Forgotten Shadows

[Jerusha]

Thursday, early afternoon
September 12, 1168
City Market
Grecotha

Jimmy Taylor paused briefly as he left Captain Phineas' office.  The rain had slackened a bit, and he could use the excuse of retrieving Lady Gwendolyn's book to wander around the city and scout out potential locations to position the bags that would be coming into the city from the quarry.

Captain Phineas had initially been skeptical. His initial response had been to emit a great, barking laugh, so "skeptical" would be an understatement. In the end, Jimmy had persuaded him that it was in the Watch Captain's best interests to commit a few men to oversee hauling bags of sand from the quarry than having to commit his entire force to battle raging fires they were totally unprepared for. A battle they would probably lose, along with many lives. The carts filled with the bags would blend in with the rest of the commerce coming into the city, raising little suspicion among the residents. Perhaps the watch would notice more suspicious goods being brought in at the same time. One could hope.

And if Jimmy had used a bit of Deryni persuasion to convince the good Captain, it was just part of a day's work.

The soul-wrenching mental scream of agony and despair that emanated from the innermost depths of a Deryni soul stopped Jimmy in his tracks.  Focusing quickly, he was able to discern the general direction it came from, and a hint of the distance to its source. 

Sir Iain Cameron broke into a run, Lady Gwendolyn's book immediately forgotten.

[revanne]

Elsewhere in Grecotha at the same moment:

The scream echoed through Edwin's unconscious mind like a red hot blade and jerked him into wakefulness. He wasn't dead then, though cold enough to be so. He forced open his eyes and saw that he was lying in what looked like a stone trough. Another slice of pain tore through his head, this time coming from inside his skull rather than the previous echo of agony in his mind and soul. Gritting his teeth against the pain he lifted his head and looked around. Lord have mercy! He was in a charnel house and - Christ have mercy! - it wasn't a trough he was lying in but a sepulchre. He was dead and that scream had surely been the shriek of another damned soul as it was dragged down into hell.

Beside himself with terror he began to gabble all the prayers that his befuddled brain could think of, then as a wave of pain sliced again through his head, sour beer flooded up from his belly into his throat. The instinct of many drunken nights brought his head over the stone lip as he spewed his guts onto the floor. Not dead then, not yet at any rate. He crossed himself in relief, and as the nausea and the head pain receded began to gather his wits. 

He discovered that he was naked, but, looking around he saw that his braies and cotte were in a heap on the floor, thankfully out of range of his sickness. Climbing shakily out of what he saw was indeed an empty stone coffin he dressed himself decently, thankful to find that his shoes, though not his hose, were concealed under his cotte. Something was missing though, and as he perched on the stone lip of the coffin he tried to piece together what had happened. 

The effort threatened to bring on another bout of sickness, then he recalled the first consciously Deryni skill that he had learnt on coming to Grecotha, the ability to rid himself of the effects of too much drink.  (5+6+3) He sobered himself, thankful for the skills in focus which Airich had taught him.  Airich, bloody Airich. Now it was remembered anger which threatened to flood his mind. It was Airich's shirt that was missing, along with the knife that Bede had leant him, and he knew exactly how he had come to lose them. 

He remembered being in the tavern with Bede, companions in misery. He, because he had lacked the courage to face the Dean's certain contempt, Bede, for God alone knew what reason. But he had matched the man drink for drink as a good comrade would. Then Bede must have wandered away, probably to the necessary, though the next bit was hazy. Then his lordship appeared and tore him off a strip for being drunk instead of visiting the Dean as he had been meant to. Having told Edwin exactly what he thought of him, Airich had finished by demanding his shirt back from one who had proved unworthy of its protection, and, for good measure, the return of Bede's knife. Edwin went into a cold sweat of shame as he remembered all too clearly stripping and handing the items over while Airich waited with cold hauteur. Then Bede had reappeared and, taking his orders from Airich, had swung a punch which was the last thing Edwin saw before it connected with his head. 

He had a score or two to settle before he left Grecotha to its fate.

[Nezz]

Thursday early afternoon
Drunken Parchment stable

They pierced Our Lord's side with a spear, and forthwith came blood and water.

Yes, but you haven't given up the ghost yet, and you were hit with a dirk, not a spear.

Semantics.

Not the giving-up-the-ghost part. Wake up! And don't swallow it!

"Wakey wakey, your lordship." Something cool and wet splashed on Airich's face, but mostly into his mouth. It was a sweet red wine, an excellent vintage, and he swallowed, gratefully. The splashing stopped. "See? I told you he wasn't dead."

His body screamed at him. The torment centered on his right side, above his sword belt and below the ribs. Any movement made it worse. Breathing deeper than the shallowest breaths caused excruciating pain. It felt like a sword had run him through and then been left there.

He dared open his eyes, dreading what he might see.

"There's milordship." Jasper grinned down at him, along with two other heads that appeared within his field of vision. "What were you saying about scraping me up to carry off to the infirmary? They're gonna have a hell of a time scraping up enough of you to bury."

Airich's vision suddenly narrowed and he felt that flat metallic taste in his mouth. The heads of men standing over him began to spin and wink in and out of existence in a nauseating pulse of impossible colors. He closed his eyes to try to control the spinning.

The voices continued talking. "It's the merasha, they tell me," one of Jasper's buddies was telling the rest. "It scrambles a Deryni's brains and makes 'em so they can't do magic. You don't have to worry about 'em trying to make you think devilish thoughts or do evil deeds."

No, you're perfectly capable of doing evil all by yourself.

With the merasha in his system, Airich wouldn't be able to soothe the pain. He couldn't contact anyone. Couldn't slow the bleeding.

He was going to die here, surrounded by enemies in a filthy horse stall.

"You just gonna leave your dirk there, Jas?" One of the voices said.

"Yeah, 'course. Don't want 'im bleeding out right away. That's too fast and painless, see? We let 'im rot for a few days, wait until the green sets in good. Then I decide if I want to be merciful, after he's begging for the coup.

Leave your dirk. Don't want him bleeding out. Airich's muddled brain suddenly realized why these two statements filled him with such dread. He slowly rolled his head to the side and peered down the length of his body. It was as horrifying as he'd feared: the handle of Jasper's dirk protruded from his middle, a few inches to the right of his navel. Its angle meant that the blade may have missed his vitals, but the dirk was sunk to the guard, which meant—and Airich had to suppress a shudder at this thought—he was actually pinned to the hard dirt ground beneath him.

He was fettered in place by the unbearable torture that would come with trying to free himself: he would surely black out long before succeeding at such a task. Or quickly bleed to death if he tried to pull the dagger from his body.

Either option sounded too horrible to contemplate. As did laying here for days while the wound grew gangrenous from infection.

An old memory flashed through Airich's mind: he remembered the first time he'd taken a wound like this, in Rhemuth castle the night before Kelson's coronation. Edgar of Mathelwaite's face had been hidden at the time, but he'd recognized the man's helm and fighting style. One-on-one he could have taken Morgan's vassal, but it had been three-on-one, and in the end, it had not gone well for him. Derry had been lucky that time, for Morgan had gotten there in time, and had even learned to Heal at that moment, for no other reason but to keep him alive.

There had been other fights and plenty of wounds, but nothing like this pain that stabbed him through. At least he could take comfort in a life well-lived, with good friends and a wonderful family, complete with children and even grandchildren...

Airich opened his eyes as a new despair filled him. The spinning from the merasha had slowed, even as the clanging had begun sounding in his head. But his Shields were shredded. And not just the outer layer of Shields that a Deryni protected himself with, but the complex network of inner Shields he used to keep his father's memories from overpowering his own. One at a time, the layers of Shielding were exposed, like a knife peeling back the layers of an onion, and with its exposure, each layer grew brittle and withered, barely able to hold its own weight, let alone the stored memories he kept hidden away.

The dam was going to burst: it could not remain strong without constant reinforcement, and he could not reinforce it so long as his Deryni powers lay dormant under the weight of the merasha.

Da!

I'm with you, boy.

I love you, but I don't want to become you! If I die, I want to die as myself.

I'm helping the best I can. I never realized how powerful those Shields were until they were stripped away.

Tell me truly: Are you really my da?

Of course not, boy. I think we both know the Earl of Derry is nearly two hundred miles away, and at this time of day, he's probably dickering with Sulah al-Falil on the last of his over-priced horses before that old trader heads home for the season. And after that, the earl will ride out for a few hours to make his rounds, and then he'll come home to his son and the grandchildren he dotes on and his utterly gorgeous wife who you'd swear isn't a day older than thirt—

Da! Stop! That's mi madre!

I'm well aware. Why do you think I decided to make her your madre?

Ugh! A man doesn't need to think of his mother that way.

Agreed. But it got your mind off the pain for a few moments, didn't it?

Laughing would hurt, so Airich settled on a half-smile.

I hope to be as wise as you some day.

As do I. But you need to stay alive for that. Promise me you'll try to live.

Airich cracked open an eyelid as some of the men came closer. "...all the horses except this one. It's his, I think. Refuses to move."

"I wouldn't worry about just one. The stable boy's agreed to clear out, so no one else has any reason to come in."

"Good," Jasper said. "Baines, you keep an eye on the place, make sure no one tries to get in. And that he doesn't get out alive."

"With a will, Jasper," Baines said. "Let me take care of one thing first."

A man came within Airich's field of vision and bent over. Airich recognized him as the man who'd tried to slit his throat in his first encounter with Jasper. The man—Baines, apparently—smirked at Airich, then spat a gob of sputum, which landed on Airich's cheek.

"You stole my dagger," Baines said, referring to the dagger Muirea now carried. "I think I'll take yours." He grabbed the dagger at Airich's waist and took it for himself. Airich's entire body spasmed in pain as the harsh movement jolted the dirk in his side, and his vision went dim.

The gathered men laughed. "Do it again, Baines, make him dance again. That was funny."

Baines did it again. 

[Bynw]

Darius was in the general area around the Drunken Parchment when he heard the scream echo through his mind. As a highly trained Deryni he could pinpoint the area from which it came and knew that he was close by it.

Running in the rain of the day he was grateful that few would be out and about. The less people that saw him the better. But he did send a quick Call to his companions. "Investigating," was all that he sent.

Reaching the area of the stables he spies the lone guard outside of its locked doors. Both are unusual and a clear sign that the psychic cry came from the stables themselves.

Baines is carelessly cleaning his nails with the dagger he took from Airich. Completely inattentive of his surroundings. Besides, who is going to be out in the rain like this anyway. He stays close to the edge of the building to shelter himself from the rain.

Darius is able to move up close without the guard noticing him. And he doesn't wait to be noticed or challenged. He raises his forearm and clenches his fist towards the guard. The Willimite Baines has no time to act or even speak. The dagger slips from his hands as he grabs at his tunic above his heart and then drops to the wet muddy ground with the thud of death.

A wave of Darius' hand sends the heavy beam that is blocking the door to go flying aside and out of the way. He enters the stable and finds a partially saddled horse going wild and loose in the back stall. Preventing any access to the body of man on the stable floor.

"Easy boy," he says in a Torenthi spoken accent, as he approaches the animal. He attempts to use his magic to calm the beast from a distance, to avoid its hooves. But the horse isn't having it. Darius must take the time to carefully approach from the side and touch the bucking hysteric creature.

With the practiced touch of a Deryni's hand the beast becomes calm. "Easy there Aran" he says finally stroking the horse's soft coat. "Let's get your master some help shall we." Helping him was the most important task on Darius' mind just then. Time was slipping by fast and such psychic screams usually meant death or severe injury was at hand.

The man stirs with the sound of groaning pain and incoherent speech. Darius is able to see him and approach now that the horse is under control. A dirk pinning the young man to the ground with a pool of blood spilling out beneath him. The man groans in agony. His eyes opening and closing unfocused as he calls out for his father.

A second look with his Sight confirms the worst. The mental Shields the young Deryni are eroded away by a Merasha disruption. "It must be from the dirk," Darius thinks to himself and he knows what must be done next despite the risks.

Kneeling down beside the delirious Deryni, Darius is a little thankful that the young man doesn't have access to his powers just now or there could be havoc within the stable. He reaches out and touches the forehead of Airich. "Easy son," he tells him. "I'm here to help you." And Darius wades into the Merasha induced delirium.

A maelstrom of thoughts and images bombard him from every direction. Multiple consciousnesses and minds fly about in panic and rage. But unable to do anything about the mental intrusion. He seeks out the strongest mind.

He sends to him again that he is there to help him, but the chaos only grows more alarmed to the point of physical flight. The movements of Airich could cost him his life. Darius finds the triggers and binds them to his will. One that blocks the pain and the other that sends his body and mind into the oblivion of deep sleep.

Too much time spent within a mind befuddled by Merasha is dangerous. The disruption can cross the mental link and infect the mind of the person on the other end. Darius is lucky and comes out of the rapport unscathed.

Darius reached for the dirk and is momentarily overcome by the residual impressions left upon it. He Sees the face of its owner, the man responsible for the attack, and can feel his hatred of the Deryni.

He manages to pull it out with a gasp and tosses it aside. Working quickly and using what is at hand, he bandages the wound with the skill of a trained battle surgeon. The young Deryni will survive and live.

But the stable isn't a safe place. The Willimites could return at any moment. Without hesitation Darius gets to his feet and picks up the unconscious body of Airich and trudges out into the rain.

[Bynw]

Lord Thane is tracking the movements of Brother James when the psychic cry is heard in his mind. He pauses briefly when he hears Darius' call that he is investigating. And then continues to monitor the young seminary student to see where he goes and with whom he meets.

[Bynw]

Master Feyd hears the psychic cry ring out from Grecotha. And begins to weep at the thought of another Deryni being murdered by ignorant humans. This cannot be allowed to happen again in Gwynedd or anywhere. He hears the call from Darius and hopes that his man is able to make it on time.

[Marc_du_Temple]

The doors of the Drunken Parchment swung wide for two new visitors. A misshapen, robed student, and the more familiar Eustace. They did little in acknowledgement of each other, finding the scenery much more interesting. Eustace wasted no time in going straight for the descending staircase that would lead to the gambling tables below, while the student quietly wandered the main hall. He saw familiar faces, known to all of the city by now. De Guerra and his esteemed duelists sitting in a high place, well attended on by the braver or more flirtatious serving girls, and Jasper at the edge of the table, leaning in as if he could force a man to approve of him. As the student passed, he heard the one he knew for a wife-killler speak discreetly to the master fencer. ((Perception corrected for my actual XP 2d6 5 + 3)) "I just had a 'chat' with that friend of yours who just left. I convinced him it would be a good idea if he left town. I gave him quite the tongue lashing. I doubt you'll hear from him again."

If Jasper did it, it cannot be good, or entirely as he has presented it, Bede decided. He wandered the rest of the room, looking for a table and any answers he might find along the way. ((Perception again 2d6 4 + 5)) It was not long before he saw five men at a table in a corner near the back of the tavern. These were sophisticated, almost foppish people. A sharp contrast against the sort that Jasper had last been seen associating with, yet their countenances were just as cruel, no matter how cleaner. One of them nudged the other, saying, "Come on, Gareth, show us the piece again."

"I live to please," spoke the one Bede took for Gareth, pulling a sword in its scabbard up from beneath the table and holding it for his friends to see. Bede noticed that it was immaculately well made, from the scabbard to the hilt. Then Gareth pulled the scabbard enough to expose some of the shining blade to the candlelight. There was familiar golden pattern work near the quillons, and he recognized the sword as Airich's.

"What good is a recorder without the player for whom it is made?" Bede asked the table.

Gareth looked utterly bewildered, but laughed amenably. "Begone, boy. Go back to your books."

"Let me ask a different question," Bede said slowly. "Where did you get that blade?"

"It is mine, of course," Gareth replied dishonestly.

"No. You would have to trade either all you have on this earth or your life for the sword of a friend of your king," he growled as he suddenly wrested it from the man's thieving hands. ((Strong test 3d6 2 + 4 + 6 vs ((Jasper's Guy w Airich's Sword test 2d6 5 + 1)) There was a silence that did not last, as Gareth threw a fist at Bede, one that did not connect from his awkward, seated position.((Gareth Brawler 2d6 2 + 1))((Bede Strong 3d6 4 + 4 + 5)) Bede grabbed that arm from the outside with his free hand and dragged Gareth twistingly over and off of the bench, hearing something pop along the way, though his enemy could still writhe. In that time, one of them rose and swiped at him with a sliver of steel, grazing him through the robe.((Caolán Dagger 2d6 1 + 5)) Bede grimaced, thrusting the dagger wielder back into his friends with the solid tip of the scabbard as he made distance between himself and the toughs.((Bede Strong 3d6 4 + 5 + 4)) ((Everard Broadsword 2d6 5 + 1))

The clanging of clashing metal was enough to catch the attention of people in the gambling areas, bringing up a host including Eustace. Bede grimaced. "Na all villeins are of the same mettle!" he laughed through the pain, throwing down the torn garment and revealing his true nature. "Yer dueling days are done unless ye answer me." By then he had dropped the sword with a bouncing thud upon the old wooden boards and pulled free his bow.

"Thomas, what is the meaning of this?" de Guerra demanded from his seat. Jasper waited for his reaction to decide what his own would be, but clutched his sword tightly in its sheathe, slavering for the blood of another who had shamed him. How providential could one day be?

Good question. "That is something you should ask these men," Bede said. "Their response to an officially sanctioned investigator is to try to attack him."

"You, boy? An investigator?" Jasper scoffed.

"Speak when spoken to, or I shall give ye a scar to match the last one, jackal," Bede said icily, making sure that he had nothing but the wall at his back. "I am not a student at all, so I assure ye that I, Bede Archer, have all the time in the world to figure out what is going on here." He nocked an arrow and pointed it seemingly at random as he continued in his totally unvarnished Mearan accent. "Aye, it is mae! The scourge of the river routes! The devouring man of the woods in your precious hunting grounds! The cover over the illicit cargo ye either detest or secretly love." While he held the tavern's attention, Eustace crept lowly out from the wall until he reached the sword and quietly took it into his robes, covered by Bede's well-practiced distraction. "The revenge upon Ratharkin. The war may be over, but be assured my wrath is na cooled by time. Fate's sense of humor is one I appreciate, as it has given mae charge over The King's Peace, which you..." and he pointed his bow at Gareth and held it on him. "... ye threaten with yer thievery. Lead mae to Airich, and ye will be dealt with lightly. Lead me to Macbee as well, and you will suffer no harm. Cross mae, and by Camber, ye will think I am magic, the way these arrows shall fly."

"I will check your status with the upper echelons of the city," de Guerra promised, as if he had no suspicions of how the Willimites of other cells kept being compromised.

"Be my guest. Ye are a fair judge, in my experience. I trust ye will be satisfied by what ye find," Bede could not stop lying if he wanted to. He would have displayed the warrant if he did not have his hands full. In a less wicked tavern, he might have asked a serving girl to carefully take it out, but the only employees of the Drunken Parchment that he trusted he knew by name, or by heart.

((Bede Perception 2d6 3 + 5))Gareth and Jasper shared glances which Bede chose not to acknowledge. Gareth, still on the floor, then exhaled and spoke, "Yes, I promise you will find your friend if you follow me." He slowly rose with his arms outstretched to show he posed no threat. Eustace followed the investigator and his prisoner close behind, keeping his head down under his hood. Outside, it was not long before they had turned the corner towards the stable, still some paces away. Gareth winced but smiled as he turned and said, "You will have to wait for your friend to join you."

((Bede Vigilance 3d6 3 + 3 + 5))((Gareth Dagger 2d6 5 + 4))Bede saw the glimmer of steel snaking its way into Gareth's hand and acted accordingly, stepping back as he launched an arrow forward into the offending arm's elbow.((Bede Sharpshoots 3d6 4 + 1 + 5))Gareth turned to hide his pain from his would-be-victim, exposing his left forearm to a stab from Edwin's small but precise knife.((Precise Attacker 3d6 5 + 3 + 5)) The victory was decided with a derisive shove to the cold mud, although Eustace valiantly scrambled to draw the knight's sword before he noticed.((Eustace Sword 1d6 3))

"Thank ye, friend," Bede assured Eustace with a pat on the shoulder from his now free hand, before turning back to their guest on the ground. "We will na ask again," Bede spoke, his chest heaving from adrenaline and his voice rising with outrage. "Where is Airich?"

Weakly, Gareth gestured with his head towards the stables.

[Nezz]

Thursday early afternoon
Drunken Parchment stable

Jasper pointed angrily at Caolán and Drake. "Go help Baines. Make sure that dirk gets shoved and the knight bleeds out. There's only one investigator, he can't shoot all of you. But so help me God, if that knight gets a single word out of his mouth, I'll make sure you pay dearly for it." Now he pointed to Everard and Franklin. "Get out there. Be a distraction. The man's only got two eyes, if you don't count that sniveler Eustace."

The four men trooped out the door, Jasper behind them, but the big man noticed de Guerra's eye on him. The swordmaster crooked his finger at Jasper. He did not look pleased. Jasper gulped, and changed course towards the master's table.

"That's two," the swordmaster said, his voice deceptively mild. Jasper knew what kind of danger that mildness hid.

"Two what, milord?"

"Two of the Bishop's investigators in my tavern. Both within an hour of each other."

"Yes, sir, I saw that—"

"My tavern!" De Guerra slammed his fist on the table, making the cups jump and rattle. He rose abruptly, his chair tipping backward as he reached across the table to grab Jasper's tunic and bring him close. Jasper could probably have broken the other man's hold, but he didn't dare. De Guerra met and held Jasper's eyes until Jasper was sweating, trying to hold his balance across the table without falling.

"Yes, I've had two investigators sniffing around my tavern, and I suspect that you are responsible," de Guerra finally said. "Now, you can tell me what that was all about, or you can face me on the sparring field this afternoon. And I assure you, I will not be pleased."

De Guerra released Jasper, finally. He gestured to the other men at his table. "Go," he said without preamble, then pointed to Jasper, and then the chair next to him. "Sit."

Jasper obeyed, trying to figure out what to say to avoid the most trouble. Fact was, he didn't actually know why either of the men had come to the tavern in the first place. And he'd tried to tell de Guerra about what he'd done with the knight a few minutes ago, but de Guerra had not been interested. Perhaps the swordmaster had misunderstood the implication of what Jasper had been trying to tell him. Very well, since de Guerra wanted an explanation, Jasper would tell him what he could.

"I don't know why the knight came in the first place, but I saw him leave, and I know he's a trouble-maker and thought he'd probably been harassing you. So I took him out back and taught him a lesson. But me and the boys thought we'd let him die slow, so we left him in the stable. I never said nothing to Gareth about taking his sword, that's totally on him. Idiot for thinking anyone would believe him that he owns that sword fair."

De Guerra's eyes narrowed as Jasper told his partly true narrative, and asked him for further details, which Jasper reluctantly supplied. "That man," de Guerra finally said, "was leaving Grecotha in disgrace, to report his failure to the King. But instead, you decided to take it upon yourself to kill him. So now instead of him reporting to Rhemuth, you've ensured that the King will come looking for his pet Deryni. Or send more of them here to investigate his murder." De Guerra was obviously getting more agitated. "And that fool of yours decides to bring his sword here. Into my tavern."

De Guerra stood. He walked casually behind Jasper's chair and rested his hands on his shoulders. "If you want to live past sunset, then this is what happened. The knight insulted you, and you naturally challenged him to an honorable duel. You fought. You won. He refused your offer of the coup, and so you left him to die alone since he chose to fight without a second. But," he continued when Jasper began to raise a point, "those idiots of yours, Baines and Gareth, behaved dishonorably after you had left; after all, they're not duelists, and never will be. They used your dirk to make sure the knight was dead, and stole his arms. And were then fool enough to show off the weapon in front of the other inspector."

Much to Jasper's relief, de Guerra moved back to his own seat and sipped his wine. "If you plan on going anywhere in life, Jasper Coburn, you need to learn. You may be a passable duelist, but it's not all just about might and strength. You also need cunning and intelligence. And this is why. The murder and desecration of a body, the theft of a knight's weapons. Both outrageous crimes. Should you have known what these men were about? You should have, but you didn't. You encourage such lowlifes to follow you around, you will find their reputation can rub off on you. But Baines and Gareth will fix that problem for you. Or their families will pay the price.

"The magistrate will get involved, I'll make sure of that. Perhaps even the Bishop. They will find Baines and Gareth guilty of several crimes and sins. Their lives may be forfeit. But neither the King nor any other Deryni need to get involved, for the criminals will be punished."

Jasper found himself relaxing, hearing that he was not going to be held responsible for this fiasco. "You could be a professor of law in addition to the swordmaster," he said. "Your knowledge and foresight are stunning."

"Indeed." De Guerra's look of amusement showed that he recognized the toadying for what it was. "And Jasper? If so much of a whisper of this touches my name? I will make sure your death is more painful than Sir Airich's."

"Of course, sir." Jasper gulped nervously.

"Those other four fools of yours. They may get a lesser charge, depending on what happens next. Perhaps you should go supervise them?"

"Yes sir!" Jasper jumped to obey.

In his hurry to catch up to his men, he missed de Guerra's satisfied smile. "And now you know why I keep a few fools at my side, as well."

[Bynw]

de Guerra watches as Jasper and his men leave the tavern and head back out into the rain. He turns to one of his trusted men. "If that fool doesn't come back in a quarter of an hour. Go alert the Watch that something is happening there. But give him the time to hang himself."

de Guerra finishes his drink and gets up from the table and heads to a private backroom in the tavern.

[Jerusha]

This is a collaboration with Nezz, who started the ball rolling.

Jimmy Taylor slowed his pace to a fast trot. Although it was important to reach the source of the scream as soon as possible, he did not want to draw a crowd. Especially the wrong crowd.  He slowed to a walk and kept to the shadows as he passed the door of the Drunken Parchment. The scream had not come from there, more likely from the stables.

In spite of the rain, it would have been hard to not spot the body that lay off to the side of the stable door. There was no sign of life, but there was also no sign of violence. The individual who'd let out that scream had not died easily, or—unsettling thought—was not dying easily.

A dagger lay where it had fallen on the wet ground; if there had been blood on it, it would have already washed away. Jimmy did not recognize the man, and there was nothing remarkable about his clothes. He knelt down on one knee and, drawing off his own glove, moved his hand along the body, extending his senses for signs of any residual magic or anything else he could discern. He felt the faint tingle of lingering magic, the magic that had stopped the man's heart with a tight grip.

Whoever had killed him had been Deryni, but this man was not. Jimmy rose and picked up the dagger. It was too finely made for the man on the ground. He searched the area and located its sheath. The decorative motifs struck a familiar chord with him, but he couldn't quite remember where. Well, it would come to him sooner or later.

Jimmy froze as three men marched around the side of the tavern: the first holding his arms away from his sides; the second with a drawn longbow, arrow nocked and aimed at the first man; the third man, hidden under his cloak, carrying a sword and scabbard awkwardly in his arms. Jimmy cast an avoidance spell around himself and the body; none of the approaching men would look in the Purple Guardsman's direction.

Were the second and third man robbing the first?  A light surface scan showed the first and third men were nervous, but Jimmy couldn't get a reading on the man with the bow, which was unfortunate since he was the key. The first man turned toward the others and said "You will have to wait for your friend to join you."

A knife appeared in the front man's hand suddenly, and he took a swipe at the bowman, but wasn't able to connect before the bowman stepped back and launched an arrow into the man's elbow, dropped his bow and put a hole in the man's left forearm with a small dagger. A shove from the bowman's boot sent the wounded man backward into the mud, where he howled from pain from his wounded arms.

Jimmy would not allow a second killing if he could prevent it. Just as he was about to make his presence known, the bowman said, "We will na ask again. Where is Airich?"

At the mention of the name, Jimmy remembered where this dagger came from, mate to the sword the student clumsily handled. Had the knight gotten himself into trouble already, looking to redeem himself from the Bishop's chastisement? If Sir Airich had been the source of that scream, then that meant Father Trevor would be on the scene shortly.

It was not Father Trevor who arrived next, but four men who crowded around the side of the building. The bowman and the cloaked figure holding the sword moved to try to keep an eye on all five men, but it was not easy. One moved to help the wounded man on the ground while yelling at the bowman, while another two slowly crept toward the stable door. No one had yet noticed Jimmy and the dead man.

"Perhaps you'd best be explaining yourselves." Jimmy stepped farther out into the open and pulled his sword. "I've already one dead man here, and if you are smart, I won't need to add another."

All eyes turned toward the dead man. "Baines!" gasped one of them, and the newcomers exchanged looks of apprehension, close to dread, between them.

Jimmy jerked his head toward the bowman. "Grab your bow and keep 'em covered." He nodded to the man holding Sir Airich's sword awkwardly. "You come with me to see what's to be found in the stables." As he moved toward the building, another man joined them from the direction of the Drunken Parchment.

"Jasper!" the bowman said, and pointed his nocked arrow at the man's chest.

[Laurna]

Skirts hiked high, whipping to and fro over alternating knees, exposing the huge racing stride of the midnight-haired tavern girl. Leather shoes slammed through rain puddles over the cobblestone streets, sending water flying in her wake. She turned a corner and dodged around a cart filled with canvas bags, jumping over a stack that were being offloaded from the cart. Workmen yelled at her as she tore past, barely noticing them. Her eyes were on a place far along the street. A place too familiar with its black exposed beams and its bleached white daub walls. Men were coming out of the Drunken Parchment door, and Amy Aldan instinctively knew it wasn't inside the Tavern that she needed to go.

Racing around to the tavern's side-yard proved her right, an amalgam of fellows formed an angry mob before the stables entrance. Recognizing the biggest man first, that barbarian Jasper, sent her feet into a greater stride. It was only as she raced past all the men that she recognized Bede with his bow and Eustace with a sword. Her mind did not recognize the sword until she had bolted through the stable doors, down the aisle breeze way, and pulled up short before a loose horse who reared at her sudden appearance.

The sleek silver-gray dapple destrier whinnied and squealed in his agitation, huffing and puffing as Amy dropped her skirts and held out her hands toward the upset beast. "Aran, it is me, your master's friend. I can see you are afraid..." But the gelding did not calm, he scolded her with a snort, for Amy knew Aran could feel the fear within herself radiating outward. She took a deep breath trying to calm herself, but, finding she could not, instead she dove under the sleek gray neck and somersaulted on the ground to avoid a bite from the horse's jaws.

Amy came up on her knees on the hard dirt ground in the last of the open stalls, knowing this was the place that her mind had forced her to come to. This was where the agonizing howl had emanated from, she could still feel the echo of it off the back stone wall, But there was no one here. No other horses, no men, no sign of Sir Airich.

She leaned forth and pulled loose a horse blanket that covered a mound against the wall. Ready to scream at the fear of what she would see when she pulled it aside... She stopped breathless, as only a bundle of rushes and hay were revealed.

Tossing up a deep purple globe of handfire over the rushes, she used the illumination to search the shadowed corners. There, at the side, was a shiny wetness on the ground, and she stumbled toward it, her left fingers falling into it with heightened senses. Shields open, she knew what she touched the moment her fingers passed into the puddle.

She screamed, "AIRICH!" as she raised blood covered fingers before her eyes.

[Bynw]

Darius has reached the security of a nearby safehouse of his Order. Nestled in a row of stone homes built with shared walls, he enters a modest two room abode. It has a sturdy door and a strong lock. Additionally, it is protected by Wards that have been built into the very walls.

A mental nudge is all that it requires to raise the Wards to full strength. Darius can now relax enough to redress the wounds of the unconscious injured Deryni Lord. Applying a healing salve and properly bandaging the wounds.

Afterwards he sits back and establishes a Call to his master and relays his findings. The exchange is short buy Feyd directs the next steps Darius must take. And Feyd says he will be there soon.

Darius then mixes several powders together within a cup of wine. He forces the unconscious Deryni to drink the contents. While doing so, he slips back into the troubled and Merasha befuddled mind. Ensuring that his charge remains in a deep sleep. And establishes his control over Airich's Shields and sets the trigger point to either make him sleep or to awaken him instantly.

Then Darius himself, rests.
 

[Jerusha]

Jimmy knew that this could turn ugly very fast. The bowman's body was tense with anger, bordering on hatred. The look in the newcomer's eyes directed at the bowman looked vicious. This would turn ugly with only the slightest provocation.

"Hold!" Jimmy commanded, and waived for the man who was to follow him into the stable to wait. "I want no more bloodshed here." 

The bowman did not loose his arrow, but he kept it trained on Jasper's chest.

The other men looked at Jasper for guidance. So Jasper was the leader.

"None of you move," Jimmy said. "Keep your hands visible and don't give this man," Jimmy motioned toward the bowman, "any excuse to shoot."

Jasper looked about to object when a midnight-haired woman, skirts hiked up to her knees, ran into the stable yard. She paused for only a moment to take in the scene, and then was dashing into the stable.

Jimmy recognized her immediately from the church. The others would not be far behind. He needed someone to take over this lot before him so he could move on to what was to be found in the stable. 

He could plant a suggestion in the minds of whatever guardsmen were nearby, but Jimmy was not ready to play that card yet. He had a better idea.

He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the tin whistle his brother had given him. You never know when you might need to summon a bit of help, his brother had said with his usual mischievous grin.

Sir Iain Cameron put the whistle to his lips and blew three ear-splitting blasts. Any guardsman within earshot would come running, if only to find out what had produced that God-awful noise.

As if on cue, the priest and the other woman ran into the stableyard and dashed into the stable, hand in hand.

[Nezz]

Another collaboration with Laurna, who always knows just how to frost the cake.

This was a nightmare Trevor had never truly imagined could come to pass. With mind-speech, he'd called for Airich again and again from the moment he had heard the scream and through their run here. At first, he'd thought he'd sensed his brother gaining consciousness, but then he'd simply vanished, his essence disappeared as if it had never existed. Or had been snuffed out.

He ran into the stables with Elspeth just in time to see Amy stagger out from the last stall. "Where is he!" she cried, looking around desperately. She looked up to see Elspeth approach her, and then fell into the arms of her best friend. Elspeth held her tight, tamping down her own fears as she looked over Amy's head, searching the surrounding space.

Evaluating their situation, Trevor did what had to be done first. He held out his palm to the agitated gray gelding; speaking soothing words, he petted the shoulder with a calming Deryni spell. No longer a danger to running loose in this place, Aran followed his master's brother to a hay bin to nuzzle the food there. That done, Father Trevor paced back to the last stall, past the women, and stared at what they had found.

And there he stood now, stunned and out of breath, staring at the bloody straw and the soaked crimson ground beneath it, knowing that it could only have come from the body of one man.

Mistress Elspeth was comforting the girl, Amy, who seemed to be warring with the conflicting emotions within her. For Trevor, the numbness overtook all. Disbelief. Shock. Some anger. An overpowering sense of How can I possibly tell our family?

Of course, the questions of who and how remained. Trevor focused on these, tasking himself with something logical to do instead of giving in to his emotions. Bringing forth his own blue-violet handfire, he knelt in the hay and began searching for anything that might tell them what had happened here.

Elspeth fought for control of her own emotions; it wouldn't help Amy to see her break down. Father Trevor was unshaken outwardly, even as he touched the blood-soaked ground. But she suspected his composure was an act of willpower. She watched his body tense and his shoulders square up, ready for a fight as he sent a piercingly bright globe of handfire around the stall area. What Amy's handfire had missed, Trevor's caught; a gleam upon steel. The priest shakily lifted a long dagger, its blade still gory with blood that had yet to dry.

"Mistress Amy," the priest requested. "Attend me. Let us read this together." 

"No! Is that...?" Amy began, horror writ upon her face.

"I fear what this blade might tell us," Trevor told her, "but I think it may be what we need to know. Join with me, and we will discover my brother's fate together."

[Laurna]

Amy looked wide-eyed at Elspeth. She didn't turn until Elspeth nodded and set a reassuring hand on Amy's shoulder, guiding her to face Airich's brother.

"If this blade was instrumental in his death..." Trevor whispered, his voice barely audible to the women, "the psychic residue within this steel will be overwhelming." Amy nodded and knelt before the kneeling priest. "Brace yourself," he warned as he allowed the dark-haired lass to set her hands over his, and, unflinchingly, he wrapped his hand carefully about the dagger. Both closed their eyes and concentrated.

Elspeth knew she would be excluded from whatever the two Deryni would sense, but nonetheless, she put each hand over the wrists of the other two, hoping to be a steadying pillar for them both.

First in darkness, the dirk is exposed to light as it is released from its home at Jasper's side, then flashes through the air at attack speed; its owner transmitting murderous thoughts. But opposition canceled that motion, and the images turned unemotional and dark as the metal hit the cold dirt.

Trevor took the break to focus his balance upon the energy surrounding the dirk. He knew that reliving events though an object was patchy at best, and he tried to relay this to Amy as she searched the emptiness for answers. Before he had fully relayed this thought to her, blurred images on the blade began anew. It was impossible to make out the next motions of the blade. Then: Fingers grasping the hilt, passing it to other fingers, and then once more the images on the blade retreated as the blade was resheathed, yet the hatred endured with the sense that another weapon was more suited for killing.

Despair filled Amy. She nearly withdrew from rapport, too afraid of what this magic might prove, yet: Overwhelming surges of malice! Amy forced herself to watch the hateful man, Jasper, lunged at Airich. A click-clack of weapon striking weapon with a fierce speed—one, two, three times—and Airich was ready to regain the upper hand. An awkward look of surprise crosses the knight's features, and he clumsily falls flat. The cold steel of the dirk became emotionally charged. With gleeful victory, the dirk plunges through armor and hot flesh, and sinks deep into the abdomen of the knight laid out on the hard dirt floor.

A force of pure energy, not audible sound, screamed through the blade! The agony continued to humm across Trevor's shaking hand into Amy's shocked body. The resonance within the metal lingered on and on. Flashing incoherent feelings of despair and confusion blipped here and there as the emotion on the blade languishing into a void.

Abruptly a new energy ripped the dirk away and tossed the steel back into the cold darkness.

Elspeth was holding both Deryni in her arms, keeping them from collapsing from the pain of their discovery. Amy recovered first, with an anger her friend had never seen before.

Amy snatched the dirk from the priest's loose fingers. She spun and rose to her feet, holding the dirk out before her like a torch that sputtered wild flame. She stormed past a bishop's guardsman who moved to intercept her, but she evaded him with a side step, then past more men: some were friends, many were not. Only one person held her focus.

There. Jasper. Smirking at her with that ugly face that deserved a painful death. She marched straight up to him and slammed the pommel of the long dirk against his chest. The force behind her hand nearly broke his hand as he tried to protect his ribs. If only she had used the point, but too late for that: she was not a killer, but she would not let this killer go uncharged.

"MURDERER!!! What did you do with him? Where is Airich?!"

Jasper's expression changed from a sneer into one of misleading confusion, as his mouth stuttered some incoherent words of denial. All lies that even he could not state clearly, but when she pressed the dirk harder into his chest, he grabbed her wrists to break her hold.

She was having none of that.

A tension of anger and grief swelled within her, no illusion of control.

"No more lies! Where is HE!"

A violet aura blossomed forth from her body, surrounding her like a halo. With the focused, raw strength of a newly trained Deryni mind, a cone of energy exploded from her eyes and out her hands: Focused Power against the tall man before her and anyone standing in his wake.

The power knocked him to his knees. His face lost all color, and he found it hard to breathe. But it did not shove him to the ground as her ferocity had intended.¹

Hands pulled at Amy's arms, and a mind slammed up against her instant shields. "Not here!" a voice bellowed at her when he could not say it in Rapport.

Amy looked up to see the bishop's purple guard with strands of wheaten hair slipping out from under his helm and maddeningly shading the glimmering power of pale blue eyes staring into the depths of her own, demanding she desist. Then he snatched her away from the barreling bull of a man who wanted nothing more than to run her into the ground. Shoved backwards into the hands of the priest, Amy was pulled toward the stable entrance for her own protection.

Her last look at what she had done proved that the hated Jasper was angrily swinging at the purple guard who easily dodged his fist.

Three men, who had stood at Jasper's back, stood there no longer. The three were laid out, flat on the muddy hard-grounded courtyard, having been caught in the wake of Amy's Deryni blast! ²

Amy wanted to scream! Violence had not given her an answer. "Where is Airich!" she did scream out, watching the two men fight to get that answer.

((Thank you Nezz, you were instrumental in making this scene happen))

¹ ((Humans have no resistance to Raw Power, for damage done, 2d6 for spell trained raw power +1 grit to increase the damage by one. Amy facing Jasper using 1 grit. 2d6  3 & 4 = Not a success, Darn! Darn! Darn!))

² ((The raw power, sent forth in a cone shape of energy, does it do hit damage to the three men behind Jasper.; a roll for each.   2d6= 6 + 2 Success,  2d6= 5 + 4 Success,   2d6= 5 + 2 Success.))