The kindling was dumped unceremoniously in a large pile next to the firewood proper, Sif tumbling out and scurrying away. He heard a man exclaim upon seeing him, and this made him run even faster; he darted out of the storeroom and into a hedge that lined the castle wall.

Getting in was one thing, but finding Dubhán's quarters was another. The castle was the largest building he had ever seen, and it was even more intimidating up close. He could not imagine how a man could possibly need so much space to live in. He could not imagine the need for so many servants, so much labor to sustain it. Was Calsar really worthy of such devotion?

Sif's heart churned darkly as he pattered around the building, hiding under the hedge.

There was a smell of cooking meat and a loud din around a certain door; in the next moment, a young girl in an apron opened it, bustling out and over to a water closet.

It seemed that this was a door to the kitchen- he waited for her to return, and ran straight past her, keeping to the side. She cried out in shock, and made an effort to chase him, but tripped over her own skirts.

" Nisa, what's wrong- Oh my!" An older woman put a hand over her heart as Sif raced past, looking for entry into the castle proper.

" Gáird! Gáird! There's a stray cat! Oh, come catch it!" she called; the kitchen work was all disjointed now, a flurry of hands trying to grasp at Sif. Right as he thought himself cornered, with no respite, a servant opened a door he hadn't seen-

" Cook, have you finished the ham-?" the young man inquired politely, as everyone gibbered uselessly about the cat escaping into the castle, going right past him.

" For Lelleyn's sake-" Sif heard one of them curse.

The servant looked over his shoulder at Sif, and Sif at him, flicking his tail. The young man looked back into the kitchen.

" Well, it's left the kitchen now, so it should be fine," he remarked mildly.

Sif was quite satisfied with his answer, and trotted off, keeping close to the wall in case he needed to hide.

But the halls were largely empty; he could distantly hear music playing somewhere. He had to hide himself a few times because of servants walking by, carrying large platters of food. So Calsar was holding a feast, then. Dubhán had not seemed the lively type, so Sif could only hope he was partaking in whatever celebration it was with his lord.

As he hid himself behind a hall table, a servant went by, walking at a quick pace.

" Why must it always be me that Witchraiser picks on?" he complained, to no one in particular. Sif's ears perked up. Rather than aimlessly wandering, wouldn't it be best to follow someone who was on an errand for the man?

He kept low and to the side, following him down the hall. At length, he saw him open a door, poking his head into a room.

" Laundress!" the servant called. " Master Dubhán has said he'd like you to take up fresh sheets, before the feast is over."

" Of course he has," Sif heard an older woman answer irritably. She huffed, and Sif heard fabric rustling. " I'll tend to it."

She came out bearing a stack of sheets, and the two servants went off in opposite directions.

If the man was returning to Dubhán to tell him he'd carried out his order, then that meant the woman was going up to Dubhán's room, didn't it? Sif waited until the man was past him, and then took off down the hall, following the laundress.

She went round a dizzyingly circuitous mess of hallways, up a flight of stairs and then up another, tightly winding around a central pillar, huffing and puffing to herself all the while. When she got to the top of the staircase, she was stopped by a guard, and Sif nearly collided with her skirt.

Rather than interrogation, he just flirted with her somewhat courteously, in the manner older people liked to do. Sif found it a bit awkward to listen in on, but it at least provided distraction enough that he could dart past them unseen.

The hallway was long, lit with sconces; there was a closed door on one side, a window dyeing the wooden floor with twilight on the other. He went round the bend of the hall to see another closed door, and one cracked halfway.

Sif couldn't believe his good luck. Surely an open door could only mean it was a trap? Brige always referred to Calsar's people as setting traps.

He hadn't thought of Brige in a while, and was surprised to find himself missing the Cwge terribly. Aoife and Brige had made good companions.

He kept himself low, moving quickly in case the laundress appeared, and slinked into the opening.

There was a desk with a spill of carved bones across it; a little table with some chairs by the window, which was barred off; a great wooden chest with the corner of a robe peeking out of it; a large and fancy bed.

This was definitely the Witchraiser's room, but where would Sif look for what he needed?

" So much hassle, just for some bastard..." He heard a vaguely familiar voice complain, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

From a door at the back of the room that Sif had not realized was there, the shaman Douglásc stepped into the room, evidently lost in his own world as he fussed with the soft, fine looking clothes he was wearing.

He looked up, and they both stared at each other for a minute, equally speechless.

" Oh, you're still alive," Douglásc said, somehow recognizing him. " That's neat."

Sif gave him a look, and then cast his gaze back over his own shoulder; he could hear the laundress coming down the hall. He elected to hide himself behind some of the furniture as she approached. Perhaps Douglásc would take pity and not call for his removal.

He heard the door creak, the woman's footsteps.

" The Witchraiser ordered me bring up sheets..." she said, her voice a bit uncomfortable.

" I'll take them, don't bother about fixing anything up," Douglásc answered cheerily.

" Are you sure-?" At this, she was worried.

" Oh yes, miss laundress," Douglásc told her. " How cruel of my master to make such a pretty young lady run up and down the stairs the way he does!"

The laundress, of course, was so old that half her hair was grey.

" If you insist," she said, voice warbled, steps indicating she was leaving rather quickly. Douglásc shut the door after her loudly.

Sif peeked his head out, looking at him.

The young man- appearance wise, at least- threw the neatly folded sheets down on the little table lazily and then turned around, taking a few steps and squatting so he was closer to Sif.

" You're looking for a way to gain back that human form of yours so you may take revenge on my master, hm?" he asked, contemplating Sif with a little smile.

Of course, the last time they had met Sif had dug this man's body out of a bog and then been thrown around by him at Dubhán's command, so Sif couldn't help but be a little suspicious of him. He narrowed his eyes.

" Just wait for your hundredth birthday," Douglásc said with a shrug. " It's not that far off."

Sif continued to stare him down, and lashed his tail a little bit.

Douglásc flipped his hand at him.

" Fine, fine, I'll help you make a little mischief," he said, standing straight again. " It's not often I get to defy that bastard. Let's give him a bit of trouble."

He walked back to the door he had initially entered the room from, and Sif followed him hesitantly.

This was the room he kept his magics in, apparently. The far wall was strung with jewelry in various stages of completion, jewels, metal chains, and various artifacts densely stacked on shelves. There was an open chest full of fine clothes similar to what Douglásc was wearing, mixed up and disordered, a few shirts on the floor.

" Let's see," Douglásc said absently, picking through the jewels. " Which of you is wicked enough to feed to a little cat...?"

He laughed a little, finding himself funny for some reason or another.

Sif sat next to him, watching. He wondered if Douglásc really would help him; what if he was just stalling for time until Dubhán returned from his party? Why wasn't he down at the feast?

" Oh, this one will do quite well," Douglásc remarked, holding up a smooth agate sphere. " Little wench sold my lord out to that damnable Muír..."

He squatted down again and held the stone out to Sif.

" Swallow this," he said. " It contains the powers of a traitor."

Sif hesitated.

He had heard Douglásc reference a lord before, and at that time he had not been referring to Dubhán. But what if this person really was virtuous and trapped unjustly? He had no way to know.

Douglásc seemed to realize his hesitance.

" Cat, have no difficulty dealing with this thing. It's wicked to the core and loves Witchraiser Dubhán, for he is a follower of the lord of storms," he said. " A traitor priest can only ever be a traitor. You may at least use its strength for something good."

So perhaps Douglásc wasn't so bad after all? It was interesting to know he had a feud with the lord they worshipped in town, the patron of Calsar.

Sif, a bit embarrassed to eat something out of someone's hand, took the agate marble into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

A strange warmth began to flow through him, suffusing his body with power he recognized; it felt like Helna's, wild and primordial, achingly familiar to what he had once lost.

Could he really take human form again, this way-?

He'd have to, for the sake of returning to his people, for the sake of finding a way to enter Mû and save Helna...

" Oh my," he heard Douglásc say mildly.

A different power welled up in him, something honeyed and light, a deeper feeling- like when he had been healed as a kitten- and these two forms of power mixed together, melding, until they were as one, and Sif pitched forward on the floor, dizzy, body not obeying his command and yet no panic in him.

He sprawled out, mind still hazy. Had Douglásc done something to him, somehow? The man was the same kind of thing Helna was, a shaman, the Witchraiser called them, so he definitely had some power...

" I told you you'd turn one hundred soon," Douglásc remarked, poking him. " And how soon indeed! You have some strange magic in you. It reminds me a bit of my lord's..."

Sif went to sit up, collecting himself, and realized with a sharp thrill that he once more had hands. His head was still pitching, and he felt completely uncoordinated; it had been so long since he'd been in Helna's body that being human was new again.

" What a handsome man you make," Douglásc commented, helping him up. " Let's go steal some of Master's clothes to put on you. He won't miss them, all his attire looks the same."

Sif found himself now missing the old woman, his grandmother that had passed long ago. She had had a much more reassuring manner than Douglásc, who seemed... somewhat errant.

He was able to take a few stumbling steps, leaning on the shaman for support, and then sat on the edge of the bed while Douglásc threw the chest at its foot open, throwing clothes around. It seemed everything the witchraiser owned was dyed black.

" Here, put this on," Douglásc told him, throwing a tunic, trousers, and leggings at him as he continued to root around. " People wear so many clothes these days... Isn't a mantle enough...?"

Sif had learned a little bit about the necessity of warm clothes while living with people, so he was inclined to disagree.

He dressed himself clumsily, helping Douglásc search around for a belt so that he could secure his clothes. It was just as they found one that Douglásc's head shot up, surprised.

" He's back early," he said, and then quickly went to blow out the light. " Hide yourself. I'm going back in the closet."

His voice had a note of distaste; he practically dived into the sideroom, leaving Sif to fend for himself. The sun had set and the room, without light, was pitch black.

How unreliable that Douglásc was!

Not knowing what else to do, and the footsteps approaching the door, Sif hid himself under the blankets on the bed, hoping that Dubhán was only returning to do some kind of witchraiser business and not to sleep. He stilled his breath as the door creaked open.

" Are you in bed already..?"

The Witchraiser sounded horribly drunk, and to Sif's horror, was approaching him. He flopped down on the bed bonelessly, and pulled at the blankets, climbing onto him.

" Douglásc, pet," he slurred, gripping Sif's wrists in the dark, pressing his face down, so near and so reeking of wine that it made Sif a little nauseous. " Why must you always be so coy..."

He tried to kiss him, evidently too drunk to realize he had the wrong person, and Sif cursed Douglásc in his soul. That bastard, on about mischief this and troublemaking that, hadn't he hid himself and left Sif behind specifically because he knew something like this would happen? Did he think it was funny? This man had had him burned alive!

And now he was trying to force Sif's mouth open with his own. Sif didn't exactly want to speak with the voice of a man who had betrayed and tortured him, but what else was he to do in this situation? Let the Witchraiser fondle him? The second Dunhán's liquered tongue entered his mouth, he bit down on it, hard, and it was only then that Dubhán realized something was wrong; that was too late, of course, and even though he drunkenly struggled against Sif's grip, he only came away when Sif pushed him off, onto the ground.

The tongue itself tasted bad, and the power that shifted into Sif's body felt bad, a crawling feeling like rot and insects that hit him like a wave. The witchraiser was rolling on the floor and spewing blood, knocking things over; Sif immediately jumped out of the bed and went to the room Douglásc had hid himself in, pounding on the door.

" Douglásc!" he commanded. " Get out here right now!"

The door opened only a crack.

" What an unexpected turn of events," Douglásc said. " He really tried to do such things to you?"

" You knew he would, didn't you!" Sif accused.

" Oh no, I really didn't," Douglásc responded airily. " Isn't it a good thing for you to have a voice, anyway? I've been quite helpful."

" You're a bastard," Sif spat at him as Douglásc stepped out, walking over to Dubhán. He stepped on his wrist as the man weakly attempted to reach for a knife that had been knocked off of his desk.

" Indeed, my mother did not ever wed my sire," he said. " I quite like this. I was getting sick of being ordered around."

" Are you going to kill him?" Sif asked.

" You should go before anyone notices that something's off," Douglásc responded. " Come kill that Calsar next. I'm sick of all these parties I can't attend. You want your Helnics free of his oppression too, no?"

He sat down on Dubhán's back, pinning him down as the man glared at him hatefully.

Sif couldn't help but find the whole thing more than a little bit strange.

" I'll return, then," he said hesitantly.

With his new well of magic and a human body, he was able to leave through the window, lightly slipping down the ivy and cut stone.

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