We are wrong. I have been wrong. The practice of Blood Baptisms are wrong. We are supposed to be silver, not steel. Sin should not be assumed, and instead we should seek to find forgiveness for people and not blood. Is that not closer to the High Father’s mercy?” -From the Compilations, Vessel Atilan Itterarkh, Entry III

  Four people. They must be mad to have thought that enough to stop her. Four black shawls lay upon the ground, smoke curdled up from their ruined bodies. Holes riddled their persons, and the light of bronze and silver slowly seemed to fade as the Strands fell out of existence. The Red Wraith smiled. All the power of creation at their fingertips, and they lost to the machination of a single mind. Holding her new weapon to her lips, she blew the smoke that billowed from its barrel, and holstered it to her side.

  There was a deafening silence that followed the loud bangs and screams that had mere moments prior ruled the room. It was as if sound had fled after witnessing the first deaths in a new age of weaponry. She kicked aside one of the bodies as she crossed the space, reveling in the crunch it made as the body flopped around. The ghostly chill seemed to vanish for a moment, then she saw the spirits rematerialize in front of her goal.

  They seemed to see her. How wonderful, now ghosts joined the ranks of wraiths in things that considered her worth seeing. She wondered if the inquisitors would leave their horrid stains upon the realm–if wrath at their destruction would draw back memories from the otherside to haunt this place. “You are the first person to hear my voice,” the Red Wraith spoke. Her words did not seem to come from her own mouth. She did not exist in the same way as people did anymore. Her voice was from the room itself, echoing all around.

  “How polite of you,” responded the voice from behind the door.

  “That does mean I cannot allow you to survive though.”

  There was silence. The Red Wraith waited. “You have surpassed expectations,” the voice said finally.

  “Expectations? Whatever do you mean by that?” She asked. She had all the time in the world, and already much of her fun had been denied by the Shepherd. What harm would be in toying with her victim. She knew this was he, Jehan Vren. The spirits were proof enough. She could not wait to see him die.

  “Your weapons are unexpected–” quite the understatement–”and your diligence in finding me is quite rapid. But, you have also proven yourself mortal.”

  “How is that, Jehan?”

  As the voice spoke from behind the door, she heard it waver. “Because you were led here.”

  The Red Wraith pulled her weapon from its holster and fired it. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, a bang, and a hole tore through the door. The spirits did nothing to stop it. They may be able to interact with the mortal realm, but they had limits. No ghost could interact with things they did not understand. The Wraith strode forward, stepping onto the chest of one of the fallen Inquisitors. She passed right through a spirit. It did not bother stopping her. She had struck its master and so would no longer care about her. Besides, she doubted it understood her either. She kicked upon the door, heard it crash against the back wall, and heard its creaking sound.

  There was no body to be found. There was a wound in the dwarven-carved tunnel, and a ghost hung in the center of the room, holding a letter. A mouth began to speak through it. “I hope you will heed the offer we extend towards you. And remember this Llorealin, you are mortal like the rest of us.”

  And the spirit that Jehan spoke through turned into a puddle of goo. There were a few ways ghosts could be freed of their existence. One of them was by completing a bargain with an Animancer. The Red Wraith–Llorealin–was very still. Her name, she had cast it aside. Llorealin was dead, all knew she was dead. How did they know? Slowly, her body like ice, she plucked the letter from the ectoplasm. Her hands were shaking. When did they last shake? For a moment, she could see her hands without them flickering away to the back of her vision. For a moment she existed.

  It could not be possible.

  They could not know.

  There was no Llorealin, there was only the Red Wraith.

  He had promised her that.

  Footsteps beat against stone behind her. Lights shone and voices sounded.

  Llorealin hid the letter in her pocket. The Red Wraith turned, and smiled as the first of the inquisitors burst through the door. She needed something to occupy her head.

  The church soon ran red with her vengeance.

  ***

  Fear seemed the proper emotion. Gwynfor turned away, and felt cowardly. She was not abandoning Lydia, she was going to save Willow. That was what she kept telling herself. Ahead of her–she had to ignore the howls and snarls behind her–she saw continued chaos. Few people seemed to see the werewolf, and fewer seemed to care.

  The damned were being freed. The Wyvern Guard were dangerous, but few compared to the stream of people rushing them, tearing at the shackles and tossing stones at the soldiers. They were fighting and killing, but could do only so much. Gwynfor forced herself to smile. They were winning, despite everything going on. The Salty Pelican still had people upon the gangplank, another line of soldiers had formed to protect it. There was the next line to be broken.

  Gwynfor was joined by a cluster of others. Most were mere protestors, swept along by the sudden battle. Vel was still with her, her own mask having been lost in the battle, a scar running down her cheek. Gwynfor felt comfort in seeing Vel’s eyes wide in terror as well. She was not much older than Gwynfor, in their mid twenties. At least she had a friend in this confusion. The mother was following as well, and Gwynfor heard her shouting, “TALIAH!”

  Caistlin seemed to shadow their group, following from afar. He made her feel uneasy, she still did not know his purpose. He smiled when she looked at him. He then pointed. “Is that your friend?” Gwynfor turned, a pit in her stomach as she followed the finger to the gangplank. Willow, face pale, was being prodded by a spear. Like a lost soul, he was crossing the threshold to the otherside. “No,” Gwynfor said. She could not lose another friend, not again.

  Then, something horrible alighted her ears. It was the sound of a child crying, and a mother screaming. Gwynfor glanced to her side. The mother was sprinting off from their group, screaming, “TALIAH!”

  A Wyvern Guard held the child thrown over his shoulder, as the kid kicked and screamed. The mother reached him, but was slapped aside by a heavy gauntlet. She gasped for air as she hit the ground, a horrible crack echoing out. Willow’s feet stepped onto the gangplank.

  What a horrible day.

  Iodal isn’t coming back. Malcolm’s words rang through her bones like the toll of a bell.

  Gone…

  The child was screaming, the mother was trying to crawl towards the retreating Wyvern Guard.

  Compelled by the sound of a mother’s anguish, Gwynfor turned away from Willow, tears in her eyes. She would save him, but she had to help the child first.

  ***

  Dylon was glad for his hired guards. Vericho and Gavin were expensive, but worth every penny. Each time one of those foul protestors neared them, they were dealt with quickly and without remorse. Every now and then, Dylon would blare his horn for a few more seconds. Stupid thing was far too much effort, but he knew it would bolster his troops. It was enchanted with Theatromancy from House Thespious, and would chill the bones of his enemies, and strengthen the resolve of his allies–supposedly. He was not sure he trusted the man he bought it from, but better to appear as if he were doing something rather than standing around.

  He frowned, staring at the werewolf. There would be questions about that. He hoped Judge had done his due diligence as promised and made sure they had no connection to Harold. He was hired help, nothing more. How were they to have known him a Blasphemer? Besides, Atilan was here, if anything, he should have sensed it with his holy whatever.

  He tapped his foot in impatience. Where was Caistlin? He had promised that he would provide Dylon with the next piece of the plan, but had disappeared before the battle even began. If he failed Dylon, he would rue the day he was born. Dylon could inflict pain and misery beyond what that mercenary could possibly imagine. No other torment he had lived would come close.

  Dylon clicked his tongue, as he saw more and more of the filthy peasants fleeing from the pavilion. Those cursed Red Wraiths had managed to kill or maim enough of his crossbowman to allow people to start escaping without being shot. Luckily, they had done their job to keep the protestors boxed in long enough to fight. He wished Judge would tell him the purpose of sparking a riot here, but noooo, he could not be trusted enough yet. Phooey, he would prove himself trustworthy enough to be involved in Judge’s greater machinations. The Orc of Thespious would soon see Dylon was a cut above the rest.

  Something clad in crimson was racing towards them. The Red Wraith’s mask had fallen away, and revealed an older man with grayed hairs and a rough looking face. Dylon recognized him as Malcolm, one of the ringleaders of their little group. Unlike Lydia, he had no political affiliations, no power of his own. Dylon smirked.

  “DYLON!” Malcolm bellowed, sword drawn, fury in his eyes. He must think himself a hero. “YOU MUST STOP THIS KILLING!”

  Dylon waved a hand. “Vericho, if you please.”

  Malcolm fell to the ground, an arrow stuck from his chest. There was a wide look to his eyes, his mouth askew, open. He died surprised. What a fool.

  Dylon returned to watching the battle. Really, what was the point of all this? What was Judge after?

  ***

  It appeared the werewolf did not care for theatrics. Before Atilan fully finished speaking, the thing was barrelling towards him, each footfall a thunder. The eyes of the Lusamyre were wild, barely human anymore.

  But there was still that sliver of cognizance remaining, the look of not a monster, but a man.

  That was all Atilan needed.

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  When it pounced towards him, Atilan did not run or step to the side, but went forth, ducking beneath its strike. He raised aloft the Unicorn’s horn, and touched the side to the exposed underbelly as the man flew overhead. It yelped in pain, the sound of a pup first experiencing pain. The ground seemed to cave under its weight as it landed, and smoke drifted through the air above Atilan, the horn growing hot in his hand. Unicorns were purifiers. Of all spirits, they were closest to the High Father, and their touch was anathama to the dark.

  The werewolf lumbered on the ground, taking its sweet time to rise. When it did, it bared its fangs in a snarl. The eyes now were completely yellow, like the gaze of the moon. Beside him, Atilan saw the flutter of crimson as Lydia joined him.

  “No killing,” Atilan said.

  Her glance was very pointed.

  “Everyone deserves the chance to atone,” Atilan said.

  Still nothing. He shook his head, whatever she thought, he would protect this man’s life and give him the chance Atilan once denied so many others.

  Finally, a growl gurgled deep in its throat, and the werewolf took a cautious pawstep forward. The ground cracked beneath it. It can’t possibly weigh that much. Oh, right. Atilan felt his feet lifting from the floor, not up this time, but drawn right towards the werewolf. The Lusamyre still had Gravimancy. And like the moon pulling the tides, so did the werewolf pull Atilan.

  An ordained silver Strand formed a wall upon which he could stand and glance down towards the wolf. What an odd perspective. Lydia raced downwards towards him, running along the ground which looked like a wall to Atilan. Silver, again and again formed footfalls as Atilan kept running. The wolf pounded against the ground as it followed him. Lydia slashed at it, but it intercepted the blow with a meaty forearm, ignoring the damage. With a wave of another arm, Atilan saw an unsuspecting protester picked up from the ground and thrown at Atilan. Silver; a wall of feathers broke their fall, and feathers fluttered to the floor. Atilan began to climb further out, forming longer and longer pillars. The werewolf was growling in annoyance at him.

  Why did things never go his way? “OVER HERE YOU DUMB ANIMAL!” Atilan shouted waving his arms, whilst the Lusamyre chased Lydia. She was doing a great job keeping her distance. Finally, the Gravimancer took heed of him again and leapt onto one of the stone pillars Atilan had made. It crawled across it, and moved more quickly than Atilan would have liked. He began to force the stone higher into the sky, growing it with more and more Mid-Strands. Still it climbed towards him. They climbed higher and higher, so that the mist left them, and only the glowing yellow of the Werewolf’s eyes, and Atilan’s own inner light colored them.

  “Whomever you are,” Atilan said, staring at the man. For that was what he was. No matter what else infected him, he was human after all. “There are no depths you cannot climb from. No deed you have wrought cannot be forgiven. Anger, hate, and vengeance can be healed my friend.” Atilan extended a hand. The wind whistled around them so high up. For a brief moment, the Lusamyre paused in its climb. Then it snarled, bearing fangs and leaping up at him.

  Atilan leapt and began to fall sideways, towards the east. A parachute appeared in his grasp. Then, the pillar he had made vanished in a single flash of bronze. The werewolf began to fall, yelping loudly. Atilan threw the horn at the Lusamyre, and it smote upon its flesh. It howled as it fell, the holy fire distracting it enough to forestall the instinct of magic to save itself.

  And gravity righted, and Atilan fell towards the ground, and alighted softly upon the cobbles.

  ***

  Gwynfor sprinted, and the wind seemed to follow her; eyes did as well. She saw Caistlin watching her. How he stood in the midst of utter pandemonium without a worry, Gwynfor did not understand. Why save her, why not act further? She threw that thought aside.

  She could feel her heart beat through to her hands, as she gripped the spear tightly. Forms, long unpracticed, began to drive her. She recalled Lydia’s teachings. The mother was trying to push herself up, trying to still fight. That was how you must do it. No matter how many times you get kicked down, you have to stand up. Gwynfor felt her side burning. Had that really been today? The child was crying on the man’s back, her little fists beating at armor so uncaring. He could have been a golem for all the emotion he abandoned.

  “NOT ANOTHER CHILD!” Gwynfor bellowed, as she sailed across the pavilion towards the man. He turned in surprise, and drew his blade. Her own spear turned his aside, but she felt herself pushed back. He was strong, and trained in battle. Gwynfor danced back, as the Wyvern Guard pressed the attack. Even with her spear, he had greater reach than her, but he had to focus on keeping the child in his grip. “LET HER GO!” Gwynfor demanded.

  “GIVE ME MY TALIAH!” The mother shouted, crawling to her hands, hair over her face. She looked like a banshee. Gwynfor scored a glancing blow across his armor, as he stepped back, his heavy boots thundering on the ground. A sword swept towards her, but she met the challenge. She pressed herself into the defence, and threw his blade aside, as she moved into a riposte. It struck him in the chest, but did little more than force him back.

  The child kept crying.

  He swung the blade, and Gwynfor felt it bite into her arm, blood falling like spittle to the ground, as she gritted teeth in pain. She ignored it, kicked at the man’s shin, then blocked the slash he sent her way. It rattled her body from the impact, and she barely managed to keep her stability.

  “You can’t have them, I will save them!” Gwynfor said, as she lunged forward. She meant to force him back, but he moved slowly and she struck him with all her weight. He began to fall, the child still held onto his back. She saw fear in the child’s eyes.

  And for the first time that entire night, Gwynfor saw mercy. As he fell, the Wyvern Guard let the child go, allowing her to leap to freedom before being crushed under his weight. He landed with a mighty crash as Gwynfor stumbled over him. He felt an iron grip tighten like a vice on her leg. The child began to run to her mother.

  “RUN!” Gwynfor screamed, as the Wyvern Guard stood to his feet, and pulled her closer. She twisted and kicked, and struggled. But he did not let go. The mother stood hesitating. Gwynfor stabbed at the man’s ankle, but his entire body was covered in iron. “RUN!” Gwynfor bellowed, and as the child leapt into her arms; the mother left.

  The Wyvern Guard stared her down, as Gwynfor grabbed another stone from her pouch and threw it at the man’s helmet. It struck and bounced off and he let go.

  “Vile elf,” he muttered under his breath as she scrambled to her feet.

  Ignoring him, she turned to run. She had to get to the boat, had to get to Willow. She would save him, she would save them all. She saw several of the protestors had reached the damned, had begun to cut them free. Still, others were on the ship. The gangplank had been pulled up. Dread curdled in her stomach. They couldn’t leave. She had to save Willow. Then something hard struck her in the back, and she fell.

  It hurt as she did, pains new and old flaring across her body. She covered her head, trying not to let the dizziness rule her as she struggled to her feet. Something hot covered her hands. She slowly rose, and saw a polished and perfectly round stone on the ground beside her, a small spatter of red painting it. Then everything fuzzed around her, and she felt herself falling. It was all too similar to when the Gravimancer had her. She struggled again to her feet. She saw the black shape of the Wyvern Guard like a mountain over her. She felt a hand wrap around her throat.

  “I wonder which it will be? The noose or the island for you leafer?” A voice growled in her ear.

  “Neither,” a voice familiar croaked.

  For a brief second, she was met once more with twin eyes of blue, and everything seemed clearer.

  I should sleep.

  Everything went black.

  ***

  Lydia screamed. Gwynfor fell. She should have trusted her gut, should have seen Caistlin as the scorpion. He stood over Gwynfor like a specter. Lydia ran as the cheetah, the very wind at her back, urging her on. Atilan was yelling for her, as he knelt beside the werewolf, reduced back to Lusamyre groaning on the ground. She ignored him and kept running.

  “UNHAND MY CHILD!” Lydia roared as the lion, her sword a step ahead of her, as she coursed for the Wyvern Guard. Caistlin lunged forward, rolling upon the ground, and dragging away Gwynfor’s unconscious body. He moved faster than one with his injuries should. Was he faking them? No, whatever ailed him was quite real, he merely was strong as the elephant for withstanding it. Why must the worst people be the ones who are most dangerous?

  Then, she saw why he had grabbed Gwynfor. Lydia faltered in her steps, seeing the knife at the girl’s throat. Lydia’s own constricted in fear. Not Gwyn, anyone but her. She had promised Allvan she would not allow his daughter to be hurt. Caistlin grimaced at her.

  “Sorry Lydia, did not want to do this to you,” why must he sound so truly sorry. She growled, wanted to leap at him and rend his throat. Instead, Lydia took a cautious step forward. He pressed the knife closer. “I will do what I must to get my way,” he croaked, his eyes winter cold.

  “What do you want for her?” Lydia asked. There was little she would not offer. Why had she let one so young join this fight? You were younger than she when you first fought. Lydia’s eyes widened.

  Caistlin stared at her. “It is her I need,” he said. “There is a task I am hired to do, and Gwynfor is necessary for me to complete it.”

  “No,” Lydia said, sweat falling over her hand. She gripped her sword tightly. “You will endanger her.”

  “No more than yourself. I give my word to keep her safe. The job should not be so dangerous as this protest.”

  “This is no protest, this is a riot,” another voice sneered. Lydia turned, and saw Dylon. He was of the rats, and would have looked at home amongst them. “Wyvern Guard,” he said, waving his hands at a few soldiers, “arrest her.”

  “WAIT!” Atilan shouted.

  Dylon’s lip curled back. “Stand aside Sir. Vessel, and be glad you are not arrested as well for interference. This elf is a traitor to the throne, incited a riot against Her Lady Dragon, and should be locked away, if not put to death.”

  “By my very name and spirit, I promise you Dylon, I shall not die until you draw your last breath,” Lydia promised.

  “And we can add threatening nobility to your list of crimes Lydia,” Dylon said.

  “You do not order me Dylon, my purpose is beyond even the Dragon’s,” Atilan said.

  Lydia realized things were too quiet. Not silent, still battle reined, but more than it should. She looked around, and her stomach fell. They were losing. There were too many Wyvern Guards, more had appeared, and she had missed it. She had been too distracted, too focused on Gwynfor and the werewolf. She had let the specific cloud the mission.

  “I am still Thane of the Five Flowers,” Lydia said, meeting Dylon’s eyes. “You can do nothing more than arrest me. I demand trial before Arrietty herself, but not before the matter of Gwynfor is settled.” A horrible solution, but one that would keep her safe, give her time to contact the other wraiths, time to coordinate their losses, and turn this defeat into victory. How had things turned so fast, why did they have so many of the Wyvern Guard in the city? She had thought there less than forty, and yet there had to be a hundred at least.

  Dylon seemed to contemplate her words for a long moment, relishing in forcing her to wait. But he had to bend to her will. Despite his birth, she was ranked higher, if only truly by technicality. For most, blood mattered more than title. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, you shall be imprisoned and left to await trial, kept until the matter of Gwynfor is settled. Arrest her.”

  Lydia kept still as the Wyvern Guards clasped cuffs around her hands. She breathed a sigh of relief as Caistlin lowered the dagger from Gwynfor’s throat. He gave her a nod as she began to be marched away. She glared at Dylon as she passed him by.

  He smirked, and with a horrid look of pleasure on his face, he whispered to her, “Oh, and your friend Malcolm is dead.”

  Never in her life had Lydia fought as hard as she did in that moment. Words, oaths, promises, all would have been broken. But her promise of chains bound her, and Dylon skipped away from her grasp, her vengeance, as she was dragged to await trial, head hung in sorry and failure.

  ***

  As Dylon pranced away, tailed by the furious looking Vessel, that utter murdering bastard, Caistlin allowed himself a smile. It fell away quickly. It was hard to smile anymore, that much movement of his lips began to burn. His muscles ached, screamed more accurately. Each movement brought regret to him, but standing still wasn’t much better. So he limped on, and was glad for his inability to smile. He looked towards where Lydia was being dragged away, her voice growing hoarse from the curses she spouted. Once, he had known only the very basics of galadin, but he had learned much in the last seven years. He suspected if Dylon knew a quarter of what she promised, he would not appear nearly as happy.

  Another soul lost to the constant turning of anger and vengeance, a thread tugged along it without remorse. So it always was. He marched along to its spinning himself, as he slowly limped along a road, away from the stench of blood. He wondered if he would ever get used to it. Eventually, he came to the little inn in which he stayed. He was surprised Dylon hadn’t sought him out. His own masters wanted to pull his strings first, Caistlin suspected. Dylon tried to hide those who danced him along, pretend he was more in control than reality proved. But Caistlin knew. Jehan made it clear. He opened the door to the inn, and climbed up the steps, grimacing with each. He would regret today when he woke tomorrow. This was but a taste of the stiffness, the aching.

  It would be nothing like the first day though.

  His little room lay near empty. Caistlin had few possessions to his name. He opened his suitcase, where he kept his motley assortment of clothing. Then, underneath that, he pressed open the hidden compartment. A journal was within. He tossed that aside, and opened the true secret. He grabbed out a small circle of pressed flowers. Clematis, chamomile, nasturtium, valerian, all encircling a magnolia. Separate from it, Caistlin held a black dahlia. He stared at it, holding it aloft to the window, where the light of the moon cut through the mist and shone upon it.

  Caistlin drew a tansy from his pocket and began to rip apart its leaves, letting them flutter to the floor. “Our battle has begun Judge. Let us see who stands alive at its end,” Kaladhen said.