Chapter 2: The Green Hills of Marraketh

"Then I could believe that I'm bound to find
 A better life than I left behind."
             --Elvis Costello/Paddy Moloney, "Long Journey Home"

Remmick Merkin, the newly named Captain of the Guard, strode into the Grey
Horse.  He noticed the bartender flinching and preparing to pull out the
proper permits.  He put up a hand.  "I'm here to partake of this fine
establishment, not bust it.  I'm still the Remmick you all know in the long
days and weeks of the resistance.  Now, Tarish," he pointed to the bartender,
"put away those silly permits and get me a bottle of your finest ale."

The bartender quickly put his permits away and went to fill Remmick's order.
Remmick sighed.  He'd been named Captain of the Guard only a week ago, the
second ever in Marraketh's history.  The first had been Mikje Mrythen, who now
sat on the throne of Marraketh as King Mikje the First.  He hadn't wanted the
job, but he'd had the fairly dangerous job of leading the Marraketh Resistance
against the Master, and Mikje had wanted to reward him.  Besides, who else
should get it?  Tyrene, who'd been under the Master's spell for twenty-eight
years, or Grahm, who was just too quiet, and hadn't been a part of the Guard for
all that long before the Master's invasion?

A hand went up at a table.  "Remmick!" called a voice.  Remmick looked up to
see who it was, and was greeted by the sight of Rene Ewerte, the librarian and
archivist at the University of Rhye.  Remmick forced the scowl off his face and
went to join him.

Rene grinned and shook his hand when he got to the table.  "Congratulations on
your promotion."

"A promotion I didn't want."

"Mikje's footsteps a bit hard to follow?  I don't blame you, I wouldn't want to
be Captain of the Guard meself.  Now, sit, sit...I know you ordered already,
'tis hard for the Captain himself to do anything without notice.  Except at the
Grey Horse.  People here were conditioned by twenty-eight years of resistance
work out of this very bar, and learn to ignore anything."

Remmick grinned at Rene's wordiness.  He'd missed the librarian's constant
chatter.  "And how did the Chi-Lin officials put up with you for twenty-eight
years?"

Rene tilted his head.  "They had to.  I was a refugee.  Now, come, Remmick, you
didn't come to talk plesantries.  You called me here for a reason.  What's up?
I have a library to tend to, y'know."

"We'll have to wait for Tyrene and Grahm.  Tyrene is more important..."

"Then we must be discussing Tjarlin, no?"

"It is odd to use that name again after so many years."

"Indeed.  It is hard to believe that it's been long enough for her to grow up.
Hard to believe the Master was able to control Marraketh for that long."  Rene
sighed.  "Nearly thirty years.  What do we have to show for it?"

"If we're right, the Liberator."

Remmick and Rene both jumped.  Sitting in a chair at the table was Grahm
Valkurk.  Remmick shuddered involuntarily at his sudden appearance, and
wondered exactly what Mikje had seen in him so long ago.  Grahm was the only
one of the higherups in the Guard who hadn't seemed to age a bit in the twenty-
eight interviening years.  Both Remmick and Tyrene had streaks of grey in their
hair, and Rene had lost a lot off the top.  But Grahm still looked like he was
in his late twenties.  [Damn Mikje for taking him on and not explaining to
anyone why he was so weird.]

He started to respond to Grahm, but Rene had beat him to it.  "Perhaps.  The
evidence seems to match.  But we really need Tyrene here to make the decision
on whether to confirm it."

"Confirmation involves bringing the Liberator home, correct?"

"Grahm, I really wish you wouldn't say that yet," said Remmick.  "In fact, I
order you not to say that where others can hear it."

Grahm shrugged.  "If you order me not to tell the whole truth, I will obey,
sir.  But I will not lie to myself.  Speaking of which, you were waiting for
Tyrene.  He's here."

Remmick looked up to see the door to the Grey Horse go flying open and Tyrene
Katze come flying through it.  He carried a few books.  Remmick watched him
weave through the crowd.  "Sorry I'm late," he said.  "Mikje keeps his Court
Philosopher busier than either Tarin or Warhm did."

"Busier than the Master did?" said Rene, winking.

"I don't know.  I can't completely recall that period of my life.  Too fuzzy
and revolting."

"Thank Kyrell for Tjarlin," Grahm said, without a hint of irony.

Tyrene grinned.  "Thank Tirrasan.  I'm the one that got her out in the first
place."

"Yeah, yeah, but it got you a one way trip to enslavement."

"Do I look enslaved to you?"

"Thank Kyrell for Tjarlin."

"Alright, you two, break it off."  Remmick looked at Tyrene and nodded.
"Indeed, we're here to discuss Tjarlin.  For reasons you all understand, Tyrene
placed his daughter outside the reach of the Master, who at that time was
plauging Marraketh for reasons unknown.  Because of this, the liberation of
Marraketh occured at the prophesized time, that is, almost twenty-eight years to
the date of the Master's takeover."

"Of all the things we call Marken Yuvall, the one thing he wasn't was a fool,"
Rene pointed out.  "Yes, he's remembered as probably the greatest traitor
Marraketh had before the master's takeover...but his prophecies...just
amazing."

Tyrene nodded.  "Mikje has always worried about what happened to Marken.  I
think it was because he was so accurate with his prophicies.  I've been
walking over them with a finetoothed comb with Rene since I know both where
the Katze and the Mrythen families come from..."

"I told you she was the Liberator," Grahm said quietly.

"Well...the prophecies match fairly well.  I mean, the prophecy calls for
somebody who is half D'wani and half of the race of the Ancients; born as the
Master strove to prove his breaking point...let me check the wording of
this..."  Rene dug through papers on the table.  "Ah ha.  Here we are.  'Not
of pure D'wani nor of the Eldest/  Mixing, taking on in equal parts both races
finest/ The child be born in the time of the feast/ Under the looming shadow
of the purple beast.'"

Tyrene blinked.  "The time of the feast?  Might that be the feast of the
Joining?  Tjarlin was born just before the height of the Joining.  And well, I
don't think it's a surprise that the Mrythens pride themselves on being pure
D'wani...I'm sure you've all heard Mikje crow about it.  He very nearly didn't
let me marry Horetia because I *wasn't* D'wani."

Grahm nodded.  "I take it that you are pure Kiratyu?  Do the Katzes hail
from the Rhye Republic?"

"My family can trace its origins back to Grem, the silent Ancient, and one of
the three founders of the Rhye Republic.  Good enough for you?"

"Yes...but that prophecy could fit a lot of people, couldn't it?"  Remmick
asked.

"Not statistically likely," said Tyrene. "There's been a lot of inbreeding
between the two races, especially since the death of Dewpoint.  But it
shouldn't be too hard to determine.  I mean, it should simply mean taking a
look around the various feasts of the years in which the Master's spectre
haunted Marraketh."

"The problem is, we don't have records of the time," Rene pointed out.  "The
last records we have are those right up until the burning of the Library.  It
all depends on how you define looming.  For all we know, the Liberator was
born in the middle of the years in which the Master ruled this land."

"So all we have in arguements for Tjarlin Katze as the supposed Liberator are
tenuous strands of prophecy?" Remmick asked.

Two heads at the table bobbed in agreement.  Remmick looked at the one figure
that was shaking his head no.  "Grahm...I won't bother asking you to explain
why you are convinced that Tjarlin is the Liberator.  However, I am going to
ask how you plan to prove it to a skeptic."

"Very simply.  The prophecy states that the Liberator will hold a debate with
the gods on the edge of the feared sea.  He or she will then make a report to
the king and the court about the direction in which Marraketh should head
under their watch.  If Tjarlin Katze is the Liberator, she will find herself
drawn to the sea, a sea that Marrakethians fear to the bottom of their souls.
But she must find herself in Marraketh before she will be called to the sea.
Besides, it is time that Tjarlin returned to Marraketh not as a prisoner, but
as a citizen.  To meet her father who gave her up for the love of his country.
To meet the grandfather that kept the resistance alive elsewhere.  And to meet
old friends..."  Grahm pulled the cap off of his head, and made a slight bow
towards Remmick, "...who once risked their life to make sure that a small
piece of the Marraketh we loved would not vanish from the face of this green
land."

"Alright Grahm, you win.  Go fetch Tjarlin and return her home.  And we shall
see."

Remmick then eyed the bottle of ale.  "Meeting is over; anybody want some ale?"

***

The trip was less disorienting this time, Katze thought to herself, as she
opened her eyes to a rock wall as opposed to the brick and mortar one she had
been looking at prior to the hop.  At least, this time, she hadn't completely
blacked out for the trip.

And it was quite a trip.  It was only a few seconds, perhaps, but it felt at
first like a fall through nothingness, almost like the times one dove into the
water and found freezing cold water just below the surface, and it was all one
could do to keep holding one's breath.  And just as that happened, there was a
soft jolt and the realization that the trip was over, that this was Marraketh,
and she was a citizen, not a prisoner.

Yet, there was a small tickle at the back of her mind that there was something
wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on it.  She frowned.

There was a small *poof* and Grahm appeared, still clutching his staff like a
good luck charm.  "I trust it went well?"  he asked upon seeing her.  "You're
frowning.  Is there anything wrong?"

Katze tried to ignore the tickle and smiled.  "Everything's fine.  This trip
was a lot smoother than the last one."

"Good, good.  There is much to do and much to see.  If we hurry, we may still
be able to catch Captain Merkin at the Grey Horse."

"Remmick?"

"Yes."

"Then, let's go!"

Grahm nodded, and turned the corner.  Katze followed him and looked up at the
sign above the door.  It was stained wood and rather new, with a picture of a
horse running, and the words "The Grey Horse" stenciled carefully.  Katze was
awfully surprised to see the sign in English, and then looked again.  It was in
standard Marrakethian...so why had she mistook it for the wrong language?
Weird things were going on here.

But Grahm had not hesitated and had entered.  Katze took a deep breath and
pushed open the wood door, noticing the worn polished look of the thousands who
must have entered before her.  History was weighing on her shoulders in a way
it never had on Earth -- on Earth, history stayed out of the way, in the books,
where it belonged.

The door pushed open, and she stepped in.  It was as if the whole room had gone
silent, and most of the faces turned to her.  At a table in the back of the
room, she spied Grahm talking animatedly to a Remmick dressed uncomfortably in
a jet black uniform with insignia she couldn't place and the armband of the
Frontier Guard (in the right colors), a bald chipper man whom she had never
met, and a face that looked eerily like the one she stared at in the mirror
every morning.  [If there was ever any denial that you're a Marrakethian, it's
gone now,] she thought to herself, and made her way over to the table.

Grahm smiled his quiet smile at her.  "Tjarlin.  I'd like to welcome you to the
conspirator's table.  You know Remmick, the cheerful guy is Rene Ewerte,
curator of the Rhye University library, and that is your father, Tyrene Katze."

Tyrene stood and looked at her, and Katze got the eerie feeling of looking in a
mirror again, as he studied her.  And then he wrapped his arms around her, with
a hug.  "Tjarlin...Tjarlin...if only your mother were here to see you.  I'm
sure she would be as proud as I am."

Maybe she was home again.  Just maybe.

***

It was hard to adjust to being back in Marraketh, and getting to know the
father she didn't know she had.  It was doubly tricky with the incident with
David being so fresh in her mind.  But Tyrene was nice enough to talk of the
days before the beast, and all the destruction he had seen.  And she was
beginning to see the outlines of the old man who had once watched over her.

She finally got up enough nerve to ask him.  He smiled, a quiet smile Katze
recognized.  "Indeed.  Although it wasn't my doing.  I watched you carefully,
while the shell here went through the motions for the Master."

"And you weren't upset?"

"No, you did wonderful.  I could never be upset with you.  Especially since
you've grown to resemble your mother."

"But I look like you.  I swear, I felt I was looking in the mirror."

Tyrene walked over to a small trunk, and unlocked it.  "I don't know why the
Beast let me keep it.  Maybe because it had no meaning to me any more."  He
pulled a small painting out of the trunk.  Without a word, he passed it to
Katze, and then turned her towards a mirror.  Katze stared at the painting, and
then at the mirror, and was shocked at the resemblance.

"Everybody always accused us of being brother and sister," Tyrene said quietly
behind her.  "But I think your slight resemblance falls more to your mother
than to me.  Your father is a humble philosopher and mathematician, your mother
was a poet and a creator...and you are the product of that mix.  You are
already something special."

Katze continued staring into the mirror, seeing the pensive frown spread over
his face.  Something else was going on here, but she couldn't see where it was
going.  So to assuage him, she turned around, hugged him, and said, "Thank you,
Father...for standing by me even when you couldn't."

***

The library windows sparkled in the mid-afternoon sun.  Dust motes hovered in
the air as Rene Ewerte deftly wove his way between them.  He carefully picked
up some books off tables where careless undergraduates had scattered them, and
walked them to their proper shelves before continuing on with his first duty --
helping a lost patron.

Katze, the lost patron, admired his loving touch of the books, and his deft
handling.  The detour to shelf the books had taken no time at all, and he had
even managed to accumulate a couple books while he was weaving his way through
the shelves.  [A skill most Earth librarians would kill for,] Katze thought.
[But then again, the best already have it.]

But Rene was muttering to himself again.  "Lesse.  I'm gonna let you into the
vault, I've got a couple good books on Marrakethian mythology here, and of
course, Marken Yuvall's _Prophecium_ and Grem and Kyrill's letters on the
unification, and there's a few of Grem's books that probe a bit deeper into the
Rhye Republic.  I don't know how copies of them got to Chi-Lin, but I should be
grateful they did."

Katze nodded and stared at a couple of the heavy books the librarian was
juggling.  She looked around the library as Rene juggled a few more books.
Most of the shelves were bare, and the words of her father's prison journal
weighed heavily on her mind.  Rene added a couple more books to the pile, and
looked at the book on the top.  "Ahh, you know _Prophecium_ is a best seller in
Chi-Lin?  Funny for a book that deals primarily with Marraketh."

He carried the books past a bored security guard and into a well lit and
heavily armoured room.  He set the books down at a study nook.  "They say this
is the study nook Tyrone Grehnich used," he said.

"Tyrone Grehnich?" Katze asked, confused.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you have no Marrakethian history background.  The first
king of Marraketh.  You'll read more about him.  Anyway, let me go through this
stack of books.  For starters..." He handed her a book.  "A history of
Marraketh.  I'm rather proud of this one; I wrote it."  He smiled.  "It's the
closest you're going to come to an overview of the subject, it was my project
I chose when I first became a librarian here.  Updated copy.  The last chapter
has to do with you and your merry band."

Katze nodded.  [Damn, I don't know the history, and I already am history.]

Rene continued.  "The next things that are good to read are this intro to the
Marrakethian belief system.  There's some pretty strange beliefs here, this
should provide a decent explanation.  And a lot of _Prophecium_ depends on you
being familiar with the primary figures..."

He started rattling on, and Katze held up a hand.  "I'll find out when I read
them.  I know a bit about skimming, and I think I can skim just as well in
Marrakethian as in English."

Rene grinned.  "Indeed.  I'll be here if you need anything from the vault or
have any questions."

Katze nodded, and turned herself to the pile of books in front of her.  As she
flipped to the first page of Rene's book, she caught the librarian watching
her.  She turned back to the book, attempting to concentrate on this material.

Days passed at this pursuit, and the stack of books kept growing ever higher as
Rene kept adding to them.  Katze would eye _Prophecium_ in envy, and turn to
another book.  For some reason, as much as she wanted to read it, she could
not.  It was a minor problem though. A much more horrifying thought was working
its way into her mind as she investigated the Code of Ethics.

A frown crossed her face.  Maybe it was a coincidence that the three major
events in Marrakethian history shared a common date.  But the tsunami had
ripped through Dewpoint, and the Master had completed his takeover of Marraketh
on the same day -- the eve of the Feast of the Joining.

What was it about the feast of the Joining that was so important?  And why were
there two attempts to destroy Marraketh at what should be the happiest time --
a celebration of its founding?  What power was attempting to break Marraketh?
The more she read, and talked it over with Rene, she found out two things.
Gods were real here, and they liked to interfere with the plans of mortals.
Interestingly enough, the only gods that really concerned themselves with
Marraketh were the D'wani gods: Tirrasan, The Man Across the Sea, the Founder of
the Race; and Kyrill Hrdek, greatest of the D'wani Empresses and She Who Will
Rule Again. There was a second set of gods above these ones, but there was
frightfully little about them.  Luckily, they didn't seem to concern themselves
with Marraketh much.

Interestingly enough, the Ancients had gods, but they didn't seem to interfere
with their worshipers.  Hero worship was often practiced by the ancients, and
she smiled as she came across Yrulin, Hyuke and Grem in her readings.  But
apperantly the D'wani gods were real, if she was to believe the reports of them
interfering at opportune times...and she couldn't shake her own religious
experience.  Going with the Berkeley Agnosticism was no longer an option.

And the conclusion she was coming about gods and the Code spooked even her.

***

Katze sat in the garden on the castle grounds, thinking about all the
Marrakethian history she had absorbed in the last week.  Most of it had
been Rene's book, and Rene had taken an awful lot of time to explain to her the
parts that became confusing.  He also talked at length about Chi-Lin and what
an interesting place it had been to live.  Katze wasn't so sure at some of his
descriptions if it was really all that nice of a place, but it was interesting
to get both the Marrakethian and Chi-Linian histories.

She had been puzzled by some pieces of the history, though.  Like, if it were
true that the D'wani believed that Tirrasan controlled the sea, then why did
they still continue to worship him despite the overwhelming evidence that their
god had betrayed them?  Katze was puzzled.  She'd asked the question to Rene,
who had thought about it for a second and then said "Faith is a mysterious
thing."

She liked the balding librarian.  He always knew the right book, he knew his
way around his library, and he talked of its almost-destruction with pain
written on his face.  Anybody who felt as strongly about books as they did
about people was a friend of hers, Katze decided.  The other thing she liked
about him is that he agreed to call her simply Katze.  Not the lady Katze, not
Tjarlin, but Katze.  Just as she got called at home.  Him and Grahm were the
only ones that had agreed to the request.  Remmick still called her the lady
Katze, and Tyrene and most other Marrakethians insisted on calling her Tjarlin.

She knew Tjarlin was her given name, at least in this land, but it annoyed her.
It was always as if they were referring to somebody else.  And with the whole
thing about it being concealed for her until recently, it seemed that
unrealistic expectations were attached to that name.  Tjarlin Katze, daughter
of Tyrene, descendant of the King himself...god, couldn't the people in this
place get a life instead of being so concerned about one little action she had
done?

Katze sighed.  And it wasn't like anybody understood, either.  Grahm muttered
something about prophecy when she talked to him about it, but didn't care to
explain; Rene at least listened sympathetically, but really couldn't figure out
a solution; and Tyrene...

Her relationship with Tyrene had been interesting thus far, and that's all she
wanted to think about that.  The words David had screamed at her still rung in
her ears, and she was afraid it was getting in the way.  But she didn't know
how to bring it up to him, afraid that any words may hurt his feelings.

"Is this seat taken?"

Katze looked up from all her thinking to see an older man standing next to the
bench.  Her first thought was "Professor Schmidt," but she then remembered that
wasn't his real name.  She then saw Remmick hovering in the background, and put
two and two together.  She smiled.  "Not at all.  You must be Mikje, but
forgive me if I refer to you as Professor Schmidt."

"For fifteen Earth years I was referred to as that, so it will probably be
answered. And you must be the infamous Tjarlin Mrythen Katze."

"Katze, please."

Mikje nodded.  "Indeed.  You are probably used to that name over this one.
Just as I am used to being referred to as Captain, and not King."

Katze sat quietly.  Mikje looked at her and continued.  "Rene informs me that
you are doing a lot of studying of Marrakethian history."

Katze nodded and looked at Remmick standing uncomfortably, trying to be as
inconspicuous as possible.  She felt sorry for the guy.  "Yeah.  Trying to
understand where I'm from, American history doesn't help me understand this
place."  She grinned at that response.

Mikje laughed.  "And Rene is trying to get you to his level in two weeks or
less?"  Katze watched him, without taking his eyes off her, make a funny
gesture in Remmick's direction.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Remmick
leave.  "Anyway, if you need any help, you know you can ask somebody who's seen
a bunch of it."

"How did that happen, anyway?" Katze asked.  "You living so long, I mean."

Mikje took his gaze off her and stared up at the sky.  "I don't know.  If I
knew, I wouldn't have to defend myself from accusations I fell in league with
Marken Yuvall."  He glanced back in the direction where Remmick had been.  "I
didn't align myself with him.  I only met him once in my life."

Katze looked at the pensive face and the sudden realization of what history can
do to you.  She flashed back to an entry she had come across in her research, a
small notation at the end of Marraketh's population book.  In careful print,
the notation gave a string of numbers, which Katze presumed was the date, and
then following that, "Tjarlin Mrythen Katze Rhyemu, Tyrene Kadan Katze Rhyemuyu
ak Horetia Mrythen Katze Rhyemuyu d'wande ak kirat d'wan."

[My place is here, and his place is here.  The exile he suffered willingly was
the same one that I'm trying to come to grasps with.]  She looked into the
face and saw the soft gray hair, the wrinkling face...and steel-blue eyes that
had seen much in their years.  "Indeed.  You'll have to excuse me if I admit
that name is only a name in the history books, and I don't really understand
his great crime."

She watched a stormcloud of anger cross his face, and him struggle briefly to
get it under control.  He finally composed himself.  "Marken Yuvall was a
traitor.  A rogue agent of K'lin who attempted to destroy the high-minded
ideals of the Code of Ethics.  It was lucky we were able to exile him when we
did, or Marraketh would be no more than a province of barbarous, uncivilized
K'lin.  As it is, he nearly destroyed us."

Katze nodded.  "And he believed in the legends surrounding Kyrill?"

"Yes.  Everybody knows that the Old Man Across the Sea is the founder and
protector of the D'wani Race.  He came to the Takatyu as a god, and forgave the
man who tried to kill him, and then molded that tribe into the D'wani, the
chosen ones -- his children.  Kyrill was a genius, yes, but so was Grem.  And
they were both mortal.  They're long dead.  This 'she who will rule again' is
just wishful thinking on the parts of traitors and fools!"

Katze tried not to frown and decided to keep her private musings from herself.
But Mikje looked up.  "Ahh, good Remmick.  Thank you."

She followed his gaze to find Remmick pushing a wheelchair, probably salvaged
from Earth by the way it clashed with the rest of the decor.  Stainless steel
just didn't go with the whole medieval motif.  She swept her eyes upward, to
see who Mikje wanted her to meet, and found herself staring into a familiar
pair of eyes.  Her jaw dropped, and her gaze dropped to his hands, where she
got a second shock -- a bouquet of golden poppies.

"It isn't illegal to pick poppies in Marraketh.  They're all over the place."
said the man in the wheelchair.

Katze shook her head to clear it, and then gave the man in the wheelchair a
huge hug.  "Josh!" she said, in obvious pleasure.  "You're not dead!"

"Thank your friends -- the tall one with the weird eyes and the short one who
carries a keyboard around.  Did I mention you have odd friends?  Anyway, they
patched me up as best they could, and then a couple people found me and got me
first class medical care back home.  Which is where I'll be allowed to stay any
day now."

Katze smiled.  "Good, good.  Your room is still open.  And Greg was asking
about you.  He knows about this place."

"Really?"

The two fell so deeply into conversation, that they didn't notice Mikje and
Remmick walking away together to leave the two of them alone.

***

"Rene?"

"Yes?"

Katze stabbed a finger in the Ledger of Marraketh.  "Can you explain date
formats to me?"

Rene walked behind her and stared at the entry.  "What, trying to figure out
your birthdate?"

Katze let a sheepish grin cross her face and nodded.  Rene looked a little
closer at the date.  "Ahhh...hmmm, lets see here.  The first seven numbers are
the date, the second four are the time.  You'll have to pardon us, we have
crude methods here, and only record to the minute."

Katze nodded.  "Even with the technological advances on Earth, they didn't
bother to be that accurate."

Rene smiled.  "The K'linmu do tend to be anal about accuracy, I noticed...
anyway... that date is ten days into the month of Agamon in the year 534.  The
next month is D'Kta.  It used to have another name, but since the Joining, the
month has been D'Kta. Roughly translated it would be "Into One", but Kta is an
ambigouous word in Marrakethian. The feast of the Joining occurs on the first
day of D'Kta and continues through to the fifth day."

Katze nodded.  Rene continued.  "Agamon is a word that means Fracture.  It is
generally considered a bad month to go to war or complete a deal.  Which is why
the folks involved in the Joining held out until the first day of the new
month.  But the month has not only negative portents."

"Because, in D'wani, the word Agamon also means Journey."

"Indeed.  In specific, the Journey from their homeland.  Often used in the
sense of Exile.  The Ancients picked up the word to describe their disagreement
with the tribe that would later become known as Chi-Lin.  But an exile is filled
with bitterness, disappointment, and hope.  It is fitting the Master chose to
scatter us to the wind on the last day of Agamon."

"And what day is it now?"

"It's the middle of the month of D'Kta.  The...well, Remmick says you arrived
on the tenth day of Agamon, which is your birthdate.  I don't think that was
coincidental...and it is on the eve of the Feast of the Joining.  Roughly two
weeks prior to it..."

Rene went silent.  Katze watched him stand there, nearly stricken with what he
had said.  Finally he managed to choke out an "Excuse me," and left the
situation.

Katze sat down at the table where she had been working and stared at the
notation in the book.  This was her past, this should have been her country,
but by evil deeds she had her own personal agamon, her own exile.  She quietly
whispered, "I do not hope to hope again..." and reached out for the copy of
_Prophecium_.

Only to have it snatched by another hand before she could grab it.

She looked up, annoyed.  "I was gonna read...oh, hello, Grahm."

He stood there with the same bland look he'd always had, but with more motion
in his eyes than Katze had seen before.  "The answer lies in Dewpoint," he said.

"Dewpoint?  But wasn't Dewpoint destroyed?"

"Yes and no.  The city itself was destroyed.  The warrens underneath the city
were not.  The waters receeded before the flooding became a problem."

"But nobody lives in Dewpoint.  What about the sea-fear?"

"The Society of Mages lives there.  They do not have much contact with the sea,
and they have learned how best to ignore it, or at least make it so the sea
fears them as much as they fear the sea."

"Sounds interesting.  There's not much in Rhye for me beyond these dusty books."

Grahm simply nodded.  "There is much that awaits in Dewpoint.  Besides, Kendren
has requested your presence."

Katze stared at the shelf of books, ran her thoughts through the last two
weeks. She moved her gaze to her hands, and the sight of chains on them ran
through her head.  She looked up at Grahm.  "The answer lies in Dewpoint, no?"

As Grahm and Katze walked out of the library, Rene watched them, recalling a
reference book on cults in Chi-Lin he had read while he was there, and he
wondered why the name Grahm used sounded so familiar.  "It couldn't be..." he
whispered, and pulled out a piece of paper upon which to write his colleague at
the Chi-Lin library.

***

Rene ran into the small conference room.  Mikje looked up from his discussion
with Tyrene and Remmick, and eyed the librarian.

"I'm sorry," Rene said between gasps of breath.  "I got a letter from Chi-Lin
this afternoon, I've been trying to corrolate it to the files I have.  Has
Katze left yet?"

"She left with Grahm this afternoon.  Shall I send a party after them?" Remmick
said, pushing the chair out from under him.

"No time.  Pray that Grahm was right."

"What's going on, Rene?" Mikje asked.

"I got a letter from Chi-Lin, the librarian I worked for there.  He and I spent
a lot of time over the last twenty years going over the stuff from the vault.
Anyway, I wrote him to find out what happened to Marken Yuvall..."

"And?" Mikje asked, looking suddenly very pale.

"He didn't die, Mikje.  We've been believing all these years that he was dead,
but he's not.  It's...complicated.  He told his followers that he will return
with the Liberator in the advance guard for Kyrill.  And then nobody knows what
will happen to him.  He will have been in place to lead the Liberator to the
sea..."

Tyrene looked up from the paperwork he was examining.  "Tjarlin said something
about Grahm and her going to Marsanyew.   It was a passing comment, I didn't
think much of it...but..."

Rene looked pained.  "Then we'd better hope like hell that Katze is the
Liberator of Marraketh, for if she is not, Tirrasan will wipe Marraketh off the
map."

Mikje shook his head.  "That's impossible.  Atirrasan would do no such thing.
He loves Marraketh."

"Dammit, Mikje, you've seen the truth before.  You know damn well it will be
one of your descendants.  That's what I was corrolating, I was looking for the
transcript of Marken's arrest interrogation.  The one in which he said,
'Somebody in this room will meet me when the Liberator returns.  And he will be
surprised.'  I went through that interrogation record, Mikje.  You are the
only one that's still alive."

Remmick listened to the exchange of words between Mikje and Rene.  "Rene...if
you can't back that up, right now, I will have to arrest you and charge you
with verbal assult of the King."

Rene slumped into a chair.  "I cannot, Remmick.  Not beyond the tenuous strands
of prophecy and that arrest record."  He reached into the bag, and handed it to
Remmick.  "The thing is, there was one other thing my friend from Chi-Lin sent
me.  It's their file on Marken Yuvall...aka Grahm Valkurk."

Utter silence.  Then Mikje exploded.  "That's IMPOSSIBLE.  I checked Grahm's
loyalty to Marraketh."

"The one thing Marken Yuvall never was was a fool.  You know that, Mikje."

"He was a traitor.  And Grahm is no traitor."

"No.  I do not think Grahm was a traitor.  Then again, I am not sure that
Marken was all that much of one either.  And you told me yourself about the
magic Grahm performed to expose Thalin."

"That doesn't prove anything.  If I wanted to, I could prove Tjarlin herself
was Marken Yuvall."

"No, you can't.  Mikje, will you please get past your irrationality on this
subject?  Grahm has not aged a lick in thirty years, Mikje!  Look around you,
is Tyrene still 35?  Is Remmick still 38?  Am I still 46?  We've aged.  Even
you, who somehow have escaped most of the ravages of time, has obviously aged a
bit.  Unless you really did throw your hat in with Marken and are afraid of it
being exposed after all these years."

"Remmick, arrest him."

Tyrene spoke.  "Mikje, you're making a mistake."

"Shut up, Tyrene, before you get thrown in with him.  Remmick, I gave you a
direct order."

Rene stood and held out his arms for Remmick to put the chains on.  "Indeed,
Remmick, we must not ignore an order from His Royal Highness."

Mikje scowled.  Rene smiled at him as Remmick started marching him out of the
room.  Rene spoke carefully, letting Mikje hear his words.  "This is the choice
you make, friend.  The consolation, if you're wrong, we're only going to drown.
Tirrasan will not fail a third time."

***

To be continued in Chapter 3: Lost in the Wilderness