The middle-aged man tromped into the common room of his family's 
cottage, the sun only a flaming blotch on the horizon. His toes curled 
against the early morning cold, a condition that the North was famous 
for. With heavy fur blankets draped over his form, his ragged, gray 
beard poking out from the front, occasionally releasing a puff of frozen 
mist.

	His mind moved with the security of ritual as he made his way over 
to the firepit. Digging into it with the poker, he unearthed the still-
living coals. He quickly tossed a faggot of tinder into the cinders, 
then made his way over to the wall for some proper wood. As he crossed 
the dirt floor, a flap of his impromptu robe fell over. His skin 
prickled at the sensation of a draft, more powerful than even that hovel 
was used to. The door stood slightly ajar, bits of snow spilled out on 
the floor, a mortal sin in this clime. Mumbling vaguely in anger, he 
rushed to shut the door.

	"Jar, t'isn' prohabably t'e worc ov t'em boys, eh, Urus?" He spoke 
to the family dog, a mass of shag in the corner sleeping on top of a 
soup bone. "Ah'v hafs t'a be'et inna t'em t'e wahys und wahy nahts ov 
t'is placcs. Jus' naht  roight, ta' leet t'e coold inna t'is wuther." He 
roughly slammed the portal shut, huffing to himself. 

	"Yes, please, you're right..."

	The man turned. Standing behind him, practically in the firepit 
itself, was a young boy, barely old enough for whiskers. Dead blue skin 
covered him from head to toe, emphasized by his ragged, improper 
garments. Steam rose up from him...no, he was the steam. He steamed and 
ebbed and flowed and collected about his body proper, clouds in an 
atmosphere of the self.

	"...please, no more cold..."

	The old man screamed. The sun blossomed over the horizon.

	It promised to be a beautiful day.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                              The North
                       A Tale of High Adventure
                         And Low Temperatures

                           Part 9: Temporary Thaw

                  Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs)
                  Written by Nicholas Callahan

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The morning sun jumped across the roofs of Sala. In the palace, many 
bureaucrats, functionaries, and servants had started their day already. 
Royal administrators, too, had beaten the dawn in rising; the king, in 
particular, had messengers on the run by that time, bearing letters to 
military outposts and to Iso. In the courtyards and marching fields, 
soldiers drilled in ice-cold sweat. It was the much-envied privilege of 
a royal guest to avoid all of this.

	Because she was a royal guest, Shalnay had this privilege without 
even realizing it. While the palace regulars were knee-deep in their 
respective days, she had just finished up her toilet. Not that it 
mattered. The royal nurses had  consigned her to bed rest, their pity 
stopping just short of letting her aggravate her injuries.

	The girl had resigned herself to bed, a disgustingly plush affair 
with far too many quilts for anywhere but the northern lands. A book 
rested on her knees, which she paged through noncommittally. It was 
nothing more than a simple collection of fairy tales, the only bit of 
reading she could find in the room. She knew them all by heart when she 
was ten, so the most she could care for it was a passing amusement from 
the ornate illustrations.

	Someone knocked at the door. She nearly tore a page in surprise. 
"Yes, who's there? Is that you, Dmitri?"

	"I am Sergeant Grael Toura, my lady, of the Salian guard. I 
request an audience."

	Shalnay blinked a few times. She recalled that the man had carried 
her and Dmitri out of Svarog's camp. "Please, come in, Sergeant Toura."

	The burly man entered her room, closing the door behind him. He 
wore the livery of his station: a green wool coat with the seals of King 
Petroyv decorated the arms and an ornate pair of swords showing rank. He 
bowed to Shalnay.

	"Thank you for your time, my lady. I am sorry to disturb you 
during your recuperation."

	Shalnay held up her hands. "Please, I don't have any titles. Have 
a seat and speak your piece." She motioned to a chair.

	Grael waved it off. "I prefer to stand...ma'am. The thing is, I 
came to make my apology."

	"Your apology?" Shalnay tipped her head to the side. "Whatever do 
you mean? You're one of the men who rescued me."

	"It was the least I could do." Grael rubbed his hands together 
nervously. "You see, you wouldn't have been in that mess if it wasn't 
for me. I was in charge, technically, of the attack on Iso, with the 
rune beasts. If I hadn't been such a sheep-headed fool, then I could've 
stopped Serpent before all of this happened. You wouldn't have been 
captured and..." He let the statement trial off politely.

	"I see." Shalnay stared down at the book.

	Grael met the floor with a similar look. "I imagine you have some 
things you want to say to me."

	"Not that many." Shalnay's lips made a slight smile. "Thank you, 
Sergeant."

	"Excuse me?"

	Shalnay ran her hands around the quilts. "Not many men would 
apologize to a whore for something that was only technically their 
fault. I don't hold anything against you. It's...him I really hate."

	"I'm honored you think so, ma'am." Grael stroked his beard. "In 
that case, I wondering if you would want a piece."

	Shalnay squinted suspiciously. "Of what?"

	"Serpent."

	"Of what?!" Shalnay's expression went wide in shock.

	Grael explained. "As soon as things are resolved with Iso, then a 
joint expedition will be launched to hunt down Svarog. I intend to be in 
the vanguard." His eyes went hard. "I've already sworn to the families 
of the transformed soldiers that I will bring a piece of his carcass 
back to each of them, as proof that he met an ignoble death. If you 
desire, I can bring a piece back to you as well."

	"No...No thank you, Grael." Shalnay clenched at her quilt. "I'd 
rather not have a reminder of that man."

	"I understand, ma'am." Grael nodded. He turned to go. "If you'll 
excuse me, I must prepare..."

	"Sergeant, wait!" Shalnay pulled herself from bed, eliciting a 
gasp of pain. Certain parts still hurt. She wobbled over to Grael. 
"There is one thing I do want you to do for me."

	Grael caught her arm. "Please, name it."

	Shalnay pulled a handkerchief off a nearby table. She pressed it 
into Grael's hand. "Take this, as a favor from me. Carry it with you 
when you go to kill him. And then bring it back to me, with your own 
hands."

	Grael regarded the cloth with curiosity. "An odd request, I must 
say."

	"You shouldn't die over this." Shalnay smiled weakly at him. 
"Serpent is the last kind of man that anyone should die over. I want 
proof that you didn't let him get you, in any way."

	"Then I'll wear it on my sword!" Grael held the handkerchief like 
a trophy, laughing madly. He grinned like a berserker. "And his blood 
won't even stain it."

	"Good." Shalnay stumbled again, clutching her side. "Now, if 
you'll be kind enough to help me back to bed..."

------------

The mid-morning sun filtered through the windows, glass stained a 
multitude of hues, showing the great heroes and wisemen of Sala. At the 
head of the temple lay the Blessed Wall, covered by the Mural of the 
Gods, with almighty Jotan largest and in the center. The prayers of 
monks, male and female, provided a constant, under-the-breath chorus. 
The priest stood in front of the still-smoking altar, his head bowed in 
personal prayer. Katria's heels bounced an echoing 'click' off the walls 
as she crossed the empty stone floor provided for the devotions of 
laity, her nose still tickling from the purifying incense a server had 
waved about her when she entered.

	The runesmith-in-training kept her eyes downcast. A black veil 
hung from her hair, ending short of her eyes. Her ruined hand lay limp 
at her side, swaddled in clean linen. She stopped at the edge of the 
lay-field, before she intruded on the ground of the altar. Gently 
falling to her knees, she made the sign of her clan's god, Isur, across 
her face, then bowed her head down. Then she waited.

	She didn't wait long. Without turning to face her, the priest 
lowered his own eyes and spoke. "You come to the edge of mortal 
allowance, seeking the mysteries of The World Elm and the voices that It 
echoes. By whose countenance do you come here, child?"

	"I come under the countenance of Isur, god of my people, and that 
of Jotan, god and lord of all." Katria chanted in reply.

	"Then you come in good faith, child of Isur." The priest clapped 
and bowed to the altar. "How do you seek to hear the voices of The World 
Elm?"

	"I seek a consultation with you, Presence of the Gods."

	"Ah. Then we shall speak, if our gods show no displeasure." He 
traced the star of Jotan in the air with his hands and stepped back from 
the altar. Turning to look down on Katria, he motioned for her to rise. 
"Come. We can hold the consultation in my chambers."

	The priest led Katria out of the temple proper and down a hallway 
off to the side. Pausing near the end, he turned right and opened a door 
there. It led into a cozy room, barely large enough to hold the pair of 
chairs and desk, let alone the multitude of books and scrolls 
therein. A charcoal brazier heated the space, vented through a small 
rectangular gap in the ceiling.

	The priest squeezed past the clutter and sat down at the desk. He 
motioned for Katria to take the other chair. "Have a seat. And please, 
remove the veil. Here, I am simply a man."

	"Thank you, reverend one." Katria sat down, snatching the cloth 
from her scalp. She clutched it protectively to her dead arm, avoiding 
eye contact with the priest.

	"If I may," The priest began. "You're the apprentice to a 
runesmith, are you not?"

	Katria gawked in wonder. "How did you know?"

	The priest sighed. "You are hardly the first youth to request a 
consultation after receiving a grievous wound. Not even that one in 
particular. Do you want to talk about the accident?"

	"I erred while creating a rune of combustion." Katria tried to 
relax the grip on her arm. "The magic surged back on me. I am told that 
I was lucky, for such a dangerous mistake."

	The priest crossed his hands. "And why do you bring this problem 
to me?"

	Katria blushed. "The only reason I trained to become a runesmith 
is...is because of a man. I thought he had fallen in love with another 
woman. And now, I know that the woman was his sister. It's just...it 
feels like I've thrown my life away for nothing. I've destroyed my arm 
for nothing!" Tears beaded on Katria's eyelashes.

	"There, there." The priest reached over and lift her chin. 
"Nothing has ended. A wound here and there doesn't end your life."

	"But look at it!" Indignant anger filled her. She yanked off the 
linen and displayed the claw to the priest. "You say this is nothing?!"

	The priest gently took the arm and lowered it. "I understand your 
pain. But you can't let your mind dwell on it, or else the rest of your 
body might follow." He smiled jovially. "And if this happened to your 
face, then that would be a real tragedy."

	Despite herself, through the tears, Katria laughed weakly. "I'm 
sorry, reverend one. I'll try to control myself."

	The priest leaned back in his chair. "My dear, if you could, would 
you repeat the history of creation to me?"

	"What good would that do?"

	"Please, indulge me. Just as an exercise."

	"As you say." Katria rebound her arm. "In the beginning there was 
Yourk, the Nothingness, and Kuluria, the Thought. They married and had 
four children: Sliu, the Dragon; Vogtisk, the Lord of Hell; Eru, the 
Patient; and Jotan, called then the Shining Giant. But Yourk was a cruel 
father, inflicting pain on all his sons. One day, Jotan rose up and 
smote him down. And in destroying the Nothingness, he brought forth the 
ultimate something, The World Elm.

	"The brothers took a post in caring for the Elm. Eru agreed to be 
caretaker of the Tree Proper, the trunk and the roots. He shaped among 
the roots the spirits and fairies, and to this day, he cares for each 
root, for each root is the destiny of a single element of this world, 
from the greatest king to the smallest pebble. He waits for the 
Jotenhopps, the end of the world, when his tears shall be first sign of 
the coming destruction.

	"Vogtisk took a station in the void beyond the branches of the 
Tree. There, he collects that which falls from the Tree, the dead leaves 
and branches and bark and the souls of humanity. He brings them all to 
one place and takes flame to them, creating Hell in the process. From 
the flames of Hell, he has fashioned the devils and goblins. When 
Jotenhopps comes, the whole of the World Elm shall die and he shall have 
the task of wasting the entire Tree in flame, destroying the world in 
process.

	"Jotan went up into the topmost branches. There, he united his 
will with the will of the Tree. From this union sprang the mortal world, 
finding support on the leaves of the World Elm. Jotan watched and shaped 
the creation of the world, putting all things in their proper place. 
From his bosom came the gods of all mankind, from our own gods to the 
mysterious gods of the south, to whom he gave the world that they may 
populate as they wish. He sits now below the world, in a throne made 
from the living branches of the Elm. He waits for Jotenhopps, preparing 
to face what comes after it, a mystery that only he knows.

	"And that's it...really." Katria watched the priest expectantly.

	"That is it. Thank you." The priest tapped his fingers together. 
"But you forgot Sliu."

	Katria rubbed her nose. "I guess I did. Not many people speak of 
him. But what does this have to do with anything?"

	"Sliu is exactly the point I want you consider." The priest leaned 
forward. "Sliu loved Yourk deeply, despite all his cruelty. And so he 
hates the ultimate sign of Yourk's death, the World Elm. It is said that 
his venom is what will kill the Elm in the end, ushering in Jotenhopps. 
But he's had his vengeance in other ways over time.

	"Think very carefully about what you said. When Jotan created the 
mortal world, the exact wording used is that he put everything in its 
proper place. He set the world just as it should be, with no evil and 
perfect life for everyone. He made pillars for this world, exact in 
their construction. But, in the beginning, Sliu came and tried to 
destroy the World Elm out of hate and jealousy. In the battle that 
ensued between him and Jotan, waged on the still primordial mortal 
plane, he cracked those pillars. The destruction he brought was not only 
physical, but spiritual as well. He scarred the will of the mortal plane 
beyond anything Jotan was capable of repairing. Thus did evil enter the 
world. Evil, the perversion of good, is in everything. It is disease, it 
is rot, it is hate, it is ignorance, it is even mistakes that can cost 
arms."

	He paused. Katria looked down at her arm. The priest went on.

	"But what you have to realize is that these are only 
imperfections, not destinies. Some may be serious, some may be fatal, 
but none of them are eternal. If you fight against the crack, then you 
may widen it and ruin more of the good. But if you respect its presence 
and avoid it, what harm can it do? Do you understand?"

	Katria tried to understand. Slowly, she nodded her head. "I think 
I do. It's not the destruction of anything real. It's not any kind of 
divine fate. It's just...a mistake."

	"I think you've got it." The priest smiled. "Now, go with the 
blessing of Jotan and Isur. I believe you mentioned a man? That sounds 
to me like something worth focusing on."

	"Yes, reverend one. Thank you for advice." Katria stood up. Her 
life felt easier, that way. Not whole again, but a little bit easier. 
She left the study, heading into the hallway. Suddenly, she stopped and 
turned to the priest. "Wait, reverend one. This is one thing. You 
mentioned that Jotan set the world exactly as it was meant to be?"

	"Yes. What of it?"

	"Then how is something like runesmithing possible?"

	The priest laughed cordially. "Oh, avoid that can of worms, 
believe you me! There are realms of arguments about that subject. All 
these silly folk tales about Sliu personally founding the craft or 
bringing it back from the void or something along those lines. It's just 
another of man's innovations, like mining or farming, I say. We couldn't 
do it if Jotan didn't make it possible. Now, go, go! There are happier 
things in life to celebrate."

-------------

Dmitri grunted. The cold, stained stone felt horrible against his bare 
skin, and his extra effort only made things worse. It didn't help that 
the turret was ice cold, barely heated by a charcoal fire. It had 
already made his manhood infinitesimal.

	Someone knocked on the door. "My prince?"

	"Yes, yes, what is it?"

	"This is your guard, my prince. We're changing shifts now. There's 
two new men out here."

	"Oh, thank you." Dmitri sighed briefly. There was a distant 
'plunk' as his waste fell down to the sewers. Standing, he quickly 
pulled up his trousers, tucking his inner layer of his tunic under the 
belt. He composed himself and pushed open the door, stepping out of the 
latrine.

	True to his guard's words, two new men had taken up by his person. 
He didn't recognize their faces, but he had been away from the palace 
for so long that this was a common occurrence. The man, their faces 
gravely cast, stood on either side, covered in thick furs and leather 
armor, holding a pole-arm each. He nodded to them.

	"Why is there a change of the guard now?"

	The man on his left answered. "My prince, the guard captains have 
everybody doing double maneuvers. In preparing for the hunt of Svarog, 
if it pleases you."

	"Aha, very good, thank you." Dmitri patted the side of the man's 
arm. "Let's get back to the keep. Out of this cold, eh?"

	The group set out across the walls of the royal fortress. Sala 
sprawled out below them, shining a bright white in the clear, midday 
sun. Even with the storms gone, snow frosted everything in sight. The 
high walls looked down on the silent city on one side, an empty sub-
court on the other. Anybody who could had stayed inside, leaving the 
world as silent as afield mouse. It was the kind of sight that tempted 
you with snow blindness. 

	With an almost absentminded regard, Dmitri noticed that the guard 
on his left was little bit ahead of him, while the one on his right 
maintained the traditional distance. He cocked his head towards the man 
inquisitively.

	"If you'll excuse me, sir, you're hardly the picture of guard 
discipline. A doubled drill schedule is not the time to-"

	The man behind him jammed the length of his pole-arm between 
Dmitri's legs, tangling his legs and making him fall. But before he 
reached the ground, the second soldier swung up the end of his pole-arm, 
catching Dmitri full in the jaw. The prince hit the ground with a 
bloodied, battered mouth.

	Dmitri started to rise, but a boot clamped down between his 
shoulder blades. His entire body flattened against the stone pathway. 
His face bounced off the rock, blinding him with red-hot pain. If his 
jaw wasn't broken yet, it was now.

	Now that he couldn't scream, the beating commenced in total. His 
ribs and joints shook under the thick staffs. Every nerve screamed in 
pain. Muscles flexed and fought in vain. His strength dissolved under 
the assault. Presently, the blows dispersed and were replaced by the 
thin terrorism of naked blades pressed to his back. He heard footsteps.

	"My dear brother, I am sorry it had to end this way." Tiroth.

	Gloved hands grabbed his hair. His head flew up, bringing him face 
to face with his half-brother. Tiroth shook his head in fake pity. "Who 
do you think suggested the doubled drill schedule?"

	Dmitri tried to reply. He could barely choke.

	"Oh, don't bother. These men aren't like Svarog. They do their 
jobs properly." Tiroth smiled sadly. "I really hoped it wouldn't turn 
out this way. You were just supposed to disappear into the wastes and 
then I could forget about you. But you just kept on living and living. I 
know it sounds cowardly, but I didn't want to be there for your death."

	"Lord Tiroth, we haven't much time! Someone will notice soon!"

	"Yes, yes, I know." Tiroth waved off the man to Dmitri's left. The 
brothers locked gazes. It was the only way Dmitri had to accuse him. 
"You know what will happen now, brother. Who in Iso will really believe 
that you just happened to die a violent death after you were captured 
and brought there? Who will accept the sad truth that you weren't going 
to lead their glorious independence for them? Who won't jump at the 
chance to make you a martyr?"

	Tiroth made a fist. Dmitri could feel tears of frustration spill 
onto his cheeks. "They will march on Sala, in your name and memory. Then 
the royal guard will slaughter them and scatter their pathetic rebellion 
to the wind, as they should have done so long ago. Iso will once again 
be just another province and the realm will be secure. Things shall be 
arranged just as they should be when I take the throne.

	"And unlike our poor, weakened specimen of a father, I'll make 
sure to stay quite faithful to my wife." Tiroth rose and walked back to 
the keep, pulling his cloak up around him. Dmitri's head collapsed. 
"Finish it, then toss the body over the wall. I'll have the rest of your 
gold at the eastern guard house, when I make my inspection of the 
troops."

	Then Dmitri died. He knew his revenge lay in the throne.

------------

"A divination?" Arlen bit down on the coin. Satisfied, he wiped his lips 
of the metallic after-taste. "This was all over a simple divination?"

	Brandt huffed in indignation. Rune components were spread out in 
front of him across the table. "It's not just a 'simple' divination. 
Determining proper ownership of anything is a difficult and lengthy 
task. Runesmiths have devoted their lives to mastering the ritual." He 
selected a piece of amber from the mess on the table and looked at it, 
watching the reflections of light within its matrix.

	"Which would be why he employed you." Arlen stared out the window, 
down the street towards the fortress wall. The day was well past noon. 
The apartment that the king had set them up in was not much, especially 
when shared with Brandt, Katria, and Christov, but after weeks on the 
trail Arlen welcomed it. Besides, Arlen knew that Brandt and himself 
only had a night or two to savor it, before they started their 
respective journeys. 

"So, what will you do now, Brandt?" Arlen knew the answer, but he wanted 
the conversation.

	"Vadmir." Brandt put down the amber and took up a handful of 
beads. "Or Serpent or Svarog or whatever he's called nowadays. I assume 
you'll be going home?"

	"You're blasted right. I've had enough of this weather for one 
lifetime." He felt the bag of the gold in his hand, testing the weight 
for the umpteenth time. Maybe he should have felt guilty about pulling 
Dmitri's teeth over it, but at least Shalnay was no longer his concern. 
He liked it better this way, too, if only because creditors also 
preferred solid gold. 

	Brandt nodded, not looking up. "Give my regards to your mother."

	"You're welcomed whenever, Brandt. You and your family." Arlen 
gestured to Christov. The lad squatted in the corner, staring at a book 
he had held for hours. Something about the boy put Arlen off, but after 
all he had been through, Brandt's son was allowed to be a little bit 
queer. "I can guarantee you, Christov, you'll find one night in Kaddegh 
much better than adventuring. You look about the right age..."

	A bead struck Arlen's forehead. Brandt, chuckling, waved a finger 
at the guard. "Yes, even including adventures where you forget to clothe 
yourself properly and become as sick as a dog. So, when will you stop 
harassing us and leave?"

	Arlen rubbed the new red spot. "I wanted to say goodbye to Katria 
and Grael before I left, once they're done with their respective 
business. If this weather holds, I'll be on the road by early nightfall.  
Oh, wait--here comes Katria now." Arlen motioned to the window. The form 
of Brandt's apprentice could be seen coming down the street.

	"That's funny." Brandt walked up besides Arlen, hands on hips. 
"She said she would pay Dmitri a visit. Wait..." The older man squinted. 
"Something's wrong."

-------------

The hut glowed with mystical energies. Vadesh sat in the center, cross-
legged. The runes spread out beneath him: a series of connecting lines, 
circles, mystic words, and the key components. His brow, kneaded into 
furrows, dripped sweat. The ground, cleared of snow and debris, rumbled 
beneath, scattering bits of dirt and dust.

	"Have you come, my lords?"

	Yes, we have, runesmith.

	Vadesh pressed his eyelids more tightly together. He didn't want 
to see what was in the tent with him. His imagination could supply a few 
meager details and he wanted nothing beyond those. The inhuman presence 
and voices-not-quite-voices told him all he needed. The ice devils were 
with him.

	"My lords, I humbly thank you for this audience. You grace me-"

	Silence.

	You offend us with your frivolity.

	You have called as if in jest.

	You have brought yourself into our power.

	We could destroy you. How does your soul taste?

	'Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes' was his constant 
mantra. Licking his lips, he ventured into the breech. "But my lords are 
known for their cunning. Surely, with cunning comes patience, yes? Can 
you not be patient enough to hear me out?"

	You call upon us with no respect. You treat us with too gentle a 
spirit.

	"I have not, I assure you! The situation is most grave!"

	Your situation is grave. It matters not to us.

	You are not the first human to be pursued thusly. You will not be 
the last.

	We can not care.

	"I offer you any service I can! Surely, I can aid you in some 
way!" Vadesh had the distinct feeling that someone was whispering. 
Then...

	State your petition.

	"The price, my lords?"

	You are not in a position to haggle. We will tell you in time.

	Vadesh calmed himself. This was what he came for. There was no 
turning back now. "My way is cast in shadow. Great events rise up around 
me, but the problems of a single man pursue me. I feel as if I am in a 
void. Please, illuminate my greatest path."

	It is true, war breeds around you. You're proxy has told you of 
the start. You are the start.

	But you must rise above. Pay no heed to the tasks of kingdoms and 
empires. Those are simply the way of human history.

	You have tapped the seeds of a terrible power. You have opened 
great secrets, but you stand merely in the door. You bring new things 
into this world.

	You have a destiny unlike any other. The earth whispers it and the 
dead mumble it. Find the last of your creations. He shall lead you down 
the path of glory.

	"The son of Brandt? But I control that shell even now! How can it 
be more use to me than it is now?"

	You misunderstand. That is not your last creation, not your very 
last. Look.

	Vadesh felt a force tug at his eyelids. Desperately, he fought to 
keep them closed, but it was as if iron hooks pulled them apart. Too 
terrified to scream, his wide, white eyes took in the scene before him. 
An eerie calm descended on him.

	A window hovered in the air before him. In it, he could see a 
single boy, trekking across the snow. It was Brandt's boy, but not the 
body. The boy was insubstantial, there but just barely. He was a ghost 
and a person at the same time.

	"Yes, I understand. I see now. I see what you guide me towards. 
But, my lords...what do you want as payment?"

	We will tell you in time.

------------

Ann stormed into the throne room. The hall was empty. With the 
encroaching night, shadows submerged the entire space in darkness. A 
single spark maintained itself in the firepit, casting out a meager 
sampling of light. Ann took in the scene, not buying it for a second.

	"Show yourself. I know you're here."

	A lisping giggle came from one of the alcoves. Stumbling on his 
feet, Prince Tiroth emerged. In the weak firelight, all Ann could make 
out was a goofy grin and a nearly empty bottle. "Very good, my dearest! 
Very good! I thought I was completely hidden!"

	Ann sniffed in disgust. "You're drunk."

	"I'm in mourning!" Tiroth swung the bottle high, then took another 
drink. "I've lost a brother today. Oh, how I'll miss him. Poor, poor, 
dear, dear Dmitri..."

	"Have some decency." Ann glared. "Gossips already say you did it. 
It's only a matter of time before a piece of evidence surfaces."

	Tiroth merely stuck out his tongue and lifted the bottle for a 
second drink. Halfway to his lips, though, he let the bottle drop on the 
floor. He giggled at the scattered shards.

	Ann buried his face in her hands. "Why, Tiroth? You have nothing 
to gain from it. You have more to lose, at this point."

	"It's not about me. It's about Sala. It's always been about Sala." 
Tiroth's voice went completely steady. Ann felt his arms wrap around her 
form. Beer-tainted breath swept over her face. "It is coming now, a 
greater kingdom than anything else our histories have seen. Fools like 
Dmitri and my father don't see the truth, that they stand in the way of 
that. No more sympathies, no more independence movements, no more equal 
consideration. A Sala ruled only by the purest of blood, by the 
strongest of souls. Yes, that's how it should be."

	His hands wandered down to her waist. Clumsy hands caressed her 
stomach. Spittle ran down her neck as he whispered in her ear. "How does 
it feel to carry Tiroth the Second, Lord King of the Realm Entire?"

	Ann pulled back and slapped him. Tiroth reeled back from the sharp 
blow. Holding his cheek, he gaped at Ann in shock. Ann's hand merely 
twitched in the promise of more violence.

	"I see. Oh yes, I see." Tiroth gestured towards her weakly. 
"You're just blind. That's understandable. You have to be shown. I'll 
show you. I'll show you all of it." Fighting to stay upright, Tiroth 
jogged down to the throne. He clambered up the woodwork. Visions of 
rune-induced glory danced in his head. He could just see the light on 
Ann's face when she realized the coming future. He threw himself down 
into the seat. "This is the future!"

	There was nothing. Then a slight heat. Then a glow. Then a single 
burst of pain.

	Petroyv knew about it, which is why he hadn't sat in the chair 
since Dmitri's conception. Dmitri knew about it, which is why he felt 
his revenge was secure. Tiroth should have known about it, if all his 
senses had been about him.

	The crown prince tumbled down from the throne. The ward against 
oath-breakers was burned straight through his chest. He hadn't even 
started to scream.

	Ann could only stare. She waited for her husband to get up, no 
matter how futile it was. It had happened to so fast, it seemed like it 
hadn't. A wisp of smoke rose from Tiroth's chest.

-------------

The darkness of night stretched on like an ocean. The air hung heavy 
with a chill. Arctic winds swept in and turned each tear into a pinprick 
on Katria's face. The brown-haired girl took no notice of this. She 
stood alone on the street, leaning against the fortress wall.

	She wanted to see Dmitri's body, but they wouldn't let her in. 
With the palace in a complete panic, she quickly learned how little VIP 
status she had. To them, she was just a silly little girl making a 
ridiculous demand.

	"Katria, are you there!? Good Heavens, girl, what are you 
thinking?!" Brandt came tromping up the street, his cloak wrapped 
tightly around his body. The runesmith glared at her condescendingly.

	Katria barely shifted. "Hello, Brandt."

	Brandt grabbed her wrist tightly. "I know how you must feel, but 
now isn't the time to catch your death of cold. Come on, let's get you 
inside." Brandt started to pull her away, but Katria resisted, staying 
against the wall. Brandt pursed his lips. "Is that how it's going to 
be?"

	"I shouldn't leave." Katria looked off into the night, a blank 
expression contrasting her tears. "I shouldn't leave until I see his 
body. It wouldn't be...dutiful."

	Brandt's expression softened. "This must be terrible for you, 
Katria. I sympathize, really, I do. But a storm's coming up. You'll be 
knee-deep in snow before you realize it. You'll make a terribly romantic 
corpse, but not much else."

	"Romance." Katria scoffed lightly. "Romance. Wonder. Triumph. All 
those beautiful fairy tale terms. I wish I could hear them now. Our 
little adventure didn't turn out to be terribly romantic, did it? It's 
been nothing but pain and death and people becoming more and more 
miserable."

	Brandt opened his cloak and covered Katria with it. "You need to 
rest. Even runesmiths need their sleep. Things will become clear in the 
morning."

	Katria produced her mangled hand and held it up in the night air. 
"Brandt, I don't want to be your apprentice any more."

	This gave Brandt a pause. "Because of that?"

	"Because of everything." Katria shook her head. "I nearly killed 
myself and others with a faulty rune. Dmitri's dead. I doubt I have a 
home back in Iso now. I talked to a priest today. He told me that evil 
came about because what's good gets broken. I think...I think I need 
some time to find a part of my life that doesn't have any cracks."

	Brandt frowned as he led Katria back indoors. He wanted to scream 
at her for such foolishness, but now wasn't the time. He could only hope 
to distract her. "Katria, tomorrow I'm going to find Vadmir. I need to 
ask a favor of you."

	Katria remained silent.

	"Could you stay here and look after Christov?"

	"Fine. Maybe I can do that." Katria gazed up the sky. She saw the 
first snowflake of the storm billow past her face. "Maybe I can do 
that."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Author's Notes:

I feel good about this chapter. It's a bit rushed, but it gets its job 
done. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Two things, though.

First off, I am not trying to promote any sort of Grael/Shalnay luvluv. 
If you want to take it that way, good for you, I'm all behind you. But 
it wasn't my intent. I just thought that Grael is the kind of fellow who 
would have to take it upon himself, for the sake of personal honor, to 
do something for people he feels he's wronged. Maybe I misinterpreted 
him.

Second of all, the whole religion thing. This is definitely not to be 
taken literally. It's just a myth cycle, nothing more. The thing is, if 
it is taken as a real element of 'The North' universe, then you shift it 
up into high fantasy. And that, I believe, is something that authors of 
this impro are asked to avoid.

And yes, if you were wondering, it is a giddy little mess of Roman 
Catholicism and Norse mythology. Maybe a bit of Hinduism.

I want to send my deepest thanks out to my prereaders: Segev, Sharyna, 
and Miko-chan. Anything vaguely resembling good grammar can be laid 
solely at their feet. And they had it really bad with this bit, because 
a sudden case of compounded migraines, a chest cold, and strep throat 
made my thought process even less coherent than normal.

Thank you and goodnight.

-Nick Callahan (cruton@juno.com), 3/16/03