Kevin Stein - Brothers Majere

Glancing behind to see that he was not being followed, Lord Brunswick continued walking until he reached the edge of his land. Here stood a tall ceramic urn, one of many that lined the Brunswick property. The lord leaned against it casually. Waiting a few moments to assure himself that he was alone, the minister pushed slightly with his shoulder. The urn slid aside, revealing a hidden passageway into the ground.

Searching the area one last time, the minister stepped down onto the stairway, which began to glow with a strange, eerie light. Reaching out, he tugged on a lever that jutted from the wall. The urn moved back over the entrance, concealing it.

Lord Alvin, Minister of Property, finished his dinner at the same time as Lord Brunswick. Compared to the opulent meal the Minister of Agriculture had eaten, Lord Alvin's fare was simple, served on stone crockery in the kitchen of his home. He ate alone, preparing his food himself, without the aid of servants. The lord lived alone on his huge estate, hiring only a groundskeeper to maintain the gardens and trees. Lord Alvin was a misanthrope, a miser.

Going back to his study, Lord Alvin sat down stiffly in his chair. He glanced without interest over a book – a list of lands and their owners. When the chimes on his water-clock struck for the eighth time, he rose to his feet and made his way to the cellar beneath his house.

The wine cellar was a large room, storing hundreds of bottles of spirits, each vintage held in its own separate storage rack. Wine had been stored here for years, growing more and more valuable each day.

The lord walked down the flight of wooden stairs. Taking an oil lamp from its holder, he lit it with a match and continued on to the very back of the cellar. The minister moved heedlessly through the maze of racks, not caring that he jarred them. When a bottle fell to the floor and smashed, he didn't even glance around.

Far in the back, where the oldest bottles were stored. Lord Alvin came to a particularly ancient-looking rack. Running his fingers along the top, the minister reached out and pulled on a red bottle. The rack moved back with a subdued grinding sound, sliding into the wall. The lord stepped inside a tunnel that opened up behind the rack, his footsteps echoing hollowly in chill corridors.

That night, throughout the white-walled city of Mereklar, seven other noble lords were walking seven other dark and different paths, all leading to the same place.

The local patrons of the inn of the Black cat stayed up far into the night, discussing the ominous portent of their missing cats, unwilling to let their fears take control of their dreams. Eventually, however, sleep overpowered them and they left for their homes. Only one man remained in the eating hall.

He'd been there all night, sitting alone, holding the same drink he had ordered at the beginning of the evening. No one spoke to him, he spoke to no one. Finally, Yost approached him.

"I'm closing up now. Either rent a room for the night, or leave."

The man rose to his feet. "You lock the front door, do you? No one can go out… or come in?"

"Not without waking me, they can't," Yost snorted. "Think I'd let people just stroll in or out without making certain they'd paid?"

The man nodded and laid down a steel piece, more than enough for what he had not drunk. He unhitched his plain brown horse from a post at the rear of the inn, and rode off into the quiet night.

He traveled swiftly through the fields and lands, avoiding hedgerows and muddy streams. The horse's harness brought music with every motion of the animal's long powerful legs, each stretch and toss of its head. Moving at a steady gallop, horse and rider traveled north.

Mereklar slept quietly under the brilliance of the two moons. Solinari's light rained down, showering the towers with silver, brightening the dimmest corners with heavenly light. Lunitari's glow spread over the city like a blanket, peaceful and content, throwing red shadows limned with shimmering silver.

The rider galloped up to the town gates and showed the guards an emblem he carried in his hand. Gold flashed in the moonlight. The guards let him pass. Without stopping, the man raced on to his destination.

On a small hill in the very center of the city stood a house unlike any other house in Mereklar. A rectangular shape, the house had a steepled roof, with two turrets rising from the front and back, and was built from yellow-brown stone instead of the pure white stone of Mereklar. Dark wood, weathered from wind and rain, held up the walls. Vines and ivy reached up to grasp the roof. Stained glass windows, shining with myriad colors, were lit from inside, creating strange, shifting patterns that seemed alive.

The rider dismounted and lashed his horse to one of the many trees that surrounded the strange house. He hurried up a path made of crushed white stones that shifted under his feet. Reaching the massive oaken door, apparently cut from a single living tree, he extended his hand to touch the doorknob – a piece of metal forged in the shape of a menacing cat.

The man withdrew his hand quickly. The iron of the handle was cold with the chill night air. Reaching out again, grasping the knob with a steady hand, he pushed slightly. The door did not open. Looking around the house for some sign of life, craning his neck to peer into the colored windows, the rider tried again. This time, the door opened easily at his touch. He had heard nothing. He drew his hand back, fear creeping up his spine.

Walking inside, the rider glanced around uneasily, listening again for any sign of life. There seemed to be none, yet someone – or something – had opened the door. He walked to the far end of the wood-paneled foyer and entered the main waiting room. A plush chair should have been warm, soft, and comforting. But when he sat in it, he felt unwanted, an intruder. He sighed pensively, crossing his legs and looking around nervously, uncertain when his hostess would arrive, uncertain if there was someone else in the dark, expansive home with him.

The only sounds he heard were his heart beating in time with an unseen clock – its water dripping down at regular, measured intervals – and the sighing of the wind through an open window. He had the eerie impression that the house was alive with blood and breath. The man started to get up and pace the floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. It was as if he feared disturbing the house.

He couldn't gauge the number of minutes that passed. Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The man was beginning to get angry. He'd been told to hasten. At the far end of the room was another door, a duplicate to the one the rider had first entered. He grasped the handle and twisted it down, hearing the latch click loudly in the silence of the house.

The door opened into another room, similar in size to the first, lit by a solitary fireplace at the far end. Looking in, he could dimly see bookcases filled with hundreds of books, hinting at the knowledge of ages past. Suits of armor reflected with steel-tinted light, each holding a weapon – a two-handed sword, a halberd, a pike.

"What news do you bring?" a rich voice asked in a tone sensual and feminine.

The man almost jumped back out of the doorway, his hand going to the dagger he kept in his belt. Squinting, he could see the lone robed figure of a woman sitting near him at the end of the table. A black cowl edged in white was thrown over her head. He could have sworn she had not been there when he opened the door.

"The three came to the Inn of the Black Cat, my lady," the man replied in a low voice. "They discovered the prophecies and asked questions. They asked the way to Mereklar."

The woman was silent a moment, thoughtful, brooding. "When will they arrive?" she asked at last.