The light fingered man.

PROLOGUE: CINDEL ~ A POEM BY TERILIS THE POET

First came the first

who became a God because he

believed it

So it came to be that he was

The first God

He made the Mortals

they were Land gods, but had no

Power

over the land that sleeps

or the trees that sway

or the rocks that sit

And He called them Men

The name he bore was Eryle

Second came the second

He was much like unto the first

He was lovely

So lovely he made men hold

Their breaths and breathe it right

Back in

He, like the first, believed himself

a God

And it came to be that he was

The second God

He made the Sorcerers

They were sea and wind gods

And they had power

Over the Sea that storms

And the Wind that gusts

And he called them Wizards

And the name he bore was Aeris

Last came the last

He was much like unto the first

And the second

And nothing like them

For he made no other gods

But he had power

Over the

wind that waits

and the land that rumbles

And over the Ice that breaks

And the Sea that tumbles

And he was called many things

The Cold-fingered

The Light-fingered

The First Sin

The last God

His hands are colder than a moonless winter night and careful as sin.

I know this for I, myself, happen to have felt the mad pleasure of his cold touch

But I do not wish for it again.

For pleasure that great comes, at a price too costly.

And I'm only but a Bard

With less than too much to give

The name he bore was Cindel

~Terrilis the Bard

CHAPTER ONE: THE PERFECT TIME.

It was the month Sunmerry. Sunmerry had ten spans in total, and each day had twenty hours only; no more, and no less. Eleven hours for Daytime, and nine for Nighttime.

It was six spans into Sunmerry and it was the middle of the Summer season. The day was Wodensday, the third day in a span, and it was five hours past Nighttime. It was the perfect time to fake a death.

Cindel moved through the first doors of the old, and forgotten Lerolian Empire's museum with the grace of a floating shadow. His eyes adjusted to the darkness the moment he stepped into it, too fast for any human eyes. He wore a cloak with a black hood, and though he had gloves in his pockets, his hands had been left bare.

Cindel had the graceful long fingers of a musician, but they were without any calluses from playing or strumming strings. In fact, they were without any calluses that could be seen. He had hands stronger than iron stone, curving ever so gracefully when they curled into fists. And though they were strong, Cindel's hands were as light as bird's wing-bones.

They were cold to the touch, almost as if they had been sculpted from ice in the middle of Wynterfall, and they moved through the air like dark honey on water. Across his neck swung a golden locket that housed a woman's picture. Most of it had been burned out.

His eyes had no specific color and could drive a man mad from trying to decipher the thoughts churning within. When he looked to the side, they shifted like new paint on the old one, spreading slowly until the new color swallowed up the old.

He reached another door at the end of the mostly empty room.

Cindel tried to push open the door, but this one held fast and did not bulge. It was made of iron. It burned his hand sharply, but the burns disappeared as soon as they could form.

"Iron," he mused loudly - too loud to have been causual. "These fools really thought they could keep a true Wizard out . . . " He sounded almost amused.

His voice held such profound beauty it could be heard just like the beauty of a lady could be seen. It roiled, smooth and sleek as Quicksilver.

Cindel stretched his left hand toward the door and in the dark, his eyes flashed white like furious lightning bolts in a night storm. The door was blasted open with the unending force of an icy wind. But, before he could pass through, it slammed right back in place. He frowned.

The Empire had employed the service of another wizard, how interesting . . .

This time when Cindel blasted away the door, he blasted it right off the hinges. It groaned and was ripped away like too-strong wood-paper in a sea storm.

Cindel stepped into the room. It had a roof that reached, like clawing fingers, up into the sky. It was cold and dark here and smelled . . . Off. What he had come looking for was in the room after this, just a little further . . .

Cindel was used to the dark and has been born in it. As he stepped into this room, he noticed something unusual. There were people here. About two dozen, hidden about with illusions too sloppy to fool him. One pretended to be a tapestry, the other a mold-eaten table; One particularly dramatic one was a maiden's sculpture. Wizards. Good.

"Hello, Cindel." A voice drawled from up ahead. Sensing something, Cindel turned to look at the doorway he had come through, only to discover that the door had been replaced. Silver. The iron door had been an illusion, how had he not noticed? he had been such a fool. No wizard, dead or alive, could get past Silver - which was just perfect, and was moving along as the plan has stated it would. Cindel fought a small smile and gritted his teeth angrily as he turned back to the man in front of him.

The man was sharply dressed in a nobleman's suit - plum vest, gold buttons, and a black overcoat - complete to his short brimmed hat and a dueling cane. But upon a second glance, Cindel saw something different. It was still very much the same person, but his clothes peeled away like a foreskin to reveal what he truly wore underneath.

The black overcoat was now a midnight blue robe, the dueling cane was a wand carved from white-thorn wood, and his short brimmed hat had transformed into a pointed hat of gold which was intricately embellished with astrological symbols - A wizard's hat. The hat was more commonly known as The Wizard's Cone, and one could be burned by human folk just for wearing it, hence the illusion. There was only one other wizard whose illusions could fool him , if only for a second -

"Helmar," Cindel hissed.

"It is I, indeed." Helmar's voice sounded carefully amused.

"You must understand, Cin, that you can't wriggle out of this one. There are about thirty from the White Guard in here," Helmar explained with more relish than was necessary for acting. "And, more importantly," he gave a brilliant smile, "I'm here this time, Cin. I'm here."

Cindel flexed his fingers casually. "You'll pardon me," He finally said, "if I try again this time, Helm. I have a thing for . . . What did you call it? Ah, 'wriggling'." His smile was equally as brilliant, but he let a little fear shine in his eyes.

There was no escaping this time, they were too many of them and just one of him, and Helmar knew it. Blast the man. And it wasn't just any random manner of Wizards in the room, these were from the Magic Council's White Guard. Their black, emblemed robes, silver hats, and the unnaturally quiet with which they stood after they dropped their illusions told him enough.

Helmar flicked his wand once almost sluggishly, and Cin brought up his bare hands to deflect the spell. It rebounded, but Helmar avoided it easily.

"Still the Cold-fingered fool then," He said, eyeing Cinder's hands.

Cinder could tell Helmar had only sent that first spell to test out his strength. He could tell in the feel of it as it had slammed against his hand and readily rebounded. it had been a weak one . . . A deliberately weak one. he might stand a chance against Helmar alone, but with the other Wizards . . .

Cinder clenched his hands in a fist and almost immediately the room's temperature dropped dangerously low, breaths now clouded in front of the Wizards, and froze. Simply froze and dropped to the ground in hollowed out balls. The effort made Cinder sweat, but he'd achieved what he wanted. He could hear frightened whispers now . . .

"The Cold-handed Bastard," one said, his voice coated in an odd mixture of fright, awe and hatred. "heard he'll freeze a man's tongue mid-sentence; we're all dead, I tell you. You'll see . . ."

Cindel hid a smile. Let them fear and be too scared to approach, that'd leave him left with facing just Helmar. For now, at least.

Helmar's voice cut through the cold like a stubbornly sharp blade.

"Enough Circus-tricks, Cinder," he spat, then gave a smile,"Fight me."

Helmar whipped his wand over his head once, in a spell Cinder feared and knew like the back of his cold hands. Or, at least, pretended to fear.

A small ball of white fire formed atop Helmar's wand in the freezing cold, sizzling the air around it. It grew until it was almost the size of Cinder's head. Then, quick as an asp, Helmar whipped his wand a second time and sent the burning ball barreling his way.

With a sound like a frightened deer, Cinder turned and, for the first time in a long while, ran. Straight at the Silver door, he had no idea what he'd do once he got to it, nor did he ever find out, for the White guard, though scared, had been waiting.

"Well, well, Cindel Cold-fingered running away . . ." Came the sound Helmar's taunting laugh.

Cindel almost turned and fought then, the Wizard was overacting his part, but before he do quite anything a dozen cries of varying degrees of ill-meaning spells rose around the room then they hit him like arrows in the back. They burned his flesh and made him scream; one particularly unusual one made his head swell to twice its size, another ripped the wind from his throat and left him with a rasp, he couldn't breathe in the air. But he didn't need to, he could survive on the cold of his frozen lungs for now. It was all going according to plan, but . . . if only he could stop the pain . . . But he had to bear it . . . He had to.

Cindel fell to the ground a few inches from the Silver door and blacked out. It felt like death. Sweet, old death at last. It felt like freedom, except it wasn't freedom - or death, for that matter.

"Enough. I think he's dead," said Helmar as he walked towards the body.

He reached the body and crouched down, barely controlling his gag as he looked upon the once beautiful, and now disfigured face of Cindel which was now little more than a swollen onion bulb. Eryle's saggy balls, a Serpornian hex! really! He thought icily. Serpornian hexes were evil - to be put mildly. Dark magic, and were banned from being used even by the White Guard, how dare they use it now.

. . . Probably orders from the Council, of course. It'd take a good Physicker's with uncommon skill to get his face fixed, but it could be done.

Helmar checked Cindel's pulse. It beat weakly against his fingers and while Cindel's chest did not rise or fall in breathing, Helmar knew he was alive. Good, that went well at least.

"Dead," Helmar said with a small smile as he rose.

The Captain of the Guard came forward warily and crouched by Cindel's body while Helmar moved aside, his hand twitching subtly towards his wand.

"He's still got a pulse," the man said with a frown as he turned his head to Helmar.

"Of course he does."

The frown deepened, "you said 'Dead.'"

"Yes." Helmar gave a brilliant smile. "Whoever said I was talking about Cindel, though," he mused.

Realization dawned too late on the Captain's face.

Cindel was completely unconscious when members of the White Guard began screaming.

It was Artermisday, tenth day in the sixth span of Sunmerry. It was the the last hour of Daytime, and the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The red of dusk had faded to a Dark-red deeper than Carmine, and the moon was not so far away. It was the perfect time for a lie.

Helmar stood before the six members of the Council of Magic and the Representative of the Lerolian Emperor.

Each Council member headed and represented a specific department. The head of the department of Magical education; head for the department of The White Guard; Head for the department of Human and external relations; Head for the department of History and record keeping; Head for the department of Transportation; And, the scar-faced, Head for the control of Magical creatures. The Magical Council's leader was automatically the head of Magical education by law.

The Emperor's representative wasn't part of the Council and though the brushing feel of his fear from seating in a room full of Wizards was thick with the air like frozen butter, he managed to keep it off his face.

They were seated in a half-moon circle about Helmar in one of the many large, marble-floored halls of the Emperor's castle. As far as Helmar cared to admit, he was in a room filled with old men who had too much power for their own good. They didn't look pleased.

"You're saying he's dead?" A particularly wrinkled faced Council Wizard, wheezed in the manner only angry, old folk can manage. Tor, Head of the Department Of Transportation.

"That's correct," Helmar said calmly, his face impassive.

"How are we to trust you, Helmar? Everyone knows of your history with the Cold-fingered." Mistrel the Council leader asked. There was mock confusion plastered on his face. He was the youngest in the midst - and that wasn't saying much, for he was old enough to be stooped over himself. And, as Helmar had come to learn, the hardest to deceive.

Helmar narrowed his eyes at him. "One would think I earned your trust when you hired me."

The Council leader waved his hand dismissively. "One would think, you'd quit pretending. We both know you weren't hired for your unwavering loyalty, Helmar - If it's even be called unwavering, it isn't your loyalty. Besides, you weren't the only one hired now, were you?"

Helmar shrugged. "I already told you. He killed them-"

"The best Twenty-five the White Guard had to offer and he killed them all!" Another Council member interrupted, sputtering. It took Helmar a moment to recognize him. Do'elil Head of the White Guard.

His face was red with anger which was presently directed at Helmar. "Make up a better story next time," he spat.

Helmar simply shrugged again and said nothing.

The Emperor's representative shifted uneasily in his chair.

"It's very possible that he isn't lying. I mean, we're talking about Lord C-cindel here . . ." As he spoke, he seemed to hesitate upon reaching Cindel's name, but he continued before it could properly be labeled as fear. "He's more than capable of killing two dozen guards even though they are . . . your kind."

Do'elil turned in his chair to glower at the Representative. His face was positively livid.

"My kind?" He seethed. "What do you know about my kind except that burning leaves them screaming?" He asked, voice shaking with barely contained anger. Helmar was almost surprised he hadn't literally exploded yet.

The Representative paled and seemed to shrink back in his seat like a snail retreating into its shell. It was almost like he regretted speaking. The sight amused Helmar.

"The Emperor shouldn't be blamed. That isn't legal." He protested weakly.

"It isn't illegal either!" Do'elil shot back, spittle flying.

"Enough," Mistrel cautioned quietly. The tension in the room did not drop by an inch, but there were no more shouting, defence or accusations by either Do'elil or the Representative.

"I have other places to be, you see, and there's nothing left for me to say. I have told the truth. And do not think about sending men after me." Helmar inclined his head at Do'elil in a mocking bow. "They'll never return."

Helmar was so sure Do'elil was going to explode before Mistrel cut in quickly, probably to avoid an awkward situation in which the Wizard straight out attacked Helmar; walking stick and all.

"Wait, just you wait. One last thing, before you leave. Will you swear by Eryle's wand, Helmar? That you did kill Cindel?" Mistrel's voice was flat and had no room for argument. It wasn't really much of a question.

"I swear by Eryle's own wand and his true left hand, that I killed Cindel the cold-blooded," Helmar said without missing a breath.

"Tricky bastard," Do'elil said almost the moment he finished. "I heard, just the other day, that if you say it fast enough, God won't be able to hear or understand you - you know, he listens to alot of things, and he might let you get away with whatever it is - even lies. Make him swear again." Do'elil had a smug expression on his face.

The rest of the Council members and the Representative nodded in rare unison.

Helmar sighed. Fools.

Then he said slowly, stressing each word till his voice resonated through the hall:

"I SWEAR BY ERYLE'S WAND AND HIS TRUE LEFT HAND, THAT I KILLED CINDEL THE COLD-BLOODED."

The whole room waited with bated breath for the lightning that was sure to come. After about a minute, during which Helmar counted from hundred backward, he spoke.

"I suppose that proves all there is to be proven," Helmar said with his unending calm.

He turned to leave the room filled with Council Wizards too stunned to even think about stopping him.

"Good evening, good bye and good luck gentlemen," Helmar said over his shoulder as he left the hall.

"You should hope that we do not meet again."