Ren collects himself in typical Ren fashion: by staring furiously at nothing.
After nearly a minute of Silent Rage, I turn to Gyrax. “What’s the Wayfarer Advance?”
“Wandering adventurers who ranged long and far, exploring the highest peaks and deepest caverns. They were known for their magic and swordplay, but even more for their bravery and wit.”
“Like Jedi Knights.”
Gyrax nods. “But less uptight. Their collective mission was to uncover wisdom and spread it to all of Evermoor. That changed during the Crimson Wars, when they united against Lyderea as saboteur-scouts.”
“And it changed again at the battle of Sidehelm?”
Another nod. “They were all but wiped out.”
“What happened there? Terelly mentioned it, but…”
“The Unity marshalled its forces at Sidehelm Pass, where they planned to—”
Gyrax sighs. Not out of frustration, but because the subject obviously has a lot of history behind it. “The Juric Unity was an alliance of folk who opposed the Queen. After long months of treaty and barter, the Kings of Erendor—rulers of a far-spanning continent, unparalleled in its military strength—joined swords with the Unity. Erendor’s armies comprised three-quarters of the attacking force.”
“And they turned traitor.”
“Aye. In their eyes, a Unity victory would come at a cost: the need to work with countless factions. Rather than bow to consensus and compromise, the kings sided with the White Veiled Queen. Instead of joining the first wave, Erendor’s armies sat back and watched. Afterwards, in a twist of irony, Lyderea betrayed the betrayers. She laid a curse upon the kings, sealing their souls into Sidehelm Fortress. To this day, they float through the castle as restless haunts. Occasionally, they will venture outside and harry travelers. They are known to all as the Watchers of Erendor.”
“The Pass can twist a person’s mind,” Ren mutters. “And Terrelly crossed it many a-time. I wonder if that’s what broke his faith. He never fought the Watchers, but…”
“It is certainly possible,” Gyrax says as we walk down the hall. “But I believe it much more likely that Terrelly’s malady is simply a matter of accumulated strife. His hardships gathered and peaked, until he could no longer bear their grievous weight. Sidehelm was simply the last straw.”
“He can find his way,” Ren states firmly. “I won’t give up until he does.”
Gyrax smiles. “And that is why you are a true Wayfarer. The last for now, but time may prove otherwise.”
“How did you know?” I ask. “When you first met Ren, you almost said it out loud, but he made you keep quiet.”
“I saw a Talic decagram in his cardiac aura, known among Wayfarers as the Lydiliant Glimmer. It can only be given by a Wayfaring Master.”
Ren cocks his head, curious. “Even in the Advance, the Glimmer is a bit of an obscurity. How did you recognize it?”
“When I was a pup, my clan cared for an injured Wayfarer named Qynarius Burl. While he recovered, he taught me much of your culture and history.”
“Burl was the one who gave me the Glimmer. He was one of many who fell at Sidehelm.” Ren sighs in resignation. “Terrelly and I are the last of the Advance. And if he crosses over into the Clear, I alone will carry the mantle.”
“Have faith,” Gyax says. “Terrelly was once a formidable warrior. A spark lives on within his heart.”
“I wish I could fan it back to life,” Ren says morosely. “But seeing him now, I can’t help but wonder if—”
“Leave it, Ren. Things will turn out for the best.”
“I hope you are right.”
They lapse into silence. Which gives me the opportunity to ask, “What’s the deal with the magic revolver?”
“Her name is Ailura Qartesi.” Gyrax says. “A storied weapon, capable of vanquishing high-demon energies. Do not speak of it in front of Elier or Lucky.”
High-demon energies. Wow.
Speak of the devil. As we exit the hospice, Elier and Lucky—both leaning against the wall—straighten up and uncross their arms.
“My business is done,” Ren says. “Yours?” He looks at Gyrax.
“I am content. Let us strike out for Jelia.”
“The Witchcraft City?” Elier asks, puzzled. “Why?”
“To quicken Jon’s sight.”
“A hedge witch could do that. Why go to—”
“He is a special case. It must be done by a skilled sorcerer.”
“Why does he have unquickened sight?” Lucky asks. “I’ve yet to meet a human or creature that hasn’t been quickened right after birth.”
“An arcane injury,” Gyrax explains, saving me the trouble of having to lie. “He was attacked by a Demakor.”
Elier look stricken. “My condolences,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know.”
“No worries,” I blurt. “I never really—”
Gyrax holds up a hand, cutting me off. “We head for Jelia. Unless anyone objects.” He sweeps the party with his gaze.
The others exchange a noncommittal glance, then respond with a series of nods and shrugs.
“Good,” Gyrax affirms. “Jelia it is.”
We cross through Naversé and resume our trek. Verdant forest grows on either side of us, filtering sunlight through a leafy canopy. Birds chirp softly in the background, adding an idyllic touch to our sylvan journey.
During our second week of travel, we hear commotion ahead. It sounds like a quarrel—multiple guys arguing with a lady.
“I would rather not meddle in others’ affairs,” Ren grumbles. “Meddling and murder go hand in hand.”
“A dispute is simply a hidden opportunity,” Lucky counters.
“I share Lucky’s view.” Elier grins. “I welcome the meddling, along with the murder.”
The woman’s voice abruptly gets louder, then culminates in a ferocious shout.
Gyrax acts first—he breaks into a four-legged gallop. The rest of us follow but he’s way too fast; he dips out of sight in a matter of seconds.
After a short sprint, we stop at the edge of a forest glade, watching a green-clad woman slash a man’s back, cutting the ties on his buckskin trousers. She kicks him in the butt and he stumbles forward, holding the lip of his drooping pants. A dozen yards ahead, I catch sight of four more men fleeing down the road.
The woman turns around. My mouth drops open.
Standing before me is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“If you’re going to rob me, make it quick.” She affects a yawn, letting her rapier droop by her side. Its single-gem guard is super elegant—silver-gold twists that form a shield around her hand.
Ren steps forward. “Erany? Is that you?”
“Who are you? How do you know me?” She looks him up and down with doubt and suspicion.
She resembles a young Taylor Swift, before Kanye and Jake and the sexual harassment. Her eyes are clear and sharp, undimmed by grief or despair. (Have I mentioned that I have a giant crush on Taylor Swift? Well now you know.)
But even though she looks strikingly similar, she’s not a duplicate. Her ears are pointy, for one, and she’s dressed like a female Link from Legend of Zelda. Green tunic, brown belt, brown leggings, but no cap. A thin carry hangs crosswise off her shoulder, jutting off her left hip.
“Sidehelm Pass,” Ren says. “Terrelly Jindow saved our lives.”
Her eyes widen. “Rennarean?” (Obviously, they share some history. Not gonna lie—I feel kinda jealous.) “I came to see Terrelly. Is he—”
“Low in spirit, low in body,” Ren says.
“I owe him my life. I must see him.”
He shakes his head. “No good will come of your visit.”
Her lips tighten. “You have no say in what I do.”
Ren scoffs. “You’re as pigheaded as ever. I tell you, Erany, there is no use in—”
She points her sword at his hooded face. “Fetter your tongue, before I bloody your—”
“—trying to rouse a broken man!” He throws his hands up and groans loudly. “Why won’t you ever listen to—”
“—sour, low-shadowed face.” (Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucky smiling with unabashed glee; he’s found a fellow Ren-hater and man he is loving it). Erany’s voice rises to a shout. “I have bled and suffered as much as you, yet I do not give in to anger and bitterness! Now still your tongue and loose your blade!”
“Fine!” Ren snarls. He draws his sword with a furious swipe. “Just because you’re a Fair Folk princess doesn’t mean I’ll bow and scrape before your feet!”
Her eyes flash with shock and hate. “I have never,” her tone lowers into a dangerous growl, “ever asked any soul to bow before me. You have crossed the line, Rennarean, and I for one am cursedly glad that I shall be the one to put you in your—”
Gyrax steps between them, arms out. “Lower your weapons. Ren spoke out of turn, but there is no need to—”
“Out of the way, Wolven.” She levels her blade at him. “Or your head will roll across this trail.”
Gyrax dips into a formal bow: right hand across his waist, left hand curled around his back. “Princess Eralindíany Ailahdi, of the Deláni Fair Folk. I am Gyrax Aclasian, Warrior Rex to the Wolven clans.”
“Warrior Rex to the—” She lowers her sword. “You speak for the Wolven?”
“Only when they cannot speak for themselves. I am more of an advocate than a ruler or politician.”
She regards Elier and Lucky with a dubious eye. “You share travels with a Duelist and a pickpocket.”
“Thief!” Lucky protests.
She responds with a flap of the hand—whatever—and jerks her chin at me. “Your name. Speak it.”
“Um…er…” I stammer for a bit, trying to think of something smooth and confident, but she’s so damn beauti—
Gyrax, thankfully, comes to the rescue. “His name is Jon. He hails from a cosm adjacent to ours.”
She cocks her head. “ ‘Cosm adjacent to—’ ” Her eyes widen. “Are you—but…but…” Her surprise fades, replaced by doubt. “You look unformidable, to say the least. Can you fight or cast?”
I almost tell her I’m alright with a dagger, but I bite my tongue because I’d probably sound like a cocky douche-bro. “Um…I…
“What’s wrong?” she asks irritably. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I…I…” I realize I’ve been gaping at her. I close my mouth and gulp without intending to. “I—yes. I’m listening.”
“What manner of footwear is that?” She studies my sneakers. “And for that matter, what are you wearing?” (Dammit—I had to meet the crush of my life on the same day I decided to wear my weird-ass Earth clothes! Stupid, stupid, stupid!)
“Oh, um…they’re called sneakers. These are jeans.” I gesture at my legs, then my chest. “This is a t-shirt.” (I can’t remember when I felt this self-conscious. She’s the first person on Evermoor who’s criticized my fashion sense.)
She shakes her head in bafflement and disgust. “To each their own, I suppose. But I advise you to find a good pair of boots and a well-crafted jerkin. You look ridiculous, to say the least.”
“Sorry.” Before my brain can filter my mouth, I blurt, “I can change now if—”
Erany pats the air with her free hand, as if to say, Calm down, creeper. “I would rather not see what dangles and hangs.”
My cheeks go from slightly flushed to flaming red. “No! That’s not what I mea—”
“We are headed for Jelia,” Gyrax says. “Would you care to share travels?”
“The Witchcraft City…” Erany slides her rapier into its sheath. “I wasn’t planning on it…but you say that Terrelly needs healing?”
“At every level, milady. His physical ailment is fairly severe, but it is nothing compared to his auric malady.”
She curls a lock behind her ear, causing my heart to beat a little faster. “Can he be saved?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Erany is quiet for a long while. Chirping birds fill the silence.
Finally, she says, “Very well. The City is filled with skilled physickers. Perhaps they can offer a magical remedy.”
Lucky exclaims, “Excellent! The more royalty, the better!” Elier looks indifferent.
“Did anyone take his auric prints?” Erany asks. “If we are to commission a potion or salve…”
“Aye, it is a specialty I learned in my foundling years. I took his prints without his knowing,” Gyrax replies. “It is why I speak with such surety; he might last a few more years, but it won’t be pleasant. His mantic loci are completely ruptured.”
Ren looks astonished. “Why didn’t you tell me? We’ve been on the road for over a week!”
“I was planning on waiting until you were sufficiently calm.”
Ren clenches his jaw. “You have no right to—”
“Keep your hate at a low simmer? On the contrary, I believe it sensible and prudent. If you continue on in such a state, your perception will become completely undone.”
Ren’s hood slips forward, deepening the shadow around his eyes. “You are not my teacher. Nor my keeper.”
“You growl and snap like a rabid mutt.” Gyrax’s voice turns hard and stern. “The Reft has long since come and gone, but you act as if it rages through you.”
“You…you…” Ren’s lips bare into a snarl.
“He’s right, Ren,” Erany chimes. “You quest for peace but deny it for yourself, much like Terrelly in his later years.”
“Untrue, Erany, for I still stand for what is right. Terrelly—”
“Once said the same,” she counters. “Change is coming whether you like it or not. Refuse to ride its fated waves, and you will drown beneath its merciless currents.”
Ren takes a deep, calming breath. He looks down at his feet, no longer a livid teenager, but a humbled young man. “You speak true, Princess. I plead thy grace in all matters, past and present.”
“No need, Ren. I plead yours.”
“All is forgiven.” He raises his head and meets her gaze. “Share travels with us, Erany. Your blade and mind would be most welcome.”
“Since you asked so nicely, I bow to your wish.” Erany throws him a dazzling smile and echoes a saying I’ve heard before:
“Our crossing seems fated.”
With the addition of Erany, we become a party of six.