= (CRP) A Changing of the Guard

The single walker made his way steadily down the wooded trail, sounds of revelry fading behind him. It would be a long, quiet walk to the Port Town--lots of time really to reflect on conversations both pleasant and strange in the wedding glade...

Destini laughed at the bird as it pecked at the deacon's shoe hopefully. The pigeon? In service to a cardinal? It was then that she saw the leather cord tied around the pigeon's ankle. Suddenly, what the deacon had said made all the more sense.

"'Tis a carrier pigeon!" she cried in surprise. She'd heard of them, but had never seen one before. "Ye communicate with ... a cardinal ... through carrier pigeons." It was not a question, though she supposed it could be interpreted as such. She was sounding aloud the facts as she interpreted them. Her hesitation around the title of cardinal was due to her uncertainty that the cardinal of which this deacon spoke in such a casual fashion was the same one with whom she was familiar. "This would be the Cardinal Faheud, I s'pose?" This was a question, though she stated it firmly as if she knew it was fact and watched the deacon carefully for his reaction.
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The Cardinal's story, as told by Deacon Brightpoint, was extraordinary and Destini allowed him to see that she was impressed. That Cardinal Faheud was an Irisher by nationality and Imleacher by birth had been unknown to her. It surprised her now to hear it.

"Met Him? Nay, I cannae say that I have." She smirked at her own words, realizing she was probably confusing the deacon. She explained further, "As spokesperson fer the previous county council, I had hoped to spend my term ensuring the Cardinal Faheud was welcomed when He arrived an' that His trip was a success. I communicated with Him frequently regardin' the arrangements...." She paused to look down at the bird still at Brightpoint's feet. "Though, not with carrier pigeons."

Smiling back up at the deacon, she continued, "Before I was even midway through my term, I received a final missive from The Cardinal wherein His Grace conveyed His regrets an' explained that His ship to Eire had been forced to turn back to England or face Anto's pirate ships. Fer my meager part in attemptin' to help, His Grace sent me this."

She shrugged her satchel from her shoulders and knelt on the snow, placing her wooden staff on the ground at her side and the satchel before her. Tucked carefully along the side was a long, thin box. She lifted it and stood. Opening it, she revealed a golden staff in four pieces that, when assembled, would stand six foot high It was ornamented at the top like a shepherd's crook. "'Tis a thing too fine fer one o' my quality," she said, looking at it reverently in the moonlight. "'Specially as I wasnae able to help complete His Grace's mission ... try though I did." She mumbled the last, shaking her head and grimacing slightly at her failure. She closed the box and returned it to her satchel, being careful not to desturb her harp within.

Standing again, she lifted her worn, wooden staff to lean upon. "I've told ye mine, Deacon Brightpoint. Ye tell me yers." She fixed him with an open gaze. "How did ye come into the service o' Cardinal Faheud?"
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How could he think that his tale bored her? She had listened intently as he spoke. Her gaze left his face only when he mentioned his parents. Plumes of smoke, indeed. Visions of her own family came to her mind and she closed her eyes against the bitter memories. Mercifully, he moved on with his tale without asking of her own family. Her eyes returned to watch him as he told his story.

And what a story it was! She found herself wondering what his real name was and marvelling at his travels all the way to and from the orient. From combat training to learning of poisons, this was a man prepared for anything.

Her ears perked when he mentioned that he was in Ireland on a mission. Not that she hadn't already guessed that, but to hear him verify her thoughts immediately brought more questions to her mind. What sort of mission was it? Was he here to carry out the Cardinal Faheud's original mission to assist the church of Ireland? That made no sense. Why would he then have spoken to Padraig at the wedding in the weald only to turn around and head straight back to England? Why not stay and host the conclave as the cardinal had planned to do? Perhaps, as deacon, that wasn't his place. Or, perhaps that wasn't his mission at all....

The deacon's own questions put her musings on hold. "No, Deacon, ye're not borin' me. I'm lookin' forward to hearin' more as we journey to Port Lairge. My own trails will take me where they will. I have no destination in mind. I seek only a friendly tavern in the evenin' to share my music with fine folk, an' an open road come the mornin' light. My wants are simple." Or, at least, she wished it was that simple. She still had her unanswered questions.

"As fer who I serve... I don't know ... I am naught but a lordless player lookin' to avoid trouble, if i can help it." Except the trouble of her own far-too-inquisitive mind. That always seemed to plague her no matter what she did.

In an attempt to forestall her questions, she looked down the road. "Speakin' o' the road, shall we continue? We'll never reach Port Lairge at this rate."

But her questions could only be stalled for so long. She tried to appear casual in her curiosity as she lifted her satchel and added, "Perhaps as we walk, ye can tell me o' this mission o' yers."
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She hadn't really expected him to tell her his mission. The grin on Brightpoint's face told her she wasn't going to get anything further from him. Her sigh of mild frustration formed a cloud of vapor in the chill, evening air. Glancing at the pigeon, she joined him at his side.

"Nay," she answered his question with a subtle shake of her hooded head. "Anto is only the more organized. There are others."

She thought on his final statement with a frown. "Deacon Brightpoint, is it usual fer a man o' Jah to speak so against his fellow man?"
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"Ah, hm," said Destini as she found herself with no immediate answer to Brightpoint's question. There was a long pause in the conversation as she gathered her thoughts. When she responded, she spoke slowly, sounding out what she had to say as she went. "The people o' Eire are watchful against those that might harm or threaten the peace. Rarely do they travel alone, as I do. Rarer still do they trust those they do not know. I believe ye may have experienced that yerself at the weddin'.

"I doubt many have thought o' it in terms o' morality. Those who would harm others are lawless, aye. But amoral?" she shook her head. "The church has been long absent here, deacon. Those few who follow yer faith neither instruct nor preach as openly as they might."

She looked on Brightpoint with a long, considering gaze. "I would be willin' to learn o' yer beliefs."
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Destini listened to the deacon's explanation with great interest. His genuine, passionate means of expressing himself -- from his anger to his beliefs -- was both frightening and alluring. Clearly, this was a man who knew his own mind and did not suffer fools easily. She hoped, for both their sakes, that she was no fool.

She laughed with him when he again mentioned his unremitting worldliness. She wondered if this was a matter over which the cardinal oft chided him. The sound of their laughter reflected on the falling snow nearest them then fell silent several feet ahead the way only sound through falling snow could do.

"My own beliefs will seem hollow to ye when compared to yer own," she warned him in all seriousness. "But since ye've given me such a well-thought out answer, I shall endeavor not to disappoint ye.

"I do believe in a Power above all we see here that shapes our world. But I believe we define our lives on our own by our choices. An' those choices have consequences fer good or fer ill.

"Like yerself, I believe in doin' what I say I will do an' never sayin' I'll do somethin' I cannae.

"I donae believe in takin' a life lest my own is threatened. But if it is threatened, I willnae hesitate to use deadly force, if necessary.

"Finally, I believe there is an answer to every question... even if it isnae readily answered when asked." The last was meant honestly, though her tone teased him for not answering her earlier question regarding his mission in Ireland.
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She caught his sideways glance with one of her own, then looked away just as quickly. True, she was curious about this man and his mission, but this was a careful friendship that she did not want to risk by appearing over-bold.

The thought of the deacon as a friend gave her pause. He was barely more than an aquaintance, and one she'd met only two or three hours ago. As a traveling companion, he was fascinating. But did simply traveling together make him a friend? She didn't think so. Yet somehow, there was something about this man that gave her cause to trust him and want to get to know him better. And perhaps that alone was enough for her to inadvertantly think of him as a friend.

She avoided his first question -- which she guessed was really only a response to her own circuitous probing for answers he did not want her to have -- by answering his second question.

"I am bound by only one oath, at present. An' that is my oath to the Clan MacKenzie. I shallnae betray them nor shall I e'er give my oath to another clan. At the permission o' my clan chief, with whom ye met at the weddin', I have taken their last name in place o' my own -- a reminder to myself that they are with me an' a part o' me at all times. 'Tis also a reminder o' my oath to them. An' if e'er they should call to me in dire need, I will heed it no matter how far I may wander upon this Earth." Her voice and resolution were firm. There could be no question that she was speaking with her heart.

But why was he asking about her oaths? Despite her resolution to not appear too-forward in her questioning, she could not stop herself from turning the question back on the deacon. "What o' yerself, Deacon Brightpoint? What oaths hold sway o'er yer life?"
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"I cannae imagine holding all those oaths in one life. With so many considerations to others' wants, how do ye have time to do what ye want? Or ..." she hesitated in her own thinking, realizing she was speaking aloud before she had fully thought it through, "Perhaps that's a selfish concern?"

She shifted her thoughts to Brightpoint's question of her clan and smirked. "Ye're askin' me to explain my kin. I didnae see His Majesty outside the clearin'. An' even if I had, I doubt I could explain his ways to ye. I expect, like all families, there are pieces that cannae be explained -- only experienced. Could be they didnae trust ye as an outsider at first but warmed to ye after a bit. I cannae say what was in their minds. I can only explain my own thoughts an' feelin's on the matter ...." Destini grinned shyly at the deacon and opened her mouth to continue, but had little time to speak.

The moon's appearance in the falling snow was as if the world were taking a deep breath before a plunge. For almost as suddenly as the moon shone through the silver mist of still-falling snow, a gale howled through the glen. It was as if the wind, long-imprisoned under the cloud's blanket for the past hour or so, was taking its chance at the break in the clouds to soar to new speeds and heights. The clouds quickly moved to cover the break. The haze of snow became a torrent that obscured the moonlight in a bombardment of thick flakes. Destini coughed in the sudden wind, snowflakes melting on her open mouth before she closed it.

As she hoped that this weather was only a temporary turn for the worse, the wind tore harder at her cloak,. Destini pulled it tightly about her, fighting in a game of tug-of-war against the gale-force winds. Bowing her hooded head against the wind, she squinted through the heavy flakes to Deacon Brightpoint, relieved that she could still see him beside her -- but only barely. Despite that he was less than an arm's length away, the fierceness of the blizzard made him appear little more than a shadow in an already shadowy world.

"We cannae stay out in this weather!" she shouted to Brightpoint over the howl of the wind. "We have to find shelter!"
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She took his proffered hand. She could care less if she lost her footing and ended up snowy -- Jah knew she and the deacon both were already covered in thick flakes -- but she worried for her harp within her shoulder satchel. Two or three times, his strong hand kept her from stumbling. And once, if not for their linked hands, she might have lost him in the blind, snowy darkness of a February midnight.

She peered through the blinding snow, unable to see whatever it was Brightpoint was seeing. She trusted him to guide her through the snow drifts to where he said there was shelter.

The air seemed warmer as the wind stopped blowing snow into their faces. It was not, despite her first hopeful thought, because the weather was bettering. But rather, the gale was blocked by a structure in front of them. This would probably be the shelter Brightpoint had mentioned.

She stepped up to the door and knocked forcefully upon the door, hoping against hope that they might find kindly folk, a hot fire, and a warm meal. She had her music to pay for any late-night hospitality that was offered. Knocking again and taking full view of the shelter, she realized there were no lights nor smoke from the chimney. The house was probably abandoned. With a heavy heart, she pressed the door inward.



It was dark within, but she could make out that there was a fireplace along one wall. Her flint striker would handily make a warm fire, if they also had firewood and ready tinder -- both of which she sadly doubted were at hand. The floors were dirt, but the walls were sturdy against the force of the wind outside. "Well," she said breathlessly, shaking and stamping the snow from her clothing. "It'll do." she looked to the deacon while blowing hot air onto her frozen fingers.
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Destini heard the deacon's cheerful call as she set down her satchel against the side of the main room and came to the back door. Seeing the pile of wood she smiled. What was more, as she removed the overturned metal bucket from the pile, she was delighted to find dry tinder in a smaller metal pot beneath.

"If ye'd carry firewood, I'll see what small blaze I can get started with the tinder. Then perhaps we'll use this smaller pot an' make us some hot corn porridge fer a late supper. I know ye've eaten not too long ago, but I've not. An' in any case, I suspect a hot meal would do us both a world o' good." Happy with her plan in mind, she took the small pot of tinder and a few small logs with her into the abandoned shack.

She arranged the kindling as she had many times before on the open road then removed her campfire tools from her satchel and set to striking the steel on the flint stone.


Her hands were cold and the icy nature of the steel and stone did nothing to warm them. The sparks she achieved from the flint were fleeting and did not catch the tinder she'd set out. Painstakingly, she continued to try. There would be no relief from the cold unless she could start a fire.
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Too cold to argue overly-much, Destini moved aside. She held out the striker and flint for him to try his hand at making fire.

"Alright, Deacon," she said, shivering. "Let's see this Shin trainin' o' yers." If it sounded like a challenge, it might have been. She was well-proud of her ability to start a fire in dire circumstances and was slightly upset that she could not do so here.
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Destini clasped the warm flint and steel in her cold hands. She looked on the deacon with an expression of startled amazement. She had rubbed her hands together many-a-time to keep them warm before -- who had not? -- but to rub them together in such a way to make icy-cold items like the steel and flint so hot? It was a fascinating method she had never before considered.

So as not to waste the window of opportunity that the deacon had given her, she went immediately to work. She knelt down before the tinder and struck the steel to the flint two, three times. The final spark caught the tinder in a flash of flame. She resisted the urge to cry out in gladness and relief, knowing her own exhalation of breath could undo what little progress they'd made here in the fire's early stage.

At length, the fire was blazing enough to provide light and heat. A bed of coals had formed enough to melt a pot of snow into water. Destini used a flat piece of tinder to stir her corn kernels in the simmering water. They had been silent since Brightpoint had made the steel and flint warm enough to start the fire. Now, with nothing more pressing than stirring to pay attention to, Destini's thoughts replayed the evening in her mind.

She wondered if she would have crossed paths with the deacon if the carrier pigeon had not also been trying to find him in order to deliver his message. "Deacon Brightpoint," said Destini without looking up from her stirring. "What happened to the pigeon?"
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She chuckled softly at his words and imagined the little creature curled up and staying warm inside the deacon's cowl. She continued to stir the softening corn kernels, scraping the bottom so to ensure they wouldn't stick there and burn.

When Brightpoint pulled out a small strip of paper, she guessed its origin. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he read it and made a sudden, unamused sound. Startled at the sudden rush of paper into her fire, Destini turned her head sharply to Brightpoint. "Bad news?" she asked simply.
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She had not expected him to tell her what the cardinal had written. His frank conveyance of the message in the fire came as something of a surprise to her. But if that had been all that had been written on that message why throw it into the fire at all? Unless there something else that he hadn't wanted her to know. Something regarding his reason for being in Ireland, perhaps? Trying to be surreptitious, she moved only her eyes to peer down at the blackend husk of used-to-be message.

Of course, it was possible that this was what he did with all his messages from the cardinal and it was simply second nature to dispose of this one as soon after reading it as possible.

Well, there was no knowing what had been written on the parchment now. And that the deacon clearly wasn't sharing everything with her was really none of her business. Her business was music. His was ... what? Attache to the cardinal of all England, Ireland, and Scotland. To do what for him? Run about delivering messages like a carrier pigeon? Surely there was more than that. But what?

No, nevermind. Forget their occupations. They were simply two travelers on the road to Port Lairge, thrown together through timing and weather. She need know nothing more.

To Brightpoint she said simply, "Ye must lead a fascinatin' life, Deacon." As he mentioned jerked venison, she looked at him fully for the first time, eyebrows arched in pleasant surprise. She hoped her expression would mask some of her wonderings as she responded to his offer by saying, "If ye've some to spare, aye, some meat in the pot wouldnae go amiss."
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Destini's face flushed crimson as she turned back to the supper, stirring in the newly-added venison. "Aye," she said slowly as she stirred, listening to his haunting melody on the whistle. She longed to play with him on her harp, but dinner would burn now if she tried. Plus, her harp had surely lost its tuning in the cold blizzard outside and that, too, would take time. "'Fraid I'm an excellent musician an' only a passable mummer, though. Else ye'd not have known my thoughts if I'd had any mind to it ... which I had." She looked back over her shoulder at him, smiling softly as he played.

She continued to stir the pot and thought on his final statement before he'd placed the whistle to his lips.

"Wait," she said aloud without really meaning to. The porridge forgotten with a new realization, she spun on her heels to face the deacon and his hauting whistle tune. "Did ye just tell me why ye're in Eire? What's this 'bout a life-savin' elixir?"
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Destini blinked. In her surprise at being told a piece of what she wanted to know, she'd lost all seeming that she was minding her own business. If the deacon's grin was any indication, there was no point now in hiding the questions she wanted to ask.

As much as she wanted her question regarding the elixir answered, suddenly another question was more pressing. "So ye're testin' me, are ye? Why? To what end?"
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Reminded of the porridge, Destini turned back to the pot and resumed her stirring. She cast a sidelong look at Brightpoint as he added the a yellowish spice to the pot. The aroma was amazing. She wondered whence on his travels he'd acquired it. "Ye've an annoyin' talent fer answerin' questions without actually answerin' the question," she told him.

"Aye, I'll play my harp after we sup. So long as while we eat ye answer my questions." She smirked at him and offered her hand that was not stirring the pot with the makeshift spoon. "What say ye, deacon? Have we an accord?"
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It seemed he would rather her figure it out on her own. She took up the challenge with an incline of her head and a soft utterance of, "As ye wish." She set her hand to stirring in the saffron and her mind to re-sorting all the details she knew thus far. But this time, rather than wonder silently, she spoke her thoughts aloud so the deacon could follow her analysis of the situation from her point of view.

"That ye're here on the Cardinal Faheud's business is plain enough, so let's start with that," she said by way of beginning. "So it's likely the sealed parchment ye handed to Padraig at the weddin' was some letter o' note confirmin' ye as the cardinal's man. Perhaps it confirmed, also, what ye had to tell Padraig. But as I couldnae hear yer conversation, nor did I witness what was written on the parchment, any conclusions I could make that way are naught but guesswork.

"Ye said ye came to the weddin' to talk with Padraig, an' that ye surely did. Just now, ye said ye came to the weddin' to hand over a 'life savin' elixir'. That would be the velvet pouches ye handed to Padraig, aye?" Although she asked a question, she did not pause for an answer, but continued as if she were speaking only to herself. "I think it must be. Ye say there are 'those in danger.' Since ye handed the elixir to Padraig, I can only conclude that those are members o' Clan MacKenzie. Otherwise, why give it to Padraig at all?"

Here, she paused as her thoughts shifted in a new direction.

"Unless," she said, continuing slowly, "Yer travels from England took longer than expected an' ye still thought Padraig to be Duke o' An Mumhain. Ye said ye were hopin' fer a boat in Port Lairge that would 'dodge trouble back to England' That was clearly more than idle hope, since ye also said ye were ' jousting with pirates.'"

She frowned in frustration a moment as that firmly placed piece of the puzzle did not line up with the next.

"But if ye thought Padraig was duke, then that only widens the possibilities o' people in danger." She thought on that in silence a long moment, moving the piece of information around her head like a jigsaw until it would fit with the other pieces. "But ... no. Certainly, ye would have been told Padraig was no longer duke. An' yet, it wasnae until towards the end o' yer conversation that ye handed him the elixir." Satisfied with this reasoning, she nodded slowly, certain now that she was on the right way of thinking. "So, someone in my clan is in danger. But who?" She looked to the deacon, but not for his answer. Her gaze was further away than on his face.

Sighing, she found another piece of the puzzle that didn't yet fit. The more she put together, the more pieces appeared. At least, some pieces were fitting together. "Then there's the matter o' why a cardinal in England would care 'bout a member o' a clan in Eire .... Unless whoe'er was threatened was more than just a member o' Clan MacKenzie. Someone with enough power to encourage the church's growth in Eire, maybe. Back at the weddin', ye mentioned ye had to 'see a man 'bout a bishop'" She frowned at that. "But, to my knowledge, none o' my clan strictly follow the church way, so that cannae be it .... Unless this is bigger even than the church."

That line of thinking was getting her nowhere. It just kept opening up more and more possibilities without answering a single question. She set that aside for now in favor of, hopefully, more productive thinking.

"Now, if ye'd ever mentioned any o' my clan specifically ...." her voice trailed off and she cocked her head to one side as she considered that. "But ye did mention some. O' course, ye were here to speak with Padraig an' gift him the elixir. But then ye also mentioned His Majesty was at the weddin', though I didnae see him. If I'm rememberin' correctly, ye were wonderin' why he didnae come forward into the clearin'. Could it be ye had wanted to speak with him as well? An if so ..."

She focused her gaze sharply on Brightpoint with a sudden stricken expression. When she spoke, her voice was tight and as frozen as the blizzard outside.

"Zanditin. It's Zan isn't it?"


(ooc to Brightpoint: Sorry, Brightpoint, I know it's long, but you left me no choice. Yes, everything here was said in Destini's presence. I'm pretty sure the logic of how she got from one idea to another is all explained thoroughly in its round-a-bout, stream-of-consciousness manner. )
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Her ears perked at the deacon's words. "His .. Grace..?" said Destini, unable to quite finish the question. "Then ... ye knew. All this time? Ye knew the cardinal an' I had traded missives." She turned back to her stirring of the porridge and muttered something under her breath that may have sounded something along the lines of "scoundrel."

The porridge she'd been stirring the whole while was now done. Destini, in a sudden realization that she'd best remove their supper from the fire lest it become ruined, used her hood to shield her hands from the heated metal as she moved it safely from the fire onto the dirt floor. Casting her hood aside - which had started to steam from the evaporation of melted snow and application of sudden heat - she dug in her satchel to produce the wooden mug she often used when she came upon a clear stream in her travels. She spooned some of the porridge into her cup, left the makeshift utensil in the pot for Brightpoint, and used a nearby scrap of leftover tinder as her own eating spoon.

She stirred the porridge in her cup to cool it, and thought again of the danger that could befall her kin. She was suddenly not hungry, despite not having eaten for much of the day. A thought occurred to her. "Is yer mission to see this 'Knight Commander' in England also part o' this?" she asked Brightpoint quietly. She hoped not. Because if it was, that meant things were more dire than she'd already supposed.
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She took the offered spoon with a smile of thanks for the utensil and amusement at his first sentence. But her smile fell when he confirmed her fears. "Then this does stretch beyond the shores o' Eire," she concluded. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather went down her spine.

But ... no," Destini said, as a new thought occurred to her. "I've got it backwards, haven't I? after all, ye came from England, so this threat could just as easily have originated there."

She watched the deacon carefully. "Deacon Brightpoint, from whence comes this threat? Who is behind this?"
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Destini nodded solemnly at Brightpoint's words and absently ate a few spoonfuls of porridge. It was surprisingly flavorful and filling. Plus, it had the added benefit of being hot, perfect for a bone-chilling winter's night and conversation that froze the blood.

Her thoughts were racing about her head. Each new piece of the puzzle made her head spin. She placed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes a moment. "All this supposin' an' guesswork is makin' me dizzy," she said to Brightpoint with her eyes still closed. "Serves me right fer bein' a busybody. I don't even know what I'm goin' to do with any o' the information ye've given me ... save worry fer my kin, o' course. I doubt there's anythin' productive I can do. Not my place to go o'er the clan chief's head. Ye've given the information to Padraig an' he'll see to it that Zan is kept safe, as he would do fer any o' the clan ... with or without threat."

She sighed. Once again, there was a danger to her kin and she could do nothing but watch it happen. She opened her eyes to stare into the flickering flames of their fire. "It was like this durin' the war with Springtime, ye know," she said quietly, setting her half-eaten bowl of porridge aside. She reached for her satchel and softly untied the wet strips of leather that held the top of the satchel together. The long strips of leather ties left streaks of moist leather dust suspended in glistening paths of melted snow on the palms of her hands. She continued speaking as she busied herself with drying and warming her hands in the fire's heat. "I didnae go to war with the rest o' my clan. I'm no fighter. I've no skills that way. Nay, I stayed at home until the silence an' empty streets grew too much. Then I wandered to the North an' back, applyin' my trade away from the battles that raged on fer months an' months. Nothin' I could do to help, though all my kin were in danger. Every one." Satisfied her hands were dry enough now, Destini reached her right hand into the satchel and gently pulled forth her harp.

Rough, waxed wood glinted dully in the firelight. The harp emerged into the gloom of the room in the same way a butterfly might have emerged from its cocoon. She was astonished no strings had broken in the cold elements and difficult journey they had just endured. Shedding the now unimportant satchel, the harp’s strings glistened in the firelight. She balanced it gently on her lap and began to tune the instrument as she continued her story. "My skills with a harp are o' no use when skills with sword or axe are needed instead. 'Tis as true a statement now as 'twas then. The months passed when all I could do was wait, an' listen fer news, an' hope. Then one day, they came back ... in small groups o' three or four. They were battered, beaten, scarred -- both emotionally an' physically. An' still I could do nothin' fer them but play my harp an' hope all would return to normal."

She finished tuning and shook her head at Brightpoint. "It never did though. It never does. Not really." She sighed and set her fingers to echo the same haunting melody the deacon had played earlier upon his whistle. "An' now 'tis happenin' again."

The harp's song echoed her quiet frustration.
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Destini gazed at the pigeon that had climbed out of Brightpoint's cowl some time ago. The little bird had been rather quiet since the storm had set in and was remarkably well-behaved.

Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Still, she doubted her skills were equal to the task he was proposing. Then again, skills could be taught. Although, it would most assuredly mean giving up the life of a traveling minstrel that she'd always loved ... wouldn't it?

She looked back at the pigeon and decided not to immediately address what appeared to be Brightpoint's intended conversation.

"Deacon Brightpoint," she said with a pleasant twinkle in her eye. Her harp's melody picked up a tone of levity. "Are ye comparin' me to the pigeon?"
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Destini laughed at his retort. "Cannae say I've tried to fly an' carry messages any more than yer pigeon there has tried to play the harp.

"But still, now, let's be fair, ye had to teach the pigeon to do that, now didn't ye? It surely didnae jump out o' its egg with the ability to blindly carry messages 'cross the sea."
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She had been expecting another jest. When it didn't come, the smile faded slowly from Destini's face. Her hands ceased their movement upon the harp strings and the tune halted sharply without reaching tonic. Her eyes were wide when she looked at him cautiously.

"Ye're serious, aren't ye?" she asked him, stunned. "Oh, aye, this matter o' life an' death has me worried fer my kin. But ... are ye seriously suggestin' I take up yer line o' work?"
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"How is it ye know me so well, so soon, when I know ye not at all?" She peered at him for a long while, considering him. "But then, I s'pose a man in yer line o' work was trained to do that ... to pick up on others without givin' away yerself," she said, answering her own question.

She set down her harp and took up his flask with a nod of thanks. This had been a night of conversation requiring stronger fare than porridge."Ye're right, o' course." She took a sip and handed the flask back to him. "I'm one fer the road. Have been, an' always will. I amnae one to sit idly by."

She took up her forgotten cup of still-warm porridge and ate the final spoonfuls while deep in thought. Setting her cup aside, she said, If ye're tellin' me -- e'en in the face o' threats like this -- one o' my meager quality can help to save my kin," Her stormy, grey eyes fixed his gaze with a firm, determined glint in the firelight. "Then I'm tellin' ye, I'm listenin'."
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Destini nodded slowly. His reasoning was sound. Though, it would mean leaving her homeland and her kin, she had always gone her own way. "To England, then," she agreed softly. She moved to pull her bedroll from her satchel and put her harp away while she was at it. "I s'pose we'd best rest while we can," she said. "It appears we've a long journey before us."

Destini removed her cloak for the first time and hung it on a protruding nail beside the fire to dry. She hung her wet hood on top of it and laid her leather shoes beside the hearth. As undressed as she was going to be in the cold weather with a relative stranger, she pulled down the top layer of her bedroll.

The wind kicked up again and battered against the abandoned way-house. The fire shivered in a draft of air that snuck through an unseen hole in the weathered wooden walls. "One thing I amnae goin' to miss is the Irish weather, that's fer certain," she said, though it was a lie. Eire was her home. She knew she'd miss everything about it -- most especially her clan. She laid back and tried to calm her racing thoughts and fears ... doubting she'd be successful at all.
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(ooc: rolling this forward, since we have a boat to catch ...)



The exterior walls of Port Lairge rose up before her as she walked amicably at Deacon Brightpoint's side. So close to the sea, the smell of salt was in the air. After her meeting with the deacon, it had been an uneventful journey. Which really was the best kind. Still, her arrival at Port Lairge was only the beginning.

As they approached the city's walls, a gruff gate guard asked their names and business. "I'm Destini MacKenzie, minstrel by trade. I hear the port here is the busiest in all Ireland. We're seekin' travel to England if any ships are headed that way..."

The gate guard took down her name and waved them through without answering her.

Once they were through the gate, she sighed and turned to Brightpoint. "I s'pose our first order o' business is to find a ship, then."
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Destini looked sharply to Brightpoint. "So, ye're a gambler too, mm, Deacon? Yer 'unremittin' worldliness' certainly comes in many shapes an' sizes. Though, it surprises me that the cardinal would encourage ye." Although, she very much wanted to know what the bet was about, they had a ship to find and board. Once aboard, they would have plenty of time to talk during the crossing. Her questions could wait.

She turned to look at the port city and noticed for the first time that banners proclaiming Winterfest hung on every block. The streets were crowded with men, women, and children alike all in thier Sunday best and enjoying the festivities. "Seems we've arrived durin' a city-wide celebration," she noted, turning back to Brightpoint with a smirk. "I trust ye willnae gamble away yer fare fer the ship on yer way to send the pigeon off."

Grinning, she turned away in the direction of the harbor.
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As she dodged through the crowd of festivital activities and merry-makers toward the port, her thoughts wandered back to all she'd heard the previous night. She couldn't stop herself from sorting and re-sorting the details she already knew about the threat to her kin.

Although Brightpoint had never specifically mentioned the word 'poison', the word 'antidote' implied it. In her mind, poison was a coward's method to murder. But it was also a tool of a very patient and careful murderer. Whatever she might learn and be able to deduce by listening in taverns and towns, she doubted very much that whoever was behind this would be discovered by waiting them out, hoping they'd make a mistake.

At least there were vials of the antidote near Zan should she and Brightpoint prove unable to stop the attempt on His Majesty's life. She paused at that thought. Vials. Plural. Why would the cardinal send more than one vial of the antidote to Padraig? Unless he was expecting more than one attempt. Or unless more than Zanditin were threatened. She did not like that thought at all.

But the more she thought about it, the more she was certain that was the case. The cardinal had sent Brightpoint to Eire when Padraig had been duke. That the King and the current dutchess of An Mumhain were both of Clan MacKenzie likely simplified matters for Brightpoint. But that did not mean only those of the clan were in danger.

The matter of Brightpoint's needing to see a man about a bishop came back to her mind. Was that why Brightpoint had gone to the abbey? He could have sent the pigeon from anywhere. And what of his mission to this Order of Saint George in England? All she knew was that it was connected to his mission in Eire. Were there people in England threatened as well? Or was it just because this threat came to Eire through England? She made a mental note to ask Brightpoint when she got the chance.

Her thoughts had seen her all the way to the harbor. Destini was jarred from her ponderings by a large, tanned sailor on his way from one of the ships. She dodged out of his way just before he would have bumped into her. With a thanks to whatever grace had given her lightness of feet, Destini went back on her way. The harbormaster's office was straight ahead. Smiling at her luck, she entered the office to inquire about passage to England.
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Destini emerged from the harbormaster's office. Daubigny had been exceedingly helpful in securing passage to England. All that was left now was to wait.

With Brightpoint nowhere in sight and there being some time before the ship left port, she decided to wander the city. She'd never been to Port Lairge before and the festival was an excellent excuse to see what the city had to offer.

Deciding on a nearby street, Destini set out to see what she could see.
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The streets were crowded with a multitude of festival-goers here to see the sites. Those from out of town were easily spotted as they were usually pulling at one another with a pointed finger and shout of "Ooh! Look here!" Certainly, there was much to see here. The foods that stocked the merchant's shelves were more varied than any she'd ever seen. Doubtless they were brought to this port town from far beyond the sea.

Those who called Port Lairge their home were not as easily spotted as those who were visiting. They were more subdued, paying more attention to the specific activities of the festival and less to the general comings and goings. A general hum of happiness was in the air from all who were about the streets.

Or almost all ....

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the festivities, she caught sight of a slow-moving figure out the corner of her eye. It was behind her, weaving in and out of the crowds. Unlike the others, this figure did not appear to be paying attention to anything the town or festival had to offer. She suddenly wondered how dangerous this mission was. Could Brightpoint have been followed to Eire?

She dared not look on the figure directly. She didn't want her tracker to know she had noted him ... at least, she guessed it was a him by the way he moved. She endeavored to remain calm as her heart pounded in her chest.

She casually stopped at a women's clothing merchant and admired a lovely crimson bodice. She made a show of grinning at the merchant and peering into the small window to see the wares inside. It was an excuse, really, to look at the reflection in the glass and see behind her. Unable to locate the figure in the reflection, she settled on a new plan. She stepped inside the merchant's shop and kept keen watch on the open doorway and the crowds sweeping by beyond. She stood, tensed to strike at the shadowy figure with her staff should he walk in behind her.
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The sunlight in the doorway was suddenly obscured as a dark, cloaked figure cut off the only exit. Destini suddenly wondered if she'd chosen poorly by taking this confrontation into a shop where she couldn't escape if she had to. She made a mental note to pick a shop with a back door next time ...

... if there was a next time.

She was about to take a swing at the figure, when he swayed on his feet and pulled a bottle from beneath his large cloak and took a long swig.

"Oy!" called the merchant-woman from the back. "If Ah've told ye once, Ah've told ye a thousand times NOT to bring that devil's drink in mah store! Out! Out wit' ye!" She shooed the man from her doorway and looked to Destini with an annoyed expression. "Oh, Aye, festivals bring in the cash, they do. But they also bring in the dregs o' society!" She harumphed loudly and went back to stocking her shelves.

Destini blinked. Had she been so engrossed in thoughts about this mission that she'd taken a drunkard for a part of the threat? She looked back to the doorway where the dark figure had been and saw Brightpoint standing in the doorway.
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Destini wasn't sure whether she should relax her defensive posture or not. She looked between Brightpoint and the merchant woman a couple times before finally settling her gaze on Brightpoint with her eyebrows raised.
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Brightpoint's adventures -- or were they mis-adventures? -- never failed to amaze Destini. She softened her stance and smiled at him genuinely. "Aye, actually. 'Tis a ship scheduled to leave fer England before sunset today. Given that 'tis past midday now, we've time to board, but not much."

She stepped through the doorway of the clothing merchant's store and back on to the street. Stopping, a thought occurred to her. "Deacon Brightpoint, if ye wouldnae mind a slight detour, I've a mind to send a letter to my clan from the town hall before we leave. Pagan especially will want to know what I'm up to. An' I did promise her I'd write. Given that I willnae get another chance fer a bit ...," she trailed off. Who knew when she would get a chance to write her best friend again? Her brow furrowed at the thought of leaving her kin to fend this threat for themselves. But if she could stop the threat before it reached them, so much was for the better.
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Destini frowned at Brightpoint's final statement, but nodded her agreement anyway. Turning, she led the way through the city strees to where she had seen the town hall in passing on her way from the gates of the city to the harbor.

Inside, she explained her need to the clerk and he gave her paper, pen and ink grudgingly, which was understandable given how precious such commodities were. Destini, with a sigh at Brightpoint's stern instruction, placed pen to paper.



She folded the paper and handed it to the clerk. Turning to Brightpoint she said, "Let's be aboard. Onward to England."
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She blushed and bowed her head at his unexpected compliment. True, she was leaving everyone and everything she knew behind. But what choice did she have? She could either stand and watch and wait while the worst happened or she could -- how had Brightpoint put it? -- happen to tomorrow instead. She left the town hall with Brightpoint and walked with him to the port.

She hesitated as she stepped on the gangplank to board the Venus. Looking back on the snowy hills of her homeland, she allowed a silent moment for her leaving. "I'll be back," she whispered to the cold, Irish air. Then she turned to board the ship bound for England.
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The crew were soldiers, bound on a campaign of some kind. They were efficient at their work and Destini gathered it would be best to stay as much out if their way as possible.

The final call for boarders was shouted and, when noone else boarded, the gangplank was hoisted in. The ropes binding the vessel to the pier were untied and hauled aboard with a speed and efficiency that impressed her. On a cry from the captain, the anchor was raised and the men took up oars, rowing the ship out of the harbor.

Destini leaned against the side rail and watched as the shore of her homeland moved away from the side of the ship. When they were far enough out of the port, the white canvas sails were lowered and tied down. They billowed as they caught a perfect wind from the west. The ship creaked and groaned under the new force, but eventually the ship glided foreward on wings of canvas.

Destini, still leaning on the rail and trying to stay out of the way, looked to Brightpoint. "So, Deacon Brightpoint, we're on our way," she said. "Since we've some time to wait, how 'bout that bit o' explanation on kin, crown, an' cardinal ye promised me?"
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Destini listened to Brightpoint's explanation. "I s'pose that," she said, furrowing her brow in thought, "that explains why ye have so many oaths that bind ye.

"But how do ye keep so many thoughts an' goals in mind whilst still accomplishin' the mission ye were set out to achieve? In addition to avoidin' those at odds with yer mission, surely, at times, clan, king, an' cardinal donae see eye to eye."
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She shook her head, still frowning. He had answered her question right enough. But he hadn't answered what she really wanted to know. She paused a moment, trying to figure out how to ask her question in a different way. "But there have to be priorities. Should one naysay the other, whom do ye follow?"
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She nodded, considering the deacon at her side with a sideways glance. That her clan was at the bottom of his priorities was not surprising. It wasn't his clan, nor his kin. She didn't know if she were in his shoes that she could make the same decision so easily. "Well, fer my part," she said, "I hope it doesnae come to a conflict o' priorites."

She considered his latter statement. It all sounded very important ... except for one thing. "Information gatherin' an' dispersin', troop movements, escortin' important persons to safety an' whatknot. It all sounds like reasonable requests fer the cardinal to make o' those in his employ." She paused a moment to figure out how to address the part that didn't make sense. "But explain to me how a bottle o' mediera ends up on a list o' such important tasks?"
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Destini laughed at Brightpoint's story. "I look foreward to meetin' him someday," she said in complete honesty.

The ship was picking up speed, catching a new, stronger breeze from the west. Destini's hair wafted in the wind. She ran her fingers through her black-brown locks to tame the stray wisps that fluttered in the sudden breeze.

In the quiet, comfortable pause in conversation, Destini's mind wandered to the uncertain future. Brightpoint had said that she was welcome to join him for the next phase of the Cardinal's instruction ... whatever that was. In her mind, she replayed the information she'd gleaned from her conversations with the deacon.

It occurred to her that Brightpoint had finally confirmed her suspicion that this threat was, indeed, a case of poision. What was more, he had mentioned it came from the Orient. "What do we know 'bout this Oriental poison?" Destini asked, her mind attempting to fill in blanks in the information she'd already gathered from the deacon. "How is it ministered? Concealed in food or drink, or is it somethin' else entirely?"
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Brightpoint's reference to her as a 'friend' caught her attention. She barely knew the man, but somehow they'd forged a friendship in that short span of time. She smiled at the deacon and settled herself on one of the barrels. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her cloak about her to keep her warm in the February air. "Turns out, Deacon Brightpoint, we've a while to spare. Go on."
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Destini watched the deacon intently as he told his tale. Her eyebrows arched in surprise as he told of the two known ingredients. "Barrels o' whiskey?" Her breath caught in her throat as she thought of the connotations of that. "Brightpoint," she said carefully, "There was whiskey at Oddman's and Airiana's weddin'. Ye an' I both drank there. An' e'en if those particular barrels werenae poisoned, drinkin' is a way o' life in Eire ...."

She considered the second of the two known ingredients and added, "Perhaps the church's nigh absence in Eire will be the savin' grace o' my king. If the second part o' the poison is in church candles, 'tis likely willnae reach many in my country."

The vial sparkled like a gemstone in the shimmering sunlight. Destini peered up at it in wonder. "How did ye discover that this Asphiras flower was the true antidote fer this poison?"
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The deacon's point about the candles made perfect sense, though she didn't like that it meant her kin were still in danger.

The story was becoming more extraordinary with each new fact she learned. "The cardinal himself was stricken?" she gasped.

It suddenly struck her as strange to her that a cardinal would perform the investigation in person. Surely, such a high ranking churchmen would have important things to attend to. Not that such an investigation into illness and death wasn't important. But as Cardinal Primate, Faheud would have duties to attend to throughout the English-speaking world. Where would he find the time to also perform the investigation? She looked up to Brightpoint with a narrowed gaze as if she might see the truth of his tale by peering at him in a certain way. "Tell me, deacon, was it the cardinal who performed the investigation? Or one o' his attaches?" She gazed deeply at Brightpoint, wondering. "Who is this Sir Falcie Norton?"
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As a poet and minstrel, the change in tenses was not lost on Destini. "Was?" she said past a knot in her throat. "This Sir Falcie is dead then. So, there have been fatalities." she concluded. She stared at the deck of the Venus and followed the woodgrain below her feet with her eyes. She had known this was no idle quest, that this was life and death. But now she knew that at least one death had already occurred at the hands of those who preferred chaos to order. It placed things into a new, more urgent perspective.

"If the cardinal took ill with this same poison, how is it that ye donae yet know the third piece o' this trinary poison? Surely, if ye looked at everythin' His Grace came into contact with, ye'd find the third ingredient."
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That was a fair answer, and Destini nodded to indicate she understood. The Cardinal Faheud was not just any cardinal. He was the cardinal of the entire English-speaking church. The same reasons that made it seem strange for the cardinal to do his own investigating likely also made narrowing the poison's final ingredient impossible. Even Brightpoint had said that His Grace had 'ridden across two counties' when the Reverend Mother had called. Such travel would inevitably make for a very large haystack in which to find a very small needle.

But what of the late Sir Falcie?

"How did ye come across the first two ingredients, then?" Destini wondered, then added just as quickly, "Perhaps ye matched the Cardinal's an' Sir Falcie's - Jah rest him - activities?"
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Destini stiffened and looked directly at Brightpoint with eyes wide. She kicked her feet off the barrel to dangle down towards the deck she'd been staring at. "Deacon Brightpoint!" she said, alarmed. "Are ye sayin' 'tis Anto behind this?" She wasn't sure she believed it, and her expression showed it.

What was more, in the past several minutes he had told her the threat she'd joined him to stop had already been carried out ... at least in part or in practice if not in whole. "Ye've told me now o' two men's deaths an' the cardinal's attempted assassination. Oh, I knew 'twas dangerous when I agreed to join ye. But this?"

Agitated, she hopped off the barrel and walked away from Brightpoint. She turned back to him, trying to keep her voice down lest the sailors overhear. When she spoke, her voice was a harsh whisper. "Just how dangerous is this mission o' yers, Deacon Brightpoint?"
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Destini narrowed her eyes at Brightpoint. "I didnae think 'twas a pasttime, Deacon," she said evenly. "Ye've offered me a chance to save my kin, an' I've accepted. Ye'll recall that amongst my beliefs is that when I say I'll do somethin' or commit myself to a cause, I'll see it through. I didnae join ye on yer mission lightly."

Turning away from him, she leaned on the railing to look out at the endless horizon. "I only wish ye an' the news ye carry had made it to Eire before any had died." The edge was gone from her voice.

She didn't look over at Brightpoint as she added, "Life is far too important."
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The chill of truth went down Destini's spine when Brightpoint spoke. "Aye," she agreed. "I s'pose that's so."

The riptide below them churned in the wake of the boat's progress to England. Destini watched it for a moment before a thought occurred to her. "Brightpoint," she said almost absently.

She turned to the deacon, leaning on the rail with her right arm. Her expression was a mask of deep thought as she continued, "Given what ye've just said, an' that no one has yet died in Eire ... how did my clan take the news o' this threat?"
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She frowned at his words, thinking about how the conversation had looked to her from across the clearing. "But," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "the parchment, the vials o' the elixir ... they believed nothin'?"

Mention of the antidote reminded her she had another question about the conversation. "Then why give Padraig three vials o' the antidote? E'en if he did believe ye, why three? Are ye expectin' more than one attempt upon His Majesty's life? or are there others in Eire directly threatened?" If the threat wasn't heeded -- and it appeared it may not be --, how many in Eire would die if they failed? She didn't dare ask that question aloud.
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"I hope they willnae be needed at all," Destini said softly. She was beginning to realize with every question answered that the fates of so many were depending on the works of so few. The fact that she was part of that group of 'few' was a little daunting. She'd never wanted more than to travel and share her music. Yet here she was on a boat to England.

"We must find out who's behind this," said Destini seriously. "Given what ye've told me, I fear, against this threat, the cardinal, yerself, an' I will be the only ones lookin' out fer Eire."
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Hand over hand I climb the rope ladder from my rowboat to the deck. The captain offers me his hand at the top to help me aboard. I do not accept it. I pull myself up on my own power. My men clamber up behind me. They fan out along the railing and wait for my command. I have trained them well. "Captain," I say. My voice is smooth as ink. "I trust you have the cargo manifest and passenger roster for Port Egremont’s review?" In the silence of the muffling mist, my voice seems loud although I’m barely raising it. I care not. Let them overhear me.

The captain hands me two parchments. I ignore the cargo manifest and scan the list of passengers and crew. I spot the name I’m looking for. "No … this will never do," I say. I thrust the papers back at the captain. "I cannot let your ship dock."

He makes an excuse. They always do. "Why? We’re not carrying anything we haven’t before!"

I see a cloaked figure on the deck... a woman. I recall the only female name on the roster. I fix my gaze on her. "Are you … wholly certain of that ... Captain?" I ask him. He follows my gaze and says nothing. He gets my point. Good.

My shoes click on the moist deck as I walk toward her. "Miss MacKenzie, is it not?" I ask with a smile that never reaches my eyes.

_____________

She curtsied. How quaint. I do not return her gesture of respect. I have none for her. "I am searching for a man ... a traitor.... against the crown of England. The roster says you ... boarded this ship ... together ...."

I watch her face carefully. Her expression will tell me if she knows him. "His name is ... Allan Brightpoint. Perhaps ... you know him?"

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She looked between them, startled into watching as the pair hurled insults at one another. It was clear that they knew each other. It was frighteningly apparent that they were old enemies.

What should have been obvious, but wasn't, was that standing between them was unwise. She realized her sudden danger as Brightpoint faded into the shadows and moved to follow him, hoping to go unnoticed.
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I see the wench is anxious to be away. I cannot allow her to get in the way of my men.

I reach out. Almost gentlemanly, I take the wench's arm. I pull her back from following my quarry. "Take care, my dear. I should not wish you to be harmed in the struggle below decks. You are far ... safer here."

A loud thump sounds below me. I smirk. Allan Brightpoint's end is near.

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Destini tried to pull away from Elias' surprisingly strong grip. Despite her nimble fingers, she was unable to pull free. "Unhand me!" she cried defiantly. She wished her staff was in her hand rather than with her satchel below deck. She could give Elias a fight with it in her grasp. But, as it was, she was powerless to do more than struggle.

A second thump reverberated across the wooden ship. Sounds of a struggle reached her ears. She hoped Brightpoint was faring better than she was.
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Destini landed hard on the deck when Brightpoint kicked Elias down. Her heart pounded in her chest. Fear raced through her veins. Her life had never been threatened before. Elias's cold, soulless gaze chilled her. Within that look was a spark of anticipation at killing her. She believed he might have actually stood by to watch as the life faded from her eyes.

But Brightpoint had stopped him. She looked back at the two men as Elias stood up. The fury in his eyes was clear. She saw his intent on the deacon's life and her eyes went wide. "Allan!" she screamed.
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Was she unharmed? Yes, she thought so. Her heart was still pounding in her ears and she wasn't sure she could trust her legs to hold her, but she was alive -- and so was Brightpoint. That was the important thing. Unable to find her voice, she nodded to him slightly with wide eyes to indicate she was alright.

Her own shout still echoed in her ears. In the height of the moment, she'd screamed a warning to the deacon. It was an understandable thing to do, but what bothered her was that she had used his first name. She had never used it before and he had never asked her to use it.

Still seated on the deck, she brushed aside the long strands of hair that had fallen in her face during the scuffle. Shocked tears pricked at her eyes. She bit her bottom lip to stop them before Brightpoint could see. Realizing she was shaking, she clasped her hands together in a vain attempt to maintain what little composure she still had.

They were alive, and lucky to be so.
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She picked herself up off the deck. Wringing her still-shaking hands, she found her voice and replied, "Aye, deacon, let's," With events returning to as relatively normal as things were around Brightpoint, Destini returned to calling him by his appropriate title. He hadn't commented on her use of his first name. Perhaps in the heat of the skirmish, he hadn't noticed.

A light on the shore pierced the fog and the ship moved forward under the power of the sailors' oars. They were likely cleared to dock by the real Harbormaster. Destini turned to gather her belongings below deck.

She snuck a look at the deacon as she passed him, wondering how he remained so calm about constantly having his life threatened. A drink at the tavern sounded delightful right now. She desperately needed a drink after this endeavor.
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They entered the dock-side tavern. Given the darkness of the misty day, the candles on the tables were still lit. The atmosphere was dark but comfortable enough after the cramped mess aboard the ship.



Destini took a seat with her back facing a wall. If Elias entered the tavern, she wanted to see him coming. When the bartender set their drinks before them, Destini took a careful sip, recalling what Brightpoint had.said about the trinary poison. The whiskey didn't taste different, but then, neither had the drinks at the wedding. There was no way to know what was safe.

"How do ye do it, deacon?" she asked after a pause. "How do ye live every moment o' yer life in constant danger?"
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Destini smiled for the first time in quite awhile. Her eyes sparkled softly n the candlelight as she met the deacon's gaze. "Curiosity," she admitted with a slow grin.

"I cannae leave a question unanswered ... try though I might." The last part was added with a note of disapproval at that aspect of her character. "Whether ye'd come about or no, I'd have likely ended up here anyway ... though perhaps not as soon. I'm afraid wanderlust is also part o' my nature."

She sipped her drink, lapsing into deep thought a moment. "Speakin' o' unanswered questions, who was that man back there? An' what did he want with ye?"
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"Oh, Aye, there's ingtrigue a plenty everywhere, I s'pose. But in Eire ye either fight or ye stay home." She frowned into her refilled cup.

"I'm a poor fighter, deacon. I'm sure ye noticed back on the ship. Durin' the war it was just assumed I'd stay home an' help to protect the homes o' those who went into battle. I did what I could. No revolts succeeded 'till the bitter end o' the war, at least." She smiled wryly. "One cannae hold the walls o' a city alone."

She thought on her poor fighting skills and the ordeal back on the ship. "By the way," she looked up into Brightpoint's face sincerely, reaching across the table to touch his hand in a soft gesture. "Back there - on the ship, I mean -- ye saved my life. Thank ye."
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Destini's laughter resounded on the wooden walls of the dock-side tavern. "True enough! I was given a lesson with a shillelagh once. Oddman taught me one afternoon last summer. Pagan was there -- Zanditin too. Zan taught me a little 'bout listenin' fer danger in a forest full o' sound. That was well before he was king, o' course." Her laughter faded to a chuckle and the chuckle to a sigh. That day had been one of those good days that stood out in her memory like a rainbow against the clouds. Before obligation, danger, and threat.

"Now, it seems I'll need those few skills more than ever before."
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Destini followed the deacon's gaze and watched the drunk out of mild curiosity. She nodded gravely at Brightpoint's words. "If ye think 'twould serve well in whate're's ahead, I'm willin' enough to learn." she answered.

The realization that she had no idea what to expect in the coming days or weeks struck her suddenly. "What is ahead o' us, deacon?" she asked. "Ye said the cardinal ordered ye to a meetin' with the Order o' Saint George. I trust that's where ye've to be next. What o' me?"
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Destini sipped the last of the drink from her glass. She nodded absently at the deacon's plan. It was a little daunting that someone of her low class would end up meeitng a great cardinal. The thought gave her pause. Plus, unlike Ireland, she had no picture of how long the road to Hastings would take. She was grateful, at least, to have a guide.

Brightpoint had spoken the last part of his sentence so fast that it had looped around her head a few times before hitting home. She looked at him sharply with a surprised but pleased gleam in her eye at the unexpected compliment. "Wait. What did ye just say?"
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She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came to her mind. The deacon turned and headed for the door before she could respond. Blushing at his compliment, she was grateful for the dreary darkness of the day. She grinned at the deacon's back.

"Unremitting worldliness, indeed..." she muttered under her breath with a smile.

She grabbed her staff and satchel and followed Brightpoint to the street leading out of Egermont and onto the open road.
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She had been walking alongside the deacon on their journey East. Her walking stick kept metered time with their soft footsteps in the powdery snow. Sometime over the last couple hours, conversation had died into an amicable silence.

After many hours, her eyes and feet had grown tired of wandering over the snowy countryside. Instead, her thoughts and eyes had wandered to her companion even as they continued to walk. His occasional compliments hinted that perhaps he was glad for more than just her company. She found him to be daring, witty, and he had saved her life. It was not something she would lightly forget. But nor did she think it was appropriate to mention that she was appraising him.

When he asked, she spoke the question that had been on her mind since they'd docked at Egremont, "Why did ye save my life, Deacon? I'm naught but a minstrel. Ye're important to the cause, the mission. Ye placed yerself in danger when ye neednae have. Why?"
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There it was again. That subtle compliment that answered her question, but hinted to something else. Or was she reading too much into it? She blushed, uncertain what to do with his answer.

Unsure as she was, she changed the subject.

"Given that this is my first time in England, Deacon, perhaps ye might tell me o' this country?"
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The mention of plague set Destini's expression in a frown. "Aye, plague struck Eire as well -- many months ago, durin' the war with Springtime. The two towns to the north o' my hometown were lost ... my house too." Her voice was soft, distant. "My parents an' I lived on the Northernmost side of Imleach. To prevent the plague from reachin' town, my father burned the house. I wasnae there. I'd gone a-wanderin'. Much like ye, I returned to a burned husk o' a home." She fingered the silver locket around her neck. Why was she even telling him about this? It was personal. It had no bearing on their task.

"'Twas a long time ago," she said shaking off the memory.
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She looked up at the lights of Keswick. It stood like a shining earthly version of the Garden of Eden nestled amongst the larger hills in the region. The village spread radially around the stone towers of the Bailiwick, spilling out onto the hill and countryside surrounding it. In each of the windows, a candle or fireplace was burning, spilling light out into the world, making the snow between them and the village glisten like the sea. Within those rooms, she also knew, there was shelter from the cold evening.

"Music," she answered the deacon's question, "not mem'ry. Music brings me comfort. I prefer to live in the moment."

The current moment brought them to the first cobblestone-paved roadway leading into the village of Keswick. "Let's find the inn. I think an eve out o' the snow sounds delightful right now."
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She reached a cold hand to the door and it opened with a creak. Four men and one woman within the inn looked to their entrance.

The air was smoky from the fire, but delightfully warm. The travelers walked in, shutting the door behind them. Walking to the bar, Destini motioned to the man behind the counter. "We'll be needin' a couple o' yer rooms fer the night," she said when he approached.

The innkeeper was a stout man and balding. His black-brown hair stood out in tufts on either side of his balding head. He wore a linen apron that might have been white at one point in time but was now so stained with all manner of grease and spills that it was now a dull beige. He eyed her and Brightpoint with large, round, brown eyes that glinted tiredly in the light of the fire. "Yes, we have rooms. Two pounds a piece will pay for them fine."

"Two pounds?" said Destini with a note of surprise. "Ye're jokin'. Not e'en the capitol city in Eire charges two pounds!"

"This ain't Ireland, missy. And I've got other travelers to worry about. They'll pay two pounds per person right enough. So can you."

Destini looked to Brightpoint. They'd shared one room before on the road from Imleach to Port Lairge. She doubted the deacon would mind if they did so again. She knew she could sleep happily on the floor so long as it was out of the cold. She turned back to the innkeeper. "One room, then. One pound a piece," she haggled.

The innkeeper narrowed his eyes at her, clearly angry with being cheated out of two pounds. He must have found no reason to argue with her since he responded, "Done," and slapped a key on the bar.

Destini placed two pounds on the bar and took the key in one motion, before the innkeeper could change his mind. Turning to Brightpoint, she said, "We've a room fer the eve. Shall we retire, or have a drink before bed?" She smiled at the deacon.
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She joined the deacon at the table, pulling a chair out to sit beside him. It was only moments before the innkeeper brought over their drinks. He lingered a moment to cast an unshielded glare at Brightpoint then turned and left without a word.

"Lovely fellow," said Destini with gentle sarcasm after he'd gone. She sipped her ale, which actually wasn't the worst she'd ever had. "But then, I'm sure ye're accustomed to all manner o' folk in yer line o' work."
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Destini raised her glass to echo the toast. "Safe crossin's, Aye. We've crossed the seas well enough ..." Her voice trailed off as she recalled Elias. A shiver ran down her spine when she remembered he was still out there somewhere. She looked to the door as if he might appear there just because she'd thought of him. When he didn't appear, she shook her head and turned back to the conversation. "well, mostly well enough. I, too, hope we'll have safety crossin' the land."

"E'en so ..." she continued, sipping more of her ale to stall her while she gathered her thoughts. "I cannae help but be constantly surprised to hear a deacon o' the church say the things I've heard ye say. 'A good dirkin'? Is there any such thing?"
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She had never seen the deacon use deadly force but, looking at him now, she believed he would if he had to. "I shudder to ask." she said in response to his question.
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Perhaps she was supposed to laugh, perhaps she wasn't. But the response was so very not what she was expecting that she she burst out laughing whether she was supposed to or no. Two of the patrons in the tavern turned to look at them. She took a drink and tried to get herself under control. "Aye," she said, wiping away the tears of laughter. "Aye, I suppose that's so."

Deciding not to make more of a scene than they already had, Destini finished her ale and stood, gathering her satchel and staff. She clutched the key to their room in her hand. The direction of the rooms was clearly marked by a sign beside the stairs. "We've an early start tomorrow, I trust. So, I'll adjourn fer the eve. Unless ye're followin' me directly to the room, I'll leave the door unbarred fer ye." She turned toward the stairs, then, leaving the deacon to his drink and decision. She wasn't his keeper. He could stay up if he chose.
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The room was small, but could easily accommodate two. There was a single window covered in oiled cloth to keep out the worst of the winter's cold. It did better than no cloth at all, but still the room was a bit cold. "No colder than outside," she said to her self with a satisfied nod as she looked about at the room. "Not much warmer either. But certainly not colder." It would do. She set her satchel and staff against the wall and her cloak and hood near it.

She looked at the smallish bed. Despite its meager size, the mattress was made of clean, fresh straw. While it was no feather bed, it was beyond better than a simple bedroll. She smiled and dug her own bedroll out, deciding to give Allan the bed. He'd been on the road far longer than she had. Allan would appreciate it.

She paused ... Allan? When had she started thinking of him as his first name? The danger on the ship, maybe. She shook her head. It was inappropriate. She was a minstrel. Little better than a servant. As deacon, he was classed well above her. She rolled her bedroll out. As a member of a higher class, the deacon would have the bed. That was that. She continued to ready for sleep.
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The morning sunlight through the oiled cloth woke Destini some hours later. She emerged from her bedroll stiff from being curled up in a ball all night. The evening had been far colder than she had anticipated and she had curled up as tight as possible to maximise the use of her own body heat. While she'd slept fairly well, the morning stretching took several minutes to work out the kinks and crimps that such a night of sleeping in cold inevitably caused.

At least Brightpoint would have been fine in the bed. She looked to the bed and saw it unoccupied. She was confused only as long as it took her to spot the deacon in his own bedroll across the room. She sighed in frustration, but smiled all the same. "Ye're a scoundrel an' a gentleman, deacon," she whispered to him, uncertain if she should wake him.
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They broke their fast quickly and packed quicker in an effort to get out onto the road all the faster. For Destini's part, the haste was more about avoiding a second encounter with the innkeeper than for a specific want to be away from the warm inn and out onto the road.

She pulled her cloak about her tighter. The night's rest in the cold room had left a chill in her bones that she had not been able to dispell with breakfast beside the inn's fire. But now that she was out on the open road, she realized the clear day was far more frigid than yesterday's travel under cloud and fog. She looked back at the city walls of Keswick and noted the lack of tradesmen she would have expected to see in a city of its size. "'Tis an odd town, Keswick," she noted as she turned back to walk the road beside Brightpoint. "I'd expect more fer its size. It feels .... somehow, well, empty."
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"As short in tempers as they were short in hands, aye," said Destini, nodding in understanding. "That makes sense."

The wind brutally tore across the land. Sure, she had experienced winds before. These gusts were nothing new. Still, the icy grip of this wind seemed something tangible, something almost alive. It was as if the wind itself wished to rip through her cloak and snap her bones in sunders. As a weaver, she knew her cloak was secure enough, but the fibers of the fabric simply weren't close enough together to stop the gusts from reaching her skin. She shortened her stride in order to take more steps, hoping the action of moving more would keep her warmer. It worked only marginally better than before. "I cannae say I've e're experienced winds like these," she said to Brightpoint. "The cold is as a knife to the soul."
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She looked sharply over at the deacon. Her eyes peered out from her wool hood. He seemed to be strangely enjoying the frigid air.

"How could ye possibly have been hot in that room last night? Drafty tavern window let that lowland wind o' yers in the room. It was freezin'."
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His response made sense, but she still furrowed her brow at him as he shrugged aside one side of his cloak. She shook her hooded head and pulled futher into her own cloak. His casual disregard for the chill in the air had a strange way of making her feel even more cold.

She ignored his question about the weather in favor of a question of her own. "Who is Canon Alberic? Ye havenae mentioned that name before."
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Brightpoint was right. She did like his description of the man. She smiled, imagining him the way the deacon described. "An' just what did e're did ye do that inspired such grave disappointment?" asked Destini with a note of teasing amusement. "I only ask 'cause ye've clearly had first hand experience."
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Her merriment at the deacon's expense died then and there. Whether it was the mere mention of Elias or only Brightpoint's tone, even the sunlight seeemd to darken through the whisps of cloud. She imagined the tavern brawl as Brightpoint described. "Ah ... hm.." she stuttered. Uncertain what else to say, she arrived at only two words. "I'm sorry." She was sorry. Sorry she'd asked, sorry she'd teased him. But at the same time, she was slowly piecing together the deacon's past -- and the future she was walking into.

"I gather Elias left a bit o' a wake behind him when he left the cardinal's service." she stated softly to the chill air.
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Their conversation had taken them many miles. The landscape had changed so little that Destini hadn't noted much of their surroundings save a building now and then.

She noted her surroundings now as they crested the next low hill on the road to reveal a small town of a few buildings settled around a single-steepled church. It was the steeple of the church itself that proclaimed more loudly the condition of the rest of the village. It was cracked and uncared for. The thatch of the buildings nearest it hung in tatters like cobwebs. She'd seen it before. The village was abandoned.

Harsh memories stopped her in her tracks. She had travelled through towns destroyed by plague before. They had looked much like this one did. She couldn't tell from their current distance whether this was plague or simply that the inhabitants had moved as Brightpoint had said was happening across England. She shook her head as if the motion could free herself of the memory of her own abandoned home. "What is ..." No, the tense was wrong. She started again. "What was the name of this town?" she asked her local guide.
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Destini nodded in agreement. She was no stranger to keeping careful watch about her when she traveled. Irish roads were often unkind to lone travelers. She wasn't surprised to learn English roads were no different.

She gripped her staff closer to its center so it might be easier to bring to bear should the moment require it.

The village of Appleby had not been a large town at the end. As they passed through the city gates, she could see the gate on the other side of the town. The silence was deafening. The charred boards and splashes of blood were unnerving. She found herself anxiously watching the shadows for any sign of movement.
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"Aye, 'tis worth a look," she agreed, keeping the volume of her voice low. She decided not to follow Brightpoint to the ditch, but approached the wagon around from the street side instead. If anything did jump out, they could surround it from two sides. Better cautious than dead.
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A flurry of feathers startled her into falling back a few steps while the giant black bird tore the medallion from Brightpoint's cloak and flew away. His cry of pain and surprise brought her to his side again. Looking up at the fading black speck, she squinted, trying to see it more clearly against the sky. "Ye're tellin' me that Elias has trained ravens in his employ?"

She looked back at the deacon. "Are ye hurt?" she asked him softly.
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After the raven's entrance into a moment that would otherwise have been full of good fortune, Destini had no trouble getting as far away from this location as possible. "Aye, let's be away from here. The further we can get from Elias the better."

She packed a few more items into her satchel before sinching it up tightly and tying the strips of leather that held it closed. She looked at the tear in Brightpoint's cloak and thought of the thread she usually carried with her for emergencies. "Ye know, I am a weaver o' cloth as well as o' song. I can mend yer cloak when next we stop, if ye like."
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Destini walked with Brightpoint away from Appleby. "I hope we shallnae meet whate're 'twas at all," she answered, but her mind was still on the raven.

"Yer Deacon's medallion. Was it special to ye? Difficult to replace? I mean ...," she frowned in frustration at trying to express the myriad of thoughts that were going through her head at once. While a multi-track mind was useful for playing songs in taverns while listening or talking at the same time, it sometimes made it difficult to convey to others exactly what she was thinking. "What would Elias want with yer medallion?"

Her mind pondered her questions further before she added, "Or perhaps 'twas just a means to track ye an' anythin' o' yers would do?"
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"Ye're the guide, Deacon Brightpoint." she said respectfully. "This country is all new to me. Save fer a chill the likes o' which I didnae experience in Baile Atha Luain in Cuige Chonnacht, I wouldnae know we were currently further North than the Northernmost city in Eire." It was a partially true statement. The fact was, during the crossing to England she'd had a conversation or two with one of the soldiers aboard the Venus and he'd explained thier destination to her. She knew their general location in the world, but the roads of England were all new to her.
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As they walked, a thought occurred to her. A slow grin worked its way across her features. She paused her forward progress to shrug her satchel from her shoulders. "Allan," she said, using his first name intentionally to get his attention. "Back at the wagon, I picked up something. Just had a thought that ye could probably use it - an' appreciate it - better than I."

After unlacing the leather bonds of her satchel, she reached into it and pulled forth a pistol crossbow with a moderate amount of extra ammunition. While he had been stashing away the whiskey, she had collected the crossbow. She smiled at him as she handed him the weapon.



"In case the raven comes back," she said, "Or worse."
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She smiled at his glee at the weapon's appearance. It fit exceedingly well in his strong hands and he looked to be immensely enjoying it. While she hoped they wouldn't need it, she feared the opposite. Trouble had become a frequent occurrance since she had met Brightpoint.

However pleased she was at his reaction, she was troubled by his cynical phrase. His words bluntly stated that there was no hope their mission would succeed. "I hope ye're wrong," she said quietly.

Brightpoint had turned their path along the left side of a fork in the road. She gazed at the Southern road as they passed it. He had said he wanted to check for a carrier pigeon in Liverpool, but their new course to the Southeast didn't line up with the map she pictured in her head. Sure, her map was full of holes and blank spaces, but could she really be so far off in her understanding? "How far is it to Liverpool?" she asked Brightpoint.
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"Oh," said Destini, disappointed. She had hoped to send a message of her own back to Pagan and her clan via a ship at the port of Liverpool. Now, that was no longer possible. She frowned at that thought, wondering if she would have to wait until they reached Sussex to send a letter to her best friend ... and receive her letter if Pagan had sent a response. She so desperately wanted to know that her kin were safe, and that they weren't judging her too harshly for her disappearance. What would her clan chieftain think if Pagan had shared her letters with him? After all, Brightpoint had told him about the poison and the plot. He was an astute man. He might guess why she had left with the deacon. Would he also be upset that she was taking matters into her own hands?

She bit her bottom lip and tried to push the matter to the back of her mind. There was no use in dwelling on such thoughts. Getting a letter back to her clan would have to wait. In any case, not running into Elias again made Brightpoint's decision easier to deal with.

"What would ye have told the cardinal via pigeon?" Destini inquired as they walked.
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Destini, spotting the mischievous gleam in Brightpoint's eyes, grinned at him. "'Tis a gift," she said, mildly. Then added, "An' a curse ... though probably more curse to ye than me right now." Of course, that wasn't exactly true, now was it? She frowned at a new realization.

"But then, I s'pose, I wouldnae be here if not fer my inquisitive nature. 'Twas my curiosity that got me into this." She paused, realizing that this was a problem that went both ways. "At the same time, I doubt ye'd have me along otherwise as I wouldnae be any use to ye or yer mission if I werenae willin' to ask a question or four."
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She shared his worry, but elected to say nothing. She nodded rather than tell him that she was near frightened of what her clan might say about her leaving Ireland on an errand they didn't even know about. At the moment, it was far easier to deny her fears a voice than confide in him.

The icy wind, which had been from the North all day, suddenly shifted. The breeze from the South brought a new smell in the air. She turned her attention toward it, trying to identify it. "That smell," she said, pausing to sniff the air again. "Is that ... smoke?"
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A large Raven flies in the open tavern Window and alights by Lady Penelope. It drops from its beak a sealed parchment.

Somewhat startled as the large bird scrapes the table with cruel talons as it takes off again, Lady Penelope breaks the seal in confusion as small pigeon feathers fall from the letter--which letter is written in a harsh hand

Destini looked to where the deacon was pointing. In the darkness of early evening, she saw what he was referring to. A soft glow shined low on the horizon. If she hadn't known better, she might have said that it was merely the setting sun that caused the array of pan yellow light against the clouds. But the fact was, the glow was in the Southeast rather than in the West.



"Aye," she answered him. "I'd say that isnae a cook fire. What lies in that direction?"
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The deacon was several paces down the road when what he said caught up to her. "London?!" she gasped and hurried to catch up with him.

"Ye're not sayin' ... Ye cannae mean that ... I mean ... London ...?" She couldn't bring herself to say it, though she knew it was the only possible explanation.

London was on fire.
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"But what o' yer mission to the Order o' Saint George?" asked Destini even as she followed Brightpoint toward the blaze. "Haven't ye also a duty to see yer mission through?

"Besides, what do ye think we can accomplish by goin' into London?"" she asked him. "Aye, I've two hands to help fetch an' carry water, but if there are injured -- an' there probably are -- I amnae a healer."
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All thought of avoiding London was gone the moment Brightpoint mentioned a possible assassination attempt. He was right. They had a duty to protect the king. After all, that was one of the reasons she was here. "What are we waiting fer, then?" she said to him. She pushed ahead of Brightpoint on the road toward London. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could do something.

As Brightpoint had anticipated, they met the first stragglers escaping the city as the sun moved from dawn to midday. They were bedraggled, soot-covered, and anxious to be anywhere but where they were. They had likely lost everything. Destini's heart went out to them. She, at least, had a home ... no matter how far away it was. Her family house was gone in flames like theirs was, but she still had a plot of land that was hers across the seas in Imleach. These poor souls had nothing. They moved like ghosts across the land away from the billowing smoke and raging fires that slowly consumed London as the day went on.

She and Brightpoint moved on. For her part, she was anxious about what they would find there. She did not want to face the charred ruins of homes and lives the way she had faced her own. Here, at least, she could do something to stop it, to help, to make someone else's life better than hers had turned out. She looked to Allan. What must he be thinking about all this? He told her that he had experienced much the same thing she had. "Allan," she said softly to him. Speaking to him on such a personal topic required the use of his first name despite that his station was higher than hers. "Are ye alright with this? The fires. These homes, I mean. Will ye be alright?"
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The smoke stung at her eyes and face. The combination of smoke and the motion of the passersby made it difficult to see much in front of them. Conversation was now impossible. Every moment of concentration had to be spent trying to see their way forward. In some places, hearing became more important than sight. She blinked furiously to rid her eyes of the acrid black smoke.

Destini reached out and grabbed Allan's hand, afraid to lose him in the deepening smoke and conjested roadway. She couldn't help but realize that his skin was far warmer than her icy fingers. How on earth did he manage that in the middle of the winter?

A mother herding four smaller children cut off her thought before she could analyze it. She weaved out of the way to let them pass. She stumbled on the uneven ground and tried not to lean on Allan too much for support as she regained her balance. Thorns grabbed at her traveling clothes and cloak like sharp fingernails raking across her garments. She understood why Allan had taken them off the road, but it made the going difficult when the brush grew dense.

The panic of the people escaping the city was as palpable as the smoke. If this was what they were going to face on the inside, how on earth would they manage to be of help inside the city?
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She watched the exchange with a mixture of amazement and pride. That such kindness and generosity still existed in this madness was as the light of day in this darkened, smokey night. That she had chosen to accompany him and call him friend made her feel all the more certain she had chosen right in her decision to leave Ireland.

His actions gave her hope that there was indeed something they could do within. When such small gestures caused reactions of such overwhelming appreciation, there was no end to what good they might do this eve. "Men like ye are a dyin' breed, I think," she said to him and meant every word. A smile shined on her face as she said the words. Her eyes sparkled in the glow of the flickering conflagration beyond the city gates. "Let's see what good we might do within."

She turned and entered London through the burning city gates.



(ooc: We'll be taking the London fire portion of this story over to the London Commons thread "The Great Fire of London". Have no fear, we'll be back. It is likely other non-London plotlines may continue here in the duration.)
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Cardinal Faheud walked into the tavern to see Lady Penelope holding a letter with a small shower of pigeon feathers falling about the table in front of her.

"Hello dear! Have you heard back from Allan Brightpoint yet? And what is with all the pigeon feathers?"

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Faheud, King of England



Thanks to Destini MacKenzie for the new banner!

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Faheud, King of England



Thanks to Destini MacKenzie for the new banner!

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Faheud, King of England



Thanks to Destini MacKenzie for the new banner!

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Faheud, King of England



Thanks to Destini MacKenzie for the new banner!

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Faheud, King of England



Thanks to Destini MacKenzie for the new banner!

Cardinal Faheud broke the seal and unrolled the letter. It was from Deacon Allan, and he had sent it from Westminster Abbey.

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Faheud, King of England



Thanks to Destini MacKenzie for the new banner!

I spit a curse when my bolt misses my quarry. Now, not only have I missed my mark, but Brightpoint is alerted to my presence. Worthless London craftmanship! I should have known better than to trust the crossbow's reliability.

Yet now that I know the drift of the sites, I can adjust my aim. I have lost the element of surprise, but my quarry is still within my grasp. Although I cannot see him from where I am, I know where he is. He is pinned.

Coming up from my prone position amongst the weeds and brush, I crouch low to the ground, adjusting my location so I will have sight of my quarry once more. If I can move silently enough through the brush, I will have another chance to end Brightpoint's life.


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As Allan's bolt left his weapon, Destini leapt to her feet and ran. She counted the paces in her head as she went: one, two, three, four, five ...

Allan would be behind her. Surely, Elias would not risk dangering himself once he realized they were as armed as he was.

...eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen...

Elias. How had he found them? They had avoided Liverpool to avoid him.

...nineteen, twenty, twenty-one ...

It had been a trap. The raven stealing the deacon's medalion. London. They never would have seen London was on fire if they hadn't traveled on the eastern road.

... twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one ...

Her heart was thundering from the sudden exertion. Her breath came in gasps. She was not a raw sprinter.

...thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven ...

She called upon her vocal training and breathed as if she were performing. In through the nose, hold for a moment, out through the mouth. Her heart rate slowed slightly. She sped up her pace.

... forty-one, forty-two, forty-three ...

Almost there. She guaged the distance she would cover at fifty paces. What was there? What could she hide behind?

... forty-six, forty-seven ...

There! A large tree had been overturned by some past storm. Its roots were pulled from the ground. The perfect place to hide.

... forty-nine, fifty!

She hid behind the exposed roots of the tree and resisted the urge to look about to see what had become of Allan.
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