"It's a trap!" shouted Lord Muuba as fighting ensued around them. "We've been betrayed."

"Look there!" said Dakhir, pointing to a low roof.

"It's Prince Shayanaq," wailed Elltharash. "We are undone!"

"Not just him, fool. Look beside him -- it's Lord Felsteff. Felsteff has betrayed us all!"

On the roof, overseeing the battle, Prince Shayanaq smiled grimly. At his side stood the copious Lord Felsteff, while crouched slightly behind him was the old seer woman.

"Your information was good, Lord Felsteff. My enemies are displayed before me and, caught here, bottle-necked in this square in a deserted part of the city, they can be slain before this fight becomes an insurrection. My hold on the city is tenuous these days, and a protracted and bloody conflict could easily have led to even the army changing sides. But a quick, decisive battle -- that is the cement of which sturdy foundations are made. After today, I think my position will be secure." Shayanaq scowled slightly as he peered into the frenzy below. "There is that white-skinned barbarian, Morg. How the devil did he end up in the thick of this? There is much of the happenstance of the last few days I'm not sure I will ever understand."

"He is there, my lord," purred Lord Felsteff, "because I wished him to be there. He plays his part, as do Lord Dakhir and his conspirators. As do you."

"Eh?" Shayanaq turned upon the fat man. "What are you babbling about? What do you mean you wished him there?"

Felsteff grinned, his cheeks bulging with evil mirth, then he began to laugh. For a moment Shayanaq thought there was a weird echo to the laugh...until he realized the second sound was coming from the old crone, crouched over her bowl and the bones she rolled. Their laughter was perfectly synchronized, as if coming from one throat.

Shayanaq took a step back, the hackles on the back of his neck stirring. "What...what is the meaning of this?"

"You were my puppet, o prince," cackled the old woman/Lord Felsteff. "Seeming coincidences are revealed now as concatenation. You wished to rule alone...and I wished something with which to tempt the mad boy. I persuaded you of the best way to dispose of your sister, allowing one of the Bands of Office to be put aside, ripe for stealing. I persuaded you that Morg was a threat, and you, mad with power and paranoia, were all too willing to believe. Once he was in the dungeon, I acted through my thrall, Lord Felsteff, to see that he was guided to where he would be of greatest use to me."

Shayanaq stopped, floundering at the air for a moment as he realized he had backed to the very edge of the roof. "You planned all this? But you sent a demon to slay Morg."

"A demon I knew he would defeat. If not, if he was not the survivor I thought him to be, then he was of no use to me in any event."

"Who...who are you?"

Suddenly Lord Felsteff's face went slack and his eyes grew wide. "Wh-where am I?" He looked around dumbly. "Prince Shayanaq? I don't understand-?"

Shayanaq ignored him, the crone's control obviously having been released. Instead, he turned to the old woman. "Who-are-you?" he repeated.

"I? I am the true power, the true incarnation of the Prophet Ahbii, not that mad boy down there who sought to steal my powers. I am the Holy Majarahbii. But my powers were constrained, my ability to act diminished, because he held the Bloodstone of Ahbii's Soul in which my soul resided -- or, as its name has come to be corrupted, the Bloodstone of All Souls. I needed to get it away from him."

Dumbly, Shayanaq looked at the battle below. "All this-?" he muttered. He glimpsed Morg, the girl over his shoulder, hacking his way through the cultists. "All this to steal a ruby?"

"All this to put my pieces into play. You, and the false Majarahbii, and, yes, the conspiring nobles -- Felsteff was plotting long before he came under my sway -- all of you brought here, each thinking you plotted against the other, but really brought here to slay each other. And Morg guided by my unseen hand to help steal the ruby away from the boy, freeing my power."

"You lied to me all along?"

"Nay. I told you disposing of your sister had set a weird in motion that might bring your doom. I warned you that actions were afoot that would render players pawns and pawns players. And now the throne is mine."

"You're mad -- no one will follow you, any more than they'd follow the boy. Without a member of the royal family as your ally..."

The crone laughed. "Do you seek to bargain with me? Propose an alliance after all the abuse and degradation I suffered at your hands, awaiting my plans to ripen? Fool! I have a member of the royal family. I do not need you!"

Suddenly Lord Felsteff stiffened, as his will once more became her's. He leapt at Shayanaq, and the prince, screaming with rage and frustration, grappled with the fat man. They struggled for a moment, sandled feet seeking purchase of the grainy sand of the roof. And then, in a final flurry of limbs, both fell from the roof.

Morg watched the two men fall to their deaths, even as he had watched the animated conversation that preceded it. He did not know what it was all about, but he knew enough to realize it portended a mighty shift in the fortunes of the field. The prince was dead, killed by one of his own nobles. He looked around and grunted, seeing the decapitated head of the so-called Majarahbii being flung over the slashing swords of the combatants.

Both forces were now leaderless. Peering up at the roof, he allowed himself an involuntary gasp.

The old woman who had earlier been cowering at Shayanaq's side rose up from the roof, literally, her feet no longer touching the ground. She hovered in the air for a moment, then began to descend into the melee. Winds threw up, dust swirling and slashing those below her. Men fell back; swords were lowered as sights were raised. The battle ceased as men on both sides watched the old woman descend into their midst.

The swords having momentarily ceased slashing, Morg lowered Lali to her feet, better to concentrate on what was occurring.

The old woman alighted upon the ground, a wide berth being given her by the fighting men. She raised spindly arms and spoke. "I am the true Holy Majarahbii, the living vessel of the one, true Ahbii!!!" Morg heard a murmur rustle through the crowd, from throats on both sides. "That boy was deluded and mad. I now come to claim the reigns of this city -- bow before me!"

No one moved, though Morg sensed the red cloaked cultists were leaning toward compliance. Suddenly a soldier shouted out: "We follow the blood rulers of the Ravatheth! Death to all usurpers!"

"Silence!" screamed the old woman. "Very well, then follow a true blood ruler of Ravatheth." One gnarled finger stretched out and pointed at Morg.