Terjal stood behind Aiya and smoothed his hands from her shoulders to her hips as she bent slightly to study a map stretched upon a table. They were in Cloudreach's Great Hall now--the very chamber in which they'd all first gathered to plan the quest upon returning from Honor's Start. It had seemed ages ago, Terjal marveled, when they knew so little about what they would eventually encounter.

Nor did Terjal suspect what he would eventually see revealed in Aiya's heart.

Unsure of the true duration of their rest at Cloudreach, Terjal had guessed that he and Aiya were now beginning their third day.

And it would have to be their last.

Terjal hugged Aiya tightly against him as if he were afraid some other force might suddenly snatch her from his grasp. He felt her slender body curve into his own as if to reassure him that she would remain firmly rooted in this plane.

Sensations were splintering in all directions within him like a child's pinwheel--feelings he'd never allowed entrance to his conscious mind. Yet, the longings for Aiya had always remained, nipping at the heels of his mind whenever he chanced to stare idly at the long dark hair of a new female pupil. Such brief, frivolous observations so annoyed him that he sometimes dismissed class early--an action he loathed to take, though necessary to maintain his objectivity in the face of possible embarrassment.

Now the very object of his endless yearning was before him, intently scrutinizing a map as his arms encircled her.

Without a word, Terjal released Aiya and slid into a scuffed chair at the farthest corner of the table so that he might study her. With his elbow crooked upon the table, thinly bearded chin wedged into the heel of his palm, Terjal watched Aiya with a bemused curve of smile. His eyes followed the thick rope of her hair as half of it twisted like a dark river over her left shoulder, the ends just grazing the edge of the table. She seemed to be unaware of his scrutiny--or perhaps she pretended not to notice. So very Aiya, Terjal thought as his smile grew wider.

Terjal thought of their last two nights. They'd moved to his own solar, sleeping in each other's arms, yet doing no more than that. Terjal felt a tautness pulling at every muscle in his body as he resisted the new desires he felt. Aiya was so close; he felt the curl of her sweet breath upon his cheek as they slept. Gods, how he wanted more! But they couldn't go any further--couldn't afford to squander any more energy.

Ah the bane of sorcery: imposed celibacy, Terjal thought as he continued to watch Aiya. In the last eight years he'd had only had one brief...liaison. He remembered now the female courtier he'd met at Honor's Start who'd resembled Aiya in a vaguely pretty way and had become beguiled by Terjal's conjuring acumen--and no doubt wanted to see if sorcery might somehow enhance the experience in the bedchamber. Needless to say, the encounter had been memorable only because of its rarity, and nothing more. From then on, whenever Terjal began to feel the thirst start in his loins he would begin to methodically erase it from his mind, for that was where such feelings truly originated he'd convinced himself. Sometimes it worked--and sometimes he was just miserable.

Aiya was now looking at him, and it was her turn to wear his bemused smile. "I hope you're thinking of the quickest route to the Grip." Playfully sarcastic.

Terjal blinked, snapping out of his deep reverie. He hadn't noticed that she'd been watching him while his gaze had drifted and his thoughts had turned inward. "Well, since it is you pouring over the map, I thought I'd leave the logistics to your discretion."

Aiya held out an upturned palm. "You may join me anyway. I need suggestions--as well as knowledge of the nasty creatures which might jump at us as we enter the Grip."

Terjal stood and took her hand, her smooth warmth nestling against the skin of his palm. "You're assuming that I've been to the Grip?"

Aiya's eyebrows rose for a moment in feigned surprise. "What? A master conjurer who's never been to the enchanted swamp? Hadn't you a Final Trial there once?"

"Well, just knowing of its existence is enough," Terjal said as he crossed his arms upon his chest. "And I've never taken a Final Trial to the Grip, no. Actually Darman is the one we should be consulting; what little I know of the Grip, I've learned from him." Terjal felt Aiya's fingernails drift across his shoulderblades and down his spine; he shivered slightly at the sudden touch. She's not going to make this easy for me, he thought as he mentally shook his head.

"When did Darman ever enter the Grip?"

"It's a long story--better to let him tell it. Let's just say that he and his band of mercenaries at the time were forced into their visit."

Aiya nodded absently, remembering something. "Speaking of Darman, how will we contact him?"

Terjal felt his heart leap again as he gazed at Aiya's concerned face. Her dark, curved eyebrows were tilted in a frown and her full lips were bent and slightly open, the pearly sheen of her teeth showing within their arch. She was wearing a tunic and breeches from Terjal's boyhood, old clothing that had languished in a trunk for a good twenty years or more.

After bathing away the caked blood that had marked their wounds, they'd both gone in search of unsoiled clothing. Finding a fresh robe and a clean pair of breeches for Terjal had been no problem; but as Aiya stood beside him, her own clothing in tatters, he remembered the heavy trunk at the back of his wardrobe. Aiya was only too glad to don the ancient garments, even though the sleeves of the undershirt bagged at the elbows whenever she straightened her arms.

Terjal cleared his throat. "Well, Darman should have located a healer for Strandholt and Arjas by now." Then, favoring Aiya with a warm smile, added, "But I'm glad you asked; I've got a new message spell to show you."

###

Aiya felt a softening deep in her heart as she saw the winking light of eagerness dart across Terjal's blue eyes. She was still amazed that she was able now to look directly into her former teacher's face, studying every detail: his large bean-shaped eyes--so big that his eyelids seemed to disappear whenever he looked up; the narrow, short nose above thin, yet well-defined lips. And his hair: shimmering dark red in layers falling nearly to his shoulders; and finally the light beard and mustache like brushstrokes above his lips and along his angular jaw.

Now she watched as Terjal drew a scrap of parchment from the inside of his robe. Aiya saw Terjal's slanted cursive writing on the other side as he held it in his right hand and waved it between them with the flourish of a street magician. "This note contains a message that will go directly to Darman. Now here is the interesting part," Terjal said as he pointed to a ring on the third finger of his right hand.

Terjal handed the note to Aiya and began to pull the ring from his finger. Aiya glanced quickly at the note. She smiled to herself as she regarded the writing upon the parchment: it was full of smears as if the sleeve of Terjal's robe had grazed it before the ink had had a chance to dry. Meticulous with details; unmindful of neatness--he hasn't changed, she thought to herself. Before Aiya finished reading it, Terjal plucked the note from her fingers and began to fold it again and again until it was no wider or thicker than a blade of grass.

Terjal, now holding the ring between thumb and forefinger, carefully tucked the tiny square of parchment into a hidden compartment set beneath a bulb of white crystal which had slanted backward like the lid of a teapot. Then, placing the ring in a metal bowl set upon the table, Terjal turned to Aiya and grinned boyishly. "Now watch the really interesting part of the spell: the miniature conflagration."

Suddenly a tiny spark burnished the air above the bowl as Terjal flicked a conjured flame from his fingertips. Soon the ring began to pulse, a glowing bellows, as the flame consumed it, the square of parchment inside crackling with the sound of snapped twigs.

Smoke twisted slowly into a grey braid above the metal bowl. Like a blind snake it carefully wound its way to an open window and drifted into the chilled air outside. Terjal and Aiya watched as the plume of smoke became a thin line in the distance and then was gone.

Aiya's gaze moved from the open window to the bowl upon the table. The fire had died away, but the ring hadn't melted, nor was it even blackened. She watched as Terjal tapped a vial of shimmering powder over the ring. The ring flared a bright white once before the powder disappeared from its surface. Aiya put her hand out to halt Terjal as he reached to pick up the ornament. "You mustn't touch it--the ring will still be hot."

Terjal shook his head, smiling as if he'd expected her to caution him. His fingers brushed past Aiya's hand, snatched the ring and slid it back upon his finger without a wince, demonstrating that he hadn't been harmed. "As you can see, the ring is back to its original temperature." He splayed his fingers to give Aiya a closer look. "I acquired it at Honor's Start last year. Lord Vaukmond had received the ring as a 'goodwill' gift from a conjurer visiting from Aldasia. You know the Weapon Master: he not only has little use for such adornment, but he has even less if they come from purveyors of magic. I have no use for rings myself--but I saw its potential and so accepted it. His Grace has some interesting castoffs now and then."

Aiya nodded, a reflective half smile tugging at a corner of her mouth. "Don't forget Lord Vaukmond's forswearing of anything that would adorn fingers specifically. He doesn't even like anyone serving in his court to wear rings, much less his guardsmen. He'll gladly regale anyone within earshot of tales of guardsmen getting their fingers torn off in battle because an elaborate ring got snagged on a horse's bridle, or an opponent's clothing or weapon!"

"And of course the Duke expects even a courtier or page to observe such restrictions: you never know when a full-scale battle might erupt in Court!"

Their laughter mingled like two burbling streams. Gradually their mirth ebbed into mutual sighs as Aiya caught the somber look in Terjal's eyes. She'd glimpsed that look before, beginning with her initial revelation of love--and possibly even before that. He's been battling these feelings of unrequited love for so long, Aiya thought sadly. How could I have ever known how miserable my shunning would make him?

Terjal reached out a hand to cradle Aiya's jaw in his palm and she closed her eyes. Leaning into his touch she felt the warmth of his caress breach her skin and travel directly to her heart. "Aiya," she heard him sigh as she opened her eyes to gaze upon him. "If only there were no longer any direspawns with their controlling, deviant spellcasters to pursue...I'd..." Terjal's voice trailed away as his eyes, quickly filling with the sheen sudden tears, turned his face toward the window.

Aiya felt the swell of tears behind her own eyes as she placed both her palms flat against Terjal's cheeks, drawing him close. With her thumbs she wiped away the moisture trailing from the inner corners of his eyes. "Yes, the eternal 'if only.' Just think: had it not been for this 'deviant spellcaster' and his pet direspawn we might never have revealed our true feelings to each other. Instead, we could have gone steadily toward our graves avoiding each other--or denying the emotions we carried ever existed. So, if I knew with certainty that I was doomed to die during this quest, and that I could trade this fate for a full life without having known of your love for me, I'd have preferred the early death."

Aiya saw Terjal's expression crumble into his emotion like a building without a scaffold as he drew her tightly into the curve of his arms. "Given the same choice," he whispered into her hair, "I would have chosen death as well."

###

They were eating their last meal at Cloudreach. Terjal knew that he and Aiya both could not stay any longer--their rest finally complete and their belts re-stocked with spell components. As Terjal worked a knife through a loaf of bread, he slid a quick gaze in Aiya's direction. She was staring absently at her plate, pretending to be absorbed in a small wedge of cheese which she turned over and over again with the tips of her fingers.

He knew she shared his own regret at leaving. Love makes one selfish, Terjal thought to himself. And no one is immune--not even with noble purpose urging us on. For once in his life Terjal felt loved--even adored. He had never before experienced the soft flush that fanned through one's heart at the sight of the cherished face of the one held dear. Oh, he'd felt the warmth of desire flash through him at the sight of a random comely countenance, but it was a merely a fleeting attraction and sensation which left no lingering imprint in his mind.

What Terjal felt for Aiya went beyond simple tactile sensation, for his heart had become a vast hemisphere full of different levels of emotion that would last him, he knew, till the end of his days. Terjal began to nibble at a white tuft of bread he'd cut from the loaf and continued to study Aiya. When she suddenly turned to look at him, Terjal felt the quick flare of heat spread within his heart again--this time as if he'd been caught spying into her mind.

"Well," Aiya sighed as she carved a fleshy sphere of melon with her spoon. "I suppose we must discuss the where and when of our arrival at Quitonne."

"I'll defer to you on the location of our arrival since you're more familiar with the city than I."

"It'll have to be somewhere secure and with no possibility of intrusion. After all, we don't want to startle the 'gentle folk' of Quitonne with the abrupt vision of two spell traveling conjurers appearing before them out of thin air." Aiya frowned at the melon ball she held between thumb and forefinger as if she saw the answer written upon it, then popped it quickly into her mouth. "Well...there's Sandor's house at least. The servants are familiar with me now--especially after having watched me aid in slaying those marauding zombies. We could easily spell travel to Sandor's reception chamber; if there are guards, they'll most likely be stationed outside the main door."

Terjal smiled briefly into his half-eaten bowl of thick vegetable soup. "I suppose the trick will be to avoid surprising those sentries then. How good are you at nonchalantly strolling past armed guardsmen?"

"We could always saunter through the doors whistling casually," Aiya chuckled lightly. Then she added, her tone more leveled, probably remembering Sandor's own plight, "We'll just have to act as if we are supposed to be there. It was one of the first lessons I learned at Honor's Start: Too much confidence might get you into some trouble, but too little can get you killed. My belt with the Duke's standard embossed on the buckle, fortunately, was unmarred in the battle with the direspawn. When the guards see it, they should acquiesce."

"Yes, we can't give them any chance to react with force. But," Terjal held up a finger as he patted one of the pouches dangling from his belt with his other hand, "I have sleep powder--just in case. I only hope any guards will be within flinging distance should the need arise."

"Let's hope that the need doesn't arise," Aiya cautioned. "Then we'll have to hurry to find Darman and the others before all of Quitonne is alerted."

"Are you ready?"

Aiya's mouth stretched in a small, sad smile. "Yes. But not because I want to be."

###

They were now immersed in the amythst light of Cloudreach's spell travel chamber; as when they had last spell traveled from the chamber to Honor's Start, Terjal let Aiya guide them to Sandor's reception chamber.

The rift they now traveled through had become unstable, Terjal guessed, perhaps as a result of the direspawn's existance. Streaks of light squirmed past them as flickering spores of energy lashed and crackled in their wake. Terjal hadn't experienced such a transit since his novice days. He saw Aiya's form just ahead of him bathed in shimmering amber, her arms poised before her like a diver.

When at last Terjal felt his feet planted upon solid ground and the surroundings solidify, he breathed a sigh of relief. His relief expanded further once he saw Aiya appear beside him, her head tilted slightly upward as she attempted to get her bearings.

Sandor's reception chamber appeared deserted and untended. Terjal saw the flutter of spider silk in every corner of the room, as well a thin patina of dust covering every surface. "I don't think we're going to have to worry about guards," Terjal told Aiya. "We may even be locked in."

Aiya nodded. "If that's true then we're going to have to spell travel out of here."

"I barely survived the initial travel. Without a spell travel chamber, we'll have to expend more of our own energy and powders." Terjal slid a mock conspiratorial glance in Aiya's direction. "So...how well are you at picking locks? It appears we're secured from the inside as well as outside." He jiggled a claw-shaped doorknob.

"Uh...I think we'd better just sacrifice the energy, then. With the size of this hold, it could take days to find such a chamber, if one even exists. Something tells me Sandor never expected to have frequent visits from conjurers anyway."

Terjal saw something collapse in Aiya's expression at each mention of Sandor's name. She's trying hard not to let the grief show--even in front of me, after all we've been through together. Terjal ached to comfort her, but knew that such ministrations might worsen the emotion.

Suddenly they heard the dull thud of a heavy door closing in the next room. Terjal and Aiya whirled to face each other, the question, "Should we hide?" reflected in their eyes. Terjal held up a hand as if to stall an answer from Aiya. "Let's face whoever it is," he said, his hushed voice still echoing in the large chamber. "It's obvious that you are a member of the Duke of Windemere's court and I," slanting his hands toward his robe, palms up, in a flourish, "am a conjurer. We don't look dangerous--better yet if we're found sitting down. Sitting is civilized, I think." Terjal pointed to a chaise upholstered in burgundy and gold brocade. "We'll sit there, facing the door. We might pretend we're awaiting an...audience...or some such thing." He raised his eyebrows as if asking for agreement.

Aiya grinned. "That sounds like something I suggested back at Cloudreach."

"And well advice it was."

Together they dropped themselves upon the chaise. Aiya adjusted her belt buckle so that the embossed emblem of the Duke showed prominently over the loose folds of her tunic. They both sat, hands pressed flat upon their knees, in prim alertness.

Soon the chamber's inner door opened and an aged, haggard-looking servant, his back bent as if he carried a great weight upon it, slipped through the entrance. At first he seemed to take no notice of the visitors, for his gaze did not at once sweep the whole of the room. But after wearily closing the door, his sloped shoulders relaxing beneath the thin fabric of his tunic, the old servant turned to face directly the interior of the chamber.

The servant started violently at seeing the two strangers sitting silently on his master's chaise. From his manner it was obvious that the old man was no longer used to the company other human beings. The force of the surprise drove the man's back against the door with a vibrating thwack. "Who--what...how did you...?" he sputtered haltingly, his eyes frantically trying to gauge them as friend or foe.

Aiya spoke first, her voice held the balanced and calm tone of her station. "I am Aiya Lindsmund, Adjutant to Lord Vaukmond, Duke of Windemere--and friend of Sandor Centlanth, and this," her gaze swinging in Terjal's direction, "is Terjal Rakmir, Master of Cloudreach--a renowned school for conjurers. I was here a week ago to meet with Lord Centlanth before he..." She couldn't seem to finish the sentence, swallowing hard instead.

The servant's weathered face seemed to relax at the mention of his employer's name. "Ah, yes: the tragedy. You've come to seek the status of Lord Centlanth's condition then?" The servant shook his head dispiritedly. "I am afraid the news is still unchanged from when you were last here. Milord is still in the grip of catatonia. And his wife and son have still not been found." The old man's bristly grey eyebrows arched over his bulging, watery eyes. "You do know of the abduction?"

Aiya nodded. "That question was on my tongue as well." She sneaked a quick sidelong glance at Terjal. "Have there been any leads to their whereabouts?"

The old servant's eyes narrowed and his lips disappeared into a grooved pucker. "No," the man said bitterly. "Apparently Mayor Turste does not consider this a...priority." His creaking voice seemed to snarl around the last word. "Oh, he made a great show of it at first--just to prove to the good people of Quitonne that he really does care about the plight of Milady and her son. But, after all, Lord Centlanth can hardly be counted upon to check the progress of the investigation, can he? But I know better, yet I am only Milord's majordomo--with no more clout than the cook!"

Aiya stood up and laid a hand upon the man's trembling wrist. "Well, I carry the clout of the Duke of Windemere and--" Terjal jumped up and drew Aiya aside, perhaps a little roughly because her eyes flared with sudden pique as she turned to him.

Terjal smiled patiently at the old servant whose gaze was quickly shifting from one conjurer to the other, confusion tightening his frayed features.

Terjal pulled Aiya, gently this time, into the center of the room and out of the majordomo's earshot which, Terjal surmised, couldn't be far. "What do you intend to do, march into Turste's offices and announce our arrival?" At Aiya's dusky frown, he added, "I'm almost certain that Graznod was involved in the abduction; the zombies who attacked you and Arjas, after all, did look as if they belonged to him. In which case, demanding action from Turste will do no good. How do we know that Turste himself isn't involved with Graznod? It's never been a secret that the Redeemer likes to bind himself to the nearest holder of power; he's found that they often make the most eager, pliant customers." Then, his expression softening, Terjal gave Aiya's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "At the end of this quest I'm sure we'll find Sandor's wife and son."

Aiya pushed a gust of breath through her teeth as if she'd just run a mile, but Terjal saw that her resistance was waning. She uncrossed her arms and planted her fists upon her hips, one knee slightly bent in a remnant of defiance. "If your last sentence had come from anyone else I would have accused them of patronizing me." Then, her eyes glancing quickly at her feet, Aiya added, "But I know that your pledge is sincere."

"And I would not have said it if I felt the situation was hopeless." Terjal knew that biting back her determination to rescue Sandor's family was a difficult task for Aiya. Luckily her military training is seeing her through the inner battles, Terjal thought as he saw the war of emotions in her jade eyes when her gaze returned to meet his. But Terjal couldn't help thinking that perhaps Aiya also wanted to give Mayor Turste another dose of come uppance.

With her hands still on her hips, Aiya twisted around to look at the old majordomo, giving him a small conciliatory smile and a half wave as if to affirm that everything was in order. The folds in the old man's face seemed to smooth as his thin lips lifted in a shamelessly grateful smile. Probably the only hope he's encountered so far, Terjal thought as he favored the old man with his own comforting smile--the smile he usually reserved for apprentices who only assumed the worst appraisal of their performance.

Terjal motioned the old servant to join them. The majordomo ambled toward them enthusiastically, his thin legs swaying slightly as if he were walking a tightrope. "We must locate my Blades," Terjal told the old man. "But, our arrival must go unnoticed." Terjal expected the old man's expression to change to one of suspicion, but instead the majordomo's mien remained eagerly helpful. "There must be a back door leading to an alleyway, I hope?"

"Ah, why yes there is. I'll show the way." The old majordomo curled his bent and twisted fingers round each conjurer's arm and guided them both out of the chamber. "Yes, that much I can do!"

###

They hadn't realized just how far away Sandor's home had been built from the main square of Quitonne, revealing further that Sandor Centlanth was a man who valued privacy. The mercenaries' hold was even farther away--it hugged the deepest corner of the merchant city like a hulking thug, its walls blurred with soot.

Terjal had never been to this part of Quitonne before, and surely had never set foot within the hold, nor any mercenaries' lair for that matter. For it had been Darman who'd come to Cloudreach to offer his services as First Blade, negating any need for Terjal to go in search of someone to fill the position. Then, when he'd needed additional Blades, it had again been Darman who'd sought and found Strandholt and Arjas.

Now Terjal stood with Aiya looking at the crude double door as if it were the very maw of hell.

Aiya frowned. "The place seems almost abandoned; usually you can hear a few whoops of laughter seeping out into the street."

"I'll take that as a good sign. The thought of being surrounded by whooping and laughing mercenaries is an unsettling one indeed."

Aiya favored Terjal with a generous smile as she grasped the door handle and swung wide. A gust of stale air swept past them as if eager for escape. In the darkness of the room, Terjal saw shapes turning toward him. "Darman...?" he called out as his squinting eyes tried to adjust to the dimness of the room.

A bloom of light burst in a corner of the room and began to bob with the movement of the one who carried it. The light swung into a lantern hanging low from the ceiling and suddenly the room was sprayed with its luminescence. Darman stood beneath the bulbous lantern. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd find the place."

Terjal grinned at his First Blade. "If it weren't for Aiya, I wouldn't have." He now saw Strandholt and Arjas stretched upon two threadbare chaises. Terjal motioned toward the sleeping Blades. "You were successful in finding a healer, then?"

"It depends," came a wry voice from behind, "on what you'd call 'successful': the treatment or the healer?"

Terjal whirled around to face a white haired man with eyes a gemlike pale blue. An aquamancer. "And you are the healer?"

The aquamancer shrugged with a tired casualness. "Yes. I hope you approve of my handiwork." The voice was sarcastic with traceries of acid. "Though, I must admit, I haven't treated so much as a hangnail lately."

Terjal studied the aquamancer as the man sauntered up to him. The healer's manner seemed almost reckless, as if he didn't really care for Terjal's--or anyone's--judgment of him. Terjal hadn't encountered many aquamancers in his lifetime, but the few he'd met never appeared so lackadaisical. "Well, if my men can at least stand, then I expect I should be satisfied enough with your handiwork. Your name is...?"

"Shankal," the aquamancer finished bitterly. "And yes, I'm from Shammerkath as you've no doubt surmised; it's where all aquamancers originate, isn't it?" Pausing, "And where not all of us are allowed to return." Then, his white--blond eyebrows arched and his voice brightened impulsively, "I was hoping you would take me along with you--on your quest, that is." Then Shankal's tone shifted suddenly to a dark wariness as he added, "Darman and I have an...agreement." As if wanting to shield the eagerness in his eyes, Shankal cast his gaze down nervously.

Terjal felt a small burr of irritation bristle deep in his gut as he shot a quick glance in Darman's direction. Terjal watched as a faint bloom of rose spread beneath the First Blade's tan, gaunt cheeks, the puckered slashes of scars seeming to disappear as the color expanded. But Terjal was too angry to marvel at the rare sight of Darman blushing. Instead he ground out, "Darman, I will see you--without the others." But he also beckoned Aiya to follow with a quick, pointed wave of his hand. Then, turning to Shankal, offered an obligatory smile, "If you'll excuse us."

"Oh certainly." Shankal raised curved fingers in a slight wave, his voice hopefully patient. "Certainly."

Darman led Terjal and Aiya somberly to a room just off the Great Hall. A small round table stood in the center of the small room, four equally worn and scabbed chairs were scooted closed to it.

Terjal, his lips set in a tightly forced smile, motioned Aiya and Darman to sit. Then, still standing, Terjal leaned his knuckles upon the table's uneven surface and looked squarely at Darman. "So. You delivered a bargain with this Shankal--allowing him to join our group--despite my giving you no prior approval for such. Now, would you care to enlighten me with the conditions of this...arrangement?"

Darman's face wore the expression of one who has now realized a good contract may have soured. "Shankal told me that he wouldn't help us unless I promised to allow him to join in our quest." Darman sat stoically with his fingers laced into a single fist, waiting patiently for another question.

Meagerness of word in conversation was the one thing that often annoyed Terjal about Darman. "And you couldn't have found another healer?"

"Not someone with a mouth willing to clamp during questioning. You wished for me to find a discreet healer, one who wouldn't at the first opportunity blather about our arrival. I've known Shankal long enough to trust that he does not possess a loose tongue."

Terjal studied his First Blade's face. He knew Darman would never lie to him, not even to spare the ex-warrior embarrassment. Instead Darman sat, his face rigid stone, anticipating Terjal's judgment with neither fear nor hopefulness.

Terjal crossed his arms loosely upon his chest, considering. "If Shankal is so trustworthy, why is he using blackmail to force us into accepting him into our group?"

Darman's mouth twisted a little at one corner. "I don't reckon he would have exposed our arrival--he just wouldn't have worked his healing on Arjas and Strandholt."

Terjal tilted his head at Aiya. "I'm not entirely sure I want to add to the group; our resources have become quickly depleted with just the five of us."

Aiya, looking at Terjal directly, added, "Shankal would be one more person to look after, besides. And anyway," turning to Darman, her voice level, "why would he even want to join us? You did tell him what we're up against?"

Now Darman turned to Aiya, though his gaze slid toward Terjal for a moment. "He'd heard of the beast we were seeking before I could even tell him of it--yet still he asked to come along. You see, Shankal has had...rough times in the last five years."

Terjal rolled his eyes. "Ah, an aquamancer with a questionable past. Tell me: did Shankal attempt to heal a hopeless case, only to fail?"

Darman looked down at his callused, scarred hands. "Yes. His wife."

Terjal nodded, glancing surreptitiously at Aiya. "Oh I see. Shankal is running away from his problems and won't really care if he gets burnt to a crisp in the bargain, thus ending his suffering."

Terjal hated being sarcastic with Darman, but he felt his pique getting the better of him. And he knew that the First Blade would at least let the tone of the words bounce off of him. Darman was perceptive, but not sensitive enough to let the sting of sarcasm prick him. Despite such rationale, Terjal still felt a pang of regret. To discipline my Blades, I end up being the one ultimately flailed for doing it, Terjal sighed to himself.

Darman, as if sensing Terjal's thoughts, met the conjurer's gaze squarely, unwavering. "I can vouchsafe that Shankal is not one to take his own life--nor to lend himself opportunity for such. He can be of great help in this mission."

"How?" Aiya asked as she shot a quick glance at Terjal.

"Well," Darman began, his voice unusually contemplative, "from Terjal's message I see that we'll be journeying to the Grip. I've visited there in my earliest days and found it to be mostly swamp land. So, where there's a swamp, there's water." Darman seemed to let the remainder of the explanation hang in the air between them.

Terjal began to grin widely as he looked from Darman to Aiya. "Well, you've made a good point, Darman. Perhaps we could use the services of an aquamancer once we enter the Grip--and of course, there'll not be anyone to observe if Shankal practices the healing art."

Aiya nodded slowly as she brought her steepled knuckles to rest beneath her chin, her elbows braced upon the table. "And to be honest, Terjal and I may be unable to carry all healing powders necessary for such a journey. Should our paths cross with the fire breathing direspawn once more--or we meet worse--we'll find ourselves in certain trouble. At least Shankal will be able to manipulate the resources available: the water. Perhaps that advantage alone should outweigh his sapping of our conventional reserves."

Now both Aiya and Darman turned their faces toward Terjal, their eyes seeming to probe for his decision. Adding another member to their party would still be a burden to them, even with benefit of Shankal's aquamancing talents. Still, Terjal couldn't help feeling that if he turned the healer away, he'd regret his judgment later on. And what would become of Shankal, Terjal thought, after we've rejected him? Would he go to Turste, despite Darman's assurance that he wouldn't? And who's to say that Shankal wouldn't follow us at a distance? It seemed the decision had been made before he'd had a chance to ponder it further.

"Shankal may join us then. At his own risk." Terjal saw a tiny hint of a smile lift one corner of Darman's mouth.

###

Grafter the Ageless saw them now: their forms molding into solid shapes without features but with auras that distinguished them from each other. They were gathered together in Quitonne, but their muddled conversation made no sense to him.

It didn't matter. He was searching for only one of them now--to gain entry into that one's mind. The One who'd slipped from his grasp the last time. An unknowing, unwitting ally.

Grafter's thinly curved lips stretched in a rictus of a smile as his mind circled the One. It couldn't get away this time, for delirium was now weakening its resolve.

This One had a name. Arjas. Now Grafter remembered: the descendant of an ally long dead, but the essence of which was now within his grasp once again. This young one, Arjas, would not know or recognize Grafter the Ageless, but there was something buried deep within the young Blade's mind that would welcome the old Master. Buried so deep that only Grafter could pluck it out of its hiding place like a pearl hidden among the meaty folds of an oyster.

Yes, Grafter felt that thought strain against his grasp, offering feeble resistance as the pain of the young Blade's injuries coursed through him. Soon Grafter had a firm hold on the thought and pulled it to face its new Master. Now the thought lay acquiescent in the palm of Grafter's mind.

Grafter smiled as he felt it tremble. "Now you will bend to my will."

###

Arjas began the long swim toward consciousness, the pain swarming within his knee guiding him along.

The ache felt as if a dull knife was sawing slowly through muscle and bone, pausing occasionally for a quick jab deep beneath his kneecap. Arjas squeezed his eyes tight against the pain as bright lights shot through his eyelids. His upper teeth had bitten into his lower lip and he tasted the salt of blood upon his tongue.

As Arjas thrashed through his agony, he felt something thin and oily slither into his mind like a burrowing worm. Ink-chill coldness wrapped round his mind as the mind-worm wound through his thoughts. Then the thing settled, nestling itself like a parasite, crooning something he couldn't fully understand--yet he seemed aware of its intent. The thing, fearful and waiting, lay within his skull seeming to watch him with dark eyes. There was nothing with which he could push it away. And so the thing waited still.

Soon Arjas was opening his eyes and the light of the room struck him like a mallet. He saw Terjal, Aiya and the aquamancer Darman had found hovering over him. Their voices passed through his ears in fragments:

"...tried the treatment three times..."

"...and still nothing...?"

"...shouldn't it have healed by now...?"

"...forehead is hot with fever..."

Arjas opened his mouth as if to speak; his lips felt dry and sticky, his tongue like hardened clay. Was he going to die, then? He now felt the heat of fever searing his temples, but still he attempted speech. He managed a untuned sound, then he tried to clear his clogged throat. "My knee..." his voice came as a wail of agony.

Arjas watched as Terjal reached a hand down to grasp the Blade's shoulder reassuringly, but to Arjas it looked like a long pole come to prod him. The young Blade felt the press of Terjal's fingertips knead into his collarbone as the conjurer spoke, "Your knee is taking longer to heal than expected. Shankal assures us that you are able to travel."

Travel? To where? Arjas's thoughts whirled around those questions as the mind-worm stirred within the creases of his memory. It, too, asked the same question. Arjas sensed the smile within in and trembled.

###

Once again they were readying to leave Quitonne--clandestinely this time. They were about to depart from the merchant city under the cover of darkness with mounts borrowed from Sandor's own stable. The old majordomo was only too eager to supply them with all the animals and foodstuffs they would require for the sojourn to the Grip.

Terjal was worried about Arjas. Ever since the Blade had awakened from the fog of his delirium, he had gradually become morose and highly irritable. As Terjal secured the straps on a mule, he glanced over at the Blade. Arjas was already seated upon a horse, his hands gripping the reins loosely as he stared into space, the corners of his mouth drawn sharply down.

Terjal gave the buckle one last tug before he walked over to Arjas's mount. The Blade seemed not to notice Terjal's presence even though the conjurer was close enough for Arjas to hear the conjurer's footsteps upon the earth. "It shouldn't be as long a journey this time," Terjal said as he peered up at Arjas's face.

The Blade looked down at Terjal and favored the conjurer with darkly sullen look. "Is that damned aquamancer going to finish fixing my knee?"

Terjal blinked at the surly tone. "He's been doing all that he can--"

"Well, he's done a decent job on Darman and Strandholt, but he can't do a thing for the daggers poking my knee."

"Shankal has said that your knee was so damaged, it will take longer to completely heal."

Arjas gave a bitter, rueful laugh. "Hah! The aquamancer's just making sure there's a reason for him to come along. So he's chosen me as his insurance. I'm so honored." A growl lingered on the last word.

Terjal fixed a wary gaze upon Arjas. "I'm certain Shankal has been doing all that he can for you."

But Arjas was no longer looking at Terjal. He was staring off into the distance.

###

Strandholt had been watching with a detached interest as Shankal the aquamancer finished bandaging Arjas's knee. The aquamancer was trying to distract the injured Blade by explaining the healing process, but Arjas would have none of the placating. Strandholt nudged his mount a little closer so that the words between the two men might drip into his own ears uninterrupted.

"Just finish and be away from me, healer," Arjas spat, the word 'healer' drawn from his lips in a sour sound. "Do you take me for a child in need of soothing?"

Shankal kept his gaze trained upon his task as if used to such verbal abuse from his patients. "I meant no insult. I heard you questioning my healing abilities earlier and thought I might enlighten you to--"

"Ha! So 'enlighten' me, healer: tell me how long it will be before I can walk on my own?" There was no mirth in Arjas's voice or upon his dark face.

Strandholt watched as Shankal wound the last of bandages round Arjas's knee with a muted flourish, his own eyes cast darkly upon the task. Without another word, the aquamancer drew away from the glowering Blade and strode over to his own mount, his mien now as gloomy as his patient's.

Strandholt nudged his mount in the direction of Skankal's steed, which was mercifully well away from Arjas. The Blade turned briefly in Arjas's direction and found the other Blade's gaze trained fixedly at the hills beyond. "Healer, a word with you."

"Yay, and what insults do you wish to trade with me?" Shankal's tone was traced with bitterness as he glanced warily over his shoulder at the blond Blade.

"I have no insults for you, only questions," Strandholt said quietly even as he stiffened slightly at the intensity of the aquamancer's harsh timbre.

"Ask then, but wait until I've secured my mount," Shankal replied as he continued to stuff his many vials and rolls of bandages into his leather pack. Once the task was completed and the aquamancer was seated securely upon his horse, Skankal looked upon the Blade once again, his face holding no expression. "So, we are underway and you may now ask your questions."

Strandholt turned abruptly from the aquamancer to see that Terjal was calling for the journey to begin. Skankal moved his mount directly alongside Strandholt's as the two men joined the caravan.

"Darman regards you as very skilled in the healing of wounds," Strandholt began carefully, eyeing the blue-robed aquamancer riding along at his left side. "But are you as experienced in dealing with disease and sickness?"

"Ah, yes, I know such only too well," Shankal swore with acid-edged sarcasm, as he turned to face Strandholt. "By the gods who live upon earth above and below it, I know disease and sickness with an intimacy much unwanted."

Shankal made a move as if to strike the Blade, and Strandholt feinted the blow, surprised at this abrupt behavior which did not match the man's words. The aquamancer's fist skidded off the heavy armor and grabbed at the rim of Strandholt's helm, twisting it until the Blade faced Shankal eye to eye. "Tell me, mercenary: you have felt a weapon tear at your gut in battle, but have you ever seen someone you love--someone who's life you consider of greater value than your own--die before your eyes? And worse, that you are the cause of this beloved person's death and you must live with that guilt for the rest of your life?" The aquamancer's voice became a hoarse whisper, dripping with a venom Strandholt assumed Shankal must administer to himself on a daily basis.

Strandholt loosed Shankal's fingers from his helm, but kept his face turned toward the aquamancer. "Yes, I have felt the pain of a ripped belly--enough to know the color of my own vitals. I nearly died of such a wound in my youth--had it not been for the ministrations of our camp's quoyan, I would not be here now to tell of it. To this day I carry the scars given me by the foamed--mouth bear." Then, remembering his own query, his eyes clouding somewhat, added abruptly, "You see, my mother is fading away, dying slowly from a disease little is known about. She is dying slowly with each passing day--only a few precious herbs ease her suffering, but does nothing to halt the progress of the disease. That is why I wished to speak with you--not of any prurient curiosity toward your own plight. Although, as an Outsider, I must offer my concern though your pride may not allow you to accept it."

Surprise flared upon Shankal's face briefly and his bottom lip grew stiff as he stared fully at the Blade. To Strandholt, Shankal appeared to have shrunk in upon himself. Suddenly the aquamancer seemed very old and very tired, even though the aquamancer was barely twice the Blade's age. Shankal's pale blue eyes seemed to seek and read the desperation in Strandholt's gaze.

"Would you trust your mother's life to someone who lead his wife to her grave?"

Strandholt blinked at the blunt question. "You lost someone despite your best efforts. I can't know the full story of your wife's death. However, I do know that Darman thinks highly of your skills. So much that he insisted you accompany us on this quest--a quest that will surely result in many injuries demanding treatment. I have learned to trust Darman's recommendations--especially when given by action rather than by words. Once we have slain the direspawn and dealt with the ones responsible for it, I would appreciate it if you would examine my mother and...possibly cure her."

For several heartbeats Strandholt patiently watched the aquamancer as expressions of doubt, guilt and grim determination rippled across the man's face like stirred water. "I will help you, but only if you in turn do something for me."

"If you are in need of money--"

"No, no," Shankal muttered irritably. "Money can't perform the task I am about to entrust to you. I would have you visit my homeland and do something...special...for me."

"If you are willing to help my mother," Strandholt declared, setting his spine arrow-straight in his saddle, "I will do anything you ask." The Blade watched as a tight smile widened Shankal's lips. He seems surprised by my eagerness to accept his proposal--perhaps he realizes that I am as desperate as he.

"So," Shankal ventured, "what do you know of aquamancers?"

"Little, save that they are spellcasters much like Terjal."

"I've heard that Terjal Rakmir is an exceptional conjurer."

"Yes, among the best." Strandholt watched as the aquamancer's eyes strayed toward the red-haired conjurer riding at the head of the group. The Blade waited for the "asking price," but Shankal's next question amazed him.

"What is a...quoyan, ah?" Shankal groped for the strange sounding name.

"Well, as spoken earlier, I am an Outsider: a wanderer of the world's rim," Strandholt answered, though he noticed that Shankal did not seem surprised by this information. "A quoyan is our healer. Instead of using the art of spellcraft, a quoyan studies the mind and body of those who have need of her skills." The Blade's tone turned somber again as he added, "Alas, even our quoyan has been unsuccessful in easing my mother's suffering."

As Strandholt looked up at Shankal, he saw something cracking through the ice in the aquamancer's pale eyes. Perhaps, through commiseration of their mutual pain, a tiny shard of sympathy had slipped between the plates of the aquamancer's cynicism.

"An aquamancer derives his power by giving a part of himself to the sea," Shankal said as he drew a small dagger from beneath his robe and sliced the length of his ring finger.

Strandholt's eyes widened as he watched a thin line of clear liquid seep from the incision, instead of the crimson blood he expected.

"You see?" Shankal held the finger to the sunlight. "Sea water replaces my blood--this more than any other sign proves that I am a true aquamancer. This sacrifice allows us to borrow the power of the water and manipulate it for our own uses. But this exchange has its drawbacks, none more obvious than when we die violently." Shankal's eyes became like solid opals as he stared deeply into Strandholt's own eyes.

The Blade felt his surroundings fall away and his ears fill with the sound of waves pounding upon hard, cold rocks. From this susurrus came Shankal's voice, clear as a sun-touched brook. "Soon after aquamancers die at the hand of another, our bodies melt away leaving behind a small crystal--no larger than a pebble. It is, in fact, an aquamancer's incomplete soul. Until and unless the soul-crystal is returned to the body of water where the aquamancer divested himself, he is doomed to wander the world's waters. From merest puddle to the mightiest ocean he will travel, incomplete and forlorn and unable to find his final repose. If I should die during this quest, you must promise to take my soul-crystal to Shammerkath's Sea of Serpents and throw it the water's depths. I hope to survive so that I may help your mother--but I cannot promise that I will not perish before then. Still, if I promise to help you--you must honor my request as well, even if I die before the mission has been completed. Do you give your word that you agree to my terms?"

"I pledge to you upon my family's honor that I will fulfill that which you ask. No matter the outcome, I will deliver your soul crystal to the Sea of Serpents as you have instructed, for if I fail to do this, my family shall never know a moment's peace. When an Outsider gives his pledge, it is true and certain." Strandholt felt the horse beneath him and the weak sun's light touch his eyes with warmth, and although dazed, he realized he had just sampled a bit of the aquamancer's power.

"I accept and trust your pledge, Outsider," Shankal the aquamancer said, a grateful smile stretching his mouth. "My mind is now at ease, for before you there was no one to see to the disposition of my soul crystal. You may tell me more about your mother once the sea has swallowed the sun. For now, we go to the Grip."

With that, Shankal spurred his horse to keep up with the others and Strandholt followed in the aquamancer's tracks.

###

As Aiya rode alongside Arjas, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He'd become terse and surly with everyone--even Terjal. Now he rode with his eyes closed as his horse tried to pick its way along the road without the Blade's guidance.

Aiya moved her mount close enough to reach for Arjas's reins. As she tugged the Blades's horse closer to her own mount, she tied the leather straps to her saddle. Arjas's eyes opened as he felt his horse's flank bump against Aiya's horse. Aiya held her breath for a heartbeat, waiting for a curse to come from Arjas's lips--for his injured knee would no doubt have been disturbed.

Instead, the Blade smiled wanly at her. "Is my mind so muddled that I can't control my mount?" Then he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of both palms. "Wonder if this horse's neck will make as good a pillow as the last one I rode on."

Aiya smiled back at the Blade. "Well, you never know--it just may be the same horse after all. Darman managed to stable the two remaining horses at the hostel."

Arjas's mouth widened in a weak grin as he patted the horse's mane. "Well, now that you mention it, this mare does look familiar."

Why were they so worried? Aiya thought. Arjas is back to his old self.

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