A dead face beneath the water, o’er which the waves go, so pale. A current stained by blood— who as an evil omen shall deem it?
— Ivain Melittar of the Vinairs

Most of the members of the Karian family of the Kvanari clan stood outside one of the houses in eager anticipation. Vathila squeezed through them to get inside. She regretted that the Master Healer had not called upon her to assist with the birth of the long-awaited child. But Tiriaka had chosen two other assistants.

Vathila waited in a small anteroom where she was alone—as the apprentice to the High Healer, she did have certain privileges. She sat patiently on a low wooden stool. She looked forward to good news of a healthy child.

After several hours, Tiriaka Melittar of the Vinair clan stood in the doorway. Her clothes were stained with blood and her face was haggard with exhaustion. Defeat was mirrored in her eyes.

“They are dead. Both,” she said quietly. Vathila jumped up to support her teacher.

“What happened?” she asked, for she recognized that Tiriaka’s despair stemmed from something other than just the death of the mother and child—though that in itself was an evil omen.

“Summon your friends and come to me in an hour; I must tell you something important. Do not mention this to anyone outside those invited,” Tiriaka said. One of her assistants emerged from the door and supported her. They walked away together, while the second girl, her head bowed, began cleaning up the room.

Vathila slipped outside. She knew that the Master Healer would now have to tell everyone waiting before the door what had happened. She did not want to be there for it.

On the street, a little to the side, stood Khóruin. As soon as he saw his wife’s expression, he knew that something very wrong had occurred. Vathila huddled into his embrace, her dark eyes filled with tears.

“Summon the others. We are to be at Tiriaka’s in an hour. The child… and the mother… are dead…” she whispered, devastated.

The warrior squeezed her reassuringly and led her away. An evil omen…

“Lady Tiriaka?” Vathila called out before the door of the healer’s house. She knocked again and called out. No one answered. She signaled to the others to wait outside. Tiriaka might have fallen asleep from exhaustion, which would be no wonder.

The blonde girl stepped inside. She headed toward her teacher’s bedroom, with an unpleasant feeling that she had to disturb her. Khóruin could not stay outside. Driven by a strange sensation, he entered after his wife.

“My Lady…?” the apprentice called again.

Then she opened the door to the small room that separated the bedroom from the other rooms.

Vathila’s scream of horror rang through the house.

Upon the threshold lay one of Tiriaka’s assistants in a pool of her own blood. A deep gash stretched across her chest.

“Lady Tiriaka!” Vathila shrieked frantically and rushed toward the bedroom. But Khóruin caught her in time and pulled her behind him. Whoever had killed might still be here!

With his sword drawn, he stepped over the dead girl. Soon he was joined by Taihun, who had burst into the house with the others when he heard his sister scream.

The Master Healer lay in the bedroom. Her head lay a little distance away.

Vathila Melittar fell to her knees beside the corpse of her teacher with a muffled wail. Tiriaka had one hand severed. In the other, she still clutched a strange object the apprentice had often seen with her—two joined lenses through which the healer looked at very small things. Her eyes no longer served her as they should, though she was not yet very old.

The young healer overcame her despair and touched the motionless body. She searched… she probed… Carefully, so very carefully… If she made a mistake, she might feel and experience what Tiriaka had experienced—death.

Fragments… pieces… shards of a soul. The slowly dissolving remains of Tiriaka’s soul still lingered around… which some supernatural force had torn to pieces. Whoever did this was no ordinary murderer… They killed Tiriaka on the astral plane as well.

Taihun, Alphia, and Khóruin examined the room, avoiding the splattered blood. There was no trace of who had killed or where they had gone. The attack had come from a corner of the room where there was neither door nor window.

Vathila stood up and walked a few steps further. She knelt again and gently touched the head of her dearest teacher, closing her eyes. And then, with her inner sight, she looked upon what must have been the last thing Tiriaka saw in her life. A black wolf with glowing red eyes…

Vathila recoiled with both her hands and her mind.

People rushed in, summoned by the shouting. Among the first was Plantain. Horror, grief, and despair were mirrored in his face, twisting his handsome features beyond his control.

“Nilwen… Nilwen… No…” he groaned. He looked around wildly. “It’s gone… It’s already gone…”

Vathila walked out of the room as if in a dream. Several people were leaning over the dead assistant. They made way for the blonde apprentice as if it were still possible to save something with the healing arts. Vathila placed her palms on the face of her unfortunate friend and classmate. Who hurt you…? Who killed you…? she thought, fighting back tears.

An image rose before her eyes… An image of a man dressed in a robe… A man with a sword… That face… that face so familiar… And then suddenly Vathila remembered. One of the fire-bearers from Lerna…

“Tear down the house where that child died immediately! Let three fire-bearers walk around it at specific times!” Hagias commanded.

“We will need seawater,” Master Auragon reminded him, his face very pale—perhaps with grief, perhaps with anger. Kira stood sadly beside him.

“What happened?” Saimún asked the High Druvid, who well understood what his pupil was asking.

“The child was born deformed. And in its mouth, we found a silver coin. Silver is a sign of the moon. Therefore, we must cleanse that place—before it is too late,” he replied.

Ghar the Elder cast an extremely unfriendly look at the young Druvid. Saimún stepped back a few paces, disappearing into the cluster of his waiting friends.

“I heard that some long-vanished nation buried their dead with a golden coin in their mouths,” Riva whispered, having heard Plantain’s words clearly. Further conversation was denied the company.

“My Lord! My Lord!” a breathless guard came running from Darika. “There is a man at the inner gate claiming to be a Seer! He requests an audience!”

“Bring him!” Hagias ordered. The soldier ran off. The King turned to Kira and lowered his voice a little. Khóruin and his company, however, stood very close…

“We must shorten all reception ceremonies. I estimate that within five days you could be accepted among the Hwarnij along with all your people. For now, we will move you into the houses of some families in Arka,” Whitehead said.

“Some will not like it…” the Queen of the Silver Beech warned.

“Let Vismian fume if he must. We have no time!”

The members of the company exchanged incredulous and horrified looks. He wants to move foreigners into our houses in five days!

At that moment, two soldiers were already approaching. Between them walked a gray-haired older man dressed in white. On one sleeve he had a knot—he was maimed, missing an arm.

But Vismian blocked his path, accompanied by several of his henchmen. Askra, hidden among her friends, her face veiled except for her eyes to hide the burn scars marring her beautiful face, watched the mage with a hostile gaze.

“Before anyone enters Arka, they must pass through proper purification by the power of the Great Aderan! I, as the highest of the mages of the Kvanari clan, say so!” Vismian declared. The soldiers stopped, uncertain.

“Right, now I have truly had enough!” Plantain hissed. His usual gentleness failed him this time. The High Druvid marched over to Vismian.

“In the name of the King and by his express command, this man is admitted to Arka! In the interest of all Hwarnij, we shall receive the Seer, for we have need of his counsel!” he mimicked the mage’s theatrical tone and style of speech.

“For the safety of Arka, I must oppose such a decision! Such an unheard-of procedure has not been approved by the Council!” the wizard shouted.

“In exceptional cases of great threat, the King has the unlimited right to decide alone!” Auragon retorted.

“A contagion has already been brought into our city…”

“Then we must rid ourselves of it quickly! You are delaying, Vismian of the Kvanari,” Plantain warned the mage frostily. A threat sounded in his voice.

“Obey the King!” the Druvid commanded the guards, who, along with the Seer, walked around the glowering mage and stepped before Hagias. Master Ghar Varkias took several steps toward the Seer. Then the two greeted each other with a friendly embrace, like old friends who had not seen each other for a long time.

“I missed your poems,” the smith said. Ghar the Younger and his friends exchanged uncomprehending looks—none had ever heard the Master Smith speak so friendlily on Arka.

“They have significantly dwindled. Dark times are coming,” the one-armed Seer replied. Then he turned to the King. “The place afflicted by the curse will need to be cleansed: first smoked with flowers of sulfur, then strewn with salt and sprayed with seawater, as your tradition dictates.”

“Who is to go for it?” Whitehead asked.

“Those who carry with them the fate of the final days,” the Seer replied and looked directly at the group around Khóruin. His gaze was unnaturally fixed and his voice sounded strangely hollow.

“You,” he pointed at them with a strong finger, “will travel for many days and nights, endure many hardships, and perhaps only a few of you will return. Before you is a path upon which you can be sure of nothing. Do not look back at ordinary things, but keep constantly in mind that if it is not you who builds a dam against the flood of pollution through your deeds, hardly anyone else will. Do not forget, therefore, the good of the community. In moments when you must decide on the life and death of your friends, keep always in mind that your goal is to save the whole of Arka at any cost, and not to die pointlessly in a futile rescue of a lost friend. Set out then with this awareness on the journey to the sea, which is hundreds and hundreds of miles away.”

“To the sea is a week’s journey south and a week’s journey back,” Hagias added calmly.

“So they shall travel for a week to the sea, which is hundreds and hundreds of miles away,” the one-armed man smiled strangely. Suddenly his face darkened: “But you must hurry. Because if you delay, then nothing—not even the Great Aderan—will save Arka.”

The company stood as if everyone had suddenly turned to stone.

Askra, from whose eyes seriousness peered, the rest of her face shrouded by the veil hiding the burn scars. Her brother, still gloomy since returning from the Hall, with the dark leaves of ivy casting a shadow on his face. Khóruin with a stony expression and Vathila with her head bowed and tears on her lashes. Ivain, from whose face radiated absolute, surprised disbelief; Taihun turned to Khóruin like a soldier waiting for his commander’s orders. Alphia with a stunned expression and her brother Ghar with his usual—completely uncomprehending one. Riva collapsed into the dust on the ground, where he remained sitting as an embodiment of misfortune and mourning.

“But the Aderan cannot fail…” the blacksmith’s apprentice protested confusedly.

“We were just told that it can…” Alphia whispered.

“And where is the sea?” Ghar demanded an answer aloud.

“We don’t know,” Vathila replied softly.

“Most likely hundreds and hundreds of miles away,” Khóruin said with a frown, “because according to everything I’ve heard, a week’s journey south of here are, at most, the ruins of an ancient city named Dogubayazit.”

Askra shifted restlessly. She felt magic gathering in the air. She could not exactly determine its nature or source. But it was something large…

From the southern part of Arka, one of the soldiers who were standing guard on the walls at that time came rushing.

“My Lord! My Lord! You have to see this! You have to see this!” he babbled frantically. Hagias abandoned his dignity and began to run. Auragon, Kira, and Ghar Varkias followed him. And Khóruin with his friends as well.

As Askra ran past Vismian, the mage made a sign before him to ward off evil forces. The girl smirked wickedly under her veil. She was grateful that her master was Hiranya, who continued to care for her, and not the arrogant Vismian, who had looked at the sorceress since her return from the Hall as if she were a monster from the deepest darkness. And he never failed in his speeches against Hagias to remind everyone that the King allowed incarnate demons to live in Arka…

From the southern walls, the lake was visible. In that direction, it was usually possible to distinguish the ruined piles that had once been Arka’s longest bridge… A bridge now stretched to the southern shore. A solid-looking bridge without a single missing part. A light, crawling misty haze floated around it. The company stared in silence.

“It is a sign!” the Seer cried. “Set out on your journey! Now! Immediately! But one of you shall remain here! He would bring ruin to your expedition!”

“Who…?” Khóruin managed to ask.

“Riva Karian Kvanari,” the one-armed man said. The young wizard apprentice’s face contorted with grief. Tears, which he did not resist, flowed down his dust-covered cheeks.

“Saimún will also remain here,” Master Auragon said. “I will need him in Arka.” The High Druvid did not even bother to catch Saimún’s devastated look and pleading expression.

“Be back here in half an hour, prepared for a fortnight’s journey. Do not take horses with you; they would be of no use to us. I will send with you one of those who pass between cities even at night, one of the Travelers,” Hagias declared. Khóruin and the others just bowed their heads and hurriedly ran to prepare for the journey.

Soon they were gathering again around the Seer, Plantain, and Ghar the Smith. Vathila embraced Riva and kissed him gently four times on the cheeks. The youth blushed.

“Take care of yourself here,” the healer said quietly. Then she slowly and reluctantly stepped back, as if she never wanted to let Riva out of her embrace.

“What will I ever do,” Askra complained loudly, “now I’ll be the only one there interested in magic!” For a moment, a touch of the playfulness that used to be there sounded in her voice.

“Then you’ll have to carry it for both of us,” Riva smiled slightly. The others approached him to embrace him and say goodbye, as they did with Saimún.

“Good luck, brother,” Khóruin said gravely.

“You will need it more,” Riva replied.

Khóruin noticed that Vathila had meanwhile approached Plantain. It was not possible to hear what she was saying to him, but the Druvid’s face took on a viciously vengeful expression. Whoever Auragon’s grudge was directed against certainly was not meant to live long.

A Traveler was coming from Darika. On his forehead, he had a small gemstone resembling a distant star, such as all Travelers wore. His clothing, however, somewhat deviated from Traveler customs. With its elegant and practical cut, it gave the impression that it remembered much better times. It surely must have originally been made of expensive and high-quality fabric. But now, apparently, not a single part of it was of the original material; the garment was like one large patched patch. Attached to his belt were two swords, one of which had a magnificently decorated hilt.

Ghar the Smith stood aside. He was clearly concentrating intensely on something. His gaze was fixed on the lake, and drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. Kira gently placed her palm on his muscular arm, as if she understood how much strength the strange concentration cost the massive smith. Askra and Riva felt magic.

“Go. And hurry,” Plantain said his farewells. Askra could not resist and embraced the High Druvid in parting. She owed him so much—for his intercession, for the gentleness and care he had shown her, and which he had not ceased to show since the disaster in the Lunar Hall… Auragon smiled at her, but it was a sad smile through which despair shone.

The Traveler led the company toward the southern bridge, quite naturally, as if there were nothing at all extraordinary about the shortest and most advantageous path. When he stepped onto the bridge, the structure did not dissolve, nor did it look like it wanted to do so anytime soon.

Vathila slowly and carefully opened herself to perceptions that cannot be captured by the usual senses. Words that would best express her feelings floated from the depths of her mind… Legend… Magic… Fable…

“A lot of magic. Non-Aderan,” Askra noted quietly.

They crossed to the shore. When Khóruin looked back, there was no sign of the bridge. The fog had vanished, and in some places, piles smoothed by natural forces protruded from the water.

“Ghar Varkias couldn’t maintain that bridge forever either,” the Traveler noted. A surprised silence reigned for a moment.

“How did he do it?” the sorceress asked eagerly.

“He made signs for the eyes into signs for the feet,” the Traveler smiled. Askra muttered something unarticulated in dissatisfaction.

“What exactly did you say to Plantain?” Khóruin asked Vathila quietly.

“I told him who killed Tiriaka. It was one of the Lerna fire-bearers,” the woman replied. Alphia and Askra, who were walking closest, exchanged looks. The events in Arka had now taken on even more menacing proportions.

Khóruin left the girls to their whispered conversation and moved to the front of the group with Ghar to join the Traveler.

“What is your name?” he asked him.

“Any other Traveler would tell you he is simply a Traveler, like all the others. But I am different from them. I am The Wanderer—and there is only one of those,” the man replied.

“I am Khóruin. There is only one of those too,” the warrior smiled. Well, only one living. Many of my ancestors bore that name…

“I am Ghar. There are two of us,” the blacksmith’s apprentice introduced himself. The Wanderer smiled strangely, as if someone had reminded him of something he had heard countless times.

“It’s already getting dark. Shouldn’t we kindle the Aderan?” Khóruin asked The Wanderer. “We will keep going. I am using The Path—it protects Travelers and those who journey with them,” was the answer.

They walked for another two hours, accompanied only by the light of the stars and the moon. The path before them was clear and easy to travel. Yet the Hwarnij were restless—except for Alphia, who used her amulet on her wanderings through the woods, and except for Ghar, who most likely did not understand at all that there was any danger under the circumstances.

Finally, The Wanderer led them to a clearing.

“We will kindle a fire,” he decided. Before Khóruin could start looking for suitable stones for a hearth, the Traveler shrugged off his backpack and opened it. In the moonlight, twelve golden stones sparkled, an appropriate rune hammered into each.

Ghar and Khóruin stared at the glittering treasure in surprise and enchantment. The blacksmith’s apprentice took one stone in his hand and examined it for a moment. The stone was lighter than it should have been. Yet the strongman had the feeling that it was not some other metal that was merely gilded, or that the stones were hollow.

Khóruin set to preparing the sacred hearth. Everyone immediately felt more comfortable in the familiar reddish glow of the Aderan flames.

“This is sent to you by Plantain. A loan for a difficult journey,” The Wanderer said and drew two elongated objects carefully wrapped in cloth from his bag. When he unwrapped them, everyone exhaled in surprise.

Two swords such as none of the Hwarnij had ever seen in their lives. One longer, one shorter. Both slightly curved, sharpened on one side, with magnificently decorated circular guards, in special sturdy scabbards decorated with wondrously fine ornaments of gold and emeralds.

Khóruin examined the longer of the two weapons. A light, one-handed, perfectly balanced sword. On the blade were some signs that none of the company knew. They looked, however, like a script not intended for carving in stone or engraving in metal, but for perfect writing or embroidery on precious fabrics. Fine, graceful, elegantly rendered lines…

“Those swords were forged long before the Hwarnij came to Arka,” the Traveler said. The company looked at him in silent wonder. Long before the Hwarnij came to Arka… Those weapons were created before the birth of the world as the Hwarnij knew it—in strange times, in strange lands, in the darkness of chaos, surely by non-human hands…

Vathila slowly took the shorter of the swords. She left it in its scabbard and lightly ran her hands over the golden ornaments. She closed her eyes. She moved her mind very carefully; examining a weapon was very dangerous—weapons were used for killing, and horrific imprints, traces, and reflections of death, pain, and suffering remained on the blades. Fortunately, this sword had a scabbard that was clearly made for it and had gone through everything with it, across all the centuries…

It was a long time before Vathila opened her eyes again. Then she handed the sword to Alphia and said nothing, only smiled faintly as a sign that the weapon was alright, and she herself was too.

“And we have this for the difficult journey as well,” The Wanderer declared. He drew a waterskin from his things and threw it to Ivain. The bard nimbly opened the skin and sniffed. He immediately took a long pull, a cheerful eagerness sparkling in his eyes.

“Oh no,” Taihun muttered. For a moment, everyone was silent, immersed in their own thoughts.

“Where is Askra?” Taihun asked suddenly.

“She stepped away a bit over there into the forest. She said she wanted to meditate,” Alphia replied calmly, without taking her eyes off the short sword. Taihun frowned. He stared intently in the indicated direction. Between the trees, white tongues of fog were slowly starting to gather…