Chapter 7

The Thief on the Hunt

— Part the First —

The meadows north of the blue-green waters of the Moon Dust Fjord and the winding courses of Hurlas seemed nought but a lifeless wasteland during the Season of Snows. Habel inwardly cursed the dry, bitter cold of the gnomish steppe. His face burned from the icy wind clawing beneath his hood. As always during flight, he grumbled about his faulty, stiff-winged appendage. Its only merit was that, reinforced by a prosthesis, it could unfurl and enable flight — though not without burdening the left wing with the brunt of the labour.

“For years they’ve wandered from place to place like travelling merchants. Perhaps they seek to hide, or perhaps they flee ever from watchful eyes. Yet they show no great care in masking their presence. They and their children arrive at dusk, and by the time folk grow accustomed to them, they’re already gone. They seldom tarry in towns but rather in small hamlets or the forest’s deep hush,” — the words of the Sorcerer echoed in Habel’s mind.

The sun emerged from behind the clouds, but its warmth was scant — nothing more than a pale, wintry yellow, diluted by frost. At this time of year, even the hardy gnomes would find it difficult to survive upon the steppe, and so they dwelt not above the earth but beneath it, a fact Habel knew well.

“The cave, though — that was an exception. They lingered there, and for longer than usual.”

At length, both the air and the landscape began to shift. Habel's body, which had ever preferred the damp, stifling mugginess of the marshes from his childhood, easily sensed the approaching river's moisture. After a time, the narrow line of a forest appeared faintly in the distance, stretching along Wéléré, one of the tributaries of the Hurlas.

Two full quadrants had scarcely passed ere the sylph flew into the trees, clumsily weaving his way between them until he reached the river’s edge.

He flew slowly for several dozen yards, following the river's current, casting watchful glances to either side. Here, the wind seemed barred from entry; dense trees flanked both sides of Wéléré’s valley like sentinels of some woodland treasure trove, safeguarding its mystical tranquillity from disturbance. After a time, however, the forest to the right began to thin, and willows leaned ever more eagerly to gaze upon their reflections in the river’s mirror-like waters. Whenas the forest marshes — known ‘mongst the gnomes as the Willow Morasses — at last emerged from behind thick trunks, Habel knew he had reached his destination. The Lady of Gloams’ Cave, the subterranean city of the Wardens of Earth, lay somewhere near, nestled by the river’s embrace.

But how was he to find its hidden entrance? It was sometimes said that the city was not guarded against strangers by a gnomish watch, but by a legendary ring of forgetfulness, wrought millennia ago by philosophers. Any traveller who entered the Cave would, upon departing, be unable to recall the location of its entrance. Whether there was any truth to such tales, Habel could not say — though even the Sorcerer himself did not know the city's precise whereabouts. He had spoken only of the marshes.

Habel alighted upon the branch of an oak. Rubbing the back of his hand against his red, frostbitten nose, he removed his prosthesis briefly to give his weary wing some respite, then cast his gaze about once more. The world stood frozen in stillness; no living creature gave the slightest sign of its presence. Silence reigned — the sort that Habel knew well from the labyrinths and dungeons of Nan Farlas, and from his own solitary dwelling among them.

We’ll wait, he thought, standing rigidly upon the bough, folding his hands behind his back. He was well-practised in such waiting; it was no new thing to him. Someone will come out, eventually.

He stood thus for what might have been mere quadrants or entire hours, occasionally pacing back and forth along the branch to stave off the cold.

Suddenly, the branches of the willow nearby began to stir faintly, despite the absence of any wind, and to murmur melodiously to one another. Habel furrowed his brow, fixing his gaze upon the tree. For a moment, it seemed not that the branches moaned, but that the willow itself sang a mournful, yearning song — and then, that it was not the willow, but a girl...

Though he quickly dismissed the thought. Nonsense. It was but an ordinary tree, not enchanted in the least, merely expressing itself in its own way. Surprising in this stillness, perhaps, but not beyond belief.

Foolishness. I've run out of things to think about, he mused, casting the willow one last indifferent glance.

It fell silent soon enough, and shortly thereafter, something entirely different drew Habel’s attention — movement, swifter than that of any tree, and precisely what he had been waiting for.

A dragon-winged dragonfly, its wings as translucent as those of the starry sylphs yet gleaming emerald-green like the depths of Hurlas, darted up from the river and traced a few loops above the ice-bound shore. Shaking itself free of water lest it freeze upon its body, scattering droplets like a fountain, it sped off among the trees opposite Habel, on the far side of Wéléré. The sylph, without a moment’s delay, reaffixed his prosthesis and, launching himself from the branch, took to the air in swift pursuit.

Go on then, tie knots on every blasted tree, foolish creature, he grimaced in annoyance as the dragonfly zigzagged through the trees, spiralling round trunks and branches alike. He loathed aerial manoeuvres; they never came easy to him, particularly in cramped spaces where the trees pressed close, their boughs entwining. Instead, he kept to the river's course, his gaze fixed on the darting creature, unwilling to let it slip from sight. Such dragonflies were hardy, yet even they could not survive long above ground during the Season of Snows. And since they oft worked for the gnomes, drawn by the warmth of their hidden cities, it was plain where this one was headed...

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At last, they reached a tumble of boulders near Wéléré's bank, several dozen yards to the southwest. A massive weeping willow cast its shadow over the stones, one of its thick roots burrowing deep between them, pointing towards a small crevice in their midst. The dragonfly skimmed along the root and, without hesitation, darted between the rocks. Habel’s lips curled into a faint, apathetic smile as he dived after it.

The willow root twisted through a dark corridor, lit only now and then by a solitary torch. The dragonfly had vanished from sight, yet Habel no longer cared. He was forced to land and continue on foot, for the passage had grown too narrow to allow flight. Removing his prosthesis, he folded it neatly and tucked it into the inner pocket of his cloak. With a grimace, he massaged his aching wing.

Eftsoons, faint murmurs reached his ears, muffled at first but growing louder with each step. At length, great double doors loomed in the distance, wide open and beckoning. The root, now branching into several thinner tendrils, coiled around the doors instead of a traditional archway, snaking further into the depths of the city beyond. Habel's smile returned as he adjusted his gloves over his webbed hands and drew his cloak more tightly around himself —dark brown like his wings, to keep them well concealed.

In the Cave, he needed to be a gnome, not a sylph — especially not one a black-bog one.

He strode up to the guards ere they had a chance to accost him.

"Good day!" he called out briskly.

"Good day!" one of the guards echoed, his tone wary. There were two of them, and both regarded Habel with keen eyes, likely weighing whether his arrival in the city warranted suspicion. Habel stared back without flinching. Years spent as a motley, where the crowd served as his mirror, had taught him two truths: that he was as ugly as a dull night, but that with eyes as vast as full moons, he could, with a little effort, feign almost anything — including trustworthiness.

"You're not from the Cave," spoke the younger guard, curiosity softening his features into something bordering on friendliness. "I've got a sharp memory, mind. What I see, I remember. That’s why they posted me here. I remember everyone. How’d you get here?"

"A stroke of luck," Habel answered calmly, his tone devoid of intrigue. "I saw a dragonfly fly in, so I followed." He cast a glance through the gates at the city beyond, though little could be seen save for a greenish glow. The settlement sank into the rock like a vast hollow gouged into the earth. "I'm looking for work — something that'll let me bide a while here. The steppes are bitter cold this season. I heard the Cave is hidden but not sealed to strangers."

"Who told you that?" the younger guard pressed, yet the elder silenced him with a curt wave of his hand and spoke instead.

"Work, is it? And how are we to know what sort of vagrant you are? What forest mischief might you carry within you? Perhaps you’ve come to plunder the city or charm our rocks with foreign dusts..."

Yet then, as though reconsidering, he added, almost lazily, glancing past Habel through the gates, "Still, if you’d come bearing something useful , well... that would be a different matter. We might be inclined to help, perhaps offer advice or steer you toward work."

Fools, Habel thought silently, his face stony as he reached into his pocket and produced two coins. For a golden oakling, they'd likely let in the imp king himself.

The elder guard accepted the coins eagerly, making no particular effort to conceal them or worry about being seen. Habel suspected this was less a sign of foolishness and more a testament to how commonplace and accepted bribery likely was in the Cave.

"So, what kind of work are you seeking?"

"I've recently been working at a glassmaker's furnace in a forest glasshouse," Habel replied smoothly. "I heard there might be need for such work here in your city — from Jalo, son of Jengo the gnomish guardsman and Maga the star-faring traveller," he risked adding, eyeing the younger gnome with veiled curiosity. "The very same who told me about the Cave."

"Jalo! Aye, I remember him!" The guard brightened at once. "It’s been over ten cosmic circuits since they left the Cave. His wife was most unusual — eyes like cornflowers... no, darker and deeper," he added, scrutinising Habel as though comparing Feé’s eyes to his own.

I know how she looks; I knew that wench well enough, Habel thought, clearing his throat faintly. He despised it when people stared too long and openly at his face, though he’d never let them see it bothered him. Folding his hands behind his back, he waited in silence for the guard to continue.

"A wife with a babe in her arms — still but an infant. Two older ones besides: a lad who takes after her and a lass folk say’s a sharp-witted little beast," the guard reminisced aloud. "Any notion where Jalo’s got to now?" he asked with evident curiosity.

I wish I knew that myself, Habel thought, but instead he lied with ease, as though playing a well-rehearsed tune.

"I met them at a settlement near the fords of Sar. That’s where I was working last."

"So they’ve settled there, have they..." the guard mused aloud.

"We’ve a great glassworks here," the elder gnome interjected, clearly less enchanted by the talk of Jalo and growing impatient. "Might be work for ye, though you'd best speak with Jorén. He’s likely to be sittin’ in Gnod’s tavern at this hour. Buy him a mug of cider, and he’ll not only prattle on but likely hire ye on the spot."

Habel inclined his head to show he understood.

"Where’s the tavern?" he asked.

The guard stepped just past the gate, and Habel followed, casting a sidelong glance at the gate’s great wing, adorned with painted designs of willow branches. In places, iron tendrils sprang forth from the grey wood like spears. Woven among the branches was a painted zither with floral embellishments, its form so light it seemed to float upward toward the heavens.

"To the right." The gnome pointed with a steady arm. "Follow the path by the rocks. It dips lower after a stretch and widens into a proper road. You’ll not miss the tavern — the hearth fire's glow can be seen from afar."

Habel nodded again, then moved further along, stepping onto a wide ledge that curved in a grand arc along the rock face, like a vast balcony. Resting a hand on the railing, he gazed downward at the panorama of this part of the Cave, nestled entirely underground. Though the scent carried the same comforting notes as the labyrinths of Nan Farlas — a fragrance deeply familiar to Habel — there was an airiness here, almost sylphlike. Perhaps it was the fresh, mist-like glow of pale green lantern light that swathed the city, akin to an eternal Season of Mists. Or perhaps it was the dragonflies, flitting in shimmering clouds through the luminescent air like dragons ‘mongst mountains.

A mighty willow bough plunged sharply downward nearby, branching thickly, with stairways carved into its trunk, allowing passage to the depths of the Cave. The city's life thrived not only on its floor but also upon the high rock walls and their many ledges, encircling the cavern on every side.

And they say gnomes are fearful of heights, Habel thought wryly, shifting his gaze to the narrow, precarious path the guard had indicated earlier. It was guarded by a pitifully flimsy railing. I should’ve kept the prosthetic on.

Without further hesitation, he set his steps toward the path, though.