Sitting comfortably in an overstuffed leather chair, is the High Lord Zward himself. He looks far too young to be wielding the kind of power and influence he does. But looks can be deceiving. He is known to have lived in this dwelling for two score winters. That should have made him an old frail creature by now, but time seems to have missed his stop here for many winters. Although his hair is streaked black and white, his eyes are bright, his back is straight, and he tends to use his cane more as a memory enchancer than a walking aid. This is a man you want firmly on your side, not pitted against you.

At the side of his favourite arm chair is a low table littered with loose bound manuscripts similar to the one in his hands. He is making small notes in pencil as he reads. On the other side of the fireplace is a desk also littered with manuscripts, and the essentials for copying them. Next to the desk are two boxes, one labeled "COPY" and the other "SEE THE JIMMY".

The morning sun is streaming through the bay windows that look out onto his prized rose garden, bringing a quiet glow of warmth to this place of deep thought. The remains of a light breakfast litter a tray by the arm chair, waiting to be collected by one of the upstairs servants. It is in the midst of this peaceful chaos that the High Lord Zward does his teaching. Each of the witchling children that come to his stronghold in the winter months is instructed in the uses and enhancement of his or her own individual ablilities. This is his life's work.

Only by deception was he even allowed to live in this superstition bound society. His mother, not wanting to loose the only child she would ever bare, had hidden him in the unused library of his father's crumbling keep. He had spent years within the book walled room, teaching himself to read and write, and discovering for himself why he had been hidden from the world. It was a terrible shock to hear from his mother that he would probably be hunted down like a flock raiding beast if anyone ever found out about his inborn abilities. Alone that evening, he had vowed to do anything and everything in his power to rescue and nurture anyone else he could find that shared the witchlings' ways.

A soft laugh escapes from his lips as he reads from the manuscript in his hands. He scrawls a large ? and tosses the 'script into the "SEE THE JIMMY" box. Stretching hugely, he rises from the chair and pads across the intricately woven carpet to the window seat.

From this window he can see far and wide, but not to all of the lands that now fall under the domain of his clan. For some, he relies on sight of his grown sons, and their ability to transmit clear, concise packets of knowledge to him telepathicly.

Like all of the witchling children, they had been educated in anything anyone could teach them. There was no task related to the running of the greathouse and surrounding lands that they did not know how to do well. There was no weapon they could not wield competently. They were schooled in the minor arts of healing, theft, and hunting; the majour arts of mathematics, language, music, and history. An education designed to give them the tools to be versitile in body and mind, and useful in almost any situation.

His sons and their chosen partners were scattered about the larger clans as his ambassadors. They each trod a dangerous path, playing court majician to the petty lords of the surrounding hills. All the while being careful not to let to the true extent of the power at their disposal. The almost instantaneous communication the witchlings had at their disposal, made controling the unwieldy, uneasy patchwork of mistrustful, superstitious, and largely uneducated petty clanholdings a much easier task. Still, it was no easy task to not worry for the safety of any of his clan who resided outside of the protections.

Returning to his chair by the fire, he picks up the next manuscript on the stack and sends a silent call for refreshment to the on duty scurier. As usual at this time of day it's Jerry, the very first of the witchling children to come out of the woods. His age shows more than his lord's. His once flaxen locks are now a snowy white, his step is slower with every passing winter; but he insists that he can still wait upong the High Lord Zward's needs better than any other. He will allow no one else the opportunity to prove him wrong.

Jerry arrives at the door of the study floating a tray of pasteries and refreshments at waist level. A warm hum of recognition passes between he and his lord. Jerry responds by entering the room, followed closely by the tray.

With a surprisingly limber bow, the elderly retainer presents the requested tray to his clan lord. "Your refreshments, my lord. Where may I have the pleasure of serving them to you?"

James smiles and waves in the general direction of the cluttered table by his chair. "Set that down and come and greet me properly."

A moment later finds them entangled in each others arms.

"Ah, my lord James, truly your touch is the best medicine there is for my tired old bones."

The most feared man in the Uplands strokes a stray lock of hair out of his sevant's eyes and kisses him on the forehead, holding him close to his chest. The warmth of his being coursing through Jerry's mind and body, sweeping before it the pain brought on by age and cold and damp. Such a treatment would last Jerry until the first light of dawn each winter's day.

From his spot on James' lap, Jeremy feeds his lord delicately by floating individual morsels into a waiting mouth. They share the sweets and the pipe, as well as tea and kisses. But, at last James' attention wanders back to the pile of waiting manuscripts.

Sensing the distraction in his master's mood, Jeremy excuses himself from his favourite place, and gathers up a load of soiled dishes from around the room.

"Send up who ever is on copying duty today, Jerry. I'm starting to get a back log."

"Of course, my love... I mean, my lord."

James merely blows a kiss toward Jerry's faintly flushing cheeks before once more turning his attentions to the scribbled essay in front of him.

This was a difficult one for him to understand. Rion was possibly the brightest student James had ever had, which had brought on the current difficulty.

James found himself looking very closely at the logical foundation of the proposal. If what Rion was proposing in his essay was true, then it would be possible to awaken an equivalent to the witchlings' gift in ordinary folks. If that were actually possible, the he had in his grasp the power to change his entire world.

Rion had very carefully traced the bloodlinds of most of the clans under the Zwardz influence and had mapped out which combinations of families would reliably produce a witchling. In the course of his study, Rion had also noted the rather interesting fact that although the chief clan lords came from family pairings that should almost always produce witchlings, none were to be found in the immediate families in the direct lineage of the current lords.

His thoughts shifted to the boarding hall full of the sons and daughters of his greatest enemies. On the surface, the children were here as hostages to their parents good behaviour. It was convienent that having control of the children allowed the Zward to educate them as he saw fit. If Rion was correct, each of these children was predisposed to the witchling's gift. Maybe it was just dormant in their genes, waiting for a triggering event. What could he use as a triggering event?

Rion had, with his help and permission, performed the first experiment on one of the ungifted servants in the house. It seemed to have been resonably successful. The young lady was learning to use her gifts, perhaps a bit more slowly that one born with them. It had also confused her a bit. She was no loger sure how long she had been with them, or what her parents names were. As if some small part of her identity had been lost in the act of opening the passages to her inner power. Of course the experiment was ony a few days old, perhaps her mind would heal itself, releasing the memories again. But would it seal off her newly aquired power in the process. So many questions that only time himself would answer.

The witchling's gifts were a very mixed blessing. Most clans would disown and throw out any child so gifted. To be with out a home in the winter was almost certain to be a death sentance, and the practice was generations old. It would seem that fewer and fewer witchlings would be born. But it just wasn't so. Witchlings continue to show up in almost every clan, despite a concentrated effort to keep them from reaching sexual maturity and breeding. Just where were they coming from? Suddenly he needed a survey done. He needed to know just how many of his clan know who their father's were.

If the witchling gifts could be awakened in the young lordlings under his control. If it could be nurtured, and trained in niceties having such abilities. If, if, if. If he could pull a miracle out of his sleeve maybe there could be real peace in these mountains. Of course, there was the very real possibilty of the whole thing blowing up into full scale war, if any of the parents got wind of it too early.

Possiblilities spread themselves out before his mind's eye as he considered the implications of his half formed plan. It really would be quite a coup to get all of the clan lord's childern on his side before returning them to their parents. His own clan had proven to be unwaiveringly faithful over the last few decades, but no other clan would have them. Would the sons and daughter of rulers have the same kind of loyalty to him, if he could win them over? Would making them witchlings bind them to him, or drive them away? It was such a huge wager to make. The trigger mechanism would have to be very subtle. It would have to look spontaneous.

James stops and laughs. How often had he said it, you can't solve the problem from the end, you have to start at the front and work your way to the end. So much to do before any thing ever happens.

Rion's manuscript is dropped on the chair as he rises and wanders toward a window. This must be handled very carefully. Rion will be very busy documenting the progress of his patient. This will give him time to arrange for some details to get worked out, and some important information to be gathered.

Just maybe, here would be found the means to bring this war to an end.

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