Cassandra put down the quill, giving Denning an exasperated look. "You want to what?"

"I want to walk him," Denning answered, doing his best not to wither under her gaze.

She shut the ledger she'd been working on. Cassandra had made her home in one of the buildings original to the fort, and the slam of the book echoed off the cold stone of the walls. "He's not a hound, Denning."

"No," he answered, eyes narrowing. "A hound is allowed to roam, to hunt, to be at its master's side."

She frowned. "A hound is kept because it serves a purpose."

"So does Mark, as you well know. His next letter to the Ostians is due soon, and in his state—"

"His state?" she interrupted. "He's been eating and sleeping, hasn't he? He's fine."

"He's been eating what little we provide, yes," Denning demurred, "but he hasn't left his room since his last delivery. Grace has examined him, and she fears his health will deteriorate."

Cassandra laughed. "So she's in on this with you, is she? I should have guessed."

Denning ignored the jibe. "She says he needs regular exercise to maintain his well-being."

"Does someone who spends all his time poring over books get that much exercise to begin with?"

"The point is, if this keeps up, the Ostians won't care what is or isn't in his letters. They'll be able to see for themselves how we're treating him, and they may decide we aren't holding up our end of the agreement."

She frowned down at the ledger. "He's being treated better than the humans treat their prisoners."

"He's not a prisoner," Denning said firmly. "He's a hostage. And if I can't make you see the difference, you can be sure Lord Hector will."

Cassandra's gaze flicked up. She eyed him for a moment, then rose, going to the window. He didn't need to follow her gaze to know she was looking out at the people—the morphs—milling about the fort. The lives she'd taken into her hands. The lives she was now risking.

"He helped Ellain," Denning added softly. "When he could have tried to escape, he saved her life."

"He did." She began rubbing her face. "Are you sure that wasn't a trick?"

"Gavin and I have each gone over the area a dozen times," Denning answered. "There was no evidence of magic or alchemy. It's as Ellain said; it seems the horse simply wasn't acclimated to…" he lifted his unnaturally pale hands. "…this."

Her shoulders fell. "I brought us here so we could die with dignity." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Instead, we are surrounded by reminders that we were never meant to be."

Denning shook his head. "You've done more than we could have ever asked for."

She was silent a moment.

"About Mark…"

"Do it." She turned back to her desk and began walking toward it. "Keep at least one other guard with you at all times, and you should keep him from speaking to the others, but you have my permission to take him from his room and escort him around the fort for the sake of keeping him healthy."

Denning felt every muscle in his body relax. "Thank you," he said, offering a small bow. He paused before turning to leave. "Will you be joining us? You've accompanied him every other time he's been out."

She laughed, and slapped a hand on the ledger. "I've still got four thousand gold to account for from last season, and provisions to plan for the next. I can't afford to take time away from my work to walk the hound."

Denning's lip twitched, but he bowed again, and left.

The sun seemed almost unbearable as Mark stepped out into it. This time, it had been only five days since he'd last been outside, yet it felt even longer than his previous confinement. An effect of hopelessness setting in, of the days blurring into each other? He pondered the psychological effects of imprisonment, and how one might use them to ply information from a captive.

He shuddered at the paths his mind followed, and forced it to turn to brighter thoughts. Bright like the sun overhead, bright like the birdsong that greeted him, and bright like the smile that Denning wore.

"I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself." The morph's bow and quiver were strapped to his back, but he didn't seem worried about using them. His hands, still clad in his usual fingerless gloves, were relaxed at his sides, nowhere near the weapon. He'd taken up his usual position at Mark's right.

"I'm glad to be outside," Mark answered. He looked over at the man. "Why are you doing this?"

"You need to keep your strength up," a small voice at his other side answered. "To neglect your exercise would be to violate our agreement with Ostia."

Mark turned in her direction. For the first time, the morph at his other flank was not Gavin. The small healer with curly hair, Grace, had accompanied Denning to his room; her staff was strapped to her back, and she carried a tome under her arm, keeping enough of the cover exposed to let Mark know he'd be facing her magic if he tried anything.

Not that he intended to try anything. Doing so would mean violating the agreement—not to mention leaving himself unarmed in the middle of at least a hundred angry morphs. Besides, as unpleasant as his imprisonment was, it also represented an unparalleled opportunity to learn. Already he'd seen things that turned his assumptions about morphs on their heads, and Cassandra appeared to have no desire to keep him from sharing this knowledge with Hector. How much more might he learn, now that he was being let outside?

"Come on," Grace said, looking uncomfortable. "The sooner we get going, the sooner we can return." She motioned with her free hand. "Lead the way, Denning."

He smiled, and inclined his head to her before beginning the walk. Mark fell in behind him, Grace taking up the rear, still fingering the tome that seemed to weigh as much as she did. Mark was already partially familiar with the layout of the fort, but going through it slowly like this allowed him to fill the gaps in his knowledge. Smoke belched from the roof of one of the stone buildings, and Mark glimpsed the glow of a forge through the open door. There were shops amongst the new buildings too, including a potter, a carpenter, and more. It was stunning to realize just how many artisans were among the morphs; having a smith in your army made sense, but Mark had a hard time believing Nergal had created morphs specifically for pottery.

Perhaps they're branching out from their intended purposes, creating things necessary for daily life? But where do they get the raw materials? Do they have enough gold to trade with the outside world? How do they make more? A multitude of questions, and despite Denning seeming to have taken a liking to him, Mark didn't think it wise to pelt him with them. He kept his thoughts to himself, for the most part.

He stopped, looking at his two escorts. "Not that I don't appreciate the air," he said, "but are you sure Cassandra wants me seeing all this? What if I tell the Ostians about your defenses?"

Grace gave a rare smirk, and Denning spread his arms. "Every morph here can wield a blade as well as a seasoned knight. We are all defenses."

Mark shivered as he realized just how true that was.

They continued on, spending the better part of an hour traversing the fort, putting Mark's neglected muscles to work. Mark was still collecting looks from the morphs they passed, though there was less fear in them than the week before. Now, most just glared at him before moving on. He wasn't sure whether that qualified as an improvement.

Denning led them into an open spot—the southeast corner of the fort, Mark surmised, looking up at the sun. It shone directly down on rows of plants nestled between the walls; morphs wiped sweat from their brows as they tended the plants, and smells of loam, flowers, and manure variably reached his nose. "A garden?" he asked.

Grace, to his surprise, was the one who nodded. "We try to grow our own food," she said.

The morphs working in the garden lifted their heads as they approached. Most stared for a moment, then returned to their tasks. One, with well-groomed hair and a staff strapped to his back, looked from Mark to Grace; only when she nodded at him did he turn back to his work. Another healer. Grace's subordinate?

Mark returned his attention to the plants. There was a variety of fruits and vegetables, all common to the region. "There's not enough here to feed a group as large as yours," he observed

"Which is why Ellain was going into town the other day," Grace replied. "We make regular trips for supplies we can't grow or hunt ourselves."

"And Cassandra makes such trips, too?"

Grace fell silent, turning away.

"Sorry," Mark muttered. "That is how I met her, though." And how I got myself imprisoned here in the first place.

"Cassandra likes to do things herself," Denning said. "Often times, she'll give one of us a task to perform, then take it over before we're even halfway done."

Grace shot him a glare. "She's a capable leader."

"Of course," he answered, withering under her eyes. "We wouldn't be here without her."

Grace seemed to relax somewhat, and as Mark studied her face, he believed she was almost smiling.

"Although not everything is for eating," Denning said, reaching for a rosebush positioned at one corner of the garden. He gently plucked one of the roses by the stem. "Just because our bodies lack color doesn't mean we don't want it in our—ouch!"

Mark jumped at his cry of pain, but Denning just jerked his hand back from the rosebush; the flower he'd picked fell to the ground, a drop of blood shining on one of its thorns. "Damn," Denning muttered, rubbing his thumb. "I always forget about those things."

Mark picked up the fallen rose, studying the blood as it dried. They were constructed of stolen lifeforce, and yet, morphs bled just as red as humans. "Are you all right?" he asked Denning.

"Let me see." Grace unslung her staff and reached for his hand.

Denning pulled away. "It's fine. I just—"

"Let me see," she repeated, more sternly this time. Denning relented, and she took his left hand in both of hers. She peeled off the fingerless gloves in order to better examine the wound—just a prick, really. Denning's hands were covered in calluses from the use of his bow, and beneath the gloves, the only adornment was a small gold band on his third finger.

A band that was an exact match for the one Grace wore on the same finger.

Both of them suddenly turned to him, concern on their faces, and he realized he'd gasped aloud. "You two are married?" he choked.

Grace flushed, and turned away; Denning broke out with a hearty laugh. "Once again, his tactical genius on display!" Denning put an arm around the healer—his wife. "Only took him two weeks to figure that one out."

Grace looked at him, smiling mildly. "Does this mean we can finally kiss in front of him?"

Denning smiled, and pressed his lips gently to hers. It was not a passionate kiss, burning with repressed desire, but Mark could still feel the attraction coming off the pair in waves. He turned away, trying to distract himself from his discomfort—not a difficult thing to do, given the implications of what he'd just seen. So not only are these morphs capable of emotion, but they actually feel love? Or is this truly love as we know it? Was theirs simply a marriage of convenience? Some kind of strange carry-over from their purposes? Or has Cassandra's freeing of their mind enabled them to actually fall in love?

That was a question for the ages. Human love barely made any sense; what was he supposed to think of romantic attraction between morphs?

"It's sweet, isn't it?" came a soft voice next to his ear. Mark jerked, and turned to find a woman smiling at him. She was wearing a dress—a different one than their previous meeting, in a cut he recognized as similar to what Etrurian ladies might wear.

"Ellain," he said, bowing in what he hoped was a show of respect. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you approach."

"You do seem distracted." She nodded toward the morph couple, who had parted and were now watching the two of them. "They've been married for two years now, yet they still kiss like shy children."

Both of them flushed at her comment, but Mark barely noticed their embarrassment. "Two years?"

Denning nodded. "I told you how she saved my life," he said. "After that, I found myself giving her small gifts whenever I could, while she made excuses to spend time with me. It took three years—"

"And a little outside guidance," Ellain added with a smirk.

"—for us to realize we were falling in love," Denning finished. "After that, marriage seemed the logical choice."

"Cassandra performed the ceremony," Grace added. "So it's not binding in the eyes of Saint Elimine. But…" she smiled shyly at her husband. "It's been an enjoyable experience."

Again, Mark felt the need to turn away from the softness in their golden eyes. Ellain was smiling at him again. "It's nice to have someone, isn't it?" she said quietly. He was suddenly aware that her hand was gently touching his arm.

"I, ah… couldn't say," he managed. He could now feel every tensed muscle in his body, every sweating pore, every beat of his heart. When had she gotten so close?

"Is that for me?" She gently took the rose from his hands; he'd forgotten he was holding it. "Sir Mark, you are too kind."

"Oh, no," he said, then winced. "I mean… I'm not 'sir' anything, and it…"

He trailed off as she lifted the flower to her nose, her eyes drifting shut and her face relaxing as she inhaled its scent. Her eyes reopened slowly, focusing on his face. "I never got to properly thank you for saving my life the other day."

He swallowed. "That's not necessary—I mean, you weren't in any real danger, and—"

She put a finger to his lips. "Hush now. If your minders will allow it, you should come by my room later. I'm sure they wouldn't object to leaving you in my care for a few hours."

"Ellain…" Grace's voice had a note of warning in it. Mark's eyes flicked to the side long enough to see the couple watching them. The love in their expressions had morphed into concern. His heart sped up even further, something he hadn't thought possible. Was he in danger? Was Ellain?

"I'm an excellent cook," Ellain went on. "I know Cassandra has been feeding you, but I doubt you've tasted anything like what I have to offer. And I can't think of a better way to show you my gratitude." She leaned a little closer, laying one hand on his chest. "Can you?"

"Ellain!"

They both started, as did Grace and Denning, and all four turned to the source of the voice. Cassandra was standing across the garden, weight on one foot and arms crossed. Beneath a furrowed brow, her eyes probed Ellain questioningly. The woman blinked under her leader's scrutiny, blinked a few times, and looked around slowly, as if drunk—or just waking from a dream. She looked at Mark, then at the rose in her hand, and gasped softly. "Oh," she breathed, "was I…?"

"It's all right," Grace said quickly; she closed the distance between them in a heartbeat and took Ellain's arm. "You needn't worry."

"I'm not worried," Ellain said with a smile, though she seemed very unsteady on her feet. She looked to Mark again, taking a step back and clearing her throat. "Sir Mark, I must apologize for my impropriety just now. Old habits and all that."

Mark was more focused on getting his heart rate under control than anything. He swallowed loudly and looked around at the other morphs.

"You're confused," Ellain surmised, smiling wryly. "Allow me to explain."

Cassandra lifted a hand as she approached. "You don't owe the human anything, Ellain," she stated matter-of-factly.

Ellain inclined her head to her leader before going on. "You met Sonia, yes?"

Mark winced. Grace had asked him that same question the first day he was here. "I wouldn't say we 'met.' The closest I ever got to her was the far end of a battlefield."

She nodded. "She was powerful, I'll grant you that. But, unlike most morphs, she was not made with combat in mind."

"That's right," Mark said. "She had the purpose of seducing and manipulating Brendan Reed." He blinked. "Wait. Does that mean…?"

She lowered her eyes, and there was no happiness in her smile. "I was his backup seductress. Held in reserve in case he needed someone else manipulated like Reed. He never did find a use for me—or, if he did, he died before putting me to it." She shook her head. "Cassandra has freed my mind, but the skills Nergal forced into me—and the impulses that came with them—remain. When I see a human man, my first thought is to bend him to my will. You, I fear, are no exception."

His bodily functions had mostly returned to normal. He bowed his head to her. "I'm sorry to have perturbed you."

She curtsied in turn. "And I you. I would be happy to host you for dinner sometime"—she briefly met Cassandra's gaze—"when your escorts would be able to join us. I wouldn't want anyone thinking your virtue was at risk," she added with a smirk.

He felt the flush rising in his cheeks, and tried to ignore it.

Ellain nodded to the group and turned, walking away with the elegant sweep of a noblewoman. Cassandra looked at Mark with a smirk. "Sorry to intervene," she said in a sardonic tone, "but as much as I enjoyed watching you squirm, I didn't think it was a good idea to let Ellain make a fool of herself."

Mark wet his lips with his tongue, ignoring the jibe. "I thought you removed everything Nergal put in your minds?"

"Of course not," she sneered. "Removing everything would be like erasing the contents of your mind; all that would be left was an empty shell. What I did was erase the parts that made us Nergal's slaves—but I had to keep the parts that made us who we were, be that protector, healer, or temptress."

Mark nodded, mind working in several different directions at once.

"Are you finished with your walk?" she asked, looking around at the three of them.

Grace eyed Cassandra a moment, and sighed. "I suppose that's enough for today, yes. We'll see how his health improves with regular exercise."

"All right." Cassandra motioned to them. "Denning, Gavin needs your help at the gate. I'll accompany Mark and Grace back to his room."

Denning tilted his head. "I thought you couldn't afford to take time away from—"

"I can't," she said swiftly. "But I'm making time anyway. Get moving."

Denning pursed his lips, and nodded at Grace before slipping away.

The male with the staff approached. Mark realized, with an uneasy lurch, that he'd been watching them the whole time. "Cassandra," he said in a soft, deep voice. "I can accompany you."

"That's not necessary, Peleus," Cassandra said, barely sparing him a glance. "We can handle this."

His gaze slipped to Grace. "If you wish to remain with Denning—"

"It's all right," Grace said. She didn't smile, yet her expression seemed to reassure him. "Thank you for offering."

Peleus's face remained impassive as he nodded, and returned to the row he'd been tilling. Cassandra turned as well, moving across the garden in powerful strides and leaving Grace and Mark hurrying to catch up.

"So," Mark whispered to Grace as they trailed behind her, "if you're the healer, and Ellain's the temptress, does that make Cassandra the protector?"

Grace shot him a surprised look before returning her eyes forward. "You've been here almost two weeks now," she whispered back. "What do you think?"

They reached his building and made their way up the stairs. Cassandra opened his room, dismissing Grace with one hand and retrieving her key with the other. He stepped inside, but when he didn't immediately hear the door close behind him, he turned to find Cassandra leaning against the doorframe, scrutinizing him with crossed arms. "Are you going to ask your question?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You've been thinking about something since we started up the stairs," Cassandra answered.

"How—"

"You paused mid-step, and you keep glancing at me when you think I'm not looking. You want to ask me something, but don't quite have the courage to do so." She lifted her chin. "Are you going to or not?"

The sweat returned. "It's nothing important," he said, a little too quickly. "It's just what you said about Ellain… she's not a combat morph, but she can fight?"

"Of course," Cassandra said. "We all can."

"So, if a non-combat morph knows how to fight, does a combat morph know how to… er…"

Cassandra watched him for a moment, understanding dawning behind her eyes. "You're asking," she said, "if I know how to seduce a man the way she does?"

Mark quickly shook his head. "What? No! I mean—not you specifically, I was just wondering—"

She was suddenly right in front of him, her finger pressed against his lips just as Ellain's had been minutes before. She spoke again—had her voice suddenly gotten deeper? "You're asking if I know how to please a man? How to bring him to his knees?" She was leaning closer, and her breath was hot on his neck. "How to make him moan? How to make him"—she moved her mouth right next to his ear—"scream?"

She was whispering now, and as close as she was, he could barely hear her over his own heartbeat. His entire body had gone rigid, his mouth was no longer working, and he was pretty sure his eyes were wide enough to be used for serving dinner.

A light shove, and he toppled over back onto his bed. He looked up to see Cassandra, one hand on her hips, smirking down at him. "Does that answer your question?" she asked, before spinning and striding out of the room. The door slammed, and the lock clicked.

It was five solid minutes before Mark trusted his legs to carry his weight again.

While the morphs are doing their best to make the fort appear abandoned, and be self-sufficient within its walls, it's apparent that their facilities can't provide enough for their entire population. Hence the need for regular supply runs. I have no doubt that you have Sanders monitoring these trips, but from what I've seen so far, there's nothing to fear from them. I've asked after the possibility of farming outside the fort walls, but they seem uncomfortable with the idea. Probably because such a farm and the farmers who run it would be exposed to bandits—and to Ostia.

"Are you all right?" Eliwood whispered.

Lyn shook her head. "Mark and I have been friends for six years, Eliwood," she replied. Her green hair, back in its usual ponytail, seemed limp and lifeless as it hung over her chair, and her teal eyes were deep with sorrow. "We've faced everything together, from bandits to warlords to dragons to morphs—and yet, when he needed me, I wasn't there." Her eyes drifted shut. "First grandfather, and now..."

Eliwood winced in sympathy. It had been mere weeks since Lord Hausen's passing. Lyn had been getting ready to abdicate Caelin when news of Mark's capture had arrived. "You can't blame yourself," he said softly.

She finally met his gaze, and he was shocked by the steel in her eyes. "I don't."

Eliwood looked away, glancing around at the rest of the table. He and Lyn had arrived just days before, each bringing a small entourage. They, along with Hector's group of knights and scholars, made up the war council that would hopefully never have to counsel a war. He'd heard that Lyn had arranged for Sain to take stewardship of Caelin temporarily, while Florina's husband headed up the remaining knights. Eliwood himself had left Pherae in the care of his wife; he was reluctant to leave her, especially with newborn Roy running about the castle, but she'd practically shoved him out the door when she heard Mark was in danger.

Hector cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the head of the table. "All right," he said, setting down the letter he'd been reading. "The messenger tells me that Mark appears to still be in good health—certainly better than he was last week, now that they're letting him outside again."

"I still think you should have sent me," Matthew said, arms crossed. "It's better for Mark to know—"

Lucius touched the thief's arm. "He knows you care," he said. "You needn't fear that."

"And I need you here," Hector said. "We need information, and we need to keep this quiet. That's your job, and you're a damn sight better at it than some. Doing it is the best way you can help Mark."

The spy lowered his eyes, and Eliwood could almost believe he was sulking. "Yes, my lord."

"Speaking of which," Canas said, leaning forward, "how is the search for Renault going?"

Eliwood lifted an eyebrow, but Hector showed no sign of being put off by the scholar speaking out of turn. Matthew shook his head. "No word. We checked his old residence on Valor—which wasn't easy, I might add; I fear we owe Fargus and his crew a sizeable sum. In any case, there was no sign of the bishop, and no indication of where he'd gone. We'll keep looking, but for now, we'll have to go forward without him."

Eliwood noticed Lucius's gaze shift at the news. From where he was sitting, he could just see Serra take the monk's hand under the table.

"Wonderful," Hector growled. "The only thing we know for certain is how little we know." He picked up the letter, looked over it, and tossed it back onto the table. "And this—what am I supposed to make of this? Is Mark encouraging me to attack? Is he telling me I should stay my hand? Or are the morphs putting words in his mouth?"

Eliwood sat up. "Everyone at this table knows Mark," he said. "Many of us would even call him a friend." He took in the approving nods of the others, and went on. "And, while he may make his living from war, he's always been one to seek peace. Even if his life wasn't at stake, Hector, I don't think he'd ever advocate attacking the morphs."

"Not unless there was no other way," Lyn added. Eliwood looked over at her, but she did not meet his gaze.

Hector started running his fingers through his beard. "An enemy force at our doorstep," he muttered. "Except I don't truly know whether they're enemies or not."

"Mark seems to trust them," Eliwood pointed out.

"But can we trust Mark?"

Everyone turned to the source of the gruff voice. Raven sat back from the table, arms crossed and a familiar scowl across his face. The man's red hair was just a few shades darker than Eliwood's own, and the mercenary's stocky build made Eliwood feel almost slender by comparison. Eliwood had never been sure how to feel about Raven, even after learning he was the heir to the defunct House Cornwell. On the one hand, he always wanted to believe the best in people. On the other hand, Raven had spent a long time wanting to kill Eliwood's best friend, and at least some of that animosity lingered.

Hector's face tightened as he regarded Raven. "Explain."

Raven met his eyes without flinching. Eliwood almost had to look away from the intensity of their gazes. "Remember what we discussed last week, my lord," he said, the final two words not quite mocking. "And Mark himself mentions the temptress in his letter. What if the morphs are trying to bring him over to their side?"

"That's not going to happen," Lyn said, rising partially from her seat. "Mark's loyalty isn't just to Ostia, it's to all of us. We went through the crucible together. I know better than anyone that he's never going to forget that."

Cold eyes fixed on her. "When was the last time you actually spoke to him, my lady?"

Lyn seethed—but no answer came.

"All right," Hector growled. "That's enough. Mark wasn't any happier about being taken hostage than we were. He's just doing his damnedest to survive."

"My lord," Matthew said softly.

Hector turned to him with blazing eyes. "Not now."

"I've seen captives before who sympathize with their captors," Matthew went on, ignoring his lord's command. "They—"

"I said not now!"

"It's like you said: he's trying to survive. Part of that may be convincing himself that the morphs are—"

"Matthew!"

Eliwood almost jumped. He was Hector's best friend, and in many ways, still thought of him as the boy he'd been when they first met. At moments like these, however, he was reminded that the boy had become a man—and a very large, very loud one, at that. Hector was standing now, his fingers almost burrowing into the wood of the table as he glared at his spymaster. Matthew fell silent; he did not meet his lord's gaze, but he did not flinch away from it, a feat that would have been nigh impossible for most men.

"We're here for two reasons," Hector growled, turning his gaze from Matthew and looking around the entire table. "One—a group of morphs, creations of Nergal that we had thought wiped out, has been discovered alive and well in Lycia. Two—this group has taken Mark, our tactician, confidante, and friend, hostage. He is the reason we cannot move against them—and yet, he is the reason we must. If we start assuming the worst of him, then everything we know falls apart." His fingers curled into a fist, and he brought it down hard on the table. "I need answers, not accusations. If you don't have any, go find some."

He straightened, looking around the table one last time. Eliwood felt a surge of pride in his friend; here, truly, was the leader Lycia needed. "That is all," Hector rumbled.