"Mommy!" her daughter screamed as the wood of the door cracked beneath the heavy blows. She wrapped her free arm around her daughter, clutching her son of three summers in the other. Her oldest son, eight summers, cowered behind the fireplace, wielding the bronze poker like a sword. He was trying to be brave, but tears of fear streamed down his cheeks. Gods, she thought, please don't let them hurt my babies!

Life had not been easy since her husband had passed away two winters ago. Still, her friends from the Circle had helped her and her skill with a needle had kept food on their poor table. But now the Hunt had come for her.

The heavy wood of the door shattered on the next blow. Her scream echoed that of her two younger children. Angry men kicked away the remains of the door and stepped inside.

Her oldest son stepped out and swung his poker at the first of them. The man caught the pitiful weapon and ripped it out of the boy's grasp. He raised it overhead to smash the boy's skull. The boy cowered, frozen with fear.

"Nooo!" she screamed, releasing her youngest. With a speed she didn't know she possessed, she got between her son and his attacker, ramming the dagger from her belt into his stomach.

Rough hands grabbed her by the arms as the man she had just killed doubled over her knife. In horror, she recognized him as the man who had tried to rape her last spring. Now she knew who had turned the Hunt on her!

Someone bent her right arm back, forcing her to release the dagger. She cried in pain as she felt the bones of her wrist snap. The dagger fell from her suddenly limp fingers.

Her crying daughter grabbed at her skirts as the townsmen carried her out. One of them struck the girl away before scooping her up to carry her outside as well.

"No!" Gretchen screamed. "Leave her alone! Please, she is only a child!"

The townsmen threw her facedown into the muddy street. She struggled to her knees and looked up at the man before her. He was clad in bronze armor covered by a white tunic emblazoned with the symbol of Hrothgar. Her breath caught in her throat. Then she clutched at the man's tunic in desperation.

"My lord!" she cried. "Please, lord, I am innocent! I have done no...."

The back of a gauntleted hand smashed across her face. Blood flew from her lips as she was knocked back down into the mud.

"Lying whore!" the man spat. "The stench of your crime is an affront to the nostrils of pious men everywhere! Strip her!"

The woman shrieked as the townsmen lifted her from the mud and tore her clothing from her body. They carried her up a mound of wood and tied her to a stake in the center. Her screams subsided to bitter sobs.

With the woman's screams stilled, the cries of her children filled Mathen's ears. He watched as the townsmen brought three children from the home. Two were boys, one about eight summers old the other less than three. The one girl looked to be about six summers.

"My babies!" the woman shrieked anew. "In the name of Hrothgar, not my babies! Please -- they have done nothing! They're just babies!"

"Lord Mathen?" one of the townsmen asked.

"The children of a mage are mages also," he replied. "Still, they need not suffer the flames alive. Cut their throats and throw them on the pyre at her feet."

"Noooo!" the woman screamed. "Noooo!"

Her screams continued as the bodies of the children were laid at her feet. Mathen took a torch from a nearby townsman and stepped forward to thrust it into the pyre.

The flames licked out from the torch, swiftly catching the wood of the pyre. Mathen stepped back as the flames engulfed the dead children and climbed toward the magess.

"Damn you!" she screamed at him. "Damn you to hell, you monster!"

Then her curses turned to screams of agony as the flames reached her. Mathen watched until her screams fell silent and her body slumped against the ropes. One could not be too careful with a mage, after all.

"Burn the house," he ordered.

"But lord," one of the townsmen objected, "there is much...."

"Burn it!" he shouted. "Trust me, you want no part of a mage's possessions. Or do you want the Inquisition to come to you?"

"N-no, lord," the townsman replied.

"Then burn it."

Mathen watched as the townsmen put their torches to the woman's house. Soon the flames were licking high up into the sky, sending a column of smoke toward the heavens.

* * *

Bjorn watched the smoke climb high into the sky. Here in the Wastes of the far north, it was customary to burn the dead rather than bury them. Digging was difficult in the frozen ground.

Bjorn raised his arms toward the shimmering light of the Northern Curtain high overhead.

"The time of a man is short," Bjorn said. "As we have all come from the Mother, so do we return to her." Last winter, Bjorn had buried his father in this frozen land. Now he laid to rest the man who had, in many ways, replaced him.

"And so, we return our brother, Lars Svenson, to her fertile bosom," Bjorn continued. "In the eternal cycle of life, our brother shall return to us by nurturing the future children of our Mother. So we meet, and so we part, and so we meet again."

"So we meet," echoed the others of the Circle, in more voices than any Bjorn had led before, "and so we part, and so we meet again."

By right of Power, it had been decided that Bjorn would now lead the lodge as High Magus as Lars had led it before him. That Power was double what it had been a year before. Just over a moon ago, Bjorn had completed the first exercise in the Silver Book. The increase in his Power had been dramatic.

Since then more than half a dozen others had successfully completed the lesson as well. Even so, they had not quite attained the same level of Power that Bjorn had. Most of the lodge had proven unable to master the exercise, although many still tried. The people of Lars' hall did not give up easily.

Bjorn reached out with his mind and touched the crackling flames of the pyre. Like miniature demons they sucked hungrily at the air and the wood. Bjorn poured his Power and the Power of the Circle around him into the fire.

The members of the Circle almost lost their concentration when the flames roared skyward. Bjorn could feel the intense heat of the pyre on his face. Within seconds, Lars' body and the pyre were consumed by the fire. The members of the Circle released their breath as one in awe.

Bjorn lowered his arms.

"So we part," he breathed. "Goodbye Lars."

"So we part," the Circle echoed, quietly.

* * *

Bjorn struggled with the ancient script. The second exercise was proving much more complex than the first. The text of this second lesson had appeared in the magical tome as soon as Bjorn had mastered the first. He had no doubt that, upon mastering the second exercise, a third would appear after it. Most of the ancient book was yet blank.

He felt Helga's warm hands on his shoulders. He smiled and turned from his work. The child in her womb was just beginning to show. It should be born by late spring.

"It is late, husband," she said. "You need your rest."

"Just a little longer," he said.

"Once it was not so difficult to convince you to come to bed," she said, placing a hand on her growing womb. "Am I no longer attractive to you?"

"Helga!" he said. "How could you think such a thing? You bear my child -- you are more beautiful to me than ever."

"Then come to bed, husband," she said.

"I cannot," he said. "I must finish translating this new text."

"Can it not wait until tomorrow?"

"No, my love," he replied. "I know not why, but I feel that we have little time. The secrets in this book could mean our very survival."

"I hope you are wrong, my husband," Helga said. "I want to have much time to spend with you."

* * *

Ivanel glared at the man who stood next to him at the foot of Gavin's throne. He wore no beard and his black hair was close cut in the manner of a priest in penance.

And penance was due, Ivanel felt. Mathen was responsible for the deaths of almost a score of Gavin's subjects accused of practicing the Forbidden Arts. The sad fact was that all of those accusations had been true. The man seemed to have an almost inhuman talent for sniffing out the magi.

"What evidence have you that this woman was a mage?" Ivanel demanded. "What?"

"I have the testimony of her neighbors...," Mathen began.

"Oh, I see," Ivanel interrupted. His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"So," he continued, "we now resort to burning seamstresses and slitting the throats of infants based on the word of ignorant peasants!"

"Uncle, calm yourself," Gavin said.

"Calm myself?" Ivanel replied. "Majesty this man cut the throat of a boy less than three summers old and laid him at the feet of his mother before he burned her alive!"

"What was this testimony, Mathen?" Gavin asked.

"The woman was observed departing her home late at night on evenings with no moon or on the evenings of the full moon," Mathen replied.

"According to her fine, upstanding neighbors," Ivanel quipped.

"Uncle!" Gavin said in rebuke. "Allow the First Knight to present his evidence."

"She would leave roughly two hours before midnight and return a few hours before dawn," Mathen added. "These patterns are consistent with gatherings of the magi."

"Do you have the names of your so called witnesses, priest?" Ivanel asked.

"I can produce such a list if you desire," Mathen replied.

"No need," Ivanel assured him. "I already have that list. Did you investigate these men?"

"No," Mathen replied, a trace of confusion in his voice. "They were not under suspicion."

"How unfortunate," Ivanel said. "Had you done so, four innocent lives might have been spared."

"What do you mean, uncle?" Gavin asked.

"The first man that Mathen questioned was Jarl Jarlson," Ivanel replied. "Last spring he was accused of attempting to force himself on the woman in question. There was insufficient evidence to hang him, so he merely spent the spring and summer in your majesty's dungeon."

Gavin glanced toward Mathen and then back to Ivanel. Ivanel was pleased that the king's expression was not a pleasant one. Perhaps he was finally getting through to his nephew. Gods, please let it be so!

"All of the other men who testified," Ivanel continued, "against the seamstress were friends of his. Most of them have laboured for your majesty under less than voluntary conditions at one time or another. Of course, I highly doubt that such fine, upstanding citizens would lie to a priest!"

"I presume you have records to support this," Gavin said.

"Yes, majesty," Ivanel said, handing a sheaf of parchment to the king. Gavin perused the documents.

"Mathen, how do you answer this?" Gavin asked.

"Majesty," Mathen replied, spreading his hands before him, "I do not base my investigations on testimony alone. I personally followed the woman after she was accused. On the next night of the full moon she departed and travelled secretly to a mage's circle. Sadly, my approach was detected and the vermin fled before my men could surround them."

"You saw this?" Gavin asked.

"Yes, majesty," Mathen confirmed. "I am familiar with how these infidels operate. The woman cloaked herself as soon as she believed herself alone. She was passed by the guardians of the circle when she arrived. All were cloaked. All fled at our approach."

"I have heard enough," Gavin said. "Have you any leads on her accomplices?"

"Sadly, not at this time, majesty," Mathen replied. "However, my investigations continue."

"Did you have to kill the children?" Ivanel asked. "Could they not have been taken as wards of the temple?"

"Your compassion does you credit, Lord Ivanel," Mathen replied. "But blood will tell. Had we taken them into the temple they would only corrupt the temple as well. If one leaves the roots of the weeds in the ground they will sprout anew. I did spare them the fire. And I thank you for pointing out my oversight in not investigating my witnesses as well. Rest assured, I shall do so in the future."

"Thank you, Mathen," Gavin said. "You may depart us."

"Your majesty," Mathen replied, bowing before he left.

"Pompous ass," Ivanel growled after the priest had left.

"He is necessary, uncle," Gavin replied.

"No, he is not!" Ivanel said. "Gavin, you and I know more about these people than anyone else. That child, I dare say all three of those children, would not have grown to be mages if they were raised by the temple. We have become murderers of children."

"They are mages, uncle!" Gavin said. "They are born with the Talent, and if we leave but one alive we risk the return of the MageLords!"

"And how many innocents will die?"

"No innocents died here!" Gavin countered. "Mathen was sufficiently thorough despite the dubious nature of his witnesses."

"Majesty, panic is spreading throughout the kingdom!" Ivanel objected. "Most of the so called mages being put to the fire are never investigated by the priests. Their own friends and neighbors put them to the stake. Majesty, these are your people! You are sworn to defend them!"

"I will hear no more of this," Gavin said. "We must hunt these mages out!"

"I pray to Hrothgar that my brother will forgive you for what you have done to his kingdom," Ivanel said. Gavin winced at his uncle's words. Ivanel knelt at the foot of the throne.

"I beg your leave, majesty," he said. "I must depart for Smithton soon."

"Uncle...," Gavin began. Ivanel waited, silently.

"You...may depart us," Gavin finally said. Ivanel rose and turned to leave. Gavin was not willing to listen to reason -- Ivanel had exhausted his last hope of that. Now it was time for him to seek out the help that Bjorn Rolfson had promised him.

* * *

Gavin stood, staring out the window of his chambers onto the courtyard below. Ivanel was right -- to an extent. Panic was spreading throughout the kingdom. There was little doubt that many who died were innocent, slain out of fear and superstition or, as Ivanel had suggested in the case of the seamstress, out of revenge under false charges.

He could not allow these crimes to go unpunished any more than he could allow the temple to stop their search for the mages.

The workers below still laboured to repair the damage from Valerian's battle with the great dragon, Arcalion. Gavin was determined that no MageLord would ever again threaten his lands. The Inquisition was the only means by which he had any hope of succeeding. He dared not stop it.

Gavin blinked.

But it was not the Inquisition which his uncle objected to. It was the panic. That Gavin might be able to do something about.

"Guard!" he called. A guard opened the door to his chamber and stepped in.

"Yes, majesty?"

"Send me a scribe," Gavin ordered.

"Yes, majesty," the guard replied.

* * *

Mathen walked up the granite steps to the temple. Hrothgar's likeness was carved in relief over the doorway. Mathen signed himself and bowed his head as he passed underneath it.

His confrontation with Baron Ivanel concerned him. If he did not know better, he would almost suspect that Ivanel was involved with these mages.

No, Mathen was certain that it was simply misguided compassion. Ivanel seemed convinced that Mathen was not taking adequate precautions to protect the innocent. That was understandable, especially since Mathen could not reveal his true evidence.

All of the magi carried the Mark. The common folk were unaware of it, but Hrothgar had seen fit to give Mathen the ability to see it, which had earned him his place as First Knight of the Inquisition. The Mark surrounded the magi like a ghostly phosphorescence. None with the Mark were innocent.

It absence was not enough in itself to absolve Ivanel, however. Some few without the Mark were still seduced by the magi into aiding them. Even so, Mathen was certain that Ivanel was merely concerned with protecting the innocent -- as was Mathen himself. Once Mathen had established the woman's guilt, Ivanel had dropped his defense of her and had merely expressed grief for the lives of the children.

Did Ivanel think that he did not grieve for them as well? Mathen had spent until dawn in the Great Hall of the temple praying that Hrothgar see fit to be merciful with them when they arrived in His hall. His own tears had not been absent. For ones so young to bear the Mark was a tragedy beyond mention.

An acolyte stepped up to him as he entered the temple.

"First Knight?" the boy said timidly. "The Temple Father wishes to speak with you."

* * *

Bjorn approached the enormous Circle from the south as custom demanded. He stopped outside the invisible yet shimmering wall of Power that formed the Circle. Theodr stepped forward, stopping just inside the Circle. The tip of his extended sword touched Bjorn's chest between the third and fourth ribs. Bjorn felt Theodr's mind touch his own.

"How do you come?" Theodr asked.

"In peace and trust," Bjorn responded. "With malice toward none and love for all." The sword pressed against his chest with a little more force. Bjorn felt Theodr's mind probing his own, testing the truth of his answer.

"You may enter Circle," Theodr said, withdrawing the sword.

Bjorn stepped across the threshold of Power and walked to the center of the Circle. He carefully stepped into the smaller Circle drawn there.

Freida's Power rose about him and Bjorn knelt, bowing his head in submission. Theodr stepped to his left and laid the sword across the back of Bjorn's neck.

Bjorn remembered the last time he had faced this test. He had been under the control of the MageLord Valerian then and had secretly prayed that Theodr would see the taint of the MageLord's Power on his soul. He had not, however. Now Bjorn faced the challenge whole and in his own mind.

"Who are you?" Freida asked.

"I am Bjorn, son of Rolf," Bjorn replied. "I am of the Circle."

"Why do you come?" she asked.

"To serve."

"By what right do you come?"

"By right of Power."

"Do you seek to hold this Power over us?"

"No," Bjorn replied. "I place it in the service of the Circle." There was another pause as Theodr, guardian of the Circle, probed his mind.

"I have here the medallion of the High Magus," Freida said. "This circle of gold has been passed down to us by Bairn himself from the Time of Madness and is scribed with his symbol. Will you take the burden of it about your neck?"

"I will," Bjorn said.

"Then rise," Freida commanded. Bjorn rose to his feet once Theodr had removed the sword. Theodr resumed his place behind Freida.

Freida placed the medallion about his neck. Bjorn opened his garments, allowing the metal to touch his bare flesh.

Frieda, Bjorn's second in Power, gathered the combined Power of the Circle and poured it into the medallion in the rite of bonding. Bjorn gasped in surprise at the Power that flowed into him. Before, this rite had been interrupted by the medallion's rejection of him.

Now, he found himself aware of each person's contribution to the Circle. He touched the mind of each in the closeness of communion. He knew their hopes, their fears and their dreams. Their desires, both base and noble, were laid bare to him. Bjorn almost wept. Had it been like this for his father? For Lars?

"Do you find us worthy of your service, Magus?" Frieda asked. Now Bjorn understood why that question was asked of each High Magus. He had just viewed each of their souls. This was his last opportunity to withdraw.

"I do," Bjorn replied.

* * *

"Noo!" the woman screamed as the huge man beat her. Mathen clutched at the man, trying to pull him away. But he was just a child -- the man was too big.

"Mommy!" he shrieked.

"No, Mathen," the woman screamed. "Run away!"

"Mommy!" he cried again. Again he tried to pull the man away. The man turned and struck him away effortlessly and then turned back to beating the woman.

"Stinking magess!" he shouted. "What have you done with my wife? Answer me!"

Little Mathen capped his hands over his ears but that wasn't enough to block his mother's screams or the sound of heavy fists slamming into flesh. He cowered back against the wall, pressing his hands over his ears as tightly as he could.

Finally, the woman's screams stopped and the man stepped away from her. Mathen opened his eyes and saw the woman's broken, bloody face.

"Mommy!" Mathen shouted, sitting up on his cot. For a moment, he looked around in panic, disoriented from the nightmare. The bedclothes of his cot were soaked with his own perspiration.

Shaking, he got up from the bed and knelt at the small prayer stand.

The dream was always the same. The night his father had beaten his mother to death in front of him. Only it had not been his mother, he had later come to understand. Rather, it had been the magess who had killed his mother and used her foul art to take her form and her place.

Mathen's father, thinking his wife had taken a lover, had followed the magess to where she gathered with her foul kind beneath the full moon. There he had learned that the truth was even more terrible than he had feared. His wife had been replaced with some foul creature of the Forbidden Arts.

He had returned home, grief stricken. After several hours the magess had returned and Mathen's father had snapped. He beat the impostor to death with his bare hands. Mathen had been too young to understand that the woman his father had killed was not his mother, but he understood in time.

Even so, when the dream came, all memory of that understanding was gone. He was the child all over again.

"Thank you, mighty Hrothgar," he began in prayer, "for sending this vision to remind me of my holy cause..."