Chapter 2

Into the Mist

-Part the Third-

The torchlight cast wavering shadows upon the rough stone walls of the corridor, forming patterns like the blackened branches of trees. They swayed ever so slightly, dignified, as though caught in the languid rhythm of trembling flames.

The hands of the Cypress Master, Al mused silently. The stuff of children's nightmares.

At last, he emerged onto the courtyard of the Grotto and, with a sigh of relief, tilted his head back toward the heavens. He squinted, savouring awhile the silvery glow of the moon and the scatter of stars. His gaze then drifted lazily downward along the sheer rock face, where water cascaded fiercely, mimicking the miniature Gates of Gérlod. Only at the base of the cliff did it quieten, the torrent giving way to a slender stream that cut across the courtyard and slipped beyond the Grotto's gates, weaving through the streets of the city beyond.

Al strode toward the stream, knelt by its bank, and removed his hat. Cupping his hands, he filled them with icy water and splashed it across his face. The chill prickled his cheeks, sharp as if a thousand tiny needles of ice pierced his skin. Yet it cleared his eyes, shaking off the last vestiges of weariness. A pale rainbow, shimmering shyly above the stream like a delicate, many-hued bridge, suddenly appeared brighter, more vivid to him. Fine droplets of mist clung to it, glinting faintly with violet hues.

Tearing his gaze from the spectral arc, Al reached for the flask fastened to his belt. Leaning over the stream, he prepared to fill it when a shadow swept across the courtyard, followed by the soft rustle of wings disturbing the stillness. The young bard looked up sharply.

Three cuckoos, dark as ash-grey leaves, swept over his head and alighted gracefully upon the stone floor a yard away from him.

Cuckoo Scouts, Al thought, his brow furrowing as he began to fill his costrel, glancing at them with quiet curiosity. His puzzlement grew when one of the cloaked figures, dismounting nimbly from a bird’s back, struck him as familiar. He was certain only when the scout spoke, his voice measured and commanding:

“We're done for tonight. Release the birds. They’re weary, and the night’s nearly upon us.”

Branod!, Al chuckled under his breath.

The scout must have sensed the gaze of the young elf upon him, for he turned sharply, his keen eyes sweeping towards the stream. For a fleeting moment, he regarded Al intently, though his face betrayed nothing. The bard couldn’t tell whether Branod recognised him or not.

Yet it was enough to pique his interest, prompting a change in his orders.

“Oléd, you'll handle tonight’s report. Fly to the Citadel!” he commanded, turning back to his comrades.

One of the remaining scouts, though with a hint of reluctance, nodded his understanding and swiftly remounted his cuckoo. The bird took to the skies nigh noiselessly, wings slicing through the cool night air. Branod followed its ascent with a brief glance ere setting off towards Al.

“Who are you? And what business brings you here after dark?”

Al rose to his feet, baring his teeth in a mischievous grin.

“Even you greet me like a brigand tonight.”

Branod’s eyes widened.

“Al...” he murmured, a hesitant smile breaking upon his face. “Al!”

Still taken aback, he embraced the elf warmly.

“So you’ve become a gnomish guard,” Al quipped after a moment, tilting his head playfully from side to side as though inspecting Branod’s attire and gear. “Why am I not surprised? You always did love scolding others for flouting the rules.”

Branod let out a brief laugh but offered no retort. Instead, he pressed on with a question of his own.

“How did you end up here? Sén Serén’s a long way off...” He fell briefly into thought, then fixed Al once more with a sharp, probing look.

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Al meant to reply, but the sound of wings once again echoed off the rocky walls of the courtyard. The cuckoo alighted by the stream, its sharp yellow eye glinting with suspicion as it fixed upon the elf. A short distance away, the second of Branod’s comrades had led his own bird to the water’s edge to drink.

“Let’s away from here,” Branod whispered, grasping Al by the arm and gently turning him toward a narrow path that veered from the courtyard. “Every stone here has ears.”

Al nodded in agreement, gathering his belongings ere following Branod in silence. Yet the gnome did not lead him through the main gates but along a slender trail that hugged the stream, hemmed in by towering walls of rock. Al had never ventured this way before, and he reckoned few others had either, save for the guards and the Master’s servants. The path twisted treacherously, narrow and uneven. If one did not know it well, it proved perilous, riddled with sudden inclines, sharp descents, and jagged outcroppings that jutted like the blades of daggers from the stone.

At last, they reached a gate. Branod exchanged a few quiet words with the watchmen, who then unbarred it and let them pass. On the far side, they emerged onto the fringes of the market. After the long hush of the Master’s Grotto, the clamour of this place struck Al’s ears like a storm, and it took him a moment to adjust to the lively hum of voices and clattering wares.

This city never slumbers, the elf mused with sudden fascination, casting a glance at Branod.

“For a bard, nowhere is too far,” he said with a sly grin. “That’s one of the reasons I became one. I’d wither from sheer boredom if I had to linger for years in Sén Serén, choking on the dust of druidic tomes and wasting away amid dozens of craftsmen’s workshops.”

“You speak of Sén Serén as though it were but a heap of last year’s leaves,” Branod marvelled as they pushed their way through the throng clustered around the market stalls. Two young gnomish maidens exchanged hushed giggles, and Al flashed them a wide, mischievous grin.

“And to me, it’s the grandest wonder I’ve ever beheld,” the scout finished quietly, steering the elf down towards the lake’s edge.

Al shrugged.

“Sén Serén’s a bottomless well, I’ll grant you. Full of sorcery, aye. But one has to take pleasure in delving into its depths. I stifle in it.”

The tranquil waters of the subterranean lake shimmered beneath a copper-gold sheen. Al sank down upon the stony shore and, sliding back his hood, tilted his head skyward. Above them loomed a dark forest of stalactites, hanging like a congregation of slumbering bats. Branod stood beside him, casting a wary glance about. They were alone on the shore, save for three gnomish children tossing shards of rock into the lake for amusement.

The gnome's gaze shifted from the elf to the gleaming waters.

“So you’ve come to the Gates as a bard? Few here care to lend ear to a lute.”

Al smirked, amused. Tearing his eyes from the stalactites, he lowered his head.

“Not as a bard. I’m here on Nol’s errand — though I didn’t end up with the Master he sent me to.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask what business Nol sent you to Ferlo for,” Branod said. “Though, truth be told, I needn’t ask — I may easily guess.”

Al noticed the scout's faint grimace. He fixed Branod with a keen gaze before asking, “How did Gerod end up being chosen?”

Branod glanced down at him, then lowered himself to sit by his side. He picked up a small stone and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers.

“Little do I know,” he said at last. “I’m but a lowly scout. Even our commander is given no explanations by the Stone Sages.”

He cast the stone into the lake. The smooth surface quivered, and rippling brownish waves scattered outward in perfect circles, journeying to every corner of the world.

“But everyone in the Grotto, even I, knows it wasn’t Gerod they truly chose. I mean… they did choose him, but he isn’t the heart of it. Gerod has an adviser. Strange, secretive. Like a shadow.”

“A hooded figure,” Al murmured, giving voice to his own thoughts without intending to.

“So you’ve seen him as well.”

“Seen is saying much,” Al said, lifting his brows. “I caught sight of a cloak and hood — they stirred but a few times.”

Branod allowed himself a faint smile.

“I’ve only caught a glimpse of him once or twice myself. His cloak and hood, that is. He never parts from them, as the ancient star-mages. Folk say he’s a sylph. They say he’s mighty. He comes to Gerod, then vanishes away — speaks sometimes, they say, with the Sages as well. With no one else. That’s all I know.”

Al nodded to show he understood. He, too, picked up a small stone and hurled it into the water with greater force than Branod had done, watching as it struck further from shore. He then turned a mischievous grin on the gnome.

“You oughtn’t have told me that.”

“I oughtn’t,” Branod agreed, his lips curving in a barely perceptible smile. “But I was raised among your folk. I haven’t forgotten it.”

Al made no reply, for just then the stillness over the lake was shattered by the swift patter of running footsteps behind them. In an instant, they both turned, leaping to their feet. A figure in a drab cloak was racing toward them, a strand of ruddy hair slipping free from beneath the hood.

Osgod, Al recognised him at once, his hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. He cast a sharp glance at Branod, catching a fleeting glimpse of the gnome reaching beneath his cloak for his sword.

Then Al's eyes shot back to Osgod. His movements were swift, cutting. A blade flashed from beneath his cloak, gleaming silver in the dim light — but Osgod did not strike at them. Like a mountain wind, he swept past, slashing Al’s bundle with three, four sharp strokes of his knife.

In a heartbeat, he was gone.

Al sprang forward, ready to give chase, but Branod seized his arm with a firm grip and held him back.

“Leave it be!”

The elf turned his attention to the bundle, inspecting the cuts. Just as he’d thought, they were no random slashes — they formed two uneven yet razor-sharp "V" shapes, jagged as fangs.

“Who was that?” he asked Branod.

The gnome cast a glance at the torn bundle ere answering.

“From the Pack of the Hoar Wolf. Thieves, but no common rabble. Cunning and vengeful. Best not to cross their path without good cause.”

“It wasn’t for gain he did this,” Branod added thoughtfully, taking the bundle from Al and examining it with a careful eye. “Then why?”

“Because I’ve already crossed his path,” Al said, gazing into the distance where Osgod had vanished ‘mongst the rocks.

Yet there was no fear in his voice — only a spark of satisfaction.