Over the next few weeks of walking, Myraden registered a steady decline in the temperature. Deciduous leaves turned from lime-green to deep orange, and every city they passed through was constantly pumping pillars of smoke into the sky.
After a few days, they arrived at a road. It was wider than most of the trails in the Elven Continent, and there had been an effort long ago to pave it with cobblestones, but now, wild grass and mud creeped in across the edges, and weeds sprouted up from the middle. Every so often, a moss-covered statue of a Dominion emperor watched over the road. Some were missing their heads and hadn’t been replaced, others were only a pedestal of stone left—and a few chunks of crumbling stone scattered around.
They followed the river until it curved away into its mountain birthplace, but the road continued on for a few more days. It deposited them at a sharp peak of rock overlooking a the Adryss ocean nearly a half mile below. The height of the cliff made her stomach churn, and she stepped back from the edge—far enough that she could barely hear waves churning against the stone at the bottom.
“Tarren’s Point,” said the Hand, still standing a few paces behind her. “It marks the start of Greatsaad Bay, and the triple-border between Seisse, Plainspar, and the nation of Greatsaad.”
Myraden turned in a circle. Each breath tasted salty, and though she didn’t feel the cold on her skin, it tasted like autumn. There were no more Rumyne trees. To the west, the mountains continued, warping with the vast curve of the coast, but here, they were sharper spires, each with a circlet of clouds. Yellow grasses covered the gently-sloping ground, and they seemed just a little oversaturated to be real. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but when she bent down and ran her hands through them, they didn’t shift hues.
“We will reach Ulan-Ost by nightfall if we don’t stop,” the Hand said. “Unless you need a break?”
Myraden wasn’t physically tired, though she hadn’t been getting as much sleep lately as she would’ve liked. While she didn’t need as much sleep now, as a Blaze, she still needed to catch a few hours.
But there was too much on her mind, and she couldn’t just purge it.
She’d decided to purge Pirin from her mind once, and she’d run away. He’d almost died, and he’d destroyed his memories because of it. What if something similar happened this time?
He’s stronger this time, Kythen said. And you had to leave. If we don’t advance to Wildflame, he’ll have just as many troubles. He’ll be entirely on his own—just the same as if you had left for good.
“But we’re not leaving for good,” she said, speaking Íshkaben. “We’re going to come back.”
Then hold onto that thought, and tonight, try your best to sleep.
“Fejn, Kythen, fejn.”
The road curved around the edge of Greatsaad Bay, passing in and out of spindly pine tree swathes. Tiny stone bridges passed over slow-flowing, rock-filled streams, and as the sun descended, it illuminated the snowy mountainsides in blazing orange-pink. No matter where she looked, there was almost always a yurt or two in sight, residence to herdsmen, ranchers, and fishers.
A few hours after departing from Tarren’s Point, the distinct warbling screech of a steppehawk tore through the air.
At first, she wanted to assume it wasn’t for her. There were plenty of wizards on the Mainland who could receive messages, and they had to be getting close to Ulan-Ost. It was a large port city, and there’d be wizards there.
But still, she glanced up.
The bird circled overhead, only a dark speck trailing vibrant blue sparks in the air behind it.
“It’s for you,” the Hand said. “Unless there are somehow wizards among these herdsmen, though I find that unlikely.”
“Unlikely,” Myraden repeated. “Perhaps someone is using it to follow us.” She watched it carefully for a few more seconds. It was still circling directly overhead, but with every pass, it dropped lower, until, on one pass, it wooshed overhead.
Myraden’s arms snapped up, and in a flash, she caught the bird. A leather pouch hung from its foot, and she plucked it off.
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“It’s a messenger,” said the Hand. “Smudge its tail feathers and get rid of it. Those birds are easy to follow for any tracker worth their pay.”
She spat in her hand, then smudged the rune across the bird’s tail feathers until it wasn’t legible anymore—and until it stopped resonating—then released the hawk. It fluttered back up into the air and flew east. Back toward the Elven Continent.
Her heart thrummed with excitement, and she peeled open the leather pouch. It had to be news.
Her eyes scanned back and forth across the note. Hello Dear Myraden, I hope this message reaches you, and I hope you’re still doing alright. You’ll probably be relieved to know that, at the time of me writing and sending this letter, I’m safe and healthy.
Yes. Yes, she was.
Sadly, I can’t send this letter just for conversation. I’ve learned that there’s an important Aerdian military leader who is currently in Greatsaad—Field Marshal Theämir. It seems, best as we can conclude, that the Dominion knows his standing and favourable position within the Aerdian army, and has sent him away purposely to help secure their hold.
If we were to turn this marshal to our side, we would have a much greater chance of condensing the Aerdian army and earning their support.
You’re one of the few people on the Mainland who I trust, and though I don’t know how close you are to Greatsaad or Ostalath City, I hope that this quest doesn’t take you too far from your duties.
I also understand that Ostalath City imports many important elixirs for Dominion wizards. There may be some to steal, and for you to use as a push to better envision your Inner Gates.
Love, Pirin.
Myraden folded the letter back up and tried to process what she’d just read. It wasn’t bad, and it was important—plus it wouldn’t necessarily hold her back on her journey. A few days to meet with a marshal and steal some elixirs?
And it shouldn’t be too far out of the way, Kythen said. As long as this Ostalath City is still north from us, it won’t sidetrack us much at all.
She patted Kythen’s head and leaned against his neck. “As well, Pirin asked us to do it,” she said to him in Íshkaben. “Such requests cannot go unfulfilled when our entire mission might be at stake.”
Then, reluctantly, she showed the letter to the Hand. He briefly read over it. When his eyes stopped drifting side-to-side, she pulled the letter away, opened her void pendant, and tucked the letter inside.
“Is Ostalath north from here?” she asked.
“We continue on until we reach Ulan-Ost,” the Hand said. “From there, it is a day of walking hard and fast in order to reach Ostalath. It is the capital city of Greatsaad, and one of the largest warm water ports in Dominion territory. The Autumn Council is always held there—Dominion marshals and admirals gather, though many of them regard it as a farce now. Nothing of importance is ever discussed, and despite the big show of it, important military leaders rarely attend anymore. When the Dominion sends a marshal to the Autumn Council, it is the first sign they have fallen out of favour with the current leadership.”
Myraden nodded. “Ostalath sounds like a Dominion name.”
“So does Ulan-Ost,” the Hand remarked. “The Dominion nearly razed both cities to the ground when they took Greatsaad, some thirty decades ago. When they rebuilt, they named the cities in their own fashion.”
Myraden adjusted her backpack and patted Kythen’s back. “We need to move, then. I would rather make as best time as we can.”
Pirin needed her help, and so did Sirdia. She wouldn’t let them down.
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Vel Talomn was the first major city Pirin encountered along the Eldflow river. It had no walls, only a central keep high up on the hill, but most of the city’s defenders had fled upon seeing the barge. Aerdian elves scattered across the countryside, or hid among the forests around the river’s edge.
Pirin and Gray stood at the bow of a barge, side-by-side with Chancellor Ivescent and Marshal Velbor.
“They’re unwilling to fight,” the marshal remarked. “If they won’t attack us, how can we trust them to help us against the Dominion?”
Pirin grimaced. “What if they won’t fight us because, deep down, they want us to win? Even if right now, they’re too afraid to say it.”
“Or they’re cowards,” said Velbor.
“Where is the Dominion garrison?” Ivescent asked. “A city this large should have one.”
“Perhaps they got wise and left with the Aerdians, or realized that fighting wasn’t worth it,” Velbor grumbled. “If the scouts see something, they’ll report it.”
It’d been days since Pirin had discovered the Dominion army, and they still hadn’t been attacked. It confirmed his worst fears: the Dominion was heading straight for the Dremfell Wall, without a single care for Pirin or this incursion. “We need to move as quickly as we can. If you’re going to send men ashore, do it quickly.”
They’d planned to stop at a few cities to gather supplies. They didn’t need it to make the journey or last the siege, but if they were to survive another march to Dremfell afterward, they’d need more food.
“Only raid the keep and the military storehouses,” Pirin commanded. “And I’ll tolerate no pillaging or sacking. The Aerdians are our allies, and they must know it. If any of our soldiers so much as lays a hand on a civilian unprovoked, they’ll be dismissed from the army. Am I clear? Be fast, then we need to keep moving.”