Rhianon sighed and halfheartedly flipped her spellbook closed. Leaning back in the highbacked chair she had dragged up from the Dae'Faroth common room, she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall in comforting crimson waves around her face, hiding the room. Also hiding the chest beside the bed where she had locked the book.

Damnable thing... I've never seen, or even heard of a book that doesn't stay the same. It's ink. Books are ink and paper and leather...

...and secrets.

The thought crackled with an alien laughter. Rhia twisted in the chair, stole a glance at the chest, and bit the nail on her index finger absently. I wish I dared read it... oh, I wish... there is so much I could know...

Yes, Rhia, my dear. Yes there is. So very much you could find out, child, if you looked deep enough... anything you desire...

"Shut up," Rhia whispered. The silence mocked her, the room an old grin. On frantic impulse, the elven girl sprang to her feet and ran to the windows, throwing them open. The room was abruptly cold, and the wind sounded like snakes. She stared out into the night for a moment, watched a few fall leaves drift down off the trees.

Everything you ever wanted to know... the old magic, Rhia dear... before the Veil... just open the book.

Biting her lip, Rhianon turned from the window and half ran to the chest, her slim fingers fumbling with the lock. The gold key clattered to the floor and she started, looked around, as if she expected to be caught. Nothing. The key slipped easily into the lock the second time, and Rhia opened the chest, staring into it.

The blue-black book was glowing a faint, metallic silver. The slight luminance cast vague designs on Rhia's hands as she withdrew the tome, whorls of moonlight. They vanished as she retreated into the chair, clutching the book to her.

Some time later, the wind blew the candles out, and Rhia read by the light of the book.

Cardinal Oliver Antonius Rule opened his eyes for the eighth time that hour and glared groggily at the window. Although he was certain that God would ensure sufficient karmic retribution upon the previous tenant of this room who had stolen the curtains, The Cardinal would still have gotten a great deal of satisfaction from having 5 minutes alone with the chap. The room was literally glowing with a faint green light.

The Inn had been built by an architect with a sense of artistry, and Cardinal's room was at an L-shaped junction on the second floor. Caddy corner to his was another room. The window to that other room was open, and a steady light was pouring forth from it and into his own room. But unlike the respectable sort of light that relegates itself to a predictable beam, makes straight for the nearest opaque surface, and then stops being a bother, this light was leaping into his window, oozing over the sill, and saturating every surface it could crawl to.

That meant it was magical light. Of course, the greenness of it sort of gave that away too... it was unlikely as the occupant next door was up at this unGodl- eh, unreasonable hour, burning large quantities of powdered copper.

Then again, if it was magical light, they might just be. You could never tell what those wizards would do late at night for a lark.

Cardinal extracted himself from bed much like a dead alligator might be extracted from a particularly viscuous swamp, and stumbled to the window, his brilliant red ceremonial going-away robe appearing pitch black in the glow (magical or not, green light never could learn exactly how to get a proper grip upon anything red). He rested his forehead against the windowpane and squinted, trying to get his exhausted eyes to focus on the figure of the girl in the next room reading an uncharacteristically luminescent tome.

The gold-etched diagrams had begun to hum inside Rhianon's head some time ago, and her eyes had taken on the glazed consistency of sapphires. She'd managed to lose time somewhere between the whispering ink and the unearthly glow throwing light over her face. Absently she noted that her head ached, as if some smith had decided her skull was an anvil.

The diagram changed again, a hundred thousand iridescent drops of ink moving like insects swarming. Rhia stared. So beautiful... The archaic diagram vanished, and words rose from the paper, slightly raised. They looked handrwitten, an elegant, accomplished hand.

Do you know the wish of your heart, my child?

Rhia gasped, and the book thrummed appreciatively.The wish of my heart...She opened her mouth to speak. Something flickered at the window. Preternaturally fast, Rhia leapt to her feet, the book sliding to the floor and skittering across the room. Staring hard through her window, she tried to see the vague shape that she was sure had been there a moment before.

Nothing. Damn it, Rhia...Rhianon sighed. There was a soft snap, and the room went dark.

The book had shut itself.

The shadows in the woods around Taobh Aisling were long and deep and held many secrets. And many dangers to those who could not see. Mordikar, however, saw very clearly now, more clearly than he ever had. A door had been opened for him in a tavern in Tir na Nog and he had stepped through it, willingly and gladly.

From his place among the long deep shadows he watched the preternatural glow vanish from the window from which it had seeped like the blood of a wounded god. He smirked in his shadows, for if Xirthain was right, he may yet see the blood of gods. But tonight he had seen enough. The woods around Taobh Aisling were not the only holders of secrets.

It hadn't taken much searching to track a certain collector of ancient and odd texts, a mentalist named Rolzt, to this out-of-the-way tavern home. And whatever book he had been reading up there had certainly been... something. If it was the something that Xirthain had had Mordikar searching for among the libraries, book dealers and small time collectors, he didn't know. To find that out he'd have to get closer. Closer to these... Dae'Faroth.

It wasn’t until he had started flying that Rolzt realized he was dreaming.

It hadn’t been an unpleasant dream, as far as dreams go, and the realization of his dreaming made the Mentalist all the more aware of the surreal nature of his surroundings. His flesh and blood body and dream-self shared a wry smirk. The lucradian-grown Silvermine Mushrooms were just as potent as old man Nissam had claimed, their enchanted nature leaving one in almost wake-like realization of their dreamstate. Rolzt spun and tumbled in the air, his arms outstretched, looping and twirling like a giddy, drunken seagull. For long minutes he swooped though the imagined streets of Tir Na Nog, where only moments before he had been wandering about, searching for the sentient, man-sized badgers he had been sure were taking over the city and were threatening the life of the fair Elvin Queen.

On a lark, he conjured up the image of just such a nightmare-badger into the dreamworld, the snarling beast threatening to disembowel the Queen with it’s dagger-keen claws. Just as the badger was about to spill the Elvin Queen’s guts among the city streets, the Mentalist rocketed down, a yellow-blue streak of superheroic fury, diving into the black and white furred monster, crashing it headlong into a stone stablehouse, collapsing the entirety of the mortar and brick structure onto the beast. Rolzt stood, nonchalantly brushing the powdered marble off of his shoulders, kicking the dying, wheezing beast one last time in the face before accepting a rewarding kiss from the Queen herself. But Rolzt didn’t have time to accept the Elf woman’s more enthusiastic offers, nor of those of the lovely maidens surrounding her… he had a purpose for being here. Letting the wind gather underneath his outstretched arms, he once again flew into the air, toward the forest of spires surrounding the castle of the Elvin Court.

He landed among the crystal and gold minarets of Tir Na Nog, upon the very roof of the castle itself. There waiting was a scene more akin to the stories he had read of the far away and imagined lands of Arabia than of the Elvin Court. Pillow piled upon pillow, red and purple and blue and all satin surrounding like an offering a huge wood and brass bed, it’s tall posts covered in gauzy silk. He smiled again, rubbing his hands together in boyhood anticipation. Thinking very carefully now, he willed an image into being, a shimmering light slowly forming into something more complete. After several long moments, full of dread and hope, the image finally took shape, standing beside him. Sooja. He grinned again, taking in her form, of low-cut bodice and shimmering gauze, of cinnamon-scented flame red hair, of long, smooth legs and harem sandals. Oh, yes, the mushrooms were very good, and more than worth the price paid, which was a painful image he’d rather have not dragged up into this dream. As the Mentalist started to step toward Sooja, to embrace her in his arms, he felt more than a little guilt at taking advantage of the woman in this state. After all, it was but just a dream, and she certainly wasn’t real, but what if there was some truth behind those old wives tales of dreams shared? What if she were dreaming this exact thing he was, only not in control of the events as he was?

He shrugged, stepping toward the beautiful Celtic woman. This was not a time for such silly, worrisome thought. He had Sooja… Well, not really Sooja, but close enough, and she was as beautiful as he had imagined her to be, and smelled as intoxicating as lust itself, and…

And she was moving away from him.

The only problem was, she was not walking. Indeed, she had stood there, smiling sweetly as a promise, inviting him to her with pouty, blood-red lips, hands on hips and a naked, pale thigh slipping from the folds of her gossamer gown, but she was no closer to him than we he had started walking toward her. He took another tentative step, looking down at his feet to make sure he was indeed connected to the ground. And he was, only it had not made a dent in his progress, as she still stood, a bare handful of feet away from him. He looked around, the bed still in it’s place, impossibly still the same distance where it was before, the edges of the castle roof spreading out into infinity. Cursing under his breath, he instead decided to simply fly to the woman’s side, cheating the dream’s impossible physics with his own bit of trickery. Somehow sensing his intentions, the dream changed again, Sooja’s form again shimmering in the light, changing, becoming at once more solid and smaller, taking a form all too familiar and frustrating to Rolzt.

Finally, Rhiannon stood before him, clothed in her familiar burgundy robes. This both confused and confounded Rolzt. Not only was the girl far too selfish and aloof for his tastes, she was also an elf , and besides, the silly little thing was all but betrothed to Danywyn, damn him to hell. As she fully shimmered into existence, replacing Sooja’s own fair form, he stared at the bed, for a good long bit, contemplating matters and implications, before sighing dejectedly, willing the wood and brass and silk bed out of being. It wasn’t until he turned to Rhiannon and tried to make her vanish as well did he notice that she was screaming. Silently.

Forgetting his concerns, he ran to her, tripping over his own legs, in his haste falling face first onto the hard gravel roof of the castle. He swore, stumbling to his feet before immediately tripping again as he tried to take another step to her. Catching himself on his knees, he instead tried to simply will himself to her side, but he remained there, unable to move from his spot, as if the entire weight of the world stood below directly below him, holding him fast by sheer force of inertia. He shrugged helplessly at the Eldrich, as he stood, offering his bloodied palms and knees in apology, screaming her name. But his breath would not catch in this air, the wind as silent and fatal as death. It was then that he took his first good long look at the elf’s face, and realized suddenly why she was screaming. For her eyes were missing from her face, the empty orbs staring out at him, accusing him of guilt unknown

He could feel his tenuous control in the dreamworld slipping from his grasp, turning inexorably into nightmare. He turned about in shock looking stupidly for help. Impossibly, he found Sooja again, behind him, her arms curiously wrapped around her abdomen. She looked up at him, terror as sharp as a razor in her eyes. He tried to run to her, but he again tripped and stumbled, his ankles twisting underneath him as he collapsed, as was reduced to crawling on hands and knees to her kneeling form. But even his arms gave out, his elbows collapsing before him, spilling the Mentalist on his face back into the hard gravel roof. As he stared at her, his eyes pleading, he began to understand why she was holding herself… her lifeblood seeping between them.

He shouted, silent, furious, unheard above the streets of the Elvin city. In total desperation he again looked about for help, pleading and begging, his pathetic wailing voice silent on the impossibly still air. Behind him… always behind him… he somehow sensed movement of people he knew… more of his family, more of the Dae’. He spun, impossibly swift on his stumbling feet, to find Ewan and Danwyn standing with their backs to each other, each locked in mortal combat with long lines of city guardsmen, their ceremonial spears poised like scorpion tales at the two Celts. Ewan and Danwyn fought, desperation and fatigue clear in their faces against a never-ending host of spear and armor, their swords batting away each wave of attack. But Rolzt knew the guards to only be toying with the two, the twin Dae’ defender’s attacks too slow to stop the onslaught of razor-honed carbide steel, each successive attack from the guards bringing the forest of pikes inches closer to the two fighters. Rolzt realized that they were sure to die without help, and began summoning up his own magical powers, intending to turn the entire front line of Elf attackers into an army of drooling imbeciles with a wave of psychic and magical energies. As the soldiers made their final fatal sortie, Rolzt raised his fingertips to the advancing army, a prism of light gathering about his hands, unleashing his powers unto the attackers.

But at that instant something terrible happened. Beyond his will or even his comprehension, the spell was turned back upon itself, battering the Mentalist with a wave of magical confusion, shortwiring Rolzt’s mind, sending him sprawling to the roof. He tumbled helplessly, pulled across the sharp gravel and stone rooftop catching a last image of Ewan and Danwyn, still standing back to back, forever locked together as spear after bloody spear impaled the brothers together, the sickening amount of wood penetrating the two keeping them still and upright.

It wasn’t until Rolzt reached the castle’s edge that he became aware of the laughter. A low, mocking, soft laughter that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, to echo down the windswept streets of Tir Na Nog, to ooze like a sickness from every windowsill and doorway, from the throat of every citizen of the city as they looked up with cheering approval at the scene atop the castle. But Rolzt knew the laughter came from somewhere else, somewhere more insidious than even the entire city itself. For Rolzt knew the laughter to be echoing in his own tortured mind.

As he dangled from the castle wall, he looked down upon the city, the populace cheering and mocking his display, edging him on to fall upon the fatal spires decorating the thin castle turrets. As the laughing in his head grew louder, making it impossible for his enfeebled mind to think at all, he noticed there among the city streets, long files of city guardsmen, hundreds of sworn defenders of the castle and queen herself. Their purple and silver armor glinting in the sunlight as they stood in rank after rank. But it was their spears that he noticed, their tips and edges wet and dull with blood.

Blood he knew to be Dae’ blood.

It wasn’t until then that whatever held Rolzt allowed him to fall.

He awoke, screaming; scant deadly inches away from the crystal spires. He found himself sitting upright in bed, a cold sweat drenching his linens. He dragged a shaking hand through his short-cropped white hair. For a few moments he sat, catching his ragged breath, rubbing his face with his hands as he tried to reconcile reality and dream. In a sudden panic, he flung away his sheets, stumbling to his desk, pulling the wire dagger from the tome resting there, heavy as a threat. With deliberate stillness, he brought the point of the dagger to his outstretched fingertip, cursing as the razor-sharp wire point dug into his skin. Dropping the dagger onto the book, he sighed in relief.

Clumsily, he brought his robes back around his thin shoulders, stepping out of his room, into the parlor of Taboh Aisling. He knew he would not be getting any more sleep this night.