The Summons

Black clouds heavy with the threat of rain marched in towering columns
across the moonless sky, cutting off the light of the stars. They merely
heightened the already oppressive silence that lay across the castle. 

Krall snarled with impotent fury as he dragged the unwilling horse into
the courtyard. "Dumb beast," he growled, "You shall not keep me here!"
Though it would be hours yet before his dread lord would begin the
summoning Krall knew was coming, his senses were already pounding with
the hypnotic pulse of his lord's blood.

He had to escape, to flee the keep before his darker impulses overtook
him. It enraged him, this impotence he felt as he was forced to restrain
himself. Krall was a self-serving man and he was ill-used to holding
back the dark beast that slept but lightly within his breast.

Indeed, he had freely embraced the dark gift and reveled in its bestial
power and never did he feel more alive than on the field of battle where
he could race before his troops, all thought abandoned as he fought with
fury and natural cunning, falling upon the enemy as a bloodthirsty
fiend.

The horse reared, fearing the scent of predator that surrounded the man
and it whinnied in its panic, its eyes white with terror as flecks of
white foam speckled its mouth. Krall growled from deep in his chest but
he restrained the desire to tear the horse's throat out and drink its
blood. He had to escape before the sound of his lord's powerful blood
sent him wholly into the frenzy. His eyes flared red and the horse
calmed as his mind overwhelmed it. 

The powerful muscles in his legs and calves bunched and he sprang from a
standing start to land easily upon the horse's back. Taking up the reins
he whipped it hard, driving it into a run, the clatter of its hooves on
the cobblestones ringing out loudly in the empty courtyard. 

As he passed beneath the archway through the open gates to the outer
courtyard and raced down the paved road that split the training grounds
and led to the outer-most wall and the gates of castle, the sound of his
passage was muffled by the sudden fall of rain from the swollen clouds
overhead. 

The training and alertness of the guards in the twin towers that stood
tall one either side of the gates was attested to by the immediate
outward swing of one of the two huge thirty foot wide gates. They began
their motion the very moment that Krall appeared from within the
darkness of the inner archway and by the time he reached the opening it
was more than wide enough to pass through. The gate's motion reversed
the instant he passed through.

Halfway to the cover of the trees the horse reared again and Krall
raised a hand to the sky. Lightning flashed somewhere in the distance
and for a moment the blue light filled the world, reflecting dully from
the red liquid dripping down Krall's hand even as he brought it to his
lips, drinking it with relish.

He spurred the horse, his dark eyes flashing redly again in the gloom
and they raced off into the dense forest that hugged the castle grounds,
not bothering to hold to the road. Krall had already decided that this
beast of burden would not survive to take him to the town.

---

Krall was not the only person to feel the strange air of the castle as
the castle's lord prepared himself for the task he had set himself. All
within the walls felt a sense of heightened anticipation and
uncertainty, a sense of waiting and tension, as if all the world were
focused on an event imminently to occur.

One such stood upon the battlements in the dark night, resting his arms
against the heavy stones that lined the edge of the barrack's roof. The
wind whipped at his long brown hair, lashing it against his face, and
tugged at his dark cloak. He might under other circumstances have
reveled in the sensations. Not today and not now, for now he was here
not for his own pleasure but for the observation of his foe.

Torhm was the general of Lord Fey's armies, the guiding intelligence
behind the campaigns that had been so close to seeing the downfall of
the high-born self-assured holier-than-thou bigots of the kingdom of
Farallon. Few indeed were the men who knew the reason for the sudden
cessation of that campaign and Torhm was one of the few.

Lord Fey's quest to defeat the vile betrayer Arkus and some idea of the
power it would grant him when he achieved his goal were known to Torhm,
but they were not that which brought him now to stand upon this 
windswept precipice. That honor fell to the one who was even now
skulking about the mostly diamond shaped inner courtyard below. 

Krall. The man's name was enough to summon bile to Torhm's throat. Where
Torhm was the brains of Fey's forces, Krall was their heart and what a
black heart it was. Krall did not lead his men by love or honor; he 
drove them with fear. He also led by example, an example of vicious
savagery and unrelenting hatred. Recently Krall had become insufferable.
With the war ceased, his hunger for violence had gone unsated, until he
began taking it out on the townspeople. 

Fey might have let this pass, but Torhm brought to Fey's attention the
negative effect it was having on his forces. Many of the men Torhm was
given to work with were conscripts torn from lives in the villages and
towns of the lands Fey claimed. Difficult as they were to mold, the idea
that they were protecting their families, that by their actions, their
families might be safer in the face of the harsh taxes and harsher laws
made them tractable. If the townsfolk were under regular and vicious
attack, however, the troops would quickly grow restless, wanting to be
with their families to guard them.

Fey was not a particularly cruel man, though he was remarkably cold and
cared little for people's suffering. Still, if he was unmoved by
suffering, at least he did not take pleasure in it, did not revel in it
as did the bestial Krall.

Since the end of the war and the lapse of the strong focus on the enemy,
the two generals had turned their attention to one another. To Torhm,
Krall was disgusting, a vicious pig of a man ruled by desire and
cruelty, while in Krall's eyes, Torhm was a weakling, a pathetic wimp
bound by self-forged chains of honor.

Torhm watched with weary eyes as Krall whipped the horse he'd taken,
riding hard out of the castle as the clouds finally released their
threat of rain. Though the senseless slaughter of people had been 
halted, Torhm still received regular reports of animals found in the
wood. Generally little remained but bones and blood. The blood often
coated entire clearings and the townsfolk no longer ventured into the
wood that surrounded Fey's castle, considering it haunted. 

In the castle too, no-one would venture beyond the walls at night except
Krall himself and it was no surprise to Torhm that every report of new
atrocities found in the woods followed shortly on the heels of one of
Krall's nighttime expeditions.

Torhm took care to note Krall's activities, expecting that at some point
in time Krall's confidence in Fey's opinion of him would rise to the
point that he would feel safe in taking direct action against Torhm.
He intended to be ready when the time came. He would not depend on
Lictor, the scrawny master thief that ran Fey's intelligence gathering
networks. He couldn't be certain but at times he felt certain that there
was an arrangement between the two and he would not risk his safety. 

He kept his own watch and his own counsel.

When Krall had finally vanished from sight beyond the archway of the
inner courtyard where it blocked the meeting of the two stables, Torhm
sighed and turned away. He stopped in surprise when his eyes met not the
empty roof he expected but the grinning countenance of Simnir. He was
wearing an oil-coated cloak upon which the rain beaded and ran. The hood
was down leaving his blond locks flat and slick with rain. 

"Figured I'd find you up here," commented the rascal, his grey eyes
glinting with humor. "Why so dour, Torhment?"

Torhm sighed again as he strode past his friend, Simnir falling neatly
into step a half-step behind him to his right. Torhment was Simnir's
private joke, a regular jibe brought out when he felt that Torhm was
being too melodramatic, too brooding or gloomy. 

"Lord Fey was not in council today," replied Torhm, "and Krall just
headed for town." Simnir nodded, frowning slightly. It was well-known
amongst the uppermost ranks of Fey's troops that when Fey skipped
council, he was engaging in a private activity. Of late, according
to rumour, that had consisted almost exclusively of attempts to defeat
the Lord Arkus. When Krall left on a day that Fey came not to the
council chambers, chances were good that Fey was going to the summoning
chamber.

Few of Fey's troops were really comfortable with the knowledge that
their Lord summoned and consorted with demons and the like but at least
the regular troops didn't know when he was doing it. Simnir rather
wished he didn't either. The thought that some otherworldy being, some
creature of demonic power was soon to be present in the castle with him
was not pleasant and he could never avoid picturing what would happen
when eventually Fey failed to keep the summoned being contained.

Picturing a hell-spawned beast capable of slaying the Lord Fey running
rampant through the castle was enough to make almost anyone somber.
Torhm always wondered why Krall fled when Fey performed a summoning.
Much as he disliked the fellow, he wouldn't object to having a strong
regenerating fighter on his side when a demon finally did make it past
Fey's barriers.

---

The oppressive and brooding silence matched well with the darkness
deeper than pitch that shrouded the immense rectangular room, concealing
its purpose and design. 

Its walls were formed of massive stones cunningly placed. Though
mishapen, irregular, and far from uniform, they fit together with
remarkable precision. In no place was the mortar that bound them forced
to fill a space of more than a quarter inch. The walls were a testament
to the skill of the ones who had built the chamber, gifted as they had
been with an inhuman talent.

The ceiling arched high above and it too bore mute testimony to the
skill of its architects. High and vaulting it was nonetheless formed of
smooth stone that seemed of but a single piece, so precisely were the
pieces mated one to another. Unlike the walls, the ceiling was not
unadorned but bore all manner of markings, runes and intricate designs
that held power in their very shape.

The floor was far from plain itself being formed of immaculately
polished marble. The patterns of the marble could readily be traced and
made plain by their presence that the floor itself was composed of a
single immense slab. On this remarkable stone were carven grooves and
paths that twisted and wound their way about the floor in seemingly
random patterns. Drawing back and taken as a whole, they formed
intricately interlocking circles and geometric patterns. As a puzzle it
might seem, for the obvious circles and pentagrams would, after
sufficient study, give way to yet more overlapping circles and shapes.

At many of the intersection points the marble was cut just slightly
deeper and wider, making a circular socket. Elsewhere tiny grooves were
carefully aligned on either side of a channel where it met a second
channel. Stacks of small metal squares on a table told the tale. The
slots would allow a particular pattern to be cut off from those it
intersected.

Minute holes along the sides of some of the channels matched the teeth
of tiles stacked in a corner. On each tile runes were graven with a
precision equal to that which had formed the room.

Not the least sign of use could be seen in the room; not the slightest
speck of dust nor the least drop of liquid marred the cold perfection of
the stone carving.

The sense of tension and expectation that filled the castle surrounding
the room failed to penetrate to its interior, shrouded in dark silence.
Wards of great power shielded this room against all manner of external
contaminant or observation and though this room itself was none other
than the Lord Fey's summoning chamber and the focus of the castle's
tension, it was itself impervious to the atmosphere that encompassed it.

The evident appearance of disuse, given the perfectly clean floor and
the complete absence of cracks, stains, and other indications of wear,
was in fact misleading. The cleanliness and general state of perfection
resulted from magical cleaning spells. Indeed, the sole user of the room
crafted a cleaning spell of a power far in excess of the traditional
cleaning cantrips mages used to tidy their belongings. The cleaning
spell regularly employed on this room expended as much magical energy
and was as complex as most mage's siege spells, wielding as much force
as spells designed to penetrate the defenses of castles and fortresses.

The primary circle on the marble floor was fifty feet across and the
ceiling more than a hundred feet high. Rare indeed were the summoned
beings that could attain such stature and the size of the circle alone
would thus be a sign to the knowledgeable that the summoner that
designed this room was one of the truly powerful.

The racks between the tables along the walls of the room contained
apparently haphazard collections of books and scrolls and sheets of
parchment, along with the occasional oddly shaped object or device.
Tempting as it might be to take this as an indication that the summoner
was a untidy or lazy man, or even a disorganized one, it would be a
mistake. In truth is was merely the result of a man with a prodigious
and phenomenal memory, so clear and potent that he could easily remember
the precise location of every item within the room. No summoner who 
dealt with the sorts of beings and powers this room was designed to 
handle could be less than completely scrupulous and meticulous and
survive for long.

The tables, filled with complicated structures of glass tubes, piping,
and containers all holding strange mixtures of liquids resting in
silence, fit the very image of a mad scientist's lab and in point of
fact gave the accurate indication that the summoner was possessed of a
considerable alchemical talent.

However they could easily be misleading. This room was not meant for
alchemical research and the related materials present therein were not
sufficient for actual research and experimentation. The accurate
conclusion to be drawn therefrom was that the summoner was so powerful
and confident as to summon powerful beings for the sole purpose of
obtaining an ingredient such as a horn or hair to complete an alchemical
formula, whether directly from the summoned being, or by forcing the
being to obtain it, and therefore was prepared to have the formula on
hand, ready for the addition of the latest acquisition, and the swift
punishment of the summoned if the component was not as requested.

Indeed, an observer could have learned much if any had been there, or
even been able to obtain a description of the room. But the massive iron
door that rose twenty feet high on one wall, and stretched ten feet
wide, had never witnessed the passage of any but the summoner and his
closest servants. The builders of the room were long dead and no
description was left by their hands. The room itself was so powerfully
warded against all forms of scrying that even a god would have had
difficulties observing the summonings that went on therein. Indeed, the
only beings aside from the summoner and his servants that knew the
layout or appearance of the interior of the room were those that he
summoned.

So the silent darkness was yet undisturbed when the summoner approached.
As the door swung inward in utter silence, torches set in brackets on
the walls flared to life, casting a flickering light across the room,
though they neither burned nor released smoke.

The massive iron door gave easily under light pressure from long fingers
on a slender hand belonging to a tall lean figure, almost human in
appearance, save for the pointed and unusually long ears. His hair
glittered silver in the torchlight, at odds with the apparent
youthfulness of his unlined and hairless face, with its delicately
arching eyebrows, thin fine lips, strong but slender nose, and high
cheekbones. He had sparkling green eyes framed by long black lashes that
glinted with a cold, hard light. A single fine white scar trailed down
one cheek.

With the opening of the door that intense sense of waiting and
anticipation seemed to flood the room. As he strode inward he seemed to
exude an air of power that was an almost visible emanation, warping the
light slightly as if the air about him was alive with heat, though in
fact it was colder still than the air within the room. 

Following close behind the man, a cat with deep black fur that seemed to
drink in the light loped into the room. At nearly four feet long its
powerfully muscled body made it seem a far cry from an ordinary
housecat. Its eyes, green like its master's, were lit with an air of
intelligence as if it might actually understand what it was seeing in
the manner of a man. 

The cat was followed by a peculiar two-foot tall creature. It was 
somewhat human in appearance, standing on two legs, having two arms,
and a nearly human face. But its legs had two extra joints, looking much
like the back legs of the cat, and two bat-like wings sprouted from its
back. Its facial appearance was ugly and twisted; it had two horns and
fangs that protruded from between its lips giving it a bestial 
appearance.

The tall figure set quickly to work, moving with swift, silent
assuredness to one of the tables, where his elegant hands and long
delicate fingers caressed an elaborately carved oaken box, before
flicking it open, with but a mumbled word to disable its many magical
protections. He drew forth from it several pieces of chalk, unused and
sharp edged. 

He spoke another word, louder and more clearly. The torches suddenly
stopped flickering and flared up to a brightness that made the light in
the room equal that of the midday sun, though they emitted no heat. The
most visible result was the almost complete absence of shadows on the
central pattern in the floor. Even the grooves running through it were
lit to the bottom and the four sources of light cancelled out each
other's shadows. 

The brilliant light and the resulting lack of shadows made the design on
the floor look curiously unreal, as if it were a painting by an artist
who had forgotten or discarded realism.

He set to work with an almost casual air that spoke of long experience,
and yet with great care and precision, as he laid out a circle on the
floor. This circle was much smaller than the large circular design of
the floor, being only slightly larger than the space that would be taken
by a human sitting lotus style. The cat watched in near-silence, padding
about on muffled paws to eye the man's work, but carefully avoiding the
chalk already laid down, purring occasionally, as if to indicate his
approval of one of the more intricate wards. He stood, finally, after
thirty minutes of careful and continuous work, and looked at his
completed design. 

"Do you think it will hold him?" he asked, his voice deep but smooth,
with a hint of its underlying sensuousness. The cat padded slowly around
the circle, looking at each ward in turn and considering each with an
air of intelligence and complete understanding. It spoke in a smooth,
purring voice, "It would hold the one we knew, Master. But how changed
is he? What gifts might his Queen have given him?"

"He cannot use her gifts against me directly, for I am under the
protection of another. Any divine powers he has been given will be
useless. I have held her servants with a similar circle before. I think
it will do." He looked at the circle and said a single word in a calm
clear voice. The chalk shimmered and glowed and when the glow faded, the
markings were clear and sharp edged, with none of the appearance of
chalk. 

Through all this the smaller semi-human figure, which any magic-user
would recognize as a homonculus, a magically created servant, sat silent
on a table, watching. Its time for action had not yet come. Its task
would be scrubbing of the blood from the floor of the summoning room,
and wherever else it splattered. This task could not be left to human
servants as none were ever permitted to see this room. So it would fall
to him, for he would work tirelessly and without complaint. Blood was
one of the few substances that could be used to power spells and any
spell that used blood had behavior and attributes far different from
those that did not. Cleaning the blood up first greatly reduced the
likelihood of an unexpected side-effect arising from the Lord Fey's
over-powered cleaning spell.

Fey began drawing out a much larger circle, laying the chalk in the
course of the design inlaid on the floor, which completely enveloped the
smaller chalk circle. "He knows I have not the power to command him once
summoned, so he will not be expecting me to summon him for any reason
other than to gloat." he said to the cat as he carefully drew in the
next ward. "I will bring him in just before I finish the last sigil in
the greater summoning circle. I want him to have just a few moments to
appreciate the depth of his failure and the completeness of my triumph,
before I summon the demon to rip his heart out."

"Then why do you not summon him now, and give him that much more time
to be miserable, Master?" the cat wondered, purring with delight as he
pictured the complete despair and final misery of his Master's enemy in
his mind. 

"Because I have not the strength to hold him for that long and I have no
wish to leave him enough time to figure a way out. I want to give him
only enough time to realize the completeness of his defeat before the
end," was Fey's measured response. He was careful and thorough, wanting
nothing to mar his final victory. This would be a great moment for him,
as he defeated his most powerful enemy, and struck a blow against the
Lady that would be sensed around the world and felt for centuries to
come.

"Of course, Master," replied the cat, purring once again, "and what
demon are you going to summon? The Enemy is still a potent wizard."

"Simple. I am going to take advantage of his fears. What does he fear
most, Licius?"

"Cats!" was Licius' instant response, followed by a deep rumbling purr,
and an almost laughing meow.

"Precisely. So I shall summon a cat demon, and his own fears will
prevent him from defending against it."

"Master Fey, I felt the increase in your power when you made your, ahem,
deal with your Queen... but you still have not told me the details of
the deal... might this not be a good time?"

"Very well, Licius. It is simple, really. The Sisters have had a
long-running competition... feud, actually, for some time now. They
finally decided to stop wasting their power attacking each other
directly, and fight through mortal champions. So they looked to the
world and chose the most powerful pair of mortal enemies they could
find, to be their champions."

"A great honor, indeed," Licius purred.

"Yes, quite," Fey replied dryly, examining his latest sigil. "The
agreement is that they each devote a percentage of their power to us. We
choose the form the divine gift takes. When I defeat Arkus the Ladies'
feud shall be ended and I will be well rewarded."

"But you face many other challengers, as does Arkus. What of them?"

"The Ladies are aware of them. If either of us is defeated by a human
challenger, then the Ladies will give us the power to drive out their
soul and take the body. After all, if they defeated us, they must be
more powerful, right? At that point in time, we will get to make again
the choice of divine gift, to choose something more appropriate to the
new body. That is what Arkus just did," Fey's voice was taut with
disgust. "He lost to that damned white wizard, and now he's chosen
divine immortality, the fool. It made him into an extra-planar being,
capable of being summoned, and that will be his downfall." This forceful
statement was followed by the complete absence of a peal of maniacal
laughter. Not every egotistical evil sorcerer plays true to form.

Licius examined Fey's just-finished sigil, purring his approval. Looking
up, the cat asked, "You think he chose the immortality because he was
afraid of death, even though he had just experienced it?"

"Precisely. The fool realized he was mortal and vulnerable, so he sought
to defend himself against other mortals, instead of against me. Very
unwise of him. He hasn't studied the gifts well enough. Divine
immortality just means he won't age, and becomes an extra-planar being.
He can still be killed by a mortal, or a demon." 

Fey looked thoughtful for a moment. It really, now that he thought about
it, did not seem like Arkus to be so driven by fear... but then again,
"I do not know. Maybe it was not that. Maybe his new body is old
already, and that frightened him. If it was human, he would have to
worry about dying of old age or physical disability, and there is
nothing in the rules about that. Maybe he realized how close he came to
losing, and feared what his Lady will do to him, after he fails."

"The one thing I do not understand, Master, is why his gifts will not
work against you? Was that not the point of their gifts in the first
place?"

Fey laughed then, softly. "He was ever straightforward, Licius, and so
he will think as do you, and it will be his end. For he will trust in
his powers and seek directly to use his granted powers against me. But I
chose my gift more carefully. I have, and had before all this, the means
to defeat him. I do not need gifts to do so. So the gift I chose was the
ability to counter Arkus' gift, whatever it might be. It won't be enough
to finish him, for it will simply cancel out his attacks, but he will
not be expecting it. Granted, I must see what he is doing to act against
it, but he was ever one for the direct and showy magic, with little
liking for the subtler twists and designs of a true master, so I am not 
greatly concerned."

After nearly two hours of careful preparation the immense circle was
almost complete. It lacked only the final sigil, which would name the
demon to be summoned. He wanted his enemy to see his doom with utter
finality. It was time to summon him.

The preparations being completed and Fey's power being what it was, it
took but a single word to activate the inner circle, summoning his enemy
to stand before him.

He stood straight and tall in the inner circle, though not as tall as
the dark figure outside it. His robes were white as snow, and he held a
tall wooden staff, slightly twisted and intricately carved. His hair was
as white as his robes, his face was lined with age, but his limbs were
strong, his eyes were clear, and they flashed now with amusement. "You
always were an impetuous fool, Fey. Think you that you now have the
strength to command me?"

Fey's eyes lit with a savage glee. "I need not command you to destroy
you, old fool. Look around you, Arkus, consider what you see. Look upon 
your doom, old man, and despair!" Thinking he had finally discerned
Arkus' true reasons for his choice of gift, Fey looked to press the
knife home and so emphasized both Arkus' newly old age and his imminent
failure.

Fey waited as Arkus considered the runes about his feet. Hmmm. Fey has
done well. Were I solely stronger in what I had known, I should not be
able to break this. He has protected himself against the divine powers
my Queen has given me, but he is clearly unaware of the other gifts that
came with my last request. He has placed no protection against the power
of the mind here. Not surprising, considering how uncommon it is in this
world.  Arkus considered the runes for another moment then scanned the
outer circle. He means to summon a demon to destroy me, the fool. I'll
have to arrange a surprise for him. Even as he thought this, his eyes
had come full circle, and were again observing Fey. 

Seeing Arkus' eyes again upon him, Fey dropped lightly to his knees, and
began drawing the last sigil. Instantly Arkus realized his intent.
The fool doesn't realize my fear of cats is gone. Well, I'll use it
against him then.

Arkus focused his mental power and cautiously reached out to Fey. 
Determining that Fey had no natural defense and that there were no
spells focused on defense against mental attacks, he reached into Fey's
mind, and slightly adjusted Fey's mental image of the sigil. 

Fey completed the sigil, unaware that he had been manipulated and stood
with a flourish. Arkus carefully schooled his features into the proper
rictus of despair and dismay. It was calculated to reassure Fey that all
was perfect, and that Arkus truly believed that the summoning would have
the desired effect. He needed to prevent Licius, Fey's familiar, from
having time to examine all the sigils. His ploy worked.

Fey immediately snapped out two words, the first solidifying the chalk
circle, to which Licius gasped out a concerned, "But Master," only to fall
silent again at the second word. 

Fey had already activated the summoning.

---

In a forest on the island of Hokkaido, in Japan, a young boy of seven
paced steadily through the woods. Some twenty miles from him an older
man wearing a bandanna around his largely bald head tramped after him,
following the trail of deep scratch marks through trees, underbrush, and
soil. 

Occasionally the old man would stop to feel the scratches in a tree,
sensing the residual ki signature to judge from its strength how far 
behind he was. While he didn't know for sure how strong the boy's ki
claws were, he had felt a tree just moments after the boy had sliced it,
so he knew how strong the residual should be. 

Each time he felt a tree, he would sigh. The boy was steadily getting
further and further from him. At least this time the boy hadn't attacked
him first. The last several times the boy had gone feral he had
nearly killed him, the boy's own father. Ungrateful wretch. 

Surely this wild behavior wasn't the legendary Cat-fist! It was just
another example of the boy's failure to learn the style. After all,
surely it wouldn't be called an ultimate fighting style if it made the
martial artist chase butterflies and lie in sunbeams? No, impossible.
The Saotome school of Indiscriminate Grappling was about controlled
application of skill and power, as were the other martial arts. No way
this uncontrolled, wild behavior could be the expected result of a
martial arts training technique.

Meanwhile the boy continued his steady pursuit, following the scent of
the deer he had picked up. Every now and then, he would casually slash
at a tree as he went past. He wasn't marking his territory, merely
announcing his presence to any potential competitor in the area. A cat
of his human age would be ready to mate and therefore would be
announcing himself to potential mates, but the body he was in was not
ready and so this possibility did not make itself known in the cat's
mind, whose maturity matched that of the body, and not its chronological
age.

Suddenly he paused, crouched in the underbrush, tense but still. There,
in the clearing ahead of him, head down, grazing, was the doe he had
been tracking. He was not yet old enough to hunt for real. He was still
at that stage of maturity where little kittens or cubs are playing mock
games with each other and their parents. But he had the instincts that
rule kitten's behavior and his instincts were telling him to sneak 
stealthily up behind the deer, spring out from his concealment, and  
grasp its neck in his jaws, suffocating it and breaking its neck. Even
as he leapt from concealment, there was a flash of light. The deer
bolted away from the now empty but strangely disturbing clearing.

Several hours later when Genma finally reached the clearing he spent
nearly an hour puzzling over the signs. He could see the deep impression
of claws in the dirt beneath a bush where Ranma had pushed off into his
leap, but for the life of him, he couldn't find where Ranma had landed.
He saw the tracks of the deer, but no blood. If Ranma's claws were
digging holes in the dirt there was no way he could land on a deer and
not spill blood. Besides, the deer's tracks were not suddenly deeper, as
they should have been had a sudden weight been introduced to its back.

He then tramped out a half mile from the clearing, and using a few
distant mountains as landmarks he walked slowly in a massive circle
around the clearing looking for signs of his son. Finally, he reached
the original trail where his son's tracks had ended and set up camp.
Perhaps his son would return here. Perhaps he was here still, watching
from high up in a tree. He would have to let the boy sleep off the cat.
The boy would then return to his father. He was sure of it. The boy
would not desert him. Surely not. Or his wife would kill him. He 
shivered as if a sudden cold breeze had blown past him, as in his
mind, he saw his wife's katana flash before him. 

---

The cat blinked at the sudden brightness, then bounced off something,
and scrabbled to his feet on hard stones. He uttered a deep plaintive
wail at the loss of his toy. Fey was turning red with fury at the utter
failure of his spell when the summoned boy mewed and Fey noticed the
deep gouges in the floor where the boy had first landed. A strange and
utterly peculiar cat-demon, but a cat-demon nonetheless. Fey stood tall
and straight, knowing the importance, when dealing with demons, of
having complete confidence in oneself. He uttered, in a strong and
commanding voice, towering menacingly over the demon, "Kill him now!" He
pointed towards the entrapped Arkus. 

Arkus, meanwhile, had been expecting the summoning to be a complete
failure, but recovered his composure quickly. He reached out mentally.
Finding the mind of a cat, he adjusted its perceptions so that it would
see this menacing figure as a male cat, invading his territory, and
threatening him. It was harder than he expected, due to the cat-mind's
relative immaturity, but Arkus managed to implant the suggestions in spite
of the difficulty.

The cat hissed and slashed at the intruding tomcat. His hand hit the 
spell-wall, and went no further, but the bindings were meant to hold a
being of magic and demonic power, and did not stop Ranma's ki. The power
of the human spirit is not a common thing to find in demonic beings, so
it came as a complete and utter surprise to Fey as he felt the claws rip
into his face. An instant later he was dead, his face completely ripped
off. Licius, Fey's familiar, collapsed in pain, dying as the bond to his
master pulled him as well. 

As Fey died the binding spell on Arkus failed and he disappeared in a
flash of light. But the spell around Ranma was far stronger than it 
needed to be, meant to hold a powerful demon, and so had not yet failed
by the time Fey's body collapsed across the spell-wall. This caused the
spell to fail in a completely different manner. Rather than releasing
Ranma back to his home plane, he was released into this plane. 

The cat growled at the dead man, still seeing him as a tomcat intruding
in his territory. In a peculiar way, this action of Arkus had an
unexpected side effect. If the male cat was intruding in his territory,
then this place here must actually be the cat's territory. He padded
over to the dead man, nudging him to be certain he was dead, and then
reaching down to grasp the dead man's neck in his jaws. 

The cat intended to drag the man away, but before he could act on it, 
the black clothing of the man disappeared, and reappeared on him. The
clothing was responding to the cat's utter belief that this was his
territory, such that it recognized him as the legitimate master of this
place. This place was his, so he must be the master. This was a 
necessary addendum on Fey's part. The divine gift had gone to Ranma
immediately, but most of Fey's magic would not bind to him until it felt
Fey's will, to ensure the inability of the body to resist Fey's takeover
of it. Arkus' actions had ensured that the spells were convinced this
had occurred. 

The cat panicked, and whirled around the room, hissing and snarling as
he tried to get rid of the tight fitting black clothes. In the process
most of the room's contents were damaged until he finally found the iron
door, tore a hole in it, and fled down the hall. He came to a stop as
the hall ended in a turn that led to more stairs that led down still
further. Exhausted, panting, he collapsed in a heap, and fell to sleep.
As he lay sleeping the ripped and tattered shreds of black cloth
clinging to him began to slowly mend, and the minor cuts and abrasions
he had received quickly faded, his skin becoming smooth and unbroken
again. 

---

Arkus floated in an infinite blackness, lacking even the slightest 
variation in any direction to provide a reference. There was no air, and
so no movement of it against his skin to anchor his senses, no scent to
touch his nose or mouth and guide him. The only sensation of location or
motion came from the confused signals his inner ear gave out. He had
long since learned to tune them out. There were no references here to
use, because there was no need. He drifted in silence, waiting for his
Lady's attention.

He was caught up in a pleasant daydream of what his reward might soon
be, for defeating his enemy so soundly. Though Arkus knew well the
dangers of assuming his enemy's defeat... Fey had come back from much
more serious wounds... a wound that took his life would take little more
than a day to heal... but this death had been so unexpected, that Arkus
allowed himself the luxury of imagining that Fey had had no defenses up,
and so would have been torn from his body before his powerful magics
could begin to heal him. 

He was still drifting in this gentle reverie when finally a voice 
sounded in the darkness, seeming to fill it. The voice was feminine, but
utterly hard and cold, and from the first word, the way she said his
name, he knew suddenly that he had failed.

"Arkus, you are a fool."

"Fey did not die then, my Queen?" Arkus queried, and was about to
continue, to point out that it was at least a setback for Fey, when she
interrupted him.

"Of course he died, you imbecile!"

"But, but, my Queen, if he died, then wh..." Arkus was at a loss. The
sudden surge of triumph at her words fell quickly to ashes within him,
as he realized that there was something still very wrong. He had not
just been the catalyst for Fey's rise to demi-godhood, surely?

"Silence, cretin! Speak no more." Arkus felt his tongue cleave to his
mouth, silencing his imminent plea. "You changed his summoning, and
tricked him into allowing himself to be defeated. I would commend you,
had you not been such a complete idiot!" She was screaming in fury now.
"That cat-thing that killed him, Arkus, you putrescence, that was a
human boy!"

Now, suddenly, the terrible consequences of his success fell home to
him. She had said Fey had died... that meant he had not taken the body,
even though it was now his. That meant... oh dear. The boy was now a
champion, recipient of a divine gift, and inheritor of all Fey's
power... but wasn't in service to either of the Sisters?

She spoke again, calmer now. "We've won, Arkus. What a bitter way to
win. Fey lost, and by rights, all of his power, and my sister's gift,
should now be yours, and mine. Instead, they're in the hands of this
outworlder. You've won the game, and thrown away the prize."

Arkus was about to swear to the lady that he would slay the child, and
take back the gifts, when she screamed in fury, then spoke again in a
cold voice vibrating with anger. "You fool! That boy destroyed Fey with
a single blow! The agreement was with Fey, not him. If you kill him, he
simply dies. You won't get his gifts... but if he were to kill you, he
would gain all you had!" She was shouting now, in her rage. "You will
not go near that boy, Arkus!"

Then her voice was quiet and soft again. "You are still my champion,
Arkus, and I have your power and gift, while my sister has nothing of Fey
left to her. We have won, even if it is a bitter victory. I am not wholly
displeased with you. I can feel your desire, and I grant it. You may
watch the boy. Put no influence on him directly, but if through indirect
means he comes to worship and follow me, you will be well rewarded."

Her voice faded, and he found himself once again in his own castle. He
moved quickly to his scrying room. "I must know what form the gift takes
with the boy."

---

He had been sitting there most of the night. He always had to leave the
castle when Fey went to do his summonings... he was simply too sensitive
to the emanations the spells put out. So he hunched over his mug of ale,
his seventh that night, grumbling to himself. Fey had told him that he
intended to complete his long-term plan to remove Arkus that night. Then
the wars could be renewed without outside interference, and Fey would
soon rule the Five Kingdoms with Krall at his right hand.

Krall felt a sudden burning, searing pain in his face, as if he had
just been clawed. He was not unfamiliar with the sensation... he had in
fact had his face ripped open during fights for dominance before. But
this time the pain was there, but not the damage... he put a hand to his
face and it was whole. Krall jerked upright knocking over his mug of
ale as he felt the touch of his Master leave his mind. Fey was dead! Now
was his hour of triumph come! Arkus must have defeated Fey, but he would
not know of the arrangements Fey had made, that would soon invest Krall
with Fey's power, and bind the dragon bitch to him! 

He stood suddenly, knocking his table aside, anger vibrating in his taut
form, as the other patrons of the inn backed away fearfully. He growled,
threw several coins down, and raced through the door onto the streets.
He didn't slow until he was outside of the small village, and into the
forest. There he let out his rage, howling into the night, into the
blackness of the sky.

It was his! It had been promised to him; for slaving his bloodthirst to
his master, it was to be his, but his master was dead, he felt him die,
felt the slash across the face, the sudden searing pain and the almost
instant absence of the master in his mind, but nothing had come for him.
He stood in the darkness, waiting, tense with rage and still nothing
came. It had been promised to him! Why was it not coming?

He roared his fury and his body rippled, clothes disappearing as his
already impressively muscled form grew still larger and stronger,
sprouting thick black fur as he swelled into his hybrid form. He was
the master of Lord Fey's forces, the general of his army, Fey's
right-hand, the promised and chosen successor of the Lord upon his
death. To him was to have come the great power of the Lord but it had
not! He felt nothing... not true... he felt diminished! The power lent
him by the Lord as his General was gone, stolen from him, as was what
had been promised to him.

The thief, whoever it be, would pay and pay dearly for this, the beast
swore, howling his rage and fury. Arkus, he decided, it must be Arkus
who had done this. Well, then Arkus would die.




Awakening


Ranma shifted on the cold, hard stone then blinked his eyes blearily.
Where was he? The last thing he could remember was encountering that
wildcat, which had had flecks of white foam around its mouth, and
running in fear, only barely aware of his father fleeing just as fast,
shouting something.

Now he was laying on hard stone. As his vision cleared, Ranma realized
that the stone he was on was the landing of a flight of steps. Somehow,
he had gotten inside a building. It seemed strange to him as well, for
Ranma was used to the traditional construction of Japanese homes and
dojos, thin wood and paper, while this was heavy stone. He shivered at
the oppressive feel of the heavy atmosphere.

He rose unsteadily to his feet then stared down at himself. Where had
these silk clothes come from? He had never had black silk clothes
before. What had happened to his white gi?

As he stared downward in startlement, his eye was caught by numerous
dark splotches on the ground. Kneeling, he touched one, and found it
slightly tacky. His eyes widened as he noticed the dark stains on his
outstretched hand. He jerked his hand back, cradling it as he stared at
it. If the last thing he could recall was a cat, could his confusion be
due to having succumbed to the cat-fist? Could... could these stains
be... blood? Ranma shivered, and turned about, looking at the stairs, as
if expecting to see someone standing there, accusing him. What he saw
instead was a trail of dark splotches on the stairs leading up, like
shadows on the ground, except that they were still, unmoving in the
flickering light of the torches on the walls.

For the briefest moment after thinking of the cat-fist, Ranma felt the
mild hope that the clothes might have come from someone like the nice
old lady that he had met after waking from the cat-fist for the first
time. It was crushed by the undeniable evidence of the trail of blood.
The clothes could not be denied... someone had clothed him. Had he
killed them? 

A moment of unreasoning fear threatened Ranma's sanity before a more
direct fear drove it out. He was in a strange building and might have
just committed murder. He did not know what they did to child murderers
and he had no desire to find out. He had to escape and find his father.

Glancing up the stairs one last time, Ranma firmed his courage. The
possibility that he might be underground did not occur to him, in spite
of the medieval atmosphere, for he had no stories of castles and knights
and chivalry to compare the scene to. Where a Western child would have
instantly thought of a castle or dungeon, Ranma was merely confused and
uncertain.

As silently as he was able, Ranma moved slowly down the stairs, ears
straining to hear any movement ahead of him lest he come upon someone
unawares.

---

Mairi wore a small smile as she walked softly down the hall, heading for
her master's quarters. She still could hardly believe that it had
happened, and had there been any to see her pass, they would have said
she was glowing. She had been a mere maid not a week before and now she 
was Fey's newest concubine. 

He had taken her to bed twice in the last week and now her effects had
been moved and she was heading to join them, moved to the luxurious
suites his concubines shared. 

She had hardly been able to believe it when several of the other maids
had teased her about having caught the Lord's eye. She was well aware of
her low station and she had certainly not sought employment at the
castle with an expectation of bettering herself by tempting a
high-ranking officer, as she knew some girls did. Her intent had simply
been to provide support and funds for her family to keep her younger
brother from having to follow his elder brother into the soldier's
ranks.

She had been fearful at first, when he had made advances to her, knowing
his reputation in battle, but her fears had been unfounded. Ruthless
though he was to his enemies, swift as he was to destroy anything that
held him back from his goals, ready as he might be to take what he
wanted no matter whose it was before, he had been a gentle and
considerate lover.

After she had shared his bed, she had been taken in by the other 
concubines. She had been quite surprised at the lack of acrimony, the
absence of jealousy amongst them, as they calmed her fears and reassured
her. Each of them had a story or two to tell about the Lord Fey, his
likes and desires and how to please him.

She had been very surprised to learn that in spite of having many
concubines, he still shared his wife's bed regularly, and indeed, would
not hear a word against her. One concubine had attempted to use her
position by his side to influence him against the Lady. She was never
seen again, and they would have had no idea why she had disappeared
if had she not blabbed her intent to the other concubines. No concubine
since had been so foolish as to disparage the Lady in the Lord's
hearing.

Perhaps even more surprising was the general attitude of awe and
reverence the concubines shared for the Lady. They spoke of her in
hushed whispers, with great respect. Mairi was told that she should do
all in her power to stay in the Lady's good graces, for it was she who
would protect Mairi's family. She too it was, they told her, who kept
their Lord from growing tired of them. In the absence of her favor, it
would not be long before the Lord when coming to select his night's
companion, would look to the favorless girl and say, "I do not know
you."

It could happen to any, even with the favor of the Lady, but if the lass
was in the Lady's favor, then she would find herself returning to her
family in style, with riches enough to live in comfort, shielded from
the harsher side of life in Fey's land.

Without her favor, the forgotten girl would simply vanish. None of the
girls were certain, but they hinted to Mairi that those girls, without
the protection of the Lady's words to the guards who took them away,
might well end up in the soldier's barracks, to serve their needs.

Turning a corner, Mairi recognized the hallway she was in as one of the
forbidden halls, the halls, of which there were several, that had doors
or passageways leading off, that it would mean death to take. There were
areas in the castle where none but the Lord and the Lord's familiar
Licius could go, under pain of death. She was not surprised by this. Her
former room was in the servant's quarters that hugged the front of the
castle where the castle met the soldier's barrack. Her path from there
to the concubine's wing on the far side of the castle passed through the
black wing, Lord Fey's wing. 

It was a simple matter of practicality. Moving from the white wing, the
servant's wing, to the green concubinal wing, she could either progress
to the left or the right around the castle. To the left, facing into the
castle, she would pass through the officer's wing, trimmed in blue, and
then the prison wing and the armory and finally the Lady's wing. It was
a longer path by far and passed through areas she would rather know
nothing about.

On the other hand, to the right she would pass through the red wing,
where the guests were housed, when Fey had guests. In other words, long
empty halls filled with silence; not the most pleasant of regions to
pass through. 

Moving around to the right but hugging the central black wing, with
which she had a passing familiarity from being taken to the Lord Fey's
chambers, kept her in inhabited regions for most of the journey and the
last portion of it, while largely empty, could hug the inner courtyard
and was therefore sunlit and bright.

Her apprehension was confirmed as she moved down the hall and saw the
deep red wall hanging by an archway leading to stone stairs. The wall
hanging, of a rich red velvet, had embroidered upon it in gold and black
thread the image of a hangman's noose, a headsman's axe behind it
crossing a scimitar embroidered in pure gold, the fabled Dragon's Fang. 

Even as she approached in silence, she saw movement on the stairs, and
froze, as she watched a young boy slip down the stairs and into the
hall. He had stepped out, looking down the hall facing away from her,
seemingly frozen, looking at the two guards standing to either side
of the door at the far end. Her eye caught instantly on the thick black
band around his right wrist, the golden diamond-encrusted rings on two
fingers of his right hand, and the single black band on his left hand.

She was on him in an instant, swinging him up into a hug before he was
aware of her approach. As she hugged him tightly, marveling at how
terribly cute he was, her mind drifted back to her instruction at the
hands of the concubines, and she giggled happily.

---

Sylvan, a beautiful woman with a full figure, nut-brown skin, and 
gorgeous green hair, stroked Mairi's hair with a brush as she spoke.
"Always considerate, is our Lord, Mairi. He is utterly devoted when you
get him alone, yet there is one time in which he will come here, to our
mutual quarters, but not to choose a partner for the night."

One of the other girls giggled at that, "Oh, yes, and he's just so cute
like that. You'll want to just eat him up!"

Mairi stared as the girls all broke out into giggles. Surely they didn't
mean...

"Girls, calm yourselves," ordered Linnai, a brunette of perhaps
thirty-five, still beautiful. Hers was a mature beauty; she had a strong
face filled with wisdom and love, though she wore a knowing grin, and
had giggled at first as well.

"You see," continued Sylvan, "his appearance is... well... malleable,
for want of a better term. He can change what he looks like. And
sometimes... the Lady says it is when things have gone ill for him and
he does not want to speak lest he be harsh with us... he will enter
these chambers in the form of a young boy."

"Then he is not looking to take charge," counseled Linnai, "but to be
comforted and mothered. It can be hard to remember that it is the Lord
Fey when he is like that, and it is best, indeed, to simply forget that
it is so."

"He doesn't talk much when he's like that," commented the girl who'd
giggled first, a slender and youthful, almost boyish blonde named Wren.
"But he sounds so cute when he does!"

"We pamper him when he comes in like that," said Sylvan, "bathe him,
dress him up, brush his hair..."

"Tickle him!" snickers Wren, "that's the most fun!"

"And just generally help him forget whatever has gone wrong. But never,
absolutely never speak to him about what it is. Never ask him how things
are going, or why he is unhappy. Cheer him up, but never seek to know
more than he tells you. That is the Lady's charge and duty, not ours."

---

Ranma nearly jumped out of his skin when he was suddenly grabbed from
behind. He was about to attack, when he heard her giggle. It was a girl,
he had been grabbed by a girl. He stared down the hall. At least the
guards weren't moving. She swept him up and hugged him tightly, and
Ranma shivered. That felt so good, so comforting, after the pain of
fearing he had killed. Genma never hugged him, but he was young enough
still to remember his mother's hugs. This hug felt like that, warm and
comforting. Ranma fought to keep from bursting into tears. How long he
had wanted his mother back, wanted her to comfort him, especially after
being thrown in with those c... those things. He could not cry, it was
unmanly, and his mother would be unhappy with him.

When she set him down again, grabbing his hand, he considered pulling
free and running. Unfortunately, there were guards right at the end of
the corridor, and while they weren't doing anything right now, if he was
to run, she would shout, they would chase, and pretty soon he'd have a
whole slew of people after him. Besides, his legs were a lot shorter
than theirs. How far could he get? Sure his father was training him, but
that didn't change the fact that he was a little boy. He might be able
to take out a single grown man, especially if they were not well
trained, but an unknown number of trained guards?

Ranma left his hand in the girl's warm grasp and followed her. She was
pretty, he noted, with her dark brown hair and warm brown eyes, and he
liked her smile. It reminded him of his mother.

When they reached the end of the hall, one of the guards stepped forward
and opened the door for them. They went down a curving flight of steps.
Though these were stone as well, they were wider, which made Ranma more
comfortable. As they proceeded down, Ranma noted high thin windows. They
looked too thin for him to get through, but there was light coming
through them, which reassured him that he was at least near the outside,
and escape. Not for the first time in his young life, he found himself
wondering where his father was.

This time, however, there were several factors that caused that train of
thought to reach a different station than it had previously. First there
was this pretty lady who had not seemed surprised at all to see him. 
That put his clothes into a different light, making Ranma wonder if
these stains on his hands might not be from food rather than blood.

The second factor was simply the recognition that if the stains were not
blood and the lady was unsurprised at his presence, then the whole
situation fit a pattern in his father's behavior. This would not be the
first time Genma had sold Ranma, only to steal him back again later. 

So perhaps Ranma did not need to try to escape after all. He could just
enjoy whatever comforts offered, practice his art a bit, and after a
while, Genma would come and take him away again.

Ranma reached that conclusion just as the lady paused on a landing and
opened a heavy wooden door, continuing through into another long empty
hallway. This hallway at least was better lit, for the windows were
wider and the sun streamed in lighting the hall with a golden glow. He
tugged at her hand trying to get near one of the windows and to his
surprise she did not resist. Instead she scooped him up in her arms
again and carried him to where he could see out of one of the windows.

The first thing he noticed was a heavy stone wall probably a little more
than a hundred yards away, angling further into the distance. Between
that wall and the one he was standing at a beautiful fountain sent water
flying, dancing, and sparkling in the sunlight in the midst of an
elaborate garden.

He got no more than that moment's look for she quickly set him down
again and took up his hand once more. Walking briskly they passed down
the hallway, took two slight left turns before coming upon another heavy
door. Pulling it open she led him into yet another hall.

This hallway was far more interesting than the one above had been. Where
the other hallway had been mostly empty except for the guards and a few
doors, and the one between empty except for light, this hall was well
lit by both torches and high windows on one side that let in streams of
sunlight. Ranma's attention was momentarily caught by the glittering of
the sunbeams as dust and other contaminants in the air reflected the
light, making the beams seem to have an almost physical solidity. 

He tore his eyes from the dancing motes of light when they passed by a
standing suit of armor. It looked strange to Ranma's eyes. He was by no
means worldly, but he did know what samurai armor looked like, having
seen it on wall hangings. This though, was unlike anything he had ever
seen, like a tall metal man holding a long straight sword in both hands,
point set between his feet.

There were more suits in the hall and occasional alcoves containing
carven statues of men and women garbed in strange fashion. There were
doors as well, but rather than being the sullen seeming heavy wooden
doors bound with iron bands that he had seen in the upper hallway, these
doors looked to be formed of single thin sheets of wood. They were not
shoji, as he was familiar with, and as the woman leading him opened one,
he saw they swung outward, rather than sliding on tracks, but they still
made him feel more at ease.

He followed the pretty lady into the room and started in surprise when
he heard numerous feminine squeals of delight. In moments he was being
lifted in multiple hands. He heard someone clucking disapprovingly; he
thought it was the lady holding his hands, still stained. He felt hands
tugging at his ponytail as he was carried along; his hair fell loosely
against his back. 

He felt a bit nervous when they passed through an archway into a huge
room and he saw an immense pool of water, with a smaller but still large
pool to the side, steaming. It was to this second pool that he was led,
to his surprise. He was used to washing on a stool with cold water, then
soaking in hot water; not that he'd had the opportunity in some time. It
was clearly their intent to bathe him and though Ranma felt uncertain
about it, he remembered well enough Genma's anger the last time he had
been sold and had resisted what they wanted him to do. It had apparently
cost Genma both money and a beating and he'd passed on the beating with
interest.

He gave them no complaint as they drew off his clothes, leaving him with
nothing but the black velvet armband and the rings. He watched as one of
the women spun a large wheel on one wall. It was made of metal, or so it
seemed, blackly gleaming, and it spun easily, with no visible
resistance.  Indeed, after starting it moving, she seemed to wait,
watching him, before finally putting her hand out to stop it, and when
she did, he felt a jerk beneath him. Looking around, he realized with a
start that somehow she had lowered the entire hot pool relative to the
cooler pool, and water was flowing from the cold into the hot. As they
guided him into the warm water, he noted that there was a flow of water
steadily rolling over a low spot in the lip of the pool to disappear
down a grated drain.

He sat in bemusement as they gently washed him, thinking about moving
the whole pool to adjust the temperature. To be sure, he thought, it
beat heating water to boiling in kettles, to pour in cool water until a
comfortable heat was reached, that would remain comfortable for only a
short time.

With something like these pools, they could adjust for a temperature,
and assuming the supply of water was continuous, though he had not the
least clue where it was coming from, the temperature would be constant. 

He noted with mild dismay, difficult as it was to feel concern with the
soothing heat draining his emotions, that the water where the older
woman who had tsked at him was washing his hands was turning pinkish.
Was it actually blood? If so, why did no-one seem to care?

The pretty brown haired lady who had led him down the stairs knelt by
his head and began working a gentle lather into his scalp, and he
realized that the ladies who had been cleaning his back and hands had
finished. For a moment, Ranma thought to himself that if they were going
to treat him like this, then he did not care if Genma never came back
for him. A moment later he berated himself silently. 

"He may be stupid, and I sure wish he'd never heard of the stupid
ultimate technique, but he's still my pop; besides, without him, how'm I
ever gonna find momma again?"

Mairi used a ceramic shell, of which there were several different sizes
near the hot pool, to dip out water and carefully poured it over his
head, washing the lather from his lustrous black hair, being extra
cautious not to allow any to get in his eyes. 

She nodded to the other girls, and one walked briskly to the wheel and
spun it counterclockwise. The hot water, less diluted now, though there
was still a gentle flow of cooler water passing into the hot pool, had a
soporific effect on the young boy, soothing away the aches in his
muscles, and causing him to drift into a blissful state near slumber. 

He was being watched carefully, though, and was drawn from the water and
wrapped in a large fluffy towel before the heat could overcome his small
frame. He hardly noticed, floating in bliss as he luxuriated in the
absence of the aches and pains that had been a near constant in his life
since leaving his mother, when he was carried from the bathing room, and
ensconced on a pile of cushions, as the ladies lay about him, smiling
down at him with a gentle maternal concern.

He drifted off to sleep, surrounded by beautiful women, basking in love
and affection too long unfelt, and for the first time since learning the
dreaded cat-fist, Ranma slept without nightmares.

---

The room was still and quiet. As with all the rooms in the castle, it
was built of heavy stone, but it did not seem so, for the walls were
hung with satin drapes, from which descended numerous finely woven
landscapes. The floor was concealed by a rich carpet whose threads
formed an intricate feast of color and patterns to beguile the eyes. The
ceiling was likewise concealed by innumerable hanging loops of guaze.

The centerpiece of this festive cocoon was a large bed filled entirely
with the soft down feathers of uncountable birds, and covered with
sheets of the finest silk in a deep burgundy.

Lying nestled deep in the embrace of the soft feathers, the lady of the
house slept, but her sleep was neither dreamless nor restful. She tossed
and turned as she had the night long, her sleep disturbed with torturous
memories of her only love's betrayal, the long slow death of her pure
love for him, an invisible descent masked by the love his magic made her
feel. 

She awoke with a start, sitting up, gasping for breath, feeling chills
running down her spine, as her skin prickled. Her first words, rising
from her dreamself, were "Damn you, Fey!" Hearing her own voice shocked
her into stillness, stunned by the import of those words spoken in her
voice. Over a hundred years it had been since she was able to think her
own thoughts about the Lord Fey.

Now, in the course of a single night, that remembered love had soured,
replaced by a withering disgust that stopped just shy of consuming
hatred. Hardly daring to hope, the Lady carefully extended her senses.
As ever before, she felt immediately the chains of impenetrable power
that bound her, forged from her own trust, strengthened by her blood
into bonds that could never be sundered, save by the one to whom she was
bound.

Yet if the bonds still held her, how then could she think such thoughts
of the Lord Fey? It came to her in an instant; the Lord Fey was dead,
and her bonds tied her now to his successor. She pictured Krall in her
mind, filled with savage lusts and bestial desire, a creature of evil
and malice, but filled too with a cruelty that the Lord Fey had never
shown, and shuddered with disgust and loathing.

The moment passed and she stilled. If she could think on Krall and feel
loathing and not love, then surely he could not be the one she was bound
to love. Then who?

She ran through in her mind the most likely candidates, and felt nothing
new for any of them. She trembled in fear, clutching her sheets to her,
eyes staring blankly, unseeing. Fey had been preparing for a summoning,
that she knew. Could it be that he had finally failed in his caution,
relaxed his vigilance and been destroyed by that which he summoned? It
seemed far too plausible, and the Lady's shaking grew uncontrollable, as
she pictured the demons she knew, and wondered to which she was now
bound.

Long she sat there, unmoving, unseeing, trapped in her mind's visions,
helpless in the thrall of her fear. In the end the strength of her mind
reasserted control and she threw aside her fear and concern. She was
neither weak nor helpless and she was no simple maiden to quail before
a frightful destiny. She would face her destiny with pride and honor
and show no fear.

She rose smoothly from her bed, luxurious black tresses flowing down to
end just above the smooth curve of the small of her back. She strode to
her closet, unselfconscious in her naked glory, with pale alabaster skin
that set off her ruby lips and rippled as her strong muscles slid
beneath it. Her golden slitted eyes gleamed, flashing in the darkness as
she stepped into the unlit closet to garb herself.

Emerging from the walk-in closet attired in an elegant robe of pale
purple, gathered at the waist with a light blue sash, she pulled lightly
on one of the three ropes that hung from the ceiling by her bed, then
seated herself before the mirror.

Her door opened, and Sanja, her personal maid, slipped in, sliding the
door closed silently behind her. The Lady leaned back in her chair, and
sighed with pleasure as Sanja began gently brushing her Lady's silken
hair.

"What news this morn, Sanja?" the Lady asked, leaning her head back into
Sanja's ministrations and closing her eyes.

"My Lord took no sleep, but this morning entered the concubines'
chambers with the new girl, Mairi, by his side. He was again in child's
guise. He sleeps there still, after letting them bathe him."

The Lady frowned softly, thinking on this. That her Lord was dead she
was fairly certain, and how would a foe strong enough to defeat him know
of his habit of being a child in his harem? He never walked the halls as
a child, and the concubines' chambers were in a part of the castle well
shielded from scrying, if not so completely as his summoning chamber.

Disturbed by this revelation, but unwilling to speak of her fears or
hopes, the Lady turned the conversation to a different course, 
encouraging her loyal maid to relay the gossip about the barracks, and
the generals, and about the new concubine. Anything to keep her thoughts
from where they dreaded to stray.

When Sanja's preparations were completed, the Lady rose and left her
apartments. She pressed her fear deep inside, binding it there with her
will. She would face the new Lord with head unbowed. 

Sanja followed a half-step behind her mistress, as they walked briskly
through her Lady's wing, and into the concubines' halls. The Lady nodded
as she passed a pair of guards briskly saluting, and swept up to stand
in stillness before the doors of the concubines' communal chambers.
Sanja moved past her, swinging wide the door before her mistress.

The Lady moved regally into the room, nodding politely, a gentle smile
on her face as she looked on her companions in bondage. Following the
line of their gaze, her eyes fell upon the sleeping youth, black hair
unbound flowing round an innocent face, a soft smile indicating pleasant
dreams. The velvet armband and the rings gave no room for mistake. This
youth, swathed in a soft white towel, the very picture of cherubic
innocence, was the Lord Fey, yet her own certain knowledge insisted that
this was not the Lord Fey they had known, that the Lord who had betrayed
her now lay dead at the hands of this child.

The Lady turned her piercing gaze on the eldest of her Lord's 
mistresses, Linnai. "You bathed him. Was he stained with blood?"

Linnai nodded. "His hands, Milady, were stained black with dried blood."

"Our Lord's blood," replied the Lady softly, eyes shining.

"Nay, Mistress," objected Sylvan, "We found no marks upon him, no
wounds. He is uninjured." She looked pleadingly at her Lady, begging to
be believed, afraid that they would be punished for having failed to
seek aid for their Lord in his need.

"Indeed," acknowledged the Lady, "but this is not the one who was our
Lord. Lord Fey is dead, and this child, his slayer."

Her words threw the girls into a panic, several bursting into tears,
while the others drew back from the child as if he were a devil; others
pled with the Lady, begging her to say that she was not speaking sooth. 

"It is so," the Lady said simply, "the Lord Fey has passed on, and this
child is his heir, the new Lord Fey."

That statement threw a few into a frenzy of denial, while others took
comfort. If he were the new Lord Fey, then they would surely not be
punished for having aided the slayer of their Lord.

Mairi listened, her mind whirling with denials. It could not be! Her
mind played out for her the probable results of her actions; she and her
family taken to the headsman's block. She wanted to run, to flee, but
she knew that to do so would merely make the punishment more certain and
were she to actually escape, her family would still pay the price.

Summoning all her courage, Mairi stepped up, tears rolling slowly down
her cheeks. She dropped to her knees by her Lady's side. "I am sorry, my
Lady. I... I found him descending the staircase that leads to one of the
Forbidden Rooms, but he bore the rings, and I took him for the Lord Fey;
the others, they told him of how he sometimes comes to them as a child
for solace, I thought it was him, I swear I did." She was sobbing by the
end of her confession. "Please, Lady, I didn't mean any harm."

The Lady rested one delicate pale hand on Mairi's head. "Be calm, child.
He is the new Lord Fey, and due all that was the old Lord's. All that
was Fey's, is now his. You have done no wrong."

Looking on the sleeping child, murderer though he must be, the Lady
could feel love for him swelling within her. It was with difficulty that
she pulled her gaze from him. She quickly left the chambers, drawing 
Mairi and Sanja after her.

They were followed into the hall by the full coterie of her dead
husband's lovers, frightened, dismayed, many in tears for the one who
had been their love. Others, like Mairi, had not truly loved him,
whether for lack of time or from having seen his harsher side, and were
therefore more concerned about the new Lord than the old. Was he truly a
child or was he something more sinister merely wearing the guise of a
child as a convenience?

"The child sleeping in these chambers is the Lord of the lands of Fey,"
stated the Lady calmly. "His will is our law." She focused her attention
on Mairi. "We must hope for the moment that his mien is true. If it is
then you, Mairi, have his trust, inasmuch as any here can be said to
have it. Take him then to the Lord's chambers, let him sleep himself out
upon the bed that is now his. Be there for him when he awakes to guide
him lest he resist being served. If he is but a child then he may be
unusued to being served and I want no-one being let go because the Lord
declined his services. While he is our Lord, if his form is truth then
he will need guidance and a firm hand. If he is aught else in but a
child's form then will we need to know what in sooth he is and that you
must learn for us, Mairi."

The Lady frowned pensively. "Perhaps it would be best if I did not look
upon him again. So far as it is possible, ensure that he does not know
of me, to ask for me. You shall be my hand in this."

With that, the Lady withdrew, returning to her wing of the castle to
ponder in her chambers. Mairi watched the Lady leave, walking with a
stately grace that she and her companions could but aspire to. The women
around her looked on her with a sympathetic air, for on her had been
laid an unpleasant task. 

If indeed the child were no child, which she had a difficult time
believing, then it seemed likely that he was a mischievous rather than
cruel sort, given the form he wore. Even that was decidely uncertain.
The best case scenario, it seemed, was to hope that the child was but
what he seemed, yet that put her, only two years a woman, in the
position of raising a Lord with the power of life and death over his
subjects.

Her brother's tantrums were fierce indeed and he could be but little
younger than this boy's seeming. If the new Lord should throw such a
tantrum, how many would die to appease a childish anger? Worse yet,
would not the responsiblity for such an act lie most truly upon her, as
she had been given the burden of guiding him?

She re-entered the common room. In sooth not all of the concubines had
been there, for some were yet abed and others in the gardens. They had
each their own personal chambers and she had not yet seen her own, nor
yet would she, for she had a burden to take up.

Kneeling by the sleeping Lord, she gathered him into her arms, keeping
the towel wrapped securely around his slumbering form. Rising to her
feet she blessed his small size. Even so he was a burden. Carrying him
forth from the chamber, she paused outside while Linnai delegated two of
the other concubines to aid her in carrying him. 

They progressed down the halls, trading him off as the burden became too
great to bear, and thus they made their way to the black wing and
finally to the familiar doors of his chamber. Wooden they were but not
the stout oak of the hall doors nor the slender light wood of their own
chamber doors but a heavy black mahogany bound with black steel,
befitting the motif of the black wing.

The doors to her Lord's chambers opened wide before her, responding to
the power of the ring the child wore. Her two companions wished her luck
and left. She felt no comfort in the newly familiar site of his rich
suite. Even as she passed the small sitting room to enter the bedroom,
she felt chills course over her. Such a short time before it was, she
wondered, looking at the bed, that she had lain there in the heated
embrace of her Lord's arms, and now he lay in the cold embrace of death,
and her arms now embraced his killer, as she lay him upon the silken
sheets. 

Unable to balance him, she was forced to lay him entirely upon the
pillows at the head of the bed to draw back the sheets, before placing
him on the bed proper. As she tucked him in, she couldn't help but note
that he seemed small for his age, thin, though his form was fit and hard
for such a youth, as she had recalled from his bathing. She had believed
it then to be but an artifact of his form, for was he not in fact the
dread Lord Fey and why should he take on a flabby or unkempt form? Now
she recalled the thin scars on his form. If he was a child in truth,
then why was he so small and thin, and yet so well muscled, and why was
he covered in tiny angry scars?

Mairi considered what she would do when he awoke and decided that if she
was about to become a concubine to a different Lord, should he not be
the child he seemed, she preferred it on her own terms. A plan formed
and solidified over the hours as he slept.

---

As the sky began to slowly lighten with the imminence of dawn, Krall
crouched in the woods near one of the houses beyond the outskirts of the
town proper. Though he had several caches of clothes in hidden places
within the encircling forest he did not want to make use of them.

He could not be certain yet who had taken control of Fey castle but it
scarcely mattered. If it was some powerful demon or that damned Arkus
they would likely slay the high ranking officers to put in their own
servants, to ensure loyalty. If the one who slew Fey had not taken power
then it would likely be the Lady or Torhm in control now, taking
advantage of his absence and unfortunately Krall had never been the sort
to encourage loyalty amongst his troops.

Whichever way things ran it was unlikely that he would retain his
position and it was rather probable that they would seek his head rather
than simply releasing him from service. 

Still it was not in Krall's nature to run blindly from a threat. He
would not attack blindly either and would certainly consider carefully
before pitting himself against one who could slay the Lord Fey, but he
would not give up on the power he had come so close to gaining out of
mere fear or uncertainty.

He growled in irritation as he counted the days on his hand. Today was
not one of the three soldier's market days, wherein the townsfolk would
come to sell their wares in the open plaza, or from within the covered
buildings, if they were rich enough, that faced the open wall of the
common soldier's barracks.

Even as he muttered against that injustice he reconsidered. Perhaps it
was for the better. Granted he would have been able to more easily
obtain the gossip he was interested in, the banter between the soldiers
that would tell him how things stood within the castle, but he would
also have run a far greater risk of being recognized. 

Amongst the numerous peasants at the fair on the far side of the
soldier's market as they bartered and traded for the goods made by the
castle artisans and craftsmen he would be inconspicuous, once properly
garbed. The common soldiers rarely showed up there but the officers
often sought baubles at the fair with which to curry favor with their
ladies or entice a fresh young maiden.

When Krall moved on into the brightening day the house he left was
bathed in blood and he was cloaked in peasant's garb.

---

Ranma awoke with a start, sitting up in a sudden but smooth motion.
Before his bleary eyes could clear, he heard a thick, sultry voice.
"Ah, you're awake, Master." He rubbed his eyes, and looked around. He
only got to the point of noticing that he was sitting on a huge bed,
wearing nothing but a black wrist guard, before noticing the beautiful
woman sitting on the edge of the bed.

Mairi leaned alluringly toward him, her silk night-robe hanging loose,
giving him a perfect view of her assets. Her soft brown hair framed a
heart shaped face with lips a ruby red that glistened wetly. She shifted
slightly, so that her night-robe swung open wider, revealing an expanse
of smooth skin, a tightly muscled stomach, and full breasts. He dove
beneath the covers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't see nothing, really,
honest, uh, please, uhm, please don't hit me, I'm sorry, I wasn't
looking." Finally he paused for a moment, waiting in uncertain
anticipation. Though he ought to be able to defend himself against one
person alone, he could not hit someone who reminded him of his mother,
so had resigned himself to taking a beating.

Whenever his father had been caught looking at a woman, the lady would
instantly start to attack him, but he had not been attacked yet. He
heard a soft, low chuckle. "Why does the Master fear his servant?" Mairi
asked. His response had confirmed in her eyes the truth of his
appearance, sending a wave of relief over her and she didn't even try to
resist the urge to tease him, after his cutely fearful reaction.

He felt her hand on his shoulder through the blankets and sheets, then
he felt her drawing them back, uncovering him. He realized with sudden
shame that he was wearing no clothing, nothing at all, and sought  
desperately to cover himself, as she pulled away the covers. "You seem
uncomfortable, Master. If you do not want to be unclothed, why do you
not clothe yourself?"

He looked around frantically, blindly oblivious to the teasing glint in 
her amused eyes, still covering himself, looking anywhere but at her.
"Where are they? Where are my clothes?"

"Master?" she asked, schooling her features into a suitably confused
expression. "What do you mean? You know you have only to think of it,
and your clothing will appear." The concentration needed to keep from
bursting into furious giggles gave her look an earnestness that he
seemed to sense when he finally looked at her, desperately.

Could she be right? It did not make any sense, any more than her
constantly calling him Master. He kept expecting her to suddenly realize
that he was not whoever she thought he was, and attack him for deceiving
her, or more likely, call for the guards he vaguely remembered seeing.
But she did not. Hoping frantically, he concentrated on picturing what
he needed most, and suddenly he was wearing a pair of black silk boxers.
He breathed a sigh of relief then asked, "Wha... where...  where'd they
come from?"

As he saw the confusion deepen in her eyes, he tensed, again expecting
her to suddenly realize that he was not who she thought he was and
attack him. While he did not see any of the signs his father had taught
him to look for to recognize another martial artist, the fact that they
were on this bed told him that they were in at least a large house, and
there were probably others within easy calling distance. If she called
out he might be forced to attempt a quick getaway, a very difficult 
thing when he had no idea of the layout of the house.

He was beginning to have memories of the night before, images of the
strange construction of the building, even of a woman who looked like
this one. It had been so different though that it seemed a dream and her
calling him Master had unnerved him. He was used to Genma selling him
but always before it had been as a servant or a son. Sometimes he had
been well-treated, other times he had been put to work; never had he
been called Master.

When he saw sudden comprehension dawn in her gaze, he pulled his legs
beneath him, ready to leap, his eyes darting suddenly around the room,
taking in the huge closet, the massive wardrobe, the open paper door to
a large bath, and the massive oaken doors that must lead outside.
Mairi grinned inwardly. She had prepared a whole 'realization' scene to
control his reaction and convince him to reveal both his true form and 
how he had defeated the Lord Fey should he not prove to be a mere child
and though he had convinced her with his initial reaction, she 
recognized that he still needed to be introduced to the truth of his new
situation, and continued therefore with the game she had begun.

"You are not the old master in a new form," she breathed out slowly, and
he gulped, and prepared to leap, "You are a new master." She smiled 
suddenly and it seemed to light the whole room. "You must have defeated
him! Such power in one so young. Is this your true form?"

He looked at her aghast. She had realized that he was not her master,
and then simply decided that he was anyway? This made no sense. "True
form? What'd ya mean by that?" he asked, edging slowly backward, toward
the edge of the bed. "Who'd I defeat? I don' remember fighting nobody."
But the blood, there had been blood... or was that just a dream?

"But you must have. You are wearing his clothing and his rings, the
doors answered to your presence. You must have defeated him," she said,
almost despairingly, looking around with wild eyes, as if expecting 
someone to suddenly appear. "He can't just be playing with me. He can't!
He would never have given you his clothes, not even to play a trick on
me. It would be too dangerous." She was breathing rapidly now, and he
could see her fear rising, though not the smirk she hid inside.

"Don' worry. Don' be afraid. I'll protect you from him." he said
suddenly, wanting to stop the tears he saw glistening in her eyes. He
hated to see girls cry. "Jus don' cry. Please don't cry." 

She suddenly reached out, gathered him to her and held him tightly, as
tears fell from her eyes. The tears did not fall for the reason he
thought, though she latched onto them as if they did. His painfully
sweet protective response had brought true tears to her eyes as she
considered whether to reveal to him that he had been the one to kill
Fey. 

Sobbing under her breath, he could hear her chanting, "He must be dead.
He must be dead." He could feel her heartbeat, thudding against his
back and the warmth of her pressed against him. It caused no response
in him though. He was still too young for that. He felt only an urgent
desire to stop her tears, to comfort her, and to erase her fear. He
thought desperately, trying to think of a way that he might have
defeated someone and yet not remembered it.

He tried to remember how he had come here, and finally he recalled
sitting at the fire with his father, having just finished their meal,
when a large wildcat had appeared. It was foaming at the mouth, and his
father had jumped up shouting about rabies and had run from it nearly as
fast as Ranma himself had.

"Cat-fist!" he said suddenly. "I could'a defeated him with the cat-fist
and I would'n a remembered anything. I never do." Her tears stopped,
and she sniffled. A sudden dread fell on him. She had been chanting,
"he must be dead." If he had to be dead for Ranma to have his clothes, 
though he wondered how she had recognized his boxers, then that meant
Ranma had killed. A cold shiver went through him, and sudden tears
sprang to his eyes as the blood in the water coming from his hands
pushed itself to the forefront. No it was a dream, it was just a dream.

"No. No, I didn't. Please no. Tell me I didn't! Oh, God, I killed 
him. I'm a murderer. Damn you, old man! I'll prolly kill again and I
won't even remember it."

She held him through his sobbing tears, rocking him back and forth, and
trying to comfort him. When his tears finally slowed, she tried to
reassure him that the man he had killed had been thoroughly evil; he had
deserved to die. She was not really that sure of it herself but she knew
he had taken the Lady's love for him and used it to trap her. Whatever
else he had done, for that act alone he deserved whatever had happened
though neither she nor the Lady would ever have sought to bring about
retribution for it themselves.

"Maybe. Maybe it wasn't wrong to kill him. But I didn't know that. I
could'na known. I just lashed out. It could'a been someone that didn' do
nothin'." Just forget about it. You can't remember, it didn't happen, a
voice seemed to say to him. He shook his head fiercely, feeling the
wrongness of the plan. Momma said to always tell the truth. His look of
sorrow suddenly turned to a look of pained determination. "But I have to
know. I have to know if I really killed him." How could he tell his
mother the truth if he did not even know what the truth was?

He extricated himself from her arms and jumped lightly off the bed.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated again, trying to picture himself in
his typical clothing. When he opened them, he found he was indeed
wearing his traveling gear, except that they were all black. "Weird." He
sighed and turned to the lady. "Please get dressed. I need ya to help
me find him." 

Mairi shivered but nodded, slid off the bed, and walked into the closet.
Ranma sat cross-legged on the floor to wait for her. As Mairi dressed in
one of the many outfits kept ready in the Lord's chambers, that his
ladies might never have to tread the halls in the clothes in which they
came to him, which often failed to survive his attentions, she
considered the conversation she had just had. 

His reactions seemed to confirm his apparent age and maturity and his
speech had agreed with the Lady's concern about his possibly being
unused to servants. Now he had ordered her to accompany him to find the
body of her dead lord. The thought frightened her, particularly when she
considered where it must be and what the punishment was for being found
in those areas, but it had been a direct request and the Lady had been
clear about his being the new Lord, regardless of the truth of his
appearance, so she dared not disobey. Surely that request would protect
her from the consequences of trespass in the forbidden areas?

Several minutes later, she stepped out again, dressed in an elegant 
dress of green silk, and held out her shapely hand for his. He rose
lithely to his feet and she led him out the door.

She watched him as he walked down the halls, turning where she said. He
moved, to her eyes, with an unusual grace and an even more unusual
silence. He seemed like an animal, graceful and sure in his movements, 
with an abundant but hidden power. She shivered in delight, remembering
the hard lines of his body as he sat on the bed. She quickly suppressed
the thought. He was too young to want that of her and his lack of
reaction when she held him confirmed that this was his true form, or at
least, his true age.

She would not normally have thought of such a youth in that way but she
had already been party to bathing that solid body at a time when she
believed him to be the Lord Fey. She had been unable, while bathing him,
to keep from thinking of her Lord's hard muscles as he had pleasured
her and now she was finding that link in her mind was still affecting
her.

She stopped him at the bottom of a flight of stone steps rising between
walls of stone beside a red wall hanging and pointed silently upward. 
His step as he walked upwards started light enough, but by the time they
reached the landing where he had lain, his step had grown heavy, and his
shoulders had drooped. She paused behind him, feeling for his obvious
pain and depression, as he stared down at the small bloodstains where he
had lain. 

He knew he had no injuries on him, so this blood was not his. This only
served to confirm his fears, and his depression grew. She offered,
though with visible trepidation, to go on ahead, and verify the death,
so that he need not see it, but he cut her off. "I gotta see. I can't
just hide from what I did. I... I gotta face it." 

She marvelled at his strength of will, to do what he so obviously wished
not to have to do, with no one there telling him it was necessary. She
was far more used to young children finding any and every way possible
to shirk chores or avoid owning up to damages they had caused. The
image of the innumerable tiny scars that lined his body formed in her
mind and she shivered. What had this child been through, to be so
serious, so young?

Ranma was struck by her compassionate look and began to reconsider his
memories of the night before. Perhaps it had not been a dream. At that
thought, it was all he could do not to burst into tears and beg her to
hold him again as she had in his dream. He firmed his will. It was just
a dream. Real people were not like that. Real people hurt you, hit you,
forced you to do all sorts of unpleasant things, not unlike what he was
doing now. She was not forcing him, he acknowledged, but that was
probably only because he was doing what she wanted. Let him try to do
something else, or show a sign of being unmanly, and the facade of
compassion would fall. He would be in trouble and then Genma would beat
him again when he came to steal him back.

With a heavy sigh, he walked up the stairs. As he neared the top, his
shoulders straightened and his step firmed, though she could still see
depression and fear in the soft features of his youthful face.

He looked up, and started in surprise, then pointed at the door. "Oh
man... No way... Wow! Well, I was definitely in Neko-ken." She gasped in
awe. The three inch thick iron door had a hole slashed through it, the
edges jagged and sharp. A strong light shone through the hole in the
door, glinting off the iron filings that covered the floor.

Mairi was startled at the sight. She knew little about magic but she
guessed that the strange carvings and varied designs in the door must be
magical, probably some kind of defenses to keep out the unwanted. 
Regardless of whether the door was in fact magical or not, it was still
three inches of solid iron. 

Now it looked like the practice posts in the yards after twenty or 
thirty guards had spent several hours whittling them with their swords,
yet her new Lord seemed to recognize it as a result of his own attack. 

A shiver ran down her. A powerful attack that looked like it had been
made by an animal combined with the boy's stated lack of memory over
these instances added up to a clear conclusion in her mind. The boy was
a werecreature. He could not be a full halfling as General Krall was or
he would remember his actions fully. 

No, he must be one of the werekin, one of those cursed to turn into an
animal under certain conditions, usually one mad with rage, vicious and
powerful, with no memory of their actions while in the grip of the
beast. She murmured under her breath, praying that the Lady would know
how to free the boy of his curse, as Ranma pressed against the door.

With a sudden crack and flare of light, the door burst inwards, and they
both covered their eyes and they gagged at the stench of blood. 

The whole room was in complete disarray. The chemicals on one wall were
spilled and mixing on the floor, contributing to the miasma in the air.
The glass pipes that had held them were shattered, some still hanging in
their fixtures, cleanly severed. The books and scrolls along the walls
were largely shredded.

On the floor lay two bodies. One, tall and lean, the body of the Master,
a massive pool of blood surrounding his head as he lay face down; the
other a large cat, lying motionless, not even breathing, on the floor
some distance away. She turned back to look at the boy, watching as the
horror in his eyes faded to anguish, and then hardened to a look of 
steel. 

"Never again," she heard him say under his breath as he turned to leave.
"Come on, please, I gotta get out of here," he said, his voice trembling
slightly. Under his breath she heard him mutter to himself, "I gotta be
strong,"

He choked back a sob, fighting against the threatening tears, then 
taking a deep breath, he said firmly, "I killed him, so I gotta..." He
paused suddenly. What did he know about caring for the dead? He had to
say prayers for the spirit of the man he killed, but what did he know of
the spirits and the gods? He looked away, uncertain, and said no more.

He did not look at her but simply turned and walked to the door, and
started down the stairs. She followed quickly after, as happy as he was
to leave the stench of death behind. 

"You need not worry yourself, Master. I will have the other servants
take care of his burial." 

Bury him? Is that what they do? Well, I don't know the prayers to say,
so I guess I'll just have to bury him. Maybe the spirits'll understand
that? "Yeah, all right. I gotta think for a bit. Is there someplace I
can just be alone to sit and think? They can get him ready, and maybe
get him some clothes or somethin'. But I gotta bury him." 

Pain flickered in his gaze, and she marvelled again at his strength of
will. So young. He must want to collapse in tears. How would he be able
to live with what he has done? Yet he was strong. It would be much
easier on him if he were not so good. If he had been as evil as she had
feared this would not be bothering him at all and so while she felt
empathy for his pain, at the same time it reassured her.  

"Very well, young Master, it will be as you say."

"And after, we can talk about why you keep on callin' me that," he said,
the pain even more evident in his voice. She sensed that it was not the
Master's death that pained him now but somehow her words that had hurt
him. She shrank inside. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.
She did not want his anger and pain directed at her. "But right now I
just wanna be alone for a while."
  
Mairi nodded, considering her options. She did not feel safe leaving him
totally alone. He was just a young boy, even with his affliction, and he
was her responsibility. She thought of the small rock garden in the
concubines' wing where the others had told her they sometimes went to
meditate, or write letters to their families, or just to enjoy a time of
quiet. It would do and he would not be out of sight. She could also take
him outside to the innermost courtyard but it had a fountain and young
children needed careful supervision there. At the enclosed rock garden
he could be given more space without concern that he might take injury
before being noticed.

She led him back to the concubines' wing. This time she talked to him as
they walked, telling him about the areas they passed through. This was
his castle now and he would need to learn its ways. She pointed out the
deep green wall hangings to either side of the doors leading from the
stair landing. "This is where I took you last night, if you remember,"
she said, incidentally confirming the reality of his dreams, which dazed
him, "and is sometimes called the Green Wing. Because of the hangings,
you see."

Ranma's eyes grew slowly wider as she led him down a hall that matched
the one in his memories perfectly. He had felt certain that those
memories were but a dream and yet here he was walking down that dream
hall. A slow warmth seemed to well up in his chest at the thought of the
compassion he had seen in the eyes of his guide and the memory of his
gentle treatment at the hands of the women she had brought him to.

She entered a different door and Ranma was surprised to see a familiar
seeming rock garden, very like the one he had first learned to meditate
in. Genma had shown little respect for that master and had verbally
denigrated him after they left. Genma had little use for meditation and
had taken Ranma there only to learn to find his center and correct his
breathing. 

That dojo had had a rock garden much like this one. Mairi was mildly
suprised at the wide smile the boy wore at the sight of the room.
"Thanks," he said, "this is perfect." He ran off into the room and as
she watched, he settled into a sitting position that looked painful,
with his ankles resting atop his thighs and began to stare off into
space. 

Mairi caught the eyes of the two women currently using the room,
signaling them to watch the boy without disturbing him, then slipped out
of the room.

She had much to do.

---

Mairi walked briskly through the halls, taking the fastest course she
knew of to reach the Lady's chambers. She breathed a sigh of heartfelt
relief when she saw the Lady's personal guards standing by her chamber
doors. Had they not been present it would have meant that the Lady was
not present in her chambers. Mairi would then have been forced to waste
even more time in searching for the Lady.

To her surprise, the guards did not accost her nor demand her business
when she approached. As soon as they saw her, they opened the doors
before her. "I guess the Lady must have told them to be expecting me,"
Mairi mused internally.

Striding into the Lady's chambers she was instantly met by a young boy
of around ten years. "This way, milady," he said, bowing low to her then
guiding her through the chambers.

Mairi followed him in mild bemusement, wondering how the Lady had known
to expect her. She was startled and a bit frightened when the child
swung wide a door before her and she saw sitting on a couch with his
feet resting on an ottoman, in deep discussion with the Lady, General
Torhm. He looked up when she entered, his hard brown eyes fixing her
like a mouse speared by the hungry eyes of an eagle.

The Lady gestured to a third couch set nearby. "Please, Mairi, have a
seat. I've just been explaining to General Torhm what has been
happening."

Torhm nodded, following her with his cold eyes as she nervously sat
perched on the edge of the couch. "I've lived in expectation of this
day. Summoning is a dangerous business. I've oft wondered what would
happen if one of his demons or such got away from him. The Lady tells me
that now that it has happened, the demon is naught but a small child?"
His skepticism was clear in his voice.

"He does seem to be, milord." 

The Lady smiled gently at Mairi. "Mairi had the fortune, be it good or
ill, to be the first to come upon the new Lord. She was tasked with
laying him to rest, and on his awakening, finding out the truth of him.
So, Mairi, you believe now that he is what he seems, a child?"

"Yes, Lady, though... I think he is like Krall." Seeing the flash of
hatred in Torhm's eyes, she was quick to disambiguate her words. "No,
not exactly, not like a halfling. But a victim of one, I think. He...,"
Mairi shivered under Torhm's cold gaze, wondering what his reaction
would be to her disclosure. "He made me take him to where I found him,
and together we entered the summoning chamber. Lord Fey is there still,
lying in a pool of blood, and Licius is with him, dead but seemingly
uninjured, though we didn't look closely. The metal door had a hole torn
through it. The child recognized it, he said it was a result of training
his father put him through, that he called the cat-fist."

Torhm's dour face darkened. The comment about the child being a victim
of a werebeast struck home for him. Surely it explained things? If Krall
had been promised something on Fey's death, he could well be the sort
who would be impatient for what he had been promised. If he came into
the knowledge that Fey would be summoning a child from some village,
perhaps for interrogation, perhaps for a sacrifice, he could well have
arranged to infect the child as a means of striking undetectably and
unexpectedly at Fey. He readily discounted the boy's words of training.
Krall was more than enough to frighten some poor child's father into
going along with a story, and once he'd infected the boy, altering his
memories would likely be easy.

"Where is he now?" queried the Lady, forestalling Torhm's outburst.

"He is in the stone garden. There are a few ladies there, and I asked
them to watch him. He has not yet eaten and I was planning on taking him
something soon. He asked that Fey be prepared for burial. He says that
as he killed him, he must be the one to bury him."

The Lady motioned to a servant standing in the shadows. The servant
stepped forward and the Lady dispensed whispered instructions for
several moments, then released the servant, who quickly left the room.

"You have done well, Mairi. Tell me, do you wish to be reassigned? Or do
you wish to remain with him? You realize that he will have no need of
concubines, if he is what he appears to be, for many long years."

"I...," Mairi paused, blushing lightly in memory of her short time with
Fey. She thought of the child, and his sweet reaction to her tears, fake
though they had been, and the innumerable tiny scars on his surprisingly
strong body. "I would stay with him, if I could."

Torhm nodded sharply, surprising Mairi, who had been under the
impression that the hard-eyed man had been looking at her in
disapproval, unaware as she was that it was his habitual expression. "If
you are to be Regent, Lady Alana, it would be well if you spent as
little time as possible in his company. You said the spell holds you
still." He turned his gaze to Mairi. "It is vitally important, Mairi,
that the child not learn that his commands must be obeyed by all about
him until he has been taught proper restraint and his duty to his
people, lest a petulant fit bring chaos. The Lady will rule as regent
until he comes of age. Until then he must be protected and trained." He
scowled suddenly and deeply. "And if he is infected, as you suspect," he
continued, and he turned now to the Lady, "you must find a way of curing
him lest the one that infected him get close enough to control him."

"Some long awaited changes draw nigh," commented the Lady with a soft
smile.

Torhm stood and bowed low to the Lady then, to Mairi's intense surprise,
cast a bow in her direction as well. "There is much to be done, if you
ladies will excuse me?"

"Of course, General. We shall speak again, anon." The Lady spoke with a
smile, and dismissed him with a gentle gesture, then returned her
attention to Mairi.

"So, tell me of our new master."

---

The door of the third common room in the officer's halls slammed open,
crashing loudly into the wall on which it was affixed. Instant silence
ensued, as the various officers, taking their ease amidst the pleasures
the room offered, looked up in startlement to see the cold face of
General Torhm.

"Simnir!" Torhm bellowed, unnecessarily, for Simnir was rising already
from his position at a game of billiards played on a large eight sided
table. He excused himself from the game, passing his cue to one of the
watching men. Conversations slowly resumed as Simnir caught up his oiled
cloak from where it lay across a padded armchair by an empty hearth.

He crossed the room quickly and pulled the door closed as he followed
Torhm into the hall. "Interrupted a ruddy good match, you know. So,
what'd her Ladyship want, anyway?"

Torhm shook his head, frowning, and flicked one finger upwards. Taking
the hint, Simnir fell silent. Torhm led the way to an upward wending
staircase. Soon they stood on the roof near the forward edge of the
castle. Though the roof was far from flat and empty, it was easy enough
to see whether anyone was around, and readily possible to avoid being
seen from the ground.

Simnir followed Torhm into the shadow of one of the massive
siege-breaker engines that dotted the outer rim of the castle roof and
waited patiently. Torhm strode into the darkness of the engine's shadow
then spun to face Simnir, a broad and malicious grin spreading across
his face.

Simnir gaped at him, and Torhm laughed heartily.

"I take it the news is good then, Torhm?" queried Simnir tentatively.

"Better than that, Simnir, far better. Fey is dead!"

Simnir shuddered. "But Krall?" Krall had all but promised him once, when
they were alone, that Simnir's death would follow swiftly after the Lord
Fey's. He was aware of Simnir's loyalties and apparently had no
intention of showing mercy or leniency to those he considered enemies.

"Has lost his place due to his own actions, as far as I can see.
Apparently the new lord is but a boy. The concubine who found the child
gave evidence this morn that she thinks he is a victim of a werebeast.
What says that to you, eh?"

"Krall...," Simnir breathed out in awe. "I would never have believed him
to be so subtle or devious, but he must have learned of our Lord's
intent and infected the child he summoned, expecting to come into power
when the Lord Fey died!"

"My thoughts exactly, Simnir! Somehow that power fell to the boy
though..." Torhm fell suddenly silent, a disturbing and most unpleasant
thought crossing his mind. "Could... could it be that the child is a
thrall?"

Simnir considered this for a moment, his skin crawling. If their new
lord was but a pawn of Krall's, if there had been no mistake in the
beast's plans, then their end could not be far off. "Has the Lady seen
the child yet?"

"Aye, but she saw him before they knew the truth of his form."

"Even so, she is familiar with Krall. A mere infected whelp might not be
sensed, particularly when not enraged, but surely his stench would lie
heavily upon a thrall?"

Torhm nodded slowly. "Be it so, let us hope, but leave us plan for the
worst. Quickly now, before Krall has time to capitalize on his plan, if
it be his. Go spread the word, Krall's rank is rescinded by decree of
the Lady, he has no more authority to give orders, and any found aiding
him after being told this are considered traitors. A sentence of
banishment is to be announced for him, and death to follow if he remains
in the land beyond the week."

Simnir nodded and raced across the roof to the stairs to spread the
news. Torhm watched him go, then turned to gaze across the roof's
expanse, to the great tower that rose from the left eye of the inner
courtyard. Leaning his back against the catapault behind him, he sighed
deeply.

Whether or no the new Lord turned out to be in thrall to the beast,
Torhm recognized that the real power lay now in the hands of the Lady.
While he respected her greatly, knowing what she was, he knew also that
she would not understand his desire to renew the war against Farallon.
Indeed, it would not likely be long before she sued for a formal peace.

He could try to wrest the reigns of power himself. The tower that stood
before him belied that thought, however. Without the knowledge of his
enemies' tactics and the defense against their scrying that had been
centered in that tower, fed by his Lord's knowledge and power, his plans
would be laid bare before the eyes of the Mage Tower in Farallon. 

For now, his dreams would lie dormant once more.

---

After speaking for a time with the Lady, telling her all that had
occurred, Mairi returned to the concubines' wing, where she made her
way to the kitchens. She had not been there before, but as a former
servant herself, she knew how to read the subtle signals that guided the
servants through the unending halls of Fey Castle. 

Though she had not previously set foot in the kitchens nor yet was she
herself familiar with the servants who lived in this wing, still she
found herself recognized by the head cook, a stern woman, strong and
tall, but old, and hardened of features, with iron-gray hair swept back
into a loose bun. Mairi was almost surprised that the cook's hair was
not tightly gathered, for the woman looked to be one who tolerated
nothing out of place. A closer look around the kitchen showed that the
benches on which the undercooks sat to work at tasks by the heavy table
were padded, and Mairi realized that like her own former Head of Maids,
this cook, though she likely tolerated no dissension, still understood
that comfortable working conditions made for pleasant workers.

The woman strode quickly through the busy kitchen to the door where
Mairi had entered, then bowed, surprising Mairi, who barely kept herself
from bowing lower in return. "How may I help you, Lady Mairi?" the cook
asked, surprising her once more, as she was still more used to being
addressed familiarly. The woman's voice was like her, hard-edged and
old, but her tone was respectful.

Mairi smiled as best she could in such unfamiliar circumstances. "I need
a bracing meal for a young lad of about seven years, who is shortly to
attend a funeral."

The head cook smiled softly, winking at her, a startling act for one so
seeming stern, as if to say she knew of whom Mairi spoke, before turning
back and glaring about the kitchen. Mairi realized then that all the
activity had ceased at her words, as they sought to gain fuel for their
gossip. Under the head cook's sharp gaze, the noise level rose quickly,
as all pretended industry, putting extra emphasis into their work to
avoid being singled out as an example.

Nodding sharply, the woman began barking out orders, and as Mairi
watched, a massive wheeled cart was brought out and steadily loaded down
with food. It seemed overmuch to her, being used to servant's rations,
but lacking experience with what lords ate and knowing better than to
contradict the cook in front of her workers, she held her tongue. Her
new Lord was rather thin, after all.

Soon she was walking behind two of the women from the kitchen. The
larger of the two, strongly built, with a scar on her face that puckered
the skin, from being splashed with boiling liquid as a child, pushed the
cart easily, loaded down though it was, while her smaller companion
counted halls and doors as they passed.

They had reached the hall the stone gardens were in when the women
stopped. "Seven on the third hall and to the right," the smaller women
mumbled, "This'll be it, closest dining hall to the stones room."

She turned to Mairi even as she grasped the handle and pulled the door
wide. "Lady Mairi, if you will go to bring the boy, we will be ready by
your return," she said, as the other woman pushed the cart into the
room.

Startled for a moment at their familiar address for their Lord, she
recalled that she had not said that the meal was for the Lord Fey, and
though the head cook had behaved as though she knew of whom Mairi had
spoken, she had said nothing of his identity to the women she sent with
her. Mairi nodded and walked down the hall, doing her best not to let her
nervousness and uncertainty show. She was no servant any longer and she
did not want her insecurities becoming fodder for their gossip.

She was shaking inside in spite of her best intentions, as she walked
towards her new Lord. Talking with the Lady Alana about him had made her
realize how little she truly knew. That both Alana and Torhm had given
immediate credence to her theory about his nature left her feeling wary
and afraid. She had never felt comfortable when near Krall, subject to
his dark leers, seeing the pleasure in his eyes whenever he took the
opportunity to strike a servant for not responding to his needs quickly
enough.

Her mind told her that the child had shown no signs of such behavior;
her heart told her that compassionate child who had tried so hard to
comfort her that morn could not behave so bestially; but her stomach
knotted at the remembered scene of death in the summoning room, the pool
of blood, the scattered shreds of iron.

It was with a trembling hand that she reached out to grasp the handle to
the door of the stone gardens, casting a surreptitious glance back down
the hall only to see emptiness, the kitchen servants having vanished
within the dining room to prepare their Lord's table.

The sight within, so greatly feared, cast a balm upon her soul, easing
her nervousness and mocking her fear. The child, whose behavior had been
so unusual that she had half-expected to find him still sitting in that
uncomfortable and untenable position, or doing something equally
inscrutable; whose means of becoming her Lord left her fearing to find
the room strewn with the blood of the women in whose care she had left
him; that child lay curled upon the stones, fast asleep.

Walking quickly into the room, she knelt beside him. To her surprise, he
had bounced to his feet before her hand reached his shoulder. Stones do
not make for the most restful of beds, nor was he truly tired, though
boredom had left little else to do. In such conditions, the rattle of
the stones as she walked across them and the sense of an approaching
presence, when such while he slept had for the last two years been the
prelude to an attack from his father, without fail, brought him
instantly to a startled and wary state of wakefulness.

Finding all threat absent and facing instead the compassionate regard of
the woman who reminded him of his mother had a greater impact on the
young Ranma than might ordinarily be expected. Ranma had shielded
himself against her compassion by his certainty that it was a facade,
present only so long as he behaved in a manly fashion. After all, had
not his father said that to regain his mother's love he must be manly?

Yet he had been found sleeping, inviting attack, and she showed no sign
of censure. In that moment, when he first opened his defenses, first
thought to hope that he might have found true affection, she spoke
again, and cemented her place in his heart.

"It is time that you ate something. Come with me, they've laid out a
feast for you."

Ranma leapt to his feet then flushed as his stomach growled. She held
out her hand to him and after hesitating for a moment he placed his
small hand in hers and let her lead him back into the hall.

When she opened the door to the dining hall, however, he pulled his hand
out hers immediately, dashing into the room to stand by the table,
staring at the wide spread of food. She helped him to sit and his eyes
grew wide when she made no move to sit herself. "This... all this is
mine?"

She nodded, smiling softly. She got the impression that he had never
seen so much food in one place before. That would not suprise her for
neither had she, before coming to serve in the castle. Ranma dug into
the food with enthusiasm, eating with such speed that she was certain he
had not the time to even taste it. "You don't need to eat so fast, you
know," she commented. "It's not going to disappear."

Ranma stopped, looking embarrassed, his cheeks burning. "I... uh... Pops
always steals my food." Cheeks still hot, he began eating again, more
slowly. He misinterpreted the anger that appeared on her face at his
words, and inwardly he cursed his father for giving him bad habits that
made the nice lady mad at him.

Mairi could not believe what the boy said, but it would explain why he
was so small and thin. "I could really get to dislike that boy's father,"
she thought, picturing all the little scars on his body. It was not
enough that he tortured his son, he had to starve him too? 

Ranma, eating slowly, was shocked after a quarter of an hour to
discover that he was becoming full. He looked at the tender slice of
meat he had just pulled onto his plate, wanting to eat it, yet somehow
feeling sick at the thought. It took him a while to realize what he was
feeling, which served to underscore the idea that he had never been
full before, never had had enough to eat that he could actually walk
away satisfied with food left behind.

He was disturbed by the amount of food remaining on the table, afraid
that he would get in trouble for not being able to finish it. He glanced
around, trying to think of something to distract the lady from noticing
the food he had left on the table.

Looking at her, he realized something and promptly forgot about being
worried about the food. "You know," he said in a nervous voice, "I still
don't know your name."

"Nor I yours, young Master," she replied and this time she noticed the
visible wince at her words. She was troubled. She was causing him
distress, but since she did not know how, she could not stop. There was
no alternative but to ask him. She hoped he would not say that she
pained him by her presence; if she lost her position in the castle, her
brother would be forced to join the army; the very thing she had sought
employment at the castle to prevent. "Master, what am I doing that
causes you such distress? Please tell me," she entreated him.

"It's nothing," he said, suddenly firm in tone again. It worried him
whenever she called him that. To his mind, a master was a master of the
art, and he knew his father would be quite angry if he thought Ranma had
claimed to be a master. But if Genma had claimed that he was a master,
would telling them that he was not lose him his place here? He thought of
the excellent meal he had just had and decided not to risk it. "Is the,"
and he paused, a pained frown on his face, "burial site r-ready?" 

"Yes, Master, but first," Mairi paused for a moment. She had been about to
ask whether he wouldn't prefer to get clean first, but she remembered
Torhm's words. It felt wrong, but she did need to try to maintain some
authority over him. She groaned silently, realizing that she was giving
him a clue every time she called him Master, but having started with
that in the early morning, it would raise his suspicions further if she
changed her form of address. "First, we need to get you cleaned and
dressed," she said firmly.

She led him back to the concubine's chambers and three of the ladies
came with her into the bathing chamber. Once more Ranma submitted to
their attentions, enjoying the warm water. Mairi found it hard to keep
her eyes from his innumerable tiny scars, imagining what his father had
done to him to cause them. It was as she was cleaning his hair, which he
had gotten grease in during his first furious attack on the food, that
she noticed the longer scar directly across the large vein on the side
of his neck. Had whatever cut made that scar been deeper, he would
likely have bled to death.

Mairi led Ranma through the appropriate visualizations to use his new
clothing, causing it to vanish so they could wash him, then causing it
to form more formal clothing after they dried him off, following the
instructions that Lady Alana had given her.

Finally it was time and she led him toward the garden where they would
bury the old Lord. He followed silently behind her, and she wondered why
it was so important to him that he bury the old Master. She remembered
what the Lady had said when she had told her about the child's
determination. The Lady did not think it was a mere matter of symbolism,
of emphasizing his defeat. Certainly, he had not insisted that anyone be
there to witness, as a leader might do to ensure that all recognized the
validity of his claim, though the Lady had made certain that there would
indeed be witnesses... all of the castle staff, though not the Lord
Fey's war leaders. No, somehow, he was motivated by his pain, in a way
she couldn't quite understand. 

The old Lord had never seemed to believe in his own mortality, though
the Lady had mentioned an acknowledged heir. He had never prepared a
mausoleum for himself, as some kings and lords did, though there was a
mausoleum on the grounds from a previous Lord's reign, when Fey's lands
had still been the several small baronies from which they had eventually
been forged. The Lady had decreed that the old Lord would be laid to
rest in the embrace of the earth, as he had never shown a preference for
a stately death, and the new Lord had expressed a desire to bury him.

When they reached the small cemetary within the gardens, Ranma saw that
the man's body had been clothed in black cloth, wrapped about him, more
a shroud than clothing. His face was covered with several layers, and he
lay upon a stone. An open coffin was beside him. It was made of a dark
wood that glistened in the sun, and the interior was of a deep velvet in
a rich red. Further to one side was a shovel, lying on the ground, and a
gravestone, set in the ground, but devoid of any markings, its flat
surface smooth, reflecting the strong light of the unclouded sun.

He walked over to the body, and stood before it for several minutes,
oblivious to the large crowd standing some distance away, and equally
unaware that Mairi had followed him, and was close enough to hear his
words. 

He had planned to spend the time in the rock garden coming up with some
proper words to say, since he knew that it was important to spirits that
they be given proper respect, but he had fallen asleep without coming up
with anything. He wanted to cry, to say that it wasn't his fault. It was
not the thought of his father's words, that a martial artist always
accepted responsibility for what he did, that prevented him from doing
so, but rather the fear that the old Lord's spirit would take his words
as an insult, and seak vengeance.

"Oh, Kami-sama, I'm sorry. Maybe you did deserve to die, like the lady
said. But I didn' wanna kill ya. I don't know all I did, or how I got
your clothes. But I promise ya, I ain't gonna stop till I'm in control
again. I don' wanna ever kill somebody again. And I specially don' wanna
kill somebody and not even remember doin' it. It just ain't right." 

He turned, walked over to the shovel, and picked it up. He set it
against the ground in front of the gravestone, placed his foot on it and
drove it through the grass deep into the soft earth.




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.




The Dragon's Fang

Not yet posted. 



---Current BreakPoint---

Not yet posted. 



Trials of Diplomacy

Not yet posted. 



Lessons Learned

Not yet posted. 



Achievement

Not yet posted. 



Darkening Revelations

Not yet posted. 



The Challenger

Not yet posted. 



A Journey

Not yet posted. 



Wisdom in Passing

Not yet posted. 



The Huntsman and the Hounds

Not yet posted. 



Loyalty

Not yet posted. 



Journey's End

Not yet posted. 



Pride and Fear

Not yet posted. 



Ancient Perversion

Not yet posted. 



Assassin

Not yet posted. 



The Mage Tower

Not yet posted. 



The True Neko-Ken

Not yet posted. 



Time Well Spent

Not yet posted. 



Archmage

Not yet posted. 



Passage of Years

Not yet posted. 



Culmination

Not yet posted. 



Sacrifice

Not yet posted.