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                                 Chapter Two
                               ~Fortune's Tent~

     A sentinel silent and still, Helene allowed the milling throng to weave around her.  Goose bumps masked the tingle that chased across her skin, as the feel of magic's light caress awakened long forgotten and banished memories.  Her recollections lingered ever so faintly like misted breath on a winter morning.  She needed to concentrate, shut out the laughter and shouts of jubilance, ignore the jostling press of the crowd, and remember.  Eyes closed, magic's subtle touch seeped back into her senses.  The hairs on her arm rose, and she proceeded to the left around a cart piled high with blushberry fruit.

     Oblivious to those she trampled, Helene shoved her way through the flood of revelers.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a head of flaming red hair.  Chara's hands were firmly clamped over Rat's and Pint's shoulders, herding the boys towards a striped tent.

     Rat's brown eyes scanned the crowd and his nose wrinkled in nervousness.  The runt of the litter and easily bossed, he once again found himself thrust in a situation beyond his control.  He shrugged his shoulder, slightly twisting, attempting to slip free.  Gunny cloth bunched beneath the firm grasp that pinned him, preventing his escape.  Thwarted, he dragged his feet while grudgingly accepting her lead.

     Pint, on the other hand, skipped along barely able to contain his excitement.  Only an inch taller than the other lad, his girth matched his height.  A bulbous nose and ruddy features pointed to an obvious parentage, as did the thick red beard that covered his face.  He appeared far older than a lad just past his sixteenth age.

     "I'll gut her!"  Helene hadn't realized she had spoken out loud until those in closest proximity wheeled around to stare.  She spat on the ground in response to their cool glares, and bobbed beneath some arms to disappear amid the crush of people.  She sprinted to catch up to the trio, only to witness them duck beneath a flap of canvas.  Though wont to charge forward, she cautiously scrutinized the surrounding collection of passersby.

     Across the street a burly fellow leaned against a wattle and daub wall with a languid ease, as if disinterested in the bustling surroundings.  The brim of his felted hat dipped low across his face, obscuring most of his features.  Though the drab woolen tunic and trousers seemed more of a peasant's fare, the fit of the cloth betrayed the masterful hand of a tailor.  Not easily fooled, Helene properly identified him as one of the local batons that worked for Magistrate Armel.  His presence did not bode well.She knew better than to be seen entering the premises, so she stole to the back of the tent.

     A profusion of stakes pinned the material tight to the grass.  Hoping to peer beneath, she reached for a wooden stave.  She intended to ease the stake from the ground, but immediately pulled back as she felt a zap of energy tingle her fingers.  Magical forces warded the pavilion from prying eyes or unwanted intruders.  She could feel the static saturating the air, forcing the hairs on her arms to stand erect.  Very slowly she siphoned the pull of current, letting it flow through her just as it had the wood.  The magical charge grounded, and a triumphant smile curled at the corner of Helene's mouth as she peered beneath the heavy material.  A thorough glance revealed the back half of the tent curtained off and unoccupied.  She squeezed beneath the opening and then drove the stake back into the earth.  Slowly she released her grip on the numinous flow, allowing it to seep back to its original path.  Crawling on all fours, she inched closer to the partition, as voices from the front drifted to her ear.

     "Excuse, Sherrel, I need a word with you."

     "We have applicants to be tested.  Can't it wait?"

     "No!"  The brevity of his answer underscored his urgency.  "To the back," the deep voice commanded.

     The woman reluctantly made her excuses to the small group providing a slight delay and the opportunity for Helene to escape detection.  She dived behind waist-high shelves.  Mounds of stone crammed the rack and bowed the wood near to breaking.  Her crouched position proved an excellent vantage point, and adequately hid her from view.  She watched.

     A hand parted the curtain as a woman swept into the back.  A tall man followed sharply on her heel.

     "What is so deathly important?"

     The fellow rubbed at his smooth chin as his brows knit together.  Framing his narrow face, brown ringlets twisted free of the red handkerchief wound around his head.  His billowy white shirt didn't entirely conceal the sharply chiseled muscles of his chest.  "I had this… this unusual feeling!  My--"

     "Well, for you, I imagine any type of feeling would seem unusual." the woman interjected.  Her full lips pursed with a touch of annoyance, and her emerald eyes cast a cool glare.  Large golden hoops hung from her ears and danced with every motion of her head.  The full puffed-sleeves of her white blouse hung down over her shoulders and its neckline flowed low across her bosom.  Knotted about her tiny waist, a triangular shawl accentuated her exquisite curves.  Fringe from the wrap hung at an angle across her dark skirt.  She looked every bit the fortuneteller.

     "This is serious, Myge Sherrel.  And, isn't it about time you gave up being mad?"

     "I don't wish us to address each other using our titles.  And, I'm not mad."

     "You are mad, extremely so," he insisted.

     Can you blame me, was the thought that came into her head but she only replied, "I mean it, no titles."

     "Since no one is around, it hardly matters."

     "If you get us arrested, it will matter."  Sherrel's arms tightly locked over her chest.

     Wincel shrugged his shoulders in response.  "It's not as though the northern magistrates have a problem with us.  It's just the king."

     "The magistrates won't appreciate our behavior if we openly flaunt our presence.  Tensions are already near a boiling point."

     "Perhaps it would be to our advantage to see a revolution.  Let the magistrates rise against the king."

     Well versed with his opinions, Sherrel didn't wish to be subjected to one of his unending litanies.  "The archmage doesn't share your views, Wincel.  He wouldn't want us being tinder for the fire."

     "Must I repeat, no one is around so I expect to be addressed properly.  It's Mage Wincel."

     "Expect… expect… a lot of things we expect don't come to fruition.  That's life.  Isn't that what you said?"

     "See, you are mad!"

     "I'm not mad, nor do I intend to argue affairs of state.  As leader of this recruitment I've declared no titles.  Is that understood?"

     "Completely, Myge."  A half smile crept across Wincel's face, as though daring her to acknowledge his insubordination.

     With the slightest exhale she plastered a neutral expression across her face, and calmly asked, "What is so vitally important about this odd feeling that you had to drag me away from testing?"

     "I felt a cessation to our surrounding spell.  It lasted but a moment."
The woman rubbed at her temple as her eyebrows knit in a frown.  "What do you mean, a moment?"

     "It ended, then started again."

     "Warding spells stop to serve as warning, but they don't start up again!  How is that even possible?"

     The mage threw his arms into the air.  "How should I know?"

     "Are you sure you performed the spell correctly?"

     "Excuse me?"  His jaw jutted forward in a scowl.

     Sherrel met his withering gaze head on.  "Of course, how silly of me."  She rolled her eyes.  "You're perfect."

     "You thought so once."  He leaned in close and swept honey-wheat strands of her hair behind her ear.  His lips brushed close to her cheek as he whispered.  "Must we be at odds.  It pains me."

     The touch felt warm and familiar, she unconsciously inhaled.  The scent of basil, clove, and witch hazel lingered like a pleasant dream.  She had always loved that smell.  Swallowing hard, she buried her feelings, stiffened and pulled away.  She fought to keep her voice level.  "Seeing as the warding spell is still functioning, what would you have me do?"

     "Well, you don't have to do anything, but I'm going out to investigate.  See if I can spot anything."

     "I rather you didn't."

     "And, I rather I did!"

     "Wincel, no!  You've already been out there three times today."  Her hands flew to her hips and her foot stamped in a rapid staccato.  "Expressly against my orders, I might add."

     He offered a roguish grin and a quick wink.  "I'll be quick."

     "Wincel, I said no."  Her words sounded almost more a plea than a command.

     "There are a couple unsavory looking blokes stationed not far from our entrance.  I just want to see what they are up to."

     "I could care less, as long as they are out there, and we are safe in here.  Besides, all this fretting of yours is making me nervous."

     "Well, maybe you should be concerned!  I'm certain they've snatched at least three of the applicants we've turned away.  Doesn't that bother you."

     "Why should it?  They weren't true mages."  Her utterance held a touch of indifference, or at least resignation towards the cruel facts.

     "You've heard the rumors!"

     "Exactly, Rumors!  Unsubstantiated rumors!"

     "Perhaps it is time to substantiate them.  If there is a threat, we should know it."

     "If you're going to investigate, at least take Vered with you."

     Wincel snorted.  "Keep your partner, I don't need help from some un-familied blood."

     "Now, whose is acting angry?"  Her mien offered a satisfied smirk.

     "You brought him along just to make me jealous.  That's why you partnered with him!"

     Sherrel's face turned bright red and the volume of her words rose to the brink of madness.  "You spurned my offer to partner.  So don't you dare think you can comment on my choice."

     A head and shoulders popped between the curtained partition.  Gray streaks in the man's long, dark beard and at his temples erroneously hinted he was far older than he appeared. In truth he had yet to reach his fortieth age.

     "Such exuberance, and we have visitors."  The man nodded his head towards the front of the tent.  Hoping to snatch back a semblance of calm or at least a return to hushed voices, he tapped a finger lightly to his lips and then offered a placating smile.

     "Vered, why don't you mind your own business," Wincel snorted.

     "I am," the mage offered calmly.  He looked to his partner.  "I need your help out front, Sherrel."

     "A moment more."

     Vered looked as though he might reply, but instead turned away without further word.
     "I'll be leaving too."  Wincel's hand brushed back the drape as he readied to re-enter the front.

     Sternness crept into Sherrel's voice.  "I forbid it."  She ducked under his elbow and blocked the way.  "You are well aware, since my mother… since Varra's murder, we are not allowed to travel unaccompanied.  It's too dangerous.  You're not even paired."

     "Listen, my lovely little tyrant."  He lightly tweaked the end of her nose.  "I'll be paired soon enough.  Who will have the higher rank then?  Perhaps it will serve you best not to foster antagonism between us."  Grasping Sherrel by both arms, Wincel picked her up as if she were no heavier than a new born babe.  Just as abruptly he reversed their positions, ignored her squawk, and set her back upon the ground.  He darted off without bothering to look back.

     Sherrel stood sputtering with indignation until a demanding voice called from the front.  "Hey Mage Lady, when we be getting on with this?  I be telling ya I can magic.  I'll makes a good mage.  Rat and Pint, they be having a bit of talent too."

     Pulling back the partition, Vered motioned his partner forward.  "We have business to attend!  Ignore Wincel's childish--"

     As Sherrel swept past her partner, she hissed, "Hush, I don't want to hear it."  She knew her words to be impolite, but competing emotions, affection, pride, jealousy, wrath, and ambition warred within her thoughts.

     The woman turned to the trio of urchins, her vexation still bubbling close to the surface.  Her voice rang curt and cold.  "Acceptance is conditional.  It takes more than just the ability to perform magic to be granted an invitation to come with us."

     "What kinds of spells ya be wanting then, Mage Lady."

     "It's Myge you ignorant little--"

     Vered stepped between the two parties, cutting off the woman's words.  He extended his hand towards the fluffy cushions piled on the ground around a low, round table.  "Please!"  He motioned for them to have a seat.

     The tabletop had rune markings carved in an intricate border around the edge.  A silver pitcher, a salver, and a pedestal displaying a fluorite globe rested near the center of the wooden surface.

     Striding towards her seat, Sherrel whispered to her partner as she glided past, "Why seek new blood, when all that can be found is rabble."

     He glared.  "Watch how you speak!"

     The myge bit at her lip, realizing her gaffe.  Her partner, Vered, fell into the category of new blood, discovered twenty-five years ago in one of the earliest recruitment expeditions into the forbidden lands.

     Pint bolted past the man and accidentally tripped on a foot, diving head first into the piled cushions.  He yanked a pillow into his arms with utter delight.  "Ewweeee, I ain't never felt nothings like this before."  Rubbing the throw cushion over his grinning face, he gushed, "It being soft."  Grime erased from his brow and streaked across the silk in a dark smear.

     "Sit… please!"  The woman's invitation sounded more like an order.

     With a timorous gulp, Pint relinquished his strangle hold on the pillow, set it back upon the floor, and crawled onto the offered seat.  The others quickly followed.

     Vered disappeared to the back, but re-emerged almost immediately with a translucent blue vase in one hand and a dead flower clutched in the other.  He set the fragile vessel on the table.

     Immediately, Pint's fingers snatched the article.  "This being real glass?  How did ya makes it blue?  I never be seeing nothing like this."

     Most windows in the city were merely holes cut high into the walls with wooden shutters to lock against the night's evils.  Behind the planked barriers, a few of the richer merchants in town had paned windows of a material coated with tallow and resin.  Real glass, however, remained a luxury to all but the richest, mostly the Magistrates.

     Rat gave his friend a sharp nudge.  "I don't thinks they is wanting ya to be touching their things."

     Scratching at his beard, he gazed up at Sherrel's stern frown.  Embarrassed, he placed the glass back onto the table.

     "We don't bother with… dwarves.  You may as well go."  Long dainty fingers waved in dismissal.

     Around the table, mouths dropped in shock.  The word, dwarf, was not spoken in polite company.  More than two thousand years of war between the two races ensured that designation a slur at best.

     His face fell, drained of excitement.  Slowly, Pint rose to his feet.  "I don't wants to be with people like you."  His eyes narrowed.  "And me Mam was no dwarf."  He hawked a wad of saliva onto the pillow he had just vacated.

     The woman screeched, "My cushions!  Get out, you squat-legged, little--"

     "Sherrel!" Vered snapped.  "I'll not have us known for poor manners."  He caught the lad's shoulder and steered him towards clean seating, and then motioned his partner to join him over at the side.

     The woman hissed under her breath, "You're wasting our time.  You know as well as I that dwarves are incapable of magic."

     Vered drew back his shoulders, his posture stern and unforgiving.  Average in build, he had to use every bit of his stature to appear commanding.  "I know it has been a trying day thus far.  We have made a long trip across forbidden lands, and for all that risk we have yet to find even one suitable candidate.  This is not my first journey, and I'm telling you, though we have discovered naught, the next town might be brimming with talent.  The only way to know is to test."  He narrowed his eyes, lowered the tone of his voice, and attempted to sound firm.  "And… if that means you need to keep that blue-blood nose of yours out of the air and look at the local riff-raff or half-dw… muddler--"

     "Alright!  Alright!" she interrupted.  "It's just… Wincel tends to rile me.  He puts me in a foul mood."

     "I suggest you choose your own mood!"  His words were sharper than he intended.  He knew he should follow his own advice, but her constant concern for Wincel's thoughts and actions bothered him.  After all, Sherrel and he were magic partners; they were the ones paired.  Hoping to soften the sting of his previous tirade, he added, "Everything will be fine. And just so you know, most of what Wincel says or does is for the sake of reaction.  Ignore him."

     Sherrel just snorted before returning to her cushion.  She mumbled lightly, "Riff-Raff… yes!  But dwarves… dwarves can't do magic."

     Chara rebutted the whispered words that carried to her ears.  "I be seeing him magic.  He's done it, he has!"

     "You're mistaken!  Dwarves-- can't-- magic!" Sherrel spat each word separately.
Pint jumped to his feet.

     Chara rolled her eyes, elbowed Rat, and whispered, "Guess it ain't being true that mages be friends to the dwarves."

     Pint's lower lip jutted out as his eyes narrowed.  "I done tolds ya before, I ain't no dwarf."

     Vered strode behind the youth and gently pushed the young lad back to his pillowed seat.  He placed the dead rose into the vase; its withered head bent over, its leaves drooped.  Setting the flower directly in front of Pint, he gave a quick wink, his slate-gray eyes glinting with humor.  "Ready to prove her wrong?"

     Pint's sullen face lit up as he nodded in agreement.

     "You've drawn power before?"

     His head continued to bob.

     "Close your eyes.  I want you to feel the magic in the air around you.  Can you sense its current?"

     After a moment or two, Pint whispered, "I feels it, but it be feeling a mite strange."

     "Hold your hand out," Vered commanded as he scooted the salver across the table.

     The lad's eyes popped open.  "What ya be wanting me to do that for?"

     "I'm just going to pour a bit of water over your fingertips, that's all.  You needn't fear."  Vered lifted the silver pitcher, gently sloshing its contents to reassure the youth.

     "Who says I be scared.  I ain't scared!  I never been scared," Pint muttered the string of words without pause.  His arms crossed in protest as he drew his face into a menacing snarl.

     Biting back a smile, the mage managed to keep his voice level.  "Of course not.  Your hand," he said, reminding him of his request.  "Now close your eyes, please… and concentrate."  Letting a small stream of liquid trickle over trembling fingers, he continued.  "Now feel the energies of the water.  Feel the force in it.  Carry that feeling to the plant.  Let it draw on that power."

     The whole time Sherrel's foot tapped against the earth with impatience.  Suddenly her irritation stilled.  She gasped!  "That's not possible!"

     The lowest leaf unfurled, refreshed and marked with life. The mage plucked the rose from the glass turning it over in his hand in careful examination.  "Not very strong, but he still pulled the energy."

     Behind the partition Helene had her own object to inspect.  One of the small rocks on the shelf had begun to glow.  Small veins splayed across the stone, radiating a deep red light.  By the time she cradled the chunk of ore in her palm, its luminance had ceased.  Inquisitively she rubbed the surface with her thumb, but found it similar to any other stone one might pluck off the road.  Debating the wisdom of stealing from mages, she studied the rocks a while longer before finally stuffing her pocket with no small number.

     From the front of the tent, a loud snigger claimed all attention.  "That being babies' play.  If that's all ya want us to be doing.  Watch this, Mage Lady."  Before anyone could stop Chara, her eyes closed.  Her hands stretched out and she pulled power.
Still clutched in Vered's hand, the withered blossom snapped upright, breathing back its blush of soft pink.  The remaining leaves plumped out and turned a vibrant green.  All the while, a scream rang out from inside the tent.

     Rat doubled over; pain as red-hot as a poker's brand coursed through him.  He rubbed his chest, his eyes watering, as he managed to curse between panted breaths.  "Blood an bone!  Ya best… warns me… next time… if ya be using me to magic."

     Vered towered over Chara, his amiable nature replaced by an accusing scowl.  "There won't be a next time."  It took every iota of his patience not to throttle the child.

     Chara looked into his glowering eyes and swallowed hard.  "I just be magicing!"

     Vered's voice rang, sharp and cold as a blade of steel.  "We never do magic in that manner."

     The scolding drew Helene's ear closer to the curtain.  Though she delighted in hearing her nemesis suffer rebuke, the meaning of the words caught her attention even more.  Magic and pain came hand in hand.  What other manner of magic was there?

     Suddenly, the entrance flap flew wide and Scar barged into the tent.  Words spilled out in urgency.  "Ya guys know where I can be finding Helene?  We be having real problems!  That ol' pig head, Jowls nabbed Pip and Annel.  Don't know why them two was being down there, they ain't being properly trained.  Jowls caughts them with their hands in other pockets.  He be taking them to the hanging tree."

     Helene burst from her hiding place in the back part of the tent and charged forward, sprinting past the startled group.

A chorus of gasps echoed from the gathered orphans as their leader darted past.  Sherrel might have added to the outcry had she not managed to clamp her hand over her mouth.

     Despite being caught off guard by the unexpected intrusion, Vered had the common sense to lock on to Scar's collar, preventing his escape.

     The day was definitely going awry.

Description
                                 Chapter Two
                               ~Fortune's Tent~

     A sentinel silent and still, Helene allowed the milling throng to weave around her.  Goose bumps masked the tingle that chased across her skin, as the feel of magic's light caress awakened long forgotten and banished memories.  Her recollections lingered ever so faintly like misted breath on a winter morning.  She needed to concentrate, shut out the laughter and shouts of jubilance, ignore the jostling press of the crowd, and remember.  Eyes closed, magic's subtle touch seeped back into her senses.  The hairs on her arm rose, and she proceeded to the left around a cart piled high with blushberry fruit.

     Oblivious to those she trampled, Helene shoved her way through the flood of revelers.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a head of flaming red hair.  Chara's hands were firmly clamped over Rat's and Pint's shoulders, herding the boys towards a striped tent.

     Rat's brown eyes scanned the crowd and his nose wrinkled in nervousness.  The runt of the litter and easily bossed, he once again found himself thrust in a situation beyond his control.  He shrugged his shoulder, slightly twisting, attempting to slip free.  Gunny cloth bunched beneath the firm grasp that pinned him, preventing his escape.  Thwarted, he dragged his feet while grudgingly accepting her lead.

     Pint, on the other hand, skipped along barely able to contain his excitement.  Only an inch taller than the other lad, his girth matched his height.  A bulbous nose and ruddy features pointed to an obvious parentage, as did the thick red beard that covered his face.  He appeared far older than a lad just past his sixteenth age.

     "I'll gut her!"  Helene hadn't realized she had spoken out loud until those in closest proximity wheeled around to stare.  She spat on the ground in response to their cool glares, and bobbed beneath some arms to disappear amid the crush of people.  She sprinted to catch up to the trio, only to witness them duck beneath a flap of canvas.  Though wont to charge forward, she cautiously scrutinized the surrounding collection of passersby.

     Across the street a burly fellow leaned against a wattle and daub wall with a languid ease, as if disinterested in the bustling surroundings.  The brim of his felted hat dipped low across his face, obscuring most of his features.  Though the drab woolen tunic and trousers seemed more of a peasant's fare, the fit of the cloth betrayed the masterful hand of a tailor.  Not easily fooled, Helene properly identified him as one of the local batons that worked for Magistrate Armel.  His presence did not bode well.She knew better than to be seen entering the premises, so she stole to the back of the tent.

     A profusion of stakes pinned the material tight to the grass.  Hoping to peer beneath, she reached for a wooden stave.  She intended to ease the stake from the ground, but immediately pulled back as she felt a zap of energy tingle her fingers.  Magical forces warded the pavilion from prying eyes or unwanted intruders.  She could feel the static saturating the air, forcing the hairs on her arms to stand erect.  Very slowly she siphoned the pull of current, letting it flow through her just as it had the wood.  The magical charge grounded, and a triumphant smile curled at the corner of Helene's mouth as she peered beneath the heavy material.  A thorough glance revealed the back half of the tent curtained off and unoccupied.  She squeezed beneath the opening and then drove the stake back into the earth.  Slowly she released her grip on the numinous flow, allowing it to seep back to its original path.  Crawling on all fours, she inched closer to the partition, as voices from the front drifted to her ear.

     "Excuse, Sherrel, I need a word with you."

     "We have applicants to be tested.  Can't it wait?"

     "No!"  The brevity of his answer underscored his urgency.  "To the back," the deep voice commanded.

     The woman reluctantly made her excuses to the small group providing a slight delay and the opportunity for Helene to escape detection.  She dived behind waist-high shelves.  Mounds of stone crammed the rack and bowed the wood near to breaking.  Her crouched position proved an excellent vantage point, and adequately hid her from view.  She watched.

     A hand parted the curtain as a woman swept into the back.  A tall man followed sharply on her heel.

     "What is so deathly important?"

     The fellow rubbed at his smooth chin as his brows knit together.  Framing his narrow face, brown ringlets twisted free of the red handkerchief wound around his head.  His billowy white shirt didn't entirely conceal the sharply chiseled muscles of his chest.  "I had this… this unusual feeling!  My--"

     "Well, for you, I imagine any type of feeling would seem unusual." the woman interjected.  Her full lips pursed with a touch of annoyance, and her emerald eyes cast a cool glare.  Large golden hoops hung from her ears and danced with every motion of her head.  The full puffed-sleeves of her white blouse hung down over her shoulders and its neckline flowed low across her bosom.  Knotted about her tiny waist, a triangular shawl accentuated her exquisite curves.  Fringe from the wrap hung at an angle across her dark skirt.  She looked every bit the fortuneteller.

     "This is serious, Myge Sherrel.  And, isn't it about time you gave up being mad?"

     "I don't wish us to address each other using our titles.  And, I'm not mad."

     "You are mad, extremely so," he insisted.

     Can you blame me, was the thought that came into her head but she only replied, "I mean it, no titles."

     "Since no one is around, it hardly matters."

     "If you get us arrested, it will matter."  Sherrel's arms tightly locked over her chest.

     Wincel shrugged his shoulders in response.  "It's not as though the northern magistrates have a problem with us.  It's just the king."

     "The magistrates won't appreciate our behavior if we openly flaunt our presence.  Tensions are already near a boiling point."

     "Perhaps it would be to our advantage to see a revolution.  Let the magistrates rise against the king."

     Well versed with his opinions, Sherrel didn't wish to be subjected to one of his unending litanies.  "The archmage doesn't share your views, Wincel.  He wouldn't want us being tinder for the fire."

     "Must I repeat, no one is around so I expect to be addressed properly.  It's Mage Wincel."

     "Expect… expect… a lot of things we expect don't come to fruition.  That's life.  Isn't that what you said?"

     "See, you are mad!"

     "I'm not mad, nor do I intend to argue affairs of state.  As leader of this recruitment I've declared no titles.  Is that understood?"

     "Completely, Myge."  A half smile crept across Wincel's face, as though daring her to acknowledge his insubordination.

     With the slightest exhale she plastered a neutral expression across her face, and calmly asked, "What is so vitally important about this odd feeling that you had to drag me away from testing?"

     "I felt a cessation to our surrounding spell.  It lasted but a moment."
The woman rubbed at her temple as her eyebrows knit in a frown.  "What do you mean, a moment?"

     "It ended, then started again."

     "Warding spells stop to serve as warning, but they don't start up again!  How is that even possible?"

     The mage threw his arms into the air.  "How should I know?"

     "Are you sure you performed the spell correctly?"

     "Excuse me?"  His jaw jutted forward in a scowl.

     Sherrel met his withering gaze head on.  "Of course, how silly of me."  She rolled her eyes.  "You're perfect."

     "You thought so once."  He leaned in close and swept honey-wheat strands of her hair behind her ear.  His lips brushed close to her cheek as he whispered.  "Must we be at odds.  It pains me."

     The touch felt warm and familiar, she unconsciously inhaled.  The scent of basil, clove, and witch hazel lingered like a pleasant dream.  She had always loved that smell.  Swallowing hard, she buried her feelings, stiffened and pulled away.  She fought to keep her voice level.  "Seeing as the warding spell is still functioning, what would you have me do?"

     "Well, you don't have to do anything, but I'm going out to investigate.  See if I can spot anything."

     "I rather you didn't."

     "And, I rather I did!"

     "Wincel, no!  You've already been out there three times today."  Her hands flew to her hips and her foot stamped in a rapid staccato.  "Expressly against my orders, I might add."

     He offered a roguish grin and a quick wink.  "I'll be quick."

     "Wincel, I said no."  Her words sounded almost more a plea than a command.

     "There are a couple unsavory looking blokes stationed not far from our entrance.  I just want to see what they are up to."

     "I could care less, as long as they are out there, and we are safe in here.  Besides, all this fretting of yours is making me nervous."

     "Well, maybe you should be concerned!  I'm certain they've snatched at least three of the applicants we've turned away.  Doesn't that bother you."

     "Why should it?  They weren't true mages."  Her utterance held a touch of indifference, or at least resignation towards the cruel facts.

     "You've heard the rumors!"

     "Exactly, Rumors!  Unsubstantiated rumors!"

     "Perhaps it is time to substantiate them.  If there is a threat, we should know it."

     "If you're going to investigate, at least take Vered with you."

     Wincel snorted.  "Keep your partner, I don't need help from some un-familied blood."

     "Now, whose is acting angry?"  Her mien offered a satisfied smirk.

     "You brought him along just to make me jealous.  That's why you partnered with him!"

     Sherrel's face turned bright red and the volume of her words rose to the brink of madness.  "You spurned my offer to partner.  So don't you dare think you can comment on my choice."

     A head and shoulders popped between the curtained partition.  Gray streaks in the man's long, dark beard and at his temples erroneously hinted he was far older than he appeared. In truth he had yet to reach his fortieth age.

     "Such exuberance, and we have visitors."  The man nodded his head towards the front of the tent.  Hoping to snatch back a semblance of calm or at least a return to hushed voices, he tapped a finger lightly to his lips and then offered a placating smile.

     "Vered, why don't you mind your own business," Wincel snorted.

     "I am," the mage offered calmly.  He looked to his partner.  "I need your help out front, Sherrel."

     "A moment more."

     Vered looked as though he might reply, but instead turned away without further word.
     "I'll be leaving too."  Wincel's hand brushed back the drape as he readied to re-enter the front.

     Sternness crept into Sherrel's voice.  "I forbid it."  She ducked under his elbow and blocked the way.  "You are well aware, since my mother… since Varra's murder, we are not allowed to travel unaccompanied.  It's too dangerous.  You're not even paired."

     "Listen, my lovely little tyrant."  He lightly tweaked the end of her nose.  "I'll be paired soon enough.  Who will have the higher rank then?  Perhaps it will serve you best not to foster antagonism between us."  Grasping Sherrel by both arms, Wincel picked her up as if she were no heavier than a new born babe.  Just as abruptly he reversed their positions, ignored her squawk, and set her back upon the ground.  He darted off without bothering to look back.

     Sherrel stood sputtering with indignation until a demanding voice called from the front.  "Hey Mage Lady, when we be getting on with this?  I be telling ya I can magic.  I'll makes a good mage.  Rat and Pint, they be having a bit of talent too."

     Pulling back the partition, Vered motioned his partner forward.  "We have business to attend!  Ignore Wincel's childish--"

     As Sherrel swept past her partner, she hissed, "Hush, I don't want to hear it."  She knew her words to be impolite, but competing emotions, affection, pride, jealousy, wrath, and ambition warred within her thoughts.

     The woman turned to the trio of urchins, her vexation still bubbling close to the surface.  Her voice rang curt and cold.  "Acceptance is conditional.  It takes more than just the ability to perform magic to be granted an invitation to come with us."

     "What kinds of spells ya be wanting then, Mage Lady."

     "It's Myge you ignorant little--"

     Vered stepped between the two parties, cutting off the woman's words.  He extended his hand towards the fluffy cushions piled on the ground around a low, round table.  "Please!"  He motioned for them to have a seat.

     The tabletop had rune markings carved in an intricate border around the edge.  A silver pitcher, a salver, and a pedestal displaying a fluorite globe rested near the center of the wooden surface.

     Striding towards her seat, Sherrel whispered to her partner as she glided past, "Why seek new blood, when all that can be found is rabble."

     He glared.  "Watch how you speak!"

     The myge bit at her lip, realizing her gaffe.  Her partner, Vered, fell into the category of new blood, discovered twenty-five years ago in one of the earliest recruitment expeditions into the forbidden lands.

     Pint bolted past the man and accidentally tripped on a foot, diving head first into the piled cushions.  He yanked a pillow into his arms with utter delight.  "Ewweeee, I ain't never felt nothings like this before."  Rubbing the throw cushion over his grinning face, he gushed, "It being soft."  Grime erased from his brow and streaked across the silk in a dark smear.

     "Sit… please!"  The woman's invitation sounded more like an order.

     With a timorous gulp, Pint relinquished his strangle hold on the pillow, set it back upon the floor, and crawled onto the offered seat.  The others quickly followed.

     Vered disappeared to the back, but re-emerged almost immediately with a translucent blue vase in one hand and a dead flower clutched in the other.  He set the fragile vessel on the table.

     Immediately, Pint's fingers snatched the article.  "This being real glass?  How did ya makes it blue?  I never be seeing nothing like this."

     Most windows in the city were merely holes cut high into the walls with wooden shutters to lock against the night's evils.  Behind the planked barriers, a few of the richer merchants in town had paned windows of a material coated with tallow and resin.  Real glass, however, remained a luxury to all but the richest, mostly the Magistrates.

     Rat gave his friend a sharp nudge.  "I don't thinks they is wanting ya to be touching their things."

     Scratching at his beard, he gazed up at Sherrel's stern frown.  Embarrassed, he placed the glass back onto the table.

     "We don't bother with… dwarves.  You may as well go."  Long dainty fingers waved in dismissal.

     Around the table, mouths dropped in shock.  The word, dwarf, was not spoken in polite company.  More than two thousand years of war between the two races ensured that designation a slur at best.

     His face fell, drained of excitement.  Slowly, Pint rose to his feet.  "I don't wants to be with people like you."  His eyes narrowed.  "And me Mam was no dwarf."  He hawked a wad of saliva onto the pillow he had just vacated.

     The woman screeched, "My cushions!  Get out, you squat-legged, little--"

     "Sherrel!" Vered snapped.  "I'll not have us known for poor manners."  He caught the lad's shoulder and steered him towards clean seating, and then motioned his partner to join him over at the side.

     The woman hissed under her breath, "You're wasting our time.  You know as well as I that dwarves are incapable of magic."

     Vered drew back his shoulders, his posture stern and unforgiving.  Average in build, he had to use every bit of his stature to appear commanding.  "I know it has been a trying day thus far.  We have made a long trip across forbidden lands, and for all that risk we have yet to find even one suitable candidate.  This is not my first journey, and I'm telling you, though we have discovered naught, the next town might be brimming with talent.  The only way to know is to test."  He narrowed his eyes, lowered the tone of his voice, and attempted to sound firm.  "And… if that means you need to keep that blue-blood nose of yours out of the air and look at the local riff-raff or half-dw… muddler--"

     "Alright!  Alright!" she interrupted.  "It's just… Wincel tends to rile me.  He puts me in a foul mood."

     "I suggest you choose your own mood!"  His words were sharper than he intended.  He knew he should follow his own advice, but her constant concern for Wincel's thoughts and actions bothered him.  After all, Sherrel and he were magic partners; they were the ones paired.  Hoping to soften the sting of his previous tirade, he added, "Everything will be fine. And just so you know, most of what Wincel says or does is for the sake of reaction.  Ignore him."

     Sherrel just snorted before returning to her cushion.  She mumbled lightly, "Riff-Raff… yes!  But dwarves… dwarves can't do magic."

     Chara rebutted the whispered words that carried to her ears.  "I be seeing him magic.  He's done it, he has!"

     "You're mistaken!  Dwarves-- can't-- magic!" Sherrel spat each word separately.
Pint jumped to his feet.

     Chara rolled her eyes, elbowed Rat, and whispered, "Guess it ain't being true that mages be friends to the dwarves."

     Pint's lower lip jutted out as his eyes narrowed.  "I done tolds ya before, I ain't no dwarf."

     Vered strode behind the youth and gently pushed the young lad back to his pillowed seat.  He placed the dead rose into the vase; its withered head bent over, its leaves drooped.  Setting the flower directly in front of Pint, he gave a quick wink, his slate-gray eyes glinting with humor.  "Ready to prove her wrong?"

     Pint's sullen face lit up as he nodded in agreement.

     "You've drawn power before?"

     His head continued to bob.

     "Close your eyes.  I want you to feel the magic in the air around you.  Can you sense its current?"

     After a moment or two, Pint whispered, "I feels it, but it be feeling a mite strange."

     "Hold your hand out," Vered commanded as he scooted the salver across the table.

     The lad's eyes popped open.  "What ya be wanting me to do that for?"

     "I'm just going to pour a bit of water over your fingertips, that's all.  You needn't fear."  Vered lifted the silver pitcher, gently sloshing its contents to reassure the youth.

     "Who says I be scared.  I ain't scared!  I never been scared," Pint muttered the string of words without pause.  His arms crossed in protest as he drew his face into a menacing snarl.

     Biting back a smile, the mage managed to keep his voice level.  "Of course not.  Your hand," he said, reminding him of his request.  "Now close your eyes, please… and concentrate."  Letting a small stream of liquid trickle over trembling fingers, he continued.  "Now feel the energies of the water.  Feel the force in it.  Carry that feeling to the plant.  Let it draw on that power."

     The whole time Sherrel's foot tapped against the earth with impatience.  Suddenly her irritation stilled.  She gasped!  "That's not possible!"

     The lowest leaf unfurled, refreshed and marked with life. The mage plucked the rose from the glass turning it over in his hand in careful examination.  "Not very strong, but he still pulled the energy."

     Behind the partition Helene had her own object to inspect.  One of the small rocks on the shelf had begun to glow.  Small veins splayed across the stone, radiating a deep red light.  By the time she cradled the chunk of ore in her palm, its luminance had ceased.  Inquisitively she rubbed the surface with her thumb, but found it similar to any other stone one might pluck off the road.  Debating the wisdom of stealing from mages, she studied the rocks a while longer before finally stuffing her pocket with no small number.

     From the front of the tent, a loud snigger claimed all attention.  "That being babies' play.  If that's all ya want us to be doing.  Watch this, Mage Lady."  Before anyone could stop Chara, her eyes closed.  Her hands stretched out and she pulled power.
Still clutched in Vered's hand, the withered blossom snapped upright, breathing back its blush of soft pink.  The remaining leaves plumped out and turned a vibrant green.  All the while, a scream rang out from inside the tent.

     Rat doubled over; pain as red-hot as a poker's brand coursed through him.  He rubbed his chest, his eyes watering, as he managed to curse between panted breaths.  "Blood an bone!  Ya best… warns me… next time… if ya be using me to magic."

     Vered towered over Chara, his amiable nature replaced by an accusing scowl.  "There won't be a next time."  It took every iota of his patience not to throttle the child.

     Chara looked into his glowering eyes and swallowed hard.  "I just be magicing!"

     Vered's voice rang, sharp and cold as a blade of steel.  "We never do magic in that manner."

     The scolding drew Helene's ear closer to the curtain.  Though she delighted in hearing her nemesis suffer rebuke, the meaning of the words caught her attention even more.  Magic and pain came hand in hand.  What other manner of magic was there?

     Suddenly, the entrance flap flew wide and Scar barged into the tent.  Words spilled out in urgency.  "Ya guys know where I can be finding Helene?  We be having real problems!  That ol' pig head, Jowls nabbed Pip and Annel.  Don't know why them two was being down there, they ain't being properly trained.  Jowls caughts them with their hands in other pockets.  He be taking them to the hanging tree."

     Helene burst from her hiding place in the back part of the tent and charged forward, sprinting past the startled group.

A chorus of gasps echoed from the gathered orphans as their leader darted past.  Sherrel might have added to the outcry had she not managed to clamp her hand over her mouth.

     Despite being caught off guard by the unexpected intrusion, Vered had the common sense to lock on to Scar's collar, preventing his escape.

     The day was definitely going awry.