The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair reknown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, unsung.
~Sir Walter Scott

Jame ghosted silently through the gardens, taking a circuitous route, hugging the few available shadows. If nothing else, Caineron's sons were keeping her on her toes. Almost there- the cattery was in sight. She ducked behind a high hedge, peering cautiously around the corner. All was clear. She edged forward, about to make a dash for the inviting building, then jumped back at the sound of voices. Damnation! It was Timran, the most persistant of the lot, talking with a gardener. Timran looked disappointed at what he was hearing. The gardener shook his head emphatically, and Timran started towards the keep- directly along the path Jame was hiding on. She sighed and resigned herself to fate as he caught sight of her.

"There you are, Jame! I've been looking for you!"

"Surpries, surprise," Jame muttered. Then, louder, "I was on my way to exercise my ounce."

"Exercise your ounce, hmm?" Timran smiled vacantly. Jame was sure he wasn't all there. "A Royal Gold, isn't he? I've never seen one that color before."

"He's very good quality," Jame said shortly. He was getting on her nerves already.

"Isn't he good quality? I've never seen a Royal Gold before, not really."

Jame growled under her breath. "I've got to go now, Jorin needs to get out to play." She fled towards the cattery, repressing the urge to look back over her shoulder.

"Jorin? Isn't that your ounce?"

The plaintive voice faded away as Jame achieved the safety of the cattery at last. Trinity, but that man must have been dropped on his head as a child... repeatedly!

Muffled sounds of swearing and pounding emerged from inside Tori's bedchamber. The cadet sent to summon him looked at Burr with wide eyes. Burr only chuckled. The Highlord was definitely feeling the strain of dealing with multiple Cainerons in his home. The family was a public menace. At least Nusair was no longer around to make increasingly inept attempts to assassinate the Highlord.

The swearing stopped. There was a brief silence, then Torisen emerged, looking composed.

"Yes?"

The cadet steeled himself visibly. "Highlord, my Lord Caineron wishes to... speak... with you..." His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Tori twitched with irritation. The nerve of that man, sending for him as though he were a servant in his own home. "Very well then. Have him meet me in my study in one hour."

The boy flinched and shifted his feet. "He wished your presence now, my Lord, in- in his chambers."

"And I wish to meet with him in one hour, in my study. Is that clear?" Torisen glared impatiently at the boy. True, he was only doing his duty by his Lord, but that Lord was not in charge here, and would do well to remember that.

"Understood, sir!" The cadet fled without another word.

Torisen sighed explosively when he was gone. "That man has some nerve!"

"Indeed. And when will you succeed in sending him packing?"

"Perhaps today. I think I'll let Jame speak for herself at this meeting Caldane so ardently desires." A wicked smile flashed across his features. "Let's see how well he handles my sister."

Burr guffawed. "Not well at all, according to old Marc. Did she ever tell you what she did to him at the Steps?"

"I devoutly wish I had been there to see that," Torisen said, eyes crinkling with mirth. "The thought of Caineron hiccuping and floating around is just too incredible for words."

Abruptly, the Highlord's mirth vanished. His expression slammed shut like a closing door, leaving him cold and remote. Burr wondered what had distressed him this time. It was plain that the Highlord was troubled by something these last few days, but he had yet to share the reason. Liked his secrets, Blackie did. But Burr was patient, and nothing if not thorough. He would learn what it was that had upset the Highlord so badly.

"If you need me, I'll be in my study." Torisen brushed past Burr and strode out into the corridor.

It had happened again- a chance turn of phrase had sent him right back to that night, which had indeed been too incredible for words. But since then, he had been unable to catch more than a brief glimpse of Kindrie. The healer must have decided that it was all just a mistake, that it must never happen again, and the only way to ensure that was to stay completely out of reach.

But he said he loved me... The memory of Kindrie's face at that moment- proud and defiant, expecting to be hurt but brave enough to tell the truth anyway- rose up before his mind's eye, and he nearly ran into a wall trying to enter his study. He had to do something about this. The situation was nearly intolerable. He couldn't sleep, as his dreams were haunted by a certain pair of faded blue eyes- couldn't eat, for watching that persistently empty corner- couldn't even concentrate on Caineron, damn him. Jame said she had delivered his message, but there had been no reply. Even she couldn't pin the healer down long enough to talk to him.

To distract himself, Tori plowed into the ever-growing mountain of paperwork on his desk. He became so absorbed in reading the reports he had ordered on the state of each Keep after the battle that he was badly startled when Jame entered.

"Burr said you wanted me?" She pretended not to notice his startlement.

"Not I, but Caineron." He smiled, without much amusement. "I thought perhaps you might care to listen to his bargaining attempt today?"

"That I would, brother... that I would."

Tori didn't much care for the avid look in her eyes, but he supposed he'd want to tear into Caineron too, in her position. She could scarcely move about the keep openly, for fear of being accosted by a younger Caineron in a dim corridor.

No, not fear of being accosted, he thought. Get it right- she doesn't want to launch me into a blood feud when she clawed the lousy bastard to pieces.

He regarded her claws thoughtfully. She caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. "May I see them?" he asked abruptly. He realized he had never looked closely at them, the most visible sign of his sister's Shanir heritage- which he shared.

She nodded and extended them. He took the proffered hand, examining the long slender joints and the curving ivory claws. "Are they much use?"

"Only in a fight." Jame flexed her claws, curving her fingers upward. "Or to pick locks, I suppose."

"Ah yes- Jame, the Kencyr thief."

"That's the Talisman to you, brother." Jame flashed one of her quicksilver grins at him and he returned it.

"Talisman, B'tyrr... I find it odd that other people should call you luck-bringer, when our own people..."

"I know." The grin faded. "And little luck I brought them, at the end. But it always struck me as odd too."

There came an imperious pounding at the door. "Tripe- it's Caineron. Ready, sister?"

"As I'll ever be."

Jame opened the door. They faced the delegation of annoyed Cainerons together.

Kindrie huddled miserably under the old tree. Avoiding Torisen was becoming more difficult by the day- not because of the Highlord's efforts at locating him, but because of his own desire to see Torisen again. The need to be near him pulled at Kindrie's very soul, demanding acknowledgement. It was driving him to distraction. He had to get control of himself somehow. It had been over a week now, surely he should not still be suffering so. No matter how he berated himself, though, the ache refused to go away. Eating was impossible- he knew he had to take care of his body, but how could he eat when everything threatened to come right back up? And as for sleeping... Kindrie shuddered. He wasn't sure which was worse, the nightmares or the erotic dreams. Both left him shaken and near tears, if not actually bawling. Something had to be done, and soon.

Very well, then, I'll give it one more go...

He stilled his turbulent thoughts, winding down the familiar spiral path to a deep meditative state. Into the quiet of his mind, he planted the thoughts he tried so hard to believe: Everything is fine. Torisen does not matter. You are able to cope with this. Dreams cannot hurt you. Over and over again he recited those statements, like a protective mantra against madness. When he felt secure again, as though he was finally beginning to believe his own words, he allowed his consciousness to resurface. He savored the feeling of calm the meditation had produced.

After one last look at the swift flowing river, the healer rose and made his way up the bank to the great keep ahead. Perhaps this time things would go well.

The storm wind howled out of nowhere, cutting through Jame's very bones. Wind, the Winno-hir who had consented to teach her how to ride, halted abruptly and snorted in alarm.

"I agree, old lad," Jame said, eyes wide. The northern horizon was black as pitch and covered with boiling clouds. Vigorous bolts of lightning blasted across the sky and down to the earth. The storm swept forward with unbelievable swiftness. A faint chittering noise reached Jame, and she strained her ears to catch more. "Jorin?"

The golden ounce, perched upon a pillion pad, tilted his head quizzically. Through his ears, Jame was able to make out voices in the chittering- familiar voices.

... come again, we are come again... take, yes Master, take what is ours... souls to feed the Master, sweet little Jame to feed us... dance with us...

"Sweet Trinity, Gerridon!" Jame gasped. Without a second thought, she whirled the startled Winno-hir about. "Run!" she shrieked, over the howl of the gale. Wind ran.

Jame clung grimly to the saddle. So Gerridon thought to attack the Highlord, did he? He was in for a nasty surprise.

Wind flew into the courtyard of Gothregor. Jame catapulted from the saddle and threw the reins at a startled Kendar. She didn't even wait for Jorin, just pelted into the keep and straight for her brother's study.

"Tori! Where in hells are you?"

"Here- what's wrong?" Her brother emerged from the interior of a storage closet, where he had been searching fruitlessly for something.

"You must rouse everyone at once! The storm- Gerridon is coming!"

"Hold it now, calm down! What do you mean, Gerridon's coming?"

She took a deep breath of welcome air and told herself firmly she would not shake sense into him. "The shadows, the ones that taught me the Great Dance and how to reap souls- they ride that wind out there, and the Master follows them."

Just then, the great alarm bell began to ring. Jame could hear voices calling, "To arms! The keep is under attack!"

Torisen swore viciously and hurtled out of the room, shouting for his armor and Kin-Slayer. Jame took a few more deep breaths, then shot out into the hallway to join the preparations, Ivory Knife in hand. Breathless scrabbling, chaotic shouts, randons arming themselves on the fly- in a reemarkably short time, the defenders turned out in front of the keep to face the growing storm.

They poured down from the Northlands like some nightmare tale come true, hollow-faced Highborn in battle-scarred rhi-sar armor such as few had ever seen. Black clouds and biting winds served as the vanguard, lightning crackling randomly. There were changers as well, and creatures of darkness which none could name. Golden-eyed shadows flitted about on the howling winds, inflicting wounds on soul and shadow. Things which defied description fought as well, and all were led by a silent man on a coal black horse, who sat on a rise and watched the battle unfold before him. Above his head flew a banner with a black horse on a red field- that of Gerridon, Master of Knorth.

Jame fought single-mindedly, concentrating on the Senethar patterns of attack and defense, knife against swords. She left a trail of dead and dying behind her, for the merest touch of the Ivory Knife meant certain death. She fought her way through the chaotic mess to her brother's side. "Over there!" she shouted, dodging an attempt to disembowel her. "On the hill!"

"I see!" Tori grunted as his opponent's sword connected with his breastplate, then ducked another swing and struck the other down with a carefully aimed jab. "Get him, and they all leave." He began working his way toward that still figure.

"Trinity!" Jame ducked a wild slash from a sword-wielding changer. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind!"

The battle raged on around Torisen. Even the Lord Caineron's men had joined in the fray, bringing the opposing forces to nearly equal numbers- if one only counted the humans. He noted that someone had thought to bring torches- an excellent idea, as the changers burned readily.

Tori fought a path through the battle with focused intensity. Nothing mattered but that he reach that banner, that quiet figure with the empty silver glove.

It wasn't easy. The attackers closed ranks protectively around their leader, fighting ferociously. Torisen was all but reeling with exhaustion when the conflict immediately around him suddenly stopped.

"Let him approach," said the Master. Obediently the darklings fell back, leaving a small circle of calm surrounding Torisen and Gerridon.

Tori panted for breath, trying not to show how tired he was. Although Kin-Slayer did indeed strike true as long as he wore his father's ring, fighting still took a lot of his energy.

"So, little Highlord, I have long waited the chance to see what became of Jamethiel's little boy."

What?

Gerridon dismounted and drew his sword with a mocking salute, superior to inferior. Torisen returned it with crossed wrists raised defiantly. The Master laughed, a hollow sound, then attacked.

The patterns of the Senethar wove smoothly about each other. Water flowing met fire leaping, channeling the force smoothly aside. Torisen spared a moment for shocked pleasure- scarcely anyone could match him so well, other than Jame- then was abruptly recalled to reality when Gerridon's blade nicked his arm, beneath the braided rhi-sar armor. He gave his attention over completely to the fight which was more than half dance. He knew that he was taking minor hits, but he was scoring on the Master as well. Then Gerridon quit playing.

"How the Knorth blood has thinned, boy! You do not even fight with half your weaponry." So saying, Gerridon... changed, somehow. Torisen could feel a difference in the energy around the darkling Lord, a focused intensity. Then blows began to rain down on him, threatening to shatter his armor.

Blindly, instinctively, Torisen tried to copy what the Master had done. There was resistance within him. A crashing hammer-blow to his helm sent him reeling. With a feeling like a dam bursting, a barrier in his mind broke down and suddenly he could feel the same flow of energy within him. He wound it into his Senethar patterns, using it to fuel an attack which rocked the Master back and sent him into abrupt retreat.

He was unable to sustain that level of energy for long, though. Soon, all too soon, the Master was again pressing the attack, seemingly inexhaustible. The world narrowed down to nothing but the frantic effort to defend himself, seen through a haze of red. Then events slowed into painfully slow motion- Gerridon raised his sword, held it at apex for a moment, slowly... oh so slowly... brought it down in a crashingly powerful earth-moving strike which laid Torisen flat out on the ground... Tori threw all he had into one final effort to reach Gerridon with Kin-Slayer... then nothing. Blackness.

On to Part VI