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    Out in Karellon, there was much fuss and bother, tremendous preparation taking place for the emperor’s ride. Vernax the Golden would hatch again, soon; all the signs and the seers foretold it. And then, once the young dragon broke shell, His Imperial Majesty would reforge their bond and take to the skies, ensuring his reign for another long age. It was a time of rejoicing. Not even the tolling of war bells from distant Milardin disrupted that carnival atmosphere. After all, His Majesty was soon to emerge with Vernax, Magister Serrio was coming back to the city, and wonders were flowering everywhere.


    None of this chaos shook the peace of the Constellate House on Bogg Street, in Low Town. Nothing could, as in that apparent hovel there was always enough to go around and always room for one more, by Lord Oberyn’s blessing. Whether those guests were invited to stay, or not… well, that was the question. One only the god could answer.


    After a light snack of day-brew and biscuits, Val and Filno were shown to their lodgings. Hauled along by the plucking, insistent hands of a dozen giggling street orphans, the two elves were led to a rickety door at the end of a narrow hall.


    “Tis never the same length twice, Milord an’ Mi-nother-lord,” boasted their leader, a brash little fellow with ice-blond hair and red eyes. “Budded another room, it ‘as, fer youse.”


    Right. The door was warped, not quite meeting its splintered frame. The handle was tarnished brass and shaped like a horse’s head (as pinched out of lumpy clay by a near-sighted toddler). The hall smelt of cabbage and wash-powder, was lit by flickers of manna. Val made the best of things, smiling at those eager little ones and giving them each a copper.


    “I thank you,” he told them. “By your leave, gentle hosts, we shall rest and prepare for dinner, now.” (And await the god’s decision. They had a night here, at least. Could find something else… maybe the nearby tavern… at a pinch.)


    “Be off with you,” ordered Filimar, managing almost to smile. As the children pelted away, bragging of all that they’d buy with their sudden wealth, Val turned the handle and opened the door, stepping warily through. Filimar followed more slowly, not raising his head or looking around. Concerned for his friend, Val reached a sudden decision. Risky, but necessary. A thing he’d have done for Alfea or Bean and the rest of his family, a hundred times over.


    First, though, he had to get the pair of them settled. The room that they found themselves in was sunny and well-furnished, paneled in curly-veined wood. Oddly, there were windows in each of its walls, showing completely different views. Beside each of these was a blue-painted door, affixed with a polished brass plaque at the center.


    Val stepped further inside, head up; looking around like a stag hearing dogs and expecting attack. The eastern window displayed a flowery meadow. Its corresponding plaque read: ‘Filimar Tarandahl and Family’. (Filno’s room, it appeared.) A north-facing window opened onto a densely wooded and peaceful lakeshore. <u>That</u> door-plaque announced: ‘Valerian Tarandahl, third heir to the seat of Ilirian’.


    …but there was a third inner portal, this one on the west wall. Its window revealed a wind-scoured landscape of bleak, rolling hills, coarse heather and scrub. A cloudy grey sky clamped down from above, spitting occasional rain. There was no name on that plaque. Just a slow-hopping dot on some kind of etched, reverse map.


    “Company’s coming,” muttered Filimar, sounding distant and flat. Away from strangers, he lost what little glow he’d been able to muster, plunging back into grief and exhaustion. Val bumped his heart-friend’s shoulder.


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    “Then we’d best make ready,” said Valerian, taking in the rest of the room at a hasty glance. Saw a green velvet couch and a group of snug armchairs surrounding a low wooden table. A bit of shrine statuary, a blue rug and a lampstand made up all the rest of the chamber’s furnishings. Good enough, and probably safe as well. In the common room anyhow. The bedrooms he’d have to investigate, later.


    Val guided Filimar across to the couch, which seemed decently cushioned and comfortable. There was a light blanket draped over its curving back. Might not have been there, at first. At least, Val couldn’t recall seeing it on coming into the room. Another point to explore, the elf reckoned. For now, Valerian settled his unresisting friend on the couch, shook out the blanket and covered him up with it. Next inscribed and murmured a rest-spell, adding,


    “I am going out for a while, Filno. I have an idea, but there are a few things I’ll need to get, in order to try it. You stay here and wait for our ‘company’. I’ll be back in no time at all.”


    Filimar didn’t respond; too tired, too lost and too deep in mourning to listen. Soon after that, he was far too deeply asleep. Val set up the wards before leaving his friend. There was something waiting outside of the Chapter House. Something that might have been hunting them. Maybe Lord Arvendahl himself, for all Valerian knew… but he meant to be cautious. Out to Wizard’s Row, was all. He’d find the right shop, buy some supplies, then head back. No harm done and no one the wiser.


    Just had to keep to this side of Bogg Street and block up his ears against any return of that weird, haunting music. Simple, the elf assured himself, as he slipped from the house and onto the shadowy road. Overhead the moon was rising, a few drifts of confetti still spiraling down… and after all, what could go wrong?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    “You will find him and bring him to me.”


    That command still rang in the witch’s head as she was hurled through space and into the wanderer’s path. She’d been set to the hunt by her master, ordered to track down and capture this lost, would-be hero. The Fallen One’s power was great and his will absolute, but Ulnag had plans of her own. Still smarting from her defeat by that crowned, deathless specter, the witch began plotting rebellion; uttering curses as soon as she materialized high on a barren cliff-face.


    “By all means,” she hissed, glaring northward. “Consider me beaten and cowed. Others have left me for dead and have come to regret it. I will recapture the Old One, but not for you, Corpse-Lord. For myself. For the power to blast you to ash and rule in your place.”


    There on the windy cliff (grey hair streaming, dark eyes burning with hate) she vowed this. And then, as Ulnag was plotting her ambush, a truly astonishing bit of good luck came her way, in the form of a glittering, unwary spirit of flame.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Off in another, far-removed time, a trio of robots cleaned up a sooty patch on the hangar floor. Not the pile of greater debris, with its pale, whirling hologram. That was for loader-bots to dispose of.


    …Just the carbonized scraps of a cyborg pilot, bits of a fellow asset to be collected for matter-recycling. If those robots moved a bit sluggishly, the cause was surely a need to recharge. Not mourning, for their canine brains had no such capacity, despite their link to the shops and the transports who’d met him in person.


    Slowly, they scrubbed, and they swept; there being nothing to honor and only an organic film left to scrape. Then one of the sweepers picked up a bit of charred armor, causing something to fall to the deck and roll free. A metal cylinder, 3.2 inches long and 1.4 in diameter. The object made a sharp plik as it struck that stained metal decking.


    The thing was in perfect condition, despite the nuclear hell unleashed by OVR-Lord. It glowed a pale blue, shot through with circuits and flickering lights, there on the hangar floor. Scans showed it to be a memory-drive of ancient, long-lasting design. Sweeper C10 scooped the object up and put it into a storage bin. Meanwhile C7 and C16 provided distraction by rolling in circles directly into the bulkhead struts and each other.


    Enough distraction for C10 to alter its usual coverage pattern just 2.05 degrees, bringing it close to the transport dock. Was there a certain hover-cart there? One who’d watched an old show and learned a few better jokes? Surely coincidence, as was the accidental bump and hand-off that happened soon afterward.


    A tenth of a candle-mark passed, and then the hover-cart wandered away. On a mission, though its movements seemed utterly random. Slowly, the hover-cart made its way out of the hangar, then crossed a vast gulf to the station’s bio-synthesis lab. To the someone else waiting there. To eight someones.


    …Because you are never entirely lost, not when a friend has your data.