Khatia woke with the suddenness of her battle-honed instincts, immediately alert for danger. It took her a moment to remember where she was – on the road, several days out from Lian B’hir Mountain, in the tent she shared with Sujia. She relaxed as she realized that it was her traveling companion that had awakened her. The young monk was moaning in her sleep, thrashing in her twisted blankets, and occasionally muttering unintelligible words aloud.

“Sujia! Wake up, you’re having a bad dream,” Khatia called out firmly, but quietly, so as not to wake those in the other tents ranged around their central campfire. She reached out to grasp the dreamer’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. Sujia’s eyes few open, and she jerked upright, staring blankly at her friend for a moment. Gradually, the light of reason returned to her eyes, and she relaxed, although a look of confusion remained.

“I– I’m sorry if I woke you, Khatia,” she mumbled, pulling away from the other woman’s light touch and shuddering briefly, like a dog shedding water after a swim… in a very cold river. 

“It’s alright,” Khatia replied, propped up on one elbow now and looking intently at her friend. The girl was covered in a sheen of sweat, despite the cool night air of spring, and her eyes still held an echo of… something lost. That was what sprang to her mind, for some reason. “Are you all right? What were you dreaming of that so disturbed you?”

“I’m fine, I– I don’t remember what it was, exactly… just a nightmare of some sort…” She didn’t look at Khatia as she said this, focusing intently on untangling her blankets.

“Are you sure? If you want to talk about it, Sujia, I’m—“

“I said I don’t remember!” Sujia snapped, a brief flash of annoyance passing over her usually placid features. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.” She lay back down, turning to put her back to her tent-mate and pulled the blankets up over shoulders.

Khatia lay back and frowned. That sharp retort was not at all like Sujia’s usual calm and almost too-polite demeanor. Well, a nightmare could unsettle anyone’s mind… she remembered one time in her teens when she’d woken up furious with her own mother, for something the poor woman had done in Khatia’s dreams. It had taken her days to get over the anger, even though she knew it was unreasonable. No doubt Sujia will be fine in the morning, she thought as she drifted back into sleep.

• • • • •

The next morning Sujia was indeed her usual placid self, and made no mention of the midnight incident. Khatia shrugged and figured the girl probably didn’t even remember it. She put it out of her own mind soon enough, busy with the work of breaking camp and preparing for another day’s march.

They were coming down out of the the lightly-settled hills east of Lian B’hir, and today would see them well into the hinterlands west of the great city of Bako, the Pona Hanni’s next destination. But that was still several days travel away. Today’s goal was to reach a small hamlet set along the road, home to a particularly fine kirusi [keer-OO-see].

“I don’t remember the name of the little farming hamlet itself,” Viroj had said several nights before, when they were all wrapped in their blankets and sitting around the campfire at the highest, and coldest, point on the road over the hills. “But I will never forget the Cherry Blossom Kirusi – nor will you, my friends!”

“A kirusi?” Edain had said. “Isn’t that just another name for an inn?” 

He’d had that inward look which Khatia had come to realize meant he was focusing on the magical torc around his neck. The artifact translated any language for him, and it worked so well that it was easy to forget her own language was not his native tongue. But occasionally there was a word which, while he might understand its literal definition, didn’t convey the full meaning as a native speaker would understand it. 

“Inn?!” Viroj had laughed. “Well, my young friend, that’s true enough I suppose – if you consider these hills, as high as they are, to be mountains! Or if you think a ditty scratched onto a scrap of parchment is the same as a leather-bound volume of the poetry of K’hil Vartan! Or if you imagine these donkey’s of ours, however true and strong, compare to—“

“I think he gets the point,” Khatia had interrupted, laughing herself. Usually Sujia would have been the one to come to the Pona Hanni’s aid, but she had been quieter than usual that night, and a bit withdrawn. “A kirusi is indeed an inn, but one at a much more elevated level than the common establishments usually found along the roads, even the Imperial highways. They take especial pride in providing the very best of everything – food, accommodation, beverages, service, art, and peaceful relaxation.”

“That sounds… expensive,” Edain had said. “Very expensive.”

“Oh to be sure, the cost is more than what you’d expect to pay at the usual roadside dive,” Viroj had agreed. “But not unreasonably so, all things considered… it’s well worth it, I promise you. And I think, after so many days of roadside camping, we will all deserve a day or two of comfort and pampering. 

“The Cherry Blossom Kirusi is run by Madame Wei Li, an amazing woman who seems to know exactly what every patron needs – and then provides it! Her staff are well trained, the building itself beautiful and well-built, and the food some of the best you’ll find outside the Imperial City. And the baths! Ah, how I look forward to a hot bath and the ministrations of the most diligent of attendants…”

Even Edain had been swayed by the Moon Monk’s description and his tales of the two other times he had stayed within the luxurious precincts of the Cherry Blossom Kirusi. Certainly the thought of it had made the discomforts of their early-spring travels more bearable, and now they were only one easy day’s walk from those promised delights.

• • • • •

Shingli had stayed in any number of rough and ready inns in the few years since he’d run away from his father’s ambitions for him, but he had never stayed in a true kirusi before. He was awed by the beauty of the Cherry Blossom Kirusi as he stood in the late afternoon sunlight before its wide, red-lacquered doors. Even from outside its two stories of dark woods, elegantly carved and detailed in places, straight and elegantly simple in others, contrasting with the white paper and pale plaster of the walls, was breathtakingly harmonious. 

The doors swung open almost immediately at Viroj’s banging of one of the two great brass dragon-shaped knockers, revealing a tall, elegantly dressed woman with silver-streaked black hair. Beautiful, the youth thought, despite her obvious great age… or maybe because of it, he realized. 

“Welcome, travelers,” she said in a beautiful alto, softened with age but still strong. “Enter this refuge, and let the cares and weariness of your journey fall from you while you are within its walls.” 

She stood aside and bowed, gesturing them to pass within. Two young men appeared to take the mules to the stables, and the Wanderers stepped into the entry courtyard. Madame Wei, as she insisted they call her, greeted each traveler, starting with Viroj, whom she clearly remembered from his earlier visits. 

“Welcome back, young demon-hunter! It has been too long since you last graced our kirusi. But I am glad you have brought friends this time, for dark days seem to be upon the land, and it is not good for even one as strong as you to travel alone.”

Viroj then introduced each of his traveling companions in turn, and the proprietress gave a greeting that seemed meaningful to each in. To Shingli she said “Welcome, warrior! May the coming days prove the worth of your decisions, made in the face of such great resistance, and bring you peace.”

To the young warrior’s surprise, they were each guided to their own private room… or rooms, for each had a sitting/eating area as well as a separate sleeping area! Apparently the kirusi was unusually empty just now, and at his questioning the young woman who led him to his room on the second floor explained.

“The roads around have become more dangerous in recent months, sir. Many travelers and local folk have vanished, and people have become reluctant to move about unless they must. But the mistress will no doubt explain more over supper. Which shall be served within the hour, once you have had time to refresh yourself.”

Indeed, over the absolutely perfect meal Madame Wei explained that some great menace had long hung over certain hills to the northwest, but seemed to have become much worse in recent months and to have expanded even to edges of this village. No one quite knew the precise nature of this danger – only that both people and livestock were vanishing with growing frequency.

“There has long been rumors of a haunted cave in the hills to the northwest, which twenty years past was known to be the home a reclusive, but powerful, sage. The man vanished, however, and legend has it that his ghost still haunts his cave… locals have avoided it, save for foolish youths who will challenge one another to approach it on occasional. But several years ago something darker than a mere ghost seemed to come over the place, and since then not even the stupidity of youth has been enough to entice any to go near the place. Not once a few people had vanished after entering…

“But now the threat, whatever it is, seems to be expanding, and I am uncertain what the future may hold… people are becoming more fearful…”

Shingli was not sure why the pretty-boy singer was so eager, after hearing this tale, to wander about the small hamlet, but when Snow Crow announced his intention to do so after the final course of flavored ices, Madame Wei insisted that he not go alone. The girl monk, Sujia, volunteered to go with the singer, and Shingli wondered if he should accompany them… but they were adults, and frankly, the idea of the hot baths was just too tempting!

With the restless spirits of Duan and Leping laid to rest, and the curse on Songxi broken, it soon became obvious that the power which had bound the spirits of the dead to the drowned village had also held it in physical stasis. Even as Khatia poled them back to the River Gate, five years of partial submergence was beginning to take its toll. Almost every building began to sag as rotting wood gave way, collapsing those parts that had remained above the waves into a watery grave. 

Increasing sounds of snapping wood and splashing water rose up across the lily-infested lake as the boat crunched onto the gravel shore near the faded red tori gate that had marked the southern boundary of Songxi. By the time the companions had all disembarked and turned to look, almost nothing of Songxi could be seen. Only the Ancestors’ Hall on its stone foundation remained, a lone island, with the tall finger of the watchtower beyond it jutting up like a skeletal finger from the lapping water. Somewhere beyond one of the larger clumps of bamboo there was one final, immense splash, and then silence.

But the silence didn’t last long.

“Do you hear that?” Sujia asked after a minute, a note of wonder in her quiet voice. “The birds are back!”

And it was true, where before there had only been the sound of wind and water in the graveyard silence of Songxi, and for miles beyond, now birdsong could be heard again. If not quite as many, nor yet as loud, as in other parts of the Bamboo Sea, the avian chorus was steadily growing, and colorful forms could be seen flitting amidst the restless green motion of the trees.

“And all the other forms of life will be returning soon enough,” a high, clear voice added from… where? They all glanced quickly about, Viroj and Khatia half-drawing their blades; but it was Edain who spotted the speaker – a large, beautiful carp, it’s head sticking above the water just a few feet from his sandaled feet. It’s gold and white scales glittered like metal in the late afternoon sun, which also caught the gleam of intelligence in its large, limpid black eyes.

“Sorry to intrude upon your conversation,” the fish continued, with a polite bob of its head, “but I wanted to catch you before you left the area. Might you and your friends spare me a few moments of your time, Blessed One?”

“Oh. Umm… certainly, honorable, uh… err…” Edain floundered, momentarily at a loss as to how one should properly address a talking carp.

“I am Zhú-zu [shoe-ZOO],” the creature offered. “And you are the Pona Hanni, to whom, along with your companions, I owe a great debt of gratitude.”

“Really?” Edain said, his surprise breaking his temporary mental paralysis. “How could you possibly be indebted to us? I mean,  such a large and beautiful fish as yourself?” He knew enough folktales and myths to know it was generally wise to lay the butter on thick with supernatural beings… 

The carp seemed almost to preen at the compliment, its scales flashing as it turned coyly away, as if abashed. “How kind of you to say! But you see, like every other spirit here I was trapped within the terrible curse of Duan and Leping. So when you freed them, and all the other restless spirits, you freed me as well.”

“But you are surely as alive as any of us,” Sujia said, crouching down next to Edain at the waters edge to peer in wide-eyed fascination at the shining fish. “How could you be trapped? Unless you’re the ghost of a carp, I suppose…”

“No, I am no ghost,” the carp laughed, its tale whipping about in apparent amusement. “But I am a spirit. The spirit of this river, to be precise, as my name might suggest.”

“Ah, that makes perfect sense, noble spirit,” Viroj said, pulling his robes up to kneel on the other side of Edain. “But like my friend, I wonder how one such as you came to be ensnared in a mortal curse?”

“It was a powerful enchantment, as you saw… In the aftermath of that terrible night five years ago I sensed something terribly wrong here at Songxi, usually one of the most serene human  places along my banks. I came to investigate, and sensed the nature of the problem as I neared. I watched awhile, and saw the fate of those unhoused spirits caught within the vortex and bound to it. Even I feared the power of such love and anguish intertwined… but foolishly decided I would be safe from its effects if my own spirit was encased in a mortal shell.

“So I used much of my innate power to fashion myself this body, no trivial task even for me! Then I entered the flooded town… only to find I had been wrong! My spirit was not bound to this flesh, as true mortals are to theirs. It was a mere disguise, and so I fell victim to the curse myself and it held me in this place. I struggled for long days to free myself, but only weakened my already spent powers. 

“Thereafter, all I could do was watch those few humans who eventually ventured into the trap meet their own fates and become bound and restless spirits in their turn. I lent what power I could to those few mortals who tried, as you did, to break the curse that bound us all… but they all fell short, and then fell themselves into bondage.”

“But as you said, with the curse now broken, you are free as well,” Khatia commented, Fromm where she stood behind Sujia. “Why do you remain in this form, then?”

“A good question, fire mage,” Zhú-zu sighed. Khatia wondered briefly how a creature without lungs could do that, then realized it was a minor quibble, given the talking and all. 

“I remain weak because I had to spend every moment of the last five years holding onto this body – it was my only shield against becoming as mindlessly enslaved as the other spirits caught in that terrible snare. Now I seem to be… stuck. I suppose, in time,  enough of my power would return to allow me to transform back into my spirit form, but I have spent too long in mortal flesh already. I would return to my true form and function now!”

“Is there some way we could help you with that, noble Zhú zu—“ Edain began, only to be cut off by the sudden excited splashing of the glittering carp.

“I’m so pleased you asked, Blessed One!” she said after calming down. “In fact, I was hoping you and your companions might aid me in achieving my goal. You see, the Guardian Dragon of Loushang Mountain, the mighty Jin-Zhi, has the power to restore me to my true form… but her home is high atop that mountain, and even if I should make it up the river without being killed, I could never make it through the Dragon’s Gate in this form. I need protection along the way and assistance at the end.”

“Ah,” sighed Sujia, a sudden gleam in her eye. “As they say, ‘The Carp has leaped through the Dragon’s Gate,’ yes?”

Zhú zu froze for a moment in apparent surprise, then bowed her head at the acolyte. “Indeed Noong Sujia, that is my hope!”

“But isn’t this the same dragon who destroyed the Imperial dam and caused all this chaos to begin with?” Snow Crow asked, recalling his conversation of the evening before with the headman of Yaohima hamlet. “Do you really think it’s safe to actually visit such a dangerous and unpredictable creature?”

“I am not certain what happened that night,” the carp said, her tone suddenly serious. “But I have known Jin-Zhi for many centuries, ever since she took up her position as a Guardian Dragon, in fact. She is powerful and wise, and I have never known her to act capriciously or without forethought… she has always considered the requests for aid from the humans who live within her realm, and granted their wishes if she could. Perhaps that night was a mistake, or… or, I don’t know, something else. But I know she will listen to me, and help me regain my true form… and when she does, I will repay my debt to you by granting you each a wish…”

“A generous reward, but this is not a trivial thing you’re asking of us,” Edain said, glancing around at his friends. “We will certainly discuss your request, Zhú zu – but first we have another obligation to fulfill, one that will not wait on any delays. We must return the Sky Blade to its rightful guardian, who lays at death’s door.

“But once that is done I, at least, will return and give you a decision concerning your quest. You have waited for five years, noble river spirit, can you wait another tenday or less?”

“I can wait,” the shining gold and white fish said, sighing again, to Khatia’s private amusement. “And I know such noble souls as you all possess will not deny me in my time of need. I trust you will return and join me as I seek the Dragon’s Gate – I will await you near the hamlet where the Xiǎo xī mèi joins my river.”

It seems that supernatural creatures are quite capable of laying it on thick, too, Edain thought as he rose. The carp gave a great jump and a twist, splashing back into the water and vanishing in a flash of gold.

It was dark by the time the companions reached Yaohima, and Viroj wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or insulted by the amazed greetings of the villagers – once they’d made sure they weren’t ghosts, of course. Had they so little faith in them, then? Well, why shouldn’t they have doubted? It wasn’t like the villagers hadn’t seen others go down that road and never return.

The rest of trip, from Yaohima to Kirai’an, took three days,  the companions entering the town’s western gate in the late afternoon of 26 Byan. Feeling a strange certainty that there was no time to waste, Edain insisted they head straight to the Kohan-yen hospice, before even stopping at their inn to clean up. No one argued with him.

They arrived to find Zun Zhe Yi dozing, the evening sun gave a golden glow to his lined and weathered face that made him look almost ethereal. For a moment Edain feared the old man was dead, but at the clack of Viroj’s sword against the door frame his eyes opened, and he smiled as he recognized his visitors.

“You have returned, all of you,” he said, his voice whispery and thin, but clear. “And by the look in your eyes, Pona Hanni, I dare to hope you have returned in triumph.”

“Indeed we have, sir,” Edain affirmed, and he turned to take the silk-wrapped blade from Sujia, who had pulled it from her pack when they’d entered the room. He drew back the shimmering cloth, revealing the black and silver sheath and the leather-wrapped hilt, then pulled the blade half-way out. At the old priest’s wide grin he bent down to lay it in his trembling, outstretched hands.

“Ah, at last, my charge is again safe and my responsibility fulfilled.” He looked lovingly at the black blade for a moment, then his face darkened. He slid the blade firmly back into its sheath and looked up with serious eyes, searching Edain’s face. “But there is more to tell, is there not? What of the fate of my grandson and his beloved wife?”

With Sujia at his side and the others arrayed in the doorway or just outside, peering in, Edain told the tale of Leping and Duan, in full and leaving out nothing. The old man deserved to know the whole truth, and he was strong enough to bear it, even now. It was dark outside by the time the tale was told, and Zhe Yi smiled sadly as Edain finally fell into silence.

“He was a good lad, with a will of iron, and I know Duan loved him passionately… what a world we live in, where such virtues can turn to such horror. But that is the nature of being human I suppose… and in the end all was set right. Or at least as right as this broken world will allow.” He closed his eyes with a sigh.

After a moment they all thought he’d fallen asleep, but just as they were looking at each other and wondering if they should depart, the old man roused himself again. 

“My guardianship of the Tiankong Zhiren is renewed, but it will not last long now. So I must find a new guardian for my family’s legacy. And I can think of no more fitting candidate than the Pona Hanni themself.”

He lifted the sword in both hands, in a way that seemed starkly ceremonial, and held it out toward Edain. After a moments hesitation, the Pona Hanni bowed his head, and accepted the sword. He had suspected something like this might happen, given the priest’s age and health, and had given the matter some deep thought on the journey back from Songxi. In the end he had realized he could not turn down the responsibility, if it was offered to him… and now it hand been, and he accepted the duty.

“Keep the Tiankong Zhiren with you until you find the one who is destined to wield it for the greater good,” Zhe Yi said quietly. “You will know them when the time is right…” His voice trailed of into a barely audible whisper, which only Edain and Suija heard. “Even if it proves to be yourself, my boy…”

This time he really did drift off into sleep, and the friends quietly left the room, Suija closing the door softly after one last look back at the old man. She was sadly certain she would never see him alive again.

It was an hour past dawn the next day when the same runner from the hospice who had summoned Edain to his first visit to the elderly priest arrived at their inn with the news that Zun Zhe Yi had died in his sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning. The physicians had said his passing had been peaceful and painless, although Snow Crow silently wondered how they could know that. He had the sense, however, to realize this wasn’t the time to bring up something like that.

The news really came as a surprise to no one, nor the fact that the hospice wondered if the Pona Hanni would lead the funeral rites for the elderly priest, as he had no known living relatives to do the honors. Edain agreed, of course. 

The next day, 28 Byan, under gray and intermittently weeping skies, the Pona Hanni officiated before a small group of those who had known and cared about the old man… half the attendees were, in fact, the Wanderers themselves.

That afternoon, back at their inn and over a meal honoring the memory of Zun Zhe Yi, the group discussed their next move. Specifically, would they honor the request of the incarnated river spirit Zhú Zu, and escort her carp-form up her namesake river to the home of the Guardian Dragon Jin-Zhi, in the hope of restoration for her and answers for the humans?

It took almost a tenday to wrap up the situation in Libeo Wan [lee-BEH-oh WAHN] (Riverbend) after the deaths of the warlords and the disarming of their forces, restoring order and some semblance of proper government. Inevitably, Edain’s true identity soon became widely known and the townspeople looked to him for leadership… it made him uncomfortable, but he nonetheless undertook what he saw as his moral duty with care and thoughtfulness. The rest of the Wanderers pitched in, of course, and the love the people felt for them, given their role in freeing the town, made it easier to bring order back. 

Khatia was perhaps the busiest of the companions, training those of the former conscripts who wished to serve as the nucleus of a new City Guard. Snow Crow entertained often, his gifts raising the morale of the citizenry… both publically and privately. Viroj aided the priest of the local temple, once he was freed from the usurpers’ imprisonment, both in recovering his health and seeing to the spiritual needs of the people. Sujia, of course, stuck to Edain’s side like a shadow, proving very adept as his aide de camp.

When things began to settle down Edain, as the Pona Hanni [POE-nah hah-NEE], was urged by the town leaders to travel to the provincial capital of Kirai’an [keer-EYE-ahn] to lend his voice and reputation to the telling of the tale and to Libeo Wan’s request for aid and guidance. The remainder of the marauding mercenaries were still wandering the countryside and, while now headless, yet posed a threat to the peace and safety of the land.

So it came to pass that Edain and his companions traveled by boat with the town’s official delegation down the River Anaruqin [ahn-ARE-oo-kin], the Mother River, to Kirai’an. The journey was actually rather relaxing, three days of doing little more than enjoying the scenery as it flowed past. On arrival, however, once lodgings were secured, the next several days were more hectic, spent testifying before and in consultation with the provincial magistrate. This was a harried man named Chongji Háo [chong-gee HOW]. He had been trying to keep the province running ever since the unforeseen (but not entirely unwelcome) death of Lord Yagimashi [yah-ghee-MAH-she], and was grateful to find at least part of his troubles had been removed by the events at Libeo Wan. 

Once the man had been brought up to speed Edain finally felt his duties had been discharged, and he withdrew himself from the matter, retiring back into his incognito as much as possible. Which, given the gossip spreading like wildfire throughout the larger town, wasn’t very much. Still, he tried, and his companions did their best to keep the illusion of Honorable Shanxia alive.

Despite this, as the Wanderers  contemplated their next move, a runner found them in the common room of their inn, bearing an urgent request for the Pona Hanni. Edain was asked to visit an ailing priest who lay in a local hospice. He was very old, and very ill, the young messenger explained, and surely had little time left… would not the Holy One deign to grant the man his last wish for a private interview? With a sigh, and the vision of his mother’s tight, smug expression of disgust at his easy acquiescence, he agreed.

The hospice was a rambling collection of buildings near the river, set in pleasant park-like grounds, and the room he was led to had a large window overlooking a maze of rhododendrons, only just beginning to show the buds that would eventually turn to a riot of color as the spring progressed. A very elderly man lay in the lone bed, and beneath the blankets that swathed him, Edain could see his body was twisted and crippled by arthritis, which had bent his back and contorted his hands and feet into gnarled uselessness. Pain lines etched his seamed face, but despite that Zun Zhe Yi’s [zoon-shey YEE] expression was calm and accepting.

“I am 117 years old, Blessed One,” he said with a smile, once Edain had bowed and introduced himself, “and not long for this world if the Immortals are at all merciful. But before I depart this plane, I have one last duty I must discharge, and you are the only hope I can see in the growing darkness around me. But before I ask this thing of you, I must tell you something of my past, of my family’s history, and of the tragedy that has brought me to this point…

“It might be difficult to tell by looking at the wreck of my body now, but I am not Kyenii… I was born, long ago, in southern Pandari. It was a time of war between that land and its mighty southern neighbor Kindashi – but really, when is there not conflict between those two? My grandfather was Jixia Yi [gee-SHE-ah YEE], the great warrior whose legendary deeds are known from Kindashi to Ty Kyen even in these later days.

“But in that time when my tale begins he was growing old, and the call to battle had faded in him. After the death of his only son in some pointless battle, he decided to be quit of it all. He gathered up his widowed daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren (myself and my older sister) and took us north, through the mountain passes and into Ty Kyen. Here he sought the most peaceful place he could find, finally settling us all in the ancient village of Songxi [song-SHE], in the heart of Zhú Hai [zhoo-HIGH], the great Bamboo Sea.

“There we were accepted, even welcomed, and soon began to put down roots. In time my grandfather moved on from this mortal coil, and in his passing left a great gift to the village temple. His bequest had a single condition: that I be accepted as an acolyte and the guardian of his gift. So it was that I began my religious calling at age 17, and accepted the guardianship of Tiankong Zhiren [tee-AHN-kong SHEER-ehn] the Sky Blade, great heirloom of my family, until such time as one worthy of wielding it should be found.

“The Sky Blade was made from iron that fell from the sky, forged by the legendary Ty Kyen smith Lian Gongren [lee-AHN gohn-GREHN], during his time in exile. It was gifted to my grandfather when he was young by the Great Mogul Mizu Fahn of Pandari, in payment for his heroic defense of the Royal Family in their direst need. Supernally sharp, with an edge that never nicks nor dulls, the black blade can cut through almost any armor, save perhaps that of the dragons, and it soon became a part of his own growing legend.”

The old man had to pause for a moment to gather his breath, and he motioned at the pitcher of water at his bedside table. Edain poured a cup, and then held it to Zun Zhe Yi’s lips when he realized how difficult it would be for those twisted hands to hold the vessel. Once his thirst was slaked and his breath recovered, the old priest continued.

“For a hundred years now, that blade has rested in the stewardship of the temple of Songxi. I was never of a martial bent myself, as my grandfather well knew, nor were either of my daughters as the years went on. My oldest grandson showed some promise as a warrior, and I thought perhaps he would be the one to again take up the Sky Blade… but he died young, and it was not to be. My youngest grandson, Leping [leh-PING], has followed in my footsteps, and as my acolyte has taken on the guardianship of the blade… perhaps if his wife, Duan [doo-AHN] bears him a son…

“But no, that is just the maunderings of an old fool… for both my grandson and his wife are certainly dead now, as are all the people of peaceful, isolated Songxi. For you see, five years ago, there was a terrible disaster… 

“The small river of Zhú nu [zhoo-NEW] runs through Songxi, and by Imperial edict a dam was constructed much farther upstream, in an attempt to created and irrigate new farmland… many felt this was… well, one does not say foolish when speaking of the Imperial mandate… let us say rather, not fully considered. The Bamboo Sea exists for a reason, and is not easily pushed back… but in any case, the damn was built, land was cleared and terraced, and peasants were being moved in to farm the new area.

“But something went terribly wrong. I was away the night it happened, having been brought here in the hopes of finding a physician who might ease the pain of my worsening condition – I was not then as crippled as you see me now, but was well on my way. Even our local sorceress had proved unable to help me, being more versed in the magics of water and cold than in the healing arts. 

“Three nights after my departure… the Imperial Engineering Corp has remained strangely silent… but apparently the new dam failed, completely and spectacularly. All that the Imperials have ever said is that a wall of water roared down the river valley in the small hours of that spring night, and Songxi was washed away, utterly destroyed. To be sure, everyone would have been asleep at that hour… all must have perished indeed, for no word has ever come to me of any survivor in the years since.

“After a time, as my grief grew less overwhelming, I realized I still had a responsibility to undertake, and I eventually sent agents to recover the Sky Blade, if such was possible. Three times I sent groups, and three times they failed to return… nor have I heard of anyone who has actually seen the ruins of my old home, and that seems passing strange to me. 

“An Imperial Edict quickly declared the area “a monument to those who tragically perished” and discouraged any travel there… for a time, Imperial Rangers actually patrolled to keep people out, turning away any who would travel to Songxi. Three years ago they were withdrawn, however, and now fear and superstition keep most away. The Imperial attempt to cover up their mistake has apparently succeeded… it seems to me that most people have forgotten that Songxi ever existed.” 

This thought seemed to deeply sadden the old man, and for a moment he seemed lost in renewed grief. But then he visibly shook off the mood and continued his tale.

“But I have not forgotten Songxi, nor have I forgotten my duty to my family legacy and to my temple. Something strange has clearly happened, something the Imperial government wants to ignore. I cannot ignore it, nor my duty, yet I have feared to send more good souls into… whatever awaits there in the heart of the Bamboo Sea. But now, at my final extremity and just as I feared I would die with my duty unfulfilled, YOU arrive – avatar of an Immortal, with skilled men and women at your side, surely the Pona Hanni can succeed where others have failed!

“Please, Holy One, will you and your companions not undertake to travel into the Bamboo Sea, to whatever ruins remain of lost Songxi, and recover the Sky Blade of my great ancestor? And if you can do that, perhaps you can end whatever curse seems to haunt the place, as well…”

“I will speak to my companions, venerated elder,” Edain said after a moment of thought. “For the most part they travel with me at their own pleasure, and I do not compel them. But your story has moved me, as I think it will move them, and I have little doubt they will agree to accompany me on this honorable task. In any case, I at least will travel to your lost home and attempt to recover your legacy…”

“The Khundari are a wonderful folk, to be sure,” Vulk sighed, as he sipped from his goblet of chewy Andaran red. “I can’t help but feel, however, that their fondness for endless bureaucratic procedures can be taken a bit too far.”

He and several of the other members of the Hand were enjoying a leisurely late luncheon on the Great Terrace overlooking the Outer City of Zhan-Tor on this unseasonably warm afternoon. It had been three days since the events at the Hardeshan Museum and the Hand’s discovery of the infestation of mimics that had been terrorizing the area for months. They had been preparing to return to Avantir that day, in fact had been on their way to the docks, when they’d been diverted by the crisis — and while they understood the need for an official debriefing (and Mariala at least had been more than happy at the chance to study the lair and documents of the strange mimic-human hybrid, Darvish Kölln ), the on-going investigation by the Khundari authorities seemed to be dragging out interminably.

“It’s in our nature, I’m told,” Toran replied diffidently, spearing the last of the pickled mushrooms with his knife. “Not my nature, of course – as a Shadow Knight I’m all about speed, stealth and minimal paperwork.”

“Well, I wish you’d convince your cousin’s here to adopt a similar attitude,” Erol laughed. Grover was draped across his shoulders, nodding off after gorging on the tidbits his master had bee feeding himfor the past hour. “Although Mariala, at least, doesn’t seem as anxious to get back to the City as she was a week ago. Speaking of which, where is her ladyship? I haven’t seen much of her the couple of days.”

“She’s in the Book House,” Devrik rumbled, pouring himself another mug of the excellent ale the Khundari restaurant had provided. “She says she needs quiet to decrypt those journals of that loon Köln, and while she appreciates Lord Grimbold’s hospitality, his household is apparently a bit too chaotic for her nerves just now.”

“And the Book itself is safely tucked into Draik’s satchel today, while he studies with that Apothecary Hradlok,” Vulk added. “Although why he wants to spend such a beautiful autumn day in those caverns with all that mutant fungi is beyond me!”

“Always looking to expand his knowledge,” Devrik laughed. “Especially in regards to improving the Baylorium, which is something I certainly applaud.”

Vulk acknowledged the point, and went on “Anyway, I expect we’ll see both of them at dinner this evening. Surely she must be almost finished with those journals and notes by now…”

• • • • •

In fact, Mariala had finished deciphering Darvish Köln’s papers the first night after they had investigated the man’s… well, really, “lair” was the only word for those dank subterranean living quarters… and if “man” he could fairly be called. The cypher had been almost childishly simple, but what it had revealed was more a horror story than a childhood fable – a human who had merged, both physically and psychologically, with an Elder Mimic, their fusion granting the shapeshifting abilities of the semi-sentient creature to the human host, but at a terrible cost.

In the notes and journal entries Mariala could see that the fusion had happened slowly, as Köln’s “tame” mimic cloak, which he’d apparently worn for years as an adventurer, gradually fused it’s genetic essence with his own. The creature’s own rudimentary mind also psychically fused, equally slowly and unnoticed, with Darvish’s mind. In time this fusion created a hybrid intelligence that was neither wholly mimic nor wholly human, a fact made horrifically clear as the style and content of their writing shifted inexorably toward something “other.”

The motivations of the melded Darvish-creature seemed to Mariala as unique as his physical form. Whereas he had once sought after adventure and riches for personal power, in recent months he seemed to have sought riches only to spread his mimic “children” as widely as possible. Falling in with an ambitious group of would-be thieves shortly after arriving in Talkir several months ago, he had developed the idea of slowly stealing valuable artifacts from the Hardeshan Museum of Nature and History, and replacing them with mimics. Apparently selling off the stolen originals had eventually become secondary, to Darvish, if not to his criminal allies.

The thieves, blinded by delusions of forming a great Thieves Guild dancing in their heads, fell in with his ideas quickly enough, as short-sighted and insane as they seemed to Mariala. But Köln had possessed tremendous charisma, apparently, and the would-be criminals believed they could control their new partner, unaware of how inhuman he truly was… and of just how dangerous. As the bodies began to mount, however, and the unfenced loot began to pile up, they came to realize their mistake. They had begun looking for a way to disassociate themselves from Darvish without become his, and his “children’s” next meal.

By the time he openly murdered one of the thieves and began controlling the rest through fear and intimidation, Kölln seemed to have become so far removed from his own humanity to not realize, or to simply not care, how his mad scheme was drawing attention – he simply seemed to want to place his mimics as quickly as he could. Fortunately his own hubris helped the Hand to bring him down, and they, alongside the Khundari City Watch, had destroyed all of the mimics.

Well, except for the two she’d found in Köln’s workshop cum sleeping chamber, Mariala thought with a smile as she pulled them out of a drawer in her desk. Really, her private study here in the Book House, was the perfect place to keep the tiny creatures while she studied them – utterly secure, with no way they could escape back into the real world on their own. She’d tell the others about them eventually, of course, once she’d tamed them and could prove how useful they were… and once they were back in Avantir, away from the small-minded prejudices of the Khundari about mimics.

Yes, for now it was just easier to avoid the whole ridiculous range of difficulties her friends would throw at her if they knew about the little beasties. There’d be time to sort it all out later. It wasn’t like they were even very big yet, having apparently budded off from the Darvish-Mimic just hours before that last Museum job and his/its death. 

Even so young, their ability to mimic objects was already advancing under her guidance… after two days of intense study and mental effort, she’d managed to get them both to take the shape of gold coins! Even she couldn’t tell them apart from an actual Imperial gold crown without a mental probe. And so far they were retaining the form she’d commanded them take… really, the possibilities were just limitless…

• • • • •

That evening the entire Hand, along with Lord Grimbold’s other Ysgarethi visitors, Lord Aldor Halem of Tolus and his son, Imrah, gathered in their host’s main dining hall for what turned out to be a farewell meal. Once everyone was seated Grimbold rose to offer the Welcoming Cup, draining his own chalice in three great gulps. 

“And with that,” he cried, slamming the goblet down with a bang, “I bring news, of various kinds, for my honored guests. For the Hand of Fortune, I can to tell you that the city authorities have concluded their investigation into the matter at the Hardeshan Museum, or at least that part of it which has delayed you here in our city. As of tomorrow, you are all free to depart and return to Avantir at your pleasure…”

“Not that we haven’t enjoyed both your very fair city, and your own even fairer hospitality, Lord Grimbold,” Vulk said, speaking up quickly for the friends. “But it is perhaps time we returned to our own families and friends, and our various duties in the City.” He knew perfectly well that Devrik, in particular, was champing at the bit to get back to Raven and Aldari.

“Well, I understand, of course,” Grimbold replied, his smile fading as he glanced over at his old friend, Aldor. “However, I’m going to ask if you might be willing to delay that return for just a bit longer. I’m afraid a matter has, once again, arisen for which I must ask your aid. Yours, and that of my old friend Aldor, for this crisis involves an old companion of ours…”

“I see,” the silver-haired paladin replied, looking thoughtful. His voice was deep, rich and resonate, matching his good looks, Vulk thought… not bad at all for a man in his sixties! “With Gil and Kavyn rather publicly accounted for, and my old friend Dwain having met his sad fate years ago in Kunya-Kesh, that only leaves Flaricia or Elgin.”  

“Indeed,” Grimbold said. He turned to again address the Hand. “This morning I received a… communication, let us say… from the Lady Flaricia Silverstar, a dear companion of those youthful adventuring days which Aldor and I shared long ago. She is Aunari, and came to me in an astral projection — a form of communication that I know some of you, at least, understand is draining and chancy, and not something done lightly or for trivial reasons. It seems she is on Asdach, a minor island in the Southern Reach, where people seem to be vanishing quite mysteriously. She seemed to feel in some peril herself, and to believe another of our old friends is somehow involved, a friend whose name I had not heard  in many years – the Purple Druid!”

Aldor, who had looked pleased at the mention of Flaricia, looked somewhat less pleased at having his second guess confirmed. The Hand mostly just looked blank… only Vulk had some dim memory of having heard of a Purple Druid in his recent studies into his Torazin convocation, although he could remember little else beyond the name.

“Does she think Elgin is responsible for these disappearances,” Aldor asked, frowning. “Or is he one of those vanished?”

“It was… unclear,” Grimbold sighed, turning back to his old friend. “You know how astral communications can be, often more feeling than clear statements. But I fear she fears the former. You remember how changed Elgin seemed, Aldor, after returning from his near-death? I mean beyond his altered cosmetic appearance? Well, in the years after you left us to return to Tolus, he grew increasingly… strange. His devotion to Drina and Her goals of environmental protection increased to what seemed to the rest of us as excessive levels.

“With Gil returned to his rightful place on the Coral Throne, and Kavyn at his side as Myrmytron, Elgin became increasingly frustrated when they wouldn’t… couldn’t, really… enact all of the draconian laws he demanded. Things like forbidding clearing of land for farming, restoration of existing cleared land to woodland, forced birth control to limit Umantari growth… he couldn’t seem to understand why Gil couldn’t just wave his Imperial hand and make it happen.

“Two years after the Restoration the Purple Druid vanished. Kavyn tried to find him, as his duties allowed, but over the next decade the best he could find were rumors of a purple-skinned, violet-haired man moving amongst the Talim Nar in northern Ysgareth, preaching a radical interpretation of Drina’s doctrine. Then, even the rumors stopped. Flaricia’s plea for help this morning is the first I think any of us have heard of our one-time companion in decades.”

“Whatever the situation on this island, should we not contact the Emperor and Lord Kavyn?” Aldor asked, ever practical. “Surely they have the resources to—“

“Yes, certainly – and these days those resources include the Hand of Fortune,” Grimbold interrupted. “I suspect, given the potential delicacy and personal nature of this situation, the Emperor would likely ask our friends here to investigate on his behalf… this just saves time. But more importantly, I got the sense that Flaricia wished to avoid involving them, if possible – after all, it would have been much easier for her to contact her “half-brother,” rather than me, if she’d wanted Kavyn’s, and by extension the Imperium’s, help.”

“I… see. Well, certainly I am at your disposal then, my friend, if you think I can be a help in the matter,” Aldor said, conceding the point graciously. “And I will admit, it will be pleasant to see Flaricia again… so, will we Gate to this island, or must we take ship? If the matter is urgent…”

“It is, but I’m afraid there is no Gate on the island itself,” Grimbold admitted. “The nearest one is located on Kezden, a much larger island to the north of our destination. But I’ve spent the morning making arrangements to get us quickly from the Gate at the monastery of Alatonu-Kahar to the port of Daronn, and from there it’s only a short sail to Asdach. If we get an early start tomorrow, we should accomplish the journey in less than a day. 

“And what of you, my young friends?” Grimbold asked, again turning to the Hand. “Will you come with us to save an old friend… or maybe two?” 

8 – 13 Vento 3020

After a fifnight of being feted by the Khundari of Zhan-Tor in gratitude for their ending of the threat of Horgüd Winderwalker and his air cult, the Hand figured it was time to return to Avantir. When Captain K’Jorul informed them, via Mariala’s Remote Writing, that he would be taking the Wind of Kasira on a trial run soon, the solution seemed obvious. With all repairs and refitting complete, he said he could be in the port of Talkir on the 12th of the month, ready to return them to the Imperial capital in style and at their leisure.

Making their goodbyes to Lord Grimbold and his family early in the morning of the 13th, the friends found a large group of Khundari and Umantari citizens waiting to see them off from the docks. Once on the opposite shore of Lake Cirn they found two coaches waiting for them in Torum-Tüm, a thoughtful touch arranged by the city fathers of Zhan-Tor. The luxury vehicles made the journey down to the port of Talkir both comfortable and quick. Arriving in the late afternoon, the Hand were surprised to find Captain K’Jorul and an squad of four well-armed crewmen awaiting them at the posting house just inside the city’s main gate.

“Apologies for the melodrama, m’lords, m’lady,” the captain said, making a casual bow to his employers, “but the situation in town is such that I felt it were better you not travel unescorted to the ship. Not that you aren’t well able to take care of yourselves, of course, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate being blindsided by any trouble.”

“What situation, and what sort of trouble, Belith?” Mariala asked, a note of eagerness in her voice. While the last few days in Zhan-Tor had been pleasant enough, she had found herself growing bored, and the long day of travel had left her filled with pent-up energy rather than tired. She found the possibility of burning it off with some action strangely appealing.

“Well, it seems that a suspiciously large number of people have been going missing the past two months – a number that has been growing at an accelerating rate recently. Some of the missing have been turning up in the sewers under the city, dead and most horribly mutilated, and in increasing numbers over the last month. In recent days they’ve even been found floating in the harbor.

“It seems that the focus of the disappearances is a local museum – the Hardeshan Museum of Nature and History.”

“Oh, that’s a pretty well-known private museum,” Vulk said. “Kasira knows Bizwik has been going on about it ever since we arrived in Avantir.”

“Yes,” K’Jorul laughed. “He sailed with us specifically so he could visit the place, and was terribly disappointed to find it was recently closed.” His smile faded. “In fact, it is in some danger of being closed down for good, apparently, if the mystery of these disappearances and deaths are not soon solved. Which brings me to the other reason I’m here – Ser Tomas met yesterday with the museum’s director, a Lord Kordon Hardeshan, and apparently convinced the man that the Hand of Fortune was just what he needed to save his beloved family institution.

“Lord Hardeshan has sent a formal request to the Wind, requesting your aid as soon as may be. Of course I committed you to nothing, but as the Museum lies between this gate and the docks, I thought you might wish to at least talk to the man…”

18 Turniki — 4 Vento 3020, Aventir and Zhan-Tor, Oceania

As it turned out, finding a way home from the ruined temple to which Thuron Yan’s vengeful machinations had brought them was relatively simple for the Hand of Fortune. The old sorcerer’s  Nitrarin Gate linking spell remained intact and functional, and after an hour of careful study Vulk and Devrik were confident that, together, they could safely trigger it to return them home again.

While the two friends studied the intricacies of the linked-portal spell, the other’s carefully packed up the many books, scrolls and tablets recovered from Thuron Yan’s well-hidden stash, loading them up onto Vulk’s earth elemental to carry. Any surviving B’okiri had either fled the ruined temple or remained in hiding in its remoter recesses – as long as they offered no further opposition to the Hand, the companions were content to let them be.

“They seem very dependent on a strong leader,” Mariala mused, as they packed the books and scrolls back into the chests the snake lord had obviously used to transport them thither. “I wonder how they’ll fare on their own, now that both their old dragon mistress and their new snake master are dead?”

“Thinking of offering yourself up as their new boss?” Toran asked absently, perusing a bound set of thin engraved bronze plates that seemed to contain several interesting Yalva spells.

“Certainly not!” she huffed indignantly. “Do I seem like the sort of person who’d want minions?” At his non-committal shrug she continued, “Anyway, I hate this humid climate… it makes my hair all frizzy. Besides, even if I could get them home, somehow, where could I keep them?“

Toran suddenly became very engrossed in the study of his bronze plates, wisely letting the matter drop. Mariala also shook off the ridiculous idea, and returned to loading the chests as efficiently as possible. Erol and Draik exchanged amused looks, but didn’t offer any opinions out loud.

By the time Vulk and Devrik were ready to open the portal chain home, four large chests were filled and strapped down across the broad back of the pliant earth elemental. The creature seemed almost child-like now that it wasn’t in combat, and while it didn’t speak, it often tried to smile (at least that’s what Erol thought it was trying to do with its “face”) when one of the humans caught its obsidian chip eyes. Toran wondered if it was a very young chaos-entity, or a very old one… he rather suspected the latter.

The trip back through the linked portals was as dizzying and nausea-inducing as the first one had been, but at least this time Vulk managed to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged on arrival. It was dark, obviously well passed sunset, and everyone took a few minutes to recover. After a moment Toran cast another Sphere of Sholakas to illuminate the front room of the abandoned house in Avantir’s Fourth Circle to which they had been returned. Once everyone was sure they weren’t going to puke, the group began to debate their next course of action.

“I’m not looking forward to explaining to the Emperor, or his Myrmytron, that we’ve offed one of their Imperial ambassadors,” Vulk sighed, swallowing an ominous belch. “And not a minor one, either.”

“Oh, I think we’ve earned enough goodwill to at least be listened to,” Mariala said. “Although the lack of a body does complicate things, I suppose. Still, I’m sure Lord Kavyn will be able to judge the veracity of our story. My more immediate concern is how we’re going to get all these chests back to Bekatia House… they’re too damn heavy and awkward for us to carry that far ourselves, but I’m not sure parading a golem-like giant through the city is a good idea…”

“I suppose we could hire porters,” Erol offered diffidently. “But given what we’ve seen in the months we’ve been in the City, I really don’t think most Avantirians would give the big guy a second look.” He reached up to pat the elemental on its rocky, moss-covered shoulder. It rumbled, and nodded its massive head.

In the event, Erol was proved right – the most attention the Hand and their elemental pack mule garnered on the way home that autumn night was from neighborhood members of the City Watch. Most of those seemed content to just keep a wary eye on the group until they’d passed out of their jurisdictions, however, and the Hand arrived at Bekatia House just before midnight. 

At that point Vulk thanked the golem and used the Staff of Summer to release it back to its elemental plane… but unlike others of its kind, once the elemental spirit had departed, its physical form remained. The Hand now had an almost three meter tall statue of stone, dirt and plants on the street outside their front door. They were all too tired to deal with it just then, however, and with a shrug they hauled the chests into the house and then stumbled to their beds.

The next day an urgent message to the Myrmytron gained the entire Hand a private audience with Emperor Gil-Garon and his First Minister, although not until mid-afternoon. Somewhat to their surprise, his Imperial Majesty didn’t seem particularly phased by the outré tale they told. He merely glanced to Lord Kavyn who, with the silent communication of people who have been together for many years, confirmed the veracity of the story.

“But why would this Thuron Yan go to such lengths to attack you?” the Emperor asked. “This seems such a labyrinthine plot…”

“Well, as I alluded to earlier,” Vulk sighed, “we’d met him previously, about a year ago. And, um… well, we ended up killing him, his servants, and burning down his home.” Which, of course, led to the story of their first meeting with the snake-man, Thuron Yan’s own tale of his youthful indiscretion and subsequent cursing by the shape-shifting red dragon woman, and his centuries-long search for a cure… or for a new body. This in turn led to the tale of Erol’s own death and resurrection in his current form, and how it came at the expense of Thuron Yan’s ambitions to that same end.

The sun was setting in the west by the time they brought the saga to an end, and the fascinated Emperor had servants bring in a light supper for them all. Over the meal he and Lord Kavyn began a discussion of the possible repercussions of the death of an ambassador in the Imperial capital, and the possible reaction from the Ty Kyen Imperial Court.

“It’s not likely to start war, of course… our spheres of interest out too divergent,” the Emperor said finally. “But trade with the East has been increasing each year over the past two decades, and I would hate to see that progress stalled or worse, reversed. We need to learn more, especially if, as you suspect, this Thuron Yan replaced the real ambassador. Proving that, and where the switch occurred could be vital in managing my brother emperor’s reactions.”

“And I know just who to put on the investigation,” Lord Kavyn said, smiling. The Emperor shot him a glance and then began smiling too.

“Yes, an excellent idea, withal,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear his complaints about the impossibility of the task!”

• • • • • •

Five days later, the Hand were summoned to the Imperial Palace and another meeting, this time with just the Lord Myrmytron and one other of the Emperor’s principal advisors. Toran was the first to recognize the stocky, grizzle-haired Khundari, and his face broke into a rare smile.

“Ambassador Grimbold, it’s very good to see you again, sir,” he said, tugging on his beard and bowing low. The others also exchanged pleasant if surprised greetings with the Imperial diplomat whom they had saved from assassination at the hands of an agent of the Vortex in Dürkon almost two years ago.

“Yes, well, good to see you all too, I suppose,” the older Khundari grumbled. “Even though it’s you lot I apparently have to thank for the last half-a-tenday of tedious work I’ve had to endure.”

“Oh, you loved it and you know it, you old goat,” Lord Kavyn laughed. “It’s been too long since you had a chance to really exercise your old spy network… and I notice you got your results in half the time we’d estimated it would take.”

“I’m not that rusty, you poncey magic-boy,” Grimbold growled. But his smile and the gleam in his dark eyes belied his words and tone. He turned back to Toran. “And it’s just Lord Grimbold at the moment, being at home and not currently on one of Gil’s diplomatic junkets.”

After a few minutes of catching up, Lord Kavyn called on Grimbold to present his findings. “The Emperor has already seen the report, of course, but we thought the Hand of Fortune deserved to know what was learned, since it was your reputations on the line if this turned politically hot.”

It took Grimbold half the turning of the glass to lay out how he and his agents tracked down the information, but the gist of it was that it was a certainty now that Thuron Yan had replaced the real Mai Shin in Ty Kyen itself, before the diplomatic mission even set out. This had the benefit of removing any onus from the Ocean Empire, and even gave them a slight edge with the Ty Kyen Imperial Court – after all, they allowed their own embassy to be infiltrated and an imposter to be presented to the Oceanian Emperor as their representative.

“We thought it very likely that the true ambassador, and several of his key personal staff, were dead and their bodies unlikely to ever be found,” Lord Grimbold concluded. “But this morning one of my agents in the Hidden City informed that the Mai Shin and his entourage have been found alive, but in Stasis. They have been revived and confirmed the few elements of the story they knew. It seems your reptilian nemesis had yet retain some part of his humanity, at least up to that point.”

“But how in the Great Void did he know where to find us?” Devrik growled. “Our route here was one we certainly hadn’t planned ourselves!”

“I can’t say with absolute certainty,” Grimbold shrugged. “But given the his age and the tremendous extent of his arcane skills, I would think he used some form of scrying on you. Once he had located you, and knew you were planning to be here awhile, he set his plan in motion – the first step of which was arranging the death of the old ambassador.”

“So his humanity wasn’t all that strong after all,” Mariala said dryly. The Khundaru shrugged.

“A necessary death, to open the vacancy he needed. But when he had a choice, he chose not to kill. Still, I don’t insist on the interpretation, and I’m certainly not defending the… man.”

“In any case, the upshot is, no formal protest over the death will be made by the Lotus Throne,” Kavyn concluded. “Indeed, the event is well on its way to being disappeared from the official records, as far as we can tell.”

The meeting went on for a little longer, as the Hand had several questions for Grimbold, who had more than a few of his own for them. As things were finally wrapping up, however, the Khundari diplomat (and apparently spy master) rapped on the table for everyone’s attention.

“I still consider myself in your debt for the events in Dürkon, and I would consider it an honor if you all would join me next month at my home in the golden city of Zhan-Tor to help me celebrate my 100th birthday.”

•••••

A tenday later, the Hand travelled by Imperial Gate to the Khundari castle town of Torum-Tüm, in the Imperial Princedom of Lakzhan on the island of Greater Oceania. Their ultimate destination, the Princedom’s capital city, golden-roofed Zhan-Tor on the rugged shores of Lake Cirin beneath the snow-clad peaks of Mt. Rastyn, had no Nitrian Gates closer than Torum-Tüm. They were therefore met by Grimbold’s youngest son, Garafal, and took ship to make the 16 kilometer trip up the lake.

It was a cloudy, windy day, with fitful spurts of cold rain, and the lake’s waters were gray and choppy, dotted with whitecaps. As they approached the Khundari city Toran couldn’t help but be impressed. Zhan-Tor lay on the shore of the lake, where the knees of the towering Mt. Rastyn dropped in a series of sheer cliffs and rugged shelves down to the water. Like all Khundari settlements, the bulk of the city lay underground, of course – but unlike most others, Zhan-Tor possessed an extensive Outer City.

Beautiful buildings of carved white stone, roofed in golden tiles, ran down to the water from the base of the lowest cliff, forming the Low Town, while smaller clusters of buildings grouped on two separate terraces higher up the cliff face made the Upper Town, north and south. To the south Toran could see a massive structure rising up the lower cliff face – the famed Great Lift they had heard about even in the Ukali Basin. Elegant gates of stone and steel and bronze were set in the upper cliff faces, granting access to the Inner City

Even in the gray autumn light the Outer City, both Lower and Upper, were beautiful. But as they neared the Long Wharf and the clustered warehouses of the Alienage, a brief break in the clouds allowed the sun to burst through — and the golden roofs of the city burned like molten gold then, while the white stone of the walls gleamed with the sheen of pearls. The many waterfalls cascading down the cliffs and feeding the cities canals shone like white fire. It was breathtaking.

Garafal let his father’s guests gape for a moment, pleased at the reaction his home had evoked in the foreigners. When he judged the moment right he spoke quietly, but proudly. “The Outer City is indeed a wonder, honored guests. But it is as nothing compared to the marvels of the Inner City… as my father looks forward to showing you.”

“I didn’t realize your people built so extensively on the surface, at least not for themselves,” Mariala said, her gaze still fixed on the glowing, almost ethereal beauty of the city.

“Oh, very few of the Folk live in the Outer City,” the young Khundari said, apparently amused at the idea. “And those few live mainly in the Upper Town. No, most of the population of Outer City is Umantari… in fact, over a third of the population of the Princedom is Umantari. Most of them live on the coasts, of course, and the flatter lands more suitable to surface farming.”

Grimbold himself was waiting for the Hand on the dock, along with a number of porters, both Khundari and Umantari. The latter took charge of the baggage, which Grimbold promised would be delivered to his own home and their suite of rooms. He and his son then spent the next two hours showing their guests the sights of their beloved city…

With the laying to rest of the unquiet spirts of the Harlath (and more importantly, if not widely known, the dispatching of the proto-demon ultimately behind it all), work was able to begin on the refurbishment of the grand old theater. Given it’s long, fearful, and well-deserved reputation, Toran had suspected that it might be hard to convince the various tradesmen involved to undertake the task; but Marliza Farim was not only a shrewd merchant, but a very canny public relations maven.

She quickly found a living playwright who was willing to give poor, undead Angus Rapling’s magnum opus a final polish, while she publicly played up the drama and the tragedy of it all in the weekly broadsheets. The same broadsheets that were also spreading the reputation of the Hand across the City – a process which fascinated almost all of the group. Paper was still a fairly new thing in Ukalus and the surrounding states of northern Ysgareth, its introduction from the West little more than a decade past; the very idea of collecting news and stories and printing them for sale was completely unheard of back home.

“I understand they’ve only been doing it here in Avantir for about 15 years,” Draik said one morning as he and Mariala were perusing the latest edition of the Imperial Cryer together over breakfast pastries and steaming cups of chocolate. “Paper itself has been around for at least a century here, but it only really took off after Lord Kavyn introduced this mechanical printing contraption, a bit over 20 years ago.”

“Hmmm, but paper is rather cheap-feeling, don’t you think,” Mariala said fingering the sheet she held and wrinkling her nose. “Parchment is both thicker and… well, just more pleasant feeling.”

“And about ten times as expensive,” Draik laughed. “But what did you think of those documents you and the others received from the University, confirming your rank and privileges as new Vendari? Those were hand-written, not printed, sure – but they were written on paper, a very high-quality type of paper.

“I understand there’s many grades of paper, and of course the broadsheets use the cheapest, to keep costs down. That’s why they can sell ‘em for two copper bits each week, not two silver coins. The printers putting out books use a better grade, of course, and the rich and noble use the most expensive grades for their correspondence.”

“Well, our guild documents were very nice,” Mariala allowed. “I didn’t really pay attention to the medium, at the time, but I do remember thinking the “parchment” quite fine, very thick and substantial. If paper like that is cheaper than parchment, perhaps I should think about experimenting with it for my Remote Writing enchantment…”

“Oh, it’s more expensive than what the broadsheets use, but still a lot cheaper than the good parchment you use.” Draik leaned in and dropped his voice conspiratorially, even though they were alone in the sun room. “In fact, I’m thinking about having that marvelous hand-made copy of Merasid’s Illuminated Botanica that Vulk gifted me last year reproduced in print, so I can sell them in the shop back home. It’s an extraordinarily thorough encyclopedia of plant life around the globe, and so rare that I’m sure I could make a fortune if I could produce affordable copies.”

“I’ve seen the book,” Mariala laughed. “Printing the words I can see, but wouldn’t all those hand-painted illustrations still keep it prohibitively expense?

“If I tried to recreated them exactly, sure. But that Bizwyk fellow you guys picked up has been buried in my copy practically since I showed it to him. I’ve mentioned my idea to him, and while the money side doesn’t particularly interest him, the idea of being able to spread such knowledge more widely really does.

“He’s actually a very gifted artist himself – have you seen those sketches of his from that volcanic island you visited? He’s volunteered to do recreations of the botanical illustrations ‘in a more scientific way,’ one which can be etched onto printer’s plates. Which I like for a number of reasons…”

“Not least of which, I imagine, is that it would keep your hand-made original’s value high,” Mariala noted with a slight smile.

Draik shrugged, but didn’t deny it. After breakfast, the two of them made a trip down to a paper manufactury in the Fourth Circle for some shopping…

• • • • • •

Despite their increased notoriety in the City, the immensity of a million people still meant they had little trouble keeping their anonymity in public. They did, however, notice an increase in invitations to both noble and wealthy soirees, dinners, fetes, and garden parties. They accepted a judicious number of these invitations, in various combinations of attendees.

One such event which the entire Hand attended together, however, was a formal reception given on 5 Turniki by the newly arrived ambassador from the distant land of Ty Kyen, the fabled Great Kingdom of far Eastern Ishkala. Despite their recent bump into minor fame, Vulk was a little surprised at the invitation – most of the guests where ambassadors or other dignitaries from the many embassies in the City, and Imperial officials or nobles. Despite being the official representative of the new Kingdom of Ukalus, Vulk suspected the Ty Kyen diplomat was unlikely to have even heard of it.

“Eh, maybe it was Lord Kavyn’s doing,” Devrik suggested as they were preparing to leave for the event. “I understand he’ll be making an appearance tonight, in the Emperor’s name. Or maybe the man is one of our recent fans, and just wants to meet the heroes of the hour.”

“If that, more likely someone on his staff is the fan,” Toran laughed. “I understand the new delegation arrived less than a tenday ago, after all. And you have to admit, it’s a great way to get a fancy party on your birthday without your friends having to spend a copper! My 26th certainly wasn’t this fancy…”

In the event, the reception proved a fascinating evening for everyone. The cosmopolitain, international ambience, with guests of almost every color, race and species, from dozens of cultures and every corner of the world, was both exciting and intellectually stimulating, Mariala thought. Their host, Ambassador Mai Shin, was particularly fascinating, and rather handsome, in a very exotic way.

Tall, slender and dark, with the golden-amber skin of eastern Ishkala, it was hard to tell his precise build, beneath the colorful and elaborately embroidered silken ceremonial robes of his office, though he was obviously not fat. She did note that his eyes had less of the epicanthal fold than others of his race in the entourage which trailed behind him as he stepped up to greet his new guests.

“Good evening, my most honored guests,” the man said in a strong tenor voice, his Yashpari only lightly accented by the musical cadences of his native tongue. “I am Mai Shin, and have the great honor to be the representative of the Golden Emperor of Ty Kyen to the Coral Throne of Emperor Gil-Garon of Oceania. You do my Emperor honor to grace us with your presence this evening, and in His name I welcome each of you.

“Lady Mariala Teryne, Margarve of Greentower in the kingdom of Ukalus, be welcome here,” he said, taking her right hand in his own, then covering both with his left hand and bowing his head. His grip was surprisingly strong, and rather cool, and she felt a frisson of excitement at his brief touch. She flushed as he released her hand and moved on.

“Ser Vulk Elida, Queen’s Herald of the Kingdom of Ukalus and Cantor of Kasira, be welcome here,” and repeated the gesture with her friend. With a start she realized he was as tall as Vulk. She also noted that she wan’t the only one to blush at the man’s touch.

“S’hem Toran Quickhand of the Stone Peoples, Shadow Guard to the Prince of Dürkon, be welcome here,” he said, moving on to the Khundari. Who didn’t seem particularly moved my the ambassador’s magnetism, Mariala saw, although he did bow his head in polite return.

And so it went down the line, as the elegant and urbane eastern envoy welcomed each member of the Hand in turn, by name and titles, finishing with Erol. Mariala thought he hesitated for just a second, as if something about the former gladiator surprised him… but if so, the hesitation was so brief it might have been her imagination.

“Ser Erol Doritar, son of the Republic of Kildora,“ he started, then paused… “But are you not one of the Star Children? We are not aware in the East that the Telnori were a significant presence Republican lands… but forgive my impertinent question, and be welcome here,” he concluded, firmly clasping hands and giving his short head-bow.

“It’s a long story, Ambassador,” Erol offered, returning the gesture. “Perhaps I can entertain you with it on another, less busy, occasion.”

“Indeed, I think I would enjoy that, my friend,” Mai Shin said graciously, and then excused himself to the group as he moved on to greet the Mymytron of the Ocean Empire, who had just arrived with his own entourage.

“What an interesting man,” Mariala muttered to herself. Overhearing, Draik grinned and elbowed her in the side.

“So, does Dr. Ar’Harnol have something to be worried about, m’lady?” he smirked, ducking quickly away as she whirled to glare at him. Damn, she thought they’d been so discreet, so careful… how many other people knew of the burgeoning… whatever exactly it was she had with Lurin?

She considered pursuing her annoying friend to pry out precisely what he knew, or thought he knew, but he vanished with alacrity into the throng. She gave a shrug and decided finding a drink would be more enjoyable anyway. She was on her second glass of a very nice Murian white when her thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice of the Myrmytron at her elbow.

“Lady Mariala, how goes it with you this evening? You seem a bit distracted. Are you not enjoying this rather eclectic gathering our latest ambassador has assembled to entertain and amuse us?” he asked, sipping his own flagon of something dark and spicy smelling.

“Mmmm? Oh, no, it’s quite fascinating, really, though I haven’t circulated much yet. I was just thinking about trying to find our host again, actually. He seemed quite a… dynamic man, in our brief meeting.”

“He does seem to possess a very mesmerizing personality,” Lord Kavyn agreed, smiling slightly. “Very different from his predecessor, poor Li Ren Kar. It will be interesting to see how he does in his new position. Oceania and Ty Kyen having little enough in the way of mutual interests, or conflicts, a posting here isn’t very prestigious. He seems, as you said, rather too dynamic to have wanted it… I wonder if it’s some kind of punishment? I’ll have to ask one of my… colleagues if she knows much about the man.”

By his very slight emphasis on the world “colleague” Mariala knew he meant one of his associates on the Star Council. Probably that exotically beautiful older Ishkali woman she’d seen when the Hand had rescued the kidnapped council from the clutches of the Vortex, on that hidden island no one was supposed to talk about.

“You said ‘poor Li Ren Kar,’ Lord Kavyn,” she said, deciding it was best not ask anything about the Council in this venue. “Did something happen to the man?”

“You could say so,” the Myrmytron replied, rather dryly. “A construction accident at the embassy awhile back – a rope broke and a very heavy stone block crushed the poor man as he was stepping out for his morning stroll about the gardens. Actually, it happened about a tenday after you arrived in the City, I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it.”

“Well, we were still pretty overwhelmed by this place,” Mariala admitted. “I don’t think we’d even learned about the broadsheets at that point, and Shala knows we hadn’t made many contacts outside of Korwin. And you, of course.”

“Of course,” Lord Kavyn replied, smiling broadly. “And speaking of contacts, let me introduce you to the Tur Kovani envoy – I suspect you’ll find her an interesting study, but keep your wits about you. Like most of her folk, she’s a devious, slippery one!”

The conversation with the envoy had indeed been a stimulating and energizing one, and had been followed my several others almost as interesting. It was after midnight when Mariala regrouped with the others, who had apparently all had equally fascinating conversations with the wildest assortment of people any of them had ever experienced. She was glad to realize that she wasn’t the only one who was feeling a little provincial just then.

For the next tenday the Hand were busy pursuing their various interests, from learning new spells in new convocations, to figuring out the printing business, to forging new tools and weapons. These occupations were often solitary ones, or with only one or two other companions, but they did try to maintain regular meals as a group. The only other time they tended to be all together was for the regular sparring sessions, led by Erol and Toran, to keep their battle edge well-honed.

It was on one such day, the 15th of Turniki, that the first of the tragedies struck. The Hand, with Captain Renault along, arrived at the nearby gladiator school where they were wont to have their workouts, to find the place in a turmoil. One of their newer recruits had died that very morning, in a gruesome and mysterious fashion.

At his news Vulk had a sudden, chilling premonition. Grabbing the porter, who had been telling them of the tragedy, by the shoulders, he’d demanded to know who had died. On hearing the name, he released the man and turned away, unable to look at his shocked friends as tears welled up.

The dead man was Therok, the barbarian fighter who had developed an abiding respect (a crush, really, when you got down to it) for Vulk in the arid waste of the Blasted March last year, and had thrown over his life to follow the cantor, and Kasira. But even crushes wear off, and while the two men were still fond of each other, they both realized things had run their course. When, at the beginning of the month, Therok had requested permission to leave his service and train as a gladiator, Vulk had released him with good will, if a bit of sadness.

Now, fifteen days later, he was dead. “When did this happen, exactly,” he demanded of the school’s porter. “And where is his body?”

“Why, it was during this morning’s training rounds, Ser,” the old man replied, clearly a bit shaken at the cantor’s violent reaction to his news. “He was sparring, got a bit of a nick on a bicep, they say, nothing to remark about, really. But a minute later he was on the ground in a fit, and foaming from the mouth! They called for the physician, who wasn’t far away, of course, not during a sparring session, but the poor fellow was dead before he got there.”

Vulk was in no mood for opposition, and with his friends following behind, he bulled his way through the various layers of the school’s functionaries to get to the infirmary, where Therok’s body still lay. It had been hours since his death, of course, and there was no hope of saving him… if he’d been put in Stasis, maybe… but there’d been no one present able to cast such a spell or perform such a ritual, and there was nothing to be done.

But Vulk used his own psionic healing senses, amplified by the Staff of Summer, to peer into his friend’s cold form, to find out what had killed him. Poison, obviously, but of what sort? He saw the fading pathways of the body, and the killer was obvious – a dark malignancy that clearly didn’t belong, and continued to seep into tissues even after it had done its demon’s work. But what it was, he couldn’t say, he’d never seen anything like it.

The Hand used every influence they had, real or invented on the spot, to learn what was being done. The authorities were even then questioning the sparring partner, who had inflicted the oh-so-minor wound, and Vulk once again forced himself into the interrogation, with an assist from Devrik. But the man, clearly upset and afraid, proved innocent of any knowledge of the poison on his blade – both Vulk and Mariala’s ability to know truth from lies confirmed it.

Draik, very carefully, took a sample of the substance from the blade, and promised to do all he could to determine what it was and where it might have come from. Eventually there was nothing else to be done, and the Hand returned home to Bekatia House, leaving Vulk to to make arrangements for Therok’s cremation and funeral.

Still bleakly considering why someone would want to kill the Firilani tribesman, and in such a way — could it be some old tribal feud that had followed him here, into the heart of the Empire? It seemed unlikely, but given that Draik had concluded it was some sort of powerful alkaloid, plant-based poison (something very much in the northern barbarian’s tradition), it couldn’t be ruled out.

Everyone went to bed in various degrees of upset and concern, but their restless sleep was broken an hour before dawn, by frantic pounding on the front door. A runner from the Wind of Kasira’s crew had arrived breathless from the Tide Pool to inform them that the ship was burning. Most of the Hand, hastily dressed, had rushed out to follow the lad back to the docks, only Devrik staying behind.

“I don’t like it,” he growled to Vulk, as the cantor belted on his sword. “First Therok, and now the ship? It might be coincidence, but then again it might not. If someone is targeting us, what better time to strike here, once we’ve all run off to the docks? No, I’m staying to protect Raven and Aldari.”

Vulk tried to convince his friend to come— his control, such as it was, over fire might be the key to saving their ship. But even with Erol promising to take his place as guardian, he was adamant. With no time to argue, the others left, although Jeb was up and armed to stand watch as well by then.

The origin of the fire was as mysterious as Therok’s poisoning, in its own way, but not as complete. Maybe it was the alien-treated materials, or perhaps the Immortal Lady of Luck was looking out for her own, but either way, while the fire did extensive damage to rigging, spars and sails, Captain K’Jurol and the crew contained the flames before the superstructure suffered anything more than cosmetic damage. It would take some time, a deal of money, and a lot of sweat, but the Wind of Kasira would sail again, as good as new, he assured the breathless Hand when they arrived.

Unfortunately, two crewmen had died in fighting the fire, and several others, including the Captain, had suffered various degrees of burns. Vulk and Lurin Ar’Hanol quickly set about treating the injured. By the time the sun rose over the Encircling Hills an exhausted Vulk was drawing the last of the heat from Captain K’Jurol’s burned hand as Dr. Ar’Hamol rubbed raw Baylorium into the still pink flesh.

The Höl Kopia holiday, the celebration of the autumnal equinox and the beginning of harvest time, went largely unobserved by the Hand and their associates. Everyone remained at Bekatia House, and the Hand obsessively went over the events of last two days, looking for a connection. Once again everyone retired for the evening exhausted and uncertain.

The next day Raven insisted that there would be no more moping about – they’d wasted Höl Kopia, but this was the day of the Hunter’s Feast, an important day in her own people’s calendar, and she planned to have a proper feast. With Devrik and Erol as body guards, Raven and the cook scoured the local markets for a variety of foods that morning, and by late afternoon a fabulous feast was indeed presented to the household.

Only Mariala was not present, as Lurin Ar’Hanol had come by around noon, to pull her away for a private surprise celebration. Raven had waved off their apologies with a smile, and told them both to relax and enjoy themselves.

“Oh, I suspect we will,” the doctor had said with a mischievous grin. Which had made Mariala wondered what was up… until they arrived at the very upscale Sea Foam Inn, in the Third Circle, where a nervous-looking Captain K’Jurol was waiting for them. At Mariala’s uncertain look, Lurin laughed, pulling her toward their table, as the Captain hastily rose.

“You don’t know what it took to drag Belith away from his ship, Mariala, after yesterday’s disaster. But I’ve wanted the three of us to get together for awhile now, and I planned this a tenday ago; I wasn’t taking no for an answer! So here we all are, now let’s forget our troubles and have some fun!”

Which, after an little initial awkwardness, they did. Right up until the dessert course, when Lurin, in the middle of both her chocolate tort and a description of the luxurious room she’d taken upstairs, suddenly began to choke. Her eyes widening in panic, the physician staggered up, clawing at her throat, mouth gaping as she struggled to draw air through a constricted throat. Both Mariala and Belith rushed to help her, but nothing they did seem to effect the spasming woman. Lurin was turning blue, and her struggles grew steadily weaker, until she fell to the floor, no longer breathing.

“I can’t find a pulse,” Belith cried, looking across at Mariala from where he knelt, fingers to Lurin’s blue-tinged neck. “Dear gods, she’s dead! How could this—“

“No!” Mariala shook her head vehemently from the other side fo Lurin’s body, clenching a fist and glaring at the rainbow gemstone ring there. She poured all of her will into that Focus, and thanked Kasira that the first new Neutral spell she had chosen to learn as a Vendari had been Stasis. They would not have a repeat of the tragedy of Therok, not if she could help it.

“Let go of her, Belith,” she said, almost unconsciously using the Voice. He scrambled away instantly, a very surprised look on his face. And then she had cast the spell… yes, the Form was perfect… she felt the Principle flow into it… the spell took shape…

A flickering blue glow surrounded the fallen physician, quickly stabilizing into a sheen of solid, translucent blue energy… which only made her blue-tinted face look even more death-like, Mariala thought. But inside that glowing cocoon she knew time was no longer passing, which meant there was still a chance to revive her friend.

“Belith, I’ve stopped whatever is going on, whatever poison this is, but we need Vulk and the Staff of Summer NOW! Go as fast as you can, bring both back with you!”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to carry her back, cut the travel time in half—“

“No! This stasis field is practically frictionless, making it almost impossible to carry without it slipping from our grip like an oiled icicle. It took us forever to rig up a way to carry that idiot Torbel… just go, bring Vulk!”

She didn’t have to use the Voice, he got up and was out the door at a run, shoving ruthlessly through the crowd of gawkers who had gathered around them. Mariala prayed to Shala and Kasira that her first field casting of the spell would hold until help could arrive…

• • • • • •

Unfortunately, at that moment, Vulk was gasping himself, trying to breath through an airway suddenly constricted to almost nothing. Around him, he was dimly aware that others at the table were also gasping and struggling, but he had no attention to spare… he had to turn his psionic awareness inward, to sense whatever was doing this to him… he’d done it once before, he understood… but this was so sudden, it was so hard to think, to focus… suddenly he felt something being shoved onto his right hand… the Staff of Summer!

Time seemed to slow, and his panic began to fade. He could feel the power of the Staff flowing through him, expanding his internal sense of his own body… yes, there was the foreign invader, the poison closing his throat… and doing more than that… in minutes it would also paralyze his heart, he realized. Or it would have. Now he could see it, though, and he knew how to change it, to twist its own structure around to make it inert, harmless… he did so.

Only a few seconds had past since Toran had shoved the Staff into Vulk’s spasming hand, and already he could tell it had been the right move. The cantor was standing up, the blue tint fading from his skin like a morning mist in the sun. But around the table, others were still gasping… and dying.

Devrik was frantically trying to help both his wife and his son at the same time, as they choked and writhed and turned blue; Draik was supporting the gasping Ser Bizwyk on the opposite side to the table, helpless to do more; and in the doorway to the kitchen the young house boy, Bari, had collapsed, spilling a tray of plates he’d been clearing.

“Vulk, do something!” The Khundari cried, furious at his own helplessness…

“Well, I feel a bit terrible, bringing up business in the middle of this lovely celebration,” Marliza Farim said, with an apologetic glance around the common room of the Bookman’s Inn. “But young Ser Korwin assured me that it would, in fact, be the best time for it. “

“Well, he does know us,” Draik chuckled, pouring more of the excellent Kadaran red into the lady’s still more than half-full glass. “And really, the party is winding down at this point. So please, how can we help you?”

“Yes, Korwin mentioned just a little bit about your dilemma, milady,” Vulk said, slipping into the empty chair on the other side of the gorgeous woman. “Before he passed out in the punch bowl. I’d be fascinated to know more…” He offered her a skewer of garlic shrimp from the platter he carried, before setting it on the table. Draik narrowed his eyes at his friend.

The day had been a very long one for most of the Hand of Fortune, who had been put through the wringer during their grueling examinations to attain the rank of Vendari, or Master, in their respective convocations. But for Draik and Vulk, with no such ambitions, the day had been spent in the quiet reading alcoves of the Great Library, perusing volumes on herb lore and Imperial heraldry.

As expected, but hardly assured, Mariala, Devrik, Toran, and Erol had all passed their respective examinations – some with more ease than others. Lord Kavyn himself had sat in on each of the sessions, having personally arranged for them to follow one another sequentially, rather than overlapping. Mariala, at least, had wondered if his intimidating presence had exerted any influence on the outcomes; but if the difficulty of her own examiners, and all the sweat they’d pulled from her, were any indication, probably not.

In the late afternoon, after congratulating each of them, the second most powerful man in the Empire had then accompanied the weary-but-happy new Vendari across the Causeway to the Bookman’s Inn. There they found that Korwin had rented out the entire common room of the up-scale and very popular establishment to host a party for his former teammates. A great crowd of friends and acquaintances, both old and new, cheered them as they entered, Vulk, Draik and Korwin in the vanguard.

The Imperial Myrmytron didn’t linger long, not wanting his presence to stifle the evenings merriment. Before he left, however, he found a private moment with each of the four new-made Vendari to give them two gifts – one from himself and one from the Emperor. The gifts which Lord Kavyn presented were clearly well thought out, and showed a surprising depth of understanding of each recipient’s needs and desires. The Emperor’s gifts, while perhaps not as uniquely chosen, were nonetheless generous – beautiful jorums containing the essence of the new convocation each of the four intended to pursue next, which would increase their chances of success immeasurably.

Once the intimidating Imperial presence had made his goodbyes and slipped into the night, the party had quickly become more animated and boisterous. But as midnight neared, the festivities began to quiet. Many of the guests departed, and the few that remained gathered in small groups, at that mellow stage of inebriation and full stomaches where confidences are shared and deep philosophies expounded.

As the evening wound down, most of the Hand, along with Dr. Ar’Hanol and Captain K’Jurol, found themselves at one table, talking quietly about future plans and possible itineraries. Vulk had just gone in search of more food when Korwin had arrived with a tall, very striking woman at his side.

“This is Madame Marliza Farim,” he’d said, enunciating slowly and clearly. He was obviously much the worse for drink, and his companion seemed cooly amused by him. “Shesh.. she’s… recently come into some money, and a bit of property, but has a dimelma… a dlim… a problem I think you guys could help with… right up your alley, you know? Now where’d Vulk get off to, he should hear this…”

He pulled out a chair for the woman before toddling off to find the cantor. Marliza Farim was a slender, elegant woman of maybe forty years, with piercing blue eyes and, despite her well-concealed embarrassment at Korwin’s introduction, a no-nonsense demeanor. She was dressed a long, flowing dress in deep jewel tones and her silver-blond hair was tied in a tight, elaborate bun.

“I’m happy to hear that our mutual friend was correct, then,“ she went on after Vulk had returned, politely waving away his proffered shrimp skewer. “I’ve heard some of the tales going around in the city, concerning your exploits, and I think you just may be what is needed to solve my dilemma.”

“I take it this dilemma involves this “bit of property” Korwin mentioned?” Mariala asked, sipping at her own glass of wine. She hadn’t drunken nearly as much as most of the others, and though she was bone-weary, it was easier to sit and listen than try to get up and go to the rooms Korwin had arranged for them all.

“Indeed it does,” Marliza nodded, clasping her hands together and tapping her fingers in a rapid staccato rhythm. “The Harlath Theatre is the very heart of the problem facing me. For you see, I wish to reopen it as a working theater, as my grandfather had always wished, but… the place is haunted!”

Several eyebrows went at this, but Devrik motioned for her to carry on, even as he and Mariala exchanged a glance. Marliza sighed and smiled wryly, not missing the by-play.

“I know it sounds rather silly, and I rather thought so myself, at first… but recent events have added to the weight of history, and I’ve become convinced that something terrible lurks within that old building. But perhaps it will make more sense if I give you the background…

“When it was constructed, some three hundred years ago, the Harlath Theater was a landmark on the Island of of Avantir, being the first permanent such structure built outside the City walls and designed specifically to entertain the non-noble people of the working suburbs.

“It was constructed in the suburb of Khuronton, halfway between the City and the University, but anyone who was anyone in the outlying villages of the island (or aspired to be) had attended on the Harlath at least once each season. Many of the merchant class were regulars at Harlath events, there to be “seen” as much as to be entertained. It is one of the enduring legends of the Harlath that an Emperor once attended a performance there… although which Emperor, exactly, is hotly debated. But thereafter it was not unheard of for an occasional member of the City’s nobility to be seen “slumming it” at the old Harlath.

“Working at the Harlath was almost as prestigious as regularly attending its performances, especially for up-and-coming playwrights, who saw the suburban theatre as a stepping-stone to the more prestigious theaters of the City proper. Several of the most celebrated playwrights of the last two centuries got their start writing for the Harlath, in fact.

“Some fifty years ago, with other theaters opening in other suburban areas of the island, the old girl was perhaps past her zenith, but was still considered the grande dame of suburban theaters, and even rivaled some of those in the City itself. Certainly my grandfather never wavered in his attendance… not until disaster struck, at least.

“At the time of the tragedy, the Harlath was maintained by a caretaker named Argus Rapling. They say he originally took the job hoping to use it as a stepping stone, as many others had before him — in his case, to gain a greater creative position within the company. Most of all, Argus wanted to become a playwright.

“As a patron, and one of the many investors in the theater, my grandfather knew the man, if only slightly. Well enough, though to know that before, during, and after his shifts, Argus would spend any time he could find working on a script. It was his hope to present to Zamarin Imgarhol, the theatre’s director, and thereby be elevated to the writer’s room. But apparently Zamarin didn’t take the man, or his aspirations, seriously. She brushed off Argus when he approached her about his script, more than once as my grandfather himself saw on at least two occasions. This increasingly frustrated Argus, but the man remained persistent.

“When he finally managed to badger Zamarin into reading his magnum opus, however, she was so annoyed by the caretaker’s relentless pestering that she did little more than skim it in the most cursory fashion, according to her assistant. Unimpressed by what little she saw, she openly laughed at and ridiculed Argus, saying his work was shoddy and a waste not only of her time, but his own.

“It’s said Argus returned to his office that day humiliated and angry, and there he festered and ruminated for a night and another day, until he could contain himself no longer. Red with fury and overcome by shame, Argus murdered Zamarin in broad daylight, on the main stage, during an open dress rehearsal. As the rest of the theatre staff and the small audience fled in horror, he then took his own life.

“When the authorities arrived to remove the bodies, however, they found only Zamarin’s corpse. A search of the building never turned up Argus’ body, and it was eventually decided that some friend or relative had removed it, to avoid further public scandal for his family. My grandfather always snorted at this, as the theory blithely skipped over the fact that the man had few friends and no family in the city.

“After a hiatus of several tendays, efforts to reopen the theater proved… difficult. They were hampered by reports of strange occurrences and a lack of staff willing to return. The size of the staff continued to diminish as more and more people became convinced that the building was now haunted. With other suburban theaters already flourishing, the Harlath was soon deemed to be more trouble than it was worth by most of its frustrated owners, who decided to cut their losses.

“Except for my grandfather. For over a decade, the building remained abandoned, and he eventually managed to buy out the last of his co-investors, gaining sole ownership of the property for a relative pittance. He had enjoyed the theatre since his youth… he confided in me in his latter years that he even wanted to tread the boards himself, before family pressure convinced him his dreams were otherwise.

“Old Jokul never attempted to reopen the theatre, however, nor did my father – he never shared Grandfather’s fascination with the stage. But I did, and with my own father’s passing last year I now possess the means to realize my grandfather’s dream. I plan to oversee a renaissance in suburban theatre, and intend to do so from the grand old Harlath Theater. I’m the only surviving child of my rather wealthy merchant family, but the sum I will have to spend to return the old girl to full operation is not insubstantial. I dare not risk any more money in the matter until any ghosts or other such… supernatural impediments… have been dealt with.

“Last month I hired a young group of self-proclaimed adventurers to enter the old building and resolve the issue. Their leader, a young man named Hakim Althar was a confident and competent-seeming fellow, despite his age. I had high hopes. But only three of the five who went in emerged alive, babbling hysterically about flying objects, whispering voices, murderous, ax-wielding ghosts and demonic, skeletal animals.

“I think my mistake was hiring inexperienced people for such an obviously dangerous job. But with your reputation… well, if you are willing to explore the theater thoroughly and confront — and most importantly put to rest — whatever may lurk within it… well, I’m prepared to offer you a 10% share in the company once I have it up and running again.

The Harlath was once a shining beacon of entertainment and erudition to the people, those not born to power and privilege, and I believe it can be again, with your help… and my money. What say you?”

With the missing pages from the Book of Inner Balance carefully stowed in the leather bag Torghen Quicksilver had brought expressly for that purpose, the Hand made their way out of the Monastery of the Immortal Heart. They soon discovered that the destruction of the so-called skreelox must have freed the remaining Khundari monks of the Order from their centuries-long living deaths. Each one of the five, laying in their mouldering beds, was now truly, peacefully deceased… and by the expression on their grey, sunken faces, glad to be so at long last.

“I think, my friend, whatever knowledge you take from your study of these pages,” Torghen muttered quietly to Draik as the group made their way back to the longboat awaiting them on the dark waters of the canal, “you should take with great caution. Keep in mind the fate of these poor fools… and do not call down the same destiny on yourself.”

“Have no fear,” Draik assured the Khundari Shadow Monk, exchanging a thoughtful look with Vulk, walking on the other side of their companion. “We have no desire to summon another of those entities, whatever they really are… and in any case, we’re not searching for immortality.”

“Indeed not,” Vulk agreed. “All Baylorium is meant to do is heal, and to make the lives given to each of us as healthy and productive as possible… within the span of years we are allotted, no more.”

“I hope you remain true to that goal,” Torghen sighed, “and do not become tempted by the lure of eternal life. After what we saw… well, I misdoubt the wisdom of letting anyone read these pages. No, no – do not become agitated… a deal is a deal, and you shall have the next few days to study the pages, as was promised. But notes only may you make, and not a true, full copy… as YOU have promised!”

••••••

Two hours later the Wind of Kasira was poled out of the Southern Gate of the Ahlürok Canal, and soon bid farewell to their Khundari Polemen as the wind once again filled their sails. Once out of the southern Kilnost Hills, and the last of locks lowering them back to neat sea-level, the final 20 kilometers of the canal passed through gently rolling farmland of Great Oceania’s Inner Shore, and on to the town of Southport.

“A minor port, really, for all that a great deal of traffic passes through it,” Captain Renault told the Hand, as they all gathered on deck to see the sights. The friends looked at one another and eyebrows were raised. The city coming into sight ahead of them was at least as large as Shalara in Ukalus… perhaps lager. If this was considered minor, what must await them in Avantir itself?

“It has a few sights worth seeing of course,” their clockwork companion continued. “The magnificent towers and walls of the ancient Fortress of Khar are impressive, to be sure… you can see it there, that great complex atop that hill ahead on the port side. And the High Bridge, which carries the Imperial Highway over the Canal, is an engineering marvel, but we’re about to see it in action now, so that will take care of that.”

Ahead of them, 200 meters from the left side of the canal, a great stone bridge began a gradual rise on a series of graceful arches, until it reached the waterway, where it spanned the flow in two long, leaping arcs before beginning a matching descent on the other side. At its highest point the roadway must have been 30 meters above the water.

“Which is impressively high,” Draik said when their native guide confirmed it, at the same time eyeing their own masts and making some calculations. “But not high enough for us to sail under, I think… at least not in one piece. And I don’t see any kind of drawbridge…”

The clockwork Captain laughed… he’s been working on it, Draik thought, hiding his wince. But it still just doesn’t sound… human. “No, it’s all Avantir blue granite under that carved and filigreed white marble. So nothing so crude as a drawbridge. Instead – ah, there, watch the center pier!”

As he spoke there was a faint grinding sound and the center portion of the bridge began to rotate around the pivot of the central pier that supported it. Slowly, it swung about until the central roadway and walls of the span lay at a 90° angle to the rest of the structure. As it ground to a rest, the Wind of Kasira sailed majestically through the newly opened gap, the men in her crows nests waving to the stopped traffic… which they were actually several meters above. Many people waved back good-naturedly.

“So, as I was saying,” Renault went on as the High Bridge swung back into place behind them, “Captain K’Jurol agrees with me, it’s worth the effort to make Avantir before sunset. It’s a 90 kilometer run across the Gulf of Telapinir, but if the winds cooperate – and they should, this time of year – we can easily make it in time.”

“In time for what, exactly?” Mariala asked. Physician Ar’Hanol, standing beside her, seconded the question.

“Ah, I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” the clockwork man said, and both women had the sense that if his metal face was capable of it he’d be grinning. “But trust me, I think you’ll agree it was worth it once you see it.”

No more could be got form the usually loquacious man, and eventually everyone returned to other pastimes. Mariala, Lurin and Raven returned to their interrupted brunch, while Draik and Vulk returned to their study of the recovered pages from the Book of Inner Balance. Toran and Torghen went below decks to resume their reminisces on their lost youth away from all that nerve-wracking open sea, and Erol and Devrik resumed their sparring with the half-dozen crewmen who had become a de facto martial arts class, Aldari eagerly in tow.

The winds were indeed favorable, and as the sun began to sink toward the west, the dark silhouette of Avantir island appeared on the horizon, growing swiftly larger. As the rugged slopes and jagged crestline of the volcanic island resolved themselves, the terraced farmland, thickly wooded slopes, and blue granite and white marble of the many building perched on the cliffs and ridges became visible. The ship turned toward the south at that point, skirting the looming hills on their port side as they made for the Sea Palisade and the famous Sea Gates of Tyvos, and Captain Renault called everyone who was interested back to the foredeck.

“I know that some of you, especially young master Aldari and Lady Raven, may not be fully versed in the history of Avantir,” he said once everyone was present, “so I thought I’d take these few minutes before I lose your attention to give a brief history lesson.

“The island of Avantir, at the heart of which lays the City of Avantir is quite circular in shape and some 10 kilometers across. It is in fact a volcanic caldera… as legend has it, the shattered remains of the ancient Mount Falnakir. Said to be the most beautiful peak in the ancient world, it was around the feet and on the lower slopes of Falnakir that the capital and greatest city of the Co-Dominion once stood — proud Alvönika of ancient memory. First home of the Immortals, where they lived side-by-side with their Telnori, Umantari and Khundari children, Alvönika was a place of great beauty and even greater bliss for many centuries.

“But then came the Demon’s Fist. When it struck, at the Final Battle of the Demon Wars on the Plains of Summer, the destruction was staggering; and not least amongst the terrible results was the explosive eruption of Mount Falnakir and the collapse and sinking of the lands all about it for hundreds of kilometers.

“Alvönika was utterly destroyed, of course, and in the end only the shattered top of Falnakir itself remained above the waves as the land sank and the seas poured in… just a ring of steep, barren peaks reaching for the ash-gray sky. On the inside of this caldera the slopes of the peaks were sheer and cliff-like, while on its outer side the slopes fell away somewhat more gently to the sea… although still very broken and rugged.

“For several years the caldera smoked and fumed, though there were few living mortals to see it beyond a few starving savages on what would one day be called Great Oceania. As the Immortals strove to hold the shattered world together and repair its hurts, through the five years of the Endless Winter the remains of Falnakir smoldered and quaked. And then, just as life was beginning to return, one last cataclysm wracked the island.

“In that last eruption the southwest section of the caldera rim wall was blown outward by a convulsive lateral blast, and the sea poured to fill the caldera and at last cool the burning stone. Only a small, domed island at the very center of the new lagoon remained above the waves. For many years after that final convulsion the remains of Falnakir lay desolate and empty, devoid of all life.

“The Immortals worked for many years to return the world to stability and health, and gradually life did return to the rocky shores of the nameless volcanic ring. First of all were the seabirds who to this day make the cliffs and slopes of the island their home. Plant-life soon followed, especially the tall, straight blue firs and pines that came to cover the Outer Slopes, and three hundred years after the Devastation of Navarthül the first civilized Umantari made their way back to the lands of the Shattered Sea.

“These men and women were of the House of Ingram, survivors of that noble people who were one of the Five Great Houses of the Umantari in the years of the Co-Dominion. They first settled on the Inner Shore of Great Oceania, attempting to bring what civilization they had retained back to the savage, primitive tribes of the island. They succeeded in teaching them much, at least in matters of craft and building. But in matters of civilization and humanity… they were less successful. All too soon the Lost Men had taken the arts of the newcomers and turned them against them, especially in the matter of ship building. They became the fierce Sea Peoples, and they terrorized no only the high folk of lost Ingram but others of their own kind, raiding, pillaging and killing at will.

“Eventually, seeking a haven from the predations of these barbaric, savage Sea Peoples, legend has it that the Ingrami were guided by the Immortal Tyvos, Lord of the Seas and Islands, to the sheltering, encircling arms of Avantir. There they founded a fishing village on the central island of the Inner Lagoon, which they called Gevar’dahal. There they were safe, for the shoals and reefs which guarded the narrow strait from the outer sea they alone knew how to safely navigate, thanks to the wisdom and grace of Lord Tyvos.

“For many years they lived off the bounty of the sea, and they grew in number until Gevar’dahal became a small city. Then the people began to build homes in the faces of the Inner Wall of the Encircling Hills, delving into the rock itself to make spacious dwellings; and terraced farms were created where possible, wherein they began to grow new crops to feed the ever-growing population… and this was in the Fifth Century following the Demon’s Fist.

“For years the people refrained from building on the Outer Slopes, for fear of the still-powerful Sea Peoples; but eventually population pressure forced them to make the move. Combined with an increasingly large and powerful fleet, better able to protect the Outer Slopes, more settlements and farms were built Beyond. Eventually the ships of Gevar’dahal were able to sweep the Gulf of Telapinir clear of the Sea Peoples, freeing the Inner Shore of Great Oceania from their predations. Then they came to the warring tribes of the larger island, their cousins, as saviors and peacemakers.

“As the population and power of the Avantiri grew, the need for land grew as well. Although they established ports in many places on Great Oceania, Avantir was always home and the center of their power. As the Outports grew in influence, however, the rulers of Avantir saw a danger of the center of power shifting away from them… legend says that Tyvos himself came up out of the sea and told King Valosin the Great that he must make land from the sea, and in doing so his people would gain mastery of all the seas.

“Not one to spurn the advice (or prophecy, if you will) of an Immortal, in the year 993 SR, Valosin began the Great Work – the building of the Sea Palisade and the draining of the Inner Lagoon. At the same time the plans were laid for the construction of the Grand Canal and the Serene Canal, which would, respectively, lead to and surround Gevar’dahal, keeping it an island. For another part of the Prophecy of Tyvos was that only so long as the little island at its heart remained connected to the sea by water, would Avantir rule the seas.

“And so it has remained for the last two thousand years. Even today the Sea Palisade stands just as Valosin the Great saw it, when he was the first to sail a ship through the Sea Gates of Tyvos… and just as you see it now.”

With that, Renault gestured behind his audience (he’d been speaking from the starboard railing, to keep their backs to the island), and as they turned a gasp rose up. The golden light of the setting sun kindled the shimmering, blue-black stone of the immense wall of the Sea Palisade into cerulean fire and burnished the towering bronze statue of Tyvos to molten gold. Devrik realized his mouth was hanging open, and he shut it with a snap.

“Well, you were right my friend,” he said to Renault, never taking his eyes off the blue fire of the Palisade. “This was worth missing out on a lot of things!”

The Sea Palisade spanned the blown-out gap in the Encircling Hills, holding back the sea from the lowlands within. Made of the blue granite of the island, its face had been treated with a process which had fused and crystalized the stone into a shimmering sheet of blue-black glass – but a glass stronger than diamond or steel, second only to the torlixam of the Ancients.

The wall was over a kilometer wide, 250 meters high 100 meters thick, and pierced by twin gates. Each was wide enough to allow two large galleys to pass abreast through, and tall enough to accommodate the masts of the tallest ship. Between the gates towered the immense, imposing statue of Tyvos himself, trident in one hand, the other hand raised in an ambiguous gesture of either greeting or warning. Beard flowing, his crowned head towered 70 additional meters above the top of the Sea Palisade, his trident even higher. On the opposite side of each gate were smaller bronze statues of the children of Tyvos – on the left was Ashira, his daughter, Lady of Storms; on the right, his son Valentus, Lord of Islands. Both were portrayed in the form of Tritani.

“Beyond the Gates of Tyvos lies the High Pool,” Captain Renault went on as the Wind prepared to pass through them, “although most sailors call it the Tide Pool. It’s a semicircular harbor nearly a kilometer across and half a kilometer deep. It is lined with docks and quays, and is the commercial heart of the Empire. From its apex extends the Karshen Locks of the Grand Canal, which steps vessels from sea level 15 meters down to the water level of the City’s canal system.

“There’s a wide strip of land around the perimeter of the Tide Pool which is lined with warehouses, merchant’s headquarters, seaman’s hostelries and guild houses, taverns, inns and flop houses, and beyond it the ground slopes down in a series of roads, ramps and stairs to the plain of the Inner Land. We’ll be docking in the Tide Pool, I understand, and then taking a barge through the looks and into the Circles of the City…”

With young Aldari’s portal closed, and the leader and motivating force behind the Vortex gone, lost in the void of interplanetary space, the Hand of Fortune took a moment to breathe. The boy himself was resisting his parent’s attempts to smother him with parental concern, squirming from their grasp and doing his best to look cool and grown-up.

“We’re going to have to have a serious discussion about that boy,” Mariala murmured to Vulk as they watched the little family drama unfold.

“Oh yes,” he agreed. “But now probably isn’t the time… but soon, because I suspect the Council will have some thoughts on the subject, and we should probably present a united front.”

Once they had assured themselves that the magma pit and its strange energies were again under control and in no danger of tearing open an inter-dimensional breach, the Hand wearily headed back up the levels to return to the Star Council. But they found only Lord Kavyn and Master Vetaris when they reentered the circular transfer chamber.

“The others have withdrawn to another, more comfortable chamber, to fully recover” Vetaris explained. He added, very quietly, to Vulk, Mariala, and Devrik alone, “They are somewhat… concerned, let us say… that you have seen the entire Council together. Few of our agents, and even fewer outsiders, have ever done so, and it has rather upset them, I afraid.”

“Yes, they were talking about memory wipes and such before they were even able to properly stand,” Lord Kavyn added drily and equally quietly.

“You mean while we were off saving not just their asses, but the entire world?” Devrik growled. The look on his face would’ve made anyone back up a step or two, but the Imperial Myrmytron just shrugged.

“They were understandably shaken, given our recent ordeal, and their brains are perhaps not… fully up to speed. Kiril and I managed to talk them down—“

“We don’t even know their names,” Mariala interrupted indignantly. “It’s not like we could identify them unless we ran into them at the local butcher shop one day!”

“Yes, as Kiril pointed out to them,” Lord Kavyn continued, unperturbed. “I emphasized the very slippery moral slope they proposed to start down, and cooler heads soon prevailed. You need not worry about any such action by the Council.

“But we do need to start examining this facility very thoroughly… after you’ve filled us in on what has transpired with Alvira. We’ll settle your wife and son in comfortable quarters, Ser Devrik, then join the others for a full report on—“

“Ha! Got it!” Toran cried from across the room, drawing everyone’s attention. Between the squatting Khundari and the kneeling Erol, the clockwork Captain Renaült was sitting up, if somewhat unsteadily. His metal form was dented, scraped, and in one spot sparking, but he appeared more-or-less functional.

“I knew there had to be some sort of revivification switch,” Toran went on, in obvious self-satisfaction. “It was just a matter of finding it. And I’m pretty sure I can patch up all this damage, Essa, given the tools in this place…”

“That, too will have to wait,” Master Vetaris said as the two friends helped the clockwork man to his feet. “In fact, if you feel yourself up to it, Captain, I would feel much better leaving Raven and Aldari in their rooms if your were with them, to stand guard. No telling what mischief, or worse, may still be loose in this place!”

Half an hour later, with Raven and Aldari settled in surprisingly spacious living quarters and Captain Renaült posted outside, the Hand met with the Star Council. They had found a large space, already equipped with an impressively long table, and managed to scrape together an odd mish-mash of chairs, stools and benches to seat everyone. With the ten members of the Council, minus only the Telnori king of Servia, on one side of the board, the Hand arrayed themselves along the other and began their tale.

It was more than three turns of the glass before the meeting ended, as the various councilors had many questions, not just about the day’s events, but about the many events that had led up to them. Mariala noted that more than one councilor seemed to share her concern over young Aldari Askalan’s amazing powers, but all retained enough sense not to bring it up for the moment — Devrik was not looking particularly receptive, however much he was managing to be civil.

Once the meeting was finally over, all sixteen men and women divided up the task of exploring and cataloguing the strange island base between them, in teams of two. Mariala was matched with Master Vetaris, while Korwin found himself teamed with Lord Kavyn. Vulk and Devrik set off to explore the outer reaches of the island, while Toran and Erol explored the deeper areas of the base. The Hand had no idea who teamed with who amongst the rest of the Council, since they knew no names.

It was Mariala and Kiril Vetaris who found the dead body of Alvira Vetaris in a luxuriously appointed suite of rooms on what was obviously meant to be a level fo living quarters. The old mage looked sad, despite the danger his mother had meant to not only the world but to his own life and safety. But he said no word about his personal feelings, and was quickly back to all business.

“It appears her body has been dead for the better part of a tenday, I’d say.” He examined the corpse closely, but didn’t touch it. “It’s only the cool, very dry air in this place that’s kept it this well preserved.”

They scoured the chambers and recovered several volumes of what appeared to be personal journals, as well as reams of other papers, books, and scrolls. Much of it, especially the journals and research materials, was in cypher, but much of the day-to-day running of the Vortex organization was not. They piled it into several large chests they found, and carted it all back to the meeting room… although Mariala noticed that Kiril kept the journals separate.

Two floors above Alvira’s quarters, Korwin and Lord Kavyn likewise discovered the brain-dead, and apparently soulless, body of Prince Quorün. His body was slouched in an ornate, fur-draped chair that was just this side of being a throne, a strange metal helm on his head. It covered his eyes and was connected by thick cables to a large machine, clearly more of the same old-Earth technology they’d already encountered elsewhere in the facility.

Drawing off the helmet, Kavyn looked into the wide, staring eyes for several minutes, two fingers touching each of the man’s temples. Quorün’s breathing continued slow and shallow, and he gave no sign of being aware of his visitors. With a deep sigh, Kavyn let his hands fall as he stepped back.

“There’s nothing in there, I’m afraid. No trace of a mind – or soul, if you will – is left in this body. I think all that he was got transferred into that mechanical body, and died when you blasted his synthetic brain out his back, Korwin.”

“Err… sorry?” Korwin ventured, although he didn’t feel any particularl regret. It had been him or that bastard in the moment, after all and he was certainly glad he wasn’t dead.

“Oh, no need to be,” Lord Kavyn assured him with a knowing half-smile that left the water mage wondering exactly how much of his thought the man could read. “No question of self defense, and the man was a traitor and murderer many times over… and, after all, this may have been for the best.”

At Korwin’s inquiring look he added, “This could never have gone to a public trial, you see – far too many deep secrets, both arcane and mundane. But to have executed an Imperial Prince, for no apparent reason as far as the public could see… no, it is certainly much less messy this way. I think, Korwin, the Emperor himself will thank you for your actions.”

The Prince’s rooms were even larger, and far more lavishly appointed, than Alvira’s, and it took the pair a full turn of the glass to examine it thoroughly. In the end there proved far less documentary evidence to collect, beyond the man’s personal journal; which, thankfully, was not in any kind of cypher.

“Ah, this also simplifies things,” Kavyn said, scanning quickly through the more recent entries. “I had feared his father, King Lindeth of Kashula, was a part of this plot, but Quorün writes here of the need to dispatch his father early on, once the plan was in motion, so that he could ascend the throne… apparently a “riding accident” was to be the method… hmm, not a bad idea, actually…”

“What, killing King Lindeth?” Korwin said in surprise. “I know the Three Kingdoms have historically been troublesome, but—“

“No, no,” chuckled the Mymytron. “I meant the method. I think when my agents sneak the Prince’s not-quite-corpse back to Kashula in the next few days, we’ll arrange just exactly this little riding accident for him. It seems an appropriately symmetrical justice, for him to suffer the same fate he intended for his father, I think.”

Korwin just grinned in response, nodding his head in approval as he returned to checking the last few alcoves and chests left unexamined. Lord Kavyn continued to flip through the journal for a few minutes before again drawing Korwin’s attention with a chuckle.

“Well, my young friend, I think this will be of some interest to you,” Kavyn said, pointing to a section of text. “This quite definitively proves that your old friend Kharmet Genokir, the Lord Governor of the Syklian Islands, was involved up to his fat neck in this plot of Alvira and Prince Quorün.

“We, that is Gil-Garon and I, had always felt he’d been involved, forty years ago, in the usurpation plot that killed the old Emperor and led to Gil-Garon’s long exile. But he was much younger then, of course, and a fairly minor noble, not yet an Imperial Governor. He proved to be far enough on the periphery of the treason that he escaped official charges… if not some lingering suspicion.”

“But won’t he escape punishment again,” Korwin asked, scanning the entry. “If this whole plot can’t be made public, how can you make any charges stick?”

“I would never take action against a man merely on suspicion, and nor would the Emperor. Which is why Genokir was allowed to inherit his title and position as Governor, on the death of his own father, despite our lingering doubts. But now, knowing that he has been involved in not one, but two, treasons, I will have no compunction at all in fabricating an utterly airtight case against the bastard… and seeing him hanged.”

“Ah, well, you’ll get no objection from me,” Korwin said, handing back the journal. “Do you suppose I could get a seat at the execution?”

• • • • • •

By the third day, most of the Star Council was ready to return to their various homes and their own interrupted lives. They confiscated all of Alvira Ketaris’ arcane materials, including her seven grimoires and dozens of research notes, but at Master Vetaris’ request left her personal journals in the care of Mariala, for decrypting. The young mage promised to deliver a translated version to the Council as soon as she could, through her old mentor.

The last day the Council spent on the hidden island was mostly taken up in debate over what to do with the clockwork army of the defunct Vortex. A few were for destroying them, along with all knowledge involved in their construction and most especially of the mind transference technology. But the majority were adamantly opposed to this, as it was clear from Captain Renaült’s testimony, which proved that the human victims lived on inside the mechanical forms.

“The clockwork technology itself is more an extension of several existing crafts and skills,” the beautiful, exotic-looking woman with the almond eyes and burnished ivory skin pointed out. “Without the mind transference machinery, however, which is of old Co-Dominion make and located only here is this hidden place, the ability to build these automatons is minor. But more importantly, we will not commit mass murder by destroying those souls already entrapped in these terrible forms!”

In the end, it was agreed to leave the matter in the hands of the Mymytron, who swore that he would find a way to restore the victims, if not into their old, now long gone bodies, then into new one’s grown in the “cloning tanks” they’d discovered on the island. It would be a project of years, no doubt, but in the meantime, they would remain asleep and unaware.

The last item the Council covered before gating out was the fate of the island itself. Lord Kavyn and Master Vetaris were tasked with renewing the ancient shields that hid the place form outside notice, thereby ensuring no one else would stumble across it. They also tabled, for the moment, the idea of the Star Council taking the island as their own base in the future, once it was made safe.

Once the last of the eight departing Councilors hand vanished through the Gate, Lord Kavyn turned to Captain Renaült and laid a hand on his cold, metallic shoulder.

“I know I have promised to grow new bodies for the victims of this terrible crime, my friend… but I think in your case I might be able to do better. Is it true that your ship still remains, essentially intact, in the belly of the great whale-island-ship?”

“It is, milord,” the mechanical man replied. “The dismantling stopped once the controlling machinery was shut down. I went aboard yesterday, just to… well, I’m not sure… just to remember my old life, I suppose. I retrieved a few mementos…”

“I don’t suppose one of those was a hairbrush?” The Mymytron asked, suddenly rather excited. “Or any bits of clothing?”

“Well, no,” the captain sounded puzzled, though of course his face could show no expression. “Both such items would be of no use to me now… I left them where they were, and took only my sea logs and some rings…”

“Ah, but they do exist? A hair bush would be best, but even some clothing might work!“ Lord Kavyn was grinning now. “If you can get me those items, I think it is quite likely that I can recover enough genetic material to grow an exact copy of your old body!”

The members of the Hand, listening closely to this exchange, all looked as blank as Renaült.

“Gen-et-tic?” Vulk repeated the unfamiliar word. “I’m not sure—“

“It’s not important,” Kavyn said, waving an excited hand. “I’ll explain it in detail when we have more time. For now, just get me those items and, in about a year, I’ll have a new body to download your soul into… and a body just like you had at age 25, to boot!”

Both facial expression and body language were beyond the mechanical body Essa Renaült now wore, but somehow everyone in the room sensed his disappointment. “A.. a year, milord? Oh, well that would be wonderful, truly, if it can be done… it’s just that, for a moment, I thought you meant, well, something sooner…”

Lord Kavyn’s excitement faded, and he looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Essa, I got so caught up in the possibilities… the ancient machines that allow for the growing of new bodies from, um, from small bits of older ones, is miraculously swift, compared to the usual method of making bodies. But it’s not instantaneous, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if I got your hopes up.”

“No need for apologies, milord, truly! That it can be done at all is beyond my wildest hope – I had resigned myself, these past few days, to this cold, strange existence; to never seeing my wife or children again, to never feeling again.” Despite the mechanical monotone of his artificial voice, his feeling came through clearly. “So I would be an ungrateful wretch indeed to complain if this miracle takes a little longer than I might wish!”

He returned in short order with his old hairbrush and all of his old clothes. Lord Kavyn took them and disappeared into one of the strange chambers on the “science level,” as he called it. No one saw him again for almost a day…

The seven days after the majority of the Star Council had departed were filled with further exploration and cataloging of both the underground base and the island of Teshunir itself. Mostly this was done under the direction of Master Vetaris, as Lord Kavyn was closeted for long stretches in the “cloning lab,” working to understand the machinery there and get it properly functioning.

On the tenth day after the death of Alvira and the final defeat of her Vortex organization, the Hand prepared to depart themselves. But two last surprises awaited them.

“I won’t be going with you,” Korwin announced at their last dinner. “Lord Kavyn has offered to take me on as an apprentice, to study this new convocation of electricity under his guidance. With my status in the Empire again on solid ground, or soon to be, this isn’t an opportunity I can pass up.

“I want to thank you all for your comradeship, which has taught me so much, and for your friendship, which I hope I will continue to enjoy even if I am no longer in your lives day-to-day. I’m a better man for having known you all, and please believe that I will miss every one of you very much.”

Everyone expressed their sadness at his departure, even as they understood the reasons for it. But Lord Kavyn looked at their expressions and raised a mug — the Prince had certainly had good taste in both beer and wine – and laughed.

“Come, come, it’s not so dire as all that,” he said. “This isn’t the last meal you’ll share with your friend, since you’ll be sailing on to Avantir, where we shall meet you in one month.

“I know he’s looking forward to showing his friends around the greatest city on Novendo, and I certainly hope you’ll all be spending some time there, beyond our official meetings with the Emperor. And if you do, I’ll certainly allow my new student the time to act as your local guide.”

“On that note, milord, I have a request,” Captain Renaült spoke up. As usual, he had joined them for dinner, for although he could not actually eat, he enjoyed the company and conversation. “I know you have offered to let me stay on, as my new body grows, but I must confess, I do not think I have the stomach for it. If you will allow, and the Hand of Fortune is not averse to it, I would ask to accompany them on their voyage to Avantir. I know the Archipelago as well as any man, and would gladly take the place of Master Korwin as native guide.”

Lord Kavyn gave his agreement willingly enough, and the Hand seemed quite enthused at the prospect… although it was young Aldari who was unabashedly excited at the news. He’d been fascinated by the clockwork man ever since he’d freed him and his mother from their cells in the belly of monster ship, and in the last tenday the two had developed something of a rapport. Raven rather suspected Aldari reminded the poor man of his own son, who she knew was about the same age.

So it was that the next morning Vulk, Mariala, Devrik, Erol, Toran, Raven, Aldari and their new clockwork companion waved farewell to Korwin, Master Vetaris, and Lord Kavyn and stepped through the Gate on Teshunir…

…and exited the Gate in the courtyard of the Fellowship House outside the port of Cumor, on the Telnori island of Sydon. The Wind of Kasira could be seen from the hilltop, still at anchor in the middle of the small harbor. Thanks to Mariala’s entangled paper Captain K’Jurol had been kept abreast of the Hand’s continued existence, and of their promised return. Repairs to the ship were completed, and they knew she was ready to sail on the next tide.

The crew seemed genuinely pleased to see their ship’s owners back, with mother and child safe and sound, and Physician Ar’Hanol seemed especially pleased to see Lady Mariala returned unscathed. They were all taken aback, however, by the presence in their midst of one of the clockwork monsters that had attacked the ship little more than a tenday earlier.

Vulk’s speech to the ship’s company, reinforced as it was by just a touch of Abon’s Authority, settled the crew down enough for the story (insofar as they could tell it) to sink in. Once they understood that it really was the former master of the Aldetha Star, a man many of them had known or at least met, trapped by treachery in this terrible form, they quickly came around.

Surprisingly, Captain K’Jorul was less easy to reassure than his crew. But his main concern was having another captain aboard, even one so strange as Renaült, not his form. However, in the first several days of sailing the clockwork man made it clear that he suffered no confusion about his role aboard the Wind – he was scrupulous about staying out of the Captain’s way on deck, never presumed to give anyone an order, and offered his help wherever and in whatever way it might be useful, without regard to if the job was “beneath” an officer. His tremendous strength and willingness to pitch in soon fully endeared him to the crew, and eventually soothed K’Jorul’s worries.

For the next two tendays the Wind of Kasira sailed the northern islands of the Empire. The crew had long adopted the rather absent-minded but amiable Ser Bizwyk as a sort of mascot, and no one objected to letting the lanky naturalist set the itinerary for the leisurely voyage. He had enjoyed his extended stay on the island of Sydon, roaming the hills and forests, collecting specimens of birds, insects and small animals, sketching the flora and fauna, and writing extensive notes in the many blank books he’d brought with him.

Now he made the most of the ship’s visits to Avera, Elopia and Charia (the westernmost of the Three Kingdoms), Quensyn (the easternmost of the Three Kingdoms), and Dyama. His only disappointment came when the Hand firmly squashed his desire to visit Kashula and/or Dekathi, the principal islands of the central of the Three Kingdoms.

“But the variations in the ring-tailed sparrow between Eolopia and Quensyn,” he tried once more to wheedle the owners-aboard as they sailed the passage between Quensyn and Kashula, his last-chance shot. “If only I had the opportunity to study the birds on Kashula, it could prove absolutely critical in confirming my theory—“

“I’m sorry, Ser Bizwyk,” Vulk reiterated for what felt like the hundredth time in a tenday, “ there are… political considerations at the moment that make it… untenable for us to visit the Kingdom of Kashula just now.”

“But, as we heard when we were on Eolopia,” the naturalist pressed on, “Kashula has recently lost their Crown Prince in that unfortunate riding accident. Surely, with the country in mourning, whatever these political matters might be would be, um, abrogated? At least long enough for us to make a small expedition—“

“NO!” Vulk, Mariala and Toran all said at once, causing the young nobleman to blink rather owlishly.

“Oh, well, if you’re absolutely sure, of course…”

Fortunately the naturalist was mollified after their visit to Dyama, where he found yet another variation of the ring-tailed sparrow that quite excited him…

••••••

The day after the Wind left Dyama, crossing the Arlin Bay, she docked in the port city of Kalyon, and the Hand of Fortune set foot for the first time on Great Oceania, the largest and namesake island of the Archipelago.

“Well, you all may as well enjoy the pleasures of the city,” Captain K’Jorul told his patrons after meeting with the Port Master. “We’ll be here for at least a day, maybe two.”

“I thought we’d agreed to head up the River Kilnost as soon as possible,” Toran said, frowning. He was more excited than any of his friends at the prospect of their next landmark – the legendary Ahlürok Canal, running beneath the Kilnost Hills and through the great subterranean Khundari city of Ahlürok, both of them marvels of his people’s skills.

“As soon as possible turns out to be the problem, ser,” the Captain sighed. “The Canal is one of the busiest waterways in the Empire, but the locks can only handle so much traffic at a time. Despite that Imperial pass you have, we’ll still have to wait our turn, I’m afraid.”

With nothing to be done about it, the Hand decided to take their Captain’s advice and enjoy the pleasures the bustling port city offered, while Ser Bizwyk took the opportunity to make a trip into the countryside, with Captain Renaült along to cary his gear. The two had formed an unexpected friendship over the course of the past tendays, much to the surprise of most of the others.

Devrik and his family, at the excited insistence of Aldari once he’d learned of it, headed for the central square of the city, where an annual festival celebrating children and their toys was in its third and final day.

Vulk, Mariala, and Toran, joined by Physician Ar’Hanol, decided to seek out a decent inn or tavern, preferably one that served something besides seafood.

“And a decent beer would be nice,” Vulk laughed as they made their way along the docks. “I appreciate Captain K’Jorul’s wine collection, and his willingness to share, but—“

“Sometimes you just want a good brew,” a familiar voice finished his sentence. “Well, it really is small world, isn’t it! Fancy running into you lot here!”

Vulk’s eyes widened in surprise as he whirled around to confront the last person he’d expected to see…