Day 54. We hoped whatever was happening to Denning was happening to him alone. We hoped in vain.

Mark blinked awake to the sound of frantic pounding on his door. "Mark!" a feminine voice shouted through the wood. "Mark, are you in there?"

He struggled to his feet and crossed the room, wiping sleep from his eyes. "Yes, I'm here," he called back. He searched his sleep-addled mind for some memory of the voice. "Moriel?"

The knocking ceased. "May I come in?"

He almost reminded her the door was locked from the outside, before remembering it hadn't been for over two weeks. He tried to shake the cobwebs from his head as he pulled the door open. Moriel stood before him, wringing her hands. "What is it?" Mark asked.

She looked to the floor. "Mark, have you seen Durran?"

The tactician frowned, pushing his still-waking brain to remember. "Not since yesterday. I saw him on patrol in the afternoon. Why?"

"You didn't assign him any other tasks?"

He shook his head. "Moriel, what's going on?

She gripped her hands tighter. "I—I invited him over for dinner," she said, speaking the words as though confessing a sin. "When he never showed, I thought he just wasn't interested, but he wasn't in his room this morning, either, and I'm starting to worry—"

Mark was fully awake now. He risked placing a hand on her shoulder. "All right," he said soothingly. "All right. Have you asked anyone else?"

"Yes, but nobody could tell me anything. I hoped you might have…" She didn't move, wringing her hands tighter. "What if he—?"

"There's no sense jumping to conclusions," he said to himself as much as to her. He pulled on his cloak, snatched his diary off the desk—while he trusted Cassandra, he'd nevertheless taken to carrying it with him after learning she knew of it—and started out the door, Moriel's light footsteps soon following. "Come on. If he was on patrol yesterday, we can ask the others in his shift where he went afterward, and—"

He stopped short. Now that he wasn't shaking off sleep, he'd realized the problem with what he said. Moriel leaned around him, looking up at him with worry. "What is it?"

Mark wasn't sure if he should tell her, but to remain silent now would make things worse. "Durran wasn't supposed to be on patrol yesterday afternoon," he said. "He was to rotate out after the morning shift."

He couldn't bring himself to look at her, but her soft gasp told him what her face couldn't. So much for not jumping to conclusions.

Despite all that was happening, Cassandra had insisted on keeping the rule that Mark be escorted by two morphs whenever he left the room. Once they got outside, Moriel flagged down a passing Deichtine. The guard was clearly in the middle of an errand, but when she saw the look on Moriel's face, her complaints died on her lips. The three of them immediately set out, Mark holding the duty roster for the previous day's patrols in his mind. Amora had been in charge of the afternoon shift; they found her digging in the garden, Bennet leaning on a shovel as he watched over her.

"Durran?" Amora shrugged. "Yes, he was on patrol yesterday. He wasn't on the duty roster I was given, but I figured you or Cassandra had made some changes."

Mark gave a slow nod, doing his best not to look at Moriel. "And he left with the others?"

Bennet shifted, twisting the tip of the shovel into the ground. "Actually," he said slowly, "he left almost two hours early. I thought about reprimanding him, but I figured he had plans"—his eyes flicked to Moriel—"and since he wasn't on the roster anyway..."

Mark wished he had a ledger to flip through. Something to occupy his hands, and his eyes. "When you were..." He took a breath. "Before Cassandra freed you, you were both guards from morph outposts, correct?"

It took a long minute for either to reply; Mark felt his face growing hot under their stares. "Yes," Bennet answered. "Though as you can imagine, we don't like to think about it."

"He wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important," Moriel said softly. She looked up at Mark. "Please, tell me it was important."

I wish it wasn't. "What work schedule did you keep?"

It was Amora who replied this time. "Sixteen-hour work shifts, with eight hours of rest. That way there would be two shifts on duty at all times."

"Gods," Mark breathed.

"It wasn't so bad." Deichtine said. Mark had almost forgotten she was there. Her gaze was unfocused, distant; so was her voice. "Our bodies got tired eventually, but our minds..." she shrugged. "We didn't really have minds, then."

Cold prickled at Mark's skin. Bennet stepped forward. "You think that Durran might have…?"

"Only one way to know," Mark murmured. He had the guards working in six-hour shifts. If he understood what Amora had told him correctly, a morph still under Nergal's control would probably work straight from midnight to the late afternoon—about two hours before the afternoon shift was to end. He'd sleep through the evening, then rise at midnight to return to work... which meant he'd miss any dinner he was invited to, and then be gone from his quarters were anyone to check in the morning.

Which led to the one conclusion he'd been hoping to avoid.

They found Durran atop the wall, just as they'd feared. He was wearing his armor, patrolling the battlements and peering out at the valley for approaching threats. The other guards on duty kept glancing at him; they knew something was wrong, but weren't willing to acknowledge what it was. What it had to be.

Mark found himself at the head of their little group, the two women hanging slightly back. Eventually, Moriel stepped around him. "Durran?" Her voice scraped from her throat.

He turned slowly to face them, piercing eyes like two golden arrowheads staring out at them. Moriel flinched back. "No," she breathed. Whatever she saw in those eyes, it wasn't the man she'd grown to love.

"What is it?" Durran asked, his voice flat. "I am on duty."

Mark glanced at the women. Moriel stood at his left, still as stone, eyes fixed on Durran. Deichtine had come around on his right—and it did not escape his attention that her hand was on her sword. The tactician cleared his throat. "Durran, your shift isn't until later. You're not on duty right now."

The giant morph blinked for a moment, and something in those gold eyes clouded. "I—my purpose is—I must guard the outpost from humans, or—"

"There are others guarding it now," Mark said coaxingly, motioning to the other morphs on the wall. Many of them were watching the scene with fear he could feel even at a distance. "You should be resting." He hesitated, and looked at Moriel. "You should be with your friends."

The gold eyes clouded, and Durran shook his head. "I—was supposed to meet her. We were..."

"That's right," Moriel said, taking a hopeful step forward. "We were going to meet for dinner, and then I wanted to—"

The cloudiness lifted, replaced by a horrible clarity. Durran blinked once more, and lowered his spear. "You are human."

Mark flinched as he realized the giant's gaze was locked on him. "I'm your tactician," he said slowly, resisting the urge to draw away. "Remember? I set the duty shifts."

"You are human," Durran repeated. "I must protect the outpost."

Deichtine stepped forward. "The outpost is protected," she said, voice hard. "This human is not a threat. He is a hostage, and must be kept alive."

Another time, the reminder of Mark's status would have hurt him. Now, though, it seemed to have the intended effect; Durran paused, and the tip of his spear wavered. "I—yes, I… remember..." He furrowed his brow. "But… he should be in his cell—his room. He should not be..." He took a step forward, spear aimed directly at Mark's heart.

Deichtine swore, and lunged. Her sword flashed from its scabbard as she leaped at Durran, coming in low and slashing at his legs. Moriel's shriek drew the gazes of every morph in the fort—but when Deichtine came to a stop, there was the barest trickle of blood coming from Durran's ankle. He stopped his advance, looking downward. "I'm injured," he said dully.

"You are injured," Deichtine echoed, sheathing her still-clean sword. "Report to the infirmary."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. His eyes lingered on Mark as he lumbered past, but his spear remained pointed in the air. He did not so much as glance at Moriel.

Only once he was gone from sight did she collapse against Deichtine, her entire body shaking with sobs.

Cassandra flung the red book against the wall; the crash it made wasn't nearly loud enough to ease her frustration. "This makes no sense!" she shouted. "Why them? Why now?"

Grace did not so much as flinch at the sound. She remained seated in front of Cassandra's desk, hands neatly folded over the now-visible swell of her belly. "You're looking for reason where none may exist," she said softly.

"There has to be some cause. Five damned years we lived in peace, and now—this?" Cassandra kicked at the table. "Denning was among the last I freed, so why was he the first to revert? And Durran took longer to show symptoms, but by the time anyone noticed, he was almost completely gone. Denning's still himself—most of the time—so why..."

"Perhaps their time was simply up." Grace still didn't look up. "Perhaps this was always going to wear off."

"But—"

"A mind, even an artificial one, is a complex thing," Grace went on, speaking as though she were reading from an anatomy text. "Each one works in different ways. The time it takes for symptoms to show, or the speed at which they progress, could depend on a hundred different things all at the same time."

Cassandra turned slowly to face her. "This is your husband we're talking about."

Grace's fingers tightened on her belly. "I'm quite aware, thank you." She finally, finally, lifted her gaze to meet Cassandra's. "I'm less concerned with why it's affecting morphs differently, and more concerned with how we can stop it from happening at all."

Cassandra eyed the healer a moment before turning away, running a hand down the length of her braid. "Of course," she said softly. "That's what I'm concerned about too. It's just… none of this makes sense. This shouldn't be happening at all, never mind how inconsistent it is." She paced across the room, aware of Grace's gaze following her all the while. "How is Durran?" she asked.

The healer's shoulders slumped. "Physically, just fine. A little worn out—his body had adjusted to Mark's scheduling, but he'll recover soon enough." Her eyelids drifted shut. "If he stops following orders from a man five years dead, that is."

Cassandra forced herself to stop pacing, but no sooner did she sit down than her fingers started drumming on the arm of her chair. She'd been through Nergal's old notebook a hundred times; she'd tried to remove Durran's returning directives as soon as she heard what had happened to him, and had done the same for Denning countless times over the last three days. With each treatment, she was able to bring back a little lucidity, leaving him with the healers for observation—but by the next day, he'd be worse off than he was before. One step forward, two steps back. With no idea of how far back they'd be pulled, or who else was going to follow after them, or how to stop it.

"I need to look through the notebook again," she declared, rising from her seat. "There has to be something I—"

Grace silenced her with a look. "I appreciate your drive, Cassandra, but in the state you're in, you aren't going to be any good to anyone. You need to rest before scouring that book again."

Cassandra paused, looking toward her desk, and the ancient volume concealed within. "Your husband's life is at stake," she said quietly. "All our lives are at stake."

"As I said before, I'm well aware." Grace rose as well, cradling her belly. Cassandra briefly wondered how she'd be when she really began to show. If I'm still lucid enough to see it. "I suggest you go see Ellaine," the healer said. "She can help you relax."

Cassandra fixed her with a stare.

"With a massage," Grace said, rolling her eyes. "She's been studying. Even learned a few techniques that are supposed to help with pregnancy."

Cassandra looked toward the window. The hour was growing late; she'd been working on Durran in the infirmary most of the afternoon, and taking her frustrations out on Grace all evening. "Perhaps you're right," she sighed. "Keeping myself up digging through that book is just going to frustrate me even more. I'll come back with fresh eyes later."

Grace smiled for the first time that night. "That's exactly right. I'll tell Ellaine to come over as soon as she's able."

"I didn't say—"

Another silencing look. She's already got the makings of a mother. "You do what you need to rest, Cassandra. I know how important this is..." Her gaze flicked down to her belly. "Gods know I do. But you can't take care of us if you don't take care of yourself."

Cassandra let out a huff. "Now you just sound like Mark."

Grace arched an eyebrow as she pushed from the chair. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."

She marched out the door, leaving Cassandra to watch the setting sun through her window.

Mark noticed the smell before he was even up the stairs in Cassandra's building. He tucked his notebook back into his satchel, nestling it next to his diary, as he sniffed the air. It smelled like something burning—but not wood. It was… sweet? Spicy? A little of both.

Incense, he realized at last, and had just enough time to think about how incongruous the smell was in a place like this before he pushed open the door and nearly ran into Ellain. She took a step back, surprised. "Mark! My apologies." She smiled and curtsied, her unusually simple blue robe shifting about her legs.

"No apology needed," Mark replied automatically, eyeing the small bag she held. He could see an unburned stick of incense poking from the top.

"I've finished with Cassandra for now," Ellain said. She pushed open the door the rest of the way, and Mark felt his cheeks grow red. Cassandra was sitting on the bed, back to him; he caught the briefest glimpse of her bare shoulders before she pulled a red silk robe over them.

"Careful," Ellain cooed in his ear. "You'll make her blush."

Mark was already blushing enough for all of them. Cassandra rose from the bed, tying a belt around the robe. "Ellain," she said softly, "would you give us a moment?"

"Gladly," Ellain said salaciously. Her face sobered. "I'd recommend doing this again soon, though. You've more knots in your back than a seamstress in her shop."

"Thank you, Ellain," Cassandra huffed. Then, a moment later, "Thank you, Ellain," in a far gentler tone.

The knowing smile Ellain gave Mark as she swept out the door was enough to set his cheeks afire once more. He turned to find Cassandra approaching him in the too-shear robe. "I wasn't expecting you so early," she said.

So I see. "Gavin seemed to think it was urgent I see you." He glanced over his shoulder, trying to keep his eyes off of her. "Ellain was giving you a massage?"

Cassandra cocked her hips with a smirk. "Did you think she was giving me something else?"

Mark didn't bother to respond. He was already blushing plenty.

Her smirk turned to a smile. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be teasing you. Especially not now." She took a step back, tightening the belt. "Deichtine told me about Durran," she murmured. "Everything."

Mark frowned. "Yes, and?"

She let out a huff. "You really don't get it? Mark, Durran almost killed you."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," he said. "He was moving that way, yes, but Deichtine—"

"And if she hadn't been there?"

"Someone would. You always have two guards on me."

"And if there were too many reverted morphs for the guards to stop? Worse—what if the guards reverted?"

Mark took a breath—and stopped. He didn't have an argument for that. For anything she was saying.

She eyed him, from his boots to his hair. "You need to leave," she said.

He actually fell back, catching himself on the doorframe. "I—what?"

"Hector's messenger will be here tomorrow, intending to collect your letter. He'll be collecting you instead. You're going back to Ostia." She took a breath. "I'm—setting you free."

Mark felt as though the bottom had fallen out of his lungs. He pushed himself off the doorframe, walking unsteadily forward. Cassandra looked up at him, jaw set. "Cassandra," he whispered. "It's just two morphs. Maybe..."

Her eyes drifted shut. "It's not."

"What?"

"After you left Durran, I got more reports." She laid a hand on her desk. The book was there—Nergal's red leather notebook, written in its strange, unearthly script. Next to it, a stack of papers, text scribbled hastily in her hand. "Three more morphs have begun reverting since this morning. Gods know how many it'll be by tomorrow."

"Three?" Mark's voice felt hollow in his own mouth. He stepped forward, looking over the papers. Shel. Ronic. Guile. "Oh, Cassandra..."

She pursed her lips. "I can't keep you safe anymore, and if anything happened to you—"

"Hector wouldn't—"

"You think I give a damn about Hector anymore?" she spat. She glared up at him. "Mark, if anything happened to you, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I meant it when I told you I—"

She stumbled on the words, and turned away, leaning on her desk. Mark stepped forward, willing his breaths to even, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I can't leave you. Not now."

Cassandra moved her hand to his, gripping his fingers tightly. "You have to."

"You need me." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. "I mean—I can help."

"You'll help by being safe. By returning to Ostia where I know they—we—can't hurt you."

He went still as those words sunk in. "Don't tell me you're..."

"No." She shook her head. "I haven't heard his voice, or felt his command, or… whatever's happening to the others. I'm still as me as I ever was." She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "But the others..."

Mark stepped forward, lifting a finger and wiping away the tear. It was soon replaced by another, and another. She spun, clasping her arms behind his back and pressing her face into his chest; dampness spread through his shirt, but he ignored it.

"I'm losing them," she choked. "I'm losing my family. One by one, they're all turning into something else, something I don't recognize, and it's happening to everyone, and I don't know if it'll happen to me, and either way, I'll be alone again, and—"

She broke off with a sob, clutching tighter to his chest. There was nothing Mark could do but hold her, putting one arm around her back as the other stroked her hair.

"You have to leave tomorrow," she whispered.

He hesitated a long moment. "All right," he replied. "I will."

Her body shivered with a silent sob. "Thank you," she managed to say at last.

The crackle of the fire and the lingering smell of incense filled the air. Mark held Cassandra until her quivering subsided, and she pulled away. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and met his eyes. "I have one more request."

"Name it."

"Stay with me tonight."

Mark's mind went blank.

"I'm not going to try anything," she promised. "But I can't have you be alone while this is happening. And without understanding what's causing it, I don't know who I can trust." She lowered her eyes. "In truth, this is the safest place you can be right now."

Mark found his tongue at last. "Are you sure? I thought you couldn't afford to be distracted, and… people will talk."

Cassandra smirked. "You think I care what people say about us?" She ran her hand along his back. "I'd be more distracted if I spent all night tossing and turning, wondering if you were safe. This is the only way I'll get any sleep tonight."

Mark glanced around at her room—and its single bed. "We could…" he trailed off before he could finish. It was a bad idea, and they both knew it.

Cassandra nodded. "I'll lay some blankets on the floor. You can have the bed."

Mark looked into her eyes, seeing his own sorrow reflected there.

"Of course," he whispered. "Of course I'll stay with you." He took her hands, squeezing them gently. "Every second I get to spend with you is one I'll cherish."

Cassandra turned away—but not before he could see the joy in her eyes. "Flatterer," she grumbled.

Mark only smiled.

"What," Hector growled, "is he doing here?"

Matthew had to admit that the scene was intimidating. The Marquess of Ostia stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Lyn and Eliwood. Each of the latter had hands on the hilts of their respective swords. Hector, on the other hand, was already wielding Armads, dropped into a fighting stance. One of the strongest men on the continent wielding a legendary weapon, ready to strike.

Matthew didn't flinch. Neither, at his side, did Jaffar.

"I sent for him," the spymaster said in answer to his lord's question. He turned. "I sent for all of them."

The audience chamber of Castle Ostia was full of faces familiar and new. Fiora and Farina had flown down from Ilia, with the aging Wallace in tow. Heath greeted them warmly; Lyn had sent for him and Sain once the others started arriving a few days before. Rath was accompanied by a handful of Kutolah warriors, including the wayward Guy, an unusually quiet Karel, and a stern-looking man Matthew understood to be Rath's father, Dayan. Dorcas and Bartre stood together, exchanging stories about their families even while casting worried looks at the lords. Dart reunited with old friends as other members of Fargus's crew looked on. Gorlois had even managed to locate Vaida, still hiding in Bern—a fact that infuriated the old general, but she'd come nonetheless. They all had.

And there, at the front of it all, accompanied by Legault and what few Black Fang survivors remained, stood Jaffar, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the three lords. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin—everything about Jaffar was dark, not least of all his soul. Darkness rolled off him in waves, seeping out from under his head scarf and spilling all across the room. Matthew had to force himself to stay at the man's side. And yet stay he did.

Hector planted the haft of Armads firmly on the ground. His eyes blazed at Matthew. "And why," he growled, "did you do that?"

"The existence of Nergal and his morphs were known only to a select few during the conflict," Matthew said evenly. "In order to deal with this new situation without compromising the security of that information, I reached out to—"

"Don't you 'compromising security' me!" Hector barked. "This is—" He cut off, eyeing the rest of the room. Most of the newcomers were involved in their own conversations, but not a few were watching the group with wary eyes. "This is treason, Matthew," he hissed, returning his gaze to the spy. "You may have destroyed everything we've been working for."

Matthew tilted his head. "And what have you been working for, milord? Where have all our discussions, all our speculation, all our perusal of letter after letter gotten us?"

Hector narrowed his eyes. "You watch your tone. I've trusted you all these years, Matthew, but this time you've—"

"He's done what needed to be done," Jaffar interrupted. Matthew flinched at the man's deep voice; even after all these years, it was hard to believe the former assassin was actually younger than him. "He's gathered a force that can wipe out the morphs once and for all."

Hector's grip tightened in his ax. "You're talking? To me?" His glare shot back and forth between the two of them. "Are you serious?"

Matthew lowered his eyes. "My lord," he said softly, "the fact that I am standing next to this man—that I invited him here—should tell you exactly how serious I am."

Hector looked as though he was ready to take both their heads then and there. It was Eliwood who stopped him, stepping forward with his gaze fixed on Jaffar. "We may not have to destroy the morphs," he said. "They claim to want to live in peace."

Jaffar inclined his head. "I… mean this with true respect, my lords. For all of you." He glanced at Hector. "But I know morphs. I worked with them—worked for them." He paused. "I… still see their faces at night. Cruel Sonia. Heartless Ephidel. And Limstella..." He shook his head. "I didn't believe Matthew's message at first. Not really. But the idea that there even might be morphs still alive… I had to come." He fingered the hilt of his blade. "I have to end this."

Eliwood drew forward. "I understand how you feel," he said. "But these morphs are different."

"How many of you have met them? In person?"

Silence fell over the group. Matthew shut his eyes. "Only Hector and myself," he answered.

Jaffar spared him a glance. "And your impressions?"

"They kidnapped our tactician. That's all that matters." Matthew paused. "But… I defer to my lord."

"Do you, now," Hector growled.

Jaffar nodded. "And you, Lord Hector? What did you make of the morphs when you met them?"

Silence again.

Jaffar took a slow breath. "My lords. Legault has been helping former members of the Black Fang to start new lives—including myself. They answer to him. If you move against the morphs, they will support you."

Legault gave a little wave. The violet-haired thief's headband and smug smile from five years before remained in place, as did Matthew's desire to punch him. He seemed absolutely unfazed by the tension in the room, taking more interest in the stained-glass windows than in the conversation.

Hector pursed his lips. "And if we don't move against the morphs?"

Jaffar lowered his eyes. "I have only ever been a blade. I do nothing without an arm to wield me."

Hector looked the two of them over, rage still smoldering behind his eyes. "Get out of my sight," he hissed. "Both of you."

"As you wish, my lord," Matthew said. "Though I should remind you that Mark's next letter is due tomorrow."

"And you won't be picking it up," Hector growled. "We'll send someone else. Go."

Matthew ignored the way his heart seized at his lord's words. He turned and left, not bothering to listen for Jaffar's footsteps behind him. He wouldn't be able to hear them anyway.

Grace was asleep as Peleus entered the infirmary. He let out a soft breath of relief. What was happening was as hard on her as anyone, and her insistence on helping Cassandra with the reverted morphs was doing no favors to her health. He was glad to see her finally getting some rest. The other healers had all gone to bed for the night, and the reverted morphs all appeared to be asleep as well. This handful were the only ones that anyone had noticed, but there would assuredly soon be more. Peleus's heart felt weary at the thought of all the work before him—but there was no avoiding it.

He went to the cabinet to retrieve the supplies he'd need, passing Grace's bed as he did so. She stirred slightly as he passed, and he stopped, grimacing. "Denning?" she murmured, still mostly asleep.

He put on a gentle smile. "Just Peleus, I fear," he whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping," she grumbled. She started to shift. "What..."

"Nothing's going on," he said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm just cleaning up before I turn in. Rest, now. For the baby's sake."

"Not fragile," she murmured, even as her body settled back into the bed. "Wake me if anyone else..."

She didn't finish the sentence. Peleus looked her over, then sighed. He went to the cabinet, rooted around in a satchel sitting on the shelf, and pulled out the book he needed. He then went to the first of the four beds across from Grace's, giving the occupant a gentle shake. "Wake up, Durran," he whispered.

The massive morph came awake quickly, rising from the bed and standing at attention. "Sir?"

Peleus smiled. "I am not your master, Durran. Simply someone who's trying to help you." He looked down at the blue book. "To help all of us."

Durran said nothing, and Peleus's smile broadened. "Wake the others," he said. "We have much to do."