The Book of Swords, Chapter 12: The Turning, Verses 14 and 15.

14 ...til the heavens themselves did burn with a flame of the darkest black, 15 and the thunderous sky did weep with tears of blood...

Clashing of blades and screams of the dead ricocheted down the stone corridor of the Bastion as the ladies-in-waiting hurried Lady Adaryanna down the passageway to the livery. The captain of the guard, Corvin Yeager, loaded his crossbow while the ladies scrambled to load the heavily pregnant queen into the ornate but deceptively swift carriage. As blood red lightning shattered a night that should have been day, Yeager locked his eyes for a moment upon the near-unconscious Lady and mouthed a pair of words only she and him would understand. The queen gave a faint smile, and lapsed into the calm dark that had called her for so long. The Turning had begun.

Dark amber ale burned happily in the back of Daegren's throat as he half-listened, half-heard the words coming from across the table. He chuckled at his position. Here he was, listening to a plot to overthrow the city he had called home for all of his 24 years of life. The amusement wouldn't have been as great if he hadn't agreed with it. The trick, he reminded himself, is to separate the political chaff from the true wheat of the matter.

A small sign of that inner humor made its way to his face as he considered the fervent face in front of him. Jager Granden was a madman, pure and simple. However, there were no natural laws preventing madmen from becoming rich men, and Granden had taken full advantage of that oversight. He controlled a considerable patch of territory in Aerynth, including the seedy tavern in which both men sat in disguise, doing so by rising through the ranks of the Reachers. Perhaps the most virulent of the war temples, the Reachers were insistent on purging all "unbelievers" from the "heathen lands." More correctly, Daegren surmised, -Granden- was insistent on purging all -resistance- from the "heathen lands." Regional lords like Granden were a dying breed, and the slightest bit of resistance was subject to severe paranoia. But then again, Daegren reflected, Granden wouldn't have held onto his territory this far post-Turning if he hadn't had a healthy case of paranoia now and then.

Capitalizing on paranoia was virtually written into Daegren's job description. Those unbelievers who had a service to offer the Reachers were often overlooked in their raids, a fact that brought another dangerous, unbidden smile to Daegren's face as he tipped back his goblet. That category included the Blackmasks, and more importantly, himself.

"Let me ensure I've heard you correctly, Jager," Daegren said as he poured another draught of ale from the silver port in front of him on the sturdy oak table. He already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, but he didn't want Granden to know that he knew. "You need a provincial lord that's ruled over his territory for almost thirty years, silenced. You're positive that this is simply a personality cult, and not a popular uprising?" There was little Daegren could do about popular uprisings. A poisoned pitcher of brandy accomplished an entirely different objective than a poisoned well, and it wasn't likely the Reachers could profit from the results of the latter.

"There is no doubt, Shadowed One," Granden said, using the honorific for the Blackmasks. When he mentioned it, an expressionless Daegren slipped one hand under the table. "The territory possessed by Kaivun Able is,"

"Never, ever mention that title in mixed company," Daegren said as his serrated dagger pressed gently across the right leg of Granden's fine leather breeches, precisely above the major artery that, when cut, would ensure a swift death from blood loss. "My job, rather, duties are difficult enough as is without would-be emperors blowing my cover." His eyes met the High Prelate's half-terrified, half-furious pupils, and they came to an unsaid understanding.

"Right," Granden said as he resumed his drink and the assassin replaced his dagger. He nervously ran a gold-laden hand through his shortly cropped black hair and continued the discussion. "Kaivun Able has the province under his direct control." His voice grew to a hiss. "What many of those sheep he calls followers don't realize is that the heathen is an elf." He spat as he said the word, as if it his mouth were too holy for it. "I'm sure the bastard is working to restore the pervert vision of the elven empire!"

If Granden hadn't been staring so intently into Daegren's eyes, he would have rolled them. A great number of people in Able's Bastion and the surrounding area knew full well that Able was an elf. They just didn't care. Before Able took the province by force of arms thirty years ago, the collected hamlets had been stricken with plague, poverty, pestilence and just about any other "P" word you could use to describe misery. Since then, Able had improved conditions drastically, always disguising himself as a human. Courtesy of a little elvish technology I'm using right now. Elves didn't rule over men for no reason, he thought.

Granden continued to rant, his hands white-knuckled as they gripped the sides of the tavern table. "The death of the heretic would surely bring about the dissolution of the rebellion, and my empire would once again be whole!" His voice rose under both the influence of self-delusion and self-drunkenness. Daegren suppressed a smirk as the nearby tables took a glance at theirs and chuckled at the madman. Fortunately for them, Granden was too far in his cups to notice the wayward eyes.

The prelate took another long drink, and Daegren refilled his goblet. He resumed his tirade in a somewhat quieter tone of voice. "If you can slay Able, the rebellion will be crushed under the weight of its own foolishness. For twenty-five years, I have suffered that fool as he protested my edicts, spoke against my taxes and ridiculed my rule." He looked at Daegren consideringly. "For your time and trouble, a healthy commiseration would be made to the Blackmasks for the service. In your name, of course."

Daegren nodded while he thought the offer over. He didn't like working for the Reachers, but their contracts were steady, and steady work was definitely a desirable thing in this business. In the end of Daegren's mental debate, cash won out over his homeland.

"Deal," he said. "We'll work out the details tomorrow, in a more private venue." Worn from a hard ride into the province, Daegren had tired quickly of the prelate. Besides, his face was itching madly from his new glue.

With an iron-firm handshake on both ends, the deal was closed. "Tomorrow at noonday, in my cloister," Granden said. "I expect you promptly."

"I don't do it any other way. All the others end with a blade in the back," Daegren replied. Granden smiled at the remark, a rare point of agreement between the two extremes.

As the assassin parted with the "emperor" and began his way up the tavern stairs to his room, he felt a small prickle on the back of his neck. Casually turning around, he noted a patron taking a drink a tad too quickly for his liking, prompting a silent self-reminder to move the bed against the door this evening.

He thanked the lost gods for the wench that had made sure his reservation of a room with a private washroom had been carried out. The extra expense was costly, but not as costly as the risks without. For the next fifteen minutes, a flesh covered heap began to cover the side of the tub as piece by piece, Daegren peeled fake skin from his body. The Elven-crafted fake skin could be molded into any design necessary, although replicating individuals was somewhat beyond its ability. Only one piece remained as he toweled off his body, and that required the mirror.

Wincing in pain, he slowly took up the skin on his face, exposing the natural grey flesh beneath. After he finished, Daegren looked coldly on the pupilless white orbs that now stared back at him after the lenses had been removed and let loose the only true emotion he had felt that night. Noone heard the small tear that hit the ground as an assassin questioned why he existed, and why he had to constantly live in shadow rather than light.

The last peals of thunder rolled over Able's Bastion, signaling the last of the storm that rained gods upon men and called dead from their graves. And in the back halls of the keep, Corvin Yeager choked softly on the blood in his chest as the struggled to stave off the black clouds at the sides of his eyes. Would his sacrifice be in vain? Had the king perished to the legions of dead, united under the new alliance of liches known as the Undead Lords? The questions torched him to his quick. His loyalty lay with his king, but his heart lay elsewhere. Too wounded to move, the blood in his throat too thick for a scream, his only companion were the burning queries in his quickly fading mind and the prayers he sent to gods no longer in the heavens for a rescue.

A day above ground is a good day, Daegren reminded himself as his swirling white eyes greeted the piercing morning sun. Not wanting to greet the new day immediately, he thought a moment about his assignment. He didn't know Kaivun Able terribly well, but he knew that he was every bit as fanatical about not being pulled into an empire as Granden was about bringing them in. Infiltrating the Bastion wasn't going to be easy, but then again, people didn't come to him with jobs they could do themselves. All the same, Daegren had always had a strange aversion to the Bastion. But then again, assassins are rarely invited to drinking parties with elven lords.

Stumbling awkwardly out of the bed towards the washroom, showing little of his rogue grace, he shook out the cobwebs of last evening's heavy honey ale. But when he heard his bedroom door's lock turn with the familiar clicking of lockpicks as he began reapplying his fake skin, the grace made a quick return.

Preferring survival over modesty, he eased out of the bronze washtub, reaching to the side in his doublet and acquiring a dagger as he slowly lifted his legs over the side. The naked assassin was already to the door, dagger poised to strike as the would-be-burglar behind the door discovered it was blocked by a heavy object, namely, Daegren's bed.

The pushings became more insistent, confirming his suspicions that Daegren was against someone with more intent than common thievery. Well, let's make the first step of his job a little easier. Careful not to make undue noise, Daegren slowly pulled the bed away from the door with his left hand, keeping wary eyes on the door jamb, and his right hand remained braced on the door. The pushing became harsher, detecting the additional give in the oak. When the door was clear of the bed, the assassin timed the cadence of the shoves, opened the door, and watched with almost pity as the idiot tumbled into the room with a thump onto the hardwood floor.

Except this idiot came as a surprise. The surprise only registered for a moment as Daegren fluidly kicked the door closed right before seizing the rune covered body's head and shoving his dagger in the small space between the floor and his neck. All before the aelfborn could see more than a glimpse of his half-skinned, half greyed body.

"Talk," Daegren husked. "And quickly. Your survival depends on your first five words."

"A, messenger, from, Jager Granden," the aelfborn calmly said. He furrowed his brow, looked at the ceiling as he counted one to five, and smiled stupidly at reaffirming his wordcount.

Daegren withdrew his dagger, and the muscles of the Mad Child beneath Daegren relaxed noticeably. At least, that is, before the assassin slammed the surprised bastard-born's head into the floor, knocking him unconscious. The assassin sighed at the unoriginal excuse, and at being interrupted from his fleshing. Maybe 24 years of age is too many to keep tabs on the trade of messengering, but I've never been familiar with any who ever used lockpicks to deliver anything other than mischief.

He stared at the body beneath him, an aelfborn looking just out of his teen years. His brow wrinkled as he considered his fate. It would certainly simplify things to just outright kill him. But he had mentioned Jager Granden, a conversation he had thought was private. "That's what I get for thinking," he smirked. The desire to understand just how he had learned of the conversation overrode his desire to add another corpse to his credit. Plus, the Blackmasks as a rule frowned on non-assignment killing, even if it did occasionally make life simpler for its agents.

But even as he resumed his bath with the "messenger" safely bound in the bedroom, the unexpected visitor had brought up unnerving problems, problems much deeper than just the unsolicited entry.

How had he known of his conference with Granden? And why would an aelfborn of adult age be sent to accomplish anything for anyone? The Mad Children were usually considered unreliable because of their inbred curse, although Daegren had personal doubts about the madness, much less its effect at younger ages. Crazy? He mused. Crazy, perhaps, like a fox.

* * *

Hells be cursed, that smarted.

Marshalling his energy, the aelfborn refocused his body's life force into the task of coming into full conciousness, feeling his legs and arms go dangerously numb as his heartbeat slowly grew weaker. Fortunately, the blow was not as severe as he first believed, and he quickly rechanneled his energy throughout his body. Contrary to Daegren's belief, the "fox" was thinking thoughts that were anything but crazed.

Looking over his bonds, he smirked with a mental chuckle. He had accomplished his goal, although with considerably more pain than was really necessary. But then again, that was his fault. Messenger? Hah, I kill me. Nearly literally. But the act had given Daegren a reason to keep him alive. So, the aelfborn reasoned, that means I can mess with him a little more. Closing his eyes, he arched his back as elemental energies surged through him, channeling the force of wind into small, concentrated fingers that slowly worked the knots binding him into loose cords, and then spread into lifting hands, bringing him to the ceiling.

Oops, forgot one detail. Another of the windfingers slipped into the cracks of the shutters, easing the normally-squeaky hinges into quiescence as the shutters slowly opened, courtesy of an invisible hand. Those windfingers are incredibly handy, he thought. He grinned again, recalling Daegren's unsaid surprise when he announced Granden's name. They make pretty nifty spies, too.

* * *

With the skinning finished, Daegren clambered out of the washtub again, this time with more comfort than last, and toweled off at leisure. After clothing, he returned to the bedroom to rejoin, a bundle of ropes. Cursing in a rare fit of passion, Daegren glared at the open window, the shutters tapping against the outside of the tavern from the breeze, and leaned outside to spot the rune-covered aelfborn.

A thump behind him prompted another curse, a quick duck, and a perfectly executed roll backwards to spring into a well balanced offensive position, poised to strike down a hysterically laughing five-foot tall aelfborn. Daegren growled in disgust and shook his head in frustration.

"Anything in particular that you want, boy?" the assassin said. "You're intriguing, but I'm becoming less interested every moment."

"Oh, I believe you will think soonly upon the contrary, Mister Daegren, honored Shadowed One. Cool receptions shades are prone to, but all will be explained soon. Maybe." The aelfborn let loose a final cackle, and stood tiptoe to attempt to match Daegren's height, wearing a cheshire grin all the while. Daegren twitched involuntarily at hearing mention of all his secrets in the space of two convoluted sentences. There went one more pretense that my birth curse is a secret.

Terse moments passed between the two, moments where Daegren was forced to make a few decisions. The messenger was obviously anything but normal, but for a messenger to knowingly seek to use the words most likely to get him killed by an assassin was insanity bordering on, bordering on what? Super-genius? Either the aelfborn wanted to die, or had a truly important message to give him, one that probably had nothing to do with Jager Granden, and hopefully one that would enlighten him to why in the hell he knows so much. Daegren was in no mood to fulfill any of the infuriating Mad Child's wants. "You obviously know quite a bit about me," he said, a growing sense of uneasiness working its way through his gullet. "That doesn't leave me with many options in your fate, but I figure you knew that well before you tried that lockpicking stunt."

"Quite certain I was, that those words would be heard by myself," the aelfborn said. "By the way, myself is Paissel. I certify that if you must kill me, you might have the courtesy of knowing my name."

Daegren rubbed his fake chin, and then gazed intently on the intentionally insane Paissel. "No, killing's not part of my game plan right now. First, slave," he said, the emphasized word Paissel's first and only clue to his furthered existence, "You will accompany me to breakfast. You will then travel with me at most as far as Granden's keep. How far you accompany me is entirely up to how far your tongue wags. And I guarantee you, that if your tongue stops wagging before the keep, that noone will ever get the great pleasure of hearing it wag again."

Paissel grinned stupidly, opened the door, and beckoned for his master to precede him on the way to a tavern breakfast. Daegren's only response was a cold stare. Frowning for the first time that day, Paissel trotted down the stairs first, followed closely by the now-human assassin.

Daegren had never felt fear for a mission before it started. He felt it now.