Crispian made to leave the forge area as soon as possible. He delivered the bill to Magus Algfyn and accepted payment, although his mind was not on it. To move against D’Vena, he thought, was almost going to be a madness in and of itself. He had not even made enough campaigns to be her equal in his own skills, let alone to fight hers. And he knew combat with casters. He had often faced them in the frontiers, at the keeps, and three times trying to take a relic keep. Often, it meant death, although a few times he had scored killing blows. It had always been with assistance.


As he returned to the League Hall, his mind was already far ahead of his feet. He was sorely missing Darnyk right now, but the friar had been long out on the frontiers seeking his own equilibrium. Crispian did not begrudge him his time out there, but he did wish he had him at his side now. He went straight to his chambers via the side entry and avoided the main hall. At his desk, he began the letters he knew he must leave. A will he had had drafted months earlier was still valid. Most of his wealth would pass to the League, while his Office he asked to be bestowed on Jashen. He added a codicil, asking that his armor be given to Azi for refitting and his weapons to Gythus, a young and promising armsman in the League. As a last thought, he left a portion of his gold to Tobyas. He signed and sealed it, placing it with the will.


Then, he sat and penned a letter to Mirashta. She who had raised him got a fond farewell that he hoped would not have to be delivered anytime soon. He poured his heart out to her, as he could not do in life, for words of comfort would be needed if he were to die.


Finally, well that was in readiness, he sealed it, too. His personal signet marked the wax. Similarly, he wrote a letter to an elf from Hibernia, not knowing how it would be delivered. Ayslyn had played a large role in the struggle when it began and proper thanks were due him.


His missives in order, he turned to his chest and drew out the sword that Toorc had given him weeks before. He weighed the sword in his hand. Could this blade actually deal a deathblow to that woman? Did he have the skill to even strike such a blow? He had doubts and knew that he must shutter them aside if he hoped to succeed. He raised the cross hilt to his lips and kissed it, sliding into a worn sheath on his back. Fate would put him to the test, and he must see it out now.


The Price was about to be paid in full, one way or the other.


--


The youth wrapped on the door three times before it opened to show him a tall Avalonian in a deep blue robe. “I has a message for Lady Azi,” he blurted out. A shiny gold coin was under his foot, reminding him of how important Fadder Toby had said the job was. “And I’s to give it to hers,” he said, trying to look more grown up.


Ascot smiled down at the lad, for despite his career choice, he was a kind man. “Lady Azi is resting within child, but I can give her your message when she wakes,” he said in a low tone, trying to appear as unthreatening to the boy as possible.


“No, sir, Fadder Toby said onlies to gives it to her and none other,” he blurted again, and clamped a hand over his mouth. Toby had told him not to reveal the source to anyone. Oh, bother, but he was in trouble now. His eyes grew wide with a fright as he stared up at Ascot.


“Tobyas is it? Well, lad, perhaps we should go give it to Azi then!” Although Ascot was well aware of Azi’s anger at the betrayal handed her by Tobyas at his church, he also knew the young cleric himself and honestly felt that he would not send ill words through a messenger. This had to be good tidings or grave need. Either of which Azi should hear soon, he knew. He drew the boy into the house of Judan Hammerfel and they headed upstairs together. The cabalist’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder in guidance and a measure of restraint as well.


--

Jashen was moody, to say the least. His thoughts were running most black at the moment as he dredged up the hurts he would need to have at hand to hurl at Crispian. He was struggling to make the hatred he would need for his brother. His soul and heart ached as he prepared the onslaught that he was to bring. The knock on his door shocked him for his thoughts, but did not improve his mood. “What?” he snapped at the wood.


“Message, Sir Jashen,” a young voice piped. He knew immediately it was not Ardy, for the highlander did not sound like a young girl or pre-teen boy. With an impatient grunt, he crossed to the door and opened it. He saw there a barely teen-age boy, looking a bit frightened. He was sure the look on his own face did not give the lad cause for hope of laying that fear aside.


“Well, speak, boy!” he snapped.


“Sir, if it please ye, Tobyas wishes you to meet ‘im and yer brother at his church just after the second hour of noon,” he stammered out, hands clasped before him. His eyes were riveted to the floor it seemed. He was almost as tall as Jashen, though younger. Jashen felt badly for acting so gruff toward him, but was still in no mood to apologize.


“Toby sent you?” he asked harshly, hand already reaching for his plain cloak. He missed his old one with the emblem blazoned upon it, but white was not a good color to sneak around in. As he settled it on his shoulders, he also checked his three blades, making sure they were ready for use and smeared with poisons. “Take me to him, lad. You did well.”


Although still scowling, Jashen followed the lad out of the League Hall. Tobyas had never asked him to be fetched anywhere, in all these weeks. Something had to be going on. Jashen’s pulse quickened slightly as they made their way through the streets of Camelot.


--to be continued--

 

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((thanks to Azi for two corrections!!))

 

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The small chambers pressed in on her. Oh, how she hated skulking and sneaking! She looked at a man in the street below pushing a cart. He seemed content, she thought with a scowl. Her hands moved and the man reeled. She pulled life out of him although she had no need for it. Her will touched his physical self and made him a palsied wreck of a being. She smiled.


“Iflar! Jerish!” she snapped out at her companions. “I told you I wanted furnishing!” They stared at her in some surprise. Had she told them? Or just thought about it? Her forehead furrowed up. “Well, get to it!” she nearly screamed, pulling her voice back at the last minute. It would not do for the shop keep below to hear too much. “And then, make ready to leave for a bit. I want to see this Pompin in Cotswold. Something there is about that,” she trailed off as her fingers toyed with her hair.


Overall, she was in a state of dishevelment. Her hair was a near tangle, and she still had on the gown she had traveled in. The only things she had unpacked yet were the small figurines of her foes and the milky dome she scried through. One hand absently fell to the small one, with the golden hair. Her eyes quivered in their sockets.


Her pledge, her bargain. It was coming due. Her eyes flicked about the room. The attentions of that other had been slipped, she knew. She had bound that lad into its needs for a short time. Surely, it would be looking for her already. She needed to end this. It wanted to play more with them all, the feed on their miseries. But she wanted her revenge!


With a strike much like a mental slap, she staggered. Her eyes bulged for a moment. “Please, please, I only want this one thing done,” she muttered quietly, then giggled.


It was back, and very unhappy with her. She felt her mind flushed with its fullness and presence. A shudder of ecstasy swept through her, a rapture, much as she had known that first time she made an offering to It. Then, her punishment began. Her mind filled with images that tormented her. The happy moments of her playthings’ lives. Smiles, laughter, true joys. She cried out in pain a moment before she began to cackle, a mindless sound from her lips that made even her companions flee the room.


It was some time before she rose again to stand. Purpose and sanity both flickered unevenly in her eyes with madness. Yes, she would see Pompin, and maybe this little woman who was causing problems with her toy. Who was a little cabalist to stand before her might? Her power? She laughed a mirthless laugh and set about putting her things in order. It would not have her go about so unkempt.

A pent up hatred that had been countered for years by the now missing Merlin’s magic and then by Morgana in her goal for singular dominance now boiled forth in one enclosed mind. D’Vena’s entity, spirit and will were dwarfed under the towering rage of the force she herself had called upon. Her discipline and training gave her no solace as the being tore into her mind, delving with a force it had not used before. It had a thirst for misery that was unquenchable. It played snippets of pain and suffering that she had inflicted and even fed on what she herself had felt. With a tittering joy it raped out every moment of low character in her life, every petty thing she had ever done, every plan she had ever laid.


D’Vena quivered. Her hands tremored as she yanked a hard bristle brush through her hair. She did not even notice when she pulled clumps full out by the roots. She was far beyond such small, physical discomforts. Her retainers came back, quietly. They hovered out of her sight as she sat grooming herself. A constant chuckle came from her, but there was a new quality to it. The sound shifted in tone and quality. It would be a child, slightly amused by some trick, then a man acknowledging some jest, and woman pleased with the touch of a suitor, all in the blink of an eye. The scintillating nature of it was unnerving, as if dozens of entertained people were inhabiting her mind behind her sightless eyes.


At length, about a quarter hour’s time, she rose, stepping from her stained gown and drawing a new one to her. Her hands moved as if weights were on her wrists. With slow, fumbling movements, she tied the laces on the bodice of the gown and turned to them. When she spoke, her lips skinned back far from her teeth, exposing pale pink gums and teeth yellowed with unnatural age. She raised an arm and stabbed a claw-like finger at one. “You shall take me to this Pompin man, that we might know him,” she said. The purality of her statement lacked the command of a noble sense, but was rather as a leader speaking for many. “We would know what has been done to him,” the voice, not D’Vena’s said.


Shaking, he opened the door for the body of his one-time Mistress and bolted forth. He pulled ahead further than D’Vena could keep up with. Immediately, his body froze, caught in a simple sorcery. D’Vena drew even with him and looked into his eyes. He felt that other presence push upon his mind. “Do not go quickly while we adjust to our new home,” it said, then gestured and he was released.


The body was not pleasing to it. She had let herself slip in these months, going soft in a displeasing way. It would look for something better when this one needed to rest. No point in living in a squalid dwelling. It did not like to take up abodes beneath Its station. It shambled along behind the retainer, taking in the sights of Camelot for the first time in many centuries.

Tobyas knelt with head bent in prayer. He struggled with what was to come, but could not refuse Crispian’s wish. He was scared, of the outcome, of the loss he knew he would feel. His thoughts raged at the injustice and mercilessness of it all. Was not the Almighty just? Did He not show mercy? Then why did it all come to this? A confrontation that Crispian could scantly hope to win and one that either way would leave Tobyas bereft of love. Was this what was meant by Divine Mercy? To be laid bare to the soul, and not even to be able to grieve publicly? For would they not revile him if he professed how he felt to people? Most would sneer, or jeer, and some even spit at him. Such was the narrow view of love in the world. He cursed under his breath when the rapping on the outer door reached his ears.


He rose on shaky knees and wiped his face on a hand towel. Pausing to gather himself, he opened the door and saw one of his young urchins. “Ah, Ismer!” he beckoned the lad in. He was a Saracen by birth, but born into a family taken prisoner during the Crusade. “What news have you for me?” Although he had left word not to be disturbed, children had a different sense of the urgent than adults. He supposed it was the cost of doing business with children that few people saw or noticed. Of course, that was what made them such excellent sources of information.


“Pardon, Father,” the lad said, touching forehead, lips and heart in an eastern greeting. “But I was watching the rooms you asked us to and saw a woman leave with a man.” His large brown eyes looked at Toby with trust and respect. “It was just some minutes ago,” he added.


“A woman? Tall, striking looking?” His pulse raced as fast as his thoughts. D’Vena should not be out and about in the city! What if a guard saw her! What if she was arrested? Even the King would have to allow a trial in public and that could take weeks! His worries about the outcome of whatever Crispian had planned were stopped cold as a new worry came up: What if they could not move on her in her quarters? And more followed on the heels of that: What if she got her spell needs taken care of? Then it would be as bad as when she was in her manse. “Well, what did she look like, Ismer?” he asked, his voice tight with panic and need to know.


“Yes, sir, she was tall, handsome woman, but crazed about the eyes like one in the sun of the desert too long,” the lad replied quietly, his attentive nature taking in the sweep of emotion on Tobyas’s face.


“Damn her! Damn her to seven levels of hell eternal!” He was up in a moment, grabbing for cloak and mace. “Quickly, get back and follow her! She must not be unobserved at any time!” He was through the door before Ismer could reply. What sort of game was she up to? Why would she be out? And what if Crispian ran into her as he made his way into the Shadow Quarter?


He practically ran out the front door to the church, chain boots crunching on the paving stones. His cloak whipped in the wind of his passage. Still, his last thought lingered. Was Crispian in the Shadow Quarter yet?

Sorcery is an art of finesse and guile. The imposing of your will over another’s will is never a simple task. D’Vena possessed great skill at this art. The Presence that filled her did not. Centuries of being battered about and expelled from hosts had pushed it to the ravening edge of madness. The final blow from the pure and chaste Galahad had completed the journey. It had stood for ages as a power, sometimes thwarted, but not often. Ramses II had listened to it until that adopted son of their father had turned back to his roots and called plagues. Herod the Great had given it heed, and had it not been the astronomers from the East, the man-god would have died a mewling infant.


In the near millennia since then, it had run, hidden, and been chased. But here, in this woman, it had found a new home. Her eyes allowed It to see, her body gave It feeling. But sanity was something of which It had only a remote remembrance. It acted on impulse, and not all the impulses were its own. Its host still could recognize and inform It. And she did.


The sloping road out of the Shadow Quarter had long been called Fletcher Way. The shop at the base of the road was the best spot in all of Camelot for arrows and their materials. Those who hunted and fletched came here for supplies and sundries. It was also the most used roadway into the Shadow Quarter. Many people passed along it daily and it only made sense that Crispian would use it also. He strode down the center of the pathway in gleaming plate mail. He had the confidence of a man who had few who surpassed his skills, although there were those that did. He also had the added edge of one who had made peace with himself and his fate. A sense of determination emanated from him and caused some to move out of his way. His eyes had the look of one going into great battle with the full knowledge of how it may end. It was not a look that those accustomed to shadow and guile liked to be confronted with.


She glimpsed him in passing. Her beauty was not as it had been. When last he had seen her in the flesh she had not been this gaunt, nor this pale. She moved passed him, maddened eyes fixing on him a moment. Her mind pleaded and begged. She wanted to do some small working, just a mere casting on him. Please, would it be allowed?


With a giggle of girlish delight, she got her permission, but she had not long, Mirth would not be delayed in the task it had. Mirth informed her of this. She moved her hands quickly in a pattern long remembered. It used to be such a simple spell, but now she had to work to recall how it should function. With a pass, it was released. Head tipped in joyous amusement; D’Vena carried Mirth forward toward Cotswold.


Crispian’s step faltered. His shoulders sagged. With a shake of his head, he raised a hand to his forehead. This was no time for a headache to set in, not like this. He winced at the sharpness of the pain, eyes closing. He opened his eyes and looked about. What a run down area, he thought. Surely whoever was Lord Mayor of this city could do a better job at its upkeep. He took in the fine armor he wore, the obviously fine weapons, and the heavily embroidered cloak. He looked about, seeing a young man in armor like his own.


“You there,” he called as he walked toward him, “where is the barracks hall?”


With a strange look of confusion, the guardsman spoke. “Tis by the East Gate, Sir Crispian,” he said in puzzlement.


Crispian nodded and turned, walking toward the east. He was pleased to see that the city got cleaner as he moved.

/bump due to work not giving me time to write a lot today

 

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Crispian wandered the street, turning toward the Defenders of Albion guild halls at the eastern gates to the city. He continued to look about with a slightly bemused expression on his face. What a wondrous city this was. The was admiring the sweeping square before the Defenders’ main hall when Tobyas came pounding down the road. Crispian turned at his called greeting and saluted. “Hail, good Sir Cleric!” he called, for somehow he knew this was a cleric of the Church.


“Crispian, D’Vena is somewhere in the city,” he gasped out, resting hands on thighs and bent at the waist as he caught his breath. He had not slowed since he had left the church. His face was flush from the dead out run.


“Is this a bad thing?” he asked. Apparently, he was this Crispian fellow. However, the name that the cleric had blurted out meant nothing to him offhand. Perhaps it was some villainous individual whom the Crown wanted. Sure the fine armor he wore meant he had some office for the King, as denoted by the heavy chain about his neck. “Should I be seeking her out?”


Toby gaped in surprise. “D’Vena, she who cursed you?” he asked in shock. His mind was racing as fast as his heart, although the latter was slowing down. “Do you not know her?” His ears surely had betrayed him. He gently turned Crispian toward the League’s Hall. “Perhaps we should talk to Tinowan,” he suggested.


“Tinowan?” Another name that meant nothing to him. “And where are you taking me, Sir? And who art thou?” He drew himself up and pulled his away from the taller man. “I was seeking the Defenders’ Hall to find out what my mission is in this city.” His voice was so altered that Toby was taken aback again.


“I, ah, understand, your Lordship,” Tobyas lied smoothly with a bow. “Obviously, some malaise is upon you. I am Tobyas, advisor to your post here in the City.” He kept his face perfectly neutral and hoped that Crispian would attribute the sweat on his brow to his recent run. “If you come with me, I shall bring thee to thy quarters, Lord,” he continued, badly misusing his pronouns.


Crispian did not notice in the least. “Very good, Sir Tobyas,” he said with a nod of his hand, waving a hand in approval. Tobyas led off toward the League Hall, praying the Tinowan or Phalos would be there. He took a most direct route, but avoided the Guild of Shadows and that quarter of the city that lay beyond.


They entered the hall, Tobyas just a step ahead of Crispian. Mercifully, it was still mostly empty as many of the League had intended to hunt this week. They were flush from modest success on the frontier and so wished to stretch their skills while they felt most in form for it.


Tobyas noticed Tinowan perched on a stool pouring over a tome. The young sorcerer was serious even for a caster and devoted much time to his work and craft. Although he had received the accolade of knighthood from Crispian, he did not adorn himself with either spurs or belt except for at the most formal of functions. Toby liked him and even trusted him.


“Hail Sir Tinowan!” he called as they approached. Crispian was busy looking over the interior of the expansive hall. The banners that hung for each house in the Alliance, as well as some proclamations of accord for those who had earned the highest esteems in the Realm; Dracarn, the paladin, Mirashta the Wizard, and Oakleif the Armsman had each been elevated as high as their professional guilds could advance them. “We have a bit of a problem,” Toby said quietly, indicating Crispian only with his eyes. “I believe that it is related to your craft.”


Tino, as he was called at the Hall, looked up from his studies and followed the shift of eye Toby gave him toward Crispian. He had much respect for the Seneschal of the League and had seen few signs of this curse that was often spoken of. “What do you mean, Toby?” he asked quietly. The conspiratorial look that Toby gave him was caution enough.


“It seems His Lordship has lost his ability to recall facts and relationships,” he said through barely moving lips. Crispian’s examination of the room was near to an end and he was drawing near where the two of them whispered. “And I think it was sorcery.”


Tino almost grinned, even though this was a serious matter. Few people followed sorcery these days and even fewer advanced to any great degree. He himself was almost in the fortieth circle of Sorcery and his companions in the Art were becoming fewer with each level of mastery he attained. “Let me see what I can discern,” he said, turning back toward his book as Crispian approached.


“Ah, a clark!” Crispian declared as he neared the caster and Tobyas. “Art thou a scribe, Goodman?” he said with a tone of haughtiness in his voice.


Tino smirked quickly before turning to Crispian. He had worked a small detection magic while he was turned away from him and immediately he could detect the poorly laid spell. It seemed almost to be a bear thought much like the work of a novice. He bowed his head in greeting. “Nay, Lord, I am Tinowan, sorcerer and Knight to your Order,” he informed him levelly. “At your bidding as always, My Lord.”


As Crispian frowned in thought, trying to place this man as a knight he may know, Tinowan’s fingers began to move. Sorcery is rarely subtle and soon a noise of rising level became evident. Crispian immediately turned his full attention to Tinowan. “What is it you doing man?” he asked sharply. There was no reason that Crispian would distrust magic, but he did this man’s magic.


Tobyas leapt into action, flinging his arms up in prayer and calling a small smite of Divine Power upon Crispian, who reeled from the blow, being caught unprepared as his attention had been focused on Tinowan. As he shook his head and turned toward Toby, positive it was a plot not against him, Tinowan loosed his spell. It too caught Crispian off guard, but differently.


The pulse of the magic coursed over him, causing shards of light to flash against his armor. Tinowan had used a powerful counter-spell, as he did not know if the hasty amnesia spell had been just a cover of greater workings or not. Crispian staggered, grabbing at the table, and went to his knees.


Both men were at his side in a moment, examining him closely as he blinked repeatedly. He closed his eyes a moment as if in pain, and when he opened them again, recognition was again in them.


“Tino, Toby! What am I doing back here?” He could last remember Fletcher Way into the Shadow Quarter, and then nothing more.

 

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/my own morning bump


Editting....editting....

 

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Crispian had rested the afternoon in his chamber, still oddly empty feeling due to the absence of Tannir. He awoke and made himself ready and then went down to the League Hall. Several members of the League were about doing a variety of tasks and chores related to their trainings or interests. He smiled. It was good to see the family together, he thought. The League, he felt, would go on.


“Forgive my tardiness, all,” he said to them. “I have been recovering from an event that happened to me earlier today.”


Sir Bashir, a scout, and knight of their band, looked up from where he worked on a long bow damaged in his hunt. “And what event was that?" he asked. He was a Saracen, but still stood inches taller than Crispian.


“He woke up and wasn’t on a tavern floor,” Arcalan said dryly.


Azi looked scaldingly at her. “Event?” she asked. “What happened?” She looked aside at the cabalist. “Arcalan!” she hissed at her.


“I had a moment of amnesia, it seems,” Crispian explained. “Thanks to Tine, I was able to get clear of it,” he said, looking for the young knight and sorcerer, who was not about.


Apolexia, recently joined the League, a young and earnest mercenary, but a crafter of renown in her right, looked from her chair to the young Lord. Her face was a tangle of concern and interest. “Amnesia?” she asked, even as Azi’s voice echoed the same word.


Crispian took a seat near the small hearth that favored the northern wall of the room and took the tankard of ale that Bashir passed to him. “Aye, seems a sorcerous spell,” he explained, taking a very measured drink from the tankard. Arcalan watched and seemed amused that he did not drain it straight off. Azi muttered a very unpaladinlike oath under her breath. Crispian smiled at her. “No worry, Azi. Tino did aid me,” he assured her.


“And can you think of a sorcerous enemy, my Liege,” Arcalan asked mildly, “that may have access to you?” Her eyes were fixed on him. Let him try to explain off all that this D’Vena woman entailed in the matter, she thought. It would only serve to further her own great efforts in the matter.


Apolexia cleared her throat in a polite cough. “Sorcerer or cabalist?” she asked without rancor or slight. It seemed that there was an undercurrent between her and Arcalan.


Arcalan looked blandly at Apolexia. An earlier tiff between the two of them still smarted with the cabalist. “Oh, Lexi,” she purred, “didn’t you know we’re much the same, since we’re mages.” Her observation was tinged with a hint of acid. The little crafter girl had gotten under her skin quickly. She would have to keep her on list of people she would deal with later.


Azi ignored them both. “Thank Heaven for that, Crispian,” she said. “Damn D’Vena!” As she spoke, Zoeld, a young wizard, entered the hall with a friendly hail to them all. Many greeted him in return. Crispian took the moment to look around at all who were there.


Two knights, Phalos and Azaeli, with Marzan the Standard Bearer, Hseru, Vayn and Arcalan represented the junior officers at Lieutenants, with Zoeld and Altheah as sergeants. Lexi and Bromton, although field veterans, were ranked as Artisan and Master Artisan, respectively. Bashir must have slipped off to the hunt at some point without Crispian noticing. All in all, a good group of people to have, and representing almost every profession one could pursue in the Realm.


Azi once again turned her intense gaze on Crispian. “Milord, how was Tino able to help you?” Her query was prodded in part from her own background in wizardry. She had first been a wizard of some skill, and her researches had gone beyond just her own craft in the Art and into other fields as well. Since taking up the sword, she had not lost any of her learning.


Crispian relaxed into his chair. “He was able to counter the spell due to his own expertise, thankfully,” he said rather blandly. He did not want to talk about how much it had scared him following it.


Azi blessed herself. “Indeed,” she said, trying to keep some of her own worry from her voice. Were the stories true? She had taken them seriously, but she had felt so drained these last days, it was hard sometimes to sort out the waking and the sleeping thoughts.


“But,” Lexi ventured, “why would someone target you, sire?” She had known Crispian far longer than her time in the League, having only joined last week, and he had never seemed on to draw untoward attention to himself, or anything to rankle the ire of another. Even her joining had been handled with great care, as she had only recently had an acrimonious exchange with Montoya, her godfather.


“‘Tis a long story, Lexi,” Crispian sighed. “ I fear it may bore some...” He let his words trail off, hoping that he would not have to explain the full and sorted details of the entire affair. One look about the room gave him some hope. Lexi did, however, have a look of intense interest on her face. He really hoped to be able to get out of the full tale.


“Well, it does explain why you never arrived this afternoon,” Azi observed. Lexi, however, never looked away from Crispian and with a sinking feeling he knew he would have to tell the story of this mess. “You had some of us worried, Crispian!”


He sighed, topping up his tankard of ale and tried to look comfortable. The truth was, he did not like speaking much in public and would really rather not. He was always a bit amazed at the reactions he got from people when he did, for they were generally favorable.


“Well,” he started with a sigh, “to abbreviate the beginning some, a friend or tow of mine were in jeopardy due to a plot by a woman named D’Vena to discredit their families and guilds.” He thought that glossed over the entire mish-mash of events leading up to the start of it well.


Lexi looked at him curiously. The name was not known to her, and her history was dappled with some creatures of ill will. “D’Vena?” She tried to place the name in what she knew and came up with nothing.


Arcalan arose from her seat. She certainly did not need to hear this entire tale again. Her own sources had revealed quite a bit of it to her. She stretched. “Goodnight, League,” she said rather quietly, gathering her things about her.


Amid the goodnights from others, Lexi fixed Arcalan with a firm gaze. “Goodnight,” she said, holding her look, “Cabalist Arcalan.” With a tight smirk on her face, Arcalan swept from the hall in her resplendent robes feeling a bit triumphant.


As Azi settled to listen to a tale she knew well, she could not help but fix Crispian with an avid look. She knew the story well, but was fascinated with the retelling of it. It had a mix of thrill and dread that held her for some reason she could not pin point. Delian entered the hall during Arcalan’s exit.


Crispian continued on, resigning himself to a full retelling of most of the facts. “Aye, Lexi, D'Vena is her name. Now, a major problem was the extent of her plot against my friends, but none could get the information from her.” Lexi was fixated on the tale. “You all know I was raised by a wizard, aye?” Crispian asked, looking over the group there.


Lexi shook her head. “Um, no. You never told me that.”


Azi nodded. “Mirashta,” she informed Lexi.


Lexi gasped. She knew Mirashta well. “Mirashta? She raised you?” Her voice rose involuntarily.


Crispian nodded with a smile. “Aye, Auntie Mir took Jashen and I on as babes when our parents died.” He missed her, if he were honest with himself. He had been too long from the hunt, too long consumed with this curse and all that surrounded it. He pressed on in the telling. “Now, it there is one thing a caster of any sort will teach you, it is to use every skill and option available to you. I mean, with all those spell lines to master, its always a matter of is ice better than fire or earth?”


Lexi nodded. “Good question.” Azi answered her with a grin and quiet “Quite so.”


“Well,” Crispian pressed on, “my friends and I were faced with a dilemma. How to get inside D'Vena manse to ferret out these secrets?”


Apolexia, who had dealt with her share of intrigue, smirked. “Without her knowing preferably?”


Crispian had to shake his head in amusement with her. It was easy to forget, due to her age, that much had surrounded her life already and there was still much he did not know of her. “Aye, indeed! That was a great concern!” he admitted.


With only a mild look of indulgence, Lexi prodded him on. Although slow to get started, she could tell that Crispian was warming to the topic. “So how’d you do it?” she asked. She seemed prepared to hang on his recounting, which was not a feigned thing at all. What was this whole mess about? She asked herself. With a note of caution to herself, she prepared for more. Her own story was twisted and troubled, and it seemed she had arrived in the League on the eve of its own trouble-twisted moment.


--to be continued--

 

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