Glad to have some expert advice from the Star Council, if somewhat uncertain about their new associate’s actual field experience, Vulk led Tarbol Arbitar to where Farendol lay, expalining how the Telnori had come to be killed and resurrected.

“I think he may be in some sort of healing trance,” the Kasiran cantor concluded. “I was working in the middle of a combat crisis, his injuries were significant, and the fight interrupted my treatment… it’s possible there remains some internal damage to his heart or lungs.”

Tarbol nodded and pursed his lips judiciously. “I’m sure you did the best you could, given your skills. Of course we in the Order of the Vigilant Shepherd are more well versed in combat healing than most others.”

Before Vulk could formulate a response to that, beyond raised eyebrows, the Alean cantor went on.

“Before I begin my examination, let me say a few words to you all on the virtues of healing through the great goddess Alea.”

He then launched into a half-hour sermon that left his audience variously glazed, dazed and/or annoyed. Just when Mariala thought she could bear no more, and was wondering if she could Fire Nerve him without revealing herself as the source of his sudden agony (and would it still be a sin if he didn’t know?), he wrapped it up and knelt down next to Farendol’s body.

He then made a great show of examining “his patient,” as he kept referring to the Druid. After several minutes he rose and turned to once again address the dubiously watching group.

“I’m fairly certain that what we have here is a Telnori healing trance,” he pronounced in a lecturing tone, “no doubt due to some missed tissue damage near the heart. Or perhaps the lungs.”

Vulk and Mariala exchanged incredulous glances… wasn’t that what Vulk had said just prior to the sermon?

“My recommendation,” he went on, standing up and adjusting his tunic, “is that he be moved somewhere safe, cool and quiet, where he will no doubt awaken in his own good time. The Telnori are a resilient folk, after all.”

After a moment of disbelieving silence, Vulk just shook his head and thanked the man for his opinion… and didn’t particularly try to muffle his added “twit!” as he turned away. It was obvious the fellow was too young and too inexperienced, and all-in-all an unlikely agent of the Star Council.

As the others prepared to break camp Mariala and Vulk further questioned Tarbol, but he certainly knew about the message to Master Vetaris, and details of the Star Council that indicated a close connection to that very secret organization. When pressed for why he didn’t have a Star Council signet ring, he was forced to admit that this was his first “away mission,” and there just hadn’t been time to issue him a ring, given the matter’s urgency.

“But my great-uncle Kiril is greatly concerned about the Hand’s penchant for releasing demons,” the young man huffed, getting a bit defensive as he finally sensed the tone of the questioning. “He felt that with my training in demonology and possession – my Order, the Vigilant Shepherd, specializes in these things – I would be the right choice to guide you through these perilous waters!”

Dropping the name of Master Vetaris as a relative, along with his other admittedly difficult-to-refute proofs, eventually forced the pair to accept Tarbol as a true representative of the Council, or at least of Master Vetaris, however unlikely that seemed.

“Vetaris must really be angry with us,” Mariala muttered to Vulk as they turned away, “to saddle us with this nitwit.”

Vulk could only agree.

♦ ♦ ♦

They had their camp struck in short order, despite Tarbol’s stumbling about trying, and failing, to stay out of the way. At one point he exclaimed over the dubious wisdom of the Hand in bringing a child along on such a perilous quest, before realizing that Toran was a grown-assed Khundari.

“How many children does he know with full beards?” the dwarf growled to Devrik as he stalked away to check the straps of the travois one more time.

After some debate as to where they should go, it was decided that they should head for Dor Dür and Draik’s expertise (and supply of Baylorium). As far as they knew it still held out as one of the frontline fortresses of the war against Tharkia and the rebel/impostor Earl of Yorma. Also, Devrik’s wife and child were there, at Raven’s insistence, as she disliked the “big city” when her husband was absent.

Tarbol offered to summon the Gate, but the group hastily assured him that it would be unnecessary, thanks very much. Instead Devrik called up the Sight and the energies to open the Nitaran Gate, and two-by-two the Hand of Fortune (and guests) stepped through the invisible portal –

– into sudden darkness and a humid heat that hit them like a solid wall. The mules brayed plaintively in surprised discomfort, and in seconds everyone was soaked in sweat. Devrik, bringing up the rear, groaned in dismay and muttered “Oh, not again!”

It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust and for the group to realize they were not in total darkness. They were, in fact, outside under a night sky that blazed with stars. They seemed to be on a wide shelf of relatively flat land that dropped sharply away in front of them, while the dark shape of a mountain loomed up behind them. A slight breeze did nothing to relieve the heat, but did carry a plethora of scents, from the perfume of mysterious flowers to the stink of fetid plant life, and the susurration of rustling leaves. The scream of some unknown animal in the dark below them broke the silence and made the mules start in fear.

Just at the moment that both Mariala and Korwin realized that they couldn’t recognize a single constellation in the sky, moonlight broke over the shoulder of the mountain behind them and they breathed a sigh of relief – it was the blue light of Aranda, the Greater Moon, and it was just past full, as it should be.

”Well, at least we haven’t traveled to another world,”Mariala sighed after pointing out the arrangement of the sky to the others.

”Or another time,” Korwin added, morosely. “Probably.”

The silver-blue moonlight revealed the valley below them to be covered in a thick jungle of broad-leafed trees in a variety of species, none of which any of the Hand had ever seen before. Across from them tall peaks rose up, and stretched away to either side, enclosing a bowl perhaps five kilometers wide by 15 kilometers long. To their right, which must be north, the silvery plumes of three tall waterfalls could be seen plunging from a mountain cliff into the darkness, and occasional glints of silver showed where a river must wind through the valley.

“Ok, this is really beautiful,” Vulk said after a minute. “But I think we’d better try again, yes?” He looked at Devrik with a raised eyebrow.

“Opening these damn Gates takes it out you, you know that,” he grumbled. “I don’t think I could do it again right now, but you’re welcome to try.”

So Vulk began his own ritual to Kasira, summoning up the Second Sight which allowed him to perceive the otherwise imperceptible warping of space-time that marked a Nitaran Gate. He found nothing.

“Um, there doesn’t seem to be a Gate here,” he said, reluctantly, after several minutes. “This could be a problem.”

Devrik frowned and despite his exhaustion summoned up enough energy to renew his own Second Sight… he too could find no hint of a Gate.

At that point Vulk called up Kasira’s Holy Light, bestowing it on his companions, allowing them all to see without risking a more mundane light source that would announce their presence to any watching eyes. As they began discussing what to do next Toran pointed out a surprisingly wide path that seemed to lead from their plateau down into the jungle.

“If you can’t open a Gate,” he said to Vulk and Devrik, ignoring Tarbol’s assertion that he was sure he could open one, “then I guess going down is our only real option.”

This led to some debate, and Mariala drew out her deck of cards. She laid seven cards out on the ground before her as the others watched quietly. Frowning in concentration, slipping into the oracular trance, she examined the cards, touching each in turn. After a few minutes she seemed to come up from some great depth, swaying for a moment before gathering up the cards.

“I see some danger ahead, to be sure, but opportunity as well. It’s not clear to me if the two are one and the same, or two possible paths. But what is unmistakably clear is that going back is not an option – that way is blocked… as if by a mountain.” She smiled, looking up at the massive wall of stone looming behind them.

“We must’ve been shunted to a Gate that is one-way only,” Devrik concluded. “They are rare, but hardly unheard of. We’ll just have to hope that we can find another, normal one somewhere nearby.”

“But where are we?” Tarbol suddenly wailed, breaking his long, and blessed, silence.

“Given that I do not recognize any of these stars, somewhere in the southern hemisphere, I should think,” Korwin replied diffidently. “And on the other side of the world, too… by the moon I’d estimate it’s not much before midnight here, so… say, 10 or 12 hours ahead, or behind, of where we were?”

Tarbol’s eyes grew wide, but he didn’t say anything else.

It was decided that they wouldn’t risk taking the mules down the trail in the dark, given the need to leave Farendol slung between them — the trail might be deceptively wide here at the clearing, but become narrower or more treacherous further along. The group set about making camp for the night.

Tarbol, being new and in any case not having any gear aside from his medical satchel, was left standing near “his patient,” whining quietly to himself, “But I don’t want to sleep outside!”

Mariala and Vulk had the first watch, and they spoke quietly to one another after the others had settle down to try and sleep.

“I wish I had an explanation for that idiot,” Vulk groused. “He seems so ill-suited to this, yet he knows too much to be an impostor.”

“Korwin had a disturbing idea,” Mariala replied. “ He thinks that Master Vetaris had the Nitaran pattern for this one-way gate subconsciously planted in Tarbol’s mind, to be triggered when we tried to travel anywhere.”

“What?! Why does he think Vetaris would do that?”

“To exile us where we could free no more demons, of course. And he gets rid of an embarrassing, dimwitted relative to boot, I imagine.”

“That’s a depressingly plausible scenario, actully,” Vulk said after a moment of horrified thought, and shuddered.

They were quiet for the rest of their watch, each lost in contemplation of other possible expressions of wrath the Star Council might be capable of.

Tarbol was left out of the watch rotation, of course, an insult which he completely failed to notice.

♦ ♦ ♦

When the sky was brightening in the morning, though the sun itself remained hidden behind the mountain, the Hand broke camp and headed down the path into the mysterious jungle below, now alive with the songs of exotic birds and the howls, chirps and calls of who-knew-what other sorts of creatures.

No one had slept well, except Tarbol, having gone to bed at what their bodies thought to be early evening. Despite their exhaustion from the last five days, it was only shortly before the creeping dawn that most of them had really begun to sleep… so it was a grumpy bunch that man-handled the mules and their precious cargo down the mountain. Tarbol proved to be surprisingly good at the task, Toran noted. The mules seemed to like him.

In the clear morning light they had spied smoke rising from what looked to be a smallish settlement on the banks of the river to the south, near the center of the valley, and the trail seemed to head in that direction. It took two hot, sticky hours, but they eventually came out from the canopy of the jungle into a wide clearing. Crops were planted there, and on the far side of the river a bend in the flow partially enclosed a small village of maybe 30 huts of wood, wicker and thatch, raised 1-2 meters above the ground. A wooden palisade formed an arc from bank to bank, guarding the landward approaches, although its gates stood open to the warm morning breezes. As the group approached no one seemed alarmed, or even terribly surprised, to see such strange travelers.

And they were strange, in comparison to the local people. These were shorter, on average, with medium to dark brown skin and thick black hair, which seemed to run from straight to wavy. Most of them seemed to possess brown or black eyes, although Devrik noted a few startlingly green eyes, and they all had a very slight epicanthic fold. They were dressed in simple, lightweight clothes in blues, grays and browns, with sandals on their feet, and both men and women wore conical hats of some woven fibre. The children went naked and seemed excited rather than frightened by the strangers.

As they arrived at the gate a party of older men and women gathered to greet them. Unfortunately, the language was completely foreign to the Ysgarethi travelers. The outpouring of melodious, almost liquid, sounds was beautiful to their ears, but utterly incomprehsible. After a few attempts at mutual communication, a particularly old man shuffled forward and began to speak in halting, heavily accented, very broken Yashparic.

Fortunately Vulk had begun chanting the Ritual of Tongues as soon as he’d recognized the language barrier, and he soon felt the strange pressure in his head that indicated the sudden presence of new knowledge as Kasira imparted to him a basic knowledge of the local language. He knew he’d only retain about half of what he now knew when the ritual ended, but for the duration he could speak moderately fluent… Varui, he realized the language was called.

Between the old man’s broken Yashparic and Vulk’s newly acquired Varui, the group was soon able to learn that they were in the Valley of the Golden Orchid, on the island of Kensuai, in the nation of Couri. Which meant absolutely nothing to any of them, no one having ever heard of any of them.

Vulk tried to explain where they had come from in terms the obvious peasant might understand, but the old man, whose name was Usolu, interrupted his increasingly byzantine tale with a gesture toward the eastern mountains.

“Yes, yes, m’sahiri, you came through the Mountain Gate, of course. It delivers strange visitors several times each year, although it cannot take them away again.”

Excited that the man seemed to a least grasp the nature of Gate travel, Vulk asked if there was another such Gate anywhere nearby, or indeed anywhere on the island. The old man looked down at his feet and emphatically shook his head. There were no other gates anywhere that the villagers knew of. No matter how he phrased the question Vulk could get no other answer, and had to conclude that there really was no other Gate, at least not nearby.

“But if other visitors come through here, they must leave your valley somehow, yes?” Vulk took a different tack. “This is an island, there must be a port…?”

Usolu looked up then and smiled, agreeing eagerly that there must. It was the great city of Tegari-hon, which lay on the coast seven days journey south of the valley. How great a city? Oh very great, perhaps as many as one thousand people lived there, or so rumor said. Usolu himself was dubious that so many could live all in one place, but his grandson had been there once, and he was an honest boy, so perhaps it was true. Although of course the young do tend to exaggerate…

In response to further queries he agreed that, yes, ships came to Tegari-hon, very frequently. How frequently? Oh, perhaps as many as once a month or so, mostly from the great islands of Vavau, Yaro and Tongari… but occasionally they came from as far away as Orkora and even semi-legendary Shoidan in the north. Although, this is the beginning of the rainy season… traders may be more sporadic for the next three months or so…

This news was rather disheartening, and Devrik was the least pleased among the group when Vulk relayed it. “I’ll be void-cursed if I’m going to take six months or a year to make my way home to Raven and Aldari!” he growled furiously. His words might have been unintelligible to the crowd, but his mien, and the grating tenor of his damaged voice, caused more than a few of them step back.

“Well, there has to be Nitaran Gates somewhere in the region, statistically speaking,” Mariala pointed out calmly. “No doubt a larger town or city will point us in the right direction. It’s unlikely well have to take the long route all the way home, Devrik.  He grudgingly acknowledged her logic, but remained unhappy.

When it became clear to the villagers that the strangers understood the need to travel to the coast, they became quite eager to help them on their way, smiling and encouraging them to get started right away. Yes, this very day, m’sahiri, no point in lingering, the rains could start at any time, making the journey twice as long! They offered to trade them local foodstuffs for what seemed criminally low prices, not even haggling. But perhaps that was the way of things in this part of the world… who knew?

As the others were pantomiming the exchange of goods and beginning to pack the food for the trip, Vulk and Tarbol brought Farendol to the village shaman, a bent old crone who walked with the aid of a beautiful ebony staff, to get, as Vulk put it, “a second opinion.” The insult flew straight over Tarbol’s head he noted in exasperation.

A crowd of villagers gathered to watch the old woman carry out her examination of the comatose man. As she peered, prodded and shook a few carved and feathered objects over him, Tarbol took the opportunity to give a sermon to the locals, apparently unconcerned that they couldn’t understand a single word he said. And since they couldn’t, Vulk didn’t object – at least it kept the little git occupied.

The old woman eventually finished her exam and stood, shrugging. She fired off a rapid string of words at Vulk before turning to mount the stairs into her hut. His grasp of the language was beginning to fade a bit, but he thought he understood her to have said there was “no help for that one,” an odd way to phrase it, if he was still grasping the subtleties of the tongue. But, Tarbol’s absurd diagnosis not withstanding, it was about what he’d expected.

Nonetheless, he was grateful for her attempt and called out to her before she disappeared into her home. She turned and he pulled a silver ring from his finger and handed it up to her. She took it with a nod and another shrug, then vanished within. Vulk returned with his charge, and Tarbol (sermon cut short), to the others.

There he tried one more time to ask Usolu if there was any rumor, a hint even, of another Gate somewhere on the island, and the old man was emphatically denying it when he went suddenly quiet, his eyes growing wide before lowering to stare at the dirt near his feet. The whole village had gone quiet and the group turned to find another old man, even more wrinkled and wizened than Usolu, walking through the gates.

“Nonsense, m’sahiru, m’sahara,” he said in excellent Yashparic, strangely accented but pleasantly melodious. “These are mere peasants, and too superstitious and fearful about things they do not fully understand.”

They hadn’t seemed particularly fearful to Vulk, quite the opposite, actually…

The man was noticeably taller than most of the villagers, if still shorter than Vulk, and he was dressed in more colorful clothes of a clearly superior cut, decorated with fanciful stitching. A wide sash of white silk belted his saffron silk tunic, and the feet below his red linen trousers were clad in leather half-boots. He wore a white head wrapping of some sort and carried an intricately carved staff of a beautiful dark red tropical hardwood. He stopped before the group, smiling warmly at them all, then eyeing the villagers behind them more cooly.

“One must forgive them, m’sahiri,” he said, addressing Vulk. “By their own uneducated lights these ones were simply trying to protect you, believing the long overland trail to the coast would be safer for you than to vanish into nothingness, as they think of it. This one is afraid that such as these have no concept of such travel.

“But there is, in fact, another Gothaka-zhuhan, a – how do you say it? A Nitaran Gate – in this valley. This one’s Master, the Learned Thuron Yan, has built his home near it, so that he may study it. This also affords him the grace to meet and provide respite and safe haven to m’sahiru, noble travelers, such as yourselves, waylaid by the so-infamous Mountain Gate.”

By the time he finished speaking almost all of the villagers had disappeared, either back to the fields or into their homes. A few of the elders remained to watch the interchange, but from a distance. Only Usolu remained with the group, continuing to stare at his feet and saying nothing.

“This one has the honor to be the Learned’s… hmmm, major domo in your tongue? This one is known as Olbu,” the newcomer continued. “Might this one be graced with such knowledge of the honored m’sahiru as may seem good to them to share?”

After a quick glance at the others, Vulk introduced himself and the party, skipping the fact of Farendol’s Telnori identity, saying only that he was a sick friend. Olbu expressed concern over the welfare of one who was so obviously dear to them, and immediately proposed they accompany him home.

“My Master is currently away on one of his journeys, but he is expected back in only a day or two… it is his custom to invite all travelers arriving via the Mountain Gate to partake of the comforts of his villa, modest as they may seem to such obviously noble folk as yourselves. He would be most upset were this one not to extend that invitation in his name.”

“We are honored by your invitation, good Olbu,” Vulk replied smoothly, slipping into Herald Mode, “and would love nothing more than to meet the Learned Thuron Yan. But out friend needs special medical care, and his urgent need requires us to decline your gracious offer… if you could but direct us to the Gate you spoke of, we would be eternally in your debt.”

An expression of such abject sorrow fell across the wrinkled visage of the old major domo, that for a moment Vulk suspected parody. But the man bowed deeply in regret, and his words seemed sincere. The herald reminded himself that cultural cues could be hard to judge accurately.

“It saddens this one, m’sahiri, that he is unable to do as you so graciously and reasonably request, for the precise location of the Valley Gate is not within this one’s knowledge. And even if it were, it saddens this one further to report that the Valley Gate is of a periodic nature, opening and closing, he is given to understand, in a cycle that even the Master has not yet fully fathomed, in twenty years of study.

“But the Learned Thuron Yan is a master of many arts, not the least of which are those of healing. It may be that he can provide the succor you desire for your friend when he returns. And the Valley Gate is seldom closed for more than a tenday.”

It was hard to argue that Farendol would be more comfortable in either this poor village or bouncing along between two mules for seven days or more, rather than in the no-doubt-luxurious villa of a wealthy and apparently noble scholar. Both Mariala and Vulk had surreptitiously used their arcane abilities to sense emotions and truth, and neither had discovered anything overtly suspicious. Olbu seemed to be just what he seemed, and his offer a legitimate one.

While taking leave of Usolu and the others, thanking them for their assistance, some of the Hand noticed that the villagers refused to meet their eyes… and no one looked directly at their new guide. But they were peasants, after all, and no doubt intimidated by the chief servant of the local lord – not an unusual occurrence even in Ysgareth, to be sure. They shrugged the matter off.

The journey to Halani-var, as the Learned Thuron Yan’s villa was called, took a little over an hour, on a road somewhat better than the one they had followed down the mountainside. The jungle rose thick and tangled on either side, arching over into a canopy of green through which the late morning sunlight flickered mysteriously. The sounds and smells of this fetid and fecund world seemed very alien to the companions, and the humidity sapped their strength unmercifully — they were all overdressed, and shed as much of their attire as they reasonably could.

It was a relief to leave the sweltering hot-house of the forest for the large hilltop clearing wherein sat Halani-var, and a mildly cooling breeze. The villa itself was a large, single-story complex of pale yellow stone and dark, almost black, beams of rough-hewn tropical hardwood. A roof of dark red tiles curved up into a maze of peaks and gables, with ridge-lines of the dark wood carved into the shapes of snakes and fantastic birds with dragon heads at the ends. Directly under the deep eaves long, narrow, glassless  windows let in air and light via beautiful grillwork of black iron, intricately wrought in the shapes of twisting vines, leaves and flowers.

Wide, shallow steps of the yellow stone led up to a long porch at the front, where two tall bronze doors stood closed. They were etched in deep bas relief, showing various scenes of people, animals and plants apparently acting out stories of religious, mythological or historical import… none of which any of the Hand remotely recognized.

But it was not to these doors that Olbu led the group. Instead, he directed them along a track that turned left and then curved around the building to the north. There they found a small stable and some storehouses jutting out from the main edifice, where Olbu saw to the comfort of the mules.

“This one apologizes for making honored guests wait on such mundanities,” the old man said as he quickly and efficiently went about his task. “But the Master retains no staff beyond this one’s humble self, in the general course of things.”

At their expressions of surprise, he elaborated.

“There were originally several other servants, when the villa was first built. But the Master is both particular in his habits, and modest in his needs… he eventually found the presence of so many k’hiniru, unenlightened ones, more bothersome than helpful. One by one he dismissed them, until only this one remained, who has been with him since youth. Now we simply hire from the village if more hands are needed… perhaps once or twice a year, no more.

“Your own servant,” he indicated the barbarian Therok (the broad brush strokes of the red-painted “55” on his chest were finally beginning to fade), “may make his bed here in the stables, there is a loft for just such purpose there, above the stalls.”

Once the mules were fed and watered and the saddle bags distributed Olbu lead the group into the villa by a small door between the stable and the jakes. With their “servant” and Devrik carrying the stretcher on which lay the still form of Farendol, he showed them to two long, narrow interior rooms just a few paces away.

Both rooms, which formed an “L” but shared no connecting door, appeared to be dormitories, with multiple beds in each, as well as large communal tables, low, stool-like chairs of bamboo and wicker, and slim, elegant armoires. Silk wall hangings  were the only decorations, but these were of such beauty that they took the breath away and caused the eye to linger.

Farendol was laid on a bed in the first room, the one running east to west, and Vulk and Devrik took the other two beds there. A large hexagonal window of carved wood, filled with a black iron filigree of geometric shapes, looked out into a small green courtyard. Mariala, Korwin, Toran and Tarbol took the four beds in the larger room around the corner, oriented north to south, which lacked a matching window, but had two of the long, narrow grilled openings running its length near the ceiling, to the first room’s single such.

Once Olbu had seen that the quests were settled comfortably, he suggested that they should rest and refresh themselves before the midday meal. When he mentioned that a sauna and hot pools were available, they shuddered at the idea, but on learning that there were cool plunging pools as well, Vulk, Mariala and Korwin decided to partake. Torbol volunteered to stay with Farendol, while Devrik and Toran came along for the tour, if not the waters.

As the old major domo guided them, with a certain quiet pride, through the joys of his master’s splendid creation, it occurred to Mariala that the villa was almost more museum than home. It was decorated in a very spare yet elegant style, simplicity of form emphasizing function… and everywhere there was art. From wall hangings and paintings to gorgeous inlaid tables of exotic woods to porcelain bowls and carved jade statues, the hallways and rooms boasted a seemingly endless array of artifacts and object d’art.

Yet in no way was there any sense of overcrowding or excess – there seemed to be only ever just the right number of objects, in just the correct juxtaposition, in just the right place. Thick, richly woven carpets covered many of the floors, themselves polished black wood inlaid with designs in matte black woods, and red silk panels hung from the ceilings.

The interior, despite being open to the outdoors by the narrow eaves-windows and a few larger ones looking out into various courtyards, was significantly cooler than might be expected. Toran noted with approval that the stonework was excellent, and was put together without mortar or cement.

After refreshing themselves in the sybaritic luxury of the spa suite, located in the southern wing of the villa, and enjoying the art along the way, the group reconvened in the large dining room for a three course meal, served by Olbu. This seemed to be the only room furnished with Ysgarethi-style chairs, for which the group was grateful.

After the meal Olbu reappeared and invited them to enjoy the public rooms of the villa, but emphasized that they must avoid the Master’s private chambers, his arboritum/greenhouse and the large central courtyard, which they had glimpsed through grill-covered windows on the earlier tour.

“The great courtyard is the Master’s sanctum for his private meditations and spiritual renewal,” he explained regretfully. “But the smaller courtyard near your own chambers is certainly free for the enjoyment of the m’sahiru.

“This one must now attend to his delayed chores, and so leave you to your own devices until the light repast that is customary in this part of the world after sundown. The grounds are open to you, of course, but only until sunset – it is not safe to be outside after dark, and this one begs of you not to stray outside again until after sunrise.”

The rest of the day was spent relaxing, discussing the events of the past tenday, and theorizing about the nature of their absent host. Tarbol took advantage of the afternoon light to walk the perimeter to lay a Ritual of Protection of the Innocents around the building, which should give them an advantage should things prove to be less innocent than they seemed. At the same time Vulk attempted to locate the promised Nitaran Gate, but could find no hint of it before he was driven indoors by a sudden late-afternoon downpour.

The evening meal was, as promised, a lighter affair, again served by Olbu in the dinning room. Afterward the still very tired companions retired to their rooms, calling it an early night. Mariala tried to coax Grover to come sleep with her, but the ferret refused to be budged from his perch on top of her backpack. With a shrug she gave up the effort and prepared for sleep.

Wards were set, and not only by Mariala, but nothing external disturbed their rest during the night, to everyone’s relief. Tarbol was especially grateful to have a bed to sleep in, even if it was of an odd construction called a “tofu” or maybe it was a “futon.” Something foreign-sounding, anyway…

Nothing external disturbed the Hand’s slumber…but Mariala again dreamed of Erol, on the same vast dark plane. Although this time she felt she could almost make out his words before he again vanished into the darkness. And that night Vulk dreamed of Erol as well… also on a dark, endless plane; but he was no more able to communicate with his dead friend than Mariala had been.

♦ ♦ ♦

The whole of the next day the Hand spent in blessed idleness and rest, with Olbu appearing only to serve meals in the dining room. Finally beginning to feel like themselves again, they took the time to more closely examine the treasures recovered form the ruins of Yalura. Between their various arcane skills they managed to figure out which items were magic and which mundane.

Further divination and study revealed the nature of the four magical artifacts, as well: the small key of tarnished silver proved to be an Amulet of Defeating Locks, able to open locked doors or containers; the pale blue robe was a Robe of Kesadarin, which would shield its wearer from the effects of natural cold and, to a lesser extent, magical cold; the silvery silken rope turned out to be a Cord of Querelia-Sim, able to knot and unknot itself when invoked… it was Toran who discovered its command word, Ünkonai, woven into the threads at each end.

The last item, a polished amber bowl some 30 cm across, proved to be the most interesting… and the most difficult to pry free from its secrets. By the time Olbu summoned them for the evening meal they had only determined that it was seriously magical and seemingly of the X’avarna convocation. Mariala reluctantly set the bowl back into her pack, and noticed Grover leaping to curl up in his usual place atop it as she left the room.

They had just begun the first course, and Obul had left them to return to the kithchen, when the doors to the entry foyer opened to reveal a most striking figure – a tall man with stark white skin (a form of makeup, they learned later, affected by the nobles classes in this land), dressed in elaborate robes of green and black. A yolk of black leather rested on his shoulders from which a black silk collar rose up into a tight skull cap that enclosed his head, leaving only his white face exposed. It was impossible to guess his age, which could have been anywhere from 30 to 70.

“Good evening, my most honored guests,” the man said in a strong tenor voice, only lightly accented by the musical cadences of the local tongue. “I am Thuron Yan. Please forgive that I was not here to greet you myself. But visitors from the Mountain Gate arrive all too seldom, and my studies took me away on a matter that would not wait.”

Stepping into the room and moving to the empty chair at the head of the table, he held up a burlap sack of earth out of which protruded a delicate looking flowering plant of dark green leaves and pale blue flowers. Some species of orchid by the look of it, Vulk thought, and was reminded of Draik.

“I recently, finally, had word of a very rare plant which I have long sought… one that only flowers under the light of the full blue moon and the dark of the violet moon. The way was long and arduous, but the results most worthy of the effort expended.”

Offering the bloom for his guests’ examination, he studied them as they admired his trophy. He seemed to approve of their interest, and he quickly fell into a brief treatise on botany. Flowers were clearly his passion and his main area of study, although he made it plain that medicine was a close, and related, secondary field of interest.

“I will be pleased to show you my collection of rare and exotic plants – especially exotic, I imagine, to visitors from your distant, chilly part of the world – but first I would be pleased to look in on your injured companion, whom Olbu has told me of, if you think my humble knowledge might be of some use.”

At this point Vulk suddenly had an instant, and fully formed, suspicion that this Thuron Yan was in fact Olbu in his true form. He was frantically trying to communicate this idea to Mariala on the sly when Olbu entered the room from the other door, bearing a tray with the second course. Vulk shut his mouth and sat back abruptly, hoping the sudden flush of his cheeks would be attributed to the heat.

After the final course, with cordials of a delicate pink liquor in hand, the group took their host to examine the comatose Telnori; although they still failed to mention his race. But such discretion, or deception, proved both futile and unnecessary. It took only a few minutes for the scholar to determine that the sick man was not Umantari.

“Ah, your friend is one of the Star Children… yes, I can understand your caution. They are not unknown in these lands, but they are not as prevalent, I think, as in the North and West… and are too often feared by our unenlightened peasantry, sadly. Fortunately, I have known a few in my day, and so am not unfamiliar with their biology…”

Another few minutes of examination, and Thuron Yan stood back and frowned. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious to his waiting guests. With an effort he pulled his intense gaze from Farendol, and bowed in apology.

“Forgive me, my guests, I was pondering… the possibilities. It seems to me that your friend has suffered some great injury, yes?”

Vulk nodded, but offered no particulars. He’d learned his lesson with Tarbol, and kicked the Alean when he started to open his mouth. Thuron Yan either didn’t notice the byplay, or simply chose not to acknowledge it.

“I am certain that he is in the Telnori healing trance… it is impossible to say how long he will remain in this state, but in my (admittedly limited) experience it seems certain that he will eventually come out of it.

“I would not recommend moving him until he does, however – he needs all of his physical and mental resources focused on his own healing. An arduous journey is contraindicated, unless it were absolutely critical. And I’m even less sure what effect Gate travel might have –”

“Yes,” Vulk interjected. “About the Gate we’ve been told is nearby. If you could –”

Thuron Yan waved his hand languidly and shook his head, interrupting ever-so-graciously in turn.

“No, honored guest, I can offer no firm advice in that area… even if I knew that such travel was safe for a Telnori in this condition, my Gate is not open just now. It is of the periodic type, and I have not yet discerned a reliable pattern to predict its fluctuations.”

At the friends’ frowns, he smiled and gestured placatingly.

“I understand your concern, but it is unfounded. Although I cannot tell precisely when the Valley Gate will be active again, I can assure you with confidence that it will be no more than two or three days. Surely you can endure the hospitality of my home for that much longer, yes? And it can do your friend no harm to rest here for that long. Once the Gate is active, if he has not recovered, we can further discuss the advisability of  taking him through it.”

There seemed to be no polite answer to this perfectly reasonable argument, and so the friends prepared to retire once again, after their host had departed. But suspicion still smoldered in some…

“I suppose it is possible that we’re over-thinking all this,” Vulk admitted as the group discussed their options. “We’re so used to conflict and chaos, perhaps we’re seeing everything as a nail that needs to be hammered – and maybe this time it’s not.”

“We’ve certainly tried to find the hidden motives, the lies, the danger,” Korwin agreed. “But it all seems perfectly benign. It’s a different culture, so maybe that’s where the vague, um… creepiness… comes from?”

The debate went on for awhile, without coming to any solid conclusions. In the end everyone drifted off to bed and sleep. But wards were again set, other precautions taken as well. And again came the dreams of Erol on a vast, dark plain – to Mariala, Vulk, and this time to Devrik, too.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day Thuron Yan took the companions to see his beloved arboretum/hot house wherein he kept his most prized botanical treasures. The immense room occupied the entire east wing of the villa, almost 50 meters long north-to-south and 13 meters wide east-to-west. Two iron-grilled windows, set in alcoves, and a bronze-gated doorway pierced the western wall, giving out onto the large sunken central courtyard. Matching alcoved windows were set into the eastern wall, and opposite the courtyard gate was a large, intricately carved teak door. Set in the wooden ceiling were glass skylights, running the length of the room on either side of the massive central beam.

Unlike the rest of the villa, which was marginally cooler than the outdoors, the arboretum was somewhat warmer and much more humid. A riotous profusion of plants filled the space, from large potted trees to small, delicate ferns and flowering shrubs. From the central beam hung a series of lattices over which grew vines and other creeping or hanging plants, many with flowers of gorgeous colors, some of immense size. In the center of the room stood a large oval work table of yellow sandstone, on which lay a confusion of gardening tools (as well as implements of more mysterious purpose), empty pots, and piles of rich, dark soil.

It took over an hour for the most cursory tour of the many plants the Eastern scholar had amassed, and even the most uninterested in the party couldn’t help but be impressed. Not only were there an incredible number of plants they’d never heard of, much less seen, Thuron Yan’s knowledge of them, of their uses either medicinal, practical or culinary, was immense.

“But I have saved the best for last, my dear guests,” he said at length as they paused near the work table. “My most beloved and valuable treasures… my orchids!”

With that he threw open the carved teak door behind him, revealing a small chamber some 6 meters square. Work benches lined the north and south walls, with several racks on each reaching up to the ceiling, and a desk-cum-work bench filled a small niche in the east wall, beneath an iron-grilled window.

Orchids of every imaginable size, shape and color occupied the racks and benches, and on the desk lay scrolls, parchment, pens, brushes and inks. Several of the papers could be seen to contain exquisite renderings of various orchids, with notes in a flowing, alien alphabet beneath them. The beautiful blue orchid their host had shown them the night he’d returned sat on the desk, and a partially finished sketch of it held the central place of honor.

Almost another hour was spent learning about the manifold virtues and wonders of the orchid in all its wild variety of species. It became clear their host had spent decades learning and writing about his tropical speciality. But eventually the scholar ran down, perhaps sensing the slightly glazed looks which even the most interested of his guests were beginning to sport.

“Well, I must return to my work,” he said, gesturing toward the door back into the arboretum. “And I understand some of you have expressed curiosity about my private library. Olbu could not grant you access, of course, but having seen your enthusiasm over my small public collection, it would be my pleasure share the larger collection with you.”

He then led the party out the southern door of the arboretum, through several short winding corridors to a set of carved double doors. Pulling a key from his belt, their host unlocked the doors and ushered them into his private library. It was a large room, 15 x 10 meters, and a double row of tall bookshelves ran down the center of the room, crammed with books, scrolls and loose-leaf folios. Being an interior room there were no windows, but four square skylights of frosted glass let in the day light; glowstones set about the room would provide illumination at night.

“I allow no open flames in here,” Thuron Yan said as he prepared to leave them. “And I expect you will treat the volumes here as befits their age and value… but I know that you are scholars yourselves, and need no instruction in this arena. I do ask that you not remove anything from this chamber, however.”

With a gracious bow he turned and left the group to their own devices, returning to the study of his new orchid. The Hand went wild in this treasure trove of exotic documents – each one of them found at least one volume of intense interest, and some more than one.

Toran found a volume on rare fungi cultivation written in an odd form of Kundaic, by the Dwarves of Svarlün, in central Ishkala; Tarbol was able to decipher an ancient treatise of the use of various plants in successful exorcisms; Mariala and Devrik kept calling one another over to see some new find, wandering from shelf to shelf, while Korwin browsed, and fingered the small gardening implement in his pocket that he had stolen from Thuran Yan’s workshop. He had been successfully containing his kleptomania with all the lovely object d’art laying about this place, but he just couldn’t resist this odd little tool…

Vulk was especially taken with a large illustrated volume, quite old, but from their own part of the world, that extensively covered the flora of Ysgareth and its subcontinent Xenoca, as well as that of the Shattered Sea. He had heard Draik speak of it on occasion, Merasid’s Illuminated Botanica, as a very rare and extraordinarily thorough encyclopedia that any herbalist would give his left nut for. He wondered how much he could copy during their stay here… and which were the best bits…

It was hours later that they reluctantly broke off their studies for the midday meal, after Olbu’s second, slightly testy announcement that it was ready. Thuron Yan did not join them, sending his apologies via his servant, but did promise to join them for the evening meal. As usual, the food was mostly excellent, if occasionally too alien – for instance, no one was inclined to try the chilled monkey brains…

Afterward, several of the group were inclined to return to the library, but Mariala insisted that they should finish trying to figure out what that last magic item was, the mysterious amber bowl. Retiring to the room she shared with Korwin, Toran and Tarbol, after checking on Farendol, she booted Grover off her pack and carefully removed the artifact. The ferret nipped at her hand, but quickly settled near her feet as she sat down, the bowl in her lap.

It took a combination of her own divination skills, Korwin’s psychometry talent, and Vulk’s prayers to finally uncover the nature of the item – a soul catcher created by the Telnori mage Barsol, over a thousand years ago. It was designed to capture either ethereal beings or the souls of the recently departed within a certain proximity. When properly invoked the captured soul could be transferred to another living or properly prepared artificial body… it took some more divination to discover the operant word to be lila’tometh. It didn’t take the group long, however, to realize what this might mean…

“This was less than a hundred meters away when Erol was killed,” Vulk exclaimed in sudden excitement. “That’s well within its range, yes Mariala?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, frowning thoughtfully. “I think a kilometer is the approximate, um, capture zone of the device… but it can only hold one soul, I’m positive of that! And Farendol was… um, died… before Erol did. Wouldn’t his soul have been the one to be captured?”

This gave them all pause for a moment. It certainly would explain why the Telnori’s body remained alive after Vulk’s healing, but seemingly unoccupied, if his soul was captive within the bowl. On the other hand…

“Telnori souls, like their minds, are stronger than ours,” Vulk pointed out. “Farendol may have been immune to the artifact’s power, or able to resist it… it is also possible that he wasn’t completely dead dead before I healed him. Maybe his should never left his body, and he really is in a healing trance?

“Also, why has Grover been so attached to this thing? Looking back, don’t you see it? He’s stayed as close to the bowl as he could, whether it was in a saddle bag or your pack – or on your lap right now?”

Indeed, the little animal was currently staring up intently at the bowl, never taking his eyes off of it. A sudden thought struck Vulk –

“Or maybe Erol’s soul ended up in Grover, somehow!” he blurted out.

“Well, I don’t see how that would have worked,” Mariala frowned. “No, I think there’s a soul in this bowl, and while I’m uncertain whose soul it is, I’d have to agree Grover’s behavior makes me lean toward it being Erol’s. That, and the dreams I’ve been having lately… if it’s not just wishful thinking…”

Devrik seemed more divided in thought, and said nothing. He really would like it to be Farendol’s soul in that bowl, making his murder, as he thought of it, of the Druid suddenly reversable. On the other hand, he knew Erol well and would like to see his comrade returned to life. Although, come to think of it, how would they even accomplish that? The man’s own body was no longer a viable option, certainly!

The same thought seemed to occur to the others just then, and a discussion began about how to figure out if it was really Erol in the bowl, and if so, what to do about it. Mariala could divine no way of communicating with the en-bowled soul, although she claimed it should be theoretically possible. She was extremely reluctant to invoke the control word without a suitable vessel nearby for the soul to enter into.

Vulk eyed Grover speculatively at that point, but when the ferret briefly pulled its attention away from the bowl to growl in his direction, he shrugged off the idea. He doubted Erol would be much enthused by being a ferret in any case.

“It occurs to me,” he said after a few minutes of intropsection, “that I have within my mind, the knowledge of how to grow a new body for Erol… a gift of my recent possession, er, symbioses with the Elemental Beast of Earth. But it would take many months, I think, to do this…”

“Or, I could fashion him an artificial body” Toran offered. “With the help of my people I’m sure we could create him a most wonderful, powerful form. As a fighter he might like that!”

“I’m not really sure he’d appreciate giving up the sex, though,” Devrik growled. “Although it might do as an interim measure, while Vulk grows this new body…”

“We could always dump him into Tarbol’s body, I suppose,” Korwin suggsted with a laugh. This brought a squeak of rage from the plump cantor, who had heretofore been following the discussion in wide-eyed, horrified fascination.

“You can’t allow him to possess another living, conscious being,” he shrilled in anger, leaping to his feet. “Not mine and not anyone elses! It would be blasphemy, and a secular crime as well, and–”

“It was a joke, Tarbol,” Mariala soothed gently, giving Korwin a quelling frown. But he saw the glint of laughter in her eye nonetheless, if Tarbol did not. Devrik snorted and shook his head, while Vulk and Toran couldn’t look at each other for fear of bursting into laughter. Tarbol grudginly sat back down, mumbling about people who jested about possession, and the bad ends they would no doubt come to.

The brief humor had broken the tension of the moment, and with a collective sigh the Hand realized there was nothing more to be done just then. But getting back to Shalara, and the resources of the Star Council, was suddenly even more urgent in all their minds. Vulk determined to press their host once more over dinner for the location of the Gate, something the man had deftly sidestepped up until now.

“And maybe we will find a way to communicate with Erol in our dreams tonight,” Mariala said as they rose to go about their separate concerns. “If so, maybe he’ll have an idea about what we should do…”

•••

Under Vulk’s persistent questioning, which began to border on the rude, Thuron Yan finally revealed that the Valley Gate was located in the Great Courtyard at the heart of the villa, as they had suspected all along. He went further, and said that he fully expected it to become active within the next 25 to 35 hours, at which point he would, with regret but full understanding, see them all on their way.

Having got the information he wanted Vulk attempted to repair his breach of manners by enthusing about the volume he had been studying in the library that morning. He explained about Draik, and soon found himself describing the discovery/invention of Baylorium, and it’s amazing healing powers. Their host’s slight coolness dropped away as he came to fully understand what the cantor was saying.

“By the Seven,” he exclaimed when Vulk had finished, his usual dignified reserve abandoned for the moment. “This is quite amazing! I have, of course, heard of Baylora and her frightening, brilliant skills in the Torazin arts… and of her tragic fate. But this… have you a sample of this wondrous elixir with you?”

“Sadly, no,” Vulk lied, without hesitation, although he wasn’t sure why he did so. “We used the last of our reserves after our last battle, to heal ourselves and to attempt to do the same for our Telnori friend. It is another reason why we are so anxious to return home, to restock our supply of the elixir.”

Thuron Yan seemed briefly disappointed to hear this news, before his usual cloak of distant, amused detachment fell back into place. But he was aroused to sharp-eyed interest once more when Vulk continued.

“But we plan to travel straight to Draik once your Valley Gate is open, sir. You should accompany us – I know my friend would be pleased to exchange ideas and knowledge with one so learned in the field that he himself loves so much. Who knows what a fusion of your talents and wisdom might produce? The possibilities, sir! And if you were to join us, perhaps you could bring Merasid’s Illuminated Botanica along, so that he might have it copied while you conferred…”

Thuron Yan seemed much taken with this idea, and promised to think upon it that night. As the meal wound down he motioned to Olbu, who came and bowed down to hear his master’s whispered instructions. The servant withdrew, to return several minutes later with a tray containing glasses of a pale blue cordial. Passing them out to the guests, he served his master last.

“To new friends,” the Eastern scholar said, raising his glass. “And to new beginnings, which may bring much good into the world.”

While the others drank without hesitation, Vulk and Devrik shared a glance across the table, and only touched their glasses to their lips. The subterfuge did not go unnoticed by their host.

“You do not care for the ub’arasl,” he inquired cooly, setting down his own empty glass. “Perhaps some other beverage…?”

“No,” Vulk replied, smiling tightly. “Thank you. I’m afraid something in that last course has upset my digestion… I fear further alcohol might exacerbate the problem.”

“And I do not drink distilled spirits,” Devrik rumbled blandly, setting his own untouched glass down. It was a believable enough assetion, certainly, as he had drunk nothing but watered wine during their stay at Halani-var. “But we both salute the toast, and the sentiment behind it.”

Mollified, Thuron Yan rose and graciously bid his guests a good night, reminding them once again not to leave the safety of the villa during the night. As Olbu began to clear away the dishes the Hand likewise rose, bowed to their host, and departed to their own chambers.

•••

Despite all evidence of his good will, both Devrik and Vulk had been suspicious of their host and of his special blue cordial. But in the event at least one of their suspicions was totally unfounded – the cordial had not been drugged or poisoned, had indeed been nothing more than a delicate, delicious, and very expensive liquor, distilled from a rare mountain fruit. It was a singular honor to have had it offered to them.

It was the food that had been drugged.

Retiring to their respective rooms, each of the companions found their eyes drooping even as they undressed. They were all asleep as soon as their heads hit their pillows — a deep and dreamless sleep.

Dreamless, except for Vulk. He slowly became aware of himself, though all around him was dark, and he could not move. There was a sense of concern, but not of panic, as he tried to move even a finger. Failing, he became aware of… not a presence, exactly… but maybe an echo of a presence. Following his sense of this not-presence, Vulk suddenly found himself aware of his body in its totality. It was something like what he sensed when he healed someone psionically, but much stronger – an awareness of every cell, every atom, of his biology.

With this awareness came a sense that all was not right… yes, there, he could… see/hear/taste/feel/smell… the alien pattern. He’d been poisoned! No, not poison he realized… drugged. A soporific of some kind… and very stong!

He could see how it flowed through his blood, how it interacted with his brain… and yes, he could suddenly see how to neutralize it… to turn it into something inert and harmless… all at once.

He did that thing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Vulk’s eyes opened as he came fully, instantly, awake; but no other part of his body moved to give away his sudden return to consciousness. Which proved a good thing, for across the room he could see two shadowy figures bent over the still form of Farendol, silhouetted by the dim red light one of them held. A deep red glow stone, he realized, perfect for seeing in darkness without ruining one’s night vision.

It was Thuron Yan and Olbu, of course. Vulk tensed, prepared to leap up if they made a threatening move… but Thuron Yan reached down and lifted the Telnori into his arms as if he weighed no more than a child. He said something to Olbu, too low for Vulk to hear, and the servant nodded, moving toward the open door. Thuron Yan followed, Farendol’s body cradled almost tenderly in his arms, and they passed out of the room.

Vulk was off of his futon instantly, and kneeling beside Devrik, who snored gently. No amount of shaking could rouse the drugged warrior-mage, however, and after a moment the cantor realized he would need to do for his friend what he had somehow done for himself. But how? He wasn’t even sure what he’d done, exactly. He closed his eyes and reached within…

And it was there. The knowledge of how to see the foreign substance, and how to alter it, make it harmless and inert. He reached out with his native psionic healing ability into Devrik’s body… and did the thing.

Devrik’s eyes flew open and he had his hand around Vulk’s throat before the latter could react. Fortunately Devrik didn’t seem confused or groggy, and he quickly recognized his friend.

“Sorry,” he grated quietly, releasing his grip. “Not a good idea to wake me that way.”

“No choice,” Vulk gasped sotto voce, rubbing his bruised neck. “We were all drugged. I’ve thrown it off, and neutralized it in you. But our host and his servant have just taken Farendol, and I think we need to stop whatever it is they have planned!”

Instantly Devrik was on his feet and buckling on his armor.

“Wake the others and follow after me,” he order Vulk. “I’m certain they’ve gone either to the arboretum or to the central courtyard.”

“That would be my guess too,” Vulk agreed, and dashed out the door, turning left. Devrik was only a few paces behind him, and turned right as he pulled his battlesword from its sheath on his back.

In the other room Korwin, being closest to the door, was the next person Vulk woke. Like Devrik, he came instantly awake, but with a less immediately aggressive response. When his friend had explained the situation to him the water mage grabbed his own weapons and armor, and dashed out the door to follow Devrik.

Tarbol was next, but Vulk felt they could do without the little nitwit’s “help,” and skipped over him to awaken Toran. The Khundari seemed to have been naturally fighting off the effects of the drug, and Vulk was able to dispel the soporific more easily than in the others. Toran too, on learning the way of things, donned his armor and grabbed his weapons to follow Korwin.

Mariala proved more difficult to awaken. Vulk knew he was getting tired, using his abilities so quickly in succession and at such strength, but there was something beyond mere exhaustion at work here. He could sense the toxin, yes, but there was something else, something that seemed to pervade the structure of her blood and brain… it was subtle, difficult to make out, and it seemed to be interacting with the drug in unexpected ways.

Twice he tried to neutralize the foreign agents in Mariala’s blood, and twice he failed. After the last attempt, he knew he only had one more go-round left before his psionic ability gave out completely. Reluctantly, he turned to Tarbol.

It was the most exhausting effort yet, but he managed to eliminate the drug from his fellow cantor’s body, and the young man woke with a start. Vulk grudgingly explained the situation, and asked if the Alean knew of any ritual that might work. Tarbol said he just might, and immediately knelt down beside Mariala and took her hands in his, bending his head to pray. In just a few seconds the woman before him began to  groan, and her eyes flickered open. She was groggy, and a bit confused at first, but she quickly grasped the urgency of the situation and rose to her feet, with Tarbol’s help.

Vulk had run back to his own room to grab his weapons, and now reappeared in the doorway to urge them on. They raced down the hallways toward the arboretum and the clashing of steel on steel, and he invoked the ritual of Virtue’s Armor, touching Mariala’s shoulder as he spoke. Kasira’s shimmering golden protection flowed over her…

♦ ♦ ♦

Leaving Vulk to rouse the others, Devrik had headed straight for the arboretum. He kicked in the northern door to Thuron Yan’s plant sanctum, splinters of wood flying as the lock twisted free of the frame, and blew through without even stopping.

In the center of the room, on the oval sandstone table, cleared now of all gardening detritus, lay Farendol’s empty but living body. At his head stood Thuron Yan, hands hovering near the Telnori’s temples, face twisted in intense concentration.

Between Devrik and the pale scholar was Olbu, who had whirled around at the sound of the shattered door, drawing a wicked looking sword with a curved tip. He advanced now toward Devrik, his sword lowered and making placating gestures with his free hand.

“Please, m’sahiri, let this one explain,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “The Master means no harm to your friend. If the m’shairi will just –”

“Get out of my way,” Devrik growled in his most nerve-grating voice, never breaking his stride. Red rage filled his vision as he saw his chance of redemption being pawed over by that ghost-faced… botanist!

Seeing that the Westerner would not be stopped by words, Olbu brought his own weapon up in a surprisingly fluid motion and attacked. Devrik was forced to stop then, barely managing to parry the slash toward his stomach. The strength of the blow shocked him out of his one-track focus on Farendol – the old man was about his own height, but must be 20 kilos lighter than him. How could he be so strong?

Devrik slashed his own blade two-handed at the old man’s stomach in return, only to have the blow turned deftly and the movement turned into a blinding counter attack. Devrik grinned then and blocked in turn.

When Korwin dashed into the room a few minutes later, he skidded to a stop at the sight of the frail-looking old mass of wrinkles holding his own, stroke for stroke, with Devrik! A moment later Toran skidded into the room, and was also impressed – although he didn’t recognize the style, he knew a master of the martial arts when he saw one. He started to crank his crossbow…

By the time the others arrived the old man made one last spinning attack to drive Devrik back, and then disengaged. He stood a dozen paces back, sword again lowered. Devrik was panting slightly, but Olbu seemed perfectly composed, his breathing regular and controlled.

“M’sahiru, please listen to this one,” he called out to the group. “Things are not as they may seem.”

“You drugged us, stole our friend’s body, and seem to be preparing some sort of mystical shenanigans,” Vulk said in his best Herald’s voice, putting a restraining hand on Devrik’s shoulder. The fire mage glowered but didn’t resume the fight.

“If your intentions are benign,” Vulk continued, “why did you drug us into oblivion?”

“Merely to keep things simple, m’sahiri,” the old man said, grimacing. “Though that seems not to have worked… this one had suggested the Master should confide the truth to you, but his curse has haunted him so long… it is difficult for him to trust…

“But truly, he means no harm to the one you call Farendol… for that one is no longer in this world. You resurrected his body, m’sahiri, but his soul must have already sped to whatever comes after. You have created, most inadvertantly, a rare theological occurrence – and the answer to the Master’s dilema.

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Devrik growled. “And stop stalling. Explain yourself now, or prepare to fight us all!”

“The Master is afflicted with a rare… condition.. One he considers a curse and a great burden. He has spent three decades seeking a cure from the plants of these jungles. But while he has managed to… alter… some of the parameters of his condition, he has found no cure.

“Now you bring him a solution we never thought to employ, a healthy but spiritually empty body into which he can transfer his wonderful mind! And a Telnori one at that – his genius may go on for centuries more in such a form! He knows the plants that will induced the trance, he knows the mental discipline to achieve the tansfer… now he just needs the time to achieve it. Will you not give him this?”

“It’s not his body to dispose of,” Vulk said hotly. “Even if Farendol’s soul is gone… and it’s true, we’d begun to suspect it… it is not for your Master, or for us, to decide what becomes of his mortal form. We must take it back to his–”

“But can you not see the value?” Olbu countered passionately. “Thuron Yan is a great man, an enlightened man, and what better tribute to your deceased friend than that his abandoned shell should now house this great soul!

“You yourself believed that much good could come of a collaboration between the Master and your friend in the West… Draik, that one is named, yes? It was Thuron Yan’s intention, once the burden of his curse was lifted from him, to join you, as you suggested.”

Vulk paused, considering the old man’s words. It seemed certain now that Farendol really was gone… and if so, what difference could it make to him what use his body was put to now? Aside from the drugging, Thuron Yan had treated them well… and it’s not like he’d actually poisoned them, something a plant expert such as himself would certainly have been capable of…

“Well, I can see an argument for what you’re saying,” he said slowly. “But let your master make that argument himself. He has endured his burden, whatever it is, for this long… a little longer can hardly matter. If he’ll stop what he’s doing, we can sit down and–”

“Oh, to the Void with this!” Mariala cried out suddenly, and let go a blast of Fire Nerves at the elderly major domo, who staggered back. Her friends were momentarily shocked at this uncharacteristically unilateral action, except for Toran, who took it as a signal to loose a crossbow bolt at the still-seemingly-oblivious scholar working his ritual over Farendol’s inert form.

The bolt missed, but it forced Thuran Yan to sway back, and broke his concentration. He glared then in fury at the Khundari and the others, his elegant fingers crooking into claws of rage.

“You fools!” he hissed furiously. “This is no affair of yours, I would have let you leave here alive in the morning, with my gratitude and friendship… but since you seem determined to interfere in things you have not the slightest understanding of, so be it! Olbu!”

At his call the old man stood straighter, a feral grin on his face, seemingly no more than inconvenienced by Mariala’s spell. “This one bears a… related… condition to the Master’s. But this one does not consider it an affliction or a curse – this one embraces it!”

As he spoke his skin began to flow and the bones beneath seemed to heave and buckle… his face elongated and then flattened out, and he grew taller, as orange, black and white fur erupted from his skin. His clothes ripped apart and fell from him as his body expanded, muscles seeming to bubble up from nowhere. In a matter of seconds his transformation was complete, and he towered over the group, a roaring creature half man and half tiger.

With a snarl the were-tiger leapt at Devrik, mouth agape and claws extended. The warrior-mage backpedaled, barely avoiding a lethal slash across his belly. Toran fired his crossbow, then dropped it as the were-tiger twisted away from the bolt. The Khundari jumped into the fray then, with a fierce Dwarven battle cry, drawing his battleaxe.

With his were-creature servant engaging his uninvited guests, Thuron Yan dropped the fight from his attention and turned back to his attempt to transfer his mind and soul into the empty body on the slab before him.

But Tarbol was having none of this! He had been shocked that Cantor Vulk had seemed ready to even discuss the blasphemous suggestion of allowing the transfer, and he would be damned to the Void if he would let Alea down now! He dashed forward, past the snarling mass of fighting were-tiger, Umantari and Khundari, whirling his staff about his head and howling his outrage. Vulk grabbed at his sleeve, and missed, while Mariala cried out for him to stop.

“You shall not commit this abomination, you fiend!” he shrieked, closing on the apparently unconcerned scholar, and aiming for his head.

At the last moment, almost languidly, in a single fluid movement Thuron Yan pulled two long, razor-sharp blades from the sash at his waist. With one estoc he effortlessly parried the staff, and as the surprised youth staggered around, carried by his own momentum, the other estoc whipped up and across Tarbol’s throat.

With a gurgling, inarticulate cry, the Alean cantor collapsed to the floor, blood spurting from a severed artery to form a growing pool around him. He twitched once and was still. Vulk, Korwin and Mariala stood momentarily paralyzed by shock.

Ignoring the corpse he had just made Thuron Yan strode toward the group, loosening his robes and smiling grimly. As he came on, his body began to shift and flow as Olbu’s had, but with subtle differences. By the time he reached the group he was an enormous pale white snake, with a human torso and arms, but a face that was a disturbing mixture of man and reptile. A cobra-like hood flared from his shoulders and framed his malignant visage.

“See what you would condemn me too!” he raged in a sibilant hiss unlike his normal, urbane voice. He attacked, slashing out with razor sharp claws and a battering-ram-like tail. Vulk took a raking blow across his shoulder, and countered with his sword. Korwin drew his saber, slashing at the horror before him, and was rewarded with a line of blood oozing along the creatures flank.

Mariala blanched and drew her lucky Khundari dagger...

At that point the fight between Olbu and Devrik and Toran came to a sudden end, as the Khundari Shadow Warrior took advantage of a momentary distraction by Devrik to slide between the were-tiger’s legs, hamstringing the creature and bringing it to its knees. Whirling around he swung his battleaxe in a flashing arc that ended in the back of the tiger-man’s skull. As it collapsed in death the body began to flow and shift, and in a few seconds it was the naked corpse of the elderly Olbu that lay at their feet.

Meanwhile Vulk was trying desperately to disengage from the enraged were-snake so that he could tend to poor Tarbol. There was no hope of saving the idiot’s life, he knew, but if he could get to him quickly enough he could place him in Stasis for possible revival later on. Fortunately at that moment Devrik joined their fight, diverting Thuron Yan’s attention sufficiently for the cantor to disengage and make a dash to his fallen comrade. Even as he fell to his knees he began to perform the Ritual of Stasis…

Thuron Yan appeared to be as ambidextrously agile with his claws as he had been with his blades, and while he fended off Devrik with one, and Korwin with his tail, he slashed viscously at Mariala, raking his claws across her chest and shoulder. Cloth shredded, and she staggered back, but the flare of golden light proved that Vulk’s blessing of Virtue’s Armor had done its job – her skin remained unbroken!

The momentary surprise at the failure of what should have been a killing stroke proved to be Thuron Yan’s undoing. In that brief instant Mariala, rather than retreating, leapt forward and drove her dagger into the were-snake’s belly, slashing up with all her strength. The finely-honed Khundari steel cut through muscle and viscera as though through cloth, and slid under the ribs to come to a stop, almost missing the heart. Almost, but not quite. The tip of the dagger pierced that organ, and Thuron Yan collapsed, clutching at his spilling guts, dead even as he hit the ground.

There was a stunned silence in the room as the Hand considered the sudden carnage before them. In death Thuron Yan, like his servant before him, returned to his human form, looking small and forlorn, curled around his sliced up guts in a spreading pool of blood.

Across the room, near the slab that held Farendol’s body, Vulk stood up from where he had been at work on Tarbol’s corpse. A faint bluish glow now surrounded the dead cantor’s form.

“I’ve managed to get him into Stasis,” Vulk called out. “With any luck his uncle – look out!!”

At his warning the others whirled around as four large figures dropped from the skylights behind them. Four more were-tigers – no, these were were-tigresses they soon realized. After a brief grief-stricken keening towards the body of old Olbu, the creatures snarled at the group and prepared to leap.

“To the Void with this!” Devrik roared in exasperation. A Orb of Vorol appeared in his hand, and with a sharp gesture he hurled the fireball toward the creatures. They had balked momentarily at the sight of the sudden flame, and now they tried to scatter. But the brilliant fire-seed exploded into a tremendous ball of searing death, catching all four in its blast.

Shrieking in pain and fury as fur and skin burst into flame, two of the creatures collapsed almost at once, twitching into smoldering, stinking stillness. The other two attempted to escape, one toward the central courtyard and the other out the shattered northern door. The first collapsed clawing at the grillwork of the window; the other died atop the splintered ruins of the door.

Unfortunately, this allowed the flames to get a firm hold in the wooden parts of the structure in both places. In combination with all the burning plants, trellises, ceiling and support beams, the fire threatened to quickly grow into a conflagration.

“Well, shit,” Devrik said, as his first elation was replaced by chagrin. He reached out with his pyrokinetic ability and attempted to control and quell the flames. But it proved to be more than he could handle… the best he could do was slow the spread a bit.

Fortunately, Korwin was able to summon up a large quantity of ethereal water, made easier perhaps by the high humidity of the area, and doused all the burning bits in the arboretum. With relief Devrik loosed his control as most of the flames spluttered out with a steaming hiss.

“Now we need to find the Gate and get out of here,” he sighed. “Before some other cursed thing comes up!”

No one disagreed, and Korwin and Mariala dashed off to collect their things, including the mules and Therok. While Toran and Devrik searched the central courtyard Vulk made a bee-line for the library. At least now he wouldn’t have to try and copy bits of that book for Draik… he could just give him the real thing! And maybe they could come back for all the rest of this amazing collection of tomes…

In the courtyard Devrik could still not sense any Nitaran Gates, and he began to wonder if Thuron Yan had lied to them… about more than just his intentions for Farendol’s body. Did a Gate exist at all? And if so, where was it? It could take days, even months, to scour this thick rain forest trying to find it. They might be forced into an overland journey to the coast after all… Raven was going to be so pissed… he’d told her he would be home days ago…

“I think this might be it,” Toran said, pulling Devrik from his increasingly gloomy reverie. He stood next to the elaborately carved stone and metal fountain from which water gushed from a wide central pipe into the large square pool at the heart of the courtyard. At Devrik’s inquiring grunt he reached up and twisted a metal collar around the base of the water pipe.

Instantly the flow of water stopped, and a second later there was a rumbling from the pool. Another few seconds and it was obvious that the water level in the pool was dropping, and quickly. In less than three minutes the pool was entirely empty, save for a few puddles on its stone floor. Steep stone stairs on three sides of the square led down about three meters to a small open space.

“As  you know, Nitaran Gates don’t form in solid matter… nor underwater,” he said, shrugging at Devrik’s quizzical look. “Most people don’t think about that much, but we Khundari are a subterranean folk, and we take advantage of the fact to guard Gates into our realms. It seemed fairly obvious to me, what with this rather large fountain and pool right at the heart of this place, that Thuron Yan might do the same.”

By then the others had returned, and a discussion quickly began about how much of Halani-var they could realistically loot, with already loaded saddle bags and two bodies to carry. No one was quite sure who first suggested cutting the body count in half by placing Erol’s soul into Farendol’s body. Given that Tarbol’s Stasis-rigid form was slippery and tricky to handle, and would need to be securely strapped to the travois, a task Vulk, returned from the library, was just completing, it seemed like a good idea…

Farendol’s body was still in the arboretum, on the central work slab, and they all trooped in to gather around him, leaving Vulk’s barbarian lackey to watch the mules, packs and ex-Tarbol. Mariala lifted Barsol’s Bowl up, holding it directly over the still form, as Grover darted excitedly around her feet.

“Lila’tometh!” she said in a commanding voice, and there was a purplish flare of light in the bowl, as a faint musical note rang in the humid air.

Erol opened his eyes to find his friends gathered around and staring down at him, eyes wide and faces variously concerned, anxious or worried. He realized he was lying down, and moved to sit up – whoa! He felt very odd. His body seemed to react differently… things seemed weirdly speeded up, but not in the way he was used to with his extratemporal sense… He swung his legs over the stone table he was on and stood up.

“By Cael’s balls,”he gasped. “You’ve all shrunk!”

It took awhile to get Erol to understand what had happened to him. He remembered the fight in the demon’s chamber, but not his grabbing the control artifact and being booted from his own body. His memory of his time in the bowl was hazy at best, although he did seem to remember dreaming of Mariala… and maybe Vulk and Devrik?

Unfortunately, they had to cut the explanations short at that point, as the northern portion of the arboretum collapsed in a shower of fiery sparks and burning wood.

“Shit!” Devrik cried. “The flames must’ve gotten into the attic rafters and spread above the ceiling!”

He reached out again with his power, but soon sensed the fire was much too big now for him to quell, too widespread for even Korwin’s ethereal water to do much good… and it was overhead as well as to the south…

“Hand, we are leaving!” he roared, and headed for the gate out to the courtyard. Most of the others followed, “Farenderol” staggering about amidst the falling embers, simultaneously exultant and frustrated trying to learn to work this new body. Vulk and Mariala, however, headed for the library.

“We have to save as many books as possible,” Vulk called over his shoulder at Devrik’s angry shout. “We’ll be right there!”

Dodging falling embers from the quickly charring ceiling in the library the two friends grabbed as many books and scrolls as they could. But when they’d grabbed all they could carry, there were so very many books and scrolls still left…

“Vulk, I know you must be exhausted,” Mariala cried out as bits of burning ceiling began to fall around them. “But if we chain our energies, could we cast a Stasis field around the bookshelves? We can’t let all this knowledge burn!”

It was insane, but there was no time to argue. Vulk invoked the ritual once more, this feeling the T’aran energies from his friend flow into and through him… and then a flickering blue haze enveloped the row of elegantly carved bookshelves running down the center of the room. Nothing they could do for the artwork along the walls, and Kasira only knew how long the Stasis would hold, but they’d done what they could…

The two staggered out of the library under their burdens of books and scrolls and raced down the hallways toward the arboretum and the relative safety of the courtyard. They had just made it out the gate when the rest of the arboretum’s roof collapsed, sending a shower of sparks and a blast of superheated air out the doorway and windows. The mossy floor of the courtyard began to smolder in places…

Stuffing books and scrolls into every available space in packs and saddlebags, Mariala found that Korwin had rushed back in to Thuron Yan’s workshop while she and Vulk had been in the library, and rescued as many of the scholar’s notebooks and papers as he could. And he had the delicate blue orchid, now planted in an equally delicate gray glazed pot, clutched in his hand.

As the smoke began to fill the courtyard and the heat became almost unbearable, Vulk summoned up Kasira’s Key, and opened the Valley Gate of the late Thuron Yan at last. Coughing and choking, the Hand passed through…

…and found themselves on the wooded slopes of the Elf Mound, just outside the town and keep of Dor Dür, with late afternoon sunlight bathing everything in summer gold. The air seemed blessedly cool and dry after the humid heat of the island of Kensuai, and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

“Halt and identify yourselves!” a commanding voice cried out, and a sudden rustling of leaves revealed they were surrounded by a dozen archers in brown and green, arrow nocked and bows taut, all aimed at the group. A man stepped forward then, tall, muscular, and black-haired, a grim expression on his face.

An expression that vanished and was replaced by a wide grin as he recognized the travelers. He motioned to his men, and they faded back into the woods.

“Brother!” Black Hawk laughed, coming up to Devrik and embracing him. “We have been expecting you this past pentnight, since you sent your message to my sister! Some were becoming worried, although not Raven – she said you’d be along in your own sweet time. And here you are!

“It is good to see you all… although it seems you have been recently in battle.” His smile faded then as he took in the smoke-blackened and blood-stained group, and scanned their faces. “And where is Erol? That is not his body at least, that I see there between the mules… is he –”

“Alive, brother,” Devrik said, slapping his brother-in-law on the back and turning toward the path to the keep. “But not quite himself. It’s a long story, and I’m very thirsty…