Author's Note: Thank you for all the comments, and for being so patient for this next chapter: life kicked me to the curb seven ways to Sunday, these last six months. (And I did change my user-name.)

Clear away distracting thoughts. Block out the external world. Focus your mind inward, and find the path to the Light.

Tascha grimaced and opened her eyes.

The Betrayer had left as abruptly as he arrived, saying only he would have her sent for, that she should prepare. Not knowing what else to do, she had turned to the meditations taught her by the Cathedral's teachers. Every attempt failed, the only results an ache behind her eyes and an increasing frustration and despair. She fell asleep at some point – true sleep, not the unconsciousness inflicted on her before – and had nightmares of the attack on the caravan, with Illidan replacing the gnolls and Maylar. Upon waking she tried the meditations again, with the same lack of success.

She sat up on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Worry and fear alone weren't a hindrance. An aura of corruption and malice twined around her whenever she sought the Light.

And she was expected to master an entirely new, foreign magic – if that were possible at all -- in this environment.

Escape was impossible, at least for the moment, and a rescue was out of the question. No one in the caravan knew she was here. The portal that had led her here might return her to Lakeshire if she could find it again. Or it might not. She couldn't worry about that now. Staying alive, learning as much as she could about this power supposedly had as well as her captors – those had to be her priorities right now.

What did she know of the Black Temple? Nothing. She knew more about Outland itself, and that was little enough. Since the reopening of the Dark Portal, both Alliance and Horde had moved forces there in an effort to keep the Burning Legion at bay. That much was fact. Paladins and priests from holy orders, human and otherwise, visited the Cathedral of Light daily, searching for information and leaving behind rumors and speculation of what existed beyond the Dark Portal. Versions of those always trickled out to the lower orders. Tascha believed no matter how fantastic they were, they had to possess a kernel of truth.

She chewed her lip. That applied not only to stories of Outland, but of its Lord as well. Accounts of the recent wars mentioned his release from an underground prison and his attempts to destroy the Lich King, but little more than that. The night elves didn't speak of the Betrayer. A chapbook of legends about the War of the Ancients was the closest thing to a written history of him by his own native people. Supposedly the book had been banned by the Temple of the Moon. Brother Kristoff kept the Cathedral's copy locked in the Rare and Unusual cabinet. Sneaking it out had cost Tascha two months' worth of free time and a week on bread and water.

The woodcuts of him had been the best rendered, however.

Tascha ran a hand through her hair. She needed concrete information, not pretty art. Besides legends, all she had to go on was the Betrayer himself, and she hadn't seen him long enough to pick out a pattern of behavior. He's concerned he's not being a good lord one moment and making jokes at my expense the next. She rubbed her eyes; the ache was finally starting to fade. Not that different from some human rulers.

He wasn't human. She could not afford to forget that.

A flash of red on the far wall had Tascha scrambling off the bed. As she watched, lines appeared in the marble, gradually becoming more intricate and solid until they formed a fanciful birdcage door.

Tascha's mouth went dry. This must be –

The door opened.

"Lord Illidan awaits."

No blood elves, these three guards. Shorter, stockier, blue-skinned with hooves and face tentacles, they were repulsive and somehow familiar.

"You're -- you can't be draenei," Tascha said, disbelieving. Draenei were strong and proud and beautiful as statues. The beings in front of her were a mockery of those qualities.

"We are Broken," said the first. Tascha guessed he was the leader: the other two kept a respectful distance behind him. . He stepped to one side. "Come. You should not keep Lord Illidan waiting."

A wide, curling ramp of black and red marble led away presumably to the floor Tascha couldn't see from this angle. The Broken fell into formation, the leader in front, the rest behind her. Tascha gazed up and around, awash in a giddy sense of space and freedom. Thin, watery light streamed through the Temple from no source Tascha could pinpoint. What she could see of the Temple was immense: balconies, staircases, pillar-lined corridors, alcoves.

Tascha glanced back at her personal prison. The door was still there. The leader made a horrid rattling noise. Tascha began to ask if he was ill, then she realized he was clearing his throat. She started walking.

The ramp corkscrewed down in tight turns. To her relief the guard's leader kept to the middle, well away from the sides; it lessened the vertigo. Once at ground level, they set off across a courtyard easily the size of Stormwind's main square.

Tascha had no chance to truly look around; the guards' pace was too swift. Still, she noticed archways opening on corridors and suites, doorways to open rooms, nooks with benches or cushions, even gardens with fountains. But she also noticed who peopled those rooms and corridors and gardens.

Demons.

Demons of all kinds. Some she had seen in Stormwind, under the command of the Alliance's warlocks: imps, voidwalkers, succubae. Most she hadn't. There were orcs as well, and even blood elves, but mostly demons. Standing guard, or patrolling, or performing ritual around patterns set in the floor. She couldn't tell what they were doing. She didn't want to know.

The aura she sensed in her prison was blatant here, sinking into her soul with each step. She wanted to lash out with all the power she had, and she wanted to run. She could do neither. Finally she froze in place, shaking. A guard shoved her. She ignored him.

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't, I can't, I can't –"

"Be strong." The leader gripped her arm, steadying her. "We, too, suffered. In time you will grow accustomed just as we have, and be pained no longer."

I don't want to be strong! I don't want to get used to this! Whatever happened to you, I don't want it to happen to me! She drew a deep breath and nodded. After a moment the leader nodded in return, and they continued on.

They crossed the cavernous hall and climbed stairs, passed through smaller halls to more stairs and corridors and still more stairs. Remembering the path they traveled was impossible. Tascha didn't even try. She kept her eyes fixed on the lumbering figure in front of her and her mind focused on taking one step, then the next and the next and the next….

Three more times the malignity of the Temple overwhelmed her, and the lead guard urged her on as he had before. The last time she collapsed to her knees. He pulled her to her feet.

"You must do this," he said, silvered eyes staring in to hers. "There is no choice." He paused. "We are not far."

Don't patronize me, Tascha wanted to say. It wasn't worth it. She shrugged and looked away.

They continued on.

The leader was true to his word. Minutes later the little group stopped before twin doors. Immense and ornate, they reached from floor to ceiling. The door handle and plate seemed mere decoration; Tascha wondered vaguely how anyone could move them at all.

To Tascha's eyes the leader did or said nothing, but the doors swung inward. The hall beyond was lined with columns, with what appeared to be mosaics on the walls. The guards marched her through a side archway and down a corridor to another set of doors. Not as tall as the outer set, and made of plain, dark grey metal, they were somehow more imposing.

Tascha swallowed. Her chest felt tight, and the apathy that had gripped her a heartbeat earlier gave way to fear.

The doors swung out. The Outland's self-proclaimed Lord stood in the middle of the room.

"Well done, Akama. Return to your previous post."

The leader and his fellows genuflected before turning on their heels and trooping away if she didn't exist.

"Come in, Tascha of Stormwind. Weren't you taught not to lurk in doorways?"

Tascha forced herself to walk, not scurry. No sooner had she crossed the threshold than the doors slammed shut behind her. She jumped.

The Betrayer's mouth curled in a half-smile.

"Sit." One wing snapped out, indicating a chair not unlike the ones in her prison. Tascha sat down.

"Drink what's on the table next to you."

Another crystal goblet like the one he had summoned from thin air, filled with amber liquid. Tascha remembered the breakfast wine and hesitated.

"It is juice this time," Illidan said dryly. "Mostly juice. I had Lady Malande prepare and steep certain herbs for it to help you regain your strength. The walk here was agony, was it not?"

Tascha nodded.

"I didn't hear you. Unless I indicated otherwise, Tascha of Stormwind, all your answers to me are to be vocal. Is that understood?"

"Yes, lord." Her voice sounded faint, wispy.

"Good." He smiled. Tascha took a hasty sip of the juice. "And your answer to my question is…?"

"Yes, lord"

"Good." His smile faded. "Pain is an excellent teacher. Mortals especially learn quickly to do what they must in order to avoid it. There are other methods, but few motivations as effective –"

Irritation crossed his face.

"I need to leave you unattended, little bird. Do not move from that seat."

Illidan vanished.

Tascha huddled into the chair's cushions. As if she could move. Perhaps he had shielded her in some way, perhaps one gulp of juice was enough, but the terror-filled pain was fading. Not enough for her to make a mad dash for the door, however.

Even if she could, where would she go?

She sipped more of the juice, trying to place its origin. It tasted like apples crossed with honey melon. Something native to Outland, or an obscure corner of Azeroth? Had the herbs added by Lady Malande influenced it as well?

For lack of anything better to do, she studied the room as she drank. It was half again the size of her prison. There were two more chairs like hers, bookshelves, a divan the twin of Mother Shahrazz', a desk in one corner. Wall shelves held more books, interspersed with crystal formations, statuary she didn't like to look at too long, and in a small alcove a skull. The light came from globes hanging from chains and candles set in wall sconces. The floor was covered in a plush dark red and brown carpet, resembling fur. The same cologne from Mother Shahrazz' chamber lingered in the air. With the exception of the divan, the furnishings reminded her of night elven décor. Two heavily curtained archways indicated other rooms. Tascha thought she could make out the shape of a bed and averted her eyes.

"There will be no more interruptions."

Illidan's reappearance nearly made her choke on the last of the juice. She swallowed hard and set the glass down, hoping he didn't expect a response.

"Unless the cretin who does so has a death-wish." His wings mantled before settling. "Ah. You finished. If you need more, speak. I do not believe in mishandling tools which cannot be replaced – and you, Tascha of Stormwind, certainly number among those. Don't presume this means I will tolerate disobedience. Punishment is not mishandling."

She hated being referred to as a thing, not a person. Tascha imagined her prison as a velvet-lined box from which Illidan removed and returned her to at whim, and swallowed the urge to scream. She picked up her discarded glass instead.

"I think I could use more, please, lord."

The glass refilled.

"I told you to prepare. What did you do?" Illidan asked as she drank.

"I tried the meditations taught me at the Cathedral." She wished her voice didn't sound so soft. So weak. Weren't confronters of evil supposed to speak in clear, ringing tones?

You're not exactly confronting him, part of her whispered. You're going along.

"With a lack of success."

"Yes, lord."

"To be expected. The Black Temple was once sacred to the Light, but no longer. It cannot protect you now. You showed good initiative, but the right method for the wrong goal. You must find the magic given to you by the Lady of Pain."

"I tried," Tascha began.

"You sought within yourself the way to a source of power outsides yourself. You need to seek within yourself for the power hidden in you." The Betrayer paced in front of her.

"I understand that," she said.

"Not truly, or you wouldn't have turned to the teachings of your church."

Tascha took a long sip of the juice. Humor him. Her best course of action for now. "It seemed the best way," she said at last.

"It was habit, and laziness of thought. What the Lady of Pain gave you doesn't fit the path you're accustomed to traveling. You must create a new one. As I said before, the right method, but the wrong goal."

He sounded like one of the lecturing fathers. The Betrayer didn't requiring long-winded phrasings of questions the way they did, at least.

"How?"

Illidan ceased pacing. "That is what I'm going to show you. Stand, and bare your arms."

Tascha obeyed, pushing her shirtsleeves to her elbows. The worn linen felt slick from dirt and sweat. There was no glow this time, but the razorvine tattoo reappeared on her skin. She touched one of the blue-green leaves with a finger. No change in texture, nothing she could feel, but the vines looked real.

"You are familiar with using an object as a focus in meditation, are you not?"

"Yes, but I haven't – "

"This is your focus." Illidan cupped his hands around her wrists, moved them along her arms. Tascha kept from flinching by force of will. Having him this close was unnerving. "Use it as you were taught to use a more physical object." He stepped back.

"You may begin."

Begin? With him hovering over her? No pressure, my lord, none at all. She turned away from Illidan slightly and dropped her gaze to the tattoo. Razorvine. It had grown all over the buildings in the part of Sigil called the Hive. The heart-shaped leaves looked delicate, but anyone caught in them would be cut to ribbons.

Blue-green. Odd choice for a tattoo color. Why hadn't the Lady of Pain made it the plant's natural black? There was something soothing about this shade, Tascha had to admit. Like watching the water of a lake. It drew her eyes.

A faint luminescence gilded the pattern of vine and leaves now. It flowed around her wrists and up her arms. Tascha could see it beneath her shirt.

Power surged through her, not the golden warmth of the Light, but the silvery force of winter.

Tascha gasped. The power sank away.

"Well done." The Betrayer smile's had nothing mocking or condescending about it, and Tascha wondered if he looked that way all the time before his transformation. "An excellent first attempt."

"Thank you." Tascha swayed, steadied herself. "How did you –"

"My vision extends beyond that of any other being. I can see magic – energy, power -- as clearly as I see you." He frowned, and Tascha wondered what she had done. He shook his head. "Try again. Maintain contact longer."

Finding the power was easier. Holding onto it was not. She repeated the exercise under Illidan's observation until her eyes felt hot coals and her head rang like the Cathedral's bells. At the end, though, she could keep hold for a count of twenty before the power slipped free.

"I'm trying to grasp the wind," Tascha murmured. She was tired to her bones, but the sensations the Lady of Pain's gift imparted were oddly invigorating. "A very cold one."

"Magic often feels thus. Your comparison is not unique, but it proves you are on the right path. I'm quite pleased. We can advance to the next step."

She had done all the work, but he was pleased. "What do you want me to do?"

"Defend yourself."

The Temple's aura pressed down on her. Tascha fumbled with the alien power, trying to wield it as she would the Light. It refused to bend to her will and nearly twisted free. The darkness receded. Tascha looked at Illidan. "Lord –"

He struck again. And again, and again, battering aside her attempts to shield herself with frightening ease. "You are not trying," he said during one of the momentary respites. He looked more demonic, less the night elf.

"I am." Too rude a tone. She didn't care. She was exhausted

"Not hard enough."

The attack this time was ferocious. Wave after wave of oppressive darkness crashed down, overwhelming to the point of physical agony. In desperation, still holding onto the Lady's gift, Tascha grabbed for the Light and flung it at Illidan.

The assault ended abruptly.

"How did you manage that?"

Illidan sounded… surprised. Incredulous. Manage what? She couldn't explain when she didn't know what he was talking about. Tascha straightened, arms wrapped around her.

"Pain is an excellent teacher, lord."

She wished the words unsaid the instant they left her lips. Her vision was blurry, but she could still see him towering over her. The glow of his eyes narrowed to slits. Tascha braced for another attack.

"Indeed. Particularly if allowed to run its full course. Do not heal yourself, little bird. If you peck me again, I won't be so lenient."

He took hold of her wrist. "It is time you were formally placed in Lady Malande's care."

His magic whisked them away to another room. Its occupant, a blood elf woman in grey-green robes, curtseyed deeply to Illidan.

"All is ready, my lord, as you requested." Tascha remembered that voice.

"Good. Remember my instructions, Lady Malande." He fixed his gaze on Tascha. You will be summoned again in due time."

He disappeared.

"Be welcome in this hall."

Lady Malande was Gatheos' opposite: snow-colored hair bound in a crown of braids, milky skin, pale grey eyes that flickered a ghostly green in the shifting lamplight. She clasped Tascha's hands in her own. Tascha started, but didn't pull away. There was something comforting about such an ordinary gesture, and she was too drained to search for ulterior motives.

"It is good to see you have found favor in our lord's eyes. To assist in his vision is a great honor."

Tascha couldn't think of a response. An honor. She supposed her treatment could be viewed in that light. If Lady Malande was disappointed in her silence, she gave no sign. "This way," she said, and led Tascha through a curtained side archway into another suite of rooms. They all shared the same opulence Tascha now associated with blood elves, but it was the sunken-floor bathing pool in the last and largest that caught her attention. Faint wisps of steam rose up from the water. Pink, yellow and white flower petals floated on its surface Tascha folded her arms about herself, embarrassingly aware of her grimly, smelly state. Her last bath had been over a week ago.

"Cleansing the body can heal as well as soothe." Lady Malande waved a hand. "Indulge as long as you see fit."

It was the most polite order Tascha had ever heard. She shucked off her clothing in a heap at her feet and eased herself into the water. It swirled around her in a constant gentle current, perfumed by the scents from the flower petals.

"There are steps at the other end," Lady Malande said smoothly, "and soaps in niches on either side, as well." She paused as a female blood elf dressed in dull red and black padded in through one curtain-draped archway, scooped up Tascha's discarded clothes and left through another.

"Romaria will use them to find something for you while you're being measured for new garments."

"New?"

"Lord Illidan was quite specific about his commands. We shall speak more of them later." With a warm smile that made Tascha want to trust her against her better judgment, Lady Malande followed after her servant. Tascha waited until she was out of sight, then turned to the business of bathing. She scrubbed and rinsed until her skin was pink and her hair squeaked between her fingers, then leaned back against the pool's wall and let the water's heat soak into her bones, soothing away some of the pain. The heat was a soporific as well; Tascha fought to keep her eyes open.

The scuffle of leather on the room's pebbled floor jarred her to awareness. She looked up to see Romaria returning with two more blood elves, both laden with towels. Romaria carried a rather large sewing basket. "Lady Malande will be here shortly," Romaria said. "Get out. It is time for your fitting." She jerked her head in Tascha's direction "Dry her off."

"I can manage –" Tascha protested. The blood elves didn't listen, pulling her the rest of the way up the stairs with surprising strength. One began working on her hair, the other her body, both as dispassionate as if she were a doll. Romaria took a length of gold ribbon from the sewing basket and began measuring her, barking out numbers that wrote themselves on the ribbon and ordering to Tascha to hold out her arms, now hold them up, turn, no, this way. At last one attendant shook out a sky-blue towel – which proved to be a robe - -and wrapped it around her. Made of the same material as the bedding, it clung like a second skin. Tascha clutched the front closed. "There's a belt," the blood elf said, and knotted it around her.

"You'll have to make do with your own boots." Romaria knelt, and the ribbon wound around Tascha's bare feet. She reached into the basket and pulled out Tascha's battered boots. "Nothing in stores even close."

"Unless you want to ask one of the she-orcs," tittered one of her companions.

"Tareyn, such insults to our lord's guest are insults to our lord."

The blood elf's head snapped up. "Lady Malande, I didn't mean –"

Lady Malande strode over to them. "What you meant is irrelevant. Your jest is in poor taste. Remove your own, and go help Kasz in the netherdrake stables."

Tareyn's roses-and-cream complexion paled. She tugged off her shoes, placed them in front of Malande with a bow, and left. Lady Malande gazed coolly at her remaining subordinates.

"I trust there will be no further unpleasantness. Ah. You are finished. Report to Jarantha." Romaria and her companion bowed and disappeared through the nearest curtained doorway.

Malande turned back to Tascha, tilting her head. "That color suits you. I will suggest it to Jarantha. Everyday garments will be ready more quickly, the gowns Lord Illidan requested a bit longer. In the end, he will be pleased. ."

Again, to Tascha the safest response for her seemed to be no response; she became very interested in pulling on her boots. The entire exchange between Tareyn and Lady Malande had seemed unreal (what was a netherdrake?), and these comments about the Betrayer even moreso. Why would he care what she looked like?

"Follow me, Tascha," Lady Malande said. "I wish to speak with you, and there is something that will most interest you."

Unless it's a way back to Stormwind, I doubt it. She fell in step besides Lady Malande. From the bathing pool room they entered a winding corridor. They walked for a time in silence.

"You are a priest of the Light," Lady Malande said at last. "A noble calling, and one few care to answer. You are a pupil of Lord Illidan – yes, he trusted me with that knowledge." She stopped, her gaze intense. "But there is other learning as well. I, too, am a priest and student, of the knowledge and power that is the Light's counterpart, as close to it as the indrawing of breath to the outdrawing. I would be happy to continue your instruction."

The Shadow. Some of the magic Tascha knew it – she had used it during her fight with the gnolls. But in general her teachers stressed how dangerous it was. Life is a dance, Brother Kristoff had said once during a lecture, and the Light is the music we move to.

Shadow-magic left her feeling unpartnered, with two left feet.

"Your offer is very kind," Tascha said, "but I've no aptitude."

Lady Malande looked at her. "Ah," she said at last. "Well, perhaps that can be changed." She smiled and began walking again. "My lord informs me you assisted in both the library and the infirmary in the Cathedral of Light. Unfortunately, at this time, it wouldn't be safe to permit you access to the Temple's library. Your assistance in our infirmary would be minor things -- bandage-making, inventory and the like – to offset your more rigorous instruction. Lord Illidan is aware that incessant training does more harm than good, and that students need other activities to occupy their time."

"I see." Some things never changed. Choice placements dangled in front of possible allies, long-desired privileges offered to the lower orders in exchange for future favors – the backbone of political wrangling. In her case, the chance to leave her 'birdcage' in exchange for minor menial tasks. What Lady Malande would gain from it? More of the Betrayer's favor, the opportunity to one-up the rest of his advisors?

"Not yet, but you will soon. Ah, here we are." Lady Malande stopped before a crystalline door, placed her palm where a doorknob would be. The door slid to one side, and she gestured Tascha inside.

"Our apothecary," she explained. Unnecessarily – the odors struck Tascha at once. "You have one like it in the Cathedral?"

"Nothing like this," Tascha breathed, somewhat dazed. Theirs would have fit in here three times over, and Shaina would possibly kill for this much shelving space. Distilling equipment, work tables fully outfitted with chopping boards, scales and measuring spoons and eyedroppers, knives and burners, barrels and bins of herbs fresh and dried.

Lady Malande led her further in, pausing at one of the work tables. "Samir, here, is starting on a sungrass infusion –"

"That's not sungrass," Tascha said automatically. "It's Khadagar's Whisker. Sungrass is sweeter. It's not an infusion, and he hasn't started, this is the second stage of a poison-neutralizing ointment." She smiled. "You can tell by the sort-of licorice undertone."

Both blood elves stared at her.

"Your…guest is correct, Lady," Samir replied. He looked perturbed. "The sungrass is finished. This is the first of the neutralizer batches."

Lady Malande looked thoughtful. "You are able to do this – discern its properties and stage in processing – with any herb?"

"With the ones I know, yes."

"Indeed. Shall we put your skills to the test?"

What followed was less a test than an interrogation. Lady Malande grilled her on every bit of greenery in the chamber: what was this one's use, when did was it picked for best efficiency, was it used dried or fresh? The majority Tascha knew; some she did not, and admitted it. Finally Lady Malande stopped, and turned to her.

"Lord Illidan said you told him you worked in the infirmary. Why didn't you tell him of this?"

"Lord Illidan didn't ask."

Silence.

"Rolling bandages or counting bed sheets would be a waste of your talents. I believe Lord Illidan would allow you to work here, should you ask. Through me, of course."

"I'll have to think about it."

"Not too long, I hope." The smile Lady Malande gave her was warm and friendly and utterly false. "But now, I believe it is time for you to return to your quarters. Dinner will be served soon. Perhaps you'll have an answer by then." A light touch on Tascha's shoulder, the familiar surge of shielding magic. "There. That will make your walk back more enjoyable."

A trio of blood elves – blood knights, by their armor – provided her escort this time. The path they took was just as confusing as before. Thanks to Malande's spell the Temple's aura didn't affect her, and Tascha was able to ponder the Lady's parting words. She was still mulling them over when the birdcage's door closed behind her.

A deadline. Malande wanted an answer as soon as possible. Attempts to stall wouldn't work.

Tascha sank down on her bed and rubbed her eyes. She didn't want to work in the apothecary, and that was that. Lady Malande wouldn't take kindly to a "no" but if the Betrayer valued her as much as he professed to, he'd keep his advisor in check.

Wouldn't he?

Help me

Tascha's head snapped up. "What?"
Help me please.

A voice. In her head? "Who are you? What do you want?" Was this a trick, a trap from Illidan or Malande?

Lycandaul.

"You're dead!"

I know. The sensation of hysterical laugher. I displeased Mother Sharazz, and she decided to amuse herself. Sealed me in. I starved.

Tascha glanced at where the door to her 'cage' had been, then the alcove leading to the necessary, and shuddered in revulsion. That explained things. "Why aren't you…" she trailed off, not knowing what afterlife blood elves possessed.

Can't leave room – the Shrine of Lost Souls will consume me. A feeling of terror shot through her. Not her own, Tascha, realized, but his.

Something occurred to her. "Why didn't you talk to me before?"

Tried. You didn't hear me. Free me. A draenei priestess lived here once. She performed rites in private. Only reason I escaped the Shrine. More terror, the sensation of a shudder. A ghost of her power remains. You're a priest. Use it.

He wanted … what? An exorcism? Something else? "I've never done any such thing. I don't know how!"

Try. Please. Pleading.

"It may take time."

All I have is time. Humor now, dark and despairing. Don't care. I'll help you. I know things about the Temple. About Illidan. Help me!

Tascha ran a hand through her hair. Every instinct screamed it was wrong – unspeakably, horribly wrong – to let someone suffer like this. But she wasn't trained in dealing with the dead; she knew the theories, but practical, hands-on knowledge was beyond her. What power she had was laughable in the face of the forces that permeated the Black Temple. Illidan hadn't done anything to prevent Lycandaul's agonizing death. He must have approved. Perhaps Lycandaul's ghostly state was known, too, just another part of his torture. Ignoring him was the smart, sensible thing to do.

And yet…

Red lines glowed on the opposite wall. Tascha fell silent as the door reappeared, and Romaria stepped through. . She watched as a second black-and-red clad servant wheeled in a cart laden with dishes, unload them onto the table, and leave. Romaria looked her up and down.

"Lady Malande sends her regards, and wishes an answer."

She didn't want to do this. But she couldn't do anything else and live with herself-- however short her life might be, if she were caught. .

"Tell Lady Malande my answer is yes."