[Carillon]

The candles flickered and the night pressed into the bedroom as Jaelle walked around, setting things straight. Aislin watched her mother from the cot in the corner—watched her make the bed and pack the vials of her alchemy away in their carved wooden boxes after checking each cork to make sure they were tightly sealed. The child watched as her mother put away silk and slippers, warm cloaks, jewelry ... garments were laid to rest in chests after they were folded carefully in protective cloth. The scroll folder was reorganized, each parchment of intricate runes in Jaelle's elegant script laid between protective vellum, then the whole folder bound shut with a leather thong. Jaelle tucked it into the drawer of the small desk she had bought and moved into the room when her stay in Krandor had become more permanent. Her hand paused over a letter in the drawer and she picked it up, unfolding it. She looked across the room at her daughter and felt an ache inside deepen as she set the letter back down. The ache had been growing for a while now, but had worsened tonight when it had all become real. When she had said it all out loud.

It wasn't likely, she told herself. They had a half-dozen other plans, all of which they would attempt before it ever became a possibility. They had talked until her throat had hurt that night. Tomorrow was the appointed day. Tomorrow they would go by portal to Leringard where Segemek would be waiting, holding a little boy hostage for a million true coins. Coins which they did not have. Her green eyes darted to the sack by the bed, full of appraised gems, banker's notes and the valuable mithril coins she had managed to collect. She had totaled it up that afternoon. Thirty-five thousand true. Less than a twentieth of what he had demanded. There was no way the sum would ever appease him, but she didn't need to appease him. All she needed was to buy a little time.

Her ears caught the sound of strained voices in the other room. They were still fighting. Connor's reaction to Anna's proposal had been of the same nature as his reaction to hers, just more vehement. She could clearly see the look in his eyes as she had told him, calmly, what she would do if all else failed. She had been unprepared for the surge of protective anger that had been his reaction. Or perhaps anger wasn't the right word. In fact, now that she thought about it, it wasn't the right word at all but she couldn't think of a better one. Language had always failed her when she tried to define her relationship with her teacher.

She thought about Anna as she began to pack her bag. She too had been a little surprised that Anna was as willing to sacrifice as she was. Both of them knew the risks, knew the expectations ... in short, had a good idea what they might suffer if they were forced to act desperately. The difference, Jaelle thought, was that Anna had more to lose. She knew the little half-elven woman was stronger than she usually gave her credit for, but she still wasn't certain how much something like that would damage Anna's spirit, or her relationship with Connor. She caught another snatch of hushed but strained voices and knew they were trying not to wake Finn or Lissa. Would their love endure that kind of trauma? She didn't know the answer, so her choice was clear.

But how could she possibly explain that to Connor? She couldn't. It was that simple. There was no way to explain that she would risk herself at the hands of the half-orcs not only to save Liam, but to protect Connor and Anna from the same horrors she would willingly face. She thought of Connor's words at the dinner table that night, and knew they were true for her as well. Still, truth be told, there was as much logic as emotion in the decision. She looked at her daughter and knew she was no martyr. She fully expected Connor and Anna to plan a rescue, and knew that Connor's head would be more level if it was her being held and not Anna. She needed his cool logic on her side, and the cold reality was that he would be less affected if it was her being hurt.

A quiet tapping against the glass and a sense of impatience through their empathic link alerted her to the presence of Nida at the window. She thrust it open and the little bat swooped in with the cold night air. One of the candles sputtered and went out as Jaelle pulled the window shut again. Her familiar circled the room twice, then hung upside down from a protective charm over Aislin's cot. Aislin cooed and gurgled with delight as Nida stretched her wings, one at a time, before wrapping herself in the leathery skin. Jaelle watched them both and tried to be calm. Her nerves were already on edge and as always, Nida was sensing it and responding.

Outside her door the tense voices had become quiet whispers or silence ... which, she knew not. They seemed to have made peace, and Jaelle was glad for it. She looked around the room for something else—anything else—to occupy herself with. Her violin sat in its case on the bed. Music might ease the knot in her heart or the twist in her gut but she couldn't play right now and wake the children. She opened the case anyway, running her hands over the smooth mahogany of the violin. The Curvaceous Lady gleamed back at her, but she took out a soft cloth and a gentle polish and worked on her anyway. She checked and straightened the bridge, examined the strings, and wiped any trace of rosin away with a dry cloth. She took up the bow and made sure the horsehair was loosened, then put them both away, drawing the thick red cloth over them before closing the case. The abjuration she had ensured permeated the cloth and case would protect the violin in her absence. She put the case away where it would be safe, already missing the instrument.

The dark sky was lightening outside the window, and she glanced around the room a final time. Her gaze came to rest on the letter on the desk. She didn't have to think about it to know the date in the corner: Oclar 26, 1436. To my daughter, on the day of her birth ... the letter began. She looked once more at Aislin, trying to grab Nida's wings as her familiar dangled over the crib, playing with the little girl ...

She couldn't do it! How could she leave her child? She cared for Liam, yes, but he wasn't hers. Not like Aislin was. How could she go, not knowing for certain that she'd come back? Her bare feet made almost no noise on the wooden floor as she crossed the room and took her child into her arms and cradled her to her breast, rocking her back and forth. The baby, startled to be so suddenly deprived of her leathery plaything and also by the urgency she sensed in her mother, cried out in protest but quickly hushed when Jaelle started to sing wordlessly to her. The familiar bond between them pulled tight—mother and child had done this many times before.

Nida stirred, flapping her wings as she sensed her mistress's rush of emotions. Across the room, a surge of emotions washed over Jaelle. She recalled how she had sung to her daughter when she had carried her within her, and the way she had rested one hand on the gentle curve of her swollen stomach, feeling the child move within. She thought back on their entire history, holding each memory to her like something very precious: the storm and the night of Aislin's conception, the moment she had cried in her arms after those terrifying minutes of silence when she was born, the feeling of the small warm body pressed against hers ... a thousand small details that only Jaelle knew. This is what she risked, and it was too much. She would do what she could for the boy, and hope for the best, but that was all.

She expected to feel relief at her decision, but instead she suddenly felt the weight of the wooden box under her bed—the carved box that contained a child's severed head, carefully preserved. She remembered the tea leaves, and that this plan had been simmering under the surface for weeks.

Ah, no ... she thought. It is too much to ask! You cannot demand this of me. There are other ways, other plans! They are good plans, and they will work. There will be no need for this, so it won't matter that I cannot do it.

She pleaded silently, though whether to the gods and goddesses or Segemek or Rhiannon's unseen spirit itself, she could not say. And with each thought and the answering stillness in the room, her path once again became clear. It made her want to weep, but like so many times in her life the tears did not come. Instead, she bent her head to Aislin's and closed her eyes, taking deep breaths.

A few minutes later, she carried her child over to the desk and weighed down the letter with a paperweight. The orb was made of glass, and depicted a little village and its miniature residents under blooming cherry trees. She had found it in Creedo and had been astounded by the detail—you could see the pattern of the sloping roofs, and of the blossoms on the trees. One could almost imagine the figures were real people, frozen forever in time in their protective bubble of glass.

Ah, to be able to stop time! Aislin's warm body had relaxed in her arms and the sleepy child had finally drifted into reverie. The room was no longer dark, and morning was fast approaching. Swallowing her sorrow, Jaelle carried her daughter over to the comfortable chair by the cot in which she had spent so many sleepless nights and prepared to wait for the dawn and their departure. She knew she wouldn't have to wait long.