Chapter One: The Clerk.

Don't let him see me. Don't let him see me. Don't--

"Daine! Just the vision I've longed to see."

Odds Bobs! He's seen me. Since when have I been a vision? I muck out stables!

Fate does strange and mysterious things to those under her care. She guides chosen ones on terrible quests, gambles with Destiny with stakes of mortal lives, and decided that Daine, still recovering from falling off the Needle, would run into Perin the clerk on the way back to her room.

The young woman was none-too-pleased with the decision.

The last thing she wanted to do right that instant was try to make polite conversation with an adolescent whose eyes always seemed to stray from her face to rest on other significant parts of her body. But Daine swallowed down her irritation, and schooled herself to be polite. The young man's attentions were harmless enough, and his dedication was quite flattering when she thought about it.

You look perfectly radiant this morning," Perin was saying, "don't get me wrong--you look gorgeous all the time, but today in particular your beauty strikes me anew."

"Attempting poetry, Perin?"


"For you, I would try anything."

Daine smiled thinly. "Some other time, perhaps," she said, and turned on her heel. She should have known he would grab her arm.

"Don't go, Daine!" Pale brown eyes locked to blue-grey, imploring. "Walk with me. We were having such a nice conversation."

"We were?" Hurriedly, Daine checked herself. "I mean," she said, "I'm just that bit tired, you see, and, as much as I'd like to--"

"Please?"

Daine sighed. "All right," she said.

"Thank y--"

"But," Daine looked the young man full in the face. "Let go of my arm."

It was--Daine feared--going to be a long afternoon.

Numair, meanwhile, had returned to his own rooms, feeling like he was thirty going on eighty-nine.

This sort of thing is no good for me.

Tiredly, he sank into the nearest chair. A clock ticked, something exploded in the students' quarters, he could hear Rider trainees and Pages trying to kill each other on the practise courts. Numair looked at his desk. It was a good desk. A big one with a strong, beautiful grain, perfect for arcane experiments and the display of various magical paraphernalia. Idly, Numair drummed his fingers on it, feeling the scorch marks beneath them. A shame it took up so much room. Very impractical. But practicality had never the Mage's forte.

It was in this environment that Numair Salmalìn began to think about his life.

To anyone's mind, thus far it had been a full one. There was the essential evil overlord, and the chapters known as Very Unfinished Business, and the much loved, understanding friends. Master Salmalìn had certainly led a full life in every respect. Including female company. Starting with Varice Kingsford and ending with a classical Tortallan beauty, Numair had never been wanting. To risk being named a cynic, Numair felt he had seen them all. Guilt came with these thoughts, but all the same he thought them. Numair liked and respected women; his closest friends were women, he loved his mother dearly--and she was all woman. He enjoyed their company, loved and loathed their perceptiveness by turns, felt them an all important part of society and world function in general. But, when it came to romancing them, the pattern flowed along all too familiar lines. They came, they kissed, they went.

Or they plague the mind, intangible, untouchable, desired…

Thoughts drifted, and were pushed back, to be locked away. There was no one in the room to see it, but Numair was blushing. A hundred thoughts were crowding him: age, scandal, and responsibility, brown curls and blue-grey eyes…

And love.

Yes; love. Numair had a horrible, sickening, glorious feeling that he was in love again. Even though this girl would think of him as friend, and friend only. Even though he knew that, if he kept this desire, his heart would only be broken by the sight of a pretty girl's admirers, and inevitable lovers. Even though their ages made a gap that no bridge would cross. Despite all this, Numair was drawn helplessly toward blurred, beautiful fantasies--cruel, fruitless dreams.

"The poets say that when in love age is of no account" Numair whispered to his room, his words with a bitter edge. "Then again, most poets go mad."

Staring morosely out the window, Numair caught site of Daine, and Perin Redfern, the young clerk from the southern wing, walking very close.

Of course, Numair didn't notice that Daine was walking much more quickly then usual, her expression set into a blank mask. In his present mood, all he noticed was Perin.

Perin putting an arm around Daine.

And another

Perin stoking Daine's hair, and a shudder from her, it looked like desire.

Perin kissing Daine.

He couldn't stand any more of this. Abruptly the mage closed the curtains and turned his back to the window. He didn't know that, if he'd looked for a second longer, this chapter might have ended on a happy note--at least for him. As it was, he simply decided to take refuge in despair.

I suppose I should have known, he thought, that it would only be a matter of time.