Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Phillip tugged his cloak tight about his body against the driving rainfall. Like most evenings in the Crystern Isles, the rain was coming down in sheets. Normally, such storms broke as soon as the land had cooled to the same temperature as the surrounding ocean. However, fall was approaching, a short season on the cool tradewinds from the north, and the rains lingered longer often. He had spent too long at the house of the Blue Order, and it was well past nightfall when he passed under Nalgen's Gate, so named for one of the more popular of Tressen's former monarchy for some victory that all but scholars have forgotten. No walls surrounded Tressen, as an island city-state, it had never needed them. The gate stood as pure symbol, a high marble archway ten paces thick, with ornately fluted columns supporting it from the sides. It was ten paces wide, as well, but towered over him as he passed under, deep gloom in its depths, despite the light that illuminated the streets about it from inns, taverns and irregularly-placed light posts. The keystone stood thirty paces overhead, a magnificent carved work, in the form of a dragon's head, the symbol of Tressen's ruling nobility - when it had nobility. That absence weighed much on Phillip's mind of late. Many of the woes befalling the Blue Order could be laid at the feet of this single issue. The Blue Order had been originally formed by decree of Tressen's king. The king's magister had been its head, and it had been sworn to protect the monarchy. Those few folk who still clung to the traditions of Tressen, a small but powerful minority, felt a betrayal in the fall of the crown and survival of the Blue Order, even after a full century. Shifting winds carried some of the wet beneath his cloak and his mount, another fine beast, with long, powerful legs, wickered and shook its mane at him. Seems it did not care for this poor weather, either. The movement broke his reverie, however, and he looked about, focusing on his surroundings for the first time in most of an hour. Per usual, the streets emptied during the storms. Especially, they would empty for the fall torrents, which were cold and fell with vigor. Stopping at the stables, two blocks from his home, returning the rented horse and tipping the unfortunate youth who worked this late hour with a tenth mark coin, small and silver. The sight of any coin cast in silver, for this child anyway, met welcome from a horse handler. The boy, no older than twelve, bowed and beat a hasty retreat back into the stable, pulling the tall black horse behind him, then pulling shut the tarred oak doors, as well, sealing out the rain and Phillip with his gloomy expression. He arrived at his own door a few minutes later, not much wetter, and much more alert for the walk. It was dark within and had the distinct feel of emptiness that meant no one was home. Phillip chastised himself for a sudden flash of upset, and pushed it back. He did tell Siska that he would be late and that she was to just enjoy herself the rest of the day. Perhaps she was doing just that, enjoying herself - or someone else. A brief and bitter twinge of jealousy shot through him and he pushed that back, also. No room for such feelings. She was his student, not his lover, and she would never be the latter. The thought of her beauty and that it had been offered to him, even since her freedom, made him smile, though. He was inordinately proud of the fact that he resisted her invitation. Not that it had been easy to resist. He glanced into the box that held the other talas spheres, dropping the brightly glowing one among its formerly identical mates, nestled in their velvet cubbies. None of the others glowed as fiercely, and he knew she had not done any 'repairing' to any of these. Now that he thought on it, telling her to do the same thing to another had been something of a mistake, for the first had left her lying on the ground in a swoon, drained of her own mana and frosted over from mana pulled out of the environment around her. "No more charging them like that, young woman," he said to himself as he closed the lid of the box and returned it to its spot in the glass-fronted cabinet. It had been a trying day for him, and he was weary. Tomorrow he would begin her on a new regimen of exercises recommended by Gelten. Since her progress with the arts of spellcasting needed to be slowed, she would be taught other things, as well, things which required great amounts of concentration and would keep her mind occupied with other matters than furthering her studies in magical things. To that end, he would, on the morrow, seek out the assistance of Madam DeSandiago. The Rojanda had, over the years, instructed perhaps half the nobles of Tressen. She was not a tutor herself, as such, but a 'knower of tutors'. When she took a young person under her wing, she organized the instruction regimen of the new student, finding proper instructors and setting up the schedule they would follow. He would loose some of the control over Siska's education that he might resent from time to time. However Siska's time would be so well spoken for that she would be hard pressed to learn much faster than a normal apprentice. Just as he desired at this early, delicate, and dangerous stage of her development in the arts. He plodded up the stairs to the second floor, weary with the exertions of the day, though, and the pleasant thoughts of maintaining Siska's proper educational needs only helped a small bit. Little Siska, as he was now thinking of the homunculous, was lying upon the floor of the common room, sprawled out as if she had fallen while running. Panic and worry gripped his chest, constricting it like steel bands. He lifted the tiny duplicate of Siska, cupping her in both palms. She still breathed, he found with relief, but she was cold, very cold. - - Siska felt like she had been run through a laundress' mangle. She lifted her head slightly, but the ache that was her body forced her to settle for opening her eyes. The room she was in danced with a candle's flicker and she had to concentrate to focus on the ceiling overhead. Rain pounded on the roof, she could hear, a soft patter of fat raindrops on thatch. "You're awake, then?" asked a voice that cracked with age. Siska could hear someone shifting out of her field of vision. A wrinkled face loomed into view, an old woman, with her gray hair pulled back and pinned up in a bun. "Yes," said Siska, startled at the hoarseness in her own voice. It had come out like a dusty whisper over a parched field. "I don't know what kept you alive long enough for me to mend you, dear," said the old woman, handing Siska a teacup. It was one of four mismatched pieces on the little pewter tea tray. It had the look of fine porcelain, chipped in a couple of places, but still possessing much of its original beauty. "I'm not really a good enough healer to have repaired that hurt had you not had something keeping you going." Siska gave a small shrugged, really just a wiggling of her shoulders. "Perhaps it simply looked worse than it was," she said. She felt exhausted. Magic could not, ever, cure all the hurt a person took. Whether it was an unwillingness on the part of a healer, or a limitation of magic, the thing was truth. Her side hurt mightily, most of the pain originating just beneath her shoulder and behind. "It looked like your entire body of blood was on the cobbles around you, girl," she said. "Your heart was stabbed through, mark my words. Living in this city has given me ample chance to see what sort of wounds kill a man - or woman for that matter." The woman was old, that much was obvious. She had wrinkles like others had hairs. Not that she had any lack of those, some growing from improbable places, mostly one particularly dark and frightening mole. To say she was a homely woman would be to say that manacrystal was cherished. While it would be a true statement, it would fall far short of the real mark for intensity. Under the current circumstances, Siska thought her lovely beyond compare. "And no one saw who stabbed me?" asked Siska. The woman had not given a name and Siska thought it rude to ask just yet. "Oh, people saw him, I'm sure," she said. "And if twenty people saw him, you'll get twenty descriptions of what he looked like. I trust witnesses almost as much as you should trust the motives of young men." Siska blushed at the old crone, dipping her head demurely. "Some men have clear motives," she said. "Only those who admit they seek to claim you as their own," said the woman, following that with a cackle that truly marked her as a crone. The woman shook her head though, muttering. "You'd not know it to look at me, dearie, but I was once almost as fair as you." Siska tried to don a smile that would say that she thought the woman not as far fallen as she, herself, did. "Bah, don't deny it that I'm as homely as an old sun-dried apple now, young one," she said, seeing Siska preparing to speak. Siska sat back tightening her jaw and stopping the words that had almost flowed off her tongue. She said something that would not countermand the woman's order, though. "I want to thank you for what you've done," she said, finally, reaching for her purse, which had been placed on a small table next to the bed in which she lay. The old woman pushed her hand back. "If I wanted your coin, I'd have taken it already. You've not enough in that purse, I wager, to pay for a tithe of the arts I expended healing you as much as even I could." Siska nodded miserably. She was in the woman's debt, heavily. "I would repay you in whatever way you require of me." "Good," said the old woman. "Then you will tell me why you are scryshielded and why someone would hire a paid knife to assassinate you." "Assassinate?" asked Siska, suddenly sitting up and feeling the newly formed skin over her wound protest at the abuse. She slumped back onto the pillows and sighed. "The assassin said something as I fell, about a young nobleman whom I crossed words with earlier today." "Harsh words rarely earn a rebuke quite so pointed," said the old woman. "You're sure you only crossed words?" Her expression was sidelong, knowing, and offended Siska deeply. "Despite what you may think of me," said Siska, a distinct chill creeping into her soprano voice, "I only exchanged words with Lord Tornadin, nothing else." The old woman's eyes opened wider, revealing their color for the first time. They were bright green, like emeralds set in wrinkled leather against her aged, sun-browned skin. "Young Lord Tornadin, eh?" she asked. "He is a fiery one, that. I've patched more than one hide pierced by his retorts. He's a fondness for dueling that is matched by few. Granted he doesn't really duel most of my custom, rather than simply attack them as his inferiors." Siska nodded. "That sounds like him, yes." "And you were foolish enough to cross him?" asked the crone. The young apprentice had her back up again. "It was not as if I knew who I was speaking to." "Where have you been, then, living under a rock?" she asked. "I've had precious little contact with noblemen, One protect that happy state continues. Yet even I know who Lord Tornadin is and of his particular favor to violence." Siska dropped her eyes again. "I was living on an estate," she said. "I should have guess the daughter of a noble, no doubt living out in one of the country estates and visiting the big city," said the old lady. "Your father should have had the sense to hire a guide and give you a bodyguard or. . ." "I am not the daughter of a noble," said Siska, her voice lowering. "I live on an estate as property, not owner." Perhaps I should simply have 'former slave' tattooed across my brow, she thought. This admission seemed to startle the old woman, who seemed not in the least upset with half dead people. "Former slave?" she asked. "You're a runaway?" "No," said Siska, hastily, looking about herself, as if there might be hearers in the tiny cottage. So far as she could tell, there was but one room, largish as it was, that held the entire household, including two nooks with beds, one of which she lay in. She did not even wish the word said around her. It could so easily lead to an embarrassing and painful series of events, even if ultimately, her records would be found and her status as a freed slave determined. "I was freed, just last week." "I see," said the old woman, rubbing a wrinkled hand across a more wrinkled cheek. The mole tried, for the third time thus far, to draw Siska's eye, but she fought the urge and kept looking at the woman's face. "But what of the scryguarding, then?" Her sudden question reminded Siska it had been asked in the first place, before the sidetrack of her status. "My mentor scryguarded me," she said. "If such is what it is called. He wished to keep my status somewhat shielded." "Mentor?" asked the old woman. "You're of the arts?" Siska nodded. "I am apprenticed to Phillip Naamen of the Blue Order." She looked down to find her pendant gone, along with the silver chain which had held it. "I had a dragon pendant." "No doubt the would-be assassin, or someone else, took it. Else it may have just fallen off when I asked the two young men to carry you." Given how the old woman had browbeat the two young men who had been with her when she awoke, somehow Siska suspected 'asking' was a gentle euphemism. The crone had laid into them as if the two had injured Siska themselves, not just carried her. One only knows how far they had run, at full speed, from the panting they did. "So, you're a young wizard, are you?" asked the old woman. "Well, a girl going into the arts is something I can appreciate." The crone was a sorceress, Siska knew, she could see the faint halo about the woman. Phillip had explained to her the difference between wizards and sorcerers, and showed her a couple of texts that dealt heavily with the subject. There were two ways to become a sorcerer. The first was to be born with a gift. The second, a much grimmer way, was to steal the gift from another. "Don't worry girl," said the old woman at her worried look. "I came by my gifts honest. Else, I could do more than heal feebly and see auras." Not that there would be evidence, either way. The main source for the gift of healing, for those who had no qualms, was to kill an elf. Elven folk inherently possessed that gift, and many dark sorcerers begin their path down that hellish trail by draining the life of an elf in a dark ritual that left them with that ability, and the elf dead. False sorcerers, as they were known, were not as strong in the gifts as those they stripped them from, but they still had the gift. Elves, lupine, even dragons, could fall victim to the gentle methods of 'stripping', as it was called. Siska had been horrified, reading this in Phillip's library. There seemed extensive studies made of false sorcerers and true sorcerers. At least, it seemed Phillip had a fascination for them. Even the blandest, most clinical descriptions of the methods of 'extraction' for a gift was almost enough to make her retch. Wizards were different. They possessed no inherent gifts, except the ability to sense and manipulate mana about them. A wizard had to learn every application of magic they wished to utilize. They had to provide mana for their magical powers. Sorcerers could use their powers freely, within limits, and could use their powers almost instinctively. Even those who stole the power from another could use it with little practice. A rivalry naturally sprang up between wizards and sorcerers. In some places that rivalry flared into open hostility and aggression. In some regions, one or the other was outlawed, in a few, such as Costa Roja, both were. Siska gave the old crone, who did, after all, look every part the storybook witch, a long, considering look. "I had you at my mercy, my young wizard," said the woman, seeing the look, which did have a few shreds of suspicion tossed into the salad, and returning a broad smile. "I lay on hands, not breathe on my patients, as elven folk do." Siska gave her a nod, she had been half conscious part of the time, and knew this to be fact. Some of the suspicion evaporated, though not quite all of it. "Pity you weren't so suspicious before the knifing." A rich rose climbed into Siska's cheeks and she nodded her head. "Yes, a pity." Her agreement was grudging. She hoped that, in the future, she would be a bit more wary of shuffling feet behind her. One of the two boys returned who had carried her. Ducking into the little cottage out from the rain. It was a very old cottage, Siska thought, the lintel over the door was so low that the tall, gangly youth had to truly duck into the place. Houses were built like that in the past on the isles. Materials were short for the earliest of penal colonies that made up its original founding. Siska looked about the little cottage again with newly appraising eyes. The place was snug and warm, despite the cold winds blowing the rain into a froth outside. The smell of the bay was strong in the air, smelling of salt and silt. The room was furnished plainly, but all that furniture was well made though age-worn. The woman she was under the care of was not wealthy, from appearances. A roaring fire burned in the fireplace, and a tall stack of wood stood beside it, ready to be added. There was no glass in the windows, another mark of poverty, but the shutters were fitted tightly and edged with leather to aid in sealing. It had all the earmarks of someone who took great care, despite a lack of coin. "It's rude to ask," said Siska, pulling her eyes from the cottage back to the old woman, "but I don't know your name." "And I don't know yours, girl," said the woman, smiling again. "It would be more polite for the younger to introduce herself." Siska shrugged a small shrug, nodding. "I am Siska," she said. The way she said it made it obvious that it was her only name. "I am Sherlynn Lemarsal," said the old woman. She then stood and turned to pour a pitcher into a turned wooden cup, carefully engraved with tiny roses. The scent of wine filled her nose and Sherlynn held the cup out to her. "You need sleep, dear," said the wrinkled old woman. "Phillip will worry for me," said Siska, protesting and trying to rise for a second time. Pain ripped through her from the back of her ribs and deep inside and she fell back onto the soft mattress. "He might, and will be immensely relieved when you come home hale and hearty," said the woman, still holding forth the wooden cup. "I've added some herbs to it that will help you sleep." Siska nodded and took the cup, the woman spoke sense. She sipped from the cup and the sweet wine warmed her throat and belly. With surprising speed, she had drained the cup and lay her head back onto the pillow. "Thank you," she said, feeling the effects of the wine and whatever was in it begin. "We'll speak when you waken, Siska." - - Two men stood just inside the front door, both wearing oilcloth cloaks and carrying long rods of polished steel. Deep inside the rods were light stones, set at the back. The gleaming insides of the rods reflected and concentrated the light from the stone into a tight, bright beam of light that formed white circles of illumination on the floor of Phillip's common room. "Nearest I can tell, she was seen on the street, and was attacked by some man in a mask," said Phillip, pacing excitedly. The others in the room, bounty hunters, nodded. The two had a seedy, rough-hewn look to them, despite one being dressed in what looked to be Ghantian merchant's garb, complete with gold embroidered cuffs. Phillip was nervous simply to speak to them, much less retain their services. "You have her description and that of those that helped her," said Phillip, again setting the pair to nodding. "Consider the rods a retainer and one hundred marks to him who finds her." That got their attention. The word had been a standard fee, not a inconsiderable sum, at a twenty-five marks. This wizard must want his little minx back badly to give out such an amount. Phillip grimaced as they shuffled out of the common room and into the downpour. Siska had gone missing just after noon and she could be anywhere in Tressen by now. He shuddered at the thought about how many places outside of Tressen that could have been gotten to by now. Tarmal tsked at him from the armchair. "I don't think bounty hunters was the proper way to go about this," he said. "You tell me who else I can ask at this hour," snapped Phillip, turning on him. "Almost half the Order doesn't want her around, due to me, due to her power, due to their own blindness." Tarmal nodded. "But she is a member now, whether or not they like it," he said. "They would have no choice." "I would rather have eager, greedy eyes seeking for her than eyes that truly wish her to remain missing." Phillip paced back and forth as Salira emerged from their kitchen. "She came to for a minute, and then fell asleep again," she said. She was holding the tiny homunculous in her hands. Tarmal looked at her with an odd expression as she cradled the tiny Siska. "Her detail is exquisite, your apprentice knows herself well," she said, peering closely at the tiny copy of the young woman. "I've never seen such detail and precision in a homunculous." "That's probably what's wrong with the little thing," said Tarmal. "She's so closely aligned to Siska, in truth, that she is suffering from the same effects." Tarmal specialized in thaumaturgy, the magical study of the interrelation of things. "Then Siska regained consciousness for a moment?" asked Phillip, his eyes glimmering with hope. "Or else the Homunculous, who is in truth unhurt, simply overcame the bond for a moment." He looked at little Siska who was sleeping quietly in his wife's palm. "She seems to be simply asleep this time." Phillip nodded. "Maybe Siska is well now," he said. "But she is still missing." "Even with healing, she would be far from well, if your witnesses are correct about her being stabbed in the back," said Tarmal. "You're a comfort, my husband," said Salira, her hazel eyes giving him a level stare. "Shall I kick him in the shin by way of added commiseration?" Phillip threw himself into one of the armchairs. "No, he's right," he said. "I should be cautious with my hopes. From what the witnesses said, she looked dead already to them and she fell like a rag doll." Both Tarmal and Salira looked at him with sympathetic eyes. "I'm so sorry," said Salira, reaching out a cool hand to stroke his cheek. "We will pray for her safety. So long as the homunculous lives, Siska lives." Phillip rose from his chair and picked up another of the long steel rods, then strode to the hooks inside the door, where his own oilcloth cloak hung. "I can't give up yet," he said, then strode out of the house, slamming the door behind him without a backward glance. Salira and Tarmal looked at each other in that way that only old friends and long married people could manage. Tarmal picked up a metal rod and waved it at her. "Not a word," he said, growling the words. "I love you, dear," she said, holding down a smile of pride in her husband. He tugged on his cloak with vigorous pulls and gave her a sidelong look. "And I love you, kitten," he said, throwing himself out the door and letting the door slam behind him. Salira sighed, shaking her head at the men in her life. She sat the little Siska down on a soft pillow on the long couch. Imagine, Phillip has throw pillows, she thought. Tarmal had taken the last of Phillip's light rods. Useful devices, those, gave one a good beam of light and did not disturb the whole neighborhood with unwanted side illumination. Phillip was a great one for combining magic with mundane to make interesting things. She shrugged on her own cloak, a pale green one with a hem of light blue. She sighed deeply and cast a small spell, deftly controlling a little mana and her eyes flashed blue for a moment. "They always do things the hard way," she said, grinning and then stepped out into what was to her, broad daylight on a particularly sunny day, even the rain was invisible to her eyes now. Salira pulled the door shut gently behind her and there was a flash and the bolt secured the door to the frame with a loud snap. - - "You look much better for the wear," said Sherlynn, opening the shutters on her small cottage and allowing the morning sun to enter the darkened little house. Siska blinked at the sudden brightness and lifted her head. A little muzziness still clung to the edge of her consciousness, but it quickly faded to a background haze. She sat up quickly, looking about herself before realizing where she was and who she was with. The stitch in her back was far lessened from last night. "You're feeling better, too, I'll warrant," said Sherlynn, chuckling. Siska looked down to regard her nude body. "You would not have wished to wear that dress now, dear," said Sherlynn. "It is quite ruined, I fear. It was a fine garment. A pity." "I only wore it the once," said Siska, sighing and pulling the sheets up to cover herself. The old woman nodded in sympathy, picking up a plain farmgirl's dress. "I thought as much," she said. "One of my neighbors brought this by after you went to sleep, she said it should do, even for a highborn lady, for something to wear home." Siska smiled at the very idea of her being highborn, but said nothing of it. She reached again for the pouch, pulling out two silver marks. "Give her this," she said. "To pay for it." "Dear girl," said Sherlynn, taking the coins. "She may not take it from you, you know, some of these folk are proud, even if poor." "If she doesn't, then use it for alms," said Siska, sliding out of the bed and standing to pull the long dress over her head. It was a bit tight across the hips and loose across the chest, but fitted closely enough. It also fell several inches short of the floor. "Ground dragging dresses are fine for ladies, but poor folk have to try to keep them up, and it's a sore trial," said the crone, noting her look. "Not that you mind showing a bit of leg, hmm?" Siska gave her a weak smile. "No, I don't." She cinched the bodice as tightly as it would allow, without bunching on her chest and pulled on her boots. "I still don't know how to thank you, Mistress Sherlynn." "You will be called upon to do a good deed for another, or many others, just remember this then," said Sherlynn in sage tones. Siska nodded at that. "I will." When Sherlynn pulled open the door to her tiny cottage, the two youths from the previous day stood. They had been sitting on her low stoop. One was shoving a leather cup into his pocket. "You lads know I don't take with dicing on my porch, Bradler," said the old crone. "Yes, ma'am," said the one who had the cup. "I'll not again." The quick bow the youth gave the old woman was heartfelt if clumsily executed. The old woman turned to Siska. "This is Bradler and Tannis," she said to Siska. "They will be ensuring you get home safe." The two youths were young, probably barely fifteen, if that. However, they stood taller than Siska and looked strong, healthy lads. One had typically Crystern dark features, with nearly black hair and brown eyes. The other was a descendant of the penal settlers, a redheaded youth with gray eyes. Both shared a disarrayed look, like they had been playing. The one with the dice cup spoke again. "It's good, milady, to see you on your feet again." He made another of the small bows to Siska, who nodded her head in return. She considered him a moment. He reminded her of Keeley's brother, Garel. He had one of those smiles, too, though this one had yet to blossom into the dangerous thing that his older version owned. "It was kindly done, asking these young men to escort me," said Siska, turning to face Sherlynn. The old woman gave her a wide smile, showing a couple of gaps in her teeth. "I asked nothing, they asked me this morning when I first awoke, not ten minutes after the sun first broke the horizon." Both the youths nodded enthusiastically, though the dark one had yet to speak. "I think, maybe, they were taken by your pretty face, truth be told," said Sherlynn, narrowing her eyes at the young men as if to question their motives. Siska smiled at that, too. She was becoming used to men reacting to her favorably, and was not inclined to try to stop men doing so just yet. "We'd offer if she were as homely as a sack of turnips," said the roguish one, his gray eyes sparkling. The crone, laughed and pointed off down the street with a knobby, bony finger. "Off with the pair of you. Keep out a keen eye for Miss Siska, too." The two young men were as good as their word. Despite their youth, they seemed to take their charge seriously. As she moved down the street, looking back to see Sherlynn still upon her stoop, they flanked her on both sides, their heads turning constantly, eyes scannin in every direction. They might be young, little more than boys, but their eyes had the look of Defenders. Siska decided to tell Mannis about them, perhaps he could talk to them about joining the Defenders. "Did you really offer to escort me?" asked Siska, still not believing, completely, Sherlynn's story. The tall boy, taller than Siska by a hand, maybe two, nodded. "Yes," he said. It was the first he had spoken. Tannis was certainly not one to waste words, she decided. "You value words, do you, you spend them so tightly." He looked at her a moment, then his eyes resumed their scanning. "It's not that I don't wish to speak to you, Miss, but I don't know what to say." The red haired boy murmured in agreement from her other side. "We've not spoken with a highborn lady before, least other than to say good day," he said. They had passed out of the southside, surprisingly near Tarmal's home, back to the market quarter, where people were all about them again and the hubbub of the great square filled the air, along with it's distinctive scents. The quality of the building had improved, as well. Down near the warves, the houses were pitched wood, with some of them bearing stucco for accents. In the market quarter, they were good brickwork, with stucco over their entirety and painted pretty pastel colors on their lower half and at accents, around windows and along the edge of the roof. The roofs themselves went from pitch-covered thatch to ceramic tiles. Siska took a moment to examine the boys more closely, which they seemed too busy looking about to note. Both were clean, if disheveled at the moment. Their clothes were in good repair and were good woolen trousers and tunics. But there were a lot of repairs on both and they were much faded from their original hues. Most folk had their clothes dyed yearly, except for work garb. Lye soap had a way of stripping even the best dyes from garments. Siska doubted either of these youths had gotten these clothes redyed since they were first made. When one was poor, dye was a luxury, and bright clothes when a soul went hungry was little consolation. Neither boy was lean, though, and Siska suspected their parents fed them well enough. They were healthy lads, and both would become good looking men in a very few years. If some girls, younger by a couple of years, did not find them appealing, even now. They crossed the market square and started down Rayfish Lane. Siska felt unease creep up her legs and into her back, then finally her neck as they closed on her home. At last, they passed where she had been stabbed. She half expected to see a pool of dried blood there, but the spot was clean. Of course, all the rain had washed it away, surely. The spot made her decidedly uncomfortable, though, and she lowered her head and scurried past it, causing both Bradler and Tannis to jog to keep up with her. They said nothing, though, and their expressions were placid, if more alert than before. Only then did she notice Tannis was fingering the wooden hilt of a knife in his belt under his gray woolen jacket. She wondered if Bradler had similar armament. They came to the path to Mentor Phillip's home and they boys stayed with her to the door, flanking the opening like guards taking up a post. Siska fished into her belt pouch and produced two tenth-mark pieces, handing the silver coins to the boys. "Thank you, both of you," she said. "What you've done was all but heroic." "I think I got all your things that fell out," he said, handing her the wickerwork shopping basket. "If I missed any, I'm sorry." Both boys stammered at her, but took the proffered coins. In a fit of pleasure at their discomfort and blushing, she grabbed one, Tannis first, and kissed his cheek, having to crane her neck to do so, then she kissed Bradler's. The blush on both boys deepened to full crimson and they beamed as if their faces were frozen in perpetual smiles. "Go with the One," she said, giving each a nod and turning to open the door. - - Salira poured tea for Phillip and Tarmal, glowering at the two of them. "You've got to sleep some, you two," she said, putting down the pot and then planting her fists on her curved hips. "I've got to find her," said Phillip miserably. "You'll not find her if you're so stumbling tired that you cannot walk," snapped Salira, giving him another glower. Her ire turned on Tarmal. "And you, I saw you nearly pitch into that watering trough when you were crossing the street." Both men contrived to look sheepish. "You've not slept either," said Phillip, sipping the tea. His eyes were red and swollen, he had been crying. The awakening of the homunculous had done little to cheer the men, though Salira declared that it must mean Siska was well and up and about. The little copy of Siska was sitting on the table devouring a strawberry. She was smiling and humming to herself as she ate, ripping hunks of the strawberry free and stuffing them into her mouth. Despite all that, she was not wearing much of the fruit, at least not as much as one would figure, given her questionable table manners. "I took a short nap just after dawn," said Salira, as if that were plenty of sleep for anyone. Both of the men snorted at her and she bowed up her back, thrusting her chest out. "Both of you, lie down for a while. I'll make sure you don't sleep too long." Phillip had to admit he was having a hard time concentrating on even eating, much less walking. The teacup before his eyes revolved in his vision oddly and he blinked up at Salira. "Did you add something to the tea?" Salira gave him a hurt expression, contriving to look offended. She was not much of an actor, nor poker player, and she blushed to her eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Phillip, but you must sleep." Tarmal blinked at her, trying to bring her into focus. "We'll have to talk about your gentle methods, dear, when I wake up." Salira nodded and gently urged the almost completely sleeping Phillip to his feet and, putting his arm over her shoulders, helped him to his bed chamber. She returned to find Tarmal quite unconscious on the table. She managed to get him to the long bench in the common room with the use of only a small spell. "Hate me later, if you must," she said as she sat down in one of the armchairs and opened one of Phillip's books from his study. When the door opened, less than an hour later, she looked up slowly from the book, smiling. "Hello Siska," she said in a soft voice to the golden-haired apprentice as she peered in. "We've been worried for you." Siska looked somewhat frightened, but smiled in return and closed the door. She sat her shopping basket on the end table next to the long bench upon which Tarmal was sprawled. "I was attacked," she finally said, whispering. "So we heard," replied the older wizard, closing the book and not bothering to mark her place in the text. She rose and walked up to Siska, craning her neck back slightly to look into the taller girl's eyes. "Do you know by whom?" "No, though the man said Lord Tornadin,' said Siska. "Tornadin, hmm?" asked Salira, giving Siska's reply a nod. Her hazel eyes regarded the young woman. "I can show you some spells that will turn an attacker's blade." Siska looked down at the floor. "I've already learned a few," she said, though her voice sounded meek and a slight flush came to her cheeks. "It'll not happen again." "Good," said Salira with some measure of vehemence in her voice. "We don't want people thinking they can just go about stabbing members of the Blue Order." Her lips pursed as she thought for a moment, bringing one finger up to her mouth and worrying the nail. "Perhaps, until I've done some research, you should forget who sent your attacker." Siska blinked at her. "I should lie?" she asked. "Not lie, per se," explained Salira, her eyes focusing over Siska's shoulder. "Simply do not remember that particular detail for now." Siska nodded, looking at Tarmal and then looked back at Salira. "Only for a short while?" "Yes," said Salira. "Only a few days." The homunculous was walking into the common room, peering at the corners, as if searching for something. She had her nail clutched in both hands and was crouching low in a sneaking posture. When she saw Siska, however, she dropped the nail with a small ping and ran at the woman, arms outstretched to hug. Siska made a peculiar squeaking sound and bent to scoop up the little copy of herself in her hands. Little Siska chittered happily as Siska kissed the top of her tiny head. "She's vocal, too?" asked Salira, looking at the little copy with widened eyes. "She makes some sounds, yes," replied Siska. "Though she cannot speak." The homunculous was all but dancing in Siska's palm, capering and beaming at Siska. "Little Siska seems to have missed you," observed the wizard. Siska smiled happily at the antics of her small duplicate. "I missed her, too," she said. "I worried what would happen to her with me hurt." "The link between you and she is a strong one. She collapsed when you were hurt and was up and about this morning." Salira took Siska's hand and walked her to the kitchen. Tarmal had stirred and muttered something, and Salira wished to let him sleep a while yet. Siska returned to snatch up the basket and carry it into the kitchen to deposit it on the table, where Salira already sat. "I bought her some things," said Siska, giving Salira a sheepish smile. "Phillip says as long as I don't unsummon her, she will stay permanent." "So I've been told, too," replied Salira. "Mine were never worth keeping about. My own homunculus looked more like a bad sculpture in clay and she had a tendency to get herself hurt." Little Siska had managed to climb up onto the table and was eyeing the wickerwork of the basket, debating whether she should climb that, too. Siska saved her the effort and began pulling out things from the basket. The first was the dresses that she had bought for the miniature Siska. Little Siska clapped and let out a high-pitched squeak of pleasure at the sight of the doll dresses, and immediately began pulling her robe over her head. "I hope you don't disrobe quite so eagerly," observed Salira with a grin. She was rather taken aback when Siska would not meet her eyes and blushed deeply. The little copy was already pulling on the first dress, a tiny version of a peasant's dress, similar in cut to the one Siska was wearing, but in bright blue with darker blue at the sleeves. Despite a keen attempt to make the dress fit properly, the cords were a bit much for little Siska's hands to pull tight, and Siska had to help her tie it. "There," she said. "Now you look like me again." She took the others away when little Siska seemed determined to try them all on and fished out the other objects she had bought. The miniature was fascinated by the dollhouse furnishings, including the bed, which she immediately threw herself upon and bounced, still emitting the pleased, chirpy sounds. The spear, however, was what made her tiny eyes light up. She grabbed it from Siska's own fingers and looked at it with fascination. The look on her face, standing there in the blue peasant's dress, clutching the spear was one of sublime joy. A moment later, though, she was clambering down from the table, the spear thrust through the belt of the dress, across her back. Her little eyes were gleaming with anticipation. Both Siska and Salira watched all this silently and Salira blinked a few times as she looked back to Siska. "She's remarkable," she said. "I never saw such personality in a homunculous." Siska did not quite know how to respond to that, never having seen one before little Siska. Or one since, for that matter. The motherly wizard leaned back in her chair. "You may cause me to forgo retirement, young woman, just to study you," she pronounced. "I think a scholar could do worse than to simply walk about with you and see what you do and learn." The young woman in question blinked at her again. "Surely you have better uses of your time," she said. The very idea of someone watching her at all times rather horrified Siska, on a very personal level. "I would not intrude into your life like that, Siska," said Salira, giggling at the wide eyed fear that crossed the apprentice's face. "I would like to speak to you regularly, though." Siska gave her a slow nod. "Should we not awaken Phillip and let him know I'm well?" she asked. "Probably," said Salira, sighing. She was beginning to suspect a level of naivety in Siska that she was hard pressed to match. The young woman was far from guileless, and was frighteningly smart. She, however, was equally unskilled in reading people beyond the surface. "Siska, we must speak of things later," she said. Salira feared the poor girl learning of hidden motives and subterfuge at unkind hands that would take advantage of her in ways both personal and political. As a powerful mage, she was a tool to be wielded by someone, a mighty and dangerous weapon. As a lovely young woman, she was a potential toy for someone who wished to ensnare Siska's heart with motives base and shallow. Worse yet, some folk would desire her for both purposes, feeling that such a prize was well worth going to great lengths to attain. In a quick motion, Siska was standing and moving toward the door. She had decided to awaken Phillip, and was moving to act on that. This was something Salira thought would serve the girl well. She did not hesitate once deciding something. So long as the decision was a good one, it would serve her well, that is. "I'll wake him," said Siska as the older woman rose from her chair. "I wish to speak to him a moment." The unspoken request for privacy was obvious and Salira dropped back into the chair. She nodded slightly and gave Siska a encouraging smile. Siska climbed the stairs and walked the short upstairs hallway to Phillip's room. Upon entering, she remembered the last time she had been in here, and what had almost happened. She smiled at her foolishness then, and smiled more warmly at the slumbering form of Phillip on the bed. He was fully clad, including his boots and was curled on top of the coverlets, snoring gently. "Phillip," she said quietly, wishing to wake him gently. His eyes snapped open anything but gently and he gasped in air as he caught sight of her. "Siska!" he said, virtually leaping from the bed. An impressive feat for a man who had been lying in a curl. Before she could so much as reply again, he was crushing her ribs in a bear hug. "I was terrified someone had killed you." His voice was muffled by her hair. She put her arms about his waist and patted his back. "I was very nearly," she said in a murmur, not having enough air for proper speech. "A healer found me, though, and mended my hurts." "Thank the One," said Phillip. There was a distinct hitch in his voice and she knew he was crying. The powerful and confident mage crying set her tears flowing as well. "If you know who it was, I will see them rewarded." Siska gave a soft giggle. "I fear they will not take reward," she said. "Sherlynn refused me offering her any coin, either." Phillip chuckled. "I had heard Sherlynn was a sorceress, but thought it rumor." Siska shook her head, finally able to pull back from the embrace that slackened to release her. "No, she is a healer. She saved my life." Phillip guided her from his bedchamber back down the stairs. Tarmal was in the kitchen now, too, sipping tea and watching Siska with crinkled, smiling eyes. "Good to see you well," he said. The apprentice gave him a small bow and said, "Thank you Mentor Tarmal." She was doing her utmost to present the outside world with the appearance of a formal apprentice. That these three had obviously missed out on sleep in seeking her made her heart ache with affection. "Do you know who attacked you?" asked Phillip as he poured himself a cup of the steaming tea. The tea smelled of mint and other spices, and he sniffed at it suspiciously, looking toward Salira before sipping it. Salira's features were a mask of blandness, revealing and acknowledging nothing. Siska looked toward her as well, with small worry in her expression, then said, "It's rather hazy to me. I do not think it was anyone I know, though." Phillip chewed his lip, his lean face reflecting deep concentration. "I better get word to the hunters," he said. "I wouldn't want them grabbing you off the street." "You should probably be resting, Siska," said Salira, shoving back her chair and rising from the table. "Let me walk you to your room." Phillip and Tarmal left the house, bound for wherever they had found the bounty hunters. The two women entered Siska's bedchamber. "Well stated," said the older woman, patting Siska's shoulder. Siska blushed slightly. "I don't like lying to Phillip," she complained, sitting on the bed and pulling her boots off. "He deserves the truth." "If you told him the truth, he's hot headed enough to do something foolish," said Salira, picking up Siska's boots and storing them in the wardrobe. "Also, my Tarmal is fool enough to follow him into that trouble." The apprentice replied with a nod as she fumbled with the ties at the front of the peasant dress. "Let me do some looking about before you tell Phillip everything," said Salira. "I may not be a active member of the Blue Order anymore, but I do still know folk." Siska tugged the dress off over her head then stood to try to look at where she had been stabbed in the long mirror. Salira touched the sensitive spot with gentle fingertips. "It will leave a scar," she said softly. "I feared that," said Siska, puckering her lips in a near pout. "Is it unseemly?" "It's small, barely worth notice," replied the older woman, handing the younger a night gown from the wardrobe and helping her pull it on when lifting her arms straight upward proved painful to Siska. "The healer told me two days rest, at the least," said Siska as she lay back onto the feather pillows. "She also gave me something to brew into a tea, twice a day. It's in my belt pouch." "You just rest for now, dear," said Salira, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing Siska's hair from her face. "You know, I wish I had a child." It seemed a bittersweet observation as she spoke it to the young woman. "If you desire them, do not wait too long before settling down to do so." "I'll try not to," said Siska, giving the woman a kindly smile in return. - - "You saw her?" asked Mannis, his knuckles turning white as they gripped the ceremonial sword at his side. "Where?" The young man he spoke to, a younger trainee of the Defenders, flinched at the anger in Mannis' voice. "On Rayfish Lane," he said. "Someone had stabbed her." The older trainee seemed unable to speak, his mouth opened ineffectually, then closed again. This lasted several moments before he said, "I must find her." "Mannis," said the underclassman, his voice filling with sympathy, "she looked dead." Those last words fell across Mannis' shoulders as he turned and strode down the gleaming marble hall toward the section of the barracks that housed the instructors. Varan caught him as he turned toward the office of the lord commander. "You can't run off now," he said, his voice low and entreating. "Our final testing is to begin on the morrow." "Siska was stabbed on the street," said Mannis, tears brimming in his eyes. "Not three hours after our walk." Varan blinked at him, then asked, "You're certain?" "Wellam is certain it was her," he said. "He saw her at the training in the park, saw us speaking." "Why did he wait until now to tell you?" asked Varan, suddenly scowling. "Did he say anything about Keeley?" "No, Keeley wasn't with her," said Mannis. He ran his fingers through his hair, disheveling it more than it had already been. "He was out on a walkalong with experienced Defenders on patrol outside the city until this morning." Varan shook his head. "Still, you can't go off right now, no one has leave," he said. "That's why I was going to the lord commander," said Mannis, half turning. The larger young man grabbed his shoulder. "He will not allow it, trust in me," he said. "I have to find her, find out what happened to her," said Mannis, the tears in his eyes breaking loose and running down his cheeks. Varan's features, hard as they were, softened a bit. "I'm sorry, Mannis, but you can't this day or on the morrow." Mannis seemed to deflate as he stood, his shoulders slumping inward and his head dropping several inches. "She's likely dead," he said, his features darkening and some of the gleam leaving his eyes. The taller boy put an arm over Mannis' shoulders and walked him back toward their dorm rooms. "Let us pray to the One she's well, and Wellam was mistaken." A short, furtive look from Mannis told Varan he did not hold out much hope for such a pleasant outcome. They plodded down the polished corridor, still gleaming by the light of a new morning and Varan spoke softly to his friend, offering what comfort he could.