Theresa.

That was the name her father had given her. By now, her name had changed as many times as a young child changes nicknames--Saint Theresa, The Listener, Runner Zero.

She desperately wanted to say it used to be simple, but that was just untrue. It never really was. What she remembered was a time when she was mortal, a piece on the board rather than one of the myriad players. In a way, that was simpler. She only had to think in four dimensions, and keep track of a relatively small handful of predictable, mortal players.

Not so any more. It was Saint Theresa, back in that "simpler" time, who listened for the secrets of mortals. Now, it was The Listener who listened for the heartbeats and soft treads of the feet of Gods, and their secrets divine and inscrutable.

Theresa finished her morning devotional prayer, raising two fingers to her lips in the holy sign of the Silent One. "Silence is the god within," her father had taught her when she was a child, "Like Celebration, love, hate, hope, peace, and despair, but different in that he does not rule the heart--he rules the mind. The will. He manifests in calm patience, and the act of listening."

She glanced at her painting of the Jack of Hearts, his cocky, debonaire smile reassuring her from under his broad-brimmed hat. She smiled back, silently wishing he were here.

Listening was on the agenda right now. Today, her quarry was a Story-teller, and it was time for Theresa to be The Listener.

---

"Ahh!" The old Storyteller grinned at her as she approached his table. "Welcome, Listener! I have long desired to speak with you."

The Listener bowed. "Father of Stories."

"The Great Equalizer tells me that you wished to speak with me, as well." He gestured to a table. "Please, sit down. Have you had breakfast? I have had a tasty table-wine from the Chantreaux region of your old home brought in, with some quails eggs, and some brie and baguettes. I also have a chef archos who has told me that he can make spinach friands, or perhaps a boudin' noir." The Storyteller laughed as he sat down. "I must admit, I have never had foods before that I could not pronounce!"

The Listener smiled diplomatically, taking the seat opposite him. "No thank you, Great Storyteller. I could be satisfied with some water, if it's all the same."

"Of course." She thought she saw him give her a sly, appreciative glance before signalling to a nearby butler archos, who bowed, and went to get water. "I find it fortuitous that we wanted to speak with each other, Listener. You are a figure of great mystery, and great influence. Your name is spoken as reverently as the titles of some gods on Shem. I find it a travesty that I have had so little interaction with you up to now. You must truly know some interesting stories."

"As a...keeper of secrets," The Listener replied carefully, "my services are indeed popular."

"Indeed." He nodded his thanks to the butler as he placed a carafe of water on the table, filling up two glasses. The Father of Stories went on. "In many ways, I am your opposite: I do not keep secrets. I tell them as tales."

The Listener advanced her next piece, raising her glass to her lips. "And yet, as you surmise that there are tales in my secrets, I know there are secrets in your tales."

And there it was. The Father of Stories leaned forward, grinning. "There are. So is there an exchange to be made?"

"I'll open the bid. This is what I offer." She slid a piece of parchment across the table to him, face down.

The Father of Stories watched it with eyes wide, like a child on Jester's Day receiving a much-desired present. He carefully lifted the parchment, reading.

She watched him.

The Storyfather's eyes darted back and forth as he read. Then, she saw the reaction she was hoping for. His smile fell, his eyes taking on a cast of some distant grief, Next, his hand raised to his mouth. "Ye gods..." He looked up to her. "Are they certain?"

"It was corroborated," she answered, deadpan.

"I had heard vaguely that it was a Gift that was used in this conflict, but...I had no idea."

"Does that fill in the gaps in the tale for you?"

He smiled. "It does indeed. It all makes sense now."

"Good. Because my price is the rest of the tale. I want to know how that Sword came to be where it was after the death of its former wielder."

The butler set a candle down on the table. The Storyfather grinned, nodding once at him in gratitude.

"That is a story indeed." The Father of Stories threw a pinch of powder into the candle flame. It's brief flare illuminated his smiling face. "I will take you now to a village in Jesenya, to a small mining province in the dark-forested mountains of Romany..."

---

Morphiel had again dreamt of Elizabeth.

The nightmares hadn't been so bad the last few years. How many since, he had lost count. The peace, however uneasy, had been a comfort to him. He rose out of bed, rubbing his eyes, wondering if there were anything aside from the maintenance on his home to do today. Split logs for fire--though he could make the fire himself easily enough--tend to the garden, fix that damned sound in the furnace. Yes. That had to be the first priority. The constant clanking was beginning to worry him.

Morphiel yawned big. He rose out of his silk sheets and quilted blankets, pushing the velvet curtains of his four-poster aside. His furry-pawed feet felt cold on the flagstone floor. With a big gaping yawn, he shook the last of the sleep from his head.

Some days it was just hard to get going in the morning, and yet, that was what there was to do: keep going. Do what had to be done. Later, he wondered about patrolling the forest, maybe see if those pesky goblins had gotten bored and left yet. Somehow, he doubted it. He wondered how it was possible that they hadn't attracted the attention of the Staves at Linden, but really, he didn't care. They weren't the villagers' problem, they were his.

He splashed water into the fur of his face, looking at himself in the mirror.

He hadn't changed. The face was still the face of the Rakshasa who seduced his mother, but the fur was dark brown, like the hair of his mother's family. The eyes, however, were still fiery orange.

There was still life in him yet. He flexed his glamour, turning the image to that of a dark-haired Human with strong, young features, arranged more like his mother's family. The fiery eyes looked somewhat out of place, but at least they looked Human.

This was the face Elizabeth had loved.

Morphiel closed his eyes. Enough dwelling on the past. It was time for breakfast.

---

Kielbasa. Morphiel dipped a bite into some mustard and chewed carefully.

Morphiel's grandfather had taught him to make it, sweet or spicy, or with caraway like the Talunics. He had tried to show Morphiel how to dry-cure, but Morphiel could never seem to get the hang of it. Decent summer-sausage was the reason for his monthly trips to the Linden market for supplies--everything else he purchased he could either do without or make do for with what he had. As it was, he had more money than he could spend, with the rent he took in from tenant farmers and woodsmen. Of course, they were a squirrelly bunch. They knew whose land it was--but that didn't mean they liked it.

A knock at the door.

Morphiel swallowed his bite of kielbasa and looked that direction, supreme annoyance taxing his boredom. But even the annoyance gave way to suspicious caution. He rose, instinctively reaching for a staff he kept by the door--but correcting course and instead belting on the cobalt knife on the peg next to it. he opened the door.

What stood before him was the second least welcome sight that could have greeted him, falling just behind the goblins and just before the Staves of Justice.

Steuben looked up at Morphiel, grinning. "How you doin', you old bastard."

Morphiel shut the door with a slam.

Through the three-inch-thick iron-wood, Steuben's small but potent voice pierced. "I know you can hear me in there, changeling! I think maybe you better deal with me, 'cause the law's comin'!"

Morphiel snarled a deep sigh, slapping his forehead. He turned back around.

"Not just the Staves this time! They got Brownstone with 'em!"

Morphiel pulled the door open. In a deep, growling voice, he snarled, "You have two breaths to convince me not to gut you and hang your body from that tree as a warning to others."

Unphased, Steuben went on. "Oh please. A bastard abomination like you kills a Sworden like me? Around here? They'll come down on you like goose-shit in the autumn and you know it."

"What do you want."

Steuben's eyes narrowed. "Hide me."

Morphiel squinted at Steuben, glancing behind him as if hoping to see that this was all a joke and he was being scryed by the fairy-jesters. "Hide--what in the name of all the gods makes you think I will suffer the likes of you to be inside my family manor?"

"Why not? They let you in, didn't they? They were good people. Time's wastin', Master Hinterstrad. They're coming."

Morphiel bent down, fixing Steuben with his gaze. "I know why the law wants you. What did you do to annoy Brownstone."

Steuben glared. "I said some culturally insensitive things, alright? Now let me in!"

Morphiel smiled, deciding it was worth the unpleasantness of dealing with the law to make this fool squirm. "What did you say?"

Steuben sighed frustratedly, glancing over his shoulder. "Alright, they think I have info on some kinda flesh-peddlin' ring, alright?"

Morphiel glared at him. "Do you?"

By this point, Steuben's panic showed beautifully. "Gods dammit Hinterstrad are you gonna let me in or not?!"

Morphiel glared contemptuously. "They're going to track you here anyway. Hiding you won't save me any of your trouble." He slammed the door, walking away.

"Hinterstrad!" Steuben pounded. "LET ME IN YOU SON OF A WHORE!"

Morphiel sat down, glancing behind himself at the door in disgust.

"YOUR FATHER WAS A TUMTUM! I HOPE THEY CUT OFF YOUR HEAD AND RAPE YOUR SKULL WITH AN IRON TRUNCHEON!"

Morphiel dipped another bite of kielbasa in mustard, chewing it ponderously. He turned his mind toward how to fix that incessant noise in the furnace.