The Epic of

Draeland

A Science Fantasy Novel

By

Sir Thomas Draewright

Current Version:  December 23, 2021

Original Release Date:  August 24, 2014

Dedicated to Reason,
Without which I would have none.

Copyright © 2014-2021 by Sir Thomas Draewright, all rights reserved.  U.S. Copyright registration number TX 8-325-358.  Permission is granted to distribute this book for personal use only.  The contents herein or its derivatives in any form may not be used for profit without express licensing from the author or his estate.

Prologue

	This adventure book follows the journey of a teenage girl through the mythical world of Draeland.  The story encompasses five years during which the girl grows to maturity along with several friends who are boys of similar age.
	Over the course of their travels together, the friends encounter a host of interesting people with unique and curious talents.  Several subcultures of Draeland are explored, and magical geographic locations are discovered by both the characters and the reader.
	The plot develops slowly, with the main theme becoming apparent midway through.  Allegorically, it may be likened to “Joan of Arc meets the Devil,” as the heroine must come to terms with an enemy that represents a great threat to life and land.

Table of Contents

1.	The Beginning	1
2.	The Stranger	3
3.	The Dream	8
4.	Embarkment	12
5.	Forest Walk	16
6.	Quid Synch	18
7.	Homestead	21
8.	A Peddler	23
9.	Asheric	28
10.	Rosario	31
11.	Shimrock Ruin	35
12.	Ahzul	37
13.	Dean Shastfeldt	40
14.	Training	41
15.	The Musory	47
16.	Enplexus	50
17.	Short Solo	52
18.	Gnomics	54
19.	Pact	58
20.	Journey	60
21.	Excelsion	62
22.	Quartz Prima	67
23.	Feast	70
24.	Torpor	74
25.	Dimwold	81
26.	Séance	86
27.	Farewell	89
28.	High Steppe	92
29.	Flight	98
30.	Love Lost	102
31.	Feldspar Falls	106
32.	Olinza Lake	108
33.	Revelstoke	114
34.	Rokavere	121
35.	Feldspar Locks	133
36.	Antequoi Valley	138
37.	Thither and Yon	144
38.	Uncleaved	147
39.	Phagix	150
40.	Revenge	153
41.	Reckoning	157
42.	Phagix Redux	159
43.	Elginzice	166
44.	The Astral Gate	173
45.	Unmasked	180
46.	Reunion	188
47.	Assembly	190
48.	Counsel	193
49.	Expedition	199
50.	Brogwash	201
51.	Arkengarthdale	204
52.	Warfare	210
53.	Siege, or Not	214
54.	Foray	217
55.	Two Fronts	220
56.	Last Stand	223
57.	Escape	227
58.	Breathmere	230
59.	Riftwarren	235
60.	Gogolax	238
61.	Epilogue	249
I.	List of Lumi	251
II.	Pronunciation Guide	251
III.	Biographical Note	253

1.  The Beginning
Change be curst!
-Draeic imprecation

	Our story might have begun in any one of a multitude of hamlets and byways in that pastoral, and some say enchanted place called Draeland.  That it started near the muddy oxbow of Dimthistle, or rather in the scattering of farmhouses nearby which bore, for the convenience and reference of outsiders, the same name, is of little consequence.  Excepting that by coincidence, the significance of this particular un-presupposing villette – indistinguishable from a thousand other such tiny townships in all the wide, wide land – was that it happened to be the birthplace of our chief protagonist, Eborel.
	Now Eborel was not by appearance an unusual girl.  She was neither particularly tall, nor uncommonly short.  Long-limbed, fit and light of foot, she possessed a boyish, adventurous nature, which evinced, perhaps, more grace than beauty.  Yet those around her were not unmoved by the feminine qualities of her long brown hair and piercingly soft hazel-eyed gaze.  That her unselfconscious nature, here at the age of 15, whence our story begins, was unaffected (by virtue, no doubt, of her youth), only served to accentuate her allure.
	Eborel had a family, good and true.  She lived with her mother, father and sister in a large abode, nay the largest, I should say, in the county.  For her family were not farmers as were the vast majority of people, but innkeepers.  As such, they lived at the inn under the same roof as those patrons to whom they attended.
	And what a grand and marvelous inn it was; and famous, too.  Known for a hundred leagues or more in any direction, its appellation was the “Crack Willow Inn,” yet most in the county called it simply the “Inn at the Crossroads.”  That it had stood at the crossroads for a very long time was common knowledge – but for just how long, no one could be sure.  The trees around which it was built – which supported its structure in some places, and which even compassed whole rooms in their entirety, surrounded as they were within massive hollowed boles – were older than 1,000 years, a fact which was certain.
	But the great age of the trees was not uncommon, as many things were old, even ancient, in Draeland, as it was a place of slow change.  No one bothered to keep track of such trivialities; and in fact, if anyone were to try to document something as odd as the age of structures, perhaps by writing such information down on parchment, they might encounter some stiff challenge to their efforts, by way of implacability and even direct interference on the part of the locals, who would view such activities as highly suspicious.  This characteristic of the Draefolk – a stubborn opposition to anything loosely defined as “out of the ordinary” – was, despite the many differences in habits among the peoples of the various regions of Draeland, yet virtually universal.
	I say that Eborel’s beginnings were unmarked by anything overtly unusual.  She was neither humbly nor lordly born.  Her kin were widely admired and reputed as hardworking and generous.  The only quality to her family that occasioned a raising of the eyebrows of passers-through was the closeness in age between Eborel and her sister Celine, who were but a mere three years apart.  The cause for this minor disapproval was due to a cultural distrust – traditional more than rational – on the part of the general citizenry, against pairs of children being raised less than ten years apart.  Such children, though not technically born at the same time, were nevertheless, often referred to as “twins.”
	As a rule, the births of children in Draeland were separated by at least a decade in time, and more often by two or three.  This was due, quite simply, to the tendency of the people toward great longevity, and to their propensity for only begrudgingly tolerating change with the utmost reserve.
	And when you consider the amount of change brought into a community by the arrival of a child, it is enormous.  It is therefore perhaps understandable that the members of that community might have a great deal to say about such an event.  Thus, it was the tradition that people would talk, make suggestions, debate the merits of, argue vehemently for or against; and generally fuss over for a very long time, the issue of bringing a new person into the world.  It seemed the entire body of philosophy revisited and rehashed by each village every time a baby was born.
	Such was the case for Celine, the elder, whose very existence was preceded by years of the most thorough community discussion.  Not so with Eborel however, who surprised everyone, seemingly springing from nowhere, unbidden, confounding her parents’ plans; yet not entirely unwelcome, even wholeheartedly, in retrospect at least, by those who became endeared of her curious charm in the years that followed.
	And so the girls became known affectionately, by virtue of their close ages, as the “Dimthistle Twins.”  “Twins” they may have been, but in personality, as is sometimes the case, they differed widely.  Celine was attentive, energetic, practical, and of an approachable, even-tempered disposition.  She applied herself industriously, was infinitely instructable, and would doubtless step into her parents’ shoes as caretaker of the inn one day with enthusiasm and aplomb.
	Eborel, though thoroughly competent in her busy tasks at the inn, and much appreciated by patrons and family alike, was yet restlessly prone to fits of moody agitation.  At times, she felt compelled to hide from the noise and bustle of the inn, sometimes forestalling her duties there for long hours to wander far from home, often lost in reveries concerning, mostly, the true nature of the world, and her place in it.
	Eborel’s competency derived by means of learning through creative discovery more so than by repetitious rote.  She was a curious girl, who asked questions, especially of travelers at the inn, and poked her nose where perhaps it was best to leave well enough alone.  She inherited, then, the classic suspicious nature of the typical Draelander, yet her suspicions were largely concerned with the way things were, rather than the more common suspicions of the way things weren’t (or if they were, certainly, by general consensus, shouldn’t be).
	Though never surly, Eborel’s attitude with guests was sometimes dismissive or abrupt.  Eborel’s mother Margott rued her daughter’s brusqueness.  “Why can’t she be more like me,” she thought to herself, “and win the customers’ confidences with charm, patience and an easy manner?”
	Eborel’s father Aldus Dimthistle backed his daughter.  Almost as if he could read his wife’s thoughts, he’d turn his head, and, speaking past the bar towel thrown over his shoulder, say, “Leave her be, mum.  That sort of thing is for Celine.  Eborel’s aught to cut her own path.” 
	Margott would give a nod of acknowledgement, and admonish herself to focus on Eborel’s positive qualities, which were considerable.  “She’s smart, isn’t she?” she reflected, “and active and helpful – at least when she wants to be.  But maybe she’s too smart for her own good,” she thought.  “She’s always trying to change the way we do things.  Why change anything?”  Her rising irritation and anxiety unsettled her.  “We’ve lived our lives the same way for hundreds of years, and our ancestors did, too.  Why make things better?  What’s wrong with the way things are?”
	Margott worried for her daughter’s sake.  She wondered if a person could actually die from having too many ideas.  It did not seem far-fetched.  What about that farmer – Travis was his name – Travis Lurksmear, who was struck by lightning out on the Bents?  Yes, it was ages ago, but people still talked about it.  He’d had the novel idea of using metal on the tip of his plow to make it easier to cut furrows in the land.  Everyone said he shouldn’t do it, and look what became of him.  He was struck dead while plowing.  Even though it seemed like a good idea, it was common knowledge, at least in these parts, that metal was an omen of portent, and should be shunned.  No, change is not usually a good thing.  It explained why things had been done the same way since time immemorial.
	Margott shuddered at what Eborel’s fate might be.  Her strange ideas, mixed with her dubious inclination to explore them, seemed like a potent formula for disaster.  But Margott resigned herself to her parental powerlessness.  Fate she could not alter.  “My husband is right,” she thought.  “Our daughter’s aught to cut her own path.  I’ll bear her no malice.  Even if her nature is suspect, she is a Draelander born, whelped by me, and deserves nothing short of our dearest intentions.”

2.  The Stranger

To the patron belongs the quaff!
-Motto of the Tavern at the Crossroads

	One day, as was wont to occur at the inn, a stranger came by.  He was not noticed immediately by the keepers, and so seated himself at a small table in the back of the tavern.  Aldus, working at the bar, did not see him, and could not attend to his arrival midst the din, as his attention was otherwise diverted, due to the brightness, and thus the business, of the night.
	Now I use the word “business” as a derivative of the word “busy,” which easily accounted for the din, but what did “brightness” have to do with it?  “Brightness,” of course, referred to the night sky, which was so luminous on this eve that it had been ordained spontaneously, and by general consensus – as was always the case – as a “light night;” or, when fêted, as a “festival of lights.”  The festival of lights was a welcome event in Draeland – coming as it did at unforeseen and unpredictable intervals during the year, it occasioned willfully spirited impromptu celebration.
	The unusual luminescence during a light night was due both to the clear weather, and to the number and orientation of the lumi in the sky.  The “lumi,” or small moons, presented different faces as they rotated on their axes and moved in and out of sunlit phase.  Each “lumus” was a different size, and had its own recognizable shape, which imparted to it, according to long tradition, a favored “personality.”  Lumi were visible in both daylight and at nighttime, excepting when they were out of phase, or “shadowed,” in which case they were difficult to see.  The lumi traveled at contrasting speeds and on different courses across the heavens.  Taken as a whole, they formed ever-changing patterns between themselves, like great dot-to-dot puzzles in the sky, with imagined vast celestial rubber bands running between them, shaping their fleeting collective geometrical images.  There were 23 lumi in toto, but they were never visible all at once.
	The largest lumus was named Izzy, and was also the roundest.  Its personality trait was “fortune,” which, it was said, was doled out in either positive or negative quantities to the hopeful heavenly viewer, depending on whether the lumus was waxing or waning.  It was considered good luck, for instance, to be born when Izzy was visible and waxing.  Such babies were called “Izzy-born,” and were especially blessed.  Needless to say, the afore-mentioned unfortunate farmer Travis Lurksmear, who was struck by lightning, was not Izzy-born, or so it was generally stated.  Whether that fact was strictly true (and how could anyone know with certainty due to the lack of verifiable records?), it certainly became true by dint of sheer general collaborative assertion.
	Izzy was often, but not always, present during a festival of lights.  On this night, as it happened, Izzy was present, and waxing, too, and people congregated to jaw and aver over its meaning.  Some at the bar, within earshot of Aldus, were heard to say, “ ’Tis a sure sign, coming as it does during the sowing time of the year, that the harvest will be plentiful,” and, in contraposition, someone else would say, “Nonsense!  As the saying goes:  ‘The eerie light shall cast a blight.’  I say our soil will produce poorly!”

	Now, amongst this setting, enter the stranger.  Of considerable bulk, layered in long coats of brown and gray, and wearing a matching hat of excessive brim, he was hard to miss but for the unobtrusive way in which he glided silently to his table.  In short order, he had settled in his chair with his back to the corner, and produced and lighted his pipe, which, due to its extraordinary length of a half arm span or more, rested in front of him on the table as he smoked.
	Though many patrons saw him enter, his passing was not noticed by Eborel.  She was startled to see him, as she had glanced at his empty table only moments before.  He appeared to her out of seeming thin air, then, as if conjured by the pipe smoke that wreathed him.  She could not immediately make out his face, as it was covered by the lowered brim of his hat, which added to his mystery.
	Eborel studied him from behind the bar.  His outer coat looked impregnated by the powder of the road, as if dust clouds of clay would erupt upon being patted.  He had a full gray beard that tumbled partway down his barrel chest.  She could see the puffs of smoke issuing from his pipe bowl in syncopated cadence with the rhythmic settling of his chest and beard upon each exhalation.
	She looked away, but felt herself drawn to him.  He was unusual, and it excited her.  She had never seen a pipe like the one that wafted the exotic sweet-pungent scent towards her now.  Its stem was thin, and so long that she wondered how he had reached the bowl to light it. 
	As she looked at him again, he slowly raised his head, revealing his face.  Rather than look away, she stared at him in fascination.  Even when it appeared that he had raised his head specifically to return her stare, she did not look away.  She felt her heart beat hard as she studied his face, and sensed hers studied by his from across the room.  His visage was rubicund and variegated; textured as if a sculptor had puttied a rough form, but had not yet smoothed the curves.  His eyes were glazed with a watery film that smiled at her unwaveringly.
	They might have locked looks interminably but for Aldus, who followed her gaze with his own eyes towards the stranger.  He stood at the other end of the bar from Eborel and became troubled by the sight of the man.  Moving along the bartop, he breezed past her, diverting her attention.  “I’ll take care of that one,” he said, nodding towards the stranger.  “I think your mum has need of you in the linen room.”
	Eborel left the tavern reluctantly, but turned to watch her father from the doorway.  He made a beeline for the stranger, and was at his table taking his order.  Her father’s manner was agitated, she thought, and, although she could not hear the conversation, she saw that he spoke rather more at length than might be usual for a new customer.  In contrast, the stranger appeared to say nothing, and merely nodded.  Eventually, Aldus left, and Eborel wondered how he could have received an order without the stranger saying anything.  Perhaps the stranger ordered nothing, she thought.
	Eborel knew her mother was not in the linen room.  With all the customers about, she was surely helping in the kitchen.  She checked the kitchen long enough to verify her suspicion, and then returned to the tavern to find her father.  She thought that perhaps he knew the stranger.  That would explain his talking to him so much.
	Aldus was not immediately visible, and three boisterous patrons called to her for ale.  She placated them by retorting over her shoulder, “Anon, whippersnappers!” and soon found her father clamoring in a storage area near the bar.  He was down a half flight of stairs in one of the many root cellars at the inn.  This one was reserved for finely aged liqueurs and whiskeys.  He was on his knees, reaching into an underground compartment, cursing to himself.
	“By the Riftlands, the lights’ve brought him again!  The queer one.  He ’asn’t changed a wit since I first seen ’im.  That scoundrel.  It augurs naught but skullduggery, I tell you!”  He spat and gestured with bowed head and crossed wrists facing outward from his forehead.  “Where the blast is that …”
	“Who is he, father?” Eborel interrupted him.
	“Hey there, what?” Aldus started.  “Child, I thought you’d gone to your mother.”  His back faced her as he pulled out an old wide flat bottle and blew dust off it.
	“She’s not needing me this moment,” Eborel said, waiting at the doorway for an answer.  Aldus brought the flask-shaped container towards the light, near Eborel, and peered at the label.  He rubbed the front with his thumb, and she could see old-fashioned black Gothic letters printed on a yellow background.
	“This is the stuff,” he said.  “Imported from Manx, and as old as any of us, I warrant ye.”  He looked at Eborel.  “You’d best tend the bar then, girl.  The customers are restless.  You know my motto:  ‘To the patron belongs the quaff!’  They’ll use their unquenched thirst as an excuse for rowdiness, I wager.”
	“Yes, and later they’ll use their drunkenness as an excuse for the same,” she said with some disdain.
	Aldus thought he had detected of late in his daughter a general contempt regarding the imperfections of others around her.  Surely she was disturbed by a growing inner awareness of her own imperfections, he thought.  “Don’t be too hard on them,” he said gently.  “It’s a festival of lights, and no harm will come of it.”  And inwardly, he said to himself, “And don’t be hard on yourself, girl.”  
	“There’re three treebeards at the bent oak table who’re wanting their grog,” she said, nodding towards the bar.  A “treebeard,” as an explicative aside to the reader, is a term that, when applied to a man not obviously of advanced years, implied chidingly, that he is old enough to grow a beard, but not yet wise enough to have a beard, if you ken the distinction.  The term derived from the venerable silk cotton tree, whose dangling mossy fringes connoted the feigned wisdom of age, much like a “bearded tree.”
	Aldus paused, considering, “I’d best yank the keg handle for them, then.  Here, take this,” he handed her the bottle.  “Put it at the traveler’s table, along with a fluted gypsy glass, or whatever suits best.  Let him keep the bottle and pour all he likes.  He won’t take much anyway.”
	She took the flask, but didn’t move.  “He’s naught but a wanderer; a wayfarer,” he said in attempted mollification to her mute insistent questioning.  “He’ll be gone as suddenly and inexplicably as he appeared.”
	She hesitated, wanting to ask more, but glad of the opportunity to serve him herself.  Aldus headed away saying over his shoulder, “And don’t take any money from him!”  And under his breath, he muttered, shuddering, “He might pay in metal coins!”
	Eborel looked down at the bottle and scrutinized the label.  Old it was indeed, and cold with root cellar sweat in her hands.  She had never heard of this type of liqueur before.  Quickly she went to the cabinet and searched for the most distinctive crystal glass she could find.  She chose a small light one, with a gently tapered shape and a thin curved rim.  Looking about, she waited until her father was busy and out of sight.  It made her uncomfortable to imagine him observing her as she served the stranger.  Then she moved towards his table.
	The stranger watched her approach.  He gazed complacently as she placed the glass in front of him, poured the liqueur into the crystal, set the bottle beside the glass, and asked, “Will there be anything else?”
	He took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “Hello Eborel, if that still be your name.”
	Eborel stood startled, and blushed.  She considered how to respond, and thought to demand, “How do you know my name?” or “Who are you?” or any number of things.  But what she eventually said took her own self by surprise.
	“Am I related to you?” she asked unexpectedly.
	He laughed gently and said, “I suppose you might be, in a way.  We both find ourselves in the same place at the same time, as we did once before, and it may not be a coincidence.  Perhaps that means we are related in some way.”
	He gestured to the empty seat to his left in invitation to her.  She glanced over her shoulder in search of her father, and, not seeing him, sat down quickly.  “Who are you?  How do you know me?  What’s your name?” she asked him all at once.
	He answered her last question first.  “I believe I am known in these parts by my drink.”  He nodded towards the bottle.  
	She looked at the label.  “Drambuie?” she asked.  “You are named after that drink?”  She was somewhat incredulous.
	“Yes,” he said, “though some call me ‘Dram,’ for short.”
	She didn’t quite believe it.  “But what is your real name?  Surely you have a real name, the one your mother gave you, the one you think of when you contemplate yourself.”
	“Hmm,” he mused, “very interesting.  I’m not sure I remember the name my mother gave me, as that was a very long time ago.  I have many names now and have had many names in the past, and think of myself differently depending on whom I’m with, where, and even ‘when’ I am, if that makes any sense.”
	This was an unsatisfying answer for her.
	“You may simply call me ‘Dram,’ ” he said reassuringly.  “And in answer to your second question, I was present at your birth, and in truth, that is the last time I have been through these parts, until now.”
	“Present at my birth?” she repeated back to him in question.
	“Yes,” he said.  “Did your father not tell you?  I am the one who named you, although I wasn’t sure if your parents kept the name.”
	“You named me?” Eborel was making a habit of mirroring his words.  “But who are you?” she insisted.
	“Who do you think I am?” he asked.
	Eborel squinted her eyes at him.  “My father said you are a wanderer; a wayfarer.”
	“Well then, if not who, at least, that’s what I am,” he said.
	Eborel sighed and put her head between her hands.  She stared down at the table and said, “Okay, let’s start over.  Where did my name come from?  What does it mean?”
	“I don’t know what it means,” he said.  “I heard it in a dream.”
	“In a dream?” she said.  “But why would my parents name me based on the words of a stranger who heard my name in a dream?” she asked.
	“I tried to make them think they thought it up themselves,” he said.  “The time was very chaotic.  The night of your birth was a festival of lights, as it is now.  There were 17 lumi present on that night.  I have never seen that many lumi in the sky at once.  Your father was not entirely sober.  Whether drunk on alcohol or happiness, I’m not sure.  I gave him the name and hoped he would like it and suggest it to your mother.  I implied that it was the name he had been wanting all along.  Apparently, your parents liked it well enough to keep it, no matter its source.”
	Eborel considered this while Dram waited quietly.  The next question formed on her lips.  “But why would you have a dream about the name of a baby girl, that hadn’t been born yet, in a town you just happened to be passing through?”
	Dram smiled avuncularly.  “You have a good imagination and ask incisive questions.  Your parents must be either very proud of you, or very exasperated; or most likely, both.
	“I did not ‘happen to be passing through’ when you were born,” he continued.  “I was drawn here, as I am drawn to all places and persons, as I am drawn here now.  I consider myself a student of that philosophy known as causality.”  He bowed his head as in mock introduction to his trade.  “As such, I seek to understand the hidden patterns that underlie events in our world.  I surmised, or rather ‘felt’ your birth, or at least, if not your birth, then ‘a birth,’ and made my way here with haste.  The dream merely served to reinforce the notion that I was on the right path.”
	This made little sense to Eborel, who dismissed it, at least for the moment, and pressed on.  “So my name has no real meaning, or history?” she asked.  “It came to you in a dream.  No one has had this name before me, it just sprang from nowhere?”
	“I suppose so,” he said, “but what meaning would you like your name to have?”
	“I don’t know,” she said placing her head resignedly face down in her folded arms on the table.  “Perhaps ‘sprang from nowhere’ is a good meaning.”
	Dram smiled and nodded.  “Excellent,” he said.  “Eborel, who sprang from nowhere.  It has a nice ring.”
	“Do you think dreams are significant?” she asked, her head still face down in her arms.
	“Dreams are always significant,” he said in a measured voice, “but their significance is not, perforce, applicable to matters presently at hand.”  He chose his words carefully.  “Not at least, in my humble experience.  It’s that aspect that makes them endlessly and enticingly intriguing to me.”
	There was a long pause in which neither spoke.  Eborel continued to bury her head in her arms.  Dram leaned forward and put his hand on her wrist.  “Do you have a dream, perhaps a troubling one?” he intuited, speaking quietly to her.
	“Yes,” she whispered with restrained emotion.
	“EBOREL!”  Her father’s voice shattered their intimacy from across the room.
	She raised her head, but Dram did not immediately let go of her.  “I am not staying at the inn,” he said hurriedly.  “My tent is one and a quarter leagues west of here, just off the road by the river.  Here, take this, and visit me tonight.”  He put something hard in the palm of her hand, which she encircled with her fingers.  “Let me interpret your dream.  It may be the reason I am here.”
	Aldus came bustling up to the table and Dram let go of Eborel.  Dram said to her quietly, “Remember, it has significance.”
	“What has significance?” Aldus blustered.  “Eborel, can’t you see I need you?  The place is overflowing with customers.  What’s all this nonsense about ‘significance?’ ”
	“Father, why didn’t you tell me you know Dram?” she asked.
	“Oh, ‘Dram’ is it?  All of a sudden we’re on a casual-name basis with strangers then!” Aldus sneered.
	“He’s not a stranger, father.  You know him!”
	“And I wish I didn’t!” Aldus said, pointedly glaring at Dram.  “There’s naught but trouble when he’s about, and I’ve a feeling we’re due for more now.  I’ll ask you Mr. Drambuie, sir, not to speak to my daughter, so long as you’re at my inn.  I’m not so low a man as I’d turn you out, and I blame myself for sending her to your table.  But Eborel here is precious to me,” he embraced her as she stood up, “and I’ll not have the likes of you impressing your foreign ways upon her.”
	Eborel, in consequence, pushed herself away from Aldus, and said, “Father, you’re embarrassing me.  How could you be so rude!”  She made an open-handed gesture of apology to Dram, who smiled acknowledgement and nodded.  Then she walked rapidly away before the tears in her eyes overflowed.  Aldus stayed just long enough to stab one more pointed glare towards Dram, and stomped away.
	Drambuie, for his part, remained for some time smoking, sipping and musing.  Unperturbed, and unmolested, he eventually glided out as silently as he had come, and left behind only the smoky-hazed remembrance of his passing.

3.  The Dream

The echo of things to be pounds in my ears.
-Draeish passage rite

	Eborel had many secret solace-places about the inn wherein she sometimes retreated.  She found one now – an outdoor hedge garden far from the raucous tavern.  There she went to hold private counsel and sort out her feelings.  It didn’t matter that she was needed by her parents just now at the tavern.  What she needed was to be alone.
	The meeting with Drambuie upset her, though she knew not why.  As well, she was angry with her father.  Why was he so secretive and spiteful about this man who interested her so much?  And why was she drawn to Drambuie?  She felt as if he had looked directly into her soul, saw her perhaps as no one else did, separate from her surroundings, the way she really was, and not just as she seemed to others.
	It was a disconcerting feeling.  She wanted to pour her heart out to Dram; tell him her troubles, her hopes, her dreams.  Yet everything her father evinced screamed “Danger!”  What was the danger, she wondered?  She didn’t feel it.  She felt hope, knowledge, freedom, power.  It was tantalizing.  She wanted to know more.  She wanted to feel the excitement more, even though it frightened her.  It was frightening, she told herself, only because it was new and unknown.  She must be brave, she thought, in pitiable self-encouragement.
	This stranger knew more about the world than her parochial family and neighbors would ever know, she felt sure.  And he would share his knowledge with her.  She could see it in his eyes.  Like two dark pools of deep water, she imagined quenching her thirst for that knowledge from his eyes.
	She looked at the object he had placed in her hand.  Holding it up to the lumus-light, she gasped, nearly dropping it when she recognized what it was.  Although she didn’t know its exact purpose, its nature was obvious.  It was clearly metallic!  Heavy and disk-shaped, it was like a large coin or medallion.  She had never seen metal, but its properties were known to her.  It was common knowledge, for instance, that metal reflected light.  She saw the glint of the night sky on its surface as she rotated the disk.  An image was discernable upon it, such that it looked to be a coin of money, except that it was so large.
	The coins that Eborel handled at the inn were invariably made of hard stamped clay, or mother-of-pearl shell, which were colored and shaped according to each piece’s representative value.  If there had ever been metal coins exchanged at the inn, she had not seen them.  Probably her father would pass them along at the next opportunity to any traveler willing to take them as far from Dimthistle as possible.  She imagined that real metal coins would be similar in size to common money, and not as large as the disk she held.
	She studied the medallion carefully.  The image on it looked to be engraved with precise and clearly defined lines.  Its surface was textured and topographical, with raised and dimpled features.  It was easy to recognize a full-faced visage in bas-relief, smilingly benevolent, which, by virtue of its hat and beard, was evidently the face of Drambuie.  Around the edge of the coin, encircling the image, were perfectly sized and positioned letters intermixed with miniature fleur-de-lis-like patterns.  The letters read:  “§ Zoro’Ander § Mystic 17 §”.  Eborel did not recognize its meaning, and wondered if the “17” was a monetary value.  If so, it was certainly an odd denomination.
	She furrowed her brow as she inspected the reverse side.  On the back face was a square-cornered maze-like background pattern with a picture of an open doorway in the center, abutted on either side by Doric columns.  Through the doorway shone a stylized rendering of the sun setting above a floral design of splayed petals.  Underneath the doorway were letters that followed the contour of the coin’s rim, and spelled the name “Elginzice,” which meant nothing to her.  Along the rim to the upper left and right respectively were the words “Knowledge” and “Wisdom.”
	Eborel was overcome with a sense of foreboding at this image.  She knelt down on one knee, clutching the coin in her fist to her bowed forehead, and shut her eyes tightly.  Swirling vortices of darkness enshrouded her mind’s eye and conjured images of the nightmare that had been haunting her for nights on end.
	The engraving of the gate on the coin, it seemed, was reminiscent of the vision in her dream of an archway of trellised roses.  The two images were not identical, nor even close, but the impression evoked by the coin nonetheless filled her with the feeling of dread she experienced in her nightmare.
	The irony of the word “knowledge” on the coin occupied her attention.  Knowledge of the world is what she thirsted for, and now that word stared out to her in reflected lumus-light, fairly goading her to seek it out.  To quench her thirst, she must face her fears, and confront her nightmare, as evidenced by this presaging coin.  This was her interpretation; she embraced it, and girded herself for the inevitable bravery she would surely need to muster.
	Eborel’s path crystallized to sharp clarity in her mind.  It led straight to Drambuie.  He represented the only solution in evidence to the mystery of her discontent.  She would go against her father’s wishes and visit Drambuie to seek help facing her dream.  She was resolute, yet permeated with fear.
	Clutching the coin, she sought succor from it, as if it were a talisman that could give her courage.  “Please, Dram,” she murmured, “help me if you can.”  She wept quietly, afraid of what might be revealed to her, and afraid of her father’s reaction.  He would surely find out, for she would not be able, in the end, to lie to him.  She imagined his fear for her, and it heightened her own fear for herself.  What were these changes, these stirrings, she felt inside?  Maybe she would know soon.
	Determined, she arose.  Returning to the inn, she worked until sometime before midnight.  The din of the tavern was as a dream to her, remote; its noise a distant thrum.  Mechanically, she served the guests.  Avoiding her parents, she brushed them off when she chanced to meet with curt apologies for her earlier absence.  Feigning fatigue, she eventually retreated, ostensibly to bed for the night.  In fact, she crept outside cautiously and quietly, and made her way west down the highway.  She was not afraid of the night, nor of the lateness of the hour, nor even of the rustling sounds of the forest that carried in the damp still air.  She had wandered far and wide many times before at all hours of the day and night.
	Eborel brought nothing with her, save a hooded cloak against the chill, and her metal talisman.  Some distance down the road, she spied flickering firelight through the trees, and moved off the path towards it.  Approaching, she heard the popping of a campfire and smelled the rich blend of hickory and sweet tobacco smoke.  In a small glade, she came upon a patch of firelight and saw a hulking seated figure, facing the campfire, just visible in the shadows nearby.  Unabashed and unannounced, she simply walked into the circle of firelight and faced the figure from across the fire.  Of course, it was Drambuie, as she expected, and she threw back her hood in greeting.  He was staring into the embers, smoking intently, his face dancing in light and shadow according to the whim of the flames.  Eborel’s face was lit full up in red, as she was closer to the fire, but Drambuie did not look up, nor acknowledge her.
	Again, as she had at the tavern, she felt as though she could stare at him forever.  She simply stood, as if rooted to the spot, and waited for the mystery to unfurl.  There seemed to be no reason to rush into the mad conversation she had practiced and prepared for this encounter.  In fact, she calmed down as she stood.  The heat infused her body, and Drambuie’s measured puffs on his pipe had a soothing effect.
	Finally he spoke, “You have come at my invitation, and are most welcome.”
	She bowed almost imperceptibly, and said simply, “Thank you.”
	Drambuie rose to sit closer to the fire and stoke it.  “Come sit with me, if you like,” he said.  “We’ll contemplate the fire together.” 
	Eborel sat on a log nearly next to him, maintaining a short distance to make room for a small wooden stool between them, upon which rested two drinking mugs covered against the ash.  Evidently, he had attended her arrival, and she had not disappointed.
	Presently, she reached for the mug closest to her and sipped its contents.  Its proximity to the fire kept it warm, and it was delicious.  Sweet and intoxicating, it was made perhaps of mead and oats, with added dessert spices and rum flavoring.
	Dram took a sip, too, from his mug, and puffed thoughtfully.  “What’s in your pipe, that it smells so good?” Eborel asked him.
	Dram gave pause to respond.  Eborel noticed that he often delayed before speaking.  The delay was a full three seconds or more.  She could count her heartbeats in that time, and privately named its duration, a “Dram moment”.
	“It’s a mixture, subject to my fancy, of pipeweeds and other aromatic ingredients,” he said.  “It also contains gaza in varying proportions depending on the depth of insight I wish to attain.”
	“Gaza!” she exclaimed.  “Is that what gives it the sweet scent?”
	“ ‘Unctuous’ is the way I think of it,” he said, after letting a Dram moment pass.
	Eborel did not really know what gaza was, but she had heard mention of it.  Its reputation was as the alcohol of the North, that should be shunned in these civilized lands as being too “foreign.”
	Dram startled her by proffering the bit end of the pipe towards her, gesturing for her to take it.  As he handed it over, the bowl of the pipe remained stationary, rotating slightly on a short decorative stand placed between the mugs on the stool.  In this manner, the pipe could be easily passed back and forth between them.
	Eborel hesitated.  She trusted Dram completely, but smoking the pipe went against her upbringing.  It seemed so exotic!  She held the end of the pipe motionless in her hand, and reasoned it through thusly:  If she were going to supersede the provincial attitudes of her peers, she would surely need to do what they had never done, and take the occasional plunge into the exotic.  She had the feeling that this would not be the last time she would take such a plunge.
	Slowly, she moved the pipe towards her lips.  Dram gestured for her to stop.  “Take a little into your mouth,” he said, “and expel it immediately.”
	She did as he suggested, but despite her care, smoke went up her nose, and she coughed violently.  Dram smiled and nodded reassurance.  She tried again.
	The taste was not displeasing.  She managed to keep from breathing, swallowing, or snorting the smoke.  She thought maybe she was getting the hang of it.  After a few more puffs, Dram gestured with a tilt of his head that perhaps it was his turn, and she handed back the stem sheepishly.
	In this fashion, the two traded sessions with the pipe for a time.  Dram kept Eborel’s doses to a minimum, as the pipeweed blend was, in his words, “rather potent.”
	Presently, Eborel’s lids grew heavy, and she gazed at the fire through a narrow squint.  Her body felt so relaxed that, to move it, would seem a crime against equanimity.  She doubted seriously that, should a cinder burst from the fire and land on her outstretched legs, she would do anything to put it out.
	The flickering firelight danced off her clothes and refracted through her eyelashes.  She was mesmerized by the endless interplay of shadow and light.  Besides the crackling fire, she thought she heard the wind sighing sweetly in the distance.  Eventually, the sighing turned into a haunting hollow musical tune.  Its intensity grew and diminished, seemingly with the eddies of the wind.  She imagined that Dram was playing a flute next to her, even though it sounded far away, but she did not care to turn her head to verify it.
	She wondered what the campfire looked like from above, and allowed her imagination to soar up like a bird.  An exhilarating feeling coursed through her as she saw the scene in her mind’s eye looking down from the sky.  She watched herself and Dram below, sitting by the fire as smoke swirled up towards her.  She giggled quietly in delight as she seemed to swoop and dive above herself.
	Dram sat beside her and blew gently, not into a flute, but into a clay ocarina, a small instrument shaped like a hollow potato with 5 finger holes.  He could see she was in a trance-like state, moaning and laughing, and trembling slightly.  He halted playing and spoke softly to her.  “Eborel,” he said, “you are in dreamscape.  I am here with you.  You cannot be harmed.”
	She did not respond, but he felt she had heard him.  He continued playing, trilling his fingers to cause a melancholy warbling sound.  She looked around herself, at the distant dark horizon – ink black mountains silhouetted against a starry sky.  It was only due to her high vantage point that she could see those distant mountains.  Towards the northeast, in the middle of an impenetrable void that might have been a valley or plain, she saw a flickering light.  There was something odd about it.  It was like fire, but it was white instead of yellow.  It seemed to be spreading rapidly.
	Her body became rigid.  “Dram,” she called out, “I’m frightened!”
	Dram stopped playing and said, “I’m here.  I can see you.  I won’t let you be harmed.  Tell me what you see!”
	“I’m not worried about getting hurt,” she said.  “It’s the land.  It’s on fire!  It’s spreading and I can’t do anything about it.  I am only a bird flying around.”
	She started to feel nauseated.  The sky made her dizzy.  There was something odd about the heavens, too.  The stars were sliding and streaking.  The lumi looked unchanged, though.  “The stars!” she gasped.
	“What about the stars?” Dram asked.
	“They’re moving, all in one direction, and leaving trails.  And the fire below is the same color as starlight!”
	Dram reached out and held her hand, which was limp at her side.  Her body slid slowly forward, easing off the log, so that she sat rather on the ground, with knees bent and head bobbing backward.  “I’m here,” he said.  “Stay with the vision.  Do you see anything from your dream?”  There was some urgency in his voice.
	Eborel was mumbling, “… the stars … white fire …”  Dram reproached himself for adding perhaps too much mead to her drink.  He was so fond of its flavor, he had overlooked its soporific effect.
	He shook her gently.  “Keep talking,” he said.  “What do you see?”
	She spoke more coherently, “Ruined, everything ruined.  It’s nothing but a rocky landscape.  Desolated.  I’m in my dream now.”  Her eyelids were closed and Dram could see the rapid saccades of her eyes underneath.  Her head lay all the way back upon the log.
	“But everything’s happening in reverse.  No, I’m not sure.”  She hesitated.  “It’s all jumbled.  The rocks are so sharp.  I’m crawling on them.  There’s a picket fence.  And there’s the gate!  It’s an archway, with roses.  Red roses.  I see something through the archway in the distance.  But I’m not sure I want to go through to get to it.  Now I’m doing it.  I’ve done it!  I’ve passed under the archway.  I’m walking now, towards something standing in the distance.  I hear voices.  Terrible whispering gibberish voices.  They are children.  They’re getting frantic.  I’m trying to ignore them, to focus on my goal.  Now they’re screaming.  The white fire is all around in the distance.  The stars are sliding in the sky.  Even the lumi seem to be on fire.  The screaming is so loud.  I’m trying to block everything out.”
	Eborel was faltering, and starting to tremble.  Drambuie held her in his arms and whispered “Sshh” in her ear.
	“No wait,” she said.  “I see it.  I’m holding my hands to my face, like horse blinders.  I can’t believe it.  It’s a flower.  How can it survive this conflagration?”
	She said nothing more but heaved slightly, as if crying to herself.  Dram rocked her gently, and whispered to her, “It’s a sign of hope.”
	Languidly, she turned her head towards him and opened her eyes.  She was no longer in dreamscape.  “The screams were heart-wrenching,” she said.  “What does it all mean?”
	“Thank you, Eborel,” said Dram.  “Thank you for sharing your dream with me.  It’s about apocalypse, I think, and loss of innocence.  You have a desperate journey ahead of you, but you need not fear.  Rather, take stock.  In your dream, recall foremost this:  that you overcome your fear and pass through the archway gate.  The single flower you seek is rebirth, I think.”
	She paused to reflect.  “It was yellow,” she said.  “… a tulip.  I love tulips.”
	“Perhaps the tulip is your rebirth, then, metaphorically speaking.”  He continued to hold her.  “Your journey may be long, and at times you will feel desolate, as the landscape of your dream was desolate.  But now is not the time for worry.  Now is the time for sleep.”
	She closed her eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.  He continued to croon softly in her ear.  “I will be watching you, Eborel, and all the land as well.  If and when the time ever comes, I will help you, in your hour of need.  For your safety is the safety of the world, and that I could not forsake.”

4.  Embarkment

All roads lead to Elginzice.
-A saying in the Olinza Lake region

	Eborel awoke suddenly to bright sunlight.  The cawing of the surrounding magpies and jays was a cacophony of mad sound in her ears.  Her head pounded pain.  She was hung over.
	Peering about, she found no sign of Drambuie.  It appeared that he had broken camp.  She lay by the smoldering remains of the fire, where she had fallen asleep the night before.  A fine black matted woolen felt blanket covered her, embroidered around the edge with twisted green brocade cord.
	Some supplies were stacked neatly nearby.  She pulled herself up and reached for the water skin to drink eagerly.  Smoking gaza apparently induced a hearty thirst.  Perhaps the water would ease her headache.
	There was a letter from Drambuie near the supplies.  She blinked rapidly to bring her eyes into focus.  The script on the page was beautifully quilled in long sweeping curved characters.  The indited prose read as follows:

Dear Eborel,
	Again, I wish to express my sincerest heartfelt thanks to you for the effort, sacrifice and bravery which you heretofore exhibited and expended on my behalf in sharing with me your most fascinating dream vision.  I shall contemplate and excogitate upon it, extrapolate from it, and present my exegesis for disquisition by my colleagues at large; and further, shall unfailingly report to you any such findings and conclusions as may be ascertained when yet we meet again.
	After your ordeal of the night, you may find yourself understandably spent.  Take heart, for the feeling of malaise attendant to your dream questing will pass, as it always does for me in short order.
	I am drawn elsewhere and leave you now with some traveling supplies.  They are a gift from me to you.  I do not know if you will need them, and do not presume to anticipate your consequent course of action; nor do I make a habit of, nor relish in the least, in the meddling in others’ affairs, or indeed in those of nature itself, by presupposing to influence their otherwise natural course of events.
	 Nevertheless, I feel compelled to advise you, albeit with the proviso, that, as it is unsolicited, and thereby meddlesome by definition, and must therefore be viewed in that vein; to proceed as follows:  that ye seek you Asheric in the mountains, to the north.
	Or rather, stated conversely, I advise you to attain such mountains, and yield to the finding of yourself by Asheric.
	Until we meet again, absit omen; alack, hale and anon.  I remain:  Forever yours in service, Drambuie

	This seemed an overly florid old-fashioned epistle to Eborel.  The gratitude Drambuie expressed toward her was especially excessively effusive.  Surely it was she who should be thanking him for the very experience he had made possible for her.
	The circuitous means by which he advised her to go to the mountains was curiously quaint.  And why, she wondered, should he apologize – if that’s what he was doing – for advising her?  She would be glad of any counsel, especially from one so worldly-wise.
	But, she asked herself; what was Asheric, a place or a person?  She had never heard the name before.  It was not apparent by the wording.  Finally, she surmised it to be a person, as it seemed unlikely that she might yield to being found by a place.
	Eborel looked through the supplies Drambuie had left.  They constituted a bulky load.  Besides the blanket, there was a neatly folded tent and a large rucksack, both made of brown canvas.  There were finely crafted wooden dishes and cutlery, as well as three beautiful metal knives and a whetstone, all sheathed in leather.  She had never seen the likes of such exquisite blades before.  Hefting them by their contoured hardwood handles, she held them up to the sunlight to peer at their fine edges.
	There was an assortment of useful objects:  string, rope, linen strips, a comb, two more empty water skins, three soft animal pouches of different sizes.  In one of the pouches were many smaller items:  wooden needles, thread, ivory hooks, buttons and beads, tweezers and a few unrecognizable small tools.  In another pouch she found an assortment of food:  crackers, dried fruits and meats, by the looks of it. 
	For fire and light, there were small candles, two lanterns, a tinderbox, and a miniature clay ember-keeper.  There were even writing supplies:  a sheaf of parchment, a bottle of India ink and some quills.
	And, last but not least, there was a money pouch filled with coins.  Eborel was stupefied at the amount that was apparently represented by the coins.  Many had shapes and colors whose values she could only guess.  Some looked to be acceptable as tokens of exchange only in faraway locales.
	Eborel felt that she didn’t deserve these things.  This was too great a gift.  How would she ever repay Drambuie?  How would she explain all these beautiful items to her parents?
	In her heart of hearts, she knew that Drambuie knew, that she knew, she wouldn’t return home.  This was the opportunity for her to leave – now, before anyone suspected she wanted to leave; before anyone would have time to prevent her from leaving.
	She felt a sudden panic that she would be discovered and stopped before she got away.  She sat bolt upright and considered her situation.  The sun was not high.  Probably, no one yet knew she wasn’t in her bed at the inn.  Dram’s camp was not visible from the road.  She felt sure no one had seen her there.  Anyone who might have discerned the campfire in the night would not connect it with her.
	She packed the rucksack quickly and carefully.  Some experimentation was required to fit everything in.  Bulkier items needed to be tied to the outside.  She heaved the sack over her shoulders.  It was heavy!  It would be slow-going carrying her new home on her back.
	Eborel retreated from the road and headed towards the creek.  She wanted to move away from the camp into greater seclusion.  After gaining some distance, she pulled off her sack and sat down.  The rucksack made a perfect temporary chair in the wilderness.
	Her isolated surroundings helped her to think more clearly.  She considered her future, particularly her immediate one.  To survive in the woods, on her own, might prove exceedingly difficult.  She would need to find food every day.  It was summer, so there was plenty of fruit.  Right now, blackberries were in season.  But she would need meat, or at least fish, if she could not catch animals.
	For a while, she would not be able to approach people.  Everyone she met would try to return her home.  Her family would be frantic.  They would cry for her, fearing the worst.  Every traveler coming through Dimthistle would be subjected to the same desperately hopeful questions:  “Have you seen our daughter?  Have you heard of her whereabouts?”  There would be endless prattling conjecture in the tavern about her fate.  Eborel winced to think of her parent’s pain.
	She would not be able to use Dram’s money to buy necessities until she was far from home.  She would probably need to be a hundred leagues away, and even at that distance, might still need to guard her identity.
	Eborel pondered.  There must be a way to put her parent’s distress at ease.  She could not face them personally, as that would end her adventure.  She could not think of a suitable messenger.  Drambuie was gone.  Her parents would hate and distrust him even more if he bore them the message that she had left.  She could tell her sister, but she dared not go near enough to the inn to find her.  And too, Celine would not be able to keep the secret long enough to protect her.
	And what would she tell her parents anyway?  How do you tell your mother and father that you’re leaving?  They would be so angry and hurt.  She decided the truth was best.  But putting the truth into words – that would be difficult.
	She began to think of the parchment and quills in her rucksack.  The Draeland postal system might work for her.  Draeland had no official postal service, but there existed the venerable tradition known as “posting for transport,” which was based on the honor system.  It was an unreliable method at best, and often confoundingly slow, yet it suited Eborel’s purposes perfectly.
	The particulars of postal transport varied across the land according to local custom, but the general idea was this:  Upon writing a letter, and possibly attaching it to any accompanying related items, one simply posted it in a public place.  Passing travelers would see the letter and take note of its address.  Eventually, someone would take it upon his person, and deliver it, if not to its intended destination, then at least to a location closer to its destination, where it would then be re-posted for further transport.  
	The system had no intrinsic guarantee of working.  One posted one’s message into the ether, as it were, and relied on the good-heartedness of strangers for its eventual delivery.  It required a mixture of “faith, patience and reserve” to post a letter in Draeland.  Those three qualities, as stated, formed a maxim for the postal system, though the saying was oft-appropriated as a proverb for the secret to a happy life.
	Why did travelers cooperate with this infernal system when there was no monetary recompense for their trouble?  For no other reason than sheer honest Draeic integrity.  Or, if not integrity, then at least in support of sound principal.  And, failing that, perhaps in obeisance to ubiquitous superstition.  For it was a well known fact that if a traveler did not faithfully deliver a properly posted letter when it was at his convenience to do so, then a future letter addressed to him would, as surely as there are lumi in the sky, in consequence of his faltering actions, fail to find its way to him.  
	Eborel took the writing supplies out of her rucksack and thought long and hard.  This is what she wrote:

Beloved family,
	I have left of my own volition to find peace and explore the world.  Please do not fret, or seek to find me.  I am well supplied and will communicate when I can.  You will be in my thoughts often, as I hope I will be in yours.
	Please do not blame Drambuie, or yourselves.  This is my doing, alone.  Someday, I hope to return a wiser daughter.  Wish me well.	Forever yours, Eborel

	She cut the parchment to an exact frame fit for the text, folded it in thirds, and addressed the outside thusly:  Innkeepers, Crack Willow Inn at the Crossroads, Dimthistle, South County, Dewberry Bents.  For a return address, she simply put “Eborel.”  Later, when next she had a fire going, she planned to seal the letter with candle wax.  Perhaps she would impress the image of the back side of Dram’s coin into the wax.
	Posting the letter would present a challenge.  She needed to make sure it was found, but not too soon after she left it.  A lead time of several days would be best, to minimize the chance of her being tracked down.  An unconventional posting place might be in order – perhaps an out-of-the-way resting spot where a weary traveler might find it.  She would leave the letter there, not obviously so, but in oblique view, protected somehow from the weather.
	Her family would be in a torment of angst until the letter was delivered.  She whispered a short mantra to herself, over and over, to soothe her tremulous adumbration.  Taken partly from the maxim of the postal system, but altered in the last, she intoned these words, hearing them in her mind as she did so, in round-like fashion:  “Faith, patience, resolve.  Faith, patience, resolve.”  After a time, she rose, whistled a carefree tune to the birds, and walked confidently and deeply into the woods.

5.  Forest Walk

The sixth level of consciousness is knowledge of self.
-Enplexus

	Eborel’s walk into the forest turned epic in scope and, at times, rather harsh indeed.  Unbeknownst to her at the start, her time in the wild eventually lasted upwards of two years, and comprised many adventures among which those germane to our story are herenow given cursory review.
	Suffice to say, that, during this period, Eborel raised herself to womanhood in an unbound natural state.  She had few people to either mirror her behavior, or after whom to model her own.  With no human guide then, and only her will as a rudder, she conceived a self image molded almost entirely on her perseverance over nature.
	Concerning the letter mentioned previously, left for her parents, she knew not whether they ever received it.  Nor did she post any further updates, as she had intimated she would.  The reason for this was plain.  She grew wild quickly, and the memories of her girlhood family life faded.
	Her wildness was that of the carnivorous animal.  Once unleashed, the distinctive qualities of her lissome body and agile mind made her a formidable huntress.  She possessed, among other attributes:  stealth, versatility of stratagem, and a singular capacity for paroxysms of careering speed.  Indeed, once she overcame her qualms for killing animals, she became a veritable lioness from whose indefatigable stalking no animal was safe.
	It didn’t take long for hunger to spur her imagination to the construction of a myriad of hunting devices.  Fishing lines, crude nets, cages, pits, blinds, nooses, trip lines, and sundry baited traps were the ingenious creations of her driving necessity for food.  Once caught, she cut the throats of her hapless victims, and prepared their bodies quickly for roasting over the fire.  She drained the blood, skinned the fur, and cut out the insides.  All this she seemed to know, if not from instinct, at least from the bits of stories gleaned from patrons at the inn when she was a younger lass.  She used parts of the animals’ bodies for other needs, too – particularly the pelts and guts, which made fine clothing and tough string or thread.  Her favorite meats for eating were rabbit, deer and fresh water trout.
	Besides trout, other fish, too, were counted among her choicest delicacies.  When she managed to catch fish, she would pack them, skin intact, in river mud, and roast them, thusly enbricked, in the coals of her fire.  Cracking open the clay, after it was fire-hardened, she would be greeted with the appetizing aroma of steam-tendered flakes of layered white meat.
	For greens, she ate the succulent leaves of the horseweed plants that are closely akin to dandelions.  She chewed on the insides of milkweeds, pussy willows and marsh grasses, and dug up radish-like tubers from the hillsides.  Although the harvesting of nuts was tedious because of their hard shells, she ate as much of their sweet meats as she could obtain during the deluge of abundance that marked their seasons.
	For dessert, she ate whatever fruits were presently peaking in flavor.  As if ripe fruit weren’t sweet enough, she would sometimes dip it in honey, which she managed to pilfer by insidious infiltration from wild bees.  This unlikely feat was performed by standing out of sight of the bees, and poking a long stick into their hive so excruciatingly slowly, that, though they would know their hive was damaged, and consequently rush to make repairs, they would not realize that their precious trove was being secreted away by an undetected thief. 
	Another use for the honey was in the making of a hot drink, which recipe changed nightly, but consisted mostly of hot water, honey, boiled sassafras root, and various experimental spices and berries.  This was the warmth, along with the campfire, that soothed Eborel to sleep on many a cold and shiver-chill night.
	Of the metal in her knives, Eborel was cognizant of the dependence she placed upon it for her very survival.  That her brethren at home should shun all use of metal for any purpose nonplussed her no end.  Was it stubborn superstitious backwardness that compelled them, or something more abstruse?  She could not know, but oath-swore to keep her knives close-by and honed at all times.

	For months on end, Eborel kept on the move, changing her camp location almost daily.  She was eager to put distance between herself and her home.  She followed stream tributaries in meandering fashion, always pressing in a generally northward direction toward the mountains.
	If her path could be viewed on a map, it would appear nearly random, with movements in all directions, and the forward movements outnumbering the others by only a small margin.  This was due more to the signature patterns of the waterways she traveled along then any confusion on her part about her intended direction.
	The methodology she conceived to direct her course was quite considered.  Her reasoning ran thusly:  She preferred to follow streams rather than roadways in order to avoid detection by people.  Streams would surely afford better passage than untraveled forest or overgrown brush, she thought, though not nearly as good as roads or paths, no matter how poorly maintained.  And, although roads sometimes followed waterways, she felt she could take care not to encounter anyone in such areas.
	She believed she would need to cross many small ranges as she moved towards larger mountains.  Since most of her travel was in heavily forested woodland, it was practically impossible to keep a true course northward.  Yet, if she followed a stream closely, she could always be sure she was moving either uphill or down, depending on its direction of flow. 
	So a typical course from valley to crest to the next valley would proceed as follows:  First, she would go upstream, encountering forks and choosing branches by considered intuition.  Many times, she chose one fork, only to retrace her path, (sometimes days later because of impassability, or an unwanted turn), to then choose the other fork.  When the stream would dwindle to a trickle, as it always did, she would climb the most attainable peak nearby, and ascertain a likely route to any visible gullies on the north side of the range over which she was crossing.  Once so directed, she would follow the contour of the land downwards, looking for water.  As it was almost always found, she would then follow the ever-enlarging runnels downstream, which, being more preferable than the upstream direction for several reasons, not the least of which was the lightness of her exertion, was all the more so for Eborel, as she needed to make no decisions at the forks.
	Eventually, the streams would widen to a river and bottom out in a low valley.  The watercourse usually turned either to the east or the west, and Eborel would follow it for a time.  She would linger by the river, sometimes camping in the same spot for several days, fishing, and enjoying the warmer clime.
	Life by the water in the valleys was staid and bucolic, in sharp contrast to the rigor of fighting through the brush on the slopes.  But she would sight more people in the lowlands, and she was still eager to avoid them.  Then too, her hunger drove her to the hunt every day.  So she would grow restless and anxious to move on.  As she journeyed along the river, a large tributary would inevitably present itself, blocking her path, truculently daring her to traverse its eddying confluence with the main branch.  It was then that she would turn north again, and, rather than cross the tributary, follow along it, and rejoin her upstream climb.
	Eborel had many mishaps during her trek north – most involving physical challenge.  Several times, the fire in her clay carrier went out while she traveled.  Though she was usually able to relight the fire using friction between sticks to ignite tinder, it was not always possible when the environs were soaked by wet weather.  On those occasions, she would search for a stranger’s campfire by watching for a telltale smoke plume rising above the treetops.  Sneaking into a camp to steal an ember while the occupants were either asleep or away was sometimes the easiest way to regain fire.
	Once, she was nearly discovered by two men who had not abandoned their campfire as she had surmised.  After having taken a hot piece of charcoal and placing it in her clay holder, she studied some bits of flint by the fire when she heard their approach.  Panicking, she bolted, holding two pieces of flint in her hand.
	She wanted to keep the flints, but felt guilty about stealing them.  She could return to their site and talk to them directly, negotiating a hoped-for trade, but word of her whereabouts might spread homeward.  She could leave something for them surreptitiously of equal or greater value, and even though it would not be an agreed-to trade, the men might be satisfied.  She reasoned too, that she was not endangering their welfare, as she had left several pieces of flint behind.
	Eventually, she decided to leave a rabbit pelt and one small coin.  The coin she chose appeared to be of a small denomination, though she did not know if it was a valid token of exchange in her present locale.  She decided not to leave a note explaining her actions, as the men did not appear to be letter-learned.
	She snuck into their camp while they were away and left her offering near the flints, which were still displayed.  Slinking off, she felt unsettlingly like a thief.  On the next day, she snuck in again to see if her gift had been accepted.  Surprised, she found the camp vacated, with nearly all traces of their passage obscured, and the two items left by her undisturbed.  Perturbed, she imagined that she had scared them, and that they had fled in fear.
	Perhaps they did not notice that any flints were missing, and did not understand her offering.  Perhaps they were frightened by the coin, as it was made of metal.  Maybe they thought they were completely alone, and were startled that someone roamed the surrounding woods without their knowledge, and could enter their camp undetected.  Whatever the reason for their flight, Eborel resolved not to steal again, and to face her barterers the next time, no matter the risk of personal discovery.

6.  Quid Synch

To hail or to hide, to flee or to follow.
-Eborel’s quandary

	As the months passed and Eborel pressed resolutely northward, a change in conviction enveloped her.  Even as the mountains loomed ever larger, she lost sight of her original goal.  Just as one can lose sight of the forest for the trees, she lost sight of the range for the mountains.
	Every peak looked the same as the last.  The drudgery of the march coupled with the relentlessness of the repetitive scenery wore her down.  She had no specific destination within the mountains, and began to long to stop moving.  Drambuie had said, “Yield to the finding of yourself by Asheric.”
	She wanted to settle down.  One mountain was as good as another.  There were few, if any, people about.  The hunting was lush.  If she built a shelter, she could withstand the cold of the coming winter.  The adage went, “If you are lost, remain still, and wait to be found.”
	As she contemplated a suitable settling place, she had an adventure that started suddenly and frightfully.  While negotiating a bubbling brook along a ravine, she looked high up at the faint outline of a bluff that seemed from below like it would afford a beautiful and vast view of the surroundings.  Closing her eyes, imagining herself looking out from the bluff and feeling the wind in her face, she listened to the bubbling water at her feet, and heard a distant rumbling, as the ground beneath her began to shake.
	In seconds, a tremendous grinding of stone and creaking of tree limbs filled the air with terrifying sound.  She became intensely aware of her vulnerability in the valley to falling debris, and scrambled in a panic out of the streambed to embrace the nearest tree.  An horrific crashing of boulders sounded from an indistinct direction, although she could see no falling rocks or snapping trees in her vicinity.  She later determined that an avalanche had occurred some distance away, but for the moment, the booming loudness made it seem as though the rocks rained directly from above.
	Though the duration of the ground-shaking was relatively brief, she felt certain that it had lasted for minutes.  So many thoughts raced through her mind that her perception of time seemed stretched.  Even after the ground stopped pitching, the distant sound of crashing rock only fitfully and reluctantly abated.
	Eborel was badly shaken by the experience.  She clambered part way up the hillside in hopes of finding protection from any residual falling rocks.  She also wanted to get a view up the ravine towards the source of the most intense crashing sounds.  Although she couldn’t discern any obvious damage from her vantage point, she did see an ominous rising smoke-like brown-gray cloud of dust.
	Mesmerized, she watched as it rose and flowed, swirling down the valley towards her.  She froze, unable to determine if it was dangerous, and unable to imagine escaping it.  While watching, she was startled by the unlikely sight of a figure in white as it emerged from the cloud, bounding down the creek bed and capering in her direction, as if leading the dust in his wake.
	Flummoxed, she did not know whether to hail or hide.  He did not seem aware of her, yet he made directly towards her position.  He came, evidently, from the direction of the avalanche, and while he must surely have been killed by it, he seemed completely unharmed.
	As he came level with her, she could see that he was an old man, which made his survival and liveliness seem all the more untenable.  His very existence in the remote mountains was in itself, aside from the catastrophe, incongruent.  “You’re alive!” she yelled involuntarily.
	“Of course I am!” he replied, stopping and viewing her as though spotting her for the first time.  “What else?”  A moment of silence passed as they studied each other.  He was old but spry, with lively eyes and gray-white hair alternately curled and shocked.  His gown was white and fringed in lace which was torn, nearly shredded, at the hem.  His leather sandals carried him goat-like from rock to rock.
	He squinted as he regarded her.  “Is that Eborel I see there?” he said.  She started visibly, as she was sure she had never met him before.  “It’s a good thing,” he said, “for I have something important to tell you.”
	She fairly slid down the hill to stand before him.  “Do I know you?” she asked.
	“Well, of course you do!” he said.  “Or at least,” he continued after regarding her carefully, “eventually, you will.”
	Another silence ensued.  Eborel could not fathom knowing him, or what he meant by saying she will know him, but she felt that she liked him very much.
	“My but you’re so young Eborel,” he said.  “How old are you now?”
	She puffed up with pride.  “Nearly sixteen,” she said.  He nodded thoughtfully.
	“Are you Asheric?” she asked.
	“No!” he started laughing.  “What an idea!  No, I’m not Asheric.  Clearly we are meeting for the first time, Eborel.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Quid Synch, of course, your advance scout; or advanced, I should say, in more ways than one, and ever at your service.”  He bowed with a flourish.
	She crossed one leg behind the other in a quick curtsey, and said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  At least she had learned that Asheric was a person, and not a place, even though this man was not he.
	“As I was saying,” he continued where he had left off, “I believe I have an answer to your question.”
	“Which question?” she asked.
	“About how to get into the valley.”
	“I didn’t ask about how to get into the valley.”
	“Oh, yes you did!” he said, “or at least…,” he hesitated uncertainly, “in all likelihood, you will.”
	“Well, we’re already in the valley,” she said.
	“No, not this valley, obviously.  Look, I know it doesn’t make much sense, but can you just listen and try to remember what I say?”
	She nodded.
	“Now, I was just speaking to you, and there was a great deal of noise.”  He seemed to be recounting a story.
	“The crashing rocks!” she interjected.
	“No, no,” he said, “cracking sounds, all around us, the battle you know; and it was evident, as it is now, that I would be called away soon.”
	She was bewildered.  “Battle sounds?” she thought, but nodded encouragement to continue.
	He eyed her thoughtfully.  “Let’s see, you wanted to know how to get into the valley, and I couldn’t recall, but I’ve talked to someone since – the Queen actually, who remembers how – but that’s irrelevant, don’t bother to remember that; and the key information, you see, is this:  There’s a secret entrance at the back of the cemetery at the top of the town that leads to a pathway down into the valley.”
	He paused.  “Have you got that?”
	She nodded slowly, and repeated the key information to him.  As she did so, there was some rumbling in the distance.
	“Oh dear,” he said looking up, as he took a few steps up the valley before turning and walking determinedly down along his original course.
	Eborel followed him, “But what town?  What valley?” she asked, sensing urgency as he appeared to be leaving.
	“You know,” he said looking briefly over his shoulder at her, “the one overlooking the valley.  Oh blast!  What’s it called?  Look, you can’t follow me, Eborel,” he implored her.  “You know better!  You’ve got to flee.  Move away from me as quickly as possible.  Can’t you see I’m getting the call?”
	He broke into a run and she stopped in her tracks.
	He looked back and yelled, “The Eternal Valley, I think.  Now flee!” and he disappeared from sight.
	Eborel turned and ran up the side of the valley as fast as she could go.  Sure enough, the rumbling turned into another ground-shaking avalanche.  This time it was closer than before, though perhaps less violent.  She clung to a tree, and waited in terror, surviving once again.  When the shaking stopped, she ran down the valley to where she had just met Quid Synch.  It was covered in rubble and debris.  She would have been killed had she stayed, and by the looks of the extensive damage, Quid Synch was almost certainly dead and buried.  
	She fell to her knees sobbing uncontrollably.  These tumultuous events were just too frightening for her to handle.  She curled up in a ball and didn’t care a wit if another avalanche came and killed her on the spot.

7.  Homestead
Thank the lumi!
-Common propitious saying

	No more avalanches came, and Eborel lay on the bed of rock rubble unmoving until nightfall.  The sun set early, as was its wont in the valleys, and left three beautiful lumi crescents hanging like ornaments in the western sky.  The wind rose, bringing a chill to her weary body.  She did not have the luxury of wallowing in despondency or paralytic fear.  Survival was her daily charge, and it demanded action now.
	Lethargically, she dragged herself to her feet, searching in the dim light for the backpack she had thrown down when the ground first shook.  Finding it, she pulled out blankets and furs to build a makeshift shelter between two bushes for the night.  She did not make a fire, nor eat or drink, but rolled herself up tightly in Drambuie’s woolen felt blanket, and slept until daybreak.
	The new dawn brought renewed vigor.  Eborel determined that she would climb to the bluff she had seen earlier, then wind back down, exploring the mountain as she went.  She planned to scout for a more suitable sleeping place, and make a new camp by nightfall.  Her intention, ultimately, was to settle permanently for the winter, either on this mountain or on one nearby.
	She sought relief through physical exertion from her thoughts of the prior day’s horrific events.  Quid Synch’s sure demise and her own close scrape with death left vexing images in her mind.  That he had called her by name, and spoken of future conversations with her were unfathomable mysteries.
	The climb to the bluff was prodigious and provided the distraction she needed to forget her fears.  Rather than attaining its crest quickly, and exploring the mountain afterwards upon subsequent descent as she had intended, she found herself by necessity exploring the mountain on her way up.  For she was confounded as she climbed by the conspicuous absence of discernable pathways and by near-vertical slopes which forced her to sweep from side to side in great arcs as she ascended.  It took nearly the whole day, during which time she effectively visited most of the mountain, only arriving at her destination an hour before sunset.  But upon attaining it, she was rewarded with a stunning vista of the valley from above, as she stood atop the bluff which she had hitherto only seen as a glimmer from far below.
	She found herself near the apex of the mountain, on a sizable piece of nearly flat land, with a clearing that afforded an expansive view in three quarters of the directions of the compass.  Even more thrilling than the view was her discovery of a cave next to the plateau, situated under the mountain’s peak, which pinnacle formed a rounded roof to the rock enclosure below.  Although she didn’t know if the cave was inhabited by creatures, she felt sure it would make an ideal home.  Situated up so high, she would be out of the way of traffic passing through, and not easily espied.  Yet, she could see from above anyone coming or going for leagues in either direction along the valley. 
	There were three problems with this settling place that preoccupied her as she made camp.  One was the probable lack of a water source so high up on the mountain.  Another was the prospect of enduring a cold steady intense wind, as was likely on this summit, or any other summit for that matter, in these climes.  And the third was a concern that the mountain would not be able to provide her with enough food through the winter.  The lack of any animal pathways seen on her way up attested to the probable dearth of wildlife.
	These problems she relegated to a future time, when improved circumstances might allow their solutions to more easily unfold.  For the moment, she let the excitement of her find infuse her flagging spirits with enthusiasm.  Visions of building a cozy nest for herself danced before her mind’s eye.
	Indeed, Eborel fell in love with her new home, and named it “Baldy,” after the summit’s featureless glinting dome.  At a later time, she would give it the more august appellation of “Sparkling Pate,” in honor of her original pet name.
	She dug in, and within a month, erected an infrastructure sufficiently developed to survive the winter into spring.  She applied her talents in earnest to the art of construction, as she had previously done to the demands and vicissitudes of the hunt.  She found the cave habitable, and assembled a wind break at its entrance out of branches and pelts.  She built a rock fire pit outside the cave with stone chairs and a table nearby.  She contrived a long rope water hoist that went over the bluff to a point lower down the mountain where a spring bubbled clear ice-cold water.
	Inside the cave, there were several natural depressions in the floors and walls.  Some of the nooks made convenient storage areas for food stuffs and building supplies.  One of the smaller pits in the floor made a perfect indoor fireplace, the smoke from which issued through a crack high in the wall.  Nearby, the largest depression acted as an indoor tub, which, though not entirely leak-proof, nonetheless held water for enough hours to afford a luxurious hot stone bath.
	Of the trees on the flat land, she planned their demise to make way for a garden.  Stripping their bark in narrow bands around the trunks, she had only to wait for the failure of the sap to run in early spring for them to waste away and die.  Though the trees were stunted and small, she found come spring that she could not easily fell them.  In fact, she gave up the task of doing so, opting instead to leave them to decompose, and consoled herself that, at least they no longer leached the soil of nutrients, nor stole sunlight from the ground nearby.
	Eborel’s garden did not, in fact, get off to a very productive start.  Starving as she was in early spring after a long cold winter, she had little energy to tend it.  That, along with her lack of knowledge about soil preparation, and the unavailability of domesticated plant seeds, predisposed her project to sprout a field of mostly weeds and indigenous wild flowers.  That said, the garden developed a certain charm of unbridled diversity by mid-summer.  What it lacked in energy staples, it made up for in variety of color, shape and flavor.  Her herbs were perhaps her biggest success, chief among which were wild radish, mustard and anise, as well as peppermint and lemon balm; and her favorite flavor, sassafras, which she managed by careful effort to transplant from surrounding areas.  Other notable successes were her field of Alpine strawberries, bunches of edible chrysanthemum flowers, and small wild crook-necked gourds on clambering vines, which provided the best sustenance of any of her crops.

8.  A Peddler

The Cagey Cadger, Master of all he Purveys.
-Dusty’s epithet

	Eborel scrabbled through two winters on Sparkling Pate mountain.  During the intervening seasons, she built her home into a fine abode, and stocked up for the inevitable cold of the darkest months.  But during the summer, she took long exploratory trips to nearby mountains.
	What she found provided little in the way of new discovery.  The mountains remained unvaried in any direction she cared to go.  There were no towns, no settlements, and no cultivated land within a week’s striking distance from her home.  She might have been alone in the world, were it not for the occasional small bands of travelers that passed through her domain via the one rough valley-bottom road.
	As she was still shy of strangers, she kept her distance from such people.  Curiosity, however, being ever-present, usually got the better of her.  She therefore often spied upon the interlopers from nearby vantage points as they passed.  Their odd ways piqued her interest.  The singsong accents of their brogue-filled language attested to points of origin in faraway places.  Their clothing was often loose and flowing, which, as they concealed items carried close upon their person, added to their aura of mystery.  The variation in head wrappings was of such diversity as to create a pageantry for the eye, especially when viewed in silhouette.  She saw turbans, hooded veils, wide-brimmed and multi-brimmed hats, quaintly vestigial skullcaps, and sewn suede Sherpa hats with tie-down ear flaps.
	They were Draelanders all, outfitted in traveling style, replete with the gnarled and crooked walking sticks which were the requisite mark of the overland journeyman.  But whither did they go, whence did they hail, and what, pray tell, was their business?
	She wondered, but did not approach them.  She stowed money on her person on the off-chance that a passerby might have something to trade.  In all the time she spent at her mountain home, that possibility never presented itself – but once.
	It was on a bright summer day that she spotted a small entourage from her watch-point on the bluff.  It consisted of a man leading a horse-drawn cart, followed by a donkey, which was tethered to the cart.  The assemblage lumbered at a faltering snail’s pace towards her location.
	It took them all day to travel a handful of furlongs to the base of Eborel’s mountain.  In the late afternoon, they halted there to make camp.
	Eborel resolved to spy upon them.  Taking a few of the coins that Drambuie had left her, she stole down the mountain the next morning in the early light.
	When she arrived at the camp, the man was boiling water on a makeshift fire pit.  He had nondescript features:  neither tall nor short, heavyset nor slight of build.  His progression through his years was “somewhere in the middle-ages.”  Ocher-brown hair framed a finely sculpted face with aquiline features that, if seen in a drawing, might be outlined in ink with the finest of quill points.
	He mumbled to himself almost constantly, which implied a perhaps greater age than his appearance might belie.  Rather, Eborel took it as a sign of loneliness, or at the least, as a defense against the tedium of solitude.
	He said odd things to himself, such as, “Come now Dusty, you’re a king in another realm.  If the commoners can manage this, then so can you!”  By this, she inferred that he was calling himself Dusty, and not addressing one of his animals.  She decided to abandon her spying mission, and step into his view, announcing her presence with the salutation:  “Hail and new-met Dusty, I am Eborel.”  She curtseyed politely.
	Certainly he was taken aback, but not as much as might be expected.  She wondered if he may have detected her presence, which meant that his mumblings might have been presented for her benefit.
	“And so you are!” he resounded with gusto, gesturing merrily for her to approach.
	“Well I’ll be dumbfounded, and found dumb, but much the better for it!” he boomed expansively as he looked her up and down.  “To what do I owe such a visitation, in this great empty country,” he gestured broadly, “by such a slip of a young lass as you?  Forgive my impertinence, dear, but do your parents know that you’re out and about?”
	“In a manner,” she hesitated, equivocating, “but I thought a little company might enliven both our circumstances.”
	“Indeed?” he said.  “Are you lacking for want of human company, as I am?”  He gestured convivially to his bestial coterie.  His manner was curiously grand.
	“Yes,” she said, “though not because I live with animals, but rather because I live alone – nearby.”  She trusted this stranger with that information, as she did not feel threatened by him.
	“What!  In this deserted place?  Are your parents bereft of their lives then?  For that is the only reason I can think to explain your difficult circumstance.”
	“No, it’s just that they’re far away,” she said.
	“Oh, abandoned then?” he nodded solemnly.
	“Yes,” she said, but sensing that he meant that her parents had abandoned her, she explained, “but rather in the reverse than you might think.” 
	“Oh, a runaway then, are you?” he asked.
	She nodded, expecting him to launch into protracted invective, culminating with an urgent appeal for her to return to her family posthaste.  But he only invited her to sit for a mug of heathermist tea.
	She eagerly accepted, and thence ensued a pleasant and engaging conversation.  He described himself as a peddler – a purveyor of wares – and a traveler of the realm.  He knew everybody, and every town; from the tiniest enclave to Elginzice itself, and from the lowliest provost to no less than the King and the Queen of the land.  He carried the latest news from the farthest reaches, and considered himself to be the self-appointed disseminator of it.  He was, not so much a town crier, as a world crier.
	Eborel marveled at his gargantuan breadth of reach, and remarked, “How expansive!” to which Dusty beamed with pride.  She noted his use of the word “Elginzice,” and resolved to question him about it anon.
	For now, she asked if he had any news of Dimthistle.  He did not, but he knew of the inn there, and its innkeeper, though he did not recall his name.  She could not recollect Dusty ever visiting the inn, but she reasoned that he must have done so well before her time.  It was thrilling to her that her father might know this man.
	After a moment, Dusty sprang up, and said, “A nonce, I may have news of Dimthistle!”  He leapt to his cart, which might more aptly be described as a small covered wagon, and rummaged noisily inside.  Eborel could not imagine what he was looking for.  After a considerable time, he emerged with a newspaper, which Eborel immediately recognized as the Draeland Gazette.
	Now here I must digress.  For the Gazette was the only newspaper published in Draeland, and, upon reflection, understandably so.  Being a suspicious and distrusting lot, as previously alluded to, the Draelanders rarely believed any words writ by others unless they were known personally to them.  Even then, the circumstances under which any person, known or not, might put pen to parchment would be, perforce, dubious at best.  For what person would write down words that couldn’t better be expressed verbally, face to face, man to man?  Someone like that might be possessed of a demon, and then the words would be that of the demon, and not the speaker.  Thus were the suspicions raised in the hearts of the common man by the specter of the written word.
	And too, the Gazette suffered from being published by the Monks near the lakeport town of Manx.  To say these monks were universally feared and distrusted would be an understatement.  That they kept to themselves, operated a paper mill, maintained a library, and harnessed the power of the Maywend River with a water wheel for their undoubtedly nefarious purposes, did naught but foment their stature as, at the least, questionable machinators, and at the worst, insidiously wicked sorcerers and necromancers.
	That said, the record of publications of the Gazette, which heralded about as often as the festival of lights, offered a veritable cornucopia of Draeic lore; from the most mundane minutiae of everyday life, to the grandest events of the land.  Whether and whither such record of publications existed in actual fact, was, of course, purely a matter of conjecture, as none was known by any, save possibly the secretive Monks.
	And while widely panned and disparaged, the paper’s contents managed to disseminate, if not to a majority, at least to a surprisingly diverse minority of the populace.  This was all the more unusual, since the great preponderance of Draelanders were not literate enough to read it.
	Typically, the paper’s articles were digested at tantalizingly slow leisure, by groups of people who barely paid attention to orators at public meeting places, such as picnics and open air markets.  This was how Eborel learned to read, by at first listening, and then reading aloud herself, to the patrons at her father’s inn.
	Often the content was dry and pedantic, consisting of long lists of goods traded, their bartered-for amounts, origin and destination points, traders’ and agents’ names, and other seemingly useless arcane information.  This was exactly the sort of pointless detail that Draelanders detested, as a rule.
	Eborel recalled with amusement the heckling she would receive as she cried the trade news at the tavern.  “Did you say salted ‘barley’ flour, or ‘burley’ flour?  What kind of flour is that?  Why would anyone salt flour?  Is that dry weight, or wet?  If it’s burley, can you smoke it?  How can you smoke it if it’s wet?  I think those crazed Monks must have smoked it before they wrote that!  Come on girl, read it all over again!”
	Evidently, a complete reading of one issue might take weeks or months.  It was not done to savor the news it contained, which albeit arrived only infrequently, but to savor instead the manifold forms of derision that the news incited in its listeners.  The extent and variety of sardonic humor expressed by Draelanders was legend, particularly when applied to the art of creative mockery.  Audience response to events in the news was surpassed only by local gossip as the primary form of entertainment in Draeland.  
	But while the trade news comprised the great majority of the paper, there were smaller interesting sections of note.  Besides obituaries, birth announcements, an opinions column, and a history synopsis entitled “500 Years Ago Today,” there were two small features titled, rather whimsically, “The King’s Corner” and “News of the Immortals.”  And while the opinions column was generally considered the most popular, Eborel’s favorites were the latter two.  These were the articles to which she first turned with the arrival of each new issue.
	But none of those sections were the ones Dusty perused now as he scoured the pages.  First he looked at the classifieds, and then he looked under “Lost and Found.”
	“Aha!” he exclaimed, reading thusly:  “ ‘Lost – one girl.  If found, return to Aldus and Margott of Dimthistle, Inn at the Crossroads, County of Dewberry.  Answers to Eborel.’ ”
	Eborel was mortified.  Dusty looked up and smiled benevolently.  “I don’t think they realize you don’t want to be found,” he said.
	She looked at him pleadingly, “You won’t let on to anyone you’ve met me, will you?”
	He nodded, “Your secret is safe with me.  I may be the world crier, but I know when to stay mum.”
	Eborel believed him.  What she couldn’t believe was that her parents had placed that notice in the paper.  She thought they must be desperate for news from her.  A long silence ensued.
	“Do you think,” she began, “you would carry a letter for me posted to my parents?”
	“Of course!” he said.  “And I’ll be vague to whomever I hand it, about where, and from whom, I procured it.”
	“I would like to purchase some things from you,” she said, rather on impulse.  She wasn’t sure what she had in mind, but she thought she’d start with the Gazette.  “I have money.”
	“Oh, you do?”  He motioned for her to show her barter, as was the custom when proffering a trade.  She brought out the medallion Drambuie had given her, in order perhaps, to gauge his reaction to it, and to give her the opportunity to ask him about Elginzice.  Technically, she should not have done that, as she was not willing to part with it.  But the strict rules of trading were not always adhered to with youngsters under the age of 50. 
	His reaction was overt.  “You can have everything,” he said, waving towards his cart.  “But honestly child, that medallion is precious beyond value.  You must try to return it to its owner, Zoro’Ander, for it is obviously lost to him.”
	“I believe it was Zoro’Ander himself who gave it to me, of his own free will,” she said, “although he called himself Drambuie.”
	Dusty was skeptical.  “I don’t know the name Drambuie, and the mystics do not move easily among men,” he said.  “Nay, many a Draelander believe they are mythical characters only, created by the Monks for their own insidious purposes to sway men’s minds.
	“And too, I know Zoro’Ander,” he continued.  “He does not believe in ‘free will’ as you so aptly put it.  But if he did give it to you, and I have no heartfelt reason to think otherwise, then it was commanded to him by the necessity of events.  And therefore, I would not go against that command by taking that coin.  Offer me something else!” he enjoined.
	Eborel’s reverence for the peddler grew as she imagined him consorting with none other than an Eternal of the realm.  Her reverence for Drambuie grew, too, as she realized the scope of his stature.  She admitted that she had not hitherto believed in the Eternals.  They seemed like entertaining cartoon characters when she read parables about them in the Gazette.  But this peddler’s conviction on the subject seemed patently genuine.
	“And what of Elginzice?” she asked.
	“What of it?” he said.  “It is not a mythical place as many believe, but exists as truly as you and I, for I have been there, as I have said.  It is the center of the world for mystics!”
	Eborel could not fathom how she could not know the name ‘Elginzice.’  Feeling bewildered, she withdrew the medallion and studied it anew.  After a moment, she placed it in her small sac, and produced a different coin while Dusty eyed her intently.
	“I’d like to buy a copy of the Gazette,” she stated.
	“Well that’s a pretty penny for one paper!” he exclaimed, and going full against traditional bartering protocol, he raised the stakes.  “I’ll give you the Gazette, as well as a good cooking pot, a wooden bucket, a ladle,” he paused to scrutinize her arrayment, “mayhap a bolt of cloth,” he paused again in thought, “some parchment so you can write the letter to which you referred, and…” he eyed his donkey musingly, “that sturdy, but ornery beast there.”  He gestured quixotically to the tethered creature.  “But the donkey is the minx cat in the deal.  You can’t have the lot without taking her.”  He awaited her counter-offer.
	Eborel arose and approached the donkey.  “What is her name?” she asked, scratching between its ears and offering her hay.
	“I know not,” he said.  “It’s as you wish.  I procured her in the Westron Firthlands, by the sea.”
	“I wonder that she can climb yonder mountain?” she said, indicating her lofted home.
	“Oh, she’ll climb a steeper grade than you, I warrant,” he assured her.  “And she won’t flag before you do, either.”
	“Well…” she said noncommittally.
	“It’s done then!” he said snatching the coin from in front of him.  “You can untie the firthling now, if you like.”
	Eborel was enamored of the beast who seemed to have formed an immediate rapport with her.  “I’ll have to stall her through the winter, if she’s to survive,” she said.  “I wonder if I might ride her?”
	“She’s young, but you may yet,” he said.
	“I like the name ‘Firthling,’ ” she said, “but she’ll outgrow that appellation.  Mayhap I’ll call her Firthmare.”
	“She’s not a horse,” he said, “but a donkey may yet be called a mare.  You can put her to work today carrying the goods you’ve so earnestly bargained for.”

	Eborel spent nigh on half a day with Dusty before parting his company.  She wrote a letter to her family which he conveyed as promised.  It would, she felt, provide sure and welcome relief, and was worded thusly:

Beloved parents and sister,
	I survive and prosper, and remember you with great fondness.  I have learned of your posting in the Gazette seeking my whereabouts.  Please do not fret, nor attempt to lull me home, as I will return only at mine own behest.  Know that I am grown strong and capable, and willfully optimistic about my future endeavors.  Please have faith, patience and reserve, as I do.
	With deepest sincerity, Eborel

	Eborel left Dusty with a mutually expressed desire that they meet again under more prolonged and convivial circumstances.  They faith-swore eternal friendship and loyalty, promising to seek each other out where’er they traveled.  Eborel was moved by Dusty’s exuberance, and liked him very much.
	Upon leaving, she wound her way up the mountain, leading Firthmare obediently behind, who hoofed the path expertly, as if she had trodden it a thousand times before.

9.  Asheric
Ruff, rough; roof!
-Shangoo, playing with Stealth

	Besides Firthmare, Eborel acquired one other pet during her time on Sparkling Pate mountain.  It happened on a late summer day that she came across an injured falcon, unable to fly because of a broken wing.
	The bird was young, and Eborel took pity on its life.  She nurtured the fledgling back to health, so that it regained its birthright of flight.  During its convalescence, Eborel trained it with bits of enticing meat to come to the sound of a shrill whistle.
	She named her passerine raptor “Skyewing.”  By its flattened crest, Eborel guessed that it was a female.  Though haughty and wild, Skyewing did not abandon her caretaker once fully healed.  She accompanied Eborel on outings, and provided aerial support during the hunt.
	The hunting duo made a formidable team.  Skyewing would hover above prey too large to attack on her own.  If Eborel was able to find and bring down the game, Skyewing was duly rewarded with a portion of the kill.
	Though Eborel loved her winged charge, she knew in her heart that one day Skyewing would fail to heed her beck, and answer instead, to the call of nature.  Even as Eborel had done as a younger girl, the regal predator would leave her “family,” such as it was, and strike out on her own.
	That prescient knowledge made each hunting foray seem the more precious, as Eborel wondered whether it might be their last together.

	Now, as much has been made of the difficulties of surviving through the first hibernal season, it will only be stated here that Eborel and her animals persevered against the discomforts of a second winter, emerging thusly, come springtime, suffused of a triumphant spirit.
	That Eborel was eager to make ever-larger incursions into the surrounding mountains cannot be overstated.  And as the preponderance of travelers passing through her area did so from a westerly direction, she became more curious about what might lay toward that horizon, than in any other direction in which she might choose to wander.
	Thus it was that she found herself more frequently exploring the westward road, traipsing ever further on consecutive trips, attended by her small retinue of animals.  Well aware of the increased chance of meeting strangers, she strayed often from the path, and took side trips when she heard footsteps or voices.
	She managed, without being rude, she hoped, to avoid directly talking to anyone, although she was often seen at a distance, usually riding upon Firthmare.  Her successful evasion of people changed one day when she was taken aback fearfully by a seemingly chance encounter with a personage whose presence figures large in this story.
	While Firthmare grazed nearby in a meadow and Skyewing soared overhead, Eborel meandered alone through the woods, idly stalking skittish chipmunks who cast nervously about the forest floor.  This was a favorite pastime of hers, sneaking up on the unwary critters.  She sharpened her shadowing skills by creeping silently within striking distance, then clicking her tongue to startle and scatter the confused animals – much to her amusement.
	She was thusly engaged, watching from the base of a tree as a chipmunk ran in sudden peril-flight up the trunk, when she gazed across a glade to see a silent figure seated in deep thought upon a large rock, the entire scene which was bathed in slanting sunlight.
	Intrigued by his solitude – the lack of companions, animals, or baggage being unusual – and still in a stalking frame of mind, she silently approached the figure to within a short stone’s throw distance.  As she was close enough to see the furious workings of his eyebrows, he appeared to her to be enmeshed in roiling turbid thoughts, and, like her faux-prey chipmunks, unaware of her clandestinely appropriated proximity.
	She resolved to address him and break his reverie, but studied his attire before doing so.  He wore a white robe upon his lanky frame, in whose folds were partly hidden tools of some sort which were attached to wide leather belts that both encircled his waist and crisscrossed his chest.  His deeply wrinkled visage was leathery brown and offered a pleasing contrast to his snow white mane of hair and trimmed imperial-style beard.
	Eborel addressed the venerable gentleman tentatively with, “Sir…,” but was flabbergasted by his immediate and violent reaction.  Springing up with a cry of  “Avast!” he withdrew, in one smooth motion, a narrow curved scimitar from a hitherto hidden scabbard and, pointing it directly and menacingly at the startled girl, admonished her thusly:  “Away foul demon!  Prepare to die at the hands of Asheric!”
	Eborel instinctively went into a defensive crouch and, realizing who he was by his name, yelled, “I’m no threat to you Asheric.  I come at the bidding of your friend.”  And she added under her breath, “This is not the meeting I expected.”
	Warily she stepped slowly sideways, ready to bolt if he should lunge.  While speaking, she became aware of a person or creature moving rapidly toward her from the right.  It stopped suddenly, seemingly in response to a hand signal from Asheric.
	She flicked her eyes right to assess the threat and was shocked to see a large tawny cat with tufted ears staring stone-faced at her.  Now she was seriously frightened as she could not fathom how she might out-maneuver a cat.  She felt that she, the hunter, would be, in a fast heartbeat, the hunted.
	“Lies!” he said.  “Who is this friend that would send a demon to me in the guise of a girl?”
	“His name was Drambuie, sir.  He said…”  But she was cut off as Asheric directed the cat with a hand signal to pounce.  Her reaction to the cat was instantaneous and surprised herself with its inhuman speed.  She saw it coming, and managed to slide out of its way fluidly, all the while watching its massive form fly past in slowed motion, as if under water.
	She noticed as it passed that its claws were sheathed, as though it were not trying to kill her, but merely knock her over.  The effect was practically the same, as she fell down anyway while twisting out of the way.  Time seemed to return to normal speed as she found herself on the ground puzzling over the strangeness of motion that had transpired.
	Strategically, it was a mistake to hesitate in thought, as the cat found an opportunity to pounce again, and managed to push her onto her back, shoulders pinned to the ground, one each by the forepaws, with the claws still thankfully sheathed.
	Its mouth opened wide and half encircled the front of her neck in a potentially lethal choke hold.  Eborel felt frighteningly close to death.
	The cat could easily kill her, but stayed itself.  Eborel dared not fight back, even as Asheric drew nigh with his sword.  Looking up, she saw his blade pointing toward her face, and, feeling the hot breath of the cat on her neck, heard him say, “I know no one named Drambuie.”  He held the sword within inches of her face.  She could see the fine swirling patterns upon its thin metallic surface.
	“You breached the gossamer net I set for protection, without my awareness,” he continued.  “You evaded Stealth, my lynx, as no common person can.  You bear no obvious weapons, save ensorcellment perhaps, yet inexplicably, you did not attempt to kill me when the opportunity was plainly there.  A demon you must be, but capricious and fey beyond accountable reason.”
	Eborel sensed that he did not want to kill her, and became annoyed that he wouldn’t hear her out.  In a measured and determined tone, she completed the sentence she had started before being so ignobly compromised.  “He said…” she went on, “that I should attain the mountains, and yield to the finding of myself by Asheric.”
	“Hmm,” Asheric pondered.
	“He is also known by the name of Zoro’Ander, I believe,” she said.
	“Yes,” he smiled, pulling the sword back somewhat.  “My old philosophical nemesis, Zoro’Ander,” he mused.  “That would be his phrasing.  But I haven’t seen him in ages.”  A new doubt crossed his face.  “How do I know you didn’t kill him before coming after me?”  He eyed her with redoubled menace.
	“Oh, really!” she said exasperated.  “He’s alive as you or I, to be sure.  I’m no danger to you.  Demon indeed!  Call off your cat, Sloth, if you don’t mind.”
	“That’s Stealth,” he said, correcting her.
	“Well, Stealth is starting to slobber on my neck, if you please!” she said indignantly.
	Asheric hesitated another moment, pressing his advantage, then reluctantly gave the cat a head nod to retreat.  In the end, it seemed to him wholly unlikely that a demon would have penetrated this far west anyway.
	“Thank you, I think,” said Eborel sarcastically as she sat up and patted meadow debris off her clothing.  Stealth sat on his haunches nearby, but never relinquished his impenetrable gaze upon her.
	Asheric re-sheathed his sword and contemplated her anew.  Placing his chin in his hand and frowning, he cogitated out loud, “Zoro’Ander has sent you to me for a reason, that is clear,” he said.  “You have special talents, that is also clear.”
	“Let’s see,” he continued thinking.  “You are quite young, that’s obvious.  How old are you?” he fairly fired the question at her.
	“Seventeen,” she answered.
	“Ah, nearly university age,” he said.  “And you’re rough around the edges.  Your talents need to be honed, that is plain.  You could be quite useful in the cause.  That’s it!” he said with finality.  “I’m sending you to school.  It’s the Ashram for you!  Surely this is why Zoro’Ander steered you toward me.  I shall thank him personally at the next opportunity!”
	“But what is an ashram?” she asked, “And what if I don’t want to go?  And what is this ‘cause’ you speak of?”
	“Now, now, you must do as your betters direct,” he said imperiously.  “Take the road west from here about 40 leagues, then go north at Feather Rill Valley.”  He commanded her as if he expected unquestioning obedience.  “Don’t bother asking strangers for directions to any school.  Its location is a secret.  Students on patrol will eventually find you.”
	“Take this,” he fished something out of a small pocket.  She took it in her hand, only glancing at it, and thought to herself, “Oh no, it’s another medallion.”
	“That will ensure you gain entrance.  I will check on your progress.  I expect to see you there!” he said, pointing at her menacingly as he and Stealth made a seemingly exigent egress.
	“But…” she faltered, “you don’t even know my name!”
	“It doesn’t matter,” he said over his shoulder, retreating.  “I won’t remember it.”
	“Eborel,” she shouted after him.  “My name is Eborel!”  she hollered, but no one was listening.  She sat down in the grass, fighting the tears of hysteria that come naturally after such a perilous brush with death.  
	Looking at the object in her hand, tears streaming down her face, she saw that it was indeed a medallion, but of gold instead of silver.  It bore an incuse image of Asheric, with the inscription “§ Asheric § Mystic 18 §.”  On the back was the same pattern as that on Drambuie’s coin, along with the same three words, including the mysterious and alluring “Elginzice.”
	“He frightened me terribly,” she said to herself, still trembling from the ordeal.  “And his social manner was atrocious!”  She worked up an outrage.  “He called me a demon!  What cheek!  If I meet him again, I’ll surely give him what for!”

10.  Rosario
Hail and new-met!
-Draeic stock first-greeting

	While Eborel felt revulsion at Asheric’s manner, she found his words intriguing.  The secret school he alluded to held an allure for her.  She imagined a seat of learning, hidden in the mountains, attended by people her age.  This, she wanted to see.
	A journey of more than 40 leagues would take her far from home.  She resolved to make the trip as soon as possible, while the summer season still prevailed.  Unlike her trek two years earlier from Dimthistle, she would bring with her this time a beast of burden to carry her supplies.
	Though Eborel had settled on Baldy mountain with the notion of living there in prospective perpetuity, she now packed as if she might never return.  Everything she couldn’t carry, she stowed meticulously in the cave which had sheltered her so well, possibly for discovery and use by others who might one day come upon it.  She constructed a solid door across its entrance against the ravages of weather and wild animals.
	With excitement and abandon, Eborel embarked on a new journey accompanied by her faithful animal friends, Firthmare and Skyewing.

	Travel was more leisurely than her former days, when she fought brush on mountainsides carrying a heavy load.  Her optimism was such that she even stayed on the road when she encountered travelers, and conversed briefly with them in passing.  Not a soul gave her trouble, and, sensing she was blending in, found her confidence boosted.  She felt less like an outcast or interloper and more like a Draelander, tried and true.  No one even asked her name, although she was prepared to deflect such an inquiry with the simple words, “A traveler, westward bound.”
	 As the days passed, she began to ask strangers met upon the road if they knew wherein lay the turn for Feather Rill Valley.  None could say, and she started to lose heart.  Not certain whether it lay ahead or behind, she explored various rivulets upon her right, to the north.
	Discouraged, she pressed westward, keeping an eye out for younger travelers who might be students.  As she met with none, and as more days passed, she began to think about setting up a base camp to re-collect her thoughts, regroup and review her plan.
	Eventually, she found a small path leading north, and followed it considerably farther than she had the pathways along the earlier rills.  The mountains grew immense, and loomed higher than the home she left behind.  She climbed some of them, part way at least, to view the surrounding ridges.  In so doing, she espied a particularly dramatic prominence with sheer white cliffs on one side, and decided to make straight for it.
	This mountain she reached in a few days, and marched her wearying donkey up.  Food for Firthmare grew sparse, and the beast became irritable.  They camped for two nights on the mountain, before Eborel acceded to the need to move to lower elevations to find more abundant food.
	On the third day, while winding downhill and sideways along the slopes, she came across a beautiful clearing set atop a precipitous cliff whose walls over the edge below were evidently the same chalk white color she had seen at distance.  Cast about the wide expanse of level ground were large rock formations that appeared to be ancient carved ruins.
	The effect of these rock ruin formations upon Eborel was spellbinding.  She felt as if she were in a once-sacred place, and explored the glade for hours, pondering the origins of the rocks.  There were numerous menhirs – great stones propped up vertically – scattered in apparent haphazard fashion.  Some stood side by side in cromlechs, with flat slabs bridging them atop.  Most were simply rough-hewn rock, but some were carved in stylized human and animal shapes.  Many had ivy growing part way up, giving the impression of clothed gods and goddesses.
	There were smaller flat stone tablets upon which were carved characters indecipherable to her.  She surmised the symbols to be Runic, the ancient and lost written language of the Old World.  They bespoke the true age of the monoliths around her.
	She made camp under a dolmen in the center of what seemed an archipelagic garden of boulders strewn in a sea of grass.  The flora had a mesmerizing quality of strangely tended wildness.  She studied the manifold trees and shrubs, which had random yet artistically manicured shapes.  The grass was a rich green color, not the usual brown of the season, and grew to an apparently self-limiting height of a bovid fetlock.
	Eborel stayed in this beautiful place for days stretching to weeks.  The hunting in the environs was plentiful, and while Firthmare didn’t care to eat the plants in the monument glade, she readily consumed the hay and wild alfalfa found in abundance in nearby meadows.
	After a few days’ stay, Eborel’s tracking skills alerted her to the presence of animals whose identity she could not detect.  They left no direct physical traces, but the well-worn pathways and clearly discernable passageways through hedges were tantamount proof of their very recent presence.
	She began to think her visitors were people who did not wish to be detected.  This frightened her, as she wondered how many there were, and to what purpose or intention they might hold.  She could detect no foreign movement by day or night, but formed a plan to try and spy upon them.
	Over several days, she scouted passageways through hedgerows to strategic points near natural entrances to the wide glade.  Nearby these points, she constructed blinds of loose shrubbery, from which she hoped to watch undetected.
	Eventually, she moved her camp to a meadow tucked into the hillside a few furlongs thence.  Leaving Firthmare and Skyewing behind, she returned to the monuments several times a day for hours of meditative vigilance.
	This ritual she carried out for uncounted days with no hint of activity, when one morning, she was startlingly and richly rewarded for her patience.  Galloping into the glade came suddenly a young man with a flowing cloak, mounted high upon horseback.
	Eborel eyed him in stock-still silence.  In sooth, he seemed too large to have made the passageways she had descried in the hedgerows.  And too, she had not hitherto detected the hoof marks of horses upon the ground, which would be difficult to mask.
	She watched him for a long time, but became uncomfortable at the impertinence of her action, spying upon him as such.  He did nothing, except tie his horse and sit down to eat some breadcake retrieved from a saddle bag.  Presently, he sauntered to one of the tablets mentioned earlier, and regarded it thoughtfully.
	Mindful of her violent encounter with Asheric, Eborel resolved to announce her presence to him loudly and from a distance.  As such, she shook the surrounding bushes as she stepped into his view from across an expanse of grass. 
	He turned to face her with a look of readiness which soon changed to wry amusement.  As she approached, he said, “Well I don’t recognize you, but I thought I was on a solo.”
	She gave him a look of incomprehension as he asked, “Were you on assignment to track me, then?  If so, you did a great job.  I had no idea you were following me.”
	As she drew near, he went into a defensive posture, unsure of her intentions.  She stopped immediately and reassured him, “I mean you no harm.  I am not on any assignment.  I did not track you, but was simply waiting here to see what would arrive.”	
	“Well then!” he cried, “What has arrived is me, Rosario!”  He bowed with a straight-legged curtsey, after the fashion of men, then extended his hand in greeting while stating his full name and title, “Rosario Twigfiddle, historian, third year, if you please.”
	Eborel took his hand, curtseyed politely, and said, “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.  Eborel’s my name, from Dimthistle, and I’m a traveler, westward, er.., northward bound, I suppose.”  She felt embarrassed by her fumbling attempt at protocol.
	“It sounds like you don’t really know which direction you are going,” he said.  “What year are you?”
	“Seventeen,” she said.
	Rosario laughed, “No, not your age.  What year and subject at Ahzul?”  But he could see from her quizzical look that she didn’t go to the ashram.  “Then what are you doing out here?” he asked, truly puzzled.
	She said, “I’m looking for the ashram.  You hail from there, right?”
	“Yes,” he said uncertainly, “but why are you looking for the ashram?”
	“I want to go there myself, I suppose,” she said.
	“You mean, to attend as a student?  But the semester has already begun!”
	“Oh, I see,” she said.
	“And where is your escort?  Are you alone?”
	“Yes,” she said, in answer to the second question, “Unless you call my animals an escort.”  She waved vaguely towards the distant meadow.
	“What about your papers?” he said.
	“Huh?”
	“Your village recommend!”  He eyed her suspiciously and explained, “Look, you’re supposed to arrive at the start of the semester, along with your escort.  You can’t gain entrance without papers from your escort, who presents them to the dean as proof that you’re chosen by your elders for attendance.  Then, you can be officially admitted.”
	“Then perhaps I could visit?” she intimated.
	“Well, yes,” he hesitated, “but you’d need an invitation from someone who goes there.  Do you know any such person?”
	“I know a third year historian,” she said slyly.
	Rosario faltered and blushed slightly.  “I don’t think you fully understand.  Ahzul is a place where you must constantly prove yourself.  We’re a military ashram, you know.  I couldn’t bring you there unless you had some overriding ability – like particular mental prowess, or physical agility.  I’d be held up to mockery if I brought in someone who had nothing to contribute to the spirit of the school.”
	“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I can forage and hunt.  I’ve survived on my own for quite some time.  Surely your ashram would honor such ability?”
	“Yes,” he said, “that’s admirable.  But there are also the skills of combat:  personal defense, attacking, weapons, and strategy.  I myself am trained in these areas, as we all are, even though my major is history.”
	Eborel sized him up with a critical eye.  “I think I could defend myself against an attack by you.”
	Rosario was bemused.  In deference to her feelings, he said, “Perhaps with training, but I doubt you could weather a considered assault by me.”
	While Eborel felt awkward following traditional rules of polite social interchange, she instinctively knew how to meet a challenge such as this.  “May I then choose a venue for mock combat?” she asked.
	Rosario was reminded of the art of sparring, which was, of course, de rigueur at Ahzul.  The rules of engagement varied depending on whether or not a professor was present.  Outside class, sparring resembled the custom of dueling, which, though not now practiced in Draeland, was also not altogether lost to memory.
	Imagining that, as long as the ground rules were fair, he would not be bested by Eborel, Rosario nodded in assent.
	Now that the challenge was made and subsequently met, it was up to Eborel to define the constraints, and the condition that would constitute a win.  She surveyed their surroundings.  “We use whatever materials we find at hand,” she said.  “The first to say ‘I yield’ forfeits the match.”

	As if by mutual consent, both immediately crouched and began circling sideways.  Eborel realized belatedly that Rosario probably carried a hidden weapon.  That would certainly qualify as a “material at hand.”  She wondered if she could outrun her opponent to her blind where she might find a stout stick for defense.  She reasoned that he might also have a weapon packed on his horse.  Glancing in that direction, she noticed that his horse-tie appeared to be loose.  Gambling, she picked up a stone and hurled it towards the beast in hopes of encouraging it to break free and trot away.  She ran for her hiding place, not looking to see if she hit her target.  Rosario leapt after her but turned away at the sound of his whinnying charge, who had apparently been struck.  Eborel also turned, and seeing that Rosario neither had a weapon, nor was inclined to run towards his horse, she changed her plan.  Convinced that the best defense was a solid offense, she whistled shrilly for her trusty hunting companion in the sky and charged full at Rosario.  
	He turned to meet her attack.  Though he had a knife strapped to his left arm hidden under his cloak, he was reluctant to use it against an unarmed and relatively small defenseless girl.  As she neared, she leapt, feet first, with her right leg extended, and sailed through the air, aiming to strike his chest full-on, but managing only a glancing blow.  He twisted to avoid her direct impact, and grabbed her leading foot midair, trying to pull her on top of him as he fell.  She shot past him, but he did not relinquish his hold.  They hit the ground together, and he managed to drag her by the leg towards him.  In close quarters, he had the advantage, as he was stronger, and knew many lock-holds and grips.  They rolled over each other sideways as they tumbled through the grass.  Her clothes were made of fur, and the folds slipped frustratingly out of Rosario’s grasp.  Finally, he managed to secure her on her back, and held his left forearm across her neck in a chokehold pin.  He reached under his cloak to withdraw his knife, but was startled by a screeching and flurry of feathers that engulfed his head as Skyewing dive-bombed him in protection of her master.  
	Rosario rolled to his left to fend off the attack, and Eborel grabbed the ball of the thumb of his knife-wielding hand.  Twisting his wrist painfully, he dropped the knife and released his chokehold to flail his left arm against the new attack from above.  Scrambling out from under as he rolled onto his back, Eborel picked up the dropped knife and held it to his neck.  As he tried to fend off Skyewing’s repeated attacks, he yelled, “I yield” several times. 
	Eborel backed away, stood up, held out her left arm, and beckoned softly to Skyewing.  The trusty huntress came; perching upon her arm, and, ruffling her feathers, jerked her head sideways with nictitating membranes blinking rapidly, as if in continued defiance.
	Rosario propped himself up on one elbow and peered at Eborel from the ground.  She looked to be a serene statue, one arm crooked with her hand brandishing his knife, the other arm outstretched holding the bird of prey, as she regarded him resolutely.  He gingerly felt the back of his head where there appeared to be several deep scratches bleeding under his matted hair.
	“What,” he said, “is that?” indicating the proud falcon on her arm.
	“My companion, Skyewing”
	“I mean, is that really fair?” he said, “Two against one?”
	“It’s as fair as you pulling a concealed weapon on me,” she replied.
	Rosario relented.  “Would you care,” he asked sheepishly, “to be my guest at Ahzul Ashram?”
	Eborel grinned broadly.
	“Only, no mention of this fight when we get there!” he said.
	“How, then, will you explain that gash across your left cheek?” she said.
	Rosario touched his face, and checked for blood on his fingers.  “Those darn brambles!” he said smiling, despite himself.

11.  Shimrock Ruin

There’s no cheating in the spiritual world.
-Zoro’Ander

	Eborel became fast friends with Rosario.  She was greatly pleased to have human contact with someone nearly her same age, after her protracted period of loneliness.  They stayed together for several days in the glade, as Rosario was on assignment there.  He met her other animal friend Firthmare, who in turn, met his equestrian charge.  As the two animals got on tolerably well, the foursome often sauntered leisurely through the meadow while Rosario talked of his studies at the ashram.
	Eborel learned that this sacred place was called Shimrock Ruin, and that the tablets told ancient stories.  Because he was an historian, Rosario could read them, and he entertained her with their mysterious writings.
	Her favorite tale was perhaps the oldest and most mystical in the glade.  The tablet on which it was writ was encircled by three outward facing monoliths, long worn by age, but still reminiscent of their original forms.  One looked to be carved as a monkey, one as a swine, and the third as an ancient man.  Each held a vacant gaze, as if it were viewing a land over the horizon long distant in time and place.
	The story told was more a recipe for spiritual enlightenment than an actual tale of circumstance or events.  Rosario falteringly translated as he pointed his finger along the rows of chiseled cuneiform, which seemed to predate the more utilitarian runic of the other tablets.  Here is a literate version of his rough exposition:

To travelers of the spirit, past, present and future:  Here lies the formulaic for the elixir of enlightenment, known in the vernacular, as the Meady Murk of Life.

Know then that its ingredients comprise three potent substances, each which taken in isolation cause manifest incurable anguish, but which taken in the whole bring the sweetness of deep conclusory insight.

Know then that the first ingredient is a brandywine full of the famed headwaters of the Tizan, located in the jungles of the Chazu, taken from the fountain that perpetually flows there, whose effect purports to be the eternal youth and beauty of the imbiber, but which actual unfortunate consequence is eternal imperturbable sleep.

Know then that the second ingredient is the dust of the Gola, shaved from the famous stone of that name in the desert of Carchal, whose reputed effect of universal healing does naught but send the seeker into throwe, the irreversible effects of which drive most to seek release through death.

Know finally that the third ingredient is the sap of the Tesselrod, which tree grows tallest among its legion in the Purgan lands of the North, whose putative powers impute consummate wisdom, yet in the end cause grievous insanity.

Know then dear traveler that each ingredient must be macerated in joint concoction for three days, lest somnambulant sleep turn to deathful repose.

Know further that this exact redux is the one and same as taken by Rokavere of Revelstoke, in prelude to which ended the reign of the most-feared possessor of souls, whosoist here shall remain unnamed, and the act of which elevated her by a level of consciousness to the Queen of the land.

This shrine is dedicated to said Rokavere, may she dreamwalk in this glade, and find peace.

	“How fascinating!” said Eborel.  “Do you think it’s a true formula?”
	Rosario shook his head.  “It’s impossible to know, but I doubt it, though there may be some basis in historical fact.  Rokavere is a figure that some people believe actually lived.  What I like about this shrine is the three statues around it.”  They stepped back to admire them.
	Rosario continued, “I believe they represent the ingredients to the elixir mentioned, and that they each stare in the direction of their source.  For instance, the monkey faces due north, which, according to the tablet, is the location of the Tesselrod tree.  And there’s an adage, the ‘monkey of the mind,’ which means ‘insanity.’  That’s the effect of eating its sap.”
	Eborel was intrigued.  “Do you think the places mentioned might exist?”
	“Maybe at one time, long ago – but no more.”
	“What about the old man and the pig-faced statue?” Eborel asked.
	“Well, by extrapolation, I’d say the old man is looking toward the fountain of youth, and the pig is looking toward the cure-all stone.  It’s a euphemism that old people want to be young again, and pigs sometimes represent disease in stories.”
	“I find this exceedingly compelling,” said Eborel.  “I can see why you like history.”
	“Yes, but this is more artistry than strictly historical.  It should be interpreted figuratively rather than literally.”
	Eborel frowned, unconvinced.  “I think these places still exist today.”
	Rosario shrugged.  “We’ll have to leave that to archaeologists.”
	“What about Rokavere?” said Eborel.  “I remember her name from the column in the Gazette about the Eternals.  Could she still be alive?”
	“No, those writings in the Gazette are just stories for children.  Besides, the last line on the tablet implies she’s dead.  A spirit glade is a place where one returns after one dies, in order to re-experience the peace yet felt while alive there.”
	“I should like to take a sip of the Meady Murk of Life…” said Eborel impishly.  Rosario cast her a dubious eye.
	“Come on,” she said.  “Live a little!”  She elbowed him in the ribs.  “First one to reach your mare gets to ride her!”  She tore across the monument glade, weaving in and out of the great monoliths.
	“No fair!” he cried running after her.  “You got a head start!”
	She leapt upon his horse and put her into an exhilaratingly careering gallop.
	In these few days with Rosario, Eborel learned anew the extant pleasure a friendship with a peer could bring.  And too, she learned just how much faster a real horse could go than her trusty, if plodding, Firthmare.

12.  Ahzul

Knowledge with pain accretes.
-Unknown, attributed to Anntenfoale

	Rosario and Eborel’s journey to Ahzul was slow, by mutual design.  While she wanted to prolong the feeling of her new intimacy with Rosario for as long as possible, he likewise wished to delay the inevitable separation that would occur once they became 
subsumed by the school.  He did not want to share Eborel with everyone else, even though, he admitted to himself, his status would likely increase for having brought her there.
	There was some question about whether she would be accepted.  Eborel worried less than Rosario, as a worst-case scenario simply placed her back in the woods living on her own.
	She almost wished it would happen thus as their destination neared.  With a sinking feeling, the awareness that she might find it difficult to live in close quarters with a large number of people took hold.  She wasn’t sure she could actually do it.  And there was the question of where she would house her animals.
	“Don’t worry,” said Rosario.  “If they accept you, they will take very good care of you – and your animals, too.”
	The meandering and sometimes daunting approach to Ahzul afforded time for Eborel’s misgivings to foment.  On occasion, traversal of high precarious mountain bridges gave pause for meditative thought.  Not only were the views provocatively beautiful, but Rosario informed Eborel that the students themselves maintained the bridges as a means of building skill and courage in the face of the danger presented by the sheer drops.
	While the school’s location was supposedly secret, Eborel could see it set high on the mountainside fully two days before its front gate could be reached.  Rosario explained that its secrecy was in its isolation, and that locally, the structure visible was referred to as The Temple, which connoted occupation by reclusive, possibly xenophobic monks.  Since students were trained to cover their tracks, locals were unaware that a school for young people lay therein.
	The walls of the so-called Temple, while at first appearing dark gray, turned more colorful and intricate as they approached.  In fact, it became evident, once the outer wall was near attained, that it was covered in tiles whose colors shifted imperceptibly as the eyes compassed the full immensity of the edifice from one side to the other.  This evinced an intended effect of mirage-like shimmering, as the mind subconsciously roved the surface seeking an island of stable color.
	While the massive double wooden doors that gated the entrance were thrown full open, no people could be seen inside or out by the intrepid travelers, as they paused at the threshold in tremulous anticipation.  Looking in, Eborel felt as if she were gazing backwards through a portal that demarked the exact point of departure from the civilization within, to the rough nature whence she would shortly issue.
	“There’s no one in the courtyard,” said Rosario.  “Classes are in session.  Let’s proceed slowly so we don’t attract attention.  We’ll stable our rides first.”  Glancing at the sun to gauge its height, he said, “The next break is probably lunchtime.  We’ll saunter towards the dining hall.”
	They entered Ahzul unattended and unwatched.  Skyewing took anxious flight, while her master silently trailed her receding silhouette with her eyes, as the raptor blended seamlessly into nearby trees.  Firthmare remained circumspect, but was won over by the smell of hay and the company of Rosario’s charge at the stables.
	Shortly thereafter, the deep clang of a watchtower bell signaled the lunch hour.  People streamed out of the low plaster and tile buildings in such numbers that Eborel felt faint with swoon.  Rosario stayed close, grabbing her under the arm at times to guide her through the throng.
	A few people said “Hi” to Rosario, and glanced at Eborel without saying anything to her.  Someone asked how his solo went, and he said it was “stimulating,” after which he felt a twinge of regret, as such was not an appropriate adjective to describe a period of supposed deep introspection.
	They assembled two trays of food from a large carrousel of lunchables, and ate at one of the multitudinous rough board tables in the hall.  Looking about as she sat next to Rosario, Eborel was struck by the contrast of her solitary life with the current sense of sheer variety, quantity and noise, around her.  While the grating din would undoubtedly recede to a mere background hum with time, for the moment, it evoked an unexpected pang of nostalgia for her days in the tavern.
	Rosario took considerable pains to explain how things worked at the ashram while Eborel kept a watchful eye, nodding occasionally in acknowledgment.  After lunch, while walking in the courtyard, Rosario stopped short suddenly and swore under his breath.
	“Riftford ablutions!” he cursed, as a brash young man swaggered toward him.  Eborel stiffened as the man approached.  He fairly yelled, “Rosario!  What have you dragged out of the wilderness here?”  He slapped Rosario on the shoulder and gestured toward Eborel.
	“Not much to look at,” he eyed her up and down.  “A bit scruffy, I’d say.”	“Darius,” Rosario clenched his teeth.  “This is my friend, and I’ll have you...”
	“Oh, friend, eh?  So what year is she?  Couldn’t be more than a firster by the looks of her!”
	“She doesn’t go here – she’s my guest.”
	“Is that right?”  He fairly leered at her.
	Sensing a need to step in, Eborel offered her hand, and said, “I’m Eborel.”
	Darius paused, letting Eborel stand with her hand outstretched feeling foolish.  Then he reached out, shook it, clasped it firmly, and pulled her close to him.  “Well, I’m Darius,” he said, his face uncomfortably close to hers, “and I dare you to try and get away from me.”
	Eborel glanced at Rosario for direction, but he seemed paralyzed by the drama there-unfolding.  A small covey of people gathered around the threesome where moments before, there had been none.
	Eborel instantly and instinctively sized Darius up.  He was large – more powerful than her.  But she would be quicker, and might have the advantage of surprise.  She had already noted that he wore a tunic similar to Rosario’s.  She hoped he was right-handed, and that he relied, like Rosario, too much on the reassurance of his personal weaponry, possibly hidden beneath his garb.
	She lowered her head in what at first appeared to be a demure gesture, then tightened her grip on his hand, and pulled it straight down so his chin slammed into the crest of her skull.  This maneuver used her shorter stature to advantage.  Continuing the downward motion, she rolled right and pinned his forearm to the ground with her right knee, hand still firmly clasped in hers.  
	At this point, she became aware that she had slipped into the strange slow motion time sense that had occurred with Asheric’s lynx, Stealth.  Darius’s left hand was flailing as if underwater, at least from her perspective, and she could see his sleeve riding up to reveal the brown leather strap underneath that surely held a small concealed knife, similar to Rosario’s.
	Reaching behind him with her free hand, she pulled the sleeve of his flailing arm up to expose the knife.  Simultaneously relinquishing her grip on his right hand, which he released readily due to the crushing pain in his digital muscles, she kept his arm pinned with her knee, while reaching for the knife with her right hand.
	As she removed the blade from its sheath, she tugged hard downward on his left arm with her other hand, easily pulling it behind his back.  With one arm pinned under her knee, and the other locked snugly behind his back, she raised the point of the now firmly gripped stiletto-styled knife with her right hand to within seeming hairbreadths of his left eye.
	As she felt herself slip out of the sense of shifted time, she pulled the knife back for safety, but held it menacingly poised in a potential eye gouging position.
	Darius knew he was beaten handily and convincingly.  The humiliation of being bested with his own blade was not lost on him.  He stared unflinchingly up into her eyes, and, not daring to nod, said evenly and clearly, “I yield.”
	A silence had fallen on the loose ring of people surrounding the brief scuffle.  Eborel glanced at Rosario, who nodded as if to indicate the encounter was over.  She released her hold on Darius; stepped back and straightened up, proffering the knife handle-first toward her vanquished foe.
	The small crowd opened to allow the combatants to move freely.  Darius did not immediately take the knife, but rubbed his aching arms.  Casually, he reached for the blade, but in a sudden surprise attack, he grabbed her wrist, twisted the knife free, and spun her body by pulling on her shoulder with a practiced maneuver.  In a moment, he was behind her with the knife at her throat, and her arms locked crosswise against her body.
	He breathed into her ear from behind, “Don’t you ever show me up like that in public again.”
	Eborel was calm.  She knew she had the upper hand, and that he wouldn’t dare hurt her.  “I’d say we’re even,” she said graciously, “which gives you a better record than most against me.”  She couldn’t believe her bravado, especially considering the chagrin she felt due to the obvious advantage afforded by her shifted time sense.  But her words satisfied him, and he released his hold.
	As the crowd disbursed, an older man approached.  Both Darius and Rosario became obsequiously subservient.
	“Professor Cyrus!” said Rosario with a bow.
	“She beat you Darius, and that act of retribution on your part was most unbecoming.  An upper classman is privileged to present himself as a model of behavior for the underclass.”  He turned toward Eborel.  “What year are you, lass?”
	Eborel faltered.  “I’m not actually admitted.”
	“Not admitted?”  His momentary confusion turned to comprehension as he saw a look of ready explanation cross Rosario’s face.
	“Well then,” he continued, not missing a beat.  “That unorthodox move of yours should be followed by your immediate and unorthodox admission to this school.  See the Dean at once, and ask for such on my personal recommendation.  Make sure you request Group A, Hand-to-Hand, with Professor Cyrus.  I want you in my battle group!  I’ll see you tomorrow at morning break sharp.  Good day.”  He turned and strode away.
	Darius glared at her, but left saying nothing.  “Well,” said Rosario, “You’ve certainly made an impression.  You garnered one enemy and one ally in the space of time it takes to reflect upon it!”

13.  Dean Shastfeldt

Absolutes are unattainable.
-Enplexus

	Dean Yargo Shastfeldt was an imposing woman.  Large, powerful, and officious, wearing exotic layered robes; she made Eborel feel as though she were being looked down upon, even though the girl remained standing while the Dean sat comfortably behind her oversized desk.
	“Cyrus speaks well of your combat skills,” she said, not looking up from the paperwork on her desk.
	“Yes, ma’am.”
	A silence ensued.
	“He saw one fight in the courtyard between you and an upper classman, and suddenly he’s lauding your talents.  Not to mention that he’s insisting that you be admitted posthaste.”
	Eborel said naught, and the Dean did not look up.
	“Cyrus is an impulsive man.  If he weren’t the leader of A-group, I doubt I would have even granted you this interview.  In deference to his station, I will say that he has the respect of his peers.”
	Silence.
	“Fighting is not allowed outside of class.  Did you know that?”
	Silence.  Eborel thought it best to let the Dean have her say.
	“Why should I admit you when the first thing you did here was break the rules?”  She lifted her gaze to Eborel.  “Hmm?”  She demanded a response.
	“I will learn the rules, ma’am,” Eborel said.
	“No doubt.  But we have procedures and schedules in place to ensure that the best applicants gain entrance, and that they receive the best training possible in a timely, orderly and organized fashion once they get here.”
	She peered closely at Eborel.  “Why should I circumvent this time-honored and proven system of advancement just for you?  How do I know there aren’t others more deserving than you?  Why should we commit our considerable resources to tailoring a program to your strengths, instead of to someone else, who is willing to stand the same test all students endure for proper admittance?”
	Eborel trembled under what she considered to be a withering assault.
	“I have a recommend from someone else, besides Cyrus.”  Eborel managed.
	“Oh, and who is that?”
	“Umm, Asheric, actually.  He directed me here.”
	“Asheric?  Are you sure?”  She squinted skeptically.
	Eborel nodded.
	Dean Shastfeldt raised her considerable bulk, and glided with surprising agility to the front of her desk.  Eborel concentrated on the rustling sounds of the Dean’s saffron skirts against the oak and leather.
	The woman sat on the desktop edge and leaned close to Eborel.  “Asheric is our founding mystic.  He created this school ages ago to help protect our borders.”
	“Oh!” said Eborel, surprised.
	“He has not visited here for many years.  Do you have any proof of this recommend?  Do you have anything from him in writing?”
	Eborel shook her head.  “I saw him recently.  He said he would visit to check on me, but I don’t think he knows my name.”
	“He doesn’t know your name, dear, and yet he personally recommended you?  I find that difficult to believe.”
	“He gave me this.”  Eborel pulled out his medallion from an inside pocket, and handed it to the Dean.  “He said it would ensure admittance.”
	The Dean regarded it with care, then handed it back stiffly.  She turned and moved back to her seat behind the desk.
	“Report to A-group tomorrow morning,” she ordered without looking up.  Eborel curtseyed and turned to leave.  The Dean called after her, “I shall check personally with Asheric concerning your story when next he visits.”

14.  Training

The secret to Quid Synch’s transtemporalization:
Acquiescence to the Quintessence of Quiddity.
-Asheric

	Thus began Eborel’s formal training in military combat.  That her assignment to A-group might easily be presaged can be ascribed to her natural animal grace, a talent which she displayed in veritable nimiety as compared to the more intellectual propensities evinced by the students in the other groups. 
	Unfortunately, she was thus separated from Rosario, who studied with C-group.  Further, she was placed with her seeming nemesis, Darius, which challenge she was forced to meet on a daily basis.
	Life in A-group was, in fact, the most physically grueling of the four groups, by specific design.  The purpose was to ingrain a sense of survivability, nay even of entitlement to life, under what might one day be the most egregious circumstances encounterable by any warrior in the field of combat. 
	Yet Eborel had already suffered the ravages of hard survival, and was better suited and conditioned to it then were her comrades.  In fact, her garnered experience gave her cause to teach as much as she learned; thus, giving back, or offering, as may be, in like proportion to that which she received, from the ashram.  The school flourished from her active studenthood, and was markedly the better for it.
	Eborel led her class by example, in refusing to don the aspect of smug superiority, which so traditionally adorned the fledgling warriors of A-group, as a mantle of separatist pride.  She preferred rather, to laud and honor the academic rigor that permeated the other groups.  For she gleaned instinctively that knowledge was, in the final analysis, the greater champion against physical prowess.
	Her professors knew this all too well, and so the consummate modesty she displayed endeared her to them, even as it simultaneously chafed the resentment of her peers.  Under the pressure of competitiveness fostered at the ashram to spur ever greater achievement, Eborel became the classmate to beat.
	And she did not win every battle.
	Yet, without focusing on her defeats here, suffice to say that she did not use her true talent of shifting time to best her opponents, and took her lumps in failure with good humor; determined, as it were, to meet her challengers on a “level” playing field, and concede to them in good faith, if she could not otherwise win without advantage.
	In sooth, her true talent perplexed and frightened her.  She dared not use it during mock exercises, lest the teachers remark upon it.  Strangely, none of the masters evidenced any knowledge of moving through shifted time, nor professed any concept of slowed time perception during moments of high conflict.  This would shortly change, as will be expounded upon momentarily, by way of impending example.
	To continue then, Eborel spent months learning the refined arts of warfare.  She found it to be a surprisingly social affair – social behavior being an area in which, due to her prolonged solitude, she did not necessarily excel – and by the practice of which she benefited greatly.
	For warfare is waged, on the whole, by groups of people, often large in number, and the students were being groomed, in a sense, to command such groups.  Thus, the social aspects of respect and consideration were far more important to personal success, than was the mastery of specific techniques of battle engagement.
	And so she embarked on countless forays, teamed in groups assigned at random by her teachers, which played in endless bouts against each other in such games as “Forfeit the Flag,” “Breach the Fortress,” “Scout and Trap,” “Siege,” and perhaps her favorite, “Ambuscade!”  She played both sides of every game, and by degrees, became a true team player.
	In fact, she eventually won the respect and, darest I say, allegiance, of Darius, who came to realize the incalculable advantage conferred upon the team for whose side she played, and concomitantly, how formidable she was when faced adversarially, from the opposing side.
	During this time, she mingled little with the students of the other groups.  Even as she bonded with her cohorts in A-group, she meanwise missed her friend Rosario.  Fortunately, there were times when the whole school met together for games of sport, or plenary cross-discipline lectures.  And it was on just such an occasion that an opportunity arose for her to be with her first fast friend.
	On a sunny morning that seemed ordinary in every other respect, a rumor spread through the school that the founder of the ashram had arrived for a visit.  In fact, at the lunch hour, an announcement was made that the entire student body was invited to assemble in the courtyard for a “demonstration” of unspecified nature.  Since the seating was at-will, Eborel eagerly sought Rosario’s companionship.
	As the appointed time approached, the courtyard filled with the excited buzz of the student body.  After listening to a brief and laudatory introduction by Dean Shastfeldt, she gave way, and the audience applauded as Asheric himself strode onto the dais.
	He looked much as he did on the day Eborel met him so many months before.  Nothing of note had changed, save for the conspicuous absence of his lynx companion Stealth.
	With a wave of his hand, he conjured silence from the assembly.  After a long look of deep introspection, he slowly raised his gaze to take full-in the faces of his 
audience.  His aspect was careworn and serious, and his speech, when finally he commenced, proceeded thus:
	“I am Asheric, I bid you all peace.”  He paused as the audience attended in reverent anticipation.
	“Uncounted ages ago, I founded this ashram for an unthinkable purpose, which, even as I held out audacious hope that the day of that purpose would never come, I knew eventually it must.
	“For scores of generations, students have graduated from this school, and gone on to lead long, happy, and prosperous lives.  Most patrolled the borders of their home counties with little need for fear from the marauders for whom they had been trained to rebuff.  Many integrated back into their communities, becoming the craftspeople and farmers that marked their noble Draeic heritage.  They bore children who followed in their venerable footsteps – some of them even returning to this ashram to carry on their family tradition.
	“Now I look into your willing young faces with foreboding, for you may be the first to experience the onslaught of a true horror not witnessed in these lands for many a long age.”
	The audience stirred at his ominous tone.
	“Without intending to frighten you, I wish only to make plain the facts which I have late descried, and thereby prepare you for the inevitabilities incumbent upon your present stations.
	“For I have news of portentous awakenings in the East of a previously veiled malevolent force, amassing itself for some purpose that can only be described as baneful at the very least, and calamitous at the worst.”
	A rustling of alarm rippled through the audience.
	“I am here today to demonstrate a new weapon recently acquired through surreptitious infiltration by my operatives in these said distant lands.  This weapon is a new technology – a kind of explosive force that rips through both the physical world we perceive around us, and the spiritual world as yet seen only by other members of my ilk.”
	A rush of murmurous whispering erupted from the audience as Asheric paused for general effect.  Behind him, professor Cyrus brought out an alabaster pedestal about table height, and placed it in the center of the dais.
	Asheric continued, “For long years now have the mystics felt the rifts in the spiritual fabric of Draeland, caused in part, as we now know, by this potentially lethal explosive device.”
	Asheric produced suddenly from within the folds of his robe a wooden orb, about a hand’s span in breadth, and held it aloft for all to see.
	Attenuated boisterous bustling swirled about the courtyard.
	“I intend to detonate this device anon, as a demonstration of its destructive power, in the hopes that we may devise methods to thwart it.  For this may be used as a potent weapon in the field of battle, nay even against some of your own persons, and its might must not be allowed to vanquish us.”
	People near the front began to shrink away from Asheric as he continued to hold the orb, somewhat menacingly, aloft.
	“Fear not!” he cried.  “I am not yet ready to detonate it.”  He placed the orb upon the pedestal gingerly, balancing it carefully.  “We will retire a safe distance away, at the far end of the courtyard.  Please move athwart in an orderly fashion.  I estimate that a distance of three or four horse lengths thence is sufficient to escape injury.  Those who would deign observe it more closely may stand at that distance.”
	Eborel said excitedly to Rosario, “Let’s move near the front!  Would that I witness this detonation at close range.”  Rosario hesitated, but stayed with Eborel as the retreating students flowed past them.
	“I’m doing this solely to aid you,” he whispered, “should you require my immediate attention.”
	“Thank you, Rosario,” said Eborel, “you’re both loyal and brave.”
	“Brave or fey, I know not which,” he muttered.
	“This device works by fire,” continued Asheric.  “Professor Bartho, pray lend me your pipe for a moment.”
	As the professor approached with his pipe extended in offering, wisps of smoke barely visible, Asheric signaled him to stop.  Reaching out, he covered the bowl against errant cinders, and, taking it thus in hand, nodded his thanks.
	As the professor retreated, Asheric waited for everyone to settle in their new locations.
	“I shall apply the burning bowl of this pipe to a short cord issuing from the orb, after which several seconds will ensue before the explosion takes place.”  He scanned the audience reading their readiness.
	“You there,” he pointed to Eborel and Rosario.  “You deem it safe to stand at that closest distance?  I myself will stand farther than that.”
	Eborel and Rosario both nodded, quite aware that their stature in the eyes of their peers was thusly enhanced.  Eborel wondered that Asheric did not deign to recognize her, but considered that he was merely being discrete in public.
	“We will watch for any possible signs of stress to the spiritual continuum, whatever they may be, as well as the effect of the physical force.”
	He puffed the pipe to stoke its embers, then, after holding the bowl low down behind the orb for several seconds, retreated hastily.  Many people held their ears in alert anticipation.  Eborel and Rosario stood stock still.
	The resultant explosion was loud and shocking as expected.  Try as she might, however, Eborel could not stop herself from slipping into time shift.  She saw the shards of the outer shell burst apart in slow motion, and felt the shock waves ripple through the air, striking her face as if fanned by a close brush with passing birds.
	From within the center of the orb issued smoke – and something else.  A form emerged; a white mass that fairly tumbled out and expanded as it fell to the floor.  It was as a cloak fluttering and flailing.  In the micromoments of time advancement, she recognized it as a human shape, and, on impulse, against her better judgment, she moved towards it.  The air in time shift was a thick miasma that repelled and slowed her progress.  As she struggled against it, she recognized the outline of a man hunched on all fours, pushing himself up to a standing position.
	He gained his feet as she came up beside him, proffering her hand under his elbow, to steady him in the viscous air.  She recognized him as none other than Quid Synch, whom she had met between avalanches in the mountains.  His countenance, though youthful, was yet unmistakable.  She noted with great excitement, that he appeared to be moving in shifted time along with her, unlike the assembled multitude, who stood as statues about the courtyard.  She turned to observe them, and noted that everyone had their eyes closed, save Asheric, who seemed to wear a wry smile while gazing directly at them. 
	Quid Synch and Eborel fell slowly out of time shift together, back to the time of the living, whence a shocked cry arose from the audience.  As the smoke cleared, Quid Synch turned to Eborel and said, in greeting, “Good lass, whom art thou who hast summoned me from my rounds?”
	Eborel looked aghast, as she was well aware that her classmates must have perceived her to have appeared simultaneously with the visitor at the moment of the explosion.  Behind them on the dais, the alabaster column was crumbled in fragments on the floor.
	“Quid Synch, I…” she faltered.
	Asheric stepped forward to redirect the attention of their newly appeared guest.  “Hail and well met my old traveler friend!”  He beamed heartily as he clasped Quid Synch’s forearm, fairly ignoring Eborel.  “You look younger, I swear, every time we meet!”
	Quid Synch nodded in acknowledgement, and turned quizzically back towards Eborel.
	“It was I who summoned you thence,” continued Asheric.  “We are experimenting with spiritual rifts.”  He swept his arm in a broad gesture swathing the audience by way of explanation.
	“You know my name, miss.”  Quid Synch kept his gaze evenly on Eborel.  “Asheric, pray introduce us.”
	Now it was Asheric’s turn to falter, unable to produce her name.  Eborel extended her hand to Quid Synch, and introduced herself.  “Eborel,” she stated.  “We have already met, but you may not remember.”
	“I’m sure I would remember,” he said as he extended his hand and bowed his head slightly.  “Perhaps we met in your past, but in my future.”
	“Be that as it may,” Asheric said hastily.  “Eborel is it?  Would it please you, then, to return to your place in the audience?”
	Eborel shrank back to Rosario’s side as unobtrusively as possible, while hundreds of eyes followed her retreat.
	“How did you get up there so quickly?” Rosario whispered under his breath.  Eborel just shook her head.
	Asheric forged ahead.  “The demonstration has been a complete success.  Not only have we witnessed the destructive physical force of this device,” he gestured toward the crumbled column, “but we have also seen how it opened a crisis node in the spiritual fabric through which our good friend Quid Synch was able to step, appearing before us as we plainly see him now, completely unharmed by the effect of the explosion.”
	Quid Synch smiled humbly.
	“For my traveling friend here has a very special ability indeed.  Unfettered by the normal constraints of the physical world as we are, he actually thrives on the very violence of the psychic energies that crop up unbidden from time to time in our world, and uses them to transport his whole being between nodes of cataclysm, even across great distances, or between disparate times.”
	Quid Synch interjected somewhat meekly, “I’ve no actual control, really.  I fear these cataclysms seek me out, rather than the reverse.”
	“Yes, yes,” said Asheric somewhat dismissively, and, attempting to maintain his expositive momentum, asked him, “Tell me noble traveler, whence were you just moments before you appeared before us in such dramatic fashion?”
	Quid Synch paused to effect, as the audience waited with collective bated breath.  “Ah well, in contrast to my previous statement, I was attempting to wrest control of these seeming capricious jumps between cataclysms, which I find quite jarring, by creating a crisis node of my own.  In fact, I was, moments ago, upon the cliffs of Tyro’s ascension, standing next to his magnificent frozen aspect, when I, rather on impulse, yet in a spiritual frame of mind, did dive head first off the cliff.  I felt, as I fell, an exhilarating feeling of flying earthbound, when I suppose I must surely have struck the rocks below, yet emerging here, I face this assembly as you see me before you, in a mental state of shocked, yet strangely serene, detachment.”
	“And tell me, good sir, what year of our age was it when you jumped off said cliff?” asked Asheric.
	“I know not, nor do I know your present year, nor do I know where I am now.”
	“You are at Ahzul Ashram in the Westron mountains, in the year 4719.”
	“Indeed?  I know not such ashram, but the time is well in advance of my fledgling years.  In fact, I cannot recall ever being so far forward in time beyond the creation of the Rift.”
	“I bid you welcome, on behalf of the residents of this fine school,” said Asheric.  “How long will we be graced by your presence?”
	“It is not in my design to foretell.  It may be moments, days, or months.  The Westron reaches are more quiescent than most, so that I hope to enjoy your company for longer than is my wont.”
	Asheric turned to the audience.  “This ends the demonstration.  Please extend your sincerest hospitality to our august guest.  I shall meet privately now with the school masters to confer further upon the consequences of what we have witnessed.”  He walked resolutely towards the Dean’s office, who meanwhile herself conversed briefly with Quid Synch concerning his lodging arrangements, before retreating with the other professors to the meeting.
	The students milled about, with many surrounding Quid Synch to ask him questions.  He seemed to have no information regarding the device which attended his arrival.  In fact, he had little knowledge of the current era at all, coming as he did, from another time altogether.  He was quite amiable, however, and took particular interest in the student’s curricula, asking incisive questions regarding the details of their studies.
	Eborel left with Rosario to review with him what they had seen.  It was then that she confessed, on pain of absolute sworn secrecy, lest their friendship be shorn, that she had the ability, on occasion, to move rapidly through slowed time.  Rosario was flabbergasted.  He urged her to tell the school masters, or at least Asheric, to which she adamantly rebuffed his entreaties.  She said she suspected Asheric knew of her abilities, professing as she did so, to the incident of having startled him in the wild, and retelling the tale of her near death at the hand of his sword while pinned down in the jaws of Stealth.  Further, during the demonstration, she had noted him watching her while she was in time shift with Quid Synch, which implied that he might possess a perception of slowed time himself.
	It would be understatement to say that Rosario was duly awed.  Unfortunately, it was the beginning of a subtle shift in their relationship, from one of equal partners, to one of allegiance on his part to a greater power, larger than either of them; not unlike a similar shift that occurred between Darius and Eborel, though commencing from an entirely different dynamic.
	It was an omen, in a sense, of Eborel’s inevitable return to the loneliness to which she had succumbed in the confines of her loving family at the Inn at the Crossroads in the seeming long days of her yore.

15.  The Musory

Purpose presages consciousness.
-The Musory rotunda, from Enplexus

	While Asheric’s companion lynx, Stealth, kept a low profile during their sojourn at the ashram, his other pet, previously unknown to Eborel, made his gregarious presence felt among the enthusiastic students.  For he was a huge fun-loving shaggy white sheepdog named Shangoo, who was every bit as engaging as Stealth was circumspect.
	The lovable canine seemed to get along with everyone – animals and people alike – and even evinced wry amusement from Yargo Shastfeldt’s customarily reserved demeanor.
	He romped with the students wherever they went, whether it was class, dinner, or exercises in the fields.  Not only was he a natural hunter during military game-play, he proved to be good luck, as the prevailing side invariably counted him among their cadre, irrespective of the side taken by Eborel.

	That it was not enough to have two mystics visiting the ashram at the same time, that is, Asheric and Quid Synch, when lo, who should appear but Drambuie himself, accompanied as he was by a venerable man – a sayik – whosofor was introduced as Anntenfoale, the Iconoclast.  That such a treat should be bestowed upon the student body was not lost on them, and served, as such, to add to the sense of urgency that Asheric heretofore had implored to them concerning the danger from the East.
	Drambuie was not known at the ashram by the localized sobriquet ministered him by the Southcounty folk, but went rather by his exalted name of Zoro’Ander.  He came, as he said, at the beck of the rending of psychic fabric caused by Asheric’s explosion, and brought with him, in tow, the said sayik, as a professor in the arts of Theosophy, in hopes of elucidating for the students that which they had witnessed at the demonstration.
	About Anntenfoale, there will shortly be much elaboration.  For he predetermined his stay to outlast the eventual egress of the mystics by way of their respective divergent wending pathways thence.
	But before such egress transpired, it must be noted that a surreptitious meeting of import occurred between Eborel and the soon wayfaring mystics.  It began in impromptu fashion, as Zoro’Ander waylaid Eborel casually while she walked alone at vespers.
	He entreated her to the Musory, a sacrosanct room that was then unoccupied, and engaged her in easy banter, after which the two were joined by Asheric and Quid Synch.  The solemnity of the occasion became apparent, as the conversation turned serious.
	All three Eternals, as she came to think of them, were most solicitous in mien.  Asheric was particularly respectful, in contrast to his past dismissive affect towards her.
	“How are things progressing?” Zoro’Ander asked.  “Are you getting on well with your professors?”
	Eborel nodded.
	“Have you made friends here?”
	“Yes, Rosario and Darius, among others.”
	“Third year historian, and third year combatant, respectively” Quid Synch interjected.  “Rosario is a bright lad, respected by his Elders.  Darius is very aggressive; he appears indomitable.”
	“That’s good,” continued Zoro’Ander.  “Do you wish to stay at Ahzul?”
	“Oh, very much so!  There’s so much to learn, and many more students to meet.  I’m only in first year!”
	“Yes, there is much to learn,” agreed Zoro’Ander.
	“And I want to thank you for making it all possible, with your fine gifts to me,” she said effusively.  “I’m sure I can never repay you.”
	Zoro’Ander shook his head in acknowledgement, and gave a simple wave, as if to signify no repayment was necessary.
	“And what,” he asked, after pausing for an eternity of a Dram moment, “did you make of Asheric’s demonstration?”
	Eborel was well aware of the intent eyes upon her, and considered her answer carefully.
	“It reminded me of my first meeting with Quid Synch in the mountains.”
	Zoro’Ander looked quizzically at Quid Synch, who just shrugged.  “What happened during that meeting?”  he queried.
	“He appeared out of an avalanche, as if by magic, confounding sure and certain death.  He was older, with white hair, but it was you.”  She turned towards Quid Synch.
	“I’m glad to hear that I’ll make it to old age – a dubious proposition considering my occupation,” he jested.
	“You spoke to him then?” Asheric asked.
	“Yes, you mentioned battle sounds,” she addressed Quid Synch.  “You said you spoke to the Queen.”  She closed her eyes to concentrate.  “You said there was a secret staircase into the valley from the graveyard at the top of the town.  You called it the Eternal Valley.”
	The mystics looked at each other significantly.
	“It sounds like a town near the Rift,” said Asheric.  “Perhaps Arkengarthdale – or at the least, a town on the western side of the Rift, I hope,” he added.
	“It’s another piece of the puzzle that merely confirms what we know is surely coming,” said Zoro’Ander.  “It seems you are likely to play a part in future events.”  He addressed this to Eborel.
	“But tell me,” he asked, “how did you move to greet Quid Synch on the dais without being harmed by the explosion?”
	Eborel hesitated.
	“You are among friends,” Zoro’Ander said.  “We are here to help, and will readily adjure to utmost secrecy from anyone at the ashram, about anything you might say.”
	The three mystics nodded in willing assent.
	“I am able,” she said deliberately, “through no will of my own, to move through slowed time at moments of crisis.”  She look at the three faces for signs of disbelief, but found none.
	“Ahh,” said Zoro’Ander, “this is dangerous knowledge.  Have you told anyone of this ability?”
	“Only Rosario,” she said, “but he is absolutely trustworthy, and pledged to keep the secret.  He’s my best friend!” she said, almost pleading.
	“Nonetheless, it presents him unbidden with a heavy burden,” said Zoro’Ander
	Eborel was beset by fear for her friend, though she couldn’t fathom how he might be harmed by knowing her ability.
	“It doesn’t matter!” said Asheric.  “The knowledge will soon spread.”  He addressed Zoro’Ander, “Even the professors must suspect something special about her.”
	“No, no,” she said.  “It almost never happens!”
	“But it was witnessed by the entire assemblage of the school,” said Asheric peremptorily. 
	“Eborel,” said Zoro’Ander, “Please take heart.”  She hung her head, disconsolate.  “I thank you, as I did once before, for your easy open honesty, and for sharing your insight, and the knowledge of your special talent with us.”  He looked up at the others.
	“We are, all three, preparing to take our leave of the ashram.”  Eborel felt suddenly abandoned.  “Worry not about the effects, or possible discovery, of your vexing ability.  Stay with your studies, as there is no need for haste.  A current reading of the lumi counsels stasis and complacency, as Clochemik and Grinth are both waning.”  He tried to sound reassuring.  “Your time of action will come later, and we will pave the way for whatever that future brings.  We here, and others, will watch and care for you, even if at a distance.”
	Eborel nodded, but averted her eyes as the mystics moved to leave.
	“One more question,” said Zoro’Ander, pausing.  “Has the visionary dream recurred since last you recounted it to me?”
	She shook her head without looking up.  He bent to kiss her forehead, and consoled her, “That, at least, is good.  I bid you peace, until we meet again.”  The others bowed as they left her alone, mired among her conflicting thoughts.

	Of the Musory must now more be said.  More than a room, it was a building entire, removed from the central hubbub of the ashram to afford quiet contemplation.  It was round, with a dome – rare in Draeland, though not unknown elsewhere – with circular oculus windows ringing the base of such, but at a height above standing, to insure privacy within, yet provide easy light for reading and writing.
	Except on occasion for lectures, it was kept quiet, and open to all, even at any hour.  While its center was airy and communal in nature, its perimeter ensconced many nooks and byways, walled by shelves which contained artifacts and bound parchment books, every one unique.
	Perhaps the most engaging feature of the Musory was its furniture, which being irregular and varied in construction, entreated the mind to imagine the manifold configurations in which people might read, muse, or meditate in protracted comfort.
	The accoutrements included:  benches, chairs, tables, stools, platforms, hassocks and cushions, among other things, and were generally moveable for easy convenience.  Permanent candleholders were affixed to many tables and easy chairs for careful, if dubious – due to the danger of fire – nighttime reading.  Manifest wooden coasters and cups attested to the custom of drinking tea, although eating was considered disrespectful.
	Circumnavigating the inside perimeter of the dome, above the oculi, in counter-clockwise direction, were writ, or rather inscribed, in stylized modern characters, various sayings of Draeic lore.  Indeed, the literate atmosphere was enhanced by the profusion of inkberry wells accompanied each by matching near-vertical quill pens rowed in lines across many of the tables.  Such pens attested to the sometime activity by the students of transcribing existing texts, character-by-character, page-by-page, and ultimately, in exhaustive mechanical tedium, volume-by-volume.

	That the Musory, which full name was the Isagogic Musory, would become the de facto lecture room for the aforementioned journeyman sayik, Anntenfoale, belied the irony of his title, which, as was before said:  the Iconoclast.
	For the icon that Anntenfoale wouldst tear down and defrock, was none other than the ancient and venerated prophet Tyro, whose written works, which embodiment were found primarily in the noble tome called Enplexus, were compassed by the very room in which he strove to deride the spiritual messages therein contained.  As such, with the said tome placed upon the lectern at the center of the round room, was Anntenfoale poised to launch into invective against the founder of the Tyroan Way, which represented the spiritual core of the Draeish people during the Mythic Age, in which this story takes place.
	That such a dishonorable position against said core belief might be given voice, even heralded voice, at the ashram, or indeed anywhere in Draeland, might at first seem paradoxical.  But the principles most revered in the land were ceded in a universally agreed-upon and fundamental order of precedence, thusly forming the foundation of adherence to all subsequently related codes of behavior.  The first three of these principles, in order of decreasing import, were, as any Draelander would readily attest to:  superstition, gossip, and opinion.  Thus it may be seen that, in resolution to any conflict of opposing points of view, gossip would always prevail upon opinion, and superstition would always prevail upon gossip – but never in the reverse.
	These principles, or qualities, were deemed inherent in every creature, and the expression of them as such could not be precluded by principles of lesser import.  Thus, while the reverence for Tyro’s works was generally held in high esteem, it was likewise easily trumped by the three most vaunted principles just named.  And so, it could not be viewed as blasphemous for Anntenfoale to denigrate Tyro’s precepts, or gossip about his person, or even to allege, as he often did, that the Prophet was the agent of menace, bent on twisting men’s minds to perfidious intentions.  
	That said, as Anntenfoale’s lectures were not required curriculum, it must be stated that they were poorly attended.  For nowhere is it writ that anyone must voluntarily subject themselves to the whim of another’s opinions, gossip, or superstitions, even as they are bound by protocol to do nothing to interfere with any such expression thereof.

16.  Enplexus

Tyro’s Ascension was his Apotheosis.
-Anntenfoale Gilbeckfordshire

	Eborel sat alone in the Musory long after the mystics departed.  Lighting a candle with a reed lit from an ember kept in a clay chamber for such purpose, she half-lay on a divan devised with a slanted padded back, and watched the solitary flame brighten, as the sunset gave way to the encroaching night, suffusing her in a mood of self-absorbed reflection.
	Would that she could carry such a retreat as the Musory with her wherever she went!  It was the hedge garden solace-place of her youth at the inn, but infinitely more comfortable.
	Eventually she left, but returned the next day to attend the first lecture given by Anntenfoale.  As he was a guest of the revered Zoro’Ander, his early class sizes were robust.  But attendance soon dwindled, as his acerbic tirades from the pulpit grew tiresome to the students at large.
	Eborel, alone perhaps in her assessment, found his passion compelling.  For his defamation of Tyro’s character belied a knowledge of astounding breadth concerning the Prophet’s life and ideals.  In military parlance, he had truly studied the enemy to the point of knowing him perhaps better than Tyro might have known himself in his own time.
	With curled lip, Anntenfoale submitted that Tyro was a self-described “Beginner in the Cosmos,” which phrase sickened him, as it masked arrogance with false modesty.  Be that as it may, Anntenfoale enumerated the eight levels of consciousness set out by Tyro in Enplexus, Chapter 1::7:18, such section ignominiously and heretically, according to Anntenfoale, at least, entitled “God”:
1)	being
2)	flowing
3)	feeling
4)	reasoning
5)	acknowledging self
6)	understanding self
7)	understanding all things
8)	God 
	As examples of beings existing at each level, Anntenfoale offered the following, according to parables written by Tyro in works outside Enplexus:
1)	rock
2)	river, fire
3)	lower animals, objects with purpose
4)	higher animals
5)	man
6)	mystics
7)	spirits
8)	God, the Unisystem
	The “class structure,” as Anntenfoale described it, of this propounded hierarchy of life, irked him to paroxysms of castigating epithets to the point that half the audience fled his lecture on this particular subject in dismay.
	The obstreperous sermonizing by Anntenfoale was a technique he used to whittle the audience to a core of students, which included Eborel, dedicated to overcoming his incendiary style in prospect of gaining true knowledge.
	It worked, perhaps too well, as in the end, after several dozens of lectures, Eborel was in fact, the last student standing.
	Except that she semi-reclined, in her now favorite divan, and basked in what amounted to individually tailored tutelage.
	Returning to the subject of consciousness, Anntenfoale railed against the implicit notion that higher levels of consciousness were somehow superior to those lower down.  Further, Tyro advanced the maxim that one could increase one’s conscious state through an act of meditation he called Hynto, which art was regularly practiced in the Musory by many of the student body.
	The essential precept of Hynto was that a state of Qasama, or temporary level six consciousness, could be reached by an individual through concerted contemplation of Ahimsa, which he described as a kind of non-violent calming of psychic energy.  In fact, Tyro’s contention was that mystics exist in a permanent state of Qasama called Qaru, which being identical, except for its inviolability, implied that ordinary mortals could attain, temporarily at least, the more exalted conscious state of the mystics, and become as it were, “one step closer to God,” previously listed as having level-eight consciousness.
	Here again, Anntenfoale scoffed at the implied notion of superiority at being closer to the consciousness of God, as Tyro himself equated God with the Unisystem, a word he coined to mean all things, or simply, The All.  Constructing a tautology, then, Anntenfoale asked Eborel rhetorically, “If we all belong to the Unisystem, and the Unisystem is God, are we not all one with God, regardless of our level of consciousness?”
	Anntenfoale was himself a sayik, of course, and versed in the art of Hynto; so much so, that he could enter the state of Qasama at will.  As such, he did not dispute the insight gained therein, as he experienced it himself on a regular basis.
	And too, he endeavored to teach the technique to Eborel, who, being a quick study, took to it with alacrity.  In fact, Eborel soon found that she too could enter Qasama with relative ease, by considered contemplation of Ahimsa.  What frightened her was that the technique promoted her heightened sense of time shift, and that further, she could titrate its extent by willfully varying her depth of immersion in Qasama.
	Wary of revealing her ability to Anntenfoale, she broached the idea tentatively of
the possibility of altering the perception of time through Hynto.  Anntenfoale, in opposition to her expected reaction, nodded vigorously, and said, “Yes, yes, of course, I see that you understand completely.”
	This information served to reinforce her earlier suspicion that Asheric had witnessed the explosion similarly to her – and Quid Synch, too, obviously, as they were both mystics, and most assuredly, according to Tyro, existed in a continual state of Qaru. 
	As she gleaned the information she needed, she spoke no more of it with Anntenfoale.  Instead, she let him move on to other principles of the Tyroan Way.
	For instance, the essential symbol of Tyroanism, which was imprinted on the cover of all Enplexi ever quilled at the Musory, was a representation of the Triune:  a graphic of three interlocking rings, each of similar diameter, but displayed at different heights, and each representing an axiomatic principal of his philosophy.
	The highest ring stood for Transience, the second for Causality, and the third for Unity.  From these basic articles, taken on faith alone, and without any proof other than their consistent reinforcement by general perceptual agreement among people, were all other “principals” of Tyroanism, called by Tyro the “Exalted Truths,” derived by rigorous philosophical reasoning, and painstakingly detailed in the weighty chapters of Enplexus.
	That Tyro was an ideologue was plainly evident.  What pained Anntenfoale the most, however, was the blind idolatry accorded him by the preponderance of Draelanders, particularly given their habitual persnickety propensity otherwise.  Nowhere was this more apparent than at the shrine of his Ascension on the Kentamere Bluffs at Excelsion.
	There, a likeness of his person entire, asserted to be his true and extant body, but was rather, more likely, a carved rendition thereof, mayhap in polished buff onyx, stood Tyro, in everlasting effigy, eyes gazing skyward, arms outstretched, with samite robe fluttering behind him from the perpetual upward sweep of wind off the bluffs; his rendered image thusly forever capturing the transfixed ecstasy that marked the precise moment of his purported ascension to the seventh level of consciousness, and offering as solid proof, the attendant renouncement of his vestigial corporeal, ostensibly empetrified, remains.
	“Ach!”  Anntenfoale spat in disgust at the ingenerate demagoguery, acting as he did so in the midst of the hallowed Musory, where it can be safely stated that no spittoons were outfitted for such indecorous behavior.

17.  Short Solo
Faith, patience, resolve.
-Eborel’s mantra

	Upon Anntenfoale’s eventual departure from the ashram was Eborel’s ambitious verbal instruction in religion duly completed.  That she had been imparted the wisdom of Tyro by the land’s arguably most arcane expert on the subject was not lost on her.  As she revisited Enplexus often, long after her spirited colloquies with Anntenfoale had ended, she heard in her mind’s ear his explicative narration of the text as she read, alternately lauding and defaming its messages in passionately strident syncopated counterpoint.
	It was impossible for Eborel to contemplate Tyro’s mysticism without straining it through the filter of Anntenfoale’s recondite interpretations.  His influence on her was enormous, and it remained present in her conscience whenever questions of the mysteries of life arose.
	In fact, she was bemusedly reminiscing of Anntenfoale the following spring, when an event of note occurred while on a short solo in the mountains near the ashram.  As she wandered with her animals in consort, a smile repeatedly passed over her face, consequent to her past encounters with him, which conversations she replayed in her mind, to idle pleasure.
	Now here I must digress, to describe the purpose of short solos, which was to relieve the pressure incumbent upon the station of the students, occasioned by the oppressive pall of the seeming implacable regimen imposed on them by their studies at the ashram.  Short solos were absits, contrasted by their longer brethren, whose purposes were to sharpen fledgling skills and build self-reliance.  As such, the rules attendant to short solos were more lax, and explained why she was allowed to excurse with her animals.
	Short solos were as vacations then, taken in the natural environs nearby, separate from the areas used for military practice.  Students chose activities during their solos according to their personal pleasures.  Some went exploring with their favorite horse, staying ever on the move.  Others sought ideal spots to root themselves, in contemplation of beautiful views, or simply to smell the flowers while perhaps daydreaming languorously. 
	Eborel was fond of the company of her old cohorts in survival, Skyewing and Firthmare, while she took her solos.  They idled together in the brush, meandering at the whim of Firthmare’s grazing instincts, with no clear destination, while Skyewing invariably soared or perched nearby.  That Skyewing had not abandoned her during her stay at the ashram caused Eborel amazement, although she noticed ruefully that the raptor took ever-longer leaves of absence, lately stretching to weeks at a time.
	On a lazy mid afternoon, on the second day of this particular solo, Eborel came upon a person, whom she recognized from B-group, but whose name she didn’t know.  Sitting on a stump, in self-absorbed amusement, with one gray suede boot resting on his knee in cross-legged fashion, wearing a floppy brown hat, and smoking a gently curve-shafted pipe constructed of some bone-white material, was a fellow two years ahead of her at the ashram.
	“Hullo!” he said cheerily.  “Finally, I predicated your arrival!”
	“Huh?” she said in miscomprehension as she approached to greet him.
	“Zedwyn!” he said by way of introduction, doffing his hat slightly.  “Scout, first class, B-group, third year.”
	“Pleased to meet you,” she replied.  “Eborel, A-group, firster.”
	“Of course, everyone knows that.”
	She felt a bit sheepish, but continued, “What did you mean by ‘predicating’ my arrival?”
	“Well, I’m a scout you know.  There’s not much to do out here, and I like to keep busy – even on a solo.  So I thought I’d make a game out of scouting you, since our respective outings seem to be running concurrently.”
	“Do you mean you’ve been tracking me?” Eborel felt a bit miffed, particularly since she hadn’t picked up his presence.
	“No, not exactly,” he said, well aware that it was against the rules to engage in any sort of school-related work while on short solos, and a worse offense to interfere in another’s activities.
	“I wasn’t tracking you so much as scouting ahead – trying to predict where you were headed, by twixtwise logic, then awaiting your arrival.”  He explained.  “But you kept changing your direction!  I had to keep doubling back to find you, then intuit your new destination, then scout ahead and wait – all without being detected.  It was confoundingly difficult.  I think I’ve tuckered myself right out!”
	Eborel was amused, despite her annoyance at having her privacy invaded.  “Well you simply need to learn my methodology,” she said, smiling and nodding toward Firthmare, in indication of such.
	“That beast?” he asked, “You move at the whim of an ass?”
	She laughed, and said, “You should have thought like an ass, and put your nose to the wind in search for the most redolent verdure.  I’d have traipsed across your path right quick!”
	“It’s not right,” he complained, “Man should lead the beast, and not the other way ’round.  For who, after all, has the greatest purpose?”
	“Man,” she answered, “If you listen to your arrogance.  Nature, if you listen to the wind.”
	“Hmph,” he said in response to her pontification.
	“Sorry,” she apologized, “I’ve been studying Enplexus.”
	“How did you tolerate that crank, Anntenfoale?” he asked in exasperation.  “Really, he was beyond the pale!”
	“He was the antithesis of spoon-fed truth,” she conceded, “but the epitome of knowledge garnered with pain.”
	Zedwyn laughed, “Now that’s the truth!”
	Eborel and Zedwyn finished out their solos together – a not uncommon practice (despite the word “solo”), as there was little meddling by the school administration in the affairs of students taking planned breaks from studies.
	Each marveled at the others’ abilities:  Zedwyn’s skill at moving rapidly and seamlessly through the brush while covering his tracks, and Eborel’s considerable talent for striking decisively at the optimal moment of the kill during the hunt.
	Together, they made a formidable team, and vowed to work in league, to common purpose, when next they practiced inter-group expeditions – an activity to which Eborel was hitherto denied access, until the attaining of her second year.  Out of mutual respect then, despite their differing philosophies on life, was made a fast friendship. 

18.  Gnomics

Little, big; what’s the difference?
-Gnomic pass-phrase

	As the salient points of Eborel’s scholastic travails in her first year have been duly touched upon, some cursory attention is now given to her activities during the summer interstice between the first two years (and what would ultimately be the only two years) of her study at the ashram.  Traditionally, instructional curricula relented to a trickle during the summer months at the school, and so, students oft took leave of the ashram altogether during that time.
	By now, Eborel, who incidentally had late turned 18 years of age, formed one quoin of a quadrumvirate of friends; with Rosario, Darius, and Zedwyn forming the other three corner points, as it were, such that, if imaginary lines were drawn betwixt such points, might thereform a picture of a quadrilateral, therein containing an “X” cross, whose intersection lay at the heart of a diagram that might easily express the interrelationships between them.  Since her friends were each two years ahead of her, Eborel was all too aware that they would be taking their leave of her long before she would be ready to graduate herself.
	This knowledge weighed heavily upon them as they made their plans to take divergent summertime sojourns.  They resolved to leave the ashram as one, and travel down Feather Rill Valley together, splitting up only upon reaching the East-West highway.  
	This they did, each outfitted for the necessities of their respective journeys.  Darius and Rosario traveled on horseback, plodding at an easy gait alongside Eborel and Zedwyn, who walked on foot.  Eborel brought her ever-faithful animal friends, Firthmare and Skyewing.
	The parting at the valley-bottom conjoin was bittersweet, as it presaged the seeming inevitable permanent breakup of their all-way friendship in a year’s time.  As they had differing roads ahead, each swore irrefrangible allegiance to the group, promising a swift and joyous reunion at the ashram some two months thence.
	Rosario wouldst travel west to his homeland to visit his family in the Firthlands.  Darius intentioned likewise, but in a nor’easterly direction, towards Oxthoggle.  Zedwyn determined to seek Eborel’s erstwhile mountaintop home, Sparkling Pate, directly east, as an exercise in reconnaissance, and to take respite there to eke spiritual insight.
	Eborel sought insight, too, and rejuvenation as well.  But she pined for Shimrock Ruin, where she first met Rosario.  There, she hoped to apply some of her new-learned knowledge in study of the ubiquitous scripture on the tablets therestrewn.
	It came to pass as planned, and Eborel made her way to the white bluffs, which shone in the sunlight from a great distance as a seeming beacon in guidance to the venerated glade.  Upon her arrival, it was as she remembered:  verdant, calm, and suffused of a positive spiritual miasma, heavy with the aura of ancestors long passed into antiquity.
	She was not versed enough in runic to accurately interpret most of the inscriptions therefound, but was nonetheless entertained to diversion by what she could ascertain.  One particular tablet, which she had heretofore passed over, now captured her attention.  While its lettering was chiseled in clearly discernable sharp relief, its meaning was obfuscated by her inchoate comprehension.  She resolved to copy it verbatim, stroke by stroke, to parchment, for later study.  She gleaned enough to determine it was a poem concerning a rite of passage.  For the reader’s benefit, her eventual translation, crafted later at the Musory, appears hereforth:
 
Death Rite
Hear me!
Hear me now…
I beseech thee,
Spirit of Death,
Come to me that I may give thanks to my God, spirit that embodies all, of which I am a part.
The flow of my life ebbs.
I lie transfixed between two worlds.
There is great beauty in both worlds.
It is wonderful!
The echo of things to be pounds in my ears.
I shall certainly return to this place.
Good life…
Good bye.

	Eborel began a ritual of meditating twice daily in order to more deeply contemplate the stone formations around her.  The quiescent relaxation afforded by the state of Hynto freed her mind to flights of fancy regarding the stories and creators of the staid antediluvian monoliths.  Easy it was for her to imagine them as the remnants, or artifacts perhaps, of some lost race of peaceful giants that might once have graced the wide land with their noble presence and artistry.
	Thus she began and ended each day, at sunrise and sunset, with a mental ablution, as it were, or spiritual cleansing of her mind, while practicing Hynto.  It was on one particular evening, during which she entered a protracted state of Qasama, that something unusual occurred.
	Now here it must be stated that sounds in general become muted, and ultimately absent, when the sense of time perception is slowed.  Thus Eborel could gauge the depth of Qasama she attained by adjudging the extent to which normal ambient noise became muffled.
	As the silence was virtually absolute on this evening, she knew she was in protracted Qasama.  In fact, she had managed to virtually freeze the rising horizon across the face of the setting sun.  As she gazed in the direction of the fiery orange orb through barely open eyelids, she was startled to see some movement of low branches nearby – occurring in seeming real time!
	Opening her eyes slightly wider, she saw someone, or something, clearly moving in time shift, ignoring her completely, and eventually emerging into full view.  It, or, he, was a small man, wearing a coarse gunnysack gown, carrying a crude wooden tool over his shoulder.  As he did not seem to be threatening to her, she remained stock still to keep from giving herself away.  He passed from view, and she did not dare turn her head to watch him.  Eventually, another small man passed by, moving in the same direction, pushing a miniature wheelbarrow.
	Eborel’s comprehension burst into epiphany.  These must be the creatures whose pathways she had previously detected, but whose presence she could not hitherto directly discern.  They were small men, half her height, and they appeared to be inspecting or tending the plants in the glade, as a gardener might tend his vegetables.  Presently, more came by, and she saw small women as well.
	What astonished Eborel was their numbers.  At least a half dozen walked within her view, and she suspected there were many more.  Clearly, they cared for this place, but were never seen by the people visiting in “regular” time.  They ignored her as they would ignore any outsider, thinking themselves invisible to her.
	Eventually, however, one younger woman approached her, and inspected her face directly.  Emboldened, Eborel decided to make her awareness of them known, by moving her body in shifted time.  She turned her head toward the woman, and winked!
	The woman shrank back, with as much a look of aghast as can be managed in shifted time, and moved away towards a group of her cohorts nearby.  With hand signals that were evidently replacements for the absence of speech in slowed time, she communicated her alarm to the others.
	Eborel arose from her seated position, and followed the woman easily.  The others turned to move away, but as they could see that Eborel would be able to keep pace with them, they changed their collective minds, and turned to meet her, almost as in greeting.  They made a gesture unknown to Eborel, but which did not seem threatening.  It was a rotating of the two index fingers around each other.
	As she watched, one-by-one, each little person in turn, came to a standstill, their index fingers frozen in mid-twirl.  Eborel realized they were falling out of time shift, and were possibly entreating her to do the same.
	This she did, and was amusedly amazed to watch as several of the charming creatures appeared out of thin air before her, each with their fingers still twirling.  Once it was apparent that everyone was back in normal time, several of the people spoke to her in a language that was completely foreign.  It sounded of murmuring and rustling, and was very quiet.  
	She answered by saying “I don’t understand you,” to which she drew uncomprehending blank stares.  Several of them put up their hands, as if asking her to wait, and two of them walked hurriedly away, disappearing behind some prominent bushes on the fringe.  
	Many of the little people smiled and nodded to her, and she returned each smile and nod in kind.  Presently the two absented people returned with a person of greater and more regal stature, who approached her directly.  
	He wore an ankle-length white robe, and a white turban upon his head in which was embedded a large emerald centrally placed on the front face of its folds.  His hands were evidently clasped together beneath the loose sleeves that covered them.  Even with the added height of his turban, he was still nearly a head shorter than Eborel.
	He bowed to her, and spoke in plain, slightly accented Draeish, “I am Gilfaber, keeper of this glade.  We are the caretakers of this sacred place.  I bid you welcome.”
	Eborel curtseyed, and, bowing her head, replied, “I am most honored, Gilfaber.  My name is Eborel.”
	Gilfaber turned to his brethren and murmured to them in his own language.  All around, the people said her name, which sounded like “Bubberel,” as if it issued from a bubbling brook.
	“But who are you people?” asked Eborel.
	“We are gnomics – caretakers – as I’ve said.  I am their Gnolord.  We do not mix easily with the big people, as we prefer to keep to ourselves.  But anyone who moves in time shift, as we do, is most welcome by us.”
	“Please, do not let me disturb your work,” said Eborel.  “I will remain as unobtrusive as possible.  But tell me, am I to keep your existence a secret?”
	“As you wish,” he replied.  “It matters not, as we simply move in shifted time when others are about.  But we prefer real time, since it requires less energy, and allows for easier communication.  As for our work, we will dispense with it now.  I think your presence calls for celebration.”  He turned to the others and spoke rapidly to them.
	An excited buzz arose among them, and several gnomics became impelled to vigorous activity.  He addressed Eborel again pointing a glance at the sky, “It is a bright night, and no other people are in the vicinity.  We will bring out a long table, and serve up a feast.  You may sit near the head of the table, with me, as our honored guest.”
	Eborel was duly abashed.  “Thank you, I’m sure!”
	“It is rare indeed when one of the big people enters our world.  Our most recent visit was from Zoro’Ander, whom we call Dram.”
	“Yes, I know him, and call him Dram, too,” she said in pleased surprise.
	“Then you keep very good company indeed,” he replied.
	Eborel was thrilled to be the guest of such an exquisite and hitherto unknown race of people as the gnomics.  The feast was tantalizing, in part, because it took so long to prepare.  The glade filled with the heretofore unexperienced smells of stew and roast fowl.  It was not until midnight that all sat down to eat, and the celebrating went on nearly until dawn.  Evidently, the gnomics were largely nocturnal, perhaps to better hide their presence from the diurnal big people.  Eborel ate no fewer than three game hens, which single portion was perfect for the gnomics, but was far too small for her tastes and appetite.
	She eventually fell asleep at the table, and was carried by the gnomics to a grassy knoll nearby.  She awoke at high sun, having missed her morning meditation, and noticed that the wooden table and chairs had been removed, as if the feast had never occurred.  If it were a dream, she thought, it had been a most delicious one.
	But it had not been a dream, as the gnomics moved easily now in her presence, no longer feeling the need to hide from her in time shift.  She always nodded and smiled to them in passing, but rued that she had no other means of communication.
	She stayed for a few more weeks, and had occasion to speak with Gilfaber several times.  She asked many questions of him, but found him alternately reticent and discursive.  Whether he was purposely evasive, or merely spoke in a pointedly abstruse manner, she could not fathom.  But she learned little of the history or writings of the Ruins from him, and even less of the gnomics and their culture.
	Upon leaving Shimrock at the end of summer, the assemblage prepared a send-off feast for her, this time taking place midday for her benefit.  She parted company with them on excellent terms.  They admonished her, through Gilfaber, to look for their kind in other sacred places that she might discover in her travels, and to be sure to let them know she had their blessing.
	Eborel marveled at the sharp contrast, and seeming irony, of such small people caretaking the manifest behemoths of the glade.  Perhaps her meditative musings had been entirely misplaced – as she should rather have ruminated upon ancestral gnomics, than preternatural giants.

19.  Pact
And all the Earth, 
Of boundless girth,
Shrieked, “Hath thee but 
To prove thy worth?”
-Hero’s poem

	The second year at Ahzul brought the advent of two classes Eborel anticipated with excitement:  horsemanship, and archery.  That she would excel at both is a foregone conclusion, and will not here be dwelled upon further.  Suffice to say, that as an accurate marksman, loading arrows from a quiver and firing from atop her steed, all the while galloping at full tilt, she was a formidable warrior indeed.
	Of greater interest is the camaraderie that developed between the members of the aforementioned quadrumvirate, who now joined forces as often as possible, whenever the rules of mock combat allowed.  The stories they shared with each other of their adventures over the summer instilled in them a collective growing sense of communal wanderlust – particularly as the older three contemplated their more imminent life after the ashram.
	It was in the late winter that Rosario planted a seed in Eborel’s mind of a madcap idea for adventure.  Whilst dallying in the gardens behind the Musory, just the two of them, in an intimate moment, Rosario disclosed to her his desire to take on a specific quest, concerning a place which he had read about two years earlier.
	It seemed that in more ancient times, people oft took leave, usually once only in their lifetimes, to make a pilgrimage to Excelsion, at that time called Mount Soul – not so much to see the much vaunted statue of Tyro, which was, in any case rather new, at least in historical perspective, but to visit a shrine of an entirely different nature, and much older, too; named, to wit:  Quartz Prima. 
	Whether the said shrine even existed in the modern day, Rosario determined to discover on his own.  And if it didn’t, he meant to search for its archeological remains, if any there still were.  To that end, he wanted to plan for enough time on the mountain to look for the site, if it could be found, surmising as he did so, that such a project might take months, stretching possibly even to years.
	As the journey from Ahzul would be a long one – perhaps three months on horseback, Rosario puzzled over how he could reach the mountain during the most opportune months of summer for exploration.  But the details of such an expedition, if it were to take place, will be addressed later.  

	For now, the legend of Quartz Prima should be told, as its mystical aspect was the quality that most captivated Eborel’s imagination.  It seems that the shrine was a rock formation, carved out of the very mountainside, into a kind of chair, or throne, upon which pilgrims could sit, and commune by direct thought, with the very spirit of the mountain – a spirit that some stories claimed was none other than the essence, or soul, of all the world.  Thus, a direct line, as it were, to the spiritual embodiment of the land entire, could be obtained by any pilgrim who climbed Mt. Soul, and sat at the throne of Quartz Prima.
	But what sort of telepathic interchange with the spirit of the world could be expected by the said hopeful seeker of knowledge?  The legend on this point was quite clear.  Each visitor was to have prepared a single question, called their “life question,” which they would mentally envision whilst sitting upon the throne.
	And what sort of response could the pilgrim expect from the spirit of Mt. Soul, to his or her life question?  On this point, it became apparent that the seeming telepathic exchange was not immediately bi-directional, at least during the time the pilgrim remained at Quartz Prima.  For, while some versions of the legend asserted that the Mountain would answer the pilgrim’s life question directly in his mind as he sat upon the throne, the enduring tale stated that the spirit’s answer would be revealed to him, not in the moment, but at an unexpected time later in life.
	Thus it was that people in the days of yore made their pilgrimages to Mt. Soul once each in their respective lifetimes, and, after asking their individual life questions, waited for the spirit of the world to reveal its answer to each of them sometime during their lives – at a time deemed most propitious by the spirit itself, appropriate to the question asked, and its subsequent, sometimes untoward, response.
	Therefore, a pilgrim might spend the rest of his days “looking for a sign” of the answer to his life question in some mundane event, such as the seeming unremarkable fetching of water from a well by a maid, or perhaps by the sight of an oak branch bending in the wind, whilst a crow, sitting steadfastly perched thereupon, might inexplicably fail to be flushed. 
	One more condition was placed upon the spiritually laden acolyte, which was simply this:  The life question could be revealed to no one, as it was a secret covenant between the individual and the spirit of the world.  Only upon revelation of the spirit’s answer could the question be then generally discussed among peers.  If this sacred injunction were violated, the pilgrim could never hope to find his answer revealed.
	Thus it was that people formed their life questions in the solitude and privacy of their own consciences, and did not converse about them during their journeys to the mountain.  But as the enjoinder against discussion was lifted upon revelation of the answer, it can be said that a general survey of the populace showed that they were well aware of the content of typical life questions asked.
	Unfortunately for many, the most asked question, and the one that was most admonished by the legends to avoid, was simply:  “How will I die?” or its equally lugubrious variation:  “When will I die?” – the answer to either of which can, upon reflection, cause nothing but a perplexing state of discomfiture.
	For the interest of readers who might wonder how the spirit of the mountain wouldst handle compound questions, such as:  “How and when will I die?” the answer turns out to be (after some experimentation by past pilgrims), that only one question is answered.  Therefore, unless a pilgrim is willing to leave the choice of which question is answered to the spirit of the world, it wouldst behoove him to phrase his life question with careful consideration to the manifold ways it might be interpreted.
	Indeed, it can take the full length of time of the journey to the mountain for the life question of a pilgrim to become well-formed for presentation.  And because the question must remain private, there is no opportunity for editing by a third party.  Alas, as Zoro’Ander might say, “There is no cheating in the spiritual world.”  Thus, you would never hear a sayik in Draeland respond in the affirmative to the following plea, or its like, from any seeker of truth:  “Can you help me compose my life question?”

	Now it has been said that this legend sparked great interest in Eborel.  She wanted to accompany Rosario on his journey, but it meant abandoning her studies at the ashram for at least a half annum.  Worse, Rosario contemplated leaving before the end of the school year, in order to reach the mountain in early summer.  This meant he would forsake graduation altogether, and leave on disagreeable terms with the elders, who would likely not sanction such a plan.  And too, his reputation with his village sponsors in Twigfiddle might be tarnished by embarking on such a quest, especially after it became known that he had acted on apparent caprice, without the foreknowledge or permission of the school administration.
	There was also the strategic problem of how to outfit himself with supplies and a horse for such a surreptitious expedition.  He determined to take them unbidden, riding away furtively in the night – rationalizing such action by holding an intention to return the horse later, and bring back perhaps newfound important archeological information that might compensate for his pilfery.
	It was wise, in retrospect, that Rosario divulged his plan to Eborel.  For he might have embarked alone, risking universal ostracism, bearing the brunt of the responsibility for his actions solely upon his own shoulders.  As it was, Eborel conveyed his scheme to Darius and Zedwyn, who were immediately smitten by the sheer brazenness of its design.  Each faith-swore allegiance to the plan, and entreated full participation in it, wishing to accompany Rosario on the quest.  None seemed fazed by the prospect of missing the graduation, nor indeed, of facing the outrage of the entire school that was likely consequent to their flagrant disrespect for the rules.
	Emboldened by their collective audacity, the quadrumvirate became a confederacy of co-conspirators, each making a pact with the other to secret supplies and horses to the purpose of the grand journey, which commencement would be determined by the harbingers of spring, whose events would herald the auspicious weather convenient to escape and long travel.

20.  Journey
Ever Onward!
-Rallying cry of pilgrims
 journeying to Excelsion

	It might be said that the best enforcers of the rules make the best violators of the same.  Thus it was with relative ease that our intrepid quadrumvirate, well-taught in the wiles of stealth, did manage to avoid detection in their escape from the very institution that trained them so well in such art.
	On a clear dark evening, then, of mostly non-gibbous lumi, the four members of the illicit consortium slipped away, leaving each by different routes, and at different times, to rendezvous at a predetermined glade – there to pool their horses and supplies to imminent joint purpose.  To analogize, they were as meandering runnels, which, upon coalescing to form a great river, thus readily assumed and advanced its fierce quest for the sea.  So too did our adventurers join forces and succumb to the fervor of like urgency, but for their own goal, to wit, Mt. Excelsion.
	As Darius was the natural leader, and the most ardently enthusiastic, he “led the fore,” and attained the glade first, there to attend the arrivals of his compatriots, who, each by turns, furtively materialized from without the darkness, before his very eyes, as it were, by seeming magic, and in utter silence, as a vapor wouldst form above a fen.
	No words were spoken.  Each held to his own private counsel, and sat stolidly next to his respective soft-shuffling mount.  Though the individual thoughts were distinct, the feeling was collective, and was akin to a burgeoning sense of impending fear-flight.  Upon the arrival of the final player, Rosario, who was, after all, the instigator of the mad quest, and without whom the group could have no purpose, the fearsome foursome sprang, by mutual unspoken consent, to their appointed task.
	By sunrise, they had trod their horses leagues from the ashram, thus assuring an unassailable lead, especially once their steeds were spurred to gallops upon daybreak.  By way of adieu, Eborel had planted earlier a parchment-for-post on the westerly road, that would, they hoped, upon discovery, allay the administration’s fears, whilst simultaneously mislead them as to the direction of their exodus.
	The letter was an apologia regarding the “borrowing” of the horses and supplies, as well as a promise to return them at an unspecified time in the future.  No mention of Excelsion was made, nor any reason for their action hinted upon.  Eborel found the feeling of thievery, as it had on a previous occasion years before with the flints at the campfire, sat leaden upon her conscience.

	The journey southeast was, by twixtwise turns:  wearying, inspiring, monotonous, exhilarating, lonely, and companionable.  The overarching quality might best be described as harsh.  For while all were experienced in the vagaries of deprivation afforded by long periods upon the open road, it can be said that no amount of such experience can lessen the burden of suffering that must, by necessity, still be endured thereupon.
	That said, the counterpoint to the tedium was the occasioned, often joyous, attainment of waymarks, such events tending to amplify the feeling of accomplishment to exultation, by dint of sheer contrast to the background drudgery.
	Particularly since the maps Rosario carried were drawn more intuitively than to actual scale, it sometimes took the group weeks to encounter a waymark that was daily expected ’round every corner.  In contraposition, a spectacular sight might welcome their collective visages unexpectedly upon cresting a hill – said sight remaining entirely unmentioned in Rosario’s travel compendium.
	In scholarly fashion then, did Rosario keep a sheaf of parchments for personal notes – meant as an amendment to the historical records which he had copied from the Musory.  As such, his annotations became an improvised record of the travels of the group.
	And those travels, it must be said, appeared to take them to the very edge of the world.  For, the longer they journeyed, the fewer people they met with upon the road, and the sparser were scattered the hamlets and byways – until finally, all signs of settlement vanished completely.
	By the time they reached the Tizan River, they had exhausted their original food supplies, and encountered no one with whom to barter.  As they now relied solely upon their survival skills, Eborel longed for her old hunting partner Skyewing, whose aerial scouting might have provided a much appreciated advantage to the reconnaissance of the hunt. 
	Be that as it may, the positive aspect of their travails was the daily sight of untamed and unspoiled landscape, pristine for as far as the eye could see, ever-entreating them deeper into the alluring realm of nature, whose terrible beauty belied hidden, treacherous, anonymous death.
	The forging across the Tizan River was, in a sense, the gateway to the final leg of the journey to the mountain, as it portended the fortitude that wouldst must needs be mustered to reach that destination.  The river ran wide and strong, with numerous spillways that diverted the water around myriad small islands of rock and brush.  While its breadth was prodigious, the crossing point was clearly chosen by the ancient path makers for its relative shallowness.
	The fording was accomplished by tying the horses saddle-to-saddle, and trudging them in a straight line for stretches between resting places on natural promontories.  While the travelers mostly walked upon the river bottom, sometimes the depth necessitated swimming.  In such cases, each rider tread water aside his respective steed, and held his packs firmly upon his horse’s back, while steering him upstream in apparent tangent to their target on the opposite shore, against the river’s unremitting, and course-confounding, current.
	While they managed to avoid the many rapids and small waterfalls, errant swads of floating debris and manifold slippery rocks yet contrived to thwart their progress.  In the end however, the river relented to their insistent trespass, and yielded up, if grudgingly, the crossing.
	Upon reaching the opposite shore, eight pairs of eyes turned back to stare pensively at the water just breached.  Daunted, exhilarated, fatigued, proud – man and beast had bested the mighty Tizan.
	Turning away, they put civilized Draeland behind them, and walked directly into the uttermost.

21.  Excelsion

Wax Izzy, wax Estus, wax Chalgo and Durin.
Wane Ensue, wane Imbro, wane Zarkov and Inca.
-Lumic incantation

	As our intrepid group traveled just beyond the river crossing, they encountered a wye in the road, which being marked upon Rosario’s map, indicated that the left fork led north, following the Tizan upstream.  While their course lay clearly to the right, our cohorts yet paused, to contemplate and speculate upon whether the road left led ultimately to the river’s source, and if so, for what distance it might wend.
	All were aware that the headwaters of the Tizan provided the fabled source for one of the three ingredients to the afore-mentioned elixir of life; that is, the water of eternal beauty and youth.  It was remarked upon that a river of that size might wander for hundreds of leagues before revealing its birthplace, and even then, as a river has myriad sources, it might take a lifetime of searching to find the perpetual fountain referenced by the tablet at Shimrock Ruin.
	But that adventure, if it were ever to happen, would have to wait for another time.  For now, the group was eager to play out the design as planned, and urged their charges down the right fork, in anticipation of the destiny that path preordained.
	The remainder of the pilgrimage seemed much longer than necessity would warrant by the uncertainty regarding the distance yet to be traversed to the destination, due to the vagaries of Rosario’s maps.  That the mountain could not be discerned in the distance daily nursed the collective seeded doubts in our travel-weary friends’ minds about the correctness of the course now taken.
	Within a month, however, as the rolling terrain fell away to steppe, a sunken peak, as it were, was espied, seeming just over the distant horizon.  As the road appeared to be headed, in meandering fashion, toward its general direction, and as the sharp crest of the peak appeared to rise majestically by degrees with the passing of each day, it became evident that their destination, nay even their salvation, lay presently at hand.
	I say salvation because their supplies were low, and the surrounding plains evinced a remarkable dearth of edibles, either animal or vegetable, except for the abundance of grass, which endless supply kept their horses well-fueled.  The mountain, in contrast, grew greener by day, especially about its base, offering as it were, a tantalizing promise of the taste of the literal fruits of their endeavors that lay ahead.
	But at their present rate of travel, it appeared that a race wouldst ensue between the very survival of their haggard bodies, and the actual arrival of those same bodies at their destination.  To conserve energy, then, they did not hunt, and gathered only what plants could be found conveniently within ready compass.
	To be sure, they still had food stuffs in supply, but these they doled out in stringent portions.  And it must here be emphasized that a body can still waste and want when the variation in diet remains unchanged for weeks on end.
	But our young warriors were hardy and determined.  Doubtless the same journey took a much greater toll on past pilgrims who were elderly or sick.  It would have been a welcome occasion indeed for those travelers of yore, just as it was now for our determined band, to finally attain the comforting umbrage of the trees in the mountain’s foothills.  And along with the relief provided by the overhanging branches from the unremitting sunshine, came the fruits and berries of the season:  buckthorns, black currants, gooseberries, dwarf plums, and more.
	In places across the roadway were encountered tangled natural bowers of overhanging blackberry vines, dripping with darkened fruit.  As our colleagues ravished the proffered berries, they couldn’t help but wonder that the brambles kept their root stalks to the side of the road, as if willingly maintaining unencumbered passage for the travelers.  It went unnoticed by none that the kempt condition of the road was likely not caused by natural foot traffic, as the long highway leading to the mountain appeared little trod in recent years.
	Presently our group came to a wide high trellis overarching the road, which being engulfed in thorny vines, was dotted liberally with small pink roses, each one bursting in bloom.  Through the archway beckoned a long field with several weathered banquet tables and accompanying benches.  A few small log cabins were visible on the periphery, as well as a sprinkling of octagonally shaped tents, situated closer to the tables.  Each tent comported a pointed canvas roof, above which flew a forked guidon, trailing two long streamers – one of purple, and one of white.
	The whole scene had a regimented military look to it, yet our group had not hitherto detected the presence of soldiers.  Slowly they dismounted, furtively arming themselves with hidden blades.  Zedwyn and Darius walked underneath the trellis while Eborel and Rosario guarded the rear, staying close to the horses.
	The forward scouts separated and moved to the tables, while remaining in view of the others.  They approached the tents furtively, sneaking up on the door flaps, and pulling them aside with sudden convulsive motions.  By the scout’s unperturbed body movements, the rear guard, viewing from a distance, could not make out their reactions.  Zedwyn and Darius also approached two cabins, and peered into the windows, but did not attempt to force the doors.
	After returning to the tables, the two spies rejoined their group at the trellis.  As Darius approached, he tossed something to Eborel with one hand, while he bit into something else with the other.
	“What’s this?” asked Eborel, catching the object reflexively.
	“An apricot,” answered Darius as he chewed, “and dastardly delicious, too.  There are cherries, as well, in wooden comports.”  He gestured toward the tables.
	“How do you know they’re not poisoned?” asked Rosario.
	“Well if they are, I’ll be the first to go!” said Darius as he popped a few cherries into his mouth.
	“Whose fruit are you taking?  What is this place?” asked Eborel.
	“Beats us,” shrugged Zedwyn, “Whomever they are, they’re short of stature.  The doors are about eight spans high, and the benches are sized for children.”
	Eborel donned a look of comprehension.  “Any sign of military activity?” she asked.
	“No,” said Darius, “we saw no weaponry – just a lot of cooking and gardening equipment.”
	Eborel pushed past her friends leading her horse in tow.  “Gnomics!” she said excitedly.  “They know we’re here.  Let’s find them!”  She fairly jogged toward the tables.
	“Eborel!” Darius called after her.  “Formation!”
	She looked over her shoulder, ignoring his plea, and waved, “Come on!”
	The group sauntered in and took in the scent of mown hay.  They released their horses to amble about the great field.  Eborel and Zedwyn scouted the periphery for signs of foot traffic, or pathways leading out.  They found much evidence of recent habitation, but no people or gnomics.  Eborel guessed there were gnomics nearby moving in time shift, but in deference to their privacy, she did not attempt to seek them out by entering that strange netherworld of altered time.
	Since the day was yet young, and their eagerness to move on was urgent, they decided to rejoin the road mountainward.  They took more of the fruit that was laid upon the highest and most centrally located table, and left a few silver coins in payment.
	As they fairly gamboled down the road, they walked rather than rode, in order to take in the beauty of the surroundings at a jaunty gait-of-foot.  The forest, fields, and roadside flower beds had the characteristic wild, yet manicured look that Eborel came to know so well at Shimrock.
	Presently, they spied a column of smoke rising in the distance, and slowed their approach to a furtive pace.  They moved off the road, and sent Darius and Eborel ahead without their horses.  After walking cautiously for a few furlongs, the two rounded a bend to behold a small gardener kneeling next to a miniature wheelbarrow while troweling a flowerbed in concentrated effort.
	Eborel and Darius regarded each other momentarily, and with mutual unspoken accord, stepped into the road to approach the gardener openly.
	“Hale and curiously well-met, thou of the noble gnomic race,” said Eborel effusively, as the gardener rose to greet them.  He appeared much like his brethren of Shimrock, though dressed perhaps in deeper shades of burlap brown, and comported upon his pate a stocking cap that fell midway down his back.  He approached, still wearing his gardening gloves, holding his arms wide in an expansive gesture of welcome, and spoke quiet words in the curious tongue of his kith.
	Eborel did not understand him, but made an effort to speak in broken Gnomic.  “Il sinu Eborel, rouffle ishla Darius,” she said, gesturing to Darius.  The gardener bowed and patted both of them, one with each hand, on the sides of their legs, sullying them slightly with flowerbed dirt.  Eborel took this as a gesture of honor, as soil is the common substance, according to Gnomic tradition, from which all life springs.  Darius, on the other hand was miffed, and beat the dirt off his pant leg with a fling of his fingers.
	The gnomic mumbled his own name, which sounded like Sushla-sahlhameh-lahulamay, and requested with a nod that they follow him up the road.  Eborel turned to Darius, and asked him to bring the others up while she accompanied Sushla (the only part of his name she could remember) forthwith.  Darius squinted at her in a silent appeal for greater caution, but gave in after a moment, and turned to depart.
	Sushla placed his gardening tools in the miniature wheel barrow, and, upon grasping the handles, began walking down the road with it, accompanied by a slow striding Eborel.  Presently, the others came up on horseback, and Sushla greeted them with a broad smile.  As they marched slowly towards the column of smoke ahead, Sushla donned an aspect of pride, puffing out his chest and whistling a gay tune. 
	Other gnomics were soon encountered along the way, and they joined the party, swelling to a small parade.  Many carried the longer tools of their craft over their shoulders:  wooden rakes, spades and hoes.
	Presently, a side spur appeared in the road.  Upon turning onto it, the pathway opened out to a great wheat-colored field, nestled at the base of a steep foothill, and surrounded by a mix of ancient twisted hardwood trees.  Along the periphery were rows of miniature thatched houses, shaded by the branches of the trees above, and each one fronted by the field, which served as a commons.  Behind the houselets ran a bubbling stony brook that meandered along the contour of the foothill’s base.  In the middle of the field was a large fire pit, within which present crackling fire was the cause of the smoke column that had acted as a beacon to this place.
	Amongst the houses stood one that was of greater proportion than the others, and it was toward this that our party marched.  Once reached, the assemblage waited patiently outside.  Soon, the main door opened to reveal a person issuing from within who was so familiar in aspect to the keeper of the Shimrock glade, that Eborel at first mistook him for Gilfaber.  But upon closer inspection, though his stature was of similar height, his face was nonetheless discernibly distinct.  And too, the gem in the now familiar turban that marks the gnolords, was not a faceted green emerald, but rather, a smooth polished amethyst of royal purple.
	“I bid you welcome,” said the stately lord with a bow.  “I am Penarthic, the Keeper of the shrine at Excelsion.”
	Eborel curtsied and said, “Eslaba, entorr dova, plenith calusa?” to which Penarthic smiled, and said, “You have encountered our people before?”
	Eborel said, “I bring you good tidings from Gilfaber and his kith.  Their growing seasons are long and bountiful.”
	“That is good to hear.  And to what company do I have the pleasure of sharing discourse?”
	Eborel faltered for a moment, realizing she had forgotten her manners.  “We are students from the Ashram of Ahzul in the Westron reaches.  This is Darius, Rosario, and Zedwyn.”  She gestured to each, as they bowed in turn to the gnolord, “And I am Eborel.”
	“I am honored to make your acquaintances,” said Penarthic.  “Your name, Eborel, is known to us.  You travel with the personal blessing of Gilfaber – is that so?”
	“Well, yes,” said Eborel rather sheepishly.  “He did ask me to tell any gnomics I meet that I carry his blessing.”
	“You are all most welcome among us,” said Penarthic.  “Have you come to visit the shrine of Tyro?”
	Eborel hesitated, and Rosario interjected, “Yes, honored one, we’d like to see his likeness at the Kentamere Bluffs, but we seek a much older shrine upon the mountain.”
	“Indeed?”  Penarthic raised his eyebrows as he regarded Rosario.
	“We rather hoped you might know of its whereabouts.  Perhaps you have come across its ruins in your travels.”
	“What sort of shrine are you looking for?” asked Penarthic.
	“One of its names is Quartz Prima.  It’s some sort of formation in the rock.”
	Penarthic laughed gently and turned to the other gnomics present.  He spoke to them in low tones which caused an excited murmur to spread among them.
	“Well this is a pleasant surprise!” said Penarthic turning his attention back to Rosario.  “We haven’t had a pilgrim seeking Quartz Prima in many a long age.  Indeed, my memory of the last visitor there is dim beyond recall.”
	“Then you know of its existence – you have seen it?” Rosario’s tone took on an excited urgency.
	“Of course!” laughed Penarthic, “It is the true shrine to which we are charged with the keeping.  The shrine to Tyro is a tourist attraction by comparison – a diversion along the way to the hallowed throne of Quartz Prima.
	“But the mountain’s voice has grown silent,” continued Penarthic, “and the way to the top is treacherous.  None save us,” he gestured toward the gnomics, “have tread the path for a score of decades.”
	Rosario was near ecstatic with the news, “Will you lead us there – help us find it?” he asked.
	Penarthic smiled, “You’ve come all this way on your own – you don’t need us to take you there.  The way is marked with stone cairns – three rocks high.  The shrine faces north, near the summit.  It can be seen from a distance as you climb.  It was made to be found.”  Then he added upon reflection, “But only after arduous effort.”
	“We must depart at once!” cried Rosario.  “Can you estimate the time for the ascent?”
	“You must be well supplied with blankets,” said Penarthic.  “It’s verily cold on high.  You can take your horses only as far as the Kentamere Bluffs.  The trail winds up on the south side of the mountain – it’s a day’s ride to that point.  On the eastern edge of the bluffs, you’ll see the first cairn marking the path summitward.  It takes a day and a half more to climb to the oracular throne, and about a day to return to the shrine of Tyro.  There is a gate on the western edge of the bluffs.  If you keep it closed, your horses will be waiting when you return.  Take some bales of alfalfa with you to keep them content while you’re away.”
	“Oh, thank you, Penarthic.  How can we ever repay you?” asked Eborel.
	“You can repay us by cutting flowers that you find in planted beds along the roadway.  Wrap them with twine and leave the bouquets at the feet of Tyro’s likeness.”
	“Gladly!” said Eborel.
	“One more thing,” said Penarthic.  “It’s customary for us to offer a banquet to all pilgrims upon their return from the mountain, in order that we might match their spiritual succor with the more worldly sustenance of physical food.  As we have seen few pilgrims in recent years, and as you carry Gilfaber’s blessing, and further, as you’re making a special and rare trip summitward to Quartz Prima, and finally,” he hesitated, “as we do love feasting,” he gave a knowing nod to the gnomics who nodded vigorously in return, “we would like to invite you to the veritable antecedent of all banquets, upon your return, to take place on the sixth morning from now, at Thornberry Field, whence you must have passed on your way here.”
	The assemblage of gnomics cheered, and each one of the troop thanked Penarthic profusely, while he nodded perfunctorily, already lost in deep discussion with the gnomics regarding the preparations for an event, to wit, the feast, that would not occur for nigh on five and a half days thence.

22.  Quartz Prima
Riftford Ablutions!
-Draeic expletive

	“What did you say to Penarthic,” asked Rosario of Eborel, “when he responded, ‘You have encountered our people before?’ ”
	“I said the standard Gnomic pass phrase.”
	“Which is?”
	“Little, big; what’s the difference?” Eborel translated.
	“Oh,” Rosario nodded as he penned the phrase into his travel journal.
	A day’s travel had passed since the group left the gnomic village on the previous morning. They broke camp in a copse of young trees beneath which they had spent the night, and continued their journey.  The bluff they sought was just a few leagues ahead, intermittently visible as they wound and climbed the base of the mountain.  Upon finally attaining the famed plateau, Tyro’s likeness was spied at land’s edge, just as the stories foretold:  arms outstretched, gaze skyward, standing with samite robe billowing in the breeze.
	The crest of the high bluff flattened into a wide grassland that could easily accommodate countless thraves of pilgrims.  The horses, upon release, cantered happily about the field.  Tyro’s back faced the rise of the mountain’s ascent behind him.
	“So this is Kentamere,” said Rosario dreamily, as he approached the exalted effigy, laying bundles of flowers at its feet.
	In order to inspect the statue’s visage, the four moved perilously close to the edge of the cliff.  The eyes on Tyro’s upturned face were open, but no pupil or iris could be seen.  Instead were descried miniature striated onyx lines of tan and yellow, which imparted to the prophet a mesmerizing look.
	Eborel sat down cross-legged in the space directly in front of Tyro, facing the sheer drop, with her knees nearly over the edge.  The others did the same, sitting side by side.  All meditated upon Tyro’s written work, Enplexus.  The wind in their faces imparted a susurrous effect, bringing to Eborel’s mind the voice of Anntenfoale, whispering Tyro’s words of wisdom in her ears.  Catch-phrases reverberated in her thoughts, like philosophical bon mots, insisting upon deep reflection:  “Beginners in the universe,” “Purpose presages consciousness,” “Absolutes are unattainable,” “Transience, continuity, unity,” “The three rings of truth.”
	Presently, the others arose, but Eborel remained lost in a state of reverse time shift trance.  She barely moved as the sun rose at a summer-steep incline in the eastern sky.  The others left her alone, but Rosario became agitated when he discovered the cairn of stones rearward of the field.
	“Let’s rouse Eborel from her reverie!” he cried.
	“Leave her be,” said Zedwyn and Darius, as they broke out snacks of breadcake and jam.  “We’ve come all this way – there’s plenty of time.”
	Rosario busied himself, while he waited, with preparations for the trail ahead.  He constructed a crude blind at the forest edge to store the excess baggage they wouldn’t need for the ascent.  Lining up the backpacks, he tied to each one rolls of beautiful patterned blankets, generously lent by the gnomics.  After checking the food stuffs and water skins, he laid out the alfalfa for the horses, and sat down to attend to his journal.
	At late morning, Eborel’s eyes fluttered, and she tumbled out of trance.  She was surprised to see the sun high in the sky, and her compatriots standing together, awaiting her return to the present.
	“I’m famished,” she said as she approached the group.  
	Rosario handed her some breadcake as he strapped on his pack.
	“You can eat this while we walk,” he said.
	“What, no jam?” she asked, disappointed.
	“It’ll have to do,” he said indicating with a nod the direction of their imminent departure.
	“Rosario!” laughed Zedwyn.  “You’re as impatient as a child in a taffy shoppe!”
	“More like an archeologist, anticipating a precious artifact,” he shot back.
	Zedwyn shrugged.  “Same difference,” he averred.
	Their climb was like the wondrous soaring of a high-mountain Condor, affording them views in all directions as they fairly circumnavigated the peak.  The path was generously maintained in places, undoubtedly by the gnomics, with low stone barriers and walkways built over tumbling screes of rock.
	As they passed above the tree line, the winds became bitingly cold.  Glad they were to have the gnomic blankets, which had loops of braided cord and buttons for easy fastening about the body, poncho-style.
	At sunset, they gleaned the silhouette of a lone silk cotton tree ahead, standing incongruously like a sentry to the waytop, shielded by a steep ravine nearby.  This they made for directly, and camped below its comforting spread of gnarled branches, each draped with dangling threads of moss at the ends.
	The next day, as promised by Penarthic, they saw from a distance the majestic outcropping of granite that could only be their long hoped-for destination.  Eagerly they clambered their way through the steepest and, save for the crossing of the Tizan, most challenging part of the journey to date.
	By mid afternoon, they fairly crawled, exhausted, onto the huge rock ledge that jutted in cantilever fashion over the vast spread of the mountain below.  They were not at the peak, which still rose some height behind them.  But for that, they felt on top of the entire world of Draeland.
	All sat down to rest and admire their considerable achievement.  They remained seated for some time, except Rosario, who rose to make a detailed study of the great rock face.  He paced back and forth, counting his strides.  Spreading his arms to measure spans and elevations, he marked his findings meticulously in his journal.
	The others admonished him to relax, and replenish himself with drink, but he ignored their pleas.
	While the three continued to breathe in the expansive view and recuperate from the climb, Rosario took it upon himself to sketch the rock face itself.  There were massive rounded vertical formations, that seemed like natural columns adorning each side of a raised platform, which, recessed in the face, sat level about a half arm span above the main ledge.  Thin rivulets of water dripped down between the columns, washing over exposed veins of jagged pure quartz rock crystal.
	Eventually the others turned to view Rosario’s object of fascination.  Darius sauntered to the raised platform and hopped up nonchalantly.  Prancing around, he sat down with his back against the cliff face, and stretched his legs straight forward.
	“It’s comfortable!” he declared.  “Look, there are natural armrests.”  He motioned to the raised rock mounds under his elbows.
	Countless centuries of pilgrims sitting upon the throne in days long gone had worn it round to comport itself to the natural position of a sitting person.
	“I could sit here all day,” said Darius.  “Somebody fetch me a sassafras spritzer!”
	Eborel tossed a pebble towards him.  “Spritz this,” she said jokingly, as Darius easily dodged the clattering projectile.
	“Hey Darius,” said Zedwyn, “you’d better not ask any questions while you’re up there, or one of them might end up being your life question.”
	“Hah,” said Darius, “do I look worried?”
	“That’s it!” they resounded in unison.  “That’s your life question!”
	“Don’t be ridiculous,” rejoined Darius.  The great spirit knows what my life question is.”
	“Oh mighty mountain!” hollered Rosario in jest, towards the peak, hands cupped to his mouth.  “Does Darius look worried?”  He cocked his ear listening carefully for a response.  “I think I hear the wind whispering ‘Never!’ ” he said.
	They all laughed, including Darius.
	“Okay, my turn,” said Zedwyn.  “Let me get up there.  Give it up.”
	“What,” said Darius, “so you can ask, ‘Whom shall I marry?’ ”
	“Never you mind!” said Zedwyn, flustered.
	“Oh dear,” jeered Darius, “I think we’ve stumbled upon Zedwyn’s life question.  Now that we know it, he’ll never have his answer!”
	Then Darius, without leaving his vaunted seat, donned a serious aspect, and mockingly intoned, “Zedwyn Bythewood, thou shalt never marry!”
	“Get off your throne, King Darius!” demanded Zedwyn.
	“Okay, okay, allow me my fun,” said Darius as he climbed down.
	Zedwyn hopped up, and upon sitting, tilted his head with a quizzical look.
	The others stifled giggles, and Darius spoke to them in a hushed tone, as if commentating to a crowd, “Zedwyn of Bythewood, now seated upon the famous throne of Quartz Prima, is in the process, even as we speak, of asking his life question.  No one but the spirit of Draeland knows what he’s thinking.  In a moment, we shall conduct a post-oracular interview.”
	Zedwyn hopped off, and Darius asked him, waving as if to an imaginary throng of pilgrims lined up to sit upon the throne, “Tell us Zedwyn, did the mountain answer your most desperate plea?  What did you ask, and what was foretold?”
	“Mind your own beeswax,” said Zedwyn in a huff.
	Darius laughed, then turned to the historian, and said, “Rosario, this whole cockamamie adventure is your doing.  Why don’t you get up there and fulfill your dream?”
	“Alright,” Rosario said tentatively, “but I only came to study the shrine in the context of Draeish history.  I had not intended to actually participate in the contrivance of its mythology.”
	“Oh, come on!” howled Darius.  “Don’t tell me you’re not a believer – that you haven’t even prepared a life question?”
	“Well, er, I suppose I could come up with something,” Rosario conceded.
	“Darn straight you can come up with something!” said Darius as he and Zedwyn frog-marched him to the throne.  “We haven’t come all this way just so you can miss the opportunity of a lifetime!”
	They pushed him onto the throne and stood back.
	Darius continued his heckling from some distance.  “I mean really!” he exhorted with hands on hips.  “Take a chance, man!  What’s the worst that can happen – that your question will go unanswered?  You’ll likely never return to this place, you know.  Have at it!”
	“Hush up, will you?” fired Rosario in return.  “I’m trying to commune with the great spirit here!”
	Darius rolled his eyes, but relented in deference to the solemnity of the moment.
	Presently Rosario jumped off with a veritably beatific look upon his face.
	“Now that’s better,” said Darius beaming.  “I’ll needle your question out of you later.”
	“You’d best not, if you know what’s good for you!” challenged Rosario.
	“So maybe you do believe in the myth just a little?” Darius chided.
	Rosario merely harrumphed.
	All eyes turned to Eborel.
	“Right!” she said resolutely, mounting the throne with deliberate delicacy.
	After seating herself, she closed her eyes.  Nothing happened at first.  The others moved away to give her a private space.  They sat down near the edge of the precipice, facing her, and waited.  Rosario drew a picture of her sitting upon the throne.
	After a while, Eborel’s eyelids began to flutter, and she appeared to enter a trance like the one she experienced sitting next to Tyro’s statue.
	“Oh great,” said Zedwyn, “we’ll be here all day!”
	As they waited, a chilly wind stirred up and the sky darkened.  Rosario rose to tuck a blanket around Eborel’s unmoving body.  He returned to his place, as the three pulled their blankets more tightly around themselves.  The wind began to blow fiercely, and they huddled together for warmth.
	“Great time for a summer squall!” Rosario fairly yelled.
	Zedwyn looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Look!”
	The others turned to see great black and gray clouds roiling in the sky, careering in their direction out of the northeast.  Lightning flashed in the distance.  Rain began pelting Eborel’s face.
	“Come on!” shouted Rosario.  They ran over to Eborel and jumped onto the throne.  Fastening their blankets together to form a tent-like roof, they held it about their heads against the downpour.  The rain did not awaken Eborel, nor did anyone shake her in an attempt to do so.  The three of them crouched around in protection from the onslaught of the weather.
	The distant rumbling became local thunder that crashed perilously close by.  The storm’s fusillade came so quickly, they felt overwhelmed.  No one dared look out from beneath the blanket, for fear of seeing lightning strike near at hand.
	Following the sounds of the terrific explosions, each of the comrades-in-arms imagined that they heard a basso vibrato voice mingled in with the rolling thunder.  Whether they heard it in the wind, or within theirs minds, they could not tell.  The spectral croon evinced a single word, sometimes enunciated rapidly, sometimes long and drawn out, with three distinct syllables.  It sounded thus:  Flash, bang, “Go-Go-Lax.”  Flash, bang, “Gooooh-Gooooh-Laaaax.”

23.  Feast
Gnolords are wise beyond wise.
-Gnomic saying

	The lightning and rain ceased as suddenly as it had commenced.  Eborel opened her eyes just as the wind whirled the clouds southward, around the mountain, at preternatural speed.  She was shivering.
	“Are you hale?” asked Rosario with deep concern.
	“Yes,” she responded feebly.  Some of the drops on her face were tears.  “The mountain has answered my question.”  She sobbed quietly.
	“What?” said Darius, “What was your question?”
	“I dare not say.”
	“Well, then,” he asked, “Was the answer Gogolax?”
	She started in surprise.  “You heard it, too?”  The others nodded in silent acknowledgment at having heard the word.  She turned away crying.
	Soon the sun peered out near the horizon from behind the nimbocumulus clouds.  All were shocked at how low it was.  Four or five hours must have passed in what seemed no more than a quarter of that time.
	Eborel crawled off the throne.  “I want to get away from this place,” she said.
	They stumbled down the path and made camp a little while later in the darkness.
	The next morning Rosario leafed through his journal checking for damage.  There was none – the pages were dry.  He looked up at the others, mutely asserting his desire to return to the throne to make more notes.  Each returned a level gaze indicating their answer was, “No!”
	He sighed, and stared helplessly at the drawings he had made.  “It’ll have to do,” he said under his breath.
	As they descended the mountain, the four came across the silk cotton tree under which they had camped two nights earlier.  One giant charred branch lay across their path, evidently knocked off the tree by the force of a lightning bolt.
	As they climbed over it, marveling at the power of the blast, Zedwyn suddenly bent over to study something on the ground.
	“Everybody stop!” he commanded.
	Everyone froze as Zedwyn gingerly retraced his path scanning the ground.  Then he stepped back around the branch and continued forward slowly.
	“What do you see?” asked Darius impatiently, speaking for the group.
	“You’ll believe me not,” said Zedwyn.  “I know that sandal pattern!  They’re muddied, but unmistakable”
	“Try us!” shouted Rosario.
	“It’s Quid Synch!” said Zedwyn excitedly.  “He was here, and recently.  He’s wearing the same sandals he wore at the ashram.  I recognized them at once.  His tracks start at the tree, and continue downhill.”
	“Amazing,” said Eborel.  “The lightning summoned him.  Let’s catch up!”  They broke into an accelerated stride down the mountain.
	“How far ahead is he, do you think?” asked Rosario.
	“He has a half day head start on us,” said Zedwyn.  “It all depends on whether he stopped for the night.  Keep your eyes peeled for signs of a temporary camp.  I imagine we can reach him before he reaches the gnomics – if that’s where he’s headed.”
	“He probably doesn’t know where he’s headed, or even where he is,” said Eborel.  “Another cataclysm could take him away as suddenly as he came.”
	“Let’s hope for no more lightning!” said Rosario.
	“We’ll know if we pass him, anyway,” said Zedwyn.  “He’s making no effort to mask his tracks.  If they disappear, it’ll mean he’s either nearby, or whisked away.”
	As they walked along, Darius asked tentatively, “Does anyone know what ‘Gogolax’ means?”
	Rosario and Zedwyn looked at Eborel to see if she was receptive to talking about it.  She made no gesture, so they simply shook their heads.
	Eborel answered him, “It’s either a person, a place, or a thing, I imagine.”
	“Penarthic will know,” ventured Darius.
	“Yes,” said Eborel, “I intend to ask him.”
	“It could be dangerous knowledge,” opined Rosario.  “Are you sure you want to know the answer?” he asked Eborel.
	“I will approach Penarthic cautiously,” Eborel said.  “I trust him to tell me as much as I need to know.  The gnomics have a saying:  Gnolords are wise beyond wise.”
	Rosario nodded, and they trudged ever downward.  By late afternoon, they gleaned their destination far below – the field wherein their horses waited.  They stopped at a look-out point to rest and partake a quick meal.  Zedwyn scanned below looking for the horses, and saw the figure of Tyro standing at the field edge.
	He peered closely and nudged Eborel.  “Look over there,” he said excitedly.  “See the statue of Tyro at the edge?”
	She nodded.
	“Do you see another figure standing next to him?” he asked.
	Eborel arose suddenly and exclaimed, “Yes, it must be Quid Synch!”
	All rose to see.  Eborel started shouting “Quid Synch!” and waved her arms wildly.  They all shouted and waved, but to no avail.  The tiny figure was at least a half dozen furlongs away.  They stopped and stared as one.
	“He’s raising his arms, isn’t he?” Eborel asked.
	“Yes,” said Darius, but I can’t tell if he’s facing us, or facing away.”
	“He’s facing away,” said Eborel.  “He’s going to jump off the cliff!”
	“Yes, yes!” said Rosario.  “He’s about to jump, just as he told us he did at the ashram!”
	As he said this, Quid Synch (for whom else could it be?) crouched down, and jumped majestically over the edge, with arms still outstretched.  All imagined him plummeting and diving swanlike to his next self-ordained cataclysm.
	After a moment, Rosario said thoughtfully, “Well, he’s not dead.”
	“In fact,” he continued, “he has just appeared standing next to you Eborel, at the ashram, after the explosion set off by Asheric, nine months ago.  Even now, he is asking you how you know his name, and the entire student body is looking on in awe.”
	Eborel shook her head.  “How extraordinary!” she exclaimed.  “I wonder when next we shall meet him, for I feel sure we will.  I want to tell him that we saw him jump, though we did not see his descent.”
	They left in due course, and arrived at the bluff in time to camp for the night.  Their horses were glad to see them, and readily saddled up the next morning for the last leg to Thornberry Field.
	Before leaving, Rosario visited the spot whence Quid Synch had jumped, and drew a picture of his sandal prints, still fresh in the soft grass at the cliff’s edge.  Above the footprints, he sketched a ghostly image of Quid Synch from the back, floating in the air, just before falling.
	The group decided to camp a league short of the gnomic village, in order to arrive at Thornberry on the appointed morning for the invitational feast.  Even as they approached the following day, there was evidence of excited commotion.  Gnomics came and went hurriedly, and the trailing smoke in the air carried the scent of roast fowl and vegetables.
	“This is going to be good, I guarantee it,” said Eborel.
	“Stop it,” said Darius, “my mouth is watering already.”
	“You just mind your manners while we’re at table!” said Eborel sharply.
	Darius looked crestfallen.  “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he said, “and I won’t start eating until the gnomics have begun first, I promise!”
	Their arrival on horseback was greeted with much fanfare.  There was a band on a raised platform playing festive tunes on stringed and wind instruments.  Penarthic was standing, issuing last minute orders.  Cooking fires were going everywhere.  Several more tents than those seen earlier by the travelers had been raised.
	The centrally located high table was clearly the seat of honor.  Penarthic would evidently sit at its head, with the members of the pilgrim’s party at his side.  A stage had been erected facing the opposite end of the table, apparently in preparation for postprandial entertainment.
	Waiters in burlap aprons ran hastily about placing covered dishes upon the tables.  Our travelers dismounted, and handed their charges off to gnomic helpers.
	“Right on schedule!” said Penarthic enthusiastically as the happy travelers approached.  “Please, seat yourselves here,” he gestured to his left and right.  “Vittles shall commence shortly!”  He seated himself following the others.
	Eborel sat between Penarthic and Darius, facing Zedwyn and Rosario.  They waited (notwithstanding Penarthic’s assertion that eating would commence shortly) for what seemed an eternity, while the other gnomics seated themselves.
	“It is customary,” declared Penarthic, “that the pilgrim seekers should indulge first.”  He nodded to them to proceed.
	Darius gave a wry smile to Eborel, breaking his now moot promise to her not to begin eating first, and reached for two game hens, placing them on his wooden plate.  All the earthenware, including the utensils, were fashioned of wood, rather than clay.  Knives were not required as the meat was flake-tender to the touch.
	Since no one started, Darius took the first bite.  “Excellent!” he said after a moment, washing down the food with a swig from his goblet.
	Penarthic smiled and everyone began eating.
	“What is this intoxicating drink?” asked Darius, across Eborel, to his host.  Penarthic leaned forward and said, “Elderberry wine.”
	“Mmm, it’s good.  Try some Eborel.”
	“I shall,” she nodded enthusiastically.
	Rosario and Zedwyn fairly attacked their food.  Eborel fired a glance of reproach in their direction, admonishing them to slow down.
	Zedwyn ignored her disapproving look.  “Is this pheasant?” he asked to no one in particular.  “Eborel, I think the dish under that cover is pheasant!”  He pointed with his fork.
	“Indeed it is,” responded Penarthic jovially.
	After some considerable time, and several courses later, the eating slowed.  The musicians, who had stopped to feast themselves, recommenced playing.  Jugglers came onto the stage to show off their tricks.
	“This is wonderful!” said Eborel to Penarthic.  “Thank you so much!”
	“Yes,” Penarthic smiled, “and there is more to come – dessert, and a play, for our amusement.”
	“Dessert?” said Zedwyn.  “I should have saved some room.  I’m as stuffed as a sow.”
	“There’s plenty of time,” said Penarthic.  “Have your choice of drink while we digest,” he suggested.  
	The waiters carried decanters marked in different colors.  “The red is Elderberry,” explained Penarthic.  “The blue flasks are Mulberry, and the green – my favorite – is Saskatoon wine.”
	“I’ll try them all!” said Darius with zeal.
	As they drank to pass the time before dessert, a pleasant lethargy passed among them.  Eborel became mesmerized by two jugglers throwing sticks of fire between them.
	Penarthic made small talk, asking them about the ashram and their travels.
	Eventually, he asked, “Did you have success upon the mountain?”
	Rosario answered, “Yes, we reached Quartz Prima exactly as you said we would.”
	“I’m pleased,” said Penarthic.  “And did you then ask your life questions?”
	“Yes,” said Zedwyn, “though I’m not sure Rosario asked the great spirit anything.”
	“I certainly did!” exclaimed Rosario in retort.  Darius laughed.
	Penarthic asked in rhetorical jest, “And have any of you received your answers yet?”
	The four fell silent, and Penarthic, sensing his indiscretion, immediately said, “I apologize.  I’ve said too much.  It must be the wine.”
	Darius glanced at Eborel, and said, “We have a question for you, Penarthic.”
	“Indeed?” he said.  “What is it?”
	Darius silently urged Eborel to speak, but she could manage only, “No, I cannot.”
	So Darius spoke in her stead.  “There was a great storm on the mountain,” he began.
	“That’s strange,” said Penarthic.  “There have been no storms here.”
	“Well,” Darius continued, “it was north of the mountain, at high altitude, while we were at Quartz Prima.  Perhaps it was not visible from here.  In any event, it passed very quickly.”
	“I see,” said Penarthic.  “And what is your question for me?”
	“Umm,” Darius faltered, and Rosario, sensing his flagging resolve, stepped in.
	“Eborel asked her question of the spirit of Mt. Excelsion, and we all heard the answer in the wind!” he exclaimed.
	“Is that so?” asked Penarthic.  “What, was her question?”  
	Eborel sat mute, mortified.
	“She can’t say,” said Rosario.
	“Alright,” Penarthic said.  “What, then, was the answer in the wind?” he asked.	“That’s just it,” said Rosario.  “We heard it, but we didn’t understand it.  We thought you might give us insight into its meaning.”
	“If I can be of service…” said Penarthic.
	“Well,” said Rosario, “It sounded like Go-Go-Lax.”
	All watched as Penarthic’s eyes grew wide in astonishment.  “Did you say Gogolax?” he asked most fervently.
	Rosario nodded in affirmation.
	Silence spread outward across the field as the gnomics stopped what they were doing, and turned towards Penarthic.
	Slowly the gnolord rose to his full height and donned an aspect that can only be described, in considered retrospect at least, as unadulterated fury.
	“NO!” he shouted, as he brought his fists down on the table, and in a moment of the highest drama imaginable, the entire assemblage of gnomics, Penarthic included, simply vanished into thin air!

24.  Torpor

To sleep, perchance to dreamwalk.
-Rokavere

	The silence was deafening.  All food, items, instruments, and utensils, including the burning sticks of the jugglers – which now trailed only smoke – lay where they fell.  No movement was detectable, other than the rustling of leaves in the trees.
	Eborel put her head between her hands and placed her elbows on the table.  Rosario was thunderstruck; he could not speak.  Zedwyn sat nonplussed, in a state of shock.
	Only Darius reacted with anger.  “What’s this?” he sputtered.  “What kind of reception is this?” he asked the group, entirely outraged.  “First they treat us like royalty, then like a scourge!”
	“We insulted them, I guess,” responded Zedwyn.
	“But it was innocent on our part!” exclaimed Darius, “How could we know?  Where did they go?  What is the power of this stupid little word, ‘Gogolax?’ ”
	“I don’t know,” said Zedwyn, “but I shall be hesitant about speaking it openly to strangers in the future.”
	Rosario came out of his stupefaction shaking his head.  “Gogolax must be some terrible enemy of the gnomics, like a disease or something,” he said.  “What say you, Eborel?”
	She remained still, crying quietly, now resting her head on her folded arms.
	“Eborel,” said Rosario quietly, “I implore you to share your burden with us.  You needn’t be alone.  Tell us your life question!” he urged her.  “We stand together as one.  We’ll help you.  We’ll risk our lives if we must, just tell us what’s going on!” he pleaded.
	“No, I cannot.  I dare not.”  She choked back her sobs.
	“Then go into time shift!” said Darius.  “Find Penarthic.  Make him tell you what our transgression was.  A thousand gnomics cannot stop you.  Find out what ‘Gogolax’ means!”
	“We hurt them!” she yelled back suddenly, raising her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “I will not go after Penarthic!  They’re peaceful.  They have their reasons for doing what they did.  They had no choice.  You saw how well they treated us.”
	“Well we’re warriors, aren’t we?” replied Darius.  “What say I go to Penarthic’s house and demand an explanation?  I could threaten to burn their houses.”
	“No!” Eborel screamed.  Now it was her turn to bang her fists on the table.  “You’re angry Darius.  The spirit of Mt. Excelsion has handed us something terribly painful.  We’re not going to lash out and spread that pain to the gnomics!  We’ve already done so, if you ask me, by speaking the mountain’s answer openly.”
	Rosario and Zedwyn nodded, agreeing with her sentiment.  Eborel lowered her voice, returning to her desultory mood.  “Anyway,” she muttered, “the gnomics move in time shift.  They could kill you in a moment, and would have done so by now if they had wanted to.”
	She shot a pointed look at Darius, who strode away impotent and furious.  He slid an entire table’s contents of food and dishes clattering onto the ground, and stalked off.
	“I need the help of a mystic,” said Eborel, fumbling for Zoro’Ander’s medallion in her pocket.  “What are we to do?” she implored her comrades.
	There was nothing for it, in the end, save to leave Excelsion.  But to where?  No mystics likely traveled in these destitute hinterlands.  The gnomics would surely remain hidden until their departure.  No further help could be relied upon from them.
	Darius returned, his agitated state replaced by a restive urge to depart.  Rosario’s maps might aid them, they reasoned, upon their return to populated lands.  It was decided, then, to go back whence they came, and make decisions along the way, as opportunities presented themselves upon the road.

	The journey away from the mountain marked a sad contrast to the pilgrimage thither.  Eborel fell into a disconsolate state from which she could not be cajoled.  As the days passed, she became less responsive to her friends.
	On one evening, after a few weeks, she confessed to Rosario, “I’m drowning, and I’m taking you with me!”
	“What do you mean?” asked Rosario in alarm.
	“You said we stand as one,” she said softly.
	“Yes, of course,” he said, “ ’til death do us part.”
	“That’s just it,” she said, “my life question – I shouldn’t have asked it.  Now my destiny is yours, too.”
	“You asked, then,” he intuited, “ ‘What is your destiny?’ ”
	She nodded, fighting tears.  “Now, whatever Gogolax is, it’s your destiny, too – and Zedwyn’s, and… poor Darius!”  She cried silently.
	“Then we’ll fight this Gogolax thing together, to the bitter end,” swore Rosario.
	“By the Rift Fen wraiths!” asserted Darius, overhearing Eborel speak his name, “It shall be as Rosario says!”
	“Victor, vanquish, victorious,” said Zedwyn bravely, citing the warrior’s credo, “For we shall prevail!”
	Eborel turned away from her friends, and fell into a troubled sleep.
	The next morning, to their collective alarm, she did not awaken in the proper sense.  During the night, she succumbed to a state of torpor so deep that she could not be roused from it.  Her eyes opened, yet they appeared unseeing – distantly focused, unflinching, as if viewing some imaginary horizon.  Even a sharp clap of hands near her ears failed to startle her.  She was completely mute, speaking not a word.  Fortunately, for the convenience of their continued travel, she could walk, ride, and eat – but only in an awkward unwieldy mechanical manner.
	Eborel was sick with lethargy.  While her reflexes were intact, she was yet a danger to herself.  The group took it upon themselves to take turns watching her.  One of them always rode nearby, either aside, or behind, against her straying from the path, or being hit by an errant branch. 
	Serious indeed was her state, and the group resolved to find help.  They made a decision to take the right-hand road at the wye junction, previously encountered, before reaching the Tizan, since fording that river seemed like an impossible task.
	This they did when the intersection was again attained – this time from the opposite direction.  Rosario’s map indicated naught but a boreal forest two hundred leagues north of their position.  The road upon which they traveled was marked “The Dimwold Way,” which sounded ominous indeed to our quadrumvirate-minus-a-half.
	Eborel made no attempt to resist them in any action asked of her.  She went where she was bade, and ate whatever was proffered.  The group reminded themselves hourly to offer her water, lest she become parched.
	After a week’s uneventful journey, the travelers were pleased to happenchance upon a peddler driving a one-horse covered cart in the opposite direction upon the road.  To that point, they had seen no other people.
	“Hail and new-met!” called Darius as he approached.  “I am Darius of Oxthoggle.  Whom do we have the privilege of meeting in this wide desolate place?”
	The wagoneer halted his cart, and said heartily, “Dusty of everywhere!  Peddler extraordinaire, and at your service if you please!”
	“Dusty!” cried Rosario riding up with the others.  “We have heard of you!”
	“Only good things, I hope!” he responded.
	“Oh yes,” said Rosario, “but pray, what are you doing so far from the heart of the world?”
	“Well,” said Dusty, “I am famous for having visited far-flung places.  On a whim, I thought I’d pay a call on old Mt. Excelsion.  In sooth, I saw a storm to the south some weeks ago at a great distance, and I wish to investigate its aftermath.  Have you been in that area of late?”
	“Yes, indeed,” said Zedwyn.  “We witnessed said storm ourselves, verily close-at-hand.”
	“We shall set up camp at once,” said Dusty enthusiastically, “I’ll cook up some victuals here, and we can talk.  I am much interested to hear your tale.  But first, introductions?”
	“I am Zedwyn of Bythewood,” replied Zedwyn.
	“Ah, Bythewood – a lovely place,” said Dusty.
	“Rosario Twigfiddle,” said Rosario.  All dismounted save Eborel.
	“Yes, in the Firthlands – I’ve been there,” said Dusty.
	Rosario walked over to Eborel’s side, “Come,” he said, “dismount.”
	Dusty pulled himself down from his cart.  Peering at the lone rider, he said, “Is that Eborel I see descending from her steed?”
	“Indeed it is,” said Zedwyn, “and she is dearly sick.  Languishes she does, without improvement.  Would that you could help her.”
	“Languishes, you say?  That is portentous news,” said Dusty with a worried look.  Immediately he went to her and stared full in her face as she stood.
	“Eborel,” he said quietly, “it is I, Dusty.  Do you remember?”
	She returned his gaze steadily.
	“I don’t think she sees me,” he said.
	“She does,” said Rosario, “but she cannot acknowledge you.”
	“How so?” asked Dusty.
	“She will come if you bid her,” explained Rosario.
	“I see.”  Dusty studied her languid affect.
	“Do you think she’s been poisoned?” asked Darius.  “We drank a lot of wine at Penarthic’s table.”
	“Indeed?” said Dusty.  “But no, I doubt it.  Gnomic wine is healthful – I’d hoped to have some myself when I reach Excelsion.  It must, in any case, have been weeks since she partook of wine.  If she were poisoned, the lassitude would wear off.  Or,” he added grimly, “she would die...”  He trailed off.
	“Is it the throwe?” asked Rosario on impulse.  “I have heard of its terrible effects.”
	“That’s difficult to say,” said Dusty.  “Throwens act in peculiarly individualistic ways, according to their temperaments.  There is a dullness in her, but the madness seems lacking.  The throwe is preceded by delirious paroxysms.  Were there any such fits?”
	They shook their collective heads.  
	“Her only fits were laconic in nature,” said Rosario thoughtfully.  “She was lachrymose.”
	“What would give her cause to cry?” asked Dusty.
	The three looked at each other knowingly, but dared not speak.
	“Come, come,” said Dusty.  “You may trust me implicitly.  Eborel and I have oath-sworn eternal friendship.  I would do naught but help her.”
	Zedwyn spoke slowly, “We told Penarthic her troubles and he reacted most violently.”
	“Is that so?” said Dusty.  “I have known Penarthic for many a long age.  If he had a strong reaction to the telling of her troubles, then I can only imagine those troubles to be extreme beyond comprehension.  It could explain Eborel’s marked state of unshakeable languor.”
	“His reaction is the reason we do not wish to tell you,” said Zedwyn, “for you may react badly, too, and we do not want to harm or upset you.”
	“I solemnly adjure here and now,” said Dusty, “that I will not retaliate or lash out in any way against you upon hearing your tale.  It is necessary for me to know the truth in order to find the best remedy for whatever ails Eborel.”
	The three regarded each other, and Rosario became the unofficial spokesperson.
	“Eborel,” he explained carefully, “asked her life question at the seat of Quartz Prima, and the mountain returned her answer.”
	Dusty nodded in encouragement.  “I understand.”
	“The storm you witnessed from afar,” Rosario continued, “was the same that spoke the answer to her, at very close quarters.  In sooth, it was terrifying.”
	“That is surely not a good omen,” commented Dusty.  “What was her question?”
	“She asked,” said Rosario, “ ‘What is her destiny?’ ”
	Dusty let out a sigh, “Always a dubious inquiry,” he said.  “And the answer in the storm?”
	“This is the part,” interjected Zedwyn, “in which Penarthic became enraged.”
	“I shall steel myself against the onslaught of the great spirit’s answer,” said Dusty, bracing himself.
	Rosario said carefully, “Each of us heard the word ‘Gogolax,’ repeated over and over in the storm.”
	All watched for Dusty’s reaction.
	“Ah,” he said, bowing his head, disheartened.  “The nameless one.  You spoke to Penarthic the moniker of he whose name shall remain unspoken.”
	“So Gogolax is a person?” asked Zedwyn, relieved by Dusty’s self-restraint, and willingness to speak openly about it.
	“Yes,” nodded Dusty.  “A very dangerous person.  A mystic – the most powerful and indomitable in Draeland.  He harmed the gnomics greatly did Gogolax – indeed all Draefolk.  It is no wonder Penarthic was incensed.”
	“Incensed hardly describes it!” cried Darius.  “He cast us out!”
	Rosario, while listening, donned a look of glimmering comprehension.  “Gogolax is mentioned indirectly on a tablet at Shimrock Ruin,” he said, struggling to recollect the words.  “He’s referred to as ‘whosoist here shall remain unnamed,’ I believe.”
	“Yes,” said Dusty, “his name is not graven on any rock.”
	“And,” continued Dusty in deepening gloom, “he is apparently Eborel’s destiny.  That’s portentous in the extreme – I fear the worst.”
	Dusty looked into Eborel’s eyes and pulled her eyelids gently up.  The others were incited to a great state of discomfiture over his revelations.  Darius began pacing peripatetically about, but willfully stifled his verbal outbursts.
	Eborel’s eyes rolled up under the gentle pressure of Dusty’s fingers, revealing the whites.
	“What are you doing?” asked Rosario.
	“I am looking for signs of a demon,” answered Dusty.
	The others recoiled, drawing their weapons instinctively.
	Dusty continued, unfazed by their reaction.  “The talent of the unnamed one is possession.  But his power, and that of his minions, does not reach this far from Thabane.”
	After a time, he left Eborel alone, declaring, “I do not think she is possessed.”
	“Then what?” asked Rosario, sheathing his blade.  “Is she in shock from finding out this terrible truth?”
	“I think not,” replied Dusty.  “She is probably not aware of the ramifications of her destiny, or the true extent of its horror.”
	“Is she in danger of becoming possessed?” Zedwyn conjectured.
	“Only insofar as any of us are.  No one is immune from such a fate, if it befalls them.  However, she would need to come into close proximity with Gogolax for that to occur, which is not likely,” Dusty explained.  “He dwells in Riftwarren castle, far away.”
	Then, seeming to change the subject, Dusty asked, “Where are you headed?”
	Rosario shrugged, “We know not.  We’re looking for civilization of any kind.”
	“It might be wise,” advised Dusty, “to avoid direct encounters with people until Eborel is recovered.”
	“But how is she to recover?” blurted Darius, who refused to accede to the detached rationality of the discussion regarding demons, possession, and terrible destiny.  “What’s all this nonsense?” he blustered.  “How do we fight an enemy we can’t see?  Tell us what to do old peddler, for I am at my wit’s end.”
	“You’re on the right road,” said Dusty in reassurance.  “The forest to the north harbors a great healer, the Eternal Grandfather, Brindlebeck of Dimwold.  Seek him out.  If he cannot cure Eborel of this pernicious malaise, then likely no one can help her.”
	Rosario turned to the others in silent query, as if to ask whether such a plan seemed viable.  The others nodded.
	“Will we find him easily in the forest?” he asked Dusty.
	Dusty shook his head.  “He shuns discovery by most, and remains concealed by purposeful design.  But he will want to be found out by you.  Choose the darkest pathways in seek of him – those that penetrate ever deeper into the forest.”
	“Also,” Dusty added, “he is friend to the animals – indeed, they heed his beck.  Look for signs:  a woodland creature that pauses ahead of you, then darts in the direction you’d best follow; or birds circling overhead, pointing the way, by the course of their flight.”
	“You are the wisest peddler I have ever met!” marveled Rosario.  “You seem to know everything.”
	“Travel broadens the mind!” Dusty said in his expansive manner.  “And you can see by the runes upon my wagon,” he gestured with his hand, “that I am the ‘cagey cadger, master of all he purveys!’ ”
	Rosario nodded in understanding, silently translating the characters as he read them.
	“Now, to matters of my craft,” said Dusty.  “Can I interest you in a stout pot?”	“This is no time for trading,” objected Darius, affronted by Dusty’s apparent guile.  “We are on a mission to save Eborel!”
	“There is never a wrong time for a good trade,” pronounced Dusty.  “You are weeks away from reaching Dimwold.  You must tarry awhile and lend me news of Penarthic.  I am owed that much, I think.”
	“A respite won’t hurt, Darius,” said Rosario.  “Let’s have a meal with Dusty.”
	“Excellent!” Dusty rejoined.  “Master Zedwyn, I can’t help but notice that your pipe is cracked.  Can I interest you in a brand new clay model I recently came upon in Manx?  I traded for it directly with a monk from the Feldspar Locks region.  The monks employ the finest craftsmanship in the land, you know.”
	“Why yes,” conceded Zedwyn, “I could use a new stove smoker.”
	Dusty rummaged through his wares while the others built a fire in preparation for a picnic.
	“This,” said Dusty as he approached Zedwyn carrying a pipe, “is made of chalk white clay from Olinza Lake, renowned far and wide.  It burns hot, but the stem is long.  Grasp it in front of the bowl, in the manner of the Nor’folkers.”
	Zedwyn hefted the pipe.
	“I have also a pouch of fine flake pipeweed, grown on mysterious Revelstoke island, no less,” added Dusty with a flourish.  “I’ll let you sample some for free!”  He proffered a pinch.
	Zedwyn began stuffing the clay pipe.
	“Uh-uh-uh,” admonished Dusty, “try it in your pipe, until we conclude the sale of the Manx pipe.”
	Zedwyn unpacked the pipe-for-trade sheepishly, and packed his own pipe.  He lit it with a switch from the fire.  “Mmm, mild!” he said enthusiastically as the sweet smoke encircled the party.
	“It’s as salubrious as gaza,” said Dusty with a twinkle in his eye.
	Zedwyn smoked while Dusty brought out food:  flatbread, pasties and vegetables for skewering over the fire.  “I procured these delicious edibles recently at the East-West highway junction,” he said, embellishing, perhaps, their freshness.
	“We don’t have enough to trade for these fine items you’ve brought out,” said Rosario.
	“Is that so?” said Dusty.  “Mayhap I could peruse the note journal I see protruding from your saddle bag?” he asked.
	Rosario pulled it out for him.  “This is an historical document.  It is not offered for trade.”
	“I understand,” said Dusty.  He read through as the others busied themselves with cooking.  “You’ve had quite an adventure!” he said scanning the pages, and studying the maps.
	Some of Rosario’s drawings, rendered on separate parchments, fell easily out of the journal.
	“Describe to me this picture,” said Dusty, holding one up for inspection.
	“That’s Eborel,” said Rosario, “sitting upon the throne of Quartz Prima, asking her life question, just before the storm hit.”
	“Indeed?” said Dusty.  “I know a certain party who would pay a pretty farthing for this.  I’ll give you all I’ve offered so far, as well as…” he paused to consider, “let’s say, ten salamis, and five blocks of cheese – from Oxthoggle,” he nodded to Darius, in acknowledgement of his home county, “for this one drawing.”
	The others remained resolute.  “Strictly speaking,” said Rosario, “it’s part and parcel with our travel notes.”
	“I’ll throw in some pemmican for your long journey, and prosciutto, too.”
	The group showed little enthusiasm.
	“You drive a hard bargain,” said Dusty.  “I can see you need something of real long-term value, to match this drawing.”
	He returned to his wagon to rummage further, finally producing a large coin.  “This medallion,” he said, re-emerging, “will gain you an audience with the King of Draeland himself, should you so desire it.”  He presented it proudly.
	The others, who had seen Eborel’s medallions from Zoro’Ander and Asheric, inspected it carefully.  It seemed genuine.  The back face was identical to the backs of the other two, while the obverse side pictured a clean shaven man wearing a royal crown, with the inscription around the rim:  “§ Procyon § Mystic 20 §.”
	“This is indeed valuable,” said Rosario.  “Where might you have come across such a rare and iconic artifact?”
	“I am well connected,” said Dusty, discretely, but not too humbly.	
	The others nodded in approval, and Rosario announced, “We’ll take that trade.”
	Dusty smiled broadly.  He appropriated the parchment gingerly, carried it into his wagon, and produced forthwith the promised food items.  Rosario placed the medallion in Eborel’s safe pocket, alongside the other two – perhaps in hopes of auguring a speedy return to health.
	The group eventually parted ways with Dusty on the same excellent terms as Eborel had done years before.
	“Any friend-for-life of Eborel’s is a friend-for-life of mine!” Dusty exclaimed as he embraced each traveler.  “I remain forever, heartfelt, in your service.”  He bowed in farewell.
	“The next time I meet Eborel,” he added in encouragement, “I expect to see her returned to the full bloom of life!” 

25.  Dimwold

Avast, and avoid!
-Advice from travelers regarding Dimwold

	The road north marked our distraught party’s re-entry into the familiar world of civilized travel.  For people were met with, crossroads encountered, trades made for food, and even the occasional inn found, to bed down in the night.
	Eborel wore a gray hooded cloak against arousing suspicion.  The others took pains to shield her from the limelight.  If a traveler spoke to her unbidden, any umbrage taken at her aloofness was deflected by a somber and knowing intonation of the anathemic word, “throwen,” which having the intended effect, repulsed further advances.
	The trip to cooler realms was made daily more sullen by Eborel’s unchanged affect.  Whether the immutability of her autonomic state was a fair sign or foul, no one could know.  That she did not appear to waste, was at least cause for hope.  In sooth, she sometimes ate ravenously – an auspicious sign that she was not completely lifeless.  At times, however, she trembled in apparent fear, or internal struggle, to something unseen, but not in response to anything discernable in her immediate surroundings.
	As the weeks wore by, the travelers began asking others passed upon the road for information about Dimwold.  The response was universal:  “Avast, and avoid!”
	Manifold tenebrific stories about Dimwold were told:  trees that appeared overnight, where before there were none; animals that rose to their hind legs, and spoke words in strange tongues; people who entered the forest alone, never to be heard from again.  A wicked conjurer was said to dwell therein; one who wouldst cast spells of embranglement on the minds of passers-through.  The forest was his domain, and he brooked no trespass – or so it was said.  Only a madman, fool or fey, would darest venture thence.
	And if the name “Brindlebeck” mayhap were uttered to a stranger upon the road, then a veritable stream of imprecations and spittling would invariably ensue, with the concomitant wrist crossing and nodding that accompanies such aspersions, as Eborel’s father had done so many years ago when Drambuie revisited the inn.
	It was best, therefore, to mention their quest only after completing business with strangers, lest the transaction be abrogated midway through by the newfound doubts of the incredulous traders.  For none could believe that any would infiltrate the forest freely, save for the pursuit of some unimaginably insidious purpose.
	But it was exactly such purpose which compelled our cohorts, though not to insidious ends, but rather, to those deemed hoped-for and propitious.  And obliged they were, too, to trust Dusty against apparent universal calamitous superstition, which being the most powerful force in Draeland, presented them a frightening prospect indeed.
	All were determined to save Eborel at any personal cost.  This, the strangers whom they encountered, could not know.  So, while on the face, our group’s intention appeared pure folly, it was rather an act of the greatest bravery.  For who would willingly plumb the depths of a terrible unknown, nay even at the risk of losing one’s mind – a fate quite possibly worse than death – to save a friend?
	The answer to that question is here evident:  the four who fought together in the ashram, and swore allegiance, each to the other, upon the brink of their great excursion into the broad world.
	Thus they were suffused of a spirit of the highest resolve, when the forest grew thick about them.  Lost they became, almost at once.  Animal paths diverged in all directions.  To seek deeper woodlands, as Dusty had advised, seemed primally counter-intuitive.  Within leagues, they felt certain their course had taken them in circles.
	The umbrage covered the sky, concealing directional cues.  They dared not stray from each other, lest one become separated and lost.  Of slight consolation was that they had plenty of time, as Eborel’s condition neither worsened nor improved.  Since they packed with them copious foodstuffs, their supplies were not strained.  The forest offered much that could be eaten, though they dared not hunt, in consideration of their host, whom they reckoned to be allied with the animals.
	After a time, a glade was discovered, from which the sky could be seen.  Taking stock, they aligned their bearings, proceeding thus with the reassuring knowledge, at least for a time, of their probable direction north.  Other open spaces were encountered, and the terrain grew rolling.  Occasionally, they came across hilltops from which could be determined the relative robustness of the forest in various directions.
	From that information, they determined to move in a northeasterly direction, as the trees appeared to grow tallest there.  They took Dusty at his word, changing direction according to whether the forest thickened or thinned.  When they camped, they built large fires, so their smoke could be seen, lest they were watched by their host.  They meant to announce their presence loudly, not wishing to be mistaken for spies or thieves.  This strategy apparently worked, as one day they came across a deer – or, more likely – the deer came across them.  Rather than beckon them from a distance to follow, as Dusty had insinuated, the deer simply approached at an idle canter, and gamboled at their side, a short distance away.
	It was a large deer; tan colored, with antlers, and an inquisitive nose.  It was not spooked by the horses, nor were they bothered by it.  Its gait was not plodding like the steeds, but rather, came in fits and starts, sometimes ambling one way, then another, and at other times still, bounding sporadically for short distances.
	On occasion, it pranced and pawed the dirt, as if entertaining the group with its antics, or perhaps, in expression of the entertainment afforded it by the group!  It seemed such a wise deer, thought Rosario, that one might almost imbue it with the anthropomorphic pronoun of “he.”  In fact, Rosario wondered if “he” could be the Eternal Grandfather himself, in the guise of a deer.
	“Brindlebeck!” intoned Rosario loudly, on an inspired whim, and the deer nodded its head, as if in response, before dancing away.
	The group looked at each other, and Rosario said, “I think we have a guide!”  And so they followed.
	The deer plunged them deep into the forest.  It favored the valleys, avoiding peaks and steep uphill climbs.  Incomparably lost they were, trusting themselves completely to the seeming capricious darting master of the forest that led them.  How they would ever get their bearings again, and manage to find a way out, was beyond comprehension.  It was certain, however, that they would never retrace the route whence they came.
	Eborel, were she present – in spirit, at least – might counsel them to hold true to her personal precepts:  faith, patience, resolve.
	After days of walking (for the riders had long since dismounted), and after countless evenings camped by creeksides, with their apparent chaperonus ungulatus always bedded nearby, their destination finally revealed itself.
	A wide glade was attained wherein lay numerous small structures and wooden contrivances of various shapes.  Troughs of food and water for animals, bird houses in multitudinous shapes – some with multiple apartments, a bevy of basket beehives, racks of vines drying in the sun, a stone well with attendant buckets, two fire pits above which hung suspended cauldrons, miniature curing huts, raised garden vegetable beds, trellises of flowers and beans, storage structures for straw, wood, and gourds – some covered in wood, and some by thatch.
	In all, it was a picture of vigorous rural activity.  On the edge of the glade, embedded in a hillock, was the front portion of a country cottage, built in appearance as an extension of the hillside, with its gently peaked sod roof merging seamlessly to the grass of the land rising behind it.
	All around were forest animals of every kind imaginable.  Squirrels and chipmunks abounded.  Birds flitted about at dizzying speed.  A wild turkey flushed noisily near the periphery.  Bees whizzed by on their appointed rounds.  A family of badgers ambled nonchalantly past.  A few does scattered as the group approached, and the guide deer bounded away to greet them.
	Our travelers led their horses to the troughs, and left them there to drink and feed at leisure.  The master was not in evidence, so the group approached the cottage.  Its shutters were splayed back to reveal windows glazed in small lead-lined diamond-shaped panes.  A profusion of flowers tumbled out of boxes placed at every window.  The outer walls comported wide flat boards, diagonally placed, with vertical thatching lining the interstices.  The stout double Dutch front door had its upper portion left ajar, whence wafted a delicious cooking smell of okra and peppers.
	A clay chimney protruded through the sod roof, issuing smoke that attested to the cooking fire burning within.  As the group approached the door, the master of the realm himself appeared behind it, smiling and waving.  An ink-black speckled starling flew about his head, landing directly atop it as he gestured to them.
	“Come in, come in!” he said convivially as he opened the bottom section of the door.  “I’m just stirring the pot now, or I would have been out to greet you.”
	The Eternal Grandfather was an old man, but lively in demeanor.  Sporting a bushy beard, he had the look of a reclusive hermit – yet his attitude was, in contrast, entirely outgoing.  He spoke in an easy manner, conveying a genuine eagerness to attend to company.  His clothes, too, betokened an extroverted personality, presenting colorful splashes of colliding zigzag patterns about his person.  One wondered how he tolerated living alone, and whether he spoke to his animals, in like manner to people, to relieve his solitude.
	“Yes, yes, I’ve been waiting for you.  Do seat yourself at my humble table.  You’ve had quite a journey then, haven’t you?  I trust that Hornbuck guided you unerringly?”  The starling hopped about, jumping from one of its master’s shoulders to the other, until Brindlebeck curtly snapped his fingers and pointed, ordering it to a perch nearby.
	“Is Hornbuck the deer we were following?” asked Rosario, seating himself at a table whose top board was more than a fist width in thickness.
	“Yes,” answered Brindlebeck.  “He has a magnificent set of antlers, don’t you think?  I hesitated to send him, as he sometimes gets them tangled in thickets.  But you’ve all made it safe and sound, thank the lumi!”
	“How did you know we were coming?” asked Rosario.
	“How could I not miss it?” Brindlebeck responded, in his odd quizzical way.  “My, but the animals do keep me apprised of events in the forest.  And you must be Rosario, then, the inquisitive one?”
	Rosario started, “I know Hornbuck can’t have told you my name!” he exclaimed.
	“Uh, yes, yes,” Brindlebeck faltered, “I did have some portent of your arrival, but I can’t be too specific about my sources.  Oh dear, oh dear.  I have been told that I reveal too much.  I’m not adept at shielding the truth, you see.  It goes against my nature, as I believe that truth is universal – that it belongs to everyone freely.  But there are reasons for prudence, I suppose.  I’m simply not much of a machinator.  Oh blast, that Asheric and his grand intrigues.  Look at you!”  He stopped short.  “I’m blathering as if you were my animals.  I don’t get much company, you see.  I’m really just in an excited state over meeting you.  Why don’t we start with introductions before we have some hauspot-over-rice?  That is, except for Eborel, of course.”
	The guests donned perplexed looks at his mention of Eborel, and Brindlebeck cringed, realizing he was again revealing that he knew more than he should.  “I meant that she wouldn’t be introducing herself, rather than not having hauspot-over-rice,” he said, rather ineffectually.
	Each announced their full names, and Brindlebeck shook their hands in turn.  “Welcome all!” he said heartily, “Welcome to Derrindell!”
	“Thank you, I’m sure,” they answered as one.
	“It’s a beautiful place,” added Zedwyn, “but it does not live up to its reputation in the wide land.  Or rather, I should say, it far exceeds it!”
	Brindlebeck answered, “If, by that, you mean that it does not comport with your image of the home of a wicked conjurer, then I am glad.  But my nefarious reputation among the common Draefolk suits my purposes, as you’ve no doubt intuited.  For I need Dimwold as a buffer to keep uncivilization from encroaching upon my very doorstep.”
	“You have created an oasis of cultivated gentility here, in miniature,” remarked Zedwyn.  “An island of natural charm deep in the forested wolds.  Ah, Derrindell...”
	“You must know why we are here,” said Darius, interrupting Zedwyn’s reverie, as Brindlebeck placed clay pots of food upon the table.
	“Yes, yes,” said the Eternal Grandfather perfunctorily, and then suddenly, “No!  No!  I mean, why don’t you tell me – in your own words?  But of course, it would be in your own words.  Whom else?”  He laughed, then admonished himself, “Ah, Brindlebeck, you prate so.”
	“It’s Eborel,” Darius said, nodding towards her as he served himself from the pots.  Rosario was doling food onto her plate.  “She can’t act on her own accord – won’t speak.”  Darius was beginning to talk with his mouth full.  “Mmm,” he said, “This tastes as good as it smells!”
	“Yes, well I have just the thing for a little recalcitrance – ameliorates all manner of saturnine moods it does,” said Brindlebeck.  “Works wonders for me as you can probably tell, since I’ve had three cups already today.  And I was in a positively foul temperament this morning.”  He placed a teapot upon a trivet on the table.  “Heathermist tea!” he announced proudly, “Freshly brewed!  Collected the herbs myself, I did.  Of course I did; whom else?”  He laughed a second time at his repeated joke.
	Darius fairly snorted, “I doubt seriously whether herb tea will cure Eborel’s condition.”
	“Who said anything about curing?” asked Brindlebeck.  “I’m simply talking about ‘soothing’ here.  Anyone can benefit from the effects of herbal tea, even someone in Eborel’s intractable state.”
	“You say ‘intractable,’ ” said Rosario.  “Is she that far gone?”
	“Far gone she is,” laughed Brindlebeck, “but let’s hope not too far, eh?”
	Darius took umbrage at his lightness of tone.  “It’s no laughing matter,” he said, affronted.  “We’re worried sick about her.”  He set down his spoon in a truculent manner, and the others shot him a reproving glance.
	“Easy there,” Rosario placated Darius.  “We’re guests at table, and Brindlebeck is here to help us, isn’t that so?”  He directed his question to the master of the house.
	“Yes, yes, er.., no,” Brindlebeck said uncertainly, “In fact, there’s naught that I can do, except perhaps put your minds at ease.  But eat, eat, I implore you.  Your friend is in no danger here.  I will explain all, after my own inimitable fashion, I assure you.”
	Darius relented, and picked up his spoon.  “The fare is most excellent,” he conceded by way of compliment.  “Did you grow everything yourself?”
	Zedwyn interjected humorously, “Whom else?” to deflect the hard feelings.
	Brindlebeck chuckled, then spoke consolingly, “I understand your deep abiding concern for Eborel.  She is on her own personal journey, and your anxieties can only be allayed by her eventual return.  That I cannot guarantee, but I can say that your excellent care of her during this time greatly improves her chances of returning to full health.”
	“That is good news,” said Rosario, “but is there a possibility, then, that she might still perish?”  His fear reflected that of the group.
	“ ‘Perish’ is such an indelicate word,” answered Brindlebeck carefully.  “I would say rather that she will not remain unchanged by the experience.  But actual death, with its irrevocable finality, well – I would say:  perish the thought!”
	The group took his response as guarded encouragement.
	“You spoke of a ‘personal journey,’ ” said Rosario.  “Does it have anything to do with this Gogolax person?”
	The others started at his mention of Gogolax, and froze in readiness for any untoward reaction by Brindlebeck.
	But the soothsayer merely nodded, and said, “That may as yet be.  He is, after all, her destiny, is he not?”
	“How can you possibly know that?” blurted Zedwyn.  “Are you in league, then, with the very spirit of Mt. Soul?”
	“Heavens, no!” rejoined Brindlebeck.  “The oracle stands alone, answerable to no master.  It merely speaks the truth, albeit in oblique fashion, and I, a humble servant of its rhetoric, merely attempt to fathom it.”
	“But how, then, are you in the confidence of the great oracle?” Zedwyn pressed.  “For that is the only way imaginable for you to have knowledge of Eborel’s life question.”
	“Ah,” responded Brindlebeck, meeting his guests’ collective critical gazes, each in turn.  “The covenant between the oracle and its seekers is sacrosanct.  I am not, most assuredly, in its confidences, as you say.  I have other sources for my information.  Perhaps some elucidation is in order, here,” he pondered momentarily.  “A visual demonstration might serve best to clarify.  I propose,” he continued, speaking slowly, “that, after dinner, we embark upon a séance, which may shed light upon some of your questions.”
	“A séance?” asked Rosario, somewhat taken aback.  “Are we to communicate with the dead, then?”
	“Mayhap,” said Brindlebeck.  “We shall enter the spiritual realm, and discover what spirits presently cavort thereabouts.  But more usefully to us, we’ll attempt to communicate with the living – with those beings in Draeland who are in tune with the spiritual plane – other mystics, and keepers, and such.”
	He paused to gauge his guests’ reactions.  It would not be hyperbole to say he was met with un-presupposed dread.
	“Enlightenment comes at some cost,” he adjured.  “The answers to your questions may require that you confront the pain caused by your fear.” 
	“Now you sound like Anntenfoale, with your talk of pain!” cried Zedwyn, who was not feeling particularly game.
	“We may yet meet Anntenfoale, actually, among the spirits,” responded Brindlebeck, “for he is a sayik who enters the ethereal realm through 6th level meditation, while practicing Hynto.”
	“I’m beginning to see how you have become privy to our secrets,” said Rosario, “by communicating with spirits in séance.  But we are not sayiks.  How is it that we can perceive the spiritual world?”
	“I will channel you,” said Brindlebeck.  “As long as we join hands, you will see what I see, and hear what I hear.  If you balk, you can simply let go, and return to the world of the living.”
	“I’m not balking!” declared Darius, mustering bravado.  “If this will help us understand Eborel’s plight, then I say:  bring on the spooks!”
	“Excellent!” rejoined Brindlebeck with a look of merriment, admiring his gusto.  “Spooks you shall have, then, aplenty!”

26.  Séance

But whence sprang the trees upon the wolds?
-The Song of Brindlebeck

	After dinner, Brindlebeck advised that the séance should occur at twilight, when the spirits, being largely crepuscular in nature, were most active in their pursuit of nighttime haunts, and thus more readily intercepted.  To pass the afternoon, he took the intrepid group on a tour of his grounds.  He introduced them to his animals, all of whom had names.  His ever-present starling, for instance, was named Shilly-Shally, because, in the sage’s words, he “wouldn’t behave.”
	Brindlebeck lingered long at his gardens, describing the plants at length, and the various processes he used for transforming them into foodstuffs and remedies.  In sooth, his discourse bored them, but they marveled at his impressive breadth of natural knowledge.  Rosario in particular, humored him by asking incisive questions.
	As nightfall encroached, Brindlebeck escorted his guests back into the cottage.  He lit an oil lamp, and opened a hitherto hidden doorway on the back wall, introducing them to a maze of underground corridors, evidently carved out under the hillock that abutted the rear of the cottage.  Along the hallways were intermittently placed pottery lamps filled with flaxseed oil, recessed in shallow alcoves, or perched on short shelves at eye level.  Brindlebeck paused at each one, lighting them as he went with a reed applied to his handheld lamp.
	Open doorways led from the corridors on either side to tiny shadowed rooms wherein lay assortments of furniture and goods.  Many appeared to be storage areas, stacked with dried foodstuffs in burlap sacks.  Some rooms housed chairs and tables with deep shelves rising to the earthen ceilings, containing row after row of bound books.
	Your collection of manuscripts rivals that of the Musory rotunda at our ashram!” exclaimed Rosario.
	“Indeed,” nodded Brindlebeck, “I believe it exceeds it.”
	Along the way were occasioned ladders against the walls, leading up to heights obscured by darkness.
	“Hidden entranceways from the forest floor above,” said Brindlebeck by way of explanation.
	Short sets of stone steps interceded at intervals, raising or lowering the level of the hallway floor.  Brindlebeck slowed at each of these junctures, and warned his followers with a simple phrase, such as “up three,” or “down five.”
	Finally, after traveling what seemed furlongs in the depths, the tunnel opened into a large oblong room.  In the center, placed on an exquisite tapestry rug, was a large round polished table.  Its “head position” was defined by the placement of an ornate high-backed chair, chased in gold brocade, with encrusted jewels, and wide armrests.  It could only be described as regal, in like manner to a king’s throne.
	At this “throne” sat Brindlebeck, then.  In front of him, resting on a gilded base upon the table, was comported a huge crystal ball, larger than a person’s head, refracting the dim golden glow of the nearby lamplight.
	Around the table were several solid chairs of lesser stature than the throne, but still of impressive bulk.  Brindlebeck’s guests sat tentatively in the chairs, feeling a mixture of apprehension and awe.
	Around the perimeter of the room hung tapestries upon the walls, matching the rug at their feet.  Fringed lace hung delicately from the ceiling, giving an impression of billowing in the still air, and casting long diaphanous shadows from its edges.
	The table was too large to allow a complete circle of hand-linked arms to compass it.  In any event, it was determined that Eborel would not participate in the proceedings.  She sat in a chair with her hands folded, staring at the empty space immediately above the point where the table’s radial surface joinery met, at its exact center.
	Darius and Eborel sat to Brindlebeck’s left, and Rosario and Zedwyn sat to his right.  Brindlebeck lit some incense in a clay compartment set upon the table, as he said, “to put the spirits in a conciliatory mood.”
	He pulled out from under his robes a hitherto unseen metallic chain, clasped around his neck, from which hung a weighty gold-framed pendant, comprising a single outsized oval gem of pure rose quartz.
	“This gem was mined from Quartz Prima,” he said, “which gives it added power.”
	“The crystals,” he explained further, “operate in tandem, and will tune the medium.”  As if on cue, the refracted light of the globe became more muted, appearing to emanate from within, rather than reflect from without.
	Brindlebeck nodded and raised his arms, as a signal that each should join hands.
	“Keep your eyes on the crystal,” he instructed, indicating the orb on the table, “and suffuse your mind with the state of Hynto, as you learned to do at the ashram.”
	Time passed, and Brindlebeck began humming in a low tone.  He noticed the two hands he held were unusually sweaty – those of Darius and Rosario, respectively.
	Eventually, Brindlebeck’s voice became a low singsong entreaty.  “Oh spirits,” he intoned, “we beseech thee.  Show thyselves to these fair travelers from the world of the living.  Yoke thine energies to those of the great channeler, Procyon.  Call him forth, that he may grant us audience, so we may show him fealty, and, through him, connect with other spirits in the land.”
	Images seemed to our companions to fleet across the globe.  Silhouettes and forms, human and animal – some animated, some still – presented themselves.  Sounds of beastly lowing, mixed with the babbling of people, and far-away shrieking echoed in the room.  Darius, despite himself, closed his eyes, but could not shut out the voices.  He nonetheless held Brindlebeck’s hand, unwavering.
	Presently, a face appeared in the globe of greater acuity – more discernable than the others.  Its gaze beheld Brindlebeck’s evenly.  He wore a turban wound upon his head, with a royal red jewel fastened to its front in like manner to the gnolords, though he was not apparently of that noble race.
	“Procyon,” said Brindlebeck in greeting, “I bid you welcome.”  As he said this, the spirits, hitherto seen only within the globe, appeared to fly out from it, and enter the room.  They fairly tumbled around them, enlarging themselves to life size, filling the space with their presence.  Some floated near the ceiling, others walked about.  A few lay still, as if striking the pose of the moment of their deaths.
	Directly in front of Eborel’s stolid gaze lay a man’s unmoving body, appearing as he did so, to rest directly upon the table, face raised to the ceiling in an aspect of contorted grimace, with a wooden stake plunged clear through his chest.
	Darius heard sounds all around him, and squinted his eyes to peek.  His body trembled fiercely, but he remained faithful to his creed of bravery.  Rosario and Zedwyn looked away from the orb to view the phantom show.  As it did not seem to break the spell of the séance, they allowed themselves to be mesmerized by the sheer variety of it.
	Of particular note for Rosario were the animal spirits, many of which he did not recognize.  Large they were, and fierce looking.  Fangs, teeth, claws and talons – some had long matted hair, others sported bony jagged plates upon their frames.  A few were cased in scales, like great lizards or dragons.  They growled and roared fearsomely.  The human spirits took no notice of them, as if they held them in vapid esteem.
	“Brindlebeck, whyfore hast thou summoned me?” asked Procyon imperiously.
	“I present four travelers, your lordly kinship, from the land of the living who wouldst deign learn of the spirit world,” said Brindlebeck.
	“I sense only three living spirits present, other than your own,” said Procyon.
	“The fourth is not presently engaged in séance.”
	“But I wouldst still see that person’s spirit.”
	“Her spirit is in journey,” rejoined Brindlebeck.
	“Ah, is it Eborel, then?” asked Procyon.  “For she is shielded from me of late.  I have nowhere found her spirit in the wide realm.”
	The others became intensely interested in the mention of Eborel.  Darius opened his eyes and blurted, “You know her?”
	“I know of her.”
	“Is she alive or dead?” asked Darius urgently.
	“Mayhap between realms,” answered Procyon.  “Wouldst that she walks beyond the Astral Gate, for my reach does not extend past that portal.  But I know not how her body might remain living, shouldst that be the case.”
	“What is this gate you speak of?” interjected Rosario.  “How may we find it?”
	“An unwise destination, for impetuous spirits such as yours,” he reproached.  “Oh, how life is truly wasted upon the living!” he added ruefully.
	“Yet, you ask not my advice – but merely for directional information.  Seek ye then, the Gardens of Wisdom, near the Palace of Knowledge, in Elginzice, at the center of the land!”  His voice fairly commanded them.  “But ye may not enter the Gate,” he added solemnly, “So long as you shall live.”
	With those words, his image faded, apparently ending the otherworldly connection, and taking with it, the ghostly apparitions about them.  The spirits fled, retreating to the orb, in seeming chase by some unseen agent, or perhaps in adherence to a schedule of appointed rounds, destining, as it were, a newer twilight.  All that was then heard was a distant haunting hyena laugh, which hung in the air for a moment, as if in utter mock, to the living world entire.
	The group unclasped hands with a collective shudder, and Brindlebeck secreted his channeling quartz pendant.  The sudden cessation of the séance left our cadre in a dazed frame of mind.
	“That was impressive!” remarked Zedwyn, stretching his arms and legs as he sat.  “To think there were dead people all around us, just moments ago.  I shall not soon forget that corpse lying upon the table!”
	“Dead, yes, but in spirit only,” said Brindlebeck.  “We saw no other known living souls, save Procyon, which was enough, I think.”
	“The edict from Procyon,” remarked Rosario, “matched the words on the reverse faces of Eborel’s medallions.  Those strange coins seemingly predestinate our course.”
	“What coins are these?” asked Brindlebeck.
	Rosario retrieved the three medallions from Eborel’s hidden pocket, and presented them for Brindlebeck’s inspection.
	Brindlebeck merely nodded, and said, “An impressive collection, indeed.  You have the coin of Procyon, whom you have only just now met.  That will gain you an audience with the King, should you seek it at Elginzice.”
	“That is our intention,” said Darius, speaking for the group.
	“I will add my own to Eborel’s collection,” said Brindlebeck, as he fished out a medallion from an inside pocket.
	Proffering it to Rosario, he said, “Please tell Eborel, if she returns to the living, that, having feigned meeting her here, I wouldst deign meet her again, but in full spirit.”
	The three studied the medallion closely.  On the one side, it matched those of the others in content, though not in precise detail, and upon its obverse side, was descried the smiling face of their host, even including Shilly-Shally perched upon his shoulder, and encircled by the now familiar style of inscription, with the words “§ Brindlebeck § Mystic 14 §.”
	“Some wicked conjurer you turned out to be!” mused Zedwyn.  “You shall never put off visitors with that repose of gaiety struck upon your face.”
	“I wouldst ask of you, in your travels, to collude in the pretense of my supposed iniquity,” said Brindlebeck, “as I do treasure my privacy.”
	“I for one,” said Darius, “shall proclaim loudly, and not untruthfully, that you scared the willies out of me.”
	“Excellent!”  Brindlebeck’s eyes verily twinkled.
	“Your secret is safe with us,” assured Rosario.  “We need not prevaricate when we describe the abject fear we felt upon the wolds, journeying through the Stygian forest to reach fabled Derrindell-in-Dimwold.”

27.  Farewell
Elginzice or bust!
-Darius at Derrindell

	So soon arrived, the time came to part with the amiable nature lover, Brindlebeck.  Of the new destination, there was no doubt, for it was mythic Elginzice, to search for Eborel’s lost spirit.
	In question then, was the path to such, for while it was the terminus of many roads, none were marked on Rosario’s maps.  Brindlebeck’s advice was to return south whence they came, and turn left at the East-West highway.
	“Never go back!” decried Darius.  “There must be a more direct route.”
	“There are two others, both dangerous,” said Brindlebeck.  “You can follow the long tributary of the Tizan River through the Chazu jungle, or brave the Du’bai steppes, directly east of here.”
	“Which is more direct?” asked Darius.
	“Chazu, in distance, but Du’bai would be quicker,” answered Brindlebeck.  “Progress through the jungle would be measured in furlongs per day, rather than leagues, due to the dense undergrowth.  Travel across the steppes must, perforce, be made much more rapidly, for the high plains hold hidden dangers.”
	“Such as?” asked Darius pugnaciously, implying no danger was too great to conquer.
	“Water, for one – or the lack thereof,” answered Brindlebeck.  “Death by dehydration is not an uncommon demise of travelers thence, and would put an anguishing end to your journey.  Deep abiding cold also occurs at night, and can cause terminal hypothermia.  At the very least, it wouldst soon drain your energies and resolve.  Sudden windstorms whip up from nowhere, sometimes blinding the eyes with stinging dust.  The featureless plains offer neither surcease nor protection from the insistent gales when they come.”
	“These are all natural obstacles,” observed Zedwyn.  “Preparation, resolve, and hale youth will see us through.”
	“That may as yet be so,” said Brindlebeck, “but there is another source of peril.  For the Draeic brethren of the high steppe are tribal, and defend their territories fiercely from outlanders.  They may be met with in great numbers – especially as you approach the opposite side, near Manx.  There would be too many to defend against should they choose to attack you.  You’d best find a traveling caravan to join with if you can, for there is safety in numbers.  You will need valuable items to offer in tithe for passing through, or to join a caravan, though many met with upon the way will not have the scruples to ask before taking from you, or to follow the established rules of trade.  The ways of the Steppe are their own.  You’d best befriend any you meet, if possible.  The people there honor physical prowess – you may be able to appease them with your impressive fighting skills.”
	“These rough Draelanders would make a formidable army, should we manage to win their confidences,” said Darius, admiringly.
	“I dare say,” said Brindlebeck.  “If they deemed your cause just, and joined theirs to yours, they would be formidable, indeed.”
	“You’ll help us prepare for the journey?” asked Rosario.
	“I’ll do all I can,” answered Brindlebeck, “but I’m against the plan.  I fear for Eborel, for she is most vulnerable.  She cannot protect herself in her current state.  You must do everything in your power to safeguard her passage to Elginzice.”
	“That goes without saying,” responded Darius.  “We would willingly lay down our lives to deliver her unscathed.”
	“That’s as I fear, in sooth,” said Brindlebeck grimly.
	The decision made, preparations began in earnest.
	“Your horses will suffer the most,” said Brindlebeck.  “Long haired camels survive the conditions of the steppe best.  At least the horses will have the advantage of speed.”
	Brindlebeck piled bundles of blankets upon them.  Many were meant for the beasts at night, rather than for the people.  The group still had the gnomic cloaks given them at Excelsion.  Brindlebeck produced a plethora of large water skins and gourds, each with attendant leather straps for securing to the sides of the horses.  These he found in one of the storage rooms in his vast underground lair.
	“When fully loaded with water, these containers will slow your steeds,” said Brindlebeck.  “You must trot aside them until the water skins are halfway depleted.  You can carry some of the skins and gourds upon yourselves as well.  Remember, except when sleeping, or waiting out storms, always keep moving!”
	One important item Brindlebeck produced for them – a map upon parchment of the Steppes.  This Rosario studied carefully.
	“It’s marked with the locations of water,” said Brindlebeck, “but the information is dubious, at best.  Or should I say ‘Du’bai-ous.’ ”
	Nobody laughed at the pun.
	“At any rate,” he continued, “while rivers may dependably be found where marked upon the map, the watering holes are more capricious.  They sometimes appear, seemingly at random upon the landscape, only to disappear a few days later, for no apparent reason, and with no discernable pattern.  The markings on the map are, at best, an approximation”
	“I understand,” said Rosario.  “But I don’t see Elginzice on this map.  How are we to find it?”
	“Elginzice is not marked on any map, by kingly decree,” said Brindlebeck.  “However, I’ve no doubt you’ll find it.  The Maywend River is known to pass through there.  Seek you the port town of Manx, but turn away before you reach the river.”
	 “Which way are we to turn?” asked Rosario.  “Left or right?”
	“It depends upon where you come down off the steppes,” answered Brindlebeck.  “But there is a saying in the lake region:  ‘All roads lead to Elginzice.’  There are twelve paths that converge there, or so it’s said, distinguished by, and named for, the products that travel upon them, from the far reaches of the realm, towards that central august location.  All you need do is follow those who carry supplies, particularly – in contrast to those traveling to Manx – supplies of like kind, such as consisting entirely of fabrics, or of nothing but fruits and vegetables.”
	“I’m sure there will be many people from whom we may garner directions,” said Darius.
	“Ah, but the strange thing about Elginzice,” continued Brindlebeck, “is that all who travel there do so by instinct.  For the familiar landmarks along the way do feign change in orientation and sequence with each trip taken thence, making every journey seem distinctly different.  Even those traveling together upon the same road wouldst give conflicting accounts concerning the particulars of the route collectively taken.  The environs thereabouts have a muddling effect upon the mind, which confounds the lending of either verbal or written instruction for reaching the kingdom.  This effect is calculated, I believe, to prevent all but the most purposeful from reaching their destination.  As you have great purpose, and urgency, too, I therefore have no doubt that, should you survive the steppes, at least, you would certainly attain Elginzice.”
	“Hmm,” sighed Rosario thoughtfully, and then, for strength, he intoned, “Faith, patience, resolve – we will make it.”
	“Yes,” chimed in Darius, summing it up thusly:  “It’s Elginzice or bust!”
	“Indeed,” said Brindlebeck, admiring their charmingly naïve enthusiasm.  “And as for trinkets, useful for bribes and trading for passage, I have a few items of interest.”
	He produced some miniature pouches.  “These contain unusual spices, some of them fiery hot.  The Steppeweir folk enjoy meats preserved with spices.  Each pouch is branded with a symbol of its content, though most of that ilk will not comprehend the markings.”
	Zedwyn took the pouches with a curt nod of thanks.
	“The clanspeople do not value non-endemic artwork generally, which is unfortunate, as I have quite a collection.  Rather, they prefer useful everyday contrivances.  As such, you can trade some of your blankets and water skins.  But these are commonplace items.  Better would be unusual and long-lasting objects – those that can be passed down to following generations.”
	With that said, Brindlebeck produced four interesting treasures for their inspection.  The first was entirely foreign to the visitors, for they simply stared at it without comprehension.  It was tube-like, made of a thin malleable metallic material, with a large bulge around its center from which protruded a miniature spigot.  It stood upright, vertically, about a forearm’s measure in height.
	“No need for worry,” assured Brindlebeck, gauging their nonplussed looks.  “Your traders will know what it is, and its value, too, since it’s made of metal, which is not common there.  These are widely used upon the steppes to keep the tea of its denizens warm, and indeed, their homes, too.  They are found in many shapes and designs.  It’s called a samovar.”
	“Right,” said Zedwyn as he gingerly took it from Brindlebeck, and cradled it in a soft blanket.
	“This,” said Brindlebeck, holding up the next item, which looked like a weapon, rather than a utensil, “is a special blade used in the cutting of meat.”  He proffered the knife, handle first, to Zedwyn, who admired the embedded jewel in its haft.
	“It requires a special sharpening technique to maintain the serrations on the blade, which knowledge is generally found among the peoples of that region.”
	“The Steppefolk don’t shun metal, then, I gather?” asked Zedwyn, taking the knife in hand.  He wrapped it carefully, in lieu of a sheath, with a chamois cloth.
	“The superstition against metal is alive on the steppes,” answered Brindlebeck, “but metal is more often coveted than shunned.  Unfortunately, thieves are known to ransack in search for it, so you’d best keep those items concealed until you are in trusted company.”
	“I see,” said Zedwyn.
	The next item presented by Brindlebeck was a porcelain dish, tub-shaped, that fit snugly, upside-down, into another, slightly larger dish of similar shape.  It resembled a miniature coffin placed face down inside a sarcophagus.  The outside was glazed, and painted with a scene of a yurt on the plains, beside which stooped a woman, churning, and beside her, resting with legs folded upon the ground, a camel, tied by its nose loosely to a stake.
	 “This is a butter dish,” said Brindlebeck, “for keeping camel butter at a spreading consistency over a range of ambient temperatures.  It is much used, and treasured, on the steppes.”
	The others simply nodded, as Zedwyn placed the dish into a small soft sack.	“And finally,” said Brindlebeck, holding up yet another unrecognizable object, “a weapon, for hunting deer upon the open range.”
	In his hand, he held something that looked rather like a child’s toy than a weapon.  It comprised three small dense wooden balls, tied to a common center by slightly unequal lengths of thin rawhide.
	“Bolo balls,” said Brindlebeck in explanation, and further, in response to their puzzled looks, “They are swirled about the head thusly,” he raised his arm with a twirling action, in demonstration, “and flung towards the legs of running animals, in an attempt to entangle them.”  He handed the balls to Zedwyn.
	“An interesting device,” said Darius.
	“Yes, well,” continued Brindlebeck, “in deference to Hornbuck’s understandable sensitivities, I would ask that you keep that one hidden from view while in Dimwold.  In sooth, I am glad you are taking it far from Derrindell.” 
	The preparations completed, and voluble pleasantries exchanged, Brindlebeck bade the young cadre farewell, and good speed.  He sent Hornbuck to guide them to the crossing of the Runnel River, which place marked the eastern boundary of the broad reach of Dimwold, and whence began the prodigious climb to the foothills of the high plains.  Brindlebeck fairly winked at them as they departed, speaking thusly, his last words to them, “Mayhap we’ll meet again, in the world of spirits!”

28.  High Steppe

Forfeit, Breach, Scout, Siege, Ambuscade!
-Military games at Ahzul Ashram

	The Runnel at the appointed place was a mere trickle, as it was a tributary of the larger artery to the south and west.  Upon its easy fording by the group, they turned as one to wave good-bye to their frolicsome guide, Hornbuck, who, standing on the opposite shore, nodded his head grandly toward them in acknowledgement of their mutual pleasure and acquaintance.  Hornbuck then turned and fled into the wood, blending seamlessly into it, becoming invisible to the group in a half breath’s moment.  No doubt, he raced back to his master’s house at a pace that wouldst return him in half the time it took for the outbound journey.
	At the river, each loaded his water skins to the maximum amount, as advised by Brindlebeck.  The climb to the steppes would be long and hard, since the horses, laden with water, could not easily be ridden uphill.  In fact, the initial segment of the journey across the steppes was the most physically rigorous, though later portions offered challenges of a different sort.
	The group was well prepared, and also fortunate for most of the distance to have temperate weather.  Only twice did the winds whip up enough to force them to dig in.  Both times, the inconvenience was tolerably endured, and the delay caused by such, not overmuch.  Several nights were bitingly cold, but the combined effect of blankets and warm horse bodies colluded to stave off any permanent effect of the freezing discomfort.
	Reliable water was never discovered, though several brackish oases were passed over in deference to their apparent unhealthy aspect.  Fortunate it was indeed that Brindlebeck had the foresight to admonish them to fill up at the Runnel River, as they would doubtless have run dry long before their journey ended.  In fairness, though, the dearth of potable water was perhaps a consequence of the southerly route they chose, which they took in order to avoid unwanted encounters with people. 
	For while Brindlebeck advised them to befriend others, they felt disinclined to do so once they were upon the plains.  The reason was simple:  those met with might be either adversarial, or protective, but in either case, would slow them down.  As they had no need of trade, it did not behoove them to take unwarranted chances with strangers.
	In fact, a long caravan was spied in the distance during the latter stages of their crossing.  While it appeared to offer potential security by its large number of wagons, its pace was gauged to be no greater than half that of our intrepid group.
	As the quadrumvirate-short-a-half were eager, for the sake of Eborel, to make to their destination as quickly as possible, they pressed on at more urgent speed.  They reasoned that a hostile group would be discerned easily from a distance, as the caravan had been, thus affording them an easy chance for escape, if need be.  And too, by choosing a less traveled route, and by watching for telltale signs of passage by others, it seemed probable that they could avoid accidental encounters with local tribes.
	But alas, as will soon be revealed, our party’s presumptions were proved drastically, and even catastrophically, flawed.  For the vicissitudes of tracking in dry windy climes are such that footprints can be wiped clean by the weather in hours, nay, even in minutes.  And while our group’s route hugged the sides of the southerly mountain range to afford views of the plains below to the north, it also revealed, by virtue of the sparse vegetation on those same mountains, their own position to others who might keep careful watch upon the foothills, for unexpected or suspicious activity.
	And so it was that in their eagerness to make rapid progress, they lulled themselves into forgetting their acute vulnerability, and lowered their collective military guard, to the strategic advantage of an unseen foe.  For, as they entered a small ravine, clustered by thick trees, they suddenly found themselves confronted, in both the forward and rearward directions, by dozens of men, who dropped silently from the trees, shimmying down ropes, wearing cloaks and face scarves, with glassy-sharp curved daggers and dirks poised for swift dispatch.
	Among the insidious invaders was heard nary a whisper, which effect magnified the menace of their intent.  While our brave cohorts were caught off guard, their military training intervened by reflex, causing them to react with lightning quickness.  Surrounding Eborel, each facing full to the enemy, they remained on horseback for the advantage of elevation, and drew their weapons as one, with a collective flash of silver.  Eborel meanwise sat utterly still, in eerie passivity.  Even as more men dropped from the trees, Darius lunged forward, and smote the nearest assailant, hitting him full on the side of the head – dropping him dead to the ground, his neck severed or broken.
	A shrill war cry of undulating pitch arose from the attackers as they drove forward in a frenzy of blood thirst.  Darius was soon surrounded, and his horse cruelly cut from under him.  The three heroes fought bravely, sweeping their swords in broad strokes, standing with backs to their respective fallen steeds.  Darius himself slew three of the assailants, their fallen bodies forming a lifeless barrier between him and the attackers.
	In the rife commotion, one among the heartless enemy managed to pull Eborel off her horse, and put a knife to her throat.  The battle lulled as the attackers hesitated in fear for their lives.  The one with the knife boomed in a clear commanding voice, “Cease, or your princess dies!”  He was, evidently, the leader.
	Rosario and Zedwyn froze mid-hack, but Darius would not stop flailing, despite the expanding distance between himself and his retreating foe. 
	“Cease, I say!” said the leader, applying renewed force to the blade against Eborel’s neck.
	Darius turned to the leader and pointed his sword directly at him.  “Would that she were not in throwe, for you would forfeit your life to her in the space of a heartbeat!”
	 “In throwe, you say?  You protect a throwen princess?” asked the leader, taken aback.
	“Yes!” joined Rosario, taking Darius’s tack.  “You’ve probably contracted the illness already, by holding her in such close proximity.”
	“I care not!” boomed the leader, failing to take the bait.  “Drop your weapons, or your throwen dies by my hand!”  Eborel did nothing to resist his deadly embrace.
	Rosario and Zedwyn dropped their swords to their feet, but Darius heaved his mightily, point first, toward the leader, who dodged it by a hairbreadth.
	“Seize them!” screamed the leader.  Within moments, they were wrestled to the ground, and bound by their wrists to ropes wrapped around their waists.  Eborel was tied, too, though it didn’t seem necessary.  They were marched in a line for a dozen furlongs thence, to a wide glade where a considerable array of horses were reined.
	Each in our vanquished group was thrown unceremoniously over a horse and tied there, bent over, face down, in an awkward and uncomfortable position.  Our cohorts were now to be considered prisoners, and would be taken by the aggressors to some unknown location and fate.  The horses they rode were doubtless those of the fallen men back at the ravine.
	All mounted up, and while some rode back to the scene of the ambush, most rode with the prisoners.  The ride was mercilessly uncomfortable for our friends, but was at the least, not over-long.
	While our disconsolate fellowship expected to be brought to a village, or a gathering of people of some sort, they were not.  For the large party stopped at a lonely slanted outcropping near the base of the hills, with a wide view of the open steppe to the north.
	The prisoners were separated, tied each to a stake, and guarded.  Darius spoke to the guards, demanding to know who they were, but none responded.  The stricken group at least discerned that the leader’s name was Xegon, his full name being, for the benefit of the reader, Xegon of Phagix.
	Eventually, those that had split off returned, bringing with them the bodies of their fallen brethren, as well as the bundles carried by our colleagues.  These were gone through, and the items gifted by Brindlebeck were hailed heartily as loot.
	Rosario thought grimly of their abandoned and crippled horses, who would likely die in the jaws of a steppe wolf or cayute. 
	A council of sorts was held by some of the men, and several others began pounding stakes in regular procession into the hard ground of the exposed hillside.  The prisoners were herded to the site of the stakes by a decade of men with glass daggers drawn.
	Xegon approached, as if to give speech to our distressed cohorts.  Darius interceded first, “Who are you?” he demanded.  “What do you intend with us, and by what authority do you keep us sequestered thus?” He raised his arms as far as they would go, in gesture to his bondage.  “To what tribe are you allied?”
	“We are allied to no tribe,” answered Xegon.  “We wander free, and answer to none, save the ancient laws of the Steppe, which, incidentally, are quite specific in this case.  For you have felled three of ours, and so three lives must necessarily be forfeit.”
	“We fought in battle, against aggravated assault!” cried Rosario, in defense.
	“But we had taken no life,” countered Xegon, “only threatened to do so.”
	“Why take three lives,” asked Darius, “when it was only I who did the killing?  Why not forfeit my life, and let the others go free?”
	Rosario and Zedwyn looked at Darius in shock at his proposition.
	“Steppe law is precise on this point, too,” answered Xegon.  “Your comrades in arms are equally culpable for your deeds.  Their punishment shall be the same as yours.”
	“You mean to murder us here, in this lonely place?” cried Zedwyn, incredulous.
	Xegon shook his head.  “Murder?  No, the laws of the Steppe do not brook defenseless killing.”  He motioned to the others to begin tying the prisoners to the stakes.  “The Steppe itself will be your undoing.”  
	“But what about her?” asked Darius, motioning to Eborel, who was dragged to the stakes along with him.  “She’s done nothing, and she is the fourth life.  Free her!” He insisted.
	 “The throwen presents a penumbral problem in the law,” answered Xegon.  “Indeed, we took counsel to resolve the dilemma.  On the one hand, the Steppe cares nothing for the diseased or crippled.  On the other hand, it is wrong to throw such to the proverbial wolves.  However, we have several men who are injured – and some grievously so.  They may live out their remaining lives only half fully.  And as a throwen is only half alive anyway, it is an equitable exchange to take her remaining half life away.  That is our just and considered conclusion,” he said with finality.  “Tie her to the stakes!” he commanded.
	Each was tied tautly, spread-eagle style, lying on the ground, face up, side by side.  Zedwyn was on the left, followed by Rosario, Darius, and Eborel, to the right.
	The speech of Xegon turned to the gruesome.  “Steppe law says little of suffering in this case, so we will prolong yours, in the ancient tradition, by slicing open your stomachs.  The wounds will not be severe enough to kill you.  In fact, you might survive if you could undo your bonds – but your agony will be greatly increased.  To extend the duration of your suffering, we’ll lay one of your own blankets over each of you.  With luck, you may last 3 days before dying.”
	“Monster!” screamed Darius.  “Wouldst that Tyro himself smite you where you stand!”
	Xegon shook his head.  “That is unlikely.”  He turned away, speaking under his breath, “May the Steppe have mercy upon your souls.”  The other guards moved away with him, headed for their horses.
	It is not an exaggeration to say that an extreme air of sepulchral doom overtook our hero’s thoughts as they contemplated their impending grisly ordeal.  Silent tears of hysteria dropped from their faces.  Only Eborel lay oblivious and serene.
	In the distance were heard the sounds of horses moving about, preparing to leave.  A cry, twice repeated, of “Jebrel! To task!” was heard.
	Presently, a young man of enormous stature, and of grimmest countenance, approached, carrying a wide-bladed curved sword that ended in two crescent points, shaped as the horns of a bull.  His trimmed facial hair was jet black, with thick eyebrows presently furrowed in the severest of expressions.
	Zedwyn muttered, “Me thinks our executioner hath arrived.”
	“Look here, Jebrel!” cried Darius, intuiting his name.  “If you harm us, I shall personally hold you responsible when we get free.”
	Jebrel, for that was indeed his name, stared unflinchingly, with coal black eyes.
	“I don’t care how big and strong you are,” continued Darius.  “I’ll take you on, in any venue, and I’ll win, too.  You’ll be sorry you ever tangled with us.”
	“I already am,” responded Jebrel gruffly, breaking his silence.
	Rosario sensed his hesitancy to slit them where they lay, and spoke up urgently.  “Jebrel, there’s no need to cut us.  The others are preparing to leave.  They cannot see you.  They’ll not know whether you completed your task.  We will show you mercy if we survive.”
	Jebrel raised his sword above Zedwyn saying, “Xegon demands to see blood upon my sword, as evidence of the deed.  What would you have me do?”
	As Rosario had no answer, Jebrel advised Zedwyn thusly, “Relax your stomach, to reduce the chance of my cutting muscle.”
	Zedwyn closed his eyes, and tried to imagine he was back in Bythewood, whereupon Jebrel brought the sword down swiftly and expertly.  Zedwyn cried out, a fresh slice across his tunic newly appearing below the belly button, transverse to the axis of his body, with blood oozing through.  Zedwyn choked back a sob.
	Jebrel positioned himself with legs straddling Rosario.  “It looks bad,” he said to his next victim, “but it is only a flesh wound.”
	“I am not much comforted,” said Rosario sarcastically, as he closed his eyes for the searing swipe.  It came, and Rosario raised his eyelids, giving a long hard stare at Jebrel, not even bothering to look down at his abdomen.
	“Cut our bonds!” ordered Darius, whose turn was next.  “We will avenge this cruelty, but will spare you in so doing, if you help us.”
	“You are three against forty; you cannot prevail,” answered Jebrel.  “None go against council and live, not even I.”  He raised his sword above Darius.  “Why should I needlessly add my death to yours?”
	He asked the question rhetorically, as he swiftly sliced through the tunic of his next charge.
	Darius for his part, did not even close his eyes for the cut, but countered the vile act by hurling extreme verbal execrations at Jebrel, “May your family suffer a fate far worse than ours!  May your brothers and sisters die in front of your very eyes!  May your parents be murdered in their sleep!”
	Jebrel turned to him and spoke evenly, “These very things have already come to pass.”
	Rosario and Zedwyn looked at each other significantly.  Rosario admitted to himself that, while their present situation was the gravest imaginable, the suffering of their executioner must indeed have been greater than theirs.
	Lastly, of course, was Eborel.  But a strange emotion overtook Jebrel as he stood above her, with blade poised for sweeping.
	“If you so much as harm her, so help me!” cried Darius impotently as he pulled vainly against his ropes.  “There’s no need to cut her as well!  She’s done nothing to deserve it, you see how she lies passively still!”
	Jebrel did not appear to hear him, for he was lost in his own thoughts.
	Eventually, he stunned the others with the question, “By what strange illusion is Eborel allied with you?”
	After a shocked moment of silence, Rosario shot back, “How do you know Eborel?”
	“That be her name then?” asked Jebrel, turning towards the others, verifying his own conclusion.  “And yet her circumstances are exactly as she described them to me, for she travels with three young warrior friends.”
	“Yes, yes!” they cried.  “That’s us!”
	“You must be Darius,” he said fixing his gaze pointedly at the one lying next to Eborel.
	“I am!” beamed Darius proudly, elated by the thought of Eborel describing him to Jebrel. 
	“You really do know Eborel!” exclaimed Rosario.  “But how?”
	“I left her not three weeks thence, southeast of here, and she was headed north toward Olinza Lake.  It’s not possible, though, that she could be coming from the west with you.”
	The others were likewise perplexed.
	“But her affect is flat,” he continued.  “How could she have contracted the throwe in such a brief time, since I saw her last?  Mayhap she is possessed of a demon.”  He cogitated for a moment.  “It seems that capricious fate hath thrust upon me a cruel predicament.”
	“She is possessed by no demon,” said Rosario.  “Nor does she suffer from the throwe, as we told Xegon.  She is sickened in some other manner, and we hope to cure her at Elginzice.”
	A voice was heard in the distance, yelling “Jebrel!  Finish it!”
	Zedwyn asked in an incongruous moment of lucid thoughtfulness, “Why do they shun the sight of us being cut by you?”
	“They are cowards,” answered Jebrel disdainfully.  “Despite the righteous air of Xegon, he knows that what he is doing is wrong.  All fear that witnessing this act would lend credence to future retribution against them.  If they don’t see it, they can disavow in their own minds the knowledge that it ever happened.  To them, you are already dead.  I alone live, to bear witness to the atrocity, and my word is perforce mum.”
	Rosario spoke up, getting back on subject, “If you know Eborel, then you must love her as we do.  I implore you not to partake in her death!”
	“I do love her, and would forsake my life for hers.  But how can I know if this is truly her, for it cannot possibly be!”
	Jebrel’s steadfast body appeared to lose its resolve, and he trembled despite himself.  Tears welled in his eyes.
	“Wouldst that I could discern whether this is fair play or foul trickery, for my life will be forfeit for nothing if I choose wrongly my present course of action.”
	Finally, he made his decision.  “I could not live with myself if I knowingly became the instrument of Eborel’s death.  I must risk my own cruel demise.”
	He brought his sword down several times, slashing not her stomach, but the ropes binding her wrists.  Each flash of the sword cut fibers anew, until naught but a few threads held each arm tenuously bound.
	“I will tell Xegon, if I must, that I had not the heart to slash the belly of a throwen,” he said, carefully laying blankets over each person.
	“Cut our bonds, too!” urged Darius.  “For Eborel is useless in her present state.  She cannot survive without us.”
	“I dare not risk it,” he countered.  “Her fate is now her own, for I have turned it over to her – though I can do nothing to ameliorate her strange condition.  For you, I’ve done what I can by making your wounds superficial.”
	Before he turned to leave, he remonstrated one last time.  “If you escape, reveal not yourselves to us, for it would be my undoing.  Let Eborel know that it was by my action that she lived.  We ride east to Phagix.  Avoid us!”
	He left them there, to rejoin the ruffians, and rode away among them, abandoning the prisoners to die, as the final act of that dastardly gang’s utmost depravity.

29.  Flight
What say a divertissement?
-A call to the game of quoits

	And now dear reader, I must beg your pardon and forbearance while I suspend this part of the tale at a most distressing point in the story, to wit, the imminent and minatory demise of our heroes.  For I must backtrack and digress to describe the heretofore unknown relationship between Eborel of Dimthistle and Jebrel’dar of Icember (for that was his full name), and in said process, shed light on how it is possible that they could have been in each other’s company just three weeks thence near Olinza Lake, to the southeast, and furthermore, how it might have come to pass that Jebrel’dar couldst love Eborel to the distraction even of his own life.
	We must retrace our steps back, then, to the moment when Eborel fell into her torporous state, on the road from Excelsion, where, in sooth, she parted ways with her companions, if not in actual body, then at least in spirit.  For she found the conscious part of herself awakened apparently far from her friends, and far from any road, in a gentle pasture, with surrounding scenery and landmarks unfamiliar to her.  She sat upright, and searched her person, finding that she carried nothing, save the clothes on her back, and the soft shoes on her feet.  Gone were her personal effects:  knives, water pouch, bow, food stuffs.  Checking her pockets, she found no medallions therein.  She felt panicked, and called out for her friends, rising to search for them.  No one, friend or otherwise, answered her desperate pleas.  It appeared that she was in an entirely deserted place.  The sun was high, and the breeze soft and temperate.  She cried out, in desperation perhaps, for her animal friends of old, whistling shrilly for Skyewing, and calling for Firthmare.  She even yelled Quid Synch’s name at the top of her lungs, hoping perhaps to summon him to the apparent personal crisis nexus into which she had fallen.
	But Quid Synch didn’t come.  Undoubtedly he answered only to his own crises, and not those of others.
	Eborel sat down, and collected herself.  It looked as though she were inexorably alone again, as she had been during her years of survival in the wild.  The present situation seemed worse, however, for there were no gifts from Zoro’Ander to see her through.  She was disoriented, as if in a dream, wondering which way to turn to find her friends.  Her sense of time was skewed.  She felt as if an age had passed since she had fallen asleep the night before.  It might have been years since last she saw her friends.  In a vexing frame of mind, she imagined that they had lost her long ago, and given up all hope of ever seeing her again.  Perhaps they had even grown old themselves, living long happy lives, recalling her fondly as a cherished memory from their youth.  She began to cry.
	Presently, she rose, and walked toward the northeast.  She chose that direction because twice in her past she had visions of her destiny there:  once by the campfire with Zoro’Ander, and once upon the throne of Quartz Prima.
	She found that she could move very quickly, with little exertion.  In fact, her feet were as light as clouds.  Breaking into a jog, she ran for an hour, and then for two more.  When a stream chanced by, she bent to drink, but found she could not.  Indeed, neither hunger nor thirst tempted her to partake of any sustenance.  Upon sunset, as her energy didn’t flag, she simply walked through the night, without stopping to sleep.
	In the morning, the idea insinuated itself upon her that she was no longer entirely herself.  This disturbing thought confounded her every attempt to explain the inconsistencies of her physical state.  She felt the need of company, if for no other reason than to garner assurance that she had not turned into some kind of ghost.  But she had noticed that animals and birds fled at her approach, so she was at least still substantially present in the world and observable to others.
	She traveled thus for several days, running during the day, and walking at night – always headed, as if by instinct, to the north and east, wondering all the while what fate the lumi held in store for her.  Eventually, she came upon a road, and with it, travelers.  Relieved indeed was she to see that they, like the animals, acknowledged her presence by, if not nodding or saluting as she passed, at least speaking among themselves in whispers and averting her direct gaze. 
	Emboldened, she asked a group of people what manner of towns lay ahead.  It seemed a strange question coming from a lone lass who traveled like the wind with no need of conveyance, either animal or mechanical, nor carrying any baggage.  Several people in succession rebuffed her with derisive answers, such as “Towns?  Why I believe the road plunges into an abyss at Rift’s End!” or “What manner of town wouldst deign find itself in this desolate place for your entertaining pleasure?”
	Eborel consoled herself that, at least the average Draelander had not changed overmuch, even if she found herself strangely altered.  She continued upon the road and avoided further encounters.  Eventually, farms and taverns dotted the landscape.  These she shied away from, as she had no need of their hospitality.  Her lack of money or items for trade, while at first seeming a grave detriment, turned into an asset, as they were entirely unnecessary and would only have served to slow her down.  For she was able to fly effortlessly, traveling over great expanses of land, with no need to stop for any reason.  It was truly a marvel, but also a great mystery, since she felt no purpose in attaining any particular destination.
	Over time, however, as the environs became increasingly populated, she began to feel drawn towards a hazy indistinct location, perhaps involving water, or storms.  It was simply a feeling on her part, possibly caused by her lack of sleep, as if her need to dream had been appropriated by the incessant wakefulness.  A detachment enveloped her, which frightful feeling motivated her to seek solace, as if the achieving of a watery destination might relieve the strain caused by her strange ennui.
	As towns cropped up, and even became numerous, it became evident, by the influx of traders, that she was traveling upon a thoroughfare which might even destinate a true city.  The prospect of such excited her greatly, for she had never seen a place more populous than the ashram, save perhaps, at a distance, a few of the larger towns that skirted the mountains north of Dimthistle.
	She fairly flew past the other travelers upon the road, spurred to urgency by a desire to feel the anonymity of the city, where none would know or care her business, and where, she imagined, the welcome indifference shown toward her would be the result of jaded affect, rather than the coarser distrust presented by the naturally more circumspect people of the countryside.

	A few days later, as evening overtook, she finally attained the outlying regions of the great city of Manx, largest in Draeland.  The sheer scope was breathtaking, for the city filled her vision, and fell away to the horizon, in all directions forward.  She felt she would become subsumed by it, and utterly lost, as she entered full-in.
	The dense profusion of buildings within followed along the eastern bank of the Maywend River, so she resolved to stay close to the waterway, reasoning that the oldest and most central part of town would likely reside there, and that she could keep her bearings as long as the river remained within eyesight or earshot.
	The noise and bustle was at first overwhelming, such feeling reminding her of the intimidation she felt in Ahzul, at the first lunch hour with Rosario, an eon, if only two years, ago.  That she sought the most ancient part of town was curious, for she knew not what to expect there.
	What she desired, she thought, was the banter of the guests at her old inn by the crossroads.  For she realized that a great deal could be learned about the wide world from that particular breed of traveler who enjoys expounding upon it, invariably to ever exaggerated effect, as the ale flowed into the night.  She might learn a thing or two about her surroundings by frequenting such a place and finding such a person.  But where to seek it?
	She wandered for some time, letting the evening turn late.  The city revealed itself slowly, only reluctantly peeling away its layers as she penetrated deeper.  The farther she traveled in distance, the further back in time she went.  Alleyways narrowed, buildings became smaller and more intricately decorated.  Windows and doorways shrank in size, and stone walls thickened.  Overhangs lowered until she sometimes needed to duck under to pass through.  The best architectural details withstood the test of time.  Bare earth became stone, and winding stairways replaced straight level thoroughfares.  Draft animals and carts could no longer pass through the present section of the city – all traffic here was on foot.
	Eventually, she came to a wide cobblestone plaza, aside which stood a venerable establishment called “The Taverne Upon the Greene.”  That it had once stood upon a green was not in doubt, but the fact that the grass had disappeared hundreds or thousands of years ago was a testament to the tenacious refusal of Draelanders to change even the name of the alehouse for all that time.
	Flags of ancient design draped from poles above awnings which overhung a multitude of tiny-paned windows below.  Lamplight was discernable through the thick wavy glass, and pipe smoke issued from within through casements left open for ventilation.  Even at this late hour, there was evidently much activity within.  Eborel girded herself to enter.
	Inside was not much different than the tavern of her youth.  There was a long bartop that wound around much of the rearward periphery.  Small tables and chairs were set about, in apparent randomness across the open spaces, and inset into nooks along the windowed front side.  She headed for the bar, and sat upon a stool, for a view of the place from that elevated position.  Since she had no money, the protocol, she knew, restricted her from sitting at table.
	As she avoided engaging the barkeep, he left her alone, which gave her an opportunity to study the clientele.  The place held a mix of company:  some small groups of traders and merchants, several clusters of men and women sitting together, a couple of lone dock workers, and a few who looked positively like rapscallions, drinking themselves into stupor.
	Eventually, the bartender asked her, “What’s your pleasure, miss?”  She gave a horizontal wave indicating that she needed nothing.  He groused, “That won’t do.  A lone young woman sitting at the bar late at night – are you looking for someone to buy you a drink?”
	“Who would you recommend?” she asked, somewhat slyly.
	He snorted, “None of this lot, I think.  You could do better.”
	She gave him a level gaze, and proffered him an exchange.  “I was a barmaid in my younger years.  Why don’t you let me tend tables for a few hours, and repay me later with a brew?”
	He eyed her suspiciously.  “I’m not looking for any hired help,” he said.
	“I’m just passing through,” she returned.  “I seek no permanent employment.”
	“Alright,” he said tentatively, “I’m tired, and I could use a rest just now.  And you’re cheap, working for a beer.  What’ll I call you?”
	“You can call me ‘miss,’ as you’ve already done.”
	“Right, then you can call me ‘boss,’ and we’ve got a deal.”  He spit on his hand and extended it.  She spit on her own hand, and they shook upon it.
	He tossed a small bundle to her from behind the bar.  “Put this apron on,” he said.  “It’ll be your uniform.  That lot over there might want refills,” he nodded toward a rowdy looking bunch.  “Why don’t you go ask them their pleasure?” 
	She rose to move toward the table, but he stopped her.  “Don’t take any money,” he said with lingering suspicion.  “Around here, patrons pay their tab at the bar – to me – before leaving.”
	She nodded in understanding.
	Four men of questionable disposition, and in varying stages of inebriation, eyed her as she approached.  One of them pandered shamelessly to her, saying, “Missy, I’d like my refill of you!”  He laughed vulgarly to the others at his own crude remark.  One of the four did not laugh with him, however, but regarded her with a steady sober eye.
	That one said, “I think we’ve had enough for now, ma’am.”
	“Sourpuss!” cried the drunken one.  “I said I wanted grog, and I said I wanted to keep it comin’!”
	“Will that be one grog, then?” Eborel asked sarcastically, taking his order.
	“Make it four!” said another one.
	The sober one spoke quietly, “We’ll have three tall ales, please.”
	She nodded, and gave him a smile.  She liked him, despite the company he kept.
	Eborel made her rounds to the other tables, keeping everyone in drink, and retreated to her place at the bar for short interludes of rest.  Eventually, the boss put a mug of ale on the bar for her, to hold her place there.  She occasionally feigned taking a sip, but the bartender noted that the level did not go down.
	The drunken one at the table of four made louder and cruder advances upon her as the night wore on, and Eborel asked the boss, “Should I throw that one out?”
	He laughed in response, and said, “I hired you as a barmaid, not a bouncer.  Besides, you’re no match for him.”
	“I could take him in a heartbeat,” she responded.
	“No doubt,” he replied.  “A feather could knock him over.  But I meant you couldn’t carry him out, for he is all dead weight.”
	She nodded in agreement.
	“He’ll be unconscious shortly – he always is.  I usually let him sleep it off here until his friends take him away in the morning.”
	As the night crept into the wee hours, the boss told her she’d worked enough, and could lay off.  She thanked him, and took off her apron, but remained seated at the bar.  The drunken one slipped into slumber, and the sober one at the table came over to sit on the stool next to her.  His other two friends smirked and giggled as he approached her.
	“I apologize for my colleagues’ behavior,” he said.
	“No need,” she replied, “but why do you call them colleagues, for you are in a different league altogether than your three friends.”
	“Thank you,” he said accepting her compliment.  “I am bound to them, by long sad history.”
	She simply nodded.
	“What, if I might ask, are you doing here?” he queried.  “I’ve never seen you before.”
	“Searching for something,” she replied.  “Information.”
	“Oh?” he asked, “Regarding…”
	“This city, the surroundings.”
	“I know the area well,” he said.  “Would you like a tour?”
	She shrugged.
	“Where are you staying?” he asked.
	“Nowhere,” she replied.
	“It’s bold of me,” he said, “but why don’t we go out for a walk?  There are several places we can stay if you need shelter.”
	“I’d like a walk,” she answered.
	“Only I have a favor to ask that might seem odd,” he said.
	“Which is?”
	“My ‘colleagues’ never let me out of their sight.  To leave with you, I must pretend that I harbor insidious intentions upon you.”
	“Oh?” she said.
	“Yes, I would ask that you link arms with me while we go out, and suffer the vulgar aspersions they may cast towards you as we leave.”
	“Alright,” she said, not particularly caring what anyone might think of her.
	When he stood to take her arm, she was startled to see how large he was in stature, particularly in contrast to her own diminutive body.  As they walked away from the bar, the boss said, “Good-bye, Miss.”
	She waved and said, “Thanks for the job.”
	They made a point of passing the table with the three drunken sots, whereupon one of them sniggered, and said, “Mind you don’t crush her, Jebrel!”

30.  Love Lost

My life is mine own to untangle.
-Jebrel’dar of Icember

	Eborel and Jebrel’dar made their way down to the docks of old town, and watched the sky brighten to fuchsia over the Maywend River.
	Sitting upon a granite bulwark, they gazed together upon the early morning industry of the fisheries that lay about them.  Jebrel mustered his bravery, and asked her, with forced casualness, “What are you about, Eborel?”
	His nonchalance belied the piercing interest in his eyes. 
	She hesitated.  “I wouldst ask the same of you,” she replied cautiously.
	“Ah,” he sighed, realizing he would need to reveal himself wholly, if he wished a response from her in kind.
	“Mine is a gritty story,” he started with determination.  “At least, so far...”
	He added the last as if to imply there was hope for a brighter future, since he had now met Eborel.
	“I hail from Icember,” he continued, “in the harsh Steppe lands to the north.  Do you know it?”
	She shook her head.
	“Life there is tough.  Wind and cold combine to make survival difficult.  Many Draelanders on the steppes are nomadic, and most ally themselves to a tribe for protection.  Bands of thieves are common, so organization against pillaging attacks is paramount, especially for settled communities, which are the most vulnerable.”
	“I think I see why you left there,” Eborel interjected.
	“But I haven’t left,” he replied.  “I am only visiting Manx.  I’ll be returning to the steppes soon.”
	“Oh, do you have family there?” she asked.
	Jebrel shook his head.  “Therein lies the tragedy in my tale.  For my family were killed in a raid when I was but nine years old.  We were farmers.  All was lost except my life, which I hold very dear now, as you can imagine.”
	Eborel was fearsomely affected by this admission, and felt a repressed rage well up in her.  “Have you sought retribution for such vile act?  I can only imagine that I would be consumed with an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, were I in your place.”
	“It was a long time ago,” allowed Jebrel, “and the shocking truth is that the very marauders who killed my family, took me in, and raised me.  They are my family now, and continue to be so.  I am indentured to them in perpetuity for the act of their having spared my life when I was nine.” 
	Eborel recoiled from the notion that he owed them anything at all.  “Are you saying those scoundrels in the bar are your family?” she asked incredulously.
	Jebrel nodded sadly.  “They have little to recommend them,” he averred.
	“Run away!” she admonished.  “They cannot hold you fast to them forever!”
	“They would hunt me down and kill me.”
	“Are they so depraved?”
	“They are,” he answered.  “In their eyes, my life is forfeit to them at any time.  It’s only by their self-ordained largesse that I am granted leave to live.”
	Eborel felt disgust.  “They’re using you,” she asserted, “and they probably need you more than you know.”
	“Yes,” he agreed.  “They also distrust and fear me.  That’s why they never let me out of their sight – except, apparently, while I’m with you.  I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if they’re spying upon us, even now.”
	Eborel took a furtive glance about her, but saw nothing to arouse suspicion.
	“Are you frightened?” he asked.
	Eborel scoffed, “I could best any one of them anytime, anywhere.  And with this new knowledge from you, I would be hard pressed to let them live!”
	Jebrel admired her pluck.  “I could best them, too.  That’s why they fear me.  But I could not beat them all at once – there are too many.”
	Eborel shook her head in dismay.  “Your situation is most vexing,” she said.  “I sincerely hope you find your way clear of it.”
	“My life is mine own to untangle,” he replied.  “But talking to you has afforded some clarity, I think, and I thank you for that.”
	She smiled and took his hand, possibly for the benefit of the imagined spies.  “Let’s find a place where we can assure our privacy,” she suggested.
	He arose and escorted her gladly.
	They wound their way through narrow cobbled streets to a recessed building made of sandstone block.  Entering, Jebrel paid the innkeeper at the desk, who appeared to know him, as he accepted the money without looking at it.  The keeper gave a curt nod and a dismissive wave, indicating that Jebrel could either have his pick of rooms, or perhaps, that his favorite room was free – Eborel could not tell which.
	Jebrel led her to the back of the building, where a false panel was discovered, which, when slid aside, revealed a closed stairway.  They ascended the stairs, after closing the false panel behind them, taking many tight switchbacks, high up to the very eaves under the slate roof.  There they entered a tiny room with steeply slanted ceilings and a picturesque dormer window at one end.  The staircase was evidently the only, and apparently hidden, entrance to the room.  Eborel might have feared for her safety, being entrapped thus, so high from the ground, in a veritable stone fortress.  But she trusted Jebrel completely.
	“This is my secret place,” he said with a flourishing gesture.
	She peered out the window at the alleyway below.  Nothing could be discerned but a maze of twisted pathways and courtyards, winding away under rooftops into the distance.  Directly in front of Eborel, abutting the windowed dormer end wall, stood a tiny table with two chairs.  Against the longer wall was a rough wood bed, barely big enough to compass Jebrel’s large frame.
	“Two chairs,” she noted out loud.  “You come here with someone else?”  It was a delicate, intimate question.
	He shook his head.  “Only you.  The room is presented furnished in this manner,” he said by way of explanation.
	She nodded.
	“How do your cohorts allow this?” she asked.
	“They know nothing of it.  I come here when they are passed out, or sometimes when I am pretended to be passed out myself, so that they leave me alone for a while.”
	“And the innkeeper?” she asked.
	“He is in league with me.  I pay him a year’s rent ahead of time to secure this room for my use only.  The money I gave him today was extra ‘hush money,’ so he’ll disavow knowledge of our presence.”
	“A year’s rent is a large sum.  Where does all that money come from?” she asked, not with a little impertinence, as she sat down upon the bed.
	“I won’t lie to you Eborel,” he answered.  “It comes from the most scurrilous sources.  I would leave my sordid life behind, but must wait, you understand, until the opportunity presents itself, lest I lose the very life I’m trying to escape.”
	She was most sympathetic.
	He pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat in it, thus encouraging her to lie back on the bed and relax.  This she did, and he furrowed his brow, donning an attentive aspect, as if to say, “Now it’s your turn to tell your life story.”
	She didn’t know where to begin, so she just started talking.  First, she told him of her family in Dimthistle, and of her running away, due to the compelling nature of her repeated nightmare.  Then she dwelled on her time living in the wild with her animals, followed by the eventual momentous entering of the ashram in the mountains.  She described her military training there, and the students she befriended – as well as the many mystics whom she met along the way.  When she eventually reached the ordeal at Mt. Excelsion, she expounded at length, telling of the voice of the mountain, and the inexplicable rage of the gnomics.  She led right up to her present wayward journey with her ashram friends.
	Jebrel was a rapt listener, which made it easy for Eborel to keep talking.  He interrupted little, in order to fully take in the scope of her story.  But he made mental notes about parts of the tale that intrigued or confused him, for later reconsideration.
	Eborel felt easy and open with Jebrel, but she held back on two key points that might have helped him mightily later on, when he would be faced with the difficult decision to risk his life to save hers, as has already been related.
	First, she did not tell him that she could move in time shift; and second, she failed to mention that she had no need of food, drink, or sleep, since becoming separated from her friends.  Were she to have revealed these simple facts, it might have allayed his future bewilderment, when their incongruous paths would next cross, in a mutual nexus of personal crises, as shall presently be revisited, and resolved, I trust, to the reader’s satisfaction.
	Why was she so circumspect?  It wasn’t because Jebrel was new-met – she trusted him, as has been said, completely.  No, she loved him, or felt the inklings of love, and ached to be his equal.  She wanted to appear “normal” to him, so he might have the opportunity to feel the same way about her.  How could he love her, she reasoned, if he knew that she was a “freak” who could move in time shift, and who ran across the land by day and night, like a lost spirit, with no need of human succor?  Her lovelorn soul wanted him to be impressed by her normalness, which odd self delusion would nearly cost her her life, later in this story.  She feared, in short, that his feelings for her would change, as had Rosario’s, once he learned her true nature.
	But while Jebrel was not privy to these details left unsaid, neither was he fooled by her equivocal omissions.  The obvious favor showed her by the mystics of the land, as well as that evinced by the very soul of Mt. Excelsion (as evidenced by its communicating directly to her), themselves bespoke volumes about her character.
	And Jebrel was not selfish with his feelings.  He didn’t wish to fashion an image of Eborel in his mind into someone whom he could love even more, in order to increase the pleasurable feeling of love itself.  Rather, he already knew that he loved her, and simply wished to know her more deeply, as if the journey to intimacy with her would bring self discovery.  For, how better to know thine own self, than to plumb the very depths of the one whom is loved?
	But alas, Eborel’s feelings for Jebrel remained guarded, and while those feelings were strong, they were yet eclipsed by his for her.  Their talk drifted, by turns, after some discourse upon the details of her story, to her immediate plans for the future.
	She reiterated her desire to find water or storms, which impulse was baffling to them both.  Jebrel allowed that the largest body of water in the vicinity was Olinza Lake, a few days ride north by horseback.  She therefore determined to go there, with haste, and without lingering in Manx.
	Jebrel’s heart was wrenched by her apparent imminent departure.  He could not know that her keen desire to leave was partly motivated by a wish to avoid his discovering that she never ate.  Thus, their time together would be less than the span of a day and a night.
	He looked her full in the face, and held the side of her head in his hand.  With his other hand, he dropped some coins and gems into her palm.  “I can see you have no money,” he said.  “You might need this.”
	She nodded in thanks, but avoided looking directly into his eyes, as she felt tears welling up in her own.
	“Would that I could travel with you, but I cannot,” he said somberly.  “I would only endanger you, and likely slow you down.  My personal tribulations would divert you from your own worrisome task.”
	“I wonder when we shall meet again?” he mused, asking the question rhetorically, and not a little wistfully.  “I believe we are both lost, Eborel.”  He spoke her name softly, while studying her countenance, even as she continued to cast her eyes downward.  “When we find our true selves – that time is when we’ll find each other again.  Someday, the pleasure of each other’s company will be our mutual reward for facing our respective troubling journeys inward.  Love lost here shall be regained thence.  It is our fate, and I am most heartfelt and certain in this assertion.”
	Eborel did not meet his intense gaze until she tore free from his coddling touch.  Moving toward the door, and turning to face him one last time, she said thus:  “Until we meet again, remain hale.  I will look for you ’erever I go.”
	She ran down the switchback flights of stairs, through the secret panel, past the innkeeper – who glanced up to note her egress – and fled the city of Manx.

31.  Feldspar Falls
 “News on the Nigh”
-Slogan ’neath the masthead
 of the Draeland Gazette

	Eborel ran to forget herself.  As she followed the Maywend River north, she turned her mind to the task at hand, that is, the reaching of the lake, in order, perhaps, to divert her obsessive thoughts from those that would dwell upon Jebrel.  That she ached for him was plain.  That she could not be with him, nor extricate him from his strange circumstance of human bondage – foreordained, perhaps, by the inauspicious positioning of the lumi at his birth – was plainer.
	The coins given by Jebrel jingled in her pocket according to the rhythm of her bounding footfalls.  The palliative sound affected her as a gentle wind chime might assuage one’s unease, and incited her too, to fond reminiscences of her newfound friend.
	She stayed on the eastern side of the river, not crossing when bridges presented opportunities to do so, as there seemed to be the better road upon the present bank.  Within a full day’s turning, she reached the first of the famed locks of the upper Maywend, which presaged, she knew, the legendary waterfalls that lay ahead.
	At that point, the river forked.  One branch flowed wide and wild, while the other, on the western side, drained through a narrow channel placidly downstream; that is to say, against her direction of travel.  The far tributary was evidently Draeishmade, as it veered by considerably less writhesome means, from the flood gates of the first lock, just visible in the distance, toward the main branch, near where she stood, following an oblique transverse tangent in relation to it.
	The road upon which Eborel traveled become rougher, but she kept to it.  The opposite side of the river was now evidently more built up.  There, the thoroughfare would doubtless be maintained in better condition, but she spurned it, fearing an encounter with the denizens of the region, who were renowned, and much maligned, the world over.  For this was the domain of the inscrutable Monks – the very same that published the Draeland Gazette, and upon whom, she remembered, were lavishly heaped diverse opprobrium by the ilk of her home county.  
	Eborel felt a sense of foreboding as she passed through the area.  Wishing to avoid looking upon the far side of the river, she nonetheless felt compelled to keep a watchful eye.  Presently, a great mist was discerned upriver, and her ears at once met the distant sound of cascading water.  Above the river cloud, which was doubtless formed by the waterfall – not yet visible – there arced a beautiful rainbow, which, delicately framing the scene entire, evinced a perfectly curved lintel of pure colored light, spanning the banks of the Maywend, and entreating her, as might an intriguing open archway, thence.
	The road led directly to the waterfall, but at the last, angled away at a T-shaped intersection, to which a smaller path presented itself on the left.  Eborel took this lesser path, warily, and moved by degrees toward the thundering release of the watershed above.  The walkway changed from rutted dirt to mossy loam to slick slate beneath her feet.  The slate turned water-black in color as she proceeded.  It was evidently laid down as an enduring surface to maintain access to the inside of the waterfall itself, for the natural rock of the vertical wall to which she clung on her right for balance was not slate, but rough yellow-brown feldspar, which mineral lent the falls its name.
	Once directly under the vertical river, as it were, Eborel marveled at its sheer raucous power.  As near to the center of the surreal and diaphanous curtain of water as she could ascertain, she looked up, with her back to the rock wall, and allowed herself to become mesmerized by the unceasing fount of prodigious volumes of liquid that tumbled past her from above.
	It was a peculiarity that she remained relatively dry, situated thus, though such may have been by design.  For the path entered the waterfall about a third of the way up the cliff, which spared visitors the brunt of assault from the spray at its base.
	On this day, there were no visitors in evidence, save Eborel, nor any seen either approaching or retreating upon the road.  Feeling she would not be disturbed, she sank to a seated position, crossing her legs in a posture of meditation, and slowly entered the mental state of Qasama.
	It was an unabashed flight of ego that compelled Eborel to wrest control of the powerful waterfall away from the clutches of incessant gravity, by slowing her time sense to an imperceptible crawl.  And too, she was curious to determine if her powers had dwindled or disappeared since she had become, as she considered it, a waif, upon parting with her friends.
	Presently, the deep sound of the waterfall fell to even lower registers, and echoed, almost silently in her ears, like a far-off bass drum, with reverberations marked by long gaps of silence, the lonely beats rumbling into the distance, warbling as they went, in and out of phase.
	She opened her eyes.  Beads of droplets in regimented formation fell before her, slower than feathers might have done in normal time.  Sheets of water looked like slow undulating glass.  She concentrated.  All sound ceased.  The water held itself near-still in the air.
	She rose.  Moving sluggishly through the viscid atmosphere, she reached out to touch the waterfall.  It was as solid as the glass it resembled.  She might, she thought, with sustained exertion, slowly push her hand through the glass curtain, but an unsettled feeling that her appendage might somehow become trapped in the glassy sheet, stayed her.
	The perfect glistening beads of water suspended in the air before her were as hard as tiny pebbles.  She plucked one, and lay it upon her open palm, noting that it retained its round shape as it sat.  With a sluggish flick of her finger, she caused the bead to sail about a hand span’s distance, before it coasted to a halt, returning thus to its hovering midair position.
	Eborel walked to and fro slowly, alternately entering and exiting the overhang of the waterfall.  She admired its frozen aspect, from the thick sinews of turbid glass spilling over at the top, to the delicate, but large, cotton-like pompoms of foam and mist strewn to excess about its base.
	Emboldened, she determined to explore the western bank while yet maintaining her aspect of shifted time – though lessened somewhat for convenience – in defense against accidentally encountering monks on that side.
	She soon came upon a great wooden water wheel, high as a thirty year old tree, driven by a flow of overspill tapped from the waterfall near its top, and delivered directly above the wheel by a graded sluiceway.  While this majestic contrivance appeared to be at a standstill, it was evidently turning, under the weight of the water that splashed, from Eborel’s perspective, in preternatural slowness, across its deeply pocketed paddles.
	This wheel she knew from her youth to be a work of the “machinating” monks.  Though she saw no one about, she felt certain a factory of some sort must be nearby – perhaps even containing the printing presses of the Gazette, or a mill for the production of parchment, powered in some mysterious way by this gargantuan round contrivance.
	As this was not her intended destination, she turned away, making hastily back for the eastern bank, whilst shedding her onerous time shift by degrees, and returning to “the land of the living,” as she came to think of it, to recommence her journey to the lake; which, she felt, must surely lay just over the next rise in the landscape.
	In retrospect, she will have regretted the decision to avoid the monks, as contact with them might have greatly eased the ill favor that the next part of her journey would presently afford her.  But such is the willfulness of youth that self-ordained trials by fire must sometimes therestrew the ragged road to wisdom.

32.  Olinza Lake

There is never a bad time for a good trade.
-Dusty of everywhere

	The object of Eborel’s questing did not long attend her arrival, for the waters that fed Feldspar Falls drained from a wide sound, soon attained, which projected, fingerlike, off the main body of its mother lake.  This region of the lake was named Willow Bay, and extended for many leagues.  Traveling along the inlet’s southwestern edge, then, Eborel watched hour by hour as its farther shore grew ever distant, in inverse proportion to her increasing proximity to the lake proper.
	Upon reaching the entrance of the sound, she became awed by the great vastness of the watery plain that presented itself before her.  Largest known body of fresh water in Draeland, she beheld Olinza Lake, whose true shores, once gained, revealed naught but an infinite horizon of water spanning fully sixteen rhumb lines, or four full winds, of the mariner’s compass.  No farther shore, nor mountain peak, projected above said horizon.  Merely a thin, imperceptibly undulating line separated sea from sky in the glimmering distance.  This she verified by tracking her gaze, in a slow semicircular sweep of her head, from full left to full right, whilst keeping her focus upon the distant vanishing point.
	Spellbound she was, but nonplussed, too.  For, in her drive to reach this point, she now found the apparent desolation a puzzle.  Whither was she to go?  The area was entirely undeveloped, and her course could only lay forward, that is, in a new easterly direction along the lake’s southern shore.  Turning back was unthinkable.  Her urge to reach water had brought her thus, yes, but had not quenched the mysterious inner thirst for a more resolute destination.
	There was naught to do but walk, watching the while for further developments.  The going was slow, through brambly areas interspersed with marshes and dirt beaches.  Upon those beaches, she sat and watched the miniature lake waves, musing to herself.  In the great distance, she occasionally spied boats, probably loaded with supplies, headed for the locks, and beyond, to Manx.  Their ports of origin must be very far away, she thought, wondering if she might eventually reach one of them.  She trudged on with determination.
	Night fell, and she continued her trek, with somewhat abated pace.  In the darkness, she rounded an outcropping and came upon a rocky cove.  The terrain became steeper, so that she hugged the shoreline, scrambling across the rocks – many of which were large boulders.  The lumi light shone in eerie fashion, casting dim shadows across the scree in every direction, each one overlaying the other with varying gray hues, in consequence of the multiple light sources of differing intensities from the sky above.
	Presently, Eborel came upon three fishing boats docked by a pier.  Around about the cove, at some distance, was seen a scattering of cottages, well up from the level of the lake.  Doubtless among them were the homes of the sailors of these three craft.
	The notion of boarding the boats and going out on the water took hold of her.  She fingered the coins that Jebrel had given her, and wondered what it might cost to convince a fisherman to take her aboard.  What she hoped to find on the lake, she could not know, but the urge to espy was strong.
	She settled herself down upon a coiled rope of hemp that sat on the pier nearest the largest boat, and calmly awaited whatever the new day would bring.  
	The attending was not long.  As the dimling sky announced the predawn, a clamor of approaching footfalls was heard.  Eborel rose, and comported herself to their arrival.
	A group of eight men, heavily booted, carrying long rolled nets and fishing line between them, walked nearly past her before halting suddenly.
	“See here!” cried one of them.  “What manner of lass attends our boats?  Are you guardian, or devil?  Speak, miss!”
	He was evidently the captain.
	“Neither,” she answered, “though mayhap I might offer protection from demons for your vessels.  In that regard, I wouldst act as guardian.”
	She knew instinctively how to cater to the rough superstitions of these upstanding fisher folk.
	“Hey?” said the captain in misapprehension.
	“I seek passage upon one of your boats.  I wouldst cast spells of protection, even as you cast your nets.”
	They eyed her dubiously.
	“I also have money,” she said, “and will pay for your trouble in taking me aboard; an honest accounting.”
	The captain said, “This is a fine prank.  Have any of you lads seen this creature before?”  All shook their heads.  “How do we know you won’t sink our ships, then, with your mad spells?”
	“I wouldn’t know how to sink your ships,” she answered.  “And leastwise, I would perish myself if that were to transpire.  I mean only to shield you from foul spirits – those that might cause vicious storms, for example.”  She added the last words, in ignorant happenchance, by sheer intuition-luck.
	One of the fisherman spoke up.  “The storm will be bad, today, aye.  Do you not see the red on the horizon?”
	All peered lakeward and nodded in silent agreement.
	“Ominous this is indeed,” grumbled the Captain, “and verily portentous.  What say you lads?  Do we trust this wayward wench with our very lives?”
	“I prefer to be called a ‘maid’ ” Eborel interjected, miffed by his derogatory characterization of her person.
	He grunted in return.
	“See what tithe she offers,” cried one.  “If it’s ducats, then ‘Nay.’  If it’s finery, then ‘Aye.’ ”
	Eborel realized that, though ducats were valuable, they were made of metal, the like which these folks probably shunned.  She sifted through her coins, being careful not to rattle them, and pulled out a polished stone of agate.
	The captain took it, and held it out for the others to see.  They crowded around.  “It’s a propitious color,” said one thoughtfully.  “Blue-green flecked with amber and magenta – the color of the Lake on a good day.  I say, ‘Aye!’ ”
	The others roused to the cry, and nodded general assent.
	“That clinches it,” said the Captain, though not entirely convinced himself.  “This’ll trade for some fair goods when the next supply ship runs.”
	The mates moved off to their work.
	The Captain squared the rules with Eborel.
	“At sea, I’m the boss,” he said.
	She nodded.
	“You’ll not do any fishing work.  We’ve no time for teaching it, and you don’t look like you’ve any sea sense, anyway.”
	She swallowed the insult without a word.
	“Stay out’ the way, and keep your magical incantations to yerself, if it please you.”
	He was about to turn away, when he asked in afterthought, “You said you seek ‘passage,’ but we don’t lay in at other ports.  Where’ you tryin’ t’ get to?”
	She shrugged in answer.  He groaned and strode away shaking his head with misgiving.  “We’ve taken on a wastrel, we have,” he muttered to himself.
	Eborel waited a respectful time, then boarded the boat nearest, which was also the captain’s.  While she was not conversant in nautical esoterica, it will be here noted for the reader that the boat was a two-masted ketch, with four triangular sails:  three fore-and-afts rigged to booms, and one staysail stretched to the end of the bowsprit arm.
	A few more mates came along, rounding out the total number of crew at thirteen – five in the bigger boat, and four each in the lesser boats.
	Before long, they cast off.  Eborel walked about the ship, being careful not to interfere.  The men were absorbed in their work, but mindful and courteous to her.
	At the bow was a small bench, where Eborel sat facing aft, watching the men work.  She was as far forward on deck as possible, and situated under the lead end of the headsail boom, which hovered a short distance above her head.
	The wind was in her face, however, so she turned around and looked forward, kneeling on the bench and leaning on the gunwales.  She looked overboard, and saw the keel edge of the prow gracefully cleaving the water below.  Ahead, the red storm clouds, earlier alluded to, drew perceptibly closer.
	The boats raced on.  No nets were thrown overboard, nor any lines cast.  Clearly, they meant to find a good spot before turning to the hard work of their avocation.
	The Captain wandered over to Eborel.  “You don’t look like you’re doing any spelling there, lass,” he commented.
	“Indeed, no need to yet,” she answered.
	“Ah,” he said, “do you perceive any fish out there?”
	She shook her head.  “Should I try divining for some?” she asked.
	“You can do that?” he queried in return.  But she just shrugged.
	“That’s alright,” he said, “we know where the fish are.”
	“Where?” she asked, a little incredulous.
	He nodded towards the red clouds on the horizon, now turning black in full morning light.  “They’re running before the storm,” he said.  “The mass’ll be thickest at the storm’s edge.  It’s going to get quite rough out here soon.”
	Eborel felt a momentary shudder of apprehension at this revelation, but managed bravely, “That suits me.”
	“Glad to hear it,” answered the Captain.  “We’ll be getting closer to the storm wall than we usually dare.  You’re our good luck charm, and we’ll rely on you to keep your word about protecting us.”
	He eyed her closely, looking for signs of forswearance.  She simply nodded, and he fancied himself heartened that he saw no vacillation in her stolid countenance.
	“Tie a rope ’round your waist,” he said.  “Fasten the other end to a gunnel rail, against falling overboard.  If you should go over, haul yourself up, as we’ll be too busy to pull you out.”
	He pointed to a coil of rope near the capstan.  She noted that it had knots tied at intervals for getting a grip.  Then, satisfied, he wandered away.
	Eborel tied the rope to a mooring on the bow, but determined to delay putting it around her waist until either the other sailors did the same, or the storm was nigh.
	Two of the sailors, after seeing the Captain talk to her, emboldened themselves to approach and engage in discourse with her also.
	“You know a lot of spells, ma’am?” ventured one of them.
	“A few.”  She affected nonchalance, but was ill at ease with their innocent reliance on her mendacious assertion.
	“Agin’ this particular storm, or just those in general?”
	“I suppose this particular storm would yield to general storm spells,” she offered.
	“But this one’s special, ’ent it?” said the other one.
	“How so?” She remained casual in attitude, and hoped she did not reveal too much ignorance.
	“It’s magical, for one.”
	She raised her eyebrows.
	“It’s always there,” said the other.
	“Always?” she asked.
	“Well, sure enough, it moves about a bit, and strengthens and weakens.  It looks more cantankerous than usual today, though.”
	“If it were to abate,” said the other, “we’d be able to see Shroud Island – maybe even approach it, and the Monks wouldn’t like that, would they?”
	The sailors looked at each other significantly.
	“I reckon the only thing on Shroud Island,” continued the other, “are the hulks of wrecked ships – those that got caught in the storm.  You won’t let that happen to us, will you, ma’am?”
	“Of course not,” she assured them, though she thought to herself she could do naught but hope for the best.
	But upon considering this new information, she asked, “Why wouldn’t the Monks want anyone to see Shroud Island?”
	They both shrugged.  “The Monks are powerful secretive.”
	“You think their spells keep the storm alive?” she asked.
	“Yes, they know how to move through it,” said one.  “I seen ’em once, rowing a low skiff right into it.  They disappeared completely in the gale wind – went to Shroud Island, I figure.”
	The other one nodded his head, “I seen it, too.” 
	“I wonder how far away the island might be?” she mused.
	One said, “Capt’n saw it once, through a break in the clouds.  Says it weren’t so far away as you’d think.  Half a dozen leagues at most, maybe less.  But the storm wall shifts ever so, and you can never be sure.”
	“Has anyone ever gone there and survived?” she asked.
	“None ever come out of the storm, save the Monks.”
	“How can anyone know there are ships wrecked there?”
	“It’s only natural,” said the first one.  “Every once in a long spell, one hears tell of a ship that doesn’t return to port.  It’s ill omen to speak of it, but the general knowledge is always the same:  that the Island got another one.”
	“Well, it’s not going to happen to us,” she said, feeling the wind billow as she spoke.
	“Thanks ma’am, we’re depending on you.”  They both nodded regards, and sauntered back to their posts.
	Presently the wind picked up considerably, and they were enveloped by clouds.  The sailors made at the ready, all eyes facing the storm in alertness.  Eborel tied the rope around her waist, then stood upon the prow, face to the fore, with arms raised, as if in incantation.  Rather than casting spells (for which, we know, she had no talent), she was slowing her time sense down, the better to remain balanced in the gale, and to avoid, with apparent percipient alacrity, from the sailors’ points of view at least, the unpredictable motion of the headsail boom, whenever the boat yawed in the waves.  This ability to remain so adroitly aloof among spars, stays and guylines, while standing on a pitching boat, served to increase the sailor’s confidence in her purported powers.
	After furling the mainsail, the Captain called, “Heave to!” and the boat eased up.  The sailors then cast their nets and lines in coordination betwixt the three ships.  What had anticipated the Captain’s call was something startlingly visible to all midst the loom, including Eborel in her altered state – that is, the near visceral penumbra of the storm itself, a veritable vertical wall of wind, blowing from east to west a half dozen ship length’s distance thence.  It was what might be seen when looking from the center of a storm outward, yet in seeming reverse, as the wind shear boundary compassed the outer perimeter of the storm, rather than lining its eye, as might otherwise be expected.
	Once the nets were deployed, the sailors attended to the rigging to contort the crafts’ maneuvers into mutually spiraling courses.  Said courses conspired to noose the nets to convergent effect, thus trapping the frenzied creatures moiling below the surface.  When the boats came nigh on each other, the Captain gave another sign, “Haul off!” whereupon the nets were detached from two of the three ships, and lines arduously hauled in by mates of the third ship.  A huge bundle of netted fish came upon the deck of that ship, while the remaining sailors made ready a second set of nets from the other two boats.
	It was apparent that the process would be repeated, with a different ship being the target of the haul upon netting the second round.  As the sailors on the bounty ship emptied their nets into the holds, the three vessels hauled off from each other, stretching the new nets between them.
	Eborel did not know how long the Captain would dare linger near the shear wall of the storm, but she suspected she had at least the space of time required to reap three netfulls of fish – one for each ship – to contemplate it.  In her semi-state of Qasama, this gave her a small eon of time to consider her present situation.
	It seemed that this storm was the one calling to her since she had awakened alone so many weeks ago.  But what of it?  What was she to do now?  Observe it?  She had come so far, but to what purpose?  The storm wall was impenetrable.  She saw nothing through it.  She could not prevail upon the Captain to pierce its veil with his ship.  No, that way lay madness.  He would rightly refuse.  To risk his life and those of the crew, merely so she could see what lay on the other side?  Madness indeed.  He might even have her thrown overboard at such a suggestion!
	That idea cottoned to her.  She turned it over in her mind.  Rather than falling overboard, or being thrown overboard; to jump, of her own free will, and swim to the storm wall.  Madness?  Yes.  But at the least, she would risk only her own life.  How long could she swim in such seas?  How cold was the water?  Would slowing time down help, or hinder?  Should she bring something to hang on to?  A piece of wood?  No, she thought, it would only interfere.
	She glanced about, furtively untying the rope around her waist.  Another thought interceded:  they might try to rescue her.  This she must forestall, for someone could easily die in such an attempt.  She moved across the deck in restrained time shift.  Appropriating an oar, and standing it upright before the bench at the bow, she anchored one end tightly to a crack in the decking, and lashed it midways to the gunnel.  She removed her outer coat – there was no need of it, as it would weigh her down in the water – and draped the hood over the oar, tying the midsection with its cord belt.  She removed the coins and gems from her inner pocket, and placed them in the outer coat pocket.  She parted with these willingly, valuable as they might be, and tenderly reminiscent of Jebrel, too, for they might be lost in the water.  If she should not return, the money might reduce the anguish of the sailors.
	Now, to task.  She stood upon the bench, back to the vertical oar, facing the water, such that anyone glancing her way would see mostly her propped-up flailing coat.  Turning her head to watch the sailors on board, she waited a long time, until they were either occupied, or out of sight.  Then, returning her gaze to the water, she bent over, arms stretched forward in a diving stance, holding her position thus for many long moments.  “Faith, patience, resolve,” she breathed to herself, and sprang overboard.
	She plunged down in unaltered time, as the journey to the tossing surf would otherwise have been excruciatingly slow.  Entering the water with little issue, she swam for some distance before surfacing.  The water was cold, but invigorating.  She heard nothing from the sailors once she broke surface, and was soon out of earshot anyway.  Her course was directly for the storm wall.  She intended to intersect it at a normal vector, and dive under at the last moment.  The swell was prodigious, and she hoped she could not be seen from the ships while she was upon the rising side of each passing wave.  
	The sensation upon the surf was not displeasing.  Were there rocks or obstacles about, she might have been frightened, as she would likely be dashed upon them.  But as it was, there were none, so she imagined she was a seal, frolicking among the sea spray.
	The wind became gale force as she approached the shear wall.  Taking a deep breath, she plunged under and swam as far as she could.  Underneath, a great undertow took hold of her, and dragged her fearsomely in the direction she was swimming.  Its power was far greater than her own, so that she relinquished her will entirely to it.  Whether it would drag her down or up was a matter of casual conjecture to the sea, but of desperate import to her.  Fortunately, by caprice or consequence, she knew not which, nor cared even, she popped up like a cork into froth-whipped surge.  Disoriented and blinded, she gulped for air.  Reasoning that she had breached the shear wall, and that further, the winds blew in the same direction as before, she swam decidedly with the force of the wind full on the right side of her face.
	For there was no turning back now.  The undertow would not allow it.  Nor had she satisfied her curiosity, as the storm still shielded her from its secret.  But to swim six leagues to reach an island, if it were even there, and in stormy seas, too, seemed impossible.  Six leagues presupposed that she managed to swim in a straight line – a patently absurd notion.
	She gave a last look back.  There was nothing to see – no ships, no discernable shear wall – just clouds and spray tumbling at speed across the water’s surface.  She calmed herself, and began swimming at great leisure, as if she had all the time in the world.  For this was the best way, she felt, to preserve the stamina she would surely need for as long as her livelihood could hold out.
	Eborel swam for an age, changing her stroke from time to time for variety’s sake, and resting for interludes on her back, even though she seemed to lose ground doing so.  The storm abated but little, though the light held well.  Nothing could be seen, save wind, rain, mist and clouds.  No flotsam was apparent, nor plant matter, nor birds.  This was cause for alarm, yet Eborel assured herself it was on account of the clearing effect of the storm, and not due to the absence of land nearby.
	Time stretched interminably, and Eborel’s energy flagged.  The storm’s resolve waned in proportion to her own, resulting in more settled seas.  But alas, though she might now have made tolerable headway, her stores were at an end.  No land could be sighted, though in sooth, her vision was too blurred to have seen it, had it been there.  She went under for a long minute during which her limbs drifted in apparent lifelessness.  Her head popped up above water again, and she was startled from her lassitude by the touch of leaves upon her face, which soon became entangled in a considerably large floating branch, recently wrenched from its mother tree, as evidenced by its greenness.  She commanded her fingers to grab hold, but the effort was too much.  She managed, however, with flailing motions, to flop her arms so that a large limb of the branch lodged in the crooks of her elbows.  This arrangement kept her head above water with little effort, and she maintained that attitude for some time.
	Eventually, she mustered the will to pull herself up higher onto the branch, so that she could almost lie upon it, with her body still submerged by two thirds in the water.  As her head rested upon her folded arms, she fell asleep, not caring a whit whether she drowned, and only vaguely aware of the gentle waves that lapped her face.
	It may be recalled that this is not the first time in Eborel’s young life that she gave herself over to death unbidden.  I refer to the fearful avalanches that summoned Quid Sync near her mountain home.  It shall be left to the reader to wonder whether it will not be her last.

33.  Revelstoke

Victory is in the play between the numbers.
-Tenet of Rithmomachia

	How long Eborel lay thus cannot be known.  Doubtless she was awakened numerous times by the exigency of water entering her nose or mouth, but she had no memory of such.  She did not drown, as she thought her fate, for the seeming providential intervention of the branch kept her alive long enough to be found by others.
	Her next remembered conscious awareness, then, was the sensation of being pulled from under her arms up out of the water over the gunwale of a low boat, and laid face up upon its bottom, with her head resting on a bare bench.  She blinked open her eyes to see a clear sky and bright sunlight.  Her rescuers, for there were more than one, looked down upon her in concern, for signs of life.  Their faces were in shadow, and she could not focus upon them.  But their manner of dress gave away their general identity, as each head was cowled by a brown hood.
	Eborel moaned and lost consciousness again, with the final awareness that she was in the company of the Monks, whom she had hitherto so assiduously avoided.  
	The monks took to rowing for some time, while Eborel lay unmoving.  They brought the boat to a shallow bar where they hauled in and laid up.  Nearby was a cluster of coastal cottages, nestled among neatly fenced gardens.  To one of these cottages they carried Eborel, languidly sprawled on a simple stretcher of fabric and wood.  They placed her upon a bed, and wrapped her in quilted covers.  One monk stayed nearby to attend her when she awakened.
	This she did after a time, finding herself thus, in a cozy bed inside a rustic cottage.  She could see the lake through the window, and inside the room, a monk, sitting quietly against a wall.
	She eyed him for a moment, and he returned her stare.
	“Did you rescue me?” she asked finally.
	He nodded.
	“Am I on Shroud Island?” she intuited.
	Another nod.
	“How is it that I sleep?  I never sleep!” she exclaimed.
	He spoke, “All your questions will be answered anon.”
	“Anon?  When anon?” she asked urgently.
	“When you are well again.”
	“I am well,” she asserted, and moved to get off the bed.  But she had barely the strength to push off the covers, or to sit upright.
	“You will recover quickly,” he assured her.  “In a day or two, you’ll be yourself again.”
	She sat back, resigned.  “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said after a time.
	The monk nodded.
	A few more monks came into the room and smiled very sincerely to her.  They seemed to be pleased at her condition.  She felt they had wont of nursing her back to health, yet there was little they could do for her in that regard.  She noted that they offered her neither food nor drink.  It was curious.  Could they know she had need of none?
	“I believe I am indebted to all of you,” she said, genuinely thankful.
	They beamed and nodded.
	“I saw your water wheel by the Feldspar Locks.  It was very impressive!” she exclaimed.  They beamed even more.
	She found that two-way conversation was awkward with them, for they offered forth little.  But they were willing, even eager, to respond to questions which, at the least, had a “Yes” or “No” answer.
	“Does that water wheel power your printing presses?” she asked.
	The one sitting down nodded.
	“And the paper mill?”
	Another nod.
	“Do you ever go there yourself, on a boat, over the lake, through the storm wall?”
	A different monk nodded.  So far, she was only verifying what she already suspected.  It was difficult to get new information, for she could not form a question about something that she could not yet know.
	“Is this your house?” she asked to no particular monk.  One of them pointed, by way of answer, to a monk outside, just visible through the window.
	“Are these your homes and gardens?” she asked, referring to the buildings and grounds that were visible outside.  The reader may guess that, again, they nodded.
	“Why do you not speak?”
	They smiled, as one might to an unknowing child.  She knew they had the ability to speak, or at least, to understand.  And the one sitting had certainly spoken, quite clearly and intelligibly, in fact.  Perhaps they were constrained from giving voice to their thoughts, or simply preferred not to at the present time.  She gave it up, for the moment.
	“Why is there a perpetual storm barring access to the island?” she asked.  This stumped or perplexed them, as their only response was a collective raising of the eyebrows.
	Eborel realized that she would need to bend her mind to the construction of questions that could only be responded to in either the affirmative or the negative.  As long as the monks remained willing to answer her pressing inquiries with nods, at least, she might, with this method, elicit useful information.  
	She continued by supplying likely answers to her own question, in order to gauge their effect.  “You want your privacy, I suppose,” she said.  “You wish to keep unwelcome intruders out.  Therefore, the storm serves that purpose.”
	This entreated a response, and they duly nodded.
	“You have the island all to yourself then.”
	This muse was not a question, but two of the monks nodded in response, and one shook his head.  It was curious, and Eborel took notice.
	“There are others here?” she asked, guessing at the meaning of the one “No” answer.
	Two monks shook their heads, and one nodded, but not the same as the one who had disagreed with his colleagues on the previous question.
	This dissention among the monks was rather amusing.  For Eborel determined that a question which might have an ambiguous answer could generate two opposing responses from her avidly engaged audience.
	“Are there many others on the island, those who aren’t monks?” she asked.
	They shook their heads.
	“Few?”
	Nods.
	“More than one?”
	Shakes.
	“Only one?”
	Nods.
	Eborel paused to consider.  “So, there’s one other person on the island, other than myself, who is not a monk?”
	They nodded in unison.
	“Quid Synch?” she asked.
	It was an inspired guess, but they shook their heads.  She had thought that Quid Synch might be the only person who could circumvent the perpetual storm by way of his unique means of travel.  It interested her that the monks at least appeared to know his name, for it implied that he may have passed through at an earlier time.
	“Do I know this person?”
	They shook their heads.  This was perplexing, as she wondered how the monks could know whether this person knew her, or vice versa.  Either no one knew this person, and therefore Eborel could not know the person either, or that person was aware that Eborel was here, and further, knew that the two were not acquainted.
	“Does this person know I’m here?” she asked incisively.
	They regarded each other with hesitation, before deciding to nod in the affirmative. 
	“Will this person come to visit me?” she asked.
	They shook “No.”
	“May I visit this person?”
	They nodded “Yes.”
	“When?”
	Nothing.
	“Oh,” she said, understanding, “When I’m well enough.”
	They beamed an obvious “Yes.”
	She sighed at her own impatience to regain her strength.  Meanwhile, the monks seemed to feel the inquiries were enough for now, as they bowed in heartfelt manner to her, and upon exiting, left her entirely alone.
	Within a day, Eborel did indeed feel well enough to walk about.  She moved gingerly at first, finding each step tiresome, but soon regained strength enough to leave the confines of the cottage.
	She took short tours of the buildings nearby, waving or addressing any whom she met.  The manner in which the monks returned her salutations – with bows and smiles – reminded her of the gnomics, who acknowledged her in similarly animated fashion, and with like silence, except that theirs was due to ignorance of her language, and not, as in this case, a pervasive reticent rectitude.
	After two nights of convalescence, Eborel arose in early morning determined to walk along the beach.  There she found the monk who had first attended her, standing before the lake, lost in thought.  His hood was thrown back, revealing a face lit full orange in the dawning light, countenanced in an aspect of musing meditation.
	Eborel strove to pass him by without disturbance, but he fell out of his reverie, and addressed her thus:  “Good morning!  Feeling better?”
	“Why yes, thank you,” she said, startled by his unexpected conversation.  “But, pray, how is it you speak to me now?”
	“Forgive me,” he said with a bow, “for I haven’t formally introduced myself.  I am Thaddeus, and bid you welcome to Revelstoke – that which you call Shroud Island.  I am charged with your every comfort and convenience, but I may only converse with you, out of deference to the others, when you and I are alone.  For ours is a silent Order, and we do not generally speak aloud in each other’s presence.”
	“I see,” said Eborel, glad to have his voluble company.  She curtsied and introduced herself likewise, “Eborel of Dimthistle, South County of the Dewberry Bents, in the Westron Reaches, if you please.”
	“I am indeed most pleased to make your acquaintance.  Shall we walk along the beach,” he suggested, “where we may speak freely, unencumbered by the company of others?”
	This she agreed to readily, as she had a thousand questions to ask.  But since there appeared to be plenty of time, the beach being entirely absent of people, she did not ask the most pressing questions first, but merely launched into those that came immediately to mind.
	“What is this Order you speak of, and why does it brook only silence among its brethren?” she asked.
	“We are followers of the Monk Theobald, sometimes called ‘The Beneficent,’ who founded the order Rithmomachia, the very same that constrains and defines our lives today.”
	He probed her face for any recognition of his words, but found none.
	“Theobald lived a very long time ago,” he continued, “and witnessed, nay, I should say survived, the great cataclysm of the previous epoch, which, being violent in the extreme, as you doubtless know, thus affected him grievously.”
	But he could see by her look that she in fact did not know, and was apparently unschooled in the knowledge of the before-time, so he discoursed at length.
	“That singular event, which occurred uncounted millennia ago, marked the fiery collapse of the Technologic Age, and the subsequent foundling birth of our present Mythic Age.  Few survived the transition, and Theobald was the only mystic to do so.”
	Eborel found herself rapt by this unexpected elucidation of prehistory.
	“Theobald was the bridge between the ages, the self-anointed mouthpiece of the lost multitude of the previous age.  For he traveled the land far and wide, and told doleful tales of the days of yore to those who were directly descended from those days, yet who had no cultural memory of them.  His stratagem in doing thus held twofold purpose:  to at once keep the memory of the Draelanders’ forekith alive, whilst at the same time warning of the mad effects consequent to the mistakes made by those very same forefolk – the ultimate being the fateful obliteration of their epoch, with its consequent massive toll on life and property, followed by the painful forging of a new age from the detritus of the old.”
	Eborel nodded, fascinated by this unbidden, voluntary outpouring of information.  She wondered, however, if his digression would eventually lead to an answer to her original question about the silence of the monks.
	“Theobald’s plan was complete,” continued Thaddeus.  “For he sowed the seeds of distrust in every person he met.  With his seeming supernatural talent to mesmerize and inveigle, he imbued in the populace an inimical revulsion to all things mechanical or metallic.  He likewise suppressed the impulses towards novelty and creativity, whilst simultaneously encouraging the safer, more comforting pursuits of stasis and complacency.”
	Eborel wondered that one person might have so much power to mold an entire people.
	“This he did with artful guile,” said Thaddeus, as if reading her skepticism, “mixing passionate persuasion, moralistic parable, and the promise of future prosperity.  He reshaped the psyche of the modern Draelander out of constituent superstition and fear.  He did so in utter compassion for them, for he was borne of the deep conviction of one who had witnessed the damned.  He ardently believed his efforts augured the best chance for the survival of the population as a whole.  His was a philosophy of ignorant bliss, and the people embraced and nurtured that beyond the broadest sweep he could have imagined.  For he has long since passed from knowledge and influence, yet Draelanders continue to shun technology at every turn across the wide realm, just as he urged them to do so many thousands of years ago.”
	“How could he pass from our knowledge if he is a mystic?” interceded Eborel.  “Is he not immortal?”
	Thaddeus shook his head.  “None can say.  Many believe he was a vestige from the past age, allowed or ordained by nature to live beyond that age only long enough to warn of its pitfalls to the people of the modern era.  All other mystics were born in our age, called Glendaar, and are deemed as immortal as the age itself.  So, by rights, Theobald should have passed on with the ending of Gevaar, the previous age, but somehow lingered into the primordial birth mist of our present age, Glendaar, as I’ve already called it.
	“But I, for one, believe that Theobald may yet return,” he continued, “because he fulfilled purpose in the Mythic Age.  He paved the way for the rule of the mystics in our age, and laid the bed for the uncleaving of the figurative and the literal, whose antipodal precepts were so divided in the Technologic Age.  I ask myself, wouldn’t he want to see for himself the fruit of his labor – to know whether the grand plan of his Order was carried out?  I think we will one day see The Monk walk the land again, and I live for that day.”
	This gave Eborel much food for thought.  Thaddeus, having finished his screed for the moment, gave her pause to perpend.
	Her next question was thus:  “What is the ‘grand plan,’ as you called it, of your Order?”
	“Rithmomachia’s purpose,” he answered with simplicity, “is to preserve technology in the stead of the people.” 
	“Hmm,” answered Eborel, pondering this new and novel concept.  Then, considering its implications, she asked, “You preserve it, but don’t share, or teach it?”
	“That is so,” he answered.  “We remain mum, so we won’t inadvertently spread the knowledge entrusted to our protection.”
	“Thus the silence of the Monks,” said Eborel with dawning comprehension.  “It maintains your secrecy, and keeps you at a convenient distance, too, in case anyone gets a notion to take a closer look.  I myself was dreadfully afraid of the Monks before you saved my life.”
	Thaddeus nodded.  “Superstition, and fear of the unknown, keep all at sway.”
	“But why preserve the knowledge of technology at all, if its use can cause the destruction of an age?” she asked.
	“Ah, but technology can also be beneficial, in our own time even, as Theobald well knew.  Witness the printing presses that spread news across the world via the Gazette, or the river locks that enable boats to trade goods from afar.  These can only improve the lot of the everyday Draelander.  But Theobald meant to limit technology’s use, by keeping it firmly under the auspices and hegemony of a proscribing Order.  We are all dedicated, every one of us, to upholding the founding principles of Rithmomachia, as laid down by Theobald, until such time, if ever, as he should reappear, and release us from our sacred covenant.”
	“But,” puzzled Eborel, “you hold it ‘in the stead’ of the people.  You never share it, or the knowledge of its contrivance with them, nor do you ever intend to do so.  Who, then, decides which technology is promoted within your Order, and which is suppressed?”
	It was a question that belied a subtle comprehension of the dynamics of power.
	Thaddeus shrugged, “The mystics.”
	“Ah,” she said.  “You mentioned that we are ruled by the mystics, that Theobald paved the way for it.  Do mystics really rule us?”
	“Perhaps they rather ‘guide’ us,” he restated cautiously.  “For they have the greater longevity, wisdom, higher consciousness, and special talents that no other Draelanders possess.  We are as children to them.  They guide us discreetly, without our knowledge, even.  Are we not generally happy?  Do we not feel that our fates are in our own hands?  Can anyone doubt that the mystics do not fully support us in our endeavors, nurture us even, to attain our fullest potentials?”
	“But their designs are opaque to us,” she answered, “if any they indeed bear.”
	“Surely you would not impugn the motives of the mystics, which can be nothing but benign,” he cried.  “For if it were otherwise, we would certainly be lost!”
	“That is so,” answered Eborel thoughtfully.
	But the story of Theobald’s brazen manipulation of men’s minds, and his tight control over technology, rather than inspiring the awe evident in Thaddeus, gnawed at the fringes of Eborel’s consciousness.
	She thought of the ashram, set up by Asheric, to train warriors for defense.  And she reflected upon Zoro’Ander’s gentle encouragement of her own course of actions towards the mountains.  To what end might these artful designs be contrived, she could not guess.
	“Asheric said there is a restive evil force brooding in the East,” she proffered the information tentatively to Thaddeus.
	His reaction was simple gravity, which bespoke to Eborel apparent prior knowledge of such.
	“If that be the case,” she continued, “would not the mystics need an army of Draelanders to fend it off, should it somehow attack our lands?”
	“I suppose so,” he answered, but added, “and should not the mystics lead us?”
	“Yes,” she admitted, “we would be lost without them, as you said, and I cannot imagine them abandoning us.  We need each other then – the mystics to lead, and the Draelanders to fight.”
	“If it comes to that,” he answered solemnly.
	“But,” continued Eborel, tenaciously keeping to her argument, “Asheric said that the enemy has a new and dangerous weapon – an explosive device which he demonstrated before my very eyes.”
	This was apparently news to Thaddeus, as he was taken aback by its revelation.
	“Is it possible for the mystics,” she asked, almost innocently, “even in their lofty wisdom, to blunder?”
	Thaddeus gave a look of rank shock.
	She pressed further, “Might we also have developed the technology to create such a device – for use in our defense – had not Theobald precluded such with his edict?”
	“Eborel!” started Thaddeus with an intensely fervent look.  “You must trust the mystics!”  He pleaded with her, and defended his own patron mystic.  “Theobald’s impulse was pure and wise.  The mystics coincide in his conclusions, as none have worked in these long thousands of years to undo his labor.  He knew too well the downfall that might have become us – probably well before the present time, when this new menace is met – were he not to have guided us through the perils of our age.  Doubtless the mystics know how to combat this force you speak of, if it yet comes, without the use of a technology that may have been our undoing, had we procured it long ago.  Again, I implore you:  Trust the mystics, and trust to their fount of unbounded wisdom!”
	Eborel nodded, not unmoved by his passionate entreaty.  She placated his agitation by shifting the course of their conversation.
	“Why have you spoken so openly with me,” she asked, “when the monks, as a rule, speak to no others?  Are you not mindful that I may retell your history, thus revealing your secrets, and dissipating the mystery of the Monks?”
	“I have been commanded to do so,” he said, bowing his head.  During their walk, they had doubled-back on the beach, and had presently turned inland.  They were even now climbing a hillock.
	“By whom?” asked Eborel, not fathoming who might have the power to issue such a command, other than Theobald himself.
	Thaddeus waited a few moments for dramatic effect, and said, as they crested the rise, thus revealing a massive chateau of stone at some distance ahead, “By Rokavere, the Queen of Draeland.”
	They stopped dead in their tracks.  Eborel gazed at the vast crenulated and turreted edifice presented before her, whilst Thaddeus, facing her, bowed deeply with crossed leg and rotating hand, in the manner of regal majesty, in order perhaps, to demonstrate to her the correct attitude of royal acknowledgement.
	Even as he remained in a protracted bowed posture, Eborel chirped involuntarily “Oh!” with the implicit understanding that this was the previously indicated “other” person on the island whom she was now fully ordained to meet.

34.  Rokavere

He who wouldst spawn the gryphon.
-Cognomen of the Nameless One

	“Your Queen awaits you,” said Thaddeus after a time, gesturing for Eborel to walk by his side.
	“I’m not composed,” she answered tentatively, “nor dressed for the occasion.”
	 “Under the circumstances,” said Thaddeus, amused, “I’m sure that Rokavere will entirely understand your ‘candor in couture.’ ”
	“Yes, but what am I to expect?” she asked nervously.
	“I’ll describe her as we walk,” he suggested, offering her his arm.
	She threaded her hand under his elbow, and lay it gently upon his forearm.  He led her solemnly, with a deliberate, constrained gait.
	The view was breathtaking.  They found themselves presented by a grand lane, arrayed on either side by fastidiously trimmed ornamental trees, which stood in regimented formation, flanking the road.  Each single tree stared across the lane at its twin on the other side, giving the impression of two rows of stolid soldiers confronting one another across some arbitrary straight boundary.  Between these silent sentinels, then, they promenaded.  Far ahead could be seen a bridge which, spanning an unseen wide channel, led evidently to the main entrance of the chateau.
	“The Queen’s home is called ‘Revelstoke Manor’ – after the island,” said Thaddeus.
	Eborel nodded.  She noted that there were formal gardens visible on either side of the road, between the trees.
	“There are usually many monks attending the grounds and the building,” continued Thaddeus, “but we’ll see few today.  Rokavere has requested a private tête-à-tête with you.  You’ll have the chateau to yourself!”
	“You won’t be with me?” asked Eborel apprehensively.
	Thaddeus shook his head, but said encouragingly, “The Queen is very keen to see you.  She’s not haughty at all – far from it.  She’s down-to-earth.  You needn’t be intimidated in the least.”
	“But her station – she’s the Queen!” exclaimed Eborel.
	Thaddeus nodded, “Yes, but she’s kind, generous, wise – humanitarian.  She came by her wisdom through genuine hardship, I think, and won’t lord her position over you, I’m certain.  She has always treated me, I daresay, as an equal.”
	“Even so,” said Eborel, “you serve as her vassal, and therefore do as she commands – such as taking care of me.”
	“Yes,” he agreed, “but she somehow makes me want to do it, as if she would do it herself in my stead, if she could.  And there is always the sense that our work is for the greater good of the land entire.”
	“She is a just ruler, then,” averred Eborel.
	“Quite,” asserted Thaddeus.
	“But where is the King?” she asked.
	“In Elginzice,” he answered.
	“They live apart?”
	“Yes,” he said.  “He has never visited here, nor she visited him there.  Not in anyone’s memory, that is.”
	“Why not?” she asked.
	Thaddeus shrugged, “Maybe she’ll tell you, if you ask.”
	“That’s too personal!” she exclaimed.
	“Well, she’s very personable,” he answered.  “She may speak plainly with you.”
	Eborel shook her head in singular doubt.
	Eventually, they came upon the bridge, which evidently crossed a moat, filled with placidly flowing water, that cut lengthwise between the chateau and its surrounding grounds.  After traversing the bridge, they stood before the massive entranceway, which huge, unattended doors, were thrown open in entreaty.
	“I’ll stay with you until we meet the Queen,” said Thaddeus reassuringly.
	“Thank you,” she almost whispered, with manifest gratitude.
	 Inside, she was awed by the size and compass of the grand entrance room, full two and a half stories high, with matching stone balustraded staircases, each mirroring the other, winding up to the left and right over an arched passageway, through which could be seen parlors and sitting rooms in the distance.  Above, hung an immense crystal chandelier which, containing hundreds of new candles, invited a sense of wonder at the vision of resplendence that might be unleashed upon its lighting.  Hanging from the walls were large embroidered tapestries of vermilion, carmine, and rust gold, depicting idyllic scenes, both commonplace and mystical.  Beneath their feet, and marching away in all directions, was a sea of diamond-shaped black-and-white tiles, alternating in stark contrast to dizzying effect, like so many interlaced miniature kites on a vast checkerboard of diagonally aligned ranks and files.
	Thaddeus glided Eborel confidently across the floor towards an adjoining corridor.
	“I don’t know where the Queen is just now, but we’ll have a look around,” he said.
	Eborel nodded mutely.
	“I doubt she’s in here,” he said swinging open massive double doors to reveal a throne room.  “After all, she’s not entertaining royalty or mystics today, is she?”
	He fairly grinned at Eborel, and she shook her head in return, acknowledging the jest with a smile.  She stared at the empty room for a long minute, paying particular attention to the throne itself.  It was raised upon a dais, with chairs set at a lower level on the left and right.  Positioned in front of the throne, somewhat incongruously, as one might expect an open space there for the benefit of viewing the Queen from the audience, stood a long solid table, carved in stone, and permanently rooted to the floor, parallel to the line of ornate chairs.
	The arrangement was puzzling, and gave the impression that the Queen ruled the land from a conference room, or a committee panel perhaps, on which she served as the chairperson.  One might imagine that her advisors sat on her right and left, and the populace, who sought her attention, addressed her from the other side of the great intervening table.
	But no, thought Eborel.  No audience of Draelanders ever attended her here, nor sought her counsel at Revelstoke.  For they would need to pass through the unforgiving storm that encircled her realm to reach her, and that seemed, leastwise, unlikely, and mostwise, nigh on impossible.  Perhaps, Eborel thought, that in the long-ago days of ancient yore, the Queen did hold counsel here, when there may have been no permanent storm over Olinza Lake, and the times might have been considerably happier.
	The two walked away, leaving the doors ajar.  “Someone will shut them later,” said Thaddeus.  “Let’s look into the parlors and the library.  Maybe she’s reading.  I’m certain she is not in bed chambers at this time of day, so we need not go upstairs.”
	They passed through two lavish sitting rooms, where it was impossible not to wonder what manner of people had been entertained therein during festive occasions, or parties perhaps, given by the Queen, in what must have been, as Eborel now contemplated it, the very remote past.  That the monks had maintained the house in such a ready state for multitudinous company, over a span of many centuries (as Thaddeus had used the phrase ‘within memory’), during which nary a visitor was likely seen, save a handful of mystics perhaps, was truly a marvel.
	They peeked in at the library, which was a large room, and not entirely open, as numerous sitting chairs were positioned such that each was out of the line of sight of the others, blocked by interceding bookshelves, from most vantage points inside.
	“Your Grace?” called out Thaddeus.  “Rokavere?” he called a little louder.  They entered, hearing only their own footfalls echo softly.
	“She’s not here, I think,” said Thaddeus, “but I’ll check her favorite reading chair, in case she’s fallen asleep.”
	They walked past shelves that towered to a ceiling that was near thrice higher than Eborel’s own height.  The smell of dusty parchment, woolen felt and linseed oil suffused the air.  As they approached an alcove, they found its floor and wainscoting dappled in pleasing light, shaped to perfect rhombuses by the delicate square panes cased in the bay window through which the sunlight passed from out of doors.  There, they came upon Rokavere’s exquisitely ornamented wingback chair – empty, yet evidenced of recent occupation by the burned-down candle and curious “looking glass” spectacles sitting on a nearby side table, as well as a bound version of Enplexus, left open, enigmatically, at the page entitled “Glades of the Realm.”
	“Hmm,” thought Thaddeus for a moment.  “Let’s take a shortcut through the ballroom to the back of the kitchen.”
	She followed him out through what was fast becoming to her a tangle of corridors, past the throne room once again, and out into what was surely the largest hall in the building.  The floor was finished in wood instead of stone.  One wall was made almost entirely of windows – thousands of panes of leaded glass towering up to cross vaulted peaks, each casement separated by a column of stone.  Tapestries with great golden cords hung from the other walls.  Two grand chandeliers pendulated from above, emitting the faintest of audible crystalline clinking sounds.  Candlestick armatures protruded in even rows from the walls above a nearly unbroken ring of moveable upholstered chairs set about the periphery.
	This was the ballroom, then, but Eborel didn’t have time to peruse its many fine details, including the multitude of wooden instruments arrayed at the orchestral end of the hall, as Thaddeus whisked her down a flight of tiled steps that led to the rear of the kitchen.
	Massive it was, too, the large stone room for cooking, with only small windows set high in the walls to bring in dim light from outside.  And the activity there was in full swing, with several monks tending fires and stirring pots.  It was a wonder Eborel hadn’t smelled the food being prepared while she was above, but she realized that Thaddeus had taken her through two sets of doors as they came down from the ballroom.
	The monk grew quiet as he approached a colleague.  With hand signals, he gestured a question.  The other returned a brief signal, and pointed toward the outdoors.  Thaddeus nodded his thanks, and led Eborel out by the hand.  She smiled her acknowledgement and gratitude to the signaling monk, as she hastily retreated in tow.
	Stone steps rose up from the kitchen through the outer wall to the ground level, as they took leave of the manor house altogether.  They found themselves on the grounds rearward of the building, where no moat blocked access to the gardens in the back.  Thaddeus pointed to their destination as they walked toward a vast white structure constructed of wood and glass.
	They entered and Eborel was struck by the sensation of stultifying humidity and warmth.
	“This is the conservatory,” he said quietly, “Rokavere is here.”
	Eborel felt herself stiffen in anticipation.
	“My Lady?” called Thaddeus loudly.
	“Thaddeus?” answered Rokavere.  “I’m by the Rhododendrons.”
	Thaddeus nodded, then walked, still holding Eborel’s hand, down two winding pathways, around a turn, and halted suddenly where the Queen was bent towards a bushy plant, inspecting its flowers.
	They released their hands, bowed and curtsied with respect, before Rokavere looked up.
	She greeted Thaddeus first, looking into his eyes earnestly, and thanking him profusely for his undying service, particularly of late.  She joked with him that she should desire to be in the conservatory on the one rare day when she could have virtually any room in the manor house to herself, and wasn’t that strange?  She was sorry if she had caused him any inconvenience in finding her.
	Eborel watched Rokavere intently, but in readiness to cast down her eyes in deference, when she would soon be addressed.  However, she noted that Thaddeus did not avert his eyes from the Queen’s attention, but returned her gaze evenly.
	The Queen’s face was gentle, with coifed fine gray hair gathered about her head.  Her facial outline was delicate, with genuine kindness in the eyes cast upon Thaddeus.  She wore no crown, as Eborel had half expected.
	The Queen’s dress was equestrian – smooth brown pants with black chaps sewn to the inside of the thighs, and pant legs tucked into high riding boots.  She wore a billow-sleeved blouse that was tight at the wrists, and pulled snug around its bodice by an overlain jerkin of deep green.  Her attire was at once decorous and functional.
	Rokavere turned to Eborel with a matter-of-fact look, studying her face meticulously, but without saying a word.  Eborel nodded slightly in acknowledgement, and returned her look silently, watching as Rokavere scrutinized her every feature.
	Thaddeus, sensing his intrusion, bowed deeply, saying, “By your leave, Your Grace.”  Rokavere nodded dismissively, without looking away from Eborel, and Thaddeus beat his retreat.
	Eborel sensed that she was not to speak to royalty until spoken to first.  She waited with an appearance of imperturbability that belied the anxiety provoked by Rokavere’s impassive, probing visage.
	Presently, the Queen nodded with a smile, as if approving of her appearance, and said, “You’ve come at my invitation and are most welcome.”
	The Queen then bowed to her, which, catching Eborel off guard, nonplussed her momentarily, until she could think, as she felt she must, to return the bow in kind.
	Then she answered Rokavere, “I am reminded that Zoro’Ander once greeted me in kind, and though I easily recalled his invitation, yet I have no memory of yours.”
	“Ah,” answered the Queen, and then, deflecting her implied question, said, “Shall we take a turn in the conservatory?”  She proffered her arm to Eborel, who took it readily.
	As they walked together, past flowers of fuchsia and columbine, linked arm-in-arm, and breathing in the powerful scent of gardenia mixed with loam, the Queen said, almost casually, while regarding a honeysuckle plant with interest, “I invited you in your dreams, which is why you don’t recall.”
	“I see,” answered Eborel, though she didn’t fully.  “Is that why I felt compelled to seek water and storms?”
	Rokavere nodded.  “I called you many times, and when you no longer slept, I appealed to your wakeful mind.  I hoped you would find your way, perilous as it was sure to be.  The monks were on the lookout, but they missed you until the end, which, after all, was the moment their intercession was the most helpful, as it turned out.  For you did nearly die!”
	Eborel considered this as they perambulated slowly, arms still linked.
	“Why am I always ‘wakeful,’ as you say?” she asked.
	Rokavere stopped to turn to her.  Looking into Eborel’s eyes with an intensity greater than she had done with Thaddeus, she said slowly and carefully, “You are not entirely here, Eborel, for you are walking in a dream.  Your spirit has left your body to come here, and visit me.”
	Eborel gave the Queen a startled uncertain look.
	“You are wondering, perhaps,” Rokavere continued, “how your spirit could have left your body when that body appears to be standing right here, in front of me, with your spirit happily ensconced therein.  In sooth, the body you see when you look upon yourself now, is not complete.  It’s a reflection only, of its twin, which is your true body – the one that eats and sleeps and sustains you, so that you need not do any of those things while you walk in your dream with me.  That body travels with your friends, even now, as we speak, hundreds of leagues to the west.  But, while it is able to move about on its own, your true body is also bereft of your true spirit – which is right here with me now – so that you appear to your friends to be nearly lifeless, or gravely ill.  This is a source of much consternation for them, for they cannot know what ails you.”
	Eborel was at once overjoyed that her friends were not lost to her, and impatient with anxiety to assuage their new-apparent distress.  She wondered at the notion that a part of her was wandering almost lifeless with them, and that they might be frustrated and powerless to relieve her intractable condition.
	“How can I wake up from this dream?” she asked with urgency.
	The Queen smiled wryly.  “I am not yet ready to grant you leave to depart,” she said, rather regally.  “But when the time comes, I shall gladly release you.  However, you cannot simply wake up, as you deem, but must rejoin your body in order to become whole again.  Therefore must you walk as you did to me, back to your own self in the west.”
	“But how will I find … me?” Eborel asked, pleading.
	“I will tell you where to go, and you’ll hear yourself calling to your same self, in your mind’s ear, as you draw near.”
	Tears welled in Eborel’s eyes as she understood now why she had felt so strange.  They turned to walk again, heading out of doors.
	“How can I do this thing?” she asked, “Separate from my body, and walk in my own dream?”
	“Dreamwalking is my particular talent, as mystic,” answered the Queen.  “I ceded that power temporarily to you, so that you might visit me in your dream.”
	Eborel felt deeply honored that Rokavere would do this thing – imbue her with such mystic talent after her own fashion.
	“I am astonished,” was all she could manage in reply.
	The two walked past a low hedgerow which, after some distance, broke for a short span to allow entry through it.  As they passed within, Eborel could see that there were rows of trimmed bushes meandering away in innumerable directions, forming pathways between them.  Evidently, the hedges were laid out in a maze, as its pattern was easily discerned from her vantage point above the tops of the foliage walls.
	The maze, then, was circular at its perimeter, but became angular, by degrees, as it ranged away from the edge towards its center.  At its heart, lay a square courtyard which was evidently their destination, for it comported alabaster tables and benches convenient for sitting, as well as a trellised archway of roses, and a sprawling yew tree, which provided shade.
	They walked very slowly together in silence.  The Queen led by indicating which paths were to be taken at junctions.  Eborel studied the layout carefully, for while it would be easy to jump over the hedges in order to escape the maze, her instinct demanded that she map a route for convenient, or hasty – as necessary – self-directed egress, should the need arise.
	They eventually entered the courtyard at the center, and Eborel felt that she could find her way out without guidance, if need be.  The two sat upon the bench closest to the tree, both settling down at the same moment; neither waiting for the other.
	“Could I really have died in the water,” asked Eborel, “if my body yet lives with my friends?”
	Rokavere nodded, “Surely.  If you die here, then your other body will also die.  If the body that travels with your friends dies, then you will die here.  Your spirit is here, and your body is there – neither can survive without the other.”
	Eborel swallowed hard, for it seemed a doubly perilous predicament.  If dire matters that were apparently out of her hands befell her other body, she might keel over and die here without warning or explanation, and at any moment.  It was disconcerting and disheartening.
	Rokavere smiled and consoled her, “I trust your friends will take exquisite care of you while they wait for your spirit to return.”
	Eborel was mollified a little.  Were not her cohorts the self-proclaimed quadrumvirate, after all?  Each would do all he could to protect the other.  She was surely safe in their hands.
	A moment of quiet passed as Eborel surveyed the tranquil setting.
	“I am reminded,” she began, “by this rose archway, of a vivid dream I had four and a half years ago.  And by this maze,” she added, “of a pattern incised on the back of large coins given me by Asheric and Zoro’Ander.”
	Rokavere nodded slightly.
	“Is it coincidence?” asked Eborel, “or is the pattern on the coins a representation of this maze and archway?”
	Rokavere smiled and, removing a medallion from a tiny pocket lining her vest, handed it to Eborel for examination.
	As can be surmised, the obverse side pictured an incised image of the queen, face turned slightly askance, wearing a subdued diadem as a mark of her royalty, with the words “§ Rokavere § Mystic 16 §” inscribed around the rim.
	The reverse side carried the now familiar mazed pattern, with the columned archway at its center, stylized sun shining through, and splayed petals at its base.  The words “Elginzice,” “Knowledge” and “Wisdom” were, as expected, also inscribed thereon. 
	Eborel looked up, and the Queen said, indicating the hedges around them, “This maze is but a smaller tribute to another, named Amberlock, which serves as the model iconified upon that medallion.”
	 Eborel nodded, handing the precious coin back to Rokavere, who refused it with a gesture.  “Keep it,” she said, “as a token of my gratitude.  For you and your friends have suffered and endured much, that I might receive your company in mine own home.  I am much obliged.”
	She bowed her head deeply to Eborel, who froze, perplexed again, as she had been when the Queen had first bowed to her.  Stammering, she said, finally, “Thank you, I’m sure, Your Grace.”
	The Queen smiled in return.  Eborel, before pocketing the prized gift, noted aloud, “You pre-date Zoro’Ander, and Asheric, too, as they are mystics number 17 and 18 respectively.  Is that so?”
	“Indeed it is,” said the Queen.  “They were but babes, unknown to the mystics, when I ruled the land.”
	“And your King,” asked Eborel, encouraged to pry by Thaddeus’s assurances, “did he not rule with you?”
	Rokavere laughed.  “My King was not yet born when Zoro’Ander and Asheric were babes!” she declared.
	“And now?” asked Eborel, pressing her inquiry.
	“Procyon and I ruled together, until two thousand years ago, when I retreated from the throne,” answered Rokavere, becoming somber.
	“Why?” asked Eborel, as innocently as a child.
	Rokavere girded her strength, then turned to face Eborel squarely.  “Therein lies the reason I called you here.”
	Eborel faltered at the ominous turn taken by the conversation.  Rokavere compelled her, by sheer magisterial muster, to look her full in the face as she spoke.
	“At that time, there was a great scourge upon Draeland.  Chaos reigned supreme, not the King and Queen.  Dread and unspeakable danger filled everyone’s lives.  For, you see, one of the mystics had turned against all the others.”
	Eborel gasped an involuntary, sharp intake of breath.
	“And he was on a rampage,” continued Rokavere.  “Legions of soldiers and minions under his sway, hell bent on destroying the land … killing everyone in his path … avowed to wipe out the entire fellowship of the mystics.  In short, he seemed unstoppable.  His power was so great, and his soul immortal – all the other mystics arrayed against him could not thwart his will.”
	Rokavere was weeping quietly now, and she gave Eborel such a tender pitiable look, that it caused her alarm.
	In a sudden moment of insight, Eborel said in a low tone, as if for confirmation, “Gogolax.”
	“Yes,” nodded Rokavere, unable to contain her tears now.  “Poor child,” she muttered to Eborel, shaking her head.
	This caused Eborel great apprehension, conjuring up the devastating sense of foreboding she had felt on Mt. Soul.
	“What happened?” Eborel demanded.  “You must have bested him, for there is no evidence of his existence now.  What happened?!” Eborel implored again.
	“Purged,” said Rokavere, crying.  “Purged, yes, but not forgotten, at least, by those of us who were there when it happened.”  Then she looked pleadingly into Eborel’s eyes, saying, “And he yet lives!”
	She clutched Eborel now by the collar, and cried into her shoulder.  Eborel took the Queen in her arms, and rubbed her back, comforting her, but was close to tears herself.  Rokavere repeated the phrase, “Poor child,” and Eborel wondered that she knew the Mountain had ordained Gogolax as her destiny.
	As if in answer to that reverie, Rokavere said, “Yes, Gogolax was once my destiny, too.  And fighting him nearly destroyed me.”
	“But what could I possibly do against Gogolax?” asked Eborel, truly frightened.  “I have no great power or individual talent as do the mystics.  Verily, what could I do?”
	“I know not,” answered the Queen.  “Perhaps you are not destined to fight him as I did, yet your fate may in some other way be entwined with his.”
	“What happened?” asked Eborel again.  “You have not yet told me.  Where is Gogolax now?”
	“We trapped him,” answered Rokavere, not daring to meet Eborel’s gaze now, and clearly distraught at the memory.  “Myself, Asheric, Procyon, Zoro’Ander, Jarfoz, Brindlebeck.  We were all there – even Quid Sync at the last.”
	“How did you trap him?”
	“The story is long,” she began.  “We were lucky.  I was in dreamspace, and I cornered him.  You must understand, his talent is possession.  Yet, while he can take possession of any body, he cannot possess dreams.  Therefore, was I able to entrap him.
	“But though I might restrict or confine him, I could not kill him.  For if his body were to die, his spirit would be released, freeing his soul to wander until the first suitable person or creature was presented to him for coerced appropriation.
	“But he had a weakness, even if it was slight, and it was this:  In order to leave his body before it died naturally, or was killed, or perished by suicide, he needed to take possession of another body that was very close by, nearly nigh on hand, in fact – certainly within sight, or at least, within ready compass.  This was the predicament with which we presented him, thus exploiting his weakness to our advantage.”
	Eborel contemplated this, her brow furrowed.  His immortality held a strange sense of immediacy, she thought, as he could be effectively reborn in a matter of seconds within a brand new body, as long as it was standing by, like a new suit of clothes, waiting for him to don at his leisure, by the unspeakably cruel act of usurpation.
	Rokavere continued, “We had to be subtle, as there was great danger in attacking him outright.  For he could simply take possession of any one person in a party of aggressors against him, then turn that person’s full fury upon his own people, in seeming traitorous revenge.  That person would have apparent super human strength, too, as Gogolax would push him to the limit, not caring what damage he did to the body he possessed.  Treachery of that sort followed Gogolax wherever he went.”
	“What of the bodies he left behind, when he moved on to others?” asked Eborel.
	“Dead, in throwe, or insane.  In short – useless,” answered Rokavere.  “They lost their sense of individuality, and had no memory, if they even survived, of their time under his influence.”
	“Could he possess another mystic?” asked Eborel.
	“No,” answered Rokavere.  “At least, not without their consent.  That is why only the mystics could defeat him.”
	“Consent?” asked Eborel incredulously.  “Why would any mystic consent to be possessed by Gogolax?”  The idea truly revulsed her.
	“You’d be surprised,” answered Rokavere.  “He has a silvery tongue.  Guarding him was torturous for me.  I was deemed most strong-willed against him.  I stayed closest to him.  My overarching imperative was to prevent him from destroying his own body, thus freeing his spirit to escape.  He goaded me to the brink of sanity, telling me all my suffering would be relieved the moment I either killed him, or let him possess me.  I almost gave in.”
	Rokavere cast her eyes aside in painful reminiscence of the ordeal as Eborel held her hands pressed between her own.
	“What did you do with him?” asked Eborel quietly.
	“We tried to send him to one of the lumi, to make him a true outcast, so he could never return.  It didn’t matter which lumus, the specific one was unimportant.  But it didn’t work.”
	“How can you send anyone, or anything to a lumus?  I don’t understand,” said Eborel.
	“Breathmere,” said Rokavere.  “We took him to Breathmere Pond, through the eternal whirlwind, to the glassy pool.  It was a long journey.  Gogolax tormented me throughout.  The other mystics paved the way, keeping animals and people at a distance as we proceeded, so he couldn’t escape by possessing a nearby being.  We used the blind sight of Jarfoz to see all the creatures possible, but twice Gogolax got away, possessing animals we had missed.  We bound him, but he still found creatures to commandeer.  The greatest danger was from birds.  If one had swooped too low, Gogolax might have escaped permanently.  As it was, we finally trapped him in the body of a rat, and built a small cage to contain him.  I carried the cage myself, the rest of the way, through the wind, to the pond – his voice haunting my mind all the while.”
	Rokavere shuddered at the memory.
	“What happened at the pond?” asked Eborel.
	“We conjured images,” said Rokavere, “reflected images that appeared on the surface of the pool spontaneously, passing by each in succession.  Everyone who looked down saw the same reflected pictures.  But whether they came from the minds of the conjurors, or from the pool itself, no one was sure.  Each person thought some of the pictures were familiar enough to have been conjured by his own mind.  But there was also the question of whether Gogolax himself was conjuring images, or preventing them from being conjured, perhaps.  For he was in a position to see everything for himself, as we held his cage suspended above the water.”
	“Why?  Were you going to drown him?” asked Eborel.
	“No,” she answered.  “That wouldn’t have worked, as his spirit would have survived.  No, we intended to transport him, for that’s the magic of the pool.  Any place that one can envision may be attained by diving into the pond the moment a picture of the desired destination is mirrored upon the water’s surface.  But we were confounded.  Though it was a cloudless night, with many lumi shining in the sky, not one had its likeness reflected on the surface of the pool.”
	“So you couldn’t transport him to a lumus?”
	“No.  Therefore, we waited, and watched the images pass before us.  After a long time, some very desolate landscapes appeared, and we grew hopeful.  Asheric held the cage on high, but I saw a place that looked so forbidding, with an erupting volcano in the distance, that, on impulse, I knocked the cage from his hands, and it fell into the water.”
	“Oh!” cried Eborel sharply.
	“Yes,” said Rokavere.  “The cage sank, with the rat Gogolax in it, and disappeared from sight.  None of us has seen him since, though we know he did not drown, or perish, for he lives and prospers yet, as I’ve said.
	“However,” continued Rokavere with new fervor, “shortly after that, a great earthquake struck.  I fancied at the time that the shaking ground had something to do with the erupting volcano I had seen, which may have precipitated the event.  Zoro’Ander, too, thought the scenescape we had all witnessed in the pool looked like Ash Chasm – a place not far from the great land upheaval that caused the rift, of which Breathmere Valley became a part.”
	“So that is how the Rift formed – in the earthquake that ensued?” asked Eborel.
	“Yes, though there was always a great gash in the land to the East – the temblors simply widened and deepened it.  The area has long been untraversable, with forbidding cliffs that plunge to a dangerous ocean in the south, and impenetrable mountains covered in snow and ice to the north.  In between, there is naught but lava, or inaccessible vast desert crags, and of course, the Eternal Valley, with its incessant fury of winds.  The geology has greatly favored the land, as Gogolax has been unable to cross the rift in these past two millennia to penetrate the heartland.  One can only imagine the havoc he would wreak if he could cross over Rift Valley.”
	“I suppose Gogolax is the great unnamed danger in the East spoken of by Asheric to the acolytes of the ashram, where I was trained,” said Eborel.
	“Undoubtedly,” answered Rokavere.  “I have dreaded his return this past score of centuries.  I always thought I would be summoned to fight him once again.  But now I think I have a successor, one to whom I might pass the burden.  The battle may no longer be mine to fight.”
	Rokavere gave Eborel a pointed look, who, shaking her head in protest, said, “I don’t see how I can be of use in this cause!”
	Rokavere could only reply, “The Mountain has spoken.”
	“How do you know what the oracle at Excelsion said to me?” asked Eborel.
	Rokavere hesitated, then, determined to tell Eborel all, forbore keeping any secrets.  “I am in touch with the mystics, and others, by means of séance,” she said.
	Eborel pondered this a moment, while Rokavere continued, “Your friends spoke to someone on the road about your ordeal on the mountain.  The news has filtered through the spiritual plane to me.”
	This was new and curious information to Eborel.  For she now considered that speaking to any one mystic might have the effect of speaking to all at once, if they each shared information with the others via communication in the spirit world.  The question that occurred to her was, ‘Who engaged in séance, and who didn’t?’  Many names came to mind:  Asheric, Zoro’Ander, the Queen, of course, and … Penarthic, perhaps, the Gnolord of Mt. Excelsion?
	“You knew of the message given me by the Oracle,” Eborel spoke her thoughts out loud, puzzling through the facts, “and you found my spirit wandering down the road, through séance – somehow.  Then, you summoned me?”
	Rokavere nodded.  “Requested, rather than summoned,” she allowed.
	“You are my Queen,” answered Eborel, bowing her head.  “I am pleased, as well as obliged, to attend Your Majesty.”  Rokavere merely smiled in return.
	“You brought me hither, then, to tell me this grave story,” Eborel continued.
	“For your own benefit,” responded Rokavere, “and indeed, for the future of the land.  It’s a history that must needs telling, and whom better to hear it from, than mine own self, from my lips alone, those of she who cast out the nameless one herself, two thousand years ago?”
	“Quite,” answered Eborel.  “I thank you most earnestly, and do pledge myself now, in all seriousness, before you, to this cause.  You have suffered much personal hardship to protect this land, and I willingly commit myself to the same, should it come to that.
	“But,” she added hesitantly, “I see not my part in this play.”
	“Have you no special talent,” asked the Queen, “with which to confront this destiny, to which you are so saddled?”
	“I have the ability to slow time,” said Eborel, “but this is common, I think, among mystics, sayiks, and gnomics.”
	“Yes,” answered Rokavere, as if she knew of such talent in her.  “You may, however, possess that ability to a greater degree than most.  Is there nothing else?”
	“I can hunt, and kill, often with lightning quickness, and unexpectedly, so say my peers.”
	“Indeed?” remarked the Queen.  “That’s impressive, but it’s inconceivable that you could catch the Demon Mystic off guard, in order, perhaps, to strike a fatal blow, which must by necessity be instantaneous, and even then, may not ensure success.  It’s a talent that may, however, yet serve you well.”
	Eborel shook her head in dour disconsolation.
	“Come,” said Rokavere brightly, cheering her up.  “We’ll ride together!”
	She rose, and Eborel jumped up, so she would not be sitting in the presence of royalty.  Rokavere gestured that the other should lead the way.  It seemed a test to Eborel, who studied the maze for a moment, then led the Queen unerringly outwith.
	The walk to the stables took the two through an orchard of mixed trees, many comporting clusters of near ripe fruit of varying types, dangling above in rich profusion.  Eborel was pensive, mulling the sheer magnitude of Rokavere’s tale.  She marveled that the story was not known – never appearing, to her knowledge, in the Gazette, nor told or retold by strangers at the inn, nor spoken about at the ashram.  It seemed Rokavere’s own private nightmare, known possibly only by the mystics who took part in its execution.
	“Why keep your tale secret?” asked Eborel.  “For it is a story of mythic proportion.”
	“It’s best not to lend credence to Gogolax by speaking of him openly,” answered Rokavere.  “For it only excites the public to fear, anxiety and hatred – the very qualities of the human spirit on which he thrives.  His mention, along with his being, are committed to exile.  At least, until now, when he poses a new threat, and demands renewed scrutiny.”
	Eborel nodded.  After a time, she said, “You spoke of the Eternal Valley.”
	“What of the Eternal Valley?” asked the Queen.
	“Quid Sync mentioned it to me.”
	“Indeed?” she said.
	“Yes,” answered Eborel.  “He gave me information that he said I would ask of him in the future.  He said he received the answer to my question from the Queen, though he said that its source was not important.”
	Rokavere thought for a long minute.  “I remember that conversation,” she said.  It took place long before you were born.  He said ‘The General’ requested the means by which the Eternal Valley could be reached.”
	“Yes,” answered Eborel.  “It is by way of a secret entrance at the back of the cemetery atop the hill in a town called Arkengarthdale.”
	“That is just so,” said Rokavere.  “It’s the only way I know into the valley.”
	Then she hesitated, bowing low to Eborel, and uttered, “My General.”
	“No,” Eborel shook her head violently, “I am not the General of whom Quid Sync spoke.”
	“I’m not so sure,” answered Rokavere, almost casually.
	“Although,” added Eborel thoughtfully, “he did mention ‘battle sounds,’ which may have included the cracking of explosions – the like which I witnessed at the ashram.” 
	“Quid Sync doesn’t lie,” said Rokavere in answer, “though his perceptions may be skewed by his outlandish point of view.  Not everything he tells of the future is necessarily destined to become true, or so I believe.  In any event, it can’t be proved one way or the other, until eternity is played out.”
	They came to the end of a long building which housed dozens of horses, one to each stable.
	“This one’s my favorite,” said the Queen, feeding alfalfa to a nuzzling chestnut mare, whose head was thrust out through the open section of the wide double door.
	“I trust you were taught to ride bareback at the ashram,” she said with an impish gleam in her eye.
	“Yes,” answered Eborel, “but I would need to become acquainted with my mount, first.”
	The Queen nodded, and opened the bottom section of the stable door.  She walked her favorite charge, led by a rope, to a different stable, wherein stalled was met a strikingly handsome jet-black horse, with faint jagged white streaks on his forehead and flanks, interrupting his otherwise smooth dark coat.
	“This stallion is named Denturion,” she said, by way of introduction.  “Why don’t you walk him a few times around the corral?”
	Denturion nuzzled the Queen’s mare while Eborel took hold of his rope.  She walked and petted him, feeding him occasionally from her hand as they rounded the enclosure.  The queen mounted her mare by way of a stool for such purpose, and trotted slowly aside the stallion, calming him, and putting him in a riding frame of mind.  Eborel eventually stood upon a rail, and swung her leg over her new-met equine while clutching his rope tightly.
	She expected the worst – to be thrown off by bucking or rocking – but, aside from some momentary bristling and snorting, the stallion took to her weight on his back with equanimity.  The two rode circles upon their respective charges for a while longer before heading out to tour the manor grounds.
	Eborel thought to herself how much lovelier the world seemed when viewed from atop a horse.  The overhanging tree boughs were nearer at hand, and the landscape swathed the terrain more broadly beneath her sight, in consequence of the apparently raised horizon.
	And there was the matter of greater speed, which Eborel always loved.  After a time, she brought her charge to an ever quicker gait, eventually breaking into full gallop.  The Queen kept up, following her nuanced changes in course and speed adroitly.  But presently, a long straight path was come upon, and Eborel brought her stallion to his top speed along it.  The Queen, seeing that her mare would not be able to match it, wheeled and stopped to watch the stallion’s retreating cloud of dust.
	Presently, Eborel returned, smiling broadly at the pleasure that the riding gave her.
	The Queen nodded in happy collusion, saying, “Would that I could make a gift of Denturion to you, for he is strong and fast.  Yet, he would fail to aid your cause in the end, and would become, rather, a hindrance.”
	“I would love to ride him back to my comrades,” Eborel said, stroking his mane and ears affectionately.
	“But he would flag after only one day,” returned the Queen.  “For you sleep not, and would be eager to walk through the night.  It is Denturion who could not keep up with you, in the end, rather than the other way ’round.  And by the second day, you would must needs abandon him.”
	Eborel nodded in understanding.  The two began a slow canter back to the stables.
	“Which brings us to the question of your departure,” said the Queen.  “For I assume you will want to return to your friends.”
	“Oh, yes,” said Eborel.  “The sooner the better.”
	“I propose you leave forthwith, before sundown,” answered the Queen.  “The monks will row you to Feldspar.  From there, you can travel northwest, towards the Steppes.  By this time tomorrow, you could be on your own once again.”
	“The Steppes?” asked Eborel, remembering that Jebrel had told her the lands were harsh.
	“My last information is that your friends intended to cross the Steppeweir, and were headed for Elginzice.”
	“Elginzice?” asked Eborel.  “Why are they going there?”
	“Probably to seek the King’s counsel, in aid to curing your apparent illness,” answered Rokavere.  “I would advise you to continue that journey with them, but rather to request guidance of a different sort from the King.”
	Eborel nodded in understanding and agreement.
	“For he may have greater insight than me into your role against the Nameless Scourge, and may give you welcome direction.”
	By this time, they had both dismounted, and stood facing each other.  Once again, Eborel felt Rokavere’s penetrating gaze upon her face.
	“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my husband, the King, in person,” said Rokavere.  “I would be pleased if you would convey him a message from me when soon you meet.”
	“Most willingly!” answered Eborel, glad to be of service, even if so small, to the Queen of the realm.
	Rokavere bent forward, and kissed Eborel gently on the forehead.  “Tell him for me,” she said, looking deeply into her eyes, “that I am at peace.”

35.  Feldspar Locks

Process is interlocutory. 
-Axiom of the second Triune ring

	Eborel stepped into the fore section of a long skiff, moored at the lakeside dock near the grand manor lane.  Eight monks were stationed at their oars, each facing abaft, while Thaddeus, the ninth monk, sat in the stern, manning the rudder.
	Eborel was positioned in the center of the boat, facing forward, her back braced against the footing of the mast, which was not erect, for it lay temporarily on its side, running askew down the length of the boat, lashed to the benches, and to the gunnel at the stern, aside Thaddeus.
	She was adorned in the garb of a monk – for both disguise and defense against the weather.  Its rough brown frock tumbled past her feet.  The hem was cinched into four corners by the monks, who tied them to the bilge below the benches in front and behind.  She was rooted to her spot, for her own protection, in anticipation of breaching the storm wall.
	The afternoon sun lay low in the sky.  Evidently, they would be making the greater part of their journey in darkness.
	Rokavere was not at the docks to see them off.  She had made her farewell to Eborel in the gardens at Revelstoke.  
	Eborel could not speak to Thaddeus once they were on the boat, because of the silence of the others, but she had asked him earlier where the monks would be taking her.  “Antequoi,” he had answered, “to the City of Industry.”  Not recognizing the name, she had merely nodded in response, accepting that elaboration would have to wait.
	The monks took to the oars strongly, and without ceremony, once Eborel was secured.  Each one was also tied by his own robes to his respective bench and gunnel rail, as well to his oar, though not so tightly as Eborel.
	Almost at once the winds picked up.  Gradually, they gathered force, and the boat began to drift to starboard, kept upright only by the stabilizing effect of the outrigger mounted to that side.
	Rain began to pelt them, which affected Eborel more than the others, as she faced towards it, straining to see the storm wall ahead.  The monks kept their heads down with backs to the wind, and trusted to the helmsman to keep their course.
	Thaddeus leaned hard on the rudder to the port side, pushing the boat in that direction, pressing ever windward.  It was only now, as the effects of the driving gale could be seen on the boat’s trajectory, that Eborel noticed the considered positioning of the monks according to their body weights astride the keel.  For those with the heavier builds rowed leeward on the starboard side, while those with the more diminutive frames worked portside.  In all, the arrangement conspired to hold the boat’s vector at an acute angle to the relentless veering pressure of the wind, which would push the bow entirely in the direction of its flow, if it could.
	By the time the storm wall was reached, the sun had set completely, and twilight was passed.  Eborel would be denied the sight of the formidable barrier she had penetrated under her own power just a few days before.  But the lack of sight only brought to attention her other senses, particularly hearing, as the fearsome howling of the wind muted all other noise.  It was so loud, that she imagined if she were to scream at the top of her lungs, or bang objects together as raucously as possible, even the monk sitting closest would not hear her.
	The surreal deafness wrought by the tumult brought yet another sense into sharp relief.  For the wind-whipped water stung her sense of touch with magnified intensity.  She marveled, as the frigid rain seemingly flayed her face like burning sleet, that she had survived the journey thither, submerged in the very bucking seas they now rode upon.
	Eborel noted that the wind picked up speed slowly, making the approach to the wall through stormy waters take far longer than it had from the other side.  Clearly, the dynamics of the wind were different on either side of the shear wall.
	When the time finally came to breach the wall, the force of the wind was so strong that she could do naught but double over and ride it out.  Even the monks, who could barely row, leant forward as far as possible, to protect themselves from being blown upward out of their seats, and to forestall the rapid loss of body heat to the merciless onslaught of the gale.
	By virtue of the unremitting pressure on the rudder by Thaddeus, the boat was turned almost directly into the wind.  At the moment when the tempest seemed its strongest, the monks suddenly shipped their oars as one, and huddled forward as far as they could go.  Thaddeus slumped over, too, but lay over the rudder handle to hold fast its position.
	Only Eborel bolted upright, her back to the short base of the stowed mast for support.  Facing forward with her eyes closed, she felt the full brunt of the hurricane force winds pound her body.
	The feeling lasted only moments, as the boat slowly spun orthogonally to the wind, and popped through the strongest part of the shear wall, rotating in a slow clockwise spiral, as Thaddeus swung the rudder hard to starboard.
	When the skiff angled back in the direction from which it had come, thus coasting backwards, the monks lurched their bodies to the starboard side, using their collective weight to keep the outrigger, now being blown upward by the wind, from rising out of the water, possibly capsizing the lot.
	After the boat turned full circle, regaining its original course, Thaddeus straightened the rudder while the monks took to the oars again, quickly rowing to calmer seas.  By then, they were soaked and exhausted.  They untied their robes from their stays, and rearranged themselves for more even weight distribution.  After a brief rest drifting idly in the dark, several of them began unlashing the stowed mast and erecting it behind Eborel.
	Eborel’s robe was untied from its bilge stays, and a sail was unfurled and attached to the mast.  A boom was connected to the mast at its base, and tied tautly to the bottom of the sail.
	Thaddeus took charge of the yardarm guylines, extending his duties as helmsman to include control of the boom.
	The monks took turns rowing now, four on and four off.  With a gentle tailwind, they made steady progress.  The clouds cleared, allowing Thaddeus to guide the craft by the stars and lumi.
	Eborel was struck by the peacefulness of traveling across the water in darkness and silence.  She nodded and daydreamed, listening as she did for the far-off splashes of unseen breaching fish.  She scanned the night sky for occasional streaks of falling stars.
	At daybreak, she admired the silhouette of the sail against the morning light.  What a fine figure they cut, she thought, skiffing across the lake surface.  A distant shore was just visible to larboard.  Nothing but water could be seen fore, aft, or to starboard.
	As the day wore on, she began to wish she could speak the sign language of the monks.  Around her they held silent conversations among themselves with hand gestures, making her feel left out.  Some ate food and drank water stowed onboard, but even the social aspect of that shared activity was denied her.  She and Thaddeus exchanged knowing glances, but conversation with him would have to wait until they were on shore.
	By afternoon, land appeared in the distance on the starboard side.  The monks became more attentive, scanning in that direction for some kind of sign.  Eborel knew they were traveling in a southwesterly direction, and reckoned rightly that the shore was the north coastline of the inlet, namely Willow Bay, past which she had walked days earlier.
	Presently, a wooden tower appeared in the distance, and the monks’ spirits lifted.  Eborel did not recall seeing the tower during her walk on the southern shore, so she reasoned they were still far from Feldspar Falls.  But it was clearly a sign that they were making good progress.  Perhaps it was a waymark built by the monks for guidance.
	As the tower fell behind them to the rear, a ship was espied in the distance ahead.  The monks strained for a better view, perhaps to discover its type or owner.  At some point they became jubilant, indicating to her with hand signals that it was approaching them, rather than moving away.  Why this made them happy, Eborel determined to ask Thaddeus at the earliest opportunity.
	Eventually the boat passed them, but at too great a distance to discern much detail, other than that it was a two masted square rigger, with a wide beam and deep draft, implying that it was likely a supply ship, and loaded heavily with goods.
	The monks remained vigilant, scanning ahead for something more.  A number of them peered closely at the horizon, eventually nodding to each other, agreeing about something.  They held up two fingers on each hand, smiling to Eborel, as if that were a good thing.
	Eborel scrutinized the horizon looking for some sign.  After a time, she saw trails of white smoke rising up.  Close inspection revealed them to be two separate columns of smoke, each made up of two distinct trails.  She thought that was why the monks held up two sets of fingers.  But what the smoke signified would have to wait for later explanation.
	After more time spent peering west, the monks became somewhat dejected, holding up two fingers in the left hand, and one in the right.  They indicated to Eborel with the sign for “ship,” which she had come to recognize, that there was a boat ahead of them, and traveling in the same direction as them.
	Why this made them dejected, she couldn’t guess, especially as the boat which passed earlier seemed to delight them.
	She looked at the smoke columns carefully, and saw that, indeed, the left column contained two smoke trails, and the right, only one.
	As the smoke signals loomed larger on the horizon, the monks again became animated and happy, suddenly holding up one finger in each hand.  Eborel guessed that now both columns of smoke contained only a single trailing plume each.  This was easily verified by their proximate visibility.
	The skiff now approached the northern shore of the bay quite closely.  All the monks rowed with enthusiasm.  A river entrance branched off the bay to the right.  This was the mouth of the Willow River, which drained into the bay from the Purgan lands to the north.  On the shore of the bay, east of the river, were clearly seen two pairs of towers, separated by a space, from which issued the smoke seen at great distance.  One tower in each pair was presently burning a fire, while the other tower in each pair was snuffed out, but fueled-up in readiness to be reignited.  Therefore did the towers emit two widely-spaced single trails of smoke, as previously described.  Several monks stood on the shore – apparently the guardians of the towers – and waved to the monks in the boat.  All waved back vigorously, including Eborel, who was quite eager to meet any new monks they should encounter.
	On the western horizon, over the land, Eborel descried two tiny distant columns of white smoke rising.  She wondered if they mirrored the columns of smoke here, and were relaying information between two distant points, possibly regarding the numbers of ships ahead, or their direction of travel.  She added this to her list of questions for Thaddeus.
	Presently, their water course narrowed, and they moved rapidly along a riverway, rowing in the direction of the current.  The monks stowed the sail, which was no longer needed.  Eventually they came to the first of what Eborel imagined would be a series of locks.
	This was the beginning of the famous Feldspar Locks, then, one of which she had seen at a distance earlier when she had approached the Falls on foot from the other direction.  Now it looked as if she would be traveling through one, which gave her cause for excitement.
	When they arrived at the lock, however, she was disappointed, for the monks maneuvered the skiff to the side of the canal, and jumped out.  Thaddeus motioned for her to exit as well.  The others pulled the skiff full out of the water, and began carrying it on a pathway, down a hill, next to the lock.  Eborel and Thaddeus followed the skiff at a short distance, which allowed them to speak to each other out of earshot.
	“Why are we not traveling through the lock in the skiff?” asked Eborel.
	“The water is positioned at the wrong level, so it’s faster to carry the boat around the lock,” he answered.  “For large boats, there is no such luxury, of course, as they cannot be carried.  Those boats must wait for the water level to come even with the canal before opening the gates.”
	“Will we walk around every lock?” she asked.
	“No,” he answered.  “Another boat approaches, so the water level will be high in the locks ahead.  We’ll carry the boat around two or three locks, then ride through the remainder.  We’ll negotiate seven of the eight locks on the canal before we arrive at Antequoi.”
	“Oh,” she answered.  “How do you know a boat approaches from the other direction?”
	“The smoke columns we saw indicate the lock level at the end points.”
	“I see,” she said, trying to comprehend.
	He pointed to two smoke columns just visible in the west.  “Those columns in the distance match the columns we just passed,” he said.  “They’re semaphores.  The left column, to the west, indicates the level of the lock at the western entrance to the locks.  One trail of smoke means ‘low,’ two trails means ‘high.’  The right column indicates the level at this eastern entrance to the locks.  It has only one trail, and you can see that the lock level here is low.”
	She nodded in understanding.
	“The lock level in the west is high, indicating that the last boat to pass through the westernmost lock has entered the locks, rather than exited them, and is therefore headed east towards us.  This lock level here is low, indicating that a boat must be ahead of us traveling west.  That boat, traveling in the same direction as us, has not yet reached the westernmost lock, since that lock is currently high.  Therefore, the two boats ahead of us will cross paths with each other, after which the eastbound boat will pass us by, leaving the lock levels high in its wake, for our happy convenience, rather than low, as they are now; caused, as we know, by the westbound boat ahead of us.  Once we pass the eastbound boat, we’ll encounter locks at high-water and travel through them instead of around, saving us the considerable effort of lifting our boat out of the water to bypass the locks.”
	Eborel marveled at the ingenuity of the signaling system.
	“What do you do at night time,” she asked, “when you can’t see the smoke trails?  Surely boats travel through in the dark.”
	“On a dark or cloudy night, when the lumi don’t shine, the fires can be seen at the base of the smoke columns.  That’s why the semaphores are built on towers, so the flames can be seen at a distance.”
	“You monks have a system for everything!” she exclaimed.
	Thaddeus beamed.  “You’ve only seen the beginning!” he said proudly.
	The others beckoned from the skiff, which now rested in the lower waters beyond the lock.  Eborel and Thaddeus ended their conversation, and joined them.
	After two more similar lock diversions, their skiff encountered a supply ship traveling from Manx.  Each ship hugged their respective bankside as they passed.  None on board either ship looked upon the other, or acknowledged the other boat in any way, save Eborel, who gawked openly at the magnificent ship.  Such is the protocol when passing monks by, either on foot or in conveyance of any kind.  Indeed, if any onboard the ship had happenchanced to glance at the skiff, they might have been mortified to see Eborel, who was, after all, arrayed as a monk, staring at their boat with what could only be construed by any average Draelander, as deep malevolence.
	After passing the ship, the next lock’s water was, as can be imagined, filled to the upper level.  The massive wooden gates at its eastern entrance were swung open, facing upstream.  The monks maneuvered the skiff to a wooden wheel sitting atop the right-hand open gate.  One of the monks turned the wheel, unwinding a thick hemp rope.
	When he was done, the monks rowed the skiff into the lock, bringing the bow up against the equally massive gates at the western end.  Four monks hopped out of the skiff right into the water.  Two monks pulled themselves along the gate to the northern shore, and two to the southern shore.  They heaved themselves out of the water and began working two huge turnstiles on the shore, closing the massive eastern gates.
	When the gates locked shut, a monk on the boat turned a large wooden wheel atop the left western gate.  This time, the thick hemp rope wound onto the wheel, causing a flood gate to open at the base of the wooden doors, under water.  As water rushed westward, the level of the lock dropped.  Eborel realized that the monks had closed the floodgate on the eastern door before entering the lock, and opened a similar gate on the western door after the eastern door was closed.  Everything needed to occur in a precise order for successful maneuvering through the lock.  This was, Eborel thought, the essence of the “machinating monks.”
	Meanwhile, the ride for Eborel was thrilling.  Once the water level stopped falling, she found herself at the bottom of a rectangular well at least three times deeper than her own height.  She could see right through the opening of the floodgate on the western door to the river beyond.
	Above that floodgate was another wooden wheel, which was evidently submerged when the lock was full.  It was connected to the wheel atop the massive door by a mechanism of pulleys and hemp rope.  Behind her was a similar wheel on the eastern gate, now exposed by the lowered level of the water.  These wheels, she reasoned, must allow for operation of the floodgates from within the lock when it was at its lowered level.
	“Marvelous!” she thought.
	Meanwhile, the monks on shore began winding the turnstiles for the western doors, which opened effortlessly into the lock.  The others rowed the skiff out, and waited for their brethren to rejoin them from each shore of the lower part of the canal.
	Eborel smiled at Thaddeus, who winked his vicarious pleasure back at seeing her happy.  For the Locks, in sooth, while novel for first-timers, were naught but drudgery for those who negotiated them on a regular basis.
	The assembly went through two more locks in the same manner, before being confronted by the seventh lock, whose water level was reversed – that is, low, instead of high.  Eborel gave this condition some consideration as the monks busied themselves removing the skiff from the water, in order to save time by yet again trudging around the lock on foot, carrying their heavy craft.
	She reasoned that the last boat through the seventh lock must have been the one ahead of them, traveling west; and that, furthermore, the last boat through the previous three locks (excepting the skiff, of course) must have been the ship they had passed upriver, traveling east.
	This business of nautical travel was evidently more complicated than Eborel might have guessed, when she first watched the fisherman toiling by the docks in Manx, with Jebrel at her side, an eon, if not a week, ago. 

36.  Antequoi Valley

Reveal all, hide nothing.
-Rokavere’s adjuration to Thaddeus

	After the seventh lock, a small inlet presented itself on the right bank of the riverway.  As the water seemed to flow neither into it, nor issue from without, Eborel surmised this branch to be a slough, and therefore, an eventual dead end.  Toward this new beckoning waterway, then, the monks steered their craft.
	Upon rounding a bend, they came to what could only be described as an impenetrable barricade blocking any further progress.  Clear across the breadth of the water was presented a wooden wall, perpendicular to the direction of travel, and anchored on either shore by massive tower gate posts.
	The monks shipped their oars as others on shore, standing by the towers, turned huge windlasses, which clanged noisily.  The windlass wheels worked in tandem, one at either gate post, rolling chains of metal onto large barrel cylinders, the effect which raised the wooden wall like a portcullis.
	A casual assessment of the relative low height of the massive rigid beam atop the structure indicated that no boat carrying a mast could possibly hope to enter through – that is, at least, unshorn of its rigging.  It presented a patent obstruction then, to all but the lowest of boats.
	As the skiff coasted near the rising gate, Eborel could see that it was constructed of long horizontal boards, hinged by hemp, so that they rolled over a massive log turning at the top.  She noted too, with mild alarm, but tempered by admiration, that there were manifold prodigious iron spikes, gnarled and rusted by weather, yet intimidating still, projecting from the wall, toward any would-be gate crashing boats.  She exchanged a knowing glance with Thaddeus.  Woe to the ship that blundered down this lonely waterway by accident in the dark of night!  The gate announced, in no soft voice, that a fortified place was herein entered.  All who passed this way knew it heralded the realm of the Monks.
	Through the gateway they rowed, twixt the towers, and underneath the ominous hovering rolled-up wall.  Eborel and Thaddeus waved gaily to the keepers as they passed.
	Presently a dock was gained where they hauled in and disembarked, among a plenitude of other small merchant boats.  Along the shores were cottages typified by the same stylistic embellishments as those on Revelstoke Island:  picket fences, overhanging eaves, dormers, white trim, fanciful saltbox shapes.  Each was painted a different shade of lakeside color:  green, turquoise, aquamarine.  Some few stood out in contrasting, yet pleasing colors, such as sunshine yellow, or burnt umber.
	In the distance were seen eclectic odd-shaped larger buildings, evidently gathering places, or mills of some sort.  Beyond them were the rolling hills that gave definition to the valley, called by the monks, Antequoi.
	Eborel was most eager to explore, and Thaddeus, as had been his role at Revelstoke, was to be her guide.  They signaled their good-byes to their skiff mates, with many thanks signed by Eborel, and parted their company.  Eborel and Thaddeus walked down a roadway of wood, past docks on their right, and houses on their left.  A few monks passed by and nodded to them with smiles, but for the most part, they were secluded enough to converse in low tones.
	“Where to?” asked Eborel eagerly.
	“I think a circular tour about the city is called for – along its periphery,” he answered.  “We’ll visit the major sights in the order that we come upon them.”
	“Alright,” she answered.  “What’s first?”
	“The foreigner’s section is just ahead.  You’ll see the marketplace!”
	“Foreigners?” she asked quizzically.
	“Non-monks,” he answered in a low tone.
	“Oh!” she said sharply.  “Am I a foreigner then?”
	“Yes, but you’ll not be taken for one in your robe,” he answered.
	“Do the monks speak aloud to the foreigners?” she asked.
	“No,” he answered.  “Only those foreigners that can sign our language come here.”
	“Why do they come here?” she asked.
	“For trade,” he said.  “Antequoi is the only place in Draeland where one can obtain unique monk-made items directly from the manufacturers themselves.”
	“Why do the monks trade at all with outsiders?” she asked.
	“Many reasons,” he answered.  “We save the money garnered at the marketplace against future unforeseen contingencies.
	“Also, as we are not entirely self-sufficient, we do buy food and fuel from outside suppliers.
	“But mostly, I think,” he continued philosophically, “that dissemination is the essential reason.  Traders carry our goods far and wide, and bring with them, as an inadvertent consequence perhaps – like an unseen stowaway – the culture of the monks.
	“This allows us to promulgate the natural fear and distrust of us that is so essential to our mission.  But we also manage to distribute useful items that make life easier for Draelanders, which is an added objective.  And since our goods are usually readily available, no one is tempted to overcome the bothersome burden of superstition to create the technology required to make those goods themselves.”
	Eborel marveled at the intricacy of the scheming on the part of the monks.  But she also wondered at Thaddeus’s remarkable openness.
	“Why are you so honest with me?” she asked.
	“I have been commanded by the Queen,” he answered.  “She ordered me thus:  ‘Reveal all, hide nothing.’ ”
	So saying, they entered the marketplace, which ended their conversation for the moment.  The market was an open air affair – spread across a large cobblestone plaza, and ringed by buildings that served as stores.  Perishable goods were sold from portable stalls on the plaza, while manufactured goods were sold from the permanent buildings on the periphery.
	Eborel saw many “foreigners,” but was surprised that the majority of shoppers were monks.  Evidently, they traded quite a bit between themselves.
	Many of the vendors in the stalls were, in fact, foreigners, come to sell their produce to the monks – probably at a good rate.  There was all manner of fruits and vegetables, flowers, seedlings, oil, felled timber, spices, herbs.
	All of the permanent stores were staffed by monks however, and the great majority of buyers in those stores were foreigners.  The reputation of the monks as fine craftsmen brought outsiders to their realm from far and wide.
	Clearly the best selling action was to be found in the stores.  Thaddeus let Eborel wander from building to building at her leisure, not directing her path through the marketplace.  She stopped at each set of windows to view the wares on display for sale within.  She saw crockery, cooking utensils, furniture, blankets, candles, books, writing supplies, gardening tools, sowing implements, cloth, clothing, shoes and much more.
	One shop was filled with Tyroan artifacts, including:  miniature statues of the prophet at Kentamere, wall hangings depicting the Triune, and shelves full of hand-copied Enplexi.
	Another shop was apparently the distribution point for the Draeland Gazette.  Many hundreds of the latest issue were stacked to the rafters inside.
	One shop had musical instruments, another smoking pipes, and a third, casks of wine and ale.  Preserved foods, cheeses, and baked goods were found in abundance everywhere.  She was tantalized by the abundance of it all.
	Eventually, Eborel came to a shop whose contents moved her to enter, with Thaddeus close at her heels.  Arranged under glass counters, and hanging on all the walls, was an astonishing variety of knives, in every size and shape imaginable.
	All were made of metal, with hafts constructed of various differing materials.  Two monks attended from behind counters which presented as structural barriers to the merchandise behind, encircling the store in a U-shape along the perimeter.
	Eborel circumnavigated the store slowly, assessing every blade.  Thaddeus chatted amiably with the monks using animated gestures.  Apparently, he imparted some sort of laudatory information about her, as they became very attentive.
	She pointed to a sheathed knife hanging from a fixture on the wall.  One of the attendants readily retrieved it for her.  The handle was made of narrow bamboo, with tight rings spaced to match the width of grasping fingers.  She pulled the knife slowly from its case, noting the seamless integration of the haft with its blade.  Running her thumb gingerly along the cutting edge, she felt it to be honed to fierce sharpness.
	Stepping to the center of the store, she hefted the knife for balance.  Waving it about, she casually launched it into the air, flipping it once, twice, and thrice, catching it neatly by the handle each time.
	Then she hid it in the folds of her robe.  Crouching, she moved in a slow semicircle, withdrawing the knife with sudden stabbing thrusts.  She went through the motions of her knife training from the ashram, wheeling and circling, jabbing the blade in unpredictable directions, switching hands in an eye blink, by some trick of legerdemain.
	A small crowd gathered inside and outside the shop to watch.  She entered a mild state of Qasama, slowing her time sense.  She was in a trance.  She lunged and withdrew from the monks and observers, one after the other, back and forth – so quickly, they didn’t have time to flinch.  The performance struck awe, making a palpable impression.
	After a time, she drifted back to normal time sense, leaning on the counter.  She didn’t know the sign for asking “How much?” so she took a small chalkboard lying on the counter for such purpose, and chalked the question.
	One of the monks signed an answer which she didn’t understand, so he wrote a symbol on the board for her.  It wasn’t a monetary amount, simply an expression that meant “expensive.”
	She nodded in understanding, but as she had nothing for trade, she replaced the knife in its sheath and returned it to the monk.  She was simply curious about its value.
	The show over, people drifted away, and Thaddeus and Eborel moved on.
	“You made quite an impression on the passersby,” said Thaddeus.  “Since no one openly spoke your name, the foreigners must be wondering who you are.”
	She merely nodded in acknowledgement as she ran ahead to peer into a tapestry shop.
	Thaddeus caught up to her, and she said, “There are so many wonderful things to purchase, yet I have need of nothing.  I must travel light, for maximum speed.  Which reminds me,” she added, “I’m feeling the need for haste.  Where shall we head next?”
	“Ah,” said Thaddeus, responding to her impatience.  “The mills, I think.”
	“Near the waterwheel?” she asked.  “I’ve already seen that.”
	“Yes, but the factories powered by the wheel are truly impressive.”
	She nodded, picking up the pace as they left the marketplace.
	The path to the factories wound for some distance, through cottages and smaller local market places, to outlying districts of open fields and glades interspersed with trees.
	Presently, the great water wheel was descried among the hills, towering above its nearby buildings.  For a time, the path meandered past the canal which Eborel had seen from the other side in her previous journey thence, toward Feldspar Falls.
	The first building attained, they entered in.  A great noise of creaking and swishing was met therein, along with the acrid scent of potash, borax, and acid wash.
	“This is the paper mill,” Thaddeus fairly yelled above the din.  “Paper for the Draeland Gazette is manufactured here, as well as finer parchments for scrolls and bound books, such as Enplexi.”
	They walked past great stone tubs filled with ominous fluids, some quiescent, and some bubbling with noxious lye.  Overhead were hung wide sheets of yellowish paper, dangling from rolls that wound imperceptibly slowly as the paper dried.  Between the roof beams were seen log-sized shafts turning at a faster rate, doubtless powered by the water wheel outside.  Around the shafts were occasionally seen rotating belts of brown leather connected to nearby machines.  The work force of the water wheel was thus transferred to the devices that required mechanical energy, as for instance, the great mixers that stirred the pools of viscous pulp solutions.
	It was indeed a marvelous sight, but the toxic stench compelled Eborel to beat a hasty exit.  Outside, the relative quiet and fresh air proved a welcome contrast.
	“No one likes doing paper mill duty,” said Thaddeus.  “We rotate assignments, and work short shifts.  I myself have done time at the vats, leaching fibers ’til my hands turned white.  We also make soap, oil, and wax for candles there, but I didn’t wish to delay you by lingering inside.”
	Eborel nodded in gratitude as they entered the next building.  Here was found the inviting smell of sawdust, but tempered by the incessant whirring sounds of wood being cut, planed, and lathed by machine.  The noise was considerably louder than that in the paper mill, but the scent was pleasing, arousing the nostrils as like to fresh mown hay.
	At the entrance, Thaddeus handed Eborel two wax plugs, which she stuffed into her ears after his example.  This made the noise tolerable, but precluded easy conversation.  As such, they walked together without speaking between long rows of workbenches, where wood of all types was crafted into every shape imaginable, for use in the subsequent manufacture of, for instance:  dishes, tools, implements, furniture, flooring, doors, window casements, structural members, etc.  Apparently, the wood was fashioned here through the motive force provided by the water wheel, only to be assembled elsewhere, perhaps in far removed workshops.  Monks were found everywhere chiseling, cutting, sizing, and polishing wood to enviable effect.
	Upon leaving, Eborel removed her earplugs and deposited them in an urn at the door, placed there for such purpose.
	“That was instructive!” she exclaimed, once outside.
	“Right,” said Thaddeus, moving her along.  “Two more factories, and then the foundry.”
	Next was the fabric shop, where great wooden looms weaved bolts of cloth by mechanized effort.  Here were heard the unending clacketty sounds of wooden frames alternating V-positions with each other in rhythmic formation, while operators unerringly guided needles through tangled mazes of regimented fibers.  Eborel dared not interfere with the concentrated effort of the monks at diligent repetitive work.
	Thaddeus moved her to the next room where the huge spools of thread for the looms were evidently spun, again using energy from the rotating drive shafts overhead connected to the water wheel.  What impressed Eborel most were the variety of vibrant colors of the wools from which the threads were spun:  rich reds, oranges and yellows, as well as the deeper shades of green, blue and purple.  Doubtless they were dyed in a factory elsewhere and transported thence.  Here too, the workers applied concentrated effort from which attention Eborel did not wish to divert.
	Thaddeus took her next to the mill house, where huge bins of grain were slowly, inexorably, pulverized by the implacable grand motions of rotating millstones.  Here, the power of the water wheel really expressed its indomitable nature.  Four brace of vertical axles, each the size of small tree trunks, relentlessly turned the massive horizontal granite wheels attached to their bases.  Fine flours of wheat and barley hues poured off the base stones through chutes into enormous attendant canvas sacks.
	Eborel was duly awestruck.  The monks had a finely-tuned workable system to take care of all the material needs of the populace.  She would never again look at a piece of handiwork, such as a chair, a frock, or a window shutter, without thinking of the industrious monks of the Antequoi Valley.
	Thaddeus saved the best for last.  Into a great stone building with chimneys billowing thick black smoke, they entered.  Where noise and smell had overwhelmed her in the previous mills, the most prominent characteristic here was intense heat.  And while the power of the water wheel was not immediately evident, its force was used invisibly to transport coal, and operate the bellows.  For this was the place where unrefined ore was smelted in great furnaces to produce finished metals.  It represented perhaps the core of the monk’s operation, as its product, in raw form, was required for the construction of at least some essential parts of every other factory.
	As such, the foundry was guarded at its entrance by a cadre of militant monks, who stood impassively at attention as Eborel and Thaddeus passed within.
	Once entered through the impenetrably thick walls at the gateway, Eborel felt the heat-choked air burn her lungs.  Thaddeus led her quickly to the center of the vast chamber.
	“All metal in Draeland comes from here,” he said as she gazed at fires burning on every wall.  “Whether it’s for the making of knives, fixtures, hinges, coins, or…” he hesitated giving her a pointed look, “medallions.”  She nodded, but found it difficult to concentrate on his words, as the heat was overpowering.  Nonetheless, it was not lost upon her that she now stood near the birthplace, as it were, of the precious medallions given her by the mystics.
	He led her to the back wall of the foundry, which was dominated by a huge open fireplace wherein burned mounds of brightly lit red coal.  Above the fierce heat were iron cauldrons, suspended by chains, and filled with molten slag.
	“This is where the process begins,” said Thaddeus.  “The blast furnace reduces the ore to pig iron and other intermediate metals.”  Eborel nodded, but looked over her shoulder to intimate that she’d prefer to move away.
	Thaddeus complied, taking her to some smaller furnaces where monks manipulated hot pieces of metal with iron tongs.
	“These monks are the smithies, shaping the metal to their final forms.”  Eborel smiled appreciatively to a monk who was working a thin flat piece of metal which was to become a blade.
	They walked past other smithies, admiring the various shapes of their handiwork.
	“It seems unbelievable,” said Thaddeus, “but the workers get used to the high temperatures here.  They take many breaks, however, throughout the day, in an adjacent ice room.  Let’s visit the ice house, now, for some cool air,” he suggested, seeing Eborel’s eyes brighten at the prospect.
	Walking into the frigid room was like entering heaven.  Eborel wanted to caress the blocks of ice, stacked between straw, as if they were long lost lovers.  She even licked one of them to get some much needed moisture.  Thaddeus laughed.
	“I’m amazed those workers can stand it in there,” she said.  
	“Yes,” said Thaddeus, “but let’s go to the finishing room now.  It’s not hot, as no fires burn there.  One of the monks has informed me that they wish to present you with a gift.”
	Eborel was abashed, but followed Thaddeus readily.
	The finishing room was much more than a room – rather, a vast adjoining factory floor.  Metallic utensils of all manner and shape were fashioned and polished there.  At one end of the hall, the workers were gathered together, standing, in attendance of her.
	Eborel approached a monk who was centrally placed, standing behind a table on which the gift to her was presented upon a silver tray.  Eborel looked down to see a delicate pencil-thick tapered blade, diamond-shaped in cross section, with a rounded pommel, about a hand-span’s length, lying on display.
	“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, then held her hand to her mouth in realization that she shouldn’t have spoken.
	“It’s all right,” said Thaddeus in a hushed tone.  “They wish me to speak to you in their presence, to translate what they have to say.”
	Eborel nodded mutely.
	The monk standing opposite her made hand gestures to Thaddeus.
	“They know you must travel light, so they wish to present you with the smallest knife they make,” he said.
	And after more hand gestures, “They know you are a huntress, so this is a killing blade.  It’s called a stiletto.”
	“May I handle it?” she asked, looking at the presenting monk.  He nodded.
	She picked it up, fondling it gently, but did not heft its weight, as that seemed rude.  She hid it up her sleeves, and in the folds of her clothes.
	“Most satisfactory,” she said smiling.  The other monks smiled and nodded in return.
	Thaddeus continued his translating, “The knife is made of precious metal, to wit, silver.”
	“I noticed its heavier weight,” she answered.
	“Its length is such that it may be thrust into the heart of a man between the 5th and 6th ribs to cause instant death.”
	Eborel smiled, “I know how to kill a man in this way.”  Then she added, “And I don’t need to count the ribs before I plunge the blade.”
	The monks smiled, and appeared even to stifle laughs.
	Eborel donned a solemn countenance.  “I most humbly accept this fine gift from you,” she said, “and hope it will one day be used in the defense of Draeland.”
	Everyone nodded in approval.
	“I have been most warmly received by the monks,” she added, “and will not spread malicious rumors about you during my travels, much as you might have me do otherwise.  I shall always wave when I see any of you, and be most happy to encounter you anytime, and anywhere.”
	All the monks bowed deeply to her, and Eborel turned with Thaddeus to leave, taking the precious gift with her, already tucked neatly into a strap within the folds of her robe.

37.  Thither and Yon

Hitch yourself to Pinster waxing.
-An idiom, meaning “get going”

	Now was the time for Eborel to depart Thaddeus.
	“Will you not tarry?” he implored her, sensing the sadness her absence would soon bring.  “There is much yet to see.”
	 She shook her head firmly.  “I’m deeply indebted to you for the knowledge you’ve imparted to me,” she said with genuine affection, adding, “and for your generous kind guidance.  But go, I must, and now.”
	He bowed his reciprocal thanks for her enlivening companionship.
	“Whither the Steppes?” she asked, facing northwest and scanning the horizon.
	“Ah,” he said, “I’ll walk you to the western entrance to Antequoi.”
	“No,” she answered.  “Thank you, I prefer to run, for I am in pressing need of haste.  Would that I had the stallion Denturion with me now!”
	“Do you never tire?” he asked.
	“Not leastwise yet,” she answered.
	He instructed her thus:  “Follow the canal by the great wheel west until it joins the Maywend.  Hug the north shore of the river, crossing the conjoin of the North Fork.”
	How far is that?” she asked.
	“A half day’s journey, by normal means.”
	She nodded, thinking she would cut that time in half.
	“Continue until you find the Great North Road,” he proceeded, “well before you reach Manx.  Head north.  That will take you on a considerable journey through the Ochaka Mountains up to the Steppes.  Watch for ambushes in the mountain passes.  People travel in caravans for protection there.  You will be an easy target traveling alone.”
	“I’ll be completely safe, I assure you,” she answered.
	“I have no doubt,” he mused.
	“Once on the Steppes,” he continued, “I’ve no further guidance for you.  Roads travel in all directions.  Sporadic villages dot the plains.  Some are friendly, most are wary or hostile.  Nomadic tribes abound in tents or temporary huts that are left vacant for most of the year.  Be careful, though, as empty villages are sometimes guarded. 
	“Avoid the larger towns, for vigilante justice is legend there.  You would not be a match, I think, for a small army intent on your capture by some misguided folly.”
	Eborel considered his words carefully.
	“Bribes and gifts are valued there, and may save your life if a dispute erupts.  Wouldst that you could carry some valuable trinkets, but alas, you cannot.  I hope your fine dirk will not be forfeit for your freedom.”
	“It will not,” Eborel said resolutely.
	“Head west once you reach the Steppes.  Hug the north foothills of the mountains for a clear view of the plains below.  Your friends are likely there, heading east, moving between oases of water.  You are fortunate that you will have no need of food and water, for both are scarce upon the Steppes.”
	Eborel nodded.
	“One more thing,” he added.  “Bandits also use those foothills as a base for raids upon travelers on the plains.  Be ever watchful.”
	“I shall,” she said.  “How do I find Elginzice, once I rejoin my friends?”
	“Return by the route you came,” he answered.  “When you reach the same conjoin of the Maywend, follow its North Fork.  The roads are faster than the meandering river, but they confound your senses, as you may know.  Whenever you encounter the river, make sure you are opposing its direction of flow.  Be true to your vision, and you will find Elginzice.”
	Eborel grasped Thaddeus by both shoulders and penetrated his gaze deeply.  “Thank you most sincerely for everything,” she said.  Thaddeus said nothing, meeting her eyes evenly.  She embraced him for a long moment, eventually saying in his ear, “Happy will be the day we meet again.”
	Turning without looking back, she ran from him.  He watched her fleeting image, a monk’s robe blowing in the wind, the hem hiked up to free her spinning legs.

	Eborel ran for an age, passing people by as if they were signposts on the road.  No one interfered with her progress, fearing, perhaps, the image of a lone monk careering phantom-like over the landscape.  The directions given by Thaddeus were precise.  In little time, she found herself climbing through the lonely endless mountains north.  Whether bandits lay in wait, she never knew, for none dared oppose her.  Could it be that the mystique of the monks, for which she would easily be mistaken, was feared as much by the Steppefolk as by others in the land?  She didn’t know.
	Eborel thought about Thaddeus as she ran.  Did he know that she walked in two bodies, and that she sought to rejoin her other body on the Steppes?  For that matter, were the other monks at Revelstoke aware of that as well?  He had accepted that she never ate or drank, but did he know the reason why?  He had never mentioned it, so she thought that he was either discreet, or did not know the reason for it.
	It seemed likely that Rokavere would keep her secret from the monks, for what purpose would she reveal it?  On the other hand, if Rokavere herself walked in dreamspace, the monks closest to her would surely take care of the body from which her spirit was absented.  And Thaddeus seemed her most trusted caretaker.
	However, it was possible that Rokavere no longer walked in her dreams, or took such short walks that the monks might be unaware her spirit was not present.  If that were the case, the monks might not even know of her talent.
	This seemed unlikely, upon reflection, as a mystic would surely exercise his or her talent often and at will.  She therefore reasoned that Thaddeus must have discerned Eborel’s state, and concluded that she was linked to the Queen somehow, as sister kindred spirits.  This warmed her heart considerably, to think she held the esteem of the monks in like manner to their vaunted Queen.
	Once the steppes were attained, Eborel’s course was obvious.  Towns and villages were easily avoided, as they could be seen from great distances.  Roads she had little need for, as the ground offered easy passage, since vegetation was sparse.  She hugged the trace of the mountains, as directed, though they were little more than foothills, and somewhat intermittent, at least for the first part of her journey.  She relished running on the open plains, rushing due west, from mound to mound, moving over the face of the land by her own sheer exertion of limitless energy.  No thirst or hunger dogged her steps.  Neither cold nor heat bothered her in the slightest.
	Eventually the hills steepened, and she took to following their low contours.  Progress slowed, and she became more vigilant in areas where visibility was reduced by terrain or trees.  When the views broadened, she scanned the plains for her straggling quadrumvirate.  But they could not be discerned, and she grew anxious.  Might she have passed them by?  How far west was she to go?  What if the plains ended, as she knew they eventually did, at the border of the Runnel’s north fork?
	But the Steppes were more vast than she would ever know, for an immense wasteland still lay between her and the faraway border of Dimwold.
	She ran.
	And presently, she heard something that pounded fear in her heart.  It was the unmistakable sound of shaking ground caused by horses – a lot of them.
	Wild horses would run free on the plains, and run at random.  These in the hills must surely be ridden by people to concerted purpose.  She looked franticly for a high vantage place to hide.  A tree nearby seemed her best recourse.  She clambered up quickly and clung to a branch midst the foliage.
	From her high position, she noted with dismay that ruts lay to the north of her path of travel, indicating recent passage.  How had she missed them?  A path of trampled earth was clearly discernable not two furlongs from her location.  She must have been running parallel to it, not realizing her proximity.
	Upon careful scrutiny, however, she determined that, while recently trodden, it was not an oft-traveled route.  Grass was bent over, and mud displaced, but the path did not have the well-worn look of a frequented passage.
	Soon, the horses came into view, each carrying a heavily cloaked rider.  From the distance, it was difficult to make out details, but the horsemen appeared to wear cloth masks of some sort.  She counted 40 horses, all mounted, except the last three, which carried sacks of goods.  They rode due east, with apparent urgency.  None looked in her direction, at least that she could descry.  But she was well hidden, and likely invisible to them, had any glanced her way.
	After a protracted time, when the silence had settled completely, she made her way cautiously down, out of the tree.  She kept a low profile, and walked, rather than ran.
	Her curiosity got the better of her, and she determined to approach the trammeled ground, with the intent of backtracking along the pathway, to discover whence the horsemen came.
	She moved cautiously, ever wary of finding a straggler riding from before her, or an errant messenger returning from the direction of the passed procession.  She moved from bush to rock, to bush again, in fitful bursts, running in open spaces, and pausing to reconnoiter in hidden places.
	Eventually, as she found nothing untoward, she eased her pace into a regular, yet watchful stride.  After a time, the wind picked up and she felt a chill.  More than a chill, she thought, it was an ominous feeling.  She slowed her pace again, and wrapped her robe tightly about her.
	She felt troubled, disoriented.  It was akin to her earlier search for water, which resulted in her finding Olinza Lake.  Her sense of time was skewed.  She felt as if she were in a waking dream – a state of mind induced by the need to dream while awake, due to the absence of sleep.
	She stumbled, fell to her knees, and hesitated.  Rokavere’s words came to her:  “You’ll hear yourself calling to your same self, in your mind’s ear, as you draw near.”
	Was she near to her same self now – her other body, her cleaved twin?  She looked up, struggling to see, vision blurred, and began to feel sick.  Cold, exhausted, aching terribly, and thirsty beyond measure.  “Must find water,” she said quietly; and then, falling over, she blacked out.

38.  Uncleaved
To thine own self be true.
-Unknown, from a previous age

	For the second time in less than a week, Eborel awoke from unconsciousness to find herself lying face up looking at the sky.  Both times, she was utterly spent with fatigue.  Now she also found that her limbs were restricted by bonds on her wrists and ankles.
	“What’s this?” she cried out, tugging at the ropes with her hands.  One of them snapped free as she did so.
	“Eborel?” said Darius, incredulous, lying next her.  “You live?  You’re back?”
	The others craned their necks to find her propped up on one elbow regarding them critically.  They were bound, as we know, spread-eagle, side-by-side, with a blanket lying atop each one.
	“What predicament has befouled us?” she asked.
	“Free us quickly,” cried Zedwyn, “that we might avenge ourselves on the scoundrels who did this!”
	Eborel felt for her blade, but found she was not wearing her monk’s robe.  Instead, she was attired in her habitual hide coat, which pockets were all bare.
	Nonetheless, she worked free her other arm, and untied the bonds to her ankles.
	“Hurry!” said Darius, but she moved as if underwater.  She raised herself slowly to a seated position and glanced around.
	“I can barely move,” she said, “for I am all sore.”  Then she rose to her feet and walked, limping awkwardly, in a direction away from them.
	“Eborel!” cried Darius, wondering where she was going.  “What are you doing?”
	“I’m looking for something,” she answered over her shoulder as she ambled out of sight.
	“Come back!” they yelled desperately.
	Eborel considered her present circumstance, for she was in want of the fine blade given her by the monks.  When she had first awakened in the meadow at the start of her dreamwalk weeks before, she had naught with her but her own body and clothes, which were evidently, according to Rokavere, an insubstantial “mirror” of her same true self, who had remained behind with her friends.
	But the knife and monk’s robe, though carried by her mirror-body, were themselves substantively real, or so she reasoned, and should not therefore have ceased to exist simply because her spirit self had now apparently rejoined her corporeal self.  Thus did she seek them out, hoping to come upon them in nearby environs, which, in due course, she did, discovering the robe thus, lying upon the ground, likely in the same spot where she had blacked out, and covering the precious knife underneath.
	Presently, her comrades heard a reassuring shout of, “Found it!” from beyond the bushes, and Eborel returned carrying a brown cloth and a small blade.
	“Where did you get that?” asked Darius, referring to the knife, more than the cloth, as she began cutting his bonds with her dirk.
	“A gift from the monks,” she answered.
	“Handy!” he replied, “But to what monks do you refer, for we have seen none?”
	“Tell me first how this came to be,” she said, indicating their dire arrangement as she worked on Rosario’s ropes next.
	“No, you tell us what was wrong with you first,” Rosario countered, looking up at her pointedly as she sliced through his bonds.  “And how you managed to come out of your torpor just now, seemingly at our most desperate hour.  We were overwrought at your condition, and then I thought we would surely die without ever finding out what was wrong with you.”
	She hesitated, then explained softly, “I was dreamwalking.”
	The others tipped their heads in puzzled aspect, to which she answered apologetically, “Sorry, it won’t happen again.”
	“Dreamwalking?” asked Darius, newly incredulous.
	“And thank you,” she added, ignoring him, “for taking care of me while I was away.”
	“And what is ‘dreamwalking’ exactly?” Darius asked for everyone.  “Walking and dreaming, at the same time, I suppose?  But for longer than one night – for days, turned to weeks, on end?”
	She nodded.
	“Well!” he exclaimed miffed, feeling that she had put them through needless worry for so long.  “You might have warned us you were going to do that!” he rebuked her.
	“I didn’t know myself that it would happen,” she answered.  “It wasn’t, in fact, until I visited the queen, Rokavere, at her home on Revelstoke Island, that I learned of the peculiar state into which I had fallen.”
	“The Queen, you say, on her island?” asked Rosario, considering.  “And were you actually visiting her, or just dreaming that you were visiting her?”
	“Well,” she hesitated, “actually visiting her, I think – or both,” she equivocated.  “I’m not sure, now that you mention it.  But everyone responded to me as if I were real, so I imagined I was really there.”
	“Imagined you were there, or were there?” Rosario pressed her.
	“Were,” she answered, “I mean was.  That is, I was definitely there, in actuality, even though I was dreamwalking at the time.”
	“And you’re not dreamwalking now?” asked Rosario, goading her.
	“Of course not!” she shot back.  “Do I look like I’m dreamwalking to you now?”
	“Well we wouldn’t know, would we?” he answered, suppressing a laugh.
	“I can assure you I’m not dreamwalking,” she answered adamantly, “because I’m sore, tired, hungry, and thirsty – all things I didn’t feel while I was in my dream state.”
	“How interesting!”  Rosario said thoughtfully, turning serious again.  He took a different tack in his questioning.  “That visitation, with Rokavere, as you’ve called her, on her island, Revelstoke … It wouldn’t, perchance, have occurred to the east of our present location, would it?”
	“Why, yes,” she answered, “east-southeast of here.”
	“And would you,” he continued, plying his theory, “just as a guess, really; possibly have encountered, or have become acquainted with, in your wanderings east of here, as you’ve said, a man of large stature and dark brooding countenance?”
	Eborel gave him a quizzical look.
	“Goes by the name of…” Rosario paused for effect, “Jebrel?”
	Eborel froze.
	Everyone stopped in reaction to her clear recognition at the name.
	“Hey!” cried Zedwyn, who was still bound.  “Don’t forget me!”
	Darius took Eborel’s blade from her momentarily paralyzed hand and freed Zedwyn.
	“Ah,” said Rosario, sizing the situation, and adding, rather sarcastically, given the circumstances, “A pretty picture is now here painted.”
	“Was he here?” she asked tentatively, after a moment’s silence.
	“Was he here?” muttered Darius mockingly.  “Was he here?” he asked again more loudly, fomenting his rage.  “Indeed, he was!” he cried as he ripped off his tunic to reveal the long horizontal sword wound on his stomach, now caked with dried blood.
	He faced Eborel to display the incontrovertible evidence of Jebrel’s violence upon his person, saying thus, “He did this to me!  To all of us, in fact!”  The others nodded in assent.
	Eborel melted to the ground moaning “Oh no.”
	“Yes,” interjected Rosario, “he did this to each of us – except you.  He cut your bonds, but spared your flesh the iniquity of his blade.”
	Eborel didn’t look up at the others.
	“What are your feelings for this Jebrel?” demanded Darius, standing accusingly above her folded body on the ground, “Because each of us wants to kill him with our bare hands.”
	She said nothing.
	“He rides east, to Phagix,” Darius stated flatly, asserting himself in challenge to her muteness.  “We must move quickly to take our vengeance, before the trail turns cold.”
	“We’ll have little stamina, or strength, with these wounds,” answered Zedwyn as he stretched gingerly.  “We’ve no food, water, or horses.”
	“Kill his leader, Xegon,” pleaded Eborel after a time, “but do not harm Jebrel, I beg you.”
	“I see,” said Darius scowling and nodding.  “It’s like that, is it?”
	She turned from him, unable to look into his face.  Her torn allegiance between her ashram friends – which had always been inviolable – and her newfound friend Jebrel, was herenow self-evident.
	“Well,” offered Rosario thoughtfully, “it was Xegon that ordered our deaths; Jebrel was merely the merchant of it.”
	Darius countered him pointedly, “Each member of his band is equally culpable for the actions of the others.  Xegon said it himself, when he pronounced murder upon you for my killing his men.”
	Eborel implored him, in defense of her friend, “It would have meant Jebrel’s death if he had not carried out his orders, I assure you.  Jebrel is a virtual slave to Xegon and his ruffians.  He cannot stand against them and live.”
	“I believe you,” said Zedwyn quietly.  “He told us as much himself.  But he must surely pay for his part in this skullduggery.”
	Rosario addressed Darius.  “Didn’t you promise Jebrel leniency if we survived?” he asked him.
	“Yes, but only if he aided in our escape.”
	Rosario pointed to Eborel as if to say, “He frayed her bonds, which effected our eventual freedom.”
	Darius nodded dourly, but responded, “He did not know Eborel would return from her dreamwalk in time to save us.”
	“True,” Rosario concurred.
	“I’ll see how I feel when we meet him next,” said Darius noncommittally.  “But I reserve the right to beat him to a bloody pulp!”
	The others tacitly accepted this, save Eborel, who muttered under her breath, “If you can.”
	Darius glared venomously.

39.  Phagix
Use your power!
-Exhortation to soldiers

	The immediate order of business was to find water, for they were all parched.
	“We won’t get far chasing horses on foot without food and water,” said Rosario.
	“Agreed,” said Darius.
	“But at the least,” continued Rosario, “we know where they are going.”
	“Yes,” added Zedwyn, “and may the Steppe have mercy on their souls if they tarry long in Phagix.”
	“Let’s walk back to the battle scene and assess our horses’ states,” suggested Rosario.
	They did so, trudging in silence, wondering what animal carnage they might find.
	Upon reaching the fateful place, they found two horses dead, and one mortally injured, but with no evidence of scavenging by other animals.  Miraculously, the buzzards had not yet smelled them, though circling birds were barely discerned high in the sky to the north.
	Items deemed useless by the ruffians were strewn about, including several pouches and gourds filled with water.  These were drunk eagerly, and not without thought by all that their attackers had made a critical mistake by not emptying them before leaving.
	Upon searching the ground carefully for lost items, a curved glass knife was found in the low brush, undoubtedly belonging to one of the thieves.  This Darius used to slit the throat of the horse still living, putting him out of his misery.
	A fire was started, and used to cook the fresh-killed horsemeat, which purpose was to fill their empty stomachs, but as a bonus, turned out to taste surprisingly delicious.
	No one knew how far it was to Phagix, or whether they could survive by hunting with two small knives and virtually no supplies.  They cut up as much horsemeat as they deemed could be eaten before it became foul, and packed it into sacks left by the bandits.  Carrying several containers of water each, they walked east, following the recently trodden path left by the band of thieves.

	Not much will here be said about the journey to Phagix.  Aid was found in their endeavor by chance discoveries, mostly seen at a distance on the Steppes, followed by short forays thereon to reap the benefits.
	A caravan was again espied, and a journey was this time determined thither to garner information about Phagix, and to make a request for water.  Both were freely given by the friendly but circumspect wagoners, in exchange for nothing more than an equanimous parting of ways.
	On another occasion, the killing of a mule deer by a pack of cayutes was witnessed from afar, and upon being visited by our group, the carnivores, being held at bay by stout sticks held high, unwittingly afforded a portion of their meat to the interlopers. 
	And again, later still, a lonely stand of green brush was seen on the plains, which tempted our travelers to approach to seek potable water.  They were rewarded for their efforts by finding a pool under its matted roots large enough to offer several draughts each, and allow refilling their containers.
	There were also edible tubers and wheat grasses found along the way, and though these offered scant aliment, the coarse roughage did yet sustain them.  The plant stuffs they gathered while traveling improved gradually in quality, peaking finally with the welcome discovery of nuts and figs, shortly before reaching Phagix.  This occurred a week after our cohorts started walking, which afforded them time to heal their wounds, in preparation for encountering and exacting hoped-for retribution against the bandits.

	And now a description of Phagix, as relayed by the caravaneers, is in order.  For the town was widely known, and avoided, by the peoples of the region.  Its location was many leagues east of the turn south towards Manx, which intersection they passed on the way, noting as they did so, that the detour to Phagix would delay their eventual plan to seek Elginzice by many days.  And while they sometimes lost the trail of the horsemen – usually by necessity, to avoid being seen upon the beaten path – it was always found again, and led unerringly in the direction described by the people of the caravan.
The town itself was large, located on the Steppes near the southern range.  Its townsfolk were farmers who lived under the thrall of the robbers, and who, being bound to them by fear, were forced on pain of death to serve the aggressors’ prodigious want of food and horses.
	The inhabitants did not abandon their town, despite the tribulations caused by their harsh overlords, because the land was productive, being situated near one of the few seasonal rivers of the Steppeweir, and also receiving a slightly larger share of rain than most areas, as they were set near the periphery of the plains.
	The town center was marked by several buildings, civic and communal in nature, played around a town square.  But most people lived in scattered farmhouses separated by wide fields radiating from the central core.
	The band of thieves did not live in the town; rather, they visited and plundered when their need seemed fit.  As such, the townspeople posted sentries at all times to warn of impending raids.  When they came, the people hid themselves in underground storm cellars, built for such occasions against the maraudings of men, more so than the wrath of nature’s inclement weather.
	The thieves and the townspeople maintained a precarious arrangement.  If not an actual truce, it was, at least, an unstated agreement, to which all parties adhered.  The townspeople retreated upon each arrival of the ruffians; all except the mayor, who remained in the town hall, as representative of the people, in case communication was required by either side.
	The townsfolk, by not opposing the gang, tacitly agreed to be plundered by them, in exchange for their very lives.  The thieves, given free access with little threat of violent resistance, randomly ransacked different homesteads upon each foray, spreading the damage across the whole of the town over time, in a sort of “just” application of evenly distributed mayhem.  They did not, however, seek out the cowering citizens in their storm shelters, to either harass or kill them.
	After each raid, the unaffected households donated goods to those that were devastated, knowing that their brethren would eventually do the same for them, when their turn inexorably came.
	The mayor was an old codger named Barkdale, who had been around since the raids first started in his youth.  He did not fear for his life from the robbers while he acted in his capacity as spokesperson for the town, for he knew he was worth more to Xegon alive than dead.  He had known Xegon from the beginning, and understood how to pander implicitly to his egomania, while at the same time, stand up to him when necessary (made possible by their lifelong history), in a way that no one else dared; to protect his people, or tell him off when his band had gone too far.
	It might be considered a mutual un-admiration society; the mayor speaking in palpably laudatory terms that masked the seething detestation of his people, and the gang leader simpering about the lack of gratitude on the part of the townspeople, considering that he could raze everything to the ground, if not for his generous spirit.
	Our fearsome foursome did not comprehend the subtleties of this precarious relationship, but they learned from the caravaneers of the rumor that the robbers lived along the river in the base of the hills, far from the town center.  And they knew enough to avoid being seen in town or in outlying areas, lest spies alert the hated gang to their presence.  For our cadres, the element of surprise would evidently be paramount, given the disproportionately outnumbered odds against them.
	As they came closer to their assumed destination, they began traveling at night, sleeping under cover during the day, and hiding their tracks according to their training.  As the plains became dotted with isolated abandoned farms and granges, they searched for the seasonal river they knew must be nigh.
	Dry gulches were generally discerned from a distance by the scrub brush that hugged their banks, but following them, once attained, proved confoundingly difficult.  Most seemed to dwindle, or end at embankments, natural or manmade, or terminate in caved-in scree.  And the direction of the original water flow that carved the gullies was not often easily deduced, causing them sometimes to follow their meandering courses in the wrong direction.
	Eventually, our determined cohorts found a trickling stream that proved enticingly promising.  Unfortunately, it wound through evermore inhabited areas, possibly towards the center of the town itself.  It was decided that they should therefore circumnavigate Phagix entirely along the hilly southeastern outlying area, and undertake to find the downriver branch upon the far side of the town, where the plateau on which it was situated dropped to lower elevations.
	This they did, and found welcome relief from the elements by entering into a sparsely forested region where they could hide themselves from wind, sun and people more easily.  They traveled through the night, finding a branch of the stream in the process, and followed it past two conjoins with other rivulets.  They camped in the predawn among a thicket of shrubs in a glen not far from the stream, which had by that time become a noisy brook.
	The following evening, they traveled again, but crept more carefully, since the noise of the creek masked ambient sounds.  The proliferation of trees grew denser, affording fewer distant views.  It was, in sooth, good cover for a gang hideout, and such knowledge was keenly felt by each of our colleagues.  Shortly before midnight, they came across a rutted road, obviously hoofed regularly by horses, with no attempt to cover the tracks.
	The road attended the bank of the small river they had been following, which tumbled towards a long deepening ravine that snaked through the hillocks.  Travel along it would be dangerous, as the bubbling whitewater noise would mask the sound of any rider coming around a bend.
	Here their military training served them well, as they split up, staying within each other’s view, moving in a line on the far bank of the river, paralleling the road on the nearer side.  The leader was Darius, who picked his way through the woods.  Eborel and Rosario followed, each looking regularly both backward and forward for any signals from the others, trailed by Zedwyn, who covered their tracks, and kept watch to the rear.
	At every turn, they expected to find the robber’s camp.  Their senses strained, as they listened and watched for any untoward sounds or movement.  After what seemed an eternity of creeping, Darius signaled “Stop,” and each one froze midstep as they received the sign from the person ahead, and simultaneously passed it to the person behind.  Darius snuck back slowly to Eborel and signaled “Retreat.”  The four joined together and walked back for several furlongs from the direction which they had come.
	They scampered up the side of the ravine, away from the river, and took counsel behind a natural barrier of rock and trees.
	They spoke in hushed tones.  “What did you see?” asked Rosario.
	“A blind,” answered Darius.  “High in a tree – a platform.  It could be a sentry.”
	“We’ve found them!” said Zedwyn, speaking for the group.  A palpable collective excitement coursed through their bodies.
	“What now?” asked Rosario.  “Dawn is not far off.”
	“We’ve only two knives,” said Zedwyn.  “We should have asked the townsmen to arm us with better weapons.”
	“No,” Rosario shook his head.  “Someone would have warned Xegon.  We have the element of total surprise.”
	Eborel, who had been brooding in silence, spoke, “I’m going in alone.”
	The others shook their heads vigorously.
	“Too dangerous!” said Darius, who was perhaps more anxious about being left behind.  “We fight as one.”
	“You three would die,” she said simply, looking each one in the eye, in turn.  
	“But we are the ones who were attacked and injured.  Vengeance is surely ours!” cried Darius, voicing his bloodlust.
	The others looked dour, but had already accepted that Eborel was right.
	“I will avenge you,” Eborel said quietly.
	Darius was beside himself.  “I cannot accept this!  Better to die fighting than stand aside, while you do the work.”
	“You will be needed when the real battle comes,” said Eborel, “against Gogolax.”
	The others froze at the mention of that name.
	“Indeed?” said Rosario.  “You learned that from Rokavere?” he inquired.
	Eborel nodded.
	“At least take our blade,” said Darius, proffering it.
	“I have need of mine own only,” she answered, refusing it.  “Yours may yet be required if any robbers attempt escape down the road.”
	The others felt a sense of foreboding as their parting seemed imminent.
	“Are we to simply wait for you here?” asked Rosario.
	Eborel shook her head.  “Go down to the road,” she said.  “Tie a rope across it at a bend in the path to fell any horses that may run by.  Kill anyone who tries to escape.”
	They nodded resolutely.
	“Except Jebrel,” she gave them a pointed look.
	“Yes,” said Darius, “leave him to us.”
	“I mean it,” said Eborel.  “I’m avenging your near murders at the hands of these devils.  Jebrel’s life is all I ask in return.”
	Darius scowled in mute assent, whereupon Eborel vanished before their very eyes, much as the gnomics had done at Thornberry Field so long ago during the feast of Mt. Excelsion.

40.  Revenge

Strike when the lumi are whet.
-Military adage 
(Whetted lumi are crescents, nearly new)

	Here we will follow Eborel’s progress, rather then the other three, as they merely proceeded according to her direction.  In sooth, as she traveled in time shift, she was already past the sentry before the others had even started down the hillside towards the river.
	Before leaving her friends, she changed into her monk’s robe, perhaps to gain the advantage of fear or confusion, however momentary, should she be seen by her foes.
	Her goal was to explore the encampment, counting bodies and memorizing their locations as she went.  She held her precious dirk close, which gift from the monks would now serve her well.
	There were actually four sentries; two in blinds hovering in the trees on either side of the road, and two more further along, in separate tents out of plain view, off to the side.
	The sentries in the trees appeared to be awake, or nearly so, while those in the tents slept.  The sleeping guards would be easy to dispatch, while those in the trees might prove difficult to take by surprise, owing to her need to climb up without making a sound that might be heard in real time.  It would be important to kill them before they had a chance to cry out.
	She felt detached as she walked, noting her own calculated determination to carry out the deadly deed.  Her talent for killing, so far reserved for wild animals only, was herenow turned to the task of men.  The stratagem was surprisingly similar:  stalk, wait for the right moment, strike without hesitation.  Any hint of remorse she might have felt was tempered by the knowledge that her cause was just, or so she hoped.
	Presently, she came to the center of the encampment and stood for a long while, contemplating.  The horses were mostly corralled nearby in a fenced field.  Yurts made of canvas over wood frames were scattered about.  A few campfires burned with embers from the night before.  The brook ran past near the edge of the camp.
	She mused at a strange irony that occurred to her.  The robbers had left her friends – and her own self, too – for dead, on a lonely slope.  In their minds, the four trussed bodies they left behind were already carrion as they rode away on their horses.  Now she felt the very same thing for them.  Forty robbers, strong and hale, now sleeping or resting peacefully, were already dead in her mind.
	She turned to the task.  Carefully entering each yurt in time shift, she counted the bodies within, and searched every face.  She entered the largest yurt last.  There was Xegon, attended by four guards, one of them Jebrel, who slept unknowingly, along with the rest.  She regarded his face for long moments, wondering at his reaction when she would soon rouse him.
	Thirty nine people she counted, including Jebrel.  It was not forty, but it would have to do.
	Cognizant that she might need to escape if something went very wrong, she decided to start near the periphery, and work her way inward, leaving the large yurt for last.  Before she started, she tied a rope tautly around the gate to the corral, so that it would slow down any attempt to free the horses, if only by seconds, which might prove precious.  She also tied several tight knots in the reins of the few horses who were tethered outside the corral.
	She went first to the two guard tents at the entrance.  Entering the first tent, she jammed some bed clothing into the sleeping guard’s mouth, poised her stiletto between his fifth and sixth ribs, then came out of time shift momentarily to soften the flesh, and plunged her blade in, twisting it as she pulled it back out, returning to shifted time in the process.
	She did not wait to see if the stab proved instantly fatal, as time was now literally of the essence.  She went to the other guard’s tent and executed him in like manner.  Moving quickly, she visited each yurt in turn, killing all the inhabitants.  The guards in the towers would be the last, as access to their blinds, as mentioned, might prove problematic.
	She was aware that if she missed the heart of any of her victims, they might live long enough to sound an alarm.  She resolved to return to each one after she had dispatched everyone, and slit their throats to assure their deaths.
	She worked mechanically and rapidly, inserting the blade, sometimes from the front, and sometimes from the back.  Coming out of time shift for each kill gave her an eerie awareness of the silence of the slaughter, but she was relieved to find that no one yet stirred.
	She saved the leader Xegon for last, staring at his face momentarily, recognizing him as the drunken lout at the Taverne on the Greene in Manx, where she had been a barmaid for a night.  Feeling for his ribs, she noted that he was wearing heavy underclothing, perhaps for protection, and possibly too thick to allow easy penetration with her blade.  She therefore held the stiletto over one of his closed eyes, and eased out of time shift, plunging the blade with a sharp wrap on the pommel, and shoving the shaft all the way into his brain.
	He died with a slight convulsion as she felt for the glass dagger strapped to his belt.  Removing this, she used it to slit his throat from ear to ear, then determined to do the same with the others, leaving Jebrel to sleep undisturbed.  She slipped back into slowed time and revisited all the yurts in reverse order, slitting every victim’s throat as she went.
	After that, she returned to the guard towers.  Climbing up to the first one, she was confounded to discover that it was fortified.  The trap door used to gain access to the platform underneath was latched from within.  The guard was evidently locked in, and the branches below the blind were shorn, such that climbing sideways and upward would not be possible.
	She clambered back down and gave consideration to this predicament while she returned to the main yurt.  There, she threw back her monk’s hood and lay down beside Jebrel facing him.  She slipped out of time shift, and gently waked him, whispering his name, and holding her finger to his lips in admonition to keep quiet.
	He opened his eyes as she spoke, “It is I, Eborel, keep still.”
	He blinked and whispered very quietly, “Eborel, are you mad?  Am I dreaming?“
	He turned his head about to see if anyone had been roused, ignoring her command to keep still.  “You will be killed!” he said urgently.
	“Everyone is dead,” said Eborel calmly.  “Your entire clan but two lies bereft of life, killed in their sleep, by me.  I have avenged my friends and freed you from your vile bondage of servitude to them.”
	He looked at her in utter disbelief.
	“You are now, truly, an orphan,” she added.
	Jebrel could see that Xegon’s face was covered in blood, and his neck severed.  He felt strangely afraid.  “You’re sure you killed everyone?”
	She nodded.  “I killed thirty six people, but left two guards in the tree blinds alive.  I will need your help to dispatch them.  Have I missed anyone?  I thought there were forty.”
	“I, … I’m not sure,” he answered uncertainly.
	“Come with me,” she said.  “We’ll check every tent.  You can tell me if anyone has been inadvertently spared.”
	He rose to regard those in the main yurt, looking at each face for a long moment, nodding to himself as if to verify that another of his comrades was truly dead.
	“We must walk softly,” said Eborel as they exited the yurt, “so we don’t alert anyone who might still be alive, or arouse the guards’ notice.”
	They moved quickly and quietly from yurt to yurt, verifying that everyone was dead, and that none had been missed.  Jebrel could not think of anyone else in his clan, save the four sentries at the entrance, whom he had not seen dead.
	They did not check the two guards in the tents, as they were located too close to the sentries.
	“I need your help luring the guards out of their blinds,” said Eborel.
	Jebrel nodded. 
	“Take one of the horses that I tied to the rails nearby and ride to the entrance,” she continued.  “Call out quietly to them that someone has infiltrated the camp, and admonish them to come quickly.”
	“Okay,” he answered.  “Shall I kill them when they come down from the trees?”
	“I will do the killing,” she said.  “I already have much blood on my hands, and I am leastwise compelled to complete my task.”
	“It could be dangerous,” he answered.  “Let me…”
	She gave him a pointed look as if to say, “I think I’ve proven myself by facing thirty six alone already.”
	He acquiesced, and moved to untie one of the horses.
	“Confound these knots!” he exclaimed.  “Did you tie these?”
	She nodded, and explained, “In case someone tried to escape.”
	“Will you also ride a horse?” he asked.
	“No,” she answered.  “Leave me behind.  Don’t worry, I’ll be there when you arrive at the blinds.”
	He gave her a quizzical look.
	“You won’t see me, but I’ll be there,” she said.
	“Eborel,” he said, perplexed, “I don’t understand.”
	“I’ll explain later,” she answered.  “Have no fear.  When the guards drop from the trees, keep your eyes trained on them.  I will appear standing behind them the moment they are killed.  It’s a special ability I have – you’ll see.  After the one closest to you dies, look immediately at the other guard, and you’ll see him die also.”
	Jebrel’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and remained so as he rode off at her insistence.  Magic this was, he thought, or some kind of sorcery, and he wondered again if she were somehow possessed, as may have been the case when he last saw her impassive body tied to the stakes on the hillside.  And too, he couldn’t quite compass the enormity of being suddenly freed of the lifelong tyranny of Xegon’s brigands.
	When he arrived at the sentry posts, he did just as Eborel suggested.  Both guards scrambled down from their respective trees, and approached him.  The plan suddenly seemed madness to Jebrel, who placed his hand on the haft of the blade hidden under his robe in readiness to meet the guards in sudden violent engagement.
	But it never happened, as the reader may well imagine.  Jebrel kept his eyes fixed upon the closer of the two approaching guards, only to see Eborel appear suddenly standing behind him, serenely garbed in her monk’s robe; just as the poor wretch inexplicably dropped to his knees, then sprawled forward, face first into the dirt, seemingly struck dead in his tracks.
	Jebrel was so shocked that he forgot to look at the other guard, before he heard him also fall to his knees; when, as he turned his head to see the second one sprawl face first, also dead, onto the ground; he then beheld Eborel, who remained visible, standing over his body, holding her bloodied stiletto.
	She looked directly at Jebrel who stared back in nonplussed awe.
	“That’s thirty eight,” she said simply.
	“Eborel,” said Jebrel, stammering.  “I don’t know what to say.  Why didn’t you tell me you had this ability?  We could have run away together…” He trailed off.
	“Mayhap I should have told you in Manx,” she answered, as she bent over to slit the guard’s throats.  “I wasn’t ready, and still had much journeying to do.  But this terrible killing would still have been necessary.  We couldn’t live together in perpetual fear of these ruffians showing up someday to murder you.”
	“But your friends!” he exclaimed.  “I would never have cut them if I had known.”
	“Yes,” she nodded, “there is still a reckoning that must needs be accounted for that.  My friends are nearby, so we will go to them now.”
	She began walking along the road, gesturing for Jebrel to follow on foot, leading his horse.
	Jebrel’s head dropped as he walked, for he now felt certain that while he was saved by Eborel, he would yet surely be the final member of his clan to die this dawn, but rather at the hands of her friends, whom he had grievously wronged.

41.  Reckoning
An eye for an eye.
-Ancient, lost to cultural memory

	The two walked for some distance down the road, one disconsolate, the other entirely spent.  Presently, at a bend in their course, a taut rope was seen tied across the path, at a height above the ground of a horse’s knee.
	Eborel retired to a rock by the roadside to rest, while Jebrel remained standing aside his steed, which, incidentally, late belonged to Xegon.
	From without the bushes beyond the rope emerged our three cohorts, who approached warily.  They were as a triumvirate; now aligned, it seemed, in contraposition to Jebrel and Eborel, literally divided by the rope in the road that separated them.
	“What has transpired?” asked Darius to Eborel.
	Eborel sat mute, plumbing her reserves for strength.
	Jebrel answered for her, “All are dead, save me.  Eborel has killed them, by some strange witchcraft.  The tribe is gone, murdered in their sleep.”
	Eborel looked down, as if in assent, whereupon Darius drew his knife ominously, but proceeded to use it to cut the rope across the road at its ends, removing the barrier between them.
	Darius then stepped forward, still brandishing his knife.  Jebrel, in response, drew his blade also, but in a surprising gesture of supplication, tossed it to the ground a few paces in front of him.  He withdrew his infamous curved scimitar also, and lodged its horned end vertically in the dirt, dropping to one knee as he did so, while draping his arms over its upturned grip, and bowing his head.
	“You won’t fight me?” asked Darius halting in his tracks.
	“To what end?” replied Jebrel. 
	“To the death!” answered Darius, with perhaps too much zeal.
	Both Zedwyn and Rosario sprang forward to restrain him.
	“I’ll have my way with him!” cried Darius.
	“He means us no ill will,” said Rosario, assuaging him.  “He came unbidden, knowing his possible fate, and has thrown down his weapon.  Indeed, I believe he is remorseful.”
	“Then I’ll fight him with no weapons,” countered Darius.
	“Again,” said Jebrel, “to what end?  Wouldst you kill me now here with your bare hands?”
	“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Darius petulantly, asserting a new idea that suddenly occurred to him.  “I’ll offer terms for victory in a fair fight – an even accounting, to settle our score.”
	The others listened with interest.  “If you win,” he continued, unabashed, “you will be forgiven entirely and all will be forgotten, as if you never harmed us.  If I best you, however, each of us will cut your stomach, three horizontal wounds, the like which you gave us.”
	This suggestion startled the others, and Zedwyn piped up, “I will not cut him!”
	“Nor I,” Rosario chimed in.  “Give it up Darius, there’s no point to this!”
	“Then I’ll cut him for you, three times, once for each of us,” answered Darius, trembling with rage.
	Jebrel remained on bended knee while Eborel watched silently nearby.
	“I offer another resolution to this vexing situation,” Jebrel stated calmly.
	All listened attentively to his counter-offer.
	“For I have promulgated a gross injury upon your very persons,” he continued, “the like for which I must surely pay.”
	Darius nodded fervently.
	“Irrespective,” added Jebrel, “of whether or not I can best you in a match of fair combat.”  He looked pointedly at Darius, who glowered in return.
	“I propose,” said Jebrel, “as compensation for my prior iniquitous actions against you, that I oath-swear complete and utter fealty to you now; that I further promise to support your endeavors and protect you, as best as I am able, to the end of my days; even if it costs me mine own life to save yours, if need be, in repayment for my nearly taking your lives, during our earlier regrettable encounter.”
	Darius was incensed.  “You wish to join our group?”
	Jebrel kept still, answering effectively in the affirmative by his abstention.
	“You’re not ashram-trained,” Darius argued.  “We’ve no proof of your skill.”
	“Do you really need any?” asked Zedwyn.  “We know his history, and doubtless, his reputation precedes him.”
	“He would make a powerful ally,” added Rosario.
	“But he can’t be trusted,” asserted Darius.
	All eyes save Jebrel’s turned toward Eborel for affirmation or denial of such.
	“His word is bond,” she said simply.  “But speaking of fealty,” she continued, addressing Jebrel, “you trade here bonded service to one group – the marauders – for like bondage to another – us – with no space of freedom between.  Why?”
	Jebrel answered carefully, turning to Eborel as he did so.  “I have known only forced slavery my entire life.  But I now choose service of a different kind, to a just cause, and of my own free will.  I am herenow bound by duty, and not coercion.”
	Eborel nodded.
	“That’s good enough for me,” said Rosario.
	“You would travel with us to Elginzice, then?” asked Zedwyn.
	“Yes,” answered Jebrel, “if you would have me.”
	“But would you fight with us against the dreaded Gogolax, as seems inevitable?” pressed Darius.
	“If that be our fate,” answered Jebrel.
	“But you won’t fight me?” asked Darius, indignant.
	“We are on the same side,” said Jebrel.  “Oath-sworn to mutual purpose and protection.”
	Darius was unconvinced.  “How can we assess your bravery and skill in battle?” he asked.  “How do we know you won’t flee when the moment of fear is greatest?”
	Eborel answered for Jebrel, “We may yet see him in action before we oppose Gogolax, Darius.  In any case, mock battle, if that’s what you’re proposing with Jebrel, would be no true test of the mettle that must needs be mustered by the sheer terror of real combat.”
	Darius remained dour, but the others were buoyed by the inclusion of Jebrel in their group, now enhanced to five warriors; and henceforth graduated from a quadrumvirate to a quinquevirate.
	Both Rosario and Zedwyn clapped Jebrel heartily on the back in glad welcome of his company, while Darius strode away fuming at the seeming injustice of the new turn of events.
 
	Herenow the task of cleaning up the massacre was addressed by the group.  For leaving the grisly carnage exposed to the elements was unthinkable, and the horses, too, could not simply be left behind, or freed, to wander without food and care.
	A mass grave was considered, but would have constituted a prodigious undertaking, so it was deemed best to burn the bodies together in a great bonfire.  It was further decided that the horses should be herded to the town of Phagix for distribution to the townsfolk as just recompense for their long suffering under the bandits’ brutal regime.  The yurts and stolen treasures, many of which were likely secreted about the camp, would be left behind for the villagers to seek out and plunder.
	Five of the best horses were appropriated by the quinquevirate, with Eborel riding Xegon’s steed.
	The task took full two days to accomplish.  On the third morning, all was made ready to march without.  The horses were packed with as many provisions as could be carried, including hay and feed, clothing, bedding, and several of the robbers’ lesser tents.
	The group also found the four medallions taken from Eborel, as well as the stolen items gifted by Brindlebeck, which they added to the horses’ packs, intending them as personal offerings to the mayor.  Eborel was much impressed by the gifts, which are hereforth listed again as a reminder to the reader:  several pouches of spices, a metal samovar for brewing tea, a serrated metal knife with jeweled haft, a painted porcelain camel butter dish, and three tethered bolo balls for hunting.
	The map of the Steppeweir, also given them by Brindlebeck, was ceded to Rosario for inclusion in his historical documents.
	Thus arrayed, and riding three to the fore, and two to the rear, separated by two long lines of 40 riderless horses, each harnessed side-by-side and front-to-back, did they sally forth intent on making a triumphal entrance to Phagix.

42.  Phagix Redux

I adjure it so, upon my soul!
-Draeic solemn oath

	Eborel’s entourage was spotted leagues before it reached its destination by the ever-watchful residents of Phagix.  Rather than fleeing to their hiding places, as was past habit upon seeing the gang’s approach, the locals made their way to the town square to consult with their mayor.
	Barkdale was attending on the green along with most of the town’s inhabitants when the long double-line of horses trod down the last boulevard to the town center.  The final few furlongs were a parade route, with people lining the street in curious anticipation and rank speculation.
	Eborel rode at the fore with Jebrel’dar at her side.  His sizable profile easily identified him as the bodyguard of Xegon, which incited alarm in the bystanders, though in sooth, while he had often been seen riding with raiding parties, none had ever actually witnessed him partake in the plundering.
	Upon entering the square, Barkdale was found standing at its center, awaiting the lengthy procession.  Once the horses were assembled full in, the riders dismounted and approached him.  Each bowed his head in acknowledgement to the mayor’s leadership position, including Jebrel.
	Barkdale returned their bows and gestured broadly, saying, “To what do I owe this grand visitation?”
	Eborel spoke for the group, saying thus:  “The marauders of Xegon are vanquished; you are released from their terrible reign.  These horses were theirs, and are freely returned to you, whence they likely came, and are offered as a gift from us, and proof of your subjugator’s demise.”
	The crowd buzzed audibly, and erupted into enthusiastic applause.
	“Demise?” asked Barkdale, incredulous.  “Mayhap our ‘subjugators’ are simply scattered, and yet live to torment us?”
	“They are all dead,” answered Jebrel in Eborel’s stead.  “Killed by Eborel herself, by her own hand.  I witnessed the carnage myself, as did the others.”  He gestured to her friends.  “We burned the bodies at their hideout, not two days thence.”
	“If this be true,” answered Barkdale cautiously, but with rising enthusiasm, “then a celebration is surely in order.”
	The crowd cheered.
	“But how is it,” continued Barkdale, now pointedly addressing Jebrel, “that you yet live?”
	“He was a slave to their bidding,” answered Eborel for him.  “I ask you to spare him now.  In return, he will pledge never to harm anyone of Phagix.”
	Jebrel nodded in assent.
	“We shall see,” said Barkdale noncommittally, “but I do not control the will of the people; merely mirror it.” 
	“Anyone who goes against Jebrel must go through me,” said Eborel with a flash of anger.
	“A dubious prospect,” averred Barkdale, “in light of your late considerable conquest.  But how is it that such a slip of a girl as yourself was able to overwhelm the indomitable gang of ruffians that a whole township could not quell – and do so single-handedly it seems?”
	“She is a first class warrior,” Darius interjected, “for she is the one who is indomitable.  To prove it, I challenge anyone here to best her in a fair fight!”
	Eborel shot him a look of reproach, as if to signal that it was not his place to issue challenges on her behalf.
	The crowd became excited, however, as some goaded others to approach and accept the challenge.
	Darius whispered fervently to Eborel.  “We’ll win their confidences when they witness your prowess,” he urged her.
	She nodded in understanding and agreement, for a powerful alliance might here be forged with the Steppeweir folk upon their attending a compelling contest of fighting skill.
	“Any weapons,” she shouted to the crowd, taking up Darius’ bravado.  “Any terms, save death!” she cried.
	“Eborel,” Rosario adjured her in a fierce whisper.  “That’s too broad.  What if someone walks out of the crowd with your same abilities?  What if a mob somehow traps you?  It’s too dangerous!”
	“Watch my back,” she answered him.  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take to win their good graces – and maybe those of all Steppefolk.”
	The crowd formed a wide human ring around Eborel and Barkdale, creating an impromptu arena on the green, while her friends distributed themselves evenly about its circumference, taking considered positions of watchful readiness.  The horses were led to another area to graze.
	Eborel pulled out her knife and tossed it to Zedwyn, rolling up her sleeves as she did so to show that she was entirely unarmed.  Rosario shook his head in serious doubt, and kept his own blade ready at hand, his eyes scanning the crowd for trouble.
	A large man holding a stout stick entered the ring, pushed in by his friends.  Barkdale issued the simple terms:  “Cry ‘forfeit’ when you’ve had enough.”  He would evidently be the ringmaster and referee.
	“Strike me where I stand!” defied Eborel, holding her open arms out to her sides, in impassive entreaty.
	The man raised his stick and approached, somewhat irresolutely, as if unsure he could force himself to attack a seeming defenseless girl with whom he had no quarrel.
	Yet he swung his stick, aiming to hit only her arm, but inexplicably missed entirely.  For she remained unmoved, arms outstretched; yet somehow, the stick appeared to swing straight through its target, all the way to the ground.  Perplexed, the man backed up a step, then charged, aiming the stick spear-like for her torso.  Again, he missed, and as he passed close to her, she slammed the trailing end of his staff into his abdomen.  As he doubled over, she removed the weapon from his grasp, and held it over him.  He reached up to try and grab it back from her, but she brought it down with a seeming instantaneous rap upon his head, and he dropped dazed to near unconsciousness.  Several people ran into the ring to attend him, as she tossed the appropriated stick insolently into the crowd, daring anyone else to oppose her.
	The people were abuzz at her quick dispatch of the man, when another entered the ring brandishing a knife.  Barkdale held up his hand to stop him until the previous contestant, who was still recovering, could be removed by his friends.  When he was out of the ring, the second challenger approached, and the crowd grew quiet.
	The man waved his knife menacingly as Eborel cast him a critical gaze.  Her friends were at the ready to rush in should he actually cut her.  He brandished his knife expertly, tossing it back and forth between his hands as he circled her, shuffling sideways to keep his distance.  She turned to face him as he moved, but didn’t worry, excepting that he might throw the knife suddenly, for which she allowed herself she would be ready.  She moved in and out of time trance, scanning the crowd for other threats as she maintained vigilance over her current assailant.
	As he seemed hesitant to rush her, she eventually taunted him by turning her back, keeping it thus faced toward him as he moved sideways, by slowly rotating herself.  The crowd began to chant “Attack!” and he eventually lunged.  Eborel alternated rapidly in and out of time shift so she could turn her head every heartbeat or so without the crowd detecting it.  At the moment of the lunge, all four of her friends stepped into the ring with knives drawn, save Jebrel, who had only his sword, and did not want to brandish weaponry among the people.
	But Eborel was ready for the attack, and stepped aside in time shift, reaching for his knife as it slipped past her in slowed motion, and peeling his fingers off while simultaneously kneeing him in the stomach, which caused him to release his grip from off the weapon’s haft.  As he fell to the ground, she pinned him down and held his own purloined blade to his neck, pulling his head up by the hair to exhibit his decided vulnerability.
	“I yield!” he cried, but she did not relent.
	“I yield, I say!” he repeated as she pressed the blade closer.
	“What’s the correct word?” she asked him as the sharp edge began piercing his skin.
	“Uh,” he faltered, then recalled, “Forfeit!”
	She released him, standing up as the crowd roared, dropping the blade on the ground next to him.  He picked it up and skulked off as another challenger entered the ring brandishing a long sword.  He held it by both hands high above his head parallel to the ground pointed menacingly towards her.
	While a large sword was more dramatic than a knife, and made a palpable impression upon the crowd, it was in sooth, more slowly wielded, and Eborel knew she would have no trouble avoiding its deadly sweep or thrust.
	She scanned the crowd in time shift noting that some people were becoming more restive as the challengers were dispatched in unseemly casual fashion by her.  She feared for Jebrel, as his back was to the crowd while he watched her intently.  It was she who should protect him, and not the other way ’round.
	The man with the sword charged full on, twirling the blade with his wrists as he fell upon her, causing a flash of silver calculated to take her head off in one vicious swipe.  She ducked in time shift, of course, whereupon she found herself in close quarters with her assailant.  As his blade circled past her above, and all the way around behind him, she shot two punches in rapid succession to his midsection.  He dropped to his knees, felled by the violence of the concussive blows, and released his sword involuntarily, which then spun through the air, landing loudly on the ground far behind him.
	Eborel stood back out of his reach as he doubled over holding his stomach and hissing, “Forfeit” through his clenched teeth.
	Now, after having prevailed so decisively, and with apparent near effortlessness in three straight bouts, no one seemed willing to enter the ring to face her.  All scanned the audience, looking for another challenger.  Just as Barkdale appeared ready to proclaim Eborel the champion, two people armed with multiple weapons stepped into the ring together, as an apparent team.
	“Halt!” commanded Barkdale.  “One at a time!”
	Eborel shook her head in opposition.  “Bring it,” she said, gesturing both of them forward.  Now the situation seemed much more complicated, and the crowd quieted to ready anticipation.
	The two circled her at a distance, spreading out so she could face only one of them at a time.  The first opponent carried two thin blades; a long one in his left hand, and a short one in his right.  In his belt was sheathed a throwing knife.  The second foe carried a long pike, and packed a sword and knife on his belt.
	The crowd grew still.  Even in normal time, the audience appeared to Eborel as the statues they mirrored in time shift, except that the breeze wafted their clothing gently.
	Now Eborel worried a little more about the knives in their belts, as either one could hurl his in a swift motion while she was engaged with the other.  But for the moment, the hands of both assailants were occupied, holding other weapons.  She vied to keep them diametrically opposed to her by moving sideways to keep all three in a line, with herself at the center, hoping that either one would hesitate to launch a weapon with his colleague directly behind her.  The pike, she noted, was slim enough to be heaved as a javelin.
	She turned her body slowly left and right as she swiveled her head, first to one opponent, then to the other.  She blinked in and out of time shift to monitor their body positions more closely.  The three of them moved slowly counterclockwise, as a rotating wheel, and slid sideways, toward one edge of the ring, in consequence of her keeping them aligned.
	While turning her head in real time, she noticed a movement near Jebrel, incongruous because of the relative motionlessness of the audience.  Ironically, it was not something she would have perceived in slowed time, as everyone would have appeared frozen – including the one who now stood out, as he moved to apparent urgent purpose against a background of stilled people.
	She slipped immediately into protracted time shift, and studied Jebrel’s vicinity.  The person previously seen moving was partly hidden behind Jebrel.  He looked to be robed, much like a monk, possibly in disguise of some sinister intent.
	Feeling alarmed, she moved towards him, as fast as possible in the viscid air, not pausing to reflect that her disappearance would spark astonishment in the crowd and consternation among her friends.
	By the time she drew near to Jebrel, the figure behind him, whose hooded attire did indeed obscure his deadly design, was seen to wield a curved glass knife, of the type used by the marauders, poised in apparent mid-foist, aimed squarely at Jebrel’s back.
	Eborel had arrived at the brink of assassination, and knew she had only moments, even in extremely slowed time, to intercede on Jebrel’s behalf, by somehow halting or deflecting the offending blade, before it entered his back.  She tried pushing the assailant aside, but his rigid body had the momentum of a granite statue, in consequence of the near-stilled time.  The same would be true of Jebrel, who was considerably larger.  Evidently, they would both be entirely implacable, unless the pace of time could be sped up, which, under the circumstances, would prove fatal to Jebrel.
	She searched the ground nearby for a block of wood, or any hard substance that might intercept the blade’s progress.  There was nothing.  A stone might work, but the few at hand were rounded, and would not guarantee stopping the blade short.
	Eborel felt frantic, as the knife moved perceptibly closer to Jebrel’s vulnerable back.  Many people around her wore shoes with hard leather soles which might block the blade, but she would not be able to remove them in time.  Even if someone’s foot was already in the air such that she could yank off its covering, the lacings would be as stiff as wire.  She could remove her own shoes, but they were soft moccasins made of supple leather, and would be entirely ineffective at stopping the knife.
	She searched her pockets for something hard, but found nothing larger than a medallion, which wouldn’t block a knife in full thrust.  She patted the assailant’s pockets, but came up empty.
	Desperate, as the knife loomed closer, she searched Jebrel’s pockets, too, and found something hard.  It was rectangular, and ensconced in a large pouch-like pocket on the outside of his jacket with a flap folded over it.  She pulled the flap up, which yielded only slowly.  Her hand reached in and felt what might be a book, which would do nicely, but she could not easily remove it.  Slowly rotating the object so the narrower edge faced the pocket opening, she pulled it up, but could not get it out.
	The knife hovered menacingly close, perhaps two hand breadth’s away from Jebrel.  The attacker’s face was contorted in a look of ecstatic fury.
	Eborel pried the pocket opening wider, first on one end, then the other.  She slid a corner of the object out, and used its leading edge to further widen the pocket opening by sliding it wedge-like toward the second corner, until it emerged.
	Once the entire narrow edge protruded completely, she was able to slide the whole object out easily, and place it quickly on Jebrel’s back, centered directly under the tip of the slow-plunging blade.
	It was indeed a book, and as she had lain it with the front cover face forward and upright by happenchance, it was evident from the embossed triune on its surface that it was a copy of Enplexus.  How fortunate, she thought, that Jebrel carried it with him, a habit previously unbeknownst to her, as it would now serve to save his very life.
	With her left hand she held the book in place on his back, and with her right forearm raised, took a stance in preparation to knock the assailant’s stabbing arm away.
	She then slid out of time shift, the better to subdue the assassin, and to cry out a warning to Jebrel.
	This she did with a shriek, the effect which redirected Jebrel’s focus in startling fashion, while he simultaneously felt a sudden blow to his back, causing him to recoil forward.  The audience let out a collective yell of surprise at the sudden disappearance of Eborel from the ring, then diverted their attention to the location of her shrieking voice, though most could not see whence it issued.
	What ensued next was chaos, as Eborel’s friends rushed toward her voice with weapons drawn, and the people near her stepped back to avoid the two scuffling bodies.  The challengers in the ring remained frozen where they stood, unsure what was going on.
	Eborel managed to remove the assailant’s knife from his hand by moving into time shift again, but he was mad with fight.  She knocked him down to the ground as he kicked and screamed, “Traitor!”  She threatened him with his own blade, but it had no effect as he seemed fey beyond reason, not caring if she killed him on the spot.
	Jebrel turned to help Eborel wrest the attacker into submission, eventually managing to sit on his legs and pin his arms.  He did not notice the book, which had fallen to the ground nearby.
	The assailant lay face up, volleying execrations at Jebrel, who returned his gaze stolidly as Rosario, Zedwyn, and Darius arrived.
	All stared down at the pitiable creature, squirming under Jebrel’s considerable weight. 
	“A past victim of your marauding days?” asked Darius, wondering if Jebrel recognized him.
	Jebrel shook his head in answer.
	“Throwen?” asked Eborel, casting her gaze about to see if anyone in the crowd knew him.
	Jebrel shook his head again.
	“Possessed?” asked Zedwyn.
	“No,” answered Jebrel.
	None among the nearby onlookers betrayed any recognition of him, for he did not appear to hail from Phagix.
	“He is an ex-clan member,” said Jebrel, elucidating for all.  “Maybe the only other survivor, save me.  His name is Grymillian, and he was not with us when Eborel destroyed the gang.  He was ill-favored by us; but apparently, he still feels allegiance to his bandit family, despite the fact that we turned him out.”
	The mayor approached, and the crowd parted for him.
	“Perhaps we should turn him over to the Phagicians,” said Eborel acknowledging Barkdale’s arrival.
	“There will be little love lost between him and the locals,” responded Jebrel.
	“We’ll take him,” said Barkdale, looking down and recognizing Grymillian’s face from raids long past.  Eborel appeared perturbed at what might be his fate.
	“Don’t worry,” he reassured her.  “We’ll lock him up for a while, then put him to work in the fields.  We need able-bodied farmers.”
	He motioned to four men to take him away.  As he was led off, still raving about Jebrel’s treachery, Barkdale said, “He was just a lackey, doing Xegon’s bidding – a lost soul, really.  He’ll probably run away eventually, but not before we try to make a home for him here.  He evidently has the capacity for rank loyalty, but it will not likely transfer to us.”
	Eborel picked up the book of Enplexus, and showed it to all, revealing the knife slit that cut through the Triune imprinted on the front cover.
	As she handed it to Jebrel, she said, “Verily, this saved your life.”
	“Or rather, you did,” he said in thanks, taking the book sheepishly.
	The mayor addressed the crowd:  “The challenges are herenow halted, and I hereby declare Eborel the victor!”  He held up her hand and the throng cheered.  Even the warriors in the ring stayed their weapons to applaud.
	Eborel seized the opportunity to address the crowd.
	“People!” she cried.  “I have freed you from the dreaded marauders.”
	An enthusiastic cheer was raised.
	“But before you celebrate,” she continued, “know that there is a much greater malevolence which threatens you from the East!”
	This pronouncement had a disquieting effect on the masses.
	“The gang of thieves plundered you, but they left your land and lives intact.  Not so with the forces arrayed against you from the Riftlands,” Eborel pronounced ominously.
	“What forces?” someone shouted from the audience, to hushed murmuring.
	“I am reliably informed by many sources,” she continued, “that an ancient enemy is arising again.  He vows to destroy the land entirely, and wrest power from the mystics, perhaps even destroying them as well!”
	This had a perplexing effect upon the throng.
	“Destroy the mystics?” asked Barkdale, incredulous.  “What enemy could do that?”
	“His name is Gogolax,” she proclaimed to the crowd, who were stultified by her utterance, as though rendered witless by their ignorance of the name.  Rosario winced at its being spoken out loud so publicly.
	Eborel repeated it again, for emphasis, as she had heard it spoken in the thunder on Mt. Excelsion, “Gooooh-gooooh-laaaax.”
	The crowd was roused to palpable discomfiture.
	“He will have a great army and he will show you no mercy!” she pressed on.
	The crowd cried out in dismay.
	“His hordes will sweep across the land obliterating everything in their path,” she continued.  “You must prepare yourselves to fight the onslaught – for the land, and for your very lives!”
	This had the effect of propelling the people to a state of near hysteria.
	“But how are we to prepare?” someone called out.
	“And who will lead us?” asked another.
	“The mystics will lead,” answered Eborel.  “They are organizing a military strategy to oppose the threat.  Already, they have trained many skilled warriors, such as those who ride with me today.”
	“I don’t see any mystics,” cried out another person.  “I see only you – Eborel.  You must lead us!  You have the power!”
	Eborel faltered, turning to Barkdale for a sign of support, but found none.  Evidently, she would must needs respond to this plea entirely on her own.
	“I cannot lead you now,” she answered them.  “I ride to Elginzice to confer with the King.  You must prepare for open warfare on your own.  Join forces with other Steppefolk.  Make a pact to defend the Steppe-entire from invasion, for it is surely coming.  You will hear more rumors in the ensuing months.”
	There was considerable consternation among the assemblage.  She ended her speech with a Draeic utterance calculated to convince the people of the heartfelt earnestness of her assertion:  “I adjure it so, upon my soul,” she swore loudly.
	The crowd went fairly mad.
	“Eborel!  Eborel!” they chanted.  “Lead us!  Lead us!”
	Eborel turned to Barkdale.  “You’re their leader,” she said to him.  “See to it that they prepare.”
	“They want you,” he answered.  “I’m only their leader in peacetime.”
	“You have peace for the moment,” she answered.  “Use it to mobilize for war.  Join forces with other Steppefolk to common purpose.  Gogolax is enemy to all.”
	“I will do my best,” said Barkdale bowing to her authority.
	“We take our leave now,” said Eborel.  Barkdale nodded in understanding.
	“But we have left gifts for you packed on one of the horses in the pasture.”
	Barkdale answered, “I’m honored.”
	“Forgive us for not presenting them properly to you,” said Eborel, “for we are in particular haste.”
	“I understand,” he said.
	“Please display them to your people during the celebration of your newfound, but mayhap short-lived, freedom from oppression.”
	“I will do that,” said Barkdale, “but please, consider coming back to lead us after your visit with the King.”
	“I will certainly do so if it is the King’s bidding,” she replied.  “I shall put in my best words with him regarding the fine people of Phagix.”
	“Thank you, I’m sure,” said Barkdale with a low bow.
	And with that, our cadre was again away on their ever-pressing journey.

43.  Elginzice
To the King!
-Common drinking toast

	Within a few days, our group rejoined the north-south road.  Travel speed over their retraced route was markedly improved by their use of the appropriated horses.  They turned left at the road, and shortly proceeded off the steppes down into the valley along the attenuated highway that wound midst plunging ravines towards the river plain below.
	Upon the latter portions of that road, they overtook the very same caravan met with upon the plains, whose kind folk had given them water, and directions for seeking Phagix.
	Eborel halted the caravan, and requested a brief meeting with its leader.  Audience was given in a covered wagon, wherein Eborel thanked the chief caravaneer for his information, and relayed the story to him of the vanquished marauders of Phagix.  The leader was much pleased that such a scourge of the Steppes had been so expunged, and Eborel offered him as a gift, the very knife, with curved glass blade, that she had used to slit the bandit’s throats, which as the reader will recall, had belonged to Xegon himself.
	This the leader accepted gladly, whereupon they parted on the best of terms.  Eborel’s purpose in doing such, evidently, was to help spread the word of her prowess in battle, and augment her reputation for graciousness and integrity.  She did this not for her own aggrandizement, but rather, in furtherance of her cause against Gogolax, for which she laid the groundwork, as she had in Phagix, to eventually inform, ally, and recruit the populace entire against him.

	After passing the caravan, the party turned east, following the Maywend River, as directed by Thaddeus back at Antequoi.  Here they became confounded by the twists and turns taken by both the river and the road that followed it.  Each crossing of the roadway over the water brought renewed doubts about their true direction of travel.
	Sometimes, indeed, due to oxbows in the river that reversed the compass direction of the flow of water, they found themselves traveling west instead of east.  And while they endeavored to move always upstream against the flow, forks and branch rivulets in the river found them sometimes traveling downstream instead.  The road even switched back and crossed itself in some places, such that revisiting these “self-intersections,” as it were, informed them that they could naught but be going in circles!
	Even the sun, once it hung low in the sky, perplexed them.  For, after seeing it lie above the western horizon, Eborel found by some trick of reflection, that when she turned around to face east, the sun also shone above the horizon there.  Turning suddenly west again to verify her position, she found the sun did not in fact hang where she had imagined, so that she completely lost her bearings concerning fixed directions.
	This was the embranglement of the mind, as mentioned by Brindlebeck, that occurs upon approaching Elginzice.  At the least, they knew they were on the right track, as mental confusion reigned supreme.
	Others met with upon the road were of little use.  Some were passed twice while seeming always to go in the forward direction.  Equally impossible, others were overtaken once in one direction, then passed a second time while traveling in the opposite direction.
	Some carrying goods appeared to be veteran travelers, but could offer no useful directions or advice.  Others who were followed closely as supposed guides or leaders disappeared mysteriously upon rounding bends.
	Arguments arose among our cohorts as each one fervently stated his strongly held belief about which way to turn at questionable conjoins.  Darius, Rosario and Zedwyn discussed the advice Brindlebeck had given them, while Eborel and Jebrel listened.
	It was Rosario who remembered that Brindlebeck had informed them that the people with the greatest purpose were the ones who succeeded at reaching Elginzice.  Given that supposition, reasoning alone suggested that since Eborel, among their group, had the greatest urgency to get there, it must be she, when disagreements arose, who should dictate which direction to take.
	So Eborel’s word became sovereign, and the group held to her seeming whim at every turn.  And while she felt uncertain with each decision, she did not display such, for the general amelioration of the others’ anxieties, nor did they likewise reveal any misgivings privately felt, for her benefit, even at the apparent crisscrossing of the same landmark multiple times, at her insistent behest.
	Thus did they arrive, to their own collective amazement, by mutual unspoken denial of the obvious and copious conflicting visual cues to the contrary, at the very gates to the kingdom of Elginzice!

	And with what a view were they met upon entering therein.  A confluence of people streamed from hodge-podge directions within the kingdom on boulevard-wide pathways, headed evidently, for the grand palace, which towers were barely descried atop the trees at great distance.
	Around them were gardens in abundance comprising flowering and fruiting plants of prodigious variety.  Archways, hedgerows, divergent side paths, and stately tree-lined canals abounded.  Palace guards arrayed in bright uniforms, stood in pairs on either side of garden entryways, each standing at attention holding a long spear planted firmly in the ground at his side.  Gnomics in full view worked in normal time, oblivious to the masses, plying their endless craft upon the profusion of flora.
	Looking backward through the entrance gate from inside the palace grounds outwith, toward the multitude of people still wandering lost on the periphery, the group could clearly see individuals meandering in dazed and abject confusion, oblivious to the fact that they were near-upon the very doorstep of Elginzice.  Such was the power of negative persuasion emanating from the kingdom against those who would seek its entrance, that they could not comprehend their goal when it was even directly at hand.
	Our happy consortium sallied forth slowly, eager to prolong reaching the palace for as long as possible to take in the stunning environs to full effect.
	Eborel stopped to discourse in broken Gnomic with several gardeners.  She was much pleased that they seemed to know her, addressing her by her gnomic name “Bubberel” without any need of introduction.  Clearly, they had advanced knowledge of her person, but restrained themselves from speaking directly to her unbidden, unless spoken to first.
	This was an essential tenet of the gardeners, that they should endeavor to blend quietly into the background, so that attention was not unduly diverted from their planted masterworks to them, the mere tenders of such.  This explained, too, why the gnomics at all sacred sites, save this one, generally worked out of view whenever possible.  At Elginzice however, the vast scope of the landscape precluded them from gardening behind the scenes in continual shifted time, which, due to its burdensome drain on their energies, was impossible, especially considering the sheer magnitude of the work to be done.
	The group was fascinated and puzzled by the placement of guards throughout the grounds.  Their stolid countenances betrayed no particular purpose to their presence, for they neither attempted to impede anyone’s progress, nor ward off anyone from either approaching or appropriating anything in the gardens.
	They were apparently a stylized and decorative accessory to the ambience entire, included for their quaint military pomp, and no doubt enjoyed by all for the sublime contribution they made to the idyllic scene.
	It was soon discovered that a network of parallel and concentric canals was laid out over much of the expansive grounds.  Multitudes of small arched bridges carried walkways over narrow waterways at regular intervals along their lengths, while throngs of boaters paddled easily in elongated dinghies across the gently bobbing water. 
	The group resolved to follow the canals on foot in the direction against the current to determine the exact course of water flow through the system, and discover its possible source and effluence.
	Said task turned out to be over-ambitious, as the canal segments numbered in the uncounted dozens, with each stretch running over a furlong in distance, so that the entire length of the system measured more leagues than could be walked in a day.  Worse, the flow often divided, such that a particular canal received water from multiple entry points, by way of shorter “radial” canals that ran perpendicular to the longer “perimeter” canals; and further, flowed out into multiple catchways by the same mechanism.
	Therefore it was not possible to chart a single course of water flow through the vast system, as any number of multiple pathways was possible.  To save time, then, our cohorts did not walk the entire lengths of each canal, but rather jumped between concentric circles when they could clearly see that a particular outer canal must be joined to an inner canal via the only visible radial canal in the distance.  Thus did they bypass many sections of the “wheel” layout to finally arrive, not at the water source, but at the canal’s central ring.
	From there, they could see the likely headwater, which came tumbling down a straight waterway course that intersected the canals at an angle, and which they had seen several times earlier during their progress centerward.  It likely led, as they guessed, directly to a confluence with the Maywend River, but they lost interest in following it by their discovery of what lay at the proverbial hub of the concentric canal rings.
	For it was a large hedge wall with an arched ingress sculpted in living branches, which was guarded by two of the afore-mentioned ubiquitous palace guards, one standing on either side of the opening in the otherwise unbroken hedgerow.
	The hedges themselves were very tall, perhaps 8 cubits or more.  Leading up to the archway was a wide path that evidently invited visitors to enter.  A look down the outside length of the hedge in either direction revealed no other openings or paths leading up to it.  This was evidently the main, and perhaps only entrance.
	Eborel peered through the open archway and surmised the garden to be a maze, possibly laid out in the same pattern as the one she had walked with Rokavere, and likely the prototype for that abbreviated version.
	She grew excited as she felt that she could enter the maze and find her way, by memory from her experience at Revelstoke, to its center.
	She entreated her friends to follow as she approached the entryway, but the guards surprised them by crossing their halberds as they neared, in clear signal to desist.  The halberds were rather more ornate than the simpler spears carried by the other guards met with along the way, implying that this bastion was perhaps more seriously guarded.
	The guards stood facing them, staring impassively forward, with the axe heads at the tops of the halberds pointed towards each other and overlapped, such that the shafts, still planted in the ground, formed a tall triangle under which Eborel was tempted to duck, thus passing between the guards and entering the maze.
	This would be ill-advised, she thought, given the guards’ forbidding countenances, though she could certainly succeed in shifted time, except that her friends would not then be able to follow.
	Darius hailed the guards from a respectful, if cautious distance, but his pleas for unobstructed passage elicited no response. 
	“This is a queer thing,” said Rosario.  “Why should they forbid entrance here, yet nowhere else?”
	“Mayhap this maze hides something of greater value than anything found elsewhere on the grounds,” conjectured Zedwyn.
	“Or greater danger?” suggested Rosario.  “Might they be protecting us from whatever lies within?”
	“Perhaps they forbid selectively,” posited Eborel.  “We may be welcome at places where others are not, yet others may enter here, while we may not.”
	“Any way you look at it,” said Jebrel, “unless we make a mad rush 5 against 2, we won’t be going in.”
	Darius brightened at the idea of a frontal assault.
	“Mad is right!” scoffed Rosario.  “How long would it take for a hundred palace guards to converge here, and besiege us in this hedgerow maze?  Ha!  Imagine defending our position with nothing at our backs but a sieve of penetrable shrubbery!”
	“The King’s counsel – which we seek,” said Eborel dryly, “would likely be withheld should we attack his guards.”
	They turned away, walking parallel to the outer wall, with a plan to follow it as far as the terrain would allow.
	The guards, who surely had heard their frank discussion of attack, evinced no sign of emotion at their narrow escape from being assaulted outright.

	The group walked along the hedge wall for a long time, noting that it curved ever to the right in a gentle but perceptible arc.  They found no gaps or entryways, or dips in the wall height such that they might sneak through or clamber over undetected.  There were no nearby structures or trees behind which they might hide, to lay in watch for others that might approach the hedge and enter by heretofore unknown secret means, or up which they might climb themselves, to somehow gain access over the top to the great maze.
	In sooth, they became nervous at the thought of entering the labyrinth, as its girth was now comprehended to be vast, and there seemed no certainty that they might not become entirely lost within for days or more.  Also, there was the question of what they might encounter inside, and whether they were prepared to meet it.
	Eborel informed them – assuming this maze was the same as the one at Revelstoke (though on a larger scale) – that while she could find her way from the entrance to the central courtyard, if indeed, one existed; if any pathway outside that course were taken, she would become as lost as any of them.
	As they eventually came full circle, unimpeded during their entire circumnavigation by any geographical barriers, natural or contrived, they found themselves back at the original entrance, facing the same guards, still standing with halberds planted in the ground and held vertically, but ready upon errant approach, to cross them again to minacious effect at a moment’s notice.
	It was resolved then to seek the King’s audience, in the hopes, among other things, of gaining special dispensation to enter the maze, or at the least, to learn what treasure was contained therein, and perhaps what dangers as well.
	Thus it was that our quinquevirate meandered away from the maze towards the palace, often glimpsed tantalizingly at some distance from various vantage points, all the while taking side trips through secretive secluded gardens, and boat rides along the way, for fun, in dinghies moored along the canals for just such leisure.
	Eventually they arrived at what was surely the main entrance to the grand palace.  And upon seeing it at close proximity, it can only be said that grandeur was the overriding effect, as the building entire was so extensive, with so many towers, and sections, and sub-sections, and stories, and entranceways, and chimneys, and apparent courtyards, and bay windows, and extensions, and out-buildings, and cantilevered balconies, and sheer girth, as to make Revelstoke Manor seem like a small country house by comparison.
	They stood five abreast, facing as one the grand exterior staircase, with two guards standing at attention at its base, and two more at the top, positioned aside the wide entryway, whose massive portcullis was winched open, in apparent entreaty to all comers.
	Wary at first, after their encounter with the guards at the maze, they approached the staircase slowly.  As none of the sentries made any movement against them, they ascended cautiously by measured footfalls.  At the top, rather than gaze inward, they turned around to take in the view from the attained height above the grounds.
	Magnificent it was, as can be imagined.  Scanning full left and right, they each compassed the expanse of the gardens in every visible direction, with the canals and central maze discernable in the distance, and several wide packed dirt roadways leading from all points outward, as it seemed, to the very palace entranceway.
	“All roads indeed lead to Elginzice,” Eborel uttered under her breath.  The others nodded in silent assent and shared awe, whereupon they turned again toward the palace, as Darius hailed loudly and jubilantly, “To the King!”
	Upon entering through the doorway, which was wider and taller than any they had ever seen, and would ever see again, they halted in the middle of an enormous reception room, utterly perplexed as to their next course of action.
	For there was no one milling about inside, despite the throngs of people outside, nor any posted signs for reference or guidance.  Some guards were seen in the distance standing duty, but they would not likely avail them of direction, as their aspects were universally wooden.
	“Why does no one enter?” asked Zedwyn suspiciously.  “Do they know some rule of etiquette to which we are not privy?  Are we not to perambulate the palace proper?”
	“No one’s stopping us,” said Darius brashly, “so let’s have a look around!”
	They proceeded cautiously, peering into rooms as they passed, even those with posted guards.  All the chambers seemed ceremonial in nature; tidy and ornate, but in apparent disuse.  Eventually, they climbed a grand staircase leading from the reception room to a balconied walkway high above the vast entrance floor.  Leaning over its massive marbled balustrade, they marveled at the evident royal view from on high.
	“Stunning!” said Zedwyn, waving solemnly to an imaginary crowd below, as if he were the sovereign himself.  “All hail King Zedwyn!”
	The others laughed as they proceeded down a wide hallway to a room nearby, attended by two guards.  Its door was open, so they peered past the sentries to the interior and were startled to see someone of apparent regal aspect, sitting behind a large desk far to the rear, faced towards the doorway, but preoccupied to distraction.
	Looking at each other significantly, and glancing at the guards to see if they might brook trespass, which they did by remaining motionless, the quinquevirate silently, but bravely, entered in, one at a time, with Eborel in the lead.
	At first, the person at the desk did not look up.  He was royally attired, with a flamboyant stole across his shoulders, and long flowing golden hair tumbling down a royal cape that enswirled his person.  His attention was diverted downward, as he squinted through pince-nez spectacles that straddled his nose, at a parchment sheaf upon the desk on top of which he rapidly scratched script with a feathered quill pen.  To his right lay a scepter upon the desk, about two cubits long, with golden orb and jewel-studded handle, ready it seemed, to be wielded in royal majesty at a moment’s notice.
	All froze in expectation of his noticing their presence, which he did presently, by looking up and removing his glasses.
	“Enter!” he boomed, waving them forward with a summary gesture.
	“Who approaches?” he asked imperiously as they tumbled over each other to array themselves in front of his desk, standing in a line in protracted bowed postures, with Eborel at the center.
	“We seek an audience with you, my liege,” said Eborel with eyes averted downward.  “We have traveled far.  Please excuse the impertinence of our unannounced intrusion.” 
	“My liege?” said the man, smiling and urging them with his hands to rise up to standing positions.
	“I am not the King!” he said, his eyes twinkling at their misapprehension of his station.
	“Duke, then?” asked Rosario.
	The man shook his head.
	“But the scepter!” said Darius.  “Surely you are royalty personified!”
	“Ah, well someone has to put on royal airs around here!” he said, chortling as he rose from his chair.
	“I am the Magistrate,” he said bowing lowly to them.  “I am the ruler pro tem, in the King’s absence, though in sooth, I run Elginzice, even when the King is here.  I won’t bother you with my name; you may simply refer to me as ‘Magistrate,’ after my station.  I am exceedingly pleased that you came to see me, now how may I help you?”
	“Absent?” said Eborel taken aback.  “The King is not here, in Elginzice?”
	“Correct,” answered the Magistrate.
	“And he will be back … when?” interjected Jebrel, to which the Magistrate simply shrugged.
	“In two days, or in two years, I know not,” he answered rather too peremptorily for our cohorts’ tastes.
	“Umm,” stuttered Eborel, struggling to explain.  “We are here on a matter of some urgency,” to which the Magistrate merely nodded in silent understanding.
	“When was the King last ‘in?’ ” asked Rosario in sudden hopeful inquiry.
	“Oh, it’s been some time,” answered the Magistrate.  “You may be lucky; perhaps he’s due any day!”
	“But you have no way of knowing that, do you?” asked Rosario.
	“Correct,” answered the Magistrate again, in what was fast becoming a somewhat grating officious manner.
	The group’s dejected affect moved the Magistrate to come around to the front of the desk to console them.
	“Look,” he said, “what’s the hurry?  Why don’t you tool around the gardens and canals for a few days, and enjoy yourselves?  Smell the flowers, take a ride in a boat.  Time flows differently here.  Before you know it, the King will arrive!”
	“We’ve already ridden in a boat,” said Darius, becoming insolent.
	“Then tour the palace!” said the Magistrate.  “I know you’re disappointed, but if your mission is indeed as urgent as you say, then I have no doubt that the King is aware of it, and may, even now, be hastening here to greet you.”
	This brightened them somewhat.
	“Say!” said Rosario on an inspired guess.  “Can you give us special dispensation to enter the grand maze at the center of the canals?”
	“No I cannot,” said the Magistrate sternly, his countenance darkening.  “Only the King can do that.”
	“Could a mystic grant us access?” said Rosario, pressing.
	“Well, yes, of course.”
	“What lays in the maze?” asked Zedwyn.
	“I know not,” answered the Magistrate.  “But we have lost many a traveler who has entered therein.  Each time it happens, I send in the soldiers to look for the wayward soul, but the guards dare not penetrate too deeply.  They form an unbroken sight line, with each soldier keeping one soldier in view ahead and one behind, so they can find their way out.”
	“Do they ever succeed?”
	The Magistrate nodded.  “In finding their way out?  Yes, always.”  Then he shook his head.  “In finding the wayward traveler?  No.  Anyone lost for more than a few hours is never seen again.”
	“But what happens to them in there?” asked Darius, somewhat morbidly.
	“I know not,” answered the Magistrate.
	“The gnomics must know!” proclaimed Eborel, with sudden insight.
	“Indeed,” said the Magistrate.  “They enter freely and care for the hedge walls.  But I do not speak the gardener’s language, and am therefore not privy to their secrets.” 
	“Would presenting a medallion from a mystic to the guards for their inspection gain us entry?” asked Rosario shrewdly.
	The Magistrate hesitated.
	“Show him the one with Procyon on its face,” Rosario urged Eborel, who fished it out of her pocket.
	The Magistrate recoiled when he saw it, exclaiming, “Then you have already met the King, for otherwise how would you have come upon that?”
	“No, we have not met him,” answered Eborel, “but I cannot be specific about how I procured this coin.”
	“All is lost,” said the Magistrate, disconsolate, shaking his head.  “Yes, that coin will gain you entrance to the maze, but I adjure you to refrain, or we shall never meet again in this world.”
	“Enter we shall!” cried Darius, in his contrary fashion, “and live to tell the tale!” he added with bravado.
	“Leave me now!” boomed the Magistrate, “for I have sent you to certain death, and must now console myself to its reckoning.”
	He turned away from them, thoroughly distraught, and they beat a hasty retreat, bowing to the back of his head, in perfunctory respect, as they left.
	“We’ll see him again,” said Darius, musing, to Eborel.
	“Yes,” she answered, with a smile and a curious distant look in her eyes.
	The others wore rather less enthusiastic aspects.

44.  The Astral Gate

Abandon life all ye who enter here.
-Lintel above the Astral Gate

	The group now traveled with renewed purpose toward the maze at the center of the canal rings.  All were quiet, lost in private thoughts about the unknown danger they were nigh on meeting.
	Sensing their collective trepidation, Eborel spoke to the others, “This is my journey, you need not enter with me.”
	There was immediate outcry.  “Of course we enter as one!  How could we let you go in alone, not knowing if we would ever see you again?”
	“But I knew not the risk when first I wished to enter,” said Eborel.  “There was no danger in Revelstoke, so I contemplated none here.  I feel certain there is a center to this maze, and that I know the way.  I wish to retrace my remembered path to find what lays at its heart.”
	“Whatever dangers we encounter along the way,” said Darius, “we must surely have a better chance against them with a cadre of five, instead of yourself-only, alone.”
	The others nodded vigorously in agreement.
	“If you die, Eborel,” said Jebrel solemnly, “we must all die, for life without you is unthinkable.”
	No one countered this sentiment, to Eborel’s nonplussed amazement, as Jebrel added, “I would save you with my last breath, if necessary.”
	The others chimed in with nods of agreement.
	“I would do the same for all of you,” she answered back.

	Thus it was in this somber frame of mind that our quinquevirate approached the guards at the archway entrance to the central maze.
	Eborel led the way, holding the medallion containing Procyon’s etched image before the impassive visage of each guard’s face.
	No reaction in the slightest was detected from the sentries, who stood stock still, but with halberds stubbornly and irrefrangibly crossed.
	Eborel moved very slowly through the triangle, previously alluded to, formed by the crossed halberds and the ground below, while her cohorts watched in battle-readiness.
	The guards made no move against her whatsoever, so she turned around from inside the entranceway and gestured for the others to follow.
	Darius stepped forward, not sure whether he would be denied access since he carried no medallion from the King.  He did not draw a weapon, as that would have been provocative cause for the guards to attack.
	Very slowly, he walked forward, stepping cat-like with care.  Eborel eyed the guards for any movement, ready to slip into time shift should she need to save Darius.
	Whether the guards had never intended to stop them, or whether the medallion gained them access, they could not guess, but all five passed beneath the halberds unmolested, and were apparently free to wander at will inside the maze.
	Now Eborel grew excited.  “This way!” she said eagerly.
	“Wait a moment,” admonished Rosario, “we need to memorize our route.  Let me take notes.”  He pulled out a parchment and charcoal.
	“Are you mad?” asked Darius.  “We are almost there.  Let Eborel lead!”
	“I know the way in, and back out again,” she assured Rosario.
	“Yes but we don’t,” he answered.  “Let me posit a few scenarios, unlikely and unsavory as they might be.  What if you were to fall into an intractable trance, as you did once before?  Wouldst that you actually died, and we did not – willing as we are to do so in your stead?”
	“He’s right,” said Zedwyn.  “We must chart our course in.  We can’t be certain that the maze matches the one at Revelstoke,” he said to Eborel, “Nor what might be our fate if we took one wrong turn.”
	“Yes, but time is of the essence,” argued Darius.  “The Magistrate said that those lost for more than a few hours never return.”
	“But we don’t know why,” countered Zedwyn.  “Is it because we draw death toward us the longer we stay inside, or because we wander too far without a map to find our way back out?”
	“I say the first,” answered Darius, impatient to move on.  All looked to Eborel for direction, but she stood mute.
	Jebrel spoke up.  “I say we dictate our pace, and not the unseen danger.  If we determine to make a map, then so be it.  If the danger presents because we tarried, then it will be well met.”
	The others, including Darius, relented.  If adversity came, then they were ready for a fight, and Darius relished that.
	“Come what may, then!” Darius exclaimed, speaking for all.
	They walked slowly now, Zedwyn counting paces and hedgerow openings while Rosario scribbled.
	Presently, they took a turn and encountered a gnomic whistling to himself while trimming the hedge.
	He turned to greet them, completely unperturbed to find people wandering in the maze.
	Eborel returned his greeting, patting her legs and arms, after gnomic fashion, as if dusting herself with dirt.
	They spoke a few words, while the others watched, and then waved good-bye to each other, as the gardener returned to his trimming.
	“That was a non sequitur,” commented Rosario.  “Here I was expecting a monster, and instead we came across a gnomic, peacefully working, and not the least bit fazed to see us.”
	“Yes,” agreed Zedwyn.  “How bad could this monster be if gnomics work alone inside the maze without fear?”
	“Well, they can move in time shift,” Eborel reminded them.
	That put a damper on their spirits.
	“So can I,” she added, “and I will protect you, if it comes to that.”
	The others took stock, and girded their resolve.  Rosario marked the place on the map where they saw the gnomic.  Then he mused out loud, “Perhaps the danger is not a monster, but hidden traps, which the gnomics know how to avoid.”
	This made the others even more sullen.
	“We must remain vigilant,” answered Eborel, “and hope that no traps lie on the true path to the center.”
	The others stepped more carefully now, ever watchful for hidden dangers. 
	Darius asked, “I wonder how the gnomic came into the maze.  Did he walk right past the guards?”
	“I suppose so,” answered Eborel, but as she said it, they rounded a turn and came upon a wooden hatch door hinged to a frame on the ground, and propped open to reveal a tunnel leading straight down.
	“What have we here!” exclaimed Darius, eagerly looking down the hole, through the hatch opening, as if he meant to climb down.
	“It’s too small for you Darius,” said Eborel, “and it could be a trap.”
	“No it’s not!” he insisted, countering both assertions, and clambered in feet-first, descending until only his head stuck out.
	“There’s a ladder here, but I might break the rungs with my weight,” he said.
	“Be careful!” said Eborel.  “This must be how the gnomic came into the maze.”
	As Darius disappeared below ground level, the others peered down.
	“What do you see?” they called to him as he retreated into the gloom.
	“Nothing!” he called back.  “It’s too dark down here.  There’s a horizontal tunnel at the bottom.  I can go one way or the other, but I can’t stand if I go into the tunnel, and I can’t turn around.”
	“Is it claustrophobic down there?”
	“Very!” he answered.  “I can see a spot of light in the distance down one of the tunnels.  It might be another vertical shaft with its hatch door open.  Maybe that hatch is inside the maze, and maybe it’s outside.  Perhaps it’s an alternate route out.  It could be the way the gnomic came in.  I want to investigate!”
	“Oh great,” said Rosario, “just what we need – a hedge maze above ground, and a tunnel maze below ground.  I’ll never be able to map that!”
	“Darius!” he called down.  “I only have a thin sheaf of parchment, and it’s dark down there.  We brought no torches.  Come back up before you get stuck, and we have to rescue you.”
	“Yes,” agreed Eborel, calling after him.  “We’ll explore these tunnels if we lose our way up here.  But right now, our goal is to map the route to the center of the maze above ground.”
	“Coming!” yelled Darius, as he slowly rose back up, pulling himself out carefully by the rails of the ladder.
	“That was interesting!” he exclaimed, patting the dirt off his clothes, in reverse gnomic-style.  “These gardeners are full of surprises.  I bet those tunnels lead to store houses and other gardens, and whole gnomic villages nestled on the palace grounds somewhere.”
	“Doubtless so,” agreed Eborel.  “Let’s leave the hatch as we found it and continue.”
	“Ever onward,” pressed Rosario.
	“Yes, ever onward,” mirrored Eborel, repeating the motto of the Excelsion pilgrims.
	
	Eborel took no wrong turns in the end, and chose correctly at every branch.  The maze at Revelstoke mimicked the pattern of the one at Elginzice exactly, at least for the route taken.
	“This is it,” she said as they turned the last corner.  Rosario marked the position on his map before looking up at the central courtyard into which they entered.
	Large it was, and square in shape, but much grander than the simple garden terrace at the center of Rokavere’s maze.  There was no yew tree, as seen in Revelstoke, but there were many more pieces of alabaster furniture:  chairs, tables, and benches, set out in sundry arrangements; rather enigmatically so, upon reflection, for the benefit of groups of people who must rarely, if ever, pass through.  The wide manicured lawn was occasioned by flower beds interspersed with stretches of open grass, each bed ablaze in a different color, with every blossom seemingly frozen as if by magic at the moment of maximum bloom. 
	Overhanging the benches and tables were low fruit trees, trimmed to flattened oval shapes, with the undersides sheared to the height of a standing person, and the tops little higher than the surrounding hedgerow walls.  Their placement, in conjunction with that of the furniture, was calculated to provide both fruit and shade to anyone sitting nearby.
	The gnomics had outdone themselves here.  For they saved their considerable gardening prowess for the most sacred of glades, and this was surely the most vaunted in Elginzice, and maybe all of Draeland, as evidenced by the exquisitely tended flora.
	But why, wondered those in the group, was so much effort reserved for a place that almost wholly excluded people, by dint of its surrounding impenetrable maze? 
	To answer that, one must grasp the purpose of the gnomics, as did Eborel, through her observations at Shimrock, and her discussions with Gilfaber, the keeper of that noble glade.
	For the gnomics did not tend their gardens for the benefit of the living, per se, as one might easily assume, but for the benefit and sustenance of their spirits, whether those spirits still inhabited their extant bodies, or were separated from them by death.  The gnomic gardens were called “spirit glades,” because they offered peace and respite to any and all passing restive souls, be they alive or dead.
	And a peaceful place it was indeed.  Our cohorts sat down and marveled at the beauty, plucking cherries and apricots offered freely by the trees from above.
	“If this be our death,” said Rosario, “then I am at peace, for we are in paradise I think.”
	The others concurred in happy consort.
	But I have not yet described the most prominent structure in the glade, to which all eyes now turned in studied contemplation.  In one corner of the courtyard, in the place where the trellised rose archway inside the Revelstoke maze had stood, was seen a great marble archway, taller than the hedge, with Doric columns at either side holding aloft at their tops a massive stone lintel, which, bridging the columns, displayed on its face these words carved into its surface, and easily read:  “Abandon life, all ye who enter here.”
	Through the opening of this august portal could be seen nothing but a distant misty haze, for the hedge that must surely have stood behind it could not be descried.
	One other feature of note, was the brown earth at its base, which formed a quarter circle slice of lifeless loam extending away from the gate into the courtyard by several paces.  The grass in the terrace approached this curved boundary, but abruptly ended as it neared the edge, as if stayed by decree of the gate itself, or by otherwise feared further encroachment. 
	“Do you not see them?” asked Eborel to the others.
	“See what?” said Rosario.
	“Shadowy people, coming and going,” she said.  “Animals, too.”
	Darius straightened bolt upright, intuiting her vision.  “Spirits!” he cried.  “We saw them at Derrindell, during the séance.”
	“But I don’t see them here,” said Rosario.
	Darius peered in vain through the portal.
	“Nor I,” said Jebrel.  “Eborel, how is it that only you see them?” he asked.
	“I don’t know.”
	“Are they going through the gate?” asked Rosario.
	“Yes, in both directions,” she answered.
	“This must be where the lost wanderers end up in the maze,” said Rosario.
	“Undoubtedly,” answered Eborel.
	“They probably all eventually go through the gate, never to be seen again,” he added.  “Thus, they would not return from the maze, nor ever be found.”
Eborel rose to approach the gate.
	“What are you doing?” asked the others, alarmed.
	“Getting closer,” she answered.
	The others leapt as one to hold her back.
	“Eborel!” cried Rosario.  “Madness!”
	Jebrel took hold of her firmly.  “What do you propose to do?” he asked her.
	“I don’t know,” she answered distantly.
	As she said this, someone entered the courtyard from the left, and they turned to look.
	He was a figure in a long white robe, short of stature, with a turban on his head, and hidden hands clasped in front, covered by the long sleeves of his robe.  A large blue sapphire displayed upon the front of his turban.  He was evidently a gnolord, by his similar dress to Gilfaber and Penarthic, previously met.
	“HALT!” he ordered in commanding tone.  “Do not approach the gate, if you intend to live!”
	Eborel relented, and the others released their hold of her.
	“Do not step even upon the ground nearby, lest your life begin to drain away,” he added.
	Eborel gave him a deep bow in greeting, and the others followed suit.
	“I am Eborel,” she said by way of introduction, “and very pleased to make your acquaintance.  You are the keeper of this magnificent shrine?” she asked.
	The gnolord bowed low in return, “Thorenwhence – ‘Keeper,’ as you say, of the Astral Gate, and the attendant Amberlock Gardens, at your service.  You are known to me Eborel.”
	The others bowed again.
	“I bring tidings from Shimrock and Excelsion,” continued Eborel, then speaking in Gnomic, “The plants grow vigorous and strong.”
	“I thank you,” he answered.  “You also bear the blessings of Gilfaber, I think.  I am obliged to help you in his stead; otherwise, I might not have warned you away from the gate.”
	“Where does it lead?” she asked him.
	“To the world beyond,” he answered.  “None may enter but those who are already dead.  If a living person were to go through, he must, perforce, die.”
	“And the spirits also return from the world beyond through that same gate?” she asked.
	“It’s a two-way portal,” he answered.  “The spirits come and go freely, though some never return to our world, for reasons unknown to me.”
	“And the mystics?” she asked.
	Thorenwhence hesitated.  “The mystics are immortal.  They come and go as they please,” he answered finally.
	“I see,” said Eborel, and she took several steps onto the brown dirt before her friends could stop her.
	“Eborel!” they yelled, jumping to the brink of the grass, their tiptoes a hairsbreadth from the dirt.
	“Do not approach her,” commanded Thorenwhence, “or you shall die!”
	“What are you doing?” they cried as one, but she did not acknowledge them, nor appear to hear them, even.
	“We love you!” shouted Rosario, as she walked away.
	Tears welled in Jebrel’s eyes.  “Eborel!” he called, but to no avail.
	The others cried, too.
	“This can’t be!” yelled Darius.  “This is the monster we swore to protect her from!  It can’t end like this!”
	Eborel walked serenely toward the gate, eyes forward, hands hanging at her side.  She stepped between the columns, was enveloped by mist, and disappeared.
	“She’s gone,” said Thorenwhence solemnly, “by her own free will.  There was naught I could do but warn her.”
	The others backed up and broke down completely.  This was indeed, too much, to be so suddenly and shockingly bereft.  Everything they had done together seemed utterly pointless.  Rosario looked up, choking on his tears, half expecting her to come around from behind the gate, to show them it was all a hoax.
	“What was she doing?” he asked aloud.
	The others shook their heads in abject futility.
	Then, unexpectedly, as Rosario gazed at the gate, a figure appeared, standing in the mist.  He jostled the others.
	“Look!” he cried, as the shape materialized, first into the outline of Eborel, then into a vision of her whole body, walking slowly out, with a serene, beatific look upon her face.
	“Eborel!” they cried overjoyed, rushing forward.
	“Halt!” commanded Thorenwhence again, before they reached the dirt perimeter.
	They stopped abruptly, as Eborel moved toward them.  Her eyes stared past them, over their heads skyward.  When she reached the grass, she stopped, and the others froze in expectation, waiting perhaps to see if she yet lived, or was now a spirit, forever lost to them.
	Thorenwhence, upon taking her aspect full in, fell to his knees, bowing his head to the ground, and then prostrated himself fully while kissing the grass before him.  Rising up, he greeted her with the broadest smile imaginable on the otherwise severe countenance of a gnolord, saying effusively, “Welcome Mystic Eborel!”
	She leveled her gaze, turning to him, and answered, “It is my pleasure to be here Thorenwhence.  Have you waited for me all this time?  Did you camp-out in the hopes of attending my eventual return?”  
	“But you only just left!” said Rosario fervently.  “Eborel, we thought you had died!”
	“Indeed!” she said surprised, “I live yet.  But I have been gone a very long time, seen and learned so much…” she trailed off.
	“What did you see?” asked Rosario.  “What did you learn?”
	“I … can’t say,” she said, faltering.
	“Is it forbidden?” asked Rosario.
	“No,” she answered.  “It’s slipping away, I can’t remember.”
	The others crowded around her.  “We are so glad you’re back!”
	They penned her in with their bodies, herding her slowly away from the Astral Gate.  “Don’t you ever do that to us again!” said Darius.
	“I shan’t,” she answered.  “I’m sorry I put you through that, but I had to know.”
	“What did you have to know – that you’re a mystic?” asked Rosario.
	She nodded.  “It’s the only way that I could go through that gate, and return alive.”
	“But you risked your life to find out!” he cried, bewildered.
	“But if I weren’t a mystic,” she answered, “then it would have been futile for me to go against Gogolax, for I could not win.  I might as well have died now, entering that gate, so that Asheric and Zoro’Ander could make a new plan.”
	“But what about us?” Darius fairly yelled.  “If you had died, we would have been utterly lost, and maybe died ourselves!”  He was beside himself with the unbounded grief that the mere contemplation of her death had caused him.
	“If I had died, Gogolax would have killed you all, for he is coming,” she said grimly.
	“He would have to fight me first!” said Darius boldly.
	“He can kill you with an eye blink,” she answered, perhaps too dismissively.
	Darius looked dour.
	“Buck up,” said Rosario.  “It turns out you’re a mystic, so we stand a dog’s chance against Gogolax, no?  And just think, you’re immortal now!  Let Gogolax try to kill you – he can’t!”
	“Immortality won’t help me,” she said.  “For if I die, I must be reborn, and become a mystic all over again.  During that time, Gogolax would overrun the world.  If he dies, he’ll be reborn instantly.  When I die, I’ll need the space of another childhood to recover.”
	That deflated the others.
	Thorenwhence interjected, “Happy I am to have witnessed your ascension to mysticdom, Eborel.  The world will much rejoice, and soon!”
	“Yes, well, can you keep this under your turban for a few days Thorenwhence?” asked Eborel.  “I want to consult with the King before spreading the good word.”
	“I understand,” he nodded.  “I will limit myself to telling other mystics only, who may have known anyway, long before you even had an inkling.”
	“Thank you,” she said.  “I want to go back to the palace now to check if the King has returned to Elginzice.  Let’s see if we can be the first travelers to exit the maze after being lost for more than a few hours.”
	Everyone leapt in eager anticipation to leave.
	“Thank you for enduring our brief trespass into your domain Thorenwhence,” Eborel said, bowing low.
	He returned her bow in kind.  “It was a pleasure beyond description to meet you,” he answered.  “I am most privileged.”
	She nodded and led the way out of the courtyard, saying over her shoulder in mock admonishment to the others, “Stand clear of that dirt area on your way out!”
	Her colleagues crept along the opposite hedge, as far from the Gate as possible, and filtered out in single file.

45.  Unmasked

I am herenow bound by duty.
-Pledge by Jebrel’dar Icember

	The group found their way unerringly back to the entrance of the maze, and walked out one-at-a-time between the unmoving guards, who stood at attention with pikes held resolutely vertical, evincing neither recognition of them, nor acknowledgement of their considerable feat; which was, after all, the unprecedented survival of the maze for more than a few hours of time.
	Nor did they encounter any other soldiers, as they thought they might, coming to their aid, in seek of their wayward souls, inexorably snared, it must be thought, in the labyrinthian tangle therein.  Evidently, the Magistrate had not seen fit to send such a search party, nor were they apparently reported missing by anyone else, who might have had the authority or wherewithal to send rescuers in after them, such as the very guards whom they had passed through at the entrance.
	They walked leisurely now, in mutually pensive frames of mind, ambling toward their horses, who were stalled in one of the many convenient corrals interspersed throughout the gardens; such pens placed undoubtedly for the purpose of freeing the populace to roam unaccompanied by their ungainly beasts, who might otherwise trod havoc upon the ubiquitous horticultural workmanship of the gnomics.
	All thought of Eborel’s rise to the level of mystic, and its manifold ramifications.
	“Don’t the mystics each have a special talent?” asked Rosario.
	Eborel nodded.
	“So what’s yours?” he continued with the obvious question.
	“Are you kidding?” interceded Darius.  “Isn’t the ability to move in shifted time and single-handedly kill an army of bandits enough?”
	“It’s impressive,” averred Rosario, “but is it unique among all people?”
	“I don’t know,” answered Eborel, “nor do I know if ‘unique’ talent is a requisite attribute of the mystics.”
	“Could you have another, heretofore unknown talent, yet to be discovered?” asked Zedwyn.
	“Not that I can imagine,” she answered.
	“Do you think,” proffered Rosario, introducing a new idea, “that this may be your second life – that you have already been born a mystic, and died once before, only to be reborn in your present person?”
	“If so,” pondered Eborel thoughtfully, “I have no memory of a former life.”
	“The mystics are well-known to all,” argued Darius against this notion.  “We would have heard of Mystic Eborel if she had existed in the past.”  Then he hastened to add, “And I don’t think she would have changed her name between lives, either.”
	“We can’t be sure she wouldn’t change her name,” answered Rosario.  “How would her parents know to name her after a mystic who had recently died?”
	“Speaking of which,” countered Darius triumphantly, “there haven’t been any mystics who’ve recently died, no matter what their name.”
	“Yes,” answered Rosario, not entirely vanquished by Darius’ argument, “but she may have died in childhood, before she knew she was a mystic, and before the world knew of her.”
	“You are too exasperating, Rosario!” cried Darius in frustration.  “She is a first-born mystic,” he proclaimed loudly, “and this is the first time she has discovered she’s a mystic!”  Then, adding for emphasis, “And that’s final!”
	“Okay, okay,” answered Rosario, relenting.
	“You know,” interjected Eborel, as if to throw a wrench into the works, “I was not actually named by my parents.”
	“No?” asked Rosario.  “Were you named by your community then?” (which was not an uncommon practice in the Westron reaches).
	She shook her head.
	“Your sister?” asked Zedwyn, remembering she had one.
	“Not Celine,” she answered.
	“Yourself?” asked Darius, incredulous.
	“No, not me,” she answered.  “It was by the first mystic I ever met – Zoro’Ander.”
	“Zoro’Ander named you?” asked Rosario.
	She nodded.
	“That seals it then!” cried Darius.  “A mystic named by another mystic!  That alone recommends you to membership in that vaunted fellowship!” 
	But this just caused Rosario to smile and ask her wryly, “So, if you’re a mystic, where is your medallion?  Why don’t you show it to me?”
	Everyone laughed, and Eborel said, “I’ve got a million of them – but none for me!”
	“And furthermore,” Rosario pressed, “what’s your number?  Doesn’t each mystic get a number?”
	Eborel hesitated in answer, pulling out her cache of medallions, and stacking them in numerical order:  Brindlebeck 14, Rokavere 16, Zoro’Ander 17, Asheric 18, Procyon 20.
	“Hmm,” she said, thinking out loud.  “Theobald and Tyro are ancient, and likely have numbers less than Brindlebeck’s.  Gogolax surely pre-dates Rokavere.  Quid Synch’s number could be anything – even something in the future, which would make his number greater than my own, if he happened to be born after me.  And I might be missing some mystics about whom I have no knowledge.  Certainly, there are two gaps in the medallions, numbers 15 and 19.  Even gnolords might be mystics – for I do not know – with medallions and numbers of their own.”
	She cogitated on the topmost medallion, concluding thus, “Procyon’s number is the highest at 20, so I’m going with 21!”
	Zedwyn doffed his hat and bowed low with one leg angled straight out in mock royal aspect, “Mystic number 21, I am duly honored.”
	All laughed again – Eborel included – enjoying the jesting at her expense.
	They retrieved their horses, and walked aside them casually, meandering in no particular haste toward the palace again.
	“I’d like to see the Magistrate’s face when he sees us alive and well,” mused Darius out loud.
	“We’ll see him again, undoubtedly,” said Eborel, “but we mustn’t whisper a word to him, or anyone, about what transpired in the maze – not at least, until I speak with the King.”
	“Of course,” they all nodded in assent, agreeing to keep Eborel’s secret.
	They spent the day wandering in and out of glades, picnicking on the bountiful foods proffered by the garden plants, and arrived near the palace in early evening light.
	After corralling their horses again, they sat on the grass some distance from the main edifice, watching the color of the fading light play upon its surface; when they were astonished to see a personage of their acquaintance riding slowly toward them in a wagon, which proceeded at a heretofore recognizable faltering snail’s pace.
	Why it was Dusty, of course, plying his trade here, in none other than the capital of the land, a place about which he had mentioned he was intimately familiar.
	They leapt up as one to approach him and extol his presence.
	He regarded them from his perch upon the driver’s seat, and reined his horse, who happily changed speed from one-furlong-an-hour to zero.
	“Well, well, well,” he beamed in obvious pleasure, surveying the lot of them.  “All in good spirits, I am pleased to see.  Eborel, do you remember the last time we were in each other’s company?”
	“Of course,” she answered.  “We promised to meet again under more prolonged and convivial circumstances.”
	“Yes, yes,” he answered, “and that we shall do forthwith.”
	He dismounted from his contraption and continued, “But that is not, in sooth, the last time we were together.”
	She gave him a puzzled look.
	“You were in a grievous state upon our last encounter,” he said with concern, “and did not see fit to recognize your old friend Dusty!”
	He stood in front of her now, studying her face closely, perhaps for signs of her former ennui, then announced thus, “But it seems to have passed entirely, I think – thank the lumi!”
	“I am as hale as ever!” she declared embracing him fervently, “And so happy to see you again!”
	“The pleasure is mutual, I assure you!” he replied, embracing her and shaking the others’ hands in turn.
	When he came to Jebrel, he said, “Hail and new-met, sir.  I am Dusty-of-everywhere, purveyor of fine goods from across the land.  If you are with Eborel, then we are friends already.”
	They shook hands and Jebrel answered, “Jebrel-of-Icember, very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
	“Ah, you hail from the Steppes,” answered Dusty, “and have weathered them well, I daresay.”  He noted Jebrel’s fit and imposing stature.  “Icember is one of the few places I haven’t been.  It’s near Phagix, is it not?”
	“Yes, sir,” Jebrel nodded.  “I’m honored that you have been in the vicinity of my home town, and know its name.”
	“Indeed,” said Dusty.  “Very good traders, the Steppeweir folk.  As a people, you drive a hard bargain, but I have quite a few beautiful and practical wares from that region in my wagon.”
	He turned to the others, saying, “And what reason, may I ask, do we find ourselves herenow assembled, in Elginzice of all places?”
	“We are here to see the King,” said Darius, somewhat imperiously. 
	“Ah,” answered Dusty, “and, if I might be so bold … please, humor me … on what business?”
	Dusty had a disarming technique of plying for information with such an easy manner of conversation as to be near irresistible.  Well remembered Eborel how his palaver had beguiled her into revealing her plight as a runaway when they talked near Baldy Mountain.
	That said, she remained circumspect to his last query, answering only, “Personal business.”
	“Ah,” he said again.  “Of course it would be personal, and for the King’s ears only, I warrant!”
	The others nodded in agreement.
	“And you’re wondering when he’ll return to his realm, so you can transact this ‘personal business’ with him, are you not?” he asked.
	“How do you know the King is not here?” asked Rosario.
	Dusty turned to him saying, “I have my fingers on the pulse of the land, my lad!  And even though I do sometimes exaggerate – to good effect, I might add – in this particular matter, you may believe me:  Dusty knows!”  He said it again, smiling and nodding, “Yes, Dusty knows!”
	“So when will the King return?” asked Zedwyn, perhaps a little too mockingly.
	“Ah, but he is here now!” proclaimed Dusty, “and I shall take you to him directly!”
	The others looked at each other in some disbelief.
	“You know where he is now?” asked Rosario.
	Dusty nodded.
	“And the way to find him?” asked Rosario again.
	“I know a secret way,” said Dusty, “In fact, I am the only person who knows this way.”
	Everyone seemed dubiously, yet duly, impressed.
	“But after today,” he continued reflectively, “There will be six people who know the secret way, instead of one.  But it’s of no consequence.”
	He said the last more to himself than the others.
	“Walk with me now,” he said as he led his tired horse by its harness, the heavy cart churning into motion behind.
	“Are you sure he’ll see us?” asked Jebrel tentatively.
	“Oh he’ll see you.  He already sees you, in fact, and relishes the meeting, too.”  Dusty said this last rather enigmatically, and Rosario looked up, wondered if the King was watching them now, through a crystal ball, or a spyglass from a high tower.
	Dusty led them not to the grand exterior staircase, wherein they had entered the previous day, but far around to the rear, by a circumnavigation that took so long that twilight descended as they finally approached the entrance.
	Hidden, it was, among a profusion of architectural curiosities:  a staircase that rose to nothing but an exterior wall, a blind alleyway that descended by degrees to naught but an outside window set strangely below ground level, a corridor that twisted and turned, yet exited at the same place it entered, and various interesting nooks and crannies which, inviting entry, ultimately led nowhere in particular.
	The actual entrance was a nondescript archway, set at an odd angle to the prevailing wall, of a sort that might easily be found once, as a ship wouldst find a safe harbor from the sea, yet be missed entirely upon a subsequent visit.  The crenulated building façade confounded the memory of the archway’s obscure location, in much the same way that a ragged coastline, returning to the seafaring example, might conceal the entrance to a previously encountered inlet.
	The stone archway led to a drab courtyard, little-used by its look, with nary a window visible facing upon it from without the surrounding walls.  The ground was cobbled with rounded stones, and led to another archway at the opposite end, this one closed shut with a massive rusted iron door.
	Never had any of our cohorts seen such a large construct of metal as that presented by this door.  It had great hooked hinges protruding from the stone at either side, which evoked an image of the door’s placement upon them by means of some huge crane, which must have lowered its sections onto the up-facing hinge pins.  There was a narrow vertical plate running down the door’s center from top to bottom, but otherwise no other visible indication of a handle or grapple-hold for opening it.
	“Ah, here we are, then,” said Dusty, approaching the door, but leaving his steed and cart behind a few paces.
	He took his walking stick and rapped upon its surface in five widely-spaced and seemingly random spots, each tap making a satisfying echoing clank sound.
	He stood back and said, “Stand clear!” whereupon a great clanging commotion was heard from within, followed by a loud squealing metallic screech as the doors slowly pried themselves open, splitting at the seam in the middle into two outwardly-swinging halves. 
	Dusty smiled in self-satisfaction, casually explaining as they passed through, to their considerable wonder, “A contrivance of the monks, made for me long ago.”
	Rosario paused to inspect the inside surface of the doors, which had small unfamiliar hinged metallic contraptions attached to them, connected by ropes running over pulleys to great weights hanging down from the walls on either side, almost to the ground.
	“Those are spring-loaded tumblers,” explained Dusty, “triggered by my taps on the outside.”
	“Interesting,” said Rosario.  “Did you knock on the door in a specific order?’
	“Yes,” answered Dusty, “and at specific locations on its surface.  Any tap out of order would have reset the tumblers so that the tapping sequence would must needs be restarted.”
	“I see,” said Rosario.
	“It reloads itself when we close the doors behind us,” said Dusty, demonstrating as he pulled hard on the left half, indicating as he did so the weights along the left wall, which rose up in consequence of his action.
	“Ingenious!” said Darius.
	Dusty smiled and closed the other door as the weights on the right wall rose in like fashion.  The door halves shut tightly with a satisfying latching sound.
	“Are we locked in, then?” asked Eborel.
	“No,” answered Dusty shaking his head.  “The way out is rather less arcane,” he said, motioning to a lever at the center of the door.  “A mere trip of this latch sets the doors flying open on their own.”
	The others nodded, impressed by the ingenuity of its construction, but perhaps more so by the fact that the monks had made it specifically for Dusty, which raised their esteem of him to new heights.
	They walked for some distance through enclosed corridors, arriving at a large dimly lit room, where Dusty directed his horse to back the wagon into a small cavern, after which he unhitched his charge and released him from his heavy burden.  He then led the happy creature through more corridors to an open area with stalls and troughs containing alfalfa and water.
	Leaving him there to feast, Dusty told the others, “He’ll be taken to more permanent lodgings and cared for by the palace guards.”
	Then he led them through the most complex route imaginable within the palace proper:  up enclosed spiral staircases that had only loopholes for windows, through secret panels in unused rooms, between stone walls spaced little more than a cubit wide, squeezing them into the narrow hidden spaces between adjoining rooms.
	Towards the end, they climbed seemingly endless stairs between two walls that curved ever more steeply to the left as they ascended.  They found themselves apparently in the gap between two concentric domes, nested like upside-down bowls, climbing to its apex.
	“How will we ever find our way back?” asked Rosario, tilting his whole body left as he climbed, and touching the walls on either side for balance.
	“There will be no need,” answered Dusty.  “Once we enter the public areas, there are manifold means to exit the palace.”
	They came to a few rough-board stairs, and a plain door that opened outward, revealing a lavish bed chamber, once entered in.
	“Nice bed!” said Darius, admiring its large mattress and four ornate posts comporting draped felt curtains of deep maroon, hung on rails connected to the tops of the posts, and likewise tied to them with gold brocade cords. 
	“I shall sleep rather more comfortably here than I do on the road,” said Dusty.
	“That’s your bed?” asked Eborel, incredulous.
	“Indeed,” nodded Dusty in answer, taking them through another door and a corridor that led to a sumptuously decorated magisterial room.
	Entering, they stood in some awe, taking in its regal air, and looking about at the large pieces of furniture and numerous embroidered wall hangings.
	Of particular note was a low banister, standing at the center of the room, constructed in a circular ring, parallel to the floor, about six cubits in diameter, set upon balustrades two cubits high.
	The banister surrounded an opening purposely built into the floor, and was evidently placed there to keep people from inadvertently falling into it. 
	The opening was essentially a hole in the floor that verily entreated our guests to approach the rail in order to peer down through it.
	What they saw was a patchwork marble floor some unaccountably great distance below, with barely discernable tiny people walking about, oblivious to their observers far above, and looking the size of ants to our cohorts, from what must have been a very great height indeed.
	In fact, our colleagues had climbed that vertical distance to reach their present position, and knew full well that they must have raised themselves up by the equivalent measure of some several hundred stairsteps.
	“You are, of course, looking down from the top of the great dome of the palace,” said Dusty, “the outside which is easily visible at distance from the surrounding area.”
	They turned to see that Dusty had seated himself in the single chair behind a great desk at one end of the room.  They went over to stand before him, in front of the desk, as they had done earlier when speaking to the Magistrate.
	“Isn’t that the King’s chair in which you sit?” asked Rosario.
	“Yes, indeed,” Dusty answered.
	“And do you think he would mind you settling yourself there?” Rosario continued.
	Dusty answered merely, “Ah.”
	“Dusty,” said Eborel, intuiting the reason for some of his recent equivocal statements, “is there something you want to tell us?”
	He donned a somewhat sheepish look, and almost apologetically reached for the ornate gold crown sitting on the desk, and, placing it on his head, said, “Does this help?”
	A close look at his face revealed that it had changed shape, becoming thinner, and less lined by the weather.  His hair color seemed lighter, and flowed longer down his back.  Even his eyes seemed bluer than before.
	Eborel fumbled for her medallion of Procyon, holding it up before her to compare its inscribed image with that of Dusty, sitting in front of them.  They were one and the same!
	“Well, by the Riftwash Lee!” uttered Darius, as the others stared in disbelieving, but dawning comprehension.
	“That explains how you gave us the medallion of Procyon,” said Rosario.
	“It was mine to give,” nodded Dusty.  He reached for a turban that was also sitting on his desk, already wound and folded, and fitted it to his head in place of the crown.  In its center was a red jewel, much like the jewels of other colors worn by the gnolords, previously met.
	Darius sucked in his breath in recognition of his face, saying, “Is it not Procyon, of the spirit world?”
	“Yes,” answered Dusty, whom, as an aside to the reader, I shall now call by his mystic name.
	“You’ve seen him before?” asked Eborel of Darius, “Wearing that turban?”
	“Yes,” answered Darius, “at the séance in Derrindell.  Brindlebeck summoned him.”
	“We all saw him,” said Zedwyn, agreeing.
	“I remember it well,” said Procyon.  “You were there, too, Eborel, but not in spirit, and therefore invisible to me.”
	“I can’t believe you’re actually the King!” said Eborel in wonder.  “And to think I met you near Baldy Mountain, and assumed you were a simple traveler pedaling wares.  You gave me Firthmare there, my trusty donkey!”
	“Yes, yes,” he said, his eyes sparkling at the memory.  “But I didn’t give you Firthmare – you paid for her.  How is that ornery beast, by the way?”
	“Happy, I hope,” answered Eborel.  “Giving rides to the students at Ahzul Ashram, I suppose, and undoubtedly getting into mischief during the military games.” 
	Procyon laughed, and then turned serious.  “But I must now ask you all to keep my identity as Dusty a secret from everyone, as I cherish the anonymity with which I travel my own realm in disguise.  Only you and the other mystics and keepers know of Dusty’s true calling.”
	“Of course,” they all nodded as one, and Rosario added, “But we will know when we meet you upon the road, that we travel with the King!”
	“Yes, indeed,” he answered, taking off his turban and gesturing for them to sit upon the cushioned benches nearby.
	“And now, to business,” he said.  “Much has transpired, Eborel.  What news have you for me?”
	“First, my lord,” she commenced, while Procyon smiled at her new quaintly royal address, “I do bear a message from the Queen.”
	“You delight me!” he answered.  “I had thought you would have no news to which I wasn’t already privy, but you have already proved me wrong.  So you have met Rokavere?”
	“Yes, my lord.”
	“That in itself conjures a story, but no matter, we’ll save your telling of it for a different time.  What is her message?”
	“She asked me to tell you, sire, that she is at peace.  She kissed me on the forehead when she said it.”
	Procyon folded his hands in front of his face, pressing his pointed index fingers to his lips, and sat back in deep contemplation.
	The others allowed him a protracted period of silent reflection, before he finally spoke, “That message reveals much.”
	He regarded Eborel with a renewed fervor.  “I already know,” he continued, “through communication with Thorenwhence in the spiritual plane, that you have walked through the Astral Gate, and that you now know the truth that Zoro’Ander has long suspected.”
	“That I am a mystic?” she asked.
	He nodded, “Not just a mystic, but the long awaited mystic; for there has not been a new mystic for more than a tierce of millennia, and many feared, especially among the gnolords, that it might be an indication that our age of Glendaar is coming to an end, possibly at the hands of Gogolax himself.”
	The others received this information with a mix of dread and newfound adulation for Eborel.
	“It has long been Rokavere’s burden alone to hold fast against Gogolax,” he continued, “for she is the last unconquerable bastion through which he must pass.  She is the one whom he has not been able to best.  It is the reason she shrouds herself on Revelstoke Island, and does not communicate with other mystics, including even me, for she girds her strength for the inevitable renewed onslaught from him.”
	“That she is at peace, is therefore astonishing,” he said looking pointedly at Eborel.  “For it can only mean that Gogolax is either no longer a threat, which is palpably impossible, given our present knowledge, or that she is released from her burden by someone else who has a greater strength than hers against this arch-nemesis.”
	Eborel shook her head vehemently.  “It can’t be me!” she cried, pleading.  But the others, who had been with her when the Mountain spoke in the storm, knew otherwise.  Even Jebrel, who had not been on the Mountain, could see it was so, and nodded his head in understanding and agreement with the King.
	“We’ll help you,” said Procyon.  “Even Rokavere did not fight Gogolax alone.”
	“Oh yes she did,” countered Eborel fighting back tears.  “You were there, yes, and helped, but the battle was between Rokavere and Gogolax, and she almost lost!”
	“That is true,” Procyon conceded, “I can see that Rokavere has spoken candidly with you.  But know this:  She would not have conferred her mantle to you if she weren’t entirely sure that your strength was greater than hers against him.  Of this I am sure.  I trust Rokavere completely, and if she is at peace, then it must certainly be so.”
	Eborel sobbed quietly now, and Procyon relented.
	“I can see that this is a shock,” he said consoling her.  “You’ve had an overwhelming day, and I have pressed you too quickly.  Asheric and Zoro’Ander will be angry with me.  There’s no need to make any decisions tonight concerning how we shall proceed.  Why don’t you stay as my guests in the luxury chambers?  You can each have your own royal room!”
	Darius and Zedwyn nodded enthusiastically.
	“We’ll meet again tomorrow,” said Procyon, rising from his desk and coming around to console Eborel.  “I’ll have the Magistrate set you up for tonight.”
	Eborel answered quietly, “Thank you sire, we are much obliged.”
	“Don’t mention it,” Procyon answered.  “But I have one more mystery I’d like you to clear up for me.”
	“Yes?” she asked expectantly.
	“What ailed you so, that your body was so unresponsive the last time we met?  And further, how did you manage to return to full health?”
	“I was dreamwalking,” Eborel answered simply, after a moment’s consideration.
	A look of dawning comprehension crossed his face.  “Of course!” he said.  “It seems so obvious in retrospect, for I have seen such affect in my own wife.  But is that your talent, then?  For it is not known that two mystics may possess the same talent.”
	“No,” she answered.  “Rokavere ceded her talent to me so that I might visit her at Revelstoke in dreamspace.”
	“I am stunned,” was all Procyon could manage, for he did not know Rokavere possessed that ability.
	Finally, he shook his head, muttering, “Will wonders never cease?”

46.  Reunion

May she dreamwalk in this glade and find peace.
-Carved into a tablet at Shimrock Ruin

	Our cohorts spent the night in separate luxury accommodations at much lower elevations within the palace than the King’s quarters on high.
	All slept well, as they were mightily fatigued.  About mid-morning, when they arose to plan their day, a great commotion was heard in the hallways nearby.  At first, it was simply ascribed to the palace staff bustling to activity at the new-returned King, but the Magistrate himself came knocking at the shared door to their apartments, quite astir.
	“A flotilla approaches,” he told them excitedly.  “It is halted upriver, near the maze, but will doubtless make its way here.”
	“To what purpose?” asked Rosario in some alarm.
	“None can say,” the Magistrate answered.
	“How many ships?” asked Zedwyn.  “What type of craft are they?”
	The others busied themselves quickly, suiting up and arming in preparation to meet this possible threat.
	“Low skiffs, mostly,” was the answer.  “One large boat, maybe more.  A handful to a few dozens.  They do not look like warships at a distance, nor trading ships.  They travel at a leisurely pace.”
	“We must see this!” said Darius eagerly.  The others made ready to leave.
	“The guards are assembling in front of the palace,” continued the Magistrate.  “You will be well-protected, should it come to conflict.”
	“We’re not worried,” answered Darius.
	“The King himself is going to the grand staircase to meet the unknown visitors,” said the Magistrate, taking leave of them as abruptly as he came. 
	The others left shortly after him, making their way through the corridors, carried by the tide of staff and soldiers, toward the front entrance.
	There, they found a tumult of activity, as tents and awnings were being set up on the grounds along with a profusion of chairs and blankets set out on the lawns.  Pennants flew above from poles and guylines, while an open royal tent was erected at the top of the grand staircase. 
	“Well, they aren’t expecting Gogolax, at any rate,” said Zedwyn somewhat wryly.
	“Indeed, this is a grand welcome in the making,” agreed Rosario.
	“Let’s go down to the river and do some advanced scouting!” said Eborel eagerly.
	“I’m on it!” said Zedwyn leading them down the steps and through the gathering throng.
	Now here it must be stated that the Maywend River, in counterpoint to its typical contrary fashion, was much modified over the centuries in its passage through Elginzice, in order to straighten its course, and narrow its breadth, for easier crossing, with many branches added to feed the innumerable byways for irrigation, and to provide a reasonable flow through the canals.
	Therefore was it not easy to assume which path a flotilla might choose to navigate its way palaceward.
	That said, our intrepid scouts clambered to the crests of several arched bridges in search of the boats, which they finally descried lolling at distance on a byway near a small pier on the eastern side of the palace.
	From their vantage point, Eborel thought the skiffs looked like those of the monks, while an unfamiliar larger catamaran with a single short mast appeared to have quite a few people on board its flat deck.
	But the jewel of the flotilla was a three-masted barque, with its mainsails reefed and trimmed for slow advance on a windless day.  Evidently, it was too tall to pass under the bridges of the kingdom, so our group watched as it separated from the remaining flotilla, and sailed out of sight somewhere to the southeast of the palace, with a few skiffs trailing in its wake.
	The remaining boats headed directly for our quinquevirate, who stayed atop the bridge where they first spied the fleet, waiting for its inevitable passage underneath.
	As it approached, faint sounds of music were heard wafting across the wash from the direction of the boats, and they soon discerned players sitting upon the deck of the catamaran, blowing and strumming their instruments in gay concert.
	In the center of the musicians was evidently seated someone of high standing or rank, perched in an over-ornate chair, enjoying the music.
	By the fan in her hand, she was easily assumed to be a woman, and because the rowers in the skiffs were garbed in the familiar brown clothes of the monks, Eborel supposed her to be none other than Rokavere herself.
	By now, the shores and the bridge were lined with people, jostling to see the royal personage, but Eborel could not make out her face.
	However, as the main boat passed under the bridge, the woman looked up, waving to the crowd overhead with her fan, and Eborel clearly saw Rokavere’s face, who nonetheless, did not appear to discern or recognize Eborel amongst the crowd.
	“It’s the queen!” she said to her friends excitedly.
	“Rokavere?” asked Rosario.  “You’re sure?”
	“Yes,” she nodded.  “She’s returned to Elginzice after two thousand years!”
	“Zounds, that’s a long time!” said Zedwyn, “I wonder why?”
	“Let’s return to the palace!” she said, tugging at her friends.
	They made their way almost as slowly as the flotilla through the fast-thickening crowd.
	When they reached the base of the staircase, it was walled by a phalanx of palace guards, standing in a wide convex arc, facing the crowd.
	Fortunately the Magistrate was there, and allowed them to slip past the soldiers, so they could climb the stairs to see the King.
	It can only be said that the view from atop the staircase, once attained, was momentous in the extreme.  People were cast in all directions, standing, sitting, or perched in high places, waiting for the new-come entourage to make its way down a hastily-formed soldier-lined path from the river to the front door of the palace proper.
	Procyon stood under the open tent at the top of the stairs, facing the crowd, arrayed in royal mantle, with crown upon his head, and holding the scepter that our cohorts had earlier seen the Magistrate wield at his desk.
	His face held the same expectant look that could be seen everywhere in the crowd.  Everyone wanted to know who came to see the King, and in such royal and festive fashion. 
	“You had no advance knowledge that the Queen was coming, sire?” asked Eborel of Procyon.
	“None,” he shook his head.  “You say it is Rokavere, then?”
	“Undoubtedly,” answered Eborel.  “I saw her face from atop a bridge.  She is dressed fit to be your equal, my liege.”
	“Indeed, she is my equal,” he answered, smiling at the thought of their imminent encounter.  “It has been many a long generation since her presence graced these palace walls.”
	“Yes, my lord,” answered Eborel.
	They did not wait long, as a large contingent of monks walked along the path toward them, keeping their consort at their center, as a barrier against the crowd.  In sooth, the soldiers lining the route were perfunctory, as the people shrank back from the monks instinctively.
	Rokavere fanned herself with one hand while waving gaily to the people with the other, keeping the hand aloft and in motion constantly so that as many people as possible could catch sight of her.
	She approached the grand staircase and ascended slowly, with a regal air, while the monks spread out and lined the edges.
	Upon reaching the top, she curtseyed very low to Procyon, and held her position for a protracted time.
	When she arose, she looked him in the eye, and said, “My King,” whereupon he held each of her hands in his own, and bowed low to her for an equally protracted time, saying “My Queen,” as she stood regarding him.
	Thus did Eborel and her friends witness the joyous reunion of the two rulers of Draeland, each now repatriated to the other, in joint purpose against their common enemy, Gogolax, after long self-imposed banishment by Rokavere.

47.  Assembly
White fire!
-Eborel’s description
 of the land alight

	It wouldn’t do for Procyon and Rokavere to simply enter the palace and disappear from the throng’s expectant sight.  As their joining was verily momentous, it seemed cause for celebration; so an impromptu grand lunchtime picnic was ordained in the gardens adjacent to the palace, with a promise of more outdoor dining in the evening, and a great feast on the following two days.
	Tables, chairs, tents and cloth coverings were brought out onto the lawns in a near continuous stream of activity, while long narrow buffet tables were set up palace-side with provisions for the general populace.
	The musical monks set up a main stage and began playing for general entertainment.  A few more widely distributed stages were also set up for the palace court musicians to regale their nearby patrons in like manner. 
	Procyon and Rokavere bade Eborel and her friends join them on the grounds later, to sit with them at table for the noontime meal.  The invitation was enthusiastically accepted, after which the two monarchs receded into the palace, leaving the others to wander at will until that time.
	There was much to enjoy, as jugglers and minstrels milled about the grounds, plying their unique forms of entertainment.  But our colleagues wanted to seek out the grand barque, earlier seen, for closer inspection.
	They walked around the palace, and away toward the southeast looking for its tall masts among the trees.  After some distance, it was found, moored behind a long stretch of overarching elms.
	Upon gaining the dock aside its magnificent bulk, they admired it at close quarters.  It was secured to the moorings by thick ropes, but no gangplank was in evidence, so that access to its decks was not possible.
	They walked its length stem to stern, while Jebrel, who seemed to have some little experience with boats, remarked that it was bigger than any he had seen docked at Manx.
	Its draft was only medium deep, indicating the holds were not likely loaded full.  The beam was broad, which suggested a design for stability more than speed.
	She was likely built for royal pleasure, though her timbers were thick, so that she might be readily converted to a sturdy warship.  They noted a row of shuttered scuttle holes above the high mark on the hull that might somehow be used in her defense.
	Her name, painted near the bow, was the D.R.N. Endearment; the initials, as may be guessed, standing for Draeland Royal Navy.
	All in all, it was a ship fit for a queen, and doubtless cut a magnificent silhouette in full rigging as it powered across Olinza Lake en route from Revelstoke.
	Since there seemed to be no one on board with whom to parlay entrance, they sauntered away, disappointed that exploration of its interior was denied them.
	Whilst the sun rose to its apogee, they found their way back to the festivity grounds, wending upon arrival between endlessly arrayed tables to find the royal couple already seated side-by-side at the head of the grandest banquet table, nearest the palace stairs.
	Though the grand table was nearly full with patrons already seated, there were several empty chairs found near its head.  The King motioned for them to sit directly to his left, leaving the chairs on Rokavere’s right unoccupied.
	The friends sat down eagerly, to place settings that promised copious amounts of food to come.  Eborel sat closest to Procyon with Darius, Rosario, Jebrel and Zedwyn to her left.  She motioned to the empty chairs across from them, and asked the King for whom they might be reserved.
	“Ah,” he responded with a twinkle in his eye.  “We may yet be honored with the presence of two special guests before this day is out.”
	“Indeed?” asked Darius.  “Anyone we know?”
	“We shall see,” smiled the King mysteriously.

	I will not much tarry upon the particulars of the banquet at hand, as they are not especially germane to the events that soon unfolded.  Suffice to say that the entertainment and food were replete with such variety and abundance that our cohorts were pleasurably reminded of the similar festivities at Penarthic’s table in Thornberry Field, before they were ended abruptly and unexpectedly, to sad unfulfillment.
	Not so here at Elginzice, as the feasting went unabated from the lunch hour straight through to dinnertime, and on into the evening.  That so many minstrels and jugglers and singers and acrobats and players could be viewed in one day, with full meals taken between every set, was astonishing in its sheer excess.
	Yet the event of the Monarchs’ reunion was momentous in the extreme, unprecedented in the Age, and deserving of such memorable celebration.
	But as the sun set, and the night air cooled, Eborel noted the still-empty chairs across the table, and gave Procyon a questioning look regarding them.
	The King acknowledged her glance thither by announcing to those still conscious at table (which included Eborel’s friends, but not many others), “I think we have one final jest before this day is done!”
	So saying, he stood up from his chair and raised his scepter aloft in dramatic fashion, holding it thus for many attenuated moments.
	It seemed a signal of sorts, yet nothing could be discerned by way of new entertainment from the expectant people nearby, roused as they were from their lethargy by the commanding vision of their statuesque King.
	Procyon’s countenance did not waver as he stood upright, gazing heavenward.  Confusion spread among the people as they wondered whether to stand at his bidding.  Many rose to their feet, including Eborel, who looked to the skies as she did so with anxiety, seeking a sign of untoward change.
	It was a dark night, with few lumi, which seemed a sudden inopportune portent to the masses, as celebrating usually commenced on light nights.  A general clamor of discomfiture arose from the rabble, when a single trail of firelight was collectively seen rising rapidly from the ground straight into the sky to the north, followed by a sudden flash of light, and a much-delayed sound of an explosion.
	Even as the crowd stood agape in confusion, Eborel instantly grasped that this was the same type of explosive device she had witnessed at the ashram, somehow launched into the air.
	Many more trails of firelight soon rose up into the night sky from varying locations about the palace grounds.  The colors of the terminating flashes varied with each trail, bursting in orange, red, yellow, and white.  The air peppered with the sounds of delayed explosions, resounding from multiple directions.
	Once the people realized they were in no apparent danger, they reveled in the full delight of the sensual experience.  The fire trails continued launching for some time, finally culminating in a crescendo of near-simultaneous flashes, from whose centers were shot other radial fire trails, to general zigzag fiery effect across the whole night sky.
	When the last fire trail winked out, a moment of silence passed before a deep resonating booming explosion, of considerably greater power, was heard to the southeast.  The sound made the very ground shake, and was followed by several more such explosions, each preceded by a flash of yellow light near ground level from the same direction, which caused momentary visions of long tree shadows to appear across the preternaturally lit lawns.
	A long silence followed the last explosion after which the King sat down.  Everyone followed suit, and Rosario leaned across Darius towards Eborel, whispering to her, “That was scintillating!”
	She nodded agreement, and Darius noted for both of them, “Those last explosions came from the direction of the ship.”
	A general excited buzz arose from the masses as the people discussed with each other what they had just witnessed.  Reverence for the royal couple mounted as chants of “All hail Procyon and Rokavere” rose in exultation from the crowd.
	Eborel eyed the King piercingly, with a questioning gaze, to which he returned only a look of merry bemusement.  “It’s not my doing,” he shrugged.  He then diverted her attention by gesturing convivially toward two newcomers who late approached the opposite side of the table.
	The figures were instantly recognized by Eborel and her colleagues from the ashram, and she spoke their names in involuntary joy, “Drambuie!  Asheric!”
	She raced to the other side of the table to greet them before they could be seated, while Procyon asked quizzically, “Drambuie?”
	“One of my dialectical names,” explained Zoro’Ander, weathering Eborel’s effusive personal attention.  “I’m rather fond of it, actually,” he added.
	“Zoro’Ander,” she corrected herself, leaning close to ask him.  “Was that fire display your doing?”
	“Asheric’s,” he answered, nodding towards him, “with help from the monks.”
	She faced Asheric, uttering, “Impressive!” and hugged him ineffectually, as he did not return her enthusiasm.
	Tolerating her embrace with wooden determination, he answered, “Merely a demonstration of the firepower possessed by our enemy.”
	The assembly sat back down, and Procyon remarked that the number of mystics present at table was unprecedented, at five.
	All laughed and mused at the convoluted circumstances that brought them together, when someone walked up and corrected the King peremptorily.
	“Six, my liege,” he said with a deep bow, and upon raising himself to standing – in rather over-dramatic fashion it must be said – revealed his face.
	“Quid Synch!” hailed everyone at once, as he took a seat next to Zoro’Ander.
	“Six indeed!” allowed the King.  “Were you summoned, then, by the violence of the fire show?”
	“Yes, I found myself on the lower deck of the Queen’s magnificent ship,” he answered, “surrounded by a barrage of deafening explosions.”
	Everyone laughed at the predicament that must surely be faced by Quid Synch constantly in his travels.
	“I thought it was finally the end of me!” he exclaimed.
	“Never!” proclaimed the King as he raised a flagon of wine.  In salute and toast, he intoned, “So long as there is crisis in Draeland, may Quid Synch e’er walk the realm!”
	“I’m honored, my lord,” answered Quid Synch with a bow of his head.
	“We came by different avenues,” said Zoro’Ander, reflecting philosophically on the gathering of mystics, “but we consort to joint purpose.”
	“Yes,” answered Procyon readily as Rokavere nodded in like agreement.
	Eborel interjected, “But I came for private counsel from the King.  How is that to joint purpose?”
	“It is exactly so!” answered Zoro’Ander.  “For Procyon binds all mystics, and your needs are the needs of the land, which we serve.  Thus are all mystics disposed to help you in your quest for counsel.”
	“Am I to confer with all of you as one, then?” she asked.
	“And more,” answered Procyon.  “For I will call a grand séance, so that all members of our brotherhood may be put to your urgent questions.”
	Eborel was taken aback.  “So I wouldst speak my concerns at séance to all mystics of the land?” she asked. 
	“Yes,” pronounced the King, “at twilight hour, two nights hence, after the feasting is done.”
	Eborel was shocked.  She regarded her compatriots to the left who simply stared back in like state.
	“May my friends attend?” she asked Procyon.
	“We will all be there!” he assured her.
	“Crises permitting!” quipped Quid Synch, speaking for himself only.  The other mystics laughed with him.
	“You are in for quite a spook show,” whispered Darius leaning close to Eborel, who, after all, had not witnessed the frightening meeting of spirits with Brindlebeck at Derrindell. 

48.  Counsel

Eborel’s aught to cut her own path.
-Aldus Dimthistle

	Two days passed during which the subjects disported and feasted, while Procyon sent word by private séance to the other mystics and keepers of the land, that a great meeting would soon take place, in both the physical and spiritual worlds, at his behest, in his private spirit chambers.
	At the appointed time then, in early evening, our friends and mystics found themselves winding through palace corridors and stairwells, following the King down below the grounds to an eventual terminating cavernous subterranean crypt, which evidently served as the tuning place for Procyon’s spiritual encounters.
	Inside was a long rectangular table, larger than the round table seen at the house of Brindlebeck, surrounded by a dozen regal chairs, arranged one at each end, with two rows of five apiece aligned along either of its broad sides.  Draped on the walls and delicately hung from the ceiling, in like manner to Derrindell, were diaphanous cloth coverings, which fluttered minutely in the near-still air.
	The party counted twelve among themselves exactly.  The Queen sat at the left end of the table, while the King sat at the right.  Eborel sat in the middle on the near side, with Zedwyn and Jebrel to her left, and Rosario and Darius to her right.
	Directly across from Eborel sat Zoro’Ander with Asheric and Quid Synch to his left.  To Zoro’Ander’s immediate right was Thorenwhence, the Keeper of the Astral Gate, who had walked over from the grand maze to attend in person.  To his right was the twelfth member, known to the readership, and fondly remembered by Eborel.  There-seated was Anntenfoale, the Iconoclast, who arrived of late at the beck of urgent personal curiosity, or rather, in his words, “to see what all the fuss was about.”
	Procyon began the séance in business-like fashion with only brief preliminaries.  Candles and incense were lit at either end of the table.  All joined hands while the master medium tuned the gem on the front of his turban with the crystal ball resting on the table.  As a prelude to calling forth apparitions, he spoke to the group.
	“This is a filtered spiritual meeting,” he said to all.  “I will relegate the many passing spirits to the background so that those whose attention we desire will drift to the forefront of our awareness.”
	Then he listed those they might expect to see, as well as those they would not.
	“I have invited all manner of spiritual people to come forth, from both past and present; most notably, the mystics and gnolords,” he said.  “Gnomics and sayiks, too, may attend, in observant capacity.
	“However, Tyro will not be here, as his spirit has not issued from the Astral Gate since his ascension to seventh level consciousness.  Theobald, too, is relegated to a prior age, and his spirit has not been encountered in our era.
	“Two notable absences are of great concern to me, for I have not been able to summon the spirits of either Jarfoz, the vicarious seer; or Starfindel, the Keeper of the Wind – both residing in the far Eastron reaches.”
	This revelation caused apparent consternation on the faces of the mystics, easily visible to Eborel sitting across from them.
	At that, Procyon began a singsong incantation that soon brought fleeting images to the surface of the crystal in front of him.  Some of them flew into the room, but remained dim and hushed:  people and animals of all kinds, apparently passing through, but silenced by Procyon.
	Eventually, a gnolord with a bright ruby in his turban appeared standing against the wall, and Procyon greeted him, saying, “Welcome Sephilon, Keeper of Tesselrod, the Tree of Life.”
	Sephilon nodded acknowledgement to the group and bowed to the King, saying, “I’m honored to be present, Procyon.”
	Another gnolord soon appeared standing next to him, bearing a yellow Topaz gem in his turban, and Procyon said, “Welcome Zebulon, Keeper of the Drif Lore Stone of healing.”
	Zebulon respectfully nodded to the group.
	Then Gilfaber appeared, wearing his pale green emerald, and Penarthic’s spirit stood beside him, sporting purple amethyst in its place on his turban.
	“Welcome Keepers of Shimrock and Quartz Prima, respectively,” said Procyon.
	They bowed, after which the spirit of Penarthic startled Eborel by turning to speak directly to her.
	“A thousand pardons, lass, to you and your friends for my sudden disappearance at our last meeting.  It shall not happen again if, by chance, you ever grace our glades once more with your presence.”
	Eborel bowed her head, and said, “You are a thousand times forgiven, Penarthic, and I should like very much to revisit you in your hinterland paradise.”
	After that, a gnolord with a blood garnet gem arrayed on his turban appeared, and Procyon said, “Welcome Turellious, Keeper of the sacred geyser of youth, called Juviweir.”
	Turellious bowed reverently in return.
	Now there were five gnolord spirits standing, and one sitting in the flesh, with only Starfindel of their brethren missing.
	Then Brindlebeck of Dimwold appeared, and Eborel’s friends lit up in recognition.  He was in a seated posture, unlike the gnolord spirits, and sat just outside the circle of people at the table.
	“It’s fine to see you, Brindlebeck!” called Rosario heartily.
	“And you, too, Masters Rosario, Darius and Zedwyn!” he answered.  “And I finally meet Eborel; re-animated and in full possession of her faculties, I see!”
	“Sir,” she answered reverently, “thank you for caring for my corporeal self while I was in your domain.”
	“You’re most welcome,” he replied.  “It was my pleasure indeed.  Do you know that you’ve eaten my okra stew?”
	“And I should like a chance to do so again,” she answered.
	“At your leisure!” he responded enthusiastically.  “I am, as we all are, entirely disposed to you, Eborel.”
	Procyon took that as his cue, saying, “This is a good time to formally announce that Eborel is herenow officially known as Mystic 21, as evidenced by her passing through the Astral Gate and returning unharmed.  This was witnessed by her friends, and Thorenwhence here, who would certainly attest to such.”
	Thorenwhence nodded in agreement.
	At this point, Rokavere spoke up.  “Your Grace, if I may interrupt.”  Procyon yielded with a nod.
	Rokavere let go of the hands she was holding on either side, and stood up.  This broke the chain, but did not affect the perception of the spirits by those still holding hands.  Only Rokavere lost the benefit of Procyon’s tuning, so that all the spirits nearby blurred indistinguishably together in her sight.
	She spoke as if she could still detect the individual spirits attending the meeting nonetheless, knowing they were there.
	“I have a gift for Eborel,” she announced to all, “presented to me by the monks as our flotilla passed their domain on our way here.”
	She walked over to Eborel and placed something hidden in her palm onto the table in front of her with a clanking sound.  When she removed her hand, the item was revealed to be a medallion, placed face up, with a likeness of Eborel incised upon it, and the following imprinted along its rim:  “§ Eborel § Mystic 21 §.”
	Eborel was abashed, but did not pick it up, in order to maintain the spiritual link by holding hands.
	“Tell the monk guildsmen, that I thank them very much,” said Eborel.
	“The monks make one for each of us,” Rokavere answered, “in the very foundry you visited in Antequoi.”
	Eborel nodded.
	“They forged and struck this one soon after you left,” she added.  “Upon seeing your dance with the whirling blade in the knife shop, they knew you were foreordained, and pre-reckoned this.”
	Eborel sat mute, with tears welling in her eyes.
	Rokavere returned to her seat and rejoined the circle by holding hands.
	“Eborel,” continued Procyon picking up where he left off, “we all know that the mountain spoke to you.  We know the long history, as you do, of the struggle against Gogolax.  What can you add to this?”
	Eborel still felt emotional about the public recognition of her ascension to mysticdom.
	She spoke through quiet tears, “My liege, honored guests.  I have a question for all of you.  But first, an admission.”
	Everyone listened attentively.
	“Some weeks ago, my friends and I hunted down a party of bandits in the Steppeweir, and destroyed them.  I personally dispatched 38 men, all acquaintances of Jebrel.”  She nodded towards him and he returned a look of acknowledgement.
	“I used my powers of shifting time,” she continued, “to kill them without a fight, without their individual knowledge of their own deaths, and without any chance for them to defend themselves.  I didn’t even require my training at the ashram to best them, in sooth.”
	The others held themselves enrapt by what seemed to be a confession.
	“All mystics have this capability, or similar” she said, “either through time shift, or their own unique talents.”  She turned to face each mystic pointedly, pausing to regard them singly.  “Yet only I exercise this power.  Why?  For what purpose is there now a mystic whose unique talent appears to be killing?  That is what I want to know.”
	Procyon, rather than answer her, took the role of moderator, saying, “Anyone?”
	The spirit of Penarthic spoke first, “To kill Gogolax, it would seem.”  He sounded more hopeful than actually convinced.
	“But our experience shows that he cannot be destroyed,” said Rokavere.
	“It does not seem possible,” agreed Zoro’Ander.
	“If not Gogolax, then his army,” interjected Asheric.  “You are a killing machine, Eborel.  His power is his army, the true threat to the land and its people.”
	Eborel noted that it was the first time Asheric called her by name.  “Am I to assault his entire army, then, instead of Gogolax himself?” she asked.
	“No, his true power is fear,” argued Brindlebeck’s spirit.  “Fear of him drives his army, and us, too, in our response to him.”
	“I am inclined to agree,” said Zoro’Ander.  “But to respond to Gogolax without fear is as impossible as destroying him.”
	Jebrel, though not a mystic or keeper, spoke up.  “Eborel is not the only killing mystic, then.”  He spoke the obvious.  “Gogolax is a killer, too.”
	“Indeed,” answered Zoro’Ander.  “And he is Eborel’s destiny, according to Excelsion.  There seems to be some irony here.”
	“Do any of you fear me?” asked Eborel on impulse.
	A resounding “No” in the form of shaking heads arose from all present.
	“So you fear one powerful killer, and not another?” she asked, with strangely incongruent innocence.
	Rokavere spoke for the group, “My dear, we hope the one we don’t fear destroys the one we do.”
	“But how?” asked Eborel.
	A silence ensued, when Quid Synch spoke for the first time.
	“But I have seen it!” he exclaimed.
	“What have you seen?” asked Procyon urgently, as if he feared Quid Synch might be whisked from their presence at any moment, taking his future prophesies with him before they could be heard.
	“A vision,” he answered.  “Eborel and Gogolax, standing on a hill.  His body, tall and thin.  I know it was him, somehow.  A battle raged nearby; the sky was uncommonly bright.  The two of you embraced, and fell as one.”  He looked directly at Eborel.  “Your spirits were not to be found – I would have seen them.  No one nearby became possessed.  It was his end.”
	Eborel’s head dropped at this foreshadowing.
	“Child,” said Zoro’Ander consolingly, “it is only one vision of many possible.  That’s Quid Synch talking, after all – the explorer of many possible futures.”
	“Eborel raised her head with tears tumbling down her cheeks.  “It sounds like we both must die,” she said, utterly disconsolate.
	Rosario shook his head vigorously.  “I can’t accept that!”
	“Rosario,” said Anntenfoale, speaking from a position of practiced tautological reasoning, “would you willingly lay down your life to save the land?”
	“Of course!” answered Rosario without hesitation.
	“So it is with Eborel,” Anntenfoale replied, gesturing towards her.
	“But she’s special!” cried Rosario.  “Mystic 21!” he said with pleading emphasis.  “She mustn’t be allowed to perish!”
	“Yes,” said Zoro’Ander.  “Special to you, it seems; and to all of us.”
	“A mystic’s duty is to the land,” intoned Asheric.  “Eborel knows this and accepts it.  That’s why we don’t fear her.  She is protector, not destroyer.”
	Eborel’s hands were limp in Zedwyn’s and Rosario’s grasps.  A somber mood permeated the group.
	“To strategy, then,” proceeded Procyon, preserving the momentum.  “It appears that Eborel must travel east to meet the menace, lest it comes to meet her here, which would be disastrous.  That Eborel will face Gogolax, one way or another, seems inevitable.  Better that it should occur near the Rift, before the armies of Gogolax have a chance to sweep west, overrunning the land.” 
	All nodded save Eborel and her friends, who were too dazed to participate in this phase of the meeting.
	“Our operatives in the east have failed us,” he continued, “as Jarfoz and Starfindel cannot be accounted for.  I fear the worst; that Gogolax has already breached the Rift, and silenced or neutralized our friends in the region.”
	No one countered this assertion with an alternate explanation for their absence.
	“I submit then,” said Procyon, who was, after all King, and had final say, “that Eborel should leave posthaste for Arkengarthdale on the Rift edge, the last known position of Jarfoz, to reconnoiter the situation.”
	As Darius gave a start of alarm at this pronouncement, Procyon added, “Her friends may accompany her.”
	Rosario confronted Procyon somewhat insolently, “You would send her into the maw of death with no other mystic accompanying for her protection?”
	“No,” answered Procyon somberly, “I would send you into the maw of death with virtually no hope of survival.  Eborel can handle Gogolax’s army, but you and your friends will be most vulnerable.  I trust she will save you from certain death, and I trust also that you in turn will support her every step of the way.  I haven’t the heart to break up such true friendship, even at the risk of your demise and those of your friends.”
	“I go willingly,” Rosario adjured, and his friends agreed readily, fey beyond reason perhaps, by the sheer madness of the proposition.
	“It’s settled, then,” said Procyon, speaking to Eborel and her friends.  “The other mystics will stay behind to raise armies.  We will follow you to the Rift in a manner according to the information gleaned from your reconnaissance.  You are the lead team, and we will back you with the strength of Draeland’s finest.  Your first goal is to find Jarfoz, and discover what he knows.”
	As the séance neared an end, Procyon began un-tuning his crystals, when a harsh tumult of spiritual energy poured suddenly from the glass on the table.  Great animals of the type seen at Derrindell tumbled into the room to terrifying effect.  Gryphons, giant lizards, lions, and beasts that were half man and half animal brought in raucous noise.
	“I am un-filtering the medium,” said Procyon by way of explanation, “and a host of creature spirits is passing through this way.”
	In a moment, a tall man appeared, leaping from the crystal, and standing on the table.  He turned slowly in dramatic effect, to face Procyon.  Arrayed about him were a score of zombie-like people and a few animals, each tethered by the neck with ropes tied one to the other, and to leads held in the man’s hands, in like manner to reins.  He was rail thin, with long hair, and stood in mocking aspect.
	“A grand séance of mystics, and I wasn’t invited?” he jeered.  The mystics and keepers were roused to palpable anger at the sight of him, while Eborel and her friends shrank in abject fear.  Yet no one let go their hands, for wont of missing a single detail of the scene.  A spirit after all, no matter how menacing, could do no actual harm, despite the terror invoked by looking upon it directly.
	“Your days are numbered, Gogolax!” spoke Procyon fiercely to him.  “Return to your lair and await your doom!”
	The tall man, who was evidently a spiritual representation of the body currently inhabited by Gogolax, reared back his head and spewed laughter.  “Listen to yourself!” he roared.  “For it is the days of the mystics that are numbered!”
	He guffawed long and luridly, leaping back into the crystal, with zombie spirits in tow, and disappeared, trailed by his monster entourage in close pursuit.
	Rokavere and Eborel were visibly shaken.  The spirit of Gogolax had not looked either of them in the eye, nor singled them out in any way, nor acknowledged them as being a threat to him; but they both saw him clearly.
	“Who were those creatures with ropes around their necks accompanying him?” asked Eborel.
	“The spirits of past people and animals that he has possessed,” answered Rokavere.  “They looked to be in throwe, even in death,” she said sadly.
	Eborel shuddered, as she imagined that she herself might one day be possessed by Gogolax, and end up a cowered spirit, tethered by perpetual chokehold to him for all eternity.
	Procyon shut down the crystals, as the spirits of the gnolords and Brindlebeck receded from sight.
	“I’m sorry that ended badly,” Procyon apologized to all.
	“He mocks you my love,” said Rokavere from across the table, referring to Gogolax.
	“Indeed,” answered the King.  “His power is strong, and so very wicked!”

49.  Expedition

Nothing ventured, everything lost.
-Unknown armchair philosopher

	Now was the time met for outfitting Eborel and her party to the bold purpose of venturing into Draeland’s most-feared reaches, to wit, Riftward East!
	Two gifts were presented to the newest mystic by the ruling couple of the land.
	First, a rose quartz pendant upon a golden chain, and its matching orb, tiny in comparison to Procyon’s, for convenient portage, were proffered by the King.
	Second was a fine horse, donated from the queen’s stables by Rokavere.
	At first sight, the stallion appeared to be Denturion, all-black with reverse-brindled wisps of lightning-white on the forehead and flanks, but the Queen averred that, while Denturion had made the journey with her by boat from Revelstoke, he was recovering from an equine ague.
	This, then, was Denturion’s twin Dentysus, who was, most avowedly, every bit as fast and strong as his able-bodied brother.
	Eborel accepted these gifts reverently, as mantles of her new-mystic status.
	Procyon instructed Eborel in the art of tuning her new crystals, at a private twilight session in his office above the palace dome.  She wore the rose-colored quartz around her neck, in like manner to Brindlebeck, rather than folded within a turban, as Procyon and the gnolords were wont to do.
	The quartz was chipped from the throne of Quartz Prima on Excelsion by monks in long days of yore, similar to Brindlebeck’s crystal, which, the reader will recall, was also procured from there.  Unlike the Derrindell gem however, being smooth and polished, was Eborel’s meanwise naturally jagged, with deeper hues of pink rose color.
	The diminutive matching orb, about the size of a plum, was fashioned in a glass foundry in Antequoi by the self-same order of said monks.
	Procyon cautioned Eborel to use the crystals to communicate with him only at the behest of gravest expedience while in the East, as her entry into the spiritual plane would be detected by Gogolax, thus revealing her physical location to him.
	“If this be true, did you then ascertain the true whereabouts of Gogolax when he appeared to us at the séance?” she asked him.
	“Yes,” he answered solemnly.  “He was sequestered in his home at Riftwarren Castle in Thabane, on the other side of the Rift, thank the lumi!”

	It was determined that our faithful group should travel by water, as far east as was navigable upon the Bentrush River, before alighting at Brogwash, and traveling the remaining distance on horseback to Arkengarthdale.
	The obvious choice of conveyance was Rokavere’s barque, the D.R.N. Endearment, which arrangements for provisioning were made forthwith.  It provided capacious room for a retinue of people and horses, along with copious supplies; and could furthermore be made into a military outpost, or fortified fallback position in Brogwash, should the need for armed retreat from an assault on the road to Arkengarthdale arise.
	Conscripts signed-on eagerly to accompany Eborel and the crew of monks on the journey.  These were selected from a vast pool of volunteers already present in Elginzice, by process of committee, which composed mystics and sayiks, and was chaired by Asheric.
	Selection by the committee was based on military provenance, reputation, or proven fitness in mock combat.  Many chosen were past graduates of Ahzul Ashram, which conferred instant acceptance.
	Eborel and her friends partook directly in the process by sparring with individuals in refereed matches, in order to gauge their potential battle-mates’ fighting skills, and keep their own like skills sharp.
	Eborel fought with no weapons, as she did in Phagix, since she was near-immune from harm.  This helped solidify the fealty for those who would fight for her, as they experienced the awe of her unassailability themselves, in firsthand combat.
	Eborel was assigned the leadership role for the military operation by joint royal decree from Procyon and Rokavere.  And as she was given no specific title by them, other than the previously-ordained “Mystic,” and as there was already a captain of the boat – an experienced maritime monk – the conscripts began to hail her as “General,” a term that made her wince in self-effacement as she had when she first heard it in the mountains from Quid Synch’s lips, so many years ago.
	But General she was, proclaimed so by the masses, if not by the royals themselves, and as it was a title that came to her by way of the future, transported from there and planted as a seed in the past by Quid Synch, it was verily foreordained.

	In the end, thirty conscripts joined Eborel and her company along with a crew of eight monks and a half dozen sturdy war horses, including Dentysus and Xegon’s steed, which was now ceded to Jebrel.  The ship would be crowded, but tolerable for the three weeks that might be required, allowing for fair winds, before reaching Brogwash.
	Provisioning took seven days, as supplies were assembled and stowed meticulously in the holds below.  Eborel and her friends were allotted officer’s cabins set abaft the mizzenmast, while the soldiers and ship mates were relegated to hammocks below deck before the main mast.  The horses were kept in simply-constructed stalls above deck on the forecastle, forward of the ship’s carpenter and cook’s quarters.
	During our group’s first tour of the boat, the captain proudly showed off the crown of the monk’s military contrivances to date; to wit, eight fine cannon, ensconced below deck, four each athwart the keel, positioned with muzzles facing outwards, set behind closed portholes in the hull, whose removable shutters had been seen earlier by our cohorts from the outside.
	Each cannon was mounted on a mobile wooden carriage which allowed for its precise positioning before firing.  Aside the carriages sat short caissons containing stacked black cannon shot in regimented formations shaped as four-sided pyramids, each such assembly composed of fifty five pieces of shot.
	Each shot was a rounded ball about a fist’s breadth in diameter, crafted to slide smoothly into the bore hole of the cannon’s chase.  The damage it might cause upon striking a structure or person, hurled at hitherto unknown horizontal speed by the force of the cannon blast, was near-inconceivable.
	These cannon were the source, as may be readily surmised, of the thundering sounds made at the conclusion of the fire show at the banquet, and were the cause of the rending of the fabric of causality that summoned Quid Synch to Elginzice from his epic and intra-epoch wanderings.

	As preparations for the journey were completed, and the barque made ship-shape, a scene of grand departure commenced.  Soldiers and monks lined the quay aside the ship whilst mystics and well-wishers thronged to see them off. 
	Asheric made a mock military inspection of the company, walking along the dock and pausing to salute each member.  At Eborel, who stood last in line, he bent forward and embraced her stiffly.
	“Good speed,” he whispered in her ear, “and best of luck!”
	“Thank you Asheric,” she said earnestly, “for everything.”
	He nodded curtly and stepped away.
	The King and Queen also reviewed the troops, perambulating slowly along the quay and thanking each shipmate personally for his service to Draeland. 
	Upon reaching Eborel, the Queen also embraced her, in more protracted and emotional fashion than had Asheric.
	“Now does the journey truly being,” she said to Eborel in close confidence, “for you have your objective, and it is black indeed!  We await your word with bated breath.”
	“Yes, my liege,” answered Eborel tearfully.  “Would that I not fail!”
	“You will not fail!” Rokavere answered, releasing her grasp and looking her full in the face.
	Eborel nodded in mute thankful acknowledgement of the Queen’s support and assurance.

	With those final words, the minstrels struck their instruments to gay fanfare as the crew filed staunchly onboard.  The sails were set, gangplanks stowed, and hawsers coiled on deck.  The ship drifted toward the deep, and hauled off into the breeze, sailcloth luffing as she tacked resolutely upstream.
	All waved from onshore as those onboard waved back, until the diminished image of the grand rigger rounded a bend in the distance and melted from collective sight.

50.  Brogwash
Into the uttermost.
-Anyplace far from Elginzice

	Little will be here-said concerning the particulars of the journey to Brogwash, as daily travel blended to a tedium of repeated scenery.  Suffice to say that Antequoi Valley was passed by, and the eight locks of the Maywend negotiated with nary incident.  The entrance to Willow Bay was attained to expansive effect, as it had been for Eborel when she first encountered it on her walk to Olinza Lake, months now previous.
	Navigation past Revelstoke Island revealed its landfall close enough to see monks waving from the shore.  Rokavere’s manor was easily discerned, standing out as a magnificent and iconic chateau dominating the coastline with its royal presence.
	Curiously, there was no storm raging about the island, as had been the case during Eborel’s earlier travails, and indeed for an unbroken brace of millennia prior.  The calm seas mirrored Rokavere’s newfound inner peace, afforded her by Eborel’s ascendance to the onerous task of facing Gogolax – that burden now passed from the Queen’s sole purview.
	Yet Eborel wondered idly where the fisherman now found vast schools of fish, which could no longer be conveniently netted in single fell swoops, consequent to the storm’s fury, which had formerly roiled the creatures into massive shoals for easy capture.
	In sooth, she thought fondly of the fisherfolk who had granted her passage on their boat for a day, relying as they did on her paltered promise of protection for their craft.  She mused upon the impression she might have made on them; whether they had subsequently heard her name spoken by others; and whether she might ever meet them again, to make her apologies for jumping off their boat, and thank them their forbearance.
	But then, she gloomily considered that she might never again see Zoro’Ander, Anntenfoale, or Penarthic.  Indeed, her own family and home in Dimthistle might be lost to her forever in this feckless action, as it seemed, against Gogolax.
	Such were the thoughts that filled her with misgiving during the interminable passage of days that marked their lethargic pace of travel.  As the ship sailed across the great lake, at such distance from the shoreline that no terrestrial feature could be descried beyond its watery horizon, she contemplated the fate towards which they now collectively vaulted.
	And as that tenebrous kismet seemed ominous indeed, whatever final form it took, she occupied herself with melancholy reminiscences of the people and places she might never see again.  Piteous introspection engulfed her, for she felt a mere babe, here at the tender age of twenty, who might never reach maturity, that is to say, fifty years of age, let alone see the centuries and millennia afforded the other timeless mystics. 
	Would she, for instance, never again feel the comforting closeness of the tavern walls at the Crack Willow Inn of her youth, returning there to a joyous homecoming and reunion with her cherished parents and sister?  And would she likewise never revisit the ashram, mid the flush and adulation perhaps, as she imagined it, of a hero’s welcome by the students and professors?  Nor ever lounge languorously as she once did to dissipated luxury in the rotund Musory there, enthralled by the dissonant sounds of Anntenfoale’s denigratory philippics against Enplexus and its vaunted author?
	And what of her faithful feathered and furry friends, Skyewing and Firthmare; were they heretofore gone from her sight forever?  Was she simply to accept that they would never again toil and play together in their mountain home of old upon the pinnacle of Sparkling Pate, where she raised herself to womanhood in isolated wilderness, attended only by their lively animal companionship?
	The list of places lost to her went on:  Shimrock Ruin, Thornberry Glade, Derrindell; even Elginzice itself.
	And too, she mulled over her foundering plans with Jebrel, now perhaps relegated to oblivion by events beyond her control and likely shortly to ensue.  Would she never settle with him to a happy and unremarkable life in her home county of Dimthistle, or in his homeland on the Steppes?  Would they e’er walk the streets of Manx together again, in the exciting capital city where they first met; even making a hearthstone for themselves in that place instead, nestled in a cottage townhouse perhaps, tucked away and lost in an impenetrable farrago of alleys and side streets?
	She regarded her ashram friends with a critical eye.  Their inveterate bonds of fealty, forged in the crucible of mutually shared tribulations, which ties formerly seemed inviolable, might now be simply put asunder; made utterly moot in a moment by the fickleness of sudden death, either hers or theirs; or both.
	Truly, life seemed all for naught, in Eborel’s present Cimmerian frame of mind.
But morose contemplation, which is wont to foment during times of anxious inactivity, is the true enemy of the campaign soldier.  And while there was naught to do but dwell upon such during the attendant monotony that accompanied travel by boat, these intrusive thoughts thankfully receded once Brogwash was finally attained.
	For now there was work to be done!

	Brogwash was not a town so much as a collection of scattered farmsteads situated near a wide expanse of the river where an interceding sandbar allowed for easy fording across its shallow reach at that point.
	Said sandbar also blocked navigation further upstream by any but the smallest of craft, and as there was no port, or dock, or pontoon of any kind at Brogwash proper, the D.R.N. Endearment simply pulled up in shoal waters and dropped anchor.
	Supplies were rowed by dinghy to the shore, but unloading the horses from the middle of the river’s course presented an unexpected conundrum.  In the end, three gangplanks were lashed together to form a long straight walkway.  The first two sections descended in a steep incline to the surface of the river, while the third was angled to float directly on the water.
	The horses were led down said gangplank by their riders, and goaded to jump into the water at the bottom, to swim ashore under their own power.
	The banks at this point were nearly nonexistent.  The edges of the river simply lapped-up onto flat beaches, “washing” them as it were; thus lending the area its name.
	No one met them at the landing, as the ship’s masts could not be easily espied from the surrounding countryside, appearing as they did from such distance to be inset in camouflage among the tall riparian trees that grew along the shores nearby.  This conveyed a measure of anonymity to the travelers, which was a welcome convenience, as they were not eager to advertise their presence.
	It was agreed that several small parties should travel to Arkengarthdale separately.  Those on horseback, led by Eborel, would leave first and take the most direct route.  Those following on foot would take lesser-paths, making forays into the countryside to search for signs of military insurgence.
	Upon reaching the town of Arkengarthdale proper, the foot soldiers would remain outside in a hidden location, and daily send a single scout to the main square to reconnect with Eborel’s troop.  The square was dominated by a tower, visible at distance, for easy predestination.  A few days after arriving themselves, Eborel would visit the town square on a regular basis in quest of assignations with scouts from the trailing parties. 
	If anyone encountered resistance, particularly at overwhelming odds, surreptitious retreat to the ship was mandated.  If battle against the ship appeared inevitable, it was to return to Elginzice posthaste, even if all hands could not be accounted for.  It was deemed vital that the ship be preserved, and that information be returned to the King and Queen at the cost of trying to save those who were lost.
	If retreat to the boat was not possible, those trapped or cut off were to scatter and blend.  They would still fulfill their mission by gathering information and organizing an insurrection, if possible, while waiting for the inevitable arrival of reinforcements.
	If they found citizens living in fear of Gogolax and his agents, they were to reassure them that armies were assembling in the West to free them from his tyranny.
	If, on the other hand, they found no evidence of his foul dominion, they were to spread the word that Gogolax was coming, and urge others to prepare for overt warfare.

	Eborel and her four steadfast friends commenced the journey first, as planned, riding upon their laden charges along the open road.  The scenery was idyllic, not unlike that of the ashram mates’ collective home counties in the Westron reaches.  They traveled through pastoral rolling hills dotted by virgin stands of trees, and interspersed with tame bucolic farmland.  Eborel had imagined that the environs would be more austere and forbidding in these so-called shadowlands (located as they were, in the proverbial shadow of the Rift).  Yet even the sky and weather were of a pleasant temperament.  Clearly, the East owned as much natural beauty as any region in Draeland, and perhaps held sway over all others!
	The road took them by degrees to ever-higher elevations.  The air felt progressively thinner and pungent-sharp to their nostrils.  The temperature was cool but not uncomfortable.  People passed them by on the road, usually in small groups, similar in appearance and disposition to our cadre, so that our fellowship felt reassuringly unobtrusive and unexposed.
	None of those encountered spoke to them however, which chariness roused a feeling of ill-ease among the group.  Was it simple rank Draeic xenophobia, such as that experienced by Eborel on her peregrination to Manx, which accounted for their reticence?  Or might the people of the region have real cause for fear from encounters with unknown travelers?
	Our party could not know, but resolved to hail those met along the way to perhaps discern their level of distrust.  These efforts were not much rewarded.  Other than verifying that the road thereon did indeed wind eventually to the Rift, no other useful information could be gleaned.
	And too, our cohorts were not anxious to stand out, so that word of their presence, or worse – their incisive insistent questioning – might spread among travelers to maleficent agents, who couldst then seek them out.  
	So the group chose to maintain a low profile, even bypassing inns on the road to sleep in the woods, rather than mingle with the crowds therein, which might, upon consideration, contain spies.

	Thus did our hardy quinquevirate, after some weeks of travel by horseback, eventually come upon the very gates of Arkengarthdale, with no real knowledge garnered about the extent of Gogolax’s reach, and with no awareness either, by the enemy, of their perhaps alarming proximity to the very Riftlands themselves.
	This, our group could not know, and so they proceeded cautiously.  At first, they determined to enter the city separately, in order to allay any suspicion aroused by the sight of an unknown company of five on horseback.
	However, upon approaching the city’s imposing outer wall, it became apparent that Arkengarthdale was a metropolis of impressive girth, with a prodigious population exceeded only by that of Manx, in Eborel’s experience.
	There was such a crowd at the main gate in fact, and no sentries in evidence to monitor the comings and goings of the populace, that our party elected to enter as one, joining the dense tide of travelers arriving to profusion; en masse, pell-mell, and whencesoever.

51.  Arkengarthdale

The Prince of Propinquity.
-Quid Synch’s misnomer

	Now Arkengarthdale differed from Manx, in that is was a walled city, for defense.  The outermost stone edifice demarked a sharp vertical boundary then, across which the entering travelers strode from contrasting staid rural heartland to clamorous city hubbub in the space of a few footfalls.
	The swell of people bustling within, to incalculably multitudinous cross-purposes, was both awe-inspiring and intimidating.  Our group walked their horses along cobbled boulevards in wide-eyed wonder at the manifest variety of denizens and the crafts they plied therein.
	The city was laid out in quadrants arranged end-to-end to form great concentric horseshoe shapes, each such looping swath of contiguous sections compassed by a newer wall on its outside periphery, and bordered on its inside boundary by an older more ancient wall.
	The two end quadrants of each horseshoe region terminated at a sheer cliff that dropped to the rift valley far below, and marked the eastern border of the city, which precipitous verge provided protection from attack on that flank, in lieu of a wall.
	The horseshoe sections, though not technically annular, were nonetheless referred to as rings, numbered consecutively from one to five, with the first ring being the innermost, and oldest.  Nestled within the first ring was found the city center, a roughly oval area comprising four quadrants which represented the core antecedent of the city, established perhaps five thousand years earlier.
	An interesting feature consequent to the terrain on which the city was built required that the dwellers therein climb upward when traveling toward inner rings.  Lower numbered rings were thus situated at ever-higher elevations as travelers clambered on inclined roads and staircases towards the city center.
	Two of the four quadrants in the highest inner plateau at the center abutted the cliff edge that fell to the valley abyss below, and in one of them was found the tower, earlier mentioned, which marked the main marketplace square.
	To this place then, after marching their horses through six concentric gated city walls, did our cohorts finally arrive to grand effect.
	Most of the square was wide open, with only a few portable stalls thereon, from which were sold fruits and breadcake by vendors to passersby.  The square was so large as to be deemed a plaza, and while it seemed at first to be a waste of prime real estate in this densest central locale, its openness yet provided welcome refuge from the crush of the surrounding cityscape.
	Around its periphery were found multi-storied buildings containing service establishments for food, drink and lodging.  Included among them were stables for hire, which, being incongruent perhaps, by the relative lack of beasts-of-burden seen in these closest quarters, was nonetheless a welcome sight to our colleagues-in-arms.
	To these stables then, they brought their horses, to be housed for the ease and convenience of further exploration on foot, unhindered by their charges. 
	After thus sequestering their equine companions, they checked into the largest inn on the square, called the Grand Hotel, and procured a suite of three rooms for their lodging pleasure.  Said suite was situated well above ground level, with windows facing the plaza, thus affording splendid views of the other buildings ringing its edge, as well as the activities of the people below.
	By conspicuously taking such rooms in the city’s arguably most lavish auberge, our group was cognizant of their greater vulnerability to discovery by enemy agents.  But the brazenness of their lodging in flaunted opulence might allow them, counter-intuitively, or so they reasoned, to be overlooked by those same agents, who might search instead for those that took up stations in more covert hovels.
	In the end analysis, they could not know what the enemy might be seeking, nor where his attentions lay, nor whether his spies abounded or not.  They simply wanted to sleep in wanton luxury after weeks of weary travel and poor accommodations!  And too, they felt cocooned by the city’s protective walls, which gave them a sense, false perhaps, yet comforting, of impregnability.
	Lightened of their loads by the discharge of beasts and the relinquishing of their supplies in their rooms, they took leave of the hotel to tour the byways.
	First, they partook of snacks from the aforementioned vendors upon the plaza, then wandered toward the tower which stood on the opposite edge from the Grand Hotel, that is, on the rift-side of the square.
	There they came upon a curious man; a lone performer wearing a gay outfit with a three-pointed jester’s hat upon his head.  Standing aside the tower, surrounded by an array of interesting implements of his trade, he began to juggle a set of soft leather balls as they approached.
	Dancing and twirling as he tossed the balls in the air, he deftly stepped around the various objects cast about him in apparent haphazard arrangement.  Picking up hoops and colorful rags, he waved them about to flourishing effect, all the while keeping the balls aloft.
	While dancing a jig with his feet and continuing to juggle, he spoke to the group in iambic pentameter:  “Five travelers I see, where none were before.  Visitors me thinks, first time to this shore.  A welcome relief to mine eyes that are sore.  What business have ye, from time out of yore?”
	None in the group answered him as they were transfixed by a peculiarity of his performance.  For he did not look at the objects he was juggling and waving, appearing as he did so to gaze rather at his audience instead, yet never failing to catch and re-launch his colorful accoutrements to endless dizzying effect.
	Amid this mesmerizing scene, a small animal, hitherto unnoticed, sprang from behind an open chest nearby, and scampered among our party’s feet.
	He was evidently a small monkey, carrying a metal cup, and dressed in a valet’s miniature suit of crimson with gold brocade buttons.  Apparently at the direction of the jester, who clicked commands with his tongue, the monkey begged for money or trinkets, by rattling the contents of his cup, and banging it upon the cobblestone pavement.
	As our group’s collective attention shifted to the colorful little monkey, the airborne objects of the juggler’s strange magic tumbled to the ground.
	None saw the jester drop his wares, but all heard as they fell softly upon the stones.  Eborel petted the monkey graciously and dropped a coin in his cup.  He bowed and scraped obsequious thanks, then returned to his master at the beck of a tongue-clicked command.
	Eborel approached the jester, who returned her look with a vacant stare.
	“Sir,” she addressed him kindly, “you juggle beautifully, yet you appear to be blind.  How is this so, pray tell?”
	“Long have I waited to perceive your true aspect,” he answered.  “Finally I see you as others do.  Happy I am to know your face!”
	The group paused at his enigmatic answer.
	“Come,” he continued, “for we are being watched by folk lurking in the shadows.  I will take you to a private place where we can talk.”
	He clicked twice to his monkey, who turned to stare at him.  He collected his things, placing each object in the open chest, while the monkey regarded his actions with curious attentiveness.
	As he closed the lid and hoisted the chest, the group plainly noted its heavy weight.  Jebrel stepped forward to offer assistance.
	“Good sir,” said Jebrel, gently gesturing to withdraw the load from the jester’s grasp, “allow me.”
	“Thank you,” replied the jester, releasing the chest to Jebrel, who was quickly aided in its portage by Zedwyn.  “Please trail after me and watch carefully ahead as I proceed.”
	The group hesitated, glancing at each other for mutual agreement that they should follow him.
	“All your questions will be answered anon,” he reassured them, turning to lead the way.
	Eborel had hoped he would guide them into the tower, which they had intended to explore, but he meandered away from the square instead, taking them through numerous alleyways in zigzag fashion, perhaps to elude trailing spies.
	Eventually they crossed over a gullied waterway to an adjacent city-center quadrant, and came to a cemetery situated on a hillock that bordered the rift. 
	Here they found a stone crypt which they entered through a low opening.  Once full inside, for the mausoleum was large enough to fit the entire group, the jester stooped down to remove a large rusted iron grate that rested at the base of the wall.
	An opening was thus revealed through which stone stairs were dimly descried leading downward.
	The jester entered, followed by his monkey companion, but the others hesitated.
	“Are we to follow you into this gloom?” asked Rosario.
	“A nonce,” called the jester, “whilst I light a lamp.”
	Flint sparks were seen as a single linseed flame glowed slowly to brightness.
	Darius voiced his doubts.  “How do we know this isn’t a trap?” he asked.  “Perhaps we were seen entering here and will be followed and cornered by those with ill intent against us.”
	“I am not the enemy,” answered the jester beckoning.  “None saw us enter the mausoleum, for I checked our surroundings.  I’m leading you to the catacombs under the city, where we will be safe from prying eyes and ears.  What say you Eborel?”
	All started at his mention of her name – not the first of many instances when a stranger seemed to know her unbidden.  That he called her out as their purported leader was not lost on them.
	“We follow willingly,” she answered simply, trusting him and his seeming otherworldly powers of perception, as she stooped to pass through the opening.
	She watched him intently as he walked ahead, the others following behind.  He paused to light other lamps on the way, inset in alcoves along the stone corridor walls, in like manner to those seen by her ashram mates in the subterranean lair at Derrindell.
	The air was damp and chill, imparting a sepulchral reminder of the séance experienced by her friends at the behest of Brindlebeck.
	Instead of the spirits conjured by him in that now seeming long-ago time and place, they saw here rather the bones of the dead, which, though bereft of spirit, comprised at least their corporeal remains – stacked floor-to-ceiling in neat arrangement along the walls, and filling whole rooms, built specifically to contain them, which adjoined the corridors at intervals along their passage.
	“Okay, this place officially gives me the creeps,” said Darius from behind the group.
	“Many people have lived and died through the ages in Arkengarthdale,” said the jester, elucidating history by way of the startling carnal evidence of the roomfuls of bones.
	“ʻMany’ doesn’t cover it,” cried Zedwyn.  “Try gazillions!”
	“Uncountable lives have come before us!” mused Rosario.  “And to what end?” he added philosophically.
	“Yes,” mirrored the jester darkly, “to what end, indeed?”
	They came upon a large room furnished for the living, with tables, chairs, a couch and bed.
	The jester lit several lamps while the others seated themselves at the largest table for enlightened discourse.
	Upon the table sat a crystal ball which sight caused Darius to cry out, “No more spirits, please!”
	The jester sat at the head of the table and shook his head.  “The crystal has been dark for some time.  Its use is too dangerous in these gravest times.”
	Eborel sat closest to him and gave voice to her suspicion.  “You are Jarfoz, I presume, the vicarious seer?”
	He bowed profoundly saying, “At your service, Eborel.”
	“You’re alive!” she exclaimed, adding, “Procyon feared you dead; or worse.”
	“I live yet,” he answered, “but under cover, hiding from the demon antagonist.”
	“Gogolax,” she stated plainly.
	“You speak his name openly?” Jarfoz asked, shocked.
	“He is outed,” answered Eborel.  “The West rises against the no-longer-nameless scourge.”
	Jarfoz nodded solemnly.  “The end is near, I fear.”
	“The end of Gogolax, you mean!” answered Eborel fiercely.
	“Mayhap,” he responded hopefully, but not convincingly.
	Rosario spoke up.  “You see through others’ eyes?” he asked.
	Jarfoz nodded.  “Most notably through my companion’s, Bojax,” he said by way of introduction to his monkey, who jumped onto the table and bowed to the group.
	Everyone applauded the miniature simian’s exaggerated antics.
	Rosario continued, “You watch yourself juggle through the eyes of Bojax, who is trained to keep you in his sight?”
	“It’s exactly as you say,” answered Jarfoz, “Yet I can watch through any eyes, including your own.”
	“Without my knowledge and against my will?” asked Rosario.
	“Yes,” answered Jarfoz, “but have no fear, for I cannot control you.  When you look away, I must peer through someone else’s eyes, who may happen to be trained upon me.”
	“So you juggle to keep your audience attentive?” asked Rosario.
	Jarfoz nodded.  “That is so.  If no one looks at me, I cannot keep my toys aloft.  In short, without an audience, I cannot perform!”
	“You do have your monkey,” commented Zedwyn, “who will watch you at your beck.”
	“Poor Bojax,” lamented Jarfoz, agreeing, “for he has endured countless hours of unbroken vigilance while I practiced my art!”
	“He is a patient little fellow,” said Rosario admiring him as he stroked his fur.
	“What news have you of Gogolax?” asked Eborel, turning to business.
	“His spies are here,”  he answered, “watching and waiting, I know not for what.  I have looked through their furtive eyes, casting and snooping.  I know who they are, and where they keep themselves.”
	“How many?” asked Eborel.
	“A dozen,” he answered.  “They watch at the gates, and hole-up in local tavern rooms.  Whether or how they communicate with Gogolax, I cannot tell.  Perhaps they simply seek information, or maybe they are advance scouts for an eventual invasion.”
	“What might Gogolax hope to gain by invading Arkengarthdale?” asked Eborel alarmed.
	“His schemes are opaque to me,” answered Jarfoz.
	“Resistance to invasion would be stiff,” interjected Darius, “for the population is huge, even if untrained.”
	“There are soldiers here, and several armories,” answered Jarfoz.  “The weapons caches must be protected from subversion or appropriation by the spies, who doubtless have gleaned their locations.”
	“We have thirty fit warriors accompanying us who will arrive in a few days,” said Eborel.
	Jarfoz nodded.  “That’s good,” he said.  “They can be tasked with guarding the armories, and they may help train the lay people for eventual resistance.”
	“The weapons should be removed from the armories and distributed to the populace,” countered Darius, “to keep them from falling into the wrong hands.”
	“A wise move,” answered Jarfoz, “for we may need to raise an armed civilian guard in our defense.”
	“But why would Gogolax waste resources attacking Arkengarthdale?” asked Eborel.  “For what lays here that he could possibly want?”
	“Perhaps you,” answered Jarfoz, with a soft steady blind gaze.
	“We seek each other out, then, it seems” she answered, dolefully.  “Mayhap I should forsake the city to save it from armed conflict?” she asked.
	“Possibly,” answered Jarfoz, “but rather than attack, he may have a different plan.”
	“What plan?” pressed Darius.
	“A siege,” answered Jarfoz thoughtfully.
	“To what purpose?” asked Darius.
	“Containment,” answered Jarfoz.  “For the people here could form a considerable army that might go forth to oppose him.”
	“Ah, the walls that protect may also imprison,” answered Rosario, again turning philosophical.
	“Indeed,” answered Jarfoz.  “I believe Gogolax aims to breach the rift valley at a point near here.  If he has assembled an army riftside, and is attempting to move it into Draeland by way of a rift-crossing, his forces would be most vulnerable to attack from us at the point-of-entry into our lands.”
	“We must patrol the rift, then, to search for possible invasion from across its void!” cried Darius.
	“I already know, or so I believe, where he intends to make landfall,” answered Jarfoz.  “In fact, he has already done so, for I have caught glimpses.”
	“Where?” asked Eborel, “How far away?”
	“A few dozens of leagues to the north,” he answered.
	“How did you catch glimpses at such great distance?” asked Eborel.  “Did you visit there, or does your vicarious power extend to such reach?”
	“I have not left the city,” answered Jarfoz.  “That distance is a stretch for me, but it’s not impossible.  I can see through the eyes of any creature, including those of birds, but they must be in my line of vision for me to see what they see.”
	“But that would not allow you to see dozens of leagues away!” asserted Rosario.
	“Each morning,” answered Jarfoz, by way of explanation, “I spend hours performing reconnaissance of the surrounding area by climbing the tower at the marketplace square and searching for birds flying to the north and south.
	“If a particular bird sees another bird flying further away, my vision can jump to the more distant bird, and see what it sees.”
	“Amazing!” interjected Rosario.
	“And if that bird, in turn, sees another bird,” he continued, “I can see through his eyes.  The vision-link only lasts as long as the birds remain within sight of each other.  The moment that any bird in the chain looks away from its target bird, my sight through the most distant bird is lost.”
	The others marveled at this description of his abilities.
	“By this means,” he continued, “I have descried activity to the north that appears to be a gathering of an army, and a great land bridge crossing the rift.”
	The others were startled by the revelation of this most important information.
	“I believe, in fact,” he continued, “that Gogolax may have already assembled a beachhead regiment on the western side of the rift to protect the land bridge at that point for use in further incursion by his forces from the east.”
	“The King will have need of this intelligence!” exclaimed Eborel.
	“Furthermore,” he added gravely, “I fear his forces may be prodigious.”
	“Should we not communicate this to Procyon now by way of the crystals?” asked Eborel urgently.
	Jarfoz shook his head.  “The need for secrecy from Gogolax outweighs the usefulness of the information we could impart to Procyon,” he answered.  “Our most effective message to Elginzice is the urgency of the situation, and not the exact location of Gogolax’s invasion force, which will soon be common knowledge.  This message of urgency is best conveyed by our silence, which also incidentally shields our whereabouts from Gogolax’s watchful eyes.  Was not Procyon spurred to the greater action of sending you here by my silence in the spiritual plane these past months?”
	Eborel nodded in agreement and understanding.  “You are a wise strategist, Jarfoz,” she said.
	He bowed his head in thanks for her considerable compliment.  “I am glad you are here,” he said, “for we are likely to form the first phalanx against his invasion force, and we need a great leader!”
	Eborel was chagrinned at this characterization of her, but managed, as she had done with Rokavere to say, “I hope I don’t let you down!”
	“As a token of my gratitude and faith in you,” he answered, taking something out of his pocket and handing it to her, “I’d like to give you this.”
	Without immediately looking at it, Eborel shook her head, “Why do I wonder that the mystics consort to give me a full set of these jangly coins?”
	Of course, it was the medallion of Jarfoz, with the words “§ Jarfoz § Mystic 19 §” inscribed around the rim; his likeness portrayed wearing his signature jester’s hat, and shown gazing sightlessly into the distance.  Accompanying him on the incised surface was an image of his faithful companion Bojax, who wore a miniature fez, and stared directly into the viewer’s eyes, as if in his master’s stead. 
	“It will not be a full set,” answered Jarfoz solemnly, “until you hold the medallion of Gogolax himself in your hand.”
	Eborel shuddered in contemplation of such.

52.  Warfare
Never go back!
-Darius Oxthoggle
	
	The discussions with Jarfoz lasted into the night as various plans were proposed and examined.  
	A reconnaissance foray to the alleged rift-bridge to the north was deemed paramount, but Jarfoz counseled ardently that it should be carried out by the soldiers in the contingent who would soon arrive, and not members of the core group.
	Eborel wanted to reconnoiter the extent of the enemy army in person, but Jarfoz insisted that her place as General was the safety of the headquarters in Arkengarthdale, hereafter designated as their suites at the Grand Hotel.
	He pointed out Eborel’s vulnerability in the battlefield.  For while she could best hundreds of foes in open conflict, she would be rendered completely ineffective if she were somehow trapped or confined.  Under such dire circumstances, even the mere minions of Gogolax might easily kill her, as no amount of time shifting could save her from that fate.
	As remarked upon earlier by Rokavere, her immortality was of little use in the present cause.  For if she died, the land would be overrun by the enemy during the space of years it would take for her to be re-born and grow up again to her current age.
	Eborel accepted that she must direct the army then from a position ensconced behind the protective city walls.  Her friends would remain in the city also, coordinating the war effort from within, but abide close to her should a final defense be necessary.

	Time was of the essence, but much preparation was required during the ensuing days.  A rally was organized in the main plaza to alert the residents of impending warfare.  Eborel spoke to the people as she had done in Phagix, with impassioned pleas for the citizenry to arm and train themselves.  Weapons were dispensed from the armories, emptying them out per the earlier suggestion by Darius.  Military exercises commenced daily on the Square, headed by Eborel and her friends, and aided by local militia leaders.
	Eborel accompanied Jarfoz to the top of the tower each morning to witness his patrol of the north through the eyes of birds.  While Jarfoz kept ever-vigilant watch, they discussed strategy together, should the city be attacked or laid in siege.
	The view from above was breathtaking for Eborel, compassing the countryside far beyond the city walls, and clear across the rift to its opposing side in the distant east.
	Verily, Jarfoz caught sight of dust clouds on that farthest shore which might have been caused, ominously, by large troop movements within the Riftlands.
	At closer range, every quadrant in each circumscribing ring within the city itself could be seen in detail from above.  It was the natural vantage point from which military movements would therefrom be directed.
	After a few days, the recruits from the D.R.N. Endearment trickled into the city and were met by Eborel at the main square.  They were put up in suites at the Grand Hotel.  None had anything to report concerning suspicious activity in the countryside, until the last handful arrived.
	The trailing group had wandered to the north and encountered a wall of defense at the rift edge.  Soldiers and behemoth beasts guarded a land bridge that was clearly visible from a vantage point to the south.  Stretching east across the rift and made of stone and rubble, this land bridge appeared to be an ad-hoc road surface that lay directly upon red-hot lava at rift-center, just discernable in the distance.
	“It’s as I feared,” said Jarfoz when confronted with the news.  “Doubtless armies are mobilizing now to cross that bridge to our lands.  Workers likely maintain the roadway by laying stones faster than the lava flow can carry it away.”
	“It would seem to be a temporary causeway then,” said Rosario.
	“Indeed,” answered Jarfoz.  “I think we can expect a mass exodus from the Riftlands so that the entire army of Gogolax will arrive before the maintenance of the road is overcome by natural forces.”
	“I move that we mobilize our own army now to stem the tide at the landing!” declared Darius.  “We might trap half his army on the rift side before he can mount a full offensive!”
	“Yes, possibly,” answered Jarfoz, with some reserve.
	“What about reinforcements?” asked Zedwyn.  “Shouldn’t we hail Procyon for military aid?”
	“It would take too long to bring them thence,” answered Jarfoz.  “Perhaps we should remain silent a while longer, so that Gogolax does not yet learn with certainty that we know he is here.”
	“Maybe Procyon is already coming,” interjected Jebrel.  “Might we hasten his arrival by urgent communication with him now?”
	“If he is coming,” answered Jarfoz, “it’s likely at speed.”
	“We still don’t know the enemy’s intention,” said Rosario.  “He may attack the city, lay siege to it, or pass us by altogether!”
	“In any case, we must attack, as Darius suggested,” affirmed Eborel, “for no other reason than to catch Gogolax at the land bridge bottleneck, and try to stem the tide before his armies break free and unfettered by the rift.”
	Darius beamed in agreement.
	“It’s as you say,” bowed Jarfoz to Eborel, adding, “My General.”
	Eborel nodded and smiled dourly in return.
	“What about his spies?” asked Zedwyn.  “If we mobilize, will they somehow alert Gogolax?”
	“They must be enjoined from doing so,” answered Rosario.
	“I agree,” said Jarfoz.  “The gates must be guarded so that none may leave, either those whom I surmise to be spies, or others unknown to me.”
	“We should jail the spies already known to you!” asserted Darius.
	“I am not certain they’re spies,” answered Jarfoz.  “Rather, we should monitor them, and not waste resources imprisoning them.  They may even be useful in the preparations for assault, as all hands will be called to help.  How could they not join the war effort without arousing suspicion?”
	“Understood,” said Zedwyn taking his cue.  “We’ll disseminate a list of those you suspect to the group leaders, and ask them to keep watch over any assigned to their units.”
	“Yes,” agreed Jarfoz.  “Anyone, whether known to us or not, who appears to contact the enemy by whatever means, must then be detained, and deemed untrustworthy, until the conflict is over.”
	“It’s done then,” said Darius with satisfaction.  “To war!”

	The following days were a frenzy of preparation.  Farmers came in droves from surrounding areas bearing cartloads laden with foodstuffs.  Barracks and shanty towns sprang up in all quadrants, including the central square, to house the influx.  Thousands of people entered the city daily, yet none left, for their own protection, and by edict of Jarfoz.
	The issue of the spies became mostly moot, as enemy patrols in the countryside would now easily ascertain by the mass movements of people and goods on the roads that mobilization was afoot.
	The urgency of Gogolax’s sure knowledge of their preparations spurred the citizenry to redoubled effort.
	On the fifth morning after the declaration of war by Darius, Jarfoz reported from his tower that the great army to the north had begun to move in the direction of Arkengarthdale.
	Discouraged by the news, as it precluded a surprise attack at the land bridge to blockade Gogolax’s army, Eborel nonetheless ordered the massive citizen army to assemble and head north to meet the onslaught.
	She watched from the tower, with her friends and Jarfoz at her side, as thousands of soldiers issued forth from the city, pouring out of the gates and onto the northbound road.
	Darius was jealous that he was not among them, leading a troop of elite soldiers, and spearheading the assault himself upon the forward thrust of the enemy.  But his place was at the side of his General, providing counsel and protection, closest to the point of supreme decision making.  This is where he and his colleagues’ skill and expertise would exert their greatest effect.
	The second day out saw the first clash of contact with the enemy, some ten leagues to the north.  Jarfoz could not discern the details of battle at such distance, catching only occasional glances from the air of swarms of people and creatures clashing in combat.
	Throughout the day, our cohorts stayed with Jarfoz in the tower as he watched for signs of advance or retreat.  None could be detected, but soldiers continued to stream out of the gates north in support of their brethren at the front.
	At nightfall, the weary commanders in the tower retired to the Grand Hotel, as little could be seen by Jarfoz in the dim lumi light.
	The first news came from couriers at the front that stiff resistance was met, and the forward soldiers had fallen back.  Casualties were great, and the wounded began straggling toward the city, walking or carried by their comrades in procession through the night.
	Those returning told nightmare tales of unaccountably huge beasts, many with scales and bone armor plates, ridden by enemy soldiers and driven mercilessly into the fray of battle.  Arrows snapped and deflected off their impenetrable hides.  Swipes from the creature’s massive tails broke the backs and rib cages of the soldiers.  A stomp from their feet was potentially lethal.
	Few dared approach within striking distance by pike or spear, as those weapons seemed equally ineffectual against any part of their protected exteriors.
	Worse than these gargantuan war animals even was the use of bombs and crackling fire sticks, wielded by the riders and enemy foot soldiers alike.  These devices scattered shrapnel and shards of flesh-rending jagged metal at near-instantaneous speeds.  Many of the returning wounded were pierced by such material, sometimes found embedded deep in their bodies where they threatened death by internal bleeding or sepsis.
	Eborel shuddered at these dire descriptions, wondering if her own time shift ability would be great enough to avoid a hail of whizzing bomb darts coming from all directions, propelled she was sure, by the same explosive force she had witnessed at the ashram. 
	The next morning dawned ominously with a pall of smoke visible in the sky to the north.  Jarfoz could not penetrate the haze with his sight, but estimated that its location was a mere five leagues away.
	That it was caused by fire seemed certain, but whether it was an artifact of the explosions, or a result of the land being set ablaze, either accidentally or by design, was not known.
	Late in the morning, news was returned which answered this question, for the Arkengarthans were in full retreat, setting fires as they went, to slow the advance of the enemy.
	Preparations for a stand beyond the outer wall were immediately placed into effect.  A regiment was amassed outside the gates to facilitate the reentry of the embattled front-liners, who would soon arrive. 
	A long wall of debris was hastily constructed across the main road and extending at distance to either side, a few furlongs beyond the main gate.  Its purpose was to slow the enemy long enough to facilitate returning all soldiers to the city.  A small brave contingent stationed itself there to buy precious time with a last stand before the final retreat.
	Casualties continued to stream into the city.  By nightfall, the enemy army was reported a mere two leagues away and the city became choked with smoke.
	A rout broke out in the late hours as returning soldiers fairly fled from battle in the night.  The regiment at the gates sprang forward to the front to slow the advancing enemy long enough to return the remaining wounded, and account for every soldier. 
	Fierce fighting broke out a mere furlong beyond the debris wall.  Bomb blasts were easily heard from within the city, and their eerie flashes lit up the smoky night air beyond the walls.
	The enemy spread out in an attempt to outflank the regiment, which retreated to the debris wall and set it afire.  Soldiers from the regiment ran through an opening in the fire wall toward the main gates while the remaining valiant contingent stood their ground.
	Their time in battle was brief, as the great war animals trampled through several incursion points in the flaming wall and pressed forward.
	In danger of being surrounded, the contingent broke for the cover of the city walls.  Some were struck down by enemy fire as they ran, either by arrows or fire shot, and were picked up and carried by their comrades.  None were knowingly left behind, but many surely fell who were never rescued.
	The great beasts had few vulnerabilities.  They were slow, to be sure, which gave the advantage to the horseman and footman.  They appeared to be afraid of fire, too, but were spurred to advance against it by their riders.  They could be disabled seemingly only by an arrow through the eye, which task proved so far impossible in the chaos of battle.
	Their greatest vulnerability was their riders, who could be forcibly unmounted by some considerable effort, either by direct assault with spears or ropes, or at a distance with arrows.  However, once a rider was dislodged, another enemy soldier merely leapt to the saddle to take control of the beast.  On the few occasions when an Arkengarthan managed to commandeer an animal, he was thrown off, as the creature reflexively tumbled and rolled on the ground.
	Some few gargantuans were killed or injured, but the great majority prevailed in combat.  These huge creatures were perhaps the quintessential expression of military might for their era.

53.  Siege, or Not

There is no could; there is only do.
-Precept for success

	Thus by morning light was found an oddly quiescent scene.  For a vast menagerie of war animals milled about among smoldering landscape in a long battle line that circumnavigated the city beyond arrow range from its walls. 
	The intention of the enemy was unclear, but it was likely one of two actions:  siege or assault.
	An emergency meeting was convened at the Grand Hotel.
	“Did we make a mistake delaying our attack?” asked Eborel.  “If we had arrived at the land bridge days earlier, we might have stymied their advance.”
	“Doubtful,” answered Jarfoz.  “Even a small detachment of these beasts could have pushed our soldiers back.  It might have been better if we had met them earlier, before they made landfall.  In that case, battle would have ensued on the isthmus of the partially constructed bridge across the Rift.”
	“They would have easily worn us down, no matter the battleground,” answered Rosario, in defeatist, if realistic, tone.
	“We might have delayed them long enough for reinforcements to arrive!” shot Darius in return.
	“It’s past that now,” interjected Jebrel, mollifying the two. 
	“I have needlessly wasted life by sending an army at all,” lamented Eborel.  “For our casualties are easily tenfold the enemy’s!”
	“We didn’t know their army was so strong,” consoled Jarfoz.
	“Where have all these beasts come from?” asked Darius.  “I have never seen the like before, except as spirits during the séance at Derrindell.”
	“Bred by Gogolax, no doubt, in the Rift Lands,” answered Jarfoz.  “He has been busy these past two millennia.”
	“I want to find Gogolax and confront him personally!” said Eborel with sudden vitriol.
	Jarfoz raised his eyebrows in alarm.
	“If we use the crystals to contact Procyon, will we also find the location of Gogolax?” she asked him.
	“He will find you, most assuredly, but you would only determine his whereabouts if he communicated in return with Procyon,” he answered.
	“We are watching for him from the walls,” he added, “in case he is leading the army.  He may come looking for you, Eborel, rather than the other way around.”
	“How would we recognize him?” asked Rosario, as the realization dawned on the others that Gogolax himself might be nigh upon them.
	“If he surrounds himself with the pomp of supreme leadership, it will be simple; but if he chooses to go in disguise; impossible,” answered Jarfoz.  “I would warn you Eborel to be wary of anyone who approaches you unheeded and close-at-hand, for he may be possessed by him.  In sooth, you and I are the only two people in the city who could not be Gogolax – all others are suspect!”
	A shiver went down Eborel’s spine as she realized that even her trusted friends could become shills in his service, their bodies used as decoys to lure her closer to him.
	“What do you hope to gain by confronting him?” asked Rosario pointedly.
	“Cessation of hostilities,” answered Eborel, “by any means possible.”
	“Including death?” asked Zedwyn dourly, startled by the recklessness of her tack.
	She nodded, saying, “If necessary.”
	“Yours or his?” asked Rosario with glib sarcasm, as a defense against his concern for her.
	“Either or both,” she answered, “if it would stop the madness!”
	Jebrel shook his head.  “It sounds like suicide,” he said with supreme misgiving.
	“Perhaps it would be a simple negotiation,” she said.  “I would find out what he wants – he might agree to lay down arms if he gets it.”
	Now it was Jarfoz who shook his head.  “I doubt you have the power to give him what he seeks, which is likely total dominion.  He has built this army for one purpose – destruction; perhaps obliteration.  Our only option is to oppose it.”
	As he said this, a great rumbling pounding sound was heard in the distance, repeating after ten heartbeats or so.  The group rose as one to seek the tower for a view of what was commencing.
	“I fear his animals have the power to break the gates, even barricaded as they are,” said Jarfoz.  The group fairly ran across the plaza as the rumbling repeated.
	Climbing the tower, they felt the stones shake beneath them with each crashing blow.  The scene from above was revealed to be one of pandemonium at the main gates.  Soldiers massed at the tops of walls poured flaming oil on the invaders outside and heaved boulders placed above for such purpose.  Hailstorms of arrows were let loose in waves upon the invading hoard.
	Soon there was heard crashing at the lesser city gates.  The enemy was apparently too impatient for siege.  Jarfoz gazed skyward for views from outside the walls.
	“What do you see?” asked Eborel.
	“Battering rams tied between huge yoked beasts,” he answered.  “There is a lot of fire.  Some of the creatures are injured.”
	“We haven’t much time,” said Eborel.  “Breach of the outside wall is inevitable.”
	“They must pass through six walls to reach us,” answered Jarfoz.  “Many soldiers wait inside the gates.  Everyone will fight to the death now that their home land is invaded.”
	Tears welled in Eborel’s eyes.
	“The last stand will be here in the plaza,” Jarfoz intoned prophetically.
	“We’ll decimate their army!” cried Darius.  “Even if they destroy us, we might yet save Draeland from suffering the same fate!”
	“A noble sentiment,” answered Jarfoz as he cast his eyes across the sky.
	“I see something in the distant west,” he continued.  “A cloud of rising dust.”
	“Fire?” asked Eborel.
	Jarfoz peered for what seemed an eternity to the anxious onlookers.
	“Soldiers,” he answered finally.  “Running hither.  I think Procyon’s scouts have alerted his army to our predicament.  They approach at full bore.”
	“We are saved!” exclaimed Eborel.
	“Mayhap,” answered Jarfoz cautiously.  “A new battle will shortly ensue outside the walls.”
	“How soon?” asked Darius.
	“Within a half day,” answered Jarfoz.
	“The gates must hold!” said Darius.
	“I wonder if the enemy knows Procyon is coming?” asked Rosario.
	“It may explain his haste to attack the gates,” answered Jarfoz.
	“I’ll send a messenger to the front gates with this news,” offered Zedwyn as he moved to leave the others.
	“Return at once,” said Eborel in commanding fashion, “as I intend to hold counsel here.”
	Zedwyn nodded curtly.
	“Tell them to be ready to issue forth when the reinforcements arrive, in aid to their action,” added Darius, “Perhaps we can attack on two fronts!”
	Zedwyn left as Rosario asked Eborel, “What counsel do you seek?  There is naught for us to do but wait while the battle plays out.”
	“I want to find Gogolax,” she reasserted bluntly.
	“And how would you do that; by use of the crystals?” he asked.
	She shook her head.  “I need the element of surprise.”
	“But you intend negotiation.  That can be done through contact in the spiritual plane,” Rosario countered.
	“I wouldst confront him in the flesh – with a knife up my sleeve,” she added fiercely.
	“And kill him if the negotiation fails?” asked Jarfoz incredulously, again raising his eyebrows.
	“His body, yes, and all those in the vicinity,” she answered.  “My blade may be swifter than his speed of possession.  That’s why I must kill him before he is among us.  In sooth, it may be my part in this fearsome debacle.  I must face him alone, it seems, within a zone of lifelessness, where no living bodies exist nearby for his escape by appropriation, if I am to succeed.”
	A silence passed as each considered this grisly, if unlikely prospect.
	“Ah,” said Rosario bleakly, “you intend to walk into his army to find him?”
	“Yes,” she answered.  “I would be safe in protracted time shift, I think.”
	“There is no way out of the city right now with the gates barricaded shut,” noted Rosario.  “Even if you could climb down a rope over the outside wall, you might not get back in!”
	“We would worry terribly while you were away,” pleaded Jebrel against the idea.
	“I would not be long,” answered Eborel.  “Maybe only briefly from your point of view.”
	“But reentry could be problematic, as you say Rosario,” she added, “if I failed to find and kill Gogolax.”
	“What about the cover of nightfall?” asked Rosario.  “A rope would go unnoticed, and you could climb back in.”
	“By nightfall,” interjected Jarfoz ominously, “the gates will be broken, and battle will be raging inside and outside the walls!”
	“Then I will return through the broken gates,” answered Eborel.
	“Let’s talk about battling inside the walls for a moment,” said Darius, diverting discussion away from the temerarious plan to seek Gogolax out.
	“How will those huge beasts negotiate the narrow alleys once they enter the city?  They’d be sitting ducks, trapped and unable to turn around.”
	“Perhaps only their foot soldiers would infiltrate,” responded Jarfoz.
	“And how many could they have?” answered Darius.  “Surely not the tens of thousands of denizens we have!”
	“Indeed,” answered Jarfoz.  “Assault on the city appears madness.  But then, their leader may very well be mad.  Mayhap we are safer in the innermost sanctum than I had imagined.”
	“Mad?  No,” answered Eborel.  “Driven, yes.  He has a plan – we just don’t comprehend it yet.”
	“His goal has always been extirpation, against unaccountable reason,” offered Jarfoz.  “I assert that his ‘plan’ is to raze the city to the ground, for its own sake solely.”
	The others reflected on this sad prognostication.
	“It’s to be systematic leveling of the walls and buildings themselves then?” asked Rosario gloomily.
	Jarfoz nodded.  “Systematic, as you say – progressing from one ring to the next, destroying all in its wake.”
	“And finally, to us, in the center!” concluded Jebrel.
	A moment of sullen silence followed as each contemplated this horrific fate.
	“I’m going out,” said Eborel firmly, “as soon as the walls are breached.”
	Zedwyn – who had only late returned – stood nonplussed with the others.  None spoke a word in opposition to her will.  There was no stopping the General!

54.  Foray
Fray, fracas, foray.
-Military skirmishes

	The gates were soon smashed by the implacable battering, yet the enemy did not immediately enter.  A lull ensued while the soldiers inside waited anxiously for the next wave of attack.  Our cadre watched the surreal stalemate from atop the tower.
	Eborel prepared to leave the city through the broken gates when Jarfoz forestalled her with the report of a new ominous sighting to the east.
	“Great birds,” he said peering into the sky.  “Massive – flying in formation – with long slow awkward wing beats.”
	“Flying towards us?” asked Darius.
	Jarfoz nodded.
	“How many?”
	“Dozens… hundreds, maybe,” he answered.
	The others gazed vainly east.
	Darius suddenly erupted.  “I see them!” he exclaimed, pointing toward the horizon.  “Black dots, in the sky, moving hither, from the Rift Lands!”
	“They are ungainly,” said Jarfoz.  “More like reptiles than birds.”
	“Get the word out,” said Eborel to Zedwyn urgently.  “Advise our soldiers to take cover!”	
	Zedwyn immediately left to notify runners.
	“They have large heads, with teeth,” said Jarfoz, “and long forearms trailing leathery webbing, like huge bats,” he continued his description.  “There are claw-like protrusions extending from the forward edge of the wings.”
	The others shuddered at this new menace.
	“And something else,” he continued, boding further ill.  “Each carries an object, heavy it seems, dangling beneath their bodies, swinging like so many pendulums from the sky, clutched by hawk-like talons.”
	“What do these objects look like?” asked Eborel urgently.
	“Boxes, or barrels, maybe,” he answered.  “Rounded, made of wood.  The talons encircle them.”
	“Supplies?” asked Rosario, bewildered.
	Eborel shook her head violently.  “Bombs!” she exclaimed.  “They mean to drop them on our soldiers to explode inside these very walls.  They are clearing the way for entry by the army from outside the gates!”
	Rosario then left abruptly to relay this new information.
	“Eborel,” adjured Jarfoz solemnly, “you can’t leave now; it will be too dangerous for you!”
	“I must go, and quickly, before they arrive,” she answered.  “You’d best take cover, away from this most vulnerable tower.  Get to the grottos under the cemetery.  The fusillade from above will likely be of short duration.  Return only when you think it’s safe.”
	The others nodded concurrence.
	“Before you go,” pleaded Jarfoz, “I beg you not to wreak personal revenge on the army outside.”
	Eborel gave him a quizzical look.
	“Gogolax will be looking for you,” he continued hastily.  “If his army starts to mysteriously fall en masse, he will find you.  Don’t give yourself away!  He moves in time shift, too.”
	Eborel nodded in understanding.
	“My mission is Gogolax only, and not the destruction of his army at my own peril,” she answered.  “I will find him before he finds me.”
	With that, she disappeared, disconcertingly, from view.
	Moments later, she was doubtless at the gates and beyond.  The others left the tower as she ordered, and headed towards the cemetery, with furtive glances skyward for signs of a new assault from above.

	Eborel fairly flew in time shift through the city, weaving between the throngs of statued people along the way.  She exited the broken main gates without incident and entered full-in to the enemy ranks.
	What she found was an appalling number of war creatures and soldiers, fully armed and poised in seeming endless orderly array to assault the city from every direction to unimaginable calamitous purpose.
	Everywhere, she looked for signs of leadership, but found none.  Who were the officers, and where were they located?  She found no indication of an infrastructure of chain-of-command.  There were no headquarters, no intelligence or surveillance sites, no tents or outposts that might house regional centers of operational theatres.  The individual soldiers exhibited no recognizable emblems of rank.  Their uniforms identified only their function:  horseman, driver, archer, foot soldier.  It seemed to Eborel that every warrior executed his own tasks without apparent overarching direction, perhaps by scripted rote, practiced in advance of the assault.
	Needless to say, she found no sign of Gogolax, unless he was disguised among the thousands of assailants.  She wondered that he might even take the form of one of the great war beasts, and she would never know!
	Eborel considered following the trail of the army back to the land bridge in search of Gogolax, but she knew that way lay madness.  A journey of thirty leagues would require stopping for sleep – a patently dangerous proposition.  Would that she could travel in dreamwalk again, as she had done to Revelstoke Island, which had required no rest at all.
	And too, her friends would worry if she were gone for days.  The city might fall as she searched vainly for Gogolax far afield at the rift-breach.
	So Eborel changed her tack and determined to head west to meet the approaching cavalcade of Draeic soldiers.  Once protected within their friendly perimeter, she would rest safely in normal time before returning to the battlefront again in shadowed time.  Her goal was to apprise the Draeland army leaders of the situation at Arkengarthdale, and seek counsel for a coordinated effort against the opposition army.

	Before leaving the ranks of the enemy, however, she stopped to survey one of the war animals at close quarters, in hopes of finding any exploitable vulnerability in battle.
	There were several types of creatures from which to choose for study.  Some were heavyset with short stout legs and thick necks.  Others walked on taller appendages, with views of their surroundings enhanced by heads set high atop elongated serpentine necks.  For body protection, there was similar variety, as some were sheathed in scales, others in bony-plated armor, and others still by simple thick hide.  A few had protruding spikes and plates that served both offensive and defensive purpose.
	Eborel chose a thicker bony-plated specimen for inspection.  Its head was angled down, but was nevertheless prevented from dipping close to the ground by reins tethered to a mount on its back, which, made of leather and wood, served as an elaborate saddle for the driver.  Eborel considered whether the head could be approached from the front by climbing a tree nearby, or placing a ladder in its path.  Neither was possible in her present circumstance, nor plausible for soldiers in battle, unless an ambush could be laid for the creatures at elevation.
	In time shift, however, she had the advantage of the animal’s frozen aspect, and thus managed to clamber up its body easily to its shoulders, using the saddle mount’s attachments for handholds.  From there, she shimmied along its neck, grasping bony protrusions for purchase as she slid along the vertebrae.
	Sitting atop the creature’s head then, face-forward and straddling its wide pate with her legs, she peered down at its gruesome visage from above.
	Great pointed teeth protruded fiercely from its lower jaw in an upwards sweep, curved menacingly toward her position above.  On either side of the eyes were fashioned horse blinders of leather, and attached to the blinders were hitherto unnoticed miniature lenses of glass covering the eyes, undoubtedly to shield them from errant debris.
	The animals wore protective goggles then, which was not previously reported by the soldiers at the front.  Arrows were therefore not a viable option for disabling the beasts through the eyes, as had hitherto been considered.
	Eborel in her present situation could easily remove a lens and stab the creature in the eye, though she wondered what length of blade would be required to reach the brain.  She would need to come out of time shift to soften the tissue, and muster considerable force to penetrate deeply.  She could disable the creature, she felt, but could not ensure a clean kill.  Furthermore, she might be thrown to the ground during the moment of real time that would follow such an attempt, possibly injuring herself.
	It was too dangerous, and she was meanwise promised to Jarfoz that she would not draw attention to herself by killing soldiers or beasts in time shift.
	Therefore she climbed back down to scrutinize the animal’s undercarriage.  Thick tough hide was everywhere evident, with no obvious indication where the underlying ribs might lie.  In any event, the heart was likely embedded a full arm span’s length inside the body.  Even a pike thrust all the way in, if that were possible, might not reach it.
	In short, she could think of few ways to disable the behemoth, perhaps limited to three methods:  fire, a trap, or a wound inflicted deeply enough to cause death by bleeding.
	All three tactics should be employed in battle, she thought, particularly if the animals entered the city.
	Two less available means also occurred to her, to wit:  a bomb blast with sufficient force to knock a giant animal down; and boulders from above ‒ or a cave-in of stone ‒ which might stun a creature long enough for a kill.

55.  Two Fronts
Triunion.
-A reunion of three

	Her reconnaissance complete, Eborel headed west, full of reservation concerning the facts she had learned, and disconcerted that she had only the sheer magnitude and invulnerability of the enemy’s force to report to the onrushing Draeland army.
	When she reached the end of the occupied area, she came out of time shift to move with greater ease.  She soon heard the muted thundering blasts of explosions coming from the east, and turned to view the latest barrage at distance.
	The great lizard birds were just visible from her vantage point as dots circling in the sky.  Doubtless they were raining bombs down on the city even now, just as she had predicted.  A sick feeling rose inside her as she imagined the mayhem that must be playing out in the streets at that very moment.  Hastily she turned away, running hard as she went, to purge her mind of that terrible vision.
	Soon she encountered a forward scout who was startled to see her, but quickly acceded to her urgent request to meet with the army’s leaders.
	Together they ran west through the advancing ranks, meeting other scouts as they went, who fast spread the news that Eborel was among them. When they came across two scouts on horseback, the riders readily relinquished their charges to Eborel and her guide for quicker conveyance on horseback.
	Eventually, the pair came upon a vast legion of horsemen riding in formation upon the road, trailing columns of riders that wound into the distance for as far as the eye could see. At the head of this most impressive military procession rode none other than Procyon and Rokavere themselves, dressed in full battle regalia.
	Upon approaching the formation, the scout pulled away, nodding his head in acknowledgment to Eborel, as she thanked him kindly. Eborel turned her steed to insert herself and her charge between the mounts of the King and Queen as they rode. The horses trotted at a clip while they conversed.
	“Glad we are to see you sound and fit,” greeted Rokavere.  “What news have you?”
	“Great war beasts, nearly invulnerable in battle,” answered Eborel hastily.  “Uncounted thousands of warriors.”
	Procyon’s face was grim.
	“Arkengarthdale is under attack,” continued Eborel.  “The gates are broken, and fighting is undoubtedly commenced inside the first ring of the city.  Bombs drop from the sky, unleashed by huge lizard birds.”
	Procyon shook his head.
	“Fire sticks are carried by the enemy soldiers, which hurl jagged metal shrapnel at our people.  Everywhere there are explosions.  We use burning oil and boulders against the beasts.  Hailstorms of arrows are volleyed in both directions.”
	“How did Gogolax manage to breach the rift with an army of such magnitude?” asked Procyon.
	“A causeway of rubble laid directly upon the lava,” answered Eborel.  “The Rift-bridge makes landfall on its western side thirty leagues north of Arkengarthdale.” 
	The King and Queen contemplated this information.
	“And what of Jarfoz?” asked Rokavere.  “Have you seen him?”
	“He is hale and directing the defense from the tower in the main square,” answered Eborel.  “He is a master strategist, and his vicarious sight has been indispensable in the cause.”
	“What a relief!” answered Rokavere.  “But why has he not communicated with us?” she asked.
	“He is hiding his whereabouts and knowledge of the enemy’s movements from Gogolax,” responded Eborel.  “He felt his silence imparted greater urgency to you than any contact he might have made in the spiritual plane.”
	“Indeed, that is the case,” said Procyon.  “Armies are mobilizing across the land.  Zoro’Ander leads a huge militia from the north, from the Steppeweir.  Barkdale of Phagix rides with him.  Asheric is coming from the west with the entire ashram and an army of farmers from the students’ home villages.”
	“They will be needed,” answered Eborel, “but they must be yet far away.”
	“Weeks in time, I fear,” said the King.  “But we have amassed ten thousand souls from Elginzice and Manx.  There is a sizable contingent of monks trailing behind, too.  Only the gnomics, who do not fight and never leave their shrines, are absent.”
	Eborel nodded pensively.
	“What of your friends?” asked Rokavere.
	“They await my return in the city center,” answered Eborel.  “They worry about my safety, and I theirs.  We fear a final engagement in the inner circle as Gogolax smashes through the walls, cordoning us off.”
	“Your situation is most dire,” answered Procyon.  “The entire city is trapped.”
	“We hope your army will save us,” answered Eborel.
	“Fierce battle is nigh upon us!” proclaimed Procyon.  “Perhaps we can open an escape route for the citizens and your friends.”
	“You came hither through the ranks of the enemy, rather than use the crystals to contact us?” asked Rokavere.
	“Yes,” answered Eborel.  “I wish to keep my location hidden from Gogolax.  I would find him before he finds me.  I searched for him among his army before coming here, but to no avail.”
	“To what purpose do you seek Gogolax?” asked Rokavere.
	“I know not,” answered Eborel.  “I would negotiate with him, or kill him if I could find a way.”
	“Neither negotiation nor assassination is possible,” said Procyon bleakly.
	“It’s as Jarfoz said, too,” said Eborel.  “But my destiny is him, so I seek him out.  The sooner I find him, the fewer may die.”
	“He likely leads from behind,” posited Procyon.  “His last known location was Riftwarren castle, and he is possibly still there.”
	“Wouldn’t he come west to direct his armies and view their devastation at close hand?” asked Eborel.  “Would he risk being cut off from his army should the rift-breach causeway be somehow foreclosed?”
	“He may have another means for crossing the Rift,” answered Procyon.  “The silence from Starfindel connotes ill – that the shrine of Breathmere may have fallen to him.  Perhaps he can fly across the Rift on one of these great lizard birds.”
	“That’s possible,” answered Eborel.  “Jarfoz saw no riders upon the birds, but Gogolax has a menagerie of huge animals under his sway.  Mayhap a different flying creature carries him, but none has been seen so far.”
	The column of horses galloped for some time as the riders remained silent.
	“What will you do Eborel?” asked Rokavere finally.
	“I will leave you when we reach the enemy,” answered Eborel.
	The King and Queen nodded solemnly.
	“I’ll re-enter the city and fight from within,” she continued.  “I would save my friends if it comes to a final stand, though I know not how.”
	“We’ll drive a wedge in the enemy lines, and provide escape,” answered Procyon.
	“You bring hope to the city entire,” said Eborel.  “Glad they will be to hear that vast armies are coming to their aid.  They will fight fiercely to keep the enemy at bay until reinforcements arrive.”
	“Our army will have to suffice until that time,” said Procyon.  “The contingent of monks also carries bombs which we’ll use against the behemoths.”
	“That’s good news,” answered Eborel.  “If the beasts enter the city, they will be vulnerable in the narrow alleys to burning oil and building stones dropped from the roofs.  We’ll find a way to beat them!”
	The King and Queen nodded grimly in contemplation of the incipient battle.
	“An additional piece of information,” added Eborel, “is that the beasts wear lenses of glass covering their eyes, so they are not vulnerable to arrows aimed there.  In fact, projectiles of any sort bounce off all parts of their bodies.”
	“I see,” said Procyon.
	“Concentrate on felling their drivers,” she advised, “although those unmounted are quickly replaced by others.  None of our soldiers have managed to commandeer an animal.”
	“This is useful reconnaissance,” answered Procyon.  “I thank you.”
	“Will you and Rokavere use your ability in time shift during battle?” asked Eborel.
	“Undoubtedly,” said Procyon, “but none of the mystics possess that talent to your considerable degree, save Quid Synch, I think.  We do not think we can evade shards from explosions, for instance.  Have you been able to dodge such debris flying at preternatural speed?”
	“I know not,” answered Eborel, “for I have not yet been personally attacked.”
	“I have no doubt that you will succeed,” said Rokavere.  “Did you not bring Feldspar Falls to a standstill with your powers?”
	“Yes,” answered Eborel, “but I require long moments to achieve such a state.  If I am surprised by attack, I will be most vulnerable.”
	Rokavere nodded.  “Keep your wits about you then!” she exclaimed.
	“I will remain in time shift throughout battle, if I can,” she answered.  “A skirmish of minutes will last hours for me.  The entire tumult may seem like years!”
	“You will need much rest,” counseled Procyon.  “Sleep often and in safety.”
	“I am ensconced in the Grand Hotel on the plaza where I’ll be protected, at least for a time,” answered Eborel.
	“That is good,” said Procyon as a scout rode up to report news of the impending front.
	The opposing army was aware of their approach and had formed a line of defense not three leagues thence.
	“Spread out!” commanded Procyon loudly.  “The enemy is nigh!”
	“That’s my cue,” said Eborel hurriedly, as Procyon spurred his steed to rally the troops, leaving Eborel without ceremony or good-bye.
	“Stay in touch if you can,” admonished Rokavere.  “We are in such a state of agitation without knowing your whereabouts or situation.”
	“I will if I can, my liege,” said Eborel bowing low and rolling her forearm in noblesse acknowledgement.
	“Go with God,” said Rokavere, “For you are our only hope.”
	But she whispered the last to the wind, as Eborel had already disappeared from her sight, leaving only the riderless mount on which she had been seated, and a faint trace of scent in her wake.
	Would that be the last time Rokavere ever saw Eborel again?  Maybe so, and maybe not, as our tale winds inexorably towards its close.

56.  Last Stand
To be or not to be.
-Is that a question?

	Eborel ran through the new-forming enemy front in time shift.  Thoughts of seeking Gogolax receded as she worried about her friends and the state of the city.
	When she arrived at the front gates, she found animals and soldiers amassed and forcing an incursion through the doorless archway deep into the outer quadrant. 
	Some beasts outside repeatedly smashed the exterior walls with battering rams in an attempt to dislodge the stones and bring the fortifice down.
	Mincing midst the fray, she had little trouble negotiating the densely thicketed hoards of frozen enemy bodies and beasts, held stock-still in time shift.
	Reaching the battlefront inside proved more hazardous, as fire was everywhere evident, and brooked danger against Eborel in her altered state.
	While she could easily spot and avoid the flames, their heat was flayingly searing to her on close proximity, a fact which was previously unbeknownst to her.
	And too, bomb blasts were rife on the Arkengarthdale side of the battle line, making vigilance evermore paramount.  Even a slow-moving explosive artifact could penetrate her body in time shift with its seeming unstoppable momentum.
	In sooth, the resistance side of the battle was more dangerous to her than the invading side, so that she retreated hastily toward the inner walls to move out of harm’s way.
	She did not feel like a coward as she raced past the faces of her comrades, who looked beyond her in horror at the madness of conflict she fled behind, for she knew her real battle lay ahead with Gogolax.  There was little point in risking injury to herself now, which might compromise her efficacy against the true enemy later, that being the supreme leader of the vast Riftland army.  Without Gogolax’s fearsome thrall over his subordinates, the campaign would surely disintegrate, as its oppressed subjects would likely cease their hostilities and disperse.
	This, at least, was her desperate hope.
	After clambering through five quadrants and the subsequent gates of their inner walls, she returned to normal time in the city center and climbed the tower at the main square.
	There she found her friends watching the melee in the outer ring from the parapet at the balcony’s edge.
	They turned as one in eager expectation of her report.
	“Did you find Gogolax?” asked Jebrel.
	She shook her head in answer.  “No, but Rokavere and Procyon have an army of ten thousand, including monks with bombs, and fighting has already commenced about five leagues west of the city.”
	“That’s excellent news!” said Jarfoz heartily.
	“The initial front of the enemy is thin, so I expect the Draelanders to push them back, moving closer to us as they advance.”
	“We are saved!” cried Rosario.
	Eborel again shook her head, this time in cautionary manner.  “The enemy is five times that number or more,” she said.  “The Draelanders will only serve to slow down the offensive on the city by siphoning some of the assault forces to the second front.  More Draeland reinforcements are come from the west and north, perhaps numbering in the tens of thousands, but they are weeks away.”
	“Weeks?” cried Rosario, deflated.
	“By then, we may be reduced to rubble,” said Jarfoz darkly.
	“Procyon intends to drive a wedge into the enemy forces to create a gauntlet to freedom for the city-dwellers,” Eborel answered his doleful misgivings.
	“It may be our only hope,” he answered her.
	“In the meantime, we must resist, and wear the enemy down,” cried Darius fervently.  “I intend to join the battle, now that the conflict is within the city walls.”
	“I would counsel remaining by Eborel’s side,” countered Jarfoz.
	All looked to her for guidance.
	“I do not need your protection, Darius,” she said.  “Go and fight the good fight.  Contribute your considerable skill to this just cause.”
	Darius sprang towards the stairwell.  Zedwyn moved with him, indicating his desire to join also.  Both looked back questioningly at Jebrel and Rosario.
	“We will stay with Eborel,” said Rosario by way of answer.  “Our time for battle in close quarters will come soon enough.”
	“Report back daily,” said Eborel to both.  “For I will worry while you’re gone.”
	“As we did while you were away!” said Zedwyn, turning to leave.
	After the two left, the others turned pensively to the myriad battle scenes visible across the entire periphery of the city.
	“Did bombs rain from the sky?” asked Eborel of Jarfoz.
	“Indeed they did,” he answered.  “The blasts caused few casualties thanks to your advanced warning about the enemy’s intent.”
	“That’s good,” she answered.
	“Attacks from above still come sporadically from lone birds,” he continued.  “The initial onslaught was effective with the element of surprise, but subsequent attacks have been less so with the easy sighting of such colossal sky-animals approaching.”
	“How extensive is the damage from their bombs to buildings?” she asked.
	“The stones are surprisingly resilient,” he answered.  “This tower, for instance, is deemed impervious to them.”
	“We can hide here, then, in the event of an attack?” she asked.
	“Yes,” he answered.  “It’s safer than the Grand Hotel, in sooth.”
	“Then we will camp permanently in the tower,” she said.
	“A prudent move,” he agreed.
	“Have you seen anything of interest in your scans from the sky?” she asked him.
	He hesitated for a moment.  “The birds have noticed something that we seem to have missed,” he said.
	“Oh?” she asked quizzically.
	“An omen, it seems, but whether ill or propitious, I know not.  I would not speak of it, except that it grows brighter by day, and will soon be seen by all.”
	“Jarfoz, you speak in riddles!” she said, piqued and perplexed.
	“Look to the sky,” he directed, “just west of the sun, by a few lumus-widths in breadth.  Do you not see a light?”
	Eborel shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand, blocking out the intense orb.
	“A star!” she exclaimed.  “A daytime star!”
	“It precedes the sun,” nodded Jarfoz, “dropping below the horizon before sunset.  In the morning, it rises in the crepuscular dawn at the eastern horizon, shining fiercely before sunrise.  It can only be seen then from this tower, but it’s visible throughout the day from every vantage point, even as the sun shines near to it.”
	“What does this presage?” wondered Eborel.
	“There is a further development,” he added, sounding even more ominous.  “The birds, with their superior vision, have noticed a short tail on the star, which we cannot yet see.”
	“A tail?” said Eborel, shuddering.
	Jarfoz nodded.  “It grows daily, so that we might soon see it, though the star still looks like a point of light to us.”
	“Jarfoz,” intoned Eborel softly, “this is portentous in the extreme.  For I saw a star with a tail in my dream five years ago, and further saw stars streaking in the sky in the vision I shared with Zoro’Ander.”
	“That bodes ill indeed,” concurred Jarfoz.
	“The streaking stars fell on the land in that vision and alighted it the color of white fire.”  She was crying softly now.
	Jarfoz reached out and allayed her distress with a gentle embrace, watching her through Rosario’s eyes, who regarded her with deep concern.
	“Would that Zoro’Ander were here to interpret this new event,” she sobbed quietly.
	“Perhaps he has already seen this star, or foreseen it, and knows its import,” Jarfoz responded.  “Mayhap the orientation of the star to the west of the sun signifies we will prevail,” he added.  “For if it were shining to the east, Gogolax would be victorious.”
	Eborel was not much comforted, but appreciated his attempt to console her.

	I will not here dwell on the details of the fighting on the two fronts, other than to say that Rosario and Jebrel joined the battle with Darius and Zedwyn, while Eborel refrained, in keeping with her mission to remain flush and hidden from Gogolax.
	Miraculously, none in our core quinquevirate were hurt, and they slew many enemies, both soldiers and beasts.
	The stench of battle arose in the city, so that bodies were collected and burned in great bonfires to quell the rank odor.
	Rokavere and Procyon made little progress, advancing only furlongs per day, suffering Pyrrhic losses against insignificant ground gained.  No incursion was made in that front by them as planned, through which a corridor might be held against the enemy to free the city fighters.
	Meanwhile, the beasts made rubble of the outer ring quadrants, and smashed through the second annulus in just two days.
	As the enemy advanced into the third ring of the city, squeezing the surviving fighters into ever-tighter quarters, Eborel held counsel with her friends and Jarfoz in the tower.
	“We are losing,” she said, starting the meeting.
	Darius scoffed.  “Have you seen their casualties?” he asked.  “We’re making mincemeat of them!”
	“But they come in unending waves,” she answered him, “and progress with mechanical precision.”
	Jarfoz nodded concurrence.  “They’ll be at the tower in five days,” he conjectured.
	“We could die fighting for this last scrap of land,” said Eborel, referring to the plaza around them, “or we could escape, and maybe find Gogolax, too!”
	“Okay, you officially have my attention!” exclaimed Rosario, responding to her apparent introduction of a new plan.  “What do you propose?”
	“Breathmere,” she said simply.
	“I’m not following you,” said Rosario as the others donned equally vacant looks.
	She turned to Jarfoz.  “You’ve been there, Jarfoz, and know the way.  It’s accessible from the city center, is it not?”
	Jarfoz hesitated.  “It’s a dangerous path, but it bypasses the city walls,” he averred.
	“Quid Synch told me I would ask him in the future for a secret way to Breathmere Pond.  I never queried him directly but learned from Rokavere that the way leads from here.  His prognostication must be a sign that we are to follow that path.”
	The others nodded, in guarded agreement.
	“But Breathmere is a dead-end, surrounded by nothing but impassable rift,” said Jarfoz.  “Do you propose waiting there until Arkengarthdale is taken, then return to the city with an insurrection of six?”
	His sarcasm was not lost on her.
	“The pond is not a dead-end, but leads anywhere in Draeland that can be envisioned upon its surface,” she answered with a triumphant wave of her hand.
	Jarfoz remained guarded.  “The whirlpool transports mystics, but I’m not altogether sure that it wouldn’t simply drown your friends!”
	The others looked disconcerted at this notion.
	“And the winds must first be penetrated, which blow fearsomely strong,” he added.
	“But it’s our best chance at survival,” said Eborel, referring to the others more so than herself.
	“Reluctantly, I agree,” said Jarfoz, who was beginning to wonder if he was otherwise slated to die in Arkengarthdale, only to be reborn in a new realm dominated by the tyrant’s control.
	“I would rather extend my life by taking this path, even if I end up dying at Breathmere,” said Rosario, speaking a sentiment shared by the others, except perhaps Darius, who would rather die in battle.
	“You may perish on the way,” answered Jarfoz, “for the journey is treacherous.”
	Rosario shrugged dismissively.  “You mentioned the possibility of finding Gogolax,” he said to Eborel.
	“Procyon intuits he may be at Riftwarren,” she answered.  “The pond took Gogolax to that castle two thousand years ago, so why wouldn’t it transport me there also?”
	“It sounds like a plan,” responded Zedwyn enthusiastically, summing it up thusly:  “We save our souls, and Eborel tracks down Gogolax.”
	“But our fellowship will dissolve at the pond if we part ways there,” said Rosario, adding, “unless we follow you to Riftwarren!”
	“That’s out of the question,” said Eborel.  “I could not protect you there.”
	Each contemplated going their separate way at Breathmere, and wondered where in all Draeland they might choose to be transported by the magical pond. 
	“I for one, will look for the image of my hometown Bythewood, and jump in!” said Zedwyn, relishing the idea of escaping home.
	“I too would return to my home in the Firthlands, far from this madness,” said Rosario.
	“Cowards!” yelled Darius.  “I would return to the front outside the walls and fight alongside the King and Queen to free the people of Arkengarthdale.”
	“Always the warrior!” chided Eborel genially.  But she turned to Jebrel and asked him in earnest, “Will you return to your home in the Steppes?”
	“I no longer have a home in the Steppes,” answered Jebrel after a moment’s thought.  “I would seek out Manx instead, and attend your triumphant return to the West.  You’ll find me at the tavern where we first met, waiting for you there.”
	“We have a date then,” she answered.
	“We have a date,” he agreed, nodding.

57.  Escape
A panoply of Archangels.
-The séance at Elginzice

	And now must an apology be made for cozening the reader, by means of the misleading title of the previous chapter, into assuming that our cohorts would make a last stand in the plaza square, which they did not; for they fled instead, in advance of that final ineluctable conflict.
	While battle raged in the third ring of the city, Eborel transferred her military authority to the generals of Arkengarthdale, and bade exigent adieu to them in pursuit of a daring and desperate mission to thwart the irruption at its source; to wit, Gogolax himself, by aiming to strike a proverbial dagger, as it were, into the invasion’s very heart.
	The party of six was made ready to depart posthaste, comprised, as can be guessed, of the following comrades in arms:  Eborel, Rosario, Darius, Zedwyn, Jebrel and Jarfoz, who, by virtue of his blind sight and prior experience en route, was to be the group’s illustrious titular guide.
	The way to the trailhead from behind the cemetery was not so easily found as intimated by Rokavere at Revelstoke Manor so many months before, for it had not been used in two thousand years, and its location, even then, was secret.  The memory of its exact departure point from the cemetery was lost to Jarfoz across the eons.
	In fact, if it were not for the ability of the vicarious seer to view the cliff wall from outwith through the eyes of birds flying high over the rift, the pathway might never have been discovered.  For Jarfoz was able to descry foliage and crags intersecting to zigzag effect upon the face of the vertical rift valley wall, leading in a general upward sweep along its rise, and terminating at the very top just below the back of a particular and prominent crypt in the cemetery, perched unusually close to the rift edge.
	To this crypt, our group converged and peered as one over the cliff precipice just beyond.  None would have guessed that a path led away from just under their location, as nothing could be seen from above to indicate such.
	“Should we throw a rope over?” asked Darius.
	Jarfoz shook his head.  “No need,” he said gesturing for Eborel to enter the crypt.  This she did, descending several steps into the earth, scanning the walls and floor inside for a secret passage.  At the base of the wall on the right was an iron grate, similar to the one presented by Jarfoz for passage into the catacombs.  Pulling upon it, Eborel discovered that it swung out freely, revealing further steps beyond leading downward.
	She ducked low and entered, stepping slowly in a crouch, feeling the earthen walls with her fingertips as she descended.  Turning to her left, she discerned dim light ahead, and moved toward it.  Darius followed close behind, while the others trailed after.  Jarfoz directed Zedwyn to replace the grate behind him as he passed through last, covering their escape route.
	Eborel and Darius turned left at a bend and came upon another grate, heavily rusted, on the right side at the end of the tunnel, lodged directly in the dirt wall at shoulder level, which afforded a view out into the sunshine and across the rift valley.
	“Let’s pry this open,” said Eborel excitedly as Darius reached up to help.  After some considerable shaking, a simple latch was discovered that dropped out of position, and allowed the grate to swing outward, away from them, with a slow petulant squeak.
	Eborel stuck her head through the opening and looked down.  “There’s a ledge outside!” she exclaimed, “But it’s narrow, and the drop beyond is sheer.”
	“Time to tie ourselves together!” declared Darius as Zedwyn retrieved pieces of rope from his rucksack and passed them out, one to each person, excepting himself, as he would be tied to the trailing end.
	Eborel craned her neck to look up through the opening and remarked, “There’s a considerable lip projecting from the cliff top above which overhangs the ledge, thus concealing it from view overhead.”
	The six formed an unbroken line, then, bound together by long tethers to their waists, with hands kept free for clinging to the cliff face during precarious descent.  Eborel led, followed by Darius, Rosario, Jebrel, Jarfoz and Zedwyn.  One by one, they climbed through the open grate onto the ledge outside.
	The pathway down was treacherous indeed.  No ramps or culverts were constructed for bridging the countless tumbledown talus encountered, or for crossing the myriad gaps evinced by missing ledge sectionals.  No railings were erected for convenient demarcation of precipitous drops.  Alas, the broad reach of the gnomics did not extend to the maintenance of this singular access route to their shrine at Breathmere.  All visitors, if any there were, came or left that place at fearful self-peril.
	Fortunate it was that the core group was trained in high climbing at the ashram, so that they were inured by exposure to its literal pitfalls.  Jebrel struggled the most with the dizzying heights, but concentrated his sight on matters closest at hand, so that Jarfoz could watch through his eyes while making his own way close behind.
	While the drops over the edge were unfathomably long, the party was comforted by the thought that each step brought them closer to the safety of the rift valley floor.  Yet the return trip, if it were to be made by any, confronted them with the notion that the reverse might not be true, as each turn upward might heighten their fear to paralyzing effect.
	Down they climbed, making excruciatingly slow progress.  At times, their route seemed nigh on impossible.  Jarfoz guided them unerringly at difficult junctures, but there were places that could be traversed only by hammering pitons into crevices and swinging on ropes to outcroppings below.
	By nightfall, they were halfway down, and camped in tight quarters within a depression that served as a shallow cave.  In the quiet of the darkness, they heard the tumult of battle raging far above, and saw flashes in the sky cast by distant fires and bomb blasts.  All wondered if the second city ring had been overrun by the hoard.
	Morning light spurred them to renewed effort, for Eborel determined to reach bottom by dusk.  I will not here expound upon their second day of tribulations, other than to say that no one fell to their doom, though everyone stumbled at least once, save Jebrel, which was fortunate, as his bulk would have required a supreme effort by the others to effect a rescue by pulling him to safety.
	Midway down on the second day, while they lunched on a ledge, Eborel looked upward to marvel at the progress they had made, and noted the new daytime star in the sky, with its tail now visible trailing west, away from the noonday sun.  She looked significantly at Jarfoz, who followed its trace through her eyes.  It was lost on neither that the tail had grown markedly in length, as had the distance between the two heavenly bodies.  For the star was evidently moving by degrees upon a different path across the heavens than that of the sun.  Ominous it seemed indeed, yet Eborel said nothing to the group, not wishing to alarm the others, who did not deign to notice or remark upon it.
	On the second evening then, they made landfall upon the valley floor, exuberant as any mountain climber attaining a peak, and camped for the night.
	In the morning, they headed southeast at the behest of Jarfoz, making for the center of the rift.  The terrain was rugged and bleak, with no clear path, and few plants to break the monotony of gray landscape.  The rocks were jagged beneath their feet, and the ground rose in swells, requiring them to alternately climb and descend innumerable outcroppings along their way.
	The weather was warm, but a breeze picked up which grew steadier as they walked, and brought a welcome coolness to their exertion-heated bodies.
	By afternoon, the air turned misty with fog, so that they lost the benefit of sight for maintaining their direction of travel.  Even Jarfoz became blind, as there were no creatures whose vision could penetrate the haze that enveloped them to discern their present location.
	“The winds approach,” intoned Jarfoz, “or rather, are approached by us.”
	“How will we keep true?” asked Darius, referring to their course.
	“Maintain the breeze full on your right cheek,” answered Jarfoz.  “That will take us to the eventual eye of the vortex.”
	Eborel was reminded by this of the gale on Olinza Lake, when she swam through its shear wall with the force of the wind ever on her right.
	“We must tie ourselves together again,” said Jarfoz, as Zedwyn brought out the ropes they had detached the night before.
	“Attire yourselves in every piece of clothing you brought, before tying the ropes around your waists,” he continued.  “The winds will blow cold and raucous, and we will not be able to hear each other speak.  Tie your hoods tightly.  The tethers between us will ensure that no one becomes lost in the whiteout.  The lengths should be made shorter than they were during our descent, so that we are closer together.”
	“Glad I am that you are here!” cried Rosario.  “How long will this last?” he asked.
	“Longer than you think,” answered Jarfoz.  “Take stock, as we struggle.  The winds will cease the moment you give up hope and resign yourself to them completely.”
	“I shall not lose my resolve!” blustered Darius.
	“Drink all the water you can now,” continued Jarfoz, “for the wind will make you parched.”
	The others commenced to drain their water pouches.
	“Jebrel should lead,” said Jarfoz.  “He is the strongest, and may pull us through.”
	Jebrel stepped forward and offered, “I have some experience with winds on the Steppes.”
	The arrangements made, the group walked resolutely forward, Jebrel taking the brunt as the wind picked up.  The others trailed in his wake, such that they walked in a line side-by-side.
	The terrain became flat by degrees, as if the ceaseless winds smoothed the ground before them.  Sand and debris whipped their faces, causing them to keep their heads turned left away from the onslaught of the rising gale.
	They walked for countless furlongs, each lost in his own thoughts, pressing against the unrelenting force that compelled them to fight for every step.
	As their right sides took a beating, and became cold, too, they turned into the wind for a change, and walked sideways to their left instead of forward.  They angled their heads in the other direction, facing right, to rest their crooked necks, but the shuffle steps in the opposite direction slowed their progress considerably.
	Now they were aligned in a straight column, packed closely together, each facing the person’s back before him, Jebrel at the fore, leading with synchronized steps to the left, moving the group as one, orthogonally to the wind.
	As the howling increased, Jebrel felt himself blown backwards, even with the bodies supporting him from behind, so that he turned full around to better brace against the rising pressure.  Now he stepped sideways to the right, rather than to the left, with the wind at his back.
	The others followed suit, but the effort wore them down.  Hope drained from their flagging spirits in proportion to the gathering strength of the winds.  Jebrel hunched so far down, that he fell on his hands and began to crawl sideways, his face to the lee and his back windward.  
	The others did likewise, wrapping their hands in cloak-ends against the cold hardness of the ground.  Rosario and Zedwyn faltered, stopping at times, unable to move at a steady rate.  The others grabbed hold of them, pulling their bodies to the right.  Jarfoz lost ground, too, falling out of line.  The group could only progress as fast as its slowest member.  Jebrel clasped Jarfoz around his chest and inched him forward by degrees, heaving his body in lurches, as one might budge a heavy load.
	Indeed, the entire cadre ground to a complete halt, exhausted by the wind.  They lay prone to the rocks, face down in a ragged line, waiting to regain their strength.
	How long they lay thus cannot be known, for time stretched interminably.  Each wondered that death might come at the hand of the furious blowing.  Who knew that wind could kill?  Intrusive thoughts of their demise entered their minds unbidden.  Images of their lifeless and desiccated bodies, hurled into oblivion one after the other by hurricane force wind, swirled maddeningly in their dark visions.
	Jebrel struggled to his knees to make one last push, when the vehemence of the wind suddenly and inexplicably abated.  Dazed, and wondering if he were in a dream, his eyes fluttered open.
	Gone was the fog, and the face-flattening force of the gale that had insisted against his very person.  Only a bright sky and the sweet smell of jasmine greeted Jebrel’s confused senses.
	For the eye of the whirlwind had apparently found them, rather than the other way ’round, and a jubilant feeling of renewed vigor coursed through their collective veins.

58.  Breathmere
An eye within an eye.
-Breathmere

	The others rose warily, cautious should an errant gust knock them back to the ground.  Nearby churned a vertical gray wall of shimmering wind, kicking up dust as it receded from them slowly.  They ran from its frightening aspect, lest a fickle turn of the weathercock cause it to veer suddenly, overtaking them once more. 
	Slowing to an easy gait after the danger was past, all marveled at the stillness of the air and the deep azure color of the cloudless sky above.  Ahead were seen trees, which could not have withstood the force of the fierce blowing through which they had late crawled.  Evidently, the storm never intruded upon these greener lands, protecting them rather with its encircling swathe of atmospheric fury.
	Mindful that they approached a sacred place, Eborel watched for gnomics, but saw none.  The trees, once attained, had the same tended-yet-wild look that she came to know so well at other shrines.  Gardens of flowers were encountered, too, and fruits in profusion abounded.
	No houses were seen, yet abodes were surely ensconced somewhere.  Eborel reasoned that the gnomics had vanished into time shift until the intention of the six new interlopers could be ascertained.  Sad it was in these uncertain times that the gnomics must remain so chary, particularly as the sight of rare visitors to this most inaccessible locale might otherwise incite glad celebration.
	Walking with purpose, they came suddenly upon the famed pond of Breathmere itself, centrally located midst the miniature forest that surrounded it.  Small by any standard for a pond; nearly round, and with a surface as smooth as glass, it did not appear to be fed by any streams that could be discerned above ground.
	Trees avoided its close proximity so that the only image reflected upon its calm surface was impenetrable blue sky.
	A low border of mortared stones ringed its periphery and held against the water, such that the level of the pond was a full cubit above the ground, lending an eerie impression that the pool floated in the air.
	All but Jarfoz kneeled on the border wall to peer into the placid water.  Naught was seen by the quinquevirate looking down but the reflection of their same selves staring back into their own eyes:  five resolute travelers framed each by the blue sky above.
	Eborel bent low and blew gently upon the water’s surface.  The perturbations undulated away, momentarily distorting their reflections, but the calm quickly returned and re-crystallized their images to clarity.
	“Let’s toss a stone in!” said Darius excitedly as he moved away in search of a pebble.
	As he did so, a voice from the distance startled them by calling out, “That is not advisable!”
	Peering towards a large boulder that had not hitherto been noticed, they saw a gnomic standing before it with arms outstretched.  Arrayed in a long white robe and adorned atop by a turban with a jewel, his dress easily conveyed his station of Gnolord.  He stood under a small wooden roof projecting from the boulder, perhaps placed for protection against the sun.
	The others, led by Eborel, rushed over to converse with him.
	Upon approaching, it became apparent that the gnolord was not holding his arms wide in greeting, but that they were held in such position by two chains, attached one to each wrist and fastened to the boulder behind him.
	Appalled by such vision, Eborel blurted out, “What strange manner of bondage is this?  Who has done this to you, and why are you being punished?”
	The gnolord nodded in salutation, and deflected her questions, saying, “I am Starfindel, Keeper of this glade.  I bid you welcome.”
	Momentarily nonplussed, Eborel forgot her manners and hesitated in response.	Starfindel spoke again on her behalf, “You are Eborel I see, and Jarfoz here is known to me, but the others are new-met.”
	Rosario shook his head in wonder at the gnolord’s recognition of Eborel, thinking “Everyone seems to know Eborel, even before meeting her.”
	Eborel recovered and introduced her friends, who bowed each in turn, reverently, to Starfindel.
	While the gnolord’s robe was the same white color and loose fit as those worn by the others of his vaunted caste, the gem displayed on his turban differed, as was the custom, in color and type.  Starfindel’s tuning crystal then, was a beautiful clear blue opal stone flecked through with rainbow colors.
	The chains affixed to him were of heavy gauge, rusted, and measured two cubits each in length.  They held Starfindel’s arms outstretched to either side, with just enough play to allow for a slight crook in his elbows.  It appeared to be a most uncomfortable position for him, and the chains would also otherwise require him to remain perpetually standing, except that a high wooden stool was placed behind him for sitting.
	“The nameless one did this to me,” said Starfindel, referring to the chains and answering Eborel’s original question.  “It was not for punishment, but restraint.”
	“Why would Gogolax deem fit to restrain you?” asked Eborel, giving voice then to the nameless one.
	“To enjoin me from leaving Breathmere,” answered Starfindel.
	“Why didn’t he simply kill you?” interjected Darius impetuously.
	Eborel frowned at the impertinence of the question.
	“Yes,” answered Starfindel, “he could surely slay me, and all those here.”
	As he said this, gnomics began appearing around them, slipping out of time shift to join the congregation.  Eborel’s friends looked around in awe and delight as dozens of diminutive gardeners materialized from thin air, wearing burlap clothes of burnt umber color.
	“But I would be reborn,” continued Starfindel, “and he would not then control me until he found my new self again.”
	“Of what import is it to Gogolax that you should not leave Breathmere?” asked Rosario.
	“I would reveal his newfound secret if I were able to communicate with the outside world,” answered Starfindel.
	“What secret is this?” asked Eborel urgently, startled by his revelation, but added upon reflection, “And why wouldn’t you use your crystals to relay this secret to Procyon?”
	“Ah,” answered Starfindel.  “Gogolax, as you so openly call him, smashed my spirit crystal with the same hammer he used to drive the spikes holding these chains to this rock.  I still have the stone in my turban, but it cannot be used to enter the spiritual plane without the other crystal.”
	Rosario summed it up thus:  “He silenced you.”
	Starfindel nodded agreement:  “I cannot communicate, and I cannot leave.”
	“And your gnomics here,” continued Rosario motioning to the gathering crowd, “cannot depart the shrine to bring a message to the world.”
	“Gnomics never leave their shrines,” concurred Starfindel.
	“And that message, if you could send it?” asked Eborel.  “We have found you now and will transmit Gogolax’s secret for you.”
	“It’s likely too late,” answered Starfindel, “but Gogolax has discovered a new means of travel; for he has found a way to use Breathmere Pond as a two-way portal.”
	All gave him a quizzical look.
	“Some time ago,” began Starfindel, elucidating, “the pool swirled into motion, and Gogolax surprised us by swimming out.  He was alone, yet he overpowered me and fastened my arms to this rock as you see.  He threatened to kill any gnomic who tried to intercede on my behalf, and chased all away in time shift.  He is faster than we are in slowed time, and can kill us even in that shadow world.”
	The others shuddered at this description.
	“What did he look like?” asked Rosario.
	“His current form is tall, thin, with long black hair,” answered Starfindel.  “He’s physically very strong.”
	“It’s as we saw him at the séance in Elginzice,” said Zedwyn, “and also as described by Quid Synch when he professed to witnessing him with Eborel in the future.”
	Starfindel’s eyebrows raised at this foretelling by Quid Synch, but he continued his story:  “Gogolax has come here many times since then, and always in the same body.  When he arrives, the pool swirls counterclockwise as he issues forth, and when he dives back in to leave, the waters swirl clockwise.
	“Each time he comes, he goes somewhere in Draeland through the pool, though I know not where.  He invariably returns shortly, then dives back in again, presumably to return to Riftwarren.  Then we are thankfully spared his presence for some time.
	“We dread each episode when the pond churns into motion on its own, for it portends his imminent arrival through the portal.  So far, he has killed no one here, but he checks my chains assiduously to ensure I’m held fast.  If I were somehow absent, he would exact revenge upon the gnomics.”
	“He is clearly using the pond to cross the Rift to the West,” said Rosario.
	“Yes,” agreed Starfindel.
	“There’s no telling where he has ventured!” exclaimed Zedwyn.  “He may have been under our very noses at some point in the recent past!”
	Jarfoz nodded, saying, “Perhaps he has visited Elginzice or Manx.  Mayhap he went to Arkengarthdale, but I don’t recall seeing his likeness there.  Could he have gone to your ashram, or Dimthistle, looking for Eborel?”
	Eborel shuddered at the notion of Gogolax actually arriving at the Inn at the Crossroads, and confronting her family.
	“I do not think he knows where I am,” she said to Starfindel, “and further, I am looking for him now.”
	“You seek him out?” asked Starfindel incredulously, wondering if Quid Synch’s vision might actually turn true.  “To what possible purpose?”
	“A reckoning, of sorts,” she answered.  “His army has crossed the Rift barrier and attacks the West.  They are laying waste to Arkengarthdale even now as we speak.”
	“That is sad news indeed,” answered Starfindel.
	“I do not know if I can stop him,” she continued, “but discretion on your part regarding my presence here is paramount.”
	“I understand,” said Starfindel, nodding.  He turned to address the other gnomics in his own tongue at some length.  They murmured in response.
	“No one will divulge the knowledge of your being here,” he said to Eborel.  “But I fail to see how you can stop him, should you manage a surprise encounter, if that’s what you seek.”
	“Nor I,” she answered, “though perhaps he has a weakness I may yet discover.”
	Starfindel shook his head in singular doubt.
	“Would that we could free you from your chains, and lend you my crystal for communication, but we can do neither,” said Eborel.
	“I understand completely,” answered Starfindel.  “This strange bondage, as you call it, secures my people’s safety, at least for now.  It is a small price to pay for their continued livelihood; and in return, they take exquisite care of me.
	“Furthermore,” he continued, “any communication by me in the spiritual plane would risk detection by Gogolax, alerting him that someone gave me a crystal, and that his secret is out.”
	“Yes,” answered Eborel.  “Stealth is Gogolax’s game, but we match him move for move.  Whether he stalks me, I know not, but we stalk him, and may be closer to our target than he knows.”
	“You intend to use the pond to follow him to Riftwarren?” asked Starfindel.
	“I do,” answered Eborel.
	“And your friends?” he asked.
	“I have forbidden them from following me beyond this point,” she answered.
	Starfindel nodded.  “A wise decision, as Gogolax would destroy them in a heartbeat,” he agreed.
	“Exactly,” answered Eborel.
	“You may fare no better,” he cautioned.
	“He is my destiny, come what may.  Neither he nor I have a choice in this matter,” she answered solemnly.  “The mountain has spoken.”
	“I learned of the oracle’s pronouncement from Procyon before Gogolax isolated me from the outside world so ignobly,” said Starfindel.  “You may be Draeland’s last hope.”
	“Be that as it may,” she replied, “the King and Queen fight him even now with an army of ten thousand, including a contingent of monks.  Many more reinforcements will arrive in the weeks to come.  Arkengarthdale may be lost, but the West will prevail, even if I fail to destroy him.  I hope only to limit the carnage by cutting him down mid-stride.”
	“He cannot be destroyed, Eborel,” chided Starfindel gently.
	“Contained, then,” conceded Eborel, “as Rokavere did two thousand years ago.”
	“Perhaps,” he answered hopefully.  “But you’d best leave soon, lest he emerge from the pond, finding you here.  Your friends must flee, and return whence they came.  The gnomics will remain mum concerning your brief sojourn here, but you must leave no trace of your passing!”
	Eborel nodded and turned to her friends.  “We part now,” she said simply and without ceremony, as Zedwyn and Jebrel handed her last-minute supplies.  Darius choked up, despite himself.
	“Perhaps we could stay in Breathmere, and hide in the wind if Gogolax comes,” suggested Rosario.  “Even he would not discover us there.”
	“It’s too dangerous,” returned Eborel, and Rosario reluctantly agreed, for even a hint of their presence, if detected by Gogolax, could be calamitous.
	“We are between three rocks and hard place,” Rosario groused.  “We have potential death here at the hands of Gogolax if we stay; possible drowning in the pond if we deign to jump in; or again death by Gogolax if we otherwise don’t drown and end up at Riftwarren; or an arduous and dangerous climb back to a decimated city, where nothing but death at the hands of Gogolax’s army awaits us!” 
	“Arkengarthdale is your goal,” Eborel answered firmly, turning towards the pond.  “It is your least perilous option.”
	“Would that we meet again in a world free of scourge,” called Starfindel after her.
	“I will return for a proper visit when peace reigns supreme,” she called back waving, with forced optimism.
	The entire assemblage followed her to the brink of the pond.  Her friends stood aside her atop the low stone perimeter wall, peering down at the pond’s surface as one.  Jarfoz stood nearby midst the crowd of gnomics in ready expectancy.
	Eborel gazed down for a long time and began to see images traced on the water’s surface, flying past in succession.  The others saw nothing, which she sensed by their agitated shifting movements.
	“What do you see?” asked Rosario finally after studying her intense countenance.
	Without a word from her, Jarfoz spoke up.  “She sees places she knows,” he answered, watching through her eyes.  “Her home and family, the Ashram, Manx, the Steppes, Elginzice.  These are all things Gogolax may have seen, too.”
	The others shuddered at the thought of Gogolax himself standing in this very spot seeing the same places Eborel saw now, and contemplating jumping in to visit them.
	Presently, her scrutiny grew more quizzical.
“Now she sees places outside her experience, but which are known to me and other mystics,” said Jarfoz.  “There’s Arkengarthdale, which she knows, of course, but mostly destroyed, yet the tower in the square still stands.  The catacombs, the Rift, the mountains to the north.  She is searching for an image of Riftwarren Castle.”
	For the benefit of the reader, I will here interject that Jarfoz omitted an ominous detail in his description of Eborel’s vision:  that the plaza in Arkengarthdale was littered by thousands of corpses cast all about the tower.
	After some silence in his narrative, Jarfoz cried out suddenly, “That’s it!” and Eborel simultaneously dove head first into the pond.
	A moment later, against all foreseeable anticipation, Rosario dove in after her.  Zedwyn and Darius spontaneously yelled, “No!” and reached out, too late, to grab him.
	All watched in shock as a whirlpool formed, rotating in clockwise direction, pulling both bodies under water towards its rapidly forming funnel in the center.  None thought to dive in after Rosario to effect a rescue, for they would just as surely follow his fate if they tried.
	In moments, the two disappeared completely from view – first Eborel, then Rosario – and the water began its slow return to lassitude.
	The assemblage was stunned by the turn of events.  Neither Eborel nor Rosario floated back to the surface, indicating that they had both been subsumed by the vortex.
	“He has jumped to his death,” said Jarfoz solemnly of Rosario, though whether he meant death by drowning or inevitable death by Gogolax, was not clear.
	“Why did he do it?” asked Zedwyn rhetorically, and to no one in particular.
	“Fool!” spat Darius angrily, though he was more distressed at the loss of Rosario to the group, perhaps, than Rosario’s actual, if foolhardy, demise.
	Jebrel for his part said naught.  Silent tears filled his eyes as he gazed at the settling pond.  For he felt certain he would never see his true love Eborel again – in Manx as promised, or anywhere.

59.  Riftwarren
She might kill us all in a trice!
-Soldiers in fear of Eborel

	The quinquevirate then, derived as it was from the original quadrumvirate, was now put asunder by Breathmere Pond into two unequal halves; its lesser half being cleaved from the whole by the sudden translocation of its members consequent to the strange effect of the pond.  The constituent parts of the quinquevirate are herenow henceforth named:  a triumvirate and a duumvirate; the former comprising Darius, Zedwyn and Jebrel; and the latter comprising Eborel and Rosario.
	For the two fast-friends survived their underwater journey through the whirlpool’s vortex, finding themselves as they foundered, suddenly carried to the surface, by happenstance or natural consequence, into a large stone vault containing a rectangular pool whence they soon emerged.
	The chamber was empty, save for the pool, and apparently below ground level, except that small vents high on one wall near the arched ceiling let in dim light from the outside.
	At one end of the room was an open stone doorway which was evidently the only way out.
	Eborel was shocked to find Rosario with her, but said nothing aloud in deference to their dangerous circumstance, for they were likely secreted in a subterranean room of Riftwarren Castle itself.
	By hand signals, each agreed that Eborel would lead the way outwith, while Rosario followed.  Both withdrew their knives from their soaked clothing, and checked that the contents of their backpacks survived the underwater journey.
	Moving silently along the outside wall with weapons drawn, they filed out of the chamber and into a stone corridor.  Eborel carried a short halberd which she used to test the floor for trip wires or trap doors.  At every moment, she readied herself to enter time shift, and communicated to Rosario that she might disappear from his sight at the least sign of trouble.
	In sooth, she was vexed that she must now protect Rosario, and could not move far more quickly in time shift toward her goal, leaving him behind.  Rosario had signaled his remorse at endangering the mission by his impetuous act at Breathmere Pond, but was avowed to cede his life if necessary in furtherance of Eborel’s cause, since he had no hope of life anyway in his view, had he remained behind.
	As no voices or disturbances of any kind were heard, the two proceeded without event.  Wooden doors were passed by and the hallways diverged in multiple directions.  Upon walking down passages and retracing routes, it became apparent that the corridors were laid out in a grid.  Light was in short supply, though openings above some doors provided just enough to see.  Unlit lamps in alcoves undoubtedly provided illumination when the rooms were in use.
	Walking down a particular corridor, a turn was made to the right that opened into a large room with no interceding door.  Eborel entered, followed furtively by Rosario.  The passageway ended at the room, and as there was no apparent exit from it, other than the way they came in, it was – like the vaulted chamber with the rectangular pool – evidently a dead end.
	Before leaving, however, the two marveled at the plethora of exotic contents found therein, as the room was apparently a laboratory in which strange and disturbing experiments were carried out.  For there were uncounted large clear jars arrayed row upon row containing the preserved specimens of embryonic creatures that, upon close inspection, did not represent those of common animals.
	For some were clearly mammals, yet they sported the immature precursors to wings above their forequarters, while others displayed the hooves of ungulates at the bottoms of their legs, yet their bodies were serpentine in nature and covered with the smooth scales of snake skin.  
	Even more bizarre were those that presented appendages protruding from odd places, such as their foreheads, or indeed contained multiple heads attached to a single body, each head sometimes representing two completely different types of animals, such as those of a mule and a raven.
	The sight of these unnatural creatures sickened our duumvirate, but the profusion and endless variety of such entreated long fascinating inspection.  They opened cabinet doors to find more specimens in storage, and pried lids off large metal containers to discover jars laid upon blocks of ice for cold storage.  Eborel wondered not too idly if those poor creatures packed therein might not even be dead, and dared not look too closely at their bodies for signs of movement.
	Other various macabre scenes were studied, such as lab tables comporting tools for dissection, possibly performed in vivo, to the rank shock of our two friends.  In one cabinet were found jars containing only body parts, such as eyeballs and ears, or the hands of primates.
	Finally, before leaving, the two studied a jar that seemed to contain a human form covered in fine fur with two legs of a goat or horse and leathery wings sprouted from its shoulders.
	This was too much to bear, as it evinced the depths of Gogolax’s depravity, which apparently knew no bounds in its manipulation of living beings.
	As they turned to leave however, a great grinding sound was heard from the doorway, and Eborel slipped into time shift to investigate its source.
	Quickly she ascertained that a large rock barricade was emerging from the wall just beyond the doorway, contrived somehow to slide of its own accord across the floor to seal the corridor off, preventing either entrance or exit to or from the room. 
	Vainly she attempted to push back on the sliding rock, but it was far too massive.  Rosario was making his way for the door in real time, but would evidently fall short before it closed.  Eborel would not be able to carry him out, as he would be as heavy as a statue in shifted time.
	She held out her halberd horizontally as if to use it as a brace to halt the advancing rock door, but saw that it would be splintered by the force of its closing.
	Running into the room, she looked about for any large object that might prevent the door from closing completely, but found none.  There were no chairs, and the lab tables were fastened to the floor.  What she wouldn’t give for a small boulder just now to block the closing door!
	Changing her tack, she began searching for another exit from the room, no matter how small.  This she knew to be hopeless as the architect of this madness would doubtless have accounted for that.
	Failing to find any sort of vent or window opening large enough to use for escape, she went back toward the corridor to search for a controlling mechanism behind the closing door.
	At this point, the opening narrowed to half a cubit, and she only barely squeezed through the closing gap.  Rosario had made it three quarters of the way to the exit, but would clearly not reach it in time.
	Inspecting the rock door and nearby environs, she found nothing assailable in any manner.  There were no ropes or pulleys or metal plates covering mechanical contrivances that she might attempt to disable.
	Realizing she would be separated from Rosario and was forced to abandon him, she came out of time shift to hail him through the closing door.
	“Rosario, I’m outside the room!” she fairly yelled, despite the danger of discovery by any that might be nearby.  “I’ll come back for you if I can.  Be brave – soldiers will likely come!”
	“Run!” was all that Rosario said as the door shut tight.
	Eborel turned and sprinted, entering time shift as she did so.  Turning left at the corner in the corridor, she ran smack into an interceding rock wall that had not been there before!  Clearly, there were two rock doors that had closed simultaneously, thus trapping her betwixt them in the corridor.  She had missed her opportunity to escape by lingering to save Rosario.
	She sank to her knees and fell out of time shift, disconsolate.  She had not the heart to go back to the other door and yell to Rosario that she had not escaped.  He would blame himself entirely for her predicament.  She would wait instead for the inevitable minions of Gogolax, and lie in ambush for them once they opened the doors – if ever they came.
	She suddenly wondered if no one would show up to save them, and contemplated that she might die of thirst after days of waiting.  This grisly thought took hold of her when she became unaccountably sleepy.  “Must stay awake,” she said to herself as she lay down and slipped uncontrollably into fathomless unconsciousness.

60.  Gogolax
A tenebrous kismet.
-The final agon

	But soldiers did inevitably arrive, and opened the rock doorways by use of controls hidden in an adjacent chamber.  After waiting for a cautionary period, they entered the previously enclosed spaces to find two trapped bodies fast asleep:  one in the corridor, and one inside the laboratory lying next to the entrance. 
	The soldiers brought out two long poles with crossbars lashed like T’s to the ends, and shorter bars lashed crosswise a cubit from the ends.  They rolled the sleeping bodies face down on the ground and placed the poles lengthwise on top of each one, running down their backs and extending well past their heads and feet.  They tied their hands over their heads to the shorter crossbar at one end of the poles, and tied their feet to the shorter crossbar at the other end.
	After also tying their waists to the center of the poles, four strong soldiers lifted each pole, holding them horizontal to the ground, with their still-sleeping bodies tied face down underneath.
	Each soldier placed one end of each T-bar upon his shoulder, and in this manner carried both of our cohorts to an appointed place.
	When they arrived, the poles were hauled up vertically against a stone wall and tied fast to it, so that our colleagues were left standing with arms tied overhead and feet tied below, resting upon stones placed in front of them for that purpose, though they yet slept.
	This was the scene that presented itself to Eborel and Rosario as each slowly roused from sleep.
	Hands overhead, and their bodies tied in three places to the poles, they were immobilized, but awake.  There would be no escape from this bound state by Eborel using her talent of time shift.
	What they saw was a huge room with curved twin staircases on the far end leading to a high balcony overlooking the assembly floor.  It was not unlike the entrance room to the palace at Elginzice, excepting that the gray stone was rather more dreary, with no apparent bright ornamentation or architectural novelty to tempt the wanting eye.
	No people milled upon the vast empty floor, save the few soldiers attending the two prisoners.
	A look of ready expectancy from the guards soon brought the attention of our captives to the balcony, upon which was made present a solitary figure.
	Tall, with long black hair, and a robe of black fringed in silver bric-a-brac twill, he appeared to be Gogolax himself, leaning over the railing and regarding them attentively.
	Presently, he descended the stairs and sauntered casually toward the prisoners.  Indeed, he appeared as Eborel remembered him at the séance, and she steeled herself for the encounter.
	The soldiers stood at attention as Gogolax approached.
	“A puzzle is herein presented,” he said, speaking first and directly to Eborel.  “For I have searched the world for you, yet by some twist of fate, you have come to me instead, of your own choosing and volition.”
	He was met with stolid silence.
	“The irony of your appearing before me without the benefit of time shift is not lost upon me,” he added.  “You came by stealthful means and to dubious purpose.  Did you intend to murder me?”
	As more silence ensued, Gogolax turned his attention to Rosario.
	“And you brought a friend, I see!” he said.  “How propitious, for I now have a hostage whom I can appropriate at will should you somehow flush my spirit from this present body by killing it.”
	The insolence of his intimating that he might possess Rosario was too much for Eborel and she demanded, “Release us at once!”
	“Oh I have every intention of releasing you Eborel, and forthwith,” he answered.  It may not be lost on the reader that even Gogolax knew Eborel’s appearance and name without seeming to have met her before.
	“Then do so,” she stated flatly.
	“I assume you would melt away instantly into time shift upon being released,” he answered.  “Of course you’re free to come and go as you please, yet I wouldst speak to you now in normal time while the opportunity presents.”
	“I have nothing to say to you while at your mercy.  I would speak to you as an equal only,” she responded.
	“Well stated,” he averred.  “Guards, untie them both at once!”
	“Your Lordship,” stammered the senior officer, “she is extremely dangerous and might kill us all in a trice!”
	Gogolax tilted his head slightly and responded, “As might I if you don’t obey me.  I think your course is clear here, Captain.  You risk nearly certain death from me on the one hand by not complying, versus merely possible death from her on the other hand once she’s freed.  It’s your choice.”
	“At once!” responded the officer, as the guards tumbled over each other to undo the knots.
	Upon release, Eborel resisted the urge to “melt into time shift” as Gogolax had put it, and simply stood rubbing the pain out of her chafed wrists.
	“Feeling more ‘equal?’ ” asked Gogolax somewhat disingenuously.
	“Why did you free us?” she asked him pointedly.
	“Why wouldn’t I free you?” he answered her with a question.
	“Because I might destroy your whole army!” she answered fiercely.
	Gogolax shrugged, saying, “If that’s what you want.”
	“Why wouldn’t you care if I destroyed your whole army?” she asked him.
	“ ‘Caring’ is not my strong suit,” he answered.
	“Why do you have a vast army destroying Arkengarthdale and threatening all Draeland?” she asked.  “Why do you breed monsters and perversions of nature in your laboratory?”
	“Because I can,” he stated simply.
	“Have you no scruples whatsoever?” she asked shaking her head in singular disbelief.
	“None that I’m aware,” he answered.
	“Is there no purpose to this destruction you wreak?” she asked.
	“There is certainly purpose,” he answered, then added, utterly incongruously, “I did it for you.”
	“What?!” she nearly choked on her outrage.  “For me?  But why?”
	“To convince you of that which I am capable,” he answered.
	“I’m certainly convinced that your depravity is complete and your power supreme,” she answered.  “Now cease all hostilities and aggression against Draeland at once!”
	“It’s as you wish,” he answered.  “I too am convinced that your conviction is complete.”
	She regarded him incredulously.  “I don’t believe you,” she stated simply.
	He shrugged again and said, “I always tell the truth.”
	“That’s preposterous!” she exclaimed.
	“Oh?” he asked.  “I have never felt the need to lie.  Did Rokavere omit that small detail about my character when she spoke to you of me?”
	“What detail; that you always tell the truth?” she asked.  “Rokavere only said that you speak with a silvery tongue.”
	“Ah, a silvery tongue indeed,” he answered, “but only insofar as the truth is the most persuasive.”  He tilted his head as if making a point – a curious mannerism.
	Eborel regarded him suspiciously.  “You do speak with a silvery tongue!” she exclaimed.  “But you need to prove to me that hostilities have ceased,” she asserted.
	“I don’t have the power to halt the fighting instantly,” he answered.  “But the conflict will dissolve of its own accord in short order; without any tampering or interference from me, in fact.”
	“Again, why should I take you at your word?” she asked.  “Only a liar or a truth-teller states that they speak solely the truth, and I take you for the former.”
	“If you will accompany me,” he answered by way of invitation, “we will journey together to the battlefield and you may witness the cessation of hostilities for yourself.”
	“It would take days to reach the battlefield from here,” she averred, “and countless lives would be lost in the interim.”
	“Days indeed,” he answered, “but not if we fly on one of my creatures.”
	At this point, Rosario, who had listened to the interaction, spoke up, “I don’t trust him Eborel.  He’ll kill you during the flight and continue his aggression.”
	“I would not kill Eborel,” answered Gogolax, “and indeed, would do everything in my power to prevent her from being harmed.  My soldiers have been ordered to protect her at all costs.”
	This nonplussed Eborel.  “Why is that?” she asked finally, deeply suspicious.
	“Ah,” he answered judiciously, “while I inevitably speak the truth, I did not say that I always do so in a timely manner.  For the answer to that question, you must wait until the appointed time.”
	“And that time is when?” she asked.
	“Soon,” he answered.  “We will know when it arrives.”
	With this enigmatic pronouncement, Eborel considered her situation.  Here Gogolax offered tantalizing evidence of the cessation of warfare by firsthand observation.  Yet treachery was known to follow him everywhere, and he might easily be leading her into a fatal trap.  What were her options?
	Upon consideration, she had virtually none.  She was evidently powerless to stop Gogolax, so it wouldst behoove her to see where his trail led, despite the worst-case scenario that it ended in her death.
	“I will consult the other mystics by means of my crystals,” she announced.
	“I would argue against that,” answered Gogolax, clearly eager to dissuade her from communicating with them.
	“Why is that; because your plan would be threatened by their wise counsel?” she asked, mocking him.
	“No,” he answered, “simply because consulting them will waste valuable time, a commodity with which we are in short supply.”
	“It’s inconceivable to me that I might embark on this flying journey without consulting the King and Queen, should it be at my convenience to do so,” she answered.
	“That’s just it,” he countered, “for it is not convenient given our time constraints.  You and your friend have slept through the night and dawn is breaking outside.  My soldiers will ready our mounts at a moment’s notice.”
	“What is to be gained by such rushed precipitancy?” she asked.  “If the fighting will desist of its own accord, how is it so urgent that we hurry upon the scene?”
	“That is a matter which will soon become clear,” he answered.  “Let me hasten your decision,” he continued, “by giving you the likely counsel from Procyon in his stead; for he will intimate that you have fallen completely under my sway, and that you should not follow any plan suggested by me under any circumstance, as it will surely entail treachery of the most distressing magnitude.”
	Eborel pondered this counsel, which seemed credible.
	“Given that advice, how would you proceed?” he asked her.
	“I would likely fly with you anyway to the battlefield to see how events play out,” she answered.
	“Exactly,” said Gogolax.  “I have saved you precious time.”
	But Eborel hesitated, as she yearned for contact with any of the other mystics, particularly Rokavere, if it could be accomplished.
	“If you like,” proffered Gogolax sensing her reluctance, “you may contact them from the battlefield, provided there is yet time.  You might report to them the means by which the war has ended, though they will already know for themselves by then.”
	“You speak in riddles,” she answered, “but let’s leave forthwith.”
	Gogolax turned to the soldiers and ordered that their mounts be readied.
	“We have anticipated you, sire,” answered the Captain, “for preparations are already under way.”
	Returning to Eborel, Gogolax said, “You and I will ride together while your friend rides on a second creature, accompanied by a driver.”
	Eborel cast a glance at Rosario to ascertain his readiness, and he nodded back.
	“I have a thrave of questions,” said Eborel.
	“You can ask them while in flight,” he answered, leading them both from the great room through a door and up a narrow winding stone staircase.
	Evidently, they climbed within a turret that led, upon arduous ascent, to an opening onto the flat roof of the castle top.  To their right was a parapet over which could be seen a broad swathe of the environs surrounding the castle.
	Aside from the breathtaking view, however, was the stunning presence of the two mounts on which our friends would soon ride, seen standing in wait nearby.
	One of them was a huge lizard bird, familiar to Eborel and Rosario by their encounters with the flying creatures over Arkengarthdale, though this one was perhaps larger.
	The second creature was completely new, and looked to be an immense eagle in the forward part of its body incongruously joined somehow to the rear quarters of a lion.
	“We will ride the gryphon,” said Gogolax to Eborel as they approached the eagle creature.  Rosario was directed by the driver seated upon the lizard bird to climb up and join him in the saddle.
	Soldiers standing by took pains to strap all four riders carefully to their mounts, and place their feet in the provided stirrups.
	Eborel, seated behind Gogolax, asked, “You called this creature a ‘gryphon?’ ”
	“After an ancient archetype,” he answered.  “It’s my greatest achievement.”
	“A result of your experiments in the laboratory?” she asked.
	“Yes,” he answered.  “For every successful creature conjured by me in the lab however, there were a thousand failures.”
	Eborel shuddered at the vision of the “failed” experimental creatures she saw in that subterranean lair.
	“How do you create creatures that are not normally found in nature, such as this gryphon?” she asked.
	“By grafting together the embryonic parts of dissimilar creatures that are common in nature,” he answered simply.
	“And the lizard birds, as well as the colossal war animals, whose bodies exist nowhere in nature,” she continued, “how do you ‘conjure’ them?”
	“Those creatures once existed in ancient times and were lost to memory,” he answered.  “However, the bodies of their living descendants, though much changed, retain the memory of their making.  I found the means of reanimating the ancestors by altering the development of modern-day familiar versions of birds, lizards and mammals.”
	Eborel shook her head in singular amazement as the beasts were readied to fly.

	Now must a moment be taken to marvel at the rush of sensation experienced by the two fledgling passengers as their mounts became airborne, for the feeling of buoyancy matched with the view of the expanding landscape from on high was unparalleled in either’s experience.
	Similar in scope to viewing the land from a tower or mountain, yet the knowledge that nothing but air separated them from their high vantage point and the ground far below, lent a feeling of mystery and awe to the experience.
	And indeed, a tower or mountain never moves, while their present mobility, in sharp contrast, caused the landscape to slide away beneath them at speeds previously unknown. 
	Eborel spent long moments taking in the scene entire.  They headed west by southwest, flying in a straight course.  Behind them, Riftwarren castle receded rapidly.  Rosario’s mount to the left kept pace with the gryphon’s, flapping its wings in broad awkward sweeps.  The gryphon, in contrast, maintained a wide soaring wingspan, with only intermittent pumps of its wings to maintain altitude.
	The sun rose behind them, casting long shadows from the trees below.  Looking backward, Eborel noted the star with the tail, previously seen, rising before the sun on the eastern horizon.  Its tail was markedly shorter than the last time she viewed it from the rift valley wall, two days prior, yet its brightness approached nearly that of a lumus.
	She looked over at Rosario significantly and pointed backwards toward it.  He turned to look, and nodded acknowledgement that he saw it.
	Eborel resolved to ask Gogolax whether he knew what it portended, if anything, yet she decided to delay, and asked another question instead.
	“How is it that I fell asleep while trapped in the corridor?” she fairly yelled in the wind.
	Gogolax turned his head and answered, “A special chemical concoction I discovered that causes deep sleep without death.”
	“I saw no chemicals,” she answered.
	“The chemicals combine to form an invisible gas, which seeped into the enclosed space where you lay, through a vent,” he answered.
	Eborel pondered this, then asked, “How is it that you do not use this secret gas as a weapon, since it would make a formidable pacifier of soldiers?”
	“The chemical gas is difficult to control in open spaces, as it wafts away quickly,” he answered.  “And I do not have an antidote for use by my own soldiers, who would also succumb to its effects.”
	“I see,” she answered.
	“However, I did use it at Arkengarthdale once the defenders were confined to the city center,” he continued.
	“To what effect?” she asked, sickening as she remembered seeing bodies around the tower in her vision of the destroyed city at Breathmere Pond.
	“Virtually the entire town fell asleep, and my army butchered them to a man where they lay,” he answered.
	This absolutely silenced Eborel, who grieved for the massacre of the people she had once commanded.
	“We fly for the tower now,” continued Gogolax.  “We’ll pass over the plaza to witness the carnage.”
	Eborel remained mute and appalled.  All her burning questions flew from her mind as she contemplated the precision with which Gogolax had carried out his horrific acts.
	Finally, she managed to ask, “How can you murder so many people without a single thought for their welfare?”
	“Their lives were already meaningless,” he answered heartlessly.
	Eborel could not fathom how Gogolax could attach so little import to something as sacred as life itself, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.
	Presently the eastern edge of the rift was attained and a spire-like image of the tower of Arkengarthdale became barely visible in the distance ahead.  The land fell away beneath them to the depths of the rift valley floor far below.
	To the north lay a molten river of lava churning in the center of the rift, blurred and undulating, as its view was distorted by the roiling furnace of air surrounding it.  Doubtless beyond it and out of sight further north was the rift bridge crossing used by Gogolax’s army to cross over.
	To the south was seen a fog that stretched from one edge of the rift to the other.  Like a bed of cloud, it rose to the level of the cliffs that contained it on either side and flowed majestically from west to east, likely containing the whirlwind that surrounded Breathmere Pond. 
	The western edge of the rift attained, the flying animals came in low over the plaza of Arkengarthdale.  It was, as can be imagined, gruesome in the extreme, as bodies lay everywhere hacked and mutilated.  A great stench of decay filled the air and Eborel looked toward Rosario for his reaction.
	He sat utterly aghast, without returning her gaze, and she rued that she had not warned him of this vision which she had previewed upon the surface of Breathmere Pond.
	Eborel could not resist searching for her friends below: in the plaza, the cemetery and elsewhere, though it seemed unlikely that enough time had passed for the triumvirate-plus-Jarfoz, left behind at Breathmere, to have made their way back to Arkengarthdale by now.
	Thankfully, or sadly – she could not determine which – she saw no evidence of her friends below.
	Gogolax turned his head and said, “We seek the battlefront now,” as the animals wheeled and headed north, past the outer rings of the city, which were utterly razed, though largely devoid of casualties.
	The battling was easy to find, due to copious columns of smoke emitted at the scene by fires and bomb blasts.  It was surprisingly far from Arkengarthdale, perhaps ten leagues to the northwest, implying that Gogolax was advancing upon a retreating Draeland army.
	Gogolax circled several times over both his own army and that of Procyon and Rokavere’s.  He remained high out of arrow range, but the individual combatants were clearly visible from above.  Eborel noted to herself that reconnaissance gathered from a mobile air patrol could be invaluable during battle.
	Gogolax finally settled down upon a hillock to the north, well away from the conflict, but offering a passable view of its progress.
	Eborel detached herself from her straps and fairly tumbled out of her saddle.  The others likewise dismounted and Eborel challenged Gogolax saying, “I saw no sign of abatement!”
	Gogolax answered, “I did not see my commander from above, and I’ve no way to issue an edict to desist.  However, the fighting will stop as events unfold.”
	“What events?” Eborel asked.
	“We will wait and watch,” he said walking toward a cluster of rocks at the crest of the hill, and entreating her to follow.
	Instead, she went to Rosario and asked, “What do you make of all this?”
	“I’ve no idea what to make of it,” he answered.  “The carnage at Arkengarthdale was horrific!”
	“I saw such in my vision of the destroyed city at Breathmere,” she confided.
	“Jarfoz mentioned the lone tower standing in the plaza, but omitted the detail of the slaughtered people around it,” he responded
	“He was sparing you the insult of its knowledge,” she answered.
	“I hope he warns the others before they come across it themselves!” said Rosario fervently.
	“I’m sure he will,” she said.
	“What now?” he asked.
	“Much as it vexes me to be in close proximity to Gogolax, he has all the answers,” said Eborel.  “Walk with me now to the top of the hill, and I’ll confront him with my questions.”
	This they did, settling upon rocks close to Gogolax who sat facing not the battlefield to the south, but toward the distant horizon due west.
	No thought of attempting to communicate with Rokavere or Procyon via the crystals now entered Eborel’s mind, as she had considered earlier.  They were likely busy in battle, and wouldn’t tune themselves to the spiritual plane until sundown.  Nor did she consider entering time shift to seek them out.  Her business was directly with Gogolax.
	“You mentioned that you did this all for my benefit,” she said to him, waving toward the battlefield.
	“Correct,” he answered.
	“Yet you have prepared for war over the past two thousand years – long before I ever came into being,” she said.
	“That is so,” he answered.
	“How did you know I would be here?  Did you have a premonition?” she asked.
	“No,” answered Gogolax.  “Premonitions are Zoro’Ander’s special purview; I had information.”
	“From what source?” asked Eborel.
	“Two thousand years ago,” began Gogolax, elucidating, “Quid Synch visited Riftwarren while I was experimenting with explosives.”
	“I see,” said Eborel.
	“He was very old,” he continued.  “He had come to me from the greatest crisis node he ever passed through in his life.  He mentioned a young mystic – the General – and spoke your name.”
	“Amazing,” said Eborel. 
	“For two thousand years I prepared, waiting for your arrival, nay, hoping for your arrival, though I didn’t know if it would actually come to pass.”
	“Why am I so important to you?” she asked.
	“The key word used by Quid Synch was ‘young,’ ” answered Gogolax.  “I needed a young mystic, with an open mind, who didn’t share the contemptible history and enmity towards me of the other mystics.”
	“Quid Synch travels time and speaks freely of his encounters wherever he goes,” rejoined Eborel.  “Yet he never mentioned a meeting with you to any mystic.  This I would know.”
	“Quid Synch was very old – at the end of his life,” said Gogolax.  “I killed him so he wouldn’t be carried away from me by the next crisis to spread his word to the other mystics.”
	“You killed Quid Synch?” blurted Eborel, shocked.  “Unbelievable!” she cried.  “You truly have no morals whatsoever!”
	“He held dangerous knowledge,” answered Gogolax simply.
	“What knowledge?” asked Eborel, still reeling.  “That he met with you?  How is that dangerous?”
	“As I said, he had come from the greatest crisis in Draeland.”  Here Gogolax leveled his gaze directly at Eborel.  “He came from nothing less than the destruction of the Astral Gate,” he said solemnly.
	“The Astral Gate – destroyed?” she asked incredulously.  “Impossible!”
	“Not impossible.  Inevitable,” answered Gogolax.
	Eborel mulled the immense consequences of the destruction of the Astral Gate, barely able to comprehend its meaning.
	“Consider this,” said Gogolax.  “Quid Synch never traveled outside our age.  Neither backward beyond his birth five thousand years ago, nor forward beyond the end of our age, which must inevitably come.  He was old when he came to me – the oldest he’s ever been, and he had come from the destruction of the Gate, which must surely mark the end of our age and the end of Quid Synch’s life.”
	“But the spirits!” cried Eborel, “Where would they go if they could no longer pass through the Astral Gate?”
	“Where did you go when you passed through that very gate?” he asked her.
	“I don’t know,” she answered.  “I can’t remember.”
	“That’s what they all say,” said Gogolax.
	A dawning realization occurred to Eborel.  Rokavere had told her that Gogolax could not pass through the Astral Gate.
	“Is it true you cannot pass through?” she asked him.
	Gogolax nodded.  “I merely exit from the other side unchanged.  I have walked in and out of the Gate numerous times without being transported anywhere.”
	In a moment of epiphany, Eborel sized the situation.
	“You want me to take you through the Gate before it’s destroyed!” she proclaimed.
	“Exactly so,” he answered, measuring her reaction attentively.
	“Impossible!” she answered without hesitation.  “I would never bring the scourge you represent to whatever place lies beyond the Gate!” 
	“Of course, I anticipated that,” he answered.
	“When the destruction comes,” he continued, “the Gate will summon all mystics.  Their spirits will fly from their bodies, leaving those bodies dead behind.  Those spirits will fly instantly to the Gate and pass through before its destruction.  Procyon will die, Rokavere will die, Asheric and Zoro’Ander will die.  More importantly, you will die, and when that happens, I want you to take my spirit with you – to the Gate, and through.”
	“Not a chance!” she said, though she didn’t quite compass the immensity of what he was telling her.
	“How do you know all this?” she asked suspecting the veracity of his outrageous assertion.
	“As I said, my information comes from Quid Synch,” he answered.
	“When will this occur?” she asked fervently.
	“Soon,” he answered.
	“By what means will the Gate be destroyed?” she asked.
	“Quid Synch stated that the Astral Gate would be obliterated by a falling star,” he answered.
	Eborel immediately looked up at the star with a tail in the sky and noted that it had moved closer to the sun than it had been earlier in the day.  Its tail had foreshortened to a mere stub.
	A sinking feeling took over Eborel as she looked to Rosario for support.  Instead she saw abject fear in his eyes.
	“Will only the mystics die?” asked Eborel, almost pleading.
	“Many will die, perhaps most,” answered Gogolax.  “The destruction caused by the star will extend well beyond Elginzice, reaching even into the uttermost.”
	Both Eborel and Rosario jumped up, as if they might somehow outrun the impending doom.  Eborel paced frantically, contemplating the enormity of the situation.  Where would all the spirits of the dead go after the Gate was no more?  Would all the combatants currently on the battlefield die in conflagration?  Were the gnomics doomed?  And the monks?  And so forth.
	“What will happen to your spirit if I don’t take you through the Gate?” asked Eborel of Gogolax.  “I assume your body will die.”
	“Yes, my body will die and my spirit will wander until I find a living being to appropriate,” answered Gogolax.  “I will eventually find a person, if any survive, take control of his body, and begin anew my campaign to destroy the land, including everyone in it.”
	Eborel saw the hard choice presented by Gogolax.  Refuse him and Draeland was all but lost, especially as there would be no mystics to oppose him, assuming they could not return after the destruction of the Gate.  Accept his proposal and risk destroying the firmament by bringing him there. 
	She approached Rosario and they walked away from Gogolax together.  “What do you think?” she asked.
	“There are some holes in his story,” answered Rosario.  “I think he is a liar, and is using a contrived fear that the star in the sky will fall and destroy everything to lure you into taking him through the Gate now.”
	“What are the discrepancies you see in his tale?” she asked.
	“He stated that the bodies of the mystics will die as their spirits forsake them,” he answered.  “Yet he also said Quid Synch’s spirit will be thrown back to Riftwarren two thousand years ago by the crisis of the Gate, and appear to Gogolax at its most aged.”
	“That seems credible,” answered Eborel.
	“Let’s say for a moment,” continued Rosario, “that Quid Synch is about to appear here on this hillock and witnesses you and Gogolax falling to the ground while your spirits abandon your bodies, as he prophesized at the séance.”
	“Go on,” she said.
	“At that moment, Quid Synch’s spirit would also leave his body to reach the Gate, and would consequently die here with you.”
	Eborel contemplated this grisly scenario, which, according to Gogolax, was about to happen at any moment.  Indeed, she regarded Gogolax, still sitting on an outcropping, and noted that his gaze toward the western horizon did not waver.
	“How then,” continued Rosario, “would Quid Synch’s spirit go back in time, rather than through the Gate, and appear to Gogolax at Riftwarren in yet another body?”
	“It is a puzzle,” answered Eborel, “but verily does Quid Synch move in mysterious ways, and so it is not entirely unthinkable.  What other problems do you see with his story?”
	“The most glaring is his description of the aftermath,” answered Rosario.  “For how could he know the extent of the destruction that will be wrought by the star when none have yet witnessed it who could report its effects to him?”
	“That is a good question,” answered Eborel.  She walked back up the hill to confront Gogolax.
	“Where did you obtain the information that many will die when the Gate is destroyed?” she asked him pointedly.
	“It is a projection predicated upon my study of stars, which are akin to small suns.  I surmised that a star impacting the ground would wreak unimaginable destruction upon life and land.”
	“How can you be sure it’s not rather an exaggeration than a true extrapolation?” she asked. 
	“I have done the calculations,” he answered.  “Though the size of this star is small, its speed and trajectory carry with it tremendous momentum.  The devastation will be widespread,” he asserted.
	“How then,” she changed tack, accepting his mathematical reckoning for the moment, “do you know with a certainty that the Gate will call all mystics so that their bodies will die?”
	“Again, I have Quid Synch to thank for that knowledge,” he answered.  “For his spirit waited at the Gate and witnessed all the known mystic spirits pass him by on their way through the portal.  Since a body cannot survive without its spirit once the spirit enters the firmament permanently, I surmised that the bodies of the mystics would be left behind to die.”
	“Did Quid Synch’s spirit pass through the portal?” she asked.
	“It did not,” answered Gogolax.  “Quid Synch always enters and emerges from the point of greatest violence when he travels time.  That is why I know that the star targeted the Gate specifically.  He described a great ball of fire that whitened the sky completely before obliterating the Gate.”
	Eborel shuddered at this description, but wondered if it portended that Quid Synch’s spirit would never enter the firmament.  She consoled herself that perhaps he passed through the Gate permanently when he was murdered by Gogolax two thousand years ago.
	One very important question occurred to her, however.
	“You stated that every known mystic’s spirit passed by Quid Synch on its way through the portal,” she said.  “Did Quid Synch see your spirit pass through as well?”
	Gogolax hesitated.  “I misspoke,” he said finally.  “Quid Synch said he saw every known living mystic’s spirit pass through – save mine!”
	“That is a brave telling of the truth,” she answered after a moment’s silence, “if it truly be the truth – since it goes against your cause.”
	“I cannot deny that my long-laid plan to pass through the Gate is foretold to fail by Quid Synch,” he answered.  “My consolation is that Quid Synch’s version of the future was two thousand years old when he told it to me.  I have worked these past millennia to alter that future.  I am bolstered by Quid Synch’s more recent vision of you and I dropping together upon this hillock.”  He gestured to their surroundings.
	“How do you know about that vision?” she asked him.
	“I was present at the grand séance in Elginzice, and witnessed everything that was said by those participating, even though I was in the background for most of it,” he answered.
	Eborel shuddered at the memory of his interceding at the end of the séance, surrounded by his coterie of possessed souls.  Well she recalled that he had pronounced that the end of the mystics was nigh.
	“I am not inclined to take you with me,” she answered simply.
	“The moment of your final decision has not yet arrived,” he countered.
	Eborel and Rosario resumed their seats fitfully upon the boulders to watch and wait with Gogolax.  The tail of the star shrank seemingly before their eyes to a mere wisp while its head brightened noticeably.
	The wind picked up and Rosario pulled his cloak around him saying, “The weather is changing.”
	“A consequence of the star?” asked Eborel, but Gogolax said naught.
	A long silence ensued when a white light, distant from the star, was perceived on the western horizon.
	The light grew in size, appearing as a half dome, like a great white setting sun.  The wind picked up, blowing warmly.  All three stood to view what was happening beyond the horizon.  Eborel faltered, wishing she had time to find Rokavere and Procyon for counsel.  Gogolax looked away from the horizon, directly at her.  Gradually, she slowed her time perception to give herself time to think.  Rosario stood as a statue to her right while Gogolax gazed at her from the left.  Their clothes were frozen in an aspect of stilled flapping behind them.
	It was unthinkable that the world might be ending now, so suddenly and unexpectedly.  Eborel could not make sense of it.  The star above shone fiercely bright with a new finger of white fire projecting downward, reaching in tantalizing slow motion towards the white dome on the horizon. 
	She did not think about Gogolax, now watching her in time shift himself.  Rather, she thought of her family and friends.  Where were they at this instant?  What were they doing as a white light from the sky rained down upon them?  Was everyone she knew about to die in the same moment?  She trembled uncontrollably.
	By the wiles of Gogolax, only three people standing on this hillock knew what was transpiring.  That is, unless Gogolax was lying, she thought.
	But what if he told the truth?  If so, then it was truly the end of an era.  Everything built by the monks might be destroyed.  The gnomic sacred glades would perish along with their gentle tenders and gnolords.  Her family would simply cease to exist.  Even her animal friends would be no more.
	She began to sob, for her own life was at its end.  The finger of white fire raced across the sky at preternatural speed, headed for the white light in the west.  Suddenly, she was buffeted by a strong force, a momentary gust of powerful wind, which evidently knocked Rosario to the ground.  She and Gogolax managed to remain upright by breaking their falls in time shift.
	The imminent destruction of everything and everyone she knew was too much for her.  She felt her spirit separating from her body, and saw the same happening to Gogolax.  It was akin to dreamwalking.  She took a step toward Gogolax, then turned back to see her own body begin its slow descent toward the ground.  She was a spirit now.
	This was the moment of her decision, just as Gogolax had portended.  The impending devastation of the land by this star was like to the ruination that would surely be wrought by Gogolax should she leave him behind.  She stepped towards him, and he towards her.  She reached her hand out to him, and he took it in his grasp.  She looked around for signs of Quid Synch, but saw none.  Rosario was clambering to his knees after being knocked down by the wind, looking skyward toward the finger of white light.
	Slowly she and Gogolax raised themselves up in the air, hands still clasped.  Their spirit bodies became horizontal, bellies down, with their heads pointing west; and in an instant, began racing faster than any wind over the face of the land.  She did not need to guide herself, as she was drawn by the Gate.  Gogolax flew beside her, the robe in which he was clothed when he left his body moments before, flowing in spirit behind him.  Above, she noted that they gained on the white fire streaking in the same direction above them.  Below, the trees, rivers and mountains moved past in a blur.
	In moments, they found themselves standing in the courtyard at the center of the Amberlock Maze, facing the entrance to the Astral Gate.  Standing aside was Quid Synch, waiting for his cataclysmic transport.  Eborel hesitated as Gogolax stood next to her, still holding her hand.  The sky was entirely white from horizon to horizon.  A fierce hot wind blew the trees and maze wall shrubbery wildly, though it had no effect on her.  She started, as the spirits of Asheric and Zoro’Ander flew past them directly through the Gate, not hesitating or deigning to notice her.  She called to them, too late, but her voice was a silent whisper.
	Brindlebeck flew past, soon followed by Jarfoz, whom she fancied gave her a quizzical look, perhaps able to see her directly in his spirit embodiment, or otherwise seeing himself through her eyes in the moment of his passing.
	Finally came Procyon and Rokavere, holding hands in like manner to Eborel and Gogolax.  They slowed as they passed, yet did not stop.  Both looked directly at Eborel, but while Procyon shook his head as if to signal, “No!” yet Rokavere nodded sagely.  The royal couple entered the Gate together, passing into the mist, and Eborel wondered:  Did Rokavere signal, “Yes,” or did she rather intimate, “I understand?”
	Eborel could not discern Rokavere’s meaning, but now was the true time for her decision, and not the split seconds on the hillock as she had previously thought.  The shrubbery around her burst into flames as if in signal, and she knew the critical moment had arrived.  She tugged on Gogolax’s arm, running towards the Gate, and pulled him through with her, as Quid Synch watched impassively nearby.
	In a nonce, the Gate was no more, and nor were any of the mystics, including even the outcast one, Gogolax, who was finally entered into the fold of his peers, accepted by the Gate, through Eborel’s volition alone.
	Quid Synch ceased to exist beyond that moment, and was rather, thrown back in time.

61.  Epilogue
Venmar rising.
-A sign of rebirth

	I will not here dwell upon the details of the destruction wrought by the falling star upon the land, as such are gruesome in the extreme, and better left to the perfervid imagination.
	Suffice to say that the age of Glendaar came to pass, and paved the way for the next age of Gaudaar.  Happily perhaps, many survived the consequent conflagration, yet as fate can be a cruel mistress, few of those remaining outlasted the ravages of starvation that came later.
	Much of the cultural knowledge of Glendaar was lost, as had been the knowledge of the prior ages Gundaar, Gystaar, and Gevaar before it.
	Just as “The Monk” Theobald had kept the memory of the previous age alive for the inhabitants of the age of Glendaar, it is hoped that some survivor would do the same for the new era of Gaudaar, though that was by no means assured.
	No mystics or monks or gnomics survived, so that those cultures were lost forever.  Since mystics no longer walked the realm in communication with spirits, it cannot be certain whether the spirits of ordinary souls existed even in the new age.
	The lumi remained unperturbed, affected not in the least by the astronomical event that changed everything else so completely.  The old world of Draeland was irreparably altered, but the land was at least saved from Gogolax, and though deeply scarred by the fallen star, awaited with equanimity its eventual new masters.
	Gogolax entered the firmament, though what affect or influence he might have had upon it, if any, cannot be known.

	In conclusion then, I bid the reader a fair adieu.

Fin

I.  List of Lumi

The lumi of Draeland are ordered here from largest to smallest with their imbued waxing and waning qualities listed respectively.

1.	Izzy	Fortune / Misfortune
2.	Estus	Happiness / Sorrow
3.	Chalgo	Health / Sickness
4.	Durin	Abundance / Paucity
5.	Venmar	Mother / Father
6.	Umlat	Permanence / Transience
7.	Ensue	Pain / Pleasure
8.	Imbro	Discord / Harmony
9.	Hashdu	Love / Hate
10.	Zarkov	Toil / Rest
11.	Inca	War / Peace
12.	Plebic	Power, Strength / Docility, Reserve
13.	Garthog	Rigid / Yielding
14.	Clochemik	Progress / Stasis
15.	Shtalt	Creation / Destruction
16.	Arco	Freedom / Oppression
17.	Entegumin	Birth / Death
18.	Grinth	Restlessness / Complacency
19.	Klegmon	Gibbous Convexity / Isthmus Concavity
20.	Chandra	Fecundity / Fallowness
21.	Lucent	Light / Dark
22.	Ghazhiz	Fire / Ice
23.	Pinster	Agility / Torpor

II.  Pronunciation Guide

Ahimsa - ā-hĭm′-sǝ
Ahzul - ŏ-zǝl′
Aldus - ŏl′-dǝs
Amberlock - ăm″-bǝr-lŏk′
Anntenfoale - ăn″-těn-fōl′
Antequoi - ănt″-ǝ-kwŏ′
Arco - ar′-kō
Arkengarthdale - ar′-kěn-garth″-dāl
Asheric - ăsh′-ǝr-ĭc
Barkdale - bark′-dāl
Bartho - bar′-thō
Bentrush - běnt′-rŭsh
Bojax - bō′-jăx
Breathmere - brěth′-mēr
Brindlebeck - brĭn″-dǝl-běk′
Brogwash - brŏg′-wŏsh
Bythewood - bĭth″-ē-wood′
Carchal - kar′-chǝl
Celine - sěl-ēn′
Chalgo - chăl′-gō
Chazu - chă-zoo′
Chandra - chŏn′-drǝ
ClocheMik - clōch′-mĭk
Cyrus - sī′-rǝs
Darius - dār′-ē-ǝs
Denturion - děn-toor′-ē-ǝn
Dentysus - děn-tī′-sǝs
Derrindell - děr′-ĭn-děl″
Dewberry - doo′-běr-ē
Dimwold - dĭm′-wōld
Dimthistle - dĭm′-thĭ-sǝl
Draeland - drā′-lănd
Draewright - drā′-rīt
Drambuie - drăm-bū′-ē
Du'bai - doo-bī′
Durin - door′-ĭn
Dusty - dŭst′-ē
Eborel - ěb′-ǝr-ěl″
Elginzice - ěl″-gĭn-zīs′
Enplexus - ěn-plěx′-ǝs
Ensue - ěn′-soo
Entegumin - ěn-těg′-ū-mǝn
Estus - ěs′-tǝs
Excelsion - ěx-sěl″-sē-ŏn′
Firthmare - fǝrth′-mār
Garthog - gar′-thŏg
Gaudaar - gow′-dar
Gaza - gŏz′-ǝ
Gevaar - gěv-ar′
Ghaziz - gŏ-zēz′
Gilbeckfordshire - gĭl-běk′-fǝrd-shǝr
Gilfaber - gĭl-fā′-bǝr
Glendaar - glěn′-dar
Gnolord - nō′-lōrd
Gnomic - nō′-mĭk
Gogolax - gō″-gǝ-lăx′
Gola - gō′-lǝ
Grinth - grĭnth′
Grymillian - grī-mĭl′-ē-ǝn
Gundaar - gŭn′-dar
Gystaar - jĭs′-tar
Hashdu - hŏsh′-doo
Hornbuck - hōrn′-bŭk
Hynto - hĭn′-tō
Icember - īs′-ěm″-bǝr
Imbro - ĭm′-brō
Inca - ēnk′-ǝ
Izzy - ĭz′-ē
Jarfoz - jar′-fŏz
Jebrel'dar - jě-brěl″-dar′
Juviweir - joo″-vē-wēr′
Kentamere - kěnt″-ǝ-mēr′
Klegmon - klěg′-mŏn
Lucent - loo′-sǝnt
Lumi - loom′-ē
Lumus - loom′-ǝs
Manx - mănx′
Margott - mar-gŏt′
Maywend - mā′-wěnd
Ochaka - ō-chŏ′-kǝ
Olinza - ō-lĭn′-zǝ
Oxthoggle - ŏx′-thŏg-ǝl
Penarthic - pěn-ar′-thĭk
Phagix - fā′-jĭx
Pinster - pĭn′-stǝr
Plebic - plē′-bĭk

Procyon - prō-sī′-ǝn
Purgan - pǝr′-gǝn
Qaru - kwŏ-roo′
Qasama - kǝ-sŏm′-ǝ
Quartz Prima - kwartz-prēm′-ǝ
Quid Sync - kwĭd′-sēnk
Revelstoke - rěv″-ǝl-stōk′
Riftwarren - rĭft′-war-ǝn
Riftwash - rĭft′-wŏsh
Riftford - rĭft′-fǝrd
Rithmomachia - rĭth′-mō-mŏ″-kē-ǝ
Rokavere - rōk″-ǝ-vēr′
Rosario - rō-zar′-ē-ō
Runnel - rŭn′-ǝl
Sayik - sī-yēk′
Sephilon - sěf″-ĭl-ŏn′
Shangoo - shăn-goo′
Shastfeldt - shăst′-fělt
Shilly-Shally - shĭl′-ē-shăl′-ē
Shimrock - shĭm′-rŏk
Shtalt - shtŏlt′
Skyewing - skī′-wēng
Starfindel - star″-fĭn-děl′
Stealth - stělth′
Steppeweir - stěp′-wēr
Sushla - soosh′-lǝ
Tesselrod - těs″-ǝl-rŏd′
Thabane - thā′-bān
Thadeus - thăd″-ē-ǝs′
Theobald - thē′-ō-bŏld
Thorenwence - thōr″-ěn-wěns′
Thornberry - thōrn′-běr-ē
Throwe - thrō′
Throwen - thrō′-wǝn
Tizan - tĭ-zŏn′
Triune - trī′-ūn
Turrelius - tǝr-ěl′-ē-ǝs
Twigfiddle - twĭg′-fĭd-ǝl
Tyro - tēr′-ō
Tyroan - tī-rō′-ǝn
Umlat - oom′-lŏt
Venmar - věn′-mar
Xegon - zē′-gŏn
Yargo - yar′-gō
Zarkov - zar′-kŏv
Zebulon - zěb″-ū-lŏn′
Zedwyn - zěd′-wĭn
Zoro'Ander - zō′-rō-ăn″-dǝr

Pronunciation key

′ - stressed syllable
″ - stronger stressed syllable
ă - tan
ā - bake
ar - far
ch - chalk
ě -  bend

ē - tee
ǝ - uh
g - get
ĭ - bit
ī - bite
j - jam
k - kite

ŏ - on
ō - tone
oo - could
oo - room
ow - ouch
s - sun
sh - show

th - thing
ū - unique
ŭ - under
v - van
w - walk
x - tax
z - zoo

III.  Biographical Note

	The author lives with his wife in California, USA.  In his real life, he is a computer programmer.  This book is his only work of fiction.
	The “Sir” in the author’s pen name is not intended to deceive the reader into believing he has been knighted by a monarch.  He has not.  His writing name is simply a fanciful nom de plume.
	Comments may be emailed to author@draeland.com.  Messages may be sent to Twitter @draeland and Instagram at "draeland."  Visit the site draeland.com.

The author and his wife (Oregon, August 2006)