The Darkest Hour | TheDarkestHour / ChasingShadows browse

[continued from ]

Cole and Cynwyd watched the wolf and Malachi ascend the Tower’s stairwell. They stood in front of the dark mouth for a moment. They stepped forward and simply. . . vanished. It was as if the darkness reached out and erased them before they even reached the doorway.

Or perhaps it was simply a trick of the light.

"Hrm," Cole said. "They'll be fine. Probably."

"Despite what he may think of me," Cynwyd said watching for a moment longer, "I hope so."

Cole turned back to the stables. "Now, about that sword and those bracers. I'm _sure_ I left them in here."

The decrepit stables stank of aged manure and rancid horse flesh. Things with tiny green eyes scurried into the rafters as they approach, watching them balefully. But with little effort, Cole found an old steamer trunk that appeared almost untouched by the decay.

And within, he found the sword and bracers he sought. Their crimson metal shone in the darkness, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Hurry up," Cynwyd replied, looking towards the direction the dire duo had rabbited, "They're getting away."

His voice sounded a bit distracted as he searched for them, his concentration extended in directions other than the physical.

As Cole returned from the stables, Cynwyd was pulled from whatever fugue he was in- at least partially. The blades seemed to radiate a call of power- one that matched the pulsing of their blood-red sheen. He gave an appreciative whistle. "Very nice- and very nice workmanship," he said after a moment. "Now I won't feel bad putting you first when we come on any trouble."

"But let's keep a low profile- try to find out where they're off to before stopping them. I get the feeling from my meeting with this pair before that they couldn't plan their way out of a cloth sack without someone to lead them."

And with that, he started into the night, following some trail that only he could see.

Through the city they went, catching glimpses of the pair, or evidence of their passing. The streets where unnerving in their quiet stillness; other than the occasional echoes of mad laughter, it was deathly silent. The foliage that normally lined the streets was wilted in putrid; the scents of the press of humanity now more foul than usual- rather than the accustomed smell of bodies going about their daily life, the corrupt smell of death wafted on the wind as it whistled between the macabre coffins, detritus floating through the air like tumbleweeds.

"I never have gotten used to this," Cynwyd muttered as they continued.

"Would you _want_ to?" Cole asked, eyebrow raised.

It was a hard chase, but it readily became apparent that their path was indeed going towards the military ward--and even more alarmingly towards somewhere that the trio had found themselves only a couple of nights before--Daggerwatch.

If Castle Amber had been a monstrosity, Daggerwatch was its depraved sibling. The normally imposing building now resembled a madman’s butterfly collection - hundreds of writhing bodies impaled upon onyx tower’s rusted blades and dulled protuberances. Carrion crows, bloated from an unwholesome diet, fluttered around the building in a dizzying cloud of feathers and screeching. As they watched, the victim’s rapidly regenerated their wounds; providing their tormentors with an endless banquet. Vermin-like Shadows scurried around the tower’s base, supping on whatever the birds dropped in their frenzy.

The military buildings surrounding the square were no less unsettling, each a charnel house of new horrors.

All but one.

They’d noticed the building in the daylight; an apparently abandoned warehouse or barracks. Perhaps a pre-war relic left to the elements and time following the PatternFall. But beneath the spectral glow of the Dark Hour, it appeared almost renewed. And, certainly, unmolested by the corruptive influences assailing its counterparts. Blockish and grey, surrounded on all sides by a high-wall, the building shone like moonlight reflecting off freshly fallen snow.

Trying not to look at the writhing bodies, Cole focused on the unsullied building. His left hand unconsciously stroked the blood-red bracer on his right arm, as if seeking assurance. "Okay, that has got to be their target," he told Cynwyd. "I don't know if I want to protect it or hide in it. So, any sign of our depraved quarry, or what they're up to? You know I just want to storm in there and save the d... er, night, but I have to have a target to storm at."

"One of these things is not like the other," Cynwyd said, in a singsong voice.

"I'd say we try the door. If we storm about a bit, someone's sure to come greet us," he added, shrugging as he headed towards the grey building. "As this is the area that Coteaz tried so hard to keep us from, I'd say it's not coincidence that the Dark Hour doesn't touch it."

Cole shrugged and followed Cynwyd, pondering the novelty of such an arrangement. He swatted the occasional shadow-vermin with his sword as they walked, unable to fight the twin urges to destroy the noisome things and to try out the new blade. He didn't look back as the creatures' remains were greedily consumed by their cohorts.

They reached the building’s courtyard, unmolested by the weaker - and preoccupied - Shadows. Like its ‘real’ counterpart, the weed-choked area appeared green and natural. They could see an edge where the corruption ended, desperately struggling to encroach on the building. A single metal door provided access to the structure, unused in many, many years.

Cynwyd felt his stomach begin to knot and twist, his head growing feverish. The closer he got to the building, the more unpleasant the sensation became. Soon enough, the oppressiveness became true pain. <There are Pattern-based defenses somewhere within> Osric said, his voice oddly louder than usual.

<Is there any way to circumvent them that you can see?> he asked mentally, starting to turn to skirt the edges of the feeling, looking closely with his natural sight, and giving Osric a chance to perhaps get a focus on the source of their irritation. At the same time, he asked Cole, "Do you feel that?"

"Yeah," Cole said, stopping in front of the door. "It feels calmer here. Orderly. And a little oppressive in its own way, like being in my old tutor's study. But I'll take it over that," he said, waving his sword in the direction of Daggerwatch.

Cynwyd could sense Osric thinking, considering. After a moment, the Elder replied <We would be required to summon the Logrus to our mind and utilize it as a defense, much as a Pattern-user would shield themselves from Logrus emanations. It shall only make us slightly resistant, but it is better than nothing. It will also provide no physical protection. If anything, if we are struck by a Pattern weapon the results would be. . . catastrophic.>

<Agreed. If a Pattern-wielder does appear, simply retreat behind our brother. He will undoubtedly dispose of the threat in short order. Until we are Joined, this is a risk we must endure.>

Cole knocked on the door. "Hello? Anyone in there? We think you're about to be attacked. We're here to help. Hello?"

"Huh, that might sound ambiguous," Cole said, glancing back at Cynwyd. "Cyn, you're the silver-tongued one, maybe you should... hey, you feeling okay?"

"I take that as a 'no'," Cynwyd replied glibly, his wan complexion and the sweat now evident on his brow putting to lie his attempts at humor. "There are pattern based defenses evident here," he continued, "which really don't go well with my particular heritage."

"But this does give some credence to the fact that this particular building is of some importance to the royals. So why does it show such an affinity to the Hour?" he asked rhetorically, almost to himself. He looked back to Cole. "I think that we have found a definite curiosity here..."

No answer from within. At least, none they heard.

A thick chain bound the doors shut. Both men noticed that the ground had been disturbed, as if the doors were opened and shut with some frequency.

"Even if we could break this chain," Cole said, "I don't want to destroy the place's defenses in order to defend it. And you can't go in anyway, apparently. Let see if we can get on the roof." He looked about for a way up. Even a drainpipe would do.

"I can make do," Cynwyd said, his voice a bit stronger. "But something other than the front door might be a better choice."

Better than a drain-pipe, they found an access ladder to the roof. Although the lower rungs were obstructed by a locked grille, Cole’s arboreal height allowed him access to the unprotected rungs above. Once he’d gained his footing, he easily reached down and hauled Cynwyd up.

The flat roof had witnessed better generations, patches of black tar showing through the carpet of gravel. Vent pipes were rusted and choked with bird nests. However, a large, pyramid skylight at the roof’s center provided them a view down into the barrack’s expanse darkness. They could see an empty room that took up most of the interior.

"Keep an eye out," Cole told Cynwyd. He put his hands around his mouth and pressed them up against the glass before calling, "Friends! You're in danger!" He rapped his right bracer against the glass a few times before calling again.

"I don't think there's anyone in there," he told Cynwyd, "or they hear this sort of thing all the time and have learned not to respond. Or," he smacked his forehead, "they're all encased in those black coffins. That must be it. It's the Dark Hour and they can't respond. And if this building is somehow demolished around them, they're gonna wake up dead. But if we can't get in, then surely those creeps can't either. So what exactly is the threat? Where did those two _go_?"

"If they're not here, they must be inside- there *has* to be a way to get in," Cynwyd said. Pain warred with concentration as he thought, looking for a way into the complex. <This can't be a dead end,> he thought as he scanned. <Answers lie within... answers must be found!>

He made his way towards one of the vents, moving the bird's nests aside in an attempt to see if one might be passable- to see if he might find any way to access the interior of the building. "The pattern defenses say that there is much more here than meets the eye," he mused aloud as he worked.

The men found little success at first. The vents were uniformly inadequate for their desires - being either too small or rusted solid. Before they gave up the search, however, Cynwyd noticed something peculiar about a large vent at the far end of the roof. It appeared untouched by bird-life and the grille had been recently replaced. Rank steam drifted up, the air heavy with the bodily stink of human neglect. From somewhere below came a low, pained noise that hovered at the edge of audibility.

A quick test revealed that the grille could be removed with little effort.

Cynwyd knelt beside it, working the grille free as silently as he could. "From here on in, I don't think we should talk unless absolutely necessary. This *definitely* doesn't seem benign, and I'm not sure what we'll find."

After working it free, he looked inside, but could see nothing for his efforts other than a scant few ridges in the side of the duct and darkness. It wasn't as forbidding a climb as it might have been otherwise, however, for it was a tight fit. Normally a bad thing, this fact would let him brace against the sides of the duct using strength.

He started for the duct opening, but remembering Osric's warning, he looked to Cole. "I guess knowing that there is the strong hint of Pattern below, you should go first."

"Gee, thanks," Cole said. "I don't suppose I've mentioned how much I hate tight spaces?" He shook his head and ran one hand over his scalp, a nervous gesture, before putting his feet in the opening. He took a few deep breaths, mumbled something that sounded like "ohcrapohcrapohcrap," and lowered himself into the duct.

Cole’s height and long legs were both a blessing and a curse as he descended into the darkness. He could reach the metal segments and use them for footing. But he continually began stuck in the claustrophobic vent. Finddo’s bravado and eagerness to reach the bottom helped him stay off flights of panic.

The climb continued for an agonizingly long time and soon he realized he’d descended beneath street level. Green moonlight from the hole above appeared miles above him. Metal creaked and strained around him, as the vent’s walls began to buckle out. By now, the darkness had become rank and chokingly humid.

His foot found resistance, but the strain had taken its toll. The slick walls provided him little traction as the vent’s bottom gave out beneath him, sending him plunging down. The fall ended with brutal swiftness as he struck concrete; his world now wreathed in impenetrable shadow.

Cole got to his feet as quickly as he could, sword out, listening and even sniffing for the presence of any threat around him. After the first sniff he spit out a muffled curse, and tried to breathe as little as possible. He shuffled aside from where he'd landed, feeling ahead with his feet and extended hands, trying to get out from underneath where Cynwyd would soon land. Remembering the trick with finding his sword and bracers in the stable, he attempted to believe that someone had left a lamp somewhere nearby.

Hearing Cole's fall from the vent, Cynwyd had to suppress the urge to call out to him, instead bracing himself in the vent to wait in the darkness for any indication that there were problems, or the all clear to sound.

Cole, having been told not to talk unless absolutely necessary, remained silent.

Cole felt an oppressive weight upon his chest the moment he began summoning the Pattern; as if breathing in thick smog. The sensation deepened as he began to fumble in the darkness, reaching for what he ‘believed’ would be there.

Perhaps by primal senses, he realized he was nearing the other side of the chamber. His hands reached out, searching.

The right found a metallic and glass shape that he recognized as a light sconce - the glass cooling from recent use.

The left hand found something. . . sweaty and naked. And breathing.

Already stressed from the long climb down, the dark, and the unfamiliar strain of the Pattern, Cole let out a yelp and stumbled backward. He nearly yanked the sconce off the wall in the process. He did trip over something in the dark--perhaps his own feet--and would have landed on his backside if not for Finndo's superhuman reflexes: as it was he found himself in an en garde, with no memory of drawing his sword. "Who's there?" he hissed into the darkness.

Hearing Cole's voice, Cynwyd prepared for a rapid drop into the room, though he held his position and his tongue, straining to hear more.

Something shifted and squirmed in the darkness; skin on stone. The sound multiplied a dozen-fold, emitted from various locations in the room. And he could hear wet, smacking sounds. . . almost a moan, but more guttural and desperate.

To his left, a line of light flared. The bottom of a door well. Someone had turned on a light in the next room. It provided him just enough illumination to see human shadows surrounding him - slowly writhing, but not advancing away from the wall.

Cole retreated to the center of the room, away from the figures along the walls. His sword flicked in all directions, daring anyone to come closer. He kept the line of light in the corner of his eye, know that he couldn't afford to look at it directly should the door open.

Lifting his head toward the darkness above him, he said, in a conversational tone, "I don't suppose you have a rope?"

"Not me," Cynwyd replied almost instantly, matching Cole's tone. "Why? Unwanted guests?"

"Perhaps. By which I mean maybe us. And, if we are unwanted at the bottom of a very long hole, we might want to be able to get back up."

"Have you ever heard the expression the pot that called the kettle black?" Cynwyd said, his tone still light. "Or something like that. I'm starting to think that might apply. As in that Malachi cat being the kettle. And us, unfortunately being the pot."

"There might be a few things that would point to our sanity missing from this plan..."

Many of the shadow-stained figures continued to contort and writhe. But they remained rooted in place, unwilling or unable to approach. As Cole and Cynwyd exchanged verbal concerns, the throaty moans intensified in lewd desperation.

Something extinguished the light, plunging Cole into absolute darkness once again.

Cole sighed, not that anyone would have heard over the noises around him. "I'm not a pot," he said to himself, "I'm a frying pan. And I think I'm _in_ the fire."

Keeping his sword pointed at where the light had once been--both to defend against anything from that direction and to use as a point of reference--he made his way back toward the wall sconce, wondering how he'd light it even if he found it again.

By chance – or an unconscious manipulation of fate – Cole discovered something far better than a wall sconce. He found a switch near the door, which pressed down beneath his fingers. The room blazed with blue-white light from half a dozen mage-lamps. His eyes, adjusted to the darkness, burned in his head – blinding him. Pleading moans erupted all around him.

Cynwyd could see the flare of light from below, illuminating most of the shaft. It also gave him a better view of the handholds he could use.

As the light flared, Cynwyd almost immediately was down the shaft, ready to back up Cole. He thought he was ready for anything. But he found that anything covered more in this world or next than he ever could have imagined.

As Cole’s eyes adjusted, he could see a myriad of wretched figures lining the walls of the room – men, women. They bound to the wall by cold metal shackles, trapping her wrists and waist. Most stared blankly into space, while others moaned and made wet smacking sounds with their mouths. Even at this distance, Cole realized someone had removed their tongues. Their half-nude bodies exhibited signs of cruel tortures.

The woman he'd 'saved' stood at the other end of the jail-cell. Her vacant eyes stared at him – her savaged mouth fluttering mutely.

Cole stood for a moment, thunderstruck, staring back at her. His knuckles cracked around the hilt of his blood-red sword.

In a whisper, he said, "Someone is going to die."

Then he took two steps toward the door and kicked it with all his might.

"Cole!" Cynwyd shouted, trying to stop him. But by then it was too late. <I think we're in a bit of trouble here,> he thought, trying to assess the situation- both tactically and strategically. After all, to stay alive, but cause an 'incident' would be a Pyrrhic victory at best. <I'm starting to see what you meant about following Finndo,> he added sardonically.

<Try putting up with centuries of this flat-headed, hero-$hit> Orsic retorted. <You’ll beg for death after the first decade.>

The metal door tore off its hinges, mortar and metal flying everywhere. It arched and spun into the room beyond until it struck the floor with a deafening clang. Momentum carried it into the center of the room, where it finally came to rest.

Five columns dominated the room beyond, forming the tips of an enormous pentagram. Complex runes had been painted upon the floor, connecting the pillars to one another. Osric – and thus Cynwyd – immediately recognized this to be some form of transmutation circle; only on a grand scale. The wave of nausea spiked as he looked upon the gold and silver etchings, filling him with natural repulsion. This, he suspected was the source of the Pattern emissions.

Three other doors led from the chamber; each flanked by suits of Black Cloak armor. Down the hall to the north, they could see a light shifting... as if lantern being carried.

"Pattern," Cynwyd gasped, his hand outstretched as he doubled over at the sudden cramping in his abdomen. "Magick!"

"Cole, stop!" he cried, knowing it would do no good. <This is *already* getting old. Is there a way we can circumvent this? Or interrupt its emanations?>

<Joined? We could suppress the Pattern emanations with little difficult. But, as we are, it will take a great amount of effort on your part. Call upon the Logrus within you and I shall do the rest. But I caution you. You may be highly taxed as a result.>

Cole appeared not to hear him.

As he entered the room, Cole skewered the Black Cloak armor to the right of his doorway, spun around, and flung it into the armor on his left, leaving them both in a crumpled heap.

He stalked deliberately through the pentagram room, his sword tip gouging the floor before him, sending up a shower of blood red sparks. Heedless of the pentagram, he began crossing the room to the north hall.

Cole’s single-mindedness and rage blinded him to the threat behind him. All he could see was the light in the distance turn and begin toward him.

Fortunately, Cynwyd had a prefect view of the room. He watched as the two suits of armor Cole had lashed out at rose from the floor with surprising fluidity. Eyes of crimson fire ignited within the raven-like helms and began to pulse with unholy life. They drew their weapons and headed for Cole. Several others were also coming to life, emerging from some form of self-imposed torpor.

"Cole!" Cynwyd yelled. "Behind you!" He focused on the weapons that the armor bore. <This is quickly going from bad to maximum bad. Any hint of pattern in their weapons?> he asked, momentarily distracted from the pentagram.

<No. This is some form of Blood Magic. And the weapons are magically poisoned.> Oscric said with some disgust. <Perhaps it would have been better if you had committed suicide, after all.>

Cole spun once more, his sword slashing out wide in a full circle around him. But after he completed his spin, his eyes locked once more on the light in the north hallway.

The ‘wounded’ suits of armor lunged into combat, using their twin weapons to deflect Cole’s blade with significant skill. However, neither could gain an advantage or advance on him - his Other’s training far superior to them. Realizing this, they fell into a more defensive posture. . . waiting for their metallic ‘compatriots’ to enter the fray - six in all. They remained unnervingly silent, but Cole could tell they were coordinating with one another through unspoken communication. Although the others appeared to be consciously circling around the pentagram, he would be surrounded in a few seconds.

Another figure burst into the room; a human in a Blackcloak’s uniform. As he viewed the combat, he nearly dropped the lamp in his hand from the shock. Training took over and he reached for his holstered pistol.

Though Cole's brain screamed with injustice-fueled rage, Finndo’s combat training took over as well. Taking advantage of their defensive posture, he retreated past the empty armor suits, back toward the doorway through which he'd entered, weaving and ducking so that the suits and columns were between him and the lamp-bearer's pistol.

As he ran, his left hand drew a knife from his belt; the same knife he'd used to let his blood into the forging of his sword and bracers.

Much faster than any human – or automata – Cole retreated back into the cell with little difficulty. The wall behind him exploded as the Blackcloak fired his pistol, the shot too slow and unsteady. Perhaps in panic, the man fired again with little success. They could hear him cursing as he attempted to reload. The clanging suits regrouped and cautiously approached the door, but did not enter.

Back inside the cell, Cole immediately noticed Cynwyd - or what he /hoped/ was Cynwyd. The familiar figure stood in the middle of the room, wreathed in dark purple flames. “I am the Shadow. The True Self,” Osric chuckled.

A moment before…

As he hadn't ventured into the room, Cynwyd ducked out of site, hoping he hadn't been seen. He knew in his current state he was of little use- and possibly a distraction to Cole. As this was his fault, he had to even the playing field.

<Osric, we're in dire straits,> he thought. <I don't want to see Cole killed, and I'm sure you don't want to see your brother die, either.>

He composed himself, there in the darkness, surrounded by the crippled victims of the Black Cloaks. He had always been a risk taker, but he was about to take one of the biggest risks of his life.

<You were right, earlier- we're a fraction of what we could be if joined. We were put together for a reason, and that reason won't be realized with either one of us alone. I've seen two joinings, and in each case, the elder attempted to overwhelm the person, and disaster was only averted by the presence of the others. We don't have that luxury,> he thought, taking a deep breath as he continued. <I hope seeing the situation that we find ourselves in, we can come to an agreement on that respect, and if not, I'll at least have the satisfaction that you won't long outlast me,> he finished grimly.

As he made the invitation, Cynwyd felt a smothering hood of darkness slip over his head, blocking out the cruel world around him. “I am the Shadow. The True Self,” Osric growled with triumph. The darkness began to consume Cynwyd, numbing his limbs as it descended from his head through his body. It compacted him, squeezed him, crushing him like a serpent’s coils. Every breath, every movement he made only made the coils tighten more. That which had been Cynwyd began to fade from existence, his memories and thoughts crushed by this vast darkness.

The darkness was forever. A prison of nothingness that stretched into an eternity. Time – like everything else – simply ceased to exist. He was a ghost. A fragment. An unremembered dream.

And then something in the blackness – shifted.

Cynwyd had long forgotten what shape and form were; concepts such as these were beyond him now. But soon, as if a child relearning its world, he began to recognize the face before him. It nodded, obsidian eyes staring out of an onyx face. Its hand touched his forehead and stroked his hair, tender, compassionate. Its mouth moved and emitted a sound. He realized it was speaking. “I am the Shadow. The True Self.

“But I am nothing without you.“

Osric embraced him, his body sinking into Cynwyd and sharing his substance with the ghost. In that instant, Cynwyd relived his entire life and that of his other in crystalline beauty. Memories pouring into him like a river of sight and sound and smell and emotion, filling him to bursting. He split open like a waterskin, purple flame erupting from every pore and erasing the darkness. When he opened his eyes, Cynwyd had been reborn.

But he found himself back in the hell he’d left so very, very long ago; his ‘brother,’ Cole running into the room with metal demons on his tail.

"Uh, yeah," Cole said to the flame-wreathed figure, skidding on one heel, "hold that thought." He pirouetted, slashing as he turned, to defend the doorway. He called over his shoulder, "Cynwyd, you still in there?"

Nothing approached the door, but Cole could tell they were flanking his position; possibly for a rush or to wait him out.

"I'm here," Cywnyd said, though his tone, his demeanor, everything about him was slightly *different* than before. As he looked at Cole, he marveled at how *blind* he'd been before; it was like awakening after a long night into a dazzling dawn.

"Of course, if you'd been a little less dramatic in your entrance," he quipped, "we might still have a door to bar the way."

"We don't need a door," Cole growled.

"We need to get out of here," said, assessing the situation. "The queen will intervene, and at least these wretches will be the last to suffer this fate."

"Assuming that he doesn't destroy the evidence," Cole replied quietly, "and isn't given the benefit of the doubt for many years of loyal service to the crown. No, I like my idea better."

Bringing to mind the little he had seen of the circle and the armor, Cynwyd closed his eyes once again.

Cynwyd felt a wetness on his face; Cole watching as strands of black fluid dripped from his friend’s eyes. They tested the air like curious snakes before quickly retreating into the warm home. <No. The circle is entirely different. It is for Pattern work of some sort. The suits have been crafted with Blood Magic. There should be a rune somewhere in the armor, usually the head or neck. Disrupt the blood rune and the bound soul will be dispersed. Otherwise, injuries will do little to them. Nasty work, that.>

"The souls are bound to the armor," Cynwyd said to Cole, his voice low enough so that the Blackguard could hopefully not hear him. "There should be a rune somewhere on the head or neck if we're lucky about the placement. Destroy that, and they'll go down. Nothing else will do."

"Your little eye tentacles tell you that?" Cole asked. "Uh, that's very helpful, thanks. Creepy as all hell, but helpful."

The Blackgaurd called from outside, from somewhere to the left… very close. “I don’t know who you are, but I order you to lay down your weapons in the name of the King. I will not ask again!” The tap-tap-tap of his ramrod ceased.

Cynwyd reached inside of him for the talent that had always been with him, his voice. Supplementing that with not just his wit, but Osric's power, he finally responded. "In the name of the King? I know for a fact that what you're doing here falls outside of the parameters of the authority you've been given," he answered disdainfully. "If you stand down, I will speak on your behalf at the tribunals that will follow from this," he continued, the disdain beginning to bleed from his voice, giving way to something much more dangerous. "I know you've only been following orders," he said, the sounds of sympathy and understanding bleeding into his tone as his voice dropped lower, just below speaking level. Into the silence, he drove his last attack home.

"None of this is your fault."

Cole longed to rush back into the battle, but he bided his time, giving Cynwyd's attempt an opportunity to work, no matter what he thought of its prospects for success. He used the time to watch for the runes on the armor suits. As he watched and waited, he remembered being asked once, long ago, what would drive him to commit murder, an idea he'd laughed aside at the time. He did not look at the mutilated figures chained to the walls around him, but now he knew: even if the Blackguard surrendered, he wasn't going to a trial.

Cynwyd’s words were met by silence; then a low, despondent moan. After a moment, the man replied in a mournful voice. “It weren’t my doing. The commander told us these Empties could be possessed by demons. They need to be locked up and contained. That the whole city’s in peril. All those Shadows everywhere. Even the Ki…”

A wet thwack cut off the man’s frantic voice. A few seconds later, his head tumbled passed the doorway like a rugby ball – his eyes still blinking as he tried to grasp that he was dead. When it came to a sticky halt, the life drained from his gaze.

Cole glanced at the thing. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I had in mind, but not as satisfying."

Thus distracted, he wasn't prepared to block the second head – metallic this time – that was tossed through the door, skidding across the floor before settling in a corner. Its malevolent red eyes scanned its surroundings.

Cole braced himself to defend the doorway, sword in in one hand, knife in the other. "Cyn," he said, "put that thing out. No sense letting them spy on us."

Cynwyd reached within him again, and felt Osric supporting him with a well of power that seemed infinite. But from other memories, he knew well the limitations of the power that he was tapping into. Normally, his illusions lacked substance- he'd studied them on a whim, to accompany himself when no band was present (It also impressed the ladies with a stunning entrance). But the illusion he now conceived, he did so with Osric's help, weaving Power with his lesser abilities, to cloak both him and Cole from the scanning of the presumed diabolic device in their midst.

Cynwyd recognized a ‘hanged’ spell lurking in Orsic’s thoughts - one of invisibility. With a mere thought, he extended the magical cloak to his companion. A headless suit of armor came through the open door with unnatural speed, swinging two deadly axes. Had it been human, the subterfuge would have undoubtedly worked and caused his attack to falter. However, this automaton appeared immune to illusionary manipulations and sprang right at Cole – who turned its attack with some ease. Finndo’s experience told him that the creature was at a disadvantage – viewing the battle as it was from the other side of the room.

Two other suits followed just as quickly; one covered in arterial spray. Their shorter weapons turned the tide toward them; the length of Cole’s blade hindering him in the confined space. They also cared little if their bodies were damaged – cuts and punctures doing little to slow them. However, they could not get past Cole; leaving Cynwyd free to do as he pleased.

Suddenly, a distant roar shook the entire building - dust falling from the ceiling.

"*That* decidedly, does not sound good," Cynwyd exclaimed, looking at the ceiling. Looking toward the two suits pressing Cole, he tried to see where the runes were, but it was no good- it was too dark from his angle. Then he thought of the example the suits had given, and concentrated upon Cole's swords, while communing with Osric.

<Clever boy> Osric chuckled. Cynwyd felt his Will extend outward, touching the singing metal of Cole’s blade. At first, he sensed resistance – the Red Steel’s innate connection to the Pattern offering some defense. But he also sensed the Logrus bound within the sword and heightened its natural link to magick.

"You know," Cole said as he fought the suits, "we came down here to help defend this place. To help stop whatever just made that noise. But now, having seen what you think passes for the defense of goodness and light, I'm inclined to just tie up your forces while it breaches your defenses. So please ignore the noises from outside. We'll take care of it after we've dismembered you heartless abominations. Because whatever it might be, it's not as disgusting as you are."

The suits remained dispassionate and deadly in their assault, wearing Cole down with the feints and prods – the differing combination of weapons forcing the duelist to alter his techniques repeatedly to compensate.

As he fought, fully on the defensive to keep the suits occupied and away from Cynwyd, Cole kept watching for the runes that bound the life energies into their murderous vessels.

Cole began to notice a subtle change in the blade’s weight and balance. His association with Finndo recognized nature of this change; the blade revealing what his eyes could not see. He beat an enemy’s axe aside and thrust into its left shoulder – a seemingly pointless place to strike. But as his sword sliced through the metal, a bright sanguine flash erupted and the creature’s glowing eyes winked out like an extinguished candle. The metal suit fell to the floor, inert.

Nigh invulnerability made the creatures too overconfident to recognize the shift in combat in time. The other two went down from rapid thrusts – one to the belly, the other in the upper leg. Another suit stood in the door, eyes glow in hateful surprise. Despite its immortality, it fled, leaving Cynwyd and Cole alone with the living dead.

"That's a bit more like it!" Cole said with a grin. But as he turned to look at Cynwyd, he saw the wretched figures around him once more, and the grin faded away. He flicked Cynwyd a quick salute, then stepped into the doorway and scanned the room beyond to see if any of the animated suits remained.

"Let's get her out of here," Cynwyd said. "You're probably right- the evidence will be destroyed... unless we take it with us."

"Her, the head, and the guard's head. That should be enough evidence.

 And time in drawing short- We don't want to be caught in here after

the Hour's done."

For the moment, they did not hear the unnerving sound of metallic feet running toward them. But they doubted this reprieve would last much longer.

"What do you make of that circle, Cyn?" Cole asked. "Is it good or evil? Is it protecting this place from the darkness, or just powering the horrible things they're doing? Do we do more good by destroying it or by leaving it be?"

"Osric said that it was some sort of transmutation circle..." Cynwyd said aloud, even as he moved towards it. True to Osric's word, the Pattern still made him a bit uncomfortable, but his own power countered the worse effects as he drew closer and knelt down next to it, studying the intricacies of it without touching it. <What do you think- what does it do? And can we even destroy it safely?>

Cynwyd felt Osric squirming around in his head, as if borrowing certain functions. The Elder offered him some added protection against the Pattern emanations, easing the pain. <If my guess is correct – and it frequently is – I suspect it is utilized in the aforementioned blood magic, easing the transference of human soul into metal. However, I doubt it is limited merely to that design. And destroying it safely would require several rituals; all of which, require tools and time we do not possess.>

"Unfortunately," Cynwyd said, even as he processed the information that Osric was feeding to him, "it seems that we will have to leave it in place. It's not benign, and I wish we could destroy it. But we don't possess the means or the time."

He brushed off his knees as he arose, looking towards Cole. "The evidence is our best chance of shutting this place down permanently. We need to leave," he said pointedly. "Now."

Cole sighed. "I hate this thing," he said. "It's worse than the things from the hour. This makes me almost think they're right to try to destroy us. Those things are only following their nature, horrid as they are. The things done to those people with this circle mean someone was willing to give up all that made him better than the monsters we're fighting. It can't stand. I'd sooner die."

He stared into Cynwyd's eyes. "Everything in me wants to lay into this thing with my sword, to hack and scratch and chisel and scrape until every last bit of it is gone. Get us, and our evidence, and that poor woman that I turned over to become a human sacrifice, out of this place while I can still stop myself. Please."

Cole turned back to stare at the circle, leaning on his sword, hands white-knuckled around its hilt, as if the blade would leap out and attack if he didn't hold it down.

Cynwyd was silent for once as he considered Cole's words and his demeanor, his brow furrowed. He started to speak a couple of times, but really didn't know what to say. So with a sigh, he went back into the room, and leading the woman out of the darkness, trying his best to ignore the other mutilated souls that he passed as they made their way to Cole's side. He accidentally kicked the severed head as he passed by it, his own temper rising as he thought about what was going on and why. He gingerly helped Cole sheathe his sword, placing the docile woman's hand in his, trying to keep him grounded in the here and now. Then, after making sure that the head was indeed dormant, he laid out his own cloak and wrapped it, and his grisly trophy in it for carry.

"They'll get theirs soon enough," he said to Cole. "But our duty is to the living- to make sure this doesn't happen again."

Now for the hard part. He just hoped that having a living testament to the good they had done would keep Cole's sanity intact. "I can get us out the way we came in," he said pointedly, even as he picked up his burden and walked past the tortured souls to stand beneath the vent. He turned and looked to his friend... his *brother*... waiting for him to join him.

Removing the shirt that he'd worn for his date with Rhea, just a few hours ago, Cole wrapped it tenderly around the old woman's mutilated nakedness. The blood-red bracers glimmered on his bare arms in the dim light.

A memory came unbidden, one of a similar situation in times past- a dark memory of suffering and pain. <He's strong on the outside- but it's a facade, isn't it?> he thought, even as he studied the pair as they came to stand beside him.

His grasp of magick was much more thorough now, and with Osric's help, he began to weave the air about them, propelling them back through the vent that they had come through in a dizzying ascent to the roof. Finally letting the spell drop once their feet touched the solid ground, Cynwyd grinned despite himself.

"Now *that's* the way to travel!"

When they reached the rooftop, they immediately recognized a change in the air. The scent of ozone and kerosene stung their nostrils. And the sky had darkened, now boiling with clouds laced with purple lightning. Some of the glass panels on the sky-light had cracked, as if from some great impact.

And only the twisted base of Tartarus could be seen; the rest cloaked in storm clouds.

Osric shivered; his voice enigmatic <Something. . . has awakened>

Cole led the old woman aside to sit in the shadow of one of the rooftop vents. He stroked her hair once to calm her--unnecessarily, in her uncaring state--and returned to stand next to Cynwyd, bare chested, grim faced, sword drawn once more.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Late enough that we're going to have to move quickly to get out of here before the Hour is over." He looked at his 'bag' with a measuring eye. "And before I lose any *other* clothes to this head."

Moving to the edge of the roof, he lowered the bag and himself to the ground, taking the woman from Cole once he was there, so that the other man could follow unencumbered. The similarly passed the fence, and were just making their way onto the streets proper as the shadows began to recede from the buildings around them, allowing them to see the details of the now benign looking structures. Cynwyd took a quick glance back to see if there had been any changes to the horror chamber they'd just left, and saw that it stood just as drab as before, with no changes evident. But he didn't think he'd be able to forget the little they had seen of that place.

Cole pointedly did not look back.

With the city’s purgatorial façade stripped away, the duo could see /something/ had happened during the twilight hour. People were looking out their windows or excitedly talking in the streets about the ‘thunderclap.’ Others thought it must have been an explosion. Here and there broken glass lay on the ground like a guilty secret, the damage becoming more pronounced the closer they came to the Castle.

Castle Amber blazed against the night, its courtyard a bustle of activity. From what they could gather from the guards, Kolvir had ’shuddered’ – an earthquake, perhaps? After enduring a few moments of confusion and accusation, Cole and Cynwyd were provided royal permission to enter the castle proper. Their ever-silent ward was taken to the Royal physician for treatment, while they were escorted to the library.

When the door shut behind them, they noticed the regal figure standing by the fireplace, framed in shadow and golden light. Even at this late hour, Vialle was impeccably dressed in the height of Rebman fashion – all greens and mystery. She turned and smiled sadly, her blind eyes seeing through them. “You have had a busy night, Ser Cynwyd,” she said. “And your friend, as well, I am told.”

She drifted toward them with a siren’s grace, extending her royal hand to be kissed. “Ser Cole di Perondor, is it?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Cole said, responding to her gesture impeccably, the result of years of reluctant training for which he found himself suddenly grateful. "I'm a friend of your daughter," he said. Glancing down at his still shirtless state, he added, "This is isn't how I'd hoped we would meet. But thank you for seeing us at this late hour. It's urgent. Ser Cynwyd and I stumbled into something appalling this evening."

Vialle chuckled softly - although, the sound was not entirely friendly. “Oh, I hear you are much more than a friend to my daughter.

 But that is for another time.”  She tilted her head, blind eyes

seeing all as she waited for Cynwyd to speak.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Cole agreed, on both counts.

This was the point of the night's ventures- to see the Queen, and inform her of the excesses being inflicted upon Her subjects. She'd given him something that had been lacking in the face of the things that he'd seen- hope. But now, with true news to give her, he found his old cynicism returning. Especially at the words she chose.

"Some say that information is power," he began after Cole spoke. "But I've found that the information isn't as telling many times as the source," he continued, his tone still deferential, but just barely. He measured her movements and her actions against the ones so recently seen. <There's something amiss here,> he thought. Though it was not the Hour, he knew Osric's benefits lay not only in his power, but his keen insight.

"If I'm not to impertinent in the questioning, what news have you already had?" he asked, then added with a bow after a moment, "If only to frame our story."

Vialle gestured for them to join her by the fire – a small table and collection of comfortable chairs offering an island within the extensive library. By memory and touch, the queen carefully found a place to sit across from the young men. “I know you encountered my nephew, Rook, and my husband not long ago. Rook and another young man entered the castle, but have not been heard from since. However, just after the strike of midnight, a great disturbance emanated from the Pattern Room. My husband is dismissing it publically as an earth tremor, but I know there is more to it. He and Princess Fiona are currently examining the Pattern for signs of damage.

“Would you know the cause of this ‘disturbance’ or is your arrival here purely coincidental?”

"We..." Cynwyd paused, only for a second, but there it was. "...felt something while on our nocturnal outing."

Cole shrugged: an unhelpful gesture, especially considering the audience.

Vialle gave a perfunctory nod, “Very well.”

"I doubt they were linked," he said, his tone tentative as he exchanged a glance with Cole. "Our outing had something more to do with the investigation that you charged me with," he continued, studying her as he did. "You remember that charge?"

Cole silently mouthed at Cynwyd, *Your charge?*

Vialle lightly nodded, folding her hands in her lap. Her face remained impassive and her eyes offered nothing. “You’ve uncovered tangible evidence of Laboratory Five’s existence then? This is good news. What did you discover?”

"We had a discussion with the King before the start of the Hour, and were to report to him also," Cynwyd said, thinking quickly. "Perhaps if we could speak to both of you together, we might get all perspectives on the information at a similar time?" he suggested.

Vialle’s blind eyes drifted between the young men, seeing nothing and everything. She smiled ruefully, “He is engaged at the moment, as I said. It will be some time before he can join us. And time is of the essence, would you not agree?” She tilted her head, frowning, “Are you quite alright, Ser Cynwyd? I hear some tension in your voice. Beyond what should be expected in this situation.”

<Are you there?> he thought, almost frantically, even as he searched for any evidence that his paranoia was well founded.

<And here I thought I might have some peace after tonight’s exertions.> Osric roused grumpily. <Do they not allow the Dead to rest where you hail from? Who exactly has my brother diddled or murdered this time?

<Ah, no. You suspect the woman. Well, she is powerful, true, but no threat. At least in any detectable fashion.>

Cynwyd exhaled, while shaking his head shortly at Cole's query.

"You are indeed perceptive, my Queen," he said. "That does a little to dispel my apprehensions."

"Knowing what we know, and what you said earlier about the dangerous nature of such information sparked this caution. And I think once you hear it, you will understand. I trusted you earlier, and nothing has changed to make me regret such an action. But also taking into account whom you said was in charge of Laboratory Five..." he shrugged, adding with the action, "...that gave me some pause."

Again he hesitated, but steeling himself, he squared his shoulders and continued on.

"We did find evidence of Laboratory Five. We know where it is, and what they are doing," he said matter-of-factly. "And we even brought evidence of said activity. The woman I told you of before- the one that Cole saved, and Coteaz took- we found her in the depths of the installation, mutilated. And she was not the only one."

"More than that, Blood Magic had been utilized to seal and guard their doings against the citizens of Amber, to bind souls to the guardianship of the facility, though there were flesh-and-blood guards there also. We brought evidence of each of these charges."

"Because of the short time we had, we could not tell you what else goes on at the facility. But what we saw was disturbing enough."

Cole's jaw had dropped open, but he said nothing.

Vialle frowned, her brow knitting with concern as Cynwyd continued to speak. She touched the shell amulet at her throat and sighed. “Blood magic? Then it is worse than we thought,” she said in a pained voice.

 “You took great risk in delivering this information to us.  For that

we are ever grateful. It will make moving against Commander Coteaz much easier for the King. Although, I fear, the ramifications of this will resonate on many levels, indeed. Loyalists can be ever so tricky to deal with.”

She closed her blind eyes, a delicate finger following the amulet’s spiraling pathway. A moment passed. The Queen gave a silent nod and opened her eyes again. “Were you detected in any manner? Could your investigation be traced back to you?” Her lips pursed, struggling with the next words. “Will you need protection?”

"It's... possible," Cynwyd said, glancing towards Cole for confirmation. "One of the automata we fought escaped; it seemed to have a propensity for violence and cruelty, which makes me think that the spirit that inhabited it was possessed of a certain consciousness.

 Whether that extends to communication, I can't know."

"We won't need any protection," Cole said.

Vialle nodded with a worried frown. “As you wish, Ser Cole. However, the offers remains should you choose otherwise.”

After a moment, and another glance at Cole, he ventured, "What will happen to the woman that we brought?"

Cole looked at the queen expectantly.

Vialle’s finger trailed over the shell again, “She will be examined and cared for by my sister-in-law, the Prince Fiona.” She became distant for a moment, as if listening to something they could not hear. With another mysterious nod, she whispered, “Of course.”

The air beside her tore open with a silvery flash; a Trump gate. A flame-haired woman with a flowing dress of dark lavender stepped through, too quick for the world beyond her to be seen in much detail.

 She could not have stood more than five feet tall, but her presence

filled the room like a thunderstorm. “Your Highness,” she said, kissing Vialle’s hand.

Vialle smiled softly, “Princess Fiona. These are the young men who brought us that poor woman.”

Fiona turned, her green eyes studying Cole and Cynwyd with an ancient intellect. “Gentleman. Would you please tell me how my patient came to be in her current state?”

"It's my fault," Cole blurted. "I broke her chrissul... crissle... coffin thing. My first night. I didn't know. I thought she was dead, but then we found her wandering the streets. We were going to take her to the hospital but the blackcloaks came by, and they took her to Daggerwatch. I didn't know they were going to do this to her, or I would have..." He trailed off. "Well, honestly, probably got myself arrested and or killed fighting them. Jeez I'm an idiot." He sat down heavily on the couch behind him, head in his hands. "I need sleep."

Vialle gazed at Cole, silently empathic. Fiona remained stony and unimpressed.

"None of us knew when we first joined," Cynwyd said in his defense. "And but for our personalities, any of us could have done the same. At least you were concerned for others in your newly changed state- whereas I was concerned only with staying inconspicuous until I could find out more about what was happening. Both outlooks are needed, I think."

"But that is a danger," he said, looking back to the Queen and Princess. "We've come across others only by accident, as in the case of Malachi," he said, dropping the name of the only other that he knew was known to the Royals. "And our knowledge is limited. And others, well meaning or not, keep us from information that could make us effective, so we blunder around like bulls in a china shop, wanting to help Amber, but with our hands tied behind us by the ones that we would protect. And knowing that the other guardian was active during that Hour, I know not if he was one of us, co-opted into protecting this installation."

"And now seeing what was done by the Black Cloaks and their proxies- for the state that Cole referred to was only in reference to her psyche- the other wounds to her person were done after the fact in that place- I'm quite troubled at what lies at the core of what besets Amber, and who is behind this Dark Hour."

Fiona nodded lightly, “Thank you for your observations. Tainted, as they were, by sentimentality, they shall be most useful. Do not fear, gentlemen. The mortal will be cared for.” Vialle frowned at her, but said nothing.

Cynwyd suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that Fiona's *care* would not be much different than Coteaz's. But looking to Cole, he had the discretion to keep his mouth shut. For all they'd done and survive, assault on a Royal would still be *very* bad for their health.

Exhausted past picking up any subtle nuances, Cole merely mumbled, "Thank you."

The red-haired woman steepled her fingers together, resting her angular chin up them. “Coteaz’s utilization of Blood Magic is quite clever for a mortal.” An appreciative smile curled her lips. “Binding the soul to an inanimate object through blood magic would provide it some protection against the entropic effects of these ‘shadows.’ As well as the obvious physical protection such a transformation would provide.”

She paused, staring at Cole and Cynwyd, as if seeing them in a new light. The smile broadened, “Ah yes. Very clever, indeed.”

"You almost sound as if you approve," Cole said.

“Approval is an irrelevant concept,” Fiona replied plainly. “I simply respect the gentleman’s ingenuity. However, I do question the Commander’s ability to have such an insight.” She settled back in her chair, thoughtful.

Vialle touched her chin, frowning. Fiona’s unspoken implication had not escaped the Queen; troubling her deeply.

<Down> he hissed internally, with some verve. For though he didn't sense Osric's presence, he had the revelation that even within himself, Fiona might have better sense of his Other than he did.

Cynwyd steeled his external reaction, and hoping to take Fiona's mind in a different direction, he idly let his abused cloak open, and watched as the edge uncurled its way across the rug, the twin heads gaily rolling down the fabric towards towards the slight woman's feet.

"I did mention that I'd brought souvenirs?" he asked, affecting a bit of bemusement at the turn of events. "A bit less pedestrian than some of those sold in on Sun Street, they might be of help if you want to observe his work more closely."

"Ugh," Cole observed. "You have a morbid sense of humor, Cyn."

Vialle blinked with confusion; hearing the odd, wet noise, but not able to determine its nature.

Fiona leaned forward to examine Cynwyd’s party favors with feline indifference. “I do so hope that won’t stain the carpet,” she muttered, nudging the severed head with her slippered foot. The metal helm attracted her attention somewhat. She lifted it up to the light, narrowing her eyes. She jerked a nod, “Blood magic. Not a School from within the Golden Circle, however. Definitely from beyond Ygg.”

“Chaos?” Vialle said in a shocked whisper.

“Indeed,” Fiona confirmed.

"I remember now," Cynwyd said absently. Then his attention intensified as he focused back into the here and now. "The first day of school, at commencement. Two in particular have chased me- a young man and woman. The girl, Medea, is quite insane, and so is Derryck- though in a more malevolent way. They approached me, and he asked, 'How important is your Blood to you, Cynwyd? Do you pay homage to the Serpent? Or do you prefer to place your faith in other gods?'"

He smiled at the memory. "I tweaked him, and he revealed more than he intended, but less than I sought. He called himself 'Strega', and I am still not sure what he meant by that."

"But they both had power," he continued, suppressing and involuntary shudder at the remembrance of their games. "They smelled of Chaos, but not of Chaos. And they asked me of allegiances. Could Coteaz have allied himself with something beyond his Ken? And in trying to save Amber, might he have invited the very thing he strives against into our midst?"

“La Vecchia Religione?” Fiona pondered for a moment. “The Stregheria were an ancient witch-cult from even before the Great Houses ruled in the Courts. Due to political infighting, their power greatly declined over the millennia until they were eventually assimilated into House Sawall.” She sipped her wine, frowning. “If what you say is true, it would not be the first time Chaos has turned a son of Amber against it.”

Vialle instinctively touched the woman’s arm, offering a soft smile. Outwardly, Fiona remained unmoved.

The Queen turned her blind eyes on Cynwyd. “These Strega. They connected to the Dark Hour as you are?”

"Moreso, if their abilities are any indication. From Malachi's description and response, I think that they are associated somehow to the polar opposite of whatever 'connects' us to the Dark Hour."

Cole asked Cynwyd, "Are these the same two that we were chasing, the scentless ones with the gun and throwing trumps? We never did track them to their destination. They couldn't have gone to the barracks where we found these," he waved at the head and the helm, "you could barely stand to be in the room with that magic circle yourself. I wonder where they did go? They said they were going to destroy the world, yet here we sit."

"Ummm... yeah," Cynwyd said. "I was going to say something later in regards to that, but they were never there. I knew I could get you on board, but Malachi can be sort of hard headed. And he had it in his mind to go into the Castle, which I thought was a bad idea."

He shrugged. "I had this lead on where the complex might be- which did turn out to be right- but he wouldn't listen to any arguments that didn't include going to the Castle. And you guys started fighting, and I didn't have anything else up my sleeve."

He did have the decency to look a bit abashed as he continued, "So, I sort of conjured them from my memory of them."

Cole looked at him blankly. "You did what?"

Cynwyd just nodded in return, assuming the question was rhetorical.

Vialle and Fiona knew when to listen, rather than interrupt - allowing the men time to engage in their exchange. Vialle frowned as the conversation progressed, while Fiona smirked - a cold, unsettling expression.

Fiona coughed lightly, “So, you stating that you did not encountered these Strega this evening, but you suspect they possess influence over Coteaz, yes? How have you come to this conclusion?”

Cynwyd looked to the Princess, glad for the distraction.

"Though it is only a logical leap, it is not much of a stretch given the admittedly circumstantial evidence," he said, ticking off points on his fingers. "First, I've had contact with Coteaz, and as you say, he is ruthless enough to implement such a scheme, but does not have the proficiencies to do so."

"Second, the use of Blood Magic is a definite narrowing agent- there are not many with the wherewithal to engage in such practices. Add to that the school that you divined, and the particular characteristics of these Strega- they seem to thrive on the subtle game- to use judicious application of force, and you have the recipe for one suborned."

He shrugged. "It doesn't *have* to be the Strega, but there appear to be two sides to this conflict, so it would reason that they or one of their agents was behind this. Occam's Razor."

Fiona nodded lightly, tapping her chin with her fingertips. “Indeed. I shall know more once I have examined the physical evidence.”

Cole sat on his couch, only half listening to the conversation. Something was bothering him, nagging at him, and he wasn't sure what it was. Eventually he figured it out: it was the dead guard's severed head, lying on the floor in such a way that its surprised and betrayed gaze seem to fall upon him. He reached out with one long leg and nudged it under the coffee table.

As if sensing his discomfort, the Queen set down her glass. “I believe that these gentlemen deserve some rest after tonight’s dreadful happenings. Ser Cynwyd, my thanks to you and your continued loyalty to the Crown. Princess Fiona will know where to find you should she have more questions. I shall also make arrangements with the guard for you, so you may return whenever you wish.”

Fiona nodded and stood up, sensing the approaching end of the conversation. “My Lady.” She smiled vaguely at Cynwyd, “We shall speak more of this tomorrow.”

Vialle continued, extending her hand. “Ser Cole, if you would kindly escort me? I must speak with my son and Mr. Roth before the evening ends.”

Though Cynwyd had wanted to talk to Cole... to explain... he recognized a dismissal when he heard one. And he had an idea of why the Queen would want to speak to Cole alone. Of course, knowing the ways of women (or not knowing them) he could indeed be incorrect. He bowed in response to the Princess' statement, then started to speak to Cole... but left it at a nod in his direction as he made for the exit.

“With your leave,” Fiona collected the ‘evidence’ and went about her way.

Outside, Cynwyd found a carriage waiting to take him wherever he desired. The guards appeared uneasy around him, as if he would suddenly sprout wings and carry them off to some unspeakable fate.

Cole nodded back at Cynwyd, then stood and bowed to the queen. "I'd be honored to escort you, Your Majesty. But I think in the interests of decorum I should acquire a shirt first." He gave a sudden laugh. "But then, as I recall the fashions of your homeland, maybe it doesn't matter so much after all." Taking her hand, he said, "I am at your service."

“Decorum can be temporarily forgotten at this late hour,” Vialle replied, smiling.

She allowed Cole to escort her into the hall. Once alone, she paused and ‘looked’ up at him, the smile becoming a frown. Any illusion of this being a weak woman was dispelled by the authority in her voice. “My daughter shall not becoming embroiled in this affair. If that means you must break her heart, then so be it. Your loyalty will be rewarded, Ser Di Perondor, but endangering my child consciously or through no fault of your own is unacceptable.”

Her expression softened, “Although, I suspect you understand this already.”

"I completely agree," Cole replied. "We talked about it a little this evening. I tried to explain what was going on, but since I don't actually understand much of it, I'm afraid I didn't make much sense. And I tried to warn her off, to tell her that we should stop seeing each other, at least until this thing is resolved, but she wouldn't listen to me. Maybe I should have tried to make a more persuasive case, but my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't make myself push her away. I can only promise you this: if she comes to harm because of this, you won't need to seek me out, because whatever hurt her will have had to kill me first. I guess that's probably not all that comforting."

"I have been to Rebma recently. This Dark Hour that happens here, it seems to be centered upon this castle. When we were in Rebma it didn't happen. Has it been long since Rhea has seen your family? It sounds like she has been away for a long time, perhaps they would enjoy a visit?"

Vialle nodded faintly, her cloudy eyes peering into his with a profound awareness. “I can see why she loves you. And I can hear the depth of your feelings quite plainly. It comforts me enough to know that you will do what is necessary, should such a need arise.”

She squeezed his wrist, “Your suggestion is a wise course of action. I shall coax Princess Llewella to arrange for a family gathering in Rebma. She can take my daughter out of harm’s way for now. I am certain she will pout and stomp her feet, but I shall remind her of her duties as the First Daughter of Amber and Rebma.”

The Queen smirked, “She shall enjoy herself. Or else.”

Cole nodded. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll be much less distracted in dealing with these things without worrying about Rhea too. Not that she's not very capable--that's part of what I love about her--but this stuff is... well, it's bad. It's really bad."

He escorted the queen on in silence for a bit before adding, "I'm afraid I haven't made a very good impression on your husband."

Vialle waved her hand dismissively, laughing. “Oh, don’t let his manner fool you. He hates everyone at first. And men interested in his daughter doubly so.” She smirked up at him with a devilish glee uncommon for a Queen.

“Do not fear, Ser Cole. He will warm to you in time. But it is his fatherly duty to scare Rhea’s suitors into insensibility. Do not be surprised if he invites you to the Arden on the pretenses of a Hunt. It is simply his way of welcoming you to the Family. Fear not. He rarely shoots suitors anymore. He leaves that to Julian.”

Cole felt a brief moment of panic at the words "welcoming you to the Family", and then wondered why that sounded more terrifying than the prospect of being shot by the huntsman of Arden. In a perverse way, he reminded himself, he was already part of the Family. And yet that was not comforting either.

What was comforting, he realized after a few steps, was that his new friends were his Family as well. In a very real sense, Cynwyd was a brother he'd never known he had. Gillian was his little sister, in size at least, if not in age or capability. Joao and Raina and Temnal, even Malachi, all were Family. And he felt a sudden fierce desire to ensure they came to no harm.

They came to the main hall and she patted his arm. “Speaking of the King, I must attend him. You can find your way out, I hope.” She paused, a dark smile. “Without using the servant’s exit this time, I hope?”

"I can see there's not much chance of me ever hiding anything from you, Majesty," he said. "In a way, it's a relief. With no hope of success, I'll have no incentive to attempt something I'm quite bad at anyway. Yes, I'm sure I can find my way out." He looked around the hall. "In fact, this place is strangely familiar. It's like I have a map of it in my head already. There are some changes, but some part of me lived here once. The main entrance is that way," he pointed, "and my rooms were this way, the throne room there, and Father's rooms that way."

At the thought of Oberon, a chill rage seeped into Cole's soul.

Vialle’s brow rose, regarding him with her milky eyes. “Very well,” she said simply. “Good evening to you, Ser Cole.” She extended her hand for a final kiss of her ring, and then departed.

Cole complied, and found his way out. As he left the castle grounds the rage drained away, replaced with a mind-numbing fatigue over the events of the night. Bed had never seemed so appealing.

The campus appeared to be abuzz with activity when Cole returned to the campus. Many of the Welcoming Ceremonies were still in full swing, students celebrating with their new peers and companions. A gathering around the lab buildings appeared particularly engaged and noisy.

A blessed quiet greeted Cole when reached his apartment. The oil lamps cast away all the shadows, painting the hall in a cheery glow. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Until his door swung open with little more than a push – the lock broken.

A faint smell of perfume and copper hung in the air.

Cole sighed, deeply. "Aw hell," he said, "Now what?"

Wearily, he drew his sword, then nudged the door wide open with one booted foot.

The room appeared untouched – no signs of theft immediately evident. However, the oil lamp on his nightstand had been lit and its shade tilted slightly to angle the light toward his bed. Someone had crudely written something above the headboard.

In blood.

~ You can’t protect your women ~

A dark stain had begun to form in the middle of the bed, apparently from something beneath the neatly tucked sheets.

He stood stock still in silence, until the sword clattered from his hand to the floor, startling him. Then he crossed the room in two strides and yanked the covers from the bed.

At first, Cole’s primal instincts cautioned him as he revealed the serpentine thing coiled there. Until he remembered that snakes lacked fur. He quickly recognized the bloody object, for he had felt it against his skin and watched it cutting the air in feline playfulness many times – its owner’s greatest source of pride, now crudely discarded.

Silk’s tail.

"Silk?" Cole said, his voice an incredulous whisper. He scanned the room, looking for any sign of her body.

Then he began to methodically dismantle his room, opening and searching any nook or cranny that she might have fit into, calling her name the whole while, each time a little bit louder.

Finding nothing, standing in the ruins of his room, he stared one last moment at her tail on his bed. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Then he picked up his sword and ran out of the room, down the stairs, out into the street, toward the Flaming Duck, screaming her name into the night.

As he exited into the dimly-lit courtyard, Cole felt his feet go out from under him. Someone had tripped him. The cobbled street rushed up with a jarring impact – yet his sword remained firmly in his hand. Bruised, but not broken, he turned to see a dark-haired scarecrow leaning against the door he’d come running out. The silvery badge of the Blackcloaks reflected in the faint streetlight.

The figure pushed up his spectacles. “You know. Running from your home, shouting a murder victim’s name, and wielding a sword doesn’t rank high on the wise meter, kid,” he said in a cool tone. The Blackcloak stepped into the light. Cole recognized him from the day he’d first encountered Gillian; Lt. Maes.

Cole scrambled to his feet, trembling with rage and exhaustion and grief. Taking an en garde stance with his sword at the Blackcloak, he demanded, "Where is she? What's happened to her?"

Still shirtless, he wiped his left hand across his face, attempting to clear his eyes. In the process he smeared blood there instead: the decapitated blackcloak's blood, the torture victims' blood, Silk's blood--he didn't even know whose blood it was.

“Cole,” Maes said with a firm tone. “This conversation will go much smoother if you lower the blade.” He shifted his foot back, but his body remained loose and casual. Cole recognized the Water Stance from fighting Commander Kel enough times.

“She’s gone. Trust me. You don’t want to know anything beyond that.”

"Like hell," Cole said, through gritted teeth. "I want to know who did it, and where I can find him, and how many times I can put this blade through him before he stops polluting the world with his breath." A look of dawning comprehension came over his face. "It was Anthony. I'm sure of it."

“We don’t know yet,” Maes said, his eyes tracking Cole’s sword hand. “According to witnesses, her body simply appeared from ‘nowhere’ after midnight, strung up in front of the lab building. And whoever it was obviously. . . took their time with her. So, unless this Anthony can work magic, it would have been a serious trick to pull off with all those people around.”

He stepped closer, “I know you’re upset, Cole, but what you’re doing right now. What you’re planning. It won’t help her. So, put the sword away and we can go inside and talk. Alright?”

"Midnight?" Cole asked, eyes darting wildly as thoughts raced through his overwrought mind. "One minute after midnight, maybe? That's... bad. Oh, Unicorn, that's really, really, really bad. Everything keeps getting worse. I need help. I need to tell the others." He slumped, leaning against a wall, sword still held up in a half-hearted en garde. "I need sleep. Can't go to bed, my bed's covered with... Oh Unicorn. Rhea. He'll go after Rhea. That's what it says on the bed. I've got to tell the queen. She's got to leave now, tonight. She won't want to, she'll be furious, but she's got to go. And it's my fault. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Heaving himself back to his feet, sword hanging loose in his hand, Cole turned to trudge toward the Castle.

Dulled by exhaustion, Cole barely registered the soft hiss of a cloak opening behind him. Even with his heightened reflexes he probably wouldn’t have been able to react in time. Something pierced his back, just below the shoulder blade - sharp and quick as a wasp’s sting. Then his body went into wild convulsions as bioelectricity arched through every nerve and muscle. He hit the ground in a twitching mess, then feeling nothing.

Maes kicked his sword away, “Sorry kid. Can’t have you killing someone. Or yourself. Besides, I want you where I can find you.” Cole dimly noticed the gun in Maes’ hand, but membranous threads hung from the barrel and extended to Cole’s back. After carefully disengaging the tendrils, he holstered the weapon and rolled Cole over, pulling his arms behind him.

“Rebman stunner. Not exactly legal, but definitely useful,” Maes explained, clamping a pair of cuffs around the prone man’s wrists. “The nerve toxin only lasts a few hours. You’ll have some weird ass dreams, but no permanent brain damage. Well, nothing that you’d notice, anyway.” He gave a laugh.

Distantly, the cuffs clicked shut, edging Cole into the darkness.

Cole awoke pillowy bosoms hovering inches from his nose. Tightly bound in a purple corset, they filled his vision, a sensual landscape of perfect flesh. Two female voices could be heard beyond them.; one young, the other older. "Is he dead?" The young girl chimed hopefully.

"No. He's just knocked out, poor dear." This came from the elder and owner of the lovely cleavage.

"You sure? Looks dead to me."

"He's still breathing, Silk."

"Don't mean nothin', Rita. Let's at least go through his pockets!" The bosoms lifted away like an amethyst fog, revealing a buxom barmaid, beautiful and bizarre. Tapered, snow-white and black dotted leopard ears rose from her head, while a long cat's tail swished angrily behind her. Across from her a smaller cat-woman sat on a bar table, lanky legs folded beneath her; her curled tail a brilliant calico. She would have been quite beautiful, if someone had not sliced away her nose and crudely removed her eyes. Blood pooled in the ruin sockets, trailing down her cheeks like tears.

“You can’t protect your woman, Cole,” she chuckled in Anthony’s voice.

 “I died screaming your name, Cole, but you never came.  Why didn’t

you save me, Cole. . .”

“Cole,” Rhea said firmly, shaking him out of the nightmare.

As his eyes began to refocus, Cole found himself in an unfamiliar room. And yet, somehow, he knew it was the Castle. Someone had dressed him in nightclothes, which surprisingly fit him better than he’d expect. His limbs felt rubbery, but he could move them again.

Rhea sat beside him, lines of worry etched on her brow. She wore traveling clothing of Rebman fashion. The King sat in a chair on the other side of the room, smoking angrily. He did not see the Queen, but she'd been here recently - her perfume lingering in the air.