"Is it just me, or do they get smarter every time?"

Thorn snorted, shaking gore from his axe.  Keleren gave the young knight a smirk.

The small keep, or what was left of it, was a wintry wonderland of glassy ice and frosted stone lying wrecked upon the ground, glowing silver in the moonlight.  Two of the walls were shattered.  One had tumbled over into a crumbled heap in the central courtyard, the other had collapsed in place from the weight of the wyrm's assault.  Breathing heavy, frost pluming from her lips, Alexis leaned on the golden dragonlance, her eyes trailing upwards toward the ruined tower.  It was a ruin – more so than when this all began – one wall falling in and broken in other places from Meranath and Gwynnion's combat.  Beside her, Keleren had turned to scan the clouds, fringed in silver by the light of Solinari, assuring himself that the white wyrm was not soon to return.

"We should tend to Gwynn," Alexis said, starting in that direction with a slight limp, "She hasn't come out.  She's no doubt injured and she may be trapped..."

"Well, our quarry's not here, that's for certain," Keleren muttered, jogging through the muddy, snow flecked ground to come up behind her, "Nor is the dragon orb.  Somehow I knew this was a false lead..."

"But plenty of wyrms and dragon men," Thorn grunted, searching for Pebble. 

"Aye," the elf sighed, "These places attract trouble."

"I wish that one would come back," the dwarf rumbled irritably, "Fat lot of good lady knight's toothpick and Gwynn's prayers are since he got away.  They ruined me livelihood and a fine, valuable contract.  And for what?  Takhisis?"  Thorn spat on the ground.  "Fucking useless gods and their dragons..."

"I'm more worried about Gwynnion right now," Alexis huffed, glaring at him.

"Aye, you do that," Thorn returned, "I'll look for Pebble and get me mule before the kender runs off with her.  Spymaster my ass.  Why, just the other day..."

"Ignore him," Keleren advised the young knight as he came up alongside her.

"I intend to."

Upon closer inspection, it became clear that the tower's roof had collapsed in large sections, dragging down chunks of the grey stone walls with it.  The double doors were jammed with fallen debris on the other side, too heavy for them to shift, and Alexis grimaced as she made her way around to an opening in the lower levels.  Surprisingly, as the two for them began clearing away the dull grey stones, they found them warm to the touch.  Even the sections of the tower which Meranath had struck with his freezing breath, hoping to eliminate the young sorceress' needling attacks, had all but melted. 

"I hope Gwynnion had some barrier of force or other defense up against this," Keleren grunted, dislodging a large section of stone and shoving it to one side, "Or she's already dead."

"She's alive," Alexis admonished him.

"Perhaps."

"I can feel her," the knight told him, her voice falling to a softer level. 

Keleren wasn't certain of the emotion in her tone, but let it be.  In his time with their group, the elf had begun to think of the knight and Gwynnion as contrary sisters because of the connection of the tattoo and their occasional womanly bickering.  He trusted her judgment for the time being, though Alexis was visibly distracted as they hauled away as much of the stone as could be lifted. 

When they had something resembling an entrance into the crumbled inner workings of the tower, the elf touched her lightly on the shoulder.  "Myself alone," he told her, "It's a tight squeeze and you'll never make it through in your armor.  And there's no point in bringing the tower down upon all three of us..."

"We should have brought Lilian," Alexis remarked, making a half-hearted joke.

"Alive or not, I doubt Gwynnion would live long enough for us to walk back to the horses and bring her.  And the kender's not strong enough to dig her out if need be."

Sighing, Alexis grudgingly stepped aside to allow the elf through, taking his longbow and pack from him to ease his way.  Standing at the rough opening, nervously eyeing the fall of dust and pulverized stone within the gloom of the tower, she kept watch while Keleren picked his way over slabs of stone to search for the half-elven woman.

Once inside, Keleren half-crawled and half-climbed his way around a portion of the domed roof which had broken into three large pieces in the center of the tower, with entire sections of spiral stairs lying in heaps about him.  As he considered preparing a witchlight, he was surprised to find the interior well lit by pale silver moonlight from Solinari above.  Brushing black hair out of his face, Keleren glanced up to see the full orb of the white moon suspended in the nighttime sky, spying back at him through the shattered ceiling. 

"Aye, you may have the fates on your side after all," the elf murmured as he dug through the wreckage in search of his companion.

Toward the rear of the chamber, Keleren found the young woman by the white splash of her cloak against the grey stone.  She was crumpled on the first steps of the staircase that spiraled around the interior of the tower, a section of stone lying askew over her, partly crushing her hip and side but shielding her from other falling debris which might have crushed her.  Her legs looked to be pinned by smaller stones, and there was a large, bleeding gash on her forehead.  There was no sign of the tressym.  Most likely he was stashed in one of Gwynnion's magical pockets, oblivious to the seriousness of his mistress' condition.

Oddly, Gwynnion looked peaceful.

Making his way over to her, Keleren quickly inspected her.  She was still alive, though her pulse was fluttering and weak, and her breathing very shallow.  Her skin was clammy to the touch.  What little blood he could find came from the head wound, though he suspected her hip was broken by the fallen stone and she was bleeding internally.  Frowning, the elf cleared the debris off her legs and turned his attention to the larger stone block.  Keleren clambered up onto what remained of the stairs above her and, pressing his back against the wall, was able to tip the stone away from Gwynn, sending it crashing backwards onto the central floor amid a plume of dust and tattered papers.

The half-elf's right arm, which had been awkwardly flung across her chest, slid off and flopped against the side of the stairs, her fingers dangling limply. 

Dark, tacky blood was matting through her cloak and traveling clothes on her right side from where the stone had crushed her against the corner of the stairs.  More of it began to well up now that the pressure was relieved.  The damage had twisted her right leg, which would probably be useless even now that it was freed.  Grimacing at the severity of her injuries, Keleren crossed over the fallen stone and knelt by her shoulder.  In the pale moonlight, Gwynn looked waxen, her curly hair seemingly black.

Fishing a few slender vials out of his belt, the elf lifted her head slightly and fed the thin, honey-colored liquid to her as best he could. 

Keleren waited.

Gradually, while the elf cradled her head, Gwynn's pallor warmed and color crept back into her features.  Her pulse fluttered wildly for a few moments and her shoulder twitched as she struggled back toward consciousness.  A sharp, wet popping sound came from her hip, bringing a wince to Keleren's features.  He was surprised when her eyes opened briefly and the young woman moaned a string of unintelligible syllables.  He'd heard the language on her lips before, while seeking out Huma's tomb, though he didn't know them himself. 

"Gwynnion," he murmured, giving her a slight shake, "Can you hear me?"

Another string of musical syllables, and a few slurred words in the draconic tongue.

Sighing, Keleren tried to bind the young woman's wounds as best he could while examining his options for safely getting the both of them out of the ruined tower.  Carrying her out would be difficult and likely worsen her injuries, though once outside Alexis could heal the half-elf further.  Unfortunately, Oskar still had Gwynnion's magical ring, though knowing the white robed sorceress, she probably carried a few useful scrolls on her person for situations like this.  When it came to mobility, Gwynn had yet to be deterred.

*        *        *

Brilliant white light exploded into being.

It was everywhere, all consuming, penetrating the meager frame of her body and into her soul.  Blinding and overwhelming, a brief rush of vertigo quickly replaced with a feeling of surprising calm and comfort.  It was light.  It was also warmth, caressing gently and embracing her from all angles.  It was song, a chorus of innumerable voices raised in an unreal harmony.  It was touch, gently stroking her hair and soothing her wounds.  It was the loving voice of her mother, which she had never known.

Color resolved itself out of the white expanse, taking on shape as it did so.  She became aware of roses at first, white and crisp, winding their way around her.  Symbols began to appear, carving themselves out of the fabric of space, gleaming silver amidst the light.  Stars winked into existence overhead, their gentle light gradually fading into appearance against the white plane of the sky, as if the light itself were separating out into different pieces.  As it did so, the place began to darken.  Sounds reached her ears, as did the sweet fragrance of roses.

In a moment, Gwynnion was in her garden.

Only it wasn't her garden, the cloistered square at the heart of her villa in Augustgrad.  It resembled it quite closely, like an artist's idealized image of tranquil reflection, but it was clearly a different place.  Or perhaps a different time.  The ivy-covered columns along the cloister were inscribed with the silver sigils, coiling in elegant patterns along the stone, which itself had become white marble veined in silver.  The flowers in the garden were all roses, each perfectly white and freshly blossomed, and the aroma was heady in the night air.  Overhead, the crescent of Solinari hung among the stars, horns downward.

A woman stood across from her, near the fountain.  She was tall and slender, with a finely muscled strength to her long limbs, dressed in a shimmering silver gown with a long, ribbon-like shawl of white cloth draped over her shoulders.  Intelligent but kind blue-grey eyes studied Gwynnion as the woman smiled, her perfectly refined features framed by an amazing length of silver hair, tumbling in curls below the woman's hips.  Her skin was softly glowing in the darkness of the garden, emitting a wispy, argentine light.  About her head and upper body was a nimbus of silvery light, where faint runes writ themselves and vanished in a graceful cycle.

Gwynnion recognized her instinctively, without thinking.

"Solinari," she whispered, startled and awestruck, sinking down into the dewy grass.

"Rise, Gwynnion," the goddess told her gently, offering a kind smile, "You are my daughter, not my servant."

The white-robed sorceress didn't know how to respond at first.  When the woman spoke, it was with many voices at once, a sweet harmony of masculine and feminine tones.  One of these voices was Gwynn's own, she realized, buried deep within the melody of her words.  She also heard Lanthinel within the goddess' voice.  And Athica.  And others as well.  The sound was beautiful, like a clear chime, and completely unearthly.  The words were spoken in the celestial tongue, she realized, not the coarse language of mortals.

"I've..."  Gwynnion sought to find her voice.  "I've been waiting for you..."

"I know."  The goddess strode lightly over to the half-elf and helped the young woman to her feet.  Her touch was soft and warm, seeking to calm Gwynn's confusion of thoughts and emotions.  The half-elf looked up into Solinari's eyes with no small amount of trepidation, but her expression was full of relief.  "I've been watching you find your own path in the world, daughter.  And I've guided you where I may.  Have no fear of me, Gwynn.  I care deeply for you, and I would let no harm come to you here."

Regaining her bearings, Gwynnion frowned.  "Where is this?"

"A dream," Solinari explained, "The closest I can approach until you are willing to receive me.  I brought you here to aid you, Gwynnion, and to let you hear my voice for the first time.  I know you have wanted to hear it since the beginning, when you read Irenicus' tomes on the old religions, and later in the silence of the monastery garden.  I've wanted to come to you for some time, daughter.  But you would not have welcomed me..."

The sorceress forced herself to calm, focusing on the woman before her.  "Aid me how?  I'm not sure I understand what you mean?"

"Look behind you."

Frowning thoughtfully, Gwynnion did so, glancing over her shoulder to where her rational mind said the entrance to the north wing of the villa should be.  She caught a glimpse of darkness, hazing the edges of the dream –

Shock.  Pain.  Fear.

She was bleeding to death under the weight of the stones, where the wyrm Meranath had collapsed the ceiling of the tower.  The tacky heat of her own blood had long passed, however, leaving behind a suffocating chill, dragging her towards unconsciousness and death.  The lower half of her body was buried and broken, her leg twisted violently underneath the rock.

She was moments from dying and she knew it.

A ragged, wounded moan escaped Gwynnion's lips as the goddess turned her away from the darkness behind her.  Her breathing was heavy and cold sweat beaded upon her forehead as she met the calm, concerned eyes of the woman before her.  Solinari ran a hand over the young woman's dark auburn hair, smoothing it out for her, and allowed Gwynn a moment to recompose herself before speaking.

"You are in my care, daughter," the goddess murmured, "Pressed beyond the veil of time.  I couldn't bear to watch you suffer, or to die alone in that place when there is so much left to be done.  But my grasp is tenuous yet.  We three are normally barred from taking greater action in the mortal world without the aid of disciples such as yourself.  Our actions must be delicate and precise, and we normally recluse ourselves, for we control much of the balance, especially of magic – that which has been your heart's blood since you first learned the Art."

Gwynnion shuddered and took a step back from Solinari, trying to regain her balance.

"You're offering me a choice," she whispered, "Haven't I already made it?"

The woman shook her head slowly, a small smile spreading upon her lips.  "You know your own doubts, Gwynn.  They have plagued you since you left the monastery and ventured out into the wider world.  Like a crack in stone, your doubts have only grown these past few years, driven by your frustration and uncertainty with the world.  You have sought that which will be your undoing, for which I cannot fault you, but you've changed yourself in the process.  Only recently, after speaking with Silvara, have you found yourself on the path again."

"You've long strained to hear the voices of the gods, my beloved daughter," Solinari murmured, "And I have listened to your lonely cries.  'Please let me dream.  Please take me away from here.  Please let me be anything but what I am...'"

A tear trickled down Gwynnion's cheek.  The words were unfamiliar, but they struck her with the force of blows.  Dim memories of her childhood flitted across her vision, which she shook away, maintaining her focus on the goddess.

"We are of a like mind, daughter," said Solinari, brushing the young woman's cheek, "Power is meaningless without compassion, as you know well.  I do not want servants, I want a daughter who can carry a part of me into the world.  Who speaks as I speak, who feels strongly as I do.  Who will make her own choices.  If you welcome me, I will be your guide and your strength, but I cannot force you to accept this."

"If I don't I'll die," Gwynn replied.

The goddess shook her head slightly, silver hair shimmering as it swayed against her shoulders and back.  "You may yet live if I release you, though it is uncertain.  But yes, I cannot hold back death if you refuse me.  You are a part of me, Gwynnion, as is every student who has followed in my path.  Without you, I can do nothing."  A gentle smile etched itself on her features.  "You have held onto this choice for years, daughter, full of doubts.  Will you doubt me now or will you dream?"

"I don't want to die," the half-elf whispered.

"That is not the choice.  That is fear.  I will not barter for your faith, Gwynnion.  It was you who cried out to me when the tower fell."

Taking a deep breath, Gwynn closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed down on the uncertainty and fear clamoring in her breast.  When she opened them again, they were clearer.  "I've wanted this," she told the woman in a low, thoughtful voice, "And as much as I've doubted because of what I've seen and done, I still want it."

Smiling gently, the goddess brushed the thick red hair back from Gwynnion's brow and placed a soft, light kiss upon her forehead.  Just the slightest touch, but it felt electric, sending a ripple of warmth through the young woman.  "Then all is well, Gwynnion."

Green eyes shone softly in the reflected light of Solinari as Gwynn looked up at her.

"Come," the goddess smiled, "There is much I will show you."

*        *        *

Gwynnion's eyes fluttered open.

She was lying on a bedroll in a circular stone chamber, the lower portion of a tower most likely, covered in thick fur blankets.  The room was illuminated by the steady blue-white light of a witchlight stone, sitting on the floor near her pack, and she clutched the blankets to her breast as she sat up, grimacing at the sore stiffness in her back.  Her injuries were healed, by Alexis most likely, but she was far too preoccupied by the voice of the goddess, still ringing in her ears, and shaking off the fugue of visions to pay much attention.  The air was cold against her cheeks, but the chamber was dry and sheltered from the wind. 

There were voices nearby, her companions.  Turning to her right, she saw a small wooden door set into the wall, under which she could see flickering firelight.  Taking a few deep breaths, Gwynnion tried to clear her mind and assess her condition.  Most everything ached to some degree, but as she pooled the blankets in her lap to inspect herself for injuries, particularly her formerly crushed hip and leg, she shuddered in surprise.  Her cloak had been removed, leaving her only the thin white gown she wore underneath her robes, baring much of her arms and chest. 

The white rose tattoo wound thickly along the length of her slender arm, and there were thorny vines and blossoms upon her breast, upwards onto her throat, and across much of her torso.  Lifting the blankets up a bit, she found the tattoo coiled tight along her leg as well.  In the light of the stone, Gwynnion thought it had more of a silvery sheen than it had before, but it had obviously spread a great deal while she was in communion – that seemed like the most appropriate description for the confusion of images and emotions inside her – with the goddess of white magick. 

Puck was curled up in her lap, his gossamer peacock wings drawn up against his back.  He opened his blue eyes to slits as she stirred, solemnly gazing up at her.  "You've found what you were looking for," he murmured drowsily, almost as a question.

"You know what happened?" Gwynn rasped.

Shrugging, the tressym rose, stretched and padded over to a section of the bedroll that was unoccupied, sensing  the half-elven woman meant to get up.  She thought Puck was smiling as he settled in, as curious as that was.  "I'm part of you, aren't I?"

Brow furrowed, Gwynnion blinked a few times to dispel the clutter in her mind again.  She wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Say anything you like," Puck purred.

"I spoke to her," the young woman murmured.

An almost imperceptible nod.  "You did more than that.  You're whole now."

Frowning, Gwynnion studied the tressym for a moment.  He seemed to be dozing off again, the thrumming of his purr just barely audible.  Try as she might, the young half-elf couldn't recall the last time Puck had purred without getting something out of her first. 

Wincing at the pain in her joints, Gwynnion wrapped herself up in the furs and climbed to her feet, wobbling off balance.  With the wall for support, she hobbled over to the door and opened it, shuffling her bare feet on the freezing stone floor.

The others were sitting around a campfire in the midst of conversation, with the crumbling walls of the keep lurking like shadows in the darkness.  Not far away Gwynn made out the crooked, destroyed central tower in which Meranath had entombed her.  The light of the fire was dazzling, forcing her to shield her eyes, which she lifted toward the stars.  And to the silver-white orb of Solinari.

Lilian looked up first, dark eyes going wide.  "Gwynn, you're awake!"

The others turned to look at her.  All except for Thorn, who puffed on his long, fluted pipe with serene indifference, his dog resting comfortably in his lap.  Keleren glanced up through a wave of dark hair, offering her a small smile and a nod.  Poker appeared to be at least as delighted by her recovery as Lilian was.  Alexis, looking battered as well, stood and gave the half-elf a grim look.  As she expected, Gwynn saw that the rose tattoo had spread upon her as well, a flower blooming at her throat as well, albeit in the reversed position.  Gwynnion smiled wanly in return, pulling the fur blankets tighter around her shoulders.

"Are you alright?" Alexis asked, frowning.

"You shouldn't be up," Poker admonished her, though he was still smiling in relief, "You just shook death's hand and you're too weak to be traipsing around out here in the cold."

"Be easy on her," Lilian told the other kender, "She just woke up."

"I'm fine," Gwynnion told them, her voice hoarse, "How long have I been out?"

"Most of a day," Keleren told her, his even voice cutting through the little folks' chatter, "Alexis was able to heal you, but we couldn't wake you, so we thought it best to make camp here rather than travel on the open road, where we would be more vulnerable to attack."

Nodding, the half-elf resisted a shiver, walking over to sit by the fire.  "What happened?"

"The dragon collapsed the tower on you," Alexis informed her in a leaden voice, "But we slew his minions and managed to drive him away with the lances.  He was heavily wounded when he fled, and we've seen no sign of him since.  It looks like they were after the other dragons sealed beneath the tower.  Keleren was able to bring you out..."

"I used one of your scrolls," Keleren apologized, "I was afraid to move you otherwise."

"Don't trouble yourself over it," Gwynnion replied softly, "That's what I make them for."

"We thought you weren't going to make it," Lilian chipped, going over to give the wan young sorceress a hug, "You didn't wake up even after Lady Alexis fixed your wounds.  Mr. Thorn thought you might've already moved on.  Poker even suggested using smelling salts, but I wouldn't let him because, as interesting as they are, I didn't want you to wake up to something that awful.  That and we don't have any with us, so we would've had to make them ourselves, and I don't think I know how to do that really..."

"Don't squeeze her too hard," Poker suggested, wincing in sympathy.

Laughing weakly, Gwynn affectionately ran a hand over the Lilian's topknot.  "I'm alright, really.  I just feel...strange, and a little disoriented."

Brow furrowing, Alexis gave her a stern look.  "The tattoo has spread."

Smiling wryly, Gwynn nodded.  "Yes, I know."

The knight's frown deepened. 

"I don't know why," Gwynnion added immediately, anticipating the questions which rose in the blonde woman's eyes, "Or at least I'm not quite sure.  Perhaps because I came so close to death...Was it painful when it happened?"

"No," Alexis shook her head, "It felt warm upon my skin, but I didn't pay it much attention.  I didn’t realize it had happened until Keleren pointed it out to me."

Thorn snorted but said nothing, smoking his pipe.

A wave of vertigo rippled through Gwynnion as she thought back to her experience in the tower, the dizziness and nausea only worsened by the frigid night air.  Putting a hand to her brow, she closed her eyes and tried to ride it out, but a plethora of jarring, confused images came to mind as she did so.  The visions given to her by Solinari, emblazoned upon her memory and clamoring for her attention.  Too much information for her mind to grasp.  Opening her eyes again, she let out a rattling breath.  The fire and the faces of her friends were blurred for a moment before she willed some clarity back into her surroundings.

Lilian's voice, in her ear: "Gwynn, are you sick?"

"I'm just tired," she replied at a whisper, "I need to rest."

"We should not remain here much longer," Keleren interjected, speaking to the group at large, "Meranath will return when he's through licking his wounds, and he'll bring reinforcements with him."

Alexis nodded in agreement.  "Gwynnion, can you teleport us back home?"

Breathing deeply of the cold air, trying to clear her thoughts, the half-elven woman shook her head.  "I would need to study, and I'm too weak to focus properly..."

"Then rest until morning," Alexis advised her gently, "We'll ride if need be."

Gwynn nodded her thanks.

"Here, let's get you inside."  The knight helped Gwynnion to her feet and guided her back inside the squat tower with a firm hand.  Alexis seemed puzzled by something at first upon touching the young woman, but dismissed it as her friend shivered violently in the chill breeze.

"I'll look in on you occasionally," Alexis murmured as she lay Gwynn down again, her voice surprisingly tender.  Puck grumbled as his sleep was disturbed again, but he didn't complain as he moved aside, waiting for her to finish with his mistress.  He jumped onto the bedroll again as Alexis moved back, roosting upon Gwynnion to share warmth.  The knight had to admit that his protectiveness was rather endearing.

"Thank you," Gwynn smiled.

Nodding distractedly, Alexis returned the smile.  "Get some sleep, Gwynn.  We'll need to move on tomorrow."

Lying in the dark after Alexis' departure, Gwynnion closed her eyes and relished the warmth gradually returning.  The swirl of images and conversation with the goddess receded into the background after a while, pulling her towards sleep.  A peaceful feeling blanketed her as the young woman thought of her friends' concern and gentle touches, especially Alexis' worried, sisterly eyes.  Though the knight often questioned her judgment, there was still a connection between them despite all that had happened. 

In the quiet before sleep, Gwynn felt comforted, and the presence of the goddess was close at hand, watching over her as well.

Gwynnion dreamed.

*        *        *

Lanthinel stood aside as his younger half-sister opened the doors to the abandoned shrine of Solinari, looking on with a curious and rather cautious eye.  Within the Tower of High Sorcery in Goodlund, the shrines to the three moons of magick – Solinari, Lunitari and Nuitari – had been left undisturbed since at least the Cataclysm.  The entrance to the red moon's temple was completely bricked over, a mark of despair and anger on the part of Lunitari's followers.  Nuitari's lay open and dusty, bereft of anything important – an empty room, albeit one that gave the white robed mage an uneasy feeling.  The doorway to the white moon's shrine had been magically sealed, though not strongly enough to block Lanthinel if he had ever desired entry, as if Solinari's disciples feared its violation despite abandonment by their god. 

Yet the doors opened easily enough for Gwynnion.

The chamber was tall, occupying two levels of the tower, and made of the same white marble stone as the rest of the structure.  Windows, normally not visible from outside the tower, were set in the walls at twelve points, like a clock, moonlight streaming into the room in great dusty shafts.  Orbs of gleaming silver, untouched by time, were set in the walls between windows.  Lanthinel was surprised to see there were no markings or etchings anywhere in the chamber, the walls and floors virtually blank of decoration.  In the center of the room stood a simple but elegantly carved marble pedestal, upon which rested two incense burners and a square of neatly folded satin, silver in color.  This cradled an amulet, a single blank silver disc framed in ivory, with a long, fine chain.

Lanthinel reluctantly followed his sister inside, listening as the soft thud of her staff upon the floor echoed slightly in the open space.  Her white robes looked ghostly in the faint light, the golden orb crowning the staff glinting.  He was surprised to find the air was cool and fresh inside the shrine, much unlike the humid summer evening outside, and it tasted sweetly of a forest.  The scent of cool, moist earth, like after a spring rain, and pine trees mingled with incense.  It reminded him of Silvanesti, actually, and late afternoons spent in the great wood.  He smiled faintly to himself at the memory.  The shrine had a soothing feel of airiness, so unlike the dusty emptiness or the weighty presence of the deity he had imagined beforehand. 

Puck dutifully followed Gwynnion as she made a circuit around the pedestal.

The necklace was a curiosity to Lanthinel, resembling the discs other gods had gifted upon mortals in recent years, but its plain quality interested him.  Still, he left matters to his sister, who had asked him to open the shrine in the first place.  Solinari, in the form of a silver goddess, had spoken to Gwynnion and held back death long enough for friends to aid her.  So she said at least.  He knew his sister had studied the religions and legends of the ancient gods since childhood, and since her dramatic change in personality after the Test, that interest had only deepened.  That he no longer recognized her troubled him, but Lanthinel knew better than to trifle needlessly with the gods, however capricious they might be.  At least for now.

"Aside from the necklace," he observed, "There doesn't look to be much here..."

The half-elven woman didn't answer.  Nor was she paying attention, Lanthinel realized.  She completed her circle around the pedestal and came to stand before it, directly opposite the doors and amid a soft splash of silvery moonlight from the window behind her.  Three nights she had stayed within his tower, waiting for Solinari's high sanction.  Green eyes focused thoughtfully on the amulet, and by her posture the elven mage thought she might be listening to something.  Puck followed around behind her, his paws pattering softly upon the cool marble floor, and came to sit at her side, just outside the light.  Gwynnion closed her eyes, her lips parting as she released a sigh.  She relaxed almost immediately.  Lanthinel got the strangest impression someone had laid a hand upon her shoulder.

He watched her carefully.  "There is something here, though, isn't there?"

"Yes."

Lanthinel blinked, startled despite himself.  The voice emanated from Gwynnion and from everywhere in the room at once.  A resounding voice, but it was not hers alone.  There was an enormous choir of other voices, both masculine and feminine, speaking in harmony with her.  It was a surprisingly beautiful sound, like a clear, deep chime from a crystal bell, yet also rather unnerving.  The Master of the Tower narrowed his eyes – the absence of the gods made him rather suspicious of them, especially where his younger sister was concerned – but did not move.  Whatever was happening to Gwynnion had already begun.

"Kinak ry'get su kikage'et."

The elven mage recognized the language – Draconic, the language of magick.  But the words and phrasing were unknown to him.  An invocation of some kind, he suspected.  Almost immediately, the orbs flared to life, blazing with a silvery-white radiance that dazzled Lanthinel's eyes momentarily.  After a moment the orbs' light settled down into a comfortable, soft radiance.  Between the windows and the silver globes, silver moonlight light fell upon the pedestal from every angle in the room.  It was an eerily beautiful sight, the light shimmering faintly upon the glassy, mirror-like surfaces of the walls and floor. 

More than that, Lanthinel became aware of a similar radiance outlining Gwynnion's slender body – a silver, dancing light similar to faerie fire.  The light coalesced about her as she basked in the glow of the silver orbs and Solinari outside, the cool white flames curling like smoke into the air around her, forming a nimbus of sigils and glyphs that changed constantly.  Some of the symbols he recognized – a glittering of the Celestial script here, a flash of Draconic he knew from a warding spell – but others he did not.  The ever-shifting swirl of light and sigils enchanted Lanthinel as he looked upon them, as if there were great secrets of the Art which might be revealed there.

Puck looked upon his mistress with a calm, satisfied air.

"I am the Daughter of Solinari, the Goddess of White Magick," Gwynnion said in the resounding, crystalline voice of many voices, looking up at him, "I am her Voice in this world, as there were others before me.  I am the goddess returned.  Though I stand apart from this world, this place was once touched by my love and my gifts.  So it shall be again.  Any who wear the white robes may seek my comfort and my guidance here, as they did in ages past."

The Master of the Tower realized three things at once.  Firstly, Gwynnion was no longer quite in control at the moment.  She spoke plainly – she was the Voice of Solinari, a position which had not been filled in the Conclave for centuries.  She seemed aware of him, her green almond eyes showing recognition of her half-brother, but the god (or goddess, as Gwynnion said) was also present.  They spoke together.  Secondly, the white rose tattoo on his sister's body was slowly spreading, as if in response to the deity's manifestation.  It did so gradually, without any apparent harm to the young woman, the vines and roses climbing upwards over her throat and across her chest.  The last thing was perhaps the most interesting: Lanthinel could hear his own voice within hers when she – or the goddess – spoke.

Kneeling, Gwynnion stretched out a slender arm, almost completely covered in white rose vines and blossoms, and touched a blank spot on the floor.

There was a strange sound, of stone grinding against stone, and Lanthinel retreated a step when he observed lines of silver spreading out in a perfect arc from her fingertip, inlaying themselves in the floor as they traveled.  It began as a circle around the pedestal but continued to expand at an ever increasing speed.  The place on which Gwynnion knelt was inscribed with a crescent moon, while other moons – in the various phases of Solinari – carved themselves into the white marble floor, forming a second circle around the first.  The silver gleamed eerily in the moonlight as it drew itself upon the walls, forming glyphs and sigils such as those which appeared around the young woman herself.

Lanthinel suppressed a shudder as he watched this, sensing the strange similarity between Gwynnion's tattoo and the silver runes climbing upwards toward the ceiling.  A single, solid disc of silver was formed above the pedestal, in an exact reflection of the first ring formed on the floor below.

The shrine no longer looked quite so plain.

When he looked back to Gwynnion, her eyes were open and aware again, and the silver nimbus about her had faded.  The young half-elf looked a little dazed, though her eyes were bright with something like ecstasy.  She took a deep breath, her shoulders sagging slightly from exhaustion, and laughed.  The voice was hers again, clear and light in the airiness of the chamber, though Lanthinel thought she looked a little mad.  Puck blinked, his blue eyes focusing on the elf for a moment before going back to his mistress.  The tressym made a small noise in the back of his throat and rubbed his cheek against the woman's leg.

"Gwynnion," Lanth murmured, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she nodded, laughing softly, "I'm just tired."

The young woman tried to stand, using her staff for support, but her legs trembled underneath her.  Frowning, Lanthinel went over and helped her to her feet, supporting her weight when she took a first unsteady step.  The rose tattoo was prominent at her throat, curving upwards toward her jaw, and across her chest.

"I'm fine," she assured him, flashing a smile.

Nodding, he released Gwynn and allowed her to take a few shaky steps away from him.  Her attention went immediately to the pedestal, and she seemed to gain strength as she moved toward it, brushing her long fingers against the surface of the silver amulet.  Lifting it up from the cloth, Gwynnion put it on and smoothed it out upon her front.

"This was a gift from a devoted white robed mage," she explained, turning back to him, "Rather than from the goddess herself.  Unlike the other gods with their scriptures and teachings, Solinari's sole concern is magick.  The spells and arcane writings we already know are her scriptures.  She asks nothing from us but the furthering of magick and the compassion to wield it for good."

"So it is just a necklace?" Lanthinel asked, a little bemused.

"It's magical, of course," his sister replied with a grin, "But nothing we ourselves couldn't make.  A shield against harmful magick."

Gwynnion smiled, running a hand back through her long auburn hair.  "Thank you for being with me, brother.  I intend to remain here for a short while in meditation, and then I will need to sleep...Do you mind if I stay for another day at least?  I intend to travel to Wayreth when I've recovered, to speak with Par-Salian and the White Council."

"Not at all."  Lanthinel smirked slightly.  "You are the Voice of Solinari.  Refusing would be poor taste indeed."

*        *        *

Kalshann stood in the heart of the forest, amid shafts of late afternoon sunshine peeking through the canopy, listening to the calm of the woods around him.  It was peaceful here, the air light and cool in the dimness, and he closed his eyes for a moment to drink it in.  With the war and the hurly burly of recent events, they hadn't found the time to rest like this for weeks.  He appreciated the opportunity to return here, to one of his favorite secret places, and deepen his connection further.  Sunlight dappled fallen leaves as he strolled around a small thicket, coming to stand under the eaves of an old pine tree.

"So how long have you known?" Gwynnion murmured, approaching the clearing from behind him.  There was a touch of amused irony in her voice.

Half-turning, Kal smiled at her.  Strangely enough, the young woman didn't seem out of place here in the shaded woods, despite the light, snowy cloak and gown she wore.  Perhaps it was the autumn color of her hair, tumbling around her face in a thick mane, or the deep green of her eyes.  Gwynnion glanced upwards as she entered the little circle of trees, chinks of sun dancing across her white clothing, and smiled softly at the shady ceiling of intertwining branches, leaves and pine needles above.

"Almost a month," he replied lightly, offering her a small grin, "Your spell alerted me that something had happened, and you've seemed different recently."

Gwynn lifted her eyebrows, smiling.  "'Different'?"

"I'm not sure I could explain," Kal sighed, a tad coyly.

Chuckling, the young woman ran a hand back through her dark auburn hair and drew up alongside him.  A hawk cried somewhere in the distance, probably miles away on the wind by the sound of it, and Kalshann smiled privately as her eyes instinctively went to the sky as if someone had spoken her name.  Despite being a sorceress and a priestess of the white moon, Gwynnion was more alert to the natural world than most of their friends and companions.  Occasionally being a falcon probably contributed to her outlook.

"So why didn't you say something?" she asked, turning to face him.  The small smile tugging at her lips told him she knew the answer already, but enjoyed playing the game anyway.  At times Gwynn was still remarkably girlish, for all the responsibilities she'd accumulated in the wider world. 

"I wasn't sure," Kal replied in a patient tone, smirking slightly, "I didn't want to say anything in case I was wrong.  And besides – "  He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek, the touch gliding down to follow her jaw line.  Her eyes fell closed as she relished his caress.  " – I wanted you to find out for yourself if it was true."

Gwynnion's eyes opened to half-mast, a faint smile on her lips, and she pressed his hand against her cheek.  "Well, there's no real question about it now, considering.  I know we've talked about this before, but I guess I still find it hard to believe I'm pregnant..."  Shaking her head, the young half-elf laughed under her breath.  "I've been so caught up in the events of the past few years that I haven't thought about it much since we discussed it in Qualinost."

"Things were different then," Kal acknowledged, giving her a gentle kiss.

"The war's hardly over yet," Gwynnion lightly reminded him, looping her arms around his waist and drawing close against him.  Her fragrances had noticeably changed over the past year or so.  Smokey and spicy scents working their way into the subtle textures he remembered.  Changes in magick mostly, since becoming the Voice.  Kal wondered distantly what it was like for her, receiving visions and inspiration from the god of white magick.  It seemed very much unlike his own experience with the spirits of nature.  "We were concerned about that before..."

"Well, yes," Kalshann agreed, enjoying the warmth of her body against his, "But like I said, things have changed.  And actually in a good way, I think, overall.  The war should be over in another winter or two, so why not?  And besides – "  He planted a warm kiss on her forehead.  Gwynn's skin felt cool and soft to the touch.  " – it's already happened, love.  There's no point in worrying about it.  You should be happy."

Nodding, Gwynnion lay her head against his chest, smiling faintly.  "I am."

"And you?" she asked.

Smiling, Kal gave the young woman a squeeze, laying his head upon the pillow of her hair.  The faint scent of lavender and honeysuckle lured him into closing his eyes.  "Yes, Gwynn.  You know I am."  

*        *        *

The city of Dulimin was already a flaming ruin when Alexis Stoutheart arrived with a troop of reinforcements from the west.  There was little for the regiment of Solamnic Knights to do but secure the city and provide for the defense of the survivors, most of whom had been moved out of the city walls and onto the grassy hill of the Rise, at least to those areas where the earth was not scorched and gouged from the red dragon army’s attack.  Skilled healers worked the throng of bodies, aided by two new, young clerics of Mishakal.  The city’s own defenders were mostly dead or dying, but as the knight made arrangements for Dulimin’s defense and reinforcements to hold the crumbling line, she learned that a handful of adventurers had aided the city’s knights against the dragon army.  Placing the preparations in the hands of her lieutenant, Alexis set out to meet these would-be heroes.

Two were dwarves from Thorbardin, one of whom had been killed during the dragon army’s initial charge, to whom Alexis gave her thanks and blessing, respectively.  The third was a tall plainsman from the north, lying bloodied but grimly optimistic amongst the wounded on the Rise, whom the knight took a liking to.  There was also a Silvanesti archer, long of face and less than pleased to have become involved, who earned Alexis’ polite respects.  It was from him that Alexis learned of a fifth person, who was not a member of their band, and who had been passing through the city.  The elf explained that this fifth person could be found on the south side of the city wall.  A triage had originally been established there after the attack, but now it was all but empty as the dead and wounded were taken to their respective destinations.

In a more cryptic tone, the elf further stated that the woman was both a sorceress and a holy woman, which Alexis found very curious.  Her assistance had proved invaluable as Dulimin had only one other wizard, a black robed man with a greying beard whom no one in the city particularly liked or trusted, especially given his “apprentice”, a pretty but slightly savage young girl.  And, the archer observed quietly, the woman had worked herself to exhaustion providing healing and comfort to the dragon army’s victims.  Yet Alexis understood the elf’s roundabout manner of speech to imply he found something unsettling about this woman. 

When asked directly, the elf studied her with grey-blue eyes and offered, “She is not like the other clerics, who cried and hid with the rest of the city folk when the battle came.  But I would not call her fearless either.  Perhaps we are too unused to faith, or perhaps her mixed blood makes her seem stranger than she truly is.  She acts as one following a vision, frightened of the things her god shows her but undeterred by it.  But she is a holy woman, lady, and her god has marked her with a special destiny.”

“How do you mean, ‘marked her’?” Alexis inquired.

“You will see for yourself,” the archer sighed, “Perhaps you will understand her better.”

“You mentioned ‘mixed blood’,” the knight murmured.

The elf nodded, smiling faintly.  “One of her parents was of my kin.  I gather she was raised in our country as well, which is quite unusual.”  He chuckled.  “As is my being here, I suppose, but times are…difficult in Silvanesti lands.  I know her family, however.  They are honorable people.”

Smiling wryly, Alexis said: “Thank you, sir.  What is your name?”

“Kithas,” the elf bowed.

“My companions and I will be moving on shortly,” he added, “If you have need of me further, we have taken refuge in the Bright Coin in the city’s northern quarter.”  Kithas smiled sardonically.  “It is the only tavern to have survived, so it is quite popular at the moment.”

“Thank you, Kithas,” Alexis smiled, “Blessings on you.”

“Take care, my lady.  There have been enough lives lost to this war.”

Riding around the shattered wall of Dulimin, Alexis soon came upon the remains of the city’s triage, now empty of victims, though she could see a handful of men a short ways off, working to bury the many dead.  The young knight’s shoulder-length blonde hair fluttered to one side in the breeze as she glanced around, spotting a small copse of trees which had survived the assault.  Trotting in that direction, she caught a glimpse of white amongst the thicket and dismounted, leading the horse away from the blood and smoke, and into the area of unmarked grass and wildflowers which surrounded the trees.  As she circled around, Alexis found the woman at the edge of the trees and slowed to a stop.

It was Gwynnion, as she expected.

Alexis had barely seen the woman in the past few years.  Her responsibilities to students and the Conclave kept her busy, no doubt.  Though at the age of thirty, the half-elven woman still seemed little older than twenty winters, her youthful delicacy unchanged.  Her dark auburn hair, once falling about her shoulders, had grown out to waist length, and the color nearly matched the dried blood which spattered her snowy white cloak, which she spread out beneath her.  Instead of the rugged traveling clothes she had taken to wearing during their journeys together, she had returned to the light, flowing robes and sensual gowns Alexis remembered from after the Test of High Sorcery.  A small amulet, Solinari's silver crescent, hung from a fine chain at her breast.  There were grey circles under her eyes from crying and lack of sleep, but she was still beautiful, and seemingly more ethereal than Alexis remembered her, as if her elven blood have come to the fore. 

Gwynnion knelt barefoot upon her cloak, sitting upright with her slender hands resting upon her thighs.  Her eyes were closed and she didn’t move as Alexis tethered her mount and walked over, breathing slowly as if in a trance.  Alexis recognized this stance from years ago; it was part of Gwynn’s daily meditation.  Picking a spot about a yard in front of Gwynnion, Alexis sat cross-legged on the grass, laying her cape with the Stoutheart crest upon her lap.  She did not wish to disturb her friend, but she very much wanted to talk to her.

After perhaps half an hour, during which Alexis offered silent prayers to Paladine for the safety of the city, Gwynnion seemed to return from wherever she had gone.  Stirring slightly, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes.  “Alexis.”

Her eyes seemed paler somehow, like jade, and her voice was no longer bright and sweet but low and soft, almost sultry.  Still, she wasn’t the only one to have changed.  Gwynnion smiled as she took in the knight’s appearance, from Alexis’ wavy blonde hair, once cut to military precision but now long and held back with a platinum headband, to the gleaming armor she wore, specially crafted for her.  It was, to Alexis’ knowledge, the first and only suit of Solamnic plate made for a woman’s body, more form-fitting and elegant than a man’s armor.  “They finally accepted you,” she said wryly, “It took them long enough.”

“In war, one does not question where one’s help comes from,” Alexis replied, smiling.

“You look beautiful,” Gwynn murmured, studying the other woman’s features. The golden color of her hair against her tanned skin and the silver of her armor.  Her bright blue eyes, sharp like an eagle's but more troubled than she remembered.  The war had cast a shadow across the young knight's features. 

“This time, I will take the compliment,” Alexis smirked.

A small grin touched Gwynnion’s features, the first one she’d had in quite a while. Those green eyes of hers were clear and soft.  “Alexis,” she repeated, rising to her feet, “You have no idea how happy I am to see you again.”

“It has been a long time,” Alexis smiled, standing as well to embrace the other woman.

It was then that the knight discovered what Kithas had meant about Gwynn being marked for a special destiny.  The tattoo of the white rose coiled across the half-elf's bare skin.  Glossy, thorny vines carried a bloom to the side of the woman's neck, and through the translucent material of Gwynnion's dress, Alexis made out the other vines crisscrossing the left side of her body.  Alexis' tattoo, a mirror image of the half-elf's, flushed with warmth under her armor as they drew close, as if a connection had been reestablished.  Gwynn noticed her scrutiny and grinned once they pulled apart.  "I've tried to spare you any surprises," she murmured, "But I'm sure yours has spread as well."

"Not long after we parted in Estwilde last year," Alexis sighed, but she had more of a sense of humor about it by now, "Painlessly this time, at least."

Chuckling, Gwynnion merely nodded.  Apologies by now were pointless.

"What does it mean?" Alexis asked, "It seems to be going very slowly."

“That’s difficult to explain,” Gwynnion replied, flashing a small smile, "It seems to be reacting to something, though I'm not sure what.  I think it may have something to do with Chaos, and the visions I told you about in Wayreth..."  Her green eyes seemed to shine softly as she turned her head and studied Alexis, the sunlight falling more fully upon her features.  There was a note of teasing in her voice.  "If not that, there's only one thing I can think of that has happened recently..."

Alexis lifted her eyebrows.  "And that would be?"

"Shane and Genevieve," Gwynnion smiled, "My children."

The young knight stared at her for a second, a grin gradually breaking out across her features.  All thoughts of the carnage in Dulimin faded for just a moment.  "You and Kalshann?" Alexis inquired without thinking, knowing the answer already, and gave the half-elf's shoulder a small squeeze, "When did this happen?"

"Not long after we parted ways," Gwynnion smiled proudly, brushing dark hair out of her eyes, "They were born just a few months ago, in fact.  They're absolutely beautiful...I had some minor business in the area and preparing to leave for home when the dragon army attacked."  She laughed.  "Perfect timing on my part, as usual.  But you must come and see them sometime, when this is all over."

"I will," Alexis nodded, "Congratulations, Gwynnion."

"Thank you," the half-elf grinned, glancing back toward Dulimin, where thin smoke still rose into the sky, "And I'm very glad to see you.  I take it you're in command of the knights which just arrived?"

“It is a small command, to be sure,” Alexis concurred, “But the knights under me are loyal.  I am sorry we could not make it here sooner, but we were delayed by draconians to the south.  I’ve sent for reinforcements to hold off the red dragon army in this area, however…”

“They will go around us now,” Gwynnion murmured, “They will not attack here again.”

Alexis looked askance at the half-elven woman, but didn’t question her now.  Instead, she lay a hand on Gwynnion’s shoulder with a comradely smile.  “You look exhausted, Gwynn.  Come to my tent and rest.  I’m afraid I can only offer you bread, cheese and a few scraps of meat for dinner, but it will do you some good.  And we have a great deal to talk about.”

Gwynnion embraced the young knight again, giving her a slight squeeze.  Awkwardly at first, Alexis put her arms around the other woman.  The half-elf’s eyes were almost shining with a strange emotion when she drew back, her voice soft and kind.  The knight wondered if this was how saints spoke and acted.  “Alexis, you were always far more than my companion, even if I didn't say so at the time.  You were and are a very good friend, and I've missed you greatly over the past few years.  It pains me the way our group split apart..."

“Gwynn,” Alexis sighed, her voice turning sweeter with affection, “Do not trouble yourself over it.”  

*        *        *  

“We’ll be licking our wounds for a long time, lady knight,” the dwarf was saying, “But we routed the bastards, and that’s the important thing.  Still, on behalf of my company, I wanted to thank you for your kind words earlier and tell you how my heart…lifted when I saw a hundred men – er, and women – in shining armor cresting the hill.  Just like in the old days.  I only wish my cousin, Durgan, had lived to see it.”

“Durgan fought bravely,” Alexis murmured, “So did you all.  I hope we can all live and die so honorably, sir dwarf.”

The dwarf chuckled grimly.  “You’re a fine lass, indeed, and a damn sight friendlier than your fellows.  I’ll put in a kind word for you with Reorx, and mayhaps more of my kin will fight alongside you in the future.  Who knows, maybe you’ll need our help someday.”

“I look forward to it.”  Alexis’ voice smiled.

“Well,” the dwarf huffed, returning to business, “I’ve said my piece, lady.  Best of luck to you, and stick a few draconians for me and Durgan someday.”         

“I will,” the knight laughed, “Have no doubt of that.  Good evening, Master Thirguud.”

Gwynnion looked up from the divan as Alexis reentered the tent, smiling broadly at the young knight’s wry, somewhat embarrassed smile.  She had changed out of her bloodied clothing and into simple white robes, her long fingers trailing over the cushion.  “There is something very odd about having a dwarf pat you on the leg like an old friend,” Alexis told her, “While trying to talk to him and not the top of his head.”

“You’re a good leader, Alexis,” Gwynn grinned, “You should be proud.”

Alexis shook her head as she sat down on the edge of her cot.  “Pride has been the fall of too many knights, as we have seen.”  She met the other woman’s soft green eyes with a gentler look.  “But I am touched by the compliments, whether from my men or scarred old battleaxes like Thirguud.  It has not been easy earning their respect.”

Gwynnion nodded, smiling.  Always before, Alexis had been honored not touched by the kindness of others.  It was a small glimpse of the young woman she really was underneath the shining plate and chain mail. 

The knight found her steady, quiet gaze to be very penetrating, as if the half-elven woman were studying her soul.  Yet, as always, Alexis felt nothing challenging in the other woman, though the aura of faith and confidence surrounding Gwynn was still rather new to her.  She was touched by the gods, Alexis thought, though she wasn’t sure if the fate they had in mind for her was a bright one.  "So what brings you here," she inquired, "Away from your husband and children – "  A pause as Alexis tasted the phrase.  " – and the politics of the Conclave?  Dulimin is such a small place, after all."

"Before the attack, I was mostly searching for information," Gwynnion replied lightly, "The black robed sorcerer here had books in his possession I was seeking to trade for.  I didn't expect to be in Dulimin any longer than a day, but I felt I might be needed here so I lingered on a few more days."

"You were very much needed, by the talk in the town," Alexis assured her with a wry grin, "In the tavern they're telling stories about the sorceress in white who slew dozens of ogres at a time with arcs of lightning.  At least that's what the bard is saying.  Even the two young clerics are thankful that you helped them with the dying and the wounded..."

The half-elf giggled at the knight's awestruck tone, waving this off.  "I was chosen by Solinari to be his Voice in the world, and while that often keeps me occupied within the Conclave, I have a responsibility to others as well.  It was the least I could do.  And as much as Davon and Laeric say they were terrified, they should really be thanked for their courage and hard work during the battle.  Mishakal's blessing is not one to be ignored, and in the service of the white moon I'm naturally more sorceress than cleric.  Still, I'm glad I was here.  The black robed mage, Geirsk, has an excellent library but he is sorely lacking in combat experience..." 

"You saved lives, Gwynnion," Alexis murmured, more serious now. 

Bright green eyes lifted and met the knight's gaze.  She nodded and smiled softly.

"Gwynn..."  Alexis hesitated.  Frowning, she reached up and removed the platinum band, shaking out her long blonde hair.  The other woman cocked her head in curiosity at this gesture, as if Alexis wanted to speak as a woman this time and not a Knight of Solamnia.  Locks of hair fell across her blue eyes as she pondered her thoughts, the visions she had received.  "The first time I saw you after the Test of High Sorcery...I was reminded of a painting my father once owned, which was destroyed in the fire.  It was of a woman in white, a cleric, kneeling over a dying man in a ruined city.  My father said it was from the Second Dragon War.  Huma's time."  She blinked, smiling slightly.  "The resemblance to you was so striking, I'm not sure what it meant.  But now, seeing you again, I think it was a portent of some kind."

Gwynnion was quiet, studying the young woman with mild eyes.

"You never told me what happened," the knight murmured, "How Solinari came to you."

The half-elf's voice was low.  "That's true."

"It actually began the year before Estwilde," she continued quietly, "During the fight with Meranath, when the dragon left me for dead.  That was the first time my eyes were opened, and Solinari spoke to me."

"You did not tell us that," said Alexis, frowning.

“I was too stunned to speak of it,” Gwynnion confessed with a small smile, "I was shown many frightening and painful things, most of which I couldn’t recall afterwards.  They slipped from my memory like a dream, hazy and indistinct, like my memories of the past.”  She looked up.  “Though I’ve seen some of the images again, come to life in the real world.  But that night, after Keleren rescued me from the collapsed tower, I found the tattoo had spread across my torso.  And that was just the beginning…”

“I remember," the knight agreed, "It was the same with me."

"What does it mean?” she added, a little uneasily.

Gwynnion replied lightly, "I was given to understand something of the path which my has taken and which, if I'm strong enough, I am meant to fulfill.  That blessing and thoughts of the future have driven me ever since."

Alexis studied the other woman.  “What do they drive you toward?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Gwynn smiled, the humor and playfulness fading slightly from her eyes, “I certainly haven’t been shown everything.  I feel it's connected to the vision I had of my death and receiving the rose tattoo from Cordella.  Of that man, Daniel, and the spread of Chaos at the fringes of the world.  There is a purpose I once failed to fulfill, I think, and by the grace of the gods, I have been given a second chance."  She laughed softly.  "But that is not to say I know what the purpose is.  Solinari has not been so forthcoming.  I've discussed it at length with Kalshann, and he feels the white moon is heeding the counsel of the neutral gods and leaving these choices to me, for good or ill."

Alexis was silent, lost in thought.  She knew more than a little about visions herself.

"Either way, I'm not afraid," Gwynnion told her in a gentle voice, "I listen to the guidance of my god and try to find my own way through the labyrinth, and that's all I can do for now."  The half-elven woman smiled, her eyes bright.  "Besides, I have Kalshann and our children, and more than enough to keep me busy.  This war will be over soon as well.  It will be a different world, and hopefully a better one, but even now they're faltering.  With the dragonlances and the good dragons returned, they will soon grind to a halt."

Nodding slowly, Alexis changed the subject.  "How is Kalshann?"

"Happy, strangely enough," Gwynnion grinned playfully, earning a smile from the knight.  Though she and the red robed mage had their share of disagreements, especially since she became the Voice of Solinari, Alexis knew Gwynn was deeply in love with him, and she couldn't deny how happy he made her.  "I don't think I've ever seen him quite this content, despite the troubles within the Conclave.  He's no doubt wandering the woods around Augustgrad and looking after the children.  Genevieve in particular likes being in the forest.  Her eyes just light up..."

Alexis chuckled.  This was strange talk from Gwynnion, who had always seemed more obsessed with fate, prophecy and the inner workings of the soul.  But she was visibly delighted to talk about her children.  Motherhood seemed to have added a touch of lightness to her personality, to counter the seriousness Gwynn so often displayed.  It was an experience the knight doubted she would ever share with the half-elf. 

Rubbing her eyes, Alexis stifled a yawn.

"You look tired," Gwynnion observed, smiling.

"Yes," she nodded, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes, "I am."

“Then you should rest.”  Gwynnion rose to her feet and approached the other woman, smoothing out Alexis’ golden hair with a casual gesture.  Surprised, the knight looked up at her and managed a small smile.  The white robed woman had always been more ready with her affections than Alexis, who so rarely touched anyone this way, and the fondness in the half-elf's smile still managed to catch her off guard.  "And so should I," Gwynn added lightly, starting to leave, "I have a room at the Bright Coin if you need me during the night. I plan on speaking with Geirsk in the morning and then I'll return home to Augustgrad."

Pushing aside her weariness for the moment, Alexis stood and joined her friend at the tent flap, pulling her into a loose embrace.  “Then we will not see each other again for some time, I’m afraid.  I am to hold Dulimin until the armies muster for a counterattack.”  Smiling softly, Alexis drew back and rubbed Gwynn’s shoulder.  “It was good to see you again, Gwynn.  I will pray for your safety.  And have faith.  Regardless of how terrible this war is or what fate the gods have in mind for you, there will be a better world for us and your children.”

"I know," Gwynnion smiled, "Come visit us when you have the time."

"I will," Alexis nodded, but her smile was solemn.

*        *        *  

She was never going to look at Alexis the same way again.

Gwynnion lay down in her room at the Bright Coin inn and tavern, the only such establishment which survived the battle intact, and released a long, weary sigh at the aches in her neck and back.  Physically, she was exhausted, but her mind was alert and that was more than enough to keep her from sleeping.  The tome she obtained from Geirsk – a treatise on the chaos magick of the scions – lay unread in her pack.  She didn't feel like studying now.  Indeed, after cleaning her snowy white robes of blood and soot, the only thing she felt like doing was thinking about Alexis and their conversation earlier.

She'd been tempted to explain everything she had discovered to the knight – about Daniel, the Black Sphinx and other matters of importance – but it had been so long since Gwynn had seen her friend and she didn't want to spoil the occasion with an argument.  Moreover, she was too exhausted from the Dragonarmy's assault and Alexis had made a grueling march to reach Dulimin so quickly.  Better to let both of them rest, if they could.  Gwynnion would explain her findings, troubling though they were, in the morning.  Bad news was never quite so harsh in the morning light.

She wouldn't tell her everything either.  She couldn't.  What good would it do to tell Alexis of the harrowing last days she and Daniel spent in the previous history?  How could she possibly explain the confused tangle of love, protectiveness and despair that permeated Daniel's existence in that time, as she had seen through his eyes?  Even now, those feelings lingered within her, the afterglow of Daniel's thoughts lurking in her mind.  Gwynnion had enough trouble comprehending the experience of Daniel and Alexis' lovemaking.  She could only imagine what the young knight's reaction would be.

Closing her eyes, Gwynnion sighed and tried to focus her thoughts on the voyage to the Isle of Dragons.  Her visit to Dulimin had been a mere side venture, and she'd never expected to get caught up in the battle – though she hadn't hesitated to spend all her strength in the siege either, not when people's lives were at stake.  The ancient dragons of good beckoned, assuming they still existed of course.  Visions of gold, silver, bronze, copper and brass swam before her eyes, her thoughts drifting aimlessly over plans and preparations.

Silvara.

The image leapt to mind instantly, as if it had never left.  The kagonesti woman who had once been a silver dragon, Dargent, sister to Gwynneth, who fell in love with Huma Dragonbane.  The woman's despairing sobs echoed in her memory, when Silvara's steely façade crumbled.  She was never far from Gwynnion's thoughts.  Silvara's sacrifice had put everything into focus for her.  For too long, she had been ignorant of the truth of her life and the forces which acted upon it.  The night Silvara went to delay the ogres and their great red wyrm, fully expecting to be killed for what she was – the only good dragon in Ansalon – Gwynn decided she would no longer allow herself to be so controlled. 

Between Silvara and Kalshann's falcon charm, the young woman had learned what it meant to be without free will.  Even as a maren, so full of potential, it was easy to relinquish control of one's life and become a slave to chance and fate.  Never again would she allow herself to be so blind.

Silvara's suffering and sacrifice had reminded Gwynnion of another vital lesson – that of compassion.  Tensions had run high amongst her and her companions during the journey to find Huma's tomb, a journey which ended as much in victory as in failure when her friends turned upon one another because of the White Dragon Orb.  Each of them had been nourishing resentments and frustrations, herself included.  Gwynn had felt so caught up in the whirlwind of events and machinations surrounding her that she'd begun to drift back into the personality which marked her life before the Test of High Sorcery.  To see Silvara's despair and loneliness shocked her out of her complacency, reminding the young woman of the gift she'd been given.

More than anything else, Silvara had opened her heart to the goddess, Solinari, whose comforting presence Gwynnion sensed even here, lying in this meager bed with sore limbs and a dull headache.  The feeling had sustained her during the battle and her efforts to ease the heart wrenching suffering of the townsfolk that followed it.  Smiling faintly, the young woman opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling.  Solinari would be rising soon.  The white moon would be waning this evening, giving way to the blood red of Lunitari and the darkness of Nuitari, but the softest touch of her illumination was a blessing, and Gwynnion felt the need to thank her after the long day, exhaustion be damned. 

Images of the dying at the city's makeshift triage flooded her.  To caress the brow of a wounded soldier and ease their suffering, feeling the grace of the goddess pass through her to them, brought tears to Gwynnion's eyes.  Even when her strength ebbed and she could no longer channel true healing, she helped the others to tend their wounds in the usual ways.  They hadn't saved them all, of course.  But some people were alive today because she'd been here, and because she had faith.

"It's a responsibility as much as it's a gift," Kalshann had said, her husband's eyes soft and warm, "Being able to heal.  Who do you choose to help and who do you let suffer, when there's only so much you can offer?  It's a choice that can haunt you sometimes.  And then there are those you can't help, and that's hard to accept."

"That's true of regular healing as well," Gwynn replied, "Or any choice for that matter."

Her husband nodded, looking through the doorway to where their son was sleeping.  "I agree, but you may never have felt it so keenly as you will now."

Gwynnion's heart ached, missing Kal and their children.

Tomorrow, she told herself, rising to sit on the edge of the bed, And you'll have plenty to do then as well, to prepare for the voyage.  But it will be wonderful to see Shane and Genevieve again, and to be with Kal again... 

Oskar's words came back to her: "Finally growing up, are we?"

Grunting at the memory, Gwynn slid out of bed and pulled on her white, star-filled cloak, going downstairs.  She tried to leave quietly, smiling softly at the crowd in the common room who cheered their victory and mourned their losses.  But in her silver gown and white cloak, the silver crescent of Solinari gleaming at her breast, she was easily recognized.  There were several men present whom she'd healed earlier, and she paused to accept their thanks with a small, somewhat shy smile.  One of the men tried to press a gift into her arms, coins and a few small gemstones, but she politely refused.  "I don't ask for anything," she told him lightly, squeezing his shoulder, "I just wanted to help."

The air was cooling with twilight, the sky deepening from crimson to purple, as Gwynnion strode away from the Bright Coin at an easy pace.  All of the fires had been put out, and the wind was carrying away the stench of smoke and battle, but it was still thick in the air.  A sense of palpable relief had settled over Dulimin now that Alexis and the knights had arrived, easing their fears.  An almost coy, jubilant mood was evident in the faces of the people she passed, whether they be ordinary citizens or knights on patrol.

Gwynn skirted the knights' encampment, seeking out the copse of elm trees again.  There was something in her blood that preferred the cool shade of the woods, the scent of the earth and recent rains, the cool night winds on her skin.  At times like these, it was deeply soothing, a balm to satisfy the elven aspect of her personality, which was so often ignored.  She occasionally wondered what it must have been like growing up in Silvanesti, surrounded by the enormity of the forest.  Since she hardly felt welcome in her homeland, Gwynnion made a mental note to spend more time in Qualinesti, wandering the forests with Athica.  It had been far too long since she last saw her friend.

Did other half-elves feel this way, she wondered?  There were none she could ask except Zoë, and that wasn't very likely to happen.

The young woman closed her eyes as she entered the edge of the wood, smiling faintly to herself.  She stopped here and spread a small blanket out on the grass, sinking down into a kneeling position, grateful to be off her tired legs.  It was quiet here away from the city, the voices of Dulimin and Solamnic Knights both falling silent.  In the semi-darkness she lifted her face to the heavens.

The stars were coming out, the constellations turning slowly through their cycle.  Solinari had risen and was well above the horizon now, its silver crescent delicate against the growing darkness of night.  Lunitari was already well overhead, full and glowering red, but it was the white moon she watched for.  Its soft light was a caress upon her sore, weary body, and she watched for the longest time as it followed its course through the heavens.  Watched until the stars were bright jewels sparkling in the velvet blackness, and what faint sounds came from the city fell silent as Dulimin went to sleep.

Gwynnion prayed. 

She gave thanks for the magick, which was in her blood and in her heart, and which had sustained her even in the bleakest moments of her youth.  She gave thanks for the gift of healing, with which she had touched lives and eased the grief of the stricken warriors and common folk of Dulimin.  She gave thanks for the goddess' guidance and strength, something which she had ached for for most of her young life, lost inside herself.  She gave thanks for her life, which Solinari had preserved in Estwilde, when the white dragon Meranath collapsed the tower on her.  She gave thanks to Silvara for opening her eyes.  At the end, she gave brief veneration to other gods – Paladine, chief among the gods of light; Majere, master of the mind, dreams and meditations; Gilean, keeper of the Tobril, and Zivilyn, keeper of wisdom.

A feeling of calm descended over Gwynn when she had completed her prayers.  Opening her eyes, she saw the crescent of Solinari had risen higher in the sky, its pale light growing more confident and bright.  A soft smile etched itself on her features as she watched the dance of the heavens unfold at its graceful, unhurried pace. 

Closing her eyes, Gwynnion turned her attention to meditation.  To listening.

Her heart was still and untroubled.

*        *        *

The young woman started awake with a small cry of shock.

Breathing heavily, she sat up in the small cot, pushing the blanket away to get some air on her hot, tacky skin.  The rocking of the waves against the ship made it difficult to properly clear her head, leaving it thick with dizziness and slight nausea, and she forced herself to take a few sips of chilled water from a metal canister she kept close at hand.  Thoughts of the nightmare – of the Test and the screams of her family, which dominated her nightmares these days – swam heavily about her, and though she tried to bat them away they lingered, casting a pall over her half-waking mind.

Lucita Calmorene ran a hand back through her long, black hair, smoothing it back to get some air on her face.  The air was warm and humid in the near-darkness of the cabin, tasting of the sea, and even on a newly constructed ship, the strange scents of sailors and sailing were everywhere.  She grew up in the lands near the Icewall, and though this was not the first time she had ever sailed, Lucita never cared for the experience.  After a few days aboard the Wind Dancer, everything felt grimy somehow, and though the sway of the ship became subliminal, it still bothered her.

Still, it was the nightmares of her Test, and of other dark things besides, which troubled her the most.  Being on the sea, with only the cold depths beneath her feet, only worsened this feeling.  At least it was a new ship, with none of the echoes other places had, and her Gift was largely silent.  But that did little to comfort her, nor dispel the feeling that something horrible lurked on the horizon.

"I see the need, I suppose," Ravenchilde had commented before her departure for the Dragon Isles, the black robed woman smirking in the witchlight, "The world profits more from conflict than domination by either side in this war.  But I certainly do not envy you for going.  Dragons, no matter how goodly or noble they are supposed to be, are immense, powerful creatures.  And totally capricious.  Say the wrong word and you'll just as likely find death as allies.  If they allow you to gain entry to their realm at all."

Normally, Lucita gave little credence to Ravenchilde's dire warnings, especially now that she had become her former teacher's equal.  (Except as pertained to the blasphemies and dark magicks that were the black robes' trade.)  Their strange friendship was built on mutual respect, no matter how grudging it was, though their opinions often clashed – sometimes violently so.  But here, so far from home, Lucita couldn't help but think there was something to the black robed sorceress' advice.  The nightmares and the haunting Gift seemed to agree.

Or it was merely her own fears.

Frowning, the young woman got dressed in her usual white and gold robes, and made her way onto the deck for some fresh air.  The morning sun was clear, dazzling her with its brightness, as she wandered toward the captain's cabin across the way, where her mistress and the others would be gathered.  Lo Kanthor and Aesha were helping the crew with the rigging, their dark skin gleaming with sweat in the growing heat, but they didn't notice her as she passed by.  Lucita didn't trouble them with a greeting, nor did she look upon the dizzying network of rope above her, trying to clear her head. 

At least the breeze was cool, even if the sun was not.  After three days, her once pale skin was beginning to tan – though at least it hadn't burned, as she'd feared.  Being a night person, especially since the Test, she felt clumsy and awkward in the daylight.  She would have preferred to sleep through the days, but that had proved almost impossible aboard Wind Dancer.  Too much noise and heat.  And besides, the nightmares followed her regardless of time.

The darkness of the cabin was a relief when she entered.

Most of them were standing and talking quietly around a squat circular table in the center of the room, where nautical maps – courtesy of their sea barbarian friends and Gwynnion's previous research – were laid out, along with jars and cups of water, sweet wine and the thick nectar drink her mistress enjoyed.  There were also bowls of fresh fruit, breads and cheeses.  Witchlight provided a steady, blue-white illumination that was kinder on Lucita's eyes than the sun.  In the corner, near one of them, hunkered Lilian, listening to the conversations around her.  She'd managed to wrap her endlessly long brown hair in a gaudy blue and red bandana instead of wearing her usual topknot.  Lucita couldn't resist a giggle.  The kender looked like a little girl playing at being a pirate.

Lucita glanced around at the group, lurking near the door.  Gwynnion looked bright-eyed and energetic this morning, dressed in a simple silver gown and white cloak.  The silvery radiance of light and faint symbols Lucita perceived around her body seemed brighter than usual, though she did not examine them in depth – her Gift reacted strangely to this nimbus, and to studying the rose tattoo on the woman's body.  Kalshann stood close at hand, eating an orange with his curly black hair tied back, chatting with one of his students.  He was dressed in plain clothing, as usual, the scarlet band being his only concession to Conclave tradition. 

Jana was also dressed in plain clothes, styled in dark browns and greys, with her hair braided into a tight cord.  Her weapons were set aside in the corner opposite Lilian, for safety's sake, though she carried a heavy longsword strapped to her back.  Her expression was dour, but that was par for the course.  The captain, an amiable sea barbarian named Jesk, stood with she and Gwynnion at the table, smiling faintly to himself.  It must have seemed strange to him, Lucita thought, having so many strange wizards and land dwellers crowding the ship, but it didn't seem to trouble him overly much either.

" – we're messengers," Gwynnion was saying to Jana, a cup of nectar clasped lightly in one hand, "Bringing a great many soldiers would have been a risky show of force, even if they were meant for protection."

The dark-skinned woman bristled slightly.  Lucita knew the warrior liked her mistress and admired her bravery, but as guard captain for the villa, the sorceress' impulsive behavior occasionally frustrated her.  "Aye, ma'am," she sighed, "But it is not the dragons that concern me, though they do, so much as trouble we might find at sea.  I know you all capable with the Art, but I would have preferred a small band of soldiers to accompany us.  If we are delayed, we may have to wait out on the open waters for some time before these islands are accessible again."

"If we can negotiate the storm," Jesk chimed in, speaking softly – as he was wont to do with the ladies, if not the crew – "We should still arrive early.  We have made good travel thus far.  I expect only a few days wait when we arrive, assuming your calculations are correct.  However, I must agree with the Lady Waynolds.  The crew are able men, but this is a time of war and the risks are great.  I know not what lies farther north, near these islands, but warships and pirates in the near waters are not uncommon."

"Lucita!  Good morning!"

Lilian's high, clear voice broke through the discussion.  The young woman started slightly.  The kender was remarkably adept at finding her, despite the arcane veil of her curse.  Those present seemed to notice Lucita's presence for the first time, blinking in surprise at her stealthy arrival.  The room was small and it was virtually impossible to miss anyone's entry.  Only Gwynn and Kalshann looked undisturbed by her "sudden" appearance.

"Good morning, Spymaster," Lucita smiled and nodded, using the kender's assumed title as a term of affection.

"Lucita," Gwynnion nodded, "We were just finishing breakfast.  Help yourself to something if you like."

Bowing slightly, the young woman poured herself a cup of wine, hoping the cold, brilliant flavor would help her wake up.  She glanced in passing at the charts laid out on the table, maps detailed with their course and other notations, and it flashed across her mind with utter clarity.  It spoke of dragons and danger ahead, though nothing she could rationally explain.  Lucita ignored it and looked away, refusing to be drawn into the patterns there.  Her Gift was nothing if not persistent. 

An explorer and scholar's talent, Jonathan called it.  Useful, yes.  But disorienting.

"What are we discussing?" Lucita asked.

"We're approaching a large storm," Kalshann said, as if it were obvious despite the blue, sunny skies outside, "It lies in our path and seems unnatural by what I can tell.  We were discussing how to deal with it without losing time."

*        *        *

Night had fallen and, aside from the wind and the water against the hull, the Wind Dancer was virtually silent as Gwynnion stepped out onto the deck.  It was much cooler now, and the skies were largely black with heavy clouds.  In one particularly clear patch of sky, the young woman spied the disc of Lunitari making its transit across the silver crescent of Solinari, and she nodded slightly in reverence to the white moon.  A faint smile etched itself upon her features as she wandered over to the side of the ship, watching the dark, deep waters flashing by below her, and enjoyed this, the first real peace since the voyage began.

Glancing up toward the prow, Gwynnion spied someone standing there, leaning slightly against the mast.  The figure was sketched in the dim moonlight, a dull russet color from the prominence of Lunitari, but it was clearly a woman, a white robed mage.  Athica. Smiling softly, Gwynn brushed auburn hair out of her eyes and walked over to join her friend.  The two of them had barely spoken since she left the monastery, a distance which had only grown with the years.

Athica turned slightly at Gwynnion's approach, offering a small, private smile as the other woman joined her.  Though it was late, the elven woman was dressed in her usual clothing, her slender sword sheathed and glinting underneath her white cloak, which was trimmed in light blues and greens.  Her long, dark brown hair was braided back on top, keeping it out of her face in the cool wind, but it otherwise fell about her back and shoulders in thick ringlets.  Gwynnion found herself admiring Athica's hair.  Her own had suffered somewhat, both from the changes of motherhood and the busy schedule she maintained.

"Can't sleep?" Gwynnion murmured gently as she approached.

"Not really, no," the elven woman replied as she looked up to meet Gwynnion’s gaze, "I just enjoy watching the sea.  The quiet suits me.  It's a pity the stars are not out tonight..."  She cast a longing look over the streaking clouds.  Only a few stars shined through the cover, and those few that did were drowned out by the light of the two moons.

Athica glanced over at her, her eyes following the curve of Gwynn’s hair up to her face. Gwynnion remembered them being brighter, more vibrant. Her normal pale blue eyes were tinged with a violet cast in Lunitari’s light, giving her a dark solemn gaze. "And yourself?"

"Exhausted," Gwynnion grinned, "The children have finally gotten to sleep. It wasn’t easy; Genevieve adores being on the ship.”  The smile on Gwynnion’s face changed from a friend’s to that of mother remembering her child's happiness.  "Everything is fascinating to her, and she refuses to waste even a few minutes on something as trivial as sleep."  She laughed softly.  "I only wish Shane shared some of her enthusiasm..."

"Your children are beautiful, Gwynnion." Bowing her head slightly, Athica smiled but said no more. 

"Thank you."  The young woman's voice was soft, but clearly proud.  Gwynnion could sense the tension in Athica’s quiet voice.

"I am surprised you brought them with you on this journey, though," Athica murmured, scanning the horizon, where a flicker of far off lightning made itself known.  "I may not know the sea nearly as well as Captain Jesk, but between the war and the unknown dangers ahead of us, I would think it too dangerous."

"Kalshann and I spoke about that while we planned the journey," Gwynn agreed, leaning back against the railing to study the other woman's features.  After the Test, she had met the elven woman and marveled at her beauty and silent strength.  Now she saw the same beauty, not a line or touch of age marred the pale skin after five years.  Gwynnion knew Athica wouldn't age in her lifetime, but she felt the weight of time as she spoke to an unchanging woman about her own children.   "We decided it was better to have them with us, close at hand, where we could care for and protect them, rather than leave them behind in Ergoth.  Who else would we trust to look after them?”

 “I admit, I have the same concerns.”  She looked away, unable to free herself of a nagging thought that something was wrong about all of this.  “But I think they are safer with us.  I can easily return us home if need be."

The elf smirked, looking up at her. "I occasionally forget such magicks exist.  You were always so much more dedicated in your studies than I.  But then, you had a gift for it from the beginning.  I suppose that is why we have the roles we do now." For a brief moment Athica looked like she was going to say more but a shadow passed over her.

Silence.  The waves rocking the ship were soft and slow, and the breeze tapered off slightly.  The elven woman looked uncomfortable, her thoughts drifting elsewhere.

"We're not so different, Athica," Gwynnion smiled, looking for a way to ask her friend what was wrong, but the uneasy distance frightened her. "We've just taken different paths."

Brow furrowed, the elven woman looked at her with a grim – almost pained – smile.  Her voice was quiet.  "That is hardly true, Gwynnion.  We have never been more different, nor farther apart than we are now, though through no real fault of our own."  Athica grimaced faintly and looked away.  "You are the Voice of our goddess, and your accomplishments are well known in the Conclave and elsewhere...I am merely a Guardian.  And as such, I swore to defend you.  I would die for your safety, and the safety your children."

Her voice caught in her throat.  "I would be honored to do so, in fact."

Frowning in worry, Gwynnion lay a hand on the other woman's shoulder, squeezing gently.  "What's wrong, Athica?  You've never spoken this way to me..."

The elf shook her head slowly, a soft, fond smile etching itself on her lips.  Gwynnion felt a shiver of recognition at her tone and expression, a fragment of memory she tried to identify.  "Many things.  But they are my concerns.  Do not trouble yourself over them.  You have enough worries of your own already...”  Athica paused and smiled weakly at Gwynnion.  “I know I have placed a great deal of distance between us, enough that I have been like an outsider to your family, and for that I am sorry.  You are still my friend if you wish me to be.  I care for you more than you can know."

To Gwynn's surprise, she saw tears in Athica's eyes. Her friend had always been a fiercely emotional woman, living freely by her instincts and passions, no matter what cool façade she maintained in the presence of others.  Gwynnion knew, though she had no memories to fall back on, that she had once admired Athica for this strength.  And for the independence it gave her.  After the Test of High Sorcery, Gwynn feared her loss of memory would drive a wedge between them.  Now she wondered how much she had changed from the woman Athica once knew, and if she had hurt her without realizing it.

"You're still my friend, Athica," she argued, hugging the other woman, "You always have been, even with my curse..."

"That is not true either," the elven woman laughed.  It was a surprisingly bitter sound.

Sighing in confused frustration, Gwynnion held her close, giving her a reassuring squeeze.  Athica was trembling slightly against her, betraying her show of calm certainty, and her arms came around Gwynn's waist, holding on firmly.  Laying her head upon the young woman's shoulder, she dragged in a ragged breath.  Lavender and honeysuckle scents surrounded her, from the half-elf's hair and clothing, banishing thoughts of the sea.  Athica squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the wild confusion of her emotions back under control.  Tears trickled down her cheeks and onto Gwynnion's cloak against her will.

Gwynn gave her a few moments to compose herself, closing her eyes as she lay her cheek upon the cushion of her friend's hair.  She ached to see Athica so unhappy, especially when she didn't understand why.  "Tell me," she breathed, "What's wrong?"

"Do you remember at the monastery," Athica sighed, angrily blinking away tears, "When you sat down to play Mistress Danaen's harp?"

The half-elf nodded, puzzled.  "Yes..."

"You did not think you could play again, because of your curse," Athica rasped, her voice growing in firmness as she spoke, "Yet you did so almost perfectly.  It was eerie, watching your fingers at the strings.  I remember you looked...lost, but so full of wonder.  You were beautiful, Gwynnion.  You played a ballad, Ilya and Nicholi, the first piece I ever taught you."

Gwynnion's brow furrowed.  "Yes, I remember."

"Where did the music come from?"

Drawing back slightly, the half-elven woman thought back to that moment in Eliune's study.  The same question had troubled and delighted her at the time.  The music was one of the few windows she had upon her past aside from dreams and hazy images.  There had been longing behind the music, Gwynnion knew, feelings she had for Kalshann when Athica first taught her to play the harp.  Desire and pain channeled into song, demanding to be shared.  She only dimly remembered the late nights she spent playing for him in Bethfield, relishing the affectionate smile he gave her so rarely then.

"I'm not sure," Gwynn said softly, meeting Athica's gaze, "I suppose it was so much a part of me that nothing could make me forget it."

Nodding, the elven woman took a step back, swallowing down hard on her feelings.  "So you think there are some things that simply cannot be changed about people?  That are such an integral part of us that they should not be denied?  For as much as you have changed, Gwynnion, you are still very much the woman I knew before the Test.  It has taken me too long to realize that, and because of it we drifted apart."

"It's alright, Athica," the half-elf smiled tenderly, "We're still friends, and it was just as much my fault if the truth be told.  I didn't know you.  I remembered so little, and I wasn't sure what to do..."

Brushing this off, Athica asked, "But you believe that, do you not?"

"That some things are essential to who we are and cannot change?"

The elf nodded, her eyes gleaming in the faint light.

"Yes," Gwynnion agreed, bowing her head slightly with a wistful smile, "Of course.  Even with my curse, I still loved Kalshann.  Those feelings led me back to him, even without me knowing why.  But I don't understand what you're getting at?  Why are you asking me this?"

Easing back against the railing, Athica eyed the young woman thoughtfully.  The pain had faded somewhat from her expression, but the confusion had, if anything, actually grown.  Wisps of dark brown hair tickled the woman's throat as the wind stirred, bringing with it the taste of rain.  Athica looked away from Gwynn for a moment, her eyes going to the horizon, where the smudge of storm clouds was now clearly visible.  "How do you know if something is that essential?" she murmured in a low voice.

Gwynnion shook her head slightly, watching the strange emotions playing on her friend's face.  The red-tinged moonlight gave a strange cast to Athica's features.  "Because it won't be denied," she offered lightly, "It drives you forward to something, regardless of everything else."          

This answer only seemed to trouble Athica more.

Sighing, Gwynn ran a hand over her friend's shoulder.  "What's wrong, Athica?  None of this makes any sense to me."

Athica turned to look plaintively at her.  Her face was ashen, confused.  "Nor to me."

There was obvious doubt in the woman's expression, something which was tearing her apart, and no small amount of fear.  Athica released a shaky breath as Gwynnion soothingly caressed her shoulder, frowning unhappily to see her friend so distraught.  As unchanging as Athica seemed to be, it was all too easy to think she was cold inside, untouched by the passage of time and the troubles one accumulates in life.  Even Gwynn occasionally failed to recognize the elven woman's fiery inner world.  "It's not your fault that we drifted apart, Athica," she whispered gently, "Both of us had more worries than either of us could keep up with.  I've wanted to visit you many times, but I kept putting it off to pursue other things.  Our friendship has suffered because of that, and I am truly sorry..."

"Put your mind at ease, Gwynnion," Athica murmured roughly.  To the half-elf's surprise, she brushed a wave of dark auburn hair out of her eyes and kissed her lightly on the forehead.  It was an oddly intimate gesture, of a kind which the elf so rarely gave anyone.  Athica's lips were cool against the young woman's brow.  "We both lead hectic lives.  And now you have children and the work of the gods..."  The elven woman's voice fell, as if the words were suffocating.  "You are not to blame.  Do not try to ease my pain by punishing yourself needlessly.  I will not allow it."

"Then tell me why you're in pain," said Gwynn, taking a half-step back to look up into Athica's saddened eyes, "So I may help you if I can."

"It is not something the goddess can heal, Gwynnion," Athica smiled wanly, laughing under her breath, "Nor kind words can soothe."

"Perhaps not, but burdens can be shared," Gwynnion persisted, shaking her head, "You knew me as I once was, Athica, before the Test of High Sorcery.  You saw my mistakes clearly and the pain they caused.  Both to myself and others."  The elven woman was surprised by the strength in the young woman's voice, gentle and rueful though it was.  Her green eyes shone almost fiercely in the faint light.  "I'm your friend.  It hurts me to see you suffer like this, when I don't know why.  I don't know what this pain is but I know you've carried it since the monastery at least.  You tried to keep it from me then as well.  And I don't want you to fall into the same trap I did."

Athica's voice trembled.  "Our friendship is at stake, Gwynnion."

"Why?" 

The half-elf clasped her hand, giving it a firm press of reassurance.  Gwynn was startled as Athica pulled her hand away sharply, a fresh tear trickling down her cheek, as if the touch alone burned her.  Athica closed her eyes rather than look at her.  Her voice was a choked whisper.  "Because I am in love with you."

Blinking in shock, Gwynnion fell backwards a step and leaned against the railing, staring at the elven woman.  Athica gripped the railing tightly, her jaw clenched as a hot, embarrassed tear ran down her pale cheek.  Her breathing was harsh, ragged, like a drowning woman.  But she stayed perfectly still, refusing to run away from her friend out of loyalty, though a large part of her dearly wanted to flee.  For a moment Gwynn's mind couldn't comprehend what she'd said, but as Athica put a hand to her face, angrily swiping away the tear to keep herself from crying, understanding dawned on her. 

"That's why you insisted to Ethan that you should come with me," Gwynn breathed, "Why you've tried to avoid me."

Athica nodded stiffly and forced an answer out: "Yes."

Dazed, Gwynnion didn't know what to say.  "Athica..."

"Please do not ask me to explain."  The elf looked up sharply, agony in her eyes.  "As a friend I owed you the truth, but I did not want to hurt you.  I have never wanted anything but to see you happy."

Gwynnion took a deep breath.  "You meant to never tell me."

Athica's voice grew angry, frustrated with herself more than anything.  "How could I speak of this?  What purpose would it serve?  You were already in love with someone else when I realized it.  I did not know what to do except continue to be your friend.  Then we parted ways, and when I saw you again, you had children and a home...How could I betray you by admitting these feelings?  I don't even understand why I have them."

"You haven't betrayed me," Gwynn gently reproached her, "You've only told me the truth.  I've been worried about you..."

"The truth," Athica rasped, her voice quavering, "Is I do not want to feel this way, Gwynnion.  I thought, perhaps, with as long as we have been apart, that it may have passed.  But seeing you again..."  She shook her head, grimacing.  "I wanted to serve you as best I could, as a friend and as a Guardian.  I resolved myself to fulfilling those loyalties regardless of how I felt, and I am already failing.  I wanted to be close to you again, more than anything.  These feelings are too much a part of me, for reasons I don't understand."

"Athica," the half-elf sighed, lightly touching her cheek.  Her friend's eyes were full of tears, held back by force of will.  "You have not failed, nor have you betrayed me in the least.  Don't torture yourself because of me, please.  You're still my friend and you always will be."

"I can leave," Athica murmured, as if she hadn't heard, "If you wish me to."

"I want you here," Gwynnion insisted, "By my side."

The elf said nothing, looking away in shame.

Wincing, Gwynnion embraced the elven woman, pulling her into a firm hug.  Athica stiffened against her but acquiesced, sighing weakly as her arms came around the half-elf.  Feelings of friendship, embarrassment, relief and desire clashed within her, which she roughly forced aside, seeking to clear her mind.  Against her will, a small, sobbing moan came out of her, tears spilling against Gwynn's white cloak.  The half-elven woman closed her eyes and sighed.  In all the years she'd known Athica, she couldn't remember ever seeing her cry.  She didn't release Athica as more sobs shuddered through her, knowing the proud woman would only be angry at being seen falling apart this way.

"I want you here," Gwynnion breathed, "I can't return these feelings, but I don't want our friendship to be lost because of it.  We've been separated too long already.  You are precious to me, Athica.  Despite everything, you have been my closest friend..."

Trembling in her arms, Athica said nothing.

*        *        *

"I'm surprised we didn't do this in Bethfield."

"We would have frightened the townsfolk, most likely, considering our friends.  Many of them are relieved that you moved the University from there to Augustgrad.  Fewer dark sorcerers and mysterious strangers skulking about at odd hours..."

The woman laughed, tossing a grin at her love.  Kalshann smirked but said nothing, walking casually alongside her, his long black hair bouncing slightly against his shoulders.  He was dressed in his usual comfortable home clothes, bemused by the idea of having to dress up  for friends, and shielded his eyes from the light of the sunset to their left.  The scarlet bracelet he wore was the only indication the young man, like most of his friends and companions over the years, was a sorcerer.  Though not much of one by his estimation.  Guardian was a more fitting title for he who spearheaded the groups' formation within the Orders of High Sorcery.  That he led the Guardian's faction within the Red Robed Order seemed especially strange to others, particularly given his unassuming demeanor.  But they missed the point, by Kal's estimation.

Loki, his little pseudo-dragon familiar, lay curled up on his shoulder with his long, prehensile tail wrapped firmly around Kal's arm for stability.  The creature's scales rippled black, tan, red and grey – as if absorbing the colors from his friend and master's clothing, skin and hair – and he seemed to be purring to himself.  Occasionally, Loki would glance up to examine their surroundings or nuzzle Kalshann's cheek, but he otherwise seemed content.

Gwynnion of the White Rose smiled softly to herself as they walked along the central avenue of Augustgrad, between buildings that were virtually deserted, toward the city lord's estate.  The white of her robes gleamed and was shaded red by the setting sun, the light bringing out the rich colors of her dark auburn hair.  It glinted on the small golden orb affixed to the top of her slender, pale wooden staff, and upon the silver crescent moon necklace, the mark of her devotion to Solinari, goddess of white magick, that fell just above the swell of her breast.  The fading sunlight felt warm upon her skin, particularly in those places where the magical rose tattoo was exposed by her cloak or the neckline of her gown.  Her jade green eyes gleamed as she glanced over her shoulder to assure that their companions were keeping pace. 

Puck fluttered amiably behind her, his gossamer wings beating thoughtfully in the cooling Spring air.  The tressym opened sleepy blue eyes briefly to look at his mistress but said nothing.  Gwynn's familiar was in a genial mood this evening despite skipping one of his endless naps to accompany them, and she was impressed he could fly so well without paying attention.  No, it was Lilian Surefoor who wandered most from the path, the kender's curiosity leading her away from the road to investigate a particularly interesting building or side street every few minutes.  Lucita Calmorene, Gwynnion's favorite student, managed to keep Lilian somewhat under control.  Whenever the kender wandered too far, the white robed mage conjured a magical hand out of thin air to drag Lilian back by the hoopak sling-staff she proudly carried.

"Besides," Kalshann murmured wryly, "Let Oskar have his little moment of ego.  He has more than enough problems as it is."

"I thought you said you could never have enough problems?" Lilian called.  Though she didn't look like she was paying attention to her companions or the conversation, Gwynnion knew the kender Spymaster's hearing was very sharp.  A little too sharp sometimes.

"No, I said that," Lucita reminded her softly, "It makes life interesting, remember?"

"Somehow I think Oskar would agree," Gwynnion smiled.

"Let him," Puck remarked, the catlike familiar opening one eye, "He can have all the problems he wants as far as I'm concerned."

"I agree, too," Lilian chimed in, her voice wistful.

Gwynnion rolled her eyes but still smiled, the regular beat of her staff striking the ground echoing throughout the street as she walked.  "We just survived one war, Spymaster, and it was a very bloody one at that.  I can live without troubles of that magnitude for a while."

"Do you think Shane and Genevieve will be alright?" the kender asked for the third time, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of their villa, far down the street.  As scatterbrained as Lilian might be on occasion, Gwynn thought fondly, the self-dubbed Spymaster made an honest attempt to look after everyone in their extended family.

Kal saw the pensive look Gwynnion tossed over her shoulder, her maternal instincts alarmed at the idea and seeking reassurance.  "Lazaiel and Messiach are with them," Kal replied lightly, referring to the two celestials his wife entrusted with the protection of their children, "I pity anyone who tries to get past them.  There's also Jana, the guards, and a host of teachers and apprentices at the villa.  If anything happens to them, we will know."

"True."  Lilian frowned for a moment, then shrugged and returned her attention to the surrounding buildings.  "You know, I still think this city looks spectacular considering it was underground for three hundred years..."

"Yes, it does," Puck mumbled in agreement, "It's a shame the inhabitants all died before it could be returned to the surface."

"Don't start," Kalshann smirked, "Or you'll have Thorn ranting all night about the gods."

Though he was lord of the city, Oskar's estate was smaller than the sprawling complex of buildings that formed Kal and Gwynnion's villa and teaching facilities, particularly given its close relationship with the Augustgrad University , formerly of Bethfield, which lay nearby.  To his credit, the Ergothian "barbarian" had preserved as much of the original structure as possible, retaining the building's sense of history rather than gilding it to fit his kingly aspirations.  Most likely, he would have preferred one of the original buildings used by the city fathers in ancient times, but these were largely destroyed by warfare and the work of time.  As it as, Oskar's estate, which had once belonged to a wealthy merchant, was one of the largest surviving buildings in Augustgrad.  Certainly larger than any of the villa's individual structures.

Loki, perched on Kalshann's shoulder, lifted his head and enjoyed a luxurious stretch now that they'd arrived.

Oskar's guards, almost exclusively warriors from nearby Ker Li, eyed the arriving party with grim disinterest.  However, Ethan called out a greeting as they approached, descending the weathered front steps of the manor to meet them.  Above him they could see Thomas, Thorn and Samkin Stoutheart gathered on the steps, chatting and smoking tobacco together, no doubt bored by the wizard and elf talk within.  A particularly uproarious laugh from Sam echoed down the street in response to something Thomas said.  Ethan dashed out the contents of his own smoking pipe – bringing a wry grin to Gwynnion's lips, for they were like little boys playing games at times – and the stocky, white cloaked Guardian grinned boyishly as he tucked it away. 

"Gwynn!" Ethan cried, obviously a bit drunk, and gave the half-elven woman a hug that nearly lifted her off of the ground.  Gwynnion coughed under his fierce grip for a moment, clutching onto her staff as if she might beat him off with it, but collapsed into laughter when he set her back down.  Dark brown bangs flopped across his brow in enthusiasm, with a few more grey hairs than the half-elf remembered, which he brushed back out of his eyes.

He turned to her husband.  "Kal!"

Grinning, Kalshann held up a hand to keep the drunken warrior-wizard at bay.  "No, thank you.  Really."

"Don't I get a hug?" Lilian piped up.

"Sure!"  Obviously in good spirits, Ethan stepped forward to accommodate even though he barely knew her, then realized she was kender.  The kender's notable tendency to collect things belonging to other people – purely as borrowing or by accident, of course – stopped him just in time, and he backed away again with a harrowed expression.  "Uh – maybe later, okay?"

Lilian sniffed haughtily and looked away.  Lucita grinned.

"I can't remember the last time you were this happy to see us, Ethan," Gwynnion observed, giving the man a quick – and much gentler – hug in return.

The man shrugged, scratching at his chin with a sheepishly amused expression.  "Well, with the war over, it seems like a good time to celebrate.  Isn't that the whole point of us being here?  Besides, I can't remember the last time I saw you outside of Wayreth.  Even I get tired of discussing politics after a point..."

"Then you're in the wrong profession," Kal reminded him with a smile.

"Probably so," Ethan agreed ruefully, "But then so are you.  And Gwynnion for that matter, even being the Voice of Solinari."

"I'm the goddess' Daughter," Gwynn murmured, more seriously this time, and brushed a sweep of long hair out of her eyes, "The politics of the Conclave are an essential and inescapable part of my role.  When dealing with wizards who clawed their way to power over many grueling years, one does not have the luxury of dictating dogma and policy..."

"True enough," Ethan agreed.

"Is everyone here?" Kalshann inquired, subtly moving them off a subject they both admitted to being weary of.

Ethan shrugged, the smile returning to his expression.  "As far as I know.  Athica arrived earlier and was looking for you, Gwynn – "  The half-elf's brow furrowed slightly at the comment but said nothing.  " – and Keleren just came in."  He chuckled and gestured over to a spot in the road near them.  "He nearly ran over Poker with his phantom steed."

Lilian brightened.  "Poker's here?  My cousin?"

The man nodded, eyeing her warily.  Kender enthusiasm was often something to be watchful of.  "He came with Lanthinel."

"Go ahead and meet him if you like," Gwynn smiled, "We'll join you shortly."

Without a second thought, Lilian hefted her hoopak and dashed up the stairs to the main entrance, her little legs pumping eagerly.  She whizzed past Thomas, nearly crashing into him as he backed into her path, busily engaged in conversation.  As it was, Gwynnion enjoyed the look of stark horror on Thomas' face as the kender brushed against him, fearing she might "collect" something from him without realizing it.

"I'll look after her," Lucita volunteered quietly, slipping away.  She was an intensely private person, especially since her Test of High Sorcery, and the presence of many people made her uncomfortable.

Kal and Gwynn stopped to make their greetings with the three men (or two men and one dwarf, technically) smoking and chatting by the door.  Thomas, "the Charitable", stood slightly apart from the other two, sipping from a fluted glass of elven wine.  The scoundrel was dressed almost entirely in black to match his dark hair and eyes, a white shirt underneath a black vest being his only concession to variety.  He backed away from Gwynnion almost instinctively – the unease between them, fueled by mistrust and the incident in Huma's Tomb, was obvious even to Samkin.  The tall Knight of Solamnia, gamely smoking Thorn's strong tobacco despite how queasy it obviously made him, clapped a beefy hand on Thomas' shoulder to reassure him.  It merely startled the slender man instead.    

Samkin looked worse for wear that Gwynnion remembered, with a long scar running along his left temple and cheek.  His dark brown hair and long, handlebar moustaches fell in waves to his shoulders, and he proudly wore the blue and silver colors of his family.  Sam was a war hero now, a role he took to with gusto.  The burly man was obviously pleased with himself tonight, grinning at Thomas' unease – which even earned a dark chuckle from Thorn.  The dwarf, sitting on the steps with his ancient pipe in one hand and his dog, Pebble, dozing on the marble beside him, nodded curtly to the half-elf and her husband.  His respect for Gwynnion had fallen slightly since she became a priestess of the white moon, but he was nothing but polite to Kalshann.  He dressed in rich clothing, rings glittering on his fingers and in the braids of his long, reddish-brown beard.

"Ah – Kalshann, Gwynnion," Thomas said airily, affecting noble haughtiness, "There you are.  I was just explaining to our friends here about my dealings with the wizard Majere..."

Gwynn smirked.  "Your new landlord I take it."

"You, ah, might say that," the young man agreed, a bit discomfited by the reminder.  They had heard, of course, that Raistlin Majere had claimed the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthus for himself, though they knew little else about the reclusive young mage or his activities.  "I could hardly argue with his claim to the Tower, after all, and he has been gracious enough to let me keep my humble abode beneath the surface."

"In the sewers."

Kal grinned, glancing at the young woman out of the corner of his eye.

"It's not just the sewers," Thomas replied patiently, successfully covering his irritation with the white robed sorceress.  This was a discussion they'd had many times before over the years.  "And I have put a lot of work into my home.  It's clean and quite pleasant, if I do say so myself.  Majere was understandably concerned about my presence so close to the Tower, but it has all been resolved now."

I wonder what sort of deal you made, Gwynnion thought, And how much it was in your favor.  Raistlin Majere is rarely gracious or kind to anyone.

"Aye, he's a good lad," Thorn interjected between puffs on his pipe, "Especially considering what your Conclave did to him.  Skin and bones, he is.  Just skin and bones.  He should be proud of himself for coming so far in the world.  I don't begrudge the boy his independence one bit."

"What the Conclave did to him?" Ethan echoed.

"Raistlin's Curse," Gwynnion reminded him, quoting the black robed mage's words: "'The sacrifice he made for his magick.'"

The Guardian chuckled.

"Aye, I pity you, too," Thorn grumbled to her, "For having your memory taken from you.  You wizards have a strange way of ensuring loyalty."

Kalshann frowned but said nothing, half-expecting her to get into another argument with the cynical dwarf.  Ethan looked askance at Gwynn.  The half-elven woman merely shook her head with a faint smile.  "We all took the Test and we all received a curse and a boon in exchange for our success.  Ideally, it's what makes us stronger than we would be otherwise.  As much as I've occasionally fought my Curse, I've come to understand the reasons for it.  I certainly have no great issue with it now."

"Here, here."  Grinning, Samkin toasted this with his pipe, attracting strange looks from Ethan, Thomas and Thorn.  The Crown Knight never quite understood Gwynnion's amnesia or the mysterious rose tattoo covering most of her left side – actually, he never understood much of anything when it came to the half-elf – but the young woman had a husband, children and the blessings of the strange gods of magick.  She had come out alright, he thought.  Better than the dark-eyed, haunted young woman he first met in Palanthus, years earlier. 

"Anyway," the knight added jovially, "Enough of this wizardly jibber-jabber.  This is a celebration of our victory against the Dark Queen's forces, and it's high time we had some merriment!  There's enough food and drink inside to lay anyone out."  He jabbed Thomas in the ribs with a wink, nearly knocking the rogue over.  "Even me."

Loki whirred.  It almost sounded like a giggle.

"I agree," Gwynnion grinned, "We should get inside and pay our respects to our host."

"Aye," Thorn agreed, "Though he may be bored to tears by now."

The woman half-bowed to Thomas in respect and took Samkin's hand as he offered it.  She was surprised when the knight kissed the top of her hand, the thick hair of his moustache tickling the skin.  The war had made something of a gentleman out of him, apparently.

Once inside, Kalshann and Gwynnion were escorted by a thin woman with a matronly smile into Lord Oskar's dining hall.  It was a tall marble chamber, brightly lit by torches, with Doric columns supporting the vaulted ceiling, which was decorated with peeling frescos of the gods and mythological figures from Ansalon's storied past.  Arms and armor decorated the walls, as did trophies from the Ergothian's various escapades across the continent.  Servants in simple garb hovered about the long, gold-trimmed mahogany table that dominated the room, covered in plates, goblets, pitchers of ale and bottles of wine of every variety.  Murmured conversation and occasional laughter echoed in the chamber from the assembled guests.

At the head of the table, slouching in his simple, high-backed chair, sat Oskar himself.  The Lord of Augustgrad looked wearier than usual, resting his chin on one fist, following the various discussions with only mild interest.  Still, the bearded man was smiling, pleased to have everyone in his house.  He was dressed in tasteful clothing, Solamnic in style – surprising Gwynnion slightly – with his long, reddish-blond hair neatly braided.  A fur-trimmed cloak was thrown over the back of his chair.  Oskar's elegant attire seemed strange against the ceremonial scars on his body.  From his bearing she supposed his ambitions were not proceeding quite as well as he'd hoped when they last parted ways.

His guests were certainly a strange lot, though they were all friends here.

Alexis Stoutheart, whom Gwynnion considered a sister, sat nearest to Oskar, sipping water.  The young knight had matured in the last four years, her features taking on a more rounded, womanly quality.  As with Gwynn, the white rose tattoo was clearly visible at her throat and arm, where it had spread.  Her wavy blonde hair fell loose about her face, coming just to her shoulders, and the half-elf frowned at the melancholy expression she wore.  The War of the Lance had been difficult for the young Knight of the Sword.  Many Knights of Solamnia had died, especially among the orders of the Rose, for which Alexis felt personally responsible. 

Nearby, Keleren and Gwynn's fully elven half-brother, Lanthinel, were animatedly discussing the horrors which befell their homeland of Silvanesti and Keleren's efforts to free it from the Nightmare in which the evil dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, and the Green Dragon Orb had imprisoned it.  Gwynnion wasn't surprised to see the elven mages getting along so well.  Though Keleren was a brooding, patient figure to Lanthinel's hotheaded impulsiveness, the two men had similar philosophies.  Even now they compared notes, entertaining each other with a bit of magical curiosity or a tale of their exploits. 

In Keleren's company, the Master of the Tower of Goodlund seemed almost cheerful.

Keleren was handsomely dressed in white and grey, with a dark green sash across his middle, his glossy black hair falling across his cheek as he spoke.  He looked much the same as always, stoic and sipping thoughtfully of elven wine.  Lanthinel wore a content expression on his finely chiseled features, his blue eyes gleaming in the torchlight and his long blonde hair swept back from his face.  The white of his robes contrasted sharply with the black cloak and gown of the woman seated beside him, and Gwynnion was less than pleased to see Zoë Avante clasping her brother's hand. 

The black robed sorceress looked up as Kal and Gwynn entered the room, a sly smile touching her lips.  Wherever Lanthinel was, it seemed, Zoë was rarely far behind.  By now, Gwynnion thought she should have grown accustomed to it.  But after four years, Zoë's complex, gradually unfolding relationship with her brother still troubled her.  She couldn't deny the woman's beauty, of course.  Zoë was one of the few other half-elves Gwynn knew, the delicacy that came with the elven blood refining her seductively human qualities.  A thick mane of black hair fell in ringlets around her face, her dark eyes glittering when she smiled, and the tight-fitting gown she wore softly accentuated the curves of her body. 

Zoë's eyes darted from them to Athica, seated opposite Alexis, who glanced up as well at their arrival.  The elven woman smiled softly in welcome and rose gracefully from her seat.  Athica wore only a simple gown of white silk, her curly dark brown hair tumbling down around her waist, and her blue – almost violet – eyes warmed immediately upon seeing Gwynnion.  The half-elf smiled gently and somewhat sadly in return.  Athica had been a close friend since Gwynn rescued her from slavers years earlier, but their relationship had been troubled lately by revelations about Athica's true feelings.

Zoë observed their silent exchange with interest.

Curiously enough, Athica had been engaged in quiet conversation with the black robed man beside her, whom Gwynnion recognized as Erin – Kalshann's cousin – despite the heavy cowl pulled down over his eyes.  Few had seen the young man's tanned, handsome features, with his dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes, and Erin preferred it that way.  He turned slightly as Athica stood, the silver threading at the hem of his robes gleaming, and nodded politely to the white robed mage and her husband.

Poker and Lilian were standing in the corner, laughing and swapping tall tales about their adventures.  It was the first time the two irrepressible kender had been together in months, and with the War of the Lance, there was indeed a great deal of gossip, adventure and observations to share.  Standing together, Gwynnion was struck by how alike they were.  Both stood roughly the same height, with dark hair pulled up into topknots and their brown eyes shining bright.  Both had a similar collection of bags and pouches, though some of Poker's were no doubt magically enchanted.  As a female, Lilian was a bit more slender than Poker, of course.  Especially since her cousin had spent much of his time in Lanthinel's apprenticeship.  As she watched, Poker giggled at some comment of the Spymaster's, glancing over at the man beside them.

This one was a stranger.  He was tall and broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, with a square jaw and a short growth of brown hair.  There was something slightly odd about the shaping of his face, oddly blocky with a heavy brow, that gave him a severe scowling expression.  The man wore heavy leather armor, black in color, with a great sword strapped to his back.  He seemed indifferent to the presence of the kender – apparently he had nothing they could borrow – and scanned the room with staring, cold blue eyes.  As the only person present dressed for combat, Gwynn presumed he was one of Oskar's bodyguards, but there was something subtly unnatural about him.  Something missing.

 "Gwynnion," Athica smiled, the gossamer fabric of her skirt swaying as she walked over to give the half-elf a gentle, sighing embrace, "Welcome.  I was beginning to think you – and Kalshann – would not come."

"You do live the closest to our host's charming abode," Erin murmured.  He did not rise from the table, though he offered a nod and a thin small to Kalshann.  The shadows covering his eyes were impenetrable, but his dry tone was playfully sarcastic.  "I imagine the bustle of family life delayed you somewhat, cousin?"

Chuckling, Kal put his arm around Gwynn's waist as she separated from Athica, ignoring the pensive look which the elven woman gave them both.  "Actually, Gwynnion only just returned from the White Council in Wayreth, and she wanted to spend some time with Shane and Genevieve before we left, since she has been so busy lately."  He smirked.  "Though the children are fine, cousin, thank you for asking."

Erin 's smile widened almost imperceptibly.

"How are my niece and nephew anyway?" Lanthinel inquired, detaching himself from Zoë long enough to rise and give his younger half-sister a hug.  Though the siblings had never been exactly close, especially since the half-elf's Test of High Sorcery and resulting amnesia, there was a bond of affection tracing back to her childhood, which could never be entirely lost.  Lanthinel had been the sole voice of moderation in their family, when they would have otherwise treated Gwynnion as a complete outsider, a half-breed disgrace.

"Rambunctious," Gwynnion chuckled, giving the elven mage's arm a squeeze, "Genevieve has been a hellion lately, but she delights in being out in the woods and begs us to take her whenever we have time.  Shane's obsessed with my libraries, or at least he loves to spend his time there, pulling books off the shelves at random.  It used to be he just toyed with them, but he's fallen into actually reading them now, or trying to." 

She smiled proudly, with the glow only a parent can have.  "They're beautiful.  And I feel both of them have the gift for the Art.  You should come and see them more often, oh wise and powerful Master of Goodlund."

Kalshann's own smile was soft, but no less proud.  "Are you sure that's wise, love?" he joked, "This is your brother we're talking about.  He may be a bad influence on them."

"Would any of your friends be a good influence on them?" Oskar observed from his seat at the table, smiling wryly.

"Besides," Poker chimed in, glancing away from his conversation with Lilian for the first time, "Lanthinel is extraordinarily nice and kind to everyone!  Except for those Slaadi demons the other day."  He scratched his cheek thoughtfully.  "And that renegade wizard who tried to kill us.  And that lich.  Especially the lich.  Come to think of it, he's not nice to a lot of people."  Poker frowned for a moment, then shrugged it off, brightening.  "He's even teaching me magick!  Or trying to at any rate.  But if he can teach me, think of what Shane and Genevieve could do with all these great wizards in the family!"

"Oh," Erin shuddered in mock agony, "The horror..."

"Please, tell me he's not serious," Oskar pleaded of Lanthinel.

The strange, armed man in the back of the room looked at him, his grim, scowling expression never changing in the slightest.  His voice, like his features, was awkward, as if the words fell out of his mouth.  "He is."

"About what?" Poker asked, confused.

Keleren, reclining in his chair by the table, brushed a sweep of dark hair out of his eyes, frowning in bemusement.  "What would you possess you to even consider such a thing?"

"I'm sure Poker is a good apprentice!" Lilian pouted, "He's always been very bright."

"Call it an experiment if you will," Zoë shrugged as she moved to join Lanthinel, hooking her arm around the white robed mage's in a protective – and very possessive - gesture.  "I can't say that I agree with it entirely, but I don't believe it has ever been attempted.  Lanthinel merely seeks to discover if it is possible.  I have to admit, I'm curious as well."  Her eyes turned to Gwynnion with a sweet smile.  "Besides, he has instructed other, more difficult students, and endured far more frustrating company."

Frowning, Athica eyed the black robed woman with poorly veiled disdain.

"He's not the first kender to learn magick either," Lilian volunteered with bright amber eyes, "Uncle Trapspringer was something of a magician in his day, too.  Why, they say he made an entire city disappear once..."

Oskar grunted.  "I wouldn't doubt it."

Heaving a weary sigh, Lanthinel turned to his sister.  Of all of them, perhaps only Gwynnion – who had eagerly learned kenderspeak while in Hylo and developed an affectionate partnership / friendship with Poker's so-called "cousin" – might understand why he entertained the thought of teaching Poker.  She gave the white robed elf a slanted but sympathetic smile.  His voice was more serious when he spoke next, hoping to change the subject by relating a bit of news he knew she would find important.  "You should know that I have encountered your alter ego recently, in Kalaman."

"Her alter ego?" Athica echoed.

Kalshann glanced at her, frowning.  "The young man, Daniel."

Gwynnion's brow furrowed and she folded her arms under her breasts with a thoughtful – and somewhat pained – expression.  The thought of Daniel always made her distinctly uncomfortable.  It disturbed her to think that a part of herself, or her soul at least, existed in the world separate from herself, consumed by the taint of Chaos.  Reflexively, she found her gaze drawn to Athica, who looked away, and to Alexis, still sitting in moody silence at the table.  "I wouldn't call him my alter ego, brother, even if he is a part of me somehow.  Though are you certain it was him?"

"More or less," the elven mage replied, "I was searching for someone else at the time, a contact of mine with access to certain esoteric books, when I came upon a cloaked figure who was roughly as you described him.  I confronted him, intending to capture him and bring him back to the Tower in Goodlund, and he lashed out with magick.  He seemed highly resistant to my own spells, several of which went awry in his vicinity." 

Lanthinel glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the strange warrior.  The large man seemed indifferent to the attention he received from the gathered friends, meeting their gazes with a stony expression.  "Which is how my 'friend' there came to be..."

"What do you mean?" Keleren asked, turning in his chair to look at the silent figure brooding in a column's shadow.  The elf had become much more attentive to the conversation with the mention of Daniel, for while he found Gwynnion's explanation for the young man's existence highly unusual – and occasionally dubious – the subject of Chaos concerned him greatly.  His own father had vanished from their home in Silvanesti two decades earlier, escaping the reach of Chaos to a mythical realm known as the Court of Light, the domain of the High God who ruled over the other gods of Krynn.  That Gwynnion and his father both shared a special distinction only heightened his interest.  They were maren, the brightest souls created by the gods, with the potential to powerfully affect history.  Or rewrite it, as Gwynnion claimed.

"Because he proved difficult to harm with magick," the elven mage explained, "I sought to bring him down with physical force instead.  I conjured a warrior out of shadow stuff, the semi-substantial element which makes up the Aether's fabled Demiplane of Shadow.  However, I sensed the magical energies warping even as I molded the shadow to my will, as if it were distorted by the Chaos sorcerer's mere presence.  The warrior emerged, true enough, and he seems to serve me willingly, but..."

"But what?" Gwynnion inquired, glancing uneasily at the warrior.  She knew little of this shadow magick for her brother was more knowledgeable about the other realms of existence.  However, it seemed her suspicions about the strange man were correct.

It was Erin who spoke: "Obviously, he did not return from whence he came."

"More than that," said Lanthinel, nodding in agreement with the black robed mage, "He seems to have an element of free will.  I take it he has chosen to remain with me thus far, out of a lingering sense of loyalty.  His exact nature is something I have yet to determine.  Questioning him accomplishes little.  His mind is relatively simple and literal."

"Unfortunately," the elf continued, "Though my shadow weaving seemed successful – perhaps even more successful than I expected! – he refused to draw steel against Daniel or even approach him, which made him a poor ally indeed.  The Chaos sorcerer laughed, mocking me even as he teleported to safety.  I've been unable to locate him since then…"

"I am unable to harm or disobey my creators," the shadow warrior intoned, looking at Lanthinel.  His square features were expressionless.

"How interesting," Erin murmured, studying the large man.

"I take it he means you and Daniel," Gwynnion said, a little unnerved.

Lanthinel nodded, a bit of a worried look crossing his face.  "Yes.  Or whomever it was."

"I wouldn't tell Daniel that if I were you," Kal remarked, "If he hasn't already figured it out for himself, that is."

"If he may pose a threat to others against your will, it might be wisest to simply unweave the spell which created him," Athica murmured, laying a hand on Gwynnion's shoulder in an unconscious gesture of concern. 

Lanthinel laughed.  "I've tried.  He seems to have assumed some measure of physical reality, above and beyond what the magick normally calls for…"

"That stare of his is unnerving," Alexis murmured, speaking for the first time.  Her voice was so soft Gwynnion almost thought she imagined it.  "Like a dead man's.  Soulless, empty.  I am surprised you tolerate his presence.  He is too...unnatural."

"Wizards tolerate and even embrace that which would horrify the common man," Erin told her in a hushed, sardonic voice, "Or woman.  Isn't that why they hate us so?  Why the Knights of Solamnia persecuted mages, regardless of what color robes they wore?  Why you keep your silence in our presence?  He is relatively tame.  And his uniqueness makes him interesting, if not valuable.  That is something you would never understand."

Alexis turned to the dark wizard with glittering blue eyes full of contempt, more than willing to translate her grief into anger.  "Aside from Oskar, I am the outsider to this gathering of wizards and I admit I do not understand much of what has been discussed here.  However, I bear you no enmity, sir mage.  You are a friend of Gwynnion’s and I give you my respect.  And my patience."  She looked away, her lips pressing into a hard line.  "I keep my silence out of grief.  I have lost my father, my sister and many brothers in arms these past few years.  This celebration is a bitter one for me."

"You have our sympathies, Alexis," Oskar told her, his tone growing more gentle than usual, "But take heart – you are among friends here, who care for you.  And I’m sure Erin did not direct his comments at you personally."

"And I didn't know your sister had died," said Gwynnion sadly, "I'm sorry."

"She was a murderer," the young knight said bitterly, "Justice is done.  Do not trouble yourself over it."

"I, too, know what it is like to lose family," Erin murmured, this time in a surprisingly gentle voice, "Especially in the name of 'justice'.  You have my condolences."

"Mine as well," Kalshann offered, "For what it is worth."

"And ours."  This was Lilian, a pinched look of sadness upon her and Poker's faces.

*        *        *

It was late in the evening when Kalshann came upstairs into the main room.  It was the family's building, though he'd once considered it to be Gwynnion's alone, in the small complex that formed the villa, separated from the apprentices for the sake of privacy and calm.  For the past year or so, it had been a quieter place.  Several of their students had died or departed after the Test of High Sorcery, leaving a core group of loyal friends and apprentices behind.  With the war past, life had established a comfortable, if busy, rhythm.  Gwynn, aided by Selene and Madeline, was grooming another building close by, a lovely thing of marble and ancient colonnades, to house the Daughters of Solinari.  When that was complete, things would be busier still, though somehow Kal suspected the white robed students would not generate a great deal of noise.  For now, though, even with the play and curiosity of the children, this section of Augustgrad was peaceful. 

A cool breeze was coming in through the balcony when he entered, padding lightly across the innumerable, scattered rugs which covered the villa's stone floors, to find Gwynnion asleep in the settee.  There were a couple of books sitting on the floor beside her, and a glass of the elven honeydew nectar she'd taken to drinking – which Kal didn't care for, though his love still tried to convince him of its virtues – on the arm of the sofa.  She was dressed in her gown from earlier, the white fan of her skirt draped over the side, looking like nothing so much as a strange flower blossom.  There was no sign of Shane and Genevieve; they must have gone to sleep already.  The air tasted sweet and fresh, gradually getting cooler, and from the feel of it he knew there was a rainstorm coming. 

Kalshann paused and smiled softly at the sleeping young woman, the beautiful length of her dark auburn hair splashed across her back and falling over her face.  The shell of one ear, just slightly tapered from her mother's elven blood, was visible amidst the curls.  Though he had become aware of getting older, ten years seemed to change her little.  Gwynnion's youthful delicacy was slowly giving way to the harder lines of maturity, especially at the cheekbones and jaw line.  Though slender, there was a fuller look to her face and limbs, the product of time, relaxation and – of course – having children.  But in most respects she was the same.  Kal still found it occasionally strange to think that Shane and Genevieve were like their mother, half-elven, and would age at much the same rate. 

Moving quietly – Gwynn slept restlessly these days, troubled by nightmares, and was easily wakened – Kalshann went to look in on the children and collect a blanket, a dark-colored and slightly worn one he'd owned for years.  When he returned, the room was cooler with the encroaching storm and Gwynnion had rolled onto her side.  The winding pattern of the rose tattoo was prominent at her throat and shoulder, its opposite end laid bare at the ankle by the shifted skirt.  Setting the books and glass aside, he carefully sat beside her, placing the blanket over her.  There were faint grey circles under her eyes from a long day split between home, the Conclave and apprentices.  But even with fitful sleep, the young woman looked peaceful, her lips parted in a faint smile.  Kal smiled affectionately in return, lightly stroking her hair. 

When he looked at Gwynnion, he didn't see the Voice of Solinari, the white robed sorceress who harried herself with research, politics and the (to him) more important matters of spirit.  Kalshann simply saw a beautiful young woman, whom he loved and adored, who had inexplicably changed the course of his life.  A distant friend who had become his lover and the mother of their children – something which still occasionally surprised him.  This quietly pleased him.  It felt like a treasure, something which he alone enjoyed.  Everyone else, excepting the children of course, saw her aloofly.  Even her friends and students who knew her well only glimpsed the surface, seeing the thoughtful, serious-minded cleric and mage.  Kal knew her deeply.  Her mere presence affected him in gentle ways.

Only because he knew her this way did Kalshann see her fear of dying.  It had faded from view in the years since the war, but it seemed to be returning, jogging nightmares and visions.  The images of Palanthus and Daniel and Cordella, which formed a haphazard puzzle.  Kal thought little about trying to perceive the future, nor did he accept fate, per se.  But he knew Gwynn thought about it quite often and with rising concern, as if it were the rippling thunder he heard in the distance, drawing closer.  She quietly fought against it, refusing to be boxed in against her will – or at least without knowing why.  But Kalshann knew that in the back of her mind somewhere, the fear and sadness still lurked.  Death was hardly a certainty, not in the manner she foresaw at least, but it wore heavily on her mind.

Sighing, Kal ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it back from her face.  Gwynnion stirred under his touch, lured back to consciousness by his presence, and he opened his eyes to slits with a soft, sleepy moan.  Her eyes widened as she saw him, a smile spreading upon her lips, and Gwynn's fingers played at the fringe of the blanket with a thankful expression. 

"What time is it?" she whirred, her voice high and soft.

"A little after midnight ," Kal replied with a kiss.

"Mmmmm."  Rubbing her eyes, Gwynnion smiled with a brief, far away expression.  "I was dreaming."

Kal smiled softly.  "About?"

"Athica, I think," the woman replied, laughing under her breath, "She gave me a blanket, too, because I was cold.  She had the strangest look on her face..."

"Athica often does," he told her playfully, "She's so serious.  And it is a bit chilly in here now.  There's a storm coming from the northwest, and the winds have changed ahead of it.  I'm not surprised you felt cold."

Gwynn smiled.  "Thanks for the blanket, love."

"It's nothing," he replied lightly, "Though you should come to bed.  You'll be uncomfortable sleeping here, and I'll miss you all night.  I might even get cold without having you close to me."  Kal made a little pout for her benefit.

Gwynnion giggled softly, earning a smile from him, and she managed to sit up, rubbing her stiff back.  As comfortable as the settee looked on first inspection, the cushions were rather thin and hard against the wooden frame.  "Well, we can't have that," she grinned, leaning forward to catch his mouth in another kiss, "And you're right.  Between this sofa and the twins, my back will be ruined someday..."

"Come on, then," said Kalshann, offering her a hand as he stood up, "You're tired and we could both use the sleep."

Nodding, Gwynnion gratefully took his hand and was helped to her feet.  The murmur of thunder outside was broken by the first true rumble, much closer now, and they could hear the tree leaves whisper outside as the wind stirred.  Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, the half-elf smiled faintly at Kal's listening posture, wondering distantly what he heard on the breeze.  Gwynn had once found this habit of fading briefly from the moment a little strange but it was second nature now.  Besides, how often did she catch a fleeting glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye, or feel the goddess' presence close at hand?  She supposed she acted much the same way. 

Clasping Kalshann's hand, she started to speak just as the downstairs bell sounded.

"It's rather late for visitors, isn't it?" Gwynn muttered, turning.

"It's Lucita," he replied, blinking as he refocused, "I heard her voice."

"Give me a moment," Gwynn sighed, kissing his cheek.

Nodding, Kalshann smiled at the swirl of her gown and hair as she walked downstairs, listening to the sound of her footsteps upon the cool stone.  The wind whistled outside on the balcony, the breeze stirring his hair as it swept inside, and another staccato ripple of thunder sounded, louder and closer again.  The storm was moving more quickly than he expected, but had yet to gather its full strength. 

When Gwynnion didn't return within a few minutes, he went downstairs in search of her.

Kal found her in the vestibule with Lucita and Oskar, whom the raven-haired woman had apparently delivered to their doorstep.  Lucita's dark eyes, alert and a little uneasy, flicked to Kal from where she stood at the doorway, arms folded under her breasts.  The white robed woman was active mostly at night, preferring the solitude, and he had run across her many times in the garden.  She, too, seemed to be half-listening to the weather, and she offered him a small smile of greeting, brushing long, black hair out of her eyes.

Oskar looked mildly perturbed, as usual.

*        *        *

Warm-colored light bathed the young woman's face in shifting shades of pink as she drew near the stone table.  The light of the orb failed to penetrate the darkness of the surrounding chamber, the air cold and moldy, unpleasant to breathe, like that of a tomb.  But the perfect glass sphere, comfortably situated in a cradle of wrought iron, warmed the air near it invitingly.  It caught the eye and drew the hand near to touch it, the shifting, glowing mist within the orb swirling hypnotically the closer she drew.  She could see herself reflected and distorted in the curved glass, the colors pulsing softly within as she reached out and lay a slender hand upon it.  It was indeed warm to the touch, like a living thing.  It seemed to breathe as she lifted it from the cradle.  It was such a little thing, too, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand.

Holding the glass in both hands, the young woman started as white rose vines began winding along the length of her right arm, emerging from underneath her white robes and crawling underneath the skin.  She could feel it spreading elsewhere, along the entire right side of her body, running down her leg, as if it were consuming her.  We are the same, child, a voice whispered.  An ancient voice that was many voices, raised in exultation, as if her merest touch on the glass was a caress.  You are one of us, and your enemies are ours.  Yet we are lost.  Forgotten.  Imprisoned.  Do not abandon us to the darkness, child, when there is so much we have to offer you...

"Mother?"

Gwynnion opened her eyes with a start, breathing heavily, to find Genevieve kneeling beside her, one hand on her mother's shoulder.  She saw herself reflected in the girl's worried amber eyes, eyes which she'd always found strange and beautiful.  Shaking off the vision, Gwynn gave her daughter a slight smile of reassurance.  No need to worry her further by recounting the troubling nature of the vision.  "I'm fine, Jenna.  Don't look so worried.  My mind just wandered elsewhere..."

"Where to?"  Genevieve frowned.

Gwynn shook her head to indicate her uncertainty, her green eyes glancing around at the forest.  Sunshine poured into the woods from gaps in the canopy above and the late Spring air, only just beginning to evince the heat of approaching Summer, tasted sweet.  So different from the cold darkness of the vision.  Puck was off a short distance away amid the tall grass, stalking a cluster of butterflies with intense concentration in his crystalline blue eyes, his gossamer wings twitching with anticipation of the strike.  The sight made Gwynnion want to laugh, but her daughter continued staring at her.  Not quite worried now, but a little perturbed.  Frowning, she set the vision aside for the moment.

"I'm not sure," she told Jenna, kissing the girl's brow.  Though really, Genevieve was hardly a girl anymore, a woman's figure just beginning to evince itself in the lines of her body.  Gwynnion dimly remembered being rather less developed at her age, but Sylune's elven blood seemed to be slightly weaker in the twins for their aging was not quite as slowed.  Or, perhaps, Jenna was simply blossoming sooner than she had.  Her childhood and upbringing had been vastly different from Gwynn's, after all.

"It happens sometimes in meditation," she added with a slight shrug, hoping to reassure her daughter, "Some people call it the Sight.  Others think they're just dreams, but I've had enough of them to believe they're real.  You might even have visions of your own the better you become at focusing your concentration."  She smiled gently, running a hand through the girl's curly brown hair.  "It's definitely nothing to worry about.  Where's your brother?"

Genevieve frowned but let the matter go for now, though it was difficult to resist her natural curiosity.  "He's over there with Piper and Athica," she murmured, gesturing toward another nearby clearing.  Her lips quirked into a wry smile.  "I think they're trying to convince him to learn how to fight."

Gwynn chuckled.  "I doubt they've had much luck."

"They haven't," Jenna shrugged, glancing that way, "Shane has about as much interest in swordplay as I have in, well..."

"Magick?"

The girl's brow furrowed as she looked at her mother.  "Well, yeah."

"You two have always known your own minds," Gwynnion smiled, rising to her feet (taking the helping hand Jenna offered with a slight grin), "There's nothing wrong with it.  Your father and I have always tried to nurture your own interests.  I only hope I don't bore you sometimes with talk of the Art or practicing meditation..."

"You don't," Genevieve quickly interjected, her tone serious rather than guilty, "Even when Athica teaches me how to fight I still use the same techniques and discipline you've taught me.  The two approaches really aren't all that different."  This time her smile was reassuring, that of a child hoping to please her parent.  "And I enjoy what little of the Art I've learned.  I just don't have the focus for it like Shane does, I guess..."

"It's alright, Jenna," Gwynn grinned, "It doesn't bother me either way."

She glanced up as Puck pounced on the butterflies, sending them scattering fearfully in all directions.  With what she could only imagine was a grin, the tressym launched himself into the air after one of them – the one with pretty gold and black wings – and languidly pursued it like a dragon taunting its prey.  All of a sudden, there was a sparkle of light, the tressym's collar glowing faintly, and the butterfly stopped in midair, beating its wings helplessly in confusion as Puck caught it in his magical grasp.  Genevieve followed her gaze and frowned at the sight. "Puck, let it go," she called, "It's just a butterfly."

The tressym glanced at her, swiped once at the butterfly – deliberately missing – and released it.  Panicked, the butterfly flew off as quickly as it could manage.  "Hmmph," Puck muttered, "I've proved my superiority."

*        *        *

The last time she'd been here, she'd called herself Gwynnion Devir.

That was before she journeyed to Silvanesti to see her stepfather, Elaithan Feyd Devir, and was disowned by the family who raised her.  Before she knew the full story of her origins, of Sylune Ilestil and Alistair Greycloak's supposed affair, and had been embraced by her mother's family under the aegis of Amorith Ilestil, her aunt.  But then she hadn't known a lot of things at the time, standing here in the mountains' shadow gazing out over the endless desert that was the western edge of the Northern Wastes.  She'd considered herself knowledgeable and strong, having progressed through the second innocence that came after the Test of High Sorcery, but in truth she had still been innocent.  And more than a little naïve. 

Yet, though she wouldn't give up the past fifteen years for anything, Gwynn still occasionally missed that version of herself.  She had been young, pure and strangely free.  More than once, she thought she'd seen the ghost of that younger woman dancing through the halls of the monastery, her white gown flashing in the dusty sunlight where the ceiling had fallen away.  She walked in her footsteps, listened to her light laughter and sweet, soft voice, allowing herself to be guided through the place by her memories.  Now and then, Gwynnion wondered what might have become of her if she'd stayed here or remained the bright, innocent youth who came here under Par-Salian's command. 

Wasted her potential, most likely.

The summer sun beat down on everything, and the hard ground baked in return.  The air was stifling down here and mercilessly hot, but Gwynnion ignored it.  She could have easily turned it away with the Art, but she preferred to feel the heat.  It reminded her of that day, when she strode out from the single, hidden mountain pass which connected Hinterland and Palanthus to go meet her former friends and companions – whom she barely knew then, her memory having been taken from her – in the great city of Solamnia .  She traveled with the desert people who called the Wastes their home, passing through the little village of Scorpi , where, to her surprise, she was lauded as a hero.  For reasons that were completely unknown to her.

Gwynnion smiled at the desert, basking in the heat.  Normally she was a child of the forest, her elven blood longing for the shade of trees and the cooling rains that were her heritage.  Elves dwelled in all places of the world, of course, even beneath the sea.  But the calling of the forest was ingrained in her from a childhood she didn't remember.  It was part of her, as it was perhaps part of every elf and half-elf.  Still, the desert called to her as well, with the azure sky yawning open before her and the silent, whispering expanse of sand and rock under her feet.  It was the silence that appealed to her most, Gwynn thought.  In the silence, she could hear quiet voices.  Voices that were always there, but normally inaudible to the busy mind.

The Plainsmen in the south called it the Voice of the Desert. 

She preferred to think of it as the whispers of eternity.

There was another voice, of course, lurking underneath that one.  Many voices, in fact, which she knew not to trust.  The souls bound up within the Glass, which had been calling to her for almost a year now.  She wondered if they would keep calling to her, pleading like an abandoned child, now that they'd been sealed away.  Gwynnion suspected their whispers would  continue to penetrate her dreams until she discovered what they wanted, she destroyed the Glass or they found someone else.  The half-elven woman supposed it was unnecessary to protect the orb as she had – it would not allow itself to be found except by the one it chose – but it gave her some peace of mind. 

As it was, there was no time to spend on studying it now.  There were armies on the move and changes in the air.  Destiny was pulling harder on her every day, dragging her toward the confrontation she knew was ahead.  If she survived, she would concern herself with the Glass afterwards.  If she failed, the defenses would stop Daniel if the Glass itself didn't refuse him.  Regardless of the outcome, there were more important things to concern herself with, like her children.  Closing her eyes, Gwynn offered a silent prayer for the safety of the twins and her safe return to them when this was all over.  She and Kal had worked hard to give Shane and Genevieve everything they could.  She did not want them to suffer a parent's absence the way she had growing up.

Gwynnion turned as she heard the beating of wings behind her.  Lazaiel landed gently on the hardpan behind her, folding his enormous wings behind him.  She almost asked him not to, for she found the white, feathery spread of his wings to be very beautiful, and the shade they offered was something of a relief here in the sun.  The angel bowed slightly in deference to her, the Voice of their goddess, before looking up again with a solemn expression.  His silver hair and amethyst eyes shone brightly in the sun. 

"All is prepared, my lady," Lazaiel stated, his voice soft and musical, sending a shiver through the woman's body as it always did.  As a servant of Solinari, his every word carried the potency of magick.  At least she had finally convinced them to stop calling her Great One in exchange for something more modest.

"Thank you, Lazaeil," Gwynnion smiled, "You and Messiach are to remain here and guard the Glass until I return and discharge you.  None but myself and those bearing my mark will be allowed into the catacombs."

"As you wish," the angel nodded, "But what of the children?"

Her smile widening, Gwynn shook her head, unsurprised that the two celestials had grown fond of the twins after all this time.  "Shane and Genevieve are getting old enough to look after themselves.  In the meantime, my husband and Athica will look after them.  And Lanthinel has arranged to bring them to the Tower of Goodlund if absolutely necessary, where they should be quite safe in case of an emergency.  I do thank you, however, for protecting my children for as long and as well as you have, Lazaeil.  I am in your debt."

Giving a small bow, the celestial said, "The Glass is dangerous, my lady.  If those within feel you have abandoned them, they may call someone else to retrieve it."

"Then you'd better stop them, hadn't you?" Gwynnion remarked mildly.

"We shall do our best."

"That is all I ask, Lazaeil."

A faint smile etched itself on the angel's glassy smooth, perfect features, but there was a tinge of regret in his amethyst eyes.  He seemed hesitant to speak.  "Your future is unclear to me, my lady, clouded by the Father of All and Nothing.  Yet I do not expect to see you again.  Your path leads away from us.  Away, even, from the god.  Were it not so, you might have joined our ranks when your time on this world ended."

Gwynnion's brow furrowed, her throat suddenly dry.  "You can see my future?"

"Only dimly," Lazaeil admitted, "And I would not presume to tell you anything for certain.  You are maren.  Fate can lay no hand on you, nor guide you along any path but that which you allow.  But I know, just as you do, what lies ahead.  Make your goodbyes to this world, Gwynnion, and be prepared.  Do not face the future with fear or regret."

With a pensive expression, Gwynnion nodded.  "That's good advice, Lazaiel.  But I think it's better to approach the future confident in your success.  Kal taught me that."

The angel smiled in deference.  "Then I shall take my leave of you, my lady."

"Thank you for your service, Lazaeil," Gwynnion bowed.

Nodding, he spread his wings – the half-elf's breath catching in her throat as she watched – and took flight, soaring upwards to rejoin Messiach.  Gwynn watched his flight until the bright sky hurt her eyes and she was forced to look away.