She tore around a corner, coming to a stuttering stop. Her heart thudded as loud as raindrops on a drum, and she was sure that it would lead them to her. The wall she was pressed against was cold under her bare shoulder blades, and reeked of a musty odor, one most people wouldn’t notice. She did, though. Her senses were thrown up a step, making her edgy, and, more importantly – alert. She could hear the muffled conversations of two men – no, a woman and a man – in the next alley way, one she knew to be similar to hers. She closed her eyes and strained her delicate hearing to it’s farthest reaching . . . discovering the conversation was about

HER.

Her eyes flew open and she shifted hardly an inch to the side, which, ironically, sent a large stack of wooden boxes tumbling over. The contents spilled in a cascade of stomach wrenching scents and noises, making her throat fill with the vile taste of acid. Before she could react, the men were upon her, sinewy arms reaching to grasp her own. She spun away and down the alley, heart pumping with the physical exertion. "Gods, help me," she muttered, and flung herself around the corner of a dumpster, narrowly missing a pile of rotting lettuce. Her bare feet had long since grew accustomed to the hard ground, which was often littered with nails and other derbies – unmentionables. She slid by these as if they were people you wouldn’t cast a second glance to, denizens of the back-alleys of the city. Her pursuers were right behind; she could hear their strained breathing under the armor they wore just for her. Ah, but it was worth it.

While she ran, the previous paranoia of getting caught by those imbeciles gone, she thought of what Alistair would say when he found out what she’d gained. The look on his face would be the biggest reward – definitely worth the chase. The men had seemed to slacken, perhaps had given up. She felt a smile come over her usually non-smiling lips, and mumbled a quiet thanks under her breath.

She slowed her pace to a casual jog, moving into the main street and weaving gracefully throughout the hustle and bustle. No one gave her a half-glance – which she was thankful for.

When she moved across one of the many side alleys, a slender fingered hand latched onto her wrist, yanking her out of the crowd. She snapped her arm around out of reflex, placing her wrist around the man’s, then twisting it further. He yelped, then screeched : "Ivory! Ivory! It’s ME!" And, after another grimace : "Won’t you let go?" Ivory let out a long, relieved sigh, shoving sun-tinted hair out of her eyes – tucking the strand behind a thrice-pierced ear. She loosed her grip, letting her similarly long-digited, artistic hand fall to her side. He leaned forward, placing his palms on her shoulders and pushing her against the wall, moving a few inches back from her nose. In a hushed voice he said, "Well?"

She grinned slyly and ducked out from his arms, strolling down the ally, the opposite way she’d come in. "Well . . . ?" She echoed, and threw a casual glance over her shoulder. He jogged a few paces and fell into rhythm behind her, sharing the smirk that she’d donned. She could pull his strings and she knew it – and used it to her advantage. An elegant, swift movement and she dropped her hand to her hip, patting a bump in the back pocket of her pants. His eyes followed eagerly, then flowed back to her own – never interested in her body – only in the knowledge and skill it contained. She continued to pluck at his chords like a bard’s on a finely crafted instrument, and walked further forward, rather then pulling the key from her side. A shift of the muscles in her thigh and she could tell it was still laced securely to the inside of her waist, thin golden chain wrapped around her hips – concealed under the clothing. The small shape still felt familiar, and the suspicion that she could’ve lost it during the chase disappeared.

Their surroundings had grown darker with the setting of the sun, hues of crimson carelessly splattered about the clear sky. The sun’s rays were still apparent over the mountains that were cropped up upon the horizon in the West, bathing the slender alleyways in a golden glow. She idly kicked at a clump of misused paper, sending it tumbling against the side of the building they were near. She watched these as they walked, pretending not to notice Alistair’s eyes burning into the side of her face. It’s just the sun it’s just the sun . . .

"So?"

She gave a mental sigh, and returned his gaze. As she watched, he strummed his fingers through the carefully manicured goatee that covered his chin, pulling off the most seductive look that he could manage. Her stomach flipped, and she looked away, rolling silven eyes to the overhangs of the buildings. She could hear him chuckle to himself, almost a sound of giving up at getting her to speak – for the moment.

They walked in silence – complete and utter silence – feet not making a single sound upon the ground. Well-known and memorised doorways they passed, not caring to look inside to see what souls lingered there. After they’d seemed to map the back streets, they emerged into the main square; though ducked into a tavern titled the Banshee’s Reverie after only a few steps had been walked.

The tavern was crowded with both travelers and regulars, ones whom Ivory nodded to or simply shoved aside. Destination was oh-so apparent : a table in the center of the tavern, arranged, already, to her specifications. A burly man that seemed to have had far too much to drink was sitting there, chortling at the top of his lungs. Ivory came up behind him and seemed to analyze the ‘predicament’ for a moment, silently brooding to herself. With a swift motion she leaned forward and back, drawing the back of the chair the man was in into palms and depositing it at a different table. He looked rather bewildered but no one made any remarks, so Alistair and Ivory took their seats.

The din of the tavern died to a dull roar, fading into the background as did the thick stench of ale. Alistair scooted his chair across from Ivory’s; rough grinding noises swirling up from the harsh movements. He leaned across the table, arms folded in front of him, looking just as eager and excited as he did when he first saw her that day. She succumbed to the look upon his face and hesitantly drew the key out of her pocket – leaving it still attached to the chain. Not that she didn’t trust Alistair, of course.

His amber eyes automatically widened when they saw it, nimble fingers reaching out and taking it from her outstretched palm. "Gods, Ivy," he breathed, the silver threads in his eyes accented a degree by sheer amazement. "You’ve really done it."

She simply nodded, trying not to think about what she’d gone through to obtain it, but decided not to burden his joy with that right now. Her heart beat faster, feeling the awe radiate off of him, knowing very well how he felt, for she’d felt the same when she had first heard about it.

He reluctantly drew his eyes up toward her, and hunched over even further. "Do you know what this means? We could rule this realm, if we used this the right way. If people knew, Ives, if people knew."

"What do you mean, we?" She asked, leaning over as well, and plucking the key and the chain back into her visage, securely stuffing them both into her pocket. She hopped up from the seat and sauntered over to the bar before he could answer, looking over her shoulder and mouthing a, "be right back" to Alistair. The man behind the bar, a harlequin looking fellow dressed in somber colors and wearing a dull black loop around his neck that denoted him as a tender nodded to Ivory, as she lowered herself into a seat in front of him. She spun out her order before he had time to ask her what she wanted, but that wasn’t even necessary – she’d gotten the same things every day she’d set foot into the Banshee’s Reverie.

She twirled the stool by touching her toes to the floor and pushing off from it, now resting back against the bar, facing the crowd. Some men and women in the far, shadowed corner were in a heated discussion, snippets of their words floating to her still-perked ears. The one that was sitting at the head of the table was gesturing about fervently, accenting certain words with wider waves of his fingertips. She tilted forward, off of her seat, trying to get a closer look at these – hands had always amazed her – and found the digits to be those of hers and Alistair’s. Thief’s fingers. A thud of glass against wood sent her spinning around, eyes caught by the two mugs that were set upon the counter. Mead and water, the drinks she’d ordered. She caught these up between her palms and slid off of the stool, making her way back over to Alistair, though she stole another glance at the table of darkened people. The glinting of metal reflecting light drew her line of sight down, hurriedly taking in the weapons that were visible.

Before she could make her way back over to her table, she stumbled over a loose board – sloshing the liquid over the sides of the glasses and drawing more attention to herself then she’d wished. Each of the men, in turn, shifted their weight to look at her, and most were not kind, welcoming smiles and the warm beckoning of her to join them. Hands shifted imperceptibly to the very blades and daggers that were thought to be concealed, steps of caution to assure their safety played out. She felt her heart jump into her throat and to make the rest of her motions seem natural was a task in itself.

* * *

The woman’s eyes followed her, watching each movement with seemingly haphazardly placed inclinations of her head and shoulders, each giving her a better view of where she sat. Her senses could pick up every minor detail of the female, though each was a challenge to obtain. She’d apparently taken each aspect of herself into count as if another was looking at her, knowing, perhaps, that they’d come to her advantage someday. They were, it was true; but not as much as she might’ve liked. The woman leaned back into the corner she was situated in, still watching, but simply waiting, now – not wanting to disturb whatever chances arose later in the eve.

* * *

The night wore on and on, and many men and woman both stumbled out of the Banshee and away down the path, each leaving drowsy in a drunken stupor. The air outside was muggy, that of a summer night, hardly holding the crisp and pristine clarity that the fall’s did. The tavern was mostly empty, holding only Ivory, Alistair, the tender, and a few other occupants that had nothing better to do with their eve then sit and talk in a tavern. Barren mugs cluttered the counter and tabletops, filled with the remnants of intoxicating liquids, some more so then others. Ivory was currently fingering a spoon that had somehow found it’s way into her water glass, clicking it against the side while Alistair droned on about one thing or another, nothing that had held her attention for very long. Occasionally she supplied with a, "Mmhmm" or "Of course", "I see" or "No, I’ve been listening the whole time" but nothing more complicated then those.

"Wha’ shall we do wit’ a drunken sailor," he drawled, slumping further in his chair and tapping a finger upon the table to keep the beat that wasn’t there. "Slit ‘em in tha belly wit’ a rusty razor . . ."

Ivory snickered, then arched her back in a stretch, raising bare arms above her head. Her mouth opened wide to allow a yawn to pass through, and she dropped her hands flat-palmed upon the surface of the table. "Alistair, I have to go. There’s a few things I have to get done tonight, and staying in a tavern 'til Gods-Know-When won’t do me any good."

He immediately paused his song, giving her a curious look, his speech coming out without the slur. "Since when were you one to care about health . . . or . . . whatever . . ."

"Since now," she answered, and rose from the chair. She reached over and patted him on the shoulder, then winked once. "Don’t you go telling anyone what I’ve gotten, alright?" He nodded dumbly, then went back to his song, the words floating out after her as she moved throughout the tavern and to the door. What shall we do with a drunken sailor, earl-aye in the morning . . .

The wooden boards creaked one second after she’d stepped – making it sound as if someone was following her – but this disappeared after a moment, leaving her to believe it was just her imagination. She slipped out through the doorway and hopped agilely down the steps, coming to a pause upon the main road, dusty from horse and human tracks alike. The streets were far less crowded than they were that afternoon, though a steady trickle of people strode down them, hurrying to find a vacant room in an inn, or to simply get home for the night. A few hovered under torches that burned outside some of the establishments, which provided the only light despite intermittent forms that carried candles as they walked. The flames wavered in the breeze, which seemed to want to quench the fire – knowing any more heat would be quite unwelcome in the muggy night hours.

She moved into the trickle, feet never making so much as an imprint of a sound on passerby’s ears. She raised a hand to scratch at the back of her neck, tendrils of blond hair coiling about her fingers, touched with a light sweat. A cricket chirped in a meager shrub that seemed to try it’s hardest to look larger, ( but failed ) the only distinct noise in the night. The side streets were unclogged by the usual underclass traffic, and pitch-blackness could be seen down them. She squinted her eyes as she passed these, indiscernibly checking to see if the people she’d spotted earlier were lingering around. To no avail, of course.

The footfalls that seemed to sound right after hers continued, and she was soon aware of a hardly definite presence behind her. Its form was cloaked in the same darkness she traveled in, the same smoothness, the same careful steps and turns, each calculated and measured subconsciously. But these steps were not those of an expert, but those of, also, someone trying to be heard. Without realising it, her own grew faster. She muttered under her breath, these noises brushed from her lips by the wind – a silent prayer once more. Was the key really that apparent?

She could hear the air whistle past her ears, a minor telling of how fast she was moving. The still unnamed steps seemed to be moving, once more, quicker – the rhythmic thudding was easier to work out in her head then the movement of air. Heart rate climbed as did her senses, making her more aware, again. She knew she’d be completely worn out from the stamina it took to keep it up earlier that day as well as once more at night. A short glance was thrown to a path leading to her right – an opening chance. She swung herself into this, careening into the wall with a muffled smack. Here she stood, having spun out of sight in a split second of time, and knew for sure that she’d lost whoever was following her.

She’d thought too soon, however. Not a moment after her escape had been wrought did she feel a sharp stab of pain as a hand clamped down over her mouth, the skin of the stranger’s smelling of a strange sea-salt. Ivory struggled for a moment but this ceased – she could easily tell when her strengths were surpassed. A woman’s voice sounded, rough and grainy, as if it’d been eroded away from its natural quality; stinging her ears. Whispers that seemed like gongs resonated inside of her head, a trait that set the woman far apart from any other, one that Ivory knew she’d encountered before but couldn’t remember, for the life of her, where.

The words were torpid, as if programmed and spewed out for a too-attentive audience, which Ivory couldn’t help but be. What choice did she have? "Ivory . . . is that your name?"

She nodded, and shifted her waist to the side, trying to place a pinned hand near her sheathed dagger. A burning pain was sent down her left side, beginning at her waistline and moving down to her toes, making that whole side of her body seem to fall asleep – a very painful sleep. Fires surged in front of her eyes, making her cheeks flush from the imagined heat. The recognition she’d gotten from this ‘trick’, too, brought her even closer to what she knew the woman was – but just couldn’t put a name to it.

"Ah, ah, ah . . . wouldn’t try that, if I were you," chided the woman, who pressed her lips closer to Ivory’s ears. "You have the key, don’t you? Mm – no need to answer, we know you do – and we know you know we want it back. You certainly can’t last very long with it in your possession, can you? You won’t tell anyone, and those anyones will be all the more jealous when they find out. That, Ivory, is your weakness. The choice is difficult : you can give it to me now, and this meeting has never, ever happened. Or, you can choose to keep it.

"Would I really let you do that? Yes. The consequences of holding it will come in time, and if you’re willing to take them – feel free to welcome them with open arms, for all I care. But, choose carefully, for your Fate does indeed rest on this decision."

When the coarse words had died down, the only thing that ran through Ivory’s thoughts was – damn. She’d gone through so much to obtain the key. Was she willing to give that up because of one threat? But it didn’t seem like just a threat, at all. More like truth. A warning, maybe. Then again, the words could be empty, mere sentences to make her knees quiver and eventually collapse out from underneath her. She couldn’t cater to the woman’s whims. Nothing of such importance could be let go so easily.

The woman seemed to have sensed that she’d finished, and lowered her hand, not needing to prompt her to speak. "Go on, Lady. Take your threats and leave me be," Ivory said, managing to pull off a bold-sounding tone. The woman stepped back once more, a thin shaft of starlight piercing the canopy of haze and sliding over her face, revealing hard chiseled features, dark brows and a fine mouth; eyes that could see into one’s soul if they so wanted. Ivory would remember those eyes – that she was sure of.

"Very well," she said, with a curt nod, and a spin of her heel. Ivory wanted to ask, ‘is that all?’ but kept quiet, pursing her lips and allowing herself to sink into the shadows, feeling the life return to her side and leg. She shook her foot a few times for good measure and found this returned the nerves to it immediately, as if nothing had ever happened. The encounter – the lady’s words – still hung heavily in her thoughts, asking to be brooded and mulled over. Ivory watched the woman walk away, her form sliding into the darkness as elegantly as she herself would have.

Time had seemed to whiz by, leaving Ivory to roll her head back against the wall, drowned by the silence. These chance meetings, muffled words in the dark, and never the royal affairs of castle and men of high ranking shaped the city. Not a soul had noticed her being taken from the street, or perhaps they had and ignored it. She reminded herself to never to rely on the kindness of others – a truth she had long known.

The dirt under her feet rolled aside as she slunk back out from the side road, making her way down the street to wherever it was she was going; she’d forgotten, now. Where had she heard of those skills? They were so familiar, like she’d just watched them before and experienced a bad sense of déjà vu. Her mind wanted to move back into various tales she’d heard spun by local bards, but they were ones she didn’t care to remember, for history had always seemed boring to her. She did recall a tale of an elite band of people in the trade of espionage and thievery – but could swear that was only a tale meant to amuse. The false does sometimes hold a measure of truth . . .

Every thought was brushed aside when she came into sight of the Inn she’d made her current point of residence, the Poisoned Vine. Sleep began to cloud her brain, leading her body through the process of nodding a hello to the late-night watch, climbing the stairs, unlocking the door to her room, and then collapsing onto the bed. The realm of dreams didn’t come soon, though, and she found herself falling asleep after the sun had come up . . . ideas and questions churning around inside of her head.

The marble obelisks extended from the floor to ceiling, at least ten people arm widths around. They reminded the woman of obscene, massive tree trunks. Her heeled shoes clacked against the also marble floor, resounding harshly in her ears. The stairs in the center of the immense temple towered before her, daring her to climb, though she knew that she had to. A deep vibration ran through the very veins of the room, causing her knees to tremble and goose pimples to rise out from her flesh. When the woman arrived at the foot of the staircase, she paused, sucking in a ragged breath. As soon as she raised her leg her thigh muscles screamed in protest. She forced herself to take one agonizing step after the other, each seeming like even more of an effort then the first. Her mind felt like it would explode because of the blood pumping through it. The note that was sounding around her still hung steady, caught in a net of silence that needed something to fill it.

The top seemed closer after that moment, and when she came across the last step she fell to her knees, almost forgetting to cross her arms over her chest and murmur a slight word of devotion. Paying her respects, as was asked of anyone who set foot in the temple for even a moment. As soon as this last ‘task’ was accomplished the silence returned, a cue for her to speak. She had to breathe heavily before she was able to rasp out, "I don’t have her."

What sounded like a shift of curtains floated through the room, though faint and distant. A presence was immediately felt. She looked up only a few inches and saw the familiar, tall figure, swathed in shadows, standing at the top of the stairs opposite the ones she’d climbed up. He moved in aqueous motions, each step seeming more like a glide, each swing of his robe seeming slowed down as if submerged in water. The power around him was easily felt. Both magical and pure emotion hovered tentatively about him, fearing he’d escape their grasp. It was mere seconds before he was upon her, looming, monstrous, like the stairs. He lowered a hand, as she knew customary – and reached up to meet it with her own. It seemed millennia before he regarded her as someone more then part of a ritual.

"I can see that you do not have her, Esassha. You’ve made that apparent by entering alone. But no worries – I’m sure the Shadows will love a new friend."

Not even giving her time to respond, serpentine tendrils of pitch black matter extended from behind her, acting as a vice when they clamped down upon her upper arms. She drew back but couldn’t move from her spot, for she was held firmly in place. The feeling of death was so overwhelming; she could feel the darkness leaking into her skin and coursing through her veins, destroying all it made even the slightest contact with. She couldn’t say anything in protest, but tried as hard as she was able, to convey words in her eyes – all the while knowing that a man ( if he was a man ) like which he was would never experience pity. Even though, the shadows backed off slightly, and feeling hissed back into her body. A much more violent method then the one she’d used on the girl.

"I seem to have chosen the wrong person for the deed. The temple guards will go capture and return her to me, for as you know – she has something very, very valuable and we cannot let her keep it, now can we? Go busy yourself elsewhere, Esassha. Stay out of my sight until she is brought here. You’d do best to keep out of the Shadow’s, as well."

The note returned, and she was dropped from the blackness’ grasp. In a flash of what seemed like soot the man was gone as well, leaving a pungent odor lingering in the crisp temple air. She choked back a cough and turned down the steps, missing a few and tumbling most of the way. The coldness – the darkness – would not leave her.

* * *

Ivory strolled casually through the always-crowded street, sliding expertly past the few jams of people that hampered her walk. She didn’t hear much in the way of friendly conversation, in fact, now that she thought about it, they seemed to stop all together when she neared.

She began to pay closer attention to the looks she was receiving, and saw many were darting their eyes from her own silver ones – and some even stepped to the side. Not one boot squashed her bare feet, a luxury she wasn’t sure she could enjoy. Every minute or so she tried stopping one of the passerby, but only got a frightened shriek and a look that told her she was evil in response. She had about given up when she saw a young boy, perhaps six or seven, gazing curiously up at her. The brown mop that covered her head gave him an innocent and truthful look, so she bent down to talk to him.

"Why are you looking at me so strange?" she asked, trying to shove the panic back down her throat and sound friendly.

"Don’t you know?" he asked, looking genuinely curious. "You’re condemned, Miss Ivory." He smiled suddenly, then pushed away from her, disappearing in the throes of people that clouded the street. She rose and tried to steady herself, then began staggering through the crowed.

Condemned. The key. The temple . . . the woman? Her thoughts were dismissed when Alistair’s voice broke through her mind, and she felt a steady, firm touch at the small of her back, guiding her through the messy throng of people. "Ivy . . . what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

"You tell me," she muttered, allowing him to shove her to the side of a group of people. That was hardly necessary, they had moved to the side anyway. She shivered as she heard the word ‘condemned’ ring in her mind again, seeing the calm look the boy had wore. The tales of horrible things they’d do to one in the temple were just that – tales – right? The more often she told herself that, the less she believed it. She felt dizzy, her surroundings tilting and whirling about her in a nauseous disarray of colours. She tried desperately to concentrate on the steady pressure she felt on her back and not on the spirals that flew throughout her view. Following this was the sharp hiss of Alistair’s voice, abruptly stern and reprimanding, like an older figure speaking to a child.

"Why didn’t you just give them the key? The whole city knows, Ives. You’ll never be able to make a break now. The Temple Guards will be here any moment."

"What? The Guards don’t ever leave the Temple grounds – everyone knows that. And you wouldn’t have given them the key, too; it means so, so much, Alistair . . . I know that you know that."

"I do, I do," he whispered, then shoved her against a building, following suit, then rolling past her and tugging her along once more, speaking at a level she was sure only she could hear. "The Temple knows as well as you and I do of what powers the key holds. They will do anything – anything – to get it. That’s the only reason the guards are out, and trust me, there’s a lot of them. Slender, quick men, Ivory, like you and me, with the whitest eyes, no colour whatsoever. They were roaming the streets earlier. It’s probably good that you left the inn when you did – or maybe it’s not. The punishment might’ve been lessened if they weren’t so worked up to find you."

"Punishment?" Ivory exclaimed, face paling, eyes widening. She wasn’t answered, instead finding herself once again thrown against a doorway, smacking the wood hard enough to knock her out. She kept the failing strands of her consciousness long enough to feel Alistair tug her inside, the door closing with a booming thud behind her. She felt her hair slip out of the bun, like sunlight through her fingers, dragging her deeper and deeper into the darkness as it disappeared . . .

* * *

* * *

Ivory gasped and sat bolt upright, propped up upon hands that were placed behind her. She was covered in a cold sweat, and her hair clung to her forehead in matted clumps. She looked to her side to find Alistair laying on the bed beside her, apparently not asleep though his eyes were closed. She lowered herself back down and shut her eyes, trying to rid her mind of the remnants of the dream.

"Nightmare?" Alistair asked coolly, and when she cracked an eyelid she saw his own open, a half-smile on his lips. It was hard to tell if it was sincere and not some feigned expression to make her feel better. She rolled onto her side; looking out of the window that was cut into the wall across from the bed – seeing the sun hadn’t set. It took a good minute or two before it dawned on her that she hadn’t a clue where she was. She twisted on the bed to face Alistair, urgency playing out in her silvery eyes. "Where are we?"

He shrugged indifferently, and flopped onto his back. "It doesn’t matter. You’re resting. You needed it, anyone could tell."

"I didn’t need that nightmare," she muttered, and wondered why their chase had been ceased. She pushed herself up off of the tousled comforter, seeing that she’d just been set on top of the previously made bed. The room she was in was small, apparently the only one that made up the house. No people’s voices sounded from outside, so she felt fairly safe of the guards, for the time. When she turned, she saw Alistair up and at another window, wide awake and mumbling something to himself as he looked outside. The muscles in his neck and arms seemed tense, and his fingers twitched periodically, as if pulling unseen cords. In only a split second his face fell, as did a curse from his lips, and he tore by Ivory, taking her hand on the way, leading them both outside. She thought it best not to question – simply keep quiet and walk – so that is what she did.

He took ( more like dragged ) her through more alleys and houses that she didn’t know existed in Belareen, but she felt more up to speed, not about to faint. Before she’d had time to begin comprehending what the first alley they’d passed through looked like, they were back in the crowded street. She had to duck down, narrowly missing hitting her head on a beam she hadn’t seen; the mad flurry of images disorienting her. She didn’t know who their pursuers were, or if there even was one, but knew it wouldn’t be too hard for them to find a girl for whom the crowd parted.

The fact that they were trying to outwit, outsmart and escape from a life or death matter would’ve usually seemed horribly exciting and intriguing, but all she felt was the undeniable urge to stop in her tracks and scream, "Here I am!" Alistair must’ve felt her slacken for he pushed her in front of him, only a pressure on her shoulder that told her where to go. The people and surroundings seemed to blur together and repeat every five seconds – hadn’t she seen that man twice already?

A piercing scream shot through the crowd. Oh, no, I’ve been caught . . . was the first thought that ran throughout her mind. But she instead slowly acknowledged the fact that she’d always been caught, from the moment she’d picked up the key. Imminent disaster. Alistair seemed to realise this, too, and slowed his pace, drawing her nearer as the crowed that’d before parted instead moved closer and closer to them, hands reaching out to touch . . . insane movements filling her sight, until a sharp whistle brought them all to an automatic pause. A tall, shadowy figure stepped through, surrounded on either side by an abundance of the men that Alistair had described. The man at the head of them didn’t seem like he belonged to the mundane world, an ethereal presence among peasants.

"There you are, my dear," he cooed, as soon as their eyes locked. She felt her blood turn to ice, it seeming to move slower through her body, as if churning past a large block. Alistair’s touch all together disappeared, the comforting encircle of his arms not there, and she felt herself moving closer to the man, drawn by forces she couldn’t comprehend. A faint shout shuddered through her thoughts, but then her mind became clear, unclouded by anything but the man. Dark and mysterious, someone she wanted to figure out.

She was vaguely aware of the guards shifting to move in a circle around her, moving tighter and tighter until they enclosed her fully. She looked vainly into the man’s eyes, but he gave her none of the answers that she expected. A spark of unnatural flame lit up his face, and she was brought back to her previous dream – the fire that forged the key. She felt a wave of vertigo sweep over her in a deafening roar, drowning her, taking her deeper and deeper. She convulsed violently then was sent sprawling onto her hands and knees, her head spinning. The ground seemed to turn into the sky and the sky the ground, never wanting to stay still. She desperately felt around the area about her, searching for something . . . the key. The rocking of her vision intensified, and she felt herself collapse. Although she couldn’t see, hear, taste or smell anything, she could feel. She could feel someone lifting her up off of the ground and walking with her; after that it went totally black. No, not black, but grey, something abnormal – not that what was happening wasn’t, already. Before she totally drifted off, she saw the little boy’s face again, hovering in her thoughts, mocking her before dissipating.

She had the worst headache. Oh, Gods, it was horrible. Pounding and throbbing, a shrill note ringing in the background. Her ears pulsed with the noise, it seeming to try to tear them apart piece by piece. She felt like screaming to release some of the tension that was building up in her toes and creeping slowly up into her calves. Ivory rolled over on what felt like marble ground, landing with a thump on her side. The mere touch of the material on her bare shoulder and palms was enough to chill her to the bone. When her eyes finally responded to her request to open, she saw a huge room, one too large for her to comprehend in her state. She hadn’t the energy to raise her senses, which felt dulled to a before unfelt low. She struggled to her feet, wobbling for a second before standing tall, shoulders thrown back. Better to seem bold now when she wasn’t able to later.

A loud footfall had to sound in her ears before she turned to her left, seeing a womanly shape slide out of the shadows. Her voice swung across the distance parting them, pausing in front of Ivory, where she could make out the words. "Dear Ivory . . . I do wish that you’d have come when I first asked you to. I don’t believe I’d wish this fate on a single one of my enemies, but it cannot be helped now, can it?" Ivory sensed the obvious rhetorical question and remained silent, not moving an inch from the spot where she was. Poised, almost, though she felt like the bird a cat was stalking. The woman sauntered forward, moving across the floor without a single bob of her head. Her fingers danced at her sides, swinging, as her arms were not. She stepped around Ivory’s back, then around to the front again, standing a good foot or so back from her. The woman was not scared, this much Ivory could tell. Merely cautious. She silently cursed her for being so; it would’ve been so much easier to escape if –

"Escape?"

Ivory started. It hit her who she’d encountered. The semi-mind-readers, the ones able to use magical powers with a shift of neck and twist of arm. Their names would not come to her now but when she had first started out in her profession they were prominent. She’d encountered one when she was very young . . . one whispering "Dear Ivory, I won’t hurt you," when inside, she felt herself being torn apart. The woman gave her this fear. Her eyes glitter maliciously in the torchlight ( not that she could see the torches ) telling Ivory of the horrible things that those eyes had seen, more horrible than she could imagine. A considerably loud swish and sway of material then passed from one ear to the other, making her spin in a circle to see who was moving around her.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

She tried to listen, straining her ears, but heard silence, which was filled with the throbbing of her heartbeat . . .

Mixed with someone else’s.

The faint rustle of satin, maybe, flowed about her again, and before she could blink a man stood in front of her. Dark and tall, he dwarfed Ivory’s size, it a task to look up at the tall figure. He extended a hand and drew his fingers down her cheekbone, the touch making her recoil as far as she was able to from the monstrous feeling. His eyes glittered maliciously and when he moved away from her she found she had no choice but to follow.

Stairs loomed before her, ones he began walking up, deliberately taking his time and apparently reveling in her cringes and gasps and moans as the stair’s magics kicked into action. She was beginning to falter from under the repeated badgering; the pain that seemed to never let up. All because of a key. A simple, simple key. She heard a voice argue with her inside of her thoughts, telling her that it was not simple, but dangerous.

"You should have realised the consequences, Ivory." And she knew it was right. She felt an exceptionally sharp tug on her arm, it feeling like it was pulled out of its socket, and was tossed down upon the ground. She tumbled to her knees, sliding and coming to a stop in front of an alter-like set up. Her eyes rose, and she saw it wasn’t an alter, but a door. The black stone shimmered, throwing off sparks of light, disregarding them as if it simply didn’t care. Ivory felt something inside her close, as if it didn’t want to be in the presence of such an ominous thing. All the blood drained from her fae as she saw the fires lick up the sides of the door, coiling and twirling . . .

The next blink passed, and they disappeared. She turned her head opposite the direction of the door and to face the man and woman, finding the gawky temple guards had entered. More like filing in, each step and placement of foot seemed choreographed. She fought against her screaming muscles and sat up to watch what they were doing, trying to find any clues as to what her fate would be. She became aware that a circle was boring about her, closing off any last minute memory of a departure. The soft whistle of air against moving forms stopped, and the man’s serous form slipped through an unhooked link in the circle. She was vaguely aware of the fire’s flickering at the edge of her vision and the stony coldness beneath her fingertips.

Chanting began. First what sounded like a scale, rising to an ear-piercing high note to a bone-chilling low, hitting each with frightening accuracy. It was molded into an arpeggio, climbing high, then dropping. A monotone thud was heard, then only a rhythmic chord, the two repeated over and over and over again, an infinity of notes and sounds. The man’s voice cut through the noise, though it continued on behind him. It was so very beautiful, but hideously enchanting, making it unable to be called music.

"Ivory," he began.

"Where did you get the key?"

"I’m not telling you."

"And why is that?"

"Why is it you want to know?"

"Don’t agitate me. Do you care for your life?" THUD, THUD. "If you do, you will tell me."

"I . . . will . . . NOT." THUD.

The rhythm stopped all together. Something else was starting . . . a wistful melody arose to the right of her, notes dancing above mortal limitations, the kind of song that would evoke happy, weeping memories. A harmony joined, and it sounded pleasing to the ear. Teasing the senses, then flittering away. Another part mingled in, and the room became darker. Candles were snuffed and torches quashed. The tune became one of a severe melancholia, tearing at the frail strings of Ivory’s heart, wrenching them, then releasing. Every crime she’d committed that she’d felt guilty for, every lie that made her look to the ground in shame while telling rose, vivid and fresh.

"No," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "No!" She clapped her hands over her ears but did not scream in hopes of drowning out the song. Her thoughts went to anything floating on the top of her head. The song Alistair was singing the night before . . . though it felt so much longer. Even the woman’s warning, the boy’s calm eyes as he told her she was condemned . . . condemned . . .

She’d overcome, though. The memories were gone, and the man was standing but a few steps away from her when she lowered her palms, looking at her as if she was a beast. Ivory found she could not rise, but delivered a glare and didn’t back down, holding what little ground she was able to.

"Ivory," came the voice, again, calm and patient, yet tinged with an edgy sarcasm, "where did you get the key?"

She wished she could have forgotten. She wished she could truthfully say, "I have no idea where I got it." But she knew . . . the memory was so agonizingly vivid in her eyes. She knew, and she could tell him; she would be able to save her life. A singular shrill noise danced into her ears, the kind heard at the suspenseful parts of a bard’s tale, the kind heard when the killer is right behind you. Ivory couldn’t ( wouldn’t ) believe this, the only being around her were the guards.

And the man. As she looked up at him he sank down into a crouch – an elder talking to a confused youth. Fury and anger burned beneath her sin, sat in the pit of her stomach like a boulder. If there was anything she hated, she hated being looked down upon. And the way the man looked at her, so very apathetically, made her feel as inferior as was possible. He changed his gaze and next looked deep into her eyes, searching the silvery depths for what she wouldn’t tell him, but that was locked up. Perhaps the key was giving her strength . . .

He stood up with a rush of black cloth and whirled to face half of the circle. "Prepare her. The door will be opened."

The guards turned away and for a moment she felt safe – if that emotion could be felt – but the icy grip of skeletal fingers clamped down on her shoulders, arm, waist, thighs, and she felt shadows entering her. Her eyelids drooped for a moment and she felt part of herself drift away, but when they opened she found she was simply standing, clothes replaced with a red robe, key still looped about her stomach. The chanting was back, yet it went unnoticed and quiet.

The fires slowly inched up the sides of the doors and held her transfixed, flame’s erotic dance filling her senses. Nothing but the fire . . . it feeding on everything but nothing, nothing but everything. If she was only able to enter them, enter the flames . . .

"The time will come soon enough, Ivory. You are going to the other side. You will learn of your sins. I will give you one more chance – they key, or your life."

. . . the fire . . . glowing embers . . . she felt her skin grow warm with the short distance between them. Ivory hardly heard what the dark man was saying; all that mattered was the fire.

"Very well, Ivory. You have made your choice."

The flames died.

The man stepped around in front of her, and only then did she see the silven metal, golden hilt – ivory blade. The chanting rose again, sounding with the fury of the flames, hissing yet rich and clear, melding impeccably with one another, each piece of the puzzle sliding and clicking together. The blade rose, and her eyes followed. No glint of her death, only her namesake, the off-white colour – the tip, oh-so deadly. It lowered inch by inch; the chanting rising at it sank.

The blade plunged deep into her breast, and her hands groped futilely around the hilt, turning red with her own blood. Silence now, only the beating of her dying heart.

"Ives! Ivory – NO!" she heard, so faintly, and turned to see Alistair’s grief-stricken face, beautiful eyes filling with tears. Then, a soft, inaudible, "Stay with me . . ." and he collapsed as she collapsed, her lifeblood spilling as his tears did. He watched her as she grimaced with the new wave of pain, then opened them once more . . . one more moment of looking upon him. Then, the puddle of crimson faded to black, and she was gone.

Ivory . . . Ivory was . . . gone . . .

"How could you?" he screamed at the dark clothed man, the nearest guard, someone to take his anger out on. "How could you kill her?" He staggered to his feet and stepped twice before his legs gave out. The man's shoulders shook – was he chuckling? Was he laughing at – at this? Alistair never felt more disgusted, more revolted by such ironic cruelness.

The man knelt down next to Ivory’s life-less body, scooping her less-than-carefully into his arms. She was lighter then air, her precious life drained out. Oh, but she deserved it, he thought. Horrid little wench . . .

The door was already prepared when he stepped up to it; the fires were building about the edges once again. No word had to be said for them to open, the presence of the thief’s body was more then enough to set them swinging open. A massive rumbling shook the foundation of the temple, and when the mammoth doors had fully opened, he tossed the body through. He turned, and they closed with an easy snap. The one who apparently cared for the girl ( who really cared, in that line of trade? ) looked completely dumbfounded as to what he’d done. No matter, he could be easily disposed of, even if he knew anything.

"What did you do with her?" he demanded. The dark one almost chuckled again.

"I sent her to dance with the Devil."

She stepped away from the clock, and a spark from a nearby tree catching her eye. A warm – almost hot – wind blustered by her, and the skittering of dried leaves passed by. She ignored these both, then leaned down to look at what had caught her eye. It was a delicate thing, a gold nail that was holding a single slip of paper to the tree. The one crease was precise, frighteningly so. She slid her finger between the two halves of the paper and unfolded it, eagerly reading the words.

She dropped the paper and stepped back from it. Her expression was that of one looking at a particularly gruesome bug or animal. Ivory looked away, and a feticious tumbleweed fluttered then died, exploding silently in a pop of dust and weeds. The confusion hadn’t set in yet . . . and Ivory saw nothing more to do then to turn and take up walking, all the while trying desperately to remember what – how, even – she’d gotten there. Nothing was discovered, but a milieu of complete differences to her deserty surroundings was soon upon her. The floor beneath her still-bare feet was a pleasing temperature, neither chilly nor searing. It was arranged in a carefully constructed checkerboard design, and extended to all sides of her as far as she could see. Frustration bubbled inside of her but she quelled this hurriedly.

"How do I get into these things?" she asked, to no one in particular, then started up the stairs. Each step was redundant, never different from the last, and she found herself growing accustomed to the movements. Her calves remained calm; not protesting to the swift pace she had set up the steep, winding stairs. Over and over and over again, leaving her to her thoughts. But as soon as she beckoned them they flew inside her head in a mad flurry of darkness and memories

so she dismissed all but a few and continued her trek upward.

She wanted severely to remember how she’d gotten there, but that answer remained stubborn and teased right outside her reach. She wouldn’t give up, though, and kept trying at it.

The . . . the something . . . something had brought her here. She’d almost remembered, but it slipped her mind again. And still the stairs went on.

"Ivory, miss? Tired are you?"

"Yes," she answered, absently, before realising fully that she’d been spoken to. A distant murmuring replaced the voice, and she answered, "yes!" once more, confident and attentive, this time, trying to bring the voice back.

"Good . . ." silence, whispers. ". . . you I will. With me you come, Ivory Miss." She only nodded, unaware that her feet were still moving beneath her. The silence continued until she saw that the stairs had ended, and found herself in the still blackness again. She could feel a faint presence beside her; the invisible friend every child has before they become too large to forget it. She kept walking, and felt a touch against her elbow, turning her to the side. She squinted, but couldn’t make out the being next to her.

"Way this, Ivory Miss," it said, and her surroundings lit up. She was standing in a tavern-type area, but . . . she was standing on the ceiling. Candles hung upside down and people chatted noiselessly in chairs that were hanging from the ceiling.

A small child stood on the opposite side of the room, and he crooked a gentle finger toward her. A wave of recognition came across her – he was the one who’d dubbed her condemned. She shook her head in disbelief, trying to wake from this dream, this world inside of her head. He raised a ruffled eyebrow at her expression, and beckoned again.

Ivory stepped further forward, careful to lift her legs over the rafters that were intermittently placed along the ceiling. The boy turned and started walking as soon as she did, never giving her time to catch up. His voice did drift back to her, thought the words made no sense.

"Lost are you, condemned too, Ivory Miss. Try and help I will you, guarantee but not can I. Must you out figure yourself for, hard though it is. Understand do you me?" A mixture of her previous, present, and future confusion made the words sound even more jumble then they already were, but in the end she nodded. The things, people, walls and rooms that were passing beside her were then tugged quickly, each blending together. She didn’t try to follow the whirl of pictures, and chewed on her bottom lip under the effort of hearing him so to correctly respond.

"Aye. I do. What do I have to figure out?"

As if to answer her, the things around her stopped completely.

She stood, now, in a slender passageway. Five doors lined one side, and an area on either side of those was kept blank. She was positioned against one of these sections, the boy on the other. As she looked more carefully, each was a different colour; texture, almost. One was cold, desolate platinum metal, looking dreary and . . . dead. She leaned up off of the wall and slid past. She shivered involuntarily, the feelings tearing through her skin – then disappearing.

The next door was a golden one, sparks scintillating around the surface of it. She walked by this one and the feeling of rich arrogance wouldn’t let her be until a few moments. She narrowed her eyes, for she did want to enter this one, or at least chip off some of the gold . . . the little boy clucked his tongue against his teeth, and she moved on.

The next was a burning crimson hue. It radiated an extreme passion, one that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle up with sheer excitement. A subtle anger churned inside of her as well, screaming and ripping its way out of her and leaving her slightly short of breath. She wanted to enter this more then the others, but moved on.

The one she passed next was a pure black hue, spiraling motions made along the surface of it, seeming to make part of it pulse out . . . like she would be able to run her fingers over it and feel the bumps. She wanted to enter it only slightly, but felt nothing calling to her. She didn’t spend a moment more in front of it.

A beautiful pastel blue one met her gaze next, the sheer euphoria coming from it making each of the previous feelings dissolve. The unmistakable taste of ocean air sat at the back of her tongue, and she closed her eyes to revel in it.

"Flies time, Ivory Miss."

She nodded blankly. "I realise as much." She thought for a moment, then said, "Do you have a name?" He bobbed his head up and down furiously, but his lips didn’t move. ". . . can you tell it to me?"

"Perhaps," he said, simply, then took on a very scholarly face. "Must you choose a door, go through and correctly choose I hope you will. One each different something holds, and you do not if right the one choose wrong one stay in – certainly might you off be worse." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall under the clock, his face a mask of impassiveness. The dull tick ticking above him filled the air for a moment, but when Ivory spoke, it quieted.

"So," she began, "I can pick one door, and if it is the wrong one – I will be horribly off, correct?"

He nodded his head. "No. Door more then you can one pick, stay if you but, then bad off you be will." He seemed to think for a minute, eyeing her cautiously, rolling the words around on his tongue before allowing them to flow freely. "Conri my is name. Ivory Miss yours is."

She nodded back at him, the smiled, though it was mostly forced. "Yes, that is true. Lovely to meet you, Conri." He looked pleased, then waved to the doors, urging her to pick one. She pressed her lips together in thought, then glanced along the row. Each colour waved to her, calling their emotions out, the first as tempting as the next. She spent a good five full rotations of the clock considering, and was lost in a daze of thoughts when the boy gestured fervently again. "Time you have half the you with started. Hurry . . ."

The crimson one flared, calling the most to her. She felt herself give in, and stepped toward it, with only a passive glance from the boy to accompany her. The door opened with a gentle sigh, and she moved inside.

She was standing in a ring of fire. The embers burned sharply at the base of the flames, which licked taller then she could reach, crying at the heavens. The smell was heavy and thick, burning paper, maybe, though it was much sweeter. She inhaled deeply and felt suddenly exhilarated, veins pumping with adrenaline, eyes widening with the feeling. She sank to the ground in a daze, the warm sand welcoming her body, fingers sinking deep into it.

A shape slunk out of the fire, serpentine movements catching and holding tight onto her gaze, and when its eyes caught her own, the enticing orbs assured no escape. It moved next to her, circling, sizing her up. She could feel its – his – breathing, loud in her ears, dulling the fires crackling. He sank down in front of her and reached forward, running his fingertips along her bare arms, sending shivers up her spine, starting at the small of her back and continuing to the hairs at her nape. His fingers moved, flowing down over her eyelids, shutting them from seeing who he was. She let them stay shut obediently, feeling her very being, the innermost part of her being suddenly seduced by this man. No shame came from the ecstasy she was feeling by mere touch. No guilt, for only she existed in this world, and now the man.

Ivory felt him lean closer to her, pressing luscious lips against hers, and her to the soft sand. Her shoulder blades sunk into it gratefully, and she didn’t deny him from positioning his body directly over her. She was oblivious to everything else except the fire’s lingering warmth, and the soft kisses that were growing steadily deeper; the chills that were racing through her body. Desire was constantly heightening, and she found she wasn’t able to speak her wishes, only to become subject to whatever form of torture the man put her through.

She felt her mortal being part, and was lying naked and vulnerable in the sand, thighs screaming with want and need. Her eyes crept open gradually, and she didn’t recognise the face above her, pure black eyes looking unemotionally into her own, chin set in determination. His hips rocked rhythmically against hers, forcefully and never gently. Something was rising in her, nothing pleasurable, but horrible, jarring her to reality. She felt horrible and used underneath this being, and squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears from flowing down her cheeks. Still he remained on top of her, violating her being, moving deeper and deeper inside of her. Anger was the next emotion she was able to pick out, and she felt her nails dig into the man’s shoulders, anything to get him to stop, to release her. A mixture, so elating, of rapture and pain shook her body, she hungered for it but shied away.

She opened her eyes again. She saw his face, his body, his being, and his soul above her, glaring hatefully into her. She’d sinned. There was nothing that would win his trust back, and he disappeared after this thought had swum in and out of her mind. She screamed, nails digging deeper into the supple skin : an orgasm of hate.

He was gone. She was still lying on her back, arms at her side, trembling from exhaustion. The fires had been quashed and a wind whispered through the darkness, yet not as black as the previous room she had been in. A circular platform was what she was on, sand sloshed carelessly over the surface of it. Nothing of what her memory told her of. She climbed up, legs propping weakly underneath her. The knot of hate that had seethed so clearly inside of her had disappeared, and when she walked forward she found the thoughts drift to the back of her head, as if it was all just a dream. A bridge formed, sliding across the space that was between the circular island and whatever lay outside of it. Her pace was steady across this, moving away – away from the accursed place.

At the end was simply another platform, a tall post with a single letter tacked onto it, and a door behind that. She felt in no way obliged to open the letter, but did so anyway, with shaking hands and scattered thoughts. It read, in simple text :

The words struck a chord in her, ripping her from its roots. Someone was playing with her, toying with her life . . . she remembered Alistair. She remembered his words, his last words to her. Never did she feel so ghastly, and looked down at herself, wiping her hands furiously on her sides, trying to rid herself of the sin. Her sensitive fingertips ran across a thin string, and she pulled it out to reveal a key at the end of it. It perplexed her further, and she shoved it back inside the inner pocket of her pants, drew in a breath, then moved past the post and through the door.

The child was waiting for her when she exited, in the exact same position he had been when she’d first went inside. He quirked a smile but nothing more. Ivory turned to look at the four other doors, and felt dread when her eyes passed over each, but soon the emotions they were meant to relay came through, and she was drawn again. The ocean blue one this time, the one projecting the most peaceful feeling; the sheer calmness was more then she could resist.

She moved forward, and entered.

A swift sea breeze cut through the air, tickling her senses and making her sigh with pure delight. She walked down the steps that lead from the door and into the waves, which were directly in front of them. The silky water crashed over her feet, soaking her pants to the knees, but she didn’t care. She felt at peace with the world, at peace with herself, at peace with everything. Nothing horrible could come from this.

After the clouds had ambled their way from the furthest west to the furthest east, she walked on. The waves retreated after she exited them, thundering and crashing now distant. Something tapped idly at her mind, so she went toward this sensation, feeling it down the beach a mile or so. Lackadaisical were her steps and thoughts; she felt no real reason to hurry, for her destination would stay put – she was at least sure of that. As she neared it came into focus : two slanted posts, forming a gateway of sorts. The material they were made out of was slightly rusted and weathered; a sandy-grey colour that was uncared for. The closer she came the better she could make out each detail of the area surrounding – how the beach’s hue seemed off, the grains of sand grittier then the ones she felt before. Something was wrong, or perhaps she was only seeing it that way.

She didn’t mistake the footsteps, though.

A very beautiful shape of a human foot was carved into the sand, looking as though an expert had shaped and placed each granule. Much consideration was put into the design of it, the curve of the heel and each separate toe. But why would someone place such a masterpiece in the middle of a deserted beach? This was far beyond Ivory’s comprehension, so she simply didn’t give more thought to it. Reminding herself of a child, she placed her own foot in it, seeing it fall a few inches short. She glanced a ways ahead of her and saw another one. Her own foot lifted and fell down into that one as well. This continued on until she was right beneath the imaginary arch formed by the posts, finding that it was much larger then it appeared at a distance.

She drew her attention up to the old posts. Even though they were cracked and rusted from age, they still held undertones of beauty.

( This is my dream of infinity. )

Ivory wrapped her hands around herself and stepped forward, standing, now, in between the posts. Only then did she realise that the footsteps didn’t continue on after them - after where she stood. Her stomach fell to her toes. Something crept, crept at the very edge of her sight, daring her to turn and look upon it. She whirled around, spraying a veil of sand everywhere.

The shape moved out of her view. She twisted in the sand again, muscles tensed to spring. Her hand went instinctively to her side, where a small dagger was placed. ( It wasn’t there before, it wasn’t there before . . . )

A soft rustle of bushes. A whisper – a low murmur. She unsheathed the dagger – her heart beat was the loudest thing, now. She ran her tongue across her lips, animal instinct taking over. The rustle came again, and the slightest shift of body . . . and she lunged. Her knife struck home even though she didn’t know what she’d hit; she smiled triumphantly, but after a moment of breathing in the rusty odor of blood, she looked down.

The tears came again when the face came into focus, refreshing yet horrible. She looked up and saw the tiled posts again. Another note was tacked up, and a wave of déjà vu swept over her as she rose shakily to take it down.

She bit down on her lip and tasted the coppery blood. It invaded her senses, pores filling with the vile liquid. The man’s body was still lying on the sand ground, speckles of beach spilling across his chest, an hourglass tickling away his last time on the planet. His eyes weren’t as blank as they should’ve been ( gods, how many people had she done this to? ) but they saw her. He accused her so vehemently with that gaze, her becoming increasingly credulous – he really wasn’t dead.

But as another burst of wind tripped more sand over that face, she was able to know – to look away. The tears had since finished falling upon her cheeks, but the sticky residue remained, attracting the stray dust that swirled about her. A soft whisper seemed to call her name and she forced her muscles to move, to face the doorway. It seemed much more pleasant then it had before – congratulating her on her effort.

She cringed and looked at the ground, feeling guilty for perhaps the first time in her life. It was a horrible feeling, greater then any she’d ever felt before. She clutched at her heart, somehow thinking it would be there for her to comfort; instead, it thudded painfully in her chest, and she had to settle for the fact that she’d have to go through the arch. Oh, but she ached . . . she ached mentally, physically, and emotionally. The call grew a bit stronger, fighting the throb. She dropped her now-balled fist to her side and placed her foot in the last of the carved footsteps, hesitating before crossing over – the tiny note still crushed in her other hand.

The darkness swelled around her, enveloping her body in its careful grasp. She shivered, and by the time the last chill ran through her body she was back in the room. The little boy was sitting up straight on a ledge she could have sworn wasn’t there before, his erected position making him seem like some sort of grandee of the room. He tilted his head to the side in a querious bird-like manner, and she averted her gaze.

"Ivory Miss, tell can I the like didn’t you room that."

She merely nodded stiffly, but the feelings were disappearing as they had before, leaving only a dull ache in her side. She pressed her fingertips to it and felt it slide away.

The clock was ticking, now, and she couldn’t help but wonder, when she looked at it, if it was doing so the whole time. Gentle hisses they were, low murmurs in the back of a crowded room . . . but as she watched she could tell that the synchronisation was far off. The hands moved quicker then the tempo the ticks set, speeding about the face as if they had their own plans for the ‘song’.

For a while she watched, hypnotised by this, but the faithful boy slid off the ledge and his abrupt landing upon the stony ground brought her from the trance.

"Must out the you before runs door pick a time." He watched her face fall and extended a small, steady hand to her, and the reassuring pressure on her arm seemed to alleviate the woebegone look.

"Alright it’s, Ivory Miss." She only fought to bring a smile to her lips, then turned to face the doors. The two she’d been into already were blackened – and the feelings they emitted were quite dulled. The golden one seemed the brightest of all of them – so she took both a breath and some steps and rested her hand on the knob. A florid flick of her wrist and the door swung smoothly open.

A landscape of gold, each area simply covered with the scintillating sheen came into view. She made obeisance to the glittering floor, only too ready to accede to her legs wishes. Her mouth hung open in pure awe, quite unable to understand what was so blatantly placed in front of her eyes. When she finally rose she could only trudge down the sloping path, drinking in the sights and smell of greed.

Two statues sat in what seemed an empty courtyard, bordered by two fountains that spewed gold from their lips. She felt flippant and giddy with the aspect of becoming richer then beyond her wildest dreams.

The statues both had their still arms extended out to her, warm smiles welcoming her to journey toward them. Ivory stepped up the few shallow stairs that lead to the circular podium they rested on, her toes feeling like they would be swallowed by the precious metal.

The fountains burbled happily in her ears and as she watched she felt an immense urge to drink from them. Her logic stepped in momentarily and informed her it was impossible to drink gold, but with a determined shake of her sunlit head it dispersed and she approached them. An inscription was carved at the base of the first fountain but she ignored it, hastily leaning over into the water’s path. Its spire extended to her and when she ran her hand through it she felt immediately revived and at peace. Something nagged at the back of her mind, but she leaned forward and drank deeply. The liquid metal sank down her throat, coating her stomach and mouth with the beautiful taste. She relished in this for a good while, then leaned back, opening her eyes to see . . .

That the fountains had turned black and were spilling blood. It gushed to heights unfathomed then died, collapsing back to a slow spit. Ivory opened her mouth to scream – but found she couldn’t. It was locked closed with the golden metal, which now had the rusty taste of blood. She stumbled backward, pin-wheeling her arms wildly – somehow managing to regain her balance. She looked up, pleadingly, to the statues; their arms were closed. As if it was not good enough to castigate her for what she’d done their eyes narrowed and a sinking feeling danced over Ivory’s soul.

"You got what you wanted, mortal." The words ran through her mind, but she saw no one who could have said it.

Greedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreedgreed . . .

She let out a noiseless gasp as she felt her toes begin to harden. She tired to wiggle them but could not – they remained rock solid, and it felt like she had let them fall asleep. Her calves and shins came next – and so followed up to her neck.

Her arms extended into a welcoming gesture.

She had become . . .

She opened her mouth in a last vain attempt to let the world know her agony, but felt the expression harden into one of unnatural terror. Silence swarmed down on her, and for a brief moment she could aver that she would be the beautiful golden statue forever. Worth so much – but not to herself. Never a rara avis in these parts – an embodied scapegrace to those more elegant that surrounded her. The captivity of concupiscence would belong not to her but to what she was . . . what her greed had made her. There was nothing left to do but to ruminate over these thoughts twice and once again.

A brief waver in the noiselessness caught her attention and she ceased her quiet laments, gazing into the air in front of her. Another notice hovered but to excoriate her and nothing else. She looked away but the statue did not, so she was forced to read it.

Then it was black. Simply black. Ivory was beginning to feel familiar with this – it was almost like meeting an old friend and forgiving rough times they had shared together. The room with the doors returned afterward, and when she looked over at the golden one she saw that the sheen had sunk to a dull glow, and that the feeling it had brought began to fade as well. The boy smiled happily when she stood, then quickly came over and reached up to titivate her mussed hair. He did not say anything; he remained quiet for the duration of her thoughts, and after she could not feel anything more of the pain her greed had brought, she addressed the doors. Ivory wondered that if she’d make it out from this Hell that some dilettante poet would scribe her tale for the amusement – amusement! – of others, who hadn’t the chance to be caught up in something similar to what she was caught up in. These thoughts were quiet nugatory and she could not explain why she bothered with them, but they invaded her mind nonetheless. The cold, metallic glare of the far right door drew her next.

It was variegated with different tones of grey and silver, the colours ever-moving over the smooth surface. She reached out to touch them and found the tint followed her fingers if she moved them slowly enough. She smiled despite the circumstances, and set her palm on top of the knob, easing the door open and poking her nose through before following suit.

Rolling hills met her view; yellow, tall, soft grass filled them, waving in beautiful harmonisation with the wind. The faint rustling sounds swung about her, as careless as the pure white cloud’s path over the flawless blue sky. Ivory stepped down the side of the gentle sloped hill she was positioned on, moving into the center of the valley that was formed by the ring of young mountains. She closed her eyes but felt like crying – and was unable to understand this new feeling. Her heart and soul were pained, and every thought that came into her mind brought memories : sweet memories, but they made her hurt even more.

It hit her, after a while – she was lonely. The time passed slowly as she came to terms with this; thinking of the little boy, Alistair, the drone of a tender at the Banshee’s Reverie. It all seemed so distant and surrealistic, now. Now, in this place.

She missed these people, and sat down in the middle of the field to sob. Her shoulders shook rapidly and tears drained all the water from her body. She thought of the time when she first met Alistair . . . in the alley of their now-favourite tavern. She thought of the many risks whose path she’d been placed in front of, she thought of the joy she felt when each was over and done with. She thought of finding the key.

She saw a parallel. The place she was in was almost, just almost identical to –

Then a beautiful voice rose over the side of one of the hills, clear and pure. Ivory felt her loneliness drain away. Someone was there. They would be able to take her pain away, wouldn’t they?

A chorus of thousands joined the voice. She slowly climbed to her feet, spinning in a circle or two to see where they were coming from. As she watched, a black line began inching up along the border of the hills, completely covering her horizon. Millions of people – too many for the sound the voice was producing – each dressed alike began swarming down the sides of the hills, their voices and forms swelling about Ivory. Her heart soared as well; the aloneness was gone from her body. Pain was suppressed.

Once they had filled every possible space around her one tapped her shoulder as it passed, an unspoken invite for her to join in the melodious song. She did, though was an epigone in the lyrical nature of the music – more used to drunken bar songs then anything as delicate as this. Euphoria spread like a disease around her, and she cherished it while she sang. Her shoulders were bumped and toes were stepped upon quite often ( she’d experienced this before ) but she couldn’t help but smile dumbly the whole time. Someone tapped her again and she turned to look at him or her, but could see nothing beyond the hooded black cloak. They – she – he – it – smiled beneath it, that much she knew, and imperceptibly slid her a small, neatly folded slip of paper, a largess, perhaps, for her performing. She took it cautiously and down-turned her eyes, brooding before sliding her fingers between the two corners and flipping them open. The same wording . . . the . . . same . . .

She tore her eyes away to look for the deliverer. They were gone. A small person stood in their place and looked up with her in an indifferent yet cheerful manner. Its lips were moving along with the song, but no words were coming out. In sensing her thoughts it shrugged, and moved back into the gyrating pattern of its fellow black-clad people. The oneiric movements were just so, and became even more when a sleepy feeling washed over her. She blinked slow and steadily, for a moment afraid that she wouldn’t be able to bring up her lids – but when she did, she regretted it.

They were gone.

The loneliness was back.

She reached up and buried her hands in her hair, feeling ready to rip them from their roots. The frustration was more then she was able to handle, pertinacious in its nagging. The hirsute hill continued to whisper to her yet no words were comforting – mocking would be the closest emotion she could think of. The provenance of this tacit accusation was unsure, and as soon as it had fully passed the singing came again. Quicker paced and louder, more forceful . . . intense. The people were around her in mere moments, jarring her with their superficial anger, ignoring her cries. She wanted, now, to feel alone. She wanted it back.

And she got it, at the very second the thought was in existence. This extreme was far too much for her, and she was sure that the other was better. She was sure – and it came back. The people flickered into sight as if she was viewing a mirage deep in the desert, the things there yet not. With each change of thought they left and returned, and the depth defying emotions came with them. She tore at her hair, though nothing came off in her palms except shards of paper, slender tendrils cutting her fingers with long slits that ran up and down each joint. Ivory lowered her arms and looked at her hands. They were marred and dripped crimson tears along the grass’ yellow patina of olden age and overexposure to hateful sunlight, but none touched the one whole paper she’d caught between her fingers. She knew what it would say before she opened it, but did so anyway.

She, as customary, crushed the execrable words between her fingers and palm, which only succeeded in bringing her more grief as the sharp edges of the paper crisscrossed the already made wounds. Ivory knew the darkness would come soon so fought off the emotions as best she could and was, for a change, able to – a modicum for her previous excursions. It came in a rush that was over before she could relish in the feeling-less moment, giving her no time to perambulate the place with no fear of being thrown in a whirlpool of dizzying emotions.

The blackness drew out, widening her vision to the things around her. The doors. She was standing in front of the black one, and couldn’t help but wonder if the surface of it had been the blackness that she’d seen the whole time. If anything, it was letting off a chilling feeling, and being as close as she was – her nose almost touching the surface – was not helping. She stepped backward and the emotions grew shallower. The boy was standing at her side, again; a faithful friend that wouldn’t leave her no matter what happened inside of the doors. Then again, he didn’t know . . .

"Again hello, Ivory Miss," he said, first words full of an uncharacteristic vim, him seeming almost ecstatic to see her again. He reached a hand up and offered something to her, and she saw that his tiny palm was clasped about a dead rose, leaves and petals wizened with apparent age. She reached down and slid her own fingers around it, so slowly and tentatively that it could lead one to believe it was a panacea for every problem she’d encountered. It wasn’t, and she managed to prick a finger already ridden with rusty coloured blood with a stray thorn. No cry of pain fell from her lips; she only looked down at it, then offered a smile for the boy. She could not be querulous at him. When she spoke her words came steady, though faltered and quieted near the end. "Thank you, my friend. I’ll keep this as long as I’m able, alright?"

He smiled back up at her. "Ivory, you thank." He turned and scrambled back up onto the ledge, watching her hesitantly as she pushed the rose into her pocket, leaving only the withered buds showing; maybe the sine qua non she’d been looking for all along.

The black door hadn’t moved as she wished it would’ve. She returned her attention to it and found she did not even have to touch the knob to be drawn inside . . . leaving her physical body and entering mentally before it. She traveled through a system of spiraling corridors, unable to slow or stop her journey through them. Deeper and deeper she went, far into this abnormal world’s belly, the parlous state she was feeling vanishing once she re-joined with her body.

Her surroundings were raffish, carelessly thrown together for some higher being’s amusement. They were marred with an intricate root system, the vines and dirt clumps floating over head – suspended by feigned tightropes that stretched from one side of the massive cavern to the other. She stared, dumbfounded, up at this – then was swept off into darkness again.

The malcontent returned as she moved, unable to get more then a point five second subliminal image of the things swung by her. A red glowing came into sight, perhaps at the end of this vortex she was pulled through – growing wider and taller by the minute. It filled her view. Filled it until it was nearing a blinding factor and her eyes were pained with it, filled it until she felt she would be swallowed hole by the colour . . . it had to be possible, for she felt it so clearly.

As if adhering to her wishes, she was returned to the blackness. She took in a deep breath, soothed by the unfathomable ebon, which extended every direction about her. This was sanctuary to her after all that had happened, this was peace, this was Whole. This was whole and she was whole, and nothing could bother her.

Then the whispers started.

"Ivory . . . over here! You can escape if you can find me." Muted giggles swarmed down upon her, screaming and fighting their way into her delicate demeanor. She smiled in amusement; the gentle raillery wasn’t bothersome. She merely turned in the direction the voice has, but a booming, ominous bass sounding tone thundered to her left – daunting. Frightening. A nervous smile crept along the corners of her lips, twisting them up in a grin of sorts, an unnatural grin that had no place upon her mouth. One out of fear. She argued with herself; she was alone in the darkness. Alone with her thoughts : alone. Tendentious jargon shuddered after these and as hard as she tried to shake it off it wouldn’t leave her be.

Silence, again. Whispers were echoes. Music filled the air next, a beguiling tango beat. She thought not to question it but she was circumspect for a brief moment or two. It must mean something, this deus ex machina that would solve all problems. The voice was gone, for instance. And so was the read. Perhaps this was what was meant to happen . . . she was scared no longer. The doors were memories, ones she had no opportunity to bring up, and ones she cared to leave buried underneath other, more prominent ones.

Then He was there. He swept her into His arms and twirled her around in a dizzying yet satisfying spiral, disorienting her, but never evil. He carried a sense of amity about his shoulders and the expression stitched along His visage was unmistakable. Golden, sapient eyes gazed down upon her from underneath shapely brows, each hair in place. Each beautiful, sable hair in place. And He wanted to dance with her.

He reached down and took her left wrist and placed it at His side, and she followed His movements with trusting eyes. The other hand was taken up in His and held out to the side, fingers lacing with fingers – His gently warm, hers icy cold. The music became, playing not around her but only in her ears and their feet began moving in exact time, the precision remarkable. A delicate equipoise held between the sensual and the abstract, between the choreographed and spur of the moment. She experienced the grace she’d never before touched, and when He spun her to the side she felt freer then ever. She was under no time limit. She was under no mission or quest – she was under no spell of seduction or lust or greed or loneliness or grievance or guilt. She was dancing.

He spun her back and she linked fingers and arms with Him again, the sensual movements only so for that period of time. She felt no obligation to bring it farther. She was dancing. Like itinerants they passed along the dance floor, leaving no length uncovered. The band rose and fell in beautiful arias and lucid euphony as did they, the ground beneath them seeming to rise and fall with the asperity of rugged terrain. Yet they never missed a step. He lead her through the unnatural waltz without even a guiding hand or word, and even thought the important caveat still lingered at the edge of her thoughts, filling her with a deeper sense of malaise then euphoria, she did not once ask him to slow or stop. It was far too perfect. She had no time for introspection, now. The dance derogated her from these, and she had no other choice then to sway after them, to lean into this apparition of harmony. She was spun again, then brought into His arms, closer, this time; close enough for him to put his lips next to her ears, and the words that were spun like silk from those very lips sent spiders up and down her arms.

"Ivory," it began, and the hourglasses upon their bellies slid over her wrists, "you dance beautifully. I want to tell you a few things . . ."

She nodded. She would listen. This paragon could tell her the world would end in mere moments and she would listen. She would listen, in hopes of continuing the dance; she would truckle to whatever He wished her to. But the dance was over. The music was clicked of with a single flick of chin or nod of wrist, and they stood. He was a considerable distance away yet was as near as he was moments ago; the two extremes varied back and forth as the voice reverberated down the length of the floor toward her – or slithered the inch or so into her ear.

"You do not know what this place is, Ivory. You haven’t figured it out. You have faced things some people would never be able to turn from, but you have turned from them. Those people would be forever stuck in their misery, free to wallow for all of eternity, but that has not happened to you. I do admit it was great fun – but m’dear, I could never leave you there. You’re . . . valuable. In some form or another, Ivory, you are valuable." He paused to stride around her backside, chin lightly touching her shoulder. It wasn’t necessary for him to posit what forces he could so easily expel, but he did so anyway, with a force barely conspicuous. His fingertips brushed through her hair, wrapping the slender golden locks about his wrist. He tugged gently at them at first, pulling her chin upward so He could see her eyes. They were nearing the state before doubt. His next words dropped like marbles from tongue all too experienced, impacting her with their meaning.

"Do you remember what it was like before you were sent Here, Ivory? Here – this Hell? For that is what it is. The madness you’ve been experiencing were tests, persay. You haven’t passed, Ivory; no one does. But you need to do something for me . . ." He stopped and shook his head – reconsidering.

"I have a story to tell you, first. You must listen closely, for even though this sounds frivolous it will have a considerable impact on those around you. On the whole realm, in fact.

"It started out as a game. There were two groups of thieves and those partial to the trade of espionage – one branch was called the Sicari, the other : Praesti. Between the two occurred many arguments dealing with whose territory was whose, and thieving between one another was most often the cause of one or two members leaving in their states of high dudgeon. The leaders of each branch wished their thieves to work with one another, but this was utterly impossible. They wanted the rivalry. It was sport to them – but at times it became violent and resulted in unfortunate deaths. Very unfortunate," he added, and his lips curled up.

"The leaders decided, one night, that something must be done. Of course it must be, things can never be left to their own. Someone always has to come in and solve them. The two devised a plan – a treasure hunt, more like – under the guise of this consequence : whoever lost would be forced to leave the city. All of them. Guild leader and all. This is what they told the participants, the members. In truth, somewhere along the way they would be forced to work together, and, eventually be forced to realise that decisions could be made where each could stay.

"The game was this. A key was to be forged by a local blacksmith, and this key would be put at the end of a very large and complex maze set in quite the middle of nowhere. These steps were put together surprisingly quickly for, as you know, thieves are devious. Intermittently placed doors would be set through the maze, an equal number for either side. Another set of doors, this time side by side, would lead into the main chamber – and the key.

"Let me step back some. To even begin to acquire these numerous amounts of keys was a task in itself. Notes and slips of paper would be set around the realm; sometimes people would be rigged with them, others they would be lying in unobvious places. This was to test the actual thievery. If the thieves could successfully find each hint, they were able to piece them together. Once they pieced them all together, they could read what they spelt out. It was another set of hints, leading to the actual hiding places of the keys – yet each hint was in riddle form. This was to tests the thieves ability to think, to concur, and to be rational. Quite a few were left behind after this step.

"The thieves did find all of the papers and all of the keys, surprisingly. It was a race; next, to see which ones were able to find the maze. Most all did. These were the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the ones that could deduct and steal better then any that lived until that time.

"As soon as they entered the maze parlous events occurred. They had to stay on the nails of their toes, had to keep each sense to as high as it could possibly go . . . each ear pricked, each finger sensitive to a change in texture of walls, each eye open and all-seeing. Arrows would be shot out of nowhere. Rooms would shift and move and twist, corridors would flip upside down. All unavoidable, but their greed for the key was stronger.

"Ah, but I’ve left out a part. When the key was made it was forged with powers, Ivory. Magical powers, to make it the most desirable thing in the entire realm, should word seep out about it. It was not originally intended this way, but, then again, neither was it intended for only one branch of the realm to stay and the other leave. The only powers the guild leaders told their members were just that – to make the other branch depart. They planned, when all was over and done with, to share the benefits the key would reap. This is what they planned; yet as well all know – plans do not often adhere.

"In the maze the thieves were careless, for rumour had gotten out about this magical key – no secret is kept secret in a guild full of thieves. It was rumoured of the powers, which made them all the more eager to lay their hands on it. They murdered their kin, their loves, and their hates. They murdered for they were scared, and they murdered out of their greed. It was, perhaps, unstoppable. It was obvious this was going to happen, but the guild leaders did not see.

"In the end, Ivory, it came down to the two remaining thieves – one from the Sicari and one from the Praesti. Each held the final key. Instead of working together the Praesti killed the Sicari, by brutally thrusting the key into his gut. The maze had made her violent – for the Sicari was her brother. Her brother, Ivory. Isn’t that a horrible thing? I had much fun talking with her after she died . . . oh, she was an ascetic soul, but the look on her face after the second door was priceless." A horrendous, sadistic laughter exploded from the depths of his throat, making Ivory recoil in his embrace. It stopped abruptly, and the story went on.

"The Praesti continued into the room, taking the key from her dead brother’s hand and using it to open the doors. The key was hers. The aftershock of this happening was great. The Sicari felt that a great wrong had taken place, and a war between each branch started as soon as word got out. To make a long story short – even though I would simply love to describe the details, Ivory, the bloody, bloody, details – the Praesti line was killed off. In the midst of all this the key was juggled between branches, the Sicari turned into assassins, and grieving was known across all the darkened alleys. And you know what’s ironic? The realm outside of the thieves was none the wiser. Oh, perhaps a tale or two was spun in a tavern late at night, but those who bore witnesses were too drunk to remember anything more then scattered remnants the next morning." The music had long since stopped; she realised, when his last word died away. Ivory was near shocked that something of such great of impact could have slipped by her ears. She knew nothing of this – nothing.

"I’m sure you’re wondering why this is relevant to you, and why on earth would I have invited you to dance and to tell you all of these things. But perhaps you’ve figured it out. If you haven’t –" He leaned closer once more, running his tongue about her ear lobe before hissing, "You have the key." He spun away after this, walking a few paces away from her then turning and pacing back.

"You see, those times when the key switched sides were fair. It was never chaos in that area, even though it seems like it by the way that I’ve told it. Excuse me, then, for using the wrong words. If ever the key was taken unlawfully, the other side was given an automatic advantage. Through all this violence it was still a game, you understand. Until just recently the key was passed quietly and truthfully, save for a few killings here and there. I’m quite positive that you know whose hands it was in before you took hold of it, Ivory."

She swallowed a lump in her throat.

"Very good! The Temple’s. And do you know what branch they are? I bet that you can figure it out if you try very hard."

She was silent.

"The Sicari. Lovely, Ivory – you have been listening. The Sicari. And again, I bet, that you can figure out what side you are on. Care to take a wild guess?"

She turned her head to the side and looked at the ground. He strode the paces between then and leered at her, taking her chin in her palm and yanking it up towards him, eyes narrowing into her own.

"Right again. The Praesti. You took it unfairly, Ivory, but you are the only one of your line. The only one. Remember how I told you they were all killed off? It’s most certainly true. All your would-be friends and family, all your would-be teachers and mentors. Gone. But that’s all right, for you have the key. Unfairly, Ivory, but you have the key. Because you are the only one there is no killing to be done. But if you don’t wish to cooperate I’m sure I can find one or two loved ones to destroy. Painfully and slowly."

Alistair flashed in her mind, and she met his eyes. He smiled a sugarcoated, mocking smile, then went on, dropping her chin from his palm and stepping away once more.

"You must put that key back in the maze, Ivory. I can help you with that much, but from then on you are on your own. I want you to know a few more things, first.

"Your love interest, dearest. He plays a very large role in this, as well. Would you like to know why? No – no answer – I’m sure that you do. We’re going to test this little bond you and him have, we are. We’re going to see what sort of mischief we can make between you. There are a few little things you don’t know about him – but he knows them. He knows, Ivory, he knows."

Her vision swam, and before the answers could register in her mind he swept her up again, taking her back into the dizzying waltz. The music had started again but halted when his words started again, their motions frozen in air – only his lips moved, whisperings edging out of them as if they feared to be caught.

"He’s on the opposite side.

"If you wish to see him alive, Ivory, if you wish to not be forced to watch that agonizing death I told you about earlier, you will fight against him. History must repeat itself, though this time things will be won fairly. You will let him enter the chamber that contains the key – if you even make it that far – and you will let him right things. As soon as his fingers touch it he will realise the enemy you are. He will realise what your past is, and he will realise that he is the rightful holder of it. He and the Sicari. They will make things well again in your realm. You know what the key can do . . . they can accomplish it.

"There is no chance for the Praesti to rise up again. You’re just a pawn in this game, Ivory. Just a pawn." He took her hand and spun her in one, last circle, then said in a falsely caring voice : "Run along, now. We have many important things to do."

Then he was gone.

The avoirdupois of the new information weighed heavily upon her mind. She could not move for a good while, and merely sat, panting on the ground, unable to catch her breath. The dance felt like it had taken years out of her and the one-sided conversation even more. It wasn’t until a coruscating glimmer caught her eye that she managed to rise to her feet. Laughter sounded, the timbre of broken church bells – child like and innocent with undertones of depravity. A phantasmal wisp of voluptuary mist swirled in an area in front of her, an extension of it offering itself to her – an arm. She extended her own hand and allowed the quickly formulating being to take hold of it. They began walking together, a rapport developing as smoothly as the child did. He looked up toward her but she could not make out his face – even though she did not need to be told who it was. The feeling of friendship echoed brazenly.

They walked in darkness for quite some time, but when she started to pay attention to her surroundings she could see faint threads of white seep across the charcoal purlieu, though when she tried to meet it with her gaze it darted away. After a moment of look-and-hide she found if she kept her vision straight forward it grew faster and faster, soon filling up half, then mostly all of her sight. She felt herself longing for the blackness that was rapidly disappearing, even though the white was surely a harbinger of wellness – of that euphoria she experienced before. She was safe, she knew.

The boy squeesed her hand, and she was gone.