The slender shadow dropped down from the second story balcony with a soft grunt and rolled onto its side. Wrapped in a worn black cloak and clutching its shoulder, the figure regained its feet and hurried away from the majestic domed building of grey and rose-colored marble, covered in sprawling vines of every description. Dancing lightly through the streets, avoiding the pools of magical blue-white light along the way, the shadow disappeared into the periphery of the sylvan wood.

Lanthinel, watching the fleeing figure's progress on the fifth floor, sighed.

Plunging headlong into the deeper woods, the shadow followed familiar paths between the trees, giving the various patrols and rangers a wide berth. Only when the lights and spires of Silvanost were well out of sight did it slow down, breathing raggedly from the sprint. The forest was in almost total darkness here. Feeling its way along, the figure found a tree and hunkered down behind it, producing a thick bundle from a small pouch. This was unwrapped to reveal a stolen witchlight stone, wrapped in a gauzy material, which provided a dim illumination in the thick woods. Just enough light to avoid tripping over bare roots and stones.

Pulling back the hood, Gwynnion glanced around. Her shoulder-length auburn hair fell in a mess of curls around her face, and she waited for her green eyes to adjust to the near darkness before proceeding. With her half-elven blood, her vision was no better than a human's on this moonlit night. The patrols would be doing much better, but they also had the benefit of lights – at least the regular knights. The rangers who stalked the woods did so without witchlights, relying upon their deep familiarity with their people's lands.

Gwynn looked younger than her sixteen years, perhaps fourteen by human standards, her aging slowed slightly by virtue of her mother's elven blood. She was a slim waif, only now beginning to evince the figure of a young woman. But sixteen years spent under the heel of her family was long enough. As a bastard, half-breed child, Gwynnion had no idea if humans would accept her any more readily than the Silvanesti who raised her, but anything had to be better than this. Sixteen years of torture and belittling were more than enough.

Tonight, it ended.

The half-elf hurriedly checked her provisions, reassuring herself that the Devir House insignia was in her pouch, just in case, and that the stolen coin she had been stockpiling for weeks was properly secured. She had a little water and a bit of food, enough to last her for a few days. Gwynnion had no clear idea just how large the forest was, but her meager stocks would simply have to do.

She stopped to pull the long, curving knife she'd taken from her stepfather's study, reconsidering whether to bring it with her or not. It was the only weapon she had, and judging from the stories she'd heard about humans, it could prove extremely important. But it belonged to him, and even if Ke'Elaithan Feyd Devir didn't send someone to retrieve his money, he would almost certainly come looking for his knife. It was magical, she knew, though she couldn't tell how strong. Her talent with the Art was unrefined, but Gwynnion could feel its power, humming softly in her slender hand.

Besides, she'd wanted this knife for a long time. It was beautiful, covered in runes and flowing elven script. More importantly, it belonged to her stepfather and she wanted to punish him for her miserable life more than anything in the world.

Frowning, Gwynnion sheathed the blade and stowed it away in her possessions.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as she dared by her small lamp, the girl made her way deeper into the increasingly crowded forest, following the few paths she had discovered on earlier expeditions, when she had been seeking mere solace in isolation rather than full-fledged escape. She hadn't explored these fully, however. Gwynn knew they traveled away from the city, but only to a certain point, beyond which she was navigating blind. If she was fortunate, she might find a glade or two in which to regain her bearings by the moons and stars, but it was best to stick to the old trods. The patrols would be using clearings for camp, and the more the woods thinned out, the closer she was moving toward the roads, which were obviously the most heavily guarded routes.

After perhaps an hour, voices alerted Gwynn to soldiers ahead, and she hurriedly covered the withclight stone. They were at the crossroads, where three trails joined, which was the farthest point from Silvanost the girl had ever reached. One of the trails continued away from the capital, and this was the route she had hoped to take. Skulking ahead, Gwynnion soon spotted the patrol's lights, shining softly, like the pale moonlight of Solinari. The girl flattened herself on the ground to spy and wait for them to move elsewhere.

She made out two soldiers, a man and a woman, dressed in light armor with blades and bows prominently displayed. The man was tall and thin, with white-blond hair and violet eyes. The woman was slightly shorter, with jet black hair and glittering eyes of aquamarine. It was difficult to make out much else at this distance.

"Celedë," the man inquired, "Why is the noble with us tonight? His kind normally loathes this sort of mundane work, particularly those of his House."

There was soft laughter as the woman turned to look at him, flashing a grin. "Apparently, our Lord Keleren overheard my outburst the other day and wanted to speak to me about my opinions. I thought he was seeking to court me at first, but he seems genuinely interested. He is a strange one, Kithas. He does not seem to share the nobles' love of opulence and comfortable living. From what I have heard of him, he sounds like a bit of a troublemaker. I hear he failed in the study of magic under his father, and took up the sword out of desperation."

"Definitely strange," Kithas agreed, "He acts like a Qualinesti."

"So do I," Celedë chuckled, "As you have said yourself."

A thin smile touched the male's features. "In comparison to the nobles, so are all of us in the commoner caste."

Kithas stopped and narrowed his eyes, as if he'd spotted something. Gwynnion went perfectly still in the grass, hoping the soldier hadn't somehow noticed her with his keen vision. Pulling his bow, the elf nudged his companion and gestured into the woods a little to her right. "Celedë. There – do you see the light?"

"Yes," the woman smirked, "Perhaps our Keleren is lost."

"You there," Kithas called loudly, "Announce yourself and come forth."

There was a brief pause, and the clearing seemed to brighten slightly. Gwynnion glanced to the right, but the grass and trees were too thick to make out anything but a slight glow, about as bright as a torch, approaching. Perhaps ten yards to her right. She cursed inwardly as she heard a familiar male voice respond to the soldier's greeting: "Ke'Lanthinel tr'Galien Devir. You may put your weapons away, I am unarmed."

"Many bored nobles out tonight, it seems," Celedë joked under her breath.

"Approach then, sire," Kithas called, "We are Celedë Glam'uin and Kithas Elantorin of the royal guard. How may we aid you tonight, my lord?"

The light grew brighter, and Gwynn caught a glimpse of Lanthinel as he approached the two soldiers, then disappeared behind a cluster of trees. "Aye, good evening," he said in a tired voice, "I am searching for my wayward sister, Kai'Gwynnion, who wandered away from our house and into the woods a short while ago. Have you seen sign of her, or anyone else passing through the wood?"

"Kai'Gwynnion?" Kithas echoed.

"The half-elven child," Celedë explained, "Ke'Elaithan's stepdaughter."

The man frowned in veiled disdain. "Ah. No, my lord. We have seen no one tonight but yourself, and no tracks to speak of. You might inquire of our companion, Ke'Keleren tr'Sörin Nathir, who serves with us this evening. He may have observed something we have not. We will take you to him, if you desire. Has the child committed some wrong, or did she simply become lost out of ignorance?"

"My sister is impetuous, aye," Lanthinel replied dryly, "But hardly ignorant. She likes to go out into the woods to be alone with her thoughts. There is no indiscretion, I believe, merely recklessness on her part."

"She is merely young, Kithas," Celedë interjected by way of reproach, then turned back to Lanthinel. "If you would accompany us, lord, we will inquire of Ke'Keleren whether he has seen anything of your sister."

"Very well," Lanthinel sighed, "Lead on."

Gwynnion waited until the three of them were out of sight and the clearing grew dark again before she rose up from the grass and brushed her cloak off. Taking a quick look around, she plunged forward down her chosen path, tears stinging her eyes as she thought of Lanthinel's concern for her. How would he feel when she did not return, ever? All of his efforts to bridge the gap between she and their family would be for naught, and he wouldn't even know if she were dead or worse, lost somewhere in the human world.

With a heavy heart, Gwynn tried to dismiss these thoughts, but they played at the edge of her mind as she followed the winding trail. She had money, a bit of Art, and a magical blade, all of which she could sell to sustain herself in the outside world. Humans were said to be avaricious, after all. If nothing else, perhaps she could find a kindly old wizard, like in the legends, to hone her meager talent with the Art. Someday, perhaps, she could meet Lanthinel again as an equal, instead of a bumbling, useless little half-breed sister...

So distracted were Gwynnion's thoughts that she hardly noticed the gradual listing of the path. It proceeded, as she had estimated, generally away from Silvanost, but in its winding course it began to drift in the same direction that Kithas, Celedë and Lanthinel had taken. In the dark, without the stars to guide her, the girl had no way of properly navigating the wood.

Then, suddenly: "You there! Identify yourself!"

It was Kithas' voice. Gwynn froze, looking about frantically. There were lights perhaps thirty yards away. She kept perfectly still, hoping yet another errant noble had been caught wandering aimlessly in the woods.

"I said identify yourself! Are you Kai'Gwynnion?"

The girl hesitated. Then bolted.

The trail was the fastest route, so she sprinted down it as fast as she could. Unfortunately, Gwynn knew she couldn't douse the light or she'd trip over something in the dark and hurt herself. She heard voices calling in the woods around her, and then the clarion call of an elven horn in the distance. This time she cursed aloud, under her ragged breathing. One of the soldiers had sounded a general alarm. Every soldier and woodsman in the vicinity would soon be descending upon her, and she had little skill at avoiding detection.

I'd make a lousy thief, she thought, That's for certain.

Before long, Gwynnion heard someone chasing after her on the trail – Celedë, by the sound of it. She glanced over her shoulder – nearly tumbling over a protruding branch in the process – to see the female soldier's witchlight bobbing and weaving a good distance behind her. It didn't take long to realize, however, that Celedë's longer legs and greater stamina were easily allowing her to close the distance.

"Stop, child!" the woman called, "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Leave me alone!" Gwynn screamed back.

Pocketing the witchlight stone, the girl dove into the underbrush on her left, plowing through a thicket and diving to the ground. She was covered in multiple scratches, and her heart was hammering in her chest, but she kept as still and quiet as possible. Waiting.

Celedë appeared on the trail a few moments later, spinning around in search of Gwynn. Holding her witchlight rod high in the air, the soldier scanned the surrounding trees and spotted the disturbed shrubs and snapped tree branches which the girl had left in her wake. Wincing, the woman started forward into the underbrush, waving the torch about to shed more light into the area. "Where are you, child? I know you are here somewhere. I promise I will not harm you. What are you running from?"

Closing her eyes, Gwynnion gestured toward a place in the trees, a short distance away from her hiding place. She forced her wild thoughts to focus for a moment and whispered a few words of magic in a shaky voice. It was a very basic glamer, but hopefully it was enough.

There was a faint rustling sound in the bushes to Celedë's right, followed by the soft sounds of someone running off into the woods. Sighing, the woman started to chase after the illusory sound, but was slowed up by the heavy undergrowth.

A voice stopped her. "Gwynnion, stop this!"

Lanthinel.

He had appeared on the trail while Gwynn was casting, looking winded and more than a little frustrated at this little adventure, and he was staring directly at his sister. Celedë stopped and turned, trying to follow the noble's line of sight to where the young half-elf was hiding. For her part, Gwynnion kept absolutely still. She didn't even breathe.

"Gwynn," Lanthinel sighed, "I can see the magical aura of father's blade and the light stone. You can't hide from me. Now come out of there."

All strength went out of her then, and she lay her head on her arms in defeat.

"I see her, I think," Celedë announced, picking her way through the bushes. As she drew nearer, the light of her magical torch fell upon Gwynnion's small figure, lying exhausted in the grass. She was shaking slightly, and as Celedë knelt down beside her, the soldier realized she was crying. "Aye, she is here, my lord. I have her."

"Why did you run?" she asked Gwynnion, sotto-voce.

"Wouldn't you?" the girl hissed sullenly.

"I don't understand."

"No," Gwynn whispered, "You wouldn't, would you?"

Lanthinel approached the edge of the thicket, leaning against a tree. "How is she?"

"She is unharmed, lord," Celedë replied in a weary voice, stroking the girl's hair, "But she is crying and angry. I will bring her out to you in a moment."

Sighing, Lanthinel nodded.

*          *          *

They were a night past the Silvanesti wood when Lanthinel presented the sword to her.

Night on the empty plains was far darker than Gwynnion was accustomed to.  Unlike her half-brother and their guide, the soft-spoken ranger, Eiben Ami-Kanjin, she lacked the keen night vision of the elves, and upon the arrival of twilight a nervous fear crept into her, which she tried to conceal from the two men.  They had ventured beyond their homeland on a few occasions in the past, into this ogre-infested wilderness.  She had not.  So while they seemed little concerned by the oppressive darkness, Gwynnion grappled with the bitter irony of homesickness.

The half-elven girl had seen eighteen winters, placing her well past adulthood for a human female.  Though her personality was roughly as mature as a human girl's, Gwynnion looked all of sixteen in build and stature because of her slowed aging.  She was tall, though nearly half a foot shorter than her two companions, and willowy, with a mass of curly, dark auburn hair falling to the middle of her back.  Her almond eyes, dark green like the forests of her hated homeland, were hardened to hide her anxiety.  It made her brittle in conversation, replying to questions in a clipped, indifferent tone.

Eiben had gone off to hunt for the three of them, taking his massive old longbow, and Gwynn couldn't shake the feeling that he'd abandoned them out here, regardless of Lanthinel's assurances.  The ranger was trusted by their family, he had explained before leaving Silvanost, which meant only one thing to her – he was a friend of her stepfather, so she wouldn't trust him regardless.  As it was, Eiben had barely spoken to her during the ride out, preferring to keep company with Lanth or to scout ahead.  Gwynnion sensed he disliked her, or else was indifferent toward her, despite the fact this journey was for her sake.

"I'm sending you to study with an old associate of mine," her stepfather had told her, speaking in his usual dry, sardonic tone, "His name is Tython.  He is a human wizard, and while he is much less experienced in the Art than our family, he is trustworthy and a fair teacher.  My dealings with him have always been pleasant."

Choking on suspicion and relief, Gwynn hadn't asked why Elaithan Devir, the youngish-looking patriarch of their family, had declined to teach her himself, as he had with Lanthinel.  The answer was brutally obvious.  She was only half-elven, and a bastard child on top of that.  Elaithan barely tolerated her presence within the family – though why she, the product of her mother's dishonor, was allowed to remain in House Devir baffled her – so he wasn't about to waste his precious time on her. 

Still, he recognized her talent with the Art, which was perhaps the kindest thing her stepfather had ever told her.  The fact that he bothered to speak to her personally on the matter was something of a surprise in itself.  Besides, the chance to study outside of Silvanesti meant only one thing to Gwynnion: escape.  Lanthinel had been holding her back for months already, urging her to stay rather than run away from home as she'd tried before.  But if Elaithan hadn't decided to send her away, she would have left anyway.  Anything had to be better than staying in a place where she was reviled.

Besides, it pleased her stepfather to send her away.  It was mutually beneficial.

Somehow, though, Gwynn hadn't expected the amount of travel involved.  Intellectually she understood the vast distance between Silvanesti and Northern Ergoth , where Tython taught apprentices at a small university.  But such was her relief at leaving the elven homeland that she dismissed it as a mere nuisance.  Even an adventure. 

Sitting here in the dark, though, put things in perspective.

"How are you feeling?" Lanthinel asked off-handedly, searching for something amid all the packs and bags weighing on his horse, a lovely chestnut steed which Eiben had given him.  He glanced back at her, his honey-blond hair gleaming in the firelight.

Gwynnion glanced up sharply.  "Fine."

"You sound nervous," he murmured, going back to his rummaging.

"I'm just cold," the girl lied, "There's nothing to cut the wind out here."

She started as a blanket was thrown at her, hitting her head and shoulder.  Sighing, Gwynn pulled it off in time to see Lanthinel's quick, teasing grin, which she answered with a sullen glare.  Her half-brother still treated her like a little girl more often than not, playing games with her when he was so serious with everyone else.  She supposed it was meant to be affectionate, but considering he was almost a hundred years her senior just reminded her of her place.  Perhaps Lanth didn't notice his sister had grown into a young woman far more quickly than any elf.  Or perhaps he still considered her a child because of her scant two decades.

"When is Eiben coming back?" she muttered.

"It takes time to hunt," Lanthinel assured her, "Especially on the plains."

Frowning, Gwynn scanned her surroundings for any sign of the ranger, but the darkness was just as impenetrable as it had been minutes earlier.  "How does he know the family?" she inquired instead, hoping conversation would calm her nerves.

"He's a friend of my father's," her brother replied thoughtfully, careful to avoid the phrase our father in deference to Gwynnion's wounded feelings on the subject.  "He was a commoner, but his knowledge of the world and his skills led him into the good graces of the royal family, who conferred a small title upon him, though I don't think he cares much for it.  Eiben taught my father how to fight, I think, years ago, and they had some dealings between them.  For a time, I believe he was the house weapon master..."

"Ah," Gwynnion frowned, "A killer.  How apt."

Lanthinel grunted.  "I suppose you could say that.  I've heard that when he was very young, his family was killed, and he hunted down those responsible across Ansalon.  He doesn't seem like the type, however."

"Some people are quite gifted at hiding their true feelings."

Brow furrowed, Lanthinel glanced back at his half-sister.  Gwynnion was staring into the fire, her face a hardened mask and her green eyes glittering darkly, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  She was extremely young to his thinking, far too young to act so cynical.  But looking at her then, he began to see what kind of woman she was becoming. 

"They think they are anyway," he said softly.

Gwynn pretended not to hear him.

"I have something for you," Lanthinel said, collecting something off the horse. 

Dark eyes turned to look at him, impassive.

Smiling faintly, the elf went over and sat beside her, holding out the gift.

It was a fine elven sword, slender and curved in the traditional style, with an elaborately carved ivory hilt.  The scabbard and wrapping were in the Devir colors – dark blue, black and silver trim – and when Gwynnion didn't take it, Lanthinel drew the blade to show it to her.  The steel rang as it was pulled, brightly polished and shining in the firelight, and the half-elf saw the length of the blade was finely etched in scrawling runes and elvish script.  The pommel, and bottom of the blade near the hilt, were marked with the House Devir insignia.  It was surprisingly beautiful, and Gwynn met his smiling gaze with a curious, surprised look.

"It's the same as yours."

"Yes," Lanthinel agreed, passing it over to her. 

Though Gwynnion had seen house blades before, she had never held one, not even her half-brother's.  It was a symbol of noble caste within Silvanesti, which held no appeal to her whatsoever, and a symbol of recognition within one's family, gifted upon reaching adulthood.  She expected it to be heavy in her hand, but it was surprisingly light, like the practice swords which she had been taught with years earlier.  The blade seemed to capture the light, and she held it in front of her, staring at her reflection in the narrow length of metal. 

"I...I don't understand," she stammered, "I'm not..."

"A hundred years old?" Lanthinel grinned, "I know."

"Then why...?"

"You're more elven than human, Gwynn," he told her softly, choosing his words with care, "As you're soon going to learn for yourself fairly quickly by spending time in the human world.  It's in the way you think, the way you've been raised, whatever you might think of that.  But you've also grown up far more quickly than any elf would have, and by human standards you're already an adult."  His tone turned playfully conspiratorial.  "I meant to give it to you earlier, actually, but Eiben kept going on about how marvelous the horses are and everything..."

Confused, Gwynnion started to say, "But Elaithan..."

"Wouldn't allow it," Lanthinel nodded, "I know.  I fought him over it for weeks, believe me.  I thought you deserved it."

The girl frowned.  "How the hell did you manage to convince him?"

Lanth shrugged.  "I insisted."

Brow furrowing, Gwynnion felt tears stinging her eyes, which she blinked away.  Her voice was hoarse.  "Then it's a gift from you instead of the family."

"Yes," Lanthinel agreed, a bit embarrassed.

"I'm not sure what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," her brother smiled, shrugging. 

Laughing under her breath, the girl tried to casually wipe her eyes.  "Thank you."

"You'll never use it, I'm sure," Lanthinel replied jokingly, "But then I doubt I'll ever have a reason to pull mine either, when magick would be more useful."

Gwynnion smirked and thought to say something else, but nothing came out.

Quietly, Lanthinel stood and went back to his horse, to put everything back in order.  There were a few minutes of silence while he worked, during which Gwynn studied the blade in detail, thinking about what he had done for her.  It was exquisite.  In many ways the craftsmanship reminded her of her stepfather's magical knife.  With slender fingers, she traced the outline of the house insignia.

"You didn't have to come with me," she murmured.

Lanthinel didn't pause, but Gwynn knew he was listening.

"You've already completed your apprenticeship under Elaithan.  I doubt there's much you could learn from a doddering old human wizard, especially one in a place like Ergoth.  Isn't that a land of barbarians?"

"I worry about you," Lanth reproached her, "And I wanted to make sure you got to this university safely.  Besides..."  He tightened a strap with a soft grunt, then turned back to her, brushing blond strands out of his eyes.  "Do you think I want to remain home all of my life either?  Silvanesti is not the world.  You can only learn so much by staying in one place."

Gwynn glanced up through a wave of hair, managing a small smile.

"You'll be bored," she told him.

"I doubt it," Lanth shrugged, "You attract trouble."

The half-elf laughed.  

*        *        *

Coffee tasted surprisingly good.

Gwynnion couldn't ever recall having any as a child.  It was hardly a popular drink in Silvanesti, where tea, water, wines and nectar dominated the menu.  She had smelled the thick, bitter scent when they came into the Guard's Gate Inn, and received a small cup of the steaming hot drink in exchange for her inquiries.  Lanthinel didn't seem to care much for it, making a pinched face upon tasting it, and Eiben refused it before she could even ask.  Wryly, Gwynn suspected there was something in the elven palate that found the taste of it too stout.  Yet it tasted well enough to her, albeit with a bit of milk, and so she drank it.

Night had fallen and there was a storm battering the town of Elmwood , in the northernmost stretch of forest which extended down into the rough, human lands of Lemish, and just east along the road to Solanthus, one of the many strongholds of the Solamnics.  They were more than halfway through their journey to North Ergoth , and Eiben had steered them into the woods after crossing through Abansinia.  The forests here were much different from Gwynnion's home – dark, heavy and eerily silent – but they were forest, and their guide knew the two of them (even if Gwynn refused to admit it) had been homesick for Silvanesti's endless, serene woods. 

The half-elf had wanted to see their cousins' lands, Qualinesti, to the west, since they were more accepting of those like her from what Lanthinel said.  Eiben overruled her, of course.  Leery of sea travel and the areas near Southern Ergoth , a wilderness ruled by vicious ogres of every description, the ranger recommended passage through Solamnia instead.  It would be her first serious taste of human civilization, and after skirting around the ogre-dominated lands of Blode, neither she nor Lanthinel were willing to argue with him about their route.  Safety and swift passage were of the greatest importance, so Eiben said, and Gwynnion thought the elf preferred to be rid of her quickly.

Gwynn had read the elven histories of this area, with their stories of human savagery, strange nature gods, perpetual warfare and the like.  Lemish lived up to its reputation, yet Elmwood seemed rather placid at the moment, evincing a peculiar blend of cultures.  There were hobgoblins from Throtyl, merchants from Solamnia, soldiers from Lemish and a host of others.  It felt very much like a crossroads, overseen by an uneasy truce.  The three of them were rather out of place here.  It gave the young half-elf a guilty sense of pleasure, seeing Lanthinel and Eiben endure the same mistrustful stares and prejudice she'd dealt with all her life.

While her companions found it distasteful, Gwynn felt strangely at home.

Spirits were moody in the Guard's Gate Inn with the grey pall of rain seeping into everything.  She and Lanthinel sat in one corner of the common room, wishing there were more shadows in which to sink, with her half-brother watching the mixed patrons uneasily.  Eiben had gone to refresh their supplies, leaving her in Lanthinel's care.  Eyes gleamed in the light of the hearth, watching, but they mistrusted each other as much as the two elves.  Small comfort, Gwynnion supposed.  But she couldn't manage to be afraid.  She was no longer in Silvanesti, after all.  She was free, more or less.  And as much as she found herself missing her homeland, she hated the juvenile impulse that caused such longing. 

"What do you think?" Lanthinel murmured, surreptitiously scanning the room.

Gwynnion glanced over at him.  Her half-brother was dressed in plain white robes, fringed with dark blue, with one hand resting on their packs.  They'd made some effort to conceal what little wealth they carried, though owning little besides clothes and a few items of her mother's, she found this easiest.  Lanthinel's blade was clearly visible and within easy reach, to dissuade anyone who thought they might be unarmed, though Gwynn knew her brother wouldn't bother to wield it if there were trouble.  The white of his robes, the sign of a mage, did more to discourage would-be thieves.

For her part, Gwynn wore the same worn black cloak she always did, with the hood drawn up to shade her features.  Perhaps, she hoped, it would make her look a bit older.  Or at least more dangerous?

She rolled her eyes at this thought.

"I'm beginning to see why Silvanesti is so isolationist," she replied, "It seems like we've passed through nothing but one unsavory land after another.  Ogres, hobgoblins, barbarians, desert dwellers...Pleasant company indeed."

"Silvanesti is geographically isolated as well," Lanthinel reminded her, "With evil kingdoms on almost every side.  So it's understandable."

Gwynnion shrugged.  "Qualinesti seems to have done better."

"I've been there," he dryly countered, "Our cousins are pleasant enough, aye, and their forests are lovely, but their nation is hardly strong in any sense of the word.  The rulers are weak-willed and indifferent, and they would not hold together under a meaningful threat – "

"Sounds like the place for me," Gwynn remarked.

" – and in some ways," Lanthinel finished, "They're just as xenophobic."

"Given what I've seen of the world so far," she sighed, sipping her coffee, "That seems like a reasonable attitude."

Lanthinel frowned but didn't argue.  His half-sister's growing fatalism was getting on his nerves.  In Silvanesti, she had at least been defiant, with a moody drive for independence.  Since undertaking this journey, however, and seeing the world for herself instead of through legends and bards' tales, Gwynnion's mood had significantly darkened.  At least she was speaking to him again, for which he was relieved.  The gift of the blade seemed to have thawed their relationship for the time being.  Lanth chose to ascribe her bitterness to tiredness and the gloom of the evening, since his thoughts were dour as well this evening.

"I wonder if these men would rape me if they could."

Grimacing, Lanthinel looked askance at his younger sister, who was clasping the clay mug in both hands like a beggar child.  Her morbidity always troubled him.  "What?  Why would you even think about such a thing?"

"I've heard stories of it," Gwynn replied, "Eiben told some, too, remember?  Isn't that why Eiben was sent to accompany me?  Why you're here?  From what I've seen of humans so far, it wouldn't surprise me if they did.  Maybe that's what happened to my mother..."

"Gwynn!"

The girl blinked, eyes narrowing as she met his gaze.  Lanthinel seemed both angry and hurt at the same time, and more than a little troubled by the thoughts winding through her mind.  Guilt rose in her upon seeing his expression, which she forced away.  Not for the first time, Gwynnion wondered how much her elder brother knew about Sylune's betrayal.  He at least had known their mother, grown up with her over the course of a hundred years.  Surely he had to know something about the affair which had produced her.  Or had her stepfather kept the truth from him as well?

Lanth lay a hand upon her slender arm, forcing his grip to be gentle, and frowned.  His voice was a low rumble.  "She was my mother, too, Gwynn.  Please don't say such things again, at least not with me."

The half-elf's expression was neutral.  "Is it the truth?"

Releasing an angry sigh, Lanthinel released her arm and looked away.  "How many times do we have to go through this?"

"It is, isn't it?"  Gwynnion felt cruel for pressing the matter, her voice seemingly cool and indifferent to his hurt, but it was cruelty that gave her power over her older brother.  The only kind of power she'd ever had in their family.  "Or do you not even know what really happened?  No one has ever told me why I'm here, where I came from.  I didn't ask to be born into this family, or to suffer the way I have because of it."

She stopped.  Her voice had risen, like a child throwing a tantrum. 

She looked away.

Lanthinel was silent, brooding. 

Finally, he spoke again, this time at a dull whisper.  "I'm not going to speak of this again.  You have asked me this question a hundred times, and I have already told you as much as I know.  What else can I do, Gwynnion?  Don't you realize how painful it is for me to think about it?  Our mother died giving birth to you, in a strange place with a man I don't know.  I wasn't even told it had happened until much later.  I only knew that you were their daughter.  I hated you at first.  Would you blame me for that?  My mother died for you.  But I realized later that you weren't responsible.  You were just a child.  So I tried to look after you."  Lanthinel turned his head slightly, blue eyes fixing on her with a weary look.  "If I knew I would have told you long ago.  I just...don't want to know really. "

"Then you don't know," the half-elf murmured, looking down.

Lanth sighed.  "I could never bring myself to ask my father what really happened."

"Perhaps you should."

Shoulders sagging, Lanthinel turned his attention back to the common room, to those gleaming eyes.  He said nothing.

Silence followed.  The rain drummed its fingers incessantly on the roof of the inn, punctuated by the occasional clap of thunder.  It was some time before Gwynnion felt her body relax, the tension of their conversation slowly bleeding out of her.  In the meantime, she mulled over what her brother said.  She couldn't feel guilty for asking him these questions, despite how deeply it wounded him.  How she came into the world was the cornerstone of her identity, and without it, what was she?  A nonentity.

"I'm sorry," she lied, for the sake of diplomacy.

Lanthinel shook his head.

"I don't blame you for asking," he said softly, "I would do the same."

Momentarily, the inn's door creaked open, and the deafening roar of the storm outside cut across the gloomily lit common room.  Eiben pushed inside, shouldering a heavy pack, and he gave the assorted patrons a cold eye in answer to their suspicious looks.  Drawing back the hood of his cloak, the elf scanned the room and nodded upon seeing the two siblings in the corner, offering them a thin smile.  His white-blonde hair looked like silver in the dancing firelight, and his violet eyes seemed to glow.

"I've made arrangements for the horses and our supplies," he told Lanthinel, taking his cloak off as he took a seat by the table.

"We have rooms for the evening as well," Lanth murmured.

"Is there something wrong?" Eiben inquired mildly, hearing the other man's tone, "Did something happen while I was away?"

"Nothing.  We are well."

Nodding, their guide ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it out.  "Then I suggest we get some sleep.  We have a long ride ahead of us in the morning, especially after this storm."

"Aye," Lanthinel sighed, "We do indeed."  

*        *        *

Compared to her stepfather's quarters – or most anything in Silvanesti, for that matter – Tyrhon's study was small, cramped and rather...quaint.

The chamber had a single large window, through which the early morning sun streamed in, its path marked here and there by a swirl of dust motes, with the forest and farmlands of Bethfield visible outside.  The furniture was simple and functional, though made of fine rosewood and mahogany, and the decorations were a clutter of books, knick-knacks and strange objects like you would expect in any old man's home.  Gwynnion sat before the mage's desk, sipping hot tea from a little porcelain cup, waiting for him to return.

Tython himself was a rather thin man in his mid-sixties, with short white hair and a grey beard that was quickly frosting to match.  He dressed in plain white robes, dusted softly by time, the mark of his order within the Orders of High Sorcery.  Yet he was kind, speaking in a soft, fatherly tone, and his blue eyes were sharply intelligent.   Though Gwynn didn't care much for the small town of Bethfield , with its endless rolling hills and diminutive forests, Tython seemed to belong here.  A peaceful, retiring sort of town for a peace, retiring sort of man.

She hadn't quite gotten over the shock.  She, Lanthinel and Eiben had wandered through numerous cities and port towns on the journey here, almost all of them far more impressive to the senses than this small farming community.  The university itself, sponsored by the Conclave and operated by various wizards and scholars, was the greatest thing in the town, a solemn building of dull red brick and smallish spires that would have seemed inconsequential amid the palatial residences and quiet tree homes in Silvanesti.  It hardly felt old, at least not the way elven buildings did.  It seemed strangely incomplete.

The feeling of homesickness was stronger.

She glanced up as the door creaked open and the old mage reentered, walking gracefully behind his desk to sit.  "I do apologize for that, Gwynnion," Tython murmured, "One of my other apprentices had a question of some importance.  I'm sorry to keep you waiting for so long."

Gwynn shrugged.  "It's no trouble."

"How is the tea?"

Another shrug.  "It's fine, I suppose."

Tython arched an eyebrow as he settled into his chair, taking a slow sip of tea.  He grimaced – it had gone cold – and set it aside, which Gwynnion found curious and not at all encouraging.  Even with her meager skill at the Art, she knew enough to heat drinks or neaten her appearance with a few simple cantrips.  In fact, she did it all the time.  The power was available, why not use it?

"So you are Elaithan's daughter," he murmured, "I'm surprised – "

"Stepdaughter."

Tython frowned.  "I beg your pardon?"

"I was raised in his house," Gwynnion explained in a tight voice, "But I am not his daughter.”

*        *        *

            Gwynnion smoothed out the soft, velvet folds of the robes, studying her reflection in the mirror.  The cloth was very nearly the color of her hair – a dark red, almost crimson, which she associated with blood.  Brow furrowed in thought, the young woman ran a hand up into her hair, brushing it back out of her eyes, which gleamed in the morning sun.  Her figure looked strange to her in her mother's mirror.  Almost unearthly.  She had difficulty imagining her mother ever dressing this way.

"You look like a proper sorceress now," Amlin murmured from the bed.

Frowning, the half-elf turned to look at him.  The young man lay on his side amid the swirled bed sheets, lazily propping his head up with one arm.  His loose white tunic and grey trousers contrasted sharply with the lush burgundy sheets, as did his white cloak hanging on the bedpost.  He smiled wryly, bangs falling across his eyes.

“And how did I look before?” Gwynn inquired, a bit annoyed.

“Beautiful.”

The young woman arched an eyebrow.  “And I don’t now?”

Rolling his eyes, Amlin lay back on the bed.  “I’m only teasing you, Gwynn.  You shouldn’t be so sensitive.  You’re not in Silvanesti anymore.”

Gwynnion sighed, turning back to the mirror.  “I suppose not.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You haven’t,” the half-elf replied, her eyes roaming over the mirror’s elegantly carved wooden frame.  It was one of the few objects belonging to her mother that Gwynnion had ever seen, let alone been allowed to possess.  She occasionally wondered how much it reflected her mother’s personality.  Whether Sylune considered it precious as well.  Perhaps not, since Gwynn was able to bring it with her from Silvanost.  Still, wherever the mirror was, home was.  Even if home was always a cruel place.

“You don’t seem terribly upset that I chose the red robes,” she murmured.

In bed, Amlin shrugged, idly toying with the fringe of his cloak.  “I’m not.”

“Why?”

This time it was his turn to sigh, no doubt finding her constant barrage of questions somewhat irritating.  “Why should I?  Your clothing may be different but you haven’t changed.  You’re still the same person you’ve always been.”

Lucky me, Gwynn thought.

“Your friend Nicholas would disagree,” she remarked, folding her arms under her breasts and leaning against the dresser. 

“Nicholas is an idealist,” Amlin countered, “He doesn’t live in the real world.”

The half-elf smirked.  “Do you always insult your friends this way?”

Amlin scowled, not looking at her.  “It’s not an insult if it’s the truth.”

“True,” Gwynnion conceded, “But I’ve chosen a side, haven’t I?”

“I thought the red robes were about not choosing sides.”

Grimacing, the young woman looked away.  As much as she hated it, she had to agree with him, at least inasmuch as her reasoning for wearing the red robes went. 

Still, these arguments had been increasing in number over the past few months, threatening to derail their already delicate relationship.  Gwynn knew she was growing deeply unsatisfied.  More to the point, Amlin’s presence was beginning to do something she hadn’t expected at first, when he was all sweetness and romantic talk.  The tension, and the uncertainty she felt about being alone at the university, were plunging her further into a depression.  Why, knowing this as she did, had she refused to break it off?

Because then you would be alone, she reminded herself.

“Gwynn?”  He was looking at her now, his hazel eyes wounded.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she lied, “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

The half-elven girl forced her breathing to remain calm and level, despite the fact she wanted to scream.  She had expected life amongst humans to be different than Silvanesti.  So why did things feel so much the same?  There was no relief from the dull tension pulling at her insides.  Was she herself to blame, as others had told her?  “I was wondering what Master Tython thinks about my choice of robes,” she said, continuing the lie.

“I doubt it matters much to him,” Amlin shrugged, “He’s an old man.  He can’t be all that concerned with who takes what robes.  Though I’m still a little surprised, considering the red robed order seems to be dying out.”

“Perhaps I’m an idealist,” Gwynnion suggested, “Like Nicholas?”

“I doubt it.  You’re too practical, and you understand too much about the world to believe in anything so simple.  Nicholas treats life like a discourse in philosophy.”

Not for the first time, Gwynn wondered, “Then why do you like him?”

“He’s just a friend,” Amlin chuckled, “You can’t always like your friends.”

Laughing under her breath, the half-elf shook her head.  “I wouldn’t know.”

She heard a short sigh as Amlin sat up in bed, brushing the hair out of his eyes to give her a puzzled and curiously stern look, as if she’d broken the rule of a game she should already know by heart.  “Again,” he said, more gently this time, “What’s wrong?”

Gwynnion shook her head, dark auburn curls swaying against her shoulders.

“Tell me.”

“I feel like something’s missing,” she admitted.

The young man frowned.  “From the other orders?”

No, you idiot.

“No,” Gwynn replied curtly, biting her tongue, “From me.  From the world.  From us.”

Furrowing his brow, Amlin looked askance at her.  “Did I hurt your feelings somehow?”

The young woman chuckled, refusing to meet his gaze.  It was a dry, sad sound.  “No, that’s not really possible anymore, now is it?”

“What have I done?” the man pleaded, “I’ll make it up to you, but I don’t understand what’s wrong?”

I hate you.  I hate myself.  You’re too stupid to realize that, and I’m too stupid to care.

“It’s nothing you’ve done. Amlin.”

Sighing, the young man leaned across the bed and clasped her hand, pulling her onto the bed with him.  Gwynnion resisted a little, tugging back on his hand as if demanding he meet her halfway, but Amlin was stronger than she was and she reluctantly conceded.  His arms came around her middle as he eased up behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder.  Gwynn closed her eyes as she felt him kiss the soft skin of her throat.  “You’re angry at something,” he murmured into her hair, “Or someone.  Now what is it?  I’m tired of having to drag information out of you at every turn.”

“I’m supposed to meet Master Tython this morning,” she whispered.  Another lie of evasion, a talent she had honed well over the years.

“I don’t care,” Amlin muttered, “I’m trying to talk to you.”

“I care.”

I don’t even like you touching me.

Taking a deep breath, the young man growled softly.  “When?”

Gwynnion’s voice was soft.  “Ten bells.”

The half-elf could hear the young man calculating time in his head, wondering whether he had time enough to press the issue or not.  In the back of her mind, she also wondered whether she would need to go and speak with Tython about something – anything – to keep Amlin from getting angry over the deception.  But did she really care to go to that much trouble?  At least a real argument might settle things once and for all.

Coward.  Just tell him.

Gwynnion managed not to squirm as the young man kissed her on the cheek.

“Alright,” Amlin conceded, “We’ll talk about this later.”

She nodded.  “Of course.”

*        *        *

Gwynnion had to cross the central grounds of the campus, an open stretch of grass situated between the library, dining halls and the small two story building that served as the school's central lecture rooms from the ramshackle of homely buildings that made up the town proper, including the small house she shared with Lanthinel.  She found much of the land here to be dry and too warm for her tastes, and the grass that grew here was more like weeds.  The briars and thistles snaring on the hem of her robes annoyed her all the more as she made her way across the yard.  The dewy cool of morning had already waned for another warm morning.

Her thoughts went to Amlin, his overly sweet smile and his soft voice.

Do I hate him or do I hate myself?

She wasn’t sure, and that is what drove her at the moment.  Heading across campus to a fictitious meeting with Master Tython. She blamed him as much as she blamed herself for this situation. At least that's what she told herself.

Amlin had been her first real friend here at the university, and he remained one of the only friends she had.  It was only because of him that she'd met Nicholas and Sebastian, after all, whom she still didn't know well.  Gwynnion hadn't realized at first that Amlin was taking advantage of the situation, though it was no surprise when his sweetness led to quickly to her bed.  The memory of that first evening, when they awkwardly made love in the dark, forcing herself to comply with his touches and maneuvering, was painfully emblazoned on her mind by her embarrassing false cheer the next morning. 

It had been a mistake, the first of many with Amlin.  She'd been deflecting him ever since, giving in just often enough to keep him from leaving her.  Gwynnion occasionally wondered if she'd done it just to declare her independence.  And to make it clear to her half-brother that she was no longer a child.

Even if I act like one.

In truth she'd allowed him to use her every step of the way.  Amlin was minor nobility, conferring upon him good tastes and wit if not tact, and he'd been a welcome relief from the simple farmers and reclusive students who populated the small town.  He was manipulative, yes.  And often condescending, though he hadn't seemed that way in the beginning.  Originally, it had seemed quite charming.  He voiced the bitter, jaded thoughts she herself so often had.  And Amlin had liked her.  Found her beautiful, did little things to please her, wanted to spend time with her.  How could she resist that, even if it was a lie? 

It's not worth it anymore.

As Gwynn passed the library entrance she observed the silver and white cloak of her brother, sitting with a few other students along the path, between a tall tree and the library steps.  His company was a mix of white and black robed students in a small circle.  The half-elf frowned as she observed a young man dressed in black, wearing the full robe and cowl, sitting beside Lanthinel, whispering conspiratorially while the others chatted.  The main focus of attention seemed to be a large, heavyset man armed with a long blade, who squatted instead of sitting, telling an elaborate story to those around him.

A curious group indeed.

Gwynnion had to pass them, so she bowed her head and walked on with determined obliviousness.  She was in no mood for conversation, and if Amlin was the sort of attention she could attract, she preferred not to be noticed at all.  The group broke into laughter as she drew closer.  She knew there were no real jests directed at her, at least none she overhead, yet the sound was painful and infuriating just the same.  The young woman's imagination supplied all the taunts required to hurt herself.

Why not? she thought bitterly, I deserve that much at least.

Then she heard Lanthinel's voice: "Gwynnion, would you care to join us?"

The half-elven woman looked up to find most of them staring at her.  The few she recognized shrugged and returned to their conversation, those she didn't gave her a curious once-over.  Gwynn examined them in return with forced calm.  Some were curious, most were indifferent, and a handful cast glances of disdain – judging her already.  However, the dark robed man sitting with Lanthinel nodded politely and stood to make room for her, offering a seat with a motion of his hand.  The low-hanging hood revealed everything but his eyes.  The black robes were draped over a muscular frame and folded in a style she had never seen.  Self-conscious of his companions' etiquette, Lanthinel also stood and offered her a place. 

Gwynnion realized her jaw was clenched, and she hadn't been breathing.  A ripple of dizziness swam through her as she forced herself to relax and breathe. 

"I'm going to see Master Tython," she said, serving the ever necessary lie.

"He's giving a lecture at the moment," Lanthinel replied, "For at least another hour."

Damn it.

Rolling her eyes, Gwynnion walked toward the group and sat down between her brother and the black robed apprentice.  A few nods and small smiles of greeting were offered, which she stiffly returned, searching for her voice, which seemed to be caught somewhere in her throat.

She was introduced to Erin, the dark robed young man – handsome and polite by all appearances but defiant of others.  The storyteller was Ethan, who was Erin 's opposite in many ways, stoutly built and blunt with his opinions but ultimately concerned with others.  Lanthinel made introductions for the others, but Gwynn already knew them or knew of them within the small population of the university.  There was Leon, the dark-skinned man who knew Nicholas.  Also she met a raven-haired woman of startling beauty, a half-elf like herself, named Zoë Avanti – a black robed enchanter.  Gwynnion had avoided her thus far, vaguely jealous of both her beauty and her strength of personality.

"Your sibling offered to host a dinner tonight at your home," Erin said in a hushed, friendly tone, while Ethan dramatized his first encounter with an ogre last winter, "Would that be a problem for you?"

"Lanthinel is paying for the house," she replied dryly, "So I am in no position to argue."

The young man smiled and cocked his head, as if to concede the point and offer silent argument at the same time.  He had a charming way of being both forceful and polite, something Gwynn realized she missed in her relationship with Amlin.  There was a faint smoky, spicy scent to his body and clothing, she noticed this close, something the half-elf associated with black robed mages for some reason.

"Though I am curious who 'we' are?" she added.

"Currently Zoë and myself," Erin explained with a wave of his hand, indicating he knew little else on the subject, "Though my cousin may be returning sometime soon as well.  He goes wandering occasionally, though he has a knack for reappearing at the most opportune moments."

"Well, I'd like to say I'd be delighted," Gwynnion murmured, "But Zoë – "  She stole a quick glance at the other woman, whose eyes were focused elsewhere for the moment.  " – would make me less so."

Leaning forward, Erin confided, "I understand.  She is quite scary when you get right down to it.  I'm usually frightened she'll grow wings and horns at any moment."

Gwynn didn't realize he was joking until she caught the wide smirk on Erin 's face as he tossed a look at the oblivious woman. 

For the first time in a long while, Gwynnion laughed.  

Lanthinel gave the two of them a curious look but said nothing, half-listening to Ethan's story, illustrated as it was by mimed sword thrusts and pretend growls.  The young woman hadn't looked so...relieved since they arrived in Bethfield almost a year ago, but as much as it pleased him he couldn't help wondering what Erin had said to her.  Zoë also turned to look, frowning slightly as she saw the red and black robed mages speaking quietly together. 

"Though it is only a dinner," Erin continued quietly, favoring Gwynnion with a small smile, "And there will be many great wizards there, I am sure, to defend us should that happen."

She chuckled dryly.  "Then I suppose I would not be overly averse to attending."

"Excellent."

"If you like," he added as an afterthought, "Feel free to extend the invitation to young Amlin as well."

Gwynn looked away toward the library to conceal her displeasure with the idea, scanning upwards over the weathered stone of the library to a lonely spire.  Her eyes watered as she stared into the brilliant blue of the sky.  "I'm sure he has other matters to attend to tonight," she replied quietly, blinking against the glare, "And I would hate to trouble him when he is so busy."

"Of course not," Erin murmured, smiling wryly, "Was there some urgent matter you needed to discuss with Master Tython?  You seem nervous."

"I was curious about something we had discussed before."

"Perhaps we could help you if it is urgent?" the young man offered politely, "We have some devious minds amongst us, to be sure..."

The half-elf shook her head, grimacing faintly as she felt a trickle of sweat run down her back.  It was becoming somewhat uncomfortable to wear these robes in the growing sunshine.  More than that, however, Gwynnion felt strained by having to dance around the issue of she and Amlin, and to continue a lie which served only to distance herself from him.  Conversation was always rather difficult for her.  She was accustomed to being alone and dwelling within her own thoughts.  Having to concern herself with others felt unduly strenuous, particularly now as she found herself liking Erin .  He was crafty and probably untrustworthy, but his easy manner and sardonic wit appealed to her. 

That she was suffocating didn't help.

"It's nothing of great importance," Gwynn replied, drawing back her hood to get some air.

"As you wish..."  Erin paused and discretely nodded over her shoulder.  "Though I believe that is Amlin there, walking across the square?" 

Chagrined, the young woman turned her head slightly to look.  It was indeed Amlin, his white cloak gleaming in the sunlight, striding across the grounds with what looked to be a slight scowl stamped upon his features.  Gwynnion stiffened for a moment as she though he had seen her, the lone red robe amongst white and black, and was coming over – but no, he was crossing to the lone tavern across the way, probably in search of breakfast.  Though he might have observed her anyway, given his expression.  She waited until he had disappeared inside the building before breathing again.

Idiot.  You knew this might happen.

"I should go," Gwynn sighed, "And look in on Master Tython."

"Is there something the matter?"

Isn't there always?

Turning back to the black robed man, the half-elf immediately realized – even without being able to see his eyes – that Erin was studying her from behind his calm, politely bemused façade.  Obviously, he had already guessed at her discomfort regarding Amlin and the situation, not that she'd made any great effort to conceal it.  It irked Gwynn to be so transparent, however, as if he were patronizing her despite his courteous demeanor.

"It's not important," she muttered, rising to her feet.  "Though I will see you tonight at dinner.  Now please excuse me."

Erin nodded respectfully.  "Of course."

Turning, the young woman nodded to the others and walked away – measuring her stride so as not to seem too anxious or hurried.  Only when she had retreated to the cool, comparatively dark safety of the library antechamber did she lean against the wall and release a shaky breath, inwardly cursing her own foolishness.  Her legs wobbled underneath her as she regained her composure, letting the tension drain slowly out of her.

"Idiot," she whispered, running a hand through her hair, "This has to stop."

Taking a deep breath, Gwynnion hardened herself and began planning what she would tell Amlin in her head, making a minor drama of the scene in her imagination, much as a playwright would.  After all, it wasn't like she could trust herself to go through with it in a real conversation. 

Amlin, I'm not going to lie to you anymore...

(Even though I am.)

I know you've been worried about me...

(Oh, yes.  So very worried.)

...but there's just something missing from our relationship...

(Like me.)

Closing her eyes, Gwynn growled under her breath.

I hate myself.  

*        *        *

The pair of them looked quite out of place in the dinning hall. The room was designed to hold fifty at the long ancient oak tables, however only two dozen students were in the room, sitting along a few of the long benches, many near the windows enjoying the mid-afternoon sun and a few near the inner wall, closer to the kitchen. A few sidelong glances from fell on the two apprentice mages sitting together near the fireplace. While the pair dressed no differently from any of them, not wearing the traditional robes of their profession, the students had learned to stay separated from those who studied the arcane arts.

For their part, Kalshann and Gwynnion did not seem to care. Privacy was sometimes a rare commodity at the university and they were glad to have a few moments of it.  Kalshann had lied to the Master Librarian to get Gwynn away from another of his lectures about arguing in the library hall, and they came here to avoid the ruse being discovered.

“So you’re the cousin Erin spoke of.” Gwynnion was sitting sideways on the bench nearest the fireplace her legs crossed and leaning against the table. Her long satin gown and auburn hair hugged the curves of her body as she stretched. Her head was to one side as she examined her companion through a few wisps of hair.  Kalshann was seated at the fireplace, resting against the hearth and was examining the rafters absently as they talked.

Kalshann chuckled. “Yes I am, but when did you meet Erin ?”  He looked at her with a bright smile of curiosity as he reached for his cup of water.

“My half-brother introduced us.  He was spending an evening talking with Lanthinel at the house we share, and I listened in.” She admitted with a self-conscious smile.

“Well Erin and I have known each other almost our entire lives, knowing others eavesdrop on him would make him happy in a strange way.” Kal saluted her with the cup and drank. “So what have you heard about me?”

“You are the only other in the university to declare yourself to be a red robe, and you spend most your time not studying, and you seem to vanish into the woods for weeks on end for no reason.” She leaned forward and put her arms on her knees, thick locks of auburn slid over her shoulder and Kalshann caught the sent of her hair- a faint glimpse of oak and flowers. “You are a mystery and an annoyance to the students and masters here, and since you saved me from a lecture you can’t be all bad.”  

*          *          *  

Kalshann found Gwynnion outside one of the larger homes in the village, entertaining a cluster of children with magical, dancing lights, which two small girls were trying to capture like fireflies, and a shimmer of ethereal chimes.  Even as he watched, the fluttering lights became fiery butterflies, flitting in and out of the children's grasping hands, in response to the young woman's thoughts.  One of the children had thrust an ancient-looking lute into her hands, begging her to play, and she strummed it with a faint blush, obviously uncomfortable with the strange instrument but trying to please them nonetheless.  Leaning against the trunk of a broad old elm tree, Kalshann paused to observe the young woman at play, enjoying the rare opportunity to see this side of her. 

"I am not very good at this, you understand," Gwynnion explained to the children, trying to get a feel for the instrument, "But if you insist, I will try to play you something…"

The red robed woman toyed with the lute for a few moments, as if trying to remember partial lessons from long ago.  Around her, the sound of chimes shifted and began to resemble flutes, picking out a quiet, sweet melody.  Brushing a wave of long, dark hair back from her face, the woman nodded as if agreeing with the music and brushed her slender fingers along the instrument's strings.  The lute was largely foreign to the young woman, so she could only use it for basic accompaniment, but her voice was soft, sweet and reasonably well-trained.  Smiling faintly in curiosity, Kalshann rested his head against the tree trunk as she began a song. 

I saw my love in the Autumn's grace
With woods of flame and falling mist
He called to me and we shared a kiss
And Winter's touch could not reach this place

Hauntingly, in the evenings slow
My eyes alight with peace and warmth
I sang to him by the light of our hearth
And Winter's touch could not reach this place

Silently, we had walked alone
In auburn woods and streets of stone
I found that I could not find my voice
Nor no longer be in soul alone

I saw my love in Winter's embrace
A spirit of flame in this cold, lonely wood
Looking on me as a  lover should
And Winter's touch could not reach this place  

A soft smile touched Gwynnion's face as she finished, and she opened her eyes in a faint daze to scan the faces of the children.  Certainly, they didn't quite understand what she had sung, but they were enchanted nonetheless.  Several of them were staring at the dancing lights, which appeared now as two lovers dancing in silent grace, who all too soon spun away again into misty light.  The others beamed at Gwynnion herself, who set the lute down to run her hands through her hair.  Immediately, they pleaded for her to sing another song or to make the lights dance again or any number of things which were lost in the babble.  The young woman shook her head with a sigh, but couldn't resist a small grin.  "Alright, alright," she countered, "I am not a bard, you know.  It wasn't that good."

"It was beautiful," Kalshann called.

Startled, Gwynn looked up to see him and flushed slightly in embarrassment.  This only made Kal smile more, since the young woman's usually austere demeanor concealed such emotions the rest of the time.  The music seemed to have softened her as well, baring the more delicate, romantic side to her personality that she often preferred to keep hidden.  She pointedly nudged the lute a little further away and smoothed out the velvet of her cloak.  "I didn't recognize the song?" said Kalshann in a more serious tone, turning the statement into a question.

"I know," Gwynnion murmured, hushing the children's demands for a moment, "The melody is taken from a ballad I heard once as a child, but the words are something of my own creation."  A faint smirk crossed her features, with a hint of pain.  "Though I am sure the elves would not take kindly to my appropriating their music for use with my own 'trivial' work…"

"I thought it was well done," Kalshann replied in a lightly reproachful tone, "You should share your work more often."

"I will remember that," Gwynnion nodded, offering a smile, "Thank you."             

*          *          *  

Gwynnion rolled over onto her back and leisurely opened her eyes, smiling faintly as the satin sheets caressed her skin, to greet the autumn sunshine streaming in small, dusty shafts through the windows of her bed chamber.  She had already slept through much of the morning, as she usually did, but the scent of food cooking downstairs for the midday meal stirred her hunger.  Running a hand back through her thick, dark auburn hair, she groaned in the back of her throat, reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of her bed.  But the hunger was insistent and there was work to be done – her research materials lay scattered about on the desk and tables nearby, where she had left them early this morning – as well as preparations for the journey to Palanthas.  The voices of the others could be heard downstairs, chatting and laughing, and she glanced toward the door with narrowed eyes as she heard someone coming upstairs.

There was a loud knock at the door, and a voice called: "Gwynnion?"

Ethan. 

Rolling her eyes, Gwynnion sat up in bed, allowing the sheets to slide off her body, to be replaced by the curtain of her hair as it swept over her shoulders.  The air was cool against her naked body, but not unpleasantly so, and it helped to clear her mind, which was cluttered with thoughts of research and plans for the day.  She frowned in irritation as Ethan rapped forcefully against the door again, calling her name more loudly, and climbed out of bed, wrapping one of the maroon sheets around her middle.  The young man started to knock again when she whipped the door open to glower at him, the outline of her body illuminated through the sheet by the light behind her.  Ethan blinked in surprise, stepping back slightly, and tried not to stare.

"What do you want, Ethan?" she asked.

"It's late, Gwynn," he explained mildly, managing a small grin, "We weren't sure how long you were going to sleep, and there is a lot of work to do today.  I know you got to bed late last night, but the others are expecting you to lend a hand.  Also, lunch is prepared, though you should probably hurry if you want to eat…"

"I was in the middle of getting dressed," Gwynnion lied in an even tone, to blunt any criticism, and turned to look askance at the white robed man, "But I apologize for not waking sooner to help.  I did have a late night…"  She paused thoughtfully and smiled.  "But I realize that is not an excuse.  Tell the others I will be down in a few minutes.  And please save me something to eat, Ethan?  I'll hardly be much help if I am hungry."

"Of course," Ethan nodded.

Once the young man was gone, Gwynnion climbed back into bed, wrapping herself tightly in one of the heavy fur blankets amidst a sea of pillows.  Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply of the warm air, tasting faintly of perfumed oils and yesterday's incense.  She wondered how long she could afford to linger, how much time she had before her friends would get upset.  Or more upset, as the case may be.  The matter of lunch was taken care of – Ethan was a kind enough soul, and no matter how tardy she was they wouldn't keep her from a needed meal.  But a guilty twinge of conscience nudged the young woman to overcome her decadence, get dressed and join her friends downstairs.  She was eager for the trip to Palanthas, after all, and the chance to spend time in a real city again.  And she owed it to her friends to contribute.

Besides, she was getting quite hungry now.

Growling faintly, Gwynnion rolled over and sat up again, running her hands back through her hair to smooth it out.  She caught her reflection in the standing mirror by the wall, eyeing the nude young woman there with a sigh and a small smirk.  It was one of the few pieces belonging to her and Lanthinel's mother that her half-brother's family had permitted her to keep.  She was fond of the mirror, she had used it for years, after all, but as a reminder of family it was strangely empty.  Gwynnion's mother had died giving birth to her, and whether her human father had abandoned her, as Lanthinel's family claimed, or they had kept him away from his daughter, the young woman had no memory of either parent.  The only associations she had with the mirror was of the years spent living with the elves, being taught to feel ashamed of herself as a half-breed, and of her parents for committing the sin which created her.

Lanthinel, at least, never looked down upon her for that.  Or at least he was kind enough not to express those feelings overtly, since he knew how painful such treatment had been for her.  But while he didn't hate her for the loss of their mother, Gwynnion knew he still found her presence to be a painful reminder.  She didn't blame him for it.  Lanthinel had known their mother, had loved and adored her, and lost her for the sake of an illicit affair and an illegitimate half-sister.  That betrayal alone was enough to harden Lanthinel's heart against Gwynnion.  When placed together with the young woman's rebellious nature and the philosophical differences between them, it was a miracle they had grown as close as they were.

Releasing a long sigh, Gwynnion slid out of bed, clutching onto the fur blanket, and reluctantly got dressed.   

*          *          *  

This did not bode well.

Gwynnion reclined in the window seat of her new chambers, her face lit by the pale, bluish light which penetrated the clouds outside and the ice frosting the glass.  But instead of looking out upon the snowy city, her dark green eyes were focused on the image of the blue rose which had become part of her flesh.  The richly colored bloom took up the width of her wrist, the fragile veins underneath becoming part of the flower, and the young woman shuddered at the thought her blood might be contaminated – or worse, changed – somehow by it.  The rose twisted, the darkly colored stem following the artery down length of her arm, coming to stop at the hollow of the elbow, where it seemed to burrow itself under her skin.  Along its route, the tattooed thorns seemed to prick the skin and the leaves bent along the curve of her arm. 

All in all, it was ornately designed, almost coming to life in its vividness, and really quite beautiful.  But Gwynnion couldn't help but feel uneasy about it, even slightly frightened.  The location of the tattoo would have been extremely painful, if not deadly, to work on, and from the design, the rose seemed to worm its way into her.  That it was the mark of a powerful sorceress, the Red Witch, with a predilection for transformation magic and curses of the most gruesome kind, only heightened her fear.  The Red Witch was supposedly human and should have died decades ago, but according to the library of Palanthas, she had taught the teacher of Justarius, head of the red robed mages.  Mages that powerful rarely faded away so easily.  That the Red Witch slipped into obscurity, with no account of her death, unsettled the young woman.

Of course, it need not have been the Red Witch who did this to her.  It was entirely possible that she was long dead, but magic of this nature – if that's what the blue rose was, since it resisted Gwynn's efforts to determine its nature – was not a simple matter.  Anyone who could have done this to her without her knowledge would be powerful and clever.  But Gwynnion couldn't think of anyone who might have done this to her, nor imagine a reason why she might have been singled out.  Perhaps it had been the elves?  A token by which they might follow her movements and…what?  Control her, perhaps?  Change her?  Into what?  Kill her if necessary?  There was no end to where speculation might take her, without further information.  Perhaps the blue rose was merely a warning, or even a badge of importance.  With the Test of High Sorcery still months away, Gwynn doubted there was a connection there, but anything was possible.

The young woman glanced toward the door as someone knocked.  "Come in."

One of the servants, whose name Gwynnion couldn't recall, cautiously opened the door.  The sorceress had only taken residence here recently, but the servants had already learned that Gwynn wasn't shy about being caught at unchaste moments.  And one never bursts in upon a sorceress, even one who is supposedly friendly.  When he saw the young woman was merely sitting at the window, he opened the door fully, revealing the bearded, amused figure of Oskar standing in the hallway behind him.  In his hides and fur cloak, the Ergothian looked terribly out of place amidst the finery of the house.  "M-my lady," the servant stammered, "I'm sorry to disturb you, but this…gentleman would like an audience with you."

"Oh, I need an audience now," Oskar groused in amusement.

The servant glanced at him with a weary expression, then looked pleadingly to Gwynn.  Whether she was a witch or not, he still hoped to be relieved of the barbarian.  The two of them had obviously been getting to know each other.  Shaking her head, the young woman smirked and beckoned for Oskar to enter.  "It's alright, he's a friend of mine.  Thank you."

"As you will, my lady," the servant bowed, retreating from the room.

"An old, dear friend, too," Oskar taunted the servant as the door closed, grinning, and wandered into the center of the room.  "What's wrong, Gwynnion?  I haven't seen you this anxious since that wolf sunk his teeth into your leg."

"It's nothing," Gwynn murmured.

"Well then," Oskar shrugged, glancing around the room, "If this isn't a fancy place you've got here.  I'm glad to see that one of us is living comfortably.  Even the servants fear for their lives around you."  He laughed under his breath, but stopped aghast when he saw the bed, his face wrinkling in distaste.  "How can you sleep with so many pillows?" he winced, rubbing the back of his neck, "It makes my neck ache just looking at it."

"I didn't think you cared for luxury, Oskar," Gwynn remarked dryly.

Oskar grinned.  "Oh, I don't.  But the fear must be nice, eh?"

Rolling her eyes, Gwynn asked, "So how can I help you?"

"Well, if you can spare a moment for an old friend, I'd like to ask a favor," Oskar replied breezily, and flopped unceremoniously into one of the chairs near the window.  Swiping his lanky reddish-blonde hair out of his eyes, he thumped the cushioned arms of the chair experimentally and chuckled at the lushness of his surroundings.  "You said once you could identify magic if you had a valuable pearl…"  

*          *          *  

Not for the first time in her young life, Gwynnion questioned her sanity.

She stood naked before a polished metal mirror in one of the towers' bedrooms, which she'd commandeered for her own use, eyeing the blue rose tattoo.  Just a few days ago, it had been limited to her left arm, but now blue, thorny vines wound up and down most of the left side of her body, from her shoulder to just below the knee.  New blooms had appeared along the twisting network of vines, one riding upon the swell of her breast, another curving across her flank and a third climbing down her leg.  From the end of her ribs to the beginning of her pelvis, the vines took on a violet color, whose significance was unknown to the young sorceress.  Scabs dotted the left side of her body where the thorns somehow cut into her flesh, and she touched the purple vines, wondering how much damage they'd done under the skin while she was screaming and writhing in agony.

"What have I done to myself?" she whispered.

And to Alexis.  She'd ignored the young knight's warnings, despite the sincere light of concern in her eyes, which had given Gwynnion pause.  Alexis was becoming a friend, and like most of her friends, Gwynn found herself hurt by the sorrowful, frightened looks she provoked in those she cared about.  And even though Gwynnion had refused to stop, the knight tried to help while she was in the throes of the vision, slicing her hand open in the process.  The young mage thought about what Alexis had said about her veins coming alive as thorny vines, pulling out of her skin and burrowing in again, and she shuddered.  Hell, even Oskar tried to help in his own way, blocking the entrance to the scrying room after she almost killed herself the first time.

The first time.

Gwynnion closed her eyes and turned away rather than look at the tattoo further, a tear trickling down her cheek.  The others didn't understand why she'd done this, and even with the shudder of horror she felt then, Gwynnion still felt the temptation to use the machine again.  A temptation only curbed by the fear of what the tattoo was doing to her, what it might do to her later.  And by the knowledge that Oskar was personally guarding it and would very likely tie her up if he caught her sneaking in, a thought which triggered a shiver of panicked anger.  Having spent most of her life under the thumb of Lanthinel's family, the thought of being confined and helpless was even more unbearable than the dangers of the machine.  Just barely.

Oskar thought she was mad, and Alexis probably considered her suicidal.  But Gwynnion had endured the pain of the blue rose to search for something desperately important to her.  Direction.  Even now, it was elusive, and the machine tantalized her with the possibility of more answers.  The others didn't understand this craving because she kept these feelings from them.  She wore the red robes, including the bloody ones lying on a stone table in the corner, because she hoped the Conclave would provide her with purpose and identity.  She wasn't like Kalshann; she had no lofty philosophy holding her to the red robes.  It was a choice she made out of bitterness and an aching lack of conviction.  "Whatever will be, will be," Oskar said, but Gwynnion didn't dare leave her life to the fortunes.  Their favor had been fickle at best so far.

No, what she needed was…faith?  In herself if nothing else.  In her own feelings and desires, which tempted her away from the red robes.  Whatever else its purpose was, the tattoo was a clear warning that she was running out of time.  The Test of High Sorcery was almost upon her, and she didn't know if she would survive it, though she wanted nothing more than to come out triumphant, with a clear vision for her future.  She felt love for Kalshann, but she doubted her feelings.  She'd spent too many years dulling her feelings down until now they were faded and untrustworthy.  Love felt like a mere shadow of the rapturous, beautiful thing she desired.  But mostly, Gwynnion felt something missing from her soul.  It was a longing she knew well from watching the stars dance in the night sky, but its meaning was lost to her.

Gwynn knew few things for certain.  Her freedom was of absolute importance.  Magic was the only life she knew, the only opportunity she'd found to appease her longings.  And her protectiveness of her friends, regardless of how awkward and unfamiliar real affection was, was unwavering.  But these convictions didn't offer any answers.  The machine, with its glimpses of the past and future, did.  She gladly damned the consequences to see what could be, and hopefully discover what should be. 

But now, staring at the thorns encroaching upon her heart and mind, Gwynnion found herself doubting that decision as well.  The tattoo might kill her.  When it moved, it felt like it was devouring her from the inside.  Already, she felt weaker in body and spirit.  Or worse, it might control her.  It seemed to be gaining strength the more she fought it.  Was it the Red Witch, Gwynn wondered, still alive somewhere and hoping to use her?  Perhaps even become her, like the demons and spirits in old legends?  Or was it something else, an enemy she couldn't see?  She even considered, with a soft laugh, that it might be a sign from the forgotten gods whose stories she craved, searching for something to believe in.

Kalshann would have something wise to say, she sighed wistfully, and Athica would give her comfort.  But they weren't here now, were they?

Climbing into bed, Gwynnion pulled the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes.  After a few moments, she felt Puck rouse himself from his bedding of pillows and pad lightly across the bed to curl up against her, purring softly.  A small smile touched her mouth.  At least the crafty, cantankerous tressim was glad to keep her company, no matter how she scarred herself.  Lying there in the semi-darkness, she let her thoughts wander, touching lightly upon memories of her childhood in Silvanost.  Of huddling in bed like this after a long night's crying, wishing for sleep.  But her thoughts soon turned to simple fantasies, to the imagined feel of Kalshann's arms around her, offering the comfort of a lover.  And the peace of not being alone.

A shaky sigh escaped the young woman, and she whispered the old mantra of her childhood until she drifted off. 

Please let me sleep.

Please take me away from here.

Please let me be anything but what I am.  

*          *          *  

Storms have a different quality in the wilderness.  The threat and the thrill are dulled by civilization, by the safety and comfort of stone walls and a roof over your head.  It had been months since Oskar had weathered a solid storm, and as he watched the wall of dark clouds advancing over the plains, pulsing with half-hidden lightning and announcing its approach with rumbling thunder, he was glad to be out of Palanthas, out of Gwynnion's tomblike towers, and back on the road where he belonged.  The spring air was sweet with the fragrance of trees, grass and flowers, and as a cool wind kicked up in advance of the storm, Oskar closed his eyes briefly and sighed, letting the breeze blow through his lanky reddish-blond hair.  It was turning out to be a perfect night.

Though he doubted Thomas, skulking on the other end of the camp, felt the same way.

Chuckling under his breath, Oskar shifted slightly on his tree branch, propping himself up against with the trunk with an outstretched leg, and kept his eyes and ears alert to anything which might approach under cover of the storm.  The wind and thunder changed sounds, and as the clouds blotted out the twinkling stars, the night grew darker.  But all in all, it felt good to be home.  If he'd had to stoop and be humble any further, Oskar figured he would've gone berserk with frustration.  At least the knights relaxed now that they were out of sight of their superiors, though he knew they'd have a steel rod shoved up their ass soon.  It was nice to see them exercise their rusty humility for a change, now that they were in his lands.  Thomas also seemed relieved to be out of the public eye, even if he wasn't comfortable in the wild. 

Oskar didn't jump when he heard the strangled cry within camp, but he turned his head with steady calm to see Gwynnion sitting up on her bedroll, shivering and clutching the blankets to her breast.  The rest of the company continued to sleep undisturbed.  Even the young woman's creature – he couldn't consider it an animal – lay curled up beside her in peaceful slumber.  Frowning, Oskar glanced around at the woods, shadows creeping in with the gathering storm, and dropped out of the tree to the soft carpet of pine needles below.  The witch didn't move as he entered the firelight and came to squat down beside her, following the woman's gaze into the low-burning fire.  A grimace creased Gwynnion's features, and her breathing was so loud and quick, it filled the air between them.  Oskar's frown deepened.  Witches and warlocks were more trouble than they were worth, usually.

"Gwynn," he murmured, "What troubles you?"

The young woman didn't move or answer.  Sighing, Oskar lay a hand on her shoulder, only to fall backwards and clamp a hand around Gwynnion's wrist as she lunged at him with a concealed dagger, her eyes wide with shock and alarm.  The man growled and shoved her back almost immediately, his strength far outweighing hers, and he sent her sprawling amidst the blankets with a soft cry.  "Woman," Oskar barked, "What the hell do you – "

And he stopped.

Alexis jerked awake at the sound of his voice, propping herself up on her elbows to see Oskar standing over the red-robed woman with sword drawn.  The irritation faded from his expression and he stepped back slightly, eyeing Gwynn with caution.  It took a moment for Alexis to realize their faces were bathed in a faint, bluish glow. 

Lowering her gaze, the knight saw Gwynnion's bare arm, and drew in a short breath, climbing to her feet as well.  The mage's hand was clenched into a fist and blood was smeared across her arm from multiple small wounds, but it was the blue rose tattoo which captured Alexis and Oskar's attention.  It seemed alive.  Its entire length glowed brightly, pulsing faintly with the woman's racing heartbeat.  The thorny vine had spread, coiling around her upper arm like a chain, extending halfway to the shoulder.  As Alexis watched, blood welled up at each of the rose's thorns, as if they were digging into the soft, delicate flesh of her arm.

The knight blinked.  "Gwynn…?"

"Don't touch me," the mage rasped, becoming aware of her surroundings now.

No one spoke for a long moment.  Gradually, the tattoo's illumination faded, then blinked out entirely.  Gwynnion's breathing was ragged with forced control, and she growled a moan as she relaxed her hand, wiggling her fingers experimentally.  The rose remained coiled around her arm, but otherwise seemed deceptively quiet.  Almond-shaped green eyes glanced at Alexis and Oskar, and Gwynn nodded slowly.  The young woman's familiar had lifted its head now, gold eyes open to slits, peering sleepily at the lot of them.  "I'm sorry, Oskar," she whispered, looking up at him, "I didn't realize it was you…"

"Who'd you think it was then?" Oskar murmured, "The dragon?"

"No, it was something else," Gwynnion frowned, her voice shaky, "There were screams, claws and fangs ripping at my skin, and…a man…with a blue rose like mine, tattooed across his face, just as in Alexis' dream."  She looked up with clearer eyes.  "He was trying to protect me, but they bore him down…They dragged me down in the end as well, into darkness…It wasn't a nightmare, but I can't explain it…"

Alexis' eyes narrowed.  "A vision."

"These seem to be good times for such things," Oskar remarked dryly, sheathing his blade as he turned and started away.  "I've not seen or heard Thomas in some time.  I'm going to check on him…"  

*          *          *  

Gwynnion staggered and grit her teeth against a wave of pain as the company made their way through the grassland sea of Northern Ergoth, which she had traveled once before – seemingly so long ago – with Lanthinel, on their way to the university at Bethfield.  They were walking the horses at the time.  Oskar, who knew this land better than anyone, was concerned about the potential hazard of the sinkholes and animal boroughs which peppered the area.  Gwynn’s knees nearly buckled before she was caught by Alexis, who hooked her arm under the other woman’s shoulder and helped her back to her feet.  “What’s wrong?” the knight asked, frowning grimly. 

“I’m alright,” Gwynnion gasped, gripping her left side with a wince.

“Yes, of course you are,” Oskar remarked sarcastically, walking up to check on the two young women.  The red robed mage was cursed, he knew, both by the blue rose tattoo which spread across her left side and by her own stubbornness.

“I feel weak,” the young mage admitted, “And my side’s gone partly numb.”

Scratching at the scraggly blond of his beard, Oskar asked, “You’re not going to go at me with a knife again, are you?”

“I told you, I was frightened by the nightmare,” Gwynn growled between clenched teeth.  She gently disentangled herself from Alexis’ grasp, placing a hand on the knight’s breastplate to hold her at bay, and took a few shaky steps on her own.  Dizziness swam through her head as she tried to coordinate her movements, her side aching dully, but she managed to remain upright.

“Aye, perhaps,” Oskar replied dryly, “But we don’t know what that tattoo of yours is doing to you.  I’ll still tie you up if I think I can’t trust you.”

Green eyes flashed angrily at him, but Gwynnion said nothing.  Oskar saw the poorly veiled fear and uncertainty in her expression.  “I doubt that will be necessary,” Alexis murmured gently in the young woman’s defense, “And you cannot blame her for whatever curse has been laid upon her.”  The knight turned toward Gwynn.  “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” the mage murmured, “It’s passing now.”

“Then let us get her home,” said Alexis to the others, “And waste no more time arguing about it.”  

*          *          *  

The trees were ancient oaks, older then anything else near Bethfield, near the stream an old cabin stood and the area had been cleared of shrubs and debris leaving a large clearing around with the cabin at one end and the semi-circle of oaks at the other. Ethan scratched his chin, his few days of stubble and the weary look in his eyes from the last few weeks after the fire-dragon attacked.

“And we are here in the middle of the woods because?” Zoë asked in a demure voice, having none of the sarcasm, though Kalshann knew better. “I thought you said you had a place for us to stay?”

“I offered all of you could stay with me, but I will not expect you to remain if the accommodations are too unpleasant.” Kalshann said in a curt tone as he dismounted. Walking towards the ancient trees as the mount moved to graze nearby. The others took a moment to tie their horses and then followed, except Zoë who remained with her horse. Lanthinel with Gwynn casually behind, and Ethan slowly trudging at the rear, followed Kalshann’s lead. They entered the heavily overgrown grove, and nearly stumbled into the stone ruins. From outside the trees it was impossible to see, vine-covered grey stones rose up like the trunk of another tree, with stone ruble piled around it. 

“A tower?” Gwynnion said softly, taking in the filtered light and smell of the ancient woods.

“I thought you lived with Erin ?” Lanthinel said looking over at Kalshann who was leaning against the wall of the ancient tower.

“Well to be honest- I told people that, most every one thinks I lived with Erin at the Copperhorse inn but I didn’t want people following me out here- but with the attack and the city mostly in ruins I wanted to make sure others could find a place to stay until repairs could be made, or other accommodations found.” Kalshann shrugged and walked over to the ancient door.

“Why did you keep it secret?” Ethan asked cautiously, he and Kalshann had only known each other for months now, and only through their mutual acquaintance of Lanthinel. However Ethan had spent every day since the attack working to help the town and Kalshann was hoping to give him some kindness in return.

“I occasionally have a house guest who doesn’t like the noise of the village.” Kalshann said tentatively, he was obviously not sharing the whole truth, but Ethan let the matter drop there. Gwynnion however looked at him and watched his eyes dance deeper into the forest; her curiosity was growing since the rumors she had heard from the townsfolk.

“Just head down the stairs to the left, most the space is downstairs and I’ve only repaired three floors above the ground floor.” The group entered with Kalshann now following from behind. Obviously this was a storage area, Gwynn thought, paintings and tapestries sat on thin frames leaned against the walls and the center was a pair of tables with an assortment of scrolls, maps, chests and jars. From the ceiling hung heavy netting with more paraphernalia stowed away there. The room smelled of cinnamon and was warm, as Gwynn stepped down the stairs she came into a pillared chamber, with a fireplace against one wall crackling with a low flame and the furnishings of a den or study, including a small bookshelf. Erin , dressed in the somber black robes he normally wore sat in a large pillowed chair by the fire reading a grey colored tome.

“Ahh, the other house guests.” He chuckled as he closed the tome. The cinnamon sent was cut with the smell of warm cider and ancient books. “Have you accepted my cousin’s offer or are you taking a look first?” Erin did not stand, but gestured to the arched doorway and the short hall on the far side of the chamber.

“Now there are three rooms down here, and two more upstairs that can be used for bedrooms, Erin is already using one down here, so we can get every one here a private room, there’s also a kitchen the storage area you saw coming in and this room in the tower.” Kalshann motioned towards the way they came with his hands. “There is room for horses more storage space and a bathing area in the cabin and a cellar there with plenty of food stored.  If more space is needed I could get more of the tower repaired, or fix up the cabin with a bit of work?”

“If I could get a good nights sleep and a bath, then I would more then happy to accept.” Ethan said as he sat in the chair by the desk, his eyes closed as he yawned.

Gwynnion had missed the battles against what the villagers are calling a fire-dragon, but the raw weariness in Ethan told her how much of a toll it had taken on the survivors. A quarter of the students and masters at the university had died and worse yet the village had lost even more lives. The fields and crops had been torched as well and many of the buildings had been destroyed.  

*          *          *  

It seemed like a pleasant enough chore at first.

Gwynnion sat before him in her brightly lit chamber, with sunlight filtering in through the canopy of trees outside and through the makeshift window in the wall.  The straps of her scarlet silk gown were pulled down to bare her shoulders and mid back, and the young woman held the dress in place with one hand at her breast.  Her long, dark hair was coiled and draped over her shoulder, out of the way, allowing Kalshann full access to the smooth white flesh of her back.  The scent of lilacs, oak and jasmine from her body surrounded them.  How could he complain about being so close to a beautiful woman, running his hands over the softness of her skin as he inked the outline of the tattoo on her back? 

He was quite proud of the design – the phases of Lunitari, forming part of a stylized sun, done in burnt reds and oranges – and Gwynnion seemed pleased with it as well.  When he began, Kal thought it was a precious moment of openness from the half-elf, a reaffirmation of their friendship.  After all, he was branding a permanent part of himself onto her, something which only lovers and close friends did.  And Kal always enjoyed adding artistry to something functional, and magic should always be beautiful.  Especially when you will be wearing it forever.

The two of them hadn’t spent much time together since Gwynnion left for Palanthus, and she had been distant lately.  Kal knew it took the young woman a long while to feel like she belonged among their friends, and that sense of belonging was easily strained by time and distance.  Aside from their brief, awkward conversation while he removed his things from this level of the tower, they had spoken little.  As it was, Kal had begun to wonder how much longer their circle would hold together.  There were too many conflicts amongst the friends already, and they would likely continue to grow with time.  So when Gwynn asked him to provide this small favor for her, Kalshann’s mood brightened considerably.  She had even insisted that the tattoo be of his design, and he accepted the task with a hopeful smile.  If Gwynnion could reach out to her friends, perhaps things weren’t so bad after all.

Simply allowing another person to be this intimate with her was a marked change.  Kal knew that Gwynnion had long ago disconnected herself from her feelings to escape pain, and real closeness – either physically or emotionally – was difficult for her.  At times, with her aloofness and almost perfunctory shows of concern and affection, she even reminded him of Zoë.  But now she was sitting before him, revealing more of her body than she ever had in his presence, and Kalshann found himself a little enchanted by her.  She was a delicate creature, her back narrow and her limbs almost fragile in their slenderness.  As he worked, her skin felt glassy under his gentle fingertips.  Kal found that half-elven men tended to take after their human parent, whereas the women, with the refinement of maidenhood, retained more of their elven features.  Gwynnion was certainly no different. 

Yet she was hardly perfect.  Kalshann’s eyes often strayed toward the network of blue vines which covered the left side of her body and the scabs dotting the tip of each thorn where the rose tattoo had harmed her.  It felt cold to the touch as he turned her more fully toward the light, sending a ripple of unease through him.  But it was the other marks which held his interest.  A long white scar made a diagonal gash from her right side to the small of her back.  And there were broad discolorations along her back and sides where a very large snake or reptile had crushed her.  No wonder the young woman seemed physically weaker than Kal remembered.  Between the spreading rose tattoo and the wounds inflicted upon her, Gwynnion had suffered a great deal of trauma since he last saw her.  Yet in a strange way, Kal felt these scars made her more real, more alive in his mind. 

And also more vulnerable.  Of all their friends, she was physically the weakest and the least capable of defending herself if her magic failed.  Kalshann’s brow furrowed as he studied these wounds, wondering how much the young woman had suffered.  Injuries like these could cripple someone as fragile as Gwynnion, and the physical marring mirrored the deeper emotional scars she carried.  She was more doubtful of herself and her abilities than he remembered, even after proving herself against the ogres.  Kal thought back to her terse explanation of the astrolabe and the agony of the rose tattoo burrowing under her skin.  In her soft voice and quiet admissions, Kal felt the guilt Gwynnion held over hurting Alexis and the growing fears she had about her sanity. 

She, like all of his friends, carried heavy burdens and deep scars, Kalshann knew.  And while he had the power to heal her physical wounds, he allowed them to remain out of indecision and fear.  Doing so would reveal his own secrets, and that risk – both for her and for him – was something Kal was loathe to accept.  While he thought he could trust her, Kalshann had no idea what Gwynnion’s reaction would be, and secrets spread all too easily.  Still, it was deeply tempting to heal the young woman’s scars, if only to strengthen the fading bond between them.  He missed the connection he once felt with her, when she would spend long evenings talking about her childhood in a soft, sad voice.  Kal wished for his friend to open her heart again, before isolation truly made her cold and grey.

As he finished inking the outline of the tattoo, Kalshann ran a hand over the scar and murmured, “You’ve been hurt badly.  Where did you get this?”

It was the first time they’d spoken in almost an hour, and there was a long pause before the young woman answered.  Gwynnion turned her head slightly to the left, the sunlight falling on her profile.  Was she paler than he remembered?  “In a fight with hobgoblins,” she replied quietly, sounding slightly embarrassed, “One of them circled around Alexis and her cousin.  My magic was expended, and it caught me across the back as I tried to retreat.  Oskar and Thomas brought it down before it could finish me off.  But the wound was deep.  Oskar did what he could to repair the damage…”

Kalshann frowned.  “And the snake?”

A tense laugh came out of Gwynnion, and she bowed her head as she turned away.  “That happened on the way to Dunlynn.  Pets of a giant, which he’d charmed with a magic ring.  We were too spread out when he attacked, and most of the attention went to the giant, naturally.  I did my best to fend them off, but one of them caught me.  Fortunately, Oskar was kind enough to cut me loose before it killed me…”  A sigh.  “There are others.  Scars on my hip and leg from a worg and an arrow wound to the shoulder, to name a few.”

“I take it your companions were less than protective, not to mention foolhardy,” Kal observed with a touch of angry sarcasm.  Mages, particularly one as delicate as Gwynnion, required all the protection they could get.  From the sound of it, her new friends had all but left her to her own devices in battle.

“You could say that,” Gwynn replied dryly.

“At first I blamed it on their ignorance,” she added after a few moments, “They judged me to be a ‘powerful witch’ when I first met them, and I’m sure they expected me to reduce their enemies to ashes with a wave of my hand.  I thought they’d learn better after seeing me bleeding on the beach, but apparently not…”

Nodding, Kalshann restrained himself from commenting further on her companions.  They sounded like a lot of fools to him, except for Alexis and perhaps the laconic ranger, Oskar.  Still, if he thought his own friends had difficulties, Kal thought sardonically, he need only look to her comrades for reassurance.  Sighing, he placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze for sympathy, but Gwynn tensed under his touch, her shoulders squaring slightly, and drew in a short breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Kalshann murmured, withdrawing his hand immediately, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Gwynnion released a shaky breath, languidly turning her head in the direction of his voice.  “No, it’s alright, Kal.  It’s not you.  It’s just…”  Her voice tightened.  “Habit, I suppose.”

Frowning, Kalshann moved back away from her slightly, to give her space.  For all her seductive sensuality, she seemed uneasy with being so exposed and vulnerable with another person.  Had someone hurt her in the past, he wondered.  Or given her vanity, was she ashamed of the scars lining her otherwise perfect body?  More than likely, she simply felt awkward in this situation, with being in such an intimate position with a mere friend.  She didn’t seem to want the added attention, and Kal felt guilty not only for admiring her while he worked but for bringing up the subject in the first place.  “We have a good two hours of work ahead of us,” he reminded her quietly, “Or I should say I do.  Are you sure you want me to continue?”

“I’m fine, Kal,” she replied, “And yes, I’d like you to finish…”

The young woman’s voice trailed off as she regretted her wording.

“You’re certain?” Kalshann asked doubtfully.

Gwynnion’s tone was a tad impatient.  “Yes.”

His frown deepening, Kal cocked his head slightly and studied her.  The tone of the moment was changing between them.  Even their earlier silence had been preferable to the tension in the air now, though he expected it had concealed – or expressed? – the young woman’s discomfort with the situation.  As the silence dragged on, Gwynnion twisted to glance over her shoulder at him, her brow furrowed and her green eyes questioning.  And though he felt it was a mistake, Kalshann gathered up his paints and indicated that she should turn around so he could resume the work.  

*          *          *  

To Kal’s eyes, Gwynnion was like a veiled flame.  She cast a soft, warm light upon her friends, but her complexities and passions were well guarded from others, himself included.  The young woman did not easily give her trust, and she was slow with affection when she did.  More than a few times, he thought her mordancy and endless reserve might smother the flame, but while the candle often flickered and burned low, Gwynnion continued on as always.  The others considered her capricious, but Kalshann knew Gwynn was deliberate with her actions, even if she chose not to share her reasons.

Her sardonic sense of humor and turbulent emotions sometimes seemed intended to shroud her motivations from others, but Kal knew the young woman was more interested in privacy than in playing games with others.  True manipulators such as Zoë were anathema to Gwynn, as were glory hounds or power mongers (occasionally causing Kalshann to wonder why the woman deigned to stay with them at all).  Gwynnion helped others without concern for reward or notoriety. 

In fact, Gwynnion avoided any such attention if it could be helped, preferring to keep her benefaction personal, such as with this knight, Alexis Stoutheart, whom she seemed quietly fond of.  Or Athica for that matter.  Gwynn was too intensely private to do otherwise.  Like Athica, he often thought her feelings were too strong to bear close examination by anyone.  Intimacy – and by this he meant emotional closeness, not physical; Gwynnion knew she was beautiful and had little regard for modesty – was difficult for her, if not painful.  Growing up in Silvanesti had dulled her affinity with others.  Kalshann thought that even a small act of generosity was like an embrace for her.

Still, the young woman had changed while they were apart.  Something in her bearing had softened, though she was understandably more troubled than ever.  If Athica were there, Kalshann would have asked her to speak with Gwynn.  She seemed to have better luck prying secrets from their friend’s heart.  But Athica was far away, on business in Qualinesti, and probably would not return until later in the year.  Besides, Kal had spent so little time with Gwynnion recently, and he knew she felt alienated from them by the passage of time.  It was time to try and bring his fickle friends together yet again.

Gwynnion returned to the tower late that evening, she warmed a cup of soup he had made earlier, and settled in front of the fireplace downstairs.  Soon the spicy scent of the broth was joined by the sweet fragrance of a hot cinnamon bun, a gift from one of the townsfolk.  Given the young woman’s taste for sweets, Kalshann wasn’t surprised Gwynn was on good terms with the baker.  Despite being an ‘enigmatic sorceress’, as Erin would say, she probably seemed less remote and imposing than the Knights of Solamnia. 

Kal had been examining the upper structure of the tower to plan repairs, and he came down to stand in the doorway when the scent of her meal reached him.  He liked the way fragrances communicated Gwynnion’s presence and emotions, whether by perfume, incense or otherwise.  She was seeking comfort tonight, he suspected, sipping from the earthenware cup she held in both hands.  The young woman sat with her face turned toward the firelight, which played over her pale, translucent skin.  Her long, curly auburn hair was pulled to one side and draped over her front.  She seemed more like a painting than a person at first.

“You know,” he announced lightheartedly, “If you continue eating like a rabbit, you really shouldn’t complain about being so delicate. It bewilders me sometimes by how strong you are after seeing how you eat.  Perhaps you should take up Ethan and Athica’s offer and learn how to protect yourself properly, with a blade.”

Gwynnion turned to see him, unsurprised, and smirked.  Normally, this would have earned him a brief grin, maybe even a faint laugh, but she was in no mood for jocularity.  Her expression was pensive, and that familiar sadness was back in her eyes.  But Gwynn warmed as she studied the young man’s smile, and her voice was soft as she shook her head.  “Good evening, Kal.  I didn’t realize anyone was up.”

“Actually, no one else is here,” Kalshann explained with a shrug. 

Gwynn nodded.  “I take it you made the soup?”

“Yes, for Erin and I.  Though I made extra incase you were hungry when you returned.”  Kal grinned faintly in response to Gwynnion’s small, thankful smile, and he thought he detected a slight blush.  The young woman was beautiful when she smiled, as rare as that was.  “Before he and Erin left, Ethan mentioned to me that you left early this morning, answering a messenger’s summons.  I take it there was something important in Bethfield?”

“Tython sent for me,” Gwynn reluctantly explained, setting the cup aside. 

Kalshann’s eyes flicked to the young woman’s wrist as the shadows fell away, baring the blue rose tattoo winding up her arm.  He’d seen it before, of course, while placing the other magical tattoo on her back.  The thorny vines were hard to miss, crisscrossing the smooth flesh of her side and shoulder, though at the time they had seemed strangely beautiful.  Though she’d never admit it, Kal knew the mark frightened her.  Gwynnion had obliquely described her struggles with it, and he understood the fear which uncertainty could bring.  Particularly when, as she had implied, it had capacity for harming others as well.

“What did you learn?” he asked gently, crossing to sit in a chair near her.

“Half-truths and uncertainties, as always,” Gwynnion sighed, a touch of bitterness in her voice, “I expected to be examined by Conclave wizards, but apparently this mark is not unknown, only a closely guarded secret.  One of the keepers of that secret came to see me.”  She turned to look at him, her green eyes dark in the faint light.  “Though I don’t think I should say who it was.  It was a very private meeting, and I was asked to be ‘discreet’.  Not even Tython was allowed to be present.”

Kalshann couldn’t resist a small grin, leaning back into the chair.  “Whomever it was must have been important then.  That has rarely stopped you before.”

Another smirk.  Kal reminded himself to proceed more gingerly.  Gwynnion had a poor sense of humor and her feelings were easily bruised by what anyone else would consider friendly teasing.  It was all too easy to drive her into silence that way.  “I was told the rose shouldn’t harm me if I don’t challenge it further,” she murmured, “Though they also admitted it was acting differently than they expected.”

“What is it?” Kal inquired.

“A geas,” Gwynnion frowned, sarcastically echoing what had been told to her, “A curse.  Or a mark of special importance, to everything or nothing, something that’s only known of from the distant past.  Though I gather there is a secret behind the mark, which has been passed down from master to apprentice in a direct line for many, many generations.  But since it isn’t functioning as expected, it may mean something is different; something is wrong.” 

Kalshann nodded thoughtfully.  “Passed down from the Red Witch?”

“Through the Red Witch,” Gwynn corrected, “Echoing back to long before the Cataclysm, probably from before the earlier Cardella, whose tower we discovered.  The line of succession troubles me.  If it is ancient magic, kept secret by a select few, then why has it been placed upon me?  Why now, if it hasn’t been used in thousands of years?  And if, as they implied, it isn’t a spell at all, then things become even more muddled…”

They were silent for a moment as Kalshann absorbed this information.  He knew Gwynnion had hated and feared uncertainty since childhood.  That was one of many reasons why she disliked Zoë so much, after all.  Or herself for that matter.  Clearly, there was some kind of agenda behind his friend’s troubles, but there was no telling as to its nature or purpose.  That the mark had also appeared in the dreams of others, albeit on someone else, was a further puzzle.  One that obviously frustrated Gwynn, since she wasn’t privy to any such visions. 

“What do you intend to do?” he asked her.

“Pour over Cardella’s journal for one,” the young woman replied quietly, “I only gave it a cursory examination before, and I’m sure I’ve missed something.  She might have mentioned who her teacher and apprentices were.”  She sighed and rubbed her lower lip with her thumb, a habit she’d picked up from Athica.  “I’m also to be examined further when we reach Wayreth, though that’s a long time to wait.  In the meantime, I intend to accompany Alexis and Samkin to Palanthus, and from there seek out the Red Witch herself.  I’ve been given a letter of introduction, so hopefully she’ll have more answers.  Or at least more half-truths to sift through.”

Kalshann’s voice was soft.  “Then you’ll be leaving again soon.”

“Yes,” Gwynnion sighed.

The young woman eyed him regretfully for a moment before rising.  Shedding her cloak, which had grown hot by the fireplace, she glanced at the blue vines winding over her skin before collecting her dishes and taking them back to the kitchen.  A slice of her other tattoo peeked out above the burgundy gown she wore, rippling slightly with the fine muscles in her back and shoulders, and Kalshann followed her with his eyes until she was out of sight.  Presumably, the conversation was over.  And as always with Gwynnion, there was little he could do to aid her or provide comfort.  She would not accept any.

Kal sighed and closed his eyes.

He found his thoughts wandering back several weeks, settling on the image of Gwynn sitting in front of him, the straps of her dress pulled down and holding it in place while he painted her slender back.  The moment had been oddly impersonal, a service rendered to a friend.  But thinking back on it, Kalshann remembered the smooth, soft feel of her skin as his fingertips brushed the surface.  Her skin was almost white and glassy like an elf’s, the refinement of maidenhood banishing most telltale signs of human blood.  

But it wasn’t perfect.  Kal remembered a long white scar running diagonally from her right side to the small of her back, which she explained had been a sword cut gained in recent adventures.  There were others, of course, she had quietly told him.  An arrow scar on one shoulder, now covered by the blue rose.  And two other scars on her leg as well as a long line of discoloration from the tight coils of a gigantic snake.  Her recent companions had been less than protective, he had dryly observed.  Still, perhaps it was the awkward intimacy of the moment, but there was something about these old wounds, which made Gwynnion seem more real than she had been before. 

She could be hurt, as she often was, and she could die.  Unlike most young men, Kalshann was one to accept this inevitable truth about life, though strangely he’d never considered it in relation to his friends.  The realization brought him closer to her, in a strange way.  Touching her skin, painting her body, he thought he could reach Gwynn, as he had years ago when they were merely students at the university.  Despite her reserve and aloofness, she was a good friend.

 “It’s strange how being away for even a short time makes you feel like a stranger,” Gwynnion murmured from the doorway, interrupting his thoughts.  “Being absent for everything your friends said and did while you were gone.  Not knowing why they’ve changed since you last saw them, even in little ways.”  She laughed sadly.  “And it always takes me so long to feel like I belong again.”

“You are not a stranger, Gwynn,” Kal gently admonished her, even as he smiled softly at this rare admission of feeling.  As with Erin , the two of them often seemed to think along similar lines, and he sensed the connection between them then.  He realized just how much he’d missed her, missed that connection while she was away.

A smile graced her mouth.  “I have missed you all.”

“Even Zoë?” quipped Kalshann.

“I’m willing to begrudge her some respect for helping us against the ogres,” Gwynnion smirked, “And she’s been quite civil lately.  But I’m sure it won’t last long.”

Chuckling, Kalshann smiled at the young woman, admiring the curve of her hip as she leaned against the stonewall.  “Well, I can’t speak for the others, but you are my friend, and I have missed you.”

Gwynnion’s smile widened and she bowed her head slightly, either too touched to speak or unsure how to return the affection.  When she looked up again, Kal saw sadness in her dark green eyes.  It didn’t leave her often, but he still disliked adding to her worries and wondered what he’d done to wound her.  “I know, Kalshann,” she breathed, her voice faint in the small stone chamber, “I feel closer to you than most anyone else in my life.  Far more so than my brother, as much as I care for him.”

Again there was a pause between them, silence.

“But I’ve had a long day,” she added before he could answer, gathering her cloak from the chair and wrapping it around her shoulders, “And I’m very tired.  I should probably try to get some sleep.”

Smiling gently, Kal nodded.  “Alright, Gwynn.  Dream well.”

“You know I haven’t dreamt in a long time,” Gwynn murmured ruefully.

“Only because you don’t allow yourself to,” Kalshann countered lightly, shaking his head, “Not every dream will be a nightmare, Gwynn.  You need your hopes and fears just as much as anyone else.  Besides, even if you have one happy dream, then all the rest are worth it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she smiled wanly, “Goodnight, Kal.”

With that, she vanished up the stairs, leaving him to his thoughts.

Kal sighed and closed his eyes. He listened to the soft rustle of the wind against the tower, the faint sound of horses in the small stable outside and the soft, methodical gait Gwynnion took as she ascended.  She walked wearily, her feet sliding across the step and then holding her weight.  There was a lantern hanging on a hook on the second floor, and Kalshann heard the silence of her pause as she lit a low flame before continuing up the winding stairs.  After a moment, her footsteps were too soft to be heard, but Kal imagined her movements.  The same slow pace and the same weary tread.

Behind his eyelids, thoughts danced as he leaned back in his chair.  His mind wandered over Gwynnion's words. 

Half-truths and uncertainties, as always.

In Kal's mind, he imagined her reaching for the heavy oaken door, but the familiar sound of the door creaking open did not appear.  He realized she was hesitating at the door, and he could almost see her looking forlornly into the dark forest through the hall window.  Perhaps she'd seen something, or perhaps she was considering staying up a little while longer.  Whatever the reason, the gentle creak of the door soon followed as she entered her room, and Kalshann felt alone again.

He stood silently and wandered into the kitchen.  The room had become a cluttered mess from the seven of them, eating meals at all hours.   Unwashed plates still sat in buckets of water from this morning.  Kalshann had only owned enough dishes and cutlery to serve himself and one other, never having had more in the tower until the attacks came.  But now, all of his friends had brought a few pieces with them, and he was surrounded by a nightmare of mixed dishes. 

As always.

Kal looked amid the unkempt kitchen and felt a strange sadness welling up within him, as if he found no reason to be here.  As he poured water into the blackened pot to make his coffee, his eyes drifted around the room.  He was tired, but he told himself there was still much work to do.  And once again, he was alone to do it.  Kalshann knew he was just trying to busy himself so he would not feel this way.  His friends were all feeling hurt and alone, himself included.  The entire village felt this way, he supposed.

He paused before moving to the flame in the next room, and decided to speed things up.  Placing his hands over the cast iron pot, the young man muttered softly to himself and suddenly, the air around him swirled with a cold chill.  A moment later, the water began boiling, and he set about putting the heavy coffee grounds in a small, tied bag, sliding it into the pot.

All of them had lost something or suffered pain, and the longer those wounds remained untouched the deeper the pain would grow.  Kalshann knew this, but he could not seem to find a way to heal those wounds for these people he considered friends.  Erin was helpless before his own fears, Ethan was lost to his own choices, Lanthinel had lost purpose, and Zoë had lost her freedom. Even Athica was trapped in a prison of her own making.  Gwynnion was no different.

Half-truths and uncertainties.

Kal's eyes drifted upwards to the clean dishes and pots sitting on the top shelves before him.  While the water darkened from the steeping grounds, he cleared off the small serving tray one of them had brought in.  It was made of a light colored wood with a flock of small songbirds painted in the center.  Absentmindedly, he moved his plain clay cup onto the tray, followed by one of Erin ’s copper serving pots. The copper clinked against the glazed earthenware cup and he frowned, looking at the two of them.  

Kalshann blinked.  His eyes searched for meaning and found only the dim shine of copper upon the clay cup.  Then he saw the reflection of the cup in the luster of the metal.

Reflection, from one to another.

Smiling faintly, Kal took down one of Ethan's polished steel knives and set it down next to the cup, reflecting both of them.  Then one of Zoë's pewter mugs, and one of Athica's fine crystal glasses, each showing in their own shine the muted reflection of the others.  He laughed to himself as he looked about the room.  He found one of the elven style silver flagons Lanthinel used and placed it next to the pewter mug.

Searching again, Kal located one of the small porcelain cups Gwynnion owned.  He had seen them before; they seemed terribly small and were gracefully pained with images of maidens dancing in unison around the cup.  For all her taste for luxury, Kalshann knew it was simple beauty and elegance, which she prized the most.  He studied the artistry of the cup, its smooth surface, and frowned at the faint hairline crack running from lip to base.  Not enough to break it, but enough to make him handle it carefully as he set the teacup with the other dinnerware.

Kalshann looked at the tray and saw a pattern there, one he could not explain. The others might never see or understand it, but he did.

Kalshann laughed to himself as he set the tray over the kitchen’s hearth.  

*          *          *  

The knock was soft.  While he had a good reason for it, he didn’t want to startle her.

He heard her move then sit up, followed by a very weak “What?” from behind the door.

“Gwynnion, I’m sorry to wake you, but I would like to talk to you.”  Kalshann set the tray of hot coffee and the pair of cups down at his feet.  “I would wait till morning, but this is important and I don’t know if it could wait till tomorrow.”  He said this, knowing the young woman never woke up early if she could help it, and he didn’t know what plans she might have already made.

“Kalshann,” she murmured, whether to herself or him he did not know.  But he made out the sounds of a soft yawn and then her moving off the bed. After a moment, the door slid partially open, allowing light to spill into the darkness from the hall lantern.  Gwynnion had draped a thin silk sheet over her shoulders for some attempt at modesty.  With the soft light her pale skin was beautiful, and the maroon sheet accentuated her curves more then they hid them. Beneath the sheet, the dark lines of rose vines twisted their way down her side.

“Is it important?” she murmured softly, still not fully awake and blinking from the brightness in the hall.  But Kal saw her perk up slightly with a small smile when she smelled the hot coffee.  

*          *          *  

Gwynnion sat among her sea of pillows atop the bed, sipping at the coffee.  Her tired eyes had adjusted to the light, and she watched Kalshann where he sat in the small window nook, looking out into the darkened forest beyond.  He was still wearing the heavy boots and rough cut clothing he always wore, threadbare and patched in places.  The pale moonlight of Solinari gave his thick hair a luster, and the soft, thoughtful smile that played on his lips made her want to reach out and touch his cheek.  Moments like these reminded her of when they were students at the university.  She had been so enamored by her newfound freedom then, as she quietly fell in love with this enigmatic man.  How had silence closed in between them so quickly?

“Have you seen the old oak near the town square?” he asked her quietly.  His voice was bright with emotion, but as always they were a mystery to her.  Gwynnion paused, warming her hands on the smooth earthen mug she held.

“You mean the one that was struck by lightning?”  She fondly remembered the old tree.  Years ago it had been a glorious sight, tall and thick, with robins nesting in the ancient branches.  Still, a year after she arrived at the university, during a violent storm, lightning struck the tree and now its blackened and split trunk stood in a quiet corner of the square.  Surprisingly, it had been left alone by both the fire dragon and the ogres.

“The town elders are tearing it down.  Or at least they are planning to do so, since so much of the town needs to be repaired.”  Kal turned and smiled at her.  She saw both happiness and sorrow in that smile, like he was speaking of a friend’s passing.  The young man’s feelings were often a puzzlement in this way; strong but mixed, seeing the world from many sides at once.  It was his curiosity and openness which first attracted her to him, after all.  “If you could heal it and give it life again, would you?”

The question seemed fanciful, asked with a light air as if discussing the weather, yet Gwynnion knew it was important to Kalshann.  As he turned to face her, she saw the light leave his eyes, and for a moment she felt a shadow pass between them. 

“Yes, it was beautiful and strong,” she said in a soft voice.  For some reason, she suddenly felt self-conscious, wrapped in sheets and dressed in a simple sleeping shirt she had thrown on for some small attempt at modesty.  The feeling confused her.  As much as her feelings for Kal had grown over the years, he had never treated her as anything but a friend.  His polite distance both touched and frustrated the young woman, but she did not feel it now.  Kalshann was studying her from across the room, his expression solemn.

“I can not heal it.”  Kalshann spoke matter of factly, as if this was a revelation to the young woman.  “It was too badly hurt to be healed.”

“No one can heal it, Kal,” she began to say, “You can’t expect to – ”

He stopped her with raised hands.

“I have a point, and it is important.  Please let me try to explain.”  His voice was a soft whisper.  Gwynnion couldn’t tell if he was on the verge of crying or simply speaking quietly.

“When I was very young I became ill, sick to the point I was not going to survive the coming winter.  My aunt, Cassandra, my mother’s youngest sister – “ Kal stopped and she could see his thoughts vanish into the past.  His eyes darted to and fro as he looked away for a moment.  “She took me into the woods.  I think we spent weeks in the forest, and my health was fading faster.”

To Gwynn’s surprise, the young man’s eyes were sparkling again and the smile returned to his face.  She knew from their time as students that he did not mourn the dark moments of his past, he celebrated them.  That had always been an obstacle between them.  Gwynnion denied her past as much as possible, to avoid the pain her memories brought.

“We came to a glade of ferns along a river and waited,” Kalshann continued, “A week passed of her hunting for the two of us and me slowly becoming more ill.”

Gwynnion’s brow furrowed.  “Why did she do it?”

“The village had a story – a myth, of a woman made of stone who could steal life or return it.”  He raised one hand to show the act of stealing and one to return it. “I became too fevered to remember much, but I remember a dream of a woman of pale beauty coming to our camp and singing to me.”  He chuckled, as if he still questioned the dream’s veracity, but Gwynn found herself becoming too enchanted by the tale to know for sure.  Her earlier desire to touch him returned, stronger this time.

“I woke from my fever dream to find my aunt dead and no signs of a visitor, but I was well and healthy – the fever and illness gone in a single night.”

“With a braid of my aunt’s hair tucked in my belt, I buried her and returned to the village just as winter came.”  Kal ran a hand along his belt, as if his fingers remembered the feel of the braid. “My family never spoke to me of it, except my father who never believed the story I brought back with me.”  He stood and turned away from her fully, gazing out the window at the lush woods and thick shadows outside. 

“I’ve never forgotten the gift I was given, by my aunt and by the pale woman – but of course I never had proof she even existed.  Erin thought I was obsessing over a dream for a very long time, and I even began doubting myself.”  Picking up his cup, Kalshann moved toward the tray on the table.  Filling his cup and offering to refresh hers.  The ease and silence of his movements reminded Gwynnion that he had lived in this room for years before she and their companions came to stay with him.  This secretly pleased her.

 “So you never found her?” she asked as she handed the mug to him.  Their fingers brushed as the cup changed hands and Gwynn was surprised by how cold his fingers were.  Her thoughts danced from his tale to the warm smile he gave her, then to her own thoughts and fears.

“No, I now think I never will.”  He shook his head while pouring the coffee into her cup.  “But I have found many more questions, and even some answers.” 

Gwynnion looked down for a moment.  The comment was partially meant as a joke; Kalshann had a way of making light of heavy burdens, and it was part of the strength she found comforting in him.  But it struck too close to home then, in light of their earlier conversation.  Kal sensed her reaction, speaking gently.  “One of those questions was the one I asked you.  Would you try to heal something strong and beautiful?”

As he handed her the mug, Gwynn moved to one side of the bed, making room for him to sit beside her.  He glanced at the spot she cleared uncertainly.  “Sit,” she said to him, moving another pillow away to provide more room, “You’re getting cold by the window.”

“Thank you,” Kal murmured, sipping the coffee.  He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid being too close to her.  Gwynnion noticed a smirk appear then fade on his face, and she wondered if she had made a mistake.

“Do you remember the night I gave you the tattoo?” he asked as he pulled a leg under himself onto the bed.

“Yes,” Gwynn replied faintly, uneasy with this change of subject. 

Kalshann paused and pushed stray locks of hair back behind his ear.  She watched his movements and the waves and curls of his hair in silence.  When unbraided, it was longer than hers, longer than any other man she knew.  In the loose tail he kept it in now, the thick black locks draped across his back and occasionally fell into his eyes.  As much as Gwynn often wished to run her fingers through it, she had only touched his hair once, years ago.  It troubled her that she couldn’t quite remember the feel of it; time having washed out the memory.

“I thought it would be something to give you pleasure.  A gift from me to you.”  He paused, searching for words as he sipped his drink again. “I hoped to give you something you would enjoy, but you didn’t seem to enjoy it.”

Gwynnion turned her face away slightly, thinking back to that day.  As always, she had dreamt of doing so much then, only to feel paralyzed by fear and doubt.  She knew her silence – and more to the point, her anxiety – had hurt him, but she could barely bring herself to speak at the time.  Unable to explain how she relished the cool touch of his fingers against her warm skin, even as it frightened her, or the way he gently brushed her hair out of the way while working.  Like all of her attempts to share her feelings, it had ended with painful awkwardness.

Kalshann gazed into the darkness of his cup, waiting for her to find her voice.

“It is a beautiful gift, Kalshann,” she whispered, struggling with her feelings, “I love and cherish it, but...I am not accustomed to being so close to anyone.”

Gwynn shook her head, her voice turning bitter.  “I have never been close to anyone.”

Nodding, Kalshann looked up at her.  No matter how confident she sometimes seemed he knew Gwynnion was a lonely soul.  The picture she once painted of her childhood told of someone hurt so badly that the company of other people was difficult and closeness all but excruciating.  He had hoped she might overcome this during their time apart, but he knew this was not the case.  Those feelings were such a deep part of her that it would take much more than time to change them. 

“I’ve not lived your life,” he smiled softly at her, “But I understand...I would like to think of you as a friend.”  A curious smirk played around his lips as she met his gaze.  “And give you one more gift if I can.” 

“A gift?” Gwynnion echoed, her voice small.  Kal had leaned forward slightly while speaking, and her skin felt flushed by his closeness.  Part of her was scared and another was excited.  But mostly, she was in love. 

 “Mmmm…Perhaps I should say I would like to share a secret with you, but it would be easiest to just show you,” Kalshann said while he set his cup down and leaned back.  He smiled at Gwynn, giving her a moment to reflect on this.  The young woman caught her breath, warring with her own desires and expectations, but didn’t look away.  When this began she’d wondered what Kal’s motivation for all of this was, part of her hoping there was more than friendship behind this quiet moment.  But that possibility had all but slipped away, leaving Gwynnion entranced but increasingly unsure of herself.

Kal reached up and began pulling a leather necklace out from under his shirt.  Her eyes followed his movements as he produced the black cord, and then lifted it free of his hair, spilling shining black locks over his eyes and around his shoulders.  Wrapping the cord around one hand, he pulled his loose hair back again and moved back to the edge of the bed.  But Gwynn could smell the faint scent of his hair, like smoke and cinnamon.  Quietly damning her own inability to speak or reach out to him.

“I never found the pale woman, but I hunted every legend and searched for any clue to who or what she may have been.”  Kalshann stretched out his hand to show her what hung on the cord, offering it for her examination.  “I found this.”

Gwynn caught the leather in her long fingers and smiled tentatively as he released the amulet into her grasp.  She was surprised by how warm it was to the touch, like a living thing, cupping it in her palm as she turned it over for study.  The dark brown leather was wrapped at the top of a small stone carving.  It may have been an elven work of art, but the stone was weathered and worn, the surface engraved with faded images on both sides encircled by a fluted pattern of twisting lines and knot work.  A faint frown creased her features as she followed the graceful lines, curious.

“What is it?” she whispered, looking at the faint pictograph on one side, which showed what may have been a lone hooded figure.

“It is my Heart-Stone, it is a piece of the world, or a piece of my soul.”  Kal reached out and gently took the stone, then clasped her cool, slender hand in his.  “It is not something I can explain easily, but I want to try.”

“I am a student who studies with two masters.  Tython taught me the wizardly arts, but there is another reason I stay in Bethfield.  In the woods – away from prying eyes – I found a pale woman.  A woman who was not a woman.  A forest spirit given flesh and form.”

Her eyes followed his as the young man looked from the stone in his hand to the dark forest outside the window.  So this is why he spent days alone in the woods, Gwynnion thought distantly, and never explained why his studies were so lacking.  Part of her felt anxious by his presence suddenly, as if she were in the company of a ghost.  Another felt strangely wounded by the confirmation of what she always expected, what she found enchanting about Kalshann.  Out of the two of them, despite all her studies and soul searching, he had found faith in something.  She had not.  But the light in Kal’s eyes enthralled her, and she wanted to feel his touch again.

“I found her once in the glade here and again further from town.  It wasn’t until the third time that she spoke to me and I found I couldn’t understand her.”  He laughed, smiling softly at the young woman before him, whose skin shone blue-silver in the faint moonlight.  Kalshann could not tell if she was sad or thoughtful.  There was a look of reverie about her.  “I spent another year just learning enough elven to find a common language.  But I always hunted for her, at least once a month. When I finally knew she could understand me, I asked her four questions.”

He placed the cord around his neck again but left the stone hanging free outside of his shirt.  Gwynn watched as he took another sip from his mug before continuing. 

“I asked her what she was, what creature she was.  Then I asked her for her own name, or at least something I could call her.  To the first question she said her kind where the Nymphs, daughters of the forest, and she told me she had no name.”  Kalshann finished off the mug in one long gulp then set the cup aside again.  “I told her my story, and she asked me the name of my aunt.  And after I told her she told me to call her by that name.”

“Then I asked her if she could do the same magics.  The giving or taking of life.  She said yes, that all of the forest-children could.  So I asked her to teach me.”

Gwynnion understood then what this was all about, including Kalshann’s elliptical way of speaking.  Inside she wanted to laugh at herself, but a smile only touched her lips.  He kept this secret because of the Conclave, because of the common people, who would not accept such magic.  And now he was sharing this conspiracy, this secret that he held so close to his heart, as a gesture of trust and friendship.  Not of love.  At least, not in the way she so desperately desired.  Gwynn knew not to expect such a thing when silence still stood between them, but somehow the realization hurt her all the same.  Kalshann had always made his feelings clear, but he did care about her, as this made plain.  Still, she felt a clenching in her chest as she tried to accept this.

And silently, Gwynn felt ashamed of these feelings.

“I asked you if the tree should be healed, and you said yes.”  She was surprised by the smile he gave her.  More then anything, it was the brightest smile she had ever seen from him. “I can not heal the tree, but if you would let me, I would offer to heal you – the scars you carry from your battles.”

Her mind danced with questions; why now being the closest to the surface.  Kal saw this, or at least guessed it as she studied him from behind a spill of auburn hair. 

“Because you are as strong and as beautiful as the tree Gwynnion, and I am telling you my deepest secret because I want you to know that you are my friend.  Only Erin and Cassandra have known that I studied these ways, and now you know as well.”

Despite herself, Gwynnion was touched, his words slicing through the lurking bitterness and self-doubt she felt.  Swallowing, she forced down those feelings and tried to find her voice, looking upon him with a helpless feeling of love.  Kal might have only considered her a friend, but that did not change how she felt about him, nor her willingness to give anything of herself to hold onto him and their often strained companionship.  How could she refuse him anything?

“I would love to share any gift you want to give me Kalshann.”  The words came from her in a whisper.  She knew that to speak in a louder voice would cause her to cry.

“Then I would like to heal at least the few scars I can,” Kalshann replied in the same tender whisper. “And show you who I am.” 

She looked up at him with dark eyes, her conviction wavering.  In his words, Gwynn saw the smallest touch of hope.  He may never know she loved him, but he was sharing this much, sharing his burden, with her. 

“What do you need me to do?”  Her voice was soft as she clasped his hand.  Kal had warmed slightly by now, and the sight of her pale hand against his tanned skin made him seem far more alive and solid than her.  It was obvious her hand was trembling, but Kalshann did not know why.  At least not yet.  

*          *          *  

The quarters which the Conclave had given to he and his companions were a ring of rooms sharing a communal library in the center, with a door opening onto the Tower staircase on the far side.  Consequently, every apprentice staying on this level had to pass through the library to reach their room, and as he crossed the large hall, Kalshann noticed the young knight, Alexis Stoutheart, reading through one of several ancient tomes fanned out on the table in front of her.  Preparing for her own Test, he mused.  He waved to her in greeting as he passed, earning a small, polite smile in return, but he did not stop to speak with her.  They all had their own problems and trials, and he was loathe to interrupt her. 

The last two nights of your life, Kal thought to himself, considering his own impending Test.  The day after tomorrow, he would die.  There was no way he could avoid it now.  There was a symmetry to his beliefs and what he understood of the Order of the Red, but the laws of the Conclave were strict and unyielding, allowing no quarter for his “new ways”.  At the same time, he could not run from the Test of High Sorcery.  He would not make the last six years of his life, and everything he had worked so long for, into a lie.  Martyrdom held no appeal for him, but he could at least face the trials with his convictions intact.

As he approached his chambers, Kal saw the small grey envelope peeking out from under the door.  Glancing about cautiously, he knelt down and picked it up as he entered the room.  His name was written across the front in elvish, the willowy symbols flowing across the paper in blue ink.  Gwynnion’s handwriting, he thought to himself.  Her crisp, sharply urgent writing was hard to mistake.  Kalshann set the envelope aside long enough to light a few candles, and he opened it to find a simple parchment letter bearing the same graceful script.   

Kalshann, I need to see you tonight.  Please come to my room.  Gwynnion.  

The young man frowned thoughtfully as he folded the paper and set it aside on the simple wooden table by the wall.  Gwynnion’s test was the first of their companions’, to be held tomorrow morning.  She had been surprisingly distant since their conversation aboard the Lliandri, and cloistered herself away from the others after their landing in Goodbay, breaking her silence only long enough to mention Zoë’s encounter with the man, Dusken.  Still, Kalshann had sensed a strengthening within his friend since their arrival in Wayreth.  He wasn’t certain whether this was fatalism or confidence on Gwynn’s part, but he was glad for it nonetheless. 

And now she wanted to talk.

Kalshann did not want to keep her waiting, but he took his time to clean up after spending most of the day outside, exploring the area and learning how unused the grove and gardens truly were.  After changing into something more respectable than his usual peasant garb, he blew out the candles and headed to her room. 

Alexis has gone when he reentered the library, the desk clear of her books.  More than likely she had retired for the evening, Kal thought, smiling faintly.  He barely knew the laconic young woman, but he liked her.  Of all Gwynnion’s companions, Alexis was the only one willing to accompany her during the Test, and that spoke greatly of her loyalty and dedication.  He knew that despite her reservations, Gwynn quietly appreciated this (perhaps foolhardy) show of support from the knight.  They certainly seemed to share an interesting friendship.  Kalshann thought Gwynn even admired her a little.

Kalshann rapped lightly at the door to Gwynnion’s room.  After a moment, her voice came, calling softly.  “Come in.”

Smiling thoughtfully, he opened the door.  Then paused at the sight within.

There were candles blazing throughout the room, banishing the darkness to the fringes and bathing everything in a warm, dancing light.  The young woman sat on the edge of the small but functional bed, perfectly in the middle, leaning back and propping herself up with her outstretched arms.  Gwynnion had shed her thick velvet robe, and was dressed only in the thin, gown of maroon silk she normally wore underneath, baring more of her body to him than she ever had to anyone, to his knowledge.  With her long, dark hair tumbling about her face and down to her hips in thick waves, a deep red against her alabaster skin, and the blue rose vines climbing up and down her left side, the effect was striking.  She lifted her head to meet his gaze, her green eyes shaded and glittering.  Even with the light, there was something dark about her, like smoldering ashes.

He wasn’t quite sure what he had just walked into.

“Kalshann,” she murmured, smiling softly, “Come in.  Close the door.”

The young man silently complied and leaned against the door, studying her uncertainly.  There was something different and dangerous in Gwynn’s bearing, and as his eyes scanned the room, he noticed a crystal decanter of elvish wine sitting on a stone bench beside two shining glasses.  Under the fragrance of smoke and perfume – musky vanilla, he thought, and lavender – he detected the sweet tang of the drink.  His voice was light, but tinged with concern.  “What is this, Gwynn?  I thought you didn’t take wine?”

“Actually, I did when I was younger, when I lived in Silvanesti,” she replied faintly, her eyes dancing over him, “I used to steal it from Lanthinel’s father, late at night, and take the bottle with me into the forest.  There was something almost...religious about those nights, sitting under the stars in one of the small groves.  It was peaceful.  The only peaceful moments I had when I was young.”  Gwynn’s smile widened slightly.  “I never told you that, did I?”

“No.”  Kal shook his head, eyeing her cautiously.  There was something hard in her tone when she spoke, her voice tight and unnatural as if she were forcing the words out.  He felt the vulnerability in her, but there was also strength to her languid movements and slow, soft speech.  He wondered how much she had to drink, and what her intentions were.  There was obviously more to this meeting than just conversation.  Gwynnion never did anything without a firm reason, even if it was unfathomable to the rest of them. 

“I’m perfectly fine, Kal, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, as if hearing his thoughts, “With the Test tomorrow, I didn’t think it mattered much anymore.  Besides, Thorn once said something – about the only intelligible thing he ever said, I think – which I found particularly inspiring.  ‘Eat, drink and be merry...’”

“‘For tomorrow we all may die,’” Kal finished with a small smile; he disliked the fatalism inherent in the saying, but saw truth in it as well. “Yes, I have heard it.  But you should be resting, Gwynn.  The Test...”

A shaky breath escaped the young woman, which he took for a laugh. 

“I know we both expect to die here, Kal,” Gwynnion murmured, a little testily, she was looking away from him, her rich hair covering her eyes. “But there are more important things than magic.”

Rising smoothly to her feet, the young woman approached him, her skirt shimmering about her legs, and stopped an arm’s length away.  She bowed her head slightly and sighed.  When she looked up, her expression had relaxed, her lips parted in a delicate smile.  Gwynnion’s voice was gently sad.  “When my stepfather sent me away to study magic under Tython, I took it as a final slap in the face.  Banishment from a family which neither wanted nor loved me.  But I was also immensely relieved.  If I hadn’t been sent to Bethfield, I would’ve fled Silvanesti on my own.  Hell, if Lanthinel hadn’t traveled with me, I might have never made the journey to Ergoth.  And probably ended up penniless and dead on the streets of some strange city...” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes flickered over him. The faintest glint of something lurking beneath her eyes.

“As it was,” Gwynn continued, “Magic became my escape.  I devoured knowledge to fill my time.  The wonder and beauty of it enchanted me.  It was the only friend I had who would not hurt or leave me.  The only friend who stood by me regardless of anything that happened.  I loved it the way I couldn’t love my family, or even my brother.  It was more important to me than anything else.  It was my life...”

Kal’s eyes were gently sad as he studied her.  “I know, Gwynn...”

A faint smile etched itself on her face and, with a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and placed a slender hand against his chest.  Her touch was light, almost apprehensive.  Her fingers brushed against his chest, grazing the edge of the Heart-Stone, and Gwynn’s smile widened as she felt his heartbeat.  She spoke in a cracked whisper, not meeting his eyes.  “I’m afraid, Kal.  For both of us.”

Sighing, Kalshann gently pulled the young woman into a loose hug.  He was surprised when she closed the gap between them, pressing her cheek against his chest, and her slender arms came around him, clutching at his back.  She felt surprisingly warm and soft against him, trembling but not crying or making any noise.  The fragrance of her hair and skin surrounded him as he closed his eyes, embracing her more tightly.  It occurred to him that this was the closest the two of them had ever been to each other.  This kind of intimacy had always been extremely difficult for her, if not impossible. 

“Gwynnion, the Test will be difficult, but you will be fine.”  Kal loosened his hold of her a little but he did not leave their embrace.  His hands slid down her back to rest at her waist, the warm shimmer of silk gliding under his fingertips.  The soft scent of her hair and the feel of her body was pleasurable, but he tried to push those thoughts out of his mind.  There was no use to them.  Even if there were time to explore them, which there wasn’t, she was a friend and he would not risk that for anything.  Gwynn sensed the tension between them and looked up into his eyes. Her body pressed against him as she watched his pale brown eyes close. The black curls framed his face and he leaned into her ever so slightly as he breathed in her fragrance. 

When she spoke it was with great difficulty, her voice hoarse and almost whisper quiet.  “Kal, you gave me a gift, a part of yourself, and I would like to give you the same in return.  But there is something...” 

Her voice failed and Gwynn squeezed her eyes shut, releasing a soft growl of frustration with herself.  His brow furrowed, Kal caught her eyes as she opened them again, looking to understand what was wrong.  Releasing her, he took a step back to give the young woman distance, afraid of hurting her or driving her away somehow, as he thought he had in the past.  “Gwynn,” he murmured gently, “You are my friend.  You don’t have to give me a gift, but if that is what you wish, I won’t refuse either.”

Gwynnion’s head was bowed, but after a moment she brushed the dark auburn hair from her face and looked up at him.  Her eyes were in shadow, but he made out the gleam of firelight within them.  “You don’t understand, Kal.  This is difficult for me.  Almost physically painful.”  A weak smile touched her soft lips.  “I know you want to reassure me, but both of us know the odds we’re facing.  Very likely one or both of us will die during the Test of High Sorcery.  I know you feel the same way, because of your secret.  And if we do – or even if we don’t – there are...some things I would like to do.  If I am to die tomorrow morning, then I would like to do so with some measure of peace.”

“You are underestimating yourself, Gwynn,” Kal replied, smiling softly.

“And you’re not listening,” she countered sharply.

He frowned.  The spell cast by her sweet fragrance and the candlelight was broken.

“Kal,” she whispered, a look of genuine fear and shame crossing her face, “I’m sorry.”

Sighing, Kal shook his head slightly.  “It is alright, Gwynnion.  You have never accepted support or reassurance from anyone, myself included.  So I know it is hard for you to do so now.  Please, continue.  I am trying to listen now.”

Running her hands through her hair, Gwynnion took a deep breath to steady herself.  Her voice was smaller this time, but gained in strength as she spoke.  “I have no fear for myself, Kal.  I have always been strongest when all other options have been denied me.  And always so weak the rest of the time.”  Laughing quietly, she lifted her head, her green eyes dancing with candlelight.  “I should like to return the favor you once gave me, the gift of my tattoo.  I should have offered a long time ago.  But if you agree, I know myself well enough not to trust myself to say these things.  I’ve have always failed before.  Even when the opportunity was right and the moment perfect, I’ve been a coward.  And I don’t want to die tomorrow knowing I failed again.”

Kalshann nodded but said nothing, waiting and wondering.

“I didn’t want this to be a lecture,” Gwynn offered, laughing at herself. 

Reaching out, Kal smoothed a lock of hair behind the young woman’s ear, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers.  Her eyes fell closed under his touch, as if that small contact hurt her.  But when he tried to withdraw his hand, she clasped it delicately in her own, holding it there.  “I am here for you, Gwynn,” he told her quietly, “You are my friend, and nothing you say will change that.  So tell me.”

“Magic was once my life,” Gwynn began again, “My only friend and escape...”

Her voice trailed off. 

There was silence in the room for a moment, aside from the soft whispering of the candles burning all around them.  Gwynnion’s face twisted bitterly as if seeking to drown out voices in her head, and her grip on his hand tightened, afraid that he would pull away.  Finally, with a deep sigh, she seemed to calm, opening her eyes to look up at him.  Her voice was so soft that Kal almost didn’t hear the words carried on her breath.  “I have fallen in love with you.”

Kalshann lost his next thought as shock and wonder ran through him.  The truth behind her words was evident on her face, a beautiful look of calm and longing.  His mind danced from memories of this same expression – the haunted look in her eyes when he revealed his own secret, the shy playfulness at Lord Kaith’s celebration – to the realization that she had felt this way for a long time now.  Looking down, he tried to find his voice, to say something in the wake of her confession.  To his surprise, he found himself feeling something similar.

“Gwynnion…”  His voice faded as her eyes welled with tears.

She was trembling and on the verge of crying.  As he watched, a delicate tear trickled down her cheek.  It occurred to Kal that he had never seen her cry before.  Her emotions were usually stunted around them, smothered by the cold confidence she usually projected.  His hand moved to her cheek, cupping it and brushing away the tear.  It was cool to the touch, but her skin was warm and alive.

They fell into another embrace.  Neither of them knew who initiated it and it didn’t seem to matter; they clung tightly to each other.  Her cheek pressed against his chest, one hand clutching the material of his shirt, while he rested his head in the locks of her hair.  Gwynnion melted against his warmth, and as she released a weak, shaky moan, Kal held her up to keep her from falling. 

“Gwynnion,” he began again, faltering over words as he searched for a way to answer her, “You have always been one of my closest friends...” 

Kalshann paused.  He was unsure whether his feelings were genuine or simply a reaction to her confession.  For some reason, the image of her standing by the fireplace at Lord Kaith’s party came to mind, the emerald green of her dress bringing out her eyes, making them glitter in the bright lights of the hall.  Or had she been close to crying then as well?  His heart sank with the sudden realization of the futility of this moment.  The Test.  Her confession and any soul-searching on his part would not change the outcome of the next few days.  There was so little time for anything.  The last two nights of your life, he thought with a sour humor.

“Gwynn,” he murmured, focusing on the here and now.

The young woman’s brow was pressed to his chest, her eyes closed, and she lifted her head at the sound of her name.  There were tears glistening on her cheeks.  He pulled away slightly so he could look into her face, to draw her eyes to his own, searching for answers.  He couldn’t bring himself to ask her, Why now?  “I can not say what will happen tomorrow or the next day.”  His arms tightened around her as he thought of her Test in the morning.  “I don’t know what will happen.  But I do care for you, and I would do anything for you...I admit, I began thinking of you as somewhat more than a friend months ago.  When you stopped speaking to me on the journey here...I forced myself to abandon those thoughts.” 

“I want – ” Kal began, but Gwynnion silenced him with a gentle motion of her hand.

“Kal,” she whispered, “I cannot ask anything of you...How can I?  I have been a poor friend to you on so many occasions.  I wanted to tell you when I gave you the pendant.  I tried to tell you when you gave me your book, but I felt suffocated...I’ve wanted to tell you many times, but I could not comprehend the possibility that you might have feelings for me, or that anyone could.  I am too cold and too much of a coward...I couldn’t bear the thought of my failure on the Lliandri.  It was painful to be near you, knowing I couldn’t tell you.”  A faint laugh came out of her.  “And now...As usual, I’m only strong when it is too late...”

“You’re not cold,” he murmured, gently brushing tear trails from her cheeks with the back of his hand.  “You are beautiful, and you’ve always been one of the most human amongst us.  We have all failed or grown distant from each other at some point, but you’ve always tried to help others and treat them with kindness...Your feelings have been your guide all along, and I can’t blame you for your silence, knowing all that’s happened to you.  We are still very much alike in some ways.”

“But it is still too late,” Gwynn sighed, “We both know that.  I will die tomorrow and you will very likely follow me the day after...”

Kalshann’s fingers brushed over her cheek and wound back into her hair, impulsively leaning in to kiss her gently on the mouth.  She tensed at first, her eyes widening in surprise, but almost immediately relaxed again as his warm lips brushed against hers.  Gwynnion met the kiss and answered it with another, deeper and more languid.  It lasted ever so briefly as Kal drew back, pressing his forehead to hers.  “We have this moment,” he told her softly, “And you will survive the Test, Gwynn.  You’re not a coward.  You’ve faced death and worse many times without fear or failure...Besides which, you have shared your heart with me.  That’s something even I have often failed to do.”

“There is so little time,” she answered, her voice cracking.

“There is now,” Kal told her, closing his eyes, “And there will be tomorrow.  I don’t know how I feel, Gwynn, but I need you to give us the time to find out.  Promise me that whatever else happens, you will focus on the Test tomorrow and fight.  You are stronger than almost anyone else I know.  You can and will survive.”

Her face twisted in pain.  “And what about you?”

“I will promise the same,” he sighed, “But I can’t do anything more than that.”

A tear trickled down her cheek as she closed her eyes, pressing into him in a fierce, desperate hug.  Her fingers kneaded into his long black hair, and Kal felt her quaking against him with quiet sobs.  Wrapping his arms around the young woman, he gave her a gentle squeeze and buried his face in her soft hair, warring with himself.  There was an ache building in his chest as the sweet scent of her hair and boy surrounded him, torn between longing, uncertainty and frustration.  “I promise I will try,” Gwynnion whispered, “But I am afraid.  Please stay, Kal.  Talk to me, anything, just don’t go...”

Smiling, Kalshann loosened his hold of the young woman to look at her.  He sought answers in the simplest of places – the eyes or the turn of a smile when it came to people.  She was nervous, shaking, and his thoughts echoed the unspoken words he found in her shining eyes.  So many missed chances.  But he knew that to squander their time on sorrow would waste the precious few hours they had now.  “I would be happy to keep you company, and we should celebrate.”  He smiled warmly and clasped her delicate fingers to his chest.  “I am at your service, Gwynnion.” 

He gave a very slight bow with his eyes closed, and when he opened them again he was greeted by a tentative but calmer smile from Gwynn.  The sadness had not gone from her expression, but the despair had broken.  “So what do you wish to do?” he asked gently.

Gwynnion blinked a few times, stray tears falling free, which Kal wiped away with a light touch of his fingers.  The beginnings of a smile touched her soft lips as she steadied herself, taking a shaky breath.  She was not much accustomed to showing her feelings around other people, but it was preferable to the icy composure she normally maintained.  Reaching out, she traced his shoulder with two fingers, getting a feel for him.  For years she had suffocated in silence, but now she found her desire to know him was stronger than ever.  “I want to give you a gift, Kalshann,” she said, then laughed quietly at the hoarseness of her voice. 

His eyes caught hers and searched them, looking to understand.  “Gwynn, you’re my friend, you don’t have to.  But I won’t refuse if that’s your desire.” 

“Then take off your shirt,” she said without missing a beat.

Gwynnion’s expression broke into soft, husky laughter at the reaction on his face.  Leaning his head to one side, Kalshann gave her a look of confusion and began to stammer out a response.  But he began to smile as well when she laughed, knowing she was playing with him.  It was the first attempt at humor other than sarcasm the serious-natured young woman had made in years, and she blushed as he grinned at her.  Her voice was low but warm when she spoke, with faint shyness.  “You gave me my tattoo, Kal, and I love it.  I was too frightened to offer before, but I thought I could do the same for you?” 

Her fingers fluttered, mimicking the movements of a paintbrush, and Kalshann quelled the urge to kiss them.  “I know I am not the best artist,” Gwynn whispered, looking him in the eyes, “But I would like to try?”

Kalshann reached up and with the gentlest touch his thumb traced the soft curve of her smile.  Her eyes fell closed under his touch, her smile widening with contentment.  He was quickly being enticed by this side of her, passionate and playful.  Gwynnion had become a vibrant flame compared to the woman he once thought she was, and as he thought back to the moment in the Qualiesti wood, he realized he did have feelings for her.  At some point in the past few months, he had stopped looking upon her with the simple concern and affection of a friend, but with wistful frustration.  The regret of that moment, for not going to speak with her after that brief, shared glance, came back full force.  He had completely misunderstood the distance she placed between them, and done precious little himself to close it.

“Gwynnion, I would like that very much.”  His eyes still caught in hers, Kal leaned into her with another kiss.  This time they both gave themselves to the moment, their bodies pulling together as they felt each other’s warm embrace.  As he broke the kiss, he pressed his cheek to hers and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”  

*          *          *  

The silence was the worst part.

Oskar had been sitting cross-legged outside of the testing chamber for hours.  During this time, he offered silent prayers for the safety of Alexis Stoutheart and the lady Gwynnion, which he was not sure would be answered.  He contemplated the events which had led up to this point, the possibilities which had raised themselves in the shape of dragons and demon queens, and he sketched plans for the future.  He wondered what had happened in Gwynnion’s short life which had so fractured her and made her despondent.  He smiled occasionally upon thinking of Alexis volunteering to accompany her friend into the Test, even if he did not agree with her reasoning.  Those two had some special connection, a bond lacking amongst the rest of them.

During this time, he heard the sounds of battle, the thunderous sounds of magic, the rattling of the chamber doors as some titanic fight raged on.  Oskar also heard screams of pain, from Gwynnion and Alexis, and screams for mercy, also from Alexis.  He heard unintelligible whispers, conversations and urgent discussions, though he could not recognize the voices.  And through it all, Oskar knew he was useless to Alexis and Gwynnion except as a witness.  The two young mages, one dressed in white, the other in black, who guarded the chamber doors with slender, seemingly harmless staves never moved or showed any reaction to the events within. 

But the silence that followed was troubling

Only Thomas, foolhardy as he was, had challenged the guardians.  And thought better of it when the pillar-statues came alive and driven him back.  He had retreated upstairs with the others, though Oskar knew Gwynn’s friends, Kalshann and Athica, had been waiting close at hand since Gwynnion and Alexis walked into the darkness of the testing chamber.  Still, whatever happened after the light of Gwynn’s staff flickered and died, Oskar had confidence in the two young women.

He looked up as the heavy double doors rumbled open of their own accord.  The black and white guardians turned to look as well, holding their staves away like standard bearers greeting a newly returned queen.  For a moment he thought the doors would open only upon the corpses of his companions.  But as light spilled into the darkened chamber through the opening doors, a glint of metal was revealed, and Oskar rose smoothly to his feet as the torchlight fully illuminated the two figures within.

Gwynnion lay unconscious on the cold marble floor amid a pool of blood, and Alexis crouched over the young sorceress with her sword drawn and a fiercely protective look in her eyes.  But the knight was battered and bloodied, a serious wound evident at her side, and her sword arm quivered as if the effort of holding the weapon was nearly too much for her.  As realization dawned on her that the Test was over and there were no more enemies left to fight, Alexis shuddered violently and fainted, collapsing to the floor alongside Gwynn.  But her hand still clutched onto the haft of the blade.

Rising, Oskar went to help the two women but the black guardian warned him away with his staff.  “You may tend to your friend once we remove her from the chamber,’ the mage said curtly, “But you may not enter.”

Oskar frowned but did not argue, though he took a step closer to get a better look at his companions.  By all outward appearances, they were very nearly crippled – burned, cut, bruised and shaken – but still alive.  But as he waited in grave silence, watching the guardians carry Alexis out of the chamber and lay her own the floor, an oddity struck him.  It took him a moment to realize what it was, and when he did his brow furrowed in confusion. 

Gwynnion’s robes were white as snow.

At first, Oskar had taken them for red because of all the blood, most of which appeared to be hers.  But now he saw clearly that they were white, only slightly paler than the young woman’s wan countenance, and caked with blood.  The color of purity, of good.  A faint smile crossed his face and he nodded in respect.  As he expected, as he tried to reassure her, Gwynnion had abandoned her indecisiveness and taken a stand.  She looked different somehow, dressed all in white.  Her hair seemed a brighter red than usual, the faint pink of her skin was more distinct.  More than that, however, her expression was smooth with peace, despite the injuries which she had suffered.  Always before there had been shadows under her eyes, the faint lines of weariness and worry creasing her face.  But now she looked...young.

Oskar knelt down to examine Alexis’ wounds and provide her what aid he could while the guardians removed Gwynnion from the testing chamber.  Her armor was scorched and dented in several places.  Still, her wounds appeared serious but not immediately life threatening.  After binding the worst of her injuries, Oskar started toward the white robed woman to do the same for her, but the white guardian halted him with his staff.  “Do not touch lady Gwynnion.  You can do nothing for her now.  She is under the care of the Conclave and Master Par-Silan.”

“As you wish,” Oskar sighed.

Already, white robed apprentices carrying litters were arriving to carry the young women away for rest and healing.  Oskar removed a rag from his belongings and wiped the blood from his hands, glancing upwards as two men carried Gwynnion’s limp body away, spying Kalshann and Athica standing in the doorway, wearing expressions of surprise, worry and puzzlement.  Oskar thought he saw something more than concern in Kalshann’s eyes then, but the group was gone too quickly for him to read the young man any further.

Another pair of apprentices placed Alexis on a stretcher and lifted her up.  “You may come with us,” one of them offered to Oskar, “And watch over her, if you like.”

“Two more have yet to come out,” Oskar said calmly, referring to Zoë and Lanthinel.  “I will maintain my vigil here until they do.”

 “Of course,” the white robe nodded, and surprised him by smiling, “Have no fear.  She is not too badly hurt, and we will care for her.”

Oskar nodded, sitting down to resume his watch by the chamber doors.  “I trust you.”