At the archmage's words, a pulse of terror and pain shot through Topher as though he'd been stabbed; the scent of smoke filled his nostrils, and his hands felt slick and gritty. "I can't go back there. Are you fucking crazy?" He stumbled back, throwing his hands up; his vision dimmed, pulsing with terror.

Relentlessly, Kelfir followed him, smoothly and silently drifting to match his pace upon his Wyrd. "There is no one else. You are the only witness, the only free agent, and the only one with a hope of survival in the event that any conspirator remains alive." He crossed his arms. "The tale you spun for Varissian was vague and fragmentary; I have no doubt you sought to protect him as well as yourself. But you are no longer a powerless, Classless Otherworlder; and with that power comes the responsibility to wield it accordingly."

Topher spat, fear and rage mingling in his mind; this motherfucker, he thought to himself savagely. But he knew that what Kelfir was saying was true; knew that the elf was pitting his conscience against his resentment in hopes that Topher would drive himself into the jaws of his dilemma. "You could send someone else! There's a million adventurers in this fucking world!"

"None of them were there," Kelfir pressed, closing in for the rhetorical kill. "None of them know the truth. And none of them owe what you owe."

"Fuck you!" Topher screamed; his hands curled into grasping claws. "I tried to save him! I'm not responsible!"

"Indeed," Kelfir murmured, his expression grim. "As I gather Varissian has said: 'What more could be asked of you?'"

I could have succeeded. "Oh, you fucker," Topher moaned. "You absolute bastard." His whole body shook as though he was freezing to death; his teeth chattered, his bowels turned to water. Behind Kelfir, he could see Zanasha and Hana struggling with the cottage's door; dimly, he could perceive subtle bands of akasha holding it shut. "I can't do this. You can't make me do this."

"I have no need to force you." The archmage slowly drifted to the ground and met Topher's gaze; then he sank to his knees and placed his hands calmly on his thighs. "I can simply beg you."

"Goddamn you." Topher's eyes were almost closed now, leaking impotent tears. "Goddamn us both."

"Yes," agreed Kelfir. "Gods damn us both, indeed."

Then, abruptly, there was the sound of destruction; blinking, Topher noticed that the cottage no longer had a front door, and that Hana and Zanasha were rushing towards Kelfir's back. Panicking, he shoved past the elf and raised his hands. "No, stop! Don't do anything stupid."

"Friend Topher?" asked Zanasha suspiciously, eyeing the archmage's back. "Is it plain you are in great distress." At her side, Hana was on the verge of drawing her Flux Blade.

"Don't attack him. You'd both die almost instantly." Topher clutched himself, raw terror shooting through his veins. "And he's not the bad guy here, anyway." I am. "He just wants me to help."

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"Have you not suffered enough?" Zanasha was aghast. "Twice now, you have been attacked!"

"No." Topher stared at the ground, horrified by the realization that this was really going to happen. I haven't suffered nearly enough. "He didn't attack me this time. He just made me..." he gulped. "He made me face the facts."

His face twitching with gut-wrenching emotion, Topher turned back to Kelfir. "I'll do it. But leave them out of this. Just teleport me back to Strathmore already."

"Bailey-sama." Hana's voice was ice-cold. "Cultural differences."

"The fuck?!" Topher rounded on her, wounded and howling. "This isn't about manners, kid! This is about --"

"Topher. Topher." Zanasha stepped, lightning-fast, between him and Hana. "You must not."

Bewildered, Topher looked back towards Hana; to his shock, he saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks despite the grim determination of her expression. "You can't be serious! You're not involved! You're not responsible!"

Abruptly, Zanasha took him by the shoulders; her beautiful golden cat's eyes stared into his with a force like a thunderbolt. "She loved Ichirou."

"Fuck." Topher trembled, the strength draining out of him. "Ah, fuck."

Slowly and gently, Zanasha released him; Topher sank to the ground, boneless and weak. He covered his face with his hands. "Crazy. We're all fucking crazy."

"Some of us more than others," Kelfir's voice came from behind him, heavy as lead with irony. "But time waits for none of us."

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It is dusk, and the city of Strathmore sleeps.

Life has been interesting for its many citizens over the past few months; what passes for its economy has been alternately drained (by the preparations necessary for the Summoning and its supplemental efforts) and stimulated (by the arrival of its outputs and their astonishing requirements for materiel), resulting in a frenzy of activity followed by significantly reduced focus on otherwise typical concerns. As a result, no one notices when there is a small flare of golden light atop a hill outside the city, announcing the advent of Topher Bailey, Zanasha Jones, and Hana Shirakane. Kelfir Leafwind does not accompany them; Quint Aumraham's wards would betray his presence almost instantly.

To say that Topher Bailey is in bad shape at this juncture is a massive understatement; his pulse pounds, his hands grip convulsively, and his gaze shudders from place to place with the intensity of a drowning man searching for a life preserver. Hana Shirakane fares not much better; this place is an old, unwelcome memory for her from a different life entirely, and she was not at all prepared when she awoke this morning to confront the yawning gulf between who she was ten years ago and who she has become.

Zanasha Jones, in contrast, is an absolute rock of stability; she is concerned about her friends' obvious distress, but she has never been to Strathmore and is, quite frankly, excited about nearly everything else regarding this situation (she particularly hopes that she will get a chance to try the local cuisine). A survivor of far darker traumas and harrowings, she has the benefit of both perspective and emotional distance, which will be tremendously unhelpful for what is to come.

In the depths of Topher's battered and aching soul, old scabs are beginning to peel away; ancient wounds, some of them near-mortal, quicken as sights and sounds begin to chip away at the protective shell of forgetfulness which has dulled the worst of his pain for so very long. He will not remember right away; but his old mantra, Bury the past, is no longer equal to the task of remaining ignorant.

In short, things are bad.

They are about to get much, much worse.

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END OF VOLUME 3