Valnain this morning was dismally foggy. Light rain, all that was left of a knock-out thunderstorm which last night had roared over the city's head, still punctuated the mists and broke the long, reflective puddles paving the streets in silver. Peddlar's Way was not quite so base a street as the name suggested, and as he stood staring out at it beneath an awning, prisoner to the rain, Grissom absently wondered why it had earned such a title at all. The avenue was certainly wide enough for more than scaberous beggars; horses quite comfortably made their way down it four abreast, with room enough to spare for their following handlers and their burden of rattling carts. In fact, this road was one of the city's busiest, cutting straight through Ratteesser, past Market, into the political District, and here again it turned into mercantile territory before leading to the Grand Cathedral and coming out near the docks. Upon spying a cartload of straw doubtlessly bound for the stables of the Cathedral, Grissom was tempted to steal a ride. But his first day as a Crimson Blade commander would probably not be best begun by entering the grounds upon a peasant cart. Curling his hands into fists to protect his chilled fingertips from the early spring chill, Grissom stayed beneath his shelter and cast his gaze down the street, wishing Duane would hurry or they'd both be late.

        Duane, he knew, was terribly strict with himself when it came to punctuality. The state of his uniform, the trim of his bristly blonde beard, and his weapon skills were immaterial so long as he appeared on time to show them all off, for whatever they were worth. He was not yet late this morning... but he was not three quarters of an hour early either, something Grissom had been expecting.

        ...God. Did he know his younger, tow-headed brother was nearly nervous enough to crawl down into these ill-fitting boots? Surely Duane would suspect it. Grissom, when months ago approached about commanding his own unit of the Cardinal's elite, had consulted Duane-- already a Commander of course-- with the casual ease of a diner wondering over wines. What duties would be expected of him? Just how pious a man would they want him to be? Was the salary terribly laughable? Oh, he'd not batted an eyelash at the meaningful offer, at the fact he'd been promoted from second class officer in the King's ranks to a decorated Commander in the National Church's army only because he'd caught a few eyes with a sacrifice and a clever battle maneuver that half the country still marvelled at over supper. No... surely Duane had thought him nonchalant.

        Still nonchalant now, on the morning of his first day with the Blades. But inside-- he quaked.

        Grissom wore nearly the exact same uniform as his brother, standard issue with only a few changes to demarcate a slightly lesser rank, and his own particular tastes. His hair was slicked back sharply from his forehead save for a layer of unruly spikes refusing to lay flat in back, a style that produced a slightly cunning effect to his appearance, as though he always were in constant careful consideration of everything about him. Bright green eyes gave that consideration a piercing edge that made some people uncomfortable in his presence. A stern attitude and a distinct lack of tolerance for most things in life was no help.

        The morning rush towards Market was understandably thinned this morning. No distractions to be had from a pulsing crowd. Grissom glanced quickly up past his awning and saw a dry goods shop sign forlornly hung upon the adjacent wall. There was a tavern across the street, and a few nondescript buildings on either side. The tavern seemed familiar. The crest upon its door, a crudely rendered hawk sporting the paws of a bear in place of talons, explained to some extent its name: Hawkpaw. But why it was a bear-footed (no pun intended, though Grissom chuckled mentally) hawk was thought more appealing to drunks than a normal one--

        There was the sudden distant noise of a scuffle, a sound that seemed to dance between the raindrops to Grissom's waiting ears. He straightened, the cloak protecting his uniform from the elements rustling softly with his movements. Someone in the Hawkpaw yelled something obscene. Next moment, a strange looking knight stumbled awkwardly through the tavern's swinging doors and doubled over in the streets as though to be sick. A common enough sight on Peddlar's Way, but then Grissom saw a familiar embroidered patch on the sleeve of the knight's tunic, and he could feel his face burn red.

        "You there!" he demanded, stalking out into the rain. He had the knight's hair in his hand quick as blinking, and he turned a young, rather green face up to the wan morning light. His patch was more apparent here; a blooming red rose pierced by thorns and a rood-shaped sword. Mark of the Crimson Blades, Grissom's new Order. "Public drunkeness by an ordained knight of the Holy Church?! I'll see you strung up, boy. Name and rank!"

        The knight was turning greener by the second. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his set of very drunk, glazed, yet startlingly blue almond-shaped eyes. Quite a handsome face, when it wasn't contorted in nausea and the beginnings of panic. When he didn't recognize Grissom as an officer, he seemed to relax a bit, and try to turn back down to his illness. Grissom cuffed him across the face. "Commander Grissom, "he decided to introduce himself, "I don't believe we've been acquainted, today is my first as an officer in the Crimson Blades. And today may be your last."

        "Sir!!" the young knight stuttered. No older than nineteen surely, even under all the returned green. "'M not on duty, sir, I apologize. Private William Robinson, sir, under C'mander Tieger's jurisdiction, sir! I'm sorry, sir!"

        The knight was dropped to the dirt before he might start blubbering. Which he seemed ready to do, as soon as he finished emptying his stomach. Disgusted, Grissom glanced away to leave him to it, and then spotted another figure leaving the Hawkpaw, this one in an entrely different manner than young Private William had. The stranger's furtive black eyes darted over the two rain-drenched knights until a hood was raised blocking his face and its shock of bright orange hair. Without a word, he moved quickly down the road. Grissom was nearly bowled over into the gutter when William tried to dart after.

        "H-hold!" he demanded, yelping when his new officer caught a hold of his collar, stopping him sharp, "Ye didn't give up me money, knave! You can't leave without paying me!!"

        Thief..? Grissom took an unconscious step after the retreating figure, and without his hand upon his collar, William's knees hit the puddles and he was immediately sick all over the street. Just the Blade Commander's single step in his direction was enough to send the stranger into a flurry; he immediately broke into a run. Acting more out of instinct than conscious planning, Grissom suddenly thundered after.

        He was wet enough now that the light rain was barely felt, but it made the cobblestones slippery beneath his new, unbroken boots. Before he was two blocks down, Grissom had slipped half a dozen times and gathered the curiosity of those few travellers upon the street. The thieving stranger took full advantage of his distraction. Sparing only a single glance behind, he ducked around a break in the line of buildings and his hooded head disappeared from sight. The Commander wasn't deterred; barely two seconds later he followed, cloak streaming from his shoulders like wet plumage.

        Suddenly the street, and its occupants seemed very far away. Grissom found himself panting and wary half-way down a brick-walled cul-de-sac. Bare clotheslines twanged far overhead, and his boots scattered bottles and soggy pamphlets as he tread further in. The situation seemed threatening and a hand went to the hilt of a plain sword at his waist, thumb stroking the pommel.

        A commotion of squawking raised Grissom's hackles and he swivelled about, gaze swinging skyward as an inky black crow returned indignantly to its roost in the shelter of a deep windowsill, scattering down and bits of straw from the beginnings of a nest. Something else then, faint and afraid, refocused his attention. The catch of an exhalation. Grissom wheeled around in time to catch a bit of knifeblade upon his swiftly-drawn sword. His parry was fierce enough that he disarmed the attacker completely and the weapon shone for a moment upon the air before disappearing into the alley's trash. Beneath a drooping hood and slick red bangs, black eyes flashed furiously for a moment. Grissom swung towards the stranger, and though the blow was a fine one, the thief was fast. He slid greasily under the blade as though it were no more inconvenient than the rain itself, and before the other man could strike again, he'd slipped through a small and unmarked door embedded in the wall, slamming it immediately shut.

        "DAMN it!"

        Grissom nearly dropped his sword in rage. His hand darted for the previously unnoticed door and he was miserably unsurprised to find it locked fast. Before another conscious thought could even register, he was racing back for the mouth of the alley, bared sword pumping in time with his arm. Duane was nearly skewered upon it when he ran into his brother heading his way from the street.

        "Grissom!" Soaked through, Duane did not seemed particularly pleased at the fact. William hung off his arm like a sack of turnips. Two constables raced to catch up, apparently pulled from their duties by a concerned handful of citizens, who even now were tittering in the background. "What is it? I can't get anything out of young William here that doesn't stain and leave an unpleasant odour."

        "Out of-- out of my way--!" Grissom was still trying to catch his breath from the pursuit. He shouldered past the newly arrived Blades, and onto the boardwalk. The thief-- the thief had taken refuge in a smithshop if the crossed hammers upon the sign out front were any indication. And if the boarded windows and barred entrance were equally valid, the shop was abandoned and sealed. Still the Commander tugged lamely at the front door, adrenaline insisting that this confrontation have an end. "Search this place!" he ordered the two bewildered constables, "There is an entrance in the alley that will be less a bother to pry open. A rogue has stolen the Private's money. Bring him to justice, gentlemen."

        The constables were not knights. They held no connection with the Church nor the Crimson Blades, answering instead to the city's Parliament. For a moment, Grissom could see the debate playing about on the two men's rough and wet features. Taking commands from a millitant cleric was not to their liking. Yet there was a streetful of civilians watching for their reactions with bated breath. In the end, the taller one, and apparently the senior officer, nodded stiffly towards the Blade and motioned to his fellow. They moved quickly into the alleyway and soon the crack of splintering wood was heard.

        "Grand lot of melodrama, "Duane hissed in his brother's ear, fiercely eyeballing his drawn sword and disheveled appearance, "Is it really necessary to put on a play for the entire city over the matter of a few nicked coins? You're only drawing attention to this lad's embarassment." He shook William a bit, but the young knight had apparantly taken leave of his senses, his silvery-haired head lolling about unhealthily upon his shoulders. Grissom wished the boy could appreciate the terrific glare he was getting now from his superior. Certainly Grissom was able to fully appreciate Duane's.

        "Was I supposed to allow a criminal to escape?" was the best defense he could come up with as the constables worked on the door and the crowd contracted, pulling closer to the action. Duane dearly wished he could land a smashing blow to his younger brother's skull but with the burden of William and the public eye, he settled for upping his glare three notches.

        "AYE, you were. We serve the Cardinal and the needs of the Church. This is not His Majesty's army any longer, Grissom, you don't have to be a hero and chase after every horse thief and truant that you stumble across. This is under the jurisdiction of the city guard, whether it concerned this boy of ours or no. By the Saint's Grace, have some scrap of sense, eh?" As if agreeing with this statement, William's head lolled suddenly forward in a nod. Grissom wondered if he really was passed out.

        Instead of snapping back something ineffective and bitter, the younger Commander moved again into the alley and prodded at the constables' backs until the shattered remains of the door were lifted off the hinges and slammed unceremoniously into the stone. Both officers entered the gloomy interior first and Grissom followed eagerly, rainwater dripping from the end of his bared blade. The room, however, took very little time to search. A few benches, the long-cooled stones of an ancient forge, and scattered kindling. Quite empty, save for a swinging door that led from the east wall out towards the alleys of Ratteesser, where the destitute and dirty-dealing of Valnain resided. Grissom kicked so fiercely at the innocently swinging door that he sent a shower of dust and cobwebs down upon himself from the aging rafters. As sinisterly intangible but just as apparent as the fog outside, he felt the two constables' scorn at his folly. They were ignored completely when he made his solemn way back outside.

        "Nice to see that worked out well for you then, "Duane greeted him again wryly, grateful to the constables (though he would never admit that to Parliamentary scum) for beginning to immediately usher those on the street back into their daily business. He ran his eyes quickly over his brother, checking for injuries out of habit, then hoisted William up more comfortably, half-tempted to merely toss him up over his shoulder. "Bit wet there, you know."

        "You're a mite sodden yourself. But at the very least it has flattened your hair out for the day."

        "I would not begin talk about hair; the top of your head looks like a yellow hedgehog that lost a fight with a dog."

        "Thank you. What have you in the basket there? You're not bringing kittens to work again, are you? Really, Duane, that's too precious."

        "It's dinner for you from Leysa actually. We're hoping the poison's slow enough that you manage to finish out the working day before dropping dead."

        Grissom sighed. Duane irritably licked rain from his lips. The three of them moved back out into the street.

Sunlight began to break past the oppressiveness of the cloud cover once the Blades were in sight of Valnain's Grand Cathedral. A few final protesting drops fell but the fog was breaking apart and there was the promise of a thick and humid day in the sunrays warming their wet cheeks.

        The Cathedral's facade was impressive indeed. Approaching from Peddlar's Way, one had to travel past the board fronts of fine inns, the city's single and infamous Library, and the double stone griffons guarding the front of Bluewater theatre where the King himself sat for performances every second Sunday of the month. These buildings were grand and remarkable landmarks of Valendia; the library itself was a lauded feat of engineering boasting a contemporary architectural aesthetic with its distinct pointed arches and sculpture-ridden enclaves and tympanum; yet the Cathedral put this attraction to shame with six stories of marble encased glory.

        Past a lenghty stretch of courtyard paved into a swirl of figure-eights and crowned in its centre by an elaborate fountain, the Grand Cathedral's facade reached high into the mists, greatest resembling the letter M, as it was composed primarily of two lofty pointed towers with smaller turrets jutting like limbs between them. The surface veritably writhed with detail. The legendary bronze doors were composed of six panels apiece of commissioned relief sculpture depicting the trials of their Saint in His cause; ten immense pillars which could be girded by no less than six grown men holding hands supported a rectangular marble porch upon which lay a sculptural arrangement of symbolic chargers amidst breakers, splashing in the surf as laughing angels frolicked between. More sculpture lay within the alcoves created by the looming pillars. Above the Saints' heads rose the three century old stained glass windows that were rumoured to stop reflecting the light upon the days of St. Iocus' martyrdom, and which glowed on the remembrance nights of His resurrection, even long after the candles inside had been extinguished. They reached to the third story. Smaller windows twinkled like spiders' eyes high atop the twin turrets.

        A decoratively spiked wrought iron gate circled the grounds. At the entrance, Duane only nodded distractedly at the guards there and Grissom kept his eyes straight ahead towards the magnificence of the Cathedral, a structure he'd not seen in many months, though he could feel the curious eyes of the Church guard upon him.

        "Ah, you're fresh meat about here for a while, "Duane chuckled as they made their way across the lengthy courtyard, "This month's oddity." William moaned something that sounded like a weak agreement. Grissom resumed his glaring at the boy.

        "I'm not sure I shall care for all of the attention, "he answered, trying to hide the anxiety that was beginning to creep over him anew, "I would think ah, young William here, was it...? would be more interesting prey for the gossip-mongers. He'll be punished surely for defacing the Order, won't he?"

        Duane shrugged, and the young knight slipped a bit further down his shoulder. "Poor lad's shown up raving drunk to his post every day for the past two weeks. Ever since his mother passed away. Tieger's made allowances."

        The information fractured Grissom's glare like a rock through a plate glass window. Sympathy rose to replace it. "Well..." he said softly, "I do wish I had been able to catch that thief for him then."

        "You discovered him ill in the street before the throat-cutting muggers could, Gris. You've done your duty to him today."

        Instead of entering through the ceremonial bronze doors, which were only opened for Sunday mass and even then it was by the hand of Valnain's Bishop, Duane directed Grissom around to the massive structure's side, where the grandeur receded to simpler stone brick. An arched doorway entered into a torchlit corrider leading away from the chapels and main hall of the Cathedral. Grissom smoothed his spikes back and peeled off his damp cloak, straightening his mussed uniform. "You drank a lot when father died, didn't you?" he wondered absently, picking a soggy thread from his collar. These had been tailored specifically for him last week but they felt suddenly as uncomfortable as burlap.

        "Not as much as you, "Duane mused.

        "I don't recall..."

        "That's because you were so drunk."

        "Mmm."

        A few turns in the dim corridor emptied them into the bright of day again. An immense stretch of greens, glistening like tiny emeralds, was suddenly rolling at their front. Its every side was girded by a plain wooden fence, and pocked at intervals by hoofprints. Beyond the border, Grissom surmised, lay more of the plain courtyard that seperated the sanctity of these holy grounds from the rest of the prying city. It truly was marvellous that such a stretch of land could exist inside Valnain. The property value of these few acres...

        The figure suddenly approaching them apparently didn't think of these grounds as sacred. He spat a dollop of tobacco into the grass and clobbered through the cropped stalks with the grace of a bull. "Duane!" he greeted, "And Grissom! By God, it's been forever, 'asn't it? And ye've not changed a lick, not a single lick!" This was Tieger. And he was big. Platinum-haired and coarse-featured. A meaty hand descended from on high and dashed to Hell whatever order Grissom had been able to briefly put his hair back into. It settled on his shoulder then like a satiated animal, and he was shaken nearly out of his skin.

        "You've certainly not erm, suffered at all, have you?" the new Commander greeted with a tiny grin, "I do hope they'll not pit me against you anytime soon."

        Both Duane and Tieger laughed, a little harder than Grissom was comfortable with. "Oh, Captain Guildenstern rarely forces us t'pit our men again' eachother much less forcing spars between his officers. We're precious as gold t'him, ye know."

        "Ah, I see."

        Duane clapped his brother on his free shoulder fondly. "Let me just do something with this sack of flesh and I'll explain how things work to you here, m'lad. Tieger..? If you'd please do something with your young Private, I would be so obliged."

        "Drunk again, "Tieger observed grimly, managing to clasp William's head entirely in one hand. He lifted his face up and was greeted with a crooked grin.

        "C'mander!" the knight laughed, "Whatcha doin' 'ere? 'M not on duty t-till t'morrow morn!"

        "It IS tomorrow mornin', "Tieger corrected, "What, did ye leave here yesterday afternoon and go straight to that blasted tavern? Private, you are usin' up your sympathy points with me..."

        "Oh, dole out a few more, good Sir Tieger, "Duane suggested, merrily handing the collapsed knight over, "He provided Grissom a few moment's entertainment this morning when a thief made off with his money."

        Tieger was half-way into a smile and a word of thanks to Grissom when William's pouch of gold clinked against his own armour-clad thigh. The massive Commander hoisted the knight over his shoulder curiously. "Seems to still have his wallet on 'im."

        Grissom's green eyes narrowed. "Odd..."

        "You can ask him more about it when he remembers what the tongue in his mouth is for, "Duane said dismissively. The sun was already too high in the sky and palavering in the training yard with Tieger would not look good to Captain Guildenstern if he were to suddenly stroll this way. "For now, come along, "he instructed. He shook his left arm out, shoulder sore now after supporing William's weight all the way from the Hawkpaw.

        "Shall I drop your kittens off in the infirmary along with this hooligan?" Tieger wondered, gesturing to the soggy basket Duane still carried. Grissom snickered into his fist.

        "There are no KITTENS in here, "Duane growled, "It's dinner from Leysa for my terribly ungrateful brother. My only vindication now is I'm sure it's become an uneatable rain-drenched mess." Tieger laughed anyway and managed to bring Duane around from a possible pout by grabbing William, unconscious once again, and having his limp hand wave his benefactors good-bye. They tramped across the wet grass towards the buildings on the other side.

        When Grissom was done laughing to himself and they had moved far enough down the greens, he saw one of these buildings to be an immense stable built of massive hardwood beams, and behind that lay a U-shaped complex of sandstone and pine. A scarlet pennant staked to the lawn before the stable door bore the same rose-and-sword motif William had sported, that Grissom had sewn to the front of his uniform, and that Duane wore on either shoulder. As they moved briskly past the stable and the strong smell of horses, into the shade of a tree-lined courtyard much simpler than the stretch of pavement before the Cathedral proper, something old, missed, and familiar flooded Grissom's sensibilities. The sounds of swordsmen plying their profession rose like faraway song. Following Duane, he was nearly bowled into by a handful of armoured knights on their way out into the greens. The young men were exceedingly apologetic towards Duane, and cast the same curious gaze to Grissom that the guardsmen had at the gate. But he didn't mind so much now. He felt...

        He supposed it to be pride. Fervour. He'd known the same sensation years ago when he'd joined the King's army and seen himself and a thousand other young men wearing the same colours and flying the same flag. This now though, was something a bit more deep-seated than a few moments of zealous patriotism. "Grand, isn't it?" he was asked suddenly. Grissom was pulled from his thoughts to see Duane glancing to him knowingly, and smiling.

        "Certainly a far cry above the army, "he answered guardedly, but the words were meaningless when his face was glowing with enthusiasm. Duane's smile faded not one notch. The courtyard was walled and a dozen doors led off in different directions. Thinking for a moment of where he might begin his tour, Duane finally decided on a small unmarked door and led his brother though.

        "The armoury, "he announced inside. Not exactly one of his favourite rooms (he preferred either the Church library, or the hidden chambers where those select few of the Cardinal's went to perfect their sorcery), but he knew Grissom would appreciate it greatly. And he did.

        It was not the most elaborate assortment of weapons he had ever seen in his millitary career, but the Crimson Blade armoury earned an appreciative whistle. The room was small and windowless with an oppressive low ceiling. Duane spoke a few words and a brazier upon the wall sputtered into flickering life.

        "Show-off, "Grissom accused, then circled the chamber, running his hands over the decorative swords upon the walls, and their more practical counterparts sheaved like grainstalks in barrels beneath them. Spears lay in the corners and stacks of crossbows, a few dissassembled as though for repair, or study, filled a table in back. There were two war-hammers, massive monstrosities that were frightening to even look upon, and half a dozen great axes, terrible silvery heads hidden by rawhide caps. More exotic weapons, some of which Grissom could not even identify, were scattered hither-thither amongst the armaments. "Now these aren't to be taken off the grounds, "Duane explained, straightening a few items as he spoke. It looked like this room hadn't been sorted in ages... "Your men will know that and may try to pull a quick one on you. Do not let them, if you please. Lady Neesa inventories this room occasionally and will throw a terrible tantrum if anything's found missing."

        "I can imagine." Grissom fingered his own sheathed sword. It was of very simple make and he preferred that, but... there were quite a few fine damascus blades in here that would feel terribly nice in his grip, and look terribly fine hung at his side. Duane cast a similar, slightly envious glance to a few staves as he arranged them neatly in their holders, but his fingers did not linger. "About my men... am I to be given new recruits?"

        "A few. But we've all been burdened since poor Saunder went to God--" Duane crossed himself before continuing-- "So Captain Guildenstern selected a pair of men from each of our units to be handed over to you. You'll have sixteen knights, all in all. Not every one of them has yet arrived but after I've given you the lay of the land, you can find them in the greens with Tieger, I do not doubt. If not, you'll have the pleasure of disciplining them for shirking their training. Each Blade is to be in this compound from dusk till dawn every day save Sunday, unless they've asked for special leave or are dispatched elsewhere. 'Tis your duty to train them for combat, to select half to receive training in the magickal arts from the elder clerics, to be sure they attend services each week, to be sure they are ready to perform with or without your guidance. 'Tis rather... 'tis rather like being some sort of schoolmaster, I imagine. Yet in training your men properly, you are saving their lives over and over. Any man of your unit killed in combat is a disgrace to you, and so a disgrace to the discretion of the Order."

        Grissom nodded curtly. "I see."

        Duane hoped he truly did. "Captain Guildenstern is... stern. He does not tolerate failure, nor too much questioning of his orders. So hold your tongue about him and keep your ears cocked. He'll bloody your nose if it pleases him, and you'll nod and ask him to bloody it again. Aye?"

        "...I am not too certain about that." Grissom answered, a small downward twist at the corner of his lips conveying a rebellious thought or two. Well aware he was of millitary discipline, as a cocky young soldier in the ranks he'd received his fair share of cuffings upside the head and kicks in the knees, but they'd all been earned. He'd grumbled then but his officers had only been looking out for his own well-being. As an officer now, Grissom saw no reason why his Captain should feel the need to take out his frustrations on his most valuable assets. "Does Captain Guildenstern have a squad of his own?"

        "Three men, "Duane answered, exitting the armoury and shutting the door after Grissom had followed, "Three elites always on his heels. You'll meet them during Guildenstern's inspections. Nice chaps, if a little too eager for me to stomach." The next door Duane opened was on the opposite side of the courtyard and there was a hastily scrawled name chalked there: Grissom. The younger Commander couldn't help but beam.

        "Your training room for the winter months, "Duane said, opening the door quickly. Grissom took in a large, high-ceilinged room, like a loft. Training dummies lay corpse-like upon the board floor, along with odd things like overturned goblets, a book or two of Scripture, and a... teddy bear. He'd have to ask about that later. "Needs to be cleaned, "Duane grumbled, shooing Grissom back out.

        They toured the rest of the Crimson Blade facility over the next hour. Duane showed off each of the training rooms, inevitably complaining how dirty each one was save for his own, which was so ridiculously well-tended to that even the mice were combed down (or so Grissom mocked). There was a common eating area, a kitchen headed by a fat old woman with a nose so covered in warts it seemed she'd been struck by mud, and a washroom headed by twins, one a very old man and one a very old woman. They looked all but identical in their silvery hair and wrinkles. The living quarters caught Grissom's attention nearly as much as the armoury when Duane finally led him there. Since quitting the army he'd come to stay in a set of cheap rooms across the city, not far from the unsavoury streets of Ratteesser. But there were empty rooms here in the compound that he could have with no cost. Duane felt like some sort of landlord pointing out how well-made the beds were. "By the Rood, "he remarked, "You'll have me making excuses for the spiders."

        "Spiders?"

        "Spiders. Grand furred ones with fangs. Never take your shoes off indoors."

        After dropping Grissom's dinner in the officer's room, where Tieger had been found trying to sleep (Duane had nearly relieved him of his head), the two Commanders ventured back across the grounds and finally entered the Cathedral. Drawing nearer and nearer the heavily ornamented oaken doors leading into the seminary, baptistry, and side-chapels, the tiny shread of ego which being saluted to for an hour had built up within Grissom, deflated. The walls of the Grand Cathedral dwarfed him, even here on the western side and away from the menace of the gothic facade. Everywhere he glanced, the vacant eyes of marble saints stared back. The angels carved amidst the ivy and the stone clouds seemed watching him and waiting for the slightest error in judgement or movement. He felt... as though his soul had been crucified to his own living flesh; pinioned, he was, by the iron attentions of God and His House.

        Duane became very solemn.

        Shutting the door softly in their wake, the elder brother nodded towards a whithered old priest who glanced up at the intrusion, then he led them both down a carpeted hall. Grissom wanted to hold his breath. The walls inside undulated with adornment; oil paintings in gilded gold frames, and walls of marble carved to resemble the richly reliefed surface of the front facade. The light was very uneven and scarce. Entire corners and distant walls were nothing but thick black shadows; Duane moved past open doorways leading into nothing but dark. The sensation was eerie. These inner rooms had no windows and were not bothered to be lit. Grissom's boots made no noise against the thick velvet carpet.

        They passed studying priests, mainly, and a few young boys and girls taking lessons from tutors. A woman in a habit hurried quickly past, returning to her duties somewhere far within the Cathedral's innards. "This is what we fight for, "Duane murmured suddenly without turning. Grissom understood immediately what he meant.

        There was no trace of the cruelty of reality within these marble walls. The studies, the libraries, and the high-ceilinged halls were touched with ethereality; God was, quite truly, at Home here. Grissom felt the Divine emanating softly from every pore of the Cathedral. Yes, it was very easy to believe that the mother Church of Valendia lived and breathed about them. If he shut his eyes and listened past the muted rustles of turning vellum, past the strains of a distant choir engaged in lessons, past the embarassed coughing of a page who'd inhaled a lungful of dust from the ancient books-- Grissom could hear the Cathedral breathe.

        Somehow, the further they moved through the dim hallways, Grissom knew too that they were nearing the structure's heart. He did indeed possess a shread of innate magickal talent. He'd cultivated it on his own time since accepting his position and he could perform a few simple spells, knew enough to sense the presence of fellow practitioners whenever they neared-- this perhaps explained a bit of the sensation he experienced now. The breathing walls seemed to contract about him, pressing against his skin the deeper they rose into the Cathedral's corpus. Duane noticed it too but it was old practice to him by now and he paid it no mind. Grissom found it more difficult to ignore. It was comforting in a way, like a mother's embrace, but at the same time it was stifling and hot; he had the strangest urge to unbutton his collar. Incense from some nearby ceremony heightened the effect, and the rising sun outside served to heat the windowless rooms. During the summer, he supposed, the place had to be unbearable. A boiling tomb, no matter how fine the sculpture and paintings.

        At last Duane paused his brother with a tug upon his sleeve, and he gestured to a shut doorway at the top of a short flight of stairs. "Captain Guildenstern's rooms, "he explained, and Grissom nodded in great interest, "In case you ever are summoned. Bishop Robinson is a Blade Commander's other great trial. His offices are on the floor directly above. I assume you know who he is?"

        "Captain Guildenstern's predecessor, "Grissom answered, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his upper lip, "I've heard the stories. Is he really so unbearable?"

        "Moreso than even you've heard, "Duane replied with a burdened sigh. The other man echoed it unenthusiastically, and then they moved on.

        They passed through two small chapels (those reserved for the private worship of the Blades, Duane informed), and Grissom was shown into his brother's favoured room, the Cathedral library. With great and mighty reverence, Duane crossed himself and deeply bowed his head before the rood enscribed upon its weighty iron doors.

        There was no one inside, which surprised them both. These libraries were famous not only within the Grand Cathedral's walls, but were envied by nearly every scholar in the country. Men and women travelled leagues to gain admittance here, to study the original texts of St. Iocus' scribes. But not all of the writings were holy. There were many volumes full of practical information on navigation, astronomy, alchemy, and the sciences. Cardinal Batistum was different from his forebearers in that he shared a desire for worldly knowledge in addition to the writings of his Saint and Lord. The hand-scrivened texts sitting alphabetically upon the shelves were priceless. Only by appointment could some of them be viewed at all, and even then he requesting an audience with the famous books had to prove the worth of his need. Duane spent many, many hours here, more hours in fact, than he spent in the training yard below. He was destined to someday take over the duties of keeping up the priceless collection, and this knowledge filled him with enough pride that he sometimes became unbearable speaking of it to Leysa. The looks he cast to the current librarian could be interpretted as no less than "Hurry up and die".

        Grissom was largely unimpressed.

        "Books, "he commented, stepping inside awkwardly.

        "Rare books, "answered a surprisingly feminine voice before Duane could snap something back. Both men turned as a dangerously beautiful woman approached from behind a tall and musty bookshelf. She held a crumbling volume of shreaded papers so dog-eared and rotting it had become more a folio than a bound and proper book. For a moment Duane found it odd than he couldn't place its name off the top of his head; it looked ancient and important enough to be one of the Divine Texts. "Love poems, "the woman explained and the mystery was solved. Duane snorted, though he did bow his head slightly.

        "Lady Samantha, how do you fare this morning?"

        "Wonderfully, "Samantha answered. The dim and dusty library seemed suddenly five shades brighter as she illuminated it with a genuine smile. "Are you well, Father Duane? Little Sierra is over her cough I hope, yes?"

        "Oh, yes, "Duane replied, immediately won back over by anything concerning his daughters, "I told Leysa it would clear itself up and it did. The damp weather's made half the city sick it seems. Perhaps God will grace us finally with a clear day now that the wet season is fast falling behind." Grissom cleared his throat. Loudly. "Ah... This is my brother. Grissom. I'm sure you remember Captain Guildenstern's announcement last month? He'll be taking Saunder's place in the ranks and training a few new recruits as well as a few of our veterens. Gris, this is Lady Samantha. She's ah, an assistant-- of a fashion-- to Captain Guildenstern."

        Grissom captured the Lady's hand so suddenly she hadn't time to mark the introduction with a simple, polite nod. A kiss was pressed to the back of her hand, and the younger Commander returned her initial smile with one of his own so dazzling that Samantha had a difficult time keeping her cheeks pale. "A pleasure, my Lady."

        Duane was making small choking noises in the background, like he'd gotten a mouthful of dust himself. Samantha could do little but demurely grin at the handsome high-ranking knight. After a strange pause however, she turned to Duane. "Cardinal Batistum is asking for you, Father. Something about a report on Kildean...?"

        After choking again, this one particularly violent, Duane looked sharply between his brother and Samantha, then quickly bowed his head. Grissom was treading on dangerous ground. Two hours in the Cathedral and already he was exposing his belly. This woman...

        But he daren't say anything in the Lady's presence. Hopefully Grissom would control himself until he could have a word with him at midday. "If you'll both excuse me then, I do need to fetch my things from the officer's room and be along to His Excellency. Grissom, you may want to go ahead into the yard and meet your squad. They are eager to test you, I am sure."

        The young Commander knew his brother well enough to understand that something was wrong as he bowed his way out of the library, closing the two of them inside. He also was not blind. Duane had been nearly purple in the face. "He takes his duties so seriously, "Samantha attempted to explain, gazing with soft blue eyes at the closed door. Her round face was framed by silvery blonde hair that just grazed her bare shouldertops, calling attention to a curiously low-cut-- Grissom immediately steered his eyes away (by the Rood, to be having such thoughts in God's House), focusing them instead on her rose-petal lips. She was terribly beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. And a true curiosity to be working in the Church's service.

        "He does love his duties though, "Grissom found himself answering. Samantha seemed to have frightened his brother; perhaps she was a higher rank. It would not hurt to play him up for her, especially since he seemed so blasted intent on inheriting the run of these smelly books from the ageing librarian. "My sister-in-law complains often to me that he spends all his time here. She said once he was neglecting his children so he merely--"

        "Began bringing them here with him, "Samantha finished with goldenrod laughter, "Yes, and that is why I know his daughters so well. Who else would entertain them when their father shut himself in here with a stack of texts on indigenous quadrepeds? I fear little Sierra fights too well with a stick now thanks to my showing she and her sister how to fence in the yard. Ah, but I do suppose we should get you back there, hmm?"

        Grissom's smile now was as permanent on his face as his nose. He watched the woman's every subtle movement, as though entranced. "Oh, but my Lady, you needn't escort me. I think I managed to scatter a few breadcrumbs in my wake; I shall find the outside again on my own merit. Somehow." He knew that this would make her laugh. And it did. She laid a pleased hand upon his elbow and he knew to open the door for her. She glided through and he followed in step. He knew without knowing, the length of her treads and so with no effort he kept them walking side by side down the Cathedral hall, as though their every action had been choreographed a century before.

        "Captain Guildenstern has instructed me to assist and observe you for your first day, "Samantha spoke, "So escorting you back to the grounds is mere convenience for us both, I assure you. Father Duane has already given you the guided tour?"

        "Aye, my Lady, with all of the proper exposition and advice to never eat in the commons area."

        "Goodly advice, yes. I do pity the poor boys who live on the grounds and are forced to take their meals there. It is Mistress Trelawny, I fear; she is a sweet old soul but her eyesight has gone and she's developed a habit of mistaking sugar for salt and tea leaves for oregano."

        "Perhaps you could take over her duties?"

        "Or perhaps not, "Samantha answered, blushing, "I am a trained knight, Father Grissom. And eggs are not especially formidable foes."

        Grissom was not given the chance to feel foolish for thinking of her as unskilled; Samantha occupied him instead with pointing out the proper path back to the side-chapel entrance, correcting him half a dozen times when his navigational talents erred. She described in detail all of the Saints and all of the tableaus depicted in each painting and sculptural group they passed. Her voice, light and casual but blanketed in respect and a strange understanding that made Grissom's stomach twist-- was emminently easier to listen to than Duane's had been.

        "'Tis marvellous to be in this position, is it not, Father?" she was asking. He wished she would not call him by his ordained title. He had recieved the cloth only so he could meet the restrictions necessary to administer last rites, thus earning him entry at a higher level when he'd joined the King's army, as a cleric. He'd shocked the ranks then by insisting upon fighting alongside the other soldiers, customarily saving many a soul in the fields and slaying many a foe in the melee. Saving souls and carving flesh-- there'd been a time when he thought he might go mad with the contrast, especially as the tension grew between Valendia and her neighbours and he and the rest were again and again sent into the fields. Of course, he thought bitterly now, then he had made his great "sacrifice", thus catching the Cardinal's eye and earning himself a way out of a soldier's hard lot.

        But still he was a priest, regardless of what rung he stood upon in the military ladder. Still his faith was strong. Faith had been all to pull him back from death those long months ago. Grissom would not abandon God. Still...

        "Please do call me Commander, "he entreatied Samantha, "Or simply Grissom will do unless you think it too improper. I'm afraid I'm not of the same stuff as my brother; being called "Father"... unsettles me."

        Samantha seemed mildly surprised, but she bobbed her head politely and continued. "To serve in such a lovely kingdom of stained glass and marble; to be able to see our benefactor whenever we doubt--" Samantha craned her head back and glanced above, as though she could see God's face in the lattice-work of the vaulted ceiling-- "To be SAVING people, instead of murdering them. Is that why you so willingly left the King's service, Grissom?"

        "Partly, "the man answered, "And partly because I was eager to begin commanding, instead of putting my neck on the line every time the General's sword fell. But this is indeed a grand fort for we soldiers of the Lord, you speak truly. I have never seen a finer place. The tapestry upon the wall there; I witnessed such a thing in the Palace once, when I escorted my Captain to see the Chancellor. Half a dozen men guarded it..."

        Samantha cried out sharply, as though struck, startling Grissom who immediately halted and turned to her. "P-please..." she begged, pulling away from him. He had lightly grasped her upper arm while gesturing to the tapestry hung upon the far wall. Taking his hand away, he saw he'd closed upon a dark and ugly bruise just visible past her sleeve. Attuned to the sickly purplish colour now, he couldn't help but notice another along her collarbone, deep and wide, when he tried to meet her eyes with his.

        "Oh, I am so sorry, "he apologized sincerely, and then he stood there lamely, feeling every bit the clumsy brute. "Where did you receive such terrible injuries, my Lady? If it pains you so, the bone beneath could be fractured, or the muscle--"

        "Only a bruise, "she interrupted, pain lending a sharper tone to her voice. Her wide blue eyes were dry but Grissom read sudden hatred there. He hoped it was hatred towards her attackers and not towards him. "This can be a dangerous line of work, Sir. We are all injured occasionally."

        "Of... of course." They were near the ground floor again. Grissom recognized a few of the dour old faces beneath their coarse brown hoods and the page was coughing again, faintly. The paintings were here still expectantly staring, but Grissom was not quite sure how he should perform for them. After a brief moment tracing the lines of Lady Samantha's averted face, which seemed so lovely and fresh in the low light, like she herself were a sculpture milky-white and modulated, Grissom offered his arm. "I do think I shall like this place, "he said, smiling. When Samantha tentatively took his arm, he could not have been a happier man.

Duane's skull buzzed with anxiety during his trip back across the bright green training yard. The Blades were out in full by now and they could be seen at practice in intervals across the emerald stretch, performing their lethal steps perfectly as their sparring partners charged dearly for mistakes. Neesa, the Blade's third, and arguably most talented commander, was pushing five young men to their limits off near the stables. One of them was bleeding from his forehead and Duane winced sympathetically as Neesa's hammer cracked him soundly across the back.

        "Have ye forgotten how to PARRY?" she demanded, "Relying too heavily upon magick, boy. You'll impress me more if ye learn t'swing that sword." She offered the fallen lad a hand up from the grass, then she and four others charged him again.

        Duane couldn't help but feel rather useless and out of place as he passed them by. He was no clutz of course, and no weakling, but Duane had very limited weapon skills. He was adept at training his squad up to a point, but afterwards Tieger came forward with more advanced tactics and Duane was relegated to teaching strategem and the Dark Arts. He was no less respected for his pursuit of more scholarly aims, but when he saw three men of his unit near the fence swinging maces at eachother while he, their commander, hurried to retrieve reports and papers...? Duane had to sigh and wonder if he was properly serving God or merely wasting His time.

        He would train with them when he finished with this, he promised himself, nodding in response when they saluted and called good morning. They deserved it. In the meantime...

        Tieger had fallen back asleep in the officer's room. It took every dram of Duane's self-control to keep from tipping the massive man off his bench. Instead he gathered up his slightly damp notes from the bottom of Grissom's dinner basket, and stepped outside again, slamming the door particularly hard in his wake.

        Double-quick footsteps saw him clipping back towards the Cathedral. Duane hoped to pass Samantha and his brother but apparently they lingered in the upper stories for he'd not spotted them by the time he reached the corridors leading up to Cardinal Batistum's chambers. A blessing and a curse, that. He could have attempted to convey the danger inherent in Samantha, if he'd been able to properly catch Grissom's eye. Yet he had kept the Cardinal waiting long enough, and really, it was just as well he not have to struggle past another distraction. Grissom would have to learn that there was more to fear as a Crimson Blade than the threat of death in combat, or the loss of one's soul to their despicable cultist foes. There were certain things one could never do within these walls; flirting with Lady Samantha ranked high upon the list.

        Regaining some bit of his confidence upon leaving behind the sharp smell of hard-working men, and the sharper clang of clashing steel, Duane straightened and passed through the side-chapel towards the seminary and the magickal studies chambers, places he was not yet authorized to show his brother, though Grissom indeed knew they existed. Proceeding this way, the Commander encountered two seperate sets of guards, but he was a fixture here and so was not hassled.

        Situated atop the building's sprawling lower floors, the protected grounds he was entering utilized wards and sigils to keep away most intruders. They were among the Church's strictest secrets. Duane himself who had spent years studying his religion had known nothing of its private endorsement of the practice of Dark magick. Only upon becoming Commander had the information been disclosed. Even then the words had come with strict warnings. He could speak of the Arts to no one outside the circle of Blades who practiced them. If he was seen working magick in public, the witness had to be killed or imprisoned, and he himself would be stripped of the privilage and sent back to twirling a stave and flipping pages. Thus Duane was ever cautious. Mikaila had broken her collarbone last year in a nasty fall from a stable loft. His greatest test of resolve had been not to ease her pain then with a simple healing spell. He'd felt guilty ever since.

        But such was the price of power.

        There was power entwined about this foul-smelling book of the Cardinal's, Duane knew. Ascending a rather unpleasant stone staircase that seemed out-of-place amidst the Cathedral's other splendour, he ran a gloved hand lightly over its green, pebbled leather cover. An inverted rood lay centred there. It seemed to crackle beneath his fingers. He hated it. He hated the symbol more than his clumsy words could ever express. St. Iocus, founder of his religion, the cornerstone upon which this entire Cathedral stood, had died in the name of the Rood, and the book's inverted mockery of it was poison to his eyes. What joy he would find in tearing the bit of blasphemous bronze from this book's face and setting it properly, then sanctifying it with a blessing and a prayer, thus ruining whatever wretched power this volume possessed.

        But it was not his place of course. Why it was the Cardinal insisted upon sanctioning a small hidden portion of the Library strictly for books of this nature, was beyond him. Aye, the spells many of them contained had helped the Order for decades in its attempts to cleanse Valendia, but-- but the ends did not seem quite worth the means.

        Or perhaps he was only weak and lacked the Cardinal's foresight. This seemed much more likely.

        After a brisk walk that left him nearly breathless, passing through the mirrored walls of the Arts instruction room, and then through a false passage few men knew of, Duane found himself outside the door of Cardinal Batistum's offices. These rooms were used only in conjunction with his involvement with the Blades. He had other rooms, much more easily accessible on the other side of the Cathedral, in which he greeted visiting clergy and royalty.

        Darker, were these chambers. Plainer. More serviceable. The walls and floor of the hall outside were scrubbed hardwood, clean and fine, but unadorned. His door was unmarked. There were no noises as Duane stood in reverent hesitation; the thick walls muffled any melee from the training yard outside, and the nearer sounds of choir, mumbling scholars, and bustling pages all were absent.

        "Come in, Father."

        Like Neesa's swung hammer, the invitation broke the stillness. But it was not unexpected. Duane had often enough witnessed the Cardinal's uncanny intuition. Some said he could scrye. Others claimed he simply enjoyed remarkably good hearing. Whichever was the case, it was extremely difficult to surprise the old man. Duane drew a steadying breath, opened his door, and quietly stepped inside.

        Greatly echoing the hallway outside, the interior was sparse and serviceable. Walls were panelled in cherry, a small shrine contained rood, candles, and statuette in a back corner, softly graced by a shaft of morning light across its surface and despite the weather, a small fire crackled in the hearth. Plush red carpet swallowed Duane's boot-treads. He silently crossed himself upon passing the gilded rood, then turned towards the rear of the room, the other furnishings lost in sombre shadows.

        Cardinal Batistum's back was turned. He sat in earnest conversation with a black-robed young man whose name escaped the newly arrived Commander's memory, which was usually a bit too full of useless information from books, certain little girls' endless demands, and Leysa's shopping lists, to ever remember what he should. They chatted on obliviously, and Duane remained silent a few paces away until called upon.

        It was not a long wait.

        "Father Duane, "the Cardinal greeted at last. Impossibly tall and thin, with a head of whispy silver hair kept always neatly combed and swept from his high brow, Batistum was never without a kind smile and a few thoughtful words for his acolytes. Seated behind a simple and elegant writing desk, he laid both hands suddenly upon the dull burgandy ink blotter before him. They seemed like wet sand against it. Duane expected damp impressions to be left behind after he'd replace them in his lap. "Brother Lukas and I were just discussing that particular book of yours. Could I see it please?"

        "Of course, your Eminence." Duane moved forward, glancing curiously at the black-robed, black-haired stranger. He was more than happy to have the blasphemous burden taken from his hands, though looking now upon his benefactor, the kindly pale blue eyes that rose to smile at his approach, Duane sorely wished he could have better served. Cardinal Batistum, thin but not weak, aged but virile still, bespeaking elegance even in the way he tilted his head now to cast sombre eyes upon the sinful tome, seemed unaware of his servant's regret. Lukas moved closer to the desk.

        "It seems like very little, Cardinal, "he said, curling a lip at the inverted rood, "You say this was all they dropped?"

        "Oh, yes, and nothing else. What is more, I am assured both by my instinct, and by Captain Guildenstern's good judgement, that the attempt made was by professionals. There were no marks upon the lock in the door. Cleanly broken in two with the proper tap of a small goldsmith's mallet and chisel."

        This was news to Duane. He had only been given the book and asked to summarize its Kildean contents. "Some intruder forced their way into the Library..." he breathed. It seemed an impossibility, like hearing of a sparrow sighting in a mine shaft.

        "Yes, Father, "Batistum replied gravely. His pale hands and impossibly long fingers slid across the book as though wiping perspiration away. "Last week, as a matter of fact. The assumption circulating now is that the target was this small volume here. Nothing else was disturbed and the librarian assures me all else is accounted for. All that unsettled our visitor's well-executed strategies was an inoppurtune and late night visit from one of the young pages. The boy tells me he entered the library in a fit of insomnia, and was knocked to the ground be a fleeing shadow. Upon further investigation, this book was found sprawled upon the floor. No one accesses the forbidden books, save myself and my Commanders." The Cardinal's eyes twinkled like opals as he set them against Duane's. "Thus I am certain we were being robbed."

        "Who would want a spellbook?" Lukas wondered. Duane was grateful for his voice; it let him glance away from Batistum's kindly countenance so that he could breathe again. "Who even knows that we have them?"

        "Those volumes are locked in a cabinet, inside a closet, out of sight of the rest of the library, "Duane interjected shakily, "Those with magickal proficiencies may not even sense the things, I have protected them with a ward."

        "We have our mystery laid out before us then, "the Cardinal said soothingly. His robes of crimson satin rippled as he sat lightly back in his chair, pooling like water at his ankles. Lukas nodded.

        "There has been a night guard since the incident, your Eminence, "he assured, "I have seen to that personally."

        "I thank you for your diligence, Brother Lukas. You defend our walls admirably. Brother Lukas, is training beneath me, Duane. He arrived only a few days ago from an Ulpha diocese. I am tutoring him in many things in hope he will stay and one day take your Captain's place. But that will be many, many years from now."

        "Yes, the old boy has a few years left in him, I wager,"Lukas laughed. Duane raised an eyebrow towards the black-robed man, sure that Guildenstern would be very displeased at his tone of voice. When talking of the librarian whose position he so envied, Duane often spoke in the same manner. Well.

        "So far, "the Cardinal continued, casting a curious eye to Lukas, then a more serious eye back towards the Commander, "We have merely defended ourselves from further assaults. No one outside of this room other than the Captain, the Librarian, and the frightened page who foiled the thief knows that our security was breeched at all. I would like it to remain that way. However, actions must be made to find out why someone wanted this volume. It cannot be known that we possess them, nor that our knights engage in the practices of which they instruct. Our people are not ready to understand the good that can be made out of the Dark. We must continue to protect them."

        "Whoever knows of these books must be dealt with, "Duane summarized. Lukas stole a tiny glare towards him and Duane decided he did not like the Cardinal's new student. He flashed the man a sneer. With any luck, Duane would be either retired or dead by the time he came to command the Blades.

        "Yes, "Batistum answered heavily, "And I would like you to handle this situation for me, Father."

        "By my life and our Lord, I shall, "Duane answered immediately, smothering a smile. He raised a fist to his heart in a small salute, "But your Eminence, you must understand that this is NOT a spellbook."

        Both Lukas and the Cardinal glanced in small surprise towards the mentioned volume. Duane continued, feeling very much validated. "'Tis a history, you see. A secret text documenting the movement of a cult called Müllenkamp. It is quite extensive, from what I read, telling of its beginnings nearly five thousand years ago, and the trials and tribulation of its practitioners. They are of Lea Monde, your Eminence, one of the sects God purged upon His destruction of that city 'cross the sea. But like rats they escaped the wreckage of their sinking ship. Sydney Losstarot, as you know, leads them now."

        Lea Monde had twenty-odd years previous been destroyed in a series of massive earth quakes. Since that time, the Church had claimed God as their champion in the wicked city's demise. Many people knew Müllenkamp; it was a lesser known fact that they had come from the ruins of Lea Monde. Lukas, now, seemed greatly interested by the information. The Cardinal sat in unsurprised silence.

        "I-- I had thought it odd, Cardinal, that you would have me gather information from such a book as this. But I have indeed done what you ordered. The book goes in depth into the namesake of their cult, a Kildean priestess. There is old history contained concerning our Order as well, Sire. I documented it and would like to put a folio in the library with your permission--"

        "I would rather you not, "Batistum cut him off, still gentle but hiding a cutting edge now in his voice. The name itself of Müllenkamp had been all to unsettle him; the rest seemed old hat. Duane took the small turn to mean he'd done poorly in his task and apologetically, he bowed his head.

        "So the thief desired a history of the Müllenkamp cult, "the Cardinal murmured. "Curious. Curious because there was no magick involved in the attempted robbery, and we all know the cultists are as flagrant in their magickal practices as a drunkard with his wine. Still I feel that this was performed by professionals. Which of course means that the rogue master Mortechae was involved. He was hired to procure the volume for... whomever it is that we must deal with." The Cardinal handed the book suddenly back to Duane. Taking it in his hands, the Commander inwardly shuddered as he felt again the crackle of Dark magick coursing through its every page. To hold it was akin to holding some crawling dead thing and he was revolted. Yet he split the book open when Batistum motioned him to. "Are there inscriptions, Father? Anything printed within that came not from the press?"

        "Yes, Cardinal, a few words across the front in a curious dialect I am rather unfamiliar with. I was taught a nobleman's Kildean in school; I've studied the glyphs used in spellcasting since coming to understand your excellent usage of it. But here..." Duane flipped quickly to the front of the book, pointing out a red, half-moon diagram filled with small scrawls that seemed almost like ink blots, but were actually loosely penned Kildean characters, done in a script that Duane found hard to interpret. Before falling asleep last night he'd decided it was indeed a spell of some sort. "Not an inscription, "he explained, following the words with two fingers, "Some bit of Dark casting, I don't doubt it. I only recognize a few characters and they are the symbols commonly used in summoning circles."

        Cardinal Batistum nodded and took the book back to better view the page. "More along the lines of those glyphs placed upon sigils, I should say, Father. See this, Lukas. You will learn this. Do not look so mystified." The black-robed student cleared his throat in embarassment, earning a smirk from Duane. The smirk doubled into a warm smile when the Cardinal continued. "You have done a fine job, Father. Your skills in Kildean are invaluable to me."

        "No where near your skills, your Eminance, "the Commander replied, bowing slightly at the waist.

        "The next time I put them to use, it will hopefully be towards something more attuned to your pious tastes. These vile volumes... I do apologize."

        "Not at all, Cardinal."

        Batistum thumbed through the crackling vellum for a moment, his hands like small white birds as they moved across the pages. He stopped suddenly, pointing something out to Brother Lukas who was hanging so low over his shoulder his chin all but touched the old man's head. "You see this...?" he intoned, "'Tis Iocus' true name before the councilmen of ancieant Kiltia corrupted his followers and murdered their leader."

        "Pardon?" Lukas was at a loss.

        "The Saint's true name, "The Cardinal pressed, quite taken aback that a prize student from an Academy as fine as Ulpha's did not know the obscure fact. "It is blasphemy now to say it aloud, but the name "Iocus" is actually a mocking title the old Latin-speaking heretics called our Savior."

        In a flat and unamused tone of voice, Duane answered Lukas before he could ask. "It means 'joke'."

        "They stole away his name, "the Cardinal explained, "To take away the power he had established over his followers. Then when they believed it was safe to do so, they took his life, certain that they had ruined his reputation so dearly that no one would dare to follow his teachings after his death. I feel perhaps you slept through your lessons, Brother Lukas?"

        "Forgive my ignorance, Cardinal Batistum." Lukas was turning twenty shades of green, red, and purple beneath his already pale skin. Duane took pity on him.

        "Obscure trivia, "he dismissed, "If what is in your heart is true to God, then what is in your head is mere fluff. Besides, aren't innocence and ah, naivete virtues?" The little cut stung the black-robed scholar and Duane winked at him.

        "Behave yourselves, gentlemen, "Batistum reprimanded absently, thumbing through the history book again, "I fear such levity in this situation. Sydney Losstarot himself could have been the one chasing this history of his people. The heretics, I am sure, dislike their documents dwelling with us. He is in this volume, he has every reason to steal it back." Pale blue eyes focused upon the page propped before him and with both hands clasping either side he began to read a passage concerning the infamous Müllenkamp prophet.

        Duane's breath caught in his throat. Past the pebbled leather cover and behind the wickedly cast inverted rood, he could see the shape of the half-moon glyphs begin to glow hellishly red. Through the green cover it seemed like fire smouldering in a dragon's belly. The Cardinal continued to read and Lukas peered in great interest down at the inscrutable Kildean text. "Cardinal--!" Duane let instinct fuel his actions. He stooped over the Cardinal's desk and snatched the book away from him, bringing it back close to his chest just as it burst into flames.

        For a moment he was blinded by the roar of fire in his face, too befuddled to realize his hands were sizzling about the quickly burning book. Somehow his feet took him to a small fireplace set into the Cardinal's east office wall. He dropped the crackling volume into the embers there and fell back as the entire office roared suddenly with a swelling of radiant fire erupted from the hearth. The last of the book disintigrated.

        But Duane's problems did not end there. On his knees before the fireplace, his uniform hung in greasy, charred tatters from his frame, while both hands were held painfully before him, almost audibly sizzling. His face was burnt as well, eyebrows shorn clean from above his eyes, which mercifully he had thought to close, sparing his eyesight from the blaze. Gasping, he fell back wholly against the wall, then began coughing as the entire office had become filled with a ghastly thick black smoke. He faintly saw Lukas quickly opening the windows, smashing out the glass of one with the butt of the Cardinal's staff when the latch would not give. The Cardinal himself was hesitantly approaching his fallen Commander, but Duane did not see his arrival. Struggling for breath and a coherent thought through his burns, his eyes closed.

        When they opened again, the room was mercifully clearer. It stank of sulfer and charred leather, and-- and the distinctive smell of burnt flesh. Cool hands moved over his face, and the Cardinal's soft, ancient voice ordered him to be still.

        "...I was correct, "he murmured, and Duane made out Brother Lukas still peering over his shoulder. Seemed that would be the young man's permanent lapdog position for a few years. "A sigil. A ward. But an ancient, ancient spell, Father, and that is why neither of us recognized it. That Müllenkamp "history" was written entirely in foresight, hundreds of years ago. It is not a history, but a prophecy."

        "N-now..." Duane choked, "'Tis nothing."

        Batistum chuckled and Duane cried out when the cruel ice of a healing spell met his burnt face. It was like having his entire head submerged in boiling water, at a temperature so high-- or so low-- that it ceased to have temperature and became pure sensation, raw and intense. He was barely conscious when it receded, and he audibly gulped as the Cardinal took up his mangled hands to repeat the process. "Th-thank you, Cardinal, "he whispered, experimentally stretching his face in a frown, a ridiculously easy thing to do at the moment.

        Brother Lukas was, again, perplexed. He found the healing magick very interesting to watch though, and his ears perked to hear the ancient words the Cardinal used to activate it. "Your reading it aloud triggered the ward, Cardinal, "he said, "But surely Father Duane read it during his translation. Why did it not burn him before?"

        "A matter of faith, perhaps, "the Cardinal answered, working pointedly on Duane's hands. The Commander couldn't manage any words himself. "Perhaps the good Father was... "interested" enough in what the book had to say that it clouded his faith and so the ward did not react. Most traps of this sort are geared only to harm those of opposing wills."

        "But it sensed your strong faith and immediately knew to strike out, "Lukas concluded loudly, "My, that is marvellous."

        Duane's stomach had sunk into his boots. He didn't think the explanation was true... but apparently his weakness last night had shown itself apparent this morning. "I am s-so sorry, your Eminence, "he apologized imploringly, when at last Batistum rose from tending to his burns. His hands were curiously scarred at the palms and black with soot, but they were healed. His face throbbed, but only as though it were burnt with the sun. "You nearly were killed. If only I had-- I had been of a stronger will when I had read that blasted book, you never would have been in such danger--!"

        "You proved yourself with your sacrifice, "Batistum answered, stoney-faced, "And you shall prove yourself further. Go into Ratteesser mid-day tomorrow. Take Brother Lukas. Seek out Mortechae and pay him whatever he likes to tell you who hired him to procure that book. We do not worship merely in words, Father, but in deeds and actions."

        "...of course, Cardinal." Duane rose stiffly to his feet. Weighted, hurt, weary, and singed, he nodded. Lukas offered a snide steadying arm that was pointedly ignored.

So finally! A challenge!

        Yet by the grace of Grissom's movements, not a one of the watching young knights would ever have guessed he found this challenging. Only the few beads of sweat standing out on his upper lip and dampening the blonde hair at his temples were any indication. From Lady Samantha's very close vantage point, these last were apparent. She winced when Grissom parried a devastatingly close lunge from the head of a massive axe. The thrust of his sword that countered the quick attack, was equally as deadly and just as deterred.

        "Check your balance, "Grissom advised, circling his young partner. This fully-armoured knight had strange taste in weapons. He was the only man of the new Commander's unit to claim a double-headed, two-handed axe as his default weapon. He was strong enough to make it a lethal choice. And quick enough to be the challenge Grissom had craved all day. Another exchange of blows sent the two Blades together for a moment, sparks flying between double-headed steel and damascus broadsword, before they shoved eachother apart with such momentum, the axe-wielder wound up backwards in the grass.

        "You see?" Grissom lunged suddenly, the faintest taste of a battle-lust in his expression. The young knight's eyes widened in terror; he could not bring his axe head up to block the approaching blade; he froze. Grissom's swordpoint halted with its barest edge stuck in the boy's throat. Enough only, to draw a single drop of blood.

        It was withdrawn just as quickly as it had come. "You are dead, "he intoned harshly, "But if you had kept your wits about you, boy, you'd have ducked sideways as my blade was falling, then had time to reposition your weapon as I recovered."

        "I fear, Commander, that you would have killed me regardless; you are too fast." Laughing nervously and rubbing the cut at his throat, the knight was helped to his feet by two comrades stepped forth from the small crowd. Grissom relentlessly eyed him, unsmiling. Lady Samantha made up for his lack of humour, standing close to his elbow with her face happily alight. She seemed terribly impressed by his display.

        "Of course he is fast, "she spoke for him, "He was in his Majesty's army, young sir, and they do not tolerate anyone less than elite. But you are remarkably fast yourself, especially carrying that great axe of yours."

        "Work on your balance, "Grissom interjected, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. The day had grown intolerably hot. "I'll gauge the last of you tomorrow; it is nearly supper and I think we've had our fill of eachother for the afternoon. Dismissed."

        All ready they had stayed more than an hour past their normal training slot; Grissom caught the tail end of a lot of dirty looks as his sixteen knights shuffled from the training greens and towards either the exit of the Cathedral or to their quarters in the Blade compound. Most of them rubbed gingerly at sore necks; Grissom tended to end all spars in the same manner. If they didn't bleed, they didn't learn. Enemies did not fight with wooden swords. Perhaps this was why, behind the begrudging glances of sixteen tired, unenthusiastic knights, he sensed firm respect. Well. His first day was a success then.

        "What do you think of them, Commander?" Grissom wheeled upon Lady Samantha, grabbing a towel from the grass to scrub his face dry. She took his sword and sheathed it from a case flung nearby. "Not too disappointed?"

        "Not at all, "he answered, finding it easy to smile for her, "The new recruits are nervous and did not put their hearts into their technique, but they will find their place. As for the veterens... my fellow Commanders are quite skillful. Well-trained. That axe-wielding chap brought his blade close to my chest two times too many for comfort, and he is from among Lady Neesa's men, hmm?"

        "Indeed, "Samantha laughed, "And if you tell her that, you shall have a friend for life. Commander Neesa will bless you for the kind words. She's worked very hard this season with the new knights; the officers of the Church forces spoil our Lord's army with poor training and infrequent encounters. When the best of them are handed over to become Crimson Blades, even they are largely unskilled."

        "Peaceful times do not make for strong warriors, "Grissom answered with a shrug, "There is peace in the countryside, peace in the cities; the citizenry has seen no reason to cause disturbances in months. I think we train to fight paper enemies. But that does not make these duties any less sacred to me."

        "Well-said."

        A breeze wound through the broad field suddenly, a cool draft from the passed stormclouds of this morning, like a single golden thread amidst a tapestry of grey. Letting the towel hang limp in his hands, Grissom tilted his head back to catch it, smiling in appreciation as God combed cooling fingers through his hair. The air smelled so sweet. He thought he caught the scent of apples upon the breeze, and the distant salt of the sea. Glancing back towards Samantha, he saw she too was appreciating the sky. Like strands of moonlight stolen into the bright of day, her hair swam about her in the breeze, and her eyelids were pulled down pale over her large eyes. Grissom drank in the sight of her before she leveled her gaze again and smiled. The two of them stood alone in the emerald fields; long before the other squads had disbanded for the day. Samantha seemed very aware of this fact, and made no movement that might signal their return to the officer's room. For a long moment she simply stared towards him. Grissom felt suddenly self-conscience, but refrained from smoothing back his wind-ravaged hair, or rebuttoning the open front of his uniform.

        "Tell me about the army, "she spoke at last, softly, "Father Duane never speaks of his brother, and so I know you not. But I do think I would like to."

        Grissom was singing inside, a giddy, fast-paced drinking song. Such fortune. Such fortune! "I wanted to laugh when you spoke before of the ah, selectiveness of the King's army, my Lady, "he answered immediately, "Surely you know better. 'Tis not a matter that concern's God's forces of course, but Valendia fights with her neighbours constantly, pushing her borders further and further south. The King believes he shall rule all land between here and the Southern Sea within three years. He fights tenaciously for it, throwing the youth of this country into a fire that never burns itself out. He cares not where that youth comes from, so long as they have the wits to learn how to hold a sword and fire a bow. I was only a common recruit, a step above the rest simply because I entered the army ordained and so was given a cleric's few privilages."

        "You sell yourself short, "Samantha negated, "You just proved your prowess with that bit of damascus, 'Father'. You are more than a cleric, else the Cardinal would not have sent for you."

        "I think the Cardinal would have overlooked me entirely, "Grissom contradicted gently, "If Duane had not pointed him towards my deeds in battle. But false modesty is ugly, you are correct. So I can swing this sword well. I didn't know which end to hold upon first entering the King's forces. But I learned quickly. Affinity for blades, my instructors said. But such a trial by fire will teach any man how to fight well. As you said, the Church's recruits are spoiled. The King's recruits are not. You learn or you die in the countryside." Grissom's voice grew sombre and he found the darkening sky above suddenly unappealing. Hidden in the breeze now were old screams, and old scents. Dying cries. The hurried rasp of his voice reciting tired prayers. Blood and sweat over wet leather. Breaking bones. He could not stand the grind of breaking bones. When a bolt snapped a rib, or a mace crushed a limb, he had to cry out in a battle, to distract himself.

        Four years of battle and bloodletting. Four years... they were yet close, even here in Valnain where he might hide in older, sweeter memories, for he had grown up in this city and thought never to leave it. But he had been a drifting fool when he had decided to try his luck in the millitary. Drifting and without the proper sort of faith to follow Duane into the priesthood after he had been ordained; drifting and without the desire to apprentice in his father's trade; drifting and tired of drifting; when finally he had cast his anchor down, a pity it had been into quicksand.

        Samantha had sensed his dark thoughts and remained quiet, following at his side after he gathered his equipment from the crushed grass and began back towards the Cathedral. "It is different fighting for God, "she comforted, softly. "When your comrades fall, Commander, you may know in your heart that you WILL see them again. And you both shall be joyous upon the occasion."

        Grissom, again, could not hide a smile. "You are far wiser than I am, "he chuckled, "You realised that truth from the beginning, I dare to believe."

        "My parents were insistant, "the woman answered back, "God revealed himself to me in everything. And still I see him in the finer of his creations. Like you." Samantha immediately reddened, and found her boots to be very, very interesting.

        "You are too kind, "Grissom laughed, delightedly. Then he found his chest swelled with courage and he blurted, "Would you give me the honour of one of your afternoons?" Heart pounding, he cut short his treads and turned upon her, dropping to one knee and earnestly grabbing her hand in both of his. Another cool breeze put kisses upon them both. Samantha's pale strands attempted to hide her blushing and failed. "Go riding with me, my Lady. After services on Sunday. Would you? By my life, nothing would give me greater pleasure."

        As a soldier, Grissom had been given little opportunity to know women. Beforehand, studying for his clerical vows, he had been given even less. But in distant days after he had finished the last of his schooling, and before even that when he still had been a young student voracious towards the world-- Grissom had loved his fair share. For years he had craved to pick up the old habits, and this Samantha was such a kindly, beautiful creature, Grissom could not have remained silent a moment longer. Even for one afternoon to become acquainted with her outside of the Cathedral's boundries-- the young Commander would have paid a premium.

        But Samantha did not seem to share his enthusiasm. In fact, as Grissom clasped her hand, he fancied a certain sadness drifted across her eyes like clouds. A bitter voice, world-weary and pessismistic, spat its venom in Grissom's heart.

        But all Samantha said was, "I wonder if you would not challenge me, Commander?"

        Grissom blinked stupidly. "Challenge...?"

        "With your sword, "she returned immediately, withdrawing her hand from his touch. She suddenly held a jade-handled dagger and a golden-headed stave, as though they had melted into existance from behind her back. The previous sweetness of her expression had undergone similar magicks. It was gone now, cool professionalism taken its place. Grissom could not have been more surprised if she had suddenly sprouted wings. "What is the matter?" she beckoned, stepping backwards to put space between them. Her voice was still sweet and respectful, but there was a sad anger hidden away there too. "I mean nothing base by asking it. But I don't give away my afternoons free of charge, Commander Grissom. If you can best me, then I shall share your company."

        "You... are full of more surprises than a Christmas stocking." Deftly the man caught his sword when she flung it towards him.

        "A compliment, I am sure, "she returned, swinging experimentally at the air with her stave. The weapon seemed far from clumsy in her slim hands. She laughed suddenly, as though her troubles were cleared now by this bit of movement. "Forgive me if I seem terribly unoriginal, but I would have my companion be a match for me."

        Grissom's muscles were already well-warmed. He stood his ground, waiting for her attack. "Not unoriginal, my Lady, "he returned calmly, bright eyes fixed upon her every limb in anticipation, "To face me at such a disadvantage, with only your small knife and staff as I wield a Damascus broadsword-- Lady Samantha, I fear you want to lose."

        "Are you sure you have accounted for all of my weapons?"

        Like the flapping of a small insect's wings, the staff's golden head flashed as she twirled it. Grissom was distracted for a moment by its bright flash, and next he knew there was a lithe body moving towards him with all the liquid finesse of a feline. Samantha charged him coolly, footing sure in the brittle grass. Whistling, the stave struck out towards his head, little more than a blur of gold and sound. Grissom countered it, but with the flat of his blade so as not to damage its fine oaken shaft. Marvelous weapon, he thought to himself, repositioning his sword as a flurry of attacks rained down, much too marvelous to have seen much use.

        Yet Samantha was talented, the young Commander had to give her that. She could have held her own easily with any of the knights in the training yard today. Precisely countering every swing and circling her easily, Grissom gauged her now just as he'd done his men.

        This irritated her.

        She feigned blows now, sliding her hands so swiftly down the stave's shaft that Grissom couldn't follow them as she changed ends and altered the staff's momentum and direction mid-attack. Her left hand came into play with the small dagger. Grissom's eyes widened. The steel wedge hissed towards his midsection, and the woman's face behind it was terse and focused nearly as sharp as the knife. Executing a lunge towards his unprotected head, Samantha followed through with a slash towards his throat. The first was easily deflected, so easily in fact that it disarmed her and the richly-crafted weapon pirouetted from her hand and into the air like a windmill blade. On the back-swing Grissom caught the knife right at his sword's crossbar, bringing his face close enough to Samantha's that he could feel her hot breaths against his lips. She pushed valiantly against the parry but Grissom could have ended the fight there by merely twisting his sword and sending the dagger flying after the stave. Instead, enough pressure was put forth to keep the knife and sword quivering between them, and Grissom lifted a foot to hook about her ankle, to trip her.

        What happened next would mystify him for weeks. Indulging for half a moment in thoughts of licking the beaded sweat from Samantha's furrowed forehead, Grissom suddenly suffered such a blow to his head that he was thrown backwards from the woman, as though God Himself had heard the impure thoughts and decided they were not fit for any one of His ordained sons. The Commander tumbled backwards through the grass, center of balance thrown completely out of order. Desperately he tried to keep his right arm straight so he'd not impale himself upon his blade but only distantly did he realize he was no longer holding it. When at last he came to an ungainly halt, it was against a section of the yard's plank fence, with holes in the knees of his hose and grass stains streaking his shirtfront. His head was lightly bleeding but that was far from important considering the lamentable new state of his clothes.

        "D-damn it, "he mumbled savagely, a hand clumsily moving to wipe damp dirt from his chest, "Brand new bloody uniform..."

        "Grissom!"

        The sound of his name brought his wits back and the Commander swung his chin up groggily to see Samantha hurrying his way. Hadn't he... just been standing right next to her...? "Oh, by the Saint, I did not mean to hit you that hard!"

        ...he was delirious. Delicate Lady Samantha had not managed to knock him half way across the training yard with her bare FIST. "Quite... quite all right, "he answered liltingly, clamping a hand to his pounding forehead, "Wasn't paying attention t'your free hand. You win." And she had. He was unarmed while she yet held that flashing inlaid dagger. Grissom's disappointment was unfathomable.

        "Oh not my hand, "she assured, stooping over to grab his arm and raise the fallen man back to his feet, "'Twas a spell. You never clarified whether or not we could use magick. I should have warned you, I am sorry."

        "Magick... you work the Arts then? My, my... ‘tis my own error again, I should not have underestimated you."

        "You underestimated me from the beginning, "she whispered as he swayed against her, "And that is why I bared my claws, good Commander."

        Lights dancing where there should be no lights, Grissom turned to face her. Words seemed to stick for a moment like caramel candies in his mouth. She really was beautiful, he saw, nose-to-nose with her once again. Even if she had just beribboned his pride in bright pink bows. She breathed into his face for a moment, ruffling his sweaty forelock. Then Samantha pulled away, leaving Grissom to rebalance himself. "...I suppose it was foolish of me, "he relented after a long pause, not realizing Samantha was laughing now because he had a few bright green blades of grass sticking from his hair, "This is only my first day in your company. I am sure every young and stupid recruit that passes through here attempts to earn your favour with promises of a grand afternoon."

        "Not all of them, "Samantha answered bemusedly, "Customarily they buy me expensive gifts. I fancy no woman in Valnain owns quite as many pearl hairpins as I do. Funny I do not wear them."

        Grissom laughed half-heartedly, because the other half of his heart was busy hiding itself. Very carefully was he scrutinized then, by a woman whose eyes grew suddenly as hard and unyielding as they had when her golden stave swung before them. His face warmed when those blue eyes passed over it, and he cocked his head in curiosity as they roved down over his uniform, then arced across both high-booted legs and then back up to his own green eyes. He felt like a slave upon the auction block and wondered if she'd like to see his teeth too. "Sunday afternoon, "she decided softly, her smile returning, thus relieving the Commander more than he would have admitted. "You do seem a sweet and sincere man, Grissom."

        "I have... been called worse things in my days, "he laughed, hoping he did not float straight from his boots. Oh, the time he would craft for her. His own horse, a black wonder dusted in charcoal grey, was stabled across the city for the moment, but he could procure a mount for the Lady if she had none. Though likely she would though; the stables near the compound seemed extensive, and he had heard stories of the triumphs of magnificent mounted Blades'. Ah, mounted Blade... Grissom cast a very wicked eye upon the Lady.

        Samantha merely handed him his fallen sword.

        "Do you wield aught of the Arts, Grissom? I certainly am a merciless woman to have used them upon an amateur if so..."

        "An amateur, sadly yes, "Grissom sighed, sheathing his weapon, "But you cannot be blamed for it. 'Twas a fair match, truly. But I'm largely unschooled in the ways of this fabled 'Dark'. I am studying a book of Duane's and he is giving me... less than successful private lessons. Let's see..." Seeking suddenly to prove he wasn't a complete dolt, Grissom spread his left palm before him, glove removed to dangle from his belt. The Dark that fueled that which was called magick, was slippery and intangible. To try and unravel its power from the living air was like trying to capture minnows bare-handed from a flowing stream. Invariably Grissom would find the powers slipping past his fingers, swimming off with tails flashing in amusement at his poor efforts. Well, such was the metaphor he preferred.

        After much practice, he'd had some small success with it though. And luckily the 'Dark' powers were favouring him today. Staring intently at his spread hand, he clearly spoke a few words of ancient Kildean, careful to watch his pronunciation and intonations of each syllable. He was rewarded. Warmth spread through his skin, like the warmth of liquor, or the warmth he'd felt as Samantha's eyes passed over his face. A tiny spark flickered timidly in his palm for a moment, then dared to blossom into a true green flame. Lady Samantha moved quickly towards his hand to shield the hovering fire from the breeze.

        "'Tis green, just like your eyes!"

        "Not intentional, "Grissom sighed, idly watching it dance. Uncannily it lit them both, even beneath the still bright afternoon sun. "I certainly do need more practice."

        "Oh, but I say this is adoreable!"

        The Commander blinked slowly. "It is fire."

        "Very adoreable fire, "Samantha answered, touching his nose with one finger as though bestowing him with some sacred truth. She grabbed his elbow and began leading him back across the greens, towards the darkening compound. "Mastering your first spell is always difficult, "she went on, "But once you realize where the Dark is in the world around us, and where you must look in order to harness it, then it is only a matter of symantics, memorization, and strengthening your will."

        "I do not have such a grasp on the Dark as you, my Lady." Grissom raised the flame to his lips and extinguished it with one sharp puff of air. The ensuing smoke was equally green. "I'm afraid I still question how proper it is that we use such a force at all. Chroniclers have called it a tool of Evil since the beginning of our beliefs. Yet we use it now as freely as we use our swords."

        "Swords which heretics may wield as well, "Samantha said gently, "The Dark is another tool, good Father. Another weapon. I do hope you will not cripple yourself with false prejudices against it."

        Grissom straightened his hair uneasily as the harsher sound of footsteps against pavement signalled their arrival back into the courtyard. "I must say it IS called the 'Dark' after all, "he answered, attempting levity, "Perhaps a different term would make the people more accepting of it. And myself."

        "Ach, you judge based on labels!" Samantha laughed, "Grissom, my good sir, you judge things too soon! Listen more. Learn more. Speak and act a little less."

        This ruffled Grissom's pride more than he was used to; perhaps he understood how ignorant he was of all things that transpired upon these grounds and in the finer cogs of his religion but it was rather impolite for others to remind him of it, wasn't it? Ah, but he baited these sharp hooks himself, he did. The cleric smiled at his own ego. But a great thunder of approaching feet kept him from saying anything further to the Lady.

        The courtyard at this hour was shadow-dappled and secluded; the rogue breeze that had earlier played witness to the two Blade officers settled now for disturbing the young trees that lined the yard's pale-coloured paving stones. These trees seemed voyeuristic themselves, peeping their tops from beyond the purple grasp of cast shadows from the flanking compound walls. The rooms of the compound were quiet with their knights off to supper; they would stand alone and empty until tomorrow's dawn. So it seemed very jarring when one of the doors-- one Grissom had not been introduced to by Duane-- burst quite suddenly open and two agitated figures swept into the evening courtyard.

        He leading the pair Grissom immediately recognized as Captain Guildenstern. There could be no mistaking his authoritative walk, nor the solid squaring of his shoulders. Months before Grissom had made his acquaintance in a training camp half-way across the country, where Guildenstern had come to see if the young sword-wielding cleric was truly worth the laud he was recieving back in Valnain. He had been tested then, both in combat and in a strange inquiry as to the particulars of his beliefs. The former had led to a deep respect for the Blade captain's sword talents; the latter had left Grissom extremely uneasy. Why it had so bothered him when such a prominent man of the Church had questioned his faith, he'd not been able to say and still couldn't answer. Whatever Guildenstern's final evaluation, it had been enough to assure this new position. Thus Grissom saluted in respect and gratitude upon seeing him now.

        Garbed in polished brass armour accented with silver and gold, an ivory-handled rapier jabbing the air at his hip, Romeo Guildenstern was a dashing figure with his clear, sun-touched skin, and his pale silvery-blonde hair. His goatee seemed to betray the false colour of his locks though; it was a dark brown and carefully trimmed. His blue eyes were piercing and surprisingly intense this evening. They focused immediately upon Grissom, then were completely occupied by the sight of Lady Samantha stepped out from behind him.

        "My Lady, "he greeted abruptly, "Where have you been?"

        Previously overshadowed by a too-commanding presence, the stranger at Guildenstern's side answered, "Obviously with the new Commander here." Grissom's eyes narrowed at the snide tone, then swiveled to take the other man in.

        Ah, could be none other than Bishop Robinson, he was sure. Nearly as tall as Guildenstern, the head of Valnain's Cathedral was a powerful man himself; Past fifty, surely, but Grissom saw through the grizzled facade and made out the former warrior and Captain of the Blades beneath. His shoulders were broad under his purple satin robes. Faint scars from some long ago encounter had faded across his countenance, leaving a visible history of hard battle and strife upon him. But his demeanour belied all this. In his elaborate Bishop's robe, with a few books against one hip and a crushed black velvet mantle sheltering him from the chill, he was nothing but dignified and pious. He gestured with the same elegance of any noble. Even his black hair, seasoned by silver streaks at the temples, was coifed and oiled so thoroughly even the breeze could not hope to ruffle it. It extended down his back in a thin braid and whipped the air fiercely whenever he turned.

        Grissom was forced to pause a moment when the Bishop stepped into the light; he was very familiar. But that was impossible. Surely he'd not met him before. Of course it was said that all truly devout men wore God's face. Perhaps that was it then. Grissom was only recognizing piety. He pulled his attention away and put it back on Samantha, where it wanted to be anyway.

        "Commander, "Guildenstern greeted, nodding curtly to his tow-headed new recruit. The agitation in the Captain's face practically glowed. "I had nearly forgotten you would be joining us today. Good Bishop, is he not a day hasty in his arrival?"

        "Nay, Romeo, you are merely a day tardy in your thoughts. Life continues past these walls and past your own pursuits. Welcome, Commander Grissom."

        "I thank you, Bishop Robinson." Grissom bowed at the waist. "And I thank you, Captain Guildentern for Samantha's assistance today. She is quite an asset to have parted with, even for only an afternoon."

        Something that could only be described as... mild surprise... clouded the Captain's expression. But it was dissipated in a flash and he returned his Commander's niceities. "I trust you are pleased with our facilities? We are not a mud-stained camp. We do not have the same numbers nor facilities. Likewise our needs are very specific and our tasks must be performed with high precision."

        "I understand, sir."

        "This is fortunate then, that you are here." Guildenstern caught the Bishop's bright gaze. "This simplifies matters."

        Robinson nodded and from the corner of his eye, Grissom saw Samantha edge a single step away from the group, though her attention on them remained rapt. "Indeed. He'll be able to lead his own squad tomorrow. Neesa and Tieger will remain together then. Fortunate; they can counter the brutes inside while the Commander here captures those that slip from the cracks. We do not know the skills of these people. Displacement magicks are always a possibility."

        Guildenstern gravely answered, "You have information on numbers?"

        "Possibly seventy to eighty men, "the Bishop returned, glancing quickly to a few sheets of parchment lain against his burden of books, "In addition to their women and any children that may be about. This will be very difficult without the Arts, Captain."

        "Yet we're left little choice while the rogues hide in such a public sty. This opportunity is too golden to ignore; we act while God's graced us. Grissom's early arrival is prophecy. As is this fortunate slice of information."

        By this point, Grissom's curiosity was growing fangs. He was standing on his toes when Guildenstern turned and addressed him. "You know Müllenkamp, Commander?"

        Regretably, Grissom had to answer in the negative.

        "They are not Valendia's most prominent cult, but they are her most dangerous. Twice have assassinations against our Lord been attempted. They inflame good men with false words and empty promises. These many months we've watched for opportunity to act against them in a manner that would assure retribution and justice swiftly. Bishop Robinson has been tireless. And I do believe now we have them cornered."

        "Favourable information then, sir?" A raid. A raid upon only his second day in the Crimson Blades. Grissom was elated, though a small part of his ego knew dread he'd never allow himself to voice. Cultists. They were like a disease upon the land. And as a high member of the Church, he knew without the blur of mere superstition or doubt that the magicks and Arts they were fabled to use were indeed real. And, despite what Samantha had insisted only minutes before, he knew the Dark powers that fueled their limited spells favoured the blasphemers by far. The Dark was not as neutral as she believed. Grissom was sure of it.

        Guildenstern did not seem inclined to share any more information than was absolutely necessary. The Bishop as well was tight-lipped. He busied himself arranging his load of books. "Tomorrow afternoon. In the morning there'll be exercises in the front courtyard an hour from dawn. Shortly before noon the Blades are to be briefed. Afterwards, we proceed. But this city isn't to suspect anything until the appointed time. These cultists operate in a network; such is their strength. A misspoken word on our part, one undesireable ear hears it, and then infects all of Müllenkamp. They'll disperse. And we will lose this chance."

        "The other officers have left the grounds for the day, "Bishop Robinson added, "And this information is fresh. It is even better that they not know. We go into this with utmost secrecy."

        Grissom nodded at the deluge of information, nearly dazed. "Are you ready for this?" Guildenstern asked him, and a rogue smile touched his thin lips, "A trial by fire indeed, Commander."

        "Not magickal fire, by God's grace."

        "No fears." The Captain put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "I would not toss you to the wolves."

        "On the contrary, "Lady Samantha finally spoke, her words soft but very clear. Grissom saw that transformation of her expression again; sweetness became cunning laced in sadness. "The Commander is skillful in the Arts. Only a few months instruction and he already makes his own magickal fire. He will bring honour to God and Church tomorrow, Captain." Valiantly, Grissom refrained from reddening. He began to negate the claim but Guildenstern cut him off.

        "Müllenkamp is not to be trifled with. Else we would have cleansed this city of them long before now. Commander, rest well tonight. You'll excuse me. Samantha, come. There are policies to be cleared tonight, and the devil's dance to choreograph." With that, the Captain's tall form abruptly turned towards the darkening shape of the distant Cathedral. Samantha followed a few steps before she faced Grissom with a small smile and called good evening. The smile answered a small gnawing doubt that had began to sprout in the man's heart and he was relieved to find his unspoken question answered. Fondly did he watch her lithe form crunch through the grass to walk at the Captain's side.

        "You seem very taken with the Lady."

        Grissom was startled to remember the Bishop was still there. Slowly he turned to cautiously nod his answer to the older man. "She is a kind and talented woman."

        Bishop Robinson... smirked. "So is my mother. But I don't look at her in that manner."

        Nerves, relief, or plain amusement caused Grissom to laugh aloud. "You are very perceptive, good Bishop. I do suppose I should keep professionalism and piety intact while I serve our faith however. Hmm?"

        "Not only in service, but at all times, "the Bishop answered, blue eyes twinkling, "Such were your vows, no matter where you took them. You schooled in Valnain, my boy?"

        "Valnain and abroad. But your Cathedral is my mother house, milord. I do believe I kissed your ring and envied your sword as a child, if you remember it."

        "There are many children in the city, Commander. I wish I could remember every little face. But you came home so surely these walls had the proper effect upon you. Do not fear tomorrow. No, no, don't deny that you do. Only a fool would be unafraid to stick his hand into a viper's nest. Romeo has told me of your skills. I do think you have little to justifiably fear." Perhaps he was naive, but the assurance eased Grissom.

        "I look forward to sanctifying my sword, "he countered with sudden viciousness, a hand resting upon the pommel, "It's been too long since I have slain a man knowing that the deed will shine in God's eyes. Killing for King and country is like singing a tuneless song. But to save a man's soul by the sword... that is music."

        Robinson drew his books close to his hip, turning to trail Guildenstern. The hour was growing late and an aging man had no business in the damp air. His closing words were vague enough that they left the Commander uneasy.

        "I do hope Müllenkamp will provide you full accompaniment."

        Duane was quite asleep and his wife Leysa was quite glad.

        Red-skinned and glossy-faced with the remnants of mysterious burns, his uniform in shambles and half the hair sizzled from his head, Duane had come home not only wounded in body but in mind. He was forbidden from discussion of Church affairs outside the safe confines of Valnain's Cathedral, yet Leysa still was privy to nearly everything that went on in the ranks of the Crimson Blades. She knew of the magick and of the cults; she knew the tome Duane had been translating for weeks had ignited in his hands and nearly blinded him. She knew the Cardinal had healed him with his own elevated powers. Above all she knew, fiercely knew, that she did not approve of any of these goings-on. To think that book had lain in the sitting room these many weeks where either of her daughters might have investigated it and gotten themselves painfully--

        No. Leysa shook the idea from her head like a stray leaf. It wouldn't do to fret over something that mercifully had not happened. She prayed instead, and found some degree of solace after the deed. Duane was softly asleep in their bed and Leysa closed the door for him. Poor man. The Cardinal had healed his wounds, yes, but he hurt nevertheless and his expression still was disfigured. What was left of his beard would have to be shaved off so it might grow back evenly. And the front of his hair... well... perhaps he might wear a hat for a while.

        As for the guilt that was piercing his heart-- such a malady was not so easily remedied. Duane had said nothing to her of it, only answered in the Cardinal's words her question as to why the book had chosen to ignite in Batistum's hands and not his own. But Leysa had seen the doubts in his green eyes. He believed his faith had been faltering these past weeks. Nonsense, as far as she was concerned. If Cardinal Batistum was not Cardinal Batistum, Leysa imagined she might pay the man a visit and berate him severely for telling her too-sensitive husband such blasted lies. She didn't understand the fickleness of the ward upon the cultist tome, but Leysa knew without a doubt that its delayed effectiveness had naught to do with Duane's piety.

        Leysa was scrutinizing the soot-smeared tatters of a ruined uniform and wondering if it was even worth mending, when a familiar knock came upon the front door. A little girl's squeel followed the noise and Leysa hurried to let the visitor in. It was Grissom, of course, and little Sierra was held kicking and screaming under his right arm. "Found this, "the Commander greeted, then shifted his hold to the girl's dress and plopped her at her mother's feet. "I was under the impression they were forbidden from climbing that tree." Grissom jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards a crowd of dirty children and the gargantuan sycamore tree at their back. Its branches spread about a rather run-down old seamstress shop and were strangely bare considering the time of year. Probably because half the leaves were piled at its base, shaken off by children who thought it their calling in life to be monkeys. Sierra threw her uncle a dirty look, then paled when Leysa grabbed her braids. "Mamaaaa!" she wailed, "I felt so bad for 'Kaila! I know she wants to climb the tree wif us and she's stuck inside! I climbed for her!"

        "MIKAAAAILLAAA!!!"

        Grissom grinned as a nearby scuffle of feet and then a flash of blonde indicated an eight year old's swift retreat from the sitting room. By God, that girl could move. Leysa turned and noted her unwise withdrawal into the kitchen. Ah, a mistake. Cornered. "You stew in there, young Miss!" came Leysa's shout, "I will deal with you shortly. Honestly, now you have permanenly corrupted your little sister's morals. She'll be a criminal now, thanks to you!"

        Sierra gasped, and pulled futiley against her mother's hold upon her braids. "Jail?" she squeeked, but Leysa was in no mood to play along. Grissom winked her way and nodded gravely.

        "Climbing old women's trees is a highly punishable offence. They'll have you in shackles. Maybe a whipping in the square."

        "No!"

        "Aye! I've seen them! Scores of little girls whipped like pirates. Bald trees everywhere cheer of course."

        "Noo!"

        Leysa let her brother-in-law taste a little bit of her scowl. "Don't encourage her. There are enough maddeningly wicked influences in this house I wouldn't be surprised if she did grow up to be some sort of pirate. But do you see your Uncle Grissom, Sierra? See his fine uniform? He worked hard to be the man he is today."

        Sierra nodded vigously, which was really quite painful considering the braid-hold. "I'll be a man too, mama, I promise!"

        "NO." Leysa jerked her head a bit, elliciting a few whines. "You'll be a respectable young Lady. Who does NOT climb trees and terrorize our poor neighbour." Leysa looked to Grissom pleadingly. "The old woman's cats are turning white, she says. The neighbourhood children won't stay off her stoop or out out of her tree. They catch the cats and tie jars to their tails with live mice inside."

        "Clever!" Grissom interjected appreciately before he could stop himself. Sierra giggled madly.

        "White mice!" she added to further please her uncle, "The cats are jealous and turn white too!"

        "That's a scientific hypothesis, that is." Grissom smiled at Leysa, wishing she'd release the poor child's hair before both blonde braids came out by the roots. "You've a young prodigy on your hands, Leysa."

        "I would rather have a well-behaved little girl."

        "Pi--!"

        "NOT a pirate!" Sierra received a light slap on the bottom and was released from custody. She toddled immediately off to the kitchen, most likely to torment her terrified older sister. Grissom surely did admire her. She knew how best to play the part of younger sibling; take the benefit of being just as bad as you pleased, but blame everyone older than you for putting the ideas into your head. Oh, it had been a rare, rare occasion if Grissom had been young and received a beating without Duane's beating following close behind.

        Leysa smoothed a few chaotic strands of brown away from her frazzled face, then turned upon her brother-in-law with all the sudden grace and decorum of any proper hostess. Taking his arm, she led him further into the modest sitting room, a place Grissom had been quite the stranger to for a time longer than he'd liked. In fact, he'd been away for Valnain for a stretch of years, fighting battles few had expected to see him return from. Yet he had, and he'd come back from the King's service stronger than he'd gone into it. Perhaps a little disillusioned with the world, a little less naïve and blind in his zealotry, a little too eager to draw a sword to solve a problem-- but very alive and very respected. Still, he had lost touch with his brother and his new family during those years. He'd been back in Valnain for a month now and despite the occasional visits he'd paid during his time in service, Grissom still felt a little out-of-sorts in Leysa's company. Not so with his nieces- God, he would not see them for months at a time yet he was never difficult to pick up right where they left off. Children were much less complicated than adults. Much easier to communicate with. Leysa was a beautiful, caring, and exceptionally generous woman of good faith and understanding, yet Grissom never really knew what exactly to say to her. He sensed she suspected this. Most conversations were carried on following her lead.

        "I am glad you were not too exhausted after your first day to stop by, Grissom. I had hoped you would. Will you stay for supper?"

        "Ah, I am afraid I have to be at my lodgings soon to supervise the movers. I just came from the Cathedral and the quartermaster had an officer's rooms prepared for me yesterday."

        Leysa nodded, but Grissom knew he'd disappointed her. There was something wrong. "I do know you are eager to be out of those shoddy rooms. They are much too close to Ratteesser. I told Duane that when he let them for you, but he insisted they were extravegant enough for any pious man who had no real need for luxury. Luxury is beside the point, I say. You could have your throat cut in the night. But... I won't keep you from your brother. How was your first day? Did it go well?"

        "Very well, "the man answered, running a hand through his hair and glancing towards their closed bedroom door. A strange smell caught in his nostril and a heap of charred clothes near Leysa's sewing table nearly tripped him. "Is everything well, speaking of Duane? I looked for him at dinner but Tieger said he'd been wounded and sent home. Nothing serious, he assured. But what happened? The last I heard he was summoned by the Cardinal over a matter of books and translations. Vicious papercut?"

        Leysa made a soft disapproving noise in the back of her throat and followed the trail of the man's eyes towards the shut door. "I will let him answer your questions. I am sure he will tell you more than he told me."

        "Aye, but I cannot read him as you can. He could write me a book and I still would be ignorant; but all he has to do is speak a few words to you and you know all."

        "Why, Grissom, there is no need to woo me." She laughed and touched his cheek gratefully, "You talk sweeter than he does sometimes, and you are not even expected to pacify me. Do not dare tell me how wonderful my food was today. I may very well swoon."

        "Ah! That's right." Grissom had dined with Samantha this afternoon, beneath the coolness of the trees in the courtyard. The sun had been fierce but the pale paving stones, he'd discovered, were eternally cool and pleasant to sit upon. A glimpse into his memory at the silouhette of her delicate face against the sky and he felt his pulse race. "Your basket was delicious, "he answered Leysa, pulling himself home from the distraction. "A mite damp from the morning's rain but instantly enjoyable. Please though, there's a cook in the compound; I really should grow used to the fare there."

        "Hmph. A few meals as a Crimson Blade and you'll not be turning down my supper invitations or dinner baskets." Grissom smiled at her feigned ill-temper. At least, he thought it was feigned. Leysa could be quite sensitive sometimes. But then, such were women. "But I think I remember saying something about not keeping you from Duane. Go along now. I must find myself an unruly pirate and a birch switch. Do be kind to your brother though. He's not well."

        Nodding, Grissom let himself be dismissed, and he approached Duane's door as Leysa disappeared into the larder for her switch supply. He was not a little anxious, though he insisted he was more curious than concerned. For Duane to miss a single hour of duty he'd have to be either dead or close to it. Of course Tieger had been close to hysterical laughter this afternoon upon telling Grissom his brother's whereabouts. And Tieger did not quite seem the type to find the mortal injuring of a fellow officer amusing. Maybe.

        For whatever reason, Grissom was very quiet entering his brother's bedroom. He'd only been inside a few times these past years and upon seeing Duane's back turned to him atop the bed and the slow swells of his breaths rocking his frame in his sleep, he leisurely took in the interior.

        Duane made little money in God's service. He was not destitute by any means, but it was fortunate he believed dearly in simplicity for he could have afforded little else. The entire house was small, only a main room, two tiny bedrooms, a kitchen with larder, and a very small toilet which for a stretch the girls had refused to use because it seemed too conducive to monsters (luckily it had been in warm weather). Plain furniture, much of which had come from their father's house when he'd died, and a few things of Leysa's she'd kept from her dowry. The bedroom was certainly under her domain for these latter were scattered liberally about; the bed itself was spread in a fine crochetted afghan of white wool and similar white hangings adorned the twin windows. Two tiny inlaid tables, surely imports and mildly impressive ones at that, flanked the table with small baubles atop them. Roods protected both windows and bronze ones hung at the room's either end. A small woodcut of something didactic and banal was framed in cherry upon the wall. That would have to be Duane's contribution to the décor, Grissom decided upon inspecting it closer. It was too ugly. Ah, yes, an illustration of St. Iocus' martrydom, with blood added in separate red watercolour, something the printers always charged extra for. Grissom had to laugh, completely unsurprised at the sorts of things that could actually make his brother spend money. Still grinning, he stepped carefully about to Duane's half of the bed. The grin fell when he managed a good look at him.

        The worst of it had been healed by the Cardinal's skillful magick, but Grissom still saw burns. Duane's face was intensely red, lined, and raw. It was painful to look at. He'd had a wet rag over it apparently and when Grissom knelt blankly to retrieve it from the floor he saw the man's hands draped loosely before him on the bed, red as his face; healed, but scarred by thin, white lines running vertical from fingertips to wrists. The hair was singed completely from his arms, his bangs were no more, his eyebrows were gone, and his beard... oh, his poor beard.

        "Don't stare."

        "By the Saint, what happened to you?"

        With great discomfort, Duane's green eyes wearily opened. But he didn't seem inclined to move anything else. "Burnt."

        "I see that." Scooping the cool rag from the floorboards, Grissom handed it over and sat heavily at the foot of the bed, still very much staring. "You seem a tremendous radish."

        "You're a grand comfort and I thank God for you everyday." Even Duane's sarcasm was tired. His voice carried the worn throat and lazy tongue of a man who'd spoken too much in the past hours. His lengthy rant and consequent consolement by Leysa had taken much out of him. When he again didn't move, even after Grissom helpfully jostled the bed, the younger brother leaned closer in concern.

        "Will you die?"

        "Not today. Though I do think that it would be a relief if so. My face still feels as though 'tis burning. Ach, Gris." And Duane proceeded to tell exactly what had transpired in Cardinal Batistum's offices that morning, from his arrival and discovery of their lord's new assistant Lukas, to the news of the break-in at the library, to the roar of flames in his hair. Grissom's concern became utter confusion, doubling back occasionally to concern when Duane had to stop to catch his breath or hold onto his face. "Now I remain crippled and ridiculous looking and completely ignorant except to the fact that I nearly caused the Cardinal's death. Do you understand my folly, Grissom? Say that you do. Teaching you a lesson and preventing you from being such a fool as I might make it all a bit less unbearable."

        This was unlike Duane and Grissom's concern wasn't abating. "You are a fool, I will agree with that. Listen to yourself. You're whining like a child. Duane, your faith and devotion to the Blades surpasses even your devotion to your family. I'm not advocating that, I never have, but it is a simple fact. If you must sacrifice your time with them continually, at least in this situation you should realise you do that because of your good, strong faith. This had nothing to do with that."

        "Didn't it?" Painfully, the older man rolled onto his back and slowly sat up, holding both hands feebly before him so they would not graze anything and gall him. There were so many things he might tell Grissom to negate his brother's thoughtful assurance. But it would not do to have him questioning the Church when he had only just joined her high ranks. Duane had served as a priest since leaving school, but it was only since joining the Blade's forces and coming in such close contact with the leaders of his religion that he had been given reason to ever believe things were not as they seemed. It had nothing to do with the magicks. Learning that Iocus manipulated heretic lore had never bothered him beyond his initial discovery. On the contrary, it had made tremendous sense at the time, and he'd seen it as an ironic triumph for his creed. It was other things he'd witnessed in his time at the Cathedral-- other behaviours. Questionable actions. But Duane did not possess faith enough of his own right to judge those higher in status than himself, and so his observations lead only to doubt, never to resolution. None of the greatest prophets had ever questioned God. Neither had St. Iocus been questioned when He'd given His decrees and they had proved just, despite being like nothing to ever have come before. If His followers had heeded the dark tempations of their own doubts, the world would still be the chaos of the unenlightened era and they all would still be damned.

        Duane glanced to his brother and held his tongue. "I did negate my sin. Cardinal Batistum assured me of it. I act to redeem myself further in the morning. I am going into Ratteesser. He suspects strongly that the Master of Rogues was involved in the robbery and that an audience with him will answer a few questions."

        The other scowled like an affronted cat. "Sure I am how that must displease you. It means you must heal the worst remnants of your wounds so that you can function in your duties tomorrow. I know you would enjoy nothing better than to sit here in agony and thus find redemption through pain."

        "Stop scolding me."

        "Stop acting like a child. You must not give in to one unfortunate accident. 'Twas a fluke of poorly concieved cultist magick. Or rather... rather you are blinded by your loyalty as always and not seeing the truth of this. Surely it occurred to you that the Cardinal reads Kildean; of course he does. It comes as naturally to him as English to you or I. So why do you suppose he asked you to translate that book for him when it would be a simple task for him to sit down and READ whatever he wanted of it himself? You played the role of royal taster. An expendible disciple he used to test any guarding wards the book might possess. And even though the poison did not kill you first bite, second helpings nearly did you in."

        "Either way, "Duane answered quietly, not wanting to admit how true Grissom's analysis seemed, "I saved my liege from ambush. I am also yet alive, thank God, so I see not the point of your small tirade. Are you quite finished?"

        "You are not in the least bothered that he risked your life without either asking permission or giving notice?"

        "A Crimson Blade's foremost duty is to protect the life of his Cardinal. The Cardinal asked my willingness to perform that duty only once, Grissom: four years ago, when I vowed to serve him as a Commander." Duane said the words so devoutly, and with such absence of hesitation, that Grissom wasn't sure whether to be impressed or pitying.

        "It seems blasphemous to so underestimate the value of your life, God's greatest gift to you."

        "I thank Him daily for that gift. And sacrificing it to save the Cardinal would be its greatest use."

        "Shall I tell Leysa that?"

        "Oh, please don't. She'll guilt me."

        "And just guilt it would be. You are such a loyal dog."

        "Blow it out your ass."

        "Do you speak to your congregation in such colourful language."

        "I've not had a congregation in years." Playful venom was replaced by regret in Duane's voice. He did indeed miss his life as a preacher. He had so little opportunity now to exploit his pen. But that was an older woe, and stung much less than his new religious doubts. Gingerly passing the cool cloth over his face, Duane asked, "Have you heard aught of this---"

        Grissom's laughter interrupted him. "What is it?"

        "Ah, I'm sorry. I looked at you too hard." The younger brother chuckled for a few moments longer before the swift crack of a fist to the head silenced him.

        "Do I look that bloody awful?"

        "You look... different. You look different. Please, what were you going to ask?"

        "Nothing important, "Duane moped, still scowling. He dared to finger the crackling bits of beard on his chin, making a face as a few blackened strands dropped away, sprinkling the coverlet. It would have to be tended to later, after he'd healed what more he could of the remaining burns. He must have depleted much of the Cardinal's magick for the man not to have been able to fully heal everything. This thought brought the wounded priest some small degree of pleasure, though that was immediately soured by renewed guilt that he had troubled the Cardinal at all. Oh, if anything he deserved all the pain and scarring these burns would give. But if he was to be of any use as an interogator in Ratteesser tomorrow, he would have to heal himself. If that were not the case however, Duane would have let the burns heal in their natural progression, considering the pain just atonement for his mistakes. A dangerous personality trait was this, but persistant practice of it was actually one of Duane's small conceits.

        He glanced at Grissom suddenly, seeing for the first time how strange his brother himself looked. This morning he'd seemed nervous as a thief at the gallows, but now there was a sparkle in his eyes he'd not had since-- since before he'd joined the army. Duane missed some of the aspects of his brother that service for the State had beat out of him. Or perhaps that wasn't it at all. Duane wasn't sure if Grissom had been changed while away fighting, or if he'd simply grown up late and it had been missed. Either way, something of that old nostalgia smacked in the smile of Grissom's eyes and Duane smiled himself at it, pained though the expression was. "You seem jubilant. I assume the rest of today went well for you."

        "You could say that." Grissom leaned back on his hands. Duane watched his smile become a smirk.

        "Oh dear God, what is the matter?"

        Grissom beamed. "I am in love!"

        "Oh dear God, that is the WORST answer you could have given!" In a rather sickening rush, rather like falling from a horse, that morning's observance of Samantha and his brother smacked Duane in the stomach. "Please tell me you didn't do anything with that woman."

        "Do something with her?" Grissom echoed, disgust creeping into his tone, "In the Cathedral? Honestly, Duane... no, we simply engaged in very pleasant conversation and a day of honest toil beneath God's sun. But. We made plans to meet this Sunday. What's the matter? How could you not like her?"

        Duane made to rest his forehead in his hands and yelped in pain when fingers met flesh. Oh, he had no physical way to represent his distress and so he moaned. Grissom thought he was going to be ill. "I do like her. Very much. But she is Guildenstern's paramour! You cannot have her!"

        The other blinked. "...no."

        "Aye! She is! In fact I do dare say they're to be married one day! They have been together over a year now and Captain Guildenstern is as protective of her as a bear of its cub. I am amazed you managed time alone with her at all."

        The news struck Grissom with the ferocity of biblical revelation. Suddenly the odd glances Samantha and their Captain had exchanged that evening made horrifying sense. "They are fighting, "he surmised, remembering Guildenstern's cool, questioning gaze and Samantha's timid yet rebellious glare. Oh, the sparks had veritably crackled between them and he'd been too much the love-struck fool to even see. And perhaps he still was too much the love-struck fool for he insisted, "They are not together any longer. I don't understand what happened but there's a rift now. And I see no reason to let that stand in the way of my advances on the woman. She's beautiful, kind, and good. And above all else she is interested in me. I... I do not see why a former relationship with the Captain should weigh upon the matter at all."

        "Oh, you are a naive one, "Duane lamented. Heavy matters, heavy matters. He needed to pace. Forgetting his injuries, Duane rose from the bed, teetered for a moment, then won out over gravity and began steadily pacing the width of his small bedroom. "You cannot see her. Make some excuse to her."

        "Thank you very much but I shall see her. I shall see her often, if she'll have me. If the notion ever bloody strikes me, I shall marry her!"

        The urge to smack his younger brother again was almost instinct, but Duane refrained. He didn't want to beat him out of anything save the kindness of his heart however; try to make him understand exactly how dangerous it was to cross their Captain. Admittedly, Duane did not know Lady Samantha well. They were casual acquaintances at best, whose discussions never strayed beyond his home or her clothing that day (which Duane usually managed to subtley condemn). For a moment Duane thought this might simply be some spiteful act on the woman's part, some shallow effort to hurt Guildenstern, but how awful a thing for a religious woman to do? Didn't she realize the Captain's wrath? Surely she did. On more than one occasion Duane had seen her enter the training greens darkened with bruises. She should leave Guildenstern. She should leave him and never dare to look back. But dragging Grissom into this childish little game...

        Duane took a steadying breath and switched tacks. "Grissom, "he began reasonably, "Grissom. You are correct in thinking you should have a right to try your hand at Lady Samantha. You should. She is a free-minded young woman who should have reign over her own prospects, just as you should. But you are a Blade now. You must consider all actions in relation to your position. And romantic advances upon the lover of our Captain is... not a wise career move. They have fought before. But he always has her back in the end. You're nothing in this now but an interesting playing card to the woman. Do not let yourself be used."

        This was all good advice and somewhere deep inside his pride-ridden little brain, Grissom likely realised it as such. But Samantha had struck his fancy too hard today to be so easily let go. He watched Duane's bare feet pacing along the board floor, idly picking out his slight limp, then Grissom sighed and laid back upon the bed. "I do hate these hierarchical games."

        "I am unsure if there's a soul who actually enjoys them, "Duane paused, glancing towards the other man hopefully. "Will you take my advice then?"

        "I'll think on it. Now you... do you admit that 'twas not some daft lack of faith that gave you those burns?"

        Duane grunted noncommitally. "Saint or sinner, I yet live to save or sin again. I do wish I wasn't to go into Ratteesser tomorrow. The place stinks and I have never met this Mortechae fellow."

        "You keep those eyes in the back of your head open. More righteous men than you have met their ends in that place. As for Mortechae... I don't imagine many people have met him. I hear 'tis difficult at all to gain an audience. Likely you will be fed some excuse by a lackey and sent on your way."

        "No..." Duane mused, leaning against the bedpost, "No, I will not fail the good Cardinal again. I'll solve the mystery of this if it burns me bald."

        "Careful then, "Grissom answered, chuckling, "You are running short of hair. While you brave the perils of rogues and cutthroats tomorrow, it seems myself, Sir Tieger, and Lady Neesa shall be raiding a cultist facility."

        Duane regarded this news with great interest, brow clearing for the first time since he'd received his injuries in the Cardinal offices. "Bishop Robinson's connections have finally come through then?" he wondered, daring a small smile, "Wonderful news. But you will be careful tomorrow. I dare say there is naught more dangerous than a cornered cultist. By God, I do wish I was going with you..." Mother hen-like, he cast concerned eyes to his brother, imagining him facing off sword-to-sword with the enraged blasphemers of Müllenkamp. It was already extremely likely that they were planning something devious; they had probably been the culprits who'd hired a thief to procure that cultist history from the Cathedral library. Something was afoot and Duane wished Grissom was not about to be cast into the thick of it... "I cannot imagine what dark ploy Losstarot has up his proverbial sleeves, nor what use he would have for a book predicting events which have already transpired, but he's a smart bastard, that one. If you see him, Grissom-- frail chap, blond-headed and sporting two iron, clawed arms-- you stay away from him. Let Guildenstern or Neesa be bothered."

        Coolly, Grissom shook his head. He meant nothing by the response but to calm his brother down. He would not avoid any confrontation that could prove potentially flattering in their Captain's eyes. "I fail to see why anyone would fear a "frail, blonde-headed chap" but you are the superior officer, Duane."

        Duane had a marvellously cutting reply ready to launch but it was swallowed by a yelp as his bedroom door slammed into his nose. He reeled backwards into Grissom, hands hovering above his face but not daring to cup it as such an action would only cause mortal agony against his burns. Sierra stared at him a moment, crept inside from the sitting room and wondering why he was making such odd noises.

        "Poor papa's burns..." she lamented. Grissom shoved Duane off and blinked blankly.

        "You really should knock first, Si, "he advised before his brother started bellowing, "Why the fistfuls of worms?" She was indeed holding two hands full of squirming, dirt-covered earthworms. One struggled for liberation and thudded ecstatically onto the floor, wriggling its way beneath the bed before Duane could step on it.

        "For papa!" Sierra beamed, holding them up for display, "'Kaila's idea! He can use worms as eyebrows. He won't look so silly!"

        Worms and dirt all found the floor when Duane grabbed Sierra's braids (not too hard of course, but they were such a convenient handle for such a slipperly little girl), and steered her back out into the sitting room. "MIKAILAAA!! Do not INFECT your sister's brain with-- with--"

        "Worm stories, "Grissom offered, tailing them.

        Mikaila, who knew every possible hiding spot available in the tiny house, couldn't manage to find one fast enough. She smacked into Leysa coming in from the kitchen. Cornered. "I-- I did not go outside!"

        "Aye, I know. You send your minion outside to do your bidding."

        "I am not a minion!" Sierra protested, not liking the sound of that word. Sounded too much like onion, and she hated onions. "I'm a pirate!"

        "You're not a pirate!"

        "Papa, there is a worm on your toe!"

        Grissom sighed. "I'm leaving."

Notes:
This little story is weird in so many ways: It's a sequel to a much longer novel that's not even finished yet. It stars two characters so obscure that I can indifferently say this will probably be read by all of three people. I don't have any program with a spellchecker at the moment, and so the spelling mistakes are more horrendous than they usually are. I find it extremely cute. And ah, nobody died in the first chapter. That's just odd for me. But it's a mistake that is remedied in chapter two :)

Regardless, I love it, and I love the characters, and I do hope I get it finished. The entire story is planned and strangely well-mapped out; I don't usually do that. 4-5 chapters should cover it.

Next chapter: Ratteesser! Mortechae! Lukas! Betrayal! Gris sneaks some tongue! And the fate of Duane's facial hair teeters in the balance.

--GlassShard December '01