"Oh, ho, my boy!"  Master P'Arkon smacked his hands onto Aegan's shoulders, squeezing them fondly.  "Good job," the instructor growled, shaking the smith with surprising strength.  "Good job."

Aegan scowled, more at himself, than at his master.  "It vas not vhat I set out to do.  Or prove.  My anger made it happen.  Not my mind."

The robed and cowled instructor slid into a seat at Aegan's table, in the back of the academy's tavern, catering almost exclusively to mages.

Master P'Arkon scowled, and his voice carried throughout the room, "So!  You think that your mind determines who you are!  But what of this," he asked, putting a hard finger in Aegan's chest.  His voice rose even further.  "Does not this make you more?  You would Deny, who you Are?"

The smith scowled, considering his master's somewhat loud words.  His arms were crossed, and he tilted his chair back slightly, thinking harder.

Equal flapped his wings as he landed at the table.  The raven tilted his head from side to side, to look at Aegan and Master P'Arkon, before sticking his beak in Aegan's ale for a quick sniff.  The fumes of the relatively strong ale made the bird wobble almost instantly, and it began circling the center of the table in a drunken shuffle.

The Dual-Minded one stared at his familiar with dark eyes, their edges surrounded by white in the mad eyes of the sorcerer.

"Master Arkon," Aegan said at last.

The instructor's gaze snapped to Aegan's face lightning fast, the whites of his eyes still showing around his dark irises.

The student thought for a moment longer, and said, "I think you are right.  But..."  He gestured helplessly.  "I do not know how to call my powers, save in anger, or fear."

Master P'Arkon continued to stare at Aegan's face, his eyes wide with madness.  After an uncomfortable time had gone by, the sorcerer asked in a cautious voice, "Are you... Angry?"

Before Aegan could answer, his instructor turned his head to both sides, listening for the source of...  "Yes?  Fear?"  He suddenly leapt forward across the table towards Aegan, his nose only inches from his student's.  "When was the last time you were afraid, they ask?!"

The smith frowned in confusion.  "Today.  Vhen Eriel conjured -- the illusion of a srik."  He blinked, not understanding where his master was leading his thoughts.

Master P'Arkon's face and eyes lit with a mad smile.  "Yes, yes.  I see, now!  You are a weapon!  The chill weapon of Reason against the srik!  You were Right!" he said, to the voices only he could hear.  He suddenly ducked, cowering.  "No!  No Prophecy!  NO!"  He let loose an almost inhuman scream of suffering.

Aegan looked on in horror, as the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck stood up in abject terror.  The background clamor of a bar that catered to mages fell suddenly silent or leapt to their feet, as all stared at the mad, fearless instructor cowering in terror of something only he could hear.

The dread word 'prophecy' hung in the air, and lingered in the mind.

A tankard at Aegan's table popped open, its metal hoops no longer able to contain the ale that had frozen solid, expanding outwards against the wooden slats that held in place.  His breath frosted in the air, and a layer of frost was creeping slowly away from him, along every surface he touched.

A deep voice reverberated from the very walls, as Master P'Arkon the Dual-Minded un-crouched slowly, standing up to his full height.  His eyes were no longer dark, but lit from within by an eerie green light.  His breath was visible in the suddenly chill air, and it seemed the vapors were tiny ghosts swirling in agony, each crying for freedom before being snuffed out.  The words he uttered were no language issued from the lips of man, rattling and then shattering the block of ice on the table.

Words in a foreign tongue twisted Master P'Arkon's mouth in ways it should not have been able to move, forming words that no human could dare speak.

And worse, those words echoed and reverberated within Aegan's skull, forever to be trapped there.

And then Master P'Arkon feinted, his eyes rolling back up into his head as he slowly crumpled onto a stone floor covered in several inches of ice.

Equal let loose a shrill squawk and instantly molted all of his feathers.

The Presence was gone.

Everyone exploded into action.  One mage instantly wove a spell that gently lifted the feinted sorcerer up on a large hand of insubstantial light.  Another mage rushed forward, intoning the words of power, and throwing a small glass marble up into the air over the Dual-Minded one.  The marble halted in mid-air over Master P'Arkon's abdomen, and the mage used the marble to scan the instructor for broken bones or other trauma.

Someone called out, "What did it say?  Did anyone catch what it said?"  Another called out, "A linguist!  I need a linguist!"  Someone else called, "Call Mistress Brin!"  "Norion!  Where's Norion?!  He was just here!"  Chaos ensued.

As mages and guards and healers rushed in to help Master P'Arkon, Aegan slowly was pushed back.  He was stunned to the depths of his core, and recognized that he was in shock.

A gentle pair of hands from behind guided him to a chair, and forced him to sit down in it.

Eriel's concerned purple eyes stared down into Aegan's unseeing, pasty white face.  Her hands hurt from where she had touched Aegan, and she feared she might have frostbite.  She couldn't lay a hand on him to reassure him, or take him out of the spell he was in, so she snapped her fingers in front of his face, and called his name.  "Aegan!"

The smith closed his mouth, and swallowed.  He slowly brought his eyes up to hers, and she saw that they were switching colors, from brown to green, and back again, as though two molten liquids bubbled and roiled within one another.

She put a hand to her lips at the sight, and involuntarily backed up a pace.

Equal suddenly landed on the table beside Aegan.  The raven familiar cawed once, and looked intently at Aegan.

The young smith asked with a very thick accent, "Is...  Is Master Arkon, all right?"

Eriel could swear the raven smiled every so slightly.

The bird cawed, and said, "All right!  All right!"  With unnerving intelligence, the bird stilled, and was no longer a bird.  The familiar spoke with the bird's voice.  "And now you have heard the voices, too."  The bird squawked, and was airborne in a flurry of molted feathers.

The elf maid, and two nearby mages, were stunned by the bird's words.  Aegan merely sat there, staring at where the bird had been.

An elderly mage laid a gloved hand on Aegan's shoulder, and whispered in his ear, "Your master will be all right, young Aegan.  He's just a bit overwhelmed by the Voice speaking through him.  Why don't you go get some rest?"

The smith nodded, and the elderly mage toddled off, following the crowd that carried Master P'Arkon.  Something in the young smith's eyes smoldered, though.  Green fought with blue, within his eyes.

Aegan stood with deliberate intent, like a tree rising from the ground where it had fallen.  He looked into her eyes and said with his thick accent, "Lead me to the libraries.  Now."

Eriel nodded slowly, her hand lowering from her mouth.  She swallowed fearfully, and blinked, staring into his eyes for a moment.  Then she turned, and moved so fast she nearly fled him, leading him out of the tavern, and further into the academy.

Stairs of thick oak, oak-planked floors, stone-capped floors, stone steps and stone stairs -- all became a blur to her, as she trusted her feet to take her to Selera's Tower.

The great double-doors to the tower were open, and inside was an antechamber covered from floor to vaulted ceiling in books, some stacked, some in shelves, and some covering several desks.  Beyond the desks was a large iron-bound door that led into the actual libraries.  From the antechamber, Lore Mistress Selera and her apprentices controlled access into the libraries themselves, by means of several spells linked to the iron-bound door.

Mistress Selera herself was on duty, standing from behind her desk.  The Lore Master stood with arms crossed and her scowl firmly in place.  Selera an Hakiel was an older woman with thick, muscular legs that were shown to her advantage by the skin-tight black breeches she wore.  Her once raven-black hair was mixed half-and-half with lustrous white, and the fine lines about her dark eyes lent her a character as implacable as the will that shown behind her eyes.  Her short robe of black silk, woven through with runic lines of fine silver, made her seem menacing, and indicated the power she possessed as Lore Mistress for Lok Magius.

Eriel paused, her mind a confusing tangle of thoughts.  Aegan had no such confusion.  He gently brushed the young elf aside, and growled at Mistress Selera.

The Lore Master spoke in a surprisingly silken voice.  "What languages are prophecies spoken in?"

Aegan growled.  "I half no time for riddles, Lore Master.  I must translate.  Open the library door."

Eriel gasped, realizing her situation.  The apprentice sorcerer was threatening one of the most powerful diviners of the mages.  Mistress Selera commanded great power, and greater knowledge.  Aegan was no match for her in a battle of wills, or of magic -- and only Mistress Selera or her apprentices could grant access to the libraries.

The Lore Master asked gently, but with iron resolve, "What languages, are prophecies spoken in?"

Eriel shook her head, afraid of what might happen.  She was torn between watching, between rushing for help, and between pleading with Mistress Selera to just let them into the libraries.  The Lore Master's rules were ironclad, though; for whatever reasons, no one entered the libraries without answering one of her questions, or that of her other librarians.

Aegan scowled at the older woman, who barely came up to his chin.  She stood defiantly behind her desk, unafraid, and dangerous.  He did not know the answer, and knew what would happen if he answered wrongly, or not at all -- the Lore Master would ban him from the libraries for the whole of the day.

After careful consideration, Aegan answered, "Prophecies are spoken with the voice of the will behind it, and in the language of the power that binds it.  It speaks the language of the blood, or faith, from which it comes."

The apprentice illusionist's eyes widened.  What Aegan had said, meant that demons had spoken through Master P'Arkon.  The fact that even the Lore Master had felt the power of the Prophecy all the way from the shielded libraries, and known it for what it was, told the young elf that Master P'Arkon had been right to fear a Prophecy being visited upon him.

Mistress Selera gestured, and the great door to the library slowly opened of its own accord.

Eriel let out a whoop, and threw one fist into the air in victory.  The sound startled Aegan, much to her enjoyment, and she skipped around him to the opening door.  The smith, after blinking stupidly for a few moments, slowly began to follow her like a glacier building up speed.

Inside, the large tower that housed the combined libraries of a thousand mages was intimidating.  Shelves reached from floor to too-tall ceilings, and aside from forty or so tables at the front, the wooden casings dominated everything, leaving barely enough shoulder-width to walk between them.  A balcony overlooked the tables, showing more bookcases beyond.  Several people milled about in the library, quietly studying while surrounded by books or scrolls, or in one case, by tablets of clay.

Aegan swallowed, having never seen more than a few hundred books together in one place, in all his life.  He wondered just where to start.

Eriel, having been at the academy for close to a year, knew precisely where to go.  The books were organized by topic, and the books on languages were kept closest to the tables.  She found the row of books, easily enough, and began to search for any translations of the demon tongues.  After several moments, she found an entire shelf on the demon tongues.  Unfortunately, it appeared that there were a dozen different dialects, and many of the books were translations written in languages unfamiliar to her.

She curled her hands, wanting to scream with frustration.  For there she was, caught up in the momentous activities of a Prophecy, given in time of war, and she found herself powerless to aid the target of that prophecy.  She wondered, then, if it had been such a good idea to go straight to the libraries without telling anyone.  The delicate elf bit her lower lip, hoping that Master P'Arkon was all right, and hoping that he had not revealed any more of Prophecy without them present.  She dismissed the notion, for had he spoken again, everyone would have known.  She found it vaguely disturbing that the people in the libraries must have known a Prophecy was spoken, and yet paid it no heed.

Aegan looked at the spines of the books, before slowly pushing Eriel aside, and placing a finger atop the spine of one in particular.  He read it, slowly, before pulling it down from the shelf.  

A smooth tenor of a voice from the stacks of books said, "Ah, yes.  Trikvelkimham Yurshelvitak.  An interesting choice, to translate the Prophecy of a demon."

Eriel and Aegan both watched as a figure in the aisle on the other side of the books walked down the aisle and towards the tables.  When he cleared the aisle and moved to stand where they could see him, Aegan tried hard not to stare.

The man was a trifle tall, and skeletally gaunt.  His pasty white skin was covered in hideous scars -- one of which went through his right eye.  The undamaged eye was a pale gray in color, but the eye damaged by whatever had done the scarring was a bilious shade of yellow-green, and slit like a cat's eye.  His dark hair was cut to shoulder length, including his bangs, which were pulled back behind his ears -- one of which was notched from where something had ripped off a part of its top.  The scarred man wore beautifully crafted breeches and a short robe, with a matching cloak of exquisite craftsmanship held in place by a silver brooch of breath-taking quality.  Over it all, he wore a dark, cowled cloak that covered his shoulders.  The man's clothes seemed to be a marked contrast to his physical appearance.

"Allow me to introduce myself.  I, am Norion, journeyman wizard.  My master is Delbin Arcanus, Extraplanar Studies instructor for Lok Magius."  There was a harsh, guttural quality to the way he said 'Lok Magius', as though the inflection was that of the dwarven tongue from which the name was taken.  "I am the closest thing to an expert on demons that we have, here."

Aegan assessed the man, noting his shrewd eyes.  He analyzed the workmanship that went into the clothing Norion wore, and noticed also a light crossbow hanging from Norion's belt, hanging off to one side and slightly behind the wizard, hidden by the folds of his cloak.  A case of quarrels, padded in an odd fashion, was strapped to one of Norion's legs.  The smith felt that the wizard was prepared for combat, and had perhaps even seen combat with a demon, by the way he held himself.  Aegan knew when he looked into the eyes of a warrior, for he had seen their eyes often enough.  Despite the one deformed eye, Norion had a similar look in his eyes, tinged by knowledge no mere mortals were intended to know.

The smith asked, "Did you hear, what it was, that Master Arkon said?"

Norion looked at Eriel and Aegan.  "No, I did not understand all that he said while we were in the tavern.  It's a dialect unfamiliar to me.  I came here, to translate the Prophecy with what I had -- when I saw you come in.  I recognized enough of the words to know that the Prophecy spoke of you, however, and stood aside to see what you would do."  He reached forward with one hand, expectantly asking for the book in Aegan's hands.

The smith made a brief decision, and handed the tome he had chosen over to the strange, scarred mage.  Norion turned without further ado, and went to the nearest table.  There, he sat down with the book, opening it to its beginning.  To Eriel, he said, "I'll need parchment, and quill and ink.  And bring sandstone, as I may make mistakes, translating this."

The wizard motioned for Aegan to join him, dismissing the apprentice illusionist as though she did not exist.

Eriel feared the apprentice of Master Delbin, as did most of the wizards of the academy.  Master Delbin was an ArchMage -- a mage of such power as had not been seen since the Storm Wars five centuries passed.  That Master Delbin traveled the planes beyond their world, moving through the veils between worlds to explore things that only gods saw, was a point of keen interest for the sylvan Eriel.  Unfortunately, she had once seen through the veil when Master Arcanus had brought something back with him from his travels.  The nameless thing had caused havoc in the academy for several hours, destroying several shield guardians with ease, before Master Delbin had eradicated it as though it had been nothing but an insect.

There was a wall in the keep where the outline of the nameless creature had been made by the powerful blast of Master Delbin's magics.  The walls itself were slightly molten, blackened, and burnt around the outline of the strange six-armed, snake-like creature.  The four swords and two long knives that the creature had wielded had been blown into the wall, and the metal evaporated from the indentations, by the force of the magical blow.

It galled the elf maiden, the way the young human had treated her.  She wondered, deep down, if Norion was even trustworthy.  But for some reason, she trusted Aegan's judgment, and she quickly returned with parchment, ink, and several quills from a side table in the library.

As Norion quietly began writing in a demonic script, he asked Aegan in a near-accusation, "So.  You're a frost mage."

Aegan, intently studying what Norion was writing, albeit upside-down, nodded absently.  "Ja.  A sorcerer vith no control over my abilities, either."

The smith recognized several of the words that Norion was putting down beneath the demonic script.  The journeyman had put down a phonetic pronunciation of the Prophecy in the common tongue, where he could; some of the sounds Master P'Arkon had made had no equivalents in human speech, and there, Norion used special symbols that almost made sense to Aegan, but were frustratingly alien.

Norion glanced up to meet Aegan's eyes.  "There are an infinite number of layers to the Abyss -- the place from which all demons once came, and do so once again."  He continued writing, occasionally re-inking his quill from the well, even as he flipped a page of the tome Trikvelkimham Yurshelvitak.  "Some of those layers intersect with other planes, and the veil between that layer of the Abyss, and that other plane, is treacherously thin."

He studied what he had written for a moment, the feather of the quill brushing against his nose.  He thought better about something, inked a line through a word, and rewrote the word.  "It's possible," he said in a dreadfully quiet voice, "That one of your ancestors came from one of those layers of the Abyss."

Aegan's blood ran ice cold.  "You are saying that vone of my ancestors was a demon."

Norion met and held his gaze for a moment.  "It's possible."

The journeyman went back to translating the Prophecy.  "A very long time ago -- five millennia before the Storm Wars -- there was another great battle between Order and Chaos, Good and Evil.  One of the sides to that battle -- evil and chaos in one -- was led by the demons, and the Demon God Argunas.  It was then, that many of the demons of Sharareth escaped from their imprisonment on our world.  One of them could have, say, raped a great grandmother of yours.  It's also possible that your demonic heritage goes back even further than that."

Aegan scowled.  "You are so sure that my power comes from the blood of a demon?"

Norion set the quill in the ink well.  "This would seem to say so."  He gathered up the several sheets of parchment he had used, and enclosed them in the book.  "I have to show this to Mistress Brin.  Both of you, come with me."

The journeyman was silent, as he led them through the halls of the academy.  His skeletal frame had surprising speed, though at the top of each landing, Norion had to pause for a moment to catch his breath.  At one point, he slowly began to tell them his story, by way of explanation.

"When I was apprenticed, to a mage in Kashin," he said, trying to catch his breath.  "A demon escaped from my master's control.  He was experimenting with dark powers, beyond his understanding.  He thought the demon was under control, but it was not."

They began to pass other mages, some talking excitedly about the war, or even about the Prophecy.  A very few recognized that Aegan was Master P'Arkon's apprentice, but few really paid them any attention.  Most saw Norion, and moved away from the frightening mage.

Frightening as he was, he seemed to have an inner calm, and an inner resolve that Aegan respected.  Norion continued, "The demon savaged me considerably, and I spent three months in bed, recovering."  He glanced at them.  "I never found out who the demon was, and I've spent the last three years trying to discover who did this to me."  There was an anger in his eyes -- especially the demonic one.  "I've studied demons, since that time, in an attempt to find the one that did this to me, and extract my revenge.  And I intend never to let another demon savage me, or anyone else."

Aegan shared a glance with Eriel, and wide-eyed elf swallowed, showing fear in her eyes.  She rarely feared anyone, but Norion had a quality to him that frightened her to the core of her being.  The elf maid could only trust that Aegan saw something she did not -- something he had done quite often, in the mere hours she had known him.

As they continued their journey towards the largest, inner tower of the academy, Eriel felt herself blush, watching Aegan out of the corner of her eye as they slowly hurried along.

Norion bypassed several guards with a scowl, and proceeded to lead them into the main administrative tower -- Brin's Tower.  As they proceeded up several flights of stairs and down a short hallway, Eriel considered what little she knew about the headmistress of the school.

Mistress Brin was a half-elven woman of young years, but had an aura of power about her that forced the elf maid to respect the head mistress, even though she was of mixed blood.  Headmistress Brin's power was considerable, but what had earned her the position through a long decade of service in the King of Rakore's elite fighting forces.  Mistress Brin was a Battle Mage -- one of those rare wizards whose spells, studies, and practice made her a formidable force of destruction and protection on the field of battle.

Two guards stood on duty, before the head mistress' office doors.  Norion's scowl proved insufficient to move them, and so he stopped before them, and said merely, "I have a translation to the Prophecy."

One of the guards, a sergeant if Eriel remember the rank, thought for a moment with intelligent eyes that scanned all three mages.  Mage though she was, Eriel wondered if the three of them would be able to counter fast-moving steel, should the sergeant decide they were a threat.  Eriel had never really considered any of the guards a threat, before, and smiled to herself.  Aegan's company was drawing her agile elven mind down new pathways, and she reveled in the sensation of having her mental eyes opened that much further.

The sergeant nodded to his partner, and opened the door for all of them, gesturing for them to go through.

Inside the headmistress' office was a small fireplace that threw off a cheery glow.  Several oil-burning lamps were hung about the room, and the shutters were thrown open on a starry, summer night's sky.  There was a large desk, a serving area with drinks and finger-foods, and another door on the other side of the room.  Bookcases covered several walls, and odd decorations were scattered about the room, especially on the small table along one wall.  Two small couches flanked the fireplace, leaving the center of the room dominated by a large, circular carpet with archaic runes of power, and a concentrating spiral sewn into it in fine threading.

Mistress Brin was behind her desk, surrounded by paperwork, and looked up at them as they entered and, following Norion's lead, strode to the center of the carpet.

To Aegan, the headmistress seemed a somewhat tall woman with a thin build and a delicate build, somewhat like Eriel.  Her ears were slightly pointed, holding back a wealth of dirty-blond, straight hair.  Her blue eyes held the power of life and death in them, as well as compassion and kindness.  Her blue robes were rather simple and plain spun, and the smith wondered if she still fancied herself an adventurer, rather than an administrator.

The headmistress barely paused to look at them, analyzing them in an instant, and then her attention went back to the parchment before her.  She inked her quill, scrawled something on the parchment, and then set it aside, placing the quill back in the ink well.  "Yes, Norion?" she asked in a surprisingly lovely voice.

The journeyman mage inclined his head in a slight bow, and said, "I have a translation, Headmistress.  It's not as accurate as I would like, but a more accurate translation would take several days."

"A translation?"  He pursed her sensuous lips for a moment, and then understood.  "The Prophecy was demonic, then?"

"Yes, Headmistress."  Norion stepped forward and laid the parchment on her desk, and then stepped back, to allow her to read it.

She read the translation for a moment, her fair pace paling somewhat.  When she looked up, she looked at Aegan and Eriel both.

The look sent a chill of terror through the elf maid.  She had been wondering what was in the Prophecy about Aegan, but she suddenly feared that there might have been something in it about her.

"Norion," the headmistress said.  "Who are the others?"

The journeryman glanced from Aegan to Eriel, and then back to the headmistress.  He sighed, and said, "I have no idea."

Aegan cleared his throat, and strode to the desk.  He held out his hand, silently asking for the translation with a nobility that belied his years.

The lead mage of the academy handed over the parchment without a moment's hesitation, and clasped her hands together, supporting her chin as the subject of the Prophecy read it several times.

When Aegan had read through the parchment several times, he handed it wordlessly to Eriel.  His eyes had a dangerously green tint to them in the dim lighting, and the elf maid swallowed, suddenly feeling all of her century and more of age.

Eriel's lips read as she silently whispered the words of Prophecy:

"One of our blood, and not of our blood, shall arise when the Sons of Mazripos fall upon the Fourth Bastion.  He whom we name 'Gahle liSear', shall find the heart of Her Sons in the Halls of the Pixie Queen, and shatter the Shell Guardians.  Gahle liSear shall take with him the Raven Liar to scent them, the Cargdin Mithral to bait them, and a Stolen Thief to retrieve their hearts; else, the Fourth Bastion falls, and the Elder Sister with it in the time of the Harbinger."

Eriel could feel the blood draining from her face.

Aegan said softly, "I do not understand, this code you call Prophecy.  Many of the words are not used... right."

Mistress Brin sighed, her face still pasty white.  "The words are used as Prophecy always is.  They make perfect sense, if you understand the context of the words."  She looked to one side, thinking of something.  "Aegan, you know the tale of Tot Modree?"

"Aye.  It is from my homeland, of Vridara."

The half-elven headmistress nodded.  "I know.  I'm from Vridara, as well."  She waited a moment for the stunned Aegan to digest it, and then asked, "Would anyone not from Vridara understand it if you were to say, 'Eat of the fruit from the foot of Tot Modree's tree'?"

The journeyman smith's muscles strained against the fabric of his shoulders, as he tensed them.  "No, Headmistress.  But I know that it is a mushroom that grew at the foot of the tree."

"Exactly.  The words of Prophecy are given in plain words, but sometimes they don't make sense until after the fact -- if we don't understand the context and the translation."

Aegan drew his brows together.  "Vhy, then, vould Norion translate the Prophecy as he did?"  The smith and sorcerer looked to Norion.

The journeyman sorcerer asked, "You mean, why didn't I just write the understood translations -- for instance, substituting the word 'orcs' for the 'Sons of Mazripos'?"  At Aegan's nod, he answered, "Because that way lies mistakes.  Sometimes the translations have multiple meanings."

In the silence of the words Norion was next contemplating, Mistress Brin said, "Aegan.  Mistakes have been made, by using too literal an interpretation of Prophecy.  Grave mistakes.  The gods have gotten rather strict about those translations."  She said it with eyes that had seen the deaths of uncounted numbers of dead, and it made Aegan tremble with the hurt seen there.

Eriel Enelidalithan said in a trembling, little girl's voice, "If we fail, the world ends."

Aegan looked at her in alarm, and then glanced back to Norion.

The journeyman said, "The 'Fourth Bastion' is alternatively interpreted to be Lok Magius, or Rakore.  Either way, the 'Elder Sister' is always interpreted to be our world, sometimes called 'Gaeleth', earth, Mother Earth, Gaeia, Terra Firma, and whatever the local dialects or languages call it.

"If you fail in this, Gahle liSear, then this world is doomed."  The journeyman sorcerer's eyes -- particularly the demon-touched eye -- were deadly serious.

The journeyman smith glanced to Eriel, who looked about to feint, and gently took her arm to support her.  His head and eyes turned to the headmistress, and then to Norion.  "Vhat is it, that this 'Gahle liSear' means?"

Norion ensured that he had Aegan's full attention, and then said, "It's another language.  A dead language.  Something not in Selera's Tower.  It doesn't translate into the common tongue.  The Prophecy has given it to you as a message, and a warning.  When the time comes, the meaning will make sense."

The Arch Mage's student turned to his superior.  "Headmistress, I believe Aegan will know the Cargdin Mithral and the Stolen Thief when he sees them.  He will need considerable training that we have not the time for.  I recommend enforcing a familiar.  In the meantime, I will prepare their supplies -- but with a war going on, I will need your authorization to draw the appropriate materiel from storage, or have it made."

The headmistress nodded.  "Do it."  To Aegan, she said, "Both of you -- get some rest.  We'll work on this more, in the morning.  Out."

Aegan nodded to the headmistress, and followed Norion to the door.  The elf maid remained behind, and Aegan paused at the door, glancing from one to the other.

To the headmistress, he asked, "How is Master Arkon?"

Mistress Brin said, "He'll be all right.  It was just... a traumatic experience, for him.  But he'll be all right.  He's in the infirmary, where he'll stay until dawn."

Aegan nodded his thanks, and then shut the door.

Eriel remained standing in the center of the strange rug, and as the door shut, she transformed.

Her trembling lips and frightened expression became savage and frustrated, and her demeanor changed significantly.  She conjured a phantasmal glass into her hand, and threw it at the wall, just to hear it shatter, before it disappeared into mist.  Eriel growled at the fire in the fireplace, before whirling to talk with Brin.

"Don't get me wrong!  I've got no problem saving the world, Brin, but baby-sitting a frost mage I was thinking of seducing?!  What the hell is Brigain thinking?"

Brin crossed her arms.  "Who says Brigain has anything to do with it.  You heard Norion.  It's demonic."

Eriel tried several times to talk past her anger and frustration, her brows drawn tightly together.  "This is -- is ridiculous!  Four people named by Prophecy are supposed to save the world?  For the Demon God?!  What the hell is so important out there in the desert that it deserves a Prophecy, and..."  She sputtered to a halt.

Mistress Brin muttered to herself, "This is bull."  She had already lost many friends to the orc invasion.  More loudly, she said, "But I agree.  I've already had two visitors today, and I'm surprised we got through that without another one dropping in on us."

As if to emphasize her words, there was a nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it seemed the whole world lurched somewhat.  Eriel put both hands to her abdomen, looking slightly green, indicating that the feeling wasn't just within the headmistress.  There was a flash of light, and a strange tearing noise, and the two of them were no longer alone together.

The man that stood before the fireplace was tall, with broad shoulders and a strong countenance.  His rugged features were shadowed from being backlit, but his hair and beard were cropped close, and showing gray at the temples.  He wore leather armor, a long sword at his left hip, and another over his shoulder with the grip up over his left shoulder, with a cloak that stretched across his shoulders, and reached down to his knee-high boots.

Eriel immediately moved to one of the couches, touching one hand to her head, and one to her stomach.  "Lord Prat!  Your teleports...!"  She sat down gingerly, pained by the magical energies his teleportation had used.

Duke Henrik 'Prat' Kamus growled in a bass voice, "There's been another Prophecy.  The Baron-and-the-Bishop tells me it was one of your sorcerers, that had it?"

The headmistress nodded, recovering from the lurch caused by his teleport.  "Yes.  Prat, there's blood on your armor!"  With her eyes recovering from the flash of the teleport, the oil lamps were once again enough to illuminate the room, and the duke was spattered in blood from head to toe.  His gray eyes had a haunted look to them that made the gray in his hair and leathers look as though they had been bleached out, instead of dyed that way.

The duke nodded absently.  "None of its mine.  At least, none of it that matters."  His face took on a pained look for a moment, and then he recovered.  "Everyone with the gift felt the Prophecy, and we were clear up on Mad Dog Island.  Whatever this Prophecy is, it's powerful.  Now, what is it, so that I can brief the king."

One of the most horrible aspects of a true Prophecy was the fact that once heard, it could not be forgotten, even under spells or in the throes of disease.

The headmistress repeated, "One of our blood, and not of our blood, shall arise when the Sons of Mazripos fall upon the Fourth Bastion.  He whom we name 'Gahle liSear', shall find the heart of Her Sons in the Halls of the Pixie Queen, and shatter the Shell Guardians.  Gahle liSear shall take with him the Raven Liar to scent them, the Cargdin Mithral to bait them, and a Stolen Thief to retrieve their hearts; else, the Fourth Bastion falls, and the Elder Sister with it in the time of the Harbinger."

She let the duke absorb it for a moment, as he was no doubt replaying key parts of it in his mind.  After a moment, he spoke, "I know where the Halls of the Pixie Queen are."

Eriel sat up, transfixed.

Mistress Brin coughed, and said, "It's out in the Choranil Desert, but we're not sure where.  We think it's beneath one of the srik nests."

The king's advisor on magic shook his head.  "No.  I know exactly where it is.  You remember Seamus Stonehelm?"  At her nod, he said, "He and the half-dragon, Xzaxilathalanus, have both been there.  In a way."

The headmistress tilted her head to one side, waiting for the rest of it.  The duke merely asked, "Do we know who the 'Gahle liSear' is?"

She nodded.  "It's a frost mage.  He's still an apprentice, though.  He's one of those Vridaran mages you sent to us a couple of days ago."  She frowned.  "Damn.  Three days ago.  Four.  I can't remember."  She massaged her brow, muttering again about the 'damned war'.

"Prepare him to battle the undead."  The duke took several strides forward, and pulled the quill from its inkwell.  He scribbled some numbers in the margin of a sheet of random parchment.  "The Halls of the Pixie Queen are there.  They're mentioned in the Prophecy of Al Mudim.  The two might be tied together."

Eriel, finally standing, said, "The Prophecy of Al Mudim was not a 'true' Prophecy, as it were.  It was never verified."

The king's advisor shrugged.  "Perhaps.  Al Mudim was a weapon of terrible power.  I'm already taking measures to safe-guard it.  It could, conceivably, be used to destroy our world.  Or any world."

The elf maiden shuddered at the implications.  "Lord Prat," she said, curtsying, and moved to the door.  To the headmistress, she said, "I'll keep an eye on our savior.  When did you want to tell him what Gahle liSear means?"

The duke asked, "He doesn't know?"

Mistress Brin shook her head.  "No.  And we're keeping it that way, until further notice."  She turned to Eriel, and said, "You're mentioned in this Prophecy.  It's up to you to tell him.  I think you'll know when."

The elf maid slipped open the door, and then slipped out.  There was a horrid feeling in the pit of her stomach, and one of the guards just outside the door had to catch her arm to keep her from falling.  The Duke Henrik Kamus's teleportation spell was a gross overuse of power that could be felt for miles by anyone sensitive to the gift, though it tended to affect some more than others.

Aegan was waiting for her, outside, and also moved to help her, even though he, too, was showing the effects of the teleportation of the king's advisor out of the office.

When she had recovered and recomposed herself, she put on her sweetest and most vapid smile, and said, "Thank you, Aegan."

She escorted him to his small dormitory room, one hand on his arm the entire trip.  He said nothing, other than to ensure she was all right, and she let the silence lay between them.  The elf maid took comfort in the unstrained silence, having already become enamored of the young human's looks and gifts -- and then, too, his involvement in a world-shaking Prophecy.

She bid him good night, and ensured him that she would be fine, and could make it back to her rooms without any problem.  Once his door was closed, she wove an illusion to hide it, and then hid the room itself from divinations of any kind.  After her work was complete, only gods and their minions would be able to find Aegan until he chose to come out.  She left several invisible watch-dogs, and just in time, as two students turned the corner of the hallway.

Eriel smiled vapidly at them, fuzzing their minds, and then leaving a spell-weave on the entire hallway.  None who entered the hallway would find anything amiss, and their minds would simply glaze over the concept of there having ever been a door there -- ever.

She skipped gaily down the hall, gaily maintaining illusions that few could see through.