It took two more days to wrap up all the loose ends and consider all the ramifications flowing from the discovery of the murderous Korönian spy in the heart of the Caelite abbey. More importantly, it took that long for the weather to clear. The principals involved in the matter were both grateful for the assistance provided by the Cantor of Kasira and his companions, and disturbed to find strangers so deeply involved in their secret affairs.

The High Cantor, Lisbil Kalarin, made her thanks very clear, but made her desire that news of the recent events not become common gossip in the kingdom even clearer. Her emphasis on her close relationship with her brother, the Kleros of Savartim, was not lost of on any of the three travelers. Her generous provisioning of them for their continued trip south was an equally unsubtle “carrot.”

Ser Owain Hanorn was both more diplomatic and more subtle when he invited Vulk, Mariala and Draik to breakfast with him the second morning after the final confrontation with the false cantor. After a remarkably rich and abundant meal in the guest house, during which no mention was made of the previous day’s events, he lifted his cup of steaming chocolate to his lips, and smiled over it at his obviously nervous guests.

“I know that High Cantor Lisbil has rather put the fear of the Immortals into you, or at least the fear of her powerful brother. Be assured, I’ve not asked you here this morning for more of the same.”

He set his cup down and the smile faded from his ice-blue eyes.

“If I thought for a moment that you could not be trusted with the knowledge you’ve gained here, you would now be swiftly on your way to a very secure dungeon, for a stay of indeterminate length.” Despite his 75 years and the iron gray in his black hair no one was inclined to take this as hyperbole.

“In fact,” he continued, his faint smile returning, “ I have been very impressed with the courage, resourcefulness and skill you’ve shown during this crisis. The secret negotiations I’ve undertaken here with the Darikazi are new-born and still very delicate… the death of either one of their representatives at this juncture, or even one of ours, would not only have destroyed the talks, but could have been used by some as a pretext for war.

“Cantor Elida, I know you have strong feelings about our neighbors to the west, feelings I am not insensible to… remember, I fought in Zarik’s War myself, and lost many good friends and comrades. But we have the… possibility… of seeing that such a conflict will not engulf our nation again for a generation. That is what I’m working towards here, and I’ll say no more about it.”

He sipped again from his cup, then turned to Mariala. “Cantor Elida’s discretion I take for granted as a fellow noble of Arushal and an Eldari cantor. But I must not take such liberties with you, Scholar Teryne, nor you,” he added, nodding at Draik, “Ser… Bartoff, as you are both natives of our some-times ally Nolkior.

“May I have your word of honor, each of you, that this secret meeting will remain unspoken of by you to any living person, of any degree or station, until I, the Prince, or the King release you?” His eye held each of theirs until both had spoken their assent.

“I am grateful for your implicit trust in me, Ser Owain,” Vulk spoke after a moments silence, “but as you ask my companions to swear, so too shall I. I affirm that I shall speak to no other living person, of any degree or station, about the secret matters I have learned of here, until either you, Prince Darlanis, or His Majesty shall release me.”

“Unless,” he added after a slight pause, “I should have reason to believe that treason is being committed in this affair, in which case I shall speak to His Majesty or such of his advisors as seem best to me.”

Ser Owain frowned, one brow raised in either surprise or annoyance. But after a moment his face broke into a grin, and he laughed. “Fair enough, boy, fair enough! But I trust you’ll find no cause to suspect me of anything but concern for the welfare of our great land and her people.

“Indeed, you do continue to impress me… I will not insult you, any of you, by offering monetary consideration for the oath you’ve just sworn, but I will tell you that should you ever have need of any help that I, or my agents, might provide, you have my leave to ask for it.”

He drew a small pouch from his belt and shook three bronze coins into his hand. Each was inscribed with the Hanorn family crest on one side, and 11-pointed, double-tailed star on the other. He handed one to each of his three guests.

“Show this to any agent of mine and they will provide you with whatever assistance you need, if it is within their power to do so.”

With that, breakfast, and the interview, seemed to be over. Ser Owain stood, as did his guests, perforce. He bid them farewell and a safe journey, and turned to mount the steps to his chamber to prepare for the day’s resumed meetings with the Darikazi envoys. With one foot on the stairs he paused and raised a hand to stop them.

“You three make a good team… you might consider what might be accomplished should your roads carry you onward together.” With an enigmatic smile he turned away once more and was gone.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning dawned sunny once again, and warmer. The snow, while still blanketing the countryside, was turning to slush on the roads. Saddlebags stuffed with the largesse of Eldora Abbey, horses rested and well-fed, and their own bellies full, the three companions departed before the end of first watch. Neither the High Cantor nor Ser Owain saw them off, but the old physician, Torold Isgaren, was there to offer once again his thanks and prayers for their continued health. Though he tried to put a good face on it, it was obvious to them all that he was shaken to the core by the vengeance he’d brought down on those he loved.

“I fear the Korönians may have had their revenge after all,” Mariala sighed, as the abbey disappeared behind a curve of the road. “Mirelael’s death in particular was a blow I don’t think the old man will ever really recover from.”

The others nodded agreement, and they rode on in contemplative silence for the rest of the morning. But the world was bright and beautiful under its blinding blanket of snow, and they were young, and by lunch they were singing songs and laughing again.

They were able to secure two rooms at the only public house in a small village, just as dusk was falling and the temperature again dropping. It was the last village on the River Gemin before the road left it and turned southwestward, and the inn, though small, was cozy, warm and relatively clean. Aside from a young blacksmith’s apprentice, they were the only travelers in the tap room that evening, although several locals drifted in after supper.

Sopping up the last of the hearty stew in his bowl with the last crust of bread, Draik sat back with a sigh and lifted his mug of ale. Continuing a debate that had been interrupted by the arrival of their meal, he saluted Vulk and took a drink.

“I still say that the Ancients were more powerful in their day than the Immortals are today. I mean, they destroyed the entire world, and yet still some of their works remain functional a million years later. It’s only been 4,000 years since the Codominion, when the Immortals ruled the world directly with us and our longer-lived cousins, yet you’d be hard pressed to find anything more than ruins of that civilization.”

“Oh, there are some rather spectacular bits of Codominion civilization that still work quite well,” Vulk replied. “They’re just not well known outside of the Church or the T’ara Kul.” He glanced sideways at Mariala, who had not yet confided in him (or Draik, he didn’t think) about her… skills. But after the fight with both the hill troll and the Korönian cleric it was obvious that she was more than just an arcanist scholar with an interest in folklore. But he was patient, she’d bring it up when she felt comfortable enough with him.

“But really, I hardly think the ability to destroy your world indicates any particular greatness of mind or spirit. I think it far more impressive that the Immortals took that dead world and brought it back to life. A much tougher job than mere destruction.

“Or would you argue that we Umantari are greater than the Immortals, since it was our mages who almost destroyed the world again during the Age of Chaos?”

Mariala shifted uneasily in her seat at this, and Vulk quickly added, “And the warring cults of those years were at least as much to blame, of course.” She shot him a wry smile, but returned her gaze to her cup of wine.

“Well, who’s to say that the Ancients didn’t bring life to this world first, and then destroy it,” Draik demanded, ignoring the question.

“Mmm, actually,” interjected Mariala, “both certain writings from the Telnori and research by various… arcanists… seem to prove that life existed on Novendo for an immeasurably long time before either the Ancients or the Immortals existed.”

At inquiring looks from the two men she went on. “For example, it’s believed that rock oil comes from very ancient forests and swamps that have been compressed and changed over millions of years… the burning rock of the Khundari is another form of such ancient organic material. Such alterations take tens of millions of years to form… or so I’ve been told by those whose opinions I trust.”

“I’ve seen the rock oil,” Draik said, waving his empty mug at the inn keeper. “When we would go into the marshes to gather rare herbs and other plants for my uncle…” His face darkened momentarily at the memory of his harsh and unforgiving “guardian,” and of his lost brother.

“I never gave much thought to where it came from, just that it was useful for many potions when distilled properly…”

“Oh, please, go on more about the Ancients!”

All three turned in surprise at this interjection, which came from the table behind them. It was the young smith’s boy, who had apparently been drinking his cider and listening to their conversation. At their sudden attention he blushed brightly to the roots of his dark blond hair. He was an attractive youth, about 18 years old Vulk guessed, simply dressed in russet trousers and a homespun shirt, which appeared too small for his broad shoulders and the bulging biceps that proclaimed his profession. He was clearly still growing.

“I – I’m sorry,” stuttered on. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on you, but when I heard you mention the Ancients… I’ve always loved stories about them, and about the Immortals, and the great mages and warrior-cantors of the past, and, and…” He tapered off in renewed embarrassment at his own outburst.

“Well, you’re young,” said Draik, from his lofty advantage of maybe six years, “so I’m inclined to forgive your shocking lack of manners…” At the youth’s abashed face he grinned, and added “And who doesn’t love a good tale of the exciting past!”

“Indeed,” said Vulk. “And our friend Mariala here is an expert in such lore, though she is rather shy about sharing it.” He grinned, despite her quelling frown. “Perhaps you can worm a story out her, boy… and if you’re going to join us, we’d best know your name, eh?”

At this invitation the boy jumped up, grabbed his mug of cider, and took the proffered seat next to the cleric. The blush was fading from his face but his eyes shone with excitement at the thought of hearing tales of adventure and magic.

“My name is Edan, of clan Harox,” he said. “I’m a smith’s apprentice in the village of Dirdan, on my way with a load of finished metalwork to the Sheriff at Kar Vandol.” He seemed rather proud of this responsibility, perhaps the first time he’d been so entrusted Mariala thought, as the others introduced themselves.

“Please Lady, do you know any stories of the Ancients?” the boy pleaded. She was annoyed at Vulk’s putting her in this position, she hated public speaking, even this mild, informal sort. But the young man’s enthusiasm was hard to resist, and she gave in with a sigh.

“Well, there are no tales of the Ancients, as such,” she began. “They lived so very long ago, and there are no surviving records or even images of them, so all we know of them comes from the scattered ruins they left behind. Although ruins isn’t exactly the right word… over a million years old, and they are mostly still intact, thanks to the amazing pseudostone they built with.”

“They say that the Khundari once knew the secret of creating pseudostone,” Draik interrupted. “But it was lost with the fall of Zirkonth during the Great War.”

“Actually, the Dwarves of Zirkonth possessed an Ancient artifact that could turn any substance into pseudostone,” Mariala said. “And it’s rumored that another such device exists in the United Realms, but the Khundari King there forbids its use for any but his own people.

“In any case, the point is there are no stories about the Ancients, only stories about what their artifacts do when they fall into mortal hands. But such tales are not really my speciality…”

At Edan’s crestfallen look she added, “But you said you liked stories of great magics and adventure, Edan, and Draik’s talk of his apothecary roots reminds me of one such tale that I think you’ll find instructive. Have you ever heard the story of Baylora’s Folly?”

Edan seemed dubious about any instructive content, but eager enough for the story as he fixed his gaze on her in rapt attention and shook his head. Vulk smiled in recognition, but said nothing.

“I’ve heard some garbled tales,” Draik said, looking interested. “But I took them for mere bogie stories to frighten the children. Beware the man-eating plants of Baylora, that wander the swamps and marshes!”

“Ah, this is no fairy tale,” Mariala smiled. “Baylora Ariath was very much a real person, one of the greatest, and undoubtedly one of the strangest, Torazan mages of the last century.

“We know that Baylora had been an alchemist and herbalist in her youth prior to her being taken into the Guild of Arcane Lore by a wandering mage in the 2920’s. Baylora had a deep knowledge of Torazan lore and an almost uncanny knowledge of plants and animals. One of the youngest mages to achieve the rank of Vendari, in her twenties, Baylora was considered a leading light of her profession, a mage of enormous talent and power.

“Alas, Baylora was also a woman of terrible temper and stubborn pride. Many of her peers could not understand her complex theories, and feared the direction of her research. This lead to arguments and debate, and restraints on her studies and experiments.

“After years of personal conflicts with other mages of her convocation, Baylora one day stormed out of her chancery, vowing never to return, and disappeared for five years. No one knows for sure where she went, but rumor says that she traveled widely during this time, perhaps even to the furthest reaches of eastern Ishkala.

“In any event, she returned to Arushal in 2942, a changed woman – hair wild and unkempt, garments ragged and torn, and her eyes, they say, held the gleam of a visionary… or a fanatic. After a brief stop in Lithkor, she soon vanished again, this time into the western vastness of the Pelon Delta.

“Baylora settled deep in the vast marshlands of the Delta, living in a small abandoned tower she had discovered on an isolated island. There, she was free to conduct her research and live free of the disputes and constraints of other mages, which she so loathed. She had few servants and, with the aid of powerful enchantments, she discouraged visitors from disturbing her peace, although she did allow a few followers to become her students.

“Baylora was a great master of all aspects of Torazan lore, but she seemed to delight most in enchantments that dealt with plants, and particularly with accelerating their growth to monstrous sizes, and increasing their intelligence. That’s where the legends of walking, man-eating plants come from, Draik.” Mariala smiled at her friend, who grinned back.

“Unrestrained by her peers, it is believed that Baylora began to dabble in powerful arts far beyond her capacity to fully understand, much less control. But what, exactly, she did remains a mystery…

“In 2948, one of Baylora’s students, Therax Isgaren, was found drifting at sea in a small coracle; he was near death from exposure and dehydration, raving, almost incoherent, and in a deep state of shock. He was eventually nursed back to health, but if questioned about his mistress, his eyes… well, the look in his eyes would chill your soul… all that could ever be gotten out him was rambling talk about “horrific plants,” “putrid doom,” and “wretched, twisting death.”

“Obviously, something terrible had happened to Baylora and her household. Experts who questioned Therax eventually came to the conclusion that some great experiment of the mage had gone deeply wrong, releasing an explosion of vast Torazan energies that killed her and all of her household, save for Therax. It was assumed that he was away from her sanctum when the disaster occurred, and thus spared.

“If any deeper knowledge of the exact nature of Baylora’s Folly exists, I’ve not heard of it. I met Therax several years ago, in the course of my studies… he’s a very old man now, of course, and a great mage in his own right. But still he will not talk about what happened to Baylora, not even to his own apprentice Ardath, or so I’m told. Of course Ardath is a creep, so I can hardly blame the old man. He continues to maintain that he has no idea of the exact location of Baylora’s island.”

“Has anyone ever tried to find her island?” Edan asked breathelessly.

“I do know of at least two expeditions that have attempted it,” Mariala said. “ In 2962, and again in 3005, parties of adventurers set out across the vast marshes of the Delta in search of her famed tower. The first could not find it, and returned mostly intact, if defeated in their purpose.

“The second expedition disappeared, never to be heard from again… possibly as a result of bandits and brigands hiding in the bogs, or the native Rethmani, who are said to be secretive and hostile to outsiders. Or maybe they were victims of a Darikazi patrol.”

“That last seems unlikely,” Vulk offered. “Darikaz may claim the Delta, but they have little actual control there, and seldom venture into it, except by ship, when chasing the pirates that harbor there.”

“Whatever their fate,” Mariala sighed, “to this day it remains as unknown as Baylora’s own, as does the exact location of her sanctum. And given the nature of her research, many of the wise wonder what may be growing out there… and if it will ever crawl out of the swamps.”

Edan’s eyes were wide at this point, entranced by the visions of monstrous, shambling plant-men, and he jumped up with a strangled squeak, knocking over his cider mug, when Draik tickled the back of his neck. He flushed red again as Draik laughed, but hard feelings were averted when he bought the youth another mug.

More stories were told, with Edan offering up one of his own, a tale of brigands and the bravery of a local posse that tracked them down, until it was time to retire for the night. As the companions prepared to go up to their rooms, and Edan to his bed in the stable, the youth was visibly working up his courage to say something.

“Why don’t we travel together tomorrow?” he blurted out at last. “I know a shortcut to the road to Kar Vandol… I know you’re headed to Savartim, but the western road is rough and slow, especially this time of year… going through Vandoltown will put you on the old Imperial Highway, and in the end you’ll save a whole day! I, um… it would be nice…”

He wound down and looked at the three companions hopefully. They looked at each other, Draik suddenly dubious, Vulk uncertain, and Mariala smiling slightly at the boy’s enthusiasm.

“I’m certain that he’s on the level, Draik,” she said, and after a moment he shrugged and looked at Vulk.

“A day less in the saddle, and the rain,” he said, listening to the steady patter on the roof that had begun an hour earlier, “would be fine with me. Very well, we accept your offer as our local guide Edan, and will travel with you to Kar Vandol.”

A few more minutes settled the matter of when they would start in the morning, and Edan headed out to check on his mule and packs and settle into the warmth of the stable loft. Vulk and Draik bedded down in their small room upstairs, and Mariala in hers next door, only after Vulk had cast a small cantrip to clear both beds of any unwanted companions.

As Vulk drifted off to sleep to the sound of Draik snores, he pondered the future. “Three more days to Savartim,” he thought. “And then what…?”