Children's Crusade

                            by Royce Day


        "I'm really all right, Papa," Doran told her adoptive father, as
she finished packing her rucksack.  "I don't think it's necessary for me
to leave New Aveon."  Asher was practically hovering over her, even
though they were in her room, safe within the walls of the Rose and
Pearls.  Her uncle Taman, a drow mage, was hovering more literally next
to him, keeping himself at eye-level with the human thief. "You're
leaving New Aveon because I want to make sure you stay all right," Papa
told her sternly.  "I've got most of the Ebon School on the hunt for
Audric and his hirelings, but that doesn't mean they won't try something
stupid and make a direct assault against the inn." "Your father is
right, Doran," Taman agreed.  "Desperate men often make foolish
decisions.  If he believes he has no hope of survival, Audric may
attempt to strike again at the one thing that he knows Asher holds dear
above all else.  Better that you retreat to Roseford for a few days
where your safety is more assured, rather than be at risk." Doran
blushed at her uncle's description of her.  That Papa loved her was
something she had doubt of.  It was that love that had prompted Audric
to kidnap her, so that Asher's hands would be tied while the master
thief took over New Aveon's thieves guild.  But her father often kept
his emotions close to himself, rather than expose them to the world, or
even her sometimes. "All right, Papa," she agreed.  "I'll go quietly.
Will Peregine be coming with me?"  The lanky drow assassin had been
marginally responsible for her being kidnapped in the first place, but
he had quickly regained Asher's favor by providing the means for her
father to move about and rescue her. "No, I need him here," Asher told
her.  "There are Ebon School folk at the manor already that've been
alerted you're coming.  We've interrogated some of Audric's people that
we captured, and from what they've said it seems he's concentrated his
resources on New Aveon itself, not Blackthorne.  You should be safe,
especially with a few of Taman's wards on you." "Wards?" she asked.
Taman nodded, saying, "Merely some minor spells to warn me if someone
attempts to use hostile magic against you, or tries to place you in an
circle of obscurement as before." "I suppose that's fair," she said.
Doran suddenly hugged Asher, forcing a grunt of surprise from him,  The
thief hugged her back clumsily, patting her shoulder.  "Just be done
with your business quickly," she told him, letting go.  "I'll miss you."
"And I you," Papa said, a quiet smile on his face.  "Now finish packing.
The sooner we see you off, the sooner we can finish this foolishness and
bring you back."

                                * * *

        Being subjected to one of her uncle's teleportation spells was
always a bit disconcerting.  The sudden transition from the dim rooms of
the Rose and Pearls to the bright sunlight outside Blackthorne manor
left Doran blinking her eyes and feeling off balance.  Taman gripped her
arm briefly, making certain she wasn't going to fall, then stepped away
to give her room.  They were standing right by the front doors of the
manor, next to one of the bushes filled with black roses that gave the
manor its name.  A crow cawed in surprise at their appearance, leaping
up from the gravel walkway in front of the doors. "Are you all right?"
he asked her.  She nodded to him, adjusting the grip of her rucksack.
"Yes, I'm fine.   Will you be coming in with me?" "No, I must return to
the city immediately," Taman told her.  "Asher's vengeance against
Audric is proceeding apace.  He will likely be demanding my services
soon." "Watch out for him then," Doran said.  "And watch out for
yourself, Uncle." "I shall," Taman promised.  He kissed her hand
briefly, then focused his will and disappeared, teleporting back to the
inn to aid his friend.  Doran found herself alone in front of
Blackthorne Manor, wondering how long it would be before Papa considered
New Aveon safe enough for her to return. Well, given how worried he had
been when she was kidnapped, probably just a few days.  Asher wasn't one
to let problems like Audric go unattended for very long.  But such
things weren't her concern.  For now her job was to stay out of the way
so Papa needn't be so distracted worrying about her safety. Doran walked
up to the double doors of the manor, wondering if she should knock to
announce herself.  Blackthorne was Papa's home, and therefore hers as
well, but she still felt uncomfortable being here alone.  Her previous
visits, though often several weeks in length, were filled with training
sessions at the Ebon School.  The small room she kept in the Rose &
Pearls was what registered as 'home' in her mind. While she was mulling
this over, the doors unexpectedly opened for her, and a balding,
birdlike man poked his head out.  He let out a cry of surprise when he
saw her standing there, and immediately stepped outside to greet her.
"Lady Blackthorne!  I hadn't been informed of your arrival.  Or rather,
I had been informed, but I hadn't realized it would be so soon.  I'm so
terribly sorry about this.  I hope you will forgive me."  He rubbed his
hands in excitement and made a motion to take her rucksack from her.
"Hello, Master Oliver," Doran greeted.  Francous Oliver was the
seneschal of the Barony of Roseford, and its primary caretaker when
Baron Abelard, Asher, was not in residence.  Which was quite often, she
reflected.  As a result, the poor man had the responsibility of running
an entire barony with precious few of the rewards.  But he was an able
administrator, and her Papa was always generous with his praise towards
him.  "There's no harm done," she reassured him.  "I scarcely knew I was
coming here myself before I arrived." "Well, there's no excuse," Oliver
replied.  "I didn't even hear your carriage come up."  He looked about
suddenly.  "Except there is no carriage."  He sighed.  "Master Taman
strikes again.  Why must mages make everything so difficult for normal
folk like us?" Doran nodded sagely and kept her mouth shut, stifling the
urge to laugh.  She had touch of magery herself, though she was by no
means in her uncle's caliber.  Still, she could understand the
seneschal's frustration.  A person who could teleport anyone to anywhere
at anytime made planning for arrivals somewhat difficult.  Oliver waved
away his frustrations with a sweep of his hands, and finally managed to
take charge of her rucksack. "So," he asked as he led her inside.  "How
long may we look forward to the pleasure of your company, Milady?" "I'm
not certain," Doran told him.  "Perhaps as long as month, or maybe only
a few days.  It really all depends.  Have you heard about what's been
happening in New Aveon?" "I'm afraid not.  Is Baron Abelard having...
er.... difficulties, milady?" Oliver asked cautiously. "Not anymore,"
she reassured him.  "But as a precaution, he sent me to Roseford, while
he makes certain things are settled.  Oh, and please stop calling me
'milady'.  It makes me feel as if I should be wearing a ballroom gown,
holding court.  I'm just Doran." Oliver cocked his head at her, setting
her rucksack down on the tiled floor of the entry hall.  "Milady, I'm
afraid that isn't possible." "Oh, surely..." "Or permissible," Oliver
continued.  He looked about.  "Milady, please let me escort you to your
suite before we continued this conversation." "As you wish," Doran said,
stifling her curiosity.  She let Oliver lead her to her chambers, which
consisted of a generously sized sitting room, dressing chamber, and a
large bedroom.  Oliver deposited her rucksack in the dressing chamber,
to be opened and unloaded by a maidservant who appeared right behind
them. "May I speak freely to you, Lady Doran?" Oliver asked, when she
had seated herself. "Always," Doran told him, arching her eyebrows.
What was Oliver so anxious to speak to her about?.  From the few times
she had met the seneschal, she got the impression of someone who was
most cheerful while busy balancing six different crises at once.  Now he
was just faced with her, and seemed more nervous than she had ever seen
him. "Thank you, Milady.  First, I apologize if I seemed short with you
in the entry hall, but I'm afraid you plucked at one of my sensibilities
back there.  I hate to say this, but it simply isn't appropriate for you
to be overly familiar with the household staff.  Your father is a baron,
and you are your father's daughter, which makes you a Lady, with all the
power and prestige that title implies," he said to her. "You can not go
about telling every serving girl and stableboy that it's all right to
call you by your first name." Doran shook her head.  "Oliver, I may be a
lady by law, but I'm not one by training .  Save for a happy accident, I
could be one of the serving girls.  You can't expect me to treat the
servants like a lower species." "I'm not saying that you must degrade
the staff, Milady," Oliver said.  "Just keep a socially appropriate
distance.  Consider it from their point of view.  While you are here,
your word is law.  You hold the power that decides whether the lives
under you are pleasant or hellish.  Or to put it another way, how
comfortable would you feel if the Pontiff walked into your room and
casually asked how you were doing today?" "Not very," she was forced to
admit.  "Though that power you mention is more in my father's hands than
mine." "Only when he chooses to exercise it," Oliver said dejectedly.
His face flushed with embarrassment as he realized what he said.  "My
apologies, Milady Doran.  That was extremely impertinent of me." Hello,
a little voice called out in Doran's mind.  Something about her father
was bothering Oliver.  But was it bothering him enough to let him open
up to a girl of only seventeen?  "I'll forgive you," she told him
readily.  "But only if you choose to explain your remark." "It's really
nothing, Milady." "It's enough," she said.  "Oliver, you are my father's
seneschal, the man he trusts to care for the Barony of Roseford in his
absence.  Are you so ready to abuse that trust by concealing your
concerns from him, or from his daughter, whom as you pointed out may
hold the reins of power in his absence?" The logic of her argument left
Oliver silent for a moment, his sense of propriety warring with his need
to bring the problems that troubled him out into the open. "His
absence," Oliver finally said.  "Is my primary concern." "Oh?  Pray,
continue," Doran said encouragingly. Oliver sighed, and with a quick
motion urged the maidservant to leave the room.  "Milady Doran, are you
aware of how your father acquired the Barony of Roseford?" he asked. "It
was a grant from New Aveon, after the Baron's War," she said.  "I
gathered that the original holders were no longer in residence." "Old
Alistan, the former Baron, had been a strong supporter of the barons who
attacked New Aveon.  When New Aveon went on the offensive, he and his
family were made 'examples' by New Aveon's Council, and put to death.
Blackthorne Manor was burnt to the ground, and all of it's servants fled
for their lives."  Though his face was outwardly calm, old anger, fueled
by old hurts, flared in Oliver's eyes. "Oh," was all Doran could say.
"Were you there?" she asked softly.  Oliver nodded, a sharp jerk of his
head. "I was the assistant to Baron Alistan's seneschal.  He was killed
along with the Baron's family. Afterward...   The troops moved on.  We
licked our wounds, and tried to get by.  With the Baron dead there was
no one to lead, so we master-less servants hunkered down and ignored the
war as best we could.   We gathered some food, and made up a militia to
keep off the bandits.  Two months we lived like that, until a man rode
up with a drow mage behind him, and said he was the new Baron
Blackthorne." "Abelard," Doran said to herself.  Oh, to have been a fly
on the wall at that first meeting!  She suspected strongly that Oliver
was leaving out great chunks of his tale.  Who better for the villages
have turned to, when they needed to find food for the winter and provide
for a common defense, than the last remnant of the old Baron's household
who was still alive? "Yes, Baron Abelard.  He might have been a New
Aveoner, but we were cold and tired and afraid, and Baron Alistan had
hardly been the most enlightened of rulers.  We didn't expect the new
baron to be any different.  Besides, there was too much to be done to
give us time to worry.  Roseford had been half burnt to the ground, much
of the population had fled to the neighboring baronies, crops had been
planted late.  Oh, we kept the new baron busy, no doubt.  It helped that
he had gathered plenty of spoils during the war, and was willing to
invest where it was needed."  A cautious smile touched Oliver's lips.
"With a little advice from his new seneschal." Doran smiled back.  "I'm
sure he proved to be good Baron." "He was.  At least at first."
Oliver's smile faded.  "But later... Milady, I hope you won't find it
presumptuous, but I think it's right to say that your father was
obviously not born to nobility.  It was something he... acquired most
unexpectedly.  He can put on lordly airs, but they are something he
wears about himself, like an ill-fitting coat.  Orders are something
that he can dispense well enough, but to lead by example is an ability
that he has yet to master." Doran frowned slightly.  "You're wrong about
Abelard's lineage, but I'll grant you that he doesn't take to lordly
airs well.  Surely that isn't so great a problem as you suggest." "In
general it isn't.   The Ebon School and it's students have brought a
good amount of profit into the barony.   All the villages have been
prospering these past few years.  But of late, your father the baron
seems to be... distracted again." "I'm not surprised, all things
considered," Doran said.  No, no surprise at all.  Last year's assault
remained unsolved, vexing everyone in the School.   Pile Audric's recent
attempted coup on top of that, and Papa was becoming rather harried
trying to keep track of the crises.  "Do you have any specific
concerns?" "The villages of Miens and Baronsford have been arguing for
quite some time about their respective borders," Oliver explained.  He
shrugged.  "Well, to be honest they've been arguing for quite some time
about nearly everything.  Somehow they developed a rivalry you see, so
no matter how much effort your father the baron or myself put into
mediating their disputes, both sides wish to appear to have at least
gained some small advantage over the other.  Quite frankly I find the
whole situation rather irritating.  I can't imagine what your father
thinks of it." Oh, I can, Doran thought to herself.  For the normally
polite Oliver to express irritation about anything was a major
revelation.  If it was that bad, Asher would probably be hard-pressed to
keep from loosing the Ebon School on both sides to settle things. "Do
see a crisis in the future?" she asked aloud.  Oliver nodded unhappily.
"The crisis is already here.  I fear young hotheads on both sides are
exaggerating the difficulties," he said.  "Youths in both towns have
created informal militias to patrol their borders, quite illegally I
assure you, but I've been reluctant to send in Roseford's garrison
without consulting with Baron Abelard first." "Understandable," Doran
said.  "Go on." "Well, two days ago they bumped into each other, by
accident as far as I could tell.  They shouted insults at each other for
a while, then finally came to blows." "Dear, God.  I hope no one was
badly injured!" Doran exclaimed. "A couple of broken arms, three
concussions, some cracked ribs, and many bruises on both sides," Oliver
told her.  "Fortunately they were intelligent enough not to carry blades
or bows, just clubs.  Otherwise it could have been argued that both
villages were acting to secede.  I've no wish to start hanging teenagers
for the crime of youthful stupidity, milady." "Nor I," Doran agreed.
"It's an unfortunate situation.  What do you think we must do to correct
it?" "Without  Baron Abelard available, I don't believe there is much we
can do."  Oliver paused.  Suddenly, a gleam appeared in the seneschal's
eye, one that Doran easily recognized.  It often appeared in Asher's
when he saw an unexpected opportunity present itself.  "However, if your
stay will be for an extended period, I believe you can serve well in his
stead." "I will be here for at least a week, Oliver.  Longer, if my
father deems it necessary." "A week, or more," Oliver said absently, his
eyes turned inward.  His hands moved out of his lap, and he began to tap
a tattoo on his left leg.  "Yes...  yes, that might be enough time.
We'll have to move quickly, though, before the situation can deteriorate
further." "What do you want me to do?" Doran asked. Oliver looked her
over with a gimlet eye.  "Well, for starters, how often have you worn a
formal dress...?"

                                * * *

        I look like Empress Anne, Doran thought, looking over herself in
the large polished steel mirror mounted on her dressing chamber wall.
She wore a heavy dress made of soft, dark blue velvet, which had been
rapidly constructed by seamstresses belonging to the Ebon School.  What
jewelry she had was limited to a belt made of silver chain that
encircled her waist, a delicate ferronette to contain the coils of her
white-blond hair, and a badge displaying Roseford Barony's device pinned
to her bosom.  In addition, Doran had reluctantly discarded the plain
brass cross she normally favored for one made of silver and inlaid with
precious sapphires.  She would have preferred the brass cross.  The
hidden stiletto it contained had served her well when she had been
kidnapped by the despicable Audric.  Propriety however, demanded
something a little more impressive. She hadn't even known there were any
seamstresses in the Ebon School.  Though in an odd sort of way it made
sense, especially when she patted her dress discreetly and felt the
various lockpicks and knife sheaths they had hidden in it's folds.  What
other formal wear she owned was back in New Aveon.  Normally Doran never
had time for such things when she visited Roseford, since her hours had
been spent mostly training in the halls of the Ebon School.  Evenings
had been for quiet rest (unless there was reason for nocturnal
instruction) not for parties. Doran smiled at her reflection and gave it
a deep curtsey.  She headed out of her rooms and met with Oliver and a
small squad of mounted guardsmen wearing Roseford's livery in front of
the manor.  Waiting by the door was her father's black carriage, with
four black Percherons hitched to it.  Papa's seneschal took hold of her
hand and helped her aboard the carriage, then sat in the seat across
from her. "On to Miens, driver," Oliver called up through the ceiling
hatch.  The carriage lurched forward, and the guardsmen took point in
front and behind. "It shouldn't take more than two hours to get there,
Milady Doran," he said to her. "Good," Doran replied.  "Who will we be
meeting with?" "Elanah Trebier, the town's mayor.  She's held the post
for the past fifteen years.  Baron Alistan gave her the position, and
Baron Abelard didn't see any reason to change things.  After he declared
that the villages could choose their own mayors, she's been consistently
re-elected." "Is she on our side?" Doran asked.  Oliver's hands
fluttered, and he gave her a Gallic shrug. "Not precisely.  The village
put up a stiff resistance when New Aveon moved in, and a good portion of
it was burned to the ground.  In these quiet days she accepts Baron
Abelard's rule, but doesn't pretend to care for it.  It's helped that
things have gone so well for everyone of course.  It's given her less
reason to complain." "One hopes," Doran agreed.  The intent of their
journey was to meet and be seen by the elders and villagers of Miens and
Baronsford.  Doran's preoccupation with training during her previous
visits had prevented Asher from introducing her to the local
powers-that-be, an oversight that she hoped to correct. "Actually, I'm
glad we finally have this opportunity, Milady Doran," Oliver had said to
her earlier.  "Even though your father announced his adoption of you as
his heir, I fear some rumors concerning your relationship to him
persist." "What rumors, pray tell?" she had asked.  Doran was then
treated to the rare sight of seeing the seneschal blush furiously.
"Well... You must understand, your father... is a rather handsome man...
and you are quite a beautiful... well, woman." Doran's face suddenly
turned as red as Oliver's, as she tried choke back a laugh.  "You mean
they assumed I was his paramour?" Oliver nodded.  "Some still do.  Not
within your father's earshot of course." "By the AllFather, I should
hope not!"  Doran sincerely doubted Papa would have been amused, had he
heard those rumors.  But surely there were Ebon School agents in the
villages whose ears had caught them.   She wondered who the wise editor
was that prevented them from reaching her father.  Peregine perhaps, or
maybe Kruger.  Either one of them could easily guess Papa's reaction.
"Well, as I was saying," Oliver went on, composing himself.  "It is wise
to introduce yourself to them.  The villagers will finally be able to
see you as a person, not just a jumble of second-hand descriptions." "I
quite agree.  The more true facts they know of me, the less chance idle
tongues will wag," Doran told him, and went back to preparing for her
journey. The conversation stayed in her memory as they traveled onward.
The picturesque forest that surrounded Blackthorne Manor gave way to
neatly ordered wine groves, and beyond those plowed fields containing
barley, wheat, and a variety of vegetables.  It was strange to think,
but someday (not soon, she prayed) those fields would be hers to
administer.  A daunting task to be certain, but others had learned it
before her, sometimes with considerably less chance to prepare. The
black Percherons pulled steadily onward, and soon they came upon the
outskirts of the village of Miens.  From the unshuttered window Doran
watched as the surprised villagers burst out of their homes and shop at
the sight of the black carriage.  Oliver had advised that they not send
a courier ahead to announce their arrival, preferring instead to catch
Mayor Trebier and the other village elders off balance. The carriage
came to a halt in the village square, coming to rest in front of a small
brick chapel.  The guardsmen (her guardsmen, she thought with
bemusement) dismounted and formed an honor guard in front of the
carriage.  Oliver opened the door and stepped out, wearing his finest
doublet and hose, with the golden key of his office hanging from a gold
chain about his neck. "Villagers of Miens!" he called out.  "Gather ye
hence, for the arrival of Baron Abelard's most fair, gracious and
beautiful daughter, Lady Doran Blackthorne!" It was hard to keep from
blushing again, but Doran retained her composure as she accepted
Oliver's aid stepping down from the carriage.  All eyes were upon her,
and she heard more than one villager ask, "Is that really her?" There
was a commotion towards the back, and a tall, heavy-set woman pushed her
way forward.  Her face was lined, and her hair was dull gray, but her
eyes sparkled with intelligence and not a little irritation.  This had
to be Mayor Trebier, no doubt annoyed at the sudden surprise visit.
"Hello to you all," Doran said, her voice sounding firmer than she felt.
"Hello to you, Milady," the woman said.  "I'm Mayor Elanah Trebier.
What brings you to Miens?"  The question was not a challenge, or at
least not quite. "I came merely to view your fair village," Doran
answered evenly.  "I have not had the opportunity previously, and
thought now was an excellent time." "I see," Elanah answered in a
similar tone.  "Well, I can do no less than give you a tour of the
village myself.  Would that please you, Milady Doran?" "It would
indeed," Doran replied.  She fell in step with the mayor, Oliver and a
guardsman two paces behind.  The crowd behind them began to disperse.
Among them, Doran had spotted no children older than thirteen, nor any
adult less than twenty.  She wondered where the young miscreants had all
gone off to. "This is a farming village," the mayor began, leading her
towards the village's edge.  She raised a hand towards the nearby
fields.  "We're quite close to the river, so there's enough water for
growing vegetables and some fruit.  We grow eggplants, cabbages,
carrots, and some other things." "Has the crop been plentiful?" Doran
asked. "Somewhat," the mayor answered carefully.  "Some fields have been
damaged by... rodents."  She turned to look Doran in the eye.  "But I
think the problem will take care of itself." Behind her, Doran heard two
sharp intakes of breath from Oliver and the guardsman.  Both held their
tongues, fortunately.  Outbursts of indignance were not going to help
her earn her this woman's trust. "I see," Doran said.  They turned back
towards the village, heading the direction of the church.  In the
village square, the small children were playing a game of hopscotch,
while others ran rings around Doran's coach.  Evidently an unofficial
holiday had been declared in honor of her arrival.  Or more likely
parents had given up hope of holding their children's attention in the
face of all the excitement. Elanah Trebier's walk had a distinctly
military gait, Doran thought.  It would be fascinating to invited into
the mayor's home, to see whether there was a sword and shield hanging on
her wall.  Had she fought against New Aveon during the Baron's War, or
when New Aveon troops came to occupy her village? They began to cross
the square, as the children continued to run willy-nilly.  One four-year
old boy, racing after a little girl's pigtails, suddenly tripped in the
gravel and fell down.  He landed hard, and sat up, holding his scratched
arm and starting to cry. Without stopping to consider what she was
doing, Doran kneeled down beside the young child and gathered him up in
her arms. "Shh, it's all right," she said in his ear, as the boy buried
his face into her shoulder.  "What's your name, little one?"
"T-t-tommy," the boy wept. "Well, do you want to know a secret, Tommy?"
she whispered.  The boy lifted his head up to look at her.  "I know
where smiles are hidden." "W-where?" "In your belly button," Doran him
seriously.  She suddenly began to tickle his stomach, forcing a
delighted laugh from the boy.  "See, there's one now!" The boy laughed
again, then pulled away to go back to his game.  Doran laughed as he
ran, his pain completely forgotten. "Oh, Milady Doran!  Your beautiful
dress!" Oliver exclaimed. "What?  Oh," Doran stood up, brushing her
velvet skirt with her hands.  The soil had left large brown marks around
her knees.  She smiled at the seneschal.  "It's nothing to be alarmed
about, Oliver.  Dirt washes off, after all." "So it does," Trebier
noted, her expression thoughtful.  "Would you care to share the mid-day
meal with me, Milady?" "I'd be honored, Mayor, if it's no inconvenience
to you," she replied.  Trebier just smiled, some of the hard edge
disappearing from her eyes. "I suspect this whole day will be an
inconvenience," she said to Doran.  "Still, lets make the best of it,
shall we?"  Doran and her entourage followed her into the modest cottage
that was her home.  As she suspected, there was a sword and a plain
black shield hanging from the wall.  The shield was well dented, and the
sword's blade was broken off six inches from the haft, the two pieces
mounted separately.  Interesting.  Was the deadly implement a war prize,
or a tool Trebier felt she no longer needed? Trebier fixed places at the
table for Doran and Oliver, and a nod from the seneschal sent the guard
outside.  Doran hoped that Blackthorne's cook had remembered to pack a
lunch for the squad that accompanied them.  Or did they carry their own
rations in their saddle bags?  She really should ask Oliver when she got
the chance. "Are you married?" she called out to the mayor, who was busy
pulling chilled meats from an icebox in the kitchen.  A truly
extraordinary luxury, that icebox.  Though oddly, there were no servants
about in the cottage.  Did Trebier not feel the need for them? "Jean, my
husband, died three years ago.  We never had any children," Trebier
replied, answering Doran's next question. "Oh, I'm sorry," she told the
mayor.  Trebier brought out a wooden platter piled high with cold cuts,
a loaf of bread, and a jug of wine. "Don't be.  He had a long life."
Trebier poured a cup of wine for Doran and Oliver, then sat down beside
them as they dug into the bread and meats.  The mayor chewed
reflectively on her sandwich, looking at Doran with open curiosity.  The
young woman considered it a vast improvement over her initial
introduction. "You aren't what I expected, Milady Doran," Trebier
finally said. Doran smiled shyly.  "Oh, what were you expecting?" "To be
truthful, another one of Baron Abelard's lightskirts.  He's had a pretty
steady stream of women come to Blackthorne since he took over."  The
older woman took another bite of her sandwich and waited for a reaction.
"I've been made aware of such rumors, Mayor Trebier," Doran said calmly.
She found herself glad for Oliver's briefing before they left.
Encountering that story unprepared in front of strangers probably would
have left her completely tongue-tied.  "They are however, completely
baseless.  My father has a... healthy... interest in the opposite sex,
but I can assure you that his love of me is completely paternal." "I
realize that now, Milady.  You act like a noble, not a nobleman's toy."
"Thank you, Mayor," Doran replied.  She finished the last bite of her
sandwich and sent it on it's way with a sip of wine.  "Since I've
satisfied your curiosity, perhaps you can now sate mine." "If I can,"
Trebier said agreeably. "Why, pray tell, is there such an odd dispersion
of ages in your village?  I thought that everyone here would be
attracted to my arrival, yet I have seen no one between the ages of
fourteen and nineteen today." Trebier was silent for a long moment,
biding her time by finishing off her cup of wine. "I can't account for
the movements of every child in our village, milady," she finally said.
"A poor answer, and not worthy of someone who has worked and fought so
hard to protect this village," Doran replied, letting her voice grow a
shade colder.  "Children do not go about bashing each other with clubs,
leaving many of their number broken arms and addled skulls.  Nor do they
engage in activities which bring them dangerously close to sedition from
their ruling baron." Mayor Trebier stiffened in her chair.  "We are
loyal," she snapped.  "I will not claim I agree with everything Baron
Abelard has done, but nor do I claim Miens would be better off without
him." "Another poor answer.  Either you support your rightful baron or
you do not.  No half measures, no qualifications."  A touch of bitter,
to gain her attention, now let's pray she accepts the sweet to make it
go down more easily.  "Loyalty given will be returned, Mayor," she said.
"If honest error or overexuberance is all that is at work here, I will
take that into account.  I see no need to make a problem worse by
overreacting.  But I do want to bring a resolution to the matter, before
a bad situation becomes unsolvable." Something seemed to deflate inside
Trebier, perhaps her strong pride.  She set her cup down and leaned back
in her chair, keeping her eyes fixed to Doran's. "After the fight, the
wounded boys and girls came to Mother Sarah for healing.  The rest of
the children fled to the Mounds," she said. "The Mounds?" "Old burial
grounds the heathen Gaels used, artificial hills with crypts built
inside them, all connected with tunnels.  They're so old, I think even
the ghosts have forgotten about them.  We found them damned useful when
we were fighting the bandits after the war.  Parents around here always
warn the children to keep away, for fear of the Mounds collapsing while
they're inside, but they rarely listen."  A smile quirked up on
Trebier's face.  "I know I never did." "I see," Doran said.  "So, what
do you think we can do to convince these miscreants to come out?" "Tell
the damned Baronsforders to quit trying to take our farmland," Trebier
said.  "The river shifted five years ago, giving us about ten extra
hectacres.  When it happened that idiot du Champs never said a word
about it, even after we started plowing.  Now Baronsford has grown
enough to till more land, except they want the land we've already
plowed, instead of clearing their own themselves." Doran glanced over to
Oliver, who had been taking the occasional note on a wax tablet during
the conversation, but otherwise leaving things to her.  He looked up to
meet her questioning glance.  "Is this true?" she asked him.
"Essentially," Oliver replied.  "Growth was slow in Baronsford after the
war, since most of the adult male population had been killed trying to
take New Aveon.  The river changed course during the spring rains five
years ago.  At the time, Baron Abelard offered to mediate an agreement
over the use of the disputed land, but both sides demurred." "I didn't
see the need," Trebier said.  "The river had always defined our borders.
Besides, the damned thing had shifted enough in the past, and old Baron
Alistan never saw the need to stick his hand in." "My father is not
Baron Alistan, and it appears to be a more confusing situation than is
usual," Doran observed. Trebier let out an amused snort.  "Not from my
end," she said. "Nor from Mayor du Champs perspective either, I'll
venture," Doran said.  "But as my father the baron's representative, I
can't afford such favoritism, for either side of this dispute.  Tell me,
assuming I hadn't arrived here this morning, how would you have solved
this disagreement?" "I'd have waited for the children in the Mounds to
return to the village.  Then I would've given them the devil for being
hotheaded idiots, and tossed the ringleaders in the pillories for a day
or two to convince them of the error of their ways." "What about
Baronsford's claims to the farmland?" "I would have sent a nasty note to
du Champs telling him to keep off our land."  Trebier shrugged.  "If he
was insistent, I suppose I would have gone to Oliver, eventually."
"Eventually," Doran repeated.  "I'm afraid that might give people even
more time to let their bad feelings fester.  I think I would prefer to
bring a decisive resolution to this more quickly." Trebier leaned back
in her seat.  "What do you have in mind?" she asked. "I think it would
be best to take care of the children first.  Then we'll move to your
argument with Baronsford and Mayor de Champs."

                                * * *

        A nice little hidey-hole, Doran decided.  She, Oliver, and Mayor
Trebier had ridden in her papa's carriage to the edge of a grassy field
two miles outside of the village, untouched by farmer's plows.  Eight
large earthen mounds surrounded a circle of fallen stones, marking the
worshipping place of long dead Gaels.  It was far enough outside of the
village that adults had little reason to visit, and children had every
reason to explore.  There was no human habitation nearby, the closest
farmer's cot being over a half-mile away.  Doran could understand the
reasons for that easily enough.  Even in the safe light of the
afternoon, just looking at this ancient place brought up the hairs on
the back of her neck.  This was built over a thousand years before I was
born, she thought, suppressing a shiver.  Perhaps a thousand years
before the Savior walked in Jerusalem. She gathered up the skirt of her
dress and began to walk closer to the Mounds, with only Trebier and
Oliver accompanying her.  Her guards she left waiting by the carriage.
She saw little need for their aid, since from Oliver and Trebier's
description the children weren't heavily armed.  Coaxing them out of
their hiding place would be considerably more difficult with a
half-dozen armor clad fighters intimidating them. "Are you certain that
they're still here?" Oliver asked quietly.  Something about the place
seemed to demand that they speak in low tones. "I'm sure," Trebier
answered.  She pointed towards a mound off to the left.  "See the how
the grass has been beaten down at that entrance?"  Doran and Oliver both
strained to see where she was pointing.  Only the tell-tale signs of
trampled grass and mud revealed that there was an entrance at all, and
it was just a small hole that could easily be mistaken for an animal's
nest.  "I'll bet they see us, even if we don't see them." Doran stared
at the entrance.  "Isn't that too small for an adult to get through?"
she asked.  Trebier nodded. "It was wider when we fought the bandits.
Afterward I had all of the mounds sealed up, so no one could wander in
and get hurt.  Naturally the children dug them open again." "What was it
like inside?" "Small and very dark, at first" Trebier said.  "You had to
make your way around by feel, mostly.  A torch or lantern would foul the
air right quick.  Later we punched small spy-holes through the sides, so
there was a little light, and fresh air." "Traps?"  Trebier shook her
head. "The entrance was too small to make them necessary; attackers had
to come through one at a time.  One man with a spear or a short sword
could hold it easily. "Very unpleasant," Doran concluded.  Trebier just
smiled. "The bandits thought so," she said with satisfaction. Doran
halted their progress when they were just twenty-five feet from the
entrance to the mound.  Did she see a pair of eyes staring at her from
the small hole?  Yes, she did, for they soon disappeared from view,
presumably relaying the dreaded news of adults arriving.  Well, two
adults and one overdressed baron's daughter. "The horror, the horror..."
she muttered quietly to herself. "What?" Trebier asked. "Nothing," Doran
said more loudly.  "I think it's time to announce ourselves.  Would you
care to do the honors, Mayor Trebier?" "Delighted, milady," Trebier
replied.  She pulled in a breath and began to shout. "Play time is
finished, children!  I'm here to tell you that Baron Abelard is very
upset with you.  So upset that he's sent his daughter, Lady Doran, and
Seneschal Oliver to deal with you themselves.  Now come out, and be done
with this foolishness!" Not the approach I would have chosen.  It
appeared that diplomacy was not Trebier's strong suit.  Still, it did
work, for soon a child wormed her way out from the tunnel, a pole with a
white cloth clutched in her hand. Playing war, still? Doran wondered.
She thought the girl was all of ten years old, but then saw the rounded
nubs of her ears pointing up from her black hair.  They marked her a
half-elf of perhaps sixteen years. "Who's that?" she asked Trebier
quietly, as the girl approached. "Moll de Gaullier," the mayor answered.
She barked an unmasked laugh.  "That's no great shock.  If there's any
trouble with the younglings, you can always bet she's in the middle of
it.  I hope she'll enjoy wearing a stock around her neck tonight."
"Patience, Mayor.  We have no proof she's directly responsible."
Perhaps it was best that Trebier never had any children.  Doran imagined
the mayor barking orders to a line of infants sitting on the floor and
stifled a laugh. Moll halted ten feet away from them, looking more than
a bit grubby from crawling about in the dirt for half the day.  She
planted her makeshift truce flag in the grass, and stared at the three
adults defiantly. "I'm coming under a flag of truce," she said.  "I
don't want any of my people harmed." Trebier opened her mouth to shoot
back a reply, but a warning look from Doran made her close it again. "A
flag of truce need only be used if you wish to speak with an enemy,"
Doran said reasonably.  "Surely your elected mayor, and your baron's
daughter and seneschal are not your enemies." "Y'r not coming t' arrest
us?" Moll asked suspiciously. "Mistress de Gaullier, you know what you
did would surely have consequences," Doran told the defiant young girl.
"You can't go about picking fights with other villages and expect Baron
Abelard to sit idly by.  Mayor Trebier has informed me that most of your
compatriots will be given a stern talking to.  However, the leaders of
your band will be punished in some way.  I'm afraid that simply cannot
be avoided." "I'm not goin'ta spend another day in the stocks just f'r
doin' what was right!" Moll exclaimed.  "The damned Baronsforders know
that's our land.  They started the fight.  We were just protect'n what
was ours!" "The Baronsford children are next on her list, Moll," Trebier
said.  "She's got to start somewhere." "Y'r gonna stick Short Willy in
the stocks too, Milady?" Moll asked. At Doran's questioning look,
Trebier explained,  "Short Willy in one of the Baronsforder boys.
Another troublemaker." "If he's responsible, he'll be punished," Doran
assured her.  "If he is uncooperative, his punishment will be all the
harsher." "Huh," Moll said thoughtfully.  She was quiet for a moment, as
she considered Doran's words.  "If we come out peaceable, I got y'r word
that y'r goin'ta treat Short Willy and his gang the same as us?" she
asked. "My word as Lady Doran Blackthorne," Doran reassured her.  Moll
nodded, and shot a look to Trebier. "What about her?" Moll asked.  "I
got her word too?" "Yes," Trebier said, her voice short. "A'right then.
I gotta talk to my mates.   I'll be back."  Moll pulled up her flag and
headed back into the mound. When the girl had disappeared, Trebier
turned to Doran and said, "Thank you, Milady." "For what?"  Doran asked.
"For supporting me, and what I want to do to the little whelps once they
come out," the mayor explained.  "For a moment I thought you were going
to get all soft and tell the little half-breed they all could just go
home." Doran gave a look that she hoped was properly haughty look.  "You
forget yourself, Mayor Trebier.  In this matter, as in all matters of
the barony, you are supporting me." Trebier looked at her with surprise,
and she quickly softened her gaze. "I know that's not the way to raise
up a child," Doran said.  "Limits, and consequences, have to be set.
Though if Moll identifies the rest of the leaders, I might ask that you
give her a little lenience." "We'll see," Trebier said, slightly miffed
at the reproach, but at least still listening. They waited a quarter
hour, before Moll poked her head out from the hill again.  She waved her
white flag, then pulled herself out, followed by two young men about
eighteen or nineteen years old. "Okay, we're coming out," the half-elven
girl announced.  What seemed to be about two dozen boys and girls began
to emerge from the mound, looking at Doran and her entourage silently as
they formed a ragged line in front of them.  The older boys had a
tendency to look over at Doran, then turn away blushing furiously.  She
tried not to smile.  The children were taking this utterly seriously, so
she had to as well.  Now wasn't the time to start wounding their
fragile, childish pride. You're younger than some of them.  So where's
your childish pride? she thought to herself.  Somewhere behind the
barrier that her memories had built, perhaps.  After her awakening at
fifteen, she never had the time for such indulgences. Still, it was
flattering, that embarrassed attention.  It was much more innocent than
some of the looks she had gotten when she was waiting tables in the Rose
& Pearls.  Doran knew that she had been blessed with comely features,
but more often than not they proved to a hindrance than a help.  No
chance of you ever being a spy, Doran, her papa had once told her.  Even
if you covered yourself in mud, a face like yours will stand out. So,
she did have pride, Doran admitted to herself, just not childish pride.
If her beauty left her one day, she'd be upset, but Doran knew the
wounds to her heart would not be mortal. "Is that everyone?" Doran
asked, when the last child had emerged from the ground. Trebier nodded.
"Yes, that's the lot of them.  The rest are in the chapel's infirmary
back in the village." "All right then," Doran turned to Oliver.
"Francous, go get the sergeant and his men to take the children back to
the village.  It'll make them feel like they've accomplished something,
if they must be escorted.  Or failing that, perhaps they'll be
intimidated enough not to try again." "Yes, Milady," Oliver said, and
walked off towards the edge of the field where her guardsmen waited. She
next turned to Trebier.  "Mayor, you may ride with us back to Miens.
Tomorrow we will both travel to Baronsford and meet with Mayor du
Champs.  Perhaps then we might finally resolve this situation."
Trebier's reply was lost to her ears, as a high pitched battle cry
suddenly echoed across the field.  From behind the far mounds, over four
dozen youngsters appeared, waving clubs or carrying slings in their
hands.  They charged toward Mien's children, while Moll let out a curse.
The next few moments were a confused terror for Doran.  Not for herself,
because she knew quite well how to defend herself, but for the children
around her.  The children of Miens let out an answering cry of rage,
picking up rocks and old sticks from the ground to defend themselves as
the other children approched.  Oliver was shouting orders to the
guardsmen at the far end of the field, while she shook off the grip
Trebier had taken on her arm. "Milady!  We must get you to safety!" the
mayor cried out.  A stone bullet whizzed by, thrown from the sling of
the attacking children.  The Baronsford children made no agreement to
surrender, Doran realized.  The must have been watching the Mounds,
waiting for the right moment to attack.  She ducked as another sling
bullet whizzed by, nearly tripping in her long skirt.  Grabbing hold of
the edge of one seam, she yanked hard, ripping the skirt loose at the
tear-away point and leaving the silk tights she wore underneath to
protect her modesty.  Yet another advantage of Ebon School tailoring. An
arrow flew past, from the direction of the guardsmen.  They had their
bows out and were targeting the children armed with slings.  Already one
fifteen-year old girl was down, clutching at her bleeding shoulder.
Doran found herself screaming, "Stop shooting!  By your Lady, cease
fire!"  A boy bumped into her, and she grabbed hold of his arm and
flipped him over her shoulder, laying him flat on the ground.  A girl
made a grab for her hair, tearing away her ferronette before she planted
an elbow in her ribs.  Both sets of children formed into one confused
mass on the field, with her close to its center.  Shortly, she found
herself trying desperately to fend off more of the children, trying to
push them away rather than actually hurt them.  Her rank was ignored by
boys and girls more concerned in beating each other senseless than
listening to their sovereign's orders. She looked about wildly.  She had
become seperated from Trebier during the melee, and now stood close to
the entrance to the Mounds.  Moll was with her, holding a club she
liberated from one of her opponents.  Doran spotted Oliver twenty yards
away, meeting with the guardsmen as they rushed up, and screaming, "The
flats!  Use the flats of your blades!" "Good man, Oliver," Doran
muttered breathlessly.  Moll nodded in agreement. "This is a bleedin'
mess, Milady," the girl said hurridly.  "Get inside th' Mounds.  I think
th' hole 's big enough for y'." Doran began to shake her negatively,
which proved fortunate for her.  The sling bullet that would have struck
the soft part of her temple instead buried itself into the mass of hair
covering the back of her head.  The world exploded into stars right in
front of her eyes, and Doran was unconscious before she fell into Moll's
arms.

                                * * *

        As battlefields went it was by no means the bloodiest.  Here and
there a boy or a girl sat in the grass, crying softly and trying to
clutch a broken limb.  Others, bruised but not broken, were gathered
together under Trebier's watchful eye.  Most of the captive Baronsforder
children were laying face down beside each other in the grass, with a
none too happy guardsman watching over them with a drawn sword.  Another
guardsman was quickly binding them in a line with a rope around their
right ankles for their eventual march back home, and to whatever
punishment Oliver or Baron Abelard thought they deserved.  The others
had fled back to Baronsford.  Pursuit through the woods being fruitless
with so few men, the baron's soldiers had let them go until
reinforcements could be brought in. Oliver viewed the whole scene
without enthusiasm, dreading the moment when the entire matter would be
out of his hands.  He looked down at the delicate silver ferronette
clutched in his hand.  It had been torn from Lady Doran's hair in the
fight, to be found by one the guardsman shortly after the fray ended.
"Sergeant, you've found no sign of Lady Doran around the other mounds?"
he asked, after waving the man over.. "No, sir," the sergeant replied.
The hawk faced non-com appeared mortified at this failure to protect
Baron Abelard's daughter.  "I've questioned several of the children.
Two of them said after Lady Doran fell, they saw the half-elven girl
dragging her towards the entrance to their hiding place.  I think it
likely that she's inside.  I can go in myself and try to..." "No,
Sergeant," Oliver interrupted.  "From what Mayor Trebier described, even
a child could defend it well.  While you dug your way forward, they
might be tempted to bring harm to her.  What I want you to do is set
guards at the open entrances, then send a courier to Blackthorne and
inform the Ebon School's proctor and your captain of the situation.  The
captain's orders will be to throw a cordon around Baronsford.  I want
those so-called children found, and I want Mayor du Champs to know
exactly how upset I and Baron Abelard are over this situation." "Yes,
Sir!" The sergeant, grateful for being given a clear plan of action,
rushed off to carry out Oliver's orders.  The seneschal watched him go,
then turned away as Trebier approached him. "I'm about ready to escort
my brood back to Miens, with your permission," she said.  "If you're
willing, I'd like to make use of your carriage to transport the injured
children.  I've got a few with broken legs and arms that need looking
after by our priest as soon as possible." Oliver nodded his approval.
"You may," he said.  "I must stay here to monitor the situation.  I can
not leave until I am certain Lady Doran is safe." "I understand,"
Trebier said.  She sighed, and her shoulders slumped down in weariness.
"I am sorry about this, Francous.  I don't know much about Lady Doran,
but she seems like a good girl.  For whatever it's worth, I don't think
the children will hurt her." "It is not Doran that you should be worried
for," Oliver said.  Trebier looked at him strangely, but he merely told
her.  "Please leave me be for a moment."  Obviously holding back her
questions, the mayor walked off, leaving the seneschal alone. Oliver
placed Doran's ferronette in his belt pouch, then pulled his golden key
of office over his head, leaving it dangling by it's chain in his hand.
Inset along it's shaft were three separate stones; a diamond, a ruby,
and an emerald, all in a line.  Dreading what was to come next, he took
the key in hand, pressed the tips of his fingers over the precious
stones, and said the Word that the mage Taman had taught him so long
ago. The air in front of him seemed to shiver like a silvery wave, then
it flattened out into a circular mirror two armspans in diameter,
hanging unsupported in the air.  As he watched, a scarred face appeared
within it, bearing an expression both wary and full of dread. "What
happened?" Asher asked.

                                * * *

        Dark.  An oppressive pitch black that surrounded her, even when
she opened her eyes wide. Pain.  A sharp knot that radiated from the
back of her head, where the sling bullet had struck her. Earth.  A deep
scent of black soil, and the feel of dirt pressing against her cheek.
Bound.  Scratchy hemp pinioned her wrists loosely behind her, pulling
her arms back into an uncomfortable position. Prisoner, Doran concluded.
"Twice in less than a week," she said aloud softly, minding the headache
that was coming on.  I sincerely hope this isn't going to become a
habit. "Are you awake, Milady?" a voice asked, far too loudly to Doran's
hyper-sensitive ears.  It was the half-elven girl, Moll, she realized.
Was she a prisoner too?  No, for she felt the girl's free hands touch
her on the forehead, then press lightly on the knot on the back of her
head.  Doran drew in a sharp intake of breath at the flare of pain, and
Moll pulled back suddenly. From what echoes she could hear, they were in
a very small chamber, no more than four feet on a side perhaps.  There
were other voices, with a youthful high-pitch but indistinct, coming
from beyond some form of barrier. "Where am I?" she asked Moll, levering
herself upright and leaning against the earthen walls. "In the Mounds,"
the girl answered softly. "Ah," was Doran's only reply.  She shifted her
position slightly, taking inventory.  The knife she kept sheathed on her
thigh was missing, having been revealed when she had torn away her
skirt.  But her arms sheaths were untouched, and the lockpicks that were
sewn into the material of her dress were still there.  So her kidnappers
had respected her authority enough not to conduct an invasive search of
her person.  Her hair fell about her shoulders, the ferronette
containing it having been torn away in the fight.  Thankfully.   Had her
hair remained up, there would have been no cushion to break whatever had
struck her, and her injury would likely have been worse.  "Tell me what
happened, Moll.  Softly, please," she asked. "You were hit by a sling
bullet and fell, knocked out," Moll said, her voice low.  "Everything
was so crazy; people running about, Master Oliver and Mayor Trebier
yelling at everyone; I was afraid you'd be trampled.  We were near the
entrance to the Mound, so I dragged you inside to keep you safe.  Then
Roget and Jean pushed in, along with a few others, and closed up the
entry tunnel." "I see," Doran replied.  She tested her wrists against
the hemp rope.  It was sufficiently loose that she could pull free in
one motion.  Deciding to keep that bit of knowledge to herself, she
continued talking to Moll.  "If your intentions were to keep me safe,
why am I bound?" The half-elven girl was silent for a moment.  "It's not
my idea, Milady," she said, sounding almost meek.   "Roget and Jean,
they have some idea that if they can keep you here, then they can talk
Oliver into letting Miens' keep it's farmland.  I thought it was stupid,
and told 'em so, but they didn't listen.  They told me to tie you up and
keep watch over you." "That's not Oliver's decision to make," Doran told
her.  "Its mine, and at the moment I'm not feeling all that charitable
towards Miens, or most especially Roget and Jean." "Or me neither, I
guess," Moll said dejectedly. "There you're wrong.  Your intentions were
good, Moll.  Things just don't seem to have worked out as you wished,"
Doran told her.  She wished there was at least some light, so she could
see whether that had brightened the girl's expression. Moll appeared to
be willing to try and be optimistic about the whole thing at least.
"They can't keep you here forever, Milady," she said.  "We only brought
a little food when we lit out, and no water.  Your guardsmen are at
every entrance, so there's nowhere to go.   Roget and Jean have to
realize that, eventually.  You'll be free by tomorrow, I'll bet." "By
tomorrow, or sooner," Doran said, suddenly thankful that the darkness
hid her own expression.  Her first flippant thought upon awakening
suddenly came back to haunt her.  She was not certain of the exact
means, but she was sure that Oliver would have some way of contacting
Papa, should a dire emergency occur.  Which her disappearance certainly
qualified as. This was different from the imprisonment Audric had forced
upon her.  No dark spells would hide her from Uncle Taman.  No threats
upon her person would stop Papa Asher from loosing the whole of the Ebon
School's resources to aid him.  There was nothing to stop them.  Nothing
at all. There are only children here, Doran thought, her blood running
cold.  Foolish children, but children nonetheless.  Surely Papa will
realize that...  If he cared to listen.  If he did not fear overmuch for
her safety. No, he would fear.  After her rescue some days before, Asher
had spoken nothing that did not indicate his full confidence in her safe
return.  But she knew him, and could look for the brief moments of naked
relief on his face when he thought she was not watching.  He had feared,
all the more so because of the sinister methods with which Audric had
bound his own hands. She remembered the scattered reports that had
reached her ear while she had recovered from her ordeal.  Brigit, the
Rose &Pearls bouncer and her sometimes bodyguard, had cheerfully relayed
morbid details of Papa's retribution against Audric's followers.
Several people turned up dead or missing, and two of New Aveon's
councilors in the master thief's employ were found city's main square,
their bodies flayed raw and their innards gutted like cattle. Asher
preferred to use stark examples, in order to prevent others from
considering similar treachery. But they are children, she thought again.
Children that were holding her against her will, so shortly after
another had.  The younger ones she felt some confidence that he would
stay his hand against, but the elder boys would be met with the full
force of his wrath.  And how many others might fall accidentally, when
Asher would inevitably assault this redoubt?  Her stomach churned as she
considered these possibilities.  Though her papa had taught her to be
decisive, Doran knew that she lacked some basic component of
ruthlessness that Asher had gained during his harsh life.  If innocent
children died, she did not think she could ever wash the blood from her
hands. I have to get away from here, she decided.  If she was free, the
urgency of her father's anger would be muted.  Perhaps enough that he
would see the inherent ludicrousness of the whole situation.  One laugh
from him, and this crisis will have ended.  One drop of blood from me,
and both Miens and Baronsford may very well burn.   But escape would be
difficult.  She lacked Peregine's ability for shifting his shape, and
her own magical gifts were fledgling at best.  There would be no simple
way for her to magically fly away.  She would have to convince Roget and
Jean to release her on their own. "Are you all right, Milady?" Moll
asked breaking her reverie. Doran stirred, flexing against her bonds yet
again.  "I was just thinking," she said.  No need to worry Moll with her
speculation.  The half-elven girl was feeling guilt enough for literally
dragging her into this situation.  "Moll, do you think you could untie
me for a moment?  This isn't very comfortable."  She could free herself
easily, but she no wish to let anyone know that yet, even though the
looseness of her bonds was likely Moll's deliberate doing in the first
place. "Only for a moment," Moll said.  "I'm not suppose to let you
loose at all."  Doran heard the girl move behind her, and begin working
at the knots. "Surely you don't listen to everything Roget and Jean have
to say," she said to Moll.  The girl let out a rueful laugh. "They're
bigger than I am, Milady, and I'm only a half-breed.  It was all that I
could do to convince them to come out the first time.  I can usually lay
in a few licks when things come down to a fight, but I'm smaller than
anybody my age." The ropes parted and Doran brought her arms forward,
rubbing her wrists gratefully.  "That will change," she reassured the
girl.  "Wait sixty years or so, when you still will be standing straight
and tall, while they stoop low in their chairs and make themselves a
burden to their grandchildren." "Not sure I can wait that long, Milady."
Something in her voice sounded like a smile.  Doran decided it was about
time she shed some light on the subject. "Close your eyes, Moll.  I'm
quite tired of trying to hold a conversation in pitch darkness," she
told the girl.  She closed her own eyes and chanted the words to the
spell Uncle Taman had taught her, while waving her hands in the proper
motions.  A ball of light popped into existence over her head, bathing
the chamber in a soft glow.  Opening her eyes, Doran saw that they were
in some kind of burial chamber.  The entrance was barely big enough for
a man to crawl through, and was blockaded by a squared off granite
stone.   On Doran's left, directly opposite the entrance, an alcove was
dug into the wall still containing the stripped bones of some ancient
Gaelic warrior.  The earthen ceiling was quite low, leaving barely
enough room to stoop over, and none to stand. "Moll!  What's happening?"
a male voice called out from beyond the chamber.  The stone blocking
them in was pulled away, and a young man poked his head through, one of
the two older boys that had followed Moll out of the Mound prior to the
attack.  He had a sandy wisp of a beard, and an arrogant expression.
The young man looked up in surprise at the glowing ball that floated
near the top of the chamber. "Lady Doran got tired of sitting in the
dark, Roget" Moll explained, a smile threatening to erupt on her face.
"She did this?  No one said she was a damned mage," Roget cursed.  "What
did you let her loose for, then?" "I'm not a 'damned' anything, Sieur,"
Doran told him, making her voice deliberately cold.  "As for my bonds,
Moll released me at my request.  She at least is willing to listen to
her rightful Lady." Roget's face flushed crimson at this censure, but he
quickly recovered.  "I'm sorry, Milady.  Perhaps Moll thought she was
being kind, but we can't let you go anywhere.  Moll, tie her up again."
"Moll, don't move," Doran ordered.  The half-elven girl, caught between
the two equally unpleasant alternatives of binding her Lady, and defying
an older and stronger peer, was more than happy to freeze in place.
"You will do no such thing," she continued.  Doran kneeled down at the
entrance and pushed her way forward.  Roget, rather than daring to lay a
hand on her person, backed up until she could crawl through into the
mound's main chamber. It was a round room about ten feet in diameter,
with a sloping roof a little less than six feet high at its highest.
Dim light came through the spyholes that Trebier's partisans had punched
through long ago.  Three other entrances were visible to Doran, two
leading to burial chambers, and another outside.  Which was which was
anybody's guess.  The floor was lined with stone bricks, and in the
center was a circular iron plate, presumably leading to the connecting
tunnels Trebier had mentioned earlier. There were about ten children in
the room, some sporting spectacular bruises from the fight.  The eldest,
presumably Jean, looked surprised as Doran crawled from her prison and
dusted herself off.  Which wasn't shocking to her.  Poor Oliver would
have been appalled at her appearance.  Her dress was a tattered ruin,
the skirt torn away, leaving only her hose to protect her modesty, and
her hair flew every which way.  She was dirty, dusty, and disheveled,
but she still had the authority inherent in her position.  Hopefully it
would be enough to cow these children before things got completely out
of hand. "Monsieur Jean," she addressed the other young man.  "I believe
this foolishness has gone on for long enough.  It is time for me to
leave, before you and your friends can dig yourselves into deeper
trouble." "Rog, what is going on?" Jean asked, not addressing her
directly.  "You and Moll were supposed to keep her in there."  Doran
noticed irritably that he had her dagger thrust into his belt. "She's
going back," Roget said, less certainly than he had before. "It is not
your place to give orders," Doran said to them both. "Things change,"
Jean said.  "Oliver isn't going to do anything while you're here."
"Oliver isn't the one you should be worrying about," she told them.  "My
father will arrive shortly from New Aveon.  When he does, he will be
extremely angry." "New Aveon is two days from here," Roget said.
"Things will be settled before then." "New Aveon is two days away, but
Baron Abelard is not," she told them.  "He was going to arrive at
Blackthorne Manor two days after myself, which means he is likely
already there."  It was only half a lie.  Papa was almost certainly due
to arrive soon, but it would not take him two days.  Not in this sort of
emergency. "I don't believe you," Jean said.  "You're bluffing.   Oliver
is going to give us what we want, and Baron Abelard will have to go
along with what he decides.  Now get back inside your hole."  He reached
towards to Doran to grab hold of her arms. Doran reached up to grab his
right arm, which served to distract his eyes as her left knee connected
solidly with his crotch.  Jean let out a strangled cry of pain, doubling
over as she grabbed her dagger from his belt and shoved him towards the
wall.  Smaller children scrambled out his way, even as Roget charged
toward her.  Reversing her knife, Doran struck Roget's elbow with the
hilt, popping his funny bone and rendering his arm useless.  He rushed
past and turned to face her again, only to fall heavily before he could
complete the motion, as her right leg swept out and knocked him
breathless to the floor. Jean was up and hobbling towards her again, his
ire up from his embarrassing injury.  But Doran danced out of his way
and grabbed hold of his thumb, twisting it behind his back painfully as
she brought her knife to his throat. Jean froze into place, as Doran
leaned down close to his ear.  "How serious do you want to make this,
Jean?  It isn't a game anymore, I can tell you that much."  From the
corner of her eye, she saw Roget pick himself off the floor, wide-eyed
at her sudden violence.  Moll was watching as well, she saw, poking her
face out from the crypt entrance. "You w-won't kill me," Jean stuttered.
"That would be murder." "Well, since murder committed by a noble must be
judged by a noble, in this case my father, I'm fairly confident the
court would see things my way," Doran told him.  She shoved him away,
and Jean fell face-first into the dirt.  Then she stood up, for that
moment towering over them in both height and noble station.  "Listen to
me, boys, and listen well.  My father Baron Abelard taught me how to
fight, and I'm by no means the best among the people he's trained.
Every one of his guard is trained similarly, and right now they all will
have their anger up at my being kidnapped.  The longer this crisis
continues, the less likely my father or any of his guard are going feel
any mercy for my kidnappers."  She turned away from the cowed children
and kneeled down to crawl back into the crypt. "Where are you going?"
Roget asked, his face pale. "Back to my prison," she answered.  "I'll
come out again, if I think you're being more sensible.  If not, then
it's as good a place as any to wait for the inevitable."  Doran crawled
back inside, Moll staring at her in wide-eyed wonder. "By the Allfather,
you sure scared the devil out of them," the half-elven girl said
respectfully. "I hope so," Doran replied, suddenly weary.  "By Heaven, I
hope so."

                                * * *

        A call of alarm from one of the guardsmen alerted Oliver to
Baron Abelard's arrival.  The seneschal turned to see the open center of
the one of the great stone plinths was glowing with a blinding white
light.  It soon faded, only to leave the image of a small meeting
chamber in it's wake.  From that image, Abelard emerged, as if stepping
from a painting.  He was followed by ten men and women, all with a
countenance as grave as their master's.  Most of them were recognizable
to Oliver:  Peregine, a drowish spy who preferred to call himself a
"problem solver";  Kruger, a man with a chilling cold demeanor, who
served as a sage of sorts, looking for clues from the mass of
information the Ebon School tended to accumulate; and Reg, one of the
younger KnightCutters from the Baron's War.  All were armed and armored
as if for war, with the close in weapons the Ebon School favored; short
swords, knives, and small hand crossbows, plus more exotic items that he
could not readily identify! .  W hen the last of them had stepped
through, the magical gateway glowed brightly once again and disappeared,
leaving the ancient plinth empty save for the normal view of the Mounds
beyond it. Oliver came forward to meet them, drawing Doran's ferronette
from his pouch and handing it silently to Baron Abelard.  He watched as
Abelard clutched the fine silver net in his hand, his eyes closed
tightly.  The Baron brought it up to his face, drawing in his breath and
tasting his daughter's scent from the few stray strands of hair that
were caught in the feronette's links.  Then he opened his eyes and
stared Oliver down, his face blank and cold. "How did this happen,
Oliver?" he asked tightly.  "Why did you not come to me sooner when
things became so close to out of control?"  The seneschal struggled to
catch up as Abelard headed towards the center of the stone circle that
the burial mounds surrounded.  Kruger and Reg were already in the
process of setting up an informal command post by the circle's altar, a
rough sketch of the area lying across it. The field around them was
crowded.  The Ebon School's proctor had arrived less than a half-hour
before, with half of Roseford's guardsmen with him.  Most had set out to
surround Baronsford, while the rest provided additional sentries to
watch over the entrances to the Mounds, and ready soldiers to assault
it, if need be.  Meanwhile Trebier had gone and returned, escorting her
wounded children home, then coming back with the hastily assembled
members of Miens' proper militia. Oliver answered his Baron's question
calmly.  "The reports I had received from New Aveon seemed to indicate
you had worries of your own.  When Lady Doran arrived two days ago,
hinting at troubles that she had been sent to Roseford to avoid, I
thought it best not cause further complications by asking you to govern
from afar.  You were already aware of the land troubles between Miens
and Baronsford, and seemed willing to let the matter lie the last time
you brought your attention to it.  When Lady Doran appeared, it seemed
the perfect opportunity to settle the matter once and for all, leaving
you to handle what difficulties you were experiencing in New Aveon."  He
drew in a breath, and Abelard allowed him to continue.  "Things were
actually going quite well, up until the point the Baronsforder children
attacked." "Why wasn't Doran's guard protecting her when this happened?"
Abelard asked. "She had ordered them to the edge of the field, rather
than intimidate the children," Oliver told him.  "They rushed up soon
enough when the attack occurred, but by then things were so crowded they
could not reach her in time." "I see," Abelard said flatly.  He turned
away from Oliver and clasped his hands behind his back, Doran's
ferronette still clutched in his fingers.  His eyes were focused on the
Mounds, where his daughter, and now her captors, were imprisoned.
"Here's what's to be done.  The soldiers surrounding Baronsford are to
arrest anyone who attempts to enter or leave, most especially the rogue
children or their parents.  In addition, I want a squad to escort Mayor
du Champs here within the hour." "I will see that it will be done,"
Oliver said.  "When du Champs arrives, what do you wish done then?"
Abelard's expression, if possible, grew even grimmer.  "I will put an
end to this foolishness once and for all."

                                * * *

        Moll watched Lady Doran carefully, trying to judge what was
going on in the older girl's mind.  After handily beating Jean and
Roget, the noble lady had been quiet, withdrawing into herself.  Waiting
for answer from the boys, Moll figured, or maybe the fight had taken
more out of than she wished. "Are you all right, Milady?" she asked.
Doran looked up at her and smiled wanly. "My head still hurts a bit,"
Doran told her.  "And I need to have it clear, if I'm to figure a way
out of this for everyone.  I need to get word to my father that things
aren't as desperate as they might seem, so Roget and Jean will have time
to pull their heads clear of their bottoms." Moll giggled at her
description, then glanced warily at the unblocked entrance.  Roget and
Jean were still arguing over what to do, their whispers unintelligible
from here.  They still hadn't settled things, though the half-elven girl
had guessed that time was running short for all concerned.  "Perhaps you
could ask for parole," she suggested.  "I mean, if you give your word
that you'll come back, they might let you out to speak with the Baron."
Doran seemed to consider her idea carefully, but finally shook her head.
"No," she said.  "It's a good idea, but I have my doubts that my father
would go along.  More likely he'd pull me clear to make certain I was
safe, then order an attack." Moll was shocked.  "But I thought nobles
were honorable!"  Doran only laughed quietly. "As is my father," she
said.  "But he'd throw his honor into a cesspool, if he thought my life
was at risk.  I have no way to let him know that the situation is
otherwise..."  Doran paused, her eyes suddenly alight.  "Or perhaps I
do." "What is it, Milady?" A bright smile lit Lady Doran's face, and she
took hold of Moll's hands.  "Moll, have you ever wanted to be a
courier?"

                                * * *

        "Somebody's coming out!" one of the guardsmen shouted.  Oliver,
along with Baron Abelard and the rest of the Ebon School members, turned
as one to see where soldier was pointing.  Emerging from the Mounds was
the young half-elven girl, Moll.  In her hand she still carried the
white flag of truce that had been her emblem during the entire conflict.
"Perhaps they're surrendering," Peregine guessed. "Then why aren't they
all coming out?" Asher growled.  They watched as Moll planted the flag
in the ground once again, and looked around nervously at all of the
assembled troops. "I wish to speak to Baron Abelard Blackthorne," she
announced, her voice cracking slightly. "Oh, does she now?" Abelard
muttered to himself.  He strode forward, coming to within five paces of
the girl.  Moll, seeing the grim expression on his face, backed up a
pace on her own volition.  "I am Baron Abelard Blackthorne," he told
her.  "Who are you, and what is your business?" "I'm Moll, that is, my
name is Moll de Gaullier," the girl stumbled, holding out her hands as
if trying to ward off Abelard.  "I've come negotiate for my friends'
freedom and your daughter's release." The sheer boldness of her
statement seemed to freeze Abelard in place for a moment, though his
expression didn't change a whit.  "What makes you think I'm going to
negotiate?" he asked. The young girl swallowed.  "Because we hold your
daughter hostage?" she asked tentatively.  She was still holding her
hands out in a warding gesture, her fingers twitching in nervousness.
Abelard's expression turned to ice.  "I thought you were going to give
me a reason to negotiate," he said.  "All you've given me is a reason to
rush in, gut everyone of your little band and hang them up by their
entrails."  His expression was flat, revealing no emotion even while he
announced his dire threat. "Lady Doran doesn't think you'd be that
bloodthirsty," the half-elven girl said firmly stepping forward once
again.  Moll's hands and fingers were still twitching, forming clumsy
patterns that seemed oddly familiar to Oliver. "My daughter doesn't know
me as well as she might," Abelard told her.  "You go back inside and
tell your friends that there will be no negotiation.  You either release
Lady Doran and come out to face your punishment, or else I'll come in
and mete it out myself.  It's your decision." "No, milord Baron, it's
yours," Moll said.  She stopping twitching her hands and pulled her
flagpole free of the turf.  "Nevertheless, I'll relay your remarks.
Good day, milord Abelard."  She turned and headed back into her hole.
"Peregine!" Abelard called out the moment she had disappeared.  The spy
rushed up from where he had been waiting, out of sight of Moll.  There
had been no need to panic the girl by revealing a drow in their midst.
"Milord?" Peregine asked mildly, bowing slightly from the waist. "Did
you see what that girl was doing while she was talking to me?" Abelard
asked, his arms folded.  He was still staring at the Mound's entrance,
as if he could see within to where Doran lay imprisoned. "She appeared
to making rather badly done handsigns," Peregine said.  "I'm not certain
what she was trying to say.  Something about peace, and waiting or
hesitation."  Oliver nodded in agreement.  He wasn't familiar with the
intricacies of the Ebon School's secret language, but he had seen it
often enough when he visited the Hall of Training that sat near
Blackthorne Manor. "Agreed," Abelard said.  "Find a way inside and
contact Doran.  I want to know what's going on.  If the situation seems
favorable, get her out.  Then we can finish this mess before it gets
completely out of hand." "Yes, milord," Peregine said.  The drow smiled,
and suddenly seemed to melt into the earth itself, disappearing right
before Oliver's astonished eyes.

        The seneschal wondered how things could get any further out of
hand than they already were.

                                * * *

        "What's it like?" Moll asked.  After her return from the parlay
(if you could call it that) with Baron Abelard, she had been debriefed
in turn by both Roget and Jean, and then Lady Doran.  The two boys had
suddenly gotten very worried expressions when she told them of Baron
Abelard's dire threat, as had Lady Doran.  So quiet had the light-haired
woman become that Moll felt she had to speak up to fill the silence.
Otherwise her fears would soon bury her, like the dank earthen walls of
this crypt threatened to. "Hmm?" Doran murmured, distracted from
whatever thoughts she was turning over in her mind.  "What is what
like?" "Being a noble lady," Moll said.  "I mean it must be wonderful."
Doran smiled, and laughed quietly at the question.  "Well, I wouldn't
call it wonderful.  Very different from your life I suppose, but not
wonderful." "How can you say that?" Moll demanded.  "I mean, look at
you.  You live in a manor, have servants for every need, wear beautiful
dresses..."  Lady Doran began to laugh again, and this time Moll felt
her cheeks burn hotly with embarrassment.  Did the woman think that her
time was being wasted, listening to a star-struck peasant girl? "Oh,
Moll," she said.  "Do you think that is all there is to it?  Living in a
grand manor and attending grand balls?  There are some days when I think
I would gladly trade places with you." "You wouldn't want that, Milady,"
Moll said seriously.  "Better to be a noble lady than a half-breed like
me."  She raised her hand to touch the rounded nubs of her ears.  Try as
she might, her long hair still wasn't enough to hide them, as if people
couldn't also see the tell-tale ferret thinness of her face. "Is it that
bad?" Lady Doran asked gently.  Moll jerked her head in a nod.  She
didn't really want to talk about it, but the noble woman's deep blue
eyes were difficult to ignore. "Sometimes," Moll said.  "I'm clever and
quick, Mother Sarah has said so, but that just means I'm blamed first
and worst if there's any trouble.  Mayor Trebier says I've got a devil's
wit in me." "Well, at least your parents stand up for you, I should
think," Lady Doran declared.  Moll just shook her head. "My ma, she
tries, but she birthed a half-breed bastard, so who's goin' to listen to
her?  Never knew who my da was.   Ma wouldn't say, 'cept that he was
handsome for an elf."  Moll shrugged.  "By my reckoning you grew up with
a better lot than me." "I wish I knew that for certain," Lady Doran
said, her face turning thoughtful and sad.  "At least you know one of
your true parents." "You're an orphan, milady?" Moll asked.  "I always
thought... that is, word was that you were Baron Abelard's... well, you
know." "I  can guess," Doran said dryly.  "But no, I am not my father's
paramour, called daughter for appearance's sake.  It was sheer chance
that I was adopted by him."  For a moment it looked as if she would drop
back into silence, but she kept talking.  "Papa found me just about two
years ago, lost in the streets.  I had awakened in the back of a cart,
bound and captive, with absolutely no memory of what or who I was.
Chance helped escape from there, and further chance led me into my
father's arms.  At that moment, had I ran to the left rather than the
right, I would likely be leading a very different life today.  Or more
likely I would be dead." Moll felt a chill run down her back.  It was a
fantastic story to be certain, but something in Lady Doran's tone made
her certain that it was the absolute truth.   "Did you ever find out who
you were?" she asked in a small voice. Doran just shook her head sadly.
"No, I have not.  Despite my father's resources, he has not been able to
discover my origins.  The only ones that might know were the slavers who
had held me, and they were killed during the fracas that allowed me to
escape."  She took hold of Moll's hand, holding it firmly.  "I'm no
different from you, Moll.  I breathe the same air, I eat the same sort
of foods, I worship the same God.  Except by Lady Fortuna's favor I
might be a peasant girl like you today.  For all that I know, that is
what I should truly be.  A fine manor, expensive clothes, or noble
privilege are just... trappings.  If tomorrow I awakened in a strange
village, my memories fled from me again, I would be a farmer's daughter
and not a noblewoman.  We are not that different from each other, Moll,
not at all." Moll shook her head and shrank away, feeling increasingly
uncomfortable at having started this conversation.  Lady Doran's
melancholy, and her strange musings about being a peasant girl
frightened her.  "But, Milady, we are different," she protested.  "I
could never pretend to be nobility, no more than you could be a villien.
Just in the manner that you speak and carry yourself makes you
different.  The AllFather meant for you to be noble, just as he meant
for me to be a half-breed peasant.  Lady Fortuna has nothing to do with
it." Lady Doran looked as if she might protest further, but then her
mouth blossomed into a surprised smile.  "Hello there, Cousin," she said
to point just behind Moll.  "How long have you been listening in?"  Moll
turned, to find herself eye-to-eye with an enormous green snake, fully
ten feet long and a full handspan thick.  She strangled the scream in
her throat, mindful of the boys beyond their chamber.  If Lady Doran
wasn't frightened of this creature, then there was good reason why she
shouldn't be either. "Hello, Doran," the snake politely replied.  Its
voice had slight Duetsch accent, and Moll could swear that she saw an
amused twinkle in its bright blue (blue?) eyes.  "Not for very long.  I
came within earshot just as you were finishing your speech to young Moll
here."  It bobbed it's head in greeting to her, and smiled.  "Hello, my
dear.  May I offer you an apple?" it asked her. "No.  Thank you," Moll
managed to choke out. "Perhaps later," the snake replied, unoffended.
It slithered over to Lady Doran, laying itself in a familiar manner
across her shoulders. "Peregine, quit acting the fool," Doran said,
amused.  "You're scaring poor Moll have to death."  She took hold of the
snake's neck and pulled it gently away from her.  "Moll, allow me to
introduce Peregine, he's a cousin of sorts to me, and more often my
bodyguard." "Hello," Moll said, her voice sounding small.  Lady Doran's
cousin was a talking snake.  And she had the gall to protest that she
wasn't all that different... "Hello, Moll," Peregine returned, bobbing
his head politely.  He turned to face Doran.  "I hate to take you away
from all this, but your father Baron Abelard has asked me to pull you
out.  I believe he intends to assault the Mounds shortly." "I'm not
going anywhere, Peregine," Lady Doran told the snake.  "I think the boys
are ready to finally cave in.  They know Papa's little army out there
isn't going to leave.  Tell him to be patient." "I'd prefer not to," he
replied.  "This second kidnapping has put milord Baron in a remarkably
foul mood." "Second kidnapping?" Moll interjected. Doran nodded, looking
embarrassed.  "Yes," she said.  "Less than a week ago my father's
enemies kidnapped me, trying to influence him to... act as they wished
in a certain matter.  That's why I was sent off to Roseford until the
crisis passed.  So you can understand why my father is very upset." She
gets kidnapped once, and then we do it again, Moll thought to herself,
her stomach sinking.  Agh! "So you see," Lady Doran continued.  "There
are distinct disadvantages to being a noble, believe me." "Indeed,"
Peregine agreed.  "I'd rather not come back to Milord empty-handed.
What can I do to convince you to come along?" "At this moment, nothing,"
Doran replied.  "Peregine, if Papa allows me enough time, I can work
this through.  Sending in soldiers will just result in more people being
hurt.  Now be a good servant and bugger off."  The snake appeared to be
taken aback by this unladylike order, but then bobbed its head in
reluctant agreement. "I will relay your concerns to your father," he
said, then slithered back into the hole from where he had emerged. * * *

"It's been too long," Baron Abelard said, absentmindedly rubbing the
scar on his face.  Oliver knew that meant he was either feeling
extremely thoughtful or extremely anxious.  The bird-like seneschal had
no illusions as to which right now. "Surely Peregine would have sounded
the alarm if he saw danger," Oliver offered.  "There are only children
in there."  He had repeated that last observation, or variations
thereof, several times since his baron's arrival.  He still wasn't
certain whether he had been heard. "Maybe," Abelard said.  "Unless
someone was behind this insanity, inciting the children to riot to
attract Doran or me here."  He let the thought hang in the air, while
Oliver tried to imagine what sort of Machivellian plotter would come up
with such a scenario. Fortunately, they were spared the opportunity for
further speculation, as a black pool formed in the ground in front of
them, rising up to form the shapeshifter, Peregine, this time wearing
the fair skin of a surface elf.  The drow bowed to Abelard, and held a
fixed smile to his face. "Where is Doran, Peregine?" the baron asked
immediately. "Still within, though I can assure you she is unharmed,"
Peregine replied.  Before Abelard could interrupt, he continued
hurriedly.  "She specifically asked for me to leave, and to ask you to
'exercise patience.'  Doran seems convinced that she can bring a
peaceful solution to this crisis, and begs you to give her the chance."
"Why should I?" Abelard asked, obviously frustrated at this turn of
events.  "They hold her against her will.  For a peasant to do that to
noblewoman is a hanging offense right there." "I believe that is the
problem, milord," Peregine said.  "She seems fearful that in an attempt
to rescue her, people would be unnecessarily hurt.   I think she may be
justified.  There are only untrained children in there, milord.  One
sleep spell and they would all be unconscious in a moment.  No need for
soldiers at all." "I see," Abelard said.  He rubbed at his scar again,
thoughtful.  "I'll give her time then, but if things haven't been
settled by sunset, we're going in to get her." "I'm sure she will thank
you, milord," Peregine said, looking relieved. "I don't care about her
thanks, only her safety," Abelard said darkly.

                                * * *

"Milady Doran?  Would you come out?" Roget called from the main chamber.
Doran flashed a reassuring smile to Moll, then crawled out to meet with
the boys.  She made sure to put a sterner expression on before they saw
her face.  No sense in giving anything away just yet. "I assume you've
come to your senses?" she asked.  The two boys exchanged a glance, then
reluctantly nodded. "Look, we know the baron must be pretty angry," Jean
said.  "But we thought we were just doing right when we fought Short
Willy's kids to keep them off our farmland.  And we were defendin'
ourselves when they attacked again, just when we were getting ready to
give up and take our lumps.  The baron's gotta know that." "We don't
mind if we get into trouble.  We've been there before," Roget continued.
"But we don't want to hang for it." "So you are willing to come out?"
Doran asked.  The two boys nodded eagerly. "Yeah.  So long as we have
Baron Abelard's word that he's not going to have us beaten or killed,
just because we accidentally sorta kidnapped you." Accidentally sorta?
Doran thought with hidden amusement.  But she kept her face straight and
nodded.  "I think he would be agreeable to those terms.  Send Moll out
once again to get confirmation, then perhaps we can finally bring this
incident to a satisfactory conclusion." "Yes, milady," Jean replied
willingly.  Moll had already grabbed her white flag and was crawling out
the entrance even as he spoke.  Doran allowed herself a sigh of relief
as she watched her go.  Less than a quarter-hour and this entire ugly
incident would be over, save for the tongue-lashing these children would
receive from their parents.

                                * * *

"Here she comes again," Abelard said.  Oliver looked to see Moll once
again emerging from the Mound, flag in hand.  She wasted no time before
rushing up to the baron and planting it in the ground. "We're willing to
release Lady Doran and come out," she said without preamble.  "All that
is needed is your reassurance that you will not beat, torture, or
execute anyone as part of our allotted punishment.  Otherwise, we make
no demands." "That's all, eh?" Baron Abelard said.  He folded his arms
and stared the half-elven girl down, but she stood her ground and looked
back at him defiantly. "Yes, Milord Baron," she answered, her voice
even. To Oliver's eyes, Abelard seemed torn for a long moment, but then
he finally gave the girl a sharp nod and said, "Have everybody come out.
However, I want my man here to come with you, to make certain Lady Doran
is really unharmed."  He motioned to where Peregine stood, making a
quick gesture with his hands.  The elf caught the motion and nodded
carefully, walking up to meet with them. "That's fine," Moll said.  She
looked him over carefully, focusing on his eyes.  "You seem awfully
familiar," she said curiously. "Well," Peregine said.  "We have met
before."  Oliver saw Moll's eyes widen in recognition of his voice, as
the elf rattled off the words to a spell.  Mist seemed to rise from his
hands, wrapping around the half-elven girl, then disappearing without
apparent effect. "What the devil was that?" Moll demanded.  Peregine
just looked nonplused. "That's interesting," he said.  "What are you
still doing awake?"  Then he spoke again, and suddenly Moll was
silenced...

                                * * *

"He's not going to agree to it," Roget said nervously, as the minutes
ran. "It's a fair bargain," Doran argued.  "He'll be getting just what
he would have had those foolish Baronsforder children not interrupted."
"Hey, here comes Moll!" Jean called out, backing away from the entrance.
Moll crawled through, her flag in hand, but her face grave. "Well, how
did it go?" Doran said, trying to keep the anxiousness from her voice.
Moll looked about, taking in the room with her dark brown eyes before
speaking. "Things are about settled," she said.  "We got everyone here?
Nobody left in the connecting tunnels?" "Don't be stupid, half-breed.
You know those tunnels are too rotted to risk," Jean said, waving his
hand around the room.  "Everybody is right here." "That's good," Moll
said.  She turned to Doran, her bright blue eyes looking sad. Blue?
Doran thought.  That's wrong!  Without conscious thought she brought her
hand towards the dagger at her thigh. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear,"
Moll said with Peregine's voice, before she could complete the motion.
He/she spoke brief words in Old Imperial, and Doran saw a wave of mist
fill the room, before her leaden eyes fell shut in unwanted slumber.

                                * * *

"Milord!" one of the soldiers guarding the entrance called out.  "It's
gotten very quiet in there all of the sudden!" "How so?" Abelard asked,
striding forward.  Oliver followed.  They were both met by another voice
wafting up from the Mound's interior. "Not to worry, Milord!" Peregine's
voice called from within.  "Everything is under control.  Come in if you
wish." Asher wasted no time upon hearing the invitation.  With the aid
of two soldiers, he quickly widened the entrance to allow an adult
through, wiggling forward unmindful of the dirt staining his armor.
Oliver followed with more difficulty, blinking his eyes in the dim
interior.  Behind him the soldiers followed, pausing along with the
seneschal to take in the bizarre tableau. Scattered all around the
chamber were the sleeping forms of Mein's errant children.  Hovering
over them from a perch on the ceiling was an enormous spider.  Abelard
paid it little mind, even as it reached down with its two front legs and
snatched up a child, binding them quickly with cords of sticky silk.
His eyes were intent on Doran's sleeping form.  She lay on the floor
oblivious to everyone around her, even as he picked her up in his arms
and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "I'm sorry about that,"
Peregine said.  "But she was in the middle of the room when the spell
went off."  He picked up another child and continued his business. A
fact for which you're probably grateful, Oliver thought to himself.
"Why are you doing that?" he asked the elf.  "There's no need."
Peregine finished extruding silk, then set the child down and looked at
him. "Perhaps not," he said.  "But I do like to keep in practice."
"Thank you, Peregine," Abelard said.  "You've saved me a bit of
trouble." "It's always a pleasure, Milord," Peregine answered.  He went
back to work as Abelard walked past and crawled through the entrance
once again, dragging Doran's unconscious form behind him.  When Oliver
came out to rejoin him, Trebier and Mayor du Champs had cautiously
approached Abelard, who once again cradled his daughter in his arms.
Though his expression had softened slightly when he discovered her safe,
he had let it grow ice-hard again in the presence of the two mayors. "Is
she all right?" Trebier asked, looking over Doran's unconscious form
warily.  Abelard just scowled. "I don't know yet," he growled.  "I won't
know for some time."  He motioned to Reg, who came over and took Doran
from Abelard's arms.  "Take her to the carriage, and make sure she's
comfortable," he ordered. "What about Peregine's package?" Reg asked.
"Leave it where it is," Abelard said.  He turned back to the two mayors
as Reg walked off with his precious cargo, motioning for them to join
him at the stone circle's altar.  "Now then, about this land dispute."
A dagger suddenly appeared in his hand, and smashed downward until the
blade was wedged up to the hilt into a thin crack in the altar, causing
both mayors to jump in surprise.  "I am not pleased," he hissed.
"Because you chose to argue between yourselves, you allowed the
situation to fester until your children began to fight.  Because your
children fought, my daughter felt she had to intervene.  Because she
intervened, she now lies unconscious in my carriage, and the AllFather
only knows when she will awaken."  He snatched up a carbon stylus from
the altar and drew an irregular line across a map of the two villages
and their environs.  "That is now roughly what your borders are to be.
I'll have my surveyors mark the exact lines for you by tomorrow evening.
The phy! sical border will have new marker stones as well.  Any lands
that are currently being farmed that belong to the other village will
have the profits from those fields split evenly between the two
villages, minus costs for seed and fertilizer." "Who is going to do the
accounting for that?" du Champs asked timidly. "You both will," Abelard
replied.  "And I expect you both to be satisfied with the results,
because I don't want to have to send in Oliver to settle another
dispute." "As you will, Baron," Trebier said evenly.  She glanced over
to the Mounds.  Abelard's soldiers were pulling the unconscious children
from below, placing them in a circle of guards along with many of the
captive Baronsford children.  "What do you want done to them," she
asked, jerking a thumb. Abelard let a cold, cold smile come to his face.
"You may do with them what you will, save for the ringleaders.  I want
to know their names, so I may mete out their punishment myself." "What
do you intend to do?" Trebier asked.  For a moment it didn't appear that
Abelard was going to answer her, but then he let the predatory smile
drop from his lips. "Those young idiots wanted to protect their villages
from outsiders, then I'll give them the chance," he told her.  "They are
all to serve in Roseford's militia for an enlistment of no less than two
years, starting today.  If that doesn't teach them self-discipline, then
they can spend the rest of  their days in Blackthorne's dungeon." "Fair
enough," Mayor du Champs said. Asher fixed him with an icy stare.  "Fair
doesn't matter," he said.  "As Baron Abelard Blackthorne, that is what I
order.  I expect you to carry out my will with all due haste.  Is that
understood?" "Completely, milord," Trebier said, and du Champs followed
suit. "Very good," Abelard said.  "Now, I'm going to wake up your
children and give them a dressing down.  If you will excuse me."  He
walked off, and Oliver followed after him. "Impressive," the seneschal
commented.  Abelard just shrugged. "Reaming out those two was easy," he
said.  He glanced towards the carriage where Doran lay, his eyes growing
distant and worried.  "The hard part is ahead of me, yet."

                                * * *

When Doran awoke from Peregine's sleeping spell, her first action was to
lay her head between her knees, fighting dry heaves brought on by the
combination of magic and her continued headache.  She sat there doubled
over for close to two minutes, until her stomach ceased to rebel and the
hammer pounding in her head eased. Damn you, Peregine, she thought, when
coherence returned to her mind.  Damn you and damn your shapeshifting
gift. Sitting up did little to help initially.  A wave of dizziness
washed over her, then her eyes came back into focus.  She was sitting
alone in her father's carriage, with one of Papa's cloaks covering her
tattered and soiled dress.  No, not quite a alone, for there was a
bizarre bundle laying across the seat opposite her.  What seemed to be a
small human body was wrapped in coils of spider silk, its head enclosed
in a pitch black globe of darkness.  It made not a sound, though whoever
was trapped was still alive, evidenced by the occasional twitch as they
tested their bonds.  Pasted onto the sticky silk was a note written
neatly in elvish, Don't touch. -P. Doran made a move to get up, but sat
back down again with a thump.  She was still too dizzy.  But a loud
voice shouting from the direction of the Mounds caught her attention,
making her turn her head to look out the window.  Outside, near the
Mounds, she saw Asher standing in the center of a group of children.
They were all trussed like hogs to slaughter with ropes and more spider
silk, and surrounded by a dozen guardsmen.  To her infinite relief, she
that all of the children that had been in the Mounds were there, along
with several others that she remembered had been with the Baronforder
children in the fight.  She could not quite catch what Papa was saying
to them, but from his tone it sounded as if they were getting the
tongue-lashing of their lives. She sat back and closed her eyes, letting
herself rest, trying to settle the feelings of betrayal in her mind.
What Peregine did was undoubtedly done, if not by Papa's orders, then
with his tacit approval.  Getting angry at the shapeshifting drow was
pointless.  As pointless as the negotiations she had conducted. The
shouting eventually stopped, and she opened her eyes again to see the
children being released and marched off in opposite directions.  Heading
back to their respective villages, and worse yet, their parents.  A few
of the older ones remained behind, following rapidly barked instructions
from a grizzled sergeant.  Papa was nowhere in sight.  Which was
perfectly fine by her.  Right now she had no desire to see him.  She
closed her eyes again and tried to get back to sleep. After a few
minutes Doran heard the carriage door open, and a rocking motion as two
people boarded.  Opening her eyes for the third time she saw Asher and
Peregine sitting down, Papa next to her, and Peregine next to his
strange package. "You're awake.  Good," Papa said.  He leaned over to
kiss her cheek, but Doran turned away to look out the window, her arms
folded protectively around her.  Asher said nothing else, but instead
banged on the roof of the carriage, which lurched into motion.  The
awkward silence persisted for several moments, until Peregine decided to
break it. "That was sharp work back in the Mounds, my dear," the drow
assassin said.  "You were quite quick when you grabbed for your dagger,
after seeing my eyes change color." "I didn't ask for your approval,"
she finally said, still staring out the window.  From the corner of her
eye, she saw Peregine give her a Gallic shrug. "I wasn't giving it," he
said. "I was merely noting your actions." "Where is Oliver?" Doran asked
aloud, changing the subject.  He was one of the two people who had been
completely honest with her today, and he wasn't here.  Neither was Moll,
unless that web encased prisoner was her.  Doran felt her anger increase
as she realized that she hadn't seen the half-elven girl out on the
field with the others.  The size and shape of the bundle across from her
was about right though. "Back with the two mayors, arranging for the
surveyors' arrival tomorrow," Asher said.  "You going to keep up this
snit of yours all the way home?" he asked conversationally. "Do you
care?" she snapped. "Of course I do," Asher said, in the same even tone.
"After everything that had happened over the past week, you think I
don't care about you?" She turned back to look at him.  Papa's face held
caution within it, unsure of her.  He knows he hurt me, she was forced
to admit to herself, hating the insight even as she saw it.   She didn't
want to understand his point of view.  Not now. "Then why did you betray
me?" she asked coldly.  "Betray Moll?  Betray all of those children's'
trust?" "Because I had to," he answered simply. "Had to?  Had to?!" she
cried out.  She gulped back the angry tears that threatened to well up,
and made her voice cool once again.  "I gave them my word as Lady Doran
Blackthorne that I would get them out of there unharmed, and instead you
chose to attack them." Asher nodded, his face grave.  "You gave your
word, Doran, and I understand why.  I, however, did not give mine.
Could not give mine.  Not for this." "Why not?" she asked.  She held up
her thumb and forefinger together.  "I was this close to having them
walk out of there under their own power.  If they had, what difference
would it have made to you?  You could have still punished them however
you wished, without having to outright humiliate them."  And me, she
added silently, though she was certain her father heard her unspoken
words. "It isn't that simple, Doran," he said.  "This incident could
have had ramifications that went beyond just a foolish argument between
two stubborn villages." "How?" she snapped again.  Papa flinched at her
outburst. "A baron's power, my power, is not as secure as some people
might think," Asher began, rubbing his scar as he gathered his thoughts.
"The idea of nobility, that one is born with the ability and right to
rule over others, is an illusion.  An illusion that must constantly be
maintained.  Do you think I could really rule over this barony, if all
the villages rebelled against me?" "No," Doran answered.  "But what
makes you think they would?" "I don't now, for they've seen that Baron
Abelard can be a true holy terror when someone dares to defy him.  But
do you know what Baron Lovell, just as an example, would have seen today
if I had let those children just walk out of there?" Lovell was their
neighbor on the northern border of the barony, and one of the few
original pre-war barons still holding their land this close to New
Aveon.   He had sat on the fence during the Baron's War, and then threw
his lot in with New Aveon when it was obvious that victory had been
lost.  It was widely known that he thought little of the horde of newly
minted nobles that had appeared after the war, to take over empty
holdings.  Roseford's proximity to him made it a special irritation
"What?" Doran asked, her curiosity overcoming her anger for the moment.
"A baron that was willing to negotiate with a group of bratty children,
rather than risk a confrontation, merely because his daughter was
involved," Asher said.  "And if such a baron is so willing to bend at
that crisis, what would he do if a real uprising occurred?  Or worse, if
a neighboring baron thought they could increase the size of their own
lands, by grabbing some from that same weak holding?  Better he be
convinced that his neighbor is a bit less than trustworthy, rather than
think he is honorable and weak." "So that is why you sent in Peregine?"
she asked.  Doran could feel the anger within her draining as she spoke
the question.  Papa's view of the world was often somewhat paranoid, but
also accurate, more often than not. "It was an ideal solution," the drow
said.  "I took on the role of an assaulting squad, but I could
neutralize the small threat the children presented with a minimum of
violence.  So in a way, both of your approaches were accommodated." "I
see," Doran said, and she truly did.  In the context Papa and Peregine
presented, their actions were entirely understandable.  "I suppose my
solution was... too idealistic," she admitted. "Your solution was your
own, and from your point of view it made sense," Asher said.  "I don't
expect you to think exactly as I do, Doran.  I would never want you to.
You are your own person, and someday you will be the one to make these
decisions.  I just want you to understand that there are different
approaches to every solution, and sometimes you'll need to choose which
approach to use very, very carefully.  I just hope you will forgive me
for breaking your trust in me." "I think I can do that,"  she said,
smiling shyly.  "Will you forgive me for getting kidnapped all over
again?" "Yes, my dearest Shadow of the Moon," Asher said.  He leaned
forward towards her, and this time she accepted and returned his kiss
gladly.  "Though I might hand you over to Peregine tomorrow to practice
escape and evasion tactics a bit more." "Thank you, no," Doran said,
glancing over to Peregine's tightly wrapped package.  "I think being in
bondage twice in one week is quite enough." "What a very un-drowish
attitude," Peregine said, smiling wickedly.  "I should work on that."
Papa laughed at his vulgar expression, and Doran gladly joined in.

                              The End

                         Children's Crusade