(A/N – This one took a little while, eh? Better late than never. Possibly.

Jasmina – Thank you once again for the review. I'm very pleased you found it exciting and sorry for dawdling in getting this chapter posted.

Trickster's Lulaby – Glad you found chapter twenty unexpected - these scenarios feel like they've been curdling in the doldrums of my mind, so that little comment heartened me greatly. Thanks for letting me know ::salutes right back at'cha::

VercisIsolde – Wordy responses are wonderful and I don't mind waiting for your reviews – they're very much worth it. Mai's riverside 'Ophelia' moment was horribly indulgent of me but I couldn't resist – most relieved the description didn't grate. Cal did indeed steal Mat's CoT riff. It's quite a noble line and far more portentous than something along the lines of 'get your coat, love'. Glad you picked up on it (and the mega-WoT boffin award goes to….VI ::applauds::) Ferrell's bagged a fan ::grin::. If you do get a hankering for the big, beardy gruffster, don't forget he's single….

Song? Seems I….er….forgot to....er....credit.....::coughthesongain'tminecough::. 'The Time I Lost in Wooing' belongs to an 18th century chap called Thomas something. Sorry 'bout that, Tom. Much respect.

Mat's mini-flashback motives are very similar to those in tDR Galad/Gawyn bashing scene. Seems my subconscious goes into overdrive when I write this thing.

Farwell. Sulphurous stenchs, feisty ravens, ominous snarls. Sounds a bit like my home town :P What do these signs mean? Oh, wait; I've always wanted to do this…..RAFO ::a grinning Iolo dips into delusions of Jordan-dom::.

All the objects in the chest are Mai's, as is half the hair in the loversknot. The other lock belonged to someone you met several chapters ago, 'though he wasn't feeling himself at the time….oh, and Menna did have a doppelganger doll. Crikey - do you have a photographic memory or something? The reason for Mat's hasty farewell to Farwell should become clearer in this chapter. If it doesn't, please let me know. I'm getting a little foggy myself. Delloraine's a horrible name; all cumbersome and posh-sounding. I prefer Delaine too. Yup, a little of Bornhald elder lives on in Thrayne. Nice detective work, SherlockIsolde ;). I like the idea that not all W/C's have to be raving zealots – some might be sort of decent….which actually makes them scarier when they do something nasty. I think.

I'm so glad you're still enjoying the fic. and sorry about the cliffhangers. There should be less of them in the next chapter/s. Hope this instalment's okay. Thank you for the incredible review, though I am a little worried; I'm starting to think you know more about this fic. than I do :)

Virago – ::bestows blessing:: I forgive you, my child. I see Cal now bears the burden of your righteous wrath. Be afraid, oh blonde betrayer. Be very afraid.

Durvasha – As I have no proof of your perversity, I believe I shall take your feedback as a compliment – hence, thank you for your comments. Woo, Cal's getting a bit of a bashing. Despite my protective instincts, I admit he has fluctuated throughout the fic. I'll try and level things out a little. Oh, I liked that rhetorical question – I would never dream of criticizing your opinion. Is your review disjointed? It seemed fine to me. Thanks for letting me know your reactions and I promise to finish the fic. Scouts honour, dib, dib, dib. Thanks again!

CassSpaz – I like the word 'wow' so I'm going to return the favour. Wow. I made you laugh? And smile? ::is happy:: Nath is a jerk. Or is he…? RAFO (….I swear I'll never tire of that) As for Mat getting beaten up…muses…I think the trickster needs a slap every now and then, just to keep him on his toes. Thanks for reviewing. I loved reading your reactions.

To all the above – you're a quality bunch. Sorry about any glitches and quirks in the formatting. Well, you know ::jerks thumb at guilty looking FF:: What you are about to read is long and a bit confusing – ill-timing indeed since it's the crux of my little tale. Well, I never claimed to be any good at this writing lark. Dovienya, comrades. See you in the finale.

Disclaimer - I am not Robert Jordan, I am not Robert Jordan, I am not Robert Jordan. I am Oliver Rigby Junio….darn it.

Chapter Twenty-One

They were staring at her again. She tugged her sodden shawl tighter and pretended it was the rain that ducked her shoulders. She hated it, this parade of silence, yet every week she trudged through the ritual, as though she were the due heir of their stares and whispers. The rain fell in silver slices, pecking her cheeks with cold kisses as she crossed the street. She saw that Cillah had left her washing on the line, the white sheets already speckled from the tainted rain. Good. Let them get dirty. Let them all get dirty.

She tensed as the black, iron-striped doors of the Colliers Arms loomed before her. All she had to do was keep walking. He might be in the yard, toting barrels with his father or haring around the coalbanks with his idiot friends, taunting labourers until the overman pelted them with clinkers. Of course he wouldn't see her; it was not as though he actually waited for her….

'Well, if it isn't little Tragedy.'

She cringed and tightened her grip on the basket.

'Good morning, Ty.' She mumbled, turning to the slender youth stepping from the tavern porch.

The boy's hair clasped his skull like a black, glossy cap. Despite the soaking, his narrow face was twisted in a smile. 'All alone, Ma-lo-ri?'

She had seen girls preen and simper for Ty, especially when he spoke their names in that stupid, sing-song way. Even Rynn, milk-mild and skinny as a spinster, giggled at his smile.

'Had any of your turns today?' A snicker. 'Voices? Mysterious caped figures?'

She hugged the basket to her chest and chanced a look around. Ty's cronies were nowhere to be seen but the boy never seemed to need much encouragement when it came to nettling her. Cillah was watching them as she clawed spotted sheets from her line, pegs clamped between white lips and eyes like smallcoal.

'If this is one of your tricks,' she managed in a quavering voice.

Ty stepped closer. 'I just thought I should warn you.'

'About what?'

Being thrust rump-first into a puddle was not the answer she had expected. She gaped at Ty as water soaked through her skirts and squeaked again when something spattered where she had stood only moments before.

Ty leapt from the bloody splash with a grimace. 'About that.'

'Light, Ty, what did you push her for?'

Eyes brimming, she looked to the tavern's uppermost window. The 'sill framed a large bowl, still drooling crimson ropes in slow descent, and two, peering faces; Cael's was grim as usual while Lyris's, bone pale save for two red splotches, appeared utterly bemused.

'Now look what you've done.' Ty raked a hand through his hair and glowered before stalking away.

Cillah crowed with laughter as Malori struggled to her feet. Water seeped through her woollen stockings but she was too busy trying not to retch at the coppery stink to pay it any mind.

Cael and Lyris careened from the inn door to chase down their friend, cuffing him and throwing dark glares over their shoulders, as if the failed prank were somehow her fault. Ty fended them off with smiles and his quick tongue, all trace of a scowl forgotten.

A few heads had popped from doorways to see what the fuss was about. Not one called to her. Not one asked if she was all right.

Hoping her tears would pass as rain, she scrabbled at the spill of apples and tossed them in the basket,

She didn't bother to scrape the wet hair from her face as she trudged on, didn't look up until she glimpsed a red blur hurtling towards her. Arms flung about her waist, hard enough to make her gasp.

'What did they do?' a muffled voice demanded.

'Nothing, little one.' Malori smoothed the child's hair. It was soft and crimson bright, still spry with curls in spite of the rain.

'But you're all wet.'

'It's raining.'

'But—'

'It doesn't matter.' Her smile felt frail as she knelt to gather the girl close. 'Where are you going today?'

'To market.' Menna gave her a pleading look. 'Walk with us.'

Cillah had strutted from her scrap of a garden, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

'Not today, dearest.' She tore her gaze from the woman and reached for the basket. 'I've already been. See?'

The child's pout faded as she moved to snatch the apple, then her chubby hand faltered.

'Take it,' she urged. 'I have plenty. Menna?'

Menna refused to lift her gaze from her shuffling feet. 'Cillah says I'm not allowed to.'

The rounded woman took a warning step closer.

'That's all right.' She dropped the apple into the basket. 'Maybe we'll pick some together one day.'

'With Tris?'

'With Tris,' she assured, feeling as hollow as the promise. 'Hurry along now, dear heart.'

The child's hug was fierce as her sudden whisper; 'I believe you.'

Malori almost sobbed as the child spun and hurried to her keeper, soft boots slapping the stones.

'Mai.'

The voice was low and soft but she didn't turn to the speaker. Instead she watched Cillah scoop her sister from the ground. For a moment, the woman's face seemed to change, flicker into shadow even as arms clutched Menna in midnight folds. Then there was just a tired Goodwife and a lonely child, pale faces growing smaller and smaller until the drizzle veiled them to grey.

'You don't have to do this.'

Sighing, she turned.

He was tall, taller than she, but not hulking like Cael or gangly like Ty. Older too, though a boyish glint still lingered in those dark eyes.

All she would have to do was rise on her toes, just a little, tilt her head and their lips would meet. New heat flooded her cheeks. She had never thought that way about a man before.

'Do I know you?'

She felt that she did, but felt just as keenly that he didn't belong here, here where the houses crammed cheek by jowl and dust and smog choked the sky.

Water dripped from his hair, spiked his lashes, but still he smelled of sunshine and warm grass and apples, not bitter little knots like the ones in her basket but summer apples, the kind where juice plumped the sweet, red flesh.

A hot, sudden pain speared her belly. The rain spat, stuttered, stopped. No blood on the cobbles, no faces in windows. No Ty, no Menna. Only him.

'You left me alone.'

Mat traced a finger down her wet cheek. 'Don't.'

'Promise you will come back.'

'You need to leave now.'

She gripped his wrist. 'Promise.'

Rain began to fall again in cold, slicing drops. Her eyes slid closed as he leaned close, his breath warm on her lips.

'Don't fight them, Mai.'

Chill droplets pricked her flesh as she waited for the kiss. It never came. Frowning, Mai opened her eyes.

'That's better.' A gray-haired man was smiling above her. It was a kindly smile. It crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. 'You were having a bad dream.'

She moaned as wizened fingers picked wet hair from her cheek. That wasn't right. It hadn't been a bad dream at all. And yet here she was, lying in the dark with a head like a sore tooth, as though jolted from a deep, dark sleep. Jerking from his touch made the room twirl a lazy spin and she closed her eyes as her stomach followed the dance. When she opened them, the world was still again.

For now, the world was black walls and a low ceiling, the dank smell of old wood and older ale. 'Where….?'

'You are in Laybridge, Malori.'

My name is Mai. The thought was pale and whispery and somehow wrong. 'Home?'

The man smiled….

Thrayne. His name is Henrich Thryane.

….and shook his head.

'No, child. This is not your home.'

Her arms ached. She tried to lift them but nothing happened. 'I've been sick, haven't I?'

'For a very long time.'

It was an effort to blink. The tiny room blurred like cheap glass. Light dripped from the narrow torches, licking kegs and stone with sinuous shadows.

'I wanted to make sure you were well.'

She tried a grateful smile as he patted her shoulder.

'I have to leave for a while. Don't look so alarmed; Child Merle will tend to you.'

A slender man detached himself from the shadows. His face was lined and weary looking. Deep furrows bracketed his mouth.

'Stay.'

'No need to fret.' The man she knew as Thrayne smiled that kindly smile again. 'I'll be seeing you soon.'

He gave her a final pat and turned, armour a dull silver and spurs chiming as he climbed the steps leading to a small hatch. Sunlight sliced the murk as it opened wide. It was rowdy beyond that snatch of light; cheers and laughter jolted the silence. Nightmarish, hysterical sounds.

Outside, a young man bowed to the Commander, a man with yellow hair. His eyes sought her before the hatch severed that blue glare.

'Cal.'

'That's Child Delloraine to you.' Merle peeled a grin. 'You're lucky he's not down here. The man has talent.'

'Cal.'

Merle's blow smacked her head against the wooden pallet. When the white flecks faded, she saw he wasn't grinning any more. He eased a glove over his hand and curled a fist. Rows of studs winked in the supple leather.

'I am not a cruel man, Malori. Light knows I should be, but you are not yourself.'

As he turned, a shimmer of cloak made starlight of her tears; white, dazzling.

'My orders aren't to damage you, just to get a confession. But be mindful,' the man turned his lidded eyes upon her. 'I will do what it takes to get that confession.'

'I want to see Cal.' Her voice sounded very far away, very small.

'By the Order of the Light, do you confess?'

She struggled but something cold bit her wrists.

'Do you confess?' he demanded, gloved hand reaching for his belt.

She fell back on the pallet. 'Cal, please….'

He plucked a cloth from beneath his belt, sighed, then lifted a quill with his free hand. Through her laboured breath, she heard the nib clip an inkwell then scratch over parchment.

Another sigh as the man lowered the quill and stepped to the pallet.

Merle clamped her head and prised her jaws wide. His fingers were cold and slick as he crammed the rag to rasp against her lips, her tongue.

It scraped her throat, shrank her breath to a whistle, stank of rot and decay. She retched when Merle released her, wept as he lifted a bowl deep and full with something that slopped and sloshed….

….blood, o light it's blood….

….and slowly, oh so slowly, began to pour.

Useless as it was, she tried to scream when the stuff bled into the cloth. Merle's hand was steady as he quenched the rag. Lukewarm wet began its creep to her stomach.

She coughed until the stuff felt like glass in her gullet, arched her back and bucked as metal sliced her wrists and something hot and sticky trickled onto her palms.

Her cries were weak, bubbling and thick with panic, but inside she screamed, screamed as she felt crimson liquid froth, inhaled the viscous, copper-reek of old blood.

'They always deny the first chance to confess, Malori. I like telling them that. It makes them feel less alone.'

Her throat whistled but still she dragged for air. Fluid bloated her stomach, arced her spine like a stricken bow. A hot, burning tide scorched her gullet, rising until the world was shot with black. Choking.

Drowning.

Darkness swallowed her whole, shadows tumbling through midnight….then the clotted wad was ripped from her mouth.

She sucked a whooping breath, lost it as a warm rush spewed from her lips.

'Second chance, Malori.'

'Mai,' she gasped. 'Please.'

'Will you confess?'

She coughed then vomited, dreaded finally seeing the blood glut from her. But it was just a splash of water on the pallet beneath her cheek, pale and thin as tears. She croaked a breath and fought a crazy urge to laugh.

The lines around the man's mouth deepened as he dropped the soaked cloth. In the quiet, unbroken save for her weak sobs, she heard a whisper of steel.

'Let me go,' she gasped, pouring all of her strength into the plea. 'I swear, I've done nothing.'

It looked like a needle, a needle long and licked with rust, rammed into a wooden grip.

'Please.'

'Will you confess?'

She wept as he picked up the quill again, scritched a note, sighed.

'If you're a screamer, now's the time to take a breath, girl.'

As the spike edged closer, close enough to taste sweat on her thigh, she thought of Cal; he of smiles and soft betrayal, hair like sunlight between her fingers. She thought of Mat, of whispers in darkness and silver rain and the slow, tender burn of his deceit.

When the steel pierced her, she was too numb to cry.

'Move.'

'No need to be lairy, lad. Just having a bit 'o—' The man's piggish eyes popped wide as a blade jerked under his chins.

'I said, move.'

Mat ploughed on when the gibbering man swung from his path. He sheathed the knife in a swift movement and pressed through the crowd, head low, mouth set in a grim line. His head was still muzzy but at least the sickly twinges were bearable. Only moments ago the pain had seized him like a vicious claw, flurrying his thoughts like a pack of spilled cards.

He was sickening with something, had to be. When he got back to camp, he would ask Mai if….his head sparked another jolt of pain and he stopped quicker than if his feet had tramped into a puddle of tar.

Mat squeezed his eyes against the sunlight and dragged for air. Tugging at his scarf – the thing was suddenly choking - he took another breath and risked a peek; nothing to see but slicing sunlight, a trio of spindle-shanked cats and a choked gangway to the square.

He wasn't planning a jaunt there. The place was likely crawling with Whitecloaks if they weren't in the streets, and he hadn't seen one of the fools all morning.

Thankful at least for this small mercy, Mat stumbled towards an alleyway. His brow felt cool under his palm. He was tired, that was all. Tired and hungry. He just needed to….

'Find the lady?'

Mat almost yelped as he found himself nose to nose with a small, wiry man. The fellow's eyes were round and sharp as shaved marks.

'What did you say?'

'Find the lady, win a prize. Scarlet in the Black?' The man held up his palms. 'Just a game, my lord.'

It took Mat a moment to realise why the man was tripping on tiptoes. The fool's bootheels met the cobbles with a smart click as Mat released his collar.

'Sorry.'

The man slapped at his rumpled shirt. 'Money makes better amends, my lord,' he declared, strutting to a gaudy stall.

Scarlet in the Black. Mat had heard of it, somewhere. Somewhen. Find the 'lady', the crimson Ruler of Winds, amongst the male arcana; a game for lords and fools. He glimpsed a crescent of cards on the silk table, neat and lacquered to a gloss.

He flipped the man a coin as he backed away and was already half-drowned in the swell of drums and bitterns when he heard the man's reedy condolence.

'Better luck next time, my lord.'

Mat whipped around. When was the last time fortune had failed him?

He didn't know how long he stood amid the streaming crowds, swaying with the urge to hurry to the stall, demand the racketeer admit the swindle, that the winning card was his, that he couldn't be out of luck.

Then something was plucking at his sleeve.

'Mister, mister, please pay the stall.'

He looked down, eyes barely focusing on the scrawny child.

'The sign,' the boy urged, tugging fit to tear his button-cuff. 'It says there'll be no more shows 'less someone coughs up.'

The waif gestured wildly at a booth; tall and narrow, it stood alone from the rest, a canvas fortress save for a small window in front.

Dazedly, Mat dug free a handful of copper. The child barked its thanks and ran to toss the marks into the red and white striped booth.

Before the coins had rattled to a stop, a painted sign popped into the window;

Wrynecke Theatre presents the Climax of our Cautionary Tale;

Phase the Third:

Tragedy

The sign swept from sight as a marionette appeared. Crude and misshapen, its cloak and sword clearly marked it a wooden parody of a Whitecloak.

Mat's head took up that maddening ache as the puppet bobbed against the painted backdrop and promptly fell on its outsized nose, much to the delight of the gathering crowd.

Another puppet hobbled into view. Clad in a crude white dress and with hair a plait of brown twine, the female mannequin drew hisses then applause as the Whitecloak enticed the girl towards a tiny gallows.

And he thought Aiel had a strange sense of humour.

He must have muttered that aloud for a portly merchant turned him a sour look. Mat bared his teeth in a grin and the fellow tsked and waddled on.

The festival was like a fever running through the town and the scrum grew all the more frenzied the closer he pushed to the square. A swift glimpse showed bodies jostling on the cobbles and the spark of sunlight on armour. If the massed revelers were keeping the Whitecloaks busy, Mat was grateful for whatever it was they were celebrating.

In the sea of ragged banners, he finally saw what he had been looking for. Head singing with pain, Mat bolted through a gap and almost crashed into the door. 'Arli,' he yelled, wincing as he pounded on the crumbling wood.

A thin wail floated from within.

'Arli, I know you're there. Open up.'

The door cricked open a notch. 'What do you want?'

'I need to see the records.'

'No.'

'Arli—'

'I said no,' she seethed, scorn bright in her eyes. 'Go away.'

Cursing, he shunted the door, brushed aside her flurry of blows and stomped through the kitchen.

'They're gone.' Her screech chased him down the cellar stairs, shrill and gleeful with spite. 'You think I'd roast my own flesh so you can poke through their secrets?'

She was right. Even in the palest light, he could see the scrolls had vanished from the damp corner.

'Where are they?' He spat a curse as he pelted up the stairs. 'Where the bloody Light are they?'

'Hullo, Mat.'

A shadow hulked in the doorway. Mat flicked a glance at the cudgel at the figure's side and stroked a blade into his palm.

'No need for that, boy. It's just a friendly chat I'm after.'

'I don't have time.'

'Then I'll make some for you. It'll be worth it, I promise that. Arli, set the kettle on.'

Selwyn Wern stepped into the room, dropped the cudgel on the table with an impressive thud and eased into a chair. 'I understand you and my daughter are….familiar. Don't look so queasy. I'm not going to foist her on you. No man should be saddled with a bastard brat.'

'She had a husband.' Mat ground out.

'Husband? My daughter couldn't catch a drowning man with a river-punt.'

Mat almost felt pity at Arli's fierce blush. Almost.

'My Arli's very keen on male company,' Wern mused, his smile sly. 'I'll wager nothing pleases her like a well-spun yarn and a warm bed.'

'Glad I could oblige. Where are the records?'

'All safe.' Wern managed to pat his belt, despite it being almost smothered by his paunch. 'And I'm willing to let you in on some little secrets.'

'I don't need any more bloody secrets.'

'Not even one about that milk-skinned slattern you're scurrying 'round for?'

Mat allowed himself a grin. So the sly fool thought he could call his bluff, did he? 'You know nothing about Mai.'

'If you believe that, my lad, feel free to leave.'

He had already reached the door when Wern warned softly, 'But you've nothing to gain in walking out of here, Mat.'

Mat snorted, jerked the door open and planted a foot on the step.

'And neither does the girl.'

The words snagged him to the spot. Sunlight dazzled him and he realised his head was clear, the pain gone. He turned, saw Wern's expectant smile and Arli's glower, as though daring him to step over her threshold one more time. The small clock on the mantle gave him some hours 'til midday. Maybe the man wasn't bluffing. If Wern knew something about Mai and he didn't take the chance….Mat sighed and leaned against the doorframe. 'If I listen, you'll give me those papers?'

'I'll do better than that.' Wern stretched a reassuring smile, the sort of smile a weasel might give a cornered mouse. 'Now sit and keep that fool mouth still for a while.'

Feeling like he had just been swindled a second time that morning, Mat closed the door, found himself too weary for any swagger, and lowered himself into a chair.

'Arli, set the locks.' Wern leaned close, face suddenly earnest. 'Ready for the truth, lad?'

The deadbolt rang loud in the silence.

This time, she didn't run. Light pierced her eyes, thorns grazed her skin, smoke, heavy and thick, choked her. But she didn't run.

This time, she knew what awaited her.

Each step took her closer to the village, closer to the homes crumpled by some unseen hand.

Closer to the creature behind her nightmares.

'You don't have to do this.'

He was matching her pace though she knew he would rather lag behind.

A glance revealed he was wearing his hat and a snug green coat frothed with lace; much too grand for these bristling woods.

Confused, she jerked her gaze from him. When her eyes strayed last, he had been wearing simpler clothes. Farmboy's clothes, almost. She didn't understand it. She didn't have time; already she could hear the scream, that thin howl of despair.

'You don't have to do this,' he repeated.

She stopped, turned to him. His throat was bare of scarf and scar, now. His hair shorter, eyes wider.

'But you know I must.'

Her spine prickled as he pulled her close.

'Don't.'

She let herself lean against him for a moment, fingers splayed on his chest. His shirt felt rough, homespun to the touch. But there was no warmth beneath, no telltale beat under her palm.

He sighed when she turned from him and pressed further into the forest.

Slate roofs glinted through the trees and she smiled as he fell in step beside her, onward to the place she once called home.

'Farwell.'

Mat shrugged. 'I know all about Farwell.'

'Aye, what they want you to know. A cloak of lies and fancies.' Wern leaned back, arms folded over his barrel chest. 'Time was, only the Whitecloaks knew the truth about Farwell, other than Nath. Poor wretch.' He paused, face grave. ''Course, we wondered why Whitecloaks were always sniffing around here. But none of us could guess the real reason. None of us expected what they finally told us.'

'The Whitecloaks moved in, everyone got greedy, the coalbanks fell. What's there to know?'

Wern gave him a searching look. 'I suppose old Pryderch told you that?' He nodded at Mat's silence. 'That goat don't believe in anything he can't taste nor touch. Never had reason to, I suppose. More fool him.'

Mat shifted in his seat. The sunlight slanting across the boards told him he'd been here too long already. 'So, do we get to talk about Mai now?'

'Rein your horses, lad. Where was I? Ah, Farwell; I went there only twice. The first time, I thought it a drab place, dour enough to make your teeth ache. Thought it was just misery that curdled those folks lives. But it was more than that.'

Arli finished nursing her child and swayed to settle on the pitted rug, her face serene as a Wise Woman and eyes just as hard. He could feel them upon him; cold, measuring.

'The second time was after the mountain fell,' Wern went on in a low, flat voice. 'Helped to dig for trapped folk, ripped at the black filth 'til my nails bled. And do you know what we found? Nothing, not even the dead.'

The man dropped his gaze, eyes clouded with memories.

'I'm sorry, truly I am. But what does that have to with Mai?'

Wern sighed and reached for his belt. From a leather pouch he took a sheaf of pages and spent a goodly amount of time riffling through them, nodding and grunting as he went.

Mat wrestled the urge to snatch the wad from Wern's fingers. When Arli added her huffs and fidgets, Mat gripped the chair to avoid strangling the pair of them both.

'Ah,' Wern finally announced, thrusting a moldy page at Mat. 'You'll have to forgive the rambling. They have a tendency to blather.'

He almost wrenched the page from Wern. It looked to be part of a letter, elegantly scribed in black ink;

….surprisingly rich in ore. You are of course aware of the fecundity of this province.

Inevitably, trouble abounds and each new tryst stems from the same vilification. I can find no harm in this girl, yet many of the villagers, and the Hand themselves, find her unsettling. Regrettably, the more reliable inhabitants are taciturn about the source of the fracas, and so the rumours flourish. There are several other candidates for their suspicion, all female, of course, and one of them a child although her charges are typically insipid (previously apprehended for malification of milk and fowl, I am told). They shall be questioned accordingly and under my supervision.

That there should be call for this supervision dismays me. Captain Vyne is indeed dedicated to his somewhat self-appointed cause and I am afraid the troupe has felt the burden of this. The past winter has seen two desertions; Child Terrat is now stationed in Amadicia and the other, Fiarbren's youngest boy, remains at large. The lieutenant is understandably upset.

With a lighter heart, I can report that the material they are plucking from the mines is truly remarkable. These 'black diamonds', as the locals know them (a quaint comparison and not to be discouraged considering the association), burn tremendously well. I truly believe….

If he wasn't feeling so tetchy, Mat would have yawned. 'Why are you showing me this?'

'It's necessary, my boy.' With a measuring look, Wern slid him a second sheet of parchment. 'This was another report from Farwell, written a month later.'

It was in red ink; an urgent colour, Mat thought;

….can advise that yesterday yielded a haul of noticeable quantity. The detritus is, of course, a problem, but one which does not require urgent attention since the weather has been unseasonably dry.

Mat glared at Wern. 'Necessary?'

The man just waved his hand. 'Keep going.'

Your suggestion was most astute and the investigation proceeded as planned, save for the prime suspect's failure to appear. The rumourmongers now persist in their fables and I feel we have no option but to deepen the inquiry. First trials are scheduled to commence at noon tomorrow, cumulating with the D'Aubren 'stead, which should appease the baser villagers and qualify the innocent for good and all.

I must admit I find this trying. I hope you agree that our attentions should be fixed upon the matter at hand, not flagrant embellishments of trivial events. Indeed, I am not convinced of ill portent in this place, or that the creature at the nexus of this hysteria is solely to blame. The trials shall go ahead as planned however, and a report duly sent with my apologies for these intrusions at such a trying time.

'Enough.' Mat planted his fists on the table. 'Just tell me what happened.'

Another page whispered across the table;

Ninth execution, six persons:

A stranger named Col. A stranger. A woman, spinster. A village Elder. Lutz, a distinguished merchant. An old woman.

Tenth execution, four persons;

A trader named Rutscher. The wife of elder Relis. A woman named Cillah Baunach. An old woman.

Eleventh execution, three persons;

A little girl nine or ten years old. Her younger sister. A youth, Cael Mellus, aged seventeen.

Twelfth execution, seven persons;

A stranger. The Master Overman of Top Pit, a very learned man. Beckell, the innkeeper. The wife of the baker at Grist mill. An old woman. Tris D'Aubren, a farmer. A girl, six or seven years old, Menna.

Thirteenth execution, two persons (five scheduled);

Goodwife Hanarra, a seamstress, and Master Polle, one of the wealthiest denizens, were executed publicly at dawn. At the same time was executed in the market place a guard who had let two prisoners escape. The boy, Ty Marten, aged sixteen and the elder D'Aubren girl will be tried upon apprehension.

'By the time that report was received in Amadacia, Farwell was dead. The trials turned into a massacre and Farwell was torn down. Torn,' Wern slapped the table as Mat made to protest. 'Brought down by foul means. The Whitecloaks know it, and now they've made sure the whole town knows it.'

'The land was unstable.' Mat began slowly. 'It collapsed—'

'Listen to me,' Wern snarled. 'Farwell was killed by more than muck or the Whitecloaks greed. Foulness, perversion, malison, whatever you want to call it; that is what destroyed Farwell. Something evil happens and it leaves a print, a scar. It draws….things, calls them.'

Mat remembered the ravens, the reeking prints, the Draghkar. He shoved the prickling unease aside. 'I don't believe you.'

Cold, the sudden cold of cloud on a spring morn. But it wasn't cloud that choked the skies. Mai gazed at the soot-swept stone, the ash drifting like grim feathers, the smoke wreathing cracked homes; it was impossible to tell what spawned that grey murk above Farwell.

Mat lurked at her side, shuffling his feet in the sooty cobbles. He brightened when her gaze fell on him.

'Don't say it.'

Mat closed his mouth with an audible click.

….you don't have to do this, you don't have to do this.…she could still hear his litany rolling in her head.

She wished he would talk to her, crack his jokes and jibes as he followed her through this cold, grey place. He had fallen behind now though she knew he was garbed as she had first seen him; plain breeches and shirt mussed as his dark hair. Even his bruised eye was intact.

His silence was as alien to her at these ruined streets. But at times she did glimpse things that seemed familiar; a snug cottage, door expectantly ajar, or a stall stacked with wares, as though waiting for someone to happen by. These were somehow worse than the ruins; that they could look so ordinary yet so wrong.

Her steps echoed on a cellar door and she glanced at the building before her. The tavern, a large place with a husky, soot-covered man painted upon the sign and foreboding iron-ribbed doors, was almost familiar. 'There was a doll here,' she murmured.

He stopped behind her as she crouched at the spot. 'It had red hair and green eyes. A doll,' she repeated.

Mat said nothing.

She palmed the dust, saw the russet stain on grey cobbles, moaned and clenched her teeth as the scream shrieked louder. It roiled in waves, sometimes a distant storm, at others screeching like a gale at a window.

'I'm just stalling for time.' She stood, brushed off her skirts with quick pats. 'We should go now.'

Mat stared at her, unblinking. Even the gloom couldn't dim his eyes. She waited, waited for a 'you don't have to do this' or an emphatic 'don't'. But nothing came.

She knew where she had to go, how to find the door with a grin of splintered steel.

It reared before them. She felt suddenly very small in its shade. 'I'm frightened, you know. But that's all right. I think I'm supposed to be.'

Something warm closed about her hand. She looked down and saw her fingers twined with his. When she looked up again, he was smiling.

She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

'Thank you.'

'Don't—'

'I mean it. I wanted to thank you and tell you I'm not angry with you any more and that I….' Her fingers slid free as she straightened. 'Not now, not here. I need to do this first.'

She stepped to the door, paused. 'Mat, you used to call me something. What did it mean?'

When she turned, he was gone.

Tears prickled as the stair creaked under her first step. She breathed, conscious of the way the air stuttered in and out of her lungs.

'One.'

'Two.' Another creak. A third.

Three.'

Her voice shook. The scream was a wail of utter sorrow, a tragic cry of despair.

'Four.'

Dust shimmered, made a spinning aura above the figure slumped on the uppermost step. 'You don't have to do this,' Mat muttered as she approached, his voice small and sullen.

There was a frailty about his bowed shoulders and, when he looked up, she saw shadows scored beneath his eyes. He looked young and sick and petulant. Even here, he made her smile.

'Please move.'

He stared at his boots a while longer before rising and standing aside.

She didn't look back when she reached the hallway. The door was cold under her palm, a gateway to shadows.

It creaked wide to reveal a black shape, thin and motionless. Footprints in the dust; real then, like her. And it wasn't screaming anymore.

Hello.

The creature turned. Her heart thrummed at its gaze.

Hello?

Dread filled her. ….don't look at me…. I don't have to do this…. But the words never came.

Not shadows on its face after all. A cloak, black and hooded so only its full, smiling lips showed.

It moved, swayed closer, shroud sweeping the dust save where a ragged tear marred the hem.

Breath failed as its pallid face slid closer until it was level with her own. With dim surprise, Mai saw her hands were steady as she reached for its hood.

'Something was unleashed and now the dark has Farwell. Hoardes it, feeds upon it because one creature poured its heart into destroying the place, ripped down that muck and rubble with the sole purpose to kill.'

'What creature?' Mat asked finally, barely managing to mask irritation with calm.

A hopeless look scarred Wern's gaze as another sheet whispered across the table.

It lay face down before him, a simple fold of paper. Then why the sudden thrill of fear? He hesitated….

….you don't have to do this….

….silenced his doubt and began to read.

In light of recent developments, I do not believe it prudent to visit the former site of Farwell in the foreseeable future. You will henceforth concentrate your efforts on the neighbouring towns of Forgeside, Furnacerow and, if necessary, Laybridge. My belief is that the creature was unmade in the course of her iniquity. For the sake of the surviving Children, however, I approve your proposed course of action. I have enclosed the writ of sanction.

Walk in the Light.

My final word on this matter, Commander Thrayne; if she survives, run this witch to ground.

The last line was etched deep enough to scar the parchment. Mat grimaced as the script grew denser, the words almost foreign to his narrowed eyes. He forced himself not to clutch the paper and struggled on;

Whereas There is Complaint Exhibited to the Honoured Court now holden at Amadacia.

In Behalfe of their Commander against the Ward of one Tris D'Aubren on grounded Suspicion & whereas Recognizance is Entered, for prosecution –

You are, By the Hand of the Light, hereby ordered to Apprehend and bring before us one Malori D'Aubren of Farwell for Gross Malison Committed by them upon the souls of those belonging to Farwell whereby mortal hurt & damage has been done to s'd persons according to wytnessed Testimonials of surviving Acolytes Capt. Bry Slarn and Child Parasin Merle. On behalfe of the Lord Captain Commander for those living and for their fallen Comrades you are hereof not to faile at your peril.

Walk in the Glory of the Light.

995NE

'This isn't true.' Mat gripped the page, fought a crazy urge to laugh. 'It's lies. It isn't her—'

Wern clamped a hand to his arm. 'There,' he murmured. 'Is your Mai.'

The cloth was soft beneath her pale hands. With a sigh, the black hood drifted from the creatures face. It was still smiling, a small, pale smile that didn't touch its

...her....

eyes.

Mai crumpled, sobbed as that chill blue gaze fixed her.

'No, it wasn't me. I didn't do this....'

Oh, it's too late for that, Mai....too late by far....

'I didn't hurt anyone...'

I'm taking it back....

'I want to....'

Wake up.

Palms gripped her face, their touch almost crackling with heat. A whisper of breath, a soft kiss to her brow, something melting, dissolving….

'No.' Ripping free of her cloaked mirror, she backed away until her heels teetered on the ridge of steps, cried out when something jolted her from the fall.

'Don't do this.'

A frail hand was clutched about hers. She looked up, saw Mat, young and pale and fearful, saw her own face; a white, smiling mask above his shoulder.

Mat's hold weakened, fingers slipping. 'Don't, Mai.'

'My name is Malori.'

She slid from his grasp and plunged into oblivion.