"I am still not sure this is a good idea," Durran rumbled, staring up at the fort wall. Morphs on either side of the corner were adding stones and mortar to rebuild the collapsed section—all according to his instructions. "I am not an engineer."

"You're a guardsman," Mark answered, making notes on a sheet of paper as he studied the rebuilding. "Perhaps the best here. You understand more about defense than any morph in the fort."

"But it is a long way from that to building a wall," Durran added. He pointed up at one of the morphs. "No, no! Place that one in the triangle niche between the other two. Remember, wall must look abandoned from outside."

Mark smiled up at him—quite a ways up, in fact. He'd met plenty of huge men during the war, but Durran seemed to have an inch or two even on Lord Hector. The morph was built—quite literally—like a mountain, to help him fulfill his role as a defender. In his armor, the man resembled nothing so much as a mobile steel wall. Even without it, he was a force to be reckoned with.

"You're also a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for," Mark said. "You've been patrolling these walls since you first arrived at the fort, and you've learned a good deal about their construction in that time. You're the one who alerted Ronic that this corner was in danger of collapsing, after all."

Durran frowned. "You must be joking. I was simply performing my duty. I did not learn anything about walls."

Mark motioned to the corner. "And yet…"

The last stone fell into place, seated perfectly amongst its brethren. The morphs on the ramparts began testing the repair job—gently, of course, given that the mortar needed time to set—and found very little motion. For a job done with whatever stones they could find at the feet of the mountains, the wall appeared to be stable—and Mark was sure that, when it was done setting, it would be as strong as ever.

Durran crossed his arms, gazing up at the wall. "Huh," he grunted. "Perhaps you are not completely mad after all, little human." He slapped Mark on the back, nearly sending the tactician sprawling. Mark managed to keep a grip on his notebook, and smiled at the large morph as he walked away, still muttering to himself. He'd received plenty of slaps like that from Bartre, Wallace, and even Hector himself—though for a morph to show him such affection was nearly unprecedented. The people of this fort kept finding new ways to surprise him.

He stopped himself, staring at the retreating back of Durran. The people of this fort. When had he started thinking of them that way?

"Well done," Denning said, emerging from the shadows of a nearby building. "I think Ronic will be pleased."

"Why are you congratulating me?" Mark asked, slipping his notebook into his satchel—a small leather one Cassandra had allowed him for use in his new duties. He still had no idea where the bag he'd had when he was captured had wound up. "Durran did all the work. I just pointed him in the right direction."

Denning nodded. "You continue to demonstrate a keen understanding of our strengths, and how to use them."

A gruff voiced joined his. "Some might worry you had a keen understanding of our weaknesses, as well."

Mark turned to find Gavin's all-too-familiar glare fixed on him. He suppressed his grimace. A week of working as the fort's administrator had gone a long way toward thawing relationships between himself and the morphs. Not only was he interacting face-to-face with more of them, but he'd already improved their lives in some ways, giving them more fulfilling work and more free time. But a few of them remained adamant in their dislike of him, and Gavin was still chief among them. Mark was not looking forward to spending the morning with the man.

He still managed a smile. "Gavin. You're our third for the day?"

"That's right."

Mark nodded at him. "It's nice to see you again. It's been a while."

"Yes, it has." Gavin eyed him coldly. "We're not here to chat. We're here to get you exercise. Let's go."

He brushed between them; Denning cast an apologetic look at Mark before motioning for him to follow, taking the rear. They had no particular destination in mind today, simply winding through the streets of the fort. Mark caught the occasional smiles from morphs he'd met over the last week, though they quickly looked away when Gavin turned his sharp gaze on them. Perhaps taking the idea of 'exercise' too seriously, he set a fast pace, leaving Mark and Denning hurrying to keep up. The tactician was short of breath by the time his guards came to a sudden halt. He almost bumped into Gavin's back. "What is it?" he asked, looking around with concern.

Gavin raised an arm for silence. After a moment, Mark could hear it too; shouts coming from the gate. He looked over at Denning, who shrugged, and opened his mouth to speak—

A sharp grinding noise shot through the fort like an arrow. The gate was being opened. Gavin was off like a bolt, Denning striding after; both men had drawn their weapons. "Come on," the archer urged him.

Mark fell in quickly—then faltered. "Shouldn't I go back to—?"

"No time," Denning said, an edge entering his voice. "Come on."

He was off without another word, and Mark rushed to keep up. He had no doubt that, if he tried to escape now, Denning's bow would be trained on him in an instant—to say nothing of Gavin. In truth, though, escape was far from his mind at the moment. He was as anxious to see what was going on as anyone.

They followed the familiar path they took every week when Mark delivered his letters; this time, though, they were joined by a throng of morphs rushing to see what the commotion does. Mark could feel their eyes on him, some passing idly by, some lingering with curiosity, some glaring with resentment. They finally arrived, just in time to see the heavy wooden gates finish swinging open. He could already hear approaching hoofbeats. Moments later, a trio of morphs, mounted on brown stallions, came galloping through the gate.

One had an unmoving form draped over the back of his horse. A body with black hair and pale skin.

Denning gasped—something Mark had rarely heard before. "They found one," he whispered. "It had been so long, we thought—"

"Make way!" Cassandra's shout cut through the crowd a moment before she did. She rushed the three of them, sparing them only a glance as her braid lashed out. The way closed behind her as the morphs crowded to see. Cassandra reached the riders just in time to help lower the unconscious morph to the ground. She turned her glare to the crowd. "Stay back," she warned. "Give us some room." She had—Mark's pulse quickened as he noticed—one hand on her sword.

Denning similarly kept one hand on his bow as he began shouldering his way through the crowd. "Stay close," he called back to Mark.

The tactician hesitated—

"You can come with us," Gavin hissed, "or Denning can waste arrows on pinning you to the ground. Your choice."

Mark fell in immediately, following the morphs as closely as possible as they wound a path through the crowd. His memory flashed back to the last time he'd followed another while chasing Cassandra through a crowd, and a bittersweet smile crossed his face for an instant.

Then they emerged. Cassandra glanced at them again, her eyebrows knitting together at the sight of Mark, but she quickly returned her attention to the situation at hand. "What's it look like?" she asked.

Peleus was kneeling over an unconscious figure with a group of other healers; they were standing so close together, Mark could barely see the morph on the ground. Peleus was checking for a pulse. "Exhaustion. They haven't had food or water in perhaps two days. They're unarmed, and have very little in the way of supplies."

They? Mark pushed himself up on his toes, but couldn't see clearly enough to tell whether the newcomer was a man or a woman. Or neither, he reminded himself, remembering Limstella.

"We found them by a river with this," one of the riders said, presenting an empty waterskin. "They must have been on their way to get a drink when they collapsed."

"What are the chances of them un-collapsing?" Gavin asked, eyes roaming the morph's body.

Peleus shook his head. "None, until we do something for them." He looked directly at Cassandra. "So… what are we going to do?"

"What we always do." She nodded to the riders. "My quarters, quickly. Durran, accompany the healers while I get the book."

She turned to Mark next, and as her gaze held his, she seemed uncertain for an instant—but just an instant. "You two, get him back to his room and then come join us," she said, motioning to Gavin and Denning.

Gavin nodded, immediately grabbing Mark's left arm. Denning, however, paused. "Perhaps we could—"

Gavin elbowed him. "Of all the opportunities to not argue with her," he muttered, "now seems like a very auspicious one."

Denning met his gaze for a brief moment, and looked back at Cassandra before giving a single nod. Indeed, she was already sweeping away, seeming to have missed the interaction altogether, as the two of them started leading him away. Mark spared a thought to note the way Gavin spoke to his counterpart. He'd rarely seen the two men speak about anything other than him; was it possible that, despite their diametrically opposed attitudes to their hostage, they were actually friends?

Not that he spent much time pondering it. A new morph had been brought to the fort. Already, as word spread through the crowd around him, he could sense the change in the atmosphere. The whispers were similar to what he'd heard when he was first hauled blindfolded through the streets, but where those voices had held apprehension, these were thick with excitement. "They found another one?" "Are they going to make it?" "What do you think they're like?" "Is Cassandra going to—?"

The door to his building slammed shut behind them, cutting off the murmurings. He did not resist as they pulled him—no, guided him upstairs to his room and motioned him through the door. "Stay here," Gavin said, eyes dark despite their color. "And if someone comes to the door—unless it's one of us—don't let them in."

That, Mark had not expected. "What?"

"Until we know more about the new morph," Denning said quietly, "this room is not just your cell—it's also the safest place for you to be."

Gavin nodded—it was the closest the man had come to showing concern for their hostage. That, more than anything, left Mark unsettled.

"All right," he said. "Just—be careful. And tell Cassandra the same."

Gavin's sneer returned. "She doesn't need you to tell her that, human."

"But we'll pass along your sentiment," Denning said, eyeing the other. "Let's go."

They were gone without another word, the door slamming and the bolt clicking before Mark even registered their movement. The stillness crashed into him like a wave, and he found he had to sit down. His mind raced to catch up to what happened in the last few minutes. They'd brought a new morph to the fort—and Cassandra was about to free them, just as she'd freed Denning from speaking the same fourteen words, just as she'd freed Ellain from living only to seduce men. This was something he'd been hoping for ever since he'd arrived at the fort—and he was going to miss it.

He momentarily considered trying to sneak out. The thought collapsed almost immediately. There was no way he could force the door or pick the lock, and that was the only exit from the room. Not to mention, even if they hadn't left a guard outside, the only human in a fort full of morphs stuck out like a gold mark among silvers. He'd be caught and dragged back in minutes, and in so doing, burn all the goodwill he'd struggled to build.

No, he was going to miss whatever she was going to do, and that was that. Sighing, he turned to his table, got out some of the paper he'd been given for his letters, and began writing what little he did know. He'd been secreting away what paper he could for the purposes of keeping a diary, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. He hadn't written down anything compromising, in case it was discovered by the morphs. Still, he kept its existence a secret; he valued what little privacy he had.

He'd been at it for five minutes when the lock clicked open again. He immediately hid the pages before leaning back from the table, looking over at the door as it swung open. "How did it—"

He cut off. The person at the door was not Denning, or Gavin, or even Cassandra herself. In fact, it was someone he couldn't place—a morph, short and slight of frame, with a drawn narrow face, androgynous features, and close-cut hair. Their golden eyes, which looked somehow harder than those of the others, roamed the room for a moment before settling on Mark. They were leaning against the doorframe as though unable to hold their own weight—but their gaze held purpose.

The tactician suddenly felt hollow. He'd been trying to place the morph's face, and could not do so. Now he understood why. This was the newcomer.

And they were carrying an ax.

He'd have expected a roar, or a battle cry, but the morph lunged without making a sound, the ax swinging for Mark's head. For his part, Mark was not nearly as quiet; his yelp bounced off the walls of the room like arrows as he shoved himself away from the table. The blade razed the surface, smashing the ink bottle and leaving black fluid dripping from the steel. The morph swung the ax around for another blow—and staggered, nearly losing their balance before recovering and bringing the weapon to bear on Mark. The loss of coordination did not go unnoticed by the tactician; it wasn't a heavy ax, and shouldn't have been giving them that much difficulty. They were still recovering from their exhaustion and dehydration.

That still didn't make for an even playing field. But it perhaps meant that Mark stood a chance.

The morph was still between him and the door—that was the first thing he was going to have to address. Gritting his teeth, Mark gave the table a good kick, enough to send it crashing to the ground between them and filling the air with loose paper. The morph swatted the sheets out of the way as they vaulted the fallen table, moving much faster than a human opponent might—but much slower than they should have. By the time they landed on the other side of the table, Mark was already rounding it, dashing through the cloud of paper toward the door. It was still open from the morph's entrance—

There was a rush of air by his ear, and the ax thunked into the wood of the doorframe. His entire body jerked involuntarily away from the weapon; his shoulder hit the other side of the door as he stumbled to the ground. There was a swirl of papers, and the morph was there. One yank was enough to pry the ax from the wood, and they were looming over Mark, slowly raising the ax. They were tired, but the moment they took to catch their breath wasn't enough for the tactician to get to his feet. The morph grimaced as they swung—

There was a whisper of motion, a glint of steel, the snap of a braid.

The haft was still in the morph's hands as the ax head clattered to the ground beside Mark. The morph blinked in confusion, staring at the impossibly smooth cut in the wood. They had only a moment to wonder at it before the pommel of Cassandra's sword struck them in the face—then in the throat. "They're in here!" she shouted over her shoulder as she stepped into the room. "Hurry!"

The morph staggered backward, clutching at their neck, eyes widening just in time for her foot to impact their stomach; they doubled over, and one last blow to the back of their head sent them to the ground, their body lying still on the floor.

Mark looked up at her. The morph leader was breathing heavily, a single bead of sweat hanging from her hair. "How—"

"Shut up." She quickly crossed to the fallen morph, checking them over. "They're out—again. We need to move fast."

Mark started to rise. "We—?"

He was suddenly pushed aside as a group of six or seven morphs herded into the room. Denning crossed over to Mark, eyeing him with concern. "Are you all right?" he asked. "When they got away from us, we—"

"He's fine," Cassandra said, waving him over to the man's body. "I checked. Come on—we have to be quick."

Mark wasn't sure when she had "checked" him, but that hardly seemed to matter at the moment. Gavin and Denning grabbed the morph as Cassandra righted the table; they lifted them on to it, pinning their arms despite their unconsciousness. Peleus and a few other healers filed in after them, including a flushed-looking Grace, gripping her stomach with one hand, her staff with the other. One of them handed Cassandra a book—not a magic tome, not from the designs on the cover, but large and old, judging from the faded red leather. Cassandra opened the book, stepping over to the table.

"Wait," Gavin said, eyes flicking to Mark. "Shouldn't we—?"

"No time." Cassandra didn't even look up as she paged through the book. She appeared to find what she was looking for, and motioned to the others. "Hold them. The rest of you, get clear." She leaned down, lowering the book, and whispered something in the morph's ear.

Their eyes snapped open, and their entire body jerked upward. Denning and Gavin let out cries of alarm as they pushed against their grip. "I said hold them!" Cassandra shouted, as she returned her gaze to the book. "Sleep staves, now!"

Some of the healers thrust forth their staves, and the harsh glow encompassed the morph on the table. Their thrashing lessened, but did not stop. Cassandra barely noticed; she was reading from the book—at least, Mark assumed she was. The words, if they could be called that, were like no language he'd ever heard. It sounded like a random assortment of consonants and vowels, strung together in a continuous string of almost-speech, barely leaving her time to take a breath in between utterances. Mark wasn't sure whether she was speaking a true language, or some sort of arcane chant.

Either way, there was no denying the effect it had on the morph. Even with the healers continuously pouring energy from the sleep staves onto them, they were wide awake. Two of the healers had to join Denning and Gavin in restraining them, two hands pinning each limb to the table, and still they fought like a caged animal, grabbing and clawing at the others when they could, their incoherent shouts mixing with cries of pain, all echoing above Cassandra's constant chanting.

At last, Cassandra leaned forward, shouting the final few words directly into the morph's ear. Their entire body tensed, spine arching off the table—and then they fell back, eyes wide, body still. They were breathing heavily, as though they'd just finished a long sprint, and made no move to escape as the morphs restraining them tentatively moved away. Their eyes went from one face to another, resting only briefly on Mark's, as though they hadn't been trying to kill the man moments before. Cassandra slowly closed the book as she looked over them. "What is your name?" she asked, voice low, but stong.

They looked up at her, eyes clouding over for a moment before they answered. "Luther," they said; their throat sounded like a desert.

"And what is your purpose?" Her gaze was intent on them.

They opened their mouth to answer—and left it hanging open, as their eyes widened in shock. They finally stirred, rising on the table; Denning and Gavin flinched, but did not grab them again as they sat up. They looked around at the morphs, at Mark; their brow furrowed at the sight of the human, whom they stared at for a long while, but did not truly seem to see. They turned back to Cassandra, shaking their head. "I—I don't know."

She frowned. "Think. Think hard, Luther. What is your purpose?"

Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath for the long moment before they spoke again. "I don't… think I… have one."

Silence again. Mark looked over at Cassandra—and his breath caught at the sight of a tear rolling down her cheek. "That's right," she whispered. "You don't. Not anymore."

Grace stepped forward, presenting her healing staff. The far gentler glow enveloped Luther's body, and seemed to ease their pain—somewhat. "If I don't have a purpose," they asked, looking around at the group, "then what do I do?"

"Rest," Grace commanded. "You were dehydrated and exhausted even before Cassandra freed you. You need to rest before you do anything else."

"And after that," Denning said softly, laying a hand on the morph's shoulder, "you are free to do as you choose."

They looked to each of the others, their face twisting in confusion. "Free…?"

"I know it's strange," Cassandra said. Mark didn't think he'd ever heard her speak in that tone before. "It will get better with time. For now, we'll find you a place to stay. Do as Grace says. Rest."

Luther got to their feet, seeming almost glad to have orders to follow. Denning started toward the door, and Luther trotted obediently after him, Gavin taking up the rear. Once they were gone, the others started to slowly file out, whispering to each other, some glancing at their leader, some glancing at Mark. Cassandra, for her part, did not move. Even when the last of the morphs was gone, she stayed quiet and still for a long time.

Mark swallowed past the lump in his throat, and took a step toward her. "Are you all right?"

She looked at him at last—and he was shocked to see she was smiling. "I am," she answered. "The process is more emotionally draining than anything."

The process. Mark shook his head. "That was amazing. You were amazing."

Her smile faded, and she turned away. "I imagine you'll be telling Lord Hector about this."

Mark gave a start of surprise. He'd forgotten all about his letters to Ostia, and Matthew, and Hector, and… "I don't even know what there is to tell," he said, looking down. The red book was still in her arms. "That's—"

"One of Nergal's notebooks," Cassandra finished. She held it up for him to see. "From back when he started making morphs—so long ago, I doubt he remembers making it." She opened the book, languidly turning the pages. "By the time you met him, he'd done it so often he didn't need his notes. He certainly didn't miss them after I took them."

Mark's lips parted. "You stole them?"

"Well, I didn't…" Cassandra's brow furrowed, her eyes skimming the pages to avoid meeting his. "I suppose you could say that, yes. I stumbled across his library while I was stationed on Valor. I started going through his notes, looking for a way to…" She trailed off, her fingers pausing on the pages.

Mark slowly circled the room, coming to stand in front of her. "To… what?"

She slammed the book shut, making him jump as her gaze snapped up to him. "To fix myself. I knew I was defective. I thought things no morph should consider; saw things no morph should envision. I wanted to be like the others again." She glared at him, as if daring him to speak.

He took that dare. "You weren't defective, Cassandra," he said softly. "You—"

She laughed. "I don't need you to tell me that now. As I read, I began to realize that Nergal designed us to submit to his will. And, as lonely as I felt being the only one not under his sway, I began to realize that, instead of 'fixing' myself, I could start 'breaking' the others." Her eyes fell to the book once more. "Because I wouldn't really be breaking them. I'd be freeing them."

Mark paused, looking at her with a new respect. The way she held herself at that moment, she seemed so small and vulnerable—yet knowing what she'd done, he thought her the strongest person he'd ever met. "The words?" he asked.

She opened the book again, showing him the marks Nergal had made decades before. The letters were familiar, but they were jumbled together into nonsensical, nearly unpronounceable, patterns. "It's a sort of code. To human ears, the sounds may be meaningless; but, spoken to a morph at the proper time, they become a set of commands. They can be used to change their purpose…" Her eyes went to the door. "Or to remove it altogether."

Mark followed her gaze, the image of Luther's face bright in his mind. "He—they—didn't seem happy."

"I took their purpose from them." She closed the book, softly this time. "I took everything from them. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

Without meaning to, Mark found himself thinking back six years, to that first unbearable morning when he'd woken in a strange place, accompanied by a strange girl. "Yes," he whispered. "I do."

Her hands went still, and her gaze met his. "I see." Her tone offered no apology or sympathy, yet there was a warmth to it he could not name.

He looked down at the book, at her slender fingers across the spine. "Why tell me all this?" he asked.

She shrugged. "You already saw me free Luther. You'll be telling Hector one way or another. Better that you understand—that you help him understand." She held up the book. "This is why I'm here, Mark. Why we're all here. I saw how Nergal treated his creations—his tools—and sought to save as many of them as I can. This book is the how and why of it all."

Without quite meaning to, he placed a hand on the cover. "You think I can convince Hector your intentions are peaceful?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. But my goal is to let the others live out their days here peacefully. If Hector leaves us alone until then…"

Mark frowned. "Until when?"

Cassandra eyed him a moment, then shook her head. "I have to go. And you have a letter to write." She lowered the book, turning her back on him. "I told you I wouldn't change the content of your letters, Mark. I meant that."

She paused a moment, looking around the room. He carefully came up beside her. "What is it?"

She again caught him off-guard with her smile—though this time, it was more of a smirk. "Just remembering the last time I was up here." She cast a pointed look at his bed.

He didn't need a mirror to know his cheeks were turning scarlet. "Didn't you say you had to go?" He tried to keep the words light. He did not succeed.

She laughed—not harshly—and started for the door again. He hesitated a moment before calling to her back. "Cassandra?"

She paused, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"Thank you," he said. "For saving my life."

She turned away. "You're welcome," she said after a moment. "I'm glad you're all right."

The door shut before he could say anything more.

Without the exact words she spoke, I'm not sure how useful this information is. I've reproduced a few of them here as best I can; perhaps the scholars can make some use of it. Cassandra has not shown me the book itself. In the wrong hands, it could be used to turn the morphs back into a fighting force, under the control of whoever reads the commands. The fact that she trusts me—and, by extension, you, my lord—with even this much information is astonishing. And, perhaps, a little encouraging.

"We'll need a palanquin, of course," Serra said, brushing out her hair. "I may have allowed Hector to drag my weary feet all over Elibe five years ago, but that will simply not do this time."

"Sister Serra," Lucius began. If he felt uncomfortable at all being in her chambers, he didn't show it, standing a respectful distance from where she sat at her vanity.

"We'll need servants, of course. Perhaps cousin Priscilla will share some of hers." She hadn't actually dug far enough into her genealogy to know Raven and Priscilla were her cousins, of course, but they she was sure they were related somehow. They were all Etrurian nobles, after all, regardless of who tried to hide it. "I simply couldn't abide a return trip to Valor without a lady's maid. Have you ever had a manservant, Lucius? Oh—of course you haven't. It may seem strange at first, but I promise you'll get used to it."

He drew a breath. "Sister Serra."

She quickly scoured her mind for something else to address. She didn't dare give him a chance to speak, for she knew exactly what he'd say. "We won't have to ride with those awful pirates again, will we? Dart—or is it Dan? He wasn't so bad, but I don't fancy having to spend any more time with Fargus and his rabble than I must. Their leers were bad enough when they thought I was a simple cleric, and we were traveling with an entire army at our backs. If they learned my true lineage—"

"Sister Serra," he interrupted at last, "I don't think you should come with me."

There it was. She let the brush fall from her hands, and sprang to her feet, as though the words surprised her. "Lucius! I simply will not hear of it! You were bedridden after just a letter from Father Renault. How do you think you'll manage meeting him face-to-face? After he—"

She cut herself off, mindful of their company. Raven stood with arms crossed near the door, keeping curiously silent about her calling Priscilla 'cousin' before. Poor Florina was a few paces to his left, trying not to look as intimidated as she clearly was. It seemed even being married hadn't wholly cured her fear of men. The two of them were supposedly there to escort Lucius; it was better than having them admit they were there as chaperones, she supposed.

Lucius had long since confided in her about what he knew of Renault, and what the bishop had done to Lucius's father decades before. It was the most trust anyone had ever shown her, and she wasn't about to betray it in front of their escorts.

Lucius lowered his eyes. The evening light shone through the windows of her chamber, casting a soft glow across the monk's features. It wasn't fair; he was too beautiful already, and now he shined with a saintly light? Elimine herself could not have been so lovely, so selfless, so—

She tore her gaze from him.

"I worked alongside Renault before, five years ago," Lucius said. "I can do so again. It was simply the… shock… of hearing from him again that upset me so." He shrugged. "And we need to find him, Serra. With what Mark's letter says of how Cassandra frees the morphs, of Nergal's notebook… as much as I wish to respect his privacy, this is too important. We need Renault here."

"I'm not arguing that," Serra said, lifting her nose. "I'm just saying, there's no way I'm allowing you to go alone."

"Finally," Raven growled. "Something we agree on."

Serra froze. "You're not going with him?"

Raven shot a glare at the monk. "Stubborn fool says he won't let me."

"This is something I need to do on my own," Lucius said softly. "Matthew's spies can help me find him, but he'll only talk to—"

"Absolutely not!" Serra waved a hand to silence him. "Lucius, you need both of us. Cousin Raymond's strength will keep you safe—"

Florina cast a surprised look at Raven. "You're related?"

"It's a point of contention," he growled back.

"And my regal bearing and gift for diplomacy will ensure cooperation from anyone we—" She whirled around in her seat, glaring at Raven. "Stop laughing!"

"I'm not laughing," Raven replied, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smirk behind a gloved hand.

"Yes you are!" she pouted. "Stop it at once!" She turned her glare on Florina. "And that goes for you, too!"

The poor dear went rigid, her smile not-quite-vanishing. "I wasn't laughing!" she protested.

Serra sighed, turning away and putting a hand to her temples. "Honestly. You think the two of you had no idea how to act in front of a noblewoman."

"Oh, I believe we do," Raven said, casting a smirk at Florina. "The trouble is, we have no idea how to act in front of you."

Rage boiled up inside her, and she leapt to her feet once more. "You—!"

"Lord Raymond." Lucius's cool voice swept through the room like a summer breeze. "Dame Florina. Might I ask that you leave us alone for a moment?"

Raven's smile finally dropped. "You sure?"

Florina looked around at them nervously. "We're, um, not really supposed to…"

"I ask only that you wait outside for a moment," Lucius went on. "If you suspect anything untoward, you may re-enter."

A small part of Serra thought she should point out that this was her chamber, and she should be the one deciding who came and went. She dismissed that part as she would a troublesome servant.

"All right," Raven demurred. He turned away, gesturing to Florina. "Let's go. Leave the lovebirds alone for a moment."

She shrank away from him, but followed, casting one last look back at Serra before slipping through the door.

Lucius stood there with his hands folded in front of him, looking for all the world like an icon. "I know you worry about me," he said. "And I appreciate it."

She looked him over for a moment; his shining hair, his deep eyes… she turned away with a sigh. "You needn't bother with the speech," she mumbled. "There's no way I could deny you."

There was a pause. "I'm sorry?"

She waved a hand, still not looking at him. "Just go. I won't fight you, or tell Hector to send me with you, or sneak out after you, or whatever other foolhardy thing you think I'd attempt." She raised her head again. "I do have my own duties at court, you know. I can't simply go gallivanting after you on some wild hen chase."

He had the good sense not to point out that had been exactly what she was planning to do not five minutes earlier. "I'll come back," he said softly.

She began brushing her hair again. "I'm certain you will," she said airily. "And then…"

And then what? We'll both confess our feelings, renounce our vows, and get married? The orphaned son of a mercenary, and the daughter of Etrurian nobles whose name she can't remember? Recant our devotion to Saint Elimine and instead devote ourselves to each other?

"You may go," she croaked. When had her throat grown so hoarse?

Lucius hesitated for an agonizing moment, as if he might stay and torment her with his soothing voice some more. She only let out her breath when he finally turned away, watching him in the mirror as he made his way to the door and exited.

She waited until she was sure he, Raven, and Florina were gone before rising to go herself. A few cold hallways and stairways with too many stairs brought her to the castle library, where the scholars were gathered around Mark's letter like vultures around a freshly-abandoned carcass. Pent, newly arrived from Etruria, was huddled over it with his student, Erk. With his hair trimmed, Erk looked like a younger version of his master, only with a purple mop atop his head instead of light blue. Serra briefly smiled at the sight of the young mage before remembering that she'd been over him for years.

Canas stood by, eyes shut as he muttered something to himself. He started talking to the others about how the words sounded similar to those of ancient scripts, and warned they might be sailing into the dangerous waters of elder magic, and Serra tried not to yawn. Lucius would have been here, too, if he wasn't preparing to—

She grimaced, and turned away. There were two other figures in the library, one sitting near—but not with—the collection of mages. This was a tall, long-haired, blonde beauty—although this one was actually female. Serra exchanged a nod and a smile with the Lady Lousie (she wasn't yet brave enough to try calling her Aunt Louise), whose attention quickly returned to Pent. Serra wondered briefly what it would be like to be so fully devoted to someone.

Like you're supposed to be devoted to Elimine?

She ignored the voice, as she had so many times over the years. She passed the table and made her way into the stacks, toward the other figure—who was already trying to slip away into the shadows of the library. She caught up to him, though, and seized the hem of his cloak. "Matthew!" she hissed.

The spy muttered what was probably a curse before turning to her with a smile that looked like the corners of his mouth had been pinned up. "What can I do for you, Sister Serra?" he asked.

"That's Sister Serra to you, and—" She cut off, frowning up at him. "Fine. The morph that attacked Mark."

Matthew lifted his eyes, making a show of thinking it over. "The one he mentioned in his letter? Luther, I believe?"

"That's right."

"What about them?"

"Does Mark know you're the reason Luther attacked him?"

Matthew went suddenly still, which Serra found infuriating. He should have at least had the decency to deny it. Or, better, the decency to admit to it. Was that better? She wasn't entirely sure. She wasn't entirely sure she cared, either.

"If you know enough to ask the question," Matthew said quietly, "then you already know the answer."

She hissed out a breath. "You could have gotten Mark killed!"

He shook his head. "The morphs wouldn't let that happen. And it's not like we sent Luther after him ourselves. We just dropped them off where the morphs would find them."

"Knowing full well they would attack Mark as soon as they knew he was there," Serra growled.

Again, he didn't deny it. "And because of that, Cassandra performed the procedure in front of him, and we now know more than ever about the morphs."

"Except we don't really know anything, because we don't know the 'code' she used!" Which is why Lucius has to go chasing after Renault…

"Serra," Matthew said with more patience than he deserved to have, "this is still a good thing. My network has been searching for weeks for a morph we could use to gather information. We found Luther at an outpost—they'd been waiting five years for orders that never came. Thanks to us, they have a home, we know about Cassandra's process and Nergal's book, and Mark has grown closer to the morphs than ever."

Everything he said was true, which just made Serra hate him all the more. "Mark is our friend," she growled. "You shouldn't be using him like this."

That, to her surprise, put shame in his eyes. "I know."

She waited for him to go on—to justify his actions, to tell her why it was ok, to assure her this would all bring Mark back and put an end to the situation soon. When he didn't, she turned and stomped off. Hopefully, he'd think she was still angry with him, and not pick up on how infuriated she was with herself.