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Somewhere beyond the borders of a sleepy port city, beyond the plains and forests and mountains that stretched infinitely to the west, the sun was again falling below the horizon, drawing out the shadows, pulling and lengthening them in its wake as it slipped into quiet slumber beneath a powdery layer of fresh snow. It was winter, and within the city of Stormpoint, night was slowly blossoming. Gently, quietly, the warmth and colors of the day faded drop by drop into soft, pale hues before disappearing entirely as night held the city once more. It was a time many feared, and with good reason, but the darkness held no terror Quaralyn. It was her home, her life, and it welcomed her with the soft caress of an evening breeze, filled with the crisp scent of winter, as she strode evenly through the darkened streets of Stormpoint.
She'd spent many nights similarly engaged, lurking about the exterior of the Lochinvar clinic, trying to determine if the ranger she'd left at the doorstep some time ago was still within its walls. She knew now that he was. She'd known for some time that someone was in the clinic, aside from the woman, for she'd seen lights in two of the rooms that occupied the second floor of the building, but it was only recently that she'd become sure that the second person was the ranger. Some would have called it intuition. She wouldn't argue.
The temperature had dropped off quickly when the last of the sunlight faded, and Quaralyn could see her own breath rising in smoke-like wisps on the brisk night air. Normally, she would have reminded herself to be more careful, but tonight it didn't matter. Exhaling again, she watched the warm frost-like vapors as they trailed upwards and faded into the darkness, smiling slightly with childlike amusement. The expression wasn't entirely ill-fitting, and she wore it for a moment longer.
In a few hours, the streets would be hushed and empty, save for those few who, like her, existed within the half-world of darkness. For now, however, the streets still bustled with a fair amount of activity, and no one gave any notice to one more figure strolling through the city; and even if they did, they'd be hard pressed to identify her later. Beneath a dark wool cloak, she wore a dress of solid green. It was neither pretentious, nor simple, but fell somewhere in between, suggesting, along with the creased leather gloves and softworn shoes, that its wearer was a woman of secure, if somewhat less than comfortable, means. Her hair seemed a softer shade of red, leaning more towards auburn, and was wrapped into a loose chignon fastened by a curved wooden clip. Her eyes were different as well, appearing now as a pale shade of blue, softer and far less penetrating than her normal shade of green.
The air seemed somewhat cooler as Quaralyn passed by the fountain that marked the town center and approached the steps of the Cathedral. She'd picked a night when the church held services, and as the evening worship drew to a close and the congregation spilled from the church steps, she blended in easily with their number. It only made it easier that several of them walked on foot, passing through merchants' row on their way home. She followed them, listening quietly as they discussed the service, the holidays, and the evening meals they'd share with their families when they reached their homes. They were pleasant folk, and their words painted a warm and comfortable picture of life—a picture that left Quaralyn feeling somewhat empty and alone even as she walked within their amiable midst.
Brushing the picture away, Quaralyn brought her mind back to her task and her surroundings. She didn't have time to feel sorry for herself. In fact, she barely had time to make it to the next corner. She hastened her step just a tad. In the cold night air, it wasn't suspicious, and a few others increased their own pace as well, eager to enjoy the warm images they'd conjured up in their conversations. Quaralyn wasn't listening anymore, at least, not to them. She was listening instead to the steady clip clop of hoofbeats and the accompanying rattle of a carriage as they drew closer behind her. Her face lost all expression as she concentrated on the sound, pacing herself to reach the curb just ahead of it.
Five more steps . . . clip clop, clip clop . . . three . . . clip clop, clip clop . . . one . . . clip clop, clip. The sound was cut short, replaced by several screams and the shrill whinny of the horses. Behind the first axle of the carriage, Quaralyn laid in a heap on the cold stone streets. Crumbled portions of the curb littered the ground by her feet, having been worn down, presumably by the steady passage of time, and breaking away without warning under Quaralyn's last step. The skirt of her dress had been torn below the knee, and bits of it and her cloak appeared to have wound their way into the front wheel of the carriage. Blood trickled from an open cut to her forehead and possibly from several other scrapes that weren't immediately obvious.
The carriage driver wasted little time in hopping to the street to survey the damage, and his face blanched upon finding a crumpled form beneath the wheels. Nervous and unsure, he knelt down upon the street. He fumbled for a few seconds with a glove, then finally managed to get it off and reached a trembling hand towards the still figure, pressing his fingers gently against her neck. His relief upon finding a pulse was visibly written across his face, along with the fact that he was uncertain what course of action he should pursue next. Unable to see, but sensing his quandary, Quaralyn began to fear she'd be lying on the gelid street for longer than she planned, when someone finally suggested that she be taken to the healer. She smiled inwardly, but remained still and quiet, both then and when a handful of the concerned brought her to steps of the Lochinvar clinic and rang the bell beside the door.
"He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none,
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late.
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar."
She smiled softly, wearily, and lay the book aside. Her patient had gone to his bed, and she, her mind awash with bothersome thoughts, sat reading. The wind was cold....she shut her curtains against it and nestled down into her own quilts and pillows, dozing softly. Moments ticked away into minutes, minutes into an hour and she dreamed.
Sunshine at noonday in Havenwood! She smiled and kissed Cullin softly.....Meet me by the reflecting pool at midnight, Cymbyliene.....she heard his voice, as if he were beside her. Midnight came and went, the day opening to weeping, and cries of pain. The fever, Cymbyliene....heal them, must heal them. Then angry curses, smoke, fire! So much fire.....and the church bell, ringing and ringing and ringing......
She sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. A small whimper escaped her lips as Stormpoint's cathedral bells rang....services are over. She stood and straightened her hair, looking out the window. The sun was on its slow path down the horizon.
Her hand flattened against the windowpane as she leaned closer. A woman was hurt! Mauled by a carriage......she gathered up her skirts and fled down the steps to the clinic's front door, flinging it open to reveal a gaggle of good samaritans with a somewhat limp woman among them. A quick assessment of the woman.....young, healthful, bleeding strongly....her eyes looked over the wounded woman's expression. Pale, impassive, unafraid.....not crying, not asking for help, not doing much at all. Unconscious?
She stood aside and nodded briskly to the men and women surrounding the pale, bleeding, silent victim. "Bring her inside......."
Sleep eluded Marcus as troubled thoughts pursued him. He had hated lying to the healer, but until he could piece together more of his life here within Stormpoint, it was for the best. He was still unsure of so much, but he knew that somehow a mage was involved. It was a mage that had destroyed the life he had known, and it might have been a mage that was responsible for his current state. It meant he had to be careful, because if he was right, the slightest thing, even his name, could bring death screaming down Marcus and the woman who had hid and healed him.
His eyed hardened. He could not ... no, he would not allow what had befallen his home, his family, and his betrothed to shatter another life--not here and especially not to Cymbyliene. He thought of slipping away with the night, retreating before the first rays of the morning sun, before the healer awoke. It didn't take him long to decide, and he rose slowly, still in pain, and began to gather the few items that were his, intent on carrying away both them and the danger that hovered over his shoulder like the Sword of Damocles. He couldn't do anything more, but at least by this he would ensure that no harm came to the angel of mercy, as he had come to think of the young healer.
He had scarcely finished when a commotion arose outside on the streets. It was soon followed by the ringing of the bell by the clinic's door. It was high pitched ring, but to Marcus it sounded like a death knell, and it froze him in place. Moving to his door and placing an ear against it, Marcus heard Cymbyliene pass his room and hurry down the hall, rushing to help another life--not stopping to think of her own. Silently, Marcus opened the door and crept out into the hall, staying carefully out of sight. Fearing the worst, he extended the staff he carried as he followed the healer to the stairwell, staying hidden in the shadows at the top as Cymbyliene descended. The healer took the steps quickly, and Marcus could see her clearly as she reached the bottom and opened the door.
The healer nodded briskly to a small group of men and woman assembled at the door. "Bring her inside......." They didn't hesitate, but carried in a young woman who looked to have been injured. There was blood her face, and the still limpness of her form suggested that she was unconscious.
Seeing the woman, and hearing Cymbyliene's words, Marcus breathed a small sigh of relief and collapsed the staff. Without really thinking, he descended the stairs and stepped up to the small group, taking the injured woman from the arms of the man who carried her. She was surprisingly light for her height, and if his attention hadn't been so drawn by that fact, he might have noticed that she seemed vaguely familiar.
Cymbyliene stood aside and gestured the carriers of the woman to bring her inside, into the curtained alcove. "Put her on the examination table, please." She watched them quietly, her brows raised in surprise to see that her nameless friend, the wounded man, had joined the group of helpers. He followed the instructions carefully, laying the woman on the table. She shooed away the rest of the crowd with a firm word and a closed door. She returned to the woman's side with a basin of water and a cloth, dabbing the blood away from the abrasion on her brow.
She leaned in and spoke gently. "I am trained to look after you, Miss. Can you tell me your name?" She darted a concerned gaze to her face.
The woman's eyes began to flutter and open slowly, revealing an expression of confusion. Cymbyliene took the opportunity to look at the woman's eyes carefully.
The woman murmured brokenly. "Lyn...my name is Lyn."
Her male patient lay a reassuring hand upon the woman's shoulder. "You're at a clinic. There was an accident."
The woman's eyes closed again, shutting out the light which she no doubt found too bright after the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. Within her own darkness once again, she reached a trembling hand slowly toward her forehead.
Cym applied a soft gauze bandage. "Careful there...it's a bit sore, I'm sure."
The woman winced with the contact, but opened her eyes again, using a hand to shield against the light. Attentive to her patient's discomfort, Cym went to turn the lamp aside and returned to her side. "My name is Cymbyliene. Do you remember how you were hurt?"
The woman's voice sounded very shaky. "I....I was on the sidewalk and the curb gave way."
Cym nodded and grabbed a penlight. "May I look at your eyes, please?"
The woman lowered her hand now that the light was dimmed and turned her head gingerly toward Cymbyliene, who examined both eyes carefully. The unidentified man stood aside to let her work, having only first aid skills himself.
The woman blinked and squinted against the brightness, and Cym lowered the light. "How does your stomach feel?"
The woman started when Cym's patient-turned-helper moved aside, as if unaware that another had been present in the room and taking a sudden fright with the discovery. Disoriented and uncertain, she turned her head towards the man. She had moved too quickly for her current state, however, and she pressed a hand against her temple to alleviate the pain brought by the ill-advised movement. Her reaction startled the healer in turn, and she pulled her hands away from the woman's head, fearful of causing further injury.
The healer recovered herself and looked at her patient once again, biting her lip as she offered a diagnosis. "I don't think you have a serious head injury, but you're clearly in pain." Crossing the room to a small cooler, she retrieved a bag of ice and laid it gently upon the woman's brow.
The woman winced again, then offered a wan smile. "Yes." She squinted and turned her head back toward the healer with a look of discomfort and mild confusion. "I'm . . . I'm just a bit foggy."
Cym nodded. "I would imagine so......the carriage took you right beneath its wheels. And your stomach.....are you nauseous?"
The woman's eyes clouded, as if the questions were coming too fast for her in her current state. "A bit queasy, but not awfully so."
The healer nodded again, "Good.....then you should be able to keep down the tea I'm going to give you." Her reassurance given, she turned and murmured to her nameless friend. "Would you go please and fetch me the blue jar labeled Willow Bark?It will give the aching in your head some relief," she explained, addressing the woman once more, "if you like, that is."
"Charming" nodded without speaking and commenced a search for the proper jar. The shelves were well-organized, and he found it quickly, bringing it to the healer with a look that bespoke both concern and a troubled mind.
Smiling and offering an attentive, "Thank you," Cym took the jar and plucked a tea bag from it, dropping the latter into a tea kettle and placing it over the fire before turning back to the young woman. "Do you have family or friends that you would like me to call?"
It might have been nothing, but the woman's eyes widened slightly, and she seemed suddenly concerned, almost frightened by the question. "No," she answered with a quavering voice, "No, there's no one."
Unable to offer anything else, Cym's new helper tried to comfort the woman, "Don't worry you're in good hands here."
Cym nodded thoughtfully in response to the woman's answer, and began to pour her a cup of tea. "Do you live in the area?" she asked, handing the woman the mug after adding a touch of sugar.
The woman didn't respond right away. Instead she turned her face away from the healer, as if in mild embarrassment. The healer sensed her reluctance, and was about to say it wasn't important when the woman responded timidly, almost apologetically, "No, I . . . I live a . . . bit further out."
The healer nodded, absorbing the answer silently for a moment. "Well, nevermind that now.....would you take some of the tea? I think it will help."
The woman looked up at her again, somewhat discomfited. With a bit of effort and no small amount of pain, she managed to right herself on the table, and took the mug from the healer with a grateful expression.
Cym waited to make sure her patient was steady before turning to her helper a minute with a smile. "Charming...would you step out of the room just a moment?" His uncertainty shone clearly on his face, and Cym sought to put him at ease with a quick wink and a shrug, "Women things.... Just for a minute."
He nodded, but clearly wasn't happy. Forgotten training had taken over automatically. The woman wasn't dodging questions, but she was slow to answer them, almost skillful, as if she didn't want to give something away. He trusted Cym's judgment, however, and moved to leave. "Very well. I will be right outside."
The woman looked relieved to see him go, and she watched him carefully until the door closed behind him, her eyes suggesting a trace of fear. It was look that was noticed by the healer, and she pulled a chair up to the woman's side. "Miss....for your safety, I must ask, is there any chance you may be expecting?"
A brief speck of uncertainty flickered in the woman's eyes before she cast them quickly downward, and though she shook her head, she waited just a bit too long to respond. "No." Her tone was somewhat less than sure.
Cymbyliene nodded slowly, absorbing the woman's expression and noting that she didn't look terribly resolute as to her condition....or lack thereof. Leaving it aside, however, Cym continued carefully. "Please forgive the question, but you took quite a tumble. If there were other considerations....but you really went down hard."
The woman nodded in agreement. "Yes, I...uh..I think that I did."
Cym paused and pushed forward into her next question. "You are quite uneasy with my friend in the room. Have you met him before, do you think?"
The woman went pale, suddenly. Cymbyliene saw the color drain from her face and removed the ice bag from her head.
After some amount of hesitation, the woman said only, "I'm not sure."
Cym absorbed the statement and thought a moment. "Do you believe you are in danger....whether from him or anyone else?" She broke her keen gaze by looking at the fire, away from the woman who looked patently uncomfortable.
The woman looked genuinely pained. "I....I really didn't see him very well and..." she paused in concern, "No, I don't think I'm in any danger....." She added a silent, mental note, "at least, not from him."
Cym smiled gently. "I am not here to upset you, Lynn. I just want to make certain that you are alright and feel safe. It would be best if you remained here for a few hours until you are a bit more steady." She took a little breath. "If you feel that you cannot stay, or that you must go sooner, I should call someone from the watch to assist you home safely."
The woman looked undecided, torn, as if the decision were too taxing. Cym opened the curtain a bit. "Perhaps you should rest awhile before you go. I find that little sofa in the corner to be a nice nook for naps."
The woman nodded uncertainly, and Cym gestured her friend back into the room. "My friend and I will help you get there without falling on your way."
Having overheard the conversation, Marcus' thoughts were racing, though he carefully guarded his expression as he stepped into the room and offered his hand for the woman to take.
The woman looked frightened and cornered, a look that was not lost on Cym as she gently assisted the woman to sit slowly, and then stand with the hand of Marcus. The woman tentatively accepted the assistance.
Cym smiled her thanks over the woman's head at her friend and arranged some pillows at the end of the sofa. The woman settled back, her nearly empty teacup resting in both hands. "Thank you," she said quietly.
Cym smiled and unfolded a quilt over the woman's petite form.
The woman spoke timidly, as if unaccustomed to such courtesy. "You're very kind."
Cym smiled softly. "I don't mind a bit. If I were run over by a carriage, I would want help too. I'll leave you in peace now.....I'll be back to check on you in thirty minutes." She put a little bell by the couch. "If you have a sudden need of me, use the bell."
The woman smiled genuinely, but weakly, and nodded. "Thank you....again."
Cym nodded with a small smile as she left. "You're very welcome." She pulled the curtains closed behind her, heading up the stairs quietly to put away linens while the woman rested.
Silent within the shadows, Marcus watched the healer leave before looking back at the door, thinking of the woman inside. Her injuries were real, but she was hiding something, and her words and demeanor worried him deeply. Thoughts he hated to admit warred within him. Finally, curiosity won out. He had to know if his fears were founded. Grimacing, he reached for the door handle, taking care to open it silently so as not to alert Cymbyliene, certain she would not approve of his visit. Truthfully, he wasn't sure he did either, and he took a deep breath before walking into the room and closing the door behind him.
She didn't stir when he entered, and if he had looked towards her he would have seen that she was reclined limply against the couch, her eyes closed and her hands cradling the empty teacup. Her breathing too was shallow and steady, and the look of pain on her face had vanished, replaced by the peaceful aura of sleep. But he didn't turn. Instead he stayed facing the door, perhaps loathe to face her, perhaps loathe to face himself. Instead, he simply stared at the back of the door, lost for a moment in the rough grain of the wood. He was still staring at the door when he spoke, his voice cutting the tangible silence like a knife.
"What is my name if you know it?" He already knew the answer, though he had keep it from Cym, but something told him this woman might know something of him, and he had to know if she knew this as well.
The woman jumped with his words, and the teacup that she had been holding fell to the ground while her hands leapt to her chest as if they could slow the sudden racing of her heart.
He turned to face her with the sound, but only added in a menacing tone, "You heard me."
She trembled slightly beneath his gaze, "I . . . I don't know your name. I only know . . ." She trailed off, drawing a hand to her mouth in an expression of worry.
Instincts honed by his time with the rangers told Marcus differently. The woman was lying. His eyes narrowed as he pressed again. "Then tell me what you do 'know'."
She fidgeted and broke eye contact, looking from the ranger to the small bell the healer had left on the table, considering whether the healer could offer any help against her interrogator. After a moment, she appeared to decide that she couldn't, and began to speak in timid bursts. "I . . . you . . ." She shook her head and took a deep breath to steady herself. "I saw you . . .at the Web."
Outside the room, the healer was checking her watch and heading silently down the steps to look in on her patient. Within the tension of the room, neither the woman nor the ranger heard her. She was about to enter the room when she heard the first of her mysterious patients speak. She opened her mouth to say something, but kept quiet instead.
"I don't know this 'Web' you're talking about. What is it?"
The woman looked genuinely surprised by his question, but the expression soon faded to one of nervous skepticism. "You don't know the Web? The Golden Web?"
From her place outside the room, the healer made a mental note of the name, but stayed where she was, listening as the woman continued.
"It's . . ah . . " the woman paused again, fretful and almost afraid to continue. She looked at the bell again, swallowing hard and reweighing her earlier decision.
Marcus followed her gaze, then drew her attention back, shaking his head and holding her eyes with his own. "No."
Unable to see what was going on, Cymbyliene fidgeted nervously with the bandage in her hand as she kept listening from other side of the door. She nearly jumped when she heard his voice again, in a tone she hadn't expected.
"Continue!" It was a simple command, and the look that accompanied it left no room for question.
The woman flinched, startled by the abrupt change in his demeanor, from inquisitive to harshly demanding. If she was used to the tone or deportment, nothing in her features betrayed it. Instead she looked as if she wanted to flee and might do so at any moment, and when she spoke, her voice was a whispery squeak, barely rising through a constricted throat. "It's . . . guild connected."
Marcus frowned. "What kinda guild? Thief?"
She studied his expression with mute incredulity before asking in louder, but no less timid tone, "Don't you know?"
The healer's mind raced with the little bits of information she heard, and clutching her bandages she rushed quickly up the stairs. Her heart was racing in her chest by the time she reached her room, and she closed the door soundly behind her.
Oblivious to her flight, Marcus stepped closer to the woman, growling, "If I knew I wouldn't be asking, now would I?"
Fear lit her eyes and she cowered beneath his gaze. Shaking, she pushed herself flat against the couch as she might escape through it, and breathed quickly in response, "Yes, a thieves' guild."
Marcus smiled with her answer. "See? That wasn't so hard. Now what else do you know?"
His tone had relaxed somewhat, but the woman still looked frightened, as if she didn't trust his sudden shift in mood, as if she didn't trust anything about the dark figure who chose to interrogate an injured woman with physical intimidation. Her eyes pleaded and her breath quickened. "I . . . I won't tell anyone you were there."
He continued to smile, but it changed somehow, becoming almost condescending. "I'm sure you won't. Now, what connection do you have to this guild to be . . . walking the streets . . . . and playing tag with carriages?
Her eyes widened with his unspoken threat and she shook her head slowly. "No. No, you can't turn this around on me. You were there . . . at the Web." She stared at him with a bit more resolution, as if his presence at the tavern led to only one inescapable conclusion.
His smiled faded meaningfully. "Then you should know that dodging my questions might have unwanted 'results.'"
Quickly, Marcus turned and left the woman alone before his face could betray the guilt that twisted and turned within his stomach. Marcus leaned back on the imagined safety of the closed door frame. The lost ranger was relieved that Cym had not yet returned from the clinic's second floor as he surveyed the clinic's silent entryway, knowing that he could not stand looking into her gentle innocent eyes after what he had just done. Terrifying an injured, already frightened woman did not set well with him no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that it was necessary. Much of what of the woman said had the subtle feel of the truth without being whole. All in all, she had opened more darker questions then she solved, but she did leave a clue.
"The Golden Web," Marcus muttered absently, giving a voice to his thoughts that there might lay the answers he sought. The ranger walked to the front door but stopped, he could not leave, not like this....... Cymbyliene had come to mean too much to him in so short a time. Quickly, he scrawled a note to her, and paused before signing it. He had purposefully chosen to hide his name from Cymbyliene for her own protection. But now that he was leaving like this, he felt that she deserved to know at least that much. And so, signing his name, Marcus folded the note neatly and laid it at the foot of the stairs for Cym to find. Without another look backward, he pulled his cloak close about him and fled out of the clinic and into the cold city, hoping to find his soul. Deep inside, Marcus prayed that it was something worth finding.
Up in her room, Cymbyliene struggled to make sense of what she had heard. He was probably still down there...asking questions of Lynn. Getting answers that she herself had no right to hear, nor to involve herself with. She could hear their voices through the vent in the floor, and bent to shut it with a sound thud. Her mind whirled, in spite of herself. The Golden Web....thieves guild.....he hurt a woman. Who was Jasmine, anyway? She shook her head to clear it, muttering to herself. "Mind your own business, Cymbyliene. You heal people...that's all you do. Fix their bodies, send them on their way."
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and paced around, trying to find something to stay busy. Her mind warred with itself, trying to reconcile the man she had come to know..and...well....what did she feel for him? That man...he could never purposely hurt a woman. He had smiled, laughed...listened to her stories. And Lynn....what to think of her? A frightened woman, or at least guarded. This Golden Web place had the distinct sound to it like...well.....a tavern that offers more than beverage services. It was a distinct possibility that Lynn was one of its..employees, so to speak. Her uncertainty regarding whether she could be expecting and numerous other factors came together as a possible solution in Cym's mind. Perhaps "Charming" as she had known him, had been a customer....one who had frightened one of the other girls, making Lynn afraid of him too. She railed against that thought before she pushed it aside again with a curt reminder to mind her own business.
Getting terribly restless in her room, she emerged with the flimsy excuse that she really should check on Lynn as promised. All was quiet below......each step made a terribly loud creaking sound as she descended slowly, her heart in her throat.
She nearly stepped on it before she saw it there.......a small piece of paper, folded at her feet. She bent silently to retrieve it, opening it with trembling fingers.
"Please don't try to follow me where I now must go. I will return as soon as I have the answers to the shadows that haunt me. Please trust me. Marcus."
A sort of broken whimper escaped her lips as she covered her mouth. Tears filled her eyes and dropped one, two, three at a time onto the little note she clutched in her hand. Marcus.....
The name; it suited him. She could picture calling out to him, Marcus...come see what has bloomed in the garden! or Would you like to come for dinner, Marcus? or perhaps, Marcus, thank you for stopping by...so good to see you again. She wiped away the tears swiftly with the corner of her sleeve. Well, he had to go, she tried to convince herself. His world is much different than yours, and perhaps, much more frightening.
Her small clock in the front of the clinic chimed, snapping her attention back to the task at hand. Approaching the curtained alcove that held Lynn, she entered quickly with her well prepared, confident smile pasted solidly on her face. She opened her mouth to speak and......the room was empty. The breath escaped her in a confused murmur. "Where in the world........" but then she stopped. Lynn had gone, without a trace.....except for a small parcel on the examination table. Cymbyliene's searching fingers found the small bag to be full of coins. Coins, Cym thought, that were earned in a job that likely sold a bit of a woman's spirit away with every purchased kiss. She picked them up, the small clinking of metal the only sound in the roaring, resounding silence.
With a dazed step, she ascended again to her room, Marcus' note clutched in one hand, and the coins in the other. Silent tears streaked her cheeks, but no sobs of sniffling broke the oppressive stillness. She was exhausted. Putting her items on her bedside table, she lay down upon her bed. The doorway down the hall stood ajar. The room felt empty of everything....empty of Marcus. So did her heart. She shut her eyes and reminded herself, "You
are a sentimental fool, Cym, and should have learned by now. You're just a healer, Cymbyliene......heal the bodies, send them on their way." But somehow, it didn't always work that way.
It was still early when Quaralyn returned to the guild, there being many long hours of darkness remaining before morning would come again. She walked quickly through the halls and corridors that led to her room, silent save for the rustling of the dress she still wore. Her hair and eyes were their normal once shade again, and the bruises incurred during her earlier exploits at the clinic had vanished under the attention of a different form of healing. It wasn't that the woman at the clinic, Cymbyliene, wasn't thoroughly skilled in her practice, but scrapes, scars, and even bruises lent themselves too easily to identification, and the guild employed a set of highly, and "alternatively trained" healers to see that such identifications never occurred.
Fortunately for Quaralyn, she was blessed with being a rather "quick-healer," and thus she was no longer suffering the pain of her earlier tumble as she wound her way through the complex, thinking of the ranger and her visit. Not all of her thoughts were kind. She'd come as an innocent, seeking aid and care, and he'd played upon her proffered fears, threatening both stern reprisal and physical harm if she failed to provide the information he demanded. It wasn't what she'd expected from a ranger, but she'd quickly determined that that part of his life was lost to him. The loss was fortuitous for the guild, for he'd seen too much in that short exchange within the abandoned tavern, but having looked into the ranger's eyes and finding confusion and anger where once shone courage and compassion, a part of her was deeply saddened. It was the same part that had seen the look of self-hatred the ranger wore as he ended the interrogation, the same part that had known that her interrogation had inflicted far more pain and fear than his, and the same part that she would again have to hide within the roiling shadows of her soul as she made her way into the great heart of darkness that lay spread before her.
She took small comfort in the fact that the ranger had remembered his name, as evidenced by the note he had left the healer, the note that Quaralyn had read before her timely departure. He might remember more, in time, and with luck become again the man that he once was, save, she hoped, for that one night in the tavern when a noble yet errant sense of duty had sent him on a quest he was ill-prepared to make. Giving a final hope, she carefully put the matter aside. She would consider it later, but couldn't afford to have it cloud her thoughts—not here, not now.
Practiced as she was in deception, she was able to push those thoughts from her face and mind. They would come back later, and she would deal with them then. Almost convinced, she hastened her step, rounded a dark corner, and descended the spiral staircase leading to her level with a speed not generally employed by one wearing a full dress. She had an appointment to keep. During a brief visit to the gypsy camp earlier in the week, she'd learned that there was there was supposed to be an eclipse that evening, and she'd promised Kit that she'd take her out to see it. She judged that she had just enough time to stop by her room and change before meeting the girl by the far west stairs.
Kit had become quite attached to Quaralyn since her unfortunate encounter with Samantha and Triana a few months back. It was hardly a surprise really. The girl had been terrified, and in her eyes, Quaralyn had saved her from certain death. It was only natural that she now felt an attachment to the woman, but the whole thing was still more than a bit strange to Quaralyn. She wasn't used to anyone seeking her company, wanting to be near her. In fact, she tended to drive off most people through a combination of both conscious and unconscious effort. Occasionally, she regretted it, but usually, she thought it was for the best. Whether for good or bad, however, her efforts hadn't worked on Kit.
Truthfully, she'd found the child to be a nuisance at first. She constantly tried to trail behind, making it increasingly difficult for Quaralyn to slip away unnoticed and conduct more . . . personal affairs she needed to keep quiet. Her actions had nearly resulted in considerable . . . inconvenience . . . on more than one occasion, and it had grown to a point where Quaralyn was forced to reprimand the girl in a manner normally reserved for those of greater age and experience. Kit had stoically withstood the reproach till the end, only then allowing the tears to roll silently down her face—tears more painful than any blade, and they had pierced Quaralyn to the core.
It had taken time to recover the girl's trust after that event, but Quaralyn had no doubts that it was time well spent. Since then, the girl had grown on her in ways she hadn't expected, and didn't entirely understand. She hadn't realized, and might never realize, that girl saw something within her that she herself could not. But whatever it was, Quaralyn no longer resented Kit's presence, and now spent a fair amount of what little spare time she had with her.
The girl was quick and bright, and even possessed a fair ability to read. This last fact had surprised Quaralyn the most. There weren't many opportunities for a child in Kit's position to pursue the more academic studies, but Kit was eager to learn, and Quaralyn did what she could to help. She was no teacher though, and lacked the time to instruct the girl as much as she would like. Still, Kit was improving. Quaralyn just hoped that she would continue to do so after her mentor left.
Turning the final corner leading to her quarters, Quaralyn allowed herself a small smile. Kit was leaning against the wall by her door. Her hands were stuffed into her pockets, and she was staring down at the ground, as if examining either the floor or her shoes. She looked up as she heard Quaralyn approach, and the woman's smile started to broaden, pleased with the girl's progress. The smile faded, however, when she saw Kit's face. Her eyes were wide and her face drawn and pale. All in all, the expression was more akin to fear than excitement, as was the tone in her voice when she finally spoke. "He's been looking for you."
Quaralyn knew who she meant by the word "He," and she tried not to allow the sudden flash of worry to show on her face as she opened the door to her room and ushered Kit in ahead of her. "Well, he hasn't found me, and if we leave quickly, he won't." She sounded more confident that she felt, and she crossed the room to the far wall where a low-burning lamp sat atop a bedside table. She probably shouldn't try to avoid him, but she really didn't feel like dealing with Striker at the moment, or ever for that matter. When Kit gave no answer, she looked back to the girl and found her standing quietly by her desk with a deepened look of worry.
"He sent three scouts out after you."
Quaralyn's face paled with the words and she stood frozen for a moment in the soft glow of the lamp before breathing again and adjusting the wick to allow for a brighter flame. "Has he?" She cocked a brow and tried to sound unconcerned as she turned back to towards the rest of the room, wearing expression of strained calm. Scouts? It wasn't a good sign. It wasn't a good sign at all. In the time following the incident with the ranger, things had largely returned to normal with Striker, to the extent that things had ever been normal between the two of them, and she wondered what had happened to change the situation. She didn't have much time to consider it, however, before her thoughts were interrupted by a solid knock at the door. Kit jumped at the sound, expected though it was, but the knock elicited only a dark frown from Quaralyn. She really didn't like this.
The door opened after a few seconds grace, revealing a surly figure standing silhouetted in the open frame. He carried a short sword, and wasted no time with formalities. "Striker wants to see you."
She nodded as agreeably as she could, and tried to buy a few minutes of time, heading towards the door with an outstretched arm as if she would close it. "Just give me a minute to change and . . ."
An iron hand gripped onto the door, holding it stoutly in place. It appeared that her escort wasn't amenable to waiting. "He wants to see you, now." The last word was emphasized with a heavy step into the room. As he drew nearer, it was clear that he stood several inches taller than her, and carried considerably greater mass ...... an advantage which he sought to press.
If he was trying to intimidate her, it wasn't working. Instead it only raised an unhealthy level of ire within her eyes—unhealthy for the scout, that was, and she glared back at him with icy contempt. She wasn't accustomed to brusque mannerisms from one of lower rank, and her expression made clear that she wouldn't tolerate it.
The scout had good reason to fear Striker if he failed to bring her as ordered, but he had equally good reason to fear her if he forgot his place again. It was something he now understood, and he gave her a wide berth as she strode out the door, quiet as she passed.
Kit started to follow, concern momentarily outweighing fear, but Quaralyn stopped her, sending her back to her own room with the best assurances she could muster. The girl nodded quietly. She didn't look entirely convinced, but she listened and began to head down the long corridor, looking back occasionally as she went. Quaralyn waited until she disappeared from sight, then strode off in the opposite direction, not waiting for the scout to lead the way, and not caring if he followed.
For his part, the scout wisely kept silent and allowed her to walk ahead as they wound their way towards the guildmaster's office. He wouldn't admit it, but he was relieved that she'd chosen to lead. He didn't want her behind him, and he kept close eye on her as he followed ..... a very close eye. Her shapeful form appeared even more so clothed in the uncharacteristic attire she wore, but he wasn't able to dwell on such thoughts for long. There was something about her that gave rise to a well-founded fear. He hadn't realized it before, but there was a quality to her gaze that was strongly reminiscent of the guildmaster's .... a look that carried both a clear threat and the unmistakable ability to carry it out. Remembering her stare, and watching the cool indifference in her stride, he began to think that the two were more alike than he had ever given thought to. The realization brought to mind a handful of whispers and rumors he had hitherto ignored. He considered them with an ill expression, but mindful silence, as he followed.
Quaralyn didn't look back at the scout as she pressed on. She'd seen the expression on his face as she passed, and knew wouldn't do anything foolish. It was the last thought she gave him as she continued on a path she'd come to know so well that her feet moved silently on their own accord, leaving her free to dwell on other concerns.
When they reached the main door of the guildmaster's current office, Quaralyn was surprised to find it flanked by two guards, and fervently hoped that they weren't there on her account. As one of the guards knocked solidly on the door in probable announcement of her arrival, her stomach and mind churned. The door was opened from the other side by yet another guard who tried to take Quaralyn by the arm and escort her forcibly into the room. He was never able to adequately explain how he wound up in a small heap on the floor, and though they would tease him mercilessly about it later, the other guards reacted instantly to the attack.
Striker watched the scene unfolding before him with detached amusement, one corner of his mouth curling upward in a cruel half-smile as the first guard went crashing to the ground. Had the situation been less pressing, he might have let the guards restrain her, or try to, but there wasn't time. Reluctantly brushing the image of such a scene away, he stopped the guards before they could reach her. "Leave her, and go." His voice was low and quiet, but the guards heard it clearly and those who had drawn their weapons were quick to resheath them. If they were angered by the order, they didn't show it. They didn't dare. Later, in the quiet of their quarters, they might discuss their frustration at being stayed, but in the presence of the guildmaster there was only silent and wise compliance. "And take him with you," Striker added with disgust, looking down at the figure who still lay on the floor, clutching an injured knee with both hands.
The guards complied, plucking their fallen comrade from the floor and easing him out the door. Only the scout stayed behind, firmly rooted next to his find. His expression suggested a belief that he was exempt from the order and that he might receive some sort of favor for finding the missing woman. He was sorely mistaken. Cold grey eyes fell squarely upon him as he stood, and he struggled to hold his ground and nerve beneath the withering gaze.
"Where was she?" The question was utterly devoid of curiosity.
The scout answered quickly and without thought, his apparent success in his mission giving rise to an unfounded self-confidence. "In her quarters."
The guildmaster's eyes closed slowly following the response, bringing a blissful darkness into which the scout and his ineptitude temporarily disappeared. The darkness held for several seconds of near peace before the eyes opened again, a hint of impatience now stirring both within them and the question that followed. "And before that?"
The scout shifted and looked away before meeting the gaze again. "I don't know." He felt his heart speed and his throat tighten when Striker didn't respond. The other's expression was now inscrutable, and the change terrified the scout. In the daunting greyness of the guildmaster's stare, the scout saw unspoken threats and quiet promises. Uncertain which was worse, he struggled to find his voice. "I'll find out," he stammered finally, hoping he'd hit on what the guildmaster wanted.
The guildmaster didn't answer right away, allowing the pulsing silence to convey his message. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with disapproval and skepticism. "I rather doubt it." The tone was mirrored in his eyes, and he waved the other off in a clear gesture of dismissal. Eager to leave, the scout nodded and turned to the door with a whitened face and swift step.
Quaralyn watched him go, feeling the weight of the door as it closed soundly behind him, leaving her as the soul object of Striker's characteristically unpleasant attention. Taking a deep breath, she turned her head back to face him, donned her most impassive expression, and waited.
The wait didn't last long. "I think you dislocated his knee," he began in a calm and conversational tone as if they might be discussing the weather, rather than an unexplained summons and a largely unprovoked assault.
She shrugged in apparent apathy, and when he failed to say anything further, added by way of explanation, "I don't like being handled."
He stared hard in response, trying to stifle the half dozen replies that vied for prominence in the forefront of his mind. Finally succeeding, he kept his tone but changed the subject, nodding towards a tear near the bottom of her skirt. "You'd better be careful throwing yourself under carriages. You're liable to hurt more than your dress." Her face paled and surprise flickered across her usually controlled features. He paused to enjoy the look, an unreadable grin darkening his features. "Was he at the clinic?"
((Written with StrikerKel))
Her face paled and surprise flickered across her usually controlled features. He paused to enjoy the look, an unreadable grin darkening his features. "Was he at the clinic?"
He appeared only slightly disappointed when her expression returned to normal, but his face still held some small measure of amusement. If she'd stopped to think, she'd have realized that it was her continued anger, as evidenced by her white-knuckled fists hanging tensely by her sides, that fueled his response. But she was taken aback by his knowledge of her visit to the clinic, and therefore hadn't noticed when his eyes had dipped momentarily to her hands. Instead, her mind was considering the possible implications of his question. If he knew about her visit to the clinic, what else did he know? Did he know that the ranger was there? Did he know that she was the one who took him there? Did he know . . . ?
Her blood ran cold as she hit on other possibilities, and she was gripped by a sudden and irrational fear that the demon might be present, hidden and waiting to deal with another inconvenience to the guild and its leader. She didn't sense anything though, and she strongly suspected that she would have had the creature been there. With that partial assurance, she let her anger take sway, and her voice was laced with shards of ice as she made a push to change the subject. "If you knew where I was, why did you bother sending scouts out after me?"
She was favored by fortune, or so it seemed, for the guildmaster didn't press his earlier question, but answered hers instead. "I wanted to know if they could find you." He took no small amount of pleasure in the indignation which flashed in her eyes and he continued with a tinge of mockery, standing and walking about the desk to lean against its front. "You've been disappearing a lot lately, and I'd hate for you to lose your way." Each word was heavy with meaning. "People sometimes vanish in this city, you know." He was looking down at her now, uncertain whether he wanted to intimidate her or bait a response. As usual, the statement failed to do either.
"I'm touched, really." Her tone and posture clearly conveyed that she wasn't. "But don't you have better things to do than keep up with my whereabouts?"
"Yes," he nodded once, serious for the first time, "that's why I'm testing the scouts."
She took a deep breath and tried not to explode—a feat which took greater effort than she cared to admit. It might have been easier had she looked away, but she absolutely refused give him the satisfaction. And so she looked back at him, staring into the steel grey eyes that waited patiently for her response. Like their owner, they were cold, arrogant, and generally vexing. They were also unblinking, watching her carefully and ready to record her every action and word for later rumination. The overall effect was unsettling, and though she didn't pull away from his eyes, she stopped seeing them, focusing instead on his statement. It was annoying enough that he was checking into her activities, but the fact that he now employed others to do so only served to feed the annoyance, turning it to near rage.
It didn't occur to her that he might not be serious, or that he was only half so. If he'd really sent the scouts just to keep tabs on her comings and goings he'd hardly have them bring her to his door, much less tell her about it. Oh, there was probably some veracity to his statement, but it didn't speak the whole truth—as if there was such a thing where either of them was concerned. But again, she was too agitated to reason clearly, and this bothered her as well, for she was generally able to deliberate even in the midst of ire or concern. Doubly angered now, she drew another breath and snipped back, "If you don't trust me, perhaps I should just leave."
He smirked and made a sound that might have been a dry laugh, pleased at having evidentially found and pushed a button he didn't know existed. "I don't trust anyone." It was the greatest truth she had heard him utter, and it was soon followed by another, "And no one just leaves." He paused to let the full import of the statement sink in, though he could tell from the rancor in her eyes that she needed no additional time to decipher his meaning. Nodding towards a chair that stood before the desk, he added with a level tone, "Sit down."
"I don't trust anyone." It was the greatest truth she had heard him utter, and it was soon followed by another, "And no one just leaves." He paused to let the full import of the statement sink in, though he could tell from the rancor in her eyes that she needed no additional time to decipher his meaning. Nodding towards a chair that stood before the desk, he added with a level tone, "Sit down."
She'd been so wound with anger and apprehension that she hadn't noticed the chair. Its presence concerned her, but it also piqued a certain amount of curiosity. She'd never known him to keep a chair before his desk. People were expected to come, report, and leave—not visit, and certainly not rest in any sort of comfort. She didn't know what it meant that one was here now, but she had a feeling she was about to find out. Glaring indignantly at Striker's command, and Striker in general, she lowered herself into chair.
He smirked, both satisfied and surprised. He hadn't expected it to be that easy, and took a moment to savor the unexpected success. It didn't last long, slowly draining away as he noticed that her expression had grown from anger to rage. It'd been a long time since he'd seen that look, since anyone had dared to chance that look ..... a very long time .... and it had changed quickly to frozen and sanguine terror as the unfortunate wearer drew his final breath with a gurgled rasp. Striker had never liked that look, and he still didn't, but his reaction was different now. Scowling, he considered how to remove the expression in a less claret manner, though he wasn't sure why he bothered. She was stubborn, willful, and largely unmanageable ..... traits he'd never been able to abide in another. But she was also the most skilled artisan he'd seen in a long time, and he told himself again that this was why.
Her expression hadn't faded when he finally reached a decision. "I trust you as much as I do anyone ..... more than most." It was only a partial lie. He wanted to trust her, for reasons that were less than clear, but suspicion and distrust weren't easy to discard. She might have sensed the relative veracity of the statement, but regardless, her expression at least began to dissipate and he engaged in the fleeting thought that there might be hope of getting through the rest of their discussion without further incident. "I need you to visit the Kuriosity Shoppe. See what you can find out about its owner .... Especially as it relates to the demon."
The answer came quickly, and without elaboration. "No."
He closed his eyes for a handful of seconds, thinking that he should have taken the more active route to remove the expression she'd worn. When he opened them again her face still reflected her refusal, lending more weight to the thought. "I wasn't asking."
"I don't care." Her eyes widened and she shook her head in emphasis, "I'm not going." She punctuated her position by folding her arms across her chest and leaning solidly back in her chair, giving the impression of the quintessential immovable object.
"You've been there before." He tried to be rational, deluded though it was to believe that she might actually respond to reason at this point. "And as I recall, that was 'after hours' visit too."
She smiled caustically. "Nice to know you take such an interest in my personal affairs. Yes, you're right. I've been there before, but I'm not going back. There's something strange about that place—it's like you're being watched when no one's there. And the owner . . ." she began, unfolding her arms to make a vague gesture.
"No one knows much about her," Striker interrupted, trying to cut short her argument. He'd done some research into the shopkeeper's past, but hadn't turned up very much .... little more than what was known by most, plus a few extra whispers.
"Exactly," she answered, seizing upon the point. "It's like there's some great, dark hole behind her that's consumed every speck of her past and threatens to swallow anyone who does too much poking around."
A pointed look underscored a tone of unabashed sarcasm. At another time the expression would have been a warning, but now it carried more taunt than threat. "Sounds like someone else I know." He'd exhausted more than a few resources looking into Quaralyn's background and had met with little success. He had only a handful of reports and rumors from other guilds and cities which might have been about her, judging by appearance or expertise. He even thought he'd found a last name, but nothing had been verified. Not a thing. It wasn't overly suspicious. Many thieves changed names with the same frequency others changed garments, but her past was vaguer than most and he wanted to know more. "Just where were you before you got to Stormpoint?"
Her response was quick, precise, and utterly flippant. "One step outside its gates, and that's exactly where I'm going to be again if you think I'm going to go to the Kuriousity Shoppe."
His patience was starting to wear thin, and he drew a long and silent breath before trying again. "We have to know her involvement with the demon."
"No," she started, her tone tuned suddenly accusatory despite the danger of such action. "You have to know her involvement with the demon. I don't care. I didn't summon him. I didn't hire him." It didn't take long to realize she'd made a mistake.
He fell deathly quiet beneath the charge,and his eyes cut into her with a tangle of expressions she couldn't place. With neither warning nor explanation, he pushed off the desk and rose to his full height, looming for an instant like a baneful shadow before moving towards her chair. It took only two steps to reach her, and they were traversed too unexpectedly for her to move. Placing a hand on each chair arm, he leaned close to her, boring his eyes into her own with a bodeful silence. His expression defied prediction, and hovering scant inches above her he looked as if he might say or do anything. Without faltering in his gaze, he finally rasped in a pernicious and desolate whisper. "Neither did I."
Continue to part five.