Chapter Two

They found the next victim on the dawn of the second week. Her body hung, broken and mutilated, from the Imperial gates. It had begun to rain, and the drops fell red upon the cold stone of the street. Her killers had left her eyes. They seemed unnaturally wide, stripped of the barrier of flesh. She was K'Uselle, they said, a candidate.

Somewhere in the depths of Mirael, the whirlpool of nightmares swirled a little faster, and Kennick laughed, his mind saturated with bloody triumph.

I. House of Rain

Raindrops pelted cobblestones as Amaelie attempted to find shelter. With a hand raised to protect her eyes, she settled upon crouching beneath a doorway of a decaying façade. Torrents of water fell inches from her nose as she shrunk into the corner of the steps.

She spat, disgusted by the turn of weather. The bone-drenching rains of the third quarter were an inconvenience at best and deadly at worst. She massaged her legs, trying to fight the rising wave of numbness, and remembered wistfully the warmth of where she'd been, near the Beloran forges. She'd been rooted out by a vexed smith, however, and forced into the downpour.

The ramshackle neighborhoods of the Miraelan slums were Amy's home, and it was a rough existence. They sat apart from the diplomatic sections of the city, sprawling around the Imperial isle and forming makeshift borders between housed sections. Once every Miraelan had belonged to a house. There had been a substantial increase in neutral parties. From foreign merchants to exiles, the unhoused population had taken over whatever empty space existed between the housed section walls.

Lately though, since the body in the fountain, it had become harder and harder to find friendly faces in the housed areas. She'd always gotten the occasional kick or curse, but now instead of annoyance, she saw tinges of fear. Amy knew what fear could stir people to. She had no desire to be the outlet for some mob's anger.

The buildings she passed became starker as she passed from the Beloran section to the Urellan section. Unconsciously, her shoulders dropped from their defensive hunch. Of all the places she might be targeted, the Urellans were least likely to mob. The entire region was pacifist; every Ki'Urelle seemed to be a healer or a seer.

But as she approached the arches of the temple, she noted that the usual crowd of Unhoused receiving free healing and water were not there. The only person in the entire courtyard was one healer under a balcony, who as she approached, flapped his hands in a shooing motion.

"Unfortunately we cannot offer you care at this time, our resources are regrettably elsewhere," the stout man told her mechanically.

Amy considered pleading with the man, but before she could decide, the healer was gone back indoors. Well, bullocks. Her options were running out, and fast, as the feeling of numbness crept up her thin limbs.

She had one more plan. She crept out of sight of the large glass doors, to the eastern side of the building. Alternating between crawling and darting, she made her way through the gardens that lined the building's face. She was careful to keep away from the elongated windows that were a feature of Urellan architecture.

As she rounded the next corner, an apartment window came into view. There were empty quarters at the very back of the temple, used as storage rooms. One of the window panes was missing. If she had a god, she would have blessed him. With a small laugh, she darted forward and slipped her hand inside the hole. Within a minute of groping, she found the latch and opened the window. The warmth of the room embraced her, and with a happy sigh, she collapsed on the floor. In her exultation she did not notice the light leaking from under the nearby door.

Amy closed her eyes and curled up on top of a pile of old cloth. It was moments like these that made life worth it, in her eyes. With a loud growl, her stomach disagreed, and she was soon on her feet again. After a minute of searching, she caught sight of a basket of apples on top of a shelf. It was twice her height, and she saw no way of reaching it by hand. Her stomach growled again.

With a sigh, Amy closed her eyes. She raised a hand towards the apples, and focused on the small lights she could sense floating about her. They were bubbles of power, and as she drew them in with each breath, she had the unpleasant sensation of her blood carbonating.

She'd always had a little talent with magic, but she hated using it exactly because of the accompanying sensations. They varied; sometimes she felt like she had drunk a gallon of Meade, and at others her skin seemed to burn like an overexposed canvas. It was like playing with chemicals with both eyes covered, but sometimes, she had to take risks.

With a sound like air being folded in on itself, the basket was in her hand.

The door shot open, blinding Amy with light. She stumbled backwards, but something caught her and pulled her back up by the ear. With a cry she lashed out, trying to fight back her attacker. A blow to the side of her head stunned her into stillness.

When she regained her sight, she found herself look straight into a pair of glacial blue eyes. Her captor was a woman, maybe forty years of age, wearing the powder blue of the temple. She was bent over in order to study her prisoner. She held Amy with two delicate finger pinched into her ear.

"Come over here into the light," the woman ordered, practically picking Amy up of the ground as she hustled her into the next room. Amy now noticed the obvious signs of residence in the apartment. She should have seen the light, noticed the lack of dust. She stumbled into the next room, and fell on the ground.

The woman had released her, but as she scrambled up, she saw the healer was only a foot away. She was a tall woman; Amy had to crane her neck to see her face.

"Name and house," the woman demanded.

Amy stayed silent.

"I'll have it from you one way or another. Who is your employer?"

Amy tried to back away, but the room was a small one, without an easily apparent exit. The tall woman took a step forward for every one she took back.

"Look at it this way, I can call the guards now and have you arrested for a spy, or you can try to improve my mood by cooperating."

"I'm not spy!" Amy protested in horror. It was one thing to be roughed up for being a vagabond or a thief, quite another to be hung for a spy. "I'm not!"

"So you have a tongue," the woman replied dryly. "Now, name and house."

After a minute of thought, Amy answered. "Liliana. Don't have n'house."

Before she could even blink, she was being pulled up by the ear once more.

She swallowed her second cry of pain, even though tears welled up in her eyes. Those fingernails were going to meet in the middle!

"Amaelie, but rest's truth! Swear't!"

The woman said nothing, but her grip relaxed a miniscule amount.

"Was n'room to g'way from rain. N' more, n'more." Amy deliberately emphasized the twang of the slums. Truth be it, she could imitate any accent she needed to, but she felt as though the mixed dialect of the streets would help her case.

"And the magic?"

She knew the occasional person could pick up magic, she could herself, but to pin it to a person or even a direction was as hard as finding a needle in a haystack. She considered lying and saying she knew nothing about it, but she rather liked having an ear.

"L'trick be know'n, n'more. Used for apple fetching. Please, m'dam," she finished hopefully.

The woman released her ear, and she fell to the floor, massaging that side of her head.

"Where was your father from? Your mother?"

"D'nah be know'n," Amy responded to the odd question. "Be dead."

The interrogation subsided into silence as the two studied one another. Amy defiantly returned the woman's glare, but she felt as if it made the same difference a rabbit staring down a hawk. There was something distinctly predatory about the woman, an ambition that did not exist about the usual Urellian. Her face was aged, and yet was as smooth and pale as new snow, while her hair was only a shade from white. She was a powerful presence.

"You have the look of Somnirael about you," the woman mused aloud after what seemed like an eternity.

Amy didn't so much as blink. It wasn't the first time she'd been mistaken for a Shadowlander. The members of the House of Shadows were a small, dark people, and Amy had the characteristic tinted skin and slanted eyes of a Somniraelite. It was unlikely that she was though. Shadowlanders took care of their own.

Most likely, Amy speculated, she'd been the illegitimate child of some Dumaeran maid. Once she'd dreamed of being a lost princess or a beloved daughter, sorely missed by those who had left her, but reality had a way of corroding dreams. Her mother had probably been to poor to afford a back-street abortion, so Amy had been half-heartedly raised and turned out at the first opportunity.

Amy thought she was seventeen now, maybe sixteen, but she was naturally small. She could still pass as a child, though the same would not be true a couple years into the future. Handouts were much fewer for young women. At least, handouts without a price attached. Amy tried to concentrate on one day at a time, so she would not have to contemplate what future awaited her.

"Would you like some food?" the piercing voice interrupted. Amy was startled out of her thoughts by the blandness of the suggestion. She nodded without thinking.

The woman pulled out a chair, and made a peremptory gesture for Amy to sit in it. She then walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a loaf of bread and a pitcher. Amy's mouth was already moist by the time the fresh bread was placed in front of her. She surreptitiously examined it for a moment, trying to comprehend the sudden change in the atmosphere. She could sense it, just as she could sense an impending storm.

"Go ahead, eat. You look starving" the woman told her. Amy didn't have much of a choice at that point, not between her growling stomach and those watching eyes. She bit in, and to her delight, the bread tasted as good as it looked.

Amy ate for an hour. Every time she finished a plate, it was replaced with mutton or soup, or more of the lovely bread. The room was so warm, and the food was perhaps the best she'd ever eaten. By the time she'd finished her fourth helping of lentil soup, she felt as though her bones were groaning from the added weight. All the while, the woman silently watched.

Finally, Amy could eat no more. She pushed away her plate.

"Would you like to lie down now?" the woman asked.

Suspicion finally bubbled underneath the haze of fine cider and the warm hearth. The image of the body in the fountain popped into her head, and Amy experienced an overwhelming desire to run. How had that boy been lured? Had he been stupid enough to wander into a lit room? Perhaps he'd been given toys, or petted and fattened by kind words and encouraging smiles. Hell, there could have been poison in all the food she'd gobbled. Amy could be dying even now. It wasn't her imagination, she felt distinctly more tired.

"N'tank m'dam, n'tank. Must b'goin'"

"You can stop that, you know. Talking that way."

Amy opened her mouth to deny the inherent accusation, but was cut off. The woman's eyes glittered, in amusement or annoyance, she couldn't tell.

"You do a good job of it, but you're intonation is slightly off. It's your "m" that gives it away, but only barely. If you can copy that accent so adeptly, my bet is you can copy Educated Dumaeran."

Rather than answering, Amy kept her lips tightly clothed. This woman had a way of making her feel as though she were half-clothed.

"Very well, if you want to play it like that. I've got an extra pallet in the storage room. You're welcome to spend the night." She was interrupted by an ominous clap of thunder. "And I suggest you do."

Amy hesitated. It would be mad to pass up such an offer on such a night as this. While she had no love for the healer, she did not wish to lose a limb to nightchill.

She gave a curt nod, and got up from the table.

With a small smile, the woman pointed towards the storage room. Amy followed her direction, and saw the small cot to her right. She pulled in down on to the floor, away from the puddle from the cracked window, and curled up upon it. The food and warmth was already taking its toll on her awareness. As soon as her head touched fabric, her eyelids dropped.

The room darkened as the healer closed the door. Amy was already breathing deep, catching glimpses of shadowy colors and faces, when a small sound penetrated her trance. It was so quiet, such a small metallic click, she thought she might have imagined it. It wasn't enough for her to fend off the welcoming arms of slumber.

It was the sound of the door being locked.

II. House of Light

Julian scowled as the rain played a symphony of taps upon the coach top. The weather of Mirael was always an unpleasant change from the dry climate of Lumar, and this week long jag of water made him long for the touch of sun.

The coach pulled in front of a familiar plain edifice. Julian hated riding inside the coach, and would have been out on a horse in a minute if the general consensus of the guard had not been that it would make him far too open to possible attack.

He pulled on his golden cloak, and stepped down out of the annoying contraption. The street was deserted. Ki'Lumar were like cats in a storm when it came to this kind of weather, and sure enough, as his guards opened the giant doors of the main building, he saw the grand hall had been filled with familiar faces.

It had been some five years since he had last made an appearance in Mirael. He spent the vast majority of his time in the homeland, at the Impyr border, and did not waste his time with the false pleasantries of diplomacy. The situation had obviously changed, though. He had received word of the second murder just hours before. While the death of the Ki'Lumar boy could be forgotten as an odd incident, the murder of two very high ranking individuals from unconnected houses was worthy of notice.

"All hail the Leader," called one of his guards. In synchronized response, the inhabitants of the house cried "hail!" and touched the side of their head with an open palm.

"May the sun shine upon thee, may the moon never leave thee, Mi'lord" added a man who stepped before him now. His head was shaved, marking him as a judge, a position worthy of respect. Nevertheless, he was not who Julian had hoped to see.

"Stand and serve," Julian called to the room with a small nod of his head. Some of rigidity lessened.

"Where may I find Laman?" He asked the stout judge in a low voice.

"Walk with me, if it pleases thee," the man responded.

When the man strode forward, he followed. They passed through the attentive crowd and into a long narrow hall. Julian noted everything, from the leak in the plaster to the width of the judge's steps. A wise man had once said ambition could be measured by the length of a stride.

They came to a closed door. The judge bowed, and motioned for Julian to enter. He did so with a nod of his head, and closed the door behind him. When he stepped forward, he noted with disapproval the classical architecture and opulent colors. Count Laman was a distant cousin, and Julian knew he had always loved to indulge himself. The last time they had met face to face had been some twenty years ago, when Julian was newly instated as the Great Leader. He had been unimpressed with Laman or his wilting flower of a wife, but the representative house had needed leadership, and Julian had wished to distance himself from the cesspool of a city as much as possible.

"Laman?" He called now. There was no answer, but he though he heard rustling from the other side of the apartments. He walked in that direction.

Laman crouched by his chair, leaning into the plush fabric like an infant to a mother. His hair was tangled, and his eyes were unfocused. He didn't seem to have noticed Julian's entrance.

Julian called his name again, but to no avail. Laman continued to knead the fabric of the chair between corpulent fingers.

"Lost," he seemed to be repeating to himself. "Lost."

Julian shook his head, but he was not surprised or dismayed by Laman's state.The violent death of his son had clearly resulted in dementia. While the count had not shown incredible acumen twenty years ago, his fully-functioning presence might have made the shift of power more complicated. The House of Light would now pass hands with the ease of a babe returning to its mother.

Julian left the apartment, which stank of sweat and urine.

"Get some men up here to give him a bath," he told the judge. "And you.. what is your name?"

"Avrim Danel K'Lumar, Mi'lord, of the West Circuit Court" he answered readily.

"Do you love your nation, Danel?" Julian asked pointedly.

The judge's eyes narrowed. He immediately saw the pitfall of the question. His nation could refer to either Lumar or Dumaer. Julian waited to see how he would respond.

"Yes, Mi'Lord" the Judge Danel answered slowly.

Julian tasted the simple answer, then met the Judge Danel's almond eyes.

"Then gather the wisest, strongest, and most damn loyal men you know, and bring them to the Lesser Hall ere the sun has set."

III. House of Wind

"That's not what it meant."

"Sari…"

"I mean it Tomas, that's not what it meant."

"Well how do you know what it meant?" he asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. His sister had been near impossible to be around since the prediction. The House of Winds Scholars had begun work on translation the night she'd pronounced the strange warning, and had been working non-stop for the past two weeks. Tomas now held in his hand the official Ki'Daira paperwork detailing the foresight "unnamed seers" attained.

"Just read it!" she had yelled this morning, thrusting the paper into his face before he'd even awakened completely. The simple note was in reality a summary of a chapters-long analysis.

"Look at this part," she pointed now, speaking in the annoying patronizing tone she sometimes took with him. "They say the blood's "use" refers to the shock value of leaving the bodies out. That just can't be."

"And why not?"

"Because they don't have blood!" Sari exclaimed. "Well, not by the time they've been placed out. The blood has been removed."

"They've been skinned!"

"Yes, but why? And look at this part! They say the "K'Nat" refered to is "The Night One," and probably some crazed Somnirael separatist. But what about "misfortune falling"? They say that's just the omen of better times to come, but the wording is all wrong!"

"Daira's eyes, you talk a lot."

"Be quiet. Oh, oh, and what about this line? The past again, not remembered, ghosts again, never dead, six again, only five. They practically skip over it! The only recognition is this part, where they say we should pay more attention to the past, and that it may be necessary to rid ourselves of a "certain house" in the near future."

"Really?" Tomas asked, his attention once again sparked. "They're that obvious about it?"

"Yes. I've been telling you for ages, the Anti-Somnirael sentiment is taking over."

Tomas looked at the paper with renewed interest. Usually the Dairain house was more circumspect in its prejudice towards Somnirael.

Somnirael was a small nation, barely within the border of Dumaer. Sometimes called "The Slave State", Somnirael was the only nation that had not voluntarily joined Liman the Strong's union. Many still debated the motivation and wisdom of the great king's conquering of Somnirael. It had been a bloody nine year war, since the Somniraelites had the advantage in their marshy terrain. One would think three hundred years would be enough to blend the nations, but this was not so. The Somniraelites were set apart from their Dumaeran brothers and sisters by many factors. Tomas thought that looks were a big part of it, for clearly the Shadowlanders had not descended from the same stock as the rest of Dumaer. They were smaller, had more pronounced features and elongated eyes. The very undertone of their skin seemed different; a cool blue where there was usually pink. Not to mention the cultural differences, and their odd way of worshipping Selena.

Of course everything Sari had read was in the summary, and there was not much else. He made a mental note to find the official transcription of the prediction when he went in to the library today.

"Do you think they could be right about the Shadowlanders?"

Sari sighed.

"As far as that goes, I don't know what to think. Which is why I'm not going to be as bull-headed as to say one way or the other, unlike some idiots! I'm going to be coming to the library with you today. While you do your copying, I can do some of my own research. No," she paused, pointing at his open mouth with an accusing finger, "don't you dare say anything. I'm the seer around here, and I get what I want."

"I wouldn't ever say otherwise," Tomas replied meekly.

Sari leveled him with a suspicious glare, then sniffed and left.

Tomas waited a span, then grabbed his bag and ran out the door in the opposite direction. If he left right then, he might be able to leave Sari at the house. It was an odd motivation, but the library was special to him. He often felt like the library was his true temple, and that his goddess could only be found in the most obscure and forgotten texts. Bringing Sari there would violate his haven. She'd been there before, but it had taken months for him to cleanse her from his mind. She left a breathy efflorescence wherever she went, like the sense of a descending storm, bringing petals instead of raindrops. Fate had conspired that he would spend his life chained to his sister. Wasn't he entitled to an hour on his own, free of Sari's taint?

As he stepped outside the main door and started down the road, he heard his name called. He raised a hand over his head to wave goodbye to his dear sister, then had to duck the ink bottle she'd managed to lob from the second story balcony.

Four hourse later, the sun had long set above the city of Mirael. Tomas used the dark to his advantage as he snuck back into the house. Chances were his sister had already gone to bed, where she could sleep off her anger. She hated being left behind more than anything. He already felt bad about what he'd done, but he knew he would have done the same thing given the circumstances. The library was his.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to his room without event. There he laid down his bag, and turned to change out of his shirt when he saw the candlelight across the room. There sat Sari, her face unnaturally smooth.

"Daira's eyes, you scared…" he began.

"I gave her the poem."

Tomas thought he must have misunderstood.

"What?"

"Leyla came by to bring a message for Father. I gave her the poem you've been writing."

The poem Sari referred to had been hidden beneath his pallet, and he hadn't thought she had known. He hadn't thought anyone had known.

"Ha ha, very funny. Now put it back all right?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding? It serves you right for leaving me behind," she answered.

Tomas paused for a moment as the implications sunk in. Panic engulfed him as he remembered the treacherous verses, destined only for the purifying of a hearth fire. He threw his shirt down on the floor.

"What in bloody hell is wrong with you? Do you think this is funny? Did you think I'd think this was funny?"

Sari's eyes narrowed.

"No, I thought this might help reinforce my point."

"That you can be a spiteful brat?"

"No, that I'm a bloody seer, and there are greater events at stake then your own selfishness," Sari answered, standing up.

"Selfishness?" he exclaimed, infuriated. There was hardly a minute of his life that wasn't devoted to his twin's wellbeing. Tomas stared at the illuminated face, almost a mirror image of his own, but now repulsive to him. The emotions he'd become such an expert at bottling boiled up within him, a windstorm of anger, resentment, and envy. He struggled to find words to encompass it.

"Did you even look at the transcription? Did you even think about it? It's the future of the world, Tomas. What does Leyla matter in comparison to that?" she accused, her voice rising in pitch

Tomas gave a humorless laugh.

"So that's it. Now I understand. You're just afraid that you won't be the center of attention anymore."

Sari opened her mouth to speak, but Tomas overran her. She was always talking, now it was his turn.

"This is all one big ploy for attention. You can't accept the transcription because that would mean your big moment was over."

"Shut up!" she screamed, her face flushing.

"Well I have news for you. Just because you said it doesn't mean it's the fate of the world. If you can't accept that, then don't, but don't involve me."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"You're nothing more than a whiny, spoiled bitch."

She slapped him. His head rang with the force of the impact.

"Get out," he spat between gritted teeth. He could taste blood from the side of his cheek.

Without another word, she rose and stalked out the door, leaving a taint of lilies in her wake.

IV. House of Rain

Amaelie was trapped.

She'd awoken herself at the crack of dawn, stumbling out of bed. Her hope had been to leave the strange quarters before its other occupant even awoke. She'd headed to the window, and had started to climb out when she realized that the glass had been replaced, in a fashion. She could still see the cracks of the glass, but the air looked as though it had solidified in the hole. When she looked very closely, she could see the raindrops caught along the repair line.

"Magic," she'd hissed. When she tried the door, she found it firmly locked. With a rising sense of frustration, she'd dug through the many stored items in search of an alternate exit. There was nothing but solid wall.

Now she sat on her cot, contemplating breaking the window. If she kicked out the panes, would the glass-air simply expand to fill it? It seemed unlikely that her captor would have used a lesser charm, if she'd truly meant to keep Amy in this room. She'd already tried to pick the lock, to no avail.

What would she be confronted with, when the door finally opened? Murderers, eager to skin another adolescent? Guards, called by the anonymous healer to arrest a thief? Perhaps she would be sold into slavery. Amy considered all of these possibilities coldly and logically, discarding one after the other. They were broken puzzle pieces in the strangest of puzzles.

She didn't have to think for long. By the time the sun had fully risen, Amy could hear the door being unlocked. She jumped up, ready to fight if she needed to, but it was only the healer once more. She stepped forward, ready to fight her way out. Before she took a single step, she was hit by a spell that drove the wind out of her. As Amy hit the ground, there was little she could do except alternate between gasping curses.

"Let me explain things, Amaelie," that piercing voice interrupted. Amy looked up to see the flawless face looking down from far above.

"My name is Loraile Hunweinan K'Urelle. I am the first healer of the House of Rain. I am the single most powerful woman in charge Urellian concerns in this city, as well as an aide to the Tu'Miraet himself."

"And now for you. You are a disreputable character from the House of Shadows. You were found rifling through my storage space; a place where I keep many documents pertaining to the business of this house. When found, you came at me with this."

With a flick of her wrists, Loraile drove a thin switchblade knife into the wooden floor. Amy turned her head to see the hilt quivering only a few inches from her head.

"It is clearly Somniraelite steel. Have I made myself clear?"

The woman had made one thing perfectly clear: Amy was in a vice that the god's themselves couldn't make tighter.

The woman was waiting for an answer. Amy gave a jerky nod.

Loraile smiled kindly. "Smart girl. If you act as I wish, there's a lot for you to gain. You'll have a bed, meals, and steady employment. Once you've completed what I've asked, you will be able to retain the position if you please, or return to whence you came. In addition, I will pay you fifty crowns a month."

The woman paused, as if to survey Amy's reaction. All she felt was increased apprehension. If there was a carrot and a stick involved, this had to be a big favor indeed.

"You are aware, I am sure, of the current political situation?"

Amy nodded.

"The House of Rain has long been the… collector of delicate information, in order to preserve its own interests and the unity of Dumaer. Because of the tensions between the houses, these efforts have been somewhat impaired. I try to keep a… messenger in all houses. I have not yet established a messenger in the house that I am most interested in."

The woman stepped forward and brushed some of Amy's hair from her face. The change from threatening to motherly was somewhat disconcerting. While Loraile's face was modeled into a kind smile, her eyes retained the same piercing deadness.

"I think you could be my messenger in the House of Shadows."

Amy immediately started to protest, but the woman held up a hand.

"The first thing you have to learn is that I require absolute obedience. You will only speak when spoken to, you will do as I say in all instances. Your life may hinge on it," she said with an icy smile, underscoring the tacit threat.

"I have the impression that you are already adept at dissembling. Any magical talent you have will aid you as well. And child, I'm not going to drop you into a snake's den without ample preparation. By the time I am done with you, you will be indistinguishable from a true Shadowlander. Is that understood?"

Amy just stared.

Loraile leaned down, wrapping a finger in Amy's hair and dragging her up off of the pallet.

"I said, is that understood?" she asked again.

"Yes," Amy answered, wincing. "Very clear."

Loraile gave a satisfied nod.

"Good. We have a week. Today you will focus on learning Somniraelite history; you will bathe this evening and dress in the Somniraelite style. Tomorrow will focus on Selena and religious rituals of the Shadowlands. You will also learn to dine in the correct fashion, as well as how to behave around members of different ranks and kins…"

Loraile's monotone voice continued, rattling off too much information for Amy to absorb.

Perhaps, though Amy, I would have been better off with murderers.