Thobicus solemnly turned about and surveyed this most important gathering. The room was not formally set up for an audience. Some of the priests sat in chairs of various sizes; others simply stood leaning against a bare wall, or sat on the weathered carpet covering the floor. Thobicus moved near the middle of the group, near the center of the floor, and turned slowly, eyeing each of the thirty gathered priests to let them fully appreciate the gravity of this meeting. The various conversations dissipated under that scrutiny, replaced by intrigue and trepidation.

"Castle Trinity is eradicated," Thobicus said to them after more than a minute of silence.

The priests looked around at each other, stunned by the suddenness of the announcement. Then a cheer went up, quietly at first, but gaining momentum until all the gathered priests, except the dean himself, were clapping each other on the back and shaking their fists in victory.

More than one called out Cadderly's name, and Thobicus winced each time he heard it, and knew that he must proceed with caution.

As the cheering lost its momentum, Thobicus held up his hand, calling for quiet. Again the dean's intense stare fell over the priests, silencing them, filling them with curiosity.

"The word is good," remarked Fester Rumpol, the

second-ranking priest of the Deneirian order. "Yet I read no cheer in your features, my dean."

"Do you know how I learned of our enemy's fall?" Thobicus asked him.

"Cadderty?" answered one voice.

"You have spoken with a higher power, an agent of Deneir?" offered another.

Dean Thobicus shook his head to both assumptions, his gaze never leaving Rumpol's. "I could not collect the information," he explained to them all. "My attempts at communion with Deneir have been blocked. 1 had to go to Bron Turman of Oghma to find my answers. At my bidding, he inquired of agents of his god and learned of our enemy's defeat."

That information was easily as astonishing as the report of Castle Trinity's fall. Thobicus was the dean of the Edificant Library, the father of this sect. How could he be blocked from communion with Deneir's agents? All of these priests had survived the Time of Troubles, that most awful period for persons of faith, and all of them feared that the dean was speaking of a second advent of that terrible time.

Fester Rumpol's expression shifted from fear to suspicion. "I prayed this morning," he said, commanding the attention of all. "I asked for guidance in my search for an old parchment - and my call was answered."

Whispers began all about the room.

"That is because ..." Thobicus said loudly, sharply, stealing back the audience. He paused to make sure they were all listening. 'That is because Cadderly has not yet targeted you!"

"Cadderly?" Rumpol, and several others, said together. Throughout the Edificant Library, particularly in the Deneirian order, feelings for the young priest were strong, many positive and many negative. More than a few of the older priests thought Cadderly impetuous and irreverent, lackadaisical in the routine, necessary duties of his station. And many of the younger priests viewed Cadderly as a rival that they could not compete against. Of the thirty in this room, every man was at least five years older than Cadderly, yet Cadderly had already come to outrank more than half by the library's stated hierarchy. And the persistent rumors hinted that Cadderly was already among the very strongest of the order, in Deneir's eyes.

Dean Thobicus had apparently confirmed this theory. If Cadderly could block the dean's communion with agents of Deneir, and from all the way across the Snow-flake Mountains ...!

Conversations erupted from every corner, the priests confused as to what all of this might mean. Fester Rum-pol and Dean Thobicus continued to stare at each other, with Rumpol having no answers to the dean's incredible claim.

"Cadderly has overstepped his rank," Thobicus explained. "He deems the hierarchy of the Edificant Library unfit, and thus, he desires to change it"

"Preposterous!" one priest called out.

"So thought I," Dean Thobicus replied calmly. He had prepared himself well for this meeting, with answers to every question or claim. "But now I have come to know the truth. With Avery Schell and Pertelope dead, our young Cadderly has, it would seem, run a bit out of control. He deceived me in order to go to Castle Trinity." That claim was not exactly true, but Thobicus did not want to admit that Cadderly had dominated him, had bent his mind like a willow in a strong wind. "A^d now he blocks my attempts at communion with our god."

As far as Thobicus knew, that second statement was correct. For him to believe otherwise would indicate that he had fallen far from Deneir's favor, and that the old dean was not ready to believe.

"What would you have us do?" Fester Rumpol asked, his tone showing more suspicion than loyalty.

"Nothing," Thobicus replied quickly, recognizing the man's doubts. "I only wish to warn you all, that we will not be taken by surprise when our young friend returns."

That answer seemed to satisfy Rumpol and many others. Thobicus abruptly adjourned the meeting then and retired to his private quarters. He had planted the seeds of doubt. His honesty would be viewed favorably when Cadderly returned and the dean and the upstart young priest faced off against each other.

And they would indeed, Thobicus knew. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven the young priest for his actions. He was the dean of the library, the head of his order, and he would not be treated like a puppet by any man.

That was Dean Thobicus's greatest shortcoming. He still could not accept that Cadderly's domination had been granted by Deneir, by the true tenets of their faith. Thobicus had been tied up in the bureaucracy of the library for so long that he had forgotten the higher purpose of the library and the order. Too many procedures had dulled the goals. The dean viewed his upcoming battle with Cadderly as a political struggle, a fight that would be decided by back room alliances and gratuitous promises.

Deep in his heart, of course, Thobicus knew the truth, knew that his struggle with Cadderly would be decided by the tenets of Deneir. But that truth, like the truth of the order itself, was so buried by false information that

Thobicus dared to believe otherwise, and fooled himself into thinking that others would follow his lead.

Kierkan Rufo's dreams were no longer those of a victim. He saw Cadderly, but this time it was the young Deneirian, not the branded Rufo, who cowered. This time, in this dream, Rufo, the conqueror, calmly reached down and tore Cadderly's throat out.

The vampire awoke in absolute darkness. He could fee! the stone walls pressing in on him, and he welcomed their sanctuary, basking in the blackness as the minutes turned into an hour.

Then another call compelled Rufo; a great hunger swept over him. He tried to ignore it, consciously wanted nothing more than to lie in the cool black emptiness. Soon his fingers clawed at the stone and he thrashed about, overwhelmed by urges he did not understand. A low, feral growl, the call of an animal, escaped his lips.

Rufo squirmed and twisted, turning his body completely about in the crypt. At first the thrashing vampire thought to tear the blocking stone away, to shatter this barrier into a million pieces, but he kept his senses enough to realize that he might need this sanctuary again. Concentrating on the minute crack at the base of the slab, Rufo melted away into greenish vapor - it wasn't difficult - and filtered out into the mausoleum's main area.

Druzil, perched on the nearest slab, doglike chin in clawed fingers, waited for him.

Rufo hardly noticed the imp, though. When he assumed corporeal form, he felt different, less stiff and awkward. He smelled the night air - his air - about him and felt

strong. Faint moonlight leaked in through the dirty window, but unlike the light of the sun, it was cool, comfortable. Rufo stretched his arms into the air, kicked off with one foot, and twirled around on the other, tasting the night and his freedom.

"They did not come," Druzil said to him.

Rufo started to ask what the imp might be talking about, but, as soon as he noticed the two corpses, he understood. "I am not surprised," the vampire answered. The library is full of duties. Always duties. The dead priests may not be missed for several days."

"Then gather them up," Druzil ordered. "Drag them from this place."

Rufo concentrated more on the imp's tone than on the actual words.

"Do it now," Druzil went on, oblivious to the fast-mounting danger. "If we are careful..." Only then did Druzil look up from the nearest corpse to see Rufo's face, and the vampire's icy glare sent a shiver along the normally unshakable imp's spine.

Druzil didn't even try to continue with his reasoning, didn't even try to get words past the lump that filled his throat.

"Come to me," Rufo said quietly, calmly.

Druzil had no intention of following that command. He started to shake his head, large ears flapping noisily; he even tried to utter a derogatory comment. Those thoughts were lost in the imp's sudden realization that he was indeed moving toward Rufo, that his feet and wings were heeding the vampire's command. He was at the end of the slab, then he hopped off, flapping his bat wings to remain in the air, to continue his steady progress.

Rufo's cold hand shot out and caught the imp by the throat, breaking the trance. Druzil let out a shriek and instinctively brought his tail about, waving it menacingly in Rufo's face.

Rufo laughed and began to squeeze.

Druzil's tail snapped into Rufo's face, its barbed tip boring a small hole.

Rufo continued to laugh wickedly and squeezed tighter with his horribly powerful grasp. "Who is the master?" the confident vampire asked.

Druzil thought his head would be popped off! He couldn't begin to squirm. And that gaze! Druzil had faced some of the most powerful lords of the lower planes, but at that moment, it seemed to the imp that none was more imposing.

"Who is the master?" Rufo asked again.

Druzil's tail fell limp, and he stopped struggling. "Please, master," he whined breathlessly.

"I am hungry," the vampire announced, casually tossing Druzil aside. Rufo strode for the mausoleum door with a graceful and confident gait. As he neared the door, he reached out with his will and it swung open. As he crossed through the portal, it banged closed once more, leaving Druzil alone in the mausoleum, muttering to himself.

Bachtolen Mossgarden, the library's cook since Ivan Bouldershoulder had gone away, was also muttering to himself that night. Bachy, as the priests called him, was fed up with his new duties. He had been hired as a groundskeeper - that was what Bachy did best - but with winter thick about the grounds, and with the dwarf gallivanting in the mountains, the priests had changed the rules.

"Slop, slop, and more stinkin' slop!" the dirty man grumbled, overturning a bucket of leftover cabbage down a slope behind the squat library. He moved to pick his nose, but changed his mind as the finger, reeking of old cabbage, neared the nostril.

"I'm even startin* to smell like the stinkin' slop!" he whined, and he banged on the metal bucket, spilling the last of its remains onto the slick, stained snow, and spun about to leave.

Bachy noticed that it had suddenly grown much colder. And quieter, he realized a moment later. It wasn't the cold that had given him pause, but the stillness. Even the wind was no more.

The hairs on the back of Bachy's neck tingled and stood on end. Something was wrong, out of place.

"Who is it?" he asked straightforwardly, for that had always been his way. He didn't wash much, he didn't shave much, and he justified it by saying that people should like him for more than appearance.

Bachy liked to think of himself as profound.

"Who is it?" he asked again, more clearly, gaining courage in the fact that no one had answered the first time. He had almost convinced himself that he was letting his imagination get the best of him, had even taken his first step back toward the Edificant Library, the back door of the kitchen only twenty yards away, when a tall, angular figure stepped in front of him, standing perfectly still and quiet.

Bachy stuttered through a series of beginnings of questions, never completing a one. Most prominent among them was Bachy's pure wonderment at where this guy had come from. It seemed to the poor, dirty cook that the man had stepped out of thin air, or out of shadows that were not deep enough to hide him!

The figure advanced a step. Overhead, the moonlight broke through a cloud, revealing Rufo's pallid face.

Bachy wavered, seemed as if he would fall over. He wanted to cry out but found no voice. He wanted to run, but his tegs would barely support him while standing still.

Rufo tasted the fear, and his eyes lit up, horrid red flames dancing where his pupils should have been. The vampire grinned evilly, his mouth gradually opening wide, baring long fangs. Bachy mumbled something that sounded like, "By the gods," then he was kneeling in the snow, his legs having buckled underneath him.

The sensation of fear, of sweet, sweet fear, multiplied tenfold, washed over Rufo. It was the purest feeling of ecstacy the wretch had ever known. He understood and appreciated his power at that moment. This pitiful slob, this man he did not even know, couldn't begin to resist him!

Rufo moved slowly, determinedly, knowing that his victim was helpless before the spectacle of the vampire.

And then he tasted blood, like the nectar he had drawn from the foolish Oghman priest inside the mausoleum before DruziPs poison had tainted it. This blood was not tainted. Bachy was a dirty thing, but his blood was pure, warm, and sweet

The minutes slipped past, and Rufo fed. He understood then that he should stop. Somehow he knew that if he didn't kill this wretch, the man would rise up in undeath, a lesser creature, to serve him. Instinctively the vampire realized that this one would be his slave - at least until Bachy, too, had fully followed the path to becoming a vampire.

Rufo continued to feed. He meant to stop, but no level of thought could overrule the pleasure the vampire knew. Sometime later, Bachy's husk of a corpse tumbled

down the slope behind the other discarded garbage.

By the time the night began to wane, Kierkan Rufo had become comfortable with his new existence. He wandered about like a wolf scouting its domain, thinking always of the kill, of the taste of the dirty man's blood. Dried brown remnants of the macabre feast stained the vampire's face and cloak as he stood before the side wall "of the Edificant Library, looking up to the gargoyles that lined its gutter system, and past the roof, to the stars of his domain.

A voice in his head (he knew it was Druzil's) told him he should return to the mausoleum, to the cool, dark crypt where he might hide from the infernal heat of the coming sun. Yet there was a danger in that plan, Rufo realized. He had taken tilings too far now. The revealing light of day might put the priests on their guard, and they would be formidable opponents.

They would know where to start looking.

Death had given Kierkan Rufo new insights and powers beyond anything the order of Deneir had ever promised. He could feel the chaos curse swirling within his body, which he inhabited like a partner, an adviser. Rufo could go and find a place to be safe, but Tuanta Quiro Miancay wanted more than safety.

Rufo was barely conscious that he had changed form, but the next thing he knew, his bat claws had found a perch on the edge of the library's roof. Bones crackled and stretched as the vampire resumed his human form, leaving Rufo sitting on the roof's edge, looking down on a window that he knew well.

He climbed headfirst down the wall, his strong undead fingers finding secure holds where in life he would have seen only smooth stone, past the third floor, to the second. To Rufo's surprise, an iron grate had been placed over this window. He reached through the bars and pushed in the glass, then thought of becoming vaporous and simply wafting into the room. For some reason, some instinctive, animalistic urge, as though it occurred to him that the grate had been put there only to hinder his progress, he grabbed an iron bar and, with one hand, tore the grate free and sent it spinning into the night.

The entire library was open to him, he believed, and the vampire had no intention of leaving.

Well-placed Faith

Danica stared into the flames of the campfire, watching the orange and white dance and using its hypnotic effects to let her mind wander across the miles. Her thoughts were on Cadderiy and the troubles he would face. He meant to oppose Dean Thobicus, she knew, and to rip apart all the rituals and bureaucracy that the Deneirian order had been built on through the years. The opposition would be wicked and unyielding, and, though Danica did not believe that Cadderly's life would be in danger, as it had been in Castle Trinity, she knew that his pain, if he lost, would be everlasting.

Those thoughts inevitably led Danica to Dorigen, sitting wrapped in a blanket across the fire from her. What of the wizard? she wondered. What if Thobicus, expecting what was to come from Cadderly, did not respect Danica's rights as captor and ordered Dorigen executed?

Danica shook the disturbing thoughts from her mind and berated herself for letting her imagination run wild. Dean Thobicus was not an evil man, after all, and his weakness had always been a lack of decisive action. Dorigen was not likely in danger.

"The area remains clear," said Shayleigh, pulling Danica from her thoughts. She looked up as the elf maiden entered the camp, bow in hand. Shayleigh smiled and nodded to Dorigen, who appeared fast asleep.

"The mountains haven't awakened from the winter's slumber," Danica replied.

Shayleigh nodded, but her mischievous, thoroughly elven smile showed Danica that she thought the time for the spring dance was growing near. "Rest now," Shayleigh offered. "I will take my reverie later in the evening."

Danica eyed Shayleigh for a long while before agreeing, intrigued, as always, by the elf's referral to her "reverie." The elves did not sleep, not by the human definition of the word. Their reverie was a meditative state apparently as restful as true sleep. Danica had asked Shayleigh about it on several occasions, and had seen it often during her stay with the elves hi Shilmista Forest, but though the elves were not secretive about the custom, it remained strange to the monk. Danica's practice involved many hours of deep meditation, and though that was indeed restful, it did not approach the elven reverie. Someday, Danica determined, she would unlock that secret and find her rest as an elf.

"Do we need to keep a watch?" she asked.

Shayleigh looked around at the dark trees. It was their first night back in the Snowflakes, after a long trek southacross the open fields north of Carradoon. "Perhaps not," the elf replied. She sat at the fire's side and took a blanket from her pack. "But sleep lightly and keep your weapons close to your side."

"My weapons are my hands," Danica reminded with a grin.

Across the fire, Dorigen peeked out from under half-closed eyelids and tried to hide her smile. For perhaps the first time in all her life, the wizard felt as if she was among friends. She had secretly gone out and placed magical wards about the encampment. No need to tell Danica and Shayleigh of them, though, for Dorigen had worded the spells so that the monk and the elf could not trigger the traps.

With those comforting thoughts in mind, Dorigen allowed herself to drift off to sleep.

Shayleigh came out of her reverie sometime before dawn, the woods still dark about them. The elf sensed something amiss, so she rose from her bed, shrugged off the blanket, and took up her longbow. Shayleigh's keen eyes adapted quickly to the night. Towering mountains loomed as dark silhouettes all about her, and all appeared quiet and as it should be.

Still, the tiny hairs on the back of Shayleigh's neck were tingling. One of her senses was hinting at danger, not so far away.

The eh" peered hard into the shadows; she tilted her head at different angles, trying to discern an out-of-place sound. Then she sniffed the air and crinkled her nose in disgust.

Trolls. Shayleigh knew that foul odor; nearly every adventurer in the Realms had encountered a wretched troll at least once in his or her travels.

"Danica," she called softly, not wanting to warn her enemies that she knew they were about.

The wary monk came awake immediately, but made no sudden movements.

'Trolls," Shayleigh whispered, "not far away."