A bubble drifted through the psychic Darkness, floating in and out, searching hungrily for a mind. Its last purpose. This bubble represented al;l the strength its creator could muster before finally returning to the Darkness, sacrificing his chance at making the transition to demon-dead. This bubble represented a desperate man's last hope. Confused, stray thoughts floated around in it, but it hungered with a single purpose--to find a host.


A young Warlord, wearing a Sapphire jewel, was put on his guard as he sensed its approach. Taecivar Narhari gripped his bladed stick and looked around frantically for the source of this unexplained disturbance, unlike anything he'd ever felt. His jewel stretched out to the like power within it, and in that one swift moment he was lost. Mother Night, he whispered, before he lost consciousness.

He woke to a sense of great mental confusion, snatches of alien throughts whizzing around in his brain. One of his fellow soldiers came up to him. You all right, Taecivar? D'you need a Healer?

With a sudden sense of everything clicking into place, the two sets of conflicting thoughts resolved themselves into one. Mad golden eyes glanced up for a brief second before the stick sliced through the soldier's neck, sending the head crashing to the ground. My name, said the Warlord, voice rough with a slight hint of an insane, high-pitched laugh to it, is Aravar.

*****

Naeharian looked defiantly over at Farivar, the story of her life concluded in less time than she'd have thought possible. he said. He paused and raked his fingers through close-shorn black hair. he said, and the word was more of a resigned sigh than anything else, your husband went mad, and was killed, and now you, a Healer, have decided to singlehandedly Heal the Taint, bearing in mind that such a thing has never been attempted, let alone done. The last person to cleanse the Blood of the Taint had the power of six Ebony jewels at her disposal, so legend says. Her Birthright, the stories claim, was the Black. And it still almost killed her. You, however, have decided that you can do this. All alone. He looked at her sharply. Yes, that seems absolutely reasonable. Why anyone would think that it's a completely foolhardy and ridiculous plan, especially dragging a child into it, is beyond me.

Tears welled up in Naeharian's eyes despite herself. Why should she care what this stranger thought of her? I was going to leave Tarian at my mother's house, she said sullenly. It's on the way. I'm not taking my child into the Black Valley. She looked tenderly over at her daughter's flushed, sticky sleeping face, and smoothed the shining dark hair that lay tangled on the pillow. I didn't ask for you, she said, suddenly flashing with anger again, and looking straight into Farivar's eyes. If you don't like it, get out. The second article of the Healer's Creed: a Healer must do everything in her power to heal the sick. The Blood are all sick. The force that runs through us, that binds us, is sick. I am a Healer, and I will do everything in my power to change that. I will not let this darkness that is not the Darkness smother us all. I won't let it smother her as it did her father. Her mother's tears splashed hot onto Tarian's face, and the girl stirred. Abruptly, Naeharian moved away, fingering the gold-set Opal hanging between her breasts.

If I die in the process, Tarian will have a good life with her grandmother. My mother is a good woman, who lives well on a farm... she trailed off, stiffening.

Flared nostrils failed to catch a scent that wasn't physical, a scent lost in the Darkness. Naeharian's lips parted in a half-gasp. It was like Aravar, this new psychic tendril curling slowly towards her, and yet strangely unlike. She must be imagining things. perhaps she was mad, she thought disconsolately.

What is it? Farivar asked, his voice a razor's edge of concern.

It's nothing, the witch across from him snapped. I just...I...I'm tired. Are you going to leave? This last had a forlorn-hope sound to it, and Farivar chuckled as he gave his answer.

Do you know, he said wonderingly, you are the strangest little witch I've ever met. And I think you might just do what you set out to--if you don't kill yourself in the process. In any case, I'm not leaving you to the packs of ravening dogs that prowl this land.

You're sleeping on the floor, came Naeharian's tart reply.

I've slept on worse. His rejoinder matched her tone nuance for nuance. He grinned again. Perhaps this little witch had finally met her match.

You're in charge of all our food, and you'll carry everything.

Fine by me, I love unpaid physical labour.

You have to finished the carving you made for Tarian.

This time, he smiled softly. I had planned on it.

A smile flitted across Naeharian's face so briefly that if he hadn't been looking for it, Farivar wouldn't have caught it. As it was, he was satisfied. she snapped. Get out while I undress.

*****

The Sapphire-jeweled Warlord laughed, a mirthless sound. Once he'd opened his mind to the other man's thoughts, a purpose had become so scintillatingly clear: to kill.

Of course, after that, things got a little blurred. One doesn't die and float around in nothingness for awhile without losing a little cohesion. But one image was burned crystal clear into the Warlord's mind--the last image in the mind of a dying Aravar Lartann.

the man whispered, eyes glistening with a golden hate. The rage that coursed through him had found its target.

He was going to enjoy this.