...In which a delivery is made, and our hero is inconvenienced

It had taken several hours of bumpy, muddy roads and a lack of good light pouring in through the carriage windows that my travelmate had finally given up hope. With a heavy sigh, the elderly man removed his reading glasses, slid them into a leather case inside his jacket, and set his book onto the red cushioned bench next to him.

Glancing out the window with cold steel eyes, he cleared his throat and spoke with a soft tone that was barely audible above the clattering of the wheels against the rocks and pits of the road. "What a horrible day for travel, isn't it, ma'am?"

I too clutched a book in an open position, not a single word read from it this entire ride. Rather, I had been surveying the horrible weather conditions that had dogged me my entire trip out of Radasanth. "Yeah, it is pretty bad out there. This rain has been falling for days, now. Anytime it wants to let up is fine by me."

The old man snorted his consent, his pitch-black mustache twitching briefly on his upper lip. The carriage hit a particularly nasty bump in the road, sending the contents inside bounding off of the benches. The old man reached up to keep his hat from falling off of his balding head; I instinctively reached for my traveling satchel, hoping that none of the contents would spill on the floor. I managed to snatch it by its clasps and bring it back up to the bench without incident.

"Sorry about that," we heard the carriage driver call from outside. Neither of us responded.

Once we were settled once again, my compartment companion got a little curious. "These roads can be a bit dangerous during this time of the year. Bandits and such. I'm surprised to see a petite thing like you traveling by yourself--no offense, of course."

"None taken," I casually replied. "But trust me, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

The gentlemen gave me a quick once-over, taking in my casual traveling fare of a black blouse top, dark blue jeans, and black leather walking boots. I could only imagine what he was thinking at the moment; about whether or not my claim was believable. Decided to put his mind at ease and give him a definitive answer, I leaned forward slightly and met his gaze. "For the record, I'm a former assassin and Warrior of the Dajas Pagoda. Skilled with knives and poisons, and a master at hand-to-hand combat. It would take more than a few roadside bandits for me to worry about survival."

The man tilted his head backwards a bit, obviously taken off-guard by the admission. I put him at ease with a quick smile, leaning back and crossing my left leg over my right. "It's okay, I actually retired from both years ago and opened up a bookstore on Janus Street in Radasanth. If you're ever interested the latest fiction and non-fiction delights, you should stop on by. We have quite an impressive inventory."

A moment of silence passed between us as he nodded, processing everything. "So what brings you out to Concordia, then? Especially if you have a store to run..."

"Well," I said, patting my satchel, "I'm on a bit of a special delivery. Part of my bookstore's services include the acquisition and delivery of rare and peculiar tomes for special clientele. Normally I would hire a couple of mercenary buddies from my days as a cutthroat to deliver them to their new owners, but this particular book warrants a personal delivery."

There was a glint in the man's steely eyes. "Ah, something very special and top-secret, I assume?"

I laughed. "Hardly. It's simply a grimoire detailing the summoning of several demons and the contracts they are willing to make with the summoner. The client wishes to procure it only for research purposes, of course. Care to see?"

He squirmed a little bit, hesitant to take a peek at the book. As I smiled and reached for the brass clasp keeping my satchel closed, he raised his hands. "No, that's quite alright, ma'am."

I shrugged. "Okay, I understand."

More silence in the carriage, as the old man tried hard to scrape up something to say. I took his mind off the subject. "So what about you? What do you do?"

He was eager to talk about something a little more normal, and leaned forward to address me, resting his arms on his knees. "If you must know, I own one of the sawmills in Underwood. Big logging town, Underwood."

"I'm familiar with it, yes."

"We've been having some troubles lately... Financial, personnel, equipment; all sorts of troubles. Normally I run my businesses out of my office in Radasanth, as my company has interests all over Corone and in Scara Brae as well. Like you, I figured this particular incident requires my own particular talents."

"You're not going to fire everyone and burn the mill down, are you?"

He let out a hearty laugh. "Good heavens, no! Is that how you solve problems in your bookstore? No; I'm just going down there to survey the mill and have a nice chat with the men I hired to run it while I'm attending to manners elsewhere. See if we can't figure out what's going on so we can get back to running at one hundred percent."

Me and my elderly traveling companion, who I learned was named Nero Kensolving, kept chatting about our particular business practices and other such trivial things for several hours, until the carriage had stopped in a dumpy little hunting town called David's Hollow--my destination. With the rain pouring hard around me, I stood in the open door of the carriage and bid Nero farewell and safe travels to Underwood, which was still a solid day's riding away.

As my boots hit the rain-soaked ground, I gave a half wave to the carriage driver and then pulled my cloak tightly around me. The driver cried out a whoop and cracked the reigns, and the rattling wagon was back on the road down south through the great forest of Concordia. I took a deep breath, and patted my traveling satchel that was slung over my shoulders and kept dry by my pitch black cloak. The streets of David's Hollow were empty; no doubt because of the horrible weather.

It was a village that I had traveled through a few times, but never actually stopped in. It was a walled community, with two gates at the north and south ends; a design choice made to keep out bands of scoundrels and any packs of animals the hunters managed to piss off out and away from all of those unable to defend themselves. Inside the walls, buildings were made of stone bricks and wood with hay-thatched roofs, and laid out in dirt streets that were drawn up by drunkards or the pencil of the founder's three year old son.

I had been dropped off by the well that served as the hunting town's center and social focal point. Looking around in the pouring rain, it didn't take long to locate a tavern along a nearby road. As I drew closer, I could make out the telltale sounds of laughter and song that always signaled that you were close to a cold drink and a warm bed.

I was absolutely soaked by the time I reached for the slick metal handle and gave the door to the tavern, called David's Folly, a solid push. The warmth of a roaring fireplace and the shouts of happy men with nothing better to do at three in the afternoon on a rainy day rushed to greet me. I quickly shut the door behind me to keep out the cold wind and torrential downpour.

Pulling down my hood and giving my soaked hair a good shake to get all of the excess rainwater out, I made my way over to the bar and pulled up a stool. None of the other patrons paid me any mind; and I returned the favor.

The barkeep, a rotund man in generic commoner's clothing with equally generic earthly tones pulled up. His beard was grey in streaks, and his head was clean-shaven. His eyes, yellowed with age and substance abuse, held a bit of that warmth in them as he addressed me with a thick regional accent. "G'd'evenin', missy. What can I do fer ya'?"

"I'm here on business for the next couple of days. I was wondering if you have any rooms available for me to rent for a bit."

"Well, certainly," he said heartily as he polished off a clear glass mug. "Always got a few beds empty here at the Folly."

"Excellent. What's your rate?"

"Fifteen gold a night," the barkeep sniffed lightly.

I dug around in my satchel for a bit, dropping two nights' worth of gold onto the counter. "How about meals?"

The bald man quickly swept the gold into a pocket on the front of his apron, the metal coins clinking against each other as they went. "Kitchen's open between seven in the morn' and ten in the evenin'. Menu's posted on the wall back there." He stuck his thumb out to a couple of scraps of yellowed parchment, with big ol' letter spelling BREAKFAST and DINNER headlining them with the full menu scrawled underneath.

"Hot baths?"

"Drawn every evening inna' building around the back here. Soap an' towels provided."

"Thank you kindly." I undid the clasps that kept my drenched cloak hung over my shoulders, and standing up from the bar, shook out some of the water on the wooden floorboards below before draping it over my left forearm.

The barkeep fished a key out of his pocket and handed it to me. "Could I interest you in a pint o' Three Gryffons ale before you head upstairs? Just a little something to take the dust of your travels off yeh? It's a bit of a local favorite."

"How much?"

"First drink of the day's always free here."

Well, that certainly was nice to hear. "Alright, pour me a mug, please," I said. The barkeep smiled a grin full of wooden teeth as he set his rag down on the polished stone surface and set about pouring my drink. "Although," I interjected, "It seems like bad business sense to make the first drink free, don't you think? Especially when someone can just walk in, order one, and be on their merry way."

The barkeep looked over his wide shoulders at me and simply said, "It's tradition, ma'am. The guy who first built the place some hundred years back made that policy; damn near drove him out of business. That's why they named it the Folly, eh?"

"Fair enough," I chuckled lightly as I took the glass mug full of the dark amber ale from the barkeep and made my way across the tavern floor and up the stairs to where the rented rooms were. Mine was the first door on the right--convenient, given how terribly I tended to navigate stairs and halls once I had a few drinks in me. Mug in one hand, cloak in the other, I managed to unlock the door and get it open. It swung slowly on rusty hinges, and revealed a rather small room with a single bed lining one wall and a wooden chair next to a chest lining the other. On the chest sat a small, dirty oil lamp that was half empty. Halfway up the wall across from where I stood sat a window adorned with simple, almost translucent white curtains. Through them I could make out the tops of other buildings in the Hollow and the trees of Concordia beyond them as the rain continued to pour outside, without any signs of letting up in the dreary light of the afternoon.

I threw my black cloak across the room, letting it rest in a bundle on the chair. Setting the mug of bitter ale on the chest, I slung the canvas satchel from around my shoulders and set it on the foot of my bed. I sat on the bed next to the satchel--to my surprise, it was rather comfortable, considering the expense spared elsewhere in the room. My feet were sore from having the confining boots on them these past few days on the road, and were happy to finally get to breathe once the boots were removed.

I went over my schedule in my head. I didn't have to make the delivery until tomorrow morning, and then I was planning on leaving David's Hollow the afternoon after. I was starving, but I was tired from the bumpy ride in that awful carriage. I believed a nap was in order first.

I woke up several hours later to the sounds of companionship and happiness creeping up through the floorboards. Outside, the rain had abated somewhat, and the sky was darkening with the setting sun. I sat upright and shook the cobwebs out before standing up and stretching my back out just a bit. The bed had been far more comfortable than I had initially given it credit for. The half-drunk mug of ale had grown warm as it sat on the chest. Picking that up and grabbing a few coins from my satchel and the room key, I slid on my mud-encrusted boots and left for the first floor for a bite to eat.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, after finding a seat in the half-full, fire-lit interior of David's Folly, a plate was placed before me by a nondescript and totally unremarkable serving girl. On it were thinly-sliced bits of a potato that appeared to be fried in oil and lightly salted, along with the weirdest sandwich I had seen. I'm sure it was a sandwich; just not the kind that I was used to seeing back in the more civilized parts of Corone. Between halves of a white roll were lettuce, tomato, a few pieces of onion, and a patty of charred meat that was just oozing with grease.

"What is this," I asked the serving girl with an eyebrow cocked hard.

"That's a Hammie," she replied, annoyed that an outsider would dare question the house special.

"Yes, I get that, but what is this," I repeated with a sharper tone.

"It's a quarter pound of ground beef flavored with spices and shaped into a patty, then grilled for ten minutes."

"But there's no ham in it. That's why I ordered one, thinking it was a ham sandwich. But why call it a Hammie, then?"

"Because our cook, Hamilton, loves making these for himself." The serving girl paused briefly. "I use the term 'cook' loosely, since these are all he can really make. We couldn't afford to hire anyone with more experience." She spun around on her heels and returned to the kitchen, presumably to fetch the next orders of Hammies for paying customers. I looked around the tavern, seeing if anyone else was enjoying their meals. They were. Eff it, I thought to myself before taking a bite.

To my surprise, it wasn't half bad. The meat was a little charred for my tastes, and the lettuce might have been a day older than it should've been, but aside from that I could see myself eating more of these. Hats off to Hamilton for his little creation!

The potato chips were delicious too, by the way.

I finished my meal undisturbed and returned to my room with another pint of Three Gryffons (there was a unique cinnamon aftertaste that lingered for several seconds that I found quite pleasing). With the sun setting even further, I groped around in what little light was available through the clouds and curtains to find a box of matches. It was conveniently placed next to the oil lamp itself, on top of the knee-high chest along the wall. I deftly struck a match and lit the lantern, illuminating the small room with a bright orange light.

I kicked my boots back off and let them lie haphazardly on the floorboards as I sat down on the comfortable bed. I grabbed my travel satchel and undid the clasp on the front, opened it and pulled out a thick, dirty, scuffed-up leatherbound tome. A rusty iron buckle interwoven into two leather straps kept it shut from prying eyes. There was no writing on the cover or the spine to signify what the book actually was; but in certain darker circles in Althanas, it would only take a brief look at the symbols engraved in the old leather to identify the book.

The book had no title; but as I had told Nero in the carriage, it was indeed a grimoire which detailed several powerful demons, their summoning incantations, their powers, their weaknesses, and the gifts they could bestow upon those they found worthy--at a price, of course.

This was the book I had gone through almost literal hell to obtain; as it had turned out, there were several groups that wanted to get their own rotting, pestilence-ridden mitts on the arcane tome for their own nefarious purposes. They weren't happy that this forbidden knowledge would've instead ended up in some old codger's private library, and have sent out a few of their own agents to voice their displeasure to me with daggers in the night.

But once tomorrow came and went, it would no longer be my problem.

The crash of dishes hitting the floorboards, a high-pitched yelp, and the angry shouting of the morning crew woke me from my light slumber. I took my time shaking the sleepies out of my head before getting dressed in my usual business attire of blue jeans and a black blouse top. After descending into the tavern from my rented room, I treated myself to eggs, toast, and coffee before checking my satchel to make sure I had everything I would need for today's transaction: Various scrolls, including my customer's bill of sale (for tax purposes), a few vials of ink, a couple pens, and the titleless tome that brought me here in the first place, wrapped in cloth to keep it in pristine condition.

Satisfied, I threw a few pieces of gold on the table as a tip to the waitress before slinging the leather bag over my shoulder and making my way into the heart of David's Hollow.

The village, to its credit, was far more appealing to be in now that the rains had abated. The residents were far more eager to be out and about; small crowds had gathered around the stands that local farmers and traveling merchants had set up in this town in the middle of Concordia. The murmurs of haggling and completed transactions mixed in with the pleasantries that neighbors made with each other as they walked along the main thoroughfare.

After stopping and asking directions, I was able to locate the house of the scholar interested in buying the book on summoning that hung heavy in my satchel. It was stashed away in the southeast corner of the Hollow, a relatively well-kept, two-floor house with a stone foundation that reached as high as my waist. It was tucked in between two houses; one abandoned, the other occupied, but the residents clearly weren't home at the moment.

I approached the undecorated front door, and gave it a couple of quick raps. "Yes, yes, just a second," came a hoarse voice from the other side. There was the sound of metal locks being opened, and then a creak of the iron hinges as the door swung open. An old man with skin wrinkled and splotched like a beggar's outfit greeted me. His eyes, bright and sharp for someone of his advanced age, searched me. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

I flashed a cheery, professional smile, one that I had practiced for years ever since forcing myself into the role of a book merchant. "Mr. Zenotti, I presume?"

"Yes, that would be me," the scholar replied.

"I'm Madison Freebird. I have a very special delivery for you."

The old codger's lip quivered briefly, as if he was silently reciting his own memories in an attempt to recall that he was indeed expecting a very important order this morning. The lights went on inside his head, and he suddenly came alive with excitement. "Why, yes, of course," he rasped out with a childish fervor, "Ms. Freebird! I remember now... You brought me my book! Come on in, come on in!"

With a smile, I patted the satchel slung over my shoulder once more as I entered Zenotti's humble home. The scent of melted wax and musty old pages soaked with ink that held untold secrets filled the air. The scholar kept all of his curtains drawn; he preferred his light to come from the myriad of candles that sat on old, scratched tables and desks that lined the walls of his home in what space wasn't already taken up by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It was very messy, unorganized, and plainly decorated--a single, dusty, rather ornate rug that really tied the room together surprisingly well sat in the center of the room, covered in spots with even more books that were stacked knee-high.

The weathered old man turned to me as he approached a table that lined the far wall. "Before we get down to business, can I interest you in a cup of tea? I had just taken the kettle off the stove when you knocked."

I looked around at the sheer amount of books that lined his walls, briefly wondering what it was exactly he was a scholar of before answering, "Yes, that would be wonderful, thanks."

Zenotti chuckled to himself briefly as he turned towards the table, picking up the kettle in his bony hands. "You know, there's something about a good cup that--"

The first of the porcelain cups wasn't half-full before I had slid behind him, silently flicked open my butterfly knight, and slit his throat.

The kettle fell to the floor with a loud clang, spilling its boiling contents across the floorboards and seeping into the fabric of the rug. I quickly stepped away from Zenotti as blood spurted out of the wound in his throat. He fell to one knee, his withered old hands clutching at his neck, desperately trying to staunch the flow of crimson liquid. He fell to the floor in a twisted, writhing heap. As I stood there, as still and cold as stone, gazed deeply into my eyes. His gaze was a look of intense surprise, of intense confusion, of intense hatred... Here I was, under the pretense of selling him a rare tome and nothing more, and instead of his gold in my hand I held a knife that was stained with his blood.

It was hard; so, so incredibly hard, but I stood still, my eyes never leaving his as the brightness in them turned to fire, which quickly faded into cooled cinders as he breathed his last.

As blood continued to pour out of his throat, staining his still hands and the rug below, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

No matter what they say, it does not get easier each time.

I don't fucking care who you are, that's not how it works.

Even in my twenty-seven years living on Althanas, raised by a notorious family of assassins, trained to stalk the shadows and kill people from a very young age... Trained to be a necessary evil in this world... I never got used to watching someone die in front of me, their blood spilling from their fragile body onto the ground below.

As Zenotti lay there, I felt the urge to puke. The metallic smell of blood was beginning to overpower the scent of lit candles and old books was getting to me. I turned away and choked back half-digested bits of toast. My eyes burned with tears, and wiped them away on my blouse sleeves. I took a few deep breaths, and attempted to submerge my feelings behind the steel emotional curtain that I was trained to put up after completing every job.

However, this kill wasn't a regular job by any means. I had just murdered an innocent person, a terrible act that I had never committed before in my life--everyone who had died by my hands had died for reasons; treason, betrayal, dishonorable acts, and other things that clients justified their contracts with. But Zenotti...

I tried to wipe my guilt from my mind. No matter how I tried to justify killing him in cold blood, no matter how much his death would further my own goals, I knew in the back of my mind that this utterly harmless scholar didn't deserve what I had done to him.

...Get it together, Madison. Remember what you came here to do. This was just an unfortunate but necessary step.

I moved to the door, locking each of the locks with brass clicks. Setting my leather satchel on the table next to the teacups, I began taking out its contents and getting to work. I unwrapped the cloth cover that I had given the summoning tome, using it to wipe my knife clean of the scholar's drying blood. I bundled the cloth and tossed it back into my satchel in a heap. I laid the scroll on the table next to the book, along with the pens and vials of ink. Uneasily, I undid the rusty iron buckle that kept the book shut and began flipping through the pages until I had found one particular marking I had made weeks prior.

I fully opened the book, revealing ancient script and detailed sketches of runic patterns that allowed the summoning of a demon known as Maladim Karunungan.

The script was small and slightly faded, but legible on the yellowed parchment. Whoever had penned this tome did me a great service by making the instructions so plainly worded and thorough that even the simplest of summoners (or the inexperienced, such as myself) could tear a hole in the ether and pull the desired being through.

After spending a good five minutes focusing on the book and not the dead body at my feet, silently repeating the text over and over again, I began the process of summoning Karunungan. Using my empty satchel as a makeshift pair of comically over-sized gloves, I got on my knees and pushed Zenotti's still-oozing corpse towards the middle of the room. I was careful not to get any of his blood on my jeans. His arms flopped on the floorboards with dull thuds as I rolled him side over side. I was silently thankful that he was a scrawny old bastard; moving him was probably going to be the easiest thing I did all day, aside from demolishing that piece of toast back at the Folly.

Once the old man was in place, I snatched my vials of ink and a pen from the table, along with the book. I knelt on the rug above his head, at an angle where his weathered, sharp chin obscured most of the slash I ended his life with. Giving the runic diagrams drawn on the page another good study, I took a deep breath, and dipped my pen in the ink. I slowly pulled it out, and pressed the metal tip against Zenotti's forehead, near the edge of his receding, graying hairline. I held my breath the entire time as I drew a perfect circle that stretched as far down as his busy eyebrows, his skin soaking up the ink like a sponge.

I held the book open in front of me as I refilled the pen. It took me several more tense minutes to replicate the rest of the ancient runes on the old man's forehead. I forced myself to take a break as my hand started shaking, the weight of what I had done, what I was doing, and where things would go from here taking a mental toll on me.

I briefly reflected on all of the hell I had both caused and had been through in the past; all of the blood shed, both the required by contract and the inconsequential in the Citadel. All of the grief my actions have caused, to myself and to others... I didn't want those memories anymore. I didn't want that weight on my shoulders.

I have had enough of it.

I was tired of all the bloodstained nightmares. I was tired of closing my eyes and revisiting the deaths of all my victims every night. I was tired of constantly waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, a violent scream stuck in my throat.

It ends today.

With renewed resolve, I picked up the pen and finished inking the summoning runes on Zenotti's cold, dead skin. His entire forehead was a cryptic maze of zig-zags, squiggles, and geometric shapes. I stood up and took a couple steps away from his cold, stiffening body. The scent of blood and offal was powerful in the air as I took the book in both hands, steeling myself for what I was about to unleash.

"Maladim Karunungan, hear my prayer!"

Several candles flickered as I began reciting the rites of summoning.

"Maladim Karunungan, hear my prayer and answer my call!"

Over the edge of the book, I saw Zenotti's head twitch for a split second.

"My lord, nothing is hidden from your sight! No small detail escapes your attention!
Share your knowledge with me! Open my mind to the wonders of the world!"

The corpse on the floor had begun to violently convulse. Zenotti's skull banged hard against the wooden floor of his home.

As the lights from the candle began to shrink from the magical energies filling the room, I raised my voice and continued the incantation. The script from here on out was a foreign one; a regional dialect from some far corner of Dhethain, but I had learned and practiced the phrase every night for two months.

"Retcarahc wena t'rat sot evir don evahi!
Teehs ym fogni krowera ec nosi h'tem wol la!"
Emite nosi h'tsei tiliba Wefat-Suj,
S'daer h'tym H'sini fyl lautca Ot-N'rut er niesi morpi!"

The candles simultaneously snuffed out. I could swear that the room was approaching pitch black, despite the muted sunlight leaking through the curtains. A soft, blue glow began to shine from the dead eyes of the scholar. Despite his condition, his body was convulsing violently on the rug. Little droplets of blood still oozing from his fatal laceration speckled the fabric of his robes.

I took a deep breath, and with a booming command, completed the summoning prayer.

"Maladim Karunungan, my lord, SHARE WITH ME THE WORLD!"

A loud, splitting noise and a flash of terrible blue light filled the room. Shielding my eyes with the book and gritting my teeth, I stumbled backwards into a bookcase behind me, causing a few dusty old tomes to fall to the floor in a heap. The cracking ceased, and the blue light slowly faded away, to be replaced with the warm, red glow of re-lit candles.

I slowly lowered the book from in front of my eyes to see what had unfolded. On the floor, still as the moment I killed him, lay the scholar Zenotti, but with one key difference: His face, from his hairline to his nose, had been split apart from skin to skull. Towering over him with his back to me was a figure roughly three inches taller than me, dressed in an perfectly-pressed three piece business suit that appeared to be darker than the midnight sky. His skin, what little of it showed, was nearly as white as a fresh sheet of paper. His hair was as yellow as the midday sun, and combed over perfectly so not a single strand was out of place. In a gloved hand, held high above his head was a bloody mush of gray matter that anyone with even a basic anatomical education could guess what was.

My face betrayed no emotion as the man clenched his fist and the brain disappeared in a flash of bright light. The figure slowly turned toward me, a warm, inviting, yet someone sinister smile etched across his perfect face.

He was the demon Maladim Karunungan, the Keeper of Knowledge.

I'm not going to lie. At that very moment, I was in absolute shock that I hadn't fucked up the ritual. Bad things can happen if even one rune is drawn at an incorrect angle. I've heard stories about entire settlements and hideaways wiped off the map due to the magical backlash.

I stood in awe of my feat and the figure that it brought before me. Not knowing what else to do, I dropped the book onto the floor in a heap of old leather and paper and bowed my head.

"My lord Maladim--"

The dapper demon cut me off. "Don't. No. If there is one command I have for you, it's that you do not 'my lord' me." His voice was harsh, and sounded like the scraping of chalk against a board. I winced.

"If you wish."

"None of that either, Madison Freebird." His voice lightened suddenly, taking on a far more conversational, more human tone. "In your preparations to summon me to this mortal plane, your studies should've told you that I'm a very fair, very reasonable being. My brethren may get off on the whole 'utter subjugation and obedience of my servants' bit as they hand out curses that kill thousands and grant people the power to conquer entire realms, but I've never had the inclination for such things. We are all equals in the pursuit of knowledge, are we not? Why shouldn't my... followers as such?" Maladim's polished leather shoes clicked softly as he stepped towards me. "Now, chin up!"

I did as I was told.

"Good girl! Now, open your eyes..."

Again, I did as I was told. His smiling face was mere inches from my own. Satisfied that I was going to treat him as my equal--a notion that I was still having trouble processing--the demon clapped his hands together and took a couple steps back.

"Before we begin," Maladim Karunungan said, "I must commend you on your offering to me. Benicio Zenotti had a whole treasure trove of knowledge locked up inside that cranium of his. Far more than his rather expansive library, truth be told." He waved his gloved hand at the bookcases that lined the walls of the scholar's living room. Suddenly, I felt that much more sick to my stomach that I had killed such an educated, knowledgeable man for my own petty needs. I tried not to look at his bloody, broken corpse as it laid there on the rug.

Sensing my bout of despair, the demon tried to comfort me. "Now now, Madison, there's no need to feel guilty. While poor Benicio Zenotti here was indeed extremely well-read and knew oh, so very much about the world you live in... He did nothing with the knowledge. He simply sat around and absorbed more and more, with no intent to use it." I felt the demon's hand against my cheek, and I shuddered. Maladim lowered his voice to a whisper. "But ah, you on the other hand, are more than willing to use the gifts that I am able to bestow upon you. I know this for fact; your drive and determination to achieve your goals is your greatest asset, and the only good quality of your parents' that got passed down to you. And it's because of that quality that I intend to grant you the requests that have been on the tip of your tongue for ages."

A brief silence hung in the air. I locked eyes with the demon, searching for signs of treachery. You can't blame me for being paranoid here; dealing with demons and such. It was almost too good to be true. Make a deal with the devil and get away scot-free? Yes, it had to be too good to be true.

He quickly stepped away from me, a cheery note in his voice. "Come, let us go to the kitchen and discuss the terms over tea!"

On my way towards the kitchen, which was around the corner at the far end of the living room, my mind decided to race my heartbeat. Was I making the right decision? Did I screw up royally by summoning Maladim? Would I end up as nothing more than a smear of gore against the wall of Zenotti's kitchen, bits of my flesh mixing cooking on the still-warm burners of his wood stove? Well, it was too late to think of all this stuff now. I had no choice but to go through with it.

As I rounded the corner into the sparsely-decorated kitchen, the demon was putting another kettle on the stove. With a quick snap of his fingers, the burner lit and the kettle was on its way to heating up. "Please, take a seat," he said to me with a motion of his hand.

I pulled out a polished wooden chair and plopped down onto it. It appeared that the scholar who until recently lived here was not much for decoration. The walls were barren, save for a faded painting of an elderly woman--sister? Wife? Mother? There was a heap of dirty dishes in the sink, untouched for several weeks by now. A green padded mat laid at the foot of the stove. Out the back window, one could see the towering stakes that served as the fence keeping ne'er-do-wells and wild animals out of David's Hollow.

Maladim joined me at the table, clasping his hands together in front of him. "Before we get down to business, I have to say that you're quite the unique case, Ms. Freebird." He chuckled lightly. "An assassin born and bred, raised in the shadowy depths of these very woods... And yet, you absolutely hate the act of killing. It bothered you when you took your first life at the age of eleven; each one you've ended since then has been eating away at you more and more as the years drag on. I haven't heard of very many other people like you, who have had that intense training like you had, who haven't destroyed their emotional cores, as you haven't. You're quite possibly the most curious assassin I have ever met; and believe me, I know 'em all."

I tried my best to block the memories of every contract that I've completed. "That's correct."

The demon slumped in his chair a bit, and shrugged. "The killing life isn't for everyone." Twisting around, he noted that the kettle hadn't come to a full boil yet. "I'm guessing you've read into the kind of contracts I offer, correct?"

I had indeed. To make a deal with the Keeper of Knowledge, one had to first present him with an intellect worthy of his attentions--that is, a human sacrifice. Once present, the summoner would request knowledge in exchange for knowledge. Maladim Karunungan would teach you anything your heart desired, if he believed you had the mind for it; and in exchange, you would forever forfeit memories and knowledge of his choosing to him as payment. To wit, you give and you get.

He smiled his charmingly unsettling smile, satisfied knowing without me saying that I had indeed come prepared. "The whole world and all of its secrets are before you, Madison. You just tell me what you want. Of course, I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful what it is you wish for..."

I gazed out the back window in silent contemplation for a brief moment. Oh, the places I could go... The things I could do... The dreams that could be made real, right here in a dead man's kitchen.

The demon interrupted my thoughts. "I have seen your desires--remember, nothing escapes me. Everything you've ever dreamed of? I know of it. And I know it. I can teach you anything--you wish to know the darkest secrets of alchemy? They can be yours. Do you want the knowledge required to, I don't know, build an army of machinations and storm the island of Scara Brae? I can grant you that, too. Do you wish to simply settle down and be the best damn barkeep in the history of Radasanth? All you need to do is ask."

He could've gone on and on for hours and hit every single honorable and horrible dream I've ever had; Grandmaster of the Dajas Pagoda, Radasanth crime queen, master assassin in the secret employ of the Coronian Assembly (I was four at the time, and still had high hopes of following in the footsteps of my mother and father)... but it wasn't necessary, and we both knew that.

I took a brief moment to collect my thoughts, and meditated on the decision I was about to make.

Where do you see yourself going with this? Are you absolutely sure this is what you want? You know there is no going back, not anymore...

It was now or never. I've come too far to turn back now.

Plainly, without a hint of excitement, regret, or emotion, I said to Maladim, "I wish to know the secrets of artificing. I wish to know the secrets of Alerar alchemy; the secrets of the dark elves and the dwarves. I want to know how to build and operate machinations big and small; from tiny trinkets to giant airships."

The demon whistled at that last one. Leaning forward, he playfully inquired, "You wish to be the best artificer of this age, don't you?"

"No," I replied flatly, "Because I'm aware what such a request from you would cost me." Maladim simply smiled. "I want to be good, fantastic--exceptional, even. Not the best; but damn near close to it."

A long silence filled the room. Hissing noises could be heard from the kettle on top of the stove.

"And in return?"

"In return, of course, I offer all of my experience from my twenty-seven years of being an assassin. Every trick I know in terms of stealth--"

"Twenty-four years, Madison."

"I'm sorry?"

The demon leaned forward in his chair. "Twenty-four years as an assassin, you mean. You quit--no, you gave up. You opened up a bookstore in the middle of the most peaceful district of Radasanth. How do you know you haven't forgotten a trick or two? I mean, I know for certain, of course--"

"But the knowledge is still there," I interjected.

The demon's gaze narrowed slightly, his voice dropping into a slightly more menacing tone. "Regardless, you are rusty, Ms. Freebird. Knowledge, like all things, crumbles and fades with disuse. Do I have to remind you of your recent record at the Citadel?"

No, he did not.

Maladim leaned back in his chair slightly. "Out of fairness to everyone else who requests to barter with me, I simply cannot offer you the knowledge you seek in exchange for what you're offering to me. I will require something a little more substantial from you."

I quickly racked my brain, looking for something else to offer him. I could offer him... No, wait, how about... Err, actually, what about...

"Madison," the Keeper of Knowledge said with a hint of impatience, "I am a fair being to consort with, but I am an extremely busy man. I have other deals to make, for far more important things than your silly little childhood dreams." I winced slightly, and turned my head slightly to avert break his steely gaze. "I lack the time and patience to piss away my day, while you prattle inwardly trying to scrape up a few tidbits and morsels to throw at my feet."

A loud whistle came from the opposite end of the kitchen. The water was boiling. Any sign of irritation Maladim had shown quickly dissipated like the steam from the kettle. "Ah, I got that." The smile slowly returned to his lips as he grabbed two porcelain cups from a nearby cupboard, poured the hot liquid into them, rummaged around a bit more through some cupboards, and with an delighted "Ah!', produced two small bags of tea. He dropped one into each cup, grabbed two clean spoons, then returned to the table.

I was still in deep thought over what else I was willing to sacrifice as I squeezed out the water soaked up by the teabag with my spoon when Maladim decided to speed the process up. "Alright, let's be serious for a second. After I finish this cup of tea, I must be going. So I'll tell you what--I'll make you an offer. I'll grant you the knowledge you seek; but in return, I want more than your knowledge and skills regarding your old profession."

Feeling as if this were the only opportunity I would have to come out of this without having wasted my time and another man's life, I said, "I'm listening."

The demon took a quiet sip of his tea before leaning in, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on clasped hands. "The knowledge I seek in return isn't contained in your mind; instead, it's contained in your own personal library."

I raised an eyebrow. "My personal library?"

"Yes. The chambers underneath your bookstore. The chambers that contain all those rare and unique writings. The chambers that, until four days ago, contained the very book you used to summon me."

"I--" My secret stash. So many useful tomes down there, so much useful information that I could--

"Now, Ms. Freebird. Take it or leave it." Maladim took a long sip of his tea, signaling that our time together was drawing to an end.

This was it, the turning point in my adult life, and it all came down to a snap decision. "I--I--YES! Yes! You can have it all! Just give me what I want!" Anything further that I had to say was stuck in my throat. I felt a growing weight in my stomach. My life was about to change--whether it for the better or worse I had not the faintest idea.

Maladim smiled, his growing irritation with me melting away in seconds. "Now, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" The demon removed his black gloves, revealing the pale skin of his hands that were etched front and back with deep blue runes in ancient scripts that no scholar has ever translated, I imagined. "Now I'll warn you, Madison, this is going to hurt quite a bit." He stood up and leaned across the table, raising his hands to either side of my head.

"Wait," I cried out.

The Keeper of Knowledge's smile disappeared, replaced by a cocked eyebrow and a slight frown. "Yes, what is it?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you perhaps... While you're in my mind, doing whatever it is you do, could you please remove all those memories of everyone I have ever killed?" Maladim took a deep, exasperated breath. "Please," I pleaded with him, "I'll give you anything you want." (I may have whimpered at the end, too. Pathetic, but you have to realize that I really don't want to live with all that trauma that I've caused myself by destroying the lives of innocent people just to make a few gold pieces.)

I fully expected my plea to be rebuked, but after a thoughtful second, Maladim simply smiled and said, "Very well." There was a glint in his eyes, out of humor or maybe even malevolence, I couln't tell. He clutched the sides of my head. I saw his hands begin to glow blue, and then my vision went white and oh god so much pain and then