They had been walking some distance in the cool winter afternoon when the hissing sounds of hurled daggers and zinging arrows filled the still heavy air.

Jemaine was first to detect the danger but even before she could shout for her companions to take cover, Laura was already pinned to a tree, an ornately carved dagger lodged hilt-deep in her left shoulder. Marsilus was trying unsuccessfully to unhook the trapped cleric before she got hit again.

The raining arrows suddenly halted. A human soldier emerged from the denser part of the forest. Following slowly was an old necromancer looking bored out of his mind with border patrol.

"You have trespassed into Larkelonian soil without passing the border migration checkpoint," declared the hard-bitten mercenary, irritable in the company of the dark mage at his back. "Our land is at war and all migrants are subject to questioning in the city of Daronea. If you will come in peace, no harm shall befall you."

His last words drew the attention of the necromancer who up till then was only sitting on a huge flat boulder, reading from a black leather- bound spellbook. "I insist you kill them, here and now. These blasted flea-ridden stiff-necked unreasonable elves are spies planted by the Sylvans who've, as I heard, allied with those worthless Kaaronites, for obvious reasons but which cannot be perceived by simple-minded idiots such as you."

"If I say they will come for questioning, they will come!" snarled the soldier, standing menacingly over the frail wizard who turned away, growling unintelligible words beneath his breath.

Jemaine was bound by the hands and escorted to a horse as the mercenary freed the injured Laura and locked her and Marsilus in a celled wagon. Laura was too tired and pained to care. She lay in the bouncing wagon, her once white and gold robes were soaked in her own blood. The dagger left a cruel gash on her left shoulder. Marsilus did his best to staunch the wound with strips of cloth from his own cloak. He was worried the cleric might try to heal herself with prayers, but Laura had slipped into unconsciousness after losing so much blood.

The ride to Daronea took the better part of the day. They rode into the city at twilight. The streets were deserted save for the occasional city guard. The mercenary deposited the grumbling necromancer into the Tower of Necromancy, before ushering the prisoners into the palace dungeons.

All three were thrown into a damp cell furnished only with two hard beds and a table. Jemaine managed to drag her two injured companions onto the beds while she contemplated a way out. The mercenary had gone probably to fetch whoever it was who will question them. They were left only with the drunken jailer and a scullery maid handing food out to the prisoners. She was free to try her magic.

SItting comfortably in the low table, the young mage produced a spellbook from one of the secret pockets of her dark robes. Silently flipping through the bone-white pages with one hand and crushing some dry mistletoe leaves with the other, she began to chant. The arcane words came to her as she sprinkled the leaves around her.

"Tsa islarin/bilakan eth il laicon."

Magic coursed through her body, filling her with the rapturous delight she always experienced when she worked her Art. The room began to spin and swirl around her into oblivion.

The spinning stopped abruptly. She was now outside the prison cell. Still giddy with her magic, the young mage was pleased to see that both the unconscious bodies of her companions were also lying at her feet. Unfortunately, her magic came too late.

Before Jemaine could even wake her sister, a dark figure emerged from nowhere, obviously travelling through the doors of magic.

He was a young man whose glittering amber eyes sent a tingle of surprise down the elven mage's spine. He was tall, about as tall as Jemaine, wh stood at five feet eleven, and skinny. Long ragged platinum hair flapped over the thin chiseled features of his prematurely aged face. He was attired in several layers of black velvet robes. A hooded black cloak gave him the look of Death coming to collect its victims. He walked slightly stooped using his unadorned ebony staff for support. Jemaine frowned. The man had an aura of great power surrounding his frail body.

"Escape is next to impossible in this dungeon, my dear," he said nonchalantly, as if he didn't care either way. "And now, there is only one way you could have escaped that cell and that is using sorcery or prayers. I can even see the residue of your spell."

"Is that supposed to be a question of interrogation or are you trying to psychoanalyze me?" Jemaine challenged softly, lethally.

The young man smiled carefully, as smiling tugged at his skin. It made him look like a grinning zombie. "I am checking to see if you are a sorceress or a necromancer," he answered mildly. "Which are you?"

Jemaine only snorted. "What does it matter if I am a sorceress or a dancing bear?"

He sighed at the obstinate answer. "I take it you're a sorceress, and an elf besides. Do't think you can hide your features under your hood from the High Sorcerer of the Conclave," he added with a slight smile.

Jemaine's eyes widened. "The High Sorcerer! You're supposed to be a prisoner if rumors were true!"

"Bah! Rumors! They do me well though. The necromancers still think I'm locked up in that magical cell they once sealed me into. They keep forgetting that they are only minor nuisances to me, flies I could easily swat with my hand. But that would not suit my purpose here at all, of course. I'm here on a complicated mission, to put an end to this nonsense, get rid of the renegades aiding this dim refuse of a country in their conquest. And what better way to do that but disguise myself as a palace scribe, capable of nosing into anyone and everyone's affairs?" He smiled again, this time the charming smile of a child. "Since I am High Sorcerer, it is my duty to protect my brethren. I will take you in, if you accept my help. And it looks like you do."

The younger mage looked from her half-dead sister to the High Sorcerer. "I have no choice. My sister is dying and so is our half-elven companion. If I die at the hands of those filthy necromancers, what of my cleric sister?"

"They use clerics for their ghastly experiments," answered the High Sorcerer pleasantly. "Come, er-what was your name again?"

"Jemaine. Princess Jemaine Illyone of Taylashas."

"And I am High Sorcerer Thom Silverwind of Kaaron. Ah, there you see another reason why I do this?" He smiled and bowed slightly to indicate his respect for the princess. "Come now, Jemaine. We'll formulate disguises for you and your companions in my study."