Chapter XVI – The Sage

The streets of the Southern portion of Haven’s garrison district tended to draw in upon themselves the farther along the company walked. In addition, the density of people grew a bit thicker as the Northern citizens, terrified by the threat of fighting at the North gates, fled to the inner reaches of the city. Scintara blew through her nose in disgust at the weak minds of the people who fed off each other’s fear. The center of the city would be a far worse place to be caught in if the Czak Myar burst through the gate, as the lack of true fighting space and typical overcrowding of people, would hinder any escape. All the races of Mer were generally alike in the respect that, when put together, they could drive each other into a blind unreasoning frenzy when panic set in. Just the same, Scintara did not like tight streets, full to overcrowding of idiots or not.

“Where are the rest of the assassins, Scintara? I thought they were going to come with us.”

Preosha’s voice came from over Scintara’s shoulder. The inventor seemed to be making a half-hearted attempt to be quiet in the crowded street. Scintara smiled, considering the best way to get Preosha’s goat before answering.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, short stuff. They’re out there, but you just can’t see them in this maze of people. In fact, I’d wager you couldn’t see them even if the street were empty in the middle of the day.”

“I just thought I’d ask. No need to get snippety,” came Preosha’s reply. “Besides, you’re not much taller than I am.”

Scintara laughed out loud, the sound swallowed by the crowd noise. For Scintara, there was nothing quite as fun as getting the best of someone’s self control, especially when she actually had a higher purpose for doing it. The dark-haired thief did not want Preosha to notice the true lack of assassins that had followed the group of companions. She had hoped for much more from Ilithiron’s men, but the majority of them had other plans. Even though the handsome man was Head of the Guild of Assassins in Haven, Ilithiron had no direct control over his guild members. The position he held existed only for the purpose of focusing efforts when needed. Despite the threat of lack of paying contracts from the Guild, Ilithiron’s men could choose to ignore any orders if necessary, and many had done so. Especially now that the much-rumored attack on Haven had begun.

During the many days she had searched throughout Haven for signs of her friends or Oheniies, Scintara heard almost every rumor circulating through the city’s underbelly. Rumors of infighting between the Knights, of the many mistresses of General Alshien, of the heat causing a shortage of cats in the city, and various other tales, traveled from one pair of lips to another with the speed of the wind. The foremost of these rumors had an army of fifty thousand black mailed soldiers riding winged steeds with manes of fire camped in the plains to the North of Haven, bent on attack.

Scintara snorted again. Rumors always grew larger and more powerful when they could do true damage by their falsehood. She remembered well the night she and Ilithiron, along with two of his men, went out to verify the cause of the rumors for their own eyes. Traveling in the middle of the night, in an openly dangerous area with only her wits to protect her from the perils without, was the only way to live, as far as Scintara was concerned.

That had been the night of her little tryst with the darkly handsome leader of assassins. The two of them had been creeping along the flat grasslands on the Northern edge of Haven, a section of countryside she had never traveled before. Disappointingly, to the roguish companion, the land to the North of Haven greatly resembled that to the south, where she and the companions had entered the city, rolling hills of grassland.

Once she and Ilithiron had crept up to the soldiers’ encampment, she peered over an embankment and realized the amount of truth the rumors held. There, laid out before her, had been the largest encampment of Mirdas Morgal soldiers to be seen on Mer in many hundreds of years. She withdrew a far-looking glass she had pilfered from a double-dealing dwarf many years back and peered towards the head of the encampment. There, sprawled about the point of the army’s spearhead, resided a section of tents with a flag flying in its center. The black flag bore the symbol of a gauntleted hand crushing a map of the world, the symbol of the Czak Myar. Ilithiron had tapped her on the shoulder indicating that he wanted to leave, but Scintara refused, looking closely at the Czak Myar tents for some signs of Emiriak and, more importantly, the Rivanwraith.

She heard him give the warbler call to the other assassins, giving them the orders to return, and felt his shoulder press a bit closer to hers as he remained behind. Whether he had done it for her comfort or for his, Scintara did not know, but she welcomed his presence regardless. She watched for a while longer in vain, hoping for any sign of the Rivanwraith’s presence, not that she had really known what to look for. The whole while, Ilithiron had not asked her why they stayed, nor did she offer up the information. The reasons were two-fold. First, an intelligent person never gave an assassin any more information than you wanted them to have, and secondly, she did not want Ilithiron to be afraid of something that might not even be there.

With a heavy sigh, Scintara had finally tucked away the far-looking glass and lay there for a moment, thinking hard about the reasons for the army’s presence. She had gotten nowhere when Ilithiron moved slightly, catching her attention.

“I take it you haven’t found what you’re looking for,” came his low whisper in her ear. With her adrenaline-heightened senses, his warm breath felt like a soft caress on her ear.

“No, I don’t think so,” she whispered in return. “If I do, however, we’ll both know it, I’m sure.”

“We probably should get back to Haven,” replied Ilithiron, but Scintara could hear the reluctance in the statement. “It’ll be harder to get back over the walls in the dawn light.”

Scintara could empathize with his lack of desire to leave, the rush of being in danger and this close to one another could be intoxicating. Nevertheless, she had nodded her head and started to crawl backwards from their vantage point when the first chill of fear overcome her. She stopped, paralyzed, as she felt the approach of the awesome presence she had felt only once before, the Rivanwraith.

She glanced over to Ilithiron and saw that he had felt it as well. His eyes had widened and his breathing had become almost non-existent. He glanced in her direction with that fearful look, the unasked question in his eyes. She had wanted to explain to him what the sensation meant, but her fear of being exposed to the creature’s awareness kept her silent. She now knew she need not have bothered.

The creature’s powerful mind pierced into her psyche, tearing loose any mental defenses she might have erected. She had felt the powerless sense of violation as the monster ripped carelessly through her memories, her secrets, and her emotions. A freezing panic gripped her, coupled with a manic rage. How dare this thing treat her most private self so contemptuously? Her hands flexed in impotent anger and she felt them close on cloth. In her distant haze, she noticed she had grabbed Ilithiron’s shirt just as he had done to hers. The two of them her holding each other close in a comforting embrace, searching for solace from an attack they could never defend themselves against.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the Rivanwraith’s awareness passed on. Scintara had felt the creature’s cold presence flow on towards the Czak Myar encampment. Strangely, the only image she could retain from its intrusive presence was that it had been distracted, almost as if she and Ilithiron had only been brushed by its normal awareness. What an amazing stroke of luck! If the Rivanwraith did not have the desire to destroy her when she was completely at its mercy, then perhaps it would not notice the companions’ movements throughout Haven.

The sound of intense breathing had brought her out of her thoughts and she looked back at Ilithiron, suddenly intensely aware of her close proximity to the handsome assassin. Fear shadowed the man’s face with lines of unknown pain. Nightrene only knew what fears and memories the Rivanwraith’s casual brushing had brought to the surface of the man’s thoughts. Inexplicably, the formerly confident, stalwart assassin broke into silent tears. Scintara could definitely empathize with him as she felt the desire to do the same thing, but the trials and tribulations she had been through in the last ten years had given her much experience in walling off her weaker emotions, for better or worse.

The leader of the Guild of Assassins became suddenly aware of his display in front of Scintara. He made a grand attempt at composing himself, releasing her with one hand and reaching up to wipe the tears away from his eyes. Scintara released her grip on his shirt and forestalled his hand, looking at the man’s haggard face.

“Don’t....” she began, but the rest of her thought became a moot point as his mouth closed over hers.

The dark-haired thief reacted in surprise at first at the man’s brazen move, but she soon surprised herself by responding with a passion she had not known she possessed. Her senses were still afire by the danger of the journey and her recent brush with death, and she could feel every element of the world around her. The soft breeze, the sound of grass rusting, the sound of her own heart, and the feel of Ilithiron’s body, all stroked her senses. Soon there had been no outside world at all. Soon she had...

“Scintara!” came Presosha’s voice from behind the thief, snapping her from her mental recount of the events of a few nights ago. “Are you all right? I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

Shaking her head slightly, Scintara looked at Preosha, smiling in what she hoped was a comforting manner. “Sure, I’m fine. I was just thinking about something is all.”

Almost as if her thoughts had summoned him, Ilithiron’s lanky form strode through the parted crowd like a hawk flying out of the fog. Scintara’s heart involuntarily gave a skip despite herself. She should have known better then to allow her guard to drop in an intense situation such as that, but she could not bring herself to be upset that it happened. He was a handsome man after all. Preosha, who Scintara belatedly realized had been watching her face closely, gave a little, knowing grin before turning towards Ilithiron.

“So, assassin, how close are we to Oheniies’ dwelling?” asked the inventor. Scintara gave a gasp which Ilithiron mirrored at Preosha’s casual mention of Ilithiron’s profession.

“I do wish you would curtail your flapping tongue, woman, in regards to my work,” snapped the assassin.

“Why? Is it not what you do for a living? Shouldn’t you be proud of what you do?” came Preosha’s calculatedly glib response. Scintara tensed, waiting for the explosion from Ilithiron that Preosha was apparently baiting him into. Where had this sudden provocation of the assassin come from? Preosha had never seemed to dislike Ilithiron before.

“I would remind you, inventor, that you owe the Guild of Assassins, and by default, me, your life. Don’t forget that when the Half-elf and the bard brought you to us, you were little more than a deaf vegetable. Our healers saved your life, at Scintara’s behest, so I would learn to be a bit more circumspect in what you say if I were you.” Ilithiron’s voice had become stone, but he had never allowed his rage to take over, though Scintara would not have blamed him if he had. If someone on the street had overheard Preosha’s comment, they might have been attacked on the spot.

To the thief’s surprise, however, Preosha simply nodded her head in satisfaction at Ilithiron’s words and rocked back on her heels, giving Scintara a shielded wink. So, it appeared that Ilithiron had passed some type of test from Preosha and Scintara now had her approval. Well, the inventor had a severe surprise coming if she thought that Scintara planned to stay in one city with one man, no matter how charming he could be.

The assassin turned away from Preosha, facing Scintara, a smile spreading across his face. “We’re almost to Oheniies’ home,” he breathed in a low undertone. “Do you want to go in now, or wait for your friends to arrive?”

Curiosity warred with wisdom within Scintara. She wanted desperately to see this person they had traveled so far to find, but she knew that she should wait for Quillion, who really knew what to say to the man. She let loose a heavy sigh, receiving a startled look from Preosha in response. How did she ever get to be in charge of something like this? She was always the one getting the companions into trouble, not trying to keep them from it.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait on the others to get here.” The disappointment in her voice must be evident, she knew. “Is there a good vantage point around here to spot them if they approach?”

Ilithiron smiled broadly as he answered. “I know of just such a place,” he replied.

He reached out his hand to take hers and, with a shrug of her shoulders, she slipped hers into his. What could a little hand contact hurt? What could possibly happen while they were waiting for Quillion to return? She caught Preosha watching her with hooded eyes, and she sighed again. Yes, she was definitely going to keep a tight reign on herself this time.

Malaryn walked along the darkening streets, staying protectively close to Aramari and scanned the windows and alleys for signs of danger. The companions had just found the priestess, and Malaryn would be damned if he would allow her to be hurt again. He would do anything within his power to protect her in her fragile state.

It appeared the job had fallen on Malaryn by default, anyway. Quillion, as usual, strode in the lead of the group, focused on the road ahead and lost in thoughts that Malaryn felt he did not want to know. Lysinthia followed on Quillion’s right, alternating her attention between the potentially hostile surroundings and the Half-elf that led them. She tried to keep her worried appraisal of Quillion hidden from the Half-elf, but Malaryn noticed it all from his vantage point.

He had always possessed the ability to notice minor details that would elude others people’s attention. One could not be a good blacksmith without having the awareness to find stress cracks in metal or an improper shading to a molten mixture of steel. Only in the last four years or so had Malaryn noticed that his ability extended to life outside the forge as well. It always did, he had belatedly realized, but he had only recently become aware of its potential.

He reacted instinctively with one hand on his sword and the other around Aramari’s shoulders as the priestess of Meyasha gave a sudden shudder. She slowed to a stop and Malaryn halted along side her, maintaining a visual on the other two companions walking ahead. He realized he held Aramari in a strong grasp and he eased up a bit, wary of hurting her unintentionally and of her misconstruing his intentions. He shook his head briefly. What were his intentions?

“What’s wrong, Mari?” he asked. His soft voice seemed to thunder off the walls of the nearby buildings surrounding the deserted street. He waited a moment for Aramari’s response, but the woman’s haunted stare answered his question more than any words. Her eyes moved towards Malaryn and the big man felt as if he had been bathed in ice water as she stared into his soul. Malaryn resisted his instinct at first, but then gathered her into his arms in an attempt to help soothe the pain he saw in her face.

“Don’t worry Mari,” he breathed. “Whatever you‘ve seen can’t be all that bad. We’ll all get through it, you’ll see. We’ll find this Oheniies or whatever his name is and we’ll get the directions to Vormeastion’s lair. Then we can all head back home and take it easy for a while.”

He felt the priestess bury her face into his shoulder, and her shoulders shook, but no tears came from her. Malaryn ran his hand over her hair, soothing back the errant strands that escaped the crude bun in which she had pulled back her black tresses. It seemed to the smith that she should be letting her feelings out and he worried that she kept it bottled inside. Quillion would probably growl about keeping focused on the task at hand and not letting emotions get in the way, but Malaryn did not always share that viewpoint.

Almost as if on cue, Quillion’s voice softly echoed back down the street. “Malaryn? Is everything all right back there? We’ve got to get moving or we’re going to get caught in this attack on the city.”

“We’re on our way,” came the big man’s response. He glanced up the street in time to see Quillion nod his head and continue on. Lysinthia hesitated momentarily, watching Malaryn and Aramari for a moment, before following. Malaryn smiled despite himself. Lysinthia probably read fifteen different things into Malaryn and Aramari’s embrace, but what scared the big man was the fact that she might be right.

Aramari stepped back, removing herself from Malaryn’s arms. Her eyes roamed around, darting everywhere but never resting on him. Malaryn withdrew as well, fearing he had done something wrong. He did not feel he had, but that feeling grew less and less certain. What was going on? Surely a friend could comfort another without being misconstrued. The priestess glanced up into the sky and shivered again, wrapping her arms around herself.

“It’s going to be dark soon” she whispered. As soon as the words left her lips, she turned and moved off in the direction of the other companions. Malaryn watched for a moment more, conflicting emotions surging through his mind, then followed her, resuming his protective vigil and wishing that they would get to Oheniies’ place before things got worse.

Lysinthia watched as Quillion cautiously peered around the last corner to the alley leading to the rear of Oheniies’ house. She knew his night vision was more acute than hers, due to his deeper Elven blood, so she trusted him to do the scouting in the near-pitch darkness.

She heard Malaryn and Aramari’s soft breathing in the darkness behind her, and her own limited night vision could just make out the expressions on their faces. Aramari kept her face blank, whether by purpose or accident, Lysinthia did not know, and Malaryn had this recently adopted look of intense concern worn on his own. Lysinthia could read his fledgling emotions for Aramari on his face as if they were printed on his forehead. She wondered if the big smith was as aware of them as she. Probably not, as men could be as blind as a cave-bat about such issues. She could think of one man now who fit that exact profile.

She smiled to herself, thinking of the possibility of lyrics to a song for that topic, when Quillion turned back to her. She quickly schooled her face to smoothness. With his damned sharp night vision, he would be able to see every line of her face and she did not want to give anything away. She quickly realized, however, she need not have bothered, as Quillion had his “Serious Look”, as Lysinthia called it. If Ephirea were here, she would have probably giggled at this crucial juncture.

“There’s two people standing down at the end of the alley, underneath the balcony. They’re trying to look like a couple of street beggars, but there’s a fighter’s stance to both of them.” Quillion’s voice barely carried to Lysinthia’s sharp ears, and she wondered if Malaryn or Aramari could hear it at all. Quillion turned his head to look at Malaryn as he continued. “Mal, you’re going to have to stay put here. Leave this little mission to the stealthy ones.” Lysinthia watched Malaryn nod his head in understanding. Quillion then gestured for Aramari and Lysinthia to gather closer to him. When he spoke again, his tone carried a sense of urgency.

“The two I’ve seen at the end of the alley don’t look like anyone I remember from the Guild of Assassins. Scintara should have had Ilithiron’s men assembled and here by now. It worries me that I cannot see them anywhere within my visual range.” He stared at Aramari as he continued his speech. Lysinthia, well versed in detecting undercurrents in a person’s voice, noticed the strain as he spoke to the priestess. “Aramari? I need you to cast your natural senses down the alleyway and look for signs of the others. If Lys or I do it, our spell casting would be easily heard in this silence. Only you can do it.”

Aramari surprised Lysinthia by responding quickly. “No!” she snapped. The bard saw Quillion’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and then draw together in focused concentration as the priestess continued, “I will not expose myself on the spiritual plane.”

Lysinthia could sense the quick response coming from Quillion and she forestalled it by placing her hand on his arm. She smiled gently at Quillion’s look of irritation, but, to her relief, the Half-elf stepped back to let her talk. The bard tried to make her words, tone, and gestures as soothing as possible as she addressed the priestess of Meyasha.

“Mari, I can certainly understand why you wouldn’t want to take a chance on showing yourself again to the Rivanwraith, but Quillion’s right. Neither of us can cast the spell needed without causing too much noise, as it requires a good deal of movement and time, and Quillion cannot see any of Ilithiron’s people in the alley...”

“That’s because we are not in the alley, woman,” came a voice from above her, “we are on the rooftops.”

Lysinthia pivoted on her off foot and drew one of her deadly frost daggers, holding it poised to throw at the possessor of the voice that had spoken. From her peripheral vision, she saw Quillion and Malaryn partially draw their swords and stare up to the roof top. There, standing on the edge of the roof and smiling down at them, stood Scintara. On a rope twenty feet down from the edge of a wall hung a man wearing black leather and a short cape. The sound of his voice that had spoken identified him as Ilithiron, though Lysinthia could not see his face under the dark cloth he had tied over his mouth and nose.

“We’ve been waiting for you all night, Half-elf,” the man practically growled at Quillion. “The night grows old and time is short.”

Lysinthia frowned at the assassin’s implied reference that the companions had been incompetent. She did not like the derogatory tone in his voice when he mentioned Quillion’s heritage. After all, she had Elven blood running through her veins as well. She again wondered why Scintara trusted this surly assassin enough to place the companions in his hands for guidance to Oheniies’ lair. The sage’s home could just as easily have two dozen Czak Myar waiting for them as a withered old man.

To her surprise, Quillion ignored the man’s implied criticism and spoke with a light tone to his voice. “Good eve, Ilithiron. I trust we’re near the sage’s home?”

The assassin blinked once then shifted his gaze between the remaining companions before answering. Lysinthia smiled in the darkness. Quillion had surprised Ilithiron with his response somehow, as if the assassin expected a different greeting from the companion. “Yes, A’Sirendon. The man’s home lies on the other side of this building above where the men stand guard below.”

“I assumed those were your men. I guess I was wrong.” admitted Quillion. Lysinthia frowned at his words. She could feel Ilithiron’s confusion infecting her as well. What was wrong with Quillion? She had never heard him admit lack of knowledge or weakness in front of an aggressive person like Ilithiron.

“No, you’re not wrong,” replied Ilithiron, a quizzical look still embossed on his face, “they are my men, but they are some of our best masters of disguise.” The assassin paused for a moment before continuing, his head cocked at a strange angle. Lysinthia found it strange to have a conversation with a man who hung upside-down five feet above her head. “I would be very interested in how you surmised they were my men.”

“That’s a story for another time,” snapped Quillion. “Let’s get to Oheniies’ home. As you said, time is running out.”

Lysinthia thought she could make out Ilithiron frowning suddenly, and the assassin simply replied with a curt, “As you wish.” The assassin then righted himself on the rope he dangled from, and ascended the wall with the speed of a squirrel climbing a tree.

It suddenly occurred to the bard what tactic Quillion was using. He had responded with a rapidly switching passive to aggressive response to Ilithiron’s overt hostility. Lysinthia knew that Ilithiron probably was aware of Quillion’s normal response to hostility from Scintara, or else the assassin would not have been surprised at Quillion uncharacteristic attitude. Ilithiron had stacked the deck in a game of cards only to find out he was playing the wrong game.

Lysinthia turned towards Quillion to comment on the situation, but the Half-elf stopped her with a smile and a touch on her shoulder.

“I learned from the best, Lys,” he said soft enough that the others could not hear, and then he turned to find a way to scale the wall. Lysinthia stood for a moment, amazed. Trust the damned Half-elf to be able to read her mind at the worst moments.

When she turned back to the rest of the companions, she saw that Quillion had already cast a spell summoning a pale, translucent, hovering disk which floated a couple of hands above the ground. Malaryn assisted Aramari gently up to the disk, and then climbed up behind her, watching her like a protective mother wolf. Quillion gestured magnanimously for Lysinthia to board the magical construct, a half-smile on his sharp, Elven features. Lysinthia strode to and gracefully boarded the disk, giving Quillion a hooded glance as she strode by. At least he had regained some of his lost sense of humor.

Once Lysinthia stood in the center of the disk, Quillion vaulted himself on board and directed the disk to ascend towards the top of the wall. The bard looked up and noticed, with a grudging admiration, that Ilithiron had attained the heights and now stood on the wall’s edge next to Scintara, staring down at the companions’ rise. Lysinthia had to admit the man was bloody fast. In more ways than one, if his glances towards the curly-haired thief next to him were any indication. It seemed the spider’s web of emotional entanglements infecting the companions grew thicker with every day. She would need to keep her wits about her and make sure she did not fall into the same trap. She resisted the urge to look towards Quillion.

As her head cleared the top of the wall, Lysinthia looked in amazement at the amount of people amassed on the roof of the four story, rock-faced building. There, among the darkened chimney stacks and piles of discarded stone, stood an arrangement of people in various forms of dark clothing. Short, tall, thin, and fat they stood, the black cloth covering their faces, much as Ilithiron’s did, as their only similarity.

A quick pan of Lysinthia’s eyes to the right brought another group into focus. A group of people that shared the assassins’ sense of danger and eagerness, but differed in many other ways Lysinthia rejoiced about: the companions. She immediately made out Tersiano’s tall, gaunt frame standing above the pack. Even in this distance, she could see his eyes whirl softly in the sparse light. Slightly away from the others stood Dealyon, as usual, but the Druid’s dark hood turned her direction even as the bard watched.

The instant the magical disk drew even with the level of the wall, Lysinthia leapt onto the roof, ignoring the guarded reactions of the assassins standing nearby. She did not care about their paranoia, for she wanted only to see her friends, some of which, Dealyon and Melina, she had not laid eyes upon in a long while. Scintara moved to walk next to her and they shared a quick look, with which the diminutive thief flashed a dimpled smile. Lysinthia, with Scintara next to her, strode purposefully towards the group and placed a calculated scowl on her face for the purpose of deterring any bravado from any assassin looking to harass a woman. Before she could cover more than half the distance, however, Melina and Ephirea moved forward to embrace her.

After a moment, the bard stepped back and looked closer at her friends. Melina looked a bit haggard, less proper than she normally did. Ephirea, on the other hand, looked extremely well kept, which spoke of some inner turmoil raging within her as she normally appeared a bit disheveled. Lysinthia wished she knew what problems plagued to two of them, but there existed a better time and place to find out than now.

She watched Ephirea’s eyes leave her and focus on something over her own shoulder. A wide smile flashed across the archer’s face and she dashed around the bard to hug Aramari, who had approached the group unheard. Melina placed a hand on Lysinthia’s shoulder as the two watched the archer and priestess reunite. The plainswoman’s voice carried no farther than Lysinthia’s ears.

“It’s nice to see those two back together, isn’t it?” asked Melina.

“That it is. After what Mari’s been through, this is what she really needed,” came the bard’s equally low-pitched response.

The unasked question flashed across Melina’s face, but at that moment Quillion and Malaryn stepped up to the center of the rooftop. The Half-elf gestured for the companions to gather around him, casting suspicious glances towards the assassins ringed outside the group. Lysinthia just shrugged her shoulders as she looked at Melina. She would just tell her later of Aramari’s trials, provided the priestess wanted such information presented to the companions.

“So, here we are, together again.” Quillion stated, as the companions gathered so close their shoulders all touched. “It looks like we’ve finally reached the first part of our goal, provided that Ilithiron is right,” he glanced at Scintara, who shrugged in return, “and this building really is Oheniies’ home. We need to get in here and find out if the sage knows where Vormeastion is rumored to live, and then we can find a way to slip past the Czak Myar that are attacking the city.” The Half-elf’s face split in a grin when he spoke again. “Doesn’t sound like too tall of an order, does it?”

“Sounds like famous last words to me, my friend,” grumbled Tersiano.

Ephirea giggled as she responded, “No chance of that, wild mage. There’s no way you’ll go down without getting the last word in before you die.”

“Only if I can be heard over your babbling, mercenary,” quipped the blue-robed wild-mage.

Lysinthia forestalled any response from Ephirea, who had that challenging look in her eyes which mean she was ready for an argument. The companions did not need to deal with another petty argument brought on by Ephirea. She rose her voice a bit to overcome any further reprisals from Tersiano.

“What do you want us to do, Quillion?” she asked. “Do we have a plan to get in the house without causing too much havoc?” She pointedly glared at Tersiano and Ephirea.

“Let’s ask Ilithiron, shall we?” Quillion replied with almost a smug sounding voice. Lysinthia stifled a laugh at the amazed looks Quillion received from the companions. They shared each other in their incredulous glances and then turned to Lysinthia almost in unison. Lysinthia rolled her finger around her temple, and made an insane face. The baleful look she received from Quillion made it worth the trouble.

Quillion gestured to the Guild Leader, who stood not far away, hovering over Scintara, Lysinthia guessed. The masked assassin strode cockily over to where the companions stood, his eyes darting between them all, but pointedly never resting on Scintara. Lysinthia watched the diminutive thief smile as she noticed the omission.

“So, Ilithiron, what’s your plan to get into the house?” asked Quillion.

Ilithiron had a quick response die on his lips at Quillion’s words, and he stammered through his response. “Um, well, I think getting through the window outside the balcony is our best plan.”

“Well then, show us the way,” responded Quillion, his voice almost oozing in its sweetness.

The assassin drew himself up and cast an arrogant eye across the group, again avoiding Scintara. “Very well then,” came his droll reply, “it’s this way.”

He turned to move towards the far side of the wall, gesturing for the companions to follow him. Quillion nodded his head and gestured magnanimously for the companions to proceed. The group of adventurers streamed past him, while he stood there with an attitude of swollen pride. Lysinthia maneuvered herself behind Dealyon and she reached out and gave a vicious pinch to Quillion’s backside, causing the Half-elf to give a quick jump and a stifled yelp. She quickly tuned her back and walked on while he searched for the culprit. That should teach him not to be so cocky. Lysinthia certainly did not want him thinking he knew how to manipulate people better then she.

When she reached the edge of the wall, she saw a cable running from the wall down to the balcony above the two beggars that were not beggars. Ilithiron already waited across the cable and on the balcony for them to come over. Scintara neared the balcony as well, moving hand over hand on the cable as nimbly as a monkey. Quillion followed a short distance behind her while the other companions arrayed themselves on the near side, attempting to decide who went next.

Tersiano seemed to be in another argument, this time with Preosha. Lysinthia grinned. At least the inventor woman had recovered sufficiently enough to argue with the wild mage. Tersiano apparently had no plans whatsoever to climb over a cable to get to the balcony, despite Preosha’s prodding. The bard watched the wild mage step to the edge and raise his crystalline staff, drawing an intricate pattern in the air. Suddenly a growth of rock began to jut out from the roof’s edge and reach towards the balcony. The wild mage drew his eyebrows together above his bold nose in concentration as he formed the stone bridge bit by bit, until it wrapped its rocky fingers around the balcony railing.

The assassin standing next to Tersiano stared in amazement, his eyes wide over the mask that covered his nose and mouth. The wild mage ignored him as he strode out onto the stone bridge, his head held high and his staff clicking with every other step on the rock. Preosha just shook her head and her and the others followed him out onto the bridge.

By the time Lysinthia reached the other side, only Dealyon and Malaryn had not finished crossing over. She positioned herself next to Scintara and Quillion who both stood watching Ilithiron pick the heavy iron lock attached to the rusted window frame. Scintara snickered a bit at Ilithiron’s curses upon having difficulty with the old lock. The bard watched the man’s back stiffen upon hearing the laughter and his curses stopped as he hunched over his work.

No light burned inside the room the window led to, but that did not necessarily mean no one waited within. The bard stifled her instinct to cast an Aura inside the room. She wanted to know if someone had a crossbow trained upon them from the dark room, but Scintara and Ilithiron’s outward calm mollified her a bit. They had been breaking into houses for a long time, more so than her anyway, and if nothing bothered them, then she should not worry. She could not shove the nagging doubt completely away, however.

Finally, the assassin finished removing the lock without a sound and placed it on the railing near the edge of the balcony. He backed away from the window and gestured for the companions to enter. Scintara stepped up first, but not before Lysinthia saw her stop in front of Ilithiron, grasping his hand briefly, causing the dark assassin to blink in confusion and give the thief a guarded smile. Scintara checked the hinges for a moment visually, then ran her hands over the rusted metal. In the dark, Lysinthia saw her frown and then remove a small jar from the array of pouches on her belt. The dark-haired thief unscrewed the lid, making a terrible face at the smell contained therein, and removed a small brush from it, its bristles covered in a thick fluid. She slathered a generous portion of it on the metal hinges before returning the brush to its container.

She turned and whispered something in Ilithiron and Quillion’s ears that Lysinthia could not make out, receiving a nod from each man in return. She then turned back to the hinges, counting off seconds to herself. Somewhere close to ten seconds later, by Lysinthia’s count, Scintara casually pushed on the window causing it to swing inward and upward without a sound. Lysinthia marveled at the substance Scintara used to stifle the loud creaking she had expected.

Scintara stepped inside the window, barely even disturbing the heavy curtains that hung over the interior of the portal. Lysinthia tensed her muscles at the adrenaline rush that surged through her system. She always hated waiting, in that, she and Ephirea had always agreed, and this waiting for Scintara became torture, especially since they were so close to their objective. The others had finally crossed the bridge and now crowded around her on the woefully over-stressed balcony.

A sharp, but low-pitched whistle echoed from inside the room, and Lysinthia moved quickly towards the window, only a half-step behind Quillion. She brushed past the musty-smelling curtains and entered a medium-sized room that appeared to be a sleeping room, if the large bed to its far side was any indication. The decor of the room struck Lysinthia especially, since she always believed herself to have a sharp taste of what was stylish. This room contained furniture and trapping from over a hundred years ago, by Lysinthia’s guess. Scintara, who had given the low-pitched signal to enter the room, stood next to an ancient urn dating at least from the Days of Darkness, over a thousand years past.

The curly-haired thief waved to Lysinthia when she noticed the bard’s scrutiny and then gave a signal that she intended to go through the doorway nearby. Lysinthia signaled back that she would inform Quillion. She turned to find the Half-elf, who stood to her left, inspecting a book which lay on the bed-side table. The bard moved quietly to where Quillion flipped through the aged yellow pages of the old tome. Her natural quiet steps were wasted, however, as Malaryn attempted to fit through the window, his armor catching on the pane and creating a loud creaking sound which echoed through the chamber.

Quillion whipped his head around at the noise, glaring at Malaryn over Lysinthia’s head. Lysinthia turned her head to see the big man give a sheepish grin and shrug his shoulders in silent apology. When the bard returned her gaze to Quillion, she saw that the Half-elf was looking at her. Lysinthia’s breath caught. A very long time had passed since Lysinthia had seen this expression on Quillion’s face. The softening of the usual, cynical, hard lines around his slightly slanted eyes reminded Lysinthia of the way Quillion used to look at her many years ago, when they had been together.

Before she could broach this new facet to her life, however, a loud thump from the direction of the door shattered her and Quillion’s private moment. Both of them snapped their attention to where Scintara had disappeared only moments before, just as the door burst open from the outside. A bright torch light issued from outside the doorway, lighting up the room with an intensity unnatural for a mere fire. Lysinthia drew one of her deadly frost daggers and pivoted on her heel, crouching behind the bed and waiting for a target to show itself.

Walking through the door came a large man, his shaggy, iron-gray hair nearly brushing the door frame, carrying a burden over his shoulder. He wore a thick, full robe ornately trimmed, Lysinthia unconsciously noted, with patterns from the same age as the room’s decor. He wore a long beard that hung nearly to his waist and had golden eyes which seemed to burn with a fire separate of the fire from the torch he carried in his hand. Lysinthia forestalled any attack she might have launched as she recognized the burden he carried over his shoulder: Scintara.

“Bloody nuisance, these thieves!” snorted the man in a booming voice that dominated the room. “I suppose you all came to pillage the house of the great sage, eh?”

The big man stopped in the center of the floor, looking at each of the companions and assassins in turn. Lysinthia, like the others, stood stock still, staring at the man who held their friend so casually. What kind of man walked unarmed into a room full of warriors and assassins with a thief over his shoulder and demanding answers? The man was most certainly some kind of security for Oheniies, intent on defending the house with vigor. Lysinthia’s mind went through various scenarios of how she could disable the man without harming his unconscious burden.

Almost as if he had read her mind, the man’s eyes looked directly into hers. The icy cold feeling she received removed any thoughts of attack from her mind. The force of the man’s personality made it clear that she could do nothing to stop him if she tried. He smiled a warm smile after the unspoken exchange and unceremoniously dumped Scintara’s body to the bed behind him.

“Well? Are you pillagers going to answer me or just stand there with stupefied expressions on your faces?” came the man’s resounding question.

Lysinthia shook her head and frowned as she realized she had the very same expression on her face the man described. However, before she or any of the companions could respond, a cry issued forth from behind her.

“Scintara!” shouted Ilithiron, who hurled himself in mid-air, dagger drawn for blood, towards the large, robed man.

A quick grin flashed across the man’s face that disappeared just moments before he casually turned, grasping the assassin’s wrist with lightning speed and, using Ilithiron’s own momentum against him, hurled the man into the wall beside the bed. He quickly resumed his former stance with a grace that belied his size and again faced the group. This time the smile on his face was not so warm. Lysinthia blinked her eyes. The man had disposed of Ilithiron by barely moving at all!

“Well, unless anyone else wants to ruin the wallpaper by hurling themselves bodily into it, I suppose it wouldn’t be too much to ask who you all are?” came the same booming rumble from the man’s voice. The man walked, unafraid, over to where Quillion stood. Giving the Half-elf a smile, he reached down gently pick up the book Quillion had dropped to the floor, casually dusting it off.

“Really a poor way to treat a rare book such as this, young man,” he grumbled to Quillion. The Half-elf simply nodded, seemingly unable to work his jaw in a response. Lysinthia would have laughed had she been able to talk herself. “So, since no one seems to want to speak, allow me to take care of the introductions,” continued the man, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“You,” he stated, pointing at Quillion, “must be this Quillion character I keep hearing about. You and your friends, dubbed the companions by those in the know, seemed to have caused quite a little stir among the pot in a very short time.”

The man took out a small pouch and removed a bit of tobacco from it, tamping carefully into a beautiful, bone-handled pipe he withdrew from the folds of his robe. After lighting the pipe with a small, sparking steel device and taking a deep inhale, he continued his speech. “Though, I can’t necessarily see why you needed help in breaking into the house, I can’t fault you on your choice of talent. The Guild of Assassins contains some of the nimblest fingers in the city. Isn’t that correct, Rigellin?” The man pointed directly to a black-masked assassin who stood in the shadows of the room. The assassin’s eyes grew wide in surprise over his black mask, and he took a half-step forward before catching himself and returning deeper into the shadows of the corner.

“Wild-mage, I certainly hope you find a way to remove that stone contraption from outside my balcony. Draws too much attention, you know.” Lysinthia watched Tersiano give a tight-lipped sneer and turn his head. Oh yes, she liked this big man already.

“Well, I suppose it’s only fair that I introduce myself, since you have already deduced that I know all of you.” The man took the pipe from his mouth, blowing two perfectly formed smoke rings into the air before continuing, “I am the man you have come to seek. I am Oheniies.”

© 1998 C.A. Lutke