Rain, coming from the north the troupe had seen its fair share. However, there was something surreal about it. As it combined with a weak sun which peaked through the clouds to shine down on the streets of Paris; making every cobble stone glimmer like precious gems. Caravan wheels rattled against the stone as the troupe filed down path, all the while receiving disapproving looks from the Parisians.

The figure leading the troupe had her eyes downcast, her face shadowed by a thick wool head scarf. The woman's booted feet broke the placid surface of the puddles that stood in her way. Her hands tightened on the reins of the lead horse. Hearing the clicking of hooves against the pavement, the woman paused and turned to look over her shoulder. Up the short line of wagons, a young boy no older than 16 or 17 rode up to her. Leaning down from the ragged black shire, they conversed. The language they spoke, foreign on the ears of the citizens of Paris.

With a nod, the boy dismounted and the two started to undo the harness that shackled the gray shire to the caravan. The black shire was then strapped in, and made to pull. Taking the gray shire off to the side, the woman mounted and rode bareback. Her olive green skirts bunched up, causing the rope of beads on her hips to clap together as her thighs hugged the horse's flanks.

Taking up the reigns she guided her mount to the back of the troupe, circling the caravans to keep unwanted trouble at bay. Her tattered black cloak draped over the croup of the horse, soaking in the remainder of rain as it did so.

Every so often, the curtains of one of wagons would drawn back to reveal a little girl's face, which peaked out to gaze at the people they passed. Seeing this, the mother would pull her back inside. When this happened for the 5th time, the woman rode over and consoled the child. The girl giggled and grabbed for her, speaking in that strange language but all the while crying out "Máthair Magda!"

Leaning forward, the woman brushed the hair from her eyes and nodded, telling her to go away from the window.

Off in the distance the bells of Notre Dame tolled, causing the rider to look up. She looked awe struck, in her traveling she had seen so much. Yet, nothing compared to the majesty of the legendary Bell Tower. Now that the rain had stopped she pulled down her head scarf, the dim light of spring sun reflected in her sharp gray eyes. Her hair was curled and played down her back like a wild waterfall of ebony soot.

Smiling slightly, feeling the thunder of the bells shake her very insides. The woman felt a new sense of invigoration. Holding tightly to her horse, she urged him forward at a gallop. Pausing just short of the second wagon; breathing heavily she leaned forward to hug the neck of the gray shire.

Pulling up she returned to her guard duty, taking in every detail. Her attention was snatched by a sudden splash of warm color against the cold gray stones that made the city. What she saw was heavily decorated cart surrounded a dozen or so children. Inside the cart was a man dressed in an array of color. A purple mask darned his features and his hat sat low on his brow. The children giggled and clapped when the man withdrew a puppet from behind his back. Another gypsy that was a surprise; the troupe had seen evidence of the local gypsies. But they had not met any as they trekked through the city.

The shire whinnied and tossed his mane back and forth. This drew the attention of the Puppet Man. Looking from his captive audience, his back straightened and the clown like tomfoolery was absent from his coal black eyes. Now he looked to be calculating and quick, instead of foolish and silly. The gypsies stared at each other. "Máthair Magda!"

Breaking eye contact, the woman looked ahead sensing trouble. Jabbing her horse's sides with the heels of her feet, they flew to the front only to come upon a troubling sight. A barricade made up of at least 10 soldiers standing to attention. Leading them was a pale old man swathe in judge's black, riding a horse whose eyes burned like hell fire and size could rival the woman's mount. Drawing herself up, she spoke to them. Her voice clipped yet lilting, and was made harsh by her accent. "We only wish to pass through, we give you no trouble. Let us pass."

The old man fixed her with a cold glare. "Where is your leader?"

Straightening even more, the woman replied. "I am Mother Magda, and I lead this troupe."

At her words, the man chuckled and rode his horse forward. Regarding Magda, a cruel smile hacked into his wooden face. "So expected of your kind, to place their trust in the hands of a girl, but I suppose there is more to you; perhaps you have power that a holy man such as myself could not fathom, powers drawn from Lucifer himself."

He rode past her, drawing near the caravan. Turning her horse, Magda intercepted him before his hand could so much a touch the walls of the wagon. She was growing more irritated, this man testing her and trying her patience. Sneering, his hand shot out and knocked her off her horse. While Magda slowly gained her feet, the man ordered the soldiers to take the caravan.

The door to the first wagon was thrown open, and a mother and her daughter were dragged out, crying and terrified. The father roared and tired to protect them, only to be hit across the face and have his leg slashed by a sword. Running to their aid, Magda threw herself at the first solider and pushed him away from the mother and daughter. Taking out one of her knives, she hit the soldier over the head with the butt of the knife, knocking him out. Turning she threw the knife and it sunk in to the knee of the second soldier.

Magda met the Judge's eyes, his lips twisted into a snarl. A crowd had gathered to watch the display. Turning to them at large, the Judge cried. "Look how this gypsy vermin injures an innocent man! Not even a hint of remorse for what she has done! Their kind enjoy murder and pain, they bathe in the blood of God's children! We must cleanse our souls, our fair city of these heathen beings! Arrest her!"

Some of the people voiced their agreements, while other kept quiet not wanting to anger the Judge. Looking to the water strewn street, the troupe leader smiled, her hands shoved into a small pouch she kept at her hip. Taking a large handful of gold powder, she threw it down at her feet, causing a loud "Crack". In a cloud of yellow smoke, she had gone.

The Judge shrieked. "Witchcraft!"

Something smacked him in the back of the head. Turning, his eyes widened. Behind him, astride the gray shire was Magda and without even a second's hesitation, she turned and jabbed her horse's sides, her frame melting into the contours of the shire's back, as she flew down the streets o Paris, toward Notre Dame taking the entire fleet of soldiers and the Judge with her.

When the clicking of hooves had long since disappeared, only then did the troupe go into action. The first caravan emptied as some men and women came out to comfort and aid the small family that the soldiers had attacked. The father was taken inside to have his wound tended too. His wife and daughter followed him in.

A tall gangly man joined the boy who had been leading the troupe. The child had long since gotten off his horse. He looked completely terrified. "I'm sorry."

He bowed his head in shame only to look up when the man rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You did nothing wrong Gunari. Mother knows what she's doing."

Looking up the street to where their leader had rode. "Where do you think she's going?"

Glancing upward, the man found the looming form of the Bell Tower. "Notre Dame, I'd expect, she'll wait out there and find us later once the soldiers are called off."

The two went down the lines of caravans. Gunari ran to catch up with his companion. "But that's so far Besnik. What if Asher is too weak from traveling to take her all the way?"

Besnik paused and eyed the boy. Though he smiled, there was doubt in his eyes. "Asher will get her there and she'll find us later. For now, we need to get off the streets before we run into any more trouble. Go and tell the others we'll be moving on once we've secured Luca, that wound of his looked nasty and I don't want him be jostled about."

Nodding, the boy ran down the line and started giving the rest of the troupe Besnik's message. Again, the man looked to Notre Dame. Though he would never let his worries seep through, he feared for his troupe's Mother. "Maria, see her safely to your domain, and grant her sanctuary."

With a sigh, Besnik tore his eyes from the Tower. When he did, he jumped about a foot in the air. Behind him stood a group of gypsies, and not the ones of his troupe. These were strangers to him. "Bonjour."

The greeting was spoken by a man dressed in a patchwork tunic and purple leggings. When he smiled, Besnik noted the chip in his right canine. "What do you want?"

Glancing around, the stranger smiled at the fact that the crowd that had gathered had long ago dispersed. Turning, his grin widened. But when he spoke, his voice was hushed. "We are here to offer you sanctuary, to bring you to our court."