When virtue rises one foot, the devil rises ten
- Chinese proverb


"Of course, something of this nature will require..." The greed that hung in the breath of silence between them was palpable. "...a premium, Viktor," the voice rising from the shadows punctuated its point with a hiss.

Whatever assistance and resources I can offer, are yours, Veighn. But I ask that you leave Viki be.
I am sure we can come to an amicable agreement, Veighn.
I... shall withdraw my personal horrifying haunt of the child, in payment for your assistance, m'lord Lucien...

"Of course." A measured grin tugged behind Lucien's neatly trimmed beard.

"In advance," the barrister's unseen companion added.

Lucien tossed a small purse across the table, the leather pouch disappearing into the shadows with a muffled clank. "Just like last time."

A few more muffled jingles sounded from the shadows, before it silenced behind the soft rustle of fabric.

Was there something in particular you wished to learn of?
Any information ye can gain access to regarding a certain plane would be very promising.... I have need of such information to unlock a ... secret I've been harboring.
I will endeavor to find whatever I can for you.

A raspy breath finally broke the veil of weighty silence that settled at the table. "What you seek, like the last time..."

The barrister held up a hand, staying anything else from the shadows. "I am aware of the dangers. Just like the last time..."

Careful, I would employ servants for the more arcane tomes and scrolls, as their nature can be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Those materials, most likely, could be handed over to Alysia to examine... though I am sure she has a collection of amassed information in her own stores.

If'n this scroll be true, Lucien, I must wonder wha' it be ye 'ave nae spoken this day, wha' causes ye to delve into such workings. I jus' be... concerned. Concerned as to why ye wish me to translate the 'Wisdom Rites o' Darken Down' for ye and to wha' ends ye mean to use such knowledge.

He shook his head to chase away the voices rising from his memories, recent and the distant past alike.

"It is your funeral, Viktor."

A grin twisted at the corner of the barrister's mouth. "You can't get paid by a dead man." The grin faded to a stoic mien. "You can send word in the usual manner."

"A'dos quarth! " Reproach dripped like honey from the shadows, which drew a short bark of humorless laughter from the barrister. Lucien rose from the table, pushing his chair back with a grumbling creek. "Keep playing with fire, and you'll get burned, Viktor," the shadow warned.

"Whatever it takes," came the barrister's hushed reply.

A sharp fragment of shining metal darted through the air, thrown by an unseen hand.

Thunk.

It sank into a padded wooden target shaped like a human. Had the target been a man, his throat would have been neatly bisected by the blade of a throwing knife and his life span would have been henceforth measured in minutes.

The Priestess did not usually trouble herself to remain shadow-phased within her own domain. Yet in recent times this had become customary, whether she was in Rhilshen Fortress or the manor at Dark Lake in Rhydin. In shadows, she could become insubstantial, with movements innately guarded and silent, subtle enough that very few could discern her presence. She considered her present course a necessary defensive exercise.

Alysia appeared in front of the target, wrenched the knife free, examined the point and the blade, phased back into shadows. The weapon flew again, becoming visible after it left her fingertips.

Thunk.

The knife connected with the hollow of the training dummy?s left eye. She chuckled, retrieved the blade and withdrew into the shadows again, falling silent as she heard movement at the entry to the manor.

"Alysia," Lucien called quietly for the Priestess as he shut the door behind him.

The sudden appearance of a tall silver-maned, scarlet-eyed wraith, a gleam of alabaster and black elf-leather where before there had only a dappled pattern of light and shadow, frequently proved startling to the unwary. Consequently, there were few human staff remaining in Alysia?s service at the Dark Lake.

Lucien, however, was generally not unwary and did not appear particularly surprised when the Priestess materialized before him, knife in hand, elfin features displayed a strange blend of surprise and suspicion.

?Lucky?? Alysia looked from the barrister's face to the wrapped weapon at his side, then back to his eyes.

Alysia stared at Lucien. His clothing disheveled and torn. Scratches and bruises, painted liberally with an overlay of dust from the Inn and dirt from the Alley. The smell of anger, sweat, scotch, blood. A hint of Spring and dark sorcery. In other circumstances, it would have been intriguing, but just now, it was disturbing.

Her empathic skills were rusty, but she thought something about the barrister seemed unhinged, a tired and confused sort of madness. The lilting levity of his words did not match the his appearance at all. She flexed her fingertips, surreptitiously examining the palm of her hand where a hint of a scar remained, as if to confirm that it was still there.

It occurred to her to wonder if this was really Lucien. There was something she was not understanding, something missing. Had he been attacked? Dueling? And he was holding out a wrapped blade of sorts, strangely formal in stance, apparently a gift from Veighn. What cause had the devil-kin to offer her a gift?

?Uh . . ,? the Priestess began, aware of the growing silence and the regard of those ice-blue eyes. She tried to collect her thoughts, stammering, ?Interrupt, no, no, of course not.? She sheathed the throwing knife at her forearm. ?Target practice,? she explained, accepting the wrapped katana but not examining it. Not yet.

Alysia took a deep breath, focusing, and reached out to touch the torn edges of his shirt. Crimson eyes returned to his face, studying him. ?You?ve been fighting,? she said, a gentle accusation. It was a rather stupid comment, as that much was obvious. She shook her head. ?Are you alright? What the hell happened??

Alysia considered Lucien?s blase attitude toward the attack. She stared at him as he spoke, noting his frown, trying to match the almost uncharacteristic demeanor with what she knew of the barrister. Do I know him at all, she wondered.

Obviously Guthorm had held back, or the barrister would now be dead, so maybe Lucien?s lingering trust in his Captain was not unwarranted. More likely that Guthorm didn't have specific orders from DCH covering the possibility that one of their targets might fling himself into combat with their guard dog, she thought. Perhaps the Norskmann was unwilling to risk his own skin with the Tasha and Sid there. Or maybe it was a deliberate feint, designed to throw Howe?s opponents off guard. The possibilities ran on and on in her cynical mind.

As Lucien continued, almost rambling, Alysia began to suspect his state of mind was somehow her doing. It could be a result of the blood-bond, she thought. Could a mortal really bear that? He feared it would change him. . . The bitter irony made her feel sick. I should have known.

"Lord Veighn said the katana was called . . .The Order of the Fell-Born Shadow Assassins."

As Lucien fell silent, closing his eyes, Alysia looked down at the weapon, disengaging her hand from his. She allowed the silk covering to slide off and removed the katana from its scabbard, a work of finely polished ebony-hued oak bearing a mithril inlay of a serpentine forked tongue.

It was light, nicely balanced. Where the guard should have been was the head of a fanged serpent which appeared to be swallowing the black metal blade of the katana. Across the hilt, the serpent?s body coiled across a length of scaled mithril bone. Smokey, silver-gray runes ran the length of the blade, and the pommel's cap bore a flawless, square-cut ruby that served as some sort of stopper for the hilt.

?It is said that one should practice caution in accepting gifts from a devil,? she commented in an admiring whisper, then trailed off, looking over the weapon, the hints of spells, bindings, and wardings worked into it. She wondered about the runes, which she could not decipher but were naggingly familiar. And she wondered what could have provoked Veighn to produce such a gift, and to choose Lucien as a messenger.

?You were just banged up a bit,? she repeated quietly. Dubiously.

The katana was replaced in its scabbard and she reached out with her right hand, touching first his brow, then his sternum, then reaching for his hand. Alysia thoughtfully traced the scar on his palm, not looking at his face. That which I thought would help. . . Gods. I have to fix this, somehow. She took a deep breath. ?Chryrie is a Healer, Lucien. I would like you to speak with her.?