The Darkest Hour
Darkness, and from it appears a shape so formless it has not even a name. But a shape denotes light, and like a flip of a switch, a spark of flame igniting a torch, the world becomes illuminated. The light is language, a recollection of words, and suddenly Rhianon is able to pull, like a quilted blanket on a winter's night, the sensible world from the darkness which had consumed her. Soon she is wrapped in the multifold fabric of reality, her faculties online and buzzing with information flow.
It is dark still, the air dank and unmoving, heavy with the earthy smell of soil and fungi. The stoneware floor upon which she lay is softened by a carpet of moss. There is a ringing in her ears and her head pounds with a dull pain, but the resonant tone nor the cushion of moss can hide from her elven ears the sound of footsteps approaching.
A hand touches her shoulder and a voice vaguely familiar asks if she's alright. Turning to face the voice, a Diaboli's face comes into focus and with it a name. With the name, handpicked memories return, and Rhianon is reminded of her situation. Because Jajix was able to target and hide specific memories while she was unconscious, Rhianon does not recall entering into the thieves' den or any of the experiences she had within. The most recent thing she can recollect is walking down the tight corridor side by side with the Diaboli, listening to him prattle on about the history of these tunnels.
"Hmm... must be the stagnant air," says Jajix with concern, "I must admit it can get quite claustrophobic down here. Here, let me help you to your feet."
He clasps his hand around her forearm and offers his support as she pulls herself up, giving her a moment to dust herself off before continuing down the long corridor ahead. After making a few turns down covert side hallways, they reach a rusted ladder leading up to a concealed iron hatch. Jajix climbs the ladder first and knocks a distinct rhythmical series on the underside of the hatch, waiting for a pause and then another precise series answers from the other side. The hatch opens and a refreshing gust of cool night air flows down into the tunnels. Jajix climbs out fully and turns to offer a hand in assisting Rhianon. They are met by a small band of three men, shrouded under cloaks and hoods, obviously some of Jajix's crew. He turns to Rhianon as he too pulls his hood over his face, masking his features within its shadows.
"Well miss, as promised we are now outside the city walls. Although... by my count we're one man short. If you aren't in a hurry we could probably use your services..." The Diaboli is cut off by the disgruntled shuffling of his dubious companions, but a quick turn of his head, almost imperceptible within his deep hood, and they suddenly become rigidly still, standing in an almost drone like obedience. "As I was saying," he continues, "It will only be a covert operation, no killing need be involved."
The mere mention of killing seems unwarranted, but the tone of his voice hints that Jajix tacked it on with purpose. Indeed, he watches Rhianon closely under the dim nocturnal crystal light for whatever tiny dance of invoked emotions may play upon her face. "You look to be experienced in stealthy enterprise, so what say you? I can promise to make it worth your while."
Back within the city walls, Hynlan is leading Keelana from the hospital and from safety. The Ynnwn's face contorts between an air of smugness and a frantic determination. He is already behind schedule trying to remedy his earlier mistake, but he is as much a politician as he is a blacksmith, and he is practiced in keeping up the poise of confidence. He makes a few lighthearted jokes at Keelana, trying to keep the young fenki relaxed in his presence, but his own crafted composure cracks the moment he sees his lousy apprentice and a strange fenki up the street ahead of him, carrying the limp form of the other half of his quarry.
His comes to a complete stop, his steel clad feet freeze in their tracks. His lip twitches into a snarl as his mind slowly pieces together the truth of the situation. That lousy little kid... just wait until I get my hands around his scrawny little throat... just wait till I...wait... who's this fenki? His eyes flick between Szahia and Keelana, Keelana and Szahia until it dawns on him, Hynlan you dumb oaf, you got the wrong girl! Other voices soon join in on his own internal badgering, his father's, his half-brother's, his dead mother's, You'll always be a failure... you can never do anything right... good for nothing half bred maggot.
Rage takes the Ynnwn over, and his half-brother's carefully laid plans are tossed aside along with Keelana as he shoves her out of the way. He draws his short sword from its scabbard, the ring of the master worked blade hangs in the air like the audible glint of crystal light reflecting from its surface. "STOP! THIEVES!" His voice booms throughout the town, and he charges down the cobbled road towards the trio.
At this time, the Vigesimi and his contingent of guards arrive at the palace. As they race down the vaulted marble halls, they are joined by more and more of the palace guards. The bevy of armed men burst into the throne room and a collective gasp resounds, echoing down the now empty halls. There before them, the Vigesimi's family lay slaughtered on the stone floor, his innocent wife and children. Their bodies are joined by those of the few guards who were stationed within the room. There are burn marks scattered throughout, evidence that powerful magic was used.
"How can this be?" an exasperated palace guard asks, "I haven't heard a thing all night."
There are hushed assenting murmurs from the other guards as Arlan hangs his head, gritting his teeth and fighting back the tears. The pain, of course, is enormous, but with his military experience he knows not to let his emotions dictate his actions. So, keeping his wits about him, he turns towards his men wearing a mask of calm. He's about to give orders when a moaning is heard coming from one of the bodies in the room. A hurried search reveals the court mage, Arkus, is the lone survivor.
"It was a trap... an ambush.." he groans as two of the guards with rudimentary skills in the healing arts tend to his wounds, "...it was the guards... the guards who attacked us..."
A heavy silence falls about the group, bodies tensed and nervous, suspecting eyes glanced about. All of a sudden, the seeds of mistrust were sown into the hearts of all present.
"Impossible," the Vigesimi snaps. He looks deeply into the eyes of his men, these soldiers who he knows personally, each as a member of his family. He knows everything about them, their stories, their dreams... How can any of them betray me? But there must be some truth behind Arkus's claim. I don't recognize the faces of these guards slain. My own regiment... infiltrated...
The events of the night begin to catch up to Arlan, the attack on the plaza, his family innocently killed in an ambush obviously set for him, now the revelation that some of his own trusted men were working against him. How many more? How many moles and saboteurs have I brought under my service? I can't dwell on that now. The conspiracy is already in action. I'm vulnerable until whatever ringmaster is behind all of it is revealed. The only course now is to continue to play into their hands until that moment, when I can get close, when the villain is exposed, and I'll invoke justice. I'll make them pay, each and every one.
With cold righteous anger he demands of Arkus, "Prepare yourself. We're going to need you at the ready. I want my family prepared for burial by the time I get back," he orders the palace guards, "Everyone else mount up. We're going to find this scoundrel Iasrillo."
