The view was just what he wanted.  It looked down into the green with a
view of the main gate that could easily be used to his advantage.  The
window that looked down on the cleft was an enormous hole naturally worn in
the wall.  The bottom only a palm above the floor, and the top was rounded
and wide enough to drive a cart through.  
	It had one large room with a second that was smaller, a bathroom.  The bed
was laying in the corner as well as other spattering of furniture in the
room.  An old oak chest served him well enough to set his things on.  "I
will take it."  C'aranth walked to the far wall.
	"Good, I can show you around if you would like?"  Turner smiled but
C'aranth could feel he was not wanted.  The way those two were together he
could tell Turner had other plans.
	"Are you sure?"
	The woman named Kellie nudged him in the ribs.  "Yes, I am sure."  She
seemed in great pleasure making him wait.  She didn't seem to mind the fact
that he was dying to have her alone and that C'aranth was really getting in
the way of these plans.  It wasn't the first time C'aranth had felt out of
place.  
C'aranth shrugged.  "If you want to."  
The Cleft was larger then what he expected.  And it seemed they had plans
on getting larger.  The place was well stocked, and the fortifications
seemed fair.  It could have used a little fine tuning.  The threat of
attack was ever present with a band of Rouges.  This was no surprise with
the attack on the nomad tribe C'aranth almost expected something like that.
He was shocked to hear that the Warrenlady was off looking for a place for
the rouges.  "I think they should be killed."  C'aranth said in a matter of
fact way.
	"Well the Warren doesn't need a fight right now.  We don't have the
resources of the man power to launch a campaign."  Turner added quickly,
"At least that is how the Warrenlady sees things."
	"And she is off."  C'aranth decided not to say anything more.  His opinion
should just be kept to himself.  He was in no position to talk tactics.  He
wasn't a rider, or in the chain of command, just an addition to the Cleft.
	He could see the smile grow larger on Turner's face as the two bid
farewell to him.
	Unpacking took some time, several books littered the room as the bulk of
his possessions.  His mother had given him half her library, which totaled
some two hundred volumes of history, art, and math. Plus all the books on
stories, plays, and myths.  Also the books on gathered information on
plants and animals.  She had also dedicated an entire book to the wraith
and reported sightings and information she gathered on them.
	C'aranth arranged them according to subject and date.  The room soon
looked like a library, nothing like the one at Epsilon, but full just the
same.  Rows and rows of the red and black leather bindings were all that
covered the walls.  
	C'aranth reached into an old leather bag about the size of a mans' chest
and pulled out a large package of paper loosely tied with ribbon.  He
untied the ribbon and shuffled through the drawings of mountains, people,
animals, and dragons until he came to a blank sheet.  He lifted a plank of
wood out and laid the paper on it fixing it to the wood with candle wax at
the corners of the paper.  Rolling the paper up he returned it to the bag. 



	He sat at the window with the wood in his lap.  He reached into the bag a
pulled out a quill and inkpot.  His hand started to move, long gentle
strokes carved a mountain on the paper.  The sky quickly formed with the
clouds and late afternoon sun.  The river cut its way along the bottom.
C'aranth looked up as the sun dipped into the mountains in front of him. 
He looked at the drawing, the feelings of peace that it brought slipping
away like the sunlight.  He set it next to him.  <You always liked to
draw.>  He heard her in his head.  It had happened before, but he still
spun to look.  
	His jaw tightened.  He didn't want to say it.  He didn't like to say it. 
He looked at the hand that had been holding the board; a leather glove
covered the scarred hand and arm.  He could feel the burn, across his arm,
up his shoulder.  Blood, no blood, just black flesh, the blood ran from his
leg.  But the wounds, the wounds he could feel all over.
	<It hurts.>  The faint feminine voice called to him in his mind, <Make
them stop.>  
	C'aranth gripped his head.  It was always like this, the talking, he had
to remain calm.  He had to keep his mind about him.  He took off his sword
belt and tossed his weapons away.  As the mental voice echoed of the back
of his head, reverberating in the empty void the loss had left behind. 
"Your not here."  A part of him hated him for saying that, his stomach
wretched and turned inside him.  "You died, now leave me alone."  His voice
was a harsh whisper, his body fought his speaking these things.  
	<IT HURTS!> The voice screamed in his mind.
	"NO." C'aranth picked up the drawing board and smashed it to the floor
with a crack that was dulled by the books around him.  "I will kill them
all·all of them.  They will all burn!"  He crawled on the floor for his
sword and drew the steel out.  
	C'aranth stopped, his reflection in the steel stopped him.  He looked at
the long hair undone and cascading down his shoulders.  His eyes wild with
hate and fear.  He was standing though he didn't remember getting up from
the floor, and his long knife was in his other hand.  He was standing at
the door, it was still shut, but he knew what was racing through his mind. 
Blood, but the green queen was miles away.
	He had hoped the episodes would go away once he was far from her.  Leaving
the cleft for days and recalling only bits of the time.  Waking up under
stars when he was sure he went to bed in his room.  He had no trouble
during the trip, and there was countless hours alone.
	The doctors told him he should tell them why he would do these things.  He
was the only one who knew the source of these problems.  A lot of good when
he couldn't understand the reasons himself.
	"I need food."  He leaned against the door frame.  He spoke more to
himself, trying to get the grip on normalcy he slipped away from.
	After pulling his hair tight and binding it in the thong he headed down to
the mess hall.  He ate alone and in a corner, it was late so not many were
there.  He had brought his sticks, two sticks that he would eat his food
with.  One was placed on the thumb running up to the wrist, the other
between the index and middle finger running parallel to the other.  He ate
his food with only a few stares from the others in the hall.  
	He retired and went to his room.  He poured over a book about long term
tactics and air Calvary.  It was a book written in the Last Great War at
Epsilon.  When K'arthinth united the four bands to form the Epsilon Cleft. 
Ages ago, but he tactics still heal true and were very widely used, most
the time unknowingly.
	The candle guttered and C'aranth looked.  The night had gotten dark and
the sky filled with thousands of lights.  He couldn't recognize most of
them.  He knew how to fly by them, now he was confused.  Everything
changed.  The candle gave out and the room darkened behind him as he stood
at the large window.
	The Warren slept, all but the outer wall, which burned fires. Like a
dotted ring around the hill.  
	The strings of a harp floated across the thick black air, like a shadow of
a past memory.  The tune to "Sara, My Lost" clung to the walls and crept
into his room.  C'aranth reached and picked up his panpipes.  The tune was
soft and rich, with a slow rhythm.  C'aranth had danced to it many times on
feast days.  He walked to the window and sat with his feet hanging off the
ledge and played in harmony with the song.
	When it ended the silent night returned.
"Who the hell are you?"  The voice broke up from below and to the left.  
C'aranth looked down on a red haired fellow standing on a balcony holding a
harp.  "Is that any way to greet a gentleman?"  His tone was stiff.
"Who are you?"  he didn't apologize.
"C'aranth, you?"  
"B'rand," he stepped closer, "where did you learn to play?"
"I picked it up out of boredom.  Just something that travels well." 
C'aranth looked at the pipes as if appraising them.
"I hope to see you in the daylight.  Then I will know who my accompaniment
was."
"Perhaps.  Good night then."  C'aranth stood and walked into his room,
B'rand's good-bye followed him.

The sunrise was lovely.  He suspected he had four hours sleep.  He would
have to get to bed earlier in the future.  He began practicing sword forms
on the green.  The new recruits were out and jogging.  A few practice with
reed weapons, or wooden ones.  
He noted the style was sloppy, and their tightness could be improved. 
Whoever taught them was very lenient with the art.  Of course dragonriders
very rarely enter combat with a sword.
C'aranth practiced parting the water, the rising sun, and wind in the
valley.  All forms for large areas such as the green.  Focused on the
finest details of the movement so they flowed from him in effortless
movement.
After, came breakfast.  Routine, that is what he needed, that is what made
him survive.  Following a schedule, he couldn't help it sometimes.  He ate
breakfast quickly then went to his room.  He had to meet with the
Warrenlady.  To report, everything must be done properly.  
He walked to his bags and opened one.  He lifted a cloth triangular shape. 
He unwrapped the cloth to expose an ebony crossbow.  It was customary to
give a gift to the Warrenlady when you entered her service.  The bow had
finely carved ivy crawling along it.  He also pulled out the bolts.  The
heads had been twisted to spin when they flew.  The arrows flew straighter,
but hummed as they did.  He wrapped it back up and left the room.

The hospital was quiet, and finding the woman's room wasn't hard.  He made
a point of avoiding S'olomon, as he didn't want to talk with the doctor
again.   The nomad woman was asleep when he left the flowers, but he was
sure she would enjoy the color in the white room.  She looked much better
now then when they first came in.  Not nearly as black and blue as the day
before.  
The herbs they had her on would probably keep her down for a while.  He
remembered when he returned to the cleft with his wounds he was asleep for
two weeks.  Very close to dying, many thought he would.
He turned and a nurse was standing there.  "She will be ok."  She said it
as if to comfort him.  She was young, with brown long hair and deep gray
eyes arched with long eyelashes.  She was attractive for her age.
"I don't really know her, I was just bringing some flowers.  That is all." 
He shifted weight.  "I just know, no one knows her that is all.  She could
use something to cheer here up."
"She is sleeping."  The nurse pointed out.  "I am Brisse, you're new here?"
	"Yes."
Darren Hunter
Roland Brock
korzad@lgcy.com