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[Church II] Compendium II  March 1996-March 1996
                               Politi
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Alone at last in his dark tower room Blayne hissed in agony. 
The pain of his magic was almost too much to bear, 
especially when  it must remain a secret. His eyes burned 
red as he lost control of himself. Claws blackened from use  
splayed out from dead white hands.  Attacking himself as he 
could not anyone else, Blayne tore gaping black wounds in 
his body with the blind frenzy of one pushed too far. 

An uncertain time later Blayne collapsed to the stone floor 
exhausted. The pain inside him retreated to a dull throb, 
replaced by external pain that he could tolerate more easily. 
Slowly his wounds closed as if they had never been. Black 
ichor ceased to drip onto the floor and the red receded from 
his eyes. Once more an elf in appearance Blayne lifted his 
head. There across the room, barely visible in the darkness 
floated the ghostly outline of a  surprised, handsome woman 
watching him .

Blayne's unearthly handsome features twisted into a rictus 
of anger and hatred. The ghost woman, one of the Mothers 
named Isobel,  started to sink through the floor but wasn't 
quick enough. Glistening wards of electric blue arced into 
being, sealing the room.  When  Isobel wheeled to seek 
another exit it was to find Blayne directly in front of her. 

Hatred won out over the woman's fear. Objects around the 
room were swept into the air as if caught in a hurricane. 
Blayne lashed out, deflecting a sword that had hung on the 
wall. His claws ripped through the ghost with no apparent 
effect. The ghost screamed in pain anyway  and her attack 
faltered.

Blayne slashed at her hazy form again and chanted a short 
spell. The woman screamed as if burning alive although that 
was impossible. Desperately she threw a heavy chest at the 
Dark Guard. The wooden box disintegrated into a thousand 
splinters, momentarily distracting the Grand Inquisitor in his 
assault. Ichor seeped from  a thousand wounds where 
splinters had gored him.  Isobel laughed outright at her 
successful attack, knowing now what his weakness was.

Blayne bared his fangs in a hiss of rage. The room burst into 
flames, instantly consuming everything flammable. His elven 
skin blackened from the heat and flaming splinters driving 
into his flesh. The stench of burning ichor was incredible. 
Unable to see through the firestorm, Isobel darted for the 
door and freedom.  Looking for Kit she'd found something 
even better. Unfortunately for her, Blayne's wards held.

Blayne chanted another spell. As the heavy sounding words 
rolled over her Isobel felt her remaining self being ripped to 
pieces. Her screams of pain echoed off of blackened stone 
walls with each syllable he spoke. With a final, long, drawn 
out wail of agony Isobel's ghost form hovered in the center 
of the room, arching to escape the inevitable, and then she 
was gone forever. 

Blayne grimaced from the pain of his wounds. With a 
gesture the scorched splinters fell out of his body. Another 
gesture and he was again the handsome elf lord of an hour 
ago.  

Blayne released the wards and clad in a singed, makeshift 
breech clout, opened the door . Ignoring the goggling stares 
of the acolytes on duty and the Inquisitors summoned to 
break down the door, Blayne addressed the  Captain of 
Inquisitors . "There has been a breach of security Captain, 
but I have dealt with the intruder. Send for another outfit 
for me and some women to clean my chambers. I will be 
speaking with the Proctor if he is available."

Blayne's bare feet padded silently down the hall, away from 
the curious looks of the acolytes. He did not truly need to 
speak with the Proctor, he needed privacy.  His insides 
gnawed at his soul again from the power he had used on the 
ghost. Although no expression showed on his face, his skin 
burned from the pin pricks of the splinters as if he were still 
a mere vampire and had wandered outside by mistake on a 
cloudy day. 

His report completed and dressed once again, Blayne 
descended to the Church dungeons where prisoners waited 
for trial or Cleansing. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

The Grand Inquisitor left the cells much revived. His wounds were
healed with the blood of many prisoners. His power restored
Blayne felt it time to renew his duties.

His room smelled strongly of lye when he arrived. The floor was
damp in places from being scrubbed clean. There was no furniture
yet but it would serve his purposes.

Blayne locked the door behind him and warded it. Setting up
candles in a pattern, he sat in their center and let his
consciousness roam throughout Montfort. It was nearly dawn and the
Vampires had retreated for the night. Other things he noticed in
passing, but it was the Weavers' House that drew him now.

He examined the wards around the place from all angles and then
pushed against one of the threads. More force to dislodge even
one thread.
--Phaedra Whitlock

At the first tentative touch, Kallin had immediately thought
of Demetrius.  -May have to start locking that boy in his room at
night,- he thought with a sigh.  But in an instant, it was
obvious to him that the probe of the wardings around the House
came from outside -- and from something or someone of much
greater power than the Politi's newest student.

A <push>.  Kallin was up and out of his room, speeding
down the halls before he even realized it, his heart racing.
Another <push>, harder now, something hungry sniffing around the
protections binding the House.  By this time, doors up and down
the hall were opening, the other Politi spilling out of their
rooms.  Deanna, her eyes wide with sudden fear.
--Rebecca Ward

Lucc had awakened Morrighu to tell her of Kit's capture. She had called 
Elenia to her and three were discussing what needed to be done 
when she heard/felt something strong and ancient pressing near. 
She sent the ghosts to guard Gwion, and began to follow its movements.
--Cathy Mosley

Kallin started feeding his own energies into the wards
before his bare feet hit the mosaic.  ::Wait!:: Lanaera's
voice stopped him, before he could activate it.  He turned to see
the other two master weavers behind her; all three were afire to
his mage-sight.  ::The north wing,:: she said quickly, as if he
needed to be reminded it was, for the most part, wholly unwarded.

Another <push>, and Lanaera herself called the mosaic awake.
She and the other two masters seized the strands, wrapping the
flows about themselves and immediately channeling them, as
quietly as possible into the wardings, weaving.

<push>

Cursing, Kallin sped from the courtyard, feeling the flows
building behind him, moving outwards from the south wing and
expanding.  -Spread too thin,- he thought.  Into the main
courtyard.  The gates were down over the entrance, glimmering
with the low-level wardings that typically covered it.  With a
thought, he grasped the flows Lanaera and the others were feeding
to him and bound them about the doors.  It made him feel only
slightly better; the gossamer sheet tossed over the open skies of
the courtyard, like a smoldering fire over his head, left him
uneasy.  -We're spread too thin.-

<push>

The mind-speech of the others was a low, chattering hum in
the back of his mind.  Awash in colors, Kallin stood in the main
courtyard, poised and waiting.

<push>
--Rebecca Ward

Morrighu went to the Northern courtyard, so not to disturb Gwion.
There she began to sing, and added her strength to the
protecting of the North wing.
--Cathy Mosley

Blayne felt the wards strengthen. Someone was inside....

His astral form bared yellowed fangs in a smile. If they were
weak he could take them now, tonight, and report one less faction
to Proctor John in the morning.

Blayne threw his astral body against the wards with sufficient
force to bring down a lesser wall....
--Phaedra Whitlock

Kallin allowed the threads to bend, a fold in the wardings
that did not yield so much as evade.  The colors <moved> and
coalesced again.  He hesitated only momentarily when unfamiliar
shades seeped from the Northern courtyard, a cold and icy flow;
then, with a grin, he took it, a small tug to Morrighu.  <Here>
and <here>.  Not combined with but complementing the flows from
the mosaic.
--Rebecca Ward

Failing to breach the wards, Blayne retreated a pace. His astral
body turned to face outward. Hands raised as if in benediction,
Blayne intoned words he seldom uttered. Nearby ghosts started to
feel an oddness, a malevolent presence stalking them. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

Walking the 'between' had become Shan's only means of moving about.
It was becoming more natural to him now.  As diviners and oracles,
that's just one of the things the White Wyrms did.  They learned
many things of the astral plane, and Shan was fortunate enough to
get some training.  He even knew some Wa'ari prayers that called
for the aid of spirits.  Even so, he did not know what was coming.
He cast a passage about himself.  Whatever it was, he didn't want
it to find him.

Shan could not tell where it was coming from.  It was everywhere a strong
feeling of evil.  Almost as strong as it had been in the presence of..
no.  Not that strong.  This was a spell, but not entirely a fraud.
Something powerful was out there.  And it was feasting! 
--Samson Gonzales

Some fled or retreated before the advancing wave of power but most
hesitated. Those who failed to escape felt a darkness sweep over them. In
that darkness, red eyes lept at them, tearing with black claws to rip
them to pieces.

Screams of her dying ghosts echoed in Morrighu's mind as the first died.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Her song faltered as she felt the first ghosts die again - in the
agony they had fled from in their mortal bodies.
--Cathy Mosley

Blayne expanded his sphere again and again, killing
every enemy ghost he encountered. Some escaped to warded
buildings where he could do no more than circle like a wolf
stalking prey, but then he moved on, destroying more and more of
the ghosts.
--Phaedra Whitlock

As more of the ghosts were obliterated Morrighu threw back her
head, feeling the call to sing - for these souls were under 
her protection. Her dirge of soul-wrenching grief was torn apart with 
screams of agony each time a ghost suffered a second, horrible death. 
--Cathy Mosley

Kallin did not flinch when the Bean Nighe screamed.  From 
the north courtyard, her physical cry was barely audible to him,
but it rippled through the flows in the House, a back-current he
wove around.  The whispers of mind-speech from the others
suddenly rose in worried questioning.  ::Quiet!:: he snapped, and
it receded. But Morrighu's cries continued.
--Rebecca Ward

Inside the Dragon's Inn, the presence that had been making itself known 
through small hints awoke.  He could hear the screams and shuddered.  
Invisibly he looked about the inn.  "Can't you hear it?  Can't you hear 
it?"  Still, however, it seemed no one acknowledged his efforts.  He 
expanded his senses outward and sensed the evil responsible.

The presence howled in frustration and anger.  In response, a wind began 
to blow inside the inn.  A hot, dry wind that circled the common room 
several times quickly before splitting and rushing out all the exits to 
explore the rest of the inn.

Finally, both wind and spirit began to fade as the effort began to 
exhaust him.  "Why don't you hear me....", he asked as he drifted back to 
the familiar oblivion that seemed to be his home now.
--David Wendt

With the song of death filling his mind and soul with a terrible joy 
Blayne hunted throughout the long night. Morrighu's screams mingled with 
those of his victims to become his reason for being. Each death furthered 
the divine chorus he shared with Morrighu. 

At last Blayne's sphere wavered far out in the countryside. Nearly 200 
ghosts were dead and the pain had returned full force to Blayne. His mind 
returned to his body and the familiar torment awaiting him. It had been a 
*good* night.

Casting one last spell of Silence upon himself, Blayne collapsed
to a crouch and howled as the pain took his sanity once again.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Long before the last of his quarry was destroyed Morrighu had
fallen to the ground in the small Northern courtyard, where she
lay cold and unmoving.
--Cathy Mosley

When, finally, it became apparent that the Weavers' House
was -- for that night at least -- safe, Lanaera lowered the level
of the mosaic.  Leaving the other two master weavers still
standing on the patterns, ready to call it awake again in a
heartbeat, she walked into the main courtyard.  Her expression
was grim.  ::Go.  I will wait here.::

Kallin did not pause.  Still drenched in the colors of
weaving, he hurried to the North courtyard and knelt over
Morrighu.  Her skin was ice, her lips blue.  Shadows were pouring
from the northern wing -- Morrighu's husband, armed, and others.
--Rebecca Ward

Geiren's own mind rang with echoes of Morrighu's agony as he ran across 
the courtyard in barefeet, and only trousers on. He dropped to her side 
and with little grace, but infinite tenderness, lifted her icy body into 
his arms, and cradled her there. He was terrified, and felt like the lost 
soul she had found wandering in the forest.

He knew it was impossible to warm her, but that didn't keep him from 
holding her close, and stroking her moonlight white hair. All the time he 
said, "Morrighu." In his madness and in his sanity she had been his only 
constant - his only reality. 

The part of his soul that was bound to her told him that she still lived, 
but that she was very far away. 

He became aware that others had gathered, and he looked up at Lanaera 
with a helpless questioning. Carefully he lifted Morrighu into his arms 
and said to Lanaera, "If there is anything you can think to do for her. 
.. ?" 
--Cathy Mosley

Lanaera swept her fingers across Morrighu's face, flinching at
the icy coldness of the other woman's skin, and looked into Geiren's
anguished eyes.  "Take her to your rooms," she murmured, "we will do
what we can."  Though she was uncertain what good it would do the
banshee.  "I will call Deanna."
--Rebecca Ward

Geiren carried Morrighu back to their quarters and lay her 
on their pallet.  Geiren pulled a blanket around her fragile form
and held her close. He had left the door open for Lanaera. 

Lucc and Elenia stayed near Gwion, but to all who were sensitive they 
were filled with fear.
--Cathy Mosley

Lanaera entered the apartments with Deanna, and Paul Rustin,
another of the master Politi, in tow.  Deanna brushed past Yon, and
hurried to gather the still half-asleep Gwion into her arms.  "Come,
little one," she murmured, brushing down his hair as he wrapped his
arms around her neck.  Now that the threat had passed, some element
of calm had returned to her face.  "We will watch him," she said
softly to Geiren, before hurrying from the room.

Paul knelt by Morrighu's pallet, his pale blue eyes worried.
He was an older man -- older than Lanaera -- and though like many
Politi mages, almost ageless, his face bore the lines of his years.
He curved one hand around Morrighu's face.  After a moment, he
shook his head.  "Hers is not a weaving we know well," he told Geiren,
regret in his voice.  "Not so easy for us to summon her back."
--Rebecca Ward

All he could do was hold her as close as flesh allowed. He nodded mutely; 
not knowing what to say. Though she lay in his arms in mortal form he 
knew that she was still a creature of spirit and legend. And how did one 
heal such a being? 
--Cathy Mosley

Lanaera, standing by the door, cleared her throat.  "We can
warm her," she pointed out impatiently.  She nodded at Geiren and
added, "The threads binding them together will call her back, if
only we can warm her."

Paul placed his other hand on Geiren's face, lightly and
without threat, and his thin mouth smiled.  "If you will allow
us to weave...?"
--Rebecca Ward

Geiren kept himself from flinching away from the mage's light touch. "Do 
so and welcome. . .," he said, looking down at Morrighu's face; her 
alabaster beauty - so still and white, reminded him of the purity of 
freshly fallen snow. Almost to himself he said, "I've never felt her so 
cold - the Void is touching her."
--Cathy Mosley

Lanaera knelt also, on the other side of the pallet; as
Geiren and Morrighu lay together, the two Politi mages took the
flows into their grasp and wrapped them gently around the two.
Lanaera whispered past the channel between husband and wife, curling 
silken threads about it.  Softly, because of the unfamiliarity with
Morrighu's magic, they wove a shimmering blanket around the Bean
Nighe and her husband, and began to leach away the cold.
--Rebecca Ward

Geiren lay holding Morrighu, and felt the whisper of energies wrapping
themselves around he and his wife, and in some ways through them.
The energies seemed to bring with them warmth.

He called to her - giving her his love and belief. And from in the
distant blackness he felt her - lost in her own domain; her very essence
torn at by the agonizing deaths of so many souls. He realized that he
needed to find a way to anchor and draw her to him.
--Cathy Mosley

Lanaera's right hand linked with Paul's left, both resting
atop Geiren's shoulder.  They wove, as gently as possible so as not
to disturb the current ebbing between husband and wife.  <This> the
flow whispered, snaking around the tenuous bond, and <this>.  Curling
around and around, using the ties between Geiren and the Bean Nighe,
to trace <downward> and <outward> into an emptiness unfamiliar to
the Politi.  

Paul <tugged> slightly, but the combined threads quivered
in response.  ::Too thin:: he sent to Lanaera, knowing Geiren could
not help but hear.  Then, to the man who held Morrighu, ::Reel her
in slowly,:: he said, feeling Geiren's confusion.  ::Like this.::

<here> the flows whispered to them all, brushing against
Geiren and showing him how to hold them, and <here>.
--Rebecca Ward

Though it was not with his physical hands Geiren took hold of the flow of 
energy as Paul instructed, and found that he could feel Morrighu better. 
It was like holding the cord that always stretched between them. He was 
beginning to understand that while Morrighu had been able to traverse the 
Void to bring him back, that he must root himself and draw her to him. 
The image that came to his mind was of two rock climbers; one of them 
setting his feet firmly into stone crevasses while the other climbed 
safely up. ::Morrighu!:: he kept calling; gently drawing her to him. 
--Cathy Mosley

After a time, Lanaera withdrew, placing her weavings into
Paul's control.  The other Politi would stay with the pair until
Morrighu had found her way back.  Climbing again to her feet, she
nodded shortly to Yon and walked from the room.  Time to see
what Kallin had to say about the events of that night.
--Rebecca Ward

With Paul's aide and Geiren's love Morrighu returned; weakened and 
frightened. Together Geiren and Paul rejoined her spirit with her body, 
which was now closer in temperature to what was normal for her.

Morrighu stirred; her chest began to rise and fall and her eyelashes 
flickered. She didn't open her eyes, but turned to curl close to Geiren 
and moan softly in shock.
--Cathy Mosley

Geiren lay holding Morrighu, and felt the whisper of energies wrapping 
themselves around he and his wife, and in some ways through them. 
The energies seemed to bring with them warmth. 

He called to her - giving her his love and belief. And from in the 
distant blackness he felt her - lost in her own domain; her very essence 
torn at by the agonizing deaths of so many souls. He realized that he 
needed to find a way to anchor and draw her to him.
--Cathy Mosley

At long last the feeling was gone.  Shan burst out of the between, 
loosing the rite of passage an instant before leaving.  It was 
always that way.  Once you hid, there was no escaping the between
without being found.  Until then, he had always found it an amusing
game to play, something a very young Sylphein had taught him.

He had never done it so long before, and he felt the drain down to
his bones.  After spending so much time working the magetite, he 
was even fatigued, but that was merely physical.  Many times before
he had felt such fatigue, but after days of battle it was expected.
It was clearly obvious to him now that he could never again hide
in the between while that _thing_ was still out there.  Even if he
eluded it, he would be too drained to act if anything worse were
to happen.  The alternative was to face it.  For that he would 
need help.

He wrapped his greasy beggar's robes tighter about himself to
help assuage the cold shivering he felt within, and walked on in
the night.    
--Samson Gonzales

Shan had heard Morrighu singing again and followed
it.  He did not know how he would console her after what had
just happened.  He tried to contact her, but she was too far
gone, and as he tried to make his way toward her, he felt
her beginning to fade.  Finally he came to the door a guild
hall.  He felt strange essences of a type he had never 
encountered before, woven in patterns it warded this building
from intrusion.  

He knocked at the door and awaited an answer.
--Samson Gonzales

Nalin almost ran into the Northern courtyard to tell
Kallin there had been a knock at the front entrance.  He 
continued to watch the procession to Morrighu's apartments for
several moments more, before turning to the other weaver.
The woman's calm, even after the uproar, was reassuring.

As he walked to the entrance, he tightened rather than
released his hold on the flows he had summoned.  With a thought,
he lifted the inner gate and set the torches in the entrance hall
alight.  "This is not a good time to come here," Kallin almost barked; 
the energies rippled through him like fire.
--Rebecca Ward

When someone came, [Shan] spoke anxiously, "Please, I
must speak with Morrighu.  May I come in."
--Samson Gonzales

Almost any other response would have resulted in Kallin's
outright refusal, but the invocation of the Bean Nighe's name
made him pause.  Stepping back, Kallin reached <out> and swept the
most tentative probe across the visitor's mind.  -A mage,- he
thought, -but no threat.   Not now, anyway.-  The man outside 
echoed with magic, but also carried an edge of exhaustion.  Flush
with weavings, and fed by the mosaic, Kallin was confident enough
to lift the outer gate.

"Morrighu cannot speak with you at the moment," the Politi
mage said firmly, his bearded face wary.  Something about the man
was familiar, but Kallin could not place the features.  His blue
eyes scanned the visitor.  "Nor speak *for* you."  He waited to
see if the man could name any others of Morrighu's household --
Geiren, or Yon, or Corwyn (the one with the haunted expression, 
who rarely came out of his rooms).

Kallin waved the man into the entrance hall, slamming the
outer gate down behind them.  But he stopped the other short
of the main courtyard, and pulled the threads closer around
both of them -- not touching the other man, but guarding him.
"You go no further than this, stranger, without a further scan."
--Rebecca Ward

Shan looked around the interior.  From what he could
tell, it looked to be some kind of weaver's shop.  If it was
in league with the church or the Bank, Morrighu would have
been roasted.  He remembered that Hugh had been converted,
so he assumed it could be possible the Watch had found a new
home, and a weaver's guild would make a good front.  

Shan removed his outer robe and placed it on the floor.
He didn't particularly care for it.  With a sigh of relief after
getting the extra weight off of his back, he fluffed his white
cape-like surplice that hung the rim of a scaly shoulder-wide
lapel. 

Shan pulled his hair back and used braids down the sides
to secure his free hair behind his head.  His pupils slit wide in 
the dark, his eyes appeared almost yellow.  "Very well.  If you
must scan me, beware that my mind may not be as easy to trek
through as you'd think.  That's not a threat, just a fact, unless
you have known many dragons."
--Samson Gonzales


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The morning after the probing of the wards binding the
Weavers' House, Lanaera Koltke started her day like any other.
She arose very early, after only scant sleep, and had Linnell
ready the mosaic for Drywen Regelli's daily lesson.  Though the
events of the previous night were disturbing -- especially
Morrighu's collapse at the end -- Lanaera decided, over Kallin's
vehement objections, to proceed as much as possible with business
as usual.

Thus, after seeing off her least-favored student (though,
she admitted grudgingly only to herself, one of her most
talented) she summoned Wyland to her office.  Together, they
reviewed the items to be delivered that morning, and the list of
supplies needed to complete the restocking of the storerooms.
Then she sent Wyland and Linnell off with a reminder to
return well before curfew.
--Rebecca Ward



In the halls of the Church of the Redeemer the last hymn was
sung. Proctor John left the pulpit and returned to his office to
meditate and plan. The Grand Inquisitor stayed where he was a
moment longer, kneeling as if in prayer to the Redeemer. His
thoughts were anything but Holy, the gnawing pain he lived with
daily had receded slightly, but put him in a foul mood.

When the great church was empty Blayne stood and left the vaulted
chamber.  A squad of Inquisitors swung onto their horses and rode
out the gates after him.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Blayne returned from a search of the countryside north of town. As per 
his instructions, a squad of Inquisitors had begun a systematic inquiry 
into Lt. L'Arain's activities prior to his disappearance a week earlier.
They had traced him to the point where he had left town but then lost him. 

A thorough search of the area produced evidence of several mass graves, 
many more single graves and a few decomposing corpses. It was one 
of these that had drawn the Grand Inquisitor to the sight. The corpse 
was arrayed in the remnants of an Inquisitor officer's uniform. A giant 
beetle lay beside it and there were still signs evident of a heavy struggle.

After searching the area himself and listening to the reports of trackers 
Blayne ordered the body carried back to Montfort. Whether or not the 
Inquisitor was the missing L'Arain, he had recognized the beetle. If its 
creator was still in existence she would have to be dealt with.

If she was not, no matter. This was one Inquisitor who would be 
returning to duty.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Deanna could tell by the way Linnell held her shoulders when
she entered the showroom of the Weavers' House that some snide
comments were about to come her way.  But she ignored the other
girl as long as possible, going on to point out to Gwion those
items woven by different members of the House, and explaining how
he could identify some weavers' work by favored colors or
techniques.

Linnell set to work refolding and rehanging some rugs and
blankets that had been taken down for customers' examination.
Deanna knew she and Lanaera had just finished a lesson with
Drywen Regelli; Deanna had watched them leave from the main
courtyard, and though Thomis Parch had not looked her way, Drywen
had flashed one glance in her direction.  -Remarkable eyes,- she
had thought, not for the first time, and smile in acknowledgment.
Ever since he had learned that he could impose his own patterns
on the mosaic, Linnell's indignation had grown.  Unsworn to the
House and unbound by its oaths, Drywen Regelli enjoyed a greater
freedom of movement on the mosaic than Linnell herself.  And that
was like a burr under a saddle.

::Shouldn't you limit yourself to one lover at a time?::
Linnell spoke sharply, snapping one of the smaller rugs in the
air and folding it over with quick sharp movements.

Deanna paused only briefly in tracing one of Kallin's
weavings with Gwion, shooting a sideways glance at Linnell and
clenching her jaw.  She considered throwing back the change in
their relative ranks in the House, but that would serve only to
antagonize Linnell even further.  The other girl always was
looking for reasons to take offense.  ::I don't believe it's any
of your concern, Linnell Seris,:: she responded coolly, taking
Gwion by the hand and leading him to a pair of plush blankets
woven by Nalin.  "You can see Nalin favors different colors ..."

But Linnell couldn't leave it at that.  She never could.
::Do not act so innocent, c'hanata,:: she sneered, stressing the
last word.  Unlike Deanna, she would not hesitate to bring up the
fact that Deanna now outranked her.  ::I know you were the one
who gave him the key to the patterns.::

Deanna just stopped in the middle of her sentence to Gwion
and stared at Linnell.  ::By the gods, Linnell, he's the grandson
of Mesani I'Se and has received training from Spisswe Ger.  Do
you really think he needs *me* to teach him that?::  Disregard
the fact that he had; for some reason, I'Se and Ger had chosen
not to tell him that he could manipulate any mosaic he stepped
on.

Linnell's eyes narrowed, and she smoothed down the folds of
another blanket.  Deanna, who had resumed her conversation with
Gwion, could almost feel Linnell chewing over the next comment.
::Taking Wyland to your bed is one matter,:: she began, a
didactic note in her mental voice, ::but I'Se's grandson?::

"I don't believe that's any of your business," Wyland said
quietly from the entrance.  Linnell started, not only at his
sudden appearance, but also at his choice to take the
conversation public before Gwion.  Wyland shot one glance in
Deanna's direction, his mouth curling.  "Besides, she hasn't done
that last part."  His grin widened.  "Not yet, anyway."

Deanna smothered a laugh, seeing Linnell's expression
tighten, and shook her head at Gwion's steady gaze.  "Nevermind,
Gwion," she said softly.  ::Can't you even fake some healthy
jealousy?:: she shot to Wyland, automatically shielding that part
from Linnell and smiling as he shook his head.  Lovers they had
been when he, like she, had been an apprentice, and now that
their rank was equal again.  But it was far from a relationship
built on abiding passion; a healthy dose of lust, maybe...

"We have some deliveries to make," Wyland reminded Linnell,
not-so-smoothly changing the subject.  "We should go now if we
want to be back before curfew."

The decision had been made after Lanaera's first meeting
with other members of the fledgling Resistance to offer what
protection the Politi could to their contacts in and around
Montfort.  Handkerchiefs similar to the one Deanna had supplied
to Thomis' acquaintance were distributed to individuals as
quickly as Deanna could stitch them; rugs carrying more powerful
teleport spells, sufficient to evacuate entire families and
likewise keyed for use by specific people only, were amassed as
quickly as they could be woven.

Not quickly enough; unfortunately, the Politi at the
Weavers' House were distressingly deficient in those gifted in
churning out dormant teleport spells.  A number of contacts had
been swept up in the Limpia reprisals following Allenel Gilford's
disappearance.  The Politi had no way of knowing who had died in
the rumored mass slayings, and who languished in the ungentle
hands of Colonel Garcia.  Wyland already had made the first
deliveries to those contacts who remained at liberty; he and
Linnell were to start the next round that afternoon.

Linnell squared her shoulders, glaring once more at Deanna,
then swept regally from the show-room.  Wyland rolled his eyes at
Deanna and Gwion; ruffling the boy's hair, he followed her out.

Most of the morning passed in uneasy silence for Wyland and
Linnell as they moved to and from the roughly half a dozen stops
they had to make that morning.  Finally, on the way to the last
stop in the marketplace, Linnell resettled her pack on one
shoulder and grudgingly apologized.  Wyland, who had been waiting
for this, grinned widely and threw one arm around her shoulders.
"A'dalin, you surely are a pain in the neck."  He had known her
much longer than Deanna had -- and had known that before long, if
left alone, she would acknowledge her wrong.

Linnell checked the neat knot holding her long brown hair
back from her face.  "That apology is just for you," she almost
growled, looking sideways, "I don't want you passing it along to
Deanna."

As they entered the marketplace, Wyland just shook his head,
folding her hand over the crook of his arm.  "I wouldn't even
think of that.  But keep in mind for future reference," he added,
arching one eyebrow, "I don't need you chiding Deanna for me
because of her wandering eye."

Linnell muttered something disbelieving.  "Spare me, Wyland.
I've seen you glare at Regelli and Parch when they come in, and
you'll no more step between them than any other Politi in the
House."

Wyland frowned, but had to admit that much was true.  "Never
step between an Oath-bound and his charge," he murmured, glancing
sideways and matching Linnell smile for smile.  They stepped into
the marketplace through the east entrance, and from there
conducted there conversation by mind-speech.  The day was sunny,
and the market was crowded.
--Rebecca Ward

An hour later Blayne pulled up at the edge of the marketplace.
There was no sign of Smith but he had come to a decision
regarding the Refuser. In the meantime his attention was caught
by something or someone here in the market.

Anyone with Power could be a threat to the Dark One's return, and
Proctor John had expressed a desire to hold another Cleansing
soon. Ignoring the stares and whispers of the market women,
Blayne nudged his horse forward around the edge of the crowd. His
colorless eyes examined each person in an eternal instant,
cataloguing any hint of Power they might possess.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Linnell noticed the Inquisitors before Wyland did.  Standing
outside the enclosed vendor's stall where he had entered to drop
off the last small rug, she shifted from foot to foot and watched
as the Inquisitors fanned out through the crowd.  The Weavers'
House had heard about Grand Inquisitor Blayne's arrival in
Montfort, but only vague rumors about his first night.

::Wyland?:: she sent softly into the stall, ::maybe we
should just skip buying those supplies for the storerooms.  She
watched uneasily as the three Inquisitors in her line of sight --
and she was sure there were more -- examined each person they
passed with intense scrutiny.

Inside, Wyland responded with a note of inquiry, ducking his
head back out into the sunlight.  His eyes followed the direction
of her gaze.  "Now that's not good," he murmured calmly.  "I
think you may be right." His blue eyes met her brown ones, and
his lips curled in his plain face.  "On the plus side, if we skip
the shopping, we won't have to worry about violating curfew."

She took his arm and lowering her gaze to the street before
her, circled with him around the marketplace to the south exit.
--Rebecca Ward

At his command his Inquisitors spread out and blocked all exits.
Blayne himself continued to ride his huge roan forward at a walk,
searching for the ones to be found.
--Phaedra Whitlock

"Well, that's no good," Wyland murmured, pursing his lips.
The merchant, with jewelry spread out on the board before him,
thought Wyland meant the blue-stone necklace he was holding up.
and quickly chose another.  The man chattered about how this one
would particularly favor Linnell's coloring, and though she
smiled and examined it, her eyes like Wyland's were on the
Inquisitor's guarding the west exit.  They both knew that, if
they ever reached them, the north and east entrances would be
blocked as well.

Wyland passed over a few coins without even haggling with
the merchant and took the necklace.  He paused a moment to drop
the necklace over her head, arranging the beads under the collar
of her dress.  From a distance, the moment looked tender, but his
face was grim.  "Sooner or later, a'dalin, we're simply going to
have to go up to one of the exits and try to pass."

But not yet.  Arm-in-arm, they circled the aisles in the
marketplace once again.


Before long, it became apparent that at least one of the
Inquisitors had latched onto them.  Linnell could read the
tension in Wyland's shoulders; his grip on her hand was so tight
it hurt.  They both had noted the tall grey elf with straight
blonde hair and colorless eyes near the west exit.  Now, again,
near the north, they had caught another glimpse of his cloak and
ornate sword.

They paused again, before another vendor's stall and Wyland
started examining the colorful scarves the woman displayed.
Linnell tried to fake interest, but soon turned her back to the
stall to sweep her eyes over the crowd.
--Rebecca Ward

One of the pair looked back to see if the Inquisitor was
following them.  Blayne's eyes fastened on hers and he allowed a
hint of a smile to cross his elven features.  His mind touched
hers lightly, making her intensely aware of him and his intense,
hypnotic gaze.  For a moment it seemed to her that they were the
only two in the crowded marketplace.
--Phaedra Whitlock

For several long moments, Linnell couldn't breathe; a heavy
hand had wrapped itself around her ribs and *squeezed* the air
right out of her.  She could not pull her eyes from the elf's,
and felt <something> probing her shields, touching her mind.
Inside, she quailed, but physically she could not move.  She
tried to whisper Wyland's name, but could not find the breath.

Wyland touched Linnell's arm, puzzled at her lack of
response.  "Linnell?"  The expression in her eyes was distant,
and tracking the direction of her stare, he found the elven
Inquisitor watching them both with an intense gaze.  For a
moment, the young man did nothing; then, tightening his grip on
Linnell's arm, he slammed his own shields down around both of
them, breaking the Inquisitor's hold over her.  Linnell stumbled
against him, gasping and dazed.

Wyland cursed, and whirled her around.  Only Linnell of the
two of them could work a raw teleport spell strong enough to move
them both.  But in this confused and unbalanced state, he knew
she could barely walk straight, much less weave.  His own talent
at working that particular spell was limited to moving only
himself -- and that would mean leaving her behind.  And that he
would not do.
--Rebecca Ward

The nearest Inquisitors shouted a warning to the market people as
they closed on the Refusers.  People hurriedly scattered out of
their way.  The Inquisitor nearest to the man smote at him with
the flat of his scabbard.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Wyland lifted one arm and dodged most of the force of the
blow, spinning to keep Linnell behind him.  They were trapped
between stalls and surrounded by Inquisitors.  When he reached
out with his mind to spin an alarm outwards to any Politi within
his range, he met only a blank wall of shielding.  It was as if
he were shouting into a darkness that swallowed every sound and
gave no answer.

Unarmed and outnumbered, Wyland kept his grip on the still
stumbling Linnell and lifted his eyes to meet the cold, colorless
gaze of Inquisitor Blayne.  Inside, he already was weaving
whatever defenses he could muster against the coming
interrogation.
--Rebecca Ward

Seemingly huge on his steed, Blayne stared down at the pair of
Refusers.  "In the name of the Redeemer, cease your heretical
activities. You are both under arrest."

Blayne's holy symbol was blinding in the morning light as he
gestured the 4 Inquisitors to move in.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Wyland glanced over at Linnell, and she nodded in response,
indicating that she had regained her equilibrium.  He released
her arm and spread his hands at his sides, trying to watch the
four Inquisitors who were carefully encircling them.  Reaching
<out> again, he tried to find a free thread to cast out a call to
the other Politi.  To anyone.

"I beg your forgiveness, Grand Inquisitor," injecting into
his voice as much mealiness as he could manage and keeping his
eyes cast downward.  Thank the gods they had delivered the last
of the rugs and handkerchiefs before this encounter.  Scan them
as he might, Blayne (and Wyland was certain this had to be
Blayne) would find them carrying nothing magical.  And dressed as
they were, without the usual Politi garb, there was nothing to
connect them to the Weavers' House.  "But we were just shopping
in the marketplace.  If we have given any offense to you or to
the Redeemer, then I humbly apologize."

Next to him, he could feel Linnell gathering her wits and
pulling the strands towards her.  Carefully, so very carefully.
She held them, waiting, eyes focused on her feet.  She would act
only if talking failed to be enough to get them out of this
safely.
--Rebecca Ward

Blayne's cold eyes narrowed with barely concealed hatred.

"It is to the Redeemer you must beg forgiveness. Witchcraft will
not be tolerated in Montfort, and those who practice such vile
sorcery shall face His wrath."

Blayne gestured the Inquisitors forward.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Wyland backed away slowly, still keeping his hands out at
his sides, pulling the threads closer.  The softest echo of
tingling from Linnell told him she also was ready, balancing on a
knife's edge.  "We do beg forgiveness from the holy Redeemer,"
Wyland responded, and this time the quaver in his voice was not
entirely faked.  "Surely witchcraft must be abolished, and
witches crushed beneath the Redeemer's heel."

One quick glance upward, keeping his eyes on the
Inquisitors' feet.  No time to trip them up, though he could have
the threads wrapped around their legs in a moment.  Time only to
note that Blayne's colors were nothing but darkened rage,
unrelenting.  Linnell saw it, too, and her hands lifted; with a
quiet rush, the flows moved around them, the patterns coalescing.

Linnell fell to her knees, gasping, as the threads were
simply <cut> from her grasp, spinning away beyond recovery.  And
were gone.

Wyland spun, grabbing her arm pulling her back to her feet.
With one thought, he pulled on the threads looped around one of
the Inquisitors, trying to create an opening in the circle around
them through which they could bolt.  But it was no use; though
the man twitched a little, the weave around him dissolved.  With
growing fear, Wyland pulled the threads back into himself.  -No
escape,- he realized despairingly.  One apprentice and one
journeyman were no match for whatever resources Grand Inquisitor
Blayne had at his command.

Before he could think beyond that point, the Inquisitors
were upon them.  The fight -- if it could be called that -- was
brief.  A quick blow to the back of his skull left him senseless,
spiralling down into darkness, the patterns curling around him as
he fell into unconsciousness.

Linnell, still trembling from the ease with which the weaves
had been taken from her, kicked and twisted, but the girl was no
more a match for the Inquisitors than Wyland had been.  -I will
not beg,- she thought grimly, knowing no words would move the
Grand Inquisitor to pity.  -I will not beg-.

Within moments, the two were trussed and carried out of the
marketplace.  And business returned to normal.
--Rebecca Ward