A Life In Chains


Alana waited until all of the attendees had returned to the castle
before walking over to the grave. Her hearing was keener than that of
most people and though she had stood at a considerable distance, to
avoid catching the new Lord's attention, she had heard his words, that
so few had caught.

It would not have mattered how vile or unpleasant he might have been, of
course. The magic would not let her despise him. Still, though she knew
intellectually that she was incapable of exercising proper judgment
about the young man, she felt certain that his words were such as would
have touched her heart even without the magic the old Lord had laid upon
her.

Looking down on the old Lord's grave, she knelt by it and laid her hand
on the grave marker. A single tear glistened in her eye for a moment,
before dropping to land unnoticed upon the upturned earth.

"You did not have to bind me, you know," she said sadly. "My love for
you was true and it would never have failed. Even now I feel it, beneath
the disgust I cannot help but feel for one who would do what you have
done. Still, I know and understand why you behaved as you did, I think.
I understand, though I cannot forgive."

With that she rose and the magic of her garments was such that her dress
bore no sign from the grass and dirt against which it had been pressed.
She returned to the castle but she held to the lower corridors and took
the most direct route, cutting across the thinnest edge to pass through
the concubines' halls and into the inner courtyards.

She paused beneath an archway overlooking the living heart of the
castle, examining the gardens with a keen eye. Finding no sign of the
young Lord, she passed into the garden and made her way by the quickest
paths to the lonely tower that stood apart from the surrounding walls.

Unlike most of the rest of the castle, no servants walked its halls or
stairs. Its cleanliness and maintenance were the work of a number of
unseen servants, invisible spirits bound by the Lord Fey's magic to do
his bidding. To its doors, therefore, none but herself and the Lord Fey
held the key, though the key was no physical object.

The doors were enspelled, as was nearly everything within the tower, to
respond to the commands of herself and the Lord Fey. Many were the
spells that behaved thusly, for it took great effort for the Lord Fey to
craft a spell that was unaffected by the chains that bound them together
and since the entire point of the chains was to ensure that he could
trust her.

As she walked through the doors, which opened obediently at her gesture
and closed themselves behind her, she reflected on that aspect of her
Lord's character. It was not, as some might have suspected, that he was
incapable of trust. Indeed, he trusted both Krall and Torhm, without the
need of any geas or force.

That was not to say that he trusted them completely. He had known and
had revealed to her that Krall was ever seeking an opportunity to kill
him and take what was his. This had not bothered him nor had it lessened
the trust he had placed in the bestial man.

If anything, it was the very fact that he knew exactly the circumstances
wherein Krall and Torhm could not be trusted, that allowed him to trust
them. For they were both motivated by forces Fey could readily
understand. Krall was powered by greed, desire, and lust, while Torhm
burned with a desire for vengeance.

It was Alana alone whom he could not bring himself to trust, for as
completely as he understood the darker motives, so wholly did he fail to
understand the power of love. Though he himself had loved Alana, a truth
that Alana had never doubted, he had never understood it nor had he ever
comprehended why he loved her, nor yet why she loved him. So in fear and
doubt he had bound her to him, poisoning a love that could have and
would have lasted as long as they lived and longer.

Alana absently brushed tears from her cheeks as she mounted the first
step of the stairs and waited. A soft pressure touched on her arms and
shoulders and she was lifted and borne swiftly upwards. At one landing
after another her flight paused briefly and then, in the absence of a
gesture from her, continued its rapid upward progress.

Finally she was set down at the landing of the uppermost chamber in the
tower. The door opened at her approach and she entered once more her
Lord's scrying chamber. Even in the days before she had met Fey, she had
been a strong wielder of magic, though by no means the greatest in her
field. Her art had been strongly bound to combat, however, used for her
own defense, and bearing little resemblance to the normal focus of human
mages.

Under the Lord Fey, whose trust in her, after her binding, had been
absolute, she had learned far more subtle magicks, and though certain
realms of the art were still closed to her, such as the reshaping of her
own form, by virtue of the chains that bound her, yet in others she had
skill now to surpass those of the Mage Tower of Farallon. In scrying, in
the viewing of scenes at great distances, even in the face of magical
defenses, had she advanced the most, for when her Lord went to war, she
remained behind and from this tower she lay bare the fields of war
before him. Through the strongest wards of confusion, through the
densest mists of misdirection thrown up by the deftest of mages, her
skills had pierced, revealing to her watchful eye the movement and
intentions of the enemy.

The doors swung silently shut behind her and she gazed for several
minutes at the room about her. It had been some time since she had been
here. Not since the days of war years ago, before her Lord had focused
his attention on his rival, Arkus, had she come to this room alone.

The room had an entirely different feel when she was alone. Surrounded
by devices for seeing, she felt safe, free from any eyes. When she was
alone here, there were none to judge her actions, none to say that what
she did was or was not appropriate for a Lady. Though some mages might
be vulnerable to some form of scrying while they themselves sought sight
afar, the Lord Fey was not so careless. The wards and spells that
protected this room were marvelous in power and skill. Not the slightest
of barriers did they pose to the outward roving eye, yet no power of
sight would suffice to pierce from without the veil that lay about the
room.

On one wall of the room stood an ornate glass mirror, backed not with
silver but with mithril, set in an amber frame of electrum-plated steel.
Its powers were manifold. Scrying spells that called for a mirror would
find few better than this one, yet it held dweomers and power of its own. 

Without the expenditure of any magic or art by its wielder, it could be
commanded to display the reflection of any unprotected mirror within a
certain range. In concert with certain other scrying spells, the same
ability could be extended to center about a far distant point.

By special virtue of the mirror's unusual backing, it could display the
view from any shield of polished steel or burnished gold or silver
plating.

It could be commanded to show the location of any individual who had
previously been sighted within its reflection, if they were not shielded
against such scrying and were within its remarkably extensive range.

Yet it was not without its limitations. Viewing through the surfaces of
mirrors, while useful, was restricted to the single viewing plane of the
distant mirror. Ought that happened outside the mirror's view would pass
unseen. The mirror did not grant any knowledge other than sight. No
scent, nor feel, nor sound of what was seen did it ever reveal. Even
when viewing one that had viewed it previously it was subject to severe
limitations. Having obtained a view of such an individual, it was not
then possible to turn the view to look upon his surroundings or
companions, nor even to see him from behind if the mirror had naught
seen him thus before.

Nor yet could the mirror show aught that had happened in the past nor
any scene that had not come to pass. In the darkness it showed darkness
and a simple shroud across a mirror was enough to blunt its sight. Of
things or creatures without reflection, even a simple invisibility
spell, it would show nothing.

To the right of the mirror stood a pedestal wrought of black iron,
cunningly fashioned into the likeness of a stump about which twined
blooming rose vines. On the supporting arcs of black vines rested a
large electrum plated basin. Unlike the mirror, the basin bore no great
magic of its own, though all about it magic lay.

A window was set into the wall directly behind the basin, and it was
closed by metal shutters of hammered mithril over cast steel, moulded
in the likeness of a lattice-work window with climbing roses, and the
frame of the window was of the same amber electrum as the mirror's
frame. The basin was forward enough that one might easily step behind
it and look out the window, whose shutters opened outward.

The window was powerful in its own right, for though the view through it
never changed, showing always the castle beyond and the walls further
still, yet any time it might show, that had already gone by. Not solely
for looking into the past was it, for so limited was such a power that
it was nearly without use. Rather its worth was in its location, for
through such a mirror could one obtain moonlight, starlight, the glare
of lightning flashes, or bright sunlight, to fall upon the liquid-filled
basin in accordance with a spell's need. Even those rare and powerful
spells that demanded the light of an eclipse, a blue or blood moon, or
even that of a falling star or the passing of a particular portent in
the sky were made possible, if only the time of their passing through
the window's view were known or discoverable.

Further right a small table rested against the wall and on it were
placed a number of ornate ewers. These were everfull containers and
never would they run dry. They served to fill the basin, which was as a
rule left empty. The ewers contained a variety of liquids useful for
different forms of scrying, from purest water to foulest blood. 

Scrying through liquid was not the easiest means, for liquid was never
wholly still and was often not completely pure, but it could be
performed under far harsher conditions than most. In a stygian cavern or
the virgin forest, a few minutes scrabbling at the ground and a few
ounces of water from a canteen would provide a medium.

It was not solely for clairvoyance under harsh conditions. While
challenging to truly master, a magic-user strong enough to control
harder liquids than water could do much that was hard or impossible
through other means. Blood from a living being dripped into the pool,
whether of the caster, or more commonly, though never had Alana done so,
the blood of a slave, allowed the scryer to wield the life-force tied to
the blood against the defenses of the target.

Scrying through the blood of a powerful creature, though difficult to
master and draining to perform, could pass barriers that would hold
against any other assault. Scrying through the blood of a demon,
though it bore the risk of demonic possession if the wielder faltered,
could look beyond the world-veil to other worlds and to the realms of
demons and gods.

Scrying through any liquid, while in some ways affected by the liquid,
was also freer than clairvoyance through mirrors. Two scrying basins
filled with water could be linked for a time as a means of
communication. Sufficient strength of will or skill at spell-weaving
could draw sound and even scent forth from the liquid.

More importantly, once a vision had been obtained, force of will could
alter the viewpoint, allowing a scene to be examined from many
perspectives.

The right fluid combined with the right spells could even call up scenes
of past, present, and possible futures, or show scenes without guidance,
drawn to them by their connection and relevance to the scryer. Such
techniques, while often confusing, could be used to clarify the source
of vague unease or sourceless fear, when one knew not what question to
ask or answer to seek.

A second pedastal stood to the right of the table, again set a short
distance from the wall. This pedestal was of cunningly carved wood. At
the base it resembled the stump of a tree, as thick as a man's leg,
trailing roots out that seemed to dive into the floor as if it were soft
loam. The stump rose and changed and by the time the top was reached it
had taken the form of a scaled arm and ended in a clawed hand. That hand
gripped tightly upon a sphere a half foot in diameter.

The sphere was dark, like a huge polished marble, with thin veins of
lighter grey and silver running through it. Though in outward form it
resembled the sort of so-called 'crystal balls' used in tales, its
purpose was quite different. It did not display visions of the future
nor of fate or destiny, nor act as a focus for the oft-claimed gift of
'Sight.'

It was in fact a very powerful artifact, though it did little enough
directly. Its purpose and use was two-fold. First, it served as a
catalyst for initiating an out-of-body experience. Essentially, it
jolted one's soul out of the body, while minimizing the potential
aftereffects, protecting the body from coming to harm without its soul,
and providing both guide and protection to the freed soul. Its second
function was to act as a well of energy that the soul could use, no
matter the distance, for attack and defense.

Extremely dangerous to the uninitiated or unknowledgable, in the hands
of a skilled user, it took a variety of spells for astral, ethereal, or
spiritual travel that were inherently hazardous and risky to use and
made them as relatively safe as the more normal forms of scrying.

The last major artifact in the room was the seat. A high-backed chair of
a rich deep red mahogany, it was uncarven but bore rich cushions on the
seat and back, and its arms and legs and back, while unadorned, curved
in graceful arcs that kept it from looking austere. In overall richness
it would not be amiss as a throne in the room of a great Lord newly come
to power, one who had taken all for himself, rather than had it handed
to him, rich but not decadent, admiring strength first and beauty
second.

Its power, of all in the room, was perhaps the greatest. The
thickest-witted numb-skull could sit upon that chair and see visions of
things far off. For one with skill it could be controlled and would show
whatever the wielder desired, if they could master their hidden desires
and wants strongly enough to focus on what they consciously needed to
see. If one had a truly strong will it would even become possible to see
the thoughts and wrestle with the minds of others even at great
distances.

Its chief virtue, however, lay not in its own abilities, but in its
capacity to apply its power to any other means of vision. In the hands
of one both skilled, powerful, and strong of will, it could bind all the
artifacts in the room together, overriding the deficiencies of one with
the strengths of another.

The chair stood in the middle of the room. One item more there was in
the room as well, a large set of shelves on which many smaller items
lay. Of these Alana knew far less, for they were more esoteric tools,
minor things with limited powers and applicability. Two only of their
number had she used before. Five rolls of parchment were among the items
on the shelves and two of those she knew the properties of. Both were
like unto the ewers, in that no matter how much one used, you could not
get to the end of the roll.

She did not want to think of what the parchment might be made of. One
of the two, when unrolled, cut, placed on a flat surface, and then
touched by a mage actively scrying, would develop on its surface
markings and lines describing what was seen as a master scout would
record it. The other behaved similarly, but marked out the land as by
the hand of an expert cartographer. The fact that the removal of the
hand of the scryer occasioned the placement of a final mark, a maker's
mark, upon the parchment led Alana to believe that each embodied the
knowledge and skill of a living man, though it disturbed her to wonder
whether those men still lived or if they had given their lives to these
items.

She knew of them, of course, because of their dual utility in waging
campaigns of war, and so she had valid reason to assume, as she did,
that the rest of the shelves' contents were such as would not be useful
in war.

That was a source of mild disappointment to her, for though she had no
desire to steal a man's knowledge and skill in that manner, still there
had been many times when scrying when she would have loved to have had
an artist's skill to render what she saw.

Turning her mind from curiousity, knowing that she would know have the
opportunity to find the answers to her questions, but that such
questions must wait, for time was swiftly running and even now she
might be too late, she began to prepare.

At the table of liquids, she lifted an urn that glowed at her touch and
from it she poured, steaming as if fresh from a new wound, heated by
the immense body from which it had come, the blood of an elder dragon,
not quite filling the bowl. Returning the ewer she took up another,
pouring from it a silvery liquid that disappeared beneath the blood.
Swirls of silver rose through the dark liquid as she returned the ewer
to the table. Taking up a silver stirring stick, one of several
different varieties in a container amidst the ewers, she mixed the two
liquids together until the whole had taken on a reflective sheen.

Lifting out the stirring stick she murmured soft words. All of the
moist residue rushed down the stick and dripped into the pool, leaving
the stick as dry as if it had not been used at all. Twisting the handle
caused a tiny needle to slip forward from its housing in the stick.
With it, she pricked her finger and squeezed out four drops of blood
into the pool of liquid.

A second twist drew back the needle. Setting the silver stick back in
the container, she stepped to the window and placed her palm upon an
open rose, closing her eyes. After a moment she gave a soft push and
both shutters swung smoothly out, allowing the pale blue gleam of
moonlight filtered through thin clouds to enter the room, falling upon
the pool of reflective liquid. Though the moon was not directly present
in the light that fell upon the pool, an image of it formed there, full
and round and undimmed by clouds.

Nodding in satisfaction, Alana turned and walked to the chair. Holding
her skirts in one hand, she sat on it, and immediately she brought her
will to bear on it, holding it back from offering uncontrolled visions.

Her head dropped slightly and the distance between the seat and the
basin seemed to vanish in an instant, leaving her looking into the
waters. Inwardly, she crossed her fingers. If Mairi's description was
incorrect and the wards on the door to Fey's summoning chamber had not
been damaged by the child's escape through it she would soon be
involved in an intense struggle that could quite possibly threaten her
life.

She took several long slow breaths then narrowed her eyes. The pool
swirled and then stilled. A veil was drawn back and she saw herself,
sitting in her chair. With blatant disregard for walls and other such
obstacles, her viewpoint turned and passed through the outer wall of
the tower, dropping quickly to the level of Fey's chambers. Past his
balconies and into his inner chambers it rushed, and thence to the
inner halls.

Through the halls then, with dizzying speed that yet had no effect on
the watching eyes, it whirled, up a flight of stone, to still before
the view of a metal door. Her composure cracked as she stared aghast at
the hole literally burrowed through the six inch thick door. With that
sudden laxity of control the vision escape her bonds and the door
appeared suddenly whole.

It glowed brilliantly, the runes on it flaring into prominence before
one by one dying into dim blackness made all the more deep by the former
brilliance. When all were dark again there came a flash of color and
light and then daylight pouring through an opening onto the crouched
figure of a small boy, resting on hands and feet for a moment before
scampering down the stairs.

So startling and unexpected was this vision that Alana did not
immediately move to take back control. After a moment the door
disappeared and she was watching a man wearing glasses and a bandanna
on his head tying her new Lord up with strands of sausages on strings.
Binding him tightly, the man lifted him up and carried him over to a
flat expanse of wood lying on the ground. In it was set a door and this
the man opened, throwing the boy inside. Her viewpoint rushed after
him, through the door as the light from it was shut off again. In the
darkness she heard the pitiful mewling of numerous cats. She had just
time enough to gasp in startled horror when the screaming began.

Crying out, she thrust the vision away, forcibly reasserting her
control, though tears leaked from her eyes. Again the door appeared
before her gaze, closed but pierced. Through the opening her viewpoint
entered the room and nothing resisted her passage. The first thing to
catch her eye was the expanse of dark, dried blood on the floor where
her erstwhile love had poured out his life.

Turning her gaze aside she reached into the pool in the basin, drawing
on the nature of the liquid to deepen her sight. At first she feared
she was too late but then she found it, a pair of traces. One was near
at hand and came from a smaller circle chalked on the floor. The other
bore the marks of great power and it was the one she chose to follow.

Her blood thrummed with tension and the dark sphere to the basin's
right flared suddenly, light spearing forth from the threads of white
that curled and traced about its surface as it jolted her consciousness
from her body, allowing her to travel. She sped along the silvery
ethereal thread, across the dimensions, into an open field. There was
nothing there to excite her interest nor to explain why Lord Fey had
sought here for his summoning. Nonetheless she drew parchment and an
everfull quill to her ethereal hand, invoking the spell that would use
her hands as a medium to record the arcane details of this dimension's
existence, that she might find it again even after the traces of the
summoning vanished.

She set them aside when the spell completed and once more focused her
will through the pool of liquid resting in the basin. Drawing on its
abilities she shifted her sight until she could see the residual life
energy within the clearing.

She was immediately reassured when there were only two human traces
still detectable. That would make things easier, if the second belonged
to whom she expected. She examined them closely and as she anticipated,
the boy's trace was readily identifiable. He had apparently already been
in the feral state when summoned and his life energy traces still showed
the signs of that wild and untamed spirit.

The other quickly sent a shudder through her. Being more recent it was
easier to read. Whoever had left it was an individual without much
self-control, largely ruled by his appetites. His trace stank of fear,
which confused her, and anger, which she had presumed would be present
and by which she was therefore unsurprised.

Focusing on this unpleasant thread, she found the strongest, and
therefore presumably most recent, trace leaving the clearing and followed
it as fast as she could. As she traveled she opened her ethereal senses
wide, casting about for an aura with the same feel. She found it sooner
than she expected and veered off towards it, abandoning the trace.

She found the man, whom she recognized from the vision as the one who had
inflicted the cat training on the boy, and felt a strong surge of
dislike. She ruthlessly suppressed the emotion. It was, after all,
possible that the boy's father had merely put his training in the hands
of another. She had to be sure of this man first.

A quick spell opened the man's mind to her eye. Given the repetitive and
obsessive pattern of the uncouth individual's thought, she soon verified
that he was the boy's father. To her dismay, she also learned of a
pledge of honor that would take her new lord's life if he were returned
to his mother as anything less than a 'man among men.'

When she first set herself the task of finding the child's home plane,
she had considered the possibility of bringing his parent or parents
back across the divide to raise him; though of course, they would have
to be carefully monitored to ensure he was properly raised and trained
for his eventual role. Now, looking into the mind of this man, she felt
not the least desire to return with him.

Insinuating a thought as an apparent aside into the man's limited mind,
she successfully obtained the mother's location and the feel of her
aura. That was odd indeed, that someone so apparently lacking in control
as this oaf of a father, could have sufficient strength of will to learn to
master his own aura enough to read the auras of others.

Turning from the puzzling character she threw herself across the island
chain until she found the aura she sought. The woman she found was
sitting on her feet, knees beneath her, drinking tea, and staring
blankly at a shrine. A quick dip in her mind confirmed the father's
thought. The seppuku pact was real and she had dreams, nightmares,
perhaps, of carrying out her part. She would surely not dream of such if
she had no intention of ever holding her son to the pact.

Stifling the disgust and anger she felt, Alana focused her will through
the stone as she drew herself back to the summoning chamber. She was
there now in more strength than when first she had looked upon it, here
truly in spirit and not merely in vision, and so she could cast spells
directly against the room.

She bound it once more, returning life and strength to protect the room
from other's scrying, lest someone duplicate her feat, then she allowed
her consciousness to return to her body.

---

Mairi led her youthful Lord back into the castle, though she noted that
he had, after walking away from the cemetary with her, cast a longing
gaze out over the castle's orchards to the far wall and the forest
beyond.

He had not protested their re-entry into the castle, however, following
her without comment. He seemed lost in thought and his expression was
remorseful. She led him back up the stairs to the midlevel.

"I'll show you now, Master, how to reach your chambers again, since I
did not speak of the way this morning, nor, I think, were you in a mood
to pay attention to it."

"Alright," he said, brightening as he put the scene outside behind him.
Again she led him, telling him about the halls they passed through to
help differentiate them.

They passed into a hall that bordered the inner courtyard and he ran
ahead. She smiled gladly, seeing for the first time behavior that
seemed appropriate for a boy of his age, as he ran down the hall to the
first of the windows and heaved himself up to hang on the sill, looking
out into the courtyard below.

The embrasures were not as deep around the inner courtyard, so though
his black haired head barely rose above the sill, he was able to see
most of the courtyard and the inner gardens.

Coming up behind him she grasped his waist and lifted him to stand on
the embrasure, circling his waist with her arm to make sure he did not
fall, though he would still have had to take a goodly step forward to
manage it.

He saw a number of women moving about the gardens, smelling flowers, or
dangling their feet in a bubbling fountain, or talking in pairs, but he
saw no men. For a moment he wondered if there were no men in the castle
at all, then he remembered the guards he had seen when he first came
off the stairs.

He turned about and Mairi lifted him down and they resumed their walk.
When they came finally to his rooms and the doors opened before him, he
darted in and looked around. "Hey," he cried out, "who opened the doors?"

"No-one," laughed Mairi, "they opened because you approached them."

He grinned. "Cool," he said. He had never been in a house with doors
like that, though he vaguely remembered seeing some in a city once.
Most of their time had been spent in the countryside or in small towns,
so automatic doors had not been that common.

"So, is this my room?" he asked, looking around. It seemed vaguely
familiar and it was larger than most of the rooms he had slept in,
though it was not where he had remembered waking up that morning. Of
course, that was probably her room. It looked nice enough.

"Where are the futons?"

She laughed again. "This is your parlor, Master," she said. Stepping
past him, she opened the inner doors. "Here is your sleeping chamber."

He darted in and stopped, gaping. This was the room he remembered
but... "This is my room?" he asked, turning to her, eyes wide with
wonder. She nodded, grinning at his expression of wide-mouthed
amazement. "You... you mean... I get a bed? A real bed?"

When she nodded he whooped and running forward, took a flying leap to
land on the bed, bouncing. She giggled and then composed herself as he
rolled over and sat up, looking at her. He pointed at a door across
from the door that led into the tiled room that he had assumed was a
bath. "What's in there? Is that your room?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, still smiling. She walked over and
opened the door and he bounded past her, looking about. He stopped in
the middle of the room and turned slowly, rotating on one heel as he
stared up.

"I never seen so many books!" he exclaimed. 

"This is your library and study," she said, wondering for a moment
whether Alana had already procured a tutor for him.

"Mine? You mean, I get a bath, and a bed, and all this?"

"He seems almost as surprised and happy as I was when I was chosen by
Fey," Mairi mused, feeling a pang of sadness for his departure. It was
quickly driven off by the sunshine of the boy's smile as he took in the
idea that all of this luxury was his. It might not be for long, though,
he knew, so he would have to enjoy it while he could.

"Where's that go?" he queried excitedly, pointing to a pair of double
hinged doors on one wall. He bounded over, glancing back to check for
censure, then pulled them open, letting in a flood of sunshine. He
stepped out and cried aloud in delight. He was on a balcony above the
gardens.

The balcony ran both to the left and the right. He darted out to the
railing, a heavy carved balustrade of rich marble, and stared down at
the garden. Several of the women below looked up and smiled at him and
waved and he waved back excitedly.

Mairi walked out into the sunshine and waved her own greeting at her
new companions, smiling to see that the shadow of recent events had
wholly left the boy. He had lost all hint of seriousness and was
looking about with an enthusiastic wonder that seemed far more
appropriate for the eyes of a child.

She wondered briefly which mood was more characteristic of him then let
the thought go. She would find out in due course. She followed him at a
more leisurely pace as he pelted to the left down the balcony to the
garden stairs. He glanced at her for permission and she nodded. Her
heart leapt into her throat and she ran for the stairs when instead of
racing down the stairs as she had expected, he leapt onto the bannister
and slid whooping down it. He planted his hands neatly on the polished
sphere at the end, flipping smoothly over and landing lightly on his
feet.

She hurried down the steps, berating herself for letting him take such a
chance. He was still looking about in curiousity when she reached the
bottom, and he squirmed in surprise when she smothered him in a hug,
meant more for her own reassurance than his.

He wriggled out of her grasp but the grin he cast her way was happy as
he trotted off into the garden. She sighed and followed. A quiet comment
overheard as she passed turned her attention to her left where the Tower
stood. She turned from following her charge, knowing that the gardens
were full of women, and that all were practiced in watching out for the
children who played therein. She would take this opportunity to speak to
her Lady. She could see her walking slowly away from the Tower door.

Mairi moved quickly, wanting to warn her Lady that their Lord was about,
since she had expressed her intention to avoid his sight, and be well
away from her again before the child began to wonder where she was.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the Lady Alana noticed her approach
and turned to greet her. "Mairi, where is your charge?"

Mairi could not help smiling at the thought of her Lord's exuberance.
"He is exploring the gardens, Milady. I came as soon as I saw you, to
warn you. I showed him the way to his chambers," she continued, as she
fell into step beside her Lady, "his reaction confirms that he is unused
to privilege. He thought his parlor was his room, and seemed quite
pleased. He was amazed, I think, when he learned that he was to have a
bed of his own."

Alana nodded. "Yes, that fits," she said vaguely, seeming to look past
the garden about them, her eyes seeing something not visible to Mairi.
She sighed, shaking her head and looking down, then raising her head and
meeting Mairi's eye. "I have given this matter further consideration,"
she said, her bearing regal once more, "bring our Lord to the Fifth hall
to dine with me. I must obtain his seal. If he has not been raised to
privilege, then we must have a Regency until he is trained."

Mairi bowed. "As you wish, Milady."

---

Several hours later, Ranma followed Mairi into a large hall. He paused
for a moment at the entrance, just staring at the size of the room. It
was larger by several times than most of the dojos he had trained at.
There were a number of long tables lined with benches with padded seats
and backs. Light spilled across the tables in long lines from high thin
windows that pierced one wall. There were windows on the facing wall as
well, though they were dark. As his gaze followed the light to the
walls, he noted tall tapestries hung between the windows, though he was
too far away to see for certain what they depicted.

His gaze tracked up the walls to the ceiling. Massive chandeliers hung
overhead, heavy wooden affairs that looked somewhat like wagon wheels.
No light came from them and as he looked at them, hanging upon heavy
chains that descended from the massive wooden beams that braced the
ceiling, he wondered how they could possibly be lit. He followed the
line of chains to where they met the wall but saw no sign of how they
could be lowered or raised. It was as if they were present solely for
appearances and yet, why would anyone put in these bulky wooden
chandeliers for appearances? They certainly were not pleasant to look
upon, nor did they catch the eye, tending to blend in with the darkened
ceiling and wooden beams.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked at his guide with a start. He
blushed, realizing that he had been staring. He shook himself and
gestured for her to lead on. As he followed her, he looked ahead to see
where they were heading and was surprised to see a raised dais at the
end of the hall, on which sat a large round table. To the right of the
largest seat a woman sat and as they approached, Ranma focused his
attention on her.

She was richly clothed; to Ranma it looked like she was wearing several
layers of clothing, all embroidered and colorful. Her hair was a rich
black that glinted, reflecting the beams of sunlight and setting off the
remarkable whiteness of her skin, making her look to him like the
porcelain dolls he had seen on display in the home of one of the masters
under whom he had learned. He noticed several scrolls on the table near
her and smirked to himself, thinking of his father's usual reaction
whenever scrolls where mentioned or seen.

She rose gracefully from her seat at their approach and smiled gently
down at him. The Lady had intended to hold herself aloof from the boy,
to protect herself from the danger of loving him. She had not been able
to find an excuse to avoid the funeral though she had made certain he
would not notice her there. 

She had not been as close to him as Mairi, but her hearing was far better
than that of most people and she had heard clearly the young child's
anguish and sorrow at killing the old Lord. His bravery and courage in
the face of such a painful realization and the unexpected maturity of his
symbolic acceptance of the responsibility for the old Lord's death had
touched her heart. Seeing what he went through--what his own father put
him through--with that pit of cats, and after Mairi's assurances that he
was no more than what he seemed, and her explanation for how he had
killed the old Lord, the evidence for which she had seen herself,
evidence which thankfully put to rest the fear that he was somehow a pawn
of Krall's, the Lady found herself unable to maintain her distance. 

She did have to obtain the mark of his seal to guide his realm as Regent
until he was ready to take that responsibility, but in the privacy of
her heart she admitted it was but a front, an excuse. Seeing the pain he
had been put through, and knowing that she could never let his parents
find him until he was safe from their insane pledge, had hurt her
deeply, more deeply than she had expected, for she had unconsciously
lowered what meager defense she had against the magic love that bound
her when she had heard him speaking before he buried her first love.

Mairi waited while Ranma bowed deeply to the Lady, somewhat surprised at
his formality. The Lady's smile grew as she looked at the confident grin
on the child's face and she bowed even lower in return. Ranma waited a
moment more, expecting to be introduced but when Mairi gestured to the
largest seat, he nodded and sat in it. He was somewhat surprised that
even this elegant lady seemed to be showing deference to him.

He had gotten the idea that perhaps all these women who had been so nice
to them were servants. He himself had played, for a time, the part of a
servant in the homes of moderately wealthy families, so he was familiar
with the concept of servants. He couldn't really picture the beautiful
and richly dressed women he had met as servants but he had also never
been in a dwelling of this size before, not to mention one made of heavy
stone instead of thin paper. 

His thinking in the rock garden before the funeral service had cleared
his mind somewhat even if it had not yielded the words he had been in
search of and in pondering the peculiar behavior of the women the night
before and earlier in the day, he had decided that he must have been
sold as a son to a truly wealthy family. He knew that it was important
that he become a great martial artist for the family honor, so it made
sense to him that claiming he was a youthful master might have resulted
in his purchase to protect this family's honor.

When Mairi had led him into this awe-inspiring room and he had reached
the end to find a woman of surpassing beauty in clothes that made the
garments of the other women he had seen seem plain, he assumed that this
was the one to whom he had been sold. 

He did not, even after receiving deference from her, offer an
introduction of his own, as he was still under the impression that he
had been sold to the household, and his identity was therefore known.
Mairi's surprise that morning was curious and disconcerting and he
was not sure how it fit in, but the idea that not all the household would
have learned who he was at once did not seem improbable, given the
number of people he had seen at the funeral. 

He did not understand how his being here related to the man he had
apparently killed and being unable to come to a clear understanding of
it as well as lacking any memories of the event, he had set it aside to
be thought about later. He did not want to ask questions about it, lest
he cause someone to realize that he had yet to be punished for what he
had done, or that he could no longer serve the purpose for which he had
been purchased, whatever that might be. As with most of his father's
plans and schemes, he would simply have to muddle through as best he
could.

In another time, another place, he might have objected more forcefully.
When he was first sold, he did not understand what was happening and so
had not protested. Now that he did comprehend he found he had the
memories of the Neko-ken to temper his ire. He did not want to give
Genma cause to be displeased with him, lest Genma decide, as he had
threatened more than once, to resume the Neko-ken training in hopes of
curing him of his unmanly fear. Ranma did not realize how truly afraid
his father had become of him, since he did not remember anything that
happened while he was under the influence of the deadly technique. He
did not recall the mauling he had given Genma after first learning the
technique and was wholly unaware of how hollow Genma's threats to resume
the training were.

The woman spoke then, breaking his train of thought. "You slew the Lord
Fey," she said in a soft voice that carried undercurrents of strength
and power.

He shivered and looked down. So this was it. Now he would be cast out
and would have to wait for his father's wrathful arrival. "I didn't mean
to," he pleaded. "I'm really sorry."

Though she was not unmoved by his sorrow she let no sign of her feelings
show. Her voice remained even and calm. "All that was his now belongs to
you. Do you wish to take up the governance of his land?"

"Huh?" Ranma stared at the lady in confusion, her words failing to
penetrate past his expectations.

"Do you wish to sit and listen while people complain about their
neighbors and then make decisions that will affect their lives?" Again
her voice was soft and even, betraying no hint of how she felt, one way
or another.

"What? No, I just wanna learn the Art. Pop says I have'ta be the best!
I'm gonna be the best martial artist in the world!"

"If you do not wish to govern, then you must name one to do so in your
stead."

"Huh? In my what? I said I don't wanna do it, but I don't know anybody's
names except me, and Pop, and Ucchan."

The Lady laughed softly and he grinned suddenly, his worry that
something had gone wrong evaporating under her smile. "I am Alana," she
said, "and surely you know Mairi already?"

"Uh... no? I didn' know her name." He shook his head and smirked. "She
never told me!"

"Did you tell her yours?"

"Huh? But... don't you already know?"

"Yes," Alana said, her face returning to its calm and unemotional
facade. "You are Fey Ranma."

Ranma clapped his hands over his mouth only just in time to prevent
himself from blurting out his proper last name. Dangit, I knew Pop sold
me. Shoulda figured. It did make things clear, though. While she had not
treated him like a servant, she was clearly the one he had been sold to.
No-one else, apparently, had known his name, but she had.

He shifted slightly to look at Mairi. "Sorry," he said, "I thought you
knew."

She smiled in return and at a gesture from Alana, she took the seat to
his left. Alana reached out and grasped Ranma's left hand, causing him to
start and turn back towards her. She grasped the black ring in two
fingers, twisting it slightly. "This is the signet ring of the Lord Fey.
Do you know what that means?"

"Uh... no? Uhm... wait, maybe... is it like a hanko?"

"This is the symbol of your authority. It is your seal, and it is with
its impression that you sign your name and give your agreement to
papers. Do you understand?"

"Uh, yeah, it's a hanko, a name-stamp." Ranma smiled in relief, pleased
that he had guessed correctly. His smile widened further when Alana
smiled and nodded.

"Do you understand duty, and honor?" she asked softly. She did not relish
the idea of explaining such concepts to a seven-year old, but she held
some hope, after his claim of a goal given to him by his father, that he
might be from a society that understood such things. This thought was
given credence by the memory of the seppuku pledge in the minds of his
parents, unpleasant though such a reminder was. It was, of course, no
guarantee that he himself had yet learned of such matters.

"Of course," Ranma said, sitting up straight. "I'm a martial artist!"

"And what does that mean, exactly?"

The thought that it was strange that the one who had apparently
purchased him did not know what he was did not cross his mind. To his
experience, her words were a test; she was seeing if he would give the
right responses, and he knew that his treatment at Genma's hands would
not be pleasant if he answered wrongly. "Uhm... a martial artist always
protects the weak and the inn'cent, and follows the code... and I gotta
be a man, too! Pop is always saying I gotta be a man amongst men. And...
uh... never hit girls... and..." Ranma looked down, his brow wrinkling
cutely, as he tried to remember everything his father had said about
honor and duty.

"That is enough," laughed Alana. "Let me tell you then, about a new duty
you have, and a new honor that you must uphold. You are the heir of the
Lord Fey," she continued, "and as such, to you, when you come of age,
will fall the duty of governing this realm, and of upholding the honor of
this land and this castle."

"And the honor of the Lady," put in Mairi.

Ranma nodded seriously. This fit in with his expectations and his latest
thought of having been sold as a son. Obviously this family had been
without an heir, so they had bought him from Genma. Well, he could do
little about his inevitable theft by his father, but until then, he would
do what he had to to fulfill his new honor and duties. Not to mention
enjoy the luxuries he had so rarely had.

"Uhm... I can still learn the Art, right?"

"The art of fighting?" asked the Lady. She was reasonably confident in
her interpretation of his meaning, both from the connotations of his words
and the thoughts of his father, but it was best to be clear.

"Uh... yeah."

"If you will swear to uphold the honor of the Land and Lady of Fey, and
to faithfully fulfill your duties, I will see that you receive the best
of instruction."

Ranma pondered that for a moment, trying to decide if he could make such
a promise knowing that his father would try to steal him away. Finally,
he decided that he could, as long as he resisted his father as best he
could. He shivered, thinking of the probable consequences, but when it
came down to it, he did not want to have to leave, to go back to starving
and thieving and living out in the cold.

"I swear on my honor," he said, his eyes serious, though his voice
quavered for a moment as flashing claws passed before his minds eye.
"that I will uphold the honor of the Land... and Lady of Fey.. and..." He
paused for a moment until Mairi leaned over and whispered in his ear.
"Right," he continued, "and faithfully fulfill my duties as the Heir of
Fey."

Alana released his hand and taking one of the scrolls, unrolled it before
him. "This scroll gives me the authority to act in your name until you
come of age. Will you place your mark on it?"

He glanced at her for a moment, wondering for just an instant if she had
not berated him about the previous lord's death because she wanted his
power. But he saw nothing in her eyes but compassion and wisdom, even if
she was less openly affectionate than Mairi.

He grinned suddenly. "This is what means I don't gotta listen to boring
old people talk all day, right?"

She nodded and he looked around. "Where's the ink?" he asked.

"You need none. Simply press the face of the ring to the parchment here."
She pressed one long shapely finger against a line drawn near the bottom
of the document. Ranma grabbed the ring, rotating it on his finger until
the flat face was properly aligned, then clenched his fist and pressed
the ring against the paper. When he pulled back, there was a black mark
of a stylized, curved dagger.

---

Ranma smiled back at Mairi as she closed the door behind her. He could
not help but feel happy, getting to sleep for the second night in a
row--the first time as far as his memory was concerned--on a real bed,
not a futon.

He was snugly tucked into the covers, another unusual treat, given his
father's propensity for appropriating them, and best of all, Mairi had
kissed his forehead before she left, just like his Momma had. He could
barely remember her but already he was starting to associate Mairi with
those same feelings.

Five minutes later he was not nearly so happy. Trying to fall asleep had
made him painfully aware of how empty the room was with only him in it,
how alone he was, who had nearly always had his father to fall asleep
next to. In the dim moonlight, the unfamiliar contents of the room cast
strange, disturbing shadows and it was not long before his mind conjured
up the sound of padding feet and soft meows, the glow of slitted eyes,
and the flash of claws and teeth.

He huddled into a fetal ball, protecting his face and neck with his
hands, and tears began to flow unbidden. Finally he sat up with a
strangled cry, staring about in wild-eyed fear. His movement and the
resulting true sound banished the imagined noises and he was alone again.
He wiped at his face, sniffling, reminding himself that a man doesn't cry.

He found himself wishing Mairi was there to hold him, which brought up
the memory of how good it had felt, and how much it had helped, to have
Mairi hold him as he cried. His father had always told him that women
were silly and weak, and when he had cried, his father had beat him,
telling him that he was behaving like a weak girl. 

But he had cried that morning, after realizing that he had killed, and
worse, he had killed unknowingly, without being able to decide if it was
right and honorable.

Mairi had held him then and comforted him, and it had helped, it had! He
shivered again, feeling the cool night air drying his tears on his
cheeks. It hadn't helped just now, though, and he wondered if his father
might be right. Why had crying this morning eased his pain while crying
on his bed alone had made it worse? He thought about Mairi's face as she
held him, and just before, when she herself had been crying, and his eyes
popped wide when he realized that she had been in pain, too! Her eyes had
shone with it.

He had no real understanding of why she had cried, nor what her
relationship to the prior Lord Fey had been, and he certainly did not
have the slightest idea that her feelings at that point had largely been
feigned. Instead, he came to the only conclusion that made sense to him
at the time. He had cried alone and felt worse. He had cried with her and
felt better, but she had been in pain. The only answer had to be that he
had felt better because she felt worse... she had taken his pain!

"I'm s'posed ta protect girls," he whispered fiercely. "I shoulda taked
her pain, not hurt her worst." Hot tears stung his eyes as he pictured
what his momma would think of him, knowing that he had hurt someone so
much like her. Furthermore, he had just given his sworn word that he
would protect the Lady and fulfill his duties. Hurting her servants
hardly fit that description.

For once, Ranma agreed with his father, in a completely unexpected way.
Had he stayed with his father, he would have been beaten until every
aspect of his femininity had been beaten from his mind, until he reacted
to the possibility of emotion with harsh retorts and insults designed to
prevent any emotional closeness that might let another share his pain.

Though he was now free of his father's influence in this respect, Ranma
made a choice, and he chose to follow his father's path. But without the
beatings, the continual conditioning of his unconscious self, this
determination would manifest in a very different manner. Instead of a
defense of automatic emotional reactions, Ranma began building barriers
in his mind, locking his tears and pain away.

He had studied meditation under his father very early in his training.
His father did not care much for meditation, and had used it only as a
tool to get Ranma in touch with himself, to help him achieve his
balance. 

"I can't let my pain out, or I'll hurt people," he told himself, as he
tried to meditate. He certainly was not skilled at it, as little value
as Genma had placed on it. For some reason, though, he reached a
meditative state very easily that night. Not even he would remember this
first evidence of the gift for his Art he had received, the form of
Fey's gift rendered malleable by his death, and responding as best it
could to the desires in Ranma's heart. Mentally he began trying to bury
his pain. As the heat of the tears stung his eyes and warmed his cheeks,
he sought to banish his pain.

He glowed blue, briefly, though that too went unnoticed. He passed
without recognition from meditation to sleep, his unconscious and
unexpected tapping of his ki draining his remaining energy in moments,
sending him into a deep and dreamless slumber.

---

Krall made his way back to the massive encampment where Fey's permanent
war force trained and prepared. There, he knew, he would learn of what
had happened. He must be cautious, though. If Arkus or another warlord
had taken control, they would likely have orders to capture all the
higher officers, to force them to take magically binding oaths of
loyalty, or perhaps to slay them out of hand, if the new ruler had
generals of his own.

It was not, perhaps, the best of choices for learning gossip, since the
soldiers closest to the news he sought were the officers living within
the very walls of the castle, or the most loyal soldiers, barracked in
the great buildings that stood between the outer wall and the castle
entrance proper. Still, the soldiers of the outer regiments, encamped
beyond the walls, had access nonetheless to the interior during daylight
hours.

He had obtained little of use during his time skulking about the market,
striving to remain unnoticed and unidentified. That Fey had died was
confirmed, for there was talk of a funeral attended by most of his
personal staff, and his Lady and concubines, who by rights should belong
to Arkus now. He suppressed an irritated growl at the thought. Of the
new Lord he had heard little, but if the officers had been tight-lipped,
surely the common soldiery would have looser tongues.

So it was a wolf that slunk into the encampment in the darkness of that
second night, and padded silently from tent to tent, listening to the
endless gossip. The death of the Lord Fey was a popular topic,
unsurprisingly, but there seemed very little discussion of who had
replaced him. 

Krall heard enough to know that it was a small being, child-size, though
he knew well enough not to judge power by stature. Fey had been a much
thinner man than Krall, but had been physically stronger. This new Lord
might well be one of the faerie folk, or a dwarven elementalist, or even
a demon. Krall had little thought of facing him directly, knowing that
with his own power reduced by Fey's death, instead of enriched, he had
little hope of defeating one who could defeat the Lord Fey in his inner
sanctum.

Krall pondered, wondering whether Fey had succeeded in his intent before
dying. Had the summoned being destroyed Arkus as well, or was that
blight still out there, lurking somewhere? Krall shook in fury as he
heard a few of his subordinate generals commenting on the fact that the
new Lord had already been accepted by the Dragon Fang, the Lord's sword.
"That was to be mine," he growled to himself, before slipping through
the shadows out of the encampment. He would find work in another army,
for now, but he would have his revenge.