Maeve looked up from her beautiful new dress.  She wasn’t expecting anyone, but, well...

 

 

               Letting the hem of the dress fall back against the wall of the wardrobe, Maeve got up, crossed the room, and opened the door.  A young man in rough, road-worn clothes stood beyond, holding a small shipping crate of the sort used to transport sensitive materials on ocean voyages and a smaller wooden box.

 

                “Ms. Maeve,” he asked, in perfect Darkonese?

 

                “Yes,” she replied, surprised by his use of her native language.

 

                “Two things for you, miss,” he said, brightly, extending the two boxes towards her.

 

                “Oh,” Maeve said, accepting the boxes, as the courier tipped his hat to her and began heading back towards his horse.  “Thank you!” she called after him before bringing the boxes into the back room her uncle Xanti’s shop and closing the door.  Odd, she wasn’t expecting anything…

 

                Maeve set the two boxes down on the floor next to a table, the larger box thumping slightly as an ill-fitting item shifted within it.  Pulling over a chair, she sat down and placed the smaller one on the table.  An envelope fell to the floor from the top of the larger crate; an envelope sealed with the mark of a skeletal hand.  A Hand of Bone…

 

                Maeve’s breath caught briefly in her throat.  Her father’s men; thieves, brigands, gangsters and worse.  And that was the hired help, the ones who would have no reason to send her anything directly.  Picking up a kitchen knife, she opened the envelop and retrieved the folded note inside.  Her stomach sank as she recognized her eldest brother’s ornate, overwrought handwriting.

 

                “Dearest Maeve,

 

                “I hope this missive finds you well.  We’ve been busy here in Nartok, but we are never too busy to look out for our beloved little sister and to address her concerns; they are, of course, the concerns of the whole family.

 

                “So sorry to hear about your recent troubles in Rivales.  Attatched, please find a gift, from myself and your older brothers.  We dearly hope that it brings you some small solace in your sadness and loss.

 

                “I may be on top, dear Maeve, and you on bottom, but I never forget even the least of my kin.

 

                “I remain your faithful servant,

 

                “Ladois”

 

                Maeve’s eyes shifted warily to the box.  Carefully, fighting the looming doubt building in her mind, she crossed the room, got the dusty, rusted prybar from the corner of her uncle’s storeroom (dragons rarely had to rely on such things), and came back to the crate.

 

                A gift…well, nothing else for it.  Maeve wedged the sharp end of the prybar between the lid and side of the small box and, holding the crate steady, levered off the lid.

 

                A wet, red-tinged mass of brown hair.

 

                Maeve gasped, clamping her hand to her mouth in shock.  Mustering all the courage she had, she approached the box, carefully lifting the hair to reveal the face below.

 

                Armel’s beaten, bloodied face, slack-jawed, eyes rolled back wildly, stared sightlessly back.

 

                Stifling a shriek with her hand this time, Maeve scrambled backwards across the room, tripping over the rug and shuffling back to the wall, tears of horror beginning to roll down her face.

 

                From the furthest back storeroom, the one that overlooked Xanti’s lair, her uncle came rushing into the room wearing his human form.  “Maeve?  What’s wrong?”  Kneeling beside her, he pulled her towards himself protectively.  Maeve slumped against him, staring at the crate, pointing with a violently shaking arm.

 

                “They…they…my brothers…” she stuttered, sobbing uncontrollably, “they killed…oh, gods…head!”

 

                Xanti glanced quickly at the box.  “Head?”

 

                “Tavian’s brother!” she gasped, still transfixed.  “Ladois…my brothers…killed Armel…”

 

                Steadying the girl slightly, Xanti rose and crossed the room, lifting the lid and looking into the box.  “Bahamut’s might,” the alchemist muttered, lifting a handkerchief to his nose, repulsed.  He dropped the lid and took a step back.

 

                Maeve collapsed back against the wall, sobbing again, finally closing her eyes against the horror on the table.  “I didn’t…!  I don’t…!”  She broke down, wailing her fear and pain.  Xanti shook his head, replacing the handkerchief in his pocket.  Crossing the room, he carefully picked through the dusty bottles on a dark shelf, coming up with a small flask, stoppered and wax-sealed.  He walked quickly back to Maeve’s side.

 

                “Here,” he said, opening the bottle, “drink this, it’ll help.”  Helping her guide the vial to her lips, he tipped it back, letting the thin, arcane liquids within run down her throat.

 

                Maeve sobbed for a few moments more, growing quieter and quieter.  Presently, she calmed considerably, though a serious look and a frown stayed nailed to her face.

 

                Xanti smiled slightly, taking the flask back.  “A tincture to calm the emotions.  Quite a useful item…”  He carefully placed the earthen flask with a small collection of strange looking pots and glassware to be washed.

 

                Maeve swallowed hard, tears still rolling down her cheeks.  “I didn’t want him to die.  I just,” she stopped, taking a deep breath, “I wanted to confront him, to show him that I know what he did to Tavian, that he had him thrown out of the family and killed so that Armel wouldn’t have to share the family’s money…”  She drew another deep, shuddering breath.  “That would have been avenging Tavian, not…” she gestured again to the box, “…not this…”

 

                Xanti heaved a heavy sigh.  “Your brothers…” he stopped, thinking, searching for the right words “…they are like your father.  Cunning, cold, ruthless, but…Alu…your father…they lack his sense of honor.”  Xanti swallowed hard, shaking his head.  “My brother is a vicious being, but he has a certain sense of balance, of right and wrong.  This…” he waved his hand towards the box and its gruesome cargo, “…this is well beyond what he would have allowed.  He is greatly missed.  We need him to come back.”

 

                Maeve nodded fiercely, tears welling in her eyes again.  “He does, he really does.  He would know what to do…about this…”

 

                Xanti looked back towards the box.  “About him?  I’m not sure what else can be done.  Sometimes, the best thing you can do is to simply move forward.”  Xanti paused, then nodded to himself.  “Your brothers…they do love you, Maeve, in their own twisted way.  This,” he indicated the box, “had nothing to do with Tavian or his murder.  This man slighted their little sister.  And for that, he paid.  With his life.”

 

                Maeve shook her head, the tears now rolling down her cheeks.  “I just…I feel as if this is all my fault.”  She closed her eyes, steeling herself.  “If the guards hadn’t pinned my arm, Tavian wouldn’t have been captured by Armel’s men in the first place....and now, because of that, Armel is dead as well.”  She drew a deep, steadying breath.  “His family has no heirs, now.  Their line will die out because of me…”  Maeve paused for a moment.  “I just hope Bela wasn’t involved in this.”

 

                “Your brother Bela,” Xanti asked?  “No, no…” Xanti stopped for a moment, collecting his thoughts.  “No, Bela is more like me, frankly.  He’s slower to action.  I don’t think he would have done this at all…”

 

                “I suppose you’re right,” Maeve nodded, breathing a sigh of relief.  “So…what do we do now?”  Her gaze shifted again, almost involuntarily, to the box.  “Should we…should we tell Bylun?”

 

                “The paladin?  No…”  Xanti shook his head.  “Maeve, it’s a head!  If you tell the paladin, he’ll take it to the guard, they’ll start asking questions…no, best to deal with it ourselves.  We could…ah!”  Xanti walked swiftly to a large barrel.

 “Yes!  This should do the trick.  It’s very corrosive.  Just give me the prybar and…”

 

                “Uncle, no,” Maeve protested!  “We need to give him a proper burial!”

 

                Xanti nodded.  “Right, sorry…human conventions and all that.  Well, can we bury just the head?”

 

                “I don’t see how we can avoid it,” Meave conceded, miserably.

 

                “Well…I suppose I could attempt to teleport the body here,” Xanti said.

 

                The two of them set about clearing the table, making space for the body that would soon, with any luck, manifest.  Xanti, grimacing, placed the head at one end, closing its eyes.  Maeve jumped slightly as he set it down with a soft thump.

 

                “Uncle…I don’t know if I can do this…”

 

                Xanti turned to her.  “Do what, child?  Most of the hard parts have already been done.”

 

                She shook her head.  “No, uncle…the body.  I don’t…I don’t know if I can see it.”

 

                Xanti stopped and looked her evenly in the eyes.  “I understand, Maeve, I do.  But you have to.”

 

                She blinked.  “I do?  Why?”

 

                He nodded.  “Yes, child.  You do.  You need to see this to remind you of what your siblings are capable of, of what you yourself choose not to do.  And to remind you that you are not them.”

 

                Collecting himself, he began slowly to chant, laying out marks of power across the table.  Quickly, arcane energies began swirling through the room, scattering dust and making candles waver.  A dark bulk began to gather in the center of the slab.

 

                The man’s naked body thumped to the table with a sickening finality, savagely brutalized, but seeming fresh, a masterwork in pain and madness.  The strong, coppery scent of blood and the wet, horrid stench of gangrenous decay filled the room, making Maeve wretch and gag.  Maggots and…worse things rooted around in various places where ill-tended wounds had begun to fester.  Myriad burn marks pocked the body, along with the fresh scars of similar wounds recently healed.  Several of Armel’s extremities were blackened by frostbite, the work of Silver Dragon breath.  Dozens of his bones were broken; massive bruises purpled almost every inch of the body that wasn’t torn apart by the wounds of teeth and claws.

 

                Yet worst; the man’s genitals were missing entirely; trailing bits of gore straggled from the man’s groin where his manhood had been torn away, some of it roughly cauterized or quickly healed to keep Armel from bleeding out.

 

                Maeve drew a long, slow breath.  “Alright.  I’m alright.  I’m…actually better than I thought I’d be.”  She inhaled again, releasing the breath in a slow, careful torrent.  “I think I can handle this.”

 

                “Ye gods and little fishes,” Xanti breathed.  “What have they done with his…his…” Xanti waved a hand at what was left of Armel’s groin.

 

                Maeve paled and looked down at the smaller box.  “Uncle…I think I know…”

 

                She bent and picked up the smaller box.  No rattle nor rustle left it; a small, secure box, latched and hinged.

 

                Maeve drew in a deep breath, steeling herself, and unlatched the clasps.

 

                She opened the box…