Authoress's Note: When I rewrote the previous chapter, I accidentally left out a bit about Numair. Instead of adding it to this one, I decided to just leave it out – it shouldn't make much of a difference chronologically. (I hope.)

Chapter Three: "Powerless"

When Numair regained consciousness, the extreme darkness of his surroundings helped to dull the severe throbbing in his head. He was no longer restrained to the wall, but still was in no position to attempt escape. His breathing was shallow, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat – just the action of raising his hands to his forehead was enough to make the mage dizzy, although he was sprawled stationary across the floor.

He could scarcely move.

The situation seemed hopeless. Trapped, likely buried deep underground; no magic, no hope.

Numair shivered slightly, the stone underneath him was smooth and terribly cold – a stark contrast to the fever that was rampaging through his body. Turning to the side so his flushed cheek was pressed against the cool floor, he began to formulate a plan. It was easily the most important thing to do now, and he gathered his thoughts quickly, despite the sluggishness that the fever was causing.

1 - The cell he was in couldn't be more than seven feet long, judging by the fact that spread lengthwise with his arms above his head, he could just barely touch either end. However, it wasn't nearly as wide.

2 – The only exit would be through the heavy iron door at one end, any other alternative would be through magic and, as Numair reasoned -

3 – Magic was impossible.

Of course magic would be impossible. His captor was clearly a mage, and the captives – well, the captives were all mages, too. Black robe mages, to be more exact, and assuming that the robes their captor wore were anywhere near his correct station, he was one as well. Numair closed his eyes, remembering the faces he'd seen only a few hours ago. There had been two that were yet unspoken for.

Numair certainly didn't know all of his fellow high-powered mages, but he knew enough about them to know who had been present and who had not. Those who were missing – he was sure – were Clark, a man Numair had met twice and who's last name he'd forgotten, and a good friend of his: Niklaren Goldeye.

Thinking was quickly becoming too hard.

Fatigue was eating away at him, and the fever seemed to be gaining the upper hand.

There was nothing to do now, but wait and plan. Waiting would do best to come first, and Numair allowed himself to fall into a light sleep, slowly regaining his strength and giving his mind leave to go where it missed being most – home.

When Numair had first taken Daine to see his apartment in Corus, he'd felt a twinge of embarrassment at how messy it had become. She didn't seem to mind, however, and he did his best to brush it off with a joke that she should "see his real home and the mess there."

"It isn't so messy," she had commented, looking around critically. "It's cluttered but not actually dirty. You just need organization. Like me." She was referring to her mind, something Numair had helped her to sort out, just as she helped him put away his books and file his papers – not that they had stayed that way for more than a day or two.'

"I'm sorry to break up your dreams, Master Salmalín," the guard in the doorway said his name as though it were an insult, "You're wanted in the receiving chamber." He moved out of the door frame to grab Numair by the arm, allowing a stream of bright light to flood into the room.

With his arms up to shield the light from his eyes, Numair was dragged out of the cell.

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Outside the castle, Daine sat upon a parapet, looking at the city spread around her. The sun was setting fast, and those who had been working hard all day were returning home to their families, something she should have been doing. The wild mage's eyes were red-rimmed, but she had no tears left to cry. Her plan had failed. There was no Lindhall to help her now.

He was dead.

A gory mess was all that was left of his rooms. They still weren't sure who had done it, and there wasn't enough of Master Reed left intact to be examined.

Now Daine was not only afraid, she was terrified. Whoever had done it, couldn't possibly have done the same to Numair. Could they?

A flock of geese flew high above her, headed south. Daine didn't try to communicate with them. There was no use. Without Numair, she'd lost control. Even talking to Cloud was just too hard.

Closing Comments: I noticed a hole I left for myself in the search for Numair – let's assume that because of where he is being held captive, amid several extremely powerful mages and lots of magic, a focus wouldn't work. Two other things to explain for this chapter, my mention of 'Clark' as a black robe mage, is just me paying homage to other stuff. In my universe the black robe mages would be Numair, Niko, the bad guy in this story, and then four other people that strike me as being cool if they were black robe mages. Merlin, Clark Kent – I love him, he's got so much mage potential – Marie Curie – don't ask, I needed a female mage – and Colonel Sherman Potter from MASH. He's cool.
Anyway, and that other thing I touched on in my opening notes, Numair isn't panicking. He's very calm right now, because he knows that he's got a better chance of survival if he doesn't wig out. So there y'are! See you next chapter!