Fear not,
when in a beam of light,
a moth with wings made of my fingers
settles upon your arm…
— Finlógin, the Dark Bard

Taihun rose abruptly and headed into the forest.

“Askra!” he called.

“Damn it!” the wizardess hissed. A magnificent phosphorescent rose, which she had just created through magic, crumbled in her hands back into a bit of soil.

“Askra, what are you doing here?” the warrior asked, with little understanding of the girl’s dissatisfaction at his sudden intrusion and the disruption of her concentration.

“I’m trying out the Lunar Rune of Creation,” she replied unkindly. Since it cost me so much, I might as well enjoy it! she added in her mind.

“You’re going back to the fire!” Taihun declared uncompromisingly, grabbing the sorceress and pulling her to her feet. Soon he was half-dragging her back to the camp. He did not notice how the girl’s eyes narrowed in anger and fixed upon him like the eyes of an irritated viper.

The fog slowly but inevitably thickened.

“Thanks to Machuznatar!” Vathila breathed as Taihun and Askra appeared once more within the reach of the Aderan. The healer noticed that The Wanderer flinched at those words.

The blonde looked around. She lightly touched her left temple with her hand. She concentrated. She summoned one of the two Lunar Runes she mastered—the Rune of Lunar Eyes. Now it was to be of use.

At that moment, the woman beheld a very different place. The ground was covered with the silvery-white tiles of the Lunar Hall. In the spot where the fire burned, the floor was collapsed and crushed, plunging into a black abyss. The figures did not wear their usual clothes but were clad in fine, flowing robes. Their faces shimmered with silver, but their features were identical to reality. Only The Wanderer looked the same, in his patched rags, which did not lose their worn colors even in the radiance of the Lunar Eyes. The others in the group did not seem to notice Vathila’s altered perception, but the Wanderer looked her straight in the eye.

The healer looked away and saw Askra… The wizardess had no veil. And she was divinely beautiful. From a perfect, coldly white face, dark eyes peered out. When the sorceress curled her lips in dissatisfaction, she revealed fine, white, regular teeth, which differed from human ones at least by their higher number.

Between the pillars, into which the trees had transformed, there was no fog. And so Vathila saw what was approaching. Four vampires of the Lunar Hall.

Vathila shuddered. The Wanderer turned to her and winked. It was a conspiratorial wink of a knowing eye.

“Don’t do that to me again, girl. It weakens the Aderan,” he admonished her in a voice that perhaps only the two of them heard.

“Four lunar monsters are coming!” the healer shrieked and canceled the spell.

“Add wood to the fire! Prepare for battle!” Khóruin cried. And then the upirs stood at the edge of the circle of light. The fog rolled in with them.

“Assskra…! Assskra…!” the apparitions hissed, stretching out their talons. The sorceress muttered something unarticulated, but it sounded like a very foul dismissal. She stood with Vathila and Ivain close to the Aderan and narrowed her eyes in malicious concentration.

“Assskra…” the creatures faltered at the border of light and darkness, their eyes greedily fixed on the sorceress.

“At them!” Khóruin commanded. He did not intend to wait for the monsters to find a way to get Askra away from the fire and drag her off.

He and Taihun rushed forward against the nearest two monstrosities; Ghar and Alphia guarded the other part of the camp. Khóruin slashed the first upir’s robe with his long gold-green sword. The monster howled furiously. The severed piece of cloth transformed into a swarm of massive death’s-head hawkmoths, which threw themselves at the warrior. Khóruin leaped back. But not for nothing was he also Hiranya’s apprentice—his Aderan Rune of Stone was beginning to glow…

Taihun stabbed with a long spear whose tip was forged in the Aderan. The upir swung its long arms and shattered the shaft. Taihun shifted his sword from his left hand to his right and attacked the opponent’s head. The creature shrieked in pain; a scar appeared on its white, deathly face. Its talons flickered through the air with unexpected speed and ferocity. Taihun partially dodged, but the upir hit him in the shoulder. Not even armor held back such a blow. The warrior sank to one knee.

At the same moment they touched Khóruin, the death’s-heads fell with scorched wings. It was as if they had flown into glowing metal. The warrior lunged into another attack like a wild beast.

Askra suddenly turned half-away from the fire and pointed at the upir threatening Taihun. Cold spread around the sorceress. The monster froze for a moment. Then it moved again—with obvious effort and noticeably slower. Its robe became covered in hoarfrost. Askra smiled wickedly under her veil. Take that! The Aderan Rune of Cold!

At that moment, Taihun lunged. He attacked from the side. Though his right arm hung lifelessly by his side, he had enough strength in his left. By will, he suppressed the terrifying feeling of cold and numbness spreading from his injured shoulder into his body.

Taihun split the upir’s head with a sharp horizontal slash. Khóruin also did not miss his opponent’s face. Both creatures disintegrated into swarms of massive death’s-heads and thin ribbons of fog that retreated to the remaining monsters. And those grew before the very eyes of the Hwarnij…

With a cry, Ivain’s nightingales flew from the treetops and threw themselves at the death’s-heads. But the insects, which under normal circumstances they would have devoured in two pecks, were now as large as the nightingales themselves. Feathers and dead birds and moths fell from the sky. From somewhere came the menacing croak of Taihun’s raven and the angry shrieks of Vathila’s kestrel.

Alphia’s fox wailed and rolled on the ground as the night moths tore fur from her.

The other two upirs, who had remained behind with their kin until now, now moved forward. It did not seem that the Aderan bothered them as strongly as the previous ones.

Alphia flickered across the campsite, carried by her nimble feet. The shorter of Plantain’s swords hissed through the air. One of the upirs split apart, severed from shoulder to hip. However, the upper half remained hanging in the air, still alive and dangerous. More death’s-heads took flight from the robe. The entire swarm descended on the huntress, attacking her face and tearing bits of flesh from her body. The girl cried out in pain and blindly threw herself back, dropping the sword to protect her face.

Vathila looked back just in time to see Alphia, surrounded by carnivorous moths, running directly toward the hearth. The healer did not hesitate for a second and rushed toward the huntress to stop her before the redhead fell directly into the fire.

Both women fell to the ground, partially stunned by the impact. Alphia flew over Vathila by momentum, rolling several times. And her feet flew into the flames. The night moths attacking her immediately ignited. So did the girl’s boots and leggings. Several stones fell out of the hearth ring. In the places where the stones ceased to touch, the circle of bright firelight was interrupted by sharp, menacing strips of darkness, as if the gaps between the stones cast shadows.

A portion of the death’s-heads left the huntress be and attacked the prone healer. Vathila shrieked. And then again. But the second time, her voice resembled the call of a bird of prey in a strange way.

From above, the kestrel descended like lightning. It flew just over its mistress, dispersing the death’s-heads with strokes of wings and beak. They immediately reformed into a swarm and chased after the daring predator.

Ghar’s massive hand snatched Alphia by her tunic. The strongman pulled his sister out of the fire, and Ivain immediately splashed all the remaining wine from the Wanderer’s skin on her to extinguish the girl’s clothing.

The Wanderer hurriedly returned the stones, trying to straighten the kicked-apart hearth and revive the dying flame.

Meanwhile, the injured lunar monster struck at Khóruin. Several ugly gashes ran across the man’s arms and neck; armor protected his chest. Without acknowledging the pain, he turned smoothly and slashed from the side. The upir’s head disintegrated. The death’s-heads that flew out were fried against the warrior’s body, destroyed by his internal heat.

Askra flicked her hands. The ribbons of fog that were preparing to strengthen the last monster for the most part flew off into the forest, blown away by the Aderan Rune of Wind.

Taihun defended himself fiercely against the remaining creature’s attacks. Suddenly, The Wanderer appeared at his side with one of his two swords in hand. With a skillful step, he escaped the upir’s claws. Although the opponent now reached the height of about two men, the Traveler lunged like a salmon, much higher and faster than the Hwarnij deemed possible.

The head of the lunar monster flew from its neck. The rest of the robe immediately transformed into death’s-heads that attacked Taihun. At the same moment, however, Askra’s outstretched palm and the Aderan Wind swept them into the forest and crushed them against the tree trunks.

The upir’s head shrieked terrifyingly—and flew directly into the Aderan. A horrific hiss followed… and darkness fell. Darkness and silence.

“I’m sorry,” Askra’s voice suddenly spoke. “I did something terribly stupid. Don’t be angry.”

“It’s nothing, girl. They would have come anyway, perhaps just a little later. Your actions changed nothing in that,” the Traveler said.

The sorceress sat by the ruined hearth, the power of the Aderan runes slowly leaving her. It was a strange feeling. Everything connected to the Aderan, including magic, had been unpleasant to her since the transformation in the Lunar Hall. Staying in Arka no longer gave her a feeling of home and peace; every Song was sad and painful for her, like looking at something she had lost forever. But the satisfaction of how she had dealt with the vampires was simply stronger.

“We must go,” the Traveler declared practically. A cracking sound echoed in the darkness, and The Wanderer’s improvised torch lit up. Vathila solicitously treated her brother and husband.

Alphia, besides ointment for the countless small wounds from the death’s-heads, needed only spare trousers, as her leggings did not survive the fall into the fire.

Taihun’s raven settled on its master’s backpack with battered dignity; the kestrel flew onto the healer’s arm. Both birds were bedraggled but alive and only slightly injured. A whimper from Phia came from the ground, demanding her mistress’s attention.

Ivain looked around desperately in the poor light. Of the entire swarm of nightingales, only three remained alive. The bard, with an expression of painful resignation, raised the empty skin to pour the last few stray drops of wine down his throat.

The group moved again. They walked as fast as they could; the Traveler used The Path.

“This should suffice,” The Wanderer finally decided. Khóruin set about preparing a new Aderan hearth in a clean, unblemished spot.

“I will hold the watch,” the Traveler declared. He leaned his back against a tree trunk and placed his sword on his knees. He pulled out a pipe and began to pack it without haste.

“Everyone, sleep. You need to recover your strength,” Vathila said.

“You should follow your own advice as well,” the Traveler reminded her. The girl smiled and nodded.

Khóruin settled at another tree, right opposite The Wanderer.

“Go to sleep,” Vathila turned to her husband and gently stroked his face.

“In a moment, don’t worry,” he replied. The blonde first opened her mouth to object, but in the end said nothing. She huddled in her blanket beside her husband, her head and one hand resting on his thigh.

Khóruin looked at her in the glow of the Aderan, which lent the healer’s face and blonde hair a red tint. He realized once again how happy he was to have won her as his wife. Although it was a marriage arranged by parents with regard to lineage, as was the Hwarnij custom, Khóruin had never started anything with other free women or sorceresses—the way most Arkian men dealt with their dissatisfaction in marriage. Khóruin always returned to Vathila’s bed. She was the only one for him. It didn’t take long for him to learn to love her…

The warrior raised his head. And behind the Wanderer’s back, in the darkness of the forest, he saw glowing wolf eyes.

At the same moment, the Traveler’s eyes widened, and he dropped his pipe. Without turning, he sensed the threat behind him.

“Wake up!” he said calmly but very loudly, springing to his feet. The Hwarnij were rising, still blindly reaching for their weapons.

“Quickly, make a circle with your backs to the fire! Vathila, Askra, Ivain—inside!” Khóruin bellowed. His commands were automatically followed before the company fully realized what was happening.

And in the next moment, the wolves burst from the forest.

They rolled in in attacking waves, elemental and disordered, more like a natural disaster than anything else. Alphia and Khóruin fought with the gold-green druid swords. The blades passed through the wolves’ bones like warm butter. The beasts fell to the ground cleanly sliced in two.

However, the Aderan did not bother the forest monsters at all. Some reached the inside of the circle. Askra slowed their movements with the Rune of Cold, though it was visible that her abilities were weakening from exhaustion. Ivain and Vathila finished off the beasts with burning pieces of wood and daggers.

Khóruin and Taihun realized that the Traveler could indeed hardly hide his mastery of weapon handling, though he still used only the more common of his two swords.

And suddenly there was silence. No further attack came.

The Hwarnij stood tensely for a while longer, watchfully observing the edge of the light circle. Nothing happened. Everyone slowly exhaled and lowered their weapons.

“It is worse than I thought,” The Wanderer murmured.

“The Aderan does not harm them,” Khóruin added constrainedly.

“Look at the corpses!” Alphia suddenly shrieked.

The dead bodies of the wolves had changed… into human ones. That is, almost human. Some of the corpses could be mistaken for humans, but many had primitive evil features in their faces; they were hairy and deformed.

The huntress was very pale. She knew the forest. She knew the beings in it. But this was something terrifyingly unnatural, something indescribably repulsive. She felt nausea seizing her at the sight of the deformed bodies. She turned away.

“There is no point in changing campsites again. I fear this was the answer to us kindling the Aderan here,” the Traveler declared. Khóruin nodded.

The men dragged the dead opponents into the forest and covered the bodies with dry branches and needles.

Vathila set about treating the injuries. After a while, she raised her head: “Come here, anyone who has even the slightest scratch!”

“What’s happening?” Khóruin asked.

“I think those creatures carry a contagion. I feel it. Perhaps the Aderan does not bother them, but I believe it will help us against what the bites of those wolves cause, whatever the consequence might be.”

“What will we do about it then?” Ivain asked uncertainly.

“We will cauterize the wounds with the Aderan,” the healer muttered.

The next day, the sun rose, summoned by the Song of the Hwarnij in distant Arka. The company was on the road again. Now, however, they moved noticeably slower. Yet they labored and strained their strength. Time was running out, and hope was dwindling.

The Traveler led them along a path leading toward a mountain pass, one of the routes by which the valley around the lake could be exited.

As he walked, Ghar kept playing with a piece of dry wood. No one understood what so interesting he could see in a dry stick, but they knew the strongman was often surprised and interested by things entirely mundane and obvious to others.

Suddenly, Ghar stopped and stared at a high cliff towering above the water. In a massive waterfall, one of the rivers feeding the lake where the island of Arka stood plunged from the cliff.

“What on earth is it doing here?” the blacksmith’s apprentice asked in wonder. The others followed the direction of his gaze but saw nothing special.

“What do you see there?” Alphia wanted to know.

“You don’t see it? The Iron Tree,” the redhead replied.

“No, we don’t,” the huntress confirmed.

The Iron Tree! In Lerna…! Vathila shook her head. The cliff was too far for her extra-sensory abilities.

“That place is a source of some power. Hard to find out more,” Askra said.

“Let’s go, we don’t have much time,” Khóruin practically urged them on. The group moved again. Only Ghar looked back over his shoulder several times. Then he looked again at the dry branch in his hand. And suddenly the wood flared up.

“Ghar! What happened?!” Alphia shrieked.

“It’s nothing. It was me,” the strongman smiled, his eyes glowing with childlike joy.

“How did you do it?” Khóruin asked. But Ghar only shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s beautiful. Good work,” Vathila smiled, and Askra nodded eagerly.

“But… how…?” Taihun shook his head.

But he received no answer.

“Doesn’t anyone travel this road? Why haven’t we met a living soul yet?” it occurred to Khóruin. They had been traveling for six days without seeing anyone. The air was much drier, and the sun burned mercilessly. The Hwarnij did not know such weather at all.

“We are walking on The Path. It intersects all roads and trails; it leads through them all and none at the same time. Perhaps someone truly walks this way. But we will not meet. I am leading you on the Path,” the Traveler replied.

Khóruin nodded. Even the suspicion that they were traveling faster than they actually should now suddenly took on clearer outlines. For the last few days, he felt as if they and the Traveler were enclosed in the safety of the footpaths they walked. They never walked on a major road, always on a trail that could only have been made by beasts. They saw no human dwellings or traces of their activity. However, the landscape was changing. First, it was very cold, almost like the harshest winters, but snow was missing. Then suddenly it became very warm; trees appeared everywhere that the Hwarnij had never seen.

Along the trail grew thorny bushes with strange leaves and large colorful flowers; birds of paradise flew in the crowns of unknown trees, snakes crawled, as did massive lizards similar to dragons and other strange animals.

The Hwarnij stripped to the waist, as they were accustomed to in summer, men and women alike. Only Askra did not remove anything; despite the oppressive heat, she remained dressed, her face veiled. For some time, she had been gloomily watching the Traveler, but the fabric hid her expression.

Something is wrong with him… Something is terribly wrong with him… But what? Something in his speech? No… Something in the way he moves? Something in his gait? By Machuznatar…! The guy limps! Why didn’t I notice that before?! A chill suddenly blew over the sorceress. She felt that if she were to even whisper what she had just discovered into a pit in the ground, something terrible would happen. She bit her tongue and remained silent. But she was on guard. She no longer trusted the Wanderer.

Between the trees, here and there, buildings of brownish stone began to appear, partially overgrown with vegetation. Gradually their numbers increased. Yet nowhere was there a trace of inhabitants.

“This is the Eternal City. Irony, isn’t it?” the Traveler said. “Ages ago, in its pride, it called itself eternal, but in the end, it perished. In the times when it bloomed and lived, a strange phenomenon occurred—anyone who entered a sufficiently large city and got lost in its streets eventually ended up here. Some people learned to get lost and thus traveled between cities through this Eternal City. Now, however, it is dead, and its mysterious magical laws no longer apply.”

“Can anything be eternal at all?” Askra asked.

“There are places and beings that can keep time at bay in various ways,” The Wanderer mused. “For example, the Emperor of the vast Erzurum Empire has been the same person for hundreds of years. He is the Eternal Emperor.”

“Where does the Erzurum Empire lie?” Vathila asked.

“One of its furthest outposts is a city a week’s journey east of Arka, which you surely know—Sialk.”

Both women exchanged surprised looks. Several times in their lives they had been to Sialk and even mastered Sialkian.

“Would it not be possible to ask the Emperor for help in our matters?” Taihun thought.

“The Emperor is far away and hard to reach. Besides, if he had no other concerns, he would have long ago sent his invincible legions to Arka to conquer it and annex it to the empire,” the Traveler replied. An unarticulated defiant murmur rose among the Hwarnij. Sialk was a rotten, dirty city full of thieves, beggars, drunks, and merchants—like a many times magnified and substantially more repulsive Darika. People there knew no morality, and their highest value was monetary gain. They spent all their free time gambling and drinking alcohol. No one would wish for Arka to turn into such a place.

And then the company entered among the houses. The Eternal City consisted of multi-story white palaces. From the entrances and windows, the Hwarnij could judge that those who lived here were taller than humans. All the walls of the buildings were covered with exquisite reliefs forming images within images—gigantic faces across entire facades, incorporating huge four-armed figures, dancing or fighting together, figures with eyes having vertical pupils, permeated by other, smaller figures and ornaments and within them even smaller ones… Beside the four-armed beings, smaller, two-armed bald creatures with pointed ears and the same cat-like pupils also appeared on the reliefs—perhaps servants.

An empty fountain in the square mourned long-lost water and echoes of footsteps. Some houses were almost consumed by the jungle; between the tangle of roots, only the eyes of carved faces peered out, and it seemed to the Hwarnij that behind them those eyes looked with the immense sadness of lost memories.

By some doors stood stone four-armed statues wielding weapons. Many were ruined, others almost untouched by the claws of time. The Hwarnij also saw buildings that clearly were not residential houses, but their purpose escaped the company. No one could read the ornamental signs that clearly were script carved above the entrances. Taihun stopped by the ruins of some strange, narrow stone bridge. Only when he noticed that the upper surface of the bridge was worn by water that once flowed here did it occur to him what the structure might have served.

The Traveler led them into one of the palaces. A central roofless room still resisted the elements. When the eyes of the Hwarnij grew accustomed to the dim light of the shadow provided by the thick walls, they saw two reliefs. One depicted a beautiful tree, around which ran a carved line following its outline. Behind it another and another, each a bit simpler than the previous one, until only a clear circle remained, resembling a glowing aura. On the opposite wall, figures were captured. A four-armed man with a strange crown sitting on a throne. And opposite him some second man, a bit shorter and two-armed, holding a scroll. Behind his back, a crowd of demonically looking creatures was depicted. Soon the Hwarnij realized who the two-armed man reminded them of. It was Hagias.

Askra approached the relief to better examine two inscriptions in four languages, one of which she passively mastered.

“Ma-ya-pa-hi-t,” stood by the four-armed king. The sorceress turned to the signs by Hagias:

“Ma-ko-za-na-ta.”

Everyone turned to the Traveler. And at that moment, they saw that The Wanderer in fact looked like the man on the relief… like Machuznatar… Hagias.

“Should we call you god now…? Or My Lord…?” Alphia broke the silence.

“Or Wanderer?” Khóruin added.

“Yes, Wanderer will be best, I think,” Hagias nodded.

“I hope you will explain this to us,” Askra spoke after a long pause.

“Hagias is sleeping now, and so The Wanderer journeys with you,” the Traveler said.

“What exactly is the connection between Hagias and Machuznatar? And what does that relief mean?” Khóruin asked.

“I came here long ago in the times when the Eternal City still lived. I negotiated with the local ruler as a representative of another nation—which differed significantly from humans. This house was built for me. I was known here by the name Machuznatar, just as among the Hwarnij. Long ago.”

“It seems not only the Erzurum Emperor can keep time at bay,” Askra noted. “What happened to the Eternal City?”

“Powers pass between worlds that cleanse all places—by their own demise. Here, however, they succeeded only partially. For a city was attacked that differed from all others—the Eternal City. Various parts of it were destroyed by fires, tidal waves, or drought. But the world did not perish.”

“The same powers are attacking Arka now?” Khóruin asked.

“In essence, yes. They return always after a certain time, inexorably and inevitably. I myself thought I didn’t need to notice it, that I could handle everything with just my will. Now I see that is not enough. And that is why there are those like Kira or the Seer. They are sensitive to the flow in the world and come when they are needed.” The Hwarnij looked silently at their king.

“We will spend the night here. Prepare the fire, Khóruin,” Hagias decided.

While the others settled for sleep, the limping white-haired Traveler moved the golden stones forming the hearth in a strange way.

Part II.

In the morning, the company woke with a feeling that something had changed. The air had changed. Now an unknown bitter-salty smell was faintly detectable in it.

“Take the skins. We are going for seawater,” The Wanderer declared.

When everyone came out, the view of the Eternal City opened to them once more. The trees and shrubs were gone. The staircases and statues were drifted with sand. The deep streets had changed into rivers of sand. Fine powder covered all the buildings and formed dunes and drifts in the lee.

Hagias led the company through the streets as the morning sun slowly began to heat the sand and stones. Soon the Hwarnij heard a strange regular roaring and rustling. When they went around the last heap of ruins and crumbled pillars, they saw something they never had before. Before them, the last turrets and buildings of the city sank into the sand. Although in reality tens of fathoms high, here only half-meter stones protruded from the sand. The rest was buried under the dunes.

The sight of all the travelers, however, was caught by something else. For behind the drifted remains of the city lay a wide sandy strip, which then ended, gradually submerging into the crystal blue-blue water of the sea. Sunbeams played on its surface and lit up the waves like moving jewels. The sea roared, the surf thundered, and the fingers of waves hissed in the sand.

“The sea…” Alphia murmured enchanted.

“It’s like our lake… But huge. Where do such big waves come from on it?” Vathila wondered in a low voice.

“And why do the waves go regularly and without ceasing?” Askra noted.

“It’s magnificent…” Alphia daydreamed.

“What?” most of the company turned to her uncomprehendingly.

“The stench! Worse than in Darika!” Ivain turned up his nose. “I wouldn’t want to live here!”

“What if that much water rises and floods the shore!” Askra was horrified.

“Not to mention what all can live in the sea—and how big it can be,” Taihun added.

“Better go fetch the water before it starts to get unbearably hot,” The Wanderer cut the ongoing conversation. Khóruin, Taihun, and Ghar took off their shoes and set out to fulfill the order; the women stayed behind them—just as when it came to a meeting with an unknown opponent. Only Alphia pushed somewhat unwisely forward and didn’t pay attention to where she stepped. The undermined sand slipped under her foot; an incoming wave knocked her into the water with a crash and roar and washed over the girl’s head.

Ghar reached under the surface and pulled his sputtering, coughing, and disoriented sister into the air.

“Phew! That water is bitter!” the huntress gasped disillusioned.

“Seawater is salty,” The Wanderer instructed her with a kind smile.

“That’s why the air is so weird here,” Ivain deduced, keeping at a safe distance.

“Don’t do that again, Alphia. I was afraid the waves would pull you under and we wouldn’t find you anymore!” Khóruin reproached the redhead. The girl muttered something and paddled to the shore. Meanwhile, the men filled the skins and were returning too.

“It did something to my clothes,” Alphia fidgeted as she tried to wring the water out of her leggings. Fortunately, she wasn’t wearing her tunic due to the heat.

“Seawater is salty,” The Wanderer reminded her.

“Have fun when it dries on you!” Ivain cackled.

From the growing heat, the company retreated back into Machuznatar’s house.

“We will wait here until night and sleep. Tomorrow morning we will set out on the return journey,” The Wanderer outlined the plans. He himself sat by the hearth of golden stones, in which the Aderan still flickered seemingly from nothing. The Traveler immersed himself in meditation. Askra followed his lead. Alphia and Ghar also sat down and were talking quietly about something.

“I’m going to look around outside—but I intend to stay only in the shade,” Khóruin announced.

“Can I join you?” Vathila asked, and her husband nodded. Together they went out.

Taihun found a corridor leading down into the interior of the house and set out to see what was at its end. He couldn’t hide his fascination with the architecture of the Eternal City. Ivain, out of unteachable inquisitiveness and lack of other activity, crawled after Taihun.

Khóruin and Vathila walked together along the abandoned covered colonnades of the Eternal City. Nowhere did anything move; only the air shimmered with heat. But the warrior and the healer were cooled by the shadow and the breeze from the sea.

Khóruin took Vathila around the waist. He slowly ran his palm over her hip… and at that moment, the healer understood what her husband had in mind. She was so concentrated on the surroundings, on the abandoned, dead city, that she realized the close proximity of her man only now. All the while she perceived everything distant—and did not sense Khóruin’s desire, though his intent radiated from him more than the sun’s heat from the sand-drifted streets.

Any other time, she would have eagerly turned to Khóruin so he could clasp her to him. But now… She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything at all in this murdered city, after sleepless nights and wolf attacks… Vathila continued to look searchingly between the colonnades of the empty houses, her face for the most part turned away from Khóruin. Is it really a good idea, my love…?

Memories flickered through the girl’s mind… Bittersweet, with a taste of ash, honey, and rare spices… It’s been a year since you led me as a bride, an unusually hesitant and unsure bride… and with gentleness you rid me of folly… Our vow by the Aderan… Where you are, I shall be…

The man suddenly pulled her to him sharply and kissed her, his palms greedily wandering over her slender body. Vathila gave up all doubts. She pressed against her husband, returning the kiss. Together they slid onto the pleasantly warmed tiles in the shadow of a veranda. Their bodies intertwined in a firm embrace, as if that moment were meant to last forever.

Vathila opened her consciousness to Khóruin’s feelings—without restraint, without reservations. She experienced every tremor of pleasure with him, falling into the depths of shared experiences. His emotions penetrated her mind as he penetrated her body. Connection of bodies, connection of souls…

Where you are, I shall be…

Taihun walked cautiously down the corridor, firmly clutching his spear. It didn’t take long before he came across an arched passage and a staircase down. On the sides of the entrance stood two armed four-armed stone statues, both already considerably ruined. The builder passed between them and began to descend.

A strange screeching made him turn. The statues moved. Slowly, ghostly, with a terrible screeching. The first took a step. The cracks permeating its body widened, and the stone guardian disintegrated with a roar, raising clouds of dust and fine sand. The second statue, however, turned and headed down the stairs toward Taihun.

From its throat came a strange thundering, clearly an imitation of a voice, but speaking in an unknown language. A question sounded from it. But Taihun knew he did not know the answer.

The cellar room where the Hwarnij stood had no second exit and was not spacious enough for a person to sufficiently confuse the statue and avoid it. Taihun assessed his prospects. They were joyless.

“Hey! Here I am! Here! Come get me, stone-head, if you can catch me!” Ivain bellowed from the corridor at that moment. The guardian turned and rushed after him—unpleasantly fast. The bard dodged a sword strike and nimbly took flight.

Taihun exhaled and rushed up the stairs. A single look assured him that the corridor was too narrow for him to squeeze past the guardian. The statue stopped in the middle of the corridor. It chased Ivain no further. The bard also stopped and for a while longer provoked the stone warrior to make sure the statue truly could not go any further. When he found that the guardian truly would go no further after him, he looked almost disappointed. Soon he turned on his heel and ran after the others.

Taihun stood motionless at the top of the staircase. He did not dare move or speak, so as not to attract unwanted attention to himself again. He wondered what to do next. He didn’t want to ruin his sword finding out how resistant enchanted stone could be.

“Alphiaaa!” he heard his younger brother bellowing from afar. He hoped that the same thought had occurred to Ivain as to himself.

Fortunately, it had.

The bard returned down the corridor, in his hand the short gold-green sword that had proven so effective for Alphia in slicing wolves into two halves.

Ivain attacked the guardian. The statue covered itself skillfully, and only thanks to his agility did the bard escape being hit by one of the four blades. Fighting something that has four arms proved very difficult—and Ivain was no warrior.

From the back of the corridor came the footsteps of the huntress, who was more than curious why the inquisitive bard had borrowed her weapon. But the corridor was too narrow for practicing any duels other than one-on-one. By that time, however, Taihun was ready—the guardian was sufficiently occupied with the fight for Vathila’s brother to move and prepare what was needed.

“Ivain! Step back!” Taihun called and headed toward the statue. The bard leaped back; the stone warrior hit only air with its weapons. Soon the magical being turned and rushed against Taihun, who was already quite close. The Hwarnij turned and took flight, the statue behind him.

Just before the staircase, Taihun pushed off and skillfully jumped over the spear that was set up by the passage, supported and wedged with stone fragments.

The statue was not so skillful. it tripped over the spear and waved its four arms for the last time in a futile attempt to regain balance. Soon it plummeted down the stairs with a thundering crash.

Three arms flew from the body. The guardian remained lying, but was still moving aimlessly, in a grotesque imitation of a run.

“Catch!” Ivain shouted from the corridor and threw the sword to his brother. Taihun caught it and with a thorough swing cut off the statue’s head, the remaining arm, and both legs—the blade inscribed with unknown runes sliced the stone smoothly. The guardian’s torso finally became motionless.

“What have you two been up to again?!” Alphia’s none too enthusiastic voice came.

“Be glad Taihun is whole! And anyway, better go get the salt out of your pants—they’ve stiffened on you like a board! You don’t have to replace Vathila in bossing everyone around!” Ivain growled.

“As if Vathila ever really bossed you around! You don’t even know what that word really means,” the huntress smirked. “Vathila always just: Ivain here, Ivain there, don’t forget to come for lunch, little brother, and dress well so you don’t catch a cold!” With that she turned to leave, leaving both brothers to do as they saw fit. But she left them her sword just in case.

The brothers set about searching the vast windowless underground space. It seemed that once perhaps barrels and amphorae stood here, of which now almost no trace remained. At least to Ivain it was immediately clear why there were two guardians at the entrance.

Taihun explored the architecture, which seemed almost miraculous to him. He sought secret passages and searched for secrets somewhat more lasting and valuable than gold pieces or jewels might be. One of the loose tiles creaked faintly under his foot. He bent down to see if a preserved pattern remained on it. The tile was completely smooth, but beneath it the builder felt something.

It was a thin gold disc about the size of a palm. On one side was a carved inscription in an unknown script that spiraled. On the other side, an image of three sitting foxes looking upward.

“Show me what you found!” Ivain rushed to his older brother like a flood.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s truly just gold, and I don’t know if there’s some magic in it. So don’t paw at it!” Taihun cooled the bard, rose, and pulled his hand out of reach of Ivain’s inquisitive fingers.

“‘Just gold,’ he says… ‘Just gold’…” Ivain muttered offended as he walked after Taihun back down the corridor.

The Wanderer examined the gold disc with concentration.

“There’s some magic in it that has nothing to do with the Aderan,” declared Askra, who was peeking over Hagias’s shoulder.

“The script makes no sense at all. Besides, I know no nation that writes in a spiral. Even the magic of this thing is foreign to me, though I don’t think it’s dangerous. But I remember that there’s some place called At the Three Foxes,” Hagias said.

“The Three Foxes Inn?” it occurred to Ivain immediately. The King shrugged his shoulders; the others looked disgusted.

Vathila and Khóruin, who had already returned from their round, also examined the mysterious artifact cautiously. The healer took it in her hands and narrowed her eyes.

“I feel warmth and safety. It seems like a protective amulet to me,” she shrugged.

“If you want, you keep it,” Taihun said conciliatoryly to Ivain. The bard greedily snatched the amulet and took it to a corner where he could undisturbed enjoy his golden catch.

The Wanderer nodded his head thoughtfully and then whispered, more to himself than to the others: “Tonight I will move the stones in the hearth again. And in the morning we will set out on the return journey from the sea, which is hundreds and hundreds of miles away.”

All the next day, the Hwarnij walked in the stifling gloom of the forest giants, accompanied by the high voices of unknown, miraculously colorful birds. When it grew dark and night brought cold, the company dressed. They intended to continue traveling for two more hours under the protection of the Traveler’s Path before making camp at the Aderan.

The forest around exhaled absolute darkness. Khóruin had the unpleasant feeling that they were no longer among the remarkable plants from around the Eternal City, but that they were walking among trees that were starting to be familiar and recognizable. But in the darkness, which was cut only by the light path they walked, he couldn’t be sure. Vathila felt that The Wanderer was frowning, though it was too dark to distinguish his face with her eyes. Restlessness, concern, and strain radiated from Hagias.

Between the trees, fog began to crawl onto the path. Distinctly white tongues crept low to the ground, as if catching the company by the feet.

“What is this doing here?” The Wanderer growled. “Someone is manipulating my Path. Something is pulling us from the direction I intended.”

The Hwarnij looked at him with concern. They fidgeted like restless horses, unable to force themselves to stand still as the fog crawled around their boots.

“Is there any possibility of returning to the original path?” Khóruin asked.

“We’ll try walking a bit longer, and I’ll try to fix the direction,” Hagias decided.

They walked further through the darkness. Despite the cold air, drops of sweat appeared on the Traveler’s forehead. The forest seemed to suddenly part; the path ended at a clearing. From The Wanderer’s muffled curse, the Hwarnij knew they truly hadn’t been headed here.

The light clearing contrasted with the darkness of the surrounding woods; at the ground, at ankle height, fog crawled. The clearing itself rose into a low mound on which stood a house. Light, laughter, and song flowed from the windows. And above the door, a wooden signboard with three sitting foxes painted on it swung.

“The Three Foxes Inn,” Ivain stated quite unnecessarily. A wide cheerful smile settled on his face, which clearly portended reckless deeds.

“We know nothing about that place,” Khóruin grabbed the bard by the cloak. “Or do we?” he turned to Hagias, without letting go of Ivain, however.

“The amulet we found in the Eternal City apparently leads anyone who has it with them on their travels to the Three Foxes after dusk. I’ve never been here myself; I’ve only heard vague reports. I could try to limit the power of that talisman somehow and lead you further—on the other hand, I believe that in the inn we would be safe from werewolf attacks,” the King pondered.

“That would be worth a bit of risk,” Khóruin judged.

“But we must be careful. We don’t know what we might meet there,” Hagias warned.

“So no boozing, Ivain, no boozing!” Taihun reminded him of the meaning of the word “carefulness.”

“Fine then,” the bard muttered reluctantly.

“And not like how you ‘don’t booze’ on Arka!” Alphia added with a frown.

Inside the Inn at the Three Foxes, it was pleasantly warm, smelling of spices and roast meat. When the members of the company looked around a bit, they realized that the inn was very likely larger on the inside than the outside. From the entrance room led a staircase and many open doors, behind which music played and people danced. At tables and in various corners sat all sorts of beings, most of whom the Hwarnij had never met even in stories. They couldn’t help but notice two tall creatures with blue skin, silvery wings on their backs, vertical pupils, and four arms. Hagias followed the direction of Khóruin’s gaze.

“Those are dragon princes from Dogubayazit. In our time, they are all already dead. For the Three Foxes, time clearly means as little as space—perhaps it was the same amulet we found that led the dragon princes here,” he explained in a whisper. He signaled the company to sit at one of the tables and went to the bar counter to speak with the innkeeper.

When he returned, Khóruin turned to him: “Will we even have anything to pay for the night?”

“I’ve already arranged the food and lodging. Let’s eat and go to sleep—tomorrow a another difficult journey awaits us,” The Wanderer smiled slightly.

The company, however, managed to sit shyly together only until supper was over. Then one by one they slipped away. Not to get some sleep, but to explore the new, unknown place.

Alphia looked back over her shoulder at Vathila. The healer was conversing with a strange man who, by his paleness, beauty, and facial expression, reminded her of a exquisite marble statue. When he placed his hand on the table back-up, it was visible that bone thorns grew from his skin just behind the knuckles. The stranger took Vathila’s hand; she was explaining something to him gravely and with concentration.

Well, after all, it’s not my business, the huntress decided. Khóruin meanwhile had disappeared to talk about weapons with several warriors sitting nearby. Alphia turned back to the handsome, golden-haired youth.

“You’ve met Queen Kira?” she continued the started conversation.

“Yes,” he replied, “about a hundred years ago I belonged to her ranger units.”

“A hundred years ago…? That long ago…?”

“I am of a long-lived nation,” he smiled a strange, none too pleasant smile and mindlessly adjusted a stray lock of hair behind a pointed ear.

“Queen Kira is with us now, on Arka.”

“Arka, Arka… That name is quite familiar to me. What is your name, girl?” he asked and searchingly fixed his yellow-green eyes, which resembled a cat’s, upon her.

“Alphia Karian Kvanari. And yours?”

“Rian de Arden.”

Ivain soon found the ground floor insufficient. He happily joined a gathering of bards who were mutually tossing prompts for more and more songs and variations. He strummed with them, now in loud unison, now in multi-voiced variations. But even that was not enough for him.

On the second floor—which the inn did not have from the outside—there were clearly rooms. But the staircase led even higher. Into a completely different, unusual space.

The ceiling was replaced by a distant, dark blue vault similar to the sky. Clouds floated through the room, the walls of which the bard saw nowhere. On some patches of clouds, a group of very strange beings sat in a circle. There was a man in a dark robe, with pitch-black eyes; beside him a second, who was made of living fire. The third resembled only a silhouette of light; the fourth had a trident in his hand and his eyes were like the restless surface of the sea on which reflections of the sun play. Not only mortals and long-lived came to the Three Foxes…

No one noticed Ivain. The bard immediately noticed a man who sat aside, looking pensively into the void and quietly vibrating the strings of a golden lyre. Ivain avoided the circle of conversing gods at a respectful distance and settled at the feet of the lyre player. The god smiled absently. He did not drive Ivain away. He let him devour every tone and every fragment of melody—quiet, plaintive, and divinely beautiful…

Night after night, the Hwarnij found refuge at the Three Foxes on their journey. The divinely inspired Ivain was unbearable. As he walked, he played and sang so beautifully that his companions often added their voices, trained since childhood, and rather danced along the path than walked, for they could not resist the magnificent music.

The landscape changed until it became entirely known, usual, and dear to the eyes of the Hwarnij. The company passed the waterfall and the cliff with the invisible Iron Tree. The closer they were to Arka, the more they tried to hurry. More than the arduous journey, uncertainty and concern weighed on them. Conversations died down, and finally even Ivain fell silent.

Only the last part of the journey remained. Through the forest, around the lake, to one of the Arkian bridges.

“Someone is here,” Khóruin said in a whisper to the others. His warrior instinct warned him. Tension of a foreign presence hung in the air.

“There are more of them,” Hagias corrected him.

“They are enemies,” Vathila added constrainedly. She sensed evil intent radiating from the surroundings.

Suddenly, three figures stepped onto the path. They were swarthy men, dressed only in trousers, strange boots with the tip turned upward, decorated with copper jewelry. The first of them carried a spear. Hagias stopped; the company behind his back stopped as well.

The first of the savages shouted something in a harsh-sounding language the Hwarnij did not understand. He raised the spear and drove it into the ground. Then all three foreigners disappeared into the forest.

Hagias slowly walked over to the spear. He tore the weapon from the ground and with a single sharp movement broke it over his knee. Then he turned to the company.

“Run!” he shrieked.