right hand and the luminous blue monstrosities returned to their ranks. Glaring belligerently at Islena, she demanded from between clenched teeth, "How dare you display such flagrant disrespect before my army?"

"Mother, you have instructed me to be the hammer of your will," Islena reminded Myrhia urgently. "I have stood in the presence of this creature and I can tell you unequivocally...it would be a fatal error to antagonize her. I know you're powerful...but against Otaru Ree you would be out of your depth."

Myrhia's color deepened to scarlet at this suggestion of inadequacy. That consternation gave way to a sly, knowing smile and she pointed out, "And yet, I would not be facing her alone, daughter. You would stand at my side and together we would wage a battle that would shake the foundations of this very universe."

Islena's emerald eyes widened and she was unable to conceal her shock and dismay while a fragment of recollection coalesced in her mind like a detonating land mine.

'Myrhia was forthcoming on the night she helped you along the stony path to your great insight, Islena,' Guinevere reminded her soberly. 'She freely admitted that her nature drove her to acts of self-immolation. Only now are you beginning to grasp the ramifications of her flawed design.'

Islena wanted to bellow a cry of frustration, grasping the distressing truth of her increasingly fragile situation. If Myrhia incited Otaru Ree's wrath, the gray goddess would incinerate them both and her delicate scheme would fall to ash along with them.

'And somewhere all of this will begin again,' she thought wretchedly, 'unless I can devise a way to keep Myrhia's gaze fixed squarely on the coveted prize.'

Seeing that there had been an intrinsic flaw in her calculation...but knowing that there was no recourse to rectify her misjudgment...Islena fell to one knee before the enchantress and took her delicate hands in her own. "Permit me to act as an intermediary with Otaru Ree, mother. I may be able to convince her to grant a dispensation...if you are willing to pay her price of passage."

Myrhia beamed a lustrous smile and bent to kiss Islena's upturned right cheek, before whispering, "I believe that I can provide an inducement that will prove difficult to resist. Now come Islena...prove that you are a dutiful daughter by seeing me onto my horse."

Islena rose on unsteady legs and again lifted the diminutive queen into her saddle. "I could easily grow accustomed to these gestures of deference, daughter. Perhaps I could conceive of additional, more intimate ways for you to express your subservience."

Myrhia laughed derisively in response to Islena's contorted expression of distaste before spurring her charger to a canter that forced Islena to jog just to keep pace.

3

It was just past dawn on the following morning when Myrhia led Islena and her Imperial Army over the invisible line of demarcation and into the demesne of the restless dead. Islena stole a backwards glance over her shoulder and noted the expression of anxiety and apprehension that clouded every mortal brow.

The Morticants, of course, displayed no hint of emotion...their inherently blank faces displaying not even the slightest glimmer of sentience in the face of impending danger.

Over Islena's shoulder, the Dragonsword began to emit waves of vermillion energy...growing in frequency and magnitude with every step she ventured deeper into Otaru's desolate realm.

"Our greeting party is about to make its appearance," Islena declared nervously just as a legion of spectral warriors coalesced into being from the very stone and sand. In the span of a few seconds, two opposing armies faced each other...separated by a narrow expanse of sterile dirt that was hungry for the spilling of blood.

A blinding streak of gray light appeared over the horizon and in the next tension-fraught instant the daunting Otaru Ree was hovering in the air at the head of her heavily armed apparitions.

The gray goddess was attired in scaled armor and her gray hair was held by several pewter loops and hung to her waist in a heavy cable. Her eyes burned with a frightening intensity that Islena recognized as controlled fury. The high, aristocratic angle of Otaru's check bones lent her beautiful face a cruel aspect. That effect was enhanced by the haft of the great sword that protruded over her right shoulders.

'If Myrhia is the living embodiment of a warrior queen, then Otaru Ree is a warrior goddess,' Islena realized and her anxiety increased tenfold...correctly surmising that a clash between the two would assume apocalyptic proportions. Laying the flat of her left palm on Myrhia's boot, Islena intoned quietly, "Keep me close, mother."

"Why quail in fright? Let this gray harlot take the full measure of our power. A demonstration of our unity might make her more pliable." With this, Myrhia tilted slightly and extended her lean arms so that Islena could assist her from her mount. Doraux complied, wondering how Otaru perceived this display of fawning subservience. The enchantress looped the end of the leash around her right wrist and slowly led Islena over to the hovering entity.

"Kneel daughter," Myrhia commanded firmly, pointing at the lifeless dirt near her right leg. Islena's face blanched at this blatant humiliation, but she sank to her knees and forced herself to meet Otaru Ree's intense regard.

Islena's eyes conveyed a desperate exhortation to which Otaru appeared to acknowledge with a slight nod, before turning her attention to the diminutive enchantress. "The Mother of Iniquity and the Daughter of the Tempest now stand together in an unprecedented display of unity!"

"We are united...as the scales have finally fallen from my daughter's eyes," Myrhia declared smugly.

"Indeed...and yet you lack the courage to have her stand as your equal...preferring to keep her pressed beneath your boot," Otaru observed wryly with something that might have been a smirk twisting her full mouth.

Anger flared in Myrhia's dark eyes, but she did not rise to the entity's deliberate provocation. Instead, she bent slightly and released the clasp. Stepping back, she invited softly, "Stand daughter and show this shrew that you serve me of your own accord."

Dutifully, Islena rose and stood next to Myrhia.

"You are the one responsible for defiling the upper lands?" Otaru demanded menacingly.

Myrhia raised her arms in a theatrical gesture of helplessness. "It posed obstacles that left me with no other recourse. I detest obstructions and feel duty bound to crush them."

"Is that how you perceive me, little one...an obstacle to be crushed?" Otaru inquired with a grin that reminded Islena of a poised dagger.

"That will depend entirely on your attitude. If you are suitably accommodating, perhaps we can avert a needless conflict," Myrhia replied, causing Islena to wince.

"Your presumption and insufferable arrogance defies all comprehension, insect," Otaru growled as crackling effulgence began to gather around her. "Your demeanor is made all the more perplexing by the knowledge that you have dined on an endless serving of bitter, humiliating defeat over the course of your wretched existence."

'Let her be incinerated, Islena!' the voice of her troubling shadow-occluded incarnation advised with lunatic glee. 'Permit Otaru Ree to immolate this hateful bitch. Seek out the Proclamations and claim your rightful destiny.'

Islena could feel a keen electric pulse stir in her viscera...so strong was her desire to heed this incarnation's seductive advice. Myrhia's reaction to this overt insult was predictable as arcane energy crackled and hissed about her head like a corona. Islena placed a restraining hand on the enchantress' arm and took a step forward, willfully ignoring Myrhia's rueful glare. "Otaru, there is no need for this provocative chest beating and posturing. We only ask for unencumbered passage through your realm and over the Hiberas beyond. Grant us this one dispensation and we will return to the land of men and trouble you no further. On this you have my mother's solemn vow."

Otaru's eyes widened slightly and she drifted closer, her piercing gaze settling squarely upon Myrhia. "All things are attained at a price, Witch. If I am to sully my land with your foul presence, then the price of passage will be most expensive." She inclined her head in Islena's direction and asked coyly, "What if I was to demand this exquisite jewel as recompense?"

Myrhia spread her arms and rose into the air until her gaze was level with Otaru's and rasped, "Then you would find yourself embroiled in a battle the likes of which this pale facsimile of a world has never witnessed."

The two virtually omnipotent entities engaged in an intense battle of wills. Not certain of her own intent, Islena's right hand drifted toward the haft of the Dragonsword, but then Otaru threw back her head and laughed indulgently. "Retract your tiny fangs insect...I don't covet your green-eyed viper. What will you offer me by way of remuneration?"

Islena breathed a great sigh of relief as Myrhia settled to the ground with a malicious grin spreading over her lovely face. "Yours is the realm of miscreants...it would seem appropriate that I offer you a tribute in kind."

She cast a backward glance at the line of mercenaries that were spread out along the shoreline. "In return for safe passage back to Metocan, this rabble is yours to do with as you please."

Baldasoran uttered a vile curse and leapt from his horse, adroitly drawing his twin blades as he landed on the balls of his feet. "I'll see you dead first, you traitorous whore!"

As the enraged mercenary charged across the sand, Myrhia's smile became predatory and balls of blinding emerald energy enveloped her small hands. Before she could unleash her lethal sorcery, Islena was by her. She pivoted, executing two spinning circles even as she drew the Dragonsword. Waves of flashing emerald and vermillion framed the dull horizon as she spun like a deadly dervish. Baldasoran's head was struck cleanly from his shoulders, landing in the dirt with a dull thud some twenty paces from where he stood.

A great jet of crimson shot into the morning air like a geyser, but before the body could topple to the sand; Islena delivered a savage thrust kick to the chest that hurled the headless corpse back toward the mercenary ranks.

Bellowing an inarticulate cry of fury, Islena waded into the startled ranks of mercenaries...the vast majority of whom were Redians...and began dispensing death in a mindless frenzy. Even Myrhia was staggered by the gruesome spectacle of indiscriminate carnage that the Daughter of the Tempest unleashed upon the virtually hapless mercenary rabble, who seemed unable to raise a hand in their defense in the face of Islena's icon-fueled violence.

Otaru Ree's hand fell upon Myrhia's right shoulder and she intoned somberly, "This is what you presume to subjugate...or invest with the power of a deity?" As Myrhia shook her head in negation, Ree turned to her anxious minions and roared, "Drag the flesh and bone from their festering souls."

Myrhia was oblivious to the surging ranks of battle-inebriated spirits that flowed by her like a raging river around black stone. Her incredulous gaze was riveted squarely upon Islena as the Daughter of the Tempest cleaved a mountain of a Redian in two, from shoulder to groin...before spinning gracefully about to severe another mercenary's legs just beneath the knees.

The Otaru's spectral warriors descended upon the mercenaries and the morning came alive with the black symphony of gleeful slaughter.

4

When the short battle had ended, every single mercenary had been hacked to bloody pieces. Islena stood amidst the detritus, her chest heaving while she stared numbly out over the litter of severed limbs and steaming piles of viscera. A thick miasma of urine, feces and death hung in the air as a deep silence descended upon the killing field.

Islena's perspiration slicked face was spattered with blood as was her ebony armor. The Dragonsword was quiescent and hung, forgotten, in her left hand while Islena's glazed green eyes surveyed the grizzly aftermath of the horrendous slaughter.

To her eternal chagrin, Doraux was shocked to discover that she was not even mildly repulsed by the gore-soak wreckage. On the contrary, her breasts and womanhood tingled with a sensation akin to post-coital euphoria as if bloodlust was a sexual pinnacle in itself.

"What have I become?" she murmured softly, horrified by the rampant fervor with which she'd killed two score of mercenaries.

'By all that is holy...Myrhia was right!' Guinevere whispered in a voice that was sickened with disgust and horror. 'Within you resides the blackest of beasts.'

'Ignore the prattling hen, Islena...she is the broken product of her own inadequacy,' the mystery incarnation interjected in a voice that was rife with disdain. 'You have become the inexorable engine of destiny you were always intended to be.'

'Who are you?' Islena demanded and when the shadow presence did not reply, she inquired frantically, 'Guinevere, who is this other presence clouding my thoughts?'

After a protracted silence, Guinevere offered hesitantly. 'I hear no other voice than yours and mine.'

Islena managed to stifle a scream by the narrowest of margins. The contingency of madness was one for which she was not prepared.

Myrhia lifted into the air and floated over to Doraux, regarding the flame-haired beauty as if seeing her for the first time. There was something indescribably terrible about Islena's vacant stare and the gore slicked face that touched a note of chill dread in Myrhia's lightless soul. Unable to further tolerate the repulsive sight of the daughter spattered in drying blood, Myrhia gestured skyward. In response, a churning vortex of water arose from the ocean, before capering high above the blood drenched sand and then fell upon Islena like a cloud burst.

The cold water dropped upon Doraux like the fall of a hammer, but her powerful legs did not buckle as it sluiced the corruption from her body. When the last traces of blood had been cleansed away, Myrhia approached Islena, who was cognizant of the other woman's uncharacteristic reluctance. She eyed Islena warily in the way one might regard a viscous attack dog that has grown surly and unpredictable.

"Don't fret mother," Islena said in a soft, haunted voice that the enchantress' scarcely recognized. She inclined her chin and gestured toward the collar. "I see now that you have been truthful...now please...bring me to heel."

Myrhia ventured forward and gingerly snapped the collar around Islena's neck, surprised when Doraux offered her a weak smile of gratitude. Frowning at Islena's near pleading acceptance of the collar and leash, the enchantress turned and led Islena back to Otaru Ree.

Both entities exchanged bemused glances when Islena fell to her knees at Myrhia's side and bowed her head submissively. Shaken, the enchantress inquired, "Does this suffice?"

Ree's disparaging demeanor was nowhere in evidence as she replied in an equally subdued voice, "It does...you are free to cross my realm without obstruction. When you reach the Hiberas...I will appear to convey your army across."

The gray goddess glanced down to find Islena regarding her with a fey smile and quickly averted her eyes. She was about to depart, when Islena quickly reached out and clutched her wrist. "Who did you choose...from the other group?"

Though her expression was insistent, Ree could see the naked apprehension on her partially concealed face.

"The immortal's child," she disclosed.

Distress and outrage flared in Islena's green eyes, but quickly guttered with the understanding that her desertion had virtually assured this dreadful eventuality. "Is...is he dead?"

"No...Brannok Dur lives...an immortal, just like his mother...though he will thrive and find contentment as that piteous creature never will."

Otaru Ree's scathing judgment of the Lamish beauty elicited a strangled groan from Islena, who hung her head and began to weep silently.

Otaru shivered and turned away, imparting one final curt admonition as she departed. "Let respect guide your every action as you cross my realm, witch. Unleash your pernicious sorcery here and there will be no dialogue in our next encounter."

Myrhia was so thoroughly disconcerted by Islena's incomprehensible display of savagery that even Ree's belligerent provocation could not rouse a response. The enchantress turned back to her pallid High Commander and instructed, "Turn the army to a north-east bearing and let us proceed." To a bleary-eyed Doraux, she intoned, "Select one of the mercenary mounts. You will ride at my side from this point forth."

Chapter Six

1

"It is simply impossible!" Mascius declared in a tone that was at once irascible and brimming with frustration. "The Hiberas is an inviolable barrier to everything tangible. Our trick of re-routing the river was hastily conceived and we will just have to live with the consequences."

Inos pinched the bridge of his thin nose and regarded the aging scholar bleakly. Mascius had come directly to the Metocan Grand Mage upon his return from the west. "So we've exhausted every possible avenue of experimentation...every school of sorcery?"

The scholar's expression became rueful. "You, of all people, should know that the arcane arts are an ever evolving body of knowledge. Our understanding of sorcery's potential is but a fragment of its true scope. Having said that, we have exhausted all practical methods of surmounting the Hiberas. Whatever esoteric sorcery fuels its magic, it is resistant to everything at our disposal. If Islena Doraux yet lives, it appears that the remainder of her life will run its course in the cursed realm."

Inos greeted this pessimistic summary with a sour frown. "If there is anything of positive value to be gleaned from this sobering news, we also know that Myrhia and a huge contingent of her war machine also share the same unenviable fate."

Mascius' dour countenance twisted into a scowl. "That is hardly a cause for celebration...considering that she still retains the capacity to deal us devastating blows at the time and place of her choosing. More disturbing still, we both know that the scope of her arcane might far exceeds our own and she may well be capable of achieving what we cannot."

"You are a paragon of optimism, Mascius," Inos observed mordantly, though in truth, he had not been especially hopeful that this theoretical exercise would yield anything of genuine value. Turning to the other venue of exploration, he inquired, "...and on the matter of the Morticants?"

Here the venerable scholar's expression deepened to disgust. "I have always privately considered this to be a waste of time and it has lived up to my expectations. Academics are a vexing bunch on the best of occasions...with their endless conjecture and pointless theoretical debate. Without an actual Morticant or the base clay from which the monstrosities are purportedly animated, this baseless conjecture is an epic waste of time and resources."

Inos responded with a grudging nod to signify his concurrence. "Then it seems we are back to our role of passively waiting for events to be resolved by the actions of others."

"It also seems that we may not have long to wait," a voice declared with obvious excitement and both men turned to find a highly animate Tokizar bearing down upon them with an equally agitated Jerrod in tow. "I cry pardon for the sudden intrusion, Inos...but within the last bell, we have received two different messengers; each one carrying news that can only be described as absolutely astounding."

One need only glance at the normally unflappable and composed Jerrod...who seemed poised on the brink of either apoplexy or euphoria...to know that Tokizar was not guilty of embellishment. Gesturing toward two vacant seats, he instructed, "Then sit and share these astounding events." Mascius had risen and was preparing to depart, but the Grand Mage indicated that he should remain. "You will stay, revered scholar. The time is well past when you may remain aloof from everyday affairs. I suspect that Tokizar's disclosures will require your astute guidance."

The elder scholar scowled mightily, but nonetheless settled back into his seat as Inos indicated that Tokizar should proceed with an expectant nod. Clearly flustered by the gravity of what she was about to convey, the female Metocan inhaled deeply and after stealing a brief glance at Jerrod, she waded directly into the content of her amazing report. "A messenger has arrived from the village of Urdarnhaz, near the Hiberas, carrying news that is scarcely credible."

She faltered, shaking her head at the improbability of what she was about to reveal. Ever intolerant of flighty ambivalence, Mascius grumbled impatiently, "Speak woman...while we still possess the faculties to grasp your message."

Tokizar bristled at the old scholar's flagrant discourtesy, but she nonetheless resumed her report. "Artumas...King Artumas has been found by a Jerhia patrol. In his company were two Jerhia...Gillian and Arminda...and the Lamish woman, Lorio." Here, she consulted the message text as if doubting the veracity of the words embossed on the page. "They are accompanied by a winged creature named Sormias...who is something called a Golgar!"

For an extended moment, this incredible disclosure robbed Inos of his ability to give voice to the myriad of frantic questions that raged in his mind like a breaking storm. As he eventually regained his composure, the Grand Mage's agile mind spat forth the most pivotal of these questions. "What of Islena Doraux?"

"It says only that she does not accompany the king. Beyond that, it says that Artumas would meet with the leaders of the CornerStone Nations upon his return to Othgol," Tokizar concluded and reaching across the desk, handed the grim-faced Inos the single sheet of vellum. Inos quickly scanned the text and then handed it to Mascius as if only by reading the words could they be granted any credence. The scholar shook his head in dismay and allowed the single sheet to slide from his gnarled fingers. Tokizar watched the pair expectantly as if she believed that they might provide a rational explanation for this seemingly impossible event.

Instead, the Grand Mage laid his hand on the message and declared resolutely, "There is little to be gained by squandering precious time with baseless speculation. When Artumas arrives in Othgol, he will certainly shed an illuminating light on what has transpired. You said that there had been a second messenger?"

Clearly unsettled by Inos' cursory dismissal of her first item, Tokizar stammered, "A Jerhia scout has arrived in Othgol this morning and she insisted that she be granted an immediate audience with the Grand Mage...claiming that she carried a message of monumental importance. Both Jarrod and I attempted to have her divulge this information, but she was agitated and would not be mollified."

"Then usher her in and let us determine what has roused her agitation," Inos instructed briskly, struggling to mask the extent of his unease. 'Artumas across the Hiberas and without Islena Doraux? What a convoluted path this tale follows.'

Jerrod rose and went off to retrieve the Jerhia scout as a contemplative silence descended over the room's three remaining occupants. When the Metocan finally returned with the young female scout in tow, Inos required only a single glance into her haunted blue eyes to know that this next revelation would be every bit as earth-shaking as the last.

The pretty blonde's hair was cut short and swept away from her brow. Her mud-spattered and badly frayed uniform...along with her gaunt, hollow-eyed face...spoke eloquently of a woman poised tenuously on the edge of total exhaustion.

"Please sit," Inos invited kindly, fearing that the young Jerhia would simply collapse.

"Sybian...First Jerhia Scout and I will stand, Grand Mage," the woman declared in a voice made hoarse with weariness.

Inos pursed his lips, silently cursing the Jerhia penchant for rigidly clinging to ultimately meaningless protocol. "Very well, Sybian. Tokizar informs me that you have a message of critical importance...for my ears only. May I ask why you have not relayed this message through Tier Marshal Vyganis?"

Sybian's incisive gaze jerked briefly to Inos before snapping back to the regulated point some three hands above his head. "It was Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc who commanded me to carry my report to you directly, Grand Mage...and only to you."

"You were a member of the Redian expedition?"

Sybian arched a thin eyebrow in confusion. "I happened upon the Maxim Tier Marshal's group as I was seeking to find the third causeway to reach Metocan."

Shaking his head in puzzlement, Inos remarked quietly, "I'm not sure I understand...you were not attached to the Maxim Tier Marshal's force?"

Sybian again shook her head. "I came upon them by chance. My task was to gather intelligence in the areas occupied by the Emercian army. When the enchantress swept our armies from the continent, I remained stranded there. I have spent these last several months carefully making my way north...attempting to locate the third causeway into Metocan. I had only recently crossed into the Blighted Lands when I was discovered by the lead elements of the Maxim Tier Marshal's force."

Now Inos could not disguise his incredulity. Though the young woman's face remained inscrutable, the scope of her harrowing ordeal echoed plainly in her quavering voice. "You've spent seven years in solitude...in hostile territory?"

"Essentially, yes...except for the few occasions when I was actually able to relay information to designated contacts," the girl confirmed in a cursory tone as if this astonishing feat of survival was hardly worthy of note. "My personal travails are hardly worth mentioning. It is what I witnessed in the last month that is of critical value...or so the Maxim Tier Marshal believed."

Inos exchanged a bemused glance with Mascius and encouraged, "Then I would hear your report, First Scout Sybian."

The blond nodded and pulled a satchel from over her shoulder, before dropping it onto the desk in front of the Grand Mage, who regarded her quizzically. Sybian reached into a second pouch and produced a sealed letter which she also handed to Inos. "The Maxim Tier Marshall asked that I bring these directly to you. He also bid me to tell you that he should be back on Metocan soil within two days. I swear upon my honor that I have opened neither the pouch nor the letter."

"I do not, for a moment, question your integrity, Sybian," Inos assured her and somehow managed to prevent his hands from shaking as he opened Maroc's letter. The Grand Mage perused the text and his excitement mounted with each sentence. As his three colleagues watched him closely, his eyes widened and slid to the canvas-covered satchel and an indecipherable light flared in his large eyes. He then resumed reading and soon that light was muted by a deep shadow and a grim frown of consternation.

When he had concluded, Inos passed the letter to Mascius without comment.

In the Metocan mode of silent communication, he instructed, "Let us keep a tight rein on our emotions. We will convene an Inner Circle Conclave once our business here is concluded."

As the letter passed from one Metocan to the next, Sybian stole furtive glances at each as they read its contents. A mask of inscrutability slipped over each oddly translucent face as they scrolled through the text, but the perceptive scout could clearly discern the extreme anxiety the letter's contents had roused. When the final Metocan had reached the letter's end, he folded it between slightly trembling fingers and handed it back to the Grand Mage. From the corner of her eye, Sybian noticed that the austere Metocan sitting next to Inos, was staring fixedly at the satchel with a speculative expression that bordered on avarice. Finally, the Grand Mage returned his attention to the Jerhia and though his tone was polite, it was readily apparent that he was eager for her to be gone so that he could discuss the letter's obviously staggering revelation.

'I've spent seven years living like a burrowing animal, Grand Mage and you will afford me this one brief moment,' she thought with a rare flash of rancor. "Grand Mage, I would also share my account of events I witnessed in my last days traveling through the occupied countries."

Inos considered the Jerhia and something in her tense posture intimated that she was on the verge of delivering yet another astounding disclosure. "Of course, we would hear your report, though I must warn you that we are not in a position to influence events on the eastern continent."

The first scout met this remark with a strangely dubious grin and then began, "My situation made travel a circuitous and meandering affair...forcing me to eschew the populated areas and highways. A fortnight ago, I stole across the border between Kerwyn and Vardyar and came upon what might best be described as a perplexing aberration. Lines of Morticants were marching eastward. Perhaps it was the consequence of exhaustion, but I found myself caught in the open roadway with these abominations bearing down upon me. I feared that my lapse would cost me my life as unauthorized travel is punishable by death in the occupied east."

This brutally repressive measure garnered grimaces of repugnance from the Metocan...who as a race, were far and away the most enlightened culture in the known world.

"Such brutal heavy-handedness is the defining characteristic of monsters cut from Myrhia's cloth," Inos observed darkly, intrigued by Sybian's harrowing tale despite the powerful allure of the canvas satchel and the wonder contained therein.

"Despite this zealously enforced restriction, this contingent of Morticants merely marched past me as if I was invisible. I was flabbergasted and relieved, believing that I had been granted a dispensation by fate. As I watched them vanish around a bend in the road, I became cognizant of another staggering anomaly. In all the years I had watched them, not once had I ever witnessed a contingent of Morticants marching without an Emercian military escort...not once!" she reiterated emphatically and then paused to allow the Metocan's to grapple with the cryptic implications of this oddity.

"As you say, this may well have been an anomaly?" Tokizar offered without conviction.

Sybian nodded. "That was my first supposition and so I dismissed it from my mind and resumed my flight. Yet, while I made my way through Vardyar, I encountered three other contingents of unescorted Morticants...all moving east with apparent purpose."

"Effectively refuting the notion of an anomaly," Mascius observed as his agile mind began to offer forth possible explanations.

"After crossing into Glywith and encountering a fifth such contingent, I could no longer ignore the fact that I was witnessing something extraordinary. I felt duty-bound to investigate and decided to risk stealing into a town in the hopes of resolving the mystery of this sudden exodus of Myrhia's abominations."

Here Sybian paused in the telling of her tale, her gaze falling upon her hands which shook perceptibly. "I entered the town of Sherring Cross just as dusk was descending. A staging barracks had been erected to house the occupying army, but as I came upon it, the structure was still smoldering...a blackened husk. Bodies were strewn throughout the town...some burnt...others hacked to pieces. Many of the buildings were ablaze...burning unattended."

"Was this the work of the Emercian Imperial Army?" Inos inquired tightly.

Sybian shook her head vehemently, wanting to dispel this logical misperception immediately. Somberly, she explained, "No, these murders were committed by the citizens of Sherring Cross."

"The townspeople slaughtered their own...why?" Tokizar demanded, her delicate sensibilities clearly mortified by the notion.

Sybian raised her right hand in a request for patience and continued her narrative. "I made my way from the barracks to the town square and it was there that the full extent of the madness was revealed in disturbingly graphic terms. A hastily erected gibbet dominated the square from which hung a dozen badly burnt bodies. Around this gruesome spectacle, men and women danced and sang, reeling from the effects of wild revelry and over-indulgence in alcohol. There was no sign of any civil authority to restrain this savage madness." She shook her head ruefully, clearly perturbed by the breakdown of order. "I cautiously approached an old man, who stood watching the deplorable exhibition from the shadowy recesses of an alley. Above this ruckus rose the occasional cry of acute pain...piteous and stark...informing me that the evil afflicting this town had yet to run its course."

"So the Imperial Army had also...abandoned Sherring Cross?" Inos inquired, a flicker of comprehension dawning in his gray eyes...along with an emotion that might well have been burgeoning excitement.

"The old man was distraught by the ugly spectacle of violence, but he did confirm as much. Two days prior, the Morticants that had been routinely posted throughout the town, abruptly formed ranks and marched off...headed east. He could tell by the agitated and surprised reaction of the Imperial troops that their departure had been spontaneous and entirely unexpected. The next day...perhaps feeling vulnerable and fearing insurrection...the conventional forces saddled up and also departed."

She hesitated then, grimacing at the vivid and sickening images that beleaguered her thoughts. Quietly, she concluded, "The next day, anarchy descended upon the town. A mob formed and stormed the deserted barracks, looting everything of value before setting it to the torch. The old man was weeping at this juncture and he said that a virulent madness infected the town then as the mob turned on purported colluders. They dragged these unfortunate victims into the street and either burned them alive or dismembered them. Entire families were slaughtered in this hideous fashion." Gazing directly at the Grand Mage, Sybian's face had gone pallid and her blue eyes were haunted. "During my years in the occupied territory, I witnessed many incidents of unspeakable brutality, but even Myrhia's repressive regime is preferable to the savage insanity that possessed the soul of Sherring Cross that day."

Sybian bowed her head and closed her eyes and the four Metocan could discern that the recounting of this odious tale had left her close to tears. When she at last regained her composure, the Jerhia lifted her head and smiled sheepishly. "I apologize, Grand Mage. There were children amongst the victims and it was something for which I was simply unprepared."

"Sybian, no living being should ever be made to apologize for displaying their humanity. The greatest tragedy of this war is that it has vitiated our hearts against the capacity to feel sympathy and sorrow and compassion," Inos assured her softly, earning an approving smile from Tokizar.

"I was able to pilfer a horse and as I traveled across Glynwith, I came upon other examples of abandonment and the ugliness that followed in its wake. For some inexplicable reason, the enchantress' Morticants are withdrawing and the Imperial Army is hard on their heels. With their departure, anarchy and lawlessness now hold sway."

Sybian lapsed into a brooding silence, while the four Metocan exchanged glances that were rife with cautious excitement...tempered by the ugly realities of war. "It would seem that in Glynwith at least, the Imperial Army has...for no apparent reason...abandoned the country. This is certainly perplexing, but as we have no way to discern the reason behind the army's withdrawal...celebration would be premature," Inos cautioned with a sobering frown. "Sadly, as the first scout's disturbing report confirms, the sudden withdrawal of civil authority often creates a vacuum that invariably leads to anarchy and atrocity of the most despicable kind."

"If that vacuum is not confined to Glynwith, the entire eastern continent could well be plunged into a similar state of bloody chaos," Tokizar breathed as the color drained from her face.

"A virtually lawless enclave, fraught with incessant conflict motivated by ugly opportunism...very much as it was before Artumas forcibly instilled a measure of civility on the continent," the Grand Mage observed.

"I would like to request that I be allowed to return to the eastern continent," Sybian suddenly blurted vehemently and the four shifted their attention to the scout, who literally swayed on her feet from the cumulative effects of exhaustion. "After I've rested a short while, I would ask that I be granted permission to lead a small contingent of scouts back onto the eastern continent. I am confident that we could determine the nature and extent of what has transpired there in short order. I can assure you, Grand mage, given my extensive experience in the east, there is none more qualified to lead such an expedition."

The desperate need that resonated in Sybian's voice caused Inos to purse his lips. He gleaned that her request was motivated by a perplexing sense of failure and the subsequent need for atonement. 'Ah Maroc, how can such an astute man not see what your inculcated cultural sense of duty and obligation has done to your people?'

To the Jerhia First Scout, he replied, "You recommendation would seem to be a prudent course of action as would the logic of your selection as the leader of such a mission. You have certainly given us much to digest, Sybian. I will arrange for private quarters where you may get some much deserved rest and I will discuss your suggestion with the Maxim Tier Marshal upon his return. Jerrod, if you will arrange for suitable lodging for the First Scout."

Sybian appeared openly crestfallen by Inos' response, but nonetheless offered the Grand Mage a formal bow and stumbled after Jerrod on wooden legs.

When the pair had left the audience chamber, Inos turned to the ashen-faced Tokizar and the dour Mascius. "It seems that the moorings of our world have again been severed...leaving us dizzy and spinning in the darkness of ignorance. Once we've adjusted to the vertigo, we must try to determine where these radical shifts have left us."

He glanced at the scholar. "Mascius, I leave the matter of the amazing clay and its enormous potential to you. Tokizar and I will assemble the Inner Circle and attempt to formulate a path forward through the labyrinth these revelations have set before us."

The Grand Mage then rose and hurried along, driven by a renewed sense of exigency. Inos' racing mind was assailed by one recurring thought. 'Islena Doraux had not returned and apparently Sygeanor had gone around the rim into dark madness...our every step forward will be over a lake of molten fire.'

2

As the returning party members made their way through the mist-shrouded forests of Western Metocan, Artumas had long hours in which to reconcile himself with the cataclysmic upheaval that had descended upon his life in the past few weeks. His Jerhia and Metocan escort afforded the aging king every possible courtesy and convenience that would normally be afforded royalty. At night, he slept in feather beds in the best inns each town could offer...a staggering contrast to the fashion in which he had spent his nights over the course of his exile.

The members of his escort were exceedingly courteous, scurrying diligently to accommodate his every perceived need should he display even the slightest desire for anything specific. Yet, despite this extravagant degree of service, Artumas sensed a distinct hint of almost supernatural dread in the way they regarded him. 'It's almost as if you've suddenly returned from the dead...not exile. Considering where you were, I suppose that view is only natural.'

Sormias, the escort regarded with undisguised awe, which the gregarious Golgar obviously relished as he flew along beside the open procession. For some unfathomable reason, the commander of the Jerhia escort elected to deliberately segregate Arminda and Gillian from the returning king. As always, Gillian wore his customary mask of playful irreverence in reaction to this puzzling treatment, but Arminda's pinched expression eloquently declared the degree to which she had been wounded by this apparent marginalization.

Yet it was the beautiful Lorio for whom Artumas felt the deepest concern. Essentially ignored by the escort, she trailed after the procession like a dark shadow that was locked behind insurmountable walls of unwavering stoicism. Only her haunted eyes conveyed any sense of the inconceivable turmoil that raged within her wounded heart. Despite her mantle of reticence, Lorio radiated pain and grief the depth of which the deposed king could scarcely conceive. He had once vowed to Islena that he would ward the tempestuous Lamish beauty and her child. Now, however, that child had been cruelly stolen from her...in part as a consequence of Islena's stunning deception. The woman, who remained behind in the wake of this tragic injustice, had become the perfect living engine of misery...and very probably hatred. Artumas found that he was hopelessly inadequate to the task of offering the immortal solace.

He shook his head and turned his consideration to the most enigmatic facet of this surreal nightmare...Islena Doraux and the myriad of nuanced mysteries she personified. While the others were inclined to believe that Islena had committed an unconscionable act of betrayal, Artumas was not so certain.

'However damning my actions may appear to be, remember what I've told you,' Islena had implored him...in retrospect, an obvious foreshadowing of her purported desertion. Otaru Ree had reiterated this as she had ushered the party over the River Hiberas...along with a rather mystifying warning that he must impress upon the leaders the need not to provoke Myrhia, when she...and presumably Islena...returned to the land of mortals.

'And precisely what am I to make of this rather cryptic set of instructions?' he asked himself with a bemused frown. It would seem that Islena would cast him in the role of Myrhia's harbinger...a role that would have been darkly amusing under another set of circumstances. 'Ah, but is that truly what is being asked of you?'

Artumas blinked in response to the appearance of this unfamiliar inner voice...a voice that he correctly surmised belonged to his previous incarnation...the tragic and noble Arthur. 'If you subscribe to the belief that Islena genuinely strives to be the Mother's undoing, then you must also accept that her every action is taken in accordance to a very specific, albeit dizzyingly indecipherable agenda to which she now operates. Whatever form her machinations might assume, quite obviously Islena fears that they will be undone by open conflict with the enchantress.'

Again, Artumas shook his head. If he accepted this scenario as an article of faith, then it was now incumbent upon him to convince Myrhia's avowed enemies that they must stand aside and do nothing precipitous that would prevent Doraux's plan from reaching fruition...whatever shape its culmination might assume. Artumas pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, not relishing the prospect of attempting to achieve this daunting task.

'Do you truly believe any of this, Artumas?' another, more pragmatic voice demanded disdainfully. 'Is this talk of endless incarnations and an unending cycle of tragic conflict naught but the sorry delusion of a hopelessly deranged mind?' Superficially, this seemed like a plausible enough contention, but Artumas nonetheless rejected it out of hand. The presence of that darkened barrier in his subconscious was an irrefutably tangible thing, beyond which he could sense the existence of the vast pit that his conscious mind seemed incapable of assimilating.

Conversely, if he accepted Islena's contention without equivocation, then he found himself confronted by a situation far more sinister than Islena's creeping madness. Islena had further claimed that she was a creature of darkness...fundamentally flawed with a natural predilection for the darker aspects of her nature. Assuming that it was her intention to convince Myrhia that she would be her willing pawn, only to turn on the enchantress once she had accrued the power of the Proclamations, then Islena was embarking on an excessively risky gamble. If she was naturally attracted to the darker aspects of power, this apotheosis could well transmogrify her into the very personification of malfeasance...Myrhia's ultimate weapon.

The delicacy of Islena's gamble...a gamble for which humanity would be held accountable...horrified the aging king.

"Then why take such an extravagant gamble at all?" Artumas wondered, dismayed to realize that he had spoken aloud, garnering a look of concern from a nearby Jerhia soldier. Artumas beamed an apologetic grin and offered simply, "Woolgathering."

The trooper returned Artumas' grin and resumed his intense scrutiny of the forest that delineated the highway. Pondering the possible motivations behind Islena's desperate course of action did little to placate his mounting distress. Islena had spoken about her desire to bring an end to the recurring cycle of tragic conflict that the three purportedly propagated. She had also spoken of capitulating to Myrhia as a way of sparing this world, her world and those she had come to love in both. Upon first examination, these two objectives seemed to be diametric and irreconcilable opposites. With a fully empowered Islena on her leash, Myrhia would become a universal scourge, whose brutal ambition would know no limits.

Islena insisted that...when the three of them died...their eternal triangle of opposing purposes would spin through the rivers of time, in search of the next great juncture. There, the insidious game would commence anew...time worn tragedy attired in new regalia and new vessels of flesh.

To forestall this horrible repetition it then followed that at least one of the three...must never die. Immortality bestowed upon any of the three would bring a permanent end to the cycle.

'What clever game are you playing at, Islena?' Artumas wondered, the complexity of the situation causing his head to throb.

'She and I will end this tragedy, Artumas...your only role will be to bear witness to that ending,' Doraux had told him on the night before the party had reached Otaru Ree's purgatory. Did this statement imply that Islena somehow intended to bestow immortality on both of them? If so, Artumas could derive very little comfort from the thought, as either creature carried with them exorbitant risks if granted immortality.

There had to be a missing element in this sequence...one that his aging mind simply could not divine. Islena had adjured him to have faith in her and Artumas now understood that circumstances had left him with little alternative.

Frowning in consternation, Artumas struggled to push these futile contemplations from his mind. For a time, he succeeded, but as the leagues rolled slowly by...they would inevitably creep back from the periphery of his subconscious...plaguing him like an incessant itch.

Chapter Seven

1

As First Jerhia Scout Sybian had so eloquently conveyed, the situation on the eastern continent changed from one of bleak repression to utter chaos within a matter of days. In every occupied country, The Morticants formed ranks and began to trek presumably to Emercia.

Left without the benefit of this invincible shield and having no perception of what might have precipitated its removal, the conventional Emercian army decided that withdrawal was the only viable option left to them.

In the mere span of three days, Myrhia's stranglehold on the eastern continent...an empire that had been accrued at the expense of untold tens of thousands of lives...was hastily abandoned. The effects of this incomprehensible emancipation were as varied as speculation on the subject of its possible causes.

Many of the countries rapidly descended into a morass of frightening lawlessness, while others...such a Galloway and Fairmarch...quickly returned to the relative stability of the pre-invasion days. As the Emercian troops departed the Fairmarch capital of Dizar Kor, King Saremond returned to the Imperial Castle and dispatched his constabulary to maintain order and seal the country's borders. By the time the last of Myrhia's occupying armies had passed out of Fairmarch, the country was once again on its way to a state of prewar normalcy.

In Galloway, the transition was even smoother. Galloway was the largest country on the eastern continent and its oligarchy had ceded power to the enchantress without opposition. As the Emercian Queen had no genuine interest in the vast repository of wealth within Galloway's borders, she had allowed the ruling oligarchy to maintain nominal control of the country's affairs. When her small occupying force had inexplicably departed, the ruling faction had simply shrugged their collective shoulders and went about their business...dismissing the outside world from their thoughts.

Unfortunately, these relatively painless transitions proved to be the exception. For most nations, particularly savage and bloody factional fighting proved to be the rule. In the seven central nations, mayhem and violence quickly and thoroughly filled the vacuum created by the occupiers' swift withdrawal.

Much of the lamentable chaos was fomented by bands of mercenaries, who suddenly found themselves abandoned in foreign lands without a source of income. The more astute of these...realizing that they had been left in a precarious position and vulnerable to the wrath of those whom they had ruthlessly oppressed...decided that a hasty retreat to Redia might be prudent. The more short-sighted opportunists remained behind, terrorizing the towns, villages and highways without restraint.

This dismal situation was further exacerbated by the renewal of long-festering sectarian violence that had long been the scourge of the eastern continent.

Irrespective of this environment of deepening chaos, many of the larger cities held euphoric celebrations, inspired by the belief that Myrhia's death had been the catalyst for this unexpected reversal of fortune.

As the shadow of anarchy deepened, many would come to long for the days when the enchantress' abominations had at least imposed a measure of order on the darkness.

2

Islena Doraux sank deeper into a state of automaton functionality as Myrhia led her army across the desolate wastes and barrens of Otaru Ree's purgatory, unable to fathom what it would be like to dwell in such a desolate hell for eternity.

'How can Otaru not be mad...or perhaps she is?' Islena wondered as her gaze swept over the depressingly gray monochrome hills that ranged around the edges of the equally monotonous plain over which they presently trudged.

Like Artumas, Islena was constantly assailed by a deluge of discordant thoughts that would give her no peace. Only by receding deeper into the waters of subservience was she able to silence them. Even in this state of detachment, a single voice harangued her incessantly, whispering an endless litany of velvet-tongued seduction. Powerless to silence the voice...this disturbing shadow incarnation that seemed to possess an independent will...Doraux could feel both her resolve and her humanity fraying at the edges.

'Your birth right is within grasping distance...the pinnacle of everything you were meant to be,' it crooned. 'You need only find the courage and conviction to seize what is yours.'

Behind Myrhia's half-helm, Islena had gritted her teeth and conjured stark images of Allan, her son, and poor, tragic Lorio to resist its insidious invitation.

Beside Islena, Myrhia stole furtive glances at the exotic woman over whom she had gained apparent dominion. Like her beautiful face, Islena's thoughts had become inscrutable and completely resistant to Myrhia's subtle probes. This inviolable mantle of reticence did little to stay Myrhia's growing disquiet and again she could not escape the nagging certainty that it was she who was being led and not the enigmatic Daughter of the Tempest.

Myrhia suddenly reined her mount to a halt and raised her small fist. She then inclined her chin and her nostrils flared in response to the subtle acrid tang in the air. Gesturing for Adriatus to attend her, Myrhia informed her High Commander of their proximity to the Hiberas and ordered him to have camp prepared for the evening. She then instructed Islena to dismount, before extending her arms to the muscular Doraux, who dutifully assisted the enchantress from her horse.

After leading Islena a short distance away from the dust cloud raised by the army as it set about making camp, Myrhia pointed to the ground and instructed Islena to kneel. Doraux complied without the slightest hesitation, mildly dismayed by how little resentment these gestures of abasement now roused. With surprising kindness, Myrhia intoned, "Rest here while our tent is prepared."

She unclipped the collar and went off to speak to her High Commander. Islena watched her go through narrowed eyes, perplexed by her subtle shift in attitude toward her mistress. Whereas once she had viewed Myrhia through the lens of undiluted hatred, now she regarded the raven-haired beauty with complex ambivalence...and a measure of pity.

'Of the three of us, the Mother of Iniquity is far and away the most tragic figure...shackled by an irresistible compulsion toward malice that ultimately brings her only empty isolation and sorrow,' Guinevere observed somberly.

'Which is why it will be an act of kindness when you urinate on her bloated corpse,' the shadow incarnation snapped and then cackled crude laughter at its own vulgarity. Islena grimaced in disgust and bowed her head, trying to banish the obscene image from her mind.

In moments, she had fallen into a fitful doze.

3

Later, the deeper state of grayness which passed for night in Otaru Ree's purgatory descended on the encampment. The Morticants stood ever vigilant, forming a protective ring around the encampment's living occupants, though true to her word, Otaru Ree's minions were no where in evidence as Myrhia's army crossed the barrens.

As was customary, Islena was standing in the shadowy far corner of Myrhia's tent, when the enchantress sailed in, accompanied by a hulking Morticant. Much to Doraux's amazement, the creature effortlessly carried a large copper soaking tub. She was further surprised to see that the tub was filled to near capacity...though the beast carried it with the ease of a waiter carrying a tray, spilling not so much as a drop. Setting the water-filled tub on the heavy rug, the Morticant retreated to a position immediately outside the tent's entrance.

Misconstruing the bath's purpose, Islena stepped forward and inquired, "Would you have me scent the water or wash your hair, Mother?"

The enchantress shook her head as she swept a critical gaze over Islena, whose ebony armor and long red hair was caked with grime. As a moue of distaste twisted her full mouth, Myrhia commented ruefully, "This bath is for you, daughter. Tomorrow we re-enter the world of men and I will not have you looking and smelling like a swine. Now, removed your clothing and climb into the tub. I will have your armor polished while you soak yourself back to civility."

Though reluctant, Islena quickly complied and settled into the water, though the chill caused her to gasp and shiver. After dispatching her Morticant with Doraux's armor, the enchantress returned and laid her palms on the cool copper surface near the bottom of the soaker tub. Swiftly the water heated until Doraux barked an alarmed protest. Myrhia chuckled and then blew onto the surface of the water, which cooled until Islena signaled her satisfaction with a soft sigh.

Standing, Myrhia collected three small vials of scented oil. She poured two of these into the tub and after a moment's consideration, tilted the third one in as well. While Islena regarded the enchantress through slightly glazed eyes, the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle wafted on the rising steam.

"It this how you would have me come before you enemies, Mother...smelling like a pampered courtesan?" Islena inquired thickly, feeling the tug of drowsiness at her eyelids as the hot water worked its sorcery on her flesh.

"No, I would have them see you as my weapon...and weapons should be immaculately clean and honed to a lethal edge! From this day forth until we reach Othgol, this will become a nightly ritual."

Myrhia collected a porcelain jug from a side table and dipped it into the fragrant water. Islena watched her, mesmerized by the grace and elegance of her every movement.

'How could you reasonably expect Ben to resist such a beguiling creature?' a voice inquired as if her anger with his infidelity was both unfair and unjustified. She shook her head in exasperation, wondering where this stupefying thought had found its origins. Her old life was a fading irrelevance upon which she could squander no thought. Suddenly feeling surly and defiant, she growled, "Then that how you see me...as a weapon?"

The enchantress' dark eyes widened in vexation. Setting the jug at her feet, she gripped Islena's lean face in her right hand and raised Doraux's chin until their eyes met. Angrily, eyes blazing like dark stars, she declared, "I see you as the hammer of my will. I see you as the pathway to my fair recompense after all that I have been forced to endure. I see you as a vessel of unlimited potential that I would fill and mold to its perfect shape. I see you as the daughter who has returned to my bosom after an eternity of estrangement. There is no end to the variety of ways in which I may come to perceive you. Don't you dare portray me as a ruthless exploiter who would objectify you for my own gain! Despite whatever prejudicial beliefs you might harbor...I have never looked upon you with cynicism or indifference."

Myrhia's fraught outburst left Islena wide-eyed and gape-mouthed with incredulity. A deep flush had spread across the enchantress' skin as she had delivered this passionate chastisement, leaving no doubt as to her sincerity. Thoroughly unsettled by the implications of this unexpected disclosure, Islena meekly bowed her head and allowed Myrhia to pour the warm, scented contents of the jug over her long, tangled hair. Islena closed her eyes, obediently responded to Myrhia's commands as she massaged the scented oil into her scalp.

"Once we reach the Metocan capital, I will require your very ostentatious subservience, daughter. We must make Inos and Maroc see that you are firmly and unequivocally under my thrall. That should effectively banish any thoughts or resistance they might harbor. There can be no hint of discord between us, daughter. Should my enemies still be so foolish as to raise a violent hand against me, I fully expect you to rise to my defense and obliterate them without the slightest compunction. Are my expectations explicitly clear, daughter?"

Islena's muscles contracted into rigid knots as the harsh reality of her complex ruse crashed down upon her with its full, horrifying weight. To convince Myrhia's enemies...her former allies...and more significantly, the enchantress that her subservience was genuine, Doraux might be forced to turn her wrath on the innocent...should their outrage surmount their good sense.

'I can only pray that Artumas embraces the task I've begged him to fulfill,' Islena thought miserably, hoping that Otaru had been sufficiently compelling in conveying the exigency of her request.

Myrhia entwined her small fingers in Doraux's flame-red tresses and jerked her head back until she was forced to meet the enchantress' glacial gaze. "I'll ask you again, daughter...have I made myself sufficiently clear?"

Doraux glowered as her jaw muscles contracted into prominent knots. "Yes...should anyone raise a hand against you...I will scour them from the face of the world...Mother."

Myrhia's cold stare became an indulgent grin and as she disentangled her fingers from Islena's mane, Doraux promptly exploded out of the water and seized the startled enchantress' right wrist. Exerting a crushing pressure on the delicate bones, she forced Myrhia to her knees. Extending her right arm, Islena summoned the Dragonsword and standing wet and naked, pressed the keen edge of the blade to Myrhia's exposed throat.

"Do you doubt that I could reduce you to ash where you stand?" Myrhia intoned softly.

"Perhaps, but the Jerhia collective that resides within this blade may not care about ending our black cycle, but rather ending you instead...Mother," Doraux retorted with a sinister rasp. 'Do it!' the shadow incarnation implored, 'Let us bathe in her blood!'

"And thus bring an end to your innocent son's life with the same misguided cut," Myrhia reminded Doraux with a composure that even Islena found commendable.

'A fair price in exchange for her head,' the shadow suggested, evoking a muttered cry of negation from Islena, who withdrew the blade from Myrhia's throat and silently consigned it back to the shadowy recesses of the large tent.

Scowling fiercely, Islena bent forward and growled, "My submission was given voluntarily and came with very specific conditions. I have played the role of fawning subservient and accepted you degrading collar and leash...yet I have seen no evidence that you intend to honor your promises."

"My Morticants have begun the process of withdrawing from every country on the eastern continent. The conventional army has quickly followed suit. I cannot be held accountable for the inimical climate that has arisen with their departure. I have also withdrawn the Morticants from the slave mines of Redia," Myrhia informed Doraux. "I fully intend to honor every promise I've given you...daughter. Now, will you allow me to stand or must we continue this tawdry display of brute force to assuage your ego?"

Islena glared balefully at the diminutive beauty and abruptly hauled her upright. "I have pledged subservience, but I will not be subjected to these incessant demands for proof of fealty. It is the one degradation I refuse to suffer. I have come to see that I have not been named the Daughter of the Tempest without good cause. If you continue to goad me with these needless demands for affirmation...I may well do something that neither of us will live to regret."

Doraux turned away and bowed her head, struggling frantically to repress the frantic specter that plagued her thoughts and muddled her judgment. She steeled herself in anticipation of the swift and savage retaliation that she felt certain was to follow.

Myrhia stood as rigid as a piece of statuary...shaking with an irrepressible urge to unleash the full scope of her sorcery on this defiant creature. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the sculpted perfection of the daughter's taut body from the high, poetic sweep of her buttocks and the curving perfection of her thighs. Myrhia's unblinking gaze traversed the length of Islena's spine, absorbing the nuanced detail of her broad, muscular back. The livid reminders of the islander's whipping drew an intense frown of vexation from the enchantress and helped dispel her fury.

Islena was surprised when Myrhia's soft hands fell on her shoulders and she gently, but firmly ushered her back down into the still steaming water. "Your hair is still a wild tangle...let me brush it out."

Gathering Islena's long red tresses, Myrhia allowed them to dangle over the edge of the copper tub. She gesticulated and a jewel-encrusted brush slapped into her open palm. Islena shivered perceptibly as Myrhia applied herself to carefully brushing out the tangles from her luxuriant hair. While she labored, the enchantress bent forward and whispered in Islena's right ear, "I would have you reflect upon this, Islena...In the innumerable lives I've lived, not once have I bent a knee to another living soul. On this night, you have forced me into a humiliating posture and I have not so much as lifted a finger to retaliate. Conjure this moment the next time you would question how you are perceived through my eyes."

Again, Islena found herself astounded...and unnerved by Myrhia's ability to defy her expectations...and touch her on an emotional level she never would have considered possible only days before. On impulse, she heard herself ask, "Mother...will you answer a question?"

Myrhia regarded Islena quizzically and when she replied, a note of wariness had crept into her voice. "Of course...I would have nothing remain hidden between us, Islena. Since I came to you with my offer of alliance...I have dispensed with every deception and laid my every intention bare before you."

Islena twisted to face the enchantress and on her beautiful face, Doraux could discern only an earnest candor and understood that yet another precarious element had been introduced into what was already a terrifyingly complex equation. Averting her eyes lest she betray something that would leave her perilously vulnerable, she inquired quietly, "Among the many incarnations you've lived, is there one whose face you cannot clearly see...or whose name you cannot recall?"

Though she attempted to maintain a façade of neutrality, Islena could clearly discern the extent to which the question had unsettled Myrhia. Frowning slightly, she replied, "My recollection of every past incarnation is as vivid as if I had experienced it only yesterday. In truth, I must keep these past incarnations rigidly constrained lest they impose their will on my perception." The enchantress' eyes narrowed inquisitively and she ventured reluctantly, "Have you experienced this aberration, daughter?"

"Yes." This simple, cautious admission drew a sharp hiss from Myrhia, who abruptly set her brush aside and began to pace anxiously around the tent. She lit several braziers with an absent flick of her wrist. She could feel her heart palpitating in her chest as she grappled with the possible meaning of Islena's disclosure.

"And you have tried to unmask this...presence?" Myrhia demanded more brusquely than she had intended, "to draw it into the light?"

"I have," Islena confirmed, "but it has resisted my every attempt. Worst of all, it speaks to me...constantly...trying to entice me into unspeakable acts of violence," Islena breathed with a distinct quaver in her voice. 'Against you,' she had almost added, but managed to avoid that final blunder, though only by the narrowest of margins.

Myrhia stood silently, with her back to Islena for a protracted moment. When she turned, the emotion that figured prominently in her expression was...perplexingly...relief. Retrieving a plush towel, she gestured for Islena to exit the tub. Doraux stood, naked and dripping, and raised her arms as Myrhia stepped forward and wrapped the towel around her. Somehow, Islena resisted the compulsion to snatch the diminutive woman up in her powerful arms and crush her like the fragile porcelain doll she appeared to be.

'What happens when you can no longer resist the impulse...the killing urge that comes from the atavistic place that has nothing to do with logic or carefully laid schemes?' Islena wondered and shuddered at the thought.

The enchantress seemed oblivious to this inner battle being fought behind those hypnotic green eyes. "Do not fret Islena...this so called shadow incarnation is yet another corroboration that I have been honest in our dealings. I told you that you are a creature of darkness...a tempest that is torn between an impossible attraction and the essence of its nature. Now that you have peered beyond the veil of your delusions, the darker aspects of that nature have begun to sing their siren song of black seduction...just as I predicted they would. You stand on the brink of apotheosis, Islena, but without my hand to guide you through this ascension, you stand to submit to a servitude far more sinister and odious than the one to which I would bind you."

Myrhia offered Doraux a smile of reassurance, but that smiled curdled on her lips when Islena declared gravely, "More than anything else, it wants me to kill you, Myrhia...to grind you to dust and rip out your throat with my teeth...because it sees you as an impediment to my ascension."

This unexpected and startling disclosure provoked an epiphany that shattered Islena's fragile grip on her composure. Her powerful body began to quake and she fell to her knees as the iron fibers in her thighs turned to rubber. Encircling a nonplused Myrhia's hips, she pressed her face into the Mother's flat stomach and began to sob unabashedly, uttering a barely coherent plea for help. "Please, I...I don't want to be a monster. I need you to help me fight it...please!"

Myrhia gently laid her hand atop Islena's head and stoked her hair, while mouthing platitudes of commiseration and reassurance. Within the lightless chamber of her soul, black flowers of doubt bloomed like rank weeds.

'You will never be able to contain her, for all of your smug certainty,' the voice of Morgana insisted disdainfully. 'Despite your galling sense of superiority, you are no different from the rest of us. Just as I gave birth to Mordred...believing that he would be my instrument...you will guide this wild, ungovernable creature to her moment of apotheosis and inevitably, she will consume you like the tiny morsel you truly are.'

Myrhia did not flay the unwelcome voice into silence, as was her customary reaction when her incarnations stirred. There was an irrefutable truth in the spider's contention...Islena would become something, she now saw, far beyond Myrhia's capacity to contain. 'With this infectious madness capering in the shadows of her mind...what will she become...a monster, just as she fears?'

'Soul forge!' The two words resonated in Myrhia's anxious thoughts like the chimes of deliverance. Only through a soul forge could Myrhia insure Islena's continuing pliability. Islena had expressed her desire to enter into this most intimate of bindings and now Myrhia realized that this perplexing request may have been motivated by a subconscious presentiment of the yawning abyss over which she was traveling.

'She sees me as her only source of salvation,' the enchantress realized, staggered by a notion that seemed scarcely credible. 'I must do everything I can to foster that perception.'

Myrhia bent forward and kissed the top of Doraux's head, while laying a finger on the bare flesh at the nape of Islena's neck. A diffuse golden light emanated from the point of contact, quickly suffusing Islena's tense flesh and rendering her torment inconsequential. She could feel the kneeling woman relax against her tight abdomen and when Islena lifted her face to Myrhia, her green eyes shone with relief and gratitude.

"Islena, I am a product...a living amalgam of darkness and I have felt the incessant drag of mindless evil assailing me from the first moment I became aware of my existence. More than any living creature, I am qualified to guide you through the pitfall-riddled terrain over which you must travel. Only through rigid discipline and tenacious adherence to a vision of what it is you wish to achieve can you find the strength and courage to resist this shadow incarnation. You've expressed a desire to soul forge and that was a prudent foresight given the affliction which accosts you. If you place your unwavering faith in me, I will purge this affliction from your soul."

Islena peered up into the dark pools of Myrhia's eyes, caressed by the facile logic of everything that the enchantress now espoused. As had been the case through much of her mortal life, Islena had charged recklessly into her present situation, having given very little consideration to the myriad of complications her chosen course of action would yield. Believing that her cleverly-conceived plan could destroy Myrhia and bring a definitive end to the cyclical madness which had defined the trio's existence, Islena had failed to anticipate that her seriously flawed nature would force her to rely on the very thing that she had vowed to destroy.

Myrhia firmly pressed Islena's face into the fabric of her gown, relishing the tactile sensation this contact evoked...despite its intrinsic dangers. She deftly undid the flaps of the towel that enwrapped the kneeling Doraux, which then fell and pooled around Islena's knees. Laying her hands on the marred, mottle flesh of Islena's muscular back, she murmured, "Despite the enmity that has burned between us through every tortured life we've shared, I still believe that you and I can set this animosity aside. Let us endeavor to embark on a Tabula Rasa...a clean slate from which we may forge an entirely new future, where you and I will be mother and daughter...and whatever else we might choose to be."

"Tabula Rasa!" Islena echoed. Myrhia's cryptic words played over the fabric of her frazzled mind like the titillating sensation of delicate wings gently tickling bare flesh. "Yes...Tabula Rasa...I would very much like that."

Myrhia offered Doraux a smile of near blinding magnitude. "Then let me begin by extending this gift to you and removing this insufferable blight from your flesh."

An intense golden glare banished the tent's shadow, startling the camp's mortal occupants, who regarded the spectacle with anxious curiosity, but made no move to investigate.

Every fiber in Islena's powerful body stiffened and the cords in her neck bulged forth in sharp relief as Myrhia's ameliorating sorcery rolled through Doraux's body like a juggernaut. A strident cry tore from Islena's twisted lips...though of unthinkable agony or intense pleasure, it was impossible to determine. Finally, her eyes rolled up in their sockets and her body went limp. Slack-jawed and insensate, she slid down Myrhia's legs and sprawled at the diminutive beauty's feet.

Myrhia watched dispassionately as Islena's muscular body quaked and shook from the aftershock of her healing magic. The flesh of Doraux's sculpted back displayed no sign of the savage whipping that had sullied its perfection.

A Morticant entered the tent, carrying Islena's ebony armor...now polished to a blinding shine...and her freshly laundered clothing. She bid the fearsome creature to lay them on the carpet next to the unconscious woman. When her Morticant had departed, Myrhia drifted over to her bed and lay down. Waving her right hand to plunge the tent into darkness, she continued to stare at the unmoving silhouette deep into the night.

When silence and stillness had enveloped the night, Islena stirred...returning to wakefulness in a state of disorientation.

"Come, share my bed this night, daughter," a disembodied voice called from somewhere in the impenetrable shadow. "Tomorrow, you and I will set off on our Tabula Rasa."

Islena, not trusting herself to rise, crawled over to Myrhia's bed and slipped gratefully beneath the covers, nestling into Myrhia's embrace like a child seeking comfort from a nightmare. Myrhia pulled Islena's face into the soft crook of her neck and soon her nemesis and bane was sound asleep in her arms. Myrhia kissed the top of Doraux's head and whispered, "Along the way, I will ensnare you in the sweetest of addictions...one that even madness will not shatter."

4

"How long do you intend to persist in this irritating silence?" Ynathreen demanded as her cheeks flushed with bemusement. It had been four days since the harrowing confrontation with Sygeanor and in that time, Muragren had stubbornly refused to utter a single word, despite Ynathreen's numerous overtures to draw the former teacher from her stoicism. Even when the Redian had applied clay to her wounded leg and bound the injury, Muragren had refused to give voice to her pain.

Limping slightly, Muragren averted her eyes and stepped around the towering red head, causing Cauldanys to wince. She discerned that Ynathreen was reaching the end of her patience with the older woman's silence and knew all too well what the angry Redian was capable of, should her temper fray completely.

Growling, Ynathreen now reached for Muragren's hood and jerked her backward, before gripping her slender shoulders and shaking her briskly. "What is it you want from me...have I not condemned my father's actions as heartlessly cruel?"

Muragren merely stared back at the taller girl through flat, inscrutable gray eyes. Ynathreen fought back the overwhelming compulsion to slap the aloof disapproval from her face. Instead, she unclenched her fists and intoned, "You will stop this behavior now!"

Muragren tilted her head slightly to the left and inquired, "Why...because I am your slave and you command it thus...because you will beat me if I do not obey?"

Cauldanys grimaced miserably, certain that Muragren's brazen insolence would provoke a killing fury in Ynathreen. To the Jerhia's eternal amazement, the Redian girl merely gripped the older woman's chin and declared, "No...you will stop because it was not I who inflicted this injustice upon you. I am not Ghordrian or the men who sacked Washburn and I do not deserve your mistreatment."

Muragren's expressive eyes flared and she slammed her chest into Ynathreen, who...to Cauldanys' astonishment...actually retreated several paces. "What other reaction could you expect? These people, who your father's obdurate cruelty killed, were my friends...people whom I loved and respected. They devoted their entire lives to enlightenment and peace and would never have harmed another living soul. That they were forced to meet this horrible fate is a black irony that defies all reason, but you can't grasp that because you are an over-indulged, self-absorbed brat! How can you even draw breath, knowing that these gentle, harmless souls suffered so wretchedly for you?"

Ynathreen stiffened, clearly wounded by this caustic barb. "I have vowed to devote my life to rectifying these injustices."

Muragren gripped the collar of Ghordrian's thick cloak and glowered up at Ynathreen...immutable outrage dancing in her gray eyes. "How commendably noble your lofty ambitions are, girl. Tell me Ynathreen...even if you right every injustice and transform this accursed land into a shining beacon of civility, will it give my friends back their lives or efface the years toiling and suffering in these enclaves of hell? I can personally attest that it will not and until you can actually feel the permanence of their loss and feel the pain and grief left in their wake, you are no different from the foulest brute for all of your lofty talk of change!"

"Muragren, please...enough!" Cauldanys pleaded, sensing the devastating affect her tirade was having on Ynathreen, who...despite her formidable bearing, was still a girl. The Fairmarch slave lashed the Jerhia with a withering scowl, but desisted and spun away.

A charged silence descended upon the trio as Ynathreen bowed her head and covered her eyes with her large left hand. Finally, she crossed over to the livid slave and encircling her shoulders, remarked softly, "Muragren...can you forgive me...please? Help me feel not just the ideals, but the emotions that grant them meaning."

Muragren drew a deep sigh and disentangled herself from the girl. She then turned and searched Ynathreen's face and in her wounded expression, she discerned an earnest desire for atonement. "I was wrong to deride you as a self-absorbed brat. If you can forgive me that vapid cruelty...then I can do the same."

Ynathreen's radiant smile caused Cauldanys to shake her head in disbelief. 'In the strange dynamic that governs these women's relationship...I see a faint glimmer of hope for this god-forsaken world.'

Ynathreen encircled Muragren's shoulders and pulled her exuberantly along, beaming a broad grin at Cauldanys and gesturing for her to follow.

5

"We're close to the village of Ridenbhac...which sits some ten leagues south of the next clay mine," Ynathreen intoned quietly as the trio sat around the fire that the Redian had built in a shallow rock niche that was barely large enough to accommodate the three of them. Beyond the nearby entrance, a killing wind howled out of the west...the deadly forerunner of a massive winter storm that was fast descending from the Blighted Lands. She glanced solemnly at her two charges. "This region is subject to epic winter storms and we may find ourselves stranded if we do not reach Ridenbhac tomorrow. On a positive note, this may also prevent the raiders from striking at the mine."

"That is an eventuality that you need not concern yourself with, Ynathreen," Cauldanys informed her with obvious reluctance as the remark drew a questioning glance from the astute Redian. The Jerhia sighed and disclosed, "I've become a traitor in the eyes of my country, so I suppose that it really doesn't matter if I share this with you. There will be no further raids on the mines. The Maxim Tier Marshal has ordered the expedition to return to Metocan. He was profoundly disturbed by the results of the attack on the mine. Sygeanor...had other intentions."

"You are presuming that the bitch yet lives," Ynathreen pointed out, a scowl of revulsion twisting her broad features.

"She's alive," Cauldanys commented with inexplicable certainty. "Monsters of her stripe are not so easily killed. She has conscripted a small contingent of Jerhia and Natzurdan to serve as an escort...with the intention of locating Myrhia's purported clay repository in Nalosan."

Ynathreen shook her head in incredulity and after shifting her gaze to a troubled Muragren, declared, "That is...insane. Fairmarch and Emercia are literally awash in Morticants and Emercian conventional forces."

"Be that as it may, it is still her intention and I can personally attest that Sygeanor is not easily deterred. The blue clay possesses qualities as an arcane amplifier and she believes that a sufficient quantity would augment her powers to a point where she could actually destroy Myrhia."

"Or destroy the city of Nalosan!" Muragren suggested with unmitigated horror shining in her bulging eyes.

Ynathreen considered this in silence...a somber, contemplative expression set on her face as she stared into the flickering flames. Watching her, the Fairmarch academic was again impressed by the girl's level of maturity and the analytical inclination of her sharp mind. Eventually, she pounded her fist on her muscular thigh resolutely. "Then she is no longer my concern. Hopefully, the Morticants will see her to her deserved end. If by some perverse twist of fortune, she reaches Nalosan, then perhaps she and Myrhia can incinerate each other from the face of the world. They are cut from the same foul clothe and we would be better served by their mutual destruction. Tomorrow, we will strike out for Ridenbhac and I will arrange for proper transportation to Elderspire. Satheer must be informed of Ghordrian's death and I must assume my duties as Clan Chief."

Cauldanys turned a dubious grin on Muragren, who merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders. The Jerhia had been taught that Redia was an extremely chauvinistic society where women served a very limited purpose. That a woman could ascend to the revered position of clan chief...especially a woman who was little more than a girl for all of her formidable power...was simply ludicrous.

Cautiously, she ventured, "Ynathreen, how do you think your intention to fill the role of clan chief will be received in Elderspire?"

Ynathreen's answering gaze was a hard as anthracite, declaring eloquently that she was fully cognizant of the reception she could expect. "I intend to forge a new Redia where constant warfare and ruthless depredation are not facets of everyday life. I will achieve this as queen of Redia...not as clan chief of Elderspire. Does a sculptor care how a stone perceives his chisel?"

Cauldanys shuddered involuntarily, shaken by the steel in Ynathreen's resolve. The girl's expression softened perceptibly and she added, "When we reach the populated areas, I would ask that you play the role of docile slave when in the presence of others. In the eyes of my countrymen, the Jerhia are the most reviled people on the face of the world. You are a comely creature and I would have it known that you are my hand maiden. I understand how demeaning this must be, but it will keep you alive."

Cauldanys absorbed this latest stark reminder of her new prevailing reality with a tacit nod. "Something informs me that life in your company will be a robust and exciting experience. As I see very few viable alternatives...I will gladly wash your clothes and wash your hair. I sense that you could well succeed in laying the foundation for a new and dramatically better world. It could well be that I might lend other skills to your cause."

A swell of raw emotion prevented Ynathreen from responding. Instead, she extended a long right arm toward the Jerhia and offered her hand in friendship. Muragren smiled in quiet pride as the two avowed enemies forged a pact of kinship. Finally, Ynathreen asked, "Cauldanys, if you are of a mind...I would have you tell me of the current state of the world beyond Redia's borders."

"It is not a pleasant or encouraging tale," Cauldanys admonished gravely.

"But I would hear it nonetheless," Ynathreen insisted. As the storm broke with a fury, Cauldanys brought forth already outdated news of the world. Ynathreen listened raptly...blithely unaware of the lethal arrow that was converging upon her with deadly purpose.

Chapter Eight

1

"So you have nothing tangible to substantiate your theory...to give us any inclination to eschew the obvious?" Maroc inquired sharply.

"If it is incontrovertible proof you require...then you are correct...I can offer you none," Artumas confirmed calmly...conveying a sense of serenity he did not feel.

The deposed king...now officially dubbed the Emercian King in Exile...sat in an ornate chair in the rather sterile and Spartan hall, which temporarily served as a home for the Inner Circle. Arrayed before him, on a raised dais, sat the Metocan Inner Circle, along with the Jerhia Maxim Tier Marshal and the Natzurdan elder, Maktir.

Beside the aging king sat Gillian and Arminda, both looking excruciatingly uncomfortable in their ceremonial Jerhia regalia. Sormias had agreed to be dispatched south to investigate a mystifying rumor that the Hiberas had spontaneously reverted to its original course.

Lorio had been assigned a suite of rooms in the Jerhia compound, where she remained sequestered in her mantle of silence. She had spent the days since her arrival in Othgol, engaged in training, from sunrise to sunset, with a newly fashioned quarterstaff and two long knives. She trained with an indefatigable zeal that won the admiration of even the most battle-hardened Jerhia.

Artumas could still scarcely credit the reception he had received upon first entering the Metocan capital. The people of Othgol had lined the streets as if hailing the return of a conquering hero and not a man whose throne had been usurped by his wife. The Emercian cavalry had knelt before him, all swearing fealty and vowing to escort him back to Nalosan to regain his throne...by force if necessary.

In the intervening days between his return and this hastily convened conclave, Artumas had been accosted by a burgeoning sense of surrealism...certain that he would awaken to find himself back in his hovel by the Great Western Ocean. Yet here he sat, attired in finery befitting a king, with a freshly trimmed beard and hair...embroiled in a tense discussion of the worldly drama as if he had never left.

The most perplexing aspect of his reception was the manner in which he was perceived by the men and women who held power in the turbulent world to which he had returned. Despite his colossal failing...a failing that had, in part, led them to this black juncture...they still solicited his input as if he might provide the solution to extricate them from their present predicament.

In truth, he was more bewildered and ambivalent about the world's perplexing state than they were.

"Artumas, it remains your contention that Islena has gone to Myrhia with the intention of undermining her machinations...or at the very least, brokering an agreement that would see an end to this campaign of conquest?" It has been Inos who had posed this question with skepticism written clearly on his face. "You flatly reject the possibility that she has thrown her lot in with the enchantress?"

"Yes, to your first question...and possibly to the second and an unequivocal no to the last," Artumas returned brusquely. "Islena stated that Myrhia had agreed to cease all hostilities if Doraux willingly submitted...which would go a long way toward explaining the radical changes that have swept over the eastern continent."

He paused to allow the conclave to weigh the logic of this contention, though it was difficult to credit the notion that Myrhia had willingly abandoned gains which she had fought seven years to accrue. It was simply incongruent with his perception of who he believed she was.

'Is there anyone less qualified to render a judgment than I?' he reminded himself disdainfully.

"Gillian, what is your perception of Islena Doraux's action and intent?" Maroc inquired.

The master swordsman spared the aging king a brief glance and when he spoke, his customary irreverent tone was conspicuously absent. "Islena has undergone some radical changes over the course of her ordeal, besides which...the enchantress holds her son hostage. Considering the enormous stress generated by this level of duress, her actual capitulation is not beyond the realm of possibility. I would not say definitively that she has betrayed us, but I would at least prepare for the contingency."

"If Islena is now in league with Myrhia and the enchantress is bent on our annihilation, I see very little by way of meaningful preparations we could actually make," the every-dour Maktir grumbled and his gloom-ridden comment plunged the room into a morose silence.

"And you, Arminda...what is your assessment of Islena Doraux and her possible intentions?" Maroc asked, startling the young Jerhia, who had never expected that her opinion would be solicited. Even her presence at such an important conclave struck the Jerhia as surreal. Upon her return to Metocan, Arminda had anticipated that she would be returned to the ranks and everyday life.

Gathering her composure, she forced herself to meet Maroc's expectant gaze and admitted candidly, "I wish that I could provide some meaningful insight into Islena's nature, but journeying through the Land of Shades in her company only deepened my ambivalence. As Gillian has suggested, Islena is under an unimaginable level of pressure and her actions in the last week of the journey were certainly...perplexing. I am a simple soldier, Maxim Tier Marshal and from that perspective, Islena Doraux is a hieroglyph and I would not presume to know her mind."

"You are anything but a simple soldier, Arminda," Maroc contradicted gently. "By every account, your quick-witted leadership kept hope alive when it seemed all but extinguished. Through your actions in the Land of Shades, you have become an inspirational legend in the annals of our Country's august history. To demonstrate that this action is more than flowery platitude, I hereby promote you to the rank of Tier Marshal and my personal adjutant. Irrespective of how this present crisis might play itself out, Jerhia can no longer cling to its many antiquated traditions. To change and adapt to the new prevailing realities that will govern the world beyond Myrhia's shadow, we will require men and women with vision to lead us. I may be a product of the old environment...the enduring tradition...but I'm perceptive enough to recognize such a person when she is sitting before me, blazing like a star in the firmament."

The color of Arminda's pale skin deepened to scarlet in reaction to Maroc's ridiculously effusive praise. She glanced briefly at Gillian, who she felt certain would view this promotion with either resentment or utter contempt. Instead, the flamboyant swordsman was smiling encouragingly and in his blue eyes, there shone a fierce pride that could not be feigned. Turning back to Maroc, she remarked in a voice coarsened by emotion, "Islena once employed the term Virago...a woman of power, courage and conviction. Though I don't believe that term could ever be used to describe me, I will strive tirelessly to be worthy of both the rank and the honor of your expectation, Maxim Tier Marshall."

The Jerhia smiled with a degree of affection that Arminda could not comprehend, and predicted, "I believe that events will make a virago of you yet, Tier Marshal."

Beside Maroc, Inos abruptly stiffened...his limpid eyes popping wide like broken shutters. He shifted his apoplectic gaze to the other members of the Inner Circle. To a one, they all wore variations of the same openly disconcerted expression of horror. Artumas rose from his chair and approached the dais, his face twisted in a frown of deep concern.

Inos also rose, but leaned heavily on the ancient stone table in an effort to remain vertical. His openly unsettled gaze swept the non-Metocan occupants and he disclosed, "We've received word from the Hiberas. Myrhia has crossed the river along with a large host of Morticants and conventional Emercian forces." After a pause, fraught with grave reluctance, he added, "Islena Doraux rides at the enchantress' side!"

2

Sormias flew south like a golden streak of light, blazing across the blue afternoon sky. He was privately grateful to be out of Metocan and its oppressive swirling mists that had left him in an uncharacteristically somber and brooding mood.

The land below sped by in a blur of blinding greenery that flourished with an intensity and vibrancy that the Golgar would not have thought possible in a world occupied by men. Perhaps as a consequence of their short life spans, these mortal seemed intent on consuming everything around them in a voracious frenzy.

'Yes, despite this propensity for avarice, the land below you still thrives, brimming with a beauty that is both mesmerizing and yet painful to behold for its fragility,' he thought as he skimmed the surface of a vast lake whose waters were the deepest green.

'A green reminiscent of Islena Doraux's exquisite eyes,' he thought wistfully and the spontaneous simile caused the normally unflappable Golgar to flounder. He drew a deep, quavering breath and slowed his flight. He had deliberately refused to entertain thoughts of the flame-haired beauty, who had aroused in him a complex firestorm of emotions that Sormias had never before experienced during the course of his long life.

Now, however, he shook his head in exasperation and threw down the barriers, thus permitting thoughts of the enigmatic creature to flow into his mind like a raging deluge. Very much like humanity itself, Islena Doraux was the living epitome of the glorious contradiction that was the essence of the mortal heart. She was arrogant and vain, yet uncertain and afflicted with self-doubt. She was frightened by the future and yet still managed to stride forth into its embrace with unflagging courage. She could be diamond hard and intractable, yet fragile and beguilingly tender when the moment required.

When he had first set eyes upon her, as she and her companions had assailed his onyx tower, Sormias had gleaned the bewilderingly complex multiplicity of her nature. He had been astounded to discover that Islena, herself, remained totally oblivious to her multi-faceted essence...as improbable as being blind to such a clamoring mass of past incarnations might seem. When he had emancipated her from the thrall of the poison, Sormias had sensed her recognition and acceptance of these past incarnations, but also saw with equal clarity, that Islena did not grasp the culminating truth of these facets...or the terrible purpose she had been intended to serve.

Sormias, however, was not afforded the luxury of Islena's ignorance or delusions. Islena Doraux could be likened to a succulent fruit...that grew sweeter and more intoxicating with every layer peeled away. Yet, when that last layer had been stripped away, there remained a shockingly black core...a sinister darkness that would extinguish all light with its totality.

Sormias had little doubt that it had been this soul-obliterating truth that Islena had discovered on the night she had ravaged him in the forest. That desperate act, born of the need to feel a tangible connection to her fading humanity, spoke succinctly of the depth of her ineffable anguish.

Had her apparent desertion been a confirmation that she had lost her tenuous grip on the last of her delusions? Sormias could not be certain, though he did know that these valiant mortals lacked the wherewithal to give her opposition if she had indeed thrown her lot in with the vessel of pure malevolence they had named Myrhia.

The Golgar shook his head in consternation, knowing that his gregarious, inquisitive nature had led him into a complex entanglement with creatures whose passionate dramas and fraught lives were but a single heartbeat when set against his millennia-spanning life. The terrifying Otaru Ree had offered him sanctuary in the Land of Shades, but an eternity amidst drifting specters and mindless constructs was hardly a viable alternative to the sweeping, cacophonous symphony raised by these glorious, flawed mortals.

Sormias did not regret that he had decided to remain amongst the living and lend what aid he could in humanity's valiant quest to persevere...seemingly in defiance of their every destructive tendency.

The Golgar was so absorbed by his contemplation of the world's grim turmoil that he was taken off guard by the shocking panorama that unfurled before him as he crested an abrupt rise. There, stretched out before Sormias was a twisted ribbon of black, vitiated stone. The highly reflective surface still smoldered and here and there, tendrils of acrid smoke rose indolently into the afternoon air.

Hovering in the air...gape-mouthed with incredulity...he realized that he was peering over the now empty river bed of what had once been the re-routed Hiberas. True to her promise, Otaru Ree had restored the ancient barrier to its original course. In its wake, she had left the world with a stark and indelible reminder of humanity's audacious presumption to reshape the very face of the world.

After only the slightest vacillation, the incorrigibly curious Golgar shot across the ugly line of demarcation, half-expecting an immediate and potentially lethal reaction that mercifully never came. The state of Natzurdan, south of the livid scar, caused Sormias to utter a low moan of grief. The natural splendor that had characterized the northern half of the country was no where in evidence as the corruption of the Land of Shades had inculcated itself deep into the once fertile soil. The land was primarily gray and the trees were twisted and stunted as if frozen in postures of eternal torment.

Flying south, the spectacle of rampant desiccation became more pronounced, until Sormias finally came upon the moldering corpse of what had once been the world's most beautiful city. His preternatural vision allowed him to view the lingering echo of what this edifice of natural perfection had once been and tears sprang to his eyes. Shaking his head in abnegation, the Golgar turned and fled, unable to suffer the sight of such incomprehensible ruin. If an impulsive decision...taken to preserve their fleeting existence...could lead to such devastation, could humanity's continuing existence be justified? As he flew toward Metocan with tears of remorse distorting his vision, Sormias could no longer say with any degree of certainty.

3

An absolute and deafening silence descended upon the chamber as those present attempted to grapple with the terrible weight of Inos' declaration. All of the speculation and conjecture had now solidified into a dreadful reality.

'Islena Doraux rides at the enchantress' side.' The full ramifications of this terrible statement fell upon the room's occupants like a collapsing mountain. In the atmosphere of charged silence, Artumas imagined he could hear his companion's fragile spirits fracture into dust.

Inos' grave countenance twisted into a disbelieving frown as he conveyed the next segment of the telepathic dispatch he had apparently received. "Myrhia has approached our outlying forces under a flag of truce. She has demanded that we lower the wards around Othgol so that she might project her image to this location. She has made it exceedingly clear that failure to do so will be construed as an act of belligerence and will be met with a swift and devastating response."

"That hardly seems like the disposition of someone who is seriously inclined toward a peaceful and amicable negotiation," Maroc observed gruffly.

"As she has so brutally demonstrated in the past, Myrhia can easily surmount our wards as she sees fit. They were erected more as an alert to her incursions than an actual deterrent. Since she has elected to apprise us of her coming, I see little to be gained in attempting to prevent her coming...an attempt that is ultimately destined to prove futile." Inos' blunt statement of their present situation roused no arguments from the other members of the Inner Circle.

A silent communication was dispatched to the keepers of the Capital's elaborate system of wards. As Artumas waited patiently, he could feel a perceptible thinning of the air as the arcane energy employed to maintain the protective barriers was extinguished. Inos then sent a second silent communiqué to the western frontier, informing the Metocan there that the wards had been lowered.

A tense expectancy gripped the assembly as they prepared to receive their avowed enemy. Exuding an outward tranquility he did not feel, Artumas advised, "Let us hear her out and not be drawn into acrimonious exchanges. Perhaps she will reveal something of her purpose if she sees that we will not respond to her provocation."

The others nodded brusquely and the room again lapsed into an anxious silence, though the wait was not to be a protracted affair. An electric crackle shattered the thick silence and a thin tendril of green mist rose out of the stone floor, undulating like a serpent before rapidly expanding to form an ornate archway through which stepped the spectral projection of the world's most reviled villain.

Resplendent in her long skirts and ebony armor, the enchantress reminded all present of a beautiful black rose. As her mirthful gaze swept the temporary accommodations of the Inner Circle, Artumas' eyes were drawn to the emerald intaglio that adorned her breast plate. They glittered in a fashion that reminded him of Islena Doraux's limpid eyes.

"I have returned and under far more pleasant circumstances than my last visit...I would wager that you all agree," Myrhia remarked, flashing a provocative grin at the Metocan Grand Mage.

"For all of its august history, it was still only a building, Myrhia," Inos replied evenly, heeding Artumas' advice. "I am more concerned with the preservation of lives...an infinitely more precious commodity that cannot be replaced."

The remark drew a rueful frown from the diminutive beauty, who dispensed with the mantle of false levity. "It is my intention to come to Othgol, where we will negotiate an end to hostilities. Whether or not this process is amicable is entirely up to you. As you are surely already aware, I have extended an egalitarian gesture of my sincerity by removing my occupying forces from the nations of the eastern continent."

"A gesture that has plunged many of those nations into anarchy and bloody conflict," Maroc growled.

Myrhia shrugged indifferently. "Everything has a consequence Maxim Tier Marshal. Perhaps you can induce my esteemed husband to help reprise his feat of imposing order on the lawless eastern continent. After all, it is the foundation upon which he has built his myth."

She turned her attention upon her husband, whose expression remained inscrutable. As had always been the case, whenever he set eyes upon her, the aging king was astounded by her ineffable beauty...a beauty that was impossible to reconcile with the monstrous atrocities she committed. 'Ah but if Islena Doraux speaks truthfully, is Myrhia truly accountable for her heinous acts...or is she, too, the victim of a remorseless act of cruelty?'

"It is good to see you rested and restored to a luster befitting your station, husband," Myrhia observed with apparent sincerity.

"What is it you expect of us, Myrhia?" Artumas demanded flatly.

The enchantress pursed her lips and a flicker of intense pain registered briefly in her large dark eyes. "Very well...as I've mentioned, I will cross Metocan and enter Othgol, where we will take the necessary steps to formally end hostilities. I will disclose my conditions for achieving that armistice upon my arrival. I fully expect that I will be greeted with open arms as will my host. Be forewarned...I will interpret any effort to obstruct my path as an act of open aggression. Let my last response to aggression serve as an emphatic example of the reaction that can be expected if anyone is foolish enough to hamper my passage. Inos and Maroc, I hold you both personally responsible for insuring that your people behave appropriately."

"Unlike the barbarians you elect to employ, our people are disciplined and civilized. Your passage will be unencumbered," Maroc snapped, struggling to retain his composure with this reprehensible creature.

"In that respect, you need not concern yourself, Maroc. My mercenary contingent have joined the ranks of Otaru Ree's minions...though somewhat less than willingly." With an impish grin, she added, "Islena Doraux personally dispatched a great many of these in a most gruesomely spectacular fashion."

"Islena accompanies you," Artumas said softly.

"She does...of her most enthusiastic accord," Myrhia confirmed with a triumphant grin emblazoning her face.

"May we speak to her?" the king-in-exile inquired, his tone neutral.

"You may not!" Myrhia erupted, her levity giving way to bright anger. "Islena Doraux is mine...the price of purchase for this generous reprieve that this antiquated pig sty of a world has been granted. I will warn you all...any attempt to interfere with or attempt to harm Islena will cause me to quickly recant my decision not to scour the tatters of the CornerStone Nations from the face of the world."

"You can spare us the chest beating rhetoric, Myrhia," Inos interjected, surprised by the vehemence of the enchantress' reaction to Artumas' comparatively innocent request. You have my personal assurance that you will be received in Othgol as we would an invited guest."

Myrhia glowered at Artumas, but nonetheless seemed placated by Inos' assurance of unencumbered passage. A radiant, jovial smile blossomed on her face and she concluded, "Then I will leave you to your preparations. It would be fitting if you arranged for a welcome of unprecedented pomp and ceremony. The ancient prophecy predicted that Islena Doraux would be this world's savior and as events would have it, this augury has been proven unerringly accurate. It was Islena's wise decision to capitulate to me that has spared your world."

With this blithe reminder of her benevolence delivered, Myrhia gracefully turned on heel and passed through the archway, which abruptly dissipated behind her.

After an extended silence, Tokizar was the first to speak, her voice fraught with revulsion and anxiety in equal measure. "Are we truly entertaining the idea of trusting this wicked creature?"

"No," Artumas amended quietly, "We are instead entertaining the idea of placing our faith in Islena Doraux and her unwavering commitment to seeing that wicked creature undone."

"Do you still truly believe that this is Islena's objective, Artumas?" Gillian challenged, the cynicism evident in his tone.

"I do," Artumas retorted firmly. "Myrhia's refusal to grant us access to Islena suggests that she, herself, harbors doubts about the authenticity of Islena's surrender."

"Artumas' contention is valid. Myrhia's angry reaction hints at a possible vulnerability," Inos agreed. "This, when added to the dearth of viable alternatives, makes our course of action self-evident. I propose that we receive the enchantress and her host and hear her terms...though I believe we can all envision the precise form those terms will assume."

"She will demand that she be permitted to search for the remaining two Proclamations throughout Natzurdan and Metocan...again, without obstruction, if not our outright aid." It was the stoic Maktir who concisely summarized the likely direction of Myrhia's demands.

"Surely we would not actually ponder facilitating Myrhia's ambition in gaining possession of our sacred Icons...much less actually aiding in her search to obtain them?" Tokizar exclaimed, clearly mortified by what she construed to be sheer folly.

"I understand your reservations, but if we accept the premise that Islena intends to vanquish Myrhia and end this recurring cycle I've explained, logic dictates she can only achieve this through ascension," Artumas explained patiently.

Tokizar's eyes widened in mortified disbelief and she shifted her gaze to Inos, who signified his concurrence with a sober nod. "If we accept the fundamental concept that Islena's ascension will invest her with the power necessary to destroy Myrhia, then it stands to reason that we would do everything necessary to accomplish that goal. Finding the remaining two proclamations is the next step along Islena Doraux's path of transcendence and thus, we will do all that is within our power to help her find the Proclamations."

"I contend that such a reckless course of action would be akin to digging our own graves," Tokizar shrieked, startling the assembly with her uncharacteristically assiduous outburst. "To invite this remorseless monster into our midst is to court disaster. It is beyond simple irresponsibility...it is utter madness of the most incomprehensible kind. We should be channeling our efforts into killing this miscreant bitch...and Islena Doraux if the situation demands," She abruptly turned her livid gaze on Maroc and spat accusingly, "Sygeanor should never have been allowed to strike off on her own!"

Nonplussed by the enormity of the normally placid mage's indignant fury, Maroc merely replied, "Good lady, I can tell you plainly...the distinction between Sygeanor and Myrhia is so small as to be imperceptible. There is no meaningful help to be expected from that quarter."

"Tokizar, gather you wits and be seated. Flinging aspersions gains nothing and frankly, I would have thought you were above such petulance!" Inos commanded irritably, to which Tokizar recoiled as if she'd been physically struck.

Arminda rose and speaking for the first time, demonstrated the acuity and aplomb that would serve her so well in her new role as Tier Marshal. "I see the relative merits and extreme dangers in each path. Would it not be prudent to follow both...to openly embrace the posture of acceptance, while discreetly preparing for a decisive strike on Myrhia, should it seem that she is of a mind to deceive us?"

Tokizar started to speak, but abruptly fell silent, apparently mollified by the consideration of actively opposing the enchantress. Gillian was staring at the diminutive Jerhia...a sly, speculative expression set on his lean face.

Maroc offered his new adjutant a nuanced grin. "I would agree that this would be a sensible compromise, Tier Marshal."

"I would agree, but caution that Myrhia is extremely perceptive to subterfuge," Artumas added, surprised by his private aversion to the notion of assassinating his wife. "Given the presence of the Morticants, the mechanics of such a strike would be delicate, to say the least."

Inos pondered this for a moment and then turned to Tokizar. "I will leave the task of formulating a contingency plan to you. You may select the resources to aid you as you see fit...while allowing the need for absolute discretion to guide your every action."

The Metocan's large eyes widened and her discomfort with the assignment was glaringly apparent...but having thrown down the gauntlet, she was left with little choice but to accept. Only later, did she come to glean that the Grand Mage's selection had been punitive.

Over the next two bells, the conclave discussed various aspects of the crisis now facing their known world. Even as they each put forth considered opinions on possible courses of action, each implicitly understood that no real decisions would be taken until the Mother of Iniquity and the Daughter of the Tempest stood in their midst.

4

"Might you spare me a moment, Maxim Tier Marshal?" Gillian requested as he hurried after Maroc and his newly appointed adjutant. The pair turned toward the approaching swordsman, who spared Arminda an apologetic glance and added, "I would have a private word if you are of a mind."

Maroc frowned, correctly deducing that Gillian intended to open a dialogue that he would not especially enjoy. To Arminda, he said, "Tier Marshal, I've arranged for quarters next to mine. Perhaps you could inspect them to see if they are suitable and I will join you momentarily."

Arminda fixed Gillian with a troubled glance and after offering the pair the obligatory bow, turned on heel and marched briskly away. _'She does not trust me,'_ Gillian realized as he watched her leave. _'She is a fast ascending star and one of whom it would not be advised to make an enemy.'_

Shaking his head, he wondered if she subconsciously harbored any resentment over the injury he had inflicted upon her while under the demon's thrall. Citing a need for privacy, Gillian led Maroc toward the Jerhia compound, to the upper deck that looked down upon the large, rectangular training yard.

Arcane crystals provided a source of illumination for the city and now their glow cast an eerie muted light over the sands of the training ground. With dark rapidly descending, the yard was deserted except for a single occupant, who trained with a terrifying, obsessive zeal.

Lorio wielded two long knives and attacked the reflex dummies...a padded vertical pole with two horizontal poles that swiveled to deliver painful counter blows for each blow the trainee landed. Lorio was a fluid blur of perpetual motion, who nimbly avoided every counter with the grace of a dancer. She appeared completely oblivious to everything around her, reducing her sensory focus to the opponent before her. _'I wonder if it's Islena's face she sees as she unleashed her fury.'_

"That is a truly frightening creature," Maroc intoned quietly as he looked down upon the Lamish woman from the shadows of the balcony with an expression of deep concern on his wind-roughened face.

"She is at that...made all the more so because she is really a transformed Morticant...with all the capabilities of the original and a tempestuous disposition to add fuel to the fire."

Maroc grunted and absently rubbed the hollow at his right temple. "We will have to take every precaution necessary to insure that she is kept well away from Islena Doraux and Myrhia upon their arrival in Othgol."

Gillian, who was inclined to subscribe to precisely the opposite view, merely offered his superior a slight nod. "I want to speak to you about the conclave...not about what was discussed, but more specifically...what was not."

Maroc offered the swordsman a puzzled frown. "I'm not entirely certain I follow. Are you suggesting that one of our allies is deliberately concealing something of value?"

Gillian could not entirely repress his sardonic smirk. "Of that, I have little doubt, but I refer to events from the later days of the quest. I waited for one of the others to broach the topic. When it became apparent that they would not, I thought it would be best if I brought the matter to you personally...and discreetly."

"Arminda is aware of this situation?" Maroc demanded sharply.

"She is, but I do not believe that she is being deliberately evasive by not bringing it to your attention. She is young and constrained by a compassionate nature and a strict adherence to moral principles."

"Whereas you are not?" Maroc snorted with unconcealed disdain, to which Gillian merely grinned unrepentantly.

"We know that Myrhia has possession of one of Islena's sons to use as leverage against Doraux. The enchantress is a creature who works diligently to anticipate very outcome...every threat and her every action is carefully calculated. This is the part that the party members have not shared. In an effort to protect herself from Islena's wrath...presumably when Islena becomes more powerful...she performed a ritual of sorcery which she referred to as a soul forge."

Maroc's face remained impassive, but internally he groaned in despair, divining the probable shape of Gillian's disclosure. The swordsman continued, knowing that he was straying into morally nebulous territory. "This soul forge links Myrhia and the boy in a way that would cause one to suffer reciprocal damage if the other was harmed."

"If Islena attacked Myrhia, any damage inflicted upon the enchantress would also be suffered by the boy," Maroc remarked glumly, horrified by this unscrupulous feat of sorcery.

"Precisely!" Gillian allowed with a hint of eagerness that Maroc did not care for a whit. "The reciprocal effect flows in both directions, which is why Myrhia has gone to great lengths to sequester the boy. For someone unencumbered by moral scruples, the boy would become a powerful weapon...and temptation."

Maroc's expression hardened and he fixed the master swordsman with a baleful glare of appraisal. Tightly, he demanded, "What precisely do you think I should do with this disturbing piece of information, Gillian?"

The irreverent Jerhia shrugged innocently. "That is not my place to decide, Maxim Tier Marshal. It is merely my duty to bring this information to you...so that you might assess its value."

"Even if I was so utterly bereft of integrity that I would stoop to using a defenseless, innocent child as a venue to attack Myrhia, the concept is unworkable. We have no idea where the boy is being held and even if we did...it is probably in a location that is impregnable by any means at our disposal," Maroc pointed out truculently.

Again, Gillian merely shrugged as if the matter was of little consequence one way or the other. Maroc's eyes narrowed and he admonished, "This matter will remain between you and me, Gillian. We find ourselves in a bewilderingly delicate situation and this would only complicate matters immensely...if it became common knowledge. I trust I've made myself clear?"

"I shall be the very soul of discretion," Gillian assured his superior with a brilliant smile.

Maroc scrutinized the swordsman intently for a moment and then stalked off with a silent curse. The smile faded from Gillian's face the instant that the Maxim Tier Marshal had vanished from sight. He had known that Maroc was too rigorously ethical to ever accept what Gillian had been intimating. In truth, he doubted that circumstances would permit them to locate the boy...who was probably cloistered in the bowels of Kammlogran in Emercia's capital.

The ulterior purpose of this decidedly cynical exercise had been to divine his superior's receptiveness to solutions that might be considered...morally clouded. Maroc's truculent reaction made it explicitly clear that he would not stray into ethically questionable territory.

' _You are definitely not Ossiran...which, ultimately, will prove to be a good thing. Now, however, your scruples will be a detriment,'_ Gillian thought as he stared admiringly at Lorio as she worked her martial magic. _'Fortunately for all of us, my ethical and moral standards are more...fluid.'_

Compelled by a sense of exigency, Gillian rapidly descended the stairs and crossed the training ground. He came to a halt a prudent distance from the immortal and hailed, "Lorio, I would have a moment of your time."

Lorio stopped in mid-strike and spun to face the Jerhia with a belligerent scowl twisting her lovely face. Gillian had expected to see madness blazing in her eyes like a beacon. Instead, he found himself confronted by the glacial calm of a master assassin. He grinned, knowing that this particular disposition would serve his purpose far more effectively than blind rage.

Still, it was impossible to mistake the aversion to his presence that twisted her lips into a sneer of contempt. He returned her sneer with a bright grin and began, "I see you're as civil and courteous as ever...and clinging to this obstinate vow of silence."

Lorio glowered, but did not speak, though the Jerhia noticed that her hands had tightened on the scuffed leather hafts of her long knives.

' _Given the long-festering acrimony she harbors toward me, I would do well not to provoke her,'_ he reminded himself. In a sober, dispassionate tone, he disclosed, "I thought you deserved to know that Myrhia has crossed the Hiberas, along with her army. Islena Doraux rides by her side."

At the mention of Islena's name, a myriad of complex and incongruous emotions rippled across the Lamish beauty's face. Gillian gleaned love and hatred and everything in between, but this turbulent rush finally relented to one terrifying sentiment...grim resolve.

"Myrhia has approached our illustrious leaders to apprise them of her intention to bring Islena and her army to Othgol...ostensibly to negotiate an end to hostilities. Before they arrive, I can predict...with absolute certainty...that these same illustrious leaders will see you bound and in chains before Myrhia and her retinue arrive," Gillian disclosed in a tone that suggested empathy with the shameful injustice this would represent.

Lorio's eyes flared with the expected indignation and then narrowed into speculative slits. Before he could react, Gillian found the crossed long knives pressed into the flesh on either side of his neck. In a voice coarsened by lack of use, she demanded menacingly, "Why are you telling me this, Jerhia?"

The pressure on the blades eased fractionally so that he might provide an answer. "I am fully cognizant that there is no love lost between us..."

"True enough...a part of me has longed to kill you since first setting eyes on your smug, untrustworthy face...though possibly never as much as I do at this very moment," she interjected with a sinister grin.

Gillian swallowed sharply, discerning that she was being totally sincere. "Then I would encourage you to set your grievance aside. We are linked by a common purpose. You seek retribution for the egregious wrongs that have been inflicted upon you and for reasons of my own...I would have you given an opportunity to see you given your revenge."

"Again, why?" she rasped insistently.

"I believe that Islena Doraux is a far greater threat than Myrhia could ever hope to be in her darkest fantasies. From the very beginning, Islena warned us of as much, but in our preoccupation with saving our own hides, we ignored her warnings. She cannot be allowed to gain the power of the remaining two Proclamations...she cannot be permitted to ascend. At this point, you may be the only person willing and capable of preventing that disastrous eventuality."

Lorio abruptly withdrew her long knives and retreated several paces. "So you would defy your masters and have me kill Islena...to serve the greater good, if you are to be believed."

"You have the gist of it, yes...though unlike you...who owes your existence to the ugly marriage of Islena and Myrhia's power...I serve _only_ the greater good."

"Tread softly, assassin...my blades thirst for blood and I am not of a mind to discriminate," Lorio growled.

"Then feed them with the sustenance they truly crave!" Gillian retorted vehemently. "Your child resides with the Queen of the Dead because of Islena's ruthless, calculating betrayal. You have been reduced to this living engine of hatred by Islena's complete indifference to the love you have for her...a love that is glaringly obvious to everyone but her."

Gillian never saw the rapier blow that left him lying on his back, staring vacantly into the pearlescent mist that swirled perpetually above the training yard. He could feel blood flowing freely from his prominent nose and absently drew his left sleeve across his gore-slicked mouth. Lorio towered over him, her face twisted in anguish. "Don't you dare speak of my son and the only thing I feel for Islena is a consuming need to open her throat and bathe in her blood."

She spun about and stalked a short distance away, livid with rage and a lingering pain that assailed her without surcease. Gillian rose slowly with his head spinning, and waited quietly for Lorio to regain her composure. He knew that her final declaration...however ardently she might believe it...was a lie born of delusion. He only hoped that the delusion would thrive until after she buried her knives in Islena's heart. Without glancing back, she inquired, "If I was to agree to perform your dirty work...what exactly would you expect from me?"

The Jerhia smiled, grateful that Lorio's back was turned. "I would ask that you do nothing that would be construed as belligerent or provocative. Making yourself conspicuously absent from the training yard would be helpful, as would speaking to Artumas and convincing him that you have regained your equilibrium. If they are determined to cloister you, I would ask that you cooperate and submit with only a minimal amount of fuss...an unconscious guard or two, but no fatalities. When the opportunity comes to strike, I will see you free and create a diversion to afford you an unencumbered path to Doraux. That window may be dauntingly slender."

Lorio remained stationary, staring intently up into the brooding night sky. "I will give some though to your subterfuge, Jerhia. In the meantime...slither back to your hole like the viper you are."

Lorio's disdainful barb touched a raw nerve in Gillian, rousing a rare outburst of anger. "Then it is certainly fitting that you would heap your disdain upon me from your lofty pinnacle of superiority...considering the cauldron from which you sprang. Remind me...just what was it you did before attaching yourself to Islena's hips? Did your band of shiftless Lamish miscreants not travel the byways of the eastern continent...preying on the helpless and stealing anything that could be carted away? I also believe that you personally beat unskilled men and women bloody for the amusement of your fellow pillars of virtue?"

Lorio turned slowly to face Gillian as a murderous fury germinated in her dark eyes, but he waved her off with an impatient flick of his bloody right hand. "Spare your sanctimonious indignation for someone who might be deceived by it. I'll leave you to wallow in your mire, but ask that you consider this...Artumas may actually believe that Islena is committed to ending the cycle of recurring tragedy. Our other noble leaders care only to spare our world...even if it means supplying the enchantress with an unspeakably evil weapon in the bargain and unleashing it on every other world beyond our own."

He hesitated and then added, "Even if Myrhia was inclined to honor her promise and leave this world in peace, what moral currency would we be left with? What legacy would we bestow upon our children...to save our own skins, we willingly sacrificed the lives of countless unsuspecting people in the worlds this pair will inevitably plunder? Is this how we would define our integrity and nobility and set them forth as an example for our children to follow? The Proclamations were a misguided product of this world's boundless hubris and it is we and we alone who must bear the consequences...even if it means our annihilation!" After a fraught pause, he concluded, "This is why Islena Doraux must die!"

"Killing Islena would thwart Myrhia's machinations and her fury will reduce Othgol to a charnel pit," Lorio observed. "I doubt even that will begin to sate her rage."

"As I've said, our forefathers were guilty of creating these abominations and both the onus for seeing them destroyed and any consequences that may result are ours to suffer," Gillian reiterated passionately.

Lorio pursed her full lips and nodded slightly, seemingly accepting Gillian's logic. A frown of recollection touched her lips then and she inquired, "At Runesholm...after Islena banished me from her side...I confronted Myrhia's hybrid Morticant. Islena said that this woman...this Marla Holmes...had been her friend, who had been killed by a creature that had been sent to retrieve Islena. Myrhia revived her as a hybrid Morticant. Even if I succeeded in killing Islena, what is to prevent the enchantress from simply reprising this vile feat of necromancy?"

Gillian's smooth brow wrinkled in consternation. Lorio's query was a valid new wrinkle to an exceedingly complex equation. Somberly, he offered, "You've given me much to think on. I will try to keep you informed of events over the next few days...as the situation allows."

Then he was gone, leaving Lorio to grapple with the one salient question that she could not truthfully answer? _'Can I really kill you, Islena?'_

Chapter Nine

1

Ynathreen and her two companions reached the village of Ridenbhac three days after their dramatic encounter with Sygeanor. They had languished in the tight confines of their small sanctuary while the winter storm pounded Northern Redia with an unbridled fury that seemed to unsettle even the normally unflappable Ynathreen. When the storm winds finally abated, the winter passes were carpeted in a layer of fresh snow that reached Muragren's chest.

The inexorable Ynathreen broke trail through the deep drifts, plowing through the snow with the same astounding tenacity she applied to every other aspect of her life. When they finally stumbled into the village in the late afternoon, Muragren could clearly see the affects of the girl's efforts written plainly in Ynathreen's pinched expression.

Ridenbhac was a village of some three hundred people that had been founded some eight hundred years prior...after the discovery of a nearby gemstone deposit. The structures were squat timber constructs that were commonplace in most Redian settlements. The village itself was organized in a series of concentric circles at the center of which stood a longhouse, built either to accommodate the resident Clan Chief or the village elder.

As they struggled up one of the spoke roads, which led to the common area, Ynathreen and her companions were forced to step aside for a team of dray horses that was pulling a large timber that was employed to keep the roadway ploughed. When the trio reached the common, they were quickly confronted by two Redians on horseback.

"Who are you three wenches?" one demanded...his deep voice rumbling over the common with the casual air of authority that declared him to be a village enforcer in the employ of the elder.

Ynathreen threw back the hood of her cloak and stepped forward. When she spoke, her voice rang with the unmistakable confidence of one who is accustomed to being obeyed. "I am Ynathreen, daughter of Ghordrian...Clan Chief of Elderspire. I would have you escort me to the person of authority in this village."

The two men exchanged bemused glances, but the name Ghordrian was known throughout Redia and they quickly complied. The trio was led into the darkened interior of a long house that reminded Cauldanys of a glorified storage shed. The air was thick and acrid with smoke, which wafted up from the large fireplace that dominated the north wall of the long house. The Jerhia frowned in disgust at the foul-smelling straw that covered the rough planks beneath her feet. Her nose wrinkled in recognition of the strong stench of urine and she correctly surmised that the drunken inhabitants would simply urinate on the floor when in their cups.

' _These people are scarcely more civilized than farm animals,'_ she thought balefully as the three were led over to a group of men who were gathered around the roaring fire. One of the escorts bent to whisper in the ear of a massive man, who then shifted his considerable bulk to have a better view of his guests. He had an unruly beard and a wild shock of tangled red hair that appeared as if it had not seen a brush in the better part of a decade. He regarded the two women with blue eyes that shone with an animal cunning that set bells of alarm braying in Cauldanys' mind. It had been her experience that such men were just clever enough to be extremely dangerous."

"So you be the daughter of Ghordrian then...you be a good ways from home without an escort, girl."

"I've just come from the mine three days west of here. I was there with my father and my three servants, but the mine was destroyed. My father is dead as are all of the others who toiled there," Ynathreen revealed dispassionately.

The elder slammed his mug down on the scarred wooden table. "The mine destroyed you say...by what?"

Ynathreen frowned, vexed by his callous refusal to even acknowledge the dead, but answered, "A natural upheaval of some sort...the entire basin collapsed in a matter of minutes as did the surrounding mountains. We managed to survive only because we were on the periphery of the camp. The upheaval seemed to shake the very world. Surely you must have heard the eruption...even from here?"

"There was a bout of tremors some days back...but they stopped quickly and we didn't pay 'em no mind," the elder confirmed and then a sly, speculative light sparked in those cunning eyes. "How do I know you be telling me the truth about who you be and all?"

Ynathreen drew the heavy chain over her head and taking a quick step forward, thrust her father's totem into the elder's face. "Even in a frozen bog like Ridenbhac, I'm certain you are familiar with this symbol."

The elder examined the device closely and a shadow crept over his wrinkled brow. "I am, but as you have said, Ghordrian is dead now and so is his authority."

"Perhaps you three might need protecting," a dark-haired brute standing next to the elder rumbled, his gaze crawling over the three women with an ugly lust that made Cauldanys shudder in revulsion. That gaze settled on the full promise of Ynathreen's breasts and he rasped, "You look like you be ready to have a man between your legs and I'd be more than happy to protect you."

Had Cauldanys been conscious in its wake, she would have recognized the lightening swift kick that Ynathreen delivered to the Redian's shaggy head. The blow had knocked the diminutive Jerhia into the void, but it only staggered the hulking Redian. Ynathreen shrugged off her cloak and sprung to the attack like a giant predatory cat. Her forearm caught the reeling giant across the throat and toppled him to the filthy straw like a fallen tree.

Coughing and sputtering, he raised his head and peered up at the muscular she-demon through uncomprehending eyes...only to find her short sword pressed into his groin. His expression became one of naked terror.

"What possible use could a gelding be between my thighs, swine?" Ynathreen taunted, her blue eyes aflame with menace. "More to the point, I think you are the one in need of protection."

With this, she stomped her right heel down onto his gaping face. Cauldanys smiled at the satisfying crunch of bone as the Redian's nose was pulverized beneath Ynathreen's boot. Before the other men could react to the brutal demolition of their companion, Ynathreen's blade was pressed into the left side of the elder's jowly neck. "I won't be nearly as gentle with the next person to utter a derogatory remark."

"What is it you be needing, girl?" the elder spat, though his eyes slid repeatedly to her poised blade.

Ynathreen dropped the blade from his throat and offered the Redian elder a lustrous grin. "Three horses and sufficient provisions for the return journey to Elderspire. You have my personal assurance that you will be handsomely compensated and your cooperation will not be forgotten."

"I'll willingly meet your needs, but the trip to Elderspire may not be such a simple matter," the elder remarked, stroking his tangled beard as he considered the bloody detritus of the man writhing on the floor. He suspected that it would be a long while before his brother decided to play lecher. His ruined nose would serve as a permanent reminder of this she-demon's wrath.

"Speak plainly!" Ynathreen demanded, her voice ringing with an authority she would perfect on her road to the throne.

The elder raised a shaggy right eyebrow in genuine surprise. "You truly have no notion of what's happened in the last two days? I suppose you wouldn't at that."

When he lapsed into a thoughtful silence, Ynathreen scowled, though a flicker of doubt clouded her brow for the first time since the trio had entered the village. After a moment's contemplation, he seemed to recall that Ghordrian's brat had asked him a direct question and after shaking his head, he began to recount the confusing events of the last three days. "On the morning after the cursed snow stopped falling, them blue beasts suddenly appeared in the village...marching in a single line like fancy soldiers. There was maybe two score of the monsters. They marched right through the village as if they were totally unaware that just about everyone had lined up to gawk at them. They headed south and something tells me that they have no intention of ever coming back."

Ynathreen absorbed this with a perplexed frown...her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Her naturally astute mind informed her that this abrupt departure was a harbinger of some great and sweeping change that was about to scour the strife-ridden world anew. Distantly, she inquired, "Is it possible that the mine has simply run dry?"

The elder shook his head vigorously. "The mining crew came down later in the morning and the overseer told me that the beasts had herded the slaves into the workings, but not long after, they simply formed up ranks and marched off. A rider came from the mine at Tardendran Pass yesterday...telling very much the same tale. Whatever the reason, it seems like the witch's beasts are heading home."

Ynathreen again shook her head, struggling to decipher the riddle contained within the mystery of this inexplicable abandonment. "What was the overseer's intentions regarding the mine...does he plan to resume operations?"

The elder regarded the girl as if she was hopelessly daft. "If the Emercian bitch has lost interest in the clay, why would we ever waste time dredging out the blue sludge? It's worthless."

A humorless grin cracked Ynathreen's broad features. "On that count, you couldn't be more wrong elder. That clay has properties that will make it the single most sought out commodity in this world once they become common knowledge. This blue sludge...as you call it...will secure Ridenbhac's future."

To Ynathreen's surprise, the elder greeted this optimistic disclosure with an expression of apoplectic horror. In a quavering voice, he stammered, "With the beasts leaving...the overseer ordered the mine sealed and flooded."

Ynathreen arched an eyebrow, flicking a brief glance at Muragren. Her eyes were downcast, but her thin body had gone rigid. Discerning the direction of her grief, Cauldanys inched closer and discreetly took her trembling hand. Ynathreen's glare burrowed into the elder like an ice auger. "And the slaves that worked the mine...what became of them?"

The elder regarded her irritably and with a snort of disgust, answered, "Sealed in the workings of course...what else was we to do with them? No clay means no Emercian coin and we'll be fortunate to feed ourselves, much less a horde of worthless slaves."

His plaintive tone threatened to sunder Ynathreen's tenuous grip on her composure and she resisted the compulsion to cleave his skull with her short sword by the scantest of increments. "I would advise you to unseal the workings and de-water the mine, elder. If this forlorn midden heap is to have a future...it will be founded on the clay in that mine. Now, if we could be shown to our lodgings and given a hot meal while you arrange for our horses and provisions, I would like to depart before mid-afternoon."

The elder nodded brusquely and though he was clearly irritated by the girl's galling presumption, he decided that it might be best to comply with her request. He had never considered himself to be a sage, but the grizzled elder was shrewd enough to see the aura of predestination that hung about the girl like the ghost lights that danced in the firmament on a cold and clear winter's night. On a more prosaic note, he needed only one glance at the moaning wreckage of his brother to know that this was not a girl to cross.

Ynathreen firmly gripped Muragren's right elbow and began to guide the distressed women toward the door. She could feel the woman's silent sobbing communicated through her emaciated flesh. She wondered if she would ever obtain a level of empathy that would allow her to feel such acute sorrow for people she did not know.

"Girl...I trust you'll not be forgetting Ridenbhac and the kindness we've shown you...when you're back in your fancy home in Elderspire," the elder called after her retreating back.

Ynathreen came to an abrupt halt and turned to face the deplorable bore. The parody of a grin that adorned her pretty face was bereft of all humor and held an unspoken promise that turned the old man's blood to ice water. "I can promise you, elder, that Ridenbhac is emblazoned in my memory and I will see that...in time...you will all receive your just reward."

Then she turned and guided her two companions out into the frigid morning air, where a distraught Muragren promptly fainted into her arms.

2

From her perspective atop the snow-covered ridge, Sygeanor watched as two hundred Morticants marched through the narrow pass some three hundred feet below the plateau from where she covertly monitored their migration. This was by far the largest group of Myrhia's creations that they had encountered since Sygeanor and her _escorts_ had parted ways with Maroc's main contingent a week prior.

She backed carefully away from the crest and slid back down the slope to where Tormal and Dendarin...the Jerhia sergeant leading the scout element...awaited her. Margarus stood slightly off from the pair...an omnipresent fixture at Sygeanor's side. In her rigid posture of attentiveness, the lean veteran reminded Tormal of a gargoyle. Her eyes were as bleak and lifeless as the mountains through which the party now crept.

Sygeanor's dark expression clearly conveyed her displeasure with the phenomenon of Morticant migration and its possible affects on her own delicate plans. Lashing the Emercian commander with a sour scowl, she grumbled, "You can produce no plausible explanation for this sudden exodus?"

The hawk-faced commander wagged his head warily. There was no limit to what this volatile half-Ulgak might do when in this particular frame of mind. Frustration was not an emotion that Sygeanor suffered gracefully.

"If the Morticants are moving, it is in undeviating compliance with Myrhia's will because that's what they are...an extension of her will."

"And if she ceased to exist...could this be the result of her demise?" Sygeanor inquired sharply, though her tone conveyed the impression that she did not harbor much hope for the notion.

Tormal considered this for a moment and then opined, "If Myrhia was to perish, I suspect that her abominations would simply cease to function...very much like any other tool without someone to wield it."

Sygeanor pondered the analogy for a moment and then nodded sourly. "I tend to concur, which means that this mass migration and the sudden abandonment of her precious mines were initiated by the enchantress directly. The salient question then becomes...why would she simply walk away from a resource she has taken such pains to protect?"

"Could it be that she has accrued a sufficient quantity of the material to serve her purpose?" Tormal suggested.

Sygeanor shook her head dismissively. "Possible, but unlikely. Your former mistress does not strike me as the type to willingly relinquish control of anything that still holds the potential to be exploited. It would seem inconsistent with her predacious nature. No, something profound has transpired...something that has rendered the mining of this clay superfluous."

She inclined her face toward the sky, where heavy gray clouds scudded quickly over the ice-peaked mountains, spurred on by a gusting north wind. In the esoteric pattern of those racing clouds, the first seeds of a plan germinated in the fertile soil of her mind and she demanded excitedly, "Do your troops still have their Emercian uniforms?"

Tormal pursed his thin lips, not at all caring for the sinister gleam in those glacial gray eyes. Simply, he allowed, "They do."

Sygeanor smiled with a devious half-light flickering in her eyes and without disclosing her intentions, the half-Ulgak declared, "We will shadow this contingent of Morticants at a discreet distance. Along the way, we will attempt to determine what has motivated this sudden exodus and see if that something can be utilized to our advantage."

"You still intend to strike a course for Nalosan?" Tormal inquired, startled by her dogged persistence in pursing this mad folly.

Her answering grin was positively ebullient, breaking over her face like a fast rising sun. "Now...more than ever, Tormal. A tide of rapid change is sweeping the world, commander. I, for one, would rather ride its crest than be dashed on the rocks before its path."

The Emercian Commander's grim reaction elicited a mirthful chuckle from Sygeanor, who remarked, "Don't be so depressingly glum, Commander. You will live to see your home again. What more can any soldier ask?"

She turned on heel and marched briskly away, leaving a baffled Tormal in her wake to reflect on the shape his homecoming might assume.

Margarus, responding to her mistress' unspoken summons, hurried after Sygeanor, who led the automaton to a secluded clearing some fifty paces from the others. The mournful expression on the half-Ulgak's face appeared almost genuine, when she announced, "I'm afraid that this is where we part ways. I no longer have need of a keen blade, but I do require one final service before I allow that dull spark to gutter in your eyes. It is not in my nature to permit a debt to go uncollected. Cauldanys lives...as does the arrogant whelp who threatened my life. Time will not afford me the opportunity to settle this debt...at least, not personally. Therefore, you shall be my agent in this matter. Find the three and kill them...including the slave. In fact, I would have you remove her head and present it to the whelp before you separate her own from her shoulders."

She gripped the Jerhia's shoulders and shook her briskly. "When this deed is done, you may rest, Captain Margarus. Find a place that suits you and lay your head upon the frozen earth...let the ice and snow usher you into the void."

A flicker of cognizance seemed to erupt in Margarus' ice blue eyes and her mouth twisted and worked frantically as if trying to give expression to a sentiment that was beyond her faculties to convey. Resigned, she gave up the effort and offered Sygeanor a formal bow, before moving off to gather her horse and her few meager possessions...the sorry sum of a life devoted to the service of a noble ideal.

Sygeanor watched her go with a sense of keen satisfaction and then dismissed her lethal toy from her thoughts. Great events were afoot in the world and the ever ambitious Ulgak was determined to have a hand in defining their shape.

3

Even the most gifted of bards would have been hard pressed to conjure the proper words to convey the aura that hung over Myrhia's army as it wound its way across Metocan. Macabre, eerie, surreal; any of these might have been adequate, but none could fully encompass the prevailing sense of _strangeness_ that marked the procession's passage.

Within three leagues of crossing into Metocan, Myrhia's army had gathered an escort of Jerhia cavalry. One element preceded the invaders at a distance of two hundred paces, while the other trailed after it like a silent shadow. There was no interaction between the two armed camps. The disciplined Jerhia were there only to squire their adversaries to Othgol and prevent rash acts from disrupting the fragile truce that now existed between the two enemies. Strictly speaking, the escort was an unnecessary precaution. The Metocan were a people who valued their civility and deplored violence.

As the leagues crawled slowly by, Islena Doraux retreated deeper into a cloistered reticence. She rode at Myrhia's side, leashed to the pommel of the enchantress' saddle. At night, she would bath and have her long, lustrous red hair brushed by a woman, who at least a part of her had come to accept as a mother. The improbability of that acceptance alone made it very difficult not to perceive her current state of existence as anything other than an elaborate and vivid dream.

In this lucid dream, Islena embraced her role as subservient, trailing after the enchantress like a dutiful wraith. She lifted the diminutive beauty to and from her horse and had even taken to polishing her armor and honing the edge of Myrhia's ebony sword. She might have ascribed this to a desire to fill the empty hours when the procession called a halt to each day's march...except for one disturbing contradiction.

As they approached villages and towns during the course of their march, citizens of Metocan would come out to line the edges of the roadway. For most, this was their first glimpse of the infamous Emercian Queen. Islena could not help but wonder how they must perceive the tangible reality of the dreaded creature as she passed them by. How difficult it must be to reconcile this porcelain, fragile beauty with their preconceived image of the evil monster that had laid their world to ruin. Worse still, Islena found herself scanning the crowds, searching the faces for the slightest hint of imminent violence. To her amazed consternation, Islena realized that she was prepared to leap to Myrhia's defense at the first sign of threat.

' _You do it because you need her to ward you against the shadow presence,'_ she gleaned, staggered by the ugly dichotomy that her existence had come to represent. She was determined to bring Myrhia's spiral to a permanent end...but in the interim, she required Myrhia's stability to prevent her from succumbing to her own inner darkness.

' _If you should see this wild gambit to fruition, Islena, this triumph will leave a taste of bitter ash in your mouth,'_ Guinevere admonished her. _'Even my betrayal will pale before the one you now contemplate.'_

As unconscionable as this might prove to be, a destiny she had never wanted had left her with no other recourse. Though she frantically tried to resist...her thoughts turned back to the night before they had crossed the Hiberas. Try as she might to forcibly drag them into the light of lucidity, the events of that night defiantly remained obscured by an impenetrable fog. She knew only that she had been extremely agitated by...something...an insight that had left her feeling deeply troubled. Myrhia had placated her agitation. Somehow, Islena had awoken the next morning to find that she was naked, lying in Myrhia's bed with her left arm draped around the enchantress' torso. Her powerful fingers rested lightly on the delicate beauty's exposed throat. When full awareness filtered through the disorienting fog, the urge to contract those powerful fingers into a constricting vice became irrepressible. With the shadow presence braying in her ear...imploring her to take full advantage of the opportunity, Islena had somehow managed to relax those fingers until their touch became a gentle caress.

The enchantress had turned to Islena then and upon seeing the radiant light in Myrhia's dark eyes, Islena knew that the other woman had been awake for a long time.

"Remember Islena...discipline is the key to mastering your inner darkness," she had intoned gravely, before kissing Islena's parted lips and leaving her spinning and confused.

They had repeated this macabre ritual every night since with Myrhia willingly exposing herself to Islena's murderous need. Every morning, Doraux had awoken to discover that this compelling urge had diminished by another increment until this morning she had simply drawn the other woman to her, hugging her tightly as a daughter would hold a beloved mother.

' _You are losing yourself, Islena,'_ Guinevere had insisted worriedly. _'In this dizzyingly complex maelstrom intro which you've inadvertently allowed yourself to blunder, your identity is slowly, but inexorably being eroded. If you should lose sight of your original purpose...it is impossible to predict what you might become.'_

Despite this fearful admonition, Islena could feel the miles slip slowly by while she sank deeper into alien waters, caught between the discordant need to protect the Mother and the incessant drone of the shadow entity in her besieged mind. Islena could feel her tenuous grip on sanity slipping one powerful finger at a time.

Confronted by this horrifying prospect, Islena offered a desperate prayer that Artumas had succeeded in convincing Inos and the others of the wisdom of concurrence. With every league, the prospect of facing her former allies became more concrete. It was the notion of standing face to face with Lorio that filled Islena with primal dread.

4

While Islena drew ever closer to the next critical juncture on her road to apotheosis, Ynathreen and her two companions made the long and arduous journey from Ridenbhac to Elderspire. Whenever possible, the trio would stop in towns and villages and Ynathreen would solicit the help of the local elders, many of whom imparted their aid, albeit grudgingly. Cauldanys quickly discerned that Ghordrian's name carried considerable weight in barbaric Redia. Either out of respect or fear...very probably a liberal measure of both...the display of totem and the promise to remember the generosity had helped to procure the supplies they required.

The Jerhia came to develop an affectionate admiration for the Redian girl who conducted herself with the deportment of an experienced leader twice her age. She was deferential and courteous as a rule, but hard and unyielding as tempered steel when any of the elders looked to exploit her circumstances. Ynathreen was undaunted by the most intimidating of Redian hoodlums, many of whom learned in painfully explicit terms that she was no ordinary woman.

During the long nights...either in the comfort of an inn or more often as not, around a meager fire in a cave...the girl would submit herself to Muragren's patient tutelage. In her precisely posed questions, Ynathreen displayed a keen, analytical mind and an intense interest in everything from economics and trade to political philosophy. She did not absorb Muragren's teaching meekly or with blind acceptance, but constantly challenged the academic to elaborate and justify her philosophical perspectives. At times, these debates would grow rather spirited, but not once did Ynathreen remind the tutor of their respective roles of master and slave. At the end of each of these sessions, Cauldanys could discern the quiet pride that Muragren held for her student.

One incident in particular continued to resonate in the Jerhia's mind, serving a poignant reminder that the greatest of divides could be bridged by an open mind. They had come to the town of Idurnesan...at the foot of the great pass that divided northern and southern Redia. The Redian was well aware that the trek up the pass would be arduous and extremely taxing...especially on gaunt Muragren, who appeared increasingly depleted.

Idurnesan was large enough to serve as a seat for a clan chief. Iyanthor had long been an ally of Ghordrian and had greeted the news of the Elderspire Clan Chief's death with genuine sorrow, offering to facilitate Ynathreen's passage home in any way he could. Despite the burgeoning sense of exigency, the girl had request lodgings at one of the town's inns so that she and her slaves might rest before making the journey up the pass. Iyanthor had agreed...and only later did Cauldanys realize that his purported offer of aid had been too eagerly imparted.

Within an hour of Ynathreen's arrival, a messenger had been dispatched from the town, bound for Elderspire and carrying news of Ghordrian's death to those who would seek to capitalize on his ill fortune.

A jubilant Ynathreen was oblivious to the imminent treachery, just as she was unaware of the relentless engine of death that was stalking her through the wilds of Redia.

The elder of Ridenbhac might have been able to warn her of the latter threat...had his head still been attached to its torso.

As a treat, the Redian girl had arranged for baths for the three and sets of clean clothing. She had been conversing quietly with Cauldanys, when Muragren had returned to their quarters from her turn in the copper tub. Ynathreen had broken off in mid-sentence...her incisive gaze transfixed upon the woman standing near the doorway, regarding the pair silently. This was the first time that the Redian girl had looked up her tutor without her face being hidden by grime or a cracked mask of clay. Muragren's was a handsome face, dominated by large, expressive gray eyes that shone with keen intelligence. Though she lacked the specific word to articulate the concept, there was a long-suffering serenity about Muragren that lent her face an aspect of nobility.

"You...you're beautiful," Ynathreen had stammered and Muragren had blushed furiously at this effusive compliment. Then the girl's gaze had settled on Muragren's bare arms, which were piteously thin...like dried sticks and the Redian had shocked both women by bursting into tears. She had risen from her chair near the hearth and stumbling blindly over to the startled teacher, she had swept the slave up in a great hug. She had clung to Muragren and wept, while the older women exchanged bemused glances of incredulity.

After she had finally regained her composure, a red-eyed Ynathreen had stormed the kitchen and forced the inn's grumbling cook to prepare enough food to feed a good size Jerhia scouting party.

Cauldanys had shaken her head while a determined Ynathreen had badgered Muragren to gorge herself on a feast of artisan bread, rich stew and sweet cakes with clotted cream. When Muragren had pleaded that she could not eat another bite lest her stomach explode, Ynathreen had reluctantly relented. Over the course of the next fortnight, the Redian had taken every possible opportunity to make the increasingly bewildered Muragren shovel down mammoth portions of food, until finally the Fairmarch academic had flatly refused.

"Would you present a waddling cow to your mother, Ynathreen?" she had snapped in a rare display of vexation and had clamped her mouth shut like a defiant child when Ynathreen had tried to feed her more shortbread.

Cauldanys' hysterical laughter had earned reproving scowls from both women, whom she had quickly come to regard as sisters.

' _Your burgeoning humanity, Ynathreen...it will be the catalyst to change Redia and perhaps the world beyond,'_ the Jerhia had mused as she watched the pair engage in an intense debate over the finer points of rule. _'Will that humanity survive the cold twists of the many knives in the back you can expect on our road to the throne?'_

Cauldanys had no way of knowing that the first test of Ynathreen's fledgling humanity was close at hand.

5

Cauldanys' first impression of Elderspire was one of disappointment. Perched at the base of a ring of towering mountains, the city was thousands of years old, but in that time very little had been done to celebrate its longevity. The city exuded an air of something that could not be accurately described as neglect...but rather, distracted indifference. Most buildings were squat timber and stone constructs that had been designed to resist the inimical climate, with very little thought to any sense of style or ornamentation.

' _What is a city but a reflection of the people who live there,'_ Cauldanys thought as she guided her horse along one bleak street after another. _'This is a city of people who harbor only a passing interest in everyday life...bleak and uninviting.'_

Yet, above this depressing aura there hovered a distinct sense of uncertainty...even anxiety. As the trio had descended the pass, they had frequently encountered other travelers. Each had related the same incredible tale...conveyed in unmistakable tones of confusion and apprehension...the Morticants had left Redia without warning or explanation. A day from reaching the capital, Ynathreen had learned that the Emercians had abandoned their compound, leaving Elderspire under the cover of darkness.

"Good riddance to the lot of them!" Ynathreen had spat caustically, but beneath her surly mask, Cauldanys could sense the first stirrings of doubt and deep concern. Myrhia had evidently abandoned her control of Redia, severing their unequal alliance without explanation and leaving the country potentially alone and vulnerable to the wrath of those who had been the victim of Redian aggression.

The mood in Elderspire was subdued and the streets were essentially empty. While they made their way down what should have been a congested street at mid-afternoon, Cauldanys was cognizant of eyes charting their progress from behind drawn shutters.

"Your city has the feel of a place on the brink of eruption," Cauldanys observed quietly.

Ynathreen appeared tense and she met the Jerhia's observation with a frown of vexation that eloquently conveyed both her displeasure...and her concern.

That nascent anxiety was granted brutal justification the very moment the trio turned into the short road that led to Ghordrian's estate. Black smoke billowed indolently from somewhere within the compound, spurring Ynathreen to snap the reins of her horse. It charged up the icy cobbles with a metallic clatter of hooves, leaving her two startled companions forgotten in its wake. They watched in mounting horror as Ynathreen vanished through the heavy iron gates that now hung askew on their hinges.

"What do you think has happened?" Muragren ventured softly...the raw fear blatantly evident in her voice.

"A power play," Cauldanys replied automatically. "This type of thing is common in Redian politics. I'm speculating that someone in the city has learned of Ghordrian's death and has decided to stake their claim to his vacant title...in savagely emphatic terms."

"Then we must convince Ynathreen to leave the city...she's in imminent danger!" Muragren breathed frantically and set out after her student at an ill-advised gallop. Shaking her head and uttering a curse at the folly of charging blindly into what might be a deadly trap, Cauldanys nonetheless followed suit.

The grounds of Ghordrian's estate were littered with the detritus of brutal violence. Hacked and mangled bodies were sprawled in frozen pools of blood and the Jerhia scout's astute, analytical mind deduced that the defenders had been dealt a swift, well-organized blow that had quickly and efficiently laid them to waste.

She came upon a pallid Muragren, who was staring vacantly at the bloody aftermath of slaughter. "This attack was too cleanly executed to have been spontaneous. Whoever is responsible has been planning this for a long time, waiting patiently for the right opportunity. It finally came in the form of Ghordrian's death."

Muragren reacted to this assessment with a heavy exhalation that sent plumes of frosty breath twisting up into the dull afternoon sky. Visibly distraught and frightened, she willed herself to dismount her horse and stumble to the main entrance on legs made wooden with anxiety.

Cauldanys followed, nervously scanning the ground for any hint that the perpetrators might still be in the vicinity. The doors of the main house were conspicuously absent and snow had drifted in to cover the floor of the entrance. In the dim light, the Jerhia scout could make out a single set of footprints leading deeper into the gloom. More bodies were scattered throughout the main floor and a gruesome display of severed heads was arranged along the length of what appeared to be a dining room table. Upon seeing this ineffably horrific arrangement, Muragren abruptly turned away and violently regurgitated her breakfast, then knelt on the frozen tiles...moaning and shaking her head in negation.

Cauldanys had long since been inured to the horrors of war and immediately gleaned the purpose of this ghoulish display...a stark warning to Ghordrian's supporters...and to Ynathreen. Gently, she helped Muragren to her feet and holding her right wrist, led the trembling teacher on a furtive search from room to room.

Peering through an upper floor window, which overlooked the rear grounds, the two women spied Ynathreen kneeling in the snow. Sprawled before her was the corpse of a naked woman and even from this distance, the Jerhia could see that she had been eviscerated.

"Satheer...Ynathreen's mother," Muragren whimpered before her voice degenerated into an inarticulate wail of despair. Sobbing, she sprinted from the room with the sorrowful Cauldanys in close pursuit.

A swirling snow had begun to fall, lending a surreal aspect to this horrible nightmare. Cauldanys and Muragren stopped twelve paces from Ynathreen and the wreckage of her beautiful mother. The girl glanced up with eyes that were inscrutable...devoid of even the slightest trace of emotion. With an unsettling serenity, she remarked, "I am an orphan now."

The concise articulation of this unspeakable act of evil effectively destroyed what remained of Muragren's composure. With a keening cry, she stumbled over to Ynathreen and threw her arms around the girl's broad shoulders. She attempted to offer the girl some expression of consolation, but the best she could muster was a strangled cry of negation. Ynathreen gently patted Muragren's back as if it had been the older woman who had suffered this incomprehensible loss. She shifted her flat gaze to Cauldanys and in a terrifyingly glacial voice, intoned, "I must give answer to this treachery."

Mortified to discover that Ynathreen intended to do anything other than seek shelter, Muragren began to plead wretchedly, "No Ynathreen...please...please don't compound this tragedy. I'm begging you...what can you do...alone?"

As she made this desperate entreaty, Muragren tenderly caressed the girl's face and traced her pliable lower lip with her index finger. The muscles of Ynathreen's face felt as if they had been carved from granite. "Please, girl...don't throw your life away on a misguided, suicidal bid for revenge."

Somehow, Ynathreen managed a thin smile as she gently but firmly squeezed Muragren's face. "You must learn to have faith in me, teacher."

She then disentangled herself from the weeping woman, and sparing one final glance at her beloved mother, moved over to join a dejected Cauldanys. "I would ask that you find a shelter inside for Muragren. Build a fire and find the larder, which should be well stocked. You have no obligation to me, but I would ask that you remain here for the next two days. If I have not returned by then, I would entreat you to guide Muragren to her home in Fairmarch.

Cauldanys grimaced and shifted her regard to the older woman, who had bowed her head in dejection and placed her hand on Satheer's cold shoulder. "Do you know who committed this...this evil act?"

Ynathreen's smile became feral...ghastly in its lethal promise. "Yes...and I will kill them and everyone who follows them...their families and children...I will paint the mountains red with their blood."

Cauldanys' expression became sorrowful and she could clearly visualize this extraordinary girl's humanity beneath crushed beneath the boot heels of retribution like a delicate bloom. To her eternal chagrin, she heard herself declare, "I'm coming with you...if nothing else, I can protect your back."

Ynathreen raised a quizzical eyebrow and when the Jerhia met her incisive gaze unblinkingly, the Redian merely nodded. She turned her gaze back to her mother and the woman who mourned her cruel passing. "Ghordrian believed that Redia could be changed...that our natural tendency toward cruelty and brutal violence could be expunged by a fresh, enlightened perspective. I see now that he was a fool. If Redia is to change, I must flog the malice from its soul...cut it out like an unfeeling butcher. When I become queen, I will guide Redia into a new future...on a river of its own blood."

With this horrifying vow articulated, Ynathreen turned and strode back to the main house. Hearing this terrible promise, Muragren buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

Chapter Ten

1

The soft, almost tentative rapping at his chamber door drew Artumas away from the dry text of the reports he'd been perusing. The king in exile...as he was now being called (a title from which he derived no particular pleasure)...called for the knocker to enter. Inos and Maroc had been particularly diligent in taking an inclusive approach to the returned king of Emercia. To Artumas' surprise and consternation, they would often defer to him on issues revolving around Myrhia's entry into Othgol. He had tried to disguise the dread the prospect of this encounter evoked, though with little success...or so he believed.

' _Is there a single person in this city who is not fearful or anxious over her imminent arrival?'_ he thought ruefully. _'When the lamb has thrown open the door to the wolf, how can it not be apprehensive?'_ The entire city was engaged in a flurry of preparatory activity, but Artumas believed this was motivated more by the need for distraction. Beneath the industrious bustle...Artumas could sense impending doom gnawing at the citizens of Metocan. _'It will fall to you to see it averted.'_

This last unwelcome thought caused Artumas to grimace. The door opened slightly and Lorio slid gracefully through the opening, though the vision that confronted the aging king was so unexpected that it caused his lower mandible to drop.

The statuesque, raven-haired woman before him was beauty personified. Her long hair fell in loose, heavy tresses to a point in the hollow of her lower back. It was held back on the right side of her face by a pearl inlaid comb that emphasized the perfection of her cheekbones. A color had been brushed on her eyelids that made them shine as boldly as dark suns. She was attired in a flowing red gown the color of claret that was cinched at the waist by an interwoven silver belt. In every aspect, the creature standing before him was the very portrait of a queen...elegant and beguiling. He realized that he was gaping, but found himself powerless to desist. He wondered if she even realized that hers was a beauty to rival anything he had ever beheld.

Lorio stood by the door and a frown bloomed on her face as she misconstrued his reaction to her radically altered appearance. She glanced down at her attire and inquired brusquely, "Have I made a jape of myself?"

Seeing the implacable Lorio belittled by doubt, Artumas shook his head and rose quickly. "Forgive my discourtesy, Lorio...by all the Gods, no! You are magnificent beyond the ability of any words to express."

Again, she glanced down at her clothing, clearly doubtful despite his effusive compliment. "That is well then...my life had not afforded me many occasions for finery and I am unaccustomed to the trapping of a courtier."

Artumas smiled, though he experienced a keen stab of sorrow for the travails this beautiful creature had been forced to suffer. "You would make those same supercilious popinjays swoon at your feet Lorio."

The immortal pursed her lips at this absurd image, but nonetheless thanked him for the compliment. He came around the desk and ushered her to a pair of chairs next to the bank of windows that dominated an entire wall of his quarters. Taking a seat across from her, he began, "I've been meaning to speak to you, but Maroc and Inos seemed determined to make me earn my supper and I sensed that you required...space."

Lorio glanced at her hands, which were folded primly in her lap. "Thank you...your highness...I have no illusions and am all too well aware that I'm a...complicated person...or that I've caused no shortage of consternation for everyone around me. It seems to be contrary to my nature, but I want to apologize...and do what I can to make amends."

"Lorio, you need never address me as anything other than Artumas. There are none who could claim to stand above you and I would not have you defer to me. After all that you have endured, both during your journey through the Land of Shades and prior...there is no one to whom you should apologize. If we should survive this coming encounter, the people of this world will be in your eternal debt."

Lorio shifted her gaze to the window. The swirling mists beyond were every bit as nebulous as the antiquated world's future. An expression of intense pain flashed across the splendid topography of her face and she inquired, "Artumas, so you still subscribe to the belief that Islena seeks to undo Myrhia...in light of her actions...at the end?"

Artumas held her intense gaze...knowing that she was searching his face for the slightest intimation of ambivalence. Eventually, he allowed, "I do. This does not absolve Islena of the wrong she has inflicted upon you, Lorio...not in the slightest. I also genuinely believe that she deserted us with a mind to providing the party with the opportunity to escape Myrhia. In doing so, she perpetrated a heinous act of evil upon you that is beyond my comprehension. Even if she achieves the enchantress' destruction, I believe that she must be made to atone for the injustice you've suffered."

Lorio slowly drew in her cheeks and her luminous dark eyes were clouded by a shadow Artumas could not decipher. "If Islena should put an end to Myrhia, I sincerely doubt the world will spare a thought to the grievances of one Lamish itinerant."

"Lorio, my colossal failure in discerning Myrhia's true nature probably disqualifies me from any claim to authority in the matter...but it is my belief that Islena loves you with a passion so intense that it terrifies her...in part because she believes that she is not worthy of loving anything."

An expression of intense anger flashed across Lorio's beautiful face. "Then she has a decidedly strange and maladroit way of demonstrating it."

"I have no way of validating this contention, but I truly doubt that it was Islena's prior intention of seeing your son served up as payment."

Lorio glared balefully, but then rose and stalked away, standing stiffly with her back to the Emercian king. Artumas could feel her festering anger radiating through the large chamber in palpable waves, yet it had been she who had sought him out and he believed that she was deserving of candor. "On the night before the tragic debacle in Purgatory, Islena extracted a promise that I would care for both you and your child and that you would not be forgotten or alone. She was frantic with the need to procure my oath. This is hardly consistent with her apparent collusion with Otaru Ree. Do not misconstrue this as a justification, but I am certain that it never occurred to her that this ancient entity would select your son as price of passage. If you recall, Otaru made it clear that, by not coming to her in the previously agreed upon location, Islena had forfeited the right of choice. This would imply that it was to be Islena who select one amongst our ranks who would serve as a sacrifice."

Lorio titled her head in a posture of disdainful skepticism. "How could she not have known, Artumas? A sentient deity trapped with shades in a wasteland of unrelenting emptiness...how could Otaru not be drawn to the vital promise of an unborn life?"

With brutal frankness, Artumas retorted, "Could the same not be said for you as well, Lorio...and yet you entered Otaru Ree's demesne of your own volition...even after Islena begged you to remain behind."

Fury...bright and sinister...immediately erupted in Lorio's eyes, but quickly guttered, giving way to a scowl of self-loathing. Artumas approached the immortal and placed a placating hand on her firm right shoulder. "Again, do not misinterpret my intention...I am not trying to alleviate Islena's burden of blame. Yet, if you examine the matter from the perspective of cold logic, it becomes apparent that Myrhia has beguiled Islena. She has achieved the astounding feat of convincing Doraux that she is a greater threat...a purer evil...than the dark creature who would bend her to its purpose."

Lorio shook her head in perplexed consternation. "Certain of this, you still contend that she still aspires to be Myrhia's bane?"

Artumas raised his arms and nodded, hoping to convey a far greater measure of conviction than he felt. She stared unblinkingly at the aging king for several moments and then sighed. "Despite what I've said in my spiteful moments, our short time together has made me appreciate why you have garnered such universal respect. In truth Artumas, my anger with Islena is far surpassed by the contempt I harbor for myself. Otaru Ree was right about one thing...the very notion that I could ever be a fit mother is an absurdity that would be laughable if it was not so tragic. Even with the Queen of the Dead, the boy will find more happiness than he could ever know with me."

Artumas could only shake his head and wonder how any living being could survive beneath the glare of such self-loathing. "Lorio, I sense that you are prone to self-condemnation and I can tell you that scourging yourself with every perceived failure and imperfection will vitiate your heart beyond all reclamation. Arminda shared some of your story with me...she holds you in high esteem...and if her depiction of your life is accurate, you have been ruthlessly victimized by everyone you have ever known. Your father, Islena, Myrhia...all of them have abused you to varying degrees...exploiting your love and passion. The gravest injustice of this mistreatment is that you have come to believe that you are unworthy of genuine love. When this is over...if you allow me...I will show you how woefully incorrect your self-perceptions are."

For a long moment, Lorio could not respond as her large dark eyes misted with tears, glittering wetly in the subdued light of the king's chamber. To subdue her urge to cry before this nobleman whose estimate of her worth was absurd, Lorio quipped, "Will you take me to Nalosan and make me your Queen. I wonder how your countrymen would react to having a Lamish orphan on the throne."

"Any king would be blessed to have you sit by their side, Lorio," Artumas intoned and then added with a crooked grin, "It would be my honor to have you as my Queen, but I frankly doubt I would survive the consummation of our marriage."

The remark was so unexpected that Lorio burst into a spate of unrestrained laughter. The radiance of her smile made the aging king's heart flutter. When her laughter finally subsided, her demeanor became somber. "Artumas, I have heard rumors that I may be...confined when Myrhia and Islena reach the city."

"The matter has been discussed," Artumas admitted, again believing that Lorio had earned the right to total candor. "The Inner Circle and Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc fear that your volatile nature may compel you to do something inflammatory."

Lorio nodded bitterly and then her tone assumed a ring of desperate entreaty. "I would beseech you to prevent this from happening. The very thought of setting my eyes on Islena or Myrhia twists my stomach into painful knots. What's more, the enchantress bears a special enmity towards me and I have no desire to attract her attention. When they are in Othgol, I will gladly fade into the tapestry."

She clutched his wrist and glided closer, until the intoxicating weight of her full left breast pressed against his right arm. "Artumas, I've suffered all of the indignity I can tolerate...and I can't be locked away again. I'm begging you to intercede on my behalf...don't let them treat me like a criminal."

Artumas frowned at the fragility glimpsed beneath the inured exterior and accordingly, he felt obliged to ward her against the indignity of being forcibly cloistered. "If you will accept it, I will propose a compromise...while Myrhia is in Othgol; I would have you stay here in my suite of rooms. If you are unconcerned by the tongues wagging at the suggestion of impropriety this might arouse, it might be the most amenable solution."

Lorio's answering smile of gratitude was lustrous. "If it spares me from the indignity of a locked cell, I would sleep on a mat at the foot of your bed. Even that would be a luxury compared to what I've endured through most of my life.'

"Then I will speak to Inos and Maroc while you may settle into the spare chamber at your convenience," Artumas remarked with a kindly smile.

"Or yours if you prefer," she teased and kissed his cheek before leaving his chamber with a lascivious wink and a brilliant smile.

Artumas felt rather giddy as he shook his head, surprised by the sudden appearance of the playful side of the hardened immortal's nature. The segment of his mind that had been stung the deepest by the past betrayals of the women in his life raised a cry of alarm over Lorio's anomalous repentance. Ignoring it, Artumas went in search of Inos and Maroc.

2

Any vestige of false levity vanished from Lorio's face the instant the door to Artumas' chamber closed behind her. The man's sincere certitude that she was worthy of love...deserving of kindness and compassion...unsettled her, affecting her in complex ways that threatened her resolve.

' _You believe you can lift me up, old man...that I am a phoenix you can coax from the ashes of injustice and abuse. You will find that I am the one reclamation project that will bring you only heartache in the end.'_ Her face twisted into a mask of bitterness as she hurried back to the Jerhia compound. As she made her way across the deserted training yard, Gillian slid forth from the shadows and fell in beside her. His eyes were black and yellow slits where she had broken his nose, but if he harbored a grudge over her assault, it was not readily apparent in his deportment. His gaze swept appreciatively over her nubile body and he intoned, "Adorned as you are, I believe you would melt even the ice around dour Maktir's heart."

Lorio scowled, but made no comment. Gillian's mood sobered and he inquired, "Was Artumas receptive to your litany of sorrow?"

"He was...in fact, he offered me a room in his chambers while the cravens make their deal with the monster," she disclosed.

Gillian arched an eyebrow and remarked thoughtfully, "That should certainly set tongues to wagging in all quarters."

Lorio shrugged indifferently and then stopped to face the Jerhia with her face set in a severe frown. "I take no pleasure in deceiving Artumas. He is perhaps the only person I have ever met who could legitimately be called noble or virtuous."

"Which is precisely why you needed to enlist him as an ally. Negating the threat posed by Islena Doraux takes precedence over wounded sensibilities. It has been reported that Myrhia's host will reach Othgol by noon bell tomorrow. She will be received in the central plaza by Artumas and the CornerStone leaders. The plaza will be awash with those curious to catch a glimpse at this living bastion of iniquity and her new pet. Still, security will be rigid and if I succeed in creating a window of opportunity...it will be perilously small."

"Succeed in your momentary distraction and Islena will be dead on the cobbles before even Myrhia can react," Lorio vowed coldly.

Gillian swallowed, not doubting this living engine of retribution for a moment. "I will personally see that the things you've requested are placed at the agreed upon location."

Lorio grunted her understanding and the battered Jerhia began to turn away, though not before the immortal imparted one final sliver of advice. "Whatever it is that brings you pleasure, I would take the opportunity to indulge it tonight. By this time tomorrow...even if I succeed in killing Islena...Othgol will be a graveyard."

With this fatalistic forecast delivered, Lorio strode away from Gillian, who merely shook his head and hurried back toward his own quarters. In their preoccupation with finalizing the details of their intended subterfuge, neither noticed the figure who was sequestered in the shadow of the balcony not far from where they stood. When she was certain that the pair had vacated the area, Arminda crossed to the railing and leaned against the balustrade. She peered down into the empty training yard with an expression of deep concern on her lovely face.

Gillian and Lorio were as compatible as pitch and fire. That they would be huddled together in whispered conversation reeked of something conspiratorial and potentially disastrous. Both perturbed and dismayed by this latest wrinkle in an already precariously delicate weave, Arminda returned to her quarters, intent on deciphering the riddle of this improbable clandestine meeting between her two former quest companions.

3

The peeling of the city's bells announced the arrival of Myrhia's host at the edge of the capital not long after the ghost of a sun passed its zenith above the pervasive mists. Soon every bell in the city added to the cacophony, though in truth, the herald was hardly necessary. The citizens of Othgol had lined the streets and thoroughfares over which the procession would be led, many gathering on the wide stone walkways well before dawn.

Every head was turned toward the west, gazing along the wide promontory under a pall of anxious silence. Conversations were conducted in subdued whispers and the general mood of the crowd was more appropriate for a funeral procession than a reception for a conqueror. The Inner Circle had been deliberately circumspect in sharing the precise purpose for Myrhia's shocking visit to Othgol...which inevitably ignited a firestorm of speculation amongst the capital's citizens.

The massive presence of heavy Jerhia cavalry units all along the intended route of passage only fuelled the conjecture. The most commonly propagated rumor was that the CornerStone Nations intended to surrender and that Myrhia would be installed as empress. One particularly ludicrous rumor suggested that the enchantress had agreed to end the war and relinquish control of all territorial gains in exchange for the mythical Islena Doraux and the three Proclamations.

On a hastily erected dais in the central plaza, the leaders of the CornerStone Nations sat stone-faced...nervously awaiting the appearance of the two terrifying creatures, who between them, had the puissance to reduce Othgol to charred rubble a hundred times over. Ironically, it was Artumas, the deposed Emercian King, who had garnered the unenviable task of formally greeting the woman who had usurped his throne. Bolstered by elements of light Emercian cavalry, the Jerhia heavy cavalry had formed a square around the central plaza, separating the tense, silent crowd from the open space where Myrhia and her host would be received.

With the tolling of the bells, a murmur ran through the sea of Metocan and every head craned in anticipation of a first glimpse at the dreaded emerald enchantress.

Arminda stood at attention, directly behind Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc, discomfited by the impeccable ceremonial uniform of her new office.

Though her pretty, angular face remained impassive, behind her ice blue eyes there raged a storm of anxiety, agitated by the recollection of Gillian's furtive encounter with Lorio. She had spoken with the swordsman earlier this morning, appalled by the condition of his face, which he had claimed was the result of an ungainly tumble down a flight of stairs. The fabrication was absurd of course...with the exception of the Morticant hybrid, Arminda had never encountered anyone blessed with such agility and grace. When she had confronted him regarding his suspicious parlay with the irascible Lorio, Gillian had merely stated that he had been trying to discourage the Lamish immortal from contemplating doing anything rash upon Myrhia's arrival.

Arminda had raised a skeptical eyebrow, knowing that Gillian had advocated rash action of the most extreme sort when responding to Islena's perceived betrayal. The swordsman had offered her his signature irreverent grin and clapped her on the shoulder, despite the fact that she had been elevated in position to a rank far beyond his own. "Tier Marshal, don't succumb to the paranoid suspicion that often accompanies your lofty rank...lest you begin to see malign shadows and conspiracy lurking in every darkened corner.

At the end of this unproductive dialogue, Arminda had specifically forbid him to have further contact with Lorio, to which he had frowned and quipped, "You have my solemn oath. Frankly, Myrhia's Morticants would probably make far more agreeable company than our surly Lamish Hellion."

Feeling vexed by what she perceived as her maladroit handling of the contentious Jerhia, Arminda had stalked away...certain that he had deceived her.

Now, with Myrhia's arrival imminent, Arminda's roving gaze swept the common, but she could not see the Jerhia swordsman anywhere amongst the throng of spectators.

' _You bungling fool, why did you not bring your suspicions to Maroc,'_ she castigated herself, briefly shifting her regard to the back of the Maxim Tier Marshal's head. Knowing that she had committed a grievous error in judgment and believing that she was now honor bound to rectify that error personally, Arminda committed another by leaning forward and whispering, "Maxim Tier Marshal, there is an urgent matter that I must attend to...if you will grant me leave."

Maroc inclined his head in her direction, his incisive gaze regarding her intently. Setting her face in a mask of urgency, she met his gaze evenly and finally he nodded, though his displeasure was evident. "Try to conclude your business before Myrhia reaches the plaza. I would have your assessment of her current relationship with Islena."

Arminda nodded gravely and after offering her superior a formal bow, dismounted the dais and exited the plaza. When she had finally managed to push her way free of the crowd, the diminutive Jerhia began to sprint.

4

Lorio rose from her bed as the bells of Othgol began to peel, knowing that in all probability, this would be the last day of her life. Artumas had departed to confer with the other leaders earlier in the morning, leaving her alone with the silence and the brooding specters of her life.

The prospect of her imminent death lacked the power to evoke even the slightest twinge of sorrow in her immortal heart. Though, as she whiled away the hours reminiscing on the tragic and sorrowful flow that her short life had followed, Lorio could lay claim to a list of regrets worthy of an ancient.

"But if I can bury a short sword in Islena's heart, at least I can balance scales of the life I've squandered," she whispered to the empty chamber.

' _Can you really kill Islena, Lorio?'_ the voice of her stunted conscience whispered skeptically. ' _Knowing that she arranged for your care and that...if the final truth be given voice...she has sacrificed herself to abject subservience so that you might live...are you truly capable of such monumental ingratitude?"_

Lorio growled deep in her chest and conjured the harrowing image of her son being lifted from her arms...if only to banish the traitorous voice from her thoughts.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply...relishing the vivid image of his beautiful face and its perfect innocence. Exhaling sharply, Lorio started for the chamber door just as an insistent rapping broke the silence.

Frowning in consternation, she opened the suite door to find a solemn-faced Arminda standing in the threshold...her blue eyes set in a vaguely accusatory cast.

' _She knows...or at least suspects,'_ Lorio immediately deduced. The young Jerhia possessed a keen mind and had spent enough time in the immortal's company to know that she would never permit such an egregious wound to go unanswered. Impatiently, Lorio remarked, "I would have thought that you would be preparing to receive your new allies. After all, you've been accepted into the rarified circle of the elite."

Arminda scowled and pushed past Lorio into the spacious chamber. "We both know that this is an honorarium bestowed upon me for the feat of simply surviving the quest."

"And yet Gillian was somehow deemed unworthy of the same acknowledgement?" Lorio observed caustically.

Arminda frowned but refused to be drawn into that particularly fraught dialogue. Lorio slowly closed the door and turned back to the Jerhia. "So you've been dispatched to be my minder while your masters exchange their souls in return for their continuing existence?"

Arminda bristled at this bitter affront. "I'm here of my own accord because I want to insure that you remain in this suite...as much for your own wellbeing as anything else." After a moment, she added, "I saw you in your huddled conversation with Gillian yesterday and I'm here to make sure that whatever scheme you've both concocted goes unrealized."

Lorio leaned casually against the door and folded her arms beneath her full breasts. "The very fact that you are here without an escort informs me that you have not shared this snippet of information with the others."

"I have not," Arminda admitted candidly, though she was suddenly wary of the sinister glint that had stolen into Lorio's eyes, despite her casual posture. "I've come to spend time with my quest sister...the same sister who gave me her Zarcyk and her personal oath. I would have us both live to see sunset...the chances of which increase dramatically if we both remain in this room until the odious ceremony runs its course."

"We've been down this particular road often enough to know that...should I decide to leave this room, there is absolutely nothing you could do to prevent it," Lorio reminded the Jerhia and though there was a note of amusement in her voice, the immortal's eyes flashed menacingly.

"Nonetheless, you will remain here with me until the negotiations have concluded," Arminda insisted unflinchingly. "Your grievances against these two women are legitimate, but this is not the moment to settle them."

Lorio's eyes narrowed and she glared truculently at Arminda, who managed to mask her anxiety in the face of the taller woman's hostility. Finally, Lorio fetched a sigh and grumbled, "Very well then...I have no taste for suicide. Let us pass the afternoon like wistful sisters while the world burns beyond our door."

She pushed away from the door and gestured Arminda toward the two sofas. The Jerhia turned slightly, but before she had taken a single step, Lorio pounced upon the smaller woman like a great cat. Her right arm snaked under Arminda's chin, while her left arm locked around the back of the Jerhia's head. With Arminda hopelessly ensnared in a choke hold, Lorio then threw herself to the floor, dragging the gasping Jerhia down on top of her. She then wrapped her long legs around Arminda's torso in a constricting vice that quickly pushed all of the remaining air from the helpless woman's lungs. Cognizant of not wanting to snap Arminda's neck, Lorio began to apply a steady pressure to the woman's exposed throat.

Arminda tugged ineffectually at Lorio's hard bicep as black flowers began to occlude her consciousness. She cursed herself for a gullible fool even as she spiraled down into the void. Lorio pressed her lips against the Jerhia's ear and whispered, "Don't struggle Arminda...relax and let yourself drift into sleep. There will be no permanent harm and when you awaken, Islena Doraux will be but an echo of a distant nightmare."

Arminda continued to resist, but soon her struggles grew feeble. A gasp escaped her contorted lips and she went utterly still in Lorio's inescapable embrace. Lorio immediately released the Jerhia and rolled her onto her face. Effortlessly lifting the unconscious young woman into her arms, she carried Arminda into Artumas' bed chamber and bound her wrists to the thick bedposts with torn strips of sheet. Sparing the unconscious woman...whom she had come to admire...one fleeting final glance, Lorio quickly hurried from Artumas' suite to collect her tools of assassination. Even as she collected the items that Gillian had left for her, Lorio was assailed by the stirring voice of her niggling doubts.

5

At the mouth of the thoroughfare that led into Othgol's great plaza, a massive arch had been erected some time in the distant past. Recessed in the towering span of black stone were the alabaster busts of every man who had ever held the title of Grand Mage over the past millennium. The arch had been erected to pay homage to those who had guided Metocan through what was referred to as the grand age of enlightenment.

Inos knew that his own rendering was positioned near the very top of the magnificent structure. Now, as he caught his first glimpse of the capital's _guests_ as they approached the symbolic monument, the Metocan leader could not help but feel that the age of enlightenment was about to give way to an age of darkness and infamy.

Since the day Tokizar had leveled her scathing indictment that, by seeking an accord with Myrhia, the Cornerstone Nations would become duplicitous in her future crimes, Inos had been assailed by misgivings. He had arrived at the conclusion that her allegations were valid, but that validity did nothing to change the fact that Myrhia remained invulnerable. If it turned out that Islena Doraux had, indeed, resigned herself to the role of the enchantress' lethal lapdog, then their situation was utterly hopeless.

With Myrhia's arrival, Inos did not have to wait long for his dire fears to be substantiated.

A deep ripple of nervous tension spread through the subdued crowd. That tension gave way to a collective sigh of despair when those assembled glimpsed the abject spectacle of the armored figure walking next to the enchantress...with an ornate leash and collar around its neck.

Myrhia guided her horse slowly, savoring the palpable aura of dejection that swept through the masses that lined the streets of Othgol. She glanced briefly down at Islena, whose partially concealed face was inscrutable and reminded her of a piece of statuary.

' _You've shattered her spirit and molded her into a posture of absolute subservience,'_ Myrhia thought with intense satisfaction. ' _Even when she obtains the power of a goddess...she will yearn for the collar. She will level entire cities for a kind word or a fleeting touch.'_ This notion was so richly gratifying that it roused an electric sensation in Myrhia's viscera that was more erotic than a skilled lover's touch.

As she guided a complaisant Islena beneath the arch and onto the sprawling plaza grounds, Myrhia cut her gaze to the huddled masses. In their eyes she could see the weak flicker of defiance gutter and die at the sight of their savior broken and shackled in Myrhia's collar. She could unleash her sorcery on the pathetic fools and they would not raise a hand in their own defense.

' _This taste of victory will only make the inevitable moment of defeat all the more bitter,'_ Morgana whispered from the shadows and it was all that Myrhia could do to remain seated on her armored charger.

Artumas stood atop the dais and as he watched the two familiar souls approach, he could feel sharp, barbed hooks of dejection tear into the meat of his aching heart. The sight of these two women, both attired in ebony armor adorned by Myrhia's vile sigil, evoked a riot of turbulent emotions and Artumas could feel the repercussions as the innumerable incarnations battered at the stubborn walls which kept them imprisoned in shadow.

Artumas watched the slow, rhythmic sway of Islena's hips as she walked languidly over the great paving stones of the plaza. She moved with a liquid grace that carried no hint of resistance or reluctance. The obsidian leash was slack and spoke of total acceptance of her abjection. His gaze shifted to Myrhia, whose eyes were fixed squarely upon his face, while her lovely visage was set in an expression of smug satisfaction.

' _It is only natural Artumas. She perceives this moment as a triumph...not over this antiquated world for which she cares nothing...but as a personal victory over you,'_ the incarnation named Arthur informed him. _'Islena claimed that the flow of events has relegated you to the role of spectator in this latest enactment of our eternal struggle. One need only glance into Myrhia's limpid eyes to discern the refutation of Doraux's claim. In the twisted labyrinth of Myrhia's mind, you...and your defeat...are the only relevant things at this precise juncture.'_

The intensity with which Myrhia's blazing gaze was set upon him made the incarnations claim impossible to contradict.

The Emercian Queen reined her charger to a halt twenty paces from the foot of the dais upon which her hosts waited to receive her. Both she and Islena remained stationary while her Morticants quickly took up positions around the plaza...forming a cordon around both the enchantress and the dais. Every eye on the dais tracked the abominations warily...feeling exposed and vulnerable in such close proximity to the daunting creatures.

Artumas observed this unnecessary flexing of muscle with a rueful frown. Turning back to the Queen, he intoned gruffly, "Tactics of intimidations are hardly a sign of willingness to enter into amicable negotiations...good queen."

The formal address had been uttered in tones of one who fears they might choke on the very words. Myrhia glowered, but then her radiant smile returned as her incisive gaze swept the upper reaches of the buildings which enclosed the great plaza. Finally, she retorted lightly, "No more so than the archers that are sequestered in every window." With a flash of teeth that was not precisely a smile, she added, "Husband."

Artumas' gaze slid briefly to Maroc, whose face remained impassive. The situation was already a potential tinder keg...made all the more volatile by every additional adversarial element. Posturing was ultimately pointless and could prove disastrous if temper should occlude reason.

Artumas then shifted his regard to Islena, whose face was partially concealed by an ornate half-helm. Her green eyes were fixed forward and her shoulders and chin were both square in a ceremonial posture of attention. Myrhia noticed Artumas' scrutiny of their _daughter_ and greeted his bemused expression with a disdainful chuckle. "Unsettling is it not...to see you savior shackled in fawning subservience to the very enemy you had hoped she would destroy." Her contemptuous gaze swept the dais and she inquired, "To see the two of us standing together...trampling the last of your delusions into dust...is it not the very embodiment of defeat?"

"Have you come merely to gloat, Myrhia?" Artumas asked quietly, his tone implying disappointment with her perceived pettiness.

Myrhia glared at the man whose throne she had so skillfully usurped. Initially, she had been euphoric that he would be present to bear witness to her long awaited moment of triumph. Instead of the shattered and disillusioned shell of a man she had expected, Artumas reacted to her victory with his typical long-suffering nobility, thus robbing the moment of much of its anticipated sweetness. Turning to Islena, she extended her arms and commanded brusquely, "Daughter..."

A collective whimper arose from the crowd when Islena strode briskly to Myrhia's side and lifted the diminutive enchantress from her saddle. She gently deposited her mistress on the paving stones and offered Myrhia a deep bow that drew another startled gasp from the throng. Myrhia led a docile Islena toward the dais. She stopped and pointed toward the black stones. "Kneel daughter...and repeat your oath of fealty so that the people of Othgol would bear witness to the end of false hope."

With no discernable hint of hesitation, Islena Doraux...the one of prophecy and fabled savior of the world of light...sank to her knees and arching her back, bellowed the oath of fealty she had first sworn on the shore of the Great Western Ocean. "I am your vessel...who lives only to serve your will. I am your shield and the keen edge of your sword. I am the inexorable hammer of your will and you will wield me as you see fit."

Islena's words resounded throughout the great plaza, echoing off the stones of the surrounding buildings. Every face clearly conveyed the devastating impact of Doraux's unequivocal declaration of fealty...as if each word was a dagger thrust to the small repository of hope the citizen's of Othgol had harbored.

When the faint echo of the final word had disappeared, a dismal silence descended upon the plaza. Myrhia bent and bestowed an ardent kiss on the top of Islena's helm. She then unclipped Islena's collar and carried the device back to her charger, dropping the leash over her saddle. She caressed the cool onyx lovingly before turning back to the dais. As she approached the finery-draped platform, her scaled boots echoed loudly on the cobbles...so complete was the silence that gripped the plaza.

Upon approaching the dais, Myrhia eschewed the stairs and floated up to the carpeted platform as if borne on a weave of air. Landing lightly on the balls of her feet, she spared Artumas a playful grin, before turning to confront the sea of somber faces. When she spoke, her melodic voice rolled over the crowd like apocalyptic thunder. Pointing at the kneeling Islena, the enchantress proclaimed, "You see before you the hammer of my will...a child of prophecy regaled as your savior. Let every one amongst you know that she is, in fact, the savior that augury foretold she would be. Salvation comes in many forms. Islena's prudent capitulation will prove to be your deliverance." She extended her right arm in the direction of the men and women behind her in a sweeping gesture of encompassment. "If these men and women who presume to lead you and claim to represent your best interests renounce their opposition and accept my reasonable conditions...hostilities will cease and you may take up the frayed and tattered threads of your normal lives."

Myrhia strolled casually about the platform, stopping directly before a grim-faced Inos, whom she fixed with a withering glare. "I would have you take to heart this one admonition...while I am in Othgol, any act of civil disobedience or aggression against me or my host will be construed as a rejection of my benevolent offer of peace and will be punished with the utter obliteration of your historic city."

She fell silent and allowed the mass of humanity to digest her dire warning. Her mood lightened perceptibly and she declared grandly, "Go home and offer a prayer of gratitude that your _savior_ has secured your children's future."

At that precise moment, chaos erupted in the plaza.

Chapter Eleven

1

Maroc witnessed Myrhia's arrival in the central plaza of Othgol as if from the depths of a trance. While the rest of those assembled observed every move and nuance as though mesmerized, the Maxim Tier Marshal was only distantly cognizant of the intense drama unfurling around him.

Even when the ignominious viper floated up onto the dais and delivered her bombastic soliloquy of death and honey, Maroc found his gaze scanning the crowd...searching intently for his source of nebulous but acute anxiety. Though he could not qualify the specific cause, the Jerhia was struck by the nerve rending presage that something disastrous was about to befall the moment.

His first inkling that something was...discordant had come earlier in the morning as he had briefed his new adjutant on Jerhia's formal position as it pertained to Myrhia's arrival. Arminda had seemed uncharacteristically distracted, but in his own preoccupation with this approaching charade, Maroc had unwisely elected not to explore the cause of her distraction.

Even earlier, as she had stood behind him, Arminda had radiated a palpable tension that had served to ignite his own anxiety. When she had requested that she be allowed to leave, he had been on the verge of taking her aside and rooting out the source of her obvious disquiet. Now, with her continuing absence, Maroc could not escape the unsettling certainty that some ill fortune had befallen his young adjutant.

As his squint-eyed regard made another slow sweep of the ranks of citizens to the right of the dais, Maroc caught a fleeting glimpse of a hooded figure methodically pushing its way through the tightly-packed crowd. He craned his neck for a better perspective, but the figure was swallowed by a shifting sea of Metocans.

He searched the crush of faces, each sporting identical expressions of confused dismay and again spotted the figure in the gray robe. There was a clandestine, yet determined aspect to the way the figure was forging its way toward the front of the ranks that raised sirens of alarm in Maroc's keen mind. It was evident that...whoever was concealed beneath the hood...they wished to remain hidden from scrutiny and they were moving toward the dais area with very specific intentions.

' _Lorio!'_ The name of the ferocious Lamish immortal echoed through his mind even as the image of her doggedly attacking the training dummies exploded in his thoughts.

He began to rise with the intent of alerting his mounted cavalry to the possible threat, when a strident cry of alarm arose from the south side of the plaza.

2

In their desire to control access to the plaza, the Inner Circle had taken the precaution of having wooden barricades erected in all but two primary entrances into the sprawling square. In their inexperience in matters of security and crowd control...not to mention receiving an invading despot...authorities failed to realize that they were creating a pen should events in the plaza go awry. These barricades were constructed entirely of wood and spanned the entire width of the street, while standing twice the height of a normal man.

Gillian huddled in the shadows of a balcony that overlooked a secondary promontory which led into the south end of the plaza. Even recessed in the gloom, his perspective afforded the Jerhia a truncated view of the plaza. Though his view of the receiving stand was obstructed, he still had an unencumbered view of the area where Myrhia and an armored figure...whom he correctly presumed was Islena Doraux...had come to a halt upon entering the plaza. Somewhere amidst the crowd of sullen pacifists, Lorio would be converging upon Islena with lethal intent. It was his purpose to create the necessary distraction that would allow the deadly Lamish immortal to bring this madness to an emphatic end.

His face twisted in revulsion as he watched Doraux kneel and bellow her words of fealty...echoing clearly along the side streets, carried along by the empty silence. The rebellious Jerhia understood that what he was about to do constituted high treason, but remained undeterred by the prospect of being branded a traitor. Gillian, despite the many misperceptions, was a man driven by rigid adherence to a very specific set of principles...articles of justice and compassion that were often occluded by his façade of irreverence.

Gillian had long ago learned that a country's policies and moral righteousness often followed divergent paths...even a country that prided itself on its sense of justice and nobility. Ossiran had been a callous, antiquated wretch, but he was astute enough to recognize that Islena Doraux could not be allowed to become Myrhia's puppet. As circumstances had come to reveal, even the late Maxim Tier Marshal's fears paled in comparison to the actual threat to humanity posed by Islena Doraux's continuing existence.

When Myrhia stepped out of view, Gillian decided that it was time to take his diversionary action and hoped that Lorio was prepared to capitalize. Moving swiftly to the balustrade, he leveled his crossbow and fired a single Jerhia incendiary bolt at the backside of the barricade. Before making his way to his present spider hole, the resourceful Jerhia had applied a small circle of pitch to the boards near the center of the timber construct.

While he did not possess Arminda's proficiency with the weapon, his bolt struck true and soon the entire structure was ablaze. Black, acrid smoke and brilliant orange flames filled the mouth of the promontory.

Screams and cries of panic erupted, but the Jerhia swordsman was already racing back to street level. If Lorio succeeded in her lethal commission, Gillian wanted to be there to make a final stand in the face of Myrhia's inevitable retribution.

3

The press of the crowd was maddeningly annoying, but Lorio stymied her mounting irritation and pressed forward, spurred on by the darkly satisfying image of Islena lying dead at her feet. Her loose robe concealed two long knives and the Lamish hybrid was careful to avoid prolonged contact with any of the people in the crowd whom she might push past, lest some astute Metocan glean her lethal purpose.

She had risked raising her head briefly just as Myrhia had first entered the plaza. The sight of Islena, collared and leashed and attired in the vestments of servitude, lanced Lorio's heart with a pain so excruciating that for a protracted moment she could not breathe. She quickly bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut until the pain abated to manageable levels.

Doggedly, she made her way to the front ranks of the crowd, until only one row of ordinary citizens separated her from the perimeter of mounted Jerhia and the cordon of hulking Morticants. She slid laterally along the perimeter until she drew parallel to a kneeling Islena Doraux. Islena's bellowed declaration of fealty to the viper queen crashed through the confines of Lorio's skull and she clamped her mouth shut to repress the scream that wanted to burst from her lungs. The bile of Islena's utter abjection burned the hybrid's heart and she promised, _'I'll free you from this Islena...we can die together.'_

This solemn vow was repeated in her head like a mantra, when a tongue of fire, framed against a curtain of black smoke, abruptly erupted on the opposite side of the plaza. Every head, both golem and human alike, craned to locate the source of the commotion.

Lorio smiled a malevolent smile, knowing that her narrow window of opportunity had been thrown open.

Shrugging free of her hooded cloak and drawing her long knives in one fluid motion, Lorio bent a shoulder into the two startled Metocan directly in front of her. The force of the blow sent the pair careening into the haunches of the horses in front of each. Even as the Jerhia troopers attempted to rein in their horses, the two indignant mounts whinnied and reared, kicking at the air with their front legs. The horse to Lorio's right delivered an inadvertent kick to the rear of the Morticant's skull that was positioned directly before the anxious animal. The glancing blow was delivered with sufficient force to stagger the abomination. It stumbled forward in a sprawl, falling to its hands and knees, less than ten paces from a startled Islena. Lorio exploded past the struggling troopers on her left and was beyond the Morticant on her left, which was only now beginning to react to the erupting chaos.

Lorio took three bounding steps and employing the downed Morticant's broad back as a springboard, leapt high into the air. Arching her back, she raised her long knives above her head and bellowed Islena's name, intent on driving her blades into the base of Doraux's neck on either side of her flaring pauldrons.

This transpired in the span of a few short heartbeats, but as Lorio descended upon Doraux like a fist of retribution...time seemed to slow to a crawl...becoming at once viscous and impossibly sharp.

As she fell upon Doraux like a striking eagle, Islena's head swiveled toward her assassin and in the preternatural clarity of the intense moment, Lorio could actually hear the tendons creaking in the kneeling woman's neck. Islena's exquisite green eyes popped wide and her mouth twisted in a rictus of horror and negation. Lorio's snarling face filled her vision like a plummeting meteorite, but as the Lamish hybrid's torrid gaze locked upon those limpid emeralds, she clearly discerned horror and dawning fear. Somehow, in this enhanced intimacy of that shared moment of imminent death, Lorio gleaned that the terror was not inspired by fear of her own demise, but rather the prospective loss of...opportunity! Beneath this, Lorio could glean the presence of a profound regret too vast to be articulated...along with Islena's grim resignation to her death.

What Lorio had felt certain was an indestructible mantle of pristine hatred shattered in the face of Islena's raw terror and vulnerability...ground to dust by the juggernaut of a hundred poignant emotions that had come to characterize her complex relationship with Islena. Above these shone the one emotion that vaporized her resolve in the blink of an eye...a pure, irreducible love that defied all reason or comprehension.

Bellowing a wail of frustration, Lorio reversed her long knives and dealt Islena two clubbing blows to the sides of her half helm with the pommels of her hand grips. Lorio landed on the balls of her feet as Islena slumped to her side with her slack face pressed into the damp paving stones. Lorio gazed down upon the unmoving Islena and loosed a howl of outrage. She raised her right knife with the apparent intention of driving it through the base of Islena's exposed neck.

Instead, she pivoted and hurled her blade at the enchantress, whose expression was a discordant amalgam of fury and keen trepidation. Myrhia met the threat with a dismissive flick of her left wrist and the approaching blade was slapped down as if by an invisible hand. It clattered to the pavement, where it abruptly burst into argent flames that quickly reduced the weapon to a lump of slag.

Another rapid gesture and Lorio found herself being jerked into the air and flung back into the crowd. She landed in the sea of startled and frightened Metocans, bringing a dozen down in a sprawl of limbs and piercing exclamations of pain and shock.

Myrhia's head twisted toward a transfixed Artumas, who recoiled before her expression of black fury. The enchantress stepped to the northern edge of the dais and as she did, her clenched fists erupted into balls of emerald flame of such blinding magnitude that those around her feared their eyeballs would be burned from their sockets.

"Balefire...she means to unleash balefire upon us," Tokizar screamed hysterically and Myrhia lashed her with a sinister flash of teeth.

The situation tottered on the brink of absolute disaster then as panic and fury threatened to seize the moment. Cries filled the air as the Metocans attempted to distance themselves from Lorio, who was just now rising to her feet. She had retained her grip on her one remaining long knife. She stood stationary, ready to accept her lethal punishment for her baffling failure.

Recalcitrant to the end, she spread her long arms wide and invited, "Come then bitch...have your petty moment of victory!"

"Hold Mother...she is mine," a voice exclaimed and every eye turned to see Islena rising unsteadily to her feet...her generous mouth twisted in a ferocious slash of determination. "Allow me to kill her for you!"

Myrhia's eyes narrowed...a flicker of doubt shining in their dark depths...as she measured the prudence of allowing a mortal Doraux to face a Morticant hybrid. Finally, she relented, reasoning that she could not afford to display weakness before those she had come to subjugate. "Very well daughter...bring me her head."

Islena offered the enchantress a feral grin and then pivoted about and stalked toward Lorio, who offered Doraux an inviting smile rife with menace, while brandishing her long knife.

"Myrhia...stop this madness or at least allow the citizens to leave the plaza," Artumas adjured as he watched Islena stride purposefully toward her would-be assassin.

"No one leaves!" Myrhia decreed balefully. "Let everyone bear witness to the price of defiance." She spun in place, describing a circle with her right arm. Incredibly, curtains of emerald flame sprung forth from the paving stones and soon every point of egress was blocked by a writhing sheet of flames. Those within tens paces of the arcane barricade were reduced to ash in the blink of an eye.

"Remain stationary!" Inos blared, pouring the full extent of his telepathic ability into this silent communication. Mercifully, the sheer force of his effort stunned the panic-stricken Metocan into absolute immobility. "Regain your composure...to panic now is to die!"

Though piteous wails of grief and moans of terror echoed over the huddled sea of Metocan, the potentially disastrous crush abruptly ceased.

"Maintain your positions," Maroc commanded, his strong voice reverberating over the plaza and as was customary, his mounted cavalry responded automatically...displaying their usual composure in the face of prevailing chaos.

At Myrhia's behest, the Morticants re-organized, forming a protective channel on either side of the two converging combatants. The enchantress stepped closer to Artumas and clamped her small right hand over his wrist with the force of a vice that caused the startled Emercian to grunt in pain. Modulating her voice so that only he could hear, she growled, "I gave you fair warning, but be assured...if Islena is harmed by this _animal_ , which your allies failed to control...not one of these cowering worms will leave this plaza alive."

Still clutching Artumas' wrist, she swept her gaze over the other occupants of the dais, who found themselves reduced to sentient pieces of statuary. Under the thrall of Myrhia's paralyzing incantation, the assembly of the powerful could only watch helplessly while the fate of Othgol was decided.

Lorio marked Islena's determined approach with a frown that twisted her exquisite face into a mask of belligerence. She searched Doraux's partially concealed face for some sign of hidden intent or a trace of the vulnerability that had forestalled Lorio's death blow. Instead, she found herself confronted by a mask of inscrutability. "So it comes to this, Islena...you would kill me to please that black-hearted whore?"

Doraux's answering flash of teeth was devoid of humor as she promised, "I'm going to do to you what you lacked the conviction to do to me. Since the first instant I set eyes on you in Kornas, you've been a poisonous thorn in my side. The time for purging that poison is well past due."

With this scathing condemnation delivered, Doraux drew the Dragonsword, which flared a menacing vermillion in response to her summons. Lorio eyed the icon warily. Having already felt a tiny fragment of its power, she knew instinctively that she would not survive its unleashed fury. Lowering her long knife, she drew herself erect and lifted her chin, offering Doraux her throat with the intent of meeting her end with as much nobility and grace as she could muster. "Come and take my head, Islena," she encouraged softly. "If I'm fated to die today, I would rather it be by your hand than by any other. You've already killed me in every way that truly matters."

Islena's eyes widened at this strident admission and her step faltered ever so slightly. Then, to Lorio's astonishment and Myrhia's horrified dismay, she threw the Dragonsword to the cobbles, where it guttered and went quiescent.

A gasp rippled through the spectators to this unexpected drama and Myrhia cried, "Daughter, you will summon the sword at once!"

Ignoring Myrhia's frantic command, Islena burst forward and drove her right shoulder into Lorio's exposed midriff. Wrapping her powerful arms around the taller woman's upper thighs, she lifted her from her feet and charged toward the nearest building some fifteen paces away.

Her forward momentum carried the pair through the heavy glass window of the apothecary and into the darkened interior beyond.

A corona of emerald effulgence coalesced around Myrhia and she started to float forward, but Artumas seized her shoulder. Her head whipped about and her eyes blazed like onyx suns. He met her outrage with quiet serenity and intoned, "You came here with the intention of demonstrating that your viper has fangs. If you leap to her rescue now, you'll succeed only in defeating your purpose."

"You have no idea what the Lamish whore really is!" Myrhia retorted and beneath her truculence there echoed an anxiety that bordered on desperation.

Calmly, Artumas replied, " _We_ both know what Islena is. Now allow her to show everyone else and avert further needless bloodshed."

Myrhia's severe frown was rife with sinister promise, but surprisingly, she acceded to his decidedly peculiar logic.

Islena landed atop the startled Lorio in a hail of plaster and shattered glass. The shards bit cruelly into the back of the hybrid's shoulders and arms, but drew no blood. Islena regained her feet quickly and reaching down, entwined her fingers in Lorio's long hair and hauled the hybrid to her feet. She snapped a savage knee to the beautiful face before spinning about and literally tossing the larger woman into a stand of heavy shelves by the hair of her head. The shelves collapsed beneath Lorio's weight and cloudy glass jars and earthen jugs exploded on the scarred wooden floor boards of the shop.

Lorio attempted to regain her feet, but Islena clubbed her on the back of the head, driving the hybrid's face into the litter-strewn boards. Pouncing on the prone woman's back, she rained heavy punches down on the back of Lorio's head and the sides of her face. Each blow provoked a guttural grunt and Islena heaped her furious disdain down on the seemingly defenseless hybrid. "You obtuse bitch...can you not, for once, open your fucking eyes and actually see what is right in front of you?"

The cryptic reproof ignited Lorio's anger and she pushed herself to her hands and knees, shrugging off the heavily-muscled Doraux as if she was little more than a child. Islena stumbled across the ruined shop and collided with the wall, but leapt forward and tried to deliver a soccer style kick to the side of the hybrid's face, which displayed no sign of the pummeling it had just absorbed.

Twisting slightly to her left, Lorio caught Islena's ankle with her left hand and delivered a vicious uppercut to Islena's exposed groin. A wheezing exhalation of air burst from Doraux's lungs and her mouth worked in a soundless cry of argent agony. Before she could collapse onto her face, the hybrid dug pincer-like fingers into Doraux's throat and kept her erect.

Reprising Doraux's earlier indignity, Lorio twisted the thick cable of Islena's braid around her free fist and spinning on long, powerful legs, sent Islena head first through the shop's main display counter. Only the ebony armor prevented Islena from being badly lacerated by the shattered glass. Islena lay draped over the middle shelf, gasping like a fish out of water until Lorio took hold of her ankles and unceremoniously yanked her clear of the antique counter. The hybrid uttered a spate of ugly, malicious laughter when Islena's face bounced off the floor boards.

The coppery taste of blood filled Islena's mouth, while Lorio secured her grip on Islena's muscular thighs, and pivoting in place, sent the shorter woman spinning wildly into the fragile curio cabinets. The cabinets were demolished by the impact that left a dazed Islena lying flat on her stomach. She tried to push herself to her hands and knees, but Lorio raised her left foot and stomped down on the center of her broad back, driving Doraux down onto the glass-strewn boards.

"The sight of this obscenity on you sickens me," Lorio rasped as she glared at the hateful armor that protected Islena from the brunt of the punishment she'd absorbed. "I would rather see you dragged through the streets naked...like a common tavern whore...than see you paraded while wearing this obscenity."

Reaching down, she worked her fingers under the bottom lip of Islena's half-helm and ripped it free with a savage tug.

A sharp exclamation of pain tore from Islena's lips as the leather strap bit cruelly into the tight flesh beneath the ridge of her right cheekbone. It came free along with a flap of bloody skin, leaving Islena's beautiful face a mask of glistening gore as sheets of cascading blood poured onto the floor boards.

Lorio roughly hauled a disoriented Islena to her feet and slammed her into the corner. Gripping Doraux's throat, she drew back her right fist with the intention of pummeling the other woman's face...a face she had loved and loathed with such intense passion. The bloody and abused condition of Doraux's torn face caused Lorio to hesitate in mid-strike. Islena's perfection had been transformed into a garish mask of gore. The laceration under her right cheekbone was particularly livid and Lorio could clearly discern hints of dull white where bone winked through the gore. Islena offered Lorio a terrible parody of a grin and whispered between rapidly swelling lips. "You can't do it...because part of you sees beyond the hatred to...to what is really standing right in front of you."

Lorio frowned and blinked. "Why do you not summon the Dragonsword? You know from painful past experience that you can't hope to stand against me...so why eschew your only chance of leaving this place alive?"

Islena beamed another hideous grin. "I know you can't kill me...as desperately as you might want to...because part of you loves me and you're powerless to change that. If I let you sate your appetite for seeing me suffer...perhaps you'd come to see the truth...beneath the façade."

Lorio glared dangerously, her face twisting into a mask of pure malevolence and indignant fury. "You would dare speak those words to me...after what you've done to me...to my son? You vile, hateful bitch!"

She punctuated each of these final four words by clubbing Islena on the side of the head, just behind the ear. The final blow was accompanied by an excruciating eruption of silver agony as Islena's left eardrum exploded.

"Perhaps you're right...perhaps I can't kill you, but before your monster comes to extinguish my life, I can make you suffer," Lorio shrieked hysterically and she spun a semi-coherent Islena around and marched her over to the wreckage of the shop's main counter. She then pressed Islena's face into the wood, mercilessly grinding Doraux's gouged cheekbone into the scarred countertop. Lorio then extended Islena's left arm and then forced the hand flat onto the counter, though in truth, the stunned Doraux offered very little resistance.

Blood bubbled from Islena's slightly gaping mouth as Lorio pressed her knee into the shorter woman's lower back. The hybrid bent closer and rasped, "I want to hear you scream Islena...like I did when Otaru Ree took my son from my arms."

In one fluid movement, Lorio drew her Zarcyk from the pouch at her belt and drove it into Islena's splayed left hand between the index and middle finger. She then savagely jerked the blade from left to right, relishing the high shrieks of agony that tore from Islena's lungs.

4

A stunned silence had descended upon the captive audience in the plaza and the sounds of the violent confrontation carried through the apothecary's broken window, resounding over the entire plaza.

Angry voices and exclamations of pain emanated from the small building's darkened interior. Myrhia clutched Artumas' arm tightly and he could feel her tense dramatically with every expression of pain that rolled out of the shop's glassless opening. Artumas grimaced when a full-throated wail of unimaginable agony tore through the early afternoon air.

"Daughter?" Myrhia moaned softly, but then her face contorted and she bellowed thunderously, "Enough!"

A rumbling cannonade rolled over the plaza like the concussive aftershock of an earthquake, shaking the surrounding buildings and toppling many of the terrified Metocans.

Even as Myrhia rose swiftly into the air and flew quickly across the plaza, her Morticants converged upon the small building where her carefully laid ambitions were in danger of falling to ruin.

5

A part of her mind recoiled in the face of the merciless torture Lorio was inflicting upon a woman, whom when the final accounts were tolled, she loved beyond all else.

' _You can't ignore what she is trying to tell you,'_ a voice cried, but in her state of violent frenzy, Lorio was immune to logic or reason.

"Enough!" The single thunderous imperative hammered the stone walls of the building, informing Lorio that her time had expired. She jerked the Zarcyk free, evoking another piteous wail from Islena and then threw the severely battered woman to the floor.

Her wide-eyed gaze fell upon a large shard of glass that protruded from the bottom frame of the window casing. Seizing Islena's cable braid, she dragged the screaming woman across the detritus-strewn floor. "Let us die together, Islena...it would be a fitting end to the relationship we've shared over this past year."

Gripping either side of Islena's ringing head in powerful hands, the hybrid carefully pressed Doraux's exposed throat onto the jagged edge of the glass. She straddled Doraux's broad back, squeezing the semi-conscious woman's torso with her thighs to prevent Islena from falling forward and impaling herself. Then she raised her face and beamed a death's head grin at the enchantress.

Myrhia was most of the way across the plaza when Lorio first appeared in the window of the apothecary. The hybrid wore a lunatic grin of utter madness as she positioned an apparently unconscious Islena over a wicked-looking shard of glass. Myrhia's jaw dropped in horror at the sight of Doraux's bloody face. She uttered a soft moan when her faze fell upon the gruesome laceration beneath Islena's right cheekbone. The daughter's hand was draped limply over the window casing and even from this distance, the enchantress could clearly discern the savage wounding Lorio's Zarcyk had inflicted. In a tremulous voice, she inquired, "What have you done?"

"I've bested the hammer of your will, bitch! You said that you wanted a head...I can gladly give you hers if you wish." She uttered a maniacal spate of laughter and with a slight contraction of her thighs, pushed Islena's throat down onto the glass ever so slightly. Blood...shockingly red...ran down the glass in a rivulet, pooling in the channel of the frame.

"You wouldn't dare?" Myrhia growled, though primal dread burned in her dark eyes.

"Oh, but I would!" Lorio contradicted cheerfully. "If you wish for me to spare her, then get down on your hands and knees and beg for her life. It isn't likely to do any good, but it would be most amusing to see you grovel."

Myrhia bellowed an inarticulate hiss of rage and frustration as arcane energy hissed and crackled, gathering around her in an emerald corona of puissance.

The sharp and distinctive hiss roused Islena from her torpor. She raised her head, though black flowers bloomed before her eyes. Her entire body was ablaze with a symphony of argent pain, but she still managed to open her eyes. The sight that greeted her plucked her from the grasp of incoherence and provoked her to act.

In Myrhia's limpid dark eyes, she gleaned an emotion that filled Islena's heart with absolute terror...resignation to yet another humiliating defeat. If this resignation was permitted to germinate in the black soil of Myrhia's heart, she would incinerate everything in a frenzy of despair.

Knowing that she didn't have sufficient time to summon the Dragonsword, Islena unleashed a massive wave of the power that resided in her body. At once, both women were enveloped in a blinding cocoon of vermillion light. The startled Lorio was torn from Islena's back and thrown across the room...though not before she dragged Doraux clear of the glass shard.

The Lamish hybrid struck the wall with a guttural grunt and slid to the floor in a twitching sprawl of limbs. Her entire body appeared to jerk and spasm as Islena's outpouring of power played havoc with Lorio's nervous system.

Islena pushed herself to her hands and knees, crying out in exquisitely acute pain when her injured hand pressed against the rubble-strewn floor boards. She reeled to her feet, but very nearly toppled over as her head spun like a dervish.

"Stay back Mother!" Islena croaked, blood spraying from her mouth in a fine mist. Clutching her wounded left hand to her chest, she extended her right hand and immediately the Dragonsword leapt into the air and began to spin in place. Marshalling her every ounce of energy, Doraux threw back her head and bellowed, "Now let me show you what I can do!"

A tendril of vermillion energy arced from the eyes of the ruby-encrusted Dragonsword's haft...connecting to Islena like a tether. Myrhia gasped in incredulity, knowing that Islena was channeling the icon's vast repository of energy. The raw puissance flowed through Islena's battered body in a continuous stream.

As Islena's body absorbed the Icon's outpouring, Doraux could feel the keen edge of her agony receding, banished by annealing warmth that suffused her battered flesh. Islena drew herself erect, acutely cognizant of Myrhia's scrutiny on the periphery of her awareness. She could feel Myrhia's immutable rage burning like the fevered heat of a rampant infection and knew that she would have to resort to extreme measures if she wished to spare Lorio's life.

' _Let me deal with her,'_ the shadow incarnation cooed and Islena shuddered, sensing that there was no end to the twisted depravity this creature could conjure if left to its own devices. A wicked grin broke across Islena's face as she stalked across the small shop to where Lorio still twitched and jerked on the dirty floor. She grinned with intense satisfaction upon seeing the deep indentation left in the wall by Lorio's collision.

Fuelled by the Icon's free-flowing power, Islena lifted Lorio into a vertical position by the throat.

"Treatment in kind, bitch!" Islena declared gleefully and drove a half dozen vicious knees between the hybrid's slightly parted legs. With each impact, vermillion light flared at the point of contact...shaking the immortal's body with rolling waves of pure arcane energy. Each blow evoked a guttural grunt from the disoriented hybrid.

Pinioning the hybrid to the wall with her left vambrace, Islena unleashed a fierce volley of punches to the taller woman's exposed abdomen. Lorio's eyes rolled in their sockets with each blow and her face contorted in pain.

Artumas watched from the dais as flawless vermillion light burst through the opening of the apothecary. His gaze shifted to the hovering icon which continued to exude an unremitting stream of blinding vermillion power.

Despite the terrible gravitas of the moment, the Emercian king experienced a discordant surge of euphoria. There, standing forth to the heavens in all of its majesty was an actual icon...the fabled sword of Jerhia, forged six millennia before this ignoble afternoon. Before his very eyes hovered a tangible affirmation of his belief that the Icons were more than the mythical stuff of legend.

Seeing Lorio come sailing through the opening and hit the paving stones with a muffled thud, some twenty paces from the building, broke his reverie. Islena Doraux stepped over the low casement mere seconds later with her gore-spattered face twisted into a malefic grin. She extended her right hand and the Dragonsword flew into her reaching fingers with an audible slap of leather on leather.

"End this now Islena!" Myrhia commanded from her lofty perspective some thirty paces above the captive audience, which cowered and tried to shy away from the sword-wielding horror. Doraux merely nodded and strode over to the fallen hybrid, who had managed to rouse herself to her hands and knees and was crawling toward the dais.

When she drew parallel to the defenseless Lorio, Islena snarled and drew back her right foot, delivering a savage kick to the vanquished woman's left side. Like a solar flare, intense vermillion light erupted around the pair. Lorio was twisted onto her back by the concussive force of the kick. Ignoring the howl of protest from her brutally savaged hand, Islena reached down and jerked the barely coherent Lorio to her knees by her raven hair.

Doraux raised the Dragonsword above her head, where it trembled wildly...poised to deliver a decapitating blow.

' _You cannot do this monstrous thing, Islena!'_ Guinevere cried, her anxiety penetrating the ugly fog that had occluded Islena's conscious thoughts.

' _Oh, but she can,'_ the shadow presence countered with mad delight. _'What's more...she will as a warning to anyone who stands in our way.'_

Doraux growled and shook her head in negation, aware of the expectant touch of Myrhia's regard on the side of her face. Lorio's eyes...clouded with agony...found Islena and she croaked weakly, "Do it, Islena...you should have killed me that first day in Kornas. Here's your opportunity to rectify that oversight and impress your mistress. I would rather die than see you like this so it would be a mercy."

Islena uttered an inarticulate grunt and her eyes widened, but in that brief instant, she gleaned that Lorio had inadvertently provided her with the out she had been desperately seeking. Islena jerked Lorio's head back and leaned closer, her lips peeling away from her teeth in a bloody scowl. "Mercy is the last thing you'll ever get from me, bitch!"

With this, she lanced Lorio with another controlled blast of puissance. The hybrid was slammed down onto the pavement...her head bouncing off the cobbles with a disturbing thud. Snapping the Dragonsword back into its guides, Islena quickly straddled the fallen hybrid's chest and began to pummel Lorio's slack face with a succession of heavy blows that drew gasps of revulsion and horror from the onlookers who were close enough to witness the ugly exhibition of primal brutality.

"Stop this, Islena," Artumas roared miserably from the dais, earning a baleful glare from Myrhia. Doraux shot the horrified king a contemptuous grin before delivering one final clubbing blow that left Lorio unconscious on the paving stones.

With every eye fixed upon her...rife with an incongruous mixture of revulsion and dark fascination...Doraux rose and strode briskly across the plaza. Retrieving the collar and leash from the pommel of Myrhia's saddle, she marched back to the vanquished hybrid and promptly clamped the collar around Lorio's neck. Drawing on the Icon's inherent power, she hefted Lorio over her shoulder and began to carry the Lamish woman back toward the dais.

Myrhia came to ground directly before Islena, imposing herself in front of the larger woman with a menacing frown adorning her beautiful face. Quietly, between clenched teeth, she growled, "I instructed you to bring me her head...you would defy me in these circumstances?"

Islena moved closer and whispered, "Just as you have claimed me, I would lay claim to this piece of trash. _You_ would be wise to grant me this one dispensation...Mother!"

The two viragoes glared at each other for a brief span of time and discerning the capering madness in Islena's eyes, Myrhia nodded tightly, "Very well daughter...you may have your toy."

She stepped lithely aside and fell in beside Doraux as she carried the loathsome traitor to the dais. Islena mounted the steps and then unceremoniously slammed the vanquished immortal onto the carpeted platform at Artumas' feet. She then turned to face the disconcerted king, who recoiled at the unsettling sight of Islena's badly swollen and bloody face. The wound beneath Islena's cheekbone was an oozing, jagged horror that caused the Emercian's stomach to roll queasily. When she spoke, it was with a voice that reminded Artumas of rusted steel being dragged over stone. "You will find a cell to hold this pitiable bitch...where she will be chained like the animal she is." She then jabbed her right index finger into Artumas' chest and warned, "The key will be delivered to me and no one is to have contact with her...nor will anyone retaliate against her for what she has attempted to do here. That right and pleasure is mine alone."

She started to turn away, but then Artumas caught a flicker glimpse of something twisted and malevolent moving behind those exquisite green eyes. Islena reached down and tore open Lorio's pouch and snatched up the hybrid's Zarcyk. She stood over the unconscious Lorio, glaring down at her with a hatred, the intensity of which chilled Artumas' heart.

While the horrified leaders of the CornerStone Nations bore witness from the shackles of Myrhia's immobilizing sorcery, Islena uttered a furious howl and drove the Zarcyk into the meat of Lorio's left thigh.

She pushed it in up to the hand guard and twisted the blade savagely, before drawing it free. She then surveyed the bound leaders and with lunatic glee, proclaimed, "Ah...is there anything finer than the joy of reciprocity?"

Still clutching Lorio's Zarcyk, she turned and dismounted the dais, leaving a thoroughly sickened and bewildered Artumas staring after her. Even Myrhia tracked her bondsman's passage with obvious disquiet.

When Islena reached the spot where Lorio had first assailed her, she knelt and bowed her head in a posture of abeyant submission. For a protracted moment, and absolute and perfect silence descended upon the plaza as all present struggled to internalize the graphic and ineffably brutal battle they had just witnessed. Struggling to disguise the extent of her disquiet, the enchantress turned her attention to Artumas and the others.

"It seems this dramatic distraction is at an end. Artumas, you will attend to my daughter's request." To the inner circle, she declared, "It is to your good fortune that I am in a benevolent state of mind. On this one occasion, I will ignore this inexcusable breech of civility and allow it to go unpunished. Be forewarned, any further acts of aggression will result in the total eradication of Othgol. Your citizens will disperse and access to this plaza will be restricted until I have left the city. I will meet with Artumas and the CornerStone leaders in two bells time...to discuss my _expectations_ ...to which I fully expect you will be totally accommodating."

Despite this imperious decree, Myrhia's manner appeared totally contrived and her mantle of supreme confidence appeared brittle and thin. ' _She may attempt to conceal it, but she has been badly shaken by what has transpired on this plaza today. Behind the façade, there grows a festering doubt,'_ Artumas thought as he watched Myrhia bring down the curtains of balefire and release her captives. _'Is her uncertainty something that can be exploited...or cause for further anxiety?'_

Myrhia strode over to Inos as the Grand Mage stood on stiff and unresponsive legs. "I trust that you have made arrangement for the billeting of my conventional armies?"

"Yes," he responded distantly, watching glumly as the Metocan citizenry filed dejectedly from the plaza, trying unsuccessfully not to dwell on the blackened paving stones where Myrhia's balefire had incinerated scores of unfortunate bystanders. "Sufficient quarters and provisions have been made ready."

The enchantress nodded and then her tone became glacial and intractable as she informed him, "Islena has staked a claim on this living pile of excrement that now sullies this dais and I will abide by her wish. However, before I depart Othgol, I will have those responsible for creating the barrier distraction brought to me...alive. If they are so enamored with fire...I will provide them with a true taste of its beauty."

Before the Grand Mage could respond, a sharp metallic clatter attracted Myrhia's attention. She spun about to find that Islena had collapsed onto her face and lay unmoving on the paving stones.

Chapter Twelve

1

Ameliorating warmth suffused her body...gentle and soothing like a lover's caress...coursing through her veins and along the length of her spine in coruscating waves. Reluctantly, Islena opened her eyes to find herself enveloped in golden effulgence. Beyond this cocoon of pure energy stood Myrhia, gazing at Islena intently...her lovely face set in a solemn mask of concentration. Her right arm was extended over Islena's torso and Doraux could see that Myrhia's small palm was the source of the golden effulgence.

' _She's...healing me!'_ Doraux realized with no small degree of amazement and behind that single thought there followed the torrential flood of unsettling images from her savage battle with Lorio. Gasping, Islena attempted to sit up, but the room began to spin like a dervish. Myrhia placed her left hand on Islena's shoulder and gently, but firmly pushed her back onto the pillow.

"Patience daughter," Myrhia cautioned. "Even though the physical wounds have been effaced, the affects of both the savage's beating and my healing are lingering."

Doraux nodded and shifted her gaze to her left hand which showed no sign of the trauma it had suffered. Breathing a tremulous sigh of relief, Islena closed her eyes and allowed Myrhia's patient sorcery to work its healing magic. When she was fully satisfied that her ministrations had achieved the desired affect, Myrhia closed her hand and the golden light was abruptly extinguished.

She then held her palm up to Islena's face. Its surface had become a flawless, reflective mirror in which Islena could see a countenance that was perfect and stunning in the magnitude of its beauty. Quietly...and sincerely, Islena offered, "Thank you...mother."

Myrhia only continued to regard Islena with a stern gaze of appraisal. Feeling the compulsion to squirm under its intensity, Islena shifted her focus to an examination of the room in which she'd awaken. She found that she was lying on a large feather bed, the mattress of which embraced her like a cloud. A large stone fireplace dominated an entire wall...presumably to ward off the pervasive dampness that hung over the capital like a shroud. The walls and ceiling of the large room had been fashion at odd angles and the strange geometric shapes left Islena feeling slightly dizzy. "Where are we?"

"Inos has generously allowed us to have his private quarters during the remainder of our stay in Othgol...which will be brief...contingent upon your recovery from this afternoon's fiasco in the plaza," Myrhia intoned, making no effort to hide her displeasure.

Dropping her gaze, Islena inquired, "What of Lorio...was she dealt with as I instructed?"

Myrhia responded by dropping a large silver key on Islena's stomach. "The Metocan are morally averse to imprisoning people. When I destroyed their central palace, I deprived Othgol of its only dungeon. The Lamish scum has been locked in a storage room in the bowels of this building. She has been chained as you wished...a measure that caused a moral quandary for our Metocan hosts."

Islena merely shrugged as if the entire matter was unworthy of her consideration. Abruptly, Islena found herself hopelessly ensnared in constricting hoops of emerald energy. Her gaze snapped to Myrhia, who regarded her with an expression of glacial fury. "I would have you explain your actions in the plaza today."

Doraux glared belligerently at the diminutive beauty and growled menacingly, "Release me...now!"

"No!" Myrhia replied flatly. "You will remain bound until you have provided satisfactory answers to my questions. Try to release the Icon's power and those hoops of binding will reflect its energy back upon you at a level that will not kill you...but will cause you to re-evaluate your concept of the word agony." With an infuriating smirk, she added, "It would be amusing if you would at least make the attempt."

Islena glared contentiously, but shook her head, knowing that Myrhia was being truthful. Myrhia grinned and leaned closer, her full breasts nearly spilling out of the plunging décolletage of her green gown. "I gave you specific instructions to kill the Lamish whore and yet you chose to defy me. Not only did you undermine my authority in the face of my enemies, your reckless confrontation could well have gotten you killed...laying waste to my carefully contrived scheme. Now, why did you not kill Lorio?"

Islena's face constricted into a sly mask as a furtive shadow slid across her green eyes. Myrhia could glean the proximity of this dreaded shadow incarnation. "The Lamish trollop and I share a...special relationship...a kind of contempt that is difficult to put into terms that are easily understood. Her arrogance infuriates me...makes me insane...inebriated with the need to inflict pain and agony. To kill her would be a mercy she doesn't deserve. No mother...I intend to dredge her through the muck of depravity that would make even you squirm. I want to break her spirit...to grind it to dust and scour it from her soul. When I peer into her eyes, I want to see only atavistic dread. This is why I did not kill her."

Doraux fell silent, though the shadow incarnation howled with delight at the prospect of eviscerating Lorio's fierce spirit. Myrhia's truculent glare twisted her expression for several moments, but the demented justification seemed to mollify the enchantress because she waved her hand and the restraints vanished. When she spoke, however, there remained a keen edge of vexation in her voice.

"Perhaps there is a modicum of truth in your explanation daughter. I sense the foul presence lurking in the shadowed corners of your mind...like a rabid bat," Myrhia allowed darkly. "Still, I suspect that your motivations are more complex than a pervasive desire to have a recalcitrant plaything to torture. Nonetheless, being the indulgent mother that I am, I will forgive this latest impetuous act of defiance. You may have the harlot...to satiate _all_ of your desires. But have a caution, Islena...you seek to entertain an addiction that is insidious and fraught with snares and pitfalls. This irrepressible core of darkness will only grow stronger...exert a deeper control over your actions once you wade into its dark waters."

Here Myrhia paused and stood, allowing Doraux a moment to reflect upon her stark warning. The incarnation's voice cackled another spate of contemptuous laughter and Islena knew that Myrhia's cautionary advice was incontrovertibly true. The enchantress paused before the fireplace with her back turned toward Doraux. "I may forgive your flagrant insubordination, but there remains the inescapable truth...everything comes at a price."

Islena's breath hitched in her chest and she ventured reluctantly, "What are you trying to tell me?"

Myrhia turned back to Islena, her face alight with a humorless grin. "You really don't grasp the essence of a soul forge, do you?"

Now Doraux's fear became a visceral, palpable thing that made her heart gallop. She was speaking of her link with Allan...the son to whom this monster had been tethered her spiritual essence and physical body. The intimated threat could not be more readily apparent. "I've warned you...my tolerance for threats and intimidation is infinitesimally small."

Myrhia threw back her head and uttered a contemptuous laugh. "If you think that I am threatening your child, then perhaps I have greatly over-estimated you intelligence."

She snapped her fingers sharply and an argent spark materialized just beyond the foot of Islena's bed, quickly assuming the shape of a shimmering rectangle. There, defined in shockingly vivid detail, appeared a series of graphic images that caused Islena to whimper like a whipped dog. Allen...her sweet, beautiful boy...was stretched upon a narrow pallet in a small, darkened room. His eyes were rolled back in his head and his blond hair was plastered to his scalp with perspiration. His small body twisted and convulsed in a spastic dance as if it was being subjected to tremendous, but intermittent jolts of electricity.

"Stop this at once!" Islena raged frantically, unable to maintain her façade of indifference in the face of her son's torture.

"Oh...so vestiges of the old Islena do remain," Myrhia chortled with a thin smile. "It is not my doing, Islena. You are the sole cause of your son's present torment."

Islena's lower mandible dropped and she shook her head in denial. "You're lying...this is your depraved punishment for my disobedience."

Myrhia shook her head as her expression grew sober. "Your son's present torment is indeed the consequence of your disobedience...though not for the punitive reasons you believe. The soul forge links the subjects on every level of their existence, Islena...physically, spiritually and emotionally. On the emotional plane, I can insulate myself against his rampant, childish feelings...such as terror or loneliness. Unfortunately, Allan is not afforded the same luxury."

Islena reacted to this explanation with a sinister snarl, but beneath her fury, the enchantress could sense a dawning comprehension...a concept too terrible to fully assimilate.

"In the plaza, your foolhardy, irresponsible actions caused me an extreme amount of anxiety...fear that you would be killed...that my carefully tended ambitions would be torn asunder," Myrhia expounded in a dispassionate, academic voice. Pointing at the shimmering screen, she concluded, "With the near total loss of my equilibrium came the failure of the wards to protect your son from the affects of my distress. This is the lamentable consequence."

Islena's frantic gaze again shifted to the hovering image, where Allan continued to writhe in severe distress. Unable to endure the piteous spectacle, she averted her eyes and pleaded, "Please make it stop. If you're angry or frustrated, take it out on me...I won't lift a finger to defend myself."

Myrhia regarded Islena closely for several moments and then fetched an elaborate sigh. Her lips formed the words of a silent incantation and the thrashing boy went utterly still...sinking into the cool waters of unconsciousness. She then came to sit on the edge of Islena's bed and began to tenderly stroke her forehead, brushing Doraux's thick red hair away from her eyes. "I have cautioned you on the urgency of gaining mastery over the demon in your soul. Let this harsh object lesson serve as further inducement to redouble your efforts." She leaned closer, a mischievous twinkled in her large, dark eyes, and remarked, "No doubt, this odious presence has attempted to ply you with its seductive urgings...suggesting that you obliterate me and claim your fated birthright without my guiding hand. If you should ever feel tempted to comply, conjure the stark image of your son's torment today. Perhaps it will provide you with the motivation to resist the incarnation's mad siren song."

Bending forward, the enchantress then bestowed a lingering kiss on Islena's slightly parted lips, while her right hand trailed down and settled on Doraux's full left breast, which she squeezed appreciatively. After a moment, she sat back and uttered a mirthful, knowing chuckle, at the slightly glazed expression on Islena's face. "There is such fire behind those exquisite green eyes, Islena. In time, I would have that fire run wild...igniting everything around you with its boundless passion!"

She then caressed Islena's restored cheek with her index finger, tracing the line of the other woman's high cheekbone. "Such beauty is a gift from the divine goddess, Islena and you must take a greater care in tending it. Now, rest...I must go and extract a vow of submission from this collection of geldings. Soon, the final road of your journey of apotheosis will begin, daughter. I will do what I must to clear all obstructions from your path."

Then she rose and marched away in a swirl of skirts and a fetching sway of hips. At the chamber door, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder with an impish grin set on her face. Teasingly, she commented, "You said that I was free to take my frustration out on you without opposition. Frustration manifests itself in many forms. Perhaps, upon my return, I will indulge one of my lingering frustrations...though I would not call you _daughter_ as I do. If you are able, allow that thought to accompany you into slumber's embrace."

With this provocative innuendo delivered, she was gone, leaving a thoroughly flustered Islena reeling. She was acutely aware of her heated blood racing and her heart thundering in her chest. Knowing that she would be powerless to resist Myrhia's skilled overtures only emphasized how vulnerable she was. Her path forward was like a ribbon of crumbling stone over the abyss...falling to dust even as she attempted to make her way across.

With the taste of Myrhia's full lips on her mouth and the lingering sensation of her hand on her breast, Islena turned her face into her pillow and began to weep.

2

Gillian was standing at the lone window of his small lodging chamber...only half seeing the central plaza, where Metocan adepts were employing sorcery to clean up the detritus of the afternoon's debacle. He reflected upon Lorio's failure, trying to envision the likely consequences. He had watched from the shadow as the immortal had made her attempt on Islena's life. His burgeoning jubilation had turned to sinking horror, when Lorio had turned her blades at the last possible second, correctly deducing that her affection for the tempestuous Doraux had stayed her hand.

Gillian had watched the ensuing grim battle play out across the plaza through a lens of bitter resignation. When Lorio had forced a battered and dazed Islena's throat onto a jutting shard of glass, the master swordsman had experienced a surge of hope, but then Doraux had unleashed the puissance of the Jerhia Icon, bringing an abrupt end to the bloody farce.

Now all that remained was a tolling of the consequences, which the normally contentious Jerhia decided he would accept without resistance.

A frantic pounding on his chamber door declared that he would not have long to wait. The door burst open before Gillian could bid the knocker to enter and Arminda sailed into the chamber like a raging tempest. She slammed the door behind her and marched across the stone floor, her face a high, hectic red that reminded the Jerhia of a roiling storm cloud. Before he could offer a comment on her dramatic entrance, Arminda drew back her right hand and slapped his already injured face with all the indignant fury his slender frame could muster.

Gillian's head snapped to the right and he stumbled slightly. Arminda stood glaring balefully at the taller Jerhia...her hand print red and livid on his stinging cheek. Quietly, he remarked, "I doubt that striking a subordinate is condoned by the officer's code of conduct, Tier Marshal."

To his surprise, the diminutive woman seized his tunic and briskly shoved him back against the window casement. "Gods take you, you vainglorious, posturing peacock. Is your every action taken out of spite and petulance? Are you so bereft of moral integrity that you would resort to preying upon a grief-stricken mother to perform your dirty deeds?"

Gillian frowned at her scathing barb. "If that is your honest assessment of Lorio, then you are truly a fool. She is ruthlessly dispassionate in her will to see Islena dead."

Arminda shook her head in disgust. "So you admit to aiding her in this mad attempt on Islena's life?"

"I do, Tier Marshal," Gillian admitted with an indifferent shrug. "Nor do I harbor any particular regret over my action...other than the fact that Islena Doraux still draws breath."

"I should have you dragged from this place in irons and whipped before your peers," Arminda seethed. "Your reckless, misguided actions could have led to the destruction of Othgol and if Lorio had succeeded...the end of our slim hope for salvation."

Gillian's answering reaction was one of incredulity and contempt. "If, after all that you have witnessed, you can still cling to the infantile myth that Islena Doraux is this world's savior then you are delusional beyond any hope of reclamation. By her own admission, Islena poses a far greater threat to our world than Myrhia. I, at least, had the courage and conviction to see that threat extinguished."

"Artumas still believes that Islena strives to be Myrhia's undoing," Arminda countered hotly, "and it is in his certainty that I have elected to place my faith."

"Indeed?" Gillian snorted derisively. "Will she achieve this laudable end by kneeling at the enchantress' feet and licking her boots for all to see? If you genuinely subscribe to this belief, then we are truly lost."

Arminda glowered, but then shook her head ruefully. Reaching into a leather folio case, she withdrew a document that Gillian immediately recognized as a formal edict. She handed the document to the master swordsman and waited in silence while he perused the text, his expression darkening with each passing line. The authorizing signature belonged to the woman standing before him.

He allowed the document to slip from his fingers and demanded, "Is Maroc aware of this?"

Arminda regarded him flatly and replied, "He is not, but I will apprise him of my decision and my overlying rationale, should you wish."

Gillian's lips twisted scornfully and he inquired, "So is this your revenge? I imagine that it must have been rather humiliating to be discovered in the Emercian king's bed...tied to his bedposts or is it perhaps inspired by a more festering grievance?"

His gaze slid to her left arm, which hung lifelessly at her side. She interpreted his inference perfectly and her color deepened to scarlet. Somehow she managed to suppress the maddening urge to drive her forehead into his already broken nose. Instead, she clung tenaciously to her composure and growled, "I have suffered a string of bitter humiliations over the course of my journey through the Land of Shades. I've been beaten like an animal and watched people I love die horrible, meaningless deaths." She inclined her head toward her paralyzed arm. "I have been reduced to a cripple and deprived of the one gift that gave me purpose. Yet, I have forgiven all of these things and tried my best to suffer them with dignity. I even cared for you when you were lost in the thrall of the virulence and did everything I could to see you back to lucidity. I respected you and deferred to your judgment and you repaid my kindness by lying to me."

"Welcome to the harsh realities of our world, Tier Marshal," Gillian retorted mordantly. "Doing the right thing often comes with unforeseen consequences...and unintended injury. If I had been candid and informed you that it was my intention to strike at Islena, would you have given me your blessing and stood blithely aside?"

"What twists have led you to this sorry state?" Arminda inquired, her blue eyes blazing with a light that may have been pity. Shaking her head, she commanded sternly, "You will pack and depart at once. First scout Sybian and a cohort of cavalry will accompany you back to Summergaden. You will perform a thorough reconnaissance of the city and dispatch a report to my attention, along with your assessment of the city's inhabitability. Once that task is complete, you will head to Ithyx and apprise Tier Marshal Damosta of the situation and bid him to return to the capital. Once this present crisis has been resolved, you will assume command of the alpine training academy...where you will remain until I see fit to summon you back to the capital."

"If I refuse to accept your exile?"

Arminda's regard was ice and steel as she vowed, "Then I will have you brought before the Maxim Tier Marshal on charges of high treason."

Gillian pursed his lips and nodded. "If I have your leave Tier Marshal, I will make my preparations." He watched her spin stiffly and marched toward the door, but could not resist the urge to deliver on parting barb. "Arminda, I believe that I was hasty in my belief that you were ill-suited to the mantle of leadership with its ruthless pragmatism. You have handled the matter of my inconvenient act of defiance most adroitly. No doubt...given time...you will become an exceptionally skilled player of the game of rule."

Arminda paused at the door with her hand on the wrought iron handle. She did not turn back to the swordsman, but it was impossible to mistake the wounded indignation in her voice. "Obviously you are convinced that I've taken this action out of spite, when the reality is that I am sending you away to save your life. Myrhia knows that Lorio did not act alone and she would have the collaborators brought before her...so that she could incinerate them in the central plaza. A deplorable knave you might be Gillian, but I would not have you meet that ignoble end and I will see you off through the south gate when the next bell tolls."

Then she was gone, leaving Gillian staring at the chamber door, feeling both ashamed of his unfair condemnation and unaccountably lonely and isolated.

After a time, he sighed and set about gathering his meager possessions, knowing that his role in the world's grand drama had come to an inauspicious end.

3

The mood in the Inner Circle's audience hall was bleak and somber as Artumas and Maroc entered. Myrhia had sent word that she would attend the assembly within the next bell, which left little time for the coalition to discuss a common posture with which they would enter discussions. Artumas saw that the normally unflappable Inos appeared dismayed by the events in the plaza and the deposed king could certainly commiserate. Lorio's ill-conceived attack on Islena had inadvertently caused the death of hundreds of Metocan citizens, who had met their fiery end when Myrhia had raised her curtains of bale fire. Being of a common mind in the matter of the responsibilities of a leader, Artumas had little doubt that the Metocan Grand Mage blamed himself for the debacle on the plaza.

"Is your Tier Marshal well?" Inos inquired in a subdued tone.

"Save for her wounded pride, yes," Maroc allowed, though his pinched expression suggested either deep concern or smoldering anger. "Lorio subdued her but it seems that it was not her intention to inflict any lasting harm on the girl."

The mere mention of the Lamish immortal seemed to rouse a sullen Tokizar to anger and she snapped, "This impetuous dolt must be held accountable for her actions in the plaza."

Inos arched a thin eyebrow at her indignant outburst and reminded the livid Tokizar, "As I recall, it was you who aggressively advised that we strike against the enchantress...that we were, in fact, morally and ethically obligated to do so. It is unseemly that you would now condemn Lorio for taking the very initiative you so strongly advocated."

"I never proposed killing Islena Doraux!" Tokizar sputtered angrily.

"Killing Islena is akin to cutting out the very heart of Myrhia's odious ambition," the dour Maktir pointed out, drawing a blazing scowl of disapproval from the Metocan.

"There is little to be gained by pointing accusatory fingers," Artumas interjected calmly, wishing to avoid time-consuming and pointless debate. "We are all culpable in not foreseeing Lorio's rash intent...I more than most as I petitioned for her release to my care. Evidently, I have a pronounced vulnerability to being manipulated by women. As to the matter of Lorio's accountability, Islena has laid claim to her and personally, I cannot conceive of a more terrible punishment, given what we witnessed in the plaza. More to the point, I think it would be...unwise to further provoke Islena or Myrhia."

Maroc nodded in agreement and then asked, "Artumas, may I ask your thoughts on what transpired on the plaza...specifically the relationship between the two women. Perhaps it is just wishful thinking, but I seemed to sense a measure of discord between Myrhia and Islena. Then there is the matter of Islena's rather perplexing behavior. At times, she was sickeningly subservient, kneeling at Myrhia's side like a well-heeled hound and yet, when the enchantress explicitly commanded her to kill Lorio...Islena did not comply."

The Emercian's brow furrowed and he stroked his graying beard pensively. After a time, he offered, "In the short time that I've known her, Islena's behavior has grown increasingly...erratic, though whether by design or deteriorating spirit, I cannot speculate. If, as we all so fervently hope, she is lulling Myrhia in believing that she has surrendered to her will, then her acts of subservience would be a logical means of demonstrating her loyalty. On the matter of why she did not kill Lorio... _that_ I would ascribe for her deep affection for the woman."

"Yet, she abused her horribly...torturing her with undisguised glee," Inos pointed out.

"True." Artumas conceded, "But possibly an ugly, distasteful display of theatrics necessitated by the need to placate Myrhia's obvious displeasure with her refusal to actually kill Lorio."

Inos greeted this scenario with a noncommittal nod, which Artumas interpreted perfectly. "I agree Grand Mage...we must be vigilant in attempting to shape the apparent facts to match our preconceived desires. Still, it can be said...without equivocation...that Islena does not function like a Morticant...one that would serve Myrhia's will and divest Lorio of her head without hesitation."

"If only we could interview Islena...perhaps then we could divine something of her intent," Tokizar remarked anxiously.

"Myrhia has made it explicitly clear that we are to have no discourse with Islena and so that venue is emphatically closed to us," Inos intoned...his severe tone making it clear that he would not entertain a dialogue on the subject.

Artumas frowned and cleared his throat, troubled by the thought to which he was about to give voice. "There is a matter which has troubled me since Islena and the others found me on the shore of the western ocean. If you are amenable, Inos, I would discuss it now."

Inos signified his willingness by spreading his hands in a gesture for the Emercian to proceed. Artumas' gaze swept the members of the Inner Circle and it was evident he was groping for the correct words to begin. "I would never claim to be an authority on sorcery or the arcane arts. In all candor, I've long been leery of magic and its practitioners. When Myrhia sat beside me on the Emercian throne, I had no idea she had any aptitude for sorcery. As ignorant of the subject as I may be, I still recognize that her display on the plaza bespoke a power of unimaginable magnitude...does it not?"

Inos exchanged glances with his fellow Metocan and then nodded warily. "You're quite right Artumas...throughout this long conflict, Myrhia has demonstrated abilities without precedent. More disconcerting still, we suspect that she has chosen to reveal only a small fraction of her true power.

Artumas nodded absently as if the Grand Mage had merely corroborated what he already suspected. "While I freely admit that my grasp of the mechanics of sorcery is woefully lacking, I'm still perplexed by one aspect of our present predicament. Myrhia may possess a power of unimaginable magnitude, but she is still only _one_ woman. Metocan is an entire nation of men and women who all...to one degree or another...possess some measure of arcane ability. Why is it that you cannot simply obliterate her with the sheer weight of numbers? Only in myth and mummer's farce can a single warrior triumph over a hundred skilled opponents."

For a long moment, the audience hall was plunged into a charged silence. Tokizar appeared genuinely offended by Artumas' question...which carried with it an implicit criticism...while Jerrod appeared vaguely amused. After glancing at his cohorts in bemusement, Inos cleared his throat and explained, "While it is true that Metocan is a nation of magic wielders, only a fraction of our population holds the ability to utilize what you would call offensive magic. Our affinity for magic is an individual quality that is often based on personal character. On the Inner Circle...only two amongst our ranks can employ elemental magic with any degree of efficacy. Many of us are adept only in schools of white and practical magic...telepathy, telekinesis and the healing arts. This is why Myrhia was able to bind us so effectively."

Artumas absorbed this disclosure thoughtfully; still unable to internalize the notion that one woman could intimidate an entire nation of sorcerers into submission. "Still, Inos, Metocan has academies where elemental and offensive magic are taught and studied. Surely, you could assemble an army of mages that could vanquish Myrhia in a direct confrontation?"

Patiently, Inos elaborated, "As you say...Metocan is blessed with legions of magic wielders who could theoretically come together and offer the enchantress formidable opposition...perhaps even vanquish her outright. Keep in mind; both Gillian and Arminda attested that Myrhia unleashed a wave of sorcery in the Land of Shades that left a vast segment of the continent in ruins. Try to envision the shape of a conflict here and the cataclysmic destruction that would be left in its wake. A battle of that magnitude would probably tear the world asunder."

"Bludgeoning yourself on the shield and spears of a powerful enemy is often futile," Maroc observed soberly. "Is there not a means of trapping the enchantress or some other such subtle stratagem?"

Now it was the rather irascible scholar, Mascius, who took up the thread of the Grand Mage's discourse on combat magic. "The Grand Mage is quite correct in stating that an open confrontation with Myrhia would be disastrous...not to mention, incredibly stupid. Something more...devious would be logical. There are two ways to vanquish a sorcerer...overwhelm them with the sheer force of your sorcery...or deny them access to their own power. This would essentially cut them off from their source, thus rendering them helpless."

Both Maroc and Artumas reacted with expressions of dawning excitement, but Mascius waved them off with a dismissive gesture of his gnarled left hand.

"Before you start making plans for a victory celebration, I would suggest that you listen carefully to what I'm about to relate," Mascius cautioned in a tone even more abrasive than normal. "Unwittingly, you have touched the precise heart of our dilemma when it comes to opposing Myrhia. We cannot divine the shape of her magic...or the source of her power."

Artumas exchanged a quizzical glance with the Maxim Tier Marshal and he remarked, "I'm not entirely sure I understand."

The academic rolled his eyes in exasperation, but nonetheless elaborated, "Each discipline of magic has a discernable form...weaves and flows of arcane energy that are very obvious to other practitioners. Furthermore, each school of magic draws its energy from very specific sources...the four primary elements being the most common. It is possible for a skilled mage to isolate another sorcerer from their source of arcane energy...thus rendering them impotent. That is only possible if one can clearly identify the weaves being employed and cut them off from their source."

"And with Myrhia, you cannot," Artumas observed, his tone somber.

"Exactly!" Mascius confirmed. "Not only are we unable to identify the school or nature of her sorcery...we cannot discern the source from which it is being drawn...other than to say that it seems virtually infinite. Thus she is impervious to shielding or binding."

"I still maintain that she is practicing the dark leeching arts," Tokizar interjected brusquely, which earned a truculent scowl from Mascius.

"Leeching arts?" Artumas echoed as the very name sent a chill of revulsion racing along his spine.

"Speculative babble, woman and not worthy of serious discussion," the academic growled at Tokizar. To Artumas, he explained, "Leeching arts...also known as subtractive magic...are one of the greatest fallacies of the ages, plaguing the halls of every academy in Metocan for centuries. It is a school of magic predicated on the theory that the caster could draw his or her power from the life source of every living thing around them...even plants and the grass beneath our feet. Theoretically, such a caster could draw...or _leech_ life essence until the entire planet was a sterile husk. In the known history of the world, there has never been a single confirmed practitioner of leeching sorcery. I can assure you...whatever else she might be...Myrhia is not the first."

He flailed Tokizar with a withering scowl and then fell silent. Artumas nodded distantly and declared, "Then it would seem that our options are limited...if not non-existent. We must accede to Myrhia's terms and hope that I have not misconstrued Islena's intentions."

No one voiced an objection and a dismal silence descended over those assembled as each struggled to come to terms with the black juncture at which they had arrived.

"Does this mean that we actually offer this monster our aid in locating the final two Proclamations?" Tokizar demanded sourly.

"In that respect, what aid could we actually offer...given the fact that we have no clue where the remaining two icons may be sequestered," Inos pointed out.

Unexpectedly, Maktir rose to his feet, his dour countenance twisted into a living portrait of ambivalence. The Natzurdan elder's dark eyes were clearly conflicted and when he spoke, reluctance framed every word, "That is not entirely true."

Every head swiveled to regard the elder and his circle of adepts considered Maktir with expressions of apoplectic horror. Artumas ventured cautiously, "Are you saying that you _know_ where the Natzurdan Proclamation has been hidden?"

Pointedly ignoring his circle of outraged advisors, he allowed simply, "I do...all Natzurdan are aware of our Icon's place of concealment...and always have been."

This thoroughly astounding revelation was greeted with gasps of incredulity and outrage by all but the other Natzurdan. A nonplused Inos stammered, "And you saw fit not to share this with your oldest allies? Morzhian knew of the icon's location and even in our time of dire need elected to withhold even a confirmation of its existence?"

Refusing to be daunted by this scathing castigation, Maktir merely shrugged. "It is the will of the Mother that its whereabouts remain known only to the Natzurdan and we serve only her will."

"Yet, you have elected to make this critical disclosure now...when our only path forward is to concede defeat," Maroc rasped furiously.

Never one given to expansive discourse, the elder replied, "Yes...though I may come to rue my decision if the Mother finds my decision lacking in logic."

Only Artumas did not react to Maktir's revelation with incredulous indignation. That an entire culture could possess such unwavering devotion...such undeviating loyalty to its deity...was beyond his sensibilities to grasp. That every single Natzurdan would know of their Icon's existence and not a single one would reveal its location...even peripherally or accidentally...spoke of a universal zealotry that defied sentient reason and set the Natzurdan far above any other culture in the Emercian's esteem. "You're sharing this now because you surmise that your Icon may hold the intrinsic key to our deliverance...is this not so, elder?"

"It is...but before I am willing to discuss specifics, I must consult with my disgruntled advisers...and more specifically...seek the blessing of the Mother," Maktir replied evasively, much to the Emercian's chagrin, who could see that the Natzurdan would not be cajoled from his position of intractability. "I must warn you that the Mother was grievously offended by the re-routing of the Hiberas and she may not be amendable to what I propose. If she refuses to bestow her blessing then neither I nor any other Natzurdan will disclose the place of the Icon's cloister...even at the expense of our annihilation."

This evoked a storm of protest, which Artumas quieted with a raised hand. "I understand elder...what do you require of us?"

Maktir raised a shaggy eyebrow, impressed by the deposed king's display of patience in the face of grave need. "Only your forbearance while I solicit the Mother's wisdom. In the meantime, if we could _encourage_ the she-demon to seek out the Metocan Proclamation, it would grant me a space of time to do what I must."

"As she is in Metocan, logic would dictate that it is here that she would commence her search," Artumas offered, just as the door of the audience hall blew inward, slamming against the stone wall with a titanic clatter that drew cries of alarm from the assembly.

Every eye snapped about to see Myrhia stride purposefully into the chamber like a fast breaking storm on the ocean. She wore a low-plunging green gown that exposed a scandalous expanse of firm bosom, though its flaring skirt swept the floor. Her mass of raven hair was held back by a comparatively simple gold circlet adorned by her emerald intaglio. Otherwise, she wore neither rings nor jewelry at her delicate throat.

' _In truth, any ornamentation would pale on a canvas of such immense beauty,'_ Artumas marveled as he watched her approach and it was difficult to imagine how such an apparently fragile creature could inspire such emasculating dread...or contain such a vast repository of power.

Her countenance bore the glacial expression of a woman whose patience had been expended and who would meet any further aggravation with swift and severe retaliation. Only when her gaze touched upon Artumas was her truculence tempered by something that may have been affection.

Conspicuously absent were Islena and her normal escort of Morticants. That Myrhia would come before her enemies alone spoke eloquently of the magnitude of her confidence that she was truly invulnerable. She stopped before the dais and surveyed the assembly with a smoldering glare that could have set bare stone ablaze.

"Let me make it exceedingly clear...what is to follow is _not_ a negotiation," Myrhia began coldly. "I am about to disclose terms to which you must submit if your bloated, antiquated cultures wish to survive. I will suffer no equivocation and punishment for failure to comply will be immediate and devastating."

"We had no prior knowledge of the attempt on Islena Doraux's life," Inos commented quietly.

Myrhia dismissed this with a flourish of her small left hand. "The very fact that you yet draw breath is proof that I believe you. My sufferance of this needless drama, however, is at an end. Doubt me at your own peril. Know that your countries have been granted a reprieve by Islena's prudent decision to submit to me...on the condition that I cease all hostilities against your coalition and abrogate all claims over the lands I've conquered during the course of this war. As Islena is far more valuable to me than this midden heap of a world, I have graciously agreed. There are other terms which she and I have agreed upon, but they are not germane to your situation. As you already know, I have demonstrated my sincerity by withdrawing my armies from the occupied countries of the Eastern Continent. My continued benevolence is provisional to your acquiescence to two demands. First, you will allow me to search the depth and breadth of both Natzurdan and Metocan for the remaining two Icons. I would add that...should you possess knowledge concerning the whereabouts of either Icon, it would be in your best interest to divulge it as a token of your commitment to our accord."

Myrhia shifted her gaze expectantly from Inos to Maktir. The Natzurdan elder merely continued to stare at Myrhia from behind a mask of inscrutable stoicism. Inos merely spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness and remarked, "Until Islena arrived in Othgol with the Jerhia Icon, we subscribed to the belief that the Proclamations were the stuff of myth."

Myrhia offered the Grand Mage a decidedly feral grin. "Augury has whispered in the daughter's ear and Islena is now confident that she can locate the orb of Metocan. It has been sequestered somewhere in the icy wilds of Ulgak and it is there that we are bound once our business here is concluded."

For a pregnant moment, Inos was rendered speechless by this shocking disclosure. When he regained his equilibrium, he stammered haltingly, "It is our intention to cooperate with your demands, but I must warn you that, while Ulgak is technically a province of Metocan, our cousins are an unpredictable and often unruly lot. In truth, Othgol exercises very little control on events within the province's borders. Thus, I can offer no guarantee on how your presence will be received there."

Myrhia's smile became malevolent, "I can assure _you_ that Metocan will find itself without its unruly cousins, should they be so foolish as to obstruct my search."

When Inos offered no rejoinder, the enchantress glowered, but proceeded to her next demand, which left Artumas at a loss for words. "Finally, it is my intention to abdicate the throne of Emercia once Islena achieves her ascension. Artumas will be re-installed on the throne once I have stepped aside. I have little doubt that the people will accept their legendary king. All that I require of the Cornerstone Nations is that you make an ostentatious display of offering my husband your whole-hearted support."

"You presume that I would want to take the throne," Artumas commented quietly, unable to fully mask his shock.

Myrhia regarded her husband and rolled her large eyes in exasperation. "Don't be tedious husband. We both know that you regard the throne as a venue from which you may redress the great injustices of the world. Both Islena and I think you should rule Emercia...think of it as our parting gift to you."

She favored the aging king with a heart-breaking, radiant smile and then turned to the assembly. "These are my terms for ending this conflict and I would have you agree on them now...without reservation or condition."

One by one, the leaders of the CornerStone Nations vowed compliance. Myrhia offered the assembly a satisfied grin and then her mood became oddly somber. "So much unnecessary bloodshed all to arrive at a juncture that was inevitable since the moment I took the throne." She shook her head...and frowned. "When Islena is fit to travel, we will depart the city. Inos, I suggest you send word to the Ulgak, impressing upon them the wisdom of cooperation. Artumas, I would see you in your private chamber in a bell's time...to discuss the transfer of power.

Then she turned and strode from the chamber, leaving a bemused assembly gaping in her wake.

Chapter Thirteen

1

Artumas was standing by the window casement of his reception area, peering absently out over the central plaza. Beyond the thick pane of glass, night had descended upon the ancient city of Othgol, which for the first time in its history now hosted an occupying army. The omnipresent mists glowed faintly in the darkness and it would be easy to believe that they might conceal apparitions and specters from times long forgotten.

' _If they do indeed stand witness to this dark drama, how do they perceive the world we've fashioned?'_ he wondered as he awaited his _guest_. Artumas was surprised by the degree of anxiety he felt in anticipation of her imminent arrival...and the intense ambivalence that her presence evoked in his tired heart. He could not deny his attraction to her...despite her long catalogue of heinous crimes. Watching her earlier...as she held court before the three most powerful men in the known world...Artumas had been befuddled by the affect her very proximity exerted over him. Her grace...her indescribable beauty and her unflappable composure...these things still beguiled him as they had the very first instant he had set eyes upon her.

The aging king shook his head in dismay and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, the temples of which were liberally sprinkled with silver. He wondered how he could possibly feel anything for Myrhia other than animosity and revulsion. _'Yet you cannot deny that there is a part of you that dearly wishes there was a way to resolve this conflict that would not mean her destruction. Ultimately, you would see her redeemed...reclaimed somehow and absolved of her transgressions.'_

He groaned aloud, even as a rapping came on his chamber door. Drawing a tremulous breath to steady his nerves, Artumas strode across the carpeted floor and after pausing briefly, opened the door. As she stood in the gloom of the dimly lit corridor, Myrhia appeared to be enveloped in a mantle of golden effulgence. She offered him an intoxicating smile and swept into his chamber without awaiting an invitation. He closed the door and watched...partially mesmerized...as she floated around the chamber, stopping at random to examine items that seemed to pique her interest.

Finally, she turned to face him and after surveying him with a frank gaze of appraisal, commented, "It is good to see you well, husband. I doubt that you will credit this, but I have actually missed you."

Artumas did not respond, not trusting himself to speak for fear that he would return the sentiment. A shadow rippled across her exquisite face, but then she merely shrugged as if indifferent. "There is no need for rancor or belligerence between us, Artumas. In fact, with your allies' sage acquiescence to my terms...we are no longer adversaries."

"I'm afraid the occasion has not roused a great deal of joy in those whom you have so savagely subjugated, Myrhia," Artumas retorted bluntly.

"Frankly, I don't care what the dross of this world think. I have graciously spared their wretched lives and they would be wise to express their gratitude through obedience," she flared and then chastised herself for her inability to not be provoked by his insufferable nobility.

"Why have you come, Myrhia?" he demanded, not wanting to engage in a pointless verbal fencing match.

She drifted over to him and stood peering up into his eyes. "It would please me if you would call me wife."

"You have rendered that endearment meaningless by destroying everything I labored so mightily to achieve...grinding it to dust beneath your boot heels," he replied without emotion.

Myrhia arched a finely tapered eyebrow as if perplexed by his reaction. "Is this how you truly see me, husband? Am I a heartless destroyer of ideals who has derived an enormous pleasure from crushing your delusions?"

"Given what you've done, how could I perceive you in any other light?" he retorted softly.

She began to reply, but then closed her mouth with an audible snap, before turning and stalking away. "You speak as though I have a choice...as if mine is the volition to embrace your idealistic vision and bask in the radiant glow of universal peace and prosperity...if such an exalted state is even possible for wretched mortals."

Artumas' brow furrowed and he asked gruffly, "Surely you don't have the audacity to portray yourself as a victim in this vile web you've spun?"

She spun about and he was surprised to see that her cheeks burned red and her limpid eyes were ablaze with bitter resentment. "In every life we've shared...every tragic re-telling of the same blood-drenched tale, _I_ am the most aggrieved victim. I am always alone...unloved...universally despised, but driven to acts of unspeakable evil by a remorseless nature that I had no hand in forging, but am powerless to change. Yes, I see myself as a cruelly abused victim."

She lapsed into a fraught silence and stood glaring at him with her full breasts heaving and her small hands clenched in to fists at her sides.

Watching her, Artumas was consumed by a nearly overwhelming compulsion to go to her and sweep her up in his arms, carry her to his bed and kiss her if only to banish the terrible anxiety burning in her eyes. Instead, he glanced away and mumbled, "I don't understand you."

"Then your capacity for self-deception is without parallel," she spat disdainfully. "If I was the self-styled monster that you perceive me to be, I would reach into your plodding mind and eradicate the barrier that protects you from the unpalatable truth of what we are. I would spare you that torment, husband, knowing that your virtuous nature would not survive the revelation that I have had to endure...that our daughter has had to endure. Only when I came to see the ugly, disgusting truth of what I was...of the role I had been fated to play, was I able to exercise even the smallest measure of restraint over my actions. I spared your life when every fiber in the black thing that passes for my heart howled for your death. Both Islena and I have defied our natures to seek an accord and spare this cesspit of a world."

"Will you permit me to speak with Islena?" Artumas asked, wanting to deflect the subject from this disturbing talk of intractable fate. If he was to subscribe to the idea of that Myrhia was indeed a genuine prisoner to her nature, there was no predicting where it might lead.

Surprisingly, Myrhia's face twisted into a mask of jealousy. "As always, you fixate on the daughter and this incestuous attraction that brings you both together in this lurid, perverse passion. Here I stand before you...offering an accord despite our conflicting purpose...and you would spurn me for the erratic whelp who would whore herself to the light...like a rutting bitch in heat. Islena is mine and not a word will pass between you, lest I turn away from every restraint and let you witness precisely how black the core of my soul is!"

Again she stormed away and stood near the window, with her head bowed and her shoulders trembling with barely constrained fury. In the single moment of insight, Artumas gleaned that he affected her every bit as profoundly as she disconcerted him. _'She cannot be in my presence without being driven to a state of volatility...like a carefully tended flame that can become a raging conflagration. Her rigid grip on her composure wavers in my presence...and by the indifferent gods...she is jealous."_

Having no desire to further incite her to an unthinkable act of violence that might disrupt Islena's delicate machinations, he offered, "It is not my intention to anger or goad you. I confess that these constant allusions to unflinching natures and recurring fates are both confusing and terrifying. Myrhia, you are the greatest single enduring mystery in my life. The road you have elected to follow is my greatest source of sorrow and personal failure. If...as you claim...all of this horror and heartache can be distilled down to your immutable need to defeat me then your efforts have been met with resounding success. When I hear the accounts of the odious acts you have perpetrated, I feel as utterly defeated as it is possible for a man to feel."

She looked back at him, her eyes wide with astonishment at his candid admission of defeat. To her dismay, this honest confession did not evoke even a slight twinge of petulant delight, much less the euphoria she had once anticipated it would. With equal candor, she admitted, "Even my desire to see you humbled and kneeling in the detritus of your great egalitarian delusions is an artificial and contrived thing. It is an odd thing, but gleaning the fundamental truth of who you are and what purpose you were intended to serve can endow you with a terrible clarity...from which there can be no turning away. To see you reduced from the proud idealist to this fumbling shell who struggles to understand the cause of his cruel demise...this evokes no sense of triumph in my heart...only sadness."

He strode over to her and grasped her small shoulders, shaking her briskly. "Then why not change? These emotions you feel...regret and sadness...they speak of an understanding and a capacity for empathy. These are the traits of one who has within them the ability to be noble...to be virtuous. Turn away from the iniquitous path you've been set upon and apply your passion and power to making restitution for the wrongs you've inflicted upon this world. Simply by turning away from what you know, in your heart, to be unjust...the path of the tyrant...could you not break the cycle you so obviously abhor?"

Myrhia's answering smile was wistful and fey. Her hand drifted up to settle on his bearded cheek and for one fleeting moment, Artumas thought that she would actually agree to try. Then her expression became scornful and she slapped his hands away. When she spoke, her voice was recalcitrant and disdainful. "Do you truly expect that I would debase myself by squandering my valuable time and energy making reparations to aggrieved peasants? Their wretched lives are fraught with drudgery and torment. Through your great egalitarian ambitions, you would actually prolong their miserable existence...while I have often brought their suffering to a merciful end. In the final tally, who has truly been more merciful, husband?"

Artumas sighed and turned slightly away. "All of the dominion you covet could easily have been yours, if you had only employed your power for the greater good. The people would have elevated you to the mantle of Goddess. Even before you usurped my throne, the people of Emercia worshipped you. They obeyed and perhaps even respected their king, but they loved their queen. Everything you now possessed could have been gained through kindness and love, but you elected to instead follow the path of blood."

"You, husband, are an irredeemable fool," she spat derisively. "Do not misconstrue my meaning...I have never lamented my nature, but only that I have not had a hand in forging it. Through life after life, I was undone by destructive compulsions I did not fathom, but was powerless to resist. Now that my blinders have been torn away, I will shape my purpose by intelligent design. Do not confuse a clever gambit for weakness, husband."

Though he regarded her with obvious sorrow, he nonetheless shook his head and commented, "Then we are both incorrigible fools and it will still fall to Islena to be our salvation."

This remark, delivered with such grim resignation, caused Myrhia to glare balefully. By slow increments, she regained her equilibrium and growled, "Then we are lost husband, because Islena is mine. Just as I have placed a collar about her neck, so too have I tethered her malign, twisted soul to my purpose. Just be grateful that you will not have to bear witness when I elect to unleashed her wrath."

Knowing that his foolish delusions about her were just that...the lost hope of a forlorn romantic, Artumas again asked, "Why have you come to me?"

Again, she could derive no satisfaction from the expression of intense pain that he now wore...like a perverse badge of nobility. Quietly, she intoned, "There is nothing to be gained by bludgeoning each other in this fashion. Let us set the woes of the future aside and allow events to resolve themselves as they will. Let us take supper together and speak of our return to Emercia and your reclaiming of the throne. For a short span of time, let us both forget that we abhor delusion and harken back to a time when we could spend hours basking in each others company."

There was such a note of longing entreaty in her voice that Artumas could do naught but agree.

Later, when Artumas had grudgingly submitted to her course of action, Myrhia gazed intently at the only man she had ever come within near proximity of loving. Even she did not entirely understand the spontaneous impulse that prompted her to murmur, "If you are of a mind husband, I would share your bed this night...reacquaint you with the sensation of how it felt to lose yourself in my charms."

Artumas reacted to this brazen offer with a perceptible shiver, gripping the edge of the table with bloodless fingers. She could feel him tottering on the edge of capitulation, but then he dragged his gaze from hers with a monumental exertion of will and found the wherewithal to mutter a half-hearted rejection. "There is little to be gained by professing that I am not tempted...which is a testimony to my flawed soul...but I cannot...not in the home of those you have so cruelly abused."

She offered him a sly smile and rose to leave. "I can feel your need, Artumas...warring with that nuisance you call a conscience. Still, I won't traduce you into compromising your integrity...though we both know if I was determined to seduce you, there would be very little you could do to resist."

Artumas did not even bother to offer an objection or denial, knowing that to do so would be a pathetic insult to both. He watched silently as she gravitated toward the door, but before Myrhia exited his chamber, she remarked, "Perhaps, when we reach Nalosan, you will find yourself less encumbered by scruples. Sleep on that thought...if you are able."

She favored him with her most radiant smile and was gone in a swirl of skirts.

2

That beguiling smile faded from her lips that instant the door slammed closed behind her. Myrhia was accosted by a bout of light-headedness and settled against the cold stone wall to prevent from tumbling to the carpeted floor. Abruptly, the most powerful woman in known creation covered her eyes with her right hand and began to weep.

3

She gritted her teeth in response to the monotonous sound of water dripping incessantly into a metal basin somewhere nearby. With nothing to distract her from the irritating ping-ping, Lorio feared that she would lose her tenuous grip on reason and begin to shriek like a banshee until someone came to stop the damnable dripping...or put an end to her torment.

Her misery was further exacerbated by the chains that bound her wrists. She had come back to awareness to find that she was sitting on cold stone with her arms chained above her head. The total darkness made it impossible to determine how she was bound, but she was unable to stand and correctly deduced that her chain had been secured to a ring bolt in the wall against which she now leaned.

Waves of intense, throbbing pain rolled through her battered body like remorseless juggernauts...serving as a counterpoint to the incisive searing pain that radiated from her left thigh. It was an argent thing that seemed to scream its presence without surcease. Her entire face also pulsed with a bone deep misery and she seemed to recall Islena straddling her chest and pummeling her face mercilessly.

She could not, however, recall how she had come by the excruciating wound in her thigh. Yet, the most astounding mystery of her present circumstances was that she was still alive at all. Myrhia had demanded that Islena literally decapitate her, but Doraux had declined...an act of disobedience which the enchantress had tolerated...why?

' _You pathetic bitch...she was yours...the terror was a huge, palpable thing in those green eyes. Still, you let her live,"_ she thought, flailing herself with self-contempt.

' _Is not Islena guilty of the precisely the same inadequacy? Did she not falter with her blade to your throat? Can you not help but wonder why?'_ a calm voice inquired above the clamor of her discordant thoughts.

She shook her head vehemently and was rewarded with an explosion of pain that nearly plunged her into the void. Only the sound of a key in the lock prevented her from succumbing to its numbing embrace. The door swung open with a grating of warped wood on bare stone and a sickly yellow light spilled into what Lorio now saw was a storage room. A single figure, carrying two lit torches, slid nimbly through the opening before slamming the door with its left foot. The figure then thrust the blazing torches into two iron holders on either side of the narrow door.

Lorio gasped and despite her pride and determination to remain defiant in the face of whatever was to follow, an involuntary whimper escaped her lips and she cringed back against the wall, as if trying to make herself inconspicuous.

Islena Doraux towered over her, dressed in the now polished armor she had worn in the plaza. The emeralds in Myrhia's loathsome intaglio danced mockingly in the flickering torchlight. Behind the half-helm, Islena's eyes gleamed liked emerald moons over a frozen field in the depth of a frigid winter night.

Islena's first glimpse of Lorio twisted her heart as if it was being constricted by the invisible fist of a malefic giant. The Lamish hybrid still wore the dirty clothes in which she'd made her courageous, but ultimately futile assassination attempt. Doraux grimaced when her eyes fell on the jagged tear in Lorio's trousers where the deranged shadow incarnation had compelled her to bury a dagger in the unconscious hybrid's thigh. The indomitable creature appeared haggard...the impression compounded by the restrictive way in which she'd been chained to the wall. Yet even the stark and sorrowful state of this viciously abused creature was not what made Islena want to howl like a mortally wounded animal.

The thing that made Islena want to draw the Dragonsword and drive it into her own worthless heart was the way that Lorio had cringed upon first realizing that it was Islena standing before her.

Lorio had always been a proud, defiant spirit, who had never displayed the slightest hint of fear in the face of any adversary. Yet, the creature now cowering before her reminded Islena of a long-abused dog, whose spirit had been extinguished by systematic cruelty.

' _And you did this to her, Islena,'_ Guinevere observed coldly. _'This woman loved you unremittingly and this is her recompense...filthy and broken...chained to a wall in the dark like a rabid animal.'_

Islena stood rigid and silent...her only visible reaction to this scathing condemnation was a slight twitch in her right eye. Lorio's first words confirmed Guinevere's piercing accusation. She twisted against her chains and her long legs jerked spastically against the stone floor as she averted her large eyes and moaned, "Please Islena...no more. I have no fight left in me and nothing else of value to give you. Kill me if you must, but if there is any last vestige of mercy left in your soul...don't hurt me anymore. If you wished to crush my spirit, you've succeeded...broken me of everything." She turned her beautiful face to Islena and her countenance was a living portrait of raw misery. "All that I have left is this love for you...as much as I wish I didn't...and I don't think even you have enough malice to beat that out of me. Leave me here in the dark with my shame...please!"

Those words, delivered in an uncharacteristically listless voice, flailed Islena more effectively than Lorio's fists ever had. In the face of the hybrid's suffering, Islena could no longer maintain her façade of cruel indifference. Groping for the chin strap of her half-helm, Islena pulled off the vile mask of subservience and set it on a wooden crate.

Lorio tracked Islena's movement warily as Doraux removed a ring that held the silver key she'd requested. Crossing over to the hybrid, who could not repress the urge to draw into herself, Islena knelt and unlocked the manacles with clumsy, trembling fingers. She then lowered the numb limb to Lorio's side and repeated the process on the other arm. When it became apparent that Lorio's arms had been rendered immobile by lack of circulation, Doraux began to massage life back into the immortal's firm shoulders.

Islena's probing fingers drew a sharp hiss of pain from the hybrid and Doraux realized that she was suffering the after affects of the beating she had absorbed. "The pain...is it severe?"

"I've lived through worse," Lorio intoned cautiously with unmistakable irony.

Now it was Islena who flinched, grasping that she was the wellspring from which all of Lorio's misery found its source.

She positioned herself on her knees directly before Lorio and gripped the hybrid's face in gentle hands. Earnestly, Islena implored, "Lorio, I know that I've done horrible things to you that even a saint could not find it in themselves to forgive. I also know that you could have killed me in the plaza, but turned your blades away in an act of mercy that defies reason. If circumstances were different, I would have been ecstatic had you buried those blades in my throat. I don't have the luxury of the craven's way out. It was you who proved that to me in the Land of Shades."

"What do you want from me?" Lorio rasped, confused and leery of this apologetic incarnation of a woman whom she both loved and despised.

Islena gently caressed the angled ridge of the hybrid's slanting right cheek. "I know I have absolutely no right to make requests, but I need you to listen to me...and believe what I have to tell you."

Her wounded soul demanded that she emphatically reject Islena's plea...that she spit in her face and curse her to eternal damnation. As desperately as she wanted to comply, there was a spark of sincerity in those green depths that Lorio was powerless to deny. "I'll listen, Islena."

"Nothing has changed...I still have every intention to end Myrhia's evil. Lorio, I'm not Artumas or the others...who all seem so resolute and steadfast in their determination to do the right thing. I'm a seriously flawed woman with a core of ugliness in my heart that I can't expunge. I'm asking you to trust me and I know that I should have declared my intentions before leading you into purgatory...but I was afraid that the others would try to stop me. I would like to attribute it to flagrant stupidity...but I know that it was selfishness that blinded me to the glaringly obvious choice that Otaru Ree would make."

At the mere allusion to her lost son, Lorio buried her face in her hands and began to weep. Islena drew the hybrid into a tight embrace and gently rocked her until Lorio's tears subsided. She then sat back on her haunches and reaching into a pouch on her belt, drew forth two items. The first of these...a small vellum envelope...she dropped into Lorio's lap. "Would you see this into Artumas' hands? It puts forth my intentions...at least as clearly as they have taken shape in my head. I'll send him to you when we are done."

"I doubt he'll be particularly receptive to the idea of seeing me," Lorio muttered and explained the way in which she'd deceived the Emercian king.

Islena frowned, but brushed Lorio's concerns aside. "He'll see you. After what I did to you, how could he reasonably expect you to react any differently? If he wishes to assign blame, he should start with himself for not recognizing the enormity of your rage."

Lorio peered directly into Islena's eyes and in that unflinching gaze of appraisal, Doraux was shocked to see that the hybrid was desperate to absolve her of everything. "Islena, do you swear...on the souls of your children...that this is not another cruel ruse?"

By way of response, Islena lifted Lorio's right hand and gently placed the second item...the Hybrid's Zarcyk...in her open palm. Mystified, Lorio looked to Islena for explanation. "I'm returning this to you as a symbol of many things. Firstly, it is my promise that I will never deliberately hurt you again. Secondly, I want your Zarcyk to serve as a tangible affirmation that I submit my life to you. I've committed sins against you for which there is only one possible answer and I'm happy and willing to accept your justice." She again gripped Lorio's arms and shook the taller woman as if to emphasize the exigency of her plea. "I have no right to leniency, but if you can muster any love for me still...let me finish this thing with Myrhia. Once that's done, I swear...on the souls of my children...I will kneel at your feet and meekly accept whatever justice you deem fitting. If the love you harbor for me won't allow you to claim that justice, I'll hold your hands and guide the blade. Just let me deal with Myrhia first or everything we've suffered will have been for nothing."

For a painfully protracted moment, Lorio remained silent, her expressive eyes constantly roving over the beautiful face that she had come to cherish more than her own life. In a somber, quavering voice, the hybrid intoned, "I accept your vow...but not any claim to your life. If there is anything I would have from you...it's _your_ forgiveness!"

Islena blinked and when she attempted to reply to this ludicrous notion, Doraux found that rampant emotion had constricted her throat to the bore of a pinhole. The best she could muster was a wheeze of incredulity. Lorio persisted in her absurd adjuration, each word driving a dagger deeper into Islena's wretched heart. Lorio was weeping as she stammered, "Forgive me for hurting you in the plaza. When I think what I did to you...what I did to your beautiful face." She tentatively touched Islena's restored cheek with her fingertips. "She healed you...as much as I despise that hateful bitch, I would gladly kiss her feet for that one act. More than anything else, I want you to forgive me for losing faith in you."

The unadulterated need shining in Lorio's limpid eyes shattered Islena's mantle of self-control completely, sweeping her away in a torrent of anguish and churning sorrow. To Lorio's horror, Islena slumped forward into her lap and began to sob uncontrollably...her entire body shaking from the intensity of her torment fuelled outpouring.

Dumbfounded, Lorio viewed the bewildering spectacle of Islena's complete loss of emotional control in stunned silence. Finally, she let her right hand settle gently on Islena's neck. Desperately, she beseeched, "Please, Islena...stop. I can't see you suffer like this...stop crying."

Gradually, Islena managed to bring her emotions under some semblance of control. She spent several moments with her face pressed into Lorio's taut thigh, simply luxuriating in the comforting sensation of the hybrid's touch as she stroked Islena's red hair. When Islena sat up, Lorio was shocked and troubled by how haggard Doraux appeared in the muted light of the storage room. She brushed tears from Islena's cheek and prompted quietly, "Tell me everything that you're planning...every detail and nuance."

As so Islena did...sparing no detail, including the likelihood of her success. Lorio listened raptly, her agitation and astonishment mounting with each word Islena spoke. She was mortified by the delicacy and complexity of the web that the audacious Islena was attempting to spin.

"So you see, I must do everything in my power to convince Myrhia that I have whole-heartedly embraced my role as her creature," Islena concluded, suddenly feeling emotionally exhausted by the outpouring. "Because I am so god-damned impulsive, I never actually took the time to consider the possibility that this charade might force me into the need to harm the things I'm trying to protect." She peered directly into Lorio's eyes and added, "The things I love."

Lorio responded to this last disclosure with a shy smile that reminded Islena that, for all she had endured, Lorio was still a very young woman. "Essentially, your intent is to ensnare Myrhia in the small space between life and death...a living entombment of sorts," Lorio shuddered and then remarked grimly, "I can't conceive of a worse fate; to be confined within your own body for eternity...fully cognizant but utterly helpless."

Islena nodded tightly...had she not grappled with the same disquieting reservations? "Between you and I, Lorio...I have no idea if what I'm planning is even possible. The concept is based entirely on what Myrhia did to Sormias...and a great deal of extrapolation. I would need guidance from Inos or the Natzurdan, but Myrhia is adamant that I have no direct contact with either."

Lorio's brow creased in vexation. "Even if you've miscalculated, Myrhia would be obliterated...would that not suffice?"

Islena shook her head and smiled wistfully. "In the short term, yes...but it would be a bandage solution only. Once Artumas and I die, the cycle would begin again. As inconceivable as this might be, each cycle has become more cataclysmic than the previous." Doraux shifted her gaze to her hands which were clenched into fists in her lap. "As horrifying as that is...it is not the worst."

Lorio greeted this with a perplexed frown. "Islena, I have no illusions about who I am. I'm just a shiftless itinerant that you plucked out of obscurity."

Doraux started to object, but Lorio forestalled her by placing an index finger on her full lips. "It's all right. My point is...I may be guilty of over-simplifying the issue, but it would seem that there are other ways to achieve the desired result."

Islena raised an inquisitive eyebrow and gestured for Lorio to continue. "You believe that...to break this odious cycle, at least one of the three recurring spirits must not die...correct?" Islena nodded thoughtfully and Lorio concluded, "Again, even if you've misjudged and Myrhia is burnt to cinders, the process will transform you into a goddess of some sort...an immortal."

Lorio was entirely unprepared for Islena's fraught reaction. Doraux's face contracted as if in response to an incisive pain. She gripped Lorio's shoulders and shook her vigorously and when she managed to speak, Islena's voice was strident with clear apprehension. "That can never be allowed to happen...never!"

She then sprang to her feet and strode into the far corner. Confounded, Lorio watched silently as Islena struggled to master her distress. The rapid rise and fall of her broad shoulders declared eloquently how difficult this struggle was proving to be. Lorio attempted to rise with the intention of offering comfort to Islena, but her attempt was defeated by an explosion of pain in her left thigh that toppled her back to the stone floor.

Islena spun around and saw Lorio gaping in open bemusement, while gingerly probing at her wounded thigh. Doraux knelt beside the immortal and gently, but firmly brushed her hand aside. Gingerly, she peeled back the flaps of the tear in the hybrid's trousers. A sharp exhalation burst from her lungs in reaction to the ugly wound that she'd inflicted with Lorio's Zarcyk. The absence of dried blood was puzzling, but the edges of the wound were horribly inflamed, suggesting the onset of rampant infection. "You need treatment...I'm going to find a healer."

Lorio gripped Islena's wrist and insisted fiercely, "Not before you tell me what has you so frightened."

"I did this to you after I'd beaten you unconscious in the plaza. I laid you at Artumas' feet and out of impulse...out of pure malicious spite...I drove you own Zarcyk into your leg."

"You can't...you can't blame yourself...we were behaving like savages, Islena...more like animals than human beings," Lorio remarked generously, but the glint in her eye hinted at revulsion.

"You're much too quick to exonerate me of my misdeeds, Lorio," Islena remarked with a peculiar grin. Pointing at the gruesome wound, she intoned, "This is precisely why I can't be allowed to ascend. The thing that made me do this...I call it my shadow incarnation...is a creature of pure malevolence...a sick, twisted part of me that is capable of anything. I've always been aware of its presence...on a subconscious level, at least. It is why I dreaded the Proclamations from the first instant I set eyes on this fucking sword at Runesholm Abbey. This thing speaks to me Lorio, like an incessant itch that can't be scratched. It tries to entice me into acts of unspeakable evil. This is what I can't seem to make anyone understand...this shadow incarnation can't be allowed to gain access to unfettered power that will come with this ascension. It would gleefully incinerate the universe for the simple joy of watching it burn."

"I...I had no idea, Islena," Lorio stammered, horrified by the dire implications of this unexpected disclosure...and the enormity of the burden Islena was being forced to bear.

Islena's grin assumed a fatalistic edge. "It might be virtually impossible for you to grasp this...but this is why I had no alternative but to crawl to Myrhia. Beyond everything else, I need her to teach me how to restrain this persona...to temper its rabid madness into something that can be constrained. This is why I need to be her fawning bootlicker...because I need her insight if I'm ever to control these black appetites that gnaw at my sanity. Now do you see the snare I'm in?"

Lorio attempted to speak but could only shake her head in dismay and avert her eyes. She could clearly envision everything...the sum total of all existence...tottering on the edge of Islena's audacious scheme. Reining in her rampant emotions, she mustered the fortitude to inquire, "How can I help, Islena?"

Doraux regarded Lorio flatly, though her emerald eyes were ablaze with an indecipherable emotion. Abruptly, she placed her hand on the back of Lorio's neck and drew her into a kiss, rife with such passion that Lorio feared it might consume her. Despite the waves of throbbing pain in her face, she could feel her spirit spiral, carried to the heavens on a burst of euphoria. In Islena's ardent kiss, Lorio could discern neither reservation nor restraint ...only unfettered passion.

In that single moment, Lorio...despite all of the abjection and heart-wrenching sorrow she had endured...experienced a moment of perfect contentment. It would prove to be a fleeting moment...one that would never come again.

Its purity would make Islena's next utterance all the more devastating. Islena peered deeply into Lorio's limpid eyes and on an impulsive need for sanctuary, she pulled the Lamish beauty into that intoxicating kiss. In that moment of pure and perfect empathy...the flicker of a notion germinated into a decisive resolution to her dilemma. When she broke the kiss, leaving Lorio breathless and dizzy, there was a manic light blazing in her eyes. "There _is_ a way you can help me...in fact, you are the only one who can...because of how much you love me."

Lorio eyed the smaller woman warily, dreading the request that Islena was about to make. Misconstruing the hybrid's troubled silence as a willingness to listen, Islena made her plea...making the argument in a flat dispassionate voice of one who has accepted her fate without reservation.

Lorio's face constricted into a rictus of misery and negation. Shaking her head frantically, she declared in a voice made shrill with denial, "I can't...I won't...what happened in the plaza proved that."

Islena gripped her shoulders and shook the ailing woman briskly as if her refusal was incomprehensibly unreasonable. "What you did on the plaza was motivated by hatred...and mitigated by guilt and doubt. This thing you will do for me out of love."

Lorio wanted to object...to raise a thousand different rational arguments and alternatives. In truth, she could see none...nor could she refuse and banish the happy smile that now adorned Islena's lovely face like a sun in a cloudless sky.

Islena kissed her again, but this time there was a distracted aspect to her expression that robbed the gesture of its previous luster.

Islena pulled away and was speaking again, her words spilling forth in an excited deluge. Lorio listened, chagrined by the realization that Islena had not only resigned herself to her scripted end...but welcomed it eagerly. Shackled by despair, the hybrid forced herself to listen.

"I'll be leaving for Ulgak in the next day or so...to find the orb. I'll make arrangements for a healer and proper quarters for you...before I leave. Once I return, you and I will become inseparable until this is over."

"Do you really believe that Myrhia will tolerate my presence, Islena?" Lorio inquired doubtfully.

"She will...if only to indulge me," Islena insisted confidently. "You see Lorio, by some cruel jest of fate, Myrhia and I have become locked in a bizarre reciprocal relationship...of mutually beneficial need. For all of our chest-beating and menacing posturing...we need each other...at least for now." She pursed her lips and pondered this for a moment. "Still, you've got a valid point...Myrhia has no tolerance for being reminded of her failure...of which you are probably her greatest."

Again, Islena fell silent, peering directly into Lorio's dark eyes with an unsettlingly frank gaze of appraisal. "There is something that I would ask you to do for me...it will be excruciatingly unpleasant and given what you've already endured, monstrously unfair, but I believe it should appease Myrhia."

Though she dreaded Islena's latest contrivance, Lorio nodded wanly and remarked, "There is nothing you could ask that could be more excruciating than what you already have. If it will see you to this end you desire, I will do whatever you require."

Islena smiled in an absent manner and Lorio could almost hear the frenetic whirl of her racing thoughts as Doraux related the particulars of her perilous ruse. "I will bind you to me as I have been bound to Myrhia. You will kneel and swear fealty to me before Myrhia...swear to be my protector-shadow."

Lorio offered Islena a nuanced smile and interjected, "Easily achieved...considering that my soul has been bound to you since you left my lying in the dirt in Kornas."

Doraux's expression faltered at the powerful recollection this image evoked...like a raw fragment from another lifetime. "That isn't the worst of it, Lorio. I'm going to arrange to have a suit of armor forged for you...like mine, except in the deepest red. The armor will be adorned with Myrhia's intaglio."

Lorio recoiled as if she'd been physically struck. "You would ask me to degrade myself by wearing the symbol of the monster that laid waste to my entire world...to give the impression that I am her creature? Have you forgotten what this vile whore has done to me?"

"I have not...and yes, I would ask you to do it nonetheless," Islena replied in a blunt tone that would allow no latitude for refusal. Lorio regarded her disbelievingly for a moment and then glanced away. Islena's tone softened perceptibly, but she persisted, "It is the only way to guarantee that Myrhia will accept your presence. The thought of you sporting her intaglio with appeal to her sadistic sensibilities. Once I return from Ulgak, you and I will never be apart again...until the end. In return for enduring this humiliation, each night I'll come to you and give myself to you in any way you would have me."

"I would collect on that debt when this is done and Myrhia is in her living tomb," Lorio declared vehemently, her face twisted into a bitter scowl.

Islena tilted her head and in her emerald eyes there shone a pain and regret of such magnitude that all of Lorio's misgivings were banished by a desire to see it gone. "Before Myrhia drew me into this world, the life I lived...every relationship and all of the conceits and entanglements that occur in the course of a normal life...these things were merely hollow delusions. I have lived a thousand lives filled with such _distractions,_ intended to pass the time until I served my purpose of the moment. These last few months...especially the time since all the veneer was stripped away...have been the only genuine life I've ever lived. You are the _only_ person I've ever loved...through all of these enduring lives...with a complete, unbiased understanding of who and what I am."

Islena paused and squeezed Lorio's right hand and when she resumed speaking, there was a poignant, capricious longing in her voice that was nearly more than the immortal could bear. "When this finally ends, there is nothing that I would want more than to take you to a place of perfect solitude, where there is nothing but tranquility and quiet splendor...somewhere I can spend whatever remains of my life loving you and trying to atone for every wound and scar I've inflicted upon your heart. I'd want to leave you with enough memories to cherish and sustain you through whatever life you choose to live after I'm gone. I could die in perfect contentment...knowing that I had lived a genuine life for the first time and knowing that you loved me and had forgiven me. As desperately as I want this...I know it can never happen. We deserve better than a delusion Lorio...because in the end, delusions render everything meaningless...even the sweetest of delusions."

Lorio could conjure no response to what was surely the most beautiful of all possible delusions. Instead, she managed thickly. "I'll do whatever you need Islena...even what you've asked.

Islena's answering smile was inexpressibly lovely. She bestowed another fervent kiss upon Lorio and then stood. "I'm going to see Artumas at once and make arrangement for a healer and proper lodgings. I'll try to see you before I leave for Ulgak, but if I cannot, remember what I've promised...upon my return, you and I will become inseparable."

"Your protector-shadow," Lorio returned with a subtle undertone of bitterness which Islena failed to glean. Instead, she nodded enthusiastically and was gone.

Once the door closed with its grating clatter, Lorio curled onto her side in a tight ball and began to weep. As she sobbed, the hybrid wondered if there was no end to fate's inventiveness when it came to inflicting scars on the human soul. To have Islena give herself without reservation...on the final steps of a grim odyssey with only one possible ending...this seemed monstrously heartless...even for something as ruthlessly indifferent as fate.

When, after an interminable time, her tears subsided, Lorio sat up and roughly dragged the back of her hand across her tear-reddened eyes.

Swiftly, her defiant spirit re-asserted itself and through clenched jaws she vowed to the silence, "Fate be damned. Islena pulled me back from the pits of hell...prophecy and destiny can choke on their own tongue...I'll find a way to reciprocate."

4

Artumas was sitting in a chair by the fire, skirting along the edges of sleep, when a soft rapping on his chamber door pulled him from his slumber. Cursing softly, he rose on stiff legs and lurched to the door. During the course of his seven year exile, he had forgotten how _cloying_ responsibility could be...how unrelenting and onerous.

That weary reluctance turned to wary astonishment when he opened the door and discovered the identity of his caller.

"Islena, Myrhia has expressly forbidden us to speak with you," Artumas intoned gravely, still scarcely able to internalize the reality of seeing her attired in Myrhia's regalia.

Behind the ebony helm, Islena's green eyes twinkled to match the radiance of the emerald intaglio. Her generous mouth twisted in a sardonic grin and she quipped, "Mother is much too exuberant in her desire to protect me. Now, you and I must talk...I've found a way to kill Morticants!"

With this staggering disclosure given voice, Islena pushed a startled Artumas into the chamber and stepping over the threshold, closed the door with a resounding bang.

Chapter Fourteen

1

"What do you intend to do?" Cauldanys inquired in a voice fraught with tension as she followed the hulking Ynathreen through the darkened interiors of what had once been the girl's family home. Ineffable treachery and violence had transformed Ghordrian's seat of power into a blood-drenched mausoleum.

Ynathreen cast a brief glance at the diminutive Jerhia as she strode briskly along the stone corridor, lighting torches in their iron sconces as she went. In the girl's luminous blue eyes, Cauldanys discerned only a glacial, murderous fury. She was reminded of the occasion when she had been at the girl's mercy in that isolated cave. Ynathreen's cold, remorseless expression appeared very much like it had then...before Muragren had intervened to save Cauldanys from an unimaginable end.

"The man responsible for this atrocity...his name is Frydryck...was my father's advisor and oldest friend...or so Ghordrian believed," Ynathreen remarked between clenched teeth. "As I became aware of the dynamics that shaped what passes for Redian politics, I came to perceive Frydryck for what he was...an ingratiating sycophant who always reminded me of a grinning serpent. What's more, he was a detestable lecher whose gaze could leave a woman feeling insufferably vile and violated. Over the course of the last few years, I would often feel his leering stare lingering on my bottom or my breasts...it was infuriating." She shuddered as her face contracted into a moue of disgust.

"You never spoke to your father of this?" Cauldanys asked quietly.

"Not directly," Ynathreen replied evenly as she opened a heavy wooden door and descended a long set of wooden stairs. Cauldanys was shocked by the girl's uncanny agility. Despite her formidable size, Ynathreen moved with a deceptive speed and grace that Cauldanys knew could be employed to lethal effect on the battlefield. The girl led them down into a long basement that ran the entire length of the structure. The rectangular stone room was divided into a dry goods larder and an astoundingly well-equipped armory.

Both were untouched...a fact that caused Cauldanys no small degree of consternation. In a voice that reflected her bemusement, the Jerhia inquired, "Why would they not plunder this...why kill everyone in the house and leave the spoils untouched?"

Ynathreen offered an explanation as she marched along the length of the basement, lighting fixed torches as she went. "Leaving Ghordrian's wealth untouched is an expression of Frydryck's absolute contempt for our house...implying that our wealth is not even worthy of his consideration."

Cauldanys shook her head, unable to fathom the scale of this betrayal or the unscrupulous mentality that inspired it. "So this Frydryck coveted your father's position as Clan Chief of Elderspire."

"Yes though he managed to conceal it from my father behind the mask of fawning subservience," Ynathreen replied with a prominent thread of disgust in her tone. "Father considered the swine to be a friend and staunch ally...but I saw him for exactly what he was."

Ynathreen continued to walk along the length of the armory, stopping to select pieces of armor. Cauldanys noted that the girl eschewed ring and chain mail in favor of heavily studded boiled leather in deference to her gift of astounding mobility. As she slipped a set of blood red vambraces over her wrist, she disclosed, "More than even the position of clan chief, I believe that Frydryck coveted Satheer...my mother."

"And yet she was killed so cruelly?" Cauldanys blurted and immediately cursed her insensitivity.

Ynathreen shifted as if suffused by a wave of incisive pain, but then shook her head and surmised, "He may have come here with the intention of taking Satheer...to further bolster his claim to the mantle of clan chief. Satheer would rather tear his throat out than succumb to the advances of a cockless gelding like Frydryck."

"I'm...I'm so sorry Ynathreen," Cauldanys fumbled, struggling mightily to repress her tears before the ferocious creature.

Ynathreen glanced at Cauldanys as she pulled off her trousers and threw them aside in favor of a leather skirt that was comprised of overlapping panels that would allow for unrestricted mobility. The skirt exposed long expanses of muscular thigh muscles that drew to mind images of oak trees. She then strapped on a heavy belt with three iron rings spaced along the length. Into the ring on each hip, she slammed a double-bladed axe that made Cauldanys shiver involuntarily. She then selected a mace, which she slipped into the loop just below her navel. From a protruding hook on a nearby post, Ynathreen selected four spiked copper rings, which she handed to a mystified Cauldanys. In a surprisingly deferential voice, she inquired, "Will you braid my hair...a heavy cable braid...with three rings near the bottom and one near the scalp?"

The Jerhia nodded and after pulling on a pair of knee high leather boots...inlaid with heavy strips of steel, Ynathreen knelt before Cauldanys and shook out her cascading mane. The Jerhia set about braiding Ynathreen's hair with trembling fingers.

"How odd it is that the only friends I have left in this world are a Fairmarch slave and a Jerhia soldier," Ynathreen mused in a voice that was at once wondrous and sorrowful. "In the end, life makes a mockery of our every trenchant prejudice. Someday, I will extend the hand of friendship to everyone who now regards Redia as a pariah. Do you think that such a thing is possible, Cauldanys?"

In that simple question, there resonated such pain...such uncertainty, that Cauldanys felt her heart wrench painfully in her chest.

"Anything is possible, Ynathreen...the very fact that we are having this conversation is a testimony to that," Cauldanys replied haltingly as a single warm tear tumbled from her eyelash and landed on the Redian's bare right shoulder.

Ynathreen's limpid eyes widened as she regarded the glistening tear drop. In a distant, capricious voice, she intoned, "Do not pity me, Cauldanys...for all that I have lost. I believe that all I have endured in these last weeks is but a test. Ghordrian's vision for a new Redia is a grand and ambitious thing. It is only fitting that the sacrifices to see it into being would be commensurate with its scope. If I am not tempered in the fires of extreme tribulation, could I legitimately assert claim to the mantle of queen?"

With trembling fingers, Cauldanys affixed the last of the heavy copper rings to Ynathreen's thick braid. Unable to restrain her emotions, the diminutive Jerhia stepped back and sobbed, "Ynathreen...you beautiful child...what monstrous thing have these people done to you?"

With a liquid flexing of thigh muscles, Ynathreen rose slowly and turned to face Cauldanys, who gasped in response to the terrible expression on the girl's pretty face. Any hint of melancholy or sorrow was gone, replaced by a sense of cold and inexorable purpose. The girl's eyes were as hard and deadly as the steel that had forged her weapons and when she spoke, her voice reminded Cauldanys of a dull and pitted blade grating on bone. "They have given me the wherewithal to become a queen. I need only reach out and claim what is mine by birthright."

The Jerhia's hand fluttered to her mouth of its own volition and a moment of unfettered, perfect empathy passed between them. Stammering, Cauldanys whispered, "I...I believe you."

In her sleeveless cuirass and vambraces, the towering youth seemed like the living apotheosis of a warrior queen...an intractable engine of death, like a deadly creature conjured out of a bard's dark fantasy. Her next words were a terrifying substantiation of this image. "What is to follow will be gruesome beyond words, Cauldanys. What I intend to visit upon Frydryck will be reprehensible and savage beyond all imaging. I would not expose you to this, Cauldanys and so I will ask you again...are you certain that it is your wish to accompany me?"

"Yes!" Cauldanys declared adamantly and without the slightest hint of vacillation. Ynathreen smiled and drew the smaller woman into a tight embrace. Ynathreen pushed the Jerhia to arms length and turned to the stairs.

"Let us make a start of it then. I will see that Muragren is settled and then set out for Frydryck's compound. No doubt there will be a great revelry in celebration of his _triumph_. Most of his sycophants will be inebriated and we will fall upon them like a hammer from the heavens," Ynathreen explained with an implacable confidence Cauldanys could not share.

Averting her gaze to the stone floor, she remarked quietly, "This will break Muragren's heart."

Ynathreen stiffened abruptly, one leg poised on the first riser. Without turning to face Cauldanys, she retorted, "Muragren is from a world where an eloquently posed ideal can banish long held prejudices from the hearts of men. You and I are practical enough to know that Redia is not such a world. Here, respect is earned in the currency of fear and blood...not lofty ideals. After today, the people of Redia will fear me...I will become the stuff of nightmares. That fear will gradually transform into a grudging respect and only then will I be able to open the dialogue that will transform Redia and implant Muragren's altruistic ideals into the stony soil of Redia's heart." After a moment's hesitation, she added with far less certainty, "I will make her see that I have no other recourse...given time. Stay and select what weapons best suit your skills. Tomorrow is my sixteenth name day and I will celebrate it by dragging the headless, eviscerated corpses of Frydryck and his three sons behind my horse...through the streets of Elderspire."

With this terrible promise delivered, Ynathreen mounted the stairs, leaving Cauldanys alone to select her weaponry. The diminutive Jerhia sat cross-legged on the stone and hanging her head, began to weep for her tired world's lost innocence.

2

A bell later, the three stood around a raging fire in the great room of Ghordrian's estate. Cauldanys, equipped with an assortment of crossbows and throwing knives, stood several paces apart from the other two, chaffing uncomfortably beneath the palpable tension that had arisen between Muragren and Ynathreen.

The Fairmarch slave stood with her back to Ynathreen, deliberately refusing to meet the statuesque warrior's troubled gaze. Unable to endure the cloying sense of alienation, the girl stepped forward and laid a large right hand on Muragren's thin right shoulder. "Will you not at least wish me well, Muragren?"

Without turning to regard the imposing future queen, Muragren replied wanly, "I will pray to every god and goddess there might be that you are returned safely to your home...but I cannot condone what you are about to do or give your intentions my blessing. This path you've chosen is...not necessary and can only lead to damnation...even if you should live to see it to its end."

Ynathreen reacted as if she's been physically struck. She withdrew her hand and stepped back a pace. Speaking in a grave and formal voice, she declared, "Muragren Eb Tamen, in the short time we've known each other...you have become precious to me. In my heart, I know that without your guidance and support, I will never become the queen that Ghordrian desired me to be. I would pray that you will be here upon my return, but I will not forcibly bind you to me if I have lost your faith and trust. I release you from all obligations to me and should you choose to leave, you will find a substantial cache of gems and coins in Ghordrian's chambers. They will see you safely back to Fairmarch."

With this, Ynathreen abruptly turned on heel and marched resolutely from the room. Cauldanys lingered for a moment and gravitated over to Muragren. "You do understand that she loves you?"

Muragren's frantic gaze snapped to the Jerhia and her gray eyes were ablaze with inconsolable misery. "I never had a child of my own, yet I feel as if I have just watched my daughter go willingly to the executioner."

She returned her gaze to the flickering fire and after watching the gentle creature for a moment, Cauldanys hurried after Ynathreen. Before she left the hall, Muragren called after her in a voice that was rife with despair, "Do what you can to protect her, please!"

Wearing Ghordrian's heavy coat, Ynathreen sat astride her horse, staring intently up into the cloudy night, where the first flurries had commenced. "A storm is breaking, which will help us in our dark endeavor."

Cauldanys gripped the reins of her own horse and nimbly pulled herself up into the saddle even as she reiterated the same question she had posed to the beset Muragren. "You do realize that Muragren loves you, Ynathreen?"

The towering Redian glared sharply at Cauldanys, but then her gaze softened and she sighed, "I do...and if I should survive this night, I can spend what remains of my life earning her forgiveness. Yet, on this night, let me be the angel of death."

Then she was away, pounding down the frozen cobbles of the deserted city at break neck speed. Cauldanys inhaled the crisp winter air and set out after the extraordinary girl.

' _I'm going to my death,'_ she thought dispassionately as she raced through the dreary winter streets. Cauldanys was surprised by how little apprehension this thought evoked. She had come to discern that hers had been a life empty of meaning and there would be no one to sincerely mourn her passing. Still, if she could see Ynathreen to the other side of whatever was to follow, her death would be granted the significance which she had failed to find in life.

Racing after Ynathreen, Cauldanys began to smile.

3

Muragren bowed her head and inhaled deeply to calm her badly frayed nerves. She was both shocked and dismayed by the depth of emotion she now harbored for this precocious child. That a world could be so cruelly abuse such a beautiful creature...could twist her into a living vessel of violent retribution...made the concept of humanity and civility seem preposterous. The Fairmarch academic continued to stare into the dancing flames, oblivious to the flow of tears that coursed over her cheeks. The pragmatic part of her mind demanded to know what course of action she would now follow. She could scarcely ponder what would happen to Ynathreen in this mad rush to retribution, but the ruthless pragmatist insisted that she accept the inevitable...both Ynathreen and noble Cauldanys would be slaughtered.

' _Leaving you alone in this wretched place...surrounded by barbarians who do injustice to the label of animals,'_ the inner voice observed harshly. _'Ynathreen has cast the runes of her own fate...and so must you. She has provided you with the means and you must take full advantage...if you do not wish to join these wretches in the afterlife.'_ Muragren's gaze swept over the detritus of the day's slaughter and she shuddered in revulsion. _'When word of what has transpired here becomes common knowledge...the scavengers will descend upon this place like a ravenous horde. If you wish to see Fairmarch again, you must be well on your way before the first jackals arrive.'_

Muragren uttered a low moan and shook her head in an unconscious gesture of negation. Fiercely, she whispered, "I will not abandon Ynathreen."

' _Really,'_ the inner pragmatist declared and the sardonic disdain was evident in its voice. _'How can we cling to our laughable delusions of valor and principles? It really is rather amusing. You find yourself in a rapidly constricting vice and it is well past the time that you subject yourself to some brutally candid introspection. For all of your self-proclaimed civility and respect for higher virtues...you are a self-serving survivor who has consistently placed herself above all of her lofty ideals.'_

"Not...not true!" Muragren retorted, but her refutation sounded pathetically hollow...even to her own ears.

' _Indeed...and this is why you did not discreetly share you discovery of the clay's healing properties with the other slaves? Where were these humanitarian ideals then, Muragren? Have you ever taken a moment to ponder how much suffering might have been ameliorated by that single disclosure...or how many people might not have been fed to the pyre? I suspect that this is yet another of those inconvenient truths that you have somehow managed to leave unconsidered.'_

Muragren fell to her knees before the hearth, squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her hands to her ears as if these actions could ward her against these scathing recriminations. Between clenched jaws, she asserted, "I will not abandon Ynathreen...not until I am certain."

In the extremity of her anguish, she was unaware of the wraith-like shadow that had slid into the large chamber and was now silently converging upon her. She emitted a strangled gasp when the length of cold steel fell lightly upon her left shoulder. Muragren spun gingerly upon her hands and knees and gazed up to find herself confronted by a vaguely familiar face and the lethal edge of a long sword.

"Where...are...the other...two?" the woman demanded in the halting cadence of one who is unaccustomed to speaking.

Muragren squinted up at the familiar stranger, who was tall and lean and recollection exploded upon her like a bursting sun.

"Captain Margarus?" she offered tentatively, but the flickering firelight fell upon a lean, angular face and ice blue eyes that were literally devoid of humanity...of any capacity for compassion or mercy. This thing standing before her was a terrible parody of the iron-hard Jerhia who had spared the trio back in the clearing. Somehow, she had been corrupted...subverted...and though Muragren could not fathom how she knew this...she did not for an instant question its veracity.

' _Sygeanor...that monster did this to her and...and dispatched her to kill us all!'_ The mystery of Margarus' sudden appearance here resolved itself in the Fairmarch academic's mind like the tolling of a death bell.

Muragren cried out and scrambling to her feet, attempted to dart by her would-be assassin, but Margarus intercepted her with the grace of a Suran dancer. Muragren soon found the keen edge of the Jerhia's blade poised at her throat. The Jerhia's inscrutable gaze slowly swept the great hall...setting briefly on each corpse as her brow furrowed in puzzlement. In the same ponderous voice, the thing that had once been a proud Jerhia battle maid inquired, "What...has happened...here?"

Muragren blinked at the seeming irrelevance of the question, but something in that horrible voice hinted at a genuine desire to understand. Certain that hope was futile...that the thing before her was a mindless engine of malevolent purpose, Muragren nonetheless revealed, "Ynathreen's mother and all of the family retainers were slaughtered by a rival faction. Ynathreen and Cauldanys have gone off in search of retribution. So you see...you've become unnecessary as they are very probably already dead."

Muragren found the temerity to gingerly grip Margarus' blade, holding it to her throat, she sank to her knees. She realized that she was about to die and decided that this would be a fitting recompense for her callous selfishness in the mines. Beseechingly, she intoned, "Take my head if it's what you must do...I know that it isn't your fault because I can sense what Sygeanor has done to you. I'm so...very tired."

To Muragren's utter astonishment, the possessed creature lowered its blade and retreated a single pace. The kneeling slave watched in transfixed wonder, as a hint of cognizance stole into Margarus' gaze. Her eyes narrowed and her thin-lipped mouth began to work. Dawning comprehension broke over her expression like a rapidly ascending sun, bursting through the clouds of disorientation. "Where have they gone?"

Margarus' voice had been firm and resolute...evoking images of the daunting warrior the trio had first encountered in the clearing. Whatever vile magic presently afflicted the Jerhia, it was not sufficiently powerful to completely extinguish Margarus' indomitable spirit. Dejectedly, Muragren admitted, "I honestly don't know...somewhere here in Elderspire...I think."

Margarus considered this in solemn silence for a moment and then inclined her chin toward the ceiling and sniffed experimentally at the air. After a moment, something that might have been the pale facsimile of a grin spread over the bottom half of her face. "I have their scent."

With this rather cryptic declaration offered, she pivoted on heel and strode toward the open exit. Unable to decipher her intention, Muragren leapt to her feet and hurried after the Jerhia. "Will you...help her?"

Margarus came to a halt, but did not turn back to the other woman. "I will intervene...if I am able. There is very little of me left...Sygeanor's foul sorcery is very quickly effacing the last of my identity. I intend to resist with every last vestige of my will...but Muragren, if you should set eyes upon me again...run as fast as your feet will carry you."

With this admonition delivered, the once noble Margarus loped out into the blustery night where she was quickly swallowed by the darkness.

Muragren returned to the great room, where she sat on the stone hearth and began to rock herself like a frightened child. She was determined not to cry...deeming herself unworthy of that comfort, but soon she began to weep for every precious thing fate had stolen from her.

4

Ynathreen and Cauldanys dismounted their horses and guided them into a darkened alley some two hundred paces from the main entrance into Frydryck's sprawling compound. Both women silently tethered their horses and covered the animals with heavy blankets to protect them from the heavy snow fall. The alley would provide the beasts with a measure of protection from the gusting winds that presently scoured the streets of Elderspire.

' _Does she truly expect that we will be returning to collect our horses?'_ Cauldanys wondered doubtfully. To her own mind, she had resigned herself to the certainty that they had embarked on a suicide mission and would not survive to see morning.

' _Not unless the barbarians are inclined to indulge in a round of rape and torture before they slit our throats,'_ her mind suggested with an unfathomable delight. Cauldanys grimaced, vowing that she would resort to slitting her own throat to avoid that grim eventuality.

Ynathreen led her back to the mouth of the alley, where the two would-be angels of death squinted into the driving snow and surveyed Frydryck's sprawling compound.

Though the surrounding buildings were plunged into darkness, every room in the three storey main building was ablaze with light and Cauldanys could detect the faint sound of drunken revelry over the gusting wind. Ynathreen's supposition had proven correct...Frydryck and his sycophants were celebrating his _auspicious victory._

The compound stood directly adjacent to the collection of buildings that served as what passed for a seat of power in Elderspire...and by extension, Redia. The country had been without a ruling king since the capture of Ynthrax and the complex had served as a headquarters for Myrhia's occupying army. With their apparent desertion, the complex now stood empty.

' _Though it will not stay empty for long,'_ Ynathreen predicted as her gaze strayed up to the four squat stone towers that rose above the central palace...now barely visible through the raging storm. Laying waste to Ghordrian's compound would lay the foundation for Frydryck proclaiming himself Clan Chief of Elderspire. Given the vacuum created by the Emercian Army's withdrawal, the next logical progression would be to declare himself king of Redia and claim the seat of power...which was conveniently located next door.

Ynathreen turned her regard toward the Jerhia, who recoiled in the face of the terrible light that raged in her eyes like the very fires of oblivion. "The one obstacle Frydryck didn't anticipate he might have to surmount on his path to power...was me."

The fierce intensity of Ynathreen's determination caused Cauldanys to swallow hard and she was eternally grateful that she was not Frydryck or his sons. Distantly, she heard herself inquired, "Would he not have to submit to Rizcharen to lay claim to the crown?"

"The swine lacks the requisite manhood to enter Rizcharen," Ynathreen spat disdainfully. "He will find some way to circumvent the sacred ritual...or more correctly, he would have if I had allowed him to survive this night." After providing Cauldanys a brief moment to absorb this barb, Ynathreen pointed toward the compound and growled, "If you are prepared, this is what I would have you do..."

5

The two retainers who had been tasked with guarding the main gate into Frydryck's compound had decided that the raging blizzard made such tedious duty unnecessary. They were dicing in the guard hut...grateful for the small brazier's warmth...when the wooden door burst open and a single figure stepped inside.

Both sprang to their feet and were reaching for their long swords when they realized that the intruder was merely an unarmed girl.

"Do you be lost, girl...and be you in need of warmin' up?" one asked, evoking a spate of ugly laugher from his fellow guard.

The girl threw back the hood of her cloak and drew herself to her full imposing height. Her imperious voice resonated with undeniable authority that curdled the laughter in their chests. "I am Ynathreen, daughter of Ghordrian...and the new Clan Chief of Elderspire. You will take me to Frydryck...now!"

After exchanging glances of utter incredulity, one of the guards remarked, "Girl, you've just spared Frydryck a good deal of bother."

The pair then seized the astonishingly impertinent wench by her arms and roughly hauled her in the direction of the great hall. In their preoccupation with this unexpected source of entertainment, neither noticed the figure that had slipped through the now undefended gates.

Darting from one pool of shadow to the next, Cauldanys trailed after the trio, certain that what remained of her life could now be counted in minutes.

Chapter Fifteen

1

A light drizzle accompanied the dawn on the first day of the formal cessation of hostilities. Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc hurried across the square, having just received word that Queen Myrhia had just summoned the leaders of the coalition to an impromptu session in the Inner Circle's assembly chambers. In the distance, he saw Artumas walking slowly across the vast square, stopping occasionally to examine stark reminders of Islena Doraux's savage battle with her would-be Lamish assassin.

The Jerhia hurried to join the Emercian, but when he came abreast of Artumas, Maroc was shocked and concerned by the haggard appearance of the once and future king.

Artumas acknowledged the Jerhia's presence with a wan smile and intoned, "Salutations, Maxim Tier Marshal." He glanced up into the roiling mists and observed, "It's decidedly odd...this day brings an end to years of bitter conflict and yet I find very little solace in the fact."

"Perhaps that is because the accord that has brought this peace to pass is but a palatable euphemism for our utter defeat," Maroc suggested morosely. After a slight hesitation, he inquired, "Artumas, I can't begin to conceive how excruciatingly painful yesterday's encounter with Myrhia must have been for you. In hindsight, it was grossly insensitive for us to ask that you serve as an intermediary."

Artumas stopped and considered his friend with a dismissive shrug. "Actually, when you consider that I played an inadvertent role in raising her to power, there is little that could be asked of me that could be considered inappropriate or insensitive."

Maroc peered into Artumas' bloodshot eyes and his concern could not be so easily dispelled. "You seem fatigued...are you well, Artumas? If you are unwell, I will make the necessary excuses to the dragon."

The Emercian shook his head. "I doubt that Myrhia would readily accept my absence. She derives an immeasurable satisfaction from having me bear witness to her moments of triumph."

Maroc grunted in disgust and uttered a profanity laden curse on the enchantress. Artumas raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic display of vitriol.

"That a man of your caliber should be subjected to such degradation is unconscionable and makes me wonder if this world has been abandoned by whatever gods might once have looked down upon it," Maroc grumbled, cursing the often casual cruelty of fate.

Artumas gently squeezed the Jerhia's left shoulder and intoned quietly. "Maroc, I'm tired because I had unexpected visitors last night after the conclave ended. Myrhia paid me a visit late last night."

The Maxim Tier Marshal stopped in mid stride and eyed the Emercian questioningly. "May I inquire as to her purpose?"

Artumas pursed his lips, genuinely perplexed by the recollection. "She came to discuss my return to the Emercian throne...in the manner of one imparting a great egalitarian gesture. As inconceivable as it may seem...she actually believes that she is extending an act of kindness to me by putting me back on the very throne I failed to serve." He shook his head in exasperation and in his blue eyes, Maroc could clearly discern the lingering regret and sorrow that plagued the great king over his perceived failure. The Emercian's next statement startled the Jerhia. "I think she also came to visit me because she is genuinely lonely for companionship."

"Artumas, Myrhia hardly seems the kind of woman over whom sentiment would hold any sway," Maroc observed questioningly, clearly skeptical of the notion that the dreaded enchantress would ever be governed by such a banal emotion as loneliness.

The Emercian king shifted his gaze to a point on the opposite side of the sprawling square, as a wistful gleam dawned in his eyes. "Islena once told me that of all of us, Myrhia is easily the most tragic figure in this dark drama into which our world has been plunged. She then asked me if it was morally and ethically wrong to condemn Myrhia if she had absolutely no volition in committing the acts of heinous evil she has visited upon the world. Naturally, I provided her with the trite expected reply, but I've been plagued ever since by the moral conundrum the query entails."

"Artumas, Myrhia is an inhuman monster for whom there is only one deserved fate," Maroc retorted passionately. "Remember, Islena posed this great philosophical conundrum on the night before she stole off to align herself with the enchantress. From this perspective, her query reeks of rationalization."

"Indeed," Artumas agreed readily. "In truth, it is better that we all remain staunchly committed to the black and white perceptions of the world's prevailing realities. To stray into contemplations of the gray areas that may exist beyond the rigid edges of our prejudices can only lead to a paralyzing ambivalence. It has always been thus...and for convenience sake, so it should remain."

After giving voice to this bewildering philosophical concept, Artumas fell momentarily silent, while Maroc grappled with the unsettling idea that Myrhia might also be a victim of her own inexorable destiny. It was still difficult for the pragmatic Jerhia to seriously entertain the idea of recurring destinies and eternal souls locked in perpetual conflict. He did realize that, once he subscribed to this idea of intractable natures, it would no longer be possible to look upon Myrhia with the same level of abhorrence. He shook his head in dismay and wishing to distract his thoughts from this unpalatable prospect, he heard himself ask, "You mentioned a second visitor?"

Artumas stopped and offered the mystified Jerhia an ebullient grin that banished the impression of weariness.

Speaking in an intentionally low voice, Artumas could still not entirely repress his exuberance, "Islena came to visit me...not long after Myrhia's departure."

While an increasingly astounded Maroc listened raptly, Artumas recounted the details of Islena's impromptu visit, deliberately omitting any mention of the intimate hours that had passed between the pair after Islena had divulged all facet of her purpose. In her unconstrained passion, Artumas had come to suspect that she had given herself to him as if the act could corroborate her sincerity. Whatever the motivation, Islena had taken the overwhelmed king...her love-making oscillating between a tempest-like frenzy and a slow, tender physical poetry that had left the aging king worn out but deliriously happy. He would carry the memory of this single night of intimacy to his grave...and only once in the life that was left to him, would he experience a moment of carnal passion that would rival the one he had passed with Islena Doraux. His inscrutable countenance revealed none of this, though his heart soared at the recollection.

"And you have absolutely no doubt of the veracity of her intention?" Maroc inquired, clearly suspicious of Islena's nocturnal revelation.

The Jerhia's distrust privately vexed Artumas, but he suppressed his irritation and returned, "Without the slightest reservation. Myrhia has won and thus concocting this elaborate misdirection would be totally superfluous...even she is not capable of this level of malicious spite."

Maroc frowned, but conceded the point. "Then Islena Doraux is walking along a gossamer thread, while carrying the world's slim hopes on her broad shoulders. Can this truly be her only recourse?"

"If we accept her fears concerning her conflicted nature as an article of faith...then yes, I suspect that it is," Artumas replied gravely in a voice that was rife with pity. "At any rate, we will discuss this with Inos and Maktir once Myrhia has departed the city. It is imperative that we confine this knowledge to the smallest circle possible. Perhaps the four of us can contrive of a way to better facilitate Islena's scheme."

Maroc again shook his head and commented, "The delicacy of our circumstances beggars all comprehension."

"That it does," The Emercian king concurred and the two men hurried to the meeting hall in silence.

2

Artumas needed only one glimpse at Myrhia to gleam that her mood was menacingly foul. A deep shadow furrowed her smooth brow and something roiled behind her dark eyes that evoked images of malefic storm clouds. With her natural percipience, Artumas would have to be especially vigilant in warding his thoughts and emotions while in her presence.

In a gesture of utter disdain, Myrhia had ordered the Inner Circle's table and chairs removed from the dais and relocated to the floor where the audience chairs would normally be. She sat alone on the dais, tapping her fingers impatiently on the scrolled wooden arm rest of her chair. Upon their admission into the receiving hall, Myrhia greeted Artumas and Maroc with a sour scowl and snapped mordantly, "As I recall, husband, you were always fastidious in the matters of punctuality. Perhaps exile has deprived you of your sense of decorum and social grace?"

Artumas bowed and intoned gravely, "You have my sincerest apologies, your highness. I was still abed when word of your summons reached me."

She accepted this with a dismissive wave. "Maxim Tier Marshal, you may join the other _esteemed_ leaders...while you will come to stand beside me on the dais, Artumas."

Artumas and Maroc exchanged bemused glances. The aging king could simply not fathom why Myrhia seemed determined to cast him in the role of her willing consort. Not wishing to aggravate her already surly mood, he nonetheless moved to comply.

When the pair had assumed their respective positions, Myrhia's truculent gaze swept the assembly and she declared, "I will be succinct...my daughter has requested an audience for her ceremonial subjugation of the whore who attempted to harm her yesterday. I have reluctantly agreed. Once we have dispensed with this particular distasteful spectacle...we will discuss arrangements for my departure to Ulgak."

Turning directly to Inos, she demanded belligerently, "Have the Lamish whore's collaborators been found?"

After stealing an involuntary glance at the other members of the Inner Circle, Inos rose slowly to address the tyrant queen. Artumas admired the Grand Mage's mettle in keeping a quaver from his voice in the face of Myrhia's hostility. "It is our belief...your majesty...that Lorio acted alone."

"Whatever else she might be, the Lamish slattern is not a sorceress," Myrhia retorted menacingly. "She did not set the barrier ablaze...so I will ask one final time...who did?"

After an excruciating pause, Inos replied flatly, "I can say with all honesty that I simply do not know."

Myrhia rose slowly to her feet as a penumbra of malevolence seemed to gather around her taut body. Sensing her imminent eruption, Artumas attempted to intervene. "Good Lady, Inos speaks the simple truth. He..."

The enchantress swiftly wheeled on the aging king, her eyes blazing with bewildering fury. "Silence! You will speak only when you are addressed. It is only by my forbearance that _you_ are not leashed and collared and kneeling at my heel...just as Islena does."

Artumas suffered this humiliating public chastisement stoically. Studying Myrhia closely, he realized that she was tottering on the razor's edge of losing all self control...an eventuality that would swiftly prove lethal for all present. "As you would have it...good lady."

Turning back to Inos, she seethed, "Would you repay my benevolence by an affront to my intelligence, Grand Mage?"

"The thought never crossed my mind, your highness." Inos' reply held a subtle note of sardonic irony that was not lost upon the enchantress, but before she could punish his innocence, Arminda rose and stood directly before the Metocan leader.

"I am responsible, your majesty," she declared in a strong, level voice.

"You will take your seat, Tier Marshal," Maroc commanded sharply, horrified by the young Jerhia's sacrificial gesture.

Myrhia waved her right hand and Maroc slumped to the floor in an unconscious, boneless sprawl, dismissed from the enchantress' mind before he had even struck the floor. "It was you who set the barrier ablaze?"

Arminda stepped over Maroc and quickly mounted the dais, coming to stand directly before Myrhia. "No...but it was my responsibility to insure that Lorio was kept away from the ceremony...a duty that I failed to discharge because I am a gullible fool. Culpability for the carnage in the square can be laid directly at my feet."

She fell to her knees before Myrhia and raising her undaunted gaze to the nonplussed enchantress, declared evenly, "If you require that an example be made, then I submit to your justice."

The enchantress peered down on the kneeling Jerhia with an expression of consternation set on her lovely face. Arminda stared unblinkingly up at Myrhia, despite the enormity of her terror. "You are the one who led the quest through the Land of Shades...are you not?"

"I am!" Arminda responded and could not resist the compulsion to add, "Adjutant Amrand was my brother."

"Ah yes...the noble Jerhia who attempted to purloin my prize and instead ended up dying a protracted and agonizing death in my dungeons in Perdwick," Myrhia intoned coldly. After a moment's reflection, she added, "He was a courageous man who never once faltered in his devotion to your wretched country."

Maroc had regained consciousness and once he had divined the shape of the situation, the Maxim Tier Marshal attempted to rise, but was defeated by the lingering effects of Myrhia's sorcery. Helpless to intervene, the Jerhia made no attempt to disguise his desperation when he pleaded, "I would beseech you not to harm her...of all present, she is the least deserving of further misery."

Myrhia regarded the Maxim Tier Marshal with unconcealed exasperation. "I have no intention of harming her. She has displayed far greater fortitude than this collection of geldings combined."

She turned back to Arminda, who was watching the enchantress with an expression of dismay and distrust. Myrhia gently laid a small indeed right index finger in the center of the Jerhia's forehead. Arminda felt something whisper across the fabric of her subconscious and the enchantress nodded knowingly. "So you would willingly offer yourself as a sacrificial pawn whenever the situation demands. You do this because you construe it to be the greatest expression of nobility...but that is not your only motivation...is it?"

Arminda absently brushed tears from her eyes and shook her head in emphatic negation. That this miscreant would divine the inclination of her tortured soul and then would cruelly lay it bare before these men and women whom Arminda admired was a mortifying humiliation that made death seem merciful by comparison. Relishing the diminutive blonde's squirming discomfort; Myrhia persisted in a honeyed voice. "It's also true that your inclination towards self-sacrifice is driven by a festering sense of worthlessness and self-loathing. In your belief that you have been reduced...a ludicrous notion fostered by your narrow-minded culture...you are certain that your disability has divested your life of any meaning."

"Stop...please!" Arminda wailed and slumped onto her left side, where she curled into a tight ball.

Myrhia gazed down on the distraught Jerhia intently, her dark eyes ablaze with an indecipherable emotion as she looked down upon the broken woman at her feet. She knelt beside the tormented Jerhia and spoke softly, "You perceive me to be the very personification of evil and quite candidly...your perception is accurate. Still, mine is not a spiteful evil...and on rare occasions, I am even capable of compassion."

With this, Myrhia laid her both palms on Arminda's paralyzed left arm. The Jerhia's slender body was inundated by a torrent of ameliorating energy that quickly and efficiently repaired the damage inflicted by the demonic horde in the Land of Shades. Satisfied that the Jerhia's infirmity had been effaced, the enchantress stood gracefully and intoned, "Perhaps this will dissuade you from the tedious obsession with self-immolation. Now, return to your place, Tier Marshal and ponder exactly what it is that my benevolence has bestowed upon you."

Arminda gaped at the enchantress with an expression of unconstrained bewilderment and incredulity. Her slightly glazed regard slid to her left arm. To her eternal amazement, she was able to lift the arm and move it freely. She experimentally clenched and unclenched her left hand and upon seeing that no sign of impediment remained, Arminda abruptly burst into a fit of sobbing. Stealing a brief glance at Myrhia, whose countenance was inscrutable, Arminda staggered to her feet and fled the room without looking at any of the other occupants.

Myrhia settled back into her seat and declared, "Now that the melodrama has run its course, let us dispense with my daughter's distasteful ceremony."

She executed an impatient gesture of summons and the arched door, through which Arminda had so recently fled, burst open. As the assembly bore witness in dark fascination, Islena Doraux...attired in her now customary ebony armor, unceremoniously shoved a leashed and collared Lorio into the audience chamber.

Artumas was horrified and sickened by the immortal's condition as she stumbled forward, only retaining her balance because Islena jerked viciously back on the leash. Lorio had been bathed and her luxuriant raven tresses had been washed, brushed out and braided into a heavy cable. She wore a sleeveless tunic and rough spun trousers, but her slender feet were bare. The immortal's beautiful face was haggard and pallid, save for the dark circles around her lusterless eyes. Something about her hunched, rigid posture suggested immense pain and as she stumbled toward the dais, Artumas could see that the hybrid was limping badly. He recalled Islena's final malicious action of the previous afternoon and grimaced.

When the pair had come within tens paces of the elevated dais, Doraux surged forward and kicked Lorio in the left thigh. The Lamish beauty emitted a strangled cry of argent agony and collapsed to the tiled floor. Islena loomed over the fallen immortal and barked, "You will crawl into the presence of your mistress, bitch!"

She then jerked Lorio's head back and delivered two open-handed slaps to the hybrid's pain-contorted face. Lorio grunted thickly and sprawled to the marble floor, where she cowered, breathing in ragged gulps of air. Islena towered over the tormented hybrid, radiating imminent violence in palpable waves.

Maroc shifted his disgusted gaze to Artumas, but the Emercian...cognizant of Myrhia's proximity...did not acknowledge his vaguely accusatory glare. Lorio finally managed to push herself to her hands and knees and began to crawl to the foot of the dais, where Islena abruptly jerked her into a kneeling position. Doraux then straightened and with stiff formality, she announced, "Mother...I claim this wretched creature as my personal property before all present and I declare that the right of judgment is exclusively mine over every aspect of her existence."

Myrhia regarded her former Morticant with a moue of undisguised revulsion. "Is this reprehensible animal prepared to swear fealty to me?"

"She Is!" Islena replied unequivocally, which elicited a shocked gasp from many in the audience chamber, who fervently believed that the pugnacious Lamish warrior would rather be immolated at the stake than swear fealty to a woman she regarded as a pariah. Islena intertwined her fist in Lorio's long braid and jerked it up until the immortal's eyes met Myrhia and demanded, "Is that not so, whore?"

Lorio grimaced, but proudly refused to give voice to her obvious pain and indignation over Islena's abject abuse. In a barely audible voice, she affirmed, "I will swear fealty to Myrhia, Queen of Emercia."

Now outrage joined shock, reverberating through the audience chamber and rising up into the vaulted rafters like the swirling wind of sorrow. Artumas studied Lorio's pain-distorted features and experienced a sharp twinge of uncertainty. If this was indeed a display of pre-orchestrated theatrics...it was theater of the blackest and most convincing persuasion.

Myrhia's countenance appeared to be set in stone as she rose slowly from her seat and descended to the first riser of the stairs. She gripped her long skirts and lifted the hem slightly as she extended her slender right foot. "As Islena has done before you, I would have you kiss my foot."

In the silence that followed the enchantress' intractable demand, Lorio's expression darkened and she shifted her outraged gaze to Islena...who abruptly clubbed the defiant hybrid across the back of the head. The ebony vambraces raised a dull thud upon impact. Lorio was driven forward into the enchantress' skirts. Myrhia grumbled in disgust, but did not lower her foot...waiting patiently for the hybrid to regain her senses.

At last, Lorio pushed herself onto her haunches and with trembling hands, gripped Myrhia's slender ankle and pressed her full lips to the enchantress' velvet slipper...a gesture of submission that was the most expensive she'd offered in her entire life. When Myrhia signaled her satisfaction with a tacit grunt of revulsion, Lorio sat back and in a listless voice, declared, "I pledge my unwavering and unconditional fealty to Myrhia, Queen of Emercia...whom I vow to defend with my dying breath."

With a sardonic scowl twisting her full lips, Myrhia slowly clapped her hands in a cynical gesture of applause. "A truly cynical performance worthy of a Suran thespian...but do not, for a minute, think me deceived, Lamish whore."

Myrhia gesticulated and Lorio was jerked into the air, where she hung twisting and writhing as though on an invisible hook. Watching Lorio's eyes bulge in terror and torment required all of Islena's discipline to prevent her from launching herself at Myrhia. If Doraux exhibited even the slightest indication that her desire to _enslave_ Lorio was motivated by anything other than sadistic malice, the enchantress might well obliterate the immortal where she hung.

"Myrhia, you will halt this revolting travesty at once!" Artumas thundered, taking two steps toward his wife. Myrhia's head whipped in his direction and on her face there blazed an expression of lethal fury, which she managed to dampen with only the greatest of effort. Sensing the Mother's impending eruption, Islena realized that only her direct intervention could retrieve the situation before it spiraled into murderous madness.

In two bounding strides, Islena was on the platform, where she jerked a startled Artumas forward by the tunic and delivered two snapping blows to his face. Though the punches held no significant force, they nonetheless snapped the Emercian's head back and drove him to one knee.

"Daughter, Enough!" Myrhia shrieked and in that hysterical imperative, Islena could clearly discern the surprising affection which Myrhia harbored for the man who was her eternal enemy. In that perplexing dichotomy, Islena found the affirmation of her theory that Myrhia was but another victim of the cruel jape into which the tragic trio had been thrust.

' _I will end your torment, mother,'_ Islena vowed resolutely and hauled a dazed Artumas to his feet and marched him over to Myrhia's chair. She slammed the aging king roughly into the seat and growled menacingly, "Raise your voice to the mother again and you will find yourself with far worse than a bloody nose for your discourtesy."

Artumas gazed up at Islena with open bemusement in the way that one might consider a wild animal with an unpredictable disposition. Standing with her back deliberately toward the enchantress, Islena mouthed the words, "Forgive me...I'm so sorry."

Artumas acknowledge this with a tight nod and Islena straightened and returned to her position next to Myrhia. The enchantress regarded Doraux with an expression of unconcealed consternation. She turned to her still shaken husband and intoned in a surprisingly conciliatory voice, "You will have to forgive Islena, husband...she is perhaps a trifle too assiduous in her enthusiasm for protecting my honor."

Whirling about, she gesticulated and the invisible tether that held Lorio suddenly vanished, abruptly dropping the struggling immortal to the tiles. The impact sent a jolt of pristine agony coursing along the length of Lorio's injured leg and she loosed a harrowing cry which sickened the captive witnesses to this obscene spectacle. Myrhia bent forward and lifted Lorio's chin until their eyes met. "Let's conclude this distasteful charade. In deference to Islena's desire, I will accept your oath of fealty, knowing full well that it is falsely given. Be aware that I suffer your existence only as an indulgence of Islena's incomprehensible infatuation. I have lived innumerable lives, but never...in all of my incarnations...have I reviled another living being to the degree I detest you."

Around the edges of her pain, Lorio offered the enchantress a cracked smile. Myrhia's expression darkened and she dug her fingers into Lorio's face...the small digits becoming steel pincers that contorted Lorio's exquisite features into an ugly mask. "I'm pleased that you find the idea amusing. Eventually, Islena will grow weary of whatever lewd, vulgar infatuation you exert over her. When that day comes, she will inevitably discard you like the worthless detritus you are. I will take enormous pleasure in seeing you to your end...an end that will be as protracted and agonizing as my arts can make it."

She released Lorio and drew herself erect. "Now Islena...take your pet from my sight...its stench is offensive."

"There is one further dispensation I would ask of you...Mother," Islena declared in a voice more suited to the extracting of demands than the appropriate tone of a solicitous petitioner.

Myrhia's expression darkened and her brow furrowed at the uncompromising edge in Islena's request. "What would you have of me, daughter?"

Islena shifted her gaze to the kneeling Lorio, who was suffering visibly...both from the degradation of her ordeal and the throbbing scream in her wounded thigh. The expression that spread across Islena's partially concealed face was one of malicious petulance and flagrant disdain. "She is injured...and will not be able to serve me as I require in this state. I would have you heal her wound...if it is within your power to do so."

The thinly veiled insult of this suggestion of inadequacy was not lost upon Myrhia, who glared balefully at Islena. "I'm disinclined to grant your request daughter...a hobbled cur might be a safer bargain...but, as a demonstration of my love for you, I will grant this one further boon."

Turning back to Lorio, her face churning with revulsion, Myrhia commanded, "Lie on your back and expose your wounded leg."

Mortified by the prospect of debasing herself before this monster, Lorio's anguished gaze strayed to Islena, who sensed the hybrid's aversion and growled, "Do it...or I'll have her remove your leg."

Outrage flared in Lorio's dark eyes, but then relented to resigned subservience. Gritting her teeth against the anticipated eruption of pain, Lorio pressed her shoulders into the tiles and lifted her rump into the air, unable to repress the sharp hiss of pain that escaped her lips, despite her best intention of bearing it stoically.

The initial sight of the wound drew a shocked exclamation of horror and revulsion from all within the hall. Islena cried out and her façade of contempt faltered as first glance of what she had inflicted upon a woman who had loved her unremittingly. Even Myrhia appeared revolted by the state of Lorio's thigh. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced up at a thoroughly disconcerted Doraux. Gravely, she explained, "What you are gazing upon is the physical manifestation of the malice that presently threatens your soul, Islena. When you allowed it to usurp control of your thoughts and employed it to assail this cur, that malice infected her immortal flesh like a plague. This essence will stain the fabric of the universe if you do not manage to thoroughly subjugate this aspect of your nature prior to your ascension. Emblazon this stark image in your mind, should you ever feel tempted to violate the accord we've forged."

She continued to stare intently at Islena and then shifted her regard back to the ghastly wound. The jagged gash was as long as Myrhia's index finger and had not been sealed by a scab. The horrid interior was deep and a vivid black...oozing and raw...and reminded Islena of congealing crude oil. From the wound there radiated black tendrils that followed the vein structure in the hybrid's affected leg. The virulent malice had already spread from Lorio's knee to the juncture of her leg and torso.

Trying to affect a tone of callous indifference, Islena inquired sharply, "Can you heal this wound, mother...so that this whore can be of some value to me?"

Myrhia pursed her lips and for the slightest instant, Islena thought she could detect just the slightest hint of trepidation in the enchantress' eyes. "The infection is running rampant in her system. Had she been mortal, she would now be a desiccating corpse...or something far worse. As she is immortal, so too her suffering will be an eternal feast of unimaginable torment." She shifted her speculative gaze to the writhing hybrid's contorted face. "Perhaps I should leave you to this horrible fate...a fitting recompense for being a traitorous whore."

Sensing that the enchantress might well decline to intervene and understanding that her tenuous grip on sanity would be sundered if she was forced to endure Lorio's lingering torture, Islena sank to her knees in a posture of total abjection and took a nonplused Myrhia's right hand in hers. "I'm beseeching you not to allow her to fall victim to this malice...for my sake, not hers."

When Myrhia replied, it was in a harsh, glacial voice that was rife with both anger and mounting suspicion. "You heap your derision on this worthless miscreant and now...with all to witness your groveling...you would beg on your knees to spare her meaningless life...like a swine wallowing in filth? I would know your reason why daughter. Be forewarned...should I sense even the slightest hint of prevarication in your response...I will chain her to your ankle and you can drag her along while the malice transforms her into a screaming vessel of incessant agony that will never fall silent."

Islena recoiled in the face of Myrhia's heartless vow. Her attention shifted to the faces around her, all of whom watched the dark drama unfolded with identical expressions of intense fascination. Artumas had come to stand on the edge of the dais, his emotions indecipherable as he watched her with his own blood drying on his face.

Inhaling deeply, she tightened her grip on Myrhia's thin wrist, caressing the back of the diminutive beauty's hand with her thumb. Knowing that the very future now hinged on her perceived sincerity, Islena began her pleading exhortation. "You know what resides in my soul. You are fully cognizant of its intentions, just as you understand the toll this incessant battle extracts from me. It was the primary reason I capitulated to you...to seek your aid in mastering this malice that would make me its puppet to the detriment of every living thing around me. You swore a solemn oath that you would help me...is it not so? Before all of these witnesses...is it not so?"

Myrhia's eyes roved constantly over Islena's partially concealed face and in those luminous emerald depths, the enchantress perceived only unimaginable terror. Quietly, she confirmed, "It is."

"Yesterday, in the plaza, I lost control of this shadow presence...and it compelled me to inflict this upon her. If you stand idly by and permit this corruption to claim her...and worse still, force me to bear witness while it does...it will only incite the malice within me and weaken the sway I hold over it. You advised me that I must be tenaciously diligent in controlling this...this corruption." Islena flung a heavily muscled left arm in the direction of the writhing hybrid. "Allowing the malice to claim her will only exacerbate my situation and guarantee that I will eventually become a menace to everything, mother...especially you."

Myrhia regarded Islena's intense face for a moment and Doraux could clearly discern the war of ambivalence that was raging behind the enchantress' dark eyes. Finally, she fetched an exasperated sigh and shifted her gaze to the loathsome hybrid. Appalled and sickened by what she perceived as Islena's debasement, Lorio had averted her eyes and now lay on the cold tiles, struggling to master her horrendous pain.

"I will heal your slattern, Islena," Myrhia declared and though Islena's heart literally fluttered with relief, she succeeded in masking her emotions...offering the enchantress a tacit nod of gratitude.

Unexpectedly, Myrhia seized the pauldrons of Islena's ebony armor and jerked her closer with shocking ease. "In exchange for this act of kindness, I will extract a promise from you daughter...one that has no latitude for negotiation or makes no allowances for vacillation. At a moment of my choosing, I will make a demand of you...and you will comply without hesitation or debate...irrespective of how repugnant you might find my demand. I would have your vow at once daughter or I will order this infected sow dragged from my sight."

"Refuse Islena!" Lorio gasped tenaciously from between clenched jaws. Islena responded by delivering a clubbing backhand that bounced the immortal's head off the tiles with a disturbing thud.

Without sparing a glance at the immortal, who glowered at Islena with an enmity that was only partially feigned, Islena offered flatly, "Remove this taint from her flesh and I will do whatever you require."

Satisfied by Doraux's casual demonstration of violence, Myrhia merely nodded and stepped closer to the fallen immortal. She then knelt next to the wounded leg and issued a silent summons. Mere seconds later, a dozen Morticants entered the audience chamber to cries of alarm and a few strident howls of protest. Myrhia ignored the plaintive bleating and her infernal engines quickly formed a protective perimeter around the three women. Islena raised a questioning eyebrow, but Myrhia dismissed her concern with a distracted wave of her right hand. "For your own protection, I would have you join Artumas on the dais, daughter."

Doraux hesitated, but finally moved over to stand next to the Emercian, who greeted her presence with a wary frown, while absently raising his hand to his wounded face.

Leaning slightly forward, Myrhia cautioned, "This is going to be excruciatingly painful, but if it is any consolation...I will share your suffering in equal measure."

"To see you writhe will be well worth the price, bitch!" Lorio spat contentiously, her face twisted by an amalgam of intense pain and immutable hatred. Surprisingly, Myrhia did not react to this provocation.

Instead, she extended her arms with her open palm facing down a hand span above the jagged wound. Though her countenance was set in a grim, inscrutable expression, Lorio could clearly see the flicker of trepidation in Myrhia's limpid eyes. Around the fevered edges of her pain, Lorio realized that the enchantress was dreading what was to come, but had acquiesced to placate Islena. The idea baffled Lorio, who would have scoffed at the notion that this ruthless despoiler possessed the slightest capacity for self-sacrifice. The implications of this particular insight defied the concrete limits of Lorio's narrow sensibilities, but before she could give consideration to the baffling matter, she was swept away on a river of thought-effacing agony.

Myrhia began to move her hands over the revolting wound in a slow, circular pattern. Watching with transfixed horror, Islena's anxiety flared as the first traces of green effulgence began to coalesce around the enchantress' small hands.

In response, Islena could feel something begin to stir deep within the confines of her own powerful body...an electric vibration in her viscera that intensified in direct proportion to the gathering of arcane energy weaving around Myrhia's hands.

Lorio abruptly stiffened and arched her back as a cry of agony tore...shrill and raw...from her twisted lips. Myrhia gesticulated with her head and two Morticants immediately stepped forward and pinned the writhing immortal's shoulders and legs to the perspiration-slicked tiles.

Outraged that the abominations would actually lay hands upon Lorio, Islena started forward, but Artumas hand quickly clamped down on her left wrist. In response to her scorching glare of indignation, the aging king merely shook his head and whispered, "Restraint, Islena...you must not interfere."

The incisive Inos noted the perplexing exchange and felt an enormous weight roll from his beleaguered heart.

Myrhia resumed her ministrations and soon her gathering ball of green effulgence began to thicken until her hands were no longer visible below her forearms. She rose gracefully to her feet and in response a thin tendril of effulgence was extruded from Lorio's wound.

The hybrid began to scream then...like a wild animal suffering through unimaginable death throes. Her head twisted grotesquely and her throat bulged until it seemed certain that it would explode.

Myrhia's circle of emerald effulgence began to expand until tendrils of her energy began to intertwine with the weaving threads of jet black malice. When the two forces made contact, Myrhia abruptly stiffened and emitted a harrowing shriek that tore the air of the audience chamber like a scythe.

Artumas was acutely disconcerted by the unpleasant spectacle of seeing the delicate beauty in extreme pain...a stark reminder that, despite her unforgivable transgressions, he still harbored lingering emotions for his queen. Now both women were bellowing...one giving voice to her inconceivable agony and the other virtually roaring from the unfathomable exertion of attempting to vanquish the malice.

Artumas gripped Islena's wrist with white-knuckled intensity. In truth, he was scarcely cognizant of the woman's presence...so enthralled was he by what had effectively become a tug of war.

Gradually, painstakingly and with an immeasurable expenditure of arcane energy, Myrhia literally pulled the malice from Lorio's affected leg. The immortal's ear-splitting outcry provided a cacophonous counterpoint for Myrhia's guttural exhortations as more and more of the repulsive extrusion was pulled forcibly from the hybrid's tortured flesh. Unable to endure the symphony of torment, many of the Metocan...including Tokizar...abruptly fled the chamber.

As it stretched, the malice appeared to convulse...swelling and contracting wildly as it attempted to resist Myrhia efforts to extirpate it from the host.

Despite his revulsion, Artumas could not drag his moon-eyed gaze from the horrifying conflict and he saw that the wound on Lorio's thigh had expanded until it seemed inevitable that her thigh muscle would be ripped from the bone beneath.

In the extremity of her torment, Lorio suddenly began to dash the back of her head on the tiles, but the Morticant restraining her shoulders simply pressed its shin across her face. She immediately sank her teeth into its inanimate flesh, but if this roused any discomfort, the beast displayed absolutely no reaction.

Artumas became cognizant of an anguished braying above the general tumult and his gaze jerked toward Islena. A single glance at the flame-haired beauty made it apparent that she was being assailed by the internal tormentor of which she had spoken the previous night.

Her face was a contorted rictus of horror as rivulets of tears streamed over the aristocratic ridges of her high cheekbones...except these tears flowed a lustrous black. Her luminous green eyes were flecked with snaps of black as the malice in her nature fought to usurp control of her spectacular vessel of flesh.

In that horrifying moment of illumination, Artumas discerned that Myrhia's assertions were true. Within Islena Doraux resided a volatile core of unalloyed evil that literally dwarfed Myrhia's by comparison. Something about Myrhia's struggle to purify Lorio was inciting this core of malice into a potentially cataclysmic frenzy.

Knowing that it was imperative that he prevent that dire juncture from coming to pass, Artumas deliberately imposed himself in front of Islena. She lashed him with a belligerent glare, but before she could simply brush him aside, Artumas abruptly slapped her across the face.

Islena's eyes widened in a comical expression of absolute shock which quickly gave way to a murderous fury that turned the lustrous green eyes as black as a starless night. Islena snared the Emercian's tunic in her left hand and drew back her right fist with wicked intent. While chaos held sway around him, Artumas calmly held forth his hand, palm forward.

Islena's furious gaze fell upon the black fluid that stained his skin and that fury vanished as a low moan of negation escaped her full lips. Gripping her pauldrons and shaking her for emphasis, Artumas rasped urgently, "This...this ritual of cleansing is provoking the malice inside you...inciting it to usurp control of your mind. You must get out Islena...before it succeeds."

Islena cast an uncertain glance over the Emercian king's shoulder, horrified to see that a thick white froth had begun to boil from Lorio's gaping mouth.

"Get out Islena!" Artumas adjured desperately and began to usher Doraux down the stairs of the dais. Divining the irrefutable truth of Artumas' assertion, Islena tugged her arm free of his grasp and with a piteous wail rising in her wake, sprinted from the room without sparing the two women another glance.

Artumas drew a tremulous breath and stumbled back against the dais, feeling his heart palpitate wildly, spurred by the certainty that he had averted disaster by the narrowest of increments.

Oblivious to the potentially catastrophic drama that had just transpired, Myrhia grappled with the malice in the hateful hybrid. She was flummoxed by the tenacity with which it resisted her efforts to draw it out of the immortal's beleaguered flesh.

A harrowing, unearthly howl tore through the chamber, rising in pitch and volume until Inos feared that it would shatter the very stones of the hall. In his silent mode of communication, he ordered the few remaining Metocan to flee. Dazed and wide-eyed with confusion, the last remaining members of the Inner Circle regarded the Grand Mage blankly and then stumbled from the audience chamber on rubbery legs.

Inos then raced to Maroc, whose chiseled face was set in a discordant mask of disbelieving horror and dark fascination. Bringing his mouth to Maroc's ear and shouting to be heard above the tumult, the Metocan cried, "Maroc, you must have your troops withdraw from the chamber. If this madness continues to escalate, the structure will not withstand the stress."

With wide, uncomprehending eyes, Maroc glanced up into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, where clouds of black dust were wafting down out of the gloom. This ominous sight seemed to shatter his reverie and he nodded resolutely and quickly moved to squire his troops from the hall and out into the comparative safety of open air.

Inos then moved to join Artumas on the dais, where the two men watched as the titanic battle of wills reached its climax. The enchantress had now levitated from the ground and was entirely enveloped in a translucent ball of emerald arcane energy. To the absolute astonishment of the few remaining witnesses, Lorio had been lifted from the tiles, despite the powerful Morticants efforts to hold her in place. Her back was bent in a hideous extreme that reminded a distressed Inos of an overdrawn bow. It seemed inevitable that her spine would snap as shriek after agonized shriek tore from the hybrid's contorted mouth.

Within her roiling gyre of energy, Myrhia emitted a guttural roar and the ball of emerald effulgence flared to blinding magnitude. Both Artumas and Inos shielded their eyes and stumbled backwards, nearly tumbling from the narrow dais in their sudden state of disorientation.

Artumas gripped Inos' left arm and the two men fell to their knees. When their vision had cleared sufficiently, they were confronted by the horrifying spectacle of Myrhia hovering in the air, while the extrusion of malice...which had now been torn free from Lorio's thigh...flailed and thrashed like a blind serpent.

The Morticants that had been restraining the thrashing hybrid quickly pulled her clear of the questing extrusion, leaving Myrhia alone to grapple with the evicted malice.

The grotesquerie swiveled toward the two fallen leaders and for the briefest instant, Inos perceived the presence of a malign sentience...an entity of pure and predacious evil, tainted by madness.

Before it could converge upon the defenseless pair, Myrhia's cocoon expanded and enveloped it completely. The two men peered up through the cloud of emerald light which was now sullied by swirling strands of ebony. Inside the rapidly rotating gyre, Myrhia threw her arms around the extrusion and clutched it to her.

With stunning alacrity, the epic struggle came to an abrupt end. The physical manifestation of Islena Doraux's malice was absorbed by the enchantress, who uttered a piercing howl of torment and revulsion. The cocoon vanished and Myrhia plummeted to the stone floor, but before she could hit the gore spattered floor, a nearby Morticant moved forward with amazing swiftness and caught its creator in its powerful embrace.

Artumas climbed shakily to his feet, numbly surveying the carnage in the wake of Myrhia's improbable intervention. Lorio had lapsed into unconsciousness, though all traces of the gruesome trauma had been effaced from her thigh.

The Morticant slowly lowered its mistress to her feet and she sank to her knees, panting in exhaustion while her disheveled mass of raven hair settled around her face like a veil.

Artumas took an ungainly single step in her direction even as the ramparts of his consciousness were obliterated by the shattering epiphany that this grim spectacle had evoked. What he had just witnessed had quickly reduced his every preconceived perception to dust with the lethal efficacy.

' _Is there no single truth that can withstand the most rudimentary examination?'_ he thought dejectedly as he watched Myrhia crawl across the floor to the unmoving immortal. _'What possible hope can we harbor if the foundations of our convictions and beliefs are so easily reduced to smoldering rubble in the face of each new revelation?'_

Ultimately, Artumas gleaned that Tokizar had been correct...theirs was an unavoidable moral and ethical obligation to prevent Islena Doraux's ascension...even if it meant the obliteration of this world. As he watched her crawl abjectly across the tiles, appearing haggard and diminished by her ordeal, Artumas understood without equivocation that only Myrhia could forestall this darkest of futures. Beneath the harsh, illuminating glare of this revelation, Artumas felt woefully inept.

When Myrhia finally found her way to the insensate immortal, she seized Lorio's slack face in a vice-like grip and shook her angrily. In a quavering voice, the enchantress growled weakly, "Don't harbor the illusion that my kindness means that I've forgiven your treason. When the appropriate moment comes, I will introduce you to the true definition of eternal torment." Inclining her head toward one of her Morticants, she commanded, "Take her to the daughter...she may do with her what she will."

As the hulking entity lifted Lorio into its arms and carried her from the audience chamber, Myrhia climbed to her feet. She stood swaying precariously, but somehow managed to remain erect. When she became aware of the two men watching her from the dais, Myrhia turned her exhausted gaze upon the pair. The cost of the titanic struggle was reflected plainly in her dark eyes. "I would not have you see me like this husband...but perhaps it is best that you both garner an unbiased glimpse of the frightful truth that governs your reality. It is easier to cast the world in intractable hues of black and white, where both evil and the heroes who would give it opposition are clearly defined. How devastating...how ineffably debilitating it must be to see your would-be goddess defrocked and exposed to be potentially the quintessential living embodiment of malice. Now you have been afforded an unadorned glimpse of what resides within Islena's conflicted heart and can see...beyond repudiation...what she might well become, would you still condemn me as evil in my intention to remove her from this world? If so...then perhaps you've misconstrued the nature of villainy?"

She sighed...a forlorn sound that roused an acute pain in Artumas' heart...and focused her attention on Inos. "Tomorrow, Islena and I will depart for Ulgak. You will arrange for the appropriate provisions. You will also select an emissary who can communicate with this loathsome sub-species and hopefully spare me the tedious task of reducing the province to an uninhabitable wasteland."

After a protracted moment, she turned and shambled from the room, leaving the two men alone to ponder this new, unpalatable truth.

Chapter Sixteen

1

Lorio returned to consciousness, greeted by a dull throbbing that radiated from her core and spread to the extremities of her body, which felt as if it had been pummeled by a wrathful giant. She had been returned to the storage room, though now found herself lying on a comfortable pallet and not a cold stone floor. Despite her discomfort, Lorio was pleased to find an anxious Islena gazing down upon her...those inexpressibly beautiful green eyes regarding her with deep concern.

"You have no idea how desperately I yearn to have you look upon me the way you are at this exact moment, Islena," Lorio intoned weakly, though the simple effort of speaking caused her to grimace.

Islena's only response was a pained smile. She dipped a cloth into a basin of warm, scented water and tenderly dabbed at Lorio's forehead. When she could trust herself to speak, she whispered, "I'm so sorry for what I've done to you...for what you were forced to suffer today."

With enormous effort, the immortal pushed herself to one elbow and gripped Islena's muscular right forearm. "No more apologies, Islena. You made it explicitly clear what would be necessary if we are to deceive Myrhia and I agreed. I once told you that I would die fighting beside you and that was not an oath that was insincerely given."

Islena bowed her head, unable to meet Lorio's earnest regard. "What have I done to earn your unflagging devotion, Lorio? Even before Myrhia drew me into this hellish nightmare, I was a selfish, vainglorious bitch who fully expected the entire world to bend and accommodate my needs. Those who refused to bend to meet my expectations, I simply discarded. When I reflect back on who I was, I can almost forgive Ben for succumbing to Myrhia's beguilement. Her cultivated charm and elegance must have seemed like a blessing after living with my unflinching egotism for so many years...slowly, inexorably grinding him to dust."

Unable to suffer the sight of Islena's maudlin self-denigration any further, Lorio reached up and locked her long fingers behind the back of Islena's head. Ignoring the incisive flare of pain, she allowed herself to fall back to her pillow and draw the startled Doraux down on top of her.

She kissed Islena fervently, trying to convey every last vestige of the burning love she felt for this terrifying living enigma...while attempting to banish Islena's misgivings with her lips and tongue.

Islena was hesitant at first, but then heat surmounted her reservations and she pressed herself down on Lorio with a lustful snarl. She pinned Lorio's long arms above the Lamish immortal's head with her left hand, while roughly squeezing the up thrust left breast with her right hand. Lorio signaled her encouragement with a fevered growl. She broke Islena's frenetic kiss and gasped imploringly, "Do what you wish with me, Islena...fuck me...beat me if you must...but use me to satisfy the hunger in your heart. I'll give myself to you anyway you would have me."

She emphasized her submission by locking her long legs around Islena's tiny waist. Then Lorio pulled one of her hands free and deftly undid the top three buttons of her tunic, before drawing flushed Islena's face into the deep valley of her full breasts. Luxuriating in the firm flesh, Islena began to bestow ardent kisses on Lorio's breasts, while the hybrid writhed and moaned beneath her passionate ministrations. On the periphery of her awareness, Islena was distantly cognizant of her past incarnations...some exhorting her to succumb unreservedly to the love she harbored for the exquisite creature beneath her. Still, others implored her to resist what could only prove to be a painful diversion.

She might well have ignored the unsolicited clamor and surrendered to the unconditional love and passion, had it not been for the one voice that stood prominently forth above the others.

' _That's it, Islena, consume her like the rarest of delicacies,'_ it encouraged and there could be no mistaking the insatiable hunger beneath the sly, seductive tone...and the capering madness. The shadow incarnation continued to harangue Doraux, even as her tongue slid over Lorio's heaving breasts and her mouth hungrily engulfed a turgid nipple, drawing an intense gasp of pleasure from the nearly delirious immortal. _'Suck from her that every last trace of her vitality...until there is nothing left but a desiccated husk. There'll be an infinite supply of her ilk to appease your hunger once you've ascended.'_

Islena uttered a frenetic cry of revulsion and repudiation around the pliable flesh of Lorio's breast. With a titanic effort, she broke the powerful vice of Lorio's legs and reeled away. Staggering across the room, she collapsed to her knees facing the wall, where she buried her face in her hands and began to weep uncontrollably.

With her blood racing in a wild torrent and her mind dizzy with disappointment from Islena's sudden withdrawal, Lorio pushed herself to one elbow and regarded Doraux quizzically. Tentatively...in a voice husky with unfulfilled passion, she ventured, "Islena?"

Doraux merely held a hand up in a warding off gesture and continued to sob wretchedly. Lorio rose on rubbery legs and stumbled over to Islena, trying to quell her disappointment. She sank to her knees directly behind Islena and drew the disconsolate woman against her, momentarily luxuriating in the scent of the other woman's thick mane of red hair.

She felt as if she had been within an immeasurably small distance of permanently captivating Islena's tormented heart...but inexplicably, the opportunity had slipped through her fingers. As she held a trembling Islena, Lorio wondered if she would ever be afforded a similar opportunity again...and feared that she would not. "What is wrong Islena...why did you pull away?"

For a moment, Islena made no effort to respond, but then her breath seemed to hitch in her chest and Lorio imagined that she could feel the muscular beauty deflate in her arms. "I can't Lorio...as much as I may want to...as desperately as I need to. The thing that infected you is an integral part of what I am and until I can master it... _if_ I can master it...I cannot trust myself not to destroy anything that becomes entangled with me."

"I refuse to believe that, Islena," Lorio retorted stubbornly, ignoring her own battered flesh and the harrowing ordeal she had just endured.

Islena shrugged off Lorio's embrace and rose to her feet. She then seized the kneeling hybrid and began to shake her roughly. With a vehemence borne of sheer desperation, she exclaimed, "You have to, damn it, Lorio! If you do not...then I am lost...everything is lost. If you cling to this obstinate refusal to see me for what I truly am...then hope is dead. Myrhia will lead me to the moment of my ascension...not because she is a power-addled, evil tyrant...but because she has absolutely no choice. I will ascend...whatever that might entail...and I will become the living essence of evil!"

Islena was raving by then and Lorio recoiled, her large expressive eyes wide with denial. Islena released Lorio's wrists and gripped the sides of Lorio's head. "Of all people, how can you still not see when you've had my malice inside of you...experienced first hand how utterly vile it is? You are the only living creature with the strength and courage to intervene...my only hope for salvation. I'm begging you to see this as the inherent truth and when the moment is right...do what must be done! I can tell you Lorio...without the slightest equivocation...the day is soon in coming when every last trace of the person you love is gone!"

Lorio threw up her arms and disengaged herself from Islena's grasp, scrambling away from the distraught creature whose pain she could barely suffer. "You're asking me to kill you. I've lost everything I've ever had and now you're asking me to purposely kill the only thing I've ever truly loved!"

Islena started forward, but came to an abrupt halt, her passionate outburst giving way to an unimaginable weariness. "No Lorio...if you bury your Zarcyk in my heart the moment before I ascend...after Myrhia is inured...it might give me a chance to live...give you and I a chance to be together."

"What if you're wrong, Islena?" Lorio demanded in a voice that was ragged with silver dread. "What if you have miscalculated and I kill you...how could I ever live with the shame?"

"You will Lorio...even if I die...you will have saved me from becoming something that you would despise. Please, I'm begging you...don't falter. I've given you immortality and I'm asking that, in return, you give me a chance to die in peace...free of everything that has tormented me through every life I've ever lived." She fell silent, her full breasts heaving and tears glistening on her prominent cheeks.

The immensity of the need in those luminous emerald eyes was such an incisively painful thing that Lorio was forced to avert her gaze before it. Thickly, she vowed, "I'll do it Islena...somehow I'll find the conviction."

"Thank you Lorio," Islena offered and then sighed. "I'm so tired...and afraid. Without you, I doubt that I could face what's to come. I need you to rest until I return from Ulgak. Once I return with the second Proclamation...you will be my foundation and strength...the tether to my humanity."

Lorio acknowledged this with a brisk nod and Islena moved toward the door, but before she could leave the immortal to her troubled solitude, Lorio Inquired, "Why did she do it, Islena...why did Myrhia subject herself to that ordeal to save me? Why didn't she simply refrain and let me suffer?"

Doraux could hear the perplexed consternation standing prominently forth in Lorio's anguished voice...mirroring her own. "She did it because she actually sees me as a daughter whom she loves as much as her tortured soul will permit...and that is, perhaps, the harshest revelation of all."

Without speaking further, Islena hastily withdrew, leaving the immortal alone to grapple with the nearly unfathomable ramifications of this last disclosure. Unable to rise, Lorio crawled across the cold stones and pulled herself unto her pallet.

With her entire body radiating a throbbing pain and her loins aching with a pain of an entirely different sort, Lorio faced the wall and closed her eyes. Islena had stated that she had given her immortality. Lorio was increasingly beleaguered by the sinking certainty that her _gift_ would prove to be more of a curse than a blessing.

2

As night descended on Othgol, the temporary quarters were busy with preparations for the Emercian Queen's imminent departure from the capital. Both Artumas and the dour Natzurdan elder, Maktir had approached Inos, requesting that an emergency conclave be convened within a bell of the High Queen's departure. The Metocan had granted the request, correctly surmising that both men carried very different agendas. Only he and Artumas had remained to witness the shocking culmination of Myrhia's unexpected healing of the tempestuous Lamish hybrid.

Along with the revulsion and horror, the Grand Mage had shared the episode's distressing revelatory insight. Islena Doraux posed a vastly more troubling and unpredictable threat to humanity than the enchantress, whose evil was at least characterized by ruthless pragmatism.

The two men had left the audience chamber mired in a brooding, thoughtful silence, but before they had parted company, a somber Artumas had observed distantly, "What we have witnessed today will force us to re-evaluate everything we had assumed was an unwavering truth."

As if by their own accord, his legs had carried him through the labyrinth of inadequately lit quarters, past the doors of his own chambers and to the hallway that led into the section of the manor that had been given to the Emercian Queen.

A pair of alien, hulking Morticants stood blocking the corridor, their featureless, eerie faces focused on something beyond the aging king's comprehension.

He strode toward the intimidating pair and declared firmly, "I wish to see the High Queen...my wife."

Artumas was rather surprised by his use of the unintended qualifier and when the Morticants gave no indication they were even cognizant of his presence, he assumed he would be denied an audience. Unexpectedly, the two behemoths bowed and stood aside, granting him access to the corridor.

Sparing one final wary glance at the two monstrosities, Artumas proceeded along the hall to Myrhia's chambers, grappling with the shape of an argument that might compel her to relinquish her machinations...and Islena Doraux. If he harbored even the smallest kernel of hope that his plea would not fall upon dear ears, it came in the form of her two acts of extraordinary healing she had performed in the audience chamber. Such acts of selfless compassion were entirely inconsistent with the conduct of the remorseless tyrant she was purported to be.

He paused before the door to her assigned suites and shook his head in consternation. The topography of the situation had been radically altered by what he had witnessed...illuminating Myrhia and Islena in completely different lights...where the role of savior and villain had been stunningly reversed. _'Ah Artumas, but what if you now find yourself confronted by two clever creatures cut from varying shades of the same nefarious cloth?'_

This unthinkable scenario stopped the aging king in his tracks and he could feel a cold sweat break out over the nape of his neck. If Islena and Myrhia were indeed kindred spirits, engaged in a bewilderingly complex game of subterfuge and misdirection...He abruptly shook his head, refusing to be drawn down that particular path of paralyzing doubt.

Drawing a quavering breath, the Emercian raised his hand, but before her could knock, the chamber door swung inward and a disembodied voice called, "Enter husband...I would welcome your company."

Artumas grimaced at the somber tone of the enchantress' voice. This, combined with the forbidding darkness of her quarters, made the stalwart Emercian feel suddenly reluctant to open his intended dialogue, but a renewed sense of exigency prodded him over the threshold. It took several seconds for Artumas to adjust to the near perfect darkness and he remained stationary, searching the shadows for the enchantress, who seemed ideally suited to its velvety embrace.

' _Like a bloated, venomous spider,'_ his mind suggested mordantly and the Emercian grimaced at the notion.

"Come and join me on the balcony, Artumas...I will hear your petition," Myrhia declared softly...thoroughly disconcerting the Emercian with her unparalleled prescience.

A curtain of muted silver light coalesced out of the darkness, illuminating the large chamber and allowing Artumas to thread his way to the balcony. Myrhia stood with her back to the doors, leaning on the stone balustrade and peering absently into the ubiquitous swirling mists. She did not turn to greet him as he stepped into the chilly night. Something in her rigid posture hinted at unbearable isolation for which no human being was equipped to bear. It also intimated a staggering weariness that the Emercian could not fathom.

In a soft, listless voice, she observed, "I would imagine that today's unnerving epiphany has left you feeling ambivalent about your prospective savior. It's astounding how enlightenment can dislodge us from our most cherished prejudices and force us to re-evaluate our perception of...everything." She spun about suddenly and added, "Even me!"

Even in the ineffective light, Artumas was shocked by the pall of exhaustion that dampened Myrhia's natural vivacity. She offered him a wan smile that did not touch her large, limpid eyes, which had lost much of their customary luster in the wake of her ordeal.

"Perhaps I am not the only one to be profoundly affected by today's troubling epiphany," Artumas countered. "Could it be that today's epic struggle has instilled a more concise sense of what it is you would presume to subjugate?"

Myrhia regarded him flatly for a moment and then sighed, "Don't aspire to cleverness, Artumas...it is a role for which you are wholly unsuited."

"Then let me be blunt...you are fully cognizant of the darkness that resides within Islena. It appeared to require all of your puissance to subdue a miniscule portion of its essence...and even then, it is evident that the expenditure has left you diminished." Artumas paused in anticipation of the vehement denial he fully expected would follow. When none was forthcoming, he continued, "Having tasted the bitter truth of Islena's conflicted nature, can you truly persist with your machinations? To endow such a volatile creature with the might to level worlds is an irrational act that defies all reason. Whatever else you might be, I know that you are a keenly intelligent woman gifted with an incisive mind and a firm grasp of governing realities that forge the shape of affairs. I cannot reconcile this portrait with the desire to persist in this lunatic folly."

A spark flared in Myrhia's large eyes and she displayed animation for the first time, when she retorted, "You know absolutely nothing...you have less understanding of governing realities than an imbecile jester. You are smitten by the physical façade of the woman standing before you and cannot recognize a pleasing veil for what it truly is...window dressing to disguise a twisted, sundered soul."

"Considering our history, there is little I can say to repudiate that," he returned with a surprising lack of acrimony. "Irrespective of your past deceit, I find it incomprehensible that you cannot see what has become glaringly obvious. If the malice within Islena usurps control of her mind... _you_ will be the first target upon which it vents its mindless wrath. We know that you lack the requisite power to vanquish the entity that Islena will become when she achieves this damnable apotheosis."

"Perhaps you are cleverer than I've surmised," she allowed grudgingly. "Then tell me husband, from your new-found pinnacle of wisdom, what is it you would have me do?"

Believing that he had discerned a genuine willingness to entertain his entreaty, Artumas offered his recommendation, "Renege on your quest to obtain the Proclamations. Compel Islena to surrender the Dragonsword...with the correct inducement; I believe that she would do so gladly. Along with her child, send her back to her own world and allow her to live out the rest of her life in peace."

"And what of me, husband...how do I fare in your grand scheme for reclamation? The most reviled, notorious villain this world has ever seen...what place would I have in the future you would paint?"

In his exuberance, Artumas failed to perceive the degree of resignation and dejection that echoed through this query...like someone wistfully pondering an impossible fantasy. Passionately, the Emercian divulged his vision of this alternative future. "Return with me to Emercia and labor to make restitution for the heinous things you've done. Yours is the power to redress many of our world's woes. If you go forth with sincerity and humility and perform these acts of benevolence I witnessed today...in time, you would be forgiven."

Myrhia remained silent for several moments, regarding the man who had been her eternal enemy thoughtfully. Finally, she remarked, "You would have me become a miracle worker to the masses."

Artumas nodded gravely. "Yours is the wherewithal to change the very face of civilization...to banish want and suffering and every other prevailing injustice that seem to mar the value and purpose of life. It is said that you aspire to be a goddess and what could more succinctly define the idea than this?"

"There was a time...not all that long ago...when I would have heaped my scathing contempt on your childish idealism. You spoke of epiphanies, Artumas and I have experienced several in this last lifetime...excruciating insights that have divested me of every hollow delusion to which I have ever clung." She stepped closer and peered up at the ingenuous man through eyes that shone with affection. "Through every past incarnation, I have regarded you as a despised enemy...an obstinate impediment to my destiny of absolute supremacy. In this lifetime, I came to divine my genesis and the cruel jape that the fates have played at our expense...yours, mine and poor conflicted Islena. I have no free will in the matter and I will inexorably move to fill the purpose from which I was created and in this incarnation, my purpose is to see our daughter to her apotheosis."

She stepped back and a scowl of distaste twisted her countenance. "Do not distort my actions in the chamber...the healing of the Jerhia and that reprehensible Lamish whore. They were nothing more than spiteful acts of petty defiance...my ultimately pointless rebellion against the monstrous injustice that has been imposed upon me. Don't misconstrue my ambivalence to mean that I am capable of rejecting the intractable truth of what I am. Awareness does nothing to mitigate the fact that I am a slave to my purpose."

"I can't believe that," Artumas countered adamantly.

Myrhia's expression became pensive...sorrowful. "I could reach into your mind and eradicate the stubborn barriers that presently prevent you from delving deeper into the mystery of your identity. I've grown quite fond of you, husband and I will not subject you to the same bitter disillusionment that I have suffered. Our creator never intended us to discern the essence of our nature or the ignoble purpose we were meant to serve. We were meant to facilitate our cataclysmic junctures of bloody conflict, die and be born again to begin the cycle anew...with all of the fire and zeal that is engendered in the mortal heart."

The enchantress turned away and peered into the ever shifting mists...her expression weary and forlorn. "Somehow, Islena and I have managed a glimpse behind that curtain and now we are both committed to bringing this cynical cycle of wanton destruction to an emphatic end...though our perceptions of how that will be achieved are diametrically opposed. Both she and I are irreversibly committed to a path from which there can be no turning away."

Again she fell silent and Artumas merely watched the enigmatic creature, feeling despondency settle over him like a pall. Her next unexpected query segued into an intensely personal territory for which Artumas was wholly unprepared. "I would ask that you speak truthfully husband...secure in my vow that I will forego retaliation...did Islena go to your bed last night?"

Her gaze settled on the nonplussed king...its piercing weight informing him that she would discern any attempt at evasion or prevarication. Suddenly thinking that she deserved the honesty she had never imparted to him, Artumas admitted simply, "She did."

Myrhia made no effort to disguise the incisive pain this tacit disclosure evoked, though her only outward reaction was a tight nod and a contorted frown. Quietly, she intoned, "I would be alone. This day has left me with much to contemplate."

At a loss for an appropriate response, the former king simply bowed and turned to withdraw, feeling unaccountably saddened by the haunted glint in Myrhia's limpid eyes when he had confessed his infidelity.

He had taken but three steps, when Myrhia made a chilling revelation and admonition. "Artumas...you were correct in your assessment that I am no fool. Mine is a prescience that is exceptionally vivid and I am fully cognizant of the fact that Islena has come to me with an ulterior agenda...still intent on seeing me to my end for all of her professed fawning subservience. In truth, I can almost foresee the precise shape of her calumny."

Artumas turned slowly, absolutely flummoxed by this unsettling disclosure. "Yet you still allow this charade to go forward...still permit yourself to be an active participant in a process that can only lead to your destruction...why?"

"Should her thinly disguised machinations see fruition...I will be betrayed and she will nonetheless ascend. Invested with the power of a goddess, Islena's mind will inevitably be corrupted by the malice and she will lay waste to everything of worth...obliterate every last vestige of purity and light that you so cherish. Her unconstrained carnage will serve as my memorial...fitting retribution for all that I have suffered."

Artumas started to object, but a huge and unseen force clamped his jaws shut, rendering him silent. The half grin that played at Myrhia's lips was predatory and rife with terrible promise. "When I return from Ulgak, the cloying ambivalence and melancholy that has plagued me of late will be banished. Be forewarned...I will ruthlessly obliterate anyone who would seek to interfere with Islena's apotheosis...even you...Champion of Light. By way of compensation for all that we have endured, Islena and I will have this moment of reckoning...while all of the worlds hold their collective breathe in awe of what we are."

In this mad vision of self-aggrandizement, Artumas discerned...at last...the irrefutable validation of their fantastical eternal drama. His nostrils were accosted by the stench of desiccation and congealing blood rising from the pages of a thousand different histories like the rank miasma of a fetid swamp. The barrier waved then and he stumbled away, not condign to the task of facing the insufferable truth. Myrhia's derisive laughter trailed after him like a pestering hound and she called out, "You cannot countenance the truth husband, but I will tell you this, despite my dire warning and the awful consequences defiance will incur, your unflagging nobility will compel you to meddle in the irreversible process that fate has set in motion. In that regard, you are every bit as incorrigible as I am perceived to be."

He staggered into the hall, slamming her chamber door, though her mocking laugher continued to echo in the confines of his beleaguered mind long after he had returned to his own chambers.

3

The next dawn bore witness to two sights that were unprecedented in the long and illustrious history of Othgol. In light of the second, the first of these aberrations might have been considered mundane, but the Metocan were not averse to portents and augury and so the snowfall that accompanied the silver dawn was looked upon with much conjecture and trepidation.

The flakes that wafted down upon Othgol were huge and fell indolently over the ancient city. Soon the promenades and thoroughfares were blanketed by a thin carpet of pristine snow.

While the children of the mystical city played and romped joyously through the snow clad streets, the adults looked on with hooded expressions, watching the passage of Myrhia's Morticants in sullen and fearful silence. The inscrutable ranks of Myrhia's terrible engines of destruction filed past, oblivious to both the scrutiny and the thickening flurries. At the head of the column, Myrhia rode next to Islena and it was almost possible to reach out and touch the palpable tension that hovered about the pair.

Attired in her freshly polished armor, Islena was grateful for the padded undergarments in the face of this unexpected snowfall. As the column wound its way through the twisting thoroughfare, bound for the north gate of the city, Islena stole furtive glances at the enchantress, who had retreated behind unassailable walls of reticence that were every bit as glacial as the air in the ancient capital.

"Is all well Mother?" Islena inquired, leaning closer to the diminutive queen.

Myrhia's answering gaze could have sundered stone, but her voice was incongruently soft and strangely fey. "All is exactly as it was intended to be, Islena."

With this cryptic utterance delivered, Myrhia shifted her gaze forward and again fell silent. Islena shook her head in bemusement, but made no further attempt to engage the enchantress in conversation.

When the procession finally reached the plaza that housed the north gate, the gates stood open and the massive portcullis had been raised in anticipation of their departure.

To prevent a recurrence of yesterday's tragedy, Inos had prudently decreed that access to the square would be restricted until Myrhia's convoy had departed.

Artumas and the three leaders of the CornerStone Nations awaited its arrival near the gate. Newly raised Tier Marshal Arminda stood slightly behind Maroc and her pretty face appeared drawn and clouded by shadow in the oddly pearlescent light of dawn.

Off to one side there had been assembled a line of provision carts, all hitched and ready to commence the trek. At the head of the mobile cache, a single Metocan sat astride a dun colored horse...exuding an aura of extreme discomfort. Islena correctly deduced that he had been selected to act as an intermediary should the party encounter Ulgak during the course of their journey.

The rider raised his head in response to their arrival and Islena immediately recognized Kevlan. It had been the placid Metocan who had guided her to Othgol after the horror of Runesholm...events that seemed to have occurred in another life time.

' _Perhaps they did,'_ Islena considered bitterly. _'I bear very little resemblance to the woman I believed myself to be when I first came to this accursed place.'_

"Islena!" Myrhia's brusque utterance startled Doraux and she jerked her head toward the enchantress...who was regarding her with an expression of unaccountable fury. Myrhia held out her gloved right hand with her fingers splayed. She then snapped it into a fist and in response, a sibilant hiss tore through the suddenly tense silence.

Islena's eyes widened as a gleaming black serpent with emerald eyes suddenly materialized in the enchantress' small fist. It writhed and hissed, but its cold, inhuman gaze appeared to be fixed squarely upon Islena.

Myrhia guided her nervous charger closer until the two women's thighs were touching. That inexplicably enraged regard never left Islena's face as she whispered fiercely, "It seems that I must re-acquaint you with our respective roles...and your place in my grand design."

With this, she swiftly laid an index finger on Islena's bulging left bicep. Doraux's entire body was immediately ensnared in a paralytic vice as if it had been suddenly turned to stone. Myrhia gesticulated and the writhing serpent was transmogrified into an emerald-adorned, obsidian collar and leash. Plunging her right hand into a hapless Doraux's flaming mane, Myrhia jerked the other woman's head back and slammed the collar around her exposed neck. The metallic snap of the clasp resounded like thunder in an indignant Islena's ears.

Dropping the loop of the leash over the pommel of her saddle, Myrhia roughly pulled Islena's head closer until her full lips brushed Doraux's ear. "Remember that you have pledged your unconditional fealty...effectively consigning your soul to my keeping. When you found yourself in quite the same position before my husband...did you offer him the same terms?"

Islena's green eyes widened in horror and she managed, "He...he told you?"

"He didn't have to...I could smell your stink on him when he visited me last night. I have treated you like an equal...like a daughter, but from this moment forth...I will treat you like a dissolute, conniving whore," she rasped and Islena could feel the other woman's towering rage threatening to immolate her flesh. "I am going to release you from this cantrip and you will meekly accept this collar. From this moment forth, your every petty act of defiance will come at the life of one of your _friends_ ...beginning with the piece of offal I saved yesterday. If that isn't sufficient inducement to insure your pliability, consider this; the soul forge prevents me from killing your son, but mine is the capacity to endure nearly limitless pain!"

Doraux's eyes widened in outrage and she could feel the Dragonsword pulse to life against her broad back. Ever attuned to Islena's moods, Myrhia touched Islena's left cheek and sensation returned to Doraux's heavily-muscled body in an argent rush of agony, the intensity of which nearly toppled Islena from her horse, even as she bit back on a bellowing exclamation of pain. Myrhia smiled wickedly and commanded, "Commencing now, you will speak only when given leave to do so. Cast a glance in Artumas' direction and you will force me to do something that both of us will regret eternally."

4

Artumas viewed the whispered exchange between the two extraordinary women from behind a mask of impassivity, though internally his heart was racing with mounting anxiety. He required on a single glimpse into Myrhia's limpid eyes to see that she was livid...just as he needed no further verification to know that the disclosure of the previous night was the source of her fury.

' _By the gods, the power to level mountains and a beauty to enthrall the heavens, yet she is still susceptible to simple jealousy,'_ he thought in bemusement. _'Ah, but this a creature whose wrath could be cataclysmic.'_

From where he stood, Artumas saw Islena stiffen dramatically, her posture suggesting that she had been accosted by Myrhia's sorcery. He briefly pondered intervening, but correctly surmised that doing so would only provoke the enchantress further and so he desisted. _'Such is her absolute power that the fear of consequences has rendered us immobile.'_

Islena uttered a guttural grunt of obvious pain after which Myrhia led the leashed woman over to where the waiting leaders had assembled. Her baleful glare found him and there was no mistaking the immensity of her anger or its underlying cause. His gaze happened upon Islena, who appeared chastened and pale, with her downcast eyes and Myrhia's collar affixed around her throat. Suddenly incensed at this cruel indignity, Artumas strode to meet the enchantress and hissed, "You vowed that there would be no retaliation."

"I lied," Myrhia retorted flatly in a glacial voice fraught with menace. "Now return to the others or I will have my Morticants flog you for the pure pleasure of hearing you scream."

The roiling storm in those great dark eyes eloquently proclaimed her sincerity and thus Artumas complied, hoping to defuse her anger.

Myrhia stretched her scorching regard over the assembled leaders, all of whom were perceptive enough to discern that she was in a particularly foul frame of mind. Her turbulent gaze settled on Kevlan, who flinched beneath its scalding heat. "This is to be the emissary?" she demanded, her voice rife with scorn. Inos managed a nod and the enchantress sneered disdainfully in return. "For the sake of your countrymen, let us hope you are adept at the art of persuasion."

She guided her horse toward the four leaders whom she had subjugated. "I would have you remember that Othgol remains standing through my benevolence. I have graciously allowed you to retain your autonomy on the condition that you strictly adhere to our agreement. Maktir, upon my return, I expect that you will provide me with your insight into the location of the Natzurdan staff. I will tolerate no further procrastination or brinkmanship. The continued existence of the three CornerStone Nations is contingent upon my forbearance and my patience is at an end. For the collective sake of your peoples, I hope you will take me at my word."

With a petulant snap of her reins, Myrhia then spurred her charger through the gates. Islena was jerked forward by the sudden violence of Myrhia's departure and was fortunate not to be dragged from her saddle by the taut leash.

The four leaders and the Jerhia Tier Marshal Arminda watched her departure under a penumbra of dismal silence until the last of the Morticant escort and Kevlan's supply convoy had vanished into the falling snow that now obscured the highway as it twisted into the northern forest.

With a heavy heart and a grim countenance, Artumas turned to the others and intoned gravely, "Let us return to the audience hall...there is much we must discuss."

Chapter Seventeen

1

As Ynathreen had predicted, the vast majority of retainers in Frydryck's service were well along the road to total inebriation by the time she was escorted into the main hall by the two gate guards.

The hall itself was a high-ceilinged rectangular affair, delineated on three sides by a balcony with a solid wooden railing that rose to waist height on an average man.

A cloying miasma of tobacco smoke, along with the stench of ale and unwashed flesh, hung in the air over the sprawl of bodies in the hall. Seated behind a long wooden trestle table, the traitorous Frydryck sat watching the unruly celebrations like a feudal lord indulging his loyal serfs.

Frydryck was slight of build for a Redian and preferred to attire himself in finery more suited to an Emercian nobleman. His bejeweled doublet was trimmed in silver fox. His long reddish blond hair was held away from his angular face by a polished leather lash, interwoven with strands of gold. His intense pale blue eyes were alight with keen intellect, but his face possessed a furtive conniving edge that reminded Ynathreen of the countenance of a weasel.

' _Which is exactly what he is...a treacherous, conniving weasel,'_ Ynathreen thought, while struggling to master her fury...which boiled perilously close to eruption. To succumb to this berserker rage would not do...at least, not yet.

On either side of the craven sat his two sons. Eldryc was the older...tall and lithe with jet black hair, he perpetually wore an infuriatingly arrogant smirk. Ynathreen knew him to be a physical coward who hid his cowardice behind a vicious disposition. On Frydryck's right sat Byragore...a mirror image of his father. Byragore was a serious, introverted boy who had been blessed with exceptional martial skills. It was imperative that Ynathreen dispatch this one quickly, leaving her free to dispense heavy justice to the two cravens at her leisure.

Frydan, the youngest son, was nowhere to be seen. A sensitive boy...by Redian standards, Frydan was two years younger than Ynathreen. In another time, she had called this boy friend and had protected him from bullies on more than one occasion. Tonight, however, he would dine on her steel and she would end his life without hesitation or compunction. Atrocities such as the one perpetrated by Frydryck would allow for no other response.

' _So this is now how you would fashion yourself...a murderer who makes no discrimination between friend and adversary?'_ the voice of Muragren inquired ruefully. _'Do you truly believe this would make Ghordrian proud?'_

' _Ghordrian is dead!'_ Ynathreen retorted coldly. _'So is Satheer...and soon the pigs who slaughtered her will be joining her in the afterlife.'_

A sudden silence descended upon the hall as the escort prodded Ynathreen into the open space. Beneath her heavy cloak, she could feel the reassuring weight of the heavy steel mace against her muscular inner thighs. She knew implicitly that she was going to die in this repulsive sty, but hopefully not before she killed the three swine who were now regarding her curiously from their position on the dais. If fate willed it so, Cauldanys would provide her with the short space of time she would require to see the trio to their ends.

Upon recognizing his _guest_ Frydryck stood, delighted with his good fortune. His demolition of house Ghordrian had been executed with flawless alacrity, yet Satheer's unexpected resistance to his advances and her subsequent slaughter had left the Redian feeling both dissatisfied and vaguely uneasy. Had she recognized the prudence of aligning their two houses, his claim to Redia's unoccupied throne would have gone unchallenged. Yet, she had denigrated him both as a man and a worthy ruler. In a rare moment of lapsed discipline, he had allowed his composure to waver and in the next instant, she had been eviscerated at his feet...rare beauty squandered in a fit of blind rage.

Now, as if in a gesture of absolution, the gods had delivered her comely daughter into his hands...affording him an opportunity to salvage the situation. Turning his rare moments of folly into advantage had long been one of Frydryck's strengths. Disguising his avarice with an inviting grin, Frydryck gestured for silence and announced, "It seems that we have an unexpected guest. Dear Ynathreen, what brings you to my home on this inhospitable night? Have you come to partake in the revelry?"

Ynathreen glanced about in unconcealed disgust. "Your revelry seems inappropriate when one considers that the man you named friend and to whom you pledged fealty is dead and his estate in awash in the blood of his wife and retainers."

"Ghordrian is...is dead you say and Satheer...surely this is a humorless jest?" Frydryck intoned in feigned horror...and then smiled mockingly. Beside him, Eldryc uttered an ugly spate of disdainful laughter and Ynathreen decided that she would dissect him one limb at a time. When Ynathreen did not respond, Frydryck pursed his lips and intoned, "Why have you come girl...do you seek sanctuary and protection? Or perchance it is comfort that you require...in which case you can come up and sit upon my knee."

This lewd witticism was greeted with a roar of crude laughter and a volley of obscene gestures from the drunken rabble. Ynathreen managed to maintain a neutral expression, her unblinking regard never leaving Frydryck's revolting face. In a hard, solemn voice, she declared, "I have come to give you the opportunity to kneel before me on this foul-smelling carpet and renew your vow of fealty to Elderspire's new clan chief."

Fyrdryck's lower mandible unhinged and every eye popped wide in reaction to this girl's incredible temerity. After a moment, the Redian began to bellow sardonic laughter and was quickly joined by his horde of ruffians. Ynathreen stood motionless, waiting for the storm of laughter and derisive catcalls to subside. "Your refusal can only be construed as an admission of your odious and craven treachery," she resumed evenly. "In which case, I would demand that you summon the courage to face me in mortal combat."

Again, this challenge was greeted by a thunderous wave of disdainful laughter, but Ynathreen noticed that Frydryck did not join in scoffing at the girl's presumption. Instead, his blue eyes narrowed speculatively and Ynathreen thought that she could discern the first stirrings of uncertainty. He raised his right fist in a gesture for silence and demanded sharply, "Why would I ever debase myself by agreeing to something so utterly absurd?"

Ynathreen grinned and spread her long arms. "Mutual desire...we both have something the other covets." She reached into the fold of her cloak and held forth the clan totem. "I have Ghordrian's sigil which proclaims me to be the rightful Clan Chief of Elderspire and you have your loathsome head and the shriveled, inadequate appendage that still dangles between your legs. I plan to have it dried and cured and then I will wear it on a chain between my breasts which you have always coveted."

Frydryck's color deepened to scarlet and he sputtered, "You impertinent bitch...it is apparent that you are sorely in need of a lesson in respect and humility." To her escorts, he growled, "Turn her over your knees and spank her bottom until it is red!"

With the ghost of a grin playing at her generous mouth, Ynathreen shrugged off her heavy cloak, but otherwise remained utterly stationary, hands poised over the handles of her two axes. Her rigid posture and heavily-muscled frame, clad in leather and iron ring, dispelled the idea that she was a defenseless girl. The two escorts hesitated, realizing that this creature before them was neither docile nor helpless.

"Seize her, imbeciles!" Frydryck bellowed, suddenly livid that the impetuous whelp would have the temerity to disrespect him in his own house.

The first man was a barrel-chested brute of an equal height to Ynathreen. He clamped two meaty paws on her muscular upper arms, privately shocked by the density of her bicep muscles. When she made no effort to resist, he pulled her closer and allowed his hands to slide from her arms to her leather and stud-covered breasts.

She permitted him to take full liberty with their lush promise, her glacial gaze locked squarely on Frydryck. After enduring the groping a moment longer, she savagely snapped her head back once...and then a second time.

There followed a high, keening shriek that seemed capable of splitting stone. As the iron spike on the copper sleeve holding her red mane embedded itself first in his right eyeball and then the left.

He surrendered his hold on Ynathreen's breasts as his hands covered the bloody ruins of his eyes. With a torrent of agonized shrieks tearing from his bulging throat, the massive guard collapsed to his knees. Ynathreen ignored the fallen assailant and took a swift step toward the bewildered second guard. She whipped her head to the left and then the right a half dozen times in rapid succession. With an audible snap, her heavy cable braid cut the air. With uncanny accuracy, the heavy collars at the end of her braid struck the flat-footed guard and the sharpened spikes reduced his face to bloody ribbons of hanging flesh.

His ear-shattering howl matched his comrades, but before he could fall, Ynathreen ripped the right hand axe from its holder on her hip. She brought the lethally honed weapon up in a savage arc, cleaving his exposed groin to the top of his pubic bone. She jerked the blade free and delivered a titanic thrust kick to the dying man's chest. The blow shattered his sternum and sent him a full three lengths toward the mortified Frydryck.

Pivoting lithely about, Ynathreen stepped behind the blinded guard and buried her hands in his matted hair, before drawing the blade of her bloody axe across his exposed throat, sending blood spraying across the appalling filthy carpet in a shockingly brilliant fan.

Ynathreen delivered another savage kick to the center of the dying man's back. Its force propelled him face down into a growing pool of his own blood. The gurgling of the fallen man's twitching death throes seemed impossibly loud in the profound silence that followed Ynathreen's shockingly swift demolition of the two grizzled veterans.

Unmindful of the gore on her hand, Ynathreen stepped over the still twitching corpse and challenged, "Now that I've dispensed with the misconception that I am a helpless child...will you show that you possess even the most miniscule measure of courage by facing me in single combat, Frydryck? If you would prefer to spend a few moments reflecting on your crimes, I will gladly kill your two sons first."

Before Frydryck could respond, Eldryc leapt to his feet and vaulted over the trestle table, his face twisted into a contemptuous scowl. "Let me kill the bitch, father," he growled, drawing his long sword and advancing toward Ynathreen, who merely smiled invitingly and remained stationary. Eldryc paused as a note of disquiet chimed in the back of his mind. Still, compelled by conviction in his own braggadocio, Frydryck's eldest son taunted, "I'm going to kill you whore and when I'm done...I'm going to fuck your warm corpse on top of this table. The question is...how do I kill you with a single stroke so that your corpse is still somewhat enticing?"

"Like this!" Ynathreen retorted softly and in one fluid movement, stepped forward and threw the axe that had so recently dined on the blood of the two guardsmen. The weapon spun end over end, tearing the air with a whine, before embedding itself in Eldryc's gaping face. The keen blade cleaved the young man's nose and sent blood shooting forth in a great gout.

Frydryck's horrified cry of negation mirror his son's strangled cry as he watched Eldryc twist and collapse onto his face. The impact with the cold stone floor drove the axe deeper into his brain and sent his failing body into a violent spasm.

Waving his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, Frydryck bellowed, "Kill her...whoever brings me her head will have its weight in gold!"

2

By a fortuitous combination of drunken distraction and the unexpected appearance of new entertainment in the form of Ghordrian's brat, no one in Frydryck's hall seemed to notice the shadow that slipped through the doors in Ynathreen's wake. Cauldanys swiftly slid up the darkened staircase like a wraith. Kneeling on the riser at the top of the stairwell, she peered around the angle of the solid railing to discover that this side of the balcony was steeped in deep shadow...and deserted except for one indistinct mound halfway along its length.

Moving cautiously, she made her way along the balcony, slowly drawing a dirk from the sheath on her left boot. In the gloom, Cauldanys did not notice the empty wine bottle until her right foot sent it scuttling along the polished wood. Its passage was barely audible above the din in the hall, but still sufficient to rouse what Cauldanys now saw was one of the two revelers who had stolen off for a moment of lewd amusement.

"What?" a woman's slurred voice inquired out of the darkness. Cauldanys' warrior instincts launched her forward and with uncanny accuracy, she struck the woman high on the left cheekbone with the pommel of her dirk. With a soft moan, the woman receded back into unconsciousness.

Cauldanys scurried over the woman and clamped her hand over the sleeping Redian's gaping mouth and in one fluid motion, drew her dirk across his throat. The Jerhia abruptly locked her strong thighs around his head and with her hand still over his mouth, held the larger man in place until his thrashing subsided.

' _So this is what you've become...a morally bankrupt barbarian who kills drunkards in their sleep?'_ she castigated herself, grateful that the cover of darkness had prevented her from gazing into the dying man's terror-filled eyes. This action was reprehensible...a repudiation of every Jerhia principle."

' _Ah, but I am a Jerhia no longer...only a woman without a country, struggling desperately to survive...like an animal.'_

This depressing notion nonetheless assuaged her burgeoning guilt. Ynathreen was down there and alone in the lion's den and Cauldanys could ponder her moral crisis later.

Crawling over the dead Redian, the Jerhia made her way to the approximate center of the balcony. Once there, she began to lean her bolts against the railing. There were twenty-five bolts in all and Cauldanys wondered how many she would have the opportunity to fire before she met her end on the blade of a Redian sword or axe.

"I will not permit myself to be taken alive," she whispered fiercely, recalling her harrowing ordeal in the cave upon first awakening to find herself at Ynathreen's mercy.

Settling against the railing, Cauldanys waited for the right moment to exert her influence upon the drama unfolding below.

After a frantic cry of negation, a man (Frydryck, Cauldanys assumed) bellowed a shrill exhortation to kill Ynathreen. After drawing a deep, tremulous breath to calm her nerves, Cauldanys rose and unleashed death on the Redians below.

3

Ynathreen withdrew a pace and adroitly drew her remaining hand axe and her heavy, studded mace. Easily enticed by avarice, the kind of men who made their living as sword-wielding retainers would not likely resist the allure of gold. Her gaze swept the mob, trying to evaluate who might be the first to attempt to reap the prize.

Several of the bearded ruffians wore the expression of animal cunning and Ynathreen was trying to decide if she should risk a direct charge at Frydryck, when the sound of a discharged crossbow bolt reached her ears. An instant later, the man closest to her suddenly dropped his axe and groped at the bolt shaft which protruded from his gushing throat.

A heartbeat later, a second man collapsed with a bolt in his right eye. Ynathreen lifted her gaze upward in time to see Cauldanys step to the balcony railing...her crossbow already reloaded and prepared to fire. "Anyone takes another step toward the girl and you die," she warned Frydryck. "I think your dead thugs would attest to my proficiency with this weapon...if they were still alive."

Frydryck gaped at the dispenser of death, becoming pallid at the alacrity with which this had become a terrible debacle. That disquiet became outrage when he recognized the pale blue eyes and the blond hair. "A Jerhia...she brings a Jerhia assassin into our midst!"

Ynathreen beamed a broad grin and spread her arms. "A strange companion admittedly, but considerably more trustworthy than a traitorous dog." Her smile vanished and she proclaimed, "Those who lay down their weapons may swear fealty to me and I will grant you a place in house Ghordrian. Frydryck, will you muster what is left of your manhood and face me in the rite of Rizarchen?"

"My offer still stands and I will pay an equal amount to anyone who brings me the Jerhia's head," The Redian roared, but now there was no mistaking the note of anxiety that resonated in his voice.

When no one moved, Ynathreen's generous mouth twisted into a disdainful smirk. "It seems that your retainers are reluctant to follow a cowardly gelding."

Frydryck clamped his hand down on Byragore's shoulder and rasped, "Bring me her head...now!"

The young man glanced up at his father with an expression that held an equal measure of revulsion and sadness. He privately considered his father's actions toward house Ghordrian to be deplorable and craven. Still, the concept of obedience and familial loyalty was ingrained in his spirit and thus he rose slowly and came around the trestle table. He spared a brief glance at his dead brother and when he turned his attention to Ynathreen, his handsome face was set in grim lines of resignation.

He drew his long sword in one smooth motion and intoned gravely, "I have no real desire to fight you, Yna."

The familiar salutation caused Ynathreen to blink and lower her weapon slightly. It evoked a host of memories from earlier years when such ugliness had seemed unimaginable. How many times had they raced through the streets or engaged in endless contests of strength and balance and sparred with wooden staves and swords. She had perfected her natural gifts with this handsome young man...never once suspecting that the day would come when she would face Byragore in mortal combat. "Step aside and allow me to dispense justice to Frydryck and then you and I can forge a new accord to reconcile our houses."

A pained expression twisted his features and he replied, "I...I can't, Yna...he's my father!"

Ynathreen's blue eyes assumed a frigid cast and she growled, "Then come...let us indulge in one final contest."

From her lofty perspective, Cauldanys watched breathlessly as the clearly reluctant Byragore ventured forward. The way he held his sword and the litheness of his movements informed the Jerhia that Ynathreen's triumph was far from given. In her pre-occupation with the lethal contest, Cauldanys failed to perceive the figure that had crept onto the balcony and was converging upon her.

Byragore slowly closed the distance while Ynathreen awaited his approach, swaying slightly on the balls of her feet. He suddenly surged forward on his lead foot, bringing his sword down in a tight arc with a mind to cleave Ynathreen's skull. Unlike most Redians, he did not attack with a bellow, but rather with silent determination.

Ynathreen caught the blow with the crossed shafts of her two weapons and then spun swiftly to her left. Now behind and to the left of her opponent, she delivered a short, chopping blow to Byragore's hamstring. He grunted and collapsed to one knee, but as Ynathreen moved past him, he deftly flicked his sword, scoring her right bicep.

Cauldanys hissed, while the Redian girl danced lithely away. The studded leather band around her bicep had absorbed most of the blow, but the flesh above and below the band had suffered a superficial wound that bled profusely.

Ynathreen flicked a dismissive glance at the wound and then shocked Cauldanys by slamming her hand axe into its holder. To the Jerhia's utter revulsion, she then ran her palm over the wound and smeared her own warm blood over her face. The gore lent her broad countenance an aspect of savage madness and she snarled, "Very good, Byragore...now come and take the rest."

Clearly disconcerted by Ynathreen's barbaric display, the Redian labored to his feet, obviously encumbered by Ynathreen's first strike. The hulking girl slowly circled the wounded youth, who tracked her movements with his sword held out before him. Ynathreen feinted a forward attack on several occasions, but the composed Byragore refused to be lured into an error...patiently waiting for the phenomenal girl to commit an error of her own.

Discerning that the always prudent young man would not be enticed into an error with obvious feints, Ynathreen adjusted her tactics. She was distantly cognizant of the steady stream of blood flowing down her injured arm...a stinging reminder that her childhood friend was a dangerous opponent.

She raised her mace slightly and darted forward, deliberately exposing her abdomen...a target that proved irresistible, even to the cautious Redian. His forward thrust was explosive and swift despite the impairment to his leg. Ynathreen had anticipated the strike, but she was still fortunate to parry the blow. Turning his blade aside with her mace, she stepped nimbly inside his guard and delivered a thunderous knee to his exposed groin and followed through with a titanic uppercut to his chin.

The force of Ynathreen's blows literally lifted Byragore from his feet and deposited him on his back. Slack-jawed and bleary-eyed, he stared up into the gloom of the vaulted ceiling. The impact with the stone floor caused the youth to relinquish his grip on the long sword. It clattered across the cold stone, but was intercepted by a retainers boot. The man scowled at Ynathreen and slid the weapon back to within grasping distance of the apparently dazed Byragore.

Staring down at the unmoving, apparently vanquished young man evoked a sense of incisive sorrow in Ynathreen.

' _You must not do this vile thing, Ynathreen!'_ the erudite voice of Muragren implored her as she started toward the fallen Redian with no clear conception of her intention.

As she stepped over his body, Byragore swiftly jerked up and entangling her left ankle with his calves, rolled forcefully to his right, nearly toppling the startled Ynathreen. Blessed with an exceptional sense of balance, she managed to pull her leg free and retain the grip on her mace. Pivoting in place, she saw Byragore roll to his left and grope for his long sword. Ynathreen's natural battle instinct asserted itself and she launched herself over the fallen Redian like a huge cat, while swinging the mace in a savage arc.

It struck Byragore's reaching hand, shredding flesh and pulverizing bone in a bloody spray.

The youth's shrill cry of agony chilled all who heard it and he clutched the mangled limb to his chest. Ynathreen tucked into a roll and came up on the balls of her feet, before delivering a devastating blow to the skull of the man who had pushed the sword back to her opponent. Hair, bone and blood flew as he collapsed to his knees and toppled onto his face. Turning away even before he fell, she stalked back to her fallen adversary, who lay on his back, trembling violently in the embrace of his ineffable pain.

As the witnesses gazed on in black fascination, Ynathreen straddled Byragore and settled onto his upper chest. Her face was set in an inscrutable mask and her one-time friend peered up at her through eyes that were ablaze with torment.

Wavering on the edge of self-control and fearing that her resolve would evaporate in the face of his misery, Ynathreen whispered wretchedly, "I...I didn't mean to do this, Byragore. I'm sorry."

The beaten Redian youth managed to conjure a weak smile and his remaining good hand fell on Ynathreen's bare, bloody thigh. "It's alright Yna...a part of me always knew that you were better. Finish me...there is no disgrace in dying by your hand."

Ynathreen uttered a guttural grown of negation and plunged her right hand into his perspiration-soaked hair. "By all the damnable gods, no...I will not kill you. I will settle this matter with Frydryck and then _you will_ swear your house's fealty to me. Now lay here and rest until I can have you healed."

During the time of this dark drama between the two honorable combatants...everyone in the hall had gazed on as if transfixed by sorcery. When Byragore nodded his submission and closed his eyes, Ynathreen leapt to her feet...the flow of time resumed and the madness escalated to the next level.

4

Cauldanys watched raptly as Ynathreen fought her engrossing duel with the skilled Byragore. In the end, the Jerhia concluded that the young Redian's obvious reluctance to fight had made for a much easier contest than it might otherwise have been.

Cauldanys felt a surge of pride suffuse her breast when Ynathreen decided not to dispense heavy justice to the vanquished Byragore. That elation quickly dissipated when her gaze flicked back to Frydryck.

Watching the impudent girl systematically dismantle his two sons instilled a sudden and near paralyzing terror in Frydryck, who was self-aware enough to know that he lacked the requisite skill to face this she-demon in mortal combat. The full folly of his ambition impacted upon him at that moment...an enormous misjudgment that would prove fatal.

He had privately subscribed to the notion that skilled manipulation and cunning would eventually win him power in Redia...thus circumventing the need to engage in the barbaric Rizarchen.

Tonight's bloody debacle, however, had swiftly disabused him of that inane notion. Redians equated power and the right to rule with martial prowess and this concept...however vapid...was inculcated into the fabric of the Redian psyche. His loathsome countrymen were simply incapable of lifting their vision above this antiquated perspective. He need only glance into the eyes of his own retainers to see the irrefutable truth of this. They were peering at the blood spattered animal-bitch with expressions of dawning admiration. Sparing little thought for the loss of his two sons, Frydryck's only concern was for extricating himself from the jaws of his blundering misjudgment.

Seeing Ynathreen's attention distracted as she squatted on the chest of the vanquished Byragore, Frydryck reached for his throwing knife that sat on the table next to his pewter dinner plate.

Cauldanys saw the treacherous Redian reach for one of the throwing knives and deduced his intention perfectly. Without hesitation, she discharged a bolt to forestall that treachery. The Redian's howl of agony was a silver-throated exclamation that echoed off the walls as his incredulous gaze shifted to the jutting bolt that had passed through his gushing hand, effectively pinning it to the table.

Ynathreen's head snapped toward the horrified Frydryck and upon seeing his plight, her bloody face constricted into a terrible parody of a grin. She rose slowly from the battered Byragore with a liquid flexing of massive thigh muscles...her face ablaze with keen anticipation.

She moved slowly toward the ensnared traitor, her large blue eyes blazing with deadly promise and her body pulsing with an atavistic thrill of imminent carnage. As she approached the table, she smiled with primal glee and intoned, "It seems that the fates have smiled upon me."

Cauldanys quickly reloaded her crossbow and watched as Ynathreen stalked across the floor toward Frydryck. Something in her leonine posture hinted that the Redian was primed to unleash bloody mayhem on the man who had killed her mother. She realized that...though he deserved to die...a protracted, gory death would indelibly scar the girl's soul. Cauldanys was pondering the relative merits of putting a bolt through his dastardly heart, when powerful arms suddenly wrapped around her torso. She was swiftly uprooted and in the next instant, diminutive Cauldanys found herself being hefted over the balcony and out into the smoky air.

She plummeted soundlessly and tumbled head over heels as she fell, landing on her back across a heavy wooden bench. There was a brief flare of pain, the enormity of which robbed her of all breath and the ability to give it voice. Then all external sensation vanished and Cauldanys tumbled off the bench and onto her side. She lay on the cold, dirty stones with her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish out of water. From this disorienting perspective, she watched unblinkingly as Ynathreen extracted her vengeance.

Fixated on the hateful visage of Frydryck, who tracked her approach on the verge of blubbering panic, Ynathreen was oblivious to the ugly fate that had befallen her Jerhia friend. She was equally unaware of the malicious expressions that had dawned on many of the faces of Frydryck's retainers upon seeing that the Jerhia threat had been emphatically neutralized.

Raising their weapons, they began to creep towards Ynathreen's exposed back with a mind to currying favor with Frydryck. Before they could venture within striking distance, the heavy main doors to the hall were suddenly blown off their hinges and a scouring gust of wind-driven snow surged into the hall's interior, extinguishing most of the torches and plunging the hall into an eerie twilight.

With the exception of Ynathreen, who was completely enthralled by the prospect of vengeance, every gaze was drawn to the door. A single lithe figure, wielding two long swords, stepped through the opening.

Margarus' gray eyes had become iridescent during the course of her pursuit of Ynathreen and her two companions. They burned an unearthly gray and though her face was inscrutable, a titanic internal struggle raged behind those inhuman eyes, where Sygeanor's vile magic besieged the last of Margarus' failing humanity.

Ahead, she saw her quarry looming over an overtly petrified man, whose hand was pinned to a stout wooden table by a Jerhia crossbow bolt. She took two full strides into the hall, when a group of four Redians...erroneously thinking that she was an ordinary Jerhia...moved to intercept her.

5

Ynathreen approached the table, relishing the naked terror in Frydryck's eyes.

"Don't kill me!" he entreated, ignoring the harrowing cries of agony and horror that had erupted at the opposite end of the hall. Ynathreen merely grinned her death mask grin. In one fluid movement, she reached forward and snapped the shaft of the Jerhia bolt with powerful fingers. Clutching Frydryck's wrist, she freed his impaled hand with a savage jerk that raised a fine mist of blood and provoked a shrewish wail of agony.

"Don't kill me!" the Redian reiterated, his frantic plea coming in ragged gasps. "You can have everything...I'll leave Redia. Please, give me exile!"

Ynathreen viewed his craven exhortations with glacial impassivity. She raised her bloody mace and then pointed in the direction of the door that led to his manor. "Run then!"

Thinking that he had been granted an unexpected reprieve, Frydryck turned and fled. Before he could take two full steps, Ynathreen leapt onto the table and delivered a devastating sweep kick to the side of his head. The concussive force of the blow shattered Frydryck's jaw in four places, dislocating it to give the Redian an unsettling, monstrous appearance. He careened into the wall and collapsed in a quivering heap.

Ynathreen stepped lightly from the table, while setting her heavy mace back into its holder and drawing a keenly-honed dirk.

She rolled a semi-conscious Frydryck onto his back and straddling the pain-wracked Redian, deliberately dropped heavily onto his chest. Peering into his eyes...which were bulging with terror and agony...Ynathreen leaned forward until her heavy breasts threatened to spill out of her leather armor. "Do you recall how often you leered at these...fantasizing about how you would plunder my innocence? This day...you may go to your grave knowing that you've succeeded."

With this, she plunged her hand into his hair and ruthlessly drove her dirk into the soft flesh just beneath his chin. She pushed the blade deeper with a mad snarl, not stopping until the tip grated on bone. She then gave the blade several petulant twists and did not stop until the last of Frydryck's death spasm ceased. She then sat staring down at the dead man, indifferent to the blood that spattered her breasts.

She sat back on her haunches and stared vacantly at the ravaged corpse of the man who had systematically destroyed her world.

There was no elation in extracting her vengeance...only a stark feeling of hollow resolution. As cognizance slowly filtered through the murderous haze, Ynathreen became aware of the chaos around her. She sprang nimbly to her feet and drew her mace and remaining hand axe.

She pivoted about and the shadowed panorama of mayhem and violence that she was afforded literally transfixed her in place as if she had been transformed to stone.

Dead Redians littered the hall...all absent their heads, limbs or viscera. In the center of the hall, the four remaining vertical Redians were making a desperate final stand against a dervish of flashing steel.

The lithe figure executed a swift pirouette and the axe wielding Redian to its left was divested of his head. Ynathreen watched in gape-jawed fascination as the disembodied head hit the stones and rolled into the shadows. The figure ducked smoothly on the follow through, cleanly cleaving the legs of the second Redian just below the knees.

In the ineffective light, Ynathreen recognized the slender form and short gray hair of the Jerhia captain...Margarus had been her name. Ynathreen stared as the Jerhia reversed the grip on her weapon and casually drove the tip through the heart of the fallen Redian.

Seeing the stunning demise of their fallen comrades, the remaining pair of Redian retainers threw aside their weapons and fled into the stormy night.

Margarus made no move to prevent their flight as if she had no interest in non-combatants. She stood stationary...in the center of Frydryck's hall, surveying the tableau of bloody carnage with eyes that glowed an unearthly grey.

Byragore raised his head and upon seeing the deadly creature standing stationary at the center of the hall, he croaked weakly, "Run Yna...don't face that thing!"

Margarus' head snapped to the fallen Byragore and even as Ynathreen bellowed a frantic cry of negation and surged to defend the helpless Redian, Sygeanor's creature bound forward and drove her long sword through his heart.

A thick glut of blood burst from his mouth as his body danced a final spastic jig...impaled on her blade.

Ynathreen skidded to a halt, while Margarus turned gracefully to confront her quarry. Peering into the Jerhia's blood-slicked face...a horrifying mask that mirrored her own...Ynathreen caught a fleeting glimpse of the tortured soul behind the inhuman eyes. She had no doubt who was responsible for the Jerhia's plight. "Margarus...what has she done to you?"

To the Redian's amazement, Margarus' tight, angular face constricted into a portrait of raw agony. She abruptly discarded her two swords...which raised a discordant clamor on the stone floor...and fell to her knees before Ynathreen. She lifted her head to expose her throat and then made a sorrowful entreaty. "End this now...before I compound this evil and take your life!"

Ynathreen hesitated, shaking her head as tears of remorse began to flow. Seeing the powerful girl's reluctance, the kneeling horror exclaimed desperately, "Please!"

With her vision partially occluded by free-falling tears, Ynathreen snatched up one of Margarus' discarded swords. With a ferocious cry, she spun in a gyre of muscle and outrage and cleanly decapitated the noble Jerhia.

"I will see her dead for this, Margarus!" she whispered as the headless corpse pitched forward. Ynathreen stood with her head bowed and her eyes closed as complete silence descended on the bloody abattoir.

"Ynathreen?" a voice called weakly from the shadows and she immediately recognized Cauldanys.

"Oh no...please no!" Ynathreen cried...her heart contracting in shame and guilt as she hurried over to the slumped form. It required only a glance at the pretty blond to know that the void would soon claim her.

Cauldanys peered up at the weeping Ynathreen, who knelt beside her unexpected friend and took her cold right hand. Despite the fear and enormity of her pain, Cauldanys managed a weak smile. "Don't cry for me, Ynathreen. Though I wish my life had followed a different path, I now go to my end having only one regret in my heart; I will not be there to bend a knee and pledge fealty on the day you become queen!"

She then squeezed a distraught Ynathreen's hand lightly before her eyes fluttered and her head fell back to the stone. In the ensuing solitude of the hall that had become a repository for violent death, Ynathreen hung her head and sobbed.

6

It was the middle of the next day when a bloody and exhausted Ynathreen led the two horses into the grounds of her father's estate.

Muragren ran out of the house, but came to a stumbling halt in the face of Ynathreen's disconcerting appearance. Her horrified gaze fell upon the two shrouded bodies that were draped over the haunches of each horse. Her pallid face twisted in revulsion when her eyes happened upon the heads of Frydryck and his eldest son Eldryc. Attached together by a spiked chain, they were hung over the saddle of Ynathreen's horse.

Muragren's hand fluttered to her twisted mouth and she gasped, "Ynathreen, by all that is holy...what have you done?"

The Redian girl's gore-encrusted face crumpled and she strode forward and delivered a half-hearted slap to Muragren's face. Despite the tentative nature of the blow, it still carried sufficient force to drive the emaciated slave to her knees.

Eyes wide with shock, she gazed up at the powerful girl, who loomed over the Fairmarch slave and growled, "I will not suffer your judgment." Ynathreen then pointed in the direction of the open gates and rasped, "You either accept that this is what I must be until I can forge a new path...or go back to Fairmarch and offer a fervent prayer that I don't grow to be the monster you now see before you."

With this, she strode by the dazed Muragren, leaving the fragile slave kneeling in the falling snow.

7

It was a bell later, when a guilt stricken Ynathreen wandered back to the entrance of Ghordrian's home. She had scrubbed the grime and gore from her flesh, but the lingering taste of the previous night's horror was not so easily banished.

As she peered out into the falling snow, a gasp tore from her lips. Muragren, shoulders and head carpeted with snow, still knelt where Ynathreen had struck her down.

' _By the Gods, she means to simply let herself die and be buried by the snow!'_ Ynathreen realized, her heart constricting painfully in her chest.

Racing out into the cold, she frantically brushed the snow from Muragren's shoulders, horrified to see that the fragile creature's lips were blue with cold. She tore the heavy cloak from her own shoulders and enfolded the violently shivering Muragren into its warmth. She then effortlessly lifted her future tutor into her arms and pressed Muragren's face into her neck.

"I fear that you will be the death of me, Muragren," she whispered into the trembling woman's wet hair.

The future queen of Redia then carried her mentor into her dead father's home and a future fraught with unimaginable wonders.

Chapter Eighteen

1

The initial day of the journey to Ulgak...and the second proclamation...was conducted beneath a pall of dismal, brooding silence. Myrhia rode with her smoldering gaze fixed undeviatingly forward. To Islena, who stole furtive glances at her benefactress, it appeared as if the enchantress' delicate features were set in stone. Yet, beneath this inscrutable façade, Islena could sense a simmering rage that, should it explode, carried the potential to reduce the surrounding forest and its inhabitants to ash.

' _Jealous...she's actually infuriated because I slept with her estranged husband,'_ Islena thought, both baffled and unsettled by the incredible notion. _'The idea would be fucking hilarious, considering that she exiled him after usurping his throne...not to mention the fact that she slept with mine in the bargain.'_

Still, Islena understood that whatever black amusement the vapid notion might hold was quickly dispelled by the woman's frightening power...a terrible puissance that could ignite the very world.

" _Sleeping with Artumas was an act of petty spite that has done little to simplify your situation, Islena,'_ the voice of Lorio whispered, causing Doraux to grimace beneath her half-helm. Entertaining thoughts of the Lamish immortal, who had endured so much misery on her Islena's behalf, threatened to propel Doraux into an immobilizing despair and so she grimly forced them from her mind. Instead, she turned her consideration to the matter of how she might extricate herself from the consequences of her impetuous indiscretion. Regaining Myrhia's trust was crucial if she was ever to be afforded the opportunity to enact her perilous gambit.

A part of her, honed in the fires of past painful experience, cautioned Islena that the enchantress might not be so easily dislodged from her position of indignant fury. Islena's transgression was apparently one of the most grievous of offences in the complex sensibilities of Myrhia's mind.

' _Surely you glean that...in Myrhia's perverse sense of structure, Ben Richards and Artumas are not even remotely comparable,'_ Guinevere intoned somberly. ' _What's more, I have little doubt that she considers your marriage to this tepid man to be an exercise in unthinkable degradation.'_ This last remark was delivered in a tone that intimated that Guinevere concurred with this harsh assessment. After what she had come to think of as Ben's heinous betrayal of their family, Islena could conjure no argument to refute the notion.

' _Still, I've got to make some kind of overture,'_ Islena persisted. Recalling Myrhia's grim edict about speaking only when spoken to, Islena tentatively reached out and gently tugged the sleeve of the enchantress' heavy riding cloak. Myrhia's head whipped around, her great dark eyes blazing like twin suns. She threw Islena's hand off with a violent shrug and Doraux could feel a crackle of unseen arcane power coalescing around the enchantress.

For a brief instant, Islena feared that Myrhia would allow fury to surmount ambition and simply incinerate her where she sat. Gradually, that murderous fury drained from her baleful expression and she hissed, "Presume to touch me again and I will have my Morticants remove your fingers."

"Mother, please, may we at least speak of this discord," Islena exhorted, attempting to infuse her tone with a desperate, pleading edge that grated on her defiant nature. "There is too much at stake to allow this festering resentment to go unresolved."

The subsequent blow struck Islena like the precise thrust of a rapier, the stunning impact completely disproportionate to Myrhia's diminutive size and apparent fragility. Even as Islena's head snapped back and a sharp burst of light exploded behind her eyes, she correctly deduced that the enchantress had augmented the blow with sorcery. She shook her head and with tremendous effort, repressed her natural urge to retaliate...even as the loathsome voice of her shadow incarnation implored her to strike back. Instead, Islena ignored the throbbing in her left cheek and meeting the enchantress' scorching regard, reiterated evenly, "Mother, would you allow this ultimately meaningless incident to seriously jeopardize your carefully cultivated schemes?"

Kevlan had ventured forward to inquire as to the cause of the abrupt halt, his anxiety roused by the subtle expenditure of arcane energy he had just detected as he rode along at the back of the caravan. He reined his horse to an immediate halt as a clearly infuriated enchantress delivered a second open-handed slap to Islena's partially concealed face. This time there could be no mistaking the flare of arcane energy that hissed and crackled balefully in the chill dusk air. Kevlan watched with mounting concern as the diaphanous tendrils of Myrhia's sorcery twisted and then vanished like lingering echoes.

The second blow was far heavier than the first. Pain radiated out from the point of contact and swiftly suffused Islena's heavily muscled body. She toppled from her horse, which quickly bolted, but was prevented from collapsing to the snowy path; restrained by the collar and leash which constricted around her neck like a noose.

She omitted a strangled gasp and attempted to reach for the obsidian leash, but before her mailed fingers could cover on its smooth surface, her flesh was assailed by another wave of rolling sorcery. Myrhia snatched up the leash and slid gracefully from her charger, landing lightly on the balls of her feet and delivering a kick to Islena's ribs in one fluid motion.

Doraux grunted, her vision occluded by a burst of argent light that was accompanied by the acrid stench of burning ozone.

' _She's gone insane!'_ Islena thought frantically even as the force of the blow sent her tumbling across the pristine carpet of snow like a runaway log. Could she really be this vulnerable to simple jealousy...inspired by a man who had been her avowed enemy through innumerable lifetimes?

As darkly fascinating as the idea might be, Islena had no time to give it consideration. She had no sooner come to rest...flat on her back and peering dazedly up into the falling sheets of twisting snow...when Myrhia's enraged countenance filled her vision like a hostile moon. From this submissive perspective, there could be no mistaking the murderous turbulence that capering behind those large dark eyes.

' _And yet again you find yourself delivered to another dire crossroads through your impetuous and petty act of spite,'_ Guinevere observed in a voice that was fraught with cold condemnation.

' _Really?'_ Islena retorted caustically, rankled by the legendary queen's presumptuous hypocrisy. _'Will you now claim that you did not vicariously revel in each thrust as he moved inside of me? Will you now deny that it was you who I heard panting like a lust-addled farm girl while his tongue roamed over my breasts?'_

The absurdity of this internal dialogue impressed itself upon Islena then and she brayed mad laughter around the edges of her throbbing pain. Myrhia's eyes grew impossibly wide...indignation further stoking her gathering fury. She jammed her scaled boot down onto Islena's breastplate, pinioning Doraux to the ground in another burst of emerald effulgence.

Doraux howled even as she continued to cackle distorted laughter. Kevlan regarded this macabre interaction with a mixture of apprehension and ambivalence...wondering if the beleaguered world would be better served if the enchantress allowed her fury to induce her into obliterating the enigmatic Doraux. After Jerrod had apprised a wary Kevlan of his assignment, the elder had confided how Islena might potentially pose a greater threat to humanity than even the odious witch who now threatened the fabled _one of prophecy._

Mortified by the horrifying notion, Kevlan had nonetheless recalled how a distraught Islena had adamantly refused to take up the Jerhia Icon after the calamitous events at Runesholm Abbey. Even then, the mild-tempered Metocan could discern that Islena's reluctance had been motivated by atavistic dread. He was also forced to concede that the woman now spitting deranged laughter beneath an incensed Myrhia's boot bore very little resemblance to the conflicted, dreary creature that he had guided to Othgol less than a year ago.

' _In the rarified atmosphere of ancient prophecy and fate's grand design, what mortal would not succumb to reason-eroding hubris?'_ Kevlan surmised. Where a sane person would quail in terror in the face of Myrhia's lethal wrath, this new incarnation of Islena Doraux seemed intent on provoking Myrhia further with suicidal glee. That in itself was testimony to her inherent instability.

Kevlan shook his head and uttered a rare epithet, wondering what possible misdeed might have warranted his being forced to suffer the presence of three female monsters with whom he had traveled over the course of these past months.

"Is there something in my anger that strikes you as amusing, Islena?" Myrhia demanded and again stomped her boot down on Islena's breastplate to the accompaniment of yet another emerald eruption. Kevlan noted the spider web of thin cracks that now radiated out from the place where the enchantress' boot ground down on the virtually indestructible ebony. Myrhia threw her right arm out to the side and splayed her fingers in a gesture of summons. In response, a flail composed entirely of diaphanous emerald light manifested into being in her small palm. Myrhia snapped the arcane construct which tore the dusk air with an ugly sound that caused a rapt Kevlan's teeth to grate.

"I sincerely doubt you'll find this quite so amusing," Myrhia seethed and delivered an even dozen lashes in swift succession. Despite her heavy armor, the blows fell upon Doraux as if she was exposed and naked. Doraux writhed and twisted beneath each stripe, crying out as Myrhia's sorcery assailed her in rolling waves. Even from a distance, Kevlan could feel the enormity of her pain as her body convulsed with each fall of the flail.

Islena abruptly allowed her arms to fall limply to the sides and peered up at Myrhia through pain-clouded eyes...though an infuriating grin still played at the corners of her generous mouth. It suddenly occurred to her that, despite the enormity of the pain that Myrhia's attacks were rousing, her body was sustaining no lasting damage. These attacks were intended to be painful and humiliating, but not truly damaging. This insight bespoke a degree of self-control that decried the enchantress' seemingly _blind fury._

' _She's delivering a painful object lesion...or a harsh warning,'_ Islena deduced and for some unfathomable reason, this deduction inspired another spate of wild laughter.

Myrhia's smooth brow furrowed and she brandished the flail menacingly. Islena shrugged against the cold ground and challenged, "Go ahead and satiate your need for retribution...I won't lift a finger to defend myself. The ugly irony of my situation is that I _need_ you. No matter how much you abuse or terrorize me, that lingering truth will always stay my hand and force me to endure your petty rancor. Beat me if you require my pain to mask your own humiliation, but it doesn't change the fact that this situation is...fucking hilarious."

The enchantress scowled balefully, but a flicker of doubt in those dark eyes robbed her belligerence of its thunder. She retreated on slightly wooden legs and snapped in a quavering voice, "I see no humor in your shamelessly wanton behavior."

"Really?" Islena retorted blithely while pushing herself to her elbows with a considerable degree of effort. "You and I are purported to be the most fearsome, powerful creatures in existence and yet here we are...fighting over something as banal as a man's affections like two common tavern slatterns. If our twisted maker could see what we've become...the tawdry depths to which we've fallen...do you suppose he would laugh? Perhaps he would weep."

Myrhia snarled and surged forward with the intention of slapping Islena's face, but Doraux caught her wrist in mid swing. The two women locked glares like duelists crossing steel. The Morticants, who had seemed completely oblivious to their mistress' fraught belaboring of Islena, quickly began to converge upon the pair at Islena's first sign of resistance. Myrhia quickly raised her free hand and the monstrosities came to an immediate halt. The diaphanous emerald flail also vanished for which Islena drew an internal sigh of relief. In a tremulous whisper, Myrhia intoned, "You will not trivialize my anger and you _will_ tell me what induced you to seduce my husband."

Islena shook her head in incredulity. "You really are serious? Fucking astonishing!"

Myrhia's expression darkened menacingly and her gaze swiveled to Kevlan with a baring of teeth that evoked images of a predator about to strike.

Kevlan perceived the unfurling of sorcery the instant before he was torn from his startled horse and borne into the air on a stream of invisible power. As he writhed and twisted in the blustery dusk, the mild Metocan's body was assailed by a rolling wave of pristine agony that caused him to scream like a wounded animal. Myrhia regarded Islena with a feral grin and promised, "Each time you utter a vulgarity in my presence...this gelding will pay the price. In fact, the nondescript, cowering excuse for a man will become the vessel through which all of your future sins will be expiated...painfully!"

With a petulant gesture, Myrhia sent the helpless Metocan tumbling and twisting like a man caught in a gyre.

"All right...set him down...please mother!" Islena entreated, nearly choking on the last two words.

A triumphant smile emblazoned Myrhia's lovely face and she tugged her wrist free of Islena's grasp. Kevlan floated to the snowy ground, where he sagged to his knees and hung his head, panting raggedly.

"Now, you will disclose your reason for debasing yourself with my husband," Myrhia growled. "Was it an act of petty defiance...simply petulance? Then you will beg my forgiveness and offer a demonstration of your sincere contrition. Perhaps then I will be able to suffer the sight of your face."

Islena bristled at the idea of soliciting forgiveness from this odious creature. She stole a brief glance at Kevlan to stifle the scathing retort that was poised on her lips. Understanding the exigent need to curry favor with the enchantress, Islena plunged into the shadowy recesses of her psyche, seeking to produce a rationale for her actions that was a close to genuine candor as her shriveled heart was capable. "I suppose that I could claim that I did it out of spiteful revenge for seducing Ben...but that would be a lie...or at the very least, a partial truth."

"Do you actually believe that I derived any pleasure from sullying myself in the bed of that inconsequential dolt you've taken for a husband? Surely even you cannot be that obtuse? His seduction was merely a distasteful means to an end...one that left me feeling violated and ineffably foul," Myrhia returned with a bemused shake of her raven mane.

Islena rose slowly to her feet and came to stand directly before the diminutive beauty. In a somber tone, devoid of any hint of her prior irreverence, she remarked quietly. "I believe you...just as I see that your actions, while odious are not inspired by malice or cruelty. The fact of the matter is that you are an implacable engine of purpose and nothing more. I suspect that you have come to discern how utterly pointless...how bereft of meaning your existence truly is. I once told Artumas that...of the three of us, you were far and away the most tragic figure. Every second I spend in your company is a sorry affirmation of how astute that observation was."

Myrhia glowered, but offered no contradiction to this dismal appraisal.

Islena glanced up into the falling snow, which had begun to swirl in writhing sheets as night descended. "I am a beast of an altogether different stripe. This thing that you call volition is proof that our creator is flawed...or a seriously demented bastard. While you serve your inherent purpose with pristine devotion...ever cognizant that it will be your eventual undoing...I oscillate between two irreconcilable extremes. I am vain, arrogant, petty and spiteful. The Champion of Light drew me through a hopeless attraction, but you...you incited the worst demons of my nature. How often, over the course of our many incarnations, have my actions been motivated purely by a spiteful impulse to wound your spirit?"

She hesitated, allowing Myrhia a moment to assimilate the implications of this query. "You ask why I went to Artumas' bed, but I would ask you, given all that you have come to discover about your piteous nature, why would you even care?"

"Artumas is mine. His continued existence comes solely from my forbearance. Should I choose to coddle him, to flay the flesh from his bones or dress him in the vestments of a jester for my amusement; it is my right...my recompense for the torment I've endured through so many lifetimes," Myrhia spat derisively, her voice rising through the octaves. "How dare you deprive me of that moment of satisfaction by befouling him with your corruption...just as you've always done?"

Again, she slapped Islena's face, but without the augmenting affect of her sorcery, the blow scarcely had the force to turn Islena's cheek. Doraux peeled off her half-helm and tossed it to the ground. She then crowded closer to Myrhia until their breastplates grated against each other and the white plumes of her breath blew into Myrhia's face. "Can't you see that your indignant outrage is a contrivance, inspired by a subconscious need to validate the humanity you've never actually possessed. You claim that you are the personification of an intransigent perspective; an unquenchable compulsion to dominate and subjugate everything that falls within your gaze. If so, then these emotions you feel are mere window dressing and with the newfound cognizance you've acquired...to cling to these delusions of humanity is both laughable and pathetic."

Myrhia growled, a low feral sound that seemed entirely incongruent with the refined creature from whom it had issued. Still, beneath her vexation, Islena could clearly discern the flicker of doubt and pain. After a brief, but intense struggle, the enchantress straightened and gripped Islena's throat, whispering, "You will not circumvent the question with cruelty...why did you go to my husband's bed?"

Myrhia enunciated each word of her query slowly and clearly. Islena sighed and replied, "This volition has endowed me with a measure of true humanity than neither you nor Artumas ever possessed. In Islena Doraux...this vainglorious thing I've evolved to become...that humanity has manifested as arrogance and hubris...savage intractability and malicious spite. I took Artumas because I wanted to...and even I can't really be certain why. Perhaps I did it in retaliation for your presumption of bending me to your will...to see that wounded expression in those great dark eyes of yours and revel in the knowledge that it was me who put it there. There is also the possibility that I sought comfort in Artumas' bed to sate the atavistic lust that burns in my heart...a lust that flares to a pyre after moments of extreme duress...moments such as being beaten nearly to death in the square. In the end, it may all distill down to the attraction that has always drawn me to him. You want candor, so I'll be brutally blunt; standing before him and peering into those eyes that always glitter with an unassailable nobility of which you and me are incapable...I wanted him inside of me...wanted to feel his hands on my breasts and his tongue in my mouth. Because of who and what I am, I took what I wanted. You have to appreciate that level of selfishness...even if you despise me for it."

Something flared menacingly in Myrhia's dark eyes...like suns threatening to burst to nova. Islena steeled herself in anticipation of Myrhia's wrathful reaction, but was shocked to find none was forthcoming. Instead, the enchantress released her grip on Islena's throat and turned away. Distantly, she intoned, "We will establish camp here. The Metocan gelding can prepare our supper while the Morticants erect our tents. Remove yourself from my sight. I will have you summoned when the tents our ready. Then, you will offer me your apology and your proposed act of contrition."

With this edict given, Myrhia stalked away into the darkness and falling snow. She seemed oddly diminished in the wake of Islena's merciless assessment of the quality of her existence.

' _It's all right, mother...I will relieve your burden...in time,'_ Islena murmured quietly and bending to retrieve her discarded helm, she strode off in the opposite direction. She brushed by a still-kneeling Kevlan, apparently oblivious to his presence. The Metocan watched morosely as the heavy snow swallowed Islena, deeply disturbed by the exchange he had just witnessed...even as his subconscious warned him that the matter was far from settled.

2

The nameless castle had stood on the towering bluff that overlooked the aptly named Strait of Oblivion since the very dawn of time, though the elder god who had raised it had long since fled this particular reality. The sprawling structure was a monolithic edifice to absolute desolation...a bleak tribute to futility and what passed for hollow existence in this dismal place.

The castle was also home to Purgatory's only living occupant...the fallen goddess, Otaru Ree. For eons beyond imagining, Otaru had dwelt within these gray stone walls, encircled by an unvarying gray sky, unyielding gray rock and the maddeningly incessant refrain of the pounding surf as it conducted its eternal stubborn assault on the towering bluff.

Otaru had been exiled to this wretched place somewhere back along the impossibly infinite river of time; relegated to an eternity of grim isolation for possessing the audacity to challenge the pantheon of gods who ruled this particular thread of reality. Her youthful arrogance and boundless ambition had carried her to within a finger's reach of universal omnipotence, but like many a power-addled despot before her...inebriated by the conviction that she was infallible...Otaru had overreached and had been struck down on the very periphery of attaining her prize of total dominion.

Otaru recalled kneeling on the blood-sullied sands of an obscure world with the detritus of her dead legions spread around her like filthy drifts of snow. The air had been rank and scarcely breathable with the cloying stench of death, but even that miasma did not compare with the bitter taste of defeat that soured her tongue as the triumphant gods had closed in upon her.

Fully expecting that her great rebellion would be punished by execution, Otaru had railed her defiance at the god, who had gazed down upon her through sorrowful eyes. It had been her father's rightful throne that she had attempted to usurp and her intended patricide only exacerbated the severity of her crime. She recalled how he had shaken his head in bewilderment, unable to comprehend the perversion of reason that would inspire his cherished daughter to such a vile act of betrayal.

Defeated and kneeling before him with the carnage of a hundred ruined worlds lying on her conscience, young Otaru had remained unrepentant. She had not pleaded for leniency, but instead denounced him as a sentimental fool, encumbered by a distinct lack of vision.

To her astonishment, he had spared her life and banished her to this wretched place. "You wished dominion...and so you shall have it Otaru. Yours will be absolute sovereignty over the condemned...the irredeemable. There will be no life-bestowing light in your realm...only the fading echo of past transgressions for which there can be no expiation. Here, you will pass eternity in solitary contemplation of the malaise that has affected your withered soul."

With this, her father had bent and kissed her furrowed brow...and then she had awoken to find herself lying on the cold stone floor of this accursed castle. Her first impression was that her father (the primary god of the pantheon...whose name she could no longer recall) had extended her an act of leniency, which she construed as a sign of his weak-willed sentimentality.

Yet, as the centuries crawled by to become countless millennia, Otaru Ree...the self-styled conqueror of the very universe...came to perceive that this seemingly merciful judgment had been ineffably cruel beyond the capacity of even a goddess to grasp.

In this place she had dubbed Purgatory, Otaru had watched her subjects come...rank upon rank of wretched miscreants. She had presided over the gradual erosion of their souls, until the unbearable emptiness of this infernal place inexorably ground their sentience to dust. In numbers too vast to account, these mournful specters roamed endlessly and without purpose through the monotonous gray wastes until all awareness was leeched from their uncomprehending eyes.

There had been innumerable occasions when Otaru had envied this state of unknowing disorientation...which was certainly preferable to remaining fully sentient in a place of such perfect and undeviating desolation.

Over time, Otaru had come to be intimately familiar with the sterile realm over which she had been granted dominion. In the incessant stream of empty hours, Otaru explored every blemish in the stone, every shifting nuance in the sand that delineated the edges of the barren earth; searching for even the tiniest variation that would suggest even the _possibility_ of deviation from the tedious norm...this gray, lifeless prison for the lost.

Beyond the borders of her realm stood the Land of Shades and after thousands of years of contemplation, Otaru came to glean that the mysterious kingdom had been meant to serve as a buffer. When she had first arisen to challenge the pantheon, Otaru had been inspired to rebellion by the certainty that her father lacked the intrinsic ruthlessness necessary to stake claim to his mantle of leadership. Yet, as she sat cross-legged on the gray stone, staring fixedly at the verdant tangle of greenery that bordered her lusterless realm, Otaru came to discern that her assessment had been woefully incorrect.

To be trapped in a lifeless vacuum, able to observe, but never viscerally experience the wild vitality that was arrayed before her; this was a torture that was worthy of the cruelest of despots.

How she had cursed him then, railing at the indifferent gray heavens until she was hoarse. Only after centuries of quiet introspection...of unbiased examination of her childish motivations for betrayal...did Otaru come to grasp that this exile was a fitting recompense for the severity of her crime.

With this insight there came a certain measure of serenity and acceptance. It was then that Otaru Ree embraced her role as Queen of Purgatory...warden of unrepentant miscreants.

There had been a few occasions through the millennia, when bands of these odious spirits had conjured the temerity to challenge her dominion. Regarding these uprisings as a welcome distraction from the mind-numbing monotony that threatened to erode her sanity, Otaru had risen to crush these challenges with the same savage zeal that she had demonstrated during her ill-fated rebellion.

Now the twisted countenances of these would-be usurpers were preserved for eternity in the smooth stone along the shores of the Great Western Ocean...their faces captured in permanent postures of torment.

As Otaru flew over them, she would view these trapped souls with the cold, dispassionate regard of the deity she had once been; remorseless and aloof from their well-deserved suffering. Compassion was an emotion that Otaru Ree had long equated with weakness and fallibility...qualities which, in her youthful arrogance, Otaru had believed were contrary to the nature of one who would aspire to godhood.

Ah, but the slow crawl of time had thoroughly disabused her of these unflinchingly vapid suppositions. Even the most vitiated of hearts could be ground down by the remorseless monotony of this awful place. When she had first been exiled to this wretched cloister, Otaru's skin had been olive colored and aglow with vitality. Her eyes had been the dark green of a deep ocean and her long, flowing hair had conjured images of a starless firmament. She had been horrified beyond the capacity of words to express, when she had first detected the change in the color of her flesh...a patch of dark gray skin no larger than the pad of her thumb, which had bloomed on the top of her slender right foot...mocking her like a malicious blight.

Over the flow of several thousand years, Otaru had watched with an obsession that bordered on madness as this small patch of flesh had expanded with a terrible patience of a force whose eventual triumph was beyond doubt. Now, Otaru could lie naked upon the vaguely repulsive sands of the ocean strand and become virtually indistinguishable from the bleak topography of Purgatory. She indulged in this exercise with surprising frequency, coming to perceive it as a symbolic ritual of termination...of simply receding into the cloth of the world and ceasing to be. Otaru fetched a mournful sigh, knowing that a surcease to this exile was a luxury the access to which she would be eternally deprived.

' _I have been condemned by youthful exuberance and boundless ambition until I have become a numb, yet eternally sentient entity who drifts through this listless void without purpose or any hope of escape,'_ Otaru had come to believe.

And then...in defiance of the very concept of despair... _something_ had changed!

When she was not engaged in dreary (and ultimately self-defeating) contemplation of the sterility of her existence, Otaru would lose herself in wistful speculation, trying to imagine the possible shape of the inhabited world beyond the Land of Shades might assume.

She was not entirely ignorant of the structure and working of mortal civilization...she had, after all, eradicated many during the course of her short and savage rebellion. These short-lived species seemed utterly oblivious to their complete lack of consequence...elevating their trite daily affairs and trifling petty concerns to a state of gravitas that might rival the machinations of the gods themselves. This was so preposterous as to be laughable...ludicrous in the extreme, but Otaru Ree found their fraught striving somehow _intriguing._

In the infancy of her exile, Otaru had made a few obstinate...and painfully ill-advised attempts to venture into the Land of Shades. These forays had been repulsed in spectacular and excruciating fashion. She could vividly recall being tossed along the gray strand like a rag doll, after colliding with an invisible, yet impermeable barrier in a blinding eruption of vermillion light. She had made several subsequent attempts along the boundary of her demesne, each of which had met with the same emphatic and painful rejection.

The limits of her cage were inviolable and it seemed that Otaru Ree was destined to pass a torturous eternity in what was surely the quintessence of hell.

And then, shockingly, the denizens beyond the Land of Shades had found the means to achieve what she...a veritable goddess...was incapable of achieving; they had found the means to surmount a supposedly impregnable barrier.

That violation had resonated through the very soil of Otaru's barren realm, staggering Ree in the magnitude of its improbability. It had another affect on the exiled goddess that was every bit as astounding...it had ignited a spark of hope in Otaru's vitiated heart, when she would have sworn that this particular emotion could never again find purchase.

That faint spark had quickly grown into a vibrant flame when she had confiscated the extraordinary relic of power from an unruly group of her charges. They had been disinclined to surrender their purloined prize and she recalled, with a smile of satisfaction, that their recompense for that refusal had been eternal entombment along the ocean's shore.

Otaru need only extend her percipience to feel the audacious mortal's approach. Not long after, a second presence had entered the Land of Shades, though unlike the first, this new intruder did not scurry forth like a frightened field mouse. Instead, it rolled through the Land of Shades like a veritable juggernaut, laying waste to everything in its path, while exuding a temerity that reminded Otaru of the brash, arrogant creature she had once been.

Eventually Islena Doraux had come to claim (with obvious reluctance and aversion) the purloined Icon. There had been something _discordant_ about this perplexing enigma that both unsettled and disturbed Otaru. This tempestuous creature was a living contradiction...an immortal entity within a mortal vessel. More unnerving still, Otaru had gleaned that this entity had existed long before her pantheon of deities had manifested into being. Only later, when she had actually stood in Islena's presence and absorbed her essence, did Ree discern that Islena's influence exceeded the limits of this particular reality...arching over every parallel stream of existence like an apocalyptic pall.

While this revelation had thoroughly destroyed the foundations of her equilibrium and forced her to reevaluate her every perception of the forces of creation, essentially reducing those perceptions to a shambles...it had also filled Otaru Ree's desolate heart with burgeoning elation.

Her _rite of passage_ had been an impulsive contrivance (and a stroke of genius, all false modesty aside), for the coming of a living being to Purgatory was an unprecedented occurrence for which no allowance had been made. In an act of self-serving opportunism born of inconceivable desperation, Otaru had invented the solemn stricture; a passage to which Islena, in response to her own insatiable hunger, had reluctantly acquiesced.

In retrospect, Otaru realized that her actions had been deplorable, but she rationalized that cruelty by convincing herself that it had been her right as a deity. To extract gestures of fealty and devotion; were these not the rightful province of creatures such as her? The detached, analytical part of her nature decried this as cheap and facile justification, but the wounded and eternally lonely aspect of her spirit had made Otaru immune to such moral and ethical considerations.

Ree had been further astonished when Islena had actually led her mortal companions into her realm and was further flummoxed to learn that this had not been engineered by guile, but rather that each had come of their own accord...fully aware of the potential consequences of entering Purgatory.

Otaru's elation had become an intoxicating euphoria when it became evident that the immortal named Lorio was with child...an unborn and pristine immortal forged in the vortex of two antagonistic storms of sorcery. The child's selection as a price of passage was only natural, though Otaru could still hear the lingering echo of the mother's torment as she had taken the boy from Lorio's arms.

Whatever slight tremor of guilt this terrible act of abduction might have aroused in Otaru's heart was quickly expunged by the indescribable sensation of holding Brannok Dur. She now sat upon her throne of cold and unyielding stone with the beautiful baby boy cradle to her right breast. She could feel his vital warmth as his mouth drew upon her turgid nipple and his tiny hands clutched her firm flesh. Otaru did not only nourish the child...she allowed him to draw upon her very essence. This deified sustenance would fortify Brannok and prepare him for the rapid metamorphosis that Otaru envisioned.

Gazing about the bleak, cavernous expanse of her empty throne room through slightly glazed eyes, it seemed to Otaru that Brannok's joyous presence had infused the sterile halls with a new sense of vitality. She had promised a disconsolate Lorio that the child would be loved and treasured...or would never know want or see any desire go unfulfilled. Otaru's comprehension of human sensibilities was woefully lacking and thus she was incapable of grasping how this oath would be scant compensation for the devastating separation Lorio would have to endure.

In truth, such considerations would have done nothing to alter Otaru's course of action...though perhaps she would have ended Lorio's torment by granting the wretched immortal the cold mercy of oblivion. That the immortal's already fragile heart might have been sundered and that this unconscionable act of larceny would leave Lorio with an indelible scar that even eternity could not efface was far beyond the scope of Otaru's narrow sensibilities.

Dismissing these sentimental considerations from her thoughts, Otaru rose and still nestling Brannok Dur to her breast, began to meander through the castle. She was both surprised and delighted by how quickly she had fallen into the role of motherhood. She cooed to the suckling child, who regarded her with an expression of pristine, mirthful innocence. "You are my salvation...my deliverance," she whispered, now in close proximity to tears. "I shall guide you...groom you to become a man...my eternal companion and lover. Even if I should never set foot beyond the boundary of this accursed Purgatory...through you, I will find perfect contentment."

Oblivious to the grave and momentous expectations that had been placed upon him, baby Brannok chortled against Otaru's warm breast.

A discordant notion bloomed in Otaru's mind then...like a rank weed that was insidious and intent on corruption. She grimaced as the countenance of Islena Doraux and Myrhia coalesced before her inner eye. Though their precise natures were alien and obstinately inaccessible to Otaru, she gleaned that between them, the pair had the potential to bring catastrophic ruin down upon the very weave of existence.

Glancing down upon the precious child at her breast and all that he engendered, Otaru Ree...the fallen goddess whose demise had come as a consequence of arrogant presumption...decided that perhaps the time had come to embroil herself in the convoluted affairs or men and fate alike.

After all, it was a mother's sacred obligation to do everything within her power to protect her child. Instilled with a burgeoning sense of purpose, Otaru Ree began to plan how that might best be achieved.

Chapter Nineteen

1

The snowfall had intensified by the time the Morticants had established camp for the night. Gusting winds sent sheets of writhing and twisting snow spinning along the narrow roadway, stinging exposed flesh and reducing visibility to no more than a dozen paces.

Oblivious and invulnerable to the inimical turn of weather, the Morticants worked efficiently to erect Myrhia's heavy canvas pavilion and then a far smaller tent which Islena assumed was for their conscripted Metocan liaison. Islena had anticipated...given Myrhia's belligerence toward her...that she would be provided with her own tent. She was mildly surprised when...after securing Kevlan's tent against the gusting winds...the fearsome golems had commenced constructing a central fire pit. She watched with a quizzical frown as one of the creatures effortlessly pushed four three foot long iron spikes into the ground, the protruding ends of which terminated in metal loops.

' _Probably to tether the horses,'_ Islena whispered uneasily, though this explanation rang hollow in her mind as horses were generally frightened in close proximity to open flame. There was something vaguely ominous about the blunt loops of flat iron, but Islena stubbornly refused to give her misgivings audience. She wanted only to be out of this damnable snow and find dreamless oblivion in her bedroll. The prospect of spending the night in Myrhia's company did little to bolster Islena's sagging spirits and she was disinclined to spend any time pondering the significance of what had passed between them earlier. Sparing one final glance at the sinister eye bolts, Islena went in search of Kevlan.

She came upon the gentle Metocan in a copse of trees, where he was engaged in tethering the last of the horses to a tree. She watched him labor from the shadows, grateful to be out of the biting wind and the aura of belligerence that had hovered over Myrhia since their departure from Othgol. She slipped into a reverie, content to watch the Metocan as he tended to the animals. Just the way he ministered to the beasts, whispering to them in an effort to placate their anxiety in the face of the coming storm, spoke eloquently of the love he harbored to the toiling creatures.

"You may join me if you wish, Islena," he offered suddenly, startling Islena, who had forgotten how extraordinarily perceptive the Metocan could be. She traipsed over to join him and watched admiringly as he draped a heavy, hooded blanket over the horse's back and head and then bent to secure the straps at its belly. He then affixed a leather feed bag to its muzzle and smoothed out the heavy blanket before turning to face Islena. In his placid gray eyes, Islena caught a fleeting glimpse of something that may have been disquiet...or possibly even revulsion. "I trust you are well after this day's...drama?"

Islena thought that she could discern a measure of stern disapproval couched in his tone and conjured her most irreverent grin. "Myrhia and I have developed what might best be characterized as a _complex relationship_. We both seem intent on testing my mettle. Myrhia's anger is mostly for dramatic effect."

Kevlan, who recalled vividly the murderous fury in Myrhia's eyes as she had belabored Islena with her magical flail, greeted this last remark with a noncommittal nod. Islena sensed his discomfort and guessed that he did not particularly appreciate her intrusion on his solitude. Feeling a peremptory urge to engage the Metocan in casual conversation, Islena nonetheless offered, "Certainly much has passed since you guided me out of the Blighted Lands. It's hard to believe that it is only a matter of months since we left Runesholm Abbey. It feels more like a lifetime ago...or perhaps the memory of something that might have happened to someone else. I suppose that is only fitting. In the last few months, I've come to discover that the life I lived up until now was naught but an empty illusion...like waking up from a particularly lucid dream with no clear understanding of where you are or what purpose you've been created to serve. The subsequent feeling of disorientation is a lot like vertigo and I've since struggled to regain my bearings...obviously."

Kevlan regarded the living hieroglyph closely, suspecting that he was being afforded a poignant glimpse into the inner turmoil that assailed this troubled creature. Pursing his thin lips, the Metocan remarked, "It is virtually impossible for anyone who has been tossed into this malign cauldron that this world has become to emerge unscathed. I would image that your ordeal in particular is a singular experience without parallel and I cannot conceive of how you managed to survive."

Islena's somber grimace was an articulate affirmation that her road had indeed been harsh beyond comprehension. After a moment's silent reflection, she shook her head and mustered a wan smile, inquiring, "And what of you, Kevlan...how have you passed the days since leading me to Othgol?"

The Metocan glanced away, but even in the gloom of the forest, Islena could clearly see the keen edge of sorrow in his limpid gray eyes. "My role in affairs has been humble, but I have borne witness to ignoble events that have laid a permanent shadow across my heart...I feel that we are embarked upon a misadventure that will only deepen that shadow. Compromise in the name of expedience makes a mockery of the singular truth of integrity and compassion...both of which we have turned away from in our willingness to save our own skins at any cost."

Feeling an obligation to ameliorate this earnest soul's anxiety, Islena clutched his wrist and intoned in an urgent whisper, "Kevlan, however things might appear, I have still not changed my intentions when it comes to Myrhia. During the course of my journey through the Land of Shades, I discovered things about myself that have made my situation infinitely more complicated, but I am still fully committed to stopping Myrhia...even if I have to sacrifice myself to do it."

"Then why do you seem so determined to goad her...to incite her to savage acts of violence? As you witnessed this afternoon, it may well be others who suffer the consequences of your provocation," Kevlan asked, clearly bewildered by what he perceived as Islena's needless brinksmanship. A disturbing notion occurred to him then and he added, "It's almost as if you _want_ her to strike you down...if only to bring an end to your torment."

"If only it was that simple," Islena muttered morosely. Kevlan thought of Sygeanor's odious reanimation of the noble Margarus and misconstrued this somber remark to mean that Myrhia might resort to the same foul sorcery. Islena suddenly gripped the Metocan's shoulder. "Kevlan, it was never my intention to have Myrhia deflect her anger onto you. I've had enough experience with her sadistic side not to have anticipated the possibility...and I'm profoundly sorry for the abuse you suffered because of my petulance."

Kevlan waved off her apology sheepishly as if his woes were unworthy of consideration. Islena felt a compulsive desire to rationalize her actions; actions that she herself found inexplicable. "I have to earn Myrhia's trust again if what I am plotting is to have any hope of succeeding. As to why I seem so incline to provoke her...if I'm being entirely candid, I don't have a fucking clue."

She grinned as Kevlan blanched at her vulgarity, but when she recalled what he had been subjected to earlier, that grin curdled on her lips. In a subdued whisper, she confessed, "I've always been burdened by an impulsive streak that compelled me into doing things...often detrimental things...that I never genuinely understood. Pushing Myrhia's buttons is a particularly precarious example of this inane tendency. If you were familiar with the history and the accrued acrimony that festers between us like poison, maybe this lunatic provocation would make some kind of twisted sense."

Here, she paused, an expression of bafflement scudding over her angular face like a fast moving shadow. "Myrhia and I have both reached the realization that these grievances...which we've hoarded the way a squirrel will hoard nuts...are nothing more than the empty emotional baggage of a tragic, endlessly recurring charade. Still, Kevlan, it isn't easy to abandon old habits that have been forged and nurtured over the course of so many lifetimes. They become a critical part of the fabric of our nature and we find it hard to abandon them...even when given irrefutable proof that these habits and damnable postures are based entirely on lies and fabrications."

"I...I don't understand, Islena," Kevlan admitted tentatively, suspecting that Islena had just imparted something of great consequence...the deeper meaning of which eluded the Metocan.

"Count your blessings for small mercies, Kevlan," Islena returned in a tone that was at once doleful and evasive. The pair fell into an awkward silence as Kevlan detached the feed sack and murmured words of comfort to the nervous animal.

Suddenly, he blurted out a query that had been troubling him since he had first witness the ugly episode. "Islena, when you told Myrhia that you _needed_ her...that she could abuse you without fear of retaliation...what did you mean?"

For a long moment, Islena did not respond and with her face obscured by the near perfect darkness of the forest, Kevlan had no way of discerning the pain that his query had aroused in her fractured heart. Finally, in a voice made tremulous with misery, Islena divulged the shape of her greatest fear. "There's something inside of me, Kevlan...a shadowy aspect of my nature that is evil beyond the capacity of words to express. I suspect that a part of me...call it my subconscious mind...was at least obliquely aware of its presence and that was why I was so vehement about not taking up these fucking icons. This thing...I call it the shadow incarnation...has always resided in the deepest recesses of my heart like a sly predator that hides in the darkness...dormant and patiently waiting for the right moment...the perfect opportunity. When I first laid my hand on the sword of Runesholm and felt the Icon's power flowing through me in coruscating waves, the shadow incarnation stirred for the first time. Events during the course of my trek through the Land of Shades have aroused it to full awareness. It speaks to me Kevlan in a voice that is sly and so irresistibly seductive...telling me unspeakable things that I've always secretly wanted to hear."

"What does this...shadow incarnation want?" Kevlan inquired distantly, though in light of Jerrod's disturbing disclosure, the Metocan suspected that he already knew all too well. Islena was speaking of a litany that had been sung by monsters and tyrants since the very dawn of sentience.

Her next utterance was a terrible affirmation of his burgeoning fear. "It senses that I am standing on the brink of deification and it wants to usurp my mind. Let it suffice to say that should I ascend under its thrall, I will become an abomination that will make Myrhia's evil seem like that of a spiteful child's by comparison."

"And you see subjugating yourself to Myrhia as a ward against this eventuality?" Kevlan inquired in a voice that was both perplexed and dubious.

Islena gripped the Metocan's thin forearm with an intensity that made him grimace as if trying to convey the ferocity of her need through her mailed fingers. "Kevlan, though this may seem impossible to credit, there is no one more qualified to teach me about constraints and the mastery of evil impulses than Myrhia. Without her guidance, I am lost...everything is lost. This is why I have to crawl to her like a complaisant dog to abuse myself in any way necessary in order to regain her trust. Once she has taught me how to resist and repress this malign presence, then...and only then...can I end her."

Kevlan nodded absently, mortified by the precarious path this obviously tortured soul was treading. Feeling that some pronouncement of commiseration was required, the Metocan commented, "Yours is a most unenviable position, caught between the prospect of serving a monster or becoming one. In you Islena Doraux, I divine a profound change that I can hardly comprehend...yet this profound transformation is evident in every aspect of the woman I see standing before me. Even your manner of speech has changed and there is a new and terrible air of gravitas about you, where the Islena I first encountered in Runesholm exuded only a stubborn sullenness."

"That Islena is dead, Kevlan...every bit as dead as the contrived life she lived," Islena remarked somberly. "Even if I was somehow to be delivered by a miracle, it is inconceivable that I could ever take up the threads of the superficial life I once lived...which is just as well because what I truly crave is eternal, dreamless sleep."

The sheer magnitude of Islena's despair twisted Islena's heart, but Doraux dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. "Don't pity me Kevlan; this is a burden that I've finally come to accept. Now tell me about what has passed with you since last we met."

The Metocan's placid expression relented to stark sorrow and he cautioned, "I warn you, Islena, mine is not a tale that will bring you comfort...if it is distraction you seek."

"Still, I would hear it regardless," Islena persisted. "It might prove useful to gain a better grasp of everything that has befallen the world in my absence."

Kevlan complied and as the unprecedented winter storm broke over Central Metocan, the liaison recounted the harrowing details on the strike and counter-strike on Amberdias and Othgol. Islena listened in a state of horrified raptness as he vividly described the audacious strike at Myrhia's clay mines in Redia. Kevlan's voice was evenly modulated and dispassionate as he related the story of the expedition's arduous trek through the Blighted Lands...a hellish ordeal with which Islena was all too familiar.

Only when he began to tell the story of Dornsark Abbey and the terrible atrocity that this Sygeanor had perpetrated there, did the mild Metocan's voice betray any hint of emotion. Islena's brow furrowed, first in consternation and then in horrified outrage when Kevlan came to the debacle that had occurred at the first mine. That horror grew exponentially when Kevlan spoke of the circumstances under which Sygeanor and the expedition had parted ways...and the mad objective which she had set off to achieve.

"And Maroc and the others simply let her go...allowed her to perpetrate these horrendous acts of evil with no consequences?" Islena demanded incredulously.

The Metocan's features were obscured by an inky veil of darkness, but his dismay filled the space between the pair like heat from a brazier. Clearly conflicted by what had transpired during this hellish ordeal, Kevlan nonetheless mouthed the very rationalization he so detested. "Islena, Maroc would have been no more capable of restraining Sygeanor than the coalition is capable of restraining Myrhia. Sygeanor is a sorceress...a telepath of astounding power. She is intransigent and governed by a ruthless sense of pragmatism that makes no allowance for compassion...as she so eloquently demonstrated at the Abbey and the nameless enclave of hell in Redia." Here, Kevlan paused and after drawing a quavering breath, gave voice to the fear he could not dispel and had carried like a millstone since returning to the west. "I believe that Sygeanor has within her the potential to become every bit the monster that Myrhia is."

"Who is she...I mean where did she come from? When I first arrived in Othgol, there was never any mention of her name," Islena inquired, surprised that anyone could ascend to such an eminent position of power from total obscurity with such alacrity...especially in such a structured society.

"The way in which Sygeanor came to ingratiate herself with the Inner Circle remains shrouded in mystery. It is said that the coalition was in desperate need of a means to breech the Hiberas...to discover yours whereabouts. Sygeanor apparently answered that need."

Islena inhaled sharply as the recollection of a specific incident from her sojourn in the Land of Shades whispered across the fabric of her racing mind. To her frustration, the memory stubbornly refused to be drawn into focus. Kevlan was speaking again and a beset Islena forced herself to concentrate on his words, gleaning that a new and potentially disastrous element was about to be added to an already exceedingly complex drama.

"The girl is half-Ulgak. It is commonly held that her father was Kyros...though that claim of paternity remains unconfirmed." Kevlan imparted, his tone incisive and Islena could feel her heart begin to accelerate.

"Kyros...why do I know that name?"

A clear note of puzzlement was evident in Kevlan's tone when he replied, "Islena, it was Kyros...a prominent member of the Inner Circle...who has orchestrated your failed abduction attempt when you first arrived in Othgol."

Islena uttered another strident curse as the recollection came crashing down upon her like the frenetic rush of an avalanche. Lorio had spoken of how she had been assailed by an invisible presence that had somehow inculcated itself into her mind and flayed her with a fury that seemed inspired by raw enmity. This incident had occurred when Islena had been under the thrall of the virulence and Lorio had still been Myrhia's creature. Urgently, she adjured, "Kevlan, I want your perfectly candid assessment...why do you believe that Sygeanor has this suicidal intent of reaching Nalosan? And what of Lorio; is Sygeanor's intent to do her harm in revenge for killing Kyros?"

Again, there was another protracted silence in which Islena could almost hear Kevlan internally debating the wisdom of disclosing what he believed. At last, the clearly discomfited Metocan replied, "In answer to your second question; I am certain that Sygeanor is fanatically devoted to seeing Lorio lying dead at her feet...after subjecting her to every form of torture and degradation imaginable. The answer to the first question is considerably more complicated. Sygeanor believes that the miraculous blue clay is an arcane amplifier that...in sufficient quantities...might actually allow her to eradicate Myrhia."

"Do you concur?" Islena demanded though despite her truculent tone, her shadow-occluded gaze was thoughtful.

"After witnessing the cataclysmic destruction in Redia, I would surmise that the idea is possible...theoretically at least," the Metocan speculated. "Yet, even if Sygeanor was to succeed, I fear that we would have only supplanted one evil tyrant with another."

"There is more, isn't there Kevlan?" Islena goaded urgently. "Why do you really believe that Sygeanor is determined to go to Nalosan?"

With a shudder of revulsion, Kevlan whispered, "I believe that she intends to locate Myrhia's clay stockpile, take what she needs to wage war on the enchantress...and then use the rest to incinerate Nalosan as a demonstration of her newfound power."

Islena recoiled, stricken by the terrible ramifications of what Kevlan had just suggested. "My son Allan...he is probably being held prisoner in Nalosan."

An anguished cry of despair escaped her lips and she spun in the direction of the encampment, blurting, "Myrhia has to know about this...has to prevent it."

Kevlan, who was still trying to internalize the implications of Islena's disclosure, grimaced in horrified astonishment and cried, "Islena, please...don't be rash!"

In the extremity of her dismay, Kevlan's entreaty fell on deaf ears. Islena had taken no more than three stumbling steps toward the road, when a blinding blue light shattered the snow-ravaged darkness, frightening the horses and temporarily blinding both mortals.

When Islena's eyes had adjusted to the harsh glare, she found herself confronted by a half dozen Morticants. Each was ablaze in a brilliant iridescent glow that caused Doraux to raise her arm in an effort to shield her eyes against the harsh glare.

The nearest monstrosity raised one massive arm and pointed back in the direction of the road. It was readily apparent that Islena's compliance was obligatory. Another of the Morticants moved toward Kevlan and made a similar gesture. Naked apprehension was written plainly in the Metocan's large eyes...a nascent fear with which Doraux could certainly commiserate.

Trying to quell that anxiety, she quipped, "It seems that we are being summoned."

With this, she lanced the nearest Morticant with a rueful scowl and started back toward the encampment.

2

As they were squired back to the collection of wagons and tents, Islena's mounting disquiet erupted into full blown dread when she saw the enchantress standing before the entrance to her pavilion.

Though the snowfall had grown into a snarling blizzard, accompanied by gusting winds that made Islena shiver, Myrhia stood before the fanned embers of a dead fire as if immune to the storms inimical bite. She was surrounded by a cadre of her intimidating Morticants, who were arrayed around the diminutive beauty in a loose crescent. Their bodies also emitted an iridescent glow, which cast a decidedly eerie light over the expanse of roadway along which the camp had been erected, thus granting the camp a surreal, ghostly aura.

Though her face was impassive, Myrhia's blistering eyes were set firmly upon Islena, who came to a halt on the opposite side of the lifeless fire pit. Islena's gaze fell upon the iron eye bolts and she frowned. Abruptly, in seeming defiance of the snow and wind, the flames rekindled, leaping a full three man heights into the air, before settling into a vigorous, writhing curtain of waist-high flame that danced and capered madly in the face of the gusting wind.

"Impressive theatrics mother, but this hardly seems like an appropriate time to be milling about in the open," Islena remarked, attempting to affect a bored air but missing the mark by a wide margin.

"Are you prepared to offer your humble apology and your act of contrition...daughter?" Myrhia inquired in an even, patient tone that belied the smoldering fury in her dark eyes. Indeed, the very air around the enchantress seemed to crackle with poised violence.

"Actually, I haven't given it a great deal of thought," Islena returned with just enough derision to cause Kevlan to utter a low groan from somewhere behind her.

' _Have a caution, Islena,'_ Guinevere advised with a palpable note of desperation. _'This beast is livid and your irreverence will only provoke the darkest inclinations of her miscreant's soul.'_

Myrhia's posture grew rigid as the muscles at the corners of her jaw drew into knots of consternation. Quietly she demanded, "Summon the Dragonsword!"

Islena's eyes narrowed in suspicion as her mind raced frantically to divine the ominous new direction of Myrhia's thoughts. After a brief span of time, Islena shook her head and replied firmly, "I'm not particularly in the mood and I have absolutely no intention of fighting you."

"You have every intention of fighting me," Myrhia contradicted, raising one perfectly tapered eyebrow in a gesture of total understanding, "Yet you lack the requisite courage to do so directly. Instead, you intend to resort to some manner of treachery...the shape of which I have yet to decipher. Have a care Islena...I will...in time."

Doraux stiffened at the insinuation of cowardice and the blood began to thunder in her head as the shadow incarnation howled indignantly. With terrible patience, the enchantress reiterated, "Summon the Dragonsword."

Islena flicked a brief glance in the direction of the place where she had left the Jerhia Icon leaning against the wheel of a provisions wagon and then adamantly shook her head. Agraria, the defiant past incarnation who most resembled Islena had fallen conspicuously silent since Myrhia's legion had crossed the Hiberas. She broke that silence now, speaking in a voice that was unaccountably sanguine and succinctly declared her seething contempt for Islena. _'I believe you are about to receive a severe, but much-needed chastisement, you impetuous brat...and though I will experience it every bit as keenly as you will...I shall nonetheless enjoy your torment immensely.'_

Myrhia inclined her head ever so slightly and in response, the Morticant nearest Kevlan seized the startled Metocan by both forearms and lifted him into the air. Islena growled and protest, while Kevlan...wide-eyed with trepidation...thrashed and kicked wildly before falling still in grim resignation toward whatever horror was to follow.

"Now, if you conjure the rather grim and graphic memory of Adjutant Amrand and the admittedly gruesome amputation of his leg in the dungeons of Perdwick...perhaps you will have a foreshadowing of what is to follow," Myrhia declared with feigned levity. "Now daughter, you _will_ summon the Dragonsword or my Morticant will remove the gelding's left foot at the ankle...to begin with."

Islena's trapped gaze shifted between the stricken Metocan and Myrhia, her green eyes wide with miserable ambivalence. The air suddenly came alive with a sonorous whine as the Icon virtually leapt from its resting place against the provisions wagon and streak toward Islena's outstretched arm. The rubies on the golden haft exploded into vermillion fire as Islena opened her mind to the Jerhia collective.

To her shock and chagrin, the weapon came to an abrupt halt some ten paces away from her open palm. The spectacular blaze of vermillion light was swiftly extinguished as the sword fell to the ground, swallowed by the now ankle-deep snow.

Stunned, Islena's shifted from the spot where the now quiescent icon had vanished to the enchantress, who was watching her with a sardonic smirk emblazoning her exquisite face. "Again, but with a greater sense of urgency this time...daughter."

Islena gritted her teeth and redoubled her concentration with a determined snarl. The long sword lifted out of the snow, its rubies flickering weakly, and began to drift toward Islena, who strained to bend the Icon to her will for the first time since encountering it at Runesholm. She was peripherally aware that the magnitude of the Morticants' iridescent glow seemed to intensify in direct proportion to her efforts.

' _Sygeanor believes that the clay is an arcane amplifier,'_ Kevlan had disclosed earlier and with a flash of crystalline insight, Islena was granted a staggering epiphany; Myrhia was drawing additional power from the Morticants...they were the source of the arcane energy that bestowed virtual invincibility upon the enchantress. Before she could fully assimilate the potentially earth-shattering implications of this revelation, the sword suddenly reversed, shot forward and dealt Islena a glancing blow on the side of her helm.

Dazed, Islena cried out and collapsed to one knee, even as the sword spun madly and delivered a clubbing blow to her back with the flat of its blade. The impact elicited a guttural grunt from the uncomprehending Islena, who was driven flat...her face buried in the cold snow.

The Icon zipped through the blustery air, circling the prone Doraux like a great bird of prey. At random intervals, it would dive down and deliver another blunt strike on various targets along Islena's writhing legs and torso. Each instant of contact brought with it another eruption of argent sparks and an inarticulate grunt of pain. Correctly deducing that she was helpless to prevent the assault, a defenseless Islena wrapped her arms around her head and suffered the beating as stoically as she could manage.

After an interminable moment, the deluge of blows ceased and the Jerhia Icon flew across the fire pit and landed at Myrhia's feet. Islena clambered to her feet and gasped, "Are you satisfied...Mother?"

"Hardly," Myrhia retorted with a gust of laughter. "I hope this disabuses you of the misperception that the balance of power has somehow shifted in our relationship. Without the cumulative power of the three Icons, I can crush you like an irksome insect...or simply make you suffer for my own gratification. You wield this Icon only through my forbearance and it would be imprudent not to forget it. Still, I have yet to hear an apology, daughter."

Before Islena could respond, a trio of brightly luminescent Morticants converged upon her. Islena loosed an inarticulate wail that was part outrage and part terrified negation. The scream became a volley of strident shrieks as one monstrosity easily pinioned her arms behind her back and the other caught hold of her powerful legs. The third Morticant began to strip away Islena's armor with surprisingly deft fingers, discarding each piece next to the guttering flames. Islena struggled and cursed, her expletives lost beneath the howling wind as she was quickly divested of her armor. The horrors then tore away her heavy quilted undergarments and finally, the heavy woolen underwear that she had been given for winter travel. Helpless and mad with outrage, Islena snarled and spat at her tormentors like a rabid beast. Reduced to thrashing and spitting at the impassive golems, Islena soon found that she was completely naked and vulnerable to the ravages of the wind and snow, which seemed to attack her exposed flesh with a conscious malice.

The trios of abominations then dragged Islena through the snow and forced her to her knees between the two sets of eyebolts. Myrhia gesticulated and four lengths of diaphanous emerald chain coalesced into being...affixing themselves to the loops with a distinct clatter of metal on metal. The lengths capered in the violent night air, undulating and writhing to the dark music of Myrhia's sorcery. At the terminal end of each chain, the open shackles clattered like the gaping jaws of a serpent.

The nearest Morticant struck Doraux a glancing, open-handed blow across her right cheek that still carried sufficient force to bloody her nose and lips. Her head spun like a dervish and she offered no resistance when the shackles were clamped to her wrists and ankles. A low grade arcane energy emanated from the restraints, suffusing Islena's body with a degree of warmth that was sufficient to keep the storm's icy bite at bay.

The Morticants withdrew several paces from Islena, who attempted to rise, only to discover that the glowing emerald chains were not long enough to allow her to stand. Instead, she settled back to her knees and glared balefully at the architect of her torment, her green eyes blazing with cold promise. "I'll make you pay for this humiliation. Remember this vow; for every bit of pleasure you might derive from my abjection this night, I will extract payment tenfold...mother."

Myrhia merely smiled and ventured closer, peering imperiously down on Doraux and clearly relishing Islena's posture of abjection. "Being who you are, I have little doubt that you will try daughter."

Myrhia pressed a gloved index finger to her full lower lip, regarding the kneeling Islena with a speculative expression on her lovely face. There was an air of _performance_ about this gesture...but beneath the theatrics, Islena could sense a disturbing new resolve...a dire gleam in the enchantress' dark eyes that did not bode well for those who opposed her. "Once my anger subsided, I reflected on your earlier diatribe Islena and I came to the rather stunning conclusion that your assessment of the state of my existence...however petulantly it was offered...was brutally truthful. My very existence...this slavery to a black purpose that was never one of my own devising...was sterile and devoid of all meaning. All of the grand designs and aspirations...my carefully nurtured machinations...could be likened to a rat being inexorably led through a maze to its demise in the jaws of a trap it was powerless to resist."

Here, she paused her soliloquy and offered Islena an enigmatic smile. "I owe you a debt of gratitude daughter and it is for this reason that you yet draw breath. You see, while your cutting observations were correct, they extend only to my past tragic incarnations. Yet, in this unprecedented here and now, my delusions have all been disabused and the blinders stripped away. Fully cognizant of the purpose I was intended to serve, I now discern my forward path with pristine clarity that is both liberating and madly intoxicating."

She suddenly gripped Islena's face and squeezed it painfully until the beautiful countenance became distorted and ugly.

"I have decided that I will make no attempt to rebel against my destiny or rail to the indifferent heavens over the injustice of my fate like the plaintive bleating of a whining child." She released Islena and stepped back, her face alight with animation born of profound excitement, and slammed her fist against her ebony breastplate. "From this day forth, I shall embrace who I am and the purpose for which I was created. I will circumnavigate the sly pitfalls that have always been my undoing and bring this recurring drama to an emphatic end. When our triangle comes to a halt, I shall stand at its apex. There can be no denying that I have suffered through innumerable lives with only terrible solitude and torment for company...but not this time. It matters not what road one travels to reach the momentous junctures in their lives...in due course, they will inevitably be delivered to the place they were intended to be. My destiny is...and has always been...to hold absolute dominion over all things. Through the focusing lens of my new clarity, that destiny will be fulfilled...and you, my dutiful daughter, will play your role in that fulfillment."

"You can never be accused of wanting for ambition," Islena scoffed, shaking her head in the face of Myrhia's boundless hubris.

Myrhia's grin became ebullient and she again repeated, "You will be the instrument through which I will realize these ambitions...daughter; a marionette who will dance gleefully any time I choose to call the tune. As I have embraced my role, so too shall you embrace yours...once we've dispensed with this bit of unpleasant melodrama."

Again, Islena shook her head in consternation. Radiating belligerence like the life-sustaining heat that was slowly being leeched from her body, Islena snapped, "Do you honestly believe that I will still be your fawning lapdog after what you've done to me?"

"I do, Islena?" Myrhia returned quite seriously. "Just as I have every intention of forgiving your transgression against me...once I am satisfied that you are genuinely contrite."

Myrhia's luminous brown eyes widened and she tilted her head as though perplexed by Islena's continuing posture of animosity. In a bemused voice, she intoned, "I do believe that you've misperceived the precise nature of what is transpiring here, daughter. This is not about revenge or punishment...not in the least. This is strictly about your continuing education."

Islena snorted in disgust, as the driving snow slammed tiny needles of discomfort into the exposed flesh of her broad back. It was a titanic struggle to prevent her teeth from chattering, but she was determined not to give this sadistic bitch the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. Myrhia seemed genuinely affronted by Islena's rejection of her explanation. "Daughter of the Tempest...defiant and impetuous always...forever acting in haste with never a cursory thought given to the consequences of your recklessness. You will recall, daughter, that it was you who crawled to me on bended knee...mewling and pleading for my counsel...for my guidance and protection from the evil entity that you are destined to become. Have you so quickly forgotten how you begged that I instruct you on how to subjugate this dark incarnation that would usurp your fragile mine?"

Islena glared contentiously, but as Kevlan watched her suffer through this degradation, the gleam of doubt and confusion in her limpid eyes informed him that Myrhia's claims were not without substance.

Myrhia smiled knowingly, gleaning Islena's festering doubt. "Education may assume many forms, Islena. It may be imparted with kindness...or if required, enlightenment can be delivered in a manner that is exceeding harsh. Like a good mother is obligated to do, I have devoted myself to the task of rescuing you from the foul creature that resides in the darkened recesses of your malformed heart...by whatever means I deem necessary."

With this, she gestured to the trio of Morticants, who turned in unison and vanished into her pavilion. Islena could sense that this nightmare was about to escalate, but could see no way to prevent it...whatever was to come. Worse still, the cold was burrowing deeper into her viscera and bones, occluding all rational thought. The Morticants returned, each bearing a sloshing earthen jug which they carefully set down before their mistress.

With her heart galloping painfully in her chest, Islena craned her neck to see over the rims of the tall jars, discerning that she was about to be subjected to yet another example of Myrhia's ever-inventive cruelty. The enchantress beamed a grin rife with keen anticipation. "Earlier Islena, you declared that you had no concept of what compelled you to seek out and fuck _my_ husband. You theorized that it might have been inspired by the atavistic lust that burns in your loins...like an incessant fire that entreats you into acts of prurient impulsiveness that defy reason or prudence. In one destined to wield power of unfathomable magnitude, such a glaring fault would be disastrous." With a glacial tone that matched the raging blizzard, Myrhia concluded, "I would be derelict in my oath were I not to do everything in my power to see that pernicious flame extinguished."

With this, Myrhia effortlessly lifted one of the impossibly heavy jugs and upended its contents over Islena's upturned face. The cold water cascaded over her naked body as if she had been plunged beneath a water falls. In combination with her present state of hypothermia, the icy deluge caused Islena's stout heart to stutter painfully.

Moving with the speed of the gusting wind, Myrhia upended the contents of the other two jugs over a screaming Islena's head in rapid succession. Doraux's cries of outrage and torment became vivid argent shrieks that spiraled upward and echoed throughout the surrounding forest like the strident wail of a banshee.

Islena's flame-colored hair lay plastered to her forehead and great plumes of steam rose from her dripping flesh which quaked and trembled violently as the heat-leeching cold tightened its grip on her besieged body. She tried to muster a defiant curse, but the shock of her dousing had robbed Islena of her faculty of speech. Cold, raw and savage, embraced her in a constricting vice like hoops of steel. She could feel hot tears of misery and futile rage begin to course over her prominent cheek bones, where they were quickly transformed into frozen rivers of ice.

When Myrhia next spoke, it was in a nuanced voice that matched the glacial fury of the blizzard which raged about them as if in stern approval of the enchantress' ruthless actions. "If we open our mind to its wisdom, pain can prove to be a most effective method of enlightenment...of instruction in the prudence of maintaining a proper attitude. It can succinctly illuminate the error of our ways and set us upon the proper path. Tonight, you will suffer, but the chains that bind you will also ward your magnificent vessel against permanent harm."

She gracefully floated forward and laid the flat of her gloved palm against Islena's livid cheek. Repulsed by her own gesture of submission, Islena nonetheless pressed her face into the soft glove, frantically craving its warmth. "I would advise you to surrender yourself to the exquisite agony, Islena. Let it usher you to the moment of profound insight from which you may glean a measure of understanding about what is required to gain mastery over the demon that infests you." After a moment's further consideration, she added, "You need only call my name...once you've come to this epiphany...and I will bring this lesson to an end."

She abruptly spun away, but then turned back to the dripping Islena, who trembled like a sapling in a gale. A speculative gleam twinkled like fairy light in the enchantress' eyes. "Have no care, Islena, if this ordeal fails to educate you...or exorcise your tormenting demons, I have contrived another lesson that may yet divest you of your base urges."

Her impish grin assumed a predatory gleam as she swept her right arm in an all encompassing gesture and Islena's courage suddenly faltered in the face of Myrhia's next vulgar threat.

The Morticants were customarily massively-muscled, but androgynous entities...though they exuded an aura of menace that implied a definite _masculinity._ As she watched in the tetanus of inexpressible horror, this androgynous physiology underwent a rapid and radical transformation that gave Myrhia's threat a well-defined intent.

A thin gasp of perfect terror and negation escaped Islena's cracked and blue lips as she stared wide-eyed and gape-jawed at the ring of Morticants that now surrounded her.

Each Morticant sported a massive penis that was prominently erect, swaying against striated abdomens like metronomes. Smiling wickedly, Myrhia observed, "The Morticants are indefatigable and I'm certain that they will extinguish the last spark of wanton lust from that whore's heart of yours. Let us hope that it doesn't come to this sorry end. As your Lamish vermin could readily attest, such a harrowing experience can leave an indelible scar on a woman's psyche."

Myrhia then turned on heel and strode toward her pavilion. With a brusque gesture, she indicated that Kevlan should attend her. The Morticant at his shoulder roughly gripped the thoroughly disconcerted Metocan's thin forearm and steered him into Myrhia's sprawling tent, which appeared to swallow Kevlan like a ravenous beast.

The remaining Morticants then moved away in response to some inaudible imperative, taking up posts around the perimeter of the encampment.

Only Islena remained, kneeling and shackled, with only the snow and gusting wind for company. The cold ravaged her defenseless flesh in the near complete darkness as droplets of water soon froze to cover her in a thin armor of ice. Her wet hair quickly became an ice helm. With her teeth chattering to the rhythm of absolute misery...Islena decided to heed Myrhia's advice. Bowing her head, she surrendered herself to abject suffering and allowed it to lead her where it would.

3

Once the heavy flaps of Myrhia's spacious and well-lit pavilion had been closed and sealed, the enchantress came to stand before the clearly apprehensive Kevlan. She gazed up at him from beneath lush lashes and he wondered how something possessed of such perfect beauty could also be possessed of an evil that was also perfect in its purity. That the two seemingly irreconcilable extremes could be contained within one vessel was beyond the Metocan's comprehension. She beamed that beguiling smile and intoned blithely, "Now gelding, I do believe that you are in possession of a certain piece of information that you shared with Islena. As she is presently preoccupied, I would have it from you in her stead.

Kevlan's limpid gray eyes grew impossibly large and attempting to convey a measure of courage he did not feel, the Metocan remarked, "Good Queen, I am a liaison of Metocan, dispatched to aid you in your cause, yet you have subjected me to threats and physical abuse. These actions demonstrate a flagrant disregard for any known convention of civility or diplomatic relations and I must protest this ill treatment."

Now it was Myrhia's turn to display an expression of surprise, which quickly turned to delight as she clapped her hands, threw back her head and uttered a spate of derisive laughter. "To coin a phrase from my foul-mouthed daughter, gelding...does it strike you that I particularly give a fuck about diplomatic protocol...or civility for that matter?"

Her smile congealed into a feral scowl and she snarled, "Now what was it that passed between the two of you during your conversation in the forest?"

Kevlan, who had come to the conclusion that there was only a slight distinction before the monster before him and the odious creature that was converging upon an unsuspecting Nalosan, nonetheless refused to apprise Myrhia of Sygeanor's existence.

Myrhia fetched an elaborate sigh and commented, "Integrity can be so very tedious. Very well, lets you and I compose a symphony of agony.

Beneath a raging blizzard, the night soon came alive with a chorus of screams.

Chapter Twenty

1

Lorio came awake with an anguished cry and peered about the cloying confines of the supply room, blinking owlishly as the acute terror of her nightmare drained away like water through a sewer grate. As always upon waking in this unfamiliar space, she experienced a moment of unsettling disorientation as her frazzled mind groped to recall just where she was and how she had come to be there. She swung her feet over the edge of her narrow cot and sat with her head bowed and her eyes closed, while running her fingers through the loose curls of her long black hair. She drew in a long breath and tried to calm her racing heart.

The converted storage room, which now served as her place of confinement, was inadequately lit by a single flickering torch that burned in a crude iron holder by the room's only door. Despite being the most advanced civilization in the world, there were aspects of Metocan culture that were surprisingly unrefined. In matters of architectural design, pragmatism and functionality always seemed to rule over ornamentation, which Lorio found discordant with the rather elegant Metocan sensibility in most matters.

' _You would think that an entire civilization of magic-wielders would have concocted a more efficient way of lighting their dwellings,'_ Lorio mused with no small measure of exasperation and then wondered where these seemingly random and ultimately pointless thoughts found their origins.

Then the anxiety of her nightmare revisited her in a deluge and she attempted to rise. The entire room spun in a wild dervish and she tottered on the ragged edge of balance until her weakened legs betrayed her and spilled her back onto her narrow cot. Frustrated by her infirmity, Lorio uttered a particularly pungent epithet, but made no attempt to rise.

Though the hateful bitch had succeeded in purging Islena's virulence from Lorio's leg, the lingering effects of the poison had yet to dissipate. This feeling of debilitating illness was unfamiliar to the immortal and left her feeling pathetically weak and vulnerable. _'But why did the demon-spawned bitch save you...that is the salient question?'_

Lorio spewed a groan of revulsion and clamped her hands over her eyes as if this gesture was somehow capable of effacing the image of the despicable bitch toiling to extract the virulence from her thigh. The excruciating process had left Lorio feeling severely fatigued and diminished...but alive and plagued by a relentless hoard of doubts and misgivings. She knew only that Myrhia's shocking act of benevolence was contrary to her plunderer's nature...made all the more improbable by Lorio's perceived betrayal.

The disdainful voice of the father, who had committed the most grievous act of betrayal imaginable, filled the confines of her pounding skull. _'I always figured that you might be a little daft, girl...but not completely obtuse. The creator, he gave you the gifts of beauty and violence sure enough, but he was a bit of a miser when it came to parceling out the brains, wasn't he?'_

Lorio emitted a small, wounded sound...like a tiny creature in pain. Her inarticulate expression of misery provided a sharp counterpoint to her father's cackle of derisive laughter.

' _Am I really seeing him as he was?'_ Lorio asked herself uncertainly. Her memories of her father had always glowed with warmth that was fuelled by the conviction that he had adored her. Was it possible that, behind this mask of paternal love, there had lurked this seething, cynical contempt for his only child? Like many facets of Lorio's ultimately tragic life, she could provide no definitive answer to a query that plagued her without surcease. She knew only that the foundations of her life were hollowed out and riddled by deceit and shameless manipulation.

As if in affirmation of this disdainful thought, her sham of a father resumed his merciless denigration. _'All through your wretched life, you've been used, girl...pulled and prodded in whatever direction best suited the one who be pulling your strings. You think of your great betrayal of that evil witch as if you actually had a choice in the matter. The idea would be laughable. It would...if it wasn't so pitiable.'_ The tormenting voice became flat and ruthlessly dispassionate. ' _You are nothing more than a withered leaf on a lake, blown about in whatever direction the wind would see fit to follow. When those guards raped and beat you in that filthy dungeon in Perdwick...were you first given a choice? When Myrhia made you the abomination you are now, did she ask for your permission? You fawn and grovel after this Islena like a randy bitch in heat, but when she plunged yer own dagger into yer heart, do you really think she did so with a mind to yer salvation? Are you really so dense as to swallow such ludicrous shit?'_

"Stop...please...enough!" Lorio entreated miserably, her hoarse cry shattering the dreary silence of the small storage room. A part of her mind realized that her subconscious was employing her dead father as a conduit to flay her with its festering doubt, but that realization did little to attenuate the devastating effect of the cutting criticism.

Still, the inner voice continued to excoriate her as if determined to remorselessly grind her spirit to dust. _'When we cheered and applauded as ya' beat helpless travelers bloody...do you truly imagine it was respect we was showin' ya? Had ya' not the knack for violence...what purpose do ya figure you would have served the clan then? Yer nothing more than something to be used...ya have been your entire life and it's all yer ever destined to be. We're better served by accepting our lot in life...the Lamish have always known that. The bitch saved ya because you're a pawn in her mind...and she has use of ya. Have ya never wondered where this ugly, cruel streak in yer heart springs from, girl? A small part of ya sees the truth of what I've told ya...and despises ya for it. Let me leave ya with this one last pearl of wisdom. If you're gullible enough to believe that this woman actually loves ya...that she holds any affection for ya at all...then ya had best be prepared for an eternity of sorrow and solitude. When she's done with ya...she'll cast you off like the piece of rubbish you are.'_

As quickly as it had began, the ruthless denigration ended and the voice of her dead father fell mercifully silent. In its wake, Lorio turned her face to the wall and hugging herself, began to weep unabashedly.

There was little to be gained by attempting to refute the validity of her tormentor's savage assessment of her value. She was, in truth, a pawn...an infinitesimally small and inconsequential creature caught in the momentous drama of giants. Every significant action she had ever taken in her entire life had been at the direction of someone else...with the sorry exception of those instances of vapid cruelty and petty defiance that had come to characterize her in the eyes of others. Even her misguided attempt to kill Islena had come as a result of sly Gillian's skilled manipulation of her emotional turmoil.

Of all the daggers of scathing disdain which her internal tormentor had employed to impale her, one in particular stood prominently forth in her abraded mind. _'When she plunged yer own dagger into yer heart, did she do so with a mind to yer salvation?'_

"She did what she needed to do to survive!" Lorio moaned wretchedly. "What other choice did I leave her with?" These words rang as facile rationalizations even as she gave them voice. Even as Islena had heartlessly abandoned her on the fringes of Otaru Ree's purgatory...Lorio could not find it in her heart to extract vengeance. Conversely, Islena had resolutely done what had been required and would have moved stolidly forward from that awful moment...even if Lorio had been left moldering in the Land of Shades with nothing to mark her passing.

Even in her desperate entreaty to Myrhia, beseeching the enchantress to save Lorio from the virulence, could the immortal be unequivocally sure that Islena's motivations were inspired by genuine passion? Was Lorio simply a convenient tool...necessary to facilitate Islena's frantic gambit to vanquish Myrhia?

Doraux had claimed that Lorio was the only one who loved her with enough unselfish ardor to do what was required to save her from Myrhia and her own personal demons. Asking Lorio to kill the only thing she had ever genuinely loved...was this not the cruelest of all possible exploitations?

Lorio roughly brushed tears from her eyes and rolled onto her back, gazing around the gloom of the dusty storage room that had now become her home. She wanted nothing more than to banish these myriad of doubts and misgivings from her troubled thoughts, but they pressed in upon her relentlessly. If she allowed it to do so, the accumulated weight of her despair would crush her into the docile acceptance of her dismal circumstances...as if the nadir to which she had sunk was precisely where she deserved to be.

Taking stock of her present situation, it was no easy task to muster a convincing argument against the notion.

She had lost everything...her people, her wanderer's indomitable spirit...even her own child. It ravaged her heart to recall those scant few seconds in which she had held him to her breast and peered into those beautiful, pristinely innocent eyes. She understood that this single image would have to sustain her for an eternity.

All that remained to her was the love she harbored for a creature whose perplexing nature was as indecipherable as the stars in the firmament...an every bit as inaccessible.

She could feel the seductive gravitational pull of self-pity...an insidious force that would pull her into an inescapable pit should she be so craven as to succumb to its sly temptation. She had seen enough to know that despair was a subtle, yet insatiable beast that could consume everything...every last shred of vitality and will a person possessed...if it was allowed even a toehold in a troubled mind or a fractured heart.

Perhaps her father/subconscious had been correct in postulating that she was a pawn without volition, but his/its assessment of her resolve was woefully inaccurate. True, Lorio was capable of baffling instants of cruelty, but she was also gifted with a tenacity that no amount of sorrow or abjection could completely obliterate. It was this tenacity which had provided her with the mettle to at least partially resist Myrhia's perverse corruption and retain a fragment of her own flawed identity.

Fate had thrust her onto a stage for which she was patently ill-suited. The random mechanics of destiny had always eluded Lorio, whose life had been consumed more by the fundamental tasks of survival than serious contemplation of life's grand design. Now, however, she was uniquely positioned to exert a crucial influence on what would prove to be the most significant juncture in not only this world's history...but the history of all worlds beyond.

This admittedly grandiose notion was greeted by a snort of derisive laughter, which she promptly stomped into dust.

The memory of the stark nightmare that had first roused her now exploded in her mind with renewed exigency. Though her nightmare had been framed in confusing hues and the distorted images of abstraction, Lorio could recall a vivid and atavistic sense of dread and outrage...and a soul-deep cold in the grip of which no living thing could possibly endure for long.

' _I was seeing what Islena is seeing!'_ Lorio realized and though she could produce no logical validation for this incredible theory, she did not for a second question its veracity. _'These emotions and sensations...that horrible, life-effacing cold; Islena was experiencing these things at the moment of my dream...and somehow I was experiencing them along with her.'_

She had become attuned to Islena (a concept from which she derived intense personal satisfaction as if their synchronicity was only natural)...or at least, to her moments of extreme emotion. As she struggled to absorb this astounding insight, her frenzied mind seized on the one facet that truly mattered...her Islena was in danger and suffering horribly.

She lurched clumsily to her feet and staggered to the door of her impromptu cell, ignoring the swimming sensation that caused her head to reel like an inebriated sailor's.

She managed to make it to the wooden door without incident. Despite the closeness of the storage room and the wave of queasiness that the simple effort of stumbling had provoked, the statuesque immortal was permeated by an intense chill that threatened to freeze her to absolute immobility.

A tiny wooden sliding panel, perhaps no more than a hand's span square, had been set into the heavy door. Lorio slid back the panel, pressed her mouth into the opening and bellowed, "Artumas...I demand to see Artumas...I demand to see the king!"

Her uproar echoed down the length of the darkened hallway and Lorio was beginning to fear that there was no one to hear her entreaty. She was about to repeat her thunderous demand, when a portion of a wide-eyed face filled the opening.

A scribe had been taking inventory in an adjacent room when Lorio's clamor had roused her attention. Stories of the prisoner being held beneath the temporary quarters of the Inner Circle had abounded and spread through Othgol like a wildfire through a dry thicket. Gripped by indecision, the scribe had spent several moments agonizing over whether to ignore the demon woman's uproar or investigate its cause.

Beneath the terrifying prisoner's imperious demand, the perceptive young Metocan discerned an unmistakable urgency and it was this exigent need that finally drew her to Lorio's cell. The eyes that peered through the opening were ablaze with a disconcerting intensity and when Lorio repeated her demand in the gruff voice of one who expected no debate or equivocation, the scribe nodded and scurried away in search of someone to whom she could carry the terrifying creature's request.

Lorio fetched a tremulous sigh of relief and then staggered back to her cot, disquieted by the degree to which the simplest of exertions left her feeling enervated. As she settled against the cool stone wall to await Artumas' arrival, she could not help but wonder if her deception in the matter of her failed assassination attempt had squandered the last of whatever currency she held with the Emercian King.

2

A bell had passed...or so her eerily accurate internal clock informed Lorio and the immortal was beginning to fear that Artumas had elected to ignore her summons. It was also possible that her message had been intercepted by the scribe's superior, who had decided not to trouble the king with the demands of the unruly and unpredictable prisoner.

She was attempting to consider the dismally small list of alternate courses of action that would be left open to her when the hallway came alive with the resounding echo of a great many approaching footsteps. She rose to her feet and stood swaying unsteadily, silently cursing her wretched infirmity.

The door swung abruptly open and a spill of incondign yellow light tumbled into the storage area...along with six glaive-wielding soldiers. Lorio was bemused to see that they wore the ceremonial regalia of the Emercian Army. Her enmity flared brightly at the sight of the uniform that had come to symbolize the misfortune and misery that had characterized much of her life prior to Islena's coming.

That they would be permitted to don these uniforms and march freely about Othgol's seat of power spoke eloquently about the degree to which the political climate had changed in these last few days.

The soldiers dispersed to the sides of the small room to permit Artumas entry. He glanced about the storage room with a frown and then turned his regard on the tempestuous creature who had demanded his presence. He was surprised by the twinge of reluctance he experienced as he inquired, "You asked to see me, good lady?"

Lorio winced in the face of his perceptibly wariness and stiff formality. It suddenly occurred to her that there was not one solitary individual with whom she'd crossed her paths since this dark misadventure had first begun, who she had not injured or affronted in some manner. The unsettling though provoked an incisive sting of self-contempt.

Thinking that some gesture of proper deference was warranted, Lorio attempted a curtsy, but her weakened state sent her stumbling forward into the king.

Artumas reacted swiftly, automatically catching the clearly infirmed Lorio in his arms, even as his escort raised their glaives in unison and started forward.

"Stand down!" he barked, clearly perturbed by their aggression. "This woman is not an assassin and she is clearly unwell."

"Don't be so hasty to jump to conclusions, Artumas," Lorio interjected tartly and the Emercian king gazed down in horrified astonishment to find Lorio Zarcyk dimpling the fabric of his tunic.

A tense silence infused the room then as Artumas' guards exchanged confused and anxious glances. Lorio grinned, uttered a papery chuckle and pressed her Zarcyk into Artumas' right hand. "A word of advice, good king...if you are going to enter a small space, guards wielding pole arms will be of very little value in protecting you. Had I been an assassin, you would have been dead before they could bring their ungainly sticks to bear.

Artumas rolled his eyes and regarded the indecipherable creature with an exasperated frown. "Let it never be said that you lack a flare for the dramatic, Lorio. Can you stand?"

"Not easily and not for long," Lorio admitted in a soft whisper that hinted at shame and a strong aversion to any concession of personal weakness.

Supporting the statuesque beauty, the Emercian King ushered Lorio over to her cot and gently assisted her into a sitting position, propping a pillow behind her head and shoulders so that she would not have to lean against the cold stone wall.

This simple gesture of concern and kindness only made Lorio acutely more ashamed of her past deception.

Artumas turned to his escort and instructed, "You may leave us and wait in the hall. Close the door behind you as you leave."

The six soldiers exchanged uneasy glances in which Artumas could clearly discern apprehension. Patiently, he addressed the apparent commander of his escort. "What is your name, soldier?"

"Esuruban. Sergeant Esuruban, your majesty," the soldier returned nervously.

"From this day henceforth, you shall be Captain Esuruban...commander of my personal guard. When time permits, you will swear an oath of loyalty exclusively to me...along with another eleven men whom you shall personally select. Do you accept this appointment?"

"I...I do my king...as an honor and a privilege," Esuruban vowed and though his response had been hesitant, his incisive blue eyes burned with fierce pride and dedication that Artumas seemed to inspire with such ease.

Artumas smiled and clapped the startled Esuruban on the right shoulder. "Then you shall instruct your men to take up positions in the hall. Should _anyone_ have a quarrel with this, they may address it with me."

The newly appointed Captain hesitated for a brief instant and then gestured for his men to exit. Lorio had watched the exchanged in fascinated silence and had been visited by a distinct presage that she would encounter this Esuruban...who was pleasingly lithe, blond and handsome...again, when the grim penumbra of Myrhia's evil had been lifted. She shook her head as the six filed out of her cell, bemused by the insinuation that there might actually be a _future_ beyond this dark juncture.

When the door closed, Artumas turned his regard back to Lorio, whose pallor spoke succinctly of the toll the past few days had taken upon the young woman. He then swept his gaze over the cloying confines of the gloomy storage room and declared, "You will leave this room with me this morning and I will make arrangements for proper accommodations...without confinement. If you have need of a healer or any other manner of assistance, you will not hesitate to ask, Lorio."

For a short moment, Artumas' magnanimity threatened to overwhelm Lorio and she feared that she would burst into flame from the shame of having wronged such a noble man. Rather than suffer this embarrassment, Lorio fell back on her default irreverence. "I couldn't just have my room in your quarters again?"

To her surprise and dismay, the king reacted to her flippant remark with a pained twinge, shimmering brilliantly across his rugged face in the blink of an eye.

"I'm sorry, Artumas," Lorio intoned apologetically. "I have a talent for spouting inappropriate things. I'm still a Lamish peasant girl...despite whatever has befallen me in these last months. I'm unaccustomed to being in the presence of nobility...much less royalty."

"Don't feel the need to apologize for your heritage, Lorio. I've come to see that both privilege or poverty are often random dispensations of fate and we should be neither proud nor ashamed of either." He offered Lorio a self-deprecating smile. "Besides, I am hardly a paragon of noble courtesy and virtue. You'll recall that I've spent the last seven years hoeing rows of cabbage and beans."

Groping for an appropriate response, Lorio murmured, "I can't imagine how awful that time must have been for you, Artumas."

Again, that sad, knowing smile adorned his face. "There is much to be said for simplicity, Lorio and the contentment that comes at the end of a day of labor in the soil. Had the circumstances surrounding my time near the Great Ocean been different, I might have been perfectly happy to pass the remainder of my days exactly as you found me. The salt-stung tang of the ocean breeze, the sublime beauty of the sun as it sets over dark green waters on a clam night; there are no words to capture the full measure of their inherent beauty, but they served to remind me how truly miraculous the gift of life can be."

Listening to these calming words flow like warm water over smooth stone, Lorio found herself mesmerized by the portrait of humble beauty the king was describing. She understood implicitly that this would be an easy man to follow...an easy man to love."

' _Islena is a woman worthy of such a man, but to believe that you could ever be...is beyond laughable,'_ her father's voice whispered from the hateful shadows of her subconscious.

"I'm sorry Artumas...for betraying you and taking advantage of your trust. It was heinous, but I...I..." Lorio faltered and could conjure no meaningful words in her defense.

"The incident is forgotten, Lorio...at least as it stands as a transgression against me." He crossed the room and sat beside her on the narrow pallet, taking her right hand in his. His proximity and the aura he exuded, along with the tactile sensation of holding her hand, set Lorio's heart aflutter. "If you would permit me one word of advice, Lorio...it is not I to whom you should make amends."

Lorio raised a quizzical eyebrow and Artumas explained, "Your primary debt would be to the families of the Metocan citizens who lost their lives as a consequence of your rash actions on the plaza."

Lorio's lovely face contracted into a portrait of misery. "Artumas, what could I possibly say or do that would ever be adequate compensation?"

"Still, you must try Lorio!" Artumas insisted firmly. "It is an obligation that you simply cannot abdicate. Perhaps you can begin by expressing your sincere contrition to Inos privately."

Lorio, for whom apologies had never come easily and who was secretly intimidated by the Metocan leader, nonetheless acquiesced. Artumas smiled encouragingly and then added, "I would also have you cry the pardon of Tier Marshal Arminda. Though it may seem trivial in comparison to the lives lost on the plaza, the way you left her in my chamber was...deeply humiliating. She is a woman of boundless courage and she did not deserve to be denigrated in such a fashion."

Lorio averted her eyes and flushed in shame at the recollection of the number of occasions when she had heaped her disdain and violence upon the diminutive Jerhia. "I'll speak to her before the day is out...and to the Grand Mage as well. There is a part of me that seems to derive a perverse glee in humiliating others. I would like to claim that this flaw was inculcated into the marrow of my being by the life that I was forced to live while growing up, but I'm self-aware enough to discern what a cynical lie that would be."

"Lorio, where were you born...where did you spend your childhood," Artumas inquired and she cast a suspicious glance at the king. In his open, earnest face, she could discern only a sincere desire to understand some of the formative experiences that had shaped her life and her tempestuous personality.

It occurred to her that no one had ever asked these particular questions...not even Islena...as if the details of her life were simply too mundane to be worthy of even the shortest discussion. This grim realization left her feeling ineffably depressed and every bit as inconsequential as her internal tormentor claimed she was. With no small degree of reluctance, she disclosed, "I...I don't really know where I was born. My Mother was a Vardyaran...I think and I seem to possess some of the Vardyaran features, like she did. Her name was Evora and she died when I was four...of the flux. I recall watching...and not really understanding...while my weeping father buried her in a shallow grave on the edge of a farmer's field, though I can't, for the life of me, recall exactly where. I can't really visualize her face anymore...only certain disjointed features, like pieces of shattered pottery...but I'm certain that she was lovely in the way that a mother must appear to a young, impressionable child for whom she seemed to be the very center of the universe."

Lorio paused to brush absently at the warm tears that had begun to course lazily over the ridges of her prominent cheek bones. As he watched her speak of her past, her normal surly impatience was displaced by a capricious kind of melancholy and her intensity gave way to a descending calm...a placidity that bestowed upon her an aura of timelessness.

"As to your second question, the vast majority of my childhood was spent on the road in perpetual movement. I am Lamish as you know...with all of the cultural baggage that entails. We wandered aimlessly...always in motion...through all of the western countries of the Eastern Continent. I recall how, as a small girl, I would feel ineffably sad upon leaving some of the towns and villages we had visited. They were so lovely and the people there seemed so vibrant and brimming with happiness. I thought that perhaps their happiness came from having a sense of place...that natural feeling of belonging to something...permanent. Cynicism is a quality that is engrained early in the children of Lamia, and by the age of eleven I realized that our constant movement was not so much motivated by our irrepressible migratory spirit as it was by the fact that we had over-stayed out welcome at whatever village we happened to find ourselves at the moment. I also came to discover why we were always marginalized to the fringes and never allowed to stay in the towns proper."

"I'm sorry, Lorio...that such a beautiful child should have been forced to endure such a harsh _awakening_ so young...is lamentable," the Emercian King remarked with a note of authentic regret in his voice. In anyone else, this expression of sympathy might have seemed like a hollow platitude, but Lorio never for an instant questioned Artumas' sincerity.

She offered the Emercian a humorless grin. "I'm not an ingénue, Artumas...the Lamish were deserving of much of the disdain and prejudice they incurred. We are thieves and cutpurses...sometime worse. If we are held in universal contempt, it is often well-warranted. Still, I would not lament over the years of my childhood. I distinctly remember the sultry summer nights around campfires. There was always an abundance of music and dancing and tales that would set a young girl's heart racing and her imagination ablaze. If I never knew the comfort and security of sleeping under a roof and in a bed, I did not feel deprived." She paused and shyly shifted her gaze to her hands. "Life seems determined to disabuse us of our every delusion and only now do I realize that the Lamish way of life is more in keeping with pariahs and hunted criminals. The things that I was forced to do to other people were despicable and have left an indelible stain on my soul."

Artumas frowned questioningly and so Lorio recounted the story of how she had beaten unskilled opponents in contests of the staff...leaving many permanently infirmed.

"Lorio, that a father would force his own daughter to engage in barbaric contests for the amusement of his clansmen is unconscionable beyond words," Artumas declared. "You can hardly be held accountable for his depravity."

Lorio shook her head adamantly. "Don't be so quick to absolve me Artumas. I enjoyed it...the acclaim and cheers of my people...and the sense of empowerment. I especially derived pleasure from hearing the men who were forced to fight me plead to give up...beg me to stop hitting them. The naked fear in their eyes was like the sweetest of wines for me."

Artumas' countenance had become grim as he listened to Lorio confess to the state of euphoria these deplorable contests had inspired. "Lorio, violence is an addiction of the blackest sort. Once we succumb to its ugly temptation, it can lead us to the lightless corners of our soul where only hatred and savagery can flourish. You have recognized your culpability, where you just as easily could have offered excuses and hid behind the mantle of victim. That you did not speak eloquently of your integrity, even if you seem determined not to acknowledge it."

Lorio shook her head and admitted, "I've never been accustomed to kindness. In fact, I tend toward a posture of distrust whenever someone exhibits the slightest hint of concern...suspecting that they hold motivations that are far from noble. In you, Artumas, I see a rare commodity; someone whose concern for others seems genuine and selfless."

"Lorio, in the years of my solitary exile, I had a great deal of time to reflect on what it meant to lay claim to the mantle of king. Sadly, most people seek the throne to assuage the demands of their ego and to validate their belief in their inherent superiority. Though my intentions were well-meant, I was not entirely exempt from the arrogant belief that my perspective of the world was the unvaryingly correct one. I now see that a worthy king must be prepared to crush his ego to dust beneath his boot heel. He must be willing to seek the wisdom and advice of those who possess a deeper understanding of events and situations upon which he must deliberate...even if that advice runs contrary to his own way of thinking."

"The ways of kings are far above my station, Artumas," Lorio observed dryly, "...and understanding."

"I suspect that time will prove you wrong on both counts, good lady," Artumas disagreed and then continued to expound on the requisite characteristics of one who is genuinely fit to rule. Though she could feel the exigency of her need demanding that she disclose the purpose of her request for an audience, Lorio found herself strangely captivated by his discourse...as if he was imparting pearls of wisdom that would serve her well...in the future. "I have come to see that the one characteristic that a legitimate, _meaningful_ king must possess above all others...even a love for his people...is the faculty of empathy. The ability to gain a sense of what it must be to endure pain or experience emotions evoked by circumstances through which we've never lived personally...this is an attribute that will allow a ruler to know the aspirations, plight, hopes and disappointments or those from whom his own lofty situation is so far removed. If we should survive this turbulence and should the people of Emercia again accept me as their king, this is the objective I have set for myself; to strive to see the world through the eyes of all...from the thriving noble to the impoverished peasant. Through empathy, perhaps it is possible to seek out the commonalities that may be of universal benefit so that none will be disenfranchised."

Lorio listened raptly, though she privately regarded Artumas' egalitarian vision for the new utopia as a hopelessly romantic child's fantasy. Bitter experience had taught her that most people were self-centered, morally ambiguous wretches, driven by avarice. Idealism, such as the type espoused by Artumas, would find no purchase in the bitter soil of the average human heart.

Lorio said none of this. Instead, she inquired softly, "Artumas, before I speak of why I requested an audience, may I ask a question?"

"Of course," Artumas said encouragingly, though privately, he suspected that her query would be nuanced and...challenging.

"Why did she do it?" Lorio blurted and the degree to which this rather vague question troubled her was conveyed in every word she uttered as if she was regurgitating something ineffably vile. "I have felt her corruption...intimately...and know that she is a black vessel of malice. Myrhia is bereft of even the tiniest spark of compassion...so why did she save me...or heal Arminda?"

"Lorio, I doubt that there is another living soul less qualified to comment on Myrhia's motivation than me. In the matter of expunging your virulence...I suspect that Myrhia's reasons were manifold. I believe that she saved you to mollify Islena. The dynamic that exists between these two bewilderingly complex women is beyond my ability to fathom, but they seem bound together by a mutual need. There may be a more pragmatic reason as well; I think that Myrhia may have been attempting to determine the strength and disposition of this darkness that purportedly infects Islena." He stopped momentarily and absently rubbed his temple. "If so, then what she discovered in that audience chamber has left her shaken and profoundly disturbed...as were all who witnessed the harrowing spectacle."

"This corruption that everyone believes resides in Islena's essence...do you think it is as dangerous as is commonly held?" Lorio asked in a tone that was both tentative and somber.

"Yes!" Artumas responded immediately, the harsh timber of his voice conveying both conviction and undisguised apprehension. "What capers...sequestered in the black corners of Islena's external soul...is unadulterated evil, tainted by madness. Myrhia may be the keen blade poised at the throat of the world, but the voracious entity within Islena is a greater threat still."

Lorio's brow furrowed and she accepted this dire evaluation with a grave nod, "And Arminda...why heal her?"

Artumas drew in his cheeks and exhaled sharply, "That was by far the more baffling gesture. If I was to speculate, I would guess that Myrhia is affronted by Arminda's almost manic desire to play the role of sacrificial pawn to the exigent demands of the moment. I suspect that concept is abrasive to Myrhia's egocentric sensibilities."

Lorio accepted this with a tacit nod, her large eyes narrowing at the vivid recollection of Islena's pummeling the Jerhia into unconsciousness when Arminda had volunteered to be a sacrificial pawn on the fringes of Purgatory.

Islena's assault on the diminutive Jerhia had been both brutal and shocking. ' _The Islena I first met never would have been so ruthless,'_ Lorio thought with a grimace. ' _Still, Islena has...changed.'_

"Why have you asked to see me, Lorio?" Artumas prompted gently, drawing the immortal from her uneasy reverie.

Lorio considered the Emercian King in silence for several moments as if trying to weigh his capacity to accept the truth of what she was about to convey. In a flat, dispassionate voice, Lorio disclosed the exact shape of Islena's scheme to vanquish Myrhia...and forestall her own ascension. Only when she came to her own terrible role in Islena's dizzyingly audacious plan did Lorio's smooth voice become tremulous.

Conversely, While Artumas listened to Lorio unfurl the minutia of Islena's desperation-fuelled gambit, his agitation became palpable, further exacerbated when Lorio moaned, "Do you see Artumas...she's asking me to kill her...to destroy the one thing in this world that I hold precious? Islena insists that it is this love I harbor for her that will steady my hand and provide me with the resolve to commit this monstrous act. I have scoured my heart, Artumas, for some reserve of courage that would allow me to comply, but if the world's salvation hinges upon my ability to drive my Zarcyk into Islena's heart at the appropriate moment...then we are all doomed."

Artumas attempted to summon an appropriate response...a sugar-coated euphemism that might momentarily placate tortured Lorio's heart, but found that he had been reduced to an impotent silence. Islena's great scheme was beyond audacious...it was reckless folly, pure and simple. Artumas could scarcely imagine the fraught state of mind that would inspire such a bewilderingly extravagant risk. If nothing else, Islena's willingness to accept immolation served as an affirmation that she viewed her apotheosis with unbearable dread.

"You witnessed what happened in the plaza, Artumas," Lorio continued, flagellating herself with her failure as if love and humanity were weaknesses. "Islena was at my mercy and helpless and despite the grievous wound she had inflicted upon me in Purgatory...despite the enormity of the hatred I thought I harbored for her...it required only one glimpse into those lovely green eyes to turn my blades aside. I need you to know this, Artumas...I need you to _empathize_ with the untenable position into which I've been thrust."

Still unable to give voice to his own inner turmoil, Artumas enfolded an unresisting Lorio into his arms, holding her in silence while the immortal's body shuddered violently against his chest. When, at last, she had regained a measure of her customary composure, Lorio disentangled from the aging king and rasped, "There's more."

"More?" Artumas echoed dully, sounding ridiculously inane to his own ears as if he had been bludgeoned senseless by all that Lorio had divulged and could tolerate no more. He suddenly felt certain...an unwelcome inkling that chilled his heart...that Lorio's next revelation would strike an intimate and painful chord.

She frantically described that nightmare that had disrupted her sleep, trying to communicate some of the profound sense of panic that this night terror had inspired. "The images were disjointed fragments coming to me in a stuttering series of intense flashes bathed in alternating waves of light and shadow." Here, Lorio's right eye twitched and she fixed a disconcerted Artumas with a fretful gaze, rife with anxiety. "Though the specifics were vague...veiled in a distorting haze that was more confusing than anything else...there was no mistaking that Islena was frightened and in extreme pain or under intense duress. I could hear distant echoes of screaming, but they were oddly remote and lost beneath a howling wind. Islena was...was chained or somehow restrained and cold, like she had been frozen by the icy breath of something mammoth and willfully wicked."

"How can you be certain that this was...a shared experience and not a...a portent or merely a stark and vivid nightmare?" Artumas stammered, thought the Emercian was already well along the dreadful path to grasping what it was that Lorio had experienced.

"The sensations were too pronounced...too painfully visceral," Lorio argued, refuting the notion that this episode was nothing more than a simple nightmare...or a presage of something to come. "Artumas, you must believe me; I wasn't seeing this like something felt vicariously. I was _sharing_ Islena's torment."

"How is such a thing even possible?" the Emercian King heard himself ask, even as he castigated himself for being so vapid as to admit his indiscretion to Myrhia.

"When Myrhia planted her rank seed in my flesh, the process established a sort of psychic tether between us. We could communicate over vast distances simply by envisioning the other in our thoughts. It is in this fashion that Myrhia exerts control over her conventional Morticants," Lorio explained in a tone that was edged with welling hysteria. "When Islena impaled me during our confrontation in the Land of Shades, her puissance supplanted Myrhia's. It never occurred to me that this may have also created a similar astral link between the two of us."

"Then you are saying that you may be able to reach out to Islena whenever you choose?" Artumas inquired excitedly, grappling to assimilate this alien, mystical concept and the myriad of potential applications such ability would hold.

"Yes...I think," Lorio hissed anxiously, "but Artumas...Islena is suffering horribly. We can only surmise that it is the deplorable bitch who is responsible...using cold as an instrument of torture." She gripped Artumas' right arm and squeezing it painfully, implored, "We have to do something to stop it...to intervene somehow."

Artumas regarded Lorio with an expression of impotent frustration and something that may well have been...inexplicably...guilt. He rose to his feet and turned away. Roughly scrubbing his neatly trimmed beard with his right hand, he made a fist with his left hand and slammed it down on his thigh, cursing his ineptitude when it came to grasping the complex labyrinth of the female psyche. In a rush of self-loathing and shame, he muttered, "What have I done?"

Lorio blinked as if she might have misheard. In a low voice, churning with welling anger and puzzlement, the immortal demanded, "What are you saying, Artumas? Do you have a sense of what is happening to Islena and why?"

Artumas turned back to the Lamish beauty and the conflict raging in his eyes was a vivid thing...like a pyre. He correctly surmised that his disclosure might well eviscerate the tortured Lorio...a final acute cruelty that would propel her into the abyss of despair.

' _If Islena can be reached and the precise nature of her peril determined, Lorio will be the medium through which it will be accomplished,'_ the dispassionate pragmatist in Artumas' manifold nature informed him...an aspect of his character that he had long despised. Worse still, the virtuous portion of his nature would not allow him the convenient luxury of evasion...which struck him as darkly ironic considering that it was this self-defeating honesty that had landed him in this predicament in the first place. Making no effort to trivialize his own duplicity, Artumas recounted the events that had transpired when Islena had visited him in his chambers two nights prior.

As she listened to the Emercian King describe how Islena had literally burst into his quarters...an intrusion that had eventually culminated in his bed...the color drained from Lorio's face.

' _Perhaps now you see the truth of the matter, girl,'_ her father whispered in triumphant vindication. _'This woman can be faithful only to her accursed destiny.'_

Trembling violently, Lorio turned away from the Emercian King, for whom she suddenly experienced a flare of hatred that was blinding in magnitude. It took all of her imperfect discipline not to throw him to the cold stone floor and beat on his face until it had been reduced to an oozing pulp of bone, blood and brain. Above that keen hatred there soared a mindless enmity toward the woman who had flayed the immortal's heart on so many occasions with seemingly callous indifference to the wounds she was inflicting. _'She left me to suffer in that wretched cell and went off to rut like a swine!'_ On the heels of that came the cutting self-condemnation uttered by the betrayed since time out of mind. _'What a pathetic fool I've been!'_

Lorio succeeded in leashing her violent impulse, but could not repress the expression of seething contempt as she demanded, "And you actually shared this with Myrhia?"

"I did," Artumas admitted flatly, "Though in truth, she somehow already suspected. She is not easily deceived and I am a woefully unskilled liar. She swore that she would take no retaliatory actions if I was forthcoming."

"And you were so foolish as to take her at her word?" Lorio roared, her indignant incredulity echoing like thunder in the small confines of the storage room.

"Again...yes," the king confessed and in his somber tone, Lorio could clearly discern the resonation of disgust that he held for his own gullibility. "Lorio, I know how you feel about Islena and..."

"You have no idea how I feel, Artumas...and clearly, neither does Islena, Contrary to what she claims," Lorio erupted, but before she could succumb to the dark allure of anger, a glacial calm descended upon the immortal; a stolid determination to compartmentalize this latest soul-scarring wound and concentrate only on what was required by the exigency of Islena's latest self-induced debacle. "I will not hear your apology and we will not speak of this again."

She turned back to face the aging king and her wounded expression was conspicuously absent, replaced by an aloof demeanor befitting a queen. "For all of your lofty ideals and grand aspirations, you are only a man, Artumas...possessed of all the vulnerabilities and failing that your gender is inclined to have. Both Myrhia and Islena are extraordinarily beautiful women, so it is only natural that you would be powerless to resist their advances. What matters now is determining what exactly has befallen our _would-be savior_ and devising a method of extricating her from your folly. I may be able to traverse this tether of ours and discover if anything can be done to help Islena."

"If you are able and willing, I will arrange for an emergency conclave with the leaders of the CornerStone Nations, where you may also apprise them of Islena's intentions," Artumas offered in a voice that was uncharacteristically tentative. "Perhaps the Metocan can facilitate your efforts to reach out to Islena."

Lorio's only reply was a decidedly sour frown and a slight bow, which the despondent king returned before drifting to the door. Before he could depart, Lorio declared, "Artumas, the gown I wore...on the day I deceived you into speaking to the coalition leaders on my behalf...I would like it brought to my new chambers. Perhaps it is time that I am perceived as something other than an unpredictable savage."

Artumas regarded her with a sorrowful frown and remarked, "I'll see it done at once. Once your new chambers are prepared, I'll dispatch Captain Esuruban to escort you to your new accommodations. Hopefully, we can meet before the mid morning bell."

Lorio signified her satisfaction with a curt nod and then added, "Don't fret Artumas...perhaps something of benefit can come of your indiscretion after all."

He considered the immortal with a quizzical grin and she elaborated, "I told you that I was torn by ambivalence, miserably conflicted about my ability to fulfill the purpose that our _savior_ has set before me. With your candid disclosure, I believe that conflict has been emphatically resolved."

Lorio abruptly turned away as Artumas' eyes widened in consternation. Fearing that to speak would only serve to aggravate matters, Artumas quietly withdrew, leaving Lorio alone with her pain.

Chapter Twenty-One

1

"So you feel you are ready to return to the firm on a full time basis, Ben?" Ken Larkin inquired in a tone that was guardedly neutral, though Richards felt certain he could discern the slightest intimation of doubt beneath the smooth, judgment-neutral delivery. Larkin was Johnson and Nasion's newest junior partner...a position that Ben had dreamed of attaining before Myrhia had appeared to reduce such aspirations to detritus. The distasteful task of assessing Richards' suitability for return to full time employment had fallen to him and it was eminently clear that it was not a duty he relished.

' _Your personal jaundice has cast the world in an ugly, cynical light, Ben!'_ the vile bitch whispered derisively in his thoughts and went off in a tinkling peel of laughter that reminded Richards of breaking glass. It required every vestige of Ben's much abused discipline not to grimace at the sound of the loathsome voice, but Larkin was watching him intently, searching for the slightest suggestion of lingering instability. Richards desperately needed to be reintegrated back into the fold and he couldn't afford to provide this corporate automaton, with his day-glow tan and blindingly white, perfect teeth, with the slightest reason to recommend that Ben might require more time to settle his personal tribulations.

"Perfectly," Ben rejoined, exuding an implacable confidence that he knew was contrived. He offered Larkin a reassuring smile that caused the other man to purse his geometrically precise lips.

Larkin leaned slightly forward and tented his long, manicured fingers like a potentate deliberating on some trivial matter that was hardly worth of his attention.

' _Except this is my life, you posturing, officious fuck...and my son's life and we have nowhere left to turn,'_ Richards wanted to rage as if a strident wail of despair might touch an empathetic nerve in this corporate robot's wasted soul. Fortunately, Richards managed to retain a grip on his composure and calmly wait while Larkin decided his fate.

It has been just over nine months since Myrhia had abducted his son, Allan and nearly three years since the day Islena had vanished like a stage prop in a magician's illusion.

Had it not been for his responsibility to his remaining son, Donald, it was entirely probable that Richards would have surrendered to the gravitational pull of his despair and guilt. Combined, the two were a crushing, poisonous brew that would have swept him into a morass from which there could be no escape.

Perversely, Ben had drawn his strength to persevere from the perpetual shadow that now lay across the boy's brow like a storm cloud that would neither move nor dissipate.

Once a naturally happy and extroverted child, Donald had retreated behind a nearly impenetrable wall of brooding reticence, but Ben refused to compound his already colossal failure by standing idly by and permitting the boy to become entombed with his misery in a coffin of stoicism. Thus, he devoted himself to making every effort to draw Donald out...to engage him in activities that might provide some measure of solace to a boy who had witnessed a large portion of his world being inexplicably obliterated.

Yet even Ben was incapable of the degree of self-delusion required to believe that his son's response to these attempts was anything more than exasperated tolerance. Worse still, Ben had noticed of late...whenever he thought that his father was distracted...Donald would regard Richards with an accusatory expression rife with scorn.

' _Which is only natural,'_ the voice of the loathsome bitch chided lightly. _'He was always a perceptive child and you did, after all, enthusiastically invite the fox into the chicken coop.'_

Still, Ben had clung obstinately and tenaciously to the charade that his doting indulgence was actually a comfort to his troubled son. He fought frantically not to dwell on Islena (the sound of whose voice, ironically, he could no longer accurately conjure) or Allan...compartmentalizing the pair deep in his subconscious like a man burying the bones of his misdeeds deep in the forest. Like all restive ghosts, Islena and Allan were not so easily silenced and by small, barely perceptible increments, their memories would burrow into his consciousness, exploding in his thoughts in a torrent of acute loss and unbearable shame.

As with most forms of torment, the worst of these episodes often visited a weary Richards in the dead of night. She came to him then...Islena, but she did not speak. Indeed, any words would have been redundant. The baleful glare in those expressive green eyes was more than adequate to convey the full extent of the immutable loathing and contempt his lost wife harbored for him. She would simply watch him during these excruciating nocturnal visits...like a mute sentinel of pristine hatred.

The subconscious is ever inventive in its desire to scourge the soul with its own deplorable failings and in the worst of these nocturnal excursions, Myrhia would manifest beside Islena. For some unfathomable reason that Richards could not decipher no matter how desperately he tried, she would throw her slender arm around Islena's broad shoulders in a bizarre gesture of camaraderie. While Islena would continue to glare silent daggers at Ben, Myrhia would simply laugh...a rich sound rife with disdain and mockery.

These episodes had plagued Ben incessantly over the course of the months between Allan's abduction and the day he had come to Johnson and Nasion to make his plea for re-employment. Islena's tacit condemnation and Myrhia's mirthful contempt had served as parentheses for those empty hours, when his defenses had eroded, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to the ugly truth of the wretched human being he had allowed himself to become.

He had suffered these recurring bludgeoning sessions with grim resignation...seeking to occupy the waking hours with absent distractions that would prevent him from dwelling on the unrelenting insistence of the truth he so desperately wished to avoid.

' _Come now, Ben...why flay yourself so?'_ Myrhia inquired sweetly from the shadows where nothing could dislodge her, despite Richards' every frantic effort to pummel her into merciful silence. She had become his millstone, the keeper of his irredeemable guilt and nothing could be done to jettison her foul presence from his thoughts. Now, as Ben waited anxiously for Ken Larkin to render a verdict on his only hope for even the illusion of normalcy, Myrhia forced him to acknowledge the damning desire that was growing in his heart like a rank weed.

' _There's a measure of catharsis...of serenity...that comes with admitting to our darkest inclinations...our blackest desires. Your guilt will live in that cesspit you think of as a soul...like a black amaranth that flourishes in the bile of your self-loathing,'_ Myrhia declared with the contrived earnestness of a Carney pitchman.

' _I speak from experience, Benjamin, when I tell you that you will find no absolution for your betrayal of Islena and Allan...but it is possible that you may reach an accommodation with that betrayal,'_ Myrhia whispered and there was a sly, tantalizing edge to her voice then that glided lithely across his senses as she explained, _'All that is required is a candid confession of your feeling towards Islena...more specifically, the way your genuinely feel about the prospect of her eventual return.'_

Richards felt his entire body shudder involuntarily, and though he wanted frantically to resist, Ben found himself examining the odd metamorphosis that his view of Islena's possible return had undergone since Allan's abduction. When Islena had first vanished, Ben had been thoroughly devastated, certain that, despite the instability of their marriage, his only fervent desire was to have Islena returned to him. It was as if her absence had effaced her myriad of imperfections and smoothed her intractably hard edges and cast her in a pristine light that bore little resemblance to the woman he had lived with.

With Myrhia's coming, like a brilliant explosion of light that pales and dampens everything by contrast, Islena had been pulled down from that pedestal and Richards had come to clearly visualize a future in which Islena Doraux was a fixture of the past...a springboard to a more glorious future where soul-crushing intransigence was an unpleasant thing...best left forgotten.

When events had exposed Myrhia for the lethal viper she was...Islena's memory was again transformed; the latest incarnation that of the blatantly aggrieved spouse...betrayed by her disloyal, shiftless husband with the very woman who had laid her life to shambles. Through the long hours of soul searching and self-castigation, an extraordinary notion had blossomed in Richards' guilt-addled conscience and despite its utter absurdity, he had seized upon it the way a drowning man would grope for a life preserver that had materialized out of thin air.

Islena Doraux, the woman whom he had married and who had bore his children...a woman who he had loved unremittingly...was an elaborate fraud. The idea was ridiculous of course and symptomatic of the severity of his trauma. Islena was the most pragmatic, grounded and _tangible_ human being Ben had ever known.

Nonetheless, once he had embraced this fatuous notion, Richards could not divest himself of the conviction that Islena Doraux was naught but a façade, beneath which existed an engine of indecipherable purpose. With absolutely nothing to substantiate the idea, Ben came to the conclusion that Islena and the mercurial Myrhia were cut from the same arcane cloth.

' _So at last you begin to grasp the fundamental truth that governs the farce of your union with the creature you would call your wife,'_ Myrhia whispered and her tone carried a puzzling note of exultant vindication that caused Richards to shudder involuntarily. _'It is for the best I suppose. There is nothing more piteous than a man who clings stubbornly to the dying vestiges of an absurd delusion.'_

There was something subtly different about the voice that whispered across the fabric of Ben's beleaguered mind. The voice that had taunted him over the last months had dripped with derision, its every utterance motivated by the obvious desire to degrade and wound...his subconscious employing the very instrument of his shame as a means of torment. The voice that purred to him now was soft and melodic...its words flowing in a fluid rhythm that was both tantalizing and alive with mystery and a hint of vague menace.

This was truly Myrhia who spoke to him now...the very creature who had propelled him to the intoxicating heights of blissful obsession, before casting him into the lightless pit of perfect desolation. The idea seemed preposterous upon first consideration, but in light of all the incredible things that had befallen him since this hellish ordeal had begun three years prior, nothing could be discounted as impossible. This was an authentic tone that even his guilt-contorted subconscious could not replicate...a discordant amalgam that was both seductive and emasculating. _'You see Ben, Islena lived a life that was little more than a distraction...a hollow charade meant to occupy the empty spaces until fate elected to reveal the latest wrinkle in her true purpose. You...the children; you were nothing more than incidental window dressing. I will tell you this, Benjamin...and you would do well to heed this warning; while you never genuinely knew the Islena who shared your life, pray to whatever gods there are that you never find yourself confronted by the entity that Islena is destined to become.'_

Admonition delivered, Myrhia's malign presence withdrew, leaving a thoroughly disconcerted Richards trembling violently.

In that macabre moment, Ben Richards found himself confronted by a revelatory truth that, while casting him in a despicable light, he could no longer ignore or deny. If it was within his power to script a denouement to this nightmare and establish a foundation for his future, Allan would be returned to him...and Islena would remain wherever she was. Then he and his boys could begin to rebuild their shattered lives.

Behind the initial wave of self-loathing that this candid admission evoked, there followed an enormous surge of relief as if he had purged something ineffably vile that had been poisoning him by slow degrees.

Time resumed its infinite march and Richards realized that he had been led through the complex labyrinth of intense emotion in the virtual blink of an eye. His extreme agitation had gone entirely unnoticed by Ken Larkin, who observed soberly, "Ben, you realize that, in the time you've been gone, there has been a dizzying spate of innovations on the technical side of our business. I think it's important that you understand that you'd be facing a pretty steep learning curve to bring yourself up to speed."

Ben offered Larkin a smooth smile of implacable confidence and replied, "I've diligently stayed on top of the advancements Ken and actually picked up the base packages of some of the software the firm has purchased, so I wouldn't fall too far behind. I'll be somewhat rusty obviously, but not completely oblivious."

"I'm impressed Ben," Ken Larkin remarked quite seriously. "That degree of dedication is certainly commendable...especially in light of the challenges you've had to face at home," he concluded awkwardly.

Ben conjured a wan smile, nuanced with just the precise hint of long-suffering tenacity. "Plunging into the latest technology was a kind of catharsis...therapeutic, I think; a double benefit of focusing on something other than my personal problems and keeping pace with the innovations that would make my transition back to work that much simpler. Win-win, I guess."

Ken Larkin nodded sympathetically and his next utterance made Richards feel like a detestable shit for his earlier harsh judgment of the man. This particularly unpleasant insight into his character was developing into something of a pattern that nonetheless lacked the requisite power to alter Ben's thoughts or actions. "Ben, I won't pretend to understand what you've had to endure over the course of these last few years. Frankly, I find the losses you've suffered incomprehensible and the fact that you are able to function at all...or are willing to attempt to take up the threads of a normal life is a testimony to your mettle. You're part of the Johnson and Nasion Family and your place here is secure as long as you want it...welcome back."

Larkin rose and extended his right hand, which Ben regarded dumbly for a moment, before rising on wobbly legs and accepting the handshake. In a voice made tremulous with emotion, Ben managed to express his gratitude. "You have no idea how important that vote of confidence is to me Ken...and I promise that it is one you won't regret."

Larkin smiled and settled back into his leather chair. "Your old office will be ready and you can start on Monday. There are two small projects that you can begin with...and both should serve to acclimatize you to the new procedures."

Ben was about to reiterate his expression of sincere gratitude when the flow of time came to an abrupt and jarring halt. He blinked to find that Larkin was staring vacantly, his wide-eyed regard focused straight ahead and his lower mandible hanging slack, giving the man a moon-eyed, vacuous expression that might have been comical under other circumstances.

Ben was assailed by a penetrating chill as the light in Larkin's office dimmed and the temperature plummeted like a pebble into an icy gorge. Richards could suddenly see his breath rising in frosty plumes and he hugged himself in a futile attempt to ward against the near paralyzing bite of deathly cold that had almost instantly turned Larkin's lavish office into an Antarctic deep freeze.

Ben's frightened gaze shifted to the hall beyond the glass windows of Larkin's office. The glass was now limed with frost, but beyond the thin panes, Richards could see staff moving along the carpeted hallway, completely unaware of the bizarre anomaly occurring on the other side of the frost-rimmed glass.

Richards attempted to rise, meaning to flee the office, but found that he had been somehow immobilized...his body unaccountably stiff and unresponsive. He considered crying out for help, but instinct informed him that his pleas would not be heard beyond the confines of Larkin's frigid office.

Seeing little other recourse, he returned his attention to Larkin, whose flesh had turned the color of someone who had been submerged in cold water for an extended period of time.

"Cold!" Larkin whispered in a weak voice that was barely audible and quavering with misery. "So...cold."

"Ken, can you...can you hear me?" Richards breathed tentatively, though the other man's vacant stare made it highly improbable that Larkin was even remotely cognizant of his presence.

"So cold...can't...feel anything!" The voice that slid from Larkin's blue and severely cracked lips was now shrill and poised on the edge of hysterical panic...and most definitely not Ken Larkin's modulated baritone.

Ben's eyes flew open like broken shutters as his heart began to palpitate in his chest. Though he wanted desperately to retreat from the horrifying truth of what his ears insisted they were hearing, there could be no doubt that it was Islena's voice that screamed hysterically, "SO COLD...PLEASE...NO MORE!"

This piteous entreaty degenerated into an inarticulate wail of anguish that rose through the octaves until Ben felt certain that it would reduce the surrounding glass to splinters and cleave his skull in the bargain.

Then, as quickly as it had commenced, the unmanning aberration terminated, though the unbearable cold and fading echoes continued to resound in Ben's dazed mind even as the office reverted back to its normal state of climate controlled comfort.

Ben's disconcerted gaze met Larkin's and for a brief instant, the two men shared a terrible moment of perfect empathy...the kind that is only experienced while enduring a logic-defying trauma for which no dismissive explanation can be produced. Then Larkin shook his head and Richards could see that intense emotion recede into the other man's subconscious thoughts, where it would be swiftly compartmentalized and forgotten.

In a subdued, slightly bemused tone, Larkin brought the interview to a quick end as if suddenly anxious for Richards to be out of his presence. "Well Ben, enjoy a restful couple of days and we'll see you first thing Monday morning."

Ben nodded absently and managed to make it to his feet and exit the building without incident.

He pulled open the car door and slumped behind the wheel, fumbling the door closed with a sigh of relief, before the full weight of his disturbing and macabre experience fell upon him like a collapsing building.

He gripped the steering wheel and closed his eyes, fighting to keep a tight rein on his roiling emotions. The voice had been Islena's...there could be no disputing that fact, even though she had been speaking through the medium of Ken Larkin's paralyzed flesh.

Ben's mind was beset by a frenetic blur of questions all clamoring for his consideration. Seeing no other way of quieting the din, he seized upon what he regarded as the two most salient queries; what exactly had he just experienced and why now...when he was taking the first tentative steps toward reclaiming his decimated life?

It seemed readily apparent that the two questions were inextricably linked and so he turned his attention to the first in the hope that its solution might be a natural progression to answering the second. After turning the harrowing episode over in his thoughts and examining it from every logical perspective, Ben dismissed the notion that the episode might be some manner of presage.

Islena's pain and torment had been real...radiating through the medium of Larkin's commandeered flesh in palpable waves, rolling through a transfixed Richards and causing his viscera to clench painfully. He had vicariously felt her misery and suffered the torment of the biting cold as it leeched vital warmth from her body. He had been distantly aware that something had been restraining her...binding her to the moment of misery and abjection. Such raw and fraught emotion could leave little latitude for argument. Wherever she was and whatever torture was being inflicted upon Islena, it had occurred the very moment that Ben had been sitting in Ken Larkin's office. Be it by natural empathy or deliberate intent, someone or something had opened a channel for the purpose of conveying Islena's present perilous circumstances to him...even though he was utterly powerless to intervene.

Though based solely on instinct and a liberal dose of conjecture, Richards accepted this interpretation as an article of truth, which led directly to the second of his questions....why now?

A titter of amused laughter filled the vehicle, startling Ben out of his fraught reverie. Thinking that the sound had issued from over his shoulder, he twisted around to discover that the rear seat was empty.

"What an unimaginative dolt you are!" this disembodied voice of Myrhia spat with seething disdain.

Ben's gaze was dragged involuntarily to the rearview mirror and a wounded hiss escaped his contorted lips. She sat in the back seat, her small, nimble fingers meticulously arranging the voluminous folds of her purple velvet skirts. Her mass of cascading raven tresses was held away from her smooth forehead by an emerald-encrusted circlet of gold that lent her daunting beauty an imperious aspect. "Don't bother twisting about again...even a dullard should realize that I'm not actually here in a tangible sense."

"You fucking cunt...what have you done with my son!" Ben raged, spittle flying from his lips and impotent fury deepening his color to scarlet. A part of his mind admonished him against such ultimately futile provocations, but his festering outrage and sorrow refused to be retrained.

Surprisingly, the enchantress did not respond to the crude vulgarity as she normally would. Instead, she observed, "How interesting it is that you make no mention of your wife's current state of duress, but only inquire after your missing son."

Ignoring Myrhia's incisive observation, Ben demanded, "You're doing this to Islena...why?"

"Your wife has a tendency to behave like a petulant, spoiled child on occasion...as I'm sure you're all too aware," Myrhia remarked with a vexed smile. "Like all willful children, she requires the occasional object lesson to help adjust her perspective. The more stubborn the child, the harsher the lesson required to make them more pliable. Again, I'm sure you'd attest that Islena is the very quintessence of intransigence."

"What about Allan...have you hurt him?" Richards asked, dreading the answer and loathing the helpless desperation in his voice.

"No," Myrhia declared gravely. "In fact, I have gone to extraordinary lengths to insure that no harm comes to Allan." Upon seeing Richards' expression of intense relief, she added teasingly, "Once Islena has fulfilled my needs, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that Allan will be returned to you."

"Islena will never serve you and we both know it. She would rather die than pander to a bitch like you," Ben snarled contemptuously.

"On the contrary, Benjamin...Islena and I have reached an accord, though in truth _accord_ is a palatable euphemism for her absolute capitulation to me."

Before Richards could raise a sardonic denial, a stark image blossomed in his mind. Islena knelt on golden sands with her back to an impossibly green ocean. She was naked and a collar, fitted with a glossy, segmented leash, was fixed about her neck. Myrhia stood next to a stunningly docile Doraux with her hand resting lightly atop Islena's slightly bowed head and the loop of the obsidian leash slipped over her slender wrist. The implications were exceedingly clear.

"No!" The single expression that slipped from Ben's lips sounded very much like a deflating balloon in sharp counterpoint to Myrhia's triumphant giggle.

"Why show me this...haven't you inflicted enough misery on my life?" Ben moaned.

Myrhia blinked and pressed her delicate fingers to the swell of her full left breast as though aggrieved. "Do you really think that my actions are motivated by malicious cruelty, Benjamin? I have allowed you to witness Islena's suffering out a sincere desire to assuage your guilt. As you struggle to take up the tattered threads of your woeful life, undoubtedly you scourge yourself with guilt over having succumbed to my seduction so easily...as if you might have actually been capable of resisting me. Islena, you might benefit from knowing, is enduring her moment of misery because she has developed a rather lewd penchant for spreading her legs for whomever might stir her rather heated blood...be it a vulgar Lamish whore, a creature that is not technically human and most insufferable of all...my husband. As I set out to douse those fires, it occurred to me that apprising you of her wanton behavior might help to placate your sense of guilt over your own wretchedly immoral conduct."

Ben attempted to respond...to invoke some acerbic refutation of Myrhia's scurrilous allegations, but the words eluded him. Despite his own unfaithfulness and the terrible consequences it had brought down upon his family, Ben was deeply wounded by Islena's adultery...something of which he would not have thought her capable. Despite his best intentions to disguise how profoundly her revelations had pained him, he was powerless to restrain the hot tears of humiliation that sprang to his eyes. "Why are you doing this to me...to what's left of my family? If Islena has surrendered to your control, can you just not take her, give me back my son and leave me in peace?"

"Poor impotent gelding," she cooed as if trying to calm a fretting baby. "If I actually possessed a heart, I might feel a twinge of pity for you...rather than regard you as a mewling slug that I would dearly love to crush under heel."

"Fuck you!" Ben spat around the jagged edges of his tears. "How are you even here?"

"Like many things in your life...that divine privilege is a thing of the past. However, feel free to conjure my image whenever you take yourself in hand," Myrhia mocked, her great dark eyes twinkling with sardonic amusement. "You have asked how I am even here and so I shall enlighten you. I live by the maxim that what falls under my gaze is mine to declare claim to if I so choose. I have staked a proprietary claim to your shriveled soul, Benjamin and thus I may reach out and torment you whenever the mood compels me. That a mediocre, inconsequential bit of offal, such as you, would soil...befoul...a creature of Islena's lofty stature offends me beyond the capacity of words to express. My first instinct is to efface you from the world in a blaze of bale fire, but your particular transgression warrants a far more protracted punishment."

Ben closed his eyes and between clenched teeth growled, "If you believe you've broken Islena's spirit, then you're a far bigger fool than I could ever be. The day will come when she'll crush your bones to powder."

A hollow note resounded through Myrhia's derisive laughter and she reminded him of the admonition she had first delivered back in Larkin's office. "You had best hope that this inopportune turn of events never comes to pass, Benjamin. Should you ever come face to face with Islena, you will rue the day you slid from your dog-spawned mother's birthing canal. Now, I'll leave you to wallow in the effluent of your miserable existence, Richards. I have an aspiring goddess to tame."

With this perplexing declaration given, Myrhia's projected aura vanished. Ben sat in silence for a protracted moment, fighting to regain his equilibrium. When he felt sufficiently composed to drive, he put the car into gear and pulled out into morning traffic, knowing that Myrhia had spoken the incontrovertible truth...he would rue the day he ever set eyes upon Islena Doraux again.

2

Lorio had closed her eyes and settled back onto her narrow pallet, attempting to mentally steel herself for the coming conclave. The prospect of facing the rulers' accusatory gazes was not one she relished, but she would meet them with her customary recalcitrance...unblinkingly unapologetic. She was, after all, the aggrieved victim and they could lay the blame for the carnage in the plaza squarely on the shoulders of the woman whose boots they had elected to lick.

She fought tenaciously not to turn her thoughts to Artumas' devastating disclosure...but her efforts to hold them at bay proved futile. Finally, Lorio relented and opened her mind to the discordant clamor of a choir of inner voices...some seeking to justify Islena's betrayal, while others sought to condemn Doraux for possessing loyalty to no one but herself.

Above the maddening din arose the only question that truly mattered. Why had Islena left her to suffer in isolation to seek pleasure and comfort in the bed of a man she scarcely knew? Worse still, knowing that Myrhia regarded Artumas as her personal property, why would Islena ever risk such a precarious tryst...the consequences of which she was now being forced to suffer?

' _If you insist on peering into this dark labyrinth, then you must be prepared to accept a host of ugly realities that will do absolutely nothing to relieve your torment,'_ a voice which she did not recognize whispered in her mind. The voice was erudite and definitely feminine...with intimations of wisdom and nobility accrued through long suffering. _'Still, my poor girl, if you ever wish to obtain any measure of peace in the long life that awaits you...it is a labyrinth into which you must eventually plunge."_

Perturbed, Lorio dragged the heel of her right hand across her teary face and decided to heed the stranger's advice. She first turned her consideration to the reasons for her immutable love for the mercurial Islena Doraux. Beyond the evident attraction of Islena's exotic beauty, the woman possessed a nature that was turbulent to the point of instability. Loving Islena Doraux was very much like attempting to love a raging tempest that left everything in its path dazed and decimated.

Time and again, Islena had abandoned Lorio whenever expedience or petulance demanded she do so. Islena had claimed that the love Lorio felt for her was reciprocal, but she had emphatically rejected her overture two nights ago...after giving herself to Artumas only the night before.

' _You will find no joy in loving Islena Doraux, child,'_ the stranger offered, its voice colored with the suggestion of pity. _'Her soul is in a constant state of flux and the woman you come to love today may be but a fading echo tomorrow.'_

Lorio shook her head in assiduous denial, even as she recognized the validity of the stranger's contention. Was it even possible to love someone whose nature was so inconceivably fluid and if you were to risk the effort, could you reasonably expect that your recompense would be anything other than heartache?

Lorio moaned and fetched a deep sigh, knowing that this knowledge would, in the end, avail her nothing. She had come to love Islena with an unremitting passion that was fueled by the very characteristics that made the woman so unpredictable...fierce passion that spun like a gyre and an indomitable spirit that would never bow to constraint or be bound by expectations.

Frustrated, she turned her thoughts to Islena's impulsive decision to turn to Artumas for comfort. Since the night in the Land of Shades, when Islena had returned from her parlay with that venomous bitch, Myrhia...Lorio had intentionally shied away from examining the indecipherable claim that Islena, Artumas and Myrhia shared an endlessly recurring intimacy. Theirs was a cyclical intersection of destinies that invariably produced tragedy and bloodshed with every successive collision of fates.

Lorio knew herself to be a simple woman and these staggeringly complex concepts and philosophies were beyond her ability to grasp.

' _But still you must try, Lorio,'_ the cultured stranger insisted vehemently. _'You have a critical role in what is to come and you cannot permit rancor or misgivings to deter you from your purpose. Islena's soul is...conflicted and flawed...and old beyond your capacity to fathom. In every incarnation, she has been drawn to Artumas like a moth to a flame...like a fledgling plant to the warmth of the sun. She could no more refrain from seeking him out in moments of extreme duress than you could stop loving her. It is a manifest aspect of her very nature.'_

"You speak as if you can possibly know the depth of my feeling for Islena?" Lorio spat to the empty store room, perturbed by this stranger's presumption.

' _I feel it perfectly, child,'_ the stranger murmured, its tone somber. _'It is the flame that is at once beautiful and sorrowful and it burns with a magnitude that is blinding to all who would set eyes upon you.'_

"Who...who are you," Lorio stammered, the stranger's precise and poignant analogy bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

' _My name is Guinevere and though it may seem incredible...Islena and I are one,'_ the stranger intoned quietly. _'We are two facets of a personality whose existence spans the river of time itself. I have sought you out to placate your torment, though now I fear that what I've divulged will only aggravate your pain. Such are the inherent dangers of meddling in fate's design.'_

Guinevere fell silent as though deliberating on this baffling notion, while a befuddled Lorio grappled with the idea that another aspect of Islena's indecipherable nature had taken up residence in her skull. When Guinevere again spoke, it was with a perceptible urgency. _'Lorio, when Islena thrust your Zarcyk into your heart, she essentially supplanted Myrhia as your mistress. While Islena may make a poor steward, she has nonetheless become the keeper of your soul.'_

"I'm not sure I understand...are you implying that I'm Islena's...property?" Lorio bristled curtly, though a portion of her mind was strangely aroused by the improbable idea.

' _I prefer to think that Islena has bound you to her on levels too innumerable to fully understand,'_ Guinevere explained with just a mild hint of impatient exasperation. Despite her refined serenity, Lorio deduced that this past incarnation of Islena was a woman unaccustomed to explaining herself. _'What matters at this moment is that this bond has granted you both reciprocal access to each others' consciousness. Islena is suffering, Lorio and I believe that only you can inspire her to shrug off the torpor she's fallen into. Please child...I feel the intensity of the love you harbor for Islena. Reach out to her and help her cast off the malaise that Myrhia's torment has plunged her into.'_

"I will," Lorio growled, suddenly infected by Guinevere's aura of exigency.

A quavering sigh of relief whispered through the frantic chambers of Lorio's mind and then the interloping presence withdrew.

Lorio pressed her palms over her eyes, a deep groan of dismay tearing from her heaving chest. She loved Islena, but now she had been given an irrefutable affirmation that the woman she aspired to love was but a tiny segment of a far greater entity. The concept beggared Lorio's fairly narrow sensibilities, but the irrepressible virago in her nature scoffed, undaunted by the prospect of loving something so...alien. With a defiant snarl, she vowed, "The pit take the lot of them. It's Islena I want...and it's Islena I'll have."

Never above acts of petulant spite, Lorio swung her feet onto the floor just as the door to her cell swung open and the handsome Captain Esuruban stepped into the storage area. A wicked grin turned the corners of Lorio's full lips as her eyes relished his lithe figure, with its narrow waist and broad shoulders. His chiseled face was highlighted by pale blue eyes and a shock of blond hair that reminded Lorio of strands of spun gold. _'You have a wanton side, Islena...well that is one trait we Lamish understand all too well. Let us see if I can stoke the fires of jealousy in those green eyes.'_

The captain bowed to Lorio and announced, "Your quarters are ready, good lady. The king has commanded that I escort you to your rooms and the conclave is set to begin within the bell."

"Well, if your king thinks that I'm going to arrive at his gathering looking and smelling like a swine from a sty, then he is in for a rude awakening," Lorio huffed with feigned indignation, privately delighted when Esuruban blanched at her impertinence. "When we arrive at my new quarters, you will arrange for a hot bath. As I am the least popular person in Othgol at this moment, I will require that you remain in my quarters while I bathe...to ward me against retaliation."

Now a thoroughly bemused Esuruban's expression shifted from exasperation to anxious confusion. He had heard (and discounted) that this woman was a dangerous Lamish she-devil, who apparently could not die. Gazing into those large, luminous brown eyes, it was well near impossible not to be bewitched by her captivating beauty.

Lorio could clearly glean the disconcerting effect that she was exerting over the discomfited captain, who obviously regarded his duty as a sacred endeavor. No words could adequately encompass the enormity of her hatred for Myrhia, but if her _object lesson_ could somehow chasten the wanton aspect of Islena's nature, perhaps she would allow Doraux to languish in her torment for a while longer.

In the interim, perhaps a harmless dalliance would bleed a measure of cheer into the dreary atmosphere of this oppressive city.

The Lamish immortal had no way of knowing that, by succumbing to this dissolute slant of thinking, she would eventually open herself to an addiction that would cast her in the most disreputable light.

She stood and feigned a stumble. As expected, the noble Esuruban surged forth to her aid. Lorio deliberately allowed herself to fall against the Emercian with her firm right breast pressing into his reaching left hand...even as her right hand trailed down his tunic and settled onto his groin.

The Emercian turned an alarming shade of scarlet even as he help Lorio stand upright. While he sputtered a frantic apology, Lorio gave his nestled manhood a protracted, appreciative squeeze, while smiling radiantly at the captain, who appeared on the verge of apoplexy.

"I'm feeling decidedly faint Captain...you may have to carry me to my new lodgings," Lorio quipped, though her expression was deceptively grave.

"Milady, if you are in need of a healer, I will fetch one at once," Esuruban declared, clearly scandalized by the immortal's lewd conduct.

Lorio laughed and clapped the Emercian on the shoulder hard enough to draw a frown. "I'm sorry Captain Esuruban. I'm making sport of you...lead the way."

Esuruban's frown deepened, but he nonetheless offered the lovely hieroglyph a stiff bow and moved off. Lorio followed, but paused at the threshold. Glancing back at the cluttered room with a scowl, Lorio made a solemn vow that she would never be confined against her will again. _'If you and your legion think you have free rein over my soul, Islena, then you shall find that I'm a most disagreeable pet,"_ Lorio thought and slammed the door with more exuberance than was strictly necessary.

She walked beside the Emercian soldier, through the gloom of the pre-dawn building, the hallways of which were mostly deserted. Lorio stole furtive glances at the handsome Esuruban, whose rigid posture hinted that he feared she might transform him into some manner of burrowing creature.

"It seems Captain Esuruban, that you find my company unsettling," Lorio observed with a slight grin.

Esuruban flicked a quick glance at the immortal, before returning his eyes to a center point at the far end of the hall. Selecting his words carefully, the Emercian managed, "I'm unaccustomed to dealing with a woman such as you, good lady."

Lorio came to an abrupt halt and roughly gripped Esuruban's right arm, her long fingers digging into his bicep like steel pincers. Rising temper lay on her smooth brow like a roiling thunderhead as she demanded flatly, "And just what type of woman would that be, Captain Esuruban?"

The Emercian's discomfort appeared to intensify until it seemed inevitable that he might literally explode from its internal pressure. After a moment, Esuruban stole a brief glance at his ensnared bicep, drew himself erect and replied, "Women who are naturally assertive...and boldly confident in all they do. This type of strength is admirable...and admittedly unnerving. Women in Emercia are demure and reserved as a rule."

Lorio arched a tapered eyebrow and pursed her lips; an expression that would become a signature trademark of the legendary immortal she was destined to become and one that was impossible to decipher with any degree of accuracy.

"It seems that you possess more craft as a diplomat than I might have credited, Captain," Lorio remarked seriously as she released her crushing grip on his arm and the pair resumed their march towards her new quarters. "By what skill would you stake legitimate claim to title of Commander of the King's Guard?"

"At the risk of sounding immodest, milady, I've been blessed with an appreciable measure of skill as a swordsman," Esuruban returned in an even tone.

"Indeed? Then perhaps you would consent to a friendly bout of sparring in the training yard...once I've dispensed with the bit of business to come," Lorio suggested coyly, having already decided that it would be Esuruban's talents in an altogether different area of swordsmanship that she intended to test.

Esuruban's brow became rumpled, his discomfort palpable even in the gloom of the inadequately lit hallway. "Milady, such a contest is something with which I do not feel comfortable."

"Do I sense the vexing ring of chauvinism in your reluctance, Esuruban?" Lorio inquired menacingly.

Now it was Esuruban who stopped and regarded the immortal with an expression that was part indignation and part bemusement. "Milady, my feelings on the matter are in no way intended to be disparaging. I serve the king and to engage in such a contest...irrespective of with whom...is unseemly."

Lorio leaned closer until their faces were only inches apart and her blazing, dark eyes filled Esuruban's vision like great dark stars. The smile that adorned her face held not the slightest hint of humor. "I have traversed the very realm of hell and have beheld horrors that would shrivel your manhood, Esuruban. I have suffered beyond reason and have sacrificed everything I loved to bring your once and future king back to civilization...while you served the very personification of evil. Don't you dare lecture me on duty and dignity...the pit take both. Now, once I've found a way to extricate our savior from yet another snare of her own devising, you and I are going to spar in the training yard. If anyone should even imply that our training is _unseemly_ ...I will grind their face in the sand of the yard." With an impish grin, she added, "I promise Captain; I will not hurt you...at least, not overly so."

Esuruban began to object...the words of protest rising to his lips...but abruptly bit back his rejoinder. The fierce light of intransigence shining in those limpid brown depths would brook no argument. "Very well milady...with the king's permission I will join you in the training yard.

"The pit can take the _king's permission,_ Captain," Lorio grumbled, even as her grin became radiant and she clapped her hands in delight. "Now, let me take a few moments to prepare for this conclave."

They came to a set of onyx black double doors that had been inscribed with a generous amount of gold filigree. Esuruban quickly stepped forward and opened one of the tall arched doors, before stepping aside and gesturing for Lorio to enter.

She crossed the threshold and came to an abrupt halt, her incredulous gaze sweeping the vaulted interior of her cavernous suite. The spacious interior was appointed with every amenity that Metocan Civilization could offer. Lorio turned slowly back to the Emercian with a grave expression set on her exquisite face and the nascent stirring of tears glistening in her eyes. "It may seem difficult to credit, but this is...the first time in my life that I've ever had a chamber of my own, except for dungeon cells and the odd wagon. The open sky has been my only ceiling since the day I was born. To be given such lavish quarters...even if they are only temporary...is overwhelming."

She peered directly into the Captain's blue eyes and an intense moment of pure empathy passed between the pair. Esuruban could feel a lump of pure emotion constricting his throat. Beneath the contrived façade of supreme confidence, the Emercian could discern the shadow of a young woman who had been routinely ill-treated by a cold and indifferent world, where the millstones of prejudice and cruelty relentlessly ground humanity and compassion into dust. "If the stories of your valor in the Land of Shades are even partially to be credited, then even this chamber is in no way commensurate with what you deserve."

An awkward silence enveloped the pair, before a twinkle dawned in Lorio's eyes. She stepped closer to Esuruban and inquired solemnly, "Be truthful Captain...do I smell like a bog beast?"

Esuruban's color deepened to an alarming shade of plum, but sensing that she would not desist, he leaned slightly closer and sniffed the air experimentally. To his shock, the Emercian's nostrils were swiftly filled with the intoxicating aroma of the immortal's essence. Unprepared for the sensory storm this simple inhalation provoked, Esuruban felt himself being picked up and slowly spun about as if borne on a gentle current of air...redolent with a thousand pleasing scents he could not identify, but which left him feeling giddy.

' _She's bewitched me!'_ he thought ruefully, but stammered, "Your scent is...quite agreeable, milady."

Lorio, divining the unsettling affect her proximity was exerting on the Emercian, smiled and floated away. "Then I'll forego the bath, but drape myself in something more feminine...in keeping with those demure Emercian women of yours. Then you may escort me to the conclave."

At the door to her bed chamber, she paused and remarked, "I'm most anxious to discover how your swordsmanship fares against my staff, Captain Esuruban. The coming of night may find you rather bruised and smarting, but I promise not to mar that face of yours...it's simply too pretty to abuse."

She was gone with a flourish and in her wake, Esuruban drew a tremulous breath and sagged back against the wall. The first son of an Emercian farmer, Esuruban cursed himself as a maladroit fool, even as he realized that he had somehow inadvertently caught the attention of a woman who could prove dangerous to him in ways he could scarcely begin to conceive.

Chapter Twenty-Two

1

"It seems that our obstreperous guest is as punctual as she is trustworthy," Tokizar observed irritably, mentally reckoning that the Lamish immortal was at least a half bell late in arriving...to a hastily arranged conclave that had convened at her behest.

"Patience, good lady, Esuruban has been dispatched to escort her, but Lorio has requested a short space of time to make herself presentable," Artumas observed, conveying a sense of calm he did not feel. "She has been confined in a storage room for three days and is still suffering the effects of her ordeal in the plaza."

"Forgive me if I can muster no sympathy for her plight, High King," The Metocan mage snapped. "Had this been any other country but Metocan, the impetuous animal would have been tossed in the Hiberas for her flagrantly provocative actions."

Artumas blanched at the raw animosity blistering in the normally placid mage's tone. Almost absently, Inos raised a hand and intoned mildly, "Enough Tokizar...if we were to dole out blame for the lamentable state of affairs and be judged by our painful mistakes, we would all find ourselves consigned to the Hiberas' fiery embrace."

Tokizar scowled and glanced away, but elected not to persist in her condemnation of the immortal, for which Inos was grateful. "Artumas, can you tell us nothing of what warranted rousing us from our beds in the dark of night?"

Beneath the casual query, Artumas could glean a gnawing tension that was reflected clearly on every face. The Emercian could clearly commiserate with their perplexed anxiety. The incredible events of the last few days had left each one floundering on a sea of uncertainty, with no clear notion of which direction might hold a tenable path forward. Artumas was dismayed by the knowledge that Lorio's forthcoming disclosure would do nothing to quell that anxiety.

Inos and a distracted-looking Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc exchanged glances and with keen reluctance, the Grand Mage began, "Artumas, while we await our contentious friend's arrival, there is another rather urgent matter that I would bring to your attention. I will preface this disclosure by admitting that we were remiss in not discussing this with your sooner, but we deemed it imperative that Myrhia remain ignorant of this situation; a debacle of which we have been the primary architects."

Artumas arched a quizzical eyebrow, but managed to maintain an even tone. "I would hear your concern, Inos...though my every instinct is informing me that they will only add another wrinkle of consternation to what is already a maddeningly complex weave."

Maroc and Inos exchanged troubled glances while a grim-faced Maktir uttered a grunt which Artumas could only construe as agreement.

"As Maroc initially commanded the Redian expedition, I think that it is best that he be the one to recount the tale of its grim journey," Inos suggested, regarding the Maxim Tier Marshal with what might have been a sly grin.

Maroc grimaced but nonetheless began to describe the critical junctures of the expedition's harrowing odyssey, including a stark recounting of the events at Dornsark Abbey and the first Redian clay mine. By the time he had concluded his narrative with a description of their parting of ways with Sygeanor, the Emercian King's countenance was grave and shadowed with profound foreboding. In a voice edged with simmering outrage, he demanded, "Could nothing be done to restrain this creature, whose every action blares of a proclivity for violence and a deplorable lack of fundamental humanity?"

Maroc bore this implicit criticism stoically. Patiently, he explained, "Artumas, there is a parallel to be drawn between my situation in Redia and our present predicament with Myrhia. While there can be no mistaking the explicit menace that Sygeanor has revealed herself to be, I simply lacked the requisite power to constrain her. By being duplicitous in her two acts of unbridled evil that I've described, I understand that I have left an indelible scar on Jerhia's integrity."

"I can corroborate Maroc's assessment, High King," Maktir observed darkly. "This Sygeanor radiates a sinister aura and she is an over-zealous, egocentric creature...fuelled by a terrible hubris. It was only when I felt the enormity and malevolence of the puissance she unleashed to destroy the mine in Redia did I fully grasp the extent of the danger she posed. The woman is unencumbered by conscience or sympathy. Her acts of ruthless expedience are every bit as odious as Myrhia's campaign of empire building."

"And yet we turned to this Sygeanor as if she was the key to our deliverance," Tokizar observed, casting a baleful glance at Inos that baffled the Emercian King, who looked to the Grand Mage for clarification.

Inos sighed, but refused to mitigate his own culpability in unwittingly unleashing Sygeanor on the world. He succinctly recounted the manner in which the half-Ulgak had rose to prominence, concluding by explaining the logic that he had employed in submitting to a dependency upon a woman who had already exhibited signs of...instability. "Believing that Islena was lost to us and fearing that this loss would plunge Metocan into an inescapable morass of despair, we concocted this scheme of striking a telling blow at Myrhia's source of clay production." Inos swept an arm about the room in an all-inclusive gesture. He frowned elaborately and then added, "In retrospect, it was apparent that our plan was hasty and ill-conceived, but I can honestly say that I had no idea that Sygeanor would prove to be so morally and ethically bankrupt."

"And what of her possible course of action...Do you believe that it is her genuine intent to purloin Myrhia's stockpile of _miracle_ clay?" Artumas inquired sharply, genuinely puzzled by an objective that could best be described as suicidal madness. "As a stratagem, the idea is woefully lacking."

The three leaders traded nuanced glances and in every eye Artumas could detect subtle intimations of reluctance and shame. "The Emercian Commander Tormal subscribed to the disturbing theory that while it was Sygeanor's intention to secure a large quantity of clay...this arcane amplifier...it was not her only intention." Here Maroc paused as if he could hardly credit the scope of the atrocity mad Sygeanor intended to perpetrate. "Tormal feared that Sygeanor intended to use this purported stockpile to obliterate the city of Nalosan...to serve as a demonstration of its properties as an arcane amplifier and to make it clear to Myrhia that she, Sygeanor, now possessed a power to rival her own."

Artumas recoiled as if he had been physically struck, the color draining from his face at the horrifying notion of laying the most populated city on the Eastern Continent to waste. He started to rise, collapsed back into his seat and finally dragged his fingers through his thick, graying hair. Fixing his bewildered regard on a thoroughly miserable Maroc, he demanded, "With this dreadful suspicion in mind, you still allowed her to leave the party and strike out toward Nalosan?"

"I did," Maroc allowed simply, showing no visibly affront to the scathing criticism. "If you could bring yourself to consider the circumstances from my perspective, you would come to see that I had no other viable option. I lacked the requisite means to forcibly compel her to return with us. As Inos has so astutely pointed out...without Islena, Sygeanor represented our only marginal hope of vanquishing Myrhia."

"So to perpetuate that hope, you deemed Nalosan to be an acceptable sacrifice?" Artumas growled tightly.

Maroc flushed with outrage for the first time in the belligerent exchange. Inos, fearing that an acrimonious exchange would inflict irreparable damage on the fragile coalition, rose quickly to his feet and interjected, "That is hardly fair and frankly rather scurrilous. Maroc handled an impossible situation as adroitly as circumstances would allow. Sygeanor is a problem that I am ultimately responsible for creating...and I must also claim ownership of her iniquitous acts."

Artumas shook his head morosely and then fetched a heavy sigh, "I apologize, Maxim Tier Marshal. As the man who is primarily responsible for seeing history's greatest villain to her seat of power, I can hardly render judgment on anyone else."

Maroc accepted the Emercian's apology with a tacit nod and then went on to elaborate on why he had made no effort to prevent Sygeanor from striking out for Nalosan. "Sensing that any attempt to restrain her would have resulted in catastrophic losses to the expeditionary force, I elected to let her leave. She conscripted Tormal and the Emercians into her party, but she also travels with a hand-picked contingent of Jerhia scouts. Their ostensible purpose is to provide escort, but upon my orders they have been instructed to _dispatch_ Sygeanor should she display the slightest inclination to enact her mad plan."

Such subterfuge would normally have struck Artumas as deplorably craven, but dire circumstances often rendered adherence to such principles impossible. He nodded his approval and then commented, "If what has been told to me bears even a passing resemblance to the truth, then even in her darkest moments, Myrhia hasn't committed such a heinous atrocity. That Sygeanor would even consider annihilating the most populated city on the continent is an act of evil the magnitude of which is simply unfathomable. Essentially, the world now finds itself confronted by two immeasurably powerful monsters...three, if we subscribe to the idea that Islena has within her the potential to evolve into an entity, whose depravity could dwarf the other two combined."

This dire pronouncement plunged the main chamber of Artumas' suite of rooms into a dismal silence. As had become customary since the onset of this crisis, it was Inos who attempted to sew a thread of optimism into this grim weave. "That certainly paints a very bleak portrait and if taken as a whole, the cumulative weight of our plight would crush us to dust. I suggest that we address our woes in more palatable portions. Sygeanor's vile ambition, while odious beyond reckoning, has only the slimmest hope of reaching fruition."

Artumas arched an eyebrow and grumbled, "I'm not certain that I see cause for your sanguine assessment, Grand Mage."

"Her Jerhia are a lethally competent knives poised at her back. Even if she should somehow manage to traverse the length of a hostile continent and reach Nalosan, she would find herself confronted by an impenetrable wall of Morticants. Knowing Myrhia as we do, there can be little doubt that she has sequestered her precious clay in a place that will prove virtually impossible to access."

Artumas had been gifted with a tactically innovative and agile mind, which immediately discerned a number of flaws in Inos' logic. He was about to give voice to his concerns, when the doors to his chamber burst open and Lorio sailed in like an invading army.

For the second time in moments, the room was plunged into absolute silence. The collective gaze that fell upon the Lamish immortal was one of astonishment. Adorned in a flowing skirt of the finest silks and satins and a snug bodice with a plunging décolletage that drew the eye to the deep valley of her breasts, Lorio was a living enchantment...perfection of feminine beauty personified. She had taken a moment to weave strands of freshwater pearls through her raven tresses, which cascaded to shimmering waves at the hollow of her back.

Having seen the immortal attired thus on one previous occasion, Artumas was the first to regain his composure. This vision of pulchritude was so drastically opposite to the lithe, competent engine of surly purpose that Lorio normally wore for the world that it was an easy matter to see how an observer could be struck speechless by her metamorphosis.

The dazzling, radiant smile she beamed at the enthralled conclave on served to augment the effect and Artumas experienced a stab of disquiet, wondering what hidden agenda might have inspired her choice of attire. It had been his painful experience that the prettiest screens often concealed the ugliest intentions.

"It's encouraging to see that your need to preen and glitter takes precedence over common courtesy," Tokizar observed churlishly. "Considering your past actions, I suppose it's to be expected."

Lorio strode across the room and came to tower over the Metocan, who flinched back into her seat in the face of the immortal's overt aggression. With radiant smile never faltering a whit, Lorio rasped, "I will make no apologies for my actions in the plaza, nor will I be made to justify possessing the courage that this collection of geldings obviously lack. I have been victimized at every turn, from every quarter and I have earned every drop of my outrage...paid for it thrice over." Her tone softened perceptibly and she added, "I genuinely feel sorry for those who lost their lives in the plaza, but if you wish to assign blame for their deaths, let it be squarely on the shoulders of the evil bitch whose arse you've collectively elected to kiss. At least I mustered the courage to try and end her mad ambition...even if I failed."

She lashed the chastened Tokizar with a final baleful glare, before spinning away and leaving the Metocan shaken in her wake.

Lorio next turned to Artumas and declared, "Before we turned to the matter at hand, good king, I have asked your Captain Esuruban to train with me in the gaming yard come eventide. He seems to believe that it is necessary to solicit your permission first, so I will ask you in his stead; do you have any objection to our sparring when he is off duty?"

Artumas shifted his gaze to Esuruban, who appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Still, his eyes were fastened on the tempestuous immortal like a child mesmerized by a shiny toy.

' _What game do you play at now, woman?'_ Artumas wondered, feeling a sudden twinge of pity for the unsuspecting soldier. "If he is agreeable, then I have no particular objection, providing he is returned to duty more or less intact."

Lorio smiled exuberantly and then turned back to the Esuruban. "Then it seems you are mine in the training yard come dusk, Captain."

As the immortal offered a flustered Esuruban a decidedly predatory wink and pursed her full lips suggestively, Artumas suddenly gleaned the vague shape of her scheme and though he could not quite discern its exact form, the king had little doubt that is was centered upon Islena. Esuruban was merely a pawn in the perplexing dynamic that existed between these two exceedingly complex creatures. Determined to protect his captain from Lorio's machinations, Artumas resolved himself to being present when the pair engaged in their contest come nightfall.

"Perhaps now that we are all present, we can turn to the matter at hand," Inos suggested with just the slightest note of impatience.

Sparing Lorio one final glance, Artumas rose to his feet and dismissed Esuruban. Once the captain had withdrawn, Artumas turned back to the other leaders and began to explain the reason for his nocturnal summons. "It was Lorio who requested an audience...her reasons are twofold and both will have a major influence on our course of action from this moment forth."

While the four representatives of the CornerStone Nations listened raptly, Artumas described the delicate scheme that Islena had devised for vanquishing Myrhia...and forestalling the threat _she_ posed in the bargain.

Always the most expressive, it was Tokizar who succinctly captured the new reality of their ever-evolving situation. "Then the future of our world...and every world beyond, if we accept Islena's story as an article of faith...hinges on the perfectly timed thrust of a blade."

"There is a certain irrefutable logic in Islena's plan, though it is founded on a number of tenuous presumptions," Inos observed, the delicacy of Islena's scheme causing his head to spin and his temples to throb.

Maroc frowned and shook his head in confusion. "I'm afraid her plan is a _progression of logic_ that I fail to follow. I understand how she intends to snare Myrhia, but should she actually succeed, why must Lorio forestall Islena's ascension by killing her? Isn't entombing the enchantress enough?"

"We all bore witnessed to what transpired in the audience chamber when Myrhia expunged the virulence from Islena's leg," Inos interjected solemnly. "The thing that infected Lorio was an entity of willful malice and only a tiny fragment of Islena's essence...or more correctly, the essence of the entity of which Islena is but a small sliver. Despite her seemingly limitless power, Myrhia was barely condign to the task of destroying this...malice. I believe that Islena is fully cognizant of the consequences of allowing this malice to gain access to the immeasurable power she will gain upon ascension. It seems that her intention to resort to voluntary immolation is meant to prevent this black juncture from coming to pass."

Without glancing at the intimidating immortal, Tokizar flung an accusatory finger in Lorio's direction and cried, "She had Islena at her mercy in the plaza and failed to deliver the killing blow. We would now entrust her with the task a second time?"

Restraining the urge to pounce on the mage, a grim-faced Lorio remarked, "I sought to kill Islena fuelled by an imperfect hatred. This time, I will see her to her end, inspired by a pristine love that would not suffer to see her become a monster. The distinction may seem slight, yet it is vast beyond your ability to grasp, Metocan."

The Metocan considered this response, her expression pensive and as if sensing Lorio's sincerity, she nodded...her concerns apparently mollified by the glint of fierce determination in the immortal's eyes.

"I understand that the delicacy of this plan is terrifying to consider and that there is a myriad of ways in which it can go awry," Artumas began gravely, "but I truly see no other viable alternative and I think that we must resolve ourselves to doing everything necessary to facilitate Islena in this endeavor. I have come to agree with Tokizar; the craven accommodation we have reached with Myrhia is odious. To preserve our own collective skins, we are prepared to accept the subjugation of countless other worlds. It is true that there is no immediacy...no accessibility in the astounding idea that the heavens are rife with other civilizations or more amazing yet, worlds that exist in parallel to our own beyond the fabric of time. How easy it is to eschew the notion of sacrificing our existence...the lives and futures of our children...for the sake of theoretical worlds we can scarcely envision, much less see with our own eyes. Yet, perhaps we _could_ develop a sense of empathy if we were able to envision these unseen civilizations from a different perspective."

Here, he paused...deliberately searching every eye...save Lorio's, who was painfully acquainted with the type of loss and sacrifice he was about to describe. "Yes, we could allow Myrhia to accrue the Proclamations and watch as she and an ascended Islena go upon their way. We might even cling to the dubious hope that she might even honor our agreement and leave this strife-torn world in peace. Yet if we do so knowing that our duplicity has condemned countless children to death or enslavement...or have broken the hearts of mothers who love these children every bit as much as we love ours...how could we possibly ever live with our craven reprieve, knowing that it was gained by the blood of those who had no hand in forging the vile Proclamations after which Myrhia lusts? I believe that the four of us are virtuous and noble men, who will come to see the intrinsic truth of what Tokizar so readily grasped. Thus, we must support Islena in her scheme as fragile and audacious as it might be. This scheme that Islena has contrived will allow us to retain our integrity and honor. Should it succeed, the only sacrifice required will be hers and it is a sacrifice that she has embraced willingly."

Artumas...the unflagging Champion of Light...fell silent then as the gravitas of the moment suffused the room and all present could feel the crushing weight of innumerable worlds bearing down upon them. Finally, Inos intoned, "Your impassioned argument is most eloquent, Artumas...and irrefutable. I believe the CornerStone Nations were founded on the principles you've just espoused. Through a monumental act of hubris, our ancestors created the Proclamations and only now are we seeing the culmination of their folly. It is our honor-bound obligation to rectify that folly."

He turned his solemn gaze upon Maroc and Maktir, both of whom nodded without any hint of ambivalence. Lorio, who had listened to Artumas' passionate entreaty from within a maelstrom of indecision, remarked, "You all realize that what you've essentially done here is condemn Islena to death and committed me to serve as her executioner."

Artumas came to stand before the statuesque beauty and gently gripped her shoulders. "We will do everything within our power to deliver you to that critical juncture, but Lorio, the fate of...everything that draws breath with ultimately be in your hands and your capacity to see Islena to the end she so desperately craves."

Lorio greeted his unblinking stare of appraisal with a brusque nod of stolid determination, but a slight twitching at the corners of her generous mouth informed Artumas that this purported act of kindness would eviscerate the immortal.

Still, the depraved workings of fate seldom made allowances for the devastation it caused and this beautiful, tortured creature had been shackled with perhaps the cruelest of all possible fates. Artumas sighed, despising his role in her suffering. Turning back to the others, he announced, "Before we plunge into a discussion of the means by which we can manipulate events to serve Islena's purpose, Lorio has brought a more pressing problem to my attention."

He then stood slightly to the side and gestured for the immortal to proceed. In a reasoned, modulated voice, Lorio recounted the specifics of her nightmare, making it clear that what she had experienced was a vicarious sharing of Islena's suffering.

"And you believe that it is Myrhia who is subjecting her to this abuse?" Inos inquired uncomfortably.

"Yes!" Lorio allowed flatly. "Artumas has provided a possible provocation for Myrhia's wrath, but as it relates to a long-festering grievance between these three, I see nothing to be gained by divulging the specific cause. What _is_ relevant is that your savior is in extreme danger and it is imperative that we determine if there is some way that we might come to her aid."

"I'm intuiting that you have something specific in mind?" Inos asked, casting a quizzical glance at Artumas, who averted his gaze to his callused hands.

With a rippled of unmistakable revulsion playing over her lovely features, Lorio explained, "When I was Myrhia's creature, we were able to communicate...seemingly instantaneously and over vast distances. If I needed to speak with her, I need only visualize her face and I would somehow find myself standing before her...sometimes in the most exotic locations. Once, I'm certain that I actually reached out to her when she was in Islena's world."

Inos inhaled sharply, Tokizar emitted a high-pitched gasp and dour Maktir grunted his skepticism, while Maroc merely shifted his gaze between the three in obvious perplexity. "You were able to traverse the astral planes," Tokizar breathed, her tone ablaze with an emotion that might have been envy, "Even between worlds? If you actually went to her in Islena's world, not only did you displace your consciousness to another world, but to an altogether different reality. This concept is stupefying and would repudiate everything we've held true regarding the essence of reality."

"If Myrhia can move freely between worlds, then why does she require the Proclamations at all?" Maktir queried, his craggy brow furrowed by the inherent contradiction Lorio's disclosure implied.

"I would suggest that even if Myrhia can displace her physical body through the slipstreams of time and reality, she is still tangibly rooted in our particular reality," Inos theorized, his voice rife with an academic fervor that grated on Lorio's jangled nerves. "The duration of these excursions is probably limited and her powers may well be severely curtailed by receding proximity from her body. Still, that she is even capable of such an unprecedented feat of transcendent travel is terrifying to consider."

Lorio heard this fraught exchange only obliquely as if she had suddenly been cloistered with the stark realization that she was hurtling towards a juncture that no amount of wishful thinking or no impassioned entreaty could avert. Like a herd animal in a pen, whose only forward path leads to horror, the tide of events was relentlessly, inexorably carrying her toward the moments when she would be expected to kill the one thing that had granted her wretched existence even the smallest modicum of meaning. The world might well be granted a reprieve if she succeeded and Islena would find the peace she so desperately sought, but what of her...what would be her recompense for the slaughter of the only source of light in her heart? She would be left with an eternity in which to rue the wicked day she had ever been born.

"Save the scholarly prattle for the lecture hall!" Lorio erupted in a tone that dripped venom. "I need to know precisely how I can reach out to Islena."

Now Inos and Tokizar exchanged quizzical glances and the Grand Mage ventured, "Lorio, can you not simply extend your consciousness...much as you did when you were under Myrhia's thrall? By what you described, it should be a simple, intuitive matter...partially inspired by desire."

Lorio's lips curled in sardonic derision. "Quite obviously it isn't or I wouldn't be here groveling for your help. It was Myrhia's sorcery that facilitated our communications. Now that I've apparently become Islena's creature that faculty is gone." She considered this and then amended, "Or perhaps it is just dormant. Islena is not Myrhia, however much you wish to paint her with the same brush."

"Why do you even assume that you can duplicate this _faculty_ with Islena?" Tokizar challenged.

Lorio repressed the urge to throttle the Metocan by only the narrowest of margins. "The vision I experienced was raw...atavistic and intimate. I didn't just observe her suffering, I felt it. When I first came awake, my breath rose in chilled plumes and my skin was blue-tinged and cold to the touch...despite the closeness of the room. I have no doubt that Islena reached out to me for help and now I need your assistance in heeding that call."

"There can be little doubt that what she is describing is genuine," Inos communicated wordlessly to Tokizar, who nodded her grave concurrence. To a tense Lorio, the Grand Mage inquired, "Lorio, I don't doubt the veracity of your claim. If you will permit me, I will help you locate this kernel of empathic bonding that must reside somewhere in your subconscious mind."

"You're talking about some manner of possession?" Lorio demanded, arching an eyebrow in suspicion.

"Not as you would understand the concept, Lorio. You would be fully cognizant and I would have absolutely no volition over your thoughts or actions," Inos corrected gently. "Think of me more as a guiding presence who will lead you to the place where the link to Islena has been tethered. Once we discover its source, the natural empathy that exists between you will draw your consciousness along the tether...directly to Islena."

"I would be granting you unfettered access to my most intimate thoughts, feelings and memories...is this not so?" Lorio whispered dubiously, clearly unsettled by the prospect of a violation she viewed as akin to rape.

Inos could clearly discern the extent to which the immortal was ill at ease and could clearly recognize its general shape and source. He reached for her hand and tried to placate her anxiety. "Lorio, on my honor, I will search only for the source of this empathic tether. Should I divine anything of a personal nature, I will respect your privacy and guard your secrets as if they were my own."

Lorio shifted her uncertain gaze to Artumas, who while fully aware that her capacity to trust was fractured beyond repair, nodded encouragingly. "Inos is a man whose integrity is beyond reproach."

The immortal chewed her full lower lip in a rare gesture of vulnerability that would have been incredibly fetching under other circumstances. "Very well, Inos...what would you have me do?"

The Metocan smiled and led her to a nearby chair, where he bid her to sit and close her eyes. She settled against the high wooden back and Inos silently directed Tokizar to place a plush satin pillow behind her head. To Lorio, he explained the rudiments of what he was about to attempt. "Visualization is the key, Lorio. This tether will most likely exist in the form of a nebulous point of light...very much like stars in the firmament. I want you to focus the entire sum of your cognizance upon Islena...upon every facet and nuance of how you perceive her and how she has impacted upon your life. Hopefully, I will be able to recognize the tether amidst the tangle."

Lorio nodded nervously and the Metocan could feel her reluctance emanating from the immortal in palpable waves. _'You are asking her to bare her soul to you,'_ Inos reminded himself, trying to envision how he would face the same proposition. "Lorio, I understand that this might seem like an enormous intrusion on your most sacred sanctuary. Our thoughts...the confines of our minds...these are amongst a sentient being's most precious possessions. Still, I would ask that you do not offer resistance to my presence. To erect barriers will only make the process all the more arduous and protracted."

The immortal nodded dutifully and after exchanging troubled glances with the others, Inos admonished Lorio, "I want to emphasize that this endeavor is not without its inherent perils. You are venturing into what is essentially uncharted territory. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that you could find your disembodied consciousness trapped in Islena's mind with no means of egress and her suffering literally would become yours. If Islena was to perish while you were trapped there, I could not predict what would happen to your spirit."

"It's a chance I'm willing to take, Metocan," Lorio rasped bluntly. "Now, if _you_ have the fortitude, plunge into this cesspit and give me the kick in the ass I need to find Islena."

Inos shook his head in bemusement and Artumas smiled at the irrepressible immortal's impertinent quip. The Grand Mage laid the tip of a long index finger on each of Lorio's closed eyelids. The immortal's nubile body went rigid as if she'd been struck by an errant bolt of lightening and a sharp gasp escaped her lips.

"Be calm, Lorio," Inos instructed softly, his voice serene and soothing like the gentle gurgle of a brook. "Open yourself to me and abandon your misgivings."

"As you wish, Metocan," Lorio murmured teasingly. With the speed of a striking adder, she leaned forward and threw her arms around the Grand Mage's lean torso, and drawing him forward, encircled his hips with her long, leanly muscled legs. Brazenly, she inquired, "Will this suffice, Inos or must you penetrate me as deeply as you would propose to burrow into my mind?"

While Tokizar uttered a disapproving grunt of disgust, Lorio brayed a spate of salacious laughter and allowed her head to recline against the pillow. Drawing a tremulous breath to disguise the extent to which the sensation of the immortal's bare legs against his hips was affecting him, Inos unfurled his spirits and projected it from its moorings and into the vortex that was Lorio's fraught mind.

2

Inos found himself standing on the edge of a frayed and crumbling escarpment, peering out over the yellowing plain that stretched, barren and evidently featureless, in every direction. There was something unbearably forlorn about this desolate place and to Inos' narrowed eyes it seemed as if he was gazing out over the topography of Lorio's prevailing despair.

"Not particularly inviting, is it?" a voice inquired, from everywhere and nowhere at once and the mage realized that this fulminating rumble belonged to his host. "There hasn't been much cause for optimism in the life I've lived, Metocan. If you look closely, you'll see the scars and unhealed wounds I've suffered laying across this metaphor I've contrived for your visit."

Indeed, Inos could now discern the signs of cataclysmic trauma and soul-rending upheaval, raw and oozing on the face of this desolate mindscape. "This infertile soil holds everything that I once cherished, Inos. Every dream, every broken promise and lost hope; they are all interred here. I've been accused of being impetuous...of being recklessly impulsive, but standing here and surveying the moldering state of decay that has come to symbolize of my life, can you honestly say that I would find anything in quiet introspection...other than crushing futility?"

Inos merely shook his head because what meaningful response could he possibly provide in the face of such stark sorrow. Finding his voice at last, he managed to inquire, "I see heart-rending desolation, Lorio, but every trace of Islena Doraux is conspicuously absent. If I am to help you locate the ephemeral tether, you must reveal her to me."

A low, fraught moan filled the heavens, rolling through the stale air like reverberating thunder. A section of deleterious stone, rotten and crumbling, sloughed from the escarpment face at Inos' feet. He scrambled back as it fell away, his heart hammering in his chest as he watched a great cloud of dust rise listlessly into the dead air.

' _How could anyone feel like this and still muster the wherewithal to stand upright,'_ Inos wondered miserably. _'The prospect of suffering this despair eternally would make death seem like the sweetest of mercies.'_

"You wish to see Islena as I perceive her...in all of her terrible glory?" Lorio inquired gravely. "Then, so you shall."

Lorio's conjured landscape abruptly convulsed and the Grand Mage was dumped unceremoniously to his knees. He scrambled on his hands and knees as close to the escarpment's edge as he dared.

' _How vulnerable am I here?'_ he wondered and shuddered involuntarily.

Before his frazzled mind could entertain the unnerving query, the essence of Lorio's Islena Doraux began to take shape over the fractured terrain of the mindscape and all concerns over personal safety abruptly vanished.

With a tearing scream that swiftly rose to intolerable levels of pitch and volume, the sprawling plain began to disintegrate. Great gaping fissures opened on the rolling surface, reminding the transfixed Inos of toothless maws. From these jagged rents issued great acrid clouds of what appeared to be steam the color of pitch.

Inos' bulging eyes swept the heavens, where the rapidly swelling cloud soon occluded the listless yellow sky. Suddenly, this horizon-spanning curtain contracted into a dense, churning vortex the black and purple of badly bruised flesh. Sizzling bolts of lightening streaked from the writhing mass, gouging out deep divots whenever one would come to ground. Each strike was accompanied by a strident howl of agony.

In the world beyond, Lorio...eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed...twisted on her pillow as her long legs contracted around Inos' waist like a serpent crushing a bleating sheep. The Grand mage threw his head back and his back arched like a drawn bow. To the transfixed witnesses, the pair resembled frozen lovers poised on the brink of passionate release.

Inos attempted to rise, mindful of the lethal bolts of lightening that were decimating the terrain, but found that he was immobilized by the horrible spectacle of Islena Doraux manifesting in Lorio's beleaguered consciousness.

Gathering speed, the massive vortex began to spin like a gyre, undulating in a rhythm that was both terrifying and profoundly mesmerizing. It moved across the sterile interior of Lorio's consciousness, wreaking havoc on its host, whose disturbing cries were a blend of longing and pain.

' _Can this truly be how she views Islena?'_ Inos wondered incredulously. _'Does she genuinely perceive Islena as a raging tempest that randomly brutalizes her heart? Yet, shackled by unflagging, irreducible devotion, Lorio can do naught but endure this torment.'_

Mortified by the concept of such self-obliterating need, Inos experienced a wave of intense pity for this creature that fate had elected to so callously abuse. An even more mortifying thought germinated in the Grand Mage's mind then; what if this was not merely Lorio's perception of Islena...but Islena Doraux as she truly was, with all disguises stripped away to reveal the ugly, malevolent core?"

As he watched the gyre ravage the fabric of Lorio's soul, Inos recalled the extrusion of pure malice that the enchantress had barely vanquished. To believe that the entity churning before him, like an infernal engine of wanton destruction, could have spawned such living malice was an exceedingly simple matter. What roiled before him, running rampant over this barren plain, was an incontrovertible validation of all of the perplexing theories and suppositions that swirled around the world's enigmatic _savior_.

This harrowing depiction of Islena as an implacable engine of carnage convinced Inos that he must embrace Artumas' (and by extension, Islena's) path forward and do all he could to see her audacious scheme come to fruition.

Raising his arms to shield his face against the flurry of grit that had risen in the wake of the gyre's frenetic passing, Inos squinted into the gloom, searching for the source of Islena's tether.

At first, he could see nothing other than the gyrating mass of living malice, but then a tiny flicker of light caught and held his gaze. There, nearly obscured by flying debris, a small, opalescent vermillion light glowed like a solitary flower in a wasteland. Amazed that such a fragile construct could possibly survive in the midst of such destructive fury, Inos bellowed, "Lorio, there...do you see it at the heart of the tempest? That small shimmer of light; I believe that is where you have to go!"

The Metocan bellowed this frantic alert with all the force his ephemeral being could manage, certain that his entreaty would be torn to tatters on the deafening clamor of the maelstrom.

Against all conventional reason, the ubiquitous Lorio heard Inos' cry, demonstrating that in this fantastical place reality held no sway.

A forlorn whisper filled the Grand Mage's ears, alive with unspeakable sadness and grim resolve. "Go now, Inos. To linger here any longer would be foolish."

Suddenly fearful for this tragic young woman, Inos pleaded, "Lorio, come back with me...perhaps we can contrive another means of helping Islena."

"It's all right, Inos," Lorio assured the frantic mage. "Islena has already devoured me in every way that truly matters. If I should perish here, it would merely formalize the process."

At once, a brilliant light...so beautifully pure as to be heart-rending to behold...coalesced in the turbulence. It hovered in the air for a brief instant and then streaked into the heart of the vortex.

Inos uttered a cry of negation and then abruptly found that he was being ejected from the confines of Lorio's mind and back into the relative stability of his own consciousness. While the other four stood immobilized by uncertainty, Inos rose and staggered drunkenly, while Lorio slumped into apparent unconsciousness in a loose sprawl of long limbs.

When Inos managed to regain some semblance of composure, his addled gaze fell on the unmoving form of the Lamish immortal. In repose, how stunningly beautiful...how angelic and peaceful she appeared. The stark contrast between the state of vacant tranquility and the inexpressible desolation of her waking life drew tears to the corners of the Grand Mage's limpid eyes.

He turned away, weeping unabashedly, and declared, "No living thing should be made to suffer as this poor child has suffered. It makes me wonder if we would all be better served by falling under Myrhia's hammer of obliteration."

"Is there anything we can do to aid her, Inos?" Artumas inquired quietly, dismayed by the Metocan's distraught state and wondering what horrors had inspired it.

Inos turned to the once and future king and with a wan smile, replied, "No, Lorio's fate is in her own hands."

Chapter Twenty Three

1

If any one lesson could be derived from the collective experience of the antiquated world (and indeed, all worlds beyond) it would be that pain is one of life's enduring constants. It is a multi-formed and nuanced commodity...an emotion, a sensation, a catalyst and a savage termination of possibilities. Some see pain as a tool of subjection, while others see suffering as a noble corroboration of character and enduring spirit. Pain can either occlude or clarify and serve as a nexus, through which all roads lead to destinations as varied as those who would travel upon them.

Islena Doraux was intimately familiar with pain, having experienced its consuming embrace in many incarnations.

She had twice suffered the argent agony of childbirth and had been ravaged by the deeper, lingering pain of needless loss and grief. Since first coming to this repository of hell, Islena had been constantly subjected to the bitter pain of abjection and betrayal, though through the clarifying lens of her present tribulations, Ben's adultery had been rendered inconsequential. Her life had been an elaborate charade...a sort of moving stasis. Knowing this served to reduce his adultery to meaninglessness.

' _Except Allan,'_ she thought and beneath the harrowing recollection, Islena experienced yet another unique facet of pain; the soul-scourging pain of a mother who is helpless to ameliorate the suffering of her child. The feeling of abject worthlessness which this particular variety of pain engendered made it difficult to breathe. Islena had somehow managed to compartmentalize this especially pernicious misery by focusing strictly on the next immediate step in the road before her.

Now, in the unbreakable clutches of Myrhia's latest wicked device of torment, these old agonies came dragging before her like mourners in a grim funeral procession and she was powerless to avoid them.

In the world beyond her cloister of torment, an unprecedented winter storm was venting its mindless fury upon Central Metocan. A solitary woman knelt bound and naked in the center of a narrow, snow-covered roadway. Her heavily muscled body was as rigid as a piece of statuary and her exposed flesh had taken on a bluish tinge as her blood retreated deeper into her body before the savage onslaught of the cold. Her red hair had become a helmet of ice and her exhalations came in an erratic, indolent rhythm. The drifting snow had buried Doraux below the waist and even her turgid nipples, normally a coral color, had become blue bullets.

One coming upon Islena and glimpsing her deathly pallor would probably conclude that she had succumbed to hypothermia. Only the diaphanous emerald chains that held her in this frozen posture of torment gave any indication of vitality. As the winter storm tightened its cruel grip upon Islena's ravaged flesh, their eerie glow intensified, warding Islena against the lethal finality of winter's fatal kiss.

Only paces from where she knelt, the Dragon Sword bore silent witness to her ordeal. Its clustered rubies flared and guttered in a frenetic rhythm that bathed its mistress in alternating waves of vermilion and shadow. In the infancy of her ordeal, Islena had attempted to summon the Icon...to command it to severe the arcane chains that held her, but Myrhia's binding sorcery had proven insurmountable and she had given up the futile effort.

The bite of the cold was excruciating beyond words...like being slowly devoured. At first, Islena's teeth had chattered so violently that she feared they would actually shatter and her body clenched and trembled with every new gust of killing wind.

The pain had been horrible, but as the inimical night passed, it had relented to numbness and this struck the beleaguered Islena as incomparably worse...a harbinger of irreversible damage and disfigurement. Like her life-sustaining blood, Islena had retreated inward in search of precious warmth...and inner strength to persevere.

Eventually, she found that she was enveloped within a sphere of emerald energy, albeit still shackled and naked. Beyond the curving edges of the sphere, she could see and hear the raging blizzard unleash its wrath. A deep torpor descended upon her then and it was all she could do to prevent her eyelids from fluttering shut.

In the thrall of this malaise (where she hovered on the cusp of death, sustained by Myrhia's sorcery), Islena began to hear voices and discern vague shadows in the storm beyond her cloister. Some seemed to mock her plight, while others appeared to regard her with sorrowful commiseration. A sea of discordant voices swirled around her, their specific words lost beneath the howl of the wind. She recognized these as the voice of the ages...the indistinguishable blur of the innumerable lives she had lived.

Ignoring the taunts and cringing in the face of the pitying stares, Islena attempted to heed Myrhia's advice and seek out a meaning in her ordeal and the actions that had precipitated it. Myrhia required a demonstration of her sincere contrition for coupling with Artumas, but scouring the confused morass of her reasoning, Islena could produce not the slightest hint of regret for her provocative bedding of the bitch's husband. On the convoluted path of Islena's logic, it occurred to Doraux that she must offer Myrhia a token of her continuing subservience in an apology's stead.

For the first time since the ordeal had commenced, the dreaded shadow incarnation spoke. As always, it harangued Islena in a maddening, sly voice. _'Prove to the odious bitch that you are her obsequious creature...stroke her vanity. In time, we'll give her back every humiliation a dozen times over. Give her the half-Ulgak whore...by this one simple act of calumny, you will have regained her trust.'_

At one juncture, she found herself peering through the eyes of a man she recognized from Ben's workplace, but whose name she could not recall. She had, in the depths of her suffering, tried to reach out to her traitorous husband...to apprise him of her torment and by extension, her continued existence. When he had become cognizant of her presence, his eyes had become twin moons of shock. On his detestable face there had bloomed an unaccountable expression of trepidation and more perplexing yet...loathing.

Distraught, Islena had terminated the inexplicable contact and fled back into this arcane sanctuary. As she fled back to the confines of her own beset flesh, Agraria had pleaded, _'If you ever return to your own world...allow me to kill him for you...ever so slowly.'_

Though she could not be entirely certain if the incident had been real or a misery-induced hallucination, Islena had then reached out to Lorio, with no clear notion of what it was she hoped to achieve.

When Islena uttered a noncommittal grunt, the incarnation purred, _'Would you see your precious son reduced to bloody snippets for the worms by this mad woman's lust for power and vengeance. By apprising Myrhia of this Sygeanor's lunatic intent, you will have restored her faith and spared sweet, innocent Allan from immolation. What other recourse do you truly have?"_

"Fuck off!" Islena croaked weakly even as the shadow incarnation retreated into the pit of her inner darkness, Islena knew that a vile seed had been planted in her thoughts and it would plague her like an irrepressible itch.

A sudden impulse seized her then and she raised her head to speak, but her intended words congealed in her throat. It required a virtually heroic exertion of will to force her eyelids open and Islena found herself confronted by an improbable sight that sent her spirit soaring.

2

Lorio, ensconced in a ball of effulgent golden light, watched as the Metocan Grand Mage was forcibly ejected from her mind. It required all of her imperfect discipline and courage to refrain from following him back to consciousness and leaving Islena to her agonizing object lesson.

' _Spirits know that it's not like she hasn't abandoned me at every crucial juncture in our time together,'_ Lorio mused, surprised by how little acrimony or resentment this roused. The idea of reciprocity was a fool's fancy when it came to love and while the bards' tales spoke of love as being harmonious and equally requited, Lorio had learned, to her own painful dismay, that love was almost never fairly shared or unconditional...like most other human interactions in this wretched world.

She would go to Islena because her bruised and scarred heart would allow for no other course of action...even if she could never really expect the same treatment in return.

Steeling herself, she plunged into the flux that was Islena Doraux and found that she was receding from her physical body at a speed that was impossible to digest. An instant later, Lorio's disembodied spirit slammed into the chaotic mind of the woman she had come to cherish.

The mindscape in which she found herself left the immortal reeling and disoriented. In her previous experience in astral communication, it had been Myrhia who had summoned Lorio, meeting her hybrid subservient on a neutral ground of the enchantress' design. In that particular environment, Lorio had been denied access to the interior of Myrhia's thoughts...their indecipherable shape and texture.

On this occasion however, Lorio understood that she had accessed the actual interior of Islena's mind...like an invading plunderer kicking down the door at midnight. Here, she could have forcibly taken license to ravage Doraux's consciousness...to unearth the true nature of the feelings this tempestuous creature harbored for her. Peering moon-eyed and slack-jawed, that temptation evaporated like steam before a blazing mid-day sun.

Lorio had deliberately constructed a stark and barren landscape to hide the essence of her mind from Inos. As depressingly bleak as that metaphor had been, it was a veritable paradise when compared to the insanity of perpetual upheaval that now raged around her...the frenetic world-building efforts of a deity gone insane.

From the jagged clay of Doraux's consciousness, great mountain ranges were thrust from sundered ground, pushed violently towards a sky of black that abruptly turned a molten gold. Fire rained down upon the blackened stone, which immediately exploded into clouds of acrid dust. The great range of mountains crumbled and was swallowed by a rising sprawl of black earth from which sprung teeming masses of tangled greenery so brilliant as to sear the senses. This too was swept away in the blink of an eye...only to begin anew...each incarnation more incredible than the last.

Lorio stood utterly rigid, locked in transfixed horror as this frenetic cycle of genesis and destruction unfurled around her in a disorienting and relentless blur. Even more perplexing and dizzying still, this fantastical topography was overlaid by innumerable others...all of which were simultaneously going through the throes of their own rampant metamorphosis. This sensory distortion threatened to plunge Lorio into nauseating vertigo and she covered her eyes with both hands to block it out.

How any sentient mind could endure such a cacophony of upheaval and remain sane was beyond the immortal's comprehension.

Suddenly, in an argent detonation of ineffable agony, the external reality of Islena's present circumstances crashed down upon Lorio, causing the immortal to howl like a banshee.

In Artumas' chamber, Lorio screamed and her long, lean arms groped wildly as if trying to grasp an unseen rope. While the room's mortified occupants looked on helplessly, Lorio's tawny flesh turned white and then deathly blue. As the beset immortal writhed and gasped, her labored breathing burst from her lips in great churning plumes.

"It seems that she has found Islena," Inos remarked, clearly disconcerted by the spectacle of Lorio's vicarious torment. To an equally unsettled Tokizar, he instructed, "Grip her arms; we must channel the room's ambient warmth into her flesh."

Despite her anxiety, Tokizar quickly moved to comply; though laying her palms on the immortal's leanly muscled arms was akin to gripping an iron bar in the depths of the coldest winter night. Despite the flare of pain in her exposed palms (and the secret aversion she harbored toward the immortal), Tokizar did not falter and when Inos joined her, the channeling process commenced...heralded by the clouds of steam that arose from the points of contact.

To the others, Inos pleaded urgently, "Bring every blanket you can lay hands on. Artumas, we need the fires banked so that there will be more ambient heat to conduct."

Artumas stole one anxious glance at Lorio and hurried to have his guards fetch more wood for the room's two massive hearths. He then stood by and looked on helplessly as the two Metocan's struggled to reduce Lorio's torment...wondering if the immortal's obsessive affection for Islena would finally be her undoing.

3

After Lorio had recovered somewhat from the initial onslaught of the cold, she hugged her torso and hunched against the gnashing bite of the wind. Though never formally educated or exposed to anything beyond the stunted Lamish nomadic existence for most of her mortal life, Lorio had been blessed with a fluid mental deftness. She instinctively deduced the salient truth of Islena's present predicament.

If it had been Myrhia's intention to kill Doraux, Islena would have long since been dead. The torturous ordeal had been contrived to make Islena suffer horribly, but not to inflict any lasting harm on the enchantress' coveted marionette. From this, the immortal astutely concluded that something was warding Islena against the lasting damage...but not the agony that accompanied it. Confident that she had gleaned the mechanics of the bitch's diabolical device, the intrepid Lorio set out to locate her soul-sworn friend.

4

"Lorio?" This single interrogative issued from Islena's cracked and swollen lips, weak and barely audible.

Standing before her, backlit by a beautiful golden glow, stood a version of Lorio that Islena had never seen in the long months of their rambling odyssey. During that onerous trek, Lorio had favored rough spun trousers and sleeveless tunics. She had kept her thick raven tresses pulled away from her face and tied back by a leather lash. The affect had leant her beauty an imperious and austere aspect. This was the Lorio who might have been...had the world not been the inimical, indifferent hell into which she had been born.

This incarnation was feminine splendor embodied; softened and ripe with smoldering sensuality. Lorio appeared to shimmer like a vision composed entirely of light. She permeated the emerald barrier and stood regarding Islena with one long leg splayed to the side and her hands on her flaring hips...an expression of deep concern and exasperation on her face.

Islena was naked and chained like a rabid dog awaiting euthanasia. The chains that bound her glowed an eerie emerald and emanated an arcane energy that prickled Lorio's skin.

Islena lifted her head in a manner that suggested immense effort. At first, a light of radiant joy bloomed on Islena's exotic face, but that soon relented to a semi-lucid expression of quizzical confusion and suspicion. "Lorio, are you truly here or are you just an enticing hallucination...another specter come to taunt me in my abject suffering? Will you denounce me as a posturing peacock that is well deserving of this torment?"

Lorio frowned, knowing that this was not Islena...her Islena...speaking, but rather the true essence of which Islena was but the latest incarnation.

"It's really me, Islena," Lorio assured her and the staggering immensity of what she aspired to love made her feel absurdly small and inadequate. "It appears that you've put yourself in another fine mess."

Islena's answering smile was wan and reminded Lorio of a death mask. "That seems to be my one true aptitude."

This self-pitying, maudlin response perturbed Lorio, who strode across the patch of greenery and abruptly slapped Islena across the face.

Islena's dull green eyes flared angrily and she glared up at Lorio questioningly. Lorio met this glare with an imperious scowl. "That was for seeking comfort in Artumas' bed after leaving me alone to suffer in that damnable storage room."

The second back-handed slap snapped Islena's head sharply to the right and left a livid impression on her left cheek. "And that is for not accepting the comfort I so desperately offered on the night that odious bitch healed me."

The two resounding blows had ripped Islena from her torpor and she lashed Lorio with the baleful glare of a woman who would never be easily taken to account for her actions. Islena attempted to speak...to muster a defense for her actions...but Lorio gently pressed a silencing finger to her cracked and swollen lips. The immortal's stern expression softened perceptibly and taking a startled Islena's face in her warm hands, she bent and bestowed a tender, lingering kiss on Doraux's slightly open mouth. When Islena uttered a feathery sigh, Lorio drew back slightly and ran the tip of her warm tongue over Islena's horribly cracked lips.

Peering intently into Islena's emerald eyes, Lorio murmured, "That was to give you the resolve to persevere and extricate yourself from this torment."

Tears of shame...of self-denigration...began to stream from the corners of Islena's eyes and in a voice choked by anguish, she sobbed, "I don't know what to do...what to give her to make her stop. The masochist in me can't seem to stop goading her...it's hard-wired into my DNA.

Lorio blinked uncertainly, not recognizing the unfamiliar words, but grasping their context. Islena was helpless to prevent herself from provoking Myrhia, just as Lorio seemed unable to restrain the random and inexplicable acts of cruelty that she often inflicted on those around her.

Shaking Islena's head for emphasis, she rasped, "You and I are two flawed, badly damaged creatures, but perhaps together we can aspire to be something better. I have forgiven you for the loss of my child. I've forgiven you for abandoning me at Runesholm. I've even forgiven you for taking Artumas and that freak-spawned winged creature to your bed. I have come to fear that there is no transgression for which I would not forgive you. I don't give a tinker's damn about your great destiny." She withdrew her right hand and swept her arm around her head in a broad gesture of encompassment. "The pit can take all of your other incarnations of this great being you're proclaimed to be. Since it's you and I in this intimate place where souls are laid bare...I'll tell you that I don't give a particular shit about this wretched fucking world and what might befall it. The fact is that it has done nothing but abuse me since I was old enough to stand."

She again took hold of Islena's face and kissed her lips. In a voice made husky with passion, she declared, "The only thing I care about is you...not this multi-headed serpent, but the woman who taught me a harsh lesson, but left me alive in Kornas...the woman who rescued me from the hell of Perdwick and dragged me on a travois for days because I was too damaged to even stand. I care about this woman kneeling in front of me, who taught me about tenacity and passion and how to live with fire and conviction. Now, because of everything I've forgiven and for the exquisitely painful love I hold for you...you are going to do whatever is required to appease this miserable fucking bitch and come back to me. You will give her what she demands...kiss her dainty little feet if that's what is necessary. Once I have you back, I'm going to protect you and together we'll find a way to circumvent this accursed fate of yours. I swear to you that I will find a way to exorcise these demons that are infecting your mind with the madness I see here...until only _my_ Islena remains."

"It may not be such an easy matter, Lorio," Islena admonished and both women understood that the pity swirling through this sentiment had been intended more for the Lamish immortal.

"But we will do it nonetheless...together!" Lorio insisted vehemently. "Now...what concession can you give this monster to serve as an inducement to be set free?"

A severe frown of helpless frustration twisted Islena's features, but then she seized on the one nebulous notion that had been floating in her mind since speaking with Kevlan. "I know who attacked her in Amberdias. This same woman...Sygeanor is her name...is planning to destroy Nalosan in the misguided belief that she can challenge Myrhia." After a fraught hesitation, in which her tears began to spill anew, Islena whispered, "I think my son...Allan...is being held in Nalosan."

In her preoccupation with the horrible prospect of her son perishing in the fiery culmination of Sygeanor's demented scheme, Islena failed to notice the flair of bitter resentment in Lorio's dark eyes. That Islena would actually vocalize concern about the fate of her child after what had transpired in Purgatory spoke of a selfishness and self-absorption...a monumental insensitivity...that was beyond reason. Still, Lorio fought savagely to repress her resentment, knowing that her capacity to suffer Islena's myriad imperfections was virtually without limit. "Islena, you must share this with Myrhia. To see you commit what she will surely regard as an act of betrayal will appeal to her twisted nature. Let Myrhia excoriate the flesh from this lunatic's bones. If she is willing to obliterate an entire city as a demonstration of her might, then it is a fate she well deserves."

"Lorio, this Sygeanor...it was she who assailed you in the Blighted Lands...when you were under Myrhia's thrall," Doraux disclosed.

"Why?" Lorio blurted, recalling vividly the excruciating sensation of being torn apart within the confines of her own skull by some malign, invisible presence.

"Kyros, the man you killed on the common upon first arriving in Othgol...he was her father," Islena explained gravely. "Kevlan has said that she is committed to seeing you dead with a determination that borders on fanatical obsession."

Lorio dismissed this dire warning with a feral grin and vowed, "I'll do to her what I did to her dog-spawned father should I ever set eyes upon her. Frankly, I doubt that I'll have to because...once you share this snippet of information with Myrhia, this Sygeanor's death warrant will be signed. Now, what of this Metocan Icon...have you garnered any sense of where this cave might be?"

Islena's pallid face flushed and she averted her eyes sheepishly. "I've known where it's located from the first moment I had the vision near Artumas' hovel."

Lorio abruptly straightened and shook her head as if she'd misheard. Islena flicked a brief glance at the immortal and confessed, "There has been a small light burning in my mind's eye...it shifts along the periphery of a circle...like the needle of a compass."

"I don't know what that is," Lorio grumbled tightly.

Islena shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, it's a device from my world...an old invention that helps travelers determine the direction their heading in. The thing in my mind is like that and it will guide me to the cave and the Metocan Icon."

Bewildered and wounded, Lorio sighed. "And during our long trudge up that damnable ocean strand...you never once thought to share this? Is there nothing I can do to earn your trust, Islena?"

"Lorio, you have no idea how lost I've been...still am." Islena moaned wretchedly. She rattled her diaphanous restraints. "Look what I've been reduced to! I have no fucking clue who...or even what I am any more!"

"Then be the Islena Doraux that I see and let me help find you," the beautiful immortal beseeched insistently.

Islena's green eyes widened in the face of Lorio's vehemence and she wondered what she had possibly done to warrant such devotion...even as the darker demons of her nature were rankled by this unwanted burden of cloying need. Wisely, Islena nodded, conveying an enthusiasm she did not feel.

Satisfied, Lorio favored Islena with a radiant grin. "Then you will tell Myrhia of this threat that Sygeanor poses as well as your insight into this _internal compass_. If I can bear to wear her armor and that evil sigil, then you can suffer being a fawning lapdog. You will resist the compulsion to goad her and most importantly, the only bed you share from this day forth...will be mine."

Again, Islena nodded vigorously, even managing to conjure a smile, while privately knowing that her every promise held no currency. Again, Lorio seemed appeased by Islena's fervent vow of commitment and her compelling need to believe that Islena was being sincere undermined her normally acute ability to discern deception. "Then it is well past time that you offer your sincere apology and act of contrition."

"I...I can't, Lorio," Islena whimpered, naked apprehension flaring in her emerald eyes. "Beyond this small sanctuary, I've been frozen! I can't move or even scream my surrender."

Now Lorio's smile became a humorless parody that caused Doraux to shudder in terror. The immortal held her right arm straight out to the side and splayed her fingers in a gesture of summons. In response, a quarter staff with gleaming silver steel sleeves and razor spines coalesced into her outstretched palm. "I've acquired a rudimentary understanding of the amazing laws that govern these places Islena. Merely envision a thing in these strange, interior spaces and it can be yours! Now...steel yourself, Islena. This is likely to be excruciating."

While Islena cried out in anticipation of the mammoth eruption of pure agony, Lorio grimaced and squared her stance. In one fluid movement, she raised the quarter staff and brought it whistling down in a savage, cutting arc. The honed silver steel cleanly severed the first length of emerald chain. It vanished to the accompaniment of a harrowing scream...as if it had been a living thing seen to a violent end.

' _In this place, who knows...perhaps it was,"_ Lorio mused as she prepared to deliver a second blow.

Moving in a swift, continuous dervish, Lorio deftly severed the three remaining chains, thus removing Myrhia's ward against any lasting damage. As the physical reality of Islena's torment crashed down upon the pair with the devastating impact of a collapsing mountain, Islena' heavily-muscled body went as rigid as a piece of statuary and her face was contorted by an expression of unimaginable pain and anguish. From somewhere beyond this raging torrent, she could hear Lorio groan, "I'll be waiting, Islena."

The she felt that intimately familiar and reassuring presence vanish, leaving her alone and tottering on the edge of expiry.

Every faculty of her ice-shackled body seemed to be frozen to total immobility...suspended while the last iota of her life-sustaining warmth ebbed away.

Summoning her last failing vestiges of tenacity and defiance, Islena Doraux bellowed an inarticulate cry of desperate entreaty. Then, without her life-sustaining chains to bind her in place, the Daughter of the Tempest collapsed onto her face and into the merciful void.

5

Lorio came back to the beset confines of her own body like the snap of a bowstring. Her violent return sent blankets flying in every direction and raised cries of alarm from concerned onlookers, who gaped at her uncertainly as if she had just returned from the land of the dead.

' _Who can say with any degree of certainty...perhaps I have,'_ Lorio thought as she groped her way upright. She closed her eyes, drew a diaphragm deep breath to recover her equilibrium and then faced the wide-eyed witnesses. "It seems that our suspicions were correct...Myrhia is in the process of delivering a particularly painful lesson to our _savior_. Before you all perish in a blaze of anxiety, Islena will emerge unscathed...more or less...albeit somewhat chastened."

She glanced briefly at Inos, donning a smile that was little more than a harsh, humorless press of lips. "I cannot say the same for the evil windup toy you loosed on the world in Redia. By way of reparation for her impetuousness, Islena will inform Myrhia that this Sygeanor has gone rogue and is converging upon an unsuspecting Nalosan with wicked intent. For the hope of whatever small shred of integrity remains to you, pray that she obliterates your creature...unless you wish to have Sygeanor's genocide on your already mangled conscience."

Inos started to respond to Lorio's scurrilous charge, his face flushed with apoplexy, but instead closed his mouth with an audible plop.

Lorio allowed herself a satisfied grin and then swept a decidedly disdainful gaze over the others. "I'm going to rest in my chambers. Artumas, I assume that the work on Islena's commission will commence shortly."

The bemused Emercian nodded. "Jerhia's best available smiths will undertake the work. They would require that you visit them so that they might collect your exact measurements." After wrestling with the prudence of divulging the next piece of information, Artumas reluctantly added, "Myrhia has also delivered an intaglio...her sigil...that is to be affixed to your breastplate. I can scarcely imagine how demeaning this symbolic gesture of subservience must be, Lorio."

Lorio offered the Emercian king a wry smile and remarked, "Perhaps the purpose of life is to deliver an endless succession of demeaning blows and let the way we suffer them serve as a measure of our character."

"That would be an exceedingly grim evaluation of life's purpose," Artumas observed solemnly to which the Lamish immortal only shrugged.

"Then I'll leave you to your scheming...I have an apology to offer," she explained, stealing a significant glance at Artumas. She strode to the door, but paused beside Esuruban to whisper, "We have an appointment at dusk, Captain. I suggest that you be prepared. I have every intention of putting you through your paces...most vigorously."

Esuruban's eyes widened and his color made the odd transition from ruddy to scarlet. He watched her stride purposefully from the room and wondered why she was able to unsettle him so uneasily

"That woman is a living wellspring of consternation," Tokizar complained sourly.

In a rare display of vexation, Artumas retorted, "Perhaps, but she is one of the most courageous persons I've ever encountered and if she's eccentric, she's earned the right to be...in spades."

The room lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, which Maktir eventually broke by announcing, "I have something to share that may cast matters in an entirely different light."

6

Myrhia peered down on the writhing form of the pathetic Metocan gelding, her lovely face set in lines of frustration. Despite his outwardly fragile appearance, the seemingly delicate creature was proving to be composed of far sterner stuff than she had initially anticipated. Despite being subjected to an intense psychic pummeling, Kevlan had obstinately refused to divulge the content of his earlier conversation with Islena. Myrhia had little doubt that something of consequence had passed between the pair. It was well within her ability to compel the Metocan to reveal the nature of that _something_ or simply plunge into his consciousness and ravage his mind like a thresher until she found what she sought.

Myrhia elected to eschew this option, knowing that the impertinent insect might have a useful purpose to serve in the coming days. Prodding the moaning Metocan with the toe of her right boot, she remarked coldly. "Enough of your damnable bleating. I'll grant you a reprieve...for the time being."

Kevlan rolled onto his hands and knees, panting against the eruption of throbbing pain this simplest of exertions provoked. The howl of the wind reached his ears through the heavy canvas of Myrhia's pavilion, which snapped like an unfurled sail on a storm ravaged ocean. "How long do you intend to torture Islena thus?"

She glanced at the Metocan in a manner that suggested that she found his audacity stupefying. "As long as I see fit, insect. Islena's dissolute behavior has demanded that I dispense a particularly harsh lesson in decorum. You see, Islena is a willful pupil and it may be necessary to prolong her lesson. Besides which, hers is the power to bring this sorry diversion to an end with but a word."

"Islena's obstinacy has become the stuff of legend. Knowing her only briefly, I would surmise that she would rather die than grovel," Kevlan observed, appalled by his own temerity.

Myrhia chortled disdainfully. "Gelding, your indomitable _savior_ has brayed her subservience to me repeatedly since accepting my inherent superiority. Before she ascends, I will so thoroughly have decimated her defiant spirit that she will solicit my permission simply to draw breath. She will become yet another extension of my will, every bit as devoted as my Morticants."

Kevlan was sage enough not to gainsay this grandiose declaration, instead inquiring, "Do you not fear that the ravaging effects of the cold will diminish her...or kill her outright? Is whatever lesson you seek to impart worth the risk of irreparably damaging this instrument of your dominion?"

Myrhia glowered, her dark eyes flaring menacingly in the brazier light, but she nonetheless supplied a reply, "The chains that now bind her will protect her from the physical ravages of the cold. She will suffer exquisitely, but her spectacular vessel will not be harmed. Really gelding...I have lived a thousand lifetimes...do you genuinely think me so obtuse that I would jeopardize my fate-decreed destiny? While anger may have nuanced the severity of my method, do you actually believe that it was my primary motivation for subjecting Islena to this _object lesson?"_

A contemplative light stole into her limpid eyes and she intoned sharply, "I have swam in every river of time and reality and have come to deduce that there is only one singular truth that is relevant...that is incontrovertible across every thread of time and space; power is the enduring constant that shapes the course of sentient endeavor and only those with the will and fortitude to wield it unapologetically and without restraint are worthy of holding it. In me, you see a creature who is ideally suited to serve this truth."

Kevlan shuddered, repulsed by this horrible depiction of universal reality. "What purpose would the rest of us serve in a world shaped by these ruthless dictates?"

Myrhia's beautiful face transformed into a mask of ruthless contempt and she snarled, "The same purpose they've always served...fodder for the machinery of the ambitious. It has always been thus and always shall...not matter how you hand-wringing apologists would aspired to forge a different universal truth."

Kevlan was about to offer a passionate refutation of this tyrannical perspective when a shrill, keening cry issued from somewhere beyond the snapping canvas walls. There was an otherworldly, ghostly aspect to this howl and at first Kevlan thought he was imagining it.

One glimpse at the expression of horror, intermingled with raw terror that spread over Myrhia's lovely face like a blight, quickly disabused the Metocan of the notion.

The keening persisted...a living writhing thing composed of agony and desperation. Myrhia's answering shriek intermingled with the harrowing howl and her Morticants tore open the flaps and plunged into the blizzard. After lashing Kevlan with an anxiety fraught scowl, Myrhia raced after them. Kevlan struggled to his feet with his head swimming wildly in response to the deep, throbbing pain that this simple effort provoked.

He was about to reach for the reinforced canvas flap, when the hulking form of a Morticant burst through the opening. It collided with Kevlan and sent the diminutive Metocan sprawling to the heavy rug as if he was invisible.

Myrhia rushed in, her eyes ablaze with a flux of rage and trepidation. Uncomprehending, Kevlan shook his head and glanced at the hulking Morticant as the monstrosity carefully laid Islena on a divan. Only when he discerned the horrifying state of the _savior_ did the Metocan grasp the cause of Myrhia's frantic agitation. Kevlan stood swaying, his mortified gaze fixed on the hunched form of Islena Doraux, who resembled a corpse that had been uncovered by the melting snow. Her flesh was deathly white and blue tinged and marred by patches of hectic red and listless, menacing black, where frost had bitten deep into exposed flesh.

When the heat of the pavilion's interior kissed Islena's frost-limed body, the woman emitted a tortured howl that made the sensitive Metocan want to cover his ears and run screaming into the blizzard.

' _At least she's alive,'_ he marveled and on the heels of that bit of seemingly unwarranted optimism, added, _'though I suspect that she will soon come to curse her resilience. Well enchantress, it seems that your grip on the course of events is not as iron-clad as you would imagine.'_

As Islena's wretched cries of perfect agony filled the stifling interior of Myrhia's pavilion, the enchantress clutched the sides of her face and grimaced as if she was on the verge of apoplexy. In the extremity of her dismay, her lovely face became an unattractive, shrewish mask.

Islena's wails welled in volume and pitch until it seemed a virtual certainty that she would simply explode from the enormity of her pain.

Gritting her teeth, Myrhia surged forward and placed the tip of her index fingers in the hollows of Islena's temples. The flesh there was glacial to the touch and completely unyielding. Emerald effulgence manifested around Myrhia's small fingers and then quickly expanded to form a cocoon around Doraux, who had gone utterly still.

Myrhia, appearing pallid and thoroughly unsettled, stared down upon the prone figure. She drew herself erect with a sharp inhalation and fixed Kevlan with an unnerving glare of appraisal. The intimidating effect was mitigated by the slight tick that had afflicted her right eye. "Have you attempted to reach out to your Inner Circle...or have they tried to communicate with you? Be forewarned...my patience is spent and evasion or falsehood will be your end, gelding!"

Deliberately enunciating each word, Kevlan replied, "I have not...nor have they."

She studied him intently for a protracted, uncomfortable moment and then returned to her anxious scrutiny of Islena.

"What has happened?" Kevlan heard himself inquire distantly.

"Some imbecile has seen fit to severe Islena's chains, the full effect of which was to subject Islena to the unmitigated ravages of exposure," Myrhia rasped. "Should Islena succumb to this exposure as a consequence of this interference, there will come a great and terrible cleansing...not with fire, but with ice."

Disconcerted, Kevlan blurted, "Surely you can save her? You would not have subjected her to this abuse without the means to ward her against its possible consequences."

A Morticant pushed through the tent flaps, carrying the Jerhia Icon, the rubies of which ebbed and flared in a frenetic blur, filling the pavilion with blinding vermilion light before then plunging the interior into shadow and gloom.

Myrhia gestured and the Morticant laid the sword on an ornately carved oak working table. The enchantress then returned her attention to Islena, who was sequestered deep in the blessed fog of unconsciousness. She raised her arms with the palms turned toward the heavens and Islena's heavily-muscled body began to rise from the divan and float in the air as if the substantial Doraux had become an apparition.

A mere batting her lush lashes sent four Morticants into the shadowy recesses of her rectangular pavilion, while Kevlan watched Doraux continue to float with a dark fascination alight in his gray eyes.

The creatures returned quickly, each bearing a lacquered wooden bowl full of a thick unguent. Its red and ochre color struck the Metocan as vaguely repulsive, evoking queasy images of bloody mucus.

"You asked if I made provisions for the possible consequences of Islena's ordeal," Myrhia began in a neutral tone. "This unguent will heal any damage she's sustained, while numbing a vast portion of the pain that awaits her as sensation returns to her affected flesh."

"Vast portion," Kevlan echoed worriedly, absorbed in a mesmerizing inspection of the visceral reality of Islena Doraux's exotic beauty...there was a certain poetry in the angular structure of her face and the symmetrical perfection of her body. In repose, she did indeed resemble a goddess that had fallen into an eternal slumber.

"If Islena was not to experience a measure of enduring discomfort, what lasting value would her lesson have?" Myrhia quipped, a decidedly mordant sneer twisting her full lips. Seeing the transfixed gleam in the young Metocan's eye as he watched Islena hover, Myrhia's expression assumed a playful, teasing edge.

"Do I discern a twinkle of lust in the depths of those limpid gray eyes, Metocan?" the enchantress inquired coyly. "Could it be that my initial assessment of your nature was jaded and you are not the gelding that I first thought you to be?"

Casually, she began to stroll around the floating Islena, her fingertips gentle trailing over the topography of Doraux's taut flesh...over the swell of her breasts, atop a turgid nipple, along the striated expanse of her abdomen and the sweeping curve of a heavily-muscled thigh. As she mapped the terrain of Islena's exotic body, Myrhia's piercing gaze never left Kevlan's face. "Is our Islena not exquisite, Metocan? She is a seemingly irreconcilable contradiction of raw power and flawless feminine beauty. Does her body not cry out to be caressed...explored at great and indolent length?"

Kevlan blushed furiously and quickly averted his eyes, though he could feel his internal temperature begin to rise as Myrhia's questing fingertips and her lascivious words combined to work their sly magic. Her smile intensified...a wicked gleam that mocked and tempted in equal measure. "The unguent in these bowls must be applied to every exposed surface of Islena's body...every crevice and shadow...lest the afflicted flesh fester and die from the cold's disfiguring kiss. I will leave this task to you Metocan...as I have yet another tedious object lesson to administer. Remember, the more diligent you are in applying the unguent, the less likely it will be that this ordeal will leave a lasting impression on Islena's exquisite beauty. It would truly be a grievous shame to mar such perfection."

Kevlan's discomfort intensified at the prospect of administering to Islena in this capacity, but he accepted the proffered bowl of unguent with hands that trembled perceptibly. The devilishly provocative grin never left Myrhia's face as she stepped closed to Islena and laid her index finger along the cleft of the recumbent Doraux's womanhood. "Remember to be sure to coat every visibly expanse of flesh. I'm sure that your insufferable sense of honor will prevent you from taking liberties with an unconscious woman. Still, who am I to judge what tool you think is best suited to employ when applying the unguent."

She uttered a throaty chuckle as Kevlan blanched and muttered, "You are odious beyond words."

"Incorrigible to my rotten core...I admit freely," Myrhia agreed with infuriating mirth. "Now you had better set yourself to task. Should Islena emerge from my cantrip before the unguent is applies, her suffering will be epic in magnitude. To rotate her in place, you need only guide her as if she was suspended on an invisible horizontal axis...which she is."

After sharing his rather remarkable detail, Myrhia started to turn away, but then hesitated. The expression she wore, when seen in profile, was one which Kevlan would have thought the supremely confident enchantress incapable...uncertainty.

He could feel the flesh on his arm crawl into great hackles and the throbbing pain in his back, where she had subjected him to a telekinetic flaying, was momentarily forgotten. Instinct informed the Metocan that something of immense and intensely personal consequence was about to pass between the pair...an insight that would radically alter his perception of... _everything_.

An unmistakable gravitas stole into the moment, making the act of drawing breath a laborious task. For reasons that defied explanation, Myrhia was about to provide Kevlan with an unprecedented insight into her true nature. In a somber voice, she inquired, "Do you genuinely subscribe to the prejudicial notion that I've subjected Islena to this _indoctrination_ solely to appease a personal affront...or out of simple malice?"

"I won't pretend to understand any facet of what you do...or why?" Kevlan replied candidly.

Myrhia regarded the passive Metocan flatly. "I've never felt the need to justify my actions, other than to say that power defines the right of action...an adage by which I've governed my every incarnation. Does a wolf fret apologetically while he tears the throat out of a defenseless deer? It is the natural order of things and both the predator...and even the quarry...accept the inevitability of the process."

"But we are sentient beings, gifted with the higher emotions of compassion and understanding and the intellectual wherewithal to live differently...if we so choose," Kevlan protested passionately. "We are not beasts ruled by instinct and appetite and we can elect to follow a humanitarian path."

"You proclaim that we are not truly beasts?" Myrhia scoffed as if Kevlan had just espoused utter nonsense. "You would also have me believe that we should be governed by refined moral and ethical sensibilities."

She shook her raven tresses and waved a dismissive hand. "Where precisely has this faculty of sentience gotten us, Metocan? Decry me as the very shadow of all evil, but this world has always been a churning caldron of discontent...caught in an incessant war between noble aspirations and base nature. There is far more harmony in nature, where the prevailing order of things has been accepted by all as a singular universal truth, then there is amongst sentient beings, whose existence is characterized by perpetual discord and conflict. If you would refute this contention, then I would ask you which one of us is delusional? Our sentience brings these appetites and instincts into sharper focus."

Kevlan shook his head in dismay and though he discerned the inherent flaw in her black logic, he could evoke no meaningful contradiction to her dreary hypothesis.

She lashed the Metocan with a penetrating glare and insisted fiercely, "Since the moment I became cognizant of the exact shape of my identity, I have never once harmed another living being but for the pragmatic need to facilitate my destiny. Spite and petulant malice are the emotions of weak-minded, vicious brutes."

Islena uttered a thin, whimpering cry from beneath the veil of unconsciousness and the enchantress advised, "You had best set about applying the unguent, lest her agony shatter my cantrip."

Kevlan moved quickly to comply, still attempting to digest the disturbing implications of Myrhia's words. Her next proposal proved staggering, swiftly and completely pulling the rug of his equilibrium from beneath the Metocan...while challenging him to test the integrity of his every long-held conviction. "I am the only thing standing between Islena and irreversible madness. Within this magnificent vessel lurks an ugliness...a malignant evil that will make me seem like a benevolent saint by contrast."

When Kevlan raised a skeptical eyebrow, Myrhia's brittle grip on patience faltered. "You think I exaggerate, dolt? Had you been present at yesterday's palaver, you would have been provided with a first hand glimpse at the darkness that lurks beneath this façade. It exists solely to gorge its insatiable appetite for carnage and without my stern guidance it will inevitably usurp control of Islena's delicate and precariously unstable mind."

"Islena is the _one_!" Kevlan interjected vehemently, though his eyes were clouded by doubt that belied his fervor. "She is the one of pure heart as foretold in the ancient auguries. Only the pristine can command the power of the Proclamations!"

Myrhia tilted her head and bludgeoned Kevlan's faith with a pitying stare. "How fools love to drape themselves in the tattered regalia of augury. Do you believe, gelding, that if Islena did manage to vanquish me or if I was to disappear in a swirling cloud of smoke, she would renege on the quest to find the remaining two Proclamations? Without the puissance that ascension would bestow upon her, Islena would be trapped in this wretched morass of a world with no prospect of returning to her own and the insufferably inane life she lived their. She would be obliged to seek out the remaining two Proclamations and see her ascension to its fated end."

Kevlan shook his head in steadfast denial, but even as he continued to massage the thick unguent onto Islena's granite thighs, he could sense insidious uncertainty eroding his conviction. Myrhia continued her disturbing monologue, painting a distressing portrait that the Metocan could not banish from his thoughts. "Your masters have, in the extremis of their need, unquestioningly embraced Islena as their savior with no clear comprehension of what she is...or what I am."

After allowing Kevlan a short space of time to ponder this notion, Myrhia continued, "The innate flaw sequestered in the shadows of Islena's soul will traduce Islena and will set her upon a path that will culminate in the fall of eternal darkness...where all of your higher sentient virtues will hold no currency. If Inos possessed the requisite courage, he would confess the acceptance of this truth for he has borne firsthand witness to Islena's vile corruption."

Kevlan could feel the palpable weight of the enchantress' gaze on the side of his face, but could not bring himself to meet her regard. With a perceptible note of irritation, she growled, "Still you cling to the stubborn belief that my every word is facile fabrication...like a cynic who blindly adheres to his discredited convictions...even as the world crumbled to dust beneath his feet. Very well, Metocan...let us put the veracity of my claims to the test."

She opened her small right palm and murmured in a language Kevlan did not recognize. An instant later, a translucent shape manifested in Myrhia's palm and continued to assume a distinct shape and substance, until a dagger lay on the delicate bed of flesh. Kevlan's wide-eyed gape drew an amused chuckle from the enchantress, who remarked, "Don't be so impressed, Metocan...tis but a rudimentary act of translocation."

Kevlan tried to drag his gaze away from the exquisitely honed killing implement, but found that he was mesmerized by the gleaming blade. Myrhia smiled and laid the ornamental dagger along the length of Islena's womanhood with the pommel resting on her pubic bone.

To the bemused Kevlan, she explained, "I'm going to command my Morticants to remove themselves from this tent and only re-enter if a threat presents itself from outside these walls."

She inclined her head and the trio of golems filed obediently into the storm-beleaguered early morning, where a dull, milky light was slowly displacing the darkness. Kevlan discerned the vague shape of what was to follow and was suddenly anxious to avoid the moral quandary it represented. Pleadingly, he remarked, "Surely your quest for the Icon takes precedence over this gamesmanship? Can you not simply heal Islena and let us be on our way?"

Myrhia chuckled. "My existence has mirrored the arc of time itself and the Icon certainly isn't going anywhere. Though it is out of character, I suddenly think it would be gratifying if even one of the myriad of misguided fools, who condemn me as a miscreant, could be made to see the truth. As events have unfurled, that honor will fall to you."

A fetching grin spread over her beautiful face like an expression one would expect from a coy schoolgirl who takes delight in flirtatious teasing. "Who is to say...perhaps I will have you serve me in the capacity of chronicler." Her demeanor then became sober and she announced. "I'm going to transmigrate and return to Othgol. I am not going to raise the normal wards that would protect my body while I am absent. While you apply the rest of this emollient to the would-be deity, I want you to ponder all that I have told you absent the distorting lens of personal bias. If you doubt the veracity of my claim, then bury the dagger right here."

She dimpled the creamy flesh of her left breast with an index finger. "Should you conjure the required courage, the Morticants will cease to function...becoming inert statues. I will be dead and you will have the laudable distinction of seeing the world's greatest villain to her end. Islena Doraux will have become...redundant and hopelessly trapped in this world. I predict that the consequences of her irrelevance will be catastrophic...or perhaps not. That will be for you to decide, gelding. Despite the humble creature that you are, fate has thrust you into the role of arbiter, upon whose decision the very future of the universe will hinge."

With a derisive smirk, she concluded, "Think on it carefully and choose wisely."

She then pivoted lithely about and began to stride toward the rear of the large pavilion. A notion germinated quickly in Kevlan's roiling thoughts and before he could prevent himself from giving it voice, he blurted, "And what if I should decide to kill you...and then forestall Islena's ascension by plunging this same dagger into her heart as well?"

Myrhia stopped abruptly and turned back to Kevlan, regarding the Metocan from beneath an arched brow. "Well, aren't you the deceptively clever one?"

A strident whine erupted within the confines of the pavilion, drawing the attention of both startled occupants, whose gazes were drawn to the working table where the Jerhia Icon now stood upright. It spun on its tip...its rapid rotation gouging a hole in the highly polished wood. Its rubies blazed with the suggestion of belligerent intent.

Kevlan glanced at the enchantress askance, while Myrhia regarded the spinning sword with a knowing expression. Distantly, she observed, "No one genuinely understands the nuanced dynamic that exists between the Proclamations and their wielder...least of all, Islena. As evinced by this rather disconcerting display, it is a complex and multi-faceted relationship...ever evolving. Perhaps, even in the depths of my cantrip, Islena has heard your threat and by natural extension, the sword has risen to her defense. Who can predict with any degree of accuracy. Should you muster the courage to turn the blade on your _savior_ , be swift and decisive as I suspect that the Icon will quickly thereafter separate your head from your shoulders. This should also serve as an explicit demonstration that Islena and the Icon are one and she will inexorably be drawn...compelled irresistibly...to gather the remaining two."

She paused to allow a nonplused Kevlan a moment to absorb the ramifications of what he was witnessing. "If after all you've witnessed, you are still inclined toward an act of suicidal heroism...and should you actually succeed in seeing both of us to our graves, I would ask that you consider this; eventually the noble Artumas will die and somewhere along the river of time, the three of us will be born again so that this dark drama can commence anew. You will die carrying the knowledge that your ill-conceived act of heroism will actually have helped perpetuate this cycle of horror and violence that your world has suffered. Still...I could be weaving an elaborate deception. Again, it is you who must decide."

With this, she flashed an impish grin and made her way to her pallet. She settled, cross-legged, onto the feather duvet and allowed her chin to settle to her chest.

A brief span of seconds later, the perceptive Kevlan felt an enormous presence withdraw from the pavilion.

He stood next to Islena, his hand trembling violently as he smeared a thick layer of unguent over the firm, shockingly resilient flesh of her left breast. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest and a nascent tugging in his groin as his palm brushed over her erect nipple.

As he continued to labor, taking great care to insure that all visible flesh was fully coated, he could feel the pervasive attraction of Myrhia's dagger demanding his attention. He struggled vainly to resist the whispered enticement, but found his gaze sliding repeatedly to the wickedly sharp blade of its own accord.

' _Could there even be a thread of credence to her astounding contentions?'_ Kevlan wondered, vacillating wildly between absolute acceptance and disdainful skepticism, even as his regard traversed the keen edge of the killing tool. _'Do you really ascribe any credence to this baffling concept of death and reincarnation...and the recurring orgy of blood and violence it supposedly spawns? How could these be anything more than mummer's tales meant to entertain...or banish the boredom of lives characterized by tedious drudgery? And yet...'_

As he engaged in this heated internal debate, Kevlan became cognizant of a disconcerting sensation emanating from Islena's ravaged body, up through his nimble fingers and along his lean arms.

The sensation traversed the alleyways and thoroughfares of his unresisting flesh, gaining momentum and intensity until the Metocan's entire body grew rigid. Kevlan barely managed to retain his grip on the bowl as this rolling wave of visceral sensation impacted on his unprepared consciousness like a detonating sun. Suddenly, the shadowy interior of his carefully structured mind came alive with a blaze of near blinding light and the unnerving sound of an infinite number of voices speaking in perfect unison. Astoundingly, every voice (the timbers of which were as varied as the speakers) was speaking in a different language, though by some incredible magic, the transfixed Metocan understood their exotic tongues...as if they were communicating in his own language.

When his mind's eye adjusted to the harsh glare, Kevlan found that he was peering down upon a seemingly endless procession of women, marching out of the shifting shadow and into a cone of harsh white light. This snaking line of women was spaced in such a way that only one was illuminated beneath the intense, clarifying glare, which seemed to have no discernable source.

From somewhere beyond the perimeters of this internal landscape, Kevlan became aware of a forlorn moaning sound and correctly deduced that this anguished moaning was issuing from his own lips in the external world, which now seemed impossibly remote.

As each woman would enter the cone of light, a strikingly vivid collage of images would manifest about her...a harrowing kaleidoscope of cobbled scenes from an alien world embroiled in a stark flux of destruction and chaos. With each successive entrant, a new variation of the same terrible theme supplanted the last...each more cataclysmic than its predecessor.

Helpless to curtail this flow...this unbearable chronology of carnage and conflict...as it meandered through his captive consciousness, Kevlan could only bear witness to the Daughter of the Tempest as her every incarnation wound slowly past.

"They are I and I am them...and we are one; inseparable aspects of a universal whole," a sonorous, multi-layered voice proclaimed...repeating the same mantra over and over in a flat, mechanical voice that was devoid of any essential humanity. "Daughter of the Tempest...we are the hinge upon which every dark juncture has invariably turned...and always will."

This lifeless, resigned declaration reverberated in Kevlan's mind and while its meaning was obscure...it was fraught with enough ambiguous menace to make the Metocan whimper.

Finally, Islena Doraux followed a regal, statuesque blond woman, with the deportment of a queen, into the damnable light of illumination. Islena's normally green eyes were clouded and inscrutable, yet her face was a sorrowful portrait of despair.

In the real world, Kevlan's thin countenance twisted into a wounded grimace as he watched the tableau of war and ill-fortune swirl around her as Islena trudged past. Unlike the other members of this procession of the fate-cursed, who seemed oblivious to Kevlan's scrutiny and moved with the dogged determination of the possessed, Islena seemed fundamentally _aware_ of the improbable environment in which she now found herself _._ She glanced around, squint-eyed against the harsh light and then stole a glance over her shoulder, before her regard snapped back to face forward.

A flare of all-consuming trepidation erupted in Islena's bulging eyes in the brief instant she'd glanced over her shoulder. In that moment of undiluted, perfect clarity, Kevlan was afforded a fleeting glimpse of the terrible, incontrovertible truth that blasted his ambivalence to tatters. It was impossible to misconstrue the expression of perfect, unadulterated terror or misinterpret its possible cause.

Whatever followed Islena was a malevolent incarnation the nature of which was simply too horrible to contemplate. On the heels of that came the most disconcerting and improbable revelation of all...Myrhia had spoken the absolute and unbiased truth.

Islena Doraux, the volatile one of prophecy, the Daughter of the Tempest, was the single most dangerous entity in existence...of at least held the potential to become so.

Then Islena passed out of sight and in her distressed wake, the blinding light abruptly guttered and something ineffably malign appeared to slink into the shadows.

Kevlan exhaled sharply and jerked back into the tangible present with a quavering gasp, to find that he was hovering over the suspended, partially unguent-covered Islena. He uttered a shrill cry of abject terror when Islena's eyelids sprang open to reveal eyes as black as the inside of a tomb. With the uncanny speed of a striking adder, Islena's right hand shot out and clutched a paralyzed Kevlan's throat in a powerful grip which he felt certain would pulverize his larynx.

When it seemed inevitable that Islena's constricting fingers would achieve precisely that, her muscular body was assailed by a powerful spasm. Her eyeballs rolled up in her head and when next they opened, all evidence of the corrupting blackness was gone. Islena peered up at Kevlan through eyes that were alive with unimaginable agony. She loosed a piercing shriek, rife with torment and then mercifully fell silent as Myrhia's arcane cocoon flared and pulled her back into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

Islena's fingers went limp and her hand fell away from the sputtering Kevlan's throat. After he had regained a more or less normal cadence of breathing, the Metocan swiped at the ornamental dagger and sent it spinning into the brooding shadows.

He then stood stationary, fretfully watching the living contradiction with an equal measure of pity and wariness. After a moment, he collected another bowl of the unguent and resumed his ministrations as the echo of scornful laughter filled the darkened corners of Myrhia's pavilion.

Chapter Twenty-Four

1

The assembly of leaders watched Lorio depart in silence, all viewing the enigmatic immortal with varying degrees of exasperation. Only Artumas did not share this vexation, knowing that her contrived exterior of flippancy was merely a coping mechanism to mask a pain the magnitude of which he could hardly comprehend.

Though she had tried valiantly to disguise her misery with a mask of icy irreverence, Artumas was acutely aware of how deeply the disclosure of his shared intimacy with Islena had wounded the immortal.

' _How do we live with the shame of these spontaneous lapses of ethical and moral principles?'_ Artumas wondered bleakly. _'Is it such a simple matter to erode our integrity one thoughtless act at a time?'_

Shaking his head, he turned back to the others, who were regarding him with that intense expectancy that he found both mystifying and vaguely disquieting. It implied that they were looking to him to produce the magic gambit to deliver them from this seemingly inescapable vice.

' _Your faith is ill-founded,'_ he thought and then remarked, "It seems that there is no end to how dizzyingly complex this situation can become. Since there is evidently nothing we can do to intervene on Islena's behalf, I recommend that we turn our attention to matters we can influence and attempt to formulate a plan by which we might best facilitate our desired outcome.

"Candidly, Artumas, I am no longer certain what shape _our desired outcome_ might even assume," Maroc remarked gruffly. "We have apparently salvaged our world's freedom. If so, then our _great accord_ has left the taste of bitter ash in my mouth and the stench of humiliating defeat in my nostrils."

Artumas nodded his grave agreement. "A sentiment I believe we all share, Maxim Tier Marshal. This is precisely why I must now endorse Lady Tokizar's vehement suggestion that we do everything within our power to undermine Islena Doraux's ascension. Strangely, I have come to conclude that it is Islena's own gambit that has the best hope of preventing this dire eventuality from coming to pass."

Shockingly, it was Tokizar who swiftly rose to voice a strident objection. "While it's gratifying that someone else has finally come to see reason, the thought of depending on that undisciplined, crude and vulgar ruffian to play the pivotal role is beyond reckless...it's criminally irresponsible."

Artumas' expression darkened, but he deliberately fought to retain a grip on his composure, understanding that Lorio's erratic behavior had warranted much of the scorn to which she was routinely subjected. "I agree that the scheme is fraught with the potential for disaster, but I can honestly think of no viable alternative."

"And Islena is amenable to this notion that her scheme could very well culminate in her own death?" Inos inquired, his limpid gray eyes clouded by doubt. "This is really the salient question upon which this audacious gamble is based. Islena will turn Myrhia's soul-forge against her, but before Islena can ascend, Lorio will deal Islena a killing blow, terminating the ritual of ascension before it can reach its denouement. The plethora of ruinous variables in this equation are too numerous to even toll."

"Nonetheless, as delicate as the design might be, I see no viable alterative," Artumas returned for the second time, "and yes, Islena is completely resolved to this path...even if her death is its final destination." He did not add that he feared it was the conflicted Lorio whom he suspected would be the weak variable in the equation. It was easy to visualize that her love for Islena might stay her hand at the critical juncture...just as it had in the plaza only days prior.

"What Islena is proposing is predicated on the theory that Myrhia will be interred in a permanent state of living stasis...is this not so," Inos asked, a speculative gleam in his eye.

"Yes, but Islena confided in me that she has no idea if what she is proposing is even possible," Artumas conceded, seeking the Grand Mage's insight.

Inos exchanged quizzical glances with Tokizar and then replied, "I'm afraid that there is no easy answer to that particular query...this situation is without precedent and we must stray into the perilous and murky waters of conjecture."

"The ancient auguries proclaim that Myrhia...or a monster of her ilk...would be annihilated if they were to attempt to wield the Proclamations directly," Tokizar explained, the inherent academic in her nature rising to the fore, "though why Islena would assume that this would translate into Myrhia's physical being turned into living stone and eternally incarcerated in her own inured flesh is difficult to grasp...and frankly baseless, I suspect."

Perplexed, Artumas shook his head. "I admit this level of metaphysics is well beyond my less than rudimentary understanding." Here, Maroc grunted his concurrence and Artumas went on to inquire, "Islena has demanded that Myrhia and she enter into a soul forge. Again, my grasp of the concept is nebulous, but why would either woman wish to bond thusly?"

Inos pursed his lips and gave a distracted shake of his head. "Astute question...and like most others pertaining to these enigmatic creatures, one that is not easily answered. Mascius might be able to provide a more cogent opinion on the subject, but I would hazard a guess that the enchantress sees a soul-forge as a means of insuring that an ascendant Islena will cause her no harm. From Islena's perspective, should her idea of transmogrifying Myrhia into living stone go awry...her own death would see the enchantress to her end...a type of mutual immolation. Given what Islena has planned, this is as credible an explanation as any."

Maroc appeared dissatisfied with this apparently plausible answer. "If there is one thing that can be said about Myrhia...one undeviating consistency over the course of this conflict...it is that she is exceptionally astute and perceptive. How is it possible that she would not anticipate the ruse couched in Islena's proposal of a soul forge?"

"There are numerous possible explanations for Myrhia's acquiescence," Artumas allowed evenly. "Naturally, there is no way to substantiate or refute any of them. Ultimately, we are left with no choice but to accept things at face value and deal with circumstances as they appear to be. If we permit ourselves to become mired in exploring endless possible outcomes and ulterior motivations that might be at work here, we will find that we have been reduced to utter immobility, which is the one state that we can ill afford."

"Still, it would be imprudent not to allow for other contingencies," Tokizar argued and Artumas came to regard the strong-willed mage as an individual who would raise an endless stream of objections over any proposed course of action as a matter of habit. This was a vexing trait that they could ill afford at this particular juncture, where time was at a premium.

Inos appeared to sense Artumas' mounting impatience with Tokizar and diplomatically proposed, "Of course, you are correct, Tokizar. It would be unwise to ignore possible flaws in Islena's gambit. Still, in the name of expedience, I recommend that we advocate Islena's plan. While the four leaders discuss actual logistics of seeing the pair back to Nalosan, perhaps you can enlist the aid of Mascius and explore the arcane mechanics of Islena's scheme with a mind to confirming or refuting its plausibility."

Tokizar's broad-featured face blanched and her large gray eyes narrowed in suspicion before her expression settled into a rueful scowl. Inos was all too aware of the smoldering enmity that existed between his nearest Consul and Metocan's surly academic. Mascius viewed Tokizar as a supercilious flit and she regarded the nation's foremost scholar as an intransigent, foul-tempered goat. Guardedly, Inos reminded her, "Mascius is your subordinate. You may remind him of this fact...as vigorously as you see fit."

This olive branch did little to placate Tokizar, who inquired sourly, "I take it that I am being dismissed?"

"Gaining a deeper understanding of the arcane foundations...or lack thereof...behind Islena's gambit certainly takes precedence over the minutiae of how to escort Myrhia back to Nalosan," Inos observed kindly. "I would expect a full report on its viability and its apparent flaws and obstacles by last bell today."

"An ambitious objective," Tokizar remarked ruefully and gathering her cinnamon-colored robes, rose stiffly and marched from Artumas' suite of rooms without sparing the leaders a parting glance. When the door had closed behind her, Artumas turned to the Grand Mage and observed, "I do believe that we've offended her...for which I apologize."

Still gazing at the door, Inos intoned, "Tokizar is made of far sterner stuff than one would imagine."

Even as he offered this desultory evaluation, Inos knew that he had spoken falsely. Tokizar was a passionate, sensitive creature and he had little doubt that his dismissal had injured her pride deeply.

The Grand Mage had no foreshadowing that rapidly approaching events would leave him eternally regretting this thinly disguised slight against a woman whom he had long since loved. For reasons he did not completely understand, Inos had never expressed this harbored sentiment and like the fleeting luster of most possibilities, the opportunity to ever do so was about to vanish.

2

The sharp scratch of the quill on the coarse, cream-colored paper was the only sound to be heard in the newly appointed Tier Marshal Arminda's quarters. Occasionally the explosive pop of a knot bursting in the fire place would disrupt the well-paced scratching, evoking a smile from the room's only occupant. While a brazier and a series of evenly distributed blue crystals provided the room's subdued lighting, a large, open fireplace supplied the spacious chamber's warmth against the unprecedented chill that had descended upon the Metocan capital in the wake of the historic snowfall.

The fireplace reminded her of the comfortable cottage where she and Amrand had grown up in the foothills that surrounded Summergaden. Like their beloved parents, Amrand was but a ghost now...all three casualties to Myrhia's blight.

Only she remained...along with the ludicrous new rank and her deeply-engrained sense of duty. Her quill faltered and sent a fan of black ink across a neat column of figures. Cursing softly (a behavior that would be severely frowned upon from one of her esteemed rank), Arminda set aside the writing implement and buried her face in her small hands.

In defiance of her most determined efforts to resist them, memories of yesterdays humiliating interview with the Maxim Tier Marshal came swarming into her thoughts like a vexing cloud of biting insects.

If she lived to the ripe old age of sixty, Arminda doubted that she could ever expunge the sensing of burning shame and humiliation she had experienced when Maroc, Artumas and a contingent of Jerhia soldiers had burst through the door to the Emercian King's bed chamber. They had all come to an abrupt halt and stared, mouths agape, at the sight of the Tier Marshal bound and spread eagle on Artumas' bed...trussed like a plaything in a deviant's lurid sexual fantasy.

Artumas and Maroc had ordered the other Jerhia from the room, and though they had demonstrated a laudable degree of sensitivity as the pair had released her from Lorio's degrading restraints, Arminda would have quite happily welcomed death at that exact moment. Her degradation had been further exacerbated when, despite her best intentions to the contrary, she had burst into tears...a deluge that she had been unable to curtail even as she had been escorted back to her chambers.

Her woes had continued the very next day, when she had offered herself up to the enchantress as a sacrificial lamb. Even now, ensconced in the quiet solitude that invited such introspection, Arminda could not say with any degree of conviction, what exactly it was that motivated her to offer herself up as a pawn whenever it seemed that the measure was required. She intuited that the underlying reasons would prove to be varied and complex...even if she was inclined to give them serious consideration.

It was rather puzzling that Islena had reacted to her offer of self-sacrifice near Purgatory by beating her bloody...while Myrhia had lauded her courage and more baffling yet, had actually healed her debilitating infirmity.

Arminda's gaze meandered to her left arm...now fully restored to its original level of functionality...and her pretty face puckered into a knot of consternation. In healing Arminda, Myrhia had managed to banish a debilitating disability, replacing it with a seething self-contempt so profound that the diminutive Jerhia almost wished she could find a surgeon to amputate the offending limb. To be returned to her normal capability by the very monster who had so savagely maimed and essentially killed Amrand struck her as an unpardonable betrayal of her brother.

' _I wonder if this had been her intention...even as she healed me?"_ Arminda thought. _'Was this yet another variation of her endless stock of cruelty?'_

She had bludgeoned herself in search of an answer, but had succeeded only in fueling her growing dismay.

After she had fled the audience chamber...once again demonstrating that she lacked the discipline to master her emotions...the Maxim Tier Marshal had sought her out. He had spent three bells subjecting her to a lecture that was part rebuke and part motivational pep talk. While his tone had been polite and even understanding...his disappointment with her conduct had resonated in every word.

"What disturbs me the most, Arminda, is that you did not trust me enough...trust my capacity to empathize with Lorio's plight and share your suspicions with me," Maroc chastised sternly. "Trust is the fundamental glue that binds us in common purpose. As Maxim Tier Marshal, it is imperative that I surround myself with subordinates who will keep me apprised of every nuance...every wrinkle in the fabric of critical events. They must also believe that they can confide their perspectives...their doubts and misgivings...to me. This, along with an undeviating adherence to our integrity and principles, is the very foundation of our culture."

Arminda had absorbed this well-warranted chastisement in silence and rather than offer a meaningless rationalization, she had simply responded, "If you wish to rescind my promotion and return me to the ranks, I would certainly understand, Maxim Tier Marshal. Now that my arm has been restored, I am confident that it would not be long before I regained my former level of proficiency." She hesitated for a moment and then declared, "In truth, I am not adequate to the rank I've been granted...nor fit to dwell on this particular stage. A return to the rank and file would be...most welcome."

Maroc had studied her intently for an extended moment and when she felt certain that he would acquiesce to her request, he had surprised her by asking quietly, "Why did you order Gillian to return to Jerhia?"

Despite being badly unbalanced by this unexpected question...a query she'd already answered...Arminda met his frank gaze of appraisal evenly, "I sent Gillian away because I believed that his keen and agile mind would be best suited to assess the situation in Jerhia." After a nearly imperceptibly pause, she added, "I also sent him away because I thought that he should be elsewhere when Myrhia conducted her inquisition."

"And you thought to offer yourself instead to be held to account for his duplicity?" Maroc demanded pointedly.

Arminda had merely nodded and Maroc had regarded her in contemplative silence for several moments. "In the audience chamber, I proclaimed that you are the future of Jerhia...if there is indeed a future beyond this darkness. I did not offer this opinion glibly or falsely. It is not a hollow platitude, but the absolute truth as I perceive it to be. Nor did the events on the plaza change my opinion a whit. If it is your desire to be returned to the ranks, then I will make it so...with a heavy and reluctant heart because it would mean that I have failed in my obligation to you. If you are amenable, I would ask that you remain and allow me to groom you with a mind to becoming my eventual successor. Have no doubt that this will entail years of wading through the driest bureaucracy imaginable...but the qualities you demonstrated in the Land of Shades are an eloquent affirmation that there is no one better suited to guide Jerhia into the future."

When a flummoxed Arminda did not immediately respond, Maroc had squeezed her shoulder and suggested that she take a span of days to ponder the matter. Then he had assigned her the task of composing lists of material requirements for a march to Nalosan or a possible return to Summergaden.

As she sat alone in her quarters, under a penumbra of doubt, Arminda remained baffled by what it was that people saw in her...what elusive quality they thought she possessed to justify holding her in such high regard.

She was grappling with this conundrum when a soft rapping came at her chamber door. Mildly perturbed by the disturbance, she called brusquely, "Enter!"

The door opened tentatively and Lorio slid over the threshold with her customary liquid grace and closed the door behind her. Initially, Arminda blinked as if an apparition had entered her quarters. Draped in finery with her thick mass of raven hair spilling about her beautiful face like the night sky, Lorio appeared regal and aloof...the very quintessence of a queen.

Arminda leaned slightly forward and clasped her hands on her desk to prevent them from trembling visibly. This had been the first occasion that she had come face to face with the immortal since Lorio had left her bound and humiliated in Artumas' bed chamber, and it required every ounce of the Jerhia's frayed discipline not to launch herself recklessly at her unwelcome visitor.

"I'm truly amazed that even you could muster the audacity to seek me out after what you did to me," Arminda rasped thickly. "Then again, I suppose that you have never been lacking for gall or temerity. What could you possibly say that you would imagine I would wish to hear?"

Lorio recoiled slightly in the face of Arminda's uncharacteristic belligerence. "I understand that you're angry with me and that's why I've come."

Arminda cut off the immortal's explanation with a raised right hand and hissed, "Don't!"

An uncomfortable silence slid across the moment and the two women regarded each other across a void that Lorio feared might never be spanned. After a moment, Arminda inquired, "Do you know why I first pleaded with Maroc to allow me to accompany Islena into the Land of Shades?"

Lorio tilted her head slightly and surmised, "Islena seems to exude a certain aura...an attraction that is difficult to define or resist."

"That may be true, but it is not the primary reason I asked to join the party. My ulterior motivation was to pay homage to my brother's memory...by committing myself to the same path," Arminda corrected, her tone glacial. "My recompense for that desire has been constant pain...both physical and emotional...and endless humiliation."

Lorio averted her eyes, knowing that she had inflicted the lion's share of both on this noble young woman. Distantly, she heard herself whisper, "I've come to say I'm sorry...and to beg for your forgiveness."

"Indeed?" Arminda spat, her polar blue eyes flaring indignantly. "Is it not your way, Lorio? Do you not inflict some form of vapid cruelty upon a hapless victim...someone who invariably holds you in high regard...and then plead for their forgiveness with a bat of those long lashes or a flash of that radiant smile? Deep down, do you see your exceptional beauty as a counter-balance to your ugly disposition; a kind of leverage to excuse your every vulgar action?"

Lorio uttered a thin moan, but could offer no defense against Arminda's stingingly precise portrayal of her nature. Arminda's grin was the unnerving glint of a razor as she continued to heap her derision on the woman who had become her nemesis.

"I forgave you when you degraded me at the chasm. I forgave you when you beat me bloody...a cripple with no means of defending herself...after Sormias appeared to abduct Islena. I know that the monster you were had a hand in murdering poor Emian, but I was staunch in the certainty that the real Lorio was in no way to blame. I pleaded with Otaru Ree not to take your son and the sorrow I felt for you then was unbearable. I even understood how the madness of that loss would drive you to kill Islena and why you could not allow me to prevent you from seeking vengeance. When I attempted to stop you, it was only because I could not bear to see you squander your life in a suicidal attempt to settle this grievance."

She stopped, her breath coming in short, panting exhalations...and then drove home the final verbal dagger. "I could willingly forgive you for all of these injuries, but the way you left me in Artumas' chambers...that was the act of an ugly, deformed heart...of a remorselessly deplorable human being...and that I will never forgive!"

A tremulous whimper escaped Lorio's slightly parted lips and a single tear slide from the corner of her left eye. Seeing the outward manifestation of the emotional carnage her caustic condemnation had inflicted, Arminda could feel her resolve waver. With a natural proclivity towards kindness and compassion, it was not an easy matter for the young Jerhia to be cold, but on this one occasion, she found the mettle to inure her heart against Lorio's distress.

The distraught immortal raised her long sinewy arms and pleaded tearfully, "Please, Arminda...I know what I did was...deplorable, but can we not put the past to rest? Can you not come and embrace me like a sister? Of everyone I've ever wronged, you are the one person whose forgiveness I need."

"Then as all adults must learn to their own disillusionment, life does not always provide for your every desire!" Arminda snapped venomously. "As to your sisterly embrace; if I was to rise from this chair, I would be unable to prevent myself from doing something that would only further my humiliation. However, if you are contrite and genuinely wish to atone for what you've done to me...there is something I would have you do..."

"You need only ask," Lorio gushed eagerly, drawing a razor thin grin from Arminda, who proceeded to exhibit a harshness the level of which she would not have thought herself capable.

"I would like you to leave this room and never find your way into my presence again. If circumstances should make our being in the same room unavoidable, I would ask that you neither speak to me nor gaze upon me...because _I_ can no longer suffer the sight of your accursed face."

Lorio inhaled...making a scalded sound as if she'd been doused with boiling water. She hung her head and allowed her long tresses to fall around her face to obscure her misery. When she finally spoke, it was in a voice that was brittle and scarcely recognizable. "I'm deserving of your scorn and so I will do as you wish. If these are the last words that will ever pass between us then I would tell you this...to both of us, Myrhia has extended astounding acts of kindness. I suspect that her egalitarian _gift_ has left you feeling dismayed and feeling sullied in some way. If so, then we share the same discomforting sentiment. Choose to see it as an opportunity and don't scourge yourself questioning its source. We've both been given a second chance and I refuse to allow Myrhia's hidden agenda to dictate my future." She flicked a sheepish glance at Arminda and concluded, "I would advise you to do the same."

Then she pivoted in place and left Arminda's chamber. Though she quietly closed the door, it echoed in the Jerhia's ear with a terrible finality. Arminda buried her face in her hands, immediately regretting her severe treatment of the immortal, even as she recognized the wisdom of her parting advice.

The image of Maroc and Artumas, as they had come upon her in the Emercian king's chamber, rose, unbidden, to her mind...steeling her resolve.

Picking up her quill, she resumed her work...determined to heed Lorio's words of wisdom.

3

With Tokizar's departure, a rather odd lethargy settled over the four leaders of the countries that had once laid claim to the now discredited mantle of the known world's mightiest nations. Maroc in particular seemed especially disturbed by the subtle undercurrent that had governed Tokizar's dismissal. "Were Tokizar's concerns really that unwarranted?" he inquired. "From a strategic perspective, it seems that Islena's scheme is as tenuous as a sand castle at high tide."

"You never would have struck me as a man given to metaphorical speech, Maxim Tier Marshal," Artumas observed with a disarming grin. His demeanor grew more serious and he continued, "As I previously mentioned, from an ethical point of view, I now believe that she has the right of it; we are obligated to prevent Islena's ascension, even if doing so results in our own immolation. Irrespective, we must strive to manufacture an outcome that might circumvent that grim eventuality...and time is precariously short. That is why I am endorsing Islena's gambit and strongly encourage that we work toward its realization."

"Also, if they manage to set their annoying enmity aside for a time, Tokizar and Mascius could actually provide some meaningful answers concerning the viability of Islena's plan," Inos interjected.

"So, I ask that we give our approval to Islena's bold and selfless plan, so that we might move on to the logistics of actually making it happen," Artumas went on with an exuberant clapping of his callused hands.

The other three leaders all nodded thoughtfully. Maroc's brow furrowed and he drummed his fingers on the table that had been set up to serve as a map board. "There is one aspect of this damnable situation that I simply can't grasp. These ancient prophecies all state...as overtly as such things are ever apt to be...that the wielder of the Proclamations must be pure of heart...a paragon of virtue. This was the apparent lien that the elders placed on the Icons to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands once they determined that the accursed things could not be destroyed. Here is where I see an irreconcilable discrepancy in the weave. I was always skeptical that these Icons were anything more than the stuff of capricious dreamers...and religious zealots. Yet, I have witnessed Islena Doraux unleash the vast power of the Jerhia Icon with my own eyes. Worse still, I have also witnessed the malignant darkness that resides in this inscrutable woman's heart...and I am left feeling perplexed. How can Islena Doraux now pose the threat that everyone swears she does given the edicts of this ancient augury?"

"These are not easy contradictions to resolve," Inos replied soberly. "On the face of it, Islena Doraux does not seem to fit the profile of the pristine savior depicted in the ancient texts. That inherent discrepancy only makes Islena's gambit all the more exigent."

"Perhaps all of this hand-wringing and fretting is...unnecessary," the dour Natzurdan elder abruptly interjected, startling the other three, who had almost forgotten that he was present. A taciturn man by nature, it was an easy matter to forget that he was the leader of a nation of earth-lore wielders...though in comparison to the late, venerable Morzhian, whose compelling presence was riveting, Maktir was virtually invisible.

"Unnecessary?" Artumas echoed in confusion. "How so?"

"I've told you that every Natzurdan is aware of the whereabouts of the Natzurdan Icon...also known as Symyrasil; a word derived from one of our lost dialects that translates to _living flesh of the Mother."_

He paused momentarily, his austere countenance assuming a grave aspect that, when combined with this tangle of hair and his ragged beard, lent the tint of madness to his expression. When it was clear that he had thoroughly captured the others' attention, he continued, "You speak of confusion and contradiction...and rightfully so. As I listen to the passionate debate over the nebulous matters of fate and augury...I feel that we are attempting to reconcile two discordant visions of reality...an impossible task considering how diametrically opposite they seem."

The three other exchanged quizzical glances...not in the least because this was the most expansive the Natzurdan Elder had been since replacing Morzhian. Guardedly, Inos ventured, "I'm not entirely certain I grasp your meaning, revered elder."

Maktir scowled as if he suspected that the Metocan was being deliberately obtuse. "If Islena was to meet with a fatal mishap, we would be left to face a wrathful Myrhia, but her vile ambition would be effectively limited to this world...correct?"

"As we understand it, yes," Artumas allowed thoughtfully, sensing the general direction of the Natzurdan's ruminations and feeling his personal discomfort begin to mount. He deduced where Maktir's line of contemplation would ultimately lead and dreaded venturing into this particularly dark and alien territory.

The Emercian's outward countenance remained inscrutable and thus Maktir led the group along a path that would cause Artumas no small degree of consternation. "As you have attested, we should be prepared to bear the consequences of our ancestor's misdeeds...and yet we do not advocate simply killing Islena Doraux by any means necessary...Myrhia's retribution be damned. I would ask you pointedly...why not?"

Seeing no way to circumvent the challenge, the High King nodded and explained, "If we were simply to kill Islena...and I have experience to suggest that this would be no easy task...Myrhia and I would eventually die. In time, we would be reborn again, somewhere along the parallel streams of time and our eternal conflict would begin anew. Essentially, killing Islena before she has an opportunity to enact her gambit to eternally trap Myrhia will propagate this grim cycle of tragedy. This is precisely what we are attempting to prevent by confining Myrhia...and possibly Islena's evil to this world. Islena's audacious scheme is predicated on the notion that one of the three eternal spirits must be imprisoned in perpetuity...and thus unable to enter another vessel elsewhere."

"And you are presumably one of these three eternal spirits?" It was Maroc who had posed this pointed query, his tone hinting at vexed skepticism.

"Yes!" Artumas replied softly. "Both Myrhia and Islena have referred to me as _The Champion of Light_. I am supposedly the eternal defender of virtue and justice.

"Not an overly large stretch of the imagination, good king," Inos observed with a fond and admiring smile.

"Do you generally believe this claim, Artumas?" Maroc inquired in a tone rife with both bewilderment and skepticism.

A sorrowful penumbra seemed to dampen the light in the Emercian's eyes. Quietly, he confided, "I do. Unlike the other two, my sense of past incarnations is confined to the one immediately prior to my present existence. Still, I have felt his pain and his consuming desire to build a better world in which the principles of enlightenment governed all things and every living being was considered to have inherent value...irrespective of their lot in life. I have recalled, in unsettlingly vivid detail, how he strove tenaciously to make this ambitious vision a reality for every man. I have suffered his disappointments and betrayals and I have watched mournfully as his glorious design was undone by the very two creatures who now hold our fates in their ancient hands. While I can't profess to understand it as they apparently do, I can tell you that our resonating tragedy is history's greatest nightmare. Islena has devised a way to see it to an end, and I say that we are morally obligated to provide her with this opportunity...irrespective of its chances of success."

He swept an imploring gaze over the three leaders of the CornerStone Nations, who absorbed his brief account of a king named Arthur Pendragon's ultimately heart-rending life raptly. He offered the trio a wan smile and then held up a hand in a gesture for indulgence. "Please don't ask me to provide even the most rudimentary explanation of this odious cycle, because its arcane mechanics are well beyond me. Quite frankly, before I encountered Islena Doraux on the edge of the Great Western Ocean, I had no inkling that I was anything more than what you see before you now."

Inos pursed his lips and stroked his chin reflectively, "We can only assume that the thread of this world's fate is woven into the pattern of this grand design, this reality-spanning tapestry that appears to encompass the entire flow of time itself...hardly an easy concept to assimilate."

"Was Myrhia aware of her...what would you call it...spiritual multiplicity when she sat beside you on the throne?" Maroc inquired, obviously uncomfortable with the metaphysical terrain over which this discussion was moving.

"I can honestly say that I don't recall even the slightest intimation of this multiplicity, as you call it," Artumas returned, but the distant cast in his eyes suggested that he was uncertain. After a moment, the Emercian elaborated, "In retrospect, it's likely that she was fully self-aware. Her every well-conceived action seems to have been undertaken with a specific purpose in mind; obtaining the Proclamations by drawing Islena Doraux into our world."

"The ease with which she elected to abandon her hard won territories once Islena had knelt and sworn fealty would seem to substantiate that theory," Maroc remarked. "It seems that Myrhia's only interest in conquering the two continents was being able to conduct an unencumbered search for the two Icons."

"None of this matters!" Maktir barked, his vehemence startling the other three into shocked silence. "What I have to divulge will render these flights of conjecture irrelevant. As I mentioned on the day that Myrhia declared her terms for ending this conflict, Every Natzurdan has known where Symyrasil has been sequestered for the last six thousand years. Unlike the other two Icons, Symyrasil is not the cumulative sum of the Natzurdan experience."

"I'm not entirely certain I understand, elder," Inos heard himself murmur, but a bright spark had flared in his limpid gray eyes.

"Our Icon is not of the people of Natzurdan," Maktir explained patiently. "It is the very essence...a tangible manifestation...of the Mother herself. Symyrasil is a living symbol that embodies the benevolence, fertility and grace of the Mother. It holds the power of seasons...the power of wither and fruition. Unlike the other Icons, Symyrasil was not wrought from the collective hubris of men. It was gifted to the people of Natzurdan by the mother to whom every generation of Natzurdan has devoted their lives."

"That both its existence and location have never been divulged in the course of six thousand years is a tribute to the extraordinary discipline and devotion to your goddess that your people hold," Inos observed, clearly flummoxed and impressed by the Natzurdan's collective sense of propriety. "That an entire nation could keep such knowledge sequestered...not one faltering once in six thousand years...is simply unfathomable."

"To betray the Mother's trust is simply beyond our sensibilities," Maktir returned without the slightest trace of smug condescension. Here, his brow furrowed, imparting a glimpse into the terrible ambivalence the elder had endured while arriving at the decision to divulge his nation's long held secret. "We have asked so much of the Mother over the course of this wretched war and I pray that this in not the one extravagant demand that permanently alienates her...and prompts her to withdraw her blessing from an undeserving world."

He shook his head then and Artumas could clearly glean the prevailing sorrow that lurked behind the austere countenance; that sense of earnest bewilderment that he, himself, experienced on a daily basis. Maktir swept his doleful gaze over the three. "Look at who we've turned to while seeking aid in our cause. Islena Doraux is an erratic commodity, who evidently has within her the potential to become the very scourge of existence. I can tell you, without the slightest hint of equivocation, that Sygeanor is a ruthless monster and we will come to rue the day when we let her loose on an unsuspecting world. Even this impetuous creature...this Lorio...is a vain, strutting peacock. I cannot help but ask myself how we have fallen so far by turning to people such as this for our deliverance."

The Natzurdan elder fell silent, his final query filling the subsequent silence like a damning condemnation. Finally, he inhaled deeply and continued, "Symyrasil is sequestered in a grove of ancient oaks in Central Natzurdan, less than a dozen leagues east of the Hiberas. Manifesting in tangible form, Symyrasil is said to be a simple wooden staff, but it is, in truth, the core of the oldest living tree in Natzurdan. Tyrcillium is said to be the first living creation born into this world when the Mother bestowed her blessing on the previously sterile earth. Symyrasil resides within this temple of venerable wood. Perhaps knowing humans as she does, the Mother placed several _cautions_ on the Natzurdan Icon. Only the elder of Natzurdan can locate Tyrcillium because the glade in which it grows exists beyond the bounds of earthly reality."

"Again, I'm not sure I understand," Maroc grumbled, plainly irritated by what he viewed as esoteric gibberish.

"To state it plainly...this grove is not, strictly speaking, located in this world...but rather on a more ephemeral plane and only I know how to locate and access it," Maktir explained.

"A prudent precaution," Inos remarked admiringly.

"Yet it is another precaution that should set your misgivings to rest...or perhaps bring your darkest fears into sharper focus," Maktir continued with a dire frown. "The one who would presume to take possession of Symyrasil must first submit to judgment of his or her worthiness. Symyrasil carries the power of genesis...and extinction. The Mother would not allow it to fall into the possession of one of impure heart. To be granted stewardship over the staff of Natzurdan, the supplicant must first go willingly into the bosom of Tyrcillium...there to be judged!"

"Which means what precisely?" an enthralled Artumas inquired, though from Inos' anxious reaction to this revelation, the Emercian knew it to be a point of grave consequence.

"Essentially, the petitioner must submit to the judgment of the Mother by literally becoming one with Tyrcillium. Encased in living wood, they will be examined. If they are deemed worthy, Symyrasil will be released to their keeping...effectively granting them a measure of the Mother's puissance."

"And if they are not?" Artumas asked thickly, already suspecting...but nonetheless, dreading the answer.

"Then they will find themselves eternally imprisoned in Tyrcillium...where they will gradually be transmogrified into living wood." Maktir's bearded face broke into a thin, humorless grin. "Essentially, this lien is the very snare in which Islena means to ensnare the viper queen. If Islena's soul is suffused by rampant evil...Tyrcillium will divine this corruption and react to prevent her from abusing the power of the staff. The problem of Islena Doraux ever becoming a universal scourge with be emphatically resolved."

"Something that Myrhia will not be apt to accept congenially," Inos predicted darkly to which Maktir merely shrugged his indifference as if the matter held very little interest for him one way or the other.

"If Islena is possessed by a pernicious evil, she will be entombed alive and the recurring cycle of tragedy will end here," Artumas intoned gravely. "If she is found to be worthy of wielding Symyrasil, it would mean that she is pure of spirit and our world's ancient prophecy will have been validated." With burgeoning excitement radiating in his eyes, the Emercian King added, "Islena will be free to entrap Myrhia without the need to sacrifice herself on the blade of Lorio's Zarcyk. We must devise a way of apprising Islena of this turn of good fortune...without alerting Myrhia."

"No!" The single unflinching imperative rolled from Maktir's tongue and filled the confines of Artumas' chambers like thunder, its vehemence startling the other three.

After regaining his composure, a thoroughly dismayed Inos inquired, "Why ever not?"

"There are conditions under which I will agree to lead Islena Doraux to Tyrcillium and there is absolutely no latitude for negotiation," Maktir growled like an intransigent bear poised to defend its dinner. "Neither Islena nor her odious patron must have any prior knowledge of the trial that awaits her. She must face the rite of merit and should she persevere, so be it. If the Mother decides she is unworthy, then so too shall Islena reap the consequences of her inadequacy. I must have your solemn vow that you will adhere to the Mother's condition. If I discern even the slightest hint of equivocation or should I suspect at any point that you intend to renege on your oath and apprise Islena of the ordeal she is to face, Symyrasil will remain forever hidden." He set his penetrating gaze directly upon Artumas and vowed, "If you are not amenable to my terms, then I shall gather my people and return to Natzurdan and prepare for our extinction because Myrhia and her mercurial puppet shall never have Symyrasil!"

In spite of his best efforts to conceal his dismay, Artumas grimaced in the face of this overt threat. "I doubt that Morzhian would have approved of such heavy-handed coercion."

Maktir's answering smile...a rarity in itself...was rife with sardonic disdain. "Nor would Morzhian have disclosed his knowledge of Symyrasil. He would have watched stoically as Myrhia incinerated the world around him. You should count yourself fortunate that I am a man of weaker resolve. Now, on your honor, do I have your vow that you will reveal nothing of Tyrcillium's trial to Islena Doraux or her odious benefactress?"

The tense silence that followed was a palpable thing as the three leaders frantically assessed the options which Maktir's stifling intransigence had left them. Deducing that they were left with no option other but to capitulate, each signaled their acquiescence with a curt nod.

To his credit, Maktir displayed none of the insufferable smugness that such _victories_ often inspired. "There is one other condition, but I will see to insuring its fulfillment. The viper queen will not accompany us to the grove. It is the one debasement that the Mother refuses to suffer...even for the sake of her devoted children."

"I can reasonably wager that Myrhia will not be amenable to being separated from her prized marionette," Inos predicted darkly. "The woman, as we have all learned to our painful detriment, is exceptionally perceptive...preternatural in her detection of potential calamity. It is hardly beyond the possibility that she will detect a ruse and be unwilling to permit Islena to stray from beneath her protective umbrella."

"Then it will be up to all of us to work diligently to assuage her misgivings because Islena alone will be led into the grove," Maktir vowed in a voice that was cold and unflinching in its certitude.

"I will agree because you have adroitly maneuvered us into a position where we are left with no viable alternative," Artumas conceded, but then his expression hardened and he glowered at the Natzurdan elder. "Islena Doraux is our ally...who is willing to sacrifice her life on our behalf to rescue us from the folly of our ancestors. I will also remind you that she was torn from her own world and conscripted into this ugly confrontation. Still, she has taken up the cause. That we would not apprise her of the trial that awaits her at this Tyrcillium is a flagrant and dishonorable betrayal. By this one action, we will blight our integrity and squander our ethical and moral currency."

Maktir greeted this mordant condemnation with a dismissive wag of his head. "That particular currency was tossed into the mud long ago, when we decided to capitulate to Myrhia or turn to mad Sygeanor, knowing full well that she was a beastly miscreant, bereft of even the slightest shred of humanity." He turned a scalding gaze upon Maroc and Inos and demanded, "Is this not so, Grand Mage...Maxim Tier Marshal?"

Before either could respond, a titanic rumble shook the building. Shortly thereafter, harrowing screams of panic and pain erupted in the hallways beyond Artumas' door.

4

A heavy haulage wagon trundled along the neglected highway...which was, in truth, little more than a glorified cart path. The circumference of the conveyance's large wooden wheels were sheathed in a protective layer of studded iron...a ward against the washboard and deep ruts that marred the road's surface like acne on the face of a giant.

That elaborate bracing, however, did little to insulate the wagon's driver against the jarring impact each time one of the wheels strayed into the deeper ruts. As they drove over the long expanses of washboard, the increasingly irritated driver felt certain that his viscera would be torn from its moorings and regurgitate out through his mouth in a repulsive fan.

"Why in the name of that black-hearted whore did we not take the main King's Highway south?" the driver whined, his high, plaintive voice causing the leader of the armed escort to wince. Faudrel, the ill-kempt, obese driver further complained, "This dog-spawned road is demolishing my ass. Couldn't whoever organized this mad expedition have at least provided a carriage with a padded seat?"

The escort leader, once a Captain in the disbanded Fairmarch military, flicked a vexed glance at the two rough boards that constituted the wagon's seat. In light of the condition of the so-called roadway over which the wagon and its six member guard escort now trundled, the former Captain could almost have mustered a twinge of sympathy for the driver...had the man not been such an incessantly annoying pig. Between gritted teeth, he quipped, "Then I suppose that it is to your good fortune that your ass is so robustly padded."

The driver recoiled as if slapped, his substantial jowls trembling in indignation, but he prudently permitted the insult to go unanswered. "What are we hauling anyway? I can't fathom what would be of such value that it would warrant forgoing a decent road to creep along this herders trail like skulking bandits?"

The escort's frown deepened and he stole a brief glance over his shoulder at the bed of the cumbersome wagon. A heavy, oiled tarp had been fastened securely over the two dozen wooden crates. Though the escort was uncertain what the pitch-sealed crates held, he did know that he had been infected by a burgeoning sense of disquiet that was exacerbated every time his eyes happened on the wagon's covered contents.

His instructions had been explicitly clear with the hooded contact (whose voice had been low and husky, but most definitely female) conveying the specifics of the commission in a cold, methodical manner that nonetheless made it exceedingly plain that deviation or failure would be _unacceptable._ He had been instructed to collect these crates from the bowels of Fort Rast and squire them, via secondary roads, down the entire length of Fairmarch to a waiting ship (the Crested Hawk) on the waterfront in Dizar Kor.

When the Captain had asked how he was expect to move a wagon full of obviously purloined goods through an occupied country that was teeming with Emercian Imperial troops and more daunting yet, Morticants, the hooded figure had uttered what sounded like a disdainful chuckle and replied cryptically, "Those considerations are no longer a factor, friend, though there may be hordes of brigands on the roads looking to take advantage of the sudden lack of...authority. Insure that you have a sufficient number of capable men to serve as a guard escort."

Then the hooded figure had dropped a pleasingly plump coin purse into his palm and promised, "This is but a small token of what you can expect should you see the cargo to its destination."

With the fluid speed and grace of an adder, she had produced a wickedly sharp dagger and pressed it into the crook of his neck, vowing flatly, "Should you fail...or renege on our agreement...I will find you; an eventuality which I can assure you...you will not enjoy."

Grim admonishment delivered, she had spun abruptly and vanished into the throng of people congesting the square of the small town of Kedmir, not far from the border with Redia.

With the sudden withdrawal of Myrhia's Morticants, followed swiftly by the bolting of the conventional Emercian Army and finally, the Redian savages, an uneasy and eerie calm had descended upon Northern Fairmarch. The streets, shops and taverns were rampant with speculation as to the possible causes of this abandonment. It was perhaps an enormous relief to all when the local administrator of the old Saremond Monarchy...along with the support of members of the old town watch...had quickly moved to establish civil authority in Kedmir.

Sharing that sense of relief, the escort captain had assembled a crew, hired a driver and stout wagon, and headed to Fort Rast.

Persarin Gaudir had been uncertain what to expect upon arrival at the stronghold...which had been built by, ironically, the Emercians and the Jerhia as a permanent deterrent against Redian incursion.

He was wholly unprepared for the aura of haunted abandonment and vast, unnerving silence the hung over the black stones of Fort Rast like a funeral shroud. Venturing into the perfect darkness of the Fortress reminded Persarin of creeping through an ancient barrow. As the escort had scoured the interior, the plaintive Faudrel had remained in the assembly yard, wringing his hands and peering wildly about as if he expected the denizens of the Land of Shades to appear and devour him whole. Persarin had briefly entertained assigning one of the escort guards to insure that the corpulent driver did not simply vanish like smoke through a grate. Uncertain what might greet them within the fort's brooding interior, Gaudir had discarded the idea, but not before delivering a dire warning about what Faudrel could expect if he elected to cut and run.

In the gloomy upper levels of Fort Rast, the signs of swift and disorganized departure were everywhere...as were the tell-tale indications of the looting that had followed hard on the heels of the rapid withdrawal.

As he wandered down darkened halls, through drifts of paper and other sundry detritus, Persarin could feel the oily perspiration form on his brow. Whatever purpose Fort Rast had been intended to serve, it had become a place of evil during the years of Myrhia's occupation. Above the clatter of boot heels on bare stone, he could almost hear the resonating echoes of screams of pain and unheeded cries for mercy.

There was another, even more compelling reason that the former army officer could feel the nascent stirring of emasculating dread as he ventured into the forbidding depths of Fort Rast.

' _What if these crates have been hauled off by looters? Will the blade flashing bitch and her sponsors believe I'm telling the truth? Will they give a tinker's damn one way or the other?'_ These worrisome queries circled in his head like hounds...all gnashing teeth and cold promise.

Gaudir had been inexpressibly relieved and grateful to the fickle gods that were when his group had located the crates...exactly where the hooded woman had predicted they would be.

It had been nightfall before the last of the crates had been loaded and secured on the bed of Faudrel's flatbed and Persarin had decided that it might be prudent not to set forth until dawn. By unspoken, but unanimous agreement, the seven man team had camped beneath the stars though the nights in Northern Fairmarch were still cool and brisk at this time of year.

Stiff and surly, the group had set out the next day and had traveled steadily southward for the intervening three days. As per instructions, they had stuck to secondary routes that were often weed-choked or mired in mud. A naturally cautious man, Persarin had circumvented towns and villages whenever viable. Whenever avoidance was impractical, Gaudir had led the wagon through a town or village in the dead of night.

Persarin could not easily articulate why he felt the need to go to such onerous lengths to avoid scrutiny, but a deeper, atavistic instinct warned him that his mysterious cargo was...malevolent.

He was pondering the source of his disquiet and listening absently to Faudrel lament about the intolerable state of the roadway, when his horse nickered and came to an abrupt, skittering halt.

The air along the roadway was suddenly suffused by a chill that carried with it a palpable tension. Everything around Gaudir snapped swiftly into sharper focus. He could hear the haughty, indignant chuffing of the horses and acutely feel the ratcheting of nervous tension as his five fellow guards looked to him for guidance.

Violence, when it struck on lonely back roads or busy highways, was always delivered with savage alacrity seemingly out of calm skies...a sudden congealing of the moment and then a catastrophic tempest out of clear air. Persarin had bore witness to this ugly spectacle often enough and it had left him with a keen and intimate sense of exactly how fragile the commodity of life was. Such moments had their own distinct aura and mechanics and Gaudir felt a barely perceptible shiver as something remorselessly cold whispered across his perspiration dampened brow while something furtive and dangerous stole into the moment.

He swept a squint-eyed gaze over the forest on both sides of the narrow road. The trees and dense foliage pressed in on the roadway and he could detect nothing in the gloom-filled shadows. The surrounding forest was still and silent as if poised on the edge of violent eruption...stillness in lethal transition.

Persarin raised his right hand in a gesture for vigilance and then guided his horse to a position immediately in front of the wagon team. He allowed his horse to drift forward deliberately...almost indolently...attempting to impart the impression of composure he did not feel as he studied the solitary figure who had been the cause of the abrupt halt. Gaudir's initial reaction was one of relief.

There was nothing particularly menacing or imposing about the figure, which was clearly female. Her soft gray boots appeared travel worn as did her rough spun (and pleasantly snug) gray trousers and gray cloak, the hood of which concealed her head which was slightly bowed. A sweep of his experienced gaze informed the former soldier that she carried no weaponry that would pose any meaningful threat to his battle-hardened crew...and yet...

The woman exuded an unmistakable malevolence and something in her casual posture...one leg splayed and her gloved hands hanging loosely along her thighs...suggested a terrible patience; a foreknowledge that was, of course, impossible.

' _Really, Persarin, can you legitimately hold to that contention when you consider how ignorant you remain about the circumstances of this decidedly murky venture?'_ the voice of caution inquired sardonically and it was true that he had never accepted a contract that was so steeped in mystery...a rare lapse that might now proved extravagantly costly.

Summoning as much authority as he could muster, Gaudir demanded, "Good lady, I trust that there is a reason you've imposed yourself in our path. This is a seldom traveled road...are you lost or in need of assistance?"

The figure's shoulders rose and settled as if Persarin's query had roused her from a standing slumber. Slowly, she lifted her hands and drew back her hood, raising her gaze like a veteran thespian at a critical juncture in a dark noire drama. The woman's broad-featured face was unremarkable, but her large and riveting gray eyes were alight with keen intelligence. Something akin to madness danced in their glacial depths and Persarin Gaudir knew, without reservation, that his small band had inadvertently stumbled into a potentially lethal situation.

Her thick gray hair was impossibly vital and framed her face, further amplifying the unsettling intensity of her gaze. A nimbus of unseen power crackled and whirled about her head and the predatory grin she offered Persarin made the escort captain want to spur his horse and flee. "No, I'm quite well and exactly where I desire to be."

Her pointedly sly gaze slid over his shoulder like a serpent and settled on the laden wagon. "I might make the same inquiry of you? This seems like a highly improbable route to follow when transporting goods." She hesitated, her grin broadening knowingly and then added, "Unless, of course, you are intent on guaranteeing that your passage went undetected."

Persarin conjured a crooked grin of his own and retorted, "If so, then evidently we've failed in our intentions. We wish only to avoid the possible chaos we feared might come in the wake of the Emercian Army's withdrawal."

The woman tilted her head to the left and displaying just the slightest hint of perplexity, inquired, "Do you know what has inspired their sudden departure?"

Persarin shook his head, his expression of confusion mirroring her own. "I can't say...I only know that the soldiers followed the Morticants like rats deserting a burning warehouse. Just what precipitated their flight remains an intriguing mystery. Rumors are rampant, but ultimately meaningless. With civil authority vanishing so quickly...predicting what comes next is no easy matter. A harsh, guiding hand is still better than none at all. This is why we're creeping along these accursed cart paths...a simple precaution. Might I ask if you're alone here, good lady"

Gaudir peered suspiciously over her head, while the woman, whose features bespoke a nationality he did not recognize, ignored his query and instead asked, "What manner of cargo are you transporting that would warrant such...caution?"

Gaudir frowned, not caring for the light that flared in those luminescent gray eyes as she posed this rather forward question. The moment assumed an air of surrealism then; a solitary woman mysteriously appearing in the middle of a forgotten back road, her disquieting presence intimidating a group of heavily-armed men. The scenario was ludicrous...laughable really.

' _This situation is hardly that simple and you know it,'_ Persarin told himself anxiously. To the woman, he replied, "I'm not in the habit of disclosing the details of a contracted shipment to strangers. It's generally frowned upon by employers. Even if I was inclined to discuss its contents, I cannot as I have no clue, myself."

She arched a tapered eyebrow and smiled wolfishly. "Not the least bit curious then?"

Gaudir stiffened in the saddle and suddenly losing patience with this baffling distraction, remarked firmly, "Good lady, we have a long journey ahead. If you are in need, we will gladly offer you a ride to a point in close proximity to the nearest settlement. If not, then I would ask that you graciously remove yourself from the road so that we might pass."

Her smile assumed a feral quality that caused Faudrel to whimper from somewhere over Gaudir's shoulder. "Unfortunately, that is something that circumstances will not permit me to do." Her tone became speculative and she inquired, "This cargo of yours, do you suppose it's worth the price of your lives?"

Persarin did not respond for several moments. He was conscious of Faudrel's raspy respiration and the first indolent trickles of sweat that had begun to trail beneath the collar of his tunic. Measuring each word, Gaudir retorted gruffly, "Good lady, it is extremely imprudent for a defenseless lady to utter such a provocative question. The latitude for misinterpretation is...dangerous."

The woman's full upper lip curled into a chilling snarl. "I'm hardly defenseless and perhaps there will be less _latitude for misinterpretation_ in this..."

Before Gaudir could offer a word of warning, the air between where he sat and the woman stood suddenly appeared to congeal, distorting the woman into something deformed and hideous. He could feel something vast and dwarfing embrace him then, just as his rapier was torn from his leather sheath.

He attempted to move, but found that he was held fast, as if caught in the grip of ineffably powerful, invisible hands. Gaudir's horse screamed in panic and literally bolted out from beneath him, swiftly joined by the five other rider-less beasts. The six panicked beasts tore by the stationary woman in a frenzied surge of hooves and muscle.

To his incredulity and mounting dread, Persarin did not plummet to the weed choked roadway. Instead, he thrashed and hovered in the air, while his rapier spun in the morning blue, its blurred motion raising a nerve-rending, sonorous whine.

He managed to twist his head sufficiently to see that his five comrades were caught in exactly the same predicament.

"You want the wagon? Take the fucking wagon!" Faudrel blubbered predictably enough. He held the reins out to the woman as if demonstrating his sincerity.

With bewildering speed, the six rotating swords abruptly stopped, synchronized their orientation...and impaled a gape-jawed Faudrel from six different angles. Blood spurted in fans and the corpulent driver tumbled from the wooden bench, landing between the two dray horses in a spastic, gushing pile.

"Repulsive swine!" the woman snarled and slowly drifted over to stand before Gaudir, who looked down upon her with brown eyes that were flat with grim resignation. "Now, what am I to do with the lot of you?" Sygeanor inquired in a deceptively blithe voice that did not fool Persarin for an instant. They were all as good as dead and had been from the first moment this odious she-demon had imposed herself in their path. "I do believe you when you tell me that you do not know what it is that you have been commissioned to transport."

She gently laid a gloved hand on his right boot and intoned softly, "I think that you have the right to know that these crates hold the potential to alter the very course of history...in conjunction with me, of course. I hope this provides a measure of solace as you meet your death."

Gaudir attempted to spit one final defiant curse at his tormentor, but before the words could form on his lips, the force that held him swiftly contracted. Simultaneously, great gluts of shockingly red blood exploded from six gaping mouths, accompanied by the distinct and horrifying crack of bone and the liquid squelch of organs and viscera as Sygeanor's telekinetic device pulverized her captives.

The six gruesome sacks of ruined flesh hung, oozing and raw, in the morning sun, before the half-Ulgak made a brusque sweeping gesture with both arms, like a swimmer performing the breast stroke in chilled waters. In response, the six dripping corpses were flung into the forest, like discarded toys being cast off by a bored and petulant child.

A second gesture and the body of the repulsive driver was lifted into the air and sent hurtling into the densely spaced trees to her left...along with the half dozen rapiers that had consigned him to his end.

In the silence that followed, Sygeanor drifted over to the horses and gently stroked each behind a fluttering ear, whispering to calm their anxiety. When the beasts had been placated, she made her way to the rear of the wagon, deliberately slowing her pace as a means of quelling her mounting excitement. Congratulating herself on the adroit fashion in which she had disposed of the troublesome escort, Sygeanor had been both delighted and astounded by the rate at which her powers had grown. More gratifying still, the half-Ulgak felt certain that...as formidable as they might be now, she had only just scratched the surface of her full capabilities. If these crates contained what her instincts insisted they did, any limits to her power would be virtually eradicated

' _And then I will crush Myrhia and the flawed savior like irksome insects.'_ The enticing thought made her grin. Savoring the moment, Sygeanor spread her lean arms and willed her body into the air, drifting up and then settling down onto the wagon bed as lithely as a feather on an eddying breeze.

She was surprised by the extent to which the excitement, that sense of almost unbearable anticipation...was making her heart race. Sygeanor snapped her gloved fingers into a fist and the heavy, oiled tarp snapped free of its moorings, revealing several heavy wooden crates, the seams of which had been tarred with a thick pitch to prevent seepage.

With a schoolgirl giggle bursting from her lips and the wild light of exuberant expectation flaring in her luminous gray eyes, Sygeanor cupped her right palm into the shape of an inverted bowl. She then raised her arm slowly skyward and narrowed her eyes in concentration. In response, the wooden dowels that held the crate top in place popped free and the lid jerked clear and clattered to the crude floor boards.

The pungent tang of earthy dampness tickled Sygeanor's nostrils as she peered down on the mass of wet blue clay. Its color was a flat, rather listless blue and offered not the slightest intimation of the astonishing power it embodied. Yet, gazing as if mesmerized by the nondescript clay, Sygeanor could not have radiated more avarice had she been confronted by a crate full of diamonds and gold.

She removed her gloves with discernibly trembling fingers, plunged her hands into the clay and scooped out two sopping handfuls. It would have been impossible for her to describe the emotions that suffused her as the cool, gritty texture of the clay oozed over her bare skin.

She closed her eyes and held her hands out like a supplicant before an altar. Then, experimentally, she unleashed a short burst of arcane energy, visualizing a radial fan that resembled a raindrop falling into still waters.

A fulminating rumble seemed to shake the foundations of the world and it was all a startled Sygeanor could do to prevent from being thrown out of the wagon. When the tumult subsided, a thoroughly disconcerted Sygeanor peered about in wide-eyed confusion...gape-jawed with incredulity over what she had wrought.

To every point of the horizon, standing trees had been flattened to kindling for as far as the eyes could see as if a divine tempest had coalesce out of the very earth and decimated the nearby terrain in a fit of mindless rage.

At the front of the haulage cart, the two unfortunate dray horses had been reduced to glistening mounds of bloody pulp...no longer recognizable as the powerful beasts they once were.

Sygeanor experienced a momentary twinge of guilt at the sight of the two inadvertent casualties of her experiment, but like her humanity, it was a fleeting thing that quickly dissipated in the subsequent rush of euphoria.

She spun in a circle and raised her arms in wonder and joy. This expenditure of arcane energy had been but a miniscule fraction of her full capabilities and yet this tiny amount of clay had amplified its effect into something devastating and monstrous.

' _With a single crate of this miraculous clay, I could level mountains...or transform an entire city into lifeless drifts of dust and bone meal,'_ she mused as the formative notion that had first visited her in Redia assumed greater flesh and substance.

Feeling inebriated with glee, Sygeanor deposited the two handfuls of clay back into the crate and carefully scraped the precious residue from her hands. As an amplifier, the clays conductive powers would never diminish as long as the materials integrity was preserved, which essentially meant that this seemingly nondescript clay was the most valuable commodity in existence.

Carefully, she placed the lid back on the crate and employed her telekinetic abilities to pound the wooden dowels into place. She spent the next several minute replacing the oil tarp and securing it back over the sealed crates.

As she worked, Sygeanor catalogued the possible applications for this wondrous substance. Such were her distorted sensibilities that never once did she entertain any thought to the countless ways in which the miraculous clay might be employed for humanitarian purposes.

' _The Ulgak have been marginalized, disenfranchised and looked upon with disdain and contempt. We have been relegated to the fringes of civilization by those who regard us with fear and loathing,'_ Sygeanor thought with an incisive stab of bitterness. _'With this clay, I will insure that this mistreatment comes to an emphatic end and we are granted our rightful place among nations.'_

She reflected on this solemn vow and then added, _'And father, I vow on your blood that flows in my veins, I will see the murderous bitch who killed you dead at my feet. Ah, but not before she's suffered every indignity and misery I can devise.'_

With this fierce pledged offered to a man who had never once acknowledged, either publicly or privately, the illegitimate daughter he had fathered, Sygeanor settled onto the driver's bench and closing her eyes, allowed her chin to settle to he chest. Unfurling her consciousness, she reached out to summon the escort she had left some three leagues to the north.

As she commanded them to join her, she reflected that some tasks could only be hindered by delicate sensibilities and she had exhausted her patience with conscientious objectors.

Chapter Twenty-Five

1

A warning shout lifted every eye skyward. Gillian, who rode at the head of the two hundred strong escort, had been locked in his own private world of contemplation. As the de facto commanding officer of this expedition, the Jerhia veteran had been tasked with reconnoitering southern Natzurdan and Jerhia with a specific mind to determining if both were once again inhabitable.

There had initially been an air of jubilation amongst many of the expedition's members, inspired by the idea that the grim conflict that had consumed Jerhia for the last eight years was finally over and the Jerhia could again return to their mountainous homeland. Gillian had watched stoically as that cautious jubilation had evaporated like a fine mist when the expeditionary force had reached the now abandoned river bed of the diverted Hiberas.

The two hundred somber men and women had formed a line along the impromptu bank and stared in silent dismay at the meandering expanse of charred earth. It slithered across the once pristine landscape like a livid, indelible scar.

Gillian, who had witness this ugly spectacle once before...when the great quest had crossed the bed of the original Hiberas in search of Artumas...could certainly commiserate with their extreme bewilderment.

The ribbon of residual malice now served as a line of demarcation between the still verdant topography of Northern Natzurdan and the blighted, infirmed facsimile of the Mother's paradise that stretched away to the south.

Gillian had bit down on his dejection and making a valiant effort to emulate a Jerhia officer, he strode to the center of the vitiated ribbon, which had taken on the surface texture of black, highly polished glass. Turning to face his comrades, Gillian had surveyed his countrymen...every one somber and unsettled by the ugly spectacle of disfigurement.

Never one prone to offering hollow platitudes or euphemisms, Gillian's speech had been terse and unapologetically honest. "I can offer no insight into what we might expect once we venture across this grim landmark. I will refrain from spouting empty words of encouragement, but I will advise you to be prepared for no small measure of heartbreak."

Jerhia were unaccustomed to such blunt and overtly pessimistic displays from a commanding officer. They stared in nonplused silence while Gillian had returned to his horse, spurred the animal to a trot and crossed the livid divide. As the contingent had ridden further south, the lingering effects of the coalition's violation of the Hiberas became more apparent. Swathes of once magnificent forest were now reduced to wilting deadwood. Expanses of grasslands, previously so green as to be blinding in its vitality, were now vast fields of decaying brown and sickly yellow. Riding through these new barrens, Gillian wondered if Natzurdan's infirmity was reversible...or were these scars the permanent consequence of human arrogance and presumption.

That sense of near suffocating futility was heightened geometrically when the Jerhia arrived at the desiccating remains of the first Natzurdan village. In this once pristine country, every single structure had been wrought from stone, vital earth and living wood; lovingly raised and shaped by the power of Natzurdan earth lore. Like a virulence run rampant, the miasma from the Land of Shades had destroyed this sustaining life force and reduced this once thriving village to a moldering husk.

' _Give thanks that Morzhian did not live to see this woeful juncture,'_ Gillian thought as he rode through the slumped and rotting cluster of houses, where long flaps of bark had begun to slough and peel away from the gray wood beneath. While the revered elder may have escaped this indignity, the Natzurdan people would not be so fortunate. The recalcitrant Jerhia seriously doubted that their delicate sensibilities would survive this monumental desecration.

His thoughts then traversed the natural progression from the tragic situation in Natzurdan to what the expedition might find when they finally reached Jerhia. Generations of rigid mental conditioning would guarantee that the Jerhia would bear whatever was to come with their usual noble stoicism. Still, such displays of impassivity did not mean that the inner agony of these men and women would be any less acute.

This inculcated idea that bearing one's pain in silence was laudable was beyond simply absurd...it was odious.

' _Like so many of the other vacuous principles upon which we've built our idiotic culture. Ours is a society whose soul purpose for existence is to wage war...to propagate the art and culture of systematic murder. We turn carnage into a choreographed dance as if to do so could somehow diminish its obscenity!'_ Gillian shook his head and forced these thoughts...ideas that every Jerhia would regard as blasphemous...from his mind.

They were swiftly supplanted by the recollection of his acrimonious exchange with Arminda, the newly elevated Tier Marshal. After hours of long and uncharacteristically candid introspection, Gillian reached the conclusion that he had been grossly unfair in his scathing condemnation of her decision to _exile_ him back to Jerhia. He now saw that hers had not been a politically motivated edict, but rather a sincere decision taken with a mind to saving his life.

This admission caused the normally unapologetic Jerhia to grimace and swear a personal oath that he would make amends to Arminda on the next occasion their paths crossed.

A shout of warning shattered his reverie and he twisted about on his horse and raised his right hand to shield his eyes against the harsh afternoon glare. A large shadow momentarily occluded the sun over the spot where he sat astride his mount.

All around him, members of the expeditionary force nocked arrows and prepared bolts without prior command, clear testimony to the fact that the unwaveringly disciplined Jerhia had been unnerved by the ubiquitous signs of pernicious decay they had witnessed during their march.

Upon seeing the source of their anxiety, Gillian raised an arm and shouted, "Stand down...he is a staunch ally."

The troops complied warily, lowering their weapons as Sormias executed a graceful spiral descent, coming to ground not far from Gillian's horse. Gillian grinned and remarked, "I ask that you forgive my comrades' exuberance, Sormias. The majority have obviously never seen a Golgar before. The state of this place has left them feeling decidedly unsettled and anxious."

"Sentiments with which I can most certainly commiserate," Sormias allowed somberly. "I have flown as far south as this nation's capital...Amberdias, I do believe it is named. What I observed there was most distressing."

Gillian nodded tightly and the pair fell into a grim silence during which the Jerhia cast a furtive glance of appraisal on the wondrous creature. What he observed was both sad and disturbing. When the quest had first encountered Sormias, at his onyx tower in the Land of Shades, the Golgar had struck Gillian as an ingenuous, child-like creature...albeit an ancient and immensely powerful one. The magnificent being had been forthright and jovial...innocent and intensely curious about the mortals who had blundered upon him as he slumbered in his tower.

The Sormias now standing before Gillian had been rudely divested of that child-like innocence. A perpetual shadow of dismay now fell across his golden brow and his handsome face was beset by an expression of bemusement as if he found the perplexing mortals, in whom he had taken an interest, incomprehensible.

' _Such is the exorbitant cost of dealing with my species, friend,'_ Gillian thought sourly. _'In one way or another, we leave our corrupting stain on everything that falls under our gaze. We are, if the undiluted truth be told, a virulence that will leave everything with which we interact...diminished or destroyed. To cast your lot in with we humans is to risk...extinction.'_

He said none of this to the Golgar, reasoning that the perceptive Sormias would glean the intricacies and ugliness of human nature...soon enough. Instead, he quipped, "So, it seems you've been conscripted into coalition scouting duty?"

Sormias shrugged. "Any excuse to remain aloft is a good one, I suppose." His expression grew pensive and he added, "I suspect that your leaders may also wish to keep me well away from this Myrhia, though I am rather keen to come face to face with this woman who has cast such a deep shadow over the entire world."

"Believe me, Sormias...the marginal fascination of standing in Myrhia's malign presence evaporates quickly," Gillian predicted with a dark scowl.

"Perhaps," the Golgar mused thoughtfully. "What's more, I have no genuine desire to bear witness to the distasteful spectacle of Islena Doraux leashed and collared to this tyrant's whim."

Respectful of the Golgar's obvious infatuation with Islena, Gillian remained tactfully silent, asking instead, "What was the situation in Othgol when you left?"

Again, Sormias offered his newly acquired frown of perplexity. "Tense, naturally. Along with Islena, the tyrant has departed the city, bound for the northern wilds of the country. Apparently, Islena believes that the second...Proclamation she seeks is located somewhere in the mountains there."

Gillian grimaced but offered no further comment. The coalition seemed determined to help facilitate Islena...and by ignoble extension, Myrhia's acquisition of the remaining icons...unmindful of the potential calamity this erratic woman's ascension represented. Gillian shook his head in disgust, knowing that his ability to intervene had evaporated the instant that Lorio had inexplicably turned her long knives in the plaza. Conjuring a levity he did not feel, Gillian asked blithely, "So I take it there is a specific reason you've sought out my band of intrepid adventures?"

Sormias pursed his lips, clearly uncertain how to interpret the swordsman's wry humor. He could divine a festering bitterness and sorrow carefully concealed beneath the carefully cultivated façade of flippancy, but he could not glean its source. The Golgar knew only that there was substantially more scope to this man than he allowed the world to see. Such mysteries were but a facet of why he found mortals so intriguing. "Actually I've been sent to collect a scout who accompanies your contingent. Her name is Sybian and your Maxim Tier Marshal has instructed me to return her to Othgol as expeditiously as possible.

"Indeed, Sormias?" Gillian returned, genuinely surprised by the unusual request. "Did he give any indication of why he required the First Scout's presence so urgently?"

"He did not," the Golgar replied. "He did, however, ask if I would be willing to reconnoiter the land across the chasm your people refer to as _the Great Mother_ ...to assess the volatility of the situation there. It could be that First Scout Sybian is related to this request, though that would be conjecture on my part."

Gillian nodded tightly, correctly deducing that something of consequence was afoot if Maroc would contravene Arminda's orders and have the First Scout returned to the capital. He dispatched his adjutant to summon Sybian, to whom he had spoken only briefly, and when the pair we're alone, he regarded Sormias solemnly and remarked, "I've never taken the opportunity to properly thank you for finding me and returning me to the party in the Land of Shades. Had it not been for your generous offer of aid, I would be a desiccating corpse...or something far worse. I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude."

Sormias waved his right hand dismissively. "Think nothing of it, friend. I could hardly leave someone to the perils of that inimical place. Had the long repose not dulled my perception, I might have done more to help you party avoid many of the pitfalls into which it inadvertently stumbled."

"I can say without the slightest equivocation that without your assistance the quest would have met its end on that accursed escarpment with everyone serving as food for those fucking spiders." He considered this for a moment and then amended, "Except for Lorio, whom even the eight-legged monsters would have found unpalatable."

Sormias' golden eyes widened and then he threw back his head and laughed heartily. "True enough...that woman is an irascible creature who would sour the digestion of the most desperately ravenous of beasts."

Gillian grinned but then his expression quickly transmogrified into one of earnest concern. "Sormias, permit me to impart a snippet of advice; be wary of humans...even the ones who profess to be your friends...especially those who would profess to be your friends. Despite all of our proclaimed virtue and nobility, we are a species which ruthlessly serves its own self-interest...in all things...often at the extreme detriment of everything around us. Even the things we profess to value and cherish are not immune to this compulsion to serve our personal need. I would hate to see something so magnificent suffer because you were drawn into our convoluted affairs."

"I will take your counsel to heart because I believe that it is sincerely given," Sormias promised quietly. "I will admit that there is something compelling about your kind...like an attraction that you _know_ will pose a nebulous risk to your wellbeing, but which you are, nonetheless, unable to resist. Islena Doraux is an especially keen example of this peril."

Gillian merely nodded noncommittally. Even something as ancient and powerful as the Golgar was not immune to the cult of personality which Islena seemed to represent. The two fell into a contemplative silence, each pondering the irresistible aura that hovered over the savior like a mantle, when Sybian jogged up to the pair and offered each a deferential bow.

"It seems that your presence is required back in Othgol, First Scout," Gillian disclosed, troubled by the pretty blonde's pinched expression and her gaunt appearance as if she might be in perilously close proximity to collapse. "The Maxim Tier Marshal had ordered your immediate return. Sormias is here to escort you back."

Sybian flicked a quick, uncertain glance at the imposing Golgar, who was regarding the young Jerhia with his usual disconcertingly frank gaze of curiosity. "Then, with your leave, I will gather up my few provisions and fetch my mount."

"The horse will not be necessary, good lady," Sormias informed Sybian cheerfully. "The Maxim Tier Marshal has made it clear that your expeditious return is critical and thus I shall carry you back to Othgol."

"Carry...me?" Sybian echoed dumbly in a small voice that mirrored her confused expression...even as inchoate dread blossomed in her pale blue eyes.

"Of course!" Sormias returned, blissfully oblivious to the scout's mounting terror. "If you have never experienced the unfettered joy of riding the thermals...of cavorting on the winds while the world below streaks by, distant and small...then you are in for a revelation you shall not soon forget, good lady."

The Golgar's exuberance only exacerbated Sybian's welling dread, causing Gillian to smile privately.

To placate her fear, Gillian stepped forward and placed a hand on her right shoulder. Her gaze jerked to his as if pulled on a chain and in her polar blue eyes, Gillian could not mistake the silent plea for intervention, tainted by shame over her perceived cowardice.

He recognized similarities to Arminda in those glacial blue depths, though Sybian was much older and vitiated by her undoubtedly horrific experiences on the eastern continent. Like Arminda, however, the woman radiated the same zealous dedication...the same eagerness to throw the sum total of her soul behind any cause that her leaders deemed worthy. Like Arminda, Sybian would gladly lay herself on the anvil of need and allow the hammer of exigency to smash her to dust. This realization evoked an irrepressible sorrow in Gillian's troubled heart and he wondered briefly how much longer he would be able to perpetrate the fraud his life had become.

"Sybian, I know that we Jerhia are bound to the land and regard the heavens as no place for mortals," Gillian began kindly. "Had the members of the quest clung to that particular prejudice, hope would have died a dozen times over during our journey through the Land of Shades. Sormias carried Islena Doraux...our world's savior...over the entire length of a continent to deliver her from the malign virulence that otherwise would have consumed her. My point is...if you are forced to abandon the long-held conviction that man should remain firmly rooted on the ground, Sormias is the one living creature to whom you can consign your wellbeing without fear."

Sybian, who Gillian now gleaned, was a woman who had come to rely solely on her own devices, nonetheless straightened and offered Gillian a resolute nod. To her credit, she even managed to conjure a tentative smile for the affable Golgar. "May I have a final private word with your commander before we depart, good lady?"

Sybian nodded and moved off several paces, turning her back to the pair. Observing the tense set of her shoulders and her rigid posture, Gillian saw that she was steeling herself for what she perceived as the ordeal to come. He then turned his attention back to the Golgar, whose countenance had become uncharacteristically grave. "If you are amenable, friend, I would like to reciprocate and offer my own snippet of cautionary advice."

"Of course," Gillian invited guardedly.

The Golgar swept his alien gaze over the ranks of milling Jerhia and remarked, "I have the distinct impression that your comrades have been disheartened by what they have witnessed during the course of the march thus far. In fact, I would guess that it is not inaccurate to suggest that they have been profoundly unsettled by the ravaged state of this once verdant paradise this side of the foul scar?"

"Yes," Gillian admitted flatly. "To look upon the blight...and to know that we are responsible, however compelling the need...is not an easy matter to accept."

Sormias nodded and the Jerhia thought he could discern just the slightest hint of accusation in the Golgar's inscrutable golden eyes. "Then allow wisdom to be your guide and give the place known as Amberdias a wide berth. Whatever it may once have been, it has become a repository of desolation and despair. To gaze upon its moldering corpse is to risk losing your spirit to utter immutable dejection. However urgently you might need to return to your homeland, you would do well to circumvent this monument of sorrow and tragedy."

Gillian inhaled sharply, even as he felt the blood drain from his face at the grim image this dire portrait evoked. Amberdias had been perhaps the singularly most beautiful thing that sentient beings had ever wrought. To have it described thusly was heartbreaking beyond comprehension. In a somber, emotion-choked voice, he promised, "That is advice I will gladly follow, friend. There is no dearth of sorrow to be had in these black times and I see no reason to add to our cumulative woes. What's more, I suspect we will confront our own terrible moment of black discovery when we cross into Jerhia."

Sormias nodded solemnly and then startled Gillian by grasping his right forearm in an oddly formal gesture of brotherhood. "Then I'll take my leave friend and part with the sincere hope that you and I meet somewhere along the road to the future...in far better times."

"As do I," Gillian intoned thickly, deeply touched by the Golgar's unexpected sentiment. Sormias favored the Jerhia with another of his disarming grins and then floated over to Sybian.

"If you are ready, good lady, then let us start out," Sormias suggested to which the pallid scout agreed with obvious reluctance. The Golgar then scooped the startled Sybian into his powerful arms, though she quickly settled into his embrace and closed her eyes. Sormias winked playfully at Gillian and promised, "I will fly as low to the ground as the topography permits, good lady, though I will observe that the true joy of flight comes in looking down upon the worlds from a perspective where the most majestic of mountains appears little more than a child's mound of molded earth."

Sormias then swept Sybian into the air with a graceful flag of his elegant wings. Gillian watched, mesmerized by the creature's fluid movements as he ascending into the blue sky, until the pair vanished over the northern horizon.

Feeling unaccountably morose, Gillian then guided his horse southward, bidding his expeditionary force to follow.

Though he had no way of knowing it then...and indeed would have been profoundly saddened by the foreknowledge...it would be the last time he would ever set eyes on the Golgar named Sormias.

2

A guttural rumble shook the very foundations of the large, sprawling buildings that had been hastily converted into accommodations for the Inner Circle and their guests from Natzurdan and Jerhia.

Near the front of the structure, a huge section of stone façade collapsed, effectively sealing the central entrance to the complex. Jagged fragments of stone sprayed out over the snow-covered plaza, where only days before, the Emercian Queen had paraded her prized possession before the leaders of the CornerStone Nations...a debacle that had seen scores of Metocan dead; incinerated by Myrhia's deadly emerald balefire.

Across the cavernous plaza, the ruins of the Metocan central palace seemed to cringe as if in anticipation of what was about to transpire. An acrid tang tainted the air of the audience hall, where a group of ten acolytes was attempting to efface the unsightly reminders of Myrhia's struggle to purify Lorio. With the onset of the chaos, the ten stopped as one, each frozen in postures of horrified astonishment as a strident hiss filled the vaulted chamber. The air at the chamber's center appeared to thicken and fold like syrup and all at once, the dreaded enchantress materialized at the heart of the crumbling edifice to the pursuit of enlightenment.

Myrhia turned her baleful gaze toward the shadowy recesses of the audience hall and a massive force leapt from the spot where her projected form shimmered like an illusion seen in the mid-day heat of summer. It reduced the ancient stone and mortar dome to dust with the casual ease of a petulant child smashing a sand castle.

The infuriated enchantress thrust her right hand out before her and the hall's massive doors exploded outward, decapitating a terror-stricken acolyte who had been standing in the antechamber when the tumult began.

Thick clouds of abrasive black dust belched out along the corridors that radiated out from the central chamber like the spokes of a massive wheel, further adding to the terror and confusion that was spreading through the complex like a ravenous fire.

In the wake of the fulminating rumble, shrieks of pain and wails of terror echoed along the corridors of the labyrinth-like complex. They found their way into Artumas' chamber, where the four leaders had been laying their plans for subterfuge most delicate and perilous. The four men exchanged identical gazes of knowing horror and then they were through the doors and racing along the carpeted corridors, with Artumas' startled guards sprinting to keep abreast of their racing king.

Arminda was immersed in the tedium of requisition lists and provisions requirements when the first explosion shook the very stones beneath her feet. A formless dread dug icy talons into her viscera as she watched her container of ink fall over and spread its contents across her compilations in a black fan. Having not been party to the tense discussions in Artumas' chamber, the young Tier Marshal had no way of grasping just what might have provoked this rapidly-descending calamity. Refraining from time-squandering speculation, she leapt to her feet and plunged out into the training yard in time to see a thick column of cloying black dust belch into the churning early afternoon sky.

She retreated beneath an overhead balcony in time to avoid the rain of stone shards that pelted the courtyard. A group of Jerhia had been sparring on the opposite side of the enclosure and after the downpour stopped, she wildly gestured them over and bid them to follow her.

As they plunged into the ominous gloom of the interior, where the first screams of agony and warning were only now reverberating along the stone hallways, it occurred to Arminda that there were only two creatures that were capable of this level of destructive power.

' _Three...if you included Otaru Ree,'_ her agile mind amended, though the diminutive Jerhia dismissed this out of hand. Now that the gray goddess had purloined her precious Brannok Dur, it was highly unlikely that she would concern herself with the affairs of tawdry mortals.

This random thought evoked a twinge of pity for Lorio, but Arminda quelled it like a woodsman dousing a night's campfire. If either Myrhia or Islena had returned to unleash this manner of mayhem, it was probable that she was hurrying to her death. As was characteristic of the courageous Jerhia, this morbid thought did nothing to deter her or cause her step to falter.

Of all within earshot of the tumult, only Lorio was not particularly shocked by the sudden eruption of violence. She arched an eyebrow and fetched a long sigh. After serving as Myrhia's puppet and personally experiencing the shape and inclination of the enchantress' cruel proclivities _,_ Lorio had absolutely no doubt that devastating retaliation would be forthcoming. She was rather surprised, however, that is was being delivered so swiftly. _'Which means that my intervention has left her thoroughly unsettled.'_

Arminda's blunt rejection of her apology had lanced the immortal's deceptively fragile heart. The fact that the Jerhia's castigation had been richly deserved did little to attenuate the acute pain it had roused. Lorio shook her head and roughly brushed at a tear that was poised to fall from a long lash.

Crossing her arms above her head, she gripped the gown and pulled it over her shoulders, absently discarding it onto the floor...even though it was probably worth more than everything she had ever owned combined. Eschewing finery, she dressed in the black rough-spun trousers and sleeveless tunic that had become her signature attire since she had first set out with Islena Doraux. As she pulled on her worn boots, moving with the mechanical precision of someone under a spell, Lorio found it difficult to reconcile her recollection of that young, naively defiant girl with the creature she had now become.

' _That's hardly surprising, considering that you're not even human anymore,'_ Lorio thought bitterly as she stood quickly and retrieved her quarter staff. With a leather lash, she gathered her cascading mane into a bunch, securing it at the nape of her neck.

If this was to be her end, she would meet it with her customary consequences-be-damned defiance.

"I'm sorry, Islena," she murmured and then stepped out into the corridor and went to confront the source of the chaos.

3

Myrhia emerged from the thick, writhing cloud of dust like a predator emerging from dark waters. The flickering light of the torches set the emerald intaglio on her ebony breastplate ablaze. She stalked through the devastation at a pace that might be more appropriate for a stately stroll, moving with the total confidence of a woman whose invulnerability was absolute and unequivocal.

She trailed her diaphanous left hand along the stone wall as she traversed the wide passage. Her fingernails raised great argent sparks and left deep furrows in the polished stone that quickly filled with emerald balefire.

A pair of Metocan mages rounded the corner of the nearest intersection, their pallid faces contracted into knots of grim resolve. Upon seeing the effulgent balls of golden light that had coalesced around the pair's fists, Myrhia stopped and uttered a disdainful laugh, gesturing invitingly. "At last, the insects have mustered the temerity to give me some manner of opposition. Very well then...obliterate me with your fearsome Metocan sorcery."

The two exchanged uncertain glances, but nonetheless complied and unleashed their arcane projectiles. Myrhia drew herself erect and spread both her arms as if welcoming the moment of impact...which never materialized. Instead, the four balls passed through the spectral entity and detonated against the stone walls behind her shimmering projection, reducing a long segment of the corridor to smoldering rubble.

"An impressive, albeit ultimately ineffective display," the enchantress taunted. She arched an eyebrow and with feign regret, inquired, "I'm sorry, you didn't actually imagine that I would play fair...did you? That would hardly be in keeping with my carefully cultivated reputation." Her grin became positively wicked and she rasped, "Let me show you how it's done!"

Before either mage could raise a ward, Myrhia thrust her arms forward, her fingers curling into fists before splaying open like sprung traps. Indistinct folds of distorted light pounced upon the two immobilized Metocan, forcing entry into their bodies through every orifice.

While a wry grin of amusement danced across Myrhia's lips, the bodies of the two mages were assailed by the ravaging effects of the enchantress' invasive magic. Rapidly rising internal pressure caused the fleshy vessels to swell and contort, until the two Metocan's resembled distorted sacks of blood-filled flesh. Four eyeballs extruded from their sockets with sickening liquid pops; a gruesome herald to the inevitable moment when the immense internal pressure exceeded the bodies' capacity of containment. The two unfortunate mages exploded in a liquid geyser of blood, viscera and bone...the glistening detritus of their spectacular immolation spattering the walls, ceiling and floor of the long corridor in a repulsive shower.

Myrhia floated over the grim remains with utter indifference to the savage destruction she'd unleashed. She rounded a corner, coming into another long hallway, one side of which was lined with rectangular stained glass windows. She raised her right arm to the side and as she came abreast of each window...ancient renderings of definitive junctures in Metocan history...the priceless panes exploded into clouds of glittering dust.

A group of sword wielding Emercians piled into the corridor then...attired in the newly issued regalia of the Emercian Royal Guard. Upon seeing the source of this blood-spattered anarchy, the score of soldiers stumbled to a halt.

Myrhia converged upon the group as balls of blinding luminous balefire orbited around her head like stars in the firmament. Her eyes narrowed into speculative slits and in a frost-limned voice, devoid of any prospect for mercy, she intoned, "Will you now stand in defiance of your queen?"

Many of the score of soldiers were veterans, not only of the seven years of grinding warfare on the Eastern Continent, but the harrowing trek through the Land of Shades as well. They had numerous occasions to witness the awesome power this small and seemingly fragile creature could bring to bear. After shuffling hesitantly, each bent a knee...head bowed in deference, forearm across the thigh in the standard posture of fealty and deference.

With a thin, humorless smile, Myrhia remarked, "A prudent choice. Artumas may again be your liege, but only because of my forbearance...which can be withdrawn in the blink of an eye. You would all be wise never to lose sight of who holds the true power in this world."

Dismissing them from her mind, Myrhia marched through the kneeling ranks, despising them for their groveling postures of subservience. At least the two mages she slaughtered had demonstrated a modicum of courage.

She turned into a dimly lit corridor with the intention of seeking out her deceitful husband, when she came upon two more Metocans. The first was an elderly man with fine white hair and saggy, jowly flesh, who had about him the insufferably condescending air of a scholar. The second was a winsome woman, with long iron gray hair, who carried herself with a dignified, regal bearing. On the left breast of her rust red robe, she wore the circular sigil that identified her as a member of the Metocan Inner Circle.

Both froze and when they realized who now stood before them, their faces contorted into identical portraits of terror...a reaction that roused no small degree of satisfaction in Myrhia. The enchantress smiled and with a slight flexing of will, ignited the carpet beneath her feet, until her shimmering image was engulfed in a writhing cloak of emerald flame. "Ah, at last...someone who will answer my questions...or must I incinerate more scurrying ants before you realize that I am sincere in stating that my patience with your antics is exhausted."

Despite the enormity of her terror, Tokizar drew herself erect and pushed Mascius behind her, while never taking her gaze from this shimmering personification of evil. "We have acceded to your every demand...how dare you bring this heavy-handed savagery down upon us after we have reached an accord. These are the actions of a treacherous reprobate. Have you no honor?"

"Indeed?" Myrhia retorted with an amused grin, though Mascius could clearly see that the murderous light in her eyes decried her feigned levity. "This day, I will _honor_ my vow to tolerate no further insolence or defiance."

Before the scholar could utter a word of warning, the enchantress extended her slender arms toward Tokizar, with her hands formed into loose fists, one above the other. She then twisted her hands in opposite directions in a violent wringing motion. A nauseating snap filled the hollow space in sharp counterpoint to Mascius' liquid moan of negation. Tokizar's head was jerked violently, first left and then right. Her knees folded slowly and she slumped to the carpet in a boneless tangle, all expression and cognizance draining from her once limpid gray eyes.

Mascius stumbled forward, just as Arminda and her small company of Jerhia raced around the corner. The Tier Marshal quickly moved to impose herself between the distraught scholar and the deadly apparition. Her gaze shifted from the lifeless Tokizar to the enchantress as the glacial calm that would serve her so well in the future, enveloped the young Jerhia. She instructed her nervous escort to stand down and usher the venerable Mascius to safety. Then to Myrhia, she demanded sharply, "What have you done?"

"What I should have done in the plaza," Myrhia snapped menacingly. "Now, since this Metocan bitch was unwilling to be complaisant, I will ask you who meddled in my disciplining of Islena?"

Arminda blinked in confusion and stammered, "I...I have no idea what you're talking about."

The enchantress' corona of emerald light flared to a blinding magnitude and her expression became dire...a scowl fraught with sadistic promise. "It would be a lethal mistake to presume that, just because I elected to heal you, I would not obliterate you if I suspected you've deceived me."

A casual flick of a delicate right hand and Arminda found herself lying prostrate at Myrhia's feet, gazing up into dark eyes that displayed not the slightest inclination toward leniency. "Perhaps I can provide you with a taste of what you brother experienced during the course of his final hours...perhaps that would loosen you tongue." She flicked a baleful glare at the remaining Jerhia, who were raising crossbows and drawing rapiers. "Bring your hounds to heel of I'll eviscerate them where they stand!"

Arminda raised a hand. "Withdraw into the adjacent hallway and do not permit anyone else to enter," she commanded firmly. To Myrhia, she invited, "Do to me what you will, but it will do nothing to change the fact that I have no idea what you're talking about."

Though Myrhia's scorching glare bore into her, Arminda refused to avert her eyes or wilt beneath its enmity. After an interminable moment, the enchantress' expression softened and she allowed, "I believe that you are a woman of unwavering courage and I have no desire to harm you. You will take me to Artumas and the other irksome imbeciles and I will settle this grievance with them."

"I am here and you will stop this madness at once!" Artumas barked in a hard and uncompromising voice that he had not employed since his rescue from the Land of Shades.

While Myrhia allowed her image to drift back a pace or two, Arminda glanced over her shoulder to see the Emercian King striding resolutely toward them with the three leaders of the CornerStone Nations in tow.

Inos, upon seeing the sprawled body of Tokizar twisted into a horrifying posture of death, came to an abrupt halt, the last trace of color draining from his naturally pallid face. Wordlessly, he stumbled toward the fallen mage, until his legs finally betrayed him and he collapsed to his knees beside the lost woman to whom he had lacked the courage to express his love. A strangled gasp of horrified incredulity escaped his lips and he reached tentatively for her slack cheek as if in need to confirm the unpalatable truth of her demise.

Artumas stepped over the fallen Arminda, next to whom Maroc knelt, placing a protective arm about her shoulders. She smiled weakly and nodded in reassurance that she was unharmed, surprised by the extent of his obvious relief.

Artumas pointed an indignant finger at the body of Tokizar and bellowed, "This was unnecessary...whatever perverse justification your deranged mind might conjure."

"No?" Myrhia countered with equal passion. "To my mind, _that_ is fitting recompense for throwing my benevolence back in my face. If you are wise, you will rein in your outrage, husband, because my appetite for carnage is far from being satiated and you are not immune to my wrath despite whatever affection you believe I might harbor for you."

Artumas bit back on his caustic retort and instead carefully scrutinized the diaphanous countenance of the woman about whom, in all candor, he knew virtually nothing. Beneath the façade of glacial composure, he could discern the presence of a huge, mindless fury...boiling to the edge of eruption.

He realized that, for the sake of every living creature in Othgol, it was imperative that he find the inspiring turn of phrase to forestall that eruption. He took several steps toward Myrhia, whose image flared in apparent indignation, but the Emercian King was determined to have all of her attention focused squarely upon him. Knowing that he would be laying his personal sense of shame bare for all of the others to see, Artumas seized on the one admission he hoped would placate her rage. Raising his hands slightly, he began, "Milady...my queen...I know that I've given you offense and though it scarcely seems credible, it was never my intention to wound you."

Myrhia raised a dubious eyebrow and grumbled, "Don't play the facile thespian charmer with me, Artumas...you lack the aptitude."

Artumas bowed slightly, feeling perspiration beading at the nape of his neck...inspired by the delicacy of what he was attempting to achieve...deflecting Myrhia's rage entirely onto him. "As you say, but nonetheless, I understand that my...intimacy with Islena is an affront that has caused you pain. I only ask that you hold me accountable and not deflect your anger onto these innocents. In the greater scheme of things, you have emerged the absolute victor...please be gracious in triumph."

Myrhia's great dark eyes widened in surprise, but her expression of cold intent relented to something softer...more ambivalent. Behind Artumas, Arminda cast a quizzical glance at Maroc, who was staring fixedly at the King's back, while Maktir regarded the Emercian with an unmistakable scowl of condemnation. Myrhia floated closer, her eyes narrowing and her expression becoming inscrutable, even as her full lips twisted into something that might have been a grin. "And how do you propose I should punish you for this _grievous offense_ ...husband? Islena, I have made to suffer in a manner she should never forget if she lived for an eternity...which she will. Would treatment in kind be appropriate, husband?"

"If it makes you desist in this senseless pogrom, then I will submit myself to your will," Artumas replied, carefully modulating his voice.

Myrhia pursed her spectral lips in vexation, but before she could offer a comment, a blurred shape passed between her and Artumas.

"Enough of these putrid dramatics and nauseating bootlicking," an irascible voice thundered and a dumfounded Artumas glanced down to find Lorio's quarterstaff pressed across his body and the Lamish immortal standing next to him, glaring contentiously at Myrhia, whose face had contorted into a mask of perfect loathing. "By the Gods Artumas, muster some pride and don't debase yourself before this miserable bitch!"

Nonplused, Artumas nonetheless groped to rescue his scheme from ruin. "Lorio, this is not your concern. It is an issue between me and my wife and will be settled as such."

"Truly Artumas?" Lorio retorted incredulously. "If she was able, do you suppose that Tokizar would agree that this is a personal matter?"

Artumas blanched beneath the bite of this incisively cruel dagger, but before he could further protest, the lean muscles of Lorio's exposed arms contracted into livid knots. The Emercian King found that he was forced back toward the others by Lorio's quarter staff. She then took a quick step to her right, deliberately imposing herself between the incredulous king and the enchantress, whose baleful glare could have set the very stones of the corridor ablaze.

Lorio greeted this terrifying belligerence with a disdainful smirk, but before she addressed the detestable monster, the immortal spun in place and delivered an open-handed blow to an unsuspecting Artumas' jaw. Though she had restrained the force of her blow, it still carried sufficient weight to topple the king, who landed in a sprawl beside an astounded Maroc and Arminda. He propped himself up on his elbows and gazed up owlishly at the glowering immortal, who leveled her staff at Esuruban and his escort guard. "Another step and it won't be this despicable bitch who sees you to the afterworld."

Having no desire to compound this insanity, Artumas quickly raised his right hand and commanded, "I am well enough...stand down!"

"Sage choice," Lorio growled and then her expression vitiated as it fell squarely upon the Emercian King. "You claim that this is a _personal matter_? If so, then I am also aggrieved!" she raged, slamming her right palm across her substantial left breast. "I've given you only a small portion of what you deserve."

Artumas recoiled in the face of her animosity, but then she smiled and winked before spinning about to face the flaring image of Myrhia, who appeared nearly apoplectic with fury.

' _I unnerve you...don't I, bitch?'_ Lorio thought and allowed herself a slight grin of satisfaction. _'For all of your imperious mantle of superiority, I burrow deep down under your skin like a constant itch that you simply can't scratch.'_

"How dare you presume to strike what is mine?" Myrhia seethed

"I dare because...much like you...they lack the means to stop me," Lorio returned dismissively, "and because this lecher sullied what is _mine."_

"You will rue every word that tumbles from those putrescent lips, whore!" Myrhia vowed, emerald energy pulsing around her image in frenetic, staccato bursts.

"Let's dispense with the saber rattling and posturing," Lorio suggested and stepped closer to the spectral image. "It was I who reached out to Islena...you understand precisely how...and it was me who freed her from your sadistic bindings."

"Binds that served to insure Islena would incur no permanent damage, you obtuse cunt!" Myrhia roared hysterically and the vehemence of her exclamation was a fulminating rumble that caused all in the corridor to stumble back a pace or two. "Your impetuous action could well have killed the most precious living creature in existence!"

Lorio's impertinent scowl faltered in the face of this disclosure, but she quickly regained her composure. The very fact that Othgol remained standing was proof that Islena lived still. "You and I have our personal grievances to resolve, witch...even though you lack the courage to confront me in tangible form and allow me the opportunity to wrap my fingers around that delicate neck of yours. These people are not responsible for interfering in your sadistic fantasy...I am. Let us go somewhere private where you may indulge your inner monster and make me see the error of my ways at your leisure."

Myrhia greeted this invitation with a snarl, but an undaunted Lorio merely smiled and swept her right arm back in the direction of her quarters.

"As you wish," Myrhia accepted tightly. To the others, she admonished, "If a reprise of this lesson becomes necessary, there will be no further discussion." She shifted her baleful gaze to a fallen Artumas. "Nor will there be any exemption to the consequences. Now attend to your dead while I remind this prurient whore of her place in the greater scheme of things."

"Myrhia...this is not..." Artumas began, but before her could complete his entreaty, an unseen hand slapped him down, consigning him to the void.

Dispassionately, Lorio stepped over the unconscious king without sparing him a glance. A glacial calm descended upon her as she prepared to meet her punishment...a pristine serenity the likes of which she had never previously experienced during the course of her relatively short, but strife-ridden life. She recognized it as the tranquility that can on occasion embrace one who has irrevocably committed themselves to a course of action that is irrefutably _correct and proper_ , but will ultimately lead to obliteration.

She gripped Arminda's right arm and assisted her to her feet, pointedly ignoring a glowering Maroc. With an uncharacteristically stiff formality, she intoned, "Tier marshal, I would...request that you assign a guard detail to the head of the corridor that leads to my chambers with the instructions that none shall attempt to enter...regardless of what they might hear within. I know I've long since squandered the right to ask anything of you...but will you grant me this one last dispensation...let me make this one final gesture of restitution?"

Arminda peered deeply into the immortal's hauntingly beautiful dark eyes and in their depths, she spied neither ambivalence nor trepidation...only serene acceptance. Unable to conjure an appropriate response, Arminda merely nodded. The immortal beamed a radiant smile of gratitude and released the Jerhia. She then turned back to the enchantress and challenged, "Come then...attend to your dirty deed and leave this city in peace."

With this, Lorio spun in place and strode purposefully away, stooping gracefully to retrieve her quarter staff as she went. Eyes ablaze with deadly promise, Myrhia's spectral image floated after the despised immortal. To Esuruban, she snapped, "Attend to your king and see that he remains in his quarters until I've departed. Restrain him forcibly if necessary." To a dour Maktir, she advised, "When Islena and I have returned to Othgol, I fully expect that you will divulge any insight you might hold pertaining to the possible whereabouts of your nation's Proclamation."

Maktir met her scorching regard stoically and after a moment, the Mother of Iniquity set out after her former creature, an anticipatory grin playing at her full lips.

For a protracted moment, no one moved, so profound was the lightening of the air in the wake of Myrhia's withdrawal. Maroc was the first to regain his composure, gesturing for Esuruban to come forward and aid his unconscious king. While the six Emercian's gingerly lifted Artumas from the runner carpet and carried him back toward his chambers, the Maxim Tier Marshal gripped Arminda's shoulders and shaking her for emphasis, commanded, "Organize a guard detail to comply with the queen's wishes. I would then have you lead a second team to assess the integrity of this structure, evacuating everyone you come upon. I would have everyone well away from this complex with all possible haste."

Arminda's eyes widened with dismay. "We're simply going to allow this odious tyrant to do to Lorio what she will?"

"Yes!" Maroc rasped harshly. Knowing the diminutive Jerhia's proclivity for gestures of heroic sacrifice, he realized that she would be the first to attempt to intervene in the ugliness that was inevitably to follow. "Lorio has chosen this course of her own volition and you are astute enough to see that there is naught we can do on her behalf." He again shook her briskly. "I refuse to sacrifice Jerhia's future on a wrinkle that, quite frankly, would best be smoothed away. Now, will you comply with a direct order or must I have you dragged to your chambers in manacles and confined for insubordination?"

Arminda's polar blue eyes widened in reaction to his assiduous tone and obdurate display of ruthless pragmatism. In a moment of dismaying insight, the young Jerhia realized that...at the rarified level of world-shapers...all things were pawns, to be utilized and sacrificed as the situation warranted. Lorio, in particular had become an erratic, unpredictable nuisance and if Myrhia was to reduce her to ash...who would sincerely mourn her loss?

Standing before the man who had held open the door to ultimate power in Jerhia and had unexpectedly offered her entry...Arminda could no longer be certain if it was a role she had any desire to play.

' _Better you, who will unflaggingly allow compassion to influence your every action, than a man such as Ossiran, who was invariably ruled by expedience and rigid adherence to the demands of cold pragmatism,'_ the voice of her beloved brother adjured. _'Allow this man to guide you to the place where you can become the conscience...the moral compass of our people, sister.'_

Arminda drew a quavering inhalation and signaled her compliance with a tight nod. "As you would have it, Maxim Tier Marshal. I shall report back once I have determined the precise nature of the situation and organized an evacuation."

Maroc smiled with obvious relief and watched admiringly as the diminutive Jerhia strode purposefully off to discharge her duties. He felt humbled in the face of her courage and her unassailable integrity. _'Ah, but will harsh reality crush her lofty idealism, perverting it into something vitiated and cynical as it has for so many before her?'_

' _It is you duty to insure that it does not!'_ he told himself crossly.

A hesitant group of Metocan had entered the ravaged corridors, led by Mascius and the young Inner Circle member, Jerrod. The two men detached from the group and approached Inos, who had not stirred since kneeling next to the fallen Tokizar.

Watching the Grand Mage, Mascius determined that his slack face and unblinking eyes were every bit as lifeless as the woman over whom he grieved. An essential aspect of his spirit had been extinguished by this incomprehensible act of senseless violence and the man who would emerge on the far side of this nightmare would be...diminished...a pale facsimile of what he had been prior to Tokizar's swift demise.

' _Such is the tragic nature of life in this bleak and ignoble world we've wrought,'_ Mascius thought morosely. _'Everything touched by shadow will find its light muted and thus the world is made a darker place by gradual increments...one horrific episode at a time.'_

He placed his hand tenderly on Inos' right shoulder. The lean muscles beneath the Grand Mage's robe were coiled and tense, evoking the image of a nest of writhing snakes. Softly, the normally irascible scholar murmured, "Please, Grand Mage...permit us to remove her from this wretched place."

Inos shifted his vacant regard to the venerable scholar and in the charged gravitas of the moment, Mascius felt certain he could hear the pronounced creaking of tendon's in the other man's rigid neck. There wasn't the slightest hint of recognition in those familiar gray depths as if the tragedy of Tokizar's death was an immutable force that Inos' beset mind lacked the capacity to assimilate.

Gently shaking Inos' shoulder, Mascius reiterated, "Please, Inos...let us give her the dignity she deserves."

A strangled whimper of anguish escaped Inos' thin lips, which were compressed in to a bloodless slash. Slowly, excruciatingly...awareness of his present circumstances filtered back into the Grand Mage's eyes along with a writhing flood of raw misery that Mascius could scarcely bear to look upon...the reflection of death in yet another of its seemingly endless manifestations.

"Yes...yes," Inos sputtered in a voice like wind through a tomb...devoid of all life and vitality. "Take her to the mourning hall and have her prepared for the rite of dissemination. I...I will convey the news of her death to her family."

Here, he faltered and covered his face with his hands as if these instructions had brought the reality of Tokizar's death home with terrible finality. Mascius squeezed Inos' shoulder and silently gestured for the stone-faced adepts to remove Tokizar's body, stealing one last glance into the lifeless gray eyes that only moments before had shone with such compassion and keen intellect."

Inos watched numbly as his dearest friend was carried towards her final way station. Before those bearing Tokizar's body could disappear from sight, Inos called hoarsely, "Ring the death bells...let the city know what it has lost!"

When the adepts had departed, Inos turned to the scholar and when he spoke his voice was fraught with a poignant desperation that wrenched the old man's heart. "Is...is it over? Has the Viper's need for carnage been appeased?"

Mascius glanced briefly at Maroc and Maktir, who witnessed the grave moment with identical expressions of grim solemnity. To Inos, he remarked quietly, "It is, Grand Mage."

Inos nodded glumly and began to shuffle listlessly away, murmuring, "Then I will return to my chambers. I require a moment of...solitude."

Chapter Twenty-Six

1

The only sound to be heard within the canvas walls of Myrhia's sparsely lit pavilion was the fluid whisper of Kevlan's deft hands as they diligently applied unguent to Islena's bare flesh. The friction and warmth of contact quickly converted the thick paste into a buttery texture that spread easily over the nuanced terrain of Islena's incredibly taut body, which appeared to glow beneath the ameliorating effect of Myrhia's emollient concoction.

Doraux had again lapsed into a deep state of unconsciousness, her full breasts rising and falling deeply and evenly beneath the young Metocan's skilled hands. She had not stirred, nor had there been a recurrence of the violent awakening that had nearly seen Kevlan strangled to death. He was further relieved that the thunderous multiplicity...the echoing clamor of Islena's past incarnations had fallen mercifully quiescent.

Yet, as he administered to Islena's ravaged body, Kevlan became aware of a new and more insidious source of disquiet. As his soft hands glided slowly over the mesmerizing topography of Islena's exotic flesh, unexpectedly, his heart began to hammer and the blood began to race in his veins...its thundering charge fuelled by a discordant swirl of arousal and its guilty twin, shame. He struggled to repress these soaring sensations...the acutely atavistic response to the erotic stimulation of her majestic body gliding beneath his palms, but the tactile awareness generated by the dizzying warmth that coursed through his body brought with it an urgency that would not be denied.

His guilt and shame were further aggravated each time he found his palm cupped and lingering on a lustrous globe or a finger pressing with more insistence than was strictly necessary on the cleft of her womanhood as he applied the enchantress' healing concoction.

Kevlan groaned and snapped his hands away as if engaged in the most despicable violation, but the heat eroded his resolve and he soon found his thumbs teasing Islena's prominent nipples as he worked the unguent into the deep valley between her lush breasts. He quickly turned her on her invisible spit and began to spread the increasingly malleable paste over the landscape of her broad back and then the dune sweep of her firm buttocks. His fingers traced the many striations...the complex arrangements of ridges and valleys in her staggeringly defined thighs.

Kevlan, who had spent much of his life either in the company of men or in stark isolation of the Blighted Lands was wholly unprepared for the impact Islena's Doraux's hypnotic beauty would exert on his inexperienced heart and his equally inexperienced libido. In repose, her beauty was augmented exponentially without the dampening influence of woe and crushing obligation that beset her while awake.

Kevlan's turbulent thoughts harkened back to the first time he had crossed paths with Islena Doraux. She had impressed him....not so much as a living being, but rather as a perpetually churning vortex within a magnificent, exotic vessel of flesh. He had come to regard her as a conflicted amalgam of violently opposed contradictions; enormous strength set against shocking fragility...tenacious determination juxtaposed beside impetuous intractability. Despite the plethora of evidence, Islena had stubbornly refused to accept the admittedly unfair destiny that fate had imposed upon her.

This had all served to render her immense beauty somehow inaccessible...something he could easily compel himself to ignore.

Now, however, with her hovering supine beneath his touch, her physical perfection assumed a new potency...augmented to an excruciatingly acute magnitude by intimate proximity...by _availability._ He marveled at the infinite variation of detail that comprised this delicious intermingling of symmetry, muscle, ligature and skin...feminine allure and astounding capability in perfect proportion. Despite its repulsive, phlegm-like hue, the unguent lent these structural variations a sensual sheen and as Kevlan traversed the terrain with his fingertips, forbidden yet irresistible (indeed, Kevlan had not so much as touched a woman or inhaled the intoxicating scent of a woman's hair)...he could feel his engorged manhood struggling against the constraint of the trousers he wore beneath his robe. This confinement only exacerbated his discomfort and profound, yet futile guilt.

There was a mystifying syncopation between the throbbing in his groin and the rhythmic thundering of his heart. Kevlan emitted a shrewish moan and stumbled slightly away from the source of his torment, yet he was powerless to avert his lust-addled gaze from the magnificent landscape of Islena's body.

Watching the source of his consternation as her substantial chest slowly rose and fell like the breaking of the tides, Kevlan wondered if this torture he was suffering was intentional...a deliberate scheme contrived by the nefarious Myrhia to taunt him with this new latent weakness. She could easily have assigned a Morticant...immune to every variation of internal and external stimuli...to minister to Islena's injuries. Instead, she had set Kevlan to the task as if goading him towards committing an unpardonable sin for which no expiation could be had.

The notion was certainly plausible.

Myrhia seemed to derive infinite pleasure from debasing and corrupting anything even remotely virtuous and for all of his naiveté, Kevlan knew himself to be far from virtuous. He need only consider the incessant throbbing in his groin to find irrefutable proof of his fallibility.

But why bother subjecting him to this torment at all...why tempt him with this most exotic delicacy in its most vulnerable state? He was a creature of virtually no consequence; what could she possibly gain from his moral dissolution?

Islena moaned then, her body beset by a rapid series of intense spasms. Kevlan rushed back to the would-be deity and brushing her red tresses from her neck, resumed applying the unguent to the thick ridges of muscle that ran from the base of her neck to her collar bones.

He tried to distract himself from the pulsing throb in his groin by seeking a plausible motivation for Myrhia's exercise in debasement.

With a sense of profound relief, the frazzled Metocan realized that he had coated every inch of exposed flesh...except for Islena's face. The Metocan gently guided Islena until her face cast its sightless regard on the pavilion's ceiling. He willed himself to ignore the enticing wobble of her full breasts as she came to rest.

Kevlan experienced a sharp twinge of pity as he considered Islena's countenance...perfection marred by a spattering of livid red patches where the biting cold had feasted on her exposed skin. They lay across her brow and cheeks like angry ulcerations. The tip of Islena's thin, flawless nose exhibited the disturbing signs of more extreme exposure, as did the imperious ridges of her prominent cheek bones.

Kevlan regarded the potential disfigurement as symbolic of Myrhia's ignoble stain...a tragic microcosm of the defilement she had inflicted upon every last vestige of beauty this world could offer.

The Metocan was suddenly suffused by a compelling determination not to allow Myrhia's virulence to deface Islena's beauty. Stepping closer, he laid the bowl on her striated abdomen. Moving quickly, he stepped around her and gathered her thick red hair into a bunch and drew it away from her face, before arranging it into a twist that provoked a shudder and a thick, guttural groan from Islena. Kevlan deduced that the tugging had assailed the unconscious Doraux and cursed his clumsiness.

Kevlan then returned to his original position and set about applying a _mask_ that he fervently prayed would prevent indelible damage. He gathered gobs of the now creamy unguent and carefully patted the effected area, before slowly spreading it over the surrounding skin, his thumbs working in slow, radial patterns.

The touch of Islena's body had affected Kevlan like the most potent of aphrodisiacs and he was relieved and grateful that he had completed warding it without disgracing himself. Yet, as his thumbs slowly mapped the contours of her face...played over the unyielding slant of her cheek bones and relished the pliability of her full lips...the complex storm of heat and shame came upon him with a renewed fury. The consuming throb in his groin reduced his legs to quivering jelly. Breathing unevenly, Kevlan applied a thick coat of unguent to her smooth brow until all that remained were the hollows of her eyes.

While he applied swirls of unguent to Islena's eyelids, Kevlan's fevered gaze was drawn to her generous mouth. Her lips were slightly parted and beckoned fetchingly.

A hiss of anguish and negation escaped his lips even as his thumbs stopped moving and his hands embraced the sides of Islena's face. Like a moth being drawn to a flame, Kevlan felt himself bending over...slowly, inexorably even as a stranger's voice whispered its seductive refrain, _'What harm from one kiss...after all you've given of yourself...suffered through. This is scant remuneration for the sacrifices you've made...and have yet to make.'_

Even as he discerned the self-serving flaw of this facile argument, Kevlan closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Islena's slack lips, while his right hand slid to the full majesty of her right breast. He lingered in this position for what seemed like an eternity, surrendering to the euphoric rush of sensations this forbidden intermingling roused.

' _You have forfeited your soul!'_ he castigated himself, struggling vainly to muster the will to step back even as his fingers contracted and relented on the resilient flesh beneath his palm.

Lost in the velvety spell of his indulgence, Kevlan was shocked when powerful fingers clamped down on the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into the purloined kiss. Another hand closed around his like steel pincer, molding his palm tightly to her breast.

Kevlan's gray eyes flew open like broken shutters and he found himself peering down into impossibly limpid oceans. He cried out...a muffled exclamation of guilt and self-loathing. She released him and he slid backwards, tripping over the hem of his robe and spilling onto his haunches, where he scrabbled away before pulling his knees protectively up against his chest.

Islena slid gracefully to the plush rugs as if tumbling from an actual table. Kevlan could feel his face burning crimson with shame as she stalked silently toward him, moving with a languid, leonine ease of a hunting cat. The expression on her painted face was inscrutable...the glistening unguent lending her features an alien aspect. Her large emerald eyes were alight with an emotion he could not identify...only augmenting his discomfort.

He cried out when she extended her muscular left arm and the Jerhia Dragonsword obediently leapt into her open palm. Standing before him, wild-eyed and brazenly naked, she evoked images of a primitive warrior queen preparing to dispense the only form of justice she understood.

Instead, she glanced down the length of her body and demanded, "What is this?"

"A...a healing unguent," Kevlan stammered in a thin, reedy voice he could hardly recognize as his own. "It was concocted to ward you against the pain of frostbite and heal the damage you've suffered during your ordeal."

"Myrhia concocted this unguent...and conscripted you to apply it?" Islena pressed, a knowing smirk twisting her lips.

"Yes," Kevlan responded, averting his sheepish gaze to the ground.

Islena floated closer, her proximity causing the Metocan to tremble perceptibly. "And that kiss...your hands on my breast?"

Kevlan lifted his eyes to meet hers to find that her right eyebrow was arched, lending her countenance a speculative aspect. He was acutely aware of Dragonsword in her hand. He attempted to conjure and acceptable defense for his lecherous presumption, but finding none, he merely shook his head sorrowfully while flushing with shame.

Islena pursed her lips and asked, "Kevlan...have you ever been intimate with a woman before?"

The young Metocan peered at the woman askance, unsettled by her frank question. After a groping silence, he shook his head as if this, too, was a further cause for disgrace.

"Vulgar bitch!" Islena spat venomously. "Kevlan, through all of her long history...every blood-spattered incarnation...this evil bitch has made an art out of instilling doubt in the hearts of everyone she comes across. She craves the thrill of eroding a person's self-worth...their belief in their own integrity and inherent goodness. She is a master of gleaning weakness and vulnerability...and exploiting it without the slightest compunction."

"Still!" Kevlan moaned, his gray eyes glistening wetly. "When I touched you...my thoughts...the sensations; they were obscene...filthy!"

His words degenerated into an inarticulate sob of anguish and he buried his face in his trembling hands. Islena knelt before the young Metocan and gently but firmly pulled his hands away from his face. Gripping his chin, she raised his tear-distorted eyes to meet hers. "Kevlan, I have lived more lifetimes than I can count...and witnessed more suffering and needless tragedy than any sentient being should ever be forced to endure. Through every one of these lives, I have been bewildered by no small amount of irrational thinking. To kill...to bathe the world in blood for even the flimsiest pretext...is regarded as a valiant and honorable endeavor."

She paused, her eyes darkening, and Kevlan astutely deduced that he was no longer hearing Islena Doraux...or more succinctly, he was being addressed by an entity of which Islena was but a tiny fragment. "These purveyors of butchery...these puritanical hypocrites...condemn any who subscribe to the idea that following the natural urges of the body is a thing of beauty. They denounce the giving and taking of pleasure as lewd and obscene, while setting the world aflame with ugly violence. I have decided that I will never again deny myself the opportunity for the comfort of a loving touch. Considering all that I have endured and the end that likely awaits me, I will not deprive myself of a single moment of intimacy."

"Still, I took advantage of what was not given freely. My actions are beyond immoral...they are criminal and I am sorry, Islena," the young Metocan pleaded, the innocence of his misery touching Islena unexpectedly.

Shaking his chin for emphasis, she intoned fiercely, "By administering to me, you have spared me a hell of acute suffering, Kevlan...and between you and me, I can endure little more. I certainly don't begrudge you whatever comfort you may have derived in attending to my injuries. Myrhia's intention was to undermine your spirit and neither of us is going to give her that satisfaction. If you feel you've wronged me by a permission not granted, then let this appease your guilt."

Abruptly, she pulled the startled Metocan into a passionate embrace and an open-mouthed kiss that left him reeling. She gripped his right hand and molded it to her left breast, holding it there while she swirled her educated tongue over his teeth. When it seemed inevitable that the heat of her embrace would ignite him like a dry granary, Islena pushed him to arm's length and offered the dazzled Metocan a predatory grin. When she spoke, the throaty growled belong exclusively to Islena. "I'll tell you this...had the situation been reversed, I would have taken a great deal more than an innocent kiss and timid fondle. You would have returned to consciousness to find yourself exhausted...thoroughly spent and wondering why."

Kevlan gaped in astonishment, stunned by Islena's overtly provocative revelation. She threw back her head and laughed heartily, the wanton aspect of her nature delighting in the ease with which she unnerved the young Metocan. Then the light in her eyes assumed a sultry cast and she murmured, "Did you enjoy the feel of my body as you applied Myrhia's unguent? Did it arouse you?"

Kevlan chewed his thin lower lip, but conceded, "As nothing ever has."

She leaned closer and sighed into his ear, her warm breath a gentle susurration as she whispered, "Before we return to Othgol...I will find occasion to thank you properly and at length...for what you've done today."

She sat back on her haunches and regarded him with a feral gaze that caused him to blush furiously...even as the implications of her promise set his heart galloping. Then she rose with a liquid flexing of granite thighs and stood surveying the shadow-cloaked pavilion with hands on hips.

The charged eroticism of the previous moment evaporated like a vivid illusion. As the frigid wind snapped the heavy canvas walls of Myrhia's pavilion, Kevlan watched raptly while Islena Doraux underwent a startling transformation. Her lips twisted into a belligerent scowl and her limpid green eyes became hooded with menace, lending her countenance a cold, merciless aspect, hued by the slightest glint of madness. Behind her emerald eyes, the Metocan gleaned the capering presence of something ineffably horrible and with this single revelatory glimpse, Kevlan _knew_ that no further proof of her intrinsically lethal instability would be necessary.

A living vessel of iniquity she might be, but on this one occasion, the enchantress had spoken the truth.

She glanced back at Kevlan and he recoiled beneath the frenzied gleam in her eyes. In a voice rife with the promise of violence, she demanded, "Where is she?"

Feeling his euphoria drain away like filthy water through a sewer grate, Kevlan climbed slowly to his feet. The moment had assumed a new urgency and the creature before him was poised on the brink of mindless violence...an explosion that he must somehow prevent.

"Islena please...restraint!" he began, holding his hands out in a gesture of placation.

Her voice hardened as did her expression and she reiterated, "Kevlan, where is she?"

Kevlan's eyes were naturally drawn to the Dragonsword, where the stylized ruby eyes flared menacingly in response to Islena's mounting fury. Realizing that evasion was futile and he lacked the means to deter her, the Metocan raised a slender arm and pointed toward the impenetrable shadows at the rear of the pavilion.

Islena followed his gesture, her eyes widening in outraged incredulity. "You mean to say that she's been watching us the entire time?"

As if of its own accord, he heard his traitorous mouth utter, "Myrhia has...trans-located...returned to Othgol to determine who interfered and freed you from your restraints."

This evoked vivid recollections of Lorio...regaled in court finery and lovely beyond words...coming to her in the depths of her abject torment. It had been Lorio who had sundered Myrhia's arcane chains and freed her. It was Lorio always; the one permanent fixture upon whom she could rely without deviation to come to Islena's aid when she was in desperate need.

"You mean that she's projected herself out of her body?" She squinted back into the shadows as a malefic grin twisted her features into something horrifying. "Is she warded, Kevlan?"

Recalling Myrhia's dagger and the temptation that enchantress had boldly dangled before him, Kevlan could divine the horrible progression this situation threatened to follow. As if sensing his ambivalence, Islena brandished the Dragonsword in his direction, effortlessly holding the massive weapon with one hand. "Has the bitch erected wards?"

Kevlan's acute discomfort was all the response that Islena required. Glancing about, she spied a fur cloak. Snatching it up in her free hand, she threw it around her broad shoulders, fastening it at the neck with a petulant snap. Then she plunged into the shadows, upending tables and curios as she went.

In rapid succession, a series of stark images detonated in Kevlan's frantic mind; Islena decapitating Myrhia with one titanic swing of the Dragonsword. She would then insist that they both press on to retrieve the Metocan Icon and then she would manufacture another rationale for seeking out the staff of Natzurdan, the final ingredient for her black ascension. In graphically vivid flashes, Kevlan saw the decimated world, laid to smoldering waste from horizon to horizon, over which rang the depraved laughter of the black abomination that resided within Islena's tumultuous mind.

Myrhia's one misjudgment would pave the way for the inexorable onset of oblivion, unless Kevlan could find a way to dissuade Islena from venting her mindless fury on Myrhia.

He lurched after the flawed savior, pleading frantically, "Islena do not surrender to this mindless lust for revenge...you...you will bring the Morticants down upon us."

She stopped before the quiescent, essentially vacant enchantress and turned back to the young Metocan. Even though her face was partially obscured by shadow, there could be no mistaking the glare of madness that radiated from her like heat. "I'll let you in on a secret...I know exactly how to dispense with the Morticants. Individually, I can now destroy them and once I've accrued more power, they will fall before me like wheat before a scythe. Then...oh Kevlan, then I'm going to spend an eternity subjecting this deplorable bitch to every torture...every degradation...I can conceive."

She considered Kevlan for a moment...her madness washing over him in fetid waves. "You could help me if you wish." She cast a significant glance at his groin and then purred, "You could do _anything_ to her you want."

Kevlan recoiled in revulsion and flashed an uncertain glance at the pavilion's entrance, briefly weighing the idea of summoning the Morticants. He quickly dispensed with the notion, reasoning that as they were implacable engines of Myrhia's will, the hulking beasts would adhere to her last edict without deviation.

' _Such is the disadvantage of mindless subservience,'_ he thought wildly and could barely resist the compulsion to bray lunatic laughter.

Islena had turned back to Myrhia and plunging her right hand into the dormant enchantress' raven tresses, she jerked Myrhia's slack face up to meet hers. Islena pursed her lips and spat a great glut of viscous saliva into her face. Next, she raised the Dragonsword as if intent on cleaving Myrhia's skull.

Kevlan seized on a recollection; a snippet of conversation garnered from their time in the woods, before this latest horror had commenced. Imploringly, he asked, "Islena, yesterday you told me that you _needed_ Myrhia...required her guidance. How has that changed? If you commit this impetuous act, what will be the consequences?"

Islena's regard snapped to meet his and a low growl issued from deep in her chest, reminding of the Metocan of the snarl of a rabid dog might make when cornered. Conjuring a fortitude he did not know he possessed, Kevlan stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on Islena muscular forearm, which felt like rolled steel beneath his grasp.

She watched him in the manner of a deadly predator that has not decided if it wishes to attack.

"I'm begging you, Islena...contemplate what it is you mean to do. You told me that you had contrived a way of seeing Myrhia to her end...and saving yourself in the balance. Do not permit a moment of mindless fury to undermine everything you aspire to achieve!"

Islena's answering glare was one of pure acrimony and seemed capable of igniting stone, but gradually...by nerve-racking increments...Kevlan could feel the tension begin to drain from her muscles. Between clenched jaws, she rasped, "Take it away!"

Kevlan's eyes widened and with extreme reluctance, he reached for the haft of Dragonsword, which Islena let slip from her fingers. Holding the Icon away from him as if it was something ineffably foul that could damn his soul by touch alone, he carried the weapon away from its mercurial wielder, his anxious gaze never leaving Islena.

She remained standing over the vacant form of the enchantress, her head bowed and her square shoulders rising and falling in syncopation to her ragged breathing. It suddenly occurred to Kevlan that Islena hardly required the Dragonsword to kill a defenseless Myrhia and he cursed his stupidity.

He carefully laid the thrumming icon on one of the many writing tables, noticing how the rubies ebbed and flared even when not in Islena's grasp. Then he frantically searched the shadows for the dagger Myrhia had offered him. He spied it in the gloom and began to drift over to the discarded weapon with only a nebulous sense of his audacious intentions.

' _Kevlan, you cannot seriously be contemplating this?'_ a shrill voice demanded, dripping with angst and incredulity. The black irony of the situation was indeed difficult to credit, but did little to deter his movements. _'Better a lucid tyrant than a mad one.'_

He stooped to retrieve the killing tool and began to creep back toward Islena, wondering if he was even capable of the craven deed of treachery he was contemplating.

2

Islena towered over the unmoving form of her tormentor...the now vulnerable embodiment of the incessant misery that had plagued her through every woe-fraught incarnation of her existence.

' _Tear her fucking head off!'_ the shadow incarnation implored, its frenzied shriek making coherent thought all but impossible. _'You may never get this opportunity again. Remember every torment this whore has inflicted upon you. Conjure the image of kneeling naked beside her, with a collar around your neck like a dog...and then chew this bitch's face off!'_

Islena could glean the sly purpose behind this diatribe of savage violence and fought mightily to resist the temptation. Still, seeing her mortal enemy kneeling helpless before her was affecting Doraux like the most potent of aphrodisiacs. She raised her right foot and pressed its unguent-coated sole against Myrhia's slack cheek and with a contemptuous flexing of thigh muscles, she pushed the enchantress onto her back.

Myrhia's black hair billowed around her in a fan and her slender arms splayed out around her head...giving her the deceptive appearance of an angel in repose. Doraux took two steps, straddling Myrhia's prone form as the mad shadow raged, _'Urinate in her face, Islena...and then smash it to a bloody pulp!'_

She ignored this repulsive (but acutely attractive) entreaty, becoming obliquely cognizant of the furtive sounds of movement converging upon her from behind. Without taking her unblinking gaze from Myrhia's slack face, she warned in a voice bereft of emotion, "Take one further step, Kevlan and I'll will the Dragonsword to gouge out your liver. Put the dagger down and stop fretting...I won't kill her, however dearly I want to."

A thoroughly flummoxed Kevlan felt his fingers open of their own accord and watched, mouth agape as the dagger fell to the rug. He flicked a wary glance at the Jerhia Icon, which was now standing vertically on its tip and rotating swiftly, gouging up shavings of wood like a lathe.

Islena threw the flaps of her coat aside and settled onto Myrhia's upper thighs, unable to drag her gaze from the exquisite face that had haunted her nightmares for so long.

' _This is the woman who fucked your swine of a husband and who holds your son hostage...as a tool of coercion,'_ the shadow incarnation whispered, its tone transitioning from strident to velvety sly. _'She is at your mercy...and you would not extract a measure of revenge?"_

Islena's face contorted into an ugly scowl. She leaned forward and plunge her fingers into Myrhia's bodice, which she then ripped open with the ease of one tearing a thin sheet of paper. The heavy material was trimmed in pear beading and came asunder in a spray of pearls. Islena jerked the flaps of material open, exposing Myrhia's full, perfectly fashioned breasts and flat abdomen.

Gripping Myrhia's throat in her left hand, Islena drew back her right fist above her head and delivered three heavy blows to Myrhia's slack jaw in rapid succession. The clubbing strikes resounded throughout the otherwise silent pavilion; ugly, meaty thuds that reminded a sickened Metocan of the fall of a tenderizing mallet.

Islena allowed her fist to unclench and her powerful hands to settle onto the sides of Myrhia's face, which was beginning to swell alarmingly. Droplets of blood smattered across the enchantress' delicate chin and lips, evoking a satisfied grin from Islena, who leaned forward and collected one with the tip of her tongue...savoring the coppery taste of Myrhia's life essence.

"It seems that you're human after all, mother," Islena whispered and then cackled demented laughter. When the laughter subsided, Islena pressed the balls of her thumbs into the hollows of Myrhia's eye sockets, gently massaging the closed eyelids.

' _Do it Islena! Gouge them from her sockets and wear them as a necklace,'_ the shadow incarnation prompted in a tone that was delirious with a lust to spill the blood of its last perceived obstacle to omnipotence.

This fraught harangue was making logical thought well near impossible as Islena's reason tottered on the edge of the primitive need to give in to her atavistic hunger. Her gaze strayed to the gold circlet and the hated intaglio that appeared to mock her from the nestled bed of Myrhia's raven tresses.

Snarling, Islena tore the circlet free, dragging with it several clumps of black hair. Sliding up Myrhia's bare torso, she gripped the smaller woman's limp arms and crossed them at the wrists above the diminutive beauty's head. Kevlan groaned in dismay as Islena slid the circlet over Myrhia's hands and then twisted the two ends in powerful fingers to form impromptu manacles that bit deeply into the flawless flesh of Myrhia's wrists.

She then put her hands back on the enchantress' slack, distended face and resumed caressing Myrhia's eyelids, though now with greater insistence.

Kevlan could almost hear the relentless voice of Islena's inner demon, imploring her toward this act of irreversible lunacy. Falling to his knees and extending his trembling hands, he adjured, "Islena, you have to see that something inside of you is impairing your judgment...don't capitulate...block it out!"

Islena shook her head and blinked like someone frantically fighting to resist sleep. Her body vibrated with the need to unleash carnage on this vile miscreant who had caused her so much pain and misery. A guttural groan tore from her lips and she abruptly rolled away from Myrhia. She lay beside the battered enchantress, whose jaw and cheekbone had been fractured in several places, and stared into the inky shadows. Her heavy chest rose and fell in ragged bursts as she fought to subjugate the black presence that had very nearly goaded her into committing a colossal blunder.

Kevlan came to stand over Islena, staring down upon the battered and bloody Myrhia with a dismal expression of horror emblazoning his pallid face. "Islena...what have you done?"

Islena groaned again, though this latest utterance was one of pure dismay at her own inexplicable actions. She rolled back on top of Myrhia and burying her face in the crook of her nemesis' neck, wailed loudly into the unconscious woman's ear, "Please mother...come back, now! I'm ready to give you what you've demanded...and anything else you want...but please...please hurry. I can't hold it at bay for much longer."

Then Islena fell silent, still lying atop her tormentor. Beneath the heavy cloak, a mortified Kevlan could see that Islena was sobbing convulsively.

In that moment of crystalline insight, Kevlan could see that Islena Doraux was a woman beset by two remorseless monsters...though he could not decide which of the two was worse.

3

Lorio could feel the intimidating presence of the lethal apparition at her shoulder, but she refused to acknowledge the enchantress. Instead, she marched through the corridors of the compound with her head held high and her gaze fixed forward...trying to repress any external manifestation of the terror that was churning in the pit of her stomach like hot bile.

' _How could you possibly not be_ _immobilized by dread?_ ' a voice whispered in her mind, its tone resonating in her mind with an unaccountable glee. _'You've been inside her cesspool of a mind and thus know exactly what this deprave bitch is capable of doing to you.'_

Lorio grimaced at this unwelcome observation, trying to steel herself for the ordeal ahead. To fortify her resolve, she conjured the many treasured memories she'd accrued from her time traveling with Islena...a catalogue of precious possessions she hoarded the way a miser would hoard gold.

This particular image had been embossed in her memory from a time when she had been mortal and Islena was still only a woman and not an ambiguous deity...an extraordinary woman, but a woman nonetheless.

In truth, this period should have been the bleakest of her life.

Horribly weakened by deprivation and pain-racked by prolonged physical abuse, Lorio had been incapable of standing on her own...little more than an emaciated skeleton with a death's head grin. Yet, Islena had fashioned a travois and dragged her through the forest for mile after arduous mile, never once complaining of the burden that Lorio had imposed upon her.

It was in this unprecedented act of selflessness that Lorio's immutable love for Islena Doraux had found its origins.

The specific memory played across the backdrop of her mind...as vivid as the time in which it had first occurred. As was customary during that hellish ordeal, Lorio had been roused from her fitful slumber by a throbbing pain and an insidious panic that plagued her both day and night. Disoriented and dizzy with pain, she had gazed about owlishly and then her fraught gaze had fallen upon Islena _._ The alien woman lay upon her side, facing Lorio from the opposite side of their campfire. Over the smoldering embers...and with the full argent moon casting her features in an eerie silver light...Islena Doraux had been the living quintessence of beauty, angelic and unassailable.

Watching her sleep, free of strife and turmoil, Lorio had felt a warmth suffuse her ravaged body and she permanently surrendered her heart to this exquisite stranger. As seemed always the case with beautiful fantasy, time would work its disillusioning magic...exposing Islena for the flawed, hopelessly conflicted creature she was, but in that sublime moment, Lorio regarded Islena Doraux as her salvation.

Oblivious to the torrent of heartache and misery that awaited her just beyond the horizon, Lorio had experienced the true grandeur of life then...its poetry...its miracle. Though events would soon disabuse her of these fanciful notions, this single sliver of perfect contentment would become one of Lorio's most treasured possessions.

She recalled, with remarkable clarity, how she had wanted to crawl to Islena and kiss her slightly parted lips. Instead, afraid to shatter the delicate beauty of the moment, she had silently watched Islena sleep until the moon waned from the sky and reality and another day of drudgery commenced.

Now she drew on that sublime recollection in order to draw strength to face what was to follow. She turned into the short corridor that led to her new accommodations. In the distance, she could hear Arminda shouting terse commands and smiled. She paused before the ornate doors and without looking back, growled, "No matter what you do to me...I won't grovel or beg for my life."

"We shall see," Myrhia replied in an inscrutable voice like smoke drifting over black waters on a moonless night.

A huge force brushed past Lorio, throwing open the doors, lifting the Lamish immortal from her feet and pitching her into the room like a sack of oats. To her amazement, she was not sent crashing into the far wall. Instead, she came to an abrupt halt and hovered in the air as if held aloft by invisible hands.

The enchantress swept through the doors, which closed behind her with a finality that caused the suspended immortal to shudder. She was fully expecting to be excoriated by Myrhia's infernal magic and was astounded when she was maneuvered into an upright position and deposited gently on her feet.

Her astonishment deepened when every hearth in her lavish quarters blazed into life.

Myrhia offered the bemused immortal an unfathomable grin and remarked, "You may set your piece of kindling aside...it will quite obviously serve no purpose against me. What's more, this need not be an acrimonious exchange."

Lorio eyed the grinning specter warily and then laid her quarterstaff on the bed.

"You may also refrain from posturing and glaring daggers, Lorio," Myrhia suggested. "There is no one to witness your defiance. I have warded your quarters and our dialogue will remain in the strictest confidence."

"Please, we both know that you're vibrating with the desire to reduce me to a pile of smoldering ash," Lori challenged truculently.

"You are, in part, correct," Myrhia agreed with a tiny shrug of her shoulders. "A part of me would like nothing more than to flay you into twitching, bloody ribbons. Fortunately for you, that primitive aspect of my nature is constrained by the facet of my essence that has become conscious of the intrinsic truth of what I am. That part is governed by curiosity and rational thought and it is fascinated by the perplexing creature it now sees standing before it."

"What do you want?" Lorio glowered, though her contentious expression was diluted by confusion and uncertainty. The conspicuous absence of malice made Myrhia appear all the more sinister...and dangerous.

"To understand the fundamental attraction that binds you to Islena," Myrhia disclosed. She began to slowly circle Lorio and her candid scrutiny made the normally unflappable immortal squirm beneath its incisive weight. "You are beautiful, of course, and there can be no denying that yours is a pulchritude that can captivate all who set eyes upon it. Still, I think that we both know Islena's attention is...fleeting. I would theorize that Islena's attraction to you finds its origins in the unattractive muck of self-interest. She perceives you as a tentative link to her disintegrating identity...a way of clinging stubbornly to this frankly ridiculous persona of Islena Doraux."

"Or perhaps she loves me!" Lorio interjected scornfully.

Myrhia stopped and regarded the rigid immortal pityingly. "Oh, my poor, pathetic child...you can't really believe that?"

Lorio frowned and glared, but refused to respond. Again Myrhia shrugged indifferently. She swept a slender arm about her head in a gesture of encompassment. "How do you see this current crisis resolving itself?"

"With Islena standing over your dead body...and your throat in her teeth," Lorio spat angrily.

"Predictable response," Myrhia sighed, "And what then?"

Lorio blinked, suddenly leery of where this devious creature was leading her. "What do you mean?"

"Once the fabled one of prophecy has vanquished the evil witch, what do you imagine will follow? Do you believe that Islena will take your hand and lead you to a place where you can both pass eternity basking in the radiance of each other's light...like star-crossed lovers from some timeless romantic classic?" Myrhia's tone became mordant, dripping with sarcasm like acid corroding the flesh of Lorio's silly delusions. "You, of all people, should be immune to such nonsense. You have felt Islena's virulent essence running rampant in your veins."

"Do what you've come to do bitch!" Lorio growled, employing ire to disguise just how profoundly she had been affected by Myrhia's observation. "I'd rather die than listen to your manipulative blather."

"Indeed," Myrhia retorted, coming to stand directly before the immortal with the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her generous mouth. With shocking speed, Myrhia plunged her diaphanous right hand into the immortal's left breast.

Lorio's mouth gaped open with an audible plop as her breathing hitched in her chest. Myrhia's dramatic invasion was more the suggestion of a foreign presence than an actual physical occupation. As the wide-eyed immortal looked on helplessly, her limbs suddenly became leaden and unresponsive and a rippled of excruciating pain contorted the enchantress' refined features.

Myrhia swiftly retracted her grasp as if she'd thrust her hand into a nest of enraged wasps. With the sudden withdrawal, Lorio experienced a rush of vertigo and only Myrhia's spectral hand on her forearm prevented her from collapsing in a boneless heap.

Through clenched jaws, Myrhia disclosed, "Your essence has been warded by Islena's arcane energy. Unless it is she who strikes the lethal blow...an eventuality that is not beyond the realm of possibility, Lorio...you have been granted an exemption from the inevitability of death. While this would impress many as a cause for celebration, I predict it will become a fate you will someday come to rue...if you do not already."

Lorio greeted this staggering revelation with squint-eyed suspicion. "Why would you willingly tell me this?"

"Because...I've come to enlist your aid," Myrhia said in an uncharacteristically somber voice.

Lorio stepped back, unrestrained laughter braying from her lips, causing her entire body to quake with its intensity. When Myrhia continued to watch her with an expression of implacable patience, Lorio fell silent...her amusement becoming incredulity. Finally, she blurted, "You're actually serious."

"I am," Myrhia agreed softly. "I'm going to share a few salient truths with you...and then you are going to reciprocate. By the time we've concluded this parlay, it is my hope that you will come to see that our objectives in this dark drama are perfectly aligned and you will commit to helping me achieve a resolution that suits us both."

"And if I don't come to share your...perspective?" Lorio challenged assiduously.

"Let us set pessimism aside for now and hear me out," Myrhia suggested amicably.

"I'm guessing that by only allowing you to spew your poison will you leave me in peace...so speak!"

Myrhia's brow darkened menacingly, but quickly transmogrified into a congenial smile. "I returned to Othgol with a mind to punish those who would interfere in my disciplining of Islena. When you displayed the laudable courage to admit that it had been you who had interfered, my intentions quickly metamorphosed into something else...an opportunity. I saw that fate had smiled upon both of us."

"You speak in glib riddles," Lorio snarled with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

"Yes, I suppose that a woman of your particular background would prefer plain speech," Myrhia retorted mockingly. "I spoke of salient truths; here is the first. You are a powerful creature in your own right...immortal and thus immune to the ravages of gradual decay and death, but you lack the emotional and intellectual wisdom to grasp the possible consequences of your impetuous actions. Your intervention with Islena is a case in point. Islena was enduring her moment of torment for a clear and exigent purpose."

"Right...because she had the temerity to fuck a man whom you consider to be your personal property!" Lorio interjected, her tone edged with derision.

Again, the immortal displayed an unexpected degree of tolerance and admitted, "In part, but extracting a measure of revenge was not my only motivation. Frankly, it was not even my primary motivation, which leads back to my initial query...how do you see this playing out? Then follows the second salient truth; you are attracted to a contrived persona that is as fleeting and transitory as the wind. The Islena Doraux you have come to love will scarcely be recognizable once she has obtained the Orb of Metocan. Once she has gained possession of the Staff of Natzurdan, her only similarity to the impulsive, vainglorious creature you've bound yourself to will be strictly physical."

She paused dramatically before adding, "Once she ascends, even I cannot accurately forecast the shape and nature she will assume...though it is certainly my intention to forge her into a pliable entity."

"Then you are an even bigger fool than I am," Lorio mused quietly.

"For the sake of every living thing that draws breath across the very span of time and existence, you had better pray that you are wrong," Myrhia cautioned darkly. "This lead directly to the third salient truth, which I will impart and you will reciprocate."

Lorio scoffed and tossed her raven mane dismissively to which Myrhia merely shrugged and queried, "Are you honest enough to admit that you have no real understanding of what Islena Doraux really is...what I am and what, to a lesser extent, Artumas is?"

Seeing no benefit to prevarication, Lorio shook her head, but then commented, "All I know is what I've touched and tasted and held. I know the taste of her blood and the scent of her hair and the way that my body responds beneath the tips of her fingers. I know her tenacity and her courage and yes, I know her fallibility. That is the only Islena Doraux I know."

Myrhia arched and eyebrow. "A surprisingly sophisticated reply, yet also woefully imprecise...or perhaps incomplete, if the truth of Islena is laid bare. The Islena Doraux you know is but a paper thin layer of an infinitely complex entity. Yet, if you peel away these successive layers, you will arrive at the stark and depressing truth of what Islena is...a violently irreconcilable contradiction of two diametrically opposite extremes. Of the three of us, Islena...or the Daughter of the Tempest...was the one granted a measure of volition. Yet our nameless creator played a particularly cruel jape on poor Islena."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lorio grumbled and though her tone was truculent, the confused, frightened light in the immortal's great dark eyes signified a greater understanding to which she was desperate not to subscribe.

"Then let me elaborate; Islena is a creature of darkness cursed with an irresistible proclivity for the light. Even as she is inexorably drawn toward it, her inner darkness compels her to undermine the very things she professes to love...a thing, if she was to possess it, that would obliterate her completely."

Lorio's brow furrowed and her pulse began to accelerate. "You're telling me that Islena will eventually find a way to destroy everything she loves...even if she remains unaware of this tendency?"

Myrhia's expression became dire and she replied simply, "Yes."

A brooding silence descended upon the chamber as Lorio grappled with the grim ramifications of this revelation. She grimaced and rasped, "I have still heard no reason why I would ever do anything other than try to tear your throat out with my teeth."

Myrhia shook her head in exasperation, displaying visible frustration for the first time since the pair had entered Lorio's chamber. "And therein is couched the inherent danger in granting such a narrow-minded creature any degree of power or influence. You lack the requisite acuity to see beyond the immediate needs and base lusts of your simple nature. When you sundered Islena's restraints, you came perilously close to killing her. Why? Because you lacked the foresight to realize that the same restraints that bound her to her torment also protected her from any lasting effects it might normally inflict."

Lorio's hands popped comically wide and her hand gravitated to her mouth of its own accord. Finally, unnerved by her inadvertent blunder, she stammered, "Is...is she well?"

The enchantress permitted herself a satisfied grin. "She is, but if you genuinely love Islena and I believe you do...you must heed what I am about to tell you. The three of us were never meant to discover the other lives we've lived...the bloody conflicts we've incited...these things were nothing more than chapters in an endless tale of bloodletting. Initially, I became convinced that my purpose...was reinvigorated by this newfound clarity. I made a commitment to achieving total dominion now that I had shrugged off the millstones that had always led to my demise. My singular nature made me a lemming...inexorably drawn toward its own immolation."

"Yet somehow, that's changed?" Lorio inquired in a tone that conveyed her skepticism.

"Yes!" Myrhia declared with a gushing exuberance that caused the wary immortal to arch an eyebrow. "I have come to see that my purpose...indeed, my very reason for existence...can now become exclusively my own thanks to the enlightenment that has come with understanding of the purpose for which I was once conceived. I have decided that I will reject this purpose and devote my boundless power and energy to the task of protecting Islena...to protecting my daughter. I will protect her not only from those who would do her harm, but also from the core of malice that resides in her troubled heart. Through my stewardship, she will become what she was destined to be...a goddess!"

"On your leash!" Lorio hissed with a mordant sneer.

"Better than the alternative; a half-mad monster with infinite power and no moral boundaries...devoid of all humanity," Myrhia bristled and then her tone changed and she declared...almost pleadingly, "To achieve this, I require your help."

Lorio watched the specter guardedly, noting the emerald effulgence that flared whenever the enchantress spoke with conviction. "What exactly is this _malice_ that afflicts Islena?"

"It is the final culmination of the inherent contradiction that defines the Daughter of the Tempest's tumultuous nature. When one's very essence is in a place of eternal conflict...to be tugged and torn endlessly in opposite directions...is madness not inevitable? In answer to your question, the malice is what Islena will become if left to her own devices." Myrhia paused elaborately and then deftly delivered the one rapier blow that was guaranteed to decimate fractured Lorio's resistance and cynicism. "Lorio, I will not attempt to dissuade you from committing yourself unreservedly to Islena...even though I am convinced that such a commitment would be your eventual undoing. Though it may plunge us into a sea of misery or destroy us, the old adage is a singular truth...the heart wants what it wants and is immune to persuasion or logic. I will offer you this guarantee; if you share the secret I know you harbor...I will save Islena and grant you a permanent place at her side."

Lorio's lovely features transformed into a mask of writhing ambivalence...a frantic battleground over which struggled the desire to believe this reprehensible, morally bankrupt creature and a fear of the exorbitant price at which this promise would be obtained. Distantly, in a tremulous voice she scarcely recognized as her own, Lorio heard herself ask, "What would you have me do?"

Lorio drifted closer until she was forced to peer up at the statuesque immortal. "You have served me...were once my reluctant creature. During that time, did I ever give you reason to believe that I was an oblivious fool?"

Mesmerized by the gravitas of the moment, Lorio shook her head and admitted, "You are many things, but never that."

Myrhia greeted this concession with a tight grin. "I know that Islena has submitted to me with some manner of subterfuge hidden beneath her façade of subservience. I also know that she has shared her scheme with you. Don't squander our newfound rapport or insult my intelligence with a vigorous denial. Now, will you divulge the exact shape of her machinations in return for all that I have promised?"

Lorio shook her head emphatically, even as a single tear slid indolently from the corner of her left eye. Surprisingly, Myrhia's anticipated eruption of fury did not materialize. Instead, she tilted her head thoughtfully and inquired, "I image that your sense of loyalty insists that, by revealing Islena's intent to her mortal enemy, you would be guilty to of the most heinous betrayal...one on par with her callous abandonment of you at Runesholm?"

Lorio grimaced at the mention of this horrible recollection, but remained silent. Like the coils of a basilisk, weaves of arcane energy wound around her legs and torso, forcing the unresisting immortal to her knees. Myrhia gently brushed a loose strand of hair from Lorio's furrowed brow. "Ask yourself this...if things proceed as Islena would have them, will you not be left with a void in your soul that nothing in this world, or any beyond could ever possibly fill...an emptiness that you will be forced to bear for eternity? If you believe that what I offer is a genuine alternative, then you need not utter a word...merely nod you assent and open your mind to me."

Heart riven by angst, Lorio peered up into the dark, luminous eyes of the creature who had swiftly and thoroughly obliterated every last vestige of her life; her people and traditions, her father and even a sizable portion of her defiant spirit. Myrhia had demolished these things with the casual indifference of a petulant child grinding an insect beneath its boot heels. Yet, as abhorrent as she considered the deceptively beautiful monster to be, Lorio found herself tormented by burning ambivalence when confronted by the temptation of Islena's salvation.

That she would even entertain a solitary word that tumbled from this serpent's ignoble lips was a testimony to the extent of her desperation.

Myrhia retained a firm grip on her expression of grave solemnity, though she could sense that the immortal...a creature whose moral integrity was suspect at the best of times...was within close proximity to capitulate to her seduction. She required only the last sincerely offered inducement to propel her into the abyss, which Myrhia delivered with her usual skill. Leaning closer, she brushed her pouting lips across the immortal's right ear and whispered, "Islena's fate lies squarely in the palm of your hands and the decision you make now may well resonate throughout every stream of existence...so set aside your personal animosity and see the truth of what I am offering; a chance to save Islena...and by extension, to save yourself."

Myrhia straightened and offered Lorio a dazzling smile of encouragement, tenderly brushing a tear that was tracking a course over the topography of the Lamish immortal's high cheekbone. The nod that signified Lorio's acquiescence...her capitulation...was so slight as to be barely perceptible and in that slight gesture, the immortal again consigned her soul to the enchantress' keeping. Myrhia's expression became grave and she murmured, "Close your eyes and open your mind to me. If you never utter a word, it might help appease your restive conscience. I will divine the shape of Islena's scheme from your thoughts and you might eventually come to convince yourself that I took it from you by force...which we both know I could if I so desired. Now, show me the shape of Islena's deception."

A whimper escaped Lorio's twisted lips as she closed her eyes and felt Myrhia lay her thumbs upon her fluttering eyelids. Like a movie playing out against the tapestry of the immortal's mind, the specifics of Islena's plot to entrap Myrhia and ruthlessly end her own menace unfurled in stark and graphic detail. Beyond the inner turbulence, Lorio could hear the enchantress issue a guttural grunt that seemed part contempt and part vexation. When the culminating scene of this grand deception had played itself out, Myrhia withdrew from Lorio's consciousness and stepped back, regarding the kneeling immortal with an indecipherable expression. "If there was ever a question that my _daughter_ was capable of acts of incredible ruthlessness to serve her ends...this scheme has forever laid the issue to rest. That she would willingly destroy herself in the process only corroborates my estimation of the menace she poses to all things."

"You will honor our agreement?" Lorio ventured, feeling craven and despicable.

"I will, but before you sink into the maudlin waters of self-condemnation, consider this...you and I are the only living being who wish to see Islena live. Those who claim to be her allies and comrades would willingly sacrifice her in the name of the greater good...which is a sorry euphemism for the expedience of selfishness. Even Islena has deluded herself into believing that her end is the only _just_ course forward. Lorio, you claim to love Islena unremittingly, and I am inclined to believe that you do. Is it not the obligation of those who love with such ardor to protect the one they love from those who would do her harm? More pertinent still, does genuine love not entail doing what is necessary to protect the one you love from their destructive tendencies? Together, we can save Islena...guide her to the place she was destined to be and insure that she retains the identity that has evoked these intense passions in your heart."

"What do you...wish me to do?" Lorio asked in a voice as dry and listless as the flesh of a desiccating corpse.

"Proceed as if nothing has changed...as if you are still wholly committed to squiring Islena to her desired end," Myrhia replied firmly.

"And what will I tell them about what has transpired between us...they already regard me with suspicion?" Lorio pointed out dejectedly.

Myrhia's answering smile was glacial. "This is where a certain measure of theatrics is required. It is often said that to love is to suffer and this is the one occasion where the old adage will prove especially true."

Lorio's brow furrowed in confusion and then her eyes widened as she came to grasp what the Myrhia was suggesting. Myrhia's countenance settled into lines of superficial regret...as brittle as her sense of virtue. "There is a price for all things in this world, Lorio...it is a salient maxim in every world, if truth be told. Loyalty, principles and even love...these things all bear an often exorbitant cost, but you must ask yourself...to whom do I owe my allegiance...a world that has ill-used you at every turn or the prospect of my own happiness? It should make what is to follow more tolerable. Now stand up and remove your clothing."

Lorio glared contentiously, even as the thin threads of trepidation caressed her insides like the whisper of something terrifying and remorseless. Knowing that there would be no avoiding what was to follow if the pair was to propagate this deception; Lorio rose to her feet and quickly divested herself of her clothing. Myrhia studied the naked immortal with an unwavering intensity that made Lorio shudder beneath its weight. In a soft tone of commiseration, the enchantress remarked, "I can understand how Islena would be traduced by your considerable charms...you are a truly exquisite specimen. What is to follow will be painful...acutely so, but you may rest assured that the effects will be temporary and this formidable beauty will in no way be permanently sullied."

Before Lorio could offer a response, hoops of emerald sorcery encircled her arms, legs and torso. An invisible gag forced itself into her mouth, swiftly and effectively cutting off her cries of protest. Myrhia's grin became predatory as she held her two hands out before her. As a horrified immortal gaped and strained ineffectually against her bonds, the tips of Myrhia's fingers began to glow a blinding emerald green...like pinpoints of balefire.

Swiftly, she surged forward and sunk her fingers into Lorio's exposed abdomen, the tips sinking into the flawless flesh with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The immortal laid back her head and howled a soundless wail of agony and thrashed against her arcane restraints.

Myrhia stood on her tip toes and bestowed a tender kiss on the writhing immortal's right cheeks...and then plunged her fingers into the perfection of Lorio's face, leaving cauterized holes in both cheeks. The Lamish beauty's throat bulged until it seemed that it might burst as the interior of her chamber filled with the cloying stench of burning flesh. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets and she then plunged mercifully into unconsciousness, tumbling to the plush carpet in a boneless sprawl.

Bosom heaving, Myrhia stood over the unconscious immortal, struggling mightily to subjugate the nearly irrepressible urge to immolate the traitorous bitch where she lay. She closed her eyes until a measure of composure returned, knowing that the credulous dolt would prove necessary if she was to snare Islena in her own trap. Still, while she couldn't destroy Lorio outright...she could make her suffer. Dropping to her knees, she rolled the larger woman onto her back and then set out painting a masterpiece of disfigurement with her blazing fingertips. When she finally arose, the thing laying at her feet was profusely dotted with blackened, gaping holes...her immense beauty reduced to a raw, oozing mass of horribly burned flesh. Occasionally, the unconscious immortal's body would spasm and quake from the ravaging effects of Myrhia's fiery abuse.

The satisfied grin that adorned the enchantress' lovely face abruptly curdled into a rictus of agony as a concussive pain slammed into her mind like the fall of a titan's hammer. Myrhia uttered a shrill cry of shock and agony, clutching her face and staggering like an inebriated sailor. _'Please Mother, come back now...'_

The remainder of Islena's desperate adjuration was lost beneath the surging cacophony of argent agony that swept Myrhia up in its vortex and then drove her to her knees next to the piteous creature that she had so gleefully abused. She pressed her spectral head into the carpet and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to gain mastery over the pain...which was only a pale facsimile of what her physical body would be experiencing back in her pavilion.

Suddenly leery of returning to her flesh, Myrhia crawled over to Lorio and laid a trembling palm on her marred brow...which was already showing an amazing degree of resilience, the flesh knitting and the charred edges regaining their former vitality. In a voice made tremulous with misery, Myrhia whispered, "Remember...only you and I can save Islena. The rest will see her moldering in a grave to save their wretched skins."

Then, her image guttered and vanished...leaving the chamber in steeped in a profound silence as the miasma of burnt flesh hung in the air like a pall.

4

In the short hallway which led to the ornate double doors to Lorio's suite, Arminda paced the carpet like a caged and restless cat, while the guard detail watched her from behind identical masks of impassivity. It had been a bell since the monster had ushered Lorio into the chamber...and not so much as a whisper or intimation of a whisper had been heard since. Myrhia had made it eminently clear that any attempt to interfere in her meting out of _justice_ would be met with swift and lethal retaliation and so Arminda continued to pace the hall, gripped by indecision and a burgeoning sense of self-loathing.

To preoccupy her churning mind, Arminda turned her thoughts to consideration of her feeling toward the perplexing Lamish immortal and the turbulent and conflicting emotions she roused in the young Jerhia's normally steadfast heart. Lorio was a living contradiction...often cruel, but suddenly given to instances of surprising tenderness and sensitivity. There could be no questioning her courage or her indomitable spirit that never seemed to waver or quail...even in the face of the most harrowing perils. Even during this latest incident, when Arminda had fallen beneath Myrhia's hand, Lorio had thrust herself between the helpless Jerhia and obliteration...even after Arminda had gruffly declared that she never wanted to set eyes on Lorio's face again, only moments before.

' _And now we leave her to suffer at this monster's pleasure to save our own hides!'_ the newly-minted Tier Marshal thought disdainfully and wondered what had become of the lauded Jerhia sense of duty and obligation...the philosophy of adhering to the founding principles without deviation. These grand notions of selflessness and integrity had been inculcated into every Jerhia boy and girl from the first moment they were old enough to comprehend the concepts...and yet now, when they were required the most, they were nowhere in evidence...relenting to a facile brand of expedience. Even now, as the tempestuous and admittedly flawed creature suffered behind closed doors, where are those who espoused these great principles? Licking their wounds and planning their sly acts of defiance?

Mystified by the appearance of these sudden rebellious thoughts, Arminda was visited by a recollection of how Gillian had last appeared as she watched him depart through the south gate of Othgol. She remembered how he had long been branded a subversive thinker, whose ideas were considered dangerous to the Jerhia creed. Torn by ambivalence, Arminda could suddenly sympathize with the recalcitrant swordsman, whose actions in the plaza had been more in keeping with the concept of virtue than any being displayed by those who presumed to lead now.

Maroc had insisted that she would help define the future of Jerhia...would guide it toward a new sensibility. If that bold prediction was ever to have any credence, it would have to start here and now...at this black juncture. Resolved, Arminda stopped pacing and returned to her guard captain. "The order to permit no entry into this hallway stands. I'm going into Lorio's chamber and no one is to follow...for any reason. If I have not returned by the tolling of the next bell, you may convey news of the situation to the Maxim Tier Marshal."

The Captain arched an eyebrow, but signified his understanding with a brisk nod. Arminda turned on heel and before her new-found resolve could desert her, marched up to the door with no clear notion of what she might do once she crossed the threshold. Her hand hovered briefly over the scrolled handle, steeling herself against what she might find within, and then she entered.

The stench of burnt flesh immediately assailed her nostrils and caused her stomach to roll precariously. The room was steeped in near complete darkness, save for a dimly lit shaft of light that spilled reluctantly through a gap in the heavy drapery.

The totality of the silence in the room was unnerving, but informed Arminda that whatever had transpired here was now done and the nightmare apparition had departed.

Arminda gingerly picked her way over to the window and was about to pull back the heavy drape, when a voice croaked, "Don't...please, no light!"

Arminda paused, her brow furrowing in perplexity. The voice that had issued from the darkness was raw-edged and weak...like the sound one might expect from someone who had endured a prolonged period of severe infirmity...or horrendous abuse.

"Lorio?" she ventured, still unable to reconcile the speaker's weak, hesitant tone with the normally unflappable immortal. "What has happened...is she gone? Allow me to help you...please."

"Yes...she's gone," that scarcely recognizable voice declared and Arminda began to pick her way through the nuanced shadow after opening the drape to allow a muted gray light to dilute the darkness sufficiently to locate the immortal. She found Lorio lying face down beside the large bed, the specifics of her features lost in impenetrable shadow.

"Let me help you, Lorio...what...what did she do to you?" Arminda asked, the lingering stench of burnt flesh causing her to both suspect and dread the answer.

"Help me onto the bed...and then leave me alone. I'll be all right...in time. I beg you; don't let anyone in here to see me like this." The fraught plea wrench Arminda's compassionate heart and she knelt down and groped for Lorio in the dense gloom.

As she grasped the immortal's bare shoulder, Lorio emitted a strident hiss of pain. The flesh beneath Arminda's palm was oily and mottled, causing her to grimace in revulsion. Apologizing, Arminda helped Lorio to stand, startled by how substantial the other woman felt as her weight settled against the diminutive Jerhia. She eased Lorio onto the bed, again wincing at the scalded hiss that escaped the immortal's lips as she settled onto the feather duvet.

Arminda straightened and her first glimpse of Lorio's injuries...mercifully attenuated by the prevailing gloom...caused the Jerhia to whimper and shake her head in horror. The entire length of Lorio naked body was riddled by deep, roughly circular wounds...black and oozing pits where something unimaginably hot had been pressed into tender flesh. Her wide-eyed gaze fell on Lorio's partially obscured face and Arminda burst into convulsive sobs at the sight of the once beautiful countenance that now resembled a mask from a madman's nightmare. She attempted to speak...to offer some meaningful words of commiseration, but all that passed her tightly pursed lips was an inarticulate wail of perfect despair. It was with a monster capable of this degree of savagery that the leaders of the CornerStone nations had made an accommodation...a convenient arrangement that filled her with utter disgust. As she had not been party to the morning's strategy session of those same leaders, Arminda had no way of knowing that they had laid the foundation for Islena's plan to vanquish the monster that had inflicted this unfathomable misery on the immortal. She fell to her knees beside the bed and groped blindly for Lorio's left hand. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. You saved me...again and look what its cost you!"

"I'll heal and other than the memory, there will be no trace of what I've endured here today...the black irony of it all is that she _can't_ kill me, as badly as she wanted to. Only Islena can do that...and I suppose that's the blackest irony of all," Lorio rasped in a voice that quavered from the severity of her suffering. "Please, Arminda...don't let anyone in here...I can't bear to have anyone see me like this. Tell them that the bitch is gone...that's all they'll care about anyway."

"I will!" Arminda vowed fiercely. "No one will step through those doors until you're ready. What you did today, shielding me from Myrhia...it balances all scales between us. From this day forth, you can always count me as a friend."

"Don't be so quick surrender your grievances, Arminda," the immortal cautioned. "You've seen my inner darkness enough to be so easily deceived."

"And I've also seen...been the recipient of your courage and compassion and I won't lose sight of that from this point forth."

Rather than respond, Lorio turned onto her side and curled into a fetal ball, and as Arminda observed her in silence, the immortal was accosted by a series of convulsive tremors that forced the Jerhia to avert her gaze. She rose on unsteady legs and stumbled to the door, determined that she would do everything necessary to afford the piteous immortal the time she required to regain her dignity.

The light click of the door closing was a distant thing on the periphery of Lorio's awareness. In the maelstrom of pain and rapid healing that consumed her, she clung to a single conscious thought, whispered by the very woman who had reduced her to this state of abjection. _'You and I are the only living beings that wish to see Islena live.'_

Alone with her torment, Lorio clung to this mantra like a drowning woman.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

1

Sygeanor did not rise to greet her rag-tag escort as they materialized out of the ruined forest that delineated the back road upon which her freshly purloined cart and its precious cargo now sat. She swept her indecipherable gaze over the faces of the men and women of her contingent. In their filthy, dirt-stained clothing, this rather motley collection conveyed the impression of being a band of brigands, more than a small force of highly skilled warriors.

To nearly a one, each wore an expression of wary incredulity as they surveyed the carnage left behind in the aftermath of her experiment with her newly acquired treasure...a huge swath of flattened trees and tossed boulders that stretched out as far as the eye could see in both directions from the narrow roadway. Only Dendarin, the scout who commanded the Jerhia contingent, did not seem particularly perplexed or leery of the tableau of destruction. Indeed, his gaze was fixed squarely upon hers, his polar blue eyes displaying no discernable hint of reaction or emotion in the face of such incredible carnage. His regard slid to hers and even she could scarcely detect the odd intimation of _disassociation_ that capered at the edges of his regard...a consequence of the seed that she had implanted in his subconscious not long after parting ways with Maroc and the other plaintive, bleating sheep.

' _Did you genuinely not believe that I would not discern the shape of your calumny, you traitorous swine?'_ Sygeanor inquired of the absent Jerhia Maxim Tier Marshal. _'Did you think me such a credulous imbecile that I would not suspect that your cadre of trained dogs was accompanying me with a hidden agenda...a craven knife poised at my back? They will learn...to their own eternal detriment...that you are woefully ill-equipped to cross minds with me in a game of subterfuge.'_

Dendarin's eyes widened slightly and she acknowledged him with a slight nod, recalling how easy it had been to usurp control of his tightly disciplined mind and bend him to her will. She had sown the seeds of her purpose in the fertile soil of his rigid mind and now he was firmly in her grasp...an exceedingly skilled, pleasingly pretty creature who served her purpose and her more intimate needs with a surprising degree of subtlety and deftness. _'And thus, the poised knife has set its keen tip on an entirely different target.'_

The repulsive Tormal dismounted his horse and strode over to Sygeanor, gaping askance at the bloody detritus of the horse team...now reduced to pools of maroon muck.

"What has happened here?" he demanded, barely bothering to disguise his belligerence...a posture that grated increasingly on Sygeanor's already thin patience.

"As predicted, this collection of mercenary scum was transporting an invaluable cargo, which they refused to relinquish," Sygeanor responded, her thin lips twisted into a disdainful sneer. "They left me with little alternative but to demonstrate the error of their ways...in brutally emphatic terms."

Tormal shook his head in disgust and swept his right arm across the eastern expanse of ruined landscape. "And this?"

Sygeanor glared at the cantankerous Emercian unblinkingly for a long moment and then gracefully dismounted the wagon, coming to stand before the lanky cavalry officer, who regarded her with an expression that was apprehensive despite all of his defiant posturing. She made the spontaneous decision that now might be the appropriate time to bring this fiasco of an expedition to an end and reached out to Dendarin along their silent communication tether.

The Jerhia scout felt a whisper of undeniable imperative draw across the fabric of his consciousness like satin being slowly drawn across bare flesh...irresistible and ineffably pleasant. In response, he drifted closer to the pair as the precise shape of her plan played itself out in the pliable recesses of his mind. The half-Ulgak deliberately maneuvered around Tormal in a half-circle that forced the Emercian to pivot in place to keep her in front of him and left her with her back seemingly exposed to the slowly approaching members of Maroc's assassination contingent.

Affecting a jovial tone, Sygeanor declared grandly, "This, my defector friend, is the culmination of everything that we have been searching for...an abundant supply of clay that has fallen into our hands as if ordained by fate itself. I must confess that, in my enthusiasm, I couldn't resist the temptation to indulge in a bit of experimentation while I awaited your arrival. What you see around you is the inarguably spectacular result of that experiment."

"Basically, you slaughtered seven men for boxes of clay," Tormal observed with a disdainful wag of his head. His glance shifted to the oily tarp and the vague outline of the cargo it protected. "Will this quantity suffice, and allow us to end this mad venture and return to Metocan?"

Sygeanor shook her head and sighed, "You really are an excruciatingly tedious bore. Do you honestly believe that we should, in all good conscience, turn away from the opportunity to deny Myrhia access to her stockpile of clay? Was this not the purpose of this hastily conceived expedition in the first place...to choke off her supply of raw material for her Morticants? What will we actually have achieved, should we turn away now...leaving her in possession of what is surely a massive reserve of this Redian clay? Are you truly capable of such an act of cowardice?"

Tormal stiffened beneath this barrage of denigrating questions, but refused to be dissuaded, "It's time that you tell us precisely what you intend to do...should we be so astoundingly fortunate to reach Nalosan alive?"

Sygeanor tilted her head slightly and frowned as if puzzled. "It seems to me that you are under the false impression that this is a democracy and that you are entitled to explanations...well, let me disabuse you of that notion. You are here to serve my purpose and nothing more...you are owed no more of an explanation than the sword you carry, because like it...you are a tool. Just this once, I will make an exception and apprise this group of what I envision happening when we reach Nalosan. We will locate the storage facility or facilities where this Redia Clay is being kept. We will take what we can...and then I will destroy the rest."

The color drained from Tormal's face as a profound and tense silence descended upon the roadway, while the members of her escort cadre struggled to digest the ramifications of what this seemingly insane zealot had just proposed. Shaking his head in mortified incredulity, the Emercian stuttered, "Do honestly believe that we will be able to penetrate Myrhia's cordon of Morticants and locate these storage facilities?"

Sygeanor offered the flabbergasted Emercian a twisted grin. "And now you grasp the reason I insisted you retain your Emercian uniforms. We will enter Nalosan unopposed...a contingent of Emercian soldiers leading their prisoners, a group of Jerhia infiltrators, back to the Capital for a very public execution. It's a rather brilliant ruse...all false modesty aside."

"And if Myrhia has decided to sequester her stockpile close to the city of Nalosan...what then...will you simply destroy it as you did the mine in Redia?" Tormal demanded angrily, his gaze sliding briefly to a point over her shoulder where she _knew_ Dendarin had taken up position.

"To the best of my knowledge, Emercia is still the enemy and frankly, I have very little concern with what becomes of its primary nest of vipers. When you betrayed your mistress, you made the decision to align yourself with the coalition...and though you're obviously a man of _fluid loyalties,_ it would be in your best interest to decide exactly where your loyalties lie now."

Tormal glared and intoned, "I have served evil...lived in its shadow. Standing here before you, it occurs to me that you really are no different from the enchantress...except, while her evil was defined by ruthless logic, you are merely deranged."

Again, his glance shifted briefly to the Jerhia scout, but now he added the slightest hint of a nod...setting in motion what he felt certain would be a bloody and emphatic end to this lunatic excursion into darkness well before it reached fruition.

Sygeanor discerned a slight whisper of movement and knew that her would-be assassins had drawn their short swords and were creeping closer. She beamed a predatory grin at the Emercian and in the next instant, he found himself thrust back against the edge of the wagon with enough force to snap his spine...which cleaved with a sickening crunch that evoked a satisfied grin from the half-Ulgak, who rasped, "That was only fitting...given that I'm deranged."

Behind her, Dendarin raised his weapon...as did his two accomplices...but swiftly spun and buried his dirk in the throat of the Jerhia to his left...a lean female scout who gurgled a cry of shock even as her knees folded and she collapsed onto her face. The scout to Dendarin's left was immobilized by the absurdity of what he had just witnessed and shifted his gaping regard from the still twitching body of his fallen comrade to the man who had committed such a heinous act of treachery. The momentary lapse proved fatal as Dendarin executed another tight pivot and drove his short sword underneath the man's sternum, withdrawing the bloody weapon in one fluid movement and watching him fall with a strange expression of detachment emblazoning his handsome face.

For a frozen moment of perfect horror, not a single word was uttered...not a muscle moved and then someone bellowed a cry of outrage and the moment came alive with the momentum of total chaos. The enthralled Jerhia surged forward and hurled his dirk at a mounted Emercian who had leveled his crossbow at Sygeanor. With uncanny precision, the weapon buried itself in the trooper's eye before his finger could depress the crossbow's trigger and he tumbled from his horse in a fine spray of blood, his shrill cry impossibly loud in the afternoon air.

He had no sooner hit the ground than the agile Dendarin flung himself into the nearest cluster of Emercians, efficiently dispensing death in a whirling dervish that swiftly littered the forest floor with bodies. After their initial shock, several of the Jerhia...always unflappable and quick to adapt to ever-shifting battlefield conditions...formed ranks and converging upon their leader. Dendarin had cleanly hacked off the head of a kneeling Emercian cavalryman, when a diminutive Jerhia dropped to her right knee and centered a crossbow bolt on his back.

While her living automaton dispensed death in a spinning gyre of steel and blood, Sygeanor quickly swept her gaze over the chaotic battlefield and reached the swift and spontaneous decision that only she and her pliable new pet would leave this deserted cart path alive. Weaving two distinct swirls of telekinetic energy...one subtle and the other immensely powerful and crude...Sygeanor simultaneously lifted Dendarin out of the cluster of struggling Emercians and deposited the Jerhia on the opposite side of the heavy cart. As she set him down, the half-Ulgak accosted him with a mild bolt of arcane energy that sent him tumbling into unconsciousness. He pitched onto his face in the tangle of branches, fortunate to narrowly avoid being impaled by a protruding branch.

Even as she executed this deft maneuver, Sygeanor demonstrated her incredible telekinetic control by unleashing a rolling wave of raw energy that gathered up the remainder of her escort cadre and sent them spinning and tumbling like dried leaves in a fall gale. Many were dashed on protruding boulders, while others were impaled on jagged tree stumps...still oozing sap from Sygeanor's earlier rampage.

The open expanse came alive with piteous cries of agony, both human and animal alike. Those who had not sustained mortal wounds, struggled to regain their feet, but Sygeanor obliterated them in a burst of blood, viscera and bone shards...very much as she had done to the unfortunate monks at Dornsark Abbey.

She then moved out amongst the wounded and dispatched them with the casual indifference of one who sees the things beneath her fist as nothing more than impediments to be crushed into dust.

In the span of mere moments, sixty-five men and women had been effaced from the world by a woman who was devoid of all compassion or humanity, but who harbored the delusion that she was an instrument of perverse justice.

When the last of the wounded had been dispatched, an eerie silence descended upon the open expanse of blood-spattered forest, Sygeanor inhaled deeply and stood surveying the aftermath of her great purge. There was an intoxicating aspect to the heavy smell of freshly-spilled blood that the half-Ulgak found most invigorating...like a clarifying lens through which her machinations could now be focused.

It would have been convenient to have retained her contingent of Emercian scum for a while longer...a means to the end of gaining access to Nalosan and determining the exact nature of the stupendous change in the political landscape that was seemingly sweeping across the continent. Still, Tormal had become an insufferable impediment and it had been an exquisite pleasure to see him to his end.

' _A great leader is one with the capacity to adapt to rapid change...and to turn ill-fortune to advantage in short order,'_ Sygeanor thought with a sly smile. ' _It is my intention to engender the very definition of a great leader...and so I will adapt and move forward.'_

Ignoring the human wreckage at her feet, Sygeanor stalked across the field and found Dendarin lying face down on the forest floor. She tilted her head slightly and considered the lithe form of the Jerhia she had mesmerized. The day would inevitably come when he, too, would have to be sacrificed to expedience...no one could ever know exactly what had transpired here today...and she would view his ultimate sacrifice with a measure of acute regret. Still, willingness to make difficult sacrifices was yet another aspect of a great leader and so she would do what was required when the moment came. _'Still, pretty man...I will see you to a gentle end...perhaps even while we're coupling...one moment of pain and then eternal sleep in return for your devotion.'_

She waved her small right hand and the Jerhia was slowly lifted into the air and stood upright. She came to stand directly before him and lacing the gloved fingers of her left hand into the thick blond hair at the nape of his neck, tenderly kissed his slack lips. She disseminated a small flicker of arcane energy and his blue eyes snapped open like broken shades. There was a moment of extreme disorientation as the stalwart Jerhia fought against his enthrallment, but then Sygeanor's shackle exerted itself and he surrendered to her kiss with a soft sigh.

After a moment, she stepped back and patted his cheek affectionately. "Come Sergeant, let us see if we can round up four horses and be on our way. Travel should be far less cumbersome...now that we've rolled the millstones from our shoulders."

The pair spent the next bell rounding up the few remaining horse that had survived Sygeanor's bloody purge. She selected the stoutest beasts to haul the wagon and two others to serve as alternates, when the heartier beasts required a rest. Then, with Dendarin at the reins and her on one of the horses, they resumed their journey south.

As they traveled along the jarring cart path, Sygeanor began to assemble the formative details of a new course of action. Her first priority was establishing exactly what had inspired the withdrawal of the Morticants and the Emercian army from Fairmarch. She would try to glean what details she could from the populous...or more precisely, Dendarin would on her behalf. An Ulgak...even a half-Ulgak...would attract far too much unwanted attention and so the Jerhia would serve as her agent in gathering information. Once they reached the next town, they would take a room at an inn and she would reach out to the puppets in Othgol to see if they might provide some additional insight as to the rapidly shifting situation.

Once she determined exactly how the climate had shifted, Sygeanor came to the spontaneous decision that she and her _agent_ would make their way to Dizar Kor and determine if there was some method by which she could be surreptitiously smuggled into Nalosan...along with a sufficient quantity of her current cargo to see Myrhia's bastion reduced to rubble. She stole a furtive glance at Dendarin and thought wistfully, _'I'm afraid that is where you and I must part ways...my pretty toy...but that will still afford me a span of nights to enjoy that delectable body of yours.'_

The image made her smile in anticipation of the coming of nightfall.

2

Islena had fallen into a fitful doze atop the battered body of the absent enchantress, her unguent smeared face nestled into the crook of Myrhia's neck and her cloak draped over the pair like a shroud. Kevlan retreated into the shadows and watched the pair with mounting agitation, dreading the moment that the Emercian Queen would return to the confines of her own body, only to find that it had been brutally abused by the terrifying creature she was attempting to bring to heel. Gifted with his race's heightened acuity...which he sometime privately regarded as a curse...the Metocan could feel the quiescent madness radiating from the unmoving Islena like palpable heat.

What he had witnessed in this accursed pavilion had thoroughly shattered his equilibrium and left him feeling dizzying and disoriented in the face of the new and terrible realities that this world must now face. Its greatest enemy might now be its only hope of salvation and the one of prophecy might prove to be the world's greatest scourge...a veritable engine of extinction. The notion was so profoundly disturbing and dumbfounding that the mild-mannered Metocan wanted to flee before it or seek some requiem where he would remain blithely oblivious to such madness...even as it descended upon him with talons extended.

' _Denial is a shallow and temporary comfort and will do nothing to attenuate the enormity of our peril,'_ the voice of irascible Mascius scolded and Kevlan sighed, knowing that there was naught to be done but accept the burden of witness that had been imposed upon him. He tried to envision a future in which this particular salient reality would spawn a life worth living and found that he could not. Nothing could survive, much less flourish, under the penumbra of a triumvirate of evil represented by Myrhia, a possessed Islena and mad Sygeanor...the shadow these three would ultimately cast would be too impenetrable for anything of value to thrive. He was grappling with these dismal musings when Islena was suddenly picked up and flung across the room like a sack of wheat chaff. She landed with a muffled thud and a guttural groan...a small wooden table disintegrating beneath her substantial weight.

A keening shriek, fraught with argent agony, tore through the pavilion as Myrhia returned to her body and the intense deluge of pain that awaited her within its confines. Kevlan watched in transfixed silence as the diminutive enchantress sat up and clutched the side of her badly distended face. Her jaw had swollen to a fist-sized lump of bruised flesh that had reduced her eye to a slit. A strident hiss of pain escaped her distorted lips and Kevlan experienced a momentary surge of petulant joy, correctly suspect that this abhorrent monster had seldom...if ever...tasted an instant of genuine suffering.

That joy quickly dissipated as a trio of Morticants surged into the pavilion...evidently in search of someone upon who to vent Myrhia's fury. They converged upon a dazed Islena, but Myrhia raised a badly trembling hand and redirected them toward a horrified Kevlan, who shook his head in a protest of innocence. He attempted to scramble away from the nearest abomination, but despite his mass, the creature was deceptively swift and snared his arms and lifted him from his feet the way a mother might scoop up an errant toddler.

The madness escalated another notch when the Dragonsword leapt from the shadows and streaked into Islena's outstretched palm. She shrugged off her cloak and brandished the weapon in the direction of the three Morticants. Naked and coated in unguent, the wild-eyed Doraux resembled a battle-frenzied savage queen...the impression augmented by the scrolling wash of vermillion light that bled from the rubies of the Jerhia Icon.

"Leave him be! I did this to you," she growled and took a menacing step toward the monstrosities.

Kevlan's heart clenched painfully in his narrow chest, fearing that the moment would degenerate into another ugly incident of swift and savage violence...of which he would most likely be the victim.

"Islena, don't do anything provocative...please!" Kevlan begged.

A garbled hiss issued from the enchantress, who covered her face in both hands and collapsed onto her back, writhing in obvious agony. Islena regarded her tormentor's plight with a malevolent grin twisting her macabre features. Unexpectedly, she drove the tip of the Dragonsword into the carpet and backed away from the weapon, holding her hands aloft in a gesture of placation. Eyes never leaving the trio of Morticants, she began to back slowly in the direction of the enchantress. "Don't worry puppets...I won't do anything more to hurt her. She _is_ my mother after all."

There was an unfathomable nuance couched in that last statement that caused Kevlan to grimace. The dynamic that existed between these two mercurial women was so convoluted...so thoroughly intertwined...that it was impossible to qualify in any meaningful terms. Beneath the avarice and mutual loathing, there dwelt a desperate reciprocal _need_ that was not easy to define and in this entanglement, Kevlan saw the potential for both salvation...and absolute obliteration, depending on the way in which their relationship evolved.

When it became evident that the Morticants had been appeased by her gesture of surrendering the Icon and would not harm Kevlan, Islena turned her attention to Myrhia, who writhed and clutched her face. Her scaled boots beat a spastic, muffled tattoo on the carpet and her body seemed to twist like writhing mass of snakes. Islena came to stand over the suffering enchantress and as she peered down upon her from over the ridges of her imperious cheekbones, Islena experienced an orgasm-like surge of pure ecstasy at the sight of the delicious agony she had inflicted on her eternal adversary. She could feel the iron fibers in her muscular thighs quake with its intensity and it was all she could do to stay upright.

' _You could stomp her face into an oozing pulp before her abominations could even react and her sway over you would be broken,'_ the shadow incarnation advised. _'Then...ours would be an unencumbered road to ascension...to deification. Oh, the majestic creature you would become, Islena!'_

She could feel her body trembling beneath the incarnation's blackly seductive exhortations...the impulse to comply affecting her like the most powerful of intoxicants. She drew a deep, tremulous breath and fell to her knees beside the enchantress. "Heal yourself mother and hear my plea of contrition...this display of weakness is...unseemly."

Myrhia fetched another shrill cry and then stiffened as muted golden effulgence coalesced around her fingers, twining in and out from between the small digits like a diaphanous serpent. Islena sat back on her haunches and watched in fascination as the healing sorcery quickly effaced the damage she'd inflicted...knitting bones and reversing the massive swelling that had turned Myrhia beautiful countenance into something grotesque. Finally, the enchantress allowed her slender arms to fall to the sides and simply stared up into the ebbing shadow of her pavilion's heavy canvas ceiling. Her eyes appeared unfocused and dull, and her skin was pallid...lingering signs of the toll Islena's punishment had extracted.

' _How does it feel to be the victim, mother?'_ Islena thought contemptuously, but then recalled the salient truth of this creature's fate and understood that she was perhaps more intimately familiar with suffering than any being who had ever lived and that contempt curdled in her thoughts. Wanting to bring this perverse festival of sadomasochism to an end, Islena gently laid her head on Myrhia's flat abdomen and groping for the enchantress' small right hand, placed it on the nape of her neck in the hopes that this gesture of submission would mollify Myrhia's rage.

She could feel the traumatic aftershocks radiating from Myrhia's delicate core, conveyed through her cheek in a series of tremors. Gradually, they subsided and Myrhia began to gently stroke Islena's hair. "Why...why did you attack me? Did the gelding divulge my vulnerability?"

Islena lifted her head and took Myrhia's hand in her own. "He did not." Then her tone grew rife with recrimination. " _You_ left me alone...abandoned me with the demon that hides in my mind...knowing full well that its seductive whisper is one that I struggle incessantly to resist. Why? You're so swift to mete out punishment for my weaknesses of the flesh and yet by ignoring my true weakness...you came perilously close to undoing us both."

Myrhia's brow furrowed in the face of Islena's heated criticism and accusatory glare and in those smoldering green eyes, made oddly garish by the mask of unguent from which they shone, she recognized the validity of her condemnation. "My mantle of infallibility cracks in your presence, daughter...it always has, but never more so than now...when I discern the truth of your nature."

"Why did you leave me...leave us both so vulnerable?" Islena demanded with a hint of desperate entreaty behind her truculence.

Myrhia sighed elaborately and sat up, still caressing her again flawless jaw and cheek. "It seems that I'm cursed to administer an endless procession of object lessons to those who stubbornly refuse to learn. When the Othgol cabal of fools decided to interfere, it became necessary to administer another such lesson and I did because perceived hesitation or weakness only invites greater temerity...that is the nature of tyranny, daughter."

"Why...quite obviously, you have them cowed...why belabor the point with needless cruelty. If you must, then take it out on me!" Islena intoned pointedly.

Myrhia wagged a delicate finger. "Not completely cowed. Their meddling in your _education_ could well have left you dead and so it became necessary to make it explicitly clear that I would brook no further interference."

"What have you done?" Islena heard herself demand gruffly, recalling the glorious vision of Lorio that had come to her at the nadir of her misery...freeing her from Myrhia's chains.

"Punished those who had the audacity to overstep their boundaries...some mortally so, but don't fret, Islena. Your plaything sundered your chains, but as a gesture of goodwill, I inflicted no lasting harm upon her...only sharp reminder of the price that accompanies defiance," Myrhia disclosed and then added with a coy half-smile, "It might come as a surprise that only _you_ can permanently extinguish her life force...she is, after all, your creation."

"If you have harmed her, I swear..."

Myrhia waved a hand in impatient dismissal, "You have my word, given on the honor of the bond that I would build between us, that I have done nothing more than make her see the error of her actions...in the hopes that she will refrain from taking impetuous and potentially disastrous actions in the future. As a token of benevolence, I have given her to you to do with what you will...but you _must_ bring her to heel!"

Islena's expression darkened and between clenched jaws, she returned, "I'll see that she causes you no further problems...and you, in turn, will not lay a hand on her again...spectral or otherwise."

Myrhia bristled, but conveyed her accent with a tight nod. She then shifted her gaze to her trio of Morticants, who released a grateful Kevlan and quickly filed from the pavilion where a deadly cold had descended upon the world beyond the canvas walls. "Now daughter...there is still the matter of your expression of contrition if we are to put this sorry episode behind us and begin anew..."

The enchantress attempted to rise to her feet, but tottered precariously. Only Islena's steadying hand prevented her from sprawling onto her face. With a grimace of consternation, she allowed Islena to rise and guide her to a nearby bench. She then fell to her knees before a pallid enchantress and bowed her head, declaring flatly, "I'm genuinely sorry for what passed between Artumas..."

"My husband!" Myrhia interjected curtly.

"Between your husband and I in Othgol. It was malicious and won't happen again," Islena concluded meekly.

Myrhia smiled, evidently mollified by Islena promise, but the irrepressibly defiant aspect of Doraux's fiery nature would not be so easily repressed. She swiftly reached for Myrhia's delicate right wrist, snagging it in a powerful grip that caused the enchantress to wince and glare at Islena uncertainly. With a wry grin playing at her cracked lips, Doraux intoned, "And will you offer me the same apology, mother...will you express your regret for bedding _my_ husband?"

Myrhia scowled severely, shaking her head in incredulity. "You are an impertinent creature, daughter."

"I am," Islena agreed blithely. "Or perhaps I have just come to the realization that our relationship must be conducted on an equal footing...which, when you consider what I am destined to become, would be of immense advantage to you."

Myrhia bent forward until their faces were mere inches apart and a moment of intense empathy passed between the two eternal adversaries, and then Myrhia snarled, "I will say without equivocation, that I regret the day that I allowed your inconsequential slug of a husband to slide into my shrine. Will that suffice...daughter?"

Islena offered the enchantress an irreverent grin and quipped, "I do believe it will...considering that I feel precisely the same." Her tone then became sober, all mock levity vanishing from her voice as she again gripped Myrhia's slender wrist and vowed adamantly, "From this day forth, I pledge my fealty to you and promise to submit to your guidance...and your discipline...providing that it is given in the spirit of furthering our mutual purpose. I will be the hammer of your will and your sword and shield against those who would do you harm."

Myrhia's lovely eyes became inscrutable and she intoned flatly, "Eloquent words daughter, but I can't help but wonder if they are falsely offered...if perhaps you harbor some clever design behind those deceptively ingenuous eyes of yours..."

Islena shook her head and frowned ruefully, "Will you mock me even now...even after leaving me alone with the demon that would shatter my reason and usurp dominion over my mind? If it is proof of my sincerity that you require, then I'll give it to you...as a demonstration of my devotion."

Myrhia inclined her chin and arched an eyebrow before leaning slightly forward, her expression of contrived disdain giving way to genuine interest. Sensing the direction Islena's gesture of devotion might follow, Kevlan became agitated and cried frantically, "Islena, you mustn't!"

His desperate appeal got no further as Myrhia fixed him with a baleful glare and then gesticulated with her right hand. An invisible current of arcane energy pounced upon the defenseless Metocan and stymied the words on his lips. His eyes bulged in terror and indignation as the enchantress' sorcery gagged and bound him where he stood. She returned her gaze to Islena and smiled invitingly. "You were speaking of a gesture of your commitment?"

Islena deliberately kept her eyes focused on the enchantress, but she could feel the searing intensity of the young Metocan's accusatory gaze on her back and knew that there could be no denying that she what she was about to divulge constituted treason. Still, her first...and indeed her only obligation was to her son, Allan...who was the true victim in this nightmare. "I know who was responsible for the destruction of your mine in Redia...and should I elect to share it with you, would that be sufficient to prove my devotion, Mother?"

Myrhia's head tilted slightly and her expression became grave. "It would."

"Her name is Sygeanor...a half-Ulgak who is apparently gifted with enormous telekinetic power. She destroyed your mine...evidently using the clay seams as some kind of amplifier...if that makes any sense," Islena declared in a frenetic rush. In the confines of her mind, she could hear the strident thunder of a thousand voices condemning her as a traitorous craven...Agraria's voice being the loudest of them all. She ignored their howls of contempt and disdain. Only Guinevere did not add to the din...instead her presence in Islena's mind radiated a silent dismay and disappointment that was somehow far worse.

Myrhia's tone came alive with potential menace, her blistering gaze shifting briefly to the thrashing Metocan. "And it was this gelding who revealed this to you...in the woods?"

"He did," Islena confirmed, "But you will not lift a finger against him, Mother. There is more, but I will only share it if I can extract your word...on this bond you claim to cherish...that no harm will come to Kevlan."

With obvious reluctance, Myrhia agreed...after withering the Metocan with a glare that could excoriate flesh from bone. "What else can you tell me about this _secret weapon_ that has caused me so much consternation?"

Islena inhaled deeply and then recounted the remainder of Kevlan's tale. "There is one last snippet of information to share, but before I do...Kevlan must be removed from earshot."

Myrhia gazed at Islena askance, but soon after, a Morticant entered the pavilion and unceremoniously tossed the bound Metocan over its shoulder. As the hulking creature left the pavilion a rush of frigid wind blew through the flaps causing Islena to shiver.

The voice of augury chimed in her mind then...fatalistic and judgmental. _'What you are about to impart here with have consequences that will resonate across this beleaguered world...long after you have departed.'_

' _I have no allegiance to this place...to anything here...except for Allan,'_ she retorted belligerently, though Lorio's image rippled briefly through her thoughts.

Thus undeterred by scruples, Islena fixed her regard squarely upon a clearly intrigued Myrhia and divulged the last link in her treasonous chain. "When the party returned to Metocan, Sygeanor remained behind, along with a contingent of Jerhia and Metocan. Apparently, it is Sygeanor's intention to strike out for Nalosan...to find and destroy your stockpiles of this clay."

Myrhia absorbed this in thoughtful silence, but after a protracted moment, she burst into a gale of laughter as if she found the entire notion uproariously funny. Islena regarded her quizzically and snapped, "I'm not sure I see what's so amusing about this. There is a fear that her intention lies more in leveling the city of Nalosan than it does in actually finding a way to purloin the clay."

Myrhia shook her head, her limpid eyes alight with a mirthful twinkle that added an impish aspect to her appearance. "My repository...or more correctly, _repositories,_ of clay are spread all around the city of Nalosan...stored in heavily fortified silos that are protected by contingents of Morticants arrayed in concentric rings. Even if this audacious bitch was able to slip into Emercia...which has been sealed to await my return...she would not come within a league of the silos. Still, this irksome nuisance is something to be dealt with and I shall heighten the vigilance of my Morticants. Should this insect actually conjure the courage to attempt her mad scheme, she will discover the consequences of crossing purposes with me. You have done well, Islena and I believe we can put this unfortunate incident behind us and move forward with a renewed sense of commitment. This Tabula Rasa I spoke of in Otaru Ree's wastelands, let us embrace it with renewed conviction."

To Myrhia's surprise, Islena gripped her slender wrists with enough force to cause the enchantress to hiss in discomfort. "You're presumption on my goodwill grows vexing, Islena."

Islena was suddenly assailed by a jolt of electricity that hurled her back across the pavilion. She landed in a tangle of limbs not far from the entrance, where she lay panting like an injured beast. Myrhia stalked across the carpet and when it seemed like the thin veneer of civility that existed between the pair would finally vanish and the long-festering acrimony would explode, she reached down and extended a hand to the glowering Doraux. Softly, with a stunningly pleading edge to her voice that bespoke a tremendous weariness, she murmured, "Enough, Islena...let's stop this adversarial posturing and set aside our age-old animosities. I sense something is troubling you about this mad woman's intention and I would hear your misgivings."

Islena eyed the diminutive woman suspiciously, but finally relented and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. "Where are you keeping Allan?"

Myrhia drew in her cheeks in a gesture of vexation that was no less fetching for its potential menace. "Your son is in a place where nothing in this world can pose a threat to his wellbeing. I have told you that I have soul forged with the boy. Do you think me so obtuse that I would take a cavalier posture in keeping him safe from harm?"

Islena considered this for a moment and then shook her head. Other than her earlier miscue in not warding herself, Myrhia was vigilant in insuring that she was never vulnerable. Myrhia offered Islena a radiant grin and bestowed a kiss on her cheek. "If it will assuage your concern, I will dispatch teams of Morticants into Fairmarch to search for and obliterate this Sygeanor. I can personally attest that she does possess a considerable level of puissance and I would not have her disrupt my delicately laid plans as they are about to reach fruition."

Islena could not entirely conceal her relief, recalling how profoundly unsettled Kevlan had been when describing the extent of both this Sygeanor's power and her lunacy. Shocked that she would feel the need to express gratitude to the creature standing before her, Islena nonetheless revealed, "There is another matter that should please you...Mother. My affinity for the Metocan Icon has...activated. It is calling out to me like a siren song and if I close my eyes, I can see its light burning on the periphery of my vision...like a compass."

Myrhia's brow furrowed and she admitted, "I am unfamiliar with that term."

Islena blinked, but took several moments to explain the rudimentary concept. Again, the enchantress smiled indulgently and even clapped her hands in delight. "Then it seems that this diversion was doubly worthwhile. The day is mostly lost to us and I would have you recuperate from your ordeal. As you have been forthright with me, I will reciprocate because as you astutely observed...you and I will go forward as eventual equals. Until the day of your conflict with the Lamish whore on the plaza, I subscribed zealously to the belief that I was an implacable engine of conquest...in perpetual search for dominion. I was certain that this was my fated purpose, ingrained in the fabric of what passed for my soul."

"You no longer believe this?" Islena inquired, her skepticism readily apparent.

Myrhia grin became ethereal and she shook her head as if she'd been enthralled by a vision only she could see. "No. When I felt the shocking strength of the virulence that hovers over your soul...grappled with a minute fragment of its essence as I fought to save your Lamish toy...I was invested with a _new_ purpose. I would devote my every waking hour...the sum total of my nearly limitless gifts...to insuring that it never usurped dominion over your mind. You see, Islena...after an eternity of wallowing in the most ignoble filth...the scales have been torn from my eyes...and I have been...redeemed!"

It required every ounce of Islena's marginal discipline not to burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. Instead, she merely pursed her lips and remarked, "You're saying that your intentions are now...benevolent? After what you've done to me...to Kevlan and probably to the victims of your excursion to Othgol, I would say that you might want to revisit your methodology."

Myrhia stiffened, but did not rise to the provocation. "Your skepticism is understandable, but in time you will see that I have embraced this purpose of seeing you to your fated station...of seeing you rise to become the goddess you were always intended to be. Together we will contrive a way to exorcise this shadow incarnation and then you can assume your place in the hierarchy of deities with a clarity of focus. I will be there to serve as you see fit and if it is your desire to spend an eternity engaged in acts of contrition for all of the misery we have sown over the many incarnations we have lived...then I will labor unflaggingly to see your vision made reality."

Now Islena's expression of sardonic amusement became one of astounded incredulity and she blurted, "You are telling me that you will _serve me_ ...in the capacity of what...my adviser? Seriously?"

Myrhia's lovely visage was a portrait of pristine sincerity when she replied, "Without equivocation, I am vowing that...once this foul presence has been cleansed from your mind and you have ascended...I will be _your creature_ ...biddable in any way that you would have me. Thinking of me as a mother who would stand at her accomplished daughter's shoulder and offer what guidance she can. That is the purpose I have come to glean and it is one to which I will readily submit."

Islena shook her head, trying and failing to visualize Myrhia serving in a deferential capacity to anyone. She searched Myrhia's face but found that she was confronted only by an inscrutable mask that would reveal nothing of what might dwell beneath. She arched a tapered eyebrow and observed, "I take it that...until those conditions have been satisfied...you will treat me very much as you have since the day I knelt before you on the sands of the great western sea."

Myrhia's answering smile was thin and devoid of humor. "For your own good, yes. As demonstrated by your violent outburst here today, your control over the entity is tenuous at best...and like your tempestuous Lamish whore, this volatile demon must be brought to heel. You have my every assurance that I will be vigilant in seeing that it does not take possession of your soul, Islena."

"I wonder if I actually have such a thing," Islena mused dismally and then her demeanor hardened and she rasped, "I expect you to protect my son from this mad woman. I find your claim of redemption incredibly difficult to swallow, but it seems that you and I are inextricably linked until this nightmare reaches an end and so I will keep an open mind. Considering our bloody-drenched history of animosity, it couldn't be any more astonishing than finding ourselves in circumstances where we are mutually dependent on each other. Yet that is precisely where we are."

Myrhia gripped Islena's right forearm, squeezing it for emphasis. "Your path forward would be infinitely easier if you would simply embrace this...apotheosis to which you are destined to undergo. I suspect that you cling to the sad delusion that the day may come when you can return to the mundane existence you suffered through in your old world. I can tell you with absolute certainty that the life you lived is lost to you. The reprobate you took for a husband has moved on, Islena. He envisions a life in which his son is returned to him...but not you."

Islena's face crumpled with the incisive pain of Myrhia's remark and then hardened into a contentious glare.

Myrhia shook her head sorrowfully. "My bluntness is not motivated by spiteful cruelty, but the desire to divest you of ultimately destructive delusions that you can regain what was lost...sink back into the waters of mediocrity. When you have ascended...all of these trivialities will be reduced to meaninglessness. Your children...the particulars of the life you once led...these things will be reduced utter irrelevance...as difficult as may be to internalize. When that moment inevitably comes, you have my solemn oath that I will return Allan to his father's keeping."

Despite her desire to show no weakness in the face of this dreadful creature, to whose latest profession of benevolence she lent absolutely no credence, Islena grimaced at the thought of permanently losing her sons. Ben had already slipped from her circle of loved ones...the festering sense of betrayal and shame far too profound to ever be reparable, but to lose Donald and Allan was an eventuality she doubted she could survive. Seeing little to be gained by engaging in a protracted debate with the enchantress and wishing only to resume the trek toward the next Icon, Islena nodded briskly and even managed a wan smile. "Very well then, Mother...it seems we've reached a new accord."

She startled Myrhia by drawing the diminutive woman into a tight embrace and whispering in her ear. "To our Tabula Rasa...pray, mother, than I will be far kinder to you from my future position of strength...than you have been to me."

She then stepped back, privately gratified to see the extent to which her remark had unsettled the enchantress. Myrhia drew a tremulous breath and intoned, "I will have the Morticants fetch our copper tub and prepare a bath so that you might clean away this unguent...its odor is cloying. Then the gelding can prepare our dinner and you may rest here with me until morning. Now that you have established an empathic connection with the icon, we may move with greater haste. I'm anxious to consign this cesspit of a world to memory."

Islena shifted her uncertain gaze to her coated flesh and inquired, "Do I not require this unguent to heal the damage from the frostbite."

Myrhia grinned coldly and revealed, "The moment the unguent touched the affected areas it completely reversed the cold's bite."

Islena wagged her head in bewilderment inspiring another spate of derisive laughter from the enchantress. "The protracted process of applying the unguent to your pliable and very naked flesh...every visible inch...was another facet of your education. Consider it a final test of your resolve against the wanton tendencies of your flesh and of the Metocan's cowardice." Here she paused and placed a contemplative finger to her full lower lip in an oddly child-like gesture. "Perhaps, he simply saw the prudence in what I had put forward to him...who can say? I have yet to divine that one's nature, but I know that he is composed of sterner stuff than he first appears. You resisted the urge to succumb to the wanton in your soul...and in the most intimate of situations. If you can learn to control the atavistic urges of your nature, Islena...learn to gain a rigid mastery over your emotions and impulses...it will make ejecting this shadow incarnation all the easier."

At that precise moment, Islena was suffused by the nearly irrepressible urge to wrap her powerful fingers around the enchantress' slender neck and squeeze until the bitch's eyeballs extruded, but her face remained an impassive mask and she nodded acceptingly.

' _Which is precisely the point these object lessons are intended to demonstrate; set aside the primal emotional response and keep your gaze fixed squarely on the longer goal,'_ Islena realized.

' _Yes, and when the bitch has been turned to cold stone...alive but eternally unmoving...you can spit in her face and remind her of this moment,'_ the shadow incarnation crooned euphorically.

Wondering if it was possible to maneuver through this minefield she had laid and survive with her reason intact, Islena fetched a deep sigh and turned away from the complex creature to whom she had become bound. In her mind's eye, brilliant argent light ebbed and flared on the periphery of her awareness...like a lantern viewed through the swirling curtain of a blizzard.

3

Artumas found Inos in the Hall of Consigned Spirits...a vast repository of architectural splendor composed of sprawling expanses, fluted columns and red and gold marble floors. Despite its beauty, there was something about this great hall that struck the Emercian as austere and sorrowful. Considering the purpose for which it had been erected to serve, he supposed that this evoked emotional response was somehow appropriate. The structure was divided into several circular chambers, all arrayed around a vast central hall that was reserved for ceremonies involving Metocan's governing members...an honor extended to those who had a hand in forging the direction and character of the ancient nation of mages and scholars.

The central chamber was nearly deserted as the diffuse gray light slanted through the narrow windows that ringed the soaring dome high above where Artumas now stood. One circular segment had been utilized to erect an ornately appointed dais upon which the person to be consigned would be laid prior to the ritual where friends and family members could come to spend a space of time before the deceased was given to the swirl of arcane energy...a process that was incomprehensible to a man who was leery of all things metaphysical.

With no small degree of reluctance, Artumas started up the central isle, his boots ringing loudly in the vast hollow of the soaring chamber. As he approached the dais upon which Tokizar had been arranged and over whom the Grand Mage now mourned, Artumas had never missed the quiet solitude of his hovel near the Great Western Ocean more. There, unbearable misery and loss were not constant companions. Seeing the rigid posture of the man who was suffering this moment of ineffable loss, Artumas chastised himself for what he perceived as selfishness. If what both Myrhia and Islena claimed was true (and he could still scarcely credit that it was), then there was almost no one less deserving of avoidance than he and in truth, he was obligated by decency to experience every heartache...every unbearable loss as if he was its primary cause.

He mounted the three marble steps and stood next to the Grand Mage, who in his fixation with the woman laying before him, did nothing to acknowledge the Emercian's presence.

Inos' face was twisted into a portrait of such bleak dejection that Artumas found it hard to imagine how a living vessel could contain such despair. Had he ever felt the acute pain of such loss? The voice of the incarnation named Arthur informed him emphatically that he had.

"This is a grim day, old friend?" the aging king observed gravely, noticing how death had bestowed a gentle beauty upon Tokizar that her often fraught nature had denied her in life.

Inos inhaled sharply and shook his head, like a man emerging from a trance to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings that might well be hostile. Distantly, he agreed, "It is and it seems that we must endure a steady diet of such moments in this world that we have wrought."

"Tokizar was a passionate woman...one need only spend a few moments in her company to glean as much. She was unflagging in her devotion to the concept of justice and compassion," Artumas observed. "That she would come to this end is a testimony to how far we've fallen from the light of civility."

Inos nodded distantly and reached out to lay the tip of a long index finger in the hollow of her cheek and in that simple gesture, Artumas discerned a myriad of emotions that traversed the spectrum of human virtue from earnest bewilderment to grief and sorrow and finally, unmistakably...love. "Tokizar was the first amongst us to realize that our _accord_ with Myrhia was an odious thing...inspired by expedience at the expense of the welfare of all we could not see and refused to consider. She adhered to the notion that to live is to have a fundamental obligation to the principles of virtue and decency...and a sense of compassion of which the rest of us conveniently lost sight in the face of our own impending demise."

"As did Islena...who shared Tokizar's conviction that this accord must be undone...even if it meant sacrificing her own life. Your scholar...Mascius...told me that Tokizar moved to impose herself between him and Myrhia without the slightest hesitation, proving that she was a woman of heroic valor," Artumas pointed out, having just spoken to the badly shaken scholar prior to setting out to find Inos.

The pinched expression that dawned on Inos' face was a stark contrast to the bitter-sweet grin that touched his thin lips as he gazed down on his lost comrade. "All things impart some manner of lesson in life...if one is receptive enough to listen. As leaders, we prattle endlessly about the need for sacrifice and courage...for honor and remembrance, and how easily these facile platitudes flow from the lips of those who would presume to lead. Yet, it's only when you stand over the body of a loved one...a son...a daughter...a spouse...and gaze down upon the cold clay that was once a viable and cherished living being, do you genuinely understand what those words actually mean. It's an epiphany I would not wish upon the vilest of miscreants, Artumas."

Artumas could conjure no meaningful response to this raw articulation of grief, but could only shake his head in a pale facsimile of commiseration. Inos withdrew his hand and turned to face the Emercian with eyes that seemed burned hollow by dejection. "The most tragic aspect of all of this...is that I never could muster the courage to tell the woman that I have privately loved for most of my adult life how deeply I cared for her and how comforting her presence was to me. Worse still, I fear that she died believing that I was angry with her and that is like suffering a mortal wound, but being unable to lie down and seek the cold comfort of oblivion." He turned back to Tokizar, a shade of melancholy slipping over his face, and intoned softly, "I would like to spend a bit more time saying a private goodbye to my friend, Artumas...to tell her all of the things in death that I lacked the courage to tell her in life."

Artumas squeezed the Grand Mage's bony shoulder and left him to his grief and farewells.

As he walked back to his quarters, he was astounded by the extent of the deep silence that had descended upon the sprawling labyrinth of audience halls and chambers in the wake of Myrhia's latest demonstration of her seemingly infinite capacity for ruthless tyranny. The Metocan in particular all exuded a vast and terrible aura of despondency and in their wounded expressions, the Emercian king gleaned the extent to which Tokizar was held in high regard. Still, the lingering pall that made the air scarcely breathable could not be attributed to choking grief alone. Even in the eyes of the refugees from Myrhia's juggernaut of dominion, Artumas saw dawning comprehension...the stark and terrible realization that they were utterly vulnerable to the enchantress' every whim or irritation. For the powerful Metocan civilization, this was an especially grim epiphany, but it was no less emasculating for the others who had fled to Othgol in search of sanctuary, perhaps comforted by the false belief that this was the one place that Myrhia's reach could not touch them. If so, events of the last few days had swiftly and savagely disabused them of this foolish notion.

' _This despair is further compounded by the revelation that Islena...our professed savior...may well be cut from a cloth that is far worse...as inconceivable as that may well be,'_ Artumas thought _,_ struggling to keep the dejection that threaten to render him immobile at bay. As he turned into the long corridor that led back to his suite of rooms, nodding at Captain Esuruban and his newly formed personal guard, Artumas was bemused to realize that there was no one in his life for whom he would feel the intensely intimate pain and grief that had shone in Inos' gray eyes. The discordant and shocking thought caused his stride to falter briefly and he shook his head in what might have been self-condemnation. To have lived so long and not have developed the binding attachments that added worth to life struck him as criminally wasteful.

' _The problem with you, Artumas, is that you persist in thinking like you're a normal man...or a man at all,'_ the voice of Myrhia's chided in a tone that blended exasperation with a strange affection. _'Besides, you have me...as much as you're loath to admit it.'_

Again, Artumas shook his head, feeling both weary and intensely isolated, knowing that he could not entirely refute her contention and despising himself for the perplexing fact.

' _Perhaps in this life you have sequestered your heart, but it was not always so. I can tell you that there were innumerable occasions in our long history when you understood Inos' despair...all too well,'_ the voice of his other persona...this tragic king...intoned gravely. The image of a regal, wheaten-haired beauty bloomed in his mind...so rich and vivid in detail that he could feel his heart stutter in his chest. He could feel the other presence in his mind echo his reaction, though in Arthur, the image of Guinevere evoked a storm of conflicting emotions too complex to disentangle.

Artumas entered his chambers and threw himself into a chair, propping his chin on the armrest and staring out through the window, where the pearlescent sky was alive with a fresh swirl of snow. Inos had stated that only when one has stood over the chilling flesh of a loved one does the true gravity of eternal conflict come into sharp focus and seeing the wounded shock in the Grand Mage's eyes, it was difficult to dispute the notion. Despite the relative sterility of his own life, Artumas regarded every soul lost to pointless conflict as an indictment...a failure, the cumulative weight of which would eventually bury him. How often had he stood on battlefields and surveyed the scattered aftermath of bloody carnage with the taste of bitter dejection in his mouth like ash?

' _Too many times to be counted,'_ Arthur informed him woefully. Still, his was an obligation to carry on and however great his sense of despair, it was one upon which he could not renege.

' _Champion of Light,'_ Myrhia's spat in his mind, not bothering to disguise her disdain. It was well near impossible to digest the bewildering notion that he was...the tangible manifestation of a facet of perpetual conflict...a righteous force to counter Myrhia's eternal darkness, but as he considered the chronology of his life, it occurred to him that nothing had ever been able to deter him from moving incessantly toward his vision for _a world of light._ Tomorrow, inevitably, when the dust of this latest calamity had settled, he would resume his lock-stepped march toward the goal of seeing Myrhia's undone.

For the remainder of today and the night to follow, however, Artumas offered a fervent prayer for a respite...a prayer that would ultimately go unanswered.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

1

For Lorio, the intervening hours between Myrhia's departure and the coming of nightfall were a churning vortex of acute agony and a frenetic storm of discordant thoughts and images that were infinitely more unbearable than the pain of the enchantress' assault.

As the enchantress had predicted, the horrifying damage she inflicted upon the immortal reversed itself, but the process was one of ineffable agony as the charred flesh was slowly restored to its former state of perfection. While the tissue healed, newly regenerated nerve endings brayed a constant aria of pristine misery that reduced the courageous immortal to a quivering, whimpering vessel of suffering. She tentatively ran her fingertips over the pitted topography of her ruined face to find that the bloody, oozing holes in her cheeks had miraculously vanished though even the lightest touch elicited a gasp of pain that left Lorio wishing that the enchantress had simply immolated her to a cinder.

' _But she can't, by her own admission...only Islena can do that.'_ The thought germinated in her mind like a rank weed and once it had taken root, it threw open the doors to myriad of considerations that Lorio had no desire to entertain. Myrhia's had disclosed that Lorio was now Islena's creature...an idea that left Lorio reeling with ambivalence. _'Admit it...you've always been someone's creature...except your own. You've always depended on someone to direct the course of your wretched life, so why should this latest revelation come as such a profound shock?'_

After the enchantress had made this disclosure... _something_ had passed between them...something of enormous consequence...though the exact shape of that something eluded her like a teasing wraith in the gloom. It taunted her from the shadows of her sub-conscious, but refused to be pulled into the light no matter how fiercely she fought to compel it to come forth.

She recalled only that Myrhia's, unable to obliterate her, had taken great pleasure in inflicting as much agony on Lorio as she could...disfiguring her in the most appalling fashion...even if the effect was only temporary.

' _But there was something more,'_ an inner voice insisted stridently...distraught and on the raw edge of panic. _'Something passed between the two of you...something conspiratorial.'_ There was an accusatory edge to that voice that made little sense to the immortal. She could imagine no circumstance in which she would interact with the hateful bitch in a way that wasn't violently adversarial. And yet the impression persisted, like an itch that simply refused to be calmed.

Above her pain and the dissonant whine of her turbulent thoughts came a single thought...repeated like an endless mantra...they want to kill Islena. All of them want to see her dead.

Twisting and writhing on the bed as the pain retreated by the tiniest of increments and the dull spill of light through her window began to bleed to darkness; it was this single terrible thought that threatened to break Lorio's frail grip on reason. Every one of them wanted to see Islena dead...as a precautionary measure against the black entity that everyone now claimed resided in the darkest corner of her Doraux's seriously flawed soul. They might claim that this would be a last resort...necessary only if it appeared unavoidable...but Lorio had come to suspect differently (thought Lorio did not think to question what had motivated this sudden skepticism).

Even Artumas, for all of his noble pretensions, wanted Lorio to bury her Zarcyk in Islena's heart and this realization caused her to utter a feral growl of negation even as she thrashed about like a badly wounded animal.

' _They would take from you the one thing you have ever genuinely loved...and when you have done your deplorable deed, they will discard you,'_ the voice of the enchantress whispered slyly. _'You will find yourself alone and unloved...privately mocked by those who have manipulated you into performing their vile deed. Is this the legacy you will write for yourself...the woman who murdered the world's one true hope? Still, only you can decide if you will wield the knife in their service when the moment comes.'_

It was this last thought...offered by the most abhorrent of creatures...that provided Lorio with the wherewithal to endure this hellacious torment. Ultimately, it would be her who would wield the Zarcyk and it would be her who would strike the death blow...or stay her hand and let events run their fated course. This last thought caused her to smile around the constant grimace of pain that twisted her face into a rictus. For once, the volition to act would be hers alone and she would not allow the ruthless expedience of others to guide her hand.

' _Yet even Islena would have you do this deed...would have you deliver what she considers an act of compassion? Will you deny her this last fervent wish?'_ This last discordant thought caused the fledgling smile to wither on her full lips. It was true that it had been Islena who had come to her with this frantic plea for intervention, but even the blindest of fools could see that her plea had been motivated by desperation. Was it not her obligation to lift Islena from the raging waters of her despair and help her persevere? Lorio believed that it was.

' _You and I are the only two living beings that wish to see Islena remain alive.'_ This single thought rose above the cacophonous clamor in her mind like resounding thunder. That it was delivered in the voice of her avowed enemy was both confusing and disturbing and evoked the seemingly immutable certainty that something _significant_ had passed between Lorio and her tormentor in the moments before Myrhia's had set about burning holes in her flesh.

On the heels of this unsettling notion there followed an even more disconcerting whisper, delivered in a sly voice that she did not recognize...one that was sly and disingenuous. _'If these supposed allies are intent on seeing Islena to her end...then perhaps preventive measures are warranted?'_

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Lorio rasped, though the cruel aspect of her nature understood precisely what this strange voice was proposing.

' _Oh, I think you do...just as I believe you know exactly who I am...you've had me inside of you after all.'_ The voice uttered a titter that chilled Lorio's immortal heart and in that instant of terrible clarity...the Lamish immortal understood exactly what was attempting to traduced her. It continued its serpentine seduction, carefully caressing the heart of her apprehension. _'If it's plain speech you prefer, then let me state it simply and emphatically...if Islena's self-proclaimed allies would gleefully see her dead, and perhaps arrange to make it so...then it would be prudent to kill them first!'_

Lorio's eyes flew open like broken shutters and she sprang to her feet, ignoring the scream of protest that rolled from her healing body in nauseating waves. She swayed precariously on her feet with her breath coming in ragged gasps and her heart thundering against her ribcage until it seemed inevitable that it would burst free from its moorings. Closing her eyes and attempting to control her breathing, Lorio waited for the mad swaying of the room around her to cease. This invitation, offered in such a calm, reasoned voice, was nonetheless underscored by the inherent madness of the creature who had uttered it. _'Still, does it not have a valid point? Is there one amongst these supposed allies who would not be relieved to see Islena lying dead beside Myrhia's when the final act of this grim tragedy is done? Even Artumas sees Islena's eventual sacrifice as an unavoidable necessity. If you decide that you will not be their complaisant lap dog and do their dirty deed, will they not simply find another means to achieve the same end?'_

The infallible logic of this caused Lorio to moan. The mad seducer in her mind then offered a suggestion in the tone of someone who is stating the glaringly apparent, _'And this is why you must see them to their end first...to save Islena and yourself because, if we're being entirely candid, we both know that you don't have the capacity to survive without her.'_

Lorio attempted to offer a strident denial, but the irrefutable truth of this last contention caused her mouth to snap shut with an audible pop. It was then that she realized that the pain that had assailed her was but a pale facsimile of what it had been...receding as her wounds healed and her flesh was returned to its former state of perfection. She drifted over to the nearest wall and laid the flat of her palm on one of the dormant yellow crystals that were set into the stone at regular intervals. The crystal responded to her touch by blazing into light before settling back to a diffuse glow that filled the chamber in subdued yellow light. She repeated this several times and soon the room was awash with light. With no small degree of reluctance, Lorio crept toward a full length chevalier and stepped before its reflective surface.

The exhalation that escaped her lips was one of immense relief as the only remaining signs of her mutilation were small, circular marks that were the light brown of childhood freckles. Soon, these too would fade and there would be no outward manifestation of the ordeal she had suffered at the vile bitch's cruel hands.

' _You and I are the only two living beings that wish to see Islena remain alive,'_ came Myrhia's dulcet voice, followed swiftly by the sly whisper of the black serpent that lived in Islena's conflicted heart. _'You must see them to their end first.'_

These two frantic thoughts chased each other around the confines of her frazzled mind like hungry jackals, occluding her ability to think clearly. Lorio clutched her hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, but still these entreaties accosted her without surcease.

Suddenly desperate for distraction, Lorio recalled her _date_ with Artumas' Captain of the Guard...the handsome Esuruban. She groped for her clothing and boots and retrieved her quarter staff, but still the harangue would not be silence, until it suddenly seemed to blend into one exigent entreaty. _'To save Islena, you will have to kill them all!'_

In her moment of isolation and vulnerability...the jaws of madness opened wide and swallowed Lorio whole.

2

The sharp rapping in the darkness brought Esuruban up from fitful sleep with a grumbled curse. He fumbled for his pants in the near perfect darkness of his windowless chambers...finding them only with the help of the weak light that slid apologetically under the door to his small quarters. The rapping came again...manic in its insistence, and though his initial reaction to this intrusion was annoyance, something about this frenetic summons roused a shiver of disquiet in the newly-appointed captain.

"Stop your damnable pounding," he rasped, suddenly hoping that it was not the king at his chamber door. Not bothering to find his shirt, tunic or boots, the Emercian started to the door, wincing at the how cold the stones of his assigned quarters were beneath his bare feet. The accursed dampness had been bad enough, but this cold and snow were even worse somehow. Esuruban consider himself a pragmatist, but it was difficult not to succumb to the thinking that this unprecedented snowfall might be an inimical portent...though it was hard to imagine how the prevailing situation could be much more dire than it was.

Life often seemed to punish such presumptions and Esuruban was about to be dealt a particularly harsh lesson in how its capacity for trials and tribulations was virtually without limit.

The pounding resumed just as he reached for the handle and pulled the door open with the intention of unleashing the full weight of his displeasure. The sight that greeted him as he threw open the door reduced the startled captain to stunned silence.

The Lamish immortal stood in the narrow hallway, regarding Esuruban with an indecipherable expression on her lovely face and a smile that seemed to indicate that she found his bare torso eminently pleasing.

She stood in the gloom of the long hallway with one hand on a tilted hip and the other extended to her right and holding her quarter staff in the manner of those who have developed a tremendous affinity with their weapon of choice. Her long hair was caught in a single lash and pulled back from her exquisite face, lending her countenance a cruel and imperious aspect that was nonetheless incredibly fetching. Despite the relative gloom, the Emercian could still discern the oddly circular blemishes that seemed to dot her face and leanly muscled arms. The chill in the hallway was a palpable thing and the Emercian could see his breath, but despite the cold, the woman wore only a sleeveless tunic from which swelled her full breasts as if the material was under duress that it might be unable to withstand for much longer.

"It seems that you've forgotten our _appointment,_ Captain...and I would assume that it was not disdain or discourtesy that sent you to your bed, while I was awaiting you in the gaming yard?" Lorio inquired, her generous mouth twisting into something that might have resembled a grin, but still managed to be rife with menace.

"After the day's events, it hardly seemed appropriate, and...and Tier Marshal Arminda issued specific instructions that you were not to be disturbed," Esuruban stammered.

Lorio arched a tapered eyebrow and smirked. "Did she indeed? I was not aware that the Jerhia were the supreme authority here in Othgol, Captain Esuruban...or are you so easily intimidated in the presence of strong women that you scurry for the security of your bed chamber like a field mouse seeking its burrow?"

Esuruban scowled at this provocation, but did not respond to her barb. Instead, he inquired, "How did you gain access to the barracks?"

Lorio sighed as if he was being insufferably tedious. "Your posted guard let me in, naturally. It seems _he_ is more amendable to the charms of a beautiful woman."

Esuruban frowned and leaned out through the doorway and peered along the length of hallway. The members of Artumas' personal guard had been assigned a series of rooms that had once been used for larders, in an area of the complex that was immediately adjacent to the training yards. There were three score such rooms along this particular hallway and accessed to the area was through a single exterior doorway...which now stood slightly ajar. A spill of silver light washed through the partial opening, along with a swirl of light snow. Squinting, Esuruban spied what he believed was an arm sprawled in the snow beyond the door. In a stern tone, he demanded, "The guard would not have granted you admittance...what have you done?"

Lorio shrugged her square shoulders and confessed, "Very well, we did have a bit of a dispute over that exact issue, but I brought him around to see my side of matters in short order."

"You've actually disabled my guard?" Esuruban sputtered incredulously.

"Don't fret, Captain...there be no lingering harm...ask Tier Marshal Arminda. It's a bit like sinking into warm waters. Now are you going to get dressed and honor your promise? You've heard the adage about a woman scorned...and I find myself tottering on the edge of a particularly intense bout of ill-temper. It would be best not to try my patience on this night," the Lamish immortal cautioned and in her seemingly cavalier tone, Esuruban astutely gleaned something akin to mania and realized that he would need to humor her, lest the situation take a particularly ugly turn.

"Very well, good lady...if you permit me a moment to dress, I will meet you in the training yard," he replied. Over her shoulder, Esuruban noticed that several of the doors had opened quietly and several of his men were watching this puzzling nocturnal exchange. Summoning his guards would only escalate an already delicate situation and very probably result in several badly injured guardsmen in the bargain. Whatever this daunting woman required of him, he would have to give the impression of a willingness to provide it...until someone could be found to bring her to heel...a task he did not envy in the least.

Lorio drew in her cheeks and nodded briskly. "Very well, I will await you in the gaming yard, but do not keeping me waiting long. I would not want to embarrass you by dragging you out by the ankles."

With this threat delivered...which Esuruban could not entirely be certain was a jest...Lorio turned and strode purposefully away, her hips swaying fetchingly as she vanished into the snowy night. He drew a quavering breath and ran his fingers through his thick, tousled blond hair, wondering what transgression he had committed to find himself in this damnable position. Despite her casual levity, the woman exuded an aura of danger...as if she was being driven by something decidedly _sinister_.

"Sergeant Frenek...attend me in my chambers...and send someone to check on Randranis," Esuruban instructed and then retreated into his chambers after snatching a torch from its sconce near his door. Esuruban scrambled about his small room, which was little more than a holding cell not much bigger than the storage room where Lorio had been incarcerated earlier in the morning. He dressed quickly and decided to eschew his personal sword in favor of one of the wooden weapons in the training yard, reasoning that the situation was already volatile enough without adding real steel to the equation. Frenek appeared in the doorway, looking uneasy as he reported, "Randranis appears to have been choked into unconsciousness...did that woman...the she-demon...do that to him? He's almost twice her size."

"She did," Esuruban allowed, recalling that the guard was indeed a mountain of a man, with a disposition to match his daunting appearance. That this Lorio could physically subdue him in a confrontation confirmed many of the tales that were being put about the city regarding her abilities. "Post another guard and then deliver a message to the King. Inform him of what has happened here and make certain to tell him that Lorio seems...anxious."

Frenek nodded grimly and set off to comply, while Esuruban tried to compose himself in preparation for what was to follow...the precise shape and purpose of which continued to elude him.

Pulling on a light tunic, he made his way to the training yard, taking a moment to insure that the unfortunate Randranis was not badly injured.

The yard was deserted save for a single figure who stood silhouetted beneath a ring of illuminating crystals that delineated the railing of the upper balcony. Her face was lost in shadow, but something in her coiled posture seemed to intimate a woman poised on the edge of violence and Esuruban drew another breath to calm his nerves, hoping that King Artumas and others in authority would soon appear to prevent whatever was to follow.

Seeing the handsome Emercian enter the gaming yard, which was covered in an ankle-deep blanket of fresh snow, Lorio smiled and casually twirled her staff. Esuruban was relieved to see that she had removed the wicked steel sleeves, though he imagined that the ironwood's bite would not be kind. He gravitated over to the weapons rack and selected a wooden long sword with a scuffed leather grip and a wooden shield over which had been stretched an iron studded leather cover. Even a marginally skilled quarter staff-wielder could give a swordsman immense difficulty in a contest and this creature exuded a sense of extreme proficiency that was intimidating to consider.

As he cut the air experimentally, trying to acclimate himself to the weight of the practice blade and the unsettling chill that sharpened the edge of the night air, Lorio extended her staff in his direction and intoned gravely, "I would have you demonstrate this skill that qualifies you to protect the noble Artumas and perhaps, should you prove your worth...I would have you demonstrate your skill with another sword as well..."

The tip of her staff gravitated down toward his groin. Esuruban grimaced in response to her disconcerting frankness and stole a brief glance at the upper balcony, which remained frustratingly empty. "Good lady, such vulgarity is...unattractive. You have roused me from my bed to spar, which seems to be an affront to those who perished this day. Still, if you are determined to have your contest, then let us commence without the preamble..."

Lorio lowered her staff, and though her disapproving frown was lost in the shadows, her glacial tone clearly conveyed her displeasure. "I suspect you may come to regret that barb, Captain...now come, show me the error of my ways."

She began to circle to her left...toward his shield arm; a rather unconventional approach that caused Esuruban's eyes to narrow. There was an unsettling aspect of surrealism about sparring with a woman on a snowy night that made the Emercian wonder if this was all a bizarre dream, conjured by some latent and perverse desire he might harbor for this enigmatic creature. As she moved lithely to her left, her quarter staff was a perpetual blur in her hands. It seemed to hypnotize the swordsman as it spun, but he refused to be drawn into her snare.

Finally growing bored of trying to entice the Esuruban to attack, Lorio unleashed a swift, but light volley of blows that caused the captain to give ground. She hammered his shield with a dozen such blows and then stepped lightly back to the center of the yard, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. He shook his head in bemusement, realizing that she had deliberately chosen not to direct her attack at targets other than his shield.

He tried to assess her stance for apparent weaknesses, but the spinning staff was like an impenetrable wall that offered not the slightest hint of vulnerability. Knowing that he would have to draw her attack to expose an opportunity he could exploit, Esuruban darted lightly forward and raised his shield, hoping to entice her to raise her weapon and leave her midsection undefended.

To his surprise, the evasive she-demon pulled her staff to her body and spun to her right, until she was directly behind him, where she delivered a gentle slap to his exposed kidneys, followed by a sweeping kick that literally swept both feet out from under him. Esuruban landed heavily on his back, a cloud of snow puffing up around him as he stared up into the snowy night sky. Lorio then loomed over the fallen Emercian and pressed her right foot down onto his shield, pinioning it against his body. "That was for being so arrogant as to think that I would fall for the most rudimentary feint imaginable. I'm unimpressed, Captain."

She removed her foot and glided backwards, her quarter staff resuming its mesmerizing dance. Esuruban inhaled deeply and climbed cautiously to his feet, embarrassed by how easily he'd been bested in their first pass. This woman was beyond formidable and though he had reservations about engaging in combat with a woman...a chauvinistic view for which he was about to pay dearly...the Emercian understood that he would have to change tactics if he was to avoid being humiliated. Returning to the weapon rack, he replaced the shield with a second sword in hopes of offering a meaningful answer to her ability to rain blows down upon him from every direction. Lorio uttered a chuckle of delight and offered, "A man preparing to unleash a crushing offense...I'm waiting to be humbled, Esuruban."

Esuruban scowled and though part of him was cognizant that his pride might well be leading him down a thorny path, he growled and unleashed a thresher-like whirlwind attack...a perfectly executed choreography of spinning wood. Despite the precision and intensity of this attack, Lorio met Esuruban's assault with unflappable composure, effortlessly deflecting every blow, while occasionally landing light slapping strikes of her own.

The night came alive with grunts of exertion and frustration, the resounding crack of wood on wood and the whisper of agile feet on snow. Esuruban attacked relentlessly and Lorio turned aside his every thrust and slash with an adroit turn of her staff, laughing in delight like a small child at play.

3

Still recovering from the ill-affects of a fitful sleep, Artumas followed several guards down the deserted halls of the Metocan seat of power, trying to conjure an image of what this latest trial might assume. He chastised himself for not going to the Lamish immortal earlier and determining if there was some solace he might offer. The young Jerhia Tier Marshal had been assiduous in her insistence that Lorio be left to her solitude, but the Emercian now realized that he should have ignored this demand and gone to inquire after the young woman...who often possessed the sensibilities of a badly-damaged girl. _'Which is precisely what she is...a badly abused and wounded child in the body of immensely powerful immortal. Adding her naturally volatile nature to her badly wounded psyche and Lorio becomes an unpredictable element that threatens to erupt into chaos at every turn. Yet, for all of her volatility, hers is to be the critical role in history's darkest drama.'_

The extreme delicacy of their situation was dizzying, but Artumas pushed it from his mind and instead tried to focus on a way of supporting the unfortunate Lorio, whose pain...even in a raging sea of misery such as this world had become...was poignant beyond understanding. He would do this not out of expedience, but rather to honor the commitment he had made to Islena as they had traveled along the sandy strand of the Great Western Ocean. He wondered obliquely if Islena had been cognizant of her intentions even then...and worse still, might have been aware of the possible harrowing consequences of her ruthless course of action.

At that moment, Arminda emerged from a side corridor with an escort of four Jerhia soldiers in tow. Her pretty face was set in what had become a habitual frown of dismay...an expression, Artumas knew, that would inevitably leech the humanity from her visage if she did not find a way to banish it. Sternly, she inquired, "What has happened?"

"Lorio appears to be distressed." Here he offered the young Tier Marshal a puzzled frown and added, "It seems that she has taken a fancy to one of my Captains and has basically coerced him into facing her in the training yard."

Arminda came to an abrupt halt, her pale blue eyes widening in consternation. She gripped his forearm and intoned through clenched jaws, "Your captain is in peril, Artumas...but whatever we must do to intervene...we cannot harm Lorio any further." Her tone hardened into a rasp of grim revolve and she added, "I won't permit it."

"What did Myrhia do to her, Arminda?"

Arminda shook her head, the horror of what she had witnessed vivid in her expressive eyes as she replied, "She made Lorio suffer...that is Myrhia's one true aptitude. The particulars don't really matter, do they, but I can't suffer the idea that this fractured soul will be subjected to any further humiliation or pain. We must stop whatever is about to transpire, but we must manufacture an intervention that will inflict no further harm on Lorio."

"Then we are of a like mind," Artumas concurred mildly and the pair resumed their hurried pace toward the training yard.

They emerged onto the upper balcony into a swirling snow and the discordant crack of wood on wood. Artumas gestured for his escort to take up positions along the railing and Arminda did the same and then both turned their attention to the ballet of controlled violence that was being enacted on the snowy pitch. A clearly frustrated Esuruban attacked relentlessly, his swords a blur of perpetual motion that could find not the slightest chink in Lorio's impregnable defense. On occasion, the Lamish immortal would execute some astounding maneuver and deliver a swift, stinging blow to the Emercian's shoulders...first one and then the other, inflicted during the course of a graceful pivot that reminded Artumas of the deft artistry of a Suran dancer.

Arminda watched the uneven contest for several moments and grumbled, "She's toying with him. See how she deliberately drags her rear foot and restrains her counters. Still, we both know that Lorio is an explosively unpredictable creature with an inclination to _ugliness_ when the mood seizes her...we must be prepared to intervene should that tendency rear its ugly head."

She turned and summoned one of her soldiers and issued an instruction that Artumas could not hear. He was privately amazed by the new level of confidence that the young Jerhia was displaying and suddenly grasped the faith that Maroc had expressed by elevating her to the lofty position of Tier Marshal at such a young age. When the soldier left, Artumas fixed her with a quizzical glance to which she merely responded with a partial grin.

They returned their attention to the gaming yard, where Esuruban was displaying the first signs of fatigue...his futile attacks slowing and becoming more tentative as he struggled to maintain his frenetic pace. In response, Lorio became more aggressive and soon the tremendous disparity in their skill levels became painfully apparent. She moved with a liquid grace that defied reason, spinning around the beleaguered Emercian in a dervish of perpetual motion, her feet never settling in any one position for longer than the blink of any eye. She rained blows on the back-pedaling captain from every angle, from short, chopping blows to incredible elegant sweeps that were executed with uncanny speed and precision and left the now helpless Esuruban panting from the sheer number of stinging blows that broke through his crumbling guard.

"Artumas...it may be time to intervene," Arminda warned urgently, "I don't care at all for that predatory grin on Lorio's face."

Sensing that Esuruban was about to absorb needless punishment, the Emercian king leaned over the railing and called, "I think that's enough sport for one evening, Lorio. Captain Esuruban will be required in the morning."

Lorio came to an abrupt halt, her barrage ceasing in mid-strike. Her gaze shifted to the upper balcony, where those who would see Islena dead watched her, their sly faces alive with secret contempt.

Madness seized the moment.

4

Lorio toyed with the skilled Emercian, landing glancing blows that would allow him to perform other equally pleasant tasks once they had concluded their martial foreplay. He did possess an admirable aptitude for the sword, though he was hopelessly overmatched by an opponent whose already exceptional physical prowess had been radically enhanced by Myrhia's sorcery. For the first part of their contest, the Lamish immortal had been quite content to defend against the Emercian's elegant strikes, but as he began to tire and her appetite for the contest increased, Lorio switched to the offensive, exploiting the minor holes in his defense with ease. Still she was careful not to inflict any lasting or debilitating harm on the man, whom she found pleasingly attractive.

Absorbed in the adrenalin rush of the battle, Lorio was oblivious to the hovering presence of others, but as she was preparing to bring the contest to an emphatic end, Artumas' strong voice resonated across the snowy pitch. She came to an abrupt halt and shifted her attention to the balcony, where Artumas and Arminda glanced down upon her with expressions of exasperated disdain.

With the fury of a breaking tempest, the voices began to bray their strident blended mantra. _'These are the ones who would see Islena dead...and to save her, you must kill them first."_

The volume and pitch of this exhortation swelled until it threatened to fragment her mind. Suddenly caught in a vice of anger and desperation, Lorio responded in the predictable fashion. She brought her staff crashing down on Esuruban's right wrist, dislodging his weapon from that hand, before executing a swift pivot that found her back to the startled Emercian with his left arm trapped between her left arm and torso. Twisting in place, she tossed the dazed man over her hips, while jerking his arm toward the heavens. He hit the ground with a muffled thud that punched the air from his lungs even as she tore the remaining sword from his fingers and tossed it into the shadows.

Reaching down, Lorio hauled the bleary-eyed swordsman to his feet by the tunic and twisted him in place, snaking her bare right bicep under his chin and trapping him in a chokehold that had so easily incapacitated his massive colleague only a short time before. She reached around the hapless Esuruban and gripped his manhood through his military trousers, squeezing it with enough force to draw a guttural grunt from the beaten soldier. Bringing her lips closer to his ear, she demanded, "Do you still find me vulgar, Esuruban?"

"Enough Lorio!" Artumas thundered even as Arminda issued orders for her trained dogs to descend on the training yard.

She heard this appeal for reason as if down the length of an impossibly long tunnel...a whisper that lacked the efficacy to surmount the braying mantra that thundering in her skull. Her tenuous grip on reason and restraint vanished then as a seductive shadow whispered across the roiling fabric of her mind and usurped control of her actions. She pressed her mouth against the virtually insensate Esuruban's ear and after catching his earlobe in her teeth, whispered, "It's too bad you didn't get the chance to see how delightfully vulgar I can really be...perhaps another time."

She gave his nestled manhood another appreciative squeeze, before stepping back and delivering a clubbing blow to the back of his shoulders that propelled him face-first into the now sullied snow. In one fluid motion, Lorio retrieved her staff and pressed one end into the vulnerable base of his neck effectively pinioning the Captain to the ground like a bug. Esuruban, though badly stunned, had been instinctively attempting to regain his feet, but feeling the menacing press of her staff against his neck, the Emercian prudently went utterly still.

Lorio's face twisted into a belligerent scowl as the Jerhia soldiers and Artumas' Emercian guards spilled out into the training yard and arranged themselves in a loose circle around the immortal, whose propensity for unpredictable violence they knew all too well. Arminda strode purposefully out into the yard, her breath rising in rapid plumes as she grappled with the problem of ending this ugly incident without further needless violence. "Lorio, you must stop this before you do something you'll regret. This man has done nothing to offend you...has indulged your whim. He does not deserve to be humiliated in this fashion...please, I'm begging you...stand down and we can go somewhere and talk...like the quest sisters we once were."

Arminda's fervent hope for a simple resolution evaporated with the answering expression of scathing contempt that twisted Lorio's generous lips into a sneer. "Do you genuinely believe that we were _ever_ truly sisters...even for a fleeting instant? If so, then you are a more credulous fool than I imagined you were." She then dismissed Arminda from her mind and turned her gaze up to Artumas, who gripped the wooden railing with white-knuckled intensity, knowing that his captain was at the mercy of a woman who was completely under the thrall of whatever demon drove her to these seemingly spontaneous acts of savagery. She lashed him with a disdainful grin and then looked down at Esuruban, her expression softened perceptibly. Yet, when she spoke, her tone was as glacial as the frost that rimmed the soaring towers of the snow-covered city. "You are a credible swordsman, Esuruban...blessed with a skill that would see you through most threats your noble king might face. During my travels through the Land of Shades, I faced venomous spiders, massive beetles and entities composed of pure malice. How would you fare against monsters, Esuruban...monsters like me?"

She pressed lightly on his neck as if expecting a coherent response. Instead, the Emercian merely grunted, the sound garbled as a consequence of having his face pressed into the snow. "The position in which you now find yourself eloquently summarizes how you would fare...except these monsters would care not that you are a beautifully constructed man. They would devour you like an appetizing morsel and then gleefully slaughter your precious king. Reflect on that before you declared yourself his protector."

"Lorio, you will stop this now!" Artumas commanded, emerging from the shadows and coming to stand beside Arminda, who placed a restraining hand on his chest and shook her head adamantly.

"Will I indeed?" Lorio inquired, with a malicious grin. She tossed her head and removed the tip of her staff from Esuruban's neck, leveling it at the deceitful Emercian with one arm, while pressing her boot down on the center of the swordsman's back. "By what right do you think you can command me, Artumas? Others may be enamored by your legend...but _I_ know you for what you are and I am not mesmerized by this façade...not in the slightest."

The Emercian exchanged a perplexed glance with Arminda and then squinted through the thickening snow at the woman who represented an even greater mystery than Islena Doraux. There was something decidedly off kilter about what she had just said. Even her speech pattern was inconsistent with the Lorio he knew...a woman who customarily spoke with the subtlety of a mallet.

"Lorio, if your quarrel is specifically with me, then I am willing to see it resolved, but let the Captain go...do not allow him to become a victim of a festering grievance of which he has no part," Artumas adjured in a calm, even voice...even as he thought, ' _That particular expression...I've seen it before...but where?'_

And then it came to him in an argent flash that reminded him of the blinding flare of sorcery. Islena Doraux had sported precisely that same expression when she had driven an unconscious Lorio's own Zarcyk into her thigh on the dais...after their savage battle in the plaza. In that horrifying moment of illumination, Artumas understood exactly what was confronting him and the moment assumed a new and terrible gravity.

"Truly? Would you face me in a contest of weapons, Artumas?" the thing that now infested Lorio demanded with a speculative smirk. "Are you so arrogant as to believe that you would not soon find yourself in the same position as your minion? It would be my unspeakable pleasure to disabuse you of the notion in excruciatingly painful terms."

Arminda's gaze shifted uncomfortably between Artumas and the creature that was clearly no longer Lorio. _'That's not entirely accurate,'_ she amended nervously. _'Lorio has evolved into...something more. This thing before us...seething with malice...is a new facet of her nature.'_

Unmindful of the imminent peril, Artumas took several steps toward Lorio and raised his hands in a gesture of placation. "Even if I was foolish enough to consider myself your equal with a weapon, I can conceive of no situation that would induce me to raise a hand to you...you who have become like a daughter to me."

"Liar!" Lorio erupted and thrust the staff menacingly in the Emercian King's direction. "Your sense of righteousness is as hollow as this pathetic peace accord that the bitch has imposed upon you. You have deceived everyone else with your pretensions of higher virtue...but I know you're nothing more than a rutting swine, who has reveled in the cunts of this world's two greatest monsters." It's tone changed from flagrant hostility to one of teasing sarcasm and it added, "Now that you've luxuriated in their flesh, you would see them dead...Myrhia...and Islena, both; am I not right, noble king?"

"Artumas, what is she raving about?" Arminda demanded, suddenly suspicious of a dynamic to which she was not privy.

Artumas flicked the diminutive Jerhia a harried glance, but offered no explanation, before turning back to the entity, who quipped, "Not so eager to disclose the lurid details of your night with the savior...worried that your pristine image might be permanently sullied?" Then, Lorio's exquisite face contorted into a mask of immutable hatred and she raged, "You will not kill Islena!"

She leapt at Artumas, bringing her quarter staff down in a whistling arc that failed to connect with the top of his head only because of the quick reflexes of Arminda, who discerned Lorio's intentions and snagged the Emercian's king's collar. She jerked him out of the fast-descending path of the blow, but not fast enough for him to entirely avoid being struck in the right shoulder. The pair toppled backwards and went down with in a tangle of limbs, but before Lorio could step forward and vent her wrath on the fallen pair, the three Jerhia leapt to their aid. The nearest one attempted to tackle Lorio only to be met by a thunderous knee that sent her careening into unconsciousness atop the struggling king and Tier Marshal.

The other two drew their weapons and converging tentatively on the she-demon, who reminded the pair of a rabid, yet cunning beast. Lorio's feral howl of outrage only enforced the impression and she turned her full martial prowess on the pair, who were quickly joined by a half dozen Emercian guards...all of whom struggled to hold the madwoman at bay, while protecting their superiors. Arminda dragged Artumas clear of the fray and helped him to his feet, propelling him toward the stairs to the upper balcony. "Get out...I doubt they'll be able to hold her for long."

Wincing from the throbbing pain in his shoulder, Artumas cried, "That thing is no longer Lorio and I doubt it will make any distinctions against who it harms. Raise the general alarm because I think we're going to require Inos' battle mages to subdue her."

Arminda pursed her lips in grim consternation and threw a glance over her shoulder, where Lorio had adroitly disabled another Jerhia and the first of the less skilled Emercians. Uttering a frustrated cry and vowing that she would call her superiors into account for not informing her of the deadly dynamic of the situation, Arminda left Artumas and raced to the weapons rack, where she snatched up a cross bow and several of the blunt edge training bolt that, while not lethal, still packed a debilitating wallop.

Deftly loading a bolt into the training weapon, Arminda spun on heel and marched resolutely back to the fray, where Lorio had just finished delivering a sweeping blow to the side of an Emercian's head that sent the man sagging limply to the snow. The Lamish immortal turned to the remaining vertical trio with a demented grin emblazoning her lovely face and the gleam of anticipation in her luminous dark eyes. Her gaze happened on the approaching Jerhia and that grin became a feral snarl.

"You will relinquish the weapon now and kneel with your hands clasped behind you head," Arminda intoned coldly even as two hooded figures emerged into the training yard, both bathed in a muted corona of light that declared the coalescing of arcane energy.

"And if I do not?" Lorio challenged darkly.

Doubting that the thing possessing the immortal would be so easily dissuaded by dialogue, Arminda discharged the bolt, which streaked across the small space between the pair and struck the immortal in the right shoulder. The stone tipped bolt impacted on lean muscle with an ugly, muffled thud. Lorio's eyes widened in pain and shock and she stumbled back several paces, but somehow did not fall. The trio of Emercians retained enough presence of mind to take advantage of the distraction and dragged Esuruban to relative safety.

Arminda quickly loaded another bolt with a stunning efficiency bestowed upon her through years of devoted training, but the Lamish immortal mastered her pain and hefting the quarter staff in her left hand, threw the weapon like a spear. It struck the startled Jerhia in the abdomen, punching the air from her lungs and driving her to her knees, where she clutched her midsection and with bulging eyes, struggled to draw breath.

Like the perfect instrument of violence that she was, Lorio surged behind her projectile and delivered an open-handed slap to the side of a defenseless Arminda's head that drove her onto her side in the dirty snow. In the thrall of the shadow incarnation's consuming madness, she snatched up the crossbow and leveled the heavy stone bolt on Arminda's exposed temple.

Before the insanity could escalate to lethal proportions, Artumas charged forward and bringing his right arm up in an arc, deflected the crossbow, while tackling the sleek immortal. The bolt discharged, speeding harmlessly up into the night sky and vanishing over the roof of the surrounding balcony.

Lorio cursed, but such was her skill that she twisted as the pair fell and landed atop the aging king with one hand entwined in his thick brown hair and the other clutched around his throat. She shifted her hooded gaze to the clearly disconcerted Emercian guards and growled, "A single step and I'll crush his larynx."

Esuruban had staggered to his feet and turned to the two battle mages. The pair wore identical red robes embossed with jagged black slashes across the chest and though both exuded the unmistakable glow of arcane power poised to be unleashed, the dazed Emercian could see that they were clearly reluctant to act.

"Do something!" he demanded, his voice still hoarse from the immortal's casually-applied chokehold.

"We cannot...in this close proximity, any attack would risk harming your king," the nearest Metocan disclosed, evoking a peel of sardonic laughter from the creature that held sway over the unfortunate immortal, for whom strife seemed to be a constant companion.

Lorio hauled Artumas roughly to his feet and began to drag the king away from the others, belaboring him with casual open-handed slaps that nonetheless brought blood to his mouth and nose. Artumas did nothing to resist, thinking that it would be preferable to have Lorio as far away from the others as possible to insure that this insanity claimed no further victims...save, perhaps, himself.

"Lorio, fight this thing that would bend your mind to its odious will," he intoned softly.

She slapped him hard enough to send blood spraying in a fan that painted the snow at his feet and rasped venomously, "Indeed...and how fiercely did you fight Islena when she came to your chamber, Artumas...to your bed? And while you luxuriated in her majesty, were you scheming how you might kill her even then?"

In the deranged glow of the immortal's eyes, the Emercian understood that there could be no persuasion or meaningful discourse. The remnant that Myrhia had failed to extract had seized control of Lorio's already conflicted mind and bent her into this intractable vessel of hatred. With this insight, Artumas could feel plummeting despair wanting to pull him into the abyss. Without Lorio, Islena's precariously fragile scheme had no chance of success and all would be lost. _'Unless something can exorcise this demon from this poor creature's tortured mind.'_

As was always the case, the intrinsic essence of Artumas' nature refused to succumb to the paralyzing influence of dejection. He startled the immortal by throwing his head back and driving the back of his skull into her cheek with enough force to sunder her grip. Rather than attempt to flee, the still agile king spun about and delivered a clubbing blow to the back of Lorio's neck and followed with a heavy knee to her midsection...ignoring the flare of guilt over abusing a woman thusly. Showing no ill-effects of Artumas' blows, Lorio merely straightened and smile menacingly.

Throwing himself to his right, the Emercian King bellowed, "Now!"

The air between the nearest mage and the belligerent immortal seemed to fold and distort, assuming an oddly syrupy quality, despite the acrid stench that filled the training yard. An invisible force took Lorio full in the chest and picking her from her feet, flung her into deep shadows that were pooled on the opposite side of the training yard. She crashed into a wooden weapons rack, which shattered with a plaintive scream.

Artumas rolled to his feet, regaining his feet further to the north side of the yard just in time to see Lorio regain her feet, only to be struck by a second concussive blast that slammed her into the re-enforced wooden gate that led out into the common beyond the complex. He experienced an acute pang of pity as the much-abused Lamish immortal stumbled to her hands and knees, where she lingered...panting like a wounded animal with her long braid hanging in her face.

He started toward her, but Esuruban imposed himself in his path and pleaded, "Stay away, my king...she may be dangerous yet."

The two mages were creeping slowly forward and Artumas thought he could detect a subtle bending of the air as the female Metocan began to weave a binding spell that would restrain the downed immortal. They had moved past the Emercian King and still the ostensibly dazed Lorio had made no move to regain her feet, leaving Artumas hopeful that this latest episode of madness was at an end.

When the Metocan binding weaver had come to within ten paces of the downed immortal, Lorio suddenly threw back her head and howled like a mortally wounded animal...the shrill cry turning Artumas' blood to ice water in his veins. Lorio, who had evidently been feigning injury, launched herself horizontally along the ground, driving her shoulder into the midsection of the mage, causing her swirl of arcane sorcery to dissipate in the blink of an eye. She then effortlessly lifted the smaller Metocan over her head and flung her unceremoniously in the direction of the other Metocan, who was preparing to unleash another rolling burst of concussive sorcery. The flying mage collided with her startled companion, dragging both down in a dazed sprawl.

Lorio glowered at Artumas, upon whom the lion's share of her enmity seemed focused, and appeared poised to attack the bloodied king, when a group of a dozen battle mages poured into the training yard, led by Inos and the Maxim Tier Marshal.

Snarling in frustration, Lorio pivoted in place and raced into the shadows, leaping over the ruins of the weapons racks and scrambling up and over the tall gate. As she vanished into the snowy darkness, a resonating howl, fraught with both despair and terrible promise, trailed after her like a fleeting shadow. "You will not kill Islena. I would see you all dead first...all dead!"

A stunned silence descended upon the courtyard then as its occupants gazed about, wearing identical expressions of dismay and shock.

' _Is there no limit to the misery that we must endure? What have we done...what vile transgression have we committed to warrant such woe?'_ Artumas thought as he swept his bewildered regard over the unconscious bodies that littered the snow pitch. It occurred to him that the answer to his query might be found on the other side of the wall that kept memories of his past incarnations at bay and found that he was disinclined to seek answers in that dark territory. He was amazed by the alacrity with which the situation had turned to violent mayhem.

Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc had hurried over to his Tier Marshal and was assisting her to his feet. Observing the tenderness with which he lifted her and the expression of deep concern on his face, Artumas realized that he cared deeply for the young woman, whose courage and poise were laudable in the face of one crisis after the next. She shook her head and then massaged her neck and shoulders where the enraged immortal had dealt her a clubbing blow. Something in her glowering expression and rigid posture suggested extreme displeasure and though he could not hear what was being exchanged between the two, Arminda's deportment suggested that her vexation was directed at Maroc. The Maxim Tier Marshal placed a hand on her right shoulder and replied in a calm, reasoned voice that displayed no hint of irritation. In response, Arminda's polar blue eyes widened in incredulity and she shook her head, clearly not mollified by whatever the Maxim Tier Marshall had imparted.

"By the gods...is there no end to the madness that has infected our lives?" A despondent Inos inquired as he approached Artumas, giving voice to the king's exact sentiment. "What has this incomprehensible creature done now?"

Artumas pursed his lips at the Grand Mage's rare display of ill-temper, but then recalled that Inos had lost a valued colleague and treasured friend earlier in the day...an incisive pain that was clearly reflected in his pinched expression. "The entity that inflected Lorio has not been completely purged from her system...it has usurped control of her mind and warped her perspective until now she perceived us as the enemy, who would kill Islena."

Aghast, Inos stammered, "Then...everything is lost. Without Lorio, Islena's tenuous plan is dust and ruin." The two men pondered this inopportune turn of events in silence for a moment, while the wounded were treated. Thankfully, most of the injuries were minor, the foremost being badly lacerated pride. "Do you suppose she poses a grave threat to the general population of Othgol?"

"Again, it's impossible to predict. Lorio is volatile by nature and this entity that now possesses her seemed to smolder with madness...a deadly pairing that we cannot allow to go unconstrained. We must organize a search and return her to the complex with all possible haste. I would suggest using small squads of battle mages and conventional soldiers to conduct the search," Artumas offered, his face smarting in the cold air.

"If she just fled the city and allowed the Metocan wilderness to swallow her, perhaps we would all be best served," Inos intoned sourly.

"If Islena returned with the Orb of Metocan only to find that we have allowed Lorio to wander away, I am loath to consider her likely reaction. We can never lose sight of the grim fact that whatever has infected Lorio is only a miniscule portion of the entity that capers in Islena's afflicted mind," Artumas reminded the Grand Mage.

"You understand that every portent...every new wrinkle in the fabric of this nightmarish weave is intimating that Myrhia may well be the voice of reason and that we might be better served by adhering to this odious bargain we've made," Inos remarked, staring morosely up into the swirl of snow. He then turned and left the flummoxed Emercian staring after him, trying to find a reason to believe that this latest development had not left any prospect for hope in irreparable tatters.

Esuruban stumbled up to his king with downcast eyes and a sheepish cast to his face that was swollen from the abuse he had suffered at the hands of Lorio, "I apologize, your majesty...for causing this chaos."

Artumas turned to face the Emercian, whose dejection was wholly unwarranted. "Captain, you cannot be held accountable for what transpired here this evening. You handled the situation as deftly as circumstances would allow. From personal experience, I know how forceful Lorio can be and if blame is to be assigned, it should be on me for not insulating you from her attention."

"But I failed to protect you," Esuruban insisted, clearly unwilling to absolve himself of his perceived failure and scouring himself with his sense of inadequacy.

"Esuruban as Lorio said herself...we mortals are simply not condign to the task of facing creatures of her ilk. You displayed courage and loyalty beyond question in facing her and it will not be forgotten. I would suggest you return to your quarters and try to recuperate. Should you require a healer, Inos will see it arranged."

The bruised Emercian nodded glumly, but tarried a moment longer, clearly reluctant to broach something that was troubling him. At last, he requested softly, "If it doesn't seem overly forward, I would ask that I be allowed to take part in the search for Lorio."

Artumas inclined his chin, perplexed by the request in the face of the abuse that Esuruban had suffered at her hands and suspecting that his desire might be motivated by the misguided need to extract some measure of payback. Flatly, he observed, "I'm surprised that you would wish to become further entangled in the miasma of chaos that seems to envelope Lorio, Captain."

His discomfort seemed to increase exponentially, but he found the words to articulate his motivation...words that touched the humanity in Artumas' ancient soul. "When she appeared at my door earlier this evening, I could sense that she was...distraught. Her anxiety was a tangible thing. Beneath that, I glimpsed a pain so vast that I can scarcely imagine what it would be like to bear or how one could possibly live without being crushed beneath its weight. I swear solemnly that I harbor no resentment for what she did to me here...and to the others. Rather, I feel only pity for her and I would like to offer her what small measure of aid I can...even if it is only by finding her and bringing her back to a place where she can be cared for. I hope that it does not become necessary to harm her any further than she already has been."

For a protracted moment, Artumas could offer no response, so acutely touched was he by Esuruban's poignant expression of concern. When he could trust himself to speak, the Emercian King managed, "It is this kind of compassion that gives me hope for our world, Captain. You are right, Lorio has borne a weight that no living soul should have to carry and I fear that her tribulations are far from over. If you could help bring her back...you would have my eternal gratitude."

Esuruban smiled around a wince of pain and then bowed, "If I have your leave, your majesty...I will return to my quarters and prepare for the search."

Maroc hurried over with Arminda in tow, her smooth brow furrowed by lingering displeasure. She regarded the Emercian king coolly and he discerned that much of her irritation was focused on him. "We will begin the search momentarily, Artumas...dividing into smaller teams comprised of soldiers and battle mages...as you suggested." He brushed snow from his brow and inquired guardedly, "My Tier Marshal informs me that Lorio might be possessed by the abomination we witnessed in the audience hall?"

"An opinion I share," Artumas returned tersely.

Maroc inhaled sharply, clearly grasping the gravity of this turn of events. A pall of confusion slipped across his features as he asked, "Is it possible that Myrhia realized that Lorio had not been thoroughly purified?"

Artumas met this query with a sour grimace and replied, "Frankly, in the flux into which we've fallen, anything is possible. Irrespective of how it came to snare her in its thrall...this _shadow incarnation_ has stolen Lorio's volition. Being who and what she is...this makes her a lethal hazard and we must find her as quickly as possible and try to devise a means to free her from this enslavement."

Maroc's eyes widened and he exclaimed, "I doubt that there is anyone with the capabilities of exorcising the entity we witnessed in that audience chamber...and that was only a fragment of the abomination itself. Only Myrhia could possibly evict this thing that now controls the tempestuous immortal, and even she was barely condign to the task, Artumas."

The Emercian regarded the Maxim Tier Marshal with a humorless grin and replied cryptically, "Then perhaps we'll have to reprise our feat of having her do precisely that."

With this decidedly ambiguous remarked delivered, Artumas abruptly moved away from the pair, leaving a frowning Maroc and a glowering Arminda in his wake.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

1

Nalosan, once the center of culture and enlightenment in the known world, had descended into a cold, stark place in the shadow of tyranny. While the seat of power for the world's mightiest ruler and an empire that had occupied an entire continent, there was none of the commensurate arrogance and self-absorbed condescension that one might normally expect in its citizens. Islena Doraux had never set foot in the majestic city, but if she had, the brooding, fearful ambiance would have evoked images of the works of one of her favorite novelists from her old world and life...Franz Kafka. Paranoia and fear hung over the city like a shroud that slowly seemed to strangle the vitality out of its occupants, who often scurried about their business with eyes downcast and mouths drawn in a thin, bloodless slash...all hoping to avoid scrutiny from the beast that held sway over much of the known world. Informants were everywhere and distrust was rampant...a default survival mechanism in the realm that Myrhia had wrought.

For many, it was difficult to internalize the degree to which life in the city had changed since King Artumas had vanished and his demon of a wife had ascended to his throne. It had been put about that the Jerhia had been responsible for abducting and murdering the king and any contention to the contrary could earn the claimant a trip to the bowels of Kammlogran...a journey from which there was no return. Public expression, once a welcome aspect of everyday life in Artumas' enlightened enclave, had quickly become a treasonous crime under the velvet fist of Myrhia. Truth is a malleable commodity and the serpent shaped truth to her needs and those who did not accept that fabrication as _their_ truth founds themselves facing a slow and torturous death.

Yet even beneath the shadow of the most brutal repression, light has a way of filtering to those for whom hope has become a lost commodity and so it was in the rigidly controlled city. Something had transpired to the west...something of immense consequence, though the precise shape and nature of that _something_ remained veiled in shadow. Speculation swept through the city, incited to a higher level of frenzy when the first wave of Morticants returned to the Capital and took up sentry positions around and throughout the city, followed by legions of Emercian troops. For those who found the temerity to watch their watchers, they would have noticed the expression of confused trepidation that was a common mask for many of these returning soldiers...a posture of waiting, though for what specifically, no one could say with any degree of certainty. It reached the streets that the borders of the country had been sealed and the world beyond had descended into a nightmare of violence and fire.

What had precipitated this incredible state of flux, no one knew...but with the return of the conquering armies, it seemed that Emercia had assumed a turtle posture as if in anticipation of some terrible reprisal to come.

Of the dreaded enchantress...not a word was spoken, though the slant of the rumors began to hint that her engine of conquest had suffered a horrendous defeat in the west and she had either been killed or was in hiding. The city's ruling authorities were incommunicado and the average citizen found theirs lives plunged into a vortex of uncertainty, fearing that they would soon be called to account for the monster's transgressions on foreign soil.

On the night that Lorio's mind was subjugated by the twin demons of Myrhia's seduction and the shadow incarnation's mad harangue, a single hooded figure carefully picked her way up the face of a tower wall. Nazmara ascended the wall with the ease of one climbing a set of stairs, finding hand holds that would have been all but invisible to any but the most skilled climbers.

' _But not to a stealth ranger of the Sisters of Esotaria,'_ she thought with a satisfied grin beneath her thin veil as she made the sideways leap from one small toehold to the next. Supreme confidence in her natural gifts was one of the traits that had served Nazmara well since the Matrium had first dispatched her into this nest of vipers...where the air was so befouled by the corruption of the miscreant who ruled here that she often struggled to breath. Still, she had been dispatched to serve as a scout...a forerunner of the vengeance that the Ascentrix and the Sisterhood would someday visit upon the vile spider that sat at the center of this odious web and Nazmara would suffer this awful place to see its culmination.

A stealth ranger was a natural creature of shadows...a subtle whisper of wind in the night and Nazmara was amongst the order's elite...a wraith who could float through the tides of reeking humanity, unseen and aware of even the minutest detail around her. Her initial mandate had been to simply observe and report on the situation in the capital city, providing the Matrium and Ascentrix with a portrait of the enclave where the slayer had come to ground. For six years, Nazmara had lived on the periphery of this cesspool of violence and corruption, watching the slayer's evil burrow deeper into the very earth of this place, like the questing roots of a rank weed.

' _Ah, but some day soon, those roots will be extirpated, bitch...burned to a cinder in the name of all the Sisters you betrayed and slaughtered,'_ the stealth ranger thought gravely as she pulled herself up onto a small shelf of stone, just beneath the lower casement of the chamber where the city's bell of tolling was housed, and twisted about to face massive Kammlogran, which was sequestered in deep purple shadows...its silhouette brooding...ominous.

The massive castle on the bay exuded a sinister aura that made Nazmara squirm, but it also managed to pique her seething frustration. Over the course of the last months, the stealth ranger had discerned whispers that an invaluable item was being sequestered deep in the bowels of this monolith...something that the demon-bitch regarded as literally priceless. Nazmara had spent months studying the castle...analyzing guard patterns and obvious security procedures...and had come to the disheartening conclusion that Kammlogran was virtually impregnable. At the Ascentrix's direction, she had even gone so far as to abduct one of the senior guards, but after nearly a week of bloody coercion, he had been able to disclose nothing about this mysterious _item_ other than to say that it was sequestered in a deep section of the castle...to which only the infernal monstrosities had access.

Nazmara remained convinced that whatever secret this brooding edifice to evil held, it carried the potential to deliver the sisterhoods' vengeance in swift and emphatic terms. Accordingly, she had spent her long nights scouting the castle...searching for the one minute detail that might provide some indication of how she could gain entry to the castle and unearth its precious secret. This quest had become an incessant itch that bordered on obsession and the diminutive blond had kept all thoughts of it locked deep in her subconscious, lest the Matrium...or worse still, the Ascentrix divine her unsanctioned obsession and remove her from these shores...a turn of events that would be unpalatable to the ambitious stealth ranger.

The long stone ramp that led up to the main gates was virtually deserted in the bell just before the coming of dawn and Nazmara gracefully hauled herself onto the actual ledge and then into the bell chamber itself, crouching down next to the casement. This different perspective offered the mortal chameleon an unobstructed view of the harbor. Nazmara's ice blue eyes narrowed as her incisive gaze swept the harbor, absorbing every detail of the extensive network of docks and quays that made up the primary shipping port...even though every physical detail of the sprawling harbor had been flawlessly committed to memory months prior.

Since the return of the Morticants to Othgol, the port had been sealed to all inbound vessels, effectively strangling trade. She was aware that already signs of shortage could be seen in the market stalls, and knew that it would not be long before hunger began to agitate unrest in the city that had not likely experienced want in the lifetime of any of its citizens. The concentration of Morticants along the piers and jutting docks informed the perceptive stealth ranger that...whatever cryptic threat these creatures were anticipating...they believed it would come from the sea. Considering the woeful, almost non-existent state of navies these lands could muster, Nazmara found this difficult to credit, but nonetheless...the watchers on the docks exuded an sense of intense vigilance and the stealth ranger found herself subconsciously gazing out over the moonlit Bay or Imerlac as if she, too, expected some gargantuan monstrosity to raise itself out of the bay's placid waters...intent on crushing the city to dust.

The night was unusually sultry and along the eastern horizon, where in less than a bell the first dull light of morning would bleed darkness from the sky, Nazmara could see heavy thunderheads gathering like poisonous grapes. The coming day promised to be long and tedious, but she would find some hidden niche to catch up on her sleep...or perhaps amuse herself by playing cutpurse in the crowded central market district...a pass time that would have been severally frowned upon by the Matrium. _'Still, a sister requires diversion where she can find them and since entanglements of the flesh create only needless complications...separating the affluent from their coin is as good as any.'_

The notion made her smile and while thievery was hardly a noble endeavor it was preferable to being curled in a dirty corner in a back alley, waiting for the coming of nightfall and brooding over the treasure hidden deep in Kammlogran...silently taunting her with its mysterious promise.

She shook her head in bemusement and pulled the veil from her lovely face. Like all member of the Sisterhood, Nazmara had received the Goddess Gyzarayne's grace upon pledging her eternal fealty to the female deity. The blessing effaced all physical and spiritual imperfections from the recipient, bestowing upon them a beauty that the random twists of birth and the cumulative tribulations of living had denied them. It also served to augment their natural abilities; in the case of Nazmara, her inherent gift had been one of exceptional grace and agility. The enhancement of these faculties had made her a natural fit for the Sisterhoods stealth rangers...a warrior order of the Sisterhood that complimented the powerful (and favored) Battle Mages. The diminutive blond could move like a living embodiment of the wind itself...swift and invisible. She could gather information...or deliver sudden death...like a veritable shadow out of the darkness. It had been this astounding proficiency that had earned her this assignment...a position of privilege that even the aloof Battle Mages must envy.

She shook her head, mildly bemused by the reveries that she seemed to be falling into with increasing frequency of late...a fact that she attributed to her prolonged periods of isolation in which she had very little contact with other people...despite being immersed in a writhing sea of humanity.

Sudden motion drew her attention and she shifted her keen regard back to the upper battlements of Kammlogran, where several dozen of the blue abominations had filed out onto the ramparts and arranged themselves in a row facing the Bay of Imerlac. She reached into the folds of her loose tunic and produced a small, cylindrical device that she raised to her eye. Making a slight adjustment to one of the rotating brass loops that held the lens, Nazmara brought the distant creatures into sharper focus until it seemed that she could reach out and touch them...as repulsive as the notion was. She arched a fine eyebrow, her curiosity roused by the thin, lacquered boxes that each of the abominations carried, correctly deducing that something of consequence was about to transpire on the stone ramparts.

Simultaneously, each of the Morticants lifted the lids of their assigned box. The stealth ranger noticed how the mortal guards all slowly retreated from the line of monstrosities as a furtive tension weaved its way into the macabre scene. The night sky became awash in an eerie blue glow that dispersed concentric circles of light across the gathering clouds that cast the ramparts in alternating zones of shadow and eerie blue glow.

Nazmara watched in dark transfixed fascination as countless fist-sized orbs lifted from the interior of the boxes and rose into the sky, where they hovered, still radiating the oscillating swathes of blue light that reminded the stealth ranger of roving eyes.

Driven by instinct, she opened a direct channel to the Matrium, deducing that this was a development worthy of apprising the women who guided the Sisterhood, despite the late hour. An instant later, her mind was suffused by an alien presence and understood that the Matrium was viewing this bizarre nocturnal drama through her eyes. As they watched, the rapidly rotating orbs flared to a blinding magnitude and then shot out over the Bay of Imerlac with a speed that defied comprehension...gone in the blink of an eye.

Dumbfounded, Nazmara watched in gape-jawed wonder as the Morticants closed their boxes and then filed back into the interior of Kammlogran. Uncertain what she had just witnessed, she attempted to communicate along the tether, but the Matrium...displaying an unsettling and uncharacteristic anxiety...interjected, _'You must not employ the tether again...you will be contacted through conventional means...when it is again safe. Fade into the shadow and watch carefully.'_

The tether was abruptly severed as the Matrium withdrew in a torrid rush, leaving a flummoxed stealth ranger staring incredulously at the now deserted section of ramparts...where something ineffably foul had evidently just occurred.

There was something disconcerting about sharing the normally unflappable Matrium's extreme agitation over the sight of these seemingly innocuous orbs streaking out over the night sky...a trepidation that set the stealth ranger's heart skidding in her chest.

Wanting to be back on the ground and into a burrow before the first flicker of light broached the horizon, Nazmara quickly slid over the stone casement and commenced the arduous creep back to the ground. Her racing pulse and burgeoning anxiety disrupted her normal rhythm and it required twice the normal time for her feet to find themselves back on the ancient cobbles.

Sparing one final wistful glance back at secretive Kammlogran, the stealth ranger sprinted along the wall and then into a side street, wondering how this latest inexplicable twist would affect Gyzarayne's weave.

2

A dozen leagues out to the east, on the roiling sheet that had been dubbed Sea of Permanent Departure by those few intrepid souls who had mustered the courage to set forth upon its unpredictable and seemingly hostile waters, a single ship floated in the darkness. This solitary vessel was a ship unlike any that had ever sailed the waters of this antiquated world...a curiosity and marvel that had neither mast nor sail. The vessel was a sleek, black construct that was narrower and longer than the traditional vessels that normally braved the ocean waters, but unlike those timber and pitch conveyances, this ship was propelled...and warded...by the magic of a goddess. It could sail through a raging tempest and not a droplet of wine would be spilled from a glass within. Thus, the vessel's occupants were indifferent to the approaching storm that would soon unleash its mindless fury on the entire coast of the Eastern Continent.

Instead, the ship's rather mysterious occupants had their attention riveted squarely upon a statuesque blond beauty who reclined on a leather divan, her sooty lashes fluttering as her consciousness grappled with whatever had pulled her from her flesh and along the tether to the stealth ranger, Nazmara. Her body was clad in a robe of earthen red, cinched at the waste by an intertwined belt of silver that declared her rank as Matrium of the Sisterhood of Esotaria...hand of the Ascentrix and servant of the Goddess Gyzarayne. Her eyes moved perpetually beneath their lids and with her thick honey blond hair spread about her like a corona, the Matrium...who had been born with the name Karosyn, only daughter of a humble miller, some two hundred and fifty years before...appeared very much like a personification of the goddess she served. Now, however, agitation rolled from the Matrium in palpable waves so unlike the normally placid warmth that the beloved creature usually exuded...a comforting aura that served to soothe all who came into her presence.

Lyndsyn, the First Battle Mage of the Sisterhood, turned her troubled gaze to Sandalayne, the order's First Stealth Ranger and inquired tightly, "Should we summon the Ascentrix?"

Sandalayne shivered perceptibly. Like most of the sisters, the First Stealth Ranger was suffused by an extreme sense of unease when in the presence of the Ascentrix, who was the earthly embodiment of Gyzarayne and in many ways...just as inaccessible as the deity she represented.

Mercifully, the Matrium stirred then and her infinitely deep blue eyes...eyes like the most pristine of oceans...fluttered open and she peered about, experiencing the brief moment of disorientation that always accompanied a reunion with the flesh.

She came back to the confines of her flesh with an audible gasp, momentarily nonplused by the number of faces that crowded about her, each wearing identical masks of deep concern. Karosyn inhaled slowly to regain a measure of her equilibrium and signaled her wellbeing with a slight nod and a wan smile. Her daughters...for such was the title bestowed upon the women who followed the Matrium...were all cognizant that something momentous had occurred in the short span of time that that their mother's spirit had been absent.

Karosyn had served in the capacity of Matrium of the Sisterhood for just over two centuries and in that time her gentle and compassionate nature had earned her the respect and devotion of even the most inured of sisters, who were drawn to her natural sincerity and empathy for the plight of others. The humble Karosyn was the exact antithesis of the Ascentrix, whose nature was so indecipherable as to be terrifying, especially when considered in context of the power at her disposal.

"What did you see?" Lyndsyn replied anxiously, wondering if the much anticipated moment had finally come when the sisters would fall upon the lair of the viper like vengeful hammers and obliterate the odious serpent who had once come so close to seeing the Sisterhood to extinction.

Karosyn rose on legs that were unsteady and attempted to don a smile of reassurance. "Sister Nazmara has apprised me of a new _development_ in Nalosan. Before I can relate the specifics, I must confer with the Ascentrix...must seek her guidance. In the interim, we must fall back upon the antiquated mode of communication and none will be permitted to employ the tether...or any other form of magic...until the Ascentrix has given us leave to do so."

The sister all exchange glances of bemusement, but such was their faith in the Matrium that none questioned this peculiar and, in truth, unprecedented edict.

Stilling feeling the residual anxiety of what she had witnessed on the battlements of the massive stone castle, Karosyn nodded and made her way through the ship, stopping to verbally convey her instructions to each of the vessel's occupants, all of whom greeted the command with expressions of perplexity.

She paused before the arched wooden door that led to the Ascentrix's large cabin, her gaze sweeping over the scrolled leaves that followed the arc of the door. Each had been fashioned out of gold and had been forged in such intricate detail that the Matrium could almost believe they were truly alive. Many might see these adornments as extravagant...the sign of arrogant entitlement...but the Matrium knew the Ascentrix well enough to know that this impression was deceptively false. Lissom was a bewilderingly complex amalgam of many things, but a gaudy materialist was not amongst them. The scroll work had been a gift of gratitude from an island potentate, whose small and vulnerable kingdom the Sisters of Esotaria had saved from the avarice of a larger predacious neighbor.

Karosyn inhaled deeply to assuage her anxiety...a nervousness that did not exclusively find its source in the message she was about to convey to her Ascentrix. The child beyond this door...with her infinitely complex and often inaccessible nature...only served to heighten Karosyn's bemusement and even that unaccountable sense of unease was a source of consternation for the gentle Matrium. She had served in the role of mentor/mother to the girl since the baby Ascentrix had first been consigned to her care just over two centuries ago and yet, despite the long years spent together, there was some indiscernible aspect to the child's nature that disquieted Karosyn. She would not describe the feeling as one of apprehension...not precisely; what she felt in the presence of Lissom would be akin to what a penitent might feel if they were to suddenly find themselves standing in the presence of the divinity they worshipped.

' _It is the eternal mystery of the child's divine nature that affects you thus, woman,'_ she scolded herself with a rare twinge of vexation. _'It is impossible to imagine how she must perceive the world and that inability to empathize with her perspective makes your reaction only natural...that and the discrepancy between her physical appearance and the girth of her intellect would unsettle anyone...save Gyzarayne herself.'_

Knocking lightly, the Matrium awaited her summons and when it came in the form of a light tickling over the fabric of her mind, she opened the door and stepped inside.

As was commensurate with a person of her magnitude, Lissom's quarters were spacious. The walls were lined with shelves of scrolls and books accumulated from the Sisters travels through the ocean archipelagos from whence the order originated. Several large working tables were arrayed around the room, scattered across which were a profusion of alchemic and navigational charts...cartography, navigation and alchemy being amongst the precocious Ascentrix's favorite distractions. Lissom was a being who consumed knowledge the way a tyrant emperor would consume land and wealth. Her voracious appetite was insatiable and constantly demanded new fountains of knowledge from which the girl could drink. This, when combined with her virtually limitless puissance would combine to make Lissom the most formidable creature that ever traversed the earth...assuming they all survived this brewing cataclysm.

The Ascentrix was seated on her large bed and as always, it seemed to Karosyn that the girl exuded a radiant light that perpetually cast her delicate features in a muted yellow glow. The Matrium crossed the room and stood at the foot of the bed, momentarily disoriented by the improbability of seeing what appeared to be an angelically innocent five year old girl with delicately beautiful features and honey blond hair that was parted at the center and flowed over her small shoulders to a point at the hollow of her lower back.

Lissom was absorbed in a scroll and sat with her legs crossed, making subtle and intricate gesticulations in the air as she studied an obscure arcane text devoted to a nearly forgotten kind of rune magic. The shape of each rune lingered in the air as the Ascentrix described the symbol of power with her small right index finger, her smooth brow furrowed in lines of intense concentration.

"Even an Ascentrix requires her rest, Lissom," Karosyn chided lightly.

"True, Mother...but this is a form of rest for me." She waved her small hand and the elaborate symbol dissolved into yellow haze. "The entity that instilled this system of magic with its efficacy has long since departed, but I'm certain I can infuse it with Gyzarayne's power and employ it to good use for her cause. Even if I fail, it still serves as a scholarly endeavor that keeps my mind agile."

She then lifted her gaze from the scroll and that impression of childish innocence vanished as the palpable weight of her keen regard touch the Matrium's lovely face. Lissom had been blessed with eyes of the deepest blue and they shone with an intense intelligence that could be thoroughly disconcerting...made all the more so by the unlikely countenance from which it shone. The intellect and the age seemed irreconcilable until one gained an understanding of just how an Ascentrix ascended to the pinnacle of her potential power.

"There has been a...development on the mainland...though its implications remain nebulous," the Matrium began gravely. She briefly described the images Nazmara had conveyed through their tether, while the Ascentrix folded her hands beneath her small chin and listened intently.

"Open your mind to me mother and allow me to see these devices firsthand," Lissom replied and though her voice had been placid, there could be no mistaking the undeniable authority couched in its lilting tone.

Still, the Matrium felt compel to impress upon her mistress the dangers that employing even rudimentary magic might involve. "I fear that these devices may be some form of _tracker sorcery_ ...meant to ferret out expenditures of magical energy."

The girl offered the Matrium a crooked grin that was inconsistent with a child of her apparent age. "I have warded this room against all forms of surveillance or intrusion, Mother...only Gyzarayne could penetrate the wards that I have erected. Whatever else she might be...this miscreant is not a deity."

' _At least not yet,'_ Karosyn thought grimly, but nonetheless complied with Lissom's command. Lissom absorbed the projected stream of events with a thoughtful half-smile on her face.

"I concurred with your assessment...these are some manner of tracking devices, specifically attuned to expenditures of arcane energy. The miscreant is searching for something...and I would suspect that something is whatever unleashed the massive bursts of energy we detected all along the eastern section of the continent. Whatever she is seeking, it is clear that the miscreant views it as a threat." A speculative light dawned in Lissom's incisive blue eyes and she placed a small finger to her lips in a pose of contemplation that might have been amusing in a child of her apparent age. Finally, she regarded the Matrium gravely and intoned, "The situation has become increasingly fluid...dangerously so. This savior has proven terrifyingly unstable and the miscreant's grip on her is tenuous...however much her arrogant presumption would contend otherwise. I sense a tremendous power stirring from beyond this arcane barrier...one that might even rival Gyzarayne's in the final accounting."

Karosyn's eyes widened in alarm and she breathed, "Is this...power hostile?"

"Perhaps not hostile in the sense we would consider the miscreant...but ruthlessly intransigent...which might prove no less devastating to any that would rouse its ire," Lissom observed in a tone that bespoke supreme confidence in her judgment. "You were wise in issuing an edict forbidding use of the tether, Mother. It would be imprudent to inadvertently reveal our presence here...especially to the miscreant."

There followed a brief pause in which Karosyn again pondered the seemingly irreconcilable discrepancy between this creature's intellect and her appearance...irreconcilable until one considered that the _child_ before her was nearly two centuries old. "What course of action would you have us follow, Ascentrix?"

Lissom sat up and stretched languidly, conjuring images of a tawny cat rousing from a nap on a window sill. "We will continue to monitor the situation...and influence the way in which it unfolds subtly whenever we are able. My primary concern lies in the two huge expenditures of arcane energy that were detected in these eastern countries. It could well be that it is the source of these eruptions that has prompted the miscreant to deploy this seeker magic. I will create a dampening blanket over the ship and we should be able to continue to employ our arts without fear of discovery. In the meantime, I would have you dispatch additional teams of Stealth Rangers to the mainland. Individually or in pairs, they will infiltrate this Fairmarch and see if they can determine both the cause of these arcane flares and the exact nature of the political upheaval on the continent."

Karosyn nodded appreciatively, still surprised by the girl's incisive grasp of the salient dynamics that shaped events...and her succinct response in bending these forces to her purpose. Lissom's expression became glacial and she added, "As always, the stealth rangers must realize that they are like wraiths in the night...and like those deadly nocturnal creatures, they must vanish when held up to the light. It is imperative that we avoid detection until the opportune moment to reveal ourselves. Am I clear, Matrium?"

"You are, Ascentrix," Karosyn intoned gravely and swallowed as she offered her mistress a deferential bow. Despite her deceptively fragile appearance, this incarnation of Gyzarayne's earthly emissary was forged of sterner stuff. She would make any sacrifice necessary to see this miscreant...Myrhia, the would-be deity and now pretender queen...reduced to ash and scattered to the winds.

Karosyn, whose nature was averse to ruthless intransigence, but whose solemn duty was to serve her Ascentrix, was about to ask permission to depart, when the girl's pretty face contorted in a paroxysm of apparent agony. Karosyn's heart fluttered in her chest, but before she could reach her charge, Lissom's blue eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped back onto the bed in a boneless tangle of thin limbs. Her body was rocked by a series of tremors and then she went utterly still.

' _It has begun, daughter...do not fret. My precious child must take her first step along the path of growth...to become the unprecedented being she is destined to become,'_ a ubiquitous voice declared exuberantly, filling the confines of Karosyn's mind and the empty spaces in Lissom's quarters with a warmth that washed over the Matrium like a balm...banishing her misgivings and filling her with a joy that was intoxicating.

This was the voice of her Goddess...this was actually the voice of Gyzarayne. ' _Which can only mean that this...episode...is a paving stone!'_

The Matrium straightened and stepped away, her hand gravitating to her mouth of its own accord. Lissom's small body lifted slowly from the bed and her limbs straightened, until her body had been arranged in a perfect posture of slumber. In tiny increments, a brilliant golden cocoon began to form around the hovering form of the Ascentrix...though it would be more accurate to say that the golden light that enveloped Lissom was the earthly manifestation of Gyzarayne's womb...and after a period of gestation, the Ascentrix would emerge, her physical body transformed.

Though Karosyn had read extensively about this process of spiritual and physical growth that moved an Ascentrix toward her ultimate incarnation, she had yet to actually witness it and as she watched the cocoon completely enclose her beloved child, tears of joy began to stream over the high ridges of her cheek bones.

Her daughter...often inaccessible and aloof, yet precious to Karosyn beyond words...was about to take the first step toward the ultimate expression of her potential. Karosyn offered Gyzarayne a desperate prayer that these vile times would not claim her before Lissom could reach this pinnacle of ascension.

Eyes still brimming, Karosyn hurried from the chamber with a mind to summoning the others sisters so that they could share this glorious moment.

While the esoteric Sisterhood celebrated the Ascentrix's inaugural moment of personal growth, on the embattled mainland, events continued to unravel toward absolute anarchy.

Chapter Thirty

1

In the aftermath of Lorio's unraveling into apparent madness, the training yard was alive with people all coping with the injured that littered the training yard, while several squads of Emercian and Jerhia soldiers assembled near the west gate, through which they would soon depart to commence the search for the fugitive immortal. A pall of dejection seemed to have settled over the group as they labored in dismal silence, perhaps sensing that the enigmatic immortal's violent actions here were portentous of more ill fortune for a world that had been gorged on misery of late.

Artumas stood off to one side as several squads of combined forces mustered in the yard, their faces grim as they waited in the swirling snow, which had now begun to fall with purpose. Artumas noticed as a bruised Esuruban entered the yard and went to join one of the squads, each of which consisted of three Emercian's, three Jerhia and a Metocan battle mage. The Captain's face was bruised from where he had been struck by the ensorcelled immortal and the king noted that his sword was conspicuously absent from its scabbard.

' _Despite the humiliating abuse that he has suffered at her hands, there is something in Lorio's plight that has touched his humanity,'_ Artumas thought. _'It is compassion such as this that helps preserve the small flicker of hope in my tired heart that something might yet be retrieved from this nightmare. Will the others be so inclined to show restraint when they find her...will the thrall of her possession allow them the opportunity?'_

Artumas grimaced at this thought and dragged his gloved fingers through his graying beard. If Lorio came to serious harm before Islena could return, it was impossible to predict how the increasingly erratic Doraux might respond.

The Maxim Tier Marshal appeared at Artumas' side, rousing him from his unhappy contemplations. Arminda stood slightly apart from the pair, frowning as she studied the milling clusters of searchers. Displeasure radiated from the diminutive blond in palpable waves and the Emercian suspected that she was appalled by the treatment her former quest companion had received since her return to the Metocan Capital.

When the last of the groups had assembled in the training yard, Inos stepped to the railing of the upper balcony and addressed the squads in a voice that was uncharacteristically cold and aloof. "Before you are dispatched to commence the search for the Lamish immortal, I must impress upon you the delicacy and urgency of the task at hand. The woman you seek is a hero of the quest...an undertaking that will be regaled in legend for all time. She is courageous and has suffered mightily for every step she has taken along the hero's path. Still, this woman is powerful and unpredictable...which makes her exceedingly dangerous. Your first priority lies in protecting the citizens of Othgol and to that end, you must do whatever is necessary to apprehend this woman and return her to confinement here. I would urge you to employ restraint in capturing the immortal, but should she leave you with no alternative...I grant you leave to employ whatever force is necessary to subdue her."

The Grand Mage nodded resolutely and retreated into the shadows, presumably to return to his private mourning for fallen Tokizar. Artumas exchanged a grave glance with Maroc and a clearly anguished Arminda pleaded, "Maxim Tier Marshal, I request that I be allowed to accompany one of the search parties...perhaps I can convince Lorio to return without incident."

Maroc pursed his lips and shook his head. "No...I would have you remain in the complex until this situation is resolved. Your emotional attachment to the immortal may well hinder efforts to see her returned to confinement...and I would not risk the possibility that you would suffer more abuse at her hands."

Arminda's face contorted into a mask of misery, but she nonetheless deferred to his authority with a bow. She began to turn away, but then hesitated and remarked tightly, "Lorio, Maxim Tier Marshall...her name is Lorio."

With this, she strode off through the falling snow with her head bowed and her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of her dismay. The two men watched in silence as she was swallowed by the darkness of the complex's lightless interior. Softly, Artumas observed, "You were right in not allowing her to escort the search parties. Lorio is, indeed, under the thrall of a shrewd and dangerous manipulator and it could well turn Arminda's affection against her...especially given her penchant for offering herself as a sacrifice should the situation seem to warrant it."

"Perhaps," Maroc returned, "And yet, it still seems that I've be complicit in something deplorable. There is something in that woman's inherent virtue that makes me feel oddly sullied by contrast." He shook his head in bemusement, then straightened and intoned worriedly, "If Lorio is determined not to be retaken...it may well take every mage in the city to bring her to heel...and not without a fair measure of blood and pain."

"This is a complication that we certainly didn't need," Artumas lamented, squinting against the wind-driven snow, "and I also think that it clearly demonstrates the threat that Islena poses, should she be allowed to ascend."

"It seems that Ossiran was correct in his proposed method of _removing_ Islena from the equation...though I doubt it would have changed the outcome of our war with Myrhia. Her victory was inevitable from the moment she unleashed the Morticants...and probably long before. Tokizar may well have been right...perhaps our fate is sealed and we can meet a noble end by insuring that Myrhia's juggernaut of conquest is confined to this world alone." The Jerhia surmised.

Artumas nodded sourly, but concurred, "I fear that you may be right. If Lorio is possessed by the very entity that would usurp control over Islena as she ascends to the status of a deity, then it certainly won't allow her to deliver the killing blow at the critical juncture."

"Which leaves us where exactly?" Maroc muttered.

"Maktir has disclosed that this sacred tree of Natzurdan will divine Islena's essence and deliver judgment...when she attempts to recover that nation's Icon. The only hope for salvation comes in the veracity of that claim," Artumas replied without a great deal of enthusiasm. In all that had occurred since his return from exile, nothing had transpired that would dispel his inherent mistrust of all things mystical. Sorcery, deities...these were mere euphemisms for instruments of calamity and misery...well-intended or otherwise. That the survival of humanity was now dependent upon a _tree_ to divine the essence of iniquity and eradicate it did little to inspire faith in the Emercian King.

' _And yet, are you not a product of the very thing that you now condemn?'_ the omnipresent Myrhia inquired from the shadows of his consciousness.

Artumas scowled and turned his face away from the Maxim Tier Marshal, lest the Jerhia discern his inner turmoil. To the spectral presence of the woman who had betrayed him, he retorted, _'If that question constitutes the sum of your argument, then you have been undone by your own logic. You, Islena and I...are proof perfect that sorcery is a force that humanity could well do without.'_

Just then, the heavy snap of wings rose above the gusting winds and drew every eye to the stormy skies, where a silhouette appeared over the rooftops, before spiraling down and coming to land gracefully in the center of the training yard. Sormias, cradling the huddled shape of the Jerhia scout, Sybian, furled his beautiful winds and swept his gregarious gaze about the training pitch. Seeing the unvaryingly grim expressions that adorned every face, he remarked cautiously, "Am I correct in assuming that this nocturnal gathering has not been inspired by good tidings?"

Artumas and Maroc hurried over to the Golgar and apprised him of what had just transpired. Sybian, appearing exhausted and slightly dazed from her aerial jaunt, bowed and withdrew, slumping against a wall and drawing deep breaths to regain her equilibrium. Sormias absorbed the tale in silence, but as he listened, an indecipherable expression slid over his refined features like a drape being drawn closed. There had been numerous occasions when the Golgar and the Lamish immortal had come into conflict...most precipitated by Lorio's inexplicable surliness toward Sormias. As Artumas related the news of Lorio's apparent possession, he could not help but wonder how the alien creature perceived this sorry turn of events.

Sormias glanced over at the milling search parties and inquired, "I'm guessing that you intend to conduct a search for the obstinate creature...in part to appease Islena and in part to protect any citizen of the city unfortunate enough to wander into the irascible woman's path?"

Maroc grinned at this succinct query, but Artumas frowned severely and replied, "Yes, in her present frame of mind, Lorio is a menace...not only to the general public, but herself as well."

Sormias beamed his customary broad grin and clapped the startled Emercian on the shoulder. "If you would have your hounds stand down, I will search for your truant immortal. I can cover great swathes of ground...even in this inimical weather."

When Artumas appeared reluctant to entrust the search to the Golgar, Maroc interjected, "His point is astute, Artumas. He is far more likely to find Lorio...assuming she hasn't gone to ground somewhere. What's more, if what I've heard is true...he may actually be able to subdue her without reducing the city to rubble in the process."

Artumas shifted his uneasy gaze to the Maxim Tier Marshal and then to the Golgar, who still wore the same accommodating grin. A notion germinated in the Emercian king's mind and he called for Esuruban to join the trio.

The battered Captain detached from his squad and hurried over to the pair. To his credit, his eyes widened only slightly in the face of the exotic creature that stood next to the king, glowing golden in the swirling snow. After making an introduction, Artumas instructed, "Sormias has graciously agreed to aid us in our search for Lorio. I would like you to accompany him. It's my desire to bring this episode to a conclusion without further injury and I believe that you have developed a _rapport_ with Lorio. I'm hoping you might be able to induce her to escort you back here without incident. If that proves impossible, Sormias possesses the means to prevent Lorio from causing any further harm." Here, he flicked the smiling Golgar a worried glance and added, "Even to herself."

Esuruban glanced at the improbable winged creature and then nodded. "Thank you, my King. I feel that somehow I have failed...not only you, but Lorio as well. I'm grateful for being given a chance to atone for that failure."

"You decided to forgo arming yourself?" Artumas observed, shifting his regard to the empty scabbard at the Captain's hip.

Esuruban nodded sheepishly and explained, "I hoped that by presenting myself to her unarmed, she would see that I pose no threat. Perhaps that is naiveté considering what transpired here this night...but it is still something I wish to attempt."

Artumas clapped the startled Emercian on the shoulder and remarked, "There is never a need to apologize for displaying empathy and compassion, Captain...at least, not in any country over which I will rule. You have my gratitude for undertaking this delicate task."

Sormias stepped behind the Emercian and intoned, "It is not everyday that a mortal has the opportunity to view the world from aloft...even if the weather is hostile. I suspect this will be an experience you do not soon forget, Captain."

Esuruban nodded to signal that he was ready and the Golgar swept him up beneath the arms and spiraled up into the roiling sky. He hovered there for a moment and then flew out over the west wall of the compound. Artumas watched him go and then turned to Maroc, who was still grappling with the tangible reality of a flying man. "Let us hope that on this one occasion, good fortune smiles upon us."

Maroc nodded gravely and the two men made their way into complex, knowing that the night was destined to be a long and sleepless passing of hours.

2

"All's I know is that the bastards pulled up stakes and ran...not long after them blue behemoths left. They didn't even bother to properly empty out the supply sheds and barracks and I can tell ya' that the looters had a right celebration carting off the weaponry they pilfered," the barkeep rasped, his voice deep and phlegmy as if stricken by some lung affliction. The air rattled in his flabby chest as if passing through a punctured bellows and from her perspective behind the ensorcelled Dendarin, Sygeanor could clearly discern that this obese wretch's time above the earth was at a dearth. He wiped his hands on a dirty cloth and leaned across the badly scarred and ale-stained bar, fixing the handsome Jerhia with a sly gaze of appraisal, "You ain't from around here...is ya'?"

The scout smiled broadly and reaching into his traveling satchel, produced a pair of gleaming gold coins and laid them on the bar before the odious man. When Dendarin spoke, his voice was friendly, yet couched in his tone was an implicit threat that the barkeep could not fail to recognize. In a pleasant tone, the Jerhia suggested, "Let me be the one to ask the questions...I think we'll both be happier in the long run...don't you...what was the name again?"

"Trincher...it is," the obese tavern owner replied even as his heart began to accelerate in his chest. His glance slid over the blond man's shoulder to the hooded figure that hovered behind the man like a malefic shadow. Despite his bulk, Trincher literally flinched in the face of this figure...who was very obviously a pleasing-proportioned female beneath the hooded robe. Though her face was obscured by the deep shadows of her hood, he could literally feel her gaze upon him and before he averted his eyes back to the blond man with the amiable grin and the cold blue eyes, the portly barkeep thought that he had detected two luminous gray eyes watching him with a mixture of impatience and contempt. Whoever these two might be, Trincher suddenly decided that he had no desire to discover either their identities or their purpose for straying into a forgotten bog like Wraith's hollow. He knew only that he wanted them gone as quickly as circumstances would allow. "Sorry...we don't get many travelers this far off the King's Highway is all...curiosity and boredom sometime makes a man ask questions that are better left unspoken is all."

The man nodded solemnly and returned, "You're correct about unspoken questions, Trincher...indeed, curiosity can be a dangerous thing." His icy gaze narrowed and he asked pointedly, "It's odd how you said _King's Highway_ ...when I was under the impression that everything in this sorry country belonged to the Queen...including this sty of an establishment."

Trincher recoiled at this barb, but was wise enough not to give voice to the acerbic rejoinder that was dying to pass his pursed lips. Prudently choosing diplomacy, he replied, "Well, perhaps I did misspeak, but rumor has it that the King has come out of exile and taken the throne back without so much as an arrowed loosed or a sword unsheathed."

For the first time since the pair had entered the tavern and cornered Trincher, the woman spoke...her tone reminding the now apprehensive tavern owner of desiccating leaves being blown over paving stones before a November wind. "Are you suggesting that the enchantress has abandoned the country and allowed the monarchy to claim the throne...that Fairmarch is again a free nation?"

There was a disconcerting sense of urgency...of primitive excitement in her voice...that made Trincher shudder. The blond man had the look of a ruthlessly efficient killer, but this hooded female exuded menace...and madness in equal measure. It was evident that the concealed woman expected an answer and so Trincher fumbled to offer some manner of coherent response, though in truth he could make little sense out of the stupefying change of course that events had taken in the last few weeks. "It'd seem so. The last merchant through here told that the old King is back in control in Dizar Kor and the king's guard now patrol's the highways in the south of the country. It's said that royal couriers have been dispatched, all carryin' the same message; all local magistrates are expected to restore old royal law...and those who don't can expect to suffer for their laggardness."

The woman seemed to ponder this insight for several moments and then demanded, "And you have no knowledge of what has inspired this radical shift in Fairmarch's fortune?"

"There's a hundred different tales being put about...each one more incredible than the last, but I would credit them as nothing more than a pile of shite. Whatever the reason, the murderous bastards from both the north and the south have pulled out and I say the pox take the lot of 'em." After a moment's careful consideration, he added, "The old king was no prize, but at least he was one of us and mayhaps life can return to something like it use to be. If so, the whys and wherefores don't matter a damn, do they?"

The woman leaned an elbow on the bar and shifted closer. "Ah, that is where you are wrong, my corpulent friend...the reasons for the bitch's hasty departure are the _only_ thing that matters." She laid her hand on the blond man's left shoulder and he turned his vacant gaze to her in an oddly mechanical way that caused Trincher to grimace internally. Something in his demeanor made the handsome stranger appear...enthralled. "My friend here is going to provide you with another few gold coins and in return, you will take all steps necessary to insure the safety of the wagon that is now parked in your stable. Mark me well, ale-slinger, should dawn find that my property has been tampered with, you will find yourself stripped of the excess baggage that you've dragged about these last years of your adult life. I trust we have an understanding?"

Trincher swallowed with an audible click as something incisive pierced the fabric of his plodder's mind. An image blossomed against the tapestry of his subconscious, one so vivid and horrifying that it was all he could not to repress the scream that wanted to burst from his thick lips. He saw himself hanging from a wooden beam in the stables behind his tavern, suspended by his bound wrists. He was naked and judging by the ghastly bluish hue of his flesh...quite dead. His intestines hung from a huge rent in his fat belly and a cloud of flies feasted on his viscera. In a luxuriant purr, the woman demanded, "I said...I trust we have an understanding?"

"We...we do at that. I'll see to it myself."

"That is well...and there will be more gold to line your pockets come the morning. Now, one final question and you can give me a key to one of your rooms, where I'll require a bath be drawn and food prepared."

"I'll tell ya' what I can...but in Wraith's Hollow news of the outside world is slow in coming," Trincher allowed cautiously.

"Have you heard any credible new about what might be happening beyond the borders of Fairmarch?"

"As I said...lot's of talk, but nothing worth believing." When the figure inclined her hooded head in what he construed to be a gesture of displeasure, the portly tavern owner quickly added, "The one common ingredient in every tale is that the fightin' in the west is done. It's even being put about that King Artumas has returned from the grave...some say with a leash around his neck and others claiming that he's come across the Hiberas with the bitch's head on a spike."

The hooded woman grunted noncommittally and turned away. The blond man extended his lean right arm and remarked, "The key to you largest room. Remember, hot water for a bath and food for two...perhaps a flagon of what passes for you finest ale."

The blond inclined his head toward the hooded woman and offered Trincher a suggestive wink that caused the fat man to blink. The notion of passing an intimate night with a creature as terrifying as the hooded woman was about as appealing as being chewed on by rabid rats, but the tavern owner managed a weak smile. He handed the man a small silver key on a leather fob and provided him with directions to the room, breathing a sigh when the pair moved off and pushed their way through the crowded common room that was already starting to fill up with the regular patrons.

As they made their way through the throng, Trincher noticed how the patrons...even those who were normally surly and disinclined to make way for the king himself...quickly and automatically made every unconscious effort to remove themselves from the woman's path as if she might be the bearer of some terrible plague. He continued to chart their course until they made their way to the stairs that ran along the rear wall of his tavern and then vanished into the relative darkness of the second floor.

' _You've just stood in the presence of enormous evil here...and it has marked you well,'_ the voice of his long-dead and all but forgotten mother turned his thick blood to ice in his veins and Trincher was forced to grip the edges of his scuffed bar just to remain vertical. When he had regained a semblance of his composure, the corpulent tavern owner hurried to arrange for the demon's dinner.

3

The fire crackled in the hearth, adding to the almost narcoleptic haze that hung over the room, bathing it in muted and ever-shifting shades of yellow and orange. On the room's large bed, a very naked Sygeanor lounged indolently with her torso propped on a drift of pillows and her pewter gray mane arrayed around her like a corona that shimmered in the fire's glow. One long, leanly muscled leg was draped over Dendarin's muscular left shoulder and her fingers tenderly stroked the back of his neck...sometimes gently and other times more firmly when she wished to encourage the enamored Jerhia to continue with a particular deft stroke of his exceptionally talented tongue.

As he knelt before her, lost in the smooth folds of her womanhood, pleasing her with a skill and ardor that had left her thoroughly addicted to his captive talents, Sygeanor ran the big toe of her left foot along the length of his up-thrust, throbbing erection. She smiled in response to his muffled sigh, but to his credit, Dendarin did not falter in his skilled ministrations and she could feel her taut flesh responding to the cresting wave of pleasure that announced the impending moment of soaring release. His hands glided up the sides of her torso and molded to her full breasts, his thumbs gently stroking her nipples until they stood as erect as his manhood.

A part of Sygeanor was surprised by the ease and speed at which she had become accustomed to these nocturnal bouts of intimacy. She had long lived the life of an ascetic...focusing her energies entirely upon augmenting and perfecting her gift, while eschewing the worldly inducements that seemed to preoccupy so much of the time of those around her. The ensorcelled Dendarin, with his incredible aptitude for bestowing pleasure upon a woman, had quickly dislodged her from that old posture of aloofness. She had not been particularly disturbed by this rapid progression from restraint to abandon. In the world she would eventually fashion...indulgence would be encouraged. There would be no constraints on power or knowledge and Metocan would shrug off the old puritanical limits and let its people explore the venues of sorcery...both light and dark. Pleasure, such as the almost excruciatingly intense delight she was experiencing now, would never be regarded as anything but a natural tendency...to be pursued and embraced with abandon. There was a special brand of enlightenment to be found in the darkness and Sygeanor was of an intrepid heart...enough so that she would gleefully plunge into the deepest shadows to discover its source.

The tip of Dendarin's tongue found precisely the right spot and Sygeanor's entire body stiffened and her back arch as a gasp of primal pleasure burst from her tightly compressed lips. She pressed his face into the confluence of her passion and then encircled his head with her left leg, lest he draw back before the last of the tremors had wrung every last bit of pleasure from her flesh. When the last of the quakes had subsided, she pressed the sole of her right foot against his face and pushed him away with a dismissive flexing of her leanly-muscled leg.

He sat on the thread-bare rug, gazing at her expectantly, a slight smile playing at his generous mouth. She glanced down at his impressive erection with a disdainful smirk. She could feel the intensity of his need for release and grinned disdainfully. In a voice of feigned sympathy, she intoned, "I wish I could satisfy your hunger, my beautiful toy...but there are grave matters afoot and I must reach out to the geldings that presume to command me."

A light seemed to gutter in Dendarin's eyes, but he nodded dutifully and settled against the foot of her bed, with his back to her and his watchful gaze set upon the door to their lodgings. She knelt on the edge of the bed and leaning forward until her full breasts pressed against his muscular shoulders; Sygeanor brought her lips to Dendarin's ear and whispered. "I would have you guard me well, my brave protector...should anyone attempt to do me harm while I walk the ethereal ways."

She pulled his earlobe between her teeth and sat back with a giggle. Settling into a cross-legged position at the center of her bed, Sygeanor allowed her chin to settle to her chest and effortlessly disentangled her spirit from her flesh. As she rose through the tavern's ceiling and out into the sultry night, the half-Ulgak decided that she would reward her devoted puppet upon her return with the release she had denied him since making him her creature in the desolate mountain passes of Redia. Little did she know that her simple act of projection, undertaken without any thought to the consequences, would be his undoing.

4

Inos again found himself alone with the lifeless vessel that had only recently held the spirit of the only living being he had ever genuinely loved...for all of his devotion to evolved principles and higher ideals. Her chilling countenance seemed to exude a certain... _contentment_ , though the grieving Metocan suspected that he was seeing only what would provide him with a small measure of solace in the face of unimaginable loss and sorrow.

Tomorrow, he would conduct the Rite of Dissemination and Tokizar would pass into memory, her spirit into union with the eternal essence that shaped the world. He had presided over a dozen such solemn rites in his years as Grand Mage, but never once had it touched him on such an intimate level. With Tokizar's death, Inos gained a fresh perspective on the folly that characterized all human endeavors...the grand aspirations and the vile machinations alike; these things were suddenly reduced to meaninglessness in the face of acute and personal loss. The loss of this precious, passionate and often stubborn woman made it painfully clear that all that he had achieved was of little consequence because his life was still fundamentally empty because, when he stepped away from the great stage of the age's drama and the incessant need of the people, Inos found himself confronted with an emptiness that could drive the most inured of heart's to despair.

' _How often do we obsess and fixate on the trivial, raising our concerns to matters of exigency, while ignoring those very people that give our life legitimate color and value?'_ Inos wondered sullenly. In the end, the virtues of simplicity are often the ones that self-absorbed mortals seemed to ignore the most frequently, only realizing what they've foregone when it is too late to make amends.

He regarded Tokizar glumly and inhaled deeply, preparing to make his way to what promised to be a futile attempt at sleep, when the air in the viewing hall abruptly thickened and the temperature seemed to plummet. Inos recognized the signature of projection sorcery and knew that he was about to receive a visitor as desperately as he craved only to be left alone.

Initially, he feared that he would be confronted by the enchantress, returning to deliver another heart-rending lesson in the precarious and fragile nature of life, but the diaphanous figure who appeared before him inspired no less dismay once fully manifested.

Sygeanor swept her gaze around the cavernous hall of departure and the allowed it to settle on the remains of Tokizar, to whose demise she reacted with cold indifference. "Grand Mage, it seems that your circle of friend's grows smaller by the day."

His answering grimace brought a smile to her spectral lips and in a rare moment of petulance, Inos offered a fervent wish that it was Sygeanor lying on the cold slab and not the noble Tokizar. In a churlish voice, he snapped, "Where are you...and why have you come now?"

Sygeanor's disdainful grin broadened and she intoned, "If I didn't know better, I would think that you are not particularly delighted to see me, Grand Mage. As much as you may wish it so, you can see that I am still amongst the living. As to where I am and why I've come...the first question is not as relevant as where I _wish_ to eventually be." Here, she cast a significant glance at the Grand Mage, but offered no further elaboration. "I have come to determine what has transpired since my departure. The world appears to have been beset by chaos and I would have you apprise me of all that had transpired in this last weeks."

A primal instinct warned Inos to be extremely sparing in his account of what had befallen the world since Sygeanor had parted ways with the expeditionary force, but he decided to ignore his intuition, hoping that he could dissuade the rogue half-Ulgak from persisting in her mad scheme to bring the fight to Emercia's capital. Still, the Grand Mage was extremely selective in what he chose to impart to Sygeanor, whom had had now come to regard as every bit of a threat to the prospect of peace as the enchantress.

Sygeanor absorbed the account in silence, though her countenance began to flicker and darken like a mammoth storm looming on the horizon. When Inos had concluded his truncated recounting, she shook her head in utter disgust and rasped, "So, with tails between your legs, you've collectively decided to lick her boots like beaten dogs. I suppose I should have expected no less."

"Sygeanor, I need you to return to Othgol...at once!" Inos growled, knowing that he had no real authority to command this rogue creature

She regarded him with a sardonic smirk, both understanding the dynamic that governed their dysfunctional relationship. "Do you indeed? I'm afraid I will have to decline your invitation as I am otherwise engaged at present."

Patiently, Inos implored, "Sygeanor, Maroc has apprised us of your _agenda_ and I am telling...no, begging you to desist in this madness."

Sygeanor's image flared to a near blinding magnitude that caused the Grand Mage to shield his eyes as she blared, "You have absolutely no right to _tell_ me anything...you surrendered that right the moment you severed your manhood and handed it willingly to the murderous bitch!"

Sensing that nothing productive would come from following this contentious path, Inos switched topics, inquiring, "Sygeanor, where are the others that served as your escort...will you not tell me where you are and what the situation is there?"

Sygeanor's answering grin was positively feral as she cooed, "I'm afraid that the escort met with a spell of misfortune on the way out of Redia. Brigands are a ubiquitous threat in the wake of Myrhia's withdrawal."

"You're...saying that...the entire escort is...dead?" Inos stammered, having little doubt that there deaths were not met at the hand of brigands.

"All save for a Jerhia named Dendarin...who has committed himself to serving me in my quest..." Sygeanor let this last unsettling thought hang between them and then added, "Here in Fairmarch, some semblance of order has been restored and it appears that the old king has slid forth from his burrow and reclaimed his throne without opposition."

"Sygeanor, you must listen to me...Islena Doraux has conceived of an audacious scheme to vanquish Myrhia, but it is entirely dependent upon our ability to convince Myrhia that we have capitulated to her. If you go forward and attempt this monstrous act of evil, you risk destroying this delicate balance...not to mention immolating tens of thousands of innocent people in the process. You have done enough...return to Othgol."

Sygeanor arched an eyebrow and laid an index finger along her jaw in a posture of contemplation. "Upon my return, you will honor our agreement of course and groom me as your eventual successor?"

"I will," Inos declared firmly, but only after a slight hesitation that Sygeanor discerned and interpreted perfectly.

"You have no aptitude for mendacity, Grand Mage," Sygeanor laughed, "except for the self-serving delusion you would tell yourself to forgive your myriad imperfections. Honor is a mercurial quality with men of your ilk...I see that now. Grovel and cower at Myrhia's feet if you will, but it is my intention to strike a vengeful blow in honor of those who have fallen beneath the tyrant's fist. When I am done, there will be little doubt that there is another path forward...other than craven submission."

Inos frowned, privately cursing his maladroit handling of this latest complication. Exhaustion and sorrow had dulled his faculty of persuasion, but the grieving Metocan was determined to retrieve the situation. "I have not deceived you, Sygeanor...though I will confess to being... _disappointed_ in the way you have conducted yourself since departing Othgol. Still, I have made a vow and even if that vow was extracted under duress, I am not a man who takes his promises lightly. You have within you the potential to be an unprecedented force for good, but only if you eschew this path you have elected to tread. Your actions at the mine...and particularly those taken at Dornsark Abbey...were reprehensible by any civilized standard."

"I judged that we could not allow a potential knife to remain poised at our backs," Sygeanor bristled defensively. "These religious zealots have no loyalty to anything but their delusions. I could not risk that they would betray us to the nearest roving Emercian patrol in exchange for immunity from future persecution."

' _At least she did not dismiss me with an indifferent wave,'_ Inos thought with a measure of hopeful optimism. "Sygeanor, the difference between ruthless pragmatism and evil tyranny is so subtle as to be imperceptible. This is something you must come to understand if you wish to be a worthy Grand Mage. What you are contemplating doing in Nalosan goes far beyond ruthless pragmatism and strays into the domain of undiluted evil. I will ask you again...renege and return to me here in Othgol. The situation here is delicate beyond comprehension and I have need of your abilities."

Sygeanor's hovering specter floated closer, studying Inos' weary face for some hint of disingenuousness. Seeing none, she fell silent and turned away. "It is said that the entire eastern continent has fallen into a state of violent anarchy...is this true?"

"To some degree, yes. With the sudden withdrawal of civil authority, some of the worst human proclivities have risen to the fore. The other leaders have asked that an expeditionary force and a scouting mission be assemble to assess the exact nature of the situation in the east."

She spun back to face the Grand Mage and revealed, "I'm in Central Fairmarch and the situation here is surprisingly stable. It seems that when the old king reclaimed his throne and restored royal authority to the country, the anxious citizens were more than happy to accept their old yoke."

"If only the other nations were so prudent our long catalogue of woes would be lessened...if only marginally," Inos lamented. "

Sygeanor greeted this observation with a sour scowl, but then inquired, "You said that the witch intends to gather the remaining two Proclamations...where is she now?"

Inos hesitated, correctly deducing the reaction his next disclosure might provoke. Still, evasion was pointless and so he revealed, "Myrhia and Islena have departed for Northern Ulgak...along with a sizable accompaniment of Morticants. Islena believes that the orb of Metocan is located somewhere in an isolated mountain range in the remote northeastern corner of the province."

Sygeanor's large gray eyes grew impossibly wide and her expression curdled into one of horrified consternation and though her expression settled back into its usual contentious glare, her disquiet was obvious. "The Ulgak will never bow to the enchantress...they will rise up against her. There is much about my people that you don't know...resources and skills that are formidable."

"That would be most unfortunate, Sygeanor. Myrhia has made it clear that she will obliterate any opposition." He cast a sorrowful glance at Tokizar and concluded, "I can personally attest that Myrhia is not a woman to utter idle threats. With a mind to forestalling that tragic eventuality, I have dispatched Kevlan to act as an emissary and hopefully convince the Ulgak from doing anything precipitous."

"Kevlan? That mewling gelding loathes the Ulgak. He would gleefully see us all dead!" Sygeanor insisted hotly, shocking Inos with the intensity of the enmity she harbored toward the placid young Metocan. An uncomfortable silence descended on the chamber while the flickering image of the increasingly unstable Sygeanor brooded over her next course of action. Finally, she turned her gaze on Inos, her expression rife with deadly promise, and revealed, "I will continue on my journey to Nalosan, Grand Mage...as far as Dizar Kor. You claim that, once Myrhia has accrued the other two Proclamations, it is her intent to return to Nalosan and enact Islena Doraux's ritual of ascension. When she does, I will be waiting...and watching. Should this alien's gambit fail, I will be there to feed the enchantress a taste of her own vile medicine...and should the city of Nalosan vanish in a storm of fire as a consequence, consider its destruction the price of your craven capitulation."

Madness emanated from the half-Ulgak in palpable waves, causing Inos to blanch in the face of her willingness to see thousands to their fiery end. Still, at least he had achieved a small victory of sorts simply by convincing her not to unleash her amplified sorcery on the city upon arrival. He understood that he had merely _deferred_ the problem of how to deal with the rogue sorceress, but under the circumstances, it was the best outcome he could manage. Trying not to choke on his next odious utterance, he remarked, "That is a prudent course of action...a contingency in the event that Islena cannot orchestrate her delicate deception. You have my blessing, Sygeanor...and despite all that has happened since your departure from Othgol...I am glad to see you well."

Now it was Sygeanor's turn to display an expression of surprise, followed closely by her natural tendency toward suspicion. Inos managed to muster a smile of encouragement and continued, "I would ask that you keep me apprised of all that you discover in the course of your journey to Dizar Kor...especially anything credible you might learn pertaining to the situation beyond Fairmarch's borders. I, in turn, will communicate with you should anything critical transpire here. Sygeanor, if you are willing to adhere to this plan we have crafted, I shall not mention this conversation to the other leaders and in this way, our _contingency_ will have less likelihood of discovery."

After a protracted moment, a crooked grin cracked Sygeanor's face and she intoned, "Why Inos, you possess a talent for subterfuge that is frankly...unexpected. Perhaps there is much that you can teach me after all...about the art of rule. We have an accord." Before Inos could breathe a sigh of relief over his adroit defusing of Sygeanor's mad ambition, the contentious Ulgak inquired, "And what of the murderous bitch, Lorio...where is she? I would have her delivered to me, bound and naked, so that I can begin the long process of making her atone for her cowardly slaughter of my father."

Inos felt his mind cringe at the repulsive image of Lorio being subject to a prolonged, horrific campaign of torture at the hands of this clearly deranged madwoman, though his face betrayed none of his dismay. "In all honesty, I have no idea where Lorio is at this time. She has returned from the Land of Shades a pale and fractured shadow of what she once was. I will tell you this, Sygeanor...Lorio is under Islena Doraux's protection and by extension, Myrhia's. If your intention is to harm her, you will quickly find that you have become the focal point of their cumulative wrath."

Inos anticipated that this remarked might inspire another of Sygeanor's tirades. Instead, she had surprised him by offering a disturbing smile and retorting coyly, "Then I shall be patient...when these two have departed this world there will be time enough to settle this festering grievance. Indeed, I will tend it the way a gardener would tend her garden...allowing my hatred to take root in the stony soil of my heart, Inos."

Nonplused, the Grand mage made no response and Sygeanor uttered a mirthful chuckle. "Do I unsettle you, Inos? Fear not, I will do nothing to undermine your craven accord with the monster...at least, not for the time being." Her expression became menacing and the Grand Mages suddenly found himself caught in a slowly constricting vice that caused him to cry out in alarm. Sygeanor's image flickered and materialized next to the anxious Metocan and she admonished, "Mark me well, Inos, if Ulgak should suffer as a consequence of your cowardice, I will hold you accountable...and you will know _my_ wrath."

With this grave warning delivered, Sygeanor's projection guttered and vanished as did the restraints that had terrorized the Grand Mages. He sagged against the dais upon which chilled poor Tokizar's corpse and buried his face in his trembling hands. The bleak future seemed to stretch before the embattled Grand Mage like a crumbling ribbon of stone across the fiery abyss and in his current state of despair, Inos was not so certain that it wouldn't be preferable to simply allow it to vanish beneath his feet and consign him to the void.

5

As she stumbled through the unprecedented winter storm, allowing her feet to lead her where they would, Lorio was accosted by an endless procession of torments. Faces loomed out of the writhing sheets of driven snow...their spectral countenances each twisted in expressions of horror and agony. She would wave a bare arm and they would dissolve on the howling wind...only to reappear a few paces later.

Lorio moved steadily forward with neither clear intention nor destination. She was immune to the inimical bite of the wind and unlike Islena, who had suffered mightily during her ordeal, the immortal traipsed through the raging blizzard, only peripherally aware of its fury. When she had scaled the perimeter wall and fled into the night, the haranguing voices in her head had fallen mercifully silent, but try as she might, Lorio could not conjure the precise shape of their incessant exhortations.

' _You're ill, Lorio...your mind is...infirmed,'_ a voice informed her with an unaccountable satisfaction. She uttered a frustrated curse and came to a stumbling halt, gazing, squint-eyed, along the wide avenue on which she now found herself. The late hour and the hostile weather had left the streets of the Capital virtually deserted with the exception of the poor, beleaguered immortal and the restless shades that assailed her. She attempted to remember what had transpired in the training yard, but the last clear memory she could recall was toying with the handsome Emercian captain, who was game and courageous, but woefully overmatched, but then _something_ had happened and her recollections had become a muddied series of discordant and chaotic fragments. For some inexplicable reason, they had all turned upon her...Artumas, Arminda; they had tried to harm her...to subdue her. Why?

" _Because, to a one, they would see Islena dead and know that you are an impediment to that odious ambition,'_ the voice of the enchantress informed her gravely, the dulcet tone of her words making the immortal shudder where the cold could not. Lorio shook her head and resumed her aimless wandering, slanting off across an open common in the direction of a large, gated area that was lost in a mantle of darkness. Behind her, the immortal's tracks were quickly covered by the blowing snow and the gusting curtains of wind-driven snow had now reduced visibility to no more than a few lengths.

As she quickened her pace to a jog, Lorio could feel the fresh stirrings of the harassing voices in her head and moaned a cry of negation. Something deplorable had passed between Myrhia and her, leaving the immortal eternally damned, though she could not divine its exact shape. She had betrayed Islena, but specifically how, she simply could not remember.

She came to a barred gate and peering through the wrought iron bars, Lorio could see the looming silhouettes of what appeared to be ancient mausoleums. Before the storm that was Islena Doraux had descended upon her simple life and dragged her into its vortex, Lorio had lived a life of comparative isolation. The Lamish were a self-centered people with no desire to learn anything of the custom and traditions of other peoples of the antiquated world they shared. She had no way of knowing that she was standing outside of one of the last remaining graveyards in the country of Metocan. Meticulously preserved by warding magic, it harkened back to the days of the Metocan's distant ancestors, who practiced the pagan ritual of burying their dead in the earth. Though this primitive tradition had given way to the sacred ritual of dissemination, every generation still took every measure to preserve this reminder of the formative centuries of their venerable culture.

Lorio was aware of none of this as she gripped the iron bar that secured the massive gates and employing her Morticant strength, twisted it as if it was no more of an obstacle than a length of delicate ribbon. She threw open one of the gates and plunged into the near absolute darkness of this ancient repository for the dead. A rush of snow followed in her wake, spreading over the vibrantly green and lush grass like a blight that quickly melted and vanished in the face of the sustained Metocan sorcery that preserved this hallowed ground.

In her present state of harried distraction, the immortal was only obliquely aware that she had wandered into an anomalous zone where the temperature and conditions never varied despite the prevailing climate beyond the gates. She meandered through the exquisite shrines, pausing briefly to glance at the indecipherable inscriptions that honored men and women who had perished more than seven millennia ago.

' _Remember, only you and I can save Islena...the rest would see her moldering in a grave to save their wretched skins.'_ This fragment of conversation impacted upon her battered consciousness with the fury of a breaking tempest, causing her to cry out and sag against the nearest stone mausoleum, where she slid along the cool stone and settled on the eerily brilliant grass. Closing her eyes, she clutched her temples and willed herself to concentrate on what had passed between the two mortal enemies in her chamber earlier.

Like a dam bursting violently beneath the churning force of what it is attempting to restrain, the horrible details of the black encounter came back to her in a torrent. Myrhia materialized against the tapestry of her troubled mind and began to reproach her for her ambivalence. _'You cling to the belief that, by having revealed the shape of Islena's subterfuge to me, you have betrayed her...have forsaken her desire to meet this purported noble end...a grand sacrifice for the age. Lorio, can you not distinguish between genuine intent and desperation. Unlike me, who has embraced the grim truth of her nature with complete acceptance, Islena stubbornly rebels against all that she has discovered and while I cannot blame her for her dejection, the task of preventing her from committing an ultimately pointless act of self-immolation must fall to you...the one person who loves her without equivocation.'_

Lorio groaned and allowed her head to settle back against the cold stone, but still this unwelcome intruder would not desist in her facile seduction. _'I have promised that I will devote myself to Islena's ascension...to seeing her to her rightful place in the pantheon of deities that rule the realities. More significantly for you...I have vowed that you will have an eternal place at her side. If you eschew this egalitarian offer, ask yourself what prospect the future holds for you...once you've seen Islena to her tragic and pointless end.'_

The inarticulate wail that escaped Lorio's twisted lips was followed by a spate of disdainful laughter, offered in the voice her deceased father. _'Even you can't be gullible enough to believe a word that passes this murderous bitch's lips.'_ After a considered moment of silence, the voice amended incredulously, _'But perhaps you can be that stunningly obtuse...or pathetically desperate.'_

' _The choice is yours, Lorio, you can succumb to your inculcated cynicism...or you can find the courage to embrace the inconceivable and accept that I am your only hope of preventing Islena from either dying or worse still, falling victim to the monster that lurks in the black recesses of her heart,'_ the voice of Myrhia intoned with something that sounded remarkably like sympathy.

"And now in mine," Lorio murmured, for which her unwelcome internal companion had no response. In that moment of crystalline insight, Lorio discerned the salient truth that governed her present situation...Even if Myrhia was spinning another clever web of deception; they _were_ united by one common purpose. As divergent as their individual reasons might be, both women wanted to see Islena Doraux live. For the time being, that was all that genuinely mattered. The specifics of who thwarted whose manipulation of Islena could be resolved later, but for now, Lorio had no alternative but to secretly work to serve Myrhia's purpose.

' _You've allowed you impetuous nature to put you in another compromising position, girl,'_ her dead father pointed out with a malicious delight. _'By foolishly attacking the Emercian King, you've made the notion of protecting Islena virtually impossible. You must truly relish the taste of crow, girl, because you're going to have to gorge yourself on it if you are ever to get close enough to the woman to actually save her.'_

While she reflected on how she had come to despise this relentlessly cruel specter, Lorio understood that his observation was accurate. She had permitted her impulsive behavior to put her into yet another untenable position by exhibiting a level of instability that would insure that the leaders would never allow her within a league of Islena. "Perhaps that's for the best," she whispered to the indifferent wind. "Without me, Islena has no way of fulfilling her scheme of self-destruction."

Even as she spoke the words, the beleaguered immortal understood that they were founded on seriously flawed logic. If events left to run their current course, Islena would ascend and the shadow incarnation would eventually seized control of her vulnerable mind. Even here, her purpose was tightly aligned with the enchantress, who, if nothing else, was also fervently committed to evicting this blight from Islena's mind.

And thus the internal debate raged back and forth between her inherent abhorrence and mistrust of Myrhia and her incontestable need to serve the black creature's agenda. Focused inward, the normally perceptive Lorio failed to notice as two figures spiraled down out of the raging blizzard, passing into the bubble of magically warded space and landing near the open gate.

Sormias released Esuruban, who stood for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to regain his footing on mercifully solid ground. The Emercian brushed snow from his cloak and peered about the expanse of grass, clearly perplexed by the improbable oasis in the middle of the storm. Seeing his expression of amazement, Sormias offered the bemused Emercian a grin and whispered, "These Metocan are indeed a resourceful lot. I will remain here while you approach the immortal. My presence seems to provoke her foulest moods."

Esuruban nodded and inhaled to calm his jangled nerves, his face and body still smarting from the beating he had absorbed at Lorio's less than tender hands earlier in the evening. He started slowly toward the spot where she sat on the grass, leaning against one of the strange Metocan barrows with her head bowed as if lost in contemplation. It occurred to him that he had no real notion what he might actually say to her or how she was likely to react to his sudden appearance and that uncomfortable realization did little to assuage his anxiety.

He came steadfastly forward and stopped some tens paces from where she sat, before offering, "Good Lady...Lorio...will you let me help you?"

Her head jerked up to meet his gaze and for a moment, he spied the presence of a pain and confusion the enormity of which he could scarcely conceive. Then a belligerent scowl slipped over her face like a veil and she demanded, "So Captain, have you come to drag me back to my old cell?"

Esuruban lifted both arms and tilted his head toward his empty scabbard. "As you can see, I lack the means to compel you...even if I was so inclined. I volunteered to help find you...out of concern for your wellbeing and with a hope that I might escort you back to the complex and your quarters."

Lorio inclined her chin in the direction of the silhouette lurking near the shadow gates, her face twisting into a moue of distaste as the sight of the loathsome Golgar. "And is he not here to subdue me...should I be unwilling to accept you kind offer of assistance, Captain? If so, then I can tell you now that I would rather die than let that repulsive insect lay his hands upon me."

Sormias' amiable expression did not alter as he floated closer and remarked, "Ah, I see that the intervening days between now and when last we met have done nothing to diminish your considerable charm."

Lorio glowered and then started to rise, before reason prevailed upon her not to allow her damnable temper to goad her into furthering her already difficult situation. Esuruban fixed Sormias with a pleading glance and the Golgar's expression became sober. "I have witnessed your suffering first hand, good lady...especially in the Land of Shades and it is certainly not my intention to add to your catalogue of suffering. Like my good companion here, I only wish to see you return to a place where you can be cared for. Perhaps I am unfamiliar with the complexities of the human heart, but even I can see that your surliness and rancor is but an armor to conceal your fractured spirit."

Now Lorio did leap to her feet and challenged, "Do you think me weak...a frail thing that needs your pity?"

Sormias did not take affront to this sudden aggression even as Esuruban moved to impose himself between the pair, correctly guessing that there was an acrimonious history between the two. _'Though I suspect that most of the enmity would find its origins in Lorio's quarter.'_

"Weak...frail? Never. What I see before me and what I have witnessed as we traveled through the Land of Shades...is a woman of unassailable courage and strength. I also see a woman whose intrepid spirit has been fractured and is need of compassion," Sormias intoned in a rare tone of solemnity. "I have no wish to harm you and like this good fellow, I would plead that you return to the complex of your own volition."

Lorio began to speak, but fell silent, so utterly astounded was she by this unexpected declaration of sincere and honest kindness. She glanced to Esuruban, whose battered face was yet another indictment against her increasingly unstable nature. He was watching her expectantly, clearly hoping that she would agree to return without further incident. She hung her head and murmured, "I'm sorry for what I did to you in the gaming yard...it was deplorable and needlessly cruel. I can't even promise that it won't happen again, given the right circumstances, but if you'll accept my apology, I'll go back with you...without further incident."

The Emercian breathed a deep sigh of relief and flicked a glance of gratitude at the Golgar, before inquiring, "Are you cold, Lorio...would you like my cloak?"

Lorio chuckled...a humorless sound amidst the lodgings of the long dead and intoned, "You are insufferably chivalrous, Captain. I am immortal and thus immune to the ravages of the cold and heat. It's interaction with other humans that seems to harm me the most. Esuruban...I can't let them lock me up again...even if it's precisely what I deserve. I want you to swear to me that you won't let them put me back in that storage room."

Though this plea was delivered in a strong, unwavering voice, both Sormias and Esuruban could clearly discern the desperate trepidation that capered beneath. In a voice made thick with emotion, Esuruban promised, "I'll do everything that I can to insure that does not happen, Lorio...if you can promise me that you'll resist the impulses that drive you to these...unfortunate outbursts."

"If you stay with me...at least until Islena returns...I will," she returned with an indecipherable twinkle in her large, dark eyes.

"I'll speak to my king and ask that he assign me to you until your friend's return," Esuruban promised, privately wondering if there was any request he could refuse this wondrous, complicated creature...even if she was to routinely abuse him as she had earlier. This volatile immortal posed not only a danger to his physical being, but also to his ingenuous heart. Sormias watched Lorio bring her charm to bear on the noble Emercian, privately pitying the man, who had not the slightest notion just what he had become entangled with. Lorio further amplified the soldier's discomfort, when she came forward and drew the man into an embrace and kissed his bruise brow.

After a protracted moment, she disengaged and stepped away. Esuruban blushed furiously and stammered, "Perhaps we had best return to the complex...they will anxiously be awaiting our return."

He turned away to conceal the degree to which Lorio had unsettled him, but the immortal suddenly stepped closer to Sormias and asked, "Golgar, when you abducted Islena and threw her into this lake of fire...did you not claim that it should have exorcised any demon that infested her...that it served as some manner of purification?"

A bemused Esuruban shifted his gaze between the pair as if fearing that this new dialogue would somehow undo the agreement he had just brokered with the unpredictable immortal. Sormias was a long time in offering a reply as if he, too, feared that this might lead to further acrimony. Humans were an exceedingly difficult lot to decipher and Lorio was perhaps a riddle draped in thorns. Finally, he admitted, "I did. The lake of purification is well named and nothing malefic can survive in its waters. The virulence that controlled Islena was obliterated, leaving the pristine Islena in its wake."

Lorio pursed her full lips and gazed up into the night sky, where a winter blizzard raged beyond the dome of Metocan sorcery. Something danced mockingly along the edges of her comprehension...something of momentous consequence, but to her frustration, she could not drag it into the light for a closer examination. With a sudden urgency, she demanded, "Will you be remaining in Othgol?"

"I have offered whatever aid I can to the leaders of these nations, but if they do not dispatch me for another purpose, it is my intention to remain in this rather dismal city for the time being," Sormias declared cautiously.

"That is well...we will speak of this again, Sormias...once I've solved a particular riddle in my own mind," Lorio declared anxiously.

The Golgar smiled in surprise and remarked, "I'll await your summons, good lady. It is pleasing to know that you have finally referred to me by my name for the first time in the months we've been acquainted."

Lorio greeted this with a rueful scowl and snapped, "A momentary lapse, Golgar...don't think we're destined to become fast friends."

"Not for a moment, good lady," Sormias retorted with his customary grin.

"Lorio, perhaps we should begin the trek home. The storm intensifies and unlike the both of you, I don't have the good fortune of being immune to the elements. What's more, the events of the day have also taken a toll on me."

The immortal fixed the Emercian with an intense stare and seeing the pinched expression on his face, she linked her arms in his and beamed her most lovely smile. "Then lead me home, Captain...I place myself in your hands...willingly."

Chapter Thirty-One

1

Sygeanor returned to her body with a sharp inhalation, her gray eyes snapping open to find Dendarin watching her expectantly from his position at the foot of the bed. She smiled at her pleasing puppet's blue-eyed attentiveness to her every whim, still surprised at the ease with which she had totally subjugated the handsome Jerhia's formidable will. This naturally segued to thoughts of her other creature and she wondered how the prickly bitch, Margarus was faring in her mission to obliterate the three nuisances who had caused Sygeanor such consternation in the bleak wilds of Redia.

She briefly considered reaching out to the golem, but abandoned the idea...reasoning that all four were hardly worthy of her attention and were, in all probability, frozen in permanent postures of death somewhere in the icy wastes.

Instead, she stretched languorously and crawled to the end of the bed, where she encircled Dendarin's muscular shoulders with her right arm and kissed his slightly parted, pliable lips. Her fingers meandered along the length of his muscular abdomen, lingering in the deep striation before finally encircling his flaccid manhood. She recalled her promise to grant him release and brought him to a state of curving rigidity with only a few gentle strokes. He moaned and returned her kiss fervently, even as he rose and pushed her back onto the bed.

He peered down at her with his fetching blue eyes that burned with hunger, but despite the intensity of his passion, he paused...regarding her with a solicitous, pleading expression that made her grin knowingly. Even consumed by lust, Dendarin was a creature of her will and he would literally burst into flames before sating that hunger without her permission. She reached up and stroked his cheek and then pressed her index finger into his mouth, which he sucked hungrily. "It seems that circumstances have granted you a reprieve, pretty man. Who can say...perhaps this role of pet will become your true purpose in life. Would this please you, Dendarin...a life time of devotion to serving my every need?"

The Jerhia's blue eyes twinkled and he pressed forward, vanishing into her in one deftly executed stroke that made her gasp and arch her back. He encircled her tiny waist and enveloped her engorged right nipple, playing the dazzled half-Ulgak's nubile body with the finesse of a master musician.

Hours later, as the deep dark that proceeds dawn began to falter beyond the single window of their room, a thoroughly spent Dendarin lay nestled against his mistress. His glazed eyes seemed to peer into nothingness and his right arm was stretched across her Sygeanor's flat abdomen, lightly stroking the point of her bare hip. She gazed up into the shadows that hovered over their bed, marveling at how, despite having being pleasured for hours with a fervent skill that was dazzling, she still wanted more.

' _You're become quite the insatiable wanton and while the unconstrained indulgence of appetites may be something that you eventually wish to encourage...now is a delicate time for restraint,'_ she cautioned herself. _'Addiction can enslave the most ferociously independent of spirits...be careful that you do not find yourself ensnared by your own manacle.'_

She shook her head and chuckled, supremely confident in her ability to manage her emotions even in the face of the sweetest of temptations. She turned her thoughts to her visit to the Grand Mage and his stupefying disclosures. The war was over, brought to an abrupt and stunning end by a nearly incomprehensible turn of events that left Sygeanor reeling. The craven coalition had evidently capitulated to the enchantress; that was not particularly surprising in light of the fact that they could offer no meaningful opposition to her sorcery or her Morticants. ' _But why would she simply abandon her hard-won empire when her victory was inevitable?'_

The answer was self-evident...the antiquated world held no value beyond the Proclamations and the alien woman. With those laid bare for the taking, Myrhia had apparently lost interest in this world and turned her ambitions to distant shores that Sygeanor could scarcely image. The half-Ulgak's broad features twisted into a scowl in the darkness, displeased that this unexpected turn of events could well rob her of the opportunity to demonstrate the enormity of her own abilities. As she brooded, Sygeanor came to the realization that Inos had been deliberately evasive in divulging the details of Islena Doraux's scheme to ensnare the enchantress in her own web, the implications of which were obvious; the Grand Mage did not trust Sygeanor enough to share the intricacies of Islena's scheme. He had shared only enough information to induce her to abandon her intention of striking at Nalosan and Myrhia's clay repositories.

' _Sygeanor, the difference between ruthless pragmatism and evil tyranny is so subtle as to be imperceptible.'_ The implications of the Grand Mage's scathing rebuke had not been lost on Sygeanor, who gleaned that he now saw her as a potentially dangerous liability.

"So you wish to engage in a game of treacherous subterfuge with me, Inos," she whispered with a humorless grin. "It is a game for which you are woefully ill-equipped, as are the rest of the pretenders to the mantle of leadership. Still, I will play your game and make my way to Dizar Kor...and then to Nalosan. If Islena Doraux should falter, then I will intervene and do what you lack the fortitude to even attempt."

Sygeanor had not forgotten that it had been this _savior's_ intransigence that had forced Kyros into a situation in which he had fallen victim to the Lamish whore's savagery. Doraux was duplicitous in her father's death and if it should become necessary to eradicate this alien woman, Sygeanor would be more than willing to do so.

' _So you've come to perceive me as a monster to rival the enchantress, have you Grand Mage...then perhaps I will provide you with a lesson in the true nature of ruthless expedience,'_ she vowed with a wolfish grin.

She was contemplating the fiery carnage she would unleash on the nest of vipers in Nalosan when a cry of alarm was raised from somewhere beyond the room.

The darkened room was suddenly awash with alternating waves of eerie blue light and Sygeanor's acute hearing detected a strident whine issuing from somewhere beyond the room's single dirty window. Instinct informed her that whatever was generating both was inimical...and intended specifically for her.

Throwing off Dendarin's arm, she leapt to her feet and snagged her hastily discarded clothing. As she crept to the window, she hissed, "Get dressed, we must be ready to move quickly." As an after thought, she elaborated, "Something has found us!"

2

While they traipsed through the pre-dawn streets of Othgol, pushing through knee-deep drifts of virgin snow, Esuruban could not help but feel that they were two ghosts drifting through a deserted fantasy kingdom. The mystical city could well be an elaborate construction of the imagination granted life by some twist of esoteric magic and all of its inhabitants had fled out into the world beyond. Only he and the statuesque, troubled beauty at his side remained, both condemned to eternally walk its deserted streets in search of something which they were destined never to find.

The normally pragmatic Emercian was surprised to discover just how appealing he found this wistful notion to be.

Sormias had flown ahead to alert the others that the situation was in hand and give them time to make preparations for the unpredictable immortal's return. Esuruban could not envision what manner of reception Lorio could expect, but he fervently hoped that it would be kind. He had glimpsed the raw anguish behind her beautiful eyes and knew that, behind the exquisite façade, there existed a tortured soul that had reached its capacity to suffer further pain.

"Why did you agree to search for me, Esuruban?" Lorio blurted suddenly, her voice abnormally loud in the eerie silence that held sway over the storm-belabored city. "I know that Artumas would never have conscripted you into this duty after what I did to you in the training yard. So I know you volunteered..."

The Captain regarded the immortal with obvious discomfort, not certain how to respond. In truth, he doubted that he could produce a logical, coherent explanation, but the intensity of her gaze made it apparent that she would not desist and so he attempted to produce a reason that would not make him sound hopelessly daft or awkward. "I suppose that the most honest answer would be that I did not want to see you harmed any further. I saw what she did to you in the plaza...and it sickened me beyond words. In the training yard, I sense that you were..." Here, he fumbled for the exact description, finally concluded, "...not yourself."

Lorio stopped and turned to face him, the hard flakes of snow blowing over the bare flesh of her arms like angry wasps, frustrated by their inability to cause her harm. She gripped his right shoulder in fingers like steel pincers, causing the Emercian to wince. "What you saw in the training yard is _precisely_ what I am, Esuruban, beneath this mask that seems to compel everyone to forgive my every ugly action. If you cannot accept that one singular truth, then I would advise that you fade off into the night and get as far away from me as you can because if you cling to this delusion that I am some delicate butterfly in need of rescue...it will be your undoing."

She continued to stare at the disconcerted Captain for an excruciatingly long moment and then released him. Unable to conjure an appropriate response, Esuruban fell back on his natural default of apologetic courtesy. "I'm sorry, good lady...it was never my intention to suggest that I could banish your woes or understand the horror you've endured. I...I simply didn't want to see them dispatch battle mages and soldiers to coerce you into returning."

"I wanted to bed you, Esuruban," the immortal declared suddenly with her customary unsettling frankness. "I intended to toy with you in the training yard until you realized that you were hopelessly overmatched. Then, it was my intention to bring you back to my chambers and fuck you into a state of incoherence...like a graceful, pretty butterfly that I could sully. Unfortunately, the crueler aspect of my nature had other plans and I did to you what I did. I required a distraction and you were conveniently available. _That_ is who I am, Esuruban...remember that the next time you are beset by the noble urge to spare me further suffering."

Esuruban offered no response for a protracted moment and when it appeared that none would be forthcoming, he replied gravely, "I could never claim to be an authority on women. The army is all I've ever known. I will say that I agree with Sormias...you are an intrepid spirit who has been fractured by the pervasive ugliness of this world we've wrought. I also believe that you can be mended by the kindness of someone who cares for you and accepts you as you are."

Lorio greeted this with a spate of sardonic laughter. "Poor, ingenuous Esuruban...do you honestly believe that such a person exists...in this world we've wrought?"

"I do, good lady...and in greater numbers than you would suspect. The Jerhia Tier Marshal, Arminda cares deeply for you. It is reflected in her face every time her gaze settles upon you. My king holds you in the highest regard and this is why he insisted that the search groups be made to stand down...so that Sormias and I could have an opportunity to locate you first," Esuruban insisted in a tone fraught with earnest conviction.

' _You and I are the only ones who would see Islena live.'_ Myrhia's seductive voice purred in contradiction of this passionate claim. Lorio shook her head adamantly and ignored it, asking, "And what of you, Captain Esuruban...would you heal this poor, fractured spirit you see standing before you?"

In the face of her incisive scrutiny, Esuruban's discomfort increased exponentially, but his reply held no equivocation. "If could find the magic elixir to banish your pain, I would do whatever was necessary to see it into your hands...but I'm a simple soldier and all that I can offer is my aid as inadequate as it may prove to be."

Lorio pursed her full lips and nodded. "Captain, I made you promise that you would stay with me, but because I can clearly see that you are a man of noble character...very much like the man you serve...I release you from that obligation. Whatever they choose to do with me...it will be far more lenient than I deserve and I would not see you dragged into my cesspit."

"I did not ask Artumas to dispatch me out of obligation, Lorio...just as I did not accede to your wish just to entice you to return to the compound," Esuruban observed stiffly. "I have seen much in these last seven years that will haunt me to my grave...things that fill me with horror and shame. I can honestly say that there is no one I have encountered who is more deserving of compassion and aid than you. If you would allow me to be of some comfort, it would help lessen the bitter taste of guilt that I feel for being born where I was."

Lorio regarded the Emercian for a moment and then nodded tightly. "May I ask how you came to be in Othgol? Were you with Myrhia's army when she crossed the Land of Shades?"

"Mercifully not. I was a member of the cavalry that followed Tormal when he deserted the witch's army in southern Natzurdan. I have been here in the city ever since. When King Artumas miraculously returned, I was amongst the first to bend a knee and swear fealty in the plaza. In retrospect, I realize how feeble that act of defiance must have appeared, but I felt as if I had taken the first stumbling step toward reclaiming my lost soul that day. If I can be of some small service to you until this ordeal is over...perhaps I can take a few more..."

Lorio again came to a halt, this honest declaration of emotion causing her immortal's cynical heart to clench painfully in her chest. To convey the extent to which this sincerely given disclosure had unsettled her, Lorio fell back on the only default reaction she understood. She stepped closer to the startled soldier and drew him into an embrace, her strong fingers disappearing into the damp blond hair at the base of his neck. She inclined her head slightly and kissed him on the mouth. At first, the Emercian was as rigid as a piece of statuary in her arms, but then his right arm encircled her tiny waist and he returned her kiss with a fervor that left both dizzy.

They stood in the stormy darkness, snow swirling around them in writhing curtains, as the world turn on the cusp of morning. For the briefest moment, both surrendered to an atavistic need for simple human contact and all of Lorio's fears and misgivings were momentarily forgotten.

3

Sygeanor reached the window and using her ability to spring the latch, willed the window to slide open. She was remotely aware of Dendarin moving quickly and efficiently in the darkness as he slipped into his clothing and retrieved his rapier from a wooden peg on the room's only door. The streets of Wraith's Hollow were enshrouded in empty darkness and Sygeanor could see no sign of the person who had raised the alarm...though she quickly spied the source of his anxiety.

Several orbs hovered in the air over the wooden buildings and along the circumference of each, an iridescent blue light rapidly rotated...reminding the half-Ulgak of madly roving eyes. Their ghostly glow washed over the tapestry of surrounding clouds that hovered over the village, casting them in a menacing light before fading back into shadow.

The perceptive Sygeanor required only one glance at the orbs to discern their function and her sense of welling dread increased by several increments. _'Tracking devices!'_

On the heels of that came the disconcerting realization, _'I'm being hunted!'_

Here, the logic of this progression failed her and she misconstrued the nature of the threat, vowing, _'Inos, you treacherous bastard...I'll see you dead for this.'_

"Mistress?" Dendarin inquired from somewhere in the gloom and Sygeanor could almost envy the composure in his tone.

"We have to get to the stables and leave at once," Sygeanor rasped. She bombarded the ensorcelled Jerhia with a series of intense images...all depicted the need to protect her from a myriad of all threats and at any cost necessary.

The room was suddenly flooded with blue light, the magnitude of which left Sygeanor reeling blindly. In the sky over Wraith's Hollow, the tracker orbs had all come to an abrupt halt, their questing eyes settling fixedly on the open window of the two-storey wooden structure that served as the village's only Inn.

A deafening whine filled the night, raising another chorus of panicked cries of alarm as people emerged, sleepy-eyed and confused, from their houses to determine the source of the celestial light display.

A distinct metallic clatter then replaced the whine as the cylinders opened to reveal two spinning blades that rotated around the outer perimeter of the orb like miniature scythes. In the next instant, a half dozen of the tracker orbs streaked through the open window, raging through the room in a gyre that literally tore everything within to shreds. Dendarin pushed Sygeanor into the hall and slammed the door behind the pair just as the first of the deadly devices blew through the open window and began to decimate the now vacant room. The sound of bedding being frenetically torn to ribbons and wooden furniture being reduced to kindling was impossibly loud in the narrow confines of the dark hallway. Dendarin again pushed Sygeanor toward the landing, functioning out of an instinct that had been inculcated into the Jerhia since he was old enough to walk. Hesitation was death in a situation like this and the ensorcelled Jerhia was determined to see his mistress to safety, having no way of knowing that he was the catalyst that was drawing the lethal tracker-turned-assassin orbs.

The acutely incisive Sygeanor, however, was not so oblivious to the nature of the threat that had descended upon them out of the night sky. Instinct warned her that these orbs were drawn to expenditures of arcane energy and her spell over Dendarin required a low level, but continuous output of arcane energy to keep the Jerhia under her thrall.

"Time for a parting of ways, my pretty," she murmured with a twinge of genuine regret. Fixing her gaze on the spot where the closed door to their room was lost in the gloom, Sygeanor unleashed a controlled burst of telekinetic energy that picked a startled Dendarin from his feet and slammed him against the wooden door. The Jerhia uttered a grunt of surprise and pain, even as Sygeanor's unseen energy kept him firmly pressed against the thin wooden door. He twisted his head and glanced back over his shoulder and though the windowless hallway was steeped in absolute darkness, Sygeanor imagined she could see a look of resigned betrayal on his handsome face.

Just as she had anticipated, the outpouring of telekinetic energy drew the relentless orbs. They tore into the wood like starving wolves in a feeding frenzy, their rotating blades gouging through the wood as if tearing through wet paper. The unfortunate Dendarin's flesh was no more condign to the task of slowing them down and the hallway was suddenly spattered by a gruesome spray of blood and viscera that spattered the half-Ulgak and caused her to bellow a cry of revulsion.

She then unleashed a powerful wave of arcane energy that caused the orbs to explode in a brilliant shower of sparks and send the wreckage of Dendarin's once beautiful body barreling into the darkness, where it was pulverized against the far wall.

Sygeanor then terminated the outpouring of power with the swiftness of a falling guillotine and rushed down the stairs. The Inn was sparsely occupied on this evening, but the few patrons there were emerged from their room, sleep-addled and cotton-eyed, only to be butchered by the second wave of death-dispensing seeker orbs. Truncated cries echoed in the darkness as the Inn quickly became an abattoir.

Sygeanor fled into the common room, not once stopping to ponder the tragic fact that lives were being lost to facilitate her escape. Such ethical considerations were well beyond her sensibilities.

A bleary-eyed Trincher emerged from behind the scarred wooden bar, brandishing a heavy wooden club. He spied Sygeanor racing down the stairs and bellow, "This be your doin', ain't witch? What have you brought down upon us?"

He then started toward her as if he had actually mustered the temerity to interfere with her escape. Sygeanor's invisible force slapped him down like a child swatting an annoying insect. She grinned as his club bounced into the darkness behind the bar. She then willed several of the large wooden trestle tables to rise into the air. Maneuvering them deftly, the half-Ulgak rotated the wooden tables until their lengths pointed toward the ceiling, before slamming them into the opening of the stairwell.

An instant later, several of the questing devices slammed into the heavy wood, their rotating blades emitting ear-splitting plaintive whines as they attempted unsuccessfully to gouge through the crude wooden tables.

Sygeanor then turned her attention back to Trincher, who was only now beginning to regain his senses. She came to stand over the obese barkeep and slammed the sole of her boot down onto his rheumy chest, pinioning him to the filthy floor. Her refined sense of self-preservation quickly and smoothly concocted a plan that would deliver her from this noose, sparing little thought for those who would be sacrifice so that she might live. Such was the way of power...those who were worthy must be willing to sacrifice humanity's drones to preserve their existence. This repulsive pig's time was nearly at an end anyway and at least his death would be auspicious in that he would have played a role in seeing Sygeanor to her destiny.

"You may not credit this, but what I now do to you is far kinder than the fate you will suffer should you have lived beyond this moment," she rasped and then penetrated the fabric of his mind, decimating his personality and supplanting it with a very precise set of instructions and a limited amount of telekinetic ability that would attract the drones and see her safely away from this death trap. "Do you understand what is required of you, swine?"

Trincher nodded, his small eyes flat and listless in the gloom. Sygeanor removed her boot and stepped back, watching closely as the big man regained his feet and stumbled toward the door. He stood with his hand on the wooden handle and peered over his shoulder, awaiting her instruction to commence what would prove to be a lethal distraction. "You will count to one hundred and then walk out into the street; destroying every tracking device you encounter...do you understand?"

Trincher nodded resolutely and she could see his lips moving mechanically as he began to count down what would be the final seconds of his wretched life. Wasting no further thought on the ambulatory corpse, Sygeanor leapt over the bar and raced down the short hallway that led out to the stables. Inside, she quickly hitched the most durable dray horse to her precious cargo wagon and saddled the other horse, leading both to the stable door, where she paused to complete the one necessary action that would facilitate her escape.

Whatever else they might be, these tracker orbs were attracted by the expenditure of arcane energy as evinced by their initial attraction to Dendarin, who was, in essence, a magical construct. She would have to completely quell the arcane forge that churned within her or these devices would inevitably pick up her trail and seek her out. Closing her eyes, Sygeanor forced herself into a state of utter serenity...no easy task for the normally intense half-Ulgak. She then set about dampening the churning wellspring of telekinetic power until it was little more than an internal flicker...very much like a weak spark and barely distinguishable from her nature life force.

Repressing her natural power made the half-Ulgak feel insufferably vulnerable, but she understood that it was essential if she was to survive the night. Beyond that...she decided that it was best to reduce any thought of future actions to manageable portions. Her immediate priority was to escape this wretched bog.

She listened carefully and a short time later, an inarticulate bellow of defiant challenge rumbled through the pre-dawn sky. Smiling, Sygeanor lifted the wooden bar and pushed open the stable doors, knowing that her puppet was about to play his critical role in seeing her to freedom.

Mounting her horse, Sygeanor gripped the reins of the cart horse and calmly led the beast out into the cool night and along the short section of road that led out of Wraith's Hollow and the relative safety of the densely-spaced trees beyond.

Behind her, madness held sway as Trincher, invested with a very limited repository of telekinetic power, unleashed his newfound abilities on the defenseless village in an effort to destroy the swarming tracker orbs that raged through the lightening sky like enraged wasps.

Without constraint, his telekinetic energy ran rampant like an argent flare, reducing windows to splinters and tearing up the rough plank facades of the building along the mire that passed for a dirt road. As people emerged from those buildings to determine the source of the violent tumult they were swept up in a violent gyre and dashed against the crumbling structures.

Sygeanor was well away from the decimated village before the last of her marionette's energy had been expended and the last of the orbs reduced Trincher to a bloody, twitching pile of ruined flesh and fragmented bone.

Along with the unfortunate Dendarin and Trincher, Sygeanor's deftly-executed escape from Myrhia's blind snare had come at the expense of twelve dead and two score badly injured villager. Ten of Wraith Hollow's seventy odd buildings had been reduced to kindling by the short, but intensely violent conflict.

Never a place to greet strangers with open kindness, the battered and isolated village would henceforth view travelers with a posture of wariness that verged on open hostility, yet some years beyond the horizon of this present nightmare, Wraith's Hollow would play host to two visitors who would change the course of the antiquated world's future.

Sygeanor, who would play her own dramatic role in the antiquated world's future, was oblivious to all of this. As she urged her horse and wagon forward at a fast a pace as the rutted road would allow, the half-Ulgak's turbulent mind was consumed only by thoughts of the revenge she would extract for Inos' cowardly betrayal.

On route to Dizar Kor, she spotted several clusters of the tracking drones speeding northward, but they flew past without the slightest hesitation...as if she was just another peasant woman bringing her goods to market.

4

The storm was begin to relent to a pale flurry by the time that Esuruban led Lorio through the open gates of the training yard where the immortal had unleashed havoc only hours before. In the intervening time, a knee-deep blanket of snow had effaced all signs of the previous night's ugly confrontation from sight.

Lorio came to a sudden halt before the gates, suddenly apprehensive of the reception she might expect once inside. Esuruban pushed back the hood of his cloak and smiled encouragingly, offering her his hand, which she accepted with a slight smile of gratitude.

He led her into the compound, frowning as the two open gates were swung shut by an invisible force that could only be Metocan sorcery. Esuruban glanced up and was dismayed to see that crossbow wielding Jerhia soldiers lined the upper balcony and though their weapons were not trained directly upon Lorio, they held them in a manner that suggested a readiness to put them to use should the immortal show any inclination toward violence.

"It seems that I am now considered an enemy," Lorio observed without any discernable rancor.

"Captain Esuruban, I would have you step away from Lorio," a voice which he recognized to be that of the young Jerhia Tier Marshal, called from the balcony directly in front of the pair.

"Respectfully, I do not take my orders from you, Tier Marshal. Lorio has requested that I remain with her and so I shall," Esuruban replied in a tone that was courteous, yet implacable. "She has returned of her own accord and I have promised that she would be treated accordingly."

Just then, Artumas strode into the training yard, the left side of his face bruised and swollen from his earlier confrontation with the immortal. He raised a gloved hand to Arminda, who nodded curtly and melted back into the shadows. Her Jerhia cohorts did not change their collective posture of readiness a whit. The Emercian King stopped directly before the pair and offered his Captain a smile of gratitude, before turning his attention to the complex, often infuriatingly confounding woman at Esuruban's side. Over his shoulder, Lorio notice how the Golgar and a dozen hooded mages had slid discreetly into the snowy yard, taking up positions around the trio. It was eminently clear that Lorio would have no real volition in whatever was to follow. Artumas sighed and remarked softly, "It seems that we find ourselves in this adversarial posture again and again, Lorio...as much as I would hope that each incident would be the last."

"I freely admit to being incorrigible," Lorio returned with an irreverent shrug.

"A truth that grows tedious and tries the patience of even your most ardent supporters," Artumas countered with a frown that privately stung the immortal's damaged heart.

A caustic rejoinder danced on the tip of her tongue, but the voice of Myrhia, quiet during her stroll with Esuruban through the stormy Othgol night, now interjected, _'You must refrain from your usual provocative_ _childishness and conduct yourself like a mature adult for once. If you wish to save Islena, you will not achieve your purpose by acting like a violent lunatic who has taken permanent leave of your senses. Artumas is a hopelessly sentimental fool, but even you must be able to see that he has reached the limit of his tolerance for your antics. You must show him that you are contrite and gain mastery over your propensity for self-destruction.'_

Lorio swallowed her retort and bowed her head in deference. "I'm sorry Artumas...for what I did to you and for my behavior in the yard earlier this night. My encounter with your wife was...traumatic."

Artumas stiffened at her deliberate choice of references even as her big, dark eyes locked on his with a mildly accusatory flicker. "Arminda related what little she knew of your ordeal. Myrhia's cruelty is odious...but she has left you alive and frankly that is a shock in itself. When the dust from this latest debacle has settled, I would speak to you privately of what passed between you and the Queen."

Lorio's expression became guarded, but she nodded slightly.

"My liege...may I have a moment of your time?" Esuruban blurted and after seeing the man's grave expression, Artumas nodded and led the Emercian Captain a short distance away. Lorio stood with her back straight and her head held high, surveying the face of her minders. To a one, each wore an impassive expression and did not meet her gaze...as if they feared that hers was the power to beguile with a glance.

She watched from the corner of her eye as the two men carried on an intense conversation...Artumas frowning and Esuruban offering a pleading adjuration. _'It seems that you do have the power to enthrall...and it might serve to extricate you from this pitfall you've thrown yourself into. They will demand an explanation,'_ the voice of the enchantress predicted. _'When they do, you will use the opportunity to turn their natural preconceived prejudices against them. They perceive me to be a cruel villain...then turn that to your advantage.'_

Grasping the enchantress' clever intention, Lorio could barely suppress the smile that wanted to rise, unbidden, to her lips. Finally, Artumas nodded and clapped his Captain amicably on the shoulder before leading the man over to the waiting immortal. "My Captain has made a most _unusual_ request and I have agreed...with no small degree of reluctance. Still, Lorio, I would have you remember, I will not permit my Captain to suffer any further degradation because he is possessed of a compassionate heart. There will not be a recurrence of the sorry incident that disgraced this yard earlier. If you believe nothing else that I have ever told you...believe this."

"I will be virtual lamb in the Captain's care, Artumas," Lorio replied with a smile of reassurance that only deepened Artumas' ambivalence. Glancing at Artumas' bruised face, she intoned, "I really am sorry for striking you, but I was rather surprised at the tactics you demonstrated in your defense."

Artumas flushed in shame at the recollection of kneeing and head-butting the immortal, but retorted, "Desperation can bring out the worst in everyone. Now, Inos has demanded that you be brought into his presence upon your return. Lorio, I would caution you that he has suffered a particularly harsh blow this day and it would be extremely imprudent to goad him or display anything other than genuine contrition. We both know what is at stake here and Inos will demand to know what provoked your outburst."

Lorio scowled, her natural aversion to heavy-handedness asserting itself, but managed a tacit nod. The High King then gestured for her to follow and the trio entered the building with their escort of battle mages in tow. As they marched through the halls of the damaged complex, Lorio could feel the disconcerting pulse of arcane power swirling around the group.

Another pair of battle mages exchanged bows of greeting with the Emercian King and then opened the arched doors to the Grand Mage's private audience chamber. One of the hooded mages placed a restraining hand on Esuruban's shoulder, who glanced at Artumas questioningly, ready to stand down at a word from his liege. Lorio gripped the mage's wrist and growled, "If he doesn't enter...neither do I."

The two mage's exchanged uncertain glances, but a voice rescued them from confusion by commanding, "Allow him to enter...along with the other battle mages, lest there be no misunderstanding of the nature of the dialogue to follow."

Lorio entered the large, but simply appointed chamber and came to stand directly before Inos, who wore a flinty, hard expression that was so unlike his normally placid regard. "Time and again, you have seen fit to abuse this nation's hospitality and yet, we have forgiven your flagrant disregard for our rules, our societal sensibilities...and our fundamental beliefs. I have felt the almost inconceivable weight of your sorrow and that is why I have agreed not to have you banished from this soil."

"I'm not sure that Islena would be very amenable to the idea that you exiled me upon her return. In fact, I suspect she might take offense to the idea," Lorio rasped, meeting his truculence stare unflinchingly.

"Lorio..." Artumas intoned with a pleading note in his voice.

The Grand Mage ignored the Emercian's entreaty and countered, "Yes, I suspected you would raise that particular fact and while it is true that my hands are tied as it pertains to driving you from my country's soil...I am under no further obligation to treat you as anything other than a potentially deadly enemy."

Lorio stiffened, her dark eyes flaring menacingly, but before she could respond, the Grand Mage raised a long index finger in a demand for silence. "On the other hand, you have repeatedly risked your life for a world that has never once extended you a modicum of compassion or concern and so I will extend this one final olive branch. If you are forthright and telling me what inspired your fit of violence in the training yard...I will mitigate the severity of your treatment."

"Well, perhaps I should turn your own threat back upon you, Grand Mage," Lorio snapped, though her eyes twinkled with a mirth that belied her apparent ire. "What if I was to say that I've had enough of this incessant drama...of this eternal tug of war between these three supposed recurring instigators...and now I wanted only to return to the eastern continent and vanish into the chaos...returning to the nomadic life I once lived? Would I be free to walk away or would I find myself a captive to your collective need?"

Inos glowered, but then shifted a bemused glance to Artumas as if seeking assistance with this insufferably unmanageable creature. Artumas gently laid his hand on her left forearm and intoned gravely, "Lorio, I doubt that there is one amongst us who would prefer not to be embroiled in this tragic charade, but each of us has a role to play and fate will not allow us the luxury of abdicating our responsibility...no matter how far we might choose to run from it"

Artumas' distant, wistful expression made it immediately obvious that he was referring to his exile in on the shore of the Great Western Ocean.

Recalling Myrhia's advice in turning their natural preconceptions to her advantage, Lorio donned a somber expression and offered those assembled a grim and terse account of what had transpired in her chamber under Myrhia's fist. "When we returned to my chamber, the bitch burned me with bale fire. She informed me that only Islena could actually take my life, but she nonetheless reveled in subjecting me to excruciating agony...beyond anything that I've ever endured. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I have suffered mightily...at her hands and at others...over the course of my life. She did something else...something far more insidious...though I only came to understand that when I was wandering aimlessly through the deserted streets."

Inos inclined his head slightly, though some of his truculence had given way to a wary, speculative expression. "You're implying that Myrhia did something to you that provoked your behavior in the training yard."

Lorio met his regard calmly and replied flatly, "Yes. She implanted the incredibly vivid idea in my mind that all of you were working to kill Islena...a conspiracy to see her dead that had nothing to do with vanquishing Myrhia."

"Lorio, we _all_ understand that even Islena sees her demise as an integral part of her scheme. I was under the impression that you were a willing participant in this plot. Are you saying that this assumption is ill-founded?" Inos inquired sharply.

"No...I have made a vow to Islena that I will play my role in preventing her from ascending," Lorio insisted, her tone tinged with simmering impatience.

Inos shook his head and eyed the immortal suspiciously. "Then why would she elect to inculcate this particular thought in your mind? It would almost suggest that she is aware of Islena's rather precarious plan."

Lorio shook her head adamantly and forced her gaze to remained squarely fixed on the Metocan Grand Mage, understanding that she was straying into delicate territory in the company of acutely perceptive men who would discern her treachery if she made even the slightest misstep. "I can't provide any meaningful answer to that, but if she suspected even a hint of subterfuge, I doubt we would be having this particular discussion. Myrhia harbors a special enmity for me and I would guess that she planted this notion in my head as a way of tormenting me. As I mentioned before, she discovered that she can't kill me and I think that rankled her, driving her to find other ways of tormenting me. It's no secret that Islena is my one true vulnerability, so employing her against me is really to be expected."

To Lorio's eternal relief, Inos pursed his lips, but after a moment's consideration he nodded thoughtfully and conceded, "I suppose you're right."

Like a physical touch on the side of her cheek, Lorio could sense Artumas' incisive stare and suspected that he had seen right through her transparent lie. Yet, for some reason she could not fathom, he had elected not to challenge her at this particular moment, for which she was grateful.

' _Lorio, fight this thing that would bend you to its odious will.'_ Those had been Artumas' words of entreaty as she had abused the aging king on the training grounds. He had somehow known that she was functioning under the thrall of Islena's shadow incarnation.

' _Which is precisely why you'll have to deal with him first,'_ the vile entity whispered mirthfully, speaking in her thoughts for the first time since she had fled the training yard earlier in this bleak night. Lorio grimaced and the monster fell mercifully silent. Grappling for something to convince the Grand Mage that she was being entirely sincere in her declaration that she, too, had been victimized, the immortal seized on the one thought that had been rattling in her subconscious since she had first stumbled into that ancient Metocan graveyard. "There is something else that has been troubling me. I mentioned it briefly when Esuruban found me, but its exact shape hadn't quite resolved in my thoughts. It has now and if you'll indulge me, I'll share it with you...because I think it may be a notion with both substance and consequence that will change the way we've perceived this entire situation...though _misperceived_ would be a better choice of words. Is the bird man still here?"

Inos blinked, not immediately grasping Lorio's derogatory reference, but Artumas spoke with an obvious wariness. "He is...would you have me summon him?"

"Yes!" Lorio replied vigorously and though she understood that she was weaving an elaborate deception, a part of her...the desperate, wounded part that craved only a small sliver of happiness...offered a prayer to the indifferent gods that what she was about to propose might contain a measure of truth.

Artumas issued an instruction to Esuruban to retrieve the Golgar and as he hurried away, Lorio was surprised by the degree of affection she had developed for the handsome Emercian Captain. _'Wouldn't life be simpler if you would accept and embrace the love of someone who would have you without reservation or condition? Esuruban would cherish you for all the days of his life.'_

Lorio inhaled sharply, knowing that wistful fantasy could offer her no solace. She had come to love the vortex known as Islena Doraux and that was a singular truth that could not be changed by convenient or easy alternatives...however attractive they might be.

Decades later, at another dark juncture, this particular thought would blossom in her mind and she would see it for the facile lie it was, but at this juncture, Lorio accepted as the incontrovertible truth that Islena was the only living being to whom she could dedicate her existence.

Moments later, Esuruban returned with the Golgar in tow. Sormias gazed at the assembly inquiringly, that infuriatingly childish smile playing at his lips. To Artumas, he offered, "Your Captain claimed that the good lady had requested my presence...a miraculous turn of events in itself. I could not help but be intrigued..."

Lorio scowled, vexed by her continuing inability to grasp the shape and direction of this alien creature's thoughts, which were sequestered behind his indecipherable expression of good cheer. Struggling to repress her natural enmity, Lorio began, "Sormias, would you share with Inos and the others your explanation of the way in which Islena was delivered from the thrall of the venom...when you dropped her into this Lake of Purification."

Sormias glanced at the confounding immortal, but nonetheless complied. Inos in particular, who was hearing a recounting of this tale for the first time, was especially fascinated by the arcane mechanics of the process. "When you dropped her, Islena was completely under the thrall of this guardian spider's virulence and she fell into a lake of molten fire...only to emerge unscathed and venom free?"

"She did," Sormias remarked simply.

"And you were unequivocal in your certainty of the outcome before you dropped her in?" Inos inquired, flummoxed by the enormity of this audacious gamble.

The Golgar offered the Grand Mage an unapologetic shrug and allowed, "Not especially. I knew of the lake's reputation for culling odious imperfections, but I had never actually witnessed the process. Given Islena's condition at the moment...especially in light of the power she wielded...I deemed that it was not an effusive risk."

"But had you been wrong, the single hope of this world would have been incinerated!" Inos sputtered to which the Golgar again only shrugged as if such considerations were foolish.

Lorio was forced to grip her hard thighs to prevent herself from strangling the blithely recalcitrant creature. Instead, she managed to maintain a civil tone and laid forth the implications of Sormias' rash action. "The point is that once Islena emerged from the Lake of Purification, every trace of corruption was burned away. That was the salient purpose for which this lake was seemingly conceived."

"I'm still not sure what you're getting at, Lorio?" Artumas said with a shake of his head, though the Grand Mage's gray eyes had narrowed into speculative slits as a notion began to germinate in his agile mind.

Lorio inhaled deeply, trying to quell her impatience and suddenly intoxicated by the remote possibility that what she was suggesting might actually have some credence. "How is it that this venom was burned away...and yet this malice that now threatens to usurp control of Islena's mind managed to survive?"

"It would seem improbable...unless the malice manifested later," Inos murmured distantly, his mind racing along a thousand different tangents at once. "Remember Lorio, Islena is a creature whose nature is a complete mystery to us all."

"Be that as it may, the Lake of Purification should still have expunged this malice...is this not so, Sormias?" Lorio demanded with a frightening intensity.

"So it would seem, good lady, but I can hardly claim to be an authority on its intended purpose," Sormias replied with an ambivalence that threatened to drive Lorio to distraction. "If what I believe is true, then even a quiescent evil resided in Islena's subconscious, waiting to be awakened, it should have been eradicated by the lake's purifying waters."

A smile of triumph emblazoned Lorio's lovely face as she turned back to Inos, even jabbing his chest with a long index finger as she declared, "Which discredit's the idea that this shadow incarnation is a part of Islena's nature."

"And leaves us where...in your mind?" Inos intoned churlishly, drawing a puzzled glance from Artumas and Esuruban both.

Lorio stiffened, but maintained a tight rein on her normally explosive temper. "Islena spent several weeks in Myrhia's company. I believe that, during this time, the enchantress lived up to her name and planted this shadow incarnation in Islena's subconscious...along with the conviction that Islena required Myrhia's guidance if she was to avoid having it usurp her will and turn her into the monster she's dreaded since first coming to this world."

The profound silence that descended upon Inos' private audience chamber was absolute as both Artumas and the Grand Mage grappled with the infallible logic of Lorio's theory. At last, Artumas inquired, "Why would Myrhia resort to weaving such an elaborate deception when Islena had essentially capitulated to her already, thereby assuring her total victory? The measure seems...redundant."

"Not at all," Lorio countered vigorously, the weight of her argument now stoking her passion. "I have been in Myrhia's mind and under her thumb. I _know_ that she plans for every contingency...every possible tangent. The soul forge she revealed on the shore of the Great Western Ocean guaranteed that Islena would do her bidding...by coercion. By inculcating the idea of this shadow incarnation...this gibbering thing of total evil...into Islena's mind, Myrhia has insured that Islena will do her bidding willingly and with gratitude, which is a masterful stroke of manipulation considering that the pair have supposedly been eternal and mortal enemies."

It was an enormous struggle not to repress the expression of triumph that wanted to bloom on her beautiful face as Lorio watched clouds of uncertainty roll across both men's grim visages, plunging the pair into confusion. The Grand Mages moved off a few paces, stroking his chin in contemplation as he fought to digest this explosive new wrinkle in Myrhia's astoundingly complex weave. Still hoping to repudiate Lorio's hypothesis, which would set their delicate plans to ruin, Inos seized on the harrowing memory of Myrhia's _exorcism_ of the previous day. "Both Artumas and I witnessed the enchantress' battle with the malice that infected your leg. It was a thing of willful evil."

Lorio shook her head and asserted, "It was another stage prop conceived to extend the circle of belief that Islena poses a bigger threat to humanity that the viper Queen...and we all reacted in the exact way she anticipated."

Inos inhaled deeply and cast a despondent glance at the Emercian King. "All of our lives, the leaders of the CornerStone Nations have been smug in the belief that we were equipped to face any crisis...to deal with any malicious threat to our inherent superiority, no matter how insidious. How quickly we've been disabused of this arrogant presumption. If what this woman is suggesting is at all rooted in fact, then you and I are not condign to the task of giving this monster meaningful opposition."

Artumas pursed his lips at this grim admission of inadequacy, knowing that Inos was the last man from who he would expect open dejection. Throughout these last weeks, the Metocan had been steadfast in maintaining an optimistic outlook, but the Emercian could certainly commiserate with his sudden bout of pessimism. "Lorio, you now believe that Islena has been... _beguiled_? From this, I would surmise that you think that we should work to free her from this enchantment?"

"Yes," she allowed simply, her face impassive.

"You've given us a great deal to digest and it is going to take some time to decide how to proceed, even if we do accept your theory," Inos intoned gruffly. He glanced at Artumas and then committed an error that could well be attributed to the cumulative affects of grief and exhaustion. "Maktir's gambit may yet render all of this fretting and wringing of hands pointless."

Artumas' expression became a portrait of open consternation, while Lorio's eyes narrowed in suspicion and she demanded, "What are you talking about?"

Recognizing the enormity of the blunder he'd just committed, Inos mumbled, "That is not your concern!"

"Indeed, Grand Mage?" Lorio bristled, her indignation flaring like the sun. Esuruban mustered the temerity to gently reach for her left forearm in a tactile plea for restraint that was not lost upon Artumas. The immortal lashed the Captain with a withering glare which quickly relented to a tacit nod of understanding. Tempering her indignant tone with an imploring edge, Lorio continued, "I have been asked to kill the only living thing that I can honestly claim to love and you would insist that there are matters involved that _are not my concern?_ I have agreed to play this terrible role, but I now see that it may be unnecessary and perhaps there is a way to extricate Islena from this wicked bitch's clever snare. From this point forward, I will be party to every discussion on the matter and if I sense that you are being dishonest with me...or withholding agendas that would serve Islena up as a sacrificial pawn, I will not hesitate to share my concern with Islena...and Myrhia!"

"Lorio, that will suffice," Artumas interjected quietly sensing that the beleaguered Inos was on the verge of apoplexy and wanting only for cooler heads to prevail until all involved had a chance to consider the ramifications of the theory that Lorio had put forward. "Allow us a short space of time to apprise the other two leaders of your insight and then we will summons you and as a group, we will discuss how to move forward." Turning to Inos, he inquired hopefully, "Is this a satisfactory arrangement, Grand Mage? We are all guests here after all it is only fitting that final approval be yours to grant."

Inos continued to scowl at the immortal, an uncharacteristic expression that lent his pallid face a decidedly ghoulish aspect. Still, Artumas' acknowledgement of their status seemed to mollifying the Grand Mage and he replied gruffly, "It's gratifying to know that someone still recalls that fact." His demeanor grew stern and he fixed his gaze on the troublesome immortal. "There will be no recurrence of last night's debacle. While you remain here, you will respect and abide by our rules. I agree that you should be made party to all discussions revolving around Islena and you will conduct yourself in a manner fitting for a guest of my city."

"I will," Lorio agreed solemnly and then gripped Esuruban's arm and pulled him closer. "The Captain has agreed to serve as my minder and I promise to heed his direction...assuming you have no intention of confining me again."

Inos flicked an incredulous glance at the Emercian and sighed, "You are valiant beyond reason, young man. Now, if you will allow me a moment of privacy...I have a friend to whom I must bid farewell."

Artumas squeezed the Grand Mage's shoulder and gestured for the others to depart. Once the ornate doors had closed and the trio was well out of earshot of the attendants at Inos' door, Artumas came to an abrupt halt and turned to face the Lamish immortal with an inscrutable expression set on his face...a visage that appeared strife-worn and weary. "Do you actually believe any of what you espoused, Lorio?"

Lorio's generous mouth twisted into a tight frown of vexation and she snapped, "I believe that Islena can be saved...from your depraved bitch of a wife...and more significantly, from herself. If you and the others who would fashion themselves as leaders would find the courage to set aside self-interest for a moment, you would all see the logic in what I've put forth."

With this, she tossed her raven mane and strode briskly away from the king, who exchanged bemused glances with Esuruban, before signaling that he should set out after his new charge with a nod. Esuruban bowed and quickly hurried after the immortal, who marched through the corridors like a fast breaking storm.

Once she had moved away from the pair, Lorio could no longer repress the ebullient grin that had been playing at the corners of her lips since she had first concocted this shrewd deception.

' _You are developing an astounding aptitude for manipulation, child,'_ the voice of Myrhia intoned with obvious admiration, though Lorio could never be certain if what she was hearing was actually the enchantress or an articulation of her own animal cunning.

Either way, she had planted a seed of doubt in the minds of those who would see Islena sacrificed and soon that seed would germinate into a rank weed that would insure that she was given the chance to turn this situation to her advantage. _'I'll find a way to save you, Islena...and once all of this madness is settled...you'll be mine and mine alone.'_

Artumas watched the pair vanish around the nearest corner, suddenly questioning the wisdom of allowing the ingenuous Esuruban to serve as a squire for the tempestuous immortal. _'Could there actually be some credence to her contention...could Islena's shadow incarnation be nothing more than a clever device implanted in her mind to exploit Islena's ingrained self-loathing?'_

The idea certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility and there was none living who was more capable of creating such an elaborate deception than Myrhia. While plausible enough, Artumas could not divest himself of the suspicion that the normally blunt and forthright Lorio had just executed an incredibly subtle and shrewd deception. The entity that had possessed her in the training yard was not an implanted notion, but rather a sentient creature of pure malice. There had been a glint of madness in Lorio's limpid eyes as she had railed at the aging king...vowing that she would see him dead before she allowed any harm to come to Islena. This promise had been inspired not by the deep and undeviating love this poor woman possessed for Islena, but rather by a sense of possession...of _ownership_.

The once and future king leaned back against the cool wall and closing his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose in the hopes that the throbbing in his temples would subside to manageable levels. ' _We are, all of us, engaged in a dangerous game of brinksmanship and despite our certainty that we are skilled players...events are threatening to spin into anarchy.'_

With this disturbing assessment echoing in his thoughts, Artumas pushed away from the wall and started back toward his chambers, hoping to enjoy a short space of solitude before the next in a seemingly endless succession of treacherous strategy sessions.

Chapter Thirty-Two

1

The city of Othgol and its surrounding environs awoke to find that night had buried it beneath an unprecedented blanket of snow. The storm broke by mid morning and the clouds scudded off toward the Great Mother. In their wake came high skies of the deepest blue and a gusting wind that drove the cold air before it like spikes. Throughout the city, adepts and acolytes were conscripted and assigned to the task of charging and disseminating fire rubies to dwellings that had been warded against the pervasive dampness and eternal fog...but not the bitter cold.

While this new crisis was not grand drama on the scale of constant warfare and enemy occupation, from a pragmatic standpoint, the cold posed a potentially mortal threat...especially to the young and the elderly.

Heat crystals were soon affixed to walls throughout the damaged complex, but there was not a single occupant who did not cast the occasional leery glance at the clear and bright blue skies...an event that was every bit as rare in the Metocan capital as snowfall.

The Metocan were not prone to superstition, but it was difficult not to construe these two rare occurrences as harbingers of some inimical turn of events poised just over the horizon.

At the Eleventh bell, Grand Mage Inos gathered, along with a host of grief-stricken Metocan and the other members of the Inner Circle, to conduct the Ritual of Dissemination for Tokizar.

The Metocan subscribed to the belief that every living thing was sprung from one source of eternal energy...and no one thing could ever be truly destroyed, but could only change forms and return to the collective spring of unseen energy that constituted the very building blocks of all life. Had Islena been present, she would have recognized the theories of Albert Einstein woven into this system of surprisingly sophisticated beliefs. Nothing could truly be consumed...it could only change forms and thus the sentient bundle of energy that was Tokizar would be returned to the invisible collective of arcane energy from which all life sprung...and eventually returned.

Tokizar was laid out on an alabaster dais, attired in her finest ceremonial regalia, which bore the sigil of the Inner Circle of Metocan...an institution to which she had proudly and unflaggingly devoted most of her adult life.

' _How lovely...how utterly flawless she appears in death...devoid of woe and shackles of grim obligation. This is Tokizar as she was truly meant to be,'_ Inos thought sorrowfully as he stepped to the dais and prepared to commence the ceremony. Only Metocan were permitted to witness this most solemn of rituals and thus there was no need to speak aloud. Indeed, even the silent form of communication relented to the sharing of pure emotion...like rolling waves of light and sensation that proved far more eloquent in conveying the sense of loss and remembrance that was shared during this most sacred ritual. At the Grand Mage's lead, the members of the Inner Circle pushed back the hoods of their robes and extended their arms over the body of their lost sister with the palms turned downward. Inos swept his gaze over the members of this circle. To a one, they wore the identical expressions of grief and bewilderment. Mascius had finally been forced to accept a position on the council and of all assembled (save Inos himself), the venerable scholar appeared the most haggard and beset by a despair so profound, the Grand Mage wondered how he could remain upright beneath its crushing weight.

Inos had been apprised of what had transpired in the final moments of Tokizar's life, when she had courageously pushed Mascius behind her and confronted the enraged enchantress...a heroic gesture that had ultimately come at the cost of her life. Inos had little doubt that the scholar's enormous despair was inspired by unbearable guilt, but in that final gesture of sacrifice, Inos experienced a fierce pride and love for the woman. This final selfless act was typical of the way in which the noble Tokizar had lived her life...a life governed by principle and virtue. Inos came to see that...as tragic as her needless death was, perhaps it was a fitting end for a woman who put justice before personal interest without exception.

At his signal, the members of the Inner Circle closed their eyes and soon a diffuse yellow light began to gather about the group, spreading until it completely enveloped Tokizar's body in a cocoon. Slowly, her body rose from the dais and as the witnesses to the ritual looked on with expressions of reverence...Tokizar's robe and then the flesh beneath began to lose consistency. To an uninitiated observer it would have appeared that the Metocan's body was losing solidity. It was not so much that the flesh was becoming ephemeral as it was that it was becoming oddly fragmented...losing cohesion and pulling apart into swirling swathes of pure light. Gradually, the solid body of chilling flesh that was once Tokizar transmogrified into a slowly rotating swirl of pure iridescent light that hovered over the dais like a galaxy winding through the firmament.

Cloistering his thoughts from the other Inner Circle members, Inos extend a final parting to the woman he had privately loved through much of his adult life. _'Goodbye sweet Tokizar...may you watch over me and may we someday be united in a far better place than this.'_

With a tacit nod and battling grimly to repress the wail of despair that wanted to burst from his constricted throat, Inos and the others withdrew their hands. Tokizar's swirling essence became utterly still and then, in a blinding burst, dissipated into the air, the walls, the ceiling and the floor...returning the noble Metocan to the collective sea of energy to which all living things eventually and inevitably returned.

Under a terrible pall of loss and in absolute silence, those assembled slowly drifted away.

2

A soft rapping drew Lorio out of her reverie. She exchanged glances with Esuruban, who was slumped in a chair near the hearth, clearly feeling the ill-affects of the abuse he had suffered the previous evening. He made to rise with a distinct wince that evoked a twinge of guilt in the immortal's dark heart.

' _What a twisted quality beauty is...that it could so enamor another that they would willing suffer abuse and still be willing to devote their heart to the one that caused them such pain,'_ Lorio thought glumly as she gestured for the Emercian to remain seated and made her way to the door where the knocking continued, now growing more insistent.

' _You are an authority on the subject...from both the perspective of the abuser...and the abused,'_ Myrhia observed with a mordant chuckle that caused Lorio to grimace. She wondered if she wore the same enthralled expression when she gazed on Islena that was embossed upon Esuruban's face when he stared at her.

She shook head in dismay and opened her door to find Tier Marshall Arminda standing in the chilly hall with one hand raised. The Jerhia's short blond hair was neatly combed and she was attired in a black ceremonial uniform with red piping on the trousers and the sigil of her rank on both epaulets. Only her pretty face displayed any reminder of the abuse she had sustained during last night's fiasco in the training yard. Her prominent left cheek bone was still slightly swollen and discolored where Lorio had struck her with an open-handed slap that still carried sufficient force to plunge her into unconsciousness.

Surprisingly, the diminutive Jerhia's expression carried none of the rancor that had characterized their encounter in the Tier Marshal's chambers the day prior. "May we have a word?"

Lorio's eyes narrowed and beneath the impassive façade, she could discern a churning anxiety roiling behind those pale blue eyes. "Of course," Lorio replied and gestured her into the spacious room with a sweep of her right arm. "The good Captain has managed to get a passable fire going so at least you won't have to concern yourself with frost bite."

A stark and vivid image of Islena, lips blue and hair encrusted in ice, leapt to her mind then and the vapid witticism curdled on her lips. With a tremendous exertion of will, she banished the horrible image from her mind and led Arminda to a chair by the hearth. Arminda came to an abrupt halt when she saw that Lorio was not alone and upon seeing who her guest was, she turned a questioning glance upon the immortal, who explained sheepishly. "It was thought that I might require a minder and the intrepid Captain was kind enough to volunteer for the duty...much to the relief of everyone else."

Arminda pursed her lips and studied the battered Captain for a moment. The man's obvious pain seemed to radiate very much like the warmth that rolled forth from the hearth. His face was bruised and lacerated and his hunched posture suggested that he had sustained more than superficial injuries at the hands of the immortal. "Speak truthfully, Captain...do you require a healer?"

Esuruban responded to the Tier Marshal's query with a dismissive shrug that quickly transformed into a grimace. Lorio's eyes narrowed in suspicion and she stalked over to the Emercian and in a tone that brooked no argument, demanded, "Remove your tunic and lift your shirt."

Face flushing in embarrassment, Esuruban stammered, "Milday, it is hardly necessary...I'm quite fine...merely a bit stiff from traipsing about in the cold half the night."

Lorio arched an eyebrow and cautioned, "You're going to remove your tunic and raise you shirt, Captain...we both know it's inevitable...so why not cooperate and save us the both the aggravation."

Esuruban looked pleadingly to the Jerhia for support, but Arminda's answering grin made it eminently clear that there would be no support to be had from that quarter. Sighing, he unbuttoned his tunic with obvious discomfort and then slowly raised his shirt to reveal and abdomen and ribcage that was a landscape of ugly welts and bruises. Lorio hissed like a scalded cat and Arminda winced, involuntarily raising a hand to her mouth.

Seeing the immortal's distress, the Emercian quickly snapped the flaps of his shirt back down, but Lorio gripped the collar and literally tore it open, before pushing it over his shoulders in one swift fluid gesture. Seeing the state of Esuruban's arms and torso, where almost every expanse of flesh was spangled with livid purple and yellow bruises, the dismayed immortal experienced a flare of self-loathing that tore from her lips in an inarticulate wail of anguish.

Shaking her head in negation, she spun away from the alarmed Emercian and stumbled away as hot tears of shame sprang to the corners of her eyes.

Seeing the extent to which this ugly manifestation of Lorio's innate capacity for malicious cruelty had distressed the immortal, Arminda came forward and gently gripped the Captain's bare arm. "I understand that I have no authority to compel you to do so, but you will report to The Metocan named Jerrod and request that you be given treatment for these injuries. As you are presently, you are in no condition to serve Lorio...I'm sure you are also aware of this fact, Captain Esuruban."

Esuruban recoiled in the face of Arminda's imperious tone, but then succumbed to the logic of her instructions. Retrieving his tattered shirt and tunic, he crossed over and stood behind Lorio, who was leaning against the stone hearth, unable to turn and face the man she had so heinously abused. "With your permission, good lady...I will heed the Tier Marshal's advice, but I will return as soon as I am treated."

In a quavering voice, Lorio managed, "Take whatever time you need, Esuruban...Arminda will remain with me until you return."

Esuruban looked to the Jerhia, who offered him a nod of reassurance. Frowning, the handsome Emercian limped from the chambers, leaving the two quest sisters alone.

"What a wretched, ignoble bitch I am!" Lorio exclaimed and slammed her fist down on the wooden shelf that ran along the top of the stone hearth hard enough to reduce it to kindling. "The only aptitude I seem to possess is for harming everyone around me and no matter how often the ugly truth of what I am is laid bare before me, I'm powerless to change my behavior."

"For all of our claims of virtue, you are no worse than the rest of us," Arminda remarked quietly and there was a note of self-denigration in the Jerhia's voice that forced Lorio to forget her plaintive moaning and focus on the younger woman.

This unexpected remark caused Lorio to shift her teary gaze to the Jerhia who wore a pensive expression as she stared into the dancing flames. The immortal's brow furrowed and she inquired, "I'm not sure what you mean. I'm a miscreant...far better suited to Myrhia's company than I am to yours...if the honest truth be told."

Arminda spun to face the Lamish beauty, her blue eyes blazing with an undefined emotion, and for the briefest instant, Lorio was provided with an unsettling insight into the doubt and pain that plagued the young woman. ' _That is all we really are,'_ she realized morosely. ' _For all of the misery and pain we've endured in these last months, she and I are little more than young women who this remorseless world has thrust into adulthood with no thought to the lingering scars we would have to bear.'_

"If that is true...it is only because that is what we have forced you to become...all we good and virtuous people who would claim to act for the greater good," Arminda insisted heatedly. "We can't simply lay everything at the feet of the enchantress and absolve ourselves of the blame for what has been done to you. I, for one, won't let them forget just what has been done to you."

Lorio shook her head, startled by the smaller woman's vehemence. "What exactly do you think has been done to me? Of all the people I've encountered, you are the one who has suffered the ugly scourge of my nature most frequently and so you should understand exactly what kind of black-hearted bitch I am."

Lorio was shocked when Arminda gripped her face and shook her for emphasis. "Enough, Lorio...as long as you cling to this posture of self-denigration, you leave yourself vulnerable to the worst kind of manipulation, believing that it is what you deserve."

The immortal clutched Arminda's wrist and gently but firmly dislodged her hand, before spinning away so as not to betray the extent of her confusion. It was preposterous to assume that she was a victim and yet this gentle soul was adamant in insisting that Lorio was not to blame for the dark inclinations of her nature. Softly, she mumbled, "I have no idea what you're trying to say. You saw what I did to Esuruban and he is certainly undeserving of the treatment I inflicted upon him."

"You have to confront the truth, Lorio...or it is going to utterly destroy you!" Arminda persisted like a stubborn hound that would not be dissuaded. "The flux in your heart has one cause and until you reconcile yourself to this singular truth, your life is going to be an endless succession of ugly dramas like the one last night. You are being cruelly abused by those who would claim to be your friends and you have to recognize that. It's why I've come today...because my conscience won't allow me to be complicit in your gradual destruction."

Growing impatient...and uncomfortable...with the course of this dialogue, Lorio rasped, "I have no idea what you're trying to tell me. Yesterday you offered me comfort in the wake of Myrhia's torture and hours later, I returned your kindness by leaving you lying face down in the dirty snow of the training yard. _That_ is precisely who I am."

Arminda's fingers unconsciously gravitated to her bruised cheek, but she retorted flatly, "Islena Doraux is a poison that is killing you, Lorio. Her mere proximity is like a pernicious disease that is crushing everything good in your heart."

The immortal loomed over the Jerhia and glared menacingly, but Arminda did not as much as flinch. "When you came to my quarters yesterday, I was unaware of the _arrangement_ that has been contrived by Islena...or the role you are intended to play in it. Maroc has since apprised me of the scheme and your theory about this shadow incarnation that supposedly possesses Islena. What this woman has asked of you is deplorable beyond words, Lorio and speaks of a degree of selfishness that is incomprehensible in its enormity."

"I won't hear this, Arminda...take a care when you speak of Islena to me," Lorio growled before stalking away.

The Jerhia followed her and imposed herself in the immortal's path. "Knowing the strength of the love you harbor for her...the sacrifices you've made and the things you've obviously forgiven...how could she possibly ask you to kill her? That is a monstrous cruelty that is worthy of Myrhia at her worst. That the others have endorsed this obscene scheme makes me ashamed to call them allies. Islena Doraux's sole concern is for herself...a conclusion I have reached by watching her closely since the first moment we crossed into the Land of Shades. Lorio, when this is over and should we find a way to persevere that leaves Myrhia defeated and all of us alive...how is it you see your relationship with Islena evolving?"

Lorio scowled mightily, but her anger deflated like a punctured balloon and she sighed, "Ironically, Myrhia asked me precisely the same question...and if I'm being truthful, I don't really have an answer."

"Your unconditional love for Islena is beyond dispute...you've demonstrated it a dozen times over. Do you believe her feelings are reciprocal?"

"I...I don't know," Lorio admitted. "I would pray that they are, but Islena has become...inaccessible to me. This _thing_ that she is supposed to be...this recurring entity...is beyond my understanding."

Arminda gently laid her hand on Lorio's bare shoulder and began to caress the smooth flesh. "Islena is an inexorable force that will consume you if you do not come to perceive her for what she is. If there is any amongst us who is undeserving of the fate they've been dealt...it is you."

"Why are you telling me this, Arminda...what is it you expect me to do?" Lorio demanded, though there was a pleading edge to her voice that belied her belligerence.

"I have devoted my life to the service of Jerhia. I have watched my family die and have to live with the thought that my own brother perished in a filthy dungeon in the city of the damned. Still, I have been unflagging in my dedication to the belief that my country fought for the principles of justice and virtue. That Maroc would endorse this deplorable abuse of one of the world's great heroines has disabused me of the idea that our actions are noble. We have capitulated to expedience and I am ashamed for my country and our part in this sham." She paused momentarily as if baffled by her own audacity at what she was about to suggest. "I want you to ponder everything that I've said...to think about what has been asked of you and what it implies...especially on the part of Islena. I can never claim to be a clairvoyant or possess the gift of augury, but if I am certain of anything it is that Islena, while she may be the savior of our world...is a bane to everyone who crosses her path...particularly those who come to love her."

Lorio recoiled as though slapped, but for reasons she could not entirely fathom, she found that she was unable to muster a solitary argument in Islena's defense. Instead, she shook her head vigorously, an ambiguous gesture that could well have signified anything.

"Though I'm nothing more than a young woman blessed with a keen eye and a steady hand, I've been granted this station and I vow to you on the oath of quest sisters, I will use that power to deliver you from this cruel trap. I know you have no desire to kill Islena...no matter how adamantly you claim that you will if necessary."

Lorio began to utter the rehearsed protest that she was still committed to Doraux's scheme, but Arminda cut her short with a raised hand. "If after you have turned the harsh light of introspection on your heart and should you reach the conclusion that entanglement with Islena will be your undoing...I will arrange to see you extricated from this snare. I will arrange to have you safely delivered anywhere you would choose to go...far away from this vicious drama and this woman who would exploit your love to see her own needs served."

Lorio fixed the shorter woman with a sardonic smirk and asked mockingly, "And just what would I do then, Arminda? Do you think either Myrhia or Islena would simply let me go? Would your coalition leaders, for that matter?"

"Myrhia cares only for her grand ambition of conquest. Islena's reaction is every bit as unpredictable as the woman herself." Her grin became feral and her voice gruff. "As for the coalition leaders...let their reaction be my concern. You asked what you would do, Lorio? You would be _free_ ...with an eternity to discover just who you are and what purpose you were intended to serve."

Lorio inhaled sharply, trying to visualize such an eventuality where the future was hers to shape as she desired...free of the crushing obligation of a love she feared would ultimately grind her to dust. "You would do this thing for me...after all the humiliation and pain I've subjected you to? You would betray your country and risk Myrhia's wrath...and Islena's?"

"Yes," Arminda replied without hesitation. Lorio shook her head in incredulity and suddenly burst into tears, groping for the shorter woman, who embraced her after a moment, clearly disconcerted by the immortal's emotional outpouring. Finally, Lorio regained her composure and pushed the Jerhia to arm's length, evening managing to muster a wan smile.

"I'll think about what you've said...seriously. Had you witnessed what transpired in the plaza, I think you would agree that I'm probably incapable of twisting a blade in Islena's heart."

Arminda gripped Lorio's hand and squeezed it fiercely, "I'm going to do everything in my power to insure that you never have to."

Lorio absently brushed a tear from her cheek and favored the Tier Marshal with smile of gratitude just as the door to her suites opened and Esuruban entered, the briskness of his stride indicating that he had found the Metocan. To his dismay, he saw that Lorio's eyes were misted with tears, but she averted her gaze as if ashamed to display her vulnerability in front of the Emercian. Arminda was regarding him with an unaccountable impatience as if his entry had interrupted something of critical importance. "I'm sorry...have I returned at an inopportune moment. I can wait in the hall if you wish."

"No, that is quite all right, Captain," Arminda replied briskly. "I have a meeting to attend within the bell and so I should be going." Turning to the immortal, the Tier Marshal squeezed the taller woman's muscular forearm and in a perceptibly softer voice, intoned, "I would have you reflect carefully on all I have said...and should you see the wisdom in my words, summon me."

Lorio nodded distantly and hugged the smaller woman, who turned and strode from the room without sparing the Captain a further glance. Esuruban had viewed this exchange with a quizzical frown and when the Jerhia had closed the door, he inquired, "Is all well Lorio?"

The immortal tossed her raven mane, but did not turn to face her minder. "I'm not sure I'm even capable of recognizing that particular state, Esuruban."

With this rather glum pronouncement delivered, she returned her gaze to the mesmerizing dance of the flames, even as Arminda's surprising offer tantalized her thoughts like a feather over bare flesh.

3

The newly designated audience chamber was both cold and austere, with neither adornment, banner nor sigil to indicate it was a place where those who held power in Metocan gathered to discuss the critical business of the beleaguered nation. The audience hall, that had borne witness to Myrhia's epic battle with Islena's malice and her subsequent obliteration of the acolyte's who had been attempting to remove the stains of its aftermath, had been rendered unusable by her destructive sorcery.

A long table and several dozen chairs had been carted into the new audience chamber and several fire rubies had been affixed to the walls and infused with arcane energy to insure that the occupants would not be troubled by the cold that held court in the compound's halls.

To describe the prevailing mood that held sway over those assembled as somber would have been a gross misrepresentation of the gloom that choked the air like a miasma as Inos moved to the head of the table and took his seat. Studying the man, Artumas felt that the Grand Mage had aged a decade in the span of a single day as the heavy shadow of Tokizar's death lay across his brow like a blight. He shifted his regard to the Emercian King and with a subtle note of pleading in his weary voice, intoned, "Artumas, if you would be so kind as to apprise the others of the theory that our rambunctious Lamish guest has put forth..."

He trailed off and Artumas could clearly see the signs of weariness in his pallid face. He nodded and rose to address those who had not been present when Lorio had shared her _theory_ about the nature of Islena's so called Shadow Incarnation and its possible origins.

As he did, the Emercian noted that Maktir's dour countenance darkened and Maroc pursed his lips in obvious displeasure, plainly loathing the increasingly convoluted labyrinth into which they were being drawn. Sormias had been invited to the conclave, as had Maroc's new adjutant, Arminda. The Golgar greeted this disclosure with an inscrutable grin that suggested he might find this latest wrinkle to be amusing.

"So you're saying that the enchantress might have insinuated this...this madness into Islena's subconscious to convince her that she is dangerously unstable?" Maroc demanded, clearly skeptical. He had witnessed the horror in the audience chamber and it was difficult to dispel the image from his mind or accept that it might have been nothing but a cleverly orchestrated hoax on Myrhia's part. "Do you ascribe any credence to this idea?"

Artumas inhaled deeply and after a moment, admitted, "I must confess that I am torn on the matter. Certainly, nothing is beyond the realm of possibility and so it would be unwise to discount the idea out of hand."

"But why would Myrhia go to such elaborate lengths to convince us that Islena is infested with some malicious alter-ego?" Maroc wondered, drawing a sharp gaze from Arminda.

Artumas was cognizant of the extent to which the young woman had changed since returning from the Land of Shades. She had been suffused by a new confidence and focus that she had not displayed during their exodus from the Land of Shades, where she had seemed tentative and uncertain of her role in this dark drama. The woman sitting beside the Maxim Tier Marshal appeared to have been transformed into an implacable engine of purpose. Her expressive blue eyes had grown sharp...and cold, yet her actions were both decisive and inspired by an unfaltering sense of compassion. _'It's as if she's evolved over night into the woman she was perhaps always destined to be. I believe, good Maroc, that you've found yourself a powerful moral compass that you would do well not to disappoint.'_

She spoke then and her single utterance confirmed his suspicions, a hint of impatience in her voice that would have been construed as insubordination in any other but a hero of the great quest. "This was never intended to convince _us_ of anything. Our perception hardly matters to the enchantress any more than a farmer cares about the way he might be perceived by his cattle. If this _shadow incarnation_ does turn out to be a fabrication, it has been contrived strictly for Islena's benefit."

"Again, why?" Maroc countered pointedly, seemingly not offended by his subordinates assiduous tone.

"It all comes back to the prophecy," Inos interjected thoughtfully and Arminda nodded with a knowing grin. "Myrhia cannot control these Icons directly and if she were to try, the prophecies declare that she would be obliterated."

"Exactly," Arminda said passionately, taking up the thread of the Grand Mage's thought. "To wield the power of the Proclamations, Myrhia must exert control over the foretold one who can actually activate their dormant power. There is an inherent risk in this approach, however, and we have always said that Myrhia is averse to taking needless risks. Anyone wielding the powers of the Proclamations would become a deity and as such, Islena could easily immolate Myrhia...unless the enchantress had some form of leverage that would keep her complaisant."

"There was talk of this _soul forge_ with Islena's son," Artumas pointed out, recalling the harrowing encounter on the beach near his hovel.

"True, but I doubt very much that Myrhia would stake her survival on that one instrument of coercion. Once she ascends, the creature that Islena becomes may care very little about the life of one child. What's more, if my understanding of Islena's nature is accurate, it is impossible to surmise how she might perceive relationships with the people who populate her life. I think that those of us who accompanied Islena on her journey have been given sufficient proof of that."

Artumas scowled at this suggestion of Islena's self-centeredness but offered no contradiction. "So you are suggesting that Myrhia has created this false dependency to bind Islena to her?"

"If you think on the matter for a while, there is a certain black logic in what Lorio is proposing. By making Islena believe that her succumbing to malice is inevitable without her guidance, Myrhia is insuring that Doraux will remain subservient...even when Islena holds the power to reduce her to a cinder."

"An extravagant gamble," Inos grumbled.

"But one that it would be foolish to discount," Arminda countered evenly.

An uneasy silence embraced the gathering, while those around the table grappled with the daunting ramifications of this new wrinkle.

After a moment, Arminda continued to demonstrate her rapier like grasp of the salient forces governing their current delicate situation. "There is something else to which you should give serious consideration..."

Despite his obvious exasperation, Inos gestured for Arminda to proceed. Her expression softened and she declared quietly. "Lorio will not be able to kill Islena...even if she is unwilling to admit as much."

"She has vowed that she would...if we engineered circumstances in which she could be in Islena's presence when the ritual of ascension was enacted." It was Inos who raised this strident protest. "Even when she brought this new theory to us this morning, the immortal insisted that her commitment to facilitating Islena's death had not changed or faltered."

Arminda's generous mouth twisted into a pitying smile. "It takes a woman's sensibility to comprehend the dynamic that exists between these two...or more succinctly, the sensibility that governs Lorio's actions toward Islena. Even when she was under Myrhia's thrall, Lorio could not bring herself to kill Islena or return her to the enchantress, though she had countless opportunities to do so during our trek across that accursed realm...when the party was in disarray and vulnerable. The most compelling proof of all comes in the fact that Lorio could not actually muster the hatred necessary to kill Islena...even after Doraux engineered a situation in which Lorio lost her unborn child. As a woman, I can tell you that this inability to extract vengeance is irrefutable proof that Lorio lacks the will to see Islena to her end...be it out of compassion or hatred, obligation or even love. Her love for Islena is simply too great and so if your plans are founded on her burying a dagger in Islena's heart at the appropriate moment...then they are destined to fail."

"I think it warrants pointing out that your own argument might make a case for believing that Lorio has told us a deliberate lie when it comes to her _theory..._ a gambit motivated by desperation," Inos observed.

Artumas ran his right hand through his thick air and inquired to no one in particular, "And where does this discouraging discourse leave us."

"Exactly where we were yesterday when we had our last conclave on this matter," Maktir rumbled, his deep voice bristling with surly impatience. Every head swiveled toward the dour Natzurdan Elder, who rose slowly and swept an impatient gaze around the room. "All of this endless debate...this conjecture...is a waste of precious breath. Nothing has change. Symyrasil will adjudicate on Islena Doraux's claim to the mantle of godhood. If she is deemed worthy, she will be granted the Mother's blessing and the powers of Genesis. If Symyrasil determines that Islena is impure...or worse still, thoroughly corrupt, she will be eternally imprisoned in its bosom and the threat she might pose will evaporate."

"Leaving us to face a deprived Myrhia's wrath," Maroc pointed out.

Arminda shifted a questioning glance to the Maxim Tier Marshal, who briefly summarized the contentious disclosure that Maktir had made the day prior. As he spoke, Arminda's smooth brow furrowed in incredulous indignation. Not bothering to rein in her disgust, she demanded, "Why have you not shared this with Lorio? Do you have any inkling how this terrible burden we are imposing upon her is gradually crushing her spirit...goading her toward the kind of impulsive cruelty we witnessed in the training yard last night. To not apprise her that it may never actually be required is monstrous beyond words to articulate."

Maktir offered the young Jerhia something that might have been as close to a scowl as a Natzurdan was capable of coming and remained utterly intransigent in his insistence that the ordeal which awaited Islena remain a secret between those in the room. "As I have told your superiors...this is a condition with no latitude for deviation. Myrhia will not step foot onto Natzurdan soil and this would-be savior will be given no prior knowledge of what awaits in Tyrcillium. There she will be judged and will only emerge into the light if she is deemed worthy to wield the sacred icon. This Lamish woman is an erratic creature and though her tribulations may not be of her own devising, there is not one among you would could say with any degree of conviction that she would not share knowledge of the ritual with Islena...and by extension, Myrhia."

Arminda started to rise, ready to object, but then acceptance that Maktir had raised a legitimate point surmounted her indignation and she sat down, knowing that she had skillfully set forth the very argument that validated his concern. The dour elder allowed himself a small grin and then continued. "I have already set the process in motion. Tomorrow, the Natzurdan will begin the return journey to our homeland. We can feel the Mother's agony and we are anxious to begin the process of ministering to her wounds."

"I fear that your countrymen will be devastated by what awaits them, revered elder," Sormias observed in an uncharacteristically somber tone that was reflected on his handsome countenance like a brooding shadow.

"We feel her pain in the air we breathe and the earth beneath our feet," Maktir replied gravely, "and in our wounded hearts. Still, we must steel our spirits and tend to her suffering...even if our own becomes excruciating."

The Golgar nodded and Maktir continued, demonstrating that, while he was not the charismatic Morzhian, the new Elder was a capable, focused leader. "I will remain here in Natzurdan and offer my terms to the witch upon her return. If she is amenable, I will lead Islena to Tyrcillium. If she rejects my unconditional terms, then I will strike a blade through my heart...a piercing blow that will resonate through every living Natzurdan. Shortly thereafter, they will do the same and Symyrasil will remain forever safe...essentially bringing Myrhia's odious ambition to an emphatic and permanent end."

"And our absolute annihilation in the bargain," Maroc muttered.

"Perhaps, but both Tokizar and Artumas have recognized that we must be accountable for the grave errors that our ancestors made in first forging these Icons. If the price of that error is our obliteration, then it is one that we must willingly pay, lest others pay it in our stead." With the conclusion of this grim monologue, the room fell silent and a pervasive dejection settled over the group.

At last, Artumas shook his head and remarked, "Then I recommend that we move forward with this plan of Maktir's, while doing what we can to prepare for a journey to Emercia...in force. We must also focus on the positive aspect of Islena's coming ordeal. If it turns out that this Shadow Incarnation is, indeed, a clever contrivance meant to make Islena subservient...her survival at this Tyrcillium will mean that she will be free to pursue her ascension without fear of evolving into a monster to rival Myrhia." Focusing directly on a clearly displeased Arminda, he pointed out, "It will also mean that Lorio will be relieved of the burden of having to kill Islena during the ritual. If you all agree, then I suggest that we focus our efforts on determining the state of affairs on the eastern continent...something with which both Maroc's scouts and Sormias can be of tremendous aid."

Not a single objection was voiced for which both Artumas and Inos were grateful.

"I have brought First Scout Sybian back to Othgol with precisely this objective in mind. She is the most experienced scout in our present troop disposition and I would have her lead this reconnaissance party. As I see it, Sormias could fly ahead and guide the group to areas that merit our attention. Am I correct in assuming that our objective is to determine a route that will be free of conflict or impediment?" the Maxim Tier Marshal inquired, clearly happy to be back on the familiar ground of discussing tactics and strategy...rather than sorcery and metaphysics.

"Yes," Artumas confirmed gravely. "The last thing we need is to incite a situation that will force Myrhia to unleash her sorcery or Morticants on the people of the Eastern Continent. They have borne the brunt of this conflict over the course of the last eight years and should be subjected to no further misery. If we move in force and present a united front...Jerhia and Emercian troops together...I am hoping we can avoid any further carnage."

"Having you at the front of this column would go a long way towards insuring that, Artumas," Inos observed drawing unanimous nods of agreement from those assembled.

"We know that several of the countries have fallen back to squabbling over festering faction animosities and we must do what is necessary to circumvent these potentially disastrous areas of conflict. A lot will depend upon Myrhia's willingness to be patient in seeing Islena returned to Nalosan," the Emercian King remarked, the shadow on his brow indicating that he feared her patience might be in short supply given all that had transpired since her arrival in Othgol.

"First Scout Sybian will chart a route for us. It is likely to be some weeks before Myrhia and Islena return with the next Icon...if they do succeed in unearthing it. Then there is the journey to this mystic grove, which will give us more time...hopefully ample time to map a route through the maze of regional conflict," Maroc declared hopefully.

Inos suddenly blinked and shook his head in exasperation. "This reminds me...I had a visit from Sygeanor last night..."

Every eye settled on the Grand Mage at the mention of the half-Ulgak's name and in every eye, Inos could discern a wary gleam of apprehension. He knew that this would please Sygeanor immensely had she been present. "Actually, her visit was an occasion for some much needed good tidings. Firstly, it seems that Fairmarch has recovered admirably from Myrhia's sudden withdrawal. King Saremond is back on the throne and order has been restored throughout the country."

"That is welcome news," Artumas agreed with a smile. "Saremond is a capable ruler, with a firm but just hand. He will maintain stability in Fairmarch. You said that there were two pieces of good news?"

Inos could clearly discern the exigency couched in the aging king's voice and offered the Emercian the first genuine smile he had given in months. "Sygeanor has agreed to desist in her plans for attempting to destroy the stockpiles of blue clay in Nalosan."

Artumas could not entirely contain his enormous relief at this disclosure and Inos deliberately neglected to mention the threat that the half-Ulgak had sworn should Myrhia's incursion into her home province go awry.

A collective sigh of relief swept through the room, though the expressions that both Maroc and Maktir wore were considerably less than enthusiastic. Both had experienced the enormity of Sygeanor's menacing ego often enough to suspect that this promise to desist might was not to be regarded as entirely credible. Time would tell, but neither man seemed inclined to dampen this slight cause for optimism. Artumas clapped his hands and declared, "This might be a good moment to end this session and go about making preparations for Sybian's expedition and the Natzurdan's departure." His brow clouded with perplexity then and he inquired, "Inos, this inimical turn in the weather is unprecedented, is it not?"

"It is," Inos confirmed. "Instances of snowfall have been documented, but never in accumulations like we have seen in these last few days."

"Might this be attributed to anything...specific?" the Emercian wondered to which Inos offered a helpless shrug that Artumas accepted with a tacit nod.

The conclave was about to break up, when Sormias spoke up. "I would like to make a request...I know that you wish for me to accompany First Scout Sybian and her contingent and I am certainly willing to lend what aid I may. I imagine that preparations might take some time and it is a good several days' ride to the nearest stone causeway. In the interim, I would like to visit the city called Perdwick. I promise that I will return well before your scout is ready to cross onto the Eastern Continent."

"You are certainly under no obligation to request permission, Sormias," Inos replied with an arching of a thin eyebrow. "You are free to come and go as you see fit, but may I inquire as to why you would wish to visit the city. Even in the darkness that has befallen our world, Perdwick stands out as an enclave of infamy"

Sormias cast a brief glance at Arminda, who was watching the Golgar from beneath hooded lids, a sour frown twisting her pretty face. He turned his attention back to the Grand Mage and replied with surprising deference. "You have been my gracious host and so my request is a courtesy that you are due. When the quest first came upon me in the Land of Shades, Islena informed me that there was an identical tower to mine standing within this city of Perdwick. It may well hold another of my kind and I am most anxious to see it with my own eyes."

Though Sormias had offered this explanation in an even, modulated voice...his face set in his customary placid grin...the Grand Mage could discern the lingering urgency couched beneath this request. It occurred to him that Sormias was the only one of his species in the known world...a fact that must suffuse the Golgar with a terrible sense of loneliness. The pair shared a moment of perfect empathy and Inos merely nodded, "Take what time you need. I'm sure the Maxim Tier Marshal will provide you with a map to indicate where the city stands."

The Tier Marshal nodded, delegating the task to his new adjutant and after some perfunctory words of parting, the conclave broke up for the day, the woe-ridden leaders all gravitating away to grapple with their personal worries in solitude.

Before she could leave, Maroc took Arminda aside and she feared that she might have raised his ire by not displaying the proper deference that was due to a Maxim Tier Marshal. Had Ossiran still held the title, Arminda could have expected a severe down-dressing. _'Had Ossiran still been alive, I would have been returned to the ranks without even the slightest consideration for my accomplishments in the Land of Shades,'_ Arminda reminded herself. ' _Maroc is the very embodiment of progressive thinking by contrast and you should never lose sight of that fact.'_

He offered the pretty blond a fond smile and observed, "You acquitted yourself well today...displaying a keen mind and the courage to express your views without timidity. That is a laudable attribute in one who will eventually lead Jerhia."

Arminda could not conceal her surprise, still unable to assimilate the idea that this man actually believed that she would be a worthy Maxim Tier Marshal and would facilitate her rise to the position. "Thank you. My primary concern was for the prolonged mistreatment of Lorio...made all the worse by the glaringly obvious fact that she simply lacks the requisite sensibility to ever do what has been asked of her."

Maroc grimaced and remarked quietly, "These are the ugly truths of leadership. With greater frequency that is bearable, we are often forced to choose between two unpalatable alternatives. In our current circumstances, that is truer than ever. Despite the complex and often disturbing junctures you've shared with Lorio, I know that you count her as a friend. You must set that aside and recognize that Maktir is correct in stating that Lorio would disclose the trial at Tyrcillium to Islena, who would eventually share it with Myrhia...even if only under duress."

Arminda's only response was a dutiful nod, causing Maroc to scrutinize her closely before finally sighing and instructing, "I would like you to dine with me tonight, along with Tier Marshal Vyganis. I wish to review our current troop disposition with a mind to determining which troops will be committed to this ignoble procession to Nalosan...and which will return to Jerhia to take up the task of rebuilding our country. The eighth bell this evening would be good."

Arminda, who wished only to be alone with her thoughts, recognized that this was an order and not a request. She offered the Maxim Tier Marshal the proper formal salute, bowed and strode away, leaving a bemused Maroc staring after her.

4

Drowsy warmth had enveloped the room and the only sound to be heard was the occasional popping of a knot as the fire slowly consumed the wood in the massive stone fireplace. Lorio stared fixedly into the fire, mesmerized by the hypnotic dance of the flames. Its hypnotic pattern was almost discernable, but its cryptic message, if indeed it contained one, eluded her still. She was peripherally aware of Esuruban somewhere in the room, but she had not acknowledge him since his return from the healer as if to do so would be to rip open the wounds of her shame afresh. She was all too aware of her own horrible foibles and doubted she could suffer being constantly reminded of her inherent ugliness.

Finally, the Emercian rose and offered tentatively, "Milady, I will take my leave for a brief time...if you are amenable?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "Take what ever time you need, Captain. I promise to remain anchored to this very spot in your absence and none will be the wiser for you dereliction of duty."

She could almost feel Esuruban's answering frown and wondered why she took such delight in casting herself in this maddeningly difficult and irascible light. Like most such soul-scouring questions, this one proved virtually impossible to answer and thus futile.

A brief instant later, the soft clicking of the door declared that the Captain had taken his leave, abandoning her to the depressing emptiness and the myriad of whispered voices that would give her no peace.

Esuruban hurried through the nearly deserted halls, where the occasional Metocan acolyte was engaged in the task of infusing fire rubies with arcane energy that would heat the complex's sprawling interior. He returned to the quarters of the king's guard, where he quickly gathered up his meager few possessions and spoke the man he would designate as his replacement while on his current duty. Slinging the small satchel over his shoulder, the Emercian then returned to the training yard where he had suffered his moment of pain and abjection at the hand of the tempestuous immortal. He had tried to keep his thoughts confined strictly to the task at hand, but as his gaze swept the rectangular training field where snow had piled along the eastern wall in drifts that crept halfway to the upper balcony, Esuruban could no longer escape the question that had been plaguing him since he had first volunteered to help find the fugitive immortal after she had left him bloody and beaten in the snow. _'Why are you doing this? Why are allowing yourself to be dragged deeper into an entanglement with a woman who is beyond your limited understanding and will inevitably grind your heart to dust?'_

He could produce no coherent answer, but that inability did nothing to diminish the efficacy of the attraction that drew him to her. _'Just as a moth is drawn to a very hot and deadly flame.'_

Shaking his head, he drew on his heavy gloves and waded out into the knee-deep snow that sat in the yard. He deliberately dragged his feet through the snow until his shin brushed up against an object buried beneath the snow mantle. He bent down and thrust his hand into the snow, pulling the item out and examining it in the fading late afternoon light. He doubted very much that his superiors would condone what he was about to do, but was surprised by how little this influenced his decision to follow through with his idea. Mustering a rare smile, Esuruban started back into the complex, hoping that he would avoid notice until he had returned this item to its rightful owner.

Lorio was still seated where he had left her, staring absently into the writhing flames and gently caressing the heavy cable braid that hung over her right shoulder. She neither rose nor turned to acknowledge his return and so he walked across the stone floor and stopped beside her, unmindful of the snow that he'd tracked onto the decorative area rug. In one fluid movement, he laid the object he had retrieved from the training yard across her lap.

Her head jerked up and she shifted her moon-eyed regard from his handsome face to the ironwood staff that he had fetched from where she had dropped it before fleeing into the night. She then laid a hand tentatively upon the polished wood as if it might be an illusion that would dissolve beneath her touch. Rising, she gripped the staff and spun it experimentally, but then her expression became severe and she growled, "I doubt your king or our hosts would be especially pleased that you've returned this to me."

"Still, it is your property and it is fitting that it should be returned to you," Esuruban said evenly, admiring the deft touch she exhibited when wielding the weapon.

Lorio stepped closer, her incisive gaze becoming uncomfortably intense as she demanded, "Why did you agree to be my minder...after what I did to you in the training yard?"

Esuruban shook his head absently and groped to provide a coherent answer to a question he had been unable to answer for his own understanding. "When we sparred in the training yard, something seemed to...to overcome you. In that moment, I felt your pain and in this cacophonous cry of sorrow that seems to hover over all of us like a raging storm, it seemed to bring the sadness of what had befallen this world into poignant focus."

"And, of course, you thought you could save me...to assuage your bruised male ego!" she spat sardonically and in a caustic tone dripping with venom, added, "In case you haven't notice, Esuruban, it is women who are poised like a hammer about to crush this world to dust. Keep that in mind the next time you're overcome by a chauvinistic urging."

Esuruban's open, honest face blanched, clearly wounded by her stinging criticism. "I doubted that someone of my humble station could actually save you, milady...I only hoped that I could succeed in guiding you back to those who could. When I saw the Metocan Mages and Jerhia soldiers preparing to hunt you down like a common criminal...I knew I had to find a way to intervene. You have about you the air of a woman who has suffered more than enough."

Like dirty snow melting before a summer sun, Lorio's unfair anger dissipated, giving way to an intense pang of self-loathing. "I'm sorry, Esuruban, that was unfair and I appreciate you returning this to me. It is perhaps the only true possession I have in this world and it would pain me to be forcibly separated from it." She offered the Captain and exaggerated grin and promised, "I will try to insure that I use it only as a source of distraction while I am under your charge, Captain."

"That would be a tremendous relief milady," the Emercian replied quite sincerely.

"Lorio...you're going to call me Lorio from this point on," She scolded with mock severity and Esuruban merely nodded. She gestured him into a plush seat next to the hearth and then settled on the sofa, peering at his face, where much of the previous night's bruising was no longer in evidence. There was something enticing about the shape of his mouth and the hollow of his cheeks beneath strong, angular cheekbones that set her pulse racing. It was a face that she could spend hours simply gazing upon and she wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through the shock of thick blond hair that framed his face like spun gold. Trying to keep a tight rein on her rampant emotions, she asked, "How did you come to be in this place, Esuruban?" Her smooth brow furrowed and she added, "I sense an innocence to your spirit...a fundamental goodness. How did you find yourself in the service of a monster like Myrhia?"

"I am a farmer's son from central Emercia, but even a young boy I was fascinated by stories of the army and the glory of the Emercian military...from the period when Artumas was king," he added hastily with obvious embarrassment. Lorio uttered a disgusted grunt, knowing that this was a vile siren's song that had corrupted so many young boys. "My father wanted me to remain at home...to work the land and become a farmer, but at the time, I was beguiled by tales of valor and glory and so when I was old enough, I made my way to Nalosan to enlist in the King's Army. As fate would have it, I was blessed with a natural litheness and grace that made a sword seem like an extension of my flesh...or so I thought until last night."

Lorio waved a dismissive hand and intoned, "I bested you only because I've been augmented by Myrhia's black sorcery. Were that not the case, I think you might have a fair chance of besting me in a _fair_ contest...but you see, Esuruban...that's just the thing. I'm the kind of woman who does everything in her power to insure she is _never_ in a fair contest."

Not certain how to respond to this particularly self-deprecating insight, Esuruban merely glanced at this folded hands, guessing that she had spoken the unbiased truth. After a moment, he attempted to provide a meaningful answer to her second query...a moral quandary that had plagued his conscience over the last several years. "I wish I could produce a defense or explanation for my service to the enchantress...but I cannot. It gainsays the idea that I am a noble or worthy man. I can tell you that I never participated in anything for which I am personally ashamed...such as murdering prisoners or defenseless civilians, but that hardly absolves my service to a tyrant, which in and of itself is a damning stain on my soul."

"I doubt you could find anyone living who does not bear a stain or two from these last seven years, Esuruban. My soul is as black as pitch, so I am hardly in a position to render judgment on anyone else," Lorio assured the Emercian in a somber voice that spoke of infinite self-loathing. Here, her expression became both rueful and perplexed. "What I really don't understand is how the Emercian population could have been deceived into actually believing that Artumas had been killed by the Jerhia. Was there a person alive before the war who did not regard the Jerhia as a just and honorable nation? Yet, it seemed that your countrymen swallowed this incredible fabrication eagerly."

Esuruban greeted this blatantly accusatory criticism with an apologetic nod of agreement. "You're right of course, but though it hardly merits consideration now, you must remember that...at the time of Artumas' disappearance...Myrhia was widely regarded as the most beloved figure in Emercia...possibly even more so than the King for all of his achievements."

Lorio shook her head in disgust, her eyes flashing like summer night's thunder, causing the Emercian to elaborate, though without the defensive edge that most of his fellow soldiers might have taken. "In hindsight, you are absolutely right...the flaws in her web of deception were there from the beginning. Still, she is a skilled deceiver and she enflamed the nation with rhetoric of retribution and a campaign to free the Eastern Continent from the Jerhia's yoke of repression. Sadly, we embraced lies and by the time the truth of her nature became glaringly apparent, it was far too late to reverse courses. Between her sorcery and the Morticants, Emercia had become a captive participant in her campaign of conquest. Universal fear supplanted reason and stained our souls in the process."

Lorio pursed her full lips, clearly dissatisfied with what she construed as a trite justification...a hollow excuse. "Esuruban, you make it sound as if the entire Emercian army was an unwilling participant in this fucking war, but with my own eyes, I have seen what a self-serving load of shit that is. I watched your fellow countrymen gleefully lick her boots and carrying out her dirty work."

Esuruban averted his blue eyes and shifted his uncomfortable gaze to his folded hands, having no defense to muster for his country's deplorable actions. "As you say and I suspect this sorry juncture will gouge a permanent scar in Emercia's honor. When Artumas returned and the Enchantress relinquished control of the Army back to his command, he assembled the lot of us in a field to the west of the city. In a sober voice, he told us that we had, each of us...himself included, disgraced our country. He went on to say that such was the severity of our crimes that we might never efface our shame, but that we were obligated to spend eternity attempting to atone if that was what was required. I see the truth of his words. They are a terrible indictment against Emercia and may well be our only hope for salvation."

"Your King has an aptitude of grand pronouncements," Lorio remarked, but something in her hooded expression hinted at a festering contempt that Esuruban could not fathom. Her eyes lost that combative edge and she asked, "Do you have someone waiting for your return in Emercian, Esuruban...a wife perhaps?"

The soldier shook his head with the slightest intimation of regret playing at his features. "No wife. I suppose that the army became my surrogate wife the moment I enlisted. There are times when I fear that I may have eschewed something for which I might have been far better suited. Who can say, but there is a certain kind of comfort that comes in the camaraderie of soldiering...though it may be a poor substitute for a good wife and a family."

Lorio, for whom the concept of a fulfilling family life was but wistful fancy, uttered a spate of laughter that caused Esuruban to grimace. She waved a placating hand and intoned, "Don't mind me for being abrasive. It's not as if you're an old man and if this damnable war is truly at an end, you can always go back to Emercia and take up the plough."

"Perhaps," the handsome soldier allowed, his gaze losing focus as he peered along the road of a future that was destined never to be.

"In the meantime, you've been tasked with being my minder...not an undertaking that your fellow sword slingers would envy I'd wager," She intoned tartly. "I grow easily bored and my behavior sways to the devious when I do...so I fully expect you to keep me entertained."

"I'm not sure I have any talent as a mummer, Lorio, but I'll try not to bore you to distraction." Esuruban returned quite seriously and then added, "as long as your entertainment of choice does not include sparring."

Lorio uttered a hearty peel of laugher and rising, clapped the Emercian on the right shoulder, before floating gracefully to the door of her bed chamber, where she paused long enough to offer, "This has been a long and...eventful day. As I mentioned yesterday, I've never actually spent a night in a real bedroom, with a mattress and no lock on the door. I think you'll find that sofa quite comfortable."

She offered the Emercia a radiant smile that reminded him of sun light over a lake in summer. Then she was gone, leaving a thoroughly enchanted Esuruban alone with his turbulent thoughts.

5

The wind had risen to a piercing shriek, rattling the glass panes in their frames, while fresh snow whispered over the frosted glass in undulating sheets. The room was dark, save for the weak vermillion glow cast by the four fire rubies that provided its only source of heat. She had allowed the fire to run down to embers and then die entirely and the crystals were not condign to the challenge of heating the spacious interior of her bedroom. Even in the gloom, she could see her breath rising in lazy plumes, but the chill lacked the ability to touch her immortal flesh that had become immune to the influence of the elements.

' _If only your heart had been so fortunate,'_ she thought glumly and sighed at this sudden maudlin mood that had descended upon her as she closed the door, leaving Esuruban alone in the outer suite.

Abandoning the futile attempt at sleep, Lorio pushed back the covers and swept out of bed with the uncanny grace of a Suran dancer. She padded over to the fireplace, unmindful of the frigid stones beneath her feet, where she quickly and efficiently ignited a fire with a flint and dry paper, shoving the curling paper into the dry kindling and fanning the fledgling flame until it caught on the dry straw. She then retreated a pace and stood admiring her handiwork while the omnipresent voices in her head renewed their litany of disturbing (and frankly perplexing) entreaties. The slightly mad rasp of the shadow incarnation was complimented by Myrhia's seductive lilt, both exhorting her to _save Islena_ and in the case of the malicious demon, kill every enemy who would see Doraux dead.

As a new variation to this maddening duet, Arminda spoke in her firm, confident voice...promising the immortal deliverance from the insanity that plagued her life like a relentless hound...goading her toward the abyss of madness.

A vivid image of the handsome Emercian, asleep in the outer suite, rose to her mind like a breaking dawn and as if powerless to resist its siren song, she started resolutely toward the door, deftly shedding her clothes as she went.

6

A subtle whisper of movement reached his ears from beyond the periphery of the fitful doze into which he had fallen not moments before. Years of sleeping in war camps had instilled an internal alarm in the soldier's mind, along with a host of other ingrained habits...all intended to keep him alive in an environment where death was a swift and merciless shadow. He was reaching for the dagger in his boot before he was even fully awake and his eyes flew open like broken shutters, squinting in the deep gloom to isolate the source of the sound that had drawn him up from sleep.

The wrist that held the dagger was suddenly snagged in a powerful grip that exerted a crushing pressure on the joint until his fingers opened of their own accord and the dagger fell to the carpet with a muffled clatter. "Be still, Esuruban...I am not your enemy."

As his eyes adjusted to the shadow, the Emercian was startled to see a curving silhouette framed against the ineffective light that tumbled through the room's tall, narrow window. An instant later, he felt her long tresses brush against his face and felt a pyre ignite in his veins as he grasped exactly what he had awoken to. Stammering like an inexperienced schoolboy, Esuruban gasped, "Lorio...we shouldn't. I..."

His words petered out into a long, slow exhalation as he could find no plausible argument for why he should not accept what this indescribably beautiful anomaly was offering freely. Plunging her fingers into the golden locks she adored, Lorio drew his face into the lush valley between her firm breasts and sighed, "When I first set eyes upon you in my cell, I wanted you in my bed because you were such a magnificently constructed creature, but in the few short days since, I've come to realize that I want you because your spirit is every bit as beautiful. Let me have both and forget this ugliness that resides in mine...if only for a short while."

He found the temerity to kiss her breast, losing himself in its substance and warmth. Pushing him reluctantly away, Lorio hauled him to his feet and led him into her bed chamber, where she made a great and slow ritual of kissing him at length while slowly divesting him of his clothes. When he was finally naked and enticingly erect, the hungry immortal pushed him onto his back and after lavishing the moaning man with a flurry of warm, lingering kisses, mounted him in one swift movement that drew airy gasps of pure pleasure from both.

She guided his hands to her full hips and after molding her hands to his chest, Lorio began to move in a languid motion that reminded the overwhelmed soldier of the breaking of waves on a strand. Closing her eyes and luxuriating in the feeling of fullness that suffused her core, Lorio threw back her head and sent a wanton wish rolling along the tether that connect her to the woman who held proprietorship over her soul. "Do you feel this Islena...where ever you might be? I hope so...every stroke, every thrust...I hope you feel them all."

This rather spiteful notion then dissolved into a crescendo of pure sensation and heat that swept the improbable lovers away to a place where the woes were forgotten...if only until morning.

Chapter Thirty-Three

1

The morning following the tense drama in Myrhia's pavilion dawned bitterly cold and windy. The air seemed to crackle with frost and the blue sky appeared as hard as a diamond, both remote and remorseless as it gazed down upon the beleaguered world.

Islena came back to wakefulness like a woman emerging from a pool of viscous tar. Her senses were dull and her body felt sluggish and unresponsive as she climbed to her feet. Groaning slightly, she deliberately forced herself through an abbreviated stretching routine that had once been an integral part of her morning routine.

' _Best not to waste time thinking about that,'_ she admonished herself as she sat on the plush rug and spread both legs out to the sides, reaching first to the left and then to the right, where she gripped the sole of each foot and pressed her face to each knee. She held this position until the knots in her lower back began to loosen...if only grudgingly. _'Clinging to illusions...to lost lives...is a fool's endeavor. Better to look to the future...to this Tabula Rasa.'_

"Sound advice, daughter," a melodious voice declared and Islena's head jerked up to find Myrhia watching her from the shadows. The enchantress was fully dressed in her heavy cloak and ebony armor. She lounged casually in a chair with her legs propped on a stool, and crossed at the ankles. Something in her relaxed posture suggested that she had been in this position for some time...watching Islena as she had slept and then commenced her stretching exercises. There was the ghost of a smile playing at Myrhia's lips that did not light on her great dark eyes. "What a fascinating creature you are, daughter; a beguiling mix of irreconcilable elements that still manage to come together in the most pleasing amalgam that is dangerous and unstable...yet beautiful beyond words. It's been my experience that this incongruent blend of elements are the very essence of a deity...and what a glorious deity you will become."

Doraux could not repress the shudder that the very mention of godhood never failed to evoke. While Myrhia had offered this remark with the usual gleam of avarice, there could be no denying that there had been another nuance present in her tone...one that caused Islena to quiver with revulsion; sincere admiration. The enchantress waved an elegant hand and instructed, "Carry on, daughter. On the road to Tabula Rasa, one never knows what she might encounter and so it's best to remain... _limber._ "

A light, tinkling laughter filled the pavilion, grating on Islena's nerves like the shattering of glass. Crossly, she demanded, "Can you read my thoughts now, Mother? Will you not give me even the requiem of privacy?"

Myrhia propped her small fist beneath her chin and considered Islena thoughtfully for a moment. "I could always divine your thoughts, daughter...if I so chose, but as you wear your emotions on your sleeve like a child it is not such an astounding feat to read your thoughts."

This drew a chagrined scowl from Doraux, who sprang to her feet and came to stand before the enchantress, brazenly naked and unabashed by the fact. Despite the severity of the ordeal she had endured, Islena's powerful body displayed no sign of lingering damage. Quite the contrary, it seemed to exude power...an impression of limitless capability. She could sense the thrum of the Dragonsword reverberating through her flesh and saw the flickering white light of the Metocan orb on the periphery of her awareness like a guiding star in the night sky.

' _I feel like a juggernaut...an inexorable force moving toward its own culmination as much as others try desperately to guide me.'_ This satisfying notion stole across the fabric of her mind in a voice that was legion...innumerable incarnations speaking in perfect harmony. _'I wonder if she understands that every slight...every indignity...is serving to galvanize me and move me beyond her influence.'_

' _Beyond all influence,'_ the shadow incarnation interjected with a mad cackle and despite her aversion to this malicious presence, Doraux managed to shield her dismay from the incisive woman now watching her. Glancing closely at the woman who had subjected her to the previous day's harrowing ordeal, Islena was privately pleased that the same could not be said about Myrhia, whose normally limpid eyes were noticeably less radiant. There was a subtle, pinched edge to her expression that suggested fatigue as if her campaign to subjugate Islena was taking a toll on the enchantress.

Myrhia considered Islena's body and pursed her lips. Doraux's was a vessel every bit as contradictory as the spirit it housed...an unlikely marriage of power and sensuality. "You will never be accused of bashfulness, daughter."

Islena chortled, her green eyes flashing with disdain. A sliver of memory came to her then, plucked from the very morning when this nightmare odyssey had commenced back in her own world what seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago. She inclined her chin, turned her head slightly to the side so that her intense gaze was still set squarely on Myrhia. She then extended her left leg to the side and raised her arms, settling into a pose that had once been second nature to the woman she had been. Offering the mystified enchantress a viper's grin, she abruptly contracted every muscle in her body. A small gasp escaped Myrhia's lips as she watched Islena's body transform into an enticing vessel of carved perfection, radiating incredible power in palpable waves. Despite her best intentions not to be visibly impressed, Myrhia's moon-eyed gaze crept over the striated topography of Islena's body, astounded by the density and mass of Doraux's thighs and the peaked geometry of her biceps. With a throaty rasp, Islena taunted through clenched teeth, "You scourge me with my passion, but we both know that you would secretly like nothing better than for me to throw you onto that pile of furs and show you just how powerful I really am...to succumb to my strength and let me ravage you until you scream. You can waste your breath denying it, but I can hear your heart thundering in your chest." Islena let the pose drop and rolled her head on her shoulders, relishing the _body memory_ that this snippet of posturing had indulged. "Once I've ascended and _you_ serve me as you've promised, who can say...perhaps I'll give you your wish!"

A tempest spawned on Myrhia's brow, but then she drew a weary sigh and muttered, "Why must you goad me to the darker aspects of my nature, daughter? Now especially, when we stand face to face, stripped of all delusions, and I've agreed to facilitate your ascension and even subjugate my ego and serve you?"

Islena's taunting grin evaporated in the face of this surprising question...which had been offered more as a plea. "Where are my clothes...my armor?" she inquired. "Will we set out soon?"

Myrhia gestured in the direction of a side table. Islena made her way across the darkened pavilion to find her armor had been polished. She arched an inquisitive eyebrow in response to the emeralds that had been affixed to each individual piece of armor. A muted green glow emanated from each jewel and as she reached for a vambrace, she could feel pleasing warmth drifting from its ebony surface. As she began to pull on her underclothes and then the padded undergarments, she asked about the purpose of the newly-affixed emeralds. Myrhia rose and literally floated across the pavilion, landing lightly on the balls of her feet next to Doraux, from whom she took the vambrace. Setting it on the table, she selected the ebony breastplate and to Islena's bemusement, set about dressing Doraux in her armor. After a moment, Islena held her arms out to the sides and adjusted her stance, so that the enchantress could more easily go about her task. There was an incredible sense of surrealism as the most powerful living being in the known world labored to dress Islena, very much like a knight's squire. Looking down on the kneeling Queen, Islena intoned soberly, "I must confess, I view this sudden proclamation of subservience rather skeptically."

Myrhia merely glanced up at Doraux and beamed an inscrutable smile. Vexed, Islena demanded, "And what if I was to decide that it was my will to say ascension be damned and end this search for these bloody Proclamation? Would you happily comply?"

Myrhia stood and reached for a pauldron, her mouth twisting into a rueful grin. "If you were to suggest such a thing, I would assume that you were deliberately mocking me, in which case I would punish you for your impertinence. Worse still, I might assume that you were being serious and let your son bear the consequences of bleating such obtuse blather."

Islena stiffened, but Myrhia merely smiled and laid the tips of her fingers against the angle of her jaw. "Please Islena, let us dispense with this tedious contest of one-up-manship. We are both cognizant of the truth...there is only one way that this is destined to end. Let us accept that immutable truth and go forward without these constant and unnecessary episodes of melodrama." When Islena only continued to glare, Myrhia shook her head and revealed, "You inquired about the purpose of these emeralds...they have been infused with arcane energy, bits of my very essence actually. They will ward you against the extreme cold that seems to have clamped down upon Metocan. There are still innumerable trials to be faced and I would see you at least do so in comfort."

Islena could think of no appropriate response. These gestures of kindness...interspersed with the occasional episode of horrifying cruelty...were profoundly unsettling.

Interpreting Islena's silence as obstinate cynicism, Myrhia remarked, "There is no more dangerous quality for a deity to possess than petulance...except, perhaps, for madness."

This afterthought, tossed so casually, caused Islena to grimace...knowing that she had the potential to be governed by both. "Do you think I'm not aware of that? Why do you suppose I bent a knee to you in the first place? You can't begin to imagine how bitter of a taste that left in my mouth...like ashes and death."

Myrhia's eyes flashed and she retorted quietly, "Oh, but I think I do...I've dined on that particularly unpalatable feast on more occasions that I care to remember."

The two eternal combatants both fell silent, each recalling the many times that fate had consumed them over the course of the millennia. Myrhia finally sighed and straightened. "I wanted to let you know that I have taken action to protect your son. This Sygeanor has become the most hunted creature in the known world. I have moved the Morticants to positions that will make the city impregnable to even a cockroach while others seek to exterminate this nuisance."

"How?" Islena pressed insistently. "I want specific assurances that...that Allan is safe."

Myrhia, while clearly vexed by Islena's persistence, nonetheless elaborated on the measures she had taken. "I have unleashed a series of tracker orbs whose purpose is to locate and destroy anything that employs arcane energy. They will scour the country like hounds...and like those tenacious beasts, once they have located this Sygeanor, should she be so foolish as to employ sorcery, they will tear her to pieces. Does that suffice to calm you anxiety?"

Islena, who had no illusions about Myrhia's motivations in bolstering security to protect her precious source of clay, nonetheless offered a cursory expression of gratitude, which Myrhia accepted with the shrug of one extending a minor egalitarian gesture to someone far beneath her station. On impulse, she extended her arm and gently gripped Myrhia's right wrist and with an imploring gleam in her eyes, asked quietly, "Will you not tell me where he is? Perhaps I'm changing...the feeling inside of me validates this claim of the transformation you insist will overcome me...but I'm still his mother...and I need to know that he is somewhere truly safe...away from all of this horror."

She waved her arm around her head in an all encompassing gesture and in her eyes there shone a dark light of such poignant despair that even Myrhia's vitiated heart could not help but be touched by her misery. In a subdued whisper, she revealed, "Allan is sequestered deep beneath Kammlogran, which is my seat of power in Nalosan. He is in an area that is warded by every arcane art at my disposal. Rest assured Islena, if the entire city of Nalosan was to be obliterated and reduced to rubble...Allan would emerge unscathed. Before you arch that cynical eyebrow, remember that he and I are soul forged and now that I stand on the cusp of ultimate victory, do you really think that I would be cavalier with the wellbeing of the one vulnerability that could see me undone in an instant?"

Islena considered this for a moment and then nodded. "When this is over and I've become this entity everyone would have me become...you promise you'll return him to his...father?"

She had been unable to utter his name, fearing that she would choke on the word. Still, Islena had no doubt that he loved the boys...even if his weak nature had put Allan in his present danger. _'Is that truly a fair accusation, Islena?'_ the voice of Guinevere inquired unexpectedly. _'True, she seduced him to her bed...beguiled him thoroughly, but do you honestly subscribe to the notion that he could have prevented her from taking Allan anyway. His corruption was just that added twist of the dagger that Myrhia does so love to deliver...but once she decided that Allan would be her instrument of coercion, there was absolutely nothing that Ben could have done to forestall it...and beneath this outrage...we both know it.'_

Islena grimaced and withdrew her hand, shaking her head as if to banish this unwanted thought from her head. She wanted no part of any notion that would absolve Ben of his betrayal...even if a part of her had long sensed that Guinevere's assertion was valid.

"Islena, you are an inherently stubborn woman, who will ignore advice to her own detriment when it is unwanted, but you would do well to heed me now," Myrhia began and though her tone was severe, there was a hint of unexpected kindness in her dark eyes. "If you persist in clinging to these fleeting vestiges of this transient identity...it will destroy you...leaving you easy prey for the shadow incarnation and its pernicious brand of madness. Knowledge, once acquired, can never truly be forgotten...and even if it was possible to return to your old world, ignore every conviction and take up the tattered threads of your old, mundane life, inevitably your delusions would be torn down like a frayed curtain. There is no turning away from what you are, Daughter of the Tempest...not for creatures such as we."

Just then, Kevlan pushed through the flaps of the tent with a swirling blast of frigid air following in his wake. He flicked a quick glance at Doraux, before turning his attention to the enchantress. Islena frowned, having seen the rendered judgment couched in his sour expression. _'He views your actions as craven and traitorous,'_ Guinevere pointed out tightly. ' _In truth, it would not be an easy matter to dispute his contention.'_

Never one to readily accept criticism, Doraux grumbled and stalked from the tent. The morning sun was a blinding as it was ineffective and the cold fell upon her with malicious intent, but to her surprise, the emeralds on her armor suddenly blazed to life before settling back to a consistent glow. Islena held her hands out before her, surprised and delighted by the cocoon of warmth that enveloped her as Myrhia's sorcery raised its protective mantle.

The snow lay knee deep along the road and blanketed the surrounding trees. The Morticants worked quickly and efficiently to dismantle the camp and while Islena watched them work, it was hard to reconcile these fearsome engines of destruction with the menial labor they now performed.

As she waited for the caravan to resume its crawl toward the next Icon, Islena's mind was drawn back to the fractured recollection of a dream that had assailed her during her fitful slumber.

In the moments before she had snapped awake with her heart thundering and her nipples turgid in the cool air of the pavilion, Islena had borne witness of a series of disjointed images...torrid fragments of Lorio and a man, who she did not recognize, but with whom Lorio made love with wild abandon. The recollection evoked a discordant storm of lust and jealousy in equal turn. Lorio had never expressed anything but seething contempt for men, but she gave herself to the blond haired stranger as if he was a delicacy she could not resist.

Islena shook her head in bemusement and turned her face to the wind, still holding her helm under her right arm. The bitter cold reminded her of the harrowing flight through the Blighted Lands and the events at Runesholm Abbey. _''It was there that I began to lose my identity and commence the process of metamorphosis toward this thing that I have become today. Myrhia is right, when this is over...however it might end...I doubt I'll even be able to recognize a sliver of the woman I thought I was. There is no going back to my old life...to Donald and Allan and Ben...especially Ben. They are like props in a play and once the final curtain has fallen, they serve no further purpose.'_

She detested this callous estimate of the value of the trappings of her life, but that loathing did nothing to make it any less true. ' _Ah but think of what we are destined to become!'_ the shadow incarnation chimed with obvious hunger. ' _Our glorious future will make the loss of a few whelps and an emasculated cur seem inconsequential.'_

Myrhia emerged from her pavilion then, her heavy cloak swirling about her like a dark shroud. Behind her, Kevlan emerged with his gaze downcast and his shoulders hunched in a posture of dejection. As the trio stood to one side of the wind-swept roadway, the Morticants swiftly and efficiently emptied Myrhia's pavilion and stowed her furnishings on the heavy supply carts, before finally taking down the massive tent and folding it away as well. One of the massive golems led her black charger over to the enchantress and stood back while Myrhia extended her arms to Islena in a silent command to assist her onto the back of her monstrosity. Its eyes glowed an iridescent blue that bespoke of arcane sorcery. Doraux donned her helm and complied, effortlessly lifting Myrhia into her saddle, earning a light caress on the right cheek as a reward.

Kevlan viewed this episode of subservience with unconcealed aversion, turning away when Islena shifted her gaze to meet his. Myrhia watched this tense dynamic with a smirk and observed, "This is what becomes of one when they are faced with the disconcerting epiphany that their perceived savior has feet of clay and a heart as black as pitch. Now come, Islena...let us set out on the next leg of our Tabula Rasa."

She then snapped her reins, spurring her charger through the drifts. Islena remained where she was, watching in a dismal silence until the last of the heavy wagons had passed out of the clearing and into the trees. Only then did she swing up onto her own horse and set out after the caravan at a canter.

In her preoccupation with the tribulations that weighted upon her shoulders like the very weight of the world, Islena was unaware that the emeralds on her armor and the rubies on the Dragonsword had begun to pulse in perfect syncopation.

As she set out after that final wagon, the cold air trying tenaciously to find its way into her armor, but failing in the face of Myrhia's sorcery, a single thought began to repeat itself in the frazzled confines of her increasingly turbulent mind. _'What you construe to be metamorphosis would be more accurately described as unraveling. If you don't find an anchor that you can cling to, Islena...you will lose yourself beyond any hope of ever being found.'_

As this mortifying thought took root in the dark soil of her heart, a single image blossomed and Islena beamed a smile that was part relief and part hunger.

Not surprisingly, the face that materialized in her mind was Lorio's.

2

Sygeanor...a continent away and moving in the opposite direction...pushed her cart of purloined miracle clay as fast as prudence would allow and often well beyond. Only when the sun was well above the eastern horizon and there was no sign of pursuit, did she bring the wagon to a halt in a shadow crescent of trees just off to the side of the rutted horror that passed for a cart path. She dismounted her horse and led both it and the dray horse that had been pulling the heavy haulage cart to a small stream that meandered just beyond the edge of the trees.

Functioning with the mechanical movement that might have evoked images of one of Myrhia's Morticants, Sygeanor tied the horses to sturdy tree trunks near the stream and after the pair had drank deeply, she affixed a feed bag to both. A short distance south of the Wraith's Hollow, the half-Ulgak had made an impulsive decision to follow a branching tract that seemed to run parallel to the main highway heading south. There was barely sufficient room to accommodate both her horse and the haulage cart, but there was a certain sense of security in the canopy of intertwined branches that reached for each other over the narrow path...even if she was well aware that it was false.

When the exhausted horses were tethered, she wandered back to the cart that held her precious cargo...now her only possession in the wretched world. _'Ah, but what a possession it is,'_ she told herself by way of compensation, ' _a treasure worth more than a mountain of gold.'_

' _Perhaps, but is it worth dying for to prove your mettle in a cause that is already lost...in service of an objective that is now irrelevant?'_ the voice of Inos inquired in a rueful tone he had never employed in the flesh.

Sygeanor growled deep in her chest as she climbed onto the cart's crude wooden bench and settled back against the worn back boards. She closed her eyes and allowed her chin to settle to her chest, trying to organize her jangled thoughts into a coherent forward plan.

Her thoughts were assailed by a host of disjointed images awash with blood and overlaid by screams of horror as the drones had carved through Wraith's Hollow like threshers. She experienced a slight twinge of guilt as she recalled how she had sacrificed the beautiful Dendarin to facilitate her escape, literally throwing him to the arcane wolves so she might purchase herself the opportunity to flee.

"One of the defining qualities of leadership is the ability to make difficult sacrifices swiftly and without hesitation," she whispered as an image of the shocked and pained expression Dendarin had worn when her sorcery had cast him to the tracker orbs flashed through her mind. Of course there had been others who had paid the price for her escape, but their deaths were of no real consequence to Sygeanor. In truth, their lives were meaningless to begin with...the subsistence existence of toilers whose lives held neither genuine pleasure nor purpose. Bringing those lives to a sudden end was really an act of cold mercy, sparing them from years of futile drudgery in a forgotten back corner devoid of all prospect of hope. In the end, their deaths had allowed her to escape and thus had ordained their lives with a small modicum of value. This incomprehensibly obdurate thought caused the ice-hearted half-Ulgak to smile.

That smile quickly dissolved into an ugly frown of pure hatred when she actually turned her consideration to the appearance of the deadly tracker orbs...and more specifically, the subject of who might have deployed then to begin with. Her initial assumption was that Inos and his craven band of coalition leaders had been the ones to attempt this rather blunt assassination attempt. There was no doubt that Maroc and that simpering gelding, Kevlan had come to regard her as a menace during the course of their travels into Redia and undoubtedly, they had carried word of her actions back to the Grand Mage...coloring them through the distorting lens of cowardice, until her necessary actions at Dornsark Abbey and the Redian mine were portrayed as acts of savage malice. When she imposed a measure of serenity on her churning outrage, Sygeanor understood that Inos had not been the one to disperse these deadly seeker orbs. As far as she was aware, the Metocan had no such weapons in their limited repository. What's more, ethical scruples would have prevented Inos from unleashing a weapon that could make no distinction between arcane users, but merely targeted any who employed sorcery.

If not Inos, then who?

It required only a moment to discern that there was only one person in the known world with the requisite ability and the complete disregard for human life to employ such an indiscriminate tool...Myrhia!

Sygeanor inhaled sharply, absently rubbing her sleeve across her perspiration-slicked brow. It could well be that Myrhia had unleashed these orbs in search of another target altogether, but instinct cautioned Sygeanor that it would be unwise to draw this conclusion.

' _She knows who I am...and exactly where I'm destined and why!'_ Sygeanor thought with unshakable certainty. This certitude drew her back to her first avenue of contemplation. Perhaps Inos and the others had not directly deployed the seeker orbs, but it was not unthinkable that, in an effort to ingratiate themselves with their conqueror, the imbeciles had actually divulged her possible threat.

She could feel the vast sea of power begin to stir restlessly within her, impatient to turn its fury on something, but she grimly fought to repress the urge, knowing that to vent her anger might attract unwanted attention. Several times during the morning, she had watched in utter stillness as several clusters of the silver orbs had streaked through the sky overhead. With her power quiescent within her, they had passed overhead without noticing her presence. If what she had come to suspect was true, she could expect that the roads and settlements between here and Nalosan would be awash with Morticants and the sky would be alive with clouds of these relentless hounds.

"Which leaves you powerless and alone," she whispered. Her voice was tremulous with an uncharacteristic uncertainty that verged on outright panic. Sygeanor's face contorted into a defiant mask and she rasped, "Never powerless and as to being alone, even that is something that can be rectified."

The formative stirrings of a notion germinated in her mind and she began to grin...and unpleasant expression that would have chilled the heart of even the hardest of men. So someone had betrayed her to the world's living edifice of evil, had they? She was stranded hundreds of leagues from home, with virtually nothing to her name but these crates of precious clay and no prospect for assistance, but Sygeanor refused to be daunted by her circumstances. Every turn of ill fortune was an opportunity to prove her mettle...to demonstrate that she had the strength to overcome the grimmest of adversity and take her rightful place in the grand scheme of affairs.

She had promised Inos that she would desist in her quest to destroy Myrhia's stockpile of clay...and the city of Nalosan, in the bargain, but with this odious betrayal all promises were rendered void. She would resume her trek to Nalosan and in Dizar Kor, she would wait for the ideal moment and then, when the vile bitch led her trained puppet into the city to perform this ritual of ascension, Sygeanor would unleash the apocalypse upon them all, washing them away in a living sea of fire. With these two pretenders gone to ash, she would take her rightful place at the pinnacle of power...and then those who had betrayed her would face their moment of agonizing retribution.

With her head abuzz with grand dreams of the vengeance she would soon extract, Sygeanor retrieved the horses and soon resumed her journey south.

3

As a thoroughly exhausted Esuruban slept beside her, Lorio twisted and writhed on her bed. Her long, sinewy limbs taut and her body contorted, she arched her back and her hips lifted from the mattress as if she was being subject to an intense electric current. Lean muscle stood out in sharp relief all along the terrain of her nubile body and her head twisted into the pillow, muffling her cries into strangled gasps, while the Emercian slumbered on oblivious to his bed mate's nocturnal torment.

Within the confines of her skull...on a snow-covered dreamscape over which darkness has fallen...Lorio bore witness in silent horror as a massive golden dragon with emerald eyes did battle against an army of shambling monstrosities that resembled the dreaded night wights that her dadar had frightened her with as a child. The wights were horrifying creatures with skin that reminded Lorio of badly bruised flesh...livid purple and putrid yellow. Their unearthly eyes burned luminous silver...fraught with a hunger that could never be satiated.

They attacked the massive dragon with spears that were tipped with pure silver spikes that flared to blinding argent whenever one bit deep into the dragon's flesh, sending up curling plumes of acrid smoke even as the beast uttered an earth shaking howl of pain.

Lorio did not understand why the beast did not take to the night sky with a titanic flap of its enormous and beautiful wings, which were spread to reveal an indescribably beautiful and intricate pattern all along their translucent webbing, but then she saw that the beast had been collared and leashed to a massive chain that protruded from a large extrusion of snow-covered bedrock. In the eerie context of this vivid dream, Lorio could clearly see the words _prisoner of destiny_ embossed into the links of the mammoth chain.

The wights were relentless in their attack and soon the beautiful creature's flesh was mottled by scores of blackened wounds, but if the wights were slowly and inexorably wearing the beast down, their eventual victory would come at a frightening cost. At intervals, the green-eyed beast would unleash a rolling wave of emerald flame that consumed the ranks of the wights with an alacrity and totality that was beyond incredible. More still were pulverized beneath massive, scrabbling claws the size of a grown man. Each swipe of the dragon's forepaws gouged up huge sections of earth and sullied the snow with fans of blood and clumps of rotting viscera.

Even as they fell in droves, more emerged from the surrounding forest...a seemingly endless tide, all possessed by the mindless intent to see this magnificent creature to its end.

Lorio's wide-eyed gaze swept the surrounding forest and there, like generals leading the armies of the damned, she saw all of the CornerStone leaders...each transmogrified into a repulsive wight...exhorting their legions forward to their spectacular demise. Their faces were twisted in maniacal grins and their eyes burned the unholy silver of a demonic zealot who would never be dissuaded or deterred.

A piercing shriek tore the night asunder as one of the wight's spears buried itself deep in the dragon's breast, setting the golden scales ablaze with a brilliant light that forced the immortal to shield her eyes.

"Stop this! Stop, please!" she beseeched, tottering on the brink of tears in the face of the noble creature's plight.

At once, the dragon's massive head swiveled to meet her gaze and now the jagged slashes that serves as pupils became normal human eyes and in a pleading voice that resembled Islena's, the beast begged, "Please Lorio...help me...they're killing me...and I can't hold out much long. It buuuuurns, please stop them!"

Lorio emitted a strangled groan and started forward, but before she had taken three steps, one of the wights surged forward and delivered a clubbing blow to the right side of her face that knocked her flat onto her back and left her feeling dazed and disoriented. When she regained a measure of her senses, Lorio found herself peering up at a gruesome parody of Arminda, who was grinning down at her with black, cankerous gums and pointed teeth that resembled silver needles, "Run...I'll help you get away from this place," she offered in a gurgling voice. The horror cast a quick glance over its shoulder and looked back at Lorio with a blood-chilling grin. "Once they're done with this abomination, they'll turn on whatever is at hand...our appetite is...insatiable!"

Lorio jerked out of the cloying grasp of the nightmare with a shrill cry that resounded only in the confines of her skull. She sat in the chilled darkness, breathing in great, tremulous gasps while her racing heart settled back into a more or less normal rhythm. Beside her, Esuruban slept on...oblivious to her fraught state.

"Like the dead," she whispered and uttered a paper thin chuckle, though the hollow laughter quickly curdled in her mouth like something gone rancid.

She sat with her arms crossed beneath her full breasts and the satin embroidered sheets pooling in her lap. She remained this way with her eyes closed and waiting for the shudders to subside, but the resonant emotions of the nightmare were not so easily dispelled. There was nothing obscure about the night terror's meaning. Quite the contrary, rendered in impossibly vivid hues of blood...air thick and cloying with madness...it was glaringly apparent that this dream was a symbolic and ghastly depiction of Islena...snared by cruel destiny and goaded toward a fateful end from every quarter.

' _But it was you to whom she looked for help...for deliverance, Lorio,'_ the voice of the incarnation known as Guinevere reminded her, though her words were, in truth, redundant. The immortal was acutely conscious of Islena's need. Even now she could feel it pulsing indolently in the pit of her black heart, binding them together.

' _At least until she has no further need of ya'...and then, ah well then ya'll be cast out like the mornin's chamber pot,'_ the voice of her father predicted with savage delight.

Lorio groaned softly and climbed out of bed. Padding through the darkness, she moved over to the iron tinder box by the hearth and thrust two length of wood into the flames, which flared in a shower of sparks before setting back to dine on the dry wood.

She stood motionless for a moment, watching the mesmerizing dance of the flames against the blackened stones. The dragon Islena's terror had been a tactile thing that she could taste on her tongue as she watched the magnificent beast do battle with those who would serve it as fodder for fate. Still, what could she do to actually deliver Islena from the bonds that held her? She was, for all of her newfound immortality, just a simple woman from a background that would only generously be called humble...and yet she was expected to conjure a means of saving the most consequential creature to have ever strode this wretched world.

Shaking her head at the untenable position into which she'd been thrust, Lorio sighed and returned to the bed she had shared with the pretty soldier. She crawled onto the bed and loomed over him, absorbing the fully scope of his masculine beauty as he lay naked on the sheets. His angular face was smooth and untroubled by the mountain of woes that weighed down upon her. How simple...how pleasant it must be to have a clearly defined duty and understanding of what was required...with no thought given to matters beyond those rudimentary concerns?

That was grossly unfair of course, Esuruban was a man who felt the lingering pain of the world and was bewildered and hurt by his inability to offer a greater contribution to seeing it healed. Just his willingness to serve her for all of the horrid abuse and humiliation he had suffered at her hands showed that he possessed the patience of a saint and the character of a martyr.

There was something else about the beautiful male that had taken her off guard, surmounting her defenses with an alacrity that was stunning. Lorio was totally unprepared for how peaceful...how thoroughly content...she felt in this modest man's presence. In Islena's powerful presence, Lorio felt like a roiling storm...incited to a wild frenzy that might well explode in a thousand different directions...ignited by Doraux's dynamic aura. All of this had the effect of making her feel profoundly unsettled and...transitory as if the very foundations of the world might dissolve beneath her feet at any given moment. While it was wildly exhilarating, Islena's influence had about it an aspect of impermanence that left Lorio feeling surly and apprehensive.

Esuruban, on the other hand, seemed to exude a natural serenity...a calmness that was infectious. As they had made love, Lorio had surrendered herself to him. Even the natural aggression of her lovemaking had given way to desire to allow herself to be taken and she had let him take control of their lovemaking, luxuriating in the feel of his mouth and hands as they explored her body with a gentleness that left her feeling dizzy and on the verge of tears. A deeper instinct whispered that, should she linger in Esuruban's presence and give in to this aura of placidity that seemed to envelope the man...he might eventually manage to still the restless storm that plagued her heart and exorcise the demons that often drove her to ugly extremes. With this humble soldier, she might actually find contentment and a genuine pleasure in being alive.

Myrhia had asked what she envisioned might lie beyond this dark drama. Gazing down on the beautiful Esuruban, Lorio thought that she might at last have an answer to that cutting query. She nestled against the Emercian's lean body, relishing its warmth and solidity. She threw a protective arm across his chest and a long leg across his upper thighs, smiling at the feel of his flaccid penis against the satiny skin of her inner thigh. Burying her face in the crook of his neck, it occurred to her that this simple act of human intermingling was one to which she could grow quickly accustomed. In a short while, Lorio had fallen into a contented doze in which no dreams or portents plagued her.

When she next returned to wakefulness, an ineffective light was streaming through her bed chamber's only window. She had shifted positions during what had remained of the night and when she rolled onto her side, Lorio discovered that the vast expanse of bed was empty where Esuruban had slept. To her dismay, Lorio felt an acute twinge and something akin to panic at his sudden absence.

' _Yours is a flawed soul vulnerable to addiction,'_ Myrhia cautioned darkly from the shadows of her mind as Lorio virtually leapt out of bed and went in search of her minder. Like her bed chamber, the living area of her suite was also deserted and steeped in a brooding gloom. Lorio marched over to the nearest window and tore back the heavy drapery. The world beyond was swaddled in a blanket of pristine snow while more snow swirled through the morning air, falling indolently in large flakes.

"At this rate, it will bury us all," she murmured absently as she gazed out over the still and silent courtyard. A part of her wondered if this would not be a fortuitous turn of events.

She was grappling with this pessimistic thought when the door to her chambers opened and Esuruban slipped in without noticing that she was standing next to the window. She retreated slightly into the shadows and watched as he closed the door and drifted deeper into the room, losing herself in the graceful way he moved. A well-worn canvas satchel was slung over his left shoulder and in his right hand, he carried a narrow rapier of the variety often favored by Emercian infantry soldiers. It suddenly occurred to her that she was very probably seeing the sum total of his worldly possessions, informing her that the life he had led resembled hers in many ways.

Feigning vexation she emerged from the shadows, startling the Emercian when she grumbled, "It's generally considered ill-mannered for a man to skulk out of woman's bed after she's been accommodating enough to invite him into it."

Esuruban's eyes grew comically wide and he stammered, "Milady, I only went to collect my belongings and issue instructions to my guardsmen. You were sleeping peacefully and it was never my intention to offend, only..."

He suddenly became aware that she was watching him with fists on hips, standing gloriously naked while the weak light of morning cast her in a ghostly glow. His color deepened to an alarming shade of scarlet and he averted his eyes. Lorio tossed her long black mane and glided over to the clearly discomfited soldier. She encircled his waist and drew him to her and it seemed to Esuruban that her dark eyes filled the world. "Considering what we shared last night, it seems rather ridiculous to be bashful Esuruban and if you refer to me as _Milady_ again, we are going to have a reprise of our tussle in the gaming yard. I predict that the Metocan will quickly tire of the need to tend to your injuries."

"I'm sorry...Lorio. I feel that I've behaved inappropriately last night," Esuruban murmured, still unable to meet her eyes.

Lorio kissed him deeply and after pushing him to arm's length, intoned with a crooked grin, "You behaved exactly as I wanted you to and performed admirably," Her hand slid down to his groin and she added, "Just as I anticipated you might."

The Emercian shook his head slightly and blanched as if scandalized by Lorio's wanton behavior. She stepped back and regarded the slightly shorter man sharply. After a moment she demanded in a seething rasp, "I suppose you find my forward behavior...inappropriate...not in keeping with your refined Emercian women."

Esuruban shook his head and returned softly, "I have no real experience with refined Emercian women, Lorio...nor any other class of Emercian women...if I'm being entirely honest."

The immortal tilted her head and regarded the soldier with undisguised cynicism. "Are you actually going to try and have me believe that a beautiful creature such as yourself has not had a steady flow of eager women through his bed? To think I'm as gullible as to believe such a blatant lie would be a dire insult that I won't suffer lightly, pretty man."

Esuruban shrugged helplessly. "I lived the first part of my life on an isolated farm far from the nearest village. When I joined the army, the war began and I can assure you that the women of the country's we conquered looked upon us with nothing other than intense fear and loathing."

"Still, every army gathers its legion of camp whores who care only for coin, mindless of the concepts of right and wrong, good or evil. Will you tell me that you did not squander your share of coin on their pliable charm?" she persisted, thought a flicker of something that resembled doubt had spark to life behind those beguiling eyes.

Esuruban grimaced as if the very thought was abhorrent to his sensibilities. His brow furrowed and he explained, "The Emercian Army did not have a shadow of this type. The Queen expressly forbade the presence of such women in her Army's camps. Any of her soldier caught indulging in the pleasures of slatterns were emasculated before a gathering of their peers."

Now it was Lorio's turn to be utterly shocked. "Truly...you are telling me that the average Emercian soldier was not permitted to frequent brothels on the threat of having his manhood hacked off?"

"As improbable as this might sound, yes," Esuruban remarked his expression darkening as his gaze turned inward, on the recollection of the few occasions he had witnessed the ugly spectacle of seeing a weeping man have his manhood severed while his fellow soldiers peered on impassively.

Lorio shook her head and raising both arms, ran her fingers through her raven mane, an incredibly fetching gesture that caused Esuruban's heart to flutter in his chest. Lorio seemed not to notice and finally marveled, "I would never have taken Myrhia to have such puritanical leanings."

"I doubt very much that her edict had anything to do with piety, Lorio. Soldiers were never punished or otherwise discouraged from raping the women of the town's and villages that were conquered. In fact, the most egregious of behavior of this type was actually regarded with a condoning nod," Esuruban revealed quietly.

Lorio merely stared at the soldier for several moments. Then she stepped closer and caught his right bicep in a crushing grip. "And during those long campaigns in the east, intoxicated by victory, you never once succumbed to the temptation of enjoy the spoils of your glorious army's triumph?"

Her eyes bore into Esuruban like rapiers, but for the first time in the short days she had known the relatively placid soldier, he displayed signs of genuine anger. Clearly affronted by her query, he brusquely shook her hand off and snapped tightly, "Not once! Whatever else I may have become...I am not an animal!"

They remained in this position for several tense moments and finally Lorio nodded apologetically and intoned, "I know you're not. That was unwarranted and I'm sorry."

He did not respond, instead turning away...his rigid posture declaring just how deeply her implied accusation had wounded him. Cursing her social ineptitude, she stepped closer and put a hand on his muscular left shoulder. "I have done things that redefine the concept of monstrous, Esuruban...odious deeds for which there can be no possible expiation. No matter what you might have done in the tyrant's service...I am hardly in a position to judge you."

With this, she turned and stumbled across the room and vanished into her chamber. When she emerged some time later, the immortal was attired in her customary garb of soft leather boots, rough spun black trousers and a sleeveless tunic, despite the bone-deep chill that held the city in its thrall. She gazed sheepishly at Esuruban, whose anger had dissipated in the face of her spectacular beauty. He wondered if it was possible to cling tenaciously to outrage in the face of such pulchritude and doubted that it was...at least for him. She gravitated across the room and came to stand before him, surprising him with her first utterance, "I'm truly sorry that I've dragged you into this chaos that swirls around me. I sense that you are a uniquely noble man...while I am a blight that leaves a stain on everything I touch. I will speak to Artumas and have you relieved of this burden..."

Now it was Esuruban's turned to display a startling level of vehemence. Forgetting himself, he gripped her wrists and even went so far as to shake her gently, provoking a frown from the immortal. "I would ask that you would refrain from doing that, Lorio. Please...as a favor to me."

She tilted her head slightly and regarded the Emercian with a quizzical gleam. "I would frankly have expected that you'd have been relieved. Minding an impetuous brat can hardly be a glamorous assignment."

His demeanor became somber and he explained, "I have lived my entire adult life in the service of a woman who has been revealed to be history's greatest tyrant. I have borne witness to horrendous acts that defy all reason and though I did not actively participate in their perpetration...neither did I raise a hand to prevent these atrocities. Like many others in the Emercian army, I became a mindless drone, simply following instructions and praying vainly for some manner of divine intervention while watching as our collective humanity vanished in slow increments."

He paused and his normally reserved expression became uncharacteristically sharp. "When I first set eyes upon you on the morning we escorted the king to your cell...I saw your pain and dignity...your defiant spirit in spite of being caged in a small windowless room."

Here his voice faltered and Lorio interjected gravely, "Believe me when I tell you, Esuruban...I've been confined in far worse places than a storage room."

Images from her nightmare sojourn in the dungeons of Perdwick flashed through her mind, their memory evoking an intense shudder that she could not entirely repress.

"When you came to my chamber...just before the...the episode in the training yard...I saw such heart-rending desperation in your eyes and I knew that if I could be of some aid...however minimal...I would have done something of genuine worth for the first time in my adult life. That is why I'm pleading with you not to approach the king. Let me remain here and help you in any way I can."

"By being my minder?" Lorio growled sardonically, though her expression was solemn.

"If you would label it thus...but I would prefer to think of it as being your friend," Esuruban asked and in that heartfelt declaration Lorio was stuck by a vivid image...one so absurdly whimsical that she very nearly blurted hysterical laughter. She saw a small cottage standing next to an indolently flowing river, surrounded by tilled fields that rolled away in every direction beneath a soft blue sky. She stood on a porch, her hair drawn back in a lash and attired in a simple dress of sturdy cotton, watching over children playing in a yard. On the horizon, she could see a single man cast against the blue cloth of sky, walking along the furrows with a grain sack slung over his strong shoulder. The notion of her living a life of such mundane domestic simplicity was preposterous really...and yet...

"All right Esuruban...you can be my minder...and as last night readily proved, I would most definitely have you as my friend," Her expression became grave and she waggled a cautionary finger, "but I will warn you...everyone who has ever extended the hand of friendship to me have paid for their kindness...in blood and worse. There may come a time when you come to rue the day you made this plea."

"Duly noted," he returned with that smile that could cause any woman's heart to melt like butter in a skillet. Lorio returned his smile and that ludicrous image of domestic bliss came again.

Planting her fists on her hips, she inquired, "So what instructions have you been given when it comes to the permissible length of my leash?"

Esuruban averted his gaze, clearly discomfited by this aspect of his duty. "I was told that you could go where you wish...on the provision that I accompany you."

"All things considered, I suppose that's fairly lenient," she declared with a sanguine grin. "Very well, I would like to start by going to the gaming yard to train."

When his eyes widened in dismay, she clapped him on the shoulders and quipped, "Only with the training dummies. You and I can engage in a far more pleasing type of exercise when the sun sets."

Now a blush of consternation was added to his expression of dismay, but when he discerned that she was being entirely serious, he sighed and gathering his cloak, led her out beneath the morning sky. He watched from the relative shelter of an access tunnel as she attacked the training dummies with a blend of grace and ferocity that had him smiling in admiration. Esuruban, the serious and introspective son of a farmer-turned-soldier, felt his determined grip on his heart slowly slipping away.

Chapter Thirty-Four

1

If there is one salient truth that retains its integrity through every stream of existence...in every far flung corner where the salient mind exists...it would be this; all living things crave normalcy. Though the concept of normalcy is a varied as the spirit that seeks to embrace it...each beating heart longs to return to a state in which it feels the most secure...the most _comfortable._ Despite the inherent drive to succeed or the mettle to suffer unspeakable blows to the spirit...if the sentient mind is ever to find a degree of serenity, it must embrace a gradual return to a state of normalcy...or wither and perish.

After the wild euphoria of triumph and joy or after the crushing despair and desolation that comes with unbearable loss...especially after this...the human heart must makes its way back to a place where it can, at the very least, make an accommodation with its circumstance. Some would regard this perceived normalcy as a personal requiem, while others would consider it to be a piteous state of numb existence or a delusion.

Be that as it may, no sentient mind can flourish or be sustained in the rarified atmosphere of extreme emotion...euphoria or utter dejection. In the wake of these great and terrible junctures in our lives, we inevitably seek out a place where we can take up the threads of normal life as we, as individuals, have defined it. For many, whose old lives have been decimated by the merciless forces that govern the flow of events, this entails carving out a _new normal_ in the harsh environment into which they have been so rudely thrust.

For those trying to live with the lingering sorrow of unspeakable loss, this may well be the most difficult transition of all.

The Antiquated World was no exception to this unyielding maxim and with the swift and unexpected end to hostilities many of its inhabitants commenced the unenviable task of taking up the threads of their tattered lives.

2

Gillian led his small contingent of Jerhia across Natzurdan and back to the homeland they had been forced to abandon in the face of Myrhia's seemingly invincible juggernaut. As the leagues crawled torturously by, a torpor descended upon his small band of returnees, as he had come to think of them. The Natzurdan they crossed bore only a passing resemblance to the land through which many had retreated as Myrhia's forces rolled up all resistance like a frayed rug. A terrible blight had burrowed deep into the marrow of the soil and huge swathes of once magnificent landscape had sickened and died. Gillian could not decide if this lethal infirmity had come as a result of Myrhia's savage occupation or the pernicious virulence that characterized the Land of Shades spreading over the countryside when the Hiberas had been diverted.

This last possibility made him grimace with guilt. With a stab of self-loathing, he realized, _'We leave a disfiguring footprint on everything that is unfortunate enough to fall beneath our boots. It is an ugly aspect of who we are and one I fear we will never change for all of our grand aspirations to grace.'_

This depressing epiphany came to him as he rode through an oak forest that had stood unsullied for millennia...majestic in its silent nobility. Now, most of the trees had fallen and the few that remained standing reminded the Jerhia of vertical corpses...eternally frozen in postures of torment. He tried to envision how the Natzurdan would react to this ineffable atrocity and simply could not. He feared that they might well allow themselves to collapse next to the desiccating trees and waste away, riven by the guilt that they had played a hand in this desecration of the Mother's gift.

It was at Pendura Pass that Gillian and his small charge of troops was confronted by a spectacle that left them speechless and tottering on the abyss of absolute despair. During Myrhia's swift advance through Jerhia and into Natzurdan, it had been here, in this narrow natural pass, where Natzurdan Earthlore had succeeded in bringing her inexorable engine of conquest to a grinding halt...at least, temporarily...by literally reshaping the bedrock into massive escarpments that completely sealed the passes shut.

Refusing to be deterred, Myrhia had unleashed a terrifying sorcery that had reversed this transformation in spectacular and horrifying fashion.

Gillian, who was disinclined to believe in gods, was unflinchingly certain that no living being should be allowed to wield the type of vile power that had been brought to bear in this once beautiful place...leaving it permanently disfigured beyond the power of words to adequately describe. As they traversed this expanse of perfectly smooth stone, each wearing identical masks of revulsion and incredulity, it was impossibly for even the most vitiated of hearts not to be profoundly disturbed by what passed beneath their feet.

Myrhia's infernal magic had essentially liquefied everything in its path, turning the features of the rugged terrain into a translucent slurry that reminded Gillian of clouded sheets of glass. This expanse had followed the natural topography of the land in a way that reminded the Jerhia of an alluvial fan that one would expect to see at the mouth of a great river. The blend, however, was not entirely homogenous and here and there, Gillian caught sight of splinters of wood or blades grass that had been trapped within the rush and would remained preserved for eternity. He could not say precisely why these bits of detritus disturbed him as badly as they did...perhaps they symbolized the rampant madness that had swept across the world like a scouring wind. He could not be sure, but knew only that they frequented his dreams each and every night since they had descended through Pendura and into the flatlands that led into Jerhia.

The recalcitrant Jerhia had steeled himself against what he and his band of returnees might discover when they crossed into the foothills of Northern Jerhia. It was only logical after all to assume that his country had been subjected to the same disfiguring ravages that had afflicted Natzurdan. Much to his eternal relief (and yes, guilt), Gillian came home to a country that displayed no outward signs of having been overrun by the denizens of the Land of Shades. For some inexplicable reason, the blight that had marred the verdant splendor of Natzurdan had not taken hold in Jerhia.

Only later, once he had settled into a life that more or less resembled a normal routine, would Gillian come to see the grim truth of how Myrhia's blitz and the subsequent re-routing of the Hiberas had impacted upon his home.

When his contingent reached the first mountain pass, they came to Fort Halderdown...which was fully stationed and operational. As Maroc had ordered on the first day of the invasion, the Jerhia populace had simply melded into the landscape and it was here that the meticulous Jerhia character had paid dividends. Though the actual prospect had seemed unthinkable, the military rulers of Jerhia had always prepared elaborate contingency plans for the worst-case scenario...that been occupation by a foreign army. Extensive networks of underground bunkers and spider holes had been constructed, stocked and maintained for a possibility that no Jerhia believed would ever actually happen.

When Myrhia's juggernaut had disabused his country of the myth of invincibility, this meticulous planning had paid dividends. A good portion of the population had simply gone to ground and waited for the storm to pass. Gillian shared the news of the world with the fort's leaders, who absorbed his incredible tale of an armistice with a mixture of incredulity, relief and self-loathing. This final emotion he understood all too well.

By the time he reached Summdergaden, Gillian had shared his tale of capitulation perhaps a dozen times, his story eliciting precisely the same reaction on every occasion. He was surprised to learn that the return to normalcy had come swiftly and with very little lingering effects. When the Hiberas had been diverted, creatures from the repository for the damned had drifted into Jerhia like an infection through an infirmed body. When the river had been restored to its original location...and this, Gillian could scarcely credit...the entities had simply dissolved. This shocking turn of events informed the perceptive Jerhia that these creatures were sustained by some source of power that found its origins within the Land of Shades. When cut off from that source, these roving entities had simply vanished...their withdrawal leaving Jerhia more or less unscathed.

In the Jerhia Capital, Gillian met with Tier Marshal Damosta and seven other Tier Marshals who had formed a temporary command structure. He had recounted the events of the days leading up to the capitulation and the subsequent armistice in a grave, formal voice that conveyed not the slightest hint of his own aversion. The cabal had absorbed his news with the customary Jerhia impassivity and had then dismissed Gillian. The next day he had been summoned by Tier Marshal Damosta and had been assigned the administrative task of determining the current disposition of the Jerhia population and assessing the functionality of its military.

With obvious reluctance...and only because it was immediately germane to the task which Gillian had been assigned...The Tier Marshal had recounted the tale of his groups harrowing experience in Iythyx. It was in this flat, dispassionate retelling that the mortified Gillian first gained an inkling of the horrifying impact this nightmare had taken upon his people. The Jerhia exodus to Iythyx had been undertaken with a total of one hundred and twenty thousand Jerhia. Maroc had taken thirty thousand of the most able-bodied troops and set forth for Natzurdan, while another fifteen thousand had perished from the rigors of the journey to find the supposedly mythical haven.

Tier Marshall Damosta had led nearly seventy-five thousand troops into the underground wonder, but more than half of these had been slaughter by the incursion of Myrhia's Morticants. Only the greater priority of finding Islena Doraux had prevented the tyrant from systematically exterminating every Jerhia in the subterranean enclave.

When the final accounting was tallied, a haunted Damosta had led fourteen thousand dazed survivors into the walled mountain fortress of Summergaden.

It was only when Gillian plunged into his new assignment, dispatching couriers to every corner of the country to gather information, did he begin to fathom the full scope of the tragedy that had befallen his homeland over the course of the last year. In keeping with their meticulous nature, the Jerhia had the known world's most sophisticated record system...one that could account for literally every child born within its boundaries and on foreign soil where Jerhia expeditionary forces had been deployed abroad. It took weeks to actually gather the staggering details of the stark portrait, but on the evening that the first winter snow began to fall across the city of Summergaden, Gillian found himself sitting alone in his modest office trying to grasp the grave reality of the summary he held in trembling fingers. The last known census accrued in the month immediately prior to Myrhia's invasion had put the population of Jerhia, including its citizenry on deployment abroad, at just over three million. As the season's first dusting of snow fell over the roofs and streets of Summergaden, preliminary reports placed the present number of Jerhia accounted for at just over six hundred and thirty thousand. As the blood drained from a flummoxed Gillian's angular face, he calculated that this left two million, six hundred thousand Jerhia dead or unaccounted for.

Unable to assimilate this unimaginable reality, Gillian had eschewed bringing his findings to Tier Marshal Damosta's attention. Instead, he had risen and left his office, absently wandering through the streets of Summergaden as afternoon relented to dusk. The streets of the Nation's capital were brimming with industrious young officers scurrying about, busily engaged in the task of returning to a state of normalcy.

Preoccupied, none seemed to notice the solitary soldier who lurched through the falling snow, face as pallid as the pristine carpet that accumulated at his feet and eyes unblinking, as he wandered aimlessly through the gathering gloom.

Gillian envied them their ignorance, knowing that this gradual return to normalcy was an unsustainable illusion. Whatever shape the future might assume, the Jerhia indomitable spirit would be decimate by the terrible truth that the innumerable empty homes and beds would soon make glaringly apparent.

3

Consternation over the state of the new prevailing reality was by no means exclusive to Gillian. In his private chambers, a distraught Inos was plagued by a series of questions that assailed him without let up...all fueled by the same damning incrimination; he had failed...Tokizar, Metocan and even poor, twisted Sygeanor. Ultimately, he had failed them all. In the wake of this scathing self-condemnation, Inos was visited by a startling epiphany...the full ramifications of which would only fully be revealed years after the present crisis drew to an end.

One question in particular stung the Metocan Grand mage like a keen dagger to his conscience. It had been Artumas who had inquired, in his ponderous manner, why an entire nation of magic-wielders could not simply obliterate one solitary sorceress...irrespective of how powerful that sorceress might be. He recalled how he had provided the deposed king with a glib explanation...fraught with weak excuses...as to why the Metocan were not capable of vanquishing Myrhia and though Artumas had accepted his facile response, a damning seed had been planted in a lightless corner of the Grand Mage's agile mind.

That seed had germinated the very moment he had come upon Tokizar's corpse and now he knew... _knew unequivocally..._ that he was every bit as responsible for her tragic murder as the monster who that had taken her life.

For years, Inos had subscribed to the idea that Metocan must be devoted to the pursuit of arcane knowledge...tempered undeviatingly by strict adherence to a series of rigid constraints. Certain fields of academic study were strictly forbidden under any circumstances...most of these involving what would be referred to as _dark arts_ ...at least, by laymen. Even the study of the most rudimentary form of battle sorcery was permitted only within very narrow parameters. Inos had been determined to build a nation that employed magic for the greater good with an eye to the strictest ethical and moral dictates.

While this seemed like a noble and virtuous perspective for a leader to take, only now, in the wake of calamity, when his nation found itself at the mercy of a tyrant, did Inos understand that his intransigence had left his country virtually defenseless. Had he been more accommodating in allowing his mages to study offensive magic and build a more extensive arsenal, it was entirely possible that Metocan might have contrived a method of vanquishing Myrhia. _'And Tokizar would not be but a memory.'_

A scowl contorted his normally placid features and he slammed his first down on the working surface of his spindly writing table with a surprising force that shattered its delicate legs. He stood regarding the detritus of his outburst, his narrow chest heaving as he struggled to get his rampant emotions back under some semblance of control.

In that tumultuous moment, Inos swore that he would rectify his perceived error and lift the constraints that had left his country so pitifully vulnerable. On an impulse that would eventually come to haunt the noble Inos, he proceeded to commit a rare misjudgment. Unfurling his considerable telepathic ability, he reached out across the breadth of a continent and touched the closed periphery of Sygeanor mind.

An instant later, he found himself confronted by her shimmering image and though her visage was insubstantial and rippled continuously, her displeasure at this sudden summons was exceedingly clear. Not bothering to conceal her ire, she snapped, "Why have you called me?" Her expression became sly and she added, "Perhaps you wish to establish my exact location...to allow your hounds a second opportunity to catch my scent?"

Inos peered at the shimmering image askance, mystified by both her anger and her ambiguous reference. "Catch your scent? Sygeanor...I have no idea what you're talking about."

For a long moment, Sygeanor did not respond. Instead, her image eddied and ebbed as she fixed him with a stern gaze of appraisal. When she spoke, her voice was as sharp as a razor. "You're claiming to have no idea about the orbs that were sent to kill me?"

The color drained from Inos' already pallid face and in that expression of utter dismay, the half-Ulgak knew that, at least in this matter, he was being truthful. In a dispassionate voice, she recounted the harrowing tale of how the tracker orbs had found her in Wraith's Hollow, deliberately omitting details of the measures she had taken to evade them. She concluded by remarking caustically, "It would be stretching the fabric of coincidence to suggest that this attack was random. I was targeted obviously and the only question that remains to be answered is who divulged my purpose to Myrhia?"

Kevlan's open, earnest face sprung immediately to Inos' mind, but he shielded the thought from the volatile Sygeanor. Her acrimonious relationship with the mild-mannered Metocan was no secret and as her brow contracted into a furious knot, it became evident that she had reached the same conclusion. "That sanctimonious little bastard...I'll peel the flesh from his miserable bones on the next occasion we cross paths."

Inos could only shake his head, scarcely able to believe that Kevlan, whose enmity toward Sygeanor was common knowledge, would go so far as betray her to the enchantress. Hoping to appease the half-Ulgak...or at least divert her attention, he revealed the purpose of his impulsive summons. "Sygeanor, we have had our differences and I admit that I was appalled by your conduct during the expedition to Redia, but I've come to realize that while your methods are crude and misguided...your intentions are not odious."

Sygeanor's mouth twisted into a sour frown and she rasped, "Was that intended to be a compliment, Grand Mage?"

"It was meant to allow that we are both allied in a common purpose...and to serve as an admission that perhaps I have judged you harshly. In my rigid adherence to the idea that we are honor-bound to pursue only those schools of magic that are pure and virtuous, I have inadvertently left our nation open to the whims of predators such as Myrhia. If you are willing to temper your volatile nature with my influence...I will task you with critical purpose of rectifying my oversight."

"Which means what, precisely?" Sygeanor pressed, sensing that Inos was about to make a major concession that would pave her road to supreme power in Metocan.

"If you forego this scheme to destroy Myrhia's clay repositories...a scheme that is as futile as it is pointless...I would have you return to Othgol, where you will be commissioned to build an army of battle mages, with all but a few of the most heinous dark arts at your disposal." Here Inos faltered and blinked, like a man awakening from a particularly lucid dream. He glanced about nervously, but then sensing her great gray eyes upon him, he straightened and concluded, "If Metocan should find itself in iniquities shadow again, you will give us the means to emphatically defend ourselves."

Again, Sygeanor remained silent, intently studying the man who had just thrown open the door to a wealth of forbidden knowledge...and thus power. After a moment, her face broke into a humorless grin.

4

The sky was the brooding gray of weathered tombstones as Sormias flew over the horizon and made his way toward the mysterious tower of Perdwick. When he had left Sybian's scouting party in its staging area and set out across the Great Mother, as the mortals had so named the jagged gouge in the face of the world, the Golgar had been brimming with enthusiasm and eager anticipation at the prospect of visiting one of the towers of his people.

Yet as he devoured the leagues, scarcely aware of the flames of conflict that burned beneath him like rank weeds, a niggling unease began to erode that eagerness and dull his keen edge. He had spoken with many of the citizens of Metocan and some of the Emercian soldiers...at least the ones who could muster the courage to speak with the mysterious flying creature from the land of the damned. Many of these had been soldiers and veterans of this horrific war campaign and not one could recall ever having seen an onyx tower...other than the one towards which he now sped.

The ramifications of this were depressingly clear to the Golgar and left him faced with the one query to which he wondered if he was prepared for the answer; what had become of his people? During the millennia in which he had slumbered, a great and terrible change had swept across the face of this world, scouring away everything that had been familiar during the time that he had ridden the thermals...intoxicated with the wonder of his existence. The Golgars had been the undisputed masters of the world then and as he had told Islena, they had watched the fledgling mortal face crawl about the face of the earth with a kind of indulgent amusement, but none of the cruelty that one would have expected from vastly superior beings.

And then...then _something_ had happened...though the nature of that _something_ was sequestered somewhere in the darkest recesses of his subconscious and resisted his every effort to drag it into the light for inspection. He could not be sure if it was an act of self-preservation in the face of an unimaginable calamity or a kind of unbearable lassitude, but something had driven the gregarious Golgar to seek sanctuary in their impregnable onyx towers.

And while they had slumbered, oblivious to the scouring winds that howled beyond the walls of their onyx towers...the world had changed beyond all recognition.

Sormias could not fathom the cataclysm that had descended upon the territory that the mortals now referred to as the Land of Shades. How was it possible that a goddess such as Otaru Ree had come to establish a realm of the damned on a spot that would have once been best described as paradise? Sormias could produce no plausible answer to this conundrum and now, as he grew ever closer to the only other onyx tower in the known world, the normal sanguine Golgar found his spirits plummeting. Was it possible that the once plentiful Golgar had dwindled in numbers until now their wondrous species teetered on the brink of extinction? Surely that was inconceivable, but as the monolithic needle appeared against the eastern horizon, the affable Golgar could not shake the certainty that he was about to be subjected to a revelation of the most traumatic kind.

He slowed his pace and allowed himself to descend to a spot atop one of the crenellated battlements...overlooking the very yard where Islena Doraux had received a painful insight into the efficacy of magic in the world into which she'd been drawn.

The yard was empty now, except for the wild tangle of yellow weeds that clogged the pitch...and the diaphanous specters that drifted aimlessly in every direction...reminding the bemused Golgar of the piteous creatures that inhabited Otaru Ree's realm of the damned.

He flapped his majestic wings and took to the air once more, coming to ground at the base of the tower, where Islena had perused the wares of a blind girl named Isindred in what seemed like another lifetime. Hesitantly, as if doubting its tangibility, Sormias extended his hand and laid his palm on the cool surface of the black stone. He closed his eyes and extended his preternatural senses...but was met with nothing other than unyielding stone.

Drawing a quavering breath, he formed his lips into a perfect O and emitted a high pitched sound that served as a key to unlock these mysterious constructs. Like a traditional lock, the sound was modulated to the specific tower, but Sormias hoped that its pitch might alert the tower's occupant to the presence of another Golgar. When nothing stirred, he repeated this process several times before hanging his head and stumbling away on legs that seemed suddenly unable to bear his mass.

There could be only two possible reasons why the owner of this particular tower would not respond to his summons...they had either vacated the tower, or more probably, they were dead and the onyx monolith now serves as a mausoleum for a corpse.

He could feel absolute dejection drive its talons into the meat of his soul and the normally irrepressible Golgar could conceive of no way that he could carry on beyond the horrifying realization that he might well be the last of his kind.

Just then, a fulminating rumble shook the earth and the nearby specters dissolved into mist, only to quickly reform and flee blindly in every direction. Sormias' gaze snapped skyward just as the distant top of the tower erupted in a cloud of black dust that momentarily occluded the gray sky. Within that nimbus of black grit, the Golgar saw a sleek shape rocket into the dismal sky.

A smile of pure ecstasy broke over his handsome face and he took to the air with a graceful flap of wings...hovering several lengths beneath the dissipating cloud. When it finally cleared away, Sormias was confronted by a glorious vision that robbed the normally loquacious Golgar of his faculty to speak.

The creature above hovered in the air, floating with an easy flap of massive wings. It was a luminous silver and quite obviously feminine...beguilingly so with her long, sleekly tapered legs and geometrically perfect hips. Her face was symmetrical perfection personified, though her large silver eyes regarded him with a baleful glare that would have given a more composed individual cause for extreme concern. Seen from this perspective, she appeared very much like a stern goddess who had been mightily vexed by her irreverent subjects...though Sormias was far too smitten to perceive the peril that he had wandered into.

Gliding upward, ingenuous Golgar raised his right hand in a gesture of greeting and gushed euphorically, "Greeting, good lady. I am Sormias and..."

His salutation was abruptly terminated as twin shafts of argent power leapt from the stunning creature's eyes and impaled the startled Golgar.

The pain was a vast and all-consuming thing and Sormias knew no more.

5

For some...those whose lives have been characterized by constant strife and flux...the shape of normalcy is as difficult to define as the face of an unseen deity. The beautiful and conflicted immortal named Lorio was one such unfortunate soul. Her entire life from the earliest moment she could recall (watching as her mother was interred in a shallow grave at the edge of a farmer's field) had been little more than a chaotic swirl...a sad life where flux became normalcy as contradictory as the notion would seem. From the moment she had stood over her mother's pitiful grave to the first occasion in which she had bloodied a Naszda (the Lamish word meaning _rooted one_ ) in a contest of the staff, Lorio had never experienced the notion of living a normal life...yet in the deepest recesses of her fractured spirit, the young woman had craved a sense of place...of belonging.

In the three weeks after Myrhia had led Islena into the wilds of Northern Metocan, Lorio had her first intimate experience in what a quiet settled life might actually entail. She had never been truly attracted to men...a disposition that may well have been attributed to the fact that...until she had fallen under Myrhia's cruel fist...Lorio had been routinely abused in one form or another by every man she had ever known.

Yet in Esuruban, the immortal encountered a new breed of man, who exuded genuine warmth and compassion...a tenderness of which she had not thought the gender capable. As the days passed, she found herself spending every waking moment in his company and knew that there was something...addictive about this soft-spoken, thoughtful soldier that attracted her every bit as powerfully as the tempestuous Islena did.

Yet in Doraux's company, Lorio felt profoundly anxious and unsettled, perhaps knowing that theirs was a transitory relationship that must inevitably end and leave her in tatters. Esuruban's appeal was the diametric opposite and in his presence, Lorio could discern that, should she allow herself to indulge it, this man would gratefully provide the permanence...the foundation for which her life had been so woefully lacking.

Despite the constant squalls and the subsequent cold snaps, the pair spent hours wandering through the snow-shrouded city streets, sharing stories of the lives they had led and the things they had witnessed over the course of their journey. Esuruban had listened raptly, mesmerized by tales of the incredible adventure Lorio had experienced. His brow had furrowed in commiseration with the harrowing tale of her times in the dungeons of Perdwick and her flight through the Blighted Lands. In a voice made thick with emotion, he had apologized as if his place in Myrhia's army made him personally complicit in her suffering.

In turn, Lorio had found that she wanted to lay her soul bare before a man who was essentially a stranger...despite the intensely intimate time they had spent entwined in each others flesh night after night. She also was surprised to discover how forthright she was in describing her many horrible deeds and the ugly emotions that had inspired them as she had traveled through the Land of Shades. Candidly, she admitted, "I took particularly pleasure in tormenting Arminda...as though her infirmity was a personal affront...when the truth is Arminda is the most courageous soul I have ever known. That's what I need you to understand, Esuruban...I'm a wretched person and it's something that seems entirely beyond my control. I can't promise that I won't hurt you out of impulse or spite. You need only recall what I did to you in the training yard to know what I'm capable of given the wrong circumstances."

Esuruban had merely shaken his head with those beautiful blue eyes regarding her with an earnest affection that had made Lorio despise herself all the more. "I suspect that there has never been a person in your entire life who made you feel anything different. It seems that every person you've every known has went to great length to emphasize that inner ugliness for their own motivations...to convince you that you are this dark, irredeemable person that wasn't worthy of being loved. I see someone entirely different and I think that the only way that person will ever be given a chance to feel the light will be based entirely on your willingness to absolve yourself of these perceived sins."

Recalling the heinous way that she had beaten Islena during her final moments as Myrhia's marionette or the surge of petulant glee she had experienced as she's divulged the location of Iythyx, the immortal muttered, "It may not be that simple."

"Yet, I would be eternally grateful if you'd be willing to try," Esuruban had returned with a quiet sincerity that had brought tears to Lorio's eyes.

They spent hours each day in the training yard, where Lorio even took time to demonstrate...far more gently than their first encounter...some of the technique that made her such a superlative fighter. Esuruban listened and watched with studied concentration, displaying none of the ego that most men would have demonstrated in the same position...something which only elevated the Emercian in Lorio's esteem.

On occasion, Lorio was summoned to conclaves, where she would listen in an absent fashion, contributing only when addressed directly. As the days wound slowly and pleasantly by, the immortal found that she seldom thought of Islena and when she did, it was often on the short end of a comparison with the man to whom she was growing increasingly fond. As they returned to her quarters from an inn where they had dined, she would find herself reaching for his hand and deriving comfort from its warmth or losing herself in the cadence and inflection of his voice which seemed to flow over her like warm water.

Yet, basking in the radiance of his comforting presence and growing closer to Esuruban with each passing day, a part of Lorio understood that this growing attraction...this unexpected bond...was destined to cause her anguish. As desperate as she was to remain oblivious to the fact, all around the pair, signs of preparation for Islena and Myrhia's eventual return could not be so easily ignored. Heavy haulage carts bearing all manner of weaponry and provisions trundled through the streets from morning to night, heading east to the staging area near the causeway into the Blighted Land. The coalition was preparing to assert its presents in the east to facilitate Myrhia's return to Emercia and Islena's ritual of ascension...a ritual that Lorio was committed to abort.

In the days just before Lorio's short-lived period of sweet normalcy would crumble to dust, Artumas and Arminda were standing on the upper tier that delineated the edges of the training ground, when Lorio and Esuruban crossed the pitch, holding hands and engaged in a quiet conversation...appearing very much like a couple who were falling swiftly and deeply in love.

"It seems that your handsome young captain has actually managed to tame our beast," Arminda mused quietly, though her brow was shadowed as she offered this observation.

"Esuruban is an affable man...and a genuinely compassionate one at that...something that is all too rare in a world such as ours," Artumas observed, but he too could feel the grim touch of fatalism as he watched the pair stroll happily through the falling snow. "He may well be the calming influence that would bring our Lorio a measure of peace."

Arminda nodded at this, but then offered a remark that would prove to be prophetic. "Then he is the one thing that Islena is not...her influence on Lorio could be equated with throwing a torch into dry tinder." She suddenly gripped the Emercian King's forearm with white knuckled intensity, drawing a startled glance from the king. "Artumas, I know that you are a man of unquestionable virtue...surely you must see that crime we are committing by not telling Lorio that it will not be necessary to play her role in Islena's scheme? As a woman who has suffered much since coming into the presence of Islena Doraux and being linked to her fate in a small way, I can tell you plainly that no one has suffered as that poor, tortured creature has. We stand here, seeing her genuinely happy for perhaps the first time in her life...and you and I have the power to insure that she has an opportunity to sustain that happiness. Allow me to apprise her of what Maktir has disclosed and then let's devise a way to get the two of them far away from this madness...I beg you."

Artumas' expression darkened and Arminda could virtually hear the war of ambivalence that raged behind his weary eyes. After a protracted silence, he straightened and cast a quick glance at the happy pair, who was just now passing out into the windswept street. Years after, he would recall this specific moment as the one occasion where he had allowed expedience to decimate moral obligation. Distantly, he replied, "That is something we can't allow, Tier Marshal. One of the defining features of a leader is the ability to make difficult decisions. Maktir is unyielding and we cannot jeopardize the world's one opportunity for survival for the sake of Lorio's happiness...as well deserved as that happiness might be."

Arminda blushed at this implied criticism and then started to object, knowing that...in this instance...even the noble Artumas was beyond argument. When she glanced back down to the training yard, the pitch was empty and the pair stood in an uneasy silence for several moments, before going their separate ways, each plagued by the moral quandary they now faced.

6

A sharp and steady rapping roused Lorio from her slumber and she shook her head and ran the back of her hands across her still-bleary eyes. A milky light was spilling through the slightly parted drapes, informing her that it was early morning. She turned a glance on Esuruban, who had become a constant and much appreciated fixture in her bed. He was lying on his stomach with one arm splayed over the side of the bed and his face turned away from her. She leaned over the man and bestowed a lingering kiss on the nape of his neck, while her hand strayed beneath the duvet and gave his hard buttocks a squeeze.

' _This man could be my salvation,'_ she realized and offered a fervent wish that she would not find a way to thoughtlessly crush the delicate foundation the pair had tentatively set.

The summoning knock droned on and Lorio scowled and slid reluctantly out of bed, much preferring to have remained there, spending the rest of the day demonstrating to her beautiful soldier just how much she valued his presence. She allowed herself a languorous stretch, cast a final regretful glance at Esuruban, and snatching up a robe and throwing it about her shoulders, headed toward the suite's door.

Halfway across the gloom-mired main room, she came to an abrupt halt...her nubile body assailed by a deep chill that made her shiver violently. The presentiment of ill-tidings bloomed in her mind like a rank weed and for just a moment, she was a small child again, wanting only to hide in a dark corner while the thunder rolled across the heavens.

' _Don't answer,'_ that child now advised. _'Just hide here in the dark and eventually they'll go away.'_ Lorio grimaced at this juvenile folly. Eventually, Esuruban would be roused by the damnable knocking and come to inquire after its cause. More significantly, Lorio was no fool and understood implicitly that life's demons were never so easily avoided.

Finding her courage, Lorio strode briskly across the room and threw open the door. Of course it was Arminda, as some deeper instinct had predicted it would be. The diminutive Jerhia was attired in her formal uniform and her expression was somber in the muted yellow light of the corridor. Without preamble, she revealed, "I've just received word from the smiths...your armor is ready and they want you to come down for a final fitting."

A small wounded gasp escaped the immortal's tightly pressed lips as the blood drained from her face. She had forgotten about Islena's commission...or at the very least, she had compartmentalized the recollection. She had even succeeded in cloistering all thoughts of the deception that Islena had asked her to propagate (along with the more sinister deception in which she had become a partner with Myrhia). In that single moment, however, the beautiful fantasy she had been building with Esuruban...the ridiculous delusion that she could have...or was even entitled to...a normal life evaporated like mist before a blazing sun.

Her right had gravitated to her mouth and Lorio feared that she would burst into tears. Instead, she pulled a startled Jerhia into her parlor and closed the door behind her. Behind her, Esuruban stumbled into the room, bare-chested and dressed only in his trousers.

"Lorio...is something wrong?" he inquired in his thoughtful voice, now rife with concern.

Refusing to meet his gaze, she managed, "No, all is well. I'd forgotten an appointment with my Tier Marshal friend. If you could keep her amused for a moment, I'll get dressed."

Not trusting herself to say more, she brushed by Esuruban and disappeared into the bedroom they shared without meeting his worried gaze. When she was gone, the Jerhia shifted his questioning regard to Arminda, who offered the handsome soldier a wan smile of reassurance. Still, he inquired, "Is something amiss, Tier Marshal...Lorio seems apprehensive?"

"You've become quite good at reading her moods, Captain," Arminda replied with a sharper edge than intended, causing the Emercian to purse his lips.

Lorio returned after a moment, dressed in her traditional garb. She exchanged a quick glance with Esuruban, but quickly averted her eyes. "I'm off to the smith's for a fitting of my battle armor."

Esuruban grimaced, perhaps gleaning the exorbitant cost this gesture of submission would extract from the fiercely independent spirit. Softly, he intoned, "Would you like me to accompany you...milady?"

Lorio's head jerked up at this formal address and Arminda saw that her eyes were ablaze with raw misery. She regarded the Emercian for a moment and the sorrow between them was a palpable thing that Arminda could almost taste...acrid and bitter. "No Captain, this is something I must face alone."

Esuruban made no effort to disguise how profoundly this rejection wounded him, but offered Lorio a slight bow. Arminda, in the wake of all that was to follow, would later reflect on this solemn moment of _disentanglement_ and cursed herself for not taking some radical measure to keep this pair together...knowing that Esuruban was the tortured creature's one hope of genuine and enduring contentment.

Lorio nodded briskly to Arminda and strode to the door. At the threshold, she paused and without looking back intoned in a desperation-tinged voice that Arminda could scarcely recognize, "You'll wait for me, Esuruban? It may be a while...but I'd like your company when I'm done with this... _business?"_

Arminda stole a brief glance at the Emercian and saw that Lorio's entreaty reverberated through the bewildered soldier like thunder over mountains.

"Of course, Lorio," he managed and the Lorio was gone, striding down the hall with her right hand clamped over her generous mouth. Arminda threw Esuruban a parting look of sympathy and started after the distraught immortal. It occurred to her that Lorio had managed the improbable feat of completely exorcising this prospective moment from her mind...a first step in breaking the chains with which Islena seemed to bind her.

In that moment, she almost blurted the truth of what awaited Islena at the end of her journey to the Natzurdan Icon, but something stayed her tongue. The pair stepped out into the blustery morning air and trekked through the pristine blanket of snow. Arminda asked the immortal to wait while she retrieved her cloak and gloves and the Lamish beauty nodded absently, staring blank-faced up into the swirling snow, which showed no sign of stopping.

Arminda was back in a few minutes and pulled up her hood as the pair resumed the march to the Jerhia forge. They crossed a deserted avenue and descended a long hill, finally coming to the large compound that had been allocated to the Jerhia rank and file. As they approached the gates to the compound, Arminda drew back her hood, inspiring the two sentries to snap to attention and stand aside, both surreptitiously eyeing the bare-armed immortal, who seemed not to notice their scrutiny.

As they approached the squat building that had been converted into an impromptu forge, Lorio came to an abrupt halt, staring fixedly at her feet. The tense set of the taller woman's jaw and shoulders informed Arminda that the immortal was struggling with the precise shape of what she was about to utter. "Arminda...when you said that you would help me...if I wished to...to vanish? Would you still be willing if I asked to bring someone else along?"

Arminda inhaled sharply, grappling with the implications of the request that the immortal had put forth. For the slightest instant, the two quest sisters leaned toward each stepping into the divide that stands between two people and unequivocal trust. Lorio came close to confessing her heinous betrayal that had led to the destruction of Iythyx and Arminda nearly disclosed the irrelevance of the burden that had been imposed upon the immortal. In the end, both retreated from that unbreakable bond and Arminda sighed, "Lorio, Esuruban would never desert his duty to Emercia and Artumas...though I would not hesitate to say that his devotion to you is absolute. What you would be asking him to do is akin to repudiating his own nature."

Lorio drew a quavering breath and the light in her eyes guttered, replaced by dull resignation.

Feeling hopelessly inadequate, the Jerhia led the immortal across the large expanse of the assembly yard, which was already muddied by the morning activity of the Jerhia contingent. They stepped into the long forge building, which was overwhelmingly hot by contrast to the cold Othgol morning through which the pair had traipsed.

The massive forge was already abuzz with frenetic activity as smith's labored at the three score forges that had been set up along the entire length of both walls. The air in such a tightly packed facility should have been oppressively cloying, but Metocan magic kept the large enclosure ventilated and the Jerhia machinery churned out a mountain of weaponry and armor for the forthcoming escort campaign to Nalosan.

As Lorio's bemused and apprehensive gaze swept the length of the building, she could immediately discern the obvious differences between a village forge and this highly efficient production. To begin with, the Jerhia facility was clean and bright with Jerhia smiths-in-training scurrying about collecting and disposing of any deleterious material and sweeping away slag from around the laboring smiths. A typical Jerhia smith was the diametric opposite of the grizzled, ill-tempered hulk of a man that worked most villages forges through the areas that Lorio and her band of wanders had traveled.

Every Jerhia smith was lean and well muscled and wore identical heavy leather aprons that sported the Nation's sigil. They worked with an indefatigable efficiency that reminded the immortal of a Morticant...a comparison that caused her to shudder.

' _Lost sight of what ya' are, have ya?'_ her father inquired from the shadows of her roiling thoughts, speaking for the first time since...since Esuruban had come into her life. _'Don't ya' worry, the world will never let you lose sight of what you've become...not ever!'_

Lorio cringed, but Arminda sharp glance of concern steadied her anxiety to manageable levels.

The one primary and consequential difference between these working forges and the kind she was accustomed to seeing was the presence of a Metocan Mage working along side each Jerhia smith. When each piece of armor or weaponry was plunged into the stone cooling vat, the attending mage would lay his or her hand on the cool stone. There would follow a brilliant flare as imbuing sorcery augmented each piece with Metocan magic. The enhanced final products were vastly superior to traditional weaponry and would neither shatter nor be breached by conventional means...giving the wearers and wielders an insurmountable advantage against any opponents they were likely to encounter on the return journey to Emercian.

' _Though I could boil them in their armor with a casual wave of my hand,'_ the voice of Myrhia reminded her and went off into a peel of hysterical laughter. Lorio clenched her jaws and struggled to maintain a tenuous grip on her composure.

Arminda led the immortal down the center space and as they passed, Lorio was cognizant of the oblique glances her presence garnered. The disdain in those secretive glances pricked her like invisible darts.

' _Your notoriety precedes you and there is no corner...no burrow...that you can flee to_ where _you ignoble reputation will not be common knowledge,'_ the voice Islena Doraux informed her with an unaccountable malicious delight. _'You would do well to remember that while you're indulging you capricious fantasies of running off to build a normal life with your pretty soldier. Do you honestly think that there is anywhere you could run that we wouldn't find you...Myrhia and I? Perhaps a small demonstration is in order.'_

A wounded gasp escaped Lorio's tightly pressed lips and she stumbled, though a young Jerhia materialized beside her and gently caught her left bicep to keep her upright. The Tier Marshal turned to the immortal and in a low, tight voice, declared, "You don't have to do this, Lorio!"

Lorio shook her head and offered her quest sister...a term that was no longer as fatuous as it had first seemed...a sorrowful grin. "Oh, but I do. Let's get this over with."

Arminda continued to watch her for a moment and though the immortal's lovely countenance had settled into a mask of impassivity, the Jerhia could feel the anxiety churning behind those great dark eyes like a storm-racked ocean. Finally, she relented with a sigh and led Lorio to a large room at the far end of the great forge. They entered the chamber to find a female smith and her two female assistants awaiting their arrival. The trio drew themselves erect and saluted smartly as the Jerhia Tier Marshal entered the room. Arminda returned their salute and gestured toward the immortal, who stood stiffly by the door, gazing fixedly at the various pieces of armor that were arrayed across a long table at the room's center.

Feeling like a collaborator in Lorio's ordeal of torment, Arminda addressed the female smile, whose name was Krysmira. The Jerhia was not much older than Arminda and resembled the Tier Marshal, save for her muscular arms, broad back and densely muscled shoulders. A master craftswoman, there was no deference in her posture or voice as she replied, "The armor is ready, save for any minor adjustment required to allow for any weight loss or gain she might have experienced since the initial measurements were taken. This color was a challenge, but Metocan sorcery proved useful." A note of extreme disgust stole into her rich voice as she added, "The intaglio is affixed in such a fashion that nothing will dislodge it from its setting. If she's ready, then I would see her in it now. I can make the final adjustments and she can remove it from this place."

Krysmira's abhorrence of her own creation was plainly evident as she collected the greaves and gestured for Lorio to come forward. "Remove your clothing and we can begin with the undergarments and padded clothing."

Lorio came obediently forward, displaying none of the defiance that one would normally expected when she was faced with the smith's imperious tone. Never encumbered by modesty, the immortal stripped quickly out of her clothing and folded them onto the table. She then spread her legs slightly and raised her arms so that Krysmira's assistants could dress her. Arminda retreated back against the wall, where she watched the process with mounting disquiet.

The blood red armor fit Lorio like a second skin, sleek and perfectly molded, very much like the body for which it had been forged. Krysmira personally strapped the breastplate into place and then attached the pauldrons before handing Lorio the half-helm and stepping back to examine her work.

Attired in the gleaming armor, Lorio imparted the daunting impression of a deadly engine, wrought strictly for the purpose of annihilation...a weapon, sleek and beautiful beyond words...but a weapon nonetheless.

"This is truly remarkable...a wonder, Krysmira," Arminda remarked distantly, enthralled by the dark beauty of what the smith had fashioned. The emerald intaglio gleamed with deadly promise against its blood red background.

"Perhaps," the smith muttered morosely, "But it is a wonder I would just as soon never have crafted." Of Lorio, she inquired, "Is it...suitable?"

"For a living tomb perhaps," Lorio murmured, refusing to glance down at the armor encasing her body.

"Still, try the helm...I would be certain that everything is to your liking...and be done with this commission!" the smith intoned sourly, causing the Tier Marshal to arch a disapproving eyebrow.

Lorio drew a tremulous breath and lifted the half helm over her head and reluctantly slid it down over her brow. In the next instant, the world seemed to tilt on its axis and her perspective shifted.

Esuruban was standing where Arminda had recently stood, regarding her with an expression of open bemusement as she stood before him in the enchantress' vile armor. His expressive blue eyes were alight with a complex blend of emotions that Lorio could not quit identify, though disappointment appeared to be foremost amongst them.

She was about to speak, to tell him that she had been given little choice in the matter, when the wall directly behind the Emercian began to melt and run like butter. As she watched in horrified fascination, a shape pushed through the gelatinous mass like something emerging from a bog.

Lorio attempted to utter a shrill cry of warning but to her chagrin, her faculty of speech had deserted her and the best she could do was a strangled grunt. Esuruban cocked his head in bewilderment just as Islena, attired in her abhorrent black armor pushed free of the sloughing wall and loomed over the oblivious soldier. Doraux's lovely features were concealed by her half-helm, but those luminous green eyes gleamed with a deadly purpose that was directly squarely...and inexplicably upon Esuruban. She flashed Lorio a quick grin, fraught with disdain, and then pulled the Dragonsword from over her shoulder.

Lorio shook her head in negation and attempted to surge to the Emercian's defense, but found that she was riveted to the stone floor, every limb locked in the grip of tetanus that reduced her to a living piece of statuary. Islena executed an indolent pivot, twisting the sword in a tight, lethal arc. The Dragonsword's rubies flared a malefic red and in the next instant, Esuruban's beautiful head was cleaved cleanly from his shoulders.

The headless corpse collapsed to its knees, blood jetting from the neck in a ghastly stream, before pitching forward with a muffled thud. Esuruban's head hit the stones with a sharper thud and rolled out of Lorio's range of vision. She laid back her head and keened like a wounded animal when she felt it strike the side of her left greave and roll under the table.

Islena stooped forward and drew her bloody sword across the dead Emercian's tunic before slamming it back into its holder. She came to stand before a paralyzed Lorio and peered up into her weeping face with an expression of cold contempt. "You, of all people, should know that fantasies only yield more sorrow."

With this grim declaration uttered, Islena pivoted on heel and marched through the wall which was soon returned to its original condition.

Sensation returned in a torrent and Lorio tore the half-helm from her head and looked down to find...

That Arminda was watching her with a mixture of perplexed bemusement and mounting concern. Lorio's hands fluttered to her mouth and she sagged back against the wooden table, trembling like a sapling in a storm.

"Clear the room at once," Arminda rasped in a harsher tone than she's intended. Krysmira eyed the young Jerhia, vexed by the Tier Marshal's imperious tone, but discerning that something was wrong with the terrifying creature now wearing her armor, she nodded brusquely for the others to follow her out of the dressing enclosure.

When the door had closed behind the trio, Lorio spun about and bringing her armored forearms down in a savage arc, smashed the heaving working table. She considered her act of wanton destruction for a moment and then sagged to her knees in the detritus of her anger. Arminda stood by the door, unable to bring herself to move or offer any form of consolation for the clearly distraught immortal, the shape of whose internal misery she could not begin to imagine.

Lorio shook her head and rose to her feet on legs that trembled perceptibly. She bent down and retrieved her half-helm, regarding it as if it was the single source of her every tribulation.

' _Perhaps, considering what it is meant to symbolize...it is,'_ Arminda thought and shrugging off her emotional numbness, she crossed over to the immortal and drew her into an embrace. "What's wrong...what did you see...when you put the bloody helm on?"

The disconsolate Lorio regarded the shorter woman with a pale facsimile of a fey smile. "I saw the truth...I saw through the hollow lies and charades we construct to make fate and the consequences of our own ugly actions more palatable." She nodded briskly as if trying to reassure herself of the veracity of her own claim. "I see clearly now what I have to do...as if I ever truly had any other choice."

With this, she disentangled herself from a puzzled Arminda's embrace and pushed past the Jerhia. She paused at the door, drew herself erect and donned the blood red half-helm.

Then she threw open the door and was gone, leaving Arminda staring after her and fearing that she had just witnessed the last of the tormented immortal's humanity being pulverized to dust.

Chapter Thirty-Five

1

For Islena Doraux, the very notion of normalcy was an elusive concept that held very little meaning when considered in the context of transformation that had come to symbolize her life. She instinctively realized that she was transitioning toward _something_ , though the precise shape of that _something_ continued to elude her.

The procession of seekers traveled ever northward, through day after day of frigid monotony. Kevlan avoided all interaction with Islena as if he feared that she might be contagious, though she could feel his furtive scrutiny on her back as they traversed the frozen leagues in an increasingly dismal silence. Even Myrhia seemed to have cloistered herself behind an unassailable wall of stoicism and after Islena had made several attempts to engage the enchantress in banter...and been rebuffed...she had given up and contented herself with pondering her situation.

She could sense the gradual erosion of her identity, but despite this, Islena clung tenaciously to the crumbling foundations of who she believed herself to be. She had resumed her morning stretching routine and even added a vigorous series of sit-ups and push-ups to augment a body that mysteriously remained diamond hard despite her not having touched a weight in well over a year.

' _Has it really been that long?'_ She mused and was alarmed to discover that this notion pushed her perilously close to tears. She would have been horrified by the knowledge that more than five years had passed in her own world since the morning she had stepped out of her own reality in Mrs. Normandy's reading parlor. This disturbing thought automatically led to consideration of what she had left behind and it was then that Doraux could most keenly feel how far she had receded from the woman she had once been. Ben, she still could not think of without evoking a consuming anger at his perceived betrayal...yet even that was no longer the inferno of mindless hatred it had once been. In truth, if he believed her dead and gone...it was only natural that he would inevitably move on with his life. To have resisted the enormous beauty and charm of a creature like Myrhia would have taken the integrity of a saint...something Ben Richards was most definitely not.

' _You find it a simpler matter to forgive his perceived betrayal, Islena, not because you can understand it...but because you realize that Ben Richards holds absolutely no place in whatever future you might have,'_ the smooth, erudite voice of Guinevere informed her soberly and Islena blinked at the surprising, but irrefutable logic of this observation. Islena gritted her teeth and scowled into the breath of the biting wind. Guinevere's cool, assured manner could grow annoying after a time...even if she was usually correct in all she said. How often had she been told that there was no going back to the life she had once led...a life that had been window-dressing without tangible substance.

"Allan and Donald are not window-dressing," she said fiercely, drawing a sharp glance from the enchantress, who stared intently at her for several moments before resuming her scrutiny of the northern horizon, where mountains had risen above the ubiquitous cover of deciduous trees. Yet even as she uttered this vehement declaration, a part of Islena...an admittedly small part for the time being...doubted its veracity. When she did allow herself to visualize a resolution to this nightmare, it assumed an unexpected shape. She would entrap Myrhia and then Lorio would see her to an end or she would submit to the enchantress' vision and allow the Mother of Iniquity to guide her to deification. Neither prospect made any allowance for her sons, leading her to the startling realization that she had subconsciously accepted a life without them...an eventuality that would have been inconceivable to her prior to the onset of the nightmare.

' _Your old life is lost to you...as if you were cold and in your grave.'_ She tried to recall who had said that to her, but could not. Still, the point was valid enough. Irrespective of how this absurd drama should eventually be resolved, she could foresee no circumstance in which she could ever take up the charade of her old life. The thought of playing the mundane role of wife and mother in suburbia while being fully cognizant of who and what she was went beyond hilarious and tragic in equal measure.

On impulse, she spurred her horse through the deep snow until she came abreast of Myrhia, who regarded her with the baffling mixture of wariness and vexation that had become her customary expression when looking upon Doraux. Ignoring the enchantress' obvious displeasure at the intrusion, Islena reached forward and gripped Myrhia's right forearm. Great plumes of frosty breath rose around Islena as she intoned fiercely, "Mother, do I have your solemn oath that you will return Allan to Ben...once this is done?"

Myrhia's great dark eyes flared and she snapped, "Have I not promised as much...on numerous occasions...daughter?"

Islena's full mouth twisted into a sardonic grin beneath her half-helm and she retorted, "Knowing you as intimately as I do, I find it difficult to put much stock in your promises. I need assurance that you will return Allan home." She reined in her horse and glared at the diminutive beauty. "Until I have your word, then I won't go a fucking foot further."

The Dragonsword's rubies erupted in response to Islena's truculence and Myrhia affected a deep sigh of exasperation, yet her voice was calm when she intoned, "I have met your every demand...given up the empire that I worked so tirelessly to carve out, allowed your vile Lamish whore to live and even healed her. I have done all of these things that are contrary to my nature and still you would demand further proof of my sincerity." She leaned closer until their faces were only inches apart. "I have even done the unthinkable and vowed to submit to your will...once you have ascended and accepted me as your advisor. If you know me as well as you claim, then you will have some inkling of how exorbitantly expensive...how thoroughly humiliating...it was for me to offer that promise. When you have achieved your apotheosis, I will do as you instruct...and that will have to suffice, you childish, deceitful bitch!"

In the next instant, an enormous force plucked a startled Islena from her horse and tossed her into a deep drift, where she landed on her back in a tangle of limbs. Sputtering and spitting snow, she scrambled to her feet to find Myrhia regarding her with an amused grin playing at her full lips. The obsidian leash and collar floated in the air between the pair, the implications of its sudden appearance evident. "Now, get back on your horse...or would you prefer to spend the rest of the journey running at my side like a hound?"

"You talk about humiliation...I've ate a constant diet of your humiliation since I first arrived in this wretched fucking place, but rest assured, Mother, when I do become this monster you would have me be...I'll make you choke on your own feast."

"Perhaps, but until then, you'll be a complaisant daughter and get back on your fucking horse and keep your mouth shut until I give you leave to speak," Myrhia retorted with a casual levity that was belied by her rigid posture.

For a moment, Islena was consumed by the old towering rage and could feel the shadow incarnation imploring her into a rash act that would ultimately serve no purpose. She managed to sublimate her rage, though only with the greatest of efforts, and made her way over to her horse. Myrhia lashed her with one final look of pure contempt before snapping her reins and setting off. Islena inhaled deeply several times and noticed that Kevlan was watching her with an unaccountable expression of satisfaction. She scowled at the Metocan and he averted his gaze. Shaking her head, she thrust her foot into the stirrup and climbed back onto her horse.

On the periphery of her vision, the light burned more brilliantly than ever, informing Islena that the second icon was close now. She resumed her slow pace, deliberately maintaining a constant distance from the enchantress.

' _She referred to you as deceitful, Islena. Do you not wonder why?'_ The voice of Guinevere demanded, her tone edged by worry. She had wondered precisely the same thing as her noble predecessor, but abruptly drove the thought from her mind. She had no desire to confound herself by dwelling on matters for which she could produce no meaningful explanation.

She allowed her weary mind to drift where it would, back through the turbulence and madness to a time when grandiose destinies were defined in terms of trophies and adulation of adoring fans...all in pursuit of vanity and physical perfection. She looked back on those vain years through a sepia lens that left her feeling both longing and sorrowful. Perhaps she had been vain...a flawed creature with myriad imperfections...but she would gladly trade the prospect of deification to regain that lost life.

' _Proof of your personal cowardice,'_ Agraria spat contemptuously, causing the shadow incarnation to blurt mad laugher. Islena gave a doleful shake of her head and raised her gaze to the horizon, coming to an abrupt halt.

Ahead of her, Myrhia was regarding her from over a shoulder, an indecipherable smile playing at her lips. "Well daughter, it seems we are about to meet the indigenous population." To Kevlan, she remarked with feigned levity, "Metocan, it seems that your diplomatic skills are about to be put to the test. Frankly, after weeks of dreary monotony, I would welcome an exciting diversion...so I'm hoping that our hosts are inclined to be inhospitable."

Kevlan's pallor matched the pristine snow, but Islena did not notice. She sat rigid in her saddle, staring fixedly at the improbability of what lay before her.

The Ulgak town of Bastronen would prove to be the forge on which the last vestiges of Islena Doraux would be smashed to dust.

2

"This be a bitch of a haul, if I do say so myself," Gliber remarked and then bit one of the gold coins between blackening teeth to test its authenticity. He then offered the other four men a gape-toothed, satisfied grin. His four companions in crime returned dutiful nods and continued the distasteful process of rummaging through the bloody clothing of three dead people...unfortunate victims of the band of brigands that dared to work the roads this close to Dizar Kor.

Grizzled and weathered by many years of sleeping rough beneath an open sky...often exposed to the mercy of the elements...the old highwayman flipped the coin into his purse. There was a certain elegance in this gesture that seemed incongruent with the man's apparent crudeness and it was this innate grace that made Gliber a deceptively deadly opponent with a blade.

His gaze fell upon the face of the young girl he'd been searching. She was a pretty blond thing with big blue eyes that gave her the appearance of constant bemusement. He guessed at she was no older than ten. It hadn't been his intention to kill her...exactly, but when the girl had watched the brigand twist a blade beneath her father's ribcage, she had cried out in horrified outrage and launched herself at the old man.

His reaction had been automatic and lethal.

Her dying gasp of shock and pain had pricked his conscience...but only for a fraction of a moment.

' _It be an amazin' thing how the hard feel of a coin can smooth away a troubled conscience,'_ Gliber thought with a wry grin that bestowed a frightening cast upon his lean, sunken face. To two of his accomplices, he growled, "Haul these bone bags into the trees...a good ways, mind you...and then get back here so we can go over this cart at our leisure."

The three men, younger reflections of Gliber, quickly finished with their search. The youngest one...a tall, reedy creature name Tremal...tore a small gold chain from the dead woman's neck and even took the opportunity to briefly fondle her full right breast. It would have been pleasant to have indulged in her considerable charms before slitting her throat, but old Gliber had a surprisingly puritanical view when it came to rape. Isrim caught hold of the woman's feet and the pair lifted her up, only to drop her like a discarded sack. In the next instant, their hands went to their rapiers of their own accord. The fourth brigand, a stocky fireplug of a man named Estold began to circle slowly away from the pair as a wickedly sharp dirk appeared in his right hand like a conjurer's trick.

Gliber rose slowly and turned away from the dead girl. His pulse began to race, though he could see nothing that would inspire the degree of alarm he was suddenly feeling when his squinty regard found the source of his companion's sudden concern. Still, his instincts persisted in warning the veteran brigand that he and his small band of thieves now found themselves in a precarious position.

The solitary woman was of average height and slender, but pleasingly feminine. Her face was broad and plain, save for her large and expressive gray eyes and her lush tumble of thick hair that spilled over her right shoulder in a cascading shade of gray the old thief had never beheld before. His discerning gaze noticed that her rough spun trousers and her hooded, short tunic were every bit as travel worn as his own clothing, which informed him that, whoever this woman might be, she had been on the road for a goodly while.

She was apparently alone and carried no visible weapon and though this should have reassured the brigand, it only deepened Gliber's anxiety. His gaze swiftly swept over the other three, who wore identical expressions of wariness.

Licking his cracked lips, he took a few swaggering steps toward the woman, who was watching him with an amused grin that never touched those large eyes. "Well, lass...might ya' be in need of assistance? Perhaps we might relieve ya' of any burden that might be weighin' ya' down?"

Tremal guffawed at this shallow witticism, but there was a high, nervous edge to his voice that eloquently declared just how deeply this woman's presence was impacting upon him. The woman placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head slightly. When she spoke, it was in a mirthful tone that carried not a hint of apprehension. "Don't you just wish, but unfortunately, I'm something of a miser when it comes to clinging to the things I value. Perhaps I can relieve _you_ of something that is an obvious burden for you to bear?"

"And just what might that be, bitch?" Gliber rasped, irritation with her presumptuous tone surmounting his caution.

"Why, your life, of course," Sygeanor retorted with a throaty chuckle.

Before any of the four could as much as twitch, the air along the narrow roadway came alive in a churning vortex of arcane energy.

Gliber attempted to scream, but he found himself gagged to silence as something huge and unseen forced itself into his gaping mouth, down his throat and into his belly.

"You apparently derive pleasure from killing...even small children," Sygeanor spat derisively, "then perhaps you will enjoy gorging on the taste of death."

The sickening sound of shattering bone rose into the air along with the old brigand's muffled exclamation of terror and agony, as Sygeanor's invasive creature forced its way down his throat and into his stomach. There, it expanded with a powerful flexing of Sygeanor's unflinching will and in the next instant, Gliber literally exploded.

In the short span of seconds it required to achieve the highwayman's spectacular demise, his three fellow miscreants attempted to flee, but the very air around them appeared to solidify. They found themselves riveted in place, held there by invisible hoops that restrained them and forced them to bear witness to the gruesome death of their long-time mentor.

When the ravaging force inside the old man expanded explosively, his body simply erupted in a radial fan of blood, viscera and other fluids too foul to think upon. This repulsive rain spattered the three and provoked a shrill chorus of disgust from each. That disgust turned to absolute terror when they realized that this horrifying creature had now turned her attention upon them.

She strolled closer to Tremal, her gray eyes as cold as ice as she took the trembling man's measure. She stopped a few paces from where he was held captive by her flow and considered the brigand thoughtfully. Softly, she inquired, "It seems you have no qualms about taking _liberties_ with women...even dead women. Would that be a fair assessment of your character?"

"I...I did, but she was already dead," the thin man insisted truculently and perhaps sensing how absurd this explanation sounded, added feebly, "I didn't see no harm in it."

Sygeanor moved closer and patted the man's stubbled cheek, offering him a perplexingly indulgent grin. "Of course you didn't...just as you had no reservations about murdering a defenseless family for a meager collection of coins."

She dropped her hand and floated away, her imperious gaze sweeping over the three in a judicious fashion that conveyed the impression that she was deciding the trio's fate. The front of Tremal's trousers suddenly darkened and he uttered a strangled moan that caused Sygeanor to frown in disgust. Looking to the other two, she declared solemnly, "The past is the past and it can never be said that I am unwilling to forget transgressions. If any of you wish to live, I require only that you kneel before me and swear fealty to me. From this day forth, you will do my bidding when and exactly how I would have you do so. I will release your binding and you will offer your oath...and then we can move beyond this lamentable moment."

She did not bother to state the consequences of declining her offer.

The weaves that held each man fast abruptly dissolved and the trio stumbled a few paces before falling to their knees and mumbling an oath of fealty to the fearsome woman standing before them. After each man had given their oath, Estold mustered the temerity to inquire, "What is it you would have us do?"

"For one, I would have you wash your clothing in yon stream and then yourselves as well. Your stench would cause a swine to wretch. Then you will accompany me to Dizar Kor, where I have various business transactions to conduct. I trust that you are all passably competent with a truncheon and a dirk and so you can guard my wagon when I'm about my business. Circumstances may require that you perform other _tasks_ as well and you will do so without question. Lest you think that you've been conscripted into slavery, I can assure you that you will each be well compensated for your devotion. Now, clean up this detritus and then yourselves. I will collect my wagon and we resume the Journey to Dizar Kor. At the next settlement, I will purchase new clothing for you. It will not do to have you looking like shiftless road rabble." With a wicked grin, she added, "We are going to have an audience with a king after all."

She dismissed the trio from her mind, confident that they were now her living marionettes, and turned away, but one of the three inquired, "What should we call you...mistress?"

This deferential salutation filled her with private delight and she turned back to the trio with an amused grin playing at her lips and a mirthful twinkle in her eye. "Names are a secret thing...holding repositories of power. You shall call me mistress...it has an appropriate ring about it." She pressed an index finger into the hollow of her cheek and inclined her head in a theatrical gesture of contemplation. The she smiled. "Each of you is now bound to me. The lives you've led and your identities hold no meaning. You are engines of my will and I shall call you Appraxis...the humbling beginnings of a legion that shall become the stuff of legend."

The three men exchanged cautious glances, boggled by the scope of this woman's megalomania, but wisely nodded vigorously and set about their appointed tasks.

Sygeanor watched them go, satisfied with her deft handling of this recruiting exercise. _'Not Dendarin and I would rather bed a jackal than sully myself with any of these curs, but they will be adequate to the purpose for which they're intended.'_

Inos had finally come to his senses and realized that hers was the only way in which Metocan could move forward...could ever recover a modicum of its lost eminence. That was well and good...on the provision that it could actually be credited. On the possibility that this was a subtle scheme to negate her plan to forestall this Islena Doraux's disastrous ascension, Sygeanor fully intended to have her contingency plan at the ready.

So the king of Fairmarch had regained his throne? Then it would be the king of Fairmarch who would provide her with what was required to see her machinations set in motion.

3

When cognizance filtered in through the discordant roar of pain, Sormias peered up through narrowed eyes to find the argent Golgar glaring down upon him over the ridges of her imperious cheekbones. Her expression was one of cold belligerence that spoke of unaccountable enmity. The flat of her right foot was planted firmly on his sternum, effectively pinning him to the dead earth of this dreadful repository for the restless dead. In her right hand a forked bolt of argent lightening crackled and hissed, poised to skewer the defenseless male where he lay.

In a voice seething with anger, she demanded, "Give me one compelling reason why I don't impale you with this and end your slovenly existence?"

Sormias swallowed nervously, sensing that she was being entirely serious. He groped for the one inducement that might stay her hand. "You and I might well be the last two of our kind. If you are still determined to condemn our species to extinction...we should at least know each others names."

"Your name is vermin!" she blared venomously and raised the argent bolt menacingly. "There is nothing more that I need to know about you."

"Good lady, it seems that I have given you some very specific offense...though I can't possibly imagine how since this is the first time that we have ever set eyes upon each other."

Her eyes narrowed, but Sormias was relieved to see that her grip on the argent spear relaxed...if only slightly. "Are you trying to provoke me by being deliberately obtuse?" Her smooth brow furrowed when she saw that he was genuinely baffled by her hostility. "You have really do have no idea why the sight of you fills me with murderous rage, do you?"

"I can't possibly image why you would perceive me thusly," he intoned seriously and with a tentative grin, added, "I'm an affable fellow...once you've come to know me."

In one swift, fluid movement, she withdrew the argent spear and stepped away, though her posture of distrust did not falter. "What is your name and from what tribe of gold wings do you originate?"

"May I rise?" Sormias inquired.

"You may, but one twitch of aggression and I will incinerate you where you stand...rest assured," the argent beauty warned sternly.

Sormias nodded deferentially and rose slowly to his feet. This creature's glacial countenance made it exceedingly clear that she was not prone to making idle threats. "My name is Sormias and I have no idea what _tribe_ I'm from...nor can I recall ever being referred to as a _gold wing._ "

Again, she scowled as if suspecting that he was attempting to deceive her. She surveyed their surrounding and upon seeing the profusion of specters milling about, she demanded sharply, "What has become of the lands surrounding my tower and what do you mean when you say that we may well be the last of our kind?"

"This place is the city of Perdwick...which is a mortal enclave that was built around your tower. This was also the scene of a great slaughter and it seems that the souls of the dead are trapped within the city's walls. My tower is located leagues from here...in a place the mortals refer to as the Land of Shades. I have traveled across the entire length and width of that foul demesne and have spoken to the mortals who occupy these lands. Other than my own tower, yours is the only known tower standing on all three continents.

The argent Golgar did not reply, but she signified her horrified incredulity with a sharp inhalation that emphasized her pleasantly full bosom. Finally, after a prolonged and distracted silence, she murmured, "It can't possibly have come to this? How could we possibly have failed to obliterate creatures such as you?" She regarded him with utter disdain and loathing that made Sormias want to squirm beneath its intensity. Her expression became pensive and she asked, "You say that mortals now hold dominion in these lands...truly? When I last rode the thermals, they were perceived as little more than insects not even worthy of the effort required to crush them into dust."

Sormias raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness and intoned, "Then I would attest that much has change during the time of your slumber. Will you not tell me your name and why you bear such animosity toward me?"

She drew herself to her full height, spread her elegant silver wings, which were longer than his own and with surprising formality, declared, "I am Ephirya...princess heir to the throne of Minastros. I despise you because you are of the gold wings...a reviled sub-species of Golgar that are my people's sworn enemy...a pestilence that I devoted my life to seeing eradicated."

"Ephirya...your highness...I can say with all sincerity that I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Sormias returned and the expression of bewilderment on his open face convinced the truculent Ephirya that he was not being disingenuous.

When she next spoke, her voice had assumed the grave tone of one expounding on the darkest of moments and as the gregarious Sormias listened to her grim tale, he could feel the horror of the world she described affecting him like a pernicious infection. "Our peoples made war since a time before memory, back and forth across the gaping cleft in the earth. Ours was a paradise that the golden vermin coveted and no matter how many times we repulsed their incursion...always more would come. Gradually, even the paradise over which we held dominion was turned to ash and ruin by the eternal conflict that seemed destined never to end. When I was young woman, my father...Armanthus, king of Minastros...decided to make an overture of peace to your horde of barbarian ancestors." Here, her brow darkened and her voice became hard and glacial. "I loved my father...but realized that he was a pacifist fool. The gold wings perceived this overture as a sign of weakness and vulnerability and sent the largest horde ever assembled across the great cleft in the world...intent on laying waste to Minastros once and for all. Ultimately, we turned them back and drove them back across the divide...but not before a huge swathe of our beloved paradise was reduced to a lifeless barren that could never be resurrected."

She glared at a thoroughly bemused Sormias as if he was personally to blame for the tragic events of the distant past. "Believe me when I say that there came a great moment of retribution...of cleansing...for your kind's cowardly transgression. I was at my father's side when he led a great host across the divide and hunted the gold wings to what we believed was utter extinction." She fixed a mortified Sormias with a baleful glare of utter disgust and added, "Obviously, we were not as thorough as we believed."

"This...this harrowing tale of eternal war you've spun...Ephirya, I find it difficult to credit," Sormias offered hesitantly.

The argent Golgar's exquisite eyes widened indignantly and she surged forward, digging her thumb and index finger into the hollow of an unsuspecting Sormias' temples. Seething, she rasped, "You doubt the veracity of my claim...then witness them firsthand."

Sormias attempted to dislodge her grasping fingers, but before he could grip her wrist, his mind was assailed by deluge of intensely vivid images that threatened to reduce his sanity to tatters. Under a sky as black as sack cloth, gold and argent Golgars waged merciless aerial warfare. Powerful sorcery shook the heavens and the sky literally teemed with the winged creatures, whose only distinction appeared to be the color of their flesh. The air was thick and acrid with burning flesh and great black clouds of smoke billowed up from the trembling earth, which a weeping Sormias could see was quickly being reduced to a charred and utter ruin beyond all hope of reclamation. He watched in speechless horror as the gold wings fell before the relentless mastery of the graceful argent Golgars.

When it seemed inevitable that his mind would shatter from the cumulative weight of this epic tragedy, Ephirya withdrew her hand and stepped back. Sormias collapsed to his knees, panting like a badly wounded animal. She watched him dispassionately as he struggled to regain his composure in the face of such depraved and needless violence. When at last he could speak, Sormias managed, "If this is a true accounting of what transpired...how is it that you are alone...that we seem to be all that is left of our once noble species?"

Ephirya's mantle of supreme confidence cracked at this incisive query and she replied with obvious uncertainty. "I...I cannot say. The final moments of my last period of waking are lost to me...obscured by an impenetrable fog. Nor can I say what induced me to seek the sanctuary of my tower." A haunted shadow fell across her face then and she murmured, "To awaken to this alien world with its inconceivable reality...it is ineffably horrible."

A thick and dismal silence descended upon the pair and Sormias remained kneeling, studying her beautiful countenance as she stared thoughtfully up into the gray afternoon sky. Finally, she shook her head as if clearing a disorienting mental torpor and strode over to the kneeling Golgar. She raised her right hand and an iridescent argent circle materialized in her hand. Speaking in a resolute tone that made it exceedingly clear that his utter compliance was fully expected, Ephirya intoned, "Very well, in the name of enlightenment, I will set my right of vengeance aside for the time being. You will accept this collar and swear an oath of absolute fealty to me. You will accompany me as my servant while I seek out other members of my kind."

Sormias' first inclination was to bellow sardonic laughter, but he correctly deduced this might only provoke Ephirya, who had been a princess and was accustomed to having her every utterance heeded without question. And by all the gods there were, she was beautiful beyond words on her lofty pinnacle. He rose cautiously and replied quietly, "Forgive me princess, but I cannot accept your egalitarian offer of servitude. These mortals find themselves at a critical juncture in their tumultuous history and I have pledged that I would lend them what aid I am able."

Ephirya's eyes widened in outrage and then her generous mouth twisted in a disdainful sneer. "You are telling me that you serve these scuttling mortals? I am shocked to discover that even a gold wing would debase himself thus."

For the first time, Sormias displayed a hint of fire when he retorted, "These humans, over whom you pour your contempt, are a noble and tenacious lot for all of their many failings. Despite their myriad imperfections, they struggle relentlessly to rise above their limitations and their faults. In the time that I have become entangled in their affairs, I have come to admire their spirit. Despite their humble beginnings, they are still here and look at what has befallen our supposedly superior species for all of your self-proclaimed supremacy."

Sormias fell silent; his chest heaving and his expression quizzical as if surprised by his temerity in the face of this imperious, intimidating creature. Her mouth puckered into a knot of consternation, but she shook her right hand and the collar vanished...much to Sormias' relief.

"Tell me the tale of this great drama...Sormias," she invited and though her posture remained rigid, he sensed that she was genuinely willing to listen.

' _I think this woman has no need of a collar to enslave your heart, Sormias...be vigilant.'_ It was the voice of Islena Doraux who had imparted this pearl of wisdom...one that he correctly surmised he was destined to ignore. Sormias complied with her request and as he spun his incredible account of all that had befallen him since Islena Doraux and her quest companions had destroyed his tower, Ephirya had listened intently, though her reaction to his story was indecipherable. When he reached the purpose for his being in this particular place, he fell silent and watched the argent Golgar expectantly. She raised her face skyward and in profile, Sormias felt certain that her face was living artistry...an amalgam of perfectly proportioned features befitting a queen. Was it possible that his fellow Golgar had actually been so foolish, so envious as to make war on these magnificent creatures?

She turned her intimidating gaze upon him and challenged, "Do you really put any credence in this tale of prophecy...this fatuous notion that this mortal is destined to become a goddess?"

"I have stood in the presence of a deity...felt her inestimable power. In Otaru Ree, I beheld a terrifying and inhuman entity, whose power beggared reason. I have divined Islena Doraux's essence and though she could not accurately be described as mortal, nor is she a deity. Still, Ephirya, I can foresee the creature she is destined to become and it is a terrifying and splendorous vision in equal measure. She is a living contradiction and it is within her to be the most pristine creature to ever live...or the vilest."

The argent Golgar pursed her full lips in an expression of unconcealed skepticism. "And this other one...this Myrhia...how would you characterize her?"

Sormias barely repressed a shudder and admitted, "I have yet to stand in her presence, but I have seen and felt the resonating echoes of her ignoble deeds and I can tell you that she is the very personification of evil."

Ephirya turned in place and strode several paces off, her full hips swaying hypnotically. After several moments, she turned and declared, "I'm intrigued and I would meet these audacious mortals who would presume to aspire to the mantle of godhood. Very well, I will accompany you and observe this _great mortal drama._ " Her expression vitiated and she added, "Once this diversion has run its course, you will kneel and swear fealty to me and together we will set forth to determine what has become of the Golgar."

Without awaiting his response, as if he was left with no other option but to acquiesce, Ephirya leapt into the air with a graceful flap of powerful wings and chided, "Come then, lead me to your mortal history shapers."

Sormias could not suppress the smile that twisted his lips, wondering how Artumas and the others would react to this strong-willed, imperious creature. He followed Ephirya into the heavens and in the next instant, the two ancient enemies were streaking back toward Metocan.

4

Bastronen sat at the bottom of a large valley that reminded a transfixed Islena of an inverted bowl, so perfectly shaped was the hollow that sat between the brooding forest and the rising mountains to the north. On the periphery of her internal compass, the silver light was too blinding to look directly upon, informing Islena that the second icon was in close proximity. At this exact moment, the next step on the road to her apotheosis was the furthest thing from her mind.

The town was a sprawling collection of squat gray buildings of similar shape and size and so it was difficult to determine the possible purpose of each structure simply by its exterior. The unvarying architecture spoke of a people who possessed either little imagination or utterly no interest in variety or individual expression. Yet, it was not the monotony of the town that had transformed Islena into what appeared to be a living piece of statuary. Her attention was captured by the huge, improbable structures that ringed the town like metal sentinels.

' _I've seen these things before...somewhere,'_ she mused anxiously, feeling the stutter of her heart as it accelerated in her chest and then the memory burst into vivid clarity in her mind's eye. When she had first arrived in the Metocan capital of Othgol, she had very nearly been abducted by a trio of repulsive Ulgak at the behest of a man named Kyros, whom Lorio had killed while trying to prevent her abduction. Her assailants had been wielding miniature versions of the soaring devices that now held her gaze fast. On first glance, they resembled massive tuning forks, but Islena had come to learn...in painfully explicit terms...that they were actually weapons that carried a potentially lethal electrical charge. The awful recollection made her trembled in her saddle, despite her padded armor. Distantly, she heard herself inquire of no one in particular, "What are those things?"

Myrhia shifted her regard to Doraux and upon her fulsome lips there sat an expression of feral delight as if she had divined the exact shape of what was to come and derived no small degree of pleasure from the prospect. Her limpid eyes narrowed and she raised her chin slightly, her small nostrils flaring as if sniffing the frigid air. Kevlan had ridden up beside the pair and now sat astride his horse, regarding the massive silver forks with an inscrutable expression on his pallid face. He persisted in his irritating refusal to turn his attention on Islena, who glowered and thought, _'You and I are going to have an intense conversation in the very near future.'_

Ignoring the vexed Doraux, Myrhia remarked, "Your cousins are clever...in that a rat is clever, which is fitting I suppose, considering that is precisely what they are."

"What are you talking about, damn it?" Islena erupted, growing tired of being pointedly ignored. "Are you going to tell me what those bloody things are?"

Myrhia sighed wearily and turned back to Islena. "They gather energy from the air and employ it to heat and power their uninspired little domiciles. They have other functions are well...functions that are far more inimical."

Islena's limpid green eyes grew comically large in reaction to this incredible disclosure. What Myrhia was suggesting was simply astounding and despite the consuming gravity of her own situation, Islena could not help but inquire, "What kind of energy do they gather?"

The enchantress regarded her as if she thought Islena was being deliberately obtuse and waving her hand about her head in a gesture of encompassment, intoned, "This particular location is a natural channel for prevailing winds. Despite being crude beasts, they had harnessed this energy and utilized it to power their dreary lives."

Islena could not entirely repress her incredulity. Myrhia was not describing a system of incomprehensible arcana, but rather a level of technological sophistication that was presently only dreamed of in her world...where wind-powered technology was the pipe dream of the pie-in-the-sky environmentalist fringe. It was nearly impossible to reconcile this image with her recollection of the crude, barely articulate brutes who had attempted to abduct her in Othgol. _'And yet I can see the irrefutable truth with my own two eyes. These Ulgak are a shockingly advanced civilization that has been marginalized to the fringes of this wretched world by vulgar magic and prejudice. If my perception of these people has been so woefully ignorant...what else don't I understand?'_

This disconcerting notion had no sooner taken shape in her turbulent thoughts when the massive forks abruptly began to vibrate. A shrill, teeth-rattling hum filled the frigid air as brilliant blue light began to arc between the up thrust tines of the forks, crackling with poised power.

"It seems that our friends have become aware of our presence," Myrhia observed with a hint of mirth that Islena found baffling. To Kevlan, the enchantress remarked, "The time has come to demonstrate your worth, gelding."

As an increasingly agitated Islena looked on in mounting confusion, Myrhia's rank of Morticants began to form a line that stretched along the southern circumference of the bowl-shaped valley. As she had first witnessed during the course of her ugly confrontation with the enchantress, the intimidating behemoths reprised their feat of exuding an iridescent blue. Beside her, the enchantress tensed in her saddle and the very air of the valley seemed to _congeal_ ...as if it was a transparent plastic that had swiftly begun to melt before an unseen force. She could actually see her cable braid begin to lift skyward and felt the flesh beneath her armor swiftly contract into great hackles as enormous, adversarial forces began to coalesce around her. She stole a quick glance at the enchantress, whose face was rigid and inscrutable.

An increasingly agitated Doraux could feel the Dragonsword pulsing in its sheathing bracket and when she glanced down, she was shocked to see the jewels that encrusted her armor were blazing like miniature suns. It suddenly occurred to her that she had no real notion what these supposedly superficial embellishments actually served.

' _And are you truly naïve enough to believe that, whatever purpose they might serve, it would really be to your benefit? What a fool you are, woman.'_ The harsh voice of Agraria lashed her like a flail, causing Islena to grit her teeth in frustration.

She reached out and clamped her hand down on Myrhia's right wrist. The enchantress' furious regard snapped to Islena and her face was emblazoned with such immutable fury that Doraux actually recoiled before it. Still, she demanded, "What is happening?"

Before the enchantress could provide an answer, the entire basin filled with a flash of blinding blue light that was punctuated by a high-pitched scream of metal being torn asunder. Islena's eyes were jerked back to Bastronen, where the nearest gigantic fork had been sundered at its base. It fell into the collection of squat buildings at its base like a toppled Redwood, reducing a large swathe of the structures to kindling. The rest of the energy gathering devices soon followed suit, leaving much of the Ulgak town in smoldering ruins.

Even from this distance and above the incessant howl of the wind, Islena could hear the screams and cries of pain, anguish and outrage. With a high, insectile quality, they rose above the resonating echo of the destruction.

"What have you done?" Islena demanded fiercely.

Myrhia regarded Doraux with a mixture of sour impatience and bemusement. "They were preparing to give us a decidedly unfriendly reception...a turn of events that I have emphatically forestalled." Shifting her attention to a horrified Kevlan, who found himself confronted by yet another Dornsark Abbey, she commanded, "Go and speak to the survivors. _Impress_ upon them that it would be in their best interest to do nothing to further impede our passage."

Kevlan gaped at the enchantress, his normally placid countenance fraught with horror. In a strident, accusatory hiss, he demanded, "Do you know what you've done?"

"Is it true, Kevlan," Islena demanded, "We're they preparing to attack us?"

The Metocan chose to ignore Doraux, who had reached the limit of her patience with what she perceived as his unjustified stubbornness. Dismounting her horse in a single fluid gesture that raised a cloud of light snow, she strode over to the smaller man and literally dragged him from his horse, tossing him effortlessly into the deep snow with a guttural growl rumbling in her chest. He glared up at Islena indignantly, but before he could voice a protest, she reached down and jerked him roughly to his feet by the folds of his cloak. Enrapt with their simmering feud, neither noticed the amused grin that played at the corners of Myrhia's generous mouth.

"Enough of your fucking nonsense!" Islena raged, shaking a visibly unsettled Kevlan like a dog with a rag doll. "You're going to stop this silent treatment and glaring at me as if _I'm_ the monster in this equation. Now, I've asked you a fucking question...we're they planning to attack us?"

"Yes," Kevlan replied after a moment. Islena grunted and after flashing Myrhia a sour scowl, she literally lifted the smaller man from his feet and tossed him in the direction of Bastronen...where the first response was beginning to stir. He landed further down the slope in an ungainly tumble of limbs, coming to rest some fifteen paces from where Islena stood, her substantial chest heaving and her breath rising in great plumes. He rose to his feet and stood swaying perceptibly. He glanced at Myrhia questioningly, who only flicked her wrist in encouragement.

"It seems you've raised my daughter's ire, gelding. I would advise that you do as she commands. I can personally attest that her bark is accompanied by a most nasty bite," Myrhia suggested, amusement dancing in her great dark eyes.

Resigned, Kevlan turned and straightening, began down the decline, trying to master his dread in the face of what he expected would be the Ulgak's immutable fury. _'You've spent a huge portion of your life in the company of madmen. Was it not inevitable that you would eventually meet your demise in their company? One can only dance along the edge of that particular sword for so long.'_

Islena turned away from the Metocan, feeling a slight tremor of guilt over her rough handling of the gentle creature...but only a slight tremor. Myrhia imposed her horse in Islena's path and waggled an index finger at the tempestuous _savior._ "Draw the Dragonsword, Islena. I doubt very much that the Ulgak are going to be particularly amendable to dialogue." She hesitated for a moment and then added with a sly grin, "I suspect we may have to tend to our own horses and prepare our own suppers from this point forth."

Islena absorbed this remark with a confused blink, but when Myrhia's meaning became apparent, she gritted her teeth in determination and drawing the sword in one fluid motion, spun about and started down into the valley. The smile faded from Myrhia's exquisite countenance as she watched her ferocious daughter stride purposefully after the Metocan. _'How gullible you are, daughter...how easily manipulated by that smoldering passion of yours. I've pledged to be your creature once you've ascended...but it is I who will lead you. I will lead you in circles or along meandering, ultimately pointless paths, until you dare not take a step without my counsel. Those jewels that adorn your armor...one day I will bury one in your black heart and then you will dance to my tune...as it is fated to be.'_

Her face betrayed none of this treacherous intent as she watched Islena fall in next to the gelding, who actually cringed and flinched away from the juggernaut when he finally became cognizant of her immense presence.

Islena regarded the Metocan obliquely and sensing his trepidation, felt a surge of intense shame. _'You've always desired adulation, Islena,'_ Guinevere remarked, _'but in its absence, will fear now become an acceptable substitute?'_

Islena grimaced and though she was annoyed by these incessant deliveries of judgment from her alter-egos, all of whom bore indelible scars from their own actions, there was no denying that the regal queen's contention was valid. In a low voice, Islena offered, "I'm sorry, Kevlan. That was deplorable and uncalled for. I know you're displeased with my decision to speak of Sygeanor and I only ask that you allow me a chance to explain myself. Still, I had no right to abuse you...and though it's hardly a valid excuse, I will admit that these Ulgak...unnerve me."

Kevlan stole a brief glance at Islena and nodded, which she construed to be a terse acceptance of her apology. After a moment, he explained, "The Ulgak are certainly disconcerting in terms of their appearance, Islena and it is lamentable what they attempted to do to you in Othgol...but you must remember that they did so at the behest of Kyros. Who can say what compulsion he employed to make them pliable? Though I am wary in their presence, I can also tell you that they are a much maligned people...who have long been ill used by the Metocan, who feel inherently superior. It would be grossly unfair to judge them by your one incident. What Myrhia has done here is odious and I pray that our actions do nothing further to add to this wrong."

Islena offered Kevlan a noncommittal nod and averted her eyes. Kevlan sighed, knowing that she would not easily be dislodged from her view of the people who had long suffered the prejudice of the rest of the world.

Across the valley, a three score group of Ulgak was quickly spreading out to form what appeared to be a skirmish line. Even from three hundred yards away, Islena could clearly see that each brandished a variation of the same weapons that had nearly incapacitated her in Othgol. Islena responded brandished the Dragonsword and growled, "I don't think they're coming with a reasonable dialogue in mind."

Kevlan abruptly stopped and turned to face Islena, mustering the courage to grip her forearms and offer a plea for restraint. "Please Islena...remain here while I try to dissuade them from escalating this situation to a deeper level of tragedy than it already is. Your presence may be provocative, so let me go down alone."

Behind the half helm, Islena's green eyes flared, but she nodded and sheathed the Icon. Kevlan fetched an internal sigh of profound relief and resumed his march toward the foraying Ulgak. Islena turned back to Myrhia, whose face remained an inaccessible hieroglyph and Doraux found that she could not discern how the enchantress hoped this situation would resolve itself. The Morticants were arrayed over the brow of the slope like daunting sentinels and it seemed that Myrhia had no intention of committing them to what was to follow. In the darkened chambers of her mind, Guinevere fetched an exasperated sigh and declared with uncharacteristic ire, _'Can you not see that she is skillfully maneuvering you into a situation where any further blood that is spilled here will be solely on your hands? Can you truly be so credulous, Islena?'_

Islena glowered, but could not dispute the contention that Myrhia seemed to be letting events unfurl with an ulterior motive...perhaps deliberately standing back to see how Islena would acquit herself in contentious circumstances. She returned her attention to the basin of the valley, where Kevlan had come to a halt some ten paces from the converging line of Ulgak. He raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement and though his words were gobbled up by the howling wind, it required only one glance at his urgent gesticulations to know that he was desperately trying to placate the Ulgak.

Simultaneously, the nearest three Ulgak raised their odd forked weapons and the dialogue of appeasement came to an emphatic end.

Doraux uttered a strident curse and commenced down the slope as swiftly as her armor would allow. She recalled the blood frenzy that had come upon her as she'd dispensed death to Myrhia's mercenary hordes on the verge of Otaru Ree's Purgatory and willed herself to remain composed...to not allow brute blood lust to seize the moment.

That resolve evaporated the instant that one of the Ulgak raised a longer version of the forked weapon and unleashed a bolt of sizzling blue energy in her direction. She attempted to throw herself to the side, but not quickly enough to avoid being struck by the discharge. She grimaced in anticipation of a paralyzing wave of agony...that never came. Instead, the embedded jewels flared like suns going nova...evidently absorbing the lethal energy of the Ulgak weapon.

Islena brayed a spate of incredulous laughter...mad and raw, before turning back to Myrhia and bellowed, "Do something to protect Kevlan...Mother. I'll deal with the Ulgak."

Myrhia responded with a slight gesture of a delicate right hand and when Islena shifted her gaze forward, she saw that the unmoving Metocan was now enveloped in a diaphanous sphere of emerald effulgence. With a predatory grin emblazoning her face, Islena started slowly toward the Ulgak, who were exchanging wary glances and starting to take a few tentative steps in retreat.

Instinct possessed her then, but it was an instinct that she did not recognized...even as she moved to comply with its imperative. Raising the Dragonsword above her head with its tip point toward the ground, she drove the weapon into the deep snow and the frozen ground beneath, which parted with the ease of freshly tilled earth. With a wicked smile still emblazoning her partially concealed face, Doraux advanced ten paces beyond the Dragonsword and roared, "If you wish to meet whatever God you worship, come then...I'll gladly accommodate the lot of you!"

With this blatant challenge issued, Islena arched her back and spreading her arms, loosed a primal howl of fury. In response, a vermillion tether leapt from the haft of the Jerhia Icon and lifted Islena from the ground until she hovered in the frigid morning air. Every jewel on her armor began to pulse frenetically...blinding vermillion shot through with skeins of emerald.

One of the Ulgak bellowed a shrill command and soon the air came alive with the nerve-jangling hiss of three scores of forked weapons being discharged at once. They struck Islena in unison, but rather than reduce her to a charred cinder, the massive expenditure of energy was simply absorbed by the mantle of arcane magic...and reflected back at the Ulgak with astounding swiftness. A cacophony of agonized shrieks rose above the wind as every forked weapon was instantly turned to super-heated slag that consumed the hands that held them in the horrified blink of an eye. A few fortunate Ulgak reacted quickly and actually surrendered their grips on the weapon before the backlash could reduce their hands to oozing pulp. They turned and tried to flee back toward the dubious safety of Bastronen, but a maniacal laughter preceded a fulminating rumble that seemed to shake the very world.

The floor of the entire basin convulsed just as Kevlan was levitated from the ground. A terrible sundering sound filled the air and a massive rent opened directly beneath Islena's feet. It began to expand, opening up a seemingly bottomless crevice that pursued the fleeing Ulgak like a giant basilisk. To a one, they tumbled into the improbable rent in the earth and when the last one's resounding cries had faded, the crevice snapped shut with thunderous roar.

Islena surveyed the body strewn field through eyes that were no longer exclusively her own. She could feel an unseen presence in her mind...smooth like the finest of Scotch as it whispered over her senses like velvet and usurped control of her actions. Her body jerked like a marionette, while vermillion tendrils slithered out from her hovering body, spreading over the blood-spattered snow and consuming the wounded Ulgak in an acrid blaze of incomprehensible arcane might. When the last of the pyres guttered and died, not a minute trace of the defenders of Bastronen remained.

The vermillion tether retracted, slowly lowering Islena to the snow, where she sagged to her knees, panting like an enervated animal that has run to the point of total exhaustion. The muffled clump of hooves pulled her gaze back up the slope to discover that Myrhia had guided her horse over to where she knelt. She met Islena's haunted regard with a derisive smirk and clapped her hands in a sardonic offering of appreciation. "Very well done, Islena. I would say you've sent a message to the obstreperous nuisances...in unequivocal terms I might add."

"I...I didn't do this...I..." her voice degenerated into an inarticulate wail of anguish. Myrhia slid nimbly from her charger and stalked across the snow, her expression hardening into one of pure derision that caused Islena to flinch.

Pointing down the slope to where a group of Ulgak had congregated on the outskirts of Bastronen, she rasped, "Of course not...I did, but I doubt _they_ will have the same perception of events."

Islena uttered a horrified groan at the sight of the hundreds of citizens...many clearly children...who had assembled and were staring at the woman who had decimated their fellow Ulgak so ruthlessly. Islena jerked her head back to the enchantress, realizing that she had been cruelly manipulated, but when she attempted to rise, the jewels that adorned her armor flared and she found that she was completely immobilized. Only her green eyes could shift to Myrhia in wide-eyed gaze of horrified enlightenment. Myrhia rapped Islena's cable braid around her small fist and jerked the kneeling woman's head back. "These jewels have allowed me to harness your power and bend it to my will...through you. I have effectively reduced you to the role of marionette...a living extension of my will. I spoke of education and object lessons and perhaps this is the most consequential lesson of all. In every incarnation, I have demonstrated that mine is the superior intellect and only by dumb luck, have you managed to best me. With the blinders of ignorance removed, that difference has never been more apparent. You would do well to remember that should you be so obtuse as to harbor fantasies about ensnaring me in some ill-conceived, clumsy scheme or another. Whatever your plodder's mind can conceive...I have anticipated and it is you who will find yourself caught in your own noose. Now, must I belabor this point...or do we have an understanding? Fate has decreed that you will wield the power of a goddess, but you lack the requisite intellect to put it to use and that is where I will be at your side...to insure that you do not stray into madness...daughter. If you doubt the veracity of this contention...conjure the recollection of what transpired here this day."

In keeping with her character, Islena's first instinct was to launch herself at Myrhia...consequences be damned. Prudence won out on this rare occasion and she nodded deferentially and mumbled, "I will, mother."

Myrhia arched an eyebrow, wary of this easily-won capitulation. "Tend to the gelding and let us be on our way. I think we both know that the next Icon is in close proximity and I would see you take the next step on your path to omnipotence."

With this, she spun on heel and strode away, her rigid posture clearly declaring her dissatisfaction with Islena's submissiveness.

' _Have you lost your, backbone whelp?'_ Agraria demanded indignantly. _'You've always been dense, but at least you had spirit. To see you reduced to a groveling bootlicker is beyond infuriating.'_

"Fuck off," Islena muttered without conviction and pushed herself to her feet, her dispirited gaze momentarily settling on the affixed jewels that had allowed Myrhia to usurp control of her flesh...her power. As usual, it was Guinevere who imposed some matter of perspective on the dismal moment.

' _Islena, when will you see that we...every incarnation...are part of an indivisible whole? Instead of treating us like meddlesome nuisances, why not give consideration to the advice we might impart. Each of us has traveled this particular path before and suffered our own share of humiliation at this monster's hand and while it is true that you have moved well beyond us, there is still value to be had in heeding our insight.'_

Guinevere fell silent and Islena sighed as she started down the slope to the place where Kevlan lay, unmoving, in the snow. She deliberately prevented her gaze from straying to the place where the survivors of this latest horrific and needless blood-letting had congregated...to mourn the loss of those they loved and await the matter of their own fate to be settled.

Islena knelt next to Kevlan and shook him briskly. He groaned softly and opened his eyes slightly. Upon seeing Islena, he actually recoiled in her arms...a sorry testimony to the degree to which he found her both frightening and repulsive.

' _So much for being this world's savior,'_ she thought bleakly and offered the gentle Metocan a slight smile.

"What...what has happened?" Kevlan inquired in a tone that made it evident that he dreaded the answer.

"It's over, Kevlan. They refused to relent and I was forced to kill them." Islena disclosed flatly in a voice devoid of emotion.

"All of them?" Kevlan breathed disbelievingly.

Having no desire to rationalize her action, Islena merely nodded and rising with a liquid flexing of powerful thigh muscles, pulled the unresisting Metocan to his feet. After being dragged for a few paces, Kevlan tugged his hand free and glared truculently at Doraux, who frowned sourly, wanting only to be away from this latest indictment on her soul. In a voice that quavered with raw emotion, Kevlan seethed, "Do you understand just what we've done here, Islena...not only to those you've murdered...but also to these unfortunate survivors?"

Islena shifted her regard to the throng of survivors, her green eyes narrowing and her jaw bunching in consternation. "What is it you want from me, Kevlan?" she rasped irritably. "Myrhia wants us organized and moving and I'm in no mood for another of her bloody object lessons."

"Islena, we cannot leave these people like this," the Metocan persisted passionately. "When Myrhia destroyed their towers, she took away their means of sustaining themselves in this hostile environment."

Islena considered the detritus of the massive towers which resembled the fallen corpses of massive automatons in the cold air. Distantly, she heard herself inquired, "What do you mean, specifically?"

"Those forks provided the energy that lit the town and provided its primary heating source for the homes and buildings...and the power for the industry here. By destroying them...we have condemned the citizens of Bastronen to death...be it by starvation or exposure to the cold. This is unconscionable and we can't simply abandon these people...many of whom are women and children...to perish this way!"

Islena shook her head and looked back at the enchantress, who watched the pair with a dark cloud furrowing her brow. Islena fetched a sigh and gestured her down the slope, not certain of her intention. Myrhia guided her horse down to the pair with dissatisfaction radiating from her in palpable waves. She reined her charged before the pair and demanded coldly, "Is there a problem?"

"Kevlan is concerned about the survivors...he fears that they might not be able to survive now that their towers have been destroyed," Islena reported in a toneless voice that did not disclose her personal feelings on the matter.

Myrhia settled her daunting regard squarely on Kevlan, who met her imperious glare unblinkingly. With a contemptuous smirk, the enchantress intoned, "These twinges of pity are a tedious as they are vexing, gelding. These imbeciles assumed a belligerent posture." She flashed her teeth at Islena and added, "The daughter apprised them of the error of their ways...though perhaps with more exuberance than was strictly necessary."

Islena glowered, but refused to rise to the deliberate provocation. Kevlan refused to be deterred by Myrhia's stupefying insensitivity. "What other action could you have reasonably expected...or did you provoke precisely the reaction you had hoped to?"

Myrhia's brow furrowed and her mouth puckered into a furious knot, but before she could punish the Metocan for his audacity, Islena imposed herself between the pair. Hoping to defuse Myrhia's anger, she dropped to a knee and laid her right hand on the mounted woman's scaled boot, bowing her head in deference. "Please mother as a dispensation to me...let's not leave these people to die of exposure."

"So you would placate your guilty conscience with a benevolent gesture, daughter?" Myrhia quipped sardonically. "Ambivalence is hardly an admirable quality in a goddess."

"Humanity might be though," Islena countered drawing a hiss of disgust from the enchantress, who was privately delighted by Doraux's posture of subservience.

After a protracted silence in which the sorrowful strains of weeping reached Islena's ears over the howl of the wind, Myrhia finally allowed, "Very well, daughter...I will give you a choice. You will return to your horse and we can leave here at once and when we halt for the evening, I will assist you in reaching out to your contentious slattern. She can apprise my noble husband of Bastronen's plight. You can rest assured that he will organize a rescue mission with nauseating haste."

"It could take a week of more to reach here with any appreciable amount of aid," Kevlan interjected to which Myrhia merely smiled knowingly.

"Thus, I present you with a second choice, and I will allow Islena to decide which of the two would be more humane. If this lot is so guileless that they would literally perish in the week or so it would take aid to reach Bastronen...if their reliance on this crude technology is so absolute...then I will dispatch my Morticants into the town to mete out a swift and merciful end to their wretched existence. Decide Islena...my patience for diversion is at an end!" Both Kevlan and Doraux grimaced, horrified by the callousness contained beneath the façade of this delicate and beautiful vessel.

Seeing the light of perfect intransigence glowing in these limpid eyes, Islena knew that there would be no allowance for a third option and as Kevlan groaned in dejection, she returned softly, "We will continue and I will reach out to Lorio when we stop for the night."

Myrhia greeted this with a humorless grin that never lighted in her cold eyes. "Then let us make a start of it before surliness prompts me to do something the _both_ of you will regret."

With this, she spurred her charged up the hill. In instant later, the Morticants began to form ranks. Staring fixedly at the ground, Kevlan trudged up the slope. Islena spared a brief and pitying glance for the survivors of the massacre of Bastronen and then she, too, trudged after the others.

Chapter Thirty-Six

1

A group of four Emercian guards were milling about the corridor that led to Artumas' chambers, laughing and exchanging vapid witticism to dull the boredom of a duty that seemed pointless. It was not that the guardsmen believed that there was not danger to be had in the city of Othgol. Events of the last few days had certainly disabused every last one of the notion that the prospect of death and violence was not a constant shadow in this alien city. As surely as each understood the imminent threat that hung over the city like a miasma...to a man, each understood that they were inadequate, individually and collectively, to confront it.

If any of the four harbored any doubt that they we not condign to the task of protecting the king, a painful reminder was presently descending on them like a preying beast.

The four stiffened and drew swords as one when a daunting figure attired in the most terrifying blood red armor they had ever set eyes upon, rounded the corner and began to converge upon them. Over the figure's right shoulder, a quarterstaff, fitted with gleaming silver-steel sleeves, promised perfect mayhem to any who would obstruct its wielder's path. The guards' alarm became outright trepidation when they noticed the infamous intaglio that was set into the armor on the breastplate.

Despite their trepidation, they still moved to block the path of the striding figure. The guard on the right, a tall, lean man named Meradin, brandished his sword and commanded, "Not a step further. You will remove your helm and identify yourself."

Lorio did not slow her pace, but replied, "I'm the Lamish she-demon who has been bedding your Captain, and I am here to see King Artumas. Unless you wish to spend the next few moons in the company of a healer, you'll get out of my way."

The guardsman stiffed and countered, "The king is holding palaver with the Maxim Tier Marshal and gave instructions that he is not to be disturbed."

Lorio rolled her large eyes as if unable to grasp how men could be so insufferably tedious. Surging forward with an uncanny speed, she deflected his sword with her left arm and delivered a resounding open handed slap to the side of his face that nonetheless carried sufficient force to drive the tall man to his knees, where a sweeping shin knocked him into the lightless void.

Before the others could react to the shockingly swift demise of their comrade, Lorio drove her shoulder into the guard set directly in front of the heavy door to Artumas' chamber with enough force to crack the oak from top to bottom. Spinning about, she effortlessly tossed the guard into his nearest comrade and both went down in an ungainly sprawl of limbs. Lorio took a nimble step forward and pressed her foot down on the center of the unconscious man's back, effectively pinning the other guard to the ground in the process.

The remaining vertical guard regarded Lorio warily, clearly reluctant to engage the she-demon. Sensing his uncertainty, she flashed a disarming grin and purred, "I think we both know that I'm going through this door to see Artumas and there is absolutely nothing that you can do to stop me. Why not save me the aggravation and yourself the pain and simply open this door and declare my arrival."

The guardsman, a young soldier who had served in Myrhia's infantry and survived more than a dozen bloody battles, was nonetheless unequal to the task of dealing with his presence circumstances. His nervous gaze shifted from the terrifying creature in the blood red armor to the door and it was apparent to Lorio that he was torn between trepidation and duty. Sighing in consternation, she grumbled, "Very well, if it is masculine pride that has occluded your common sense, come over here and I'll put to you to sleep...as gently as possible...and your reputation will remain untarnished."

The young Emercian's eyes widened in disbelief which turned to pure relief when the door to Artumas' chamber swung open and the Emercian king rescued him from his plight. Artumas' eyes widened in shock as he absorbed the vision of lethal competence standing before him like the very embodiment of death with disabled guards scattered all around her. That shock was transformed into an expression of sorrow and pity when he realized that it was Lorio who was encased in Myrhia's regalia of subjection, yet when he spoke, it was in a voice of rueful sufferance. "I supposed I should have known it would be you, Lorio. You have an astounding aptitude for carnage and chaos."

She beamed an infuriatingly unrepentant grin that quickly curdled on her full lips. Beneath the half-helm, Artumas could glean the extent of the immortal's agitation. Her voice was tight with exigency, when she demanded, "I must speak to you at once." When she noticed a grim-faced Maroc regarding her from the interior of Artumas' main suite, she added, "Alone!"

"Very well. Wait inside while I attend to yet another aftermath of your impulsive lack of judgment," the king remarked, his displeasure evident as he stood aside and gestured for her to enter his chambers, closing the door behind her.

Maroc eyed her warily and glancing at the armor, offered, "It's odious that you would be forced to wear this abomination, Lorio. For what little it is worth, I pray that there is some joyful recompense awaiting you for all that you have suffered these last months."

Lorio gaped, shocked by this unexpected offer of sympathy from such an unlikely quarter. She mumbled a thanks and the two fell into an uneasy silence, both grateful when Artumas returned, wearing a vexed frown. "Other than being embarrassed and humiliated, my guards have escaped serious injury, but I want you to understand that this will be the last such incident that will go without consequences, Lorio. You are not a child and thus I expect that you will give a thought to your actions before indulging your emotions in the future."

Lorio bit back on her indignation, accepting the Emercian King's chastisement with a tacit nod. The Jerhia Maxim tier Marshal squeezed Artumas' shoulder and said, "I will take my leave then and begin the preliminary arrangements. If circumstances allow, perhaps we can resume our discussion over supper this evening. I will inquire if Inos would be amendable to joining us...I would imagine that the distraction might be...appreciated."

"Perhaps old friend," Artumas mused thoughtfully and Maroc took his leave. When at last the two were alone, Artumas expression became severe and he observed, "What you did to my soldiers was humiliating and uncalled for, Lorio. Why must you work so hard to alienate everyone who populates your life? When I look upon you, I see the daughter I never had...unruly and defiant, but impossible not to care for. Yet, it seems you are determined to try the patience of everyone who cares for your welfare."

The Lamish immortal stiffened and pulled the helm from her head, brandishing it at the Emercian King who recognized just how distraught the young woman was. "I have earned my erratic character, Artumas...paid for it a dozen time over in the currency of pain and loss. Don't you dare deign to lecture me on the need for acceptable behavior and gratitude!"

She hurled the helm against the stone wall of Artumas' reception area, raising a small cloud of orange sparks, before exhaling in a sob that shook her entire body. Sensing that she was perilously close to total emotional collapse, Artumas inquired softly, "Why are you wearing this abomination?"

This bemused query drew a wan smile from the immortal. "The smith's had completed Islena's commission and they were anxious to have it removed from their place of work. I'm wearing it because Islena commanded it...to satisfy Myrhia. You see Artumas...I am Islena's creature, just as I was Myrhia's creature before that. For all of my spiteful acts of defiance and rebellion to prove my independence...that is all I've ever been...someone else's creature."

Artumas grimaced when she made this morose declaration. There was no self-pity in her voice...only grim resignation. He stepped forward and gripped her shoulders, vaguely repulsed by the feel of the lacquered steel beneath his hands. "Lorio, you are the most fiercely independent spirit that I have ever met and despite the occasional inopportune timing of its expression, I would have you no other way. Now, please...go and remove this vile armor and return so we can speak at your leisure."

Lorio's great dark eyes flared angrily. Shrugging off his hands, she stepped back and when she spoke, her voice carried a frantic edge that spoke of desperation. "We must speak now Artumas. I have finally accepted my role and this armor will serve as a symbol of that acceptance, but there is something that I require of you...and should you choose not to heed my demand, I will leave this place and the world can burn after Islena becomes the monster she is destined to be."

' _Flush with a tenacious passion, how beautiful you are,'_ Artumas thought as he watched the immortal deliver her ultimatum...an ultimatum which Maktir's disclosure had render irrelevant. Despite the incisive flare of guilt it rouse, the Emercian king knew that he had little choice but to propagate the illusion that Lorio's was the pivotal role in the drama to come, even if that illusion was reducing this wretched woman to a vessel of misery. Softly, he prompted, "What do you require of me, Lorio? If it is within my power to grant your petition, I will."

With visible relief shaping her expression, Lorio made her entreaty. "I would have you send Esuruban away...from Othgol. I want him as far away from this wretched cesspool...and from me...as he can get. Dispatch him to join this scouting expedition...even if he has no aptitude for stealth. More importantly, I want him gone today. If you do this for me, you have my oath that there will be no further incidents or disturbances on my part. I will do as I am bid and when the time comes, I will bury my Zarcyk in Islena's heart and spare this horrid world...even if it is deserving of the fate that would follow." A glacial light stole into her dark eyes and she added, "If you deny me this one thing...a request of little consequence in the lofty games men and women of your sort play...then Sormias and an army of battle mages will not keep me in Othgol!"

Artumas' brow furrowed in the face of her vehemence. Quietly, he intoned, "Has Captain Esuruban done something to offend you...made some manner of inappropriate overture, Lorio. I will not countenance this type of behavior in those sworn to me."

Lorio cut him short with a dismissive chopping gesture. "He has not. I _need_ him sent away because..." Here, her voice wavered and an alarmed Artumas could see that she was on the verge of tears, but she inhaled sharply to steady her resolve. "I want him gone because Islena will kill him when she returns. I'm not going to explain _how_ I know this...I just do and you'll respect this if you care about me as you claim you do. Islena will kill Esuruban and his death will kill me...in any way that truly matters."

Artumas absorbed this heart-wrenching plea from behind a mantle of impassivity, though behind his mild eyes, his thoughts churned like storms run rampant. Standing before him was the living embodiment of the consequences of human cruelty...a living vessel who had endured the obdurate indifference and willful malice of which life had a seemingly inexhaustible supply. Wishing that his was the power to efface the indelible scars from this piteous creature's soul, Artumas extend the one small gesture it was within his power to grant, "I'll see it done, but should you not apprise Esuruban of the reasons for this assignment. I can do it in your stead if the prospect is too painful, but I have seen the smitten light in his eyes when he gazes upon you and would it not be cruel for him not to know what has inspired his...change of circumstances?"

Artumas was surprised by Lorio's horrified reaction. Gripping his right forearm, oblivious to the crushing pressure she was exerting on his arm, she implored, "No! He must never know why he is being sent away. His damnably chivalrous nature would never permit him to abandon me if he thought I was being forced to serve Islena against my will."

"And are you...being forced to serve Islena against your will, I mean?" Artumas inquired, arching an eyebrow at this astonishing declaration.

A shadow rippled across Lorio's beautiful face, there and gone in a heartbeat before giving way to a radiant grin, but it spoke eloquent volumes on how this tortured soul perceived her present circumstances. Deliberately evading the question, she revealed, "I'm going to convince the noble Esuruban that I've been toying with him and now I've grown bored and want him gone." When Artumas drew a sharp, disapproving breath, she added, "I would rather have him despise me than see him dead and those are the only two options in my present circumstances. Once I've driven the dagger in...I'm going to send him to you and you _will_ dispatch him elsewhere at once."

Artumas sighed, loathing being complicit in what could only be a painful disillusionment for a man who had displayed extraordinary kindness to a woman in desperate need of rescue. Still, the light in her great dark eyes was implacable and no argument he could offer would dissuade her. "I will agree to this deception, though I find it to be a bewilderingly cruel mistreatment of a man who has shown himself to be exceptionally caring...if you would honestly answer one question." When she nodded her reluctant acquiescence, he asked, "Do you love Esuruban, Lorio?"

In an uncharacteristically meek voice, she replied, "I think I do. When I'm in his company, I can visualize the prospect of a life that I would have derided as laughable had anyone suggested it before I met your beautiful soldier."

Now, Artumas could not conceal the sorrowful frown that this revelation evoked. "Lorio, I have seen the baser aspects of human nature on occasions too numerous think upon...betrayal, hatred, blinding greed. Genuine love is a far rarer commodity than the jewels and gold that misers covet and when you are fortunate enough to find it, it is my belief that you should embrace it...cling to it as if to let it go would be to surrender your soul. Still, if anyone has even the slightest insight into the flux that is Islena Doraux's mind...it would be you and I will respect your decision, even if I believe it will be a regret that you are forced to carry like a millstone. When you have delivered your dagger, send Captain Esuruban to me and I will dispatch him to join First Scout Sybian's expedition as an observer.

Lorio surprised Artumas by drawing him into a tight embrace. He could feel her trembling in his arms and knew just how exorbitant the cost of this selfless act would be. After a long moment, she stepped back and nodded resolutely. "I'll send him to you soon."

She turned and strode to the door, but paused with her hand on the ornate handle. "I'm sorry for what I did to your guards. You have my oath that it will be the last incident of this sort. Once I'm done with Esuruban...I'm going to embrace my role, completely and without defiance. You once said you regarded me as a daughter...if I had been blessed with the good fortune of having you as a father, I would wager that I would be a much better and happier person than the one you see standing before you today."

Then she was gone, leaving profoundly shaken and moved Artumas in her wake.

2

Esuruban spent the period of Lorio's continued absence in a state of deepening worry. There was no mistaking the apprehension that had clouded the immortal's expression in response to Arminda's summons.

Esuruban had grown up in rural Emercia and from there he had enlisted in the military. During that time, his experience with women was limited to the occasional dalliance with the camp ladies who had trailed after Myrhia's army like shadows. The lives of ordinary women...their concerns and hopes...were well beyond his comparatively naïve sensibilities.

Lorio was like no other woman he had ever encountered...a complex and baffling hybrid of fragility and diamond toughness that left the ingenuous Esuruban in a constant state of puzzlement. ' _Ah, but what delicious puzzlement it is."_

The woman who had left her chambers in the company of the young Jerhia Tier Marshal was but a pale facsimile of the astounding creature he had come to know in these past weeks and Esuruban feared that some inimical change was about to blow through her life...and his.

He recalled how his younger sister, Eveangela, had been enamored with delicate glass figurines. They had adorned the wooden shelf above her small bed, beautiful but delicate. It had been Esuruban's admittedly limited experience that the happiness in life was very much like his sister's beloved figurines; beautiful, but fragile and easily reduced to dust by the slightest brush with inimical winds. The slivers of their destruction were incisive things that bit deep and caused lingering pain long afterward.

Esuruban feared that this summons would presage such a moment and these last weeks would be revealed as the fragile illusion they were and their resonating echo would haunt him for the remainder of his life.

His father had been a man who loved his family, but deplored fantasy and it was his voice, almost forgotten, that spoke to the dejected Esuruban as he awaited the tempestuous immortal's return. _'Did I really raise you to believe that you could stand in the company of a creature like this one...a woman who is destined to shape the very world? Am I really such a dismal failure as a father?'_

The opening of the door tore Esuruban from his somber reverie and he required only one glimpse at Lorio's partially concealed face to know that his worst fears were about to be emphatically confirmed. She saw him leaning against the window and something about his posture suggested that he had been in this position for a considerable length of time. When his gaze fell on her sleek, blood red armor, his handsome face contorted into a deep frown that was rife with both concern and distaste in equal measure that became an expression of unadulterated revulsion when it settled on the intaglio that was nestled between her breasts. "Lorio...I'm..."

His words failed him then as if he lacked the faculty to express his outrage and sadness at this symbolic abjection. Lorio removed her half helm and tossed it onto the nearest chair. In a voice devoid of all emotion, she intoned, "I will no longer require a chaperone...so you may gather your belongings and go. I've already spoken to your king and you are to report to him at once."

Esuruban's grimaced...clearly dismayed by this sudden dismissal that was offered in an inexplicably glacial tone. "Lorio, please, what has happened," he stammered. "Let me help you out of that abomination."

She strode over to where she stood and though they were of an equal height, she seemed to loom over the swordsman in her daunting armor. Now sarcasm and disdain slithered into her voice as she loosed her venom on the bewildered Emercian. "What has happened, Esuruban, is that I've grown bored. As for this armor...it's precisely where I belong. While it's true you have an aptitude between the sheets, your constant presence has grown cloying...like an obsequious little lapdog who is always under foot. Admittedly, you were a pleasure to fuck...but even that talent can't compensate for your dreary personality. I've been forced to endure many things since this nightmare began...but I won't suffer a simpleton. Now...gather up your goods and get out of my sight."

Lorio leaned closer and glared at the flummoxed Captain and though her face remained impassive, she felt the reciprocal sting of every verbal dagger she drove into the man who had only ever treated her with respect and kindness. Esuruban blinked several times as if attempting to confirm if he was actually awaken or trapped in the embrace of a lucid nightmare. His mouth worked soundlessly and then he averted his eyes, before pushing past Lorio, who struggled mightily to repress the urge to scream and gouge her own eyes out. She stared fixedly through the flawed glass, out over the gaming yard where she had beaten Esuruban so badly. The snow was falling with purpose now and she could scarcely see the fence over which she had fled at the conclusion of that ugly incident. _'And after all of that, this humble man wished only to pull you out of the miasma that has come to characterize your pointless, ugly life.'_

When Esuruban had gathered up his meager possessions, he gravitated toward the door. Lorio watched him obliquely and could glean that he wanted to offer some parting remark...probably a way that she might be absolved of her deplorable mistreatment. The savagely cruel and degrading aspect of her nature asserted itself then and she delivered a parting verbal dagger without hesitation...a testimony to just how vitiated and twisted her heart had become. "Esuruban, one final piece of parting advice, just because a woman bats her eyelashes and swishes her hips in response to that pretty face of yours...it doesn't mean that she wants anything more of you than to satisfy her urges. If you are gullible enough to believe that women are whimsical creatures in desperate search of an earnest, upstanding man to bring color and meaning to their dreary lives, then you are a fool of epic proportions. We are spiteful, vindictive bitches with hearts as black as pitch. If you are daft enough to believe anything else, then expect to have your delicate heart routinely ground to dust." After allowing a moment for this cynical barb to do its work, she added the last words she believed she would ever exchange with the Emercian Captain who had so thoroughly enthralled her heart. "Forget love, Esuruban and when you use your swords... _all of them_ ...use them ruthlessly and without regret."

Lorio watched as the Emercian seemed to deflate before her eyes, his image distorted by the fall of tears that transformed the handsome soldier into a fractured grotesquerie. She bit fiercely back on the tears, struggling to forestall her inevitable collapse until he was well out of earshot.

And then Esuruban was gone and though he closed the door softly in his wake, it resounded like the slamming of a coffin lid in the confines of Lorio's distraught mind.

She stumbled away from the window and began to frantically strip away pieces of Islena's hideous armor, flinging each piece across the room as if it was ineffably foul. When she was completely naked, the lean muscles in her long thighs betrayed her, spilling the despondent immortal to the tiles before the hearth. Lacking the motivation to rise, Lorio curled herself into a fetal ball and began to sob.

3

Lorio lost all concept of time as she lay on the cold tile, weeping in abjection and self-loathing. Even after the last of her ultimately futile tears had been expended, Lorio remained sprawled on the floor. Lacking both the will and the requisite energy to rise, the eviscerated immortal wallowed in her torment as a procession of her personal detractors traipsed through her thoughts, heaping their derision upon the broken woman.

' _You've driven away your one and only chance for redemption, girl,'_ her treacherous father declared in a pitying voice that rang absurdly hollow. _'To think that you'd actual managed to attract the attention of someone who valued you...glaring imperfections and all. Will wonders ever cease? I suppose that it shouldn't be particularly surprising that you've managed to fuck it up in the end.'_

' _Don't listen to this imbecile's mindless blather,'_ the shadow incarnation contradicted in that sly seductive purr that never failed to turn her blood to ice water. _'You've merely discarded the distraction, clearing a path to your rightful place at the right hand of a goddess. I can promise that you will know such ecstasy under her hand.'_

The entity went off into a cackle of mad laughter that caused Lorio to moan like an abused child.

Still, she remained in this position, relentlessly assailed by the ghosts of a squandered life, who flayed her with endless variations of her perceived inadequacies, until the fire had burned down to dull orange embers. The light beyond the windows had gradually bled to dusk, plunging her chambers into gloom. The thick panes of glass rattled before the wind as yet another storm descended upon beleaguered Othgol.

Lorio had plunged into a doleful torpor when an intense sensation rippled across the fabric of her consciousness. Her eyes snapped open and she abruptly sat up, her bare flesh rising into great hackles at the recollection of this unpleasant memory. When last she had experienced this particular sensation, she had been Myrhia's reluctant creature.

' _You entertain this thought as if that has somehow changed,'_ her father remarked with perplexing delight as if his daughter's denigration was the sole reason for his existence.

The sensation came again, though this time with even greater insistence. Myrhia's summons to enter the astral ways had been deft and delicate things that spoke of absolute mastery over the process. This summons was blunt and clumsy and declared it the work of a novice wielder who nonetheless possessed a power that was frightening in its magnitude.

' _Islena!'_ Lorio realized with a painfully discordant blend of excitement and abhorrence. She was woefully ill-prepared to face Islena in her present state, but a part of her...the sad, fractured part that craved affirmation...was viscerally thrilled by the thought that Islena was reaching out to her.

Fearing that some of her torment might bleed through and be obvious to the inquisitive Doraux, Lorio attempted to conjure her indignation and resist the command, but in the next instant, she found that she was torn from the moorings of her physical body and jerked along the tether.

When next Lorio regained awareness, the immortal discovered that she was still naked and kneeling submissively before the woman who held proprietorship over her body and soul. Lorio blinked and peered about owlishly, surprised by the location that Doraux had constructed for their palaver. The pair found themselves at the center of an ice-covered lake, surrounded by towering mountains, shrouded in ice and snow. A constant wind had scoured the snow from the icy surface of the lake and upon further inspection, Lorio was daunted to discover that the layer of ice beneath the pair was precariously thin. A silver moon suddenly broke through the roiling clouds, illuminating Lorio and Islena in a peculiar muted glow. The air crackled with cold but could find no purchase on either woman.

Islena towered over the kneeling immortal, appearing virtually omnipotent in her ebony armor, which was now smattered with jewels that flared and guttered in syncopation to Islena's heart. Islena held her half-helm beneath her right arm and it required only one glimpse into those indescribably beautiful green eyes for Lorio to understand that Islena Doraux was a consuming addiction from which she would never be free.

Islena regarded the kneeling immortal with a quizzical expression dawning on her angular face as she demanded, "Why are you naked? Your eyes...they're red and swollen. Have you been crying?"

Lorio quickly averted her gaze to her hands, which trembled like newborn birds, though she could feel the weight of the other woman's perceptive gaze on her skin. Hoping to avoid offering answers that would only arouse Islena's curiosity, Lorio countered with questions of her own...vaguely accusatory queries that caused Islena to frown. "How were you able to bring me here? Is _she_ tutoring you now?"

Islena actually flinched in the face of the scalding reproach in Lorio's tone, but then fell back on her default posture of defensive surliness. "I have no time for your recriminations. You know all to well just how precarious my situation is." Her tone became exigent and Lorio could clearly discern desperation capering beneath that urgency. "Lorio, something...horrible has happened...a massacre. More people...women and children...are going to die if drastic action is not taken to save them. I need you to go to Artumas and tell him that the Ulgak town of Bastronen needs immediate humanitarian aid...whatever they can send in the largest quantities that can be arranged in short order."

"What's happened, Islena?" Lorio inquired and it did not require a great deal of perceptive acuity to know that Islena was complicit in whatever horror had befallen Bastronen. _'How do we even stand beneath the weight of the sins we bear, Islena?"_

"The specifics don't matter, Lorio!" Islena snapped impatiently. "All that matters is that aid is sent to Bastronen as quickly as possible or it is going to become a frozen graveyard."

"I will, Islena," Lorio agreed in a suitably chastened voice that she scarcely recognized as her own. Relief, tempered with guilt and shame, shone brightly in Islena's luminous eyes and she ventured closer. Removing a mailed glove, she tenderly caressed Lorio's upturned cheek. Despite her forsworn intention to remain aloof, Lorio turned her face into the touch and kissed Islena's hand...the sensation of contact made tactile by the infernal magic of the pair's bond.

"Lorio, what has happened to you? Has someone hurt you?" Islena asked, reiterating her question with greater vehemence. "If someone has harmed you, Lorio...even though it's common knowledge that you are under my protection...upon my return to Othgol, I'll find them and rip their fucking heads off!" Eyes alight with the prospect, Islena's lips twisted into a feral grin and she vowed, "but, oh so slowly."

Lorio's presentiment of Esuruban's death at Islena's hands manifested itself in the immortal's mind in shockingly vivid detail. She could actually feel the spatter of the Emercian's hot blood against her bare flesh. In response, a towering rage erupted in the decimated pit of her soul, churning up like hot bile and sweeping away all reason in a fit of blind fury.

Lorio underwent a swift and radical transformation, her body swelling until she stood three times taller than the aspiring goddess. Head inclined, she gaped up at the naked behemoth, whose exquisite face had contorted into a mask of immutable anger.

"Lorio, what's..." Doraux managed, but got no further.

The immortal raised her massive fists, which had taken on the shape of anvils and brought them down on the ice immediately to either side of the thoroughly disconcerted Islena.

A resounding crack reverberated through the frigid air, rebounding off the surrounding mountains. A satisfyingly shrill cry of negation tore from Islena's lips, while the ice beneath her feet fragmented under the concussive force of Lorio's fists.

"Stay out of my head!" Lorio bellowed as Islena plunged into the icy waters, sinking out of sight as if swallowed by a sentient beast.

Lorio returned to the confines of her body with a disorienting jolt, yet even as she hauled herself dazedly to her feet, the immortal was suffused by a sense of soaring euphoria. The excruciating ambivalence that had plagued her since Islena had revealed her true intentions dissipated in the blink of an eye as if banished by a clarifying lens. Feeling as if she had thrown off a crushing yoke, Lorio hurried about the main room of her chambers, quickly gathering up the discarded pieces of armor. She carried them into her bed chamber, where she laid them out atop her bed with great care. Oddly, she no longer regarded them with the same revulsion with which she had viewed them only a short while earlier.

Once this task had been completed, she dressed in her standard garb, adding a full length, hooded cloak that someone...very probably Esuruban...had hung in her armoire.

Then she left her chambers and hurried through the virtually deserted halls and out into the blustery night. She strode through the knee-deep snow and over to the entrance of the building that housed the Emercian King's personal guards. A single guard stood recessed in the doorway and he tracked the hooded figure's determined approach with deepening wariness, while his chilled hands tightened unconsciously on his halberd.

That wariness bloomed to paralyzing anxiety when the figure threw back her hood and the guard recognized the she-demon who had incapacitated his comrades with such embarrassing ease earlier in the day. It was said that she moved with the speed of a great hunting cat and was invulnerable to conventional weaponry. The guard cursed for being left alone to face this walking nightmare.

Lorio sensed the man's mounting trepidation and raised her hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Don't worry. I haven't come to cause trouble. I only have one question and if you give me an honest answer, I'll be on your way and you can go back to guarding this empty fucking yard. Do we have a deal?"

The guard winced at her vulgarity, but nonetheless prudently nodded his agreement. Lorio beamed a brilliant smile and posed her question. "I know that your king dispatched Captain Esuruban away from the Othgol...to join this scouting expedition onto the eastern continent. Has he left yet...and if so, how long ago?"

The guard pondered the question, considering the possible consequences of divulging information to a woman whose motivation for soliciting answers he could only guess at. He could sense her smoldering impatience behind her expectant smile and decided that he would rather answer her seemingly innocuous question than spend a month in a healer's infirmary. "About two hours ago...through the east gate."

Without bothering to respond, Lorio spun about and sprinted away. Mere minutes later, she had purloined a horse from the Emercian stables after leaving a startled guard sleeping quietly in between bales of hay. The streets were virtually deserted beneath the assault of the winter storm and Lorio raced through the city like a ghostly shadow. With an ostensible end to hostilities, the gates to the city were again left open and Lorio passed out onto the plains that surrounded the city without noticed, plunging into the forest beyond and out of the biting wind.

As she pushed her horse as much as she dared under the appalling conditions, Lorio began to rehearse just what she would say to the man she had come to love with such stunning alacrity. As always, her legion of self-contrived detractors attempted to erode her resolve with their symphony of cruel denigration, but she clench her jaws and managed to successfully evict them from her turbulent thoughts.

4

Esuruban rode through the inimical night with his head bowed, scarcely aware of both his surroundings and the swirling snow that reduced visibility to a dangerously short distance. His attention was focused inward to a place where his emotions were every bit as stormy as the swirling snow through which he rode.

His life had fallen to ruin with a swiftness that was bewildering and though he should have foreseen that any entanglement with the complex Lamish immortal was destined to end in his thorough decimation, Esuruban was still completely unprepared for the deluge of acrimony that she had unleashed to sweep him from her life. He shook his head and muttered a rare curse, berating himself as an ingenuous fool for not seeing that she had been merely toying with him...using him to relieve her boredom...until the inevitable moment when he, himself, had become a boring fixture.

' _We are vindictive bitches with hearts as black as pitch.'_ Her actions in having him exiled from the city validated that contention, but another part of his mind insisted that this extreme measure hinted at something else...something born more of guilt than simple spite. He again shook his head and wondered how he had managed to live so long without garnering any insight into the female heart.

' _Your only experience has been with camp harlots and devastated victims of your mistress' ugly war of conquest...hardly a dependable sample for coming to understand creatures that are staggeringly complex for the most agile of minds to grasp.'_ It had been his father would had made this astute observation and despite being blessed with a beautiful face that women seemed to find pleasing, Esuruban had never made the effort to try to understand them, concerning himself with war and sword play...things that were straightforward and easy to grasp. With the mercurial Lorio, Esuruban had been thoroughly enthralled by her staggering beauty and her irrepressible, but damaged spirit. Upon reflection, he understood that he had stepped far above his station and though he would carry the indelible scars of that presumption, the Emercian vowed that it would be a misjudgment that he would never repeat.

Absorbed in consideration of his fallibility on the subject of women and their seemingly infinite caprices, the normally perceptive Emercian failed to discern the muffled approach of a horse and rider bearing down upon him from the west.

"Esuruban!" His name, called in tones of an undeniable imperative, drew the swordsman from his reverie and his head jerked around in time to see a shadowed figure rein in its horse in the snow-smudged darkness.

His heart leapt in his chest. He recognized the voice all too well and for the briefest instant, he felt the compulsion to simply spur his own mount and gallop away, fearing that she had pursued him with the notion of finishing what she had begun in the training ground weeks before. Instead, he drew a tremulous breath to steady his jangled nerves and slid from his saddle, determined to meet whatever was to follow with the same stoic dignity he employed to confront the remainder of his life.

She dismounted her horse with a casual grace that seemed to characterize her every movement and marched across the space between them like a living avalanche that was determine to simply bury everything unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. Esuruban stiffened but willed his arms to remain at his sides. Lorio threw back the hood of her cloak and encircling his neck with her right hand, drew the startled Emercian into an open-mouthed, passionate kiss. He stumbled in the face of her momentum and the pair tumbled to the snow-covered road. She landed atop the thoroughly bemused Esuruban, lavishing his face and neck with ardent kisses that left him dizzy and breathless.

The swordsman's horse issued a plaintive whinny and skittered several paces away. Lorio finally broke the kiss and sat up, pinning the confused Esuruban to the ground, while tracing the angle of his jaw and the outline of his lips.

In a frantic voice made raw with rampant emotion, the distraught immortal pleaded, "I'm sorry, Esuruban. Those things I said to you in my chambers...they were lies...ugly, cruel lies!"

She fetched a convulsive sob that reverberated through the pinned Emercian's flesh, conveying the extent of her misery. "Why...why would you send me away...and say those things to me...I don't understand, Lorio?"

Removing her gloves, she ran her hands over his face and through his wet hair as if she feared that he might simply dissolve beneath her touch. Never one to express her emotions or expose her true feeling, Lorio had long been indoctrinated to believe that to do so was to become vulnerable to exploitation and abuse. Only Islena had ever succeeded in inspiring the immortal to cast aside her carefully cultivated façade and reveal the fragile spirit beneath. Esuruban had been the first and only man she ever trusted enough to risk laying bare her feelings and now she struggled to find the correct words to articulate her ineffably cruel mistreatment. "In these last three weeks, you've given me a taste of what it would be like to live a small, simple life in the company of someone who loved me and who I could love in return. You are the first person who ever wanted me for who I am...glaring imperfections and all. If we could mount our horses and ride away together...find a place where we would never be found, I would go with you now...without hesitation or regret."

"Then let's do exactly that and let the world find its own way in our absence," Esuruban insisted, scarcely able to believe what he had just proposed...forgetting the solemn vow he had made only moments before.

Lorio bent forward and kissed his warm mouth, pulling his lower lip between her teeth, before reluctantly sitting back. As a single tear slid from her right eye and landed on his cheek, she declared forlornly, "There is nowhere that we could run that _she_ would not find me. When I put on the armor...peered through the helm, I had a presage of your death. Islena took your head, Esuruban...and I was utterly powerless to stop her. That is why I had to drive you away...beg Artumas to dispatch you elsewhere."

His tone became uncharacteristically stern and he growled, "I don't believe in presentiments, Lorio. Nor am I a craven. If you would have me stay with you, then we will return to Othgol and if this Islena intends to harm you...a savior she may be, but I will find a way to stop her!"

The ferocity of this declaration caused Lorio to grimace. "This is exactly why I have to make you leave, Esuruban. Presentiments are all too real and Islena Doraux is the living embodiment of the worst of what they represent. She has laid claim to my soul, Esuruban...and until I have served her purpose, she will obliterate everything I care for...and if you have never credited a word that's passed my deceitful lips, believe this...there is nothing in my life I have ever loved as much as I have grown to love you. If you feel the same...if you trust and love me in return...I vow that, when this dark drama comes to and end, I will give myself to you...unconditionally and on any terms by which you would have me. For now, I need you to stay as far away from me as circumstances will allow...I'm begging you. Find it in your heart to forgive me for what I said to you...and stay safe until this shadow is lifted from my soul."

Esuruban stared up at her for a protracted moment, moved to silence by the stunning improbability that this astounding creature had professed her love for him. Not trusting himself to speak, the Emercian merely nodded, reaching up to trace the outline of her generous mouth. Lorio gripped his wrist and sucked his finger into her mouth, causing Esuruban to utter a low gasp of surprise and pleasure. Head spinning, he managed, "I'll do as you ask...but how will you find me...when this nightmare is finally over."

She offered the entranced soldier a feral smile fraught with hunger. Removing his finger, she molded his hand to her left breast and with a throaty growl, intoned, "You are here, Esuruban...and there is nowhere _you_ could go that I would not find you."

His eyes widened in response to this, but he never doubted its sincerity for a moment. She glanced up into the falling snow and murmured, "Unless you want to make love in a snow drift, then I suggest you set up your tent, while I tether and blanket the horses. This last night is ours and I would have it be one that we don't soon forget."

She rose with a nimble twist and flashing her captivating smile, set about finding a nearby shelter for their horses while Esuruban erected his tent in the trees and cleared a small space for a fire. When each had completed their tasks, they crawled into the space that was intended for one and while the winter storm held court beyond, the pair made love, fueled by the heart-rending sense that it would be some time before the harsh realities of their lives allowed them the opportunity to find pleasure in each others flesh.

The next morning, the two emerged into a world that was blanketed in a pristine carpet of white. They guided their horse out onto the road and stood in a solemn silence for some time, both staring glumly up at the opalescent sky, where silver-tinged clouds scudded listlessly by, ripe with the promise of more snow.

Knowing that if she did not see her handsome soldier off soon, her resolve would crumble to dust, Lorio finally drew Esuruban into a tight embrace and bestowed a series of fervent kisses across the pleasing topography of his face. "You promise that you will keep yourself safe, pretty man...and don't ever forget that, no matter what your duty might be...your loyalty now lies with me."

He nodded solemnly and returned, "And I would ask the same of you. I don't claim to understand much of what has befallen our world...or the role you are to play in seeing this nightmare to its end. I only know that the fate is ever-inventive in concocting an endless variation of the same tired themes of misery and heartache. I would beg you to do everything you can to insure that you do not become another of its victims. When this is done...if you would still have me...I'll be waiting for you in Nalosan. From there, we can go where ever the wind blows us."

Lorio mustered a sad smile and kissed his pliable lips one final time. He nodded and mounting his horse, set off at a canter without glancing back. Like Lorio, he understood that his resolve was a tenuous thing and it would take be a glance into those limpid eyes to make him stay with no thought to the consequences.

She stood in the middle of the windswept road and stared after Esuruban until he vanished from sight. Then, she trudged back to her own horse and commenced the onerous return journey to Othgol and the nebulous fate that awaited her there.

It would be eight years hence when next the arc of their lives would intersect...and on that occasion both Lorio and Esuruban would be radically different people from the ones who had shared this poignant moment of parting.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

1

Myrhia looked on with interest as Islena allowed her chin to settle to her chest. The deity-in-waiting sat cross-legged on the floor of their shared pavilion, with her eyes closed and her upturned hands resting lightly on her bare thighs. Islena's exquisite face was set in lines of serene deliberation, but the enchantress could feel intense anxiety churning beneath the calm façade.

"Be calm, Islena. This is a rudimentary act of translocation. In due course, it will become as familiar was drawing breath," Myrhia encouraged. Rising from her seat, the enchantress came to kneel directly behind Islena and began to gently massage the hollows of the other woman's temples. "I will guide you to the tether. Once there, you need only reach out and touch it with your mind. Visualize the environment in which you would conduct this interaction and then extend your summons. Your caustic pet will appear at the place of your choosing."

Islena signaled her understanding with a subtle nod and in the next moment, she could feel Myrhia usurp control of her consciousness and begin to guide her through the turbulent interior of her own mind. Gazing about in dark fascination, she beheld a rapidly shifting environment, caught in a perpetual state of flux. The cacophonous clamor of an infinite number of voices only added to the impression of chaotic transition and for a moment, an anxious Doraux felt that she was tottering on the brink of gibbering madness.

Then she felt a stabilizing hand clutch her wrist and found that she was gazing into the luminous dark eyes of the enchantress. Her disorienting terror was supplanted by a soothing assurance and she gladly surrendered to the other woman's guidance. They floated over the topography of Islena's roiling psyche until they came upon a rapidly twisting skein of light that reminded the rapt Islena of a hollow, translucent tube that appeared to stretch off into infinity.

"What you are seeing is your mind's visualization of the astral tether which connects you to your plaything," Myrhia explained. "Remember my instructions. I will leave you to deliver your message and then you can find your way back to your body once your discourse is completed."

Islena regarded the enchantress doubtfully, her green eyes wide with trepidation. Myrhia merely smiled and withdrew. Back in the tangible world, she continued to massage the hollows of Doraux's temples, before meandering over the pleasing topography of her eternal adversary's firm jaw. She recalled the brutal assault that she had suffered beneath Islena's remorseless fists and briefly contemplated reciprocating in kind. After further consideration, she decided that nothing of value would come by indulging her natural tendency toward vindictiveness.

Instead, she rose and came around to study the countenance of the confounding creature who had long symbolized everything that the Mother of Iniquity despised.

' _And yet it is through her that accursed fate has decided that I must experience omnipotence...vicariously,'_ she thought irritably, vexed by the galling unfairness of this obvious slight.

As she watched Islena, a shadow rippled across the absent woman's brow. In response, Myrhia was accosted by an intense shudder of near paralyzing uncertainty. In the seriously flawed, profoundly deficient creature kneeling before her, Myrhia gleaned the catastrophic potential for devastation on a scale that was simply unfathomable.

' _Still, you would invest her with the power of a goddess...virtually limitless power that you know full well this woman lacks the intellectual and emotional faculties to wield?'_ she wondered, chaffing beneath her own implicit criticism _. 'Yes, but mine would be the guiding hand that keeps her focused...a biddable deity to my clear-sighted vision of universal dominion.'_

The sound of sardonic laughter filled Myrhia's mind. She recognized the disdainful, smoky velvet tones of the spider, Morgana, who pointed out the glaring inconsistency in Myrhia's precarious scheme for dominion by proxy. _'In addition to being a small-minded simpleton, your goddess is intransigent in only a way that imbeciles can be. That you would found your designs on manipulating her makes me question your worthiness as my successor.'_

Myrhia glowered and expelled the unrelentingly tedious presence from her tightly ordered mind, though Morgana's acerbic rejoinder continued to fester like an irritant...sowing a rank weed of doubt.

Suddenly, Islena's eyes sprang open in raw panic and she fell onto her back, flailing her arms wildly and gasping for breath like a woman drowning would clutch for straws. Myrhia was momentarily reduced to stunned immobility as she watched the powerfully constructed woman thrashing in the thrall of terror, the shape of which the enchantress could not divine.

Eventually, Myrhia mastered her disquiet and surged forward, gripping either side of Doraux's livid face, the muscles of which had contracted into knots that reminded the enchantress of sculptor's granite. As she began to massage Islena's unyielding flesh, emerald effulgence began to gather about Myrhia's fingertips, swiftly penetrating Doraux's body and quelling the rampant terror that held the stricken woman in its grasp.

All at once, Islena went limp and slumped into Myrhia's lap...her green eyes disturbingly vacant and her firm jaw slack. Myrhia ran her fingers through Islena's thick red tresses and waited for her marionette to return to awareness.

After a protracted moment, Islena gave a shudder and then glanced up to find Myrhia peering down at her...those great dark eyes alight with maternal concern. "What happened, Islena? Did you manage to bring your toy to you?"

"I...I did, but she seemed...distraught. When I asked her to elaborate...to tell me what was bothering her...she flew into a rage...and I...I think she tried to kill me!" Islena's halting tale degenerated into an inarticulate wail of anguish and she clutched at Myrhia's slender arm as if seeking comfort in the face of her plaything's inexplicable rejection.

"Tell me exactly what happened...spare no detail," Myrhia prompted and so Islena complied, her wounded expression rife with perplexity. Though privately delighted by what she perceived as a fortuitous turn of events...one that would ultimately augment the increasingly isolated Doraux's addictive need for her guidance...Myrhia conjured a perfect expression of commiseration. "When one decides to collar a viper, he or she should be fully prepared to be bitten. Still, Islena...I would advise against drawing hasty conclusions. Lorio is a creature whose tempestuous nature is governed by rampant emotions that shift like the wind." She beamed a sly grin and touching the tip of Islena's nose...a playfully maternal gesture that surprised Doraux...intoned, "Very much like the woman she aspires to love. You are the Daughter of the Tempest, after all."

Islena blinked in surprise. The word _love_ sounded decidedly foreign on Myrhia's tongue...an emotion which Islena felt certain lay well beyond the enigmatic entity's self-serving sensibilities.

' _As if you could claim to be somehow different,'_ the voice of Benjamin Richards crooned disdainfully. _'Since you've made your pact with this viperous whore, how often have you actually thought about Allan? Can you even picture his face anymore?'_

This cruelly unfair allegation elicited a moan of negation and Islena could feel herself tottering on the verge of tears. Misconstruing Islena's pained reaction, Myrhia whispered, "Set thoughts of Lorio aside for now. I can assure you, Islena, that once you've obtained the orb of Metocan, your perspective on such matters will be altered beyond your capacity to imagine. Tomorrow will be an eventful day and you would do well to rest."

Islena nodded and rose on legs that trembled slightly despite their immense power and she allowed Myrhia to lead her over to the bed. She placed her hands on Islena's granite shoulders and pushed Doraux into a seated position on the edge of the bed. Despising her posture of submissiveness and knowing that her plea was a blatant admission of weakness, Islena nonetheless asked meekly, "Can you make me sleep...without dreams?"

Myrhia's right eyebrow arched and she tilted her head as if puzzled by Islena's request. "Of course." She then placed her left palm along the angle of Islena's jaw and remarked, "For millennia without counting, you and I have been avowed enemies. You can't begin to imagine the hours I've squandered plotting your humiliation and demise. Now, as you stand on the verge of your apotheosis...what is essentially your ultimate and emphatic victory over me...I have come to the epiphany that I would gladly call you daughter."

Islena's lower mandible dropped at this shocking revelation, but before surprise could segue into skepticism, Myrhia bent forward and bestowed a gentle kiss on Islena's slightly parted lips. Lucidity vanished from Doraux's green eyes like water down a cistern. The enchantress gesticulated and Islena's slack body was lifted from the bed and repositioned. In sleep, with out the distorting weight of worry to sully its perfection, Islena was beautiful beyond words.

While Doraux slumbered, Myrhia returned to her chair, where she settled in to ponder the tempestuous creature. "I still plot your demise, sweet daughter...only now, your abjection has assumed a different definition. You will unknowingly dance to my tune and for all of your presumed power...you will remain little more than a piece on a chessboard where every advantage is mine."

While a fierce winter storm held court in the world beyond the snapping canvas walls, Myrhia continued to watch over Islena's fitful slumber through the long night.

2

Islena awoke feeling oddly refreshed, only to discover that she was alone. She stretched languorously and slipped out of bed, feeling an odd sense of contentment that felt entirely unwarranted considering her present circumstances.

' _These small gestures of benevolence...like the one that granted you the requiem of dreamless sleep...surely you realize that these are subtle forms of manipulation?'_ Guinevere inquired, though her tone suggested that she was doubtful.

"I'm not dense!" Islena muttered, but recalled feeling only gratitude for Myrhia's help in preventing Ben's final query from pursuing her beyond the veil of sleep. The question strayed perilously close to her greatest terror...the immutable dread that she was slowly, inexorably losing her identity. That provoked thoughts of Lorio's baffling outburst...another frightening consideration which Islena had no genuine desire to entertain.

Instead, she pulled the heavy woolen shift over her head, shivering as the pervasive chill of the pavilion whispered over her naked flesh. The old stretching routine carried with it a comforting sense of normalcy...of clinging to the increasingly transparent delusion that something of her old life might yet be regained. After several moments, she switched over to a vigorous set of pushups and abdominal crunches.

It had been the old woman...Marla Holmes' seer...who had first informed Islena that her old life was lost to her until her obligation to destiny had been resolved. Only now was she coming to divine that her old life was, in all probability, irretrievably lost...irrespective of how this dark drama found its conclusion.

' _Do you seriously believe that you could ever take up the threads of the absurd charade you once lived?'_ the shadow incarnation inquired, speaking for the first time since the day of Myrhia's last _object lesson_. _'After all that you've experienced...the profound insight you've gained into who you truly are and what you may yet become...do you honestly envision the day when you might return to the role of suburban motherhood with all of its mundane obligations?'_

Islena grimaced, but before she could give consideration to these intensely uncomfortable questions, Myrhia strode briskly into the tent. She swept her gaze over Islena's body, which glistened with perspiration despite the chill, and remarked gruffly, "One could never accuse you of being bashful."

She waved a hand and a swirling emerald mist embraced Islena. When it dissipated, Doraux's taut flesh felt as if it had been scoured clean. Askance, she glanced at Myrhia and with a slight smile, the enchantress explained, "Dress quickly and let us make a start of it. We both know that the next icon is close and I am anxious to see you take the next step on your path to apotheosis before the sun reaches its zenith."

Then she turned on heel, striding out into the frigid air and leaving Islena alone to prepare for the revelatory juncture that awaited her. Doraux donned her armor and was surprised to discover that her ambivalence at the prospect of accruing another icon...of coming closer to becoming a fate-decreed deity...had all but vanished. While she still found the prospect terrifying, she could not deny that her dread was tempered with keen anticipation.

' _Ah, that natural hunger is beginning to assert itself,'_ the shadow incarnation gushed exuberantly, clearly thrilled by the notion. Islena clenched her jaws and vowed that she would never succumb to that particular dark allure.

Once she was fully dressed, Islena considered her daunting reflection in Myrhia's chevalier...not wanting to acknowledge that she was beginning to enjoy the sense of power and invulnerability that wearing the enchantress' armor aroused. Shaking her head in bemusement, she pushed the half helm down over her eyes and made her way outside.

The morning was cast in hues of washed out gray and a light snow was wafting indolently down from a windless sky. To Islena's surprise, the camp had not been broken down for travel and Kevlan was nowhere to be seen. Myrhia was already seated atop her charger and Islena's horse was saddled. Anticipating Islena's query, Myrhia explained, "You and I will be making this short journey alone, daughter...an intimate sharing of a defining juncture in our lives. Once the icon is in your possession, we will spend the night here before commencing the return journey to Othgol." A knowing smile bloomed on her lovely face and she added, "I suspect you will require a space of time to acclimatize to your new reality...once you've bonded with the orb."

Islena glanced about anxiously and asked, "And what of your Morticants?"

In a predatory flash of teeth, she replied, "I think you and I are more than equal to any menace we might encounter."

She beamed yet another indecipherable grin and snapping her charger's reins, set off to the north at a canter. Islena glanced about the camp, vaguely disquieted by Kevlan's absence, and then mounted her horse and followed her improbable comrade.

They rode through an eerily quiet winter forest and it seemed as if the entire world was cast in varying shades of black, gray and virginal white. Even the towering conifers were draped in cloaks of crusted snow. While starkly beautiful, Islena found the landscape depressing for all of its glacial majesty.

When the silence became cloying, Islena guided her horse closer to Myrhia's and attempted to engage the increasingly stoic enchantress in conversation. "This is kind of surreal...two of history's greatest antagonists riding alone...together...like we're the fucking best of friends."

Myrhia's eyes flashed darkly in reaction to Islena's obscenity and Doraux mumbled hastily, "Sorry, but I never claimed to be a high born lady."

Myrhia pursed her full lips. "True enough. You are the diametric opposite of Guinevere, for whom decorum was the highest of virtues." After a moment, she added maliciously, "Except of course when it came to fucking her husband's closest friend and ally."

In Islena's mind, the legendary queen hissed indignantly in response to this calculated barb. Her reaction must have registered in Islena's limpid green eyes because Myrhia's eyes narrowed and she inquired sharply, "She's in there, isn't she? Skulking about in the shadows of your mind...attempting to influence your actions and goad you toward a foolish act of sedition?"

Islena came to an abrupt halt, gaping openly at the enchantress, whose porcelain complexion had deepened to plum. She leaned closer to Islena, her dark eyes ablaze with the light of utter madness. "If I could drag her from the confines of your mind and give her form in the tangible world...I would manifest a rigid cock and rape her on that cold stone over there...fuck her relentlessly, until she mewled and begged and admitted that she loved it like the crude, dissolute whore she is!"

Myrhia's diatribe abruptly terminated, but Islena continued to gape at the diminutive beauty warily. The enchantress' chest heaved and her shoulders trembled perceptibly and for the briefest instant, Islena glimpsed another face lurking just beneath Myrhia's ethereal visage.

' _Morgana!'_ Guinevere hissed and Islena was possessed by the irrepressible urge to wrap her powerful fingers around Myrhia's slender neck...an urge she managed to master only by pushing Guinevere roughly back into the shadows.

The normally demure queen howled in frustration, but mercifully retreated into the shadows. Myrhia's head jerked back, exposing a bulging throat, and a shrill cry tore from her contorted lips. As Islena looked on in dark fascination, swirling green effulgence engulfed the enchantress and the echo of a distant scream reached Doraux's ears.

Myrhia inhaled deeply, rolled her head and turned her attention to a thoroughly nonplused Doraux. In a slightly strangled voice, she remarked, "If we're not eternally vigilant, these damnable incarnations will usurp our volition, Islena. Still, a posture of constant wariness is...exhausting. I know you regard me as a monster, but you should be eternally grateful that it is me...and not that venomous spider, Morgana...with whom you must reach an accord.

Islena nodded distantly, realizing that she had just witnessed a revelatory incident of enormous, albeit obscure consequence and vowed that she would examine it carefully when opportunity allowed.

' _It is obvious that the bitch doesn't exercise the rigid control over her past incarnations that she would have you believe,'_ Agraria pointed out with her usual gruff disdain. _'The only question remains...do you have the requisite intellect to exploit this kernel of knowledge?'_ Something in the irascible woman's tone suggested that she was highly skeptical.

The pair resumed their journey and after a period of charged silence, Myrhia declared, "I know you wonder why I chose to leave my Morticants behind and though the truth is a nuanced mix of factors...ultimately I elected to do so because this is _our_ Tabula Rasa and a mother and daughter should have no need to erect wards against each others wrath."

Islena regarded the other woman flatly. "You sound like you genuinely believe this nonsense...this blather about new beginnings. I may eventually come to depend on you and may actually require your guidance to keep this monster that's inside of me on a leash, but I will _never_ look at you with anything other than black loathing!"

"Never is an unfathomably long time," Myrhia retorted with a thin chuckle that never touched her eyes. "We have spent the vast majority of our many lives locked in an adversarial posture of mutual loathing...and what has this yielded, save for rivers of blood beyond all accounting. You smirk at my idea of tabula rasa...Islena, but is it not an infinitely preferable alternative to what has come before?"

The question, posed with such earnest sincerity, drove the derisive smirk from Islena's face. In the confused aftermath, Islena came to realize how ill-equipped she was to truly match wits with her clever mentor. Sensing how profoundly unsettled Islena had become, the enchantress leaned over and placed a delicate hand atop Islena's vambrace. "I think we both know that you are undergoing an inexorable transition, Islena?"

Islena's face blanched and she shook her head in absent denial. Uncomfortably, she mumbled, "I have no idea what you're talking about?"

Myrhia shook her head disapprovingly and cautioned, "Don't be coy, Islena. It simply isn't your forte. When you stumbled on the Jerhia Icon in that repository for the damned, your aversion to the prospect of ascension was so powerful that it nearly consumed you."

Islena's involuntary shudder at this harrowing recollection corroborated Myrhia's contention, causing the enchantress to smile. In a grave voice, she resumed what she deduced would be a cleverly orchestrated erosion of Islena's will. "Now, as you stand on the verge of obtaining an immeasurably more powerful Icon, I sense only a constrained desire. I believe that you have finally come to accept the idea of your ascension...if not have openly embraced it."

The color drained from Islena's face until her flesh resembled the clouds overhead. She wanted to decry the idea as ludicrous...as flagrantly untrue. Instead, she inquired lamely, "You say that this icon is more powerful than the Dragonsword?"

Myrhia glanced sharply at Islena, as if suspecting that the woman was being deliberately obtuse. "Islena, your every utterance only serves to demonstrate why you must submit to my guiding hand."

Islena bristled at the implied criticism, but admitted reluctantly, "As usual, I don't understand?"

"It seems that fate is guiding you to these icons in a very specific order based on their inherent power."

Islena was intensely cognizant of the Dragonsword across her broad back as she inquired, "You're saying that the sword is not in the same league when it comes to the power of this orb I'm about to collect?"

"Precisely, Islena. The Jerhia are exemplary warriors...arguably history's best...but they are no match for the absolutely devastating might of pure sorcery. As you discovered in the gray whore's purgatory, you could easily obliterate waves of mortals wielding conventional weapons, but against a gifted magic wielder, you would be incinerated in the blink of an eye...someone like me, as an example," she concluded with a sly smile. Islena glowered, but did not rise to the bait. Myrhia shrugged and continued to elucidate on the arcane mechanics of ascension...like an academic delivering a lecture to a favored student. "Islena, up until now, you have clung tenaciously to this absurd persona...though Islena Doraux is clearly beginning to unravel around the edges...like an ineptly woven rug. Once you absorb the cumulative wealth of the Metocan repository of arcane knowledge...along with the commensurate might to utilize that knowledge...you will become something barely recognizable...even to yourself. You will have unfettered access to every school of magic ever practiced by the Metocan...augmented by the tactical and strategic mastery of the Jerhia."

"But your...sorcery...is still more potent, right?" Islena demanded in an assiduous tone that hinted at extreme frustration. "That is why an entire nation of magic wielders has been unable to give you any meaningful opposition? This is why they grovel at your feet like whipped dogs...much less actually attempt to burn you to char?"

As Islena had posed this fraught question, an odd light stole into her limpid green eyes and while this particular light was difficult to qualify, it still unsettled the normally unflappable enchantress. "The complete answer to your question is...complicated, but in the context of this dialogue, my sorcery is infinitely more powerful."

Islena seemed dissatisfied by this response and grumbled, "Then why all of this fucking drama? Why all the heartache and bloodshed to gather a bunch of fucking trinkets and charms, when you are still miles more powerful than power they are supposed to convey?"

Myrhia glowered at this stream of obscenities, but the Dragonsword's rubies flared menacingly over Islena's shoulder and she growled, "Forget your delicate sensibilities and answer the fucking question...is all of this just a sick game to indulge your ugly need for distraction?"

Myrhia frowned as if deeply aggrieved by this allegation. The two women glared at each other and the glacial air seemed to crackle with poised violence. Through clenched jaws, Myrhia inquired, "Is that how you perceive me, Islena...a frivolous creature who fritters away the hours to keep her vapid mind entertained?"

Islena growled, reminding Myrhia of an infuriatingly petulant schoolgirl, but finally she conceded, "No...I don't see you like that."

Myrhia conjured a humorless grin, though her tone remained as abrasive as ground glass. "That is very well. Since you are so enamored with uttering curses, you would advise that you set aside your insufferable fucking intransigence, open your fucking ears and listen carefully to what I'm about to say...because I'm disinclined to repeat myself."

Doraux's green eyes widened in indignation, but she signified her willingness to listen with a grudging nod.

"The Metocan are not condign to the task of vanquishing me because they have been emasculated by their ethical and moral sensibilities. The practice of many disciplines of magic has been forbidden by the Inner Circle...even for the purpose of scholarly enlightenment. I refer to what were dubbed _dark arts_ when the spider and the sanctimonious whore last walked your world. This ill-conceived aversion has denied the Metocan access to the weapons of sorcery that might have actually given me some level of opposition...feeble as it may have been." Here, Myrhia paused to allow Islena a moment to absorb the full weight of what she had just been told."

Shaking her head in uncertainty, while doubting the veracity of her own interpretation, Islena gave voice to her disbelief. "You are basically saying that the Metocan have deliberately _forgotten_ entire...disciplines of sorcery because they found them...morally repugnant? What exactly are these...dark arts?"

"Necromancy, blood magic...mind obliteration and enthrallment...to name but a small few. In anticipation of your next question, I excel in the practice of all of these lost arts and a myriad of others that would give noble Inos nightmares."

Islena's eyes narrowed and her lips twisted into a rueful frown. "So even if I absorbed the full weight of the Metocan collective knowledge, I would still not have sufficient power to defeat you?"

"Your constant insistence on framing everything in the context of your ability to vanquish me in open conflict is prompting me to question the sincerity of your commitment to our accord...daughter," Myrhia observed with a wry grin. Islena only continued to glare at the enchantress, her expression unrepentant. Finally, Myrhia sighed and elaborated, "The simple answer to your question would be yes...again, the truth is significantly more complex. Now, if you will stop salivating at the prospect of reducing me to ash and memory, I will try to help you grasp the miraculous nature of what is about to befall you."

When Islena responded with a tacit nod, Myrhia continued, "You understand that the three icons are repositories for the accrued knowledge of three of history's most distinct and accomplished cultures. Given their current state, it may seem like a laughable embellishment, but the CornerStone Nations are the greatest civilizations in all of recorded history...through every reality. This is what you aspire to absorb, Islena." Her gaze intensified as it swept over Islena's powerful body and her eyes widened as if she'd been struck by a keen needle of insight. "Perhaps fate's design is vastly more subtle and nuanced than I'd first imagined and this is why you were driven to pursue this vainglorious quest for physical perfection. Perhaps it was necessary to craft a vessel that was condign to the task of assimilating an inconceivably vast ocean of knowledge. The idea is...intriguing."

Islena again shook her head in perplexity and then posed a surprisingly astute question, "Would it not have made more sense to have selected someone who is the intellectual equivalent of what I am physically? If this is part of a precise design, I mean?"

Myrhia regarded the powerful flame-haired beauty as if truly seeing her for the first time. "There are times, Islena, when you astound me with the deftness of the mind hidden behind the persona of tenacious plodder you display for the world's benefit."

Islena glowered at this back-handed compliment, but did not respond.

"The integrity of the receiving vessel is a consideration and there can be little question that, physically at least, you are a magnificent choice. Your ordeal has honed you to a state of diamond hardness and proven that you are made of sufficiently stern stuff," Myrhia observed and despite herself, the compliment evoked a strong sense of pride in a woman who had devoted her life to the pursuit of physical perfection. "When you have absorbed the last of these repositories, they will integrate to create a power immeasurably greater than their individual sums. It is impossible to predict the variations and shapes of the derivatives this process will yield. I can say, without embellishment, that this _marriage_ will spawn a deity whose nature will be unprecedented amongst the pantheon of gods and goddesses who have come before. This incomprehensible puissance will be further augmented by the unique synergy you form with the three icons...a volatile blend of tenacity, power and tempestuous emotion."

Thinking of the unstable shadow incarnation, Islena rasped darkly, "And madness, Myrhia...let's not forget madness, Mother."

Unexpectedly, this provoked a radiant grin from Myrhia, who leaned toward Islena and caressed the startled woman's right cheek. "Let me worry about constraining the shadow incarnation, daughter. Surrender yourself to the process of transmogrification and revel in the majesty of what you are about to become."

' _Ah, the horrors I shall unleash,'_ the shadow incarnation crooned, clearly intoxicated by the prospect of unfettered access to infinite power. _'The first thing we'll do is kill this condescending bitch...and then bring her back to life. We'll dress her up like a delicate porcelain doll in pretty dresses with ribbons and lace and shiny buttons for eyes."_

Islena swallowed with an audible click, dumfounded by the enormity of this monster's capering madness. Myrhia did not seem cognizant of Islena's inner turmoil, for which Islena was genuinely grateful.

"Once you take this next step along your road to apotheosis...all of your ambivalence and yearning for the mundane existence you once suffered, these things will evaporate like mist before a blazing sun," Myrhia predicted with undisguised excitement. "So, too, will the superfluous trappings of your nature be burned away...leaving only a driving sense of purpose that will not be denied!"

The vehemence of this foretelling left Myrhia's chest heaving and her cheeks flushed. For her part, Islena Doraux experienced a welling dread...knowing that she was about to cross a threshold over which there could be no return.

3

The pair rode along...enshrouded in a companionable silence. As usual, Myrhia appeared aloof and inaccessible...her thoughts inscrutable behind her beautiful veneer. Islena's rampant emotions oscillated wildly between the diametric opposite extremes of trepidation and mounting excitement. They arrived at a narrow defile that plunged down between soaring rock walls. The uneven surface was littered with scree and forced the pair to carefully negotiate the treacherous descent in tandem.

Myrhia deliberately dropped back and allowed Islena to take the lead. The enchantress guided her daunting charger with the same effortless competence with which she did everything else and on several occasions, she was forced to bring her horse to a complete halt, watching Islena fumbled with making her way down the rock strewn path.

Doraux fetched a deep sigh of relief when they finally trotted out onto the flat surface, but when she glanced around the new area into which they had ridden, keen recognition flared in her green eyes.

"We're here!" she exclaimed in a voice made tremulous with burgeoning anxiety as her gaze traced a path up the stone steps. The uneven steps were caked in ice and had been carved into the sheer vertical face, though it was hard to image why anyone would ever have undertaken such an onerous task. Squinting up into the opalescent afternoon light, Islena could just barely discern the shape of an entrance to a cavern...though in her mind's eye, silver light...burning constant and pure...informed her that the second icon awaited her at the top of this treacherous flight of stairs.

Before either woman could dismount, four cloaked shapes stepped out of their places of concealment and took up positions with the clear intention of denying the pair access to the stairway.

Myrhia rolled her large eyes in consternation and with a deceptive blend of impatience and boredom, remarked, "Why do certain races of people insist on being so unbearably obtuse? They really do make an enticing argument for extermination."

Beneath this affected tone, Islena could dispense a frightening eagerness to dispense lethal violence. As much as she found the Ulgak abhorrent, Islena had no desire to reprise the slaughter at Bastronen...even if only to appease her horribly scarred conscience. In their time together, Islena had come to glean that Myrhia was privately delighted when her would-be deity had occasion to unfurl her claws and fangs. Reasoning that a restrained display might actually spare the life of these wretched creatures, Islena sprang lithely from the saddle, smoothly drawing the Dragonsword before landing lightly on the balls of her feet.

Casting a brief glance over her shoulder, Islena growled, "Let me, mother. All of this anticipation has me twitching with the need to beat something bloody." She tapped one of her armor's embedded crystals and added darkly, "Feel free to contribute a little extra wallop to my punches if you wish, mother."

Turning to face the four, Islena then planted the Dragonsword in the snow. She removed her helm and hung it on the haft, before shaking out her flaming tresses and flashing her adversaries a winsome, toothy grin. "If it wasn't clear already, I just wanted you to know that it's a woman who is about to beat you all unconscious."

With this taunt delivered, she launched herself at the two nearest Ulgak, sailing across the ground while extending her arms to the sides. Those outstretched arms caught either man across the chest with an impact that could be compared with being struck by an hundred and fifty pound block of animated granite. Islena allowed her forward momentum to carry her through the contact, tucking into a tight roll and coming to her feet some five paces from the downed pair.

"You see, mother, when I use to indulge the vanity exercise, for which you've expressed such scathing contempt, it was said that I stalked across the stage with the leonine indolence of a stalking panther...darkly erotic and menacing all at once." She advanced on the fallen pair, malevolence blossoming in her face, and cooed, "Now try and tell me that you don't find what I'm about to do to these fuckers wildly arousing."

The first Ulgak had managed to turn onto his knees, shaking his head dazedly as he tried to grapple with what had befallen him. Bounding forward, Islena delivered a soccer style kick to the side of his slightly misshapen head with the side of her scaled boot. The Ulgak collapsed into an unmoving heap with a guttural grunt. Employing the unconscious Ulgak's back as a springboard, she hurled herself at the second stunned Ulgak, who had just now managed to regain his feet. She drove both knees into his sternum while gripping the back of his head with both hands...effectively preventing him from simply collapsing to the snow. Still gripping his head, she stepped back and delivered a titanic knee to his midsection. Islena peeled a wicked laugh as the Ulgak slumped into a writhing heap, wheezing like a deflating balloon.

Myrhia had feared that Islena's obstinate refusal to use the Dragonsword would lead to a horrible recurrence of the debacle on the Othgol plaza. That fear abated when Islena disposed of the first two Ulgak with an alacrity that was simply stunning to behold.

With a mocking grin adorning her lovely face, Islena spun to confront the two remaining assailants. Bending slightly at the waist, she extended her arms and waggled her fingers in a gesture of open invitation. They exchanged openly nervous glances, uncertainty shining clearly in their alien gray eyes. Sensing their growing ambivalence, Islena prompted, "Come now, boys...you're not going to be that easily discouraged...and by an unarmed woman at that." She shocked and repulsed Myrhia then by straightening and slowly undulating her hips while suggestively running her hands over her armor clad breasts. "Surely those filthy minds of yours are brimming with creative way to stick those nasty forks into me?"

The pair did not respond to this lewd taunt, but came cautiously forward while prudently circling slightly away from each other. The grin vanished from her face and she allowed her arms to drop to her sides. When the Ulgak to her left had come to within striking distance, he attacked with an attempted rapier thrust to Islena's shoulder. To his amazed consternation, Islena simply bent back and avoided the blow, while gripping his exposed wrist in a crushing vice.

Pivoting in a blur, she pulled his arm over her left shoulder and bent at the waist, driving her granite posterior into his thighs and breaking his balance.

The Ulgak flew over her shoulder with a startled grunt and as he landed, Islena viciously stomped down on the side of his neck and jerked his extended arm skyward. This violent counter elicited an agonized howl of pain from the fallen Ulgak...dislocating his shoulder in the process and rendering him harmless. In one fluid movement, Islena knelt beside the twitching Ulgak and wrenched the fork from his clutching grasp. A malicious grin twisted her full lips as she thrust the humming fork into his exposed groin. His entire body jerked involuntarily as a dark stain spread over the front of his rough spun trousers.

Gently caressing his contorted face, Islena whispered, "I can't even begin to imagine how much that must hurt, but I won't let you suffer."

With this offering of feigned sympathy delivered, Islena abruptly reared up and delivered a clubbing blow to the side of the Ulgak's left cheek. Blood, shockingly red, sprayed over the snow in a crimson fan and the Ulgak sank into the void. Rising with a liquid flexing of thigh muscles, Islena turned her attention to the last standing Ulgak, who was surveying the carnage of his three bruised and bloodied comrades with undisguised dismay.

"Unsettling isn't it...the swiftness with which your chauvinistic delusions have come undone," Islena inquired blithely. The Ulgak watched her warily, while the she-demon raised her hand in gesture of placation and promised, "In the name of fairness, I'm not going to use my feet or fists...though frankly, that won't change the fact that you're going to be joining your unconscious friends in a few seconds."

The Ulgak's small eyes bulged, but he marshaled the courage to come forward...if only tentatively. Islena welcomed his approach with an amiable grin, dropping her arms to her side. The Ulgak was slight of build and naturally quick, but Islena avoided his short thrusts with ease, her torso bending and twisting as if she was composed of smoke. After several moments of allowing the Ulgak his chance at futile offense, she began to circle the increasingly exhausted opponent, whose attempted strikes became more desperate...and thus, hopeless.

Sensing that the malign presence was coalescing around Doraux, Myrhia commanded, "Enough of this childish posturing, Islena...end this now...or I will!"

Islena shrugged and informed the badly floundering Ulgak, "It seems that mother is growing surly...though _I_ could play this game all day. Very well...give this next shot your best effort...you cockless gelding."

This caustic taunt achieved its intended effect and with an outraged cry, the Ulgak lunged at Islena. Islena shifted and flowed beneath his outstretched arm and with the uncanny fluidity of a dancer, clambered up the Ulgak's back until she was _kneeling_ on his sagging shoulders with his head trapped between her deadly thighs.

"Drop the weapon or I'll swivel my hips and snap your fucking neck," she rasped, all mock levity gone from her voice. Gleaning her sincerity, the terrified Ulgak complied.

"Prudent choice." Gripping his head, Islena spun about on his shoulders, until his face was pressed against her lower abdomen. She then permitted herself to topple forward, landing atop the thoroughly defeated and terrified Ulgak, straddling his shoulders like the victor in a schoolyard brawl.

Clutching his throat in a constricting vice, Islena proclaimed, "Perhaps there is something to this pillage and plunder game because this little tussle has left me feeling positively randy. If you weren't such a repulsive slug, I'd ravage you right here."

A still-rational part of her mind was mortified by her behavior, but the atavistic aspect of her nature found the helpless man's terror intensely arousing. She leaned forward until her green eyes filled the limits of his vision like twin emerald suns. "If we had more time, I could contrive enormously pleasing ways of putting your lights out, but as the Mother is anxious to see her daughter grow up...I'm afraid I'll have to renege on my promise."

The Ulgak shook his head and blubbered an inarticulate plea for mercy that fell on deaf ears. Ignoring those pleas, Islena drove mailed fist into his face, deriving an enormous pleasure from the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.

After several seconds of considering the Ulgak's bloody, ruined face, Islena rose and stalked back to Myrhia, who was regarding her with a somber frown. "During these last three weeks, I've gained a rather astounding insight into this process of ascension that everyone seems determined to subject me to, Mother."

Myrhia tracked Islena's approach, her posture rigid and her expression inscrutable. The scornful grin that Islena wore was most definitely not her own. "Had I come to understand this process sooner, my ugly brawl with Lorio would have been a far less bloody and dramatic affair...at least for me. From the very first moment I reluctantly agreed to take up that sword, I was told that I had to _learn_ to use it...that I would gradually unlock its dormant power." She stopped to collect the icon, the rubies of which pulsed in a slow, indolent rhythm. Islena caressed the ruby encrusted haft of the Dragonsword with her right thumb, her face alight with an expression of dreamy affection. "I hope your advice proves more cogent, Mother, because theirs' was totally misguided. There is no learning curve...no protracted unlocking process. The very instant I bonded with this sword, its inherent power was indelibly imprinted on the fabric of my psyche. This bonding developed an immediate synergy which granted me full access to its power...a truth which I foolishly refused to see." Islena swept her right arm over the carnage of the four fallen Ulgak, whom she had destroyed with such stunning ease. "I could slaughter a hundred of these without drawing a deep breath."

"Hubris is not a quality you can afford, Islena," Myrhia intoned gruffly, her eyes narrowing as their gazes locked.

Islena chortled contemptuously and slammed the Dragonsword into its holder across her broad back. "It's hardly hubris, mother, but rather a simple statement of fact. I need only open my mind to the Jerhia collective and I will intuitively adopt the tactics best suited to confront whatever threat might rise against me."

"Which would imply that the icon essentially usurps your volition when you utilize its power," Myrhia pointed out, nimbly sliding from her saddle to meet Islena's approach.

"Not at all," Islena contradicted indignantly. "I decide how best to employ the shape and form of the power they recommend...as I see fit. My mind is my own, mother...as much as you plot and scheme to convince me otherwise."

A sardonic smirk twisted Myrhia's lips and with a single gesture, she defused Islena's belligerence. Raising her hand with the palm extended forward and its surface transformed into a highly reflective mirror, the enchantress assiduously thrust her hand into Islena's face. Seeing her reflection, Islena recoiled as if she'd been physically struck.

Her green eyes...normally as deep and clear as the most precious of emeralds...were shot through with roiling skeins of black.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

1

"So you see, Islena...like the vast majority of the pathetic life you've lived...this notion that you exercise control of your own will and actions is nothing more than a brittle delusion," Myrhia intoned and though her tone was outwardly grave, there could be no mistaking the gleam of intense satisfaction burning in her dark eyes. "I am all that stands between you and an eternity of subservience as a monster's unknowing puppet."

Islena could feel hot tears of utter dejection spring to the corners of her eyes even as she wagged her head in vehement denial. Myrhia tilted her head in a posture of feigned empathy. "Perhaps this is the perfect occasion to dispense with _all_ of the sad delusions you harbor, Islena...these debilitating fantasies that only bring you needless misery."

"Fuck you!" Islena croaked wretchedly, her voice distorted by the vigor of her tears.

Myrhia slapped her face, though there was no perceptible anger in her voice when she spoke. "Destiny, in all of its perverse humor, has decreed that you are to wield power beyond imaging...even though you are a weak-willed erratic simpleton in desperate need of guidance. If I was suddenly to mount my horse and ride into obscurity...do you truly believe that you would not still climb these steps and claim the icon? Could you cast the Dragonsword into the Great Mother or turn away from the staff of Natzurdan and the seductive promise of omnipotence these icons offer?"

Despite the fierce expression of obstinate defiance that twisted Islena's face into a scowl, her eyes conveyed her uncertainty. Myrhia nodded knowingly and continued to bore into Islena's fragile self-confidence. "Despite this persona of tempestuous independence, you are a creature with an inherent need to be subjugated...to be bent. The only question yet to be answered is who will do the bending...me or the volatile, insanely unstable monster that resides in the shadows of your black heart. Unpalatable as they may be, these are your only two options...and I would have your answer now, daughter."

Islena attempted to avert her eyes, but found that her body had become completely immobilized. She could sense the shadow incarnation besieging the crumbling ramparts of her sanity and as improbable as it might seem, knew that the woman before her was her only tether to reason.

With the words burning her tongue like acid, Islena murmured, "You will do the bending."

"Will what, daughter?" Myrhia demanded relentlessly. "I would have you scream it for the heavens to hear."

"I will bend to you," Islena roared, her fulminating rumble filling the empty winter silence.

Myrhia's thin smile held not the slightest hint of the gloating disdain that she'd expected. "Sage choice. From this moment forth, I expect to hear no further whining ambivalence...no churlish defiance and especially no juvenile scheming over how you might see me to my end. Frankly, you just may as well plunge a knife into your own heart, should it ever come to that. Death would be preferable to becoming the shadow incarnation's murderous whore."

Islena shuddered violently, knowing that Myrhia had just eloquently articulated her exact sentiment on the matter. Before either woman could utter a further word on this uneasy détente, a brilliant twist of argent light poured forth from the mouth of the cave, high above the spot where the two extraordinary women stood.

Its astounding radiance bathed the icy surroundings in an otherworldly glow. In a solemn voice, Myrhia announced, "It seems that the orb's keeper is extending you a dramatic invitation."

Islena inhaled deeply, and drawing the Dragonsword, laid it at Myrhia's feet. The enchantress arched an eyebrow, but then nodded in acknowledgement of the wisdom of this decision. The precise dynamics of how these two artifacts might react was impossible to predict...and it was preferable that it occurred in a...controlled environment.

Face set in lines of dogged determination, Islena turned and stepped onto the first riser, but Myrhia quickly snagged her wrist in a shockingly powerful vice. Doraux's head snapped back to the other woman to find the enchantress regarding her with an expression that could wither stone. "Do you recall the day you pleaded with me to heal your pet...and the vow I extracted in return for that distasteful service?"

Feeling naked terror welling in the pit of her stomach like corrosive acid, Islena merely nodded warily. Myrhia's answering grin radiated pure malice and she commanded, "I've decided that this shall be your reciprocal moment. Once you have received the Orb of Metocan...you will kill its guardian and bring me her head."

Islena recoiled in the face of this horrifying decree...a lethal gesture of fealty. Myrhia drew her short sword and handed the ebony blade to Islena, who regarded the beautifully crafted weapon numbly. At last, she shook her head in absent refusal and attempted to dislodge the enchantress' sorcery augmented grip.

Myrhia held her fast and snarled, "Would you now demonstrate that you are bereft of all honor...that you would renege on your oath and prove that you are totally lacking in character?"

Suddenly livid in the face of this crude manipulation, Islena shrieked, "I asked you to save a life and now you are asking me to kill someone...like a fucking barbarian!"

"Considering all that you have done since first coming to the antiquated world, you sanctimonious objection lacks credibility. As to my request, perhaps you should have considered the shape my _payment_ might have assumed...before you offered your unconditional oath," Myrhia observed with a shrewd grin nuanced with contempt. "I could threaten to vent my wrath on your pet if you refuse to comply...or I could remind you that sweet Allan is entirely at my mercy."

Islena loosed an inarticulate snarl rife with the promise of violence, but Myrhia waved her hand indignantly. "Spare me the hollow outrage...daughter; we both know that such maternal considerations are losing their efficacy to influence you as you evolve...for all of your bristling theatrics. One of the most fatuous fallacies that mortals cling to is the idea that a god or goddess would actually care about one inconsequential life. As events evolve, I will lose all leverage in holding your son...product of your flesh as he may be."

This revelatory observation was dangerously close to the biting recrimination that her incarnation of Ben Richards had leveled and she felt herself whimper.

"So you see Islena, I won't threaten you with the violence I could easily unleash on those whom you believe you love...it would be an ineffective inducement for a creature whose only true loyalty is to herself. If you do not make the return trip down these stairs with the Orb of Metocan...and its keepers head, I will know that you are beyond all help. I will mount my charger and ride away...vanishing into the spaces between realities where you will never find me. From there, I will watch and laugh gleefully while the monster inside of you sets the realities aflame with his rampant lunacy."

Myrhia fell silent, yet in her blistering regard it was evident that her threat had not been idly given. The prospect roused an explosion of nerve-rending panic in Islena's woefully conflicted heart. Doraux had little doubt that the enchantress' prediction of a universal apocalypse was not dramatic hyperbole.

The ugly realities of her present circumstances tasted like bitter ash in her mouth, but Islena accepted this latest debilitating defeat...yet another painful reminder of Myrhia's infinitely superior and diabolical intellect...with a dismal nod.

She then turned and began to trudge up the ancient stone stairs with Myrhia's ornamental killing tool in hand. The crude stone steps were poorly rendered and made treacherous by a glassy coating of ice. She deliberately attempted to focus her gaze on each ascending step, trying to ignore the precipitous plunge to her right.

' _A deity in the making...afraid of heights...fucking A!'_ she thought with glum self-contempt.

' _You can't seriously be contemplating performing this foul deed, Islena?'_ Guinevere pleaded and beneath her customary mantle of composure, Islena could clearly discern the anxiety which the prospect of this cold-blooded act of murder evoked. _'To commit this atrocity will leave an indelible scar on your soul.'_

' _I'm still not hearing a fucking alternative,'_ Islena retorted irritably. _'As for a soul...I'm not certain that I've actually ever had one.'_

' _Just as I've never actually heard the voice of this so-called shadow incarnation that will purportedly lead you into the arms of homicidal lunacy,'_ Guinevere countered passionately. ' _Perhaps you would do well to reflect upon why Myrhia has been dubbed the emerald enchantress.'_

This startling interrogative brought a flummoxed Doraux to an abrupt halt, forcing her to cling to the soaring stone wall to retain her balance. The implication of Guinevere's query detonated in Islena's beleaguered mind. She turned her frazzled regard down to the spot where Myrhia stood, staring fixedly up at her with an intensity that was palpable even at this distance. Could it actually be that the enchantress had skillfully inculcated this sly notion of the shadow incarnation in her vulnerable mind...to erode her resolve and build a dependency that had no legitimate basis? The idea bespoke an astounding audacity that verged on insidious genius.

' _A description that would suit the devious witch like a second skin,'_ the regal queen observed tartly and Islena deduced that this startling notion actually held a certain perverse logic. Once Islena ascended, she would have no need for the enchantress' counsel...not to mention having no further impediment preventing her from immolating her eternal adversary in a blaze of bale fire."

By insinuating a false dependency in the fertile soil of Islena's troubled mind, Myrhia would have forestalled her own demise and gained ultimate power...if only once removed.

Islena's face contorted into a grimace and she shook her head, resuming her climb. As plausible as this possibility first seemed...it contained at least one discernable intrinsic flaw...the shadow incarnation had appeared long before Islena had made her humiliating gesture on the shore of the great western ocean.

' _And did you not have the pleasure of spending time in Myrhia's company in Perdwick?'_ Guinevere reminded Islena brusquely. _'Knowing that she is a master manipulator, whose machinations are multi-faceted and far reaching, is it not conceivable that she implanted this kernel in your mind then, only to have it germinate after you became cognizant of your true nature...like a rank weed? It would be extremely foolish to discount the possibility, Islena.'_

"I won't," Islena muttered, her tone churlish, "but for now it changes nothing. Without the Proclamations, I still can't entrap the bitch."

Islena could hear a sigh of exasperation blow through the confines of her turbulent mind, but Guinevere desisted in her efforts to make Islena see reason...for which Doraux was grateful.

When she neared the top of the treacherous stairs, Islena was forced to raise her right arm to shield her eyes against the blinding argent glare. Drawing a deep breath to quell her roiling anxiety, Islena cast a nervous glance over the surrounding mountains...deriving a measure of comfort from their steadfast majesty...and plunged into the cave's interior.

2

The snow had stopped falling on the morning that the Natzurdan refugees commenced their returned journey to their badly wounded homeland. As it meandered through the southern gates of the Metocan capital, the procession exuded an air that one might associate with a coven of ghosts...spectral and bound together by unbreakable chains of immutable sorrow.

Attired in heavy traveling robes, the dour Maktir rode at the head of the procession, his roughly constructed face an inscrutable mask beneath the monochrome morning sky. There was a brief exchange of obligatory platitudes...finely crafted words extolling the need for unity and perseverance...and then the glum refugees set out for home and the horrors that must surely await them there.

A somber silence fell over those who had gathered to witness this somber moment of parting. Artumas stood next to Maroc and Inos, his expression grave but otherwise inscrutable. Along with the other two leaders, he had sat through heart-wrenching reports from both Sormias and first scout Sybian. Their vivid accounts of what they had witnessed during their reconnaissance of Natzurdan had been unbearably painful to absorb.

The Emercian King had been privileged to travel through Natzurdan and its capital, Amberdias in particular...and understood that the country was possessed of a spectacular beauty without parallel in the known world. Amberdias had been a stunning and inspiring example of perfect harmony between the needs of man and an unflagging respect for the miracle of nature. Artumas need only close his eyes to conjure the excruciatingly horrific image of this magnificent city reduced to a desiccating husk. To think that this cataclysmic desecration had come about as a consequence of human desperation was a scathing indictment against humanity's very existence.

As he watched the last of the Natzurdan being swallowed up by the great forest, Artumas wondered if these incredible, but fragile creatures would survive the deplorable realities that awaited them in their beloved homeland...a natural calamity the scope of which Artumas could scarcely fathom. _'This disaster is exacerbated by the knowledge that this ill-conceived gambit had achieved absolutely nothing. Myrhia inevitably seized total victory and the scourging of Natzurdan had served no real purpose...other than to delay the inevitable.'_ He thought bleakly, _'Morzhian, if you are looking down over the perversion of your paradise...I hope you can find it in your heart to eventually forgive us.'_

Inos stepped closer, his expression now perpetually shadowed by Tokizar's tragic loss, and echoing Artumas' own grave doubts, inquired distantly, "Do you think the Natzurdan can endure the sorrow of seeing their beloved mother ravaged so abominably?"

Artumas merely shook his head...having no desire to give voice to his fear that this society of nurturers and tenders would not survive the ugly spectacle of seeing their beloved homeland laid to ruin.

"How do you suppose that Myrhia will react to Maktir's condition for leading Islena to this sacred grove?" Maroc inquired in a circumspect manner that was atypical of his normally blunt manner of speech. "I, personally, doubt that she will regard his heavy-handed coercion in a kindly light, or with complacent acceptance. One way or the other, there will be consequences."

Artumas frowned, knowing that his wife was unlikely to take a tolerant view of being skillfully outmaneuvered by the Natzurdan elder. Rather than share this dismal perspective, he speculated, "When she views the Metocan Orb, I hope it will induce her to see that the Natzurdan elder is being sincere in his willingness to allow Islena to take possession of the staff. That might suffice to placate her..."

"It's impossible to imagine that an entire nation...every man, woman and child...would be willing to participate in an act of self-immolation," the Jerhia remarked with a disbelieving wag of his head. The concept was simply abhorrent to a man and people who existed only to give opposition to injustice.

Artumas fixed the puzzled Jerhia with a stern gaze and reminded him, "It's no less inconceivable than an entire people knowing the location of the nation's most valuable treasure...and never divulging a word of that knowledge in six thousand years."

Maroc's eyes widened slightly and he nodded. Tier Marshal Arminda, now a fixture at her mentor's side, glanced up at the roiling sky and observed gravely, "Even if the enchantress grudgingly accepts that she has little alternative but to abide by Maktir's demand, what is to prevent her from venting her frustration on the city of Othgol. I will never claim to be adept at the rarified art of political brinksmanship, but it would seem that the Natzurdan's scheme is a perilous gambit...for which others may pay an exorbitant price."

Inos greeted this astute observation with a sour frown and remarked, "It seems that your protégé is a quick study."

He then spun on heel and strode briskly away, leaving a nonplused Arminda wondering if his parting remarked had been sincere or sardonic. Fumbling, she offered, "I'm sorry...Maxim Tier Marshal, King Artumas...if I spoke out of turn. It was not my intention to give offense. I must constantly remind myself that I should best confine my voicing of opinions to when they are actually solicited."

It was Artumas who rose quickly to her defense. "Not at all, Arminda, and you said nothing that could be taken as an affront. Circumstances have left emotions running high...and patience frayed. Your observation was especially perceptive. Myrhia will be infuriated with Maktir's crafty ploy and it is impossible to predict what shape that fury might assume...or the target upon which she might choose to vent it. We would be irresponsible fools not to prepare for her possible response. I can reasonably forecast that Myrhia's mammoth ego will not allow her to accept this flagrant slight lightly."

A tense silence fell between the three then, but after a moment, Artumas' eyes widened and he remarked grimly. "Perhaps the task of defusing her anger must naturally fall to me...and if I cannot defuse it, perhaps I can deflect it."

With this cryptic statement delivered, Artumas bowed distractedly and hurried off, leaving Arminda and the Maxim Tier Marshal alone not far from the southern gate of the city.

A Metocan gate was a curious affair in contrast to the typical heavy timber and iron constructs that guarded ingress to the known world's other cities. Conspicuously absent was the massive portcullis or the deep moat that one would expect to encounter when entering a city the size of Othgol. Nor were there the intimidating guards posted to maintain order and flow.

Othgol was protected by a complex series of arcane wards that made the city virtually impregnable...to all but someone possessed of Myrhia's puissance. Standing near the wall, Arminda could feel the flesh on her neck rise into hackles and was anxious to be away from the source of her discomfort. "Again, I'm sorry for my clumsiness, Maxim Tier Marshal," Arminda repeated. "I have much to learn about the delicate nuances of diplomacy."

"When we're alone, Maroc will suffice, Arminda. No need to apologize as your observation was perfectly correct. Myrhia was very specific about not tolerating any further subterfuge." He hesitated a moment, as if weighing the merits of broaching the topic, and then disclosed, "Our obstreperous friend left the city two nights ago...after demanding to know the gate through which Captain Esuruban left the city. She returned yesterday morning and other than training alone in the gaming yard, she has remained cloistered in her quarters."

Arminda considered this for a moment and then confessed, "I'm not certain why you are telling me this, Maroc."

Maroc smiled thinly. "Both Artumas and I are concerned by Lorio's state of mind...and since you and she have developed a rapport..."

He allowed the obvious request to go unspoken. Arminda felt a flare of vexation and pointed out, "I'll remind you that Lorio has left me lying in the dirt on more than one occasion."

"Still, if anyone can approach her, it's you. The King and I are concerned that Captain Esuruban may have met with some...ill-fortune."

"Lorio would never harm Esuruban!" Arminda protested, but then recalled how the volatile immortal had battered the Emercian bloody in the training yard and fell silent.

"You are under no obligation to do this, but I would ask you to speak to her...as a personal favor to me," he concluded with a tentative smile.

Arminda nodded and after asking permission to take her leave, strode briskly away. Maroc watched her, troubled by the growing affection he harbored for this earnest, forthright young woman. His affection was a dangerous thing that the duty-bound Jerhia understood must go forever unexpressed and though the passing of the years would come to see the pair grow to be the closest of friends, Maroc would adhere to his vow of emotional distance. Constrained by the shackles of his cultural sensibilities, Maroc would cloister the growing love he felt for Arminda deep in his heart...and like Inos had done with Tokizar...that love would remain eternally unexpressed.

Arminda approached the coming encounter with Lorio with anxious disquiet. Lorio's horrified reaction upon donning the damnable helm was imprinted firmly in her memory. What exactly had she seen through the eyes of that odious construct? Whatever the shape of her harrowing vision had been, it had been compelling enough to induce Lorio to banish a man she clearly loved from her side.

The Jerhia strode into the governing compound and though its halls were teeming with acolytes and adepts, all scurrying about to fulfill their appointed duties, she could almost taste the dejection that hung in the air like an unseen pollutant.

She turned into the short hallway that led to Lorio's chamber, only to find that it was steeped in inky darkness. The Metocan adepts had apparently neglected to infuse the crystals which illuminated this section of hallway. Whether that neglect had been inspired out of forgetfulness...or a justifiable fear of the immortal who occupied this suite of rooms, Arminda could not say.

Pausing a moment to compose herself and understanding that a wounded Lorio was a dangerous Lorio, the diminutive Jerhia rapped briskly on the arched wooden door.

After a moment, the door swung open and Lorio, partially clad in the blood red armor that had come to symbolize her subjugation, greeted Arminda with a rueful scowl. "I suppose I should have known it would be you," she remarked in a tone that was curt and bordered on belligerence. "Come in if you must, but be forewarned...I'm not in the happiest frame of mind."

Arminda maintained a neutral expression and stepped into the gloomy interior of Lorio's receiving chamber. Distantly, she heard herself inquire, "Why do you insist on wearing that damnable armor?"

The beautiful immortal regarded Arminda silently for a protracted moment. A storm of discordant emotions raged behind those expressive eyes and finally settled into a scowl of grim resignation. "This is what I'm supposed to wear. It's a fitting uniform really...considering that I've been stripped of every other aspect of my identity, until I've become nothing more than Islena's puppet."

Lorio delivered this dismal assessment of her purpose in a flat, dispassionate voice without the slightest hint of self-pity...as if she was entirely deserving of the cruel role that fate had thrust upon her.

The spectacle of the ravaged immortal's acceptance of this gross injustice lanced Arminda's heart and she adjured, "Please Lorio...you don't have to accept this...monstrous humiliation."

"Oh, but I do, Arminda," Lorio disagreed in a fashion that made it clear that she would not be dissuaded from scouring her soul with the shameful reality of her situation.

' _We've done this to her. All of us have had a hand in doing this to her,'_ Arminda thought with an intense pang of self-abhorrence. _'We decimated her by imposing the obligation of our crushing need on her fractured spirit.'_

And with her acknowledgement of this communal transgression came the overwhelming need to make amends. Quietly, Arminda inquired, "Lorio, why did you arrange to have Esuruban sent away?"

Lorio's dark eyes flared menacingly, but she repressed the surge of anger by waving a dismissive hand and snapping, "He grew tedious." Staring intently at Arminda, she added, "As do all people eventually."

Arminda rushed forward and gripped the taller woman's forearms, refusing to allow her the luxury of retreating behind a wall of cavalier denial. "When Esuruban's gaze fell upon you, his face was lit by such compassion...such honest and open love, it's surprising that it didn't melt the snow that has fallen over the city. Lorio, as I watched you these last few weeks, I could clearly see the woman you would be had life not subjected you to a constant barrage of misery and mistreatment."

Lorio's face contorted and for a moment, it seemed certain that she would burst into tears. Instead, she roughly disengaged her arms from Arminda's grip. Turning away, she strode across the room and began to slap on pieces of Islena's blood red armor. "If such a woman ever existed, she is long since dead."

"What did you see...when you put that accursed helm on your head...and why did you go after Esuruban the other night?" Arminda persisted. A notion was swiftly germinating in the young Tier Marshal's mind...an act of treason so enormous as to defy all reason. If she elected to embark on this treasonous path, it was imperative that she understand this creature's pain.

Lorio cursed and slammed a vambrace down on a delicate, jade inlaid table with enough force to reduce the ornate construct to splinters. She glared at Arminda, who refused to be intimidated, despite her apprehension in the face of the other woman's fury. "Blood and ashes, why do you insist on tormenting me with questions that don't make a whore-spawned bit of difference?"

"Because you're my quest sister and I can see your pain...feel and taste it on my tongue...and it breaks my heart because there is no one less deserving of suffering than you," Arminda growled with a vehemence that caused Lorio to turn and study the woman upon whom she had vented her pent up ire so frequently. In those arctic blue eyes, Lorio could discern only sincerity and concern."

"I saw Islena kill Esuruban...remove his head from his shoulders with the casual ease of someone crushing an irksome insect under heel," Lorio revealed in a voice devoid of all emotion, which did not fool Arminda for an instant.

"And this felt more like...like a presage?"

Lorio nodded morosely. "It did and this is why I asked Artumas to send Esuruban away...to save him from the thing that Islena is becoming. I then told Esuruban that I was tired of him chasing my skirts like a lost puppy dog." Here, she faltered, her voice growing thick with emotion. "I said horrible, degrading things to him. You, of all people, know precisely how cruel I can be when the mood moves me. If I suffer through eternity, I'll never forget the confused, wounded expression on his face as he left this room."

Arminda, who was intimately familiar with Lorio's capacity for cruelty, merely grimaced. "But you couldn't leave it at that, could you?"

Lorio sighed and nodded, "I tried to fall back on my standard posture of callous indifference, but I just couldn't ignore that fact that no one...in my entire sorry life...had ever made me feel as if I had any personal worth...until I met Esuruban. I went after him and told him everything. I know you offered me the opportunity to run, but there is no where I could go that Islena could not find me. I have no doubt that she would kill Esuruban and there is nothing that either of us could do to stop her. Despite that, he wanted to return anyway...to plead his case before his king. It's hard to believe that such a beautiful man could harbor such affection for a...a wretched wastrel like me...but he does. In the end, I convinced him to go by promising him that I would find him when this is done. He made me swear a vow...that you and I both know is really nothing more than a child's wishful fantasy."

After an awkward silence, she concluded, "And that is why I came back. This armor...and every horrible thing it represents...is the sum total of what I am. Also, I made another vow to Islena...to _my_ Islena...and it is one upon which I will not renege. There is nothing that can change these salient truths, Arminda."

"Perhaps there is," Arminda returned quietly and Lorio's regard became intense...quizzical. The young Tier Marshal understood that she was poised on the brink of high treason, but Arminda decided that the virtues of duty and loyalty were rendered meaningless when undertaken in the service of an ignoble cause. Trying to modulate her voice to convey a sense of calm she did not feel, Arminda divulged every detail of Maktir's audacious plan to subject an unknowing Islena to the Natzurdan rite of worthiness. She concluded this riveting revelation by disclosing, "He had made the other leaders vow that they would not apprise Islena...or you...of the trial that awaited Doraux at Tyrcillium."

"So if Islena is judged to be...unworthy, she will be absorbed by this...this tree and turned to living wood?" Lorio demanded incredulously, recognizing the black irony of this prospective fate. It was precisely the same trap that Islena was attempting to lay for the unsuspecting Myrhia. "So the others did not reject this bastard's devious ruse?"

Arminda shook her head, suddenly uneasy with the nascent stirring of fury in Lorio's great dark eyes. That burgeoning anger quickly relented to intense anguish when the Jerhia retorted, "Knowing both Islena...and more significantly, Myrhia...as you do, can you honestly contest that it would make any difference if they had? Even if Islena and Myrhia were fully aware of the risks associated with recovering the staff, would either be willing to relent...and would their inexorable natures allow them to even if they were?"

Lorio's anger deflated beneath the weight of this inarguable logic and muttered, "I don't really know this...this thing that Islena is becoming...not at all."

Arminda ventured closer and gripped Lorio's left arm and when she spoke, her tone was strident. "Don't you understand, Lorio; while I concur that Maktir's heavy-handed tactic is...odious, it also means that this bizarre obligation that has shackled you to this...this," she waved her hand at Lorio's distasteful armor, "has been shattered. You are free to divest yourself from this evil armor and everything that it has come to symbolize."

Lorio's full lips twisted into a sardonic facsimile of a grin. "Do you truly believe that either Islena or Myrhia will simply allow me to vanish?"

Shaking the immortal for emphasis, Arminda returned fiercely, "I do, Lorio. Believe me, when they return to Othgol with the Orb of Metocan, both will be far too pre-occupied by what they find awaiting them to be concern by your disappearance."

Lorio's face contorted into a wounded mask and Arminda immediately realized how cruel her poorly phrased argument must sound to a woman who clearly loved the enigmatic Islena Doraux. "I'm sorry, Lorio," she stammered, cursing her ineptness. "I don't mean to trivialize your importance...to everything...to Islena. This is your opportunity to be with Esuruban and to actually live a normal life. There is no one more entitled...more deserving than you. My offer still stands; you need only nod your head and I will arrange to have you secreted from this place. I will have Artumas release Esuruban from service. The two of you can find a sanctuary and together, you can live the joyous, contented life I saw shining in your eyes whenever you were in his company."

Lorio reacted to this proposal with a despondent sob that shook her lean body from head to toe. She then inhaled deeply and shook her head, before reaching for another piece of armor. In a listless voice, she declared glumly, "I can't, Arminda."

"Why not?" Arminda persisted, clearly bewildered by the immortal's stubborn refusal to embrace the prospect of happiness.

Pulling the scaled gloves onto either hand, Lorio attempted to convey a sense of the inviolable bond that held her fast to Islena. As she listened, the Jerhia could feel her heart clench painfully in her chest.

"I can't abandon Islena...the Islena who rescued me from the dungeons of Perdwick and dragged me through the forest until she was too exhausted to even stand...day after day, until I was strong enough to walk. They starved her and beat her like a dog. She could have easily fled for her life and left me to rot and after what my people...what _I_ ...did to her, she would have been justified. She came to me and begged for my help in seeing her to her end...after I tried to murder her on the plaza. Despite how much I love her...or perhaps because of it...I agreed." She paused to absently brush a tear from her cheek and then snatched up her Zarcyk and considered the keen blade. "You and I both know that mine is a miscreant's heart, but I won't debase it further by turning away from Islena."

"But Lorio...is the Islena who will return from Ulgak even remotely the same Islena who dragged you to safety from the dungeons? Even you are not without your misgivings," Arminda observed thickly.

Lorio shook her head. "It doesn't really matter...in the end. That Islena...the Islena I love, did not want to become a deity. I'll do everything I can to insure that she doesn't." Collecting the sleekly crafted helm, she pushed it down over her brow and concluded, "I will follow Islena wherever this nightmare might lead her and after she's turned that evil whore to stone...I'll find the love I require to bury this Zarcyk in her heart and let fate judge me. If it deems my actions to be just and proper, perhaps I will be granted the contentment that a lifetime at Esuruban's side would provide."

With this impassioned hope articulated Lorio collected her quarterstaff and left Arminda alone with the brooding silence that descended upon the beleaguered immortal's chamber.

The young Tier Marshal sagged into a chair and burying her face in her hands, began to weep for the poor creature whose torment seemed to know no bounds.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

1

Recessed behind her inscrutable mantle of glacial beauty, Myrhia watched as Islena vanished into the cave's interior. Once the _living contradiction_ had disappeared, that façade crumbled like a castle of sand before a scouring wind and the normally unflappable enchantress was assailed by a paroxysm of doubt so intense it seemed as if she had been turned to stone.

' _Will you permit me to speak...this once,'_ the voice of the spider...Morgan La Fey...implored in a rare tone of deference.

Still gripped by a paralyzing uncertainty, Myrhia acquiesced...though she was normally wary of the spider's inimitable skills as a manipulator. ' _You saw it, didn't you...that look she gave you the moment before she plunged into the cave's interior? Deny it if you will, but remember...what you feel, I feel with equal vividness.'_

"She was gazing at me, those normally ingenuous green eyes gaping as if something critical had just occurred to her," Myrhia murmured to the chilled silence.

' _Yes, precisely!'_ Morgan exclaimed and Myrhia's taut flesh was suffused by an intense shudder of relief that the enchantress found mildly vexing. The past incarnations had constantly schemed and plotted to usurp control of the exquisite vessel over which Myrhia...the ultimate evolution of the identity upon which the mother had been conceived...held dominion.

This last thought caused Myrhia's smooth brow to furrow in consternation. After Islena Doraux had made her gesture of capitulation on the shore of the Great Western Ocean...that congregation of voices had fallen silent...all except for the seductive lilt of the spider...whose gossamer whispers were like the aural manifestation of a web. Myrhia could produce no rational explanation for why this host of often vexing voices had abruptly withdrawn from her mind, but she was surprised to discover that she found their inexplicable absence...disturbing.

Yet the sly spider remained and perhaps that was the most disconcerting aspect of this...mass desertion. Morgan resumed her facile pitch...her smooth, sultry voice all reason and controlled urgency. _'Whatever it was that occurred to her at that moment, you must discern its essence...even if you have to rip it from that asylum that passes for her mind.'_

Myrhia glowered, but made no comment on the prudence of this unsolicited advice...nor did she respond to this intrusion with her customary heavy-handedness. There could be no denying that Islena was becoming increasingly unstable...less biddable by the moment. Worse still, Myrhia's tools of coercion, that had once been so effective in cowing Islena into subservience...the fear of brutal retaliation against her family being foremost amongst them...were rapidly losing any efficacy as Islena's contrived persona continued to unravel.

' _The path you've chosen to follow is comparable to dancing across a thin skein of ice over frigid waters...and every bit as precarious,'_ the spider observed frankly, Myrhia's sudden forbearance instilling a new audacity in the normally quiescent spider. _'While you have skillfully inculcated this imaginary need in this vulgar bitch's feeble mind, you are still assuming an exorbitant risk. All that I am asking is that you permit me to aid your cause. After all, if this temperamental beast should succumb to its primitive urging, the both of us will be obliterated.'_

"Very well, say what you will," Myrhia muttered tersely, all too aware of the inherent dangers of opening this particular door.

' _You must weave the tapestry of Islena's perception...foster her madness and distort her perspective...until it has become something hideous. In her mind, every face that gazes upon her must appear twisted by sly, ulterior purpose.'_ Here, the spider paused weightily and then added, _'every face save yours. You must become her sanctuary...a requiem in the face of her impending madness. When she turns her needful regard upon you, Islena must see only kindness and commiseration. As her unraveling further deteriorates, she must come to perceive you as her life line...mooring her to reason. Only in this way will you gain absolute mastery over the deity she is destined to become.'_

"Do you not recognize that this is exactly what I've striven to achieve?" Myrhia retorted hotly, annoyed by Morgan's implied criticism.

' _Again, if I may speak freely, your handling of Islena Doraux has been maladroit...like a cart driver that is quick to belabor an ox with a switch,'_ the spider observed quietly. _'Only when you demonstrated that cooperation was in her best interest did she actually agree to bend to your will.'_

Myrhia bristled but repressed her anger in deference to the truth of this astute contention. "So you would have me coddle her?"

_On the surface, yes,'_ Morgan replied. _'And all the while, you will twist the world around her until it has become a dark and malign place...from which you are her only haven.'_

Myrhia nodded thoughtfully and a sigh, like the wind's susurration, blew through the sterile chambers of her mind.

"The others, spider...so you know where they've gone?" Myrhia heard herself inquired, despising the tentative note in her voice.

' _They have outlived their usefulness and faded into irrelevance,'_ Morgan La Fey declared in a tone that intimated that she, too, was grateful to be shut of her predecessors.

"Yet you remain?" Myrhia challenged sharply.

' _Yes, because you and I are linked by an unbreakable bond of succession...just as Islena is linked to that devious whore, whose head I would see on a spike!'_ Morgan spat, her tone dripping with acrimony.

Myrhia absorbed this thoughtfully. There was a certain plausibility to this explanation, but the enchantress was still leery of the devious spider's motivations in imparting this particular pearl of insight. There could be no denying, however, that Morgan's mastery of subterfuge was inimitable. As she waited for Islena to claim her fate-decreed Icon, Myrhia reflected on how she might employ this sly creature's advice to good effect.

2

Heart thundering like a timpani beneath the hands of a deranged percussionist, Islena ventured into the blinding glare. She had taken but a single step over the threshold, when the bright horizontal shaft of light was abruptly extinguished. Temporarily blinded, she groped for the rough stone wall and clutched Myrhia's ornamental ebony short sword tighter...anticipating an attack of opportunity that she was ill-prepared to defend.

When none was forthcoming, she relaxed slightly and allowed her eyes to adjust to the blue-hued gloom that had supplanted the harsh glare. She gradually became aware of the cave's warmth and shivered involuntarily in reaction to the delicious sensation the heat evoked as it permeated her flesh.

"You need not be afraid, dear,' a sanguine voice informed the startled Doraux. "You have finally come, after all, to the place you were intended to be for six thousand years...infinitely longer than that, judging by the aura of _permanence_ you exude. Come; let us have a sisterly dialogue before we complete this long anticipated transaction." Islena's anxiety seemed to evaporate upon hearing the woman's voice, the tremulous timber of which intimated an age beyond imagining. Yet beneath the quavering resonance, Doraux could discern a serenity that left her both enthralled and envious of the other creature's grace.

"Who are you...how do you know why I've come?" Islena demanded in a tone that was unintentionally curt. Her gaze slid to the ebony short sword, but as badly as she wanted to cast it aside...to emphatically reject Myrhia's barbaric sanction...her body refused to comply.

As if sensing Islena's churning ambivalence, the unseen woman offered calmly, "Do not fret, Islena...I have beheld my end for six millennia and I have accepted it. The things to follow this day have long since been scripted and you and I are obliged to play our respective roles."

Islena's natural aversion to loss of volition...of independence...asserted itself then and she snapped, "I am not a puppet! My mind is my own...my will is my own!"

"Daughter of the Tempest," the unseen woman observed gravely, "but even the most ferocious of storms must follow its own natural course, Islena Doraux."

Doraux snorted at this trite metaphor, but did not respond. The moment assumed a preternatural clarity and Islena became vividly aware of every minute detail in her environment. A clarifying light slowly bled into the darkness, revealing a long stone tunnel that wound deeper into the mountain. In the heightened perception of the moment, Islena could clearly make out every wrinkle in the dark stone...every nuance of shifting light created by the varied composition of the bedrock's intricate structure. She could hear the distant dripping of water...annoyingly monotonous...as if it was falling on her eardrums.

In the oddly augmented awareness of the moment, Islena could hear the rush of blood through the alleyways of her taut body...and the rapidly escalating thunder of her powerful heart. Above even this disconcerting cacophony of visceral sensations, Islena was keenly attuned to the call of the Orb of Metocan.

Doraux drew a quavering breath, acutely cognizant of the woman who stood watching her as if she had coalesced out of the damp stone.

Islena lacked the faculty of speech to properly describe the impression of age that the woman exuded. Despite appearing as frail as a sun-dried stick, an incongruent aura of vitality and robustness hovered about the woman.

Long white hair hung in gossamer wisps over stooped shoulders and though her face resembled a roadmap of the ages, her eyes dispelled the notion of hopeless infirmity. Large and gray, they shone from her weathered face with a radiance that captured the gaze and held it fast. Limpid and ineffably lovely, they spoke of kindness and patience in an abundance that Islena Doraux could not conceive.

"You've asked me my name, dear," the woman said and her expression was suddenly beset by earnest confusion. "As improbable as it may seem. I can't recall the name I was given at birth...or precisely where I was born for that matter. In light of how long I've resided here, those things have become irrelevant...fading from memory like a briefly glimpsed shadow from a long forgotten dream. Those who are indigenous to these mountains call me _Yrildretch..._ which translates loosely to Mother Guide in our tongue. If it is a name that you require, Yrildretch will serve as well as any."

"Ulgak!" Islena spat, unable to disguise her antipathy toward the Metocans' cousins.

Yrildretch's eyes narrowed, displaying animation for the first time. "Islena, you unfairly misperceive the Ulgak. They are a steadfastly devoted people, who dedicate their lives to their communities and their families. Though they are commonly depicted as crude and simple...inferior to the Metocan...I can attest that they are capable of wonders that even I cannot fathom."

Islena pursed her lips ruefully, thinking of the giant tuning forks that apparently provided power to their villages. Yrildretch, who was attired in a plain white robe and simple slippers, floated closer to Doraux, who was astounded to see that the ancient hovered a hand span above the cold stone. "I have dwelt amongst these humble people for sixty centuries and have witnessed how they have been disenfranchised and marginalized. I have shared the pain and bewilderment which this unjust treatment has caused them. It echoes in my ancient bones like an incessant ache."

Islena recalled her part in the atrocity at Bastronen and met this with a sour grimace, which the ancient guardian misconstrued to be skepticism. "How often do you suppose that we stop to ponder the horrible consequences of the prejudices we harbor or the devastating impact of our thoughtless gestures of petty cruelty on its unfortunate victims? Have you ever consider, Islena, that the Ulgak's misbehavior could be likened to that of a neglected child who merely seeks attention...in whatever form it might be obtained? These are matters that you may wish to reflect upon as you move toward _whatever_ destiny awaits you."

Chastened, despite the placid tone in which this reproof was delivered, Islena merely nodded.

Yrildretch inclined her chin, fixing Islena with an incisive gaze that made Doraux want to squirm. Finally, she observed, "I have devoted my unnaturally lengthy existence to the stewardship of the orb...an odious device that culminated from a misguided attempt to encapsulate our race's entire essence in one object. The ancients compounded this monumental act of hubris by forging the orb in a fashion so as to make it...indestructible."

She ventured closer to Islena and gently placed her fingertips on Doraux's prominent right cheekbone. Islena struggled not to recoil beneath the touch, which was cool and dry...yet vaguely repulsive. "I watched over the orb and over the slow crawl of centuries, I employed a minute fragment of its power to help these humble people find peace...when their journey became _untenable."_

The vivid memory of her first glimpse of the orb germinated in Islena's mind and she blurted, _"_ I saw you with the old Ulgak woman. You used the orb to...to euthanize her."

The Mother Guide arched an eyebrow. "I am unfamiliar with the term, though I grasp its meaning from the context of your revulsion. What I have done is to help those who are suffering without purpose find peace and closure. Who are we to judge those who have reached their capacity to suffer and desire only surcease to their torment."

When Islena responded with a sour frown, the crone reminded her, "Remember Islena, you are an inexorable, indefatigable engine of destiny, whose moment of...culmination has come. You cannot hold yourself as a standard against which ordinary mortals would be measured. If you are to fill the possible role that destiny has intended, it is imperative that you develop a...refined faculty for empathy and compassion...lest you become a tyrant."

Islena sighed and shook her head in resignation. "You speak as if I've ever actually had a choice in any of this...or anything that's to follow."

The Mother Guide renewed her disconcerting scrutiny, as if searching Islena's face in hopes of gauging her sincerity. After a moment, she stepped slightly to the side and extended a reed thin arm deeper into the cave's interior. In a soft, placating voice that seemed to invite a sharing of confidences and a baring of tightly cloistered emotions, Yrildretch suggested, "If you are of a mind and would momentarily delay obtaining the orb...and the other task to which you've been set by the dark creature below...I would share with you an insight or two. I cannot promise that these revelations will alleviate your anxieties. On the contrary, it is probable that they will exacerbate your deepest misgivings. Nonetheless, if you are receptive, I will share them with you because I believe that you are entitled to a complete understanding of _your circumstances_ ...even if that understanding will bring you no comfort."

Islena was beset by a sudden stirring of terror so intense...so profound...that it exploded from a formative disquiet to a paralyzing inferno of naked dread in few seconds it had taken the crone to make her offer.

' _There are certain things that are best left unknown, Islena,'_ Guinevere admonished and thought this warning had been delivered with the legendary queen's customary composure, Islena could discern the trepidation beneath. The other incarnations were not so circumspect...they implored Doraux to reject Yrildretch's offer in explicit terms. Not surprisingly, it was Agraria who was the most vociferous in expressing her extreme displeasure at the prospect of this unwanted insight. _'Let all devil's take this wizen crone's accursed augury. You must take her head, obtain the orb and be done with this frozen hell!'_

Even as trepidation reduced her to near immobility, with the clamor of a thousand dissenting voices wailing in her head like a death knell, Islena heard herself inquire, "Can you foretell the future...read my mind and know what she's demanded of me?"

The Mother Guide tilted her head slightly and offered Islena a horrible, fey smile, "Yes, thrice over. I know not why, but in my time here, I have become attuned to the heartbeat of the world. I recognize the shape of its flow and divine the pattern of a small portion of its weaves. Never has this divination been so concise...so vivid...as it is with you. I will share what I have seen...though whether it will aid you or cause you further woe, I cannot predict."

' _Like all lunatics...this bitch is delusional!'_ Agraria spat disdainfully, even as Islena bit back on her terror and replied, "I would hear your words, Yrildretch."

With a groan of negation, the collective fell silent, leaving a void in Islena's mind like the hollow of a tomb.

The Mother Guide beamed her indecipherable grin and bid Islena to follow her deeper into the mountain.

3

Islena followed the floating Yrildretch deeper into the heart of the mountain. Surprisingly, the further in they traveled, the warmer it became, until Islena could feel perspiration begin to form on her brow and upper lip. By the time they had reached the roughly circular opening, Oily sweat was running freely beneath Islena's hated armor and she felt faint with heat.

As though sensing Islena's mounting discomfort, the Mother Guide invited, "You may remove the armor, Islena. Nothing can harm you here...except perhaps the truth. The only armors that can ward you against the incisive sting of the truth...are delusion and denial."

Despite the cloying embrace of the heat, Islena felt herself shiver in response to this astute observation...an observation that could easily characterize her entire existence.

' _Oh, but you are about to be disabused of your delusions, Islena...in a particularly harsh manner,'_ Guinevere informed her in a voice Doraux could scarcely recognize. _'You'll find no sanctuary in denial once this woman is done with you.'_

Wincing, Islena began to remove pieces or armor with fingers that had become suddenly wooden and unresponsive from what she recognized as fear. Still, she felt stiflingly hot, even when the last of the ebony armor had been discarded into a pile against the cave wall.

The Mother Guide watched her with an implacable patience as at last, she instructed, "Remove everything. You are about to be reborn. It is only fitting that you come naked into your new reality."

Islena complied automatically, before reluctance could even take shape in her thoughts. Yrildretch extended a hand without comment and led an entranced Islena to the edge of a bubbling pool, where she intoned softly, "Let the mountain's waters purge your misgivings and allow it to have its way with this magnificent vessel."

Islena waded into the pool and upon descending the steps, was surprised by the penetrating and immediate emollient qualities of the water. She sat and settled against the smooth stone with a deep sigh as her anxieties rolled away like millstones. The Mother Guide knelt behind Islena with unexpected grace and gather up Islena's long red tresses. An earthen pitcher appeared to materialize out of the very air near the ancient woman's right hip. Gripping its smooth, but crudely fashioned handle, she dipped the pitcher into the deliciously warm water while murmuring, "Lean your head back and close your eyes."

Islena did as bid and Yrildretch slowly upended the pitcher's contents over Doraux's up-tilted face and hair. Islena could feel her every emotion dissolve beneath the water's miraculous placating warmth...all save the consuming desire to be enlightened. As the Mother Guide spoke, she began to disentangle Islena's lustrous red hair with deft fingers. "I sense the conflict raging in your heart, Islena and though I am but a child next to the entity you embody, I can clearly divine its source. Fueled by desperation, you are clinging tenaciously to an identity which you erroneously believe symbolizes your freedom of choice...of volition. Though two distinct paths remain open to you, the decision to embrace one over the other hinges on your willingness to divest yourself of this identity...an identity that is little more than a façade based on an eternal lie." She brought her mouth closer to Islena's cheek until her warm breath tickled the hollow of Islena's ear. "Do you have the courage to open yourself to the truth...irrespective of how thoroughly devastating this truth might prove to be?"

Despite the sense of being subtly traduced, Islena mumbled her inarticulate acquiescence. Yrildretch placed the pads of her index fingers in the hollows of Islena's temples and began to massage the tight flesh there in slow, indolent circles. At once, every muscle in Islena's body relaxed beneath the ancient woman's ministrations. Her anxiety and distractions melted like corrupt snow before open flame...until Islena's normally frenetic mind became a calm ocean...a blank canvas at the instant of Myrhia's Tabula Rasa.

Like a swiftly germinating seed, an image bloomed in the abnormal stillness of Islena Doraux's mind...quickly blossoming into a fully realized salient truth. This blazing truth quickly eradicated the foundations of prejudices and perceptions upon which the hollow charade of her existence had been erected.

"Do not turn away, Islena...Daughter of the Tempest," the Mother Guide exhorted from beyond the veil of this terrible vision. "Only through this harrowing revelation will you ever find the path to genuine tranquility...the permanent resolution you so desperately crave."

A titanic shudder of revulsion rolled over Islena's powerful flesh, but in its wake, she succumbed to Yrildretch's plea.

4

As she peered on like an unseen bystander, Islena recognized the small expanse of green...though in this particular time, the two delicate ornamental trees that would later give the yard character were conspicuously absent.

She had grown up romping in this very yard, with its ordinary, well-maintained fence. Even as a child, she had tested and honed her physical capabilities here...running and climbing for hours as if in subconscious preparation for the harrowing ordeal that awaited her...somewhere in the future.

The very time and location of this revelatory episode suffused her with an atavistic dread because she knew, intrinsically, that there would be no refuting what was about to be divulged. To her shock and dismay, she became aware that each of her past incarnations were experiencing their own moment of terrified anticipation...of primordial fear over what was about to be divulged.

The familiar yard was steeped in twilight...the last of the day's light draining pink and gold from the western horizon. With but a second of transition from _absence_ to _presence_ , a wicker carrier basket with an interwoven handle materialized out of the gloom and sat empty on the recently mowed lawn. The air of the empty yard was infused by a powerful sense of expectation.

Beneath the Mother Guide's fingers, Islena uttered a guttural moan that was part dread, part anticipation. Her torso writhed and twisted and her heavily muscled legs kicked and thrashed beneath the water.

The gloom in the yard gradually assumed a depth with nuances and suggestions of shape as the emptiness within the basket became more...substantial. This process of _coalescence..._ of manifestation, continued until a perfectly formed newborn lay, unmoving, inside the wicker carrier.

"No!!!" Islena moaned, her wretched plea echoed by numerous incarnations, all experiencing variations of the same terrible epiphany. There was an intimation of movement in the backyard, followed by a subtle, yet unmistakable report of flesh on flesh...and the infant, who was destined to become a deity, began to bray news of its arrival into the world.

The infant's fraught cry seemed to spread out like the concussive wave of an earthquake and soon the darkness was banished by the yellow glow of the back porch light. A young couple rushed out onto the wooden porch and stood peering incredulously at the improbable sight of a seemingly abandoned baby on their modest expanse of lawn,

An instant later, they hurried down the stairs and Islena found herself gazing up through the infant's eyes...her eyes...into the looming faces of much younger versions of the two people she would grow to love without qualification. Somehow, Islena was permeated by the incontestable certainty that these two lean and beautiful people, a young man and woman who had immigrated to a new land to follow their modest dreams, had reached a crucial decision. It had required only one glance at the child, green-eyed with wisps of red hair, for both to simultaneously arrive at the unspoken decision that they would contrive a way to make this unexpected miracle their own.

Within the familiar, yet inexpressibly alien vessel of flesh, there could be no denying the irrefutable veracity of this moment...this mind-boggling vision of her genesis. The soul-scouring moment dissolved just as the woman lifted the infant into her arms.

In the pool, Islena Doraux drew her knees up against her breasts and began to rock herself like a traumatized child. In a weak, hurt voice, she demanded, "Why? Why show me," hearing the echoing wails of her incarnations, she amended, "Show us this hideous truth? It's fucking cruel beyond words!"

Yrildretch reacted to this fraught condemnation with a puzzled tilt of her head, the mask of lines resolving into what might have been an expression of commiseration. "Islena, however brutal, the truth is the only path to legitimate enlightenment. Consider who you are...and what you are destined to become. You cannot be permitted the luxury of clinging to delusions...whatever false comfort they might provide."

Islena glared at the Mother Guide, her winsome face contorting into a portrait of self-loathing, "What am I?"

Gravely, the ancient intoned, "The creature below has painted an accurate picture of what you are...Daughter of the Tempest, though I would caution you that her depiction is nuanced to serve her own ambitions. This vision was but an affirmation of what she divulged."

"I still don't fucking understand!" Islena raged, her luminous green eyes welling up with tears. "You're telling me that the two people I love...I cherished...and who seemed to love me unremittingly...were not my real parents?"

"They were your parents in every way that genuinely mattered," the ancient corrected firmly. "Though your father did not conceive you and your mother did not give birth, they made you the very center of their universe...as did the mother and father of every one of your past incarnations. What more could any child reasonably desire?"

"But I'm not a child, am I...never really was?" Islena retorted with a self-deprecating grin. "Was I?"

"No...you are the living manifestation of a perspective...an idea, if you prefer. You were conceived with a mind to serving as a balancing force between the two extremes embodied by the other two sides of this infernal triangle. You are a harbinger, conceived to announce that a cycle of woe and violence is imminent in the world into which you were born. It is your sole purpose for existence and the life you lead is but a _preoccupation_ to distract you until this time worn conflict explodes anew."

"Why make me see this...how does having this knowledge benefit me in any way or motivate me to want to do anything other than lie down and die?" Doraux challenged. "I'm less than human...a living instrument of conflict? I can think of nothing more horrible...or worthless."

"By gleaning the immutable truth of your genesis, you can divest yourself of the hollow delusions that will mitigate your resolve in selecting one of the two forward paths lying open to you."

Seizing on the single incongruent aspect of this ineffably vile scenario, Islena blared, "I may not have had a real mother or father, but I gave birth...twice...because...something is _different_ this time around."

Here, Yrildretch demonstrated puzzlement and uncertainty for the first time. As if bewildered by the admission, the Mother Guide conceded, "Your having given birth is an unprecedented anomaly. Had you the time to rummage through the memories of your past incarnations, you would find that...to a one...they were all barren. I suspect that the cause of this _anomaly_ may be inextricably linked to your baffling ability to see beyond the horizons of your small sliver to this eternal entity that you now embody. Whatever the cause, it is imperative that you accept that your life up to this point has been little more than...a distraction. I have revealed this unpalatable truth in the hope that you will discard the fragments of this broken illusion and embrace your critical role in what is to follow."

Islena uttered a noncommittal grunt and surged to her feet, where she stood swaying before the Mother Guide. Unabashed by her nudity and with her customary defiance blazing in those green eyes, Islena demanded, "You said that there were two possible paths forward. Let me hear them and _I'll_ decide which to follow."

"Daughter of the Tempest," Yrildretch murmured in obvious bemusement. "Such audacity...that fate would choose such a temperamental creature to be its agent."

Islena waved a dismissive hand, sending droplets of water spraying from her taut flesh, and snorted, "Tell me...I've already committed to ending this fucking nightmare once and for all...for putting Myrhia in her living tomb. Point me in the right direction and just let me get on with it."

Here, Yrildretch responded with an expression of genuine surprise. Shaking her head, the ancient observed, "You truly are oblivious to the salient forces that guide this dark tragedy? This augury has naught to do with the Mother of Iniquity, Islena. Her road is forged in iron and steel and has absolutely no latitude for variation. Her end at your hands is inevitable. In the back of her mind, I'm certain that she is fully cognizant of this inviolable truth. No, Islena, what I have foreseen is the choice that will confront you...after you have consigned this sorry creature to her permanent end."

"If you've looked inside my head...rummaged through my thoughts...then you understand that I'll be joining her...if this plan of mine unfolds as I hope."

Yrildretch's watery-eyed gaze became sorrowful. "Islena Doraux, you are the personification of a governing force...a perspective. Surely, you are not so naïve as to believe that this perspective will vanish simply because your sad friend buries her dagger in your heart?"

Islena blanched at this unwelcome query and growled, "What are you saying?" Though the terrible ramifications of the Mother Guide's horrifying disclosure were self-evident. "Are you telling me that I...I won't die?"

"There are two paths before you, Islena...and only two," Yrildretch reiterated in a voice that was hard and intractable. "Neither will grant you the self-immolation you think you crave."

Dismay gave way to dejection and Islena heard herself inquire in a morose tone, "All right...tell me about these _two paths."_

"The first path is the way of _enduring sorrow_ ," Yrildretch began in a tone more suited to academic discourse than grave augury. "Should a warped sense of...nostalgia for the illusion of your lost life entice you to shift through the detritus of this charade...your recompense will be incessant sadness. Attempting to return to your old life would be akin to exhuming a moldering corpse, Islena...replete with all the grim emotions such a dismal misadventure would evoke. Still, it is a path that is set before you and only you can decide if it is the one you choose to tread. I would caution you that, by attempting to assemble the fragments of this illusion, you will effectively repudiate your true identity...reject your ingrained purpose. Such rash choices are never without dire consequences."

Islena's smooth brow furrowed as she tried...and failed...to visualize the shape a return to her old life might actually assume.

Long haunted by the nightmares of a path, the direction of which she already suspected, Islena asked quietly, "And the other?"

"The other is the path of _the fallible goddess_ and though it is the obvious culmination of your purpose, it is a path steeped in shadow and fraught with thorns. Augury is an imperfect endeavor and though it is only my personal conjecture, I suspect that it is your natural volatility that is occluding my vision."

' _The shadow incarnation,'_ Islena thought with a perceptible shudder. "A fallible goddess and the enduring sorrow," Islena murmured glumly. "A pretty dreary set of choices...not matter how you slice it."

The Mother Guide shrugged as if the matter held very little interest for her.

' _Considering what awaits her, I suppose her indifference is only natural,'_ Islena thought, dreading the heinous act that was expected of her.

As if sensing Doraux's revulsion and ambivalence, Yrildretch reached out and squeezed Islena's forearm in reassurance. "Do not dismay Islena Doraux, you will find your way to the correct path if you come to discern your nature...understand your inherent fallibilities. Who is to say...you may yet become a credible deity. Remember, fate has bestowed this power upon you, but how you choose to wield it...or not wield it...will be entirely up to you."

Islena could only shake her head in consternation, wondering if anything had ever truly been _up to her_ over the course of her many lives.

Having delivered her cryptic augury, a light seemed to gutter in the crone's ancient eyes. She raised a slightly palsied hand and indicated a point deeper into the cave. "The orb awaits you not far from here, but before you go to collect it..."

She broke off and shuffled over to the pile of discarded armor, where she retrieved Myrhia's ornate short sword. "You must dispense with this unpleasant task."

She offered the weapon to Doraux, who regarded it numbly and choked, "I...I can't. Please...I don't want to do this evil fucking thing!"

Her words trailed off into garbled sobs, Yrildretch came forward and insistently pressed the weapon's haft into Islena's unresponsive fingers, before deliberately forcing them closed around the pommel. "You must find the requisite mettle to do this deed, Islena Doraux. Only through compliance with this tormented creature's demand will you gain her unquestioning trust...and only by gaining her trust can you bring this odious cycle of tragedy to an end. As for me, I've lived a life that...while at times lonely...proved to be more fulfilling than I could ever have imagined. I have made an accommodation with my end and now that the Orb of Metocan will be united with its destined wielder...I have served my purpose. If it brings you comfort, Islena, do not view what is to follow as a barbaric act of murder, but rather a compassionate act of granting me long overdue peace."

The two timeless entities regarded each other in solemn silence and a current of pure empathy passed between them. Islena inhaled deeply, glanced down at the ebony blade and nodded resolutely.

Yrildretch offered Doraux a thin smile and remarked, "Then let us have done with it...before my courage falters."

Islena nodded dolefully, despising herself and despising Myrhia for compelling her to perform this dirty deed. She started toward her armor, but the Mother Guide forestalled her. "Come as you are, Daughter of the Tempest, these vestments of subjection are no longer required."

As Islena gaped in wide-eyed incredulity, each one of Myrhia's embedded gems exploded into dust in rapid succession. Shortly thereafter, a blind eruption forced Islena to turn away. When the tumult finally subsided, Doraux found that she was staring down upon a smoldering heap of slag. Swiveling her disbelieving gaze toward Yrildretch, she breathed, "You...you did this?"

"I did," she allowed simply. "I've had six thousand years to spend in the company of the most comprehensive body of arcane knowledge ever assembled. Let it suffice to say that I acquired a sliver of wisdom."

Astounded by the implications of this spectacular display, Islena heard herself inquire, "You could easily stop me from doing this, couldn't you?"

Yrildretch merely smiled and began to float toward the entrance to the cave. Islena spared one final glance at the ruined armor and then set out after the enigmatic Mother Guide who was marching to her death with the casual air of one strolling through a summer garden.

Yrildretch emerged into the milky light of afternoon and without sparing a glance for the woman who had sanctioned her death, she immediately knelt on the icy stone.

Islena followed, shivering violently when the cold wind accosted her still wet, naked flesh. Far below, the rubies of the Dragonsword flared and Islena's powerful body was instantly suffused by a penetrating warmth that swiftly banished the chill.

"The icon is attuned to your vital essence, Islena Doraux...how can you harbor even the slightest doubt that you were born to wield these ancient artifacts?" Yrildretch observed. She swept her gaze over the frozen mountains and a wistful note crept into her tone as she reflected, "Despite its harshness and isolation, I will miss the quiet majesty of this place. Come now, Islena Doraux...Daughter of the Tempest...harden your heart and let your hand be swift and true."

With grace and dignity, Yrildretch straightened her back and inclined her chin to the roiling gray sky. Islena whimpered, but even as tears of remorse streamed freely over her prominent cheekbones, Islena delivered a powerful yet precise two-handed blow that cleanly cleaved the ancient's head from her shoulders.

In the rarefied horror of the moment, it seemed to Islena that the body and the severed head appeared to hang suspended for several seconds. Blood, viscous and hot, spattered Islena's face and bare torso. Both head and torso then pitched into the icy void, plummeting to Islena's strident wails of revulsion and self-loathing. Raw with misery, her cries reverberated off the surrounding mountains. In the brief span of time it took their echo to fade, Islena's moral ambivalence over her cruel plot to entomb Myrhia vanished. Her resolve was galvanized by a black hatred that knew no limits.

Only upon later reflection, would Islena come to realize that this had been Yrildretch's intention in willingly submitting to her execution.

In the wake of that fury, a glacial calm descended upon Doraux, who casually cast the short sword after the victim.

Lashing the transfixed enchantress with a baleful scowl, the naked, gore-spattered Islena plunged back into the mountains to collect her fate-decreed recompense.

Chapter Forty

1

Night had fallen across Dizar Kor like a funeral shroud, wrapping the forbidding docklands in an eerie silence...always replete with the prospect of swift and lethal violence. Violence in the docklands of every city in the antiquated world was an inescapable reality as if proximity to water held a natural attraction for the unsavory stratum of society. These denizens were the type who tended to resolve problems with a dirk or cudgel and each new dawn would usually find a corpse or two somewhere along the narrow alleys that ran adjacent to the network of wooden docks.

Ironically, these violent crimes of opportunity had virtually dwindled to nothing during the years of Myrhia's occupation. Then, the daunting blue behemoths had patrolled the streets of Dizar Kor, effectively driving the wharf vermin back into their holes. With the unexpected withdrawal of the Morticants and the return of King Saramond's rule, the sorry norm had quickly re-asserted itself and while Dizar Kor's harbor area was safer than most, Law-abiding citizens had a life-preserving tendency to stay well clear of the area come nightfall.

A single figure walked purposefully down the narrow street that ran parallel to the tangle of wooden docks. The glistening wooden constructs were still slick from the afternoon's rain and jutted out into the Bay of Imerlac like a pitch-covered jewels.

The hooded figure walked quickly, but not with the sense of urgency that most people, alone and on foot, would have felt while traversing this section of the city after dark.

Sygeanor paused and cast her gaze out over the water. Somewhere across this shimmering carpet of gently breaking velvet, the city of Nalosan slept; blissfully unaware of the vengeful predator who had fixed it in her sights. _'Oh, but before long, you will know my name. Mine will be the shape and face of your every nightmare.'_

The subtle intimation of movement...a barely perceptible whisper beneath the breaking of waves on wooden pilings, drew Sygeanor's attention and her luminous gray eyes narrowed. She threw back her voluminous hood and stood utterly still. Her exceptionally acute hearing isolated four figures creeping towards her from opposite sides of the poorly lit cobbles. They were cutpurses likely...looking to make easy work of what appeared to be a simple target of opportunity.

She glanced along the dirty roadway, where perhaps five hundred paces away, a pair of workmen where changing a defective gas lamp. An escort of two city watch was stationed further along the avenue, both reclining in slouching postures that hardly suggested vigilance.

' _Still, by hurrying my pace and raising an alarm, I could probably send these craven vermin scurrying back into the shadows,'_ Sygeanor understood, but dismissed the notion with a humorless grin. The day had been...arduous and trying, so a diversion would be welcome.

Turning abruptly on heel, Sygeanor strode back in the direction from which she had come. As she marched, she allowed two dirks to slide into her hands from their places of concealment in the folds of her cloak.

Clearly confounded by their quarry's perplexing behavior, one of the unseen stalkers mouthed a muted epithet. Yet another...presumably the leader of the band of street thugs...growled, "Take the bitch, now!"

The muffled sound of converging footsteps evoked another satisfied grin from the half-Ulgak, who closed her eyes and unleashed a controlled radial blast of telekinetic energy.

The powerful blast caught the unsuspecting miscreants in mid-stride, scattering them like chaff before a gale. The two assassins who had approached from the north were dashed against the stone wall that delineated a shipping yard. Sygeanor gushed crazy laughter in response to the pleasing crunch of shattering bone and the shrill cries of agony which followed impact.

Of the two cutpurses approaching from the south, one was unceremoniously tossed into the filthy water of the bay, while the other simply skidded along the slick planks of the dock, coming to a stunned rest some fifty paces from where he had first been struck.

Determining that this attacker might yet pose a threat, Sygeanor sprinted across the dock. Once she had come abreast of the downed cutpurse, who had rolled onto his back and was starring vacantly up into the star-spattered firmament, the half-Ulgak knelt and deftly drew a blade across his exposed throat. She rolled gracefully away to avoid the geyser of blood that spurted out over the wet boards.

After wiping her blade on his trousers, Sygeanor stood and hurried to the edge of the dock, scanning the polluted waters. Seeing no sign of the assailant who had been tossed into the foul-smelling water, she hurried back to the main road and over to the other would-be robbers. The first was clearly dead. Even in the darkness, Sygeanor could see brain matter and cerebral fluid oozing from the massive rent in his skull. She spit disdainfully into the corpse's face and then squinted into the darkness for some sign of the last remaining thug. Several paces away, an indistinct figure was crawling over the filthy cobbles. The Half-Ulgak stalked over to the struggling form, jamming the sole of her heavy boot down on its back.

The strangled moan this bit of savagery evoked clearly belonged to a female and Sygeanor arched an eyebrow as the shadow pleaded, "Please don't do me...I got a kid...a daughter...she's only eight."

"And she'll be far better off without a vermin for a mother...even if she does starve," Sygeanor observed coldly, before driving one of her dirks into the base of the defenseless thief's neck and severing her spine.

This tumult had finally managed to rouse the city watch's interest and as she drew her dirk free with a petulant twist, Sygeanor saw that the pair was racing toward the sound of the disturbance, torches aloft and short swords drawn. Knowing that being detained would be...inconvenient, she quickly sheathed her dirks and nimbly vaulted over the stone wall, where she was quickly swallowed up by the nearly impenetrable darkness of the adjacent shipping yard.

2

Along with her conscripts, Sygeanor had arrived in the Fairmarch capital only the week prior. She had used the trio's ill-begotten gains to procure lodgings near the harbor area...for both the four of them and the cart of precious Redian clay.

She had then purchased the necessary clothing to bestow upon the ruffians a passable measure of respectability...not an easy undertaking considering the world from which they'd been purloined. Still, deeply ingrained fear kept them pliable and she was confident that they possessed the requisite skill to guard her treasure while she conducted her reconnaissance of this weary, dismal city.

Coercing theses miscreants into enthusiastic service had been a comparatively simple matter and by doing so, the formative stirrings of a future idea had germinated in her fertile imagination.

"Appraxis!" The word seemed to resonate with an undeniable power and gravitas. The day would come...perhaps years hence, but inevitable nonetheless...when she would see her vision spring to glorious life. There would be no slovenly grubbers in her service then...oh no. Her Appraxis would be comprised of the most powerful Ulgak magic-wielders...every one zealously devoted to her grand vision for the re-imagining of Metocan. In the Metocan that she would raise, there would be no constraints or sophomoric limits on the pursuit or utilization of knowledge. No field of magic would be shunned or forbidden and Sygeanor would do all in her power to guarantee that Metocan would never again fall victim to tyrants of Myrhia's ilk. Eventually, she vowed to sweep away the myopic fools who had allowed morality and false ethics to shackle the most powerful nation in the known world into utter helplessness.

' _Oh but I can promise that I'll rectify that particular oversight and make those responsible pay in the bargain,'_ the half-Ulgak vowed as she maneuvered through the darkened maze of the shipping yard with an ease that was uncanny. The pleasing prospect evoked the recollection of her last communication with Inos. Something had transpired...something of grave consequence that had caused the Grand Mage to radically alter his perspective. His sudden willingness to remove all trenchant constraints spoke eloquently of just how profound this _epiphany_ must have been. That he would turn to her to lead this radical shift in policy...to spearhead this new posture of embracing the dark side of sorcery...spoke of a burgeoning dependency that would ultimately culminate in Sygeanor supplanting Inos as Grand Mage someday.

And then a new era of Metocan supremacy would dawn...and Ulgak would assume its rightful position as the jewel in the new empire's crown. But before then, she would extract vengeance in the name of her noble father. Gritting her teeth, Sygeanor conjured the hateful image of the murderous Lamish whore in her mind. In response, she could feel the vast repository of power begin to churn within her and with considerable effort, consigned the loathsome visage to her subconscious mind...where it would continue to fester like an irritant that must inevitably be purged...lest the injustice of it drive her into the embrace of irreversible madness.

Sygeanor came to a stumbling halt, leaned against a stone wall and drew a tremulous breath. She understood the inherent danger in dwelling on thoughts of the diseased bitch for too long. Somewhere on the periphery of her clouded reason, Sygeanor intuited that her grip on sanity was a tenuous one at best. Obsessing on Lorio, who had become the focus of her limitless bitterness and hatred, was something that Sygeanor could ill afford.

When the last fragments of the whore's image had been exiled from her conscious thoughts, Sygeanor's normal composure settled over her like a shroud and she resumed her trek back to the lodgings.

Under normal circumstances, the coming of night would not have found her alone on the inimical streets of the harbor. Of her three conscripts, Isrim was possessed of the most intelligence...which, in contrast to the other two, who exhibited the intellectual acuity of mentally enfeebled children, was not a grand testimony to his sharpness. Still, he was quick with a blade and could serve as her proxy in shadow transactions when required.

He was hardly a substitute for the beautiful Dendarin, but Isrim had managed to obtain the information she required...insight into the workings of Dizar Kor's shadow culture...while she was able to retain her anonymity.

When she had occasion to reflect on the need to remain sequestered beneath a hood, the half-Ulgak seethed with indignant fury. While Metocans were generally perceived to be _exotic_ in appearance, with their delicate features and strangely translucent skin like diluted milk, the Ulgak...with their gray-tinged flesh, blunt, misshapen features and small, almost insectile eyes...were viewed as alien and hideous.

As she brooded on the maddening injustice of yet another infuriating example of prejudice toward her much-maligned people, Sygeanor had been thunder struck by a most startling bolt of crystalline insight. Unfair as this aversion to the physical appearance of the Ulgak might be, Sygeanor was nonetheless obligated to find a way to negate it. She lacked the wherewithal to banish this ugly prejudice from the minds of those who harbored it, which left her with only one other recourse.

As repugnant as she found the concept, Sygeanor came to glean that the onus of change was strictly hers...if she was ever to walk in the light and realize her own grand ambitions. Sygeanor recalled how she had shaken her head in dismay...to change her appearance, to expunge the truth of her heritage, would be a treasonous breach of her every cherished principle.

Once she had divorced emotion from the equation however, Sygeanor grudgingly conceded that it would be a necessary sacrifice. In the convoluted labyrinth of the half-Ulgak's warped reasoning, a leader must be willing to make decisions which they regard as morally repugnant in the name of the ultimate objective. Sygeanor had vowed to raise Metocan...and by extension, Ulgak...to the glorious pinnacle of civilization. If, to achieve this grand vision, it required that she alter her superficial appearance, how could she not willing do so...even if the loss of her identity caused her excruciating personal pain?

Sygeanor reached the north end of the sprawling shipping yard without being detected by the roving mercenaries or the dogs tasked with protecting goods awaiting transport. She had employed a _penumbra of shadow_ spell to cloak her passage. This form of stealth magic required a very minor output of arcane energy, but she deemed the risk of discovery acceptable. Subduing legions of truncheon wielding thugs and snarling dogs would have required an outpouring of energy that would have attracted every tracker orb within fifty leagues of Dizar Kor.

As she lithely vaulted the stone wall, landing as light as a feather on the stone street that led to her lodging, a throbbing pain exploded in Sygeanor's face. She bit back against the moan that had welled up in her throat and was forced to lean against the grime-covered wall just to stay upright.

As if in sympathy with the bones in her face, the half-Ulgak's legs added their voice to the chorus of agony. Despite the severity of her pain, Sygeanor willed herself to close her eyes and draw slow, deep breaths until it abated to manageable levels. Then she pushed away from the wall and resumed her trek on legs that felt strange and ungainly.

The ritual of transmogrification was an obscure bit of sorcery from a school of magic that _specialized_ in the physical restructuring of living organisms. There were enchantments that could have duplicated the same effect...without the accompanying misery and suffering, but these enchantments required an ongoing expenditure of arcane energy to maintain the illusion.

The transmogrification option demanded a huge expenditure of energy...and horrific pain...but once completed, it would be impossible to discern any trace of physical alteration.

Again, Sygeanor thanked that bumbling, sentimental fool, Mascius, for allowing her to delve into his huge repository of forbidden knowledge. She doubted that even Inos had any inking that the surly academic hoarded an extensive cache of dark arcane scrolls and books. She had taken the liberty of immersing herself in the black waters of that secret library every time the doddering fool was away.

' _Oh and what wonders you had discovered during those long nights...reading through ancient tomes until your eyes burned with exhaustion,'_ Sygeanor mused as she hurried along. That Metocan would deliberately seek to repress this massive body of knowledge was folly that bordered on criminal negligence. _'In light of the position in which we now find ourselves, that is exactly what this constitutes,'_ Sygeanor thought with a disgusted scowl. _'I promise that a day of atonement will come and every myopic imbecile will be made to answer for this travesty.'_

In the context of the dark arts, transmogrification was hardly viewed with the same revulsion as necromancy or blood magic. The indictment against its practice was more one of ethical or moral abhorrence than actual menace. The sanctimonious Inner Circle regarded the alteration of physical structure as a violation of the natural order.

The half-Ulgak, however, suffered no such qualms and once she had committed herself to this extreme course of action, Sygeanor spent her first week in Dizar Kor scouting a location in which she could safely enact this ritual.

It was imperative that the location be isolated and act as a _natural cloister_ to dampen the massive outpouring of arcane energy the process would demand.

Sygeanor and Isrim (whom she had not apprised of the ultimate purpose of their undertaking) had scoured the city for a place where she might safely conduct her perverse ritual. The exhaustive search had led to a dilapidated warehouse near the waterfront. There, Sygeanor and Isrim had discovered a stone-lined tunnel which led deep under the Bay of Imerlac. The tunnel had terminated in a large vaulted chamber. Sygeanor had suspected that the chamber had been constructed to house contraband goods and other illicit wares.

Judging by the suspect state of its tar-coated timbers, the location had been abandoned decades, if not centuries before. While the clearly apprehensive Isrim had eyed the ascending stone chamber walls warily, Sygeanor had merely smiled, knowing that she had found the ideal location in which to undertake her re-invention.

Tonight, after leaving her trio of sycophants to guard her precious clay, Sygeanor had went willingly into the fires of transformation. Kneeling, naked and alone, in the chamber with the ineffective light of a dozen candles to banish a small circle of darkness, the half-Ulgak had performed the ritual with only the dripping water and empty darkness to bear witness.

When she had cast the esoteric powder into the small brazier, the subsequent eruption of eerie green flame had illuminated the entire chamber. After only the slightest hesitation...while mouthing the sacred words from an obscure grimoire devoted to a god, who held dominion over this particular school of sorcery, Sygeanor had given herself to its consuming embrace.

Even as her harrowing, silver-throated screams of agony had resonated throughout the chamber and the fire ravenously consumed her flesh, Sygeanor had maintained a tenacious grip on the elaborately detailed image of the woman she wished to become.

When the agony surmounted her capacity to endure its storm, Sygeanor spiraled down into the void.

Later...she had no valid concept of how long, Sygeanor opened her eyes and uttered a guttural groan. Her entire body throbbed with a marrow deep pain. Rather than attempt to climb to her feet, the half-Ulgak contented herself with tracing the topography of her new body. This slow, deliberate exploration evoked a grin from the pain-wracked Sygeanor. Where once, she had been diminutive, stocky and plain with nondescript, blunt features...this new incarnation was statuesque, pleasingly proportioned and lovely. Only the slate gray eyes and long, thick tresses provided a hint as to her possible ethnicity.

When the pain had subsided to a low, constant throb, Sygeanor groped for her pack. Removing the clothing that had been tailored to conform to her new body, she dressed quickly and made her way back to the docks.

As she made her way back to her lodgings, momentarily distracted by the need to dispose of cutpurses, Sygeanor swore a solemn vow to restore her true appearance once she had attained her goal and elevated Ulgak to its rightful place in the world.

Though she would enact the ritual of transmogrification on one further occasion, the face she would don would bear absolutely no resemblance to the one she had just abandoned.

3

Sygeanor had her first intimation that something had gone seriously awry the moment she came in sight of her lodgings. She had been diligent in insuring that the four iron sconces held blazing torches to discourage the roving prowlers that plagued the area like vermin. More alarming still was the conspicuous absence of a visible sentry before the sliding wooden door to the large storage shed where her precious Redian clay was sequestered.

She managed to repress the welling panic these disturbing inconsistencies roused by the narrowest of margins. Gathering her composure, the mantle of her perceived destiny enshrouding her in its bizarre armor, Sygeanor thrust aside her misgivings and strode briskly across the street to confront this latest menace.

She hesitated briefly at the door before throwing it open with a slight flexing of will and plunging into the darkened interior. The acrid tang of spilled blood...fresh and voluminous...assailed her nostrils. As her eyes adjusted to the near total darkness, she allowed her two weapons to slide into her palms.

"Come then...let us conclude this unpleasant business," a voice invited from somewhere deeper in the house's interior. Dispensing with all thoughts of caution or stealth...these reasonable considerations supplanted by erupting anger at this brazen invasion...Sygeanor hurried toward the voice. Throwing open the kitchen door, Sygeanor was confronted by a bloody tableau of grizzly carnage.

Her gaze swept over the detritus of lethal violence as a moue of disgust twisted her full lips. Tremal lay on the floor, next to the opposite wall. His throat was a bloody horror and his intestines were festooned across the blood-coated wood. Estold's corpse was seated in a chair to which his wrists and ankles had been bound by heavy cords.

Sygeanor's gray eyes widened in horrified shock in reaction to the ghastly condition of his face. Even in the inadequate, flickering candlelight, she could clearly see the glistening bone where the highwayman's skin had been meticulously peeled away from his skull. The flesh hung in bloody ribbons over his chin and she noted that both of his ears had been removed.

"He endured a lot before he finally began to sing...I'll credit him that much," the figure seated on the opposite side of the table intoned admiringly. "I was forced to remove his entire face before he disclosed that he and his two miscreant friends had not acted alone in purloining my prize."

Despite the deep hood that concealed the speaker's face, there could be no mistaking the feminine timbre of the voice. Her casual posture made it evident that she was confident that Sygeanor posed no genuine threat. Two gore-slicked daggers sat on the table just before the woman's gloved hands. Scarcely crediting that this diminutive creature was capable of such ruthless mayhem, Sygeanor inquired, "You did this...slaughtered my retainers?"

"I did," the woman admitted blithely, "just as I'm going to kill you...once you've told me why you were so foolhardy as to steal my clay."

"Why ever would you think I would tell you anything?" Sygeanor retorted evenly.

"Because being forthcoming is the difference between dying quickly," she tilted her head in the direction of the mutilated corpse and added significantly, "and dying very slowly."

"How did you find me?" Sygeanor inquired in a tone more suited to an inquisitor than a potential victim. "And exactly who are you?"

"You would certainly never be accused of being subtle," the hooded woman remarked with an appreciatively laugh. "The carnage you left along that back road...well a blind man could have tracked you. Those men you slaughtered were in _my_ employ incidentally." She gestured toward the chilling corpse of Estold and added, "Consider this retaliation in kind. I consider an attack on my bondsman as a personal affront. Now, the other victims I found scattered throughout the surrounding forest...well they present a most intriguing mystery. Then there was the state of the actual massacre site...was that your doing?"

Sygeanor smirked. "Why pose questions to which you already know the answers?"

The woman pushed back her hood and leaned closer to the candle. Sygeanor was surprised by her appearance which intimated that she had only recently entered womanhood. An extremely attractive woman with delicate features, only her brown eyes contradicted this impression of prim gentleness. Those eyes were hard and spoke eloquently of a woman who had experienced much and had few reservations about doing whatever was necessary to serve the purpose of the moment. The savagery she had unleashed in the small house was a succinct affirmation of this impression. With a toothsome grin, she revealed, "My name is Naryima. I suppose there is a certain symmetry in knowing the name of the person who is going to extinguish your flame."

"Then I will tell you that my name is Sygeanor," the half-Ulgak declared flatly. "If you inspected the site where I culled your dogs, then you know what I'm capable of."

"I do," Naryima agreed. "I'm curious by nature and rather than simply kill you from the shadows and recover my clay, I decided to seek you out...face to face. I'm frankly intrigued to know what kind of creature would prompt the witch-queen to unleash the horde of tracker drones that brought such bloody destruction down upon Wraith's Hollow. As I followed you trail, I witnessed swarms of these nefarious devices scouring the countryside and could not help but conclude that anyone who could inspire such a _frantic reaction_ must be formidable indeed. So tell me...Sygeanor...what mischievous game are you playing?"

Considering that she had no intention of allowing this presumptuous slattern to leave this room alive, Sygeanor was disinclined to concoct a fabrication. As if describing some infinitely banal task, she declared, "I'm going to destroy the city of Nalosan and incinerate everyone in it."

Naryima arched an eyebrow and whistled in mock admiration. "Well, you can certainly never be accused of harboring modest ambitions. Then, it is most fortuitous that you decided to target my shipment...seeing you dead will serve a meaningful purpose beyond mere personal satisfaction."

In a heartbeat, Naryima had seized the hafts of her throwing knives, but before she could hurl them at the still stationary Sygeanor, an invisible force struck her like the fall of a deity's hammer. Naryima impacted with the far wall with sufficient force to leave a deep indentation in the crude plaster. Before she could sink to the floor in a boneless sprawl, the kitchen table smashed into the left side of her face, shattering her jaw and cheekbone.

Still, the Sister of Esotaria stealth ranger possessed the constitution and courage of forged steel. Ignoring the subsequent explosion of agony, Naryima rolled slightly to her right and flung a throwing knife at her statuesque attacker. To her astonishment and consternation, the weapon seemed to fly as if traveling through viscous liquid, slowing to the point where it seemed impossible that it could actually remain aloft. The woman gesticulated and the weapon came to a complete halt...but still did not plummet to the floor. Sygeanor fixed the flummoxed Naryima with a triumphant grin and then snatched the dagger out of the air.

Relishing her position of absolute superiority, Sygeanor stalked over to the writhing woman and stomped down on her wrist, forcing the sister to relinquish her grip on her remaining dagger.

"I will not beg," Naryima vowed in a distorted voice. She knew that she had committed a lethal error in judgment by taking such a perfunctory approach to killing the woman. Hubris had clouded her judgment...a folly for which she would now pay with her life. The Ascentrix had ordered a strict prohibition against arcane communication, but given the evil scope of this woman's mad intention, Naryima decided that ignoring Lissom's edict was warranted. Trying to ignore the debilitating pain in her face, the stealth ranger opened her mind and bellowed wordlessly, ' _I am in Dizar Kor...where a woman named Sygeanor is about to kill me. Mark her well...she must be found and stopped. May Gyzarayne forgive me!'_

She then glanced up a Sygeanor, who was regarding her with a frown of suspicion set upon her new face. The stealth ranger offered the looming monster a bloody grin and then challenged, "Will you show me your credentials as a nightmare embodied, bitch?"

"Gladly," the half-Ulgak retorted with a mirthful chuckle, rife with savage glee. She stomped her boot down on Naryima's ruined face, grinding her heavy sole down on the broken bones...relishing the woman's argent screams of agony. After a moment, she removed the boot and stared down on the decimated topography of Naryima's once lovely face. Still, the stealth ranger somehow swallowed her unspeakable agony and gazed up at the mad woman with glazed eyes. Through cultivated instinct, she could sense her throwing knife lying close by and began to move her hand toward it in tiny increments.

Even with her end imminent and promising to be excruciating, the veteran stealth ranger's agile mind continued to grope for a stratagem to undo this odious and clearly deranged creature. It suddenly occurred to her that, by transmitting an unbroken stream of images of the horror she was likely to suffer, she might actually succeed in attracting the tracker orbs that had clearly been dispatched to locate this lunatic. If she could reach her dagger, perhaps she could salvage the debacle her arrogance had inadvertently created.

Sygeanor pressed a pensive finger to her full lips and lifted her head in a theatrical gesture of contemplation. She snapped her fingers and then declared, "It may interest you to know that I possess a rather extensive repertoire of dark arts...sorcery to make your hair turn white were you to think upon the matter too long. Oh the horrors I could visit upon you! Fortunately for you, it would be inconvenient to demonstrate the diversity of my arsenal at the moment...and thus I'll have to fall back on more _conventional methods_ of unlocking your mystery."

Naryima's eyes widened in bewilderment as the demented woman began to remove her clothing and fold them carefully over a chair. When she was completely naked, Sygeanor noticed Naryima gaping at her with earnest confusion and disclosed, "I predict this is going to get bloody and extremely messy with all sorts of bodily excretions...and since these are new clothes..."

She gravitated slowly over to the fallen woman and kneeling next to her, began removing her clothing as well. When Naryima was also naked, Sygeanor settled onto her abdomen. As she ran the keen edge of her blade over the resilient flesh of the helpless woman's right breast, Sygeanor experienced a rush of erotic pleasure that seemed to emanate from her loins and suffuse her entire body. Bending forward, she pursed her lips and allowed an indolent stringer of saliva to drop onto Naryima's battered face. She then pressed her lips to the stealth ranger's ear. "I'm going to dissect you layer by bloody layer and remove your fingers and toes one joint at a time. By the time I finally grant your wish to kill you, I will have extracted everything there is to know about the people who sent you."

Despite her resolve to suffer her torture with stoic dignity, the stealth ranger began to whimper. The woman exuded a palpable madness, the scope of which filled Naryima with horror.

"You're about to make an army of very powerful enemies who will not rest until I'm avenged," she managed, though her words were severely garbled by the horrific extent of her facial injuries.

Sygeanor sat back and stared down at the broken woman, delighting in the naked terror that had replaced her infuriating arrogance. With an amused chuckle, she declared blithely, "The number of powerful enemies one accrues on the road to their destiny is an affirmation of greatness."

The mirthful grin gave way to a terrifying expression of ravenous anticipation and Sygeanor whispered, "Now, where shall we begin?"

The night came alive with harrowing screams and hot blood.

4

Every eye was automatically drawn to the Ascentrix as the door to her quarters was thrown open with a slam and the diminutive blond girl strode purposefully into the common area where she had commanded the sisters to assemble.

Despite wearing the face of a ten year old child, her daunting presence prompted every head to bow in reverence and every woman to take a knee in deference to Gyzarayne's chosen emissary.

"Rise!" she commanded, her child's voice crackling with an uncharacteristic note of impatience. Though the chamber was permeated by a tense silence, every mind was accosted by the harrowing shrieks of their sister, Naryima, as her unseen torturer kept her insane promise. Every ashen face then fixed squarely upon the Ascentrix, waiting for Lissom to bring a swift end to this nightmare.

Ignoring these beseeching gazes, she came to a halt directly before her towering First Stealth Ranger. Though the statuesque, short-haired blond concealed her agitation behind a mantle of stoicism, Sandalayne's blue eyes were alight with helpless misery and frustration. In an unusually curt tone, the Ascentrix demanded, "Why is Naryima in Dizar Kor?"

Taken aback by the atypical bluntness of Lissom's query, Sandalayne stammered, "Ascentrix, she was tracking a lost...or possibly stolen shipment of clay. She had hired a group of mercenaries to...to escort the shipment to the port. They were evidently set upon and slaughtered in Northern Fairmarch. Before you ordered a cessation of all silent communication, Naryima reported that she had tracked the brigands responsible to a village named Wraith's Hollow."

"And it never occurred to you to apprise me of this situation...or to realize that someone who would go to such ruthless lengths to intercept this particular cargo must be fully aware of the clay's innate value as an arcane amplifier?"

Despite being literally twice as tall and a woman of unassailable courage and lethal martial skills, the First Stealth Ranger flinched in the face of Lissom's overt and smoldering displeasure. She averted her gaze to the Matrium as if seeking intervention. Ever responsive to the anguish of her charges, Karosyn stepped forward and attempted to defuse Lissom's anger...or at the very least, deflect it onto herself. "Ascentrix, my pardon, but it is I who elected not to trouble you with this matter. It seemed comparatively trivial in contrast to our...primary purpose. I have quite obviously committed a grievous error in judgment and will accept fully responsibility for these terrible consequences. I submit myself to your judgment as to how I should be punished."

The complex expression of nuanced consternation that rippled across Lissom's face was strangely incongruent with her deceptively child-like visage. It was readily apparent that the astute emissary was not deceived for an instant by Karosyn's effort to shield the First Stealth Ranger from the consequences of her lamentable lapse in protocol. Luminous blue eyes pinched with vexation, the Ascentrix pronounced, "We will discuss the matter of _your_ penance privately. For now, we must move quickly and decisively to rectify this debacle before it does further damage to our cause."

Privately mortified by the Ascentrix's seeming obdurate indifference to Naryima's piteous screams of torment, Sandalayne adjured, "Allow me to dispatch a contingent of stealth rangers to see our sister home...and avenge her heinous mistreatment."

"You have done quite enough...and I will not have the bodies of your sisters littering the docklands, Bringing Gyzarayne's carefully conceived machinations to ruin," Lissom growled, her assiduous disdain actually evoking gasps of incredulity from some of her daughters. The proud Sandalayne stiffened, but otherwise suffered this scathing rebuke stoically. Wasting no effort on concealing her displeasure, the normally tactful Lissom commanded, "Return to your quarters and reflect upon your duplicity in Naryima's ordeal of torment."

The First Stealth Ranger offered the furious Ascentrix a formal bow and then did as bidden. The mortified Karosyn admired her dignity in the wake of this public humiliation. The relationship between a Matrium and Ascentrix was complex and ever-evolving...especially in matters of authority. Karosyn was an exceptionally gentle and serene soul and it pained her to see the daughter, whom she had mentored with an eye toward instilling compassion and empathy in Lissom's heart, wield her divine authority like a hammer. When opportunity permitted, the pair would engage in a frank dialogue about Lissom's behavior today...though she feared it could well inflict irreparable damage upon their relationship. Still, Gyzarayne's emissary could not be allowed to gravitate toward tyranny.

The Ascentrix gripped Karosyn's wrist and shook her gently and only when peering directly into the girl's limpid blue eyes, did the Matrium fully discern how acutely the girl had been affected by Naryima's torture. "You will dispatch Lyndsyn and two other battle mages of her choosing to Dizar Kor...along with Issidris Il."

Karosyn's eyes widened at the mention of that last name...a deadly creature with no true loyalty to the sisterhood. Before the Matrium could give voice to her misgivings, the Ascentrix silenced her concern with a withering glare. Along their special tether, she instructed, "We will speak of this privately. For the time being, you will do as bidden."

Shaken, Karosyn bowed deeply and gestured for the First Battle Mage to attend the pair. The regal brunette glided forward, but beneath this façade of respectful deference, Karosyn gleaned the woman's natural wariness of the Ascentrix. Like Lyndsyn, many of the sisters found Lissom's manner alien and the girl dauntingly inaccessible. The Matrium grimaced internally, construing Lissom's remoteness...her aloofness...as a personal failure on her part. "May I grant Naryima the Goddess' peace, Ascentrix?"

Lissom regarded the Matrium blankly for several moments and then shook her head as if startled by her own inaction in the matter. "Of course."

The Matrium nodded, drew a tremulous breath and closed her eyes. Her consciousness disentangled from her vessel of flesh and a mere heartbeat later, she was speeding along the tether that connected the dying stealth ranger to the Sisters of Esotaria collective consciousness. The ephemeral psychic tether seemed to vibrate with the enormity of Naryima's pain. Karosyn could scarcely conceive of the depravity required to inflict this kind of torment upon her intrepid daughter.

In the space of a dozen heartbeats, Karosyn found that she was enveloped in a living vessel of perfect and absolute misery. The thing that had once been a beautiful woman with beguiling eyes and a roguish smirk was scarcely recognizable as human. For a moment of excruciating empathy, Karosyn was immobilized by the fires of Naryima's suffering and then she found herself gazing up into luminous gray eyes that were ablaze with psychotic lunacy. The woman's face was obscured by gore...while her naked torso was spattered with Naryima's blood. She sat astride the trembling stealth ranger's thighs and was engrossed in the revolting task of peeling the first layer of skin from the whimpering woman's torso. Scattered around the pair lay severed fingers and toes and one misshapen lump that the grief-addled Matrium recognized was her daughter's tongue.

As reprehensible as this heinous act of butchery was, it was not the catalyst that threatened to drive the normally pacifistic Karosyn into a frenzy of indiscriminate destruction. What threatened to shatter the Matrium's reason and grind it to dust was the incomprehensible realization that this monster was sexually aroused by her atrocity. Karosyn could hear it clearly in the ragged cadence of her breathing and more repulsive still, feel it as the lunatic's womanhood glided slickly over Naryima's bare thigh.

Karosyn was a gentle creature, inclined toward the healing arts, yet possessed of a level of sorcery that could pulverize mountains. As her grip on composure wavered, she prepared to immolate this perversion of humanity in a storm of balefire.

"No!" a voice commanded empathically and the Matrium was shocked to find herself enveloped in a transparent sphere of arcane energy that severed the connection with her own vast repository of power. "Our purpose will be undone by rash action, Karosyn. This ignoble creature has a fated role in what is to come...one that we will not disrupt. I vow, mother, on Gyzarayne's grace, that I will see this reprobate pay a hundred fold for the evil she has perpetrated here on this day. Now Go!"

Karosyn was released from her restraint and forcibly propelled back along the tether and into the confines of her livid flesh.

In the crumbling ruin of Naryima's controlled vessel, Lissom gazed through the stealth ranger's clouded eyes, up into a maelstrom of madness, and a primitive snarl twisted Naryima's shredded lips.

Sygeanor blinked and sat back on her haunches, the bloody dagger in her right hand temporarily forgotten. The wreckage beneath had abruptly stopped and was now regarding her silently, sporting a lucid gaze that was rife with deadly promise. Though Sygeanor had deliberately removed the bitch's tongue to silence her bleating, she spoke to the half-Ulgak in a perfectly intelligible voice. "Mark my word's well, monster...the day will come when our path's intersect...and on that day, I will extinguish your tiny, inconsequential flame."

With this cold, dispassionate vow delivered, Naryima's decimated body convulsed violently and went still. A concussive wave of arcane energy exploded from the vessel and gathering the unsuspecting Sygeanor up, flung the half-Ulgak across the gore-spattered kitchen. Good fortune smiled upon Sygeanor then, for while the exterior walls of her lodging had been erected in stone, the interior walls were flimsy lathing and plaster constructs that yielded easily beneath her weight and momentum. She slammed to the floor, where she lay staring up into the impenetrable darkness...dazed and disoriented.

An absolute silence descended upon the house, which had come to resemble a poorly maintained abattoir. As cognizance filtered back through the disorienting fog of pain, Sygeanor came to discern that she had been in the presence of a virtual deity...a demigoddess invested with near limitless power.

Whereas this realization would have caused most mortals to quail in dread, Sygeanor began to laugh...the ferocity of her laughter twisting her tall, lean new body. "Powerful enemies indeed!"

Delighted by the notion that she had attracted the attention of such a formidable adversary, Sygeanor climbed to her feet and set about clearing away the detritus of the night's black drama.

5

Lissom stepped seamlessly back into the confines of her small vessel to find that Karosyn was sprawled on the glossy floorboards at her feet. Every sister present was huddled about the apparently unconscious Matrium and every face was beset by a deep concern for a woman who was universally adored by the sisters. The Ascentrix experienced a petulant flare of irritation with the woman who had raised her from infancy...and had mentored her for two hundred years since. Karosyn seemed capable of garnering loyalty and affection with such effortless ease of which Lissom was privately envious. The sisters loved and confided in her gentle-natured Matrium...while they seemed leery and even fearful of their Ascentrix.

Despising this petty aspect of her nature, Lissom knelt next to the Matrium and tenderly stroked the woman's brow. Karosyn was the personification of every higher virtue that a benevolent Gyzarayne had bestowed upon her daughters. To harbor even a modicum of resentment was an indictment against Lissom's worthiness to bear the title of Ascentrix. _'I promise, Mother, that I will strive diligently to be worthy of your faith,'_ she swore to the unmoving woman. To the sisters, she instructed softly, "See the Matrium to her quarters and see that she is made comfortable. I will come and keep watch over her shortly."

Feeling uncharacteristically despondent, Lissom watched as four sisters carried Karosyn away. She then dismissed the Matrium from her mind and gesturing for the First Battle Mage to follow her, went in search of the sisterhood's lethal pet viper.

Chapter Forty-One

1

A tense silence filled the hall, a comparatively unadorned rectangular space that served as what passed for the seat of power in Redia. Amongst the milling gathering that had assembled in anticipation of the new Elderspire Clan Chief's arrival, were the heads of the city's most influential clans. These were hard men whose entire lives, fortunes and reputations had been built on the foundations of ruthlessness, violence and intimidation. They each awaited her arrival with a discordant mixture of bitterness and dread.

As each had entered the timber and stone hall, they had been greeted by a gruesome display of impaled heads, meticulously arranged on ornamental spikes. Frydryck, Eldryc and a dozen of the treasonous vermin's closest supporters were arranged along the length of the railing that delineated the front of the hall...their frozen heads serving as a harrowing and explicit reminder that the girl who had claimed the clan totem was no child.

The head of Byragore, Frydryck's middle son and one of Ynathreen's closest childhood friends, was conspicuously absent from the ghoulish exhibit. Ynathreen had respected the quiet, thoughtful young man and mourned his senseless death at Margarus' hands. She had ordered that his body be conveyed back to Ghordrian's estate...now her estate...and consigned to the afterworld on a ceremonial pyre, next to her mother, Satheer.

Muragren had fallen gravely ill, the cumulative effect of toiling in a slave mine, the brutal trek across Redia and her deteriorating physical condition finally taking its toll on the delicate woman. Fearing that her prospective mentor would perish...taking Ynathreen's fragile humanity to the grave in the process...the girl had personally undertaken the task of nursemaid. Yet, despite her tender care and the help of several apothecaries, it seemed inevitable that the delirious slave would succumb to her fevered infirmity. Ynathreen began to despair that she would lose the woman whose guidance would be an integral component of her vision for Redia's reclamation. Perhaps fuelled by desperation, a formative notion had germinated in Ynathreen's troubled mind.

She retrieved the heavy canvas satchel of blue clay and carried it back to Muragren's sick bed. There, she had propped the barely conscious slave against perspiration soaked pillows and after rolling a small piece of clay into a bite-sized ball, she had pressed it between the dying woman's slack lips. She had shaken and cajoled the emaciated woman into swallowing the clay and she had eventually complied, albeit listlessly. After inducing her to consume several more morsels of the gritty clay, Ynathreen had then made Muragren drink a cup of clay-infused water. Shortly thereafter, the Fairmarch academic had fallen into a fitful doze. Ynathreen had maintained an anxious vigil at her bedside while the matter of Muragren's fate was decided.

Dawn saw a weary Muragren open her eyes and though she had been woefully weak and critically ill...the delirium was conspicuously absent and the life threatening fever had broken. Relieved and grateful, Ynathreen had repeated the process to which Muragren had submitted without objection or resistance. During her period of recuperation, Muragren had remained totally silent, simply staring back at the increasingly irritated Ynathreen with an intense gaze of appraisal. In those limpid gray depths there had shone a gleam of something that might well have been recrimination.

While Muragren had regained her strength, sleeping through most of the gray, snow-beset days, young Ynathreen had moved swiftly to consolidate her position as the legitimate Elderspire Clan Chief. She had demanded and received vows of fealty from the few of her father's bondsmen and retainers who had survived Frydryck's craven purge. Once news of her thorough and bloody decimation had spread throughout the city and its environs, clans not aligned with her father had also agreed to bend a knee to Ghordrian's demon-child. Bolstered by the relative ease with which she had subjugated the capital, Ynathreen prepared to move quickly to bring the rest of Redia to heel.

On the afternoon before Ynathreen was to convene her first public palaver as clan chief, Muragren had come to find her as she waded through rather ambiguous reports of what had befallen the country outside of the capital. The girl had greeted the Fairmarch slave with a radiant grin, which a pallid Muragren had not returned. She was still piteously thin and stood on wobbly legs that trembled with this simple effort. Those lovely gray eyes, however, were animated and acutely aware. Ynathreen's euphoria over Muragren's miraculous recovery dissipated like a wraith before the morning sun when the woman uttered her first words since the day that Ynathreen had struck her in the courtyard.

"As soon as I am well enough to travel, I ask that I be allowed to return home to Fairmarch."

Infuriated, Ynathreen was up and out of her chair in the blink of an eye. Anger over Muragren's perceived ingratitude caused the need to lash out to surmount restraint. She seized the startled woman's stick thin forearm and with the casual flexing of a powerful bicep, Ynathreen forced Muragren to her knees. She delivered a backhanded slap to the older woman's upturned face that, while delivered with minimal force, nonetheless bloodied the ailing woman's nose and mouth. Muragren slumped to the cold stone and peered wordlessly up at the powerful girl as if seeing her for the first time.

In a subdued, quavering voice, she reminded the Redian, "You once vowed that you would never strike or beat me!" After a moment's reflection, she added, "You also promised that I could return home if I desired."

"Then obviously, my promises hold no currency!" Ynathreen spat, her complexion deepening to scarlet. She pushed Muragren down onto her back with the heavy sole of her right boot. "This, however, is a promise upon which you may stake your soul. Should you ever ask to be released from your oath or be so monumentally foolish as to attempt an escape, I will personally flog the flesh from your bones. You _will_ devote your life to fulfilling your promise to Ghordrian...and to me. After I've given birth to a new Redia, I will release you from your oath. I suspect that you would much prefer to burrow into a pile of musty books about history...than actually help forge it."

Muragren's gray eyes widened in reaction to this especially caustic barb. Ynathreen removed her foot and raised a long, muscular arm toward the entrance. "Go! Clean yourself up, eat and then rest. Tomorrow, I will stake my future claim to the throne...and I would have you attend me as I do. For now...get out of my sight!"

Muragren rose slowly, never taking her unblinking gaze from Ynathreen's livid face. There was a knowing aspect to the woman's regard, but no discernable fear, which puzzled the aspiring queen. After a moment, this intense dual of stares ended when Muragren bowed deeply before turning away and walking from the chamber with her customary quiet dignity. When she was again alone, Ynathreen had buried her face in her hands and wept, her body shaking convulsively with the immensity of her sorrow.

2

The Ynathreen who entered the hall of power the next morning was the diametric opposite of the distraught girl who had wept in shame at her mistreatment of a slave woman. She moved up the main isle with the stateliness of a long-reigning queen...her countenance seemingly carved out of ice.

Muragren trailed after the girl with her hands folded primly before her and eyes cast deferentially to the floor at Ynathreen's heels. The girl had appeared at her chamber door earlier in the morning and without saying a word, she had laid a gray robe, interwoven with silver thread, across the foot of Muragren's narrow pallet. To this, she added a belt comprised of articulating segments of silver. She had attempted to regard the woman dispassionately, but could not entirely repress a wince in response to Muragren's swollen upper lip. Then that glacial façade had slipped over the girl's face and she instructed, "Break your fast and then you will help me dress for this conclave. Once this tedious formality is out of the way, you will begin my tutoring. You may select the subjects and structure their delivery as you see fit."

Now, Ynathreen ascended the stone steps and stood next to the empty throne. While Muragren removed her cloak, the Redian girl stood surveying the assembly. On every face, she saw a myriad of warring emotions, running the gamut from confusion to belligerence. Yet on every face, Ynathreen discerned at least a glimmer of the one emotion she needed to instill...fear.

Standing before this group of men, all of whom defined honor and value in the ability to dispense violent death, Ynathreen did appear to be the very quintessence of a warrior queen. She had deliberately elected to wear the same battle uniform she had donned to visit retribution upon Frydryck and his sycophants. Maroon splotches of blood were clearly visible on the leather and in their looped holders, her weapons were crusted with dried blood and other bodily matter. Muragren had pulled her hair back into a tight cable and affixed the three spiked rings, that had dispensed death so swiftly on that gore-spattered night, to the heavy braid.

Ynathreen's large blue eyes roved the hall, aloof and glacial. Everything in her posture made it eminently clear that she was fully prepared to reprise her symphony of slaughter should those present prove unwilling to submit. In a voice that resonated with implacable confidence, she declared, "I have called you here to bear witness to my claim to the mantle of Clan Chief of Elderspire...and to hear your oaths of fealty to house Ghordrian."

A massive, brutish man, with a daunting war hammer cinched at his belt, stepped into the isle and thundered, "By what authority do you lay claim to anything...but the title of a dead man's snot nosed brat...one in need of a hard cock to make her see the way of things."

A roll of derisive laughter thundered through the room as the Redian natural tendency toward misogyny asserted itself. Ynathreen merely smiled and waited for the hoots and jeers to subside. She then pulled to totem from between her heavy breasts and bellowed, "By authority of this totem!" She then ripped a throwing axe from its holder and brandished it aloft. "And by this authority."

She scowled at the detractor and invited, "Since you obviously recognize the authority of neither, I challenge you to face me on the sands. You wish to fuck me into subservience? Very well, draw forth your hammer and let us see who fucks with whom."

She then turned briefly to a mortified Muragren and instructed softly, "Avert your eyes to the back wall, Muragren."

She then moved down the stairs of the dais and over to the rectangular expanse of sand that ran the entire length of the audience hall.

' _That a nation's seat of power would actually have an area where disputes were resolved with lethal violence speaks volumes about the nature of the barbarians who dwell here,'_ Muragren thought dejectedly as she watched Ynathreen, who was still but a young girl for all of her stature and impressive musculature, prepare to face this mountain of a man in mortal combat. She had tried tenaciously to insulate her heart against harboring any affection for the girl, but found that she was incapable of inuring her emotions when it came to this extraordinary creature.

Drawing a hand axe and her studded mace, Ynathreen stepped onto the sand that had gorge on life's blood so often over the violence-drenched centuries. With an ugly, crack-toothed grin adorning his face, the beast drew forth his hammer. Ynathreen returned an equally mirthless grin and pointing her mace toward the brute, declared loudly, "You are the living embodiment of everything that ails Redia...an engine of mindless violence that has led us blindly to our present sorry juncture. As Redia's future queen, I see you as diseased flesh that must be cut away to save our country."

The monster bellowed; his reaction to the girl's taunt as predictable as his style of attacking. He raised the massive hammer and converging upon Ynathreen, his fulminating rumble rolling over the sand like thunder. The girl danced lightly on the balls of her feet, but otherwise made no move to shift her position. When he had come to within striking distance, he brought the hammer down in a tight, whistling arc, but when it seemed inevitable that the blow would pulverize her skull, Ynathreen appeared to vanish like a mythical displacer beast.

The Redian brute grunted as the head of his hammer sank into the sand, but before he could straighten, the phenomenally agile girl materialized to his right. She swiftly delivered two sickle kicks to his exposed face...the scaled boot shattering his nose and several of his teeth...sending blood spraying in a fan. A murmur rippled through the assembly like wind through a field of wheat. The brute stumbled, but quickly recovered his balance while gazing at the whore-spawned bitch with wide-eyed incredulity. He pawed at this ruined nose, examined the blood for a moment before spitting a glut of bloody saliva and surging back to the attack. This time, his strike came in the form of a chest high, horizontal swing that raised a burst of sparks as it struck the stone wall. Ynathreen executed a perfect duck and roll, breaking into a contortionist's twist that left her standing directly behind her opponent, facing the bewildered plodder. She delivered a titanic kick between his slightly spread legs. Bellowing like an impaled bull, the Redian's knees began to fold. Ynathreen leapt into the air and skewered him with a drop kick delivered to the center of his broad back. The force of her two-footed kick propelled the crumbling brute head first into the unyielding stone. In the stunned silence of the assembly hall, his skull struck the wall with a meaty crack. His face slid down the wall, leaving a gore-slicked trail in its wake.

Ynathreen leapt nimbly onto the beaten man's back and placing the sole of her right boot on the base of his skull, slowly and deliberately ground his face into the abrasive sand. After a moment of this humiliating abuse, she raised her knee to her chest and slammed the heel of her boot into his neck, severing his spine.

Ynathreen, still standing on the human wreckage...a formidable warrior whom she had dismantled with stunning alacrity...surveyed the assembly. Every moon-eyed face regarded her with identical expressions of disbelief and more significantly to Ynathreen's mind, burgeoning respect or fear. She hoped to nurture the former, but would settle for the latter in the interim. Her gaze strayed to Muragren, who was watching her through tear-stained eyes, her thin hands pressed to her mouth in a frozen posture of horror.

Lest her resolve evaporate beneath the incisive sting of the woman's forlorn regard, Ynathreen raised her two arms, brandishing weapons which, ironically, had not struck a single blow in the course of her astounding victory, and invited, "Is there anyone else who would contest my right as Ghordrian's successor?"

This invitation was met with sullen silence and averted gazes. Ynathreen nodded, her generous mouth twisting into a rueful scowl. "Very well, then I will interpret your silence to serve as your collective oath of fealty to your new Clan Chief of Elderspire."

She stepped away from the dead Redian and added, "Let it be known that I am amenable to accepting any challenge to my authority...here on these sands there is an insatiable appetite for blood and anyone who would challenge my authority can expect no mercy here."

She thrust her weapons back into the iron rings on her belt and started back toward the dais, but abruptly turned on heel and strode back to the dead Redian. Reaching down, she flipped the body over before sitting down heavily on its upper thighs. While the assembly peered on in black fascination, Ynathreen drew a keen-edged dirk from her belt. With a terrible degree of precision, she cut away the dead man's belt and sliced through his heavy trousers. She peeled back the flaps to expose his flaccid penis and as a battled-hardened assembly bore witness with a collective gasp of revulsion and disbelief, a stone-faced Ynathreen gripped the dead man's member and emasculated the corpse in one fluid stroke. With Muragren's sob of negation resonating in the subsequent silence, Ynathreen wondered if her capacity for atrocity might be boundless.

She arose with her face set in a mask of glacial calm. She deliberately resolved herself to ignore Muragren's pallid, recriminating regard. Instead, she ascended the steps and turned, intentionally positioning herself before the vacant throne of Redia...thus conveying a silent, but emphatic message to those gathered in the seat of power.

Holding the Redian's severed penis aloft, Ynathreen roared, "This useless appendage has come to symbolize every ailment that plagues Redia. We are perceived by the rest of the world as mindless brutes, who are governed by our lusts and base urges such as violence and avarice." Ynathreen suddenly drew back her arm and hurled the bit of flesh into the shadows near the rear of the hall. Eyes blazing with fervor, she vowed, "On the name of my father and my cruelly-murdered mother, I swear to change the way in which we are perceived. Those who wish to cling to the useless traditions and myopic fallacies of Redia's past should mark my intentions carefully. Only by gorging the sand on my blood with they prevent me from transforming this country's identity. We have aligned ourselves with a monster...a tyrant who has now evidently abandoned us. Have no doubt; those whom we have victimized at her behest will come seeking retribution. If we are to survive their collective wrath, we must demonstrate that we are genuinely contrite."

"So you would have us grovel like cowards?" someone challenged from the relative safety of the throng.

"Never!" Ynathreen roared. "Just as I adamantly refuse to bend a knee to any man or woman...so too will the new Redia stand fiercely independent and proud. Yet, we will be accountable for our actions and force the world to see us as more than a horde of rapists and plunders. Above all, we will never again degrade our honor by becoming the lick-spittle toadies of foreign demons. The choice I offer you is the choice I will offer every Redian...join my in the struggle to fulfill this grand design...or be ground to dust beneath its boots!"

She fell silent, allowing those gathered a space of time to digest her audacious vision for Redia's rebirth. After a moment, Ynathreen continued, and as she listened, a distraught Muragren imagined that she was hearing the proclamation of a legendary warrior-queen animated from the pages of a scribe's fantasy and not that of a mere sixteen year old girl...alone and in a nest of vipers. "This morning, I dispatched couriers to every clan chief in Redia...invoking the rite of Rizarchen and inviting them to participate...or select a proxy to participate...in a tournament of succession."

She gestured toward the hallowed sands, where innumerable past tournaments had been contested. Privately, it was Ynathreen's intention to abrogate this crude, bestial method of determining succession...but not until it facilitated her ascension to the throne. "When the last snows of winter have melted, the chosen will assemble here to participate in Rizarhchen and through this time-honored tradition of our ancestors, we will select out new king." She paused theatrically, shook her head as if she'd spoken in error and amended, "or more correctly, our new queen."

Such was the daunting impact of her shocking devastation of the gelded Redian that not even a sneer or derogatory grunt greeted this bravado. Satisfied, Ynathreen turned and settled into the ornately carved wooden throne and while this presumption rankled many of those present, none conjured the fortitude to raise an objection. Astounded by the girl's temerity Muragren retreated to her designated place behind the throne. Ynathreen draped a heavily-muscled right thigh over the armrest of the throne and announced, "I will now resolve the issue of the fate of the craven Frydryck's house. Bring his wife and the scion of his house before me to hear my judgment."

There was a rippled of disquiet that ran through the assembly like an ill wind. Slightly behind Ynathreen, Muragren inhaled sharply...perhaps in anticipation of another blood-drenched, harrowing spectacle of senseless violence. Not for the first time, the Redian wondered if Muragren's delicate sensibilities could survive the endless exposure to violence and carnage that was likely to characterize her ascent to the throne.

The doors at the rear of the hall were thrown open and Mirinair, Frydryck's wife, and Frydan, the treacherous bastard's youngest son, were ushered roughly into the drafty hall by two stone-faced guards.

Before her husband's swift and cataclysmic demise, Mirinair had been an aloof, arrogant woman, prone to displays of imperiousness that did not befit her true station in the grand scheme of things. She had dressed in Emercian finery, very much like her husband, and had always been fastidious about her appearance and her inflated public persona. She had looked down upon Ynathreen with a thinly disguised contempt that had long grated on the girl's temper.

Despite valiantly attempting to divorce herself from the heightened emotions of the moment, Ynathreen could not entirely repress the surge of elation which she experienced upon first seeing the striking redhead's present condition. Her meticulously styled mane was now a disheveled tangle and her clothes were stained and rumpled from having been worn for the entire week she had spent in the court's dungeon. Gone, too, was the vexing air of superiority and condescension she normally sported. She stole a quick glance at Ynathreen and in her lusterless green eyes, the girl recognized a torrent of conflicting emotions that ranged from bitter resentment to naked fear.

Ynathreen's gaze slid to the child and her resolved nearly faltered. The beautiful blond-haired boy had followed her through the streets of Elderspire like a love-smitten puppy. Frydan had cheered joyously whenever she would best Byragore in one of the endless contests the pair had contrived to enhance their skills...most of which Ynathreen had won. The boy had grown to idolize her and now a cruel twist of fate had forced her to stand in judgment of his fate...all because of his father's villainy.

He was watching her through large blue eyes that were alight with terror...as if seeing her for the first time. How piteously small he seemed as he clung to his mother's hip. The cry for swift and merciless vengeance droned incessantly in her mind...an insatiable craving to extract payment in kind for the savage injustice visited upon Satheer. Against this litany of bloody retribution, there was balanced an exhortation to view this situation...dispassionately, through the eyes of a woman worthy to bear the mantle of queen. Frydan was in no way complicit in his father's calumny. He was the same child who had always worshipped and adored her.

' _Are you not striving to reinvent the Redian psyche...to cast off the old predilection and view the very nature of life from a radically different perspective...where logic and leniency govern every action taken?'_ It had been the voice of Muragren who had posed this impassioned query in her mind and Ynathreen wondered if the Fairmarch academic possessed the faculty to exert an influence over her very thoughts. _'If this is truly what you aspire to achieve, let the rendering of this judgment be the first step in the journey.'_

Watching the mother and child cower before her, Ynathreen gleaned that she had come to a definitive juncture in her young life. She could succumb to the primal lust for retribution or she could provide a striking example of the new _sensibility_ she wished to instill in the new Redia.

Something in her posture must have conveyed her raging war of ambivalence to Muragren because the older woman discreetly laid her fingertips on Ynathreen's muscular tricep. Addressing Mirinair in a withering, glacial tone that might well have frozen fire, the clan chief commanded, "Approach and kneel!"

The woman's grime-smeared face contorted into an expression of loathing, but she quickly complied, pulling the whimpering Frydan after her. At the foot of the dais, she sank to her knees, her deference giving way to a grim resignation. She looked directly into Ynathreen's face and pleaded, "Do what you wish to me...but please don't hurt my son." Morosely, she added, "You've already killed the other two...let this one live."

Seething with disdain, Ynathreen rose and growled, "Eldryc was a vile swine...very much like the coward who spawned him. I did not kill Byragore. You asked for mercy? Did your husband grant Satheer mercy when he left her guts strewn across the snow?"

As she posed this query, Ynathreen's voice had become an infuriated rumble and her color had deepened to the scarlet of pure fury.

Frydan caused her burgeoning rage to evaporate by stepping in front of his mother and wailing, "Please Yna...don't hurt my mommy!"

Ynathreen repressed her urge to hug the frightened child, steeling herself against any external display of weakness. She understood that it would be perceived by all present...people who routinely regarded compassion and mercy as signs of weakness...as an inherent failing. She kept her tone deliberately glacial. "Come here, Frydan."

The boy drew back against his mother, his expressive blue eyes growing as large as saucers. Mirinair whimpered and hugged the boy tighter, clearly anticipating an act of horrifying brutality. Patiently, Ynathreen extended a long arm and repeated her command, though in a substantially milder tone. She even managed a smile of reassurance that never touched her storm-fraught eyes. "Come to Yna, Frydan...you will come to no harm by my hand."

Something in the daunting girl's tone must have placated both. The mother and the child exchanged nervous glances. Mirinair bestowed an ardent kiss on the boy's cheek, beamed a smile of encouragement through her tears and gently pushed the trembling child toward Ynathreen.

He stumbled toward her on legs made wooden by trepidation, his open, innocent face contorted by terror.

' _This is the world our fathers have wrought,'_ Ynathreen thought, suffused by an intense pang of shame over having inspired this poor child's fear, _'but it is one that I will see reduced to ash...or perish in the attempt.'_

When Frydan finally reached her, Ynathreen drew the boy to her, ruffled his mane of unruly blond hair and then guided him to the clearly nonplused Muragren. The younger woman conveyed a silent plea with her eyes and discerning Ynathreen's intent, the Fairmarch slave drew the boy to her, enfolding him protectively in her embrace. If it was Ynathreen's intention to harm the child, Muragren decided spontaneously, it would be achieved only after she had died attempting to defend him.

Muragren was about to discover that this grim contingency would not be necessary. Ynathreen was about to demonstrate the first startling example of her incisive grasp or the concept of compassionate justice...an exhibition that would make an astounded Muragren perceive the extraordinary woman in an entirely different light. Her action would also have the added benefit of securing the Fairmarch academic's enduring loyalty and devotion.

Ynathreen turned back to the cowering Mirinair, her vitiated expression slipping over her face like a veil. Pointing at a spot directly at her feet, Ynathreen commanded, "Crawl to me on your hands and knees."

The proud Redian glowered, her innate pride flaring in her tear-reddened eyes, but it quickly faltered in the face of the fearsome girl's implacable gaze. Sobbing in abjection, the once fastidious Mirinair began to crawl across the cold stone...her head hanging like a demoralized dog. Reaching out with a hand that trembled like a sapling before a gale, the broken woman adjured, "Please don't let my son witness my death."

By way of response, Ynathreen snapped one of her throwing axes out of its iron holder. She brandished it menacingly while glaring down upon the defenseless woman at her feet. The moment drew itself out as the assembly tensed in anticipation of the blood-letting that was certainly to follow. Ynathreen allowed the moment to linger dramatically, poised on the cusp of ugly impending violence. She understood that this needless bit of theatrics was ineffably cruel, just as it was motivated by the profound grief of an orphaned girl who had just lost her parents...one to tragedy and the other to treachery...in a short span of time.

Luxuriating in Mirinair's dread for an instant longer, Ynathreen inhaled deeply and would deliver the utterance that would come to define her as a future queen. "Kiss my blade as a sign of fealty to your new clan chief and there need be no further death on this day."

The startled collective gasp that filled the audience chamber served as a perfect compliment to Mirinair's expression of absolute incredulity. During her three days in the dungeons, the once proud Redian had reconciled herself to the inevitability of her gruesome death at the hands of Ghordrian's savage offspring. Her only hope for facing her demise with grace had been finding a way that she could prevent Frydan from sharing her fate. Suspicion had quickly replaced disbelief and Mirinair became convinced that this offer of clemency was a cruel jape...a way of prolonging her torment. Yet, as she peered up into those luminous blue eyes, the once aloof Redian could discern neither guile nor satisfaction...only a burgeoning impatience.

With trembling hands, the once proud Mirinair gingerly gripped the axe head and bestowed a lingering kiss on the cool steel. Then, in a clear, unequivocal voice, she offered her vow of fealty to the girl who had spared her life. "I swear, on the souls of my ancestors, a vow of perpetual fealty to Ynathreen...Clan Chief of Elderspire and rightful heir to house Ghordrian!"

This unexpected dispensation was greeted by a heavily nuanced silence, yet Ynathreen could clearly hear the disappointment of those who had come in hopes of witnessing an orgy of bloody retribution.

' _Don't worry, bastards...you'll watch me spill rivers of blood before I bend you to my will,'_ Ynathreen thought angrily, although her expression remained impassive. To a bemused Mirinair, she instructed, "Rise and hear my judgment."

The bewildered woman rose and stood meekly, regarding the indecipherable creature who held her fate and the fate of her son in those powerful hands. "On the matter of Frydan, scion of Frydryck's disgraced house...he shall become my ward. He shall live and be raised in my house, where he shall be educated and invested with the knowledge required to be worthy of a person of his station in the Redia I shall create. I will personally undertake his martial training and on my honor, Mirinair, you can rest assured that, while he may suffer the occasional bruise, Frydan will come to no harm while under my protection. On his eighteenth name day, he will be released from my care and will take his place as the patriarch of his house and all lands and holding of that house shall be his."

The future queen fell silent, allowing the flummoxed Mirinair to resolve the war of ambivalence that furrowed her smooth brow. Behind those shrewd, tilted eyes there raged a conflict between gratitude and the realization that she was losing her only remaining son. Marshaling her remaining temerity, she inquired, "Will I...be allowed to see him...from time to time?"

"If I am convinced that you are sincere in your oath of fealty to my house...then you will be permitted to visit my ward," Ynathreen returned coldly. Mirinair blanched, the ramifications of those last two words not lost on the sly creature. "Now, on the matter of your fate...my first inclination is to condemn you to a lifetime of washing my soiled underclothing and emptying out my brimming chamber pot." She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile at the stricken reaction this garnered from the once proud woman. "Yet, I see yours as a situation in which I can illustrate the distinct difference between justice and vengeance. In the Redia that I will mold, a woman...a family...will not be made accountable for an individual's crimes." Here Ynathreen paused and added ominously, "Unless they are found to be complicit in those crimes. In the new Redia, every perceived offense will not be met by an orgy of blood-letting. Justice will supplant violent retaliation...which yields nothing but enduring enmity."

She turned back to Mirinair, who appeared to quiver beneath Ynathreen's unnerving gaze. "Mirinair, I appoint you steward of your husband's lands and holdings...which you will manage and direct until Frydan is of an age to assume his rightful role as house patriarch."

The woman drew herself erect with this stunning pronouncement, though her restored dignity was mitigated by the harsh light that blazed in the barbarian girl's eyes.

Ynathreen offered the wary woman a pale facsimile of a smile, before stepping around her and dismissing the assembly. "Go and reflect upon what you have witnessed this day. In the coming days, I will meet with each house patriarch individually. We must begin the process of crafting a united posture to confront whatever new reality might exist beyond our borders."

With this, the audience hall emptied quickly and in absolute silence. Ynathreen was privately disheartened to see that most faces were branded with bitterness and subtle contempt. The lesson she had attempted to impart on this day would be lost upon most...for whom the code of violence was too deeply entrenched to be easily extirpated. She watched as the last Redian exited the hall and then turned to Muragren. "Bring Frydan to the kitchen and make sure he has a special treat." She smiled down at the boy, who was small and delicate by Redian standards. "After he has eaten, he will return to me here in the hall. I would speak to Mirinair privately."

A flicker of disquiet sparked in Muragren's expressive gray eyes, but she bowed and quickly complied, leading a docile Frydan away by the hand.

' _Ah, you know me all too well, Muragren,'_ Ynathreen thought as she fought to keep a tight rein on her roiling emotions.

Mirinair must have sense something of the barbarian girl's inner turbulence because she began to back warily away. Ynathreen growled deep in her chest and seized the stricken woman's throat in a constricting vice. She then threw the Redian woman over her left shoulder and marched over to the dueling sands, kicking over benches in her path while carrying a protesting Mirinair as if she was little more than a sack of grain.

When she stepped onto the dueling sand, Ynathreen slammed the struggling woman to the ground and sat down heavily astride her chest. Coiling Mirinair's long hair around her mailed fist, she jerked the thoroughly terrified woman's head back and leaned forward until their noses were literally pressed together. "Don't think I'm deceived for a minute, bitch. I know full well that Frydryck kept you apprised of every detail of his odious plotting and scheming. Being the sly harlot you are, I have little doubt that you manipulated the cockless bastard into believing that it was his inherent right to succeed my father.

She drew back and ran her tongue over Mirinair's face, leaving the tight flesh glistening with saliva. The older woman squeezed her eyes shut and squeaked a cry of revulsion. "I know you have always regarded me as little more than a filthy animal...not fit to play with your precious sons." Squeezing Mirinair's throat for emphasis, Ynathreen rasped, "You have no idea how badly I want to prove you right at this moment and soil the sand with your blood."

She slapped the woman's contorted face...forehand and backhand...hard enough to draw blood. The sight of the cowering woman's blood...a rich claret...caused Ynathreen to shudder involuntarily. She abruptly sat back on her haunches and closed her eyes, listening to the other woman's wretched weeping and waiting for the thundering rush of blood in her temples to subside.

After a protracted moment, she rolled to her right and came gracefully to her feet. She then extended a long arm to Mirinair, who regarded it dubiously, before finally allowing the powerful young girl to haul her upright. When Ynathreen next spoke, her tone was subdued, "I had no right to strike you, Mirinair. I have always regarded you as a pretentious peacock and so I am just as guilty as harboring unfair prejudices. I fervently hope that we can put old spites behind us and you will permit your example to serve as a founding stone for the new Redia."

Mirinair gingerly dabbed at her bloody nose with a sleeve of her dirty gown. "You were sincere in your claim to protect Frydan?"

"With my life...if that is what's required," Ynathreen promised solemnly and then added, "Just as I will protect you from the marauders who will look to exploit Frydryck's death. I will protect the integrity of your lands and holdings...and in return, you will give me your unwavering loyalty and trust, if not your friendship."

Mirinair arched a finely tapered eyebrow at this final sentiment. The notion that she could ever regard the creature who had slaughtered her husband and son with anything other than black hatred was unthinkable...and yet, "I know that Frydryck was an ethically bankrupt man, who allowed ambition to twist him into something devious and dangerous. Nor was I delusional enough not to realize that Eldryc was a depraved, warped monster." She hesitated and Ynathreen could clearly gauge how exorbitantly painful this unexpected candor had been. Mirinair's face congealed into a knot of misery and she wailed, "But Byragore did not deserve to die the way he did. He was a good son...with a noble heart."

Ynathreen gritted her teeth and nodded fiercely, fighting desperately to repress the tears the recollection of his mangled corpse wanted to evoke. Gripping Mirinair's right shoulder as if trying to communicate the sincerity of her vow through the tactile weight of her touch, Ynathreen conjured the hated half-Ulgak's image as she offered her fierce declaration." I promise that I will see the one responsible for Byragore's murder lying dead at my feet. The world is in a dreadful state of flux and it may require time, but the day will come when I will avenge your son's death."

"Then you have my loyalty," Mirinair promised gravely, "and perhaps even my friendship...given time. I did, in truth, regard you as a crude beast, but I see now that my judgment was harsh. I see now that you are an extraordinary young woman. Perhaps you would accept this snippet of advice, garnered from the wisdom of years. If you embark on this path you seem determined to travel...you will walk with knives perpetually poised at your back. Though you aspire to deliver this rabble from their own folly...you may expect little gratitude."

The two women regarded each other intently...an in that moment of perfect empathy that passed between them, all of their prior grievances were washed away. In a voice made thick with emotion, Ynathreen replied, "Still, I have no choice but to try...if only to honor my father's memory. I'm sorry for striking you and I would not have Frydan see his mother in this state. Go home and compose yourself. I will have Muragren bring your son to you after he is finished in the kitchen. Tomorrow, you can escort him to his new home. In the coming days, you and I will discuss how best to protect your house."

Mirinair conjured a wan smile. She then offered her new Clan Chief a bow, turned and stumbled away on wooden legs, all arrogance now gone from her imperious stride. Feeling unaccountably dejected, Ynathreen shifted her gaze to the bloody sand, where she had killed an emasculated the brute who symbolized every daunting obstacle that now stood before her.

3

She remained in this exact position...rigid in her study of her act of unspeakably brutal violence...until Muragren returned. The woman entered the empty hall, where even the quietest of sounds echoed like thunder, with stealth that would have made a shadow assassin proud. It occurred to the perceptive Ynathreen that moving about unnoticed...remaining beneath the line of scrutiny...was a survival mechanism that the enslaved must develop should they wish to see emancipation. That Muragren, a woman of such delicate grace, had been forced to acquire this skill, caused Ynathreen's heart to clench painfully in her chest.

' _And yet how many times have you struck her as if she was little more than a mangy cur?'_ she castigated herself, disgusted by the flagrant hypocrisy this odious abuse represented.

That self-loathing grew geometrically when Muragren intoned, "Ynathreen...are you...well?"

She turned to face the Fairmarch academic and upon seeing the expression of genuine concern that adorned Muragren's pallid face, the girl's façade of regal composure crumbled.

Collapsing to her knees, she buried her face in her large hands and began to weep unabashedly.

The slender Muragren stood utterly still, paralyzed by this powerful creature's unexpected display of vulnerability and raw emotion. It suddenly occurred to her that she was witnessing the heart-rending suffering of a young girl who had lost her entire family and upon whom an incomprehensible weight of obligation had been placed.

She rushed over to the weeping girl, knelt beside her and laid a tentative hand upon Ynathreen's bulging right bicep. The girl's head jerked up and she wailed piteously, "I...I don't want to become a monster!"

"You won't Ynathreen," Muragren assured her fiercely. "Today, you've demonstrated an understanding of the intricacies of rule that few kings and queens have ever managed to obtain during their entire reign. You vehemently rejected the compulsion to lash out in the name of vengeance and allowed logic and vision to guide your actions."

"Oh, but how I wanted to, Muragren," Ynathreen interjected tearfully. "When Mirinair was kneeling before me, I wanted nothing more than to cleave her skull with my axe."

"But you didn't!" Muragren countered passionately. "Why? Whatever the thing was that prevented you from acting on that savage impulse...that is the quality that you must conjure whenever you feel the urge to surrender to your inner darkness."

Through the distorting lens of tears, Ynathreen glanced up at Muragren and whispered, "It was you...the thing that restrained me from doing those monstrous things...it was you."

For a prolonged instant, Muragren was robbed of the faculty of speech, but then the girl's candid misgivings banished the last of her misgivings from her mind. "Then let me guide you toward the Redia that your father carried with him to his grave. You possess the heart and courage of a lioness. Permit me to instill in you the sensibilities to be the greatest ruler this country has ever known,"

"Teach me, Muragren," Ynathreen pleaded. The older woman nodded vigorously and the future queen drew her mentor into an embrace.

Chapter Forty-Two

1

Islena scorched Myrhia with one further belligerent scowl and pivoting on legs that felt weak and strangely boneless, stumbled back into the sorry stone gullet that had been Yrildretch's home for sixty centuries. As she drifted along the cold corridor of ancient stone...primitive and feral in her gore-spattered nudity...Islena felt like an automaton. Her identity...the illusion of her banal life...was a cracked and chipped façade that was crumbling away with every step she took.

Stopping to examine the black and smoldering detritus of Myrhia's armor, Islena was surprised by the ambivalence she felt as she went to confront her next juncture of apotheosis. Where once she had dreaded the prospect of ascension, now she viewed it through a filter of confused, discordant emotions.

' _Set your doubts aside, Islena_ ,' the shadow incarnation whispered...a sibilant hiss from the roiling recesses of her turbulent mind _. 'When you have attained the power of creation, you may forge whatever life you see fit.'_

"A Fallible Goddess," Islena murmured, as though mesmerized by the concept. This peculiar moniker caused Doraux's taut flesh to rise into hackles...even as her heart began to beat faster of its own accord. _'So my natural reluctance has relented to what...a tentative acceptance?'_ Islena could not say definitively, but she did have to admit that the prospect of losing her identity...along with all of its trapping...was not nearly as terrifying as it had once been.

"A fallible goddess," she repeated with a sardonic smirk twisting her full lips. "That's a fuck of a lot better than _the enduring sorrow!"_

Islena reached a point where the tunnel narrowed significantly and forced her to turn sideways to continue forward. The press of cold stone against her broad back and buttocks left Islena feeling claustrophobic, but she pushed doggedly forward.

Eventually, she squeezed through a particularly narrow pinch point...only to find herself confronted by a solid stone wall.

"Dead End!" she muttered, feeling her spirit plummet. That dejected naturally segued into angry frustration and Islena thrust her two palms against the wall...only to watch the seemingly solid obstacle dissolve in a swirl of smoke.

She shook her head in bemusement, wondering why anyone would squander their time erecting such flimsy illusions. These concerns were reduced to meaningless trivialities the instant she entered the roughly circular chamber. The chamber was suffused by a concentration of power so intense that the simple act of drawing breath became onerous. Islena could feel her powerful body respond to the sheer magnitude of the energy contained within this small enclosure.

Her nipples had gone turgid and her body was reacting to the proximity of the orb in a manner that was akin to the anticipation of wildly erotic pleasure.

In her mind, the shadow incarnation emitted an ululating cry of pure ecstasy. Though this was not especially surprising, Islena was shocked to hear this reaction echoed along the long line of incarnations. Even the refined and elegant Guinevere could be heard panting in response to the siren's song of inestimable power.

At the opposite side of the circular chamber, a crudely fashioned wooden box sat atop a narrow stone table. Pure argent light, blinding in magnitude, leaked through the gap between the ill-fitting lid and the chest.

The cumulative puissance was whispering to her...seductive and irresistible. This evocative response recalled images of her first encounter with the Dragonsword...augmented a thousand times over.

"If I open that box...what will I become?" Islena inquired in a voice made shrill by trepidation.

' _Why not find out?'_ the shadow incarnation suggested slyly. All conscious thought vanished then and Islena stumbled across the uneven stone floor with her right arm extended before her like a penitent seeking salvation. Her trembling fingers reached for the lid, and after the briefest hesitation, Islena Doraux...the Daughter of the Tempest...threw it open.

She next found herself peering down into a silver-hued well to infinity. The power of the Metocan orb flared and Islena Doraux knew no more.

2

Myrhia was completely attuned to the coalescing forces in the frigid air of the clearing. She stared unblinkingly at the head and body of the ancient keeper...even as the emboldened Morgana decried her edict to drive Islena to murder as foolish. ' _Do you not think this unpredictable creature will seek some measure of retaliation? Cruelty without purpose, born out of spite, is a precursor to madness. You know this all too well.'_

Myrhia ignored this stinging reproof, her normally composed mind abuzz with a swarm of persistent questions. The most perplexing and alarming of these was...how had Islena been able to divest herself of the armor? She had purposefully invested the gemstones with enough arcane energy to hold Islena in a vice of immobility. Yet, in defiance of all logic, she had managed to remove the armor.

On the heels of that came another disturbing query...what exactly did transpire between Islena and the old crone in the moments before Doraux had separated her head from her shoulders.

' _That, indeed, is the salient question and the resolution of our eternal drama will hinge upon your ability to divine the answer,'_ the spider cooed teasingly, causing the enchantress to grimace at the unsolicited pearl of wisdom.

Not for the first time since Islena had given her surrender on the western shore there came the strident admonition to flee. A fraught voice...one that she did not recognize...implored her to abandon her carefully nurtured machinations and simply ride away. Let Islena Doraux stumble blindly toward her apotheosis, while insuring that she was as far away as space and time would allow...when that disastrous juncture came to pass.

The voice was so forceful, its raw trepidation so compelling, that Myrhia actually cast a lingering, wistful glance in the direction of the decline down which she had come to this fateful moment.

In an instant of unprecedented uncertainty, the supremely confident enchantress experienced the debilitating sting of doubt. _'Yours could be a future of boundless prospects, where nothing would lie beyond your ability to attain...not even redemption.'_

It was that last prospect, seemingly so impossible as to be ludicrous given all of the woe and suffering she had sewn over the course of her ignoble existence...that spurred her to turn her horse toward the rise.

The Mother of Iniquity had actually started along this once inconceivable path and with the smile that bloomed on her exquisite face came a burgeoning seed of emancipation. Suddenly, a blinding horizontal shaft of argent light seared the dull afternoon sky above her.

From its argent depths, a single figure...at once familiar and yet so utterly alien...and all tempting illusions vanished like the capricious fantasies they were.

3

A light dusting of snow drifted down into the training yard, which was deserted save for a pair of female Jerhia and Lorio. The two Jerhia sparred with shields and wooden practice swords; their fluid strikes and counter-strikes ringing out over the snowy pitch. Both stole surreptitious glances at the enigmatic immortal who trained at the opposite end of the pitch. Clad in her intimidating red armor, Lorio moved like a dervish of perfect violence. She had arranged a series of dummies in a circle and then set about attacking _the assailants_ with an indefatigable grace and precision that left the pair of veteran Jerhia in awe.

Her staff was a perpetual motion blur, shifting forward, backward and laterally to meet an endless tide of imaginary attackers. Since the day she had declined Arminda's offer to be sequestered out of Othgol, Lorio had adopted a routine of utter solitude which she followed without deviation.

She would rise, don Islena's hateful armor, collect her staff and train in the yard until the last of the light had bled from the unrelentingly gray sky. She would then return to her chamber, bathe and dress in her customary uniform of black. Though she was immune to the influence of the elements, Lorio would complete the attire with a black hooded cloak which would provide her with a small measure of anonymity. Then she would wander the wind and snow swept streets of Othgol, allowing her feet to lead her where they may. Only when she heard the final bell of the day toll would she return to the compound and seek temporary refuge in the state the passed for sleep in one of her kind.

"But what exactly am I?" she inquired of the deserted thoroughfare along which she drifted like a specter. Like most of the questions that plagued her life, Lorio could produce no answer for this mystery. Yet, it was not the matter of her puzzling identity that tormented the immortal. Somehow, she managed to keep her roiling inner turbulence concealed behind a wall of inscrutable reticence. As promised, Artumas had visited her on several occasions, ostensibly to keep her apprised of the state of preparations for the return trek to Emercia. Lorio had refrained from comment during these meetings, and Artumas had come away with a mounting concern for the deceptively fragile creature.

As Lorio wandered aimlessly through the night-shrouded, empty streets, her awareness focused inward, it was Arminda's final revelation that accosted her thoughts.

In Natzurdan, Islena would face the definitive test of her spiritual integrity. She would be judged worthy of wielding the staff of Natzurdan...or she would be eternally entombed. While the prospect of Islena's demise filled Lorio with a dread too vast to contemplate, it was not this horrifying consideration which threatened to eviscerate her...to plunge her into a morass of despair from which there could be no escape.

Arminda had been virtually euphoric to inform her that this Natzurdan ruse had effectively rolled the weight of obligation from her shoulders. She was now free to live her own life...to disentangle from what Arminda regarded as the blight of Islena Doraux's aura. She could even give herself over to the fairytale life that awaited her in Esuruban's arms and bed.

Unlike Arminda, the capacity to place any stock in fairytales had been ground to ashes and dust beneath the remorseless boot of what passed for her life.

The only enduring truth Lorio had left to cling to was Islena's need for her. If circumstances had rendered that need redundant, then Islena might no longer require her company...might discard her like a useless bit of detritus. This prospect filled her with a terror so immense that the immortal could scarcely draw breath when she pondered it too long.

What Arminda viewed as emancipation, the stricken Lorio perceived as yet another opportunity for abandonment...though this would be the one she would never survive.

Eventually, after nights of torturous introspection, Lorio decided that she would not share Arminda's disclosure with Islena. A part of her understood that this constituted a monumental act of betrayal, motivated by blatant selfishness. If Islena proved flawed or unworthy...an eventuality that was highly probable, given all that Lorio had witnessed...Doraux would be transformed into living wood, her consciousness still fully functional.

While this was a fate that was cruel beyond all imagining, Lorio decided that it was preferable to being cast aside.

' _So you would rather see the woman you claim to love consigned to eternal torment, than risk being rejected if you are forthcoming?'_ the voice of the hateful Otaru Ree demanded incredulously. _'That is a degree of selfish that even a goddess cannot fathom.'_

And so it was from this maelstrom of guilt and desperate need that Lorio sought sanctuary as she poured her soul into her incessant training.

She was in the process of executing a complex series of spinning strikes, when the immortal was stricken by a tidal wave of pure arcane energy. It ravaged her from along the ephemeral tether she shared with Islena; a sensory overload that caused every fiber in her body to contract painfully and then lose all consistency as if her flesh had suddenly been turned to jelly.

She had been beset in mid pivot and as her muscles lost their integrity, Lorio twisted in a boneless sprawl. Her quarterstaff went spinning off into the loose snow, while her long legs became entangled, spilling the unconscious immortal onto her face. She lay twitching violently for several seconds and then went utterly still.

The two Jerhia stopped their contest and hurried over to the fallen immortal. Both had been sent to the yard at Arminda's behest. Worried by Lorio's increasing reticence, the Tier Marshal had dispatched the two women to keep a watchful eye on the increasingly erratic Lamish beauty.

They knelt on either side of the immortal and warily rolled Lorio onto her back. The senior of the pair gingerly removed the immortal's helm and cradled her head in the crook of her elbow. It took only one glance at Lorio's lovely countenance, with its vacant eyes and slack jaw, to discern that her condition was grave.

She dispatched the other Jerhia to retrieve the Tier Marshal and then resumed her study of the terrifying creature's lovely face.

A spark of cognizance flared in the immortal's large, dark eyes and she murmured dolefully, "Islena is gone."

Then the abyss opened beneath her and Lorio spiraled down into the void.

4

A massive storm had laid siege to the world. Winds howled over its face with unconstrained fury and the heavens were blighted by massive clouds hued in every spectrum of despair. All around her, sizzling bolts of lightening crackled, filling the spring air with the acrid stench of burning ozone.

The bolts flashed with a brilliance the magnitude of which should have seared the very eyes from her skull. The thunder was a fulminating, viscera-quaking rumble that was deafening as it rolled through the heavens. Despite the apocalyptic scope of this terrifying storm, she hurtled through the roiling sky with total impunity...an ephemeral entity that was immune to the mindless fury of the elements.

She was uncertain as to how she had come to be in the midst of the tempest, but some deeper inkling intimated that her current circumstances were a metaphor for her cracked and crumbing identity. Her very soul had become a vortex of perpetual flux.

"Daughter of the Tempest," an omnipresent voice declared above the cacophony of the storm. "This is _your_ Tabula Rasa. Here, your formative consciousness is a churning gyre. Whatever you may evolve to become finds its roots...its genesis here...in this environment of eternal upheaval."

The diaphanous figure shook her head uncomprehendingly, wondering how anything could possibly find stability on the foundation of such discord. If this was truly a metaphor for her true nature...for the state of her soul...then her life would never know stability or contentment. The tempest in her essence would always preclude this possibility.

While she passed through the lumbering clouds, the figure discerned the presence of others in the storm. Squinting against the gale and pervasive gloom, Islena (that was the name by which she was now known) was disconcerted to discover that the clouds were ripe to bursting with floating bodies...all bloated, moldering corpses in various states of decay. Watching this ghostly procession of the dead, bolts of lightening would occasionally strike one of these drifting corpses. They would burst apart upon impact in a spectacular geyser of gore...only to reassemble and resume their seemingly purposeless journey through the tempest.

"Look closely, daughter," the ubiquitous voice instructed, "Do you not recognize the flotsam of your cataclysmic journey? These are the victims of your volatile, erratic nature...collateral damage along the path you have blazed through the ages. They are eternally condemned to trail after you like the detritus in a comet's wake. Take careful note of this woeful spectacle, Daughter of the Tempest...for if you do not achieve mastery of this internal storm, you will choke the realities...every parallel stream of existence...with the fodder of those you destroy."

She willed herself closer to this aimlessly drifting procession, though her subsequent scream of negation was lost beneath the titanic, sustained rumbled of thunder. In an explosion of crystalline insight that threatened to ignite her, Islena discerned that her unseen tour guide had spoken the incontestable and absolute truth.

They were all there...everyone with whom she had shared the pivotal junctures of her innumerable, toxic lives.

Ben, Donald and Allan; she tolled the living ornaments of her latest incarnation...all set pieces in her hollow charade. There were others as well...every one having fallen victim to the simple misfortune of having crossed her path; Dominique Normandy, Marla Holmes, Amrand, and the gentle Metocan...Emian had been his name.

This entity that was embodied by Islena Doraux had consumed them and laid them all to waste. Even if it had not been her conscious intention, she had been a lethal detriment to everyone she'd ever known.

She uttered a doleful plea for this morbid parade to desist, but on they came in numbers too great to contemplate. Through the cumulative memories of her incarnations, she was intimately familiar with them all...every name and vacuous face. To a one, they had all been undone by their entanglement with the Daughter of the Tempest.

Then, predictably she supposed, came the ultimate indictment against her wretched existence. Lorio floated toward her, but unlike the others, who drifted by in horizontal postures of death, the beautiful immortal floated upright...eternally crucified on the invisible cross of her affection. Her once exquisite body was ravaged...its long limbs piteously thin.

Only her great dark eyes were alive and set upon Islena in an accusatory glare. Doraux whimpered and exhorted, "Please, make this stop. If there is any way to avert this...or make expiation for what has been done, please tell me!"

"You must cast aside all ambivalence and resolve the dichotomy that fuels this perpetual tempest of your soul. Then, you must embrace one of the two paths that beckon you forth...without reservation or regret. Yet, whether you become a fallible goddess or choose the way of enduring sorrow, do so secure in the knowledge that either choice will see an end to this odious cycle of tragedy."

Before Islena could pose one of the myriad of questions that buzzed in the confines of her frantic mind, the argent light flared like an exploding sun, taking all perception with it.

5

When lucidity next returned, Islena found that she was kneeling at the bottom of a shaft. The shaft was perfectly circular and rose up...seemingly to infinity...in a series of stepped tiers. Intense beams of white light illuminated the sides of the construct, each set along the circumference of the shaft at regular intervals.

Though her gaze could not penetrate the thick shadows beyond the solid stone railing of each tier, Islena sensed instinctively that each was filled with unseen observers.

Their collective scrutiny weighted upon her like a palpable touch and conveyed the impression of judgment...or deliberation. Infuriated, Islena's volatile nature asserted herself then and she sprang to her feet. Brazenly naked, with her fists clenched along her granite thighs, Islena tossed her fiery mane and challenged, "Fuck your judgment! I did not ask for this and I refuse to apologize for anything I've done as a consequence."

"Quell your rampant emotions, Islena," the placid voice of Yrildretch recommended mildly, filling the chamber like a warm breeze. "Set aside your impulsive belligerence and open your mind to the true nature of what you are seeing. Still your thoughts and let all that is being offered wash over you like a balm. Find within your conflicted heart the grace to accept my people's gift and the wisdom to utilize that gift to good and noble advantage.

Never one to adhere to new age babble about inner tranquility, Islena glowered, but that impatience quickly relented before the storm of impatience that Yrildretch's voice roused.

Islena closed her eyes and concentrated on the seeming cacophony of sounds that filled the chamber. At first, her senses were accosted by a discordant tangle of voices, all speaking in the same tedious monotone...bereft of inflection or emotion. Her agile mind attempted to disentangle the threads by perceiving them as effulgent aural ribbons tumbling around her from the heights.

Steeling herself in anticipation of the consequences, Islena reached out and seized the nearest undulating ribbon.

The reaction was immediate and dramatic. The ribbon became a luminous silver strand, filling the shaft with blinding light. The effect on Islena was similar to grasping a live high voltage wire. The _current_ flowed through Islena's powerful body like a raging river. Every muscle in her body contracted into a livid knot, standing out in sharply defined relief. Her back arched and she threw her head back to reveal a bulging throat that appeared on the verge of unleashing a thunderous cry...though of agony or ecstasy, it was impossible to be certain.

This rampant current rolled through her body like a juggernaut, decimating all of the superfluous dross that had constituted much of Islena Doraux's nature. When it slammed into her brain, this current began to fill the empty registers of her mind with a very precise form of esoteric knowledge. After an interminable moment, the flow abruptly terminated and the ribbon vanished.

Doraux gasped and staggered drunkenly about the floor, but even as her body trembled in the aftermath of her ordeal, her right hand involuntarily reached out and clutched the nearest ribbon.

Again and again, she subjected herself to this cataclysmic process of inculcation. While each new discipline was inculcated onto the fabric of Islena's mind, much of her prior memory was ruthlessly expunged to accommodate the new content. This process went on and on. Islena's powerful body jerked spastically...like a marionette under the control of a deranged puppeteer.

By the time that the tiered chamber had gone dark and the final voice had fallen silent, the new Islena Doraux's face was beaming a beatific grin of pure satisfaction.

6

When she made a full return to cognizance, Islena found that she was lying flat on her back, next to the empty chest, and staring up at the shadowy roof of the tunnel.

The second thing she became aware of was the vastly augmented acuity with which she perceived her surroundings. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped continuously, but the sound reached Islena's ears like echoing thunder. The tunnel was steeped in total darkness like the inside of a sealed tomb, but somehow Islena could clearly discern every wrinkle in the stone that enveloped her.

There were other substantial changes as well...interior alterations that left Islena feeling disoriented and anxious. She could feel a tremendous and conspicuous absence, but it required a moment before she could identify that sense of _vacancy_. Then it struck her and she uttered a gasp.

"Guinevere?" she murmured, fearing that no response would be forthcoming.

' _I'm...here,'_ the legendary queen confirmed in a ponderous tone that conveyed the full extent of her disquiet. In a stark, horrified voice, she added, _'but the others...they are...gone; displaced by the massive repository of knowledge that has been ingrained in your mind. I feel their absence as if layers of our soul have been...stripped away.'_

Islena was suffused by an incisive sting of loss, but chose to focus instead on the compensatory sensation of immeasurable power that was now arrayed at her fingertips. "Rest easy, Guinevere...all will be as it should." With a mordant grin, she added, "I can't say I'll particularly miss that abrasive bitch, Agraria."

Guinevere fell into an uneasy silence, obviously not sharing Islena's sanguine acceptance of this obliteration of their shared identity. There was another facet of this radical metamorphosis that filled Islena with delight...all traces of the demented shadow incarnation had been purged from her consciousness.

' _You must cast aside all ambivalence...resolve the dichotomy that fuels the perpetual tempest of your soul.'_

These words reverberated through her mind, granted an entirely new meaning in the clarifying light of epiphany. The shadow incarnation had been naught but a smoke and mirrors construct...a fabrication made manifest by her doubt and fear. This apparition, with its promise of rampant madness, had been nothing more than an illusory demon, born of her intransigent refusal to accept the truth of her genesis.

With this euphoric realization, Islena felt a mammoth millstone roll from her shoulders...sundering Myrhia's chain of abjection like the gossamer spider webs they were.

From the periphery of her euphoria, she could hear Guinevere issuing a cautionary plea against this facile perception, but Islena dismissed the legendary queen's misgivings.

Instead, she turned her consideration to the physical aspects of her latest transformation. Spreading her arms to the side, Islena willed herself upright, rising from the floor as if she was a lever and her heels were the fulcrum on which she turned. She achieved this minor feat without forethought, intuitively drawing the requisite knowledge from the Metocan arcane repository.

When she was standing, Islena giggled like a giddy schoolgirl.

Peering down the length of her body, Islena saw that she was now clad in a silver robe of some swirling, diaphanous material that constantly shifted from opaque to scandalously translucent and back with dizzying alacrity. Her only other article of clothing was a pair of knee high boots that appeared to be constructed of a harder version of the same ever-shifting material.

Yet, it was not these wondrous new garments that caused a thoroughly flummoxed Doraux to gasp in anxious bemusement. Her magical robe had been fashioned to plunge to her sternum and in the deep valley of her full breasts, a segment of the orb of Metocan protruded from her flesh.

Tentatively, she ran her fingers over the cool, curving surface, tracing the circumference where the arcane construct disappeared beneath the skin. A pulsing light flared and guttered from within the orb and it took a moment to glean that it cycled in perfect syncopation with the beating of her powerful heart.

Incredibly, the orb of Metocan had become embedded in Islena's flesh. The notion roused an amused grin to Islena's full lips and she whispered, "Oh mother, I do suspect you are going to be most displeased."

The anticipation of Myrhia's consternation caused Doraux to utter a chuckle. In all of her megalomania, had Myrhia ever foreseen the astounding turn of events that would lead them to this particular juncture? It was highly improbable, Islena reasoned as she studied her hands. Whatever control Myrhia believed she might exert over the course of events, it was now readily apparent that she had sorely miscalculated the way in which Islena's attaining the orb might unfold.

Islena wondered obliquely if the calculating schemer now privately wished that she had never plucked Islena from her mundane little life. Did she still harbor the conviction that she could somehow coerce or manipulate Islena to be her leashed Goddess? Was she really so monumentally arrogant...so unthinkably obtuse?"

Something in this particular thread of thought caused Islena to blink...an odd inconsistency that defied her momentarily. She held up her right hand with the palm facing her and automatically duplicated Myrhia's mirror feat without prior intent. Her face was still its customary amalgam of structurally perfect features, framed by a tumbling mane of cascading red curls. Yet it was her eyes that evoked an exclamation of shock and caused her fingers to flutter to her gaping mouth.

While the irises of her eyes were still their beguiling shade of green, both the cornea and the pupil of each eye now gleamed a striking silver...bestowing a decidedly alien aspect on Islena's lovely countenance.

Pursing her full lips, Islena dropped her hand and it was then that this peculiar physical change clarified the inconsistency that had troubled her moments before. On those rare occasions when Islena had allowed her thoughts to gravitate to her lost family...or more agonizing still, Allan caught in Myrhia's clutches...she would be consumed by grief...a sense of loss that left her virtually whimpering with sorrow.

Now, however, her mind had casually brushed over the reality of her lost life without even the slightest emotional tremor. She could conjure the images of her two sons and her pathetic, weak-willed husband...holding them up for inspection in vivid detail...but their visages evoked not the slightest hint of inner turmoil or emotional affinity. It could well have been that she had randomly visualized the images of three perfect strangers, glimpsed briefly during some chance crossing of paths. She groped to evoke a deeper, visceral reaction to their faces...these once treasured fixtures of her lost life, but try as she might, Islena could muster nothing beyond a sense of curiosity.

More astounding still was the realization that this inability caused her very little distress. It was almost as if the plight of those she had once held sacred was of very little concern to the entity she was destined to become.

' _And now you understand, Islena,'_ Guinevere remarked gravely, ' _that to become a goddess is to be divorced from your own identity...your integral humanity. In your heart, you once dreaded what this loss of humanity might entail. Now, I sense this is no longer the case.'_

Islena greeted Guinevere's reservations with a dismissive grumble and the legendary queen again lapsed into a mournful silence.

With a simple shaping of thought, Islena lifted from the stone floor and began to float toward the entrance. Taking stock of the changes that had befallen her, Doraux discerned that she was now viewing the world from a radically different perspective, seeing her position with an augmented clarity which was mercifully free of the foolish apprehensions and distorting anxieties of the self-possessed child she had once been. The baggage and encumbrances of her old life...detritus that had shackled her to stifling mediocrity...had been scoured away by the winds of this latest transition, leaving her free to embrace...omnipotence.

7

A thoroughly entranced Myrhia gazed up into the brooding afternoon sky as Islena, attired in an effulgent silver robe and boots, emerged into the dull light. Her sorcery-enhanced vision was drawn to the partially visible orb that was buried in the deep valley between Islena's breasts and she frowned in consternation. This unanticipated anomaly was the first indicator that Myrhia's carefully contrived machinations had gone seriously awry.

The orb had clearly bonded with Islena in an intimate fashion that defied all reason.

Myrhia's disquiet intensified dramatically when Islena stepped over the edge of the stairway and out into the void. Rather than plummet like a stone, Islena's heavily-muscled body drifted indolently downward as if she was a construct of smoke and gossamer threads.

She landed lightly on the balls of her feet, regarding the enchantress with inscrutable eyes that caused her to shudder perceptibly beneath the weight of this alien gaze.

Extending her cognizance toward Islena, Myrhia could glean no trace of the volatile, easily manipulated creature she'd so adeptly maneuvered in the past. The woman now standing before her bore only a physical resemblance to the supercilious plodder she had plucked into this dark drama.

The enchantress tensed expectantly as Islena closed the distance between them...her inscrutable face betraying nothing of her intention. Islena came to a sudden halt and extended her right arm with her fingers splayed open. In response to this summons, the Dragonsword shattered a startled Myrhia's restraints and leapt into Islena's outstretched hand.

Islena was immediately enveloped in a cocoon of light...vermillion and silver swirling together in a blinding magnitude that forced the enchantress to shield her eyes. Doraux's body contracted into a livid knot, before arching like a drawn bow. She laid back her head and bellowed a guttural moan of inarticulate, primal pleasure. When her reverberating cries subsided, the transfixed enchantress noticed that the rubies on the haft of the Dragonsword pulsed in perfect syncopation with the orb embedded between Islena's breasts.

The two collective bodies had merged in perfect harmony...an unexpected precursor to Islena's now seemingly inevitable ascension. Smiling her unfathomable new smile, Islena strode toward Myrhia, who quickly summoned her own emerald power and challenged, "Would you test me now, daughter?"

Undaunted by the adversarial edge in Myrhia's tone, Islena replied, "I wish only to test the pliability of those pouting lips, mother."

Myrhia's eyes widened at this nuanced rejoinder, but before she could do more, Islena surged forward and buried her right hand in the enchantress' raven tresses. She then pulled the smaller woman into a passionate kiss that dizzied her demure senses. After a moment, she released Myrhia, who stumbled away on rubbery legs with her head spinning from the ardor of Islena's kiss. Seeing how dramatically the enchantress had been disconcerted by the gesture, Doraux chuckled, "That was a rather impulsive expression of my gratitude, mother...for freeing me from the chains of my own mediocrity and apprehension. While your methods may have been...overbearing and needlessly harsh, the end result is more than fair recompense."

"I...I don't understand?" Myrhia stammered, suddenly wary of this unfathomable new embodiment of her eternally trying child. "What befell you in the crone's cave?"

"Illumination...amongst other things," Islena gushed with a significant twist of her generous mouth. "When you first abducted me...I wanted nothing more than to go home...to return to my old lackluster existence. That woefully misguided creature desired only to squander her life in pursuit of meaningless trinkets...a testimony to her pathetic lack of vision. You, mother, disabused me of that vapid nonsense...using the tools of pain and humiliation. Oh, how I wanted nothing more than to wrap my powerful hands around your throat and strangle the life out of you."

"And you expect me to believe that this has changed somehow?" Myrhia asked and though her tone was both dubious and mordant, her great dark eyes were alight with a speculative gleam.

"Absolutely! My attitude toward you...towards _everything_ has undergone a radical paradigm shift," the enigmatic creature exclaimed grandly. "I have now come to see that you have rescued me from the shackles of degenerative mediocrity and forced me to confront the destiny for which I was conceived. Feeling the raw power residing within me...unmitigated and mine to wield as I see fit...it is inconceivable that I could ever have chosen maternal obligation over deification. Yet, I would have...had it not been for you, mother. Your remorseless and incessant campaign to break me to your will has set my feet squarely on the path to omnipotence. For that, I am in your eternal debt."

She fell silent and her right hand rose slowly and caressed the enthralled Myrhia's prominent cheek bone...before sliding to her delicate throat. There, Islena's delicate fingers contracted and relented...contracted and relented...against the flawless white skin. Myrhia met the argent-tinged gaze unblinkingly and the fraught moment stretched out painfully. Finally, Islena inclined her head toward Myrhia's right ear and whispered, "I have no illusions, bitch. You did none of these things for my benefit. You seek absolute power vicariously...to be a puppet-master who pulls my strings. Yet you were not half as clever as your absurdly inflated ego led you to believe...were you?"

Shocked by her own unprecedented timidity, Myrhia merely nodded. In response, those powerful fingers constricted until the enchantress was gasping for breath. Islena's hand then dropped to the firm glory of Myrhia's right breast and resumed her gentle kneading. "Were you so blinded by the anticipation of power that you could not foresee that your tools of coercion would lose their currency? Do you really believe that a goddess could be swayed by the fate of a single child, a family...one inconsequential world awash with nattering insects?"

Myrhia's eyes grew comically wide, prompting Islena to growl, "Perhaps you had best turn the harsh light of introspection on your own perceptions and motivations...if you wish to have any prospect of a future beyond my ascension."

Myrhia swallowed at the dire warning implicit in this snippet of advice, but still managed, "So where does this leave us?"

Islena regarded the enchantress as if her query had been exceedingly inane. "Exactly where we both were before my great revelatory moment. You claim that you have eschewed you ambitions of power to serve as my advisor and I will take you at your word. I would recommend that you devote yourself to the task like a zealous cleric mother...unless you relish the prospect of obliteration. For the rest of the world, we will propagate the charade like the most gifted of thespians. I will be the vanquished, simpering subservient, who cowers beneath your stern gaze. You will continue to portray the menacing tyrant, whose penchant for cold-hearted savagery has brought her enemies to their collective knees. No one will be the wiser and we can enact my ascension without further tedious subterfuge."

"Do _you_ really think they won't see through the theatrics?" Myrhia inquired. "There is nothing in your demeanor that even remotely resembles the Islena that skulked away from Othgol on my leash. The Lamish whore may be an ill-bred savage, but she is acutely attuned to Islena Doraux's nature...and she will not be so easily deceived. Only you can see her to an end...perhaps that would be wise."

"Lorio is thoroughly enamored with the volatile, unsettled imbecile you first pulled from the other reality...hopelessly so. It will be a rudimentary trick to convince her that this absurd caricature still exists," the enigma contradicted. "She will remain with me...even a goddess has need of distraction on occasion."

When Myrhia's expression remained doubtful, Islena sighed impatiently. In the next instant, her exquisite face underwent a subtle, yet unmistakable transformation. Gone was the gleam of aloof condescension in those indecipherable eyes. So too had the aura of razor sharp focus and formidable intellect vanished. In its place was the brooding, plaintive frown...tempered by a mindless sort of defiance that had been Islena's signature expression. "I never wanted any of this. I just want to go home with my son. Why can't you people get it through your thick fucking skulls? I'm not a fucking savior...I'm just a woman who wants her life back...goddamn you all!"

Myrhia gaped in astonishment and grudging admiration. This perplexing entity had delivered a stunningly accurate portrayal of Islena Doraux. The entity bowed grandly and inquired. "Did I mewl and bemoan my fate with just the right note of whining self-pity? Did I not capture her image of the bleating, long suffering victim, who evokes such pity...and lust in pathetic Lorio's heart? Leave the matter of Islena's deception to me and concentrate on being the fearsome scourge you once believed yourself to be. Now, do we have a consensus or must we go through the tedious process of breaking you to my view?"

Myrhia laid her hand atop Islena's and clutched it to her breast. Struggling not to gag on the humiliation and ash of her concession, the Mother of Iniquity murmured, "I will do as you require...and serve you in keeping with my given oath."

"And I will reciprocate and promise that you will have an eternal place at my side," Islena replied with what appeared to be a mirthful twinkle in those disturbing eyes. "Now, let us commence the onerous journey to Othgol...destiny awaits."

She linked her arm in Myrhia's and escorted the bemused enchantress back to her charger. Sliding behind Myrhia, she gripped the diminutive woman's tight hips and lifted her from her feet, with the ostensible intention of helping her back into her saddle. This gesture of obsequiousness evoked a bitter grin from the enchantress, who had constantly demanded this abject service from Doraux as the pair had made their way back through Otaru Ree's purgatory.

In the next instant, that bitter grin became a grimace of acute agony. Myrhia brayed her suffering in a high, ululating screech that slashed the frigid air. Her entire body was accosted by what seemed to be the piercing sting of a million tiny needles. The magnitude of her pain was thought occluding and even her well-honed instinct for self-preservation could not induce her to retaliate. Distantly, she could hear Doraux inform her, "Is the pain not exquisite...like every nerve ending set ablaze at once? It seems that the ancient Metocan were not so constrained when it came to employing sorcery as a weapon."

With this, Myrhia's torment came to an abrupt end, but before she could recuperate, Islena slammed her, face first, into the hard packed snow at her feet. She then thrust her boot heel into the base of the prone enchantress' neck. Myrhia's body was suffused by a rolling wave of arcane energy that caused her body to convulse violently and go limp.

Immobilized, she lay panting in the snow with Islena's boot grinding on her neck. "You've made yet another critical error by electing not to bring your puppets along, mother. I'm beginning to seriously question your merit as an advisor."

"Soul forge...your son," Myrhia managed thickly from between contorted lips.

Islena then uttered the staggering proclamation that convinced Myrhia that her carefully laid machinations had fallen to ruin. Islena bent forward, increasing the leverage on the helpless enchantress' neck tenfold, and rasped, "Ah yes, the whelp...well mother, it has often been said that pain is a character builder...so let him suffer."

Myrhia whimpered, beggared by Islena's obduracy. As swiftly as this episode of ugly violence began, it came to a sudden end. Islena removed her boot from Myrhia's neck and hauled her to her feet. She then knelt before a disconcerted enchantress, making a protracted show of brushing snow from her flowing cloak. Trembling with both outrage and the inherent compulsion to strike back, Myrhia prudently elected to do neither. She listened in glowering silence as Islena elaborated on the precise shape their relationship would now assume. She did this in a jovial tone as if the matter was nothing more than a mundane trifle. "There will be no further object lessons...no painful reminders of your leverage over my destiny. When we are in public, we will play our respective roles, but privately, you will afford me the respect that a goddess in waiting is entitled to. Consider it an investment in the comfort and security of your future."

She rose and gently lifted a rigid Myrhia into her saddle. "When time permits, you will instruct me, not only in the proper uses of Metocan magic, but in every facet of your personal brand of sorcery as well. Do you have an issue with this arrangement, mother?"

"It will be as you wish, daughter," Myrhia whispered passively.

Islena smiled and swung nimbly up into her own saddle. She leaned closer to the despondent enchantress and inquired blithely, "So mother...is our great tabula rasa everything you envisioned it to be?"

Islena bellowed sardonic laughter and spurred her horse to the top of the rise. Myrhia followed, but Islena came to a halt at the crest of the rise and glanced back over her shoulder, her face set in lines of intense concentration.

Simultaneously, the mountain collapsed and the ancient stairs sloughed from the vertical face, peeling away like dead flesh. After a moment, the improbable allies rode away without looking back at Islena's destructive handiwork.

Chapter Forty-Three

1

Gillian set the quill aside and closed his fatigue glazed eyes, while pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose and drawing a slow, deep breath. His regard shifted from his ledger...an incomplete, emotionally sterile portrait of the calamity that had befallen the once mighty Jerhia...to the blue skies beyond the open window of his office.

Something about the pristine sky and indeed the gorgeous weather that had settled over Summergaden, caused the Jerhia to frown in vexation...as if he took grievous personal offense to the pleasant climate. Jerhia had been decimated...eviscerated by Myrhia's savage invasion and the subsequent unleashing of the denizens from yonder side of the Hiberas. Yet, the sun smiled down upon the blood-drenched world as if callously indifferent to the tragedy and tribulations of those who suffered beneath its flaming regard. If there was truly such a concept as justice, the heavens above Jerhia should be roiling...seething with indignant outrage.

' _You've always expected too much,'_ he told himself. _'Those expectations have earned you naught but strife. If there is any serenity to be had in your future, it will come through acceptance of things as they are...and not the grandiose vision of what we might be if divested of our myriad imperfections.'_

He shook his head, wondering why he was one of the few Jerhia born with a turbulent spirit. _'Perhaps I would have been better suited had I been born Lamish.'_

That rather foolish thought conjured images of the tragic Lorio and he abruptly cut it off. He was about to resume work on his latest summary, when a knock came on his office door. He bid the knocker to enter and a fetchingly pretty female courier handed him two sealed envelopes. He beamed an affable grin to which the young woman bowed dutifully and quickly withdrew. He wondered, not for the first time, how he was perceived by the other Jerhia around him.

' _A doddering eccentric...kept around like a fondly-regarded shepherd's dog that has outlived its usefulness,'_ he suspected, oddly pleased by the notion.

Retrieving an ornamental opener, Gillian carefully tore open the first envelope. Quickly perusing the two official documents, Gillian discovered that he had been commissioned to the rank of adjutant attached to Tier Marshal Arminda. The second document informed him that she had assigned him to an instructor's role at the Jerhia Alpine Academy in the remote mountains of southern Jerhia...effective upon receipt of orders. A bitter grin unfurled across his angular face as he set the orders aside. Every action came with a consequence. He had antagonized Jerhia's rising star and she had utilized her rank to respond accordingly.

"As the old adage goes...pester a surly hound and expect to get bitten," he remarked to the empty silence. He then opened the second envelope and began to read. As he did, the poignant emotions captured on ink and paper, elegantly scribed in her neat, efficient script, disabused him of every unfair misconception he held of the woman who had committed her thoughts to paper.

Dear Gillian:

I hope this letter finds you well, though in light of all that we have endured and may yet have to face...I realize how utterly absurd this platitude must seem.

I'm writing this letter in part to explain your reassignment...but also to tell you how badly I miss you. That might seem surprising, considering that we parted on terms that were less than amicable. I suspect that you may conclude that your new deployment may have been motivated by festering resentment. I hope that I can convince you that this is simply not the case.

I have spent many hours since your departure reflecting on events in the plaza and your reasoning in trying to induce Lorio to see Islena Doraux to her end. I have come to conclude that Islena poses a dire threat that we are morally obligated to forestall...even if to do so leads to our own obliteration. Things have transpired since that dark day on the plaza; things which have only solidified that conviction. Letting your example be my guide, I have allowed my ethical sensibilities to guide my actions in direct contravention of orders. In essence, I have become a traitor. So you see, Gillian, you and I have become kindred spirits in defiance. Still, I feel that events have moved far beyond the influence of small people such as we are.

I see now that your unrelenting adherence to the principles of justice...of obligation, make you a purer, nobler soul than the lot of us combined. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for not recognizing that, behind your irrepressible grin, there burned the true spirit of Jerhia.

Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc will return to Summergaden within the fortnight. I have been assigned to high command of the Jerhia Expeditionary Force that will escort the enchantress and Islena Doraux back to Nalosan, where they will enact their odious ritual.

Maroc demonstrates an unaccountable faith in my ability to prove worthy of the mantle he would bestow upon me. I live with the immutable fear that I will inevitably prove to be a disappointment. Between you and I, Gillian...I will admit that fear has been my constant companion.

Fear of inadequacy...

Fear of disappointing those who believe in me...

Fear of losing those who hold meaning in my life.

I learned to master my fear during those long months in the Land of Shades. Still, it whispers to me constantly. Perhaps in this context, you will understand why I have sent you back to Summergaden...I could not suffer to lose another person I care deeply about to mindless violence.

There is much that I have learned from you, Gillian, and I hope we will come together so that you may impart more of your wisdom...somewhere beyond these vile times. I also hope it will please you to know that you have come to serve as my moral compass when confronted with difficult choices.

For now, go to the alpine academy and help new generations of youth learn what it means to truly be Jerhia. When this is over, I will come to you and beg that you will serve in the capacity of my personal advisor. Perhaps, rather than rebel against the old Jerhia...you can help forge a new one.

Until then, be well and be safe.

Your friend,

Arminda

Gillian pinched the bridge of his nose again, re-read Arminda's letter and after carefully folding it, placed it back in its envelope. This was the first occasion in his life that someone regarded him as more than a nuisance, tolerated only for his exceptional skill as a swordsman. The notion struck him as at once bleak and touching.

He rose and sequestered the letter in an oil cloth lined pocket of his travel bag. He then went off to convey word of his immediate departure to the city command.

Gillian would carry Arminda's letter of reconciliation for the remainder of his life, during which it would gain the status of his most precious possession.

2

Kevlan had immersed himself in tending the horses, providing each with an extended rub down in preparation for the long and arduous journey back to Othgol. He had grown to love the beasts...admire their strength and quiet dignity. He had come to pity all beasts that found themselves under man's indifferent and often cruel dominion...sad sacrifices to man's mad delusions of importance.

Besides, brushing out tangled manes was still preferable to dwelling on the dark drama that was transpiring to the north...or the orgy of sorrow that was undoubtedly being observed in Bastronen.

Darkness had fallen across Northern Metocan and with its coming, the clouds had dissipated...giving way to a star-smattered sky. A silver moon shone down upon the camp and Kevlan watched raptly as the Morticants set about building several large fires to ward against the deepening cold. He observed their powerful, efficient movements with grudging admiration. It suddenly occurred to him that these terrifying constructs were not inherently evil. They were merely implacable engines of their creators will. Under the thrall of the right individual, these beasts could be indefatigable engines for good works.

' _Ah, but the temptation to abuse and exploit all good things is irrepressible in mortals,'_ Kevlan thought, feeling despair tugging at his heart.

Just then, the nickering of an approaching horse rose above the sigh of the wind and Myrhia guided her terrible beast into the clearing. Kevlan's eyes flew open like broken shutters when Islena Doraux emerged into the clearing. Swaddled in an argent robe, the flame-haired entity appeared to be the very embodiment of a divine entity. His astounded gaze shifted from the obsidian collar at her neck to what appeared to be a glowing ornamental bauble nestled in the deep valley of her breasts.

Then, in a burst of incontestable understanding, Kevlan recognized what he was seeing and was driven to his knees by an undeniable sense of reverence and awe. Islena Doraux was gone, supplanted by the personification of the very soul of Metocan. Yet, she was meekly bound by the vile tyrant's leash of subjection.

Before he was even aware of his intention, Kevlan barked a cry of outrage and was up and pelting over the frozen ground with no clear idea of what he could do to efface this obscenity.

Myrhia raised a gloved hand to forestall her Morticant's intervention, while an aura of power coalesced around her like a dark shadow. The infuriated Metocan had managed no more than a dozen steps when he found that he had been snatched up by invisible hands.

He thrashed and cursed in the frigid air until Islena spoke, "Enough, Kevlan!"

Her tone rang with undeniable authority and a quality he could not identify, but he complied automatically. The glowing bauble between her breasts flared rhythmically and to his amazement, he discerned that it had been her, and not Myrhia, who had plucked him from the ground as if he was a frenzied child throwing a tantrum. He was then set down, while Myrhia reached across and unfastened Islena's collar.

Even in his state of agitation, Kevlan could discern that there was an odd new nuance in the perplexing dynamic that existed between these two terrifying creatures. The enchantress then slid the loop of the leash over the pommel of her saddle and dismounted. Even in the inadequate light of the campfire, Kevlan could clearly see the anxiety that was embossed on Myrhia's delicate features...like tiny cracks in porcelain. In a voice devoid of her customary imperiousness, the Emercian queen revealed, "Islena and I will be forging ahead to Othgol immediately. You will remain here for the night and return to the capital at your leisure. I will leave six Morticants behind. They will break camp and escort you home...insuring that your cousins do not seek a reprisal for what happened at Bastronen. I expect you to reach out to your masters and inform them that Islena and I will arrive in the capital within two days. Be sure to mention that I fully expect that Maktir will be prepared to disclose the whereabouts of the Staff of Natzurdan."

She started to turn away, but then added, "Ah yes, inform Inos that every citizen in Othgol is to assemble in the streets to pay tribute to their patroness."

During this short exchange, Kevlan could not shake the disconcerting impression that Myrhia's authoritarian demeanor was entirely contrived. He watched as she appeared to issue unspoken instructions to her Morticants...all of which quickly formed ranks, save for the six that had been assigned to remain with him.

Suddenly, Islena slid gracefully from her horse and to Kevlan's amazement, floated over to the gaping Metocan. When she broached the circle of light cast by the fire, only then did he glean the fully extent of the profound changes that had befallen this enigmatic creature. The eyes that regarded him were a strange combination of familiar emerald and iridescent silver. Whereas once Doraux had been an open book, who wore her emotions on her sleeve, now her visage was alien and inscrutable. Her lips twisted into a knowing smirk as his gaze shifted to the ever-changing robe she wore...gravitating from glowing argent to translucent gray gauze that did nothing to hide her nudity beneath. Kevlan blushed in recollection of her taut flesh beneath his gliding hands.

Doraux noticed his blush, divined its cause and uttered a wanton chuckle. She leaned closer until her full right breast was pressed against his thin arm and her warm breath caressed the hollow of his ear. In a salacious whisper, she reminded him, "I promised that I would compensate you for your care in tending to my injuries. If time allows, I will come to your bed in Othgol. Think on it Kevlan...what would it be like to lay with the matron of your people?"

Kevlan drew back, mortified by what he perceived as blasphemy, but as he peered into those unnerving eyes, he was besieged by a vivid image of their intermingling. Unlike a sordid tryst, Kevlan saw that he was enveloped by divine argent light. It swiftly washed away his misgivings, lingering doubts and festering conflicts of faith. His knees seemed to fold of their own accord. He next found that he was on his knees, lavishing ardent kisses on the back of her hand...like a supplicant before a goddess.

Islena shifted his gaze to Myrhia, saw the look of bemusement that contorted her face, and laughed heartily. She disengaged her hand and patted the side of Kevlan's vacant, slack face. "Think on other creative ways in which you can give expression to your reverence."

She then turned and strode briskly away from the entranced Metocan. To Myrhia, she remarked, "Let's make a start of it, Mother...I'm anxious to bring this fiasco to an end."

The enchantress leaned down and gripped Islena's right shoulder, though when she spoke it was in a plaintive tone she thoroughly detested. "You proclaim the importance of maintaining an outward appearance of the status quo...yet you abase yourself by acting like a brazen harlot before this inconsequential gelding. If you cannot refrain from these juvenile antics, you will expose this sham that _you_ insist we propagate."

Islena's inscrutable eyes flared at this chastisement, but then she pursed her lips and conceded, "Fair enough...I suppose I'm at an age when daughters naturally rebel against their mothers...even to their own detriment. When we reach Othgol, I will be diligent in my deference...mother."

As if to demonstrate her sincerity, she snatched up the leash from the enchantress' saddle and snapped the collar into place around her neck. She then dropped the loop over the pommel and offered Myrhia a sardonic smirk. "Let us set off...though I think I'll eschew the horse."

Between her breasts, the orb flared slightly and Islena lifted from the frozen ground until her eyes were level with Myrhia's. Drawing a quavering breath, the enchantress snapped her reins and the charger set off at a gallop. Islena floated effortlessly beside her with the ghost of an indecipherable grin playing subtly at the corners of her lips.

The Morticants easily kept pace with their creator and the pair raced through the frigid night like the inexorable engines of destiny they were.

3

Kevlan's eyes flew open and he gasped like a terrified man emerging from lethally frigid waters. As Islena had departed, so too had the spell that had beguiled him. Trembling violently, Kevlan knelt forward and pressed his face into the cold snow until the last of his mental fog has dissipated.

One thought germinated in his mind like a rank weed...the creature who had driven him to his knees bore no meaningful resemblance to the conflicted, tortured spirit that had gone in search of the orb. This segued directly to the second astonishing insight. Her posture of submissive deference...the collar and leash...these things had been entirely contrived to impart the false impression that Islena was still subservient to the enchantress. This stunning realization spawned a host of other bewilderingly complex riddles for which the frustrated Metocan could produce no viable explanations. In his time as an _observer_ at Runesholm Abbey, Kevlan had developed a keen aptitude for divining true character...for distinguishing between a façade and a person's genuine nature. It had required only a cursory glance at Myrhia to know that her veneer of rigid authority was a feigned and brittle thing...beneath which lurked a stunning timidity and fear.

The sway she had held over Islena Doraux had been shattered and yet both were still attempting to perpetrate that appearance that Islena was still in her involuntary thrall...why?

Kevlan shook his head, confounded by his inability to produce a plausible explanation for this deliberate ruse. "Remember, you are but a pawn in this grand game of power," the humble Metocan reminded himself, severely devaluing his worth. "Let those with a greater grasp of its intricacies try to unravel the mystery of their deception. You need only report what you have observed."

Glad to be relieved of this crushing burden, Kevlan reached out to convey his disturbing news to the Grand Mage.

4

As he entered Lorio's bed chamber, Artumas could sense the palpable anxiety that suffused the room. One of the female Jerhia had eschewed the Metocan heating crystals, instead building a raging fire in the seldom used hearth, leaving the room stiflingly hot.

As he stepped over the threshold, Arminda rose from her chair and came to greet him. It required only one glance into the young Tier Marshal's worried eyes to glean that the sensitive Jerhia was deeply troubled by the immortal's condition.

"How does she fare?" the Emercian king inquired gravely, stealing a quick glance at the unmoving Lamish beauty.

Arminda shook her head and whispered, "I honestly don't know, Artumas. I've sent for Jerrod in hopes that he might provide some insight into what might ail her."

The Emercian nodded and made his way over to the bed, where Lorio's body twitched and quaked beneath the thin shift. Her great dark eyes were disturbingly vacant, though her full lips were contorted into what Artumas surmised was a wail of negation. Distantly, he heard himself ask, "How did she come to be like this?"

"She was engaged in one of her marathon sessions in the training yard when she suddenly collapsed as if struck by an invisible fist," Arminda explained. "My soldiers carried her to her chambers and summoned me. Since the incident, she has not roused from this fugue state."

"Is it possible that she was assailed by sorcery?" Artumas speculated, experiencing an intense wave of pity for the young woman whose life had become an unending tide of tribulation and misery. "The Metocan are a placid lot normally, but Lorio's misguided actions in the plaza have left many families grief-stricken with loss. We both know that grief can give way to an insatiable thirst for violent retribution."

Arminda pursed her lips and turned to the other Jerhia. "May I have a moment of privacy with the king?"

The veteran bowed and quickly exited the room. Artumas noted that the older woman demonstrated a level of respect for the young Tier Marshal which was indicative of the regard in which the quest hero was held by the rank and file Jerhia. The girl consistently displayed an uncommon poise and maturity, informing the Emercian that Maroc's faith in the girl was not misplaced.

When the soldier had closed the door, Arminda turned her impassioned gaze on the king and declared bitterly. "King Artumas, we both know that Lorio's ill-fortune invariably springs from one source...Islena Doraux. Can you honestly claim that her present state could be attributed to anyone else?"

Artumas frowned, but could conjure no convincing argument to refute this contention. Instead, he inquired softly, "You care for her, Arminda?"

"Yes!" the diminutive blond insisted vehemently. "I have been the victim of Lorio's impetuous nature on more than one occasion, but still I have come to see her as a sister. Her life has been cruelly stripped of everything of value...all because she had the colossal bad fortune of crossing paths with Islena Doraux. During my hellish trek through the Land of Shades, I witnessed and personally suffered horrors that were beyond all understanding, but Artumas, if I lived for an eternity, I will never efface the image of Otaru Ree lifting Lorio's son from her arms...never!"

Artumas' solemn nod was a wordless articulation of his concurrence.

"When Lorio found Esuruban...experienced genuine kindness and love for the first time, I was elated...thinking that your captain would be her recompense for all that she has suffered," Arminda continued. "I was there the instant she slid that damnable helm over her head...saw the raw terror and anguish in her eyes...and I knew that this hope was just another cruel jest."

Lorio uttered a thin moan and twisted on the bed as if afflicted by a harrowing nightmare from which she could not awaken. Arminda pawed roughly at her limpid eyes that glistened wetly. "I know that I have far exceeded my station and now risk overstepping the bounds of my rank, but I'm imploring you...a man renown for his compassion and integrity...to do all that you can to insulate this brutally abused creature from any further suffering. Remove her to somewhere where these two monsters can never find her.

"Do you truly believe that Islena would deliberately harm Lorio?" Artumas asked, his brow furrowing as he watched Lorio writhe under the thrall of whatever malice assailed her.

Arminda nodded vigorously. "In my time spent with Islena, I have yet to fathom who...or even what she is. I do know, unequivocally, that she is Lorio's bane." She flung her arm in the immortal's direction and concluded, "Of all of us, she is the one who deserves a measure of happiness when this nightmare has seen its end."

The Emercian king drifted over to the bed and gazed down upon Lorio as she endured yet another moment of torment. He had come to perceive her as the daughter that fate had denied him and to see her suffering beyond any hope of amelioration left Artumas feeling worthless and defeated. "On the day before we reached Otaru Ree's purgatory, I swore an oath to a very fraught Islena Doraux that I would see Lorio and her child provided for. I fervently believe that she was sincere in her desire to see both warded. If you place any credence in this account that Islena is what she is purported to be...the Daughter of the Tempest...then you must understand that it is her very essence to act from impulse, with little thought given to the consequences of her actions."

"Are you saying that this somehow exonerates her from the carnage she unleashes?" Arminda bristled, surprised by her truculence.

"Not at all," Artumas replied mildly. "I'm merely saying that Islena is not intentionally malicious even though her actions carry with them a constant potential for disaster. You are correct in your contention that Lorio has suffered a disproportionate share of Islena's ill-considered actions. Arminda, will you allow me a small space of time to reflect on how we might rescue Lorio from Islena's influence?"

"Of course," Arminda replied, clearly pleased and relieved by Artumas' willingness to lend his aid.

"You do realize that Lorio herself might be the biggest impediment to actually extricating herself from Islena's grasp," he cautioned in a somber voice. "The heart is not easily swayed by logic or what might actually lie in its best interest. Our desires often draw us to the very thing that might be our undoing. This is especially true for those whose hearts are ruled by passion. I have never encountered anyone as passionate as Lorio...except perhaps for Islena. These women are connected...bound together by complex and nuanced ties that, I fear, may not be so easily severed."

Arminda grimaced, but ultimately recognized the irrefutable prudence in the Emercian king's words. Softly, she pleaded, "Still, I would be in your eternal debt if you would try."

Artumas smiled and gently squeezed the young Jerhia's shoulder, just as the Maxim Tier Marshal knocked and entered Lorio's chamber. There was a gleam in his brown eyes that conveyed a sense of urgency and both Artumas and Arminda correctly deduced that something of consequence had transpired. Maroc cast a quizzical glance at the unconscious Lorio and then at the Emercian King, who briefly recounted the circumstances of the immortal's troublesome collapse. He pursed his lips and lashed his Tier Marshal with a sour frown, which she met with a defiant tilting of her chin.

' _These two behave more in keeping with a married couple than a superior and subordinate,'_ Artumas thought with a hint of wry amusement. Maroc sighed absently and turned to the Emercian. "This incident might coincide with the purpose of the Grand Mage's summons. He has just received word from Kevlan relating details of what has transpired in the north. This communication was initiated at the enchantress' behest. The envoy who brought the summons to me would convey nothing of what has occurred, but I sense it is something particularly grave."

"No doubt," Artumas grumbled, his brows knitting in consternation.

"If that is not sufficiently disturbing, I have received a report from First Scout Sybian. There has been a major battle in the town of Tinacot in Glywith." Here Maroc paused, his dismay evident. "The account is astounding and may yet add another precipitous element to our situation."

At this juncture we can expect no less," Artumas sighed with a rare display of pessimism. "Then let us be off to hear of this latest dire twist."

Sensing that her presence might be expected, Arminda asked hastily, "Maxim Tier Marshal, might I remain with Lorio. I would like to be here when she awakens."

"Of course, though I would have you dine with me tonight...there is still much to discuss in preparation for your journey to Emercia," Maroc commanded. Artumas glanced at his friend and smiled knowingly as the pair set off.

Arminda sat on the edge of the bed and resumed her vigil over the beleaguered creature she had come to regard as a sister.

5

Night was fast descending beyond Lorio's window and Arminda had fallen into a fitful doze, plagued by vague but terrifying dreams. In the embers of the dying fire, Lorio abruptly sat up...her eyes bulging and her mouth drawn down in a rictus of dread. The Jerhia came awake with a start and groped for the immortal in the gloom, even as an inner voice admonished that a disoriented Lorio could be extremely dangerous.

Ignoring the prudence of this advice, Arminda enfolded Lorio into a tight embrace, struggling mightily to contain the thrashing immortal. Finally, Lorio's struggles subsided into a series of convulsive sobs that wracked her entire body. She clung to the Jerhia like a frightened child who has just emerged from a particularly terrifying nightmare, while Arminda whispered empty platitudes of reassurance.

At last, the immortal fetched a quivering sigh and pushed Arminda to arm's length. In the dying firelight, Lorio appeared pallid and exhausted. When she could eventually trust herself to speak, the Lamish beauty began to describe the bizarre incident that had led to her fainting spell in the yard. "I was completely absorbed in the flow and rhythm of attack sequences...transitional patterns of footwork and staff strikes, when an explosion of light and sound rolled through me like...like an avalanche of sensation. I heard a million voices all speaking at once, yet in the cacophony, I couldn't understand anything they were saying. I was ravaged by the currents of energy that coursed through my body like lightening. I heard a harrowing scream in my mind...a piercing screech that I felt certain would drive me mad. After a time, I understood that it was my voice that I was hearing...that I was begging and pleading for this overwhelming flood to stop."

She paused and gazed down at her finely-boned hands which were trembling in her lap like pallid spiders. Then, in a low, fraught voice that was scarcely recognizable as her own, she whispered, "And then I saw...and with seeing, came to understand that I was actually experiencing this flood of sensation...vicariously."

"It was Islena...this was happening to her, wasn't it?" Arminda exclaimed darkly, instinctively deducing that anything that befell Lorio would find its root cause in Islena Doraux.

Lorio nodded, her exotic features twisted by bemusement and pain. "Yes, she was hovering at the bottom of what appeared to be a vertical shaft...floating naked like a ghost. Her arms were spread wide and her back was arched. Her head was thrown back and her face...that beautiful face...was contorted in a mask of ecstasy...like a wanton whore."

Lorio spewed this last simile in a wail of anguish. Arminda laid her hand atop the immortal's and simply waited until she had recovered sufficiently to resume her monologue. "There were spiral ribbons of light drifting down from the top of the chamber. Islena would reach out and grab these as they tumbled by. Her entire body would contract like an overdrawn bow and she would react with a guttural groan of pleasure. The chamber was alive with a million voices...a discordant gyre of maddening sound."

The immortal drew a tremulous breath and shook her head, as if mustering the courage to conclude her harrowing tale. In a haunted voice, she concluded, "When the last ribbon was absorbed, she turned upright...and Arminda, she looked directly at me. Do you understand? _She looked at me!"_

"As if she knew you were there all along," Arminda exhaled, her agile mind racing to make sense of this episode.

"Exactly!" Lorio exclaimed, excitement warring with dismay in her great dark eyes. Abruptly, that excitement guttered to absolute despair and she sobbed, "Arminda, in that single glance, I knew...with total certainty...that Islena... _my Islena..._ was gone." She lapsed into a morose silence and averted her eyes to the window and Arminda witness a spark of vitality gutter and die in those great dark eyes.

"And you experienced all of this in the time it took to execute a pivot strike?" Arminda pressed incredulously, feeling that she was poised on the verge of a terrible epiphany.

Lorio nodded glumly. "It was a shockingly lucid experience compressed into what seemed like a single heartbeat. As I was dragged into the void, I remember thinking that I was about to be obliterated...that Islena was about to devour me. You can't imagine my disappointment when I awoke to discover that she had not."

Arminda blinked, unsettled by the immortal's dispassionate declaration of her wish for death. Lorio offered the Jerhia a crooked grin. "Thanks to what's been done to me, I'll not be allowed even that cold luxury."

"Lorio, I believe what you witnessed was Islena coming into possession of the Orb of Metocan." She touched her index finger to her lower lip in a pensive pose and then asked, "This link you have with Islena...can you sever it if you wish?"

Lorio's eyes narrowed in contemplation and at last she shook her head. "No...perhaps Islena could, but I cannot. When she plunged the Zarcyk into my heart, I became her creature. I don't believe either of us grasped the full significance of this at the time."

Arminda nodded absently, mind ablaze with a new exigency. There was naught that she could do to forestall the world's mad rush to elevate Islena Doraux to godhood, but she was ferociously determined to insure that Lorio did not get trampled in her wake.

"Lorio, as my quest sister, I'm going to ask a boon of you, and just this once, I would have you comply...without question. I am going to meet with the leaders and I need you to rest here through the night. I'll return in the morning and then I'll explain myself fully. Please, give me your trust just this once...and stay put!" the young Jerhia adjured.

"Am I permitted to take a bath?" Lorio hint with a refreshing hint of her customary irreverence.

"I'll have my sergeant collect the milk and rose petals and scrub your back, if it means you'll remain in your quarters."

"Very well...I'll be a good girl and stay put," the immortal returned with a sigh. Her tone then turned solemn and she demanded, "After all of the casual cruelty and disdain I've heaped upon you...why are you so kind to me?"

"Because I've come to see you as a beloved sister and a cherished friend and in these black times...when both are at a dearth...I'll fight desperately to protect the one person who serves as both." With this candid admission given, Arminda hurried from the chamber, leaving Lorio alone with her mounting dread.

Chapter Forty-Four

1

Artumas, Maroc and the dour Maktir remained cloistered with their own private thoughts and concerns until the Metocan Grand Mage entered the private audience chamber. Artumas swept a furtive gaze of appraisal over the Metocan, who appeared to have wilted like an untended floor since the senseless death of his friend and colleague, Tokizar. Other more disturbing changes had overcome the Metocan leader as well. Where as once he had been an affable, approachable man, now he had become aloof and disengaged...making public appearances only when strictly required by matters of state. This dramatic change in disposition, while understandable, had come at the most inopportune of moments. Considering the delicacy of the subterfuge they were attempting, a fully involved, committed Grand Mage was crucial to their chances of success.

Artumas hoped that some manner of intervention would rouse his friend from the torpor into which he had been plunged by Tokizar's murder.

Without preamble, the Grand Mage disclosed the purpose of his impromptu summons, stating bluntly, "Islena Doraux has gained possession of the Orb of Metocan. Along with the enchantress, she is on route back to Othgol. Myrhia instructed Kevlan to convey this news, along with her instructions that the entire city will assemble in the streets to acknowledge and celebrate their return.

Maroc shook his head in consternated disgust. "Aside from being predictably arrogant and self-lionizing, I can't fathom why she would make this kind of demand...especially in light of the debacle in the plaza that resulted from her last grand entrance into the city."

The mention of this blood-drenched fiasco caused Inos to grimace and vow, "I can assure you that there will be no recurrence of that lamentable episode...even if it means encasing our churlish Lamish guest in a block of ice and tossing her into the Great Mother. Lorio will cause no further discord here!"

"I will assume personal responsibility for her conduct, Grand Mage," Artumas intoned quietly. Inos fixed the Emercian King with a particularly sour glance, but signaled his acceptance with a tacit nod.

"Very well," he remarked and then resumed his report of Kevlan's communiqué. "My primary reason for calling this parlay is to discuss some...unsettling observations that Kevlan conveyed. The first involves an incident in which Islena apparently slaughtered the men of the Ulgak village of Bastronen after the villagers challenged the party's approach. He added that Myrhia then destroyed the complex mechanisms that sustain the village in the inimical climate...leaving the women, children, old and infirmed to die in the snow."

The other ashen-faced leaders exchange mortified glances and Artumas began to raise an objection, but realized that it was impossible to predict how the mercurial Doraux might react to a belligerent confrontation.

"As disturbing as this account is, it is not the primary thing that concerns Kevlan," Inos continued and after a slight pause, he elaborated on his liaison's disquiet. "Myrhia and Islena went off to collect the orb without an escort. When they returned, Kevlan is of the mind that something had transpired that has radically altered the dynamic that exists between the two women."

"I'm not entirely certain I understand what you're getting at?" Maroc interrupted gruffly, displaying the customary Jerhia impatience with circumspection.

"Kevlan feels that it is now Islena who holds the dominant balance of power between the pair...though both are laboring mightily to impart the impression that Myrhia still holds Islena tightly in her thrall."

"This makes little sense," Artumas contested flatly, though icy talons of nebulous dread were scoring the length of his spine. "Why would either woman choose to weave this particular deception?"

"Who can say? Who could lay reasonable claim to grasp either of these unfathomable creatures? Both women are as remote and inaccessible as stars in the firmament. It would be folly to claim to understand the complex motivations and emotions that govern their actions."

"I think we've all experienced the truth of this first hand and at painful expense," Artumas agreed grimly. "It could be that Kevlan misconstrued what he was seeing. Islena seems to derive a perverse pleasure from provoking Myrhia. It is one of her many bewildering traits. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that he was witnessing the latest example of this bewildering tendency."

The Grand Mage shook his head in vehement disagreement. "Kevlan was very adamant in insisting that, despite her outward posture of authority tinged with menace...Myrhia exuded a sense of definite meekness. Kevlan has a keen aptitude for observation of subtle dynamics...a talent he refined living amongst the lunatics at Runesholm."

"So where does this leave us?" Maroc questioned. "If Myrhia is at Islena's command...and I assume that is what you're implying...and yet they still elect to project this image of status quo...how are we to respond?"

"I say that it leaves us exactly where we were before the Grand Mage made this disclosure," Maktir insisted in his customary tone of gruff impatience. "Let Islena go to Tyrcillium, where her true essence will be judged. Should she be deemed worthy to wield Symyrasil, she will ascend and expunge Myrhia's foul stain from the world. Should she fail to impress the mother, Islena Doraux will be transmogrified into living wood and we will be left to face Myrhia's wrath."

This succinctly stated assessment, as incontrovertible as it was depressing, plunged the room into an introspective silence. Before discussion could resume, a strident knock came on the chamber door. Inos arched an eyebrow in vexation, but nonetheless invited, "Enter!"

Every eye turned to see the arched door open just enough to permit Tier Marshal Arminda to gain entrance. Though she wore a sheepish, apologetic half-smile, the rigid set of her jaw and shoulders spoke of determination and urgency. Artumas rose quickly from his chair, spurred by the terrible certainty that something terrible had befallen Lorio. Sensing the direction of his thoughts, the perceptive Jerhia raised a hand to placate his anxiety. She then offered a salute to Maroc and a formal bow to the other two leaders. "I apologize for the interruption, but I believe it is warranted in light of what I have discovered pertaining to Lorio."

She let the specifics remain unaddressed until Inos motioned for her to take one of the unoccupied seats around the table. As she settled nimbly into her seat, Arminda struggled to find the words to properly convey Lorio's plight in a way that would appeal directly to the compassion and humanity of those assembled around this table. She prayed these men still possessed these integral qualities cloistered somewhere in their hearts.

She met each of their unblinking stares in turn and reiterated the immortal's incredible account of what had befallen her. She then added her own interpretation of the episode and its potentially dire ramifications for the immortal. As she spoke, Arminda's voice became stronger, her tone confident and forthright...intimations of the exceptional leader she was destined to one day become. "I exhort you to release Lorio from this yoke of false obligation that you have imposed on her shoulders. It is ineffably cruel and if she is not released before Islena ascends, she will be obliterated." Turning her scorching gaze on Inos, she beseeched," Can your scholars devise a means to sever this...this odious tether that binds Lorio to Doraux."

"The sorcery that powers Myrhia's golems is beyond our comprehension," Inos informed Arminda regretfully, in a gentle tone that reminded Artumas of the man the Grand Mage had been before the shadow of unbearable loss had fallen across his heart. "I suspect that the magic that has bestowed immortality upon Lorio is infinitely more complex. As for the tether that binds the two...I have seen its source and I can tell you that it will not be sundered while the two women live."

"Can it at least be muted so as to protect Lorio from the effects of Islena's quickening?" she asked, her face a mask of unconstrained desperation.

"If the tether is somehow mutable, it must be at Islena's initiative," Inos theorized.

Arminda shook her head in helpless negation and the Grand Mage observed, "While I can commiserate with your fears and concerns, it is imperative that you understand...Lorio has a pivotal role to play in the scheme that we have devised to vanquish the enchantress. Each of us has an obligation to see this world rescued from this ignoble monster's clutches."

"Lorio is under no such obligation!" Arminda erupted angrily, slamming her fist down on the table and causing the leaders to flinch in surprise. "She is a tragic, perpetually-abused woman who has endured constant torment from every quarter. What's more, she is a child of a people who have been deemed pariahs by nearly every nation of the world you are now suggesting that she is obligated to protect. Ours is a world that has systematically persecuted her people to the brink of extinction. I will stand before you and scream that your mistreatment of this sorrowful creature is unconscionable and should shame you to tears."

Maroc arose quickly, his expression grave and stern. He hurried around the table and gripping his Tier Marshal's quivering shoulders firmly, but gently...Maroc ushered her swiftly from the room. Outside the door, he threw her against the wall and roughly gripping her chin, raised her shocked face to meet his gaze. In a low, controlled voice that nonetheless conveyed his anger in explicit terms, Maroc proceeded to verbally excoriate the young Jerhia for her scandalous breech of protocol. "How dare you conduct yourself in such a flagrantly discourteous manner? We are guests in Metocan...no, that is a hollow, face-saving euphemism. We are refugees here, whose continued existence is entirely contingent upon Metocan generosity and forbearance. Your behavior before the Grand Mage is a monumental act of ingratitude and brings disgrace and shame to Jerhia!"

"As does..." Arminda started to object.

"Silence!" Maroc seethed with a furious snarl. "Due to what I see as your limitless potential, I have been overly indulgent of your faults...ignoring the clear indications of immaturity that have repeatedly clouded your judgment. Perhaps I was wrong in my assessment of your ability. You will return to your quarters, where you will remain until I summon you. One further incident and I will have you court marshaled and returned to Jerhia in shackles and disgrace. Now get out of my sight while I go and plead forgiveness for your scurrilous behavior."

By the time that the Maxim Tier Marshal had concluded this verbal lambasting of his errant protégé, Arminda was gape-jawed, red-faced and shaking with abjection. Maroc stepped away and she offered her superior a sharp salute, before stumbling away on legs that trembled discernibly. When she was well out of sight of the man whom she had come to think of as her mentor, Arminda began to sprint through the mercifully empty corridors.

2

An ashen faced Maroc returned to the audience chamber. To the others, he offered a contrite apology, along with the promise that the young Tier Marshal would be censured for her outrageous violation of decorum and protocol.

Artumas frowned and pursed his lips, dismayed and saddened by Arminda's agitated outburst. "Though it is hardly my place, may I request that you refrain from any form of censure or formal reprimand against your Tier Marshal? I have traveled with Arminda through the last segment of their ordeal through the Land of Shades and I can readily attest that she is a young woman of unassailable virtue and compassion. What's more, on this matter, she is correct. Arminda is undeviating in her adherence to her principles of justice and fairness...where the rest of us have fallen down the slippery slope of expedience. Let us not compound our lapse by persecuting those who do not easily abide by it."

Maroc frowned and looked to Inos. "Will you accept my sincere apology on her behalf, Grand Mage?"

"I do...I also acknowledge that Arminda is a young woman whose ilk will be this woeful world's salvation," Inos concluded congenially. "We must expect that her natural exuberance will, on occasion, induce her to express her perspective with more vehemence than is strictly necessary."

Maroc sighed; privately appalled that he had actually laid hands on the young woman about whom he had come to care with record alacrity and so thoroughly. "Very well, I will forego any form of censure, but she and I will have a rather intense dialogue about the art of diplomacy and statesmanship."

"So how do we prepare for Myrhia's return? Do we place any credence in Kevlan's contention that something profoundly troubling has changed with our erstwhile savior?" Inos asked the other three.

"There is something else we may wish to consider," Maroc interjected in a bemused tone that hinted at extreme puzzlement. "I've just received a report from First Scout Sybian...there has been a major battle in the city of Tinacot...the capital of Glynwith." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "It seems that another formidable player has taken the stage."

3

Sormias watched, as if from the depth of a trance as he flew the thermals, lost in the creature before him as if held in spellbound wonder. Ephirya crested the sky with a grace that left the golden Golgar feeling giddy with awe.

It was still difficult to internalize the fact that he was no longer alone in the world. Ironically, he had also discovered that he was the descendent of a predacious horde of ravagers who had laid waste to Ephirya's realm, subsequently leaving a permanent blight on the face of the world. Did he fully accept this tale of a glorious utopia beset by savage, envious hordes? While Sormias remained ambivalent, he had little doubt that the winsome princess believed her own harrowing tale with absolute conviction.

He had accepted her demand for eventual subservience and his aid in determining the nature of the cataclysm had prodded the Golgar to the brink of extinction.

He gazed on as the argent princess executed a graceful banking maneuver and wondered, _'Could my ancestors...these Golgars referred to as gold wings...really have allowed the base urge of avarice and its dark twin, envy...to drive them to obliterate this enclave of enlightenment known as Minastros? Could the Blighted Lands really be our legacy to the world?'_

' _If so, then we are really no different from the earth-scrabblers upon whom we heap our scathing disdain,'_ Sormias concluded, wondering if hubris and arrogance were the natural progression of every sentient species...an intrinsic flaw that simply could not be expunged.

Rather than dwell on this depressingly bleak consideration, Sormias contented himself with drinking in the physical poetry of Ephirya in flight. She extended her leanly-muscled right arm to a point on the northern horizon. Sormias followed her gesture and saw several columns of black smoke churning up into the monochrome gray afternoon sky.

He drew abreast with the argent princess, whose beautiful countenance was twisted in a rueful scowl. She hovered with an indolent flapping of sleek wings, "What do you suppose is the source of this smoke?"

With his augmented visual acuity, Sormias could clearly see orange tongues lapping intermittently at the undulating black columns. "This entire continent has evidently fallen into anarchy in the vacuum left behind by the enchantress' withdrawal. It could well be that this is but one of the many isolated and sporadic conflicts this anarchy has spawned."

"Accursed mortals!" Ephirya spat disgustedly. "Come Sormias, I would investigate this disruption." Then, with a powerful beating of silver wings, she was gone, speeding over the snow-cloaked forest like an enormous bird of prey.

Sormias uttered a helpless groan, suspecting that this manner of impulsive decision was commonplace for the passionate Ephirya.

' _Ah, what adventures we'll have,'_ Sormias thought with an incongruent blend of delight and bemusement. Then he set out after the princess to whom he would become thoroughly and swiftly bound in the dark drama to come.

4

First Jerhia Scout Sybian and her contingent of eleven Jerhia rangers watched grimly, detesting their helplessness, while the town of Tinacot burned. Face contorted into a mask of seething frustration, the veteran scout cast a sour glance at Esuruban, who watched, ashen faced, as the capital of Glynwith burned through what must certainly be its death throes. The swordsman met the Jerhia's incisive gaze and grimaced. There was no mistaking the recrimination in those smoldering blue pools. With the return of Artumas, Jerhia and Emercia had _fallen_ into an uneasy truce, but the enmity harbored by the soldiers who had fought the bitter war between the two nations was not so easily banished.

Esuruban took no affront in the face of Sybian belligerence, knowing that it was well warranted. At Myrhia's savage behest, Emercia had brought the world to its present state if woe.

Sybian turned her attention back to the town, which was nestled in a natural depression, surrounded by a horseshoe shaped ridge that was covered by thick stands of conifers.

"Who in their right mind would construct a town in such an absurdly indefensible location?" Sybian grumbled, causing Esuruban to grin behind a gloved fist. To a Jerhia, it was unfathomable that military tactical considerations would not be prioritized when selecting the site on which a town or village would be erected. It was true that...while certainly picturesque...Tinacot couldn't sit in a more tactically disadvantageous position.

Now, gazing down from the shelter of the heavily treed ridge, Esuruban and his Jerhia companions watched as a large band of Redian marauders pillaged the town. Thick, undulating columns of black smoke arose from the dozens of brightly painted wooden homes that had been set to the torch. Sybian lifted a hand glass and surveyed the four tall wooden observation towers that stood on the exterior corners of the town and had been erected to observe the streets. A cluster of bow-wielding mercenaries occupied each tower...making undetected approach virtually impossible.

The screams of pain and unheeded cries for mercy caused Sybian to grit her teeth and slam her fist on the bare stone beneath her. She estimated that at least four hundred heavily armed mercenaries had stormed the town in the hour before dawn. After a short battle with the hopelessly outnumbered and overmatched town watch, the Redians had commenced systematically sacking the town with impunity.

Both Esuruban and the Jerhia scouting party...which had been assigned to gather intelligence, rather than influence events...understood that they lacked the means to intervene. The practical truth of this did little to placate their sense of guilt and worthlessness that this dire predicament evoked.

As fate would have it, there were two approaching figures who would not be shackled by the same limitations.

Ephirya soared high into the sky to reconnoiter the burning town from a perspective that would allow her to assess the situation in one all-encompassing glance. Meanwhile, Sormias employed his extraordinary vision to survey the ridgelines, where he spotted several figures watching the carnage unfold from the cover of the trees.

His golden eyes narrowed as he recognized Captain Esuruban and First Scout Sybian amongst the others. Sweeping over to Ephirya, he gestured toward the cluster of his allies and informed her, "Those people in the trees are my friends. Perhaps they will be able to tell us exactly what is happening here."

Nodding, the argent princess dove toward the expanse of trees, before circling tightly and coming to ground not ten paces from where Esuruban and Sybian lay hidden.

Every head swiveled and in the blink of an eye, every crossbow was centered on a point between the improbable creature's full breasts.

Both Sybian and Esuruban gaped at this incredible vision of divine beauty, though the expression that adorned her face was anything but holy.

"I would advice that it would be most prudent to lower your weapons," a jovial voice suggested with some urgency and then Sormias stepped past the argent wonder, deliberately imposing himself between Ephirya and the scouting party. He could feel her scorching regard on his back, but forced himself to focus on the two familiar faces before him.

Slowly, Sybian lowered her weapon, never taking her incredulous gaze from the pair of amazing creatures, and gestured for her scouting contingent to do the same. Sormias offered the diminutive Jerhia an ebullient grin and inquired, "Have you recovered from your time aloft, fair lady?"

"Barely," Sybian muttered tersely and the color drained from her face at the recollection of her harrowing ordeal racing through the skies in the Golgar's embrace.

His grin widened in wry amusement and he then turned to Esuruban. "How fares our irascible friend, Captain?"

The intense flicker of pain that rippled across the handsome Emercian's face like a black cloud over calm waters informed the Golgar that he had maladroitly touched a raw nerve. In a somber voice, he managed, "She endures, Sormias."

Sormias merely nodded gravely and behind him...Ephirya rasped, "Gold wing..."

There could be no mistaking either the simmering impatience or the implicit warning in her imperious tone. This was not a woman who would suffer being ignored while trivialities were exchanged. Casting the princess an apologetic grin, Sormias introduced her hurriedly. "Captain Esuruban, First Scout Sybian...may I introduce Princess Ephirya of Minastros."

The two mortals exchanged perplexed glances and then peered at the argent Golgar as if she might be a mythical creature that had come to life from the pages of a scribe's fantastical tale for children. Icily, Ephirya intoned, "I believe it is customary to bow in the presence of royalty."

Bludgeoned by her glacial demeanor, the Emercian and the Jerhia contingent offered the princess stiff bows. Esuruban smiled and attempted to make amends. "I'm sorry, Princess Ephirya...I am _unfamiliar_ with Minastros."

Wishing to defuse the temperamental argent's anger, Sormias interjected, "I found the princess in the onyx tower in Perdwick. Obviously, much has changed in the millennia since she first settled into her slumber. I was escorting her to meet the leaders in Othgol when we noticed the pandemonium in this unfortunate town."

"I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself, gold wing," the princess interrupted in a tone that dripped with acid. Sormias offered her a deferential bow and stepped back. Ephirya turned her penetrating gaze on Sybian and in a tone that made it clear that she fully expected a concise and immediate answer, demanded, "What is the cause of the chaos here?"

"A large band of mercenaries is ruthlessly sacking the town...perhaps several hundred in number. This band of marauders is scum of the worst sort and I fear we are going to witness an ugly spectacle of slaughter."

Ephirya's perfectly formed lips curled into the wicked parody of a grin and she vowed, "Oh, there will be a slaughter indeed...though on this day, it will be the miscreants whose blood feeds the soil."

She then spiraled up into the sky and flashed out over the snow-covered expanse of open ground and into the town of Tinacot. Sormias looked to the bemused Sybian and Esuruban and remarked dryly, "I do believe we are about to see a display of power that this world has not witnessed in thousands of years."

Ephirya swept down from the gray heavens like an engine of retribution. She set her sights upon the southwest tower and twin argent shafts of arcane energy tore the air like scythes. The wooden constructs exploded upon impact, sending a dozen crossbow wielding mercenaries tumbling toward the cobbles. Before they could even strike the unyielding stone, the argent Golgar's deadly regard set them ablaze. The twelve were reduced to cinders with stunning alacrity...an indolent sprinkle of ashes all that remained to mark their demise.

Not bothering to admire her lethal handiwork, the Golgar uttered an ululating battle cry. Executing a curving turn, she sped toward the southeast tower, where she reprised her catastrophic destruction with a power and intensity that beggared reason.

Sormias and his mortal companions watched with a fascinated mixture of horror and disbelief as Ephirya felled the two remaining towers as if they were constructed of glue and paper. Argent flames licked at the gray clothe of the sky, prompting Esuruban to observe, "She may well incinerate the entire town if she does not restrain her rampage."

"Still, she has certainly distracted the Redians," Sybian insisted with obvious admiration. "With the towers disabled, we can now make a valuable contribution to preventing this atrocity." With this, she signaled to her squad and the group set off down the slope and across the open valley at a sprint.

Esuruban turned his attention to Sormias, his handsome face beset with worry. "Hopefully, your princess' murderous zeal will not preclude her ability to distinguish between friend and foe."

Clearly unable to offer that assurance, Sormias merely shook his head and suggested, "Perhaps it might be prudent if you and I were there to help her make that distinction."

Grasping the Golgar's intent, Esuruban nodded and soon he was borne up into the air, racing toward Tinacot, where Ephirya continued to roll over the hapless Redians like a winged juggernaut.

When the last of the towers had fallen into an argent pyre and the morning air was alive with blood-chilling screams that were cut mercifully short by the ravenous flames...Ephirya swept back over the low wooden palisades and along Tinacot's main thoroughfare.

Bewildered by the staggering destruction of the town's watchtowers, the Redians were momentarily frozen by their astonishing and inexplicable reversal of fortune. Ephirya winged along the wide cobbled thoroughfare, casually dispensing fiery death to the would-be plunderers. The citizens of Tinacot cowered in the shadows, watching in a state of shock as their solitary savior swiftly and efficiently decimated the Redian ranks.

When the argent engine of carnage reached the central square of the town, she was confronted by as many as two hundred axe and hammer wielding Redians. For the most part (and to their own continuing detriment) Redians had a tendency to eschew crossbows and other projectile weapons, but a few of the more _progressive_ mercenaries managed to loose a few bolts at the converging terror.

Ephirya swept them from the sky with a contemptuous flick of her fiery gaze and then incinerated those who had fired them. With a malefic grin, the argent Golgar came to ground, skidding toward the Redian ranks without the slightest hint of concern that she was vastly outnumbered.

"I could immolate you all where you cower...but it would be infinitely more pleasing to see you to the bloody ends you so richly deserve," she roared with a maniacal gleam in her silver eyes. When several of the mercenaries foolishly responded with derisive laughter, despite the havoc this alien woman had visited upon their comrades, Ephirya howled with blood frenzy and charged.

She began to close the distance between them and as she did, Ephirya was enveloped in a cocoon of blinding silver light. The light was so intense in magnitude that the cluster of mercenaries was forced to shield their eyes and stumble away. When the light had at last guttered, the Redians found that they were confronted by an armor clad engine of death. The Golgar brandished her long sword, a fantastical construct of argent light, and slammed it against the face of her shield, which was composed of swiftly rotating bands of argent energy.

When her intimidating sword struck the shield, the impact raised wicked tendrils of light that resembled bolts of lightening. She then cut the air experimentally, smiling in reaction to the crackle and hiss her blade emitted as it sliced the air. Her full lips split into a sinister grin and behind her half helm, those alien eyes radiated the promise of unconstrained carnage. "I judge that there are only eight score of your motley number...hardly a fair contest, but your ugly faces and offensive stench have soured my mood...so I'll gleefully slaughter the lot of you anyway."

With this taunt delivered, Ephirya attacked, sprinting toward the Redians like the very streak of lightening she personified. The closest Redians tried to disperse to form a skirmish line, with the intent of attempting to encircle the meddlesome bitch. Another cluster fell back to form a second rank.

A few of the more perceptive Redians, deciding that this creature may be beyond their ability to overcome, chose discretion over valor. They faded into the side streets with the hope of escaping Tinacot and going off in search of easier prey elsewhere. Many of those who had chosen to exit the square via the western avenues were quickly and efficiently dispatched by Sybian's approaching scouts, who showed absolutely no mercy to the ravagers.

Sormias set Esuruban down on the western edge of the town common, just as Ephirya, clad in armor like living fire, prepared to confront the Redians. The two males watched...frozen in identical postures of disbelief...as the argent Golgar played a symphony of slaughter, employing the helpless Redians as her instruments.

As she streaked toward them, a trio of the Redians raised their hammers and axes. All were ingrained with the age old prejudice that women were weak and incapable of martial prowess, the three fully expected to decorate the snow with this presumptuous whore's blood. They raised their weapons to swing in unison, but to their amazement (and dawning horror), Ephirya literally dove over the front rank, executing an elegant tuck, roll and twist, only to land lightly on her feet directly behind the three.

A sweeping arc of her argent long sword cleaved through the three before they could even begin to pivot. Boiled leather, flesh and viscera; all were not condign to resisting the Golgar's remorseless blade.

The argent warrior spun away just as the three torsos slid to the snow in a geyser of blood and a spill of intestines. Esuruban uttered a horrified grunt of revulsion as three sets of legs tottered for a brief instant and then fell over like toppled trees.

A nearby Redian, clearly not grasping what had just befallen his miscreant brothers, leapt toward Ephirya from her left. He was deceptively quick despite his imposing bulk and when it seemed inevitable that he would bury the blade of his axe in her skull, Ephirya raised her shield and twisted her torso.

Its horizontal arc bisected the path of the Redian's swing, separating both arms from his body just above the elbows. Both arms and axe fell to the snow just behind the massive brute, who loosed a mewling scream of shock and uncomprehending horror while blood spewed from the stumps of his arms like twin fountains.

She then unleashed twin shafts of argent light that tossed the dying Redian into the hesitant, milling ranks behind him. The engine of death then spun toward the second rank, most of whom were swiftly losing their enthusiasm for the fray. With an ululating cry, she charged the group while extending her shield arm to the side and her long sword to the other. The argent Golgar began to spin like a dervish, felling Redians in the way a thresher would churn through a field of wheat. Soon the air over Tinacot was thick with the cloying stench of blood, excrement and burning flesh.

Seeing that they could offer nothing other than fodder for her insatiable blade, the surviving Redians turned on heel and scattered. The ground of the square was littered with the repulsive detritus of butchery. Coming to an abrupt halt, Ephirya bellowed a frustrated roar and strafed a score of fleeing Redians with twin shafts of argent fire...reducing them to a smolder pile of cinders and ash with bewildering speed.

Esuruban gripped a transfixed Sormias' arm and implored, "Can you stop this? These Redians are deplorable scum, but even they are undeserving of being slaughtered in this reprehensible manner."

Sormias' head seemed to swivel of the stalk of his neck in slow motion. The expression on his handsome face was one of haunted guilt. Esuruban shook him briskly and after drawing a quavering breath, the Golgar leapt into the air with a flap of wings.

Even as he moved to impose himself between the fleeing mortals and their luminous executioner, the benevolent Sormias wondered if her battle rage was capable of drawing distinction...or had it been effaced by the inherent need to spill blood.

' _By the blessed heavens, what is it you've aroused from slumber?'_ he asked himself wretchedly. He had crossed the Hiberas with the mind to devoting his energy to delivering mortals from their plight. Now, he feared that he had unwittingly unleashed a force that would pale the menace posed by the creatures he wished to oppose.

Uncertain of the consequences of this spontaneous action, Sormias swept around to face the princess, whose deadly gaze immolated one fleeing Redian after the other until the air above the valley reeked with immolated flesh. He abruptly unleashed twin shafts of golden light, which came together to form a curtain that then descended like the blade of a guillotine.

The arcane blade efficiently severed Ephirya's roving streams, though the effect of Sormias' intervention was immediate and explosive. The collision of arcane energies created a backlash that reverberated back on the casters in powerful rolling waves.

Ephirya was blown across the gore-spattered common in a sprawl of long limbs, while Sormias was swept from the sky as if struck down by the invisible fist of a deity.

He landed with bone-jarring force and lay sprawled on the cold cobbles in an incoherent daze.

After an interminable moment of gazing vacantly up into the indifferent sky, Sormias regained a measure of his faculties and turned painfully onto his hands and knees. He was steadying himself to rise, when a dazzling argent light flared before his eyes and he found Ephirya's blade poised just a hair's breadth from his exposed throat.

He slowly raised his gaze to find that he was peering along the length of Ephirya's arcane weapon. In her argent eyes, he could discern neither recognition nor any sense of higher awareness...only an atavistic and insatiable hunger for blood. Her lovely countenance was puckered into a knot of murderous fury, informing Sormias just how precarious his present circumstances had become.

He was peripherally aware of the proximity of Sybian and her scouts as they furtively approached and formed a rough crescent some ten paces behind the argent Golgar and now stood with their crossbows trained squarely upon Ephirya's slender back.

"Please, lady Sybian...stand down!" Sormias exhorted and though his tone seemed composed, the Jerhia could glean the churning anxiety just beneath the thin veneer. He raised his hands and slowly extended his arms to either side in a gesture of capitulation. In a low, deferential voice, he intoned, "Princess, I beg of you, please desist. You have broken them completely. Let this suffice. If we slaughter them as they flee, are we not demonstrating that we are no different from the savages against whom we've fought?"

Sormias fell silent and held his breath, hoping that his argument could permeate the filter of her blood frenzy. The tense moment drew itself out and it seemed that the argent Golgar might well be beyond the reach of reason.

Ephirya suddenly blinked, her slightly glazed expression conveying the extent of her disorientation. Her sleek body shuddered and she slowly lowered her weapon, much to the relief of all present. Stepping back, she inquired hesitantly, "Gold wing?"

"It is done, princess...the ravagers have fled...you've single-handedly saved the town," Sormias informed her softly.

Like a woman emerging from a trance, Ephirya swept her absent gaze over the square, which now resembled a poorly maintained abattoir. Dismembered and fire-ravaged bodies littered the scorched and gore-spattered cobbles in revolting drifts.

Ephirya's slightly glazed regard settled upon Esuruban, who managed not to squirm beneath its disconcerting weight. "You...pretty man...is the gold wing being truthful? Am I responsible for the carnage?"

"Yes, your highness," Esuruban allowed simply. An iridescent light flared briefly and her sword and armor vanished. She exchanged glances with the Emercian and a moment of perfect empathy passed between the pair. Though they were creatures from diametrically opposite ends of existence, the humble Emercian divined the full extent of Ephirya's internal torment.

The argent Golgar lurched drunkenly as the cumulative burden of centuries of blood-drenched memories impacted upon her consciousness, easily surmounting every battlement she'd erected to protect her from the soul-scarifying truth of who she was.

In the harrowing blink of an eye, Ephirya's every delusion was vaporized and the atrocities of her past revisited her like long repressed nightmares granted life by some infernal magic over which she held no sway.

The world was bathed in fire and writhing black smoke. In every direction, the once verdant paradise had been reduced to smoldering rubble. The heavens were cut by wicked beams of argent and gold that exploded upon contact, the blinding light casting the world below in hues of the apocalypse. Cries of battle rang out across the desecrated landscape as the two armies fought yet another in an endless series of savage battles...the nightmare choreography of a lethal dance of extinction.

As always, _she_ fought at the center of the carnage, her armor covered in the golden gore of her innumerable victims. Ephirya, the unprecedented, inimitable dispenser of death. She had been dubbed the executioner princess by her own soldiers. The gold wings...the tribe of pacifists who flew the thermals over a natural paradise, which mortals would come to know as the Land of Shades...simply called her the demon scourge.

At her father's behest, she had led the armies of Minastros across the Hiberas with a mind to bludgeon the peaceful tribes of the west into absolute subjugation. She had visited a horror of unconstrained warfare upon the gold wings, slaughtering their feeble opposition while setting their fertile homeland to the torch...turning the once verdant land into a sterile husk.

The magnitude of Ephirya, the demon scourge's atrocity was without parallel in the bloody annals of history.

She staggered drunkenly about to face Sormias, her lovely countenance emblazoned with an expression of self-abhorrence that baffled the gregarious Golgar. He rose and hurried over, gripping her firm shoulders to prevent her from falling.

In a listless voice, devoid of its customary arrogance, the argent Golgar implored, "Sormias, we must speak...away from these mortals." Sormias' brow furrowed, puzzled by the sudden pall of insecurity that seemed so incongruent with the proud creature he had roused from slumber in Perdwick. His puzzlement became consternation when she added dolefully, "Please, I would have you grant me expiation."

5

Dusk was fast descending on the wounded capital, where the process of sifting through the wreckage, both structural and human, was well underway. The bodies of the Redian mercenaries had been hauled away to a nearby field where they would be incinerated. Then, as a sign of utter contempt, their ashes and bones would be scattered over a distant field that was used for the purpose of sewage filtration. This seemingly petulant gesture of disdain struck Sybian (whose rectitude in matters of conduct was unwavering) as needless and repugnant. Out of respect for the townspeople's grief and justifiable outrage, she did not intervene.

In the chamber of the town father, Sybian drafted a factual, unembellished account of what had transpired in Tinacot on this day. Despite her best efforts to minimize some of the account's more fantastical elements, the First Scout was perturbed to discover that it still read like a mummer's tale. After a few tense moments of ambivalence, vacillating between rewriting it and sending the report as is, she decided to dispatch one of her scouts to carry the document back to Othgol.

The diminutive blond then turned her attention to the unpleasant task of deciding what was to be done with the six Redian captives. From the perspective of cold pragmatism, she could hardly continue her scouting mission with six prisoners in tow. It would have been expedient to simply turn them over to the devices of Tinacot's citizens, yet to the morally unassailable Sybian that would have been akin to simply butchering them. These were the reprehensible tactics of the enemy and she would not embrace them for the sake of convenience.

It had been the unassuming Esuruban who had suggested a decidedly crafty and artful solution. "First Scout, these barbarians have been shaken to their bones by what they've witness here. With this imponderable act of gruesome violence, Ephirya has spoken in the one language these reprobates understand...unequivocal terror." He offered Sybian a crooked grin and reminded her, "I've had the displeasure of fighting beside this rabble for seven years and in that entire time, never once did I witness a Redian display the level of fear that these bastards are showing now. Ephirya has fractured their spirit...perhaps we may yet capitalize on this incredible turn of events."

Sybian drew in her cheeks and pursed her cracked lips, "You're suggesting that we simply let them go free?"

Esuruban responded with the smile that had melted so many female hearts and nodded, "With a stern warning that their fellow ravagers can expect to meet the same grizzly fate if they don't scurry back to their mountain burrows."

"But we have no way of knowing if Princess Ephirya would be willing to serve in this capacity," Sybian pointed out, shuddering as vivid images of the slaughter bloomed in her mind's eye. "Nor am I sure we would want to unleash this particular weapon...as effective as it might prove to be in cowing all opposition."

"If we release these men, permit them to carrying their harrowing tale back to the reprobates, I sincerely doubt that we'll have to. Her reputation will precede her and may well clear a path all the way to Emercia."

Wooed by the symmetry of Esuruban's subtle logic, Sybian had acquiesced and the thoroughly humbled Redians had fled like hares across a march.

Now Sybian sat near the window of the town hall, speaking quietly with the Emercian, while anxiously awaiting Sormias' return. The Jerhia veteran had spent most of her adult life in solitude, ensconced in the shadows of service to her country and its noble ideals. She had eschewed relationships and emotional entanglements...regarding these things as potential impediments to her sole purpose. Yet, it required only a few hours spent in this beautiful man's humble presence...with his surprisingly dexterous mind and gentle sensibilities...to make Sybian's resolve waver. Astoundingly, she began to entertain the possibility that this obsessive devotion to duty had denied her the prospect of a more meaningful sense of contentment.

It surprised her further that this extraordinary man had no real perception of the affect he exerted upon those who spent even a short span of time in his company. She was privately contemplating how pleased she was that he had been attached to her unit, when a shadow sailed across the window.

"Sormias!" Esuruban exclaimed with unmistakable anxiety and the pair hurried out to greet the Golgar, who had landed in the deserted square just beyond the window.

The rectangle was delineated by an evenly-spaced series of torch lights. They cast a sufficient quantity of light to reveal the full extent of the Golgar's disquiet. The normally jovial Sormias appeared somber...even dejected...in the fast descending darkness and for a fleeting moment, the Emercian feared that he had complied with the argent Golgar's fatalistic request. Reluctantly, he inquired, "Where is Princess Ephirya?"

"I left her on the crest of a mountain some leagues to the south of here," the clearly despondent Golgar replied, which the Emercian greeted with a sigh of relief. In a weary monotone, Sormias disclosed what had passed between the pair during the course of the fateful afternoon. "Ephirya asked me to destroy her," he began with no hint of his characteristic elegance...a change of habit that eloquently declared how intensely he had been disturbed by her shocking plea. "In fact, she fell to her knees and begged me to take her life. To see such a proud, magnificent creature reduced to such abject despair...I can't properly describe how it lanced my heart."

Esuruban, who had personally witnessed Lorio's anguish and torment, could certainly commiserate with what the compassionate Golgar might be experiencing, only nodded his understanding. Tentatively, he asked, "Was it...prudent to leave her alone in this particular state of mind?"

"Ephirya is possessed of an immutable spirit that is incapable of...suicide," Sormias assured him glumly. "Still, your point is well taken and I'll be brief."

"What she did today...the abilities she demonstrated...are you capable of the like, Sormias?" Sybian inquired, as if she could scarcely credit what her senses insisted she had witnessed.

Sormias' eyes widened in apparent horror, "No! I have neither that ability, nor the disposition to wreak the kind of mayhem that Ephirya unleashed this day." He shook his head, as if mortified by the very prospect. The Golgar drew himself erect and came to the very heart of the issue. "Ephirya implored me to destroy her...claiming that the weight of her guilt was too onerous to bear...the enormity of her crimes too monstrous to be deserving of leniency. A part of my mind was inclined to believe that relieving her of this burden of guilt would actually be an act of cold mercy."

"Then she was an engine of malice...on par with Myrhia?" Sybian gasped in amazement.

Sormias nodded morosely, "Yes, she conducted her father's war of empire building with a mind to exterminate every other race of Golgar...leaving the argents with unchallenged dominion. Somehow, over the course of her millennia-long hibernation, Ephirya's beleaguered subconscious reconfigured her memories to exonerate her of the crime of genocide. She awoke with the fervent belief that it was my tribe...those she referred to as the gold wings...who had perpetrated the atrocities that had systematically driven our majestic species to the razor's edge of extinction. Today's massacre has shattered that thin veneer of delusion, crushing her beneath the ugly truth of who and what she is."

"If she did commit these evil acts, then perhaps you should grant her request...a quick death would be a far kinder fate than what she deserves," an indignant Sybian proposed from perspective of her long-inculcated sensibilities of Jerhia justice.

Sormias' unfathomable golden eyes became slightly unfocused as if he was peering into a salient truth that only he could see. In an oddly fey tone, he explained, "There is another mercifully minute part of my nature that would love dearly to do precisely that, but then I would be guilty of an abominable crime that would make Ephirya's seem trivial by contrast...the extinction of my species."

"I don't understand," Sybian stammered as her angular face twisted in perplexity.

"I believe that she and I may be the last of our kind..." Sormias elaborated, letting the progression of thought hang.

"And to execute her would be to condemn your species to extinction," Esuruban interjected, drawing a mortified expression of incredulity from Sybian.

"And you would spare her life...with a mind to...to mating...to propagating your species with the very monster who came so close to eradicating your people?" Sybian breathed, scarcely able to conceive of a greater betrayal of her ancestors.

"As abhorrent as it may seem, yes," the Golgar allowed, but in those luminous golden eyes, his inner moral turmoil was obvious. "I have always been a...hopeless optimist and it is my aspiration that our...union might produce an offspring from whom all adversarial inclinations have been purged...like rank weeds. Ours can be an intermingling of races to banish old enmities and heal festering wounds. I have no illusions about how absurdly ingenuous this must sound. Still, the two of you were mortal enemies...and yet here you stand, united in common purpose."

Sybian lashed Esuruban with a severe frown, but her truculence melted beneath his affable smile. To the Golgar, the Emercian inquired, "Is Ephirya aware of your scheme to rescue the Golgar species?"

Sormias responded to this wry query with a comical expression of horror and embarrassment. Sheepishly, he replied, "No. When she pleaded with me to take her life, I proposed a compromise...to which she reluctantly agreed. We will leave these lands...and go forth into the world beyond in search of an island upon which the princess can serve her exile. I have agreed to be her jailor. As we Golgar's are a long-lived species, it is my hope that I will eventually devise a compelling argument that will entice her to see that merits of my plan."

Sybian chuffed her strong disapproval and muttered, "I must attend to the lodging of my scouts."

Then she trudged off, leaving the two men alone in the chilled dusk. Sormias beamed his affable grin and observed, "It seems that the First Scout is a fiercely driven pragmatist, with a clearly defined and rigid sense of justice. I fear that understanding my motivations for sparing Ephirya's life is simply beyond her."

"Sybian's nature was forged in the harshest of crucibles...where cold pragmatism governs every action and sentiment is a sign of weakness. Her undeviating adherence to her sense of justice is her armor, I think."

"A sad truth of these dark times," Sormias concurred, his tone sober. He then clapped a hand on the Emercian's shoulder. "You know, I never would have credited you as a philosopher, but beneath that benign exterior, there dwells an agile mind."

Esuruban frowned in response to this unexpected compliment. "Then I am a better actor than I imagined because I've spent the better part of my life in a state of confusion, trying to understand the world around me and seldom meeting with success. Even my own allegiances and actions over these last eight years remain a painful and puzzling mystery to me." After a moment of reflection, The Emercian inquired, "When will you leave?"

"Now. I fear that further episodes like the one today would permanently fracture Ephirya's spirit," Sormias revealed gravely. "I came back to say goodbye, Captain. Though I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance only for a short time, I've come to believe that you and I are kindred spirits...kind and compassionate men who are bewildered by the hostility and callousness around them. I see you as a man with a serene heart, who sly fate has endowed with an aptitude for violence that is incongruent with your nature. When I first was roused from my slumber, I thought my purpose was to help Islena Doraux overcome the malice that afflicts this beleaguered world. Now, I think that fate intends that I help purge the evil from Ephirya's tormented soul. When I recall the kindness with which you treated poor Lorio...even after the abuse you suffered at her hands...I felt certain that you could empathize with how I feel."

Sormias searched the Emercian's face expectantly and Esuruban, who understood this extraordinary creature's sense of obligation all too well, signified his understanding with a nod. The Golgar smiled in gratitude and vigorously shook Esuruban's hand. "May fate reward your kindness with a place of contentment and long years to enjoy it."

With this earnest wish imparted, Sormias flapped his wings and took to the night sky. With thoughts of Lorio swirling in his mind, Esuruban tracked the Golgar's flight until he was swallowed by the darkness.

Though Esuruban would live a long life beyond this period, and eventually find his contentment in the most unexpected of places, he would never see another Golgar grace the skies over the antiquated lands again.

Chapter Forty-Five

1

On the day that Islena Doraux and Myrhia returned to Othgol, the nascent stirring of some long dormant emotion permeated every citizen in the ancient capital. Every man, woman and child experienced this inexplicable _quickening_ and felt a shiver of excitement that was strangely akin to rapture.

The incessant snows had given way to bitter cold, but despite the icy chill that crackled in the air and beneath boot heels, slowly and inexorably, houses emptied. Every citizen in Othgol, compelled by an irresistible pull they could not identify, took to the frigid streets. They lined the icy thoroughfares and venues in anticipation of the imminent arrival of the two most feared creatures in existence.

Inos had ordered that a continuous channel of double barricades be erected to delineate the route from the city's north gate to the temporary seat of government near the central plaza. A continuous line of Emercian and Jerhia soldiers occupied the space between the rows of barricades. As a further precaution, wards had been erected along the route...transparent barriers to separate the spectators from the returning women.

As leaders ascended the receiving dais, all immediately recognized that their measures were unnecessary. The mood in the streets was subdued as people awaited Islena and Myrhia's arrival in near perfect silence. Even the children, who would normally grow restive during even the briefest of civic functions, were strangely calm and well-behaved. Every eye was set upon the open gate and the north road beyond.

"They appear to be hypnotized," Inos communicated silently to Jerrod and Mascius, both of whom flanked him on the receiving dais.

"It's almost as thought they're enthralled," the normally irascible scholar observed nervously.

"There is an imperceptible current running through the air over the city," Jerrod added, sweeping his gaze along the crowded streets. "It is palpable and I suspect that everyone is experiencing exactly the same sense of controlled anticipation...an inkling that something momentous is about to happen."

Maroc and Artumas, though not privy to the Metocan gift of silent communication, were also cognizant of this constrained aura of expectation that flowed through the moment like a subtle breeze. Behind the pair, attired in her formal regalia, Arminda struggled to maintain her façade of impassivity. It was her intention to maneuver Islena into a private audience and beseech her to release Lorio. The prospect of confronting this indecipherable creature filled the stalwart Jerhia with a dread that was well near paralyzing. To firm her resolve, Arminda conjured Gillian's countenance...with marginal success.

For Inos, the prospect of coming face to face with the monster who had slaughtered Tokizar was a perverse cruelty that only a willfully malicious fate could contrive. Still, he was the nation's guiding father and as such, understood that he must subjugate his abhorrence for the sake of his people.

Not one of the leaders on the dais elected to focus on the grave implications of Kevlan's report. As Maktir had remarked in his gruff, blunt delivery, "Tyrcillium will penetrate every veil and if Islena Doraux does, indeed, wear a false face, the wages of her deception will be eternal imprisonment in living wood."

Those on the receiving dais were struggling to master their own perfectly valid apprehension. It was unlikely that Myrhia's reaction to Maktir's brinksmanship would be benign and all were pondering the exact shape her wrath might assume once she learned of his ploy.

The city bells began to clang...sounding very much like a dirge in the frigid morning air. An expectant murmur ran through the rank of onlookers...low and soft like the susurration of wind through the barley.

"This promises to be an eventful day," Maroc observed tightly, suddenly wishing that he had dispatched Arminda with the first contingent of troops heading east.

"I only hope that I can mollify Myrhia when the inevitable moment of eruption arrives," Artumas declared in a voice that made it clear he harbored serious reservations.

The lingering sense of expectation grew as the first of the Morticants loped into view, moving like the inexorable engines of purpose they were. Demonstrating anxiety and emotion for the first time, the citizens of Metocan uttered a collective gasp as the enchantress came galloping into sight with Islena Doraux floating effortlessly beside her.

The ward that protected the north gate abruptly fell and as the pair passed beneath the decorative stone arch, total silence fell over the streets like a death shroud. Myrhia reined her daunting charger to a halt next to the dais. The sight of the obsidian leash and collar affixed around Islena's neck roused a painful grimace from all on the dais.

Then that collective gaze fell upon Islena Doraux and seeing the scope of the changes that had befallen her, every jaw dropped in unison. Dressed in her omni-shifting robe with her head bowed in meek deference, Islena did convey the impression of an enslaved goddess.

The enchantress offered the gaping multitudes a predacious grin, which Artumas noticed never lighted in her great dark eyes and declared, "Citizens of Metocan, behold you Matron. Come Islena; let them see you in all of your glory!"

Islena cast a brief glance at her tormentor and lifted her head to survey the masses. At the sight of her luminous silver-emerald eyes and the argent orb embedded between her full breasts, Mascius breathed, "What manner of ignominy is this?"

The orb flared like an exploding sun and an argent light rolled forth in radial waves, infusing the unsuspecting Metocan with soothing warmth. A collective sigh echoed along the avenues and rank upon rank of Othgol's citizens sank slowly to their knees, until at last, the entire native population of the capital was kneeling in one common posture of supplication.

Myrhia chuckled in amusement and lashed the disconcerted leaders with a sardonic smirk. She then unclipped Islena's leash and encouraged, "Go out amongst your people, Islena...let them bask in your radiance."

Islena greeted this with an unfathomable expression, made all the more inscrutable by her alien eyes. She then spread her muscular arms and floated forward. The orb flared yet again and all along the thoroughfare, the barriers were lifted from the ground and borne up into the air, where they vanished from sight over the northern ramparts. Cries of panic greeted this feat of sorcery, but speaking for the first time, Islena placated the collective anxiety in a placid voice that rolled over the city like warm water. "Be still...there is no cause for alarm." Touching the roiling orb between her breasts, she confirmed what the citizens of Othgol had divined intuitively. "I carry the souls of your ancestors in my bosom. Come forward and see for yourself." To the Jerhia and Emercian buffer troops, she commanded, "Stand aside and let my children come!"

A tense nod from both Maroc and Artumas and the troops stood down. Islena came to ground on the icy cobbles, her brow furrowing in irritation when she discerned the presence of the arcane barrier. The Orb of Metocan flared again and the air came alive with an acrid tang.

She then held her arms out to a small Metocan boy, who after a questioning glance up at his parents, rushed happily into her arms. In the next instant, Islena was surrounded by a swarm of Metocan, all reaching to touch this living repository of Metocan cumulative spirit.

Smiling radiantly, Islena touched them all in turn, laying her hands on upturned foreheads like a saint bestowing blessing on a flock of penitents.

Myrhia watched this unsettling display of idolatry with a rueful frown. She floated, scarcely noticed, to the dais, still holding the obsidian prop of her charade in a delicate right hand. Turning to the bemused leaders, she inquired, "Are there any amongst you who would still question the veracity of the ancient prophecy?"

"Even the prophecy did not speak of the orb bonding with the flesh of the chosen vessel," Mascius grumbled, his scowl suggesting that he took personal affront to this omission.

"Are you really so obtuse as to believe that the art of augury is a precise endeavor, old man?" Myrhia spat contemptuously. "Nothing in the primitive sensibilities of the ancients could have allowed for the existence of a creature such as Islena...or one such as me." Of Inos, she inquired, "Why do you not kneel in reverence, Grand Mage? Do you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge what the common Metocan enthusiastically accepts?"

The Grand Mage turned away, refusing to acknowledge the enchantress, an intentional slight that clearly vexed the woman who had devastated his life. Before her ire could escalate into violence, Artumas deliberately imposed himself between the pair. "Let's not cast a pall over our daughter's auspicious return. It seems that she has won the people's adoration. To sully it with a needless act of violence would be seen as a petty jealousy."

Myrhia scowled fiercely at this thinly disguised rebuke, but she averted her eyes and did not persist in provoking Inos, for which Artumas was grateful. Islena basked in the adulation of the throng that pressed in upon her. Something in their zealous gazes...rife with adoration...evoked memories of a time in her life when she had been a shallow, hopelessly vain creature, who had pursued this piteous commodity like an addict. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic from the press of bodies and the weight of their cumulative need, Islena rose swiftly into the air and floated back toward the dais.

She landed behind the mother, where she bowed her head and closed her eyes. Artumas was fascinated to note that the protruding segment of orb had guttered to a dull gray that pulsed listlessly. In a surprisingly brittle voice, Islena murmured, "Can we dispense with this pointless pageantry, mother...I am weary."

After fixing Doraux with an intense gaze of appraisal, Myrhia swept her regard over the dais and demanded sharply, "Where is the Natzurdan relic?"

Gleaning that Myrhia had intuited that something was amiss and knowing the reaction this was likely to garner, Artumas again attempted to forestall her eruption. "My Queen, let us adjourn to the audience hall..."

Myrhia arched an eyebrow. "Do you think me a gullible ingénue, Artumas? That you would address me in that fashion...it is a glaringly shallow attempt to mollify my ire. I made it eminently clear that I would tolerate no further subterfuge. How many more of these bleating sheep must I incinerate before you take me at my word? Now, I've asked you...where is Maktir?"

Before Artumas could respond, a keen ripple of anxiety rolled through the crowded thoroughfare...segueing to cries of alarm that verged on outright panic. Every head swiveled to the southern end of the thoroughfare, where a swell of cries and gasps arose like a gathering storm.

"Truly we must be cursed," Maroc muttered when he saw whose approach had precipitated this angst, earning a reproachful scowl from Arminda.

Lorio walked slowly down the center of the wide avenue. The Metocans parted before her as if she was a virulent contagion...capable of infecting them by mere proximity alone. A skirmish line of Jerhia crossbowmen imposed themselves between the dais and the approaching immortal.

Their presence did nothing to deter Lorio's stride and the moment threatened to spiral into bloody anarchy. Indeed, clad in her blood red armor that sparkled like polished gemstones, the statuesque figure appeared to be the living embodiment of poised carnage. The black ironwood staff that protruded over her shoulder only accentuated this daunting impression of lethal competence.

Lorio approached the people, who had thrown her life into chaos and ruin, in a slow, almost stately manner. She was only peripherally aware of the agitated rush of people around her or the dozens of crossbow bolts that were trained on her heart. Her entire focus was set squarely upon the woman in the peculiar robe...a woman who wore Islena's spectacular body, but exuded an aura that was both unfamiliar and alien.

Inos rushed to the front of the dais, his face twisted in apoplectic horror at the prospect of a recurrence of the nightmare on the plaza. "You will remain where you are and allow the Jerhia to escort you back to your quarters."

In the ensuing pandemonium, Arminda slipped, unnoticed, next to Islena Doraux and pressed a slip of paper into the indecipherable creature's hand. Islena turned her disconcerting gaze on the diminutive Jerhia, before quickly scrutinizing the terse request. Those terrible, incisive eyes settled on Arminda, who marshaled all of her discipline not to flinch. After what seemed like an eternity, Islena nodded her agreement. The note erupted into flame and was consumed in the blink of an eye.

Islena then fixed Arminda with a predatory grin and the girl then found herself being pushed gently, but firmly out of Doraux's intended path.

The enthralled Jerhia gaped in wonder as the orb at Islena's chest pulsed and Doraux surged toward the front of the dais. Arminda chanced a guilty glance at Maroc, but fortunately, her superior had been too preoccupied by Lorio's dramatic approach to have noticed her clandestine exchange with Islena.

Inos' frantic diatribe echoed in the frozen air like shrill thunder and only succeeded in exacerbating the tension that suffused the moment. Lorio's step never faltered and from his perspective near the front of the dais, Artumas could see that the normally unflappable Jerhia were growing increasingly anxious, throwing darting glances back toward Maroc in search of direction.

Fearing a reprise of the deadly debacle on the plaza, Artumas roughly gripped Myrhia's right forearm and implored, "Stop this at once!"

She regarded him flatly and then retorted, "What makes you believe that the moment is mine to control?"

Artumas was left gaping in moon-eyed incredulity at this unprecedented admission that the control she exercised over events was not as absolute as she portrayed it to be.

Then, Islena brushed by the pair and placed the flat of her palm on the nape of the Grand Mage's neck. He slumped to the carpet-draped boards in a boneless sprawl...thoroughly paralyzed but still fully aware.

"Stop your accursed bleating!" Islena rasped gruffly and then soared high above the cobbled, hovering just above the rooftops. In a voice that resonated with infectious serenity, Islena commanded, "Calm yourselves...you will come to no harm. Return to your homes content in the knowledge that you are under my protection."

The orb of Metocan pulsed frenetically...its mesmerizing light breaking over the city's inhabitants like a placating balm. Slowly, but inexorably, the tension and anxiety bled from the moment and to a one, the citizens filed away in an orderly silence.

Lorio had come to a halt and was regarding the skirmish line intently, though nothing in her relaxed posture suggested poised violence. They remained in this frozen tableau of confrontation, while the citizens drifted obediently away. As Artumas tracked their departure, he was reminded of the shades he had witnessed as the tatter remains of his rescue party had raced across Otaru Ree's purgatory. Every eye was oddly vacant and every face was set in an expression of beguiled contentment.

' _By the gods, she has enchanted them all,'_ Artumas deduced. It would require but a word and the entire population would traipse blithely into the great mother. This staggering insight framed Myrhia's revelation in a far more sinister context. He shifted his mortified gaze back to the enchantress.

Myrhia loomed over the unmoving Inos and with a sardonic twinkle in her eyes, inquired, "How does it feel to become redundant? I believe that your people have expressed their unconditional acceptance of _my_ ascending goddess."

Islena then turned her terrifying visage upon the Jerhia skirmish line and in a tone that made no allowance of refusal, barked, "Lower your weapons and stand aside!"

When their compliance was not immediately forthcoming, an eruption of argent light signified Islena's extreme displeasure. The Jerhia crossbows were unceremoniously torn from their grasp, leaving a collection of stunned Jerhia clutching injured hands and broken wrists, as their weapons erupted into flames on the cobbles.

"Maroc, have them stand down or they will be the next things to go up in flames," Islena advised.

The Jerhia glowered, but discerning that her threat was sincerely given, he ordered his troops to return to their quarters for treatment. While he watched them trudge away under a shadow of stinging defeat, Artumas realized that it had been Islena who had unleashed all of the sorcery that had been brought to bear in this dark drama, reducing the enchantress to the unaccustomed role of spectator.

Soon the thoroughfare had emptied save for the witnesses on the dais and the two women who now confronted each other from across the frozen expanse of cobbles.

Islena lightly descended to the street and drifted over to the immortal with whom she shared a bewilderingly complex and mercurial relationship. She came to within arm's reach of Lorio and stood peering up at the taller woman, who appeared to have been carved from stone.

The air around the pair seemed to congeal with expectant tension when Lorio slowly removed her helm. The others looked on with varying degrees of shock...and in Myrhia's case, abhorrence...when the immortal sank to one knee. She gently collected Islena's right hand and pressed her lips to the warm flesh in a gesture of absolute fealty.

Still gripping Islena's wrist, she glanced up into those unfathomable eyes and sobbed, "I'm sorry, Islena...for the way I behaved when you reached out to me. Please, I was...please!"

Islena bent forward and gently placed her finger on Lorio's upturned cheek. She peered down upon the distraught immortal, torn by an ambivalence that was symbolic of the conflict raging in her heart. An ever-diminishing part of Islena...the portion of her soul that maintained a tenuous grip on who she had once been...experienced a pang of guilt and pity for the broken creature at her feet. The other increasingly dominant part that was now gravitating towards omnipotence, regarded the pathetic creature with remorseless contempt...while contemplating how her insufferable weakness might eventually be exploited.

Bending closer to Lorio's right ear, she whispered, "It's okay, Lorio...everything is fine. I'm a bit...different. I know these eyes are creepy...but it's just superficial."

"I tried to help when she was hurting you in the snow...I tried, Islena!" Lorio moaned wretchedly, her fragile grip on composure now totally spent.

"You saved me, Lorio...you did!" Islena insisted vehemently. "Don't cry. I'm fine. I promised you that...when I came back...I would keep you with me and it's a promise I have every intention of keeping. Don't give that hateful bitch the satisfaction of seeing you like this. Go back to your quarters. Arrange for a hot bath and food...lots of food because I'm fucking ravenous. Then you can tell me...everything." She offered Lorio a decidedly suggestive wink and concluded, "And you can show me exactly how much you missed me in a more intimate way."

She further flabbergasted Lorio by swirling the tip of her tongue around the curve of the immortal's ear. Islena then straightened and assisted a thoroughly entranced Lorio to her feet. Spinning her about, she gently propelled her away with a playful slap on the posterior, which brought a smile of elation to the other woman's lips and banished her tears and misgivings. Bowing her head to conceal the giddy grin that played at her lips, the immortal then strode away, the turbulence that had plagued her during Islena's absence dispelled with a simple gesture of affection.

When Lorio had disappeared from sight, Islena turned back to Myrhia and their welcoming committee, a satisfied grin adorning her lovely countenance. Rising into the air, she floated toward the group and declared smugly, "You may now thank me for another calamity adroitly averted."

2

The group made their way back to the temporary seat of government and as they cantered through the street, every eye turned to track their passage. Each member of the group understood implicitly that every gaze from the Metocan they passed was fastened squarely upon Islena Doraux and shone with something akin to reverence.

The subject of this adoring scrutiny seemed oblivious to her newfound worshippers. She literally floated in the wake of the others with the ghost of a smile playing at her full lips and her eyes turned forward.

They assembled in Inos' private audience chamber, where Myrhia claimed the Grand Mage's seat and Islena remained standing at her right shoulder. While the others slumped in chairs around the crescent shaped table, Maroc discreetly ordered Arminda to return to her quarters, fearing Myrhia's probable reaction when Artumas apprised her of Maktir's provocative terms for divulging the location of the Natzurdan Proclamation.

With thunderheads gathering on her brow, the enchantress wasted no time on preamble. "I see that the Natzurdan elder remains conspicuously absent. For the sake of everyone in this chamber and the city beyond, it would be best if you were to inform me that he is gravely ill or dead!"

"He is neither, my queen!" Artumas began, taking the lead in the precarious dialogue that was to follow as has been previously agreed upon. After a protracted pause, he divulged, "Nor is he in the city.'

Myrhia's eyes narrowed and her jaw muscles contracted into livid knots...her gathering fury a palpable thing in the confines of the chamber. Unexpectedly, Islena laid a gentle hand on the enchantress' right shoulder. Rather than respond to this overture with indignant fury, the others were surprised to see that Islena's audacious gesture mitigated Myrhia's fury. Still glowering, the Emercian Queen demanded, "Where is he? How many times must I demonstrate that my patience for petty acts of defiance is exhausted?" Fixing a wither glare on Inos, she rasped, "Perhaps I must make every demonstration of my sincerity a painfully personal one...is that what is required, Grand Mage?"

Inos, who interpreted her obdurate reference all too well, blanched in horror. "You need not try to impress us with your capacity for ugly acts of evil. We are all too familiar with your aptitude for cruelty.

Myrhia's answering smile was deadly promise incarnate as she contradicted, "Believe me, Grand Mage, when I tell you that I have just scratched the surface of my creativity in the art of misery." Turning suddenly to Maroc, she inquired, "Maxim Tier Marshal, Perhaps I should summon that girl you obviously dote on. Would you relish the prospect of seeing her raped on this table and then eviscerated before your eyes? Would that suffice to make you accept that I've had enough of your infuriating defiance?"

Maroc's face twisted into a scowl and he started to rise, but Artumas clamped a restraining hand down on his forearm. "Don't be so easily provoked." To Myrhia, he remarked calmly, "Your anger is misdirected, your highness. The elder left no latitude for negotiations in setting forth his terms for disclosing the location of the Natzurdan Icon. All present at this table have submitted to your will in this matter, so will you set aside your saber rattling and allow me to convey his terms?"

Myrhia glared daggers at her husband, but finally signaled for him to continue with an impatient wave. In a reasoned, calm voice, Artumas laid forth Maktir's conditions for leading Islena Doraux to Symyrasil. The enchantress listened in a brooding silence, her anger mounting exponentially with each uttered word.

When Artumas fell silent, she rose and after an emerald light had coalesced around her hands, she brought her small fists crashing down on the table. The resounding impact reduced the massive oak construct to kindling and caused the table's occupants to scramble out of range. With her exquisite face transformed into a hideous mask by rage, it seemed inevitable that she would vent her murderous wrath on the room's occupants. Again, Islena intervened, now gripping both of Myrhia's small shoulders firmly. While an enthralled Artumas watched closely, the partially buried orb burst into a series of staccato eruptions that seemed to extinguish Myrhia's emerald effulgence.

Her furious gaze snapped to meet Islena's and the current of silent communication was palpable in the tension-fraught room.

"How dare you interfere?" Myrhia fumed silently, "Or disrupt my sorcery before my enemies?"

"Compose yourself," Islena countered benignly. "What has become of your vaunted self-control that you would let these insects think that they have disconcerted you with their ploy? Let them have their tawdry moment of hollow victory. Once I've ascended, we will visit Natzurdan and turn their precious paradise into a sterile wasteland of bone and ash."

Myrhia glared at Islena, her mouth twisting into a petulant frown. Islena smiled in reassurance. "We are committed to the same goal...just as you are now sworn to me by your oath of fealty. Now, be magnanimous and accept their terms and let us move this farce along."

The living enigma then shocked all present by clutching Myrhia's clenched right fist, sinking to her knees and pressing her forehead to the back of Myrhia's hand in a gesture of total deference.

Myrhia spent several moments glaring down at the flame-haired creature, whom she had attempted to subvert...only to find that she was the one to become ensnared.

' _Have the grace to concede on this one occasion,'_ the spider entreated from the shadows of her mind _. 'This separation will afford us the space of time to formulate a way in which we might retrieve the situation...regain our advantage.'_

Despite her natural mistrust and aversion to the devious Morgana, Myrhia elected to heed her advice. The tension slowly drained from her taut flesh as did the tangible aura of menace. She lifted her gaze to the anxious leaders and growled, "You are fortunate...the daughter has intervened and pleaded to let cooler heads prevail and you are now in her eternal debt. She will leave tomorrow to meet with the sly rodent. The immortal will accompany her in the capacity of guide." Of Maroc, she demanded, "Is your escort force prepared to fulfill its role?"

"It is," the Maxim Tier Marshal disclosed, stubbornly refusing to meet the odious monster's regard, "though I must warn you that much of the world between here and Emercia is still in a state of violent flux."

Myrhia's full lips twisted into a malefic grin rife with keen anticipation and she retorted, "If the situation requires, I am amenable to serving in the capacity of arbitrator...though I suspect that both sides will find my rendered judgments harsh."

Her grin faded. "Artumas and I will return to Nalosan...where we will make preparations for Islena's ritual of ascension. Artumas, you will return to my side and we will enter Emercia as king and queen...a husband and wife re-united...with the army of Jerhia conferring its blessing on our happy rapprochement. Once the ritual is complete...Islena and I will depart and you may have your hollow throne back. Inos, you will graciously vacate your quarters for the night, but fear not...I will soon be gone, leaving the CornerStone Nations to languish in the debris of their crumbling myth of infallibility."

She strode briskly for the double doors, but then paused. Without looking back, she issued one final dire warning. "If you are plotting some manner of treachery against Islena, I will return to these shores. Before I leave a second time, the CornerStone Nations will be reduced to a state that will make Otaru Ree's purgatory seem like a veritable paradise by contrast."

Then she was gone. For a protracted moment, no one spoke, but then Islena rose from her knees and clapped her hands, flashing an exuberant smile as she did. "Well, that certainly went better than expected. I must say, you all have a gift for provoking the dragon. Still, if things unfold as I've planned; the bitch will never know what hit her." Her expression grew sober and she turned her bewildering gaze on the Grand Mage. "I must confess...it was rather intoxicating to feel that adoration blow over me like a warm breeze...the kind of thing that a girl like me could quickly grow accustomed to. Who knows, once I've put dear old mother in her stone coffin...perhaps I'll return here and become the resident goddess."

Inos recoiled as though physically struck, his horrified reaction evoking a gale of laughter from the enigmatic Doraux. When her laughter subsided, Islena again clapped her hands and declared, "All of this drama has left me feeling ravenous and randy." She offered the scandalized group a lascivious wink and concluded, "Fortunately, I have a tireless immortal who is fanatically devoted to satiating my every desire."

Relishing the mortified reaction of the puritanical dolts, Islena moved toward the door. Before she could make her exit, Artumas imposed himself in her path and requested, "May we speak privately, Islena?"

Chapter Forty-Six

1

When the thoroughly confounded Maroc and Inos had filed from the room, Artumas closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Since his return from exile, he had felt woefully ill-equipped to deal with the impossibly complex world to which he'd returned. Confronted by creatures such as the one who now shared the room with him, Artumas believed that he had wandered far out of his depth.

Drawing a quavering breath, he turned to make his plea. Islena was seated in a tilted chair with her powerful, enticing legs propped up on a nearby scribe's table and crossed at the ankles. She was regarding him with an expression that might have been amused disdain, though her bizarre eyes made it difficult to accurately gauge her thoughts. "Well, it seems that you've managed to ingratiate yourself with mother. You do realize that she'll expect you in her bed?"

Artumas' lips formed into a disapproving frown, with Islena greeted with a mirthless chuckle. "I'm sorry...do you find my bluntness offensive? Your distaste is rather amusing, not to mention hypocritical when you consider that you slipped between these thighs of mine with no small amount of enthusiasm...hardly appropriate behavior...considering that I am your _daughter_. Still, mother seems to have forgiven your incestuous lapse."

Artumas shook his head in revulsion and started toward the door, but suddenly found that he was caught in an inescapable vice of air. "Come now, surely the once and future king is not so easily distracted?"

He glanced sharply back at his tormentor, the reference clearly lost on the man who had no patience for allegory or metaphor. Islena smirked, "I suppose that particular term of reference means nothing to you. Arthur, the once and future king...that is how you were referred to after your death in Islena's old world. Eventually, you became a myth. What irony...a legendary king whose bold deeds and grand vision became fodder for children's tales and theater musicals. _That_ is the egalitarian Arthur's great legacy. It would be laughable really...if it wasn't so fucking pathetic!"

Refusing to be goaded, Artumas instead asked quietly, "What befell you in Ulgak, Islena? What is this thing you've become?"

"What happened to me is that I've finally accepted my purpose. What I've become is exactly what fate intended me to be," she replied with a shrug of feigned helplessness. "You see, I was perfectly content to be a mediocre drone, leading my superficial little domestic life and contenting myself in the quest for meaningless baubles of validation. Mother, being the relentless vessel of self-destruction she is, simply couldn't leave well enough alone. She just had to pull me out of my mundane life and set me on a path that drone I was desperately wanted not to follow...even if it meant poor mother's eventual obliteration. Which it will! In Ulgak, I simply stopped bucking the system and now...to steal an old adage...I'm in it to win it! A goddess with worshippers and temples...the entire cliché deity scene; I think it will suit my eclectic personality like a second skin."

"And your fears and reservations and the monstrous venom that infected Lorio...those misgivings are now gone?" Artumas inquired, unable to divine the essence of the entity before him.

Islena offered the aging king her most radiant smile. She then closed her fist and then spread her fingers from which tendrils of smoke drifted up toward the ceiling. "Poof...all gone like a puff of smoke. The shadow incarnation...now even you have to admit that was an inspired bit of theatrics. Really, though it may sound like so much bullshit, the shadow incarnation was the manifestation of my doubt and ambivalence. Being what I am, is it any surprise that this manifestation would be terrifyingly powerful. When the ambivalence vanished...my personal demon went with it."

Artumas arched a skeptical eyebrow, which prompted Islena to scowl. "How galling it must be...how utterly infuriating...to be regarded as a legend and a paragon of justice and virtue...yet be constantly forced to defer to women? Oh how this misogynist's world must tremble in outrage knowing that women are shaping its destiny and holding its fate in their delicate hands. The great warriors of this world have been emasculated by women."

She began to laugh disdainfully, but stopped abruptly when it became apparent that Artumas would not be drawn into trading caustic barbs. She rose quickly from her chair and stalked over to the Emercian...circling the aging king like a predatory animal pondering its prey. In a gauzy, teasing voice, she inquired, "Have you never asked yourself...why her and not me?"

He glanced at her sharply, but again elected not to respond. The Islena he had known had been a forthright, often blunt woman, but the creature now taunting him was artfully sly. He briefly wondered if this was a demon wearing Islena's flesh.

She poked him playfully on the shoulder and grinned, "Come on Artumas, even a saint like you has some kind of ego. You are the epitome of nobility and compassion...the Champion of Light for fuck sakes...but apparently not worthy of wielding the icons. Yet, here I am...imperfections glaring like the sun...standing on the brink of omnipotence." She poked him in the chest and rasped, "Now try and tell me that doesn't anger you...deep down in that righteous heart of yours?"

Artumas regarded her benignly. "My only purpose has always been to demonstrate that we are all impacted by the suffering of others...that our choosing to do nothing in the face of injustice is never without a consequence. I have no need of accolades. I simply want to create a world where every life has some inherent value in the eyes of all men.'

"Lofty ideals, Artumas...but how has that been working out for you," Islena quipped sardonically. Her inscrutable eyes flashed and she snapped her fingers as if something of immense consequence had just occurred to her. "What if fate...just got it wrong and it really was you who was meant to be the slayer of the dragon?"

Artumas shook his head in bemusement, puzzled by this erratic behavior. Islena persisted with her exhibition, though Artumas could not discern her motivation. She thrust her substantial chest brazenly forward and invited, "Come Artumas...don't be bashful...lay your hands on the orb. Perhaps there is an affinity...a spark?"

When Artumas merely lashed her with a reproving frown, Islena displayed vexation for the first time. She thrust herself against him until they were pressed tightly together. Islena glared up at him with eyes that were narrowed in unaccountable irritation. Between clench jaws, she seethed, "I have always come down on your side...no matter how intensely my nature exhorted me to destroy you. No matter how badly I betrayed you, in the end...I always stood by you and helped you defeat the evil whore!"

"I...I don't understand Islena...what is the nature of your grievance with me?" Artumas stammered, genuinely perplexed by her outrage.

She slammed into him again, staggering him slightly before gripping his bearded chin in fingers that bit like steel pincers. "It should be me you lust after...not that dreary, evil-spawned bitch! Yet every time I see you watch her...I can tell that you are attempting to contrive some way that you might redeem her...to save her! I can't believe that you could possibly be so fucking dense!"

She gave him a vigorous shove that sent him stumbling and then spun about and stormed to the opposite end of the chamber. She stood with her back to him like a living statue of anger.

' _Is this yet another inexplicable performance,'_ Artumas wondered, bemused to consider that he was the object of contention in an emotional tug-of-war between two of the most powerful entities in existence. Tentatively, he began, "Islena, I..."

Doraux raised a hand to forestall his reply. "You said you wanted to speak with me...I'm listening."

Artumas inhaled, grateful to be back on familiar ground, though her glacial, curt tone that did not hold forth the prospect that she would be receptive to his request. Still, he need only conjure the image of the anguished immortal to know that he was obligated to try. "Islena, I've come to ask you to...to release Lorio."

Islena pivoted slowly, regarding the Emercian with a quizzical expression. "Release Lorio? Artumas, Lorio loves me... _that_ is why she remains by my side. Unlike everyone else in this wretched fucking world, Lorio loves me unequivocally and without ulterior motive. She is the only on that I can trust...so why would I ever encourage her to leave?"

"Because she has suffered enough...more than all of us combined...and she is the least deserving of the torment she's endured. I'm pleading with you because we both _know_ that there is no misery that she wouldn't willingly subject herself to on your behalf. We also both know that her capacity and willingness to suffer on your behalf is without limit. Knowing that she is prepared to make any sacrifice, when she has already incurred so much heartache, I implore you to let her go. If you refuse this one act of compassion...then at least allow me to remove her from this horror until this nightmare...a dark tragedy in which she has no part...is finally resolved."

"Tell me about this man...the one who took advantage of her vulnerability and need while I was being tortured by that black-hearted cunt," Islena demanded with a flash of teeth that could never be misconstrued as a smile. "That's really what this is about...isn't it. Poor, vulnerable Lorio was seduced and let someone into her bed and needy heart...and suddenly you are here to rescue her from the monster. Have I painted an accurate portrait of the picture, Artumas?"

This last question was posed in a voice trembling on the ragged edge of hysteria. The air around Islena appeared to ripple and she growled, "Who is he?"

"Captain Esuruban is a man who loves Lorio, despite her fractured spirit, but she sent him away to protect him from your wrath," Artumas disclosed, though he was not certain that candor was the prudent course of action in the face of Islena's anger. "If you love her as you claim, and truly wish to see this nightmare to a happy resolution...then you will permit her to go to him and find the peace and contentment that this life has denied her from the moment of her birth."

The implicit criticism caused Islena's beautiful face to contract into an ugly scowl. Artumas was abruptly snatched up from his feet and tossed across the room like a child's stuffed toy. He collided with the wall near the chamber's main doors and went down in a hail of plaster dust.

Stunned, he lay on his side, waiting for the argent flash of agony in his shoulder to subside. He peered up to find Islena looming over him like a malignant sun. She pressed her boot onto his hip and bent forward, radiating menace in palpable waves. "Lorio is mine...body and soul...the air she breaths...mine. If anyone... _anyone_ ...tries to meddle in our relationship or convince her that her best interests lie elsewhere, they will quickly come to discover that I am my mother's daughter!"

After a further moment of grinding pressure on the fallen king's hip, Islena stormed away. Artumas lay on his side, drawing slow, deep breaths and waiting for the pain to subside to tolerable levels. Though this injury would serve as a permanent reminder of this encounter, Artumas still managed a thin smile. Though he had failed to persuade her to release Lorio, something had come of the episode that had allayed his deepest fear.

The woman who had ignored his plea and abused him in a juvenile fit of ill-temper was still the volatile, emotionally impulsive Islena Doraux he had first met on the shore of the Great Western Ocean.

2

As was usually the case when she was not involved in planning sessions, Arminda sat alone in her office, laboring with her customary diligence beneath the barely adequate light of the room's two Metocan illumination crystals. Though she had reviewed the provision list perhaps a dozen times...and personally supervised much of its assembly...it was her meticulous nature to insure that something had not been overlooked.

' _Now who's deceiving herself?'_ she thought with a self-deprecating frown. Reviewing quartermaster summaries was still preferable to the scathing down-dressing she had endured the previous night. Maroc had delivered an unrelenting and merciless assessment of her emotional immaturity and her shameful disregard for her country's honor. She had endured this scathing catalogue of her myriad faults stoically. Then, she had offered her resignation. This gesture had done nothing to placate Maroc's ire. On the contrary, his color had deepened and he had delivered the one criticism that had finally sparked her own anger. "This kind of craven response is unworthy of a Jerhia of your caliber. Rather than confront your inadequacies, you would rather capitulate to these surmountable faults and flee back to mediocrity. I say that is the refuge of a coward!"

Arminda's eyes had bulged and she could feel her color deepening to an alarming shade of scarlet. Suddenly, the cumulative weight of every indignity...every painful humiliation she'd suffered since first setting eyes upon Islena Doraux...exploded into rage. Her quill faltered and slipped from her trembling fingers and she buried her face in her hand, suffused by incredulity and shame as she recalled what had transpired next.

Against all reason, she had tackled the startled Maroc and the pair had tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The small, still-rational part of her mind had adjured her to stop before her insanity saw her to an executioner's gibbet, but Arminda continued to wail at Maroc, opening a small gash over his left eyebrow that had nonetheless bled profusely.

Her barrage of wild blows had ended when Maroc had caught her wrists and managed to roll her onto her back, pinning her arms above her head. Ensnared firmly, Arminda had twisted and fought like a giant cat, heaping incoherent invective on the man who had maneuvered her into an untenable position for which she obviously had no true aptitude.

Then, stunningly and without prior warning, Maroc had kissed her. Arminda had struggled at first and then something in the ardor of his kiss...a quality that spoke of long repressed affection...had quelled her fury. Inexplicably, incredibly...Arminda had found that she was kissing him in return and with equal fervor.

She recalled feeling intense disappointment when he had abruptly rolled away and sat next to her with his arms propped on his knees and his head bowed in apparent abjection. She had continued to lay beside him, with her uniform disheveled and her arms stretched above her head like a languorous cat. She stared up at the ceiling with her thoughts racing along a hundred wild tangents...and no clear notion what to do next.

"I apologize for my tone in reprimanding you...and for everything," Maroc offered contritely at last. "To suggest that you, of all people, are cowardly is beyond scurrilous. I have no right to ask this, but I hope you can forgive me."

He had stolen a brief glance at her then and in his expression, Arminda could clearly see the full extent of his misery.

"You're bleeding," Arminda had remarked, sitting up and gaping at the rivulets of blood that streamed indolently down his face.

Maroc had greeted this with a self-deprecating spate of laughter. "We must make quite the sight. That was hardly the Jerhia military's prescribed method of resolving internal discord."

Arminda had tended to Maroc's cut and they had calmly and methodically come to an agreement on how Arminda's mentoring would continue. She would command a small cadre of bowmen and scouts...a modest, if not insulting command for one of her rank...and report directly to Tier Marshal Vyganis for the duration of the Jerhia escort mission to Nalosan. Should events there be resolved as it was hoped, Arminda would then return to Summergaden and become a member of the Maxim Tier Marshal's staff. Either by unspoken agreement or mutual lack of courage, neither had spoken of the kiss that Maroc had employed to quell Arminda's fury. It would, however, linger in their memories...a precious, intimate moment that neither would ever forget.

In the long years that followed, both would devote their lives to the enduring Jerhia ideal. Eventually, when Maroc's health began to decline, he would unilaterally designate Arminda as his successor...the first female ever to ascend to the pinnacle of power in Jerhia. Theirs became a relationship that defined the very essence of friendship...but that single kiss was as close as they would ever come to expressing the love that obligation and constraint would not allow them to declare.

When Maroc finally died that lingering memory would assume the sorrowful, sepia tone of lost opportunity for Arminda.

3

In her state of pre-occupation the acutely perceptive Arminda failed to notice the tendrils of silver smoke that curled furtively between the gaps in the chamber's door frame. By the time she became aware of the intrusion, a churning gyre of silver smoke had manifested immediately before her desk.

The diminutive Jerhia gasped and leapt to her feet...her alarm becoming astonishment when the column of smoke coalesced into Islena Doraux. The flame-haired beauty offered the unsettled Arminda a grin. "A bit of a grandstanding entrance, I admit, but you have no idea how exhilarating it is to toy with this Metocan sorcery. It is impossible to properly convey what a pale facsimile this modern batch of Metocan is when compared to its distant ancestors. They understood power and had absolutely no reservations about putting it to use."

Not certain how to respond, Arminda remained silent, her flesh rising into great hackles when Islena's terrifying gaze settled squarely upon her. Seeing the Jerhia's reaction, Islena's eyes narrowed and she demanded, "You're frightened of me, aren't you?"

Never skilled at prevarication, the Jerhia admitted, "Yes."

"What a black irony...the people I'm trying to save have become more frightened of me than the monster I'm trying to save them from," Islena observed with a frown. "Such ingratitude!" She then sighed and prompted, "All right, you've asked to speak to me in an intriguingly devious way...now tell me why."

"It's about Lorio...about what happened to her in the days just before you returned to Othgol," Arminda began. She stopped abruptly when she realized that Islena's eyes had started to blaze and the disturbing orb between her breasts suddenly erupted in a frenetic burst of argent light.

"For a world poised on the crumbling edge of the abyss, it seems to have developed an obsessive interest in Lorio's wellbeing," Islena growled. "Are you going to lecture me on how I should free her so that she can pursue this epic love affair with this Emercian...Esuruban, was it?"

"You...know about Esuruban?" Arminda blurted, her shock surmounting her usual discretion.

"I do," Islena disclosed. "I've just come from discussing the matter with Artumas...who gave me that exact lecture...to his own painful detriment."

"You've harmed Artumas?" Arminda demanded with a start and actually began to move toward Islena only to find that she was shackled by invisible restraints.

"Please, enough with the gallantry!" Islena snapped with an exasperated sigh. "I've just shaken him up a bit and reminded him of our relative importance in the grand scheme of things." She ventured closer to Arminda and warned, "I'll not hear anymore about how I've abused Lorio...or exploited the poor, naïve child's innocence. You all see Lorio as this long-suffering ingénue...a delicate flower who has been cruelly abused by the cold world. It makes me wonder how you could all be so blind...or so fucking stupid!"

Arminda flinched, still unaccustomed to women spewing vulgarities. Islena shook her head in disgust and demanded, "Tell me...did Lorio beat this Esuruban bloody?"

Recalling Lorio's eruption in the training yard, Arminda merely nodded, to which Islena beamed a humorless, knowing grin. "Of course, just as she's battered and humiliated you again and again. Naturally, you bleeding hearts fall all over each other to forgive her...because she's a victim driven to violent excess by her inner torment. It follows that your kindness and understanding could redeem her."

She gripped Arminda's contorted face and shook it vigorously, drawing closer until their noses were virtually touching. "Can you really picture Lorio living the rural life...slaving in domestic servitude...a half-dozen children tugging at her apron strings while she hangs washing? Do you not see an immortal beauty, watching in a kind of bored contentment while this Esuruban slowly withers? How long would it be before she goes mad? If you believe that any other outcome of this absurd union is possible, then you are an obtuse imbecile."

Her gaze bore into Arminda like an augur and she roared, "Lorio is a raging fucking storm...a wild force of nature that requires someone with a strength to match or exceed her own and a strong hand to keep her interested...to keep her grounded. _That_ is the real Lorio," Her voice dropped and she rasped, "I can tell you something else...every time that Lorio has crossed swords with me, I've left her lying in the dirt, beaten and bloody at my feet. She loves me for it because we both know it's what she needs!"

Islena roughly shoved Arminda's face away and skipped back, releasing the Jerhia from her invisible bonds. Arminda stumbled back to her desk and slumped into her chair, pallid and diminished by Islena's diatribe. The stark and disturbing aspect of this terrifying entity's brutally frank observation was that it was undeniably true.

Perplexed by the horrible epiphany...a revelation that ran contrary to everything she believed, Arminda heard herself explain, "When you gained possession of the orb, Lorio was stricken. It caused her excruciating pain and drove her into a fugue state. For a time, I was afraid that it would kill her."

"How could you possibly know that the two were related," Islena demanded, her tone truculent, to which Arminda recounted the tale Lorio had shared upon waking.

Now it was Islena's turn to be deeply unsettled by this vicarious sharing of her moment of bonding with the Metocan Proclamation. Arminda cast a dismal glance at the badly shaken Doraux and remarked, "This tether that connects you inundates Lorio with the full impact of this process of bonding. When you obtain the Natzurdan Staff...the unbridled absorption of energy and knowledge will very probably kill her. I've asked to speak to you...not to free her, but to spare her life."

Arminda lapsed into a disconsolate silence, eviscerated by the incomprehensible discovery that a living being would require stringent chains of abuse to sustain them. When Islena seemed disinclined...or perhaps unable to respond, Arminda persisted, "So you see, I'm not make a plea to free Lorio. In light of what you've just told me, I suspect it would be the worst possible course of action for her wellbeing. I'm pleading with you to either sever this tether that connects the both of you, but if this link is inviolable, devise a means to insulate her somehow. If you can't or won't, I fear that she will become a casualty of your great apotheosis. Lorio may be a _raging storm_ as you put it...but there is none more worthy of our concern or every consideration."

Dispensing with the belligerent irreverence, Islena's mood became somber. "If there is a way to break our connection, I'll find it...even if it means turning to Myrhia for help. As you've discovered to your benefit, even she can display the capacity for kindness on rare occasion. If anyone will know how to ward Lorio, it's her. Now, if there is nothing else, I have a hot bath and a long, slow night of lovemaking ahead of me. Even a goddess needs some leisure time."

When Arminda turned an alarming shade of plum in response to this explicit declaration, Islena chuckled in amusement, before turning and floating to the door and growing less substantial as she went.

Before she could transform into a refulgent silver mist, she spoke the final words that would ever pass between the pair...a scathing denigration of her one-time quest companion that would haunt Arminda until the day she died many decades hence. "I understand it now...this obsessive need...this incessant drive to find a great purpose. It is a pathetic attempt to compensate for the fact that your inconsequential little life is a sterile, pointless existence...devoid of all meaning. Lorio has become your personal reclamation project, and when I leave here tomorrow, no doubt you'll find some other great cause to latch onto like the clinging parasite you are. What a disappointment you would have been to Amrand, had he lived to see this grasping thing you've become. I guess it explains your desperation to sacrifice yourself to the exigency of the moment back in the Land of Shades. It's only too bad that you didn't die there...relegated to a footnote in the great drama of the age. Even then, you'd still be little more than a waste of ink."

With this incomprehensibly cruel dissection completed, Islena Doraux...or more precisely, the entity that she had become...dematerialized into a silver mist. Arminda remained stationary long after Doraux's departure, fractured by the savage castigation she had just suffered.

Though she would play a major and pivotal role in the antiquated world's future, she would only set eyes on Islena Doraux one final time...a distant spectator to the great denouement of this enigma's tale.

In the dark drama that was moving rapidly and inexorably to its conclusion, the intrepid Arminda's role was all but done.

4

The room was redolent with the soothing scent of oil, aromatic and sensuous. The flickering fire in the stone hearth provided the chamber's only source of weak light and reflected off the polished copper tub in which the room's two occupants languished. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle sloshing of the pleasingly warm water, the crackle of the fire and Lorio's tremulous breathing as she luxuriated in the embrace of Islena's spell.

After complying with Islena's demand for food and a hot bath, Lorio had removed her armor and paced about the confines of her chamber, considering Doraux's imminent arrival with a discordant mixture of breathless anticipation and the nascent stirring of dread. Islena's protracted absence did little to alleviate either emotion and by the time the door to Lorio's chamber had swung open, the immortal was frantic with a myriad of concerns too numerous to catalogue. The most prominent of these was Islena's probable response to her betrayal with the handsome Esuruban. Never one given to serious introspection, Lorio had searched her heart for an explanation of why she had sought comfort in the humble Emercian's arms, only to discover that her motivations were a bewilderingly tangled labyrinth, the exploration of which would yield nothing of value.

' _Do you honestly think that Islena won't demand a coherent explanation...or settled for anything less than the undiluted truth?'_ This question, posed by her subconscious with an unaccountable malicious delight, had caused Lorio to moan. _'In the final analysis, what viable defense for your flagrant betrayal can you even muster...other than to fall back on the shopworn refrain that you are little more than a seriously flawed, broken failure, whose ultimately self-destructive actions are an unfathomable mystery...even to you.'_

Facile rationalization aside, this candid admission was as close to the woeful truth as she was likely to come, but she doubted it would mollify the implacable Doraux.

Finally, the door had swung open and Islena had floated over the threshold on a carpet of air. She wore the strange vestment of her new station as the Matron of Metocan, but as the door gently closed behind her, the robe and boots vanished, leaving Islena standing unabashedly naked before Lorio in all of her splendor. Even those profoundly unsettling eyes could not diminish Lorio's welling joy at the sight of Islena's astounding beauty laid bare before her...the magnitude of which banished the immortal's every misgiving and anxiety like a dread chill before the heat of a fast ascending sun.

Lorio's only expression of greeting was an inarticulate sigh of delight as Islena came to her and pushed the silk robe from her shoulders. She then swept the statuesque Lamish beauty into her powerful arms and carried her over to the copper tub, where she deposited the enthralled immortal into the scented water, which was still deliciously warm thanks to the miraculous Metocan heating crystal that had been affixed to the bottom of the tub. The pair did not exchange a word as Islena gently, but firmly pushed Lorio forward and slid in behind the thoroughly entranced immortal.

Pulling Lorio back against her, Islena had encircled the taller woman's tiny waist in the vice of her powerful thighs. She then began to tenderly massage the accrued tension from Lorio's shoulders and neck, while exerting a rhythmic pressure on the entrapped immortal's torso...a subtle show of strength that drove the beguiled woman to absolute distraction.

Time lost all sense of meaning as Lorio surrendered to Islena's carnal artistry. Beneath Islena's perfectly orchestrated seduction every uncertainty that had plagued Lorio was suddenly rendered inconsequential and she understood that she was precisely where she must be if her life was to be granted the prospect of enduring contentment or meaning. Islena's skilled fingers wandered over the topography of Lorio body, finally molding to the lush promise of the younger woman's full breasts. Doraux's thumbs expertly teased the long nipples into turgid knots of electric sensation. She then began to knead the resilient flesh in perfect syncopation to the pulsing contraction of her thighs around the writhing Lorio's waist.

In the next instant, Islena's thighs clamped around Lorio's torso like a constricting python and her right arm locked around the startled immortal's exposed neck. Lorio was seized by panic then as she fought vainly to extricate herself from Islena's prison of muscle. Blinding silver light flared and her entire body was suffused by an immensely powerful wave of energy that caused her lean muscles to contract violently in the instant before she went completely limp in Islena's crushing embrace. In a deceptively blithe whisper, Doraux intoned, "Before I carry you into the other room and ravage you to unconsciousness...I believe that there are certain matters we should discuss."

She then tightened her grip on the unresisting Lorio's throat until black blooms occluded the immortal's vision. To Doraux's surprise, Lorio made no effort to extricate herself and Islena, her brow furrowing in puzzlement, released the other woman. In a listless voice, devoid of her customary defiant fire, Lorio reminded Doraux, "I won't fight you, Islena...I vowed that after the plaza. I'm yours to do with what you will...I probably have been since that moment you left me lying in the grass in Kornas. If it serves some inner need to punish me, then I won't lift a finger to stop you."

"Look at me!" Islena commanded and Lorio complied, twisting about and peering into those daunting silver and green eyes. Lorio searched those luminous depths for the slightest trace of the Islena to whom she had forfeited her soul, but found herself confronted by a barrier that defied all surmounting.

For her part, Islena gazed down into those inexpressibly lovely eyes, which the cruel realities of Lorio's harsh life had transformed into bottomless well of misery and pain. She searched her unfathomable heart for some sense of pity, but it was a faculty of which the creature she was rapidly becoming seemed incapable. Still, a deeper instinct informed her that it was imperative that she keep the immortal firmly in her thrall. In a neutral tone, she began, "So, it seems that you've become the hot topic of discussion since I've been gone..."

Lorio averted her eyes, but Islena roughly gripped her chin and forced her to confront her inquisitor. "Both Artumas and Arminda have come to me...pleading with me to release you...to set you free as if you are nothing more than a slave on a chain."

Lorio's eyes widened, first in a comical expression of surprise and then in bitter resentment. "They had no right to speak for me. I'm not...a child!"

Her voice trailed off weakly as she realized that her recent erratic behavior contradicted this assertion. Islena shook Lorio's face and growled, "And this Captain Esuruban...should they have remained silent about him as well? Would _you_ have told me about him, if they had? Will you be entirely honest about what passed between you...including what happened in the bed we might share later?"

With each successive question posed, Lorio's face contracted into a rictus of agony...her torment filling Islena with a private delight. Her newly augmented intuition was telling her that Maktir's provocative ruse ran far deeper than the expressed aversion to having Myrhia step onto Natzurdan soil...a motivation that specifically pertained to her. It further occurred to her that this ulterior agenda might not necessarily be in her best interest. This fractured creature might be enticed into disclosing the exact nature of this potential snare.

Lorio began to weep and shook her head in self-loathing. "Please Islena...I don't know what to say. I'm a wretched excuse for a human being...everyday something happens to remind me of how worthless I am."

"Do you love him?" She paused and then delivered the rapier strike calculated to pierce the immortal's fragile heart. "Do you love him as you claim to love me?"

Lorio's answering sob was fraught with such despair that it left her quavering, but finally she nodded. Islena inhaled sharply and though this was meant to be nothing more than theater, a part of her heart was devastated by the admission...which left her feeling more alone than she had in her entire existence. Her hand slipped dangerously from Lorio's chin to her throat. "So, fully aware of my suffering...to the torture that hateful bitch was forcing me to endure...you chose to fill you idle time with a man's cock buried between your thighs? Very well...you still belong to me, but in deference to everything we've shared...I'll allow you to choose. You may remain with me or you are free to go to your captain and whatever future he might provide."

An expression of unmitigated horror distorted Lorio's lovely features into something ugly. Islena loosened her grip both on Lorio's throat and her waist. The immortal twisted until she faced Islena and then settled her face against Doraux's breast in a gesture of submission, sobbing as she contemplated the choice upon which her entire future was predicated. An image exploded in her mind of Islena glaring down on Esuruban's headless corpse, clutching his head by the hair in one bloody fist and Lorio realized that she had no real choice at all. "I'll stay with you, Islena...always...please forgive me."

Her tearful entreaty degenerated into an inarticulate wail of anguish and she turned her face into the resilient pillow of Doraux's firm right breast. Islena began to caress the sensitive flesh at the base of Lorio's neck and offered her own mournful admission, designed to bind the immortal ever tighter. "Lorio, don't you see... _you_ are all I have. My life has been reduced to an utter shambles where everything familiar has been exposed as a lie...or at the very least, a hollow truth. My family, the great purpose I lived for in my world, these things have turned out to be nothing more than window dressing. You are the only constant I have left in my life; the one person who loves me for what I am, glaring imperfections and all. Everyone else sees me as a means to an end...a vehicle for their monstrous ambition or a means to see that ambition thwarted." Islena shuddered and brushed absently at her glistening eyes. "When they told me you had fallen in love with this Esuruban, it couldn't have hurt me more if you'd taken the fucking Dragonsword and ran it through my heart."

She punctuated this declaration of pain and betrayal with a strident howl that caused the immortal's heart to clench painfully. Islena plunged her face into her cupped hands and wept unabashedly. Her brilliantly orchestrated display of vulnerability had its desired effect on a broken creature desperate for a sense of place and stability.

The immortal reacted to this tearful display precisely as Islena had expected. Pushing to her knees, Lorio gripped Islena's wrists and firmly pulled her hands away from the face she adored so passionately. In a thick voice, choked with emotion, she begged, "Forgive me...I'll do anything you want...accept any consequences, but please stop crying...and tell me that you'll forgive me!"

"Then tell me why...why you took him to your bed?" Islena demanded, her normal smoky voice shrill and tottering on the edge of hysteria.

"Because I'm afraid the day will come when you'll see me for the worthless thing I am and toss me aside." Her voice became a low moan of anguish and she rasped, "And because I can't kill you, Islena. I'd rather see the shadow incarnation take your soul than see you dead by my hand."

Islena feigned a liquid sigh and then held forth the one prospect she knew Lorio could not resist. "You no longer have to!"

Lorio's expression of dejection gave way to incredulity, but before she could speak, Islena pressed her finger to the immortal's pliable lips. "I can forgive you because ultimately I need you as much as you need me...but I have to know, without the slightest reservation, that I can trust you. Frankly, Lorio, I don't think I can trust anyone else. Artumas and the other leaders...I think they have devised some way of hedging their bets."

"I don't know what that means," Lorio inquired in obvious confusion, though warning klaxons began to blare in the back of her mind.

Squeezing Lorio's firm shoulders for emphasis, she elaborated, "I suspect that they have come to fear me...or more specifically, fear the shadow incarnation...as much as they fear Myrhia. My instinct is telling me that they have made a contingency plan to insure that, once I've disposed of Myrhia, they can neutralize me as a potential threat as well. This is why I need you to be completely honest. If there is something you know...even a tiny hint from something you might have overheard...however vague...you have to tell me!"

The shadow that rippled across Lorio's beautiful face...there and gone in an instant...was a vivid corroboration that Islena's instinct had been chillingly correct.

' _You treacherous bastards, I'll make you wish that Myrhia had incinerated the lot of you!'_ she thought, though her face conveyed only a frantic plea for Lorio's candor. Despite the shrill admonition in her mind, imploring her to remain silent, Lorio revealed, "The Natzurdan Icon is in a sort of...mystic grove of ancient trees that only Maktir can locate. At the center of this grove is a world tree named Tyrcillium and it is in this tree that Symyrasil, the staff of Natzurdan, is sequestered. I have no patience for metaphysics, but if my understanding is at all correct, you must _enter_ the tree and become one with the living wood. Therein you will be judged. If you are found worthy, the staff will be yours." Lorio hesitated for a moment as if the alternative judgment was too horrible to articulate. After a grave nod from Islena, she concluded, "If you are deemed impure, you would be eternally imprisoned within the tree...turned to wood."

Islena absorbed this imparting of this ineffably horrible fate impassively. After a moment, she offered Lorio a radiant smile of gratitude and pulled the immortal into a fervent kiss that left her dizzy and panting. When she finally pushed Lorio to arm's length, Islena vowed, "Before I left for the north, I promised you that only death would separate us again. That doleful, fatalistic creature is gone, Lorio and I intend to have you with me...eternally. In return, I only ask that you trust me and be completely honest with me.

Lorio nodded slowly and on impulse, blurted, "What happened to you in Ulgak, Islena? Before you left, you were torn by doubt and indecision. Now, you seem so certain...so focused."

Islena offered the immortal a cryptic grin and declared, "The specifics don't really matter. Let it suffice to say that I've decided to embrace the path that fate has set before me...rather than run away from it."

Her mouth twisted into a smirk rife with lustful hunger. She pushed herself onto the rim of the copper tub. "Now, I can think of a more intimate way that you can show me just how sorry you are."

She swiftly encircled Lorio's head with a powerful thigh and pulled her face into the confluence of her passion. As Lorio enthusiastically gripped Islena's tight hips and applied herself to the appointed task, the thing that had once been Islena Doraux laid back its head and growled with pleasure.

5

Much later, the two women lounged indolently in the darkness of Lorio's bed chamber. The immortal had fallen into a dreamy reverie in the sultry aftermath of the physical poetry that the two women had composed in each others flesh. Islena, in particular, had given of herself without reservation...with a totality that had left Lorio floating and intoxicated. In the unconstrained commitment to their physical union, the immortal found the hope that it would permeate every aspect of her relationship with this would-be deity.

Now, she lay with her face nestled in Islena's neck and a long leg draped protectively over the other woman's torso. She stared in glazed fascination at the luminous segment of orb that protruded from the flesh between Islena's breasts. In pulsed in harmony with Islena's beating heart, casting the room in an eerie blend of silver and shadow. On impulse, Lorio reached out and laid her fingertips on its cool surface. In a slightly slurred voice, she murmured, "If only we could freeze this moment and let it stretch into an eternity. If it was possible that fate would grant us one dispensation for all that we've endured...this would be mine."

To Lorio's surprise and dismay, Islena greeted this capricious wish with a snort of cynical laughter. "The only thing you'll ever get from fate, Lorio, is a steady diet of heartache. If you want good fortune, then you'd better have the courage to forge your own."

The impact of this perfunctory dismissal of Lorio's fervent wish was devastating. The languid euphoria dissipated and the old festering doubts and insecurities blossomed like rank weeds. Ever inventive in its capacity to contrive new ways of tormenting her, her mind produced yet another new and bitter yardstick against which to measure Islena Doraux's suspect humanity.

"Islena...how do you bear being separated from your children...especially the son that the monster holds?"

The fingers that had absently been describing gentle circles on Lorio's lean biceps abruptly stopped moving. With the nascent stirring of vexation in her voice, Islena demanded, "Is this really something you want to discuss _right now?_ If you want to shatter the spell, this particular discussion will most definitely do the trick."

Lorio raised herself to an elbow and studied Islena's face, which was partially lost in shadow. Only her disconcerting eyes were visible, glowing luminous silver in the gloom. "It haunts me, Islena...I've tried to come to terms with the fact that I'll never hold my child...that he'll spend eternity in that wretched hell, in the company of the monster that stole him from me. I've struggled to compartmentalize that horrible truth...to purge it...but it torments me without let up. So I'm asking you...pleading with you...if there is some wisdom you can share or words to deaden this pain, let me hear them...because this loss is eating my soul, Islena."

For a protracted time, the entity beside her did not respond and when it seemed that she would simply decline to provide an answer, Islena intoned gravely, "I've decided to take a cue from nature, because in nature, Lorio, children are lost all the time. It is something that even the simplest of animals has learned to accept. You and I must do the same."

This unapologetically obdurate pronunciation was given without even the slightest hint of emotion. Lorio, for whom the loss of her beautiful child was a festering wound that would never heal, understood that this was not the notion of a grieving mother. This was the callous, pragmatic expression of a Goddess, for whom the pain and suffering of mere mortals was well beneath her sensibilities...irrefutable proof that her Islena Doraux was dead.

The woman who had supplanted Lorio's great passion rolled the numb immortal onto her back and with a throaty growl, announced, "It's several bells until dawn and who can say when we'll next have the luxury of sharing a soft bed."

She then fell on Lorio and despite the immortal's confusion and welling dread, the Lamish beauty soon succumbed to Islena's carnal sorcery.

Chapter Forty-Seven

1

He shivered absently as he gazed out over the darkened city of Othgol, which tossed fitfully in the uneasy embrace of sleep this night. The prevailing snow had finally stopped falling and the bone-deep chill had given way to a dampness that was no less unpleasant. Perhaps this was a harbinger of some great, impending shift in fortune, but if so...Artumas failed to discern what possible shape it might assume.

"And does it truly matter?" he inquired of the indifferent night sky, for which the affairs of mortals were too trivial to be entertained. _'Islena was right...for all of my great and noble pretensions and sad delusions of influence, I have become naught but a spectator with no more ability to shape the flow of events than a farmer has to influence the weather.'_ Sitting alone in the damp gloom, the once and future king could not decide if this was lamentably tragic or uproariously funny.

Islena's incisive taunt, while unfathomable, had been ruthlessly accurate. Two women, invested with unnatural power that no mortals should ever possess, had usurped control over the world's fate, leaving those who had presumed to be leaders with little recourse but to scheme and plot in the shadows.

"Perhaps that is fitting punishment for the arrogance which such men displayed when pretending to direct the course of events," a melodic voice postulated, startling the aging king out of his despondent musing.

He was not particularly surprised that she had gained entry to his chambers undetected, despite the armed sentries who lined the hall. Nor was he particularly startled that she had divined his thoughts. He gave voice to this by way of greeting. "I always was an open book to you."

The ghost of a smile that played at Myrhia's lips confirmed as much and he grunted, adding, "You, on the other hand, were always a compelling riddle that I could never decipher...much to my eventual detriment."

Myrhia did not rise to this unintentional provocation, instead replying, "Come inside, husband...I would spend this last night in Othgol in your company.'

There was a startling hint of vulnerability and need couched in her tone...one so strikingly discordant with her normal façade of relentless purpose...that Artumas could not help but comply.

' _How bewilderingly complex this life can be,'_ the aging king thought as he nodded his consent. _'Despite innumerable examples of the disastrous consequences, we cannot resist the allure of the thorny rose.'_

Artumas stood, but could not entirely disguise the grimace and hiss of pain roused by his protesting shoulder.

Myrhia, ever perceptive, noticed his reaction and his slightly hunched, protective posture. She curled the delicate fingers of her right hand into a hollow ball in which a blue light coalesced into being. She removed her fingers and the ball hovered in the air, effectively illuminating the entire balcony area. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected her great arch enemy and her one enduring source of consternation. His pain was eloquently written around his pinched expression and tightly pursed lips.

"You're injured," she stated flatly. "Don't try to trivialize the pain...I can feel it radiating from your flesh in tangible waves."

Knowing that there was little to be gained in denial, Artumas nodded and inclined his head toward his injured shoulder. This simple gesture evoked an argent protest from the injury Islena had inflicted upon the aging king earlier.

To his surprise, the enchantress was at his side in an instant, guiding him back to this chambers where she insisted he sit on a low stool. Without soliciting which arm had been injured, she laid her palm gently on his acutely throbbing right shoulder. An eerie glow enveloped her hand and spread through the offending limb, quickly annealing the pain. Artumas shook his head in wonder. "No matter how often I see it, I'll never grow accustomed to the notion of shaping reality with thought alone."

"An inability that has brought you to these present lamentable circumstances, husband," she reminded him without rancor or gloating. "I've merely deadened the pain, but I must see the shoulder to determine the actual extent of the injury. I'll help you remove this tunic."

"You don't have to do this, Myrhia...I can see one of Inos' healers," Artumas remarked softly.

"You're correct...I don't have to...which means I choose to...a rare display of benevolent maternal instinct that you'd be foolish to decline. Again, I will help you to remove your tunic," she ordered in an imperious tone that had made emperors tremble. Yet, her great dark eyes were alight with a soft gleam that he had not seen since the days before her betrayal. Instinct warned him to be leery of that particular light...that it could be a precursor to some devious new manipulation, but Artumas found that he was intrigued by her sudden appearance and wished to determine her motivation in coming to him. Though he was skeptical about such devices, an odd aura of _precedence_ seemed to hover about the moment...as if the very foundation of the world was about to undergo a radical shift.

Slowly, she began to undo the buttons of his brown tunic, gingerly sliding it over his shoulders. When she undid the collar of his undershirt sufficiently to push it over his shoulder, Myrhia's mouth tightened at the sight of the bruised and swollen flesh.

"How did you come by this injury? Don't you dare insult my intelligence by claiming that it came as the result of a maladroit stumble," she advised, with a warning flash of those beguiling eyes.

Modulating his voice in a deliberately cursory tone, he shrugged and allowed, "Islena and I had a rather animated discussion about Lorio. It seems that Islena is vehemently disinclined to consider my suggestion that she free Lorio of whatever obligation binds the immortal to her."

"Islena...did this...to you?" Myrhia demanded in a throaty growl. Her posture became livid and Artumas could actually hear the crackle of power gathering around her...like a corona of poised violence.

The irony of the situation caused Artumas to utter a thin chuckle, which only prompted the enchantress' fury to intensify. "I'm not sure I see the levity in this situation. Perhaps our daughter requires a clarification of her present circumstances."

Artumas shook his head, his smile fading. "You have laid my world...my every ambition to utter ruin and erected an edifice of tyranny atop its ashes. Now, you would display _concern_ over a minor injury. It's very difficult to reconcile these two actions."

Myrhia glowered and retorted, "It was never my intention to hurt you...husband...to blow down your preposterous house of cards to be sure, but never to harm you. Had I thought that you actually possessed the good sense to accept that I had supplanted you on the throne, I would have allowed you to remain in Nalosan."

Artumas shook his head sadly and explained, "My actions and my essence are indivisible. It is impossible to destroy my works and leave me unscathed."

Myrhia started to mouth her refutation of this infuriatingly simplistic portrait, but then abruptly turned away. With a rare flare of regret excoriating her vitiated heart, she wondered dismally, "Is there no other tenable alternative but for the two of us to batter ourselves on the unyielding walls of our damnable intransigence?"

"Myrhia please let this issue with Islena rest. I will confess to prickling her temper and she is, after all, the Daughter of the Tempest. What's more, I fear that in any conflict between you and the thing that Islena is becoming, it will be the city of Othgol that suffers. Inos' city has suffered enough."

Myrhia turned about, her posture stiff with indignant fury. She placed both palms on his numb shoulder and again a muted effulgence coalesced around her hands. "Your shoulder has been partially dislocated...some of the connective tissue torn. I have healed the damage, but your days of wielding a daunting sword may well be done."

Artumas smiled. "I think those days are long passed, but I could certainly make do without the nagging pain. You have my thanks. Myrhia, will you let this matter with Islena rest?"

Again, she responded with a rueful pursing of those enticing lips, followed by a tacit nod. Ameliorating warmth swept through his entire arm like a warm breeze and to his astonishment, his shoulder was restored within a matter of seconds. He rotated it experimentally and glanced at his eternal nemesis in gratitude. Unexpectedly, she placed her right hand along the angle of his jaw and leaned against him, while regarding the aging king with a liquid gaze that ignited a white hot lust that left him breathless. After a long moment, the diminutive beauty stepped back a pace, her full chest rising and falling rapidly in the snug bodice of her gown.

She took his hand and led him over to two plush chairs that sat directly across from each other. They sat facing each other and the moment assumed a surreal aspect as if they were indeed an affectionate couple whiling away the hours in each others company.

"Why have you come?" he inquired, trying to mask the extent to which he was unsettled by this false impression of _pleasant appropriateness_ this situation was inspiring.

She studied him for a long moment and though she conveyed an aura of composure, Artumas could sense a seething ambivalence behind those arresting eyes. "I came to inform you that absolutely nothing will prevent your installation upon the throne of Emercia. I will obliterate any faction that seeks to oppose you ascension...just as I will not tolerate any impediments to our return to Nalosan."

"I suspect our path will be unencumbered. The escort force will present the façade of a united front." After a slight pause, he added caustically, "Believe me, Myrhia...I have come to discover that your intolerance is the stuff of legend."

Myrhia recoiled from this barb as if physically struck and Artumas immediately regretted this ultimately spiteful rejoinder. "I'm sorry...that was tasteless."

The enchantress accepted this apology with a distracted nod and forged ahead as if fearing that her resolve might evaporate. "At any rate, nothing will be permitted to interfere with your return to power. Consider it my act of restitution for the ill-treatment you've suffered at my hands."

"I will not see rivers of blood let to see me acquire a throne that my people would not have me occupy," Artumas warned gravely.

"When they see you next to me...a brilliant light juxtaposed beside the darkness...they will welcome you back with open arms," Myrhia assured him with a smirk of confidence that Artumas privately found most fetching. He then frowned and castigated himself for such vapid thoughts. Her next utterance reduced his equilibrium to dust and ash. "Once Islena's ritual of ascension is complete, we will see our ungovernable daughter on her way. Then, as restored king of Emercia, you will accept my formal surrender..."

2

As had become his habit since Tokizar's senseless death, Inos was passing yet another evening in the gloomy solitude of his barely lit chamber. There were preparations to attend to ahead of the morning's mass departure, but the Metocan Grand Mage found that he lacked both the concern and the requisite energy to insure their completion.

Memories of the morning's incomprehensibly strange incident near the north gate only dragged him deeper into his lethargy. When the entity who now wore Islena Doraux's exotic flesh had floated to the dais, the very air above the city had come alive with a...a _gravitas_ that could only be described as religious in nature. That unsettling impression had been augmented to an absurd degree when every Metocan in the city had suddenly fallen to their knees in reverence.

Inos had resisted what he had perceived as a sacrilegious urge, but there could be no denying that the compulsion to comply...to submit to this terrible creature's purloined dominion over the very soul of Metocan had been incredibly powerful.

' _You can rail against the notion, Inos, but only a fool would stubbornly refuse to acknowledge what Islena has become,'_ the reproving voice of poor, lost Tokizar informed him. _'Whatever else she might be, Islena Doraux has become the keeper of our antiquities...the Matron of Metocan...and everything that implies. Like a mother, it may well be that she is intended to lead her people.'_

"Perhaps, but to where?" Inos inquired aloud, to which his beloved ghost gave no reply.

It suddenly occurred to the Metocan that tomorrow would be a solemn and symbolic day. Tomorrow, Othgol would empty of all expatriates and refugees, leaving the Metocan to pick up the threads of their shattered lives. The Grand Mage was still self-aware enough to perceive that, of all of the countries in the antiquated world, Metocan had escaped Myrhia's rolling cataclysm virtually unscathed. That was irrefutably true...especially compared to the fate suffered by the other two CornerStone Nations, both of which had suffered a monstrous violation beneath wheels of Myrhia's inexorable engine of conquest.

Yet that degrading sense of being sullied...debased...was a lingering thing that left Inos feeling unbearable dirty. While it was true that the enchantress' hordes had not ravaged the country, her decimation of the Inner Circle had struck a debilitating blow at the nation's heart.

' _Inos, I never would have thought you capable of such self-aggrandizement,'_ Tokizar spat with a mixture of vexation and incredulity. _'We were nothing more than a collection of people, all fuelled to one degree or the other by ambition or elitist presumption. None of us are so important that Metocan could not survive our loss.'_

' _Except to each other perhaps,'_ Inos contradicted with a slight shudder. Still, Tokizar's mild chastisement was essentially correct. Tomorrow, Metocan would reclaim its independence...a far humbler entity than it had once been. It would be up to Inos and his fledgling Inner Circle to determine what shape Metocan's future might assume as it set forth to come to terms with this new reality.

To his own dismay and despite hours of intense introspection, Inos could not visualize his nation's future disposition. Ironically, he was about to receive a visitor who would provide him with a disconcerting glimpse of what might await Metocan beyond this dark juncture.

The room's temperature plummeted dramatically and a figure...a billowing construct of gossamer silver threads manifested out of the very air. Though Inos did not recognize the figure's appearance, there could be no mistaking the familiar aura of vague menace it exuded.

"Sygeanor," Inos intoned, attempting to keep his tone neutral in her increasingly hostile and erratic presence.

She fixed him with a radiant smile and spun slowly in place, lifting her new long arms above her head. "You recognized me...am I not exquisite?"

It was difficult to deny that the woman before him was beauty personified. Tall, deliciously curvaceous and bursting with feminine allure, Sygeanor was a vision to set the blood boiling. Yet, only her dark gray eyes and similarly colored tresses gave any hint as to her lineage. Sygeanor, the vociferous champion of the Ulgak, had expunged nearly every characteristic of her identity, causing Inos to stammer, "I...I don't understand."

"I'm in Dizar Kor, Inos...and here, prejudices are trenchant," she intoned gravely and then clapped her hands with a child-like delight that seemed wholly incongruent with her dark and dour nature. "On the other hand, this body certainly garners attention and opens doors with astounding ease. Now, I've come for an update on the prevailing climate in my future fiefdom."

When Inos didn't share her mirth at this questionable witticism, Sygeanor frowned ruefully and taunted, "Come now, Grand Mage...it's merely a jest. I will govern Metocan with a suitable sense of justice and compassion, rest assured. Now, what is the state of affairs in your gloomy capital?"

Doubting that this fearsome creature possessed even a rudimentary understanding of either concept, but desperately wanting her to be gone...the Grand Mage provided Sygeanor with a sanitized and selectively edited account of the present circumstances in which the venerable city now found itself. He experienced a brief spasm of guilt for concealing the grim fate that had befallen Sygeanor's birthplace, but the exceptionally astute half-Ulgak must had gleaned his disquiet because she demanded sharply, "So they managed to traverse the entire length of Ulgak, retrieve the orb and return without incident?"

Later, Inos would reflect at length of how the briefest of hesitations can drive the world to the crumbling precipice of ruin. He groped briefly for some suitable believable fabrication, but Sygeanor discerned the lie like a hound on to a scent. "Something has happened!"

Inos grimaced, but before he could respond, he found that he was jerked out of his chair and shook briskly like a child's toy. Even as his indignation exploded, the Grand Mage was humbled by the telekinetic power Sygeanor was able to bring to bear...even from a continent away. She extinguished his comparatively feeble sorcery with a sinister smirk. Defenseless, Inos felt a rapier keen force swiftly penetrate the protective barrier of his thoughts and begin to indiscriminately rummage through his recent memories with the finesse of a butcher.

Inos attempted to call for help, but found that he had been relegated to the role of bystander in his own mind. Inevitably, the ethically unencumbered half-Ulgak located the kernel of memory she'd been seeking. The subsequent fulminating roar of Sygeanor's fury picked Inos from his feet and tossed him across the room. He collided with a pigeon-holed cupboard, burdened with scrolls, which then toppled onto the dazed Metocan, but was then flung away as if it was no more substantial than a bundle of dried sticks. He peered up through glazed eyes to find Sygeanor looming over him, regarding the fallen mage with an expression of unbridled fury. Seeing his trepidation, the half-Ulgak, whose love for Bastronen and the people who lived and toiled there, was the one pristine commodity in her life, sneered, "Don't quail, Grand Mage...I won't harm you. We have a mutual purpose yet to serve. Know this...if these two whores derive immense pleasure from casually obliterating the lives of those they deem inconsequential...let me provide them with a demonstration of casual obliteration this world will not soon forget!"

Then she was gone...leaving a mortified Inos to grapple with the likely repercussions of this devastating encounter.

3

"Formal surrender?" Artumas echoed, suspecting that either his ears had deceived him or he was presently ensconced in the most peculiar and vivid dream he'd ever experienced.

Myrhia's eyes flashed and her color became high and hectic. While a thoroughly dumbfounded Artumas gaped on in stupefied wonder, she sprang to her feet and began to stalk around his suite like a restive cat. When she spoke, her voice was strident with emotion and her small right hand made short, chopping motions as if to emphasize her resolve. Though he had never truly known her...on that primal level where bonds of intimate understanding are ultimately forged...Artumas had never once seen the tightly composed woman in such open proximity to completely unraveling.

"Only to you, Artumas...as king of Emercia and Champion of Light...and only under very specific conditions," she insisted fiercely.

Artumas ran his right hand through his thick hair and again repeated, "You are sincerely offering me your formal surrender?"

She continued to pace restlessly while setting forth her terms as if he had not spoken. "To you only and with no authority or influence of any other party." She stopped and lashed him with a withering glare. "I will not be exhibited in a gilded cage like a grotesquerie for commoners to gloat at. Nor will I be cloistered in a dungeon; left to become a sallow facsimile of what I have been these long millennia. I will not have it husband...I will not!"

Her shrill voice wavered on the edge of hysteria, prompting Artumas to rise and rush over to where she stood. He gripped her slender wrists and shook her briskly. "Is this some manner of jape...a new form of degradation at my expense? We have surrendered to _you_. You hold the world in the palm of your hand."

Myrhia's eyes widened as he shook her and she recoiled in the way of a docile wife, who would flinch back from a heavy-fisted husband. Despite the understanding that she was this world's most iniquitous villain, seeing this powerful creature appear to cower in trepidation wounded the aging king's heart. He grasped the inherent dangers of entertaining these particularly insidious thoughts, but was helpless to resist in the face of her vulnerability.

Islena, when she had still seemed comparatively mortal, had once told him that Myrhia summarized Doraux's internal contradiction by saying that she was a creature of darkness...invested with a powerful attraction to the Light. Artumas, confronted by his eternal adversary in her moment of weakness, finally gleaned his prevailing truth. He was a creature of light, possessed of an intrinsic need to redeem the darkness. "Myrhia, I...need to understand?"

She disentangled from his grasp and glared up at him with her small fists balled at her sides. "On the night that you came to visit me, before I departed for Othgol, you claimed that I could find redemption...if I was willing to dedicate myself to the task of making restitution...to employ my gifts for the purpose of improving the lot of the common man. Were you being sincere...or was that hollow platitude spouted to enforce your delusion of nobility and compassion?"

She searched his face, her piercing gaze of appraisal conveying the impression of puzzling exigency. Distantly, Artumas heard himself reply, "The path to genuine redemption is directly proportionate to the enormity of the atrocities committed. By all accounts, your crimes against humanity beggar reason."

"So does my capacity to rectify many of those wrongs. This is what I am offering you, husband...if you accept my surrender. I will devote my inexhaustible energy and abilities to breathing life into this grand vision you once laid forth for me...before I revealed myself to be the deceitful monster I became. I will heal the sick, see the starving multitudes fed and use my sorcery to alleviate the plight that is the common staple for so many. I will do this at your behest...not only in Emercia, but anywhere that poverty and need are trenchant. I will subjugate my volition to your will and become the indefatigable engine that will drive this Utopia you've touted since the very moment we were first conceived."

She stopped, her eyes flashing zealously as if inebriated by the conviction with which she put forth this proposal. If the stories carried any credence, the devious creature had beguiled him repeatedly over the course of their many incarnations. Yet, even cognizant of her past calumny, Artumas found that he wanted to accept her aspirations toward reform as genuine. Powerless to refrain, he asked, "And what would you expect in return?"

She pursed her lips, perhaps discerning a cynical edge to his tone. "Again, I refuse to become a _curiosity_ ...a spectacle. I will labor to atone for my misdeeds, but only at my king's direction...that will be my punishment. You will make it explicitly clear that anyone who attempts to harm me will incur the wrath of Emercia. I will abdicate my throne and any claim to authority, but you will name me royal concubine." Her intractable tone softened and she regarded him with a sultry gaze that made his heart stutter. "Once I've earned your trust and forgiveness...perhaps you will allow me into your bed. I will, however, not suffer the humiliation of seeing you take a new queen."

Artumas shook his head in utter bemusement. "Surely you must see the surreal aspect of what you're proposing...the mind-distorting concept of a victor offering her surrender to a thoroughly vanquished enemy. How am I supposed to ascribe even a modicum of sincerity to this idea?"

She gripped his right bicep and retorted, "It is precisely due to the implausibility of my offer that you should recognize that it is sincerely given...as illogical as this may first seem."

"This can't be a random and spontaneous reversal of perspective," Artumas remarked, daunted by the prospect of framing this _surrender_ and its terms in any context that would be palatable to his allies. "If I'm going to seriously entertain and embrace your dramatic shift in posture...this soul-shattering epiphany...I must know what has inspired it."

"On our journey to Ulgak, I was afforded an unvarnished glimpse of two immutable, salient truths. In the wake of these two great revelatory pearls of wisdom, I have decided to undertake this pilgrimage to redemption," she explained, her unblinking eyes fixed squarely upon his. After a moment, she shared these insights. "Islena will ascend, Artumas...and there is absolutely nothing that can intercede or otherwise prevent her rise to deification...nothing!"

"Yet, you were implacable in your certainty that she was malleable and that you could shape her to your will," Artumas observed and then added wryly, "I take it this confidence has evaporated?"

"It has, which has been the intended culmination of this recurring drama from the moment our Daughter of the Tempest was conceived," Myrhia admitted with an uncommon degree of candor. "Before you ascribe my great conversion to a fear of this abject failure, you should first allow me the courtesy of completing my...lecture on salient truths." When Artumas elected not to comment, Myrhia resumed her incredible monologue. "In the aftermath of this disillusioning realization, I groped for a...a purpose; some miniscule compensation for the crushing discovery that I had squandered innumerable lifetimes in the futile pursuit of a fool's errand. You can't imagine how galling that experience can be for someone of my nature."

"I think perhaps I can," Artumas disagreed mildly. He was peripherally aware that he was being slyly traduced by the shimmering, illusory possibility of her genuine reform...a hope he had privately nurtured since the earliest days of their unending conflict.

She glanced at him sharply and concluded, "Once I realized that Islena's destined path had diverged from ours, I finally understood that I have volition over my own future...over my actions and the nature of the life I elect to lead."

"Which you and I did not...supposedly because we were...what...physical expressions of good and evil?"

"Yes, exactly," she exclaimed with this unsettling new animation. "When I first became aware of my past incarnations and discerned how I had invariably made the same pre-ordained blunders which led to my demise, I confused this to mean that I could now deftly avoid these pitfalls and finally fulfill my destiny. I still believed that my nature was immutable, but that my newfound clarity of vision would see it served. In Ulgak, I frankly blundered into an astounding epiphany...I had control over my life. I could throw off these miscreant's shackles and become something...different...something _deserving_. So you see, Artumas...if you can find the courage to accept my capitulation at face value, in Nalosan, you will finally have your great victory. I will toil for the rest of my existence to validate your contention that none are beyond reclamation."

The room fell into a fraught silence as she regarded him with those limpid eyes alight with this perplexing new expectation. A thousand questions and impediments circled in his beset mind, making logical consideration virtually impossible. "I must have a space of time to reflect on all that you have disclosed. It is not a simple matter to build a bridge over a chasm of fractured trust. Even if I do accede to your plea, there are many who will never forgive the egregious crimes you have committed against them. The most noble of actions still cannot raise the dead, but still I would expect that you would go out amongst the aggrieved and toil to make the attempt."

"Whatever labor of contrition you set before me, I will undertake," she vowed, hanging her head in meek deference that was shocking to behold. Though a part of him was appalled by what it perceived as his unfathomable gullibility, Artumas gently placed a hand on her shoulder and declared, "Then I accept your surrender...at least, privately and on the condition that you convince me of your unequivocal sincerity between here and Nalosan." He smiled, perhaps in subconscious acknowledgment of the virtual impossibility of what he was about to propose. "Perhaps you might also help me contrive a way of presenting this incredible turn of fortune in a way that my allies will find palatable."

She reached up and tenderly touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. The delicate sensation elicited a tremor in the aging king's flesh. He recalled that she had often touched him exactly this way...impulsively, unexpectedly...before she had reduced the foundation of his world to dust and ash. This recollection brought the immense temerity of what he was now pondering into stark focus.

"I sense your misgivings, Artumas...an atavistic aversion to impart your trust to the very person who had repeatedly abused it," she murmured, her voice a sultry sigh that caressed the ear. "I am the first to confess that your reservations are justified. Perhaps this disclosure will assuage those misgivings...forever banish them. I _know_ that you and the other leaders have concocted a scheme, along with the daughter, to see me to my end before she ascends."

Artumas stiffened, but she forestalled any denial by placing a small index finger on his lips and smiled in reassurance. "We both know that the old Myrhia...the incorrigible miscreant...simply would have ripped it from your mind, reducing you to a vegetative husk. As a gesture of my devotion to reform and _our rapprochement_ , I will not ask you to divulge the particulars. Instead, I ask that you scrutinize my every word...every action, keeping in mind that I am willingly subjecting myself to this path. If you come to conclude that this is yet another deceitful ploy, then simply let your machinations run their course."

She smiled; an expression of such beauty, that Artumas hitched in his chest. "If, however, you come to perceive that my desire to change is genuine, I would ask that you intervene...save me and afford me the opportunity to break the chains of this heinous enslavement which have bound me since I was first conceived."

Artumas inhaled sharply, moved by this poignant exhortation in which he could discern no hint of guile. She met his assessing regard unblinkingly and though he wanted to inure his heart against her plight, Artumas recalled how Islena had once asked if he thought that Myrhia was a victim. Now, standing before him with those dark eyes ablaze with earnest need, Artumas viewed this query from an entirely new perspective. What's more, she had spoken truthfully; he had offered her the prospect of salvation through contrition. There was no denying that she was possessed of a power that could virtually eradicate needless suffering and raise the lot of the common man to previously unattainable levels of comfort and stability.

If he rejected her offer, would he not be repudiating every humanitarian philosophy he had ever espoused? There was a distinct aspect of facile rationalization about this particular argument. Even beneath the weight of her mesmerizing gaze, Artumas recognized that fact...that intrinsic danger. Still, to refuse would shade his every conviction in the discrediting hues of hypocrisy.

' _Very good, Artumas,'_ came the discordant voice of Islena Doraux from the corner of his frantic mind, clapping sardonically as she flailed him with an inarguable truth. _'Deny it if you will, but you still love her...despite her catalogue of horrors, and you want to find a way to absolve her and have her back at your side. Ah, how annoyingly complicate love is. At least when I ripped your clothes off and dragged you into your bed...it was just for the pleasure of a good fuck!'_

Artumas recoiled in the face of this crude vulgarity. Myrhia narrowed her eyes and inquired sharply, "I sense your inner turmoil and would know its source, husband?"

Artumas merely shook his head and responded quietly, "Trust is a fragile commodity and once it has been fractured, it is not one that is so easily repaired. Your past actions have broken my trust into slivers."

The wounded expression in the enchantress' eyes was an eloquent attestation of how keenly his barb had struck home. Artumas gently gripped her shoulders as if to quell her pain. "Still, I will privately agree to your terms, though I must insist that this accord remain between us for the time being."

"Which is fair...since my surrender is given to you and only to you," she reminded him gravely.

Artumas smiled slightly and continued, "I must consider your _proposal_ carefully and scrutinize your conduct on our return home. If I discern no hint of guile, then I will formally accept your surrender under the terms that you have put forth."

Something in this noncommittal response appeared to displease Myrhia and she pursed her lips in consternation. "I have mocked you, my husband, and heaped my scathing disdain upon everything you have ever labored to achieve. I have disparaged you as an utter fool, incapable of seeing the true, sullied nature of the world he was attempting to raise up from its own mire. What a shattering, disillusioning realization it was for me to finally glean that I am the biggest fool of all."

She suddenly reached beneath her mass of cascading raven hair and her nimble fingers deftly removed the delicate chain, at the end of which dangled the gold and emerald intaglio that had come to symbolize her reign of terror.

She then took Artumas' right hand and dropped it into his palm, closing his fingers around the symbol. "This intaglio has come to represent my grand ambition...and my monumental arrogance. Giving it to you is a symbolic gesture that I have set that ambition aside. I will have this sigil struck from my armor and replaced with your crest. In Nalosan, I will kneel and swear fealty to you, while abdicating my throne."

Profoundly shaken by this solemn vow, Artumas accepted the intaglio with a tight nod. She further unsettled the aging king by standing on the tips of her toes and bestowing a lingering kiss on his slightly parted lips. That he was able to resist the urge to take her in his arms and surrender to her beguiling scent, her touch and the majesty of her beauty was a testament to how deeply her betrayal had wounded him.

She finally broke the kiss with a flicker of clear disappointment in her shimmering eyes. Flicking her gaze to his darkened bedchamber, she intoned huskily, "I would gladly express my capitulation in more intimate terms, but I realize that I not only labor to earn your trust, my king...but I must earn my way back into your bed." She punctuated this shocking remark with another dazzling smile and added, "We both know that I am a woman of unflagging determination and in time, I will accomplish both."

Then she was gone, striding away in an enticing sway of hips. Artumas slumped into a chair and resumed his scrutiny of the Metocan night beyond his balcony. Feeling that the entire world had been thrown into a flux from which no meaningful context or reference could be gained, Artumas found himself fervently wishing that Islena Doraux had left him to his exile.

Chapter Forty-Eight

1

The next day dawned beneath a canopy of clouds that threatened heavy rains to see the city's guests on their way. For now, the air over the capital was damp and warm like a wet sheet freshly come from the wash...a harbinger of a possible return to Othgol's normal climate. Throughout the city, melting snow had turned the cobbles into a slushy morass that made foot travel an unpleasant ordeal. Along some of the quieter streets, cascading melt water could be heard echoing like thunder in the closed quarters...signs of a city in transition.

As was the case with the previous day, the sidewalks of Othgol were full to bursting. The city administration had not anticipated this unprecedented gathering (indeed, it had not been given about that Islena would be departing on this particular morning). As a consequence, the carefully orchestrated crowd control...barriers, wards and soldiers...was nowhere in evidence. Again, the citizens of Othgol gravitated to the south gate, spurred by an ambiguous, but undeniable imperative that could not be ignored.

As Islena and Lorio, each attired in what had become their uniforms, made their way to the gate, a low, rhythmic murmur filled the air.

"What are they saying?" Lorio inquired of one of the Metocan escorts who would guide them to their rendezvous with Maktir on the Natzurdan border.

She shifted her regard to Lorio, dragging it forcibly away from Islena, and informed the baffled immortal, "Mother!"

The perplexed Lamish beauty shook her head and glanced at the subject of this adoration, whom she had come to fear had usurped her Islena's body. Unlike the previous day, Islena did not acknowledge this collective tribute, instead staring fixedly at the crowded road beyond the south gate.

Myrhia, Artumas, Maroc and Inos stood near the gate, along with several members of the Inner Circle. Islena ignored the others and turning to Lorio, whispered, "Give me a private moment to say goodbye to the bitch."

She smiled and then strode directly over to the enchantress, before ushering the diminutive queen to a spot well out of earshot of the others. With a menacing flash of eyes and a baleful twist of lips, Myrhia hissed, "How you dare abuse my husband?"

Islena rolled her eyes and uttered a disdainful spate of laughter. "The way you persist in this delusion of matrimony...I'm inclined to think that you actually love my father. Perhaps, when my adventure here is at an end, we can take him with us. What a sordid, incestuous ménage a trois that would make."

Myrhia glowered, but Islena dismissed her with a chuckle. "Okay, so maybe I did over-react, but frankly, being who and what I am...what other response could he reasonably expect when insisting that I give up my nubile toy. At any rate, he appears no worse for wear." She offered Myrhia a wry wink and chided, "Have you actually treated dear old dad to your tender side?"

Myrhia huffed in disgust and glanced away; wanting nothing more than to eradicate this imperious bitch, but that urge was constrained by the certainty that this might not be such a simple undertaking. Unexpectedly, Islena drew the startled enchantress into a hug and made a very public display of kissing both of Myrhia's flushed cheeks. She then held the other woman out to arm's length, before kneeling in subservience and kissing the back of her hand. With her lips still pressed to the delicately scented flesh, Islena instructed, "Touch the top of my head, Mother. After all, we have a charade to propagate.

Myrhia's hand seemed to comply of its own volition. Islena rose with a knowing grin and advised, "Be wary, Mother. We find ourselves in a nest of vipers."

When the enchantress' brow furrowed in response to this decidedly cryptic warning, Islena explained, "It seems that our Natzurdan friend has hatched a rather nefarious plot to see me to a pointedly nasty end."

She then provided an abbreviated account of Maktir's clever deception...the Icon's lien.

When the enchantress' eyes widened and ignited with rage, Islena placed a placating hand on her right forearm. "Don't fret. The fools didn't take into account just how deeply my ferocious companion loves me. She divulged everything. Let it suffice to say that the Natzurdan will soon require a new elder...once Symyrasil is mine." Seeing the shadow and misgivings lying across Myrhia's brow, Islena's voice became solemn and she reiterated, "Don't fret. You and I will come together in Nalosan. We will enact this grand ritual and together we will go off to shape the universe to our liking. This squalid hole can fester. Again Mother, be wary of this lot."

"Once you've obtained Symyrasil, find your way to the Natzurdan causeway...then south to the Great Trade road. It will lead you directly to Nalosan. An escort will await you in Kornas and see you directly to castle Kammlogran," Myrhia instructed.

Islena nodded with a surprising solemnity and gestured for Lorio to attend her. Turning back to Myrhia, she observed, "You know, there was a time when I despised you...wanted nothing more than to bathe in your hot blood or die with the taste of your flesh on my tongue. Now, thanks to time and a fresh perspective, that churning enmity is gone. I've actually come to enjoy your company. The prospect of spending eternity together is rather attractive."

She lashed the enchantress with a decidedly sinister grin and linking her arms in an approaching Lorio's, the ascendant strode purposefully through the gate. Not once had she spared the nonplused leaders a single glance or acknowledged the press of Metocan who had filled the southern plaza to bask in her radiance.

Inos noticed the sour expression that puckered Mascius' face as he watched the tempestuous Doraux stride away, and remarked, "I would think this would be an occasion for rejoicing and yet the sour twist of your normally warm countenance informs me that the departure of our two guests does not inspire a sense of joy in that vitiated heart of yours."

The academic lashed Inos with a withering glare that he would normally reserve for students who were being deliberately obtuse. "Do you not understand that we have allowed this woman to abscond with our civilization's entire history locked in the inaccessible head of hers? If Maktir's damnable scheme sees its intended culmination and Islena is deemed unworthy of this _stick,_ this vast repository of knowledge and antiquities will be irretrievably lost...forever interred inside that accursed tree. If you don't divine the innate tragedy of this, Grand Mage, then perhaps I've misjudged your intellect."

Inos absorbed this flagrantly insubordinate rejoinder with a cursory shrug. "While the loss of this _cultural library_ would be lamentable, I consider it a fair exchange for having these two odious miscreants depart from Metocan. More to the point, I sincerely doubt that this mercurial creature would have been inclined to share her cache of Metocan wisdom. I suspect that rebuilding Metocan's decimated self-esteem will occupy our time and energy for some time to come."

While the two Metocan traded conjecture on lost opportunities and the uncertain future of their nation, Maroc drifted closer to the Emercian King, who stood watching the two women with an inscrutable expression set on his lined face. Darkly, the Maxim Tier Marshal observed, "More erratic behavior from the woman in whom we've invested our hope for deliverance."

"There is much about this situation that we have yet to grasp," Artumas returned in an oddly ambiguous tone that drew a sharp glance from the Jerhia. There was a distant, furtive glint in the Emercian's normally candid gaze that Maroc could not recall ever having seen before.

Maroc shook his head and there could be no mistaking the bewilderment and consternation over the nebulous state of affairs in which the Antiquated World now languished. That earnest confusion resonated in the timbre of his voice when he expressed his grievance over the current state of affairs. "This all feels so...anti-climactic, does it not? After seven years of savage warfare that has seen tens of thousands to their premature graves and entire countries left in smoldering ruin, for events to be resolved in this tepid fashion seems...intensely unsatisfying. All the great defining wars of recorded history have been resolved in spectacular fashion...in grim, heroic battles and a clash of steel that resonated through the pages of history. They bred tales of honor and glory and the triumph of good over evil...even if those victories were fleeting. You and I have experienced such moments, Artumas...felt the jubilation and visceral thrill of seeing justice stand over ignominy...and so we both _know_ how sallow this moment feels by comparison. Even if we had to face obliteration in one final last stand, screaming defiance as we died, would it not be preferable to skulking away like beaten curs...hoping that the miscreant will take what it wants and trouble someone else?" He swept his arm over the crowded southern plaza, which had suddenly grown sullen and silent in the wake of Islena' tepid departure. "How have we allowed ourselves to tumble to such wretched depths? How can we possibly retrieve enough of our decimated self-esteem to confront whatever future might follow this nadir of our existence?"

Artumas experienced a surge of intense pity for the man whose every precept of reality...every fundamental truth...had been reduced to rubble with a speed and efficacy that was demoralizing. The Jerhia, in particular, had been brutally disabused of the fallacy that military prowess and the rigid adherence to higher principles could always be expected to determine the shape of events.

' _It is never an easy matter to see our comforting myths and delusions fall to dust, leaving us to feel exposed and somehow redundant,'_ Artumas thought dolefully. To Maroc, he said, "Perhaps, once this dark nightmare has seen its end, it would be wise to turn the harsh and unbiased light of introspection on our long held convictions. Islena attempted to denigrate me by asking how it felt to have our misogynist's prejudices dispelled by two women and while derogatory, her question is not without its merits in assessing what might follow. Myrhia has decimated our delusions and Islena has reduced them to ash. Should the course of events resolve themselves as we hope, we will all be faced with a single pivotal question. Do we attempt to resurrect the old and disavowed order that has inexorably led us to this lamentable juncture...or do we set aside our misperceptions and grope blindly for a courageous new future?"

Maroc pursed his lips and the aging king thought he could discern just a trace of stern disapproval in the Jerhia's eyes. With a rueful frown, the warrior observed, "You've always harbored high expectations of the world...standards that may well be beyond our capacity to uphold."

"Indeed, and that is why I view my life as a resounding failure," the Emercian observed.

Maroc frowned in response to what he regarded as excessive self-castigation. "Speaking of forging the future...may I ask a personal favor?"

"Of course."

"I know that you are carrying an unimaginable burden as it is," the Maxim Tier Marshal began and his gaze cut involuntarily to the enchantress, who stared along the southern road as Islena receded from view. "I would further impose upon you to keep a watchful eye upon Tier Marshal Arminda. I have already issued specific instructions to Tier Marshal Vyganis on what measures he is to take to see her safely away...should events go _awry_ in Nalosan. Still...if you could maneuver situations so that she is not exposed to needless hazards...I would be in your eternal debt, as would Jerhia."

At Myrhia's intractable insistence, Artumas was to have final authority over the combined escort forces...a fact that had caused no dearth of consternation for the proud Maroc. Left with little alternative, he reluctantly agreed to this unprecedented relinquishing of authority. Knowing how this concession struck directly to the heart of national pride, Artumas was grateful for the occasion to extend an olive branch to his old friend. "I will do everything in my power to see she is kept clear of conflict. We both know that, should things go astray in Nalosan or should Maktir's ploy result in Islena's demise...the notion of safety will have no meaning."

Maroc grinned and by way of parting, said, "That is all I can ask. May we next greet each other in a better world, old friend."

"In a better world," Artumas agreed, privately knowing that his personal better world might include a contrite Myrhia, diligently making restitution for her every ignoble act. With a final bow, Maroc strode through the south gate to lead his humbled Jerhia forces back to their homeland."

Feeling unaccountably despondent, Artumas turned to find Myrhia had materialized beside him, peering up at him from beneath thick, sooty lashes. There was a vaguely accusatory glint in those lovely eyes and Artumas _knew_ that Islena had imparted something of grave consequence during their brief exchange. Conspicuously absent was the gold and emerald intaglio. She noticed that is gaze had strayed to her breast plate. "As promised, husband...I've had the symbol struck from all of my regalia. I've laid my soul at your feet...literally...only to find that you have not reciprocated."

When Artumas' brow furrowed in puzzlement, she gripped his right forearm and conjured a fabricated smile for the sake of the watchful eyes. "Islena has apprised me of the clever trap that lies in wait for her in Natzurdan...a scheme of which you were fully aware and yet chose not to disclose during last night's discussion. If I responded to this craven deception by immolating this cesspit of scheming cowards, it would be well warranted. As a further gesture of my sincerity of submitting to your will...I will forgo this retaliation."

"Why would Islena agree to venture into Natzurdan, knowing full well what awaits her?" Artumas asked in obvious confusion.

"Her single-minded nature will accommodate no other course of action," Myrhia replied dismissively. "In truth...all would be well served if the tree imprisoned her in its embrace. Should that fortuitous juncture come to pass, you must conjure your well-seasoned powers of persuasion to convince me that I should still honor my vow of surrender and contrition."

Her smile became positively feral as a hulking Morticant led her daunting charger over to where she stood. Artumas was astounded to see that the fearsome beast was draped in a thin silk cover emblazoned with his crest. "Rest assured husband...we will discuss your duplicity and its possible redress at great length over the course of the journey to Nalosan. To begin with, I expect that you will fulfill your conjugal duties as a husband along the way...most enthusiastically."

The Morticant lifted her onto her charger and she regarded the frowning king...her eternal adversary...with a genuinely affectionate smile. That expression of affection was not lost upon the trio of Inner Circle members, who watched the exchange with varying degrees of curiosity...and alarm. Myrhia swept her gaze over the southern plaza and declared, "Come to the east gate once you've bid farewell to your pallid comrades. This dreary enclave of the perpetually timid had dampened my mood and I'm anxious to make a start for home."

Then she too was gone, her galloping passage raising shouts of alarm from the Metocan who scrambled to get clear of her path. Artumas watched her vanish around a distant corner and then gravitated over to Inos. The Grand Mage now wore a perpetually pinched expression which, on this day, was tempered by distraction. Knowing that he bore no small degree of duplicity for the world's woes, Artumas remarked, "It must be a tremendous relief to see the backsides of your _guests_ as we take our leave. When this is done, should we see the resolution we've planned for...it is my hope that we can return to the state of benevolent relations that existed before Myrhia destroyed our hard won accord."

The glint in Inos' large gray eyes intimated that Artumas' fervent hope had little prospect of realization. Feeling that something more was required, Artumas elaborated upon his intentions. "When this darkness has lifted, it is my intention to set Emercia to the task of making reparations for the suffering it has inflicted upon its undeserving victims. I have few illusions, Grand Mage. Even the most zealous of efforts cannot raise the dead or quell the hatred of those whose lives have been decimated by Emercian aggression. Still, I will devote my every effort and my nation's considerable wealth to making restitution for Emercian crimes against its neighbors. I also fear that it will be necessary to devote our energies to the restoration of the delicate peace that was achieved on the eastern continent...something that will be impossible to broker without the support of the CornerStone Nations."

"It could well be that the CornerStone Nations will have no desire to become embroiled in the incessant, infantile bickering of the east," Inos interjected curtly. "As you realize, the CornerStone Nations have suffered our own traumatic ordeal and I suspect that the effects of that ordeal will be the primary focus of our collective energy for years to come."

Artumas could feel the tug of dejection at the threat of a return to the old status quo that had kept the western and eastern continents segregated for centuries. Still, the onus for making amends sat squarely upon his shoulders. "If we could convene conclave, once this matter is settled, perhaps we could lay the foundations for a brighter future?"

Inos' only response was a thin smile that was never reflected in his doleful eyes. He offered the despondent Artumas a formal bow and declared, "May the blessing of light go with you, Artumas...King of Emercia. If there is a scant blessing to be garnered from this horror...it is that you have been restored to your rightful place."

He then turned and shuffled over to his two Inner Circle comrades and the trio drifted away. Artumas remained...a solitary figure gazing owlishly about the slowly emptying plaza. As he watched the citizens of Othgol drift indolently away, the former king was assailed by a gnawing sense of surrealism.

' _This is what it feels to be a ghost in a place where you have no right to be,'_ he reflected. It occurred to him that every contextual reference...every clearly-defined perception of good and evil...had been blurred beyond comprehension. He would be forced to grope blindly through a darkened labyrinth...fraught with pitfalls...to find his way back to the light.

He had confidently touted the notion of a positive resolution, but as he began to trudge back to his lodgings, it suddenly dawned on the befuddled Emercian that he had no clear portrait of what shape this _positive resolution_ might take.

2

Inos surreptitiously watched as Artumas stood surveying the southern plaza as if in a daze, with an aura of dejection hovering about him like a pall. He did not envy the noble Emercian his role as an arbiter of the coming ignoble ritual or the task he would face when taking up the reins of power in a country that had become a pariah. He thrust this ultimately superfluous consideration from his mind and to his two subordinates, intoned gravely, "I will convene an emergency session of the Inner Circle the instant the last foreigner has passed through the gates of Othgol."

When Mascius fixed him with an inquisitive stare, Inos offered an ambiguous explanation for this emergency session with obvious impatience. "I've inadvertently created a dire situation...one that I am uncertain how to rectify..."

Mascius and Jerrod exchanged worried glances, both gleaning that Inos' unprecedented admission of inadequacy was a presage of more ill-tidings to come.

3

The southbound procession made its way under a dismal pall of silence that became increasingly oppressive as the leagues passed. Islena elected to ride and Lorio rode beside her mistress, though the pair remained well back from Jerhia rear guard. Upon departing Othgol, Islena retreated behind a wall of reticence, responding to Lorio's few efforts to make conversation with barely perceptible nods or distracted monosyllabic replies. After a time, Lorio simply gave up trying, whiling away the leagues by reflecting on the path of her life that had led her to the particularly desolate juncture.

When she attempted to juxtapose the rare moments of genuine happiness against the mountainous accumulations of pain, suffering and terrible disappointment that had characterized most of her existence, Lorio concluded that it would have been far kinder had Islena simply beat her to death during their first encounter in Kornas.

When she allowed here vigilance to lapse, the immortal would find the inclination of her thoughts straying to the handsome Esuruban. She would tumble into a capricious reverie then, wondering where he was and what he might be doing at that particular moment...hoping fervently that he was safe.

She would emerge from these sentimental excursions and glancing about as the ghostly Metocan terrain drifted by, would suddenly be struck by the compulsion to launch herself at the indecipherable entity beside her...if only to induce Islena to kill her once and for all.

To ward against the incessant gravitational tug of depression, Lorio furtively studied the other woman.

She watched as they rode along in dreary silence or while they made camp along an isolated stretch of roadway. She scrutinized Islena's every movement, every shifting gaze, seeking the slightest hint or miniscule indication that the Islena Doraux she loved so fiercely yet lived somewhere within the depth of the living hieroglyph she had become.

In the weeks they traveled together, not once did an increasingly despairing Lorio catch a glimpse of the woman she had come to love with such irreducible passion.

A peculiar aberration left Lorio and their Jerhia escort especially unsettled each time the winding procession would pass through a town or village. As if Islena exuded some irresistible magnetic attraction, the Metocan would be drawn from their homes. As had been the case in Othgol, entire populations would line the streets to catch a fleeting glimpse of the woman whom they had elevated to the status of deity. Some of the more audacious Zealots would venture out onto the cobbled roadway and touch Islena's robe or boot with fingers that trembled with reverence.

Initially, Lorio met these overtures...these presumptions of touch...with a withering scowl, but along the tether, Islena had informed her brusquely, "Don't fret...they mean no harm."

That implied reprimand informed Lorio that, while she conveyed the impression of aloofness from those who would worship her, Islena privately enjoyed the idolatry. The curious disparity between her external reaction and the truth couched beneath the impassive façade was yet another perplexing facet of Islena's _evolution._

As they approached the Natzurdan border, a bizarre episode occurred...one that seemed to further demonstrate the precarious nature of the immortal's circumstances.

They had been drifting along like two wraiths in the afternoon mist, when Islena reined her horse to an abrupt halt. Her posture had become livid and her head swiveled to face an alarmed Lorio, those alien silver and green eyes narrowing into slits. Through clenched jaws that spoke of one under intense and acutely painful duress, Islena spoke in a voice suited to one regurgitating something ineffably vile.

Through the rising tide of her panic, Lorio recognized the voice as that of the past incarnation who had once spoken to her in Othgol...Guinevere had been her name. Her elegant tone had become contorted to resemble a rasp, fraught with pain and exigency.

"Run child...flee as fast as your feet will carry you. This thing in whose company you travel...it is a voracious consumer of souls and it will devour you to feed its own ambition. The woman you love...to whom you've pledged your very life...is forever gone. What remains is an entity who lacks the sensibilities to grasp higher concepts and virtues such as love and loyalty. Yet, she is shrewd enough to exploit these same qualities that exist in you...until all that remains of you is a desiccating husk. Heed my words...you fractured, beautiful creature...and run."

These frantic words of admonition tumbled from the legendary queen's frantic mind in a hysterical deluge...growing more shrill and pain distorted with each syllable offered. Even in her state of transfixed incredulity, Lorio understood that Guinevere had defied her host's will in delivering this dire warning and was paying an exorbitant price for this rebellious act.

Islena's disquieting eyes abruptly closed and her heavily-muscled body appeared to undergo an intense convulsion of some sort. Along the tether there came a harrowing scream of such acute agony that Lorio uttered a gasp of sympathy, knowing that Guinevere had incurred Islena's terrifying wrath.

When Islena's eyes again opened, she inhaled deeply and favored Lorio with a toothsome grin. With a decidedly sardonic smirk, she explained, "It's okay, love...every now and then, these irksome past incarnations require a painful reminder of just who is in charge of this particular ship."

She then laid her powerful fingers over Lorio's right forearm and the immortal was immediately infused by a delicious, placating warmth. It rolled through the Lamish beauty like a juggernaut, literally driving the memory of the bizarre episode from Lorio's turbulent mind, supplanting it with a lingering sense of profuse, albeit vague contentment.

Lorio returned Islena's grin and the pair resumed their journey south. The goddess aspirant flicked a disdainful grin at the thoroughly enthralled immortal, who had succumbed to her manipulation with an ease that would have been pitiable were it not for the fact that it would soon prove immensely invaluable.

4

The Cleaved Skull...a colorful moniker that was typical of such _questionable_ establishments in every seaport throughout the antiquated world...had stood on this particular location for more than six centuries. Grimy, salt-encrusted and ugly, it was typical of such ale houses the world over. Yet over the course of its six hundred years, standing in the shadows of Dizar Kor's waterfront, the squat, two storey brick and mortar repository of miscreants had played home to illegal business transactions the accrued value of which would have beggared many of the Eastern Continent's royal treasuries. Alcohol, illegal drugs, arms and the slave trade; these were but a few of the illicit enterprises that were plied within its coal-stained walls. A long succession of Cleaved Skull proprietors had made a point of ignoring the commerce that was routinely conducted beneath their noses. In doing so, they had seen their purses grow fat.

Iryam Breen, a thin, scabrous wretch with thinning black hair and sunken brown eyes that seemed to rove perpetually, was the present proprietor of the Skull. He had inherited the business shortly after his father...a man with a large and overly forthcoming mouth that had been inversely proportional to the size of his brain, had been found floating face down in the Bay of Imerlac, along with the other detritus that accumulated beneath the piers.

The old man had evidently forgotten that _selective blindness_ was a critical quality is one wished to see a ripe old age in the under belly of Dizar Kor's shadow trade. A precocious child, Iryam had taken this lesson to heart and had cursed the old man as a fool. He routinely turned a blind eye to the business conducted beneath his roof, while conveniently forgetting the faces of those who conducted said business, though most were the Cleaved Skull's loyal patrons. This _selective blindness_ had been rewarded with the occasional pouch of silver or gold that would mysteriously appear at the end of his scarred bar just after closing time. Iryam merely collected these gratuities and smiled as his personal wealth mounted slowly but inevitably.

That flow of wealth had all but trickled to a halt when the whore from across the bay had landed in Dizar Kor. During those leans years of occupation, all of the denizens of the waterfront had experienced a reversal of fortune to one extent or the other. It wasn't specifically that the Emercian Queen had sought to disrupt the type of business being conducted here. With the daunting Morticants constantly patrolling the city in search of seditionists, venturing into areas of the waterfront where even the most intrepid of the city watch would never dare to go, illicit commerce was just naturally curtailed.

What illegal trade remained went deep underground to places well beneath the waterfront...of even the bay, itself. Iryam Breen had gleaned this from antidotal evidence that he had no genuine desire to entertain.

With the shockingly sudden departure of the Emercian Army and its inhuman enforcers, it was astounding how quickly life on the waterfront reverted back to the old status quo. King Saremond had come out of hiding to restore his monarchy and the vermin had quickly scampered out of their burrows to resume business and rebuild their depleted fortunes.

In addition to the hosts of shadow trades plied at the Cleaved Skull, there was another activity that occurred frequently in and around the ale house...murder. Business dealings conducted by the caliber of men and women who frequented Breen's establishment often went sour, usually as a consequence of a double-cross or some similar manner of treachery. These types of grievances were quickly and brutally resolved by a cudgel or a dirk between the ribs.

Whenever blood was spilt beneath his roof, Iryam would simply clean up the mess and turn a blind eye while bodies were hauled off to the bay or the nearest convenient sewer. Unless the deceased was well connected to the various black guilds that operated on the waterfront, the victim's sudden disappearance went unnoticed.

Murder was a commonplace occurrence in this section of Dizar Kor...a crowded warren of brothels, ale houses and fog leaf dens. This particular sad fact was routinely ignored by the good citizens of the city.

' _Unless they came alookin' for diversion of the sordid kind,'_ Breen thought with an atypical flare of rancor. Everyone who lived and toiled in this part of the city knew the rules all too well and lamenting over the harsh reality that held sway on the waterfront was just a monumental waste of time.

Iryam was contemplating this salient truth, while polishing pewter mugs with a dirty rag and surreptitiously watching a cluster of patrons, when the heavy wooden door to the Cleaved Skull blew open with a resounding bang. Every eye turned to find that the doorway was empty. The night beyond was inimical and rain swept into the interior on a gusting wind off the Bay of Imerlac. Somewhere in the deeper shadows, someone uttered a shrill nervous laughter and the tension fraught moment was broken.

Iryam sat his mug and filthy cloth aside and was moving toward the door when a hooded figure swept gracefully into the ale house as if borne on an invisible carpet of air.

The figure's face was lost in the voluminous folds of the gray cloak's full hood, but Iryam required only one glimpse to discern that this rather flamboyant entrance had been made by a woman.

The door then slammed close with another window rattling bang. A suddenly leery Iryam understood that something _significant_ was about to transpire when the door bolt shot home seemingly of its own accord...something significant and very probably lethally violent.

The woman stepped lithely to the center of the common room and her hooded gaze slowly swept the gloom as she surveyed the occupants. Then, she shrugged the cloak from her shoulders. The garment vanished before it could pool at her ankles. Like every other of the Cleaved Skull's denizens, Iryam's moon-eyed gaze was riveted squarely upon the improbable vision that shimmered at the center of the ale house, appearing very much like a glittering diamond in the midst of a coal bin.

The woman was exceptionally tall and regally beautiful in an intense fashion that was difficult to consume for any length of time. Despite this beguiling beauty, she exuded an odd nonchalant menace that was difficult to define, but no less terrifying for its ambiguity. She wore a full length gray gown of some gauzy material that conjured images of roiling smoke and clung obscenely to every nuance of her nubile body. Despite the intoxicating portrait of lush feminine promise, her allure was alloyed by the expression of sardonic amusement that glowed in the woman's large, luminous gray eyes. A radiant grin, rife with levity and madness broke over her exquisite face and she announced, "I've come in search of a swift sailing ship and a skilled crew to man her." After a theatrical pause, she added, "Are there any amongst this slovenly lot that feels qualified to fill my needs?"

This flagrant taunt had its desired affect and several of the resident ruffians pushed out of their seats and swaggered for the woman, who remained utterly stationary. She tracked their approach with a ghost of a grin playing at the corners of her full lips and eyes that resembled gravestones.

The air around the woman became strangely distorted and a radial shadow exploded outward from the spot where she stood. This invisible force gathered up every standing occupant...including the unfortunate Iryam Breen...and dashed them against the brick walls with a titanic force that caused their bodies to explode on impact like rotten fruit. The air of the Cleaved Skull suddenly became cloying with the acrid tang of blood, viscera and excrement.

In defiance of all logic, those who had remained seated escaped the cataclysm unscathed.

The patrons who had not been goaded by the woman's obvious taunt now regarded her with a blend of speculative dread.

Her smile intensified as she spread her long arms and suggested, "Now that I've culled the posturing rabble, let us get down to the business at hand.

Chapter Forty-Nine

1

A doleful torpor settled over the procession as it made its way toward Natzurdan. The normal jovial banter that rose up from a marching army's ranks, even one as disciplined as the Jerhia military, was nowhere in evidence. Every man and woman in the ranks had come to uneasy terms with the abject reality that this was a vanquished army that was returning home. As they marched through Natzurdan and bore first hand witness to the sprawling swathes of blight that afflicted this once verdant paradise, it was impossible for the Jerhia not to ponder what might await them when they crossed into their own homeland.

For Lorio, the intervening weeks between the departure from Othgol and their meeting with Maktir just over Metocan's border with Natzurdan were the most painfully lonely of her life. Though she traveled in the company of the woman she had come to love beyond all things, it felt as if Lorio had somehow become an apparition of whose presence Islena remained virtually oblivious.

The dour Maktir and a dozen Natzurdan adepts greeted the procession at the still lovely village of Scarmalling just inside the Natzurdan border. His only discernable reaction to Islena Doraux's disconcerting new appearance was a slight furrowing of his craggy brow and an arching of one unruly eyebrow. He did not acknowledge Lorio's presence, further aggravating her sense that she had become...spectral. Peering at the Natzurdan elder and thinking of the devious scheme he had foisted on the other leaders, the Lamish beauty was suffused by a black impulse to tear his throat out with her teeth.

Only when she felt Islena's incisive gaze on the side of her face did she manage to repress that urge by gradual increments and a monumental exertion of will. Doraux had favored her with a knowing smile, but then had quickly retreated back behind her insurmountable wall of silence.

The Jerhia and Natzurdan had parted ways with very little fanfare or ceremony. In the end, Maroc had offered his host a formal bow and the pair had exchanged the obligatory rhetoric that goes with formal partings. Then, without sparing Islena or Lorio even a cursory glance, he had mounted his horse and ridden off to confront the Jerhia's shattered mythology.

After privately exchanging a sparse few sentences with Islena, Maktir and his small retinue had set out for the glade that held Tyrcillium. They rode undeviatingly along a southeast bearing toward the next plateau on Islena Doraux's long climb to apotheosis.

Bound by shackles of isolation and irrelevance, Lorio was reduced to furtively studying the aspiring goddess as the leagues crawled by. Though Islena's beautiful countenance was as inscrutable as a mountain or the stars in the firmament, Lorio gradually came to understand that this was a rigorously maintained façade. Beneath this thin veneer of serenity, the entity that now inhabited Islena's body was waging a terrible war of ambivalence.

Yet, possessed of this new certainty, Lorio still found that she was not condign to the task of offering comfort or support to the mercurial Doraux. Lashing herself with the flail of her own perceived inadequacy, Lorio fled into her own requiem of isolation. Whenever the party would call a halt for the day, Lorio would go off by herself. If they happened to stop in a Natzurdan settlement, she would spend her free time exploring the streets, astounded by the contract of unprecedented harmony that the Natzurdan had forged with nature.

As they traversed the open expanses, Lorio would see devastating evidence of the damage that had been inflicted upon this paradise by the diversion of the Hiberas. Once, when she had drifted through the forests of the Eastern Continent with her Lamish tribe, this sad spectacle of degradation would have lacked the efficacy to touch Lorio's heart. Now she could feel hot tears of sorrow welling in her limpid eyes as she watched groups of Natzurdan labor to exhaustion in an attempt to revive these dead swathes of terrain.

Though she had suffered an endless stream of abuse at the hands of men, never was humanity's inherent imperfection...its natural propensity for cruelty...more apparent. Whenever the party would stop in the forest, Lorio would simply wander off and bask in the natural splendor of the unsullied landscape. There, she would spend hours contemplating the possible shape of her future, but never managed to construct a plausible vision beyond the moment in which she presently found herself.

Eventually, she came to the excruciatingly depressing conclusion that...should Islena be lost to her...irrespective of what possible shape the future might assume, her life would hold no genuine value.

And thus she scrutinized Islena as they rode along, quietly but frantically searching that cherished visage for even the tiniest sign that _her Islena_ might return to her.

The Lamish immortal had no way of knowing that the inscrutable object of her angst was engaged in precisely the same exercise.

2

It was late afternoon when Islena drifted forward and informed a clearly perturbed Maktir that she wished to stop for the day, though there was still several bells' worth of daylight to be had. He had reluctantly agreed and his acolytes had set about making camp. The building of campfires was strictly prohibited on pain of exile anywhere within Natzurdan's borders and so the setting up of camp was primarily comprised of erecting tents and laying out bedrolls.

As had become her habit, Lorio drifted off into the stand of evenly spaced trees that delineated the narrow path along which the party had been traveling. Doraux watched her vanish into the trees and after allowing half a bell to elapse, she located the immortal along the tether and set out after her.

She found Lorio sitting at the crest of a gentle slope in meadow that ran along the edge of a narrow river. Islena paused on the edge of a stand of trees and studied the other woman as she stared fixedly at the indolently flowing river.

Lorio had again taken to wearing the garb she had favored when the pair had first crossed paths in Kornas. There was something _appropriate_ in the black uniform of rough trousers and sleeveless tunic. Islena correctly deduced that these were the only clothes in which the immortal felt truly comfortable. Her raven hair was twisted into a thick cable and draped over her right shoulder, though a few errant strands had come loose and now flapped, unnoticed, in the gentle breeze. Lorio sat with her knees pulled up against her substantial chest and her leanly-muscled arms wrapped tightly around her long legs. There was something in this child-like posture that intimated both innocence and infinite sadness.

The diffuse golden sunlight that spilled over the unmoving Lamish beauty only served to enhance this powerful impression. In that moment of radiant epiphany, the entity that had once been Islena Doraux divined the means by which she would be delivered from the seemingly irreconcilable conundrum of Maktir's inescapable trap.

Ensconced in a pensive study, oblivious to Islena proximity, Lorio...daughter of dust...was suddenly cocooned in golden effulgence. In that luminous glow, the mystery of this confused, tortured creature was resolved in Islena's mind with resounding finality. Lorio, this wayward child of itinerant miscreants, was purity embodied. Her often harsh and cruel nature had been instilled into the fabric of her still pristine being by a lifetime of systematic abuse and exploitation. Yet, her soul remained perfectly innocent. Her life of woe and drudgery had endowed the tormented creature with another aspect of fundamental purity...though this was a variation that few would willingly embrace. Sitting there, engrossed in the tableau of beauty that she craved, but of which she wholeheartedly believed she was undeserving, Lorio was a living vessel of perfect sorrow.

Islena emerged from the trees and started down the slope, confident that this twice perfect creature would be her deliverance.

3

Lost in a reverie of enduring tranquility...feeling a rare mood of _stillness_ settle over her...Lorio ascribed this sense of contentment to this magical place. Though hers had been a lifetime of flight and flux from the first moment she had slid into the world, Lorio found herself pondering the prospect of stability...a sense of place...more frequently of late. She briefly entertained the wistful fancy that she might convince Maktir to grant her sanctuary here...once this period of shadow had passed. The fatuous notion caused her to utter a spate of self-deprecating laughter. The dour Natzurdan elder was unlikely to grant this particular dispensation to _any_ foreigner, much less a woman who had helped Myrhia push his beloved country to the edge of obliteration.

A shadow fell across her then, jolting her out of her daydream. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but it felt as if the temperature had plunged precipitously. She glanced up and was surprised to see Islena standing over her.

"May I join you?" she asked and though her features were partially lost in the peculiar shadow that had settled over the pair like a penumbra, there was a strange vulnerability in her tone that wrenched Lorio's heart.

"Of course," Lorio replied, gesturing to the grass next to her.

Islena settled, with her muscular legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She leaned back on her hands and peered about, inhaling the redolent meadow air as she did. "This place really is beautiful."

"It is," Lorio allowed simply and then added distantly, "I wish you and I could stay here forever...forget about everything beyond this moment."

Islena nodded slightly and turned her regard on the river that flowed by like glittering liquid diamonds. Watching her, Lorio could discern a meek and deferential aspect to her aura...one that never failed to evoke the immortal's sense of empathy, no matter how she attempted to insulate herself against its influence.

Lorio's gaze strayed to the orb between Islena's breasts and she noticed that it had fallen quiescent. When Islena turned to Lorio, the immortal was startled to see that her alien eyes were glistening with tears. Like someone purging a particularly vile poison, Islena's harbored misery came out in a fraught torrent. "I'm...I'm sorry Lorio...for the horrible, distant way I've treated you since we left Othgol. To shut you out this way...it's cruel and I'm so sorry. If you can find it in your heart to...to forgive me _again_ , I'll try to explain everything."

Lorio brushed absently at a stray tear as all of her resolve and misgivings vanished in the face of Islena's undeniable need. "Islena, there is nothing that you can't tell me...nothing that I wouldn't do for you." Her tone became plaintive as she added, "How can you not know that by now?"

"I...I do," Islena moaned with a grimace before averting her regard to her hands which trembled between her knees. "The way I behaved in Othgol...it was an act...a façade to hide my confusion and terror. I can't let any of them see how close I am to collapse."

"What are you afraid of, Islena?" Lorio inquired insistently. She laid her hand on Doraux's right thigh, squeezing it for emphasis, while relishing its size and density. "You know that there is nothing you can't confide in me. I have no shared loyalty...my only loyalty is exclusively to you. So please tell me what's worrying you and let me help."

"I _do_ know that, but there's a part of me...an aspect of this thing I'm becoming that is reluctant to trust anyone." When a wounded expression contorted Lorio's lovely face, Islena quickly squeezed her bare arm in a gesture of reassurance. "I have no more reservations about trusting you...but everyone else sees me as nothing more than a tool to be exploited. In that way, Artumas and the others are really no different than Myrhia. Now, they've actually resorted to plotting against me. This scheme of Maktir's is just a way of hedging their bets...and it can only make me wonder what else they might have planned...not only for Myrhia, but for me as well."

Lorio was tactful enough not to point out that it was Islena's increasingly erratic behavior that had inspired the leaders' machinations. "I won't let them hurt you...that is why I told you about this bastard's plotting. I'll help you in any way I can, but _you_ have to let me in. When you shut me out the way you have since we left Othgol, I feel invisible and less than useless."

Islena burst into tears and buried her face in her powerful hands, her muscular body wracked by intensity of her convulsive sobbing. Lorio moved swiftly to straddle Islena's legs and gripping her wrists, slowly but inexorably pried Doraux's hands from her face. "Don't hide your pain from me, Islena...or your fears. After all we've suffered through together; it just isn't fair to me. I _know_ there is something very specific tearing at you...show it to me and let's face it together!"

Islena drew a tremulous breath and searched Lorio's face as though attempting to appraise her capacity to absorb the truth and then began to disclose the shape of her trepidation. "When you first told me about this ugly fucking plot Maktir hatched, I was...dismissive. When I actually set aside my arrogant presumption and thought about the details of this bit of treachery, I became...terrified."

Her breathing hitched in her chest and another sob escaped her tightly press lips. "This Natzurdan staff demands purity. You know me better than any other living being...better than I certainly know myself. There is no deceiving you because you've witnessed my ugliness first hand...suffered it repeatedly. You know just what a sullied, flawed thing I really am...how irredeemably wretched."

Lorio absently began to trace the topography of the face she had come to love beyond all reason, her fingertips playing gently over the beguiling nuances of Islena's face. Still, she could muster no words of comfort to gainsay Islena's contention. After a moment, Doraux nodded and disclosed, "I've spent most of the last weeks grappling with this disparity...this perplexing puzzle...and no matter how I look at it, I can conceive no way of avoiding Tyrcillium's pitfall...and it has left me nearly paralyzed with dread." Doraux paused, her face a portrait of living anguish. "And then it came to me...a way to circumvent this built-in failsafe, but Lorio, the price required...it's too exorbitant to even consider."

' _And yet it didn't actually prevent her from raising the matter,'_ her traitorous father observed, his caustic tone dripping with sarcasm. Despite the implacable certainty that this next disclosure would thoroughly devastate her every perception, Lorio gripped Islena's angular face with white-knuckled intensity and growled, "Tell me, Islena!"

"I'm afraid, Lorio...despite what I've become and every ordeal and terror I've been forced to face down. The prospect of confronting this trial...it's more than I can bear. Being entombed in living wood, it..." Her words degenerated into a guttural sob that succinctly conveyed the full extent of her revulsion. Still gripping the sides of Islena's face, Lorio tenderly stroked Islena's prominent cheekbones and smiled encouragingly. After an interminable moment, Islena's tears subsided and she asked softly, "Do you love me?"

By way of reply, the immortal bestowed a kiss on the pliable pillow of Islena's lips with soul-igniting ardor. When she broke the kiss, a slightly breathless Doraux posed the query she knew Lorio could never reject. "Would you die for me...or worse yet, give yourself to this eternal imprisonment in my place?"

Lorio's eyes widened in shock and then guttered in resignation. In a haunted voice, she murmured, "Is such a thing possible?"

Sensing the immortal's imminent acquiescence, but trying to disguise her eagerness, Islena nodded, "Yes...I believe it is."

Lorio searched Islena's face for a protracted moment. "Then yes...I'll face this trial in your place." She laughed, a sound like wind through a barrow and admitted, "I've already died for you in every way that really matters. Let this last sacrifice be the final offering of worth that I can give to you."

There was a raw, visceral quality to this forlorn reply that caused the remaining vestiges of Islena Doraux to bellow a strident protest over this ruthless manipulation of the immortal's affections. In a somber voice, she asked, "Are you sure?"

Lorio inhaled, her expressive dark eyes guttering perceptibly as she gazed out over the meadow. "I know that I can't dissuade you from seeking out this accursed staff, though if it was within my power, I would drag you away from here kicking and screaming. I suspect that the need to seek out these proclamations...to become omnipotent...is written in the marrow of your bones. Nothing can deter you...not even the purest love that can ever be offered. What _I know_ ...is that if you were to fail this trial and be absorbed into this monstrous tree, I would want to die anyway. Myrhia has told me that, unless it is by your hand, I can never die ...and even the cold requiem of suicide would be denied to me. I would spend eternity knowing that you were entombed...suffering a torment that will never end. To be forced to live with the knowledge that the only thing I've ever loved is suffering this way...I would rather be the one entombed. So you see, Islena, it seems that neither of us really has a choice in the matter."

Lorio released Islena's face and offered the ascendant a fey smile. The fading humanity in Islena's slowly vitiating heart compelled her to dangle the one reprieve that ultimately she knew Lorio would never take. "There is still your Captain, Lorio...Esuruban."

A twinge of acute agony rippled across the Lamish daughter's exquisite face. "Esuruban was like something from a dream...fleeting and unattainable. We don't live in dreams. I may be little more than a child, but even I know that. Let us not speak of Esuruban again. Tell me what you would have me do."

And so Islena did...as the sun set in a spectacular blaze of brilliant gold and fiery red hues to dazzle the imagination, Doraux shared the specifics of her audacious and clever scheme. Both women were aware that this ruse constituted a heinous betrayal of the immortal's unconditional love, but such was the peculiar dynamic that existed between the pair that both readily accepted its peculiarity.

When Islena had finished laying forth the details of her bold gambit, Lorio pursed her lips and mused, "You can simply abandon my body...retreat along the tether." An inherent flaw occurred to Lorio then and she asked, "You believe that Maktir will permit this...substitution...or that Tyrcillium will be fooled?"

The smile that spread across Islena's face reminded Lorio of a viper. "Once we step inside this sanctuary, Maktir will cease to be a factor...emphatically!" When Lorio blinked in surprise, Islena snarled, "Did you really think I'd let this devious bastard's scheming go unpunished?"

The immortal flinched slightly, but nodded her tacit approval. Doraux grinned and continued, "As for Tyrcillium...I suspect that it isn't an entirely sentient entity. At least, not in the sense that you and I are. I'm thinking that it will serve its specific function...to assess and render judgment on whoever comes before it in search of the staff. I sincerely doubt it will matter who that someone is...or more specifically, what shell that someone is wearing at the moment."

"And if you are wrong?"

"Then I will flee along the tether and you and I will find ourselves sharing this body you so adore," Islena quipped with an impertinent grin that reminded the immortal of the Islena she had first met in Kornas. Doraux's tone became sober and she gently caressed Lorio's bare bicep. "I won't try to minimize the risks...and yes, there could be repercussions I can't even anticipate, but for the reasons I've explained, I believe we can pull off this clever bait and switch. If not, you and I might even spend eternity bound together in Maktir's fucking tree." She flashed a salacious wink and growled, "If we're wrapped around each other...I can certainly picture worse ways to spend eternity."

When Lorio didn't react to this flippant rejoinder, Islena's demeanor grew grave. She swept Lorio into her arms and kissed the taller woman's willing lips, before vowing, "Lorio, if we manage to emerge from this unscathed and I go on to become this...this goddess I'm evidently destined to become, I will take you away from this wretched sty of a world. I will _build_ a world to match your personal vision of paradise. There, I'll spend eternity demonstrating my gratitude for every indignity...every instant of pain you've suffered on my behalf."

"Then it's well worth the risk," Lorio sighed with a fey smile, though the small part of her mind that maintained a tally of every soul-obliterating instant when Islena had sacrificed her to the expedient need of the moment decried her as a gullible fool. "How long before we reach this mystic glade?"

"Tomorrow!" Islena replied at once and Lorio's ambiguous misgivings resolved with a resounding clang that evoked images of a tolling death bell. Islena's sudden emergence from her cloister of reticence made sudden and cynical sense to the despondent immortal.

"Do you know where this glade is located?"

Doraux nodded gravely and tapped the hollow of her right temple. "I see it on the edges of my awareness, but unlike this orb, it is indistinct...whereas the light that guided me to Ulgak grew blinding the closer I came to the source. Symyrasil is sequestered in another...realm...a cloister deliberately set apart from this particular plane of reality. Only Maktir can grant me access to this grove." She flashed her teeth and observed, "That is the only reason I haven't pulled the heart out of his chest. Once I have Symyrasil...the Natzurdan people will require a new elder."

Lorio absorbed this disclosure with a thoughtful frown. She inhaled deeply and met Islena's disturbing gaze, before signaling her concurrence with a decidedly fey nod. "I'll do whatever you would have me do, Islena, but should your ruse go awry...and I end up in this monstrosity, there is one thing that I would have you do for me."

Islena inclined her head and though her alien eyes often made her expression difficult to decipher, the immortal thought she could discern a hint of irritation in those silver-emerald depths. Warily, Doraux ventured, "Of course, though if you fail, I'm not sure what the future might look like beyond that moment. Vows may not be so easy to keep. Still, I'll try..."

Lorio rose on legs that trembled perceptibly and crossed over to her pack, where she retrieved the lacquered ebony quarterstaff that Arminda had commissioned for her. She studied it for a moment and then carried it back to Islena, who eyed it quizzically. Haltingly, trying to repress the urge to sob, Lorio explained, "If this doesn't unfurl as you envision, I would ask that you take this back to Kornas...to the place where you first humbled me near the bluff. I would ask that you bury this there...in the place where I came to the defining moment in my life." She shrugged and uttered a self-deprecating laugh. "It seems like a fitting place to be laid to rest."

Something in this poignant plea profoundly stirred Islena Doraux's fading humanity. She exploded from her knees and swept Lorio up in a passionate embrace that forced the air from Lorio's lungs in its fervor. Through clenched jaws, the remaining fragment of Lorio's Islena promised, "I'll take this staff, but I can tell you that I won't be burying it in a patch of dirt in the middle of fucking nowhere. If I've miscalculated and you end up trapped within the tree, I'm going to find the Natzurdan Goddess and drag her by the hair of her head on her hands and knees all the way across Natzurdan...kicking her in the ass every step of the way. I'll make her release you, Lorio...even if I have to spend an eternity torturing her to do it."

Lorio reacted to this strident promise with burgeoning elation because it had been given by _her_ Islena...the impetuous, uncompromising engine of fire that had totally captivated her heart. The immortal cried out in an inebriating blend of delight and surprise when Islena roughly pushed her to the grass. She then pinned Lorio to the ground while making a sharp gesture that caused her argent robe and boots to swirl into nothingness.

Snarling, Islena tossed her flaming mane and fell on the panting Lorio...passing the night in what would be their final passionate interlude.

4

Lorio snapped awake to find that she was staring up into a drizzling gray sky and though the damp chill could find no purchase on her immortal flesh, she shuddered violently. She sat up and was in the process of groping for the clothes that Islena had literally torn from her body and cast aside, when a voice instructed, "I would have you wear your full armor today, Lorio. I would have everyone know that you are a living extension of my will."

The cold detachment in Islena's tone...especially in light of the fire with which Doraux had taken her the previous night...lacerated Lorio's scarred heart. In that single instant of searing pain, the immortal decided that she would forestall Islena's ascension upon reaching Nalosan and bury her Zarcyk in this ruthlessly expedient creature's heart.

Without comment, Lorio rose and complied with Islena's demand. When she slipped the helm over her head, Islena nodded, satisfied the malleable woman's complaisance and confident that, before dusk returned to claim the land, the one remaining obstacle to her ascension would have been cleared.

The day darkened as they joined Maktir and his acolytes. The rainfall intensified and the clouds descended like celestial engines of ill-fortune.

"I thought Natzurdan was supposed to be a paradise?" Islena grumbled.

"It is the rain that is nature's life blood," he reminded Doraux in a condescending voice that rankled the would-be deity. His glance slid to Lorio and with a scowl, he added, "Or perhaps it is a harbinger of ill-fortune. These matters are seldom clear."

The implications of this thinly veiled barb were not lost upon Islena, who glowered, but otherwise did not respond to the provocation. The seven set forth beneath the deepening gloom, each step bringing them ever closer to the glade that held Tyrcillium.

They traversed the rolling, open countryside beneath an oppressive silence that seemed well suited to the dismal weather. Islena floated over the meadow, cocooned in a diaphanous silver sphere, while Lorio marched behind her, rain water streaming in rivers over her daunting blood red armor. The robes and sandals of the five Natzurdan were plastered to their bodies, but they displayed no outward sign of discomfort in being soaked to the skin.

Just past mid-day, the party arrived at the mouth of a long canyon, the upper reaches of which were delineated by well-spaced stands of ancient oaks. Maktir stopped and turned to face Islena, raising his right arm against what had become a driving rain. "Within this canyon is concealed the entrance to the sacred grove were grows the tree of the world...Tyrcillium."

"Very well...then let's see this to its end," Islena returned in a tone that was both curt and imperious.

Maktir stroked his sopping wild tangle of a beard and instructed, "We must enter the grove as we first came into the world...divested of the trappings of civilization."

Islena regarded the elder blankly for a moment and then uttered a sardonic chuckle, "Well, why not...like Adam and Eve to the garden."

The allusion was lost upon the other six and Islena shook her head in feigned exasperation. Then her countenance became hard and intransigent. "Your four lap dogs will remain here...as will I."

Maktir's eyes appeared is if they might extrude from their sockets, as he gaze shifted suspiciously from the false goddess to her minion. "What manner of devilry is this? I agreed to lead _you_ to the grove...to Tyrcillium."

"While conveniently neglecting to mention the trial that awaits me therein," Islena spat venomously, her face twisted in a maniacal grin ablaze with menace. Maktir cast a truculent glare at Lorio, but Islena interjected. "Deceit leaves one with the taste of bitter ash in their mouth, doesn't it? Lorio's only loyalty is to me and if you lack the requisite grasp of human nature to see that, then the blame is strictly yours to bear. It would be my right to incinerate you where you stand for your subterfuge...but out of respect to Morzhian's memory, I will not commit murder on Natzurdan soil. It is my soul that is to be judged...and so it shall...only in Lorio's vessel. Lorio has agreed to stake her flesh on my purity and so I will inhabit her body and submit to judgment. Either way, if I am deemed unworthy...your precious Symyrasil will remain safe."

Maktir door visage twisted into a sour scowl and while it was evident that he had been skillfully out-maneuvered, there was an infallibility to her logic that could not be disavowed. One way or another, the mother would not allow an ignoble abomination to wield the power of Symyrasil. He ordered his four acolytes to await his return and then grumbled his acquiescence. "Whatever clever design you may conceive...if your heart do be black, you shall spend eternity screaming in Tyrcillium's bosom."

Islena dismissed this with a disdainful smirk, before gently gripping Lorio's forearm and leading her away from the cluster of Natzurdan...she gripped Lorio's pauldrons and growled, "I have no words to adequately expressed what this means to me...but believe me when I tell you...this will not be a sacrifice, because if this goes astray, I'll get you out of this fucking tree if it means I have to peel it apart, layer by layer, to fucking find you."

Lorio acknowledged this with a slight nod and stepping away from Islena, she began to remove her armor. Doraux watched, delighting in the elegance of the statuesque beauty's movements. Lorio's normally lustrous eyes were dull with grim resignation. When she was completely naked, she fixed Islena with a decidedly obstinate gaze and shocked the aspiring ascendant by making her own demand. "Islena, I've decided that I will only do this if you grant me one boon when it is done."

Doraux's silver-green regard assumed a baleful edge, but she managed to rein in her anger and ask evenly, "You're timing could hardly be worse, but what is it you want?"

"When this is done...if I survive, I want you to permanently sever this tether that links us."

"So you've decided to leave after all?" Doraux demanded, the storm gathering in her eyes to match the one raging above the pair.

"No...never to leave you...ever!" Lorio intoned solemnly. "This connection that exists between us is unnatural and will eventually destroy me if it isn't severed." She then took Islena's right hand and laid it on her left breast and did the same with her own right hand. "More than to spare my life, you should break this link because _this_ connection, especially between people who truly love each other...is the only one with any genuine meaning." She then gentle squeezed Islena's breast, before dropping her hand and retreating a step. With her throat constricted by emotion, Islena could only signal her agreement with a palsied nod. She then took Lorio's wrist and led her over to Maktir, who waited, naked and radiating pious disapproval, for the pair to conclude their discourse.

Islena ignored his smoldering displeasure and focused on the instrument of her deliverance. "This experience might be...a bit disorienting and there is really no subtle way to do this..."

Like a striking adder, Islena pressed the flat of her palm to Lorio's rain-slicked forehead. With the force of an exploding sun, every synapse in the immortal's body fired simultaneously. In the frazzled chamber of her mind, Lorio felt an irresistible presence seize the sum total of her consciousness and tear it free of its moorings. While not precisely painful...this _translocation_ was disconcerting in the extreme. Like water vanishing down a drain, Lorio felt her cognizance being compressed into a single stream and pulled into the hollow tether that connected her to Islena.

Something appeared to pass her, moving in the opposite direction at logic occluding speed. On the periphery of her awareness, a serene voice called reassuringly, "Don't be alarmed. Now we know what it is to truly be inside each other."

Then Lorio slammed into the strangely familiar receptacle with a soul-shaking clang.

The astounding sensory overload of being inside Islena's body overwhelmed the immortal. Doraux's powerful legs folded and Lorio found that she was sitting, cross-legged, on the sodden grass, peering up at her own body in wonder. Islena looked down upon her, twisting Lorio's perfectly proportioned features into a knowing expression that had never adorned her face, granting it the appearance of supreme confidence that Lorio had never experienced in the confines of her own flesh. "Now, _you_ feel as arousing on the inside as you appear on the outside," Islena declared wantonly, running her hands over the sweeping curve of Lorio's flaring hips. Winking suggestively, she breathed, "We'll have to do this and make love...an erotic out-of-body experience for the ages."

She shifted her gaze to the Natzurdan elder, her levity giving way to an imperious contempt. "All right, schemer...lead me to your tree."

Maktir's rugged face puckered into a knot of consternation, but he nonetheless complied. Still attempting to become acclimatized to this glorious new vessel in which she now resided, Lorio experienced the surreal sensation of watching her own body...naked and soaking wet...walk fetchingly away. While she watched breathlessly, drinking in the sleek lines of her nubile flesh, with its long, beautifully tapered legs, tight hips and high, gently swaying buttocks, Lorio could viscerally feel Islena's body responding to the erotic poetry of Lorio's graceful movements. She glanced down to find Islena's long nipples gather into turgid knots of electric sensation and her pouting womanhood begin to tingle with arousal. The odd sensation was so intensely bizarre...so intrinsically sordid...that Lorio deliberately closed her eyes and waited for her heart rate to settle back into its normal rhythm. When she again opened her eyes, Islena and Maktir had vanished.

Lorio tentatively probed the tether and though she could still sense Islena's arresting presence, it was a remote thing...as if they had become separated by a space that could not be measured by distance alone.

Knowing that there was nothing she could do to influence whatever was to come, Lorio allowed Islena's heavily muscled body to fall back to the grass. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the gentle caress of warm rain falling on Islena's bare flesh.

' _Being in here with Islena, two souls in one glorious mansion, would hardly be the worst future to live,'_ she thought as she ran her fingers over the topography of Islena's body. Smiling, she surrendered herself to the peculiar moment and waited for the scales of Islena's fate to render their judgment.

5

The sense of dislocation...of coming completely unglued in time...had never been as pronounced for Islena as it was when she crossed the intangible boundary that separated the physical world from the grove that sequestered Tyrcillium. Islena's head swam in disorienting circles as if she had been sucked into a vortex. She tottered on Lorio's long legs while Maktir regarded her with amusement twinkling in his hard eyes.

She drew several deep breaths to calm the vertigo and when she could trust herself to remain upright, Islena opened Lorio's great dark eyes only to be flummoxed by a natural paradise that ignited the senses with its teeming vitality. Massive oak trees...gargantuan in their immensity...stood to the heavens and between their sprawling canopies, Islena spied a pristine cerulean blue sky that stood as irrefutable proof of the concept of infinity. This was a sky that had never tasted the acrid bite of smoke or the coppery tang of fear and blood...essentially, a world unsullied by the corrupting hand of man.

Between the massive stands of oaks grew flowers in ever color imaginable, bursting in a profusion that skirted the edges of madness...of a frenetic anarchy of natural design that even a demented painter could never duplicate with pigments and canvas.

"This is known as the garden of the world...so named because it was from this edifice of natural wonder that life spread over the face of our once sterile world," Maktir explained from over an enthralled Islena's shoulder. "The Mother deliberately displaced this fountain of natural vitality from the tangible world when she recognized that sentient beings...all sentient beings...possessed an irrepressible propensity for devastation. She preserves this sliver of natural perfection so that nature will always survive the ravages of man...even if man should perish by his own folly. At the end of yonder path between those mighty oak stand Tyrcillium...aptly named _Tree of the World_. Tyrcillium is a conduit between the world of men and this sacred place. It serves as a filter to shield against the pernicious influence of humanity."

"I don't see a path," Islena snapped gruffly, perturbed by Maktir's sanctimonious lecture.

"See with your senses and not just your eyes," Maktir instructed cryptically and though this provoked a guttural snarl, Islena eventually did as directed. She inhaled deeply and the purity of the air seemed to augment all of her senses to preternatural sharpness. Indeed, a carpet of golden diaphanous light resolved into being and wound between the two towering oaks and deeper into the grove.

Islena smiled Lorio's most enchanting smile and began to back toward Maktir by tiny increments. When she judged that she was within striking distance, Islena pivoted on her left heel and delivered a titanic kick to the unprepared elder's exposed testicles. The flat report of the blow's impact resounded amidst the oaks. Maktir's eyes bulged and the air burst from his lungs. He began to sag to his knees, but Islena plunged her fingers into his shock of unruly hair and jerking his head forward, drove her knee into his face. She smiled petulantly at the ugly crack as his nose exploded, spattering Lorio's bare thigh with shockingly red blood.

Before the barely conscious elder could crumble to the grass, Islena slid behind him, wrapping her long legs around his waist and snaring his neck in a crushing chokehold. Her own powerful body was a more efficient constricting machine, but Lorio's leanly muscled arms and thighs immobilized the wiry Natzurdan as Islena dragged him to the ground on top of her.

Bringing her mouth to his ear, she rasped, "If there is one thing that deities enjoy, it's divine retribution...the meting out of punishment and this is yours, you presumptuous fuck."

Islena intensified her assault on his throat and short ribs, while a desperate Maktir writhed and beat frantically at her arms and thighs. Naked, they lay beneath the pristine blue sky that had never before witness violent death and danced their intimate waltz of immolation. Maktir's color deepened from scarlet to blue as his struggles became sporadic and less frantic. Finally, his arms fell to his sides, but Islena maintained her remorseless pressure for several minutes longer. With a grunt of revulsion, she rolled the dead Natzurdan onto his face and climbed to her feet, silently admiring her lethal handiwork.

She then turned away and started down the path with Lorio's body basking in the afterglow of a satisfying task well done. Even in her state of preoccupation, the aspiring deity could not help but admire the creative artistry...the senses-warping diversity of the enclave the Natzurdan Goddess had forged. This place was an affirmation of life's joyous potential and the beauty it could offer if only sentient beings could appreciate such things for the wondrous miracles they were.

' _Ah, but we are what we are...and any energy expended on trying to defy our nature is just wasted effort,'_ she thought, even as she inhaled the crisp, redolent air. She walked along the golden carpet until she came to the roughly circular meadow. At the heart of this meadow...atop a large mound that reminded Islena of an enormous inverted bowl...stood Tyrcillium.

Islena came to a stumbling halt and gaped at the monstrous construct. She was not certain what she had expected...some monolithic testimony to nature's majesty perhaps...but it certainly wasn't the hunched, woeful thing that stood before her like a wizen crone. Tyrcillium was indeed as massive as she'd envisioned, but it was an ironwood and not an oak. Its trunk and branches were as black as onyx. All around the meadow, its far reaching roots jutted up through the grass. While Tyrcillium conveyed the impression of age beyond all imagining, it also imparted a sense of incredible vitality, despite its oddly slouched posture.

Suddenly beset by stirring apprehension...wondering if her audacious plan might be her undoing...it occurred to Islena that she had no notion of what was actually required to initiate the ritual.

Turning her focus inward, she could see the tether pulsing vigorously in her mind's eye. Distantly, she could feel Lorio anxiously awaiting her return, oblivious to what was about to befall her should all go as Islena had planned. Just as the thought of the gullible, credulous fool, whose body she now wore, served to restore Islena's confidence.

Spreading her long arms in a gesture of unwavering intransigence, Islena began to stride toward the terrifying world tree, bellowing, "I've come for Symyrasil...which is mine by divine proclamation. If you would judge my worthiness, then come forward and do so...now!"

Tyrcillium's response to this overt challenge was swift and emphatic. The ground beneath Islena's feet convulsed with a violence that tossed Islena to the grass. Before she could regain her equilibrium, a cluster of massive roots tore free from the earth and ensnared Lorio's legs, arms and torso. The rough, vitiated bark bit deeply into her flesh, and though welling panic threatened to shatter her brittle composure, Islena retained sufficient awareness to understand that struggle was futile. With a massive exertion of will, she forced herself to go limp in Tyrcillium's embrace and submit completely to the process of judgment, while gathering the sorcery that would empower her ruthless deception at the precise moment.

As she watched, caught in the paralytic vice of dark fascination and dread, Tyrcillium underwent a radical metamorphosis. Its black bark quickly liquefied and began to flow down the mound and toward the trapped Doraux in an ever expanding fan. Despite her tenacious determination to remain calm, Doraux could not help but whimper as it splashed over the soles of her feet and along her calves. Soon, a thick coating of repulsive, viscous liquid had covered her entire body.

When it penetrated her vagina, nose and mouth, forcing its way inside of Lorio's body in insistent waves, Islena fled into the confines of her mind. She could actually feel this invasive extrusion permeate her bloodstream, sink into the marrow of her bones and burrow its way into the interior of Lorio's livid flesh. When every iota of her physical being had been thoroughly saturated, every fiber of Lorio's body was transmogrified into ironwood. A black, striated thing, the mortified body lay on the meadow, which had been restored to a rolling expanse of pristine grassland, connected to Tyrcillium by a single root as thick as Lorio's thigh.

Something came rolling through this connecting root then...a powerful arcane energy, the precise shape of which Islena could not discern. It slammed into Lorio's body in rolling waves and began to batter the fabric of Islena's consciousness...seeking an essence upon which to render judgment. When it became obvious that Islena's wards would not hold, she fled along the tether.

6

Lorio sat cross-legged on the ground, her anxiety ratcheting to unbearable new heights with every passing second of Islena's continuing absence. She was attempting to distract herself by reveling in the astounding reality of being ensconced in Islena's extraordinary vessel of flesh, when an eruption of silver light detonated in the fraught interior of her mind.

She keened a white-silver shriek of agony as her consciousness was suddenly ripped from its temporary moorings and flung along the tether at the speed of thought. She passed a vague form blazing by her in to the other direction.

"Islena?" Lorio murmured in dawning horror, but before the soul-obliterating ramifications of what had just transpired could become apparent, Lorio found that she was back in the confines of her own vitiated flesh. Then the tether abruptly vanished and an inexorable force crushed down on the immortal's besieged consciousness and all went black.

Chapter Fifty

1

"I take it that this was yet another disreputable establishment of some sort?" the Matrium inquired, her beautiful face twisted by a moue of revulsion. In this section of Dizar Kor, there was a proliferation of such _businesses_ , all catering to the base needs of the dissolute and morally and ethically bankrupt. Karosyn's aversion was evinced by the furrowing of her smooth brow and the rigid set of her firm jaw.

The woman, to whom she had posed this question, leaned casually against one of the charred exterior walls of the Cleaved Skull. She pushed away from the wall and joined the Matrium and First Battle Mage. In the ashen husk of the ale house's common room, Issidris Il was the diametric opposite of the two Sisters of Esotaria, whom she had accompanied into Dizar Kor. Issidris was a diminutive amalgam of hard edges, discordant angles and lethal violence for which she possessed an aptitude that few could match. Her intense brown eyes seemed that they could bore holes in stone. Her compact, leanly muscled body appeared to have been wrought with a mind specifically toward mayhem.

Before Issidris had become the Sisterhood's conscripted retainer, she had spent most of her adult life in places exactly like this one...holding receptacles for society's irredeemable miscreants. Issidris, a tacit creature by nature, pulled her deep hood back and spoke in a voice that reminded Karosyn of ground glass and iron filings. "The Cleaved Skull was an ale house, but it was here that the waterfront's criminal factions came to meet on neutral ground...to discuss business. They're a tight-lipped lot here...because tale weavers have a tendency to end up at the bottom of the bay."

Here she paused and both Karosyn and Lyndsyn, the First Battle Mage, exchanged bemused glances. There had been an admiring note in Issidris' voice as she described how informants were dealt with here in Dizar Kor. Il turned her unsettling gaze on the two sisters. "It took a bit of persuasion, but one of the locals mentioned that they had seen a woman...scouting this street for a few days before...whatever happened here. Her description matches Naryima's murderer."

"But what would she be looking for in a place like this?" Lyndsyn wondered and it was clear that she shared the Matrium's repugnance to the haunts that drew the dregs of civilization. If Issidris, who had once been a queen amongst such company, was offended by this aversion, it did not reflect in those disconcerting eyes.

"Naryima slaughtered her retainers," Karosyn suggested. "Perhaps she came here to recruit replacements?"

Issidris signaled her disagreement with a low grunt and the Matrium gestured for her to explain. "No one would come here to build a crew. The people who frequent this place specialized in moving illicit goods...mostly by ship. The bitch was looking to move something immensely valuable. If street rumors hold any credence; the Cleaved Skull was the place in Dizar Kor where you might come to make this type of arrangement."

Karosyn absorbed this thoughtfully. Her unflagging serenity was abrasively incongruent with her wretched surroundings and it was clear that she was uncomfortable in her present environment. The trio had come to the burnt out hulk of the ale house under the cover of darkness and had entered the structurally compromised building under the cover of Karosyn's powerful deterring ward.

Not long after they had landed in Fairmarch's capital, the Ascentrix had communicated with the trio. From Naryima's recovered essence, she had divined some highly troubling insights into the stealth ranger's character and some of her clandestine pursuits in Fairmarch...pursuits that were contrary to the Sisterhood's own agenda. Then there was the matter of the mysterious blue clay...the arcane amplifier that Lissom correctly theorized was the building material of the apostate's golems. This woman had purloined Naryima's supply of the material and Naryima had imprudently sought to reclaim it...thus setting the stage for her own gruesome death at this madwoman's hands. Karosyn reflected on this revelation, shuddering at the recollection of Lissom's seething anger in the short space of time that was required for her gaze to sweep the room. "Then, evidently, negotiations here didn't meet her liking."

"Not necessarily," Issidris cautioned. "It is more likely that this Sygeanor wished to cover her trail." Issidris, who had used this exact technique more than once to bury her footprint under a patina of ash, had always subscribed to the notion that the dead did not make for good witnesses. Her time spent with the Sisters of Esotaria had swiftly disabused her of this misconception. "This woman has no illusions that we are on to her scent and yet she remains here."

"Which would mean that she is operating to fulfill a very specific...and to her perverse mind, very exigent agenda," Lyndsyn interjected, taking up Issidris' thought, while favoring Il with a smile she reserved only for the deadly viper.

Karosyn pursed her lips and gracefully squatted to retrieve a handful of cold ash from the stone floor. She closed her eyes in concentration and then clasped her long fingers around the detritus of Sygeanor's latest act of carnage. The Matrium inhaled sharply as the lingering residual images flashed through her disciplined mind in staccato succession, culminating in the spectacular blaze that had illuminated the entire waterfront. It had also succeeded in concealing all trace of the lethal violence the lunatic had unleashed within the Cleaves Skulls infamous walls.

The Matrium straightened and brushed the offending ashes from her hands with an involuntary shudder. Her glowing complexion was now ashen and her blue eyes were alight with abhorrence. "You were absolutely correct, Issidris...our murderous quarry came to this wretched sty with a mind to procure passage." She then turned to the First Battle Mage, who was stunned by the degree of to which the Matrium...a steadfast pillar of serenity...appeared discomposed by the contents of her vision. "You were right as well, Lyndsyn. This Sygeanor is working toward a very specific objective...one that the sisters are obliged to disrupt, even if it means risking the premature exposure of our own motivation for coming to these shores."

While Issidris Il's harsh face betrayed nothing, Lyndsyn gasped audibly. Karosyn nodded gravely and the trio quickly departed...knowing that they must intercept the deranged Sygeanor before she reached her intended target.

As they hurried back to their humble lodgings under an obscuring ward to remain inconspicuous, an idea germinated in the Matrium's fertile mind. If this deranged and enthusiastically homicidal lunatic had already set sail, then perhaps the Ascentrix and Gyzarayne could rouse the seas and end her journey.

2

"Bastronen is...gone!" Kevlan declared, the words tumbling from his mouth in a doleful exhalation. "I'm not being precise. The town still stands...like an edifice to ugly injustice...but everything living is _gone_."

"Which does not necessarily translate into all dead," Inos reminded the other Metocan, though his words rang false and facile even as they slid from his lips.

Kevlan appeared stricken by what he recognized as a deliberately disingenuous remark. Both men knew that their Ulgak cousins had invested their magic in what they had heard Islena Doraux refer to as machines. When those machines failed...or were callously destroyed...the Ulgak simply lacked the faculties to survive in the inimical climate in which they lived. This was especially true of the children, the old and the infirmed, leaving little doubt that the survivors of Bastronen had been swallowed up by the wilderness.

While a crestfallen Kevlan fixed his gaze on a luminous heating crystal, the Grand Mage pursed his thin lips in thought, while feeling the constricting vice of duplicity tighten another increment on his already scarred soul. He turned an appraising gaze on the gentle creature who sat across from him in his poorly lit audience chamber, even as the increasingly churlish ghost of Tokizar delivered another stinging observation regarding his swelling catalogue of misdeeds. _'Perhaps you had better take a moment to reflect on how, by not apprising Artumas of mad Sygeanor's intentions, you have become duplicitous in what will...should it see fruition...be the single worst atrocity in recorded history. Even Myrhia's odious extermination at Perdwick will pale in comparison. You and your demented creation will become eternal partners in infamy.'_

Inos muttered and Kevlan regarded the Grand Mage, who appeared as if he was being subjected to some unbearable internal pressure, with a quizzical frown. Inos pressed a finger to his slightly pursed lips and when he spoke, there was a pensive edge to his voice that was well suited to the haunted light in his limpid gray eyes. "Even though they are gone, I can still feel their pernicious presence over my shoulder and sense their foul gaze on the side of my face like the touch of an unseen, poisonous wraith." A bitter smile slid furtively over his finely-honed features and he chuckled, "Ah, but we are not without our own monsters here in this shrouded land and they are just as keen to bare their fangs.'

When Kevlan's expression became quizzical, Inos' demeanor became somber and he divulged, "Since you have had the inimical fortune of traveling in the deep shadow of this world's three great monsters, I would require one last service Kevlan...I would have you forestall a black deed that would forever stain the soul of Metocan."

3

The Natzurdan acolytes sprang to their feet in reaction to the violent upheaval that appeared to seize the terrifying creature's flesh and contorted it into a seemingly impossible jumble of angles that the human physiology was never intended to assume. The unholy orb at her chest flared like an exploding star, causing the four to raise their arms and stumble away. The eruption subsided and the anxious quartet found that they were confronted by the smiling hieroglyph who they had each concluded was some manner of she-demon. She favored them with a scintillating smile and a flash of those unnerving eyes. "I'm afraid your elder has met a rather untimely end and you'll need to select his successor. The Mother _disapproves_ of conniving sycophants. Go...carry the news to Amberdias and this time...select an elder more worthy of bearing the mantle of Morzhian's successor."

When they did not immediately comply, Islena simply rose into the air, where she was immediately surrounded by a corona of synapse-searing silver light.

"Go!" The roaring imperative was a fulminating rumble that caused the four to quail in terror, shattering their ambivalence and sending them scurrying like hares.

"I'm not sure that will ever get old," she chortled, floating to the grass and turning her attention back to the mouth of the canyon, correctly deducing that the success or failure of her audacious gamble would find a swift resolution. She was accosted by a faint twinge of guilt then, but it lacked the efficacy to actually make her regret her colossal deception of the poor, ingenuous Lorio. If she was ever to be worthy of the mantle of goddess, Islena understood that she must ascribe to the conviction that the concerns of mortals...or lesser immortals, for that matter...must never attenuate her resolve to see her own desires served.

At the precise center of the canyon, perhaps two hundred paces from where she stood, a sonorous whine arose to tear the silence. A rent in the fabric of this world's reality opened to reveal a narrow, elongated view of the sequestered paradise beyond. Through the rent strode the Lamish immortal and to Islena's soaring jubilation, Lorio carried a long, thin staff...onyx black and enwrapped in thin, twisting veins of blood red and vibrant, deep green.

Islena was beset by a flare of doubt then, incisive and acute like the sting of a razor. There was something decidedly belligerent in the purposeful stride...the fraught dance of those long, tapered thighs intimating an eagerness to unleash savage violence. Even from this distance, Islena's visual acuity divined the rigid set of Lorio's lean body. Abruptly, Lorio stopped and dispelled those burgeoning concerns. Smiling brilliantly, she raised her left hand and waved vigorously, while brandishing the staff as if scarcely able to credit that it resided in her grip.

Seeing Lorio's exuberance, Islena's supreme confidence returned in the blink of a jaundiced eye. That single gesture convinced Islena that Lorio was still slavishly devoted...still willing to suffer any degradation or casual act of cruelty to remain in her good graces. She was like an obsequious dog that will lick the very boots that administered the remorseless kick.

She opened her arms and waved encouragingly. Lorio nodded dutifully and started toward Islena at a jog. The sight of the very naked immortal hurrying toward her, carrying the last component of her apotheosis, ignited a pyre of white lust in Islena's heart and loins. She fully intended to plunder that enticing body...as soon as the Natzurdan Icon surrendered the power of genesis and extinction to its rightful mistress.

When they had come within reaching distance, Lorio gushed exuberantly, "I did it, Islena...I've brought it back to you.'

"You did, Lorio," Islena agreed in a voice fraught with naked avarice.

She extended her right hand toward the exquisite article of power...a device that conveyed the ability to control nature itself...already relishing the sensation of smooth wood on eager flesh. Her eyes were drawn to the twisting network of red and green veins that traversed the length of the staff and she understood, with no small amount of astonishment, that this Icon was actually a living entity!

Fixed exclusively on this new instrument of omnipotence, Islena failed to detect the radical transformation that swiftly turned Lorio's expression from fawning deference to immutable hatred.

The tight arc of the quarterstaff took Islena square in the hollow of her right temple. Islena's reaction was instantaneous...the effect devastating. Her alien eyes rolled up in her head and she toppled like a felled tree...as if her heels were hinges, rooted in the soil beneath her feet. Her heavily muscled body hit the ground with a muffled thud, where it was beset by a series of convulsive spasms before falling utterly still.

Lorio gazed unblinkingly down upon her victim and then stepped forward with her feet straddling Islena's ribcage. The ghastly orb pulsed listlessly between Islena's breasts. Apparently the robe and boots were conscious manifestation for now they had both vanished.

"You're not quite a goddess yet, Islena," Lorio murmured and tossed the staff to the grass. It landed above and perpendicular to Islena's head. Then Lorio stood staring intently down upon the woman who had ran rampant through her life since their first meeting in Kornas. It occurred to her that this was the first time that she had ever managed to best Islena...to leave her lying beaten and vulnerable at her feet, even if she had obtained her tawdry victory by craven means. She waited for the euphoric sense of vindication to come and fill the echoing void, but it was not forthcoming. In its stead, Lorio felt a profound loneliness...a suffocating isolation that accompanied the terrible realization that she was now utterly, unbearably alone.

A soft, wistful sigh escaped her lips and she settled nimbly onto Islena's torso, allowing her hands to play lightly over the topography of Islena's breasts and shoulders before her long fingers inevitably found themselves locked around the supine woman's throat. Lorio positioned her thumbs together, pressing into the firm flesh beneath Islena's chin, and began to squeeze experimentally.

In response, the orb flared menacingly and Lorio recalled how Islena's ingrained protectively mantle had assailed her, when she had nearly drowned Islena in the Great Western Ocean. Frowning in concentration and trying to divest her mind of all superfluous thoughts and emotions, the Lamish immortal rose and hurried over to her pack, where she retrieved her Zarcyk from its simple sheath. On impulse, with no clear perception of why, she also collected a length of heavy leather that she occasionally employed to tie back her hair. Crossing back to the unmoving Doraux, she settled high onto the ascendant's chest and began to tightly bind Islena's wrists, which were surprisingly thin and delicate in contrast to her heavily-muscled arms.

Leaving Doraux's arms raised above her head, framing her slack face, Lorio sat back on Islena's sternum and by slow, exacting degrees, she positioned the tip of the Zarcyk against Islena's exposed jugular. Lorio watched the slow, rhythmic twitch just beneath the tip of the blade and then her transfixed gaze shifted to Islena's face...a dormant portrait of exotic beauty in repose. In unconsciousness, that beauty was granted an aspect of angelic innocence that Lorio knew all too well was a thin veneer.

"Look Dadar, your pathetic little wastrel of a daughter has the future of the world poised on the tip of her Zarcyk," she murmured dreamily as the first rays of sunshine burst through the rapidly thinning clouds His caustic, soul-effacing rejoinders were conspicuously absent on this day...further proof that she was completely alone with only the prospect of this ruthless deed she was contemplating to keep her company.

She leaned closer until their faces were only a hand's span apart. Her fingers gripped the haft of her Zarcyk with white-knuckled intensity, paralyzed to immobility by ambivalence.

A metaphor came to her then. Their shared experience was a veritable pendulum that oscillated wildly between extremes of silver-edged acute hatred and a love so sublime that within its rarified cocoon, everything seemed possible. Lorio's entire life...her every loss, her every indelible scar...was encompassed by these extremes. If she was to drive this blade into Islena's throat, she would join her in oblivion...yet she would be forced to live on like one of Myrhia's mindless golems without even a master's purpose to propel her forward.

A series of convulsive sobs took her like a breaking storm, the hot tears spilling over Islena's slack face in a deluge.

"Why, Islena?" she raged hysterically, letting the Zarcyk slip from her trembling fingers and pressing her forehead into Islena's cheek. "I would have done even this for you...freely without even a hint of hesitation. Why take it from me forcibly...as if I would forsake you when your need was the greatest? How could you belittle this love I have for you?"

Her passionate recriminations degenerated into strangled sobs and she remained this way, clinging tightly to the unconscious Doraux until the last of her mournful tears had been expended. She sat back and dragging the heel of her right hand across her reddened eyes, accepted the fact that, despite the enormity of Islena's many transgressions against her, she could not muster the indignant fury to take Doraux's life.

"You found a clever way to escape the staff's judgment, Islena, but perhaps there is another way to subject you to the trial of worthiness." Reaching over Doraux's head, acutely aware of the touch of Islena's slack lips against her abdomen, Lorio retrieved Symyrasil. Rising in a fluid motion, she lifted Islena's bound arms and slid the staff across Doraux's throat. Lorio then allowed Islena's heavy arms to fall back over her head. The dense muscles of Islena's shoulders remorselessly pressed the staff tightly against the unconscious woman's throat, constricting her airway by tiny increments.

Lorio straightened and immediately noticed that Islena's breathing had become hitched and erratic. Inuring her heart, Lorio turned quickly away. She returned to her pack, dressed in her black clothing and worn boots, deliberately eschewing Islena's beautiful armor of subjugation.

Islena's color had already deepened to an alarming shade of plum as she was slowly being asphyxiated by her own body weight.

"If you live...and if I see you in Nalosan, Islena...I promise that I'll save you from this monstrously inhuman thing you've become," Lorio vowed softly and then turned and fled...sprinting east, away from this immutable love that no amount of betrayal could repress.

Lorio would encounter her beloved Islena Doraux on one final occasion and the fate of all things, both grand and inconsequential, would turn on the hinge of their meeting.

4

The world was cast in impenetrable darkness and an inexplicable pressure...a suffocating constriction that was slowly leeching away the last of her precious oxygen. Panic, huge and debilitating, threatened to seize her then...made all the more acute because she could not comprehend the cause of her current lethal plight.

She was being slowly strangled by an inert, unseen force and though she could not define its nature, she somehow knew that it was not willfully malicious...but was still killing her by steady degrees.

Yet, she could not rouse herself from her torpor as if her physical body was caught in some manner of narcoleptic vice...unable to heed its increasingly frantic will.

The context and location of her crisis shifted seamlessly. Now, she was floating just beneath the surface of a slow flowing stream. Through the distorting lens of running water, she could see the world beyond...bright, beckoning, yet maddeningly out of reach. Her heart was pumping frantically and her beleaguered lungs were screaming for air, but something was preventing her from breaking the surface. It encircled her throat and endeavored to drag her away from the light...down into the lightless depths. An atavistic instinct informed her that, should it succeed, there would be no return.

Lethargy, slowly and insidiously worked its dark magic deeper into her bones and when it seemed inevitable that she would succumb, an argent light flared just beneath the line of her vision. Innumerable voices implored her to rise...to draw strength from the glorious destiny that awaited her just beyond this would-be watery grave. Garnering the last of her ebbing fortitude and tenacity, she opened her eyes and emitted a strangled cry, simultaneously surging up into the blessed air to find...

5

That she was hovering in the air, in a prone position, clutching at her throat as she drew in great wheezing gasps of air. Her throat throbbed painfully and it seemed as though her airway had constricted to the thickness of a small reed. She willed herself to be calm and gradually her respiration and heart rate settled back to its customary indolent rhythm.

Spreading her arms, Islena righted her body and floated to the grass as her omni-shifting robe coalesced to drape her flesh in sorcery. Then the act of surprising rebellion came flooding back and Islena reached up involuntarily and probed her temple, not surprised to find that her flesh displayed no residual effect of Lorio's abuse.

' _Still, you are fortunate that your arrogant presumption of Lorio's infinite capacity to tolerate your treachery was not your undoing,'_ Myrhia whispered in her ear in a voice that quavered with anxiety. It was true that she had failed to anticipate Lorio's violent reaction, but despite the volatile immortal's craven attack, Islena was still alive...albeit somewhat humbled. To her mind, this proved that she had not really erred in her judgment of Lorio's loyalty at all.

Lorio's absence was a concern, but it stood to reason that the tempestuous creature would require a space of time to digest the incident. In time...inevitably, she would come meekly back to her mistress...submissive and biddable as ever. Incapable of defying her clinging nature, Lorio could always be counted on to thrust her hand into the gaping maw of Islena's need.

Her gaze fell upon the Natzurdan Icon and all thoughts of her truant companion were exiled from her mind. Despite the veins of iridescent green and red that spoke of an irrepressible vitality, Symyrasil was decidedly _unimpressive_ ...considering that it was reputed to hold the power of genesis and extinction, seemingly irreconcilable sides of the same coin.

It was partially concealed in the tall grass and Islena could easily visualize marching right past the unimposing length of ironwood as if it was nothing more than a discarded stick. Looks could indeed be deceiving as Doraux could readily attest. Symyrasil radiated an inestimable efficacy. Islena could feel its recumbent power stirring deep in her viscera, patiently awaiting its moment of awakening. Staring unblinkingly at the unassuming staff, Islena became cognizant of the distinction between Symyrasil and the other two Icons. While the other two were repositories of Jerhia and Metocan wisdom...powerful to be sure, but mortal contrivances nonetheless...Symyrasil was the tangible manifestation of the inconceivable power of a goddess.

Islena tried to envision what perversion of divine logic would have inspired a deity to fashion such an instrument...a potential weapon with the power of world-effacing eradication...and found that she was unequal to the task.

' _And I shall be the beneficiary of her inexplicable misjudgment,'_ Islena thought with a sly grin. The orb at her chest thrummed in anticipation of its imminent union with Symyrasil and on the periphery of her awareness, she could feel the Dragonsword, presently in Myrhia's custodianship, pulsing expectantly. She could clearly visualize the faceted rubies flaring and guttering like rapidly blinking eyes.

And yet...

Despite standing on the cusp of omnipotence...a placed to which she had been purportedly fated to come since the moment of her conception...the entity that was now called Islena Doraux found that she was stricken with an uncharacteristic ambivalence. She need only reach down and snatch up this unobtrusive piece of wood and she would become a virtual deity. Suddenly, she was plagued by a myriad of doubts that, while ambiguous, were no less debilitating.

"You're being an obtuse bitch," she castigated herself, _'like a simpering housewife, afraid to draw breath without her husband's approval. You're the Daughter of the fucking Tempest. Now pick up that fucking piece of wood and seize your destiny by the balls!'_

With a surge of her old defiance shoring up her resolve, Islena bound across the grass and snatched up Symyrasil.

The moment her fingers closed around its spindly length, Islena was consumed by an explosion of rapidly intermingling forces. The veins that twisted around Symyrasil's surface erupted into snaking threads of pure energy that swiftly ensnared Islena's arms and legs, while tendrils of pure, organic energy wound their way around her torso and throat.

Rather than constrict like vipers, these tendrils gently slithered over Islena's skin. Warm and soothing, they quickly placated Islena's welling apprehension.

A rich _verdant_ female voice, that reminded Islena of the susurration of a warm summer's breeze, kissed the fabric of her fraught mind, calming her every misgiving. ' _Submit to my grace, Islena Doraux. Dismantle the ramparts of your delusions and doubts. They are but manifestations of the restive fears that have assailed you through every chapter of your troubled life. Remove the distorting lens of prejudice...of discordant emotions...and permit life to flow through every recess of your being until you come to see what it is you are being offered.'_

Though it was contrary to her nature, Islena surrendered to that placid imperative. Soon, the twining extrusions of Symyrasil's dual nature began to move...not over Islena's taut flesh, but rather beneath it. They sank deeper into her body's interior, flowing through veins and arteries, winding their way along neural networks, subtly inculcating Symyrasil's essence into the exceptionally impressionable fabric of Islena's being.

Like a juggernaut, deceptively cloaked in velvet and silk, the tendrils quickly and efficiently, eradicate the facile, sly aspects of the Daughter's mercurial nature...warding her against the insidious temptations of Metocan magic that had been furtively working to _traduce_ her...to surrender to her own dark proclivities.

In that sudden moment of acute insight, Islena Doraux developed a new respect for the Metocan, who as a civilization had resisted the seductive inclination to employ the insidious tools of dark sorcery. The collective resolve to resist that enticement...power that might well have given the Metocan unchallenged dominion over the world...displayed a discipline that was beyond traditional mortal sensibilities.

The tendrils lifted Islena into the air, where she closed her eyes, allowed her head to fall back and her arms to hang loosely at her sides. The twin tendrils continued to work their transformative magic, now gaining speed and urgency.

' _Come Islena, accompany me on this world's journey of genesis,'_ the mother whispered in her mind...this nameless deity whose bailiwick was the transmutation of the inanimate into the living. Islena found herself following the indistinct figure over a barren world where the firmament was as black as sack cloth and devoid of stars. Islena glanced down at the cold, barren rock beneath her feet where no living thing could ever find purchase. Gusts of wind threw scouring grit into the sky in choking clouds.

Islena glanced questioningly at the enigmatic figure floating before her. Could she not see the inherent futility of attempting to infuse this barren husk with life?

' _Perhaps, by its very essence, Islena, life is an article of faith,'_ the voice suggested kindly. _'Every living thing is a miracle and are not miracles, by their very definition, events that defy all perception and logic?'_

Clearly skeptical, Islena surveyed the sterile expanse, thinking that it was beyond all reclamation.

Just then, an iridescent yellow light, pale and piteously fragile, appeared, illuminating the immediate area. It began to grow in magnitude and as it intensified, Islena could feel heat kiss her diaphanous skin.

The growing light served to reveal more about Islena's guide. She was tall and finely-boned, with flowing hair that reminded Islena of loom-spun gold. Her long, voluminous robe was a wondrous construct, composed entirely of interwoven vines that appeared to sprout tiny yellow and pink blooms that germinated, grew to full glorious life and withered all in the span of a few heartbeats...the eternal cycle of life, death and rebirth encompassed in the fabric of this strange garment.

Slung over her shoulder was a canvas satchel and as she walked slowly along, this beguiling creature would plunge her hand into the bag and pull out heaping palms full of what appeared to be seeds. These, she would cast to the wind, which was suddenly sultry and warm. Islena saw that the tiny seeds were grains of golden effulgence.

' _Nothing can take root here,'_ Islena thought disdainfully, certain that the enigmatic creature was squandering precious resources in the service of a hopeless cause. Yet, when the seeds drifted to the cold stone, they somehow took root and flourished.

Islena came to a stumbling halt, gazing around at the radical process of genesis that was swiftly sweeping across the once sterile world. Color, vibrant and rich and so intense as to dazzle the senses began to bleed into the empty darkness. The mother cast a sweeping fan of luminescent seeds toward the heavens. They rose as if borne on a carpet of air and soon the once black firmament was awash with a wild smattering of stars. In response to this virginal tapestry of new life, Islena felt her heart soar in jubilation.

Gaping in giddy fascination, Islena saw that, in the Mother's wake, the unyielding rock had been transmogrified into rich brown soil. Grass pushed up to embrace the light and spread over the land in rolling waves.

Sensing that Islena was transfixed, the Mother smiled and advised, _'Come Islena, there is much yet to accomplish before I can consign Symyrasil to your stewardship. Time is at a premium and the culmination of your long journey is at hand.'_

The pair resumed their seemingly meandering path and in their wake, oceans filled the hollows and raging rivers ran through clefts in the stone. Groves of massive trees rose to challenge the heavens as the cycle of night and day sprang to life...an endless metronomic pattern that bestowed measurable context upon the flow of time.

Mountains rose in their ice-draped majesty, just as islands broke the surface of a seemingly endless expanse of ocean. Islena traipsed after the Mother, who was indefatigable in her labor of creation. They traversed strands of golden sand which slithered between green warm waters and teeming jungles.

As she bore witness to the creation of the world, this _incubator_ of life in its apparently infinite variety of forms, Islena began to discern a shockingly precise pattern to what she had perceived as the Mother's random frenzy of creation.

Finally, from this sterile husk, the industrious goddess had raised a veritable paradise...nature in perfect and harmonious balance. The Mother turned to Islena and regarded her through eyes that were eternally quizzical as if there was an aspect of her own creation that she found perplexing. To a mystified Islena, she explained, ' _Genesis...it is my perceived purpose...my demesne if you will. In Natzurdan, you see the quintessential realization of that purpose. Sentient beings living in perfect harmony with nature; assimilating without attempting to bend the environment to their will. My children have devoted their lives and subjugated the base urges that have corrupted the hearts of other civilizations...all for the propagation of my creed; the sanctity of all living things, from a blade of grass to man, is inviolable.'_

Her expression darkened, an occluding shadow tempered by strong aversion. _'There is a duality in all things...especially in sentient beings...where light and darkness wage an incessant war for dominion. Mine is also the power of wither...of extinction. Gods are fallible creatures, whose greatest inherent failing is hubris. Of all our long catalogue of ill-conceived endeavors, perhaps our greatest folly was the creation of sentient species. When mortals were invested with the power to think...to deliberate...the gods failed to grasp the terrible implications of this dispensation. By bestowing these aspects of the deity upon our creations, we inadvertently upset the delicate balance that I had achieved in this glorious design I have shown you. Rather than adapt to the salient realities of his environment, man...in a display or arrogance and indolence that flummoxed the gods...attempted to bend his environment to shape his needs. The consequences of this misadventure have often been cataclysmic as evinced in this world by places through which your path has already led you.'_

"The Blighted Lands and...Otaru Ree's purgatory," Islena exclaimed to which the Mother merely nodded, her limpid eyes clouded by the pain of this recollection.

' _There have been times, when a particularly pernicious strain of sentient being ran rampant, threatening to undo my fragile tapestry...that I was forced to intervene. I employed the powers of wither...failed crops, vanishing rivers, pestilence and disease...to drive those irredeemable despoilers to extinction. Knowing that I was left with no other viable alternative, employing the power of wither has left indelible scars on what you would think of as my soul. It is a terrible and grave power that should only be employed in the direst of circumstances, when the very fabric of nature is poised to fray and unravel. This is the power I invest in you, Islena Doraux, by granting Symyrasil...the power of genesis and extinction, life and death.'_

"Why ever would you do this...knowing what an inherently flawed creature I am? Why would you ever grant me access to something so...obscene?"

' _The will of fate has carried you to this juncture and even we deities are subservient to its design...even if we would question its wisdom. For reasons, the logic of which eludes me, your ascension is preordained and I am obligated to facilitate this aspect of your evolution.'_

She turned her ethereal gaze along the pristine strand of beach on which they now stood, where the surf broke upon the strand like a lover's ardent caress. _'Islena, I would implore you to ponder the prudence the advice I am about to impart. Once you ascend...become an unprecedented deity...fate's hold over you will be shattered. You will be free to carve your own path...to blaze through the realities like a brilliant comet that brings enlightenment to everything in its path...or malign black hole that voraciously consumes all light. I would adjure you to eschew either path...to embrace a more inconspicuous journey.'_

When Islena raised a quizzical eyebrow, the Mother sighed and set forth the unalloyed salient truth of Islena's conflicted nature and all that it implied. _'Inside you there resides a core of seething discontent...a dichotomy that is impervious to every effort to see it excised. It is from this core that your every dark inclination finds its source...inclinations such as the one that you committed against poor Lorio. Islena, ultimately...inevitably, these dark proclivities will corrupt you...pervert you into something monstrous.'_

"How?" Islena seethed. "I tried to warn them...from the first moment I was dragged into this wretched world, I tried to tell them that I was _seriously flawed..._ hopelessly susceptible to the ugly addictive aspects of power, but they were all too fixated by their own desperate need to heed my warning."

' _This world contains all of the destructive ingredients to enflame the voracious appetites that draw you to the darkness. Incessant conflict, games of subterfuge and treachery, endless pursuit of the base urges of human nature...this is precisely the environment that will pander to the kernel of restless darkness that festers in your soul. Here, you will find the catalyst for your absolute dissolution...an eventuality that would prove catastrophic for everything that exists.'_

She paused, allowing Islena to absorb the gravity of her admonition and then held forth the solitary prospect for deliverance. _'Within you dwells the potential to eternally repress this inner conflict that will, if left to fester, lead us all into the abyss. You must turn the savagely candid light of introspection on this core of flux and glean the things that foment your demons. Then, after you have seen the living engine of despair to her end...you must employ Symyrasil to create a world free of all the dark enticements that would pervert your spirit into something wicked.'_

"You're speaking of _..._ exile," Islena objected, her tone truculent.

' _If you elect to see it as such perhaps, but it would be an exile in the paradise of your design, free of all of the inflammatory elements that would rouse the dark angels of your nature. There, Islena Doraux...you will find lost serenity...and be the Daughter of the Tempest no more!'_

Islena absorbed this in a thoughtful silence and then posed a question which she understood was folly even before it passed her lips. "Could I not simply go back to my old life...my old world?"

The Mother regarded her with a poignant blend of pity and mild bemusement. _'Islena, as the Metocan guide has already informed you...to traverse the path of that shattered illusion will garner naught but perpetual sorrow. The path that I have recommended is your only tenable path forward.'_

Islena drew a tremulous breath and another notion seized her then, but it held forth very little prospect for fulfillment. Still, she felt compelled to try if only to cling to the one vestige of her fading identity. "Lorio...if I can repair the damage I've done...beg her to forgive me...could I take her with me and build this paradise you speak of for the both of us?"

Now the Mother's ethereal countenance became sorrowful. _'I suspect you already glean the answer to that question in the very marrow of your bones, Islena Doraux. Like elements in nature, your interaction with this tortured soul can only be tempestuous. Her very proximity provokes the darker aspects of your character. That influence will never change and in light of the immensity of the power with which you will be invested...her continued presence in your life will be catastrophic. In a world that has languished beneath a pall of tragedy for so long, your hearts must be casualties if this world is ever to see light again.'_

Islena grimaced but did not default to the vehement denial that this grim contention normally would have evoked. A part of her understood that this deity had spoken the incontrovertible truth. The dynamic that existed between she and Lorio was poisonous and destructive and could only yield bitter heartache in the end.

As was often the case at the critical junctures of her life, Islena Doraux spontaneously decided to wholeheartedly embrace the Mother's sage advice. She would go forth and create a world of placid permanence where her inner demons would be lulled into a state of enduring hibernation. She would also release the captive hearts she had ensnared during the course of her long journey.

Sensing Islena's fervent acquiescence, the Mother smiled. "Go Islena. Symyrasil is yours. Let reverence for the miracle of life guide your every action."

6

When Islena came back to herself, she was standing in the now deserted meadow as dusk slowly descended over Western Natzurdan. She glanced down at her luminous silver robe to discover that the red and green tendrils were running through the diaphanous garment in dazzlingly intricate geometric patterns. Her gaze shifted to her right hand to find that it clutched the unimposing Symyrasil which was now uniformly black.

When Islena had absorbed the arcane knowledge of the Jerhia Dragonsword and the orb of Metocan, she had been inundated by innumerable voices that had threatened her sanity with their maddening clamor. By contrast, absorbing the puissance of Symyrasil could be likened to slowly submerging in warm and soothing waters. She was suddenly attuned with the natural world from the soughing of the wind through the leaves to the pulse of the living vessels of wood and vegetation that grew around her in such abundance. Her heart beat in perfect harmony to the rhythm of the natural world. She was amazed to find that she could actually hear the grass draw moisture from the soil, so exquisitely refined were her new senses.

In this new preternatural state of attunement, Islena became cognizant of how fragile...how precarious...was the Mother's astounding tapestry...and how easily it might be undone by the voracious appetite of mortals.

She drew a deep breath and in response, small saplings pushed tentatively out of the ground around her feet, causing her to laugh and clap her hands in delight.

In that moment of crystalline insight, Islena gleaned that the Icon's incredible power had banished the more devious aspects of her nature...but as the Mother had predicted, it had not eradicated them. The Mother had been truthful in her contention that, Islena would have to be eternally vigilant lest those insidious demons weave their sly magic on her vulnerable soul.

Bolstered by this new resolve, Islena set out for Nalosan...determined to bring an emphatic end to the dark and tragic drama that had found its origins with the dawn of time.

As she strode tirelessly through the night, flowers blossoming in her wake, Islena understood that only one thing could efficiently efface her new determination...a glance into Lorio's wounded dark eyes.

Chapter Fifty-One

1

Artumas, now formally king Artumas, restored to the throne by the very woman who had usurped it, stood on the deserted rampart of castle Kammlogran. He leaned against the crenellated battlements, staring fixedly out over the Bay of Imerlac. He absently ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed, graying beard and tried to decipher the disturbing aberration that hung ominously over the bay's churning waters. The storm clouds were the purple of a nasty bruise and the waters in the distance writhed and foamed, though from his lofty perspective overlooking the bay, Artumas could not feel the slightest suggestion of a breeze on his face. Blinding bolts of lightening illuminated the face of the massive bank of clouds that stretched away to the horizon in either direction. Fierce storms were by no means and uncommon experience over the Bay of Imerlac, but this particular storm had been parked, stubbornly unmoving, over the entire bay for the fortnight that Artumas had been back in Nalosan.

His incisive regard shifted to the docks, which were fully occupied as no sailor in their right mind would venture out into this seething maelstrom. Seafaring commerce had virtually ground to a halt, though at the shore, water lapped at the stone quays like a lover's tender caress.

Artumas had little doubt that this anomalous storm was not a natural phenomenon. When he had questioned Myrhia about its possible cause, she had regarded him with an uncharacteristically nervous shudder and replied cryptically, "The time may soon come when I require your protection, Artumas...from the consequences of my past transgressions." She glanced at the raging storm and intoned distantly, "That time may be closer at hand than I had first imagined."

Then she strode off without elaboration, leaving him staring after her in confusion. Shaking his head at this perplexing recollection, he pushed away from the battlement and started back in the direction of his chambers.

The prior month had been easily the most bizarre that Artumas had ever lived through, characterized by staggering fluctuations of perspective that had carried his spirit from soaring elation to bitter dejection. As they had made their way to the causeway, Artumas had listened with mounting optimism as Myrhia had laid forth her ambitious plan for her campaign of restitution. Such was her zeal, that he had become infected with the attractive notion that, together, they could now create the utopia he had envisioned in his youth.

' _Ah, ever the hero of fools,'_ he remonstrated himself as he walked through the gloomy corridors of Kammlogran, absently acknowledging the enthusiastic bows of liveried servants and courtiers. _'I'm old enough to have learned that illusions do not endure...and like delicate glass and bead ornaments...the more beautiful the illusion, the more debilitating the blow when it finally shattered beneath reality's boot.'_

Artumas' great hope had crumbled like the preposterous folly it was not long after the massive escort force had crossed out of the Blighted Lands.

Once they had crossed the river Tynan, the ugly disfigurement left behind by Myrhia's juggernaut of conquest was evident everywhere the gaze settled. The scope of this defilement beggared reason...entire towns reduced to charred husks or huge swathes of fertile farmland turned to ash in vain attempts to slow Myrhia's advance through a policy of scorched earth. Everywhere, grim reminders of seven years of incessant, bloody warfare assailed the king's senses and with this bloody tapestry, the last of Artumas' delusions was dispelled.

Yet it had been a single incident in Kornas that had finally divested Artumas of the ludicrous fantasy that he could salvage his great romantic dream for Myrhia's redemption.

The sky had been dark and a light, but persistent drizzle contributed to the lingering sense of hopelessness that hovered over the country. Artumas would later learn that more than seventy percent of Kornas' male population had either died or been sent for slave fodder in the mines of Redia. On this dismal morning, the great escort procession...this contrived display of solidarity...passed by a small nameless collection of hovels at the edge of leagues of muddy, fallow fields.

' _These fields should be planted by now,'_ Artumas recalled thinking with a mixture of indignation and welling horror as he gazed across the neglected farmlands. Only later would he learn that there were no longer a sufficient number of men to prepare and plant the fields. _'These people will all starve!'_

Even as he had drew this horrifying conclusion, his reproving regard slid to the enchantress, who perhaps gleaning his intense aversion, was watching him intently.

Just then, a mud-spattered woman in tattered rags fell to her knees and scrabbled through the mud, avoiding the Morticants that lined the roadway. She sprang to her feet and made a shambling run in the general direction of the enchantress. Several Emercian cavalrymen moved to intercept her but Artumas barked, "Stand down and let her through. I would hear this woman's grievance. Myrhia, have your Morticants stand down!"

She had fixed Artumas with a baleful glare, which he met unblinkingly. After a tense moment, she stiffened and averted her eyes. An instant later, the Morticants returned to form a cordon along the roadway.

The woman stood stationary for a moment, gazing around in moon-eyed incredulity. Tears tracked over her grime covered face and she held her hands in fists at her side. Artumas saw that those hands were raw and piteously thin. "If there is a petition you would wish to make, I would hear you, good lady," Artumas encouraged. "You may speak your mind freely without fear of reprisals."

The woman glared at the aging king suspiciously, but something in his earnest gaze must have convinced her that he was being sincere. Her face contorted and she burst into a fresh round of tears. Rather than address the kindly king, she stumbled over to where a clearly disgusted Myrhia sat atop her charger. Falling to her knees, she reached a tentative hand out and touched Myrhia's right boot...regarding her with wide, imploring eyes.

Myrhia's blistering regard snapped down to the wretched creature, her great dark eyes ablaze with fury and revulsion at this presumption of touch. Artumas' flesh had prickled at the sudden crackling of power that manifested...unseen...around the indignant queen. He swiftly dismounted his horse and hurried over to the pair. He gently laid his hand on the kneeling woman's shoulder, while meeting Myrhia's infuriated gaze. Mindful that every eye was fixed upon the trio, Artumas spoke in a soft, but urgent tone. "You have vowed to labor tirelessly to make restitution for your misdeeds. If you are genuinely contrite, you must be prepared to face an endless succession of moments precisely like this one. You must be willing to stare into the faces of the misery and pain your villainy has inflicted upon this woman, whose family you have destroyed. This is, in truth, the only true testament to your contrition."

She had inhaled sharply, her consternation glaringly apparent, but then nodded. Artumas stepped away from the kneeling woman and encouraged, "The Queen will hear your petition, good lady."

The pitiful plea poured forth in a strangled deluge, fraught with unbearable sorrow. "My son...Kazden, he do be called...he's only nine and a frail boy. I don't know what good he'd be to you, but your soldiers...they did take him away...after they did kill all the men. Please, I beg you, do send him back to me. He is all I have left that do be worth anything."

Her exhortation degenerated into a series of garbled sobs and she pressed her face into Myrhia's boot, hands clutching the hem of the enchantress' riding dress. Myrhia's rigid posture...her body language of smoldering revulsion...made it evident that she wanted nothing more than to kick this wretched creature away. Artumas could discern not the slightest hint of regret for the suffering she had caused. In that single moment of obduracy, the Emercian knew that Myrhia was a living repudiation of his conviction that everyone could be redeemed. The taste of this scathing disillusionment was as bitter as ash in his mouth.

Myrhia gathered herself, her lips twisted into a moue of distaste. "Your son has gone to the mines of Redia, woman...from whence he will not return. Life is harsh...and clinging to false hope will do nothing to make it more bearable."

With this, she jerked her leg free of the woman's clutching grasp and spurred her charger to a gallop. The woman shrieked a piteous wail of negation and sprawled on her face on the wet cobbles. Artumas squatted down beside her and gently caressed her shoulder, while offering ultimately hollow platitudes of commiseration. In the end, Artumas had convinced Tier Marshal Vyganis to leave a quarter of their provisions behind, along with a dozen of his troops to administer the distribution of the supplies to the surrounding area's families.

The long journey back to Nalosan had demonstrated the daunting scope of the task that awaited Artumas if Emercia was ever to regain even a small portion of its lost honor.

Now, as he entered his private suite of rooms, Artumas could no longer ignore the fact that he could contrive no way of extricating Emercia from Myrhia's seemingly impenetrable shadow.

2

A single vessel limped slowly along the coast of Emercia, its mainsail tattered and its deck empty, save for the solitary figure who stood hollow-eyed watch over the scarred wooden helm.

She shifted her bloodshot, exhausted gaze to a point on the mid-deck where her crates of precious clay had been secured to the planking...both by conventional and magical means. Soaked to the skin and enervated to the brink of collapse, Sygeanor drew upon her seemingly infinite reserve of fury and madness to help her remain vertical.

"Sometime tomorrow, the city of Nalosan will come to intimately know the suffering of Bastronen," she whispered through lips that were cracked and raw from exposure to the biting wind that had howled without surcease since the day after her ship left port in Dizar Kor.

It had been the morning after their departure when the ominously black clouds had appeared over the Bay of Imerlac, seemingly manifesting out of the clear blue skies in the beat of a heart. The winds, which had been fortuitously steady out of the north, had begun to gust and swirl like an invisible beast thrashing in a mad frenzy...raising massive waves that tossed the vessel to and fro. Here and there, great gaping vortices had opened in the bay and sizzling bolts of lightening assailed the churning water with what seemed like conscious malice.

As she had anticipated, it had not been long before the hawk-faced captain had come to her, insisting that he had no choice but to return to Dizar Kor. Sygeanor had ignored the wretch and had stood staring fixedly up at the angry purple clouds. After a moment's contemplation, she correctly deduced that she was seeing a carefully orchestrated act of sorcery on a scale that was beyond incredible.

' _Powerful enemies indeed,'_ she thought ruefully as she recalled the force that had briefly occupied the meddlesome bitch's mind in the instant before she'd died. To the Captain, she intoned mordantly, "Would a further payment of gold muster your courage sufficiently to push on to Nalosan?"

As she'd expected, he had spat and grimaced, his rotten, yellowing teeth causing Sygeanor to shudder in disgust. "Coin don't do a man much good on the bottom of the ocean, woman...which is exactly where we'll be if we don't race back to port."

Sygeanor's gray eyes slid to the nearby crew members, who were furtively watching this fraught exchange with an odd mixture of supernatural dread and belligerence aimed squarely at her. Never one for protracted debate, the half-Ulgak chose a more _prosaic_ solution in crushing this particular mutiny.

"Then perhaps you had best start swimming home." With this, invisible hands plucked the captain from the deck and tossed him overboard into the raging sea. His shrill cries were lost beneath the tumult of the storm. Turning to the remaining crew, who regarded her with a universal expression of moon-eyed terror, she challenged, "The first mate has just received a promotion. Now, unless there are further objections, you will turn this ship toward the Sea of Permanent Departure. We will circumnavigate this storm."

The ship had made the circuitous journey and Sygeanor had been baffled by the sheer immensity of the storm. It was inconceivable that any mortal could maintain a consistent arcane output of this magnitude, but as they left the Bay of Imerlac, the storm showed no sign of abating.

When the holds began to run short of both food and fresh water, the crew's fear of starvation and dehydration had begun to surmount their fear of the mad woman who had compelled them on this fool's endeavor. Knowing that a dirk in the back was inevitable and confident that she could guide the ship to Nalosan with her telekinetic ability, Sygeanor took preemptive measures.

In the dead of night, Sygeanor had stalked the deck and holds, systematically dispensing death until she was the blood-spattered ships only living occupant. The expenditure of energy required to move a sailing vessel through a raging, unnatural storm had far exceeded the half-Ulgak's expectations and when she finally did manage to break free of the inimical contrivance and catch her first glimpse of Emercia's coastline, Sygeanor had tottered on the brink of complete physical collapse.

She had guided the vessel into a secluded cove, where she had dropped anchor and fallen into a dreamless sleep for two days.

Now, as she followed the northern coastline to Nalosan, Sygeanor uttered a cackling laughter that resonated with madness. Again, she had slipped the noose of these phantom enemies...these Sisters of Esotaria...despite the undeniable immensity of their power.

Perhaps, when Nalosan had been reduced to a smoldering barrow, she might seek them out and bring the fight to their door.

3

"She's eluded our deterrent," the Ascentrix announced as she marched purposefully into the common area where two dozen increasingly weary battle mages labored to maintain the massive feat of sorcery that held sway over the Bay of Imerlac. "We will require a more direct intervention."

The Matrium smiled at the exhausted cadre of battle mages and instructed, "Allow the storm to diminish gradually. Let us give the illusion of normalcy...even if it is glaringly apparent that this storm was anything but a natural occurrence." Of the Ascentrix, she inquired, "What would you have us do next?"

"We will sail to Nalosan and await the viper's arrival. Once we have gleaned her exact intentions, I will intervene," Lissom decreed, displaying that implacable aura of authority that seemed wholly incongruent with her apparent age.

There was an aspect of brinksmanship in permitting this woman anywhere in the general vicinity of Nalosan...one that alarmed the naturally cautious Matrium. Employing the silent line of communication that existed exclusively between an Ascentrix and her Matrium, Karosyn posed her concern in a deliberately deferential manner. "Lissom, would it not be more prudent to intercept this woman before she reaches Nalosan? If our evaluation of her intentions is correct, a slight miscalculation on our part could spell the complete eradication of the city."

Lissom fixed the Matrium with a withering glare and Karosyn realized that her use of the word _prudent_ had been maladroit and could easily be construed as insubordination. The ire on the girl's face caused Karosyn to blush slightly, but she forced herself not to avert her gaze, knowing that her concern was well warranted. "As I've mentioned, Matrium, this woman has a pivotal, yet undefined role to play in this world's future and I would know its shape. Her designs upon Nalosan are instrumental in divining the essence of her future influence." Her tone softened perceptibly and she placed a reassuring hand on Karosyn's slender wrist. "Do not fret. Neither Gyzarayne, nor I will permit any ill-fortune to befall Nalosan as a consequence of this madwoman's devices. After all, it is in Nalosan where the future path of our sisterhood will be laid."

Karosyn's eyes widened in response to this portentous remark which emphasized how this child before her was the living manifestation of divinity. The Ascentrix turned back to the struggling battle mages and instructed, "Rest. When we come within view of Nalosan's harbor, I will have you raise an impenetrable bank of fog to conceal our presence. This will provide the cover I need to discreetly deal with this genocidal lunatic."

4

As he crossed the threshold into his suite of rooms, Artumas was again visited by that odd sensation of dislocation...of having become un-tethered in time. It had been here that Artumas would spend his few solitary moments before Myrhia had arrived to decimate his life. It was here where he had lived the brittle charade of matrimony until her stunning betrayal. Now, his presence seemed frankly ridiculous...as if he was a poorly chosen imposter.

Sighing, he closed the door behind him and suddenly realized that the room was abnormally cold...all three of the fire places had been allowed to burn down to dull embers. Mildly vexed, Artumas considered summoning one of the castle's staff to stoke the fires, but recalling his exile on the western shore, decided that he might actually be capable of the feat on his own.

"Allow me, _your majesty,"_ a familiar voice offered from out of the gloom, the tone dripping with mordant disdain.

A sleek silhouette slid through the thick shadow, followed by an abrasive whisper of steel on flint. Spark on tinder blazed to life and Lorio let the flaming sheath of dried kindling slip from her fingers. The fire flared and the statuesque beauty turned to face Artumas with a smirk playing at the corners of her lips and her hands set on her tilted hips.

"Lorio," he breathed, genuinely delighted to see the tempestuous immortal. Glancing around his chambers, he inquired, "How...did you manage to get into my chambers unseen?"

The immortal grinned, an expression, Artumas observed, that never lighted in her great dark eyes which seemed to have lost something of their customary luster. She gravitated toward on of the chamber's recessed windows and murmured, "There windows are seriously wanting when it comes to security."

Artumas gaped at the partially open window in disbelief. "You scaled the harbor side wall of Kammlogran?"

Lorio shrugged as if the harrowing climb up the vertical face had been no real achievement. Artumas shook his head and ran his fingers through his beard, trying to regain a measure of composure in the face of her startling appearance in Nalosan. A myriad of questions churned in his mind like swarming locusts, but he seized on the two he deemed immediately germane. "Lorio, how long have you been in Nalosan...and why is Islena not with you?"

Lorio shrugged off her dirt-spattered cloak and settled onto the deep casement. "I arrived in Nalosan a week ago...just in time to enjoy the grand spectacle of your coronation. It seems your wife was unrelenting in her determination to see you back upon your throne."

There was an undisguised thread of accusation in her flat tone that garnered a sheepish grimace from the Emercian. "Why did you not come to me sooner?"

"I seriously doubt that Myrhia would greet the news of my solo return with elation. I chose to remain hidden until Islena was within a day's ride of the city," Lorio explained. "Rumor has been put about that the would-be goddess is due to arrive in Nalosan tomorrow...and that is why I have come to you now."

After a moment's hesitation, she added with obvious reluctance, "I need your help."

Artumas could glean the incisive pain roiling beneath Lorio's impassive exterior, prompting him to reiterate his earlier query. "Why are you not with Islena?"

The staggeringly complex array of discordant emotions that contorted Lorio's lovely face spoke eloquently of her acute torment. Haltingly, clinging tenaciously to her faltering composure, Lorio recounted the harrowing events that had befallen her in Natzurdan. When she described the moment of Islena's shocking treachery, her voice became tremulous and her limpid eyes glistened on the cusp of tears. When she felt confident that she could continue, Lorio related the harrowing details of the way in which she'd left Islena, concluding, "Obviously, she survived. I know how passive and pathetic it was of me to leave her that way..."

She lapsed into a dreary silence. For a protracted moment, Artumas could simply not speak, his faculties muted by Islena's unspeakable act of savage expedience...perpetrated against a woman whose capacity for abuse seemed to know no bounds. "What she did to you...all of the other things she had done to you...is monstrous. That you didn't kill her when she was beneath her hand..."

He shook his head and let this thought go unexpressed. Lorio merely smiled...an expression as forlorn as wind through a tomb. "On the night you shared the tale of how Myrhia first arrived in Nalosan...the intensity of the impact her coming made upon you...I remember being infuriated with you for being so gullible. I felt a disdain because you were so blinded by her beauty that you couldn't see the despicable thing that dwelled beneath the pretty shell."

Artumas recalled Lorio's livid reaction to his recollection of Myrhia's mystique and grinned, "Your sharp-tongued disdain was well deserved."

Lorio sprang from the casement and stalked over to where he stood, shaking her head vehemently. "Even as I heaped my contempt on you that night, a part of me empathized perfectly with the soul-rending turmoil you suffered. Both of us are condemned to love the very thing that will be our eventual undoing and no matter how often we have our hearts crushed, there will remain a part of us that obstinately refuses to accept the truth. Islena is coming to Nalosan to claim her mantle of godhood...but also to imprison Myrhia in her own flesh. She cannot be dissuaded...and there is no force in this world that can deter her." She paused to allow the moon-eyed king a moment to absorb this intractable truth and then added, "We cannot permit the abomination to ascend and so once she's turned Myrhia to stone..." She deftly drew her Zarcyk and held it forth for Artumas' inspection. "I'm going to bury this in her obscene heart...just as I promised _my_ Islena I would in the storage room in Othgol. I know you still love Myrhia...still harbor a hope that you can purify her black heart. I won't deceive you by denying that I cling to the possibility that this might somehow return Islena to me, but I need your help in getting the opportunity to destroy this evil thing that Islena is becoming. Both of us have to muster the courage to finally let go of our pathetic delusion...even if our only reward is constant sorrow."

Again, she fell silent, collapsing into a nearby chair as if the frantic exhortation had left her...diminished. Artumas sagged onto the bench beside the disconsolate immortal and related the story of Myrhia's vision for their future. He confessed how acutely he wished to make this vision a reality, despite its laughable absurdity. "There is no rational way to explain a heart's desire, but you and I are painfully acquainted with the fact that emotion and logic often find themselves at irreconcilable odds." Here he sighed and gently laid his hand on her right knee. "Still, after witnessing the blight that Myrhia's twisted ambition has left upon the world, I have come to realize that for those unfortunate enough to be ensnared in fate's remorseless weave, there is no requiem to be had in delusion. We are obligated to set these childish fantasies aside and conjure the fortitude to do what must be done. So yes, Lorio, I will help you fulfill Islena's wish."

The immortal attempted to conjure a determined smile, but succeeded only in a doleful frown of resignation. "Where is the enchantress?"

"We received word from Metocan that there was an imminent threat to these clay stockpiles that Myrhia has accrued in silos around Nalosan and the surrounding countryside. The Grand Mage's message was vague, but sufficiently worrisome to Myrhia that she departed this morning to inspect the sites personally. She would not elaborate on her concern, but her demeanor made it clear that she was deeply troubled. She strongly advised that I order a general evacuation of the city...which began this morning. She also said that she intended to collect _something_ that was of critical importance to Islena's ascension. Again, she chose not to elaborate."

Lorio greeted this disclosure with a quizzical arching of a tapered eyebrow. There was an aberrant note in this ominous development that invited her to entertain perspectives and possibilities that she had no real desire to examine. Could it be that something had happened between the enchantress and Islena during their journey to Ulgak that had forced Myrhia to undergo a radical metamorphosis? The possibility, with its plethora of unfathomable ramifications, caused Lorio to scowl. To regard Myrhia from a new perspective would force the Lamish immortal to re-evaluate... _everything..._ an exercise that would see her hard won resolve crumbled to dust.

"She is aware that Islena is close?" she heard herself inquire in a wooden voice she scarcely recognized.

"She is," Artumas replied. "Before leaving, Myrhia dispatched a contingent of Morticants to Escort Islena to Nalosan. It is Myrhia's wish to conduct the ritual of ascension the instant that Islena arrives...on the castle ramparts overlooking the harbor where she first arrived what seems like an eternity ago." There was no mistaking the acute pain that colored his tone when he mused, "I suppose there would be a certain _symmetry_ to the flow of events should she meet her end in the very place where her treacherous design first began."

Perhaps Lorio was the only living creature who could empathize with Artumas for being stricken by sorrow over the impending demise of a miscreant who had betrayed him. Rather than focus on that abject truth, Lorio remarked, "The ramparts are exposed and access is limited, which will make it difficult to strike at the critical moment."

The Emercian's answering smile puzzled Lorio, but she permitted him to take her hand and lead her over to the chamber's exterior wall. They stood regarding a laden book case and Lorio fixed Artumas with a puzzled glance tinged with impatience.

With a slight twinge of embarrassment, he nodded toward the case and murmured, "If you would be so kind, dear..."

She grasped his meaning and setting her right shoulder into the heavy piece of furniture, easily pushed it along the floor, while never taking her questioning gaze from the king. He watched her effortlessly move the shelving, a heavy construct that easily weighed as much as three large men, with an expression of open incredulity. When she had displaced it sufficiently, he gestured for her to stop.

Lorio immediately noticed that there was a squared recessed section of paneled wall that had been concealed...deliberately...by the shelf. While a fascinated Lorio looked on, Artumas pushed his fist against the recessed square and in response, a section of false wall swung into a hollow corridor that apparently ran along the length of the exterior wall.

Artumas retrieved a wooden torch from an iron box next to the stone hearth while explaining to an intrigued Lorio, "All castles the size of Kammlogran have false walls, hidden doors, corridors and ladder ways. One of the common traits of rulers the world over, it seems, has always been paranoia. Thus, these concealed escape routes became a standard contingency. This entire massive castle is a myriad of such passageways. Even though I have spent decades living between Kammlogran's massive walls, I would guess that there are dozens I have yet to discover."

"And Myrhia, do you think she knows all of them?" Lorio asked, a query she knew to be redundant before it had even passed her lips.

Artumas met this casually uttered query with a surprisingly bitter frown. "I have heard it said that Myrhia has added a sprawling network of chambers beneath Kammlogran for a host of odious purposes that I have no real desire to contemplate for the time being." He inhaled and shook his head in the way of one banishing malign specters. "For our purposes, the original builders have done us a great service. Come...let me show you."

They plunged into the corridor and though the inadequate, flickering torchlight cast a limited glow over the path ahead. Artumas led the pair unerringly through the convoluted maze. Lorio committed the disconcerting route to memory, wondering obliquely how many ghosts of those who had gotten hopelessly lost in this maze, now haunted these lightless corridors.

Finally, the pair ascended a narrow ladder and arrived at a staging platform that was barely large enough to accommodate the pair. Lorio watched intently as Artumas ran his fingers over the rough, cool stone. There followed a distinct click and then the Emercian slid back a narrow panel to reveal the view of a small sliver of Kammlogran's ramparts.

"It is here that Myrhia intends to conduct the actual ascension ritual. I will do everything in my power to maneuver events so that the ritual can be enacted as close to this specific section as possible.

Lorio frowned in perplexity to which Artumas replied with a knowing grin before leaning his shoulders into the stone, which swung open easily enough despite the grating screech of the rusted hinges. He stepped out onto the deserted ramparts and Lorio followed, grateful to be out of the cloying darkness that had evoked horrifying memories of her time in Perdwick's dungeons. Artumas was regarding her closely. Gravely, he observed, "You'll have only one chance, Lorio...and your window of opportunity will be dauntingly slim. Are you certain you wish to take this risk? Once Myrhia has been...neutralized, we can confront the problem of Islena Doraux together."

The Lamish beauty looked out over the Bay of Imerlac where the roiling storm had given way to a luminous silver fog that spanned the entire northern horizon. Her dark eyes had become glazed with grim fatalism that tore at the aging Emercian's heart. "I made a vow to Islena...my Islena...that I would see her free of the monstrous thing she is becoming. It is a vow I intend to honor or die in the attempt."

Seeing that no argument could compel her to desist, Artumas nodded dolefully. "Myrhia will not return until tomorrow. You will stay in my chambers and rest tonight. If the fates are amenable, this nightmare will see its end by this time tomorrow."

Unexpectedly, she reached out and laid the palm of her right hand along the angle of his jaw. "I know this is naught but the musing of an ingenuous little girl...and I have long since lost my innocence, if I ever truly possessed such a thing. Still, I confess, in the time that I have known you, I have often wondered what my life might have been like...had you been my father."

This capricious declaration touched Artumas deeply and for a protracted moment, he simply could not speak. When he judged that he could keep the quaver from his voice, he returned thickly, "Lorio, I would have been proud beyond all measure to call you daughter."

She glanced out at the static wall of pearlescent mist and Artumas could see the yearning in those lovely, expressive eyes that had witnessed more pain that any young woman should have to endure in a score of lifetimes. In that moment of vulnerability, the king was afforded a glimpse of the wistful woman she might have been had fate been a kinder force. "Recently, while I sprinted across the continent, as if to flee my personal demons, it occurred to me that, during my entire time growing up, wandering aimlessly through the countries of the eastern continent like a stray dog, I never had a childhood dream...no thought for the future or the life I would like to live when I became an adult. I see that to live without a dream...however modest...is to deny life any meaningful context...to do nothing more than simply exist. Islena and Myrhia have unwittingly conspired to give me eternal life, but if eternity is ever to be anything more than a curse, I have to find a dream to give it purpose."

Artumas gently squeezed her shoulder, feeling an overwhelming affection for this beautiful, tormented soul, who was intimately familiar with pain, but knew virtually nothing of joy. "Lorio, should tomorrow see a favorable resolution to this dark drama, I want Kammlogran to become your home. This world has suffered a grievous wound and it will require my unflagging energy to help it heal. Though you, of all people, owe this wretched world nothing, I would be eternally in your debt if you would aid me in the effort."

Lorio met this entreaty with a sour grimace, suspecting that he was extending a gesture of sympathy. Yet, gazing into his earnest eyes, she could discern only a sincerely given wish that he would enlist her to his cause. Not knowing what meaningful contribution she could make to his great design for the battered world's reconstruction, Lorio nonetheless nodded her agreement.

"Will you come back to my chamber...dine and rest tonight?" he asked hopefully.

Lorio declined with a fey smile. "I need time alone to prepare...to muster every bit of mettle I have left if I'm to have any hope of keeping my promise to Islena."

The king accepted this with a sorrowful nod and watched as Lorio receded into the impenetrable shadows.

"I'll see you in the light, daughter," Artumas intoned fondly and then Lorio slid the panel back into place. The Emercian king spared one final glance at the disturbing curtain of mist over the bay, before trudging warily back to the solitude of his chambers.

5

The day that would see history's greatest drama come to a resounding end dawned in an utterly banal fashion. A light breeze listlessly pushed clusters of benign clouds through an otherwise light blue sky that appeared strangely washed out.

There was nothing to herald the climactic moment of blood-stained conflict that had raged across the ages, leaving indelible scars on every history it touched.

Except...if one was especially perceptive, they would have taken notice of two _peculiarities_ that could only be construed as harbingers of something profound to come.

The streets of Nalosan were deserted, the footfalls of the few patrolling soldiers echoing hollow and ghostly along the otherwise empty streets. The few citizens who had stubbornly refused to heed the previous day's evacuation order remained cloistered in their homes...waiting for this nebulous potential calamity to be resolved.

Small groups of soldiers had been assigned with the task of preventing opportunists from looting the deserted homes and shops. These soldiers cast nervous glances at the pooled shadows that filled the narrow alleys and passages between buildings.

The other aberration that a keen observer might have registered was the sprawling curtain of eerie silver mist that spanned the northern horizon. It had pressed in upon the harbor and stretched across the Bay of Imerlac like a shroud and it was not an implausible progression of thought to conclude that it had been raised to conceal the approach of something...wicked.

Though, on first cursory glance, it was an easy matter to conclude that this was but another in a succession of ordinary days in the ancient capital...it would not be long before a newly arrived traveler would become attuned to the cloying aura of expectation that hovered over the city.

6

The realities held their collective breath as the fraught moment drew itself out...and suddenly time resumed its inexorable march. Like eternal rivers flowing toward a point of confluence, the three apexes of fate's triangle of conflict came together...one final time.

Artumas was alone in his chambers when a bell began to toll...its clamorous ring proclaiming that Myrhia had returned to the city. A short time later, a second bell added to the tumult...this one announcing that someone of consequence was about to enter the city through the west gate.

That someone could only be the Daughter of the Tempest...the deity in waiting, Islena Doraux.

He drew a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. As he straightened his tunic, a pervasive calm descended on the newly-crowned king, suffusing him with a total serenity. The festering discord that had characterized his every existence was about to be laid to rest. Like a man approaching a long and arduous journey...with no clear conception of what his eventual destination might hold, Artumas' only emotion was one of intense relief.

He retrieved the wrapped Dragonsword from the locked chest at the foot of his bed. Myrhia had consigned it to his keeping not long after their departure from Othgol, laying it in his hands as if divesting herself of something ineffably foul.

Surveying his chambers and thinking of Lorio, alone and poised in the darkness like a living engine of judgment, Artumas went forth to play his role in Islena's grand moment of ascension.

7

Myrhia rode through the south gate, accompanied by a score of Morticants. Attired in her ebony armor that seemed rather bare without the emerald and gold intaglio that had come to symbolize her reign of terror, she still struck a regal figure. Her exquisite countenance was impassive as she guided her intimidating charger through the deserted streets. She held her chin deliberately high and her great dark eyes stared fixedly forward. Yet, behind this mantle of aloof inscrutability, there raged a tempest of anxiety the likes of which the Mother of Iniquity had never experienced through her long, tumultuous experience.

Never one to harbor delusions, Myrhia had come to glean that her envisioned campaign of penance was an absurd fantasy that even Artumas, the incorrigible dreamer, could not cling to when confronted by the immutable truth.

' _And where precisely does this leave us?'_ Morgana demanded peevishly. She had suddenly become assertive in the wake of Myrhia's deepening lassitude. The question was certainly valid and when Myrhia could muster the courage to attempt to envision her future, her effort yielded a frustrating blank. When it became evident that the enchantress could provide no response, the spider lapsed into a sullen silence.

The peel of bells drew Myrhia from her morose reverie and she shifted her gaze to the west. The Daughter's proximity was a palpable thing on the periphery of her awareness. It informed Myrhia that the woman approaching had been radically transformed from the devious entity with whom she had parted ways in Othgol.

Myrhia, for whom the notion of subservience or the surrendering of her indomitable will to forge her own path was anathema, suddenly saw that her tenacity would avail her nothing. Whatever leverage she believed she possessed over the flow of events had proven false. She was shocked and disgusted to find that she was precisely in the same position as the peasant woman whose one frail hope she had obliterated on the road through Kornas.

Myrhia, Mother of Iniquity, was now being pulled along by a tide of events over which she could exert not even the slightest influence.

' _In the end, this is what it means to be a victim,'_ Artumas observed mildly, evoking a bitter groan from the enchantress. The one contingency for which she had made no provision was the possibility that she would find herself utterly helpless and vulnerable when the arc of her epic life finally reached its end.

On impulse, she withdrew a gleaming onyx dirk from her belt and studied her reflection in the polished blade.

' _Surrender yourself to its lethal kiss and the hope that our next incarnation will awaken in more...amenable circumstances. Join your past incarnations in our gallery of failure.'_ Morgana taunted and the enchantress was shocked to discover just how tempting the inducement of self-immolation was. She had actually raised the blade to her throat, when a small, sleep-addled voice from behind her called blearily, "Auntie...are we almost there?"

The blade froze and then her arm dropped and it became apparent that suicide was a cold mercy to which she would be granted no recourse.

Allan, Islena Doraux's beautiful, innocent son, clung to her, his face pressed into the black plush cape she wore. He was to have been her inducement...the leverage by which a goddess would be made biddable. Now, Myrhia discerned how ridiculously flimsy...how foolishly ill-conceived this scheme had been. That she would ever be so obtuse as to believe that the love of one child could actually constrain a deity declared that she was deserving of the humiliating defeat that she was about to suffer.

"Don't fret, my little magician," she cooed reassuringly. "You're going to see your mother." A slight arcane emanation ushered the trusting child back into a contented doze.

Resigned to her moment of ultimate failure, Myrhia simply let her dirk clatter to the cobbles and continued on to Kammlogran.

8

Islena Doraux's odyssey assumed sacred overtones from the instant she had approached the first Natzurdan settlement. Perhaps intuiting her true nature...and the carpet of fresh, redolent blooms that suddenly germinated in her wake was a clear sign of divinity...the Natzurdan broke from their labor and came to kneel before her.

When she would come upon swathes of land that had withered under the touch of malice, Islena would employ the power of Symyrasil to heal the decayed fabric of the Mother's tapestry.

With each act of regeneration, Islena's renown grew. By the time she reached the causeway that led to the Eastern Continent, she had accrued a multitude of adoring Natzurdan trailing in her wake.

As she had crossed the causeway, she could see a sorrowful shadow of reluctance on every face. It was apparent that they viewed her departure into _the dissolute world_ with no small degree of apprehension.

' _Well, you've always craved adulation, Izzy,'_ she told herself with a wry grin, though the reference to her old life seemed entirely incongruent with the entity she had become.

A Jerhia escort of scouts awaited Islena on the Eastern Continent. In their midst was a man who wore a hooded tunic and never once, during the course of their trek along the Great Southern Trading Road, did he ever reveal his face. Still, Islena was cognizant of his constant scrutiny...just as she had correctly guessed his identity. The concealed figure exuded an aura of humble nobility that could only belong to one man.

His presence served as a barometer for the profundity of the sweeping changes that had reconfigured Islena's psyche since coming into the possession of Symyrasil. Whereas the creature who had departed Othgol would have derived great pleasure in dissecting the man who had tampered with _her_ Lorio, Islena viewed things from a far gentler perspective. With a sense of selfless clarity bestowed upon her by the grace of Symyrasil, Islena regarded Esuruban as a compassionate offering for the many grievous injustices she had committed against the beautiful, damaged immortal.

She was admittedly surprised by the reception she garnered when traversing the trade road. People would throng the cobbled roadway, regarding her in silent awe and reverence. She, in turn, had rewarded their patient acceptance by turning fallow fields to ripened crops awaiting harvest...a boon for people whose future had held only the prospect of starvation.

While she made her way toward her rendezvous with destiny, Islena was flummoxed to find that the gnawing sense of exigency that had plagued her incessantly since first coming to this world...had now given way to a patient calm. Serenity was the one emotion that had forever been beyond the Daughter of the Tempest's capacity to experience.

The tempestuous flux that had characterized her nature since the very dawn of time had fallen quiescent. She fervently hoped that, by embracing the Natzurdan Goddess' sage advice, it would remain this way eternally.

On the day that Islena finally reached Nalosan, she was greeted by a milling multitude of displaced citizens and a large contingent of Jerhia and Emercian soldiers. In the background, stretched out along the base of the city walls, Myrhia's Morticants stood like unmoving sentinels. Islena frowned at the sight of these intimidating, unnatural creatures. In the context of her new sensibilities, their very existence was a perversion of the natural order.

Some instinct prompted her to turn her incisive gaze on the mass of humanity that lined the main approach to the western gate. Mounted on a dappled stallion, next to a grim-faced man in the regalia of a Jerhia Tier Marshal, sat Arminda. Visage impassive and similarly attired in the uniform of a Tier Marshal, the pretty, diminutive blond looked as if she'd been born to the role.

Recalling how she had cruelly abused the courageous Jerhia on the occasion of their last meeting, Islena was assailed by a sharp stab of guilt. She raised her right hand and offered the young woman a radiant smile.

' _May it be that your life has known the last of sorrow, Arminda,'_ she thought and projected the heartfelt sentiment toward the intrepid woman, who she regarded as a living symbol of hope for this troubled world's future.

Arminda's angular face twisted in a comical expression of surprise as the sentiment bloomed in her mind. At last, she raised her own right hand and returned Islena's smile.

Islena then turned to the female leader of her Jerhia escort and informed Sybian, "I thank you for your service, but I must go the rest of the way alone."

Sybian nodded and offered the wondrous creature, in whom she sensed only grace and benevolence, a formal bow of respect.

Islena was about to turn away, but an impulse compelled her to seek out the hooded member of her escort. The figure stiffened as she approached, as did the compliment of Jerhia scouts, all of whom had heard the deeply romantic tale of Lorio and the Emercian Captain.

Islena raised a hand in a gesture of placation. "Be still...I mean you no harm."

His posture relaxed as she stood before him and in one fluid movement, she drew back his hood. A moment of perfect empathy passed between the eerily beautiful pair and both recognized that they shared the same selfless love for the immortal Lorio.

"In your heart, I discern an all too rare humility and compassion, Esuruban," Islena observed admiringly...understanding how the vulnerable Lorio could be drawn to this handsome soldier. "When this is done, Lorio will require a gentle spirit to offer her comfort. I am genuinely grateful that she has found you."

Fearing that her brittle resolve would shatter, Islena turned and strode briskly away. The Emercian army had ushered the evacuated population well away from the city walls. Islena walked the last five hundred yards of her incredible journey in solitude, which seemed appropriate as fate now required that she divorce herself from every attachment she had ever developed.

She came to the open gate, where a row of Morticants stretched along the entire west wall of the city.

She swept her gaze along the row of hulking behemoths as a moue of revulsion twisted her lovely features into something hard and intractable. In the tone of frost on gravestones, she rasped, "Mine is the power of genesis and extinction...and your foul presence is an affront I will not suffer!"

Gripping the upper end of Symyrasil in two hands and raising it up, she hesitated momentarily before driving the opposite end into the trampled grass next to the roadway.

The affect was instantaneous and stunning. The entire line of massive golems stiffened as if simultaneously stricken by paralysis. In the blink of an eye, the abominations all appeared to implode as though their vital essence was rapidly being leeched into the ground beneath their feet. The once invincible Morticants fell to desiccated husks with a swiftness that mocked comprehension, until all that remained of Myrhia's infernal engines of conquest were mounds of bone dry blue powder.

Islena waved her right arm about her head in an elaborate gesture of evocation. Along the base of the wall arose a scouring gust of wind that swept up the detritus of Myrhia's vile sorcery and scattered it to the heavens.

A dumbfounded silence descended upon the mass of onlookers and then a deafening wall of frenzied applause erupted, rolling over the open expanses like thunder.

Without glancing back to acknowledge this euphoric tribute, Islena passed through the gate and into the city.

Chapter Fifty-Two

1

Artumas was staring out at the abstrusely disturbing pearlescent mist, not far from where Lorio lay in wait to deliver emancipation to her beloved Islena. He could feel that the moment of culmination was close at hand now...in the marrow of his bones and his viscera.

A lilting shift in the eddying breeze over the rampart informed the Emercian King that he was no longer alone. He turned to find Myrhia regarding him intently and as always, he was smitten by the immensity of her imposing beauty. Today, however, that scintillating pulchritude was dampened by the shadow of grim resignation that sat across her brow like a dark cloud.

To his surprise, the enchantress was accompanied by a small boy, whom she led by the hand in a maternally protective way of which he would not have thought her capable. He correctly surmised that this was Islena's abducted son and snapped, "Why would you ever bring a child into this situation...needlessly expose him to this peril?"

Myrhia glared balefully at Artumas' uncharacteristically curt tone. "His return is part of the accord I have forged with Islena. As for imminent peril...there is none to be had in our daughter's ascension...unless there is some manner of subterfuge in the works. If so...it will not come by my hand."

She came closer and Artumas required only one glance at the child, who was clearly terrified, to know that he regarded Myrhia as a source of comfort and protection.

She guided the child over to where the bemused king stood, absently caressing the boy's shoulder as she did. She searched Artumas' face with an unsettlingly frank gaze of appraisal. Flatly, she declared, "You have no intention of honoring the accord we reached that final night in Othgol."

When Artumas could conjure no appropriate response, Myrhia demanded truculently, "So where exactly does this leave us?"

Artumas groped for a possible reply, one that would not alert the hyper-perceptive enchantress to the cruel fate that was poised to descend upon her like the fall of a guillotine.

Her penetrating gaze suddenly went vacant and her full mouth contorted into a perfect circle of shock and horror. Her face then puckered into a decidedly grotesque mask of silver agony and she collapsed to her knees.

While a transfixed Artumas gazed on helplessly, Myrhia clutched the sides of her head and loosed a wail like an impaled animal. Her high-pitched keening rose over the ramparts in sharp counterpoint to the tumult of clearly euphoric voices that resounded from somewhere to the west.

"My Morticants...she's destroyed my Morticants!" the clearly devastated enchantress wailed while clutching her skull as if she feared it might explode from some inconceivable internal pressure. Still Artumas could not propel himself forward to offer some form of comfort. He stood riveted in place while Islena's son threw his small arms around her shoulder and pleaded for her to stop crying.

' _The Morticants...destroyed?'_ This single thought resonated in his frantic mind, but while it should have suffused him with elation, Artumas found that he was strangely ambivalent in the face of Myrhia's abject torment.

In next instant, an indistinct figure rocketed over the southern ramparts like a comet streaking through the firmament. Artumas tore his gaze away from the oddly transfixing spectacle of Myrhia's plight to find Islena Doraux hovering in the air, holding a highly polished, slender black staff in her right hand.

From his perspective, Islena was indeed the living quintessence of the deity she was poised to become. Her long red hair flowed over her shoulders and down her broad back in a cascade of shimmering fire. It framed a face that was breathtaking and yet...there was an inaccessible aspect to her expression that the Emercian King could not decipher.

"Don't fret Myrhia...you have no further need of your monstrosities. They've delivered you to the moment you needed to come to," Islena announced, descending to the ramparts with her fantastical robe billowing about her. Artumas was mesmerized by the hypnotic flow of the red and green tendrils as they wound their way through the diaphanous fabric of her garment...like living things moving in accordance with a precise pattern only they could discern.

Islena's first glance at the beautiful child, who was regarding her with saucer-eyed wonder while clinging tenaciously to the woman who had abducted him, was a powerful affirmation of her burgeoning suspicion.

Looking at this handsome boy to whom she had given birth, Islena was forced to confront the unadorned truth; she could feel none of the irreducible bond that a mother should feel for her offspring. With this realization, all routes back to the life...to the world in which that life had been lived...evaporated like moisture before the remorseless light of brutally honest introspection.

She came to ground and moved directly over to Myrhia, who mustered the fortitude necessary to rise and confront the woman which she had come to suspect would be her bane. That furtive, unpredictable glint had dissipated, supplanted by an unflappable serenity that was no less daunting to behold. Suddenly Allan broke away from the enchantress and flinging his arms around Islena's tight hips, pressed his face into her taut abdomen and exclaimed, "Mommy!"

He fell to sobbing then and Islena could feel something start to hammer at the fabric of her resolve. It occurred to her then that she had forgotten something critically important...some pivotal element concerning this helpless child who had been cruelly conscripted into Myrhia's machinations. Yet, fearing that his weeping would cause her rapier focus to disintegrate and her carefully contrived scheme to unravel, Islena gently grasped his narrow shoulders and unleashed a carefully measured enchantment that drew the agitated child into a state of placid disconnection. She then disengaged herself from the boy and gently ushered him over to Myrhia, informing a mystified enchantress, "When the ritual of ascension is complete, we will return him to his father."

She then retreated several paces as if fearing that mere proximity to the child could induce her catastrophic demise. Her gaze shifted between Artumas and Myrhia and she observed, "So we come together for what I suspect will be the final occasion. Yet, this is truly an unprecedented moment because we all come to this juncture without the distorting influence of fate's perverse enchantment. After all we have endured and all of the incalculable misery we've inflicted upon the worlds whose histories we've corrupted...at last, we will soon be free!"

The three fell silent for a short space of time, each reflecting on the salient truth of their liberation from fate's obscene design. After a time, Islena set her regard directly upon Myrhia and with a hint of irony, demanded, "Very well, Mother...how do we complete this ritual and bring this stale drama to an end? Artumas has a world to rebuild and you and I must find our place in the grand scheme of things."

Myrhia, who had been thoroughly nonplused by Islena's perfunctory dismissal of her own son, took Allan's hand and ushered him behind her...as if shielding him from the unfathomable entity.

' _Perhaps you cling to the child as a way of clinging to the delusions that have come to symbolize your misguided hubris. This ill-designed scheme to coerce this deity is irrefutable proof that you are still enslaved by your self-destructive nature,'_ Morgana whispered and this disturbing thought caused the fiercely proud enchantress to shudder.

Grateful to be back on familiar ground, Myrhia began to elaborate on the mechanics of the ritual of ascension to follow. "The ancient prophecies were abnormally succinct when it came to this facet of the ascension. The contention has always been that the accrued powers of the three icons, once combined, will yield a power far greater than the sum of the individual parts. The last aspect of your ascension...its culmination...is the intermingling of these three distinct bodies of knowledge. The fusion will yield infinite permutations of power without precedent or parallel in all of recorded history. When this process is complete, you will be transmogrified into a deity without equal...not a god...but _the_ god."

Islena absorbed this grandiose pronouncement thoughtfully before shifting her gaze to Artumas. "And what if I was to reject this fate-accursed endorsement of godhood and simply walk away from this final apotheosis? I have, after all, the power to raise and destroy worlds already. That should be more than sufficient credentials to lay claim to the mantle of deity."

Artumas looked briefly to Myrhia who was watching the confounding Doraux the way a drowning woman might regard a life preserver. Suddenly possessed by a certitude to which he could reasonably lay no claim, Artumas opined, "If, as Myrhia has suggested, your ascension to this state of penultimate deification is the culmination of our blood-spattered eternal drama...fate's denouement...then I doubt that simply walking away is a viable option."

Islena's only reaction to this theory was a scarcely perceptible nod. As if to substantiate his contention, the Dragonsword lifted into the air and floated toward a clearly unsettled Islena, but came to rest some ten paces from where she stood. It hovered horizontally in the air, providing the impression that it might be resting in an invisible display case. The rubies on the icon's haft blazed into pulsing life...the rhythm of their pulsing growing more frenetic with each passing second.

"Your ascension...it has begun!" Myrhia cried, her voice taut with awe-inspired dread and indeed the moment seemed to have gained its own momentum.

Symyrasil followed suit, breaking free of a startled Islena's grasp, before assuming a floating position similar to the suspended Dragonsword, with one end tilted toward the tip of the Jerhia blade. The relative position of the two icons gave the impression of having formed two sides of an equilateral triangle with the tips of the two icons forming the apex.

While Artumas and Myrhia stared helplessly in stupefied wonder, the intertwined tendrils of red and green light that had slithered through Doraux's robe, abruptly broke free of the diaphanous fabric. They writhed and twisted through the air, before wrapping the hovering Symyrasil in their embrace. The tendrils, which represented the icon's facets of world shaping power, began to radiate an intense light that bathed the upper ramparts in alternating waves of eerie effulgence. The tendrils continued to wind their way around Symyrasil, their movements becoming more intricate...more frantically animated.

Islena uttered a shrill cry...not one of alarm, but rather enthralled amazement...as she was suddenly lifted from her feet. She actually threw back her head and laughed in sheer delight while invisible hands ushered her into position to serve as the base of this esoteric triangle. Between her full breasts, the Metocan orb exploded into life and the intensity of its argent glare caused both Artumas and Myrhia to shield their eyes with raised forearms. With an absent care, Myrhia encircled Allan's shoulders and drew him tighter against her hip, pressing his face into her flat stomach.

Without warning, the three hovering icons began to spin into a dizzying dervish, sweeping Islena up in their mad dance of integrating powers. A sonorous whine tore the air like a scythe and from somewhere within the blur of movement, Islena bellowed an inarticulate, guttural expression of what sounded like unconstrained ecstasy. The pace of this senses-frazzling gyre accelerated until it became impossible to distinguish any of its individual components from the woman whom they would elevate to the pinnacle of omnipotence.

Within this maelstrom of ascension, Islena became the receptacle for the three rivers of arcane knowledge and power. Her powerful body became the point of confluence where these three malleable forces were alloyed and forged into an amalgam of power that had never previously existed anywhere in creation.

Nalosan and the Bay of Imerlac were washed by radial waves of argent, vermillion, red and green. From somewhere within the crucible of ascension, a voice, fraught with undeniable authority, commanded, "Mother...come and share your daughter's moment of deification."

The enchantress loosed a horrified howl of negation and attempted to raise a protective ward, but as vast and formidable as her powers were, they proved miniscule and utterly unavailing before the unfathomable puissance that snapped the enchantress up in its invisible net.

As she released Allan's small hand, thoughts of the soul forge that bound her to the small boy flashed through her mind like a condemnation.

"Artumas!" she screamed, casting a final terrifying glance in his direction. Their gazes locked as she was pulled inexorably towards the vortex. In that last moment of undiluted empathy that passed between the eternal adversaries, Myrhia realized that not only had this insidious trap been premeditated, Artumas had been a willing co-conspirator in seeing it sprung. Knowing that she was entirely deserving of whatever fate she was about to suffer did little to attenuate the pain his participation in her demise roused in her black heart. Her glare of bitter recrimination gave way to grim resignation and she went, unresisting, into the multi-hued pyre.

Artumas watched her vanish and though he had managed to repress the maddening urge to intervene or be drawn into the raging storm along with her...the Champion of Light felt eviscerated by his great moment of triumph.

The storm raged and seethed like a tempest, bathing the heavens in coruscating waves of pure arcane energy...swirls of unconstrained power that threw sheets of crackling lightening across the sky.

Outside the city walls, the milling mass of evacuees were seized by a mindless panic that even the unflappable Jerhia cavalry was powerless to quell. People fled blindly to the west, leaving a field of broken and bleeding bodies in their wake.

On the ramparts, the rotation of the dervish began to slow and through the rapidly spinning bands of arcane energy, Artumas was shocked to see that Islena held Myrhia in her arms. From his perspective, it appeared that the two women were locked in an ardent kiss. Myrhia's back was arched and her arms dangled limply at her sides, while Islena loomed over the diminutive beauty with a powerful arm locked around her tiny waist.

Seeing Myrhia helpless and unresisting in Islena's grasp evoked a tortured moan from the aging king...whose dreams would be haunted by this harrowing image until the day he died.

Light began to extrude through Myrhia's glazed eyeballs, her ears and around the compressed edges of her mouth. Artumas feared that he would be forced to endure the gruesome spectacle of seeing her erupt into a living torch. Instead, the light swiftly guttered and vanished. Islena released Myrhia with a satisfied grin and it required only one glance to see that the enchantress had been vitiated.

While Islena spread her arms and drifted away, the inured Myrhia settled slowly to the stone ramparts...her delicate features set in what would become a perpetual expression of incredulity. Shivering with revulsion and self-loathing, Artumas forced himself to confront the living piece of statuary in which Myrhia's living spirit would remain forever entombed. He was mortified when he saw that a single tear had also been turned to stone as it had tracked its way over a prominent cheekbone.

Above the devastated king, Islena raised her muscular arms, arched her back and bellowed in celebration of her moment of victory. Then she was enveloped in a cocoon of incessantly shifting light as the ritual of ascension resumed and hurtled toward its conclusion.

At that precise moment, the entire Bay of Imerlac appeared to convulse, throwing a swiftly rising wall of water at Nalosan's harbor and the massive walls of Kammlogran beyond.

2

A single vessel, guided by the power of one fanatically determined woman's mind, negotiated the relatively calm waters of the bay. Though Sygeanor's attention appeared riveted on the spectacular light show that illuminated the skies above the sprawling black castle, she was peripherally aware of the rapidly encroaching fog bank on the starboard side of her vessel.

When she judged that her ship had reached a position immediately abreast of Nalosan's distant harbor, Sygeanor curtailed her massive output of telekinetic energy. The ships westward momentum slowed and was arrested completely when the half-Ulgak rapidly trimmed the sails and let the vessel's anchor drop...all without having taken a single step from her position at the helm.

Nonetheless, the incredible feat of guiding the ship single-handedly had extracted a punishing toll upon the gifted Sygeanor. She appeared haggard to the point of gaunt infirmity as she left the helm and staggered drunkenly across the deck. Stumbling down the slick stairs, she managed to make it across the mid-deck, where her precious cargo awaited its moment of earth-shattering awakening.

The simple exertion of telekinetically prying the lids from the crates...normally as effortless as blinking...caused Sygeanor's head to spin wildly. She was forced to clutch the rim of the crate to remain vertical. When this moment of extreme weakness had passed, Sygeanor inhaled deeply and plunged her arms into the sopping blue clay up to the elbows. Closing her eyes, she conjured an image of the village of her birth, against which she mentally juxtaposed the heartrending image of a windswept ghost town.

Fury, raw and visceral, exploded in her dark heart and she roared, "In the name of Bastronen!"

The world seemed to explode in an eyeball-searing eruption of iridescent sapphire light. Still, Nalosan would never know how incredibly fortunate it was that day or the debt of profound gratitude it owed for its salvation. The Sisters of Esotaria had devised a clever impediment in the form of a monstrous storm. Circumventing that storm had forced Sygeanor to expend massive amounts of telekinetic energy over a protracted period, leaving her powers dramatically reduced.

The large quantity of arcane amplifier increased what little power the half-Ulgak had left geometrically. It raised the seas into a thirty foot wall and sent it surging across the bay like the gargantuan fist of a god.

Still, had Sygeanor been able to access the full spectrum of her telekinetic gift and convey it through the amplifying lens of the Redian clay...Nalosan would have been reduced to smoldering rubble. After unleashing her watery juggernaut, Sygeanor sagged to her knees and leaned her face against the slick wood, trying to gather herself sufficiently to hurl another wave at the city that had come to symbolize her infinite hatred.

In her distracted state, she failed to notice the sleek black ship that had materialized out of the mist.

The solid wall of water slammed into the harbor, effortlessly rolling up the network of jutting docks like cheap rugs. The moored ships, both merchant and naval, were snatched up like children's toys and dashed to kindling against Kammlogran's thirty foot thick walls.

The concussion of the impact shook the ancient castle to its very foundations. Not far from where Lorio was sequestered, a long section of crenellated battlements sloughed off and slid into the churning water. When the wave receded, the demolished harbor was awash with the flotsam, both human and inanimate, of Sygeanor's opening salvo. Seeing the total destruction of Nalosan's harbor caused Sygeanor to howl in delight and she again plunged her arms into the clay. Again, the sapphire light coalesced, though noticeably duller than on the first assault. Sygeanor grimaced in displeasure and delved deeper into her depleted reserve, but before she could unleash her second assault, a curtain of golden effulgence fell out of the heavens, truncating her power with the ruthless efficiency of a guillotine blade.

Sygeanor's arcane outpouring collided with the curtain and rebounded back on the caster, plunging her into spastic unconsciousness.

The Ascentrix floated over the ship's railing and came lightly to ground next to the unmoving half-Ulgak. Lissom peered down upon her loathsome nemesis, her child's countenance somber, but otherwise inscrutable.

When the Matrium appeared at her side, the Ascentrix instructed, "Remove these crates to our hold and then load this ignoble miscreant into a lifeboat. Cast a warding spell to insure that the boat doesn't capsize and set her adrift in the direction of the western shore of the bay."

"She is to go unpunished for her obscene slaughter of Naryima?" Karosyn inquired softly.

Lissom's face congealed into a sour frown and she retorted coldly, "This wretch had a significant role to play in this world's future, but I vow before Gyzarayne...she will fall under my hand again and there, she will find no mercy. As for Naryima, her sly, deceitful nature garnered her precisely the fate she deserved."

Karosyn, for whom such obdurate pragmatism was unfathomable, merely nodded distantly. "And these events in Nalosan...are we under no obligation to intervene?"

Lissom flashed her Matrium a disturbingly predacious grin and disclosed, "Our problem there has been dealt with...emphatically. What transpires beyond that concern is part of a weave over which we have no influence. Let us prepare to return home."

With this she strode purposefully away. Karosyn swept the ruined harbor with one sorrowful glance and then moved to follow her enigmatic mistress.

3

Lorio watched events unfold on the ramparts, focusing her emotional energy on repressing the frivolous feelings that would deter her from her lethal purpose if she gave them audience. Still, she was suffused by a rush of euphoria when a clearly terrified Myrhia was unceremoniously sucked into Islena's vortex. That euphoria grew exponentially when a clearly vitiated enchantress floated back down to the ramparts...her flesh now a prison of stone.

Mere seconds later, Kammlogran was broadsided by a mammoth force that pitched Lorio face-first into the unyielding stone door. Stunned, she rebounded along the staging and very nearly tumbled down the ladder way. She shook her head as a guttural rumble issued from somewhere deep in the bowels of the castle.

Instinct frantically informed her that her opportunity to abort Islena's ascension could well be slipping away. Banishing all thought, she surrendered completely to the exigent need for decisive action...which exhorted Lorio to delay not a second further.

Throwing her shoulder into the door, she burst from her place of concealment, drawing her Zarcyk as she did.

She spared a quick glance at Artumas, who was sprawled dazedly on the ramparts, atop a small boy. Then she was past the pair and sprinting toward the swirling ball of arcane energy that enveloped Islena. Doraux's back was turned to her would-be assassin. Some protective instinct must have warned the aspiring goddess of her assailant's approach because her green-eyed regard snapped to meet Lorio's charge.

Face contorted into a mad snarl of vindication, Lorio drew back her Zarcyk...

Author's Interjection

Dear Reader: I've never been one for adhering to convention and as we come to the very end of Islena Doraux's long journey, I find myself staring down two diverging roads...with no clear idea which I should follow.

Then, like an epiphany, it came to me...why decide?

**When I first set out to write this last segment of Islena's tale, the title that bloomed in my mind was...** _A Fallible Goddess and the Enduring Sorrow._ **Though I couldn't say precisely why at the time, this title seemed perfectly suited to the tale I intended to tell.**

As the story unfurled, over the course of the next two and a half years, the implications of this title became vividly clear in my mind...suggesting the possibility of two very distinct endings. The closer I came to writing the conclusion, the more ambivalent I became over which would better suit the series.

In the end, it occurred to me that the faithful readers of this series should be afforded the opportunity to traverse both roads and draw their own conclusion as to which was the more fitting denouement to Islena Doraux's epic journey.

**With this realization in mind, I give you the** _Enduring Sorrow_ **ending...followed by** _A Fallible Goddess_ **alternate ending.**

I apologize for the intrusion...back to the business at hand.

Chapter Fifty-Three

1

**The Enduring Sorrow:** Face contorted into a mad snarl of vindication, Lorio drew back her Zarcyk and with one eerily precise thrust, buried her sacred soul blade in Islena's taut abdomen...just beneath the left side of Doraux's breast bone. This upward thrust, when combined with the momentum of her strike, buried the Zarcyk to its hilt. Lorio fixed the shocked Islena with a hideous grin and recalling the conclusion of their savage battle on Othgol's plaza, gave the blade a petulant twist. She then wrenched it free, crying out in revulsion when hot blood spattered her up-turned face.

She then stumbled backward and collapsed onto her bottom, the Zarcyk slipping from her fingers as the full weight of what she had just done exploded in her consciousness.

Islena threw back her head and bellowed a silver-throated cry of agony. Around her, the swirling bands of light guttered and died and the Dragonsword and Symyrasil clattered to the stone. The Orb of Metocan was violently extruded from Islena's chest along with a shockingly copious fan of blood that spattered the ramparts at Islena's feet. Astoundingly, the orb did not shatter upon impact with the stone, but rolled away in a fashion that seemed oddly...apologetic.

Islena pitched forward and landed on her face with a meaty thud that caused Lorio to burst into tears. Watching through the distorting filter of grief, Lorio witnessed Islena's muscular body spasm violently and then go utterly still. After a moment, the diaphanous robe faded to nothingness and to Lorio's absolute incredulity, Islena's body was clad in the same silver shiny material that she had been wearing when they had first crossed paths in Kornas. On her feet were the odd shoes that Islena had worn during their bloody contest of staves.

Lorio began to crawl across the stone on her hands and knees, seeing Islena through the kaleidoscope of her hot tears.

Artumas had risen to his feet. Compelled by an instinct he neither understood, nor saw fit to question, the Emercian hurried around the ramparts collecting the three icons that had now fallen completely dormant. When he had gathered up the three, Artumas hurried over to the particular crenellation where Lorio had lain in what for Islena. With an involuntary shudder of aversion, he unceremoniously tossed the three down into the darkness of the ladder way. Only on later contemplation did Artumas come to suspect that, on a viscera level at least, he had an inkling of what was about to transpire and wanted to remove these three odious elements of temptation from the equation.

The tight fabric of Islena's spandex body suit clung obscenely to every nuance of her muscular body. Sobbing unabashedly, Lorio extended a trembling hand and tentatively laid it on Islena's left shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Islena...I...I did what you asked me to...but I wish I hadn't."

Islena's body convulsed again and she drew in a great gulp of air like a swimmer emerging from a deep dive that had tested the limits of their endurance. Her back arched and her generous mouth formed a perfect circle. She then emitted a harrowing wail...though to signify what particular emotion, it was impossible to discern.

Lorio cried out...first in stunned astonishment and then in soaring elation. "Islena!"

Those beguilingly lovely eyes had been vacant, but when they settled on Lorio's face, recognition filtered in and she stammered, "Lorio...what...what's happened?"

Ignoring this confused entreaty, Lorio swept Islena into her arms and began to lavish kisses on Doraux's face and neck while letting her fingers roam the topography of Islena's body as if seeking affirmation that she was truly alive. Beneath her lips and fingertips, Lorio knew...with equivocation...that this was _her_ Islena Doraux...purified of corrupting stain of destiny.

Lorio continued to sob in joyous relief as she bestowed ardent kisses on Islena's brow, her eyelids and finally that soft, pliable mouth she so adored. After a life of constant sorrow, fate had finally compensated her with the only thing she had ever truly desired.

Initially, Islena was rigid in Lorio's fervent embrace, but after a moment, she succumbed to Lorio's infectious passion and began to return the immortal's kisses with equal ardor.

Artumas watched the two women, embarrassed by what he perceived as his intrusion upon an intimate moment. He flicked a glance out over the devastated harbor, not particularly surprised to discover that no trace remained of the occluding mist.

' _Can this truly be over?'_ he wondered as his gaze fell on the inured piece of statuary that had only moments ago been the most powerful creature in existence, _'Does she live still...eternally trapped within the confines of her own body...helpless and fully cognizant?'_

He understood that this cruel fate could only yield raving madness and his soul was stricken with pity for a woman for whom the notion of pity was a sign of contemptible weakness.

Both women were weeping and laughing as they held each other. Islena brushed tears from Lorio's cheek and whispered, "Thank you."

Lorio's expression became grave and she laid her heart at Islena's feet, only peripherally aware of the number of occasions when this very woman had trampled it in the past. "I want to sweep all of the bitterness away...all of the ugliness that has passed between us. In the end, even these things carried us to this moment and there is no place I'd rather be. I'm yours, Islena...whatever road you wish to travel, I'll walk it with you."

Islena beamed a radiant smile and was about to draw the immortal into another kiss, when a thin, gurgling sound reached her ears. A frown contorted her features as she twisted about to determine its source.

A small boy lay on the ramparts with his slack face pressed into the damp stone. His eyes were devoid of understanding and his small mouth worked continuously...a weak mewling sound issuing through his cracked lips.

"Allan!" This piercing cry rose from the horrified Doraux, spiraling up into the listless blue sky a banshee's wail of despair. She absently threw a startled Lorio off and scrabbled across the ramparts, her breath coming in anguished gasps.

"Allan!" she repeated and gently scooped the boy into her powerful arms. He peered skyward with absolutely no trace of cognizance in his vacuous gaze.

' _Soul forge!'_ The two words, offered by Myrhia in a smugly vindictive voice, detonated in Islena's mind, obliterating her composure. The wail of abnegation that burst from her lungs seemed certain to set her ablaze. She began to shake Allan, his head bouncing precariously on the thin stalk of his neck. "Allan...wake up...you listen to your mother now....do you hear me...WAKE UP!"

Lorio rose to her feet, unable to suffer the sight of Islena's unbridled torment, and rushed over to Doraux, who continued to shake the catatonic boy as if he was a rag doll. She gripped Islena's shoulder and pleaded, "Stop, Islena...you're going to hurt him."

Islena's eyes threw open like broken shutters. She let Allan slump to the stone in a boneless sprawl. Rising to her feet, she rounded on Lorio and shrieked, "Don't you dare fucking touch me. You did this, you fucking bitch...all of you did this!" Throwing an arm toward the prone child, she roared, "Look what you've done to my beautiful boy!"

Excoriated by the poisonous belligerence in Islena's hysterical voice, Lorio groped blindly for the other woman. "Please, Islena...stop!"

The clubbing hook took the unprepared Lorio square in the jaw and left her lying flat on her back. Though Immune to the physical impact of the punch, the fragile immortal was eviscerated by the emotional affect of Islena's strident rejection. She stared up into the listless blue skies, her body wracked by convulsive shudders.

Islena sagged to her knees and again swept Allan up in her arms. When her eyes registered the dark wet spot that had spread over the front of his filthy jeans and realized that he had wet himself, Islena Doraux laid back her head and began to keen like a wounded animal. To a dismal Artumas, it seemed that the very stones of Kammlogran reverberated with her grief.

Stricken by the tableau of despair arrayed before him, Artumas surveyed the detritus of these thoroughly ruined lives with bewildered consternation.

' _Can this truly be how the face of a favorable resolution should appear after all of the misery and spilt blood that was required to carry us to this sad juncture?'_ Artumas wondered as he watched a sobbing Islena rock her catatonic child, while a disconsolate Lorio stared unblinkingly up at the heavens as if hoping that some merciful deity would reduce her to ash where she lay. He could read the acute pain radiating from both women in palpable waves, but still he could not move to offer either some form of solace. _'What could I truly say to either that would be anything more meaningful than an empty platitude?'_

There was another, less laudable reason that Artumas did not make an effort to console either woman. By choosing one over the other...would he not be rendering an unspoken judgment on which woman's immutable grief was more deserving of sympathy...of commiseration. Thus, he stood, as if rooted in stone, while the two women endured their excruciating moment of abject misery in solitude.

Just then, a blinding streak of oddly refulgent gray light appeared over Nalosan, converging directly on the spot where Artumas stood. It slowed as it approached, assuming a discernable form that evoked a disbelieving groan from the Emercian, who recognized the figure and lamented aloud, "And so now tragedy segues into the absurd."

In her segmented gray armor, Otaru Ree was the most imposing creature that Artumas had ever set eyes upon. With a shield on her left arm, the Gray Goddess wielded a massive broadsword that looked as if it might cleave the walls of Kammlogran with a single blow.

Her acutely incisive gaze swept the ramparts, adroitly discerning the salient realities of the circumstances into which she'd imposed herself. The shield and sword dissolved as if they had been nothing more than illusory constructs of gray mist. Bracing the Emercian with a withering scowl, she then turned her attention on the remains of the climactic moment. She strode purposefully over to Islena, who in the totality of her suffering, was oblivious to Ree's intimidating presence.

"Islena Doraux," Otaru inquired in a tone that was unexpectedly gentle, "what would you have me do to anneal your suffering?"

Islena shifted her red, swollen eyes to the goddess with misery etched into her face like an indelible brand. She proffered her son to Otaru, holding him out to the towering deity as she beseeched, "Can you heal him...free him from this monstrous thing?"

Otaru's beautiful face became grave and she shook her head adamantly. "The infernal magic that fueled this particular arcane weave is...inviolable...irreversible. The originator of this sorcery...only through her could this odious spell be undone. This spell is her exclusive design and its weave is exceedingly complex. It would require a lifetime to unravel its pattern...time that your child does not have, Islena." Ree flicked a baleful gaze at the enchantress and remarked with glacial finality, "That venue of aid is forever closed...though I can hear the reprobate scream even now."

Islena's face crumpled at this damning pronouncement and she hugged her unresponsive son to her chest...knowing full well that he had been eternally condemned to this horrible state as a consequence of her unthinking actions. As inadvertent as it may have been, Islena's intractable _obsession_ with permanently entrapping Myrhia would come at the most exorbitant price conceivable and she would bear the burden for that cruel injustice.

Otaru's unfaltering gaze was set squarely upon Allan's vacant face and from the perspective of cold detachment that only a goddess could possess, she suggested, "No living being should suffer this indignity and if you're amenable...I will grant this child swift and painless mercy..."

Islena blinked and simply stared at Otaru uncomprehendingly and then, as the nature of Ree's harrowing offer resolve in her beleaguered mind, Islena shrieked and scrambled away, "You don't come near us...do you hear! I don't care what you are...I'll fucking kill you if you touch my son!"

Otaru raised her long arms in a gesture of placation, amused by Islena's irrepressible audacity. "Very well, Islena...as you choose."

That imperious gaze found Lorio, who had not roused from where she had fallen when Islena had struck her. Otaru again extended a long arm and that terrifying broadsword manifested in her palm, the killing tip poised at the immortal's left breast. In the voice of imminent judgment, Ree inquired, "Islena, do you have any concept of what it is this pathetic creature has taken from you? Her impetuous action, inspired by bitterness, has denied you unmitigated omnipotence." She turned her disconcerting regard to Islena and added, "Perhaps even the ability to heal your son. If you desire, I will gladly extinguish her forlorn light.'

Before Islena could respond, Lorio raged, "Kill me then...you miserable, child-stealing bitch. I really don't give a damn...kill me and let me have some peace at last!"

She attempted to grasp Ree's blade, but to her astounded consternation, found that...despite its apparent solidity...it was a diaphanous construct. This realization caused Lorio to moan in frustration and begin to beat the back of her head on the cold stone.

Fearing that the situation was about to spiral into a deeper extreme of insanity, Artumas threw himself atop the writhing Lorio like a protective blanket and pressed a hand to her forehead. When Lorio ceased her thrashing, her pulled the distraught immortal into an embrace and pushed his right arm toward Otaru in a plea for forbearance. "Let this misery this poor woman has suffered at the hands of this odious world be enough. You are especially culpable in her suffering. What is done here is done. Please leave and allow we mortals to tend to the aftermath of this misadventure in our own manner."

Otaru stiffened at this explicit rebuke and glared balefully at Artumas, who refused to relent in the face of her displeasure. "You are an impertinent little man...but I will respect your wishes."

She turned back to Islena, who was rocking her son whispering ultimately meaningless words of comfort into his hair. "Before I leave Islena...I will grant you any boon within my power."

Islena searched Ree's face and in a tiny voice that was scarcely recognizable, she implored, "Will you send us home...to my world?"

The wounded howl of negation that tore from Lorio's lips was the distilled expression of every injustice she'd ever suffered. She threw Artumas off and attempted to rise, but Otaru's simple gesticulation turned her muscles to unresponsive jelly. She sagged back to the black stone, calling Islena's name again and again in a piteous litany of grief.

Islena's face remained utterly impassive before the abject spectacle of Lorio's torment.

Turning back to Doraux, Otaru performed an intricate series of gesticulations. Artumas could feel the hair on his head standing straight away from his scalp as the arcane sorcery quickly manifested around Islena and her son. Like some type of projected image, the pair ebbed, flickered and was gone.

In the span of a few frantic heartbeats, the one of prophecy...the savior of the antiquated world and all worlds beyond...had vanished.

With her departure, the eternally spinning triangle came permanently to rest.

Sparing Artumas a final nuanced glance, Otaru Ree soared skyward and was gone, streaking over the western horizon like a comet.

In the peculiar vacuum of their departure, an abysmal silence descended over the ramparts. Lorio abruptly lurched to her feet and stumbled toward the harbor-facing battlements.

Gleaning her intentions, Artumas raced after the inconsolable immortal and threw his arms around her waist, literally plucking her off her feet.

She did not struggle as if Islena's departure had deprived her of her strength. Instead, she wailed wretchedly, "Let me go, please. Everything has been taken from me. I know I can't die...but I just want the ocean to sweep me away. Please, let me go!"

"No!" Artumas growled adamantly. "This world has been left in tatters. Much of the culpability for that sits squarely on my shoulders." He spun her about and gently brushed a rivulet of tears from her cheek. "Lorio, it was you who reminded me that...should we emerge into the light...our only recompense would be sorrow and tears. Help me rebuild this tattered world...and let us help each other make our private grief more bearable. Become the daughter I've never had and let me try to be the father you've always deserved."

Lorio blinked, startled by this genuinely given offer of _place_ in a world where she had known only alienation and disdain. Roughly brushing away tears with the heel of her right hand, she nodded and allowed Artumas to put his arms around her shoulder.

As the citizens of Nalosan began to file tentatively back into their wounded city, Artumas and Lorio stared silently out over the bay...each trying to imagine how the future might appear beyond this fateful day.

2

**Bismarck, North Dakota:** Beneath a monochrome gray sky, a woman sat on a graffiti-covered park bench, staring absently at a small blond boy, who stood like a piece of statuary near a small slide. His gaze was vacant though his head was tilted toward the slide's platform giving the impression that he was struggling to decipher what esoteric purpose this device might actually serve.

The late October breeze carried the first harbinger of approaching winter and the woman wore a heavy duffle coat against the chill. Her red hair was cut short and pushed behind her ears in the fashion of someone who has little time for vanity or ornamentation. She was exceptionally beautiful, but the first signs of approaching middle age had etched themselves into her exquisite face in the form of tiny lines the bracketed her generous mouth and the corners of her emerald eyes. While these did nothing to mitigate her beauty, the woman wore a perpetual expression of consternation that hinted at harried impatience or reticence that would suffer no intrusion. It was almost as if she had deliberately erected a no man's land around herself to discourage any form of engagement from the outside world.

The small suburban green space was empty on this chilly weekday morning, for which the woman was especially grateful. Sporting only a rusting swing, a small slide and a sandbox, the rectangular patch of yellowing grass had become a rather Spartan sanctuary of sorts for the woman, though on the occasions when they were forced to share the park, she could not help but notice the furtive glances of pity that the other mothers would cast at her son, who was locked so deep in a prison of autism that nothing but the most extreme of stimuli...pain or terror...could possibly reach. As he stood there, staring vacantly at whatever had captured his unfathomable attention, other children would snicker at his zombie like posture or his vacuous, gape-mouthed stare.

On those occasions, it would require all of her restraint not to leap to her feet and rail at the obduracy of a world where the most unfortunate of victims was subjected to the disdain and cruel derision of the those who not could begin to fathom what it might be like to live an hour in that victim's skin. Instead, knowing that she had played a pivotal role in seeing the boy to his woeful state, the woman would clutch the edge of the bench with white-knuckled intensity and wait for the moment to pass.

On this morning, however, the park was theirs and as the boy peered into whatever personal hell defined his waking reality, the woman reflected on the path that had carried the pair to this lamentable juncture.

3

It's hard to believe that it's been two years...two years since the horrible day that I closed my eyes in one world only to open them again in another. Perhaps I was a fool to believe that, by returning to my world, my son would have been freed from the curse that had left him as little more than an ambulatory corpse. We cling to false hope, knowing in our hearts that delusion is worse than acceptance, but not willing to let go because the prospect of life without hope is more than the human spirit is able to bear.

I found myself standing on a sidewalk, in a neighborhood I didn't recognize, in the dead of night. The streets were deserted and so our sudden appearance, apparently out of thin air, when unnoticed. I remember looking down at Allan hopefully...only to feel that hope vanish like filthy water down a drain when I saw that his face was every bit as slack and vacant as it had been before Otaru Ree's sorcery had conveyed me back to this particular place and time.

I saw that Allan was tightly clutching an object in his small fingers as if it was his one tenuous connection to the outside world. When I pried the object free, he made a thin, mewling sound deep in his chest that caused me to shiver in revulsion...a reaction for which I will feel eternally ashamed. When I held the object up to the inadequate glow of a nearby streetlight, my heart stuttered in my chest and I came very close to screaming like a wounded animal. Myrhia's emerald and gold sigil...an intaglio she had evidently crafted to symbolize her great triumph over me...winked back at me like a tangible obscenity. Then, in one last display of sorcery, the intaglio had transformed in my hand...its metamorphosis fueled by a magic that had no legitimate place in this world.

I dropped the device, but before it could strike the cracked sidewalk, it transformed into a leather folio. I remember standing there and staring dumbly down at the thing as if it might somehow be dangerous. I prodded it tentatively with the toe of my cross trainer and when it did not reveal itself to be anything other than a nondescript brown folio, I stooped down and snatched it up. I suppose I should be grateful for what I discovered within. Certainly, it has made my life considerably easier than it otherwise would have been, but I'm struck by an involuntary shudder every time I think about it...as if the money was tainted and I'm degrading myself every time I dip into it.

Still, I've learned that we make accommodations with our lapsed morality every day...in a hundred tiny ways...until there is little left of our compromised integrity but the lies we embrace to cling to the belief that we are still fundamentally good people.

At any rate, the surprising boon of cash provided me with more options than I otherwise would have had. I realize that I should have went directly home...found a cab and returned to Ben and Donald...set their anxiety to rest and start the long and excruciating process of rebuilding our family...if such a thing was even possible. Some atavistic instinct cautioned me against doing this...and I decided to listen, though even now, I'm not entirely sure why. Instead, feeling more isolated and lonely than I'd ever had before, I gathered up the folio and with Allan in tow, found a cab to carry us to the nearest motel.

My second profound shock came moments after I checked into our motel and carried Allan into our woeful little room, replete with two single beds and a sorry assortment of pressboard furniture. The room came with a complimentary Seattle newspaper and after tucking Allan into one of the beds, I sat at the small, badly scratched writing desk and attempted to distract myself from my own predicament when my gaze happened upon the date at the top right hand corner of the first page. Time had been a nebulous thing during my time in the other world...distorted by constant flight and terror. By my own estimate, I guessed that I had spent perhaps eighteen months in that antiquated hell...and yet the date the swam in and out of focus before my horrified eyes suggested that _seven years_ had elapsed here...between the time I had disappeared from Mrs. Normandy's parlor and this dreary night in this transient motel room.

Shaking my head in incredulity, I remember frantically turning on the room's small television set and scouring the channels for the weather channel and sure enough, this terrible aberration was confirmed...seven years of my life had been lost down the rabbit hole. The implications of this discovery had been so disturbing that I had staggered into the bathroom, closed the door and sat down on the edge of the tub, where I had cried in silent misery until exhaustion rescued me from my despair.

My poor broken son and I had spent the next two weeks living in that repressive little box while I mustered the courage announce my return to the other two members of our fractured family.

It had been one of those irrepressibly bright and sunny days, where all prospects seem possible and every future road could only be a positive one, when Allan and I had taken a cab back to the old neighborhood. Perhaps in anticipation of the devastating disclosure to come, I had asked the cabbie to drop us off some two blocks from my house. Looking very much like a pair of displaced refugees, we had moved along the sidewalk and I felt certain that we must appear like dreary intruders in this quiet enclave of the suburban American dream.

As if sensing that something of great consequence...great and terrible consequence...was about to transpire, Allan had clung to my hip with his arms around my waist. I could certainly empathize with his unease and when the house came in view, I crouched down beside a car some eighty yards away on the opposite side of the street. There was a man mowing the lawn and for a moment, I didn't recognize the man whom I had married and with whom I had two children. He was much leaner and sported a beard and even from this distance, I could see that he held himself in a way I could not recall since the earliest days of our marriage...before doubt and disillusionment had settled on his shoulders like a millstone.

Still, I could not bring myself to cross the street and call his name. I had practiced what I might actually say to both my husband and my other son...how I might begin to explain Allan's condition or what I had experienced during my long absence. Standing on the fringes of his life, like a storm cloud poised to descend and blow away whatever stability he and Donald had managed to muster, it occurred to me that there was no lucid, rational way to explain my sudden reappearance and then there came the single moment that shattered the illusion that what had been lost could yet be retrieved.

The front door to the house had opened and Donald, now a tall and handsome teenager, had stepped out onto the front porch, followed a tall woman with long brown hair that had been caught up in an elaborate cable braid. She was thin and even from this distance, I could see that she was very attractive. She crossed the lawn with that casual elegance that certain women master so easily and though I had repressed her memory through an exertion of iron will, the woman evoked poignant images of Lorio. At the pair's approach, Ben had stepped away from the mower and drawing the woman into his arms, had bestowed a lingering kiss on her mouth, while Donald stood by and watched the pair. Perhaps it was the charged emotional dynamic of the moment, but it seems as if I was watching this moment through a powerful magnifying glass that brought every emotional nuance of their interaction into razor sharp and heart rending focus. What I saw, with no allowance for misinterpretation, was the very portrait of a happy family. After breaking the kiss, the trio had spoken for a few moments and as I watched with a kind of transfixed paralysis, the woman had taken Donald's right arm and after hugging him with obvious affection, she had led him to a Jeep Cherokee. Ben had waved as the pair drove away and after a moment, he had gone back to his chore...a lingering smile adorning his face.

In that moment of awful epiphany, I understood that I had been supplanted.

Standing on that sidewalk and feeling like a woman who awakens from a long coma to discover that the people who loved her had long since moved on with their own lives, the harsh light of introspection turned on me with a clarity and magnitude that was as undeniable as it was devastating. Before awakening to the truth of what I was, I had lived my life as a self-absorbed creature who structured her entire world to suit her own purposes. Now, for the first time in my life...possibly the first time in all the lives I had lived...I decided to make a decision entirely for the benefit of someone else. It was eminently clear that both Ben and Donald had come to an accommodation with the loss of Allan and me...they had suffered through their period of grief and labored to pick up the pieces of their lives...with obvious success. If I made the decision to cross that eighty yards of concrete and asphalt and step back into their lives...what could I possible bring them?

Misery and the absolute obliteration of the peace they had managed to attain in the wake of our loss...these would be the only things our reunion would yield. I made the spontaneous decision that it was better to have two lives mired in permanent sorrow than four. Kissing the top of Allan's head, I had said my final goodbye to my old life. Leading Allan by the hand, I had turned and walked away...into an uncertain future that he and I must face alone...and together.

It's been two years since that grim day and never once did I think of going back on my vow. I spent the next six months trying to build a new identity for myself and my poor, lost child. With the help of my unexpected windfall and my tenacious nature, I was able to find the people who could provide me with a new identity and when the young, decidedly geeky looking man had asked me what names I would want to carry into our new lives, the names Lorio and Arthur Holmes had sprung to my lips of their own accord.

After that, we had rambled across the country living the itinerant lifestyle of the woman whose name I had taken...drifting from town to town in search of place where we could take up the tattered threads of our new life. Eventually, we ended up in Bismarck and the same instinct that advised me not to return home on that first night was adamant in telling me that this unfamiliar town would be the place where my son and I would live the rest of our lives. After a time, I even managed to find a job as a guard with an armored car company. After being selected as the successful applicant, my new manager had told me that there was something in my eyes that could intimidate the devil himself. He had laughed and I had responded with the obligatory grin but his cavalier observation would set the tone for much of my life since.

I was fortunate enough to find a daycare center that was specifically qualified to deal with children who had been afflicted with conditions similar to Allan's. The doctors were perplexed by the severity of his autism and the totality of what they described as his _dislocation._ Only I understood the true nature of his heart-wrenching condition...that somewhere inside what appeared to be an empty vessel, my beautiful boy was fully cognizant, but separated from the world by an insidious sorcery that nothing could ever dispel.

Like Allan, I've slowly become detached from the world around me. I work and take care of the son whose life I'd unwittingly destroyed...while the people around us appear to flow by as if separated from our world...our lives...by an invisible, yet insurmountable barrier. We live in a small bungalow near this park. I've jettisoned so much of the clutter of my old life...the vanity...the need for validation that drove much of my old identity. The one remnant of that woman...Islena Doraux...that remains is the joy of pushing my physical limits to the very edge of my endurance. It is in this joy that I find solace from the bleak reality of the sterile life my son and I live...and will until the day I die. I try to envision what might happened to Allan when I'm gone and though the thought sickens me and makes me feel despicable, I harbor the hope that he will die before I do and not be left alone to the devices of a cold and uncaring world.

When, he is asleep, I go down into this requiem I've made for myself...this place of iron and pain...and I push myself to the point of total exhaustion. It is from these brief moments of respite that I find the wherewithal to face the next day.

In these last months the repository, where I'd sequestered the memories of my harrowing time in the other world, has crumbled beneath the enormous weight of ghosts clamoring to be set free. Artumas, Myrhia, Arminda and all the others, they speak to me in dreams and fitful sleep. Yet it is Lorio who haunts me...the beautiful creature who I so cruelly abused and then cast aside like a broken doll. I see her face when I close my eyes at night and again when I first grope my way back to wakefulness each morning. There are times when I'll feel something prickling the flesh at the base of my neck or whispering over my cheek...more the suggestion of touch than actual touch, like a palpable shadow...and I'll turn, fully expecting to see her silently watching me, those beautifully expressive eyes alive with emotions too numerous and complex to catalogue.

To my dismay, I'll find nothing but the lingering emptiness that has come to characterize my existence. I can scarcely credit that I once stood within a whisper of absolute omnipotence...where I would have possessed the power to rectify every mistake I'd ever made.

Now, as I sit beneath this indifferent gray sky and watch my beautiful, irreparably broken boy stare vacantly into a world where no living soul may ever join him, I wonder...is all that remains for this fallible goddess...the enduring sorrow?

Chapter Fifty-Four

1

**A Fallible Goddess:** Face contorted into a mad snarl of vindication, Lorio drew back her Zarcyk and streaked across the ramparts with the intention of burying her _soul blade_ in Islena's black and mercurial heart. She had come to within five paces of the gyre, when a bolt of argent light erupted from its roiling surface and struck Lorio high in the chest, while the air around her sizzled and crackled with constrained power. The force of the impact lifted the stunned immortal from her feet and hurled her back in the direction from which she had come. She slammed into the unyielding stone ramparts with a guttural grunt and slid to the cool stone in an unmoving sprawl of long, twitching limbs. A deeply concerned Artumas peered on, while a golden cocoon of energy enveloped the writhing immortal and she went utterly still. A second bolt tore forth from the gyre, this one so bright in magnitude as to be blinding, and snatched up Lorio's would-be weapon of assassination.

There was a distinct hiss, followed by an acrid tang of melting metal and in the next instant, Lorio's Zarcyk had been reduced to an unrecognizable lump of slag.

Artumas glanced about to find that Islena's son had lapsed into unconsciousness. He started toward the fallen Lamish immortal, but was dismayed to discover that his limbs had turned to lead and his body was incapable of movement as if he had been shackled by invisible restraints.

"Be Still, Artumas and bear witness to my ascension. At last, our long and woeful tale will see an end and, in our own way, each of us will be free," a voice declared from within the rotating mass of energy.

Powerless to do naught but comply, Artumas witnessed the awesome spectacle of Islena Doraux's ascension, though he correctly deduced that there was little trace of the flawed, conflicted woman left within the writhing cocoon of energy. The pace of the rotating bands continued to accelerate until it became impossible to distinguish individual threads of energy or color. A guttural groan issued from somewhere within the gyre...a visceral articulation of complex emotions that the thoroughly entranced Artumas recognized as expression of omnipotence, omniscience and ubiquity. All of these things, Artumas understood, that were the quintessential characteristics of true godhood.

Abruptly, the cataclysmic process stopped and the gyre simply fizzled like a raging gale that relents to a gentle breeze, scarcely able to stir blades of grass.

The entity that had once been Islena Doraux hovered in the air, regarding the Champion of Light with an indecipherable expression that defied his still very human sensibilities to comprehend. She spread her muscular arms and descending to the stone with the inherent grace of a swan. Watching her warily, Artumas could feel his flesh rise into great hackles in response to the incomprehensible power that she radiated...a power that could raise worlds and grind them to dust on a whim.

As she crossed the distance between them, her naked flesh glistened like a construct composed of an infinite number of shafts of pure energy...something that was both substantial and ephemeral at the same time; an innate contradiction of seemingly irreconcilable states that, once seen, cannot be denied.

Sensing his extreme disquiet, Islena smiled and waved her arms about her head. A robe, composed entirely of diaphanous strands of red, green, silver and gold...intertwined and ever shifting...coalesced into being above her head. She raised her arms to the heavens and the robe drifted down to swaddle her in its perpetually shifting embrace.

The invisible restraints that had bound him vanished and Artumas, a life-long cynic on the subject of gods and their intrinsic worth, sank to his knees before Islena, his eyes alight with reverence. Islena shook her head, her limpid green eyes narrowing in mild disapproval. "There is no need for abeyance between us, Champion of Light." She raised a hand and pointed toward the inured Mother of Iniquity. "What you see before you...what I am...is the culmination of our long and tortured existence. The three of us are integral and equal facets of the entity...this goddess...that I have become. There is no need for deference between us, Artumas and so I would have you stand and hear what I the message I would convey...as an equal."

The aging king rose on unsteady legs, his senses not condign to the task of internalizing the full extent of what this unprecedented entity represented. She was a power as vast as the universe that contained the full spectrum of every force that gave it shape and definition. She reached out and gently laid her fingers on his left hand. His body was suffused by a rolling wave that surmounted his every bastion of uncertainty and disbelief...that resolved him to the purpose that she inculcated into the long-suffering fabric of his spirit. "Artumas, I still don't know why the three of us were conjured into being...or the purpose our discordant drama was intended to serve. It could well be that we were simply created on a lark...some grand experiment to observe how our odious cycle of recurrent conflict would eventually resolve itself. Whatever the reasons, we find ourselves at the end of our journey with no recompense for having made it other than the realization that we have reached its end. As I stand here and stare into your wary face as if it was a repository of every injustice and betrayal you have suffered over the course of your many lives, it occurs to me that there is nothing of meaning or value to be had in remembrance. Your ordeal is done and I would have you live out the remainder of your life in pursuit of the noble dream you've harbor through every incarnation...a dream that is now within your grasp. To accomplish this, it is first necessary to extinguish the memories of all that had befallen this world over these last years and as it is within my power to write a revisionist history, I will efface every trace of my coming from the memory of all who dwell within the known lands of the antiquated world. In its stead, I will implant the memories of a better, more palatable world in which the vile aspirations of tyrants and usurpers will have no currency. For the long years that remain to you Artumas, you will be a king for the ages and serve as a beacon for the higher virtues that elevate life to a state beyond mere survival." Islena turned her regard from the enthralled king to the supine form of Lorio and for the fraction of an instant, so brief as to be well near imperceptible, Artumas glimpsed the shadow of acute pain and regret dampen the divine light in those green eyes.

When she'd regained her composure, Islena continued, "When you time has reached an end, your daughter will ascend to your throne and her reign will be long and glorious and she will be regarded with universal love and admiration...all of the things this unspeakably cruel life refused to afford her. I will insure that she is an open book into which you will scribe your every belief and conviction so that she might grow to become the magnificent soul that it is within her to become."

Artumas saw these things like a shimmering vision beheld against a backdrop of sunlight breaking through the clouds after a period of prolonged and terrible darkness. "And what of you...where will you go...what will you do?"

She offered the king a smile of such radiance that he could not suppress the urge to weep in the glow of its beauty. "After I have planted the seeds of this world's rebirth and returned this poor child to his home, I intend to embark upon a journey of self-discovery."

"What is it you hope to discover?" Artumas blurted in the tone of a small child at the knee of a cherished parent, striving to understand grand mysteries that have shaped their lives, while realizing that these are eternal mysteries that will remain forever beyond their capacity to unravel until they, themselves, come to the same juncture in their journey.

Islena's smile became fey and she intoned gravely, "I hope to discover the means to resolve the seemingly irreconcilable conflict between the discordant aspects of my nature...this inner turbulence that has made me the scourge of everyone with the misfortune to cross my path. Should I ever succeed, I intend to fashion a world that does not incite the ugly proclivities of my nature, where I can pass eternity in a requiem of tranquility...of peace." She inhaled deeply and gave a slight nod, her fiery tresses cascading over her shoulders like tumbling fire. Straightening, she stepped back a pace and declared resolutely. "Now, Champion of Light; sleep and awaken in the world you've always imagined in your happiest of daydreams."

Before Artumas could raise an objection, he was surrounded by a swirling skein of light that swept him gently into the void. He tumbled in slow motion as if borne on a carpet of air that lowered him slowly to the cool stone. Islena knelt next to the fallen ascendant and tenderly stroked his brow. Theirs had been an exceedingly complex relationship, characterized by radical and often violent swings in emotion ranging from profound love to intense acrimony. In this last moment, Islena could only view the dormant man with fondness that often comes from the final tolling of a long and tumultuous relationship.

After a moment, she rose and strode over to the inured enchantress. She regarded the tragic figure intensely, attempting to conjure the black loathing that had defined the vast portion of their long and bitter rivalry. Yet, despite all of the misery and tragedy this ignoble miscreant had unleashed upon a thousand different worlds, the newly elevated deity could find only pity in her heart for a creature who had lived her entire existence in black shadow with absolutely no latitude for being anything other than what her sadistic creator had intended her to be. "You have suffered enough," Islena whispered kindly as her index finger traced the imperious ridge of Myrhia's right cheekbone. "I will extinguish your sallow light and grant you the oblivion you've privately always coveted. You may both rest and I will bear the burden of eternity as perhaps it is only fitting that I should."

Her hand sank into the unyielding stone, seeking out Myrhia's vitiated heart. Her fingers closed around the petrified organ and snapping shut, pulverized it to dust. The Mother of Iniquity's entrapped essence was swiftly and utterly extinguished, leaving behind a lifeless piece of statuary.

Next she strode over and collected the small living vessel who had once been her son. Gathering him into her arms, she kissed his smooth brow. The sleeping child exuded a pristine innocence and she gave thanks that he had not been infected by virulence that had afflicted the woman who had given him birth. Rising high into the air until Nalosan sprawled below her like a child's replica of the great city, Islena hovered in the air and began to weave the complex tapestry of enchantments that would subtly rearrange the collective memory of every living soul on the two continents. When her elaborate revisionist enchantment had been woven to her satisfaction...a reinvention of the antiquated land's history of which she had no part...Islena loosed it upon the unsuspecting world.

It rolled across the land like radial waves in a massive lake, implanting Islena's immaculate deception deep in the soil of every sentient mind it came across. Yet, if there is one singular truth that is incontrovertible, it is this; every deity, irrespective of how benevolent of compassionate that deity might be perceived, is possessed of an aspect of ruthless pragmatism. When Islena's enchantment of reconfiguration would encounter a mind that, through intransigence or inability, would not conform to her great re-imagining of recent history, it would obliterate the vessel in which that mind was cloistered. Thousands perished and they, too, were struck from the collective memory as if they had never lived.

Unconscious and adrift on the Bay of Imerlac, the half-Ulgak, Sygeanor, was amongst these unfortunate victims.

Islena was oblivious to the harsh side effect of her grand exercise in memory alteration, but even if she had been cognizant of the consequences, it was highly improbable that she would have amended her course of action. Viewed from the lofty perspective of the divinity and all that this mantle entails, the currency of human sacrifice was an acceptable expenditure in service of the grand vision for universal harmony.

Islena Doraux's final dispensation to the land that had abused her so cruelly, over the course of her ordeal there, was the erection of a barrier that would permanently ward the antiquated land against hostile influences of the greater world beyond its myopic shores. The great ward created an invisible dome that stretched from the eastern shore of the Hiberas to twenty leagues beyond the eastern coast of the Eastern Continent. It was impervious to both arcane and physical breeches and would stand as an insurmountable cloister for all of eternity...insuring that the collective gaze of the people of the antiquated lands would remain turned forever inward.

As the great ward seemingly rose out of the churning waters, it gently scooped up the exotic ship that was moored on the eastern extremity of the Bay of Imerlac and swept it out to sea. The crew of the ship, despite the immensity of their collective arcane might, could do not but stand helplessly by and watch as they were emphatically displaced from the shore where they had come in search of both retribution and new lands in which to spread Gyzarayne's creed of feminine equality. That they had been thwarted in both efforts by the most powerful female deity to ever exist was a dark irony of which they would remain forever ignorant.

Once the ship had been propelled beyond the limit of the invisible barrier, the Sisters of Esotaria assembled on the deck of the sleek vessel. The Matrium glanced from the barrier, which her eyes perceived as a vaguely diaphanous dome that stretched into the clouds above the Bay of Imerlac, to the Matrium. For the first time in the two hundred years that they had been together, the Ascentrix looked very much like the child she appeared to be...her wide-eyed expression a blend of awe and anxiety.

"What would you have us do, Lissom," Karosyn intoned softly, wishing to shield her sisters from the anxious bewilderment that had suffused the two most powerful women in Gyzarayne's order.

"Chart a return course to the islands. Whatever has raised this ward, it is a force beyond our cumulative ability to oppose and I would not risk rousing its ire." With this, she flashed her Matrium a haunted look of undisguised consternation, a rarity for the normally circumspect emissary, and bowing her head, strode off toward her private quarters.

The Matrium watched her beat a hasty retreat, her own bemusement mirroring that of her mistress. Sparing the perplexing anomaly one final glance, she began to issue instructions for the long return journey to the Sisterhood's home archipelago.

2

Artumas returned to cognizance like a man groping his way up through layers of viscous, repulsive fluid. He glanced about owlishly, his perplexed gaze touching briefly upon the incredibly detailed stone rendering of the tyrant who had usurped his throne, before settled nervously on the statuesque woman who lay, unmoving, on the cold stone near the bayside ramparts.

For one small and disorienting span of time...perhaps no longer than a dozen heartbeats...he could not recall exactly who this woman was. A discordant succession of images assailed his addled senses then and he felt like a confused man who is struggling to recall something of crucial importance...something that stubbornly refused to resolve itself in his mind. Then, recollection returned like the rapid dissipation of a thick, obscuring fog and he knew exactly who the raven haired beauty was and how she had come to be here.

' _The princess...my daughter!'_ he thought and panic seized him then, thinking that she had fallen victim to the foul sorcery that had been unleashed on these ancient ramparts. Ignoring the flare of pain in his hip, he scrambled over to where she lay, and after the slightest terror-induced hesitation, shook her shoulder gently and called urgently, "Lorio!"

After several anxious seconds, the fallen woman issued a low moan, rife with both confusion and the residual effects of the trauma that had plunged her into unconsciousness. Then she raised her head and sweep her bleary regard over the aftermath of the climactic battle to retake Nalosan. He eyes settled on the vitiated woman and her generous mouth twisted into an unconscious moue of revulsion. Warily, as if dreading that this was all an illusion conjured to added a new and cruel dimension to the harrowing ordeal of the past seven years, she inquired, "Is...is it over?" And then, as if the notion was simply too improbable and fortuitous to hope for, Princess Lorio added, "How?"

Here, Artumas' expression became ponderous as he groped through the nebulous fog of his memory to summons images of what had transpired, in the moments immediately before he had tumbled into the void. In a voice fraught with dismay, the Emercian King imparted, "We had reached the ramparts...to reason with her in a last attempt to forestall the bloody assault on Kammlogran. She...she unleashed her sorcery and somehow...it rebounded upon her...reducing her to this."

His voice had faltered then, choked with an unaccountable sorrow for the tyrant who had plunged the antiquated world into such darkness, though the aging king was certain that the only emotion he had ever harbored for this ignoble creature was loathing. He assisted his beloved daughter to her feet and drew her into an embrace, grateful that she had emerged from this nightmare unscathed. Resolutely, he intoned, "We have emerged from the darkness...into the aftermath of uncertainty. This world will need time to heal and you and I must repress our own grief and pain and become tireless agents for making it so. Before you ascend to the throne and become the queen you are destined to be, I would have this tired world be a better and more compassionate place than it has ever been. A grand ambition perhaps, but I believe that, together, you and I can make it a reality."

He held her to arms length and she nodded, the ferocious light burning in her eyes that had always inspired such private hope and delight in the aging king's heart. A shadow slipped across her beautiful countenance as her gaze slid to the inured Myrhia. "What would you have me do with that?"

Artumas offered his daughter a sad smile. "You're mother's soul was a black thing, twisted by ambition and avarice. Still, our tragic union yielded the most beautiful gift I have ever been granted...you. I would find a prominent place in Kammlogran where she can stand for eternity."

"You would afford this hateful miscreant a place of honor?" an incredulous Lorio erupted, her vaunted temper rearing its head.

"No, I would have her stand as a constant reminder that we are all flawed, imperfect creatures who must remain ever vigilant of the insidious darkness in our hearts."

This justification seemed to mollify Lorio because she nodded. Just then, Captain Esuruban and Tier Marshal Arminda led a charging cadre of infantry onto the ramparts. Artumas smiled at his daughter and raised his hands. "All is done here."

Lorio left Artumas' side and ran across the ramparts. Reaching Esuruban, she drew the handsome soldier into a fervent embrace, unmindful of the stares her open display of emotion garnered or the deep scarlet that Esuruban's complexion had become in the face of the Princess' unabashed display of affection.

The Jerhia Tier Marshal drifted over to the Emercian King and remarked, "Instinct informs me that the humble Esuruban is destined to find himself serving in the role of Queen's Companion somewhere in the future."

"I suspect you're right," Artumas observed, not bother to disguise his delight at the prospect. "In addition to being a humble and virtuous man whose love for my daughter is absolute, Esuruban seems to exert a calming influence upon Lorio...a balm that seems to quell the restive aspect of her nature. Together, I am confident that they might see Emercian...and by extension, the rest of the antiquated lands to a brighter future."

Arminda offered Artumas an exuberant grin and remarked, "On this matter, we are in agreement, good king."

They went to join the others and the antiquated lands took a tiny, incremental step along the road to a brighter future.

3

A low, furtive sound, like the susurration of a soft breeze through tall grass on a sultry evening...roused Ben Richards from his slumber. He had been sitting in his favorite chair, absently watching football, while Cynthia and his teenage son, Donald labored together to concoct the evening's super; a bonding exercise the pair had developed over the three years that Cynthia had been in their lives.

The sound issued again, pushing gently on the front door with sly insistence. Brow furrowing, a leaner, bearded Richards climbed to his feet and went to explore the cause of this odd intrusion. He regarded the handle with a mix of disquiet and consternation, wondering why he felt either in light of what was really nothing more than foolish misgivings.

' _Because...when you open this door...everything changes again...and you can feel the truth of this in the marrow of your bones,'_ an all too familiar voice informed him and he shuddered in response to the image this ghost evoked. Richards, who had finally regained a semblance of normalcy...of contentment...seven years after the disappearance of his wife and youngest son, was assailed by a bone-deep chill. HH

In that moment of rarified clarity, Richards realized that any happiness he would ever achieve in what was left of his life would be a tentative, fragile commodity...susceptible to restless ghosts that would remain forever eager to blow it all away like a house of cards before a spiteful wind.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply and opened the door.

For a brief moment, Richards thought he might scream, but repressed the urge only because he knew...unequivocally...that if he did, he would be unable to stop.

Standing before him...peering up at him with the very eyes of childhood innocence...was an apparition that had certainly been conjured by his guilty conscience to torment him for embracing the prospect of future happiness. Then, the boy held his arms out and in a sweet voice that had haunted Ben's nightmares for the past five years, inquired, "Daddy?"

Ben blinked and his every doubt and fear vanished then. He stooped and swept his son into his arms, the long-absent feel of his small body against his chest a tangible affirmation that he was truly here. The particulars...the inconsistencies held no consequence as he held his son; questions of how he had come to be here or why he had changed not a whit from the moment he had been abducted by that hateful bitch just over five years before.

As Richards held the boy...not wanting to speak for fear that Allan might dissipate like a morning mist before the fast ascending sun...he was suffused by a vivid and stark image that would indelibly implant itself in his mind. Islena dangled from the edge of a precipice by one arm; her powerful fingers clutching the crumbling rock with white-knuckled intensity. Her muscular body swayed in open air while the world fell away in dizzying panorama that was difficult to gaze upon. Her green eyes were wide with dread, but also the ferocious determination that Ben recalled so well. He gasped in horror when he saw that Allan was nestled in her other arm.

"Take care of our beautiful boy!" she instructed and with a powerful twist and flexing of muscle, she managed to heave Allan over the edge of the precipice and onto stable ground. In doing so, Islena's momentum dislodged her fingers and she fell away into the void, plummeting silently with her expressive green eyes fixed firmly on his face.

As quickly as it had commenced, this moment of extreme empathy passed, leaving Richards with the absolute certainty that Islena Doraux was dead...having sacrificed her life to return their son to his keeping.

He closed his eyes and began to weep...for all that had been lost and in gratitude for all that had now been restored. After a time, he became cognizant of intense, yet ponderous scrutiny. He turned to find Cynthia and Donald watching him intently. Cynthia's intelligent brown eyes were narrowed in perplexity, while Donald watched the pair with disbelief and burgeoning hope. After a moment, the boy blurted, "Is it...?"

Ben nodded vigorously and closed the door. Carrying Allan over to the pair, he fixed his joyous gaze on Cynthia and declared, "Sweetheart...I'd like you to meet my other son, Allan."

4

With that obligation discharged, I discarded my identity, becoming irrevocably uncoupled from my humanity while embracing this ever-evolving entity that I have become. Spirally out of the world of my last incarnation's birth, I set forth on an odyssey of self-discovery that would carry me through millennia beyond counting, to this oasis of tranquility in which I now serve my eternal exile...an oasis and exile of my own devising.

As I undertook this long and often heart-crushingly lonely journey through every byway and corner of the universe, I traveled with the critical imperative resonating in my mind...imparted by the nameless Natzurdan Goddess so long ago.

' _Within you dwells the potential to eternally repress this inner conflict that, if left to fester, will lead us all into the abyss. You must turn the savagely candid light of introspection on this core of flux and glean the things that foment your demons. Then, after you have seen the living engine of despair to her end...you must employ Symyrasil to create a world free of all the dark enticements that would pervert your spirit into something wicked.'_

I have surrendered myself to this implacable wisdom with every fiber of my conflicted being...knowing that to do otherwise was to court disaster of apocalyptic proportions.

My quest for self-illumination carried me into contact with inexplicable mysteries and astounding phenomena that were arrayed across the breath of the heavens like neglected child's toys. I witness the unfurling of the great and often terrible perpetual construction that we refer to as the universe (without even the most rudimentary understanding of what the concept truly embodies) and arrived at a revelatory truth that many might consider the ultimate expression of Hubris.

At least, until one considers just what it is that I have evolved to become.

In this great and infinite sprawl...this random, incessant struggle for dominion, which unfurls over the course of billions of years, but is no less violent and dramatic for that slow, but nearly imperceptible resolution...I see the startling reflection of my own turbulent nature. The universe is a hotbed of unending and often cataclysmic change enacted in slow motion. It is a ruthless war in which the combatants offer and are given no quarter and where irreconcilable forces are set on unavoidable collision courses...perhaps at the behest of unseen entities in search of diversion; gods and goddesses whose permanence has driven them into the inescapable embrace of absolute madness.

I have witnessed suns explode into nova, consuming the very worlds to which they gave birth. I hovered in awe as massive black holes...voracious, lightless constructs that seemed to defy every known law of existence...consumed entire galaxies with an insatiable appetite that knew no bounds. Every element in creation seemed determined to _evolve_ , to transform as if stasis was the most abhorrent of all possible fates.

In this incessant and discordant clamor of perpetual change, I glimpsed the metaphor for my own internal instability. I discerned the incontrovertible truth of this contention in the way these elements provoked my own fury...my own inclinations and proclivities for mindless rage. Given time and without restraint...I would inevitably become a sentient black hole. During the course of my many lives, my roiling emotions were incompatible facets of an ultimately dysfunctional and untenable personality that could only cause misery for everyone unfortunate enough to fall into its long shadow.

Witnessing the great cycle of flux unfold only served to aggravate the blackest facets of my being and so I fled blindly into the periphery of the infinite ocean...empty voids of existence where the dynamics of universal creation, decimation and reinvention had yet to take root.

After a protracted search, I found a barren planet within acceptable proximity to a yellow sun and there, I commenced my great experiment in engineering the perfect sentient being. Again, I allowed the Natzurdan Mother's final parting words to serve as the blueprint for my design, "Let reverence for the miracle of life guide your every action."

As I set about the admittedly intoxicating task of constructing a world in which my future creations would live their lives, I discovered that there were even elements of world building that roused my omnipresent inner darkness. Towering mountains, raw and visceral like some monstrous infant pushed forth from the birthing canal, and jungle, teeming with insanely chaotic vitality; these contrivances only served to hasten my volatility and so I took great pains in insuring that they would have no place in my grand tapestry.

Mine was a world of dark forests, great and fertile plains and gently rolling hills...great sprawling incubators conceived to sustain life.

Next, I focused on populating the world with a huge variety of animals and even in these creatures driven by the erratic engine of instinct...I was meticulous in extirpating the one seed made a mockery of the very notion that individual life had any inherent value. During the long millennia sailing through empty oceans of inert or barren wastes of empty space, it came to me that creating a system of existence where, in order to survive...to obtain sustenance, it became necessary to kill other living things was staggeringly obtuse. This very concept of survival through death was hopelessly incongruent with the idea that all life had inherent value. I raised a world in which every living creature could find plentiful sustenance in the rich bounty of the earth.

Symyrasil rendered quick and ruthless judgment on those species that would not...or could not conform.

Last came the sentient beings and it was in this last labor that I took the greatest and most meticulous care. After long ages of contemplation, I arrived at the rather astonishing conclusion that there were two aspects of sentient nature that doomed these being to lives of strife and misery; change and volition.

The incessant need for change bred restlessness and frustration and precluded the very notion of enduring contentment. It sowed the seeds of incessant discord and stirred the black inclination toward ambition. Unconstrained volition only indulged the full spectrum of ugliness...avarice, intractability and zealous fanaticism...that had led to the demise of civilization in every world and across every stream of reality. Thus, in my first experiment, I created sentient beings whose primary and inculcated needs were for stability and contentment. I raised cities and villages that met the needs of these fledgling creatures and then sat back to take careful stock of my great experiment in sentient design. To my dismay, slowly but inexorably...the intelligent beings of my world were drawn to the darker facets of a thinking mind's emotional landscape. Greed, lust, callous indifference; once these ugly traits took root in the carefully cultivated civilizations I had raised, they ran through my world like rampant disease, inflaming my children to unimaginable acts of atrocity.

In the resonating echo of their evil, I could feel my own dark volatility begin to stir within its prison. Memories and their companion emotions would come flooding back evoking a welling need to succumb to the primal urges of my inner turbulence.

To forestall this eruption...I would allow the red tendril of Symyrasil to sing its aria of extinction and would begin anew...ever refining my design. With each successive attempt, the base urges of my creations would be held at bay for a longer time, until finally, I find myself sitting idle in a world that has endured for sixty millennia with not the slightest hint of degeneration. Its inhabitants are living vessels of serenity, who seek only to bask in the radiance of their unchanging world and its simple, but satisfying pleasures.

After striking this delicate balance, I was visited by my final epiphany...one that I regard with a measure of ambivalence...a quality that is abrasive to my nature.

Inevitably...all deities become irrelevant. So it is with me...perhaps the most powerful deity of all. Now that I have fashioned that ideal world upon which to serve my self-imposed exile...there is nothing that remains for me to do but sit idly by and watch my creation. I opened myself to the placating aura of this paradise and let it wash over me like the warm waters of the ocean surf.

Perhaps six thousand years ago, while roaming aimlessly over the face of the world, I happened upon this small village. At the center of this village was a circular cobbled plaza surrounded by beautiful stone buildings that served as places of modest commerce for the village's inhabitants. From the north end of the plaza, a cobbled road led out into the surrounding forest. Just beyond the buildings, a narrow stone bridge forded a river as it made its indolent way toward a distant ocean. There was something entrancing about this view. Seen from the perspective of one of the plaza's bistros, it held the power to mesmerize...to immobilize. As I settled into one of the wrought iron seats and leaned my elbows upon the small table...unseen by my children, my gaze was drawn to this exquisite scene that reminded me of a vivified painting. It exerted a strange, narcoleptic affect upon me...a malaise that was as pleasant as it was irresistible.

It is here that I have remained ever since catching that first glimpse of that bridge and the lazy river that flowed beneath its black stone. The forest seemed to beckon with a promise that must forever remained unfulfilled.

Time passed and eventually I began to feel the crushing weight of loneliness as I watched life unfolded around me. The people I created were placid souls...beautiful and lithe. I watched as they floated around me like specters in the mist. When their allotted time had been expended, they would simply wink out like stars in the firmament...only to be replaced by another being, fully grown and possessed of all of the understanding necessary to thrive within the parameters I permitted. Mine was a world without painful, bloody birth or protracted, misery-fraught death...such vulgar matters only stirred my ire.

It occurred to me that I missed interaction...conversation, touch and taste and the pleasant intermingling of flesh. Against my better judgment, I succumbed to this desire. I would allow the veil to fall and attract the attention of one of my children. They would pass their lives in my company and share my exile. Through the course of these six thousand years, there has been an endless procession of companions, both men and women who have shared my table, my mesmerizing perspective of that beguiling stone bridge...and my flesh and its appetites. When their appointed time came, I would mourn their passing...but never was I tempted to extend their lives...knowing that to do so would upset the delicate balance I had labored so mightily to achieve.

Slowly, the years passed and I settled deeper into the waters of serenity...and yet...

On rare occasion, in one of my chosen, I would catch a fleeting glimpse of carefully sequestered memory and I would feel the thing that passed for my heart contract painfully in my chest. It may have come in the glint of sunlight on a tumbling mass of black hair or the curve of a full lip. Perhaps it was stirred by the slant of a cheekbone...high and imperious. As often as it not, these provocative reminders would come in a flash of defiance from great dark eyes that resembled blazing suns. There and gone in an instant, that blaze of indomitable spirit would conjure a vivid, heart-rending image of Lorio in all of her exquisite beauty. I would suddenly remember that this tragic creature, who I had abused so horribly during our short, but tumultuous time together, might still be where I left her. If so, did thoughts of me disturb her as badly as my memories of her haunted me?

A new day has broken over my little requiem, the fast ascending sun shimmering brightly along the length of that lazy river as it meanders beneath the ancient stone bridge on its way to the ocean. I am assailed by a sudden weariness and wonder how long it will be before I become a dormant entity, slumbering in the spaces in between while the world I fashioned moves slowly, but inexorably into the great unknown. With no mistress to watch over it, I wonder what my creation will become.

For now, I find myself in need of distraction.

5

The plaza was already brimming with people by the time the man made his way to out of one of the side streets. He paused for a moment and leaned on his lacquered cane which was strictly an affectation...popular in the latest fashion. He was a tall lithe man as were most of the villagers...broad of shoulder and narrow of waist. His black hair was short and swept away from his smooth brow and he surveyed the cobbled circle with dark brown eyes that were placid and dreamy. He was a handsome man, whose attire was stylish and formal by village standards of the day, conveying the impression of worldliness...though he had never ventured across the bridge and into the forest beyond.

His mild gaze swept the busy plaza, touching briefly on faces that were as familiar as the lines of his palm. The sigh he fetched was not one of boredom for there was a certain comfort to be had in consistency...a measure of solace to be taken from the mundane; the knowledge that today would be very much like the one that had preceded it. Such was the nature of contentment and if there were no great and sweeping changes or fluctuations in the village's life, it was an unvarying state that every villager happily accepted because there was a beauty in permanence.

It had always been thus and so it would remain and everyone in the village was eternally grateful for the peace and stability that village life entailed.

He made his way into the heart of the plaza, stopping to greet people that he had known every day of his life. In his high-waist trousers and impeccably tailored top coat, the man was aware that he cut a fine figure, but this minor nod to vanity was a small indulgence of hubris that he kept well concealed behind a placid and jovial demeanor.

He was making his way through the early morning crowd with the intention of finding his favorite table and a cup of tea and a scone, when he came to an abrupt halt. His lower mandible dropped in astonishment and he gaped as if a second sun had appeared in the morning sky.

A stranger...a woman...sat at his favorite table, but this was a woman unlike any he had ever envisioned, even in his wildest of dreams. The improbability of her appearance made him stare in a manner that would normally scandalize the man, who was governed by decorum and courtesy. She was twisted in her chair with one arm draped casually over the back and her legs crossed at the knee. Her garment was most peculiar; a sleeveless dress that was adorned by decorative buttons. Several buttons were unfastened at the neck and at the knee, exposing an enticing abundance of golden cleavage and shapely legs that appeared to have been chiseled from granite. Her face was turned away from the man and she wore round spectacles with colored lenses that were perched on the very tip of her nose. Her attention appeared to be focused on the road that led into the forest as if she might be contemplating setting out on a journey over the ancient stone bridge. Her hair was a tumbling cascade of fire that spilled over one muscular shoulder in a color that the man had never believed possible.

She was beautiful...in the way the world was beautiful, like the great expanse of sky or the towering forest that surrounded the village. Like these things, this alien woman exuded an aura that intimated permanence. He dragged his gaze away from the improbable spectacle and was shocked to find that the other villagers appeared totally oblivious to her extraordinary presence.

When his gaze again returned to this beguiling apparition, he was unsettled to discover that her incisive regard was fixed squarely upon him. He felt his heart flutter in his chest when she raised a powerful arm and summoned him over with a flexing of an index finger. There was an imperious aspect to this brazen gesture that the man was powerless to ignore. He made his way over to her table and as he reached her, she extended one leg and pushed a chair toward him, exuding a confidence and composure that made him feel awkward. In a voice that seemed to vibrate in his viscera and bones, she inquired, "Would you care to keep me company?"

He slid into the chair without thought or hesitation and she favored him with a radiant smile that ignited a myriad of unfamiliar emotions in his rapidly beating heart. Her eyes were the green of precious gems stones that legends claimed could be found in faraway caves beneath hills. The man had discounted these tales as capricious fancies, but peering into those luminous depths, he found his skepticism evaporating beneath the heat of her regard.

Finally, he found his voice and stammered, "I've not seen you before...are you visiting the village?"

That smile assumed a teasing, evasive edge and she returned, "I've always been here...since before the day the final stone in that bridge was set into place. Long before that actually."

His smooth brow furrowed and he wondered if she was mocking him somehow, but then she winked and uttered a mirthful chuckle that rolled through him like a warm summer breeze. "May I ask your name?"

"Aionios. It is a word, derived from a long dead language, that means...eternal."

"Aionios," he repeated, though the word felt alien and ungainly on his tongue. Still, it was as beautiful and exotic as the woman herself. "Will you tell me about yourself, Aionios?"

She fixed him with a penetrating gaze of appraisal that suffused him with an atavistic dread as if he had inadvertently affronted her with his forward question. Then she smiled again and his apprehension vanished. She leaned forward and took his hand in hers. He marveled at how powerful her fingers were as her thumb caressed the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger. "Tonight, when the sun has set...I will tell you everything, show you everything." Her gaze assumed a wanton gleam and she added, "Let you feel, touch and taste _everything._ For now, let us sit in companionable silence and watch as day makes its way to night."

She then laid his palm on her exposed thigh. The man was startled by the satiny texture of her flesh and the incredible density of the muscle beneath. He began to gently caress her thigh and then his dreamy gaze slid to the road that led into the forest, totally unconscious of the fact that he had stepped out of the world and into the realm of its creator.

Aionios, who had once been called Islena in a life long ago effaced from memory, returned her gaze to the stone bridge, beneath which meandered a river that had flowed for centuries beyond counting...and would continue to flow until the fallible goddess found eternal peace in sleep.

**Islena Doraux tale has reached its conclusion, but the Antiquated World's future is yet to be decided. The tale of its fate, and the fates of all of the characters who have occupied the pages of the Journey series, will be resolved in** _Wake of the ShadowCaster_ **...coming somewhere in the future. It is important to note that this thread will follow the weave of '** _The Enduring Sorrow'_ **ending.**

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

(In order of appearance)

Islena Doraux: Daughter of the Tempest and one of three Ascendant Souls of eternal conflict.

Artumas: Champion of Light, deposed king of Emercia and one of three Ascendant Souls of eternal conflict.

Lorio: Lamish immortal, hybrid Morticant, mother of Brannok Dur, quest member.

Sormias: A Golgar...a species of flying sentient being, quest member.

Otaru Ree: Deity with the dominion over the Land of Shades, Queen of Purgatory, guardian of Brannok Dur.

Gillian: Jerhia master swordsman, quest member.

Arminda: Jerhia Soldier and eventually, Tier Marshal, quest member.

Muragren: Former Fairmarch academic, slave in the mines of Redia.

Ynathreen: Daughter of Ghordrian, future Queen of Redia, Clan Chief of Elderspire.

Sygeanor: Half-Ulgak, powerful telepath.

Margarus: Jerhia Captain and Adjutant to Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc.

Cauldanys: Jerhia scout attached to Maroc's Redian Expeditionary Force.

Maroc: Maximum Tier Marshal of Jerhia.

Kevlan: A Metocan Adept in service to the Inner Circle.

Tormal: Cavalry Commander in the Emercian Army.

Maktir: Elder of Natzurdan.

Agraria: A past incarnation of the Daughter of the Tempest.

Guinevere: A past incarnation of the Daughter of the Tempest.

Myrhia: Mother of Iniquity, Queen of Emercia, one of the three Ascendant Souls of eternal conflict.

Adriatus: Commander of Myrhia's conventional Emercian army in the west.

Baldasoran: Figurative commander of Myrhia's mercenary forces in the west.

Ben Richards: Husband of Islena, father of Donald and Allan.

Donald: Oldest son of Islena and Ben.

The Shadow Incarnation: A mysterious source of internal discord in Islena.

Mascius: Metocan Scholar and advisor to Inos.

Inos: Grand Mage of Metocan.

Tokizar: Member of the Metocan Inner Circle.

Jerrod: Member of the Metocan Inner Circle.

Sybian: First Scout in the Jerhia military.

Morgana (Morgan Le Fay): Past incarnation of the Mother of Iniquity.

Allan: youngest son of Islena and Ben.

Ghordrian: Ynathreen's father, former Clan Chief of Elderspire.

Dendarin: First Scout in the Jerhia military.

Ynathor: Clan Chief of Idernesan

Satheer: wife of Ghordrian, mother of Ynathreen.

Frydryck: patriarch of one of the Redian houses in Elderspire.

Eldryc: oldest son of Frydryck.

Byragore: middle son of Frydryck.

Frydan: youngest son of Frydryck.

Esuruban: Captain of Artumas' personal guard, friend of Lorio.

Ken Larkin: Ben Richards' supervisor at Ben's place of employment.

Faudrel: Cart driver in Fairmarch.

Persarin Gaudir: Captain of a caravan escort, former Captain in the Fairmarch military.

Frenek: A Sergeant in King Artumas' personal guard.

Randranis: A member of King Artumas' personal guard.

Nazmara: Stealth Ranger...member of the Sisters of Esotaria assigned to monitor events in Nalosan.

The Sisters of Esotaria: An exclusively female order devoted to worship of the Goddess, Gyzarayne and the protection and elevation of women in the antiquated world.

Gyzarayne: A goddess with dominion over all matter pertaining to women.

Karosyn: Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria...charged with the rearing and education of the order's Ascentrix.

Sandalayne: First Stealth Ranger of the Sisters of Esotaria.

Lyndsyn: First Battle Mage of the Sisters of Esotaria.

Lissom: Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria...chosen by Gyzarayne to serve as her emissary in the mortal world.

Trincher: Proprietor of an Inn in Wraith's Hollow.

Krysmira: A master smith attached to the Jerhia Military in Othgol.

Gliber: Highwayman in Fairmarch.

Tremal: Highwayman in Fairmarch, Sygeanor's retainer.

Isrim: Highwayman in Fairmarch, Sygeanor's retainer.

Estold: Highwayman in Fairmarch, Sygeanor's retainer.

Ephirya: An argent Golgar who slumbered in the onyx tower of Perdwick until awoken by Sormias, Princess of the forgotten kingdom of Minastros (now the Blighted Lands).

Yrildretch: Ancient Guardian of the Orb of Metocan...also known as the Mother Guide.

Naryima: Rogue Stealth Ranger of the Sister of Esotaria...operating in Dizar Kor.

Mirinair: Wife of Frydryck.

Iryam Breen: Proprietor of the Cleaved Skull...a disreputable ale house in Dizar Kor.

Issidris Il: A retainer of the Sisters of Esotaria.

\----------: The nameless Goddess, Mother of Natzurdan.

Cynthia: The new love interest of Benjamin Richards Circa seven years after Islena's disappearance.

