The five travelers from Greyarch skulked through the wetlands in the quiet of night. They were still some distance from the bogs of the Skull Marsh, but the landscape had already begun to transform. Sphagnum grew in great patches here, and it began emanating an eerie glow of iridescent greens and yellows that put the group on edge. The boughs of the trees drooped with melancholy, laden by lichens and luminescent moss that outshone whatever slivers of moonlight were able to penetrate the blanket of clouds above. Other than the shuffling of a fangle of grim moose, and the occasional protest of one of the oversized bullfrogs in the area (which produced several useful alchemical ingredients, whilst on the subject), the area was still and quiet. He wasn’t sure, but based on how long they had travelled, and judging from the suddenly lustrous flora, Elestran suspected they might be nearing The Tears of Eleonore. He quickened to a trot so that he was on pace with Kelshar.
“Do you know of the Tears?”
Kelshar glanced at him sidelong without stopping, surprised at the question. “Do you?”
“We should not be here,” Eles replied in a rushed whisper. He still held out hope that perhaps Kelshar didn’t know what she had stumbled upon. “Not on this night. We are not welcome.”
“That I can’t argue with. Keep your head low and if trouble comes, stay behind me.” With that, she tugged Eles behind her and refocused on the ever-thickening copse ahead.
Suddenly, Eles longed for his room in the Forgotten Bowels. There, at least, he was convinced he had an understanding with the evil spirits: don’t bother me and I shall certainly not bother you. Here he doubted the inhabitants would be so respectful of boundaries. He had barely made it back to his room from the council meeting and taken off his disguise when Kelshar descended into his lab. Eles was relieved to hear they’d be leaving his room, but had his accursed jailor spoken in more than grunts he might’ve realized just where the fool intended to go. Kelshar simply told Eles that he was needed to ‘see that some materials used by you lot are authentic.’
There were only five of them: Kelshar, two capable-looking Lodern guards, Eles, and a priest of The White Lady.
The Priests of Queen Alabaster are said to be touched with her wisdom and are thus used by the nobles as valued judges and advisors. They rarely speak because their words are so valuable, the church claims. The man who accompanied them didn’t disappoint, for he hadn’t said a word the entire trip. He wore an alabaster mask that covered almost all his face. Only his eyes and ears were exposed. Mouth and nostril holes punctured the mask, but strips of white silk affixed to the inside of the mask kept the holes concealed. His tunic was emblazoned with the symbol of Queen Alabaster – the alabaster mask surrounded by deadly shards of ice, pointing out in all directions.
Both the red priests of Lady Cinereal and the priests of the White Lady wisely wore masks when performing their duties of condemnation, Eles thought. The priests of the White Lady would tell you that they wore their masks as a symbol of their detachment from worldly influences. In reality, Eles believed there were too many in Greyarch who would seek retribution should they know the identity of the official who sentenced their sons or daughters to death.
The custom of masked priests was borne in ancient history. Eons ago, when mostly peaceful, nomadic clans farmed the Summerlands to the North, the Autumn Folke were banished from their realm, The Chimera. They descended upon the Summerlands and enslaved the people. The Lord of the Autumn Folke forbade the worship of their Summerland gods, allowing only fealty to him to destroy any hope of independence. Centuries passed until the arrival of King Ebon, a violent raider king of the North. It is said he promised the people freedom from the Autumn Folke if they would swear religious obedience to him. The new worshippers of Lord Ebon wore masks to protect their identities from the Autumn Folke while they organized a groundswell of support and amassed an army. Finally, Lord Ebon led the people to a bloody uprising. He taught them the secret of cold iron, which is the bane of the Autumn Folke, and drove the Folke from the lands.
King Ebon ruled for a thousand years, it is said, consolidating his divine rule. At first, his violent bent was admired and regaled, but he ultimately grew into a bloody tyrant who terrorized his realm. The people sent an emissary to King Ebon to plead for mercy, the beautiful and pure Princess Jacinth, whom it was said nobody could refuse for her grace and beauty. Ebon responded by seizing Jacinth and taking her for his own Queen. She endured her torturous marriage to Ebon for centuries by clinging to her belief in the inherent goodness of the people and of the abundant lands, until, in a fit of obsessive mistrust and rage; King Ebon murdered their oldest son for a perceived disloyalty. It was that day, they say, Princess Jacinth transformed into the grim, unforgiving Alabaster Queen she is today. She stabbed King Ebon nine times with a stiletto of ice, cast him into the Underworld, and took the throne of the gods for her own. As the war-forged people migrated out of the Summerlands and into Ghault, they brought their worship of Queen Alabaster and the rest of the chromatic gods of the Summerlands with them.
Eles couldn’t help but feel the priest of Queen Alabaster was coldly judging him behind that emotionless mask, and it put him on edge. Eles calmed himself by using a small knife to scrape handfuls of moss into a pouch as they walked. It broke apart into a thick dust as he scraped it from the boughs into his sack.
Kelshar led the men through an unnaturally thick and resilient bramble that clutched at their cloaks and battered at their shins and forearms. No lost traveler would stumble into this place, Eles thought. He tried reason one more time, “This is not wise.”
“Silence, you old fool,” the soldier to his right whispered, revealing he was as unnerved as Eles.
The branches assaulted them for several more minutes until Kelshar pushed through the other side to reveal a hidden slough. There was only five feet of open ground ahead before it dropped steeply. Beyond, there was a natural quarry fifteen feet down to a pool of still and silver water that shimmered in a lone beam of moonlight that pierced the clouds. The sides of the wide pit were blanketed in a matrix of tangled roots colored by luminescent moss. The moss sparkled with droplets of water trickling down to the pool below. They had arrived at the Tears of Eleonore.
Ack!
Eles heard the guard to his right spit out a gurgled grunt, but by the time he turned, the guard was already three paces away. He was being dragged backwards into the thicket, but by what Eles couldn’t tell. There was nothing there. Was it the branches themselves? The guard’s eyes were wide with fear, and he grasped at the slick branches in an effort to slow his departure.
Kelshar shouted, “To arms!” and disappeared over the precipice ahead, as if being yanked by some unseen force. While at their rear, the priest was occupied with something concealed in the growth.
They were surrounded.
The other guard lunged forward and grabbed his companion’s legs to keep him from disappearing. In his struggle to pull as hard as he could he didn’t notice his friend’s hands were now up at his throat, scratching and clawing at his skin. Eles caught a glimpse of a line of blood spilling out across the accosted man’s throat.
“Stop pulling! You’re killing him!” Eles warned, but the guard didn’t understand. There was something there, something invisible.
Eles thought back to the lessons of his youth, and Qolor’s words came back to him. Connect to the tapestry around you and believe. Believe, and only then will you see. But Elestran had always believed solely in what he could feel. What he could mix and transform. This tapestry always eluded him. But perhaps with age, things had changed. He centered himself by holding a nearby branch and breathed down deep into his core. And looked. Really looked….
Nothing.
Fah, Eles thought, a fool’s exercise! Instead, he reached into his sack and grabbed a handful of lambent moss dust and threw it forward, bursting into a cloud around the guard in the thicket. As it settled, the outline of hands and arms appeared. And then, directly behind the dying guard, the vague form of a face took shape. It was centered with a wide nose the size of a fist, discharging a mist of snot as it breathed. Erect, pointed ears also took shape, covered with enormous warts. A bocan?! It was the best guess Eles had. Bocans were legendary Autumn Folke. Myths described them as evil tricksters who inhabited bogs and swamplands and were invisible to the untrained eye. This myth had a garrote around his prey’s neck and its sinewy arms strained with the deadly force being exerted.
“It’s killed him!” Eles shouted, seeing the guard’s eyes go empty.
“What is it?” the guard said, horrified.
“A bocan!” It sounded foolish he knew, but there was nothing for it. The guard finally accepted the loss of his companion, let go, and drew his own sword.
At the back of their party the priest of the Pale Lady was using his staff to parry a flurry of thrusts from what must have been a bocan armed with a spear, approaching from behind. Somehow, the priest seemed able to see his attacker.
“Forward!” the priest commanded, backing away from his assailant.
Eles pushed toward the Tears of Eleonore, trying to hold back the clawing branches so that the two behind him could follow.
Too late.
The other guard’s chest spasmed and a hole appeared, as if something unseen was bursting out from the confines of his breastbone. Another bocan was lurking in the bushes on the other side, revealed only by the rustling of the branches around him. They were all around and Eles was unarmed, save for his small knife. Not that he thought it would do him much good, had he been.
He cursed Kelshar one more time, aware that he was next to die.
Eles was knocked aside as Kelshar plowed past. Her short stature seemed to benefit her now as she moved with surprising deft under and through the branches, returning from the quarry. In an instant she was on the bocan who had impaled the guard. She wielded a short but heavy broadsword with considerable force. Before the bocan could free his spear, Kelshar relieved him of an arm, which became visible as it dropped to the ground. Immediately, the rest of the bocan became visible and it gasped and gurgled in pain as its mottled tongue shot out of its mouth, as if trying to bolt away before the agony in its body shot up that high. It fell to the ground, a huge, bipedal toad. Its body was a mash of muscle-packed arms and legs with an unusually small torso, measuring about four feet long. Its greenish-brown blotched skin was covered with warty bumps, some oozing with pus, and even a few of the larger warts had warts.
Kelshar grabbed the priest’s shoulder and dragged him back through the brush to the opening of the Tears. Eles followed until all three of them were out of the tangles and on the precipice. Eles could hear the approach of unseen others as they hopped through the thicket. He peeked over his shoulder and into the sunken quarry. Kelshar had already killed three more of the things. Their arms and legs were caught in the roots; grotesque marionettes that had been cast aside.
Kelshar’s head swiveled around, trying to take stock of just how many bocans may be skulking forward. “Come on then, don’t be shy,” she challenged.
A voice called out, “You have mistaken reverence for timidity.”
They turned in that direction. There had risen an unnatural bank of fog on the far side of the Tears. It roiled and swirled in place, as if captured in a towering jar. Within it appeared the outline of a tall, lithe figure, shrouded by the mist.
“Nonetheless, no man not borne of noble blood may disturb this place and see the sunrise. You’ve slain four of mine and I have no desire to lose others. It’s been ages since I’ve slain a man. Or woman. I expect it will come back to me.” The only movement the figure took was to draw his long sword from its scabbard. He drew it intolerably slow. The blade was narrower than any sword Eles had ever seen and somehow it was all the more chilling for it.
The priest of Queen Alabaster pulled Eles behind him and shoved him into the shadows of the thicket. He edged past even Kelshar and addressed the dark figure. “Days once existed when a man could request counsel before being set upon. Six died here tonight because you’ve forgotten the fine art of hosting.”
That voice. Elestran knew immediately that this was the same masked priest of Death who had questioned him on the rooftop.
The dark figure in the mist had to be almost seven feet tall and was a little more visible now. He had long, dark, moss-green hair. His skin, visible only at his face, was like milk. His cloak seemed to be made of thick, uneven wool. “Days once existed when guests arrived only when beckoned. And never masked.”
“Is that what’s irking you? The mask?” the priest replied.
“You would need to mean something to me to irk me. I once stepped on a cockroach without altering my gait. Killing you will be comparable.”
“Your powers must be waning Lord Garakul. Once upon a time you would have discerned my identity, mask or no,” and with that the priest reached up and removed his mask. From behind there was no way for Eles to see the priest’s face.
Garakul let escape a hollow laugh. “Ah yes, thus the mask I see. It is apt you speak of waning powers. This pleases me. There’s nothing quite as exquisite as negotiating with a desperate noble.”
“Will you take audience then?”
Garakul sheathed his slender sword and sat. Through the mist, the form of a high-backed chair shaped of living roots and branches became visible. “I’m rapt.”
The priest slipped the mask into the folds of his robe. “There are portents of the reappearance of the elements of the Elixir of Seasons.”
“Are there?”
“It would benefit us both should I become in possession of these elements.”
It was almost imperceptible, but Eles noticed Kelshar flinch ever so slightly at her companion’s offer, and Eles wasn’t surprised. It was foolhardy at best to seek counsel from the Autumn Folke, and most would say treacherous to throw in with them.
“I require payment beyond your friendship, as prized as that may be.” Eles knew it was sarcasm, but you couldn’t tell by the priest’s voice, which resonated with nothing but courtesy.
“And here I thought I would soon be attending your galas and coronations. Alas, woe and solitude are my lot here in the mortal realm.” As if sprouting from the branches of his chair, there appeared a half-full glass, shaped like a rose. He sipped languorously. “Well? Let the bartering begin.”
The priest spoke deliberately now, as if choosing his words wisely. “As is my birthright, I will grant you permission to retrieve these elements. In return, I will take half for myself and allow you to keep the remaining half.”
“Half? So generous,” Garakul said, dripping with sarcasm.
“That was our last agreement,” the priest replied. Eles’ stomach tightened at the acknowledgment. Agreements with the Autumn Folke broke all moral tenets.
Garakul took another long sip. “That’s the lovely thing about supply and demand, wouldn’t you agree? As the supply grows, your ability to demand diminishes.”
“What do you speak of?”
“It appears you’re late to this royal ball.” As bored and uninterested as Garakul wanted to appear, Eles could detect a hint of cruel retribution. “I’ve been engaged by another.”
“What?” the priest cried. “Who would dare?”
“Your query is rich with hypocrisy, hm? Nonetheless, tis true. The contract is writ. I’m forced to turn down your oh-so-generous offer of half. Perhaps next time. As always, I’m your humble servant. I’ll kindly ask you to take your leave.” Garakul waved them off without lifting his hand. It was simply a flick of his fingers.
“Wait,” the priest replied, his plea laced with desperation.
“Yes?”
A tense silence followed, as if the priest didn’t really know why he wanted to wait, only that this couldn’t be the end. Eles couldn’t help but notice that over Garakul’s head, Hella was crossing beneath Helene. It was believed by more superstitious souls that twists of fate were more likely when the small moon travelled past her larger sister. She crossed so closely. An eclipse would come soon.
“Perhaps there is still something to be done,” the priest offered.
“The contract is writ. It is impossible. As tragic as it is, you’re lost.”
“You don’t have the elements yet?” the priest challenged.
Garakul hesitated. “So immaterial. I shall.”
“Not unless I get them first.”
Garakul chuckled. “Without my aid? I think not.”
The priest stood firm. “I’m very resourceful, Garakul. You should know that by now. Why even risk the loss of the elements? You’re wise enough to understand the importance of assurance. I’m not suggesting you break your contract. I won’t ask you to retrieve the elements for me. But I do have an offer. Tell me how the elements manifested and where they are, and I will retrieve them for us. And you shall still get your share. Surely the ancient laws allow that?”
“No. I’m suggesting you fix the game so that you win either way. I’ll find out what the elements are and where they are if you don’t tell me,” the priest warned.
“I doubt -”
“And if I do, you get nothing.”
Again, Garakul sipped, but he didn’t relish it in quite the same way. “You will retrieve that which we covet, completely on your own? Sully your own hands? This has never been offered before. Intriguing. And yes, this could be done without violating the contract.” Helene was now directly below Hella. “Very well, I accept your offer. At the southern end of the Blood Petal Wood there now grows a rare red monkey tree. The elements have manifested into the root of this tiny tree.”
“This will complete an Elixir of Seasons?” the priest asked.
“It will not be easy to find,” Garakul responded. “I assure you.”
The priest turned around and Elestran saw his face for the first time. Eles could not conceal his shock. Not in who it was, for it would be dishonest to claim Eles didn’t suspect the identity of his captor, but in his appearance.
This was, no doubt, Dargon Lodern.
Lord of Greyarch. Head of the Council of Seven, which ruled all of Ghault. Fourth in a line of generations of Loderns. Nobly born. Touched by the blood of the gods. Which was why his appearance was so alarming.
The Dargon before him was old. Greys streaked his temples and short beard. Crow’s feet abutted his eyes. He had to be fifty. Which was approximately how long Dargon had been alive. It was a calamitous turn. No man of royal blood would appear such at fifty. Still… he was unquestionably good looking, and there was a flickering energy behind his azure eyes that took Eles aback.
“What say you, alchemist?” Dargon whispered.
“What?” Eles responded, unsure of what was being asked.
“This root. This red monkey tree. Could this be a catalyst for the elixir?” Both Dargon and Kelshar stared at him expectantly.
Eles realized that Dargon was asking him to confirm whether this component, combined with the other known components, would successfully produce an Elixir of Seasons. It was madness! Without any references, without a lab, or any testing or experimentation, it was impossible to say. It was folly to even attempt it.
“I… milord, it’s impossible to know… to confirm…” he sputtered.
“Alchemist… “
Eles knew the tone. His shoulders slumped. “Yes, yes, a slow and painful death. One moment please!” He held a hand up and shut his eyes. He needed to concentrate. Somehow, he knew he was spared death to be involved in this very subject and had spent the last few days reviving long buried knowledge by studying the tomes stolen from the royal labs.
Red monkey tree. Red monkey tree. Part of the Farralax classification. Yes, he thought, I’m sure of it. Amber oils tend to extract the potency of Farralax plants, it makes sense, it does. But still… the powders of Amphora… there was something Qolor showed him once, in the lab. Surprisingly, when the powders were added to bloodletters root it turned caustic. It wasn’t red monkey, but in the same class, with similar qualities. There was no way to be sure! Still…
“A moment!” Dargon called out over his shoulder.
“No. No milord. To drink this… I think would mean certain death.” Eles whispered as low as he could. Maybe if he said it low enough, he could deny having ever said it at all, later.
Dargon’s face went stone. “Are you sure?”
“…No. Not even a little.”
Dargon looked to Kelshar who shook her head in disgust. “You can’t risk all on this charlatan, milord.”
Dargon studied Eles one more time before turning back around. “What trickery is this, Garakul? You mean to have me embrace the Lord of Bones? Is this how you treat your associates?”
“Anyone worthy of the information would know at once that it was false. So, there was no real danger, was there, Lord Lodern?”
Kelshar scowled. “Fie on this, milord! I beg you go no further. We need no Folke liars.”
“What astute counsel…” Garakul sang. “I trust you keep that one’s leash short.”
“Best for you I stay on this leash,” Kelshar growled.
“Yip, yip, yip. Another dog with a sword. But who is this behind you? Step forward.” Garakul craned his neck to get a look.
Eles had no desire to step forward, so he was relieved when Dargon reached back to hold him there, hidden. “A counselor, and none of your concern. I’ll take the real element now.”
“Yes, yes. Well earned. You’ll forgive my harmless test, I trust. Now, for your ears only. At the Northern edge of the Black Mountains there is a hidden quarry. Within this quarry there is a single Black Mountain Moonstone. The powder from this stone is what you seek,” Garakul conceded. “But I warn you, it is defended, and I will retrieve it first, regardless.”
Dargon turned once more and looked to Eles. This time it clicked almost immediately. The Black Mountain Moonstone! Of course. The addition of that powder would completely alter the other ingredients. The mythical Magestic restorative qualities of the mountain waters made perfect sense.
“Yes,” Eles blurted out, relieved. “I thought the Moonstone was a myth, but it makes perfect sense.”
Dargon’s eyes flickered with interest. “What’s this about being a myth?”
“The existence of the Moonstone has always been questioned. Palamax of Black Tallow claimed he owned it, but it was revealed to be a hoax,” Eles explained. He couldn’t explain why, but there was something about Dargon Lodern that made Eles acutely aware that he didn’t want to let him down.
Dargon thought about this for a long time before turning back to Garakul. “The mythical Black Mountain Moonstone. It exists. This is what you’ve ascertained?”
“Indeed.”
Dargon studied Garakul intently. The tension in the pause made Eles’ stomach do flips. There was something happening as the seconds ticked past. Dargon was looking for something…
Finally, he spoke. “I grow weary of this treachery. I overestimated you. I expected objectivity in your dealings. Very well. Perhaps the fates smile on me after all. I shall retrieve it on my own. And keep it all.” Dargon turned to Eles and pointed back the way they came. “Let us go.”
Kelshar grimaced. She leaned into Dargon. “Don’t turn around. He spews nothing but lies.”
But Dargon did turn. He waited, silently.
Garakul seemed to slump in his seat, almost imperceptibly. “I’m convinced your competitor would have failed to detect these false elements, had I provided them. His misinformation to me has already cost me two valuable seekers. Had he warned me the elements were defended by one of the famed Eagles of the Pale I would have approached the house with a different… enthusiasm. But alas, there’s naught to be done for that. Still, this idea of a fixed game is not without merit. Should you somehow retrieve the element before I, you will leave to me that which you don’t extract? After you take what is yours?”
“As I’ve said.”
Garakul smiled while whispering, “Dormu-lilies.”
The word hung in the air, as if buoyed by the mist that eddied sluggishly betwixt them. The word buzzed in Eles’ head. Dormu-lilies. Could it be? His heartbeat quickened. The things he could produce!
“Dormu-lilies?” Dargon turned once more.
“Milord,” Eles whispered, “dormu-lilies have not been heard of in centuries. Should this be the catalyst, the potency of the Elixir would be ten-fold.”
“Dormu-lilies… the Bloodshed War was said to be over these flowers,” Dargon recalled.
“He lies,” Kelshar said under her breath.
Eles had never heard that about the Bloodshed War, but it didn’t surprise him. A man who possessed dormu-lilies… the things an Alchemist could create… he could be remembered forever in the annals of renown, the envy of all the world’s guilds. “Milord, it’s too good to be true. But… but if it were…”
Now it was Eles and Kelshar who stared at Dargon expectedly, waiting for his response.
Dargon turned back to Garakul, “Dormu-lilies?”
This time, Garakul sat silent as Dargon studied him.
“Where?”
Garakul issued an ostentatious sigh. “Must you be nursed like a babe at the teat? You must need find that on your own, Lodern. But this I will share. It would be wise to present yourself to The Crown in a fortnight.”
“The Crown? Who is this?” Dargon inquired.
“Won’t it be oh-so-fulfilling when you discover that for yourself?” Garakul stood and the fog around him swirled.
“A fortnight? You won’t have these flowers before then?”
“Of course I will,” Garakul cooed, “and you will be lost. But if by some outlandish turn of fate, I don’t… won’t you be delighted to be there?” He stepped backwards into the churning mist and was gone.