"Not much longer, now," Mica said offhandedly to Skora, peering east. "Aerelle will arrive today." Skora saw Mica shudder out of the corner of her eye.

"Shall I inform Krick?" the older woman inquired, staring off in the same direction as her queen. Neither woman saw anything in the west but rolling plains. To the south somewhere was the razed town of Karthemon, where the priest Jaredei had lived before he had joined Aerelle. But both women knew that, if they turned back toward camp, they would only see responsibilities. Soldiers and refugees, La'adians and Kelsanites. Krick, and what remained of his Moonlight Militia. He had been leading his soldiers, and the Kelsan refugees, toward La'adia just as Mica had been leading her people to Kelsan, to help pick up the pieces. Krick's La'adians, upon finding Mica, joined with her. Mica, upon hearing that Krick was to meet with Aerelle at Karthemon, had decided to join with him. Altogether, there were several thousand soldiers and refugees in the camp behind her, all needing guidance and leadership. Skora knew it, and knew that Mica did as well. Nevertheless, Skora thought it wiser to allow her queen this momentary respite. They stared out at the horizon, to keep their minds off of the rabble and ruin behind them.

How long can someone survive being buried? Skora thought to herself, not for the first time. The razing of La'adia had taken place weeks before Mica had been chosen by the Blessed Walls as the new Avatar of Verthandi. But Skora remembered from her childhood, when Verthandi had died, the selection of her replacement was nearly instantaneous. If the selection was instantaneous, that could mean only one thing - Verthandi, Mica's predecessor, had not died in the battle. But, if she had escaped, she would have returned to the city afterwards, to help rebuild, or at the very least boost morale. Time and time again Skora had gone through this train of thought, and always she came to the same conclusion: Verthandi had been buried alive in the rubble somewhere. She had survived, in the catacombs or the lower levels of the collapsed palace, only to die weeks later, from her injuries, or even from lack of food and water. She had needed Skora to save her. But I didn't. I failed. I failed Verthandi. I am unworthy to serve Verthandi.

"It wasn't your fault." It took a moment for Skora to realize that Mica was speaking to her, but how did she know . . .

"You look . . . guilty. A guilt you didn't show before my ascension. The only thing I can think of for you to be guilty over is Verthandi's death. You must know that there was nothing you could have done to help her, no way you could have known . . ."

Skora was flabbergasted. She had known Mica to be perceptive and somewhat empathic, but she didn't think that she was so easily read.

The meaning behind Mica's words began to register in Skora's mind. Voice shaky, she responded: "Then who's fault was it? Who else is there?"

"Kelsan. The ones who attacked the city!"

"I should have known they . . . I should have been at her side." The last came out in a barely audible squeak.

"Then you would be as dead as she," Mica replied softly, then added, somewhat more cheerfully, "Then who would I have to argue with?"

Skora laughed despite her despondency. Perhaps the girl was right. The girl! She is my queen! But Skora could not escape the feeling that somehow, there was something she could have done.

Looking up, Skora saw a certain sadness in Mica's face, framed by shoulder-length hair as clear as the finest crystal. Skora opened her mouth, as if to comment, but Mica spoke first.

"Skora, listen to me. You. Simply. Cannot. Do. Everything. Verthandi would have been glad to know you survived. Think of how many people you saved in the weeks that followed the attack! She knew that you would do what was right when she was gone, as I know you will when my time comes." Both women's eyes grew wide, and Mica shuddered. Mica, like every Verthandi before her, had some strange ability to predict the future. They could not call it forth and use it at will. They would simply say things that would come to pass. And Mica had just said that Skora would outlive her. Skora's mouth hung agape, the occasional whimper or groan emerging. Neither woman said anything. It was doubtful that they even could at that moment. Mica sat on the ground, though it was more of a collapse into a sitting position. Somehow, Skora remained standing, even as the world spun around her. After a minute or so, she looked down at her queen - her friend - and managed to croak out "That won't be for years, I'm sure. Decades."

Mica nodded, though her eyes showed that she wasn't so sure. She looked as if she were trying not to speak, to avoid any more such prophecy. At that moment, Skora didn't see Verthandi. Skora saw a friend; a young woman confronted with her own mortality. She crouched down to comfort her friend, but Mica waved her off. "They're here." Mica sounded as if nothing had happened, and then was helped by Skora to her feet. The queen continued: "Go tell Krick to send out what few horsemen we have available to escort Aerelle in."

Skora was amazed at Mica's composure. "As you command, Verthandi, so shall it be."

Demra rode near the front of the column dispatched as Aerelle's honor guard. It hadn't taken much to convince Krick, who was riding directly in front of her, to allow her to come. This Verthandi was a good enough leader, but she needed to be with her own people, as much as she had one. She had regretted not going with Aerelle, and not just after the attack on La'adia. She felt as if she had abandoned her people, her friends. Aerelle would take her back, she was sure - her staying in La'adia had practically been Aerelle's idea - but she still felt like a traitor.

The honor guard began to slow as it reached Aerelle and her people. Demra was startled to see her in the red metallic armor of the Knights of the Scarlet Star, flanked with a Knight on each side, but no less surprised than she was at the great scar down the left side of Aerelle's once-beautiful face. The woman looked . . . weary was the best way to put it. She looked as if she needed to rest for a year, but also as if she wasn't about to do anything of the sort. Her eyes looked deeper, wiser, sadder, stronger. They passed over everyone in the column, focusing only a moment on each face. Aerelle looked back at Demra, as if to make sure it was her, but if she was surprised - or pleased - she gave no sign.

Aerelle rose her hand in the air to tell her people to stop, and a moment later Krick did the same. The two companies were about three pacets apart, facing each other without a sound, other than the occasional muttering goblin - Magestor Esquire stood at Aerelle's side, fists tight around the short sword at his waist, nearly touching the ground. Finally, Krick began to ride forward, as did Aerelle. The little goblin looked indignant, and Demra thought she knew something of how he felt.

Krick and Aerelle's horses met, and they spoke for a moment. Krick was likely informing her of Verthandi's presence in the camp; Aerelle did look somewhat surprised for a moment, though Demra may have been mistaken. The woman had grown hard since she had last seen her, that much was certain just from Demra's small observations thus far. By the Fire Moon, may it one day rise again, what in the world had happened to her?

Both companies had joined together, with Aerelle flanked by the honor guard Verthandi had sent out. Demra rode a pacet or so behind Aerelle, who didn't seem to care that she was there. Has she changed so much that she doesn't even care that I'm alive? What am I to do now? I have no home, no purpose, and nobody who seems to care.

Demra became aware of movement to her side. Looking up, she saw Aerelle smiling back at her.

"When I heard that La'adia had fallen, I thought you were dead. I'm very glad to see you, Demra." Her smile, which to a small extent even touched her eyes, showed her sincerity. Can this be the same woman from a moment ago? At least she still has some emotion.

"And I you, Aerelle. When I heard about the slaughter at Kelsan, I feared the worst. I saw Keyla farther back. Who . . . who else survived?"

Aerelle replied, sadly. "Khen, Juli, Keyla, and Lea." Of their entire cult, only those few lived. Those few, Aerelle, and Demra herself.

"And what of the others? Pale Scale? The priest? The girl?" Aerelle didn't respond. The sadness in her eyes was enough. "All of them?" Aerelle nodded slowly, looking straight ahead. Demra remembered how fond Aerelle had been with those three, especially the girl, Jewel. "Aerelle, I . . . I don't know . . . I'm sorry, Aerelle. Truly, I mourn with you." The woman smiled weakly. Demra had no need to wonder what had hardened her friend. In fact, she wondered how Aerelle survived as well as she seemed to have.

There was a silence as the two women rode side by side. Finally, Demra again worked up the courage to speak. "Aerelle, I'm . . . I'm sorry I abandoned you in La'adia -"

"No, Demra," Aerelle cut her off. "Like as not you would have died at Kelsan. No, Demra, you did nothing wrong." After a pause, Aerelle continued, less certainty in her voice, "I am . . . sorry for not being there . . . I left you in La'adia so you would be safe -"

It was Demra's turn to deny. So many regrets and sorrows these two friends had. "Aerelle, you know there was nothing you could do. You had responsibilities elsewhere. You are formidable, Aerelle, but you cannot do everything, be everywhere, protect everyone! I know you would have helped me if you could, but you had more important things on your mind." Aerelle nodded, somewhat understanding and somewhat shocked. "Nevertheless, if you feel guilty, all is forgiven."

Aerelle nodded, and said "I don't think it is so much you I need forgiveness from as myself. I know I can't protect everyone, everywhere, all the time, but . . . I feel guilty in any case. I can't help but feel there was something I could have done, for you, for Jewel . . . for Ezaziel . . . " The last came out weakly, and Demra was slightly startled to see a tear rolling down the scar on Aerelle's face. She reached out and took Aerelle's hand, comforting her. After that, they rode on in silence; two women happy to simply be in the company of one of their few surviving friends.

As the camp came within sight, Aerelle broke the silence and asked Demra what she was to expect.

Demra cocked her head to the side, staring of into nowhere. Aerelle smiled; Demra had always been thorough, and had a great memory, though it sometimes took her a moment to bring all the relevant information to the surface. Demra began to speak, bringing Aerelle's thoughts back to the moment.

"Most of the people in camp are refugees from La'adia itself. The Kelsanites are in the northern section of the camp. Krick met up with us - that is to say, Verthandi and the La'adian refugees - as we were en route to Kelsan. Verthandi decided that you - or, to be specific, the La'adian troops under your command - were likely her best hope, and you sent the La'adian troops, and the Kelsan refugees, to La'adia to aide how they could. Verthandi would very much like to meet with you, leader to leader; both of you lead thousands of refugees, with no home to speak of. You may find her useful, but be careful, Aerelle. She is a sly one, and her Hand, Skora, is ruthless."

When Aerelle was sure that Demra was finished, she asked "Isn't Verthandi dead?" She had been wondering that since the Queen was first mentioned, but knew better than to interrupt Demra.

Demra paused, but not to bring up information. It was more like formulating a response. "Yes . . . and no. The Verthandi you met is dead, it seems. You see, rulership of La'adia is determined by a holy tradition, a magical enchantment older than anyone can recall. The Blessed Walls of La'adia are not only indestructible, if inadequate, defense of La'adia, but also the mechanism of transition of power. I have no clue as to how it works, only that it chooses the woman most fit to rule La'adia . . . even when La'adia has been razed. The woman - no more than a girl, really - was leading the effort to rescue people in the ruins of the city when she was chosen. The refugees are loyal to her beyond comprehension, and have been since before she was chosen. She is not only their political and religious ruler, but they all owe her their lives."

Aerelle nodded. She had to admit, the Blessed Walls provided for a much cleaner transition of power than she would have thought possible. Had the Cult had something like that, there would have been no power struggle between her and her sister, Alissa, and they may have been more prepared when Trenton came. Aerelle stopped herself mid-thought. That is in the past, now. My sister is mourned and avenged. There is no more I can do for her.

They were entering the La'adian camp now, a sprawling affair of tattered blankets and a small number of tents. Survivors milled about in drab clothes, sodden with filth and blood. As often as not, one of the refugees was wearing some manner of bandages, sometimes missing limbs. But Aerelle noted that, injured or dying, none of the refugees had the look of hopelessness and despair she had seen after Montear had fallen, or Kelsan. These people had a look of hope. Determination. After all they had been through, they were still resolute. This new Verthandi must be formidable indeed.

Aerelle rode to the head of the column just as a woman intercepted it. Aerelle recognized her as Skora, the Hand of Verthandi. What she recalled of the woman followed Demra's words exactly: an obstinate woman, fiercely loyal to her queen and suspicious of everyone. Not the friendliest of people, but certainly not an enemy. Aerelle hoped not. Aerelle rode up to meet her. The woman scanned the column, taking it all in, then faced Aerelle directly. "Throne Aerelle of the Wizards of Fire. It is good to see you survived the battle of Kelsan. It was also good to see that you return some of our troops to us." Skora made no comment about how few of the La'adian troops had survived. "I realize you must be tired from your journey, but Verthandi, Avatar of the Goddess, Queen of the Silver Castle, and Lady of the Blessed Walls, requests most heartily to have an audience with you." Skora curtsied, and walked off. Apparently, there was a good deal of "demand" in this "request." The fact that Skora had not awaited a response did not escape Aerelle either. She dismounted, and walked after Skora, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling after having rode for hours. The woman had disappeared fairly quickly, but the way was fairly obvious; who but Verthandi would live in the large tent in the center of the camp? As Aerelle made toward the tent, refugees made way around her. The armor the Knights of the Scarlet Star had given her gave her a somewhat fearsome look. That could prove to be an advantage, but likely would not with Verthandi. The Verthandi she had met was formidable, and this one would likely prove to be no less so.

Stopping for a moment in front of the tent, Aerelle prepared herself for a strenuous meeting with Verthandi. Exhaling, she stepped in the tent to confront the new La'adian queen . . .

. . . and came upon a dancing girl who had been having problems with her father a few months hence. The translucent hair that was a mark of the La'adian Queen did not hide the girl's young, familiar face. Aerelle was stunned; she had not considered Mica as even a remote possibility. Aerelle tried to gather her wits, but Mica - Verthandi - took full advantage of her disorientation and pressed her assault.

"So, Throne Aerelle, I see you have come at last. It is good that you proved victorious at Kelsan; much La'adian blood was avenged, and the vampires of that cursed city will never again torment the living. However, we must put that aside and concentrate instead on the decisions before us. What, if I may ask, are you planning to do from here, Aerelle?" Mica smiled when she finished talking.

Aerelle stood there a moment, only a little of her confusion reaching her face. When she realized that Mica had stopped talking, she closed her mouth with a resounding click. Perhaps I'm more off balance than I thought. What is the girl doing here!? Mica had an expectant and inpatient look, and before she could stop herself Aerelle rushed to answer the queen. "I am unsure, Highness. I was going to meet with my troops again before deciding what to do next." Mica smiled, and Aerelle cursed herself silently. She had given much more away that she had wanted, and would more than likely get little in return. 'Highness'! I must control myself. Mica has me at a disadvantage. I will still recover.

"Perhaps we can work together, Aerelle. Neither of us have anywhere to go, yet we both lead thousands of people. Perhaps if you joined your people with mine - "

"I hardly think that your La'adians would welcome the Kelsanitess with open arms, Verthandi. They have been in your camp for a few days now, and I venture to say that there has been some friction."

Mica frowned, if just for a moment, before her face returned to a serene, unreadable expression. "The Kelsanites tend to stay to themselves, and most La'adians let them alone." Most La'adians. That meant some had not. "Then I propose we begin with an alliance, of sorts. Let the people see that they are not as dissimilar as they believe. We will have them work together, so that they see the humanity in one another."

"Work together, you say. The idea is not unappealing," Aerelle voiced.

"But work together toward what?" Aerelle had been so absorbed with her discussion with Mica that she had not noticed Skora, standing not two paces to her side. She was to go against the two of them, then. I will not let them unbalance me again!

"These people, they are no warriors. They have no goal, no purpose, no home. Most of all, they need a home, somewhere safe, somewhere new. We can rebuild neither La'adia nor Kelsan; bad memories for the former inhabitants, and uncomfortable thoughts for the others. Besides, neither had any materials nearby to build a city for this many people. We need a new place for the people to make a new start," Aerelle concluded.

"We? You presume an alliance before Verthandi agrees?" Skora sounded positively incensed at Aerelle. Aerelle knew from sad experience not to take a heavy hand with Verthandi.

"Not at all. We simply have very similar problems with very similar solutions. But, no, I do not consider myself above Verthandi." Nor do I consider myself beneath her. The last was unspoken, but as audible as if she had screamed it.

"I would not be opposed to an alliance, Aerelle," Verthandi replied.

"I would. If we maintained separation between our peoples, no cooperation would occur. If anything, the split would grow even larger."

"Then what do you suggest, Aerelle?" Skora sounded skeptical that she had any worthwhile ideas.

Aerelle turned to the woman. "Verthandi and I are on equal footing, Skora. We are both rulers, in as much as we each have a people to rule. But you and I are not. Your heavy-handedness may work for interrogations, but it is Verthandi who has the authority here, it Verthandi who I negotiate with, and it is Verthandi I will answer to. You may stay to advise your Lady as you wish, but I would not have you take a superior tone with me." Skora's expression had grown more and more enraged as Aerelle had spoken. But the woman only smiled, and walked to Mica's side, arms crossed and glaring. At least I have only to deal with Mica now.

Mica had been standing there expressionless for the entire exchange. Aerelle wasn't sure if she was angry or pleased, or something else altogether. Whatever she was feeling, she continued the negotiations as if nothing had occurred.

"If not an alliance, what, then, do you suggest, Aerelle?"

"A partnership. We combine our people, so much as is possible, and take equal responsibility leading the whole of them." Skora seemed to be physically restraining herself from another outburst. Mica remained calm.

"I do not know how loyal your people are, but I doubt mine would accept another as a ruler, even in part."

"They would if you ordered it. As for my people . . . as long as we are not so brutal as the vampiric Lords of Kelsan were, they will be content."

Mica nodded. "I shall have to think on this. At any rate, we do need to settle somewhere. Have you a certain place in mind?"

Aerelle shook her head. "We cannot go to Kelsan or La'adia itself, nor should we go to any existing townships, lest we upset the residents. We will need building material, which means wood; some farmlands to support the city; some source of water, so a lake or river nearby. Obviously, we cannot take lands under some other nation's control."

"Then we settle at the Nakalryn Battleground," Mica responded, then turned to Skora, "Get out the map, please."

Skora nodded, still glaring at Aerelle, and walked to the far end of the tent, five or so paces away. Mica turned to follow, and Aerelle asked what the Nakalryn Battleground was as she joined the other two women at the small wooden table. Skora unrolled the map, placed something on each corner to hold it in place, then stepped back into the shadows of the tent. Aerelle and Mica stood side by side, studying the map. Pointing to a spot a few ral above Kelsan, Mica explained. "This was the site of one of the largest battles in La'adian history. It is where Queen Talye launched a surprise attack at Ornrym forces, throwing the invaders into chaos. It turned the tide of the Century's War. There is a lake for water, and it connects to the riverways for trade. It is just below the She'lak Forest, and has flatlands all about. It is far from any existing nation, at least according to this map. It remains neutral and there are a few posts for ships near some of the rivers toward the south of Nakalryn."

Aerelle disregarded the history for the moment, and made a note to inquire about it later. "It is all those things, but it is also about a third of the continent away. Do you think we can get that far? We are running low on food already, with very little left with which to trade for it. We will have to cross a river at least three times, so we will have to go even farther out of our way to get to towns with bridges. Is there no place closer?"

Mica shook her head, her crystalline hair sparkling in the tent's dim light. "We must go there. Our future awaits us." Aerelle did not let her confusion show. What does she mean, our future? Then Aerelle remembered something Jaredei had told her, after the last Verthandi had told Aerelle that she would become a leader. The old priest had said that what Verthandi had said sounded like a prophecy, and whatever Verthandi predicted came to pass. Had Mica just done that?

Bringing herself back to the moment, Aerelle studied the map. The journey would take months. Unless . . . I think it may be time to use the gift the Knigths of the Scarlet Star gave me. If one knight could teleport me across the desert, I could use the Scarlet Star itself to at least cut some time from our journey. She would have to remember to ask if any of her Knights could teach her the spell. 'Our future awaits us' . . . it sounds like things won't settle down any.

"I will bring by people to this place with you," Aerelle stated. "But only if we both have equal authority, both en route and as rulers, over all the people who follow either of us."

Mica looked at her for a moment that seemed to stretch on for days. Finally, she nodded, saying, quite formally "As Avatar of Verthandi and Queen of the La'adian people, I accept your offer, Aerelle of the Wizards of Fire." After a few moments, Aerelle turned to leave, but Mica touched her shoulder and said, "Leave us, Skora." The older woman emerged from her shadow, gave one last glare at Aerelle, and left.

"You will have to forgive Skora. She is nice enough, once you get to know her. If the process doesn't kill you." Gone from Mica's face was the unreadable serenity that had masked her emotions since Aerelle entered the tent. Gone was Verthandi, Queen of La'adia and Avatar of the Goddess. Before her stood Mica, as she had been back in Sha'toria: willful and full of life. "I'm sorry I had to be so formal with you there, but -"

Aerelle interrupted her, feeling no offense would be taken. "Why does everyone I know feel the need to apologize lately? I understand completely, Verthandi."

Mica rolled her eyes and groaned. "Please, Aerelle, you knew me before, if only in passing. Call me 'Mica.' But only in private; Skora would go into fits otherwise."

Aerelle nodded, and smiled. Here is a queen, who has pulled her people from the rubble of their homes. They would give her anything in their power, but always will she be a queen to them, always a savior. Never a simple friend. Then Aerelle realized that she probably had more in common with Mica than any other person she had met since leaving Montear. So they relaxed in Mica's tent and conversed, not about politics, not about responsibility, but simple conversation, as friends would. So simple a thing, yet it seemed to Aerelle to be the happiest she had been in months.

Vern tightened his grip on the staff as he searched the camp for Tesmar. He had no illusions that he could beat the warrior in combat, but he would most likely have to defend himself. Why had the man killed Orsul? He was just one of the vampire Lord's slaves-turned-servant. The old man had been spared in the massacre of all those associated with the vampires after Kelsan fell. Vern spat, disgusted by the mere thought of the vampires. Orsul was a harmless old man. The only reason Tesmar would kill him is if he knew something. Vern had not seen the attack himself, but had heard accounts from half a dozen witnesses that all said mostly the same thing.

Orsul had seen Tesmar, and whispered something to him. They walked a bit out of the way, and spoke a moment more. Tesmar became angry at something the old man had said. Orsul had began to raise his voice, but Tesmar stabbed him in the side. Some had said that Tesmar was shouting "Madman!" and the like, but all witnesses agreed that Orsul had done nothing violent to provoke the attack. Tesmar had been training the Kelsanites, and had not shown any earlier hostility toward any of them. It simply made no sense to Vern. Only Tesmar knew why he had attacked, and that was what Vern meant to find out.

Vern wasn't too sure what he would do when he found Tesmar, but he knew that he had to confront him. If he would kill Orsul, what is to stop him from killing me? If it comes down to a fight, I wouldn't a chance against a trained soldier like Tesmar. I'll just have to make sure it doesn't come to violence.

Vern had once been Thad's associate in Thad's Kelsan inn and cemetery. Vern had never liked Thad's hobby of collecting artifacts because it brought all types of people into the inn. Even Trenton, the self-proclaimed vampire lord of Kelsan, had paid Thad a visit, and Vern had not seen the man since. Thad had later contacted him through letters, and Vern had helped in organizing the rebellion against the vampires. Since the fall of Kelsan, Vern had been pushed into a leading position among the Kelsanites since everyone knew he was one of the men who plotted against the vampires in the end. He would have never willingly brought vampire attention his way unless Thad had convinced him, and he had. Now he was stuck trying to avenge an old man's death.

Vern stopped to ask if anyone had seen Tesmar. One woman pointed the direction he had already been going. Vern muttered thanks, and stalked off. After a few more minutes of that, he finally came upon Tesmar, outside of Verthandi's tent.

"Tesmar!" he bellowed. "I need to speak with you a moment. About Orsul."

Tesmar turned to face Vern. He wore a barely masked scowl on his face, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his sword. He had since shaved since he arrived with Aerelle, and his face smooth, but with angular features. He stood there, waiting for Vern to come to him. As Vern approached, he realized that the tent, while still in the center, was well out of the way of the other surrounding tents by about a three measure radius from Verthandi's tent. Likely, nobody would be able to hear what they said. If he spoke loudly, he would disturb Verthandi, and if he did that and Tesmar wasn't at any fault . . . nothing good could come of that. Warily, Vern stopped when Tesmar was within the range of his staff, but kept himself outside of the reach of Tesmar's sword. At least, Vern hoped so.

Tesmar spoke first: "What do you want?" His voice was gruff, but betrayed nothing.

"My sources tell me that you had something of an altercation with Orsul. Would you care to explain what happened? What disagreement you had, and why you felt it necessary to kill him?"

"No, I would not." Tesmar turned to walk away.

Vern took a step toward. "I'm afraid I must insist!" He grabbed Tesmar's shoulder.

"Theif! Stop!" Tesmar turned, unsheathing his sword. Before Vern could protest, Tesmar knocked Vern's staff out of the way and ran his sword through the Kelsanite's chest. Vern looked down as Tesmar withdrew his bloody blade. The world went black.

"Thief! Stop!" Mica and Aerelle turned as a man yelled outside the tent. Mica rushed to the tent flap, and saw Vern, the leader of the Kelsanites, in a heap at the warrior Tesmar's feet.

"What has happened here? Tesmar! Why have you done this?" Aerelle exited the tent behind Mica. Mica heard her whisper Vern's name as she knelt by the man's side, but was too occupied to notice.

"This man has tried to steal from me. I defended myself."

Aerelle looked up at Mica. "Verthandi. I know Vern. He would never do anything like that, and not just for lack of skill. There is more to this that it seems."

Mica nodded. "Yes, Aerelle. Nothing is ever as it seems. How is Vern? Will he recover?"

Aerelle shook her head. "He's dying, Verthandi. Tesmar may be a leader among the La'adian warriors, but Vern was a leader of the Kelsanites." She could afford to lose neither. But what could she do?

Mica felt a . . . compulsion. If she could just . . .

Mica waved Aerelle and Tesmar back, a heavily masked concern on the former's face and an unreadable look on the latter. Kneeling, she rolled Vern onto his back and brushed his hair back from his face.

Power coursed through her body, from deep within her, and flowed from her hands into Vern. He arched his back, until only his shoulders and the balls of his feel touched the ground. His face showed ecstasy, torment, surprise, alarm, wonder, and any other emotions Mica had ever heard of. She somehow felt simultaneously colder than the whitest winter day and hotter than in a sweltering desert. After an eternity that lasted mere moments, Mica collapsed atop Vern. For some time - Mica couldn't tell how long - Mica's mind was blank, with nary a thought nor emotion entering her head. Far off, she thought she heard a voice, something about ". . . first miracle since La'adia . . . " After that - or was it before? - she thought she saw Aerelle's face above her own. She was saying something to her, but Mica heard nothing. At some point, her consciousness retreated. Then she saw herself, lying in her bed in the tent. Skora sat beside her on the bed, Aerelle crouched on the floor on the opposite side, holding Mica's hand. Vern stood at the foot of the bed, alive and whole. This did not seem at all out of the ordinary. 'Ordinary' was an alien concept.

Flash

"You are a noble soul, Verthandi. As are you, Aerelle." They were in a large building, tapestries on the windowless walls lit by torches. Mica studied this stranger, who talked so fervently to Aerelle and the woman that she would be. This man was important to her. Or would be. Or had been. "You have seen how despotic Anahg is, you have seen the condition the people are in. I cannot allow this to go on, and I don't believe you can either. Will you help me?"

Aerelle responded, "We must think on . . . "

"Will you help me!"

Mica looked at Aerelle questioningly. The other woman finally nodded, and Mica said, "We will do all we can to further your cause, Aeric."

Flash

Mica saw herself, distantly, surveying the ruins of La'adia. There was a small encampment just outside the Walls by the northwest gate. Too small. The city had been sacked almost a tenday past, but there were extensive catacombs beneath the city, including some used to store food. Mica had reasoned that there had to be survivors trapped there. As Mica entered the encampment with a score other Sha'torians, with another score of horses laden with supplies. A woman, middle-aged, haggard and in general disarray, came out to meet her. The woman gave Mica an assessing look-over, and asked, "Are you friend or foe? If the former, may Verthandi's blessings shelter you always. If the latter, I assure you we have nothing to give you but our lives . . . what few of us still have those."

Mica heard herself speak; far off, drowned out and distanced. "We come to help search for survivors. We came as fast as we could, once we heard. I hope we are not to late?"

"Not at all, child, not at all. In the stead of our Lady Verthandi, as her Hand, I give you all thanks. But, if you are not overly tired, there is much work to -"

Flash

Tayle rode at the head of the column as they passed a nearby woodlot, armor gleaming, long, glassy hair streaming behind her. It had been four years since the battle of Nakalryn, when she had shattered Ornrym lines and halted their decades-long advance. Since then, she had not lost a single battle to Ornrym forces, driving them back in four years from what they had taken in forty. Another four years like this, and Ornrym would have no choice but to sue for peace. In every city of La'adia, people cheered the name of the first Queen not to take the title Verthandi.

Mica was somehow not surprised to see the childhood hero of thousands of La'adian women, herself included. She was not excited to see the mighty Tayle leading a column. But when Mica finally remembered what was going to happen, realized what she was watching, she screamed. She would have shrieked in denial, pleaded for what was coming not to happen, begged to avert one of the greatest tragedies in La'adian history; but she knew that it would do no good.

A flight of arrows flashed from the forest, followed by a flood of shadowy figures. Before anyone could raise an alarm, the Ornrym soldiers had cut the front of the column from the mass of the La'adian force. Tayle only had some dozen La'adian soldiers to keep four score Ornrym troops. She fought bravely, felling three before she was unhorsed. The Ornrym troops held her down, one holding a knife to her throat. The remaining La'adian knights surrendered when they saw their queen was taken. Ornrym troops bound them while Tayle watched, then knocked her out and threw her over a horse. Mica would have wept, had she had the body to do it.

Flash

Mica beheld a horrid battle, and undead of all kinds fought off living warriors. Blood covered the streets, as well as corpses. Mica's attention was pulled to a specific scene, and there she beheld an abomination, who faced an undead corpse with blood-stained translucent hair.

"I have killed La'adia's last general, the weak girl Aerelle is at my mercy, and now my pet zombie has returned to me! I am having the most wonderful day!"

A beam of white mana shot forth from the Verthandi-zombie and connected with the zombie general's chest. It was then that Mica realized that the general was a woman, and the name Cynthias slid into her thoughts.

Verthandi - she was a zombie, yes, but still the Queen of La'adia - walked over to the fallen body of Cynthias. As she readied to kill the undead general for good with a sword scavenged from the battleground, Cynthias deflected the blow and found a club. The undead woman amazingly defended herself and managed to knock the sword from Verthandi's clumsy, undead grip.

Gripping the Queen of La'adia by her still translucent hair, she spat: "You are an incompetent fool, Verthandi. You cannot rule properly. You cannot fight properly. You cannot even die properly. But perhaps we can remedy the last problem." With that, she tore off Verthandi's head, and the Lady's Blessing returned to the Blessed Walls, where another Queen, a High Priest's daughter, was chosen to rule a shattered nation.

Flash

Mica, only a few months past, sat by the stage in the center of the town. Murmurs and whispers came from behind her as people discussed why everyone had been called to this meeting. Mica had been asked several times if she knew why, since her father had called the meeting, but she was as uninformed as everyone else. Mica could not remember any other occasion when Cheyquon - or anyone else - had called the entire town to a meeting. Something was wrong. The last few weeks since Aerelle had brought her crusade through Sha'toria had been wonderful, Cheyquon transfigured into a caring and reasonable father. As the elder cleric stepped up onto the stage, Mica saw his face was wrought with sadness, and concern. He had been weeping. At the time, Mica had felt concerned for her father, and foreboding for the news he brought. This time, Mica felt nothing.

Cheyquon rose an arm, and everyone fell silent. "La'adia," he began, but his voice broke. Choking back a sob, he started again. "La'adia has been . . . has been conquered. Nothing within the Blessed Walls is left standing." The last was drowned out by cries of disbelief, dismay, anger, fear, and sadness.

Someone in the crowd asked, over the din, "How long ago? By who?"

Cheyquon's voice sounded weak, and he looked ill. "Not two days past. The Kelsans--"

Flash

Mica saw herself standing by Aerelle, at the side of a great lake. Trees came up to the shore, and continued back as far as the eye could see, over uninterrupted grassland. "We are here, Aerelle. This is where be begin anew." Aerelle nodded, and they rode into what would one day, if all went as planned, be a great city.

Flash

The fighting was thick in the Nakalryn. The environment was so hostile even the She'lak elves forsook the place. But someone had found a use for the jagged trees of the Nakalryn valley. Ornrym, the great nation that spanned most of the northern portion of the continent, had beed supplying their war effort against La'adia with wood from Nakalryn, strong as iron, light as leather, and as ugly as a Planeswalker's gaze. Moreover, past the Nakalryn was the agricultural base for Ornrym, the breadbasket of the north. It had taken weeks, but Tayle had led her troops through the lower She'lak forest, with help of the elves, to converge upon the major support for the Ornrym war effort.

Mica watched as Tayle slew countless enemies, her hair refracting firelight as her sword reflected blows. She was young, younger than Mica, but Tayle held Mica's position in the one time that affairs in La'adia were as bad as they would be in Mica's. But she preserved. Mica watched Tayle defeat the Ornrym, in their own territory, and throw back their invasion. Mica watched Tayle save La'adia that night, knowing that she may have to one day do the same.

Flash

Mica observed herself splayed on the ground, in an expanding puddle of her own blood. She was not concerned with how it had happened, but merely accepted that it had. Aerelle was at her side, holding her hand. Mica hear herself whisper weakly:

"Is she safe . . . ?" Aerelle nodded. "Good. He . . . cares . . . for her. I couldn't . . . stand . . . to see him . . . hurt . . . Take care . . . of him, Aerelle. Take care of . . . "

Before she could finish her plea, Mica died; a martyr far from home.

Flash

Mica, eight, was sitting with her friend Maddie in front of one of the inns. They were laughing together, sharing a pie. It was a warm spring day like any other. As the two girls joked together, Maddie saw a group of travelers entering the village. As they came nearer, Mica saw herself realize that it was a traveling troupe of entertainers. Cheyquon spoke to the troupe leader, and Mica saw Mica go to her father, and after some arguing, convinced him to allow the troupe to stay in Sha'toria. Cheyquon was still in mourning for his wife, close to four years later. He sometimes needed convincing that not everyone was as consumed in grief as he. Mica missed her mother, for sure, but had lived almost as long without her as she had with. She craved entertainment as much as anyone her age. As Cheyquon left the scene, several of the dancers began to practice their forms. Mica the child was entranced by the flows of the ribbons attached to the dancers' arms at shins . . .

Flash

"These are the Blessed Walls, my daughter. They shall protect my city and my people, and choose your successors."

"Where are you going, my Blessed Lady?"

"I have duties to attend to," the immortal said. "That is enough for you. You shall rule in my absence, as shall your successors. In my honor and grace, I name you Queen Verthandi, Protector of La'adia, Avatar of the Goddess, Lady of the Blessed Walls, Queen of the Silver Castle, and Mother to the Mortals." The woman kneeling at Verthandi's feet convulsed as a glowing miasma consumed her. When the light subsided, the woman was transformed. Her hair now matched her Lady's, but otherwise her features were unchanged; yet somehow, she looked more grandiose, more beautiful, more wise.

The mortal woman kneeled before her Goddess on the walkways of the Blessed Walls, which surged with pure, white mana. The Goddess Verthandi was tall, and radiated a beauty no mortal could hope to match. Her hair was clear as fine glass, her eyes deep blue. Her pristine white dress was embroidered with gold and platinum, with white and red iouns adorning her cuffs, collar, and hair. Her lips were a red so natural no paint could match. Her skin with silky, soft, and pale. Mica knew she should feel envious towards the woman's beauty, but she saw her Goddess, and knew only love, devotion, and loyalty. The emotions felt as if the came from a distant force, as if the scene itself created the emotion. Mica could feel it as if it were her own heart that loved the Goddess.

"I thank you for your protection and blessings, my Gracious Savior," the mortal whispered in adoration. "When shall you return?"

"I will return when the world is safe from those who wish it harm. The journey to that day will be long and harsh, but we will survive. My people will persevere. These Walls will stand forever, and so long as they stand . . . "

Flash

Mica saw her mother, dying in bed. Her father, Cheyquon, sat beside her on the bed. Mica saw herself, only a few years old, crouching on the floor, holding her mother's hand, weeping. She hadn't seen her mother since that night. Mica felt . . . nothing. She knew there should be something there, some grief, some sadness, some emotion. There had been emotion before, but now there was nothing inside . . .

Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash . . .

The mid-morning sun shone through the smoke hole at the peak of the tent onto Mica's face. Blinking, she sat up . . .

. . . then fell back into the bed, groaning. She felt as if there was a mountain trying to escape from her forehead. She ached all over, more than she ever had after dancing for hours straight. She remembered Tesmar, and Vern, and . . . Aeric? Who was Aeric?

Skora was at her side as soon as her head hit the pillow, with Aerelle not far behind her. "Are you all right, child?" Skora's voice boomed, reverberating between Mica's ears. The light, again in Mica's face, felt as if it were searing her eyes out of their sockets. Groaning, she muttered to Skora not to yell so loudly, flopping her hand onto her eyes.

"What in the blazes happened to me? Am I dying?"

"No, Verthandi. You healed Vern, and most of the camp besides. This is not unprecedented, but I don't recall ever hearing of the healing being on such a grand scale."

"I healed him? I can do that?"

"Yes. Now. Being the Avatar of Verthandi makes you more than just a queen with pretty hair."

"So Vern made a full recovery?"

"Not just Vern. All over the camp, broken limbs mended themselves, deep gashes healed, infections subsided and fevers broke. In your . . . absence, I proclaimed the miracle to the entire camp. The Kelsanites are especially grateful that you saved Vern - who, incidentally, seems to have been healed so well he hasn't been able to sleep for the last three days -"

"Three days? I've been out of it for three days?" Mica regretted the outburst immediately afterward, the word 'days' echoing incessantly in her skull.

"Yes, but you have tied everyone in the camp closer to you than you could have in months, and gained us weeks in healing time." Skora sounded proud, as well as pleased.

Aerelle had more to add. "We can get underway as soon as you are able. I can also transport us instantly over great distances, with the help of some of the Knights of the Scarlet Star sworn to me. It won't be all that far, with this many people, but it will cut the travel time by a third, on top of the increased speed we'll get from having everyone - horses included! - in camp being healthier than they have been in years."

Mica was sure this was all important, but she couldn't bring herself to caring about it at the moment. "Skora, do we have anything get rid of the wild horses stampeding through my head? Or at the very least let me sleep until the Blessed Walls fall?" If Mica had been feeling better, she never would have used that old expression.

She heard Skora rummage about for a bit elsewhere in the room before she pressed a glass against Mica's lips and said "Drink." Shortly after the wretched taste of the concoction registered, Mica was out cold.

After Vern was healed, Tesmar had gone to his tent, feeling weakened somehow. The next time he had seen Vern, the man was so brimming with energy Tesmar could barely follow his actions. As far as Tesmar could tell, Vern had been doing nothing out of the ordinary, if he had been doing it quickly. Still, Tesmar knew: Vern suspects. He could not kill the man, but he had to keep an eye on him.

Rumors of what had happened permeated the camp in the past few days. Everyone agreed that Verthandi had healed them, some with simple thankfulness, others with admiration to the point of worship. When it came to Vern and Tesmar, however, details grew more sketchy. Tesmar had gone into a rage, attacking Vern. Vern had stepped to Verthandi's defense when Tesmar attacked her. Vern had been caught stealing from Tesmar, but Verthandi absolved him. Vern was wounded elsewhere, but Tesmar had carried him to Verthadi for healing. No, it was the other way around. Other rumors circulated, each wilder than the first. Most of them were ridiculous, but a few were far too near to the truth for Tesmar's liking.

Tesmar went to his group of trainees, the Kelsanite rabble he had been training. Most trusted him enough to disregard the rumors that he had attacked Vern. There were enough of them to create rumors of his own. He had to save face, and the Kelsanites were his best chance. As the men - though there were a few women in the ranks - assembled for training, Tesmar thought about what he should do. He needed to negate what bad opinions and ideas he had created. How can I recover this situation?

Looking up, Tesmar saw Krick speaking with one of his own lieutenants in the decimated Moonlight Militia. As his mind wandered along those lines, an idea occurred to Tesmar. If he could only get it to work . . .

After some deliberation, Tesmar decided that it would be best to go through with his plan after the training session. He worked the men especially hard that day, and when he judged it had been enough for the day, he called on his troops to remain a moment before returning to their small tents and lean-tos.

"Soldiers, you have done well," Tesmar said, some of the pride in his voice even sincere. "You are all quite receptive to my training. One day, you may be a formidable military force in your own right." He gave them a moment to dwell on his praise. "But have you asked yourselves, what are you to fight for? Kelsan is rubble, and you have already won your freedom. You wish to fight, but for what purpose?" He paused a moment, allowing them to consider his questions. "I shall tell you what you may fight for, what needs to be fought for. You have won your freedom, but others, elsewhere, remain in chains. Evils far worse than the vampires you overthrew stalk the land and terrorize innocents. Those innocents cry out for aid, cry out to deaf ears. They require champions, but they have had none. Until now. You shall fight not for yourselves, not for one country, but for all of Roden!"

The soldiers remained silent for a moment. They were tired, and none had expected anything like this. Somebody shouted, "For Roden!" Others took up the chant. By nightfall, this should supercede any rumors about Vern, Orsul, and, most importantly, Tesmar.

The soldiers-in-training fell silent, staring at Tesmar. Or, more specifically, staring past Tesmar. Perplexed, Tesmar turned, and found himself face-to-face with Verthandi herself, with Aerelle and Skora in tow. The woman's face was expressionless as she stepped to Tesmar's side to address the troops.

"Noble soldiers! Tesmar's idea is a worthy one. In Roden today, there will always be some right to be wronged, some tragedy to be averted, some terror to vanquish. With training, you will do well. However, such a worthy cause needs all the sword-arms it can muster to succeed. This is not a quest solely for Kelsanites. This brotherhood of right, this Order of Roden, should be made up of people from all of Roden, for all of Roden!"

Verthandi turned to speak with Aerelle, clad in her battle-dress given to her by the Knights of the Scarlet Star, as the crowd cheered. Tesmar could not hear what they were saying, they stood to closely together and the soldiers were too loud, but they obviously came to some agreement. Aerelle stepped forward.

"Queen Verthandi and I, Aerelle, Throne of the Wizards of Fire, have come to an agreement. From this day forth, all people in this camp shall share a common cause, and a common fate. We shall live together, we shall work together, and in the name of whatever you hold holy, we shall fight together. I have decided to disband the Moonlight Militia, and integrate its troops into this new Order. What remains of the Order of the Rose, and the other La'adian knights that came with us to Kelsan, will be part of it as well. You shall be our armies of justice, defending all that is good and fighting all that wishes ill. No nobler a cause has ever been championed, and no nobler a force has ever championed a cause." Aerelle paused, but her manner showed that she was not finished. "Across the river, there," she pointed, "stood Karthemon. That city fell in a senseless attack, because nobody was there to defend it. La'adia was destroyed by the same army, as well as my own Montear. For the sake of the dead, and for the sake of those they left behind, I say this: Never again!" The last built up into a crescendo that echoed over the ruins of Karthemon.

This has worked much better than I could have believed, Tesmar mused. Any uneasy feelings anybody had for me shall be washed away within hours. And Aerelle and Verthandi have just brought me up to their level. This has been a good day indeed.

Gradually, the troops dispersed, talking excitedly about the new Order of Roden. Tesmar tried to leave, but Verthandi gave him a look that made him stay precisely where he was. After a fashion, she stepped forward, meeting Tesmar eye to eye. Tesmar wasn't used to women looking him directly in the eye, but Verthandi was somewhat taller than most. Staring Tesmar into submission, Verthandi told him exactly how the new Order would function.

"I am putting yourself, Krick, and Vern in command of the Order of Roden. Each of you will lead a full third of the Order, the Kelsanites and La'adians, and all other groups, distributed equally among the thirds. Any tactical decisions that can be done so will be decided between you three. Each of you will be answerable to the other two, and all of you are and will remain answerable to Throne Aerelle and myself. Do I make myself clear, Captain Tesmar?" The look on her face made it clear that there was only one correct response.

"Yes, my Queen." Tesmar wanted to object somehow, but thought the better of it. Verthandi nodded, he lips curving into the slightest of smiles, turned, and walked away. Tesmar may have been an opportunist, but that woman's ability to capitalize on every situation put him to shame.

Tesmar considered what had just happened. He would not be as influential as he would have been without Verthandi's intervention, that was to be sure. Still, he would have an army, or a third of one. Enough to do what was needed. When the time comes, Tesmar assured himself, it will be enough.