The two men descended slowly down a flight of stone stairs.  Far below the surface, their path was lit only by a globe of un-wavering flame held by the smaller of the two men, and the accompanying screams of the madmen and women who "resided" in the House of Broken Dreams.

     

      The two men made an odd pair - as odd as their surroundings.  The taller of the two men was beefy and muscular, with unkempt black hair and clothes that bespoke his station as turnkey and jailor.  His mud-brown eyes and pasty olive skin declared him a Madragan, though where his loyalties lay was anyone’s guess.  He looked as if he'd been working the House of Broken Dreams for many years, and it showed in his face, and the short cudgel he carried.

 

      The other man was an atypical Valdan, with a short build, and blonde hair the color of summer straw.   He was younger than the Madragan, and although most Valdan’s towered over their neighbours to the east, he was shorter by a good half-foot - but his personal presence made him seem taller in some way.  He carried himself well, with an aura of one used to wielding power and command, that went beyond his mere physical presence.   His clothes were richly adorned - velvets and fine wool, dyed red, topped with a fine white mantle, and a belt of golden cord, as was appropriate for his station as a Priest of Isundal, God of the Sun.  He wore finely tooled, fur-lined leather boots and his hands were covered with fur-trimmed leather gloves.  While one hand held the globe of un-wavering magelight, the other covered his mouth and nose with a scented cloth.

 

      The two strange companions arrived at the bottom of the steps, after passing numerous landings, and came face to face with a sturdy oaken door.

 

      "This woman - the one snooping about, the one you drugged - she is beyond this door?"  The shorter, perfumed man asked; he had to remove his scented handkerchief from his face to speak clearly, and the smell hit him like a hammer.  He coughed and choked, shaken visibly by the stench.

 

      "Yes, your Grace.  Are you well?"

     

      The man nodded after a moment.  “Open it.  I would speak with our unwelcome guest.”

 

      Inside the cell, the first thing they noticed was the stench of fresh vomit, urine and excrement.   Hanging from four metal cuffs was a mature woman with long black hair and light woollen clothes, both fouled in her body's wastes.  She moaned, and rolled her head, oblivious to the two men.

 

      "Is she awake?"  The short man asked in harsh voice.

 

      "We'll soon see, your Grace."  The turnkey said, reaching for a pail of filthy water.  "Sometimes the Dreamers, they pull people in.  Especially the weak or weakened; they start sharing the things they see.  Some go mad because of it, if they aren't mad already.  And I gave her enough audorin root to drug a horse."  The Turnkey took the filthy water, and splashed it over the woman's face and torso, washing some of the vile smelling stuff away, and leaving her face a dark greasy smear in the magelight, and her green and brown woollen clothes even more of a sodden mess.

 

      "Wake up, you!"  The turnkey barked.  After a moment, he slapped her across the face, hard.  "No luck, your Grace.  The Dreamers have her now, and she might not wake for hours, or be sane when she does."

 

      "Then I suppose we do this the hard way.  Good. I always did like the hard way better.”  The richly clad man put his handkerchief away, and looked over the wretched woman chained to the wall before him.   She didn’t look like much.  “This will take some time.  Remain here, and be quiet until I am finished."

 

      The turnkey grinned; he liked the "hard way" too.  "Yes your grace.  I will be here for you, should you need me."  He tapped his short cudgel against the palm of his free hand, smiling nastily.

 

      "I hardly think a drugged woman in chains is going to require your club, turnkey, but still, I might have a use for it anyway.  Now be silent."  Slowly, the Priest sank into a light trance, and began to concentrate.  Slowly his consciousness expanded, at first to take in the small cell, and then to include the turnkey and the shackled woman.  Blocking the turnkey's thoughts from his mind, he began the focus on the woman - she called herself Maeve.  Maeve Varda?  He thought.  Who else would the Council send?   The Priest had never met Maeve, but he knew her from reputation, and for the Council of Bishops to send Maeve Varda to investigate the House of Broken Dreams, meant that the Council knew - or suspected - more than he would like.  They may have even begun to suspect him, which was not good news.  Her thoughts began to spill into his mind as he began to filter through the mix of madness and clear thought, searching out what he needed.  Now, he thought.  It's only a matter of time.

 

*          *          *

     

      “Ladies of Mercy, Help me!”  Maeve cried to the other mind.  “Please, help me!”  She could sense him - she thought it was a ‘him’, at least.  There was no answer, and the contact was broken.

 

      Damn!  She thought, and then the group-madness of the mage-born Dreamers swept her away.  The world seemed, for a moment, to cease to be, and time and distance seemed to have little relevance.  She thought she could hear their minders through the swirling chaos, the Dreamers caretakers, Lady Delirium's priests and priestesses.  And in this case, also the Hserinyar, the priests of Hrask.

 

            At first, she found herself floating in a starry void - a cold, seemingly empty place devoid of everything but starlight.  It was different from the Void she found when she first learned the magic of Words.   Although at first it seemed empty, she slowly realized this void was filled with meanings and beings she might never guess to understand; invisible beings that seemed inimical to everything she had ever loved and believed in.  She didn't know how she knew all this - she just did.  Perhaps the Dreamers knew it? 

 

      She felt her bones turn to ice as these same beings began to turn their attention upon her.  They were invisible, but gave off a presence of size, and strength.  They were vast, and perhaps innumerable, and their gaze felt like fire.  It seemed to burn, burn as if the marrow of her bones was melting or she was being dipped in molten bronze.  They were very terrifying and cold, and she could tell they hated her; hated her life, hated the fact she existed.  They came closer then, and although she couldn't see them, she felt and heard what could only be claws - ice cold claws - against her neck.  Paralysed with fear, she did the only thing she could - she screamed - and then the void was gone, and she was elsewhere.

 

      Afternoon sunlight drifted into the long, high-ceilinged room from narrow windows set even higher up on the stone and stucco walls.  The sunlight was caught in the dust in the air, and glowed, almost from within, as if the dust itself glowed.  It lay in pools around people, men and women, boys and girls, young and old.  They were lying in beds - row after row of them - beside which were men and women, whispering to each of them, in a strange and meaningless tongue.  She realized these must be the Dreamers.

    

      Maeve knew what everyone knew about the Dreamers - that it was some sort of sleeping-illness, that it could happen to anyone, male or female, and that it usually affected the young, around the age of puberty.  One day, your child is a young, vital person growing into an adult, and then he or she never wakes from their night’s sleep.  In Valris, they called Dreamers "Children of the Goddess," and gave them to the Goddesses' temple to be cared for.  Except for here - in the House of Broken Dreams.   In Madragoor they were Dreamers, and were given to the care of private sanatoriums, such as this place.  In Iranor, they were considered cursed and sometimes left on the scorching dunes to die.  They very rarely lived past forty years of age, even when well cared for.

 

      The Dreamer’s illness only affected humans - never Wolfen or Harvon, and certainly not the Hserites.  From what Maeve had heard, the Dreamer illness was unheard of from the Stoneborn as well.  It was strange that the Dreamers illness never touch the other races of Mercia, and was a mystery that remained unsolved since the dawn of their recorded history.  Whatever the illness was, it was incurable by even magical means, and its effects were all too plain.  A Dreamer would often talk at random - meaningless babble, really - in some unknown tongue.  They never woke up, even when chilled, burned, poked or prodded, even if done unto death. 

 

      Maeve had heard tales - horrific tales - of what some people had done to their loved ones, frantic to have them awaken and resume their life.  These same people who couldn't accept that illness had stolen their child, their sibling, or their friend, and performed terrible acts on their loved one's body in the hopes of shocking them out of their perpetual trance.  It had never happened to her or her family, but it was still a terrifying thought.  Maeve hoped herself to one day to have a husband, and children too, and the fear that one of her children might be a Dreamer was a constant fear; it wasn't until a child reached twenty years of age that the danger was thought to be over.  Certainly, Maeve had never heard of anyone that age succumbing to the Dreaming.

 

      Still, she thought, that doesn't explain where I am.  It should be the middle of the night, shouldn't it?  Am I crazy?  Or is this some of what the Dreamers see?  She moved towards one of the beds, to ask one - odd, because the Dreamers never moved, and never spoke except in their sing-song babble.  

 

      As she approached the bed, she got a good look at a Dreamer.  He was young, about 25, and male, with the bronzed skin of an Anorian.  One of the few that survived the desert, she guessed.  His hair was black, which was common amongst that desert people, and his minders had kept him clean-shaven.

 

      It shocked her when he spoke to her. 

 

      Unmoving except for his mouth, he spoke clearly.  "You all come to us, Maeve.  Everyone comes to us in the end." 

 

      Maeve didn't know what he meant - but the tone of the young man shook her.  It sounded like it already knew.

 

      The Anorian Dreamer rose suddenly, as if a puppet on invisible strings, his mouth opening to reveal row after row of serrated teeth.  His jaws were unnaturally, inhumanly large and his slavering, disfigured maw spewed forth both bilious green ooze and trickles of blood.  His eyes began to seep blood, and suddenly burst like squashed grapes, and added their own ichor to the ooze dribbling down the inhuman creatures' cheeks.

 

      Shrieking, Maeve reached for her shortsword, and clutched at air, her reflex action winning over her memory of being disarmed several days ago.  The toothy horror rose from its bed to approach her, his vile maw slavering and almost splitting the head of the dreamer in two with its inhuman jaws. 

 

      Maeve stepped back, out of his - its - reach.  "How do you know my name?  What do you mean, in the end, or all of us?  What in the Goddesses name is going on?"

 

      Maeve stepped back, almost tripping on another Dreamer's bed, when it too arose from its un-natural sleep.  This one was a girl - a red-headed Valdan beauty, whose sweet, husky voice was totally out of place in her lamprey-like, toothy, sucking maw.  Her hands outstretched also had lamprey-mouths, and when she spoke, it came from all three mouths at once - in a kind of horrific chorus. 

 

      "We live in you, Maeve, in all of you.  But most of all, we live in the weak - the weak and the wounded.   You belong to us, Maeve...  Just ask your brother."

 

      "Nile?  What do you mean!?  Nile is dead, dead these last four years."  Maeve's world spun, as she remembered her brother's death.  "You can't have him - he's gone."

 

      By now, maybe six or eight of the Dreamers had arisen from their beds, and now they spoke as one.  "Gone, maybe, but his fears, his anger, it lives with us now.  We are a part of him, and he of us.  And of you too Maeve...  Do you remember your fear or your anger... your hate?"   Unbidden, the memories of that horrific day came rushing back in a flood, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

 

      It was summer, and Maeve and her brother Nile were walking across the cobble-stone square to meet their mother Gillian, after her days' work at the Courthouse.  Their mother Gillian had worn Magistrates' Black for 14 years - almost all of Niles life.  Maeve wore an embroidered blue cotton dress, which she had decorated herself in her time off, and carried a basket of fruit, bread, and meat she had bought at the market.  Nile wore the standard kilt most children wore in Valris, as well as a light brown linen shirt, stained green from the grass where they had taken their lunch.

 

      Although it was late in the day, the sun was still far from setting, and people passed everywhere in the town square, heading to and fro.  Suddenly, the crowd parted to reveal a man - a Hserite man who had obviously fallen to the Call - indeed, had been swept away by it.  His skin was brownish-green, and scaled like a lizard's, and his tongue, although once human, was now forked.  Those who fell to the Call of Hrask frequently became as such, and were known as the Fallen.

 

      He was dressed in heavy garb - brown breeches and knee-length boots, a light brown woollen shirt, and a full cloak.  Maeve clutched for her short, leaf-bladed sword, and realized she had left it at home, along with her pistol and other weapons.  Unfortunately, the cloaked man had not. 

 

      In Maeve's seven years as an investigator - some said spy - for the Askelinian church, she had made some powerful enemies.  The Rillian Fey wanted her dead for infiltrating their Court and carrying away sensitive information.  The Imoden of the Yaskar Harvon wanted her dead for defiling the burial sites of their dead ancestors with her presence.  And not the least of which, the Hserites wanted her dead for both reasons, and for stealing an Al'keran from a Hserite priest.

 

      Al'keran were as rare as Dragon's teeth, for that was what they were - carefully sculpted, enruned, and enchanted - but still basically a Dragon's tooth.  That particular tooth had been taken millennia ago from a baby dragon, and now long thought dead, but whose holiness and power lived on in its grisly relics.   She had turned over the Al'keran to the Church, and then forgotten about it.  Until today.

     

      Disdaining the use of magic, the Fallen raised a silvered pistol - she could still see the inlay, the decorative gold enhancements, and the polished cherry wood grip.  Maeve tried to shove Nile away from her, but there was no time.  The pistol fired, and its deadly dart flew towards her - until Nile shoved her rudely away, saving her life - but ending his own.

 

      The Hserite killer turned and fled, his cloak billowing out behind him.  Maeve screamed, and grabbed at Nile, his body already falling to the ground.  She plucked at the five-inch long dart of steel in his chest, and saw its poisoned tip.  Nile's lifesblood pumped from his chest's wound all over her, but he was already dead.  When Maeve had the presence of mind to try and pursue the killer, he was already gone, and beyond magical means to find.

 

      That bullet was meant for me!  Her heart screamed at the unfairness of what had happened.  It was her enemy - he should have taken her, not poor Nile.  She cried out loud the fears and sorrow of her heart, and was soon joined by her Mother and other officers of the Court.   Later, she claimed that he hadn't spoken a word, had said nothing - but somehow, the Dreamers knew the truth.  They knew what he said, and it burned her very soul.  "We take back what is ours, Maeve Varda."  The Fallen said, his lingering sibilance ever present.  "The day is coming, we will take back everything.  Interfere again, and others you care about will suffer - suffer beyond all imagining."

 

      It was after that, that Maeve lost her faith.

 

      "And it was then you became ours, Maeve."  The shock of their horrible speech brought her back, out of her reverie and back into the real world - or at least the world within the minds of the Dreamers.

 

      "You sick bastards!  How could you know that?  I told no one!  No one!"  Maeve cried the last two words, tears pouring down her cheeks.

 

      "We told you, Maeve.  The weak, and the wounded."  By now, there were at least a hundred of the horrific Dreamers standing about her, wailing their speech from ruined, fanged mouths, and other horrific orifices.  It was too much.  Maeve screamed, and ran.

 

      As she ran, it seemed as if the floor fell away from beneath her feet, and she felt herself fall, and be swept away.  Her stomach churned at the speed she seemed to be moving.  Don't black out.  She thought.  If you black out, you'll either die or go mad.   She didn't realize that it was already too late.

 

      Maeve's swift movement suddenly slowed, and she found herself stumbling along the ground and chained by the wrists, in a line of what seemed to be slaves or prisoners being marched across a large cobbled square towards an enormous stone pyramid - a Temple Ziggurat.  The dry heat hit her like a hammer after Valris' temperate but wet winter, and she could feel her cold sweats instantly dry, and her skin begin to warm under the light wool clothes she had been wearing. 

 

      I'm in Hserin.  Great Lady of Mercy, I'm in Hserin.  Maeve was rudely jerked from her reverie by the lash of a whip that cut through her brown wool shirt and opened up her back like a knife, and a cuff to the head that left her dazed and dizzy.   She screamed in pain, and was rudely jerked out of line.  Voices chattered, and she felt her manacles being opened, before she was thrown to the ground before a short Valdan man, dressed in the garb of a priest - a Bishop - of Isundal.

 

 

      Still stunned by the force of the head blow, she lay on the hot cobblestones of the square, her eyes trying to focus, and her brain trying to concentrate on what was happening.  What in the Seven Hells is going on?  Why is this happening to me?  This can’t be happening!

 

      Maeve felt herself being picked up by two burly men, and half-walked, half-carried up the side of the vast pyramid.  Her head ached, her back hurt - all she wanted to do was sleep, but even that was denied her.  As she climbed, her head cleared, and she looked around.

 

      She was climbing - being dragged, rather - up a huge stepped pyramid, at least 10 times the height of a man.  From the near-summit of the pyramid, Maeve could see row after row of what seemed to be slaves, Human, Wolfen, and Harvon being dragged, whipped, and marched towards the very pyramid she was ascending.  They looked like ants, and they were fighting every step of the way.

 

      Suddenly, she realized why they were fighting.  The pyramid was undeniably a vast temple, and the Hserinyar worshipped dark gods - the greatest of which was Hrask and his mate, the lost Tiamat, and their altars were always hungry.  I am NOT going to die on an Altar to Hrask!  She thought.  I'll kill myself first!   She struggled, trying to escape the grasp of her captors, but the two men carrying her upwards had grips like iron, and she moved inexorably upward.  When she reached the top of the ziggurat, she saw the grisly remains of those that had come before her, and smelled the stench of burning flesh. 

 

      Bald-headed priests of Hrask were cutting the hearts out of their still-living sacrifices, and burning the bloody organs with incense on pyres as they prayed to their horrific God.  Burly temple servants grabbed the corpses from the mounds where they were piled, and tossed them down through a circular shaft at the pyramid's top.  As Maeve was dragged over to the sacrificial altar, she caught a glimpse of what the Hserinyar were tossing the bodies to, and if she had been afraid before, she was terrified by what she saw.

 

      At the bottom of the shaft were two huge, winged reptilian forms waiting, sleek and deadly, to devour the bodies of those thrown from above.  Baby Dragons? Maeve thought.  Impossible!  They must be the Dragon-Steeds.  What else could they be?  There hasn't been a baby Dragon born for over 300 years, let alone two!

 

      Then Maeve was pulled away from her view, and thrown rudely onto the blood-soaked altar, and she realized the danger she was in.  As the two men who carried her up the Pyramid grappled her arms, two others grabbed her legs.  As she struggled, she cried out a prayer, but there was no one there to answer.  She had given up her faith the day her brother died.   Just Hrask's priests and their bloody knives.  She closed her eyes as the knife fell, and prayed, regardless.  The world lurched.

 

      Without warning, Maeve found herself back in the cell in the House of Broken Dreams.  The Priest - no, the Bishop - from her vision of Hserin was there, holding a ball of unwavering magical light.  There was a poorly dressed, burly, mush-faced lackey carrying a short but heavy looking club with him, and he carried a flask of liquid.  There was a foul taste in her mouth - sometime during the Dreamer's ordeal she had vomited, and embarrassingly, she could feel her fouled lower extremities as well.  The smell made her gag.

 

      "Ah.  I see you are back among us."  The Bishop said in cultured tones.  "You were away for a while, with the Dreamers."

 

      "Who are you?" Maeve demanded.

 

      "My name is Vargas Elm.  I am also the person who pulled you back from the brink of insanity, and who awakened you from your nightmarish dream.  You will refer to me as Milord, or the jailer here will feed you your teeth."

 

      Maeve gritted her teeth, and looked at the Turnkey with the cudgel.  He smiled, and hefted his club, looking all too eager to do the Bishop's bidding.  "Yes Milord."  She muttered, her anger growing.  "May I ask why you bothered to save me after I was beaten, drugged, and then imprisoned here, Milord?"  Maeve was fairly sure she already knew the answer.

 

      "I'm sure you can guess, little spy.  I want information, and I will have it.  You will give it to me freely, and you will go free.  If you make me take it from you, you will suffer horribly before I allow you to die."  He waited for a moment to let the thought sink in. 

 

      He's holding mage-light, so it follows he must be a sorcerer skilled in Sight, as well as Mind if he halted the insanity the Dreamers thrust upon me, Maeve reasoned.  If I tell him what he asks, I may gain a chance to escape and finish my mission.  Hell.  She thought.  Any chance is better than no chance, even if he lied about letting me go free.  "I will answer your questions, Milord."

 

      "Good."  Vargas smiled, but looked to Maeve somewhat disappointed.  "You are Maeve Varda - one of the spies and watchdogs for the Council of Bishops, I believe - that much I was able to drag from your mind.  Why were you sneaking about a Madhouse?  What does the council know - or what does it suspect is going on here?”

 

      Maeve coughed, and gathered her voice.  She tried to say yes, or anything that would sound believable other than the truth, but when she opened her mouth, the words spilled forth in a torrent, and she knew she had been placed under a truth-spell.

 

      "I was investigating a rumor that the Dreamers in Northern Orvan were being studied, but at that point I didn't know by whom.  The Council wanted to know who, and why, and towards what purpose they worked, Milord, but I believe they suspect nothing."

 

      "Ah...  And you have discovered something, I suspect.  What do you know, so far?"   The Bishop stroked his short goatee with one hand, scowling. 

 

      "I know that the followers of Lady Delirium are for some reason taking orders from agents of the Hserinyar, and that you, Milord Bishop are one of the Hserinyar's agents - which is enough to have you all put to death if I get free."  Maeve grimaced "... but I doubt I'll ever see the open sky again, at least not while I still live." 

 

      "I promised you will be free, Maeve Varda - as free as a bird.  If you answer my questions, you will find that although you may find me reprehensible, I keep my promises.   Your speech is odd - you are not Madragan by birth, are you?"

 

      "Both Valdan and Madragan, Milord.  My father emigrated to Valris many years ago.  I have been in Madragoor for many years though, and know it as well or better than my homeland."  Maeve thought back to her youth in Valris; the rolling, mist covered hills and deep forests.  Valris was a beautiful country, with a frontier rustic charm that Madragoor lacked, locked in its focus of gathering wealth at all costs as it was.  At the moment, she didn’t think she would live long enough to see either of her homelands again.

 

      "You are an Askelinian, then?"  Vargas asked.  "You follow the Lord Skyblind, and the Ladies of Mercy?  What did you expect to find in the house of Lady Delirium?"

           

      "I used to be an Askelinian, and proud of it."  Maeve's heart quailed as she heard the truth.  "Now I'm just a spy for the Church."  Maeve swallowed some of the foul bile that had remained in her mouth, and cleared her throat.  "I didn't know what to expect here, but it seems like I've walked into a nest of snakes."  Maeve sneered.  "If we are to exchange pleasantries, Milord, may I ask why you wear the garb of our faith, and why the Hserinyar are interested in with the Dreamers?"

 

      "You may ask. I am nominally a Bishop of Isundal, and a member of the Council, albeit one not currently in favor.  But as one grows older and advancing age begins to creep up upon a person, one’s priorities begin to change.  Let us just say the Hserinyar offered me what the Council of Bishops and the Askelinian faith could not, and leave it at that.  Now... what do you know?"  Vargas looked like he was losing his patience, but still remained calm.

 

      Maeve tried to resist, to hold back at least a little information - something that might give her an edge, should she escape, but could not.  Damn that truth-spell!   She found herself babbling everything she knew.

 

      "I know the Hserinyar and the servants of Lady Delerium in Orvan are for some unknown reason working together, though I don't know why.   They seem to be attempting to gather here all the Mageborn Dreamers they can find, under the guise of normal Madhouses, where ill Dreamers would normally be sent."  She took a breath, and continued.  "The priests and priestesses whisper to the Dreamers, and listen to their sing-song babble, and then some of the Dreamers disappear - the Mageborn ones - end up here, in the House of Broken Dreams."

 

      The Bishop smiled nastily. "Then you know very little, Maeve Varda.  Shall I tell you the whole story?  Perhaps another time, I think.  Suffice it to say that we are close - very close - to achieving total victory over the Gods of Men.  Turnkey, dose her with some of that audorin root elixir you brought with you.  I don't want her leaving this cell before I speak with the mistress of the House.  The rituals must continue."

 

      "Yes Your Grace."  The turnkey nodded, and withdrew a vial of liquid from a leather belt pouch, and advanced on Maeve.

 

      "What happened to going free if I answered your questions?"  Maeve said, trying to turn her head away from the turnkey and his vial of drugged liquor. 

 

      The turnkey grabbed her head with the hand with the vial, and punched her hard in the stomach with his other.  As Maeve gasped in pain, he grabbed her head roughly, held it upright, and quickly poured the contents of the vial down her throat, holding her nose and jaw closed until she swallowed. 

 

      Maeve coughed, trying to hack up the vile substance, and tried to speak, but couldn't.  I am in serious trouble here, she thought.  What in the Goddess's names am I going to do?

 

      "Turnkey," Vargas said.  "I want you to make sure she doesn't leave this room, for the rest of her miserable life.  She is to remain here until the day she dies - and you may use her in any fashion you wish."

 

      The turnkey grunted, and smiled - he was missing more than a few teeth.  "Yes, Your Grace - thank you, Your Grace."  He leered at Maeve and she felt scared of what the next few days might bring.

 

      "I will leave you with this, Maeve Varda, since you will not be leaving this house alive.  I am looking for something - something only the Mageborn Dreamers can find for me.  We seek Hrask's Mate - The lost Tiamat."

 

      Maeve's stomach lurched at the words, and she nearly vomited, again.   "But how...?   What happened to 'I keep my promises' you bastard!?"  Maeve yelled at the sorcerer garbed as a priest - a priest of her own faith.  "As free as a bird!"  Maeve didn't expect him to answer, but he turned to her and smiled.

 

      "I hear there is great freedom, in madness.  Enjoy your freedom while you have it, Maeve Varda."  Vargas took his scented cloth, and covered his mouth once again.  "Come turnkey, we have a long climb ahead of us, and I must speak with the Mistress of the House."

 

      Maeve hung from her chains as the door closed, and the light drifted away with the footsteps of the Bishop and the Turnkey, leaving her once again in darkness.  Lost Tiamat!  Great Goddess - if Hrask is ever reunited with his mate, it would be disastrous.  It could be the end of everything!   Anxiously, she once again tried her bonds - and once again she was unable to move.   I have to get out of here!  She thought.  Think! 

 

      Maeve thought of plan after plan, discarding them all - the drug induced haze of the audorin root was making her confused and dizzy - and what good were her powers when she was drugged anyway?  She couldn't move - so what good were her vaunted skills?  Neither were worth a damn, at the moment.  All she could do was wait for a chance to escape; one would come - the only question was would it come in time?

 

      Maeve hung there, in the darkness for what seemed like hours, drifting into and out of consciousness, when her weakened senses once again sensed the wave of mental anguish projected by the Dreamers.  At first it lingered around the back of her head like a stealthy watcher, just barely noticed.  Soon, though it built in strength, and she could feel it pressing against her mind.  She tried to resist, but it was impossible - she was too drugged, and too weak.

 

            Suddenly, the cell was gone and Maeve was falling, from a great height.  She knew, somehow, deep inside she was still sane, but whether this was real, or some magically inflicted illusion she couldn't say.

 

      It was night again, and Maeve could see two of Mercia's three moons in the sky; the bright amber-red flame of Thuria, and the mist coloured silver glow of Doviar, the middling moon.  Maeve felt cool wind whip past her face, and clutch at her clothes and long black hair, and realized she was falling from a great height, and she could hear the whispering of the Dreamers in her mind, even over the scream of the wind.

 

      Taking a quick glance down, she saw a rough coastline, narrowing to a deep harbour next to a port city.  Well, I'm still in Valris.  That's a relief I guess; It could have been Rillian, or Madragoor.  It was only then she realized how high she was, and felt her gorge rise.   She gritted her teeth against the cold, and continued falling.  I wonder if I'll die instantly?  She thought, struggling to not give into the madness of her situation.  No!  It was impossible!  "I can't die here!  I'm chained in a cell!" she screamed, the uncaring wind whipping her words away as she said them.

 

      She fell, and fell, and the wind carried her inland, somewhat north of the city, and Maeve realized that simply wishing it so was not going to end this waking nightmare.  She saw an open field where a farmer had been growing corn, the green stalks and yellow ears rustling in the wind.  I never expected to die on a farm, she thought, and then all thought left as she hit ground. 

 

      She could feel bones snapping, and her insides rupturing, but like it was happening to someone else, like a shadow superimposed over her.  It was odd; the duality of the pain - happening to her, and also to someone else - and then it was over.  As she lay there on the ground, bloody and broken, she had one last thought before blackness overtook her.  Funny.  She thought.  I thought dying would hurt more.

 

*          *          *

 

      As Bishop Vargas Elm climbed up the long stairs from the lower dungeons, he mused on what had just happened.   Maeve Varda’s presence meant that the Council of Bishops must be suspicious, which means I have precious little time remaining.  Either I will find Lost Tiamat in the next few weeks - preferably sooner - or I will have to flee Valris in failure.  He shuddered a bit, for his Hserinyar masters did not hesitate to show their displeasure to those who failed at their given tasks.   For a moment his mind pondered the various tortures and dark fates that might be his if he did not succeed - and discarded them equally as quickly - his dark arts had shown him the reward to be given to him and Mistress Awai by Hrask himself, should he succeed.    We would be young again.  I will have might beyond all comprehension, and together Awai and I will have Hrask’s favor, and be his Hands upon this world.  Awai will glory in the fear and madness that will descend upon the lands of Men, and I will glory in the power Hrask bestows upon me.  Our love will change the fate of Mercia and shape its future to our will!   Bishop Vargas gloried in the fantasy for a moment, and then continued the long climb, wrapped in his faith and fanaticism, dreaming of dark futures to come.