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[Church II] Compendium III  March 1996-March 1996
 The Bond Eternal:  Kit, Linnell, Wyland and Blayne
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The morning sun was creeping high when Kit left the Mime. She blinked a 
few times in the light, since the only times she had been outside in the 
last couple of days had been in the deepest of night.

She still felt tired, but there were some basic errands that she needed 
to run, and the walk would give her time to access Montfort under martial 
law. Kit was feeling much calmer since Thomis, Lucc, Trouble, Clussh, and 
she had gotten Walita to safety. At least they had had one small success.

As troopers went by Kit fought the urge to snarl. She continued to walk 
calmly towards the marketplace.

Kit entered the marketplace, where commerce went on as usual, though 
people were less likely to stand and speak of trivialities. Legionaires 
walked down the aisles of stalls, and the folk gave them wide berth. Kit 
was heading for the tailor to order a couple of new shirts. One of her 
was ruined by the swim in the sewer.

"That's one of them!!" a man yelled, startling many bystanders into 
freezing, and glancing about with suspicious, frightened eyes. Kit 
stopped like everyone else had, and carefully looked around to see both 
the source and the object of his accusation. What she didn't like was the 
fact that he was pointing straight at her, and screaming out, "Guards!!!!"

People were scattering away from her. Some of them taking up the cry. Kit 
saw Legionaires running towards her. She vaulted over one stand and dashed 
past the startled owner. Kit hoped that she would quickly find enough of 
a hiding place to change to fox form, even if it meant diving under a 
stall. 

Ahead she saw a narrow alleyway and started towards it, but the dance of 
lightning over her made the presence of Inquisitors obvious. The ring 
Rosh had given her protected Kit from the effects of the batons, but she 
saw that three Inquisitors were moving on a intercept coarse, putting them 
between her and the alley. She turned to run down an aisle and saw 
that two teams of Legionaires were coming that way, summoned by the 
outcry. ++Who in the hells did I upset?++ she asked herself, then was 
hit by the harsh realization she was close to where Allenel and 
she had made their mad night dash. It could well be the man whose house 
they had run through.

Turning, Kit started to head back the way she had come, and found herself 
facing a fourth Inquisitor. She backpeddled.

This Inquisitor had seen that lightening would have no effect on her, but 
made good use of his baton anyway. By striking down hard on a nerve.

Kit dropped; stunned by the shock of pain. She wasn't completely 
unconcious; so was able to hear the Inquisitors warning the Legionaires 
away from the Church's catch.
--Cathy Mosley


**********


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

Alone in her cell, Kit looked up at the sound of metal 
grating in the lock. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

In the dim cell, far from daylight, Kit had little knowledge of how long 
it had been since she had brought to the Church. She paced the width of 
the cell, turning sharply on her heel as she neared the wall; listening 
to her heartbeat pound in agitation. 

Her thick russett hair hung long and tangled, and her clothes were mussed 
from the struggle. She had never lost complete consciousness, and had 
tried to fight as the Inquisitors efficiently manacaled her with 
anti-magic shackles, and removed all jewelry. Once they had Rosh's ring 
off of her they found it much easier to shock her into submission.

Not only did her captivity grate on her nerves, but the cell felt 
subliminally wrong. Kit had a good idea that it was blocking magic, 
since she could not shift.

Her sensitive nose scented out the now all too familiar smell of 
fear-induced adrenalin that permeated the dungeon, and to her sensitive ears 
the grating cry of metal as a key was being turned sounded like the 
essence of agony. 

Kit stopped her pacing and moved to the side - preparing to 
leap for the opening. Once outside the cell she would be able to shift.
--Cathy Mosley

The Grand Inquisitor stepped across the opening as the Inquisitors opened 
the cell door to admit him. Almost instantly a small, russet-haired 
prisoner darted out. With lightning speed Blayne snatched the girl and 
negligently tossed her back into the cell. 

He followed the lithe form inside and signalled the door to be closed.
After a moment the fox-woman, for such she obviously was, shifted to face 
him. 

Blayne relaxed his stance with some effort, appearing nonchalant and 
charming despite the intense hunger gnawing at his insides from the scent 
of her rich blood. "I am Grand Inquisitor Blayne." he said with a casual 
smile. "And you are?"
Phaedra Whitlock
--Phaedra Whitlock

For the first few seconds Kit didn't register the Inquisitor's words; she 
was still disoriented from being caught mid-shift and the aburpt return 
to human form. She had landed on her knees, but turned that into a crouch.

His words began to make sense as human knowledge took back over, and Kit 
stood up. She studied the elven Grand Inquisitor. He hadn't been in town 
long enough for much to have been said of him. All she could say was that 
he was fast and strong, and she doubted he was a fool. 

Kit wasn't holding out much hope for her chances for surviving her 
incarceration; her only hope was to keep as much of her information from 
Blayne for as long as possible. The least she could do was buy her cohorts 
time to learn of her capture and to use any contingency plans they may 
have had had. She prayed that she had the will to die - like many a wild 
animal in captivity. However, since the Grand Inquisitor was starting off 
civil she too could play that game. She said, "I am Kitrina Tvyvar."
--Cathy Mosley

"A charming name for you. Please, sit. So many things in this world are 
unpleasant, let us be comfortable at least." Blayne drew her to the cot 
along one wall. It was the only place in the cell to sit. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

Kit tried to back away from his hand, but as she had learned minutes 
earlier, he was fast. Blayne did not grip her arm; his grasp was light 
and casual, but she found she could not pull away. 
--Cathy Mosley

He joined her there, sitting near but not touching. Instead he started 
to exert his will over hers slightly, testing her defenses, diving into 
nooks and crannies, reading the base emotions that made her resist him. 
His unearthly good looks started to have an affect on her.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Along the edges of her mind Kit felt someone prowling. Testing. She used the
training her mother had given her in strengthening the walls between 
herself and an enemy. But it was too late; like roots that invisibly 
creep beneath the soil and destroy the fortress's foundations, Blayne's 
probes had already found the crevices in her defenses.
--Cathy Mosley

"You seem unhappy Kit. The Church is a refuge for those like yourself with 
troubled souls. Please, tell me what ails you?" Blayne exerted his 
influence through a weak point in her defenses, soothing her and seeming 
like a friendly voice to her. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

The tension in her muscles had started to ease. Blayne seemed to be a 
reasonable man  . .. maybe she'd had a chance to work something out. . . 
And so damned good looking. . . 

Kit pulled her mind from that train of thought. This was neither the time 
nor the place to be thinking with her glands. She straightened a little 
and tried to move a little bit away from him, but her body never even 
shifted. "I'm not really troubled," she said, though her voice didn't have 
her normal cockinees, "I just don't like being caged."
--Cathy Mosley

"Why does the Bank seek to harm one such as you?"
--Phaedra Whitlock

His question reminded Kit of the merchant calling the guards on her, 
which reminded her of the desperate escape she and Allenel had made. All 
of this reminding her of Rosh and Morrighu, and others she needed to 
protect. The memories bolstered her defenses, and she said, 
"I really have no idea why. . . ." 
--Cathy Mosley

With a twist of her thoughts Blayne pushed Kit's strongest instinct and 
desire, which was to protect those she cared about, hard. She realized 
that her friends were in danger from the Republic, that the Church, that 
Blayne, could help her, could help them.
--Phaedra Whitlock

She closed her eyes, fighting tears. As she remembered the chase through 
the sewers with Allenel she also remembered that the dead Legionaires were 
the excuse the Republic needed for martial law. Which in the end meant 
the murders of the Widow Cherit and the other Mothers. Yes, she realized 
she was troubled, and she needed to tell someone. How could she have 
mistrusted the Grand Inquisitor? He was sympathitic and cared. Her mother 
had been wrong about what the Church - probably because she 
was so isolated and heard only anti-Church rumors that had alarmed her; 
and she could be so arrogant sometimes once she had chosen a coarse of 
action. 

The tears began to fall freely now, and Kit turned away from Blayne to 
hide them; she was embarrassed he should see her so. See her guilt over 
not protecting the Mothers better. But as she cried against the cold 
stone of the wall she told him the story of the horrible chase through 
the sewers and that she should have protected the Mothers far better. She 
told him of how Rosh had helped them against the Legionaires; this she 
said with affection and pride. 
--Cathy Mosley

Blayne remained sympathetic to her even though his Hunger was growing. He 
would *have* to feed soon.... He gathered her into his arms and let her 
cry herself out on his shoulder. He restricted himself to lightly 
stroking her thick hair, knowing it to be a soothing gesture to animals 
and humans alike.
--Phaedra Whitlock

By the time she had cried herself out she had told him her brief history 
in the resistance.
--Cathy Mosley

As she expected, Blayne looked troubled and saddened by her story. "It 
is as I thought Kit. Tomorrow Proctor John goes to meet with their 
Presidente Padilla. He hopes to sway him to show mercy towards Montfort 
but there is little hope of that I fear, and more people will suffer."

"Your friend Morrighu was arrested this morning by Limpia troops and we 
have reason to believe the Republic is behind the impending famine." He 
shook his head sadly and released her as if loathe to trouble her with 
his own problems. 

Kit lept at the chance to help him, perhaps he would help her in return?

"We have reason to believe the Republic is behind the impending famine." He 
shook his head sadly and released her as if loathe to trouble her with 
his own problems. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

"Famine? They would have Montfort starve on top of the other suffering 
they have wrought?" She shook with horror and anger. "Have they no 
humanity left?" Her emotions were running high and her breath was coming 
fast. 
--Cathy Mosley

She stopped herself; noting how worn and sad the Grand Inquisitor looked 
with the cares and troubles of Montfort. And his job had to be hard. . 
.Not only with the cruelities that the Republic kept perpretrating, but 
with people, like herself, that so misunderstood the Church and what they 
were trying to do. Kit tried to bring herself under control and think 
clearly, because she wanted to make a amends. She touched his arm with 
her long, slender fingers and looked up at him with warm hazel eyes, and 
said, "What can I do to be of help?" 
--Cathy Mosley

Blayne's head was bowed as if in suffering. He took a deep breath and 
raised it to look down at her. In her exuberance Kit had leaned closer 
towards him and they were touching.

Slowly he reached out to cup her face with his hands, looking deeply into 
her eyes and into her soul. "So beautiful...." he whispered, as if to 
himself. 

Blayne's arm slid around her, he drew her onto his lap with effortless 
strength. It would be simplicity itself to Bond this one....

All he needed was time.
--Phaedra Whitlock


**********


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 lefft 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 existance 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
Drwyen 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' acquaintence 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,
seaching 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

Returning by way of the Bank, Blayne delivered a message to Captain 
Enrico requesting him to arrange a meeting with Smith. That *had* to 
be taken care of. Smith was far too dangerous to be left alone for long.

Back at the Church he directed the remains be sent to the small room 
next to his office and then went below to the cells. Wyland and Linnell, 
the two weavers, had been placed in separate cells. The woman was still 
unconscious when he entered her cell and so Blayne could study her 
more intently than if she were awake. 

Over the Millenia Blayne had known many women of great and lesser 
beauty. With all eternity to choose them, he had become selective in his 
coterie. Only women, and always those with beauty or style and 
something to interest him. 

Asleep, even with a dark bruise marking her cheek, Linnell was beautiful 
to him. He carefully sat himself on the edge of the cot, not touching, 
only admiring. With his right hand he gently stroked the fall of her hair 
against the rough bedding. Lightly his fingertips traced the line of her 
jaw. His thumb brushed her barely parted lips in passing before he 
withdrew his touch. 

With a small, ornate silver dagger from his belt, Blayne sliced his wrist 
open. Blood welled to the surface and overflowed slowly down the curve 
of his skin. The blood dripped into her mouth, a few drops staining her 
lips with a vibrant red. 

With his free hand he massaged her throat until she swallowed, then 
he withdrew his arm and licked the wound closed. Leaning forward 
Blayne gently kissed the blood, his blood, from her lips and stood to 
leave.

Linnell continued to sleep as the blood of millenia spread throughout 
her system. Twice more, and she would join his coterie forever.
--Phaedra Whitlock

Blayne stood up and walked to the door. Thumping it once with his fist the
guard outside immediately opened it for him. Blayne curtly gave orders for
the prisoner to be removed and taken to his room in the tower and placed in
one of the side rooms. 

The guard immediately saluted the orders and hurried to obey. Blayne ignored
the scurry of Inquisitors to enter the cell next door. Wyland looked up at
his entrance. The mage's expression was guarded which worried the Grand
Inquisitor not at all. 

Blayne strode to where the politi sat. Two Inquisitors followed him in and
closed the door after them. Wyland could not see around Blayne to guess what
they had brought in with them, but it seemed heavy and large. 

Blayne stared down at the prisoner. One golden eyebrow lifted slightly as he
realised he was slightly hungry. "Your name, and that of your companion." he
said to Wyland. His tone suggested that there had best be an answer. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

Wyland had spent the time since their arrest prowling the cell,
probing every inch, searching for even the smallest crack through which to
send a call to the other Politi.  It had been like trying to claw
through granite with his bare hands.  As the minutes ticked by, his concern
for Linnell -- he could not contact even her -- had grown; and his inability
to access any flows beyond his own energies had only contributed to his unease.

He did not allow himself to be afraid while he waited in the cell. He
could not afford to; unbalanced by fear, he would be even weaker.
But it was hard not to be afraid with the Grand Inquisitor standing there,
and two other Inquisitors behind him carrying ... something.  Somehow,
the thoughts of what that "something" might be were the worst of all.

While he waited for the expected ... interrogation ... he continued to
work the defensive weavings he had started in the marketplace.
Strengthening his shields, creating and fortifying pathways in his
own mind in which to flee.  Inward flight -- if not physical flight --
was his only option, he knew.  Flee as long as he could, to give the
others time.  Time to learn of the arrest.  Time to prepare.  Even
Kallin -- the strongest Politi mage Wyland knew -- had done that.
And Kallin, Wyland reminded himself with at least the smallest spark
of hope, had survived.  (Wyland did not allow himself to dwell on
the stories behind that, rumors Kallin had never confirmed; the other
mage had always said only, "That was many years ago, and I am a
teacher now.")

Lie, Kallin had said.  Lie early, and elaborately.  Because never
doubt you can be broken.  Bury the truth in lies.

His name was the first thing Wyland feared to give.  "Alain," he
said finally to the Grand Inquisitor.  He did not have to fake the
tremble in his voice.  "Alain Fairchild.  She is Kathryn.  Kathryn
Wilson."  Either he had gotten no answer from Linnell yet, or he had.
If it were the former, Wyland would start the lying for them both.
If it were the latter -- and her answers would differ from his,
whether she had spoken truthfully or not -- then Wyland would start
the suffering.
--Rebecca Ward

"Alain?" Blayne smiled slowly revealing his fangs. "What a pity, I was
looking for Wyland." Blayne gestured and the two Inquisitors dropped their
burden with the ring of metal on stone. The two rushed to flank the mage,
grabbing for the man's arms. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

Wyland did not have time to look at what the other two Inquisitors had
dropped.  He scurried backwards, in what he knew to be a futile effort
to avoid being bound.  <out>  He could not cast outwards, could not
spin a thread <out>.  -Focus inward,- he told himself.  -Buy them as
much time as you can.  Every minute is that much more time for
the House to prepare.-  More time for Lanaera.  More time for Deanna.

The journeyman had never been trained for physical combat, and was
subdued easily.  <in>  He spun the threads inward, around his growing
panic.  -He knows my name,- he thought with the first touch of despair.
Had Linnell -- with her unbending pride -- broken so easily?

<in>  He spun the threads inward.
--Rebecca Ward

**********

When Linnell awoke Blayne was sitting by her bedside once more, only this
time the bed was a four-poster with royal blue silk hangings, golden tassels
and thick, soft sheets and quilts covering it. The rest of the room was
equally sumptuous, if low on space. The room was also magic damped.

Seeing her eyelids flutter open Blayne smiled. He had removed his armor and
weapons in the outer room. Currently he was dressed much as any nobleman of
military habits. The effect was one of relaxation rather than domination.

"Ah good. I was afraid you'd been injured more than the healer thought. My
name is Blayne."

Blayne poured a goblet of wine for her as she slowly sat up. "This will help
take the pain away. I am only sorry we could not stop your comrade before he
attacked you, Linnell. You have my word he shall not hurt you again." 
--Phaedra Whitlock

Linnell sat up carefully, stunned as much by the surroundings she
found herself in as from the ungentle handling in the marketplace.  The
details of what had happened in the marketplace were fuzzy, but filmed
over with a memory of fear and sudden loss.  The threads, taken from
her hands so quickly, the force of it had staggered her.

She looked at the man, her brown eyes wide; the bruise on one
cheek stood out against her fair skin.  She did not raise her hands to
take the goblet offered to her, but only scooted backwards across
the bed to move further from him.  Something he had said didn't sound
quite right -- her companion attacking her in the marketplace?  Wyland?
Wyland attacking her?

The very thought was a discordant note in an otherwise relaxing
atmosphere.  The man looked so ... kind?  Did he look kind?  Where's
the threat?  There was one, she was sure, she just couldn't see it.
She couldn't read his colors.

Quickly, before he could react, she reached <out> for the
flows --

Nothing.  Nothing.

The blankness almost overwhelmed her; the unexpected compassion
in the man's eyes, as he continued to hold the goblet out, nearly
disarmed her.  -Shielded,- she thought, -I must be shielded.-  But
why would he do that?  Why would she be sitting on a bed, in a
luxurious room, if the man wanted to shield her?

-I will not beg.-  It was a whisper in the back of her mind,
still strong enough for her to hear it.  -I will not beg.-  If only
she could clear her head, if only she had time to think, Linnell knew
she would be able to see the threat.  Somewhere.  It was here, somewhere.
Not Wyland.  Never Wyland.  That much was a certainty she could cling to.

"I will not beg," she whispered, unable to look away from the
man's colorless eyes.
--Rebecca Ward

Blayne folded her fingers around the goblet tenderly, the heat of them
warming her cold hands.

"I do not want you to. They may fear or envy your beauty, the power you have
within you, but I do not. One such as you should be nurtured, cared for...." 

His deep voice trailed off as his fingers left hers. "Drink."

Blayne took a moment to tamper with her memories. Linnell and Wyland and
another had gone to the market. It was the other who had attacked Linnell.
She began to remember turning and seeing the other attack her. An
Inquisitor had tried to defend her, but too late. 

The memories were confused and at first vague. She touched the bruise on her
cheek. There was a knot on her forehead where the other had struck her. 
--Phaedra Whitlock

Linnell looked at the goblet, still dazed.  Her head hurt so
much where her attacker had struck her.  Her attacker?  Not Wyland,
no, never Wyland.  Who?  She could not come up with a face, her
head throbbed so, and couldn't touch the flows.  Someone had taken
the threads from her hands, someone had snatched them away and
left her empty.

She shook her head in an effort to clear it, but the musty
feeling in her mind would not go away.  Not Wyland, not this man,
but who?

Unbidden, the image of grey eyes.  Drywen Regelli.  Mesani
I'Se's grandson.  -'You can't trust Mesani I'Se,' Lanaera had said
so many times.  -'The woman can't be trusted.'-  The unspoken threat
of Thomis Parch echoed in her mind, that first day when Drywen had
come to the Weavers' House for his testing on the mosaic.  -'Watch
yourself,'- he had told Linnell, when he thought she had gone too
far in using the flows against Drywen.

-'Watch yourself.'-

Her eyes met Blayne's once again, and she lost more of herself
to the gentleness in his eyes.  She cluthed the goblet -- the wine
still untouched -- like a lifeline, and asked before she could stop
herself -- her voice trembling, "Where is Wyland?"  The question was
a sob.  She did not realize it, but that voice inside was becoming
quieter and quieter.  Soon, if pushed, she would beg.
--Rebecca Ward

Blayne tipped the goblet towards her. "Drink this, it will help you 
relax. Your friend, Wyland?" She nodded and took a reluctant sip at his 
gesture. 

"Wyland is at the Weaver's House. The other, Drywen? Took him back there."

Blayne looked down at the silk sheets under his splayed fingertips, a 
frown of concern on his handsome face. "I am concerned about him in that 
place Linnell." 

Linnell listened carefully as she drank. She was not thirsty but the wine 
was good. She quickly refocused her attention on Blayne when she noticed 
the silence between them.

Blayne smiled pleasantly and took the empty goblet away from her. "You 
must rest and regain your strength. When you awaken we will discuss what 
can be done to help your friend. Until then, I hope you will consider 
*me* a friend as well Linnell."

Blayne took her hand in his and kissed it lightly, as if he were a courtier 
and she an elven lady.

"Good night Linnell. If you have need of anything, call and I will answer."

With a final bow, Blayne left the room, quietly closing the heavy door 
behind him. He *definitely* would have to Feed soon.
--Phaedra Whitlock












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