[written down by Johana Passerin]
Nazqawn leafed through the document. Loverd watched over her shoulder. “That saying—The Elixir thins the wall—it is not a metaphor. It is a reality. It truly weakens the boundary between worlds, between Qurand and other, less material realms. The Elixir itself does nothing to time and space, but its side effect is the weakening of the membrane between Qurand and a multitude of other realities,” Nazqawn said, moved. “But at the same time, it allows us to fight the New Age. That has already swept away many smaller cities. Arkagas still stands, Loverd; Arkagas will stand as long as I breathe and live. But we have had to evacuate many Arks. It is a hard choice every time, and the losses are great.”
“What should we do next, my Lady?”
“Go see where Master Klaes went and bring him here. I have certain proposals for what we should undertake, but Klaes should be part of the decision-making as well. After all, he has made no small sacrifices, and thanks to him, we have Zeilet’s manuscript.”
Loverd set out to find Klaes. He found him in the main hall of the Inn. Before him stood one empty and one half-drained glass of foamy brew. His eyes were closed, and his hands, fingers interlaced, rested in his lap.
“Klaes? Is everything all right?” Loverd asked.
Klaes opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and swollen—perhaps from crying. “What do you think?” he replied sarcastically. “I’m doing great! If this were back during my academic career, I’d say I’ve made the discovery of a lifetime!”
Loverd sat at his table. “But it was important to know it. Do not mourn for the fire warriors. Their sacrifice was not in vain; they did it out of devotion to our sacred mission.”
“But I’m not mourning for them! We nearly croaked there ourselves,” Klaes erupted. “What follows from those notes has shaken me. Perhaps I should take up religion now. Yller was in a brotherly relationship with Xalgon, but Xalgon is, in truth, a slave driver. Zeilet paid the price for it. Talantius used us like laboratory animals!”
“I understand that it has shaken the foundations of your faith. But perhaps it won’t be as extreme as it seems to you now. We must read everything, the entire document,” Loverd said soothingly.
“Yes, we must. Perhaps something will yet become clear. Or maybe the little that still holds together will collapse,” Klaes shrugged.
“Let’s go back to the Aurán,” Loverd urged, taking him by the arm and leading him back to the room with Nazqawn, where a sacred fire burned in the hearth.
Klaes set to reading the manuscript. He read aloud, and they discussed every paragraph. He examined his glasses in detail, focusing on the passage discussing them and their—until now—unknown function for researching the Ignotium.
“The whole thing is framed as a letter. To whom could it have been intended?” Klaes mused. “There are clear allusions to you and us, Baoth and Zilath. What does ‘a member of your order’ mean? Who could the recipient be? From our last conversation with Lugashir, it was clear that Xalgon wants to keep the Elixir for himself, but that he would nonetheless provide some samples to his allies. We ourselves sent part of the Elixir to Sairis, where it surely is by now, and it is possible they succeeded in deciphering and producing it. Everyone who possesses the Elixir must learn of what Zeilet writes here!”
“I don’t know who it could be addressed to. There are several possibilities. Perhaps Ocelot, the Grandmaster of the Paladin Order. But they say he has fallen. Or the Architects in Sairis. Or someone in Asvittara.”
“Sairis has the Elixir; they should know everything Zeilet writes here,” Klaes repeated, rubbing his tired eyes.
“At the same time, we should acquaint Talantius with the document,” Nazqawn said.
“What? Him? But he used us!” Klaes cried.
“We must believe he did not act with evil intent,” Nazqawn replied. “But others might act with evil intent—those into whose hands this manuscript must definitely not fall.”
“It has already been in the hands of the unauthorized,” Loverd reminded them.
“And who is authorized?” Klaes exclaimed, throwing up his hands helplessly.
Then Vedrax spoke, who had been sitting gloomily in the corner and had not yet participated in the discussion: “Let’s admit that we have failed. The Elixir does not work, and the one who made it was shipwrecked somewhere in the north. His messenger turned into a crow. It is futile. Let us go toward death with our heads held high,” he said in a somber voice.
“On the contrary! Only now do I understand why she chose me to go to Maghon!” Klaes cried.
“And technically speaking, the fact that the Elixir has side effects doesn’t mean it doesn’t work,” Loverd noted.
“Exactly. I tested it on myself and saw the true nature of the New Age. Ignotium is a vital part of the problem. Talantius knows the most about it. We must speak with him and show him this manuscript,” said Klaes, as if a new strength had been poured into his veins. Loverd nodded.
Nazqawn said: “So, we agree that you will go seek Master Talantius. What about you, Vedrax?”
“Me? What about me? I’ve become an outcast, so I will go with you wherever you go.”
“Good. And as for the manuscript, I think you should not take the original with you. It is too precious and should not fall into enemy hands.”
“Let’s make a copy! We can write it in Aurán ink, which is only visible in the light of the sacred fire,” Loverd suggested.
“That won’t be necessary. I already know the text by heart. We will only make a transcript of the laboratory results and charts,” Klaes said.
For the rest of the day and the entire next day, they devoted themselves to studying Zeilet’s manuscript and copying the tables and graphs. They decided to safely store the original manuscript with the Innkeeper.
On the third day, the Innkeeper sat with them at breakfast.
“Nazqawn told me of your plan. I understand that you wish to store the precious original of Zeilet’s manuscript here. As for your journey, I have good news and bad news. First, the good news—the Inn has a branch in Svittynis. The bad news is that suspiciously long has passed since anyone entered from there. We don’t know what is happening there.”
“How long is your ‘long’?” Loverd asked.
“About three weeks,” replied the Innkeeper.
“We have been in Xalgon for less than two weeks. So the branch stopped being visited a week before our arrival in Xalgon. Could the New Age have reached Svittynis in that time? That is unlikely; Svittynis is further north than Xalgon,” Klaes mused aloud.
“Exactly,” the Innkeeper confirmed. “If you want to use this shortcut, you will have to see the situation for yourselves.”
“Before we leave, I’d like to ask you—what was that potion I gave the Fox? I still have one vial.”
“That potion is truly a last resort. It prevents bleeding out, it can restore heart and brain function, but at a certain price,” the Innkeeper said. “Thanks to my care, however, the Fox has fully recovered. She will have no lasting consequences. But if you were to use it sometime in the future, you must count on the fact that regeneration—if the person survives—takes many days. After a temporary boost comes great weakness or even lethargy; the person may have difficulty walking, speaking, and sensory perception, like sight, will temporarily worsen. The side effects are very individual and vary according to the severity of the original injury. Still, it is a very valuable medicine. Keep it safe; perhaps you will need it on your journey,” the Innkeeper answered.
“And how… did you heal the Fox?” Klaes asked.
The Innkeeper smiled and looked deep into Klaes’s eyes. “The heart of the Inn hides many secrets that are difficult to clothe in words. Perhaps it will suffice if I say that all three foxes who once founded the Inn with me chose well a place on the border of worlds, where a source of true refreshment gushes from the rock.”
Then came the time for goodbyes. They equipped themselves with supplies, food, water, and gear they might need on their travels over land or underground. However, among the most precious items was a coaster with the emblem of the Inn at the Three Foxes, which allowed entry into any of the Inn’s branches.
Klaes again urged Nazqawn that it was necessary to deliver a copy of Zeilet’s manuscript to Sairis and also to search for the recipient.
“Do not fear; from the moment we first read it, the search has been ongoing. We will attempt to deliver an encrypted transcript there as soon as possible. And to you, I wish that you return healthy and alive!”
“I would rather say goodbye. I don’t want to return to Xalgon,” the Fox spoke up.
Nazqawn leaned down to the Fox and stroked her thick fur, which bore no trace of the burns. “When I say return, I don’t mean there”—she waved her hand—”to my dark city, but here, to the Inn. So, after all, I wish you a happy return—home.”
The further farewells were short and brief. The Innkeeper led them through intricate corridors. In places, they had to climb rope ladders; elsewhere, they passed through halls full of guests from various parts of Qurand. Finally, they reached halls and corridors that looked shabby and dusty. The taproom stood empty, and the foyer was the same.
“So, let’s open those mysterious doors,” said the Innkeeper, taking the handle. Before them lay a flowery meadow.
“Hm. I don’t remember Svittynis looking like this. I’d expect an alleyway of a small town,” the Innkeeper noted as he peeked out. But he did not cross the threshold.
Loverd stepped outside. In Xalgon, it was a cold and rainy November, but here everything looked and smelled like the height of summer. Before him ran a path along which grew wild thyme and savory. When he looked back, he saw a hut, and in its door stood his companions. He looked toward the northeast. He expected to see the snow-capped mountains of Kaalu Charmat, but he did not see them there.
He returned to the group and described what he had seen.
“That is strange. These doors—this is definitely Svittynis. It must be some hocus-pocus. Someone has simply replaced the city with a meadow,” the Innkeeper shrugged.
“What? Replaced a city with a meadow?” Klaes exclaimed. He put on his glasses and tuned them to Ignotium detection mode. But when he looked through them, he saw only splotches and blurred colors. He had never seen anything like it. He switched the glasses to the classic setting. He saw nothing. He turned back toward the Inn. Here he saw lines of fate, energy paths, emotional traces. He turned outside again. Again, he saw nothing.
“It seems to be some kind of illusion,” he said.
Loverd, who stood outside in the midday sun, wiped his sweaty brow. “It feels quite real to me.”
“Let’s explore it then,” said Klaes, stepping over the threshold into the light. Vedrax followed him with a groan, covering his face with his hands. “In Xalgon, night is day and day is night! My eyes are blinded in the light!”
“You’ll have to get used to it. Think of it as a sacrifice,” Klaes said, though it took him a moment to adjust to the sharp sunlight. Behind their backs, the Innkeeper waved once more and closed the door. They set off along the path. Beetles and bumblebees buzzed, herbs smelled intoxicatingly sweet, cicadas competed in chirping and jumped across their path, and occasionally a lizard darted through the grass. The Fox chased insects and lizards. Vedrax sneezed and sweated, shading his eyes with his hand. They came to a crossroads where the path branched three ways. To the left were thickets, to the right a forest.
“So, which way to go?” Klaes suggested. He saw no signpost by which they could decide.
“I’ll tell you what each path promises,” said the Fox, rolling over onto her left side. Then she stood up, shook herself, and sniffed. “The left one sounds like this: Into my skin another shall change, scavengers circle above my head. The deceiver’s truth is ever strange, like fiery flames in a twisted thread. It sounds like someone wants to trick us. The middle one: The dragon shall roar in the crimson air, when we pilgrims journey there; it rains down wrath upon our brow, with blind fury it greets us now.“
“One option better than the next,” Vedrax spat.
“Wait, there is still the third: Perhaps from the bone-man’s evil might, the forest will offer us shelter tonight. Perhaps there is safety somewhere near, from the evil power and the hunters’ spear.“
“More riddles. But it reminds me of one thing: if we want to find Talantius, we might have to look for him on a battlefield among feasting ravens and other scavengers. If we want to find safety, we likely won’t meet Talantius—in that case, we might as well have stayed sitting in the Inn. The point is to find the right path. But which is it? Right, left, or center?” Klaes noted.
His thoughts were interrupted by movement at the edge of the forest, where the right path led. A massive mound of gelatinous matter slowly rolled out from the trees and thickets. It reached up to the treetops and took everything in its path: trees, grass, stones. Then they noticed that inside it was an entire deer and the skeletons of other creatures.
“And there we have it! To look for shelter, the ‘evil might of the bone-man’ or another must first come onto the scene—it doesn’t matter whose. I’d seek safety in a cottage, in the Inn right now!” the Fox barked, tugging at Klaes’s cloak. Loverd looked around for flammable material to feed the Aurán, but in the end, they took the Fox’s advice and retreated. From a rise, they watched as the giant mound of slime crossed the road and rolled away into the thickets on the left side. Then they returned to the crossroads. Klaes examined the slime and would have liked to take samples, but the others were already calling for him to stay with them. They set off northwest along the right-hand path.
After they had traveled some distance, they heard something like a chorale. It was melancholically beautiful, dreamy, and heartbreaking. Vedrax and Klaes looked at each other and nodded. They were curious to see what it could be. They also longed to find out where they actually were. Therefore, they went into the forest. The others followed, not wanting to remain on the path alone. They came to a circular clearing. Here stood a large assembly of stags, singing their elegies in languid voices.
“They are mourning their fallen comrades,” whispered the Fox, who understood their language a little. She gestured with her snout, and they noticed that a trail of slime ran through the center of the stag assembly, and some of the singers were missing. Klaes realized with pleasure that he was glad to see the same thing as the Fox.
“Such devotion,” sighed the Fox, overcome by a melancholic mood from the stags’ singing.
“Do you understand them?” Loverd asked.
The Fox nodded.
“And can you speak with them?”
“I can try,” she replied, stepping out into the clearing. She stood before one of the stags and said: “Good day, have you seen Master Talantius? Perhaps he landed here or crashed with his tower.”
The stag bowed toward the Fox but continued singing his plaintive song, which washed through the forest in a choir of voices. She saw that he perceived her but could not leave the song, his most important task. She returned to her company and shook her head.
“He didn’t answer. They are in a kind of trance.”
They continued on their way. The trees grew increasingly somber, overgrown here and there with moss, lichens, and a kind of white mold. Dampness and shadow ruled the forest, which pleased Vedrax, who suffered in the sun. Suddenly, something jumped out of the bushes onto the path before them. The Fox bristled and growled. “A leopard!” Vedrax drew his sword. In reality, the figure stood on two legs and had only a leopard’s head. Its body and hands were human. It was naked, wearing only a blacksmith’s apron. In its hand, it gripped a hammer.
“Greetings,” Loverd said politely.
“Do you know him?” the Fox whispered.
“No. But nothing else occurred to me to say. And incidentally—when I think of the sagas, a blacksmith with a leopard’s head and a hammer doesn’t surprise me all that much. A blacksmith prospers in peace and in war—one of the few,” Loverd replied in a hushed voice, watching the figure on the path intently. It swung the hammer gently. Cruelty and murder were in its eyes. Only now did they notice that it had mold on its ear and neck.
That is the mold I saw on Talantius’s messenger! The same is on the trees around the path, Vedrax realized, but he had no time to say anything because the leopard-faced smith moved and swung toward them.
“I suppose we don’t have time for further pleasantries,” Klaes said, and without further ado, fired at the smith from his pipe. The smith grunted and jumped. Then, fine sand began to pour from his wounds. No blood, just fine sand. After a moment, nothing remained of the figure but a mound of sand overgrown with mold, a blacksmith’s apron, and a hammer. And two of Klaes’s projectiles.
Klaes and Vedrax leaned over the smith’s remains, while Loverd and the Fox watched from a distance. Vedrax touched the sand with his gloved hand. He smelled the scent of wet limestone.
“Do not touch that with your bare hands under any circumstances! Here—carefully take samples into the test tube!” Klaes commanded, who liked to face danger and the unknown with an analytical-research mindset.
Vedrax took it. “I think I know this. I saw this mold on the body of Talantius’s messenger, the one who turned into a white crow. It smelled just like this. And also on that knight who was infected by her.”
“So we must be very careful when handling the material. Watch out!” Klaes urged him.
Vedrax carefully placed the sample into the test tube and corked it. Then they continued on their way.
Before them lay a meadow. There were places on it clearly covered in mold. The meadow was intersected by a wall that stretched to the horizon on the right and left. The wall was about five meters high, and a thorny dog-rose covered in blossoms climbed up it. Their path led directly to the wall, and when they looked more closely, they saw a gate behind the tendrils of the plants.
“I don’t know why, but I have goosebumps. It’s like that fairy tale about the spoiled potion,” said Klaes, putting on his glasses. He was pleased when he saw several lines of fate. But in the setting focused on Ignotium, he again saw only splotches.
“The wall seems to be a boundary. It continues invisibly up into the sky,” he informed the group of his findings. “It seems we have no choice but to go to the wall and see if we can pass through the gate.”
Stepping carefully, they crossed the meadow and stood before the gate overgrown with tendrils. In the bushes, they saw several mummified bodies entangled in the thorny branches. The bodies were covered in mold. The gate before them was stone, and on it was a seal in the form of a face. This face now moved and, in a deep baritone, said: “Pilgrim, halt. Speak a simple sentence.”
“Open the gate!” said Loverd.
The head said: “Now utter a complex sentence.”
“Have you seen Talantius here with his tower?” Loverd replied.
“Utter a complex sentence that contains no absurdities,” said the head on the gate.
“Please open these stone doors,” Klaes spoke carefully.
“Speak a complex logical sentence. This is a command,” the Head repeated.
“You are a gate overgrown with thorns. Do you want grammar exercises from us?” Klaes said.
The Head said: “That is grammatically correct. But it would require a sentence entirely without poetry.”
“How—without poetry?! Language is full of metaphors! One cannot speak entirely without poetry. A complex sentence is a simple sentence that, in addition to the basic sentence elements, also contains at least one modifying element. I have fulfilled that.”
The Head said: “That is correct. Now we shall play a game. Look at the ground.”
Klaes looked beneath his feet and found that they were standing on a painted board, with game pieces lying around. They recognized it as the famous game of Tablut, renowned throughout Qurand—especially in inns. They swept the playing surface and arranged the pieces.
“You will play for the king,” said the head, “and I for the bandits.”
Klaes made the first move. He felt icy sweat running down the back of his neck. Finally, after many moves and a crushing battle, when he had only his last pawn left, he managed to lead the king to the port.
“Excellent, excellent,” the head boomed. “Now you must only tell me a story that has a beginning and an end, a plotline, and contains no absurdities. You have surely experienced much. Tell your tale.”
Klaes and Loverd looked at each other. Suddenly, they were at a loss for words. Vedrax stared dully ahead.
A story that contains no absurdities? Klaes thought. Why, our entire journey is one big absurdity. Just like my previous life at the university. I have no normal stories.
A long, awkward silence fell.
“Ahem, ahem. Well, I’ll try a story that was told at our Inn. It’s partly about me and my sisters.”
The head nodded.
“Once there was a man who had three sons. To the youngest, whom they took for a fool and drove away from everything that smelled even slightly of anything sensible—to that youngest son, the following incident occurred. One morning, they sent the eldest to the forest to gather wood. His mother packed a few sweet pancakes in a cloth for him, along with a bottle of wine, so that the son wouldn’t suffer from hunger or thirst while working. As the son walked along the forest path to a clearing, he met an Old Man who wished him a good day and said: ‘Give me a piece of pancake and a sip of wine, please.’ But the boy dismissed him: ‘The nerve! I’ll give you my pancake and my wine and have little myself! Be on your way!’ He left the old man standing there and went on. In the clearing, he set to felling a tree, but the axe slipped and badly injured his hand. He returned home empty-handed and maimed.
The next day, the middle son set out for the forest. His mother also packed a good few pancakes and a bottle of wine in a bundle for him. To him as well, the Old Man crossed the path and begged: ‘Give me a bit of pancake and a draught of wine, please.’ But the son replied: ‘You clever fellow, I’ll give you my pancake and my wine and have nothing myself! Be on your way!’ No sooner had he begun his woodcutting work than the axe jumped from his hand and cut him in the leg. And that was it! He returned home without wood and with a bloody leg.
Then the ‘Little Fool’ said: ‘Father, I will bring that wood!’ But the father answered: ‘Your brothers know how to lend a hand, and yet they came to harm at that work. Put it out of your head; you don’t know how!’ But the boy begged for so long that the father waved his hand and let him go. His mother put a cake made of ash in his bundle, along with a bottle of sour beer. On the way to the forest, the boy again met that Old Man. Actually, aside from the silvery hair, he didn’t seem all that old. He leaned on a staff and said: ‘Give me a piece of cake and a draught from the bottle, boy.’ The boy replied: ‘This cake is only made of ash, and they only gave me sour beer in the bottle, but if it suits your taste, we shall sit, eat, and drink.’ So they sat in the grass, ate the cake, drank the beer, and then the Old Man said: ‘Because you have a good heart, I will help you to fortune. Look at this old tree here. Fell it and take what you find in its roots.’ And then he vanished.
The boy felled the tree, and in its roots, he found a golden goose. Whoever has a goose like this will make a mark on the world, he thought, and instead of home, he headed for an inn on the other side of the forest, where he wanted to drink a little, eat, be merry, and stay the night. In that inn, they had three foxes. That was us—me and my sisters—in the good old days. We were each more inquisitive than the last, and when we saw the goose, we were possessed by curiosity and a mischievous greed; each of us would have liked to pluck at least one golden feather. When the boy lay down in the chamber to sleep, the eldest fox grabbed the goose by the wing to pluck a feather. But alas! She remained stuck to the goose. My sister wanted to help her, but she got stuck too. And I could think of nothing better than to grab them, and that was a mistake. The golden goose held us like… well, like glue.
In the morning, the boy got up, took the goose, and set off on his way. He paid no mind to us poor foxes stuck to it. Perhaps because he truly was a fool. He didn’t care about anything. He just went along singing that he would make a mark on the world! On the road between the fields, he met an Arkian priest; when he saw that ridiculous procession, he cried out: ‘Shame on you, Foxes!’ And he grabbed me by the tail, but as soon as he touched me, he also got stuck and had to run with us. When we then met two peasants with hoes, the priest called to them to help him. And they got stuck too. And so it went on until we reached a great city.
Finally, we came to the great city where a king reigned, and he had a daughter. The girl was beautiful, but she had never once smiled. The king had it proclaimed that whoever made her laugh would have her as his wife. The boy knew nothing of this, but by chance, he came with his procession right before the castle. The boy in front, holding the goose under his arm—shining like the sun itself—and behind them stumbled the procession of strange little people: three foxes, an Arkian priest, two peasants vainly swinging their hoes, and behind them several more stuck accidental bystanders, mostly people who got tangled up because they wanted to selflessly help that priest. The princess saw it from the window and laughed so loudly that she couldn’t be stopped, and everyone saw and heard it.
The king was now to give the boy his daughter as a wife, but it was not to his liking. And so he told the boy that he must first drink his entire cellar of wine. He hoped to be rid of him that way. The boy waved his hand—what kind of king is this, who doesn’t keep his promises and invents nonsense?
‘I don’t give a damn; I’m going home.’
And he went. On the way, he left us and the whole procession at the Inn, where the Innkeeper had his hands full unsticking us. We still have the golden goose on display behind the bar to this day. But the story continued—the boy later returned to the Inn to tell us everything. Because if it weren’t for us Foxes, there would be no story. Listen to how it went on.
In the forest, at the very spot where he had met the Old Man before, a fellow sat on a stump wailing. The boy asked him what was troubling him, and the fellow answered: ‘I have a thirst as big as a beam and nothing to drink. I can’t stand water, and I’ve already emptied a barrel of wine, but what is such a drop to me?’
‘Heaven itself sent you to me!’ said the boy. ‘Come with me and you shall see your thirst quenched.’ And he led that drunkard with him into the royal cellar, and in a single night, they drank all the wine. The boy opened one bottle of Lorinian, and the drunkard drank the rest himself. The cellar was empty. The boy stood before the king and demanded his bride, but the king hemmed and hawed. He said he would give him his daughter only if he ate an entire mountain of bread.
The boy waved his hand—what kind of king is this, who doesn’t keep his promises and invents nonsense?
‘I don’t give a damn; I’m going home.’
In the forest, at the very spot where he had met the Old Man before, a fellow sat on a stump, tightly cinching a belt around his belly and sighing. ‘I ate a whole ovenful of bread, but that only whetted my appetite, so I’m tightening my stomach; otherwise, I’ll die of hunger.’ The boy took the eater and told him to come with him to eat his fill. At the castle, the king had meanwhile brought flour from the whole country, and from it, they had to bake a mountain of bread. The boy and the eater set to it, and in a single night, not even a crust remained of the bread.
The boy stood before the king and demanded the princess, but the king had another excuse ready: let the groom come for the princess in a ship that can sail on water and land and fly in the air.
The boy waved his hand—what kind of king is this, who doesn’t keep his promises and invents nonsense?
‘I don’t give a damn; I’m going home.’
In the forest, that Old Man with the white hair sat on a stump, and he built that ship for him that very night. And in it, the boy sailed—drove—flew for the princess. And then there was a wedding. Guess where the wedding feast was? At our Inn of the Three Foxes, of course. That old man came to it too. They say he might have been one of the Eight, maybe Suvarna himself. Those were the good old days.”
The Fox finished her story, and there was silence for a moment.
Then the head on the gate said: “Hm. It is remarkable that an animal could produce a story, whereas the humans could not. The narration was not entirely free of absurdities, but in this case, absurdity is actually the essence of a folk legend. So be it. It looks like you are not infected. The rose tendrils will check you once more. Then you may enter Svittynis.”
“Svittynis! That is where we are headed!” Klaes cried.
The gate creaked open. They saw before them white-paved streets and squat red houses overgrown with ivy. A cooler air with a strange spicy scent blew toward them.
“Enter!” commanded the head.
“It seems this really is Svittynis,” Loverd whispered as he passed through the gate. On the horizon, under strange ochre clouds, he saw mountains. The Fox ran beneath the people’s feet. Klaes entered and looked around in surprise. He was used to various scents and smells from the laboratories. The local air truly smelled peculiar.
When Vedrax tried to pass through the gate, the rose tendrils lashed out and pulled him toward them. Vedrax immediately drew his sword and began swinging it, but the rose tendrils gripped him more tightly, until blood spurted from where they held him.
“He is infected!” the gate thundered. “He must not enter!”
“We must save him!” cried the Fox, running back.
Loverd turned to the head. “Can we try to heal him? I will build a sacred fire here before the gate and purify him. Do not close the doors to us, please.”
“Fine. But give me your word that he will not attempt to enter unless he is found healthy,” said the head.
“You have my word,” said Loverd, calling to the others. “Help me gather stones and wood. I will light the sacred fire.”
“What fire?” asked Vedrax.
“The sacred fire of the Aurán. It will purify you,” Loverd replied, a strange glint in his eyes.
“The blight evidently clung to you when you were examining the remains of that smith, remember?” Klaes reminded Vedrax. “I told you not to touch it.”
Loverd piled a small pyre and, singing sacred songs, struck a fire. Using tongs, Klaes removed Vedrax’s gloves and threw them into the flames. They burned with a greenish-blue flame.
“Now, your hands. Pass them through the flame. It may hurt a little, but pain is only in the mind, and you are a knight, so you will endure it.”
“The Aurán?!” Vedrax’s eyes widened.
“Yes, there is no other way,” Loverd said with a smile. Vedrax, teeth clenched, placed his hands into the flames. He cried out. When he pulled his hands out, he was afraid to look at them. He expected them to be scorched to raw meat. But it was not so—the skin was completely intact. Only the cuffs of his sleeves were somewhat singed.
Loverd let the fire burn out and then piled stones upon it. Again, he sang a sacred song of thanks. Then they led Vedrax into the gate. This time, the rose tendrils let the knight enter.
They were in Svittynis.
