Isabella's mood seemed to darken, as she spoke of her masters. Her shoulders slumped, and she wrapped her arms around herself, as if to ward off some chill; her eyes, once full of twinkling mischief, dimmed as she looked towards the ground. "Follow me," she muttered hoarsely. Without waiting to see if they listened, she spun and began to stride away, her long red dress whispering against the white stone of the catwalk as she moved.

"Wait," Kells snapped, before any of them could begin to walk after her. "I have heard of some strange things in my time. But this..." Exasperated, he waved his arms around the room, at the thick silver roots growing over the walls, at Isabella herself. He seemed to struggle for words, running his gloved hand along the brim of his kettle-helm. "This is madness. You are ten thousand years old...? You dwell in a place of bug-men made of metal...? Who are your masters? What awaits us at their hands?"

Isabella paused at his words, but did not turn around. "Kells," she said, voice balanced on a razor edge between weariness and threat, "This will be much easier on all of us if you do not make me use force to bring you along."

The soldier blanched at that, going paler than usual at the thought of a contest of arms against this - witch, or whatever she was. But he stood his ground. "No," he said firmly, "I must know if I walk into my death. Who are they?"

"They do not allow me to say," Isabella replied, and then she tilted her head to the side, as if listening to something. She turned to gaze back at them, eyes dark and mysterious. "One of them wishes to let you know," she murmured, "That they know of you. Martimeos. That they have been expecting you for some time now."

Martimeos was stunned; his dark green eyes widened in shock. "Expecting me...?" he muttered. "They know of me....?" He felt his mouth go dry. His mind leapt with wild thoughts. He could think of no one that might know of him here, except...except if his brother had somehow ensconced himself as Isabella's master. What she had said earlier did not make it seem as if this were the case, but many of her answers had been cryptic and half-lies. Except who knew if this now was a lie, as well? "Who is it, exactly? Who is it that knows of me?"

"That is all they will let me say." Isabella averted her gaze from him to stare forlornly at the ground once more. "Will you accompany me? Or must I drag you to them?"

Martimeos looked about himself, at those who had followed him here. Kells seemed wary, nervously keeping his hand by his mace, glancing about as if he expected some form of ambush to make good on Isabella's threat at any time. Aela's hands trembled as they strayed towards the bow slung across her back; her wide eyes said she was ready to fight if necessary, but did not expect it to go well. Torc did not meet his gaze; he seemed more ragged than usual, and only had eyes for Aela, as if anything he might do could protect her. And Elyse - Elyse merely shook her head, reaching down to pet Cecil as her familiar curled around her legs, her face wearing a grim frown. She knew as well as he that there was nothing they could do to stop one such as Isabella. Even Flit, usually so brave, twittered in his ear to not be a fool. "We will accompany you," he said reluctantly, "To see your masters. But there must be something you can tell us of them. Are they the ones who built this place?"

Isabella gave a start at that, and Martimeos was surprised to see grief wash over her face. "I....those...." she began, then shook her head, ribbons in her hair fluttering. "Those will always be my true masters." She placed her hand over her heart, in an odd gesture. "But...no. They are long gone."

"Who was it who built this place?" Elyse asked gently. The woman seemed to be in genuine pain.

"The locust-men," Aela murmured quietly. "It were them, weren't et."

"What does it matter," Isabella snapped in response. She lifted her head up sharply to stare daggers at them all. "Always the questions. And never any who make sense of the answers. What does it really matter, in the end? Anything I could tell you of them, you would not understand. To even explain the smallest fraction of what they were, I'd need to use a tongue ten thousand years dead. All you need to know is they are not who I serve now. Cease your delay."

Martimeos found himself torn. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought that his brother might be one of Isabella's masters. But all of this - so much of what he had seen had fed the flame of his curiousity and set it into an inferno. A fragment of the Art? Locust-men made of metal? What might it all mean - what other wonders might this place hold? He simply had to know something about it. "Surely," he said, "Surely you can tell us something of them. How...how did they...."

"You really wish to know? You wish to know who my masters were? You wish to know what happened to them?" Isabella interrupted him, stepping forward, eyes blazing. "Fine. If it will make you come along quietly, listen well."

And then she did something strange. She placed both her hands over her heart, and lifted her face up to the ceiling, and sang.

She sang in a tongue none of them had heard before, but which nonetheless seemed strangely familiar; her voice high and sweet, and in tune with the golden glow of the pool in the center in the room, pulsing and fading. Martim realized, too late, that the Art was woven in with her words, before fantastic images filled his mind.

He saw the fluttering of a dozen, a hundred, a thousand brightly-colored flags, all swirling together in a magnificent whirlpool of color; he saw magnificent cities with towers that seemed forged of delicate glass, higher than any building ever had a right to be; he saw rippling fields of golden grain, harvests more bountiful than he could have ever possibly imagined. He heard the laughter of children, the sobs of the bereaved, the endless babble of countless folk living beautiful, joyous lives. And then the Art itself joined in the chorus, and everything - bloomed. And it was all so grand, so complete. It felt as if it filled a hole within that he had not realized was there; something simply seemed so right about it all, so true.

And though none of it was in a tongue he understood, he could feel their hunger; rising above it all, the one constant note in all the cacophony, and he knew what it meant. We must know, a thousand thousand voices whispered, in a thousand different tongues, we need to know. A great longing, a yearning; a brilliant bright eye that slowly opened in the midst of an endless dark, illuminating all it touched, and as Isabella's voice wove through it all, Martimeos understood that she was singing a song of the deepest love.

But soon her song grew bittersweet; and like a spreading burn, from ash touched to paper, black holes opened in all the swirl of color and incomprehensible images. Small at first, they grew and grew, consuming all of the awful and wondrous beauty. Every light dimmed, and the countless voices cried out in horror and panic before being silenced, and Martimeos could not help but feel such an immense sense of loss that it felt as if his very soul were being torn in two, something lost that he could not even understand but knew was more precious than life itself, and he fell into the spreading darkness, down impossible, countless miles, collapsing into them along with everything else consumed and ruined and fallen, and found -

Nothing. Nothing but the darkness of his own closed eyes.

Martimeos lifted his head. He found himself on the cold stone floor, being held up by Kells and Aela, who looked at him with eyes full of concern, while Elyse held a cool hand to his forehead and muttered curses beneath her breath. "Wizard," she said, as he looked at her in confusion, "If you are unharmed, you'd best say something to me right now."

Martimeos shook his head as the dreamlike images faded from his mind, trying to clear it of fog. "I - did - did you not see yourselves-" he gasped, breathlessly. His hands trembled, and he felt - hollow. The sense of loss still clung to him, the bitter aftertaste of grief so strong that it made his legs feel weak.

"I saw something, wizard," Kells said, relief washing across his face as Martim spoke, "But it sure seemed to hit you the hardest out of all of us." He looked back at Isabella, who stood still some distance from them, her arms by her side now, her face hidden in shadow. "Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me," he muttered. With a grunt, he stood, helping Martimeos to his feet.

"Ah - Ah saw - Ah dinnae how tae say et," Aela said as she helped Kells. She furrowed her brow in confusion as she steadied him. "Ah saw - Ah heard - 'twas like th' night sky. Only all th' stars were talkin' tae each other. Singin' a song." She glanced to her brother. Torc stood to the side of them all, still on his feet, but trembling and looking like he might collapse any moment. She opened her mouth, as if to ask him about it, but then shook her head and looked away. "Singin' a song, 'til one by one, they all went quiet."

"'Twas little more than flashes of color that I saw myself," Elyse grumbled, stepping back once the wizard was steady on his feet. She glared at Isabella. "Nothing I understood."

"And you never will," Isabella said, her voice barely above a whisper. She seemed tired and defeated; her previous liveliness completely drained out of her. She looked as if a massive weight was dragging her down, something that would pull her through the very stone of the floor. But then she sighed wearily and straighened, and tested out a small smile that now seemed strange beneath the sadness in her eyes. "Oh well. All songs end, sometime. Now cease your prattling, and follow me."

And with that, Isabella tossed her hair back and swept away, ribbons fluttering in the breeze from her swift movements. And after a moment's hesistation, they reluctantly followed her.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Isabella's path led them out of the strange, grand room in which they stood, through white stone doorways, and down into the depths. And while the other rooms they had seen thus far had been carved from pure white stone, and bore little mark of the passage of time, it seemed that even here the weight of years did not go unnoticed.

For the halls through which Isabella led them now were rife with decay and debris, though much of it was mysterious and unrecognizable. The strange witch - or whatever Isabella truly was - conjured a sphere of light above her palm to light their path - not unlike, Martimeos noticed, the ones that he and Elyse could summon - and it illuminated a path through great heaps of broken scrap, often stacked so high that they actually walked through a tunnel of ruin, precariously fused together and held steady by ancient rust. There was so much that they simply did not recognize; great beams and pillars of metal stacked haphazardly against each other, humongous barrels of iron covered in strange symbols - and here and there amongst the scrap, startling them whenever they leapt out of the darkness, were the broken pieces of locust-men. A hand there, or a head with its black, gleaming eyes shining in the dark. Their boots crunched over broken glass; they walked past great spools of black rope filled with metal, ends ragged and torn.

"I apologize for the mess," Isabella told them, as they picked their way through tunnels packed so tightly with refuse that they had to squeeze through them, the packs on their backs getting snagged and torn on sharp protrusions of ancient metal. She herself walked confidently through the tunnels, seeming not at all concerned about the jagged metal that might tear her skin should she slip slightly. "I...tried to preserve everything, at first. I had more helpers, once. But everything fades away, eventually. I resigned myself to taking care of the important things."

But besides this, Isabella seemed done answering their questionsl; she refused to even acknowledge anything asked of her. Instead, she had questions of her own that she badgered them incessantly with. Odd ones, too, and ones they were not always certain how to answer. At what age, she wanted to know, did the typical woman first give birth? At what age did witches and wizards typically begin to work with the Art? Did most folk live beneath monarchies, or republics, or some other form of government?

And even odder ones besides this. Had they, she asked, ever heard of any countries that did not exist? What was history like? How easily could Outsiders make their way into the world? Did any of them have vivid memories of someone they knew - family, lover, friend - who actually wasn't real? History had always been a tangled mess of half-lies and stories, to Martimeos, but that last question he found truly strange. Was the woman asking if they were mad?

They answered her questions as best they could, as she led them downward, ever downward, through rust and ruin. Though when it became apaprent that she would not answer any more of their questions, her words faded into a dull murmur in Martim's mind, and even the strange scraps of mysterious artifacts that surrounded them could not hold his attention.

For as they stepped over broken glass and dust, as they walked down into the dark, he could not take his mind off of what Isabella had said. One of her masters was expecting him. One of her masters knew of him.

He dared not lift his hopes too high, but he could not think of anyone it might be except his brother. And it would make a certain sense. What wizard would not be fascinated by this place, and linger here? A story took shape in his mind. His brother had come here with Hadley, drawn in by curiousity and the Art. Hadley, unfortunately, had been cursed by...by something. And then, Martim supposed...his brother had remained here, looking for a way to restore Hadley, too ashamed to return home until his friend had been saved. It all made so much sense. It explained so much. You could be wrong, he tried to remind himself, but he could not stop the feverish feeling that overtook him, or the butterflies in his stomach. He fiddled anxiously with his scarf, and stumbled so often that Flit twittered in annoyance and fluttered off to ride on Elyse's hat, instead of his shoulder. You could be wrong.

Eventually, after what seemed like an unbearable amout of time walking, the clutter of wrecked debris about them slowly dwindled. The halls here were bare; empty and dark, lonely. And here, Isabella led them into a chamber that was vast, far too large for both her glamour-flame and Elyse's combined to illuminate it all, the walls and ceiling stretching off into the darkeness.

And most curiously, the chamber was full of flowers. Flowers that grew despite the total lack of sunlught here, grew among a floor of dirt and rocks, fashioned almost like an idyllic garden path. Brilliant red roses climbed the walls. Vibrant sunflowers, as tall as they were, loomed out of the darkness. Waves of purple and blue larkpur surrounded them, and the perfume of it all was sweet; it made Martim think of summer, despite the darkness. It made him think of home.

Isabella led them through the flowers, her red dress whispering as it dragged over them, until they arrived at a strange little clearing of trodden, beaten earth. And at the center of the clearing lay a sphere of crystal, glittering and sparking, perhaps three feet wide; on a base of gold wrought in the shape of trundling beetles, holding it up. And before the crystal ball lay a small, blackened pit of old wood, like the remains of a small campfire.

"Here we are," she said softly, straightening out her dress. "Wait a moment, and my masters will meet you here." And, without another word, she turned to leave.

"Wait!" Elyse cried, holding up her glamour-flame to catch the retreating backside of the woman before she vanished into shadow. "You are leaving? There is still much I wish to ask you. We will have the chance to speak again, won't we?"

Isabella turned, an odd smile upon her lips, dark eyes twinkling mysteriously, at the edge of shadow. "Perhaps we will meet again," she mused. "But you will be you, and I will not be me." At Elyse's confused frown, she laughed. "I told you, did I not, that you would never understand."

And with a mocking titter, she vanished into shadow.

They stood in the darkness, among the the flowers, bathed in their sweet perfume, the light from Elyse's glamour-flame sparkling against the large crystal sphere. Utter silence greeted them, silence and stillness, with not even a breeze to rustle through the flowers. Elyse gathered in Cecil close to her, holding her glamour-flame high to peer into the darkness. Kells kept a nervous hand on the mace by his belt. Aela and Torc both closed their eyes and stilled their breathing, listening for the slightest of noises. But there was nothing.

And then, from the edge of the dark, came a wicked, rattling laughter, the wheezing hack of a man's final breath. "Hello, Martimeos," said an oddly lyrical voice, like the whisper of the wind over dry bones.

Martimeos knew all at once what Isabella's new masters were. He knew that voice. "No," he whispered, stumbling backwards, his hand going to his sword. He turned to the others, panic gripping his heart. "No - flee -"

But it was far too late.

Shuffling out of the dark, their movements strange and disjointed, came two hunched figures in dirt-stained robes, worn and frayed. They lifted their hoods, and beneath them lay the heads of animals. One had the head of a gigantic snake, its scales mottled green and gray, and the other the head of a grinning fox. And both their fangs and their eyes were made of a gleaming black metal, glittering in the light cast by Elyse's glamour-flame. "It has been some time since last we spoke, my little mageling," the fox-headed one said, its tone mocking, though its mouth did not move.

Dolmecs. And the fox-head one that he had met on the road to Silverfish, what seemed now like so long ago.

Martimeos felt his bones turn to jelly, and he collapsed into a limp heap into the flowers. He heard a woman scream, though he could not tell if it was Aela or Elyse; the room plunged into utter darkness as the witch's glamour-flame went out. He could hear the dry, rattling laughter of the Dolmecs; curses and oaths as the others fell to the ground beside him. He heard Cecil hissing and spitting; he could feel Flit jumping up and down on his back, tweeting in alarm. He tried to force his limbs to move, but it was if they simply did not belong to him anymore; no amount of effort could get him to raise even a finger.

There came a dry rustling, and a mutter in some ugly tongue, and suddenly the light returned; a small, dirty fire that burned in the pit before the crystal sphere, sending black smoke coiling upwards into the shadowed depths of the ceiling. It dimly lit the two Dolmecs who stood above it, leering at them.

While he could not move his limbs, Martimeos could still move his neck. He craned his head around, spitting out the flowers that got caught in his teeth. The light of the weak flame was barely enough to drive away the shadows, but he could see the others, each lying paralyzed as he was upon the ground. They seemed to be uninjured, at least for now, though they stared back at him with wide, panicked eyes. Even Cecil lay motionless upon the ground, mewling agitatedly, and tiny Flit as well, his little cardinal looking sickeningly dead as he lay unmoving among the flowers, though he felt relief to see the tiny plumage of his chest still rising and falling. Please, he thought to himself, please let me not have led them to their deaths.

"So many paths you might have taken," said the fox-head as it stepped forth, black lips peeling back to reveal a lolling, slavering tongue. It chuckled dustily as it slowly took in the fallen, and though its eyes were made of nothing but black stone, they seemed to gleam hungrily. "So many roads you might have walked, Martimeos. And yet, you were successful. So successful, in following your brother's trail."

"What - what es this?" Aela cried, lying prone upon her back, trembling as she stared up at the daemon. She struggled to crane her neck towards Martim, her eyes wide, full of confusion. "This - this creature - knows ye?"

"You did not tell your new companions about me?" The fox-headed Dolmec laughed. "I am insulted. Oh yes, girl, I know your wizard. And your witch as well. Litttle Martimeos and Elyse." The creature's filthy robes whispered as it walked towards them through the flowers, and they seemed to wilt a bit at its touch.

"I - we do not know this creature," Martimeos muttered, his pulse quickening as the Dolmec drew close to him. "I only ever asked it for directions. I would not consort with...."

"Oh, ssssweet little wizard," the snake-headed Dolmec interrupted, voice sibilant and hissing, as it stood by the crystal sphere, gazing into it with something that seemed like dark longing. "I do hope you are not about to insssult my brother while you are in hissss power. It issss thanksss to him that I have not yet ssslain the lot of you. Yet."

"I will not let it trouble me." The fox-headed Dolmec now stood almost directly above Martimeos; its black stone eyes, emotionless and unreadable, seemed to bore into him. "Our wizard may not know it yet. But I think we will become fast friends." It laughed once more, and then lifted its head, snout scenting the air, as it looked out across those fallen before it. "I suppose introductions are in order. You could call us many things. But here, I think, you should call me Key. Yes, that seems appropriate. And my brother -" the creature nodded towards the snake-headed Dolmec, who bared black and wicked fangs - "You should call him Lock. You understand? Of course....I already know all of you. You have bought such interesting new friends along, Martim."

"Leave them be," Martimeos snapped, but the only reply he got was more mocking laughter. The thought of death loomed large in his mind. He had no Dolmec iron with which to barter. He cursed himself; he ought to have considered this. The Bogge-King's blade was made of Dolmec iron, and it would only have made sense that there might be a Dolmec nearby, trying to claim it. He struggled to move his limbs once more, but he might as well have been trying to move stone with thought alone.

The fox-head - Key - simpy snorted at him. Its robes twitched and fluttered as it crept forth to stand over Kells. The soldier was lying, limbs splayed awkwardly, on his back; he stared up at the Dolmec with gray eyes wide and wild. The fox-head extended a long limb of pale-white flesh from the tattered folds of its robes, hand with fingers tipped by long, black nails. "Hello, Liam," it said, as it dragged a claw up Kell's breastplate, "Little orphan Liam. With a frozen heart, full of teeth."

Martimeos heard a small gasp, and whipped his head around. The snake-head Dolmec, Lock, was standing over Elyse, and she trembled as it held a long strand of her dark hair in its hands. "Thissss witch smellssss familiar, brother," it hissed, its tones sibilant, but still strangely rhythmic, as if sung to a tune only it could hear. Its tongue flickered out to nearly touch her face as it stooped over her. "Yessss. I knew your mother well, little Wormroot. I knew her very well." Elyse's eyes bulged; her mouth opened, as if she wished to say something, but she was powerless to speak.

Key had slowly shuffled away from Kells to stand now over Aela. She moaned as it reached out towards her, black-nailed hand aiming to touch her hair. "And this one," it rasped, "Sweet Aela. Precious Aela. Doomed-"

"Dinnae touch her!"

The fox-head paused, and slowly turned. Torc - Martim knew not how - had managed to struggle and lift himself so that he was sitting up. And though the haggard Crosscraw man trembled with fear, his eyes burned with a fierce rage, an echo of the warrior he had once been. "Dinnae touch her," he repeated, snarling, and spat at the creature's feet.

"And you," Key said, turning away from Aela to face the Crosscraw man. "Bold and brave Torc. Childkiller Torc. Wrecked and ruined Torc. I can hear the screams of your sins in your head. Have you ever wondered what torments await you, beyond the veil of death? I know. We know. Oh brave, damned Torc."

Torc's eyes widened as both Lock and Key stared silently at him, with those malevolent, black-stone eyes and fangs of black metal. But he squared his shoulders and glared back at them defiantly. "Ah dinnae fear ye, foul daemons," he replied, straining to stand with legs that would not move.

The Dolmecs cackled wildly at him, and their laughter felt like a hot iron raking through the mind. And yet Martimeos could not help but feel some shame. If Torc could bring himself to spit defiance at these creatures, he thought, then he could as well. "You two," he said, forcing the words out of himself. "You are the masters of this place?"

Lock and Key did not answer him, at first. They shuffled through the flowers, their tattered robes bulging and twitching, as if something beneath them struggled to break free, to stand flanking by the large crystal sphere once more. "A wondrousss treasure, isssn't it," the snake-headed Lock hissed, turning its black eyes towards him. "A little egg, beneath the ssstone, laid ssso long ago. Full of sssecretss." It paused for a moment, and when it spoke again, its tone was full of a dark rage. "Though your brother, little mageling, robbed many of them from me."

My brother did stand in this place, Martimeos thought. So there's that. He had seen so many strange things here - so much he had so many questions about - but this was one that he might get an answer to. His brother, and...and Hadley. He craned his neck to look up at the twin Dolmecs, grinning down at him. "'Twas you," he said quietly. "'Twas you that created the Bogge-King, wasn't it? 'Twas you that cursed Hadley."

Key caressed the crystal sphere, long nails screeching as they trailed down the glass. "Not I," the daemon said, "But it was the work of my brother here." Lock gave a strange, chattering hiss in reply to this.

Aela gave a small cry of outrage. "Wicked things," she said, managing to prop herself upon one shoulder so that she might look at the two daemons. "Wicked! Fer why did ye do et? D'ye jest like death? What did th' Crosscraw ever do tae ye? Ye hae..." Suddenly, she screamed in frustration, her arms trembling as she tried to move them, her bright green eyes lighting up with fury. "Ye've kilt mah people - 'twas ye - ye've damned us-"

"SSSILENCE," Lock roared, baring long fangs, and its howl felt like a knife through the soul. Aela immediate fell quiet, trembling in fear, as the echoes of its shout faded away against the stone walls. "I care nothing for your people," it rasped, rage thick in its voice, as it stepped forward. "And I would have never created your...Bogge-King, had my hand not been forced. I was bound, little fool." It extended one long, pale, dirty arm to point with a black talon at Martimeos. "By hisss brother."

There was a long moment of silence.

"You lie," Martimeos said, shaking his head. "Lies. He would have never damned Hadley like that." He was aware that his voice was growing to a shout, but he didn't care. "He would have never - he would have never cursed his friend like that. You lie."

"A curssse." The snake-head Dolmec's tone was mocking as its tongue flickered out across its fangs. "Your friend did not think it a curssse. He asssked for it. Demanded it."

"You lie with every word," Martim snarled, the fear in him burnt away by white-hot anger. These creatures - these daemons - they had as good as killed Hadley, made him into a monster, and now they told him it was what the man had wanted. But there was a small, quiet voice within him that asked if he had really not suspected this. A tiny voice that he had ignored; that he had buried beneath memories of Hadley's kindness and smiles. Right now, though, the voice only made him angrier. It was the least he could do to honor Hadley - to remember what a kind man he was - to deny the words of treacherous daemons when they told him that the man had wanted to become a monster. Hadley was good. He wouldn't have done this. He would have never become the Bogge-King intentionally. He might have been tricked - he might have been foolish - but he would have never walked into death and slaughter on purpose. "You lie!"

Lock did not reply. Instead, it waved a hand over the crystal sphere. Grey smoke billowed up from its depths, swirling and spiraling in strange eddies. Until finally it coalesced; grew solid, changed color. And Martimeos felt his heart leap into his throat. There, within the sphere, was a vision of Hadley.

He was not as Martimeos remembered him. Hadley had been a jovial giant of a man, well-muscled and always wearing a friendly grin. This Hadley was leaner, more grim. His blond hair had been cut short against his head, and unfamiliar scars crisscrossed his face. His sky-blue eyes, once so full of mirth and life, were dead and cold, like chips of ice. He wore a chain hauberk, and his gloves and boots were gauntleted in shining steel. And in his hands he held the helm of the Bogge-King, a giant, cracked auroch's skull, with a long, black cloak hanging from the back of it, pooling by his feet.

"I can give you the power to dessstroy your enemiesss upon the mountainsss," came the sibilant tones of the Dolmec, from somewhere within the crystal sphere, sounding strangely muffled. "But it will cossst you dearly. I cannot grant thisss for free. You will lossse yourssself. You will not ssstop until every Crosssscraw liesss dead, even if you wish to. Not that you will. You will change. Your mind will not be your own. But you will have what you desssire. Your revenge against the Crossscraw."

"Revenge," Hadley mused, gazing down at the helm in his hands. He looked lost, for a moment, as if reconsidering what he was about to do. "I...I do not want revenge, creature. I only want...certainty. Complete certainty that what was done to us can never happen again." He sighed wearily, glancing upwards; to Martimeos, it seemed almost as sif he was looking straight out of the crystal glass, straight into his eyes. "That is all I ever wanted. For those I love to be safe. For Vivian to live free of fear. For the land to live free of fear. The Queen's War cannot be allowed to happen again. It must never happen again. Never." He shook his head, looking down once more at the skull-helm he held in his hands. "I would do anything," he murmured.

"Of courssse," the Dolmec answered. "If you accept the termsss, don the helm."

Hadley remained staring at the helm in his hands for a long, silent moment, unblinking, his scarred face as unmoving as stone. Don't do it, Martimeos found himself thinking, though he knew it was just a vision, and not one he necessarily believed, at that. He could not help but wish that he could step through that sphere, to tell this Hadley that none of it was necessary; that the Queen's War was over. "Please, just go home," he whispered to himself, unaware he was even speaking. "Vivian misses you. Go home."

But of course, Hadley did not listen. A small smile crossed his scarred face, and Martimeos would forever wonder what it was he thought of in that moment. "What must be done," he murmured. And then with one sudden, fluid movement, he lifted the helm, sweeping aside the cloak attached to it, and placed it on his head. As he lowered it, a dark howl of inhuman triumph roared out from the sphere, growing louder and louder as the black cloak of the Bogge-King fell about Hadley's shoulders, until -

The crystal sphere grew dark, and Hadley faded away.

"Lies," Martimeos repeated, his voice weak and wavering. The Dolmec's only reply was their wicked, rattling laughter.

Was it, that small voice within him said. Was it ever so unthinkable that Hadley might have sought out this power, if he thought it necessary to prevent Pike's Green from ruin again? Is it so unthinkable that your brother, dark and wild, would help him if that was what Hadley truly wished for? How well did you truly know either of them? Would you know them as the same men after the horror of the Queen's War? Is it so unbelievable that it might have changed them? Hadley remembers you, after all. You said yourself that some part of him must remain. Was it ever so unthinkable that all this death, all this horror - that this was what some part of him wanted? And that this was the part of him that won?

"Et was yer blood," came a voice full of furious wonder. Martimeos looked up to find Torc staring at him. The ragged Crosscraw man was staring at him, almost shaking with mirth, but a mad light danced behind his eyes. "All this time. Et were yer brother that damned us. Et were yer brother who cursed us wit' th' Bogge-King! Ancestor's bones, yer as guilty as....as...."

"As me?" Aela finished quietly, twisting her head to stare at her brother, and Torc immediately fell silent. "As guilty as Ah am, fer th' bad fortune o' bein' yer sister?" Martim shook as Aela turned to face him; it wasn't until he saw her wet eyes that he realized he had tears of his own running down his cheeks. "Et's alright," she said softly to him. "Et's alright. Ah ken what ye feel. We're both doin' what we must tae make et right."

"It's lies," he said hoarsely, wishing he could wipe his face. "Lies...lies and glamour." He did not want to listen to that small voice inside him, now now. Hadley would not have willingly and knowingly delivered an entire people unto death and torment. For you. Don't forget, he said he did it for you. "No," he whispered furiously to himself. What had happened was a tragedy. The man had been cursed and changed against his will. It had to be against his will. He had been tricked. It had to have been. And his brother had been tricked as well. "These...these wicked daemons - they lied to him, they made him think -"

With a snarl of rage, Lock surged forward, the snake-headed Dolmec's movements suddenly graceful and fluid, and Martimeos found himself lifted roughly, his back screaming in pain as it bent awkwardly as the creature lifted his torso off the ground. But the pain seemed a distant concern to the daemon's face inches from his, its black stone eyes holding his own. "Imbecile," the daemon said, its voice originating from somewhere within its chest, opening a mouth full of black fangs that could easily punch through his skull. "Do you have any idea what I was forced to give up to grant your friend'sss wish? Do you have any idea what wasss taken from me? Why do you think you ssstill live? Why do you think I have not flayed the ssskin from your flesh, in vengeance? You will retrieve what wassss ssstolen. That is the only reassson your heart sstill beatsss."

"Careful, brother," Key said slyly, with a wicked black grin. Martimeos gave a pained grunt, the air driven from his lungs, as the snake-head dropped him contemptuously. "We wish to give him a chance, do we not? Otherwise you will find yourself waiting still."

"I could wait a few more yearssss, for the pleasure of sssilencing his inssolent tongue," Lock replied. But it left him alone, walking back across the flowerbeds to stand once more by the crystal sphere.

Martimeos lay in stunned silence upon the ground. He knew he ought to say something. But right now, he did not know what to say. He fumbled his words in his own mind. He wanted to deny the words of these creatures; to argue with them, but that small voice within him nagged him with doubt. And his mind flooded with memories of Hadley; Hadley as he was, before the war. All the smiles and kindness the man had shown him. For Vivian, he damned himself. For me.

While he struggled to find words, Elyse spoke up. "What was it," she said cautiously as she lay upon the ground, frightened that something she said might draw the ire of these two Outsiders, "That you...did to him? What is the Bogge-King, exactly? What did you give up to create him?"

"That which you call the Bogge-King is a weapon," Key intoned, "For a war that was never fought."

"That will be fought," Lock added.

"That was fought."

"That isss being fought."

And the two daemons laughed cryptically to themselves, awful laughter that echoed off the walls of the chamber they were in, black laughter that made the darkness seem deeper.

"To create the Bogge-King alone did not cossst me," the snake-head continued, after it had finished shaking with whatever passed for mirth among its kind. "But that wasss not all that wasss demanded of me. Two giftsss did I make to him. A blade, sso that all on the mountainsss would fear him. And a hammer, with which to forge hiss children. Thesse, I pulled from my very bonesss. They were promissed to be returned to me once his tassk wasss complete. And yet he dawdless in hisss ssslaughter."

Silence lingered, for a moment, in response to this. "So...so take them back," Kells said quietly. "You made him. You can unmake him. You could have stopped this at any time."

"We cannot, fool," Key replied, swinging its dirty orange snout swiftly towards the soldier, black eyes gleaming in the firelight. "We are bound by laws set long ago. A pact is a pact, even if it is forced from us. But others might serve to retrieve what is stolen." And then the fox-head turned towards Martim, lips peeled back over its fangs unpleasantly. "And he trusts you, Martimeos. Enough to stay his hand and call off his children, although you travel with those he has sworn to destroy. That trust can be used against him."

Martim felt his stomach churn as he looked up at the two Dolmecs peering at him from the dancing shadows cast by the fire. "So," he muttered bitterly, "I am to betray a friend's trust at the behest of two daemons. What a sorry path it is that I walk."

The Dolmecs looked at each other; their twisted animal faces entirely unreadable, black eyes glittering. "He might be sssaved," Lock hissed.

Martim's head snapped up sharply. "What?"

Key waved a pale dead hand, and just like that, the feeling returned to Martim's limbs. He staggered slowly to his feet, his legs still unsteady and a bit numb beneath him, as if he had fallen asleep on them at an odd angle. Flit chirped, twitching, and fluttered up from the flowers to alight on his shoulder. He glanced around to see the others stirring as well, but he only had eyes for the daemons before him at the moment. They glided forth, smooth and graceful for things so hunched and misshapen, to flank him on either side. "Do not think of it as a betrayal, wizard," the fox-head cooed in his right ear, those deadly fangs uncomfortably close to his neck. "Think of it as saving your poor, misguided friend. Yes, that is a path you might walk."

"It can be done," the snake-head tempted from his left. "Yesss. It can be done. I made him. I could return him to you, asss he wasss. I have that power. Sssteal the blade and hammer from him. Return them to me. I can make it ssso."

They wheeled about him in the darkness, slipping in and out of shadow, murmuring temptations to him. Martimeos found his head in a fog beneath their gleaming, stone eyes. He had tried to quash the hope that Hadley might be saved, thinking it foolish, but it had remained a stubborn flame in his mind. Would he even deserve it? If he truly did choose this path, would he even deserve to be saved? And were these daemons even telling the truth....? He did not know. But he thought of Vivian, the girl he had left behind when he set out on the road. Alone and broken-hearted, and with her thinking her family all dead and gone. Did she not deserve to have her brother returned to her? "...Could it truly be done?" he whispered, reaching up to toy with the red scarf about his neck.

"Et willnae be done." Martimeos turned, even as the Dolmecs continued to spin about him in an odd dance, to look behind him at the others. Kells and Elyse looked pale and frightened, as if they wanted to leap forward and pull him away from the twin daemons, but Torc shook with grim rage, all the fear and reluctance to speak drained out of him, though he remained bound. "Ye saw et," the Crosscraw man spat, spittle clinging to his beard. "He chose this. He es as damned as Ah."

And Aela - Aela merely stared back at him, her eyes wide, hands clutching at her hides. "Martimeos," she murmured softly. "Et has tae end."

And then Martimeos felt something slither into his mind, something cold and cruel and tricksome and ancient. Do not lissssten to them, the voice of Lock echoed within his skull. We can ssssee the web of desssign. I can sssee you returning home with him, yesssss. Your little Vivian would be ssso happy. And he ssso grateful. It could be done, once the blade and hammer are returned to me, and my pact with him broken. For a price. But we can talk about that once you return.

And who cares for justice, the fox-head's voice chimed in. Was it justice, what was done to him? Was it justice that he had to watch his brothers and sisters die? Was it justice that he lost what remained of his youth to war? Do you know what he saw, Martimeos? Enough horror and death to drive any man mad. Is it any wonder that it broke him? Does he not deserve a chance at redemption? Why care what these Crosscraw think? They did not know him like you do. They do not know that he is just a good man driven to make a poor choice by the wickedness of the world. This is your story, wizard. Make the telling the one you want.

And another voice spoke to him as well. Not from the Dolmecs, not from the outside; this one spoke to him from some dark place within. Do as you damn well please, it said, who are they to demand obligation from the likes of you? What do you owe them? Imagine the look on Torc's face when he realizes the one who slew his folk will walk away free. Now that would be a fitting punishment for him, wouldn't you say? Fitting, and hilarious.

Martimeos was quiet for a long moment. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked Aela straight in the eye. "Of course. Of course it will end. I will not even consider it," he lied. "'Tis just...he was a dear friend. 'Tis....hard. To see him so."

Aela bit her lip, her eyes probing and searching as they remained on his. Then she nodded, and relaxed. "Ah ken et must be hard," she murmured. "But we do what must be done tae set things right. What must be done." Martim felt a sharp pang of guilt roil through him, seeing how quickly the woman accepted his words. Aela trusted him. Foolishly.

And the two Dolmec grinned at each other, as if they could smell his lie.

"It isss your choice," Lock hissed, smoothly gliding away to caress the crystal sphere lovingly. "It isss the sssame to me either way. I need not sssave him. Return to me what wasss taken, and I can unmake him. Erassse him. And with their father gone, hisss children will be broken. All thisss can end. Or you can refusssse, and I will sslay you all. I would like to have it returned now. But a few more year'sss wait isss tolerable." A thin black tongue whispered past scaled lips, as the Dolmec laughed to themselves. "Yesss. Your choice."

Martimeos felt as if a hundred tiny bells were ringing in his skull. He still did not know what to make of all this. He was vaguely aware of Elyse at his side, murmuring something quietly to him, while Kells laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke as well, but he could not ear their words. It still felt as if someone had taken a club to his stomach, to hear that Hadley had knowingly - willingly - with purpose, decided to become the Bogge-King. If these daemons told the truth. For if they told the truth, then...."My brother," he said, pushing the words past the lump in his throat. "What of him...?"

"He took what he wanted, and left. Long ago." The snake-headed Dolmec paused for a moment, tongue flickering. "By your reckoning, at leasssst."

Martimeos absorbed this silently. "If...if we agree," he said, glancing towards the others that surrounded him, "How are we to do this?"

"You are a clever little wizard," Key replied, his fox-head contorting in a snarl. "You can be a clever little thief. Use his trust."

"No," Martimeos replied, shaking his head, "I mean, Hadley - the Bogge-King - I know not where he is, but I have heard he dwells in the Land of Dim. How can we reach him...? What is the Land of Dim?"

The two daemons were quiet for a time, standing on either side of the crystal sphere. They turned to look at each other, their black eyes meeting above the glass.

"The Land of Dim," Key spoke.

"A failure," Lock answered.

"Half-dream, half-real."

"Broken beyond repair."

"Worry not, little mageling," Key finished, turning back to Martimeos. "We never give up a part of ourselves without making sure we have a path very close by to reclaim it, should the opportunity arise." The creature raised a single pale, black taloned hand.

And suddenly, the room flooded with a pale red light. A light cast from a tall lamp of strange metal, topped by a translucent glass orb, in the midst of this flower garden. A lamp they had seen before; in Twin Lamps, in the Dream, in the entrance to this place. And the light revealed what lay along the walls, in this place.

Doors. Doors of all shapes and sizes. Wooden barn doors, with flaking paint; sturdy, ornate doors, that you might see on a manor; doors forged strangely of metal in a style Martimeos could not recognize. There were hundreds of them. But one in particular immediately caught his attention. A door that he had seen somewhere before, though he could not recall where. A heavy door of black iron, bent and scratched and torn. And as he approached it, silently, trailing through the flowers as if in a trance, he could see a plaque of burnished silver upon it. A plaque bearing an engraving of a smith's hammer and anvil.

"Sssssseee, Martimeosss?" Lock hissed from somewhere behind him. "You already know where to go."

Martimeos turned to face the others, their faces lit by the pale red lamplight, casting strange, sharp shadows beneath their eyes. Behnd them all, Lock and Key lurked at the edge of the darkness, watching and waiting for a reply. "Well," he began, and then stopped. He didn't know what to say. "I..."

"I - I still have questions," Elyse snapped, interrupting him, whirling on her feet to face the two Dolmecs. "Questions about this place. And - how did you know my moth-"

"I am not here to ssatisssfy your idle curiousssity, witchling," Lock interrupted her with a hiss. "I do not care who your parentsss are. You all tread on the edge of my patience, and it is only my brother convincing me of your usssefulness that ssavess you. Ssso give me an anssswer. Will you do thiss thing? Or will you die?"

Elyse paled and stepped back from the daemon, yanking Cecil back as her familiar hissed at him.

"Well," Kells said, the first to break the silence, casting a cautious eye in Martim's direction from beneath the shadows of his kettle-helm, "I don't see that we really have much choice in the matter. But it is what we wanted, isn't it? A way to end the Bogge-King without fighting him. There are worse tasks we might have been given by daemons, I suppose." He paused, and then glanced towards the two grinning Dolmecs. "But what is to stop you from killing us once you have what you want from us...?"

"Oh, Liam," Key said, sidling up to the soldier and chuckling as the man shuddered, "Very little. Just as very little stops us from killing you right in this moment. But why kill those who have been so helpful to us? Those who return what is ours tend to do so again. Ask Martimeos, here. This will be the third time he has given us what we desire. We will not kill you unless you betray us."

"It...it seems too neat, to me," Elyse said quietly, twisting the dark ring on her finger, as Kells drew back from the Dolmec as if scalded. "Daemons, they are..." She looked at Martimeos and bit her lip. "They're full of lies, and wicked creatures," she murmured sadly. "You...you cannot trust them, Martim." Her dark blue eyes seemed too knowing, and Martimeos wondered if she had an inkling of what had been said to him, inside his mind. "You know that, don't you, wizard?"

Martim could not help but feel a growing pit in his stomach at her words. It was not good to be making a habit of helping these creatures. And Elyse was right. Even if these Dolmecs would not kill him, there was so much else besides death that consorting with daemons might lead to. The secret offer they had made him...."I know," he murmured. Elyse nodded her head and looked away from him, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"Et doesnae matter," Aela replied. The Crosscraw woman seemed almost feverish with excitement, though her hands shook so violently that she gripped the long locks of her red hair to steady them. She wore a happy smile as she looked at Martimeos, though her eyes seemed sad. "We can end et," she laughed. "We can do et. Grizel was right, after all. Et's almost over."

And Torc, Torc said nothing. He simply gazed steadily at his sister, eyes nothing but pinpricks in the dark shadows of his face.

Flit chirped something in his ear about how bitter it was to see Hadley come to this end. He had always liked the man; the blacksmith had been fond of feeding him breadcrumbs. But Martimeos did not answer any of them. He merely looked quietly at Lock and Key, the two daemons grinning at him from the shadows. "We will do it," he said quietly. "So long as you keep your end of the bargain, to unmake Hadley, and leave us in peace afterward. We will retrieve the blade and the hammer of the Bogge-King."

"Excellent," Lock hissed. "But before you go. I require ssssomething."

"An assurance," Key insisted, gliding to his side, black eyes glittering, "That you will return. We will only require it of you, wizard. Your blood has proven itself...tricksome."

"If thessse others decide to abandon usssss, I trusssst that I could hunt them down," Lock continued, looking hungrily at Kells, Elyse, and the Crosscraw. "And resssst asssured, I will. Your deathsss will be all the more painful for your betrayal."

"But you, wizard - if your blood is any indication, you may very well slip away." Key held out one long, pale arm. "Remove your glove, and give me your hand."

Martimeos hesitated for a moment, frowning, his mouth opening to ask a question. But, he realized, it didn't matter. Either he accepted these creature's terms, or they would all die here and now. And so in the end, he held out his hand to the Dolmec without question.

Key seized it quickly, as if the daemon thought he might draw it away, and swiftly drew a sharp black nail across his palm. Martimeos hissed in pain as dark blood welled up in his hand, and snatched it away with a curse. The cut felt deep, but as Elyse took his hand and wiped away the blood with the hem of her robe, they saw that - whatever the daemon had done - the wound had already healed. The pain remained, though.

"I trust you know the fate of those wounded by...Dolmec Iron, as you call it," Key rattled. The creature drew back to grin at its brother. The fox and the snake clasped hands, and spoke as one. "Only we can undo it, little mageling. Return to us with the blade and hammer of the Bogge-King. Or return to stone."

Martimeos stared down at his blood-smeared palm, as Elyse released it back to him. A thousand thoughts swirled in his mind, and none of them certain. Hadley, kind and good Hadley, having chosen by his own will to become a monster. If the daemons told the truth. His brother, helping the man along to his dark fate. If they told the truth.

And...the idea that Hadley might be saved.

Damn the truth, Martimeos thought.

He raised his head to look at the others, pale faces staring at him expectantly. Make sure to give Aela a solid stare. Yes, catch her eye and hold it. Yes, you have her trust - see how she smiles at you? She does not suspect a thing. 'Tis a poor thing to lie to her, true. But you do this for Vivian. For Hadley. 'Tis the wrong thing to do. But you are going to do it anyway.

"'Tis nearly over," he said quietly to them all. He did his best to force a carefree smile to his face. "What is one little burglary, anyway? Certainly sounds easier than I had hoped. I used to...to..." His smile faltered. He had meant to tell how he had used to filch horseshoes from Hadley's smithy to play games with, but the memory bought a bitter taste to his throat, now. "I used to steal things all the time, as a child," he finished hoarsely. "Let us not linger here."

And with that, he reached out to push open the black iron door. Just wait, Hadley, he thought. I will save you, if I can.