He was shivering by the time he reached the wealthy district. The daylight was waning--not that he cared, but it meant dropping temperatures and most likely frozen feet.

The magistrate kept up appearances, here, and several officers gave him a long, thoughtful look. No one detained him, however.

The Promissio Manor was set far back on a large, sculpted lot. The gates to the street were closed, and a guard stood before them in a stiff leather uniform. Seeing this, Zarek crossed to the other side of the street and strolled past, as if on other errands.

He had visited this place perhaps a handful of times, for one reason or another, but he had never seen a guard before. What was afoot?

He turned the corner to approach the building from behind, glancing casually between other mansions and houses to view the one he wanted. Many of the windows were lit, candles gleaming in a sort of mocking welcome.

He was not crafty enough for this. He was a mage, not a blasted burglar. Perhaps if he simply asked the guard, he could get in? After all, there was no reason to think the guard was set there to detain the likes of him--was there?

There was also no reason to think Skel's estranged father would be willing to take the boy in. But so it was. And, to his best estimate, the guard's presence was no coincidence.

He had circled behind the building, now, where the lot terminated in a fence with rows of trees. To either side, smaller lots sported well-trimmed houses that faced the street. Some were already decorated in prepartion for the solstice, and pine-boughs were appearing on others as he watched. There were plenty of people coming and going. Would anyone not notice a ragged mage climbing an ironwork fence?

An old man stood on the far side of the fence, clipping holly and pine--presumably for decorations. He ogled Zarek in the gathering gloom.

"Ya one of th' mages?" he asked.

He nodded, then realized the man couldn't see him. He was nearly blind, the way he peered about. So he cleared his throat. "I am," he called.

"Ya lost," concluded the servant--gardner?--who approached the fence. Zarek kept his wary distance. "Entrance 's on th' other side."

Why did the man expect mages to even want entry? It was unlikely that Skel's family entertained the School at their suitably conservative, fashionable parties.

"Sorry," he spoke. "I . . . didn't know."

The gardner seemed to shrug. "Here, ya don't need to go 'round. I've the key."

The key? Zarek could have gaped as the man calmly unlocked a little gate at the far corner. Was this really happening?

"Thank you?" he spoke, trying to keep the question out of his tone.

"Welcome," grunted the man, locking the gate behind him. "Yer fellows 's already inside. Down in th' cellar, I recall."

His mind whirled with questions as he approached the house. So they were expecting mages, were they? Down in the cellar? He might have gotten past a confused, myopic gardner, but he would have to be on watch from here.

Most of these houses had an external ingress to the cellar, for wood to be thrown inside. He circled around, leaving prints in an already-trampled snowbank. Ah, there it was. Between two trees he saw the open maw that slanted into the house, wooden jaws thrown wide to the twilight. Within came the gleam of a lantern, bobbing as its bearer stepped down into the darkness.

Cautiously, he crept up to the opening. There were voices within, too faint for him to make out--perhaps two, three people speaking. Skel was none of them, from what he heard.

For the second time that night, he cursed his chosen profession. If he had been a thief, a bandit--or even a pickpocket--he might have had some idea how to progress. Instead, he was a bumbling, freezing mage.

Here came the lantern again. He ducked behind a squat holly, biting his lips as its pointed leaves pricked his careless hands.

"Close the door," came an annoyed voice. "It's colder than Diatesseron in here."

Diatesseron! He caught his breath at the mention of the fourth demonic realm. That word was definitely no part of a butler's vocabulary.

So there were mages. And they were in the cellar--thank Sku'kuros for a gabby gardner. Was he lucky, or just stumbling across the dark lord's good graces?

The cellar doors thumped shut in the evening chill. He crept forward again, placing one hand on the wood. There were handles on the outside, but he dared not lift it--not until he was certain the other had retreated.

He pressed an ear to the door, listening. He could hear nothing. So much for the stories he'd read, where heroes triumphantly overheard the villain's plan through walls and convenient keyholes.

He cracked open the door, just a fraction. All was dark within. Cautiously, he slipped inside, boots crunching on bark and dead leaves. He closed the door behind him, lowering it quietly back into place. If he could keep from slipping, he'd be fine.

The snowy debris made for treacherous footing, all right, but he managed to slink across a wide, dim chamber stacked with wood. In the distance came a faint, pulsing light--the lantern, no doubt. The voices had fallen silent.

There was no door to the chamber, and he was about to step into the hall when the voices resumed:

"It's no use. I'm not getting through."

"Just give him more of the elixir."

"I can't, Khazon, lord knows what it will do. He's already had too much."

Khazon! As in, Khazon Perscitus? His blood froze, and he felt a trembling spring up in his shoulders. What on earth was the Council Chair doing in a nobleman's cellar?

"Here, I'll do it."

Yes, that was the Chair's voice. He heard disgust in the tone.

Then came a soft grunt, and the rasping of glass on glass. A muffled sound came, like a wordless groan suppressed.

"Keep him still."

"Khazon, I really don't think--"

"Hold him."

The tone was too grim. What were they doing, and to whom? Sickly, his stomach gave its own suspicions.

Then came a louder groan, and his stomach twisted harder. That was Skel's voice, all right.

The first mage spoke softly, and as he crept closer he could make out the words:

"Listen, Promissio, this will go so much easier if you just relax. Let the elixir work, for god's sake."

Silence. The rustle of fabric. He took another step closer, but suddenly light came from above, just around the corner. The thud of boots on boards came down into the cellar.

His heart pounding, he scurried back to the wood room, finding a darkened spot between two piles and the wall. Who knew what would happen if he were caught! His blood was pounding so loudly, he could hardly hear, but he strained to make out the conversation:

"How is it going?"

Was that Skel's father's voice?

"Lord Promissio, I assure you, this process takes time."

Blast the man, what was he doing to his own son?

"How could you know?" inquired Lord Promissio, sounding a bit peeved. "You told me an hour ago that it was purely experimental. If I understand the word correctly, that means you have no idea what you're doing. Is that so?"

The challenge hung, but neither of the mages answered it.

"It will be finished soon, I assure you." Perscitus left off the man's title--a subtle slur.

"And what do you intend if it does not work?"

"If it doesn't work," came Perscitus's quiet answer, "he'll be dead, or insane. But that shouldn't matter to you--after all, what difference is it? Dead, or disowned?"

A sharp intake of breath came, but no reply.

Lord Sku'kuros! What could he do? What on earth were they trying with Skel?

This was Perscitus he was talking about. Anything he did, any spell he tried, would be immediately discovered. The man was a walking detection system.

Yet he must do something. Annoying or not, Skel was not an experiment. And the lad did not deserve Perscitus's cruel mental digging--which was what he suspected, given the "insane" remark.

Zarek shifted back and forth uncertainly. Even in the prime of his power, he couldn't have taken two of his peers at once, and now he was far out of practice. The only advantage he had was surprise--and not much of that, if Perscitus sensed him nearby.

The lord's voice was dispassionate: "Why is he so pale?"

"That's just the elixir working, my lord," answered the first mage.

"He's fighting," reported Perscitus. "I expected as much, but did not attribute him with quite so much will."

"He always was a stubborn boy," scoffed Lord Promissio. "You'll need more than your drugs to convince him."

Perscitus's companion sounded a bit offended: "Elixir, my lord, elixir. It contains certain magickal elements, not merely chemical components."

The lord snorted. "Whatever you may call it, mage, I care very little; just as long as it works."

At that moment, a cold, familiar hatred welled up from Zarek's gut. This man did not care if they gave the boy strychnine--so long as they accomplished their sordid goal.

He would have that man. If Skel survived this, they would take revenge together.

Now, there was the dark mage talking! His eyes narrowed as he crept a bit closer. He had to find out where they were, what they were doing, and how on earth he could snatch Skel away. He had the advantage, and he intended to take it. Forget the consequences!

"Tell me, Perscitus," continued the lord, "will he be the same after this is finished?"

"Most likely, no," replied the Council Chair. "Once I strip the magick, his mind and personality will most likely be quite altered."

Zarek was so stunned, he nearly staggered against the wall. Please, let him have misheard that! Stripped of magick?

"Yes," persisted Skel's father, "but will he be able to function day-to-day?"

"Oh, most certainly," Perscitus asserted. "He will not be the same, but I assure you, he will be quite normal. At least, by your standards."

"Good, then. Carry on."

The first mage spoke up, then: "Actually, my lord, I'm not entirely certain he will be function all that well. My esteemed colleague has great faith in his own abilities, but the procedure itself is already causing damage."

"He'll recover," snapped Perscitus. "If he's tough enough to fight this much, he's tough enough to heal afterward."

Zarek felt absolutely sick by what he was hearing. How could Perscitus even contemplate such an act? This unspeakable crime involved an innocent, lighthearted mage!

"Exactly what sort of damage will there be?" inquired the lord--still bloodlessly, blast the man!

"Certain logical or analytical tasks may be difficult. He may shy away from public gatherings, as well--and of course, anything related to magick will cause him intense pain."

"That's just fine with me," spoke Skel's father. "I'd rather he had never sought out such frivolity."

There came an uncomfortable silence.

"So it is only his mind that will be impaired?" Skel's father resumed.

"Slightly," hedged the first mage.

"But his body will survive."

"Almost definitely," put in Perscitus. "Why do you ask?"

"After the procedure, I intend to marry him off--somewhere distant, I think. His mother already has a list of proposals; you should see them all."

Perscitus gave a bark of laughter. "Need an heir, do we, Lord Promissio?"

Anger tinged the man's voice as he replied: "Sons don't fall from the sky, Master Perscitus."

"You've obviously not visited the campus that often," Perscitus replied. "But I see your point."

A blind rage was building behind Zarek's eyes, as he listened to them lay out Skel's future. They had it all planned, didn't they? As long as Skel was obedient, submissive, and productive, they would be perfectly happy with him.

A wife, indeed! Hadn't the man heard Skel's deposition at his own dismissal? The boy had ideas of his own. It was all he could do to contain a roar of pure fury.

He cast about, looking for something--anything--to use as a weapon. He was breaking Skel out of here, one way or another!

He retraced his steps to the stacks of wood, searching. There had to be a hatchet or an axe somewhere. A stick of wood, a dead rat--anything!

Vaguely he heard their conversation continue, but he was too enraged to care. If he didn't find something soon, he would charge in with his bare hands!

Then he caught a whiff of something familiar--no, no, it wasn't a smell. It was a peculiar energy, off in the back corner, pulling his attention that way.

He froze, focusing on the power. That was death. He knew it well.

He peered into the darkness, slowly making out the shape of a transparent object. Ah! That was a spirit. Human, most likely--a departed servant, perhaps.

"Go away," he hissed, as it seemed to waver toward him. Ghosts did not interest him; they hadn't enough force to be useful. If he had the time, the power, and a chance to escape Perscitus's notice, he might follow the ghost back to its corpse and jolt that out of its grave. Now that would disrupt the solstice preparations!

For just a moment he gave an evil chuckle, but a low cry emerged from behind him. He choked, trying not to envision what horrors they were practicing now.

The spirit did not depart, as it should have. Well, he was no Summoning specialist, but he did know a thing or two about dead creatures.

"Begone," he murmured. He began to whisper the formulae of banishment, when he saw what the spirit was hovering beside. It was a rusty, half-buried hatchet.

Surprised, he stepped forward instead. "Well, then," he breathed. "Are you in with my side?"

The spirit flickered. If he were a little bit stronger, he might have been able to communicate with it. But this would have to do.

Another cry came, and he raised the makeshift weapon. It wasn't sharp, but it would split things nicely enough. He'd been aching to get his hands on Perscitus, anyway.

A third cry split the gloom, this time loud enough to echo upstairs. He heard someone give a soft exclamation of wonder, heard footsteps trip over the boards toward the stairs.

"Ferris? Ferris, what are you doing down there? Are you all right?"

"That would be the wife," sighed Lord Promissio. "Nothing, Jenny. Don't come down here."

"Did you find another snake?"

"No, dear. Stay upstairs."

Lady Genevieve Promissio had no intention of staying upstairs. He heard her small feet tap on the boards, making their way down into the cellar proper.

Slowly, he lowered the hatchet. He couldn't attack her, nor force her to watch what he was about to do. She, of all Skel's family, was the only one who had even sanctioned Skel's odd education.

"I don't like it down here," she breathed, shivering. Lord Promissio met her in the hallway, from the sound of it, and was trying to push her back.

"You'll catch cold," he rebuked her. "Get back upstairs."

"I want to know what's going on down here. I thought I saw--oh, my, are those mages?"

"Jenny," began her husband, in a dangerous tone.

"Why are there mages in our wine-cellar, dear?"

"Go back upstairs," insisted the man. "Do as I say!"

Lady Promissio, who was apparently the font of Skel's stubborn blood, instead made a disparaging sound and wandered back toward the wood room. "It's cold," she informed him. "I've come to get some firewood."

"We have servants for that," snapped her husband, obviously at the end of patience.

He heard the mages shift uneasily at that. How were they hiding Skel from her? There must be a screened-off area, or a separate room, near the back where the wine was held.

"Well, it's dinner," she told him unhappily. "Are these mages coming to dinner?"

Zarek almost laughed despite himself, to imagine mages attending--or even invited to--a meal in high society. It was a social gaffe worse than wearing the wrong color.

Lord Promissio had no answer for the question.

"Actually," came Perscitus's weary answer, "we have almost finished here, for now. I would be delighted to attend."

Discomfited, Lord and Lady Promissio both drifted back upstairs, the man stepping just a bit too loudly.

"Are we really going to dinner?" inquired the first mage.

"Certainly, why not?" replied Perscitus. "The boy's completely unconscious, now. There's nothing we can do for the moment. And I think we'd both enjoy their extended disquiet."

Blast them! He hefted the hatchet.

The spirit flickered beside him, seeming to wave a smoky arm in the air. Was it signalling?

Then he heard footsteps, and realized both men were coming closer. He ducked back behind the wood, hatchet ready.

The first mage entered the room, and he realized he had never seen this man before. Perscitus stayed in the hallway, although Zarek could get a glance of him. He had put on a little weight in the last two years, although he still moved gracefully. His light-colored hair shone dully in the lantern's glow. Zarek had forgotten how tall he was.

The first man, on the other hand, was more or less unremarkable. Mousy brown hair, standard robe, and a round, flattened face greeted his sight.

The first man chained the cellar door shut, then turned toward his cohort.

"You think he'll climb the stairs?"

Perscitus snorted. "I doubt he can lift his head."

With that heartless remark, they made their way up to dinner.

Zarek licked his lips, realizing that his hands were trembling. Not such an excellent axe-murderer, were you, Cruciato? Oh, well.

He brought the hatchet with him as he padded down the hall and into the back room, where rows of wine-bottles and ale-casks greeted him. On the other side, cheese wheels and dried meats hung neatly on hooks.

Where was Skel?

Cautiously--over-aware of the Master Psionicist just above--he sent his mind questing out over the room. Ah! There was a small chamber near the back, which was half-hidden by a rack of wine. He didn't pick up much of Skel's energy, though. . . .

He crossed the room, peering in search of traps. Perscitus might be tired, but he was no fool. Any mage worth his training would set at least one alarm.

There it was, on the wine rack by the door. Dimly he felt it pulsing, sending its quiet, invisible signal out. If he interrupted the energy-field, it would alert Perscitus immediately.

From this vantage, he could just make out the hem of a dark robe around the corner. He crept as close as he dared, trying to see Skel.

The boy was tied to a chair, arms behind him, head lolling at a sickening angle. His face was drenched in sweat, and his skin was the color of stormclouds.

"Skel," he murmured, but there was no reply. "Skel?"

The spirit flashed across the room, not interrupting the alarm--it was probably too diffuse--and passed into the chamber beyond. There he lost sight of it, but didn't care; it was only a ghost, after all. Most likely, no one else here could even see it.

Instead, he kept his eyes on Skel. It was almost as if he couldn't look away, such was the horrible fascination. They had torn open his robe, exposing milky flesh, and adorned him with sigils of control and domination. Some of them he did not recognize.

"Skel," he whispered again, and heard the edge of pity in his tone.

At his tone, Skel seemed to stir. Perhaps the spirit had awakened him?

Skel's voice rasped in his throat, and he struggled to speak. For a second Zarek thought Skel knew him, then realized Skel was addressing air.

"Avus," croaked the young man. He continued indecipherably for several moments. Then his voice fell away, and his eyes stared blankly. He was delirious.

"Skeelah," hissed Zarek, trying again. "Boy, can't you hear me?"

Only a little whimper came to him.

Well, he'd had enough of this. It was time to destroy the alarm--somehow, without alerting Perscitus--and get them both out of here. How he could carry the boy, he didn't know.

So, time for the alarm. For a moment he contemplated the hatchet, then gave up the idea. Perscitus would most certainly notice that. So would the rest of the household, when the wine rack came crashing down.

He considered, trying to remember the negation form of an alarm spell. It had been a long time since he'd cast one.

His eyes fell on the spirit hovering over Skel.

"Leave him alone," he growled. "Hasn't he had enough torment?"

"Avus," whimpered Skel again.

An idea began to form within his mind. "Skel," he began, "can you--?"

Why did he bother? The boy couldn't hear him. Instead, he focused his attention on the ghost. "Are you his ancestor, by chance?"

The spirit wavered again--it did look rather like it was nodding.

"Gather yourself up, then, old boy, I have use for you." If the spirit was related to Skel, Zarek had an idea what he might do. It was risky, but Skel was already in such danger that he could afford a dangerous tack.

Instead of focusing on the alarm, he closed his eyes and focused on the spirit. Its energy was not like that of a living thing--it was spread farther out, thinner, and cold. But it submitted to his prodding most readily. Vaguely he got the idea that it desired to help Skel.

"Have you ever possessed someone before, spirit?"

Of course not, came the negation. He was getting closer to it; soon he might hear its actual words.

"Well, prepare yourself." Grimly, then, he gathered his strength and pushed across the distance, tugging at the spirit with insubstantial hands. It was rather like folding invisible laundry.

Ah, yes, to have congress with the dead again--how he had missed that. Even if this were a mere tame spirit, it smelled of death and brought with it a host of memories. In better days, he could have pushed it into nearly anyone's body, for better or worse. At present he had an easier task--a relative was always accessible to a spirit, although not normally in the manner he had in mind.

Skel gave a lurch as Zarek guided the spirit into his quivering body. His eyes rolled up, exposing bloodshot whites to an uncaring ceiling. Above, the mages dined carefree, unaware that their captive was about to free himself.

It took a few moments for the spirit to adjust--it had been quite awhile since it had inhabited a body, no doubt. Then, slowly, he saw Skel's head raise. But the look that came to him was not Skel's expression.

Formally, he bowed to the spirit. It inclined its--Skel's--head briefly.

"How shall I call you?" he intoned the ritual greeting.

"Sava Promissio," came the answer. "I am Skeelah's father's father."

"Well-met," sighed Zarek. "Can you make the body stand?"

"It is restrained," replied the possessing spirit.

"How is Skel?"

A pause. "He is sleeping now. He hurts, good mage--you must care for him, when you take him out of here."

"You'll be taking him out of here," murmured Zarek, realizing that he had to get through the alarm after all. "I'm sure he hasn't the strength."

"I can only carry him so far."

"I'm aware of that." He was inspecting the alarm again, puzzling how to get through it. Perhaps he could pick it apart, slowly? But how long would that take, and how weak would the spirit be by that time?

Forget it.

He took a giant step, crashing through Perscitus's invisible barrier. Upstairs, he felt the man lurch. Chairs scraped on wood, and footsteps thundered above.

Now was when the hatchet came in handy. He slammed it down on the ropes that bound Skel's wrists, cutting halfway through the chair in his rage. Immediately Skel's grandfather animated the tormented body, rising unsteadily and shambling toward the outside door.

Best to bring the hatchet for that chain, he thought grimly.

Perscitus had reached the stairs by the time they exited the hall, and he managed to catch a glimpse of Zarek's back. Zarek felt a blow of pure force glance off his shoulder, and he stumbled, catching himself against the cold stones. He threw up a heavier energy-shield, hoping to thwart the man's mental assault.

Perscitus slammed again on his shields, and Zarek physically winced. His head was throbbing with the force of deflecting those invisible blows.

Skel's grandfather took the hatchet from his numbing hands, hacking fiercely at the wood of the door itself. Ah--that was smart. The wood would give before the chain.

Another assault came, bolstered by a second mind. Blast it, the other mage had joined in!

He staggered, feeling the assault redouble. Blast those psionicists! Why couldn't they rely on good, predictable spells? How could he negate a mind-attack?

He felt hands take hold of him, but they were steadying, not attacking--ah, it was Skel's hands, and Skel's grandfather. Had he hacked through already?

Bemused, Zarek let the man lead him out the door and across the snowy yard. The gardner was long gone, but there was a pack of dogs outside, now. Dimly he heard them barking, and thought one might have snapped at his sleeve. It seemed so distant, so unimportant, when you were fighting to keep your mind.

Skel told them to hush. No, that was Skel's grandfather--he was getting confused. The dogs subsided, recognizing their master's son.

"Come, mage," came Skel's voice. "I know it's difficult. Focus, run, so we can escape their reach."

The man had no idea how difficult it was.

They ran, although Zarek barely knew it, stumbling through snow drifts and slipping on ice. Yes, Perscitus was growing farther away--no, he was getting farther from Perscitus. There was a limit to psionics, after all.

"Must . . . stop," he puffed at last, drawing up beside a stable. His heart felt like it might explode.

That was just as well, because clearly Skel's grandfather was losing strength. The spell only lasted so long, after all.

"I must thank you," the man spoke gravely. "My grandson was in greater peril than you know."

"I'm glad that someone in the family supports him. Even if he's dead."

The man smiled tightly. "I'm afraid I have no choice. It is my blood that makes him so . . . regrettably unique."

"Oh?"

A nod. "I was trained in secret, of course. A solid, dependable Promissio can't have anything unorthodox as magick."

Zarek gave him a genuine smile. "Tell that to Skel."

"I have. Many times." The man sighed, his voice growing weaker. "He couldn't hide it like I did. It was just too strong."

Zarek nodded. "You're fading, you know."

"Yes. You'll need to catch Skel; he isn't strong enough to stand."

Behind them, dimly, he felt a tug on his mind. The psionicists were searching. He cursed to himself, knowing they weren't far behind.

Then he had to reach out, hastily and awkwardly, as the spell gave way. Skel collapsed, shuddering, his eyes rolling again as he thrashed in the snow. Zarek half-held him in his lap, grasping at those twitching limbs. What had they done to him?

A stablehand came around the building and saw the disruption. "Hey!" he cried, running forward. "What's going on?"

"He's sick," hissed Zarek.

"Shall I call a priest?"

"He's not dying!" he snapped. "He'll be fine in a minute."

"No--the priest. . . . Here." The boy ran off some distance, shouting farther into the stable. "Call the clergy!"

The last thing he needed was a bunch of supercilious clerics hanging around. He had to get Skel out of here.

"They've got healing powers," explained the boy, dashing back.

"That's nice." He had healing powers, too, if he wanted to cast the opposite of a death-spell. It was just a bit more painful.

Skel was still thrashing, tossing snow in all directions. Carefully he put his weight on the boy's arms, trying to hold him down.

"Skel!" he shouted, into that unseeing face. "Skeelah! Come out of it!"

Then the stablehands were pressing around, trying to lift Skel and take him inside.

"Leave him alone," he barked.

They ignored him, struggling with the flailing young mage. They dragged him into the stable, piling loose hay into some semblance of a bed. Skel was still twitching, but the padding seemed to help. His spasms were becoming less dramatic.

Then one of their clergy arrived--and was a bit nonplussed to see his patients. One lay twitching wildly, while the other was less than patient.

"We don't need you here," Zarek said flatly. "I honor Sku'kuros."

"Your religious inclinations don't matter to me," breathed the elderly gentleman, gathering his brown woven cassock under him in the hay. "We cater to all."

"Even mages?"

"Of course."

Zarek rolled his eyes. "Look, I can't pay you. And we have to hurry--we're in a rush."

"I can see that," replied the man calmly, although Zarek couldn't tell which part of his comment the man meant.

Carefully, the priest lifted Skel's head, looking first into his eyes, then listening to his heart.

"Father Bothos?" called the stablehand who had first discovered them.

"Sh," he bid the boy gently. "We need to take him back to my Order."

"Oh, no," laughed Zarek. "You don’t understand. We have somewhere important to be."

The psionic tapping was getting stronger; they were narrowing down his location. He wrung his hands, then forced himself to stop.

"I understand the seriousness of his condition. Is it more important than his life?"

Zarek stared at the priest. His head was getting fuzzy again, as the psionicists pressed nearer. "Whatever," he capitulated. "Just get him out of the straw, all right?"

The stablehands did just that, lifting Skel's limp body and shuffling down the narrow street. Skel and he had run a good dozen blocks before collapsing; they were now near the west bank of the river, on the outskirts of the merchant district.

The priest's Order turned out to be a small stone and wood structure built onto a squat church. He slunk past the warding symbols on the door, giving a shudder. The seals were designed to avert demons, not people, but he was nearly a monster himself.

His reaction did not pass unnoticed. The priest fixed him with a steady look, and said:

"I don't know what your specialty is, and it doesn't matter. But no magick is to be cast within these walls. Understood?"

Vaguely, Zarek nodded.

"It wouldn't do you any good, anyway," finished the man. "Magick can't penetrate the stone."

What was that? As they passed under the archway of the entrance, Zarek realized what the man meant. His headache eased, and he was able to look around clearly.

Good lord, he was shielded from the psionicists.

"How?" he breathed.

The priest gave a mysterious smile. "There are more gods in this world than Sku'kuros and Mageia."

Zarek inclined his head, unconsciously, as the priest named the patron goddess of the Art. This caused the man to chuckle.

"I notice you didn't acknowledge the first."

"I honor him in my own ways."

The priest nodded; he knew they were dark mages. But, true to his word, he didn't seem to care.

"Take this boy to one of the back bedrooms," he told a young woman, who hurried forward at his signal. She too was dressed in soft, woven fabric the color of an old leather tome. With only a glance at Zarek, she led the eager stablehands off to the left.

Zarek looked over the entrance hall, which was swathed in tapestries and odd, religious icons. For some reason, he had no inclination to follow after Skel--he knew they would take care of him.

He took note of a particularly large, gilded icon. "You're priests of Iatrikos."

The man nodded. "Younger brother of your lord."

Zarek scowled at that. He put little stock in the superstitions of celestial families; he knew only what touched him, and that was Sku'kuros.

"Will you keep him here tonight?"

"I'll keep you both, if you're willing."

Zarek eyed the priest. "I can't pay you," he repeated.

"We may barter," replied the priest calmly. "I may yet need the services of a mage."

Zarek nodded at that. Fair enough.

He turned to look out the door, where stars glinted finely over the deep city night. If he stepped out of the building, the psionicists would latch onto him. Better to let them falter, let the scent grow cold, before he ventured out. And better to let Skel grow well.

It was going to be one heck of a trip through the mountains.

* * *