14.1

Dirk watched his seneschal leave. The news of the money was, indeed, positive. He wondered, though, why Zyrdicia would allow Portia to make such decisions in her absence. It was yet another example of her lax oversight of her vast fortune. That was something he would remedy when he took over control of it following their betrothal.

The fact of the matter was that he did miss her, more than he cared to admit. Acknowledging that annoyed him. The abrupt end to their reconciliation while trapped in her store room left a sense of something unfinished. The week dragged by unbearably slowly. Within a few days, he expected everything he ever hoped for to fall into place - he would be crowned king, he would finally annihilate the South, and he would regain possession of his favorite temperamental, magical weapon.

Zyrdicia was expected to arrive Wednesday evening, if not sooner. She was well aware of the schedule: the nobles would begin arriving Thursday morning. The engagement announcement would take place before dinner on Saturday evening. She had sent word through Portia that the confrontation with Baal would take only a few hours, but she intended to summon the demon in the astral plane on Tuesday, tomorrow, in case she was wrong. As far as she was concerned, there was plenty of time.

Dirk took the monocle in his hand, and willed it to show her. An image of her appeared instantly in the center of the green magical glow of the teardrop shaped glass.

Zyrdicia sat at a large table with piles and piles of books and scrolls scattered all around her. The walls of the room where she sat contained neat shelves of more such works. Next to her, a diminutive, ancient-looking man shuffled through some of the scrolls. The strange, little man looked up at her over his narrow spectacles. Bushy white eyebrows framed his small, grey eyes. His tone was calm and soothing when he spoke to her. "Zyrdicia, dear, perhaps the timing for this is wrong?"

She did not bother to look up. She sounded bored with the conversation. "Baal will use the close proximity to Hell's Gate to try to pull me through. I need to find an appropriate bind-rune to fetter him to the location where I summon him. That's the only way to prevent his escape, and more importantly, prevent him from taking me to Tenaebra. You know this. Stop asking."

"Are you certain Azriok never told you which bind-rune affects Baal?"

"Would we be here if he had?"

"I just thought-"

"Philip, Azriok was been careful to limit my knowledge about demonic bind-runes. He taught me a few elementary examples that work on lesser devils, but he concealed any knowledge about the use of bind-runes on Sephiroth." Zyrdicia scowled, tossing the scroll in her hand aside angrily then snatching up another. She looked like a bundle of stress - her lips were drawn tightly, her shoulders hunched up relentless tension. She testily brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, then continued reading, her purple eyes scanning each page impatiently.

The little man scratched a long, pointed ear, then stood up to retrieve more scrolls. Despite his age, he moved nimbly. He stood scarcely four and a half feet tall. As he set the documents down on the table he began again, undaunted by her impatient demeanor. He coaxed, "But if the timing is wrong, if you are not ready for such a confrontation, this is suicide."

She set the scroll in her hands down angrily and looked up at him. She looked bone-weary. "I have no choice. I can't stand it anymore! Shut up and keep looking!"

"Zyrdicia, you mustn't let them..."

"Philip, don't! It has to be done with. Help me find the rune or leave!"

"You realize how dangerous it is to confront Baal - of all the Sephiroth to choose as an adversary--"

"I did not choose him. Azriok did."

"Precisely! It must be a trap! Azriok and Baal know that you will eventually try to rid yourself of their influence. They will anticipate this."

"Obviously! That's why I need the damned bind-rune. I'll trap him within his own trap."

"Even if we find it, there is no way of knowing for sure whether it is the appropriate rune until you try it against Baal."

"So don't screw up. Just get me the right fucking rune," she whispered, her tone more pleading than demanding.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. On the table, her right hand clenched into a tight fist. Her jaw clenched in silent pain. When she opened her eyes, her expression was blank. She appeared oblivious to the thin, crimson trail of blood which flowed out of her clenched fist, staining the nearby documents. "Find the rune! I have to go."

"Where?"

"Out."

"Baal..."

"Yes." She stood up and opened the fist of her right hand. A large piece of blood-covered broken glass fell from it. The sharp, jagged edge of the shard struck the table, then fell to the floor. She touched the self-inflicted wound on the underside of her hand to her lips briefly. The purple glow of her eyes seemed to momentarily darken.

"What can I do?"

She seemed to not hear the question. She was preoccupied with something far more important. She turned and walked out, leaving a red hand print on the door as she pushed it open.