An oppressive silence and a darkness deeper than pitch shrouded the massive rectangular room, concealing its purpose and design. Had there been light, an observer would have seen that the walls were formed of heavy stones of irregular shape. Though the stones were not uniform, they were carefully placed, and in no place was the mortar between them thicker than a quarter of an inch, a testament to the skill of the builders.

Had the hypothetical observer been familiar with the ways of magic, the intricate designs inlaid on the floor and ceiling would have made its purpose immediately evident. The perfect circles, bounding precise pentagrams, with sockets at certain points, perhaps for candles, or incense, or other purposes; the way the designs were constructed of indentations in the otherwise perfect marble, well-suited to accepting chalk or blood; the numerous runes carved into the tiles formed by the crossing of the lines, and the stacked tiles in a corner that implied the tiles were replaceable, perhaps to repair damage, perhaps to change the runes for differing purposes; all pointed to the fact that this was a summoning room.

An observer, had it been possible for any to attain this room through the powerful wards that protected it, could have learned much about the room's owner by the observations that could be made here. The observer would have to be familiar with magic to make the right deductions though; for most, the sight of the perfectly clean floor, with not the slightest sign of cracks nor stains, nor the least bit of dust or chalk, would conclude the room was unused.

A magic user, on the other hand, would see only the signs of magical cleaning, and would not be in the least surprised by such, knowing that a true summoner would never allow the slightest bit of contamination near the summoning platform. Drawing powerful beings to the summoner's plane, and binding them to the caster's will being a terrifically dangerous exercise, the most minimal of contaminants could spell the death of the summoner.

The primary circle on the marble floor was fifty feet across, a sign to the observant and knowledgeable that the summoner to whom this room belonged was among the truly powerful, for rare indeed are the summoned beings that attain such stature.

The apparently haphazard collections of books and scrolls in racks along the walls of the room would also have furthered the misapprehensions of an observer unfamiliar with the workings of magic, lending to the belief that the summoner was an untidy or lazy man, or at the least, disorganized. Another mage, on the other hand, would see it as the sign of a summoner with a potent memory; a memory so clear that the summoner could easily remember the location of every item in the room, for a summoner could not be anything less than completely scrupulous and meticulous in his work, or he would quickly be dead.

The tables filled with complicated structures of glass tubes, piping, and containers, containing strange mixtures of liquids resting in silence would indicate the summoner was possessed of a considerable alchemical talent.

At the same time, the knowledgeable observer would have recognized the insufficiency of the present materials for true alchemical research, and might, if sufficiently swift of thought, have come to the correct conclusion that the summoner was so powerful and confident as to summon powerful beings for the sole purpose of obtaining an ingredient such as a horn or hair to complete an alchemical formula, whether directly from the summoned being, or by forcing the being to obtain it, and therefore was prepared to have the formula on hand, ready for the addition of the latest acquisition, and the swift punishment of the summoned if the component was not as requested.

Indeed, an observer could have learned much if any had been there, or even been able to obtain a description of the room. But the massive iron door that rose twenty feet high on one wall, and stretched ten feet wide, had never witnessed the passage of any but the summoner and his closest servants. The builders of the room were long dead, and no description was left by their hands. The room itself was so powerfully warded against all forms of scrying that a god would have had difficulties observing the summonings that went on therein. Indeed, the only beings aside from the summoner and his servants that knew the interior of the room were those that he summoned.

So the silent darkness was yet undisturbed when the summoner approached. As the door swung inward in utter silence, torches set in brackets on the walls flared to life, casting a flickering light across the room, though they did not burn nor release smoke.

A tall lean figure, almost human in appearance, save for the pointed and unusually long ears and the long white hair that was at odds with the surprising youthfulness of his face entered, shoving the massive iron door casually aside with light pressure from his fingers. There was an air of power about the man, and a strong sense of command. His face was undeniably handsome, but marred by a sardonic grin and cold, hard eyes. A single fine white scar trailed down one cheek. His face was smooth and free of hair. Not merely clean shaven, he looked as though he had never had any facial hair. It would have seemed the face of a child, were it not for the hard lines of his cheek bones and sharp nose.

Following close behind the man, a wildcat loped into the room. It was nearly four feet long and strongly built. Its fur was a very deep black that seemed to absorb the light that fell upon it. Its eyes were yellow and calm as it gazed about the room. It had a peculiar air of intelligence about it, as if it might actually understand what it was seeing, in the manner of a man.

The cat was followed by a peculiar two-foot tall creature. It was somewhat human in appearance, standing on two legs, having two arms, and a nearly human face. But its legs had two extra joints, looking much like the back legs of the cat, and two bat-like wings sprouted from its back. Its facial appearance was ugly and twisted; it had two horns and fangs that protruded from between its lips giving it a bestial appearance.

The tall figure set quickly to work, moving with swift, silent assuredness to one of the tables, where its elegant hands and long delicate fingers caressed an elaborately carved oaken box, before flicking it open, with but a mumbled word to disable its many magical protections. He drew forth from it several pieces of chalk, unused, sharp edged.

He spoke another word, louder and more clearly, and the torches suddenly stopped flickering, and flared up to a brightness that made the light in the room equal that of the midday sun. The most direct effect of this was the almost complete absence of shadows on the central pattern in the floor. Even the grooves running through it were lit to the bottom, and the four sources of light cancelled out each other's shadows.

The brilliant light and the resulting lack of shadows made the design on the floor look curiously unreal, as if it were a painting by an artist who had forgotten or discarded realism.

The man set to work with almost casual ease and yet with great care and precision, as he laid out a circle on the floor. This circle was much smaller than the large circular design of the floor, being only slightly larger than the space that would be taken by a human sitting lotus style. The cat watched in near-silence, padding about on muffled paws to eye the man's work, but carefully avoiding the chalk already laid down, purring occasionally, as if to indicate his approval of one of the more intricate wards. The man stood, finally, after thirty minutes of careful and continuous work, and looked at his completed design.

"Do you think it will hold him?" he asked, his voice deep but smooth, with a hint of its underlying sensuousness. The cat padded slowly around the circle, looking at each ward in turn and considering each with an air of intelligence and complete understanding. It spoke in a smooth, purring voice, "It would hold the one we knew. But how changed is he? What gifts might the Lady have given him?"

"He cannot use the Lady's gifts against me, I am under the protection of another. Any divine powers he has been given will be useless. I have held her servants with a similar circle before. I think it will do." He looked at the circle, and said a single word, in a calm clear voice. The chalk shimmered and glowed, and when the glow faded, the markings were clear and sharp edged, with none of the appearance of chalk.

Through all this the smaller semi-human figure, which any magic-user would recognize as a homonculus, a magically created servant, sat silent on a table, watching. Its time for action had not yet come. Its task would be scrubbing of the blood from the floor of the summoning room, and wherever else it splattered. This task could not be left to human servants as none were ever permitted to see this room. So it would fall to him, for he would work tirelessly and without complaint.

The man began drawing out a much larger circle, laying the chalk in the course of the design inlaid on the floor, which completely enveloped the smaller chalk circle. "He knows I have not the power to command him once summoned, so he will not be expecting me to summon him for any reason other than to gloat." he said to the cat as he carefully drew in the next ward. "I will bring him in just before I finish the last sigil in the greater summoning circle. I want him to have just a few moments to appreciate the depth of his failure and the completeness of my triumph, before I summon the demon to rip his heart out."

"Then why do you not summon him now, and give him that much more time to be miserable, Master?" the cat wondered, purring with delight as he pictured the complete despair and final misery of his Master's enemy in his mind.

"Because I have not the strength to hold him for that long and I have no wish to leave him enough time to figure a way out. I want to give him only enough time to realize the completeness of his defeat before the end," was the man's measured response. He was careful and thorough, wanting nothing to mar his final victory. This would be a great moment for him, as he defeated his most powerful enemy, and struck a blow against the Lady that would be sensed around the world and felt for centuries to come.

"Of course, Master," replied the cat, purring once again, "and what demon are you going to summon? The Enemy is still a potent warrior."

"Simple. I am going to take advantage of his fears. What does he fear most, Licius?"

"Cats!" was Licius' instant response, followed by a deep rumbling purr, and an almost laughing meow.

"Precisely. So I shall summon a cat demon, and his own fears will prevent him from defending against it."

"Master, I felt the increase in your power when you made your, ahem, deal with the Ladies... but you still have not told me the details of the deal... might this not be a good time?"

"Very well, Licius. It is simple, really. The Sisters have had a long-running competition... feud, actually, for some time now. They finally decided to stop wasting their power attacking each other directly, and fight through mortal champions. So they looked to the world and chose the most powerful pair of mortal enemies they could find, to be their champions."

"A great honor, indeed," Licius purred.

"Yes, quite," Fey replied dryly, examining his latest sigil. "The agreement is that they each devote a percentage of their power to us. We choose the form the divine gift takes. When I defeat Arkus the Ladies' feud shall be ended and I will be well rewarded."

"But you face many other challengers, as does Arkus. What of them?"

"The Ladies are aware of them. If either of us is defeated by a human challenger, then the Ladies will give us the power to drive out their soul and take the body. After all, if they defeated us, they must be more powerful, right? At that point in time, we will get to make again the choice of divine gift, to choose something more appropriate to the new body. That is what Arkus just did," Fey's voice was taut with disgust. "He lost to that damned white wizard, and now he's chosen divine immortality, the fool. It made him into an extra-planar being, capable of being summoned, and that will be his downfall." This forceful statement was followed by the complete absence of a peal of maniacal laughter. Not every egotistical evil sorcerer plays true to form.

Licius examined Fey's just-finished sigil, purring his approval. Looking up, the cat asked, "You think he chose the immortality because he was afraid of death, even though he had just experienced it?"

"Precisely. The fool realized he was mortal and vulnerable, so he sought to defend himself against other mortals, instead of against me. Very unwise of him. He hasn't studied the gifts well enough. Divine immortality just means he won't age, and becomes an extra-planar being. He can still be killed by a mortal, or a demon."

Fey looked thoughtful for a moment. It really, now that he thought about it, did not seem like Arkus to be so driven by fear... but then again, "I do not know. Maybe it was not that. Maybe his new body is old already, and that frightened him. If it was human, he would have to worry about dying of old age or physical disability, and there is nothing in the rules about that. Maybe he realized how close he came to losing, and feared what the Lady will do to him, after he fails."

After nearly two hours of careful preparation the immense circle was almost complete. It lacked only the final sigil, which would name the demon to be summoned. He wanted his enemy to see his doom with utter finality. It was time to summon him.

The preparations being completed and the man's power being what it was, it took but a single word to activate the inner circle, summoning his enemy to stand before him.

He stood straight and tall in the inner circle, though not as tall as the dark figure outside it. His robes were white as snow, and he held a tall wooden staff, slightly twisted and intricately carved. His hair was as white as his robes, his face was lined with age, but his limbs were strong, his eyes were clear, and they flashed now with amusement. "You always were an impetuous fool, Fey. Think you that you now have the strength to command me?"

Fey's eyes lit with a savage glee. "I need not command you to destroy you, old fool. Look around you, Arkus, consider what you see. Look upon your doom, old man, and despair!" Thinking he had finally discerned Arkus' true reasons for his choice of gift, Fey looked to press the knife home, and so emphasized both Arkus' newly old age, and his imminent failure.

Fey waited, as Arkus considered the runes about his feet. Hmmm. Fey has done well. Were I solely stronger in what I had known, I should not be able to break this. He has protected himself against the divine powers the Lady has given me, but he is clearly unaware of the other gifts of the Lady. He has placed no protection against psionics here. Not surprising, considering how uncommon it is in this world. Arkus considered the runes for another moment, then scanned the outer circle. He means to summon a demon to destroy me, the fool. I'll have to arrange a surprise for him. Even as he thought this, his eyes had come full circle, and were again observing Fey.

Seeing Arkus' eyes again upon him, Fey dropped lightly to his knees, and began drawing the last sigil. Instantly Arkus realized his intent. The fool doesn't realize my fear of cats is gone. Well, I'll use it against him then.

Arkus focused his mental power, and cautiously reached out to Fey. Determining that Fey had no natural defense, and that there were no spells focused on defense against psionics, he reached into Fey's mind, and slightly adjusted Fey's mental image of the sigil.

Fey completed the sigil, wholly unaware that he had been manipulated, and stood with a flourish. Arkus carefully schooled his features into the proper rictus of despair and dismay. It was calculated to reassure Fey that all was perfect, and that Arkus truly believed that the summoning would have the desired effect. He needed to prevent Licius, Fey's familiar, from having time to examine all the sigils. His ploy worked.

Fey immediately snapped out two words, the first solidifying the chalk circle, to which Licius gasped out a concerned, "But Master," only to fall silent again at the second word.

Fey had already activated the summoning.

---

In a forest on the island of Hokkaido, in Japan, a young boy of seven paced steadily through the woods. Some twenty miles from him an older man wearing a bandanna around his largely bald head tramped after him, following the trail of deep scratch marks through trees, underbrush, and soil.

Occasionally the old man would stop and feel the scratches in a tree to sense the residual ki signature, judging from its strength how far behind he was. While he didn't know for sure how strong the boy's ki claws were, he had felt a tree just moments after the boy had sliced it, so he knew how strong the residual should be.

Each time he felt a tree, he would sigh. The boy was steadily getting further and further from him. At least this time the boy hadn't attacked him first. The last several times the boy had gone feral he had nearly killed him, the boy's own father. Ungrateful wretch.

Surely this wild behavior wasn't the legendary Neko-ken! It was just another example of the boy's failure to learn the style. After all, surely it wouldn't be called an ultimate fighting style if it made the martial artist chase butterflies and lie in sunbeams? No, impossible. The art of Musabetso Kakuto Ryuu is about control, as are the other martial arts. No way this uncontrolled, wild behavior could be the expected result of a martial arts training technique.

Meanwhile the boy continued his steady pursuit, following the scent of the deer he had picked up. Every now and then, he would casually slash at a tree as he went past. He wasn't marking his territory, merely announcing his presence to any potential competitor in the area. A cat of his human age would be ready to mate and therefore would be announcing himself to potential mates, but the body he was in was not ready and so this possibility did not make itself known in the cat's mind, whose maturity matched the body's maturity, and not its chronological age.

Suddenly he paused, crouched in the underbrush, tense but still. There, in the clearing ahead of him, head down, grazing, was the doe he had been tracking. Neko-Ranma was not yet old enough to hunt for real. He was still at that stage of maturity where little kittens or cubs are playing mock games with each other and their parents. But he had the instincts that rule kitten's behavior, and his instincts were telling him to sneak stealthily up behind the deer, spring out from his concealment, and grasp its neck in his jaws, suffocating it and breaking its neck. Even as he leapt from concealment, there was a flash of light. The deer bolted away from the now empty but strangely disturbing clearing.

Several hours later when Genma finally reached the clearing he spent nearly an hour puzzling over the signs. He could see the deep impression of claws in the dirt beneath a bush where Ranma had pushed off into his leap, but for the life of him, he couldn't find where Ranma had landed. He saw the tracks of the deer, but no blood. If Ranma's claws were digging holes in the dirt there was no way he could land on a deer and not spill blood. Besides, the deer's tracks were not suddenly deeper, as they should have been had a sudden weight been introduced to its back.

He then tramped out a half mile from the clearing, and using a few distant mountains as landmarks he walked slowly in a massive circle around the clearing looking for signs of his son. Finally, he reached the original trail where his son's tracks had ended and set up camp. Perhaps his son would return here. Perhaps he was here still, watching from high up in a tree. He would have to let the boy sleep off the cat. The boy would then return to his father. He was sure of it. The boy would not desert him. Surely not. Or his wife would kill him. He shivered as if a sudden cold breeze had blown past him, as in his mind, he saw his wife's katana flash before him.

---

Neko-Ranma blinked at the sudden brightness, then bounced off something, and scrabbled to his feet on hard stones. Neko-Ranma uttered a deep plaintive wail at the loss of his toy. Fey was about to turn red with fury at the utter failure of his spell when the summoned boy mewed, and Fey finally noticed the deep gouges in the floor where the boy had first landed. A strange and utterly peculiar cat-demon, but a cat-demon nonetheless. Fey stood tall and straight. He uttered, in a strong and commanding voice, towering menacingly over the demon, "Kill him now!" He pointed towards the entrapped Arkus.

Arkus, meanwhile, had been expecting the summoning to be a complete failure, but recovered his composure quickly. He reached out mentally. Finding the mind of a cat, he adjusted its perceptions so that it would see this menacing figure as a male cat, invading his territory, and threatening him. It was harder than he expected, due to the cat-mind's relative immaturity, but Arkus managed to implant the suggestions in spite of the difficulty.

Neko-Ranma hissed, and slashed at the intruding cat. His hand hit the spell-wall, and went no further, but the bindings were meant to hold a being of magic and demonic power, and did not stop Ranma's ki. The power of the human spirit is not a common thing to find in demonic beings, so it came as a complete and utter surprise to Fey as he felt the claws rip into his face. An instant later he was dead, his face completely ripped off. Licius, Fey's familiar, collapsed in pain, dying as the bond to his master pulled him as well.

As Fey died the binding spell on Arkus failed and he disappeared in a flash of light. But the spell around Neko-Ranma was far stronger than it needed to be, meant to hold a powerful demon, and so had not yet failed by the time Fey's body collapsed across the spell-wall. This caused the spell to fail in a completely different manner. Rather than releasing Neko-Ranma back to his home plane, he was released into this plane.

Neko-Ranma growled at the dead man, still seeing him as a male cat intruding in his territory. In a peculiar way, this action of Arkus had an unexpected side effect. If the male cat was intruding in his territory, then this was his territory. He padded over to the dead man, nudging him to be certain he was dead, and then reaching down to grasp the dead man's neck in his jaws.

Neko-Ranma intended to drag the man away, but before he could act on it, the black clothing of the man disappeared, and reappeared on him. The clothing was responding to Neko-Ranma's utter belief that this was his territory, such that it recognized him as the legitimate master of this place. This place was his, so he must be the master. This was a necessary addendum on Fey's part. The divine gift had gone to Ranma immediately, but most of Fey's magic would not bind to him until it felt Fey's will, to ensure the inability of the body to resist Fey's takeover of it. Arkus' actions had ensured that the spells were convinced this had occurred.

Neko-Ranma panicked, and whirled around the room, hissing and snarling as he tried to get rid of the tight fitting black clothes. In the process most of the room's contents were damaged until Neko-Ranma finally found the iron door, tore a hole in it, and fled down the hall. Finally he came to a stop as the hall ended in a turn that led to more stairs that led down still further. Exhausted, panting, he collapsed in a heap, and fell to sleep. As he lay sleeping the ripped and tattered shreds of black cloth clinging to him began to slowly mend, and the minor cuts and abrasions he had received quickly faded, his skin becoming smooth and unbroken again.

---

Arkus floated in an infinite blackness, lacking even the slightest variation in any direction to provide a reference. There was no air, and so no movement of it against his skin to anchor his senses, no scent to touch his nose or mouth and guide him. The only sensation of location or motion came from the confused signals his inner ear gave out. He had long since learned to tune them out. There were no references here to use, because there was no need. He drifted in silence, waiting for his Lady's attention.

He was caught up in a pleasant daydream of what his reward might soon be, for defeating his enemy so soundly. Though Arkus knew well the dangers of assuming his enemy's defeat... Fey had come back from much more serious wounds... a wound that took his life would take nearly a day to heal... but this death had been so unexpected, that Arkus allowed himself the luxury of imagining that Fey had had no defenses up, and so would have been torn from his body before his powerful magics could begin to heal him.

He was still drifting in this gentle reverie, when finally, a voice sounded in the darkness, seeming to fill it. The voice was feminine, but utterly hard and cold, and from the first word, the way she said his name, he knew suddenly that he had failed.

"Arkus, you are a fool."

"Fey did not die then, Lady?" Arkus queried, and was about to continue, to point out that it was at least a setback for Fey, when she interrupted him.

"Of course he died, you imbecile!"

"But, but, Lady, if he died, then wh..." Arkus was at a loss. The sudden surge of triumph at her words fell quickly to ashes within him, as he realized that there was something still very wrong. He had not just been the catalyst for Fey's rise to demi-godhood, surely?

"Silence, cretin! Speak no more." Arkus felt his tongue cleave to his mouth, silencing his imminent plea. "You changed his summoning, and tricked him into allowing himself to be defeated. I would commend you, had you not been such a complete idiot!" She was screaming in fury now. "That cat-thing that killed him, Arkus, you putrescence, that was a human boy!"

Now, suddenly, the terrible consequences of his success fell home to him. She had said Fey had died... that meant he had not taken the body, even though it was now his. That meant... oh dear. The boy was now a champion, recipient of a divine gift, and inheritor of all Fey's power... but wasn't in service to either of the Ladies?

She spoke again, calmer now. "We've won, Arkus. What a bitter way to win. Fey lost, and by rights, all of his power, and my sister's gift, should now be yours, and mine. Instead, they're in the hands of this outworlder. You've won the game, and thrown away the prize."

Arkus was about to swear to the lady that he would slay the child, and take back the gifts, when she screamed in fury, then spoke again in a cold voice vibrating with anger. "You fool! That boy destroyed Fey with a single blow! The agreement was with Fey, not him. If you kill him, he simply dies. You won't get his gifts... but if he were to kill you, he would gain all you had!" She was shouting now, in her rage. "You will not go near that boy, Arkus!"

Then her voice was quiet and soft again. "You are still my champion, Arkus, and I have your power and gift, while my sister has nothing of Fey left to her. We have won, even if it is a bitter victory. I am not wholly displeased with you. I can feel your desire, and I grant it. You may watch the boy. Put no influence on him directly, but if through indirect means he comes to worship and follow me, you will be well rewarded."

Her voice faded, and he found himself once again in his own castle. He moved quickly to his scrying room. "I must know what form the gift takes with the boy."

---

He had been sitting there most of the night. He always had to leave the castle when Fey went to do his summonings... he was simply too sensitive to the emanations the spells put out. So he hunched over his mug of ale, his seventh that night, grumbling to himself. Fey had told him that he intended to complete his long-term plan to remove Arkus that night. Then the wars could be renewed without outside interference, and Fey would soon rule the Five Kingdoms with Krall at his right hand.

Krall felt a sudden burning, searing pain in his face, as if he had just been clawed. He was not unfamiliar with the sensation... he had in fact had his face ripped open during fights for dominance before. But this time the pain was there, but not the damage... he put a hand to his face and it was whole. Krall jerked upright knocking over his mug of ale as he felt the touch of his Master leave his mind. Fey was dead! Now was his hour of triumph come! Arkus must have defeated Fey, but he would not know of the arrangements Fey had made, that would soon invest Krall with Fey's power, and bind the dragon bitch to him! Then he stood, anger vibrating in his taut form, as the other patrons of the inn backed away fearfully. He growled, threw several coins down, and raced through the door onto the streets. He didn't slow until he was outside of the small village, and into the forest. There he let out his rage, howling into the night, into the blackness of the sky.

It was his! It had been promised to him, for slaving his bloodthirst to his master, it was to be his, but his master was dead, he felt him die, felt the slash across the face, the sudden searing pain, and the almost instant absence of the master in his mind, but nothing had come for him. He stood in the darkness, waiting, tense with rage, and still nothing came. It had been promised to him! Why was it not coming?

He roared his fury, and his body rippled, clothes disappearing as his already impressively muscled form grew still larger and stronger, sprouting thick black fur, as he swelled into his hybrid form. He was the master of Lord Fey's forces, the general of his army, Fey's right-hand, the promised and chosen successor of his Lord, upon his death. To him was to have come the great power of the Lord, but it had not! He felt nothing... not true... he felt diminished! The power lent him by the Lord as his General was gone, stolen from him, as was what had been promised to him.

The thief, whoever it be, would pay, and pay dearly for this, the beast swore, howling his rage and fury. Arkus, he decided, it must be Arkus who had done this. Well, then Arkus would die.

An Unremembered Act

Ranma awoke with a start, sitting up in a sudden but smooth motion. Before his bleary eyes could clear, he heard a thick, sultry voice. "Ah, you're awake, Master." He rubbed his eyes, and looked around. He only got to the point of noticing that he was sitting on a huge bed, wearing nothing but a black wrist guard, before noticing the stunningly beautiful woman sitting on the edge of the bed, even now leaning alluringly toward him, her silk nightrobe hanging loose, giving him a perfect view of her assets. She had lustrous black hair that reached down to her waist, and smooth white skin, and a tightly muscled stomach, and full breasts. He dove beneath the covers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't see nothing, really, honest, uh, please, uh, please don't hit me, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking." Finally he paused for a moment.

Whenever his father had been caught looking at a woman, the lady would instantly start to attack him. But he hadn't been attacked yet. He heard a soft, low chuckle. "Why does the Master fear his servant?" she asked. He felt her hand on his shoulder through the blankets and sheets, then he felt her drawing them back, uncovering him. He realized with sudden shame that he was wearing no clothing, nothing at all, and sought desperately to cover himself, as she pulled away the covers. "You seem uncomfortable, Master. If you do not want to be unclothed, why do you not clothe yourself?"

He looked around frantically, still covering himself, looking anywhere but at her. "Where are they? Where are my clothes?"

"Master?" she asked, looking confused. "What do you mean? You know you have only to think of it, and your clothing will appear."

He looked at her finally, desperate, and saw the honest confusion in her eyes. Could she be right? It didn't make any sense, any more than her constantly calling him Master. He kept expecting her to suddenly realize that he wasn't whoever she thought he was, and attack him for deceiving her. But she didn't. Hoping frantically, he concentrated on picturing what he needed most, and suddenly he was wearing a pair of black silk boxers. He breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, "Wha... where... where'd they come from?"

As he saw the confusion deepen in her eyes, he tensed, again expecting her to suddenly realize that he was not who she thought he was, and attack him. While he sensed no real fighting ability in her, the fact that they were on this bed said to him that they were in at least a large house, and there were probably others within easy calling distance. If she called out, he might be forced to attempt a quick getaway, a very difficult thing when he had no idea of the layout of the house. When he saw sudden comprehension dawn in her gaze, he pulled his legs beneath him, ready to leap, his eyes darting suddenly around the room, taking in the huge closet, the massive wardrobe, the open paper door to a large bath, and the massive oaken doors that must lead outside. "You are not the old master in a new form," she breathed out slowly, and he gulped, and prepared to leap, "You are a new master." She smiled suddenly, and it seemed to light the whole room. "You must have defeated him! Such power in one so young. Is this your true form?"

He looked at her aghast. She had realized that he was not her master, and then simply decided that he was anyway? This made no sense. "True form? What'd ya mean by that?," he asked, edging slowly backward, toward the edge of the bed. "Who'd I defeat? I don' remember fighting nobody."

"But you must have. You wear his clothing, the spells that bound me to him now bind me to you. You must have defeated him," she said, almost desperately, looking around with wild eyes, as if expecting someone to suddenly appear. "He can't just be playing with me. He can't! He would never have given you his clothes, not even to play a trick on me. It would be too dangerous." She was breathing rapidly now, and he could see her fear rising.

"Don' worry. Don' be afraid. I'll protect you from him." he said suddenly, wanting to stop the tears he saw glistening in her eyes. He hated to see women cry. "Jus don' cry. Please don't cry."

She suddenly reached out, and gathered him to her, holding him tightly, as tears fell from her eyes. Sobbing under her breath, he could hear her chanting, "He must be dead. He must be dead." He could feel her heartbeat, thudding against his back, and the warmth of her pressed against him. It caused no response in him though. He was still to young for that. He felt only an urgent desire to stop her tears, to comfort her, to erase her fear, and thought desperately, trying to think of a way that he might have defeated someone and yet not known it.

He tried to remember how he had come here, and finally he remembered sitting at the fire with his father, having just finished their meal, when a large wildcat had appeared. It was foaming at the mouth, and his father had jumped up shouting "Rabies" and run from it nearly as fast as Ranma himself had.

"Neko-ken!" he said suddenly. "I could'a defeated him in the Neko-ken and I would'n a remembered anything. I never do." Her tears stopped, and she sniffled. A sudden dread fell on him. She had been chanting, "He must be dead." If he had to be dead for Ranma to have his clothes (though it disturbed him to wonder how she recognized his boxers) then that meant Ranma had killed. A cold shiver went through him, and sudden tears sprang to his eyes.

"No. No, I didn't. Please no. Tell me I didn't! Oh, Kami-sama, I killed him. I'm a murderer. Damn you, Oyaji! I'll probably kill again. I won't even remember it." She held him through his sobbing tears, rocking him back and forth, and trying to comfort him. When his tears finally slowed, she tried to reassure him that the man he had killed had been thoroughly evil, that he had deserved to die. "Maybe. Maybe it wasn't wrong to kill him. But I didn't know that. I could'na known. I just lashed out. It could'a been someone that didn' do nothin'." His look of sorrow suddenly turned to a look of pained determination. "But I have to know. I have to know if I really killed him."

He extricated himself from her arms, and jumped lightly off the bed. Closing his eyes, he concentrated again, trying to picture himself in his typical clothing. When he opened them, he found he was indeed wearing his traveling gear, except that they were all black. "Weird." He sighed, and turned to the lady. "Please, get dressed. I need ya to help me find him." She shivered, but nodded, and slid off the bed, and walked into the closet. He sat cross-legged on the floor to wait for her. Several minutes later, she stepped out again, dressed in an elegant kimono of green silk, and held out her shapely hand for his. He rose lithely to his feet, and she led him out the door.

She watched him as he walked down the halls, turning where she said. He moved, she thought, with an unusual grace, and an even more unusual silence. He seemed like an animal, graceful and sure in his movements, with an abundant but hidden power. She shivered in delight, remembering the hard lines of his body as he sat on the bed. She quickly suppressed the thought. He was too young to want that of her, and his lack of reaction when she held him confirmed that this was his true form.

The magic bound her to love him, but as she recognized his unwillingness to accept her in that role, it allowed her love to take on a more maternal air. She noticed that he looked small for his age. He certainly didn't look like he had lacked for exercise... perhaps he hadn't been well-fed?

She stopped him at the bottom of a flight of stone steps rising between walls of stone. "I found you, young Master, at the mid-flight of these. The last time I saw the Master, he was going to the Summoning Room, which is at the top of the stairs. I suspect we shall find something there."

His step as he walked upwards started light enough, but by the time they reached the landing where he had lain, his step had grown heavy, and his shoulders had drooped. She paused behind him, feeling for his obvious pain and depression, as he stared down at the small bloodstains where he had lain.

He knew he had no injuries on him, so this blood was not his. This only served to confirm his fears, and his depression grew. She offered, though with visible trepidation, to go on ahead, and verify the death, so that he need not see it, but he cut her off. "I gotta see. I can't just hide from what I did. I... I gotta face it."

She marveled at his strength of will, to do what he so obviously wished not to have to do, with no one there telling him it was necessary. This was a boy she might have come to love even without the strength of the magic that bound her to him. His speech was uncouth, but his heart was pure.

With a heavy sigh, he walked up the stairs. As he neared the top, his shoulders straightened and his step firmed, though she could still see the depression and fear in the soft features of his youthful face.

He looked up, and started in surprise, then pointed at the door. "Oh man... No way... Wow! Well, I was definitely in Neko-ken." She gasped in awe. The three inch thick iron door had a hole slashed through it, the edges jagged and sharp. A strong light shone through the hole in the door, glinting off the iron filings that covered the floor.

So strong, so much power, and yet so young. She felt a momentary twinge of fear. It was known that some powerful mages, when faced with a challenge for physical combat, would bind the souls of demons to themselves, to strengthen and give them great fighting ability. Surely this must be what the boy had done, for how else could he have appeared in the summoning room, and how else could he have torn through a door? Yet she sensed no evil from him, nor even a hint of the demonic, nor had she even when she had found him sleeping, surely scant hours after he had been possessed. It did not make sense.

She watched in silence as the boy walked up to the door, and strove to open it. He had no magic sense, clearly, or he would have seen that the door was warded and sealed. Yet he had broken through it. Even now, to her utter amazement, he was slowly forcing the door inwards. While she knew the wards would have been weakened by the old Master's death, they were physical magic, not like the summoning which required constant effort. They had physical form, and true power was in them, which did not need to be held. They would work for anyone, even after their creator's death, and yet this boy was forcing them backwards. He certainly seemed too uneducated to be a mage. But then how did he have the power to carve a path through an iron door?

With a sudden crack and flare of light, the door burst inwards, and they both covered the eyes, and then gagged at the stench of blood. As their eyes adjusted to the brightness, she saw a little man, who she recognized as the old Master's homunculus, trying to straighten some books.

The whole room was in complete disarray. The chemicals on one wall were spilled and mixing on the floor, contributing to the miasma in the air. The glass pipes that had held them were shattered, some still hanging in their fixtures, cleanly severed. The books and scrolls along the walls were largely shredded.

On the floor lay two bodies. One, tall and lean, the body of the Master, a massive pool of blood surrounding his head as he lay face down, the other a large cat, lying motionless, not even breathing, on the floor some distance away. She turned back to look at the boy, and watched as the horror in his eyes faded to anguish, then hardened to a look of steel.

"Never again," she heard him say under his breath, then he turned to leave. "Come on, please, I gotta get out of here," he said in a trembling tone, then under his breath, "I gotta be strong," then again, firmer, "I killed him," and he sobbed suddenly, then took a deep breath, "I gotta bury him."

He did not look at her as he said this, hands clenched by his side, but simply turned and walked to the door, and started down the stairs. She followed quickly after, as happy as he was to leave the stench of death behind. He seemed to have simply ignored the homunculus, or had he perhaps not seen it at all? Often those with no magic-sight could not see beings of such pure magic.

"You need not worry yourself, Master. I will have the other servants take care of it."

"Yeah, all right. I gotta think for a bit. Is there someplace I can just be alone, sit and think? They can get him ready, and maybe get him some clothes or somethin'. But I gotta bury him." The pain flickered in his gaze, and she marveled again at his strength of will. So young. He must want to collapse in tears. How will he be able to live with what he has done? Yet he is strong. It would be much easier on him if he were not so good in his heart.

"Very well, young Master, it will be as you say."

"And after, we can talk about why you keep on callin' me that," he said, the pain even more evident in his voice. She sensed that it was not the Master's death that pained him now, but somehow her words that had hurt him. She shrank inside. She loved him, and yet she had hurt him, but she did not know how. "But right now I just wanna be alone for a while." So she led him outside, to a small rock garden, and left him there.

---

When all was in readiness, a few hours later, she returned, and found him sitting on the rocks in lotus position, the calves of each leg resting on the thigh of the other, focused on a single rock before him. When she approached, he stood smoothly. "You know," he said in a soft voice, "I still don't know your name."

"Nor I yours, young Master," she replied, and this time she noticed the visible wince at her words. She was troubled. She was causing him pain, but since she did not know how, she could not stop. There was no alternative but to ask him. She hoped he would not say that she pained him by her presence. She did not want to leave him. "Master, what am I doing that causes you such pain? Please tell me," she entreated him.

"It's nothing," he said, suddenly firm in tone again, "Is the," and he paused, a look of agony on his face, "burial site r-ready?"

"Yes, Master. Follow me, and I will take you to it." He followed silently behind her, and she wondered why it was so important to him that he bury the old Master. She did not think it was a mere matter of symbolism, of emphasizing his defeat. Certainly, he had not insisted that anyone be there to witness, as a leader might do to ensure that all recognized the validity of his claim, though she had made certain that there would indeed be witnesses... all of the castle staff, though not the Lord Fey's war leaders. No, somehow, he was motivated by his pain, in a way she couldn't quite understand.

When they reached the garden, he saw that the man's body had been clothed in black cloth, wrapped about him, more a shroud than clothing. His face was covered with several layers, and he lay upon a stone. An open coffin was beside him. It was made of a dark wood that glistened in the sun, and the interior was of a deep velvet in a rich red. Further to one side was a shovel, lying on the ground, and a gravestone, set in the ground, but devoid of any markings, its flat surface smooth and shiny.

He walked over to the body, and stood before it for several minutes, oblivious to the large crowd standing some distance away, and equally unaware that the lady had followed him, and was close enough to hear his words. "Oh, Kami-sama, I'm sorry. Maybe you did deserve to die, like the lady said. But I didn' wanna kill ya. I don't know all I did, or how I got your clothes. But I promise ya, I ain't gonna stop till I'm in control again. I don' wanna ever kill somebody again. And I specially don' wanna kill somebody and not even remember doin' it. It just ain't right."

Then he turned, and walked over to the shovel, and picked it up. He set it against the ground in front of the gravestone, placed his foot on it, and drove it through the grass, and deep into the soft earth.

A Life In Chains

Several hours later, he followed the lady into a large hall. A massive and unbelievably long table sat in the center of the hall, and at the far end, two chairs sat, the larger at the end, the smaller to the right side.

He followed her to the end, and stood for a moment in surprise as she took the smaller chair, leaving him the larger chair at the end, then sighed and sat. He looked at her for a moment, surprised at the sadness in her eyes. He was about to apologize again when she spoke, startling him. "Master, will you tell me now what I am doing that is hurting you? Please." Even as she said the first word, he winced.

He sighed, and in a low voice, said, "Lady, I'm real sorry for killing your husband, even if I couldn't help it, and even if he mighta deserved it. But I certainly didn't kill him to take what was his, least of all you." She felt a sharp pain in her heart at his words.

"I ain't your Master, Lady. I dunno why you keep calling me that. Was he your protector or something? Are you afraid that you'll have no-one to protect you if I leave too?" Her heart fell to her feet when he mentioned leaving her, and tears appeared in her eyes.

"I won't! I won't leave you. I'll protect you, if you want me to. Don't cry, please don't cry," he responded quickly to the sight of her tears. "Just don't call me that. I'm not your Master."

"But you are," she said emphatically, even as he shook his head. "He was not my husband, young Master, he was my Master. I was bound to him, and now I am bound to you."

"I don't understand. You said that before, about bein' bound. Whatcha mean by that?"

She sighed. How to explain this... "Young Master," she began, and he immediately interjected, with a look of pain on his face that tore at her heart, "Please stop calling me that. My name's Ranma. Saotome Ranma."

"Very well, Ranma. I am bound by magic to serve and love my Master. I am bound to you."

Ranma jumped out of his chair at this, stumbling backwards. "What? Magic... love!?" He looked scared out of his wits. "No, no, I don't want that. You can't want that! How do I stop it?"

She looked hurt. "You don't like me? You don't want my love?" Tears sprang into her eyes. Her heart felt like it would break, and she could not stop the pain, nor the tears. she knew that the emotions came from the old Lord's spells, not her heart, but she could not fight their strength.

"No, no, its not like that. Please don't cry. Its just... magic... its not right that you should be forced to love me. Its not right! Please don't cry." He was back at her side instantly, holding her in his small but strong arms. "Please don't cry." He felt terrible. She had looked so sad and small and vulnerable saying that. He felt like he had hit her, when he saw how she took his words.

He scraped his courage back together. Though he knew he was responsible for protecting her, after killing her... well he wasn't her husband, but surely he had been responsible for her... Ranma couldn't just leave her. But if he found someone who could take care of her... He needed to get back to his father before Genma got really mad. "What would you do... if... if I left?" he asked, dreading her response.

"I'd die," she said, in a choked whisper.

"You'd kill yourself," he said in a soft voice filled with shame and horror. Genma would have to go on without him. He could not be responsible for her death.

"No," she replied, "I'd simply die. The magic won't let me live without my Master." She sobbed. She knew he didn't love her, he couldn't love her. He was too young, too young to love any but his family. He would leave her, for she could not refuse to aid him in returning to his father, whom he surely must love, and she would die, and she would never see her beloved sister again. Oh how she hated the old Master, now that he was gone. She hated him, because she had loved him first, a true love, UN-forced, and he had betrayed her, trapping her with magic, and now that the magic love was gone, and the original love dead by betrayal, he was still going to drag her into death with him.

"I won't leave you." he said, simply, and quietly. He reached out with his small arms, and held her close. "Don't cry. I won't let you die." She believed him, comforted by the sincerity in his voice, and held him tightly, still sobbing softly.

Finally, after nearly a quarter of an hour, she had quieted. She was holding Ranma in her arms now, his arms around her, as he sat in her lap. Shifting slightly, he spoke, his voice clear of tears and sorrow now, sounding light and sweet. "Lady, you still haven't told me your name."

"My name? You may call me Alana, Ranma."

"That's a pretty name, Alana." he said, then shifted again to look up to her. "Please don't t-take this the wrong way, Alana. B-But I don't wanna stay here forever. I got my Oyaji out there somewhere, looking for me. I gotta find him. I gotta train. I don't really wanna ask this of someone like you. But can you leave this place? Do you gotta stay here? If you could come with me, I promise to protect ya." His eyes pleaded with hers.

"Oh you poor child. Yes, I can leave this place. But I don't think we'll find your Oyaji. Ranma, that room, upstairs, where you fought my old Master... that was a summoning room. He brought you here, Ranma, from somewhere else. This isn't your world." She felt her heart break again at the pain and fear in the blue eyes of the child she held. "I'm sorry, Ranma. I'm really sorry."

She almost laughed at the sudden almost comical look of determination that appeared on his face. "Well, then, we'll just haveta find us somebody who can set you free and send me home." Her heart nearly broke again, but for a very different reason. This cute, comical, sweet little boy was actually placing as much emphasis on setting her free as on getting himself home. He had someone who truly loved him, who would do anything and everything for him, and all he wanted was to set her free.

"I'm sorry, Ranma. I really am. But the only person who could have set me free was the old Master. You could, if you knew enough magic. But no other magic-user can do it. But I can send you home." She saw his face light up again, then dim as he saw the look of sadness and despair on her face.

"You couldn't come with me though, huh? You'd have to die to send me home. I won't letcha. I won't." He hugged her fiercely again, and she wept, again. So pure of heart. So strong of will. She realized then that even if he did one day manage to free her, she would never be free of love for her little Ranma. "So I have to find somebody to teach me magic then. So I can free you. Do you know someone?" He looked at her, that fierce look of determination on his face again, and she felt her heart leap.

"Yes," she said softly, "I do know someone. If you really want to learn, I will teach you, Ranma."

"Alright," he said, "But I gotta keep training. Are there martial artists on this world?"

"Yes," she laughed, "there are. I will bring Sensei's here to train you, Ranma."

---

That night, as Ranma sat alone in his room, he considered all that he had seen that day. His father had always told him that women were silly and weak, and when he had cried, his father had beat him, telling him that he was behaving like a weak girl. He had cried again that day, after realizing that he had killed. Even worse, he had killed unknowingly, without being able to decide if it was right and honorable.

The Lady had held him, and comforted him, and it had helped, he knew that. Crying was good therefore, he decided. It had rid him of some of his pain. He remembered the look on her face, the terrible pain in her eyes as she held him, crying against her, and realized that he... he had hurt her with his tears. It had been good for him... and it had hurt her.

For once, Ranma agreed with his father, in a completely unexpected way. Had he stayed with his father, he would have been beaten until every aspect of his femininity had been beaten from his mind, until he reacted to the possibility of emotion with harsh retorts and insults designed to prevent any emotional closeness that might let another share his pain.

Though he was now free of his father's influence in this respect, Ranma made a choice, and he chose to follow his father's path. But without the beatings, the continual conditioning of his unconscious self, this determination would manifest in a very different manner. Instead of a defense of automatic emotional reactions, Ranma began building barriers in his mind, locking his tears and pain away.

He had studied meditation under his father very early in his training. His father did not care much for meditation, and had used it only as a tool to get Ranma in touch with himself, to help him achieve his balance. Now Ranma began using it to wall away his emotions. In his mind this became a wall of ice, a coldness that held back the heat of his anger, the fire of his pain, and soothed them until there was nothing but numbness left.

It would take time, he knew, and so he set aside a half-hour each day to spend in his meditation, building the emotional barrier, strengthening it, striving to make it an integral part of his mind.

So it was that Ranma set out on the path of the Soul of Ice.

---

Krall made his way back to the massive encampment where Fey's permanent war force trained and prepared. There, he knew, he would learn of what had happened. He must be cautious, though. If Arkus or another warlord had taken control, they would likely have orders to capture all the higher officers, to force them to take magically binding oaths of loyalty, or perhaps to slay them out of hand, if the new ruler had generals of his own.

So it was a wolf that slunk into the encampment in the darkness of that second night, and padded silently from tent to tent, listening to the endless gossip. The death of the Lord Fey was a popular topic, unsurprisingly, but there seemed very little discussion of who had replaced him.

Krall heard enough to know that it was a small being, child-size, though he knew well enough not to judge power by stature. Fey had been a much thinner man than Krall, but was physically stronger. This new Lord might well be one of the faerie folk, or a dwarven elementalist, or even a demon. Krall had little thought of facing him directly, knowing that with his own power reduced by Fey's death, instead of enriched, he had little hope of defeating one who could defeat the Lord Fey in his inner sanctum.

Krall pondered, wondering whether Fey had succeeded in his intent before dying. Had the summoned being destroyed Arkus as well, or was that blight still out there, lurking somewhere? Krall shook in fury as he heard a few of his subordinate generals commenting on the fact that the new Lord had already been accepted by the Dragon Fang, the Lord's sword. That was to be mine, he growled to himself, before slipping through the shadows out of the encampment. He would find work in another army, for now, but he would have his revenge.

The Dragon's Fang

Ranma stood at the bottom of a long flight of steps, leading up the side of a hill, through the trees. He sighed. Somewhere lost in the trees above him was the Masaki shrine, where he would have to convince an old priest to train him with weapons. Ranma was not comfortable with the idea, and so his steps were slow as he began to make his way up the long flight.

The Musabetso Kakuto Ryuu emphasized the weakness of a warrior who was dependent on a weapon, but Lady Alana had insisted that he had to learn to use and wield the Dragon Fang, Fey's weapon. She had insisted that formal challenges for Fey Castle, that he was honor-bound to answer, had to be defended with weapons lest his opponents be insulted. He remained resistant, until she pointed out that if they felt insulted or slighted, they might declare war, instead of accepting the outcome of the bout, that convinced him. He could not be responsible for putting Lady Alana in the path of a war, when she could not flee because of him.

As it was, she was forced to put herself to sleep, and accept the grave risk of death should he not return promptly each week, to allow him to attain the training he would require. It pained him to think of her, forced to sleep, vulnerable and alone, while he trained, and he vowed to himself that he would master the Dragon Fang in record time, and release her from her danger.

So resolved, his gait changed. Instead of slowly plodding upwards, he now leapt, ten or twelve steps at a time, and in short order, came to the flat top of the hill, whereon stood a large two story house, in a traditional Japanese style, all sliding doors of paper and thin wood, and tall windows looking out over a lake beyond.

Tenchi sighed, pushing the leaves along with his broom. It seemed so pointless, brushing away the leaves, when more would fall tomorrow, and more the day after, but he worked steadily at it. As soon as he finished, he had to go up to Katsuhito's shrine, and train again.

Hearing a noise on the long flight of steps that run down to the road, Tenchi looked up. His jaw dropped slightly as he saw the young boy in the air, reaching nearly twelve feet above the top of the stairs at the peak of his jump. The boy couldn't be much more than seven, Tenchi's own age, but Tenchi could see, given the boy's tight black shirt, and judging by his amazing leap, that Tenchi was nowhere near this guy's condition. Tenchi also noted with interest the black scabbard that hung on the boy's waist, pointed slightly behind him. It looked to hold about a two foot long blade. Tenchi sighed softly. A two foot blade... then he wouldn't be here to learn to use a katana, and Tenchi probably wouldn't get to spar with him.

The young boy's gaze snapped directly to him when Tenchi sighed, and he leaped again, crossing the fifteen feet between them in a single bound. He landed lightly on his feet, barely flexing his knees, then immediately dropped into a deep bow. "Greetings, Warrior," he began, in a soft boyish tone, at odds with his strong appearance, if not his apparent age, "I seek the Shrine of Masaki. Can you direct me to it?" He straightened, and looked Tenchi in the eye, his face serious and a little sad.

Tenchi bowed in response. "Greetings, Honored Guest. I can direct you, but will you not stop, and have some tea? You must be tired from your journey." Tenchi knew that Katsuhito would be annoyed with him if he failed to remember his manners.

The boy broke into a surprised and delighted grin, falling from his formal stance. "Sure, thanks. My name's Saot... uh, no.. uhm... Fey Ranma. What's yours?"

Tenchi looked at him curiously. He sounded like he wasn't sure what his own name was... but no, that didn't make sense. He must have some reason for not wanting to use his real name. Oh well, Katsuhito would deal with it, if it was important. It was not Tenchi's place to question the word of a guest. "I am Masaki Tenchi," he replied, answering the boy's grin with one of his own, "please, come in." He set his broom against the side of the house, and stepping up to the door, slid it open, gesturing Ranma in ahead of him.

"Please make yourself comfortable at the table there, Ranma-san, and I'll get the tea." Tenchi quickly put together the tea tray, eager to learn more about this stranger. He was Tenchi's own age, or close to it. Would he be staying to study with Katsuhito? Tenchi would enjoy having a boy his age around. He had a few friends at school, but they did not come over often, and most days he spent alone, except during his hours of training with Katsuhito. He brought the tea tray out, and set it lightly on the table before Ranma, then poured two cups. Handing one to Ranma, he folded his legs beneath him, and sat on a cushion by the table.

Ranma sipped at his tea, and smiled at the taste. "This is very good tea, Tenchi-san."

Tenchi grimaced. "Just Tenchi, please."

"Only if you agree to call me Ranma. You used the honorific first, remember," Ranma replied with a grin.

"Yeah, sorry. What do you want to see the shrine for? Are you looking for Grandfather? Or do you want to make an offering?" Tenchi asked, hoping to assuage his curiosity while asking a perfectly legitimate and polite question.

"Yeah, I guess your grandfather is probably the guy I'm here to see." Ranma's face had darkened with pain, Tenchi was surprised to observe. He hoped Ranma was not here to challenge Katsuhito. "I gotta get trained in the use of my blade, if I can get the Master of the Shrine to take me as a student."

"Why do you look so... sad, I guess, about training with Grandfather?" Tenchi asked, wondering why on earth Ranma looked so down. Tenchi certainly enjoyed his training, even if Katsuhito never seemed to think he was good enough at it.

"So your grandfather is the Master of the Shrine, then?" Ranma turned Tenchi's question aside with another.

In politeness, Tenchi was forced to answer Ranma's question, and ignore Ranma's avoidance of his own. "Yes, I guess. I never heard him called Master, but he's the only one who could be, I think. My dad certainly isn't. He pretty much ignores the shrine. He works in town all day. Uhm, listen, I'm supposed to go up to the shrine for my training as soon as I finish my chores, so if you could wait just a few more minutes, I could take you up there myself," Tenchi offered.

"Sure," Ranma replied. "Can I help you?"

Tenchi stood up, "No, that's alright. I just gotta finish sweeping the grounds, and I'll be done. And I've only got the one broom." He bowed to his guest, and walked outside, grabbing his broom. As he swept, he thought about Ranma. He had observed him as they drank their tea, and he could clearly see the signs of a skilled martial artist. Ranma moved with a disturbing grace, and every motion seemed to say 'this could have been a killing blow.' It was uncanny.

In a few more minutes, he was finished. He put the broom away, and turned to the house to retrieve his guest. Ranma was already standing outside the door.

"Lead on," he said. Tenchi led him around the house to the second long flight of steps, that led up to the shrine. Ranma followed along beside him.

"Uhm. Ranma... you didn't really answer me before. Why don't you want to learn to use your sword? I still remember being excited the first time I got to train with Katsuhito." Tenchi queried, keeping a light tone to let Ranma know that he wouldn't be offended by another evasive answer, but genuinely curious. It seemed so strange to be saddened by the thought of learning, especially for one who was obviously so skilled already.

"Its not that, Tenchi. Its just... well, I'm supposed to be the heir of a school of martial arts... and well... No offense, but one of the tenets of the school is that a warrior who uses a weapon is weaker than a guy that doesn't need one. He is bound by its weakness, see, and if ya know what weapon the guy uses, you know his weak spot and can attack it. But I haveta learn... No, I have to master... my blade. Its a matter of honor, I guess. I gotta be able to defend her." Tenchi looked at him curiously. Her? This kid, no older than him, had a girl that he had to learn to use a sword to defend? Wow.

"But Ranma, if you know how to use a weapon, and you're just as good without it, doesn't that make you even better than someone that is only good without one? What if you get in a situation where you have to fight with a weapon?" Tenchi queried. Surely Ranma couldn't really believe that someone without a weapon was even stronger than someone with one. It just didn't make sense.

"That's just my problem. I gotta use a weapon. I dunno. I guess maybe you're right. If I keep up my unarmed skills just as good, then using a weapon would maybe just make somebody assume I had a weakness that I didn't have. Hey, yeah, and then I could use that against them. Wow, thanks Tenchi."

Ranma seemed much happier now, Tenchi thought. They had reached the top of the stairs, and the door of the shrine slid open, and Tenchi's grandfather stepped out. Ranma looked up at him, and decided that this tall thin man, with a lined but pleasant face set off by thin rectangular glasses that glinted in the light, was far more than he appeared. He seemed to have no aura, and little skill, yet in just a few of his movements, Ranma could sense his power, and realized that Tenchi's grandfather was so skilled that he could almost completely conceal his skill and his power.

"So Tenchi... brought one of your friends to watch you train again?" Katsuhito asked, smiling.

"No Grandfather. This is Fey Ranma. Ranma, this is my grandfather, Masaki Katsuhito," Tenchi replied.

Ranma stepped forward, and bowed deeply. "Honored Master of the Masaki Shrine, I beg leave to learn from you the art of the sword. I must achieve mastery over my weapon, the Dragon Fang, to fulfill my honor and duty. Will you accept me as your student?" Ranma continued to hold the bow for a long moment, before rising again, and looking Katsuhito in the eye. Tenchi was interested. He thought the speech might have been rehearsed. Certainly it was free of the the rough and uncouth mannerisms that had peppered their earlier conversation.

"The Dragon Fang you say, Ranma? Let me see it, please," responded Katsuhito, holding out his hand. Ranma pulled the sword from the sheath. It slid out in utter silence, and gleamed golden in the sunlight. Tenchi was quite impressed... it looked very well made for a short sword.

Katsuhito accepted it from Ranma, and looked at it curiously. "So you are Fey's heir, eh? I don't really know if I should teach one of Fey's blood. Your father was a dangerous man, Ranma. I hope you understand why I cannot accept you as a student. Please forgive me." Tenchi goggled... his grandfather knew Ranma's father? And wouldn't teach him because of that?

Ranma did not immediately accept his sword back. Instead he bowed deeply again. "I think you do not quite understand, Honored Master. I am not Fey's son, though I am his heir. I.." and his voice crackled with suppressed emotion, "I killed him. It falls on me therefore, to defend the Lady, for she has no-one else. Please, Honored Master, understand, evil though he might have been, I did not wish to k-kill him. But I did, and I... my honor requires that I master his sword so that I may defend the Lady."

When he straightened again, Tenchi was surprised to note the tears welling in his eyes, though they did not fall. His face was clouded with pain. Could this boy really have killed someone so evil that Katsuhito would be unwilling to teach someone just because they were related to him? Tenchi goggled at him, realizing that given what the boy had said on the stairs, he must have killed him while unarmed! After all, Ranma had made it clear that he did not know nor approve of the use of weapons in combat. This seven year old kid had killed a man unarmed? Wow.

Tenchi saw Katsuhito's eyes soften as he looked down at the boy. "Very well, Fey Ranma. I will train you, until you have mastered the Dragon Fang. But first I must train my grandson. Come, sit here, and watch, and learn what you can." Katsuhito led Ranma to one side, where Ranma dropped easily into seiza, sitting with his legs folded beneath him.

"Tenchi, assume!" Katsuhito barked. Ranma sat quietly and watched, as Tenchi sparred with his father, their bokkens whirling and clacking against each other. Tenchi was quickly sweating, while Katsuhito remained cool and collected, offering mild comments on Tenchi's form as his bokken whirled and sliced the air.

Ranma considered, and when Katsuhito made a comment about Tenchi still knowing the sword was in his hand, instead of using it as an extension, he focused on the difference in the two. Katsuhito hardly seemed to notice that he was wielding a weapon, while Tenchi seemed to pause an instant before each move, as if he had to decide what to do next.

Finally they stopped, and Tenchi slumped to the side to rest. Then Ranma stood, and at Katsuhito's request, began a simple kata. Tenchi watched wide-eyed, as Ranma steadily increased the speed and complexity of his kata. He was moving with unnerving silence, and surprising grace. It put Tenchi in mind of the television programs he had seen on tigers, the way Ranma's muscles rippled under his skin, his sheer strength as he tore the air, the subtle grace of his body as he moved through the forms.

Katsuhito, meanwhile, observed in silence, making no comment as Ranma finally came to a sudden stop, holding a most untenable position for nearly a minute, as demanded by his school's katas, before finally relaxing. Ranma turned, and gave Katsuhito another deep bow.

"Now, Ranma, take up a bokken, and we will begin with the forms."

Ranma's ingrained distaste for using weapons became very evident over the next few minutes, but before Katsuhito could comment on it, Ranma pulled to a stop. "Master, is it okay if I stop and meditate for a few minutes?"

Katsuhito, who had been about to comment to Ranma on his apparent unwillingness to use the weapon, raised an eyebrow at the unusual request. He nodded, and said nothing.

Tenchi watched curiously as Ranma dropped easily into lotus position, and closed his eyes. Katsuhito considered his position and behavior, and decided that Ranma had had only rudimentary training in meditation.

Ranma had immediately realized the danger his own dislike for weapons posed. If he could not rid himself of it, then no matter how skilled he became, he would always be aware of the fact that he was wielding a weapon... it would never be as an extension of himself. After having observed the difference between Tenchi and Katsuhito, Ranma had decided that he had to learn to wield as Katsuhito did, using the weapon as if it were his own arm.

As he dropped into meditation, he focused on the certain knowledge that if he could not defeat his own feelings of disgust and dislike regarding weapons, he would never master the Dragon Fang. If he failed to master the Dragon Fang, then he would eventually fail to protect the Lady from a threat. If his inability to defend against a challenge properly lead to war, he knew that he would be unable to properly defend her. No matter how skilled he might become, he would not be able to fight indefinitely. Faced with a large army, he would inevitably be tired out and fall to his own exhaustion, and she would be unprotected.

He could not allow this to happen. He could not fail her. Saotome Ranma does not lose! Fey Ranma must not lose either. He focused on his feelings of distaste and buried them in ice. Unknowingly, the strength of his determination not to fail the Lady led him to achieve the first level of the true Soul of Ice, and as he buried his fears and the attitudes that Genma had drilled into him, the air temperature around his body actually began to drop.

It did not drop far, but Katsuhito was a very observant man. As the air cooled, it lost some of its capacity for holding moisture, and the moisture began to condense on Ranma. Katsuhito observed that it was not sweat, beading up from beneath. Rather, the beads of moisture appeared all over, even on top of his shirt and pants. Particularly, he noticed the liquid that coalesced on the folds of his pants, where the fabric was not even in contact with the boy's body. He wondered where the boy had learned such a powerful meditation technique, given his obvious lack of training in the meditative arts.

When Ranma's eyes opened, they were filled with a pure determination. He rose lithely to his feet, and took up the bokken again. Tenchi was unable to discern the difference, but Katsuhito immediately noticed that the boy held the bokken without seeming to be really aware of it. Though he did not yet have the skill, he had achieved with a single five minute meditation the final step that Tenchi had yet to achieve after two years of training.

Now Katsuhito demonstrated a kata, moving slowly from position to position, demonstrating the correct stance, then moving to physically reposition Ranma's limbs into the precise positions.

"Now, Ranma, show us the kata." Tenchi looked up in surprise. He had shown him the kata only once, and now he wanted Ranma to perform it? Ranma nodded, then immediately entered the first stance. Tenchi felt a growing sense of amazement, tinged with just a bit of awe, as Ranma steadily moved through each stance in the kata. Though moving slower than the kata called for at first, after only five stances he had reached the proper speed, and was entering each position with clean precision and perfect timing. When he finished, Katsuhito spoke again. "Again, full-speed the whole way this time."

Tenchi looked at his grandfather in surprise. No word of praise? No reaction to such an unbelievable performance? Ranma simply nodded, and proceeded to do the kata again. This time his performance seemed wholly without flaw to Tenchi.

Katsuhito noticed Ranma's lack of surprise when Katsuhito signaled his acceptance of Ranma's performance, not with praise or words, but by beginning a new kata. Again Ranma followed him. Katsuhito found himself surprised at the boy's skills, as Ranma stopped mimicking Katsuhito's stances after Katsuhito completed them, and began matching his moves as he made them.

At the kata's end, Katsuhito signaled Ranma to do it again, then, without turning, spoke to Tenchi. "Tenchi, why don't you go now, and prepare the guestroom for Ranma."

"Yes, Grandfather," Tenchi replied, and headed for the stairs. As he walked down them, he considered Ranma's performance. Tenchi considered again Ranma's words as to why it was so important that he learn to master his weapon. Who was 'the Lady,' and why was she so important to him? Surely he couldn't have a serious girlfriend at his age, especially not one for whom the term 'Lady' was appropriate.

When he reached the house, he saw that his father, Noboyuki, was home from work. He informed his father that they had a guest, then went to quickly prepare the guestroom. He would need to start dinner soon, and he did not want it to be late.

They lived nearly an hour by bus from the outer edge of Tokyo where Tenchi attended school. He had friends, to be sure, but he tended to see little of them except at school or on holidays.

It was Tenchi's hope that he and Ranma might become friends. It would be nice to have someone else to do things with. Ranma seemed a rough sort, given his speech and obvious skills, but he had not looked annoyed or disappointed by Tenchi's manners. Hopefully, then, he would not be the sort to look down on Tenchi as a 'wimp' simply because he had been schooled in proper behavior, as some of the less pleasant boys at school did.

It took Tenchi only about a quarter of an hour to straighten up the guest room. He stripped the bed and put on clean, fresh linens, then made it up with a thick, warm blanket. He tidied up the rest of the room, and as a final touch, placed a number of dried flower petals in a bowl of warm water to give the room a pleasing scent.

Then he went back downstairs, absently greeting his father again, and went to the kitchen, He put water on to boil for rice, and then started cleaning and chopping vegetables.

Noboyuki didn't really notice Tenchi's second greeting, but looked up at the sounds of sudden industry from the kitchen, and smiled. He smoothed his mustache as he thought again what a delightful boy Tenchi was. After the death of his wife... that thought brought a depressed frown to his face for a moment, but he resolutely pushed it aside, and smiled again, as he heard Tenchi chopping in the kitchen... Tenchi had picked up the role, and become the caretaker of the family.

Noboyuki hoped it would not hurt his chances with the ladies, but then decided that was unlikely. What with his taking up training under Katsuhito, he'd keep in great shape, and the ladies loved a sensitive guy. Tenchi'd have no problems in that depart... wait a minute. What had Tenchi said when he first came in? A guest? Noboyuki thought, with a sudden lecherous grin... Tenchi had just finished setting the food on the low table when the door opened, and Ranma and Katsuhito entered. "Perfect timing as usual, Tenchi," commented Katsuhito, smiling kindly at him, then he grinned with a sudden look of sardonic humour. "Hope you made enough. I bet Ranma eats like a horse!" Katsuhito laughed lightly at his joke.

Noboyuki stood, and bowed to the guest, who bowed in return.

"Masaki Noboyuki, this is Fey Ranma. Fey Ranma, my son, Masaki Noboyuki."

"It is an honor to meet you, Masaki-san," Ranma said, bowing again.

"My pleasure. Here to learn from the old man, eh?" Noboyuki replied with a grin. Katsuhito rapped him on the head. "Ow!"

"Dinner is ready, Father, Grandfather." Tenchi placed the dishes carefully on the table.

The four sat and began to eat. Had Ranma come only a few weeks before, he would doubtless have shocked Tenchi and his family with his eating habits. As it was, several weeks of eating with the Lady had mellowed him. The habit was not yet as deeply ingrained as it might have been, and not only was it no longer necessary to defend his food, but he was actually permitted to eat as much as he cared to.

Regular meals were not something Ranma had been accustomed to, but he had found that after a short time, it became hard to imagine going without. His days of starvation seemed to fade behind him, and so while his manners at the table were not polished, neither were they such as to draw attention or comment from his dining companions.

---

After Tenchi finished dressing the next morning, he decided to look in on his guest before making breakfast for the family. However, when he reached the guestroom, he found it empty, and the state of the bed indicated it had not been used. Rather, the pillow and blanket had been removed, and now lay rumpled on the floor. Tenchi would have assumed that Ranma had simply thrown them off upon getting up, had he not noted that the bedsheet was still taut and unwrinkled.

Tenchi mused on this as he moved on down the stairs to begin breakfast preparations. He paused for a quick look through the windows about the downstairs but did not see his erstwhile guest. As he moved about the kitchen preparing a simple breakfast, Tenchi considered whether he would ask Ranma about it when he saw him again. He had not expected Ranma to rise early after a nearly three hour session with Tenchi's grandfather... Ah, perhaps Ranma was in the furo, taking a hot soak to loosen muscles sore from the previous day's exercises.

A short time later Noboyuki stumbled into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his waist. "Ah... nothing like a morning soak to get ready for a long day at work. Breakfast smells good, Tenchi. How's our guest? Still sleeping?" Noboyuki laughed lightly. He was aware that the boy had had a session with Katsuhito the day before, and sympathized with the boy's lethargy.

"No, Father. I had assumed he was in the furo, since he was not in his room."

"Nope. Not there, I was just in, and I had to run the hot water. Hadn't been used."

"Is Grandfather up yet?"

"Of course I am!" Katsuhito stood at the front door, removing his shoes, and slipping into the soft indoor slippers. "Ranma is up as well. He was up at the crack of dawn. I found him practicing sword katas while leaping about the pillars."

"It is good that he appreciates your training facilities, Grandfather," said Tenchi politely, then continued with a worried frown, "but is it wise for him to be attempting to combine sword-play with aerial forms on pillars so soon?"

"Heh! Normally I would be the first to agree, Tenchi. A good way to get severely injured," Katsuhito responded, then thanked Tenchi as the boy handed him a warm cup of tea. He moved to kneel at the table, and Noboyuki sat across from him, as Tenchi served their breakfast. Noboyuki had somehow managed to get to his room, get dressed, grab his briefcase, and return to the table in the few moments it took Tenchi and Katsuhito to have their conversation.

Noboyuki looked at Katsuhito, who was simply grinning at some internal thought. "So, Katsuhito, are you implying that it is not dangerous for your new student?"

"No, he seems to have already integrated the sword forms I taught him into his own personal style of martial arts."

Ranma entered several minutes later, just as Noboyuki was leaving. Tenchi set out a breakfast for him, and for himself. Katsuhito had finished his, but sat and watched as Ranma ate. Tenchi finished his own breakfast and returned to his room and prepared his school bag, then rushed downstairs.

After Tenchi left, Katsuhito turned to Ranma, his student, or teishi. "Come, teishi, it is time to see what you have made of the forms I have shown you. Let us spar."

Katsuhito led Ranma back up the hill to the shrine. He tossed a bokuto to his teishi, and took up a second himself. Ranma took one of the initial stances Katsuhito had shown him, not wanting to irritate his new sensei by beginning from one of his father's non-stances, the stances designed to cause an opponent to underestimate him. Though it was his usual opening stance, he knew that Katsuhito had his measure already, and would not underestimate him, so the primary purpose of it would be invalidated. Further, he needed to judge the advantages and pitfalls of the forms he had learned.

Katsuhito had already noted Ranma's basic style, having already experienced it through the founder of the style, the shriveled and aging pervert Happosai. He was well aware that one of the tenets of the style was to allow the opponent to make the first move, so he did not waste time waiting for Ranma to act, but sprang to the attack.

Ranma parried three of the opening blows in Katsuhito's initial attack combination before realizing, too late as it turned out, that it had been designed and intended to use his blocks to draw his bokuto out of alignment. Even as he realized this, Katsuhito's bokuto flicked through the opening he had created, catching Ranma in the side, hard.

Ranma winced, drawing in a gasp at the pain, even as he blocked Katsuhito's next attack. He thought he caught a similar pattern, intended to draw his blade low, only to discover that it had been a feint, and receiving a sharp rap to the thigh when he refused to be drawn in.

Deciding that he was not going to be taken out so easily, Ranma firmed his stance and prepared to attack. He knew he would get hit... if he could not defend successfully while focused on defense, attacking would only leave him more open. He was determined to get a hit on Katsuhito, in spite of the inevitable cost.

He lashed out when he spied an opening as Katsuhito finished one combination, giving him a hard rap on the left hand, and began another. It was not an opening in the sense of a gap in Katsuhito's defenses, merely a perceived opportunity to begin his own attack.

Ranma tried Katsuhito's second combination, drawing on the third set of forms he had been shown, but doubling the feint, intending to strike high, since he knew that Katsuhito would recognize the attack sequence. The expected hit met only another parry, even as Katsuhito used his own knowledge of the form to strike Ranma twice.

In spite of taking regular hits, Ranma persevered, learning the holes in the defenses the hard way, as Katsuhito's bokuto pierced them again and again to give him new bruises. He used Katsuhito's attacks, slowly perfecting them, even as with each attack he mimicked, Katsuhito introduced him to the holes in the move with more bruises. When Katsuhito again used the move, and Ranma attempted to respond to the same holes Katsuhito had used, he learned from Katsuhito's parries how to close those holes.

While Ranma never did manage to get a strike in on Katsuhito, the old man could not help but be astounded as the match progressed into its third hour. The boy was bruised all over, and his face showed the pain of his movements, and still he fought on. More impressively, his defenses were now tighter than Tenchi's, and he had mastered moves that Katsuhito had not yet even introduced to his grandson.

Katsuhito was definitely intruiged. With Tenchi, his spars were generally short, unless he held back from actually striking. Katsuhito used two types of sparring with Tenchi. Pulled strikes allowed long matches intended to build endurance and provide practice against a real opponent, and full out matches ended quickly, but provided object lessons in defensive holes that corrected the problems far more quickly than any amount of explanation.

Ranma, on the other hand, was a genuine rarity, a student whose will to learn was strong enough that he would take full-out sparring and continue until he dropped. Katsuhito was well-aware of the potential this implied. A fighter who trained thus, while he would go through far more pain than any ordinary student would be willing to stand, would improve far faster.

Katsuhito called a halt to the session, then had Ranma perform several slow kata, to his own accompaniment, as a cool-down exercise. Considering the boy's stamina, and his innumerable bruises, Katsuhito led him back down to the house. Obtaining cool drinks, they went together to the furo, where a cold bath refreshed their minds, and a long hot soak, with cool drinks to counteract the heat exhaustion, brought considerable relief to aching and bruised muscles.

Katsuhito noted wryly to himself that he had clearly been slacking off on his own training. It had been many years since he had worked as hard as he had today, and he was definitely feeling it. While his old age and apparent decrepitude were a mere facade concealing his real nature as a prince of Jurai still in the prime of his life, he was more aware in this moment than he had been for years uncounted that he was out of practice. Training his own grandson was simply not sufficient preparation for this challenge, though he would not back down from it.

He did not know the Lady Alana personally, but this was not the first time these two worlds had crossed paths. He still remembered the intrepid wanderer, and the tales he told, and one of the most vivid had been that of the Lord Fey's love and betrayal of the Lady Alana. She had confirmed the truth of the stories, and told him of the boy's insistence on freeing her, of his surprising purity and honor.

Katsuhito had been decidedly skeptical, being familiar with the founder of the school, the aging pervert whose prime use of the art was to steal lingerie from women, along with a grope here and there. He was also cognizant of the nature of the two spineless cowards Happosai had trained, though he had never met them. He found it difficult to credit that any such as they could be responsible for this boy, which was the motivation for his testing of Ranma at their first meeting.

To his surprise, Funaho, the massive tree that grew by the waters of the lake, that none but he knew was in fact the sapling of the ship in which he had crossed the galaxy before settling here after defeating and imprisoning Ryoko, the pirate who had attacked his homeworld, had affirmed that Ranma was not dissimulating in his responses.

Katsuhito looked up, shaking his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Ranma, I was thinking of other things. What was it you said, again?" As he sat up, his eyes widened as he took in his student's appearance. The bruises, with which his body had been liberally coated, were gone. Only one could still be seen, on his shoulder, the last to be inflicted, and even as Katsuhito watched, it was fading.

"I asked, sensei, whether we were done for the day?" Ranma repeated his question, and Katsuhito noted the vaguely dissappointed look in the boy's eyes.

"Of course not," retorted Katsuhito, deciding that if the boy healed that fast, then he might as well be pushed until he dropped. He would survive, and he would learn all the faster.

A short while later, they were down by the lakeside, where Katsuhito demonstrated sword forms continuously until it was time to stop for lunch. Ranma, he noted, was an uncomplaining student, a welcome change from Tenchi, who often complained about the unfairness of life, and the harshness of his training. Katsuhito laughed inwardly, as he led the way back to the house to make lunch, picturing Tenchi's reaction to the kind of training regimen Ranma was being put through.

Lunch was simple, as Katsuhito pulled out pre-prepared meals from the freezer, and heated them, mentioning casually to Ranma that he was a terrible cook. It was much safer to simply have Tenchi prepare and freeze meals than to actually attempt to fix a meal for himself. Even so Katsuhito sighed in memory. Achika had made the most heavenly meals, he thought sadly.

As they ate, Ranma sat in thought, running over the forms in his mind, and considering how to integrate them into his style, and how they fit with the earlier forms he had been taught, and the attacks he had learned from sparring with Katsuhito. He did not ask Katsuhito any questions about them. He had decided, after the sparring session, that it would be more effective to simply incorporate them and see how they did, rather than trying to make Katsuhito do his thinking for him. Improving his own skills at integrating foreign styles was really as important as learning the styles in the first place, as that swift adaptability was a fundamental aspect of his school of the art.

After lunch, they returned to the upper court, before the shrine, and sparred again. Ranma incorporated the new forms he had been introduced to, recognizing some of them as the basis for the attacks Katsuhito had used on him. Having the basics for the attacks gave him more clarity into their purpose and intent, and into what they were designed to counter.

Katsuhito noted the significant improvement in Ranma's defenses, as the various attacks, defenses, and forms he had learned were finally being melded into a cohesive whole, wielded in concert, rather than as individually chosen and executed moves, as they had been in the first sparring session.

By the end of the first hour, Ranma was no longer receiving constant bruises, though Katsuhito still made it through his defenses occasionally.

As the second hour drew to a close, Katsuhito realized that he was steadily pulling out new moves to break through Ranma's defenses, as he was no longer able to penetrate the boy's defense using the moves his teishi had already seen. Even the new moves were being observed by the inimitable youth, who slipped them in amongst his other attacks, occasionally after only a single viewing. While these new attacks were as yet not integrated into the overall style, they were still introduced far more smoothly than the new attacks had been in the earlier spar, since Ranma had a comfortable suite of moves with which to lead into and out of any given sequence he wanted to try.

Katsuhito drew subtly on the power of Jurai to enhance his own stamina, keeping the sparring going for even longer than they had the first time. As they neared the end of the fifth hour, he sensed his teishi finally approaching the edge of exhaustion. He stopped him again, and they returned, sore and aching, to the bath.

When they exited the bath, Katsuhito noted that his grandson was home, and sending Ranma off to practice on his own, went in search of Tenchi. He found him in his room, working on schoolwork. Katsuhito walked up behind him and set his hand lightly on Tenchi's shoulder, who jumped out of his chair with a choked cry. "Aaaah! Grandfather, don't do that," scolded Tenchi, "you nearly gave me a heart attack."

Katsuhito smiled evilly at Tenchi, who groaned in anticipation of the upcoming pain, as light flashed off his grandfather's rectangular wire-rimmed glasses. "When you finish your chores, Tenchi, bring Ranma to the shrine. I want you to spar with him."

Tenchi grinned happily. He had a sparring partner again! Just what he wanted, and he wouldn't have to deal with all the bruises Katsuhito would give him. After all, Ranma was just a beginner... Tenchi would be far better than him... right?

---

Tenchi grew steadily more impressed over the next few weeks, as Ranma quickly mastered his sword forms. He was even more impressed when Katsuhito took Ranma's sword, the Dragon Fang, and instructed Ranma on its use. When Ranma finally said that he felt he had mastered the blade, Katsuhito had simply smiled at him, and taking Dragon Fang in his hand, he had looked at it for a moment, and it had suddenly become a golden katana. "You have only just begun," he replied.

Tenchi watched with interest as Ranma trained and swiftly came to master his weapon as a bokken, a katana, a wakizashi, a bo staff, nunchaku, and a naginata. He was very impressed when Ranma trained with it as a no dachi, a Japanese great sword bigger than he was. It was then that he really began to get an idea of how physically strong Ranma was. But nothing impressed him as much as when Ranma used Dragon Fang to summon/create the Dragon Armor, which molded to Ranma like a second skin of golden steel. It wasn't the armor that impressed him really, as much as Ranma's amazing ability to perform his katas wearing it, in utter silence, and to still leap twenty feet at a time down the stairs while wearing it. Of course, Tenchi was unaware that the armor, though it looked like heavy metal armor, unwieldy and unmistakeably weighty, was in fact as light and easy to wear as the silk clothing that Ranma preferred.

He was quietly disappointed when Katsuhito finally pronounced Ranma the Dragon Fang's master after only three months of training. Ranma seemed quite happy to finally be able to return to his home. Tenchi had hoped he might be willing to stay longer, as he had enjoyed having Ranma around, and had enjoyed having another partner to spar with.

---

"You mastered the Dragon Fang in only three months. I am proud of you, Ranma. You have done well," Lady Alana said, smiling at him. He had returned and awakened her, as he had done every week, and then told her the wonderful news. "I see that you have learned much from Masaki Tenchi, as well. Your speech is much cleaner than it was when I first met you."

"Yes, Lady. He was very well-spoken and polite, and I was glad to be his friend. I taught him a little about fighting unarmed... a few basic katas. He has great potential, though his potential as a swordsman is most impressive," he smiled up at her, "but I still wish you would tell me how Katsuhito knew of the Dragon Fang, and Fey. You know, at first, he refused to teach me. He thought I was Fey's son, and he said he would never teach one who had Fey's blood. Since I've gotten to know him, he seems so mild. Fey must really have been terrible for Katsuhito to dislike him so."

"He was, Ranma, he was. But now, I have another task for you. You wish to continue your training, and I promised to bring masters here to train you."

Ranma nodded at her, waiting for her to continue. He could almost feel the 'But...' coming, and feared she was about to say that she could not do so.

"For me to do so, you must do something first. The realm Fey rules has long been considered off-limits to outsiders. The only ones who come here, are those who wanted to challenge Fey, to take what was his. Before I can convince any masters to come and train you, we must make peace with the Court of Farallon. They are our largest neighbor. If we make peace with them, others will follow their lead, and then we will be able to send envoys to the masters, without having them attacked and slain on the road."

"It will not be easy, Ranma. They will have great difficulty respecting you, or believing that you have in fact defeated Fey, and taken his lands. They will see you at first as a joke that Fey is trying to pull on them. You will probably have to fight King Dei's champion, Lord Roga, to even get an audience with the king."

"I will travel with you, and my word will hold some weight, but it will still fall to you to convince them. As much as possible, you must let me speak for you, for I know how to avoid giving offense. When necessary, focus on what you learned from Tenchi, and avoid uncouth speech. They will take it as an insult, if you speak to them thus. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lady. I will do as you say. I must train, and if to train, I must convince these Lords that I am who I say I am, then I will do so. But I thank Kami-sama that I can do it by fighting," he replied, seriously, then, laughing, continued, "Tenchi or no, I am not good with words."

"Did Masaki show you the secrets of the Dragon Armor, Ranma?"

"Yes, Lady. I can summon it," Ranma replied.

"Good. Fey was well-known for Dragon Fang and the Dragon Armon. It will be a token of truth, to those who do not let their prejudices blind them, that you bear them."

The Lady did not speak of her private concerns. She could not question the word of Masaki. If he said that Ranma had mastered the Dragon Fang, then that was true. But how? How could he possibly have mastered the weapon in three months? It seemed impossible. The Dragon Fang was capable of becoming almost any martial weapon. She had not expected Masaki to train Ranma in every weapon... but the most common ones. She had read the report Masaki sent back with Ranma. Fifteen... he had mastered the use of the Dragon Fang as fifteen different weapons, in only three months.

She had heard pretty much the whole story of Ranma's early training, and knew well the rate at which he seemed to learn. While she felt certain that Masaki could not help but be a better teacher than Genma, he too had written that he had never had a student as quick to learn as Ranma. To satisfy his own curiosity, he had researched the boy's lineage, and sent the results to her as well. Ranma was a perfectly normal human. There was no question about it. He was descended from a long line of martial artists, on both sides of his family, and was in fact the heir to a katana fighting style, on his mother's side, though he did was not aware of it. But there was nothing in his heritage to explain his unbelievable capacity to learn.

Further, Masaki was quite skilled at observing and judging the skill level of martial artists. He had watched Ranma perform his katas, and assured her that Ranma was not yet used to performing them at the speed he now could, nor was his skill in them in inhuman excess of what might be expected after two years of hard training. The katas he knew, he could perform nearly flawlessly, until he began moving at full speed. But he did not seem to know many of the advanced katas of his school. He had been a prodigy, there was no question, yet not to this degree. Had he been learning at this rate while with Genma, he would be far more skilled.

Masaki also mentioned that by the time Ranma had returned, he seemed perfectly comfortable in his katas at full speed, and had incorporated what he learned from his sword forms into his unarmed katas. However, these changes did not disturb Masaki, as they fit the level of his natural ability as Masaki had judged it. Without whatever had happened to him in the other world, he would still, Masaki judged, have been steadily incorporating whatever he had been trained into his fighting style, and into his katas.

The Lady did not speak of these concerns to Ranma, but while the preparations for the imminent confrontations proceeded, and Ranma practiced his katas, with and without weapons, she sought out a seeress in one of the nearby villages.

When she returned, she was only slightly less disturbed. A divine gift for the martial arts? It seemed clear that whatever change had occurred, had happened the night he had defeated Fey. She could not imagine why it would result in his receiving a divine gift. What god or goddess would be so pleased with Fey's demise as to give the mortal who defeated him such a gift?

She sighed, and put it from her mind, deciding to concentrate and focus on the approaching difficulties with the Court of Farallon. She hoped that they would be able to achieve their goal without Ranma being forced to kill again. She dreaded what it might do to him.

---

Krall lounged on the heavy stone seat at the rear of the cavern, watching the two new recruits facing off against older blood. This was just too rich. The new Lord of Fey seemed to be purging his army, and Krall had been steadily picking up new recruits. His group of bandits was growing by leaps and bounds, and nearly every member had military training and combat experience.

While he focused his activities on the two kingdoms opposite Farallon, which were the only two not to have suffered an attack from the Lord Fey in the last thirty years, he had steadily worked his spies into the other nations as well, and soon he would have spies within Farallon itself.

He wasn't avoiding it because it had been the last to be attacked, but because Farallon was the site of the accursed Mage Tower, the independent group of powerful mages that had plagued his earlier campaigns. No, he was content, for now, to build his connections, steadily grow his political power, while living high on the hog as the leader of this surprisingly competent bandit army.

It was delightful, he thought, comparing this band to the one he had lead nearly seventy years before, just prior to entering Fey's service. That band had been rag-tag, rough men to be sure, but brawlers, not fighters, and dense. He had been forced to be present on nearly every foray, to prevent them from walking into enemy hands with their stupidity and drunken insubordination.

Now, with Fey's rejects, he had built himself a banditry that actually contained enough skill that he was able to form multiple tight groups, give them difficult missions, and listen to reports of success, without involving himself! Of course, that's not to say he didn't get involved. The tightest band of rogues in the joint was his group of Howling Wolves. Yes, life was good... and it would be better still when he had exterminated that runt of a Lordling.

Trials of Diplomacy

A little more than a week after Ranma's return, a large company of armed horseman, bearing the flag of a parley, and escorting a large carriage and a train of wagons, drew up to the border of Farallon. The two border guards whose duty it was to accost them and learn their business were faint with relief that the company halted when ordered to do so, and drew straws to see who would have to remain behind while the other ran to fetch the border regiment.

The guard who remained behind struggled hard to control his fear. The stories he had heard of the Lord Fey were evil and dark, and he was one man alone. The Lord's flag rose high on a standard beside the flag of parley, stating for all to see that the Dark Lord rode with them.

It had been only about ten years since the last skirmishes with the troops of Fey, and the memories were dark ones. He himself had lost an uncle in those conflicts... now he feared that his brother would soon be mourning him as they had mourned their uncle.

The flag of parley meant that the Lord Fey wished to discuss something under a temporary truce. Given Lord Fey's history, the guard feared that a discussion of the surrender of the Court of Farallon was imminent, and guessed that it was but a polite gesture preceding the renewed invasion of Farallon.

Finally, the border regiment came, and their captain rode forth, followed by two stout men, bearing each a standard; on his right, the standard of Farallon, and on his left, a standard of parley.

Then from the other side, a stir moved through the company, and the two standard bearers flanked a pair of horses as they rode forward. On one, a half step behind the first, rode the Lady Alana, and all knew of her, and the captain recognized her. But in the lead, on a large black charger, rode a young boy, who couldn't have been more than about six or seven years.

Not knowing what manner of subterfuge this might be, not one of the men of Farallon dared laugh at the sight. They had heard stories of the Lord Fey's ability to disguise himself, and walk in the appearance of others. They could not help but wonder why he would choose the guise of a young boy. Hushed whispers ran through the ranks, of soul-stealers that stretched the span of their lives, by stealing the bodies of the young when their own grew old and withered. Was the Lord Fey one such? Others thought it was a deliberate and calculated insult, as if to say even a child could defeat the men of Farallon.

The young boy was dressed all in black, a tight shirt and loose pants, and a short sword hung by his side. He stopped, about ten feet from the captain. But he did not speak... instead, the Lady Alana, sitting on a white mare behind him, spoke for him.

"The Lord Fey wishes to discuss terms of peace with the King of Farallon. We ask safe passage to the capital." Her voice silenced the murmurs.

The captain was hesitant to speak out, with one who might be the Lord Fey in guise before him, ready to strike him down, but he knew his duty.

"I am sorry Lady. You know well that the King has sworn an everlasting war on the Lord Fey, until he be thrown down and killed. I cannot let you pass."

He struggled not to choke on his words, his eyes on the young boy, watching for any sign of action, that he might flee before being struck down. Surely he would not act, not under a flag of parley. But this was the Lord Fey, and none knew to what depths he might go. He was shocked, therefore, when the only response was the laughter of the Lady Alana.

"The King's wish is granted. The Lord Fey is thrown down, and lies dead and buried in the grounds of Fey Castle."

Gasps of shock rippled through the ranks behind him. He could feel that they wanted to cheer, but he still feared a ruse. She had said the Lord Fey wished to pass through, and how could he do that if he were buried in the ground? He might have accepted her words, had she said she bore his body in one of the wagons... but as it was, her words did not add up.

"Forgive me, Lady. I do not mean to question your word," and he paled as he saw the sudden anger on the boy's face. Please don't let him strike me down. His fingers flashed through a quick cycle of prayer. "But you said the Lord Fey wished to speak of peace with my King. How may I grant the Lord Fey passage, if he lies dead in the grounds of Fey Castle?"

"The Lord Fey is dead. To the one who slew him all his power and lands have gone, and he is the new Lord Fey. The Lord Fey seeks safe passage to speak to your King of peace."

Now it was clear. The Lady was claiming that this brat of a child had somehow defeated the Lord Fey, whom no man in the kingdom of Farallon could hope to best. This was all a cruel joke, and he was the butt of it. He laughed then, a hopeless sound filled with despair. He would not get out of this alive, he thought. "You mean to say that this stripling before me, is the new Lord Fey? That this mere whelp defeated the Lord whom no-one in the Five Kingdoms dares challenge? It is beyond belief that you, dear Lady, would treat me as such a fool."

---

Arkus smiled to himself in his scrying room, as he watched the scene unfold before him. The room was large, circular, formed of heavy stones set one upon the next. The stones were mostly unseen, though, covered as the walls were with heavy tapestries. Some depicted scenes of high honor, combat between knights for the honor of fair ladies, and such, but most depicted foulness. Several depicted demons engaged in vile excess, and one was of an army of half-men, despoiling a town, attacking women and children.

A large, silvered glass mirror, bound in gold wrought in the shapes of demons, was reflecting light into the room, from the sunny scene of the challenge on Lord Fey's border. Arkus lay before the mirror, lying on a divan, indulging in fresh fruits and cream, waiting for an appropriate moment to... adjust the outcome.

As Arkus felt the state of mind of the captain, he was delighted, and chortled to the raven on his shoulder. "Heh. This is perfect, I don't even have to nudge the guy. He can't even imagine the possibility of it being true. Its so completely preposterous, he's even willing to doubt the word of the Lady. This whole affair will ruin her reputation. I suspect once the Five Kingdoms come to the realization that the Lady can no longer be trusted, and is actively seeking to fulfill her Lord's will, there will soon be armies camped on his every border. Ahhh, this is too perfect. And I needn't do a thing!" He laughed again, with true pleasure. "I love it!"

The raven cawed its agreement, then snatched a grape from him.

---

The Lady smiled at him. "Then the Lord Fey challenges you to defend your words. Choose a champion. If the Lord Fey bests him, then you will grant us safe passage. I give you my word of honor, we mean no harm to your King, and all I say is true. You have questioned my word, and my champion will defend it. Lord Fey, if you please." She gestured to Ranma, who hopped lightly from the back of his stead.

The captain almost took up the challenge himself, to teach this stripling a lesson, but the look of complete confidence on the face of the Lady set him back. He turned, and called out, "Grael, step forth. Defend the honor of your country." A large man, carrying a six-foot longsword, stepped forth, and stood at the front of the regiment. When he saw the young man standing before the Lady, he laughed aloud.

"Come Captain, just because I am the fighting champion of the regiment, does that mean I must face every popinjay that comes along?" He sneered at the young boy. He was tiny... he would be easy.

"Speak no ill of the Lord Fey, Champion." The words of the Lady were soft, but carried a hint of steel, and struck him like a physical blow. The young boy pulled his short sword from his side, and suddenly, he was clothed in shining armor, the helm and long plume making it instantly recognizable. His sword shimmered, and became a four foot katana. Grael felt his heart shrink within him. The boy had the Dragon Armor, and that blade must be the Dragon Fang, and he held it like it was an extension of his arm. Grael felt a sudden touch of fear, but it was washed aside in a surge of confidence, as Arkus began manipulating him.

Arkus, reclining in comfort, didn't want this damned fool flubbing the fight just because he felt nervous. He pushed at the man's stolid mind. Grael did not even realize the thoughts weren't his. He would beat this whelp. His sword had a two foot reach advantage over the boy's, and the length of his arms extended that even further. The boy would be slowed by the heavy armor, and the weight of his sword. It would be over quickly. He stepped forward, as the others shifted around to give them room. He grinned, the expression on his face one of utter confidence, of easy arrogance. This would be easy.

The captain raised his hand. "Ready..." he called, and dropped it, "begin!"

Grael held out his sword, grasping the hilt in both hands. One stroke, and the boy would be down. The boy stood utterly still, until Grael swung his sword back, to take his stroke.

Ranma met Grael's stroke with the Dragon Fang, and paled beneath his helm, as his arms nearly gave under the strain.

Grael was annoyed that his first stroke had been met, and shocked that the boy had successfully parried it, but he had noticed the sudden pallor, and the sweat that now appeared on the whelp's brow. Grael grinned and swung again. He had not put his full strength into the first blow, so he was confident that he would overpower the whelp with a heavier blow.

Ranma's adaptability came to the fore, as he recognized even as the tension first gathered in Grael's massive muscles precisely what move the larger man was planning. Ranma sidestepped the move, judging that the big man had put more strength into that move than he should have. He would overbalance when he missed... and he did, grunting in surprise as his blow missed. Only luck saved him, for Ranma had no experience in fighting armed opponents, and was not prepared with knowledge of where the weak points were, and Ranma's blow glanced off of the hardened leather, scoring it, and just nicking the flesh beneath, but not doing significant damage.

Grael was quick to recover from his overextension, and the minor but sharp pain of the scratch was barely noticed, as he tightened his form, releasing some of his arrogant confidence in favor of caution.

A swifter, tighter thrust was turned aside by the boy's blade, the searching strike lacking the strength to overmatch the boy. Ranma was being more cautious as well, and did not seek to match the blow strength for strength, but merely to turn it aside. Ranma knew, inside, that he had the strength to match the larger man, if he could find it. Strength to leap fifteen feet ought to translate to a better showing here, and he wasn't sure why it was failing him. He also didn't have time to worry about it, as he turned aside more blows.

Ranma might lack, at least at the moment, the strength to match fighter directly, but his skill was at least the equal of the larger man's, and he could see numerous openings being left by the swordsman.

He ignored the openings, for the time being, as he concentrated on the armor, studying the protection it offered, looking for a way to subdue his opponent. One of the stronger reasons that Ranma disliked weapons was that so often they reduced one's options in terms of defeating an opponent. It was so much easier to seriously wound or kill an opponent with a sword than to subdue them.

His mind split between defense, and studying his opponent's defenses, Ranma did not notice the slow chanting of Grael's name rising from the border guards. From their perspective, it looked like Grael was playing with the boy, and they were encouraging Grael to finish the game.

Ranma was mildly irritated. He was running over the various standard disarms, and none of them seemed likely to succeed, and the few that stood a fair chance balanced that chance with an unpleasantly large opening for his opponent.

He was being forced to come to terms with the differences between armed combat with naked blades, and the sparring with simulated blades in which he'd been instructed. Tenchi's grandfather had simply been unwilling to permit sparring with the potentially lethal live steel.

Grael was becoming irritated as well. While he was still the one on the offensive, and was definitely preventing the boy from making any real progress... he hadn't been hit since the first time... neither was Grael getting any closer to winning. The infuriating boy wasn't even showing significant signs of exertion, while Grael could feel himself beginning to tire. Though a very strong man, he was wielding a blade matched to his size, and he normally felled his opponents in a much shorter time.

Deciding to break the rythym, hoping that it would throw the inexperienced boy off-balance, Grael threw in another full-force swing, expecting a desperate parry.

Ranma saw the shift in the man's motions, and guessed at his intent. Faced with only an instant to decide, Ranma recognized that he would be unable to defeat his opponent without killing him, as long as he relied solely on the blade... so even as the stroke came in, Ranma leapt, the sword passing harmlessly beneath him. Grael was overextended again, and Ranma, on reaching the ground, pushed off with his hands, driving his foot hard into the man's right hand, where he was just beginning to pull his arm back from his off-balance state.

His ploy succeeded, the heavy blade was jarred in Grael's grip, and with his arm's extension, and the manner in which he was already drawing his arm in, he was unable to retain his hold on it. Even as the blade's tip dug into the ground below, Ranma leapt to stand on the man's arm, placing his own sword against Grael's unprotected neck.

Recognizing his own vulnerability, should Grael simply drop his arm, he decided that that instant was enough to show he'd won, and he launched into a spin kick, bringing his right leg all the way around as he pivoted on his left foot, and planted his metal boot into the back of the unbalanced man's skull. He leapt off the falling man, as Grael fell heavily to the ground.

Arkus, who had been in Grael's mind, bolstering his confidence, had not even had time to draw back before Grael was beaten, and collapsed unconscious on his divan. It would be some time before he awoke.

"The Lord Fey claims the win," stated the Lady, "Are any here foolish enough to dispute him?" Ranma leapt from a standing start, twenty feet over the downed man, to land lightly on his horses back, dropping easily to sit again, taking up his reins.

The captain stood gaping for a long moment, hardly able to credit what his eyes perceived. Then he moved quickly, detailing two of the guards to take care of Grael, and gather up his sword, and putting together a party of ten, with the standard of safe passage, to guide the Lord Fey to the capital. He felt sick to his heart as he did so.

He could not, in honor, deny the Lady, nor her words, but he was privately convinced that the boy was the Lord Fey, the original Lord Fey. No mere seven-year old could possibly have the skill or strength the boy had shown. He wasn't human. It had to be the Lord Fey, in human guise, and yet honor prevented him from following his sworn duty. He was forced to act as if the boy was the new Lord Fey, and Lord Fey was dead.

But why, why had the Lady treated him so? She, it was always said, was bound to the Lord by magic, but her heart was pure and true. Why had she deceived him so? He felt truly ill, as he watched ten of his men leading a company of Lord Fey's troops... probably monsters in human guise, like the boy, and the Lord himself, to go to the King. As soon as they passed, he detailed another party, four of his fastest riders.

"You must reach the capital before them, and warn them. This boy is not what he appears, be he the new Lord or the old." They rode off, dwindling quickly into the distance. "And may the King forgive me, for I have failed him." If he dies, the captain thought, I will have to follow him in death. Be it upon my own blade, or the blade of one of Fey's warriors, I will follow my King.

---

For nearly a week, the party's travels were untroubled. They set up camp each night, and in the morning, they were careful to leave no trace of their passage.

When they had first started out from the castle, the Lady had insisted that Ranma watch and learn from the cooks as they prepared the evening meal, and he found to his dismay, when they insisted, that he was quite successful at preparing food.

The mind that was so quick to understand new martial arts moves, to dissect and understand them, proved equally adept at picking up the techniques the cooks used to prepare the food, even the ones they weren't really aware of using themselves. The first dish he prepared was given high praise by those who tried it, including the Lady. It embarrassed him.

He was not really aware of the fact that he had an eidetic memory. Indeed, had you asked him, he would not have known what it meant. Yet he had had it as a child, training under Genma, and it was a good part of what had made him a prodigy even before he had unknowingly and unwittingly received a divine gift. This served him in good stead, as he had only to watch the preparation once, to know how it was done. It took but little time before the necessary skills were ingrained in his muscles as well, and cleaning and preparing the ingredients became as natural to his hands as his Art.

While it was nice to think that when traveling alone, he would be able to eat well, he kept picturing himself behind a stove, cooking for a large party, and it worried him. He didn't want to be a good cook. He wanted to be a great martial artist.

He was perturbed as well, on the third night, when several of the soldiers pulled out single and multiple pipes made from reeds, and the Lady teased him into taking one, and letting them teach him how to play it. His ready and quick mind took easily to this, and soon he was learning songs by ear, and playing along with them.

Again, it disturbed him. He could not see how this would help his Art... but he could not refuse the Lady. Not when it was his fault that she was here, camped out with common soldiers, eating camp food, without the amenities he felt she deserved. If it was his fault she was here, then the least he could do was to prepare for her the most delicious food he could, and play for her the best music he could.

Each night, as the soldiers sat around the fires and talked, Ranma would walk off by himself, and practice his katas. A few soldiers followed him, at the Lady's behest, he suspected, but the second night, he was followed by nearly twice as many, and he realized that they were coming now to watch him, not watch over him. He felt nervous beginning, knowing that so many were watching him, but as soon as he began, the world around fell away, and he was alone, alone with his Art.

These practices continued as they entered the Land of Farallon. By the fourth night, the ten men who were guiding them had finally lost a little of their tension. Seeing the young boy learning to play the flute, and cook food, and taking good-natured ribbing from his own soldiers, they finally accepted the Lady's story. For all his unnatural speed and strength, he was clearly what he seemed to be, a seven-year old boy, nervous and unsure of himself when it came to anything other than his Art.

Arkus had returned to his regular observations after finally recovering from that terrible headache... which was even worse than that hangover he got from trying to go drink for drink with that dwarf. He was annoyed at the men's response to the boy, but they were just border guards, not worth the effort of reaching out to. Besides, the more often he manipulated someone near the boy and the Lady, the more likely it was that one or the other would come to detect him. He would await a more opportune moment.

Midday on the eighth day from the border, they came out of the woods, in sight of the high white stone walls of the capital city, with the small buildings huddled close to the walls all around, pennants fluttering in the breeze atop the battlements. The city was beautiful, and serene... but the view was marred by a large force encamped on the field between them and the city.

Ranma was prepared for the sight. He had been warned by the Lady that the captain of the border guards had been convinced by his demonstration that he was the original Lord Fey, and would have sent warnings ahead.

After watching to be certain that no immediate reaction was forthcoming from the encampment, his troops swiftly set up their own camp. Their ten guides were given leave to go and report to their superiors. Ranma stood in silence, watching as they rode down towards their army, and the soldiers behind him set up their own encampment. The Lady walked over to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders.

"I am worried, Lady. I have never seen so many warriors in one place before. How can we convince them that we want peace, if we sit here like this, two forces of war facing one another? I saw that captain's face. I think I know what he felt. He couldn't accept that I killed Lord Fey... because it would mean that I, a child in his eyes, defeated one that all his people could not. Won't the men down there feel the same? Their pride will not allow them to accept me." He sounded defeated, even to himself.

"You see well, Ranma. That truly is what the captain felt. And when he saw you defeat his champion so easily, he could only believe that you were indeed the Lord Fey, laughing at him for falling for such an obvious ploy. And no," she said, her voice growing sad, "I do not expect more wisdom from the ones we face now. They will feel as you have said. We cannot convince them so easily, Ranma. But we can use their honor to force them to agree to peace with us. They will fear a trap, and strive to escape it. But perhaps in time, as the jaws of the trap continually fail to close on them, and they see the change in your lands, they may finally come to accept the truth."

She ruffled his hair lightly. "At the least, as they see you continue to grow and learn, and see Masters passing through their lands to teach you, they will have to concede to themselves, that you are not the old Lord, with long years of experience. Indeed, I think in the short time they were with us, you won over our guides. Last night, did they not join in your music, with their own flutes?"

"Yes, Lady, they did. You are right... but it pains me still, to see such fear in the eyes of a man, and know that I am the thing feared, as if I were a wild beast."

"And I, Ranma, I am glad that you are not pleased to cause fear in others. I am glad that you do not seek power for its own sake. I am proud of you."

"Thank you, Lady. You are kind."

As they stood together and watched, they saw a party form up at the edge of the encampment, and the two banners rise on standards, for Farallon and