Visitations
     Outside, the wind was clawing at the walls of the keep,
the great stone manse named Winterholm, hissing along its
battlements, rattling its barred and shuttered windows.
Before him, the fireplace crackled with almost manic cheer,
the flames casting strange shadows over the walls and floor,
the pocket of warmth and light surrounding him barely
staving away the shadows and cold beyond.
     His eyes caught and held on the line he was reading,
"With the wild spring rain and thunder...." He read it six
times before he finally found the concentration to continue,
his weary eyes sliding over the words, "With the wild spring
rain and thunder/My heart was wild and gay/Your eyes said
more to me that night/Than your lips would ever say...."
     Suddenly disgusted with depressing love poetry, he
slammed the book closed and rose from his seat near the
library fireplace, growling under his breath about the
unwholesome influence of Seelie Changelings. The cold
shocked even him as he stepped beyond the circle of
firelight, his breath nearly visible in the halls of the
keep itself. A quick glance at the watch he carried in his
jacket pocket confirmed it--July 6. July and nearly as cold
as January.
     His uncharacteristically restless course took him
through the castle, which, despite lately being occupied by
things even more dark-some than himself, and even more
recently, as a battlefield on which those beings were
routed, has suffered remarkably little for the intrusions.
Some of this was no doubt due to the essential nature of
himself, the part of him that shaped his home as it had in
turn shaped him; some, to the efforts of the Sidhe fool who
called Erik his friend, and the childling Boggan too young
to know any better.
     Stepping out onto the battlements, he took a deep
breath of the icy summer air; the cold stabbing deep into
his lungs, the pain sadistically soothing, distracted him
from thoughts he'd rather not think, at least for now. A
faint, surprised noise from in front of him brought his eyes
up to seek it.
     "Erik." Rhynn Wanderer sounded moderately surprised.
"You startled me -- I was just about to knock."
     Erik gazed down at Rhynn, revealing a slight surprise
himself. "Rhynn? What the hell are you doing here?"
     "Well, I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought
I'd stop by." A slight, wry smile curved his lips.
"Additionally, I have something for you and was told in no
uncertain terms that I was supposed to deliver it."
     Erik grunted. "Well, you might as well come in. I have
a fire in the library, and I can get you a drink." He paused
and seemed about to say something else, then he changed his
mind and allowed Rhynn entry. Erik led him through the
twisting passageways to the library. "Would you prefer
something hot or something alcoholic?" he asked with a
slight smile.
     "What -- not hot and alcoholic?" The wry little smile
broadened slightly into a wry grin. "To be perfectly frank,
hot would go down better just now." Rhynn's black hair hung
loose about his shoulders for a change, looking nearly as
windblown as the reddened skin of his cheeks, which seem
just slightly hollower than they did two months ago. His
eyes, that strange liquid silver that reflect perfectly any
color put before them, seemed slightly deeper in his face,
and though he lengthened his stride to match Erik's own, his
personal energy was clearly not where it has been before.
"How have you been?"
     "I have been well. Taking some time to relax and-" Erik
sighed. "I don't know Rhynn. Something is bothering me,
something that I can't place my finger on." He shook his
head. "But things have been all right. I think Ken may still
be wandering the halls somewhere, trying to map them out."
He snickered, "He doesn't realize he fights Banality just in
doing that. The castle has been drafty, the weather has been
foul, and I've wondered more than once if Tepes wanders my
halls as a ghost now. With my luck he'll turn into a
nervosa." As they reached the library Erik opened the door
and ushered Rhynn in. "And how have you been? and Kestrel?
You know, I found copious amounts of feathers in one of the
beds of this place when we were cleaning up." As Rhynn was
seated Erik placed a kettle over the fire to boil.
     "I'm afraid I can't confirm or deny that thing with Ken
-- in theory, he's living with me in Seattle, but he's
usually not there. When he is there, he's busy with his
maps." A brief snort of laughter. "My grandfather would have
a cow if he were here to see this. I haven't seen hide or
hair of Tepes...," His voice trailed off. "Karl and I see
each other fairly regularly and I'd see Avery more often if
I were feeling especially suicidal. As it is, I feel... odd.
Kestrel," he paused slightly, "is craving Nutella."
     Erik stopped suddenly, "You mean she's -- ? But -- how?
I mean, who?" Then before Rhynn answered he said, "In my
house?!"
     "Yes, she's with child." Rhynn somehow managed to
stifle a laugh, settling for an impish grin. "In the usual
way, I'd imagine. Kestrel says it could be Jocabius, which
means in about nine months she'll be hatching either birds
or reptiles -- I understand they're rather distantly
related. She also says she was trying to win his trust and
escape, which I'm inclined to believe -- it sounds like
something she'd do. And if you believe half of what she said
after that, it'd be `in your house,' `in your bed,' `on the
floor of your library,' `in the moat,' `on the kitchen
table.' I could go on but I think you get the point." He
unzipped his jacket and pulled out a small package -- a
delicately crafted wooden box. "From the Huntsman via fire
lizard express."
     Erik peered at the box. "The last time he gave me
anything it hit me on the head. And I still don't know what
it's for." Warily taking the box he asked, "What is it?" as
he began to open it.
     "Not sure. This letter came with it." He reached into
the inner pockets of his jacket and fished around a bit,
eventually coming up with a letter, thick, off-white vellum
sealed with golden wax stamped with the image of a drawn
sword, point down. "You're lucky -- he sent me a birthday
card." The wry smile again.
     After several moments of jiggling, the box finally
opened, revealing a small, ovoid item -- an egg-like object
executed in exquisitely wrought gold and tiny gems, a clock
on each of its four sides. Each clock read a different time
and was surrounded in a halo of different gems: ruby, blue
topaz, onyx, diamond.
     Erik curiously, but trepidly, lifted the egg out of the
box to examine it. "Hmm," was his only remark. Placing it
back he took the note and read it over.

     Erik,
               I'm afraid that something rather
spectacularly inconvenient has come up.
          I'll have to be out of the country for at least
several weeks, possibly
          longer, depending on how dire things become. In
replacement for the
          missed lecture time (no puns intended) here is
your next lesson in the
          Arts of Chronos. If you can tell why and how this
thing functions
          without a volume of theory, I'll be
extraordinarily well pleased in your
          development.

     Hunter MacKenna

     P.S. I'm having Rhynn deliver this. Kindly keep an eye
on him, if you please.

     Erik carefully closed the note once more and regarded
the egg. "Tell me Rhynn, what do you plan to do with the
rest of this lifetime? I think I could use your --
assistance with this."
     Rhynn's eyebrow rose slightly. "That depends on what
it's supposed to be. It looks to me like one of the
Huntsman's theoriless methods of teaching Chronos, in which
case, you're on your own. " A tired smile tugged at the
corners of his mouth, fading as his expression grew slightly
more closed; he still had absolutely no idea how to keep his
emotions from his face, but he was trying. "I need to ask
you something."
     "I'm already married Rhynn," Erik muttered as he toyed
with the egg.
     "Wow, Elenora works fast." The corner of his mouth
quirked slightly. Erik glared at Rhynn. "I need to know
this, Erik. Do you remember me from -- from before we all
came here?"
     With his attention turned back to the egg, Erik said
offhand, "Of course I do Rhynn." Then he seemed to catch
himself, sighed, and wondered what trouble he'd just set
himself up for. He finally put the egg away and turned his
full attention on his `old friend'. "Why do you ask?"
     Rhynn was quiet for a long moment, his silver eyes
roaming the room, the floor, the fire, anywhere but resting
on Erik. "When I was a childling, I had this dream. Well, I
thought it was I dream. I could never remember any of the
details once I woke up... but when I did, I'd be gasping for
air. No, `gasping' isn't the right word. Choking is more
like it. My lungs were working, my throat wasn't blocked --
but I couldn't get any air. Lasted for years, off and on.
The doctor Cassandra took me to swore it was juvenile asthma
and that I'd grow out of it, and since she couldn't find any
chimerical cause for it, she took his word and fed me an
inhaler and eventually it went away. As I got older." He
rose, restless, nervous, every line in his lean body drawn
as taut as it could be. "I had it again last month -- only,
I wasn't sleeping at the time, I was in a bookstore. Someone
squeezed behind me in a narrow isle and brushed against me
and something just snapped and all of a sudden I couldn't
breathe. I blacked out and when I woke up, I was in the
emergency room at the local hospital and they were telling
me I'd had some kind of seizure." His hand went convulsively
to his throat, his eyes finally met Erik's. "There was blood
all over me, down the front of my shirt, on my hands...
chimerical blood... my own... but still there. They couldn't
see it and there wasn't any real reason to keep me, so I
went home and tried to think about what had happened. I
couldn't make my thoughts cohere enough to write them
down...."
     He was clearly resisting the urge to pace, his muscles
so tight they were shaking with the strain. "A couple days
later I was doing the dinner dishes -- my hands were all
soapy and I dropped a glass... something about the sound of
the glass shattering set me off again.... I remember being
in pain -- pain so awful it was making me sick just to feel
it, just thinking about it now is miserable -- I was lying
on my face and I could feel something hot and sticky
spreading out under me even though I was on cold stone. I
didn't want to open my eyes because I was half convinced not
seeing what had happened was the only thing keeping me
alive.... I heard someone say my name." His voice trailed
off again. "I felt someone turn me over and I don't think
I've ever hurt so much in my entire life as I did at that
moment. I opened my eyes -- I saw your face over mine."
Again, he looked anywhere but at Erik. "The last thing I
saw. When I came around again, I was laying on the kitchen
floor, covered in my own blood, too sick and hurt to move. I
just lay there shaking for hours before I could find the
strength to even get to my knees."
     "Let's go back a bit Rhynn," Erik looked very pensive,
as though trying to solve a complicated puzzle. He pushed
his hair back behind his ears before he continued. "You
asked me if I remembered you `before we all came here.' What
here did you mean? My home? before we met? What?" Before
Rhynn spoke, he added, "And have you ever had any --
precognitive sensations?"
     "Well, I had assumed you remembered me from Caer ABE,
though that might have been assuming quite a lot." Rhynn's
expression was wry again, fading quickly. "Before we met
face to face at my grandfather's house. I can barely
remember my own childhood--" He cut off sharply. "From our
own world, from Arcadia, I can't remember anything, Erik --
I wouldn't know even if you did. And I've never been
particularly precognitive, not that I know of."
     "Well, at least I don't need to worry about you
thinking of preventing some kind of prophecy," he said
mirroring Rhynn's wry smile. "As for remembering you at Caer
ABE, how invisible do you think someone who has an
involvement like you did can be?"
     Rhynn made a sound somewhere in his throat. "Of course
not, I'm foolish, not stupid. And I suppose I do have a bit
of a cloud over my reputation, don't I?"
     Erik paused, measuring his words, "Do you remember when
I said I knew you, but you did not know me? How when I first
greeted you I called you `old friend'? That was because I
did know you. I knew a great deal about you, as I do about
all the inhabitants of Caer ABE. I can remember the day you
were brought to court, your saining, and much more." He
smiled slightly, "The years have treated me well haven't
they? You were a child then, but I look only slightly older
now. Anyway, as a hunter, you keep a keen sense and memory.
I was one of the best hunters. So I know much of the court.
One of the reasons I was so good was I could sometimes spot
someone who was beginning to -- loose it. Tracking down a
foe you know rather intimately can be quite simple." A
slight shudder ran through Rhynn's frame, silver eyes
glittering in the firelight.
     "Queron hired me for these reasons. When he told me who
it was I needed to find, I thought the job would be easy. I
had your phone number lying around somewhere at the time.
When he told me of the mask I thought it reasonable you
would return to your grandfathers house. You surprised me
with all your friends. Especially that damned Sluagh. But
you know the history from there."
     "Which beggars the question, I suppose, of what Queron
offered you that was worth my life. Not that I'd ask, mind
you. Of course, I'm still slightly surprised that Raist was
enough to give you pause." Rhynn's expression was perfectly
neutral. "I guess it was the exposure that brought my memory
of you back. You could almost say that you were something of
a -- a role model for me."
     Erik ignored Rhynn and continued,  "My knowledge of
your life when you were still at Mharyon's court grew in
spurts. I was often away from the main court life at that
time, and usually had much to catch up on. You were still
quite the child when I `died', but believe it or not, I was
there the day you were exiled. Stands out quite well in my
memory in fact. Yes Rhynn, I remember many things."
     Rhynn turned away quickly, but not before Erik caught
the spasm of pain that crossed his face. "I had hoped you
hadn't seen that. It wasn't one of my better moments." His
fist clenched convulsively, the bracer on his wrist catching
the firelight in a nearly malicious silver-and-violet glint.
"Too much temper and too much ego put me there -- I keep
wondering how much of all this I could have prevented just
by holding on to them both."
     Erik let Rhynn sit for a moment in silence then spoke
softly, in what could be soothing tones, but the banality
that Erik wrapped himself in seeped out through his voice
like a sharp needle of ice seeking Rhynn's very soul. "Yes,
you have quite a shadowy reputation for anyone who knows
your past. I watched you that day curious of what you had
become; of where you would go. I wondered if you would carry
a quest of vengeance against Mharyon for exiling you, and
thought I could assist. Instead you dwelt in the shadows of
your despair and thought you would never return to the Caer.
Perhaps your temper flew out of range, but you are not
egotistical Rhynn. You are better than any from the Caer.
You say I was a role model. How is that so?" He snickered.
"I hope I have not crushed your dreams." As his voice
lightened with the last sentence he took the boiling water
from the fire and poured two cups of some herbal tea.
     Rhynn paused a moment to keep his hands from shaking
too horrendously, then sipped slowly. "As you yourself
pointed out, Erik, you were one of the best at what you did.
To a very young sidhe with no family to speak of that is a
very -" a pause as he searched for the right word, then
continued on without it, "attractive thing. I admired you.
If the truth were to be told, I still do admire you. I may
not care to pay the price that you have -- that you might
still pay -- for my existence, but there is great beauty
still within you." Rhynn stared silently for a long moment
into the depths of his cup. "I don't think I was ever more
frightened of anything than I was terrified of the thought
that you might die, laying there in my arms and burning with
the shadow blade's fever. I knew that there was too much
left for you to do, I knew that if you died, we would all
lose something incredibly precious." He bit his lip. "I --
You would really have helped if I had intended to force the
issue with Mharyon?"
     "I find it ironic how our race preaches to keep dreams
alive, and when something goes wrong because of that very
ideal they will do whatever they can to punish the offender.
It is as if they think anyone who makes a mistake could not
possibly be true blood." He sighed once more. "The
assistance I would have offered you have said you do not
care for. I was looking at you with the idea you might have
made a good pupil."
     "Irony, irony." Rhynn sipped some more as his wry
expression took on a slightly twisted cast. "If it's any
consolation, I don't think I'd have made a very good pupil.
Terminally deficient in ambition." He laughed softly. "But
you're right. I wouldn't want this -- I'm lonely enough
without turning my back on what I have left." He glanced out
of the corner of his eyes at Erik -- then suddenly snapped
his attention all the way on the dauntain, a strange
expression crossing through his silver eyes.
     "Is something wrong Rhynn?" Erik wondered what problems
would arise if Rhynn became delusional. It would be rather
ironic to sit in his library with one who had descended into
Bedlam. "Have you thought -- perhaps you should see a
psychiatrist?"
     "You think a psychiatrist would actually help with
this?" Rhynn's voice was tense and he barely managed to set
his cup aside, his hands shook with such violence. "Yes.
Something is severely wrong. I haven't slept in weeks. I
can't close my eyes without seeing -- something.  I'm having
-" he groped for the right term, "- flashbacks.
Continuously. Everywhere I go. Just looking at you right now-
" he choked on whatever he was going to say. "I've spent
most of the last week semi-conscious, laying in my bed,
covered in blood -- I still have the damned cuts to prove
it!" His silver eyes burned with frightening intensity.
"Let's be real here for a moment, Erik. I take this to a
psychiatrist and I'll spend the rest of my natural life in
an asylum. My geas cuts me off from practically everyone
even remotely equipped to help me. You think I've been
living in a freehold? Not when that can strangle the life
out of me before I have a chance to think about it. It's
painful even in a commoner freehold. You were the only
person I could think of...."
     "Why?" Erik pushed himself up from his chair to pace.
"What did you hope to gain? That I would somehow dull things
with my `cloak of Banality'? What do you want Rhynn?" He
growled to himself. "Do you have any idea what is causing
this?"
     "Because I need your help. Because I have nowhere else
to go. I didn't hope to gain anything, Erik," Rhynn's voice
broke, swallowing a sound suspiciously like a sob, "I wanted
you to tear it out. I don't know what it is. I don't know
where it's coming from. But it's eating me alive and I can
feel it clawing at me even here." His shoulders shook in
utterly silent weeping, tears slid down his face as he
looked up at Erik, desperation in his eyes, along with
something far darker. "If it's my memory trying to come
back, I don't want it. If it's the geas, it's doing a fine
job, because it's driving me mad as well as killing me!
Please, Erik, if you want me to beg for it I will -- do
whatever you want, numb me, ravage me, rip my soul to
shreds, but, please, please, I'm begging you, help me!"
     "Ravage you?" Erik froze and paled. "Rhynn, you saw
what I did to the Queen, do you realize what you're asking?
Their must be some other way. Look... you know the pool I
have in my basement? It's a scry pool. I've only ever used
it to view people and places... but perhaps it could help
somehow. It's been pulsing glamour since Tepes did his
little trick. It might be worth a try."
     "Please. Anything." Rhynn's voice was raw with agony.
     Erik led Rhynn down through the keep, through the
twisting serpentine passages and mazes of stairwells towards
his sanctum. As he entered the room of the scry pool, Erik
reverently brushed his fingers along the edges being careful
not too touch the water. He knelt down beside it and
motioned for Rhynn to do the same. "Remember, I have no idea
if this will work, and if it does I have no idea what will
happen. I suggest that as I begin to activate the pool, you
infuse it with a small amount of your own glamour. Keep your
fingers crossed." Erik slowly began to trace circles in the
surface of the water, nodding for Rhynn to use his Glamour.
     Rhynn followed his gesture, kneeling at Erik's side and
resting his hands on the lip of the pool, being careful not
to touch the water. The strain was evident on his face as he
gathers his resources (such as they are), the thrumming
warmth of Glamour washing against the dauntain....
     The pool shimmered for a moment, the waters rippled
hypnotically as the energies within it meshed and merged--
     And exploded in an eye-searing blast of violent
radiance, Rhynn cried out in surprise and pain. Bubbling
furiously, violet energies coruscated across the surface of
the pool, an image began to form, slowly, almost
unwillingly. Rhynn, seeming much older though the physical
appearance itself was all-but identical. The bones in his
face seemed more sharply drawn, his skin even paler, though
that may have been because of the bruises and blood that
decorated his face and neck. He lay semi-conscious on his
stomach, his body contorted and bound in such a way that his
arms, one of which was bent at such an unnatural angle that
it must have been broken, were pulled far out of line with
his shoulders, wrists and ankles lashed together with a
length of rope and more than rope, fingertips brushing his
heels. Looming in the half-lit gloom -- flickering firelight
from some source out of Erik's line of sight dimly
illuminated the scene -- was an enormous figure, obviously a
troll, standing guard over the helpless sidhe who, Erik
noticed belatedly, wore the black and silver-gray of House
Scathach. A deep, rumbling voice called from off to one
side, the trollish guardian looked up from his prisoner and
nodded briskly in reply. The troll's face was covered with
soot and grime and blood, his ice blue eyes glinted with
cold rage as he leaned down with a long, wide-bladed dagger
and slashed the bonds holding the Wanderer, his other hand
dug into the sidhe's long, black hair and jerked him
unceremoniously to his feet. Rhynn was either too proud or
too deep in shock to even cry out though the none-too-gentle
treatment jarred his broken arm so badly that blood runs
over the ropes still binding his wrists. It was clear that
he had been bound for quite some time, the Wanderer carried
himself as though he feared every motion would send him to
the ground -- a fate which eventually befalls him anyway as
his guard shoved him flat at the feet of possibly the
largest troll Erik had ever seen, nine feet if an inch and
easily three across the shoulders, his soot-blackened face
streaked with tears.
     He bent to Rhynn's face level, the Wanderer's liquid
eyes darkened nearly to black in agony, his own green eyes
fierce with rage and grief as he slowly wound his hand in
Rhynn's hair and raised him to his knees. Beyond them, Erik
could see the burned out ruins of what must have been a good-
sized farming village -- and, before that, a double row of
biers slowly catching flame. Trollish and boggan corpses
were laid out upon them, mostly women and younger children,
a few pubescent girls and boys, oldsters and the like.
     "You did this, sidhe." The Troll's voice was flat and
hard and cold, the blade he lay against the Wanderer's
throat likewise -- Erik could nearly feel the chill on his
own flesh -- a thin crimson line leaping up across his pale
throat from the lightest pressure.
     "No," Rhynn's voice was a croak, a rasp that had gone
too long without water or decent breath.
     "YES!" The Troll's furious roar shocked even his own
followers who had gathered to watch. "We found you with your
hands covered in their blood. And for their blood, we shall
have yours." His blade flashed, so quickly it nearly made
Erik cry out in surprise, slicing Rhynn Wanderer's throat
from ear to pointed ear. His blood struck the ground with a
patter hideously like rain, his whole body convulsed as his
lungs struggled to draw breath that could no longer reach
them, his silver eyes wide with shock and horror. The end
was mercifully swift -- but it was also only a beginning.
     The memory -- for all this possessed not the detachment
of a dream or nightmare, but the stark, vivid clarity of a
true memory -- ends only to begin again, to begin anew. Erik
lost track of how many memories actually unfolded in the
pool, each one different, each one progressively more
hideous and agonizing, the images of life-searing anguish
and misery, of death by betrayal, by torture, by a thousand
other means, all seeming to blend together in a dark
symphony of pure horror.
     In the long silence that followed, Erik kept his eyes
glued to the pool, as though the light had burned them in
place. Then he suddenly shuddered and sighed. Drawing his
breath determinedly in and out, trying to regain his
discipline, he finally said, "Well... that was...
illuminating." He tore his watering eyes away from the pool
to examine Rhynn. "Perhaps we should get you into a bed."
Erik supported Rhynn's weight as he ascended into the upper
levels of the castle in search of one of the spare rooms,
muttering all the while - more to himself than to Rhynn, "So
what were they? Past lives? for a sidhe? Well, Elisabeth
shows it can happen. But she's a satyr now... Could it be
the future then?"
     Rhynn offered no resistance and made no comment, his
silver eyes blank with shock, leaning on Erik's arm, his
grip on Erik's wrist so tight it nearly made the bones
creak.
     Erik finally came to a room where he lay Rhynn down on
a soft bed. He sat by the weakened sidhe, and propped a
pillow beneath his head. With a wry smile he asked, "How do
you feel?"
     Rhynn's lips moved for a moment before he finally
spoke, his voice empty of emotion. "I -- sick. Exhausted. I
-- don't know -- I have no idea...." His voice trailed off,
his eyes clenched shut, not quite stopping the tears from
squeezing through his lashes. "What the hell is happening to
me?!"
     Quite seriously Erik looked down at Rhynn and said,
"You're just turning a little psychotic." Then he smiled, a
strangely warm smile. As he spoke a change came over him,
his cloak of banality parted for a minute letting a `light'
gently spill forth, revealing once more that Erik was indeed
a member of the noble sidhe. He appeared strong and
impressive as he sat above Rhynn. "Don't worry Rhynn. I'll
figure out what it is. I won't let them get you. It'll all
be okay."
     Rhynn's smile was wan, but it was, nevertheless, a
smile. "I'll take your word for that." He brushed a strand
of loose hair away from Rhynn's face, and his lips caught
the palm of Erik's hand, his voice softening even further.
"Thank you."
     If only I could believe that myself, Erik thinks
silently.
     "I think I'll try the library. Perhaps I can find
something in one of the books to aid us. Do you think you
can sleep?" Erik tried to pierce the veil around Rhynn,
hoping to reveal any other forces that may influencing him.
     "I'll try. I think we'll both know if we can't."
Rhynn's smile managed to be wry again. His eyes were haunted
when they met Erik's, before sliding away. A dark, vivid
nimbus of violet light seemed to surround him, the telltale
mark of Dark Glamour, though it was difficult to say if it
was the residue of a cantrip or simply the same sort that
has clung to him since he took possession of the Mask of
Tears.
     Erik nodded. "Well... good luck with sleeping. I'll be
in the library." Rhynn nodded, his eyes closing with a
weary, heartsick sigh, as he fell back against the pillows.
With that Erik stood abruptly and left for the library.
Sorting through the volumes of books, he looked for subjects
such as scrying, past lives, theories on sidhe life and
death, and finally he removed the hidden volume detailing
the Mask of Tears. "Well old friend, it looks like we have a
long night in store for us."
     Several hours, considerably more than several books,
and at least one pot of herbal tea later, Erik is
experiencing the sensation generally known as utter
frustration. The sidhe were truly execrable when it came to
the rational contemplation of death. They were even worse
when it came to writing about it. Prior existence was almost
totally out of the question for, while the sidhe had
mastered the art of living, the entire concept of living
again had nearly escaped them. The Huntsman's commentary on
the phenomenon was possibly the most extensive after certain
works put forth by the Crystal Circle, and Erik found
himself wondering if they've ever considered collaboration.
The Mask of Tears remained enigmatic, despite the best
efforts of several of the more gifted Kinain and Kithain
scholars to decipher its secrets. A soft, insistent voice
whispered in the back of Erik's mind, "It chooses its
keeper.... It chooses them for the tragedy of their lives...
to bathe itself in the Dark Glamour of its creation."
     Erik stopped reading, clasping his hands together with
his index fingers extended to rest on his lips. Looking
ahead at nothing he began to mutter "Chooses its keeper...
chooses its keeper...," as though it were some kind of
refrain. The wheels in his head slowly began to turn as he
rolled over what it could all mean. "Rhynn... must face more
tragedy... or else the Mask would not stay with him... but
is this tragedy his -- or the Mask's?" He sat in the library
for a long while after, wondering, thinking. He pondered the
history of the Mask. Erik continued speaking to himself,
"What I know of the history... it has all been tragic.
Rhynn's mother... Liannan... all those somehow connected....
A curse of his family? or the treasure? Only one way to be
sure."
     Erik swiftly rose from his place and left the library.
He wandered through the castle to his personal quarters.
There, he took hold of his blade, unsheathing it reverently
he held it like an old lover. "Frostbite," he whispered. He
slid it back in place and attached the sheath to his belt.
Around his shoulder he slid another strap with a sheath for
a dagger. Opening a chest at the edge of his bed, he pulled
forth the shadow dagger, which almost took his life, and
placed it in the holder above his heart. He picked up his
pack and checked it over, making sure all his supplies were
in place. Returning to the chest, he lifted out the rosewood
box that contained his iron dagger, and dropped that in his
pack. Shouldering this, he jogged up through the keep to the
turrets. There, as the sun rose on a new day, he drew his
sword preparing for battle with a foe that existed only in
his minds eye. His thoughts were focused with discipline as
he remembered the days when he too was a huntsman.
     In the rays of the new born sun, Erik stopped his
swordplay and looked to the east, looking towards the
future. "I heard your name many times, Huntsman," he speaks
his soliloquy. "I hoped you would never be my prey. But, if
I find at the end of this trail, you are to blame. I shall
take you down. I owe it to Rhynn."
     A short while later, and after a quick rest, Erik stood
by Rhynn's bedside. As he tried to wake the sidhe he said,
"Rhynn, I think we need to destroy the Mask."
     Rhynn woke slowly, sleep obviously reluctant to release
its grip on him, having visited him untroubled for the first
time in what, Erik realized now, must have been weeks --
though due to the strange balm his presence seemed to have
on Rhynn or because he had simply reached the stage of
mental and physical exhaustion where nightmares can no
longer reach him is open to debate. His eyes, in the morning
half-light, were closer to iron gray than silver, their
darkness sharpening his resemblance to the Huntsman until
Erik had to wonder how he ever could have missed it before.
Rhynn blinked rapidly several times, sitting up enough to
let the covers puddle around his hips, bracing himself with
one hand on the headboard, the other searching for his
clothes. Realizing he had neither the coordination nor the
ambition at the moment, he settled for looking at Erik
through eyes still half unfocused with sleep. "What?"
     "Look at the evidence, Rhynn. The dreams, the pool.
Were those memories? Not of yours. Futures? Sidhe don't
believe in past lives, so let's scrap that idea. Now look at
the Mask. It chooses it's owner, right? It chooses it to
feed off of Dark Glamour. But whether the deeds that create
the Dark Glamour are from the owners voluntary actions, or
because of guidance from the Mask has never been fully
determined.
     "It found something in you it could play on, your
childhood nightmares. Now, it's using them to make you
create more Dark Glamour to feed it. Look at its history.
All tragic events. Even the people involved with it from
before its conception were leading tragic lives. But what
about since its conception? Liannan died because of it
Rhynn.
     "It is a thing of evil. It must be destroyed."
     "I'm not arguing the point. I've been carrying it
around with me, remember?" Rhynn sat fully up, rubbing the
sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Well. This
should be interesting -- I've never been involved in the
destruction of a malicious treasure before. Let's get ready
to go." He rose and began pulling on his clothing with a
notable lack of self-consciousness. Erik could not help
noticing the pale pink stripes of scar tissue criss-crossing
his body -- chimerical scars, all of which are relatively
recent. "I left it locked up in a strong box back in my
apartment in Seattle."
     Erik nodded. "That'll be our first stop then. Next I
think we should head to Allentown. Obviously we can't go to
Caer ABE, but I thought perhaps if we checked out the
Appalachians, since your mother disappeared there and had
you when she came back. Obviously the Huntsman has some old
hideout there. Maybe we could find something. Or, checking
your grandfather's house again might be an idea to. I kind
of doubt we can just break the thing." He turned back
towards the door, saying over his shoulder, "I hear Mt. Doom
is wonderful this time of year. I'll meet you out front."
     Erik grabbed his pack, adding to it the egg in its box.
He outfitted himself with his weapons once more and strode
out the front gate into the daylight, the shadows grasping
at his ankles all the way.
     Rhynn came out a moment later, blinking owlishly in the
morning sunlight, the coolish air seeming to restore some of
his cognitive capabilities. "Did I ever mention that this
place reminds me of Pennsylvania in the fall? I mean, it's
flatter and there's no ocean at home, but the temperature's
the same." A slight smile flickered across his face. "Wish
me a happy birthday."
     "It's your birthday?" Erik asked as he began walking to
the shore. "Korin will probably be waiting for us at the
dock. He seems to just know when I need him."
     "Last night. The big three-two." That wry smile moved
in and took up residence. "Korin is certainly an --
interesting person."
     "Congratulations then." Erik said in a way that sounded
as if he was unsure of whether aging is something to be
congratulated of or not. Heading towards the dock he added,
"I met Korin long ago. He owes me a few favors. This is his
way of payment for some of them."
     "Speaking of favors," Rhynn said quietly, "I want to
thank you again for this one. You didn't have to do this --
and I have no idea how I can repay you."
     Erik smiles, "I'm sure we can work something out.
Besides, I'm interested in the power behind that mask.
Whether it is possible to use, or is only a threat. If that
is the case, it must be destroyed." Erik led Rhynn down the
path that wound through the foliage on the island eventually
ending at a small bay with a dock. There, rocking gently on
the calm waters, was the Arcadia. Leaning against it with
his pipe sending curling rings of smoke heaven-ward was
Korin.
     "Of course." Rhynn's tone was dry this time. "I had
started to forget."
     "What trouble `ave ya gotten inta this tym' Erik?"
     "A long story Korin. Just take us to land. I believe
you've met Rhynn?"
     "He should know me -- I've been working for him."
     "You seem to be making a habit of trying to keep me
surprised." Erik said to Rhynn with a hint of exclamation.
His gaze returned to Korin. "I suppose that shows how long
it's been since I left home." Sighing, he hopped aboard the
boat, ready to begin the adventure.
     "Part of my charm." Rhynn's grin was genuine as he took
his place next to Erik, Korin waving him off with a gruff
exclamation concerning goslings.

     The trip to Pier 48 went quickly, if rather damply, a
rainstorm blowing in off the ocean just in time to drench
everyone thoroughly before they reach the dock. Waiting
there, along with Korin's apparently unchanging abode, was a
small, rather battered pale blue Buick Skyhawk that had
definitely seen better days. "At least it's not a VW bus. I
suppose I just have an affection for beaten-up cars."
     The rain failed to let up despite several attempts by
the sun to pierce the clouds, Seattle living up to its
reputation as the wettest ("Not to mention moldiest.") city
in America. Rhynn, reading Erik's mood, refrained from any
gratuitous commentary on the way to his apartment building,
located in what could only be defined as the starving
college students' section of the city. The building itself
resembled nothing so much as a refurbished factory, the
decor being somewhere close to postmodern gothic crossed
with late twentieth century junk shop, at least if the
downstairs lounge was any indication. Heavy steel girders,
decorated with hanging potted plants and bumper stickers
bearing slogans ranging across a thousand topics, comprised
the ceiling; the stairs leading to the second floor were the
wrought-iron lattice work of an old gantry, painted matte
black and laid with squares of at least three separate sorts
of old carpet. Several battered chairs of disputable origin
and composition are scattered about the lounge, along with
an actual matched sofa and love seat, and a scarred, be-
ringed coffee table holding the ruins of someone's very
deceased pizza.
     Rhynn led Erik upstairs, through one hall lined with
doors, the entire works managed to look both redone and
homily shabby, the wrought iron giving way to an actual wood
floor, and up a second flight of stairs. At the far end of
the second hallway, he smirked slightly and pulled out his
keys. "Be prepared -- when I left, my bed was about to
achieve sentience, all it needed was one last element, and I
think all the chimerical blood might have done it."
     Unlike his apartment back in Crest of Cedars, this one
actually appeared large enough to hold most of his
belongings -- provided he had most of his belongings here.
As it was, it seemed terribly empty, more raw, slightly
echoy space than one his size was likely to use. A partition
off to the left separated the kitchenette from the large
living room, itself nearly empty but for a respectably sized
table, one half of which was taken up by his now-closed
laptop and a good number of multicolored diskettes scrawled
with various arcane letter-number classifications, a
telephone and modem, and about ten million hand-drawn and
colored maps -- one of which, prominently displayed, was of
Winterholm. The only other item of furniture was a couch
upholstered a supremely unappealing shade of green and a
floor lamp, which Rhynn switched on, dispelling some of the
gloom. On the far side of the room, Erik finally caught
sight of the previously shadow-obscured doors that led to
the bedroom and bath. "I'll get the Mask."
     Outside, the rain began again, pounding against the
roof with renewed fury, drawing Erik's eyes up to the high
ceiling, the apartment apparently constructed out of the
"attic" as it were, like the others on that floor. The same
heavy I-beams comprised the ceiling, though these were too
high up to be easily concealed, dim light filtering through
the painted-over windows peeked between them, much like the
permanently grimy windows lining the far wall.
     Rhynn stepped out of the bedroom a moment later,
carrying a small but rather sturdy lockbox painted an
unappealing pale beige and secured with a padlock. A moment
of jiggling the key and letting it know what he thought of
its intransigence later and the box was opened, a rush of
cool air accompanying the lifting of the lid, the Mask of
Tears resting within, coolly expressionless as ever, the
crimson tear sliding down its emotionless cheek sending a
thoroughly irrational chill through Erik.
     "Well. Here she is." Rhynn's voice trembled slightly.
"What do you want to do?"
     "Bet you five bucks if we hit her with a sledge hammer
she doesn't break." Erik said calmly. "I think we need to
check into its origins. I figure the best place to do that
would be around Caer ABE. I've read the book. It doesn't say
much. From what I gathered, the Huntsman, and possibly the
Shadowed Blade, have a hideout somewhere in the
Appalachians. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that is
close to where the Mask was created.
     "But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's head to
Pennsylvania."
     "You're right -- I've tried the sledgehammer already
and only succeeded in rendering myself senseless." Rhynn
smiled faintly. "It wouldn't surprise me if there's a
Shadowed Blade freehold lurking in the mountains somewhere,
and there's always my grandfather's house, I still haven't
been anywhere near through all the things my family
accumulated there." Rhynn went to the table and punched a
number into the phone, hissing in exasperation when he got
an answering machine. "Cassandra, this is Rhynn. I know this
is undoubtedly incredibly stupid, but I'm coming back to
Caer ABE and I'm going to need someone to air out my
grandfather's house, okay? I'll be there soon." He hung up.
"So -- cross-country automotive adventures here we come...
or did you have something else planned?"
     "Nope. I'm not proficient enough in the art of Wayfare
to get us there. It looks like we'll be seeing just how much
of a junk heap that new car of yours is."
     Rhynn made a face of mock-offense. "I should take
umbrage at the insinuation that my valiant little car is
somehow inferior, but I'm not going to. Give me a second to
grab some clothes and I'll be ready." A few minutes later,
his backpack and sword were over one shoulder, a hastily
written note for Ken was on the table, and the rain had
slowed enough that they weren't completely drenched the
instant they stepped outside, but were by the time they
reached the car. Despite its decrepit appearance, it started
again without any trouble. "Okay, we're ready -- if you need
anything from me for this, let me know."
     Erik pretended to start looking through his pockets
saying, "I have a contract around here for you to sign
somewhere." He stopped searching, smiled, and buckled
himself in. "Do we stop at your grandfathers first then?
Seems kinda ironically dramatic."
     "What kind of contract? I have to warn you, I'm nearly
broke at the moment, and I'm not planning on dipping into
the fund my grandfather left me until I absolutely have to."
Rhynn's lips quirked slightly. "Yes -- it is ironic, isn't
it? The first place you called me `old friend,' the first
time you threatened to kill me.... I'll never understand why
you didn't...." He popped the car in gear and pulled away
from the curb. "Any time you're ready."
     "How many friends did you have there with you?" After a
moment of thought Erik added, "I probably could have done
it. But I've heard some nasty stories about the Black Rose,
and I didn't feel like taking to many chances. Let's get
going." Erik sat in silence for another moment, then said,
"You know... I've done more for you guys than you do really
know."
     "That's true." A soft chuckle. "If the rest of the
Black Rose is like Raist, I hope sincerely that we never
meet them." A period of silence in which Rhynn navigated
through the city, toward the outskirts. "I know that you've
probably done more than you're saying. I'm beginning to
think that it's part of your nature. You will probably find
it necessary to deny this up and down, and I can't really
blame you for that since I can understand why you do it, but
I don't think you're as cold as you could be. If you were, I
rather doubt we'd be having this conversation, much less
that you'd be helping me this way. Yes, I know you're
intending to get something out of it."
     Erik made a small grunt followed, after a moment of
silence, by a sigh. Then a chuckle. "I guess we'll get to
see what the Rose is like after the wedding. How much longer
is it going to take for those two to do something anyway?
I... I don't suppose you have any ideas for wedding gifts?
So far I'm looking at toasters." The change of subject did
not in the least escape Rhynn's attentions.
     "Oh, gods. He's probably invited half the Rose to fill
out his side of the wedding party." Rhynn's tone was tragic.
"Wedding gifts aren't my forte, I'm afraid. If this is a
time for personal admissions, I have to say I've never been
to one. My grandfather was the only family I had...." His
voice trailed off. "Erik... what were you about to say?"
     "Hmm?" Erik said, displaying his wonderful acting
ability. "What do you mean?"
     Rhynn's voice was quiet. "Never mind. Here's our turn
off." He guided the beleaguered little Skyhawk onto a side
road with very little traffic. "Always a good place to cast
automotive cantrips."
     "You do have a death wish don't you?" Erik reached into
the glove compartment looking for a map. "Perhaps we better
aim ourselves in the right direction first." He bit the tip
of his finger and pulled it along the map following the
route to Allentown; imbuing the car with glamour.
     Rhynn smirked. "Are you trying to tell me that you
wouldn't after all this crap?" Steering the car in the
general direction of northeasterly, he smiled and said
lightly, "I hope the brakes hold."
     "Rhynn, I think anyone who is willing to drive with you
has already answered that question," Erik says as the car
leaps into that speed somewhere between Light and Ludicrous,
verging on Plaid.
     "Oh, gods, I'm flashing back to Spaceballs." Rhynn was
turning a rather peculiar shade of green. "Liquid Schwartz!"
     With the g-forces pulling at the ears of Erik and
Rhynn, the two sped off in the direction of Allentown,
flying over the continent, mostly surviving on the prayers
that they do not hit anything. The dreary colors of a rainy
Seattle proper gave way to more vibrant greens as the car
rocketed through Washington State. Idaho brings the browns
of potato fields as the car turned South East through
Wyoming and Kansas. In the moment that Rhynn and Erik are
actually in Kansas, Erik made some comment about being
careful to watch for hurricanes and falling houses.
     "Tornadoes," Rhynn said from between nobly clenched
teeth. "Tornadoes and falling houses. Hurricanes hit
Louisiana and Florida."
     The rusty browns and reds were brought by the urbanized
Indiana and Ohio, then the crew of the carship Wanderer slid
home to Pennsylvania. A thousand thoughts and scents brought
sharp memories home to the two intrepid travelers. Memories
of defeat, loss and failure. Of life, death, and whatever
lies in between as the cream filling. The air that came
meandering from the coast still several miles away seemed
thick with dust and ashes of a life best forgotten that kept
coming back.
     "Here is where I belong, and here is where I be." Erik
mutters as he tried to recall where he had heard the passage
before.
     "I'm betting it's Tolkien." Rhynn opened the door and
climbed creakily out. "Excuse me." He walked unsteadily
around the corner of the house, out of sight. When he
returned a moment later, he was looking significantly less
green. "Motion sick. Happens virtually every time I'm
exposed to Wayfare." He dug around in his jacket pocket and
came up with the key-ring. A flowering morning glory vine
had grown over the porch railing and nearly to the roof,
partially obscuring the porch and the doors; through it,
Erik could see that the front door was still firmly locked
and the window and frame next to it had been recently
replaced. The hinges on the door had also been oiled as,
once Rhynn had it unlocked, it swung open without a whisper
of protest. For an instant the Wanderer stood in the
doorway, gripping the frame so tightly his knuckles whitened
as the smell of the old, musty house poured out, before
stepping inside with a quiet murmur, "Home again... home
again...."
     "Since you're bothering to lock the front door, I'm
supposing you fixed the back door?"
     "My nocker friend that loaned me the VW fixed the back
door at the same time he fixed the window -- I'm expecting
something like a Victorian-era steam driven lock to go with
the key for it...," he held up an ornately worked golden key
that could probably unlock virtually every Faberge egg in
existence.
     It was unusually cool inside the house -- but, then, it
was unusually cool outside as well, the normal summer heat
and humidity suspiciously absent, a decidedly nippy breeze
tossing the branches of the trees and rustling the slightly
overgrown lawn, despite the warmth of the sun. The walls of
the house, though covered with a coating of facing outside
and wooden paneling inside, were obviously of field stone,
at least two feet thick, excellent for retaining both cool
and warmth. Also excellent at retaining a decidedly musty
aroma, Rhynn wrinkled his nose as he went about the living
room opening windows and pulling back curtains.
     "It'll air out fast once we get all the windows opened
up... If you could uncover the furniture, I'd appreciate
it." Rhynn said, gesturing at the drop-cloth covered pieces
of furniture scattered about, mostly in front of the huge
fieldstone fireplace that dominated one side of the room;
the other was the staircase leading to the second floor.
"I'm going to run downstairs and turn on the furnace -- so
we'll have hot water and heat in about two hours if we need
it."
     "Watch out for wandering nervosa," Erik warned as he
began pulling off covers with a flourish, as though he were
some magician revealing a great illusion. The sense for the
dramatic seemed to flow off of Erik when he was in a good
mood, and Rhynn wondered once more how Erik could be held in
the grip of Banality that he was.
     Rhynn shuddered, then smiled slightly as memory
overtook him along with Erik's sense of drama. "Don't remind
me. I used to think that the bogey man lived in the
basement." He left through the doorway separating the stairs-
side of the room from the fireplace-side of the room,
through the little telephone nook beyond it, and into the
kitchen, the upstairs door to the basement creaking open
with a decidedly nervosa-inducing screech. "Shut up, Erik.
Don't say it. I know what you're thinking...," Rhynn's voice
echoed slightly as he descended into the basement, finally
becoming all-but inaudible. From below there came the sounds
of banging and clanging, followed by a dyspeptic growl of
machinery coming back to life. Rhynn came back up
frantically brushing cobwebs from his hair and attempting to
swivel his head around to look at his back. "I thought I
felt something jump on me -- if it's a wolf spider, just
kill it, okay?"
     Erik poked around the main floor of the house, evicting
any spiders and other beasties that he found. He glanced up
the stairs, thinking back on the time he spent in the attic,
invisible, in wait, ready to kill if necessary.
     Rhynn watched the expressions cross Erik's face, his
own nearly expressionless, but not quite. "Well, here's the
question. We've got power, I checked the circuit breaker and
voltage meter, we'll have water in a bit, but unfortunately
we don't have food. Do you want to stay here and start
looking while I go out and rustle provisions, or the other
way around?"
     A strange grin came across Erik's face as he seemed to
stir around these thoughts in his mind. "I've been away
longer.. perhaps you should find the food. I'll check around
here." That tone that put Rhynn so on edge had returned to
Erik's voice, and the shadows seemed to paw at Erik like
admiring fans. Already Erik was beginning to move off,
combing his way through the house.
     Rhynn tried to keep the way his heart suddenly leapt
out of its accustomed place behind his ribs and into his
throat from showing on his face, and only partially
succeeded. "Okay. The entrance to my grandfather's study is
under the steps -- you can kind of see the door if you
follow the outlines of the woodwork. I should be back in,
say, a half an hour." His silver eyes flashed with a barely
concealed emotion as he noted the shadows and glowered none
too pleasantly at them as he started out the door. "I'd
guess you know the way to the attic."
     "Better than you would think," Erik seemed to breathe
the words with a strange hope filling them. When last he
came here, he was under a mission that left him with little
time. Now, he had as long as he needed to search through the
house, and he intended to do so. Erik slowly walked through
the house with an air of reverence, as though he knew of
some power, some happenings here that others could only call
a prickling at the neck. He wandered down to the study.
     The entrance to the study, well hidden in a tiny nook
beneath the staircase and the grain of the wood that
comprised it, still stood slightly ajar from the last to
enter it -- half the members of the Company of Tears, lured
by the spectral form of Rhynn's dead mother. Within, all was
dim and still, the heavy drapes obscuring the windows quite
thoroughly, the air thick with the scent of leather-bound
books, of paper so old it had nearly crumbled to dust, of
ink slowly drying in an old fashioned inkwell. A floor lamp
stood nearby, its soft yellow illumination revealing the
room of both a dreamer and a dedicated scholar. Despite the
size indicated by the entranceway, the room was very large
indeed. Three walls were lined in shelves of books and
artifacts both Kithain and otherwise. In one corner stood a
suit of feminine armor, the gathering dust not quite
obscuring the blasted-oak crest of House Liam embossed
across the breastplate. In the corner directly opposite sat
a desk, covered with the scattered remnants of a work-in-
progress; Erik remembered that Rhynn's grandfather died
suddenly during the blizzard that swept through the valley
late in January -- so suddenly, and to such a hale and
healthy man, that to many it seemed unnatural. Above the
desk hung a shield, its crest nearly obliterated by the
dents and scratches and cuts covering it, a matching sword
slid behind it so that only the bodkinlike tip and the left-
handed grip were visible around the shield's obstruction.
     Erik pulled forth the sword, quietly hissing, "He who
fights left handed has a sinister mind." He weighted and
balanced the sword, testing its quality. Shortly he placed
it back where it was and began a more studious search of the
room. Erik ran his hand over the curves of the armor like a
lover remembering time well spent. "Siobhan...," he
whispered. His eyes darted away to the bookshelves, which he
moved towards. As his eyes crawled like spiders across the
musty leather bound volumes his fingers followed brushing
gently along the spines.
     Dust puffed up gently from the contact of Erik's
fingers, the leather bindings, some dry and cracked, others
still supple, some interestingly tooled, others plain as
toast, tantalized the nerves in his fingertips. One in
particular drew him, stopping his fingers against its
titleless binding -- a shock ran the length of his arm, a
tingling burst that sent a shudder through his entire body.
     "Interesting," Erik said in startled reply. "Now... how
do I hold it?" Tentatively he pulled the book from the
shelf, hoping that it wouldn't electrocute him.
     The book did not, in fact, though his finger still
tingled with the force of Glamour clinging to it. Untitled,
the pages appeared to have originally been of irregular
size, trimmed to fit a binding, and imbued with such Glamour
that they could survive the ravages of centuries. The
binding creaked and cracked nevertheless when he opened it,
a single, blank page protecting the first. Handwritten, in a
strange and archaic style, the ink faded with age and the
pages darkened nearly to brown, it took a moment to dawn on
him that this was a journal of some sort.

          "I sit here in Glenfinnan with this empty page
before me, attempting to organize what  thoughts I may, as
though the exercise of my mind over my heart might bring me
peace on this night,     when much was revealed to me, and
much more made terribly clear. My life, until this moment,
has  nearly been a lie... a lie told to protect me, I admit,
but a lie nonetheless, and I find myself sick to the   soul
now that I know the truth of the tale -- now that I know who
and what I am.
          "The Huntsman is my father. My mother died bearing
me of the wound he gave her. Now I      know why my spirit
has always been so divided against itself -- it feels the
tug of too many worlds   upon it, not only of my two Houses,
but of my two natures, for if this is true, I am as my
father. Half   human, half faerie.
          "I cannot disbelieve the tales they tell of him,
for I have seen the bloody work of the Host  with my own
eyes, and knew at once that no slavering redcap was
responsible for its dark elegance,      its terrible beauty.
But some small part of me cries that he was not always so,
and that he may not be   so now, and should not be so in the
future. The proof lies before me upon this very table, the
expression of a grief that did not come from the soul of a
heartless killer. The Mask of Tears, my      MacKenna
cousins call it, for the single, bloodstained tear that
slides down its face, empty with   shock and grief. The
Huntsman made this thing, this beautiful expression of
wordless misery, in the  name of the human woman he loved as
much as my mother, to set her soul free from the bonds that
love placed upon her.
          "This is all I have of him. All I shall ever have
of him if the Dreaming has its way, for we   are separated
by bounds that neither of us can cross -- him by exile that
forced him from our      homeland, I by duty to my people. I
hope that it shall be enough to sustain me, and should we
ever      meet, I will tell him that, as his son, I am
proud, and should he wish my help, he has but to make a
sign."

     The journal continued for what seemed, from the
reading, like many more years; the entries were unnumbered
and slightly sporadic in their timing, as though many had
been lost or mislaid and never placed back into their proper
order, or simply lost and never found again. A slowly
deepening chill came over Erik as he read on, following, in
somewhat whimsical course, the discovery of the Mask's
strange and miraculous abilities, the transcendence of the
mortal coil taking on a special significance as the entries
progressed through what must be the years of the latter part
of the Sundering, when the Kithain began shrouding
themselves in human flesh to survive the ravages of a world
hostile to their very existence. He read of its possessor's
joy at the vistas opening before him, of the transcendent
beauty to be found in places where only creatures of spirit
may walk freely....
     And he also read of the slow, cancerous growth of the
Mask's own malevolence, its dark-some influence in the life
of its keeper, as tragedy enfolded him. Knowing, as he did,
of its malignant nature, he could not help the shudders of
prescient foresight that seemed to issue from deep inside as
he read of the Mask's poisonous hunger devouring all that it
touched, bringing to ruin all its keeper loves and holds
dear. These latter pages, like the earliest ones, were dark
and faded, but also stained, with blood and tears, and told
of the dismemberment of a Kithain soul and life. The last
entry was short, and written in a hand that must have
trembled with violent emotion:

          "I feel that I have not much time left -- nay, I
know that my time is over. The Mask's   darkness wells
within me like some malignant canker, throttling joy,
stoking anguish, devouring my      soul. I entrust this
document, and the Mask itself, to the keeping of Angus
MacKenna, my cousin,     may he keep them well and warn all
who would claim it. May he show them this journal and urge
them to flee its malice before it is too late for them. I go
now, I no not where, to meet what fate  awaits me."

     Rhynn Wanderer

     As Erik gently closed the book he whispered, "All this
time the truth was so close Rhynn... and no one told you."
He sighed and shook his head. Leaving the book on the desk
to refer to later, he began to peruse the scattered works,
to see just what the old man was up to when he died.
     Alistair MacKenna's desk was a thing of rare and unique
messiness -- from all the information in the forms of books,
loose papers, old correspondence, wadded up bits of old
blotters with strange, arcane references scrawled on them,
and various other bits of arcana, he could have been working
on a dozen projects at once. Careful sorting yielded several
neat stacks, and while sorting through the old
correspondence, Erik encountered something that sent a
needle of ice sliding up his spine. An old, yellowed
envelope, postmarked October 12, 1887 from Santa Fe, New
Mexico, in handwriting so familiar he knew it nearly as well
as he knew his own. A glance at the return address confirmed
it: Hunter MacKenna. The sheets within were as yellowed and
faded as the envelope itself....

     Dear Annis,

          It gives me little pleasure to pen this letter to
you, for I do so with a heart both heavy and      weary with
grief. Our assumption that the Mask would attempt something
different in this   incarnation has proven correct; again, I
was too late to attempt to stop it.
          I found him less than a hundred miles from where I
sit now, in a sanitarium in Arizona --  like most, I suspect
he was following his physician's advice to seek out a warm,
dry climate in an   effort to arrest the disease's progress.
I came to him that night under the cover of darkness,
passing   through halls that reeked of the stench of rotting
flesh, that were chilled with presence of Death, my
shadow, and clenched tight in the grip of plague. He lay
surrounded by dozens of others and I found   myself
compelled to obscure my presence lest some cry of alarm be
raised; even so, I think that at   least some of them saw me
passing by their beds, for an expression of such relief and,
I must say, it      final ecstasy, came over their faces and
I felt the flickering flame of the lives bending toward me,
strengthening me. I found that I needed that strength,
febrile though it was, for when I came to his     bedside,
my heart nearly failed me and had I not felt their feeble
wills pushing me, I might very well     have fled back the
way I came.
          He was dying, Annis, I could see it just by
looking upon him. The disease had ravaged him     as the
Mask was ravaging him, stripping away everything until the
only thing left was bone and a     raw, bleeding soul. His
flesh had nearly melted from his bones -- I could nearly see
them through his    translucently pale skin -- and despite
the rosy color painting his cheeks and lips, I knew it was
no   chance of recovery I saw there, but the flames of fever
that were burning the last of his life. He   breathed
shallowy, his chest deeply sunken, his disease-ravaged lungs
laboring even for the slightest    breath, the sound a
harbinger of death, even more so than the harsh, racking
coughs of those that     surrounded him -- he was too weak
to gasp, too weak to choke for air, and so he lay waiting
for the   blood filling his lungs to finish its work.
          His eyes opened as I touched his slender,
emaciated hand; his beautiful silver eyes, sunken      so
deeply into his skull that I could barely see the feverish
lucidity that filled them. He saw me.   Death had taken him
so far beyond mortal limitations that no Glamour could
beguile his sight. He    saw me and he smiled, Annis, for he
knew why I had come and what it meant, and he took my hand
in his, so hot with fever that it nearly scorched me. I sank
into the chair at his bedside, for my knees  did not wish to
hold me, and wrapped my arm about his shoulders and held him
against my breast.  He sighed, then, and closed his eyes as
I murmured softly to him words I cannot, even now, recall;
it   hurt far more than I thought possible, more than all
the other hurts in my long, long life that even   then I
could not tell him -- I could not tell him what was in my
heart to say. I felt the flickers of his     life spilling
into my own, easing my own awful hungers, as his fever
cooled and his breathing      quieted, slowed... his heart
no longer labored so terribly that I could feel it through
the bones and  shrunken flesh... slowed, stopped. His hand
released mine. His lips formed a word that might have  been
one thing and might have been another.
          For a long time I simply sat there with his
lifeless shell in my arms, knowing that his soul  had
slipped beyond me yet again and remained trapped in a
hellish misery that I had made for him,      knowing that
there was nothing left for me to do here, and yet... I found
I could not leave him. I could     not leave even such a
thing as his body behind, even though he was gone, even
though, in another  year, or decade, or century, he would
return and we would begin this terrible dance again. I could
not leave him to be burned in the same manner as any other
unclaimed corpse, abandoned by family   and friends at the
last, or orphaned by the same illness that took his own
life; could not bear the      thought of him and all those
things he brought with him here turned to ash. My throat and
eyes      ached with the need to weep, or scream, or do
something but sit there staring at his ravaged face    while
a part of me relished the sweet, noble final taste of his
life's last breath and another part     wished I had died in
his place but knew that I could not. Riordan finally came
for me near dawn,   walking silently among the others whose
lives had fed my own that night, those who went gratefully
down to death for life was beyond bearing for them. I
thought I had heard his silken voice earlier in   the
evening, singing the goltrai for the souls of the dying. He
gently took Rhynn from my arms and      laid him down,
guided me outside, I suppose, for I still have no memory of
the trip, and back to the     Citadel.
          Record this in your family record, my cousin, that
September 24, 1887, Rhynn Wanderer,     known to mortals as
Rhyan MacKenna, died in Arizona of tuberculosis, may the
Dreaming keep his        gentle soul.

     Hunter MacKenna,

     the Huntsman.

     Erik stood in stunned silence for many minutes, finally
saying, "But... sidhe do not reincarnate." Mechanically he
placed the letter into the cover of the book. He hurried to
hide the letter and book in his pack, carefully placing them
so as not to damage either of them. Erik wondered how much
more time he could have before Rhynn returns and, decided it
was probably not much. Figuring it may be best to continue
the perusal of the study alone, he ascended the stairs
heading for the attic.
     Under his feet, the stairs creaked with an enthusiasm
that wasn't lost on him at all, especially when a quick
glance confirmed that the room at the very top of the stairs
was apparently the master bedroom. The staircase leading to
the attic, at the far end of the hall, likewise squealed and
moaned alarmingly as he climbed it, the attic door was as
heavy and loud screeching open on its rusted hinges as it
was four months ago on his first expedition. Luckily, the
light cord hung quite close to the entrance, else he would
have been stumbling around in the dark -- the two small
windows, one at each end of the large attic that covered the
whole of the third floor, were nearly blocked by piles of
obscure materials, allowing only occasional flickers of
sunlight to pass through.
     In the light of the single bare bulb it became readily
apparent that Rhynn was by no means exaggerating about the
sheer amount of what could most politely be termed "stuff"
accumulated by his family. There was, erring on the side of
caution, at least a century's worth within immediate view
and probably more around the obstruction of the chimney
flue. Clearly visible in the dust were the tracks of his own
footprints, placed here at his last visit, and, underlying
them to a certain extent, Rhynn's own -- from the trip in
which he found the Mask. Following them yielded a cluster of
several antique chests, wooden, darkened with age and coated
in at least an inch or two of dust, apparently bound in
iron, one of which was slightly less filthy than the others
and had also been pulled forward somewhat.
     Erik looked at that particular chest and knelt down to
open it. "Now this one looks familiar," he said as he slowly
lifted the lid. He took his time to explore the chest, no
longer hurriedly searching for the Mask. His fingers
examined each treasure it held and each seam and crack.
     As he had observed earlier, most of the materials that
had shared that chest with the Mask were of the ordinary
stuff-it-in-the-trunk-and-put-it-in-the-attic variety,
probably to obscure the Mask's presence in the first place
and attempt to inundate it with banality in the second. He
could imagine that it was slightly less than pleased to
spend that much time surrounded by junk in an iron-bound
chest. Fully satisfied that nothing had escaped his gaze he
moved on to the next chest. It yielded a slightly more
interesting find -- apparently the personal possessions of
one of the family, carefully sealed inside the cedar-lined
chest. They were also apparently rather old: a partially dry-
rotted leather belt set with thin metal platelets, upon
which hung a nicely balanced pair of daggers, their pommels
marked with the unicorn's head crest of House Scathach. A
cloak of extremely fine weave, in a strange, indistinct hue
that seemed to blend and meld with the shadows. Several
suits of clothing in shades of black and gray with a bit of
very fine, dark blue thrown in for color. At the very
bottom, beneath a pair knee-high riding boots and what
appeared to be some sort of nocker-made contrivance that
might be a pistol, was yet another sword, left-handed
duelist's grip and cleverly worked hand-guard, and a
smallish box of elegantly carved and lacquered rosewood.
     "I wonder if Pandora's box was rosewood," Erik asked
himself with a smirk as he lifted the box out of the trunk
to open it. All the ills in the world did not quite fly out
into his face. Carefully arranged within the double tiered
box was a pen and several sticks of gold sealing wax, along
with what appeared to be a signet-stamp bearing the image of
a multipointed star. The upper tier pivots smoothly on well-
hidden hinges, revealing a small cavity underneath in which
to safely store notes and other items, blank paper and the
like. Resting in this space appears to be several unsent
letters, written on a strange, parchmentlike paper, sealed
in the gold wax. No addresses, only names: Elisabeth.
Raistlyn. Avery. Karl. Tepes. Erik.
     "Well, it looks like I will have a gift for the groom
and his blushing bride after all. I suppose I can open
this." Erik carefully broke the seal on the envelope with
his name and began to read.

     Erik Mikelson, Knight of the Realm, greetings.

          I know that, as I pen this, we have not yet met,
and shall not meet for quite some time. I    write this now,
knowing that I will not remember you by the time we do meet,
in the hopes that it will     find your hand without me. I
write this in the hope that my message will aid you in times
to come,  for of aid you will have need, in all likelihood
more than this short missive can supply. Know you      this:
the Mask of Tears is a thing of darkness deeper even than
Winter night, for Winter is a thing of  nature and must be
followed by Spring, even as night is followed by dawn. No
dawn shall ever     lighten my darkness, I have accepted
this, for I have walked this path too many times not to know
where it leads by now. For you, however, the path is not
sure and I beg you this now in the name of        the love I
bear for you, and will bear for you: leave me now to my
fate. The Mask desires you, it     hungers for the power and
potential for darkness surging within your soul, and wishes
to make you    its own -- its bearer once it has drained
from me all that it can take. Escape its influence before it
draws you in, flee its embrace before you are seduced by it.
Save yourself.

     Rhynn Wanderer

     "If that isn't a challenge, I don't know what is.
Hmm... I wonder who would least mind me opening their mail?
Avery? Tepes... Ah! Of course -- the damnable sluagh!" With
almost gleefulness Erik broke open the seal on Raist's
letter, expecting to find a similar message.

     Raistlyn Brooks, of the Dark Rose, greetings

          Guard Liannan well. I shall not live to see her
again.

     Rhynn Wanderer

     "Curiouser and curiouser," Erik said as he began to go
through the rest of the letters one by one. They were just
as terse, one or two lines, written as though in great
haste, but personal messages just the same. His own was
longest; his own was also the only one that mentions the
Mask of Tears by name, as well as delivering a direct
warning of its intentions. As he sat puzzling over this, the
sound of wheels crunching over gravel and an engine growling
softly traveled up to him, followed by the sounds of a car
door and trunk opening and closing.
     Rhynn's voice echoed through the house, "Erik! I'm
back."
     Erik placed the letters back in the trunk and closed
the lid. All except his own, which he folded and slipped
inside his shirt. He called to Rhynn, "I'm up here!" And
descended to meet the sidhe.
     By the time he reached the kitchen, Rhynn already had
several paper shopping bags full of groceries sitting on the
small table and was engaged in unpacking them. "Well, you
certainly look like you've been busy." Rhynn smiled slightly
at the cloud of dust accompanying Erik down the stairs. "The
bathroom is right next to the master bedroom upstairs if you
want to take a shower -- the water's probably not hot yet,
but at least you won't be leaving a trail." A chuckle. "I
hope you're not a vegetarian."
     "You mean you didn't know I ate pooka childlings for
breakfast?" Erik said dead panned.
     "So that explains the lack of pooka childlings in
Seattle. I thought it was the weather and the unbearable
atmosphere of total anomie." Rhynn's grin seemed to brush
his earlobes for a moment., and the two shared the joke in
silent laughter.
      "I think a shower would be in order. And if you hear
any rattling, it's only the skeletons." Erik said as he
turned back towards the bathroom.
     "Hold on." Rhynn tossed Erik a new bar of soap, and
bottles of shampoo and conditioner. "I wouldn't use the
stuff that's been sitting up there for the last six months.
Towels are in the hall closet. I'll make lunch. You found
skeletons? Well, it would explain why I was always so
attached to Jack Prelutzky."
     "Who?" Erik shook his head, "Tell me later. I need to
shower before I start sneezing and ruin my cool exterior."
With that he left for a nice warm shower, dreaming of a
large meal afterwards.
     "Perish the thought!"
     The bathtub was one of those antique monstrosities that
stand off the floor on four little gargoyle feet and also
happen to be nearly four feet deep; it had recently been
scrubbed clean. The shower head and curtain appeared to be
new additions to the set up and, despite Rhynn's words to
the contrary, the water was already quite warm and
comfortable, inviting Erik to put the plug in the tub and
soak the kinks out for awhile. As pleasantly hot water
surrounded him, Erik felt a wave of incredible lassitude
flowing over him, his head lolling back to rest on the cool
porcelain of the bathtub rim.
     The cool porcelain was replaced by equally cool hands,
working at the stiff, tense muscles of Erik's neck and
shoulders, thumbs digging into the base of his skull and
gently working down the opposite sides of his spine until
they came to the shoulders. Long fingers caressed his
muscles then deepened their touch until he felt the
limberness returning to his body. "Feel better?"
     The voice was slightly different, older and huskier,
but still familiar as Rhynn's.
     "Do you usually come barging in on your guests Rhynn?"
Erik asked as he tried to look at his host. "Or do you just
have a fetish for wet naked dauntain?"
     "Would it surprise you if I said yes?" The smile was
visible in his voice as Erik twisted to face him. "And as
for barging... I didn't really barge." A cold knot formed
somewhere near the pit of Erik's stomach as he finally
turned all the way around. It was Rhynn, inasmuch as the
face and form being worn mimicked his almost perfectly. His
skin was a shade or three too pale, dead white rather than
simply on the paler end of the scale, even his lips which
were curved in a sweet, hungry little smile. A crimson tear,
apparently immune to such pedestrian forces as gravity slid
down his delicately chiseled cheek. His eyes were blackened-
silver pits opening on some hungry void, through them Erik
could see an achingly hollow emptiness, matched only by
their visible desire to fill that emptiness with...
something. It took all his strength to tear away from that
hollow, hungry gaze. "Ah... modesty?"
     Erik pulled himself from `Rhynn's' grasp and
shamelessly jumped from the tub. "Why'd you put on the mask
Rhynn? What's going on?"
     "He didn't put on my face, sorcerer. I put on his." The
smile sharpened slightly, so totally unlike Rhynn's usual
self-deprecating humor that it was nearly physically
jarring. "It makes communication that much easier, and I
have a great deal to communicate to you." His empty eyes
briefly caressed Erik's body. "Let's not dance around the
subject. We both know what you came here for -- me. The
power that I can offer you. Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong."
     "Perhaps, perhaps not. What are you offering?" he asked
cautiously.
     "I am offering you the power to unlock your fullest
potential. My keeper," his tone was edged in depthless
malice, "will never take what is his from this world --
deficient in ambition, he told you, and that is very much
the truth. I admit, these last several centuries with him
have been... amusing... but even the sweetest meal begins to
pall if it is all you have had to eat for long enough." A
hungry flicker in his eyes. "I offer you this -- slip that
iron blade of yours between his ribs and take me up, and
together we shall make this world -- or any other you find
pleasing -- ours. All I ask is anguish to sustain me, and
you might have anything that you desire in return --
anything." His voice dropped to a silken, seductive whisper.
"Only the Huntsman truly knows what I am capable of, but
within you I see the spark of dark greatness that could
extinguish his own. Think of it. This world. The knowledge
and power of realms beyond human imagination. You could
become more than a mere fae traitor living on the scraps of
Glamour that you can glean and gnawed by banality that
threatens your Undoing at every other breath. You could
become the very avatar of Winter itself. A god. Think on
it." The image faded into nonexistence.
     Left alone once more, Erik smiled as he mulled over
what has just been said. He dried himself and dressed
quickly. Then went downstairs hoping for a good meal. "How's
dinner coming, Rhynn?"
     "Never let it be said that I don't have a single
domestic bone in my body." The scent of the meal that had
been cooked reached him before the sight, setting his mouth
watering in anticipation. Laid out on the small table was a
platter of country fried steak, still steaming, surrounded
by a plethora of side dishes -- mashed potatoes and gravy, a
garden salad and several varieties of dressing, creamed corn
and green beans, a bowl of fresh summer fruits. An ice-
filled pitcher contained lemonade. "I thought you might be
just a little hungry after the last couple of days."
     "Will you marry me?" Erik asked as he eyed the food
gluttonously.
     "Where's my ring?" Rhynn grinned.
     Erik sat down and prepared quickly to eat. Just as he
reached for his first dish he froze, and asked, "Do you...
uh, say grace or any such thing?"
     Taking the seat opposite Erik, Rhynn said, "I'm a
pagan, Erik -- gods, plural. All I ask is that you leave a
bit for the little people." A soft laugh as he served
himself a large helping of mashed potatoes. "Now, if I may
be so bold as to ask -- what did you find?"
     "Riddles my friend, all riddles. I need to ask you a
few questions to clear up some of my findings, and to help
out on some of my hypothesis. I'll start with the two big
ones. First, do you recall anything from your saining?
Second, has the Mask ever... communicated with you?"
     "To answer the second question first, no, not really --
communicated. It's never spoken to me, or anything like
that, if that's what you're asking. I... sort of get a...
feeling... when I touch it -- like something's there but
prefers not to be known." He hastily swallowed a gulp of
lemonade, nearly drowning himself in the process. "My
Saining...." He put the glass down as a brief but powerful
tremor ran through him. "I remember the whole day --
everything leading up to it. I even remember taking hold of
the leather grips on the shield.... The next thing I
remember is waking up in my chamber, with Roisin leaning
over me with this look on her face -- I couldn't get it out
of my head for weeks. Pity. Fear. I had never seen her look
like that before...." He broke off, attacking his dinner as
though he intended to kill it a second time. "Mharyon broke
my betrothal to Liannan the next day."
     "Mmm. Well, I think we should pay Mharyon a visit. I
found some letters that you wrote to others in the Company.
Most likely from far before you knew them. Rhynn... you've
been alive for a very very long time. Let me rephrase that.
You've been alive before. You died, and apparently were
reborn. And, I don't think this is the first time, either.
Can you pass the salt?"
     "Mharyon might be a turnip by now, if what the Huntsman
told me that Queron told you guys was the truth." He
obediently passed the salt. "I thought sidhe didn't
reincarnate...."
     "So did I. However, if what the Huntsman says is true,"
Erik grinned slightly as he echoed Rhynn, "Then you've been
dead since 1887. You're looking quite good under those
circumstances. How do you feel?"
     Rhynn smiled thinly. "You have to ask? What do you
mean, 1887?"
     "1887. You died of tuberculosis. You were in a
sanitarium and the Huntsman watched over you in your last
few moments. Then he wrote a letter to your grandfather. I
suppose I can have seconds of mashed potatoes and gravy?"
     Rhynn was apparently having a great deal of difficulty
breathing and swallowing as he passed the mashed potatoes
and gravy. That accomplished he, pushed himself away from
the table and said in a rather strangled tone, "I think I
need some air." He was, incidentally, almost totally correct
about the steam-driven nocker lock now occupying most of the
back door which he opened and went out onto the back porch.
     Erik sighed as he worried about the food getting cold,
then followed Rhynn outside -- pausing for a moment to
examine the back door. Reaching Rhynn, he stared off into
the distance and spoke, "It would seem you've come back
before too. I can only make this out through context. Either
your the first sidhe to reincarnate, which may make you a
hero, or it's the Mask. The Huntsman knows that you always
return, that much I know. That is why I wish to know what
happened during your saining. Something was revealed, and it
might be a clue. I can get into the freehold. Getting close
to Mharyon may be difficult, but not impossible. I have ways
of remaining... unseen. The Mask will destroy you, Rhynn,
unless we do something about it fast."
     "What makes you think it hasn't done that already?"
Rhynn's voice was quiet, nearly lost as the wind picked up
slightly, cool with the memory of one cold winter and the
promise of a colder one yet to come. "If we've... if I've...
done this before...." A hopeless cry at the inevitability of
it was enclosed in those words. The set of his shoulders as
he stood with his back towards Erik practically screamed Why
didn't he TELL me! A shuddering breath. "I almost wish it
were Bedlam -- at least I could lose my mind safe in the
knowledge that I was only hallucinating." A whisper. "It
seems you did preside over my death at least once, Erik. If
I asked you to do it again...."
     Erik walked around to stand in front of Rhynn, gazing
at him with a look of concern. He whispered, "Rhynn, I'm
sorry." With that he struck Rhynn a resounding open-handed
slap across his face, leaving an imprint of his hand in
glowing red. "Now snap out of it damn it! Your stupid self
loathing pity serves no one, except the Mask. Don't you see?
As long as you live it feasts on whatever it can destroy,
finally turning back to you as you begin to crumble! This is
more than your own fate Rhynn. If it were only that, perhaps
I would drop you now. Then again, I kill for two reasons.
Either it will further my own goals, or it will stop a
threat to myself. Killing you would do neither. This thing
must be destroyed!"
     The force of the blow slapped all expression from his
face as well, his hand went reflexively to the hand print
standing out in high relief against his pale cheek, his
silver eyes slowly filled with a sort of shocked
recognition.
     "And if you let this self loathing defeatist attitude
carry on much farther, you will become a worse Dauntain than
I, and at that point I will kill you. For it would be one of
your kind that once destroyed someone dear to me."
     With that Erik turned sharply and marched back into the
house, heading for the study to loose himself in what ever
book he could find first. He was almost careless as he
opened the leather-bound tome and his eyes flew over the
letters. His mind however was catching little of what he
read; too busy cursing himself for his emotional outbreak.
"Whatever happened to my control? Damn you Elenora."
     Quite some time passed as he seethed and tried to force
himself to calm; a very long time as his heart raced with
fury, hands shaking as he tried to concentrate on pages that
did not want to come into focus. Eventually, staring blankly
at a page, a hand, rather cool from being outside for so
long, closed over his own. "Erik," Rhynn's voice was
slightly husky, "you're right. I deserved that." The wry
smile was apparent in his tone as Erik turned to look at
him; the hand print had faded somewhat, his silver eyes
rimmed in scarlet. "I probably needed it, too -- a good,
solid slap is sometimes very therapeutic." He was silent for
a moment, his hand sliding up to shyly, almost
deferentially, run his fingers along the regal line of
Erik's jaw. "I'm sorry. I... I had almost forgotten that
this must be hard for you, too."
     Erik grunted, trying to wrap the web of his own denial
once more. A look of dismay crossed Rhynn's face as he
watched Erik withdraw again behind the walls he'd built
around himself. "You know, Erik, if, in order to see a real
feeling out of you, I'm going to have to keep ticking you
off, I'll eventually get really tired of being slapped."
     "Well, now we need to figure out where to go from
here." Erik paused as he considered something, then added,
"I took the liberty of hiding a few things. One of them was
the letter from the Huntsman I told you about. If you wish I
will get it and show it to you now. The others... I think
it's best we find some more pieces first. I don't know that
I can fully explain this reasoning, but... well, to be
truthful I don't think you're ready quite yet for anymore
shocks.
     Rhynn swallowed hard, his eyes unnaturally bright. "If
it's any consolation, I don't think I'm ready for any more
shocks either. I don't think I want to read that letter." He
rose and paced. "However, I also think I should."
     "Now then, you can't go anywhere near the freehold, can
you? Do you have any idea where else around here we could
look? Any idea where the Shadowed Blade may have had some
keep?"
     "Oh, I can go in. The geas won't strike me dead the
minute I cross the threshold -- Mharyon was fair inasmuch as
he gave me a bit of leeway on that, and it's hard to miss
the fact that I suddenly get stabbing pains whenever I get
to close to a sidhe-ruled freehold. It wouldn't be pleasant
but it won't kill me...," he paused. "Unless I try to spend
the night. Hmmm. Where else can we look. Give me a
minute....," He went to the bookshelves and began searching
about. "Oh-kay, here she is." He pulled down a very long
volume. "Maps. One of my relatives -- a Great-Aunt Annis, I
think my grandfather said -- spent most of her time and
effort mapping out the different ley currents of this area -
- trods, lines, places where they cross, the whole works. In
theory, any place where Glamour can concentrate in a natural
area a freehold could technically be located."
     "Annis? That would explain who the letter was sent to.
The Huntsman was writing to this great aunt of yours. I
thought it was some nickname for your grandfather."
     Rhynn flipped open to a page prominently labeled
MOUNTAIN OF HAWKS. "Mountain of Hawks is sitting right on
top of the single largest such concentration -- at last
count, about nine trods crossed on the mountain itself and
the gods alone know how many other things important to other
metaphysical aspects do, too. But there are other places as
well. Hexenkopf, for one." He looked up at the pressure from
Erik's gaze. "Don't look at me like that. It was a hobby of
mine when I was little."
     "Hexenkopf doesn't sound too friendly... and I can't
help thinking it should bring something to mind." Erik tried
to figure out what Hexenkopf would mean. "German... Kopf...
head? Well, it sounds like the ideal place for the Shadowed
Blade to stay. Perhaps we should go there and hope we don't
have to visit Mharyon after all."
     "Hexenkopf." Rhynn flipped open to another page,
crisscrossed with inked-in lines to complement the standard
longitude/latitude ones. "Also known as Misery Mountain.
Also known as Witch's Head." He tapped a spot on the map on
which several of the gold-and-violet lines crossed. "In
Northampton, a little way outside of Raubsville. It was
named after a place in the Old Country where the people used
to think that witches held their Sabbats -- it has about the
same reputation itself, though a lot of the older Kithain
here in the Valley say that it was a Nunnehi sacred place
before we came here."
     Erik grinned, "I think we have found our spot. Let's
get going." He rose hurriedly and left to get his things.
     Rhynn had the remains of dinner packed away and was
outside warming up the car by the time Erik was finished. As
he climbed in, Rhynn handed him an extra jacket fished from
the back seat of the Skyhawk. "You might need this -- you
won't believe it, but the temperature is going to drop into
the forties tonight and if we have to look for whatever's at
Hexenkopf you might need it."
     The last time Erik took these roads, they were covered
in snow, the hills stripped bare by the fury of one of the
coldest, rawest winters ever seen in this place. A killer
blizzard, an enigmatic mercenary, and a Kithain horde all
played parts in the drama. Rhynn paled slightly as their
path took them closer to Mountain of Hawks, the signs
announcing the presence of the bird sanctuary that graced
its slopes growing more frequent, and a shudder of pain ran
through him; his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
The next turn took them away from it, even as Erik caught
sight of slender, lithe figures darting amid the trees,
following their progress; the feeling of unseen eyes faded
slightly.
     The drive was a pleasant one, Rhynn untensing the
farther he traveled from the ducal seat, his mood improving
visibly. Erik began to wonder if slaps really are
therapeutic in certain cases. He also wondered if the Mask
had not simply sensed that it had overplayed its hand and
had withdrawn for the nonce, to observe and wait. The hills
grew higher the further north the pair drive, the forests
thicker.
     "Stout's Valley," Rhynn explained. "Only slightly lower
in elevation than Lehigh itself. We should see Hexenkopf any
minute now...."
     As they rounded the bend into a declining curve, the
small town of Raubsville spreading out below them in
isolated, pastoral splendor, they saw almost immediately
opposite them the peak of Witch's Head. It was impossible to
miss, the highest point in the encircling hills, its lower
slopes graced in thick forest dancing in the late afternoon
breeze. The upper slopes were almost entirely bare, covered
in ridges of grayish stone that seemed to glitter
hypnotically in even the indirect sunlight.
     "A geologist would tell you that mica deposits make it
shine like that," Rhynn's voice disturbed Erik's
contemplation of that strange sight. "Some people say that
it's the footprints of the first Kithain who came here --
when they stepped off the trod that brought them from the
old country, a shimmer of starlight came with them as the
trod dissolved under their feet and burned itself into rocks
of the bald."
     "Let us pray for either. Otherwise we must worry that
the truth is not so benevolent. At any rate, why should we
be so self-centered to think that Kithain footprints caused
the sparkles. From the description you gave me of the place,
I'm willing to bet many other feet walked that mountain
before our ancestors." Erik's eyes roamed over the mountain
curves, seeking answers as always. "I hope you brought
flashlights? This may take some time to find what we look
for."
     "Of course -- I always keep a couple, one in the trunk,
one in the glove, primarily to bludgeon cappuccino crazed
mimes." Rhynn smiled. "You're probably right about the first
Kithain thing, but it's a common story depending on who you
listen to -- and you know our people would claim
responsibility for hanging the moon in the sky if they
could."
     Raubsville was so tiny that it barely qualified as a
one horse town -- it was more like three-quarters of a horse
or a very small pony. Houses and businesses were scattered
across the bowl of the valley all the way to the foot of
Hexenkopf itself, though none actually went further than
that, and no road ran anywhere near it. Rhynn guided the car
into a nearby parking lot attached to a small picnic area.
"There are trails leading up through the woods - look, over
there." Following the length of his arm, Erik saw that he
was correct, the mouth of a trail curving up through a break
in the woods clearly visible from where he stood.
     The trail, as it turned out, only went halfway up the
side of Hexenkopf, the rest of the trip being made pushing
by their way through heavy underbrush, over trees fallen in
last winter's storms, and across some fairly interesting
spurs of rock jutting through the thick leaf mold covering
the forest floor. The trees provided a nearly solid canopy,
darkening the small open areas beneath them nearly to the
level of twilight but for the odd lance of green-tinged
sunlight that passed through them. Wind rustled the leaves,
but otherwise there was no ambient sound excepting the
creaking of the ancient tree roots themselves -- no birds,
no animals in the underbrush, no sounds traveled up from
below. Eerie only barely covered it, and the skin between
Erik's shoulder-blades crawled almost continuously, feeling
hostile eyes despite the sensation of utter loneliness that
permeated this place. The fact that Rhynn felt it too, in
fact spent more time looking over his shoulder than looking
forward, was of supremely cold comfort, even when he managed
to walk into a tree while doing it.
     As the trees began to thin, the light grew somewhat
stronger, tinged red with sunset as they approached the top
of the bald. Stepping out onto the vast expanse of bare
stone, a chill ran up Erik's spine that had little to do
with the cool breeze -- the fiery sunset striking off the
glittering threads running through the gray stone caused
them to shimmer like runnels of freshly spilled blood. The
similarity isn't lost on Rhynn, who reflexively stepped
closer to Erik and half-pivoted, covering his back.
     "This is--" He began softly.
     "This is the Mount of Misery," a second voice
continued, "the place upon which your sire first set foot
when he came here. Greetings, Rhynn Wanderer. Greetings,
Erik Mikelson. I give you welcome."
     Erik whipped round to face the voice, his hand catching
the hilt of his sword. In grated tones he spoke, "You have
the advantage of us, friend. Who are you?"
     "I wouldn't pull that out unless you intended to use
it, Magician, and since I doubt that I'm your type...." The
voice was coolly amused, almost flirtatious, and attached to
a figure seated on an outcropping of rock perhaps ten feet
away, backlit against the setting sun. "We've met before,
Erik Mikelson, in a manner of speaking -- you saw my face
before you saw the Queen's." He hopped lightly down from his
seat, his booted feet making no sound on the rock of the
bald as he walked toward Erik. He moved with a grace and
economy of motion that reminds Erik of the Huntsman, and, as
he reached up and pushed back the deep hood of the cloak he
wore, Erik understood why -- it is the face of the sidhe he
viewed in Queron's pool at Mountain of Hawks... only
slightly altered. He was missing his right eye, in its place
he wore a patch of black leather studded in silver, along
with the tip of his right ear; beneath the full sleeved
shirt he wore, Erik saw that his right hand was also missing
at the wrist, a tooled bracer of black leather traveling up
his arm to his elbow covering the stump. He was dressed
entirely in the black and ghost gray of House Scathach, the
high collar he wore clasped shut with a brooch bearing the
black unicorn's head, his hair, unlike his brother's, let
loose to flow in the wind. "I'm terribly rude -- I know your
names but you don't know mine. Call me Riordan."
     Erik relaxed his grip. "I thought you said you couldn't
leave that place. How do you come to be here? And what has
caused your wounds in the coming?"
     "At the time we spoke, I could not leave -- your timely
intervention broke a few more barriers than you might have
been aware." The wry smile had to be a hereditary
characteristic -- they all had it. "I came because I was
needed, and I felt it singing its sweet little song of pain
and misery from halfway around the world." His single eye
narrowed to a gleaming, storm-gray slit.
     "I...," Rhynn's voice from Erik's shoulder sounded
shocked but certain -- a note he rarely heard from Rhynn.
"I... know you. I remember you!"
     "Sh," Riordan raised a long finger to his lips. "Wait.
We have much to discuss. Inside." He stepped back, following
the pattern of the crimson-glinting threads, which, given
the perspective of watching it happen, take on the pattern
of a gradually in-turning spiral. Gesturing for Rhynn and
Erik to follow, he stepped into the center of the pattern
and, with a brief shimmer of bending light, vanished.
     "They say the calmest point is the center of a tornado.
Did I get that one right, or is it a hurricane?" Erik said
with a crooked smile. "Let us hope this is not a black whole
into which we step." Boldly, his hand still resting on the
hilt of his sword, Erik walked to the center of the spiral.
     "Hurricane...," Rhynn murmured, seemingly from a
horrendous distance, as Erik stepped into the center of the
spiral, the air shimmering around him as, with a wrenching
twist that managed to throw him off his stride he stepped
through--
     Staggering, he realized that he had crossed into an
enclosed area, though how he knew, he cannot really guess --
all was black around him; his eyes reeled from the sudden
shift from late afternoon sun to total darkness. Someone
stumbled against his back, and from the tone of yelp it must
be Rhynn. "What the hell?"
     "It looks like it was a black hole after all," Erik
said under his breath. His hand tightened around his hilt.
"Riordan! Show yourself!"
     There was the faint sound of two abrasive surfaces
rubbing together, then a flicker of light, which gradually
grew into the size and shape of a lamp flame, illuminating
his face. "Sorry about that -- I couldn't remember where we
left the lamp and I spent a couple seconds stumbling about
in the dark as well. Follow me."
     Erik followed, but very cautiously. His hand still lay
on the sword hilt as he examined his whereabouts. "Perhaps
you'd like to explain where we are going?"
     "Down." The uncooperative smile was visible in his
tone, the lamp he held casting a sphere of illumination
about him as he glanced over his shoulder at the wilder
pair. "Coming?" With that, he proceeded on his way, leaving
them to follow -- or not -- as they will. It was obvious,
however, that whatever this place was, it was not entirely
of natural manufacture. The great stone arch through which
he stepped was obviously carved from the mica-rich heart of
Hexenkopf, the bright veins catching the lamp light and
partially revealing the down-ward spiraling staircase which
he was descending.
     Erik followed Riordan down the staircase, watching the
shadows, even as they watched him. "Stay close to me Rhynn,"
he muttered.
     "Don't worry -- I'm not planning on wandering off and
looking for Gollum." Unseeing, Erik felt a shudder travel
through his lean body, which was still positioned covering
his back.
     The staircase seemed to wind down forever, descending
in a wide, loose corkscrew into the depths of the mountain.
Every now and then a steeply arched doorway would appear on
either side, and Riordan would wait for Erik to catch up,
keeping him and Rhynn from going off the wrong way, before
continuing on. Nevertheless, Erik's nerves remained taut and
his senses alert, catching occasional glimpses of movement
in the shadows, of eyes flashing just beyond the golden
globe of lamplight, all of which his guide ignored. Finally,
the decline ended, the staircase straightening out into a
parquet floor for a stretch of about twenty feet before it
transformed into limestone -- limestone smoothed by the
passage of ages and many, many feet. Erik heard the ripple
and drip of flowing, falling water and as he stepped out
into the open he can see why:
     They stood on the shore of a vast underground lake. A
rill of water ran down the side of the cavern containing it
near where they stood, and, despite the prevailing gloom,
Erik could hear many other such streams joining it out of
his sight. Tied to a conveniently placed stone abutment was
a wooden raft, its pole lying lashed to one end. "Your
destination is on the far side. Follow the markers set in
the water, and you should not lose direction."
     "The guide never follows past the river Styx, does he?
I don't no whether to thank you or bind you, but if there is
any treachery ahead," Erik left the threat hanging as walked
onto the raft, preparing to push it off with the pole. He
waited patiently for Rhynn.
     Rhynn looked like he would dearly love to ask the
question foremost in his mind just now, but instead turned
away, his lips compressed into a thin line, and stepped
carefully onto the raft. As promised, there were markers on
the lake designed to guide Erik to his destination -- and
this was a good thing, as, after five minutes on the open
water with no light, he would otherwise have been utterly
lost. Every ten feet or so, tiny globes of blue witchlight
hovered just above the water, casting dim circles of
radiance that illuminate both above and below the water for
quite a distance, allowing brief glimpses of the lake's
denizens which, after a few good looks, the travelers tried
their best to ignore. And hoped they were friendly.
     Rhynn remained quiet except to call directions toward
the next globe, and Erik had to wonder what was going
through his mind right now. He could not see Rhynn's face
for the darkness, so he had no way of gauging where his
thoughts were tending. Erik suspected, however, from the
strain in his voice, that he almost wished he had never
learned any of this.
     "I can't see another one," Rhynn informed Erik after a
space of rowing, the silence broken only by the occasional
sounds of one of the lake's dwellers seeking its dinner. "We
must be getting close to--"
     The prow of the boat hit something with a shattering
impact, Rhynn's words cut off in a strangled cry as the
impact, followed closely by the recoil and the violent
sideways list of the raft, tossed him in the water with a
resounding splash. Erik remained on the raft by the grace of
quick reflexes and the pole, jamming it down hard and
encountering something quite solid a few feet down as he
sprawled across the raft and held on by his fingertips.
Rhynn resurfaced an instant later with an explosive gasp.
"ERIK! Something has my--" Stillness.
     "RIORDAN!" Erik yelled through the cavern, "CURSE YOU!"
With that, he drew his cold iron blade and did possibly one
of the most fool hardy things he had ever done. He dove down
into the water. Colder than ice, with no sun to warm it, the
shock of diving in packed a hit like an ice-coated
sledgehammer. His fingers were numb in seconds, making it
difficult to keep his grip on his weapon, and the weight of
the drenched clothing consistently tried to drag him down
deeper. He could feel, however, a disturbance below him in
the water, a struggle taking place several feet below.
Feeling along the surface of whatever it was they hit, his
hands encountered water-smoothed limestone that gave just
enough purchase to help him on his way down, reaching the
object that stopped his pole an instant later and giving him
something else to push off from -- apparently a branching
stone outcropping. It was not bad timing, either, as the
struggle below the water slowed down, and he had to wonder
how much breath Rhynn managed to get in his brief instant on
the surface. The fight intensified -- then something so much
warmer than the surrounding water that it actually retains
its heat wafted past his face and the water is still but for
the ripples of something large swimming away quickly.
     It was at that moment that something lean and wiry
slammed into him from behind, nearly knocking the air from
his lungs, knocking him off the outcropping and driving him
even deeper underwater. He felt, through his clothing,
thickly webbed, spindly fingers tipped in wickedly barbed
claws of this incredibly muscular and powerful swimmer as it
apparently dove for, if not the bottom of the lake, then
close to it. The sickening taste of extremely mineral heavy
water began to penetrate his lips as the creature changed
direction abruptly, swimming hard as it apparently sensed
the burning coming to Erik's lungs and the disorientation of
oxygen deprivation. Abruptly, it began swimming upwards
again, the murk of the water giving way to something lighter-
-
     It hit him like a slap--
     Light -- blinking furiously as his eyes stung and ached
from the return of even dim illumination--
     Air -- great heaving gasps as he realized how close he
came to drowning and how precious every breath was now--
     Rhynn -- lying nearby, turned nearly onto his stomach,
unmoving.
     Erik drew deep craving gasps of air, managing to look
at Rhynn from the corner of his eye, trying to clear his
head and begin everything flowing properly again. Slowly,
with a sense of exhaustion creeping over him, he moved
towards Rhynn to check him out. "After... what I just...
did... you better... not be... dead... old friend."
     Rhynn evidently coughed a great deal of blood-laced
water out of his lungs before losing consciousness, his
breathing remaining labored and ragged, and under his hands,
Erik felt broken ribs grinding as he rolled the Wanderer
over onto his back. A deep gash over his eye was still
pouring blood down his pale face, his lips almost blue from
the cold and his body too chilled to even shiver, several
ragged tears ripped across his chest by claw-tipped fingers
add blood to general wetness.
     A sound from across the room attracted Erik's
attention, and he realized that the chamber he was occupying
was perfectly circular, with a wide pool in the center
filled with the lake water and the very top of the submerged
tunnel dimly visible for a few inches. A small witchlight
orb, a close cousin to the ones that danced on the lake
outside, hovered over it, lighting more or less the entire
room. As he watched, the well-concealed door on the opposite
side hissed slightly and slid into its recessed housing; the
air-pressure changed almost instantly, causing the pool to
rise a bit, and the sound of voices -- or, rather, one voice
-- to enter.
     "Yes, child, I know he fought you -- he was afraid that
you were trying to kill him, and the sidhe -- even this
sidhe -- fear death like nothing else." The voice was
ancient and raspy and definitely female. As its source
stepped into the room, leaning heavily on a carved staff of
some dark wood, Erik caught a brief glimpse of the pale,
amphibious creature -- he could not bring himself to call it
faerie -- accompanying her, its enormous, nearly blind eyes
and its spindly clawed fingers and suddenly Rhynn's Gollum
reference made him wish to be elsewhere. Immediately. "It
wasn't your fault, child. Go home, now, and tell your mother
I may need her later."
     A quick flash of motion, so swift and lithe that the
water barely rippled at its passage, and the thing was gone.
Its... mistress... turned to face Erik and his unconscious
companion, and he found himself gazing into a face that once
must have brought kings to their knees with its beauty,
faded now with age and care, but still enough to dry his
throat. Her silver hair was streaked with iron gray and held
back in a loose braid, her pointed ears clearly visible, and
her sea green eyes, accentuated by a long robe of the same
hue, pierced Erik to the core as she gazed at him. For an
instant, the Glamour rolling off of her was almost agonizing
in its intensity, and he felt it battering at the banality
cloaking his soul as she stepped close. "Greetings,
Magician. I am Carabosse. Bring the Wanderer -- I could care
for him here, but I dislike the damp, and my bones are too
old to lift him myself."
     Obediently, Erik lifted Rhynn's limp body in his arm
and followed the strange woman. "Would you care to explain
to me where we are going and what just happened?"
     "Riordan did not tell you what to expect." A sigh as a
witchlight globe formed over the palm of one hand. "We are
going deeper into the Mount, where it is not so damp, that
you can dry yourself and we can care for the Wanderer's
injuries. You were brought here because you seek knowledge
about the Mask of Tears. I can provide you with that."
     She led Erik deeper into the twisting passage of halls,
moving in a consistently circular pattern; it was not quite
as mind-boggling as Winterholm, but a close second. Rhynn
did not manage to regain consciousness, but a small sound
emerged from his throat and the fingers on his left hand
clenched reflexively, and Erik noticed that the symbols
inscribed across the surface of his bracer were slowly
beginning to darken from silver to violet. A sidhe ruled
freehold. The woman stopped and opened a door, beyond which
Erik saw a fire burning cheerfully and a bed laid out as
though expecting a visitor. "Please step inside--I must
fetch a few things from my chamber."
     "I don't know that this is a good idea. Rhynn's geas is
being activated. Who rules this freehold?"
     "I do." Her tone was impassive as she turned to look at
him, gesturing for him to enter. "Fear not, Magician -- I
will not be keeping you here long enough for it to do him
lasting harm."
     "You types really like all the mysterio acting don't
you? I don't suppose you have any idea what troubles the
Huntsman is taking care of?"
     She gave him a withering look. "Let us not discuss
mysterious affectations, O Dark and Brooding one from the
far north. The Huntsman's concerns are not my own. You came
seeking information on the Mask of Tears. Do you desire that
or do you not?"
     Erik issued a low growl before he answered, when he did
his voice was strained with the effort of controlling it.
"Yes, I do. However it does not seem like anyone here is in
much of a hurry to give it to me. It seemed plausible that
the Huntsman could help. Is it so," his voice began to carry
great notes of sarcasm, "unreasonable that I ask after him?
Perhaps you would prefer that we do things my way and I
could rip this freehold down. Your precious Dreaming is not
so precious to me, nor is it as powerful as you may wish to
believe. The time has come, Carabosse," he spoke the name
with the same tone he used towards Raist, "to take yourself
off the high horse you ride here and answer my questions
with the etiquette I require."
     "Neither are you so powerful as you think you are,
Dauntain." Her voice was a hiss and she was clearly
unimpressed. "Now, however, is not the time to butt egos, or
have you forgotten that every second we waste in pointless
contention is that much drained from his," she gestured at
Rhynn, "life? The Huntsman is unavailable -- even to me, and
believe me, Magician, that aggravates me nearly as much as
it does you."
     "I care more about destroying the mask than saving
Rhynn. Yet you still have not provided me with a clue to
anything. This better be leading somewhere good."
     Carabosse smiled dryly. "Ah, yes. Well, that would
depend entirely upon how you define `good.' As it is, you
are dripping blood and water and my floor, and, personally
would infinitely prefer it on the sickbed, which was
designed for such things. Leave him there and come with me."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode down the hall.
     Erik took care of Rhynn, trying to fix him some modicum
of comfort, then hurried to catch up to Carabosse. "Why
couldn't he have just had a ring? This would all be done by
now," he muttered to himself.
     "No it wouldn't." Carabosse assured him dryly as she
led him deeper into the Mount. "The Mask of Tears.... Let me
ask you something -- have you ever worn it?"
     "Uhm... no... just talked to it."
     "Talked to it?!" She stopped abruptly, stared at Erik
suspiciously for several seconds, then shook her head and
continued on. "Well, the first is good -- the second is
extraordinarily bad... for you, at any rate. Obviously, it's
harboring some hopes that you will--" She paused. "I'm
getting ahead of myself. You want to destroy the Mask. This
is, naturally, significantly easier said than done. Suffice
it to say that the Huntsman has been attempting to destroy
the thing since he first realized what it had become, and
what it desired...."
     She opened another of the nondescript doors and led him
inside. Within was a cheerful room lined in books, carpeted
in a thick rug that kept out the damp; a fire burned
pleasantly in the large fireplace. "The Mask of Tears, as
you probably are already aware, was originally meant to be
tool of communication -- the Huntsman forged it from his own
pain, that he could communicate with his dead lover, whose
shade was trapped in this world by his love. That was its
first taste of Dark Glamour -- its creation, and the anguish
the Huntsman experienced while traversing the realms of the
dead in search of his love. He knew that it had a greater
potential to it than he was exploiting, but he was also
uninterested in doing so, and when the task he had set
before himself was completed, he laid it aside.
     "Left to its own devices, the Mask would have starved.
As with all things of Glamour, it had to be surrounded in
other such things to maintain its strength -- it had to be
washed in the powers of the Dreaming. Since it was crafted
of Dark Glamour, the Mask needed pain--pain and grief and
misery and despair...the darkest dreams of human and Kithain
kind.... Complicating matters for it was the fact that the
Mask was at least partially sentient to begin with, as most
treasures are or eventually become, and its intelligence was
a goad that added to its frustration.
     "The Mask had been abandoned by its maker. It was cut
off from the force that gave it full reality, and its
Glamour leaked away slowly as memory of it faded. Its...
entity... was being driven slowly mad by the limitations of
its existence -- it could only experience anything, any
feeling, any sensation, any desire, through the existence of
its keeper and it was unkept, unwanted, untouched. Imagine
being awake and capable of feeling, experiencing, but all
your nerves were dead, your body paralyzed, your mind rent
from your body, and you will know how it felt.
     "Then Rhynn Wanderer came...."
     Carabosse paused for a moment, gesturing for Erik to
take a seat by the fire, removing a thick blanket from a
nearby closet and handing it to him. The steam rising from
the kettle sitting on the hearthstone made his mouth water,
as did the several sorts of pastries she set out on the
table between the chairs.
     "I am sorry if I have been... brusque." It slowly
dawned that this was probably the closest she'd come to
explaining herself in decades. "This situation is
extremely... painful... for me. Alistair MacKenna, Rhynn's
grandfather, was my brother, Siobhan my niece--" She bit her
lip.
     "Rhynn first came to our family searching for the truth
about his parentage, and thought that the best place to look
would be with his mother's mortal family, as the Scathach
carry all that is mortal in them wherever they go. He was
very young at the time, by sidhe standards, and had spent
most of his life being bounced back and forth between his
grandparents, who raised him in a little-bit-of-this-and-a-
little-bit-of-that fashion -- his Liam grandfather taught
him to value the lives and works of others, his Scathach
grandmother taught him to love the road and a song and a
good fight. He felt, very keenly, the two halves of his soul
tugging him in two different directions, the faerie that was
one bit and the mortal that what Scathach's legacy to her
blood. He came to our family hoping to discover his past and
so find a way to shape his future. He found the Mask of
Tears....
     "By that time, the Mask was so hungry, so deranged that
it latched onto Rhynn and held so desperately tight to him
that the soul of the Mask and the soul of its keeper were
twined together like spun thread -- and Rhynn, so desperate
for some true sense of who and what he was, did the same. It
might have turned out differently had they not been both so
deeply in need... and then again it might not have, for the
Mask is a thing unpredictable to begin and it became even
more so in its madness. He used it to search for some sign
of his father, for he knew who the Huntsman was then, and
the Mask, in its turn, used him to feed it the Dark Glamour
it needed and the life it craved. Eventually, it began
warping his soul to suit its hungers, twisting his life for
its own purposes... and, even after its viciousness saw him
dead, it would not let him go....
     "Rhynn can die. He has died in the past, many times...
in pain, in misery, in betrayal... and, so long as the Mask
has use for him, so long as it exists, he will continue to
live. But even if he were Undone to his total destruction,
it would not destroy the Mask -- it would liberate it to
seek a new host to seduce and destroy. I do not know how to
destroy the Mask itself -- neither does the Huntsman. The
only Kithain on the face of this earth who may know is Rhynn
himself -- and if he does, the knowledge is buried beneath
the Mists."
     "So tell me... what if I just tried to ravage it?" Erik
paused, "I suppose you know that my powers of ravaging are
far different from your own?"
     "I understand the distinctions. I am simply not certain
that that would be a wise idea. If the Mask actively spoke
to you, it has broken with a well established tradition of
silence -- Rhynn has possessed the thing for more than a
millennium, and it has never actually communicated with him
in any meaningful way. It may have decided that you would
make a master more inclined toward its own ambitions."
     "And perhaps I would be. And then what would you all
do? Just for the sake of argument, of course."
     "For the sake of argument," Carabosse's tone was quiet,
not threatening, not outraged, "I would have to warn you
that such a thing might very well be worse than the path you
are already walking. Freeing your faerie soul from the
mortal flesh it inhabits would grant to you enormous power,
for physical law would be meaningless to you and any world
that you could perceive or imagine would be within your
grasp, to alter by your will alone. Your mere presence would
warp reality to suit your desires -- and as a creature born
of the Dreaming and reborn of this realm, it would be more
your place, the domain of your being, than even the High
King could claim of Concordia. You could claim this world as
the Queen has claimed the Realm of Nightmares, as a part and
parcel of your soul, indivisible but by final Undoing.
     "But, unless you found some way to alter the world so
fundamentally that it was reduced near to nothing, you would
have no protection from the ravages of Banality -- and more
forces than your will alone work to maintain that power and
would need to be overcome. Even further, you could only
accomplish this through the auspices of the Mask itself --
and the Mask has its own desires, its own appetites, that
must be fed and cannot ever be truly satisfied. You could
become as to a god -- but a dark and terrible god to be
sure. That may not horrify you, as you have already turned
aside from a brighter path, but do not delude yourself into
thinking that others would accept you more gladly than they
would the rule of the Queen -- and do not discount the Queen
herself. She desires this world as well, desires to reclaim
a fleshly body and return in the dark grandeur of her full
power. She will not surrender without a fight.
     "This is what Rhynn rejected when he refused to let the
Mask's hunger rule him -- this is what he has been paying
for all these years."
     "So our pitiful hero holds back the destruction of the
world," Erik mused. "And we have no clue on how to destroy
this thing? I suppose it would either call Rhynn somehow or
find a new host if he were to abandon it. It would seem we
need to somehow destroy its very essence. Reap its dark
glamour in such a way as to not provide it with anything
through the reaping. We need to find some sort of...
antithesis to it. Or did you have any other idea?"
     "None." Carabosse's tone was cold. "Any option is
viable at this time -- an antithesis would, in theory, work
as well as anything."
     "You are full of inspiration, Carabosse." Erik sat for
a moment and said nothing. He raised a finger to rub an itch
on the underside of his lip before he continued, "I have a -
- I know someone. Perhaps.... Do you think the Mask would
make an interesting wedding gift?"
     "If you are referring to Elisabeth and Raist, I somehow
doubt that you'd get away with giving them the Mask." A
smirk crossed her aged, beautiful face. "Though, given the
sluagh's original purpose for insinuating himself into the
Wanderer's life, I could be wrong about that. And did you
really expect inspiration, Magician? I do not think I am
that gifted." She sobered. "Suffice it to say, that I do not
think that this will be simple or painless, though I wish it
could be both. You have my sympathy, if that means anything
-- and also my wish for your fortune." She lay her hand over
his, a brief surge of glamour touched him.
     Erik made an uncomfortable grunting noise when
Carabosse touched him. "I better get the Wanderer out of
here." He stood and brushed himself, preparing to leave.
     "Indeed. My... companions... have no doubt tended him
by now, but the geas has quite likely been sufficiently
aggravated." She rose. "I will not require you to take the
watery exit from this place -- if you follow the hall
branching off from this one near the Wanderer's chamber, you
will discover a staircase that leads to the bald of
Hexenkopf."
     "Carabosse... do you know where the Mask was created?"
     A pause. "The Mask was created in a hidden freehold in
the Duchy of Glenfinnan, on the northwestern coast of
Scotland. The Huntsman would not divulge the exact location
to me, though I managed to surmise from what he carefully
failed to say that it is no longer in use -- at least by
Kithain of wholesome nature. Farewell," a faint smile, "Erik
Mikelson."
     So saying, Carabosse turned and glided from the room --
the interview clearly at an end as far as she was concerned
-- leaving Erik alone and shivering in the suddenly rather
severe chill. Thankfully enough, backtracking wasn't at all
difficult as he left a decidedly dank trail of footprints
down the twisting halls and corridors, footprints that
showed no appreciable signs of fading. Eventually he came to
a section of corridor that seemed nearly familiar. As he
approached the sickroom in which the Wanderer was resting,
the sound of voices, or to be more precise, a voice, muffled
by a closed door, reached him.
     "...can't remember." Rhynn's voice, sounding both weary
and in pain, physical and otherwise. "Erik asked me nearly
the same question earlier, and the answer still hasn't
changed." A long period of silence, unbroken by another
voice despite a concentrated effort to hear one. "No... I
didn't even know it was there. My grandfather didn't tell me
anything of this -- he just kept me out of the attic as much
as possible." A soft laugh. "After I read Jane Eyre I was
half-convinced he kept my crazy grandmother locked up
there... No. I never felt particularly drawn -- just the
usual curiosity of a childling that isn't allowed to go
precisely where they wanted to." Another, longer period of
silence. "I suppose so... if the Mask knew I would... I
would find it some day... it could probably afford to bide
its time. Speak to me? No...." A long, measuring pause.
"Wait. Wait. No, it never spoke to me -- but I had
dreams...." He could nearly hear the shudder in Rhynn's
voice. "No, my saining is a blank... Erik was curious about
what Mharyon saw as well -- especially considering he seems
to remember me better than I do." Inexpressible bitterness
in those words. "...a way to free myself from the Mask?" A
much longer silence, followed by, "THAT IS OBSCENE! How
could you even SUGGEST such a thing?!? What do you mean,
`Why not'?! The thought -- the very idea -- is repugnant!" A
hiss of fury, and a sense of barely contained violence crept
into his tone. "He is not `just a Dauntain.' He did not have
to come here. He did not have to help me. He could have
destroyed me easily in Winterholm -- I begged him to do it!
He may have to justify it to himself by saying he's getting
something out of it--" Something completely unheard cut him
off. "Of course I'm furious! You just suggested that I feed
him to that -- that thing and you expect me not to be--" The
pause this time felt self-inflicted, Rhynn biting off his
words before he said more than he wished. "No. I will not do
that to him. I refuse. He is my...," a microsecond silence.
"He is my friend. He may not care. He may not believe it.
But I do, and until the ice gripping him lets go, I'll care
and believe enough for both of us." A fractional pause,
then, with quiet dignity, "Yes. It is true. I do love him.
And I will not let him be destroyed without a fight -- and I
will not be the instrument of his destruction. I would
rather die another thousand deaths."
     Erik tried his best to enter casually and take in the
scene. His first question was, "Rhynn, is everything all
right?" Once more, his hand rested on his sword hilt.
     Rhynn was leaning up against the side of the fireplace,
seeking more warmth than was readily available on the now
quite wet and bloody sickbed, his chest and ribs wrapped in
what appeared to be several lengths of reinforced sterile
gauze, the gash over his eye was treated likewise, his left
arm held protectively across his stomach, the fingers
contorted into a stiffly clawed hook. His silver eyes were
leaping with the reflection of the flames, a genuinely eerie
sight, the uplighting accentuating his paleness in shadow.
Other than him, the room was totally empty.
     "Well, old friend, you're looking better," Erik said
with his crooked grin. "We better get you out of here. Can
you walk? or do you need my help?"
     For an instant it seemed as though he wasn't quite
hearing Erik, looking toward the sound of his voice but not
quite making the connection between his ears. He blinked
once, then a few times, more rapidly, a slight jolt running
through him. "Erik...," he began, thought a moment, then
took another route. "Yes, I think I can walk. Though," a
grin, "I don't think I'm going to feel quite the same about
freshwater swimming ever again." He pushed away from the
wall, wavered slightly, looked at the shredded remains of
his shirt, sighed. "You know, I've killed more of my
wardrobe since I met you...." A smile.
     "What can I say? My fashion sense is terrible," Erik
said with another crooked grin. He held Rhynn by the elbow
to give him a slight support as they wandered down the
hallway. "Don't worry, we don't need to go back the way we
came. I have some information -- not a lot, but some -- that
may or may not help us. At any rate, I'm starving again. We
never did finish that dinner. Come to think of it, is it
still lying out on the table? The flies will have feasted by
now."
     Rhynn's face managed to remain almost totally neutral.
"Really? I haven't actually uncovered anything except the
fact that my ribs are extremely susceptible to stress
fractures. And, no -- I packed the food away before we left.
Flies don't qualify as `little people.'"
     "True. I have yet to encounter a pooka housefly."
     "Shut up, don't give them any ideas!"
     He walked with extreme care as Erik stepped out into
the hallway, the tension in his body drawing every muscle
taut as Erik led the way. As Carabosse promised, the
entrance to the staircase was not particularly hidden, the
incline proceeding gradually rather than sharply as they
ascended back toward the surface.
     "Why do I suddenly feel the urge to quote the Aeneid?"
Rhynn's tone was slightly strangled, his breathing growing a
bit ragged the further they got, and he leaned a bit more of
his weight on Erik's arm.
     "Come now. This wasn't quite hell. Just your typical
`although I'd never admit it I wish I was a sluagh' noble
sidhe freehold. On second thought... I'd rather go to hell."
     "Oh, gods. It's true. There are hordes of Unseelie
sluagh ravening around in the caverns under the city waiting
to emerge one night and kill us all in our sleep. Though, I
have to admit, I have yet to meet the Kithain who does
something as pedestrian as sleep at night." Erik could tell
Rhynn was growing ever wearier. "Have you ever felt acutely
useless?"
     "I think I remember a bit of that feeling when I first
woke up in my own dungeon a few months ago."
     "Yes, but you successfully managed to rescue yourself
with virtually no outside intervention."
     There was no change of light to distinguish when they
left the staircase for the upper world -- one moment, they
were dutifully climbing the stairs, the next, they were
standing beneath the stars atop Hexenkopf, a decidedly nippy
breeze curling about them as their grip on objective reality
trembled ever so slightly. The low, mournful sound of a
flute reached Erik's ears and, as he turned, he caught sight
of Riordan leaning against the same spur of rock as when
they first saw him, trying with minimal success to play with
only one hand. "Greetings again. I trust your interview went
well?"
     "Riordan. You neglected to tell us this was a noble
freehold. You also neglected to tell us why your name has
changed, Killian u Uathach."
     He shrugged slightly, ignoring both Erik's tone and
Rhynn's startled jump. "Carabosse knows of the Wanderer's
particular affliction -- and, as she has no desire to see
him dead. I knew she'd pitch you both out before it became
much of an issue." He slid the flute through his belt and
offered his wry smile again. "Sh... it's an alias. My
brother doesn't know I'm here, and I'd rather that he didn't
find out."
     "There's something going on with him, isn't there? What
is it, Riordan? What is the Huntsman doing?"
     "There's always something going on with him, Erik. Get
used to it. However, if you really must know...." Riordan's
face went completely still in a manner strongly reminiscent
of his brother. "He is in Australia, doing something
potentially suicidal. He was summoned," a slight pause to
emphasize the word, "by another member of the MacKenna clan
with talents for calling and binding his fae cousins. Be
grateful that the compulsion to travel hasn't come over you
in, say, the last month or so, Wanderer, for you might not
have liked where your journeys took you this time. As it is,
the danger to you is still acute and it may be within your
best interests to go somewhere...," he gestured widely,
"that you are not terribly visible. Your home Caer is not
the ideal place to go to ground."
     "What do you suggest then?" Rhynn's breathing had
improved in the few minutes since he'd stopped climbing,
though his voice remained raspy. "I have nowhere to go,
Riordan."
     "My suggestion is somewhere with substantially warmer
weather." Riordan's cloak hit Rhynn with an audible thwap,
the Wanderer gratefully wrapping himself in it. "And a much
dryer climate. More congenial neighbors, as well, given the
fact that Mharyon's flunkies are already on their way here -
- in fact," he tilts his head at an inquisitive angle, "I
believe that's them pulling up at the base of Hexenkopf now.
Somewhere like, say, New Mexico. Or Arizona." Ignoring
Rhynn's visible flinch. "Or Texas."
     Erik looked at Rhynn, "Where would you like to go? I
could offer you asylum at my keep, but it isn't very warm.
If you wish to go back to New Mexico, I'll join you. At any
rate, it shouldn't be much longer till we need to be in
Dallas."
     "Winterholm." Rhynn replied quickly, fighting off
another bout of shudders. "Now I know why I can't stand the
southwest." More softly, almost under his breath.
"Besides... the place always reminded me of an asylum
anyway...."
     Erik nodded, putting his arm around Rhynn to hold him
up, even though the Liam sidhe was already recovering from
the effects of the freehold. "Good-bye Riordan. I assume
we'll meet again." Softly, as he began to move away he adds,
"Come on, Rhynn. Let's go home."
     "Home...," Rhynn's throat tightened slightly at the
thought. "A better place than many. Let's go."
     Erik helped Rhynn walk back down the mountain and eased
him into the car. In the dark night he drove back to Rhynn's
grandfather's house with a sad, heavy silence hanging around
him. When they reached the house, Erik once more helped
Rhynn out of the car and back into the house. "Get some
sleep, Wanderer. I'll clean up here and we can leave in the
morning." Attentively Erik looked after Rhynn, helping him
prepare for bed. Once he had seen the house Liam sidhe
safely to rest, he wandered the house, preparing it for its
solitude once more. Finally, he turned back to Alistair's
study, and there amongst the books in the dim light he
relaxed his mind, disciplining it to keep it from another
sidhe he met only a few months ago. The leather bound tomes
piled high as his absorbing eyes took in their words, and it
is in the wee morning hours that he finally left the study
to rest.
     Late the next morning Rhynn woke to a breakfast in bed.
"I thought you could use the rest," Erik explained, looking
no worse for wear. On a tray he brought Rhynn milk and grape
juice, fresh bacon and eggs, along with pancakes topped with
strawberries and whip cream. "My payment for last nights
meal."
     As Rhynn ate, Erik related the conversation he had with
Carabosse, mentioning the area where the Mask was born. "We
should away to Glenfinnan, Rhynn. But we better wait until
you are better. And perhaps till after the wedding. I think
you'll be safe at Winterholm."
     By afternoon, the pair set off once more towards
Winterholm. Towards home. There to wait a time when they may
work on the mysteries of the Mask with their companions. All
the time, the Mask waited in its chest, biding, thinking,
planning.