Shafts of sunlight, the fine mist of a series of waterfalls and the laughter of children provide the backdrop as a young girl puts black ink to white paper.

"That's very good," a voice observes.

The artist finishes her sweep without interruption. Then, carefully, she withdraws the brush from the delicate surface.

"Father!" the girl says accusingly. She does not turn around. "You tried to make me break my line!"

"Did I?" the voice asks. "Perhaps I did . . . did you?"

"If you were watching then you know I didn't," she observes.

"Very true," the voice says. Movement, not heard, *felt* . . . and then her father sits down beside her.

Carefully setting her brush to one side, she shifts so he can see the whole of her work. "It's not done," she says.

"It isn't? It looks done," he observes. He leans back to study the black ink on white rice paper framed beneath an azure sky. "You're so talented, daughter . . . and your attention to the task before you does you credit.  Would you forgive me a stupid question? With the light as it is and the Laughing Falls as they are, why did you choose to paint the Battle of Falling Rock Ridge?"

"It's my lesson for the day," she replies. "Lord Miltoc wanted me to find something I should draw and then draw something that someone had once told me about. He says I should be able to concentrate on any image regardless of the scene before my eyes."

"Miltoc," he says, his voice suddenly cold. She has never heard her father able to say the artist's name without a dangerous edge to his tone. Strange, since he is the one who chose the thin man as her tutor.  "Well you've certainly done a fine job," he says, his tone returning to normal as he turns his gaze upon his daughter. "Though I must observe that we had a few more cavalry on the far left flank."

"I *told* you I wasn't finished!" she says, though truthfully she'd forgotten about the cavalry. "It's difficult enough recreating a battle you won two hundred years before I was born without you trying to rush me!"

He chuckles and she grins. When he was like this, wearing plain earth tones instead of his courtly black and white, teasing her constantly yet showing such pride in her abilities, away from the ministers and the worshippers, it was hard to imagine that he was approaching a thousand years of age. Yet the truth of it was in the eyes of every man, woman and child who gazed at them in awe and asked their blessing as they passed by, was in the fact that this big, at times goofy man, ruled their world and had done so for over a dozen lifetimes.

"Then finish bright eyes," he says. "When you can set aside your lesson we'll plan out afternoon."

He adjusts the weapons on his belt so they're comfortable and closes his eyes.

The girl returns to her work, and though she does not rush, she does finish quickly. Finally, she nudges the supposedly dozing man.

"Crowe," he says, not opening his eyes.

"Yes master," the thing replies, stepping into view directly in front of where the man and girl recline on the gentle hill next to the pool at the base of the Laughing Falls.

The man smiles and opens his eyes. He doesn't speak as he lifts his back off the grass and spends some time studying his daughter's latest creation.

"Take what my daughter has done here and place it in the Chamber of Heroes," he says, clasping the girl's small hand and giving it a squeeze.  "I will find you later."

There is a hesitation then, a noticable pause instead of the immediate and oft - repeated reply the girl's come to expect from a thousand precious orders issued to the guardian. Finally, after perhaps two seconds have passed, it speaks.

"Yes master," it says. Carefully, it's huge hands wrap around her creation. Then it starts towards the distant palace-fortress where the three of them and ten thousand more make their home.

"Loyal Crowe," the man says with a smile. "I shouldn't do that to him," He stands and surveys the scene that his daughter worked so hard ignoring. "I've always loved this place," he says. "I will miss it."

Hand in hand they start towards the trail that starts at the base of the falls and works its way up and along side them.

"As you know, quick wit," he says. "I leave tomorrow for the southern continent. Today however, I belong to you. What would you like to do?"

The horse left the air as if it had wings, Corril bent over her neck encouraging her with whispers directed at the pinned back ears.  Her cape flew out behind her and for a moment it looked as if they might truly fly.   Then the black hooves hit the ground, puffs of dirt rising up and they were earthborne creatures ones more.

The girl pulled the horse up, wheeling him in a circle as she did so.  From his position behind the fallen tree trunk, he could see her excited look and hear her laughter.  “That was wonderful!  You have to try it.”  She sat easily astride, as the horse dropped his head momentarily pulling at the reins and pawing at the earth.

He couldn’t resist the entreaty in her voice and she heard the heavier beats of his stallion’s hooves as he cantered him back down the trail a bit.  She could hear the jingle of the bits as he pulled him up.   Then he was galloping towards the tree and there was a great rush of wind as he cleared the tree.  And then he was beside her once more.  He smiled
at her as they continued on down the trail, letting the horses rest in an easy ground covering walk.   As they rode he pointed out things to her, or told her tales of his great battles, or just laughed and teased her.

To Corill, it was a perfect way to spend the afternoon.
 
 

Corill pushed the heavy down comforter off her legs and swung her feet over the edge of the bed.   Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor, and she slid down feeling the coolness through the soles.  The air was just chill enough to raise bumps on her arms.   Or at least she tried to tell herself that it was only the air and not the haunting melody of the flute and the strange sense of disquiet she had woken with.

>From the end of the bed, she took black silken robe, embroidered whimsically with golden animals.  She pulled it on and drew it tightly around her, for the bit of protection it could offer.    She turned the wick up on the small lamp by her bed slightly, but the increase in light did not make her feel any happier.    Following her instincts, she left her chambers, padding softly along the halls that were mostly deserted at this hour.

She pushed the door to her father’s study open just enough to allow her to slip through.  Closing it quietly behind her, she leaned her back against it as if for support.   Her eyes closed for long moments as the silvery notes fell over her, like the cool kiss of snowflakes in the winter.   If he knew she was there, he did not pause in his playing, nor did the melody falter.     She waited there, hands pressed to the door behind her until the last lingering notes had dispersed.

She heard, rather than saw him put the flute on the table.  Corum was hidden from her sight by the large chair in which he sat.  The firelight growing red-orange in the hearth cast an area of brightness that faded to the purple black shadows in the edges of the room.

Moving into the circle of light, she climbed up onto the couch across from her father.  She drew her knees up circling them with her arms.  Her nightgown and robe made a gold and black circle around her.  Resting her chin on her knees she regarded him steadily.

He noted how the fire blazed golden highlights where it shone on the waves of her hair and how green and serious her eyes were.   “You should be in bed,” he told her.

“So should you," she countered.   When he didn’t answer right away, she looked down to her peeking out from under her gown.  She wiggled them experimentally, making a show of watching them.   As she did, she said quietly, “Father, it can’t be just going to the southern continent that is making you so sad.”

He does not respond, and silence stretches out between them until she looks up from her wiggling toes.

"Yes dear one," he says as her gaze meets his. His usually serene gray eyes are filled with emotion. She sees a strange mix of sadness, tenderness and great joy as he looks upon his youngest child. "But I will miss the company of the littlest of my treasures."

He reaches out to her and she bounds across the space that separates them. Moments later she's wrapped in a warm blanket he keeps close by for just such a possibility. Then she leans against him, his long arm wrapping around her. Somehow that powerful arm, with its winding tattoos, both protects and draws strength from his daughter's small form.

A comfortable silence falls between them after they settle into Corum's big chair.   As Corill studies the movement of the fire's living flame, she considers how to capture the image.

She decides to get Lord Miltoc's opinion after her father leaves tomorrow.

Once again she wonders if she made the right decision to stay home when her father asked her to accompany him. Though the promise of adventure and the possibility of seeing a real dragon was extraordinarily tempting, there was no way that Lord Miltoc could accompany them. The spells of binding that limited the talented Lord of Chaos to his suite and patio were woven carefully to contain him there. Without them, even mighty Crowe's guardians couldn't insure that the Chaos Lord's strange powers went unused.

So it came down to a hard choice. Either accompany the God - Emperor of Kiir'Rhan as he brought the squabbling dragon - lords to heel, or stay home and explore her own talents.

She had told her father she would stay. Now she wonders if she'd hurt him, choosing the company of one of his defeated enemies over his.

"Would you like me to tell you a story Corill?" he asks her, breaking her troubling train of thought.

She loved his stories. They were filled with heroes, villains, magic, love, pride and battle. Most importantly, they were all true. "Yes please," she says, stifling a yawn.

She can tell without looking that he smiles fondly at her efforts to fight off sleep. She's been able to do that more and more often as she's grown older, sense people's expressions without seeing them . . . and sense people's moods when they're trying to hide them.

"This story takes place a very long time ago," he begins.

"Before the Battle of Falling Rock Ridge?" she asks. That battle, the one she'd drawn that very day, had been the first major engagement of the last great invasion by the Chaos Lords. It marked the beginning of a ferocious war lasting over fifty years. There were seventeen portraits hung with black and red silk scarves in the Hall of the Children, sons
and daughters of Corum who'd lost their lives fighting back the fell legions of a very real hell.

"Long before," Corum says. "No bright eyes, this story takes place when I was at the monastery."

Corill half-remembered the monastery of the God-child high in the Mountains of the Five Moons above Dik-tarr', the first city-state to recognize his father's dominion. There she'd giggled at tales of her father's youth told by monks fifty generations removed from those who'd witnessed the youth perform the deeds.

"When I was young--" Corum began again.

"Were you as little as me?" Corill asks, interrupting again.

"But nowhere near so ticklish," he teases, long fingers dancing across the soles of her exposed toes. She laughs and her feet dart back under the blanket. "Yes, I was as little as you once Corill, but time passed and I grew up, or I thought of myself as grown up."

"Were you as old as Aunt Mai?" Aunt Mai was her maternal aunt, Corill's mother's much younger sister who'd just achieved her sixteenth year, the age of adulthood.

"Yes," Corum confirms. "I was as old as Aunt Mai."

Satisfied that she has all the important details, Corill settles back and closes her eyes.. Unconsciously she lets her toes once more slip out from under the covers.

"I had reached the age of adulthood, though the cloistered life at the monastery hadn't truly prepared me for the world outside its sturdy walls. One night I was in my chambers, playing my flute and thinking on what the future held." He pauses, considering. "Much as I was doing just before you snuck in."

"There I was, sitting in the big windowsill overlooking the darkened Pass of the Skydancers, when in the middle of my room a tall man appeared out of the air."

"What did Crowe do?" she asks. Crowe, mighty Crowe, strongest of all the guardians of the Imperial House of Kiir'Rhan, Corum's personal bodyguard, would likely respond poorly to such a sudden appearance by a stranger.

"This was before Crowe," Corum explains.

Before Crowe, Corill thinks, turning the words over in her mind. In truth, they have no meaning for her. Crowe was *always* there, watching and waiting, unseen and silent. Even in her dreams, even in her rare nightmares, Crowe was always there, watching and protecting all of them.

"He was a tall man," Corum says, continuing with his story. "Tall and thin, tall and dour. He wore orange, yellow and brown in a style I'd never seen before. His hair was brown, hanging straight and uncurled to his shoulders. I saw humorless hazel eyes and a long, powerful jaw. He approached me where I now stood. He moved with sure, confident steps. He was unarmed aside for a belt dagger, and when he extended an open hand to me, I took hold of it without hesitation."

"I felt power flow through his touch, cold and terrible, and I knew that someone else was there, watching us both."

Corill, holding her breath, does not interrupt.

"Then I could see her, standing all in black with flashing blue eyes, and I knew her."

"The Woman of Shadows?" Corill asks.

"Yes quick wit," her father says. "The Woman of Shadows. She extended a hand to the one who held mine in a terrible grip, and when he took hold of hers, the three of us were joined."

"Then what happened?" Corill asks.

"I found myself in another place, a vast cavern. There I saw what had been calling to me, and which calls to me now."

"Tell me," Corill says.

"I will do so."

"Picture a circular pathway," he says. "The entrance on the outer edge of a large circle, maybe the thirty paces to a side. The path winds between glowing lines of power arranged to spiral around and around, towards a small clear zone at the very center. Along the way are strange twists and curves and knots. "

"You must walk it, the strange man told me, though I'd already decided to do so. If you are to survive, he said. You must first survive this."

"I strode forward, setting my left foot upon the path. It was outlined by blue-white sparks. Then I set my right foot upon it, and felt a terrible current flow through me. I took another step."

"There was a crackle and my hair began to rise. I took another step."

"Then the thing began to curve, abruptly, back upon itself. I took ten more paces, and a certain resistance seemed to arise. It was as if a black barrier had grown up before me, of some substance which pushed back upon me with each effort that I made to pass forward."

"I fought it, and knew it as the First Veil..."

"...Each raising and lowering of my foot suddenly required a terrible effort, and sparks shot from my hair."

"I concentrated on the fiery line."

"Suddenly the pressure was eased. The Veil had parted before me, as abruptly as it had occurred."

"I was well into the Pattern now, and the sparks flashed continually about my feet, reaching to the height of my knees.  I no longer knew which direction I faced...The currents swept through me, and it seemed my eyeballs were vibrating. Then came a pins-and-needles feeling in my cheeks and a coldness on the back of my neck. I clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering."

"I took six more rapid steps, reaching the end of an arc and coming to the beginning place of a straight line."

"I set my foot upon it, and with each step that I took, another barrier began to rise against me. It was the Second Veil."

"There was a right angle turn, then another, then another."

"Another curve began, and it was as though I were walking in glue as I moved slowly along it."

"One, two, three, four...I raised my fiery bare feet and set them down again."

"It was tricky, so terribly tricky...Instinctively, I knew that to leave the Pattern before I'd completed it would mean my death. I dared not raise my eyes from the places of light that lay before me, to see how far I had come, how far I had yet to go."

I emerged from the filigree and marched along the Grand Curve."

"I walked three more curves, a straight line, and a series of sharp arcs."

"Ten turns which left me dizzy, another short arc, a straight line, and the Final Veil."

"It was agony to move. Everything tried to beat me aside. The waters were cold, then boiling. It seemed that they constantly pushed against me. I struggled, putting one foot before the other. The sparks reached as high as my waist at this point, then my breast, my shoulders. They were into my eyes. They were all about me. I could barely see the Pattern itself."

"Then a short arc, ending in darkness."

"One, two....And to take the last step was like trying to push through a concrete wall."

"So I did."

Then what happened?" Corill asks.

"I found myself in the heart of the Pattern, in the center of everything, and there I stood, looking back upon the dour man and the Woman of Shadows who had watched my progress throughout."

"Then I knew and understood that from where I now stood I would just have to think of a place and be transported there instantly. So I did."

"Where?" she asks.

"Where I was needed most," Corum says, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "I appeared before the Court of Dik-tarr', the power of the Pattern brushing aside the local enchantments as if they didn't exist. I discovered that I had been absent for several days and that my return was prophesied to mark my ascension. In a way, it did."

"So you became a god," Corill says sleepily.

"Yes," Corum says. "But we know better don't we Corill?"

"Will I live for a thousand years father?" she asks, half-dreaming.

"Longer," Corum promises, and then his daughter is asleep.

For a long time, Corum remains still, watching the fire, his arm around Corill sleeping form.

Then, moving amazingly gently so that he doesn't disturb her, he gathers her up in his arms and moves toward the door to his study.

He carries her down the halls of his vast palace-fortress, past unseen guardians and through a hundred years of security measures. Then he's through her open door, and *feels* her guardians retake their places from where they followed her to his study, leaving two behind to make sure no one trespassed while the rest were absent.

Softly, he lays his little daughter down in her bed and draws the covers over her, tucking her carefully in.

He steps back, his eyes never leaving her.

"Crowe," he says softly.

Crowe appears beside him, a shadow taking shape into a vaguely humanoid thing.

"I will be gone for some time Crowe," he says. "You will stay here and guard Corill while I am gone."

Crowe does not answer, so Corum speaks further.

"You know better than any that my children are special Crowe," Corum says. "They all have their abilities. They are all extraordinary. Corill is no different."

"Yes master," Crowe says.

"Yet she has a talent that none have manifested before. She will able to tap the Tarot that the Lords use so effectively against us. For this reason, I let Miltoc instruct her. For this reason, so much of our resources go to controlling that fell monster. For the Tarot is a way to strike back, to hurt the hosts of hell so that they will not trouble us as they do. If Corill can tap the power of the Tarot and it's Trumps, then she is Kiir'Rhan's salvation."

"Yes master," Crowe says.

"So guard her well Crowe," Corum says. "Miltoc will attempt win her affection. He will attempt to manipulate her. He will attempt to use her to escape or achieve greater powers. He will attempt to turn her against me. These things can be allowed, as her heart must be her own. But in order to do so, he must *train* her or she will set him aside in favor of
attempting to educate herself. This may even be possible, though I imagine it would take centuries."

"So she must be trained by a master of the Tarot," Corum says. "So she must place herself at risk and choose her own path." Corum pauses then.  "But Crowe, if Miltoc touches her, or tries to seize her mind, or attempts to harm her in any way... rip his heart out."

"Yes master," Crowe replies, and though there is no emotion in the thing's deep voice, Corum can sense... satisfaction.

"Thank you Crowe," Corum says. "Go now and see to your guardians. Choose three among them who will accompany me on the morrow. Tonight, I will watch over Corill."

So Crowe fades into the shadows once more, and Corum takes a chair by Corill's bed, and watches his daughter sleep.
 
 

A moment later, she exploded out of the bedsheets and ran to the window casement.   Her hands went to the ledge for support as she leaned dangerously far out.   Her head turned back in forth and then she sighed in relief.  In the courtyard below, there was a buzz of activity.   Horses were being saddled and people rushed busily to and fro.   She had not missed her father’s departure.  But she would have to hurry.

She threw off her nightclothes and pulled an amber dress over her head.   Her slippers were next, thrust on impatiently.   From the basin on the table, she splashed some water on her face and fingercombed her hair.  No help for that as the waves always seemed to be wild.  Satisfied she hurried out of the room, pausing only to lift a small
package from her desk.

At the head of the courtyard steps she paused, bright light making her blink momentarily.  Then she saw Corum’s head and she ran down the steps towards him.  He dropped the reins of his horse as she launched herself at him.  And then his strong arms had hold of her and he was spinning her up and around.   “I thought you had left without saying good-bye,”  she chided him.

He laughed easily and let her slide back down to the ground, “You were up late last night.  So, I let you sleep.”   His look down at her was filled with tenderness, “I wouldn’t have left without seeing you.”   His eyes shifted to see the little package clutched in her hand, “And what do you have there, bright eyes?”

Corill beamed at him and held the gaily wrapped package out to him, “Its for you.”   She passed it to him, “Open it.”   His hands seemed too large to handle such a delicate task, but he opened the paper with deft fingers.  “It’s to remind you of us while you’re gone.”

Corum looked down at a small painting.  The representation was of Kiir'Rhan itself, something to remind him of his home.  Corill’s eyes looked down on it as well, very detailed for being so small.   It had come to her as an inspiration when she had made the decision to stay behind and pursue her studies.   As she gazed down at the little image
that had become so familiar over the last week, the sun seemed suddenly less bright.

She couldn’t move her gaze away as the image wavered slightly and then seemed to change before her eyes.  In the place of the palace-fortress lay a ruin of crumbled stone and burned, blackened beams.  No sun shone there but a cool wind blew over the dark lifeless space, the sound as haunting as her father’s flute had been the night before.

Then just as suddenly, things were bright again and the image had snapped back to normal.  With panic in her eyes, she looked up to her father.  She threw her arms around his waist, “Promise you’ll come back for me.”

Corum crouched beside her and enfolded her in a hug.  He had not seen the transformation of the picture, and thought only that she was perhaps regretting her decision not to accompany him.  “I promise, I will be back.   Thank you for the picture, quick wit.  It’s beautiful.”   He held her for long moments and then whispered, “It’s time for me to go.”  He released her and gave her an encouraging smile as he swung up onto the horse and settled easily into the saddle.

She watched until he had ridden from sight.

Eventually it came to her that she was standing in the deserted courtyard and that she had best do something before she became a part of the stones.   She decided that she would visit Lord Miltoc.  He would be waiting to give her instruction for the day.   And perhaps he would have some insight as to the strange occurrence with her picture.

She picked up a corner of her dress and ran lightly past the stables and out into the orchard.    There she picked pears and apples to take back with her.   Miltoc, who could not go further than his quarters would enjoy the fresh fruit.    She traced her path back, looking forward to her lesson for the day.  It wouldn’t lessen the pain of her father’s leaving, but it would take her mind off it for a while.

"Good morning to you princess," Miltoc says, smiling as he turns from a window and bows deeply. His smile becomes a grin as he rights himself, his eyes on the collection of fruit she carries. "Are we doing still life today?"

"I thought you might like some fresh fruit," she answers, moving to a table amongst several chairs and sofas.

"So I would," Lord Miltoc says, watching the girl arrange the fruit in a basket there. "I appreciate you thinking on me when your mind must be on other things. How long is the Emperor expected to be absent?"

"At least a year," Corill replies. "Perhaps three. The civil war of the dragon - lords is starting to spill over into less fractious regions. My elder brothers and sisters have been unable to contain it, let alone bring the various houses to the negotiating table. Further, there are rumors that your relatives are attempting to negotiate a non - aggression pact with the Wights of the Underworld, suggesting a new invasion. That and the requisite benedictions and surveys could take some time."

"A god - emperor's work is never done," Lord Miltoc observes.

Corill flashes a sharp look at the Lord of Chaos, but the man's expression is mild and he looks upon her with sincere concern.

"If your relatives wouldn't trouble us so, perhaps his burden wouldn't be quite so heavy, and he could spend more time . . . riding his horse, dozing by waterfalls and eating picnics."

"I'm sure you're right princess," Miltoc says, moving across the room. He takes an apple from the basket she's arranged for him, somehow improving the design by the removal of one piece. As he takes a bite she looks down at the arrangement and sighs. She has so much to learn.

Miltoc sits down in his chair, one arm stretching over the back and the other resting before him, apple in hand. Corill sits across the table from him, in a chair she's grown very fond of over the last few years.

"Have you eaten?" Lord Miltoc asks.

"No," she replies, suddenly hungry. She almost reaches for a piece of fruit, yet hesitates at disturbing the arrangement.

"Take the pear," Lord Miltoc says. "Yes, the yellow one. Good eye."

As she does so, Lord Miltoc signals a servant standing close by. The man nods and leaves, only to return a moment later with a loaded tray.

"You needn't have waited," Corill observes, holding the untasted pear.  She smiles and sets it aside when the servant offers her a hot cup of chocolate and a flaky roll.

"You know I rise late," Miltoc smiles. "I wasn't sure if you'd join your father for the breaking of his fast. I know the farewell festivities went late last night, and that he'd be up early. If he were any other prince I'd say he does his court an injustice. As it is, I admire his dedication to his duty."

Corill was only half listening, intent as she was on spreading marmalade on the roll and enjoying her cocoa. She'd nearly forgotten the ceremonies of the night before, remembering only color and movement and her father at his place looking grave and imperial. So much unlike the man she knew.  She had left early, her only clear memory being her father whispering into her ear that he wished he could do the same.

"Will you tell me of his leave - taking princess?" Miltoc asks. "I observed the imperial caravan from my window but couldn't make out the details."

"He wore brown leather, white cloth and black boots and held the reins of his dun," she says. "He stood among his escort easily, one of them yet so much more. He greeted me as a father does and twirled me around  as I laughed and reached for the sky."

Miltoc smiles. "You must capture such a vivid image," he observes. "So did your secret project please him? Will you tell me of it now?"

"It did and I will," Corill says, then she describes the small picture of Kiir'Rhan she'd worked so hard on, forgoing a number of his lessons in her desire to finish it in time. Then she told Lord Miltoc of giving it to her father and his pleasure in receiving it. Finally, she told him of the strange change in the image as she looked upon it.

Lord Miltoc stops eating after she tells him this. Carefully he sets down the cup he holds and looks at her carefully.

"Did you sense any particular sensation as you held it?" he asks.

"My father held it," she replies, taking another roll and pondering whether she wants anything else.

"Of course," Miltoc muses. "In the hands of one with true power . . ." Lord Miltoc's mutterings trail off as he seems to ponder the implications. "Princess," he says at last. "This is very important.  Unconsciously, you may have tapped into something that I did not expect of you, for all your talents, for some time. Do me the favor of telling me exactly what you used in the preparation of your gift and what you did."

Corill nods and starts at the beginning.

Nearly half an hour later she finishes and Miltoc begins asking questions. An hour later, he settles back into his chair.

"A Trump sketch," he says. "Amazing." He speaks aloud, though Corill might believe that the man is simply voicing his thoughts. "There is, of course, a strong connection between yourself and the image depicted but even so . . . perhaps the purpose behind the effort might have something to do with it. Your strong desire to give it to your father, your hope to remind him of his home and yourself, your overwhelming desire to have him return to you as *quickly* as possible. Of course . . . of course."

"A Trump sketch?" Corill asks. "Do Trumps have anything to do with the Tarot?"

Lord Miltoc looks up, surprised. "You know of the Tarot Corill?" he asks.  "I was told never to mention it to you until you asked. I believe the emperor wished to speak to you of it when the time was right."

"I've heard my older brothers and sisters talk about it, though they usually precursor it with a curse word. There are supposed to be scores of Tarots secured in the vaults, all taken from Lords of Chaos."

"Scores of Tarot decks?" Miltoc says, surprise registering in his voice.  "Of course. I'm sure mine lies amongst them," he manages to say without bitterness. "Shall I tell you what they are and what they can do?"

"Yes please," Corill says.

So Miltoc does. He explains how Trump Artists create trumps to represent people, places and things. He explains that those with the power and the will to use them can reach across infinite space and make contact with the images represented on the Trump. Finally, he explains how the user of a Trump can cross unimaginable distances in a moment.

Miltoc finishes and as Corill starts to ask question on how Trumps, real Trumps, are made, a guardian appears right beside Lord Miltoc. The dark figure casts an inky shadow over the Lord of Chaos.

"Crowe?" Corill says, recognizing the massive form from hundreds of similar sudden appearances. "Why aren't you with father?"

One of Crowe's big hands falls on Miltoc's narrow shoulder, and sharp claws with needle - fine tips prick at the man's clothing.

"Of course!" Lord Miltoc says, wincing and flinching under the sharp points. "How could I be so forgetful! Thank you for reminding me sir. I will certainly not forget to advise the princess of the dangers."

As silently as he appeared, Crowe fades out once more, his head turning in Corill's direction as he disappears.

"Strange that your father would leave his favorite bodyguard behind, "Lord Miltoc says, rubbing his shoulder. "I thought something was in the air this morning."

"Yes," Corill says. "I felt him too."

Crowe had been left behind. It suggested many things to Corill. First was that her father wouldn't be as well - protected on the southern continent as he could be. Only after this concern did she realize that Crowe had been left behind to protect her.

"What dangers?" she asks.

"There is really only one danger associated with common Trump," Miltoc says, his hand returning to the back of the couch. "Though I will admit, the danger is considerable." Lord Miltoc pauses, then explains.

"There is a link between a Trump and it's subject," he says. "When a Trump Artist constructs a Trump, it cannot be destroyed, until the subject represented is destroyed. Every Trump contains a 'piece' of the subject's reality."

"How is this dangerous?"

"Every Trump has the capacity to open a window to the mind of the subject. Through a Trump, a person's identity can be attacked, their psyche influenced or their entire being dominated. There are some terribly powerful minds out there princess," he tells her. "Minds and wills so ancient and terrible that your father might be considered nothing more than a foundling in comparison. You never want a Trump of yourself, your family, your home or your allies to fall into the hands of your enemies. To do so invites the most unwanted attention. Trumps are extremely useful, but they are also extremely dangerous."

"I want to learn," Corill tells him.

"Then I will teach you," Lord Miltoc says, rising to his feet. "Come princess, to your lesson."

"One thing more Lord Miltoc," she says, unmoving. "Why did my 'sketch' show me such a desolate scene. Further, why didn't father see it?"

"Even the ancient Masters of the Trump don't know all of its secrets princess," Miltoc says. "While I am far more learned in these matters than your average Chaos Lord, I don't have all the answers. However, two possibilities come immediately to mind. More than likely, your Trump of Kiir'Rhan, done by an untrained if brilliant hand, was unable to
adequately capture the grandeur of this Primal Plane you call Kiir'Rhan and instead latched onto a far weaker shadow of it, an image it could hold and show. That is the most likely answer."

Lord Miltoc moves towards his well - lit studio. Two guardians bar his way, for Miltoc is not allowed within without Corill, and then his every movement is watched by the unblinking ones.

"One moment Lord Miltoc," Corill says. "You said there were two possibilities. What was the second?"

"A distant, distant second princess," Miltoc replies.

"Tell me," she commands.

"As you wish," he sighs. "Trumps images take many forms once their finished. Most of the time, they represent what is. Some represent what was, though their power sleeps. A few . . . a few represent what will be."

"So why couldn't my father see it change?" she asks. "If it was his will that brought the scene to life, why couldn't he see our home destroyed and barren?" She controls her fear. She needs to know, to understand.

"Only one reason suggests itself," Miltoc says. "He could not see the image . . . because he will not see what it represents."