Quildor, wrapped in light armor, and flowing black robes stepped into the hall that had been sealed to keep his prisoner. He'd witnessed the Witch's attempt to divest the girl of her knowledge, and the unsuccessful endeavor to ascertain her name. The girl was strong, very strong. His mind pondered her strength and courage and felt his heartbeat accelerate. She had to be the princess, Taan and Ondrea's own daughter. She had to be the one that was prophesied to find the Talisman. With her in his hands, he could force the Talisman to his will. He could rule the planet!

She must have been taught-- perhaps in Belakane's own schools what it meant to meld completely with her kai. She would be giving up her ability to have a child. But the power gained was magnificent. He'd seen it gained once before, as on the battlefield twenty years ago, his own sister, Belakane, had done it, and used her extra measure of strength to win the war. Her powers and cunning had turned the tides in Taan's favor and gave him the leverage he needed to capture Etrusia, and exile its ruler.

Yes, Quildor knew firsthand what that power meant. He was the one who had been exiled to land, his people were the ones vanquished that day. His kingdom wrenched from his rule, and he left to die.

He swung around a corner lined with guards and strode purposefully through the main entrance, to mount the steps that led to the room where another prisoner was kept.

This prisoner was of the utmost importance to him, his own personal trump card against Taan. Her powers neutralized, her life virtually unknown to anyone outside the castle, and even most inside it. With her powers and the Talisman, he would finally realize his dreams. He would hold in his hands, the ultimate weapon.

But Quildor had been unsuccessful at harnessing those powers, and in the nineteen years since he'd taken her prisoner, he'd not gained her submission either.

Anger raged through him as he used both fists to slam open the heavy gilded doors that led to her chambers. He wagged his large head back and forth adjusting his eyes to the pale light. Then he bellowed her name.

"You have no need to rage at me, Quildor."

His eyes darted to the corner where he saw her outline, dressed in the white robes she clothed herself in, her white hair completely free and hanging luminously. It enraged him further that she still had the power to shine.

"Where have you hidden the Talisman? Where?" He screamed as if the posing of this nineteen-year-old question would somehow be answered tonight versus any other night he'd asked her.

She remained placid.

"Tell me!" He crept toward her, leaping at the last second to grasp her throat in his vice-like grip.

For one split second he could feel the slender corded skin beneath his fingers, and then it was gone, as was she. She taunted him with the retention of her powers to transform. He couldn't kill her; heaven knew he'd tried enough times.

He collapsed into the chair she'd vacated eerily when he tried to throttle her. It had all been for show, and they both knew it. He had never been able to harm her, not only because of her unexplained gift of eluding him, although that was there also, but truly, he couldn't kill her, because he felt much to his true mortification, he felt love for her. Even admitting it this instant was mortifying to him. How could he love the woman who had betrayed him, promised him love and devotion and power through her Council position, and then married his brother? And that knowledge added to his hatred. In his mind, he was invincible, and that did not include the more tender feelings he'd once enjoyed when he ruled his kingdom under the sea.

More rage filtered though him as he thought of Etrusia, his domain under the sea. And then with a will of steel born of hatred and greed, he stifled those emotions completely and impassively turned to her bed, where she'd lighted. She remained untouched by age, all except her once dark reddish colored hair, which had turned white over the years. Her eyes remained challenging.

"A female warrior has been captured," Quildor informed her, keeping his voice controlled as if this information and its attendant reaction wasn't the most pressing thing on his mind.

His prisoner remained intractable, and her expression didn't falter. If he didn't know better, he would think she'd turned to marble.

He needed to entice her with more information. Surely this knowledge above all others would be the one that she coveted. A female warrior. How could Galantyne have allowed a female to become a warrior, let alone enter the deadly game of search and be sought they played there, each faction grimly at war with the other. There had been no true female warriors since Belakane. They all knew what it meant to become one with the kai... infertility, permanent. A female warrior would be a liability not an asset to Galantyne. Female searcher girls were liability enough... but a female warrior---Quildor had to know what his prisoner believed about Galantyne's powers. His reaction to her stoicism was to pound his fist into the carved wood of the gilded chair she'd vacated. His temper was still that volatile, and he cursed himself for it. Temper was a weakness he could little afford. "We left her intact. To determine her value. She's young, and has the markings."

The silvery white hair rose of its own accord, silhouetting the slim figure before him. Triumph bathed him in victory. A rise.... He'd gotten a reaction! How stupid! How childish! There were days he hated her, desired only to give her pain, tell her he'd found a way to subvert her powers, control her people, destroy the undersea kingdoms and all the people in them. And then there were days.... Days he wanted to bring her child to her, see her eyes light with joy. He knew what she wanted. Oh yes, besides her freedom and his death, he knew what she wanted.... Her child. To know if her child lived.

"Galantyne would never allow a marked female to enter Sentinel." Came her serene voice, not even a quiver to identify the vibrancy of her ethereal features in the moonlight.

"Initiated and marked." He answered with an evil sneer, leaning forward intently.

The hair fell as if all its static animation suddenly evaporated, and the angelic face turned away from him. Quildor's eyes furrowed into a mask of brutal anger at her control. She gave him nothing, nothing!

"She is the right age." He went on impassively, not daring to show his true emotions for fear of her using them. She could and would if he gave her the chance. He would not risk giving her that chance. Even with her powers in abeyance due to the spell his Witch had cast over this lovely prison room, she was never to be underestimated.

Her eyes, lovely frost filled and full of gleaming rage turned to him for one full moment and for that moment Quildor knew his error once again in making her his enemy. And then, to shut him out, and to throw his inability to control her in his face, she raised her creamy white arms over her head, her white hair swirled up and became alive around them, as in the moonlight he witnessed the change from woman to majestic winged creature, soft and down filled feathers encompassed her lithe body. He stared in spellbound fascination captivated by her elegance and grace, until the feathers hardened into silver steel and she had completely closed herself off to him.

In thwarted fury, Quildor charged out of the room. As the exquisitely carved doors slammed behind him, he sent a telepathic blast of rage into the air around him, and all four Minion guards dropped to their knees in excruciating pain.

He eyed the closest guard. "Send me the Witch!"

******