So when Andovissy handed her a pamphlet that amounted to 'go and poke the corpse of a Montaigne and see what scurries out from under him,' she gritted her teeth, smiled politely, and cursed the Owl repeatedly and loudly in private. Add into this she had to trek across the entire continent, dust off her rusty Montaigne lingual skills, and come up with a reasonable cover without a speck of help, and she was borderline sociopathic by the time she put her feet next to the body.

Tasya, one of the Owl's best agents, was sent to look about and see what she could find. She knew a brush-off when she smelled it. Andovissy knew Gwen Brooks was abroad in Eisen, and Tasya would not miss the opportunity to meet her old rival. In the interest of keeping positive relations with their new friendship with TSB, Andovissy had sent her on a fool's errand to keep her out of trouble.

"Claude Renoit," she said, comparing his pale, deathly face to the photo taken of him by the mental institution when he was admitted. In truth, he didnt look very different, on a slab before her or backed up against a snowy white wall in the photo. His chin was held a little higher in the morgue, probably due to the lack of pillow for his head to rest on. In the photo, he appeared to be looking at something beyond the camera.

Closing the folder and setting it down on a flattop next to her, she pulled a hand into a powdered rubber glove and pulled the sheet back. As a veteran of the Owl's darker services and standing on the very end of the Staredown, Tasya had seen some very ugly injuries. Claude's looked brutal. Apparently, he was stabbed through the chest multiple times. Anyone looking at him could tell you that.

An amateur coroner could tell you that this was an unusual stabbing, however. Most stabbings are impassioned attacks, generally improvised. The assailant grabs the victim and puts the knife in a very bad place as quickly as possible. Generally such attacks are localized, the stabbing mostly occuring in one area. The piercings Claude suffered were spread out, implying a plan with some premeditation.

A good coroner would also point out the Claude was not drugged there were the tell-tale signs of a struggle all over him, slightly purpled bruises indicating blunt trauma on his stomach and face, and a certain wedging shape to the wounds that said Claude writhed as he was killed. This all suggested someone who was seriously mentally disturbed in the first place, and had a vendetta of great gravity against Claude as well.

An expert coroner would mention that whoever did this was seated on Claude when they did it, explaining the bruises on stomach and hips. Whats more, they were possessed of phenomenal strength, as every blow was certain, fast, and broke through bone as quickly as skin. He would also say that there were two stabbing weapons, one slightly thicker than the other, as evidenced by one set of punctures remaining in one variance of sizes and a second set of another variance. He'd also remark that the stabbing weapons were very unusual, as despite the strength with which they were driven, not a single speck of them remained in Claude's body or bloodstream, nor in his bed.

Altogether a very odd occurrence. The local police devoted little effort to the investigation, it was curious, given that the murderer entered a closed compound fifteen kilometers from any other buildings without leaving a single fingerprint, disturbing a single mote of dust in the hallways, or even opening a door, or at least, if he did, he was ridiculously good about covering his tracks. They had nothing to go on, so it was filed away as a possible Unexplainable Mystery for the State of the Coast show of the same name. In addition, solving the murder of a mental patient with no real life expectancy outside of the walls of the sanitarium was not a high priority.

She double checked that last part once she took the glove off. He was admitted two years ago, his parents concerned over continuing hallucinations and delusions accompanied by paranoia. His occasional disappearences, where he claimed to be in another world, caused many to wonder if he had some form of autism. He showed no sign of improving after being admitted, although his paroxysms disappeared.

His deliriums decreased sharply a month ago, where he began to become more lucid and began interacting with the doctors and other patients around him. He began eating more regularly, recognizing written words, and even held several conversations, wherein he talked about his new friend who only comes to visit him at night and sings to him in Avaloni and Eisen. When asked what the songs were about, he sang a portion of one, in perfectly accented Avaloni, which one of the doctors looked up. It was "The Fair Lady of Tevarre," a song from 17^th century Inismore, reputedly from a Inish sailor to his love in Montaigne. Claudes explanation matched the information found by the doctor.

What made things worse was that Claude didn't speak any Avalon. As she was informed in summary by a sheet underneath the reports compiled by the Owls intelligence, instances of anyone learning a language while suffering from any form of insanity, was completely undocumented. No one even had the opportunity to teach him Avaloni before or after his insanity set in. Tasya was busy admiring the investigators thoroughness when she found a page of photocopied notes taken from one of the doctors on staff, a Dr. Laconte.

The portion circled for her edification was a handful of notes scribbled in the margin.

Increased lucidity with no outside stimulus

Greater correlation between stories

Social improvement occurring concordantly? 26-2 and 5-3

All signs of psychosis absent abruptly

'Norda' is an alias?

Norda. That was something new. Hunkering down on the flattop, Tasya reviewed the folder again, looking for any mention of Norda. She was mentioned, towards the ends of the records regarding observations of Claude. He asserted quite ardently that Norda was the friend who came to see him at night, and that she was very gentle and calmed him down by talking to him. She always held him very gently and told him that everything was going to be all right, and that she knew how he felt. She promised that she would take care of him and try to make him happy. Allegedly, she slew the monster that was hunting Claude. The first mention of her came alongside Claude's sudden improvement, shortly before the first of Tertius.

Hmmm, Tasya thought. That certainly seems possible, but still the question is why? Why? Why would anyone want to kill a nineteen year-old boy in his cell in a sanitarium? Time to speak to this Dr. Laconte.

There was more, but Alec decided that hearing it was not a top priority. Scrubbing his face with hand still sore from hanging onto the back of a train for almost a whole day, Alec decided that a shower was going to be his new best friend. A long, hot one, involving soap, shampoo, and conditioner to take care of the sweaty, oily rag atop his brow.

Carolina had the decency to show herself out quickly, for which he was thankful. He considered calling the soachers, but how seriously were police going to take Yes, tall, gorgeous woman, brown curls, likes to shapeshift a lot, so be on the lookout for a petite blonde as well? Disgusted with his situation, he stuck himself under a blast of hot water and buried himself in the mindless task of freshening up.

He was running a comb through his hair when he noticed that the air outside the window of his bathroom looked odd. Reaching up a hand, he scraped the condensation off the glass to see heat variance warbling his view of the outside. Looking down, he saw its source.

There was bonfire going on in his backyard.

He dashed into his bedroom, looking for trousers of any sort so that he could get outside and get a better look at what was happening.

There wasn't a single article of clothing in house, as a thorough search clad in a towel about his waist turned up in another minute.

Gritting his teeth and hunting for the directory, Alec reconsidered calling the police. Until he caught sight of Carolina through another window holding the cut telephone wire in one hand and slinging a pair of pinking shears over her shoulder. Flatly astounded, he marched into his backyard, staring at the inferno.

"Why are you burning my clothes?" Alec demanded, slightly but not completely impressed by the one-meter-tall men busy hurling the last few bits of clothing onto the fire.

"The Seelie Court finds them unacceptable!" Carolina shouted over the roaring of the flames. "So we're getting you new ones! They should be arriving here any minute!"

"Did it occur to you that perhaps a fire of this size might be slightly illegal, not to mention unsafe?"

"Why should it be illegal to burn anything?" Carolina wondered, truly taken aback by his suggestion.

"Oh, I don't know," Alec answered. "It's probably to prevent silly situations like this."

"It is rather daft, if you take a step back and look at it."

"Rather?" Alec blurted. "Is it possible for me to get an estimate for how many more times you're going to do something freakishly bizarre to me before my life ends?"

"I'm sorry, couldn't even guess," she returned. "It takes some doing to make the Seelie happy."

"Is the other chap suffering as much as I am?" Alec asked, wondering how he was going to explain this, and how much the damages to his lawn would cost.

"Who, Jack? At least as much!"

Catrice started, completely unready for the appearance of the Crescent man. Recovering herself and forcing her hand away from her chest, she sucked in a breath of air and said "You startled me."

"My apologies, Captain. You missed dinner, so Father Abdullah sent me with something for you."

Catrices brow furrowed. I missed dinner? she repeated mentally, pivoting in her chair to look at the clock on the wall. Twenty-one hundred hours! she nearly exclaimed. Have I been reading for four hours? Leafing through the book she was just in, she believed it. "Thank you. I got lost reading."

"Apparently," Haroun grinned, showing a row of white teeth. "What were you reading?"

"Some theological discussions by scholars," Catrice replied, holding the small but thick volume up for his edification. "It's drier that the weather, but very interesting."

"Ah. Yes, my people can be passionate even in their analysis. If I'm not prying, why?"

"I'm reading it?" He nodded. "I heard something a while ago. Something about a prophecy." She glanced up at Haroun again and was surprised when his knees locked in place and he seemed to be standing against a storm. "I was trying to find the prophecy and perhaps learn something about local superstitions regarding that sort of anything. I don't want to offend anyone."

Haroun put on a disarming smile quickly and said "Of course, Captain. While we may not look it, our people treat prophecy the same way yours do." He set down the plate on her desk. "The old adage 'People who have nothing cling to faith tightly' is not always true."

"It seems everyone has a piece of wisdom for me this week," Catrice observed, letting her fingers slip from the book. It closed noiselessly. She picked up the plate and shovelled a pile of couscous into her mouth. "Father Abdullah remarked that my own common sense is held as great wisdom here in Kardobbia."

"A good trait. Father Abdullah is always ready to recognize wisdom. It is his business, one might say."

"Indeed."

"Where did you hear about the prophecy from?"

"I don't remember. I was thinking about that myself. I just had an urge to find out about something today." She laughed. "Perhaps a bit too strongly. I've missed dinner."

"Yes, one might say that." He paused, and his smile disappeared. "Father Abdullah was not . . . unkind to you, was he?"

Catrice scratched at her chin with the tines of her fork. "No. Why?" She took another bite.

"Some of the clerics of our faith can be rather . . . fanatical. Only the worst raise their hands, but others can be quite aggressive."

"He just talked to me, that is all. About the moon, oddly enough."

"That is good to hear. I'm glad your stay in Kardobbia is going well. I hear the work is already ahead of schedule."

Catrice rolled her eyes. "And at our current rate were going to wind up over budget," she grumbled. "You must take the good with the bad, apparently."

"At least we are not both over budget and behind schedule," Haroun supplied, brightening again. "I'm sure we will find a way to fix our problems. Have faith, Captain. The Prophet watches us."

"I'm sure he does."

<(_-|-_)>

Eliza was completely ambivalent towards the sound of a sonar bell. When she was a green 22, the sound had irritated her. That was the last time she was in a submersible, ten years ago. She'd told her co-pilot at the time, Neil, how much it annoyed her. It was not until she entered the twenty-first topic about the vehicle that bothered her that he cleared his throat loudly, which was Neil's way of saying "Keep your teeth together woman, I'm trying to think." Since then, Eliza made a silent prayer every time the straws were drawn for an underwater jaunt.

Now, however, Neil was not with her, and she only had to worry about grating on the nerves of her cameraman, Christopher Daly. Chris she had only heard of prior to today, he was a cameraman of no special skills, accomplishments or temperament. Thus, she wondered a bit why Richard had chose him as one of the cameramen.

The submersible was a claustrophobe's nightmare, meant only for brief foray into the undersea world. While the air tanks and power were acceptable for an eight hour journey, the manufacturer recommended only five, if possible. Which was all right; Amaretta estimated they would be done in a scanty three.

The pilot (Eliza) did not so much sit as lay back in the odd reclining chair at the nose of the vessel, underneath a dome that appeared to be glass webbed with steel but was, in fact, plastic reinforced with a titanium alloy. The reinforcement was necessary given the size of the viewing bubble, which allowed her to see in nearly a 180 degree arc if she turned her head. The lion's share of the bubble, which was above her, contained a special track and mount for the camera Chris would be using. He would be seated above her and slightly back, which was not to Richards preference (as it would often drag the nose of the vessel through pans) but was necessary for the vehicles design.

DING.

Per the Ruota's instructions, the vessel was outfitted with manipulator arms of quality necessary for the retrieval of the item they were searching for. Originally designed for the Ussuran space program prior to the UURA's collapse, the arms were clumsy but reliable. The unfortunately hurried cobbling together of the craft left the controls for the arms looking very out of place at the position at Elizas left.

She didn't notice it, however, as she was busy watching the altimeter as the submersible plunged down into the balmy waters of the Forbidden Sea.

"I've never been in a submarine before," Chris commented, busy testing the digital camera in its mounting. "Much less such a little one."

"It's not as fun as it sounds," Eliza replied. "There's a great deal of waiting involved."

DING.

"I assumed as much, Mrs. Wayfare."

"Please, Chris, you can call me Eliza. Do not feel constrained simply because I am Richard's wife."

"I'm afraid there isn't much good telling me that," he said, laughing. "I'll be walking on eggshells either way. I wouldn't want to get myself in trouble by being disrespectful."

"I have a thick skin, Chris. I spent eight years of my life with sailors. I doubt there is anything you can say that will offend me."

DING.

But that was the end of their conversation for the rest of the dive. A steady trail of carbon dioxide bubbles interspersed with ballast marked their descent. After passing two hundred meters, the radio aboard chirped alive with sprite and crisp voice. "How was the water, Liza? Should I come for a swim?"

Eliza smiled. "Save the skinny-dipping for later, Rory, we don't want to horrify any viewers. The temperature is a very mild fifty degrees."

"Fifty degrees? At two hundred meters? Ammy, where did you get those instruments?" There was a moment of silence. "Right, Ammy says that this part of the ocean is known for such oddities. What's the pressure?"

"Above normal."

DING.

"Well, the madness begins. I'll talk to you again at the bottom."

<(_-|-_)>

"Hmm?" Bonifacius Vehl looked up from a stack of papers strewn about his desk. "Jorn? What are you doing here?"

Jorn crossed the space between the door and the desk quickly, sitting across from his father. He reached into his jackets pocket and fished out his cellphone and pushed it across the desk so that his father could see it. "Look who's called me today."

A bit confused, Vehl reached down and picked up his son's phone, and began cycling through the caller ID. "These are all--"

"People who have been trying to get a hold of you," Jorn finished. "Michel told me you haven't answered your phone in three days. Manny is the only one home most of the time, and he's been getting the same thing at the house. Why aren't you answering your phone?"

Vehl didn't answer for a moment, instead staring at his son, debating mentally. "I want you to keep sitting, Jorn. What I have to tell you may be a little shocking." Jorn slid back after he retrieved his phone. "Four days ago I made a deal with a woman by the name of Tadicia Corelli. She's a member of the Ruota. A prominent one at that. She wanted to make a deal."

Jorns brow furrowed as his suspicions appeared. "Something illegal? Are we in trouble?"

"No, nothing of the sort, actually. You might say it was of a humanitarian nature. Her daughter is missing. Has been for three months now. She didn't have any reliable leads on where until a few days ago. Some kind of diplomatic tangle prevents her from doing anthing about it, but my hands are not as tied. In exchange for certain considerations, I return her daughter to her."

Jorn stared back at his father. He scrubbed a tenative hand through his short, blond hair. "I'm not some wide-eyed guilder-clapper, father," he said steadily. "What's the truth?"

Vehl inhaled, then sighed, perhaps a bit melodramatically. "You're a good read, son, I'll have to remember not to try and lie to you." He leaned back. "I told you half the truth."

"Of course."

"Yes, 'of course' of course. Corelli's daughter is lost, and she does want me to find her. She can't do anything about it because such an effort is doomed to failure. She called me to see if I could assist. Frankly, Artidenot is better at this sort of thing, but I suspect she wants her daughter back with a gentler ride. I agreed to find her daughter in exchange for a service." Jorn continued his stare. "Corelli cannot get her own daughter because the fates will not permit it."

"Are you telling me--"

"Yes. Based on a Sorte card reading, she had determined that she cannot find her daughter, and I can."

"And this ties into you not answering the phone for your closest friends and business partners, how?"

Vehls eyes fell to the desk. "I don't have friends, Jorn. I have allies."

"Is this about your depression?"

Vehls head snapped up. "How?" In reply to this, Jorn held up his cellphone, the caller ID now displaying the office number of Vehl's therapist. Vehl's face fell. "Yes, I suppose he would be able to tell you. Yes, it is related. I have, however, seen to my psycological problem by the Ruota's assistance. It will no longer be an issue."

"You're doing it again."

Vehl sighed. "I am not cured yet, but I will be, soon. Patience, Jorn."

"Patience? My father is falling apart at the seams because of something I can't see, and I come to ask him what's going on and he answers with a delusional fantasy! What am I supposed to be patient for? Where's this grand answer?"

"Jorn"

"Never mind. I'm not sure I want to know. I need time to think." With no further ceremony, he conveyed himself out the door and slammed it shut.

Vehl winced at the impact. In retrospect, I suppose he is right. This would seem madness to virtually everyone. He looked down at his papers. They were his notes and musings on Donata and her disappearence.

DONATA CORELLI

Future Centrara

Mother? Consultant

Father? Chief of Operations at manufacturing plant

Trained as Ruota agent

ABDUCTION

3 months ago (at or around Primus 1, 2000)

Efficient and professional (no witnesses)

Numa?

HIGHLAND MARCHES

Travelled there secretly (taken?)

2 young men (malefactors? benefactors?)

MacGowan (probable last name of 2YM)

Avoid government involvement

I must be missing something, Vehl thought. Who would take her? Not anyone with any brains, if they knew she was to be Centrara. He added another note to the Abduction heading. They've offended the Ruota. Not wise. Yet there are all the earmarks of a competent kidnapping here. Still, no ransom proposed by the abductors. Hmm. The Highlands. Why is she there?

Vehls eyes fell to one of his desk drawers. Dash it. I haven't the smallest clue as to why this happened. Time to catch a fox.

<(_-|-_)>

To: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

CC:

Subject: World Exclusive! And I got it!

Attachments: montage.jpg

Did you hear about the shoot out on a commercial boat in the Forbidden Sea? That was the one I was on for the story about international trade. I got almost a full roll of pictures of the shootout between the pirates and the Vodacce navy. I'm sending the best as an attachment.

Louis, Two of Diamonds

From: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

To: Louis Chelot chelot4@teljak.com

CC:

Subject: RE: World Exclusive! And I got it!

> I'm sending the best as an attachment.

Three Prophets, Louis! Did actually look at these before you sent them? The man in the lower right hand picture looks like a modern-day Reis.

René the Joker

From: Louis Chelot chelot4@teljak.com

To: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

CC:

Subject: RE: World Exclusive! And I got it!

> The man in the lower right hand picture looks like a modern-day Reis.

Reis? Who's Reis?

Louis, Two of Diamonds

From: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

To: Louis Chelot chelot4@teljak.com

CC:

Subject: RE: World Exclusive! And I got it!

> Reis? Whos Reis?

Theus you're thick. Reis, seven-foot tall monster, killed about 5,000 people, most famous pirate in history, executed in 1726 in Avalon, died screaming "I'll be back for all of you!" That Reis?

René the Joker

From: Louis Chelot chelot4@teljak.com

To: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

CC:

Subject: RE: World Exclusive! And I got it!

> That Reis?

Oh, him. I thought you meant someone else. And that's not a man, that's a woman. She's the one who cracked my jaw in twain and got me stuck in this lovely hospital where no one speaks any Montaigne, so I have to gesture rudely to say I need to go to the bathroom.

Louis, Two of Diamonds

From: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

To: Louis Chelot chelot4@teljak.com

CC:

Subject: RE: World Exclusive! And I got it!

> Oh, him. I thought you meant someone else.

You're an imbecile. :)

> and got me stuck in this lovely hospital

So thats where you've been! The newspaper keeps calling here, wondering where you are. Now I have something to tell them, thank you so very much. Should I forward those pictures to the newspaper?

René the Joker

From: Louis Chelot chelot4@teljak.com

To: René Danois geffen_biss@fortray.net

CC:

Subject: RE: World Exclusive! And I got it!

> Should I forward those pictures to the newspaper?

Of course.

Louis, Two of Diamonds

<(_-|-_)>

The Primadon of Artidenot regarded Kramer in confusion for a moment, then chuckled. "A legitimate question. Have you ever played chess, Signore Kramer?"

"Not since I was very young," Ernst admitted.

"Good man. I loathe chess," Trilliani said, closing his laptop and pushing it aside to the coffee table. "Far too often, I see would-be puppet masters, real and dramatic, use chess as a metaphor for human relations both legal and extralegal." Trilliani leaned back, resting his square, stubbly jaw in the L-shape between his thumb and index finger of his right hand. "Which makes as much sense as comparing how done a steak is to the degree of unrest in the Crescent block. No, chess is a personal irritation of mine, and is probably the reason why I'm so bad at it." He sighed, a halcyon smile crossing his face. "The man who wrote RIGHT TO RULE, Antonio Bernoulli, was of a similar opinion to me. How many squares are there on a chessboard?"

Ernst thought a moment. "Sixty-four."

"I would contest and say sixty-six."

Ernst ran over the math in his head again. Eight rows by eight columns was sixty-four. "I don't understand."

"Of course you dont. Let me explain further. What happens if a pawn reaches the rearmost rank?"

"A pawn? He can becomes a different piece."

"And where do these pieces come from?"

Ernst hoped this was a riddle. "Outside the game?"

"Exactly. There is more to the game than the 32 pieces, the sixty-four squares, and the two people trying to outwit one another. Too many people focus on that last aspect, two people trying to win. When you play chess against a champion, he tries to predict you and come with every possible countermove he can against your strategy. He attempts to build a wall around you."

"Which Bernoulli warns against, because it is foolish."

"Precisely. Bernoulli shared no illusions that the common folk perpetuate, that virtue and competence are enough to carry the day. True, they count for much, but they are not necessary, nor can they triumph alone if the enemy is prepared."

"Treachery and duplicity?"

"Exactly. If you were to play chess against a champion, he would cut you off, surround you, and lock the door of your cage shut. How often has that happened on the battlefield in Theah's history? How often has the king been locked in a cage because he was surrounded when the enemy drew him out?"

"Never that I know of."

"Exactly. It isn't used in real life because it doesn't work." Trilliani cracked his knuckles. "If you were to play chess against me, I would lead you on a merry chase all over the board until I killed you with the three pawns I slipped past your rooks and bishops and turned into queens."

"But you said you were terrible at chess."

"I did. That's because there is little room for misdirection on a chessboard. All the pieces can be seen. How often, in the real world, can every piece be seen, its capabilities measured?"

"Not very often."

"In global stadiums such as the one I fight in, the answer is never. So, to answer your question, I read RIGHT TO RULE because it was written by an intelligent man with a low tolerance for rational logic and faith, two utterly useless sentiments in the arena of politics."

"Are not logic and faith opposites?" Kramer asked. "That is, I mean--"

"I know what you mean. And, unfortunately, you have demonstrated what I just mentioned. Understand, Herr Kramer, there is no black and no white, only shades of grey. It is not possible to operate with both logic and faith, so it must also not be possible to work without both. I suggest neither, merely a moderation of both, though light on the faith, if at all possible."

Kramer was silent for a moment. "You are by far the most intelligent man I have met."

"And you are the most curious I have met," Trilliani smiled.

<(_-|-_)>

"I think the artist was more concerned about producing an impressive visage than an accurate one," Krieg guessed. "It is not as though you were available to look at."

"True," Styrke replied. "It is forgivable. I am the Rune of Strength." He turned another page. "Look at you." He held the book up again for Gregor's edification.

"An axe with heads at both ends?" Kriegs nose wrinkled at the thought. "How much mead did that idiot of an artist swill before depicting us?"

There was a sharp sucking sound, and the head in Schuyler's lap came up abruptly, knocking the book from his hands. "Styrke!" she said, looking around wildly. "Sinne! I--" She stopped on Schuyler's face, glad to recognize something familiar. "Where . . . what . . . ?"

"We have returned," Styrke said simply. "You are Sinne, you are Alene. You are both now. Like I and Schuyler, like Gregor and Krieg."

She struggled to her feet, standing amidst the piles of computer manuals and milk crates. "How can this be? I was in . . . "

"We all were," Gregor supplied. "That is what Styrke and I suspect, that once we all reached the underworld, we could be reborn, as through Reise's prophecy."

"Reise?" Alene said, disgust evident. "That transient! He was a pretender!"

"Yet he spoke the truth on that day. For here we stand, ourselves and yet merged with these young folk of this time."

Schuyler raised a hand and opened it, palm out, so that Sinne could see. "I fulfilled the prophecy. 'Common blood shed in common fury shall birth uncommon heroes from beneath the glittering arc.' See the wound." And she did, because it was difficult to avert her eyes. The bare flesh of Styrke's hand glowed with a white radiance where the beer can had cut him, a crude but identifiable set of markings that spelled out his Rune. "Through me we live again." The odd glow cast his Rune across her face in the failing light of the sunset.

Alene's chest heaved for long moments, as her breathing returned back to normal. "But why?"

"We just discussed this as well. We believe we have returned to face the Great Wyrm again."

"Again? But we destroyed him!"

"What was destroyed may yet live again. We ourselves are proof of that. The serpent is smaller this time, but he coils about every house in Vestenmannvnjar." Schuyler held up the mark of Vehl Industries.

"How shall we face such an enemy as him?" Sinne demanded.

"We have friends," Styrke said, nodding towards the kitchen, where the fourth of the numbers chattered away at the phone, speaking with her allies. "Once we find a suitable vessel for one of us with better oratory skills, we will rally the people against Vehl and his dragon and lay him low."

"I ask again, how? I can barely remember who I am, and I am afraid to take two steps for doing so would cause my soul to slip from my body. How can we lead the people as their jarls again?"

"It is by names that we became Runes, and it is by names that we shall become heroes again. I have been looking through this book, searching for old names that we may take and in so doing help tighten ourdefinitionsof ourselves. Because I am the steed on which the peoples vengeance will ride, I have chosen to call myself after one of the great steeds, Skirnir."

It was odd to think of a silence being flattened, but that is precisely what happened. Schuyler's teeth clacked together as a sudden force converged on him, pressing down on his skin and yet pressing outwards from his muscles to seem to squeeze him together more tightly. The white glow of his hand poured itself out of his mouth and eyes as his spine wrenched straight. A low hum shook the walls of the apartment for the crest of a second, and then, just as suddenly as it began, the light halted and Skirnir sank back down to his position on the couch.

Scooping a handful of his hair from his eyes, Skirnir looked at his friends through one set of eyes rather than the one and a half from a few moments ago. "It is done. I am not Schuyler or Styrke any longer. I am Skirnir. The rebirth is done, I am one." He looked at his hand, and the glow was gone, scarred over instantly with puckering pink flesh.

Krieg and Alene's heads nearly collided as they both lunged for the book.

Jack pulled a chair out for Dame Barcleigh, which she seemed eager to take for its solidity (obvious be cause she rocked in slightly to make certain it was firm). He then sat himself down, straightened his tie, and said "Good evening, Your Highness."

The Grey Queen smiled. "Good evening Sir Van Huizen, Dame Barcleigh."

"I apologize for our tardiness," Jack said, shooting a hooded glance at Barcleigh, "but I wasn't informed this was a formal affair."

"Your tardiness is excusable; yea, I would be hypocritical if I did not," the Grey Queen said. "I arrived just a few minutes before you did."

"Well, then, I'm glad to see we havent kept you waiting. The Lady Barcleigh tells me this is a progress report of some kind?"

"Yes, it is, among a few other things. My primary concern is how you are adapting to your new, enlightened state."

"It's been choppy waters, but I think the help is getting broken in." Another glance at Barcleigh.

"I am glad to hear it. I was afraid I'd be burdening you with too much too soon, if appears my doubts were unfounded. Tell me, in your own words, how goes your training?"

Jack pursed his lips, then said "I cant say with any expertise, but I think I'm doing well, given that two weeks ago I had no idea magic even existed."

The Grey Queen nodded. "Ah. Dame Barcleigh also tells me that shes been telling you more of your duties as well, and about the Seelie Champion. Are you familiar with him?"

"I've been told of him, but I've gotten no name yet."

"Alexander Westin."

"That sounds familiar. Have I met him?"

"He's #43 for the Luthon Lions."

"Wait a minute!" Jack said, leaning back and reaching up a hand to stroke his chin. "Was he that bloke who disappeared a week ago, then set up that huge party near Channel Beach?"

"The same. An odd side effect of his training, bizarrely enough."

"Can I have his training program instead?" Jack joked. "I haven't had any parties yet."

The Grey Queen opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. She contemplated for a moment, then said "Yes."

Jack looked baffled. Appropriate, since he was baffled. "Come again? Were doing something different now?"

"Yes again. I've decided that perhaps the two of you should switch your regimens for the time being. Alec is getting a little frustrated with his and you're getting a little staid in yours. I think it best that we change things up a bit. Change is good, you know."

"What's going to change?"

"Ah, ah, ah, Sir Van Huizen," The Grey Queen said, waving a finger at him. "That would be telling. Your lessons will continue, but you're going to have a few other things to overcome."

"Like what?"

"You shall see when they come. In the mean time, I'd like your instructors opinion of your progress. Dame Barcleigh?"

"The man is a rogue!" Barcleigh blurted. "A ruffian! A scoundrel! Every time I make a concession for his half-mortal ancestry he rounds on me as though I expect him to move mountains! He threatened my life on the way here on multiple occasions, and promised worse if I did not sell my sense of dignity into perdition with concessions to his sluggish, idiotic demands!"

The Grey Queen listened calmly and immovably through the tirade, and when it was finished. "I believe I asked you about his progress as a sorcerer, Dame Barcleigh, not about your relationship as teacher and student."

Jack could almost see Barcleigh mentally counting to ten before replying "He proceeds with astonishing speed and competency for a mortal, your highness, though his consistency is in dire need of reinforcement."

"Is that all?"

"That is the bulk of my report, yes."

"Well, let us save the rest for another time. Jack has an excellent meal ahead of him and a great deal to worry about come three days from now."

<(_-|-_)>

Lugh hopped down the last two steps and motioned for his mother to follow him into another room. Once they were aside, in the kitchen, he whispered "He and Donata are in his room. She's looking at his drawings."

Molly gave a small smile of victory, replying "Even better. Leave them be."

"Oh, I did," Lugh nodded. "With any luck--"

Peter MacGowan cleared his throat with such volume that Lugh fell silent. His father was currently watching the news report, leaning back in his easy chair, chin planted firmly in the hand not holding the remote. "I'll be no party to conspiracy, but if you two are going to giggle like titmice, best do it outside of Graham's earshot. If I can hear ye call dinner from the yard, they can hear ye from the kitchen."

Since he was not looking at them, Molly felt safe in a gesture of dismissal that would not provoke further argument. "Come, Lugh, let's get ourselves outside."

A moment later, they were standing in front of the house in failing light, watching the last of the suns rays disappear. "So it's going well?"

"As well as can be expected," Lugh ventured, pausing. "It is Graham. She's got a few stone walls to kick down, but after me pep talk, I think she's willing to at least try."

"Lugh, there's something else I've been meaning to talk to ye about."

The concerned look on her face worried Lugh. "And that is?"

"The sword," she said. "I don't like it. Not a bit. Graham seems to have taken a shining to it. I was wondering . . . " She hesitated. "I was wondering if ye could convince him to leave it here."

"What, when he leaves for Montaigne? Mum, that's three months off. I doubt he'd want to take the big ugly thing in the first place."

"I know, it sounds daft, but it would mean a lot. If he does want to take it, that is."

Lugh sighed, wishing he understood more. "All right, mum, if ye don't want him to, I'll try to talk sense into him."

"Thank you, Lugh." She turned to go back inside, but stopped. "Lugh, you dont think were pushing Graham at all, do you?"

"What, with school? Not at all. He's got real potential, mum, if he could just--"

"No, I mean with Donny." Apparently, Donata had fallen under the umbrella of people Molly MacGowan instantly assigns nicknames to.

"Mum, I'd be worried if we weren't. Graham lives in a shell sometimes." Like me, Lugh thought, but there's no party going on in his. "He needs to be kicked out of it. This Donata girl could be a great deal of good for him. Besides, how far could it possibly go in one day?"

<(_-|-_)>