[center][h2]The End of The Beginning[/h2]
[i]Jeshkan, Library of the Great Lord Tersh Dimeh’s Estate[/i][/center]

The soft sound of her quill filled the library, the gentle scratches echoing off the domed ceiling in the absence of other noise.  She sat at a desk all but covered in documents, new and old, decaying and freshly penned; the clutter was such that those papers and scrolls on the edges of her workspace were distant enough to receive only the dimmest remnants of the light that shone from the lonely lantern above her.  Chaos to some, but Meera knew what was what.  It was that eye to the details, after all, that had allowed her to rise to where she was.

Or rather, return there.  Scribe, it was a simple job, a meagre payment for what she’d done for the Great Lord, but of course you don’t reward assassins with glory do you?  Of course what the buffoon she served these days handed to her didn’t really matter.  The real payment had been in the satisfaction in knowing that the last eighteen brutal years of her life hadn’t come to nothing, in knowing that the man who’d damned her and her mother was finally dead.  In some ways she regretted not being there for it, but the gossip was enough.  The former Great Lord of the estate had died in unthinkable agony, unable to scream even as his body ate itself from the inside out, instead merely writhing in a pain beyond what most could conceive of.

So here she was, copying mouldy scrolls in the dark of the night under the light of a lantern wholly inadequate for the task.  It was, she considered, a peaceful respite.  There were no lies here, no stakes beyond the smudging of ink.  Here she was the ultimate power.  Even if that power was over pen strokes.  In another world, another life, she’d have contented herself with this blissful tedium forever, secure in the knowledge her life's work had been completed.  In another world she wouldn’t have had that first dream all those years ago.

She’d worked her way up to the position of senior maid for a wealthy merchant family when she'd started having the dreams.  At first they were vague, images of those she’d killed, warm feelings and words reassuring her that it would all be worth it.  That everything she’d done had been justified.  Over time they grew explicit, telling her where opportunities might arise, how to ingratiate herself to those she worked for and tended to.  There had been a time when she thought her life of toil, the endless scheming, the work and the lies,  had finally driven her mad.  That time passed when she started to listen to what the dreams were telling her.

Perhaps if she’d not been so tired from the labours of her job she’d have noticed the details herself, but they were all there.  The way the man of the house tended to get nervous when she cleaned certain cabinets, the way his wife treated him when he returned from his trips abroad.  Cracks in the domestic life of the rich she could use as leverage to pull herself above the rest of the throng.  The more she listened to the dreams the faster she rose in the world, and soon enough she was a lowly servant of the Great Lord she had spent the better part of her time on the world planning her revenge on.

The dreams had just been that, dreams.  At least until the day she slipped the poison in the wine another girl had been ferrying to the Lord.  The moment she heard word of that greatest evil in her life having been finally burned from the world like the scourge he was, she also heard the voice from her dreams while awake.  It spoke softly, but with intensity.  It urged her not to fall into idleness, it reminded her that what had been done to her was not something a single life in tribute would wipe away.

In time the voice revealed its name, Akat.  Akat spoke of truth, of the cruelty behind every smile, the filth behind nobility and humility alike.  Meera listened, and came to agree.  Kindness and charity, she knew better than most that these were simple manipulations.  Some deluded themselves into thinking otherwise, but she knew that every man, woman, and child had sinned and in their arrogance deemed themselves righteous anyway.  The Great Lord who’d accused her father, his son, every bystander, every single life in Jeshkan, they all thought themselves the hero in their pathetic little stories. 

Soon enough Akat came to speak of power, the power to ensure that nothing and no one could hurt Meera again, the power to do what needed to be done.  The world was replete with delusion, it would never change unless it was forced to.  Someone had to show people who they really were, beneath it all.

So now, as she copied letters stoke by stoke, she listened to the voice again.  The melodies of Akat’s voice both demanded attention and soothed as ‘she’ spoke in Meera’s head, [i]"The time for idleness is over child.  That which you seek, which we seek, is not here.  We must leave this land and make for the monument, for Silverwick." [/i]

Meera smiled, “The fallen city?  How dramatic of you, though I suppose it is appropriate.  I have enjoyed this short peace, but we can't dally forever can we?  If it's time then it's time; we'll depart at first light, Akat.”

She put the quill aside and snuffed out the lanterns pitiful light.  In the darkness of the library she was merely a shadow, but as she made her way through the dark halls she noted that she wasn’t the only one there.  Allies she could truly rely on, ones devoid of pretension, flanked her as she opened the recessed door leading into her room.  Akat had been generous, the least Meera could do was ride to the site of one of her partners greatest triumphs to help her with the next.