Basic disclaimers in Chapter One. Earlier chapters can be found at Luba's, Sonya's, or my own archive.

"You."

The word was spoken in a sad, resigned tone that held more than a touch of anger in it. A slim hand reached out to touch the surface of the mirror, where damnably unflinching images played before eyes the colour of antique wood. The scene in the mirror, one of an underground chamber lit by a strange glow, flickered and disappeared.

The face reflected by the now clear mirror was of a beautiful dark-skinned woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, though in truth she was several years older. The haughty eyebrows were knotted in a frown, full lips set in a straight line. Her long jet-black hair were pulled back by silver combs intricately worked with stylistic birds, two of the few luxurious items she still had.

It had also been a present from--

No, she musn't think about him.

"Why now?"

The mirror, set in her chamber's wall, did not answer. It was large, with a plain wooden frame. Well-made but little more than functional, as were most of her furniture. Once, she would have insisted that the mirror be one with rich gold trimmings, but with her rise in the hierarchy of magick she abandoned many notions she had had as a priviliged child.

Nevertheless, the Archmage of Avalon was not a completely changed woman. She retained the confidence and pride of the young apprentice she once was. They sustained her through her years in the castle -- lonely years, for she was not someone who made friends easily. She wore them like a warm cloak, protecting herself from the world.

Now the confidence and pride were so much chaff in a gale, leaving her cold and very much afraid.

{{What are you so afraid of, sister? Isn't this what you've been waiting for?}} The voice piped up in her consciousness, mocking as ever. She could hear the relish in the taunt, the laughter at her weakness.

{{Silence!}}

{{I'm hurt. Don't be so mean to your poor sister, Nicole.}}

"My name," she corrected harshly, "is Monet now, as you know perfectly well."

{{Monet, schmonet. I know who you really are.}} Her voice changed, becoming harder. {{You must avenge me, my sister. HE KILLED ME!}} The last was a wail of petulant anger, hatred shimmering just below the child-like voice. {{Kill the monster and I will set you free.}}

{{I have had enough of you for one day.}}

The mage blocked off her sister's presence, ignoring Claudette's protests as she rebuilt the mental wall that kept their minds apart. Slowly the cries died off into an indistinct murmur, a constant reminder of the unwelcome ghost. But that, she could live with.

As she had to for almost ten years.

Dark red robes swished against the stone floor as she walked to her bed, her tall body held with perfect dignity. The Archmage's chamber was one of the best shielded chamber in the towers, aside from the apprentices' dormitory. No one could spy on her actions there, or the secrets she kept from curious eyes.

Monet touched a stone just above the headboard of her bed and whispered something, which to a casual listener might have been a name. The stone obediently sank back and moved aside to reveal a small hole. Reverently, she took out a dusty wooden box and sat down on the bed, cradling it lovingly.

Inside was a lock of dark hair, protected by the best preservation spell she was able to devise. Long after her bones crumbled to dust, it would still be there, waiting for discovery. In a way, it was a fitting tribute for the man it once belonged to, who had not even left behind a body to bury.

"My love..." Her voice cracked, and she swiped at her tears angrily. She could not afford nostalgic softness, not now.

"Marius has risen again, and he looks with ill intent on Avalon." Her lips curled into a mirthless smile. "Doubtless he thinks that I am no threat to him. What am I, after all, but a snobbish girl who cares little beyond her own needs? He'll soon learn that I have changed -- perhaps not enough to defeat him, but more than enough to challenge him. I only wish... that you were here to witness the woman I have become."

She ran the tips of her fingers over the wiry hair, remembering how it used to flop over his eyes in a way that always annoyed her. It would be so easy to create an avatar from just one strand of hair, Monet thought. She was the Archmage, with power and centuries of knowledge at her fingertips. But the wraith would not be him, not where it mattered most to her.

"Would you like how I am now, I wonder? You always did say that I was a 'cocksure little brat'." Monet smiled sadly. "How you'd laugh at me if you could see me now, and proclaim victoriously the 'sentimental streak' you've accused me of having. But... you can't, can you?"

Carefully, she closed the box and locked it. "He took you away from me, beloved; and with you, my heart. He murdered my family and left me with nothing but a ghost. I let him do so -- because I was weak and arrogant. I will not fail you again. I swear it."

Mages traditionally employed crystal balls for scrying, a practice very much encouraged by the enterprising dark elves. The current Archmage shunned its use, preferring mirrors (and the price for crystal balls fell sharply, much to the elves' sorrow). She maintained that mirrors, having a power of their own, were more accurate and detailed.

Elves firmly believe in the inherent magick of mirrors, and refuse to allow more than one in a room. Certain human cultures insisted that mirrors have the power to capture a person's soul, and goblins often go to great lengths to avoid one during moonless nights. They believe that to do so would be to tempt death. For without the moon's cleansing light, evil spirits were free to lurk in the living world, especially in mirrors.

Even with the diverse beliefs, the one thing they all acknowledge is: mirrors, no matter how magickal in nature, never give the whole picture.

Monet's scrying, for example, yielded only what she could interpret from the images in her mirror. She could not hear any sounds, and was very much aware that her interpretation may be subject to bias. It was also impossible for her to continuously spy on her enemies, and a mirror is only an object -- it is not self-aware, thus unable to warn its owner should anything abnormal happened.

Half-way across the city, in the Guardian Keep's dungeon, something abnormal was happening.

"Dinnertime, Stryker."

The soothsayer rose with as much majesty as he was able to muster in his soiled robes, looking every inch the wronged matyr suffering for a divine cause. The young Guardian carefully put down the tray, managing not to roll his eyes before Stryker looked down to contemplate the mystery stew.

"Even Chaos herself would be gracious enough to provide me with edible food, constable," he commented distastefully. "Though at least you didn't send the oaf this time."

"Guido's my friend, mister. And I know him well enough to say you'd really have to provoke him before he'd do what he did." The dark-haired man crossed his arms and glared.

"Demonic hearts often hide beneath angelic skin, my child," Stryker replied, reverting to his 'kindly grandfather' persona.

Contempt flashed in the Guardian's eyes. "Save your breath. I..." He suddenly paused, eyes bulging. His mouth worked soundlessly, gasping for air. Like marionette with its strings cut, he crumpled gracelessly to the hard straw-strewn floor.

The shadows behind him shimmered in a whirlpool, melting into quicksilver. Stryker backed away, desperately muttering prayers under his breath. From his vantage position, he could see hands reaching out through the silvery substance. Frightened to the marrow, he started to scream--

A figure lurched from liquefying wall, silent as death. The bricks instantly returned to normal, though the temperature in the cell seemed to drop. It was dressed in soiled, dark blue robes embroidered with arcane symbols.

The old man's mouth hung open, eyes wide as he recognised the symbols. Realising that his dignity was in tatters, he drew himself up. All traces of surprise were quickly wiped away from his face.

"Who are you?" he demanded, half-expecting an attack.

Dry, humourless laughter greeted his question. "Someone who understands your needs," said the mage. "And someone who can... help you with them."

Stryker narrowed his eyes. "Why should I trust you?"

He felt rather than saw the oily smile. "I have a proposal for you."

In the sickhouse, Deirdre stirred in her restless sleep. Vague dreams of the scarred knight faded, replaced by vivid memories.

Mother was scared, though she tried not to show it. Her strong hand, toughened by a warrior's training, gripped her child's hand. Deirdre had another name then; her true name. But it scarcely mattered as they ran in the snowstorm, fleeing from their ruined village and the frozen dead.

The young elf remembered the cold wind, and even in the dream she could feel the icy bite. She had stumbled, spraining her ankle in a hidden outcrop of rocks. She was not a small girl, and was near adulthood, but Mother slung her across muscular shoulders as if she was a child. And kept on running.

Until she ran into the Dark One, and the snow turned red under his feet.

Deirdre tossed in her small bed, one hand reaching out towards thin air. Noticing her patient's distress, Cecelia immediately handed over her work to her apprentice and rushed towards the elf, nearly knocking over a vase of tiger lilies. Worry was etched on her attractive features as she debated on her next course of action.

Waking her up seemed to be the easiest option, but the Healer was wary of her fragile emotions. Cecelia immediately discarded the thought of leaving her in the throes of the nightmare, for the same reason. Reluctantly, but seeing no other way, she worked a spell of calming and healing on Deirdre.

The red-haired girl relaxed, freed from the dream. Her sleep was quieter now, and deeper. Cecelia sighed as she rearranged the blanket, trying to ignore the subtle pain at the back of her head. She hated using magick to heal. Like most spells that change the state of another human being, it used too much of the patient's energy and rendered it unsafe for the more critical patients.

Unless the Healer use his or her own energy, as she had done. Add that to the energy she already expanded to work the spell, and the end result was an irritable and fatigued Healer. She wondered if Monet would consent to probing the elf's mind, but the thought came to a halt as she remembered how worn the Archmage looked lately. And she'd be damned if she asked that witch Emma to handle her precious patient.

"Another day, a hundred problems. It's not even time for lunch yet," she muttered. "I hope Logan's up for some serious relaxation tonight..."

With one last fleeting thought of affection towards her husband, Cecelia left to tackle the latest patients.

"Save your breath. I..." The constable paused, struck by a feeling of deja vu. He shrugged it off, too angry at the soothsayer to care. "I know you're a liar, and it'll be winter in the desert before I believe anything you say," he ground out, leaving in a huff.

Sitting quietly in a corner, Stryker smiled.