Bryon I ned you.

The note was brief, Silverveil's scrawl even worse than usual. Byron had been teaching the woman to write in their spare time, a few snatched lessons here and there. She could read, after a fashion, but her writing had been the next thing to utterly illegible. It was gratifying to see her progress, even as a feeling of dark unease settled in his belly. He looked over at the urchin who'd brought him the message, the child's sex indeterminate beneath the layers of clothes and dirt. "Where was she when she gave this to you?"

"Her rooms, m'lord." The child's eyes were wide, a muddy shade of green, one hand still extended. "Seemed awful b'divvled, she did. Worried, like."

"Did anything seem out of place?" The child's hand remained extended, and with a sigh, Byron slipped his hand in his purse and withdrew a couple of silver bits. These, he deposited into the grubby palm with an appropriately solemn air. They disappeared so fast he had a real pang of worry for the rest of his purse.

"Nay, m'lord. Seemed fine. Mebbe she were haunted. M'mam says that sort come to bad ends," the child chattered, with a slow nod.

Byron snorted, and shook his head. "I doubt it. Thank you," he added, before pushing himself from the bench. He'd been grabbing a noon meal at one of the merchant taverns in the city; a place not so fine as to run into any of the Blues from the Palace, but not so poor as to be dangerous for him. He dropped the coins of his fare on the table, waiting until the serving woman had marked them with a nod before he headed out.

It was undoubtedly his imagination, stirred by the urgent note and the child's words, but the city streets felt strange and hostile as he trotted through them. The late afternoon shadows seemed to flicker at the edges of the alleyways; Byron turned his head to face one directly, and a lean, hungry youth with hard eyes ducked back inside a doorway. Maybe not entirely his imagination, after all. After that, he was sure to keep his cloak, sturdy and a bland dark brown, wrapped over his Blues.

Silverveil's rooms weren't far, a fact his legs appreciated as he pounded up the narrow stairwell, and came to the door. His knock was answered immediately, the door opening, and the medium's face appearing in the crack. "Lord Byron," she breathed, her eyes wide and unlined with the kohl she usually used. She pulled him inside, his instinctive greeting cut short by the sight within. The rooms were nearly demolished, the cheap tulle and cloth shredded, pillows thrown everywhere, furniture upended. "The enemies of truth align themselves against us!"

He extracted his arm from her grip, gently. "Silverveil, what happened? Did someone attack you?" She seemed uninjured, although agitated. As soon as he freed his arm, she began to pace restlessly, the light cloth of her robes flowing around her skinny, scarred legs. He thought again of the hollow eyes of the youth in the alleyway. "Was it an attempt at theft?"

Silverveil tossed her hands up into the air, her gesture dismissive as she kicked a pillow out of the way. "This? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. She's gone, Byron. Someone must have taken her. Stolen her, yes. But they will not understand. They won't understand how important it is." She turned with an almost audible snap to face him, tears welling in her eyes. "You understand. You're the only one. And we're so close…we cannot be stopped now."

That dark feeling in the pit of Byron's stomach grew, became sour and hot. He swallowed to quiet it, not entirely successfully. Drawing closer to Silverveil, he reached out to place a hand on the woman's trembling shoulder. "Who is she, Madam Silverveil? What is going on?" She started to shake her head, her eyes sliding away from his, but he tried again, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. "Tell me, please. You know I want to help."

Her expression softened, lost that hard, frantic edge that had been giving it an uncomfortably lunatic cast, and she leaned into his touch. "Yes, I know. You alone understand," she said, as if to herself. "Jerin was so bright, and she only wanted to help. She almost understood. Almost. She wouldn't have left on her own. Couldn't," she added, with a breathy sound. It took him a moment to identify it as a laugh, and when he did, a jolt of heightened unease went through him. Jerin was one of the original circle members. She, like Selles, had been ailing after the sessions, looking more exhausted after each one.

"Jerin…was going to rest, wasn't she?" he asked, carefully.

"She was close, Byron. Through her, we could see it. I knew, with just a little more preparation, she'd be ready to lead us through…"

"Silverveil," he nearly choked on the name, "what have you been doing with her?"

Her answer was interrupted by the rap of knuckles on the door. He turned towards it. "It's a little early for the first sessions," he remarked, and moved towards it, only to be stopped by her hands grabbing his arm again. She shook her head frantically as a voice came from the other side, muffled by the door.

"City Guard, please open up."

"Oh, hells," Byron cursed, his head snapping back to his mentor, "What have you done?"

"The Veil, Byron…you cannot open it without sacrifice. You know that!" Her voice was somehow pleading and commanding at the same time, a wildness in her eyes. He pulled away to move towards the door. "No! You must not open it!"

"We can't deny the Guard. If you've done something…hurt someone…"

She suddenly released him, and he staggered, even as the pounding on the door became louder, more demanding. "I? You will not abandon me, Byron! We have both been seekers, you understood what that meant! What is one life, two lives, three lives, against tearing down the walls that keep our loved ones away from us? We could bring them /back/…it was only temporary…"

"No…you can't do things like that…"

The door shuddered under another blow, the old and tired wood giving way. Silverveil backed towards one of the shelves as Byron turned to look at the door again. "Coming! Just a moment!" he shouted, his voice wavering. The pounding increased. "Gods. We've got to answer it."

"No!" Silverveil swept something off of the shelf and hurled it past him to the door. It burst into a brief shower of colored flames; it was one of her medium's tricks, used to emulate the 'spiritual fire' of her false summonings. Normally harmless, this time the flames fell onto the ruined and torn curtains on the floor, and as Byron watched in horror, they caught, going up like kindling. It took only a moment for the flames to spread over the thin cloth and old wood, and even as he moved to try and smother it with his cloak, the flames spread too far, too fast, and he fell back, coughing.

Behind him, incredibly, Silverveil was laughing. She swept another of the flame packets up and tossed it into a corner, fire blossoming in its wake. "Stop it," Byron shouted, lunging for her before she could throw a third. "Stop it! You're going to kill us both!"

"Don't you see? I saw this…I knew that you would be the one to pierce the Veil with me, Byron. We will see the beyond together." She didn't so much fight him as clung to him, her hands locked around the young man's slender wrists. Byron was not a fighter, and her madness gave her unexpected strength. They staggered around in a parody of a dance; he tried to push them towards the window. A broken leg or two was much preferable to burning alive, wasn't it?

"Silverveil, listen," he tried, raising his voice over the crackle of the gathering flames and the shouts that were coming from outside as the guards smelled the smoke that was beginning to rise. "It doesn't have to happen like this! We can explain…"

"No! They will try to stop us! You must know that they'd never let us continue." She coughed, then laughed again. "They can't stop us now, Byron!"

"We can't continue! Not if we're hurting people!"

Her eyes snapped to his, their oaken depths furious and entirely devoid of sanity. The sullen red and yellow lights of the flame flickered in her stare, and it wasn't just the rising temperature that had Byron breaking out into a cold sweat. Her nails dug into his arms, locking them together despite his repeated attempts to dislodge her. They staggered into view of the window, and he heard a familiar shout. "Bree! Bree, jump!"

The spell of her eyes was broken, and he wrenched his head to the side to look down. Two figures, one in grey and one in white, stood beside two white horses that glimmered in the evening like spirits. The grey-clad shape waved his hands frantically. "Bree! We'll catch you!"

"Rhys…"

"NO!" With an almost inhuman strength, Silverveil wrenched them away, throwing herself to the floor and taking Byron with her. They hit the smoldering floor with a crash that took his breath away, leaving him unable to resist as she rolled atop him, pinning him with her weight. "You will not leave me! Not you. I won't allow it!"

He looked up at her, his eyes drawn to hers despite himself. As their gazes locked, something happened. It was if she'd reached down inside of him and wrenched at parts of him he hadn't even realized existed, clawing and pulling them out of his body. The sensation wasn't pain, exactly, but the loss was so profound that he screamed, feeling his self pour into her. His heart began to hammer in his chest, the sound louder than even the splintering wood as the guards forced their way into the room.

It won't be soon enough, he realized, even as his hands scrabbled against her arms, trying to push her off. I'm bleeding and I don't think any Healer can stop this wound. "Please," he managed, the word sounding weak and fearful to his own ears. "Please…Silverveil…"

Her eyes bored into his, and the energy pouring from him into her became a torrent. "We pierce the Veil tonight, Byron," she hissed, and bent over his body. Her lips sought out his, and as they did, he heard the hammering of his heart rise to a crescendo, then stop.

The silence was white.

****

The scent of old books filled his nose, familiar and as comforting as his bed back in his estate. He was standing among tall, narrow stacks, their shelves packed with thick volumes. How he'd arrived, he couldn't remember, and a shiver of fright wormed its way down his spine whenever he cast his mind to the past. He shied from it, and let himself wander instead, fingers trailing over the cracked leather and thick cloth of the books. The library was unfamiliar and far beyond large; even the Palace could not match the size of these stacks. In fact, when he craned his neck to look at their tops, he could see nothing but wood and books, ascending until his sight blurred into the darkness above.

That's not right. There's no wood strong enough to do that; these books should be collapsing under their own weight, his mind remarked, but it was a casual thought, without the fright and unease that his own past evoked. He was sure that things were supposed to be different than that, but it simply didn't seem important right now. He rounded a corner, and found a woman standing in the center of the aisle. She was plain, dressed in a simple day dress of dark blue silk, the cut almost an insult to the fine fabric. But her smile was warm, lighting up her pale eyes and making her face arresting. "Byron."

It took him a moment to recognize the name as his own. "I don't know you."

"I know. We never had much time, my son. And what memories you had of me, you've changed to suit yourself." If it was a rebuke, it was delivered gently, and with more affection than he'd have thought possible. And still, the words cut at him, threatened to tear away the block on his memory. Byron flinched and stepped backwards, only to have the woman come closer.

"I-I don't know you," he said again, but this time, his voice wavered, cracked. Her hair was the same color as his, the cast of the cheekbones familiar. And her voice stirred something in the back of his mind. He shook his head. "You're not…my mother is dead." A truth he hadn't remembered until he'd spoken it, and with it, other memories threatened.

"Yes, Byron." That same sad smile on her face as she reached out for him. He didn't move, and she didn't, quite, touch him. "For years, now. But you have never let me rest, not in your heart."

"I…I…" More memories slipped beneath the block, and faces flickered. His father, the proud man crying in a stone chapel. Pitying looks and whispers from the local nobility. Rhys, laughing, as they walked beside his companion. And Silverveil, her scarred eyes wise and knowing, her insane laughter as the flames snapped and devoured around them. "Am I dead?"

His mother sighed, and stepped back. "Perhaps."

"What does perhaps mean?" This time, he was the one who moved forward, and she the one who turned away. She looked into the stacks, the endless stacks, as if trying to find the answer in one of the numberless books there. "Do I get to stay with you?" It was a child's question, and he asked it with the voice of a little boy.

"Perhaps." A pause. "I cannot stop you from seeking the Havens."

It didn't take memories to pick out a mother's censure in the softly-spoken words. "But...if you could…"

She reached out for one of the books, and it fell into her hand, opening on its spine, the pages blurring by. "Fire rages in the city of Haven. A wayward breeze carries sparks from one place to the other. And two young women are dead, drained so deeply of their spirit that there was less than a spark left to find the Havens."

"I didn't…" Her look stopped the words in his throat. I did. I saw what was happening, and I didn't stop it. I didn't ask the right questions, and I knew that questions should have been asked. If not for me, my help and research, would Silverveil have even gotten so far to think of hurting those girls like that? I might as well have killed them myself. "I…did not mean to."

"Does the intention of an action matter, if the action's outcome harms the innocent?" Now she sounded less like the vague, flickering maternal recollections he was regaining, and more like the ethics and philosophy teacher at Collegium. Her head was bent over the book, but he could see her sidelong look.

"…no. It doesn't. But…I wanted to see you again."

"Did you, Byron? Or did you want to prove to everyone else that you could see me again?" She never raised her voice, or her head, but the words cut more deeply into him than anything ever had, because they were true. I barely remember you, he thought, his mouth working soundlessly, if you hadn't told me who you were, I wouldn't have thought to check. Shame threatened to choke him, and the young man turned away, his fists clenching at his sides.

His voice was low, barely audible, "I wanted to know. If it could be done. If I could do it."

She made no sound until he felt her arms come around him. It was strange, she was smaller in stature than he was, but at the same time, it felt to Byron as if her arms were much larger…or he were much smaller while within her embrace. "To want to know is not a sin, only to pursue knowledge without compassion. We can be blinded by the light as easily as by the darkness."

He was sweating, he realized, his skin hot with shame. "I'm sorry. I should have…" a hoarse laugh was torn from his throat, "there are a lot of things I should have done. And now it's rather too late."

"Perhaps."

The booksmell had strange undertones, or perhaps it was some perfume his mother wore. It was hot and smoky, though, not what a noblewoman would wear. It smelled like fire, and his head jerked in recognition as the last memories slotted in place. He could feel, rather than see, her smile at his back. "You need not face the consequences of this, my son. You cannot bring back the dead, not matter what you try. Not myself, and not those two young women, nor the guardsman who has caught on fire, nor the other innocents who have already died this night."

There was something unspoken behind her words, and he groped for understanding. "But…but if I return, can I help? Will fewer people die because of what I've done? Or not done?"

"Perhaps." It was cold comfort, but he realized his decision was made even before her arms slipped away from him, before her voice became the crackle of flames and groan of overstretched wood. "Tell your father than I will always love him, my son. My Byron…"

"Byron! Byron, damn your hide!"

As awakenings went, it was the least pleasant one Byron had suffered until this night. The taste of burning filled his mouth, and his eyes stung, watering and overflowing as he forced them open. Rhys knelt beside him, shaking him so hard that his head was clattering on the cobbles beneath him. They were too warm, and it was too bright for the night sky that stretched up above him. "…Rhys?"

"Thank the Gods. You idiot!" The trainee's uniform was more black than grey, he suddenly realized, and his hands were cracked, peeling in the heat. My fault, Byron realized with another pulse of dull shame. He struggled upright, every breath feeling like someone was trying to shove a handful of pine needles down his throat. "Are you okay? Talk to me, Bree."

"…fine," he managed to rasp out, in defiance of the evidence so far. Another presence loomed over them, and he forced his head upwards to look at a woman in soot-stained Whites, her expression severe and disapproving.

"This one'll live," Annice remarked to the Healer trailing her, and it sounded very much as if she'd prefer that he didn't. He flinched under the coldness of her eyes, and waved off the Healer who bent down to him. It was Healer Emerauld, and he couldn't meet her gaze.

"No, she's right," he said, and ignoring Rhys' squawk of protest, he scrambled to his feet. He was burnt, his clothes sticking to places on his body in a way that he just knew couldn't be good. But he could stand. Especially with the Herald trainee at one shoulder, supporting him. The fire roared before them; the entire building Silverveil had once had her rooms in had gone up in flames. There were blue-clad guards and white-clad Heralds by the dozen, organizing bucket chains in a surprising, eerie silence. The wounded, like himself, had been moved out of the way to the street. Some of the burned groaned and whimpered like animals, but those were to be preferred to the few he saw that did absolutely nothing at all. He swallowed, and tasted blood. With a gesture at the other wounded, he told Emerauld, "Help them. I'm fine."

"The hell you are," Rhys snapped. "Have you looked at yourself?"

"Trying not to, Rhys." He swayed and felt the breeze push the wisps of his hair out of his forehead. As soothing as the brief coolness of the air was, it made his blood chill in his veins. "Have to…going to have to destroy the buildings there…" he gestured down the path of the breeze. "Before the sparks make the jump. Or wet them down."

"We can't just pull down sections of the city at a boy's whim. Don't you think you've caused enough troubles for one night," the older Herald snapped, her gaze challenging and, he realized as he forced himself to meet her eyes, pained. It hurt her to see these people hurt, although she had nothing to do with what happened to them.

"I'm sorry. But it's that, or we might lose this whole…" his voice broke off into a coughing fit. He would have fallen over, if not for Rhys right there. He gasped out, "Whole quarter. Please. I know…what to do."

"The boy needs to lay down before he falls down," Emerauld put in, her voice stern.

"She's right. Hells, Bree, I didn't pull you out of that damned inferno only to see you kill yourself now."

He shook his head, and raised his eyes to Annice again, mutely pleading. She stared at him for a long, tortuous moment. "He can rest later," she finally said, and grabbed him by the other arm.

"Annice!" The Healer's loud protest drowned out Rhys' indignant squawk.

"Maud."

"…damn it. Fine, but I'm coming along, and you will not let your anger work this boy into death."

Annice gave Byron a long look. "Something tells me that won't be necessary."

Rhys tightened his grip on Byron's other side. "I won't let that happen," he put in, and it was unclear whether he was warning the older Herald, or Byron himself.