Elya went to bed and Temmolin slipped out the back. Garrold couldn’t believe that Temmolin had actually hid and spied on him. Good thing Garrold smelled him out when he did, and better that he controlled his rage when he realized. Another confrontation was out of the question. Garrold would have argued his way right into trouble and perhaps immediate arrest. Temmolin had the authority to determine proper cause and detain anyone.

Instead of getting angry, Garrold tried to lead Temmolin on with his last statement, that he intended to have a part in the wonderful change of the Bower. Did Temmolin buy it? The old coot was too sharp for that. But perhaps it was enough to placate him, enough to give Garrold time to depart.

He had to warn the others. It wasn’t safe for him to stay. He could feel it in his bones. He hated to leave, but he had to so he set about gathering his supplies. Each moment of the now spent night gathered more urgency. Should he leave before dawn?

The scenes of his mind kept playing out in the worst possible scenario. He could see Temmolin orchestrating his arrest and coming for him. It was so real, or was it just his imagination? He was overreacting. He should just wait until morning. After all, the Providers gave him an opportunity to decide, hadn’t they? They noted his ability. They wanted him on their side.

“Stop it,” he said to himself hoping to silence the thoughts. He rubbed his temples and took a deep breath. He would wait until morning. Get some rest, eat a good breakfast, tell Elya, and then leave. But what if he was wrong? There he went again, the stage of his mind set. Temmolin gathered the Bower Guard for his arrest. On what grounds? It didn’t matter. It was too real. He couldn’t chance it. He had to go as soon as possible. It was settled.

His heart was heavy. To leave his love without an explanation, not even so much as a goodbye, tore him up inside. He would leave a note. That’s the best he could do. He certainly couldn’t take her with him. It would be far too dangerous. As much as he didn’t like Temmolin, he knew she would be safe back here with her father. Whatever happened, Temmolin would protect her, probably overprotect. She was a strong jenni herself, she would understand. She knew his love and loved him in kind.

Garrold pulled a small chest from its hiding place in the floor. He kept his most valued treasures secured away there. Even Elya did not know, he didn’t think. Maybe she had spied him retrieving it on some occasion. She was sharp, like her father. You couldn’t get much by her. But she had never let on in any case, letting him enjoy his privacy. She was good that way.

In the chest were some maps and scrolls of the Writings sealed in airtight bone cases, as well some jewels, trinkets and artifacts. He threw the maps and scrolls in his pack. In a small, intricately carved mahogany box, were two silver rings, a gold ring, an emerald, and one gold chain, and a peculiar silver pendant he received from a minstrahl some years back. It bore an image of the sun brightly shining out of the center of a triangle. He stuffed the mahogany box, with all its contents, into his pack.

Then he came to the norshwood box he made himself, finely crafted to hold a unique treasure, a crystal-clear orb he obtained four years earlier. After a long and severe rainfall exposed it, Reston’s sons fetched Garrold to come and see a shiny ball they found stuck in the dirt. They knew never to touch an orb. Only magnhemists touched orbs.

He followed them a few hundred yards into the woods outside the Bower complex. The top of the orb was peeking back out into the world from which it had come. How long had it been buried? He scooped it up in a handful of soil, careful not to touch it, and deposited it into a bag. He thought better than to show Magna Ulberrin and the Bower. They would have taken it and locked it away.  So instead, he studied it himself.

It was smaller than a typical orb and crystal-clear, like none other he had ever seen or heard. His research turned up nothing. No histories or writings bore reference to a clear orb. Every orb was colored according to the Bower it belonged to, the Bower it was linked to.

He discovered that the clear orb was lifeless. It had no power. There was no connection with anything. An empty shell. Perhaps it was never finished or it was made in error. Maybe it was even a child’s play toy of some past time. It might also be some incredible artifact from the distant past, from the days of the first Ancients in the land. He decided to keep it and thought that maybe some dawn he would learn something more of it, unlock its secrets. He set the box and orb aside. He wouldn’t need it for now. It could stay hidden in the floor.

He continued to rummage through the chest, turning his attention to a quickwood statuette no larger than his index finger, a Provider standing with outstretched arms engaged in some grave task. It was similar to the tokens used by the magnhems to work the amalgama grid. His friend, Glick Spittingrock, an old urlani he met on a visit to the city of Ynara, gave it to him. Glick said his father passed it on to him and called it, “The Summoner.”

The clear orb caught Garrold’s attention again. It was remarkably brilliant, as always, like a gem sparkling in sunlight. He scooped it up into his palm.

Light exploded in his mind. The deep, melodic rumble of Olrhom permeated his consciousness. He was plunged into it. Get out now, the Imitor yelled in his mind, they come for you. Make haste. There is no time. Stop for nothing. Go to the Archgate of the Otherworlder. There you will meet Kurdevon. Move now. Go!

He leapt into action. He pocketed the orb and slung his pack over his shoulder before the thrum of Olrhom had vanished. In one continuous movement he tucked the chest under his arm, dropped the floor lid back into place, and sprang to the front window. He nudged the shutter open just enough to see. The lights were coming. He bolted to his cloak and blade, which hung on a peg by the hearth, and out the back he fled.

The shadows were thick and dark. He dashed into them to hide from his would-be captors. Temmolin, for sure, but who else? It was risky to stay, but he had to see. He had to know who came for him. Was it the mysterious warners of impending doom who claimed to prepare the paths of the Ancients? He spied two unusually tall persons in Bower robes leading the pack with Temmolin. Within the cowls of their hoods he noted the distinct blue shimmer. He was right. Providers, after all. A band of the Bower Guard followed. The earlier imaginations, the scenes on the stage of his mind, had not been figments. 

His stomach clenched like a fist ready to drive itself up through his throat. The Bower wasn’t right. Everything was going crazy. People were all acting different. He needed answers. The crystal-clear orb puzzled him. It had been lifeless, a nothing-orb, before. Yet this time it ignited in fury, thrusting him into Olrhom, connecting him with the Imitor.  Not as usual, where he first sensed Olrhom’s deep thrum washing into his awareness. It was immediate. No effort, no flow, just there.

The sudden drama into which he’d been immersed continued to unfold before his eyes. His house was now lit up by torches, lanterns, and lightstones wielded by an agitated mob that materialized out of the cool night air. As they pounded on his front door, he slipped away, between the granary and the brewery, toward one of the service gates in the perimeter wall. It was being watched.

Garrold’s blood rushed through his heart and face. Temmolin probably had every gate in the complex under watch. He was trapped. There was no other way out save the underground tunnels, which he had no knowledge nor experience in using. He wouldn’t get anywhere but lost in them. What about the ramparts? Could he get into the fortified wall and up to the ramparts? Not a chance. Guards were assigned to control access to the wall and he wasn’t ready to start killing any innocent guards for doing what they were told.

He pictured himself on the other side of the wall. How could he get there? There were no breaches to exploit, nothing was under construction. He couldn’t remember any trees or towers along the wall by which he might climb to the top. The walls themselves were way too high to scale, unless he had some climbing equipment.

Climbing equipment. Reston was a climber. Reston’s gear was stored in his shed, a lean-to built against his cottage, a mere quarter mile away. He could sneak there, take what he needed, and scale the wall. That would work.

The tumult was spreading. They now knew that he wasn’t at home. Word was being passed and the alert was going out. He had no time to dawdle and sneak to Reston’s place. He’d have to run for it. He stuck close to buildings, hedges, and trees, sprinting from shadow to shadow.

The moons still shed contrasting umbras. Tor was already easing down toward the horizon and Sar was high in the sky. The first light of dawn was not far off. He ran faster, waited less time between each building, each hedge, each tree. Several times he thought he detected motion, a guard looking for him. It was just the tricks of the shadows and wind. Reston’s place was in sight. He made his last dash across someone’s garden, between a hedgerow, and up to the shed.

The shed was secured with a thick rope. Not thick enough to resist Garrold’s blade. The door creaked slightly as it opened. He stepped in and shut it. He pulled a lightstone from his pocket to illuminate the disheveled interior of the small shed. A grappling hook and rope hung within reach. He also stuffed some spikes, a climbing hammer, and an extra length of rope into his pack. There was a net hanging from a peg, like the kind used to trap small animals. He wrapped his secret chest in it and tied it to his pack.  

“Sorry old friend,” he said into the air, thinking of Reston who slept safely inside his home. “I’ll return these or replace them later.”

He emerged from the shed. The perimeter wall was no less than an eighth of a mile from the back of Reston’s cottage. He moved fast but kept low, scurrying behind some scrub until he came to the last tree between him and the wall. It was a big oak, yet it paled in comparison to the formidable stone wall some thirty yards away. He studied the wall and found where he would throw the grappling hook. With hook and rope ready in hand, he crept forward through the waist-high grass.

Two guards on horse approached from his left. They must have been sitting, watching in the shadows. Had they seen him or were they just moving? He dropped into the concealing grass. The grappling hook dug into his side. He winced but dared not reposition with the horses bearing down on him. He tightened his neck, clenched his teeth, made fists, and held his breath.

Hooves thumped all around, one grazed his leg, but that was it. They trotted on oblivious to him. He waited until the heavy beat of their gallop trailed off before rising to his knees. “That was too damn close,” he said after them in reproof. The noises of pursuit grew louder as searchers began to close in on the area. They might be going to Reston’s. There was no time to waste.

His first throw fell short and the hook clanked against the wall. Someone had to hear that. He threw again. The hook sailed over the wall and landed with an even louder clank. He tugged and it grabbed. With his pack and chest slung over his shoulder, he climbed.

The wall offered no handholds. He used the knots in the rope to ascend. Arm over arm he pulled, pushing up off the wall with his feet, careful not to tip. It was taxing but his strength prevailed. Blades practice kept him fit. He made the top of the wall and dropped onto the parapet. Looking back he saw that some pursuers were now closing on the wall.

Up came the rope, hand over hand. Two guards bounded toward him along the parapet, off to his right, less than a quarter mile away. Not a move could be wasted. Resisting the urge to rush, he methodically dislodged the hook, found a spot on the opposite wall, and wedged it in. Over the top the rope went, and he on it. Down he slid, the land pulling him in. He let go and dropped the last six feet, hitting the ground running. Through the tall grasses he fled, toward the edge of the same woods that gave him the clear orb several years before.

He ventured a glance back over his shoulder. The guards stood with bows drawn, pointing, but he was already too far and too obscured in the murky shadows of the pre-dawn morning. With the light of the sun beginning to break, the Bower looked eerily trapped within the walls against the gray sky.

I will be back. I will find out what is going on and I will free you.

Mounted search parties and Bower Guard patrols would be out to find him soon, if they weren’t already. He had to keep moving, and fast. Where could he go to gather his thoughts and form a plan? There were some villages nearby in several different directions, but he had to avoid roads. What about the high country? He could make his way toward home in the hills of Evinshear and hide there. But that was opposite the direction to go to reach the Archgate of the Otherworlder.

Would Kurdevon really be there to meet him. What did Kurdevon know of Vikzyrn, False Admonishers, and he who comes with the hordes? Should he journey down to at Bar Ynara and meet with Haknem first? He trusted Haknem implicitly. He knew he would be absolutely safe there. Haknem would know how to contact Kurdevon. But if Kurdevon truly was heading to the Archgate of the Otherworlder to meet him, then perhaps Haknem did not know how to contact him.

Garrold was tired, confused, and a little hungry. He had no food with him and he needed rest. He could live off the land, but he wouldn’t have time to forage until Temmolin, the Providers, and the Bower Guard were off his back. He certainly couldn’t rest until he was hidden away. Then he could figure this whole mess out.

There was a cave about six miles deep into the Green Wood at the foothills of the Culloden Range. He would hide there. He knew the way well. Reston’s older son, Omarr, discovered the cave on a climbing trip. Reston’s younger son, Bander, had discovered the clear orb a year before that. Reston’s youngest child, Luria, had not joined the legacy of her brothers’ explorations and discoveries, but she was still too young to climb and roam about.

Reston Qintar was the brother Garrold never had. He and Elya were now such a part of the Qintar family that the children called them Aunt and Uncle. Elya got along amiably with Reston’s wife, Fen. But it was the long-time bond between Garrold and Reston that was at the core of their kinship.

Garrold met Reston shortly after coming to the Bower as a young Learner of Magnhemistry. Reston’s father was a Bower kojen, working as a craftier of building interiors. Reston took an early interest in cooking and pursued that as a trade, but he followed his father’s footsteps as a climber and ranger.

Reston was expert in all outdoor skills. Several years back he took Garrold on a special expedition with him and his two sons to teach him how to identify food and forage off the land, how to climb, how to survive in any wilderness, and how to erase all clues of a camp, leaving nature undisturbed. They returned many times over the years for more training and adventure, but it was that first time when Omarr discovered the cave.

The cave was their secret. No one would know of it, save he and the Qintar family. They had used it as a base camp on many expeditions into the Cullodens. Each time, Reston proudly announced that the cave had been undisturbed since their last visit. No one else had discovered it and ruined their hideout.

The entrance was well concealed in a tangle of young trees and thick underbrush. It was a small rock outcropping about eight feet by seven feet across. It protruded no more than four feet from the forest floor. In the face of it, behind some shrubbery, there appeared to be nothing more than a crack in the rock. But when you crouched and shuffled into it, you could see a hole that dropped away to the right. By sitting and thrusting your feet into the hole, you could scoot forward and slide down into it, dropping about six feet into a good sized cavern.

Inside the cavern, other chutes and tunnels led farther down, but spelunking was not on Reston’s list of favored activities. He liked open and upward, not confined and downward, and so they never explored the cave much. They found one large tunnel that led downward into a gaping chamber twenty feet wide by thirty feet long and about twelve feet high. That was good enough for Reston. Omarr and Bander poked around a bit more in the other tunnels and holes, but reported that they led to nothing significant, just a few smaller chambers.

Garrold continued to run for the first two miles to put distance between him and the Bower. After that, he ran in short spurts, walking in between, making some decoy paths by doubling back and moving in different directions, and even jumping from tree to tree a few times where they were close enough. In the last mile, he stopped to eat some zingolberries, “one of nature’s whole foods,” Reston called them. You could live for months on them alone. He filled a sock full of the berries and moved on. He walked in a stream for a half mile to further throw his scent off. The final leg of the hike was uneventful.

The rising sun warmed the sky, though it was still a mild dawn. The cave was exactly as he expected it. After scouting the area and insuring it was clear of intruders and varmint, he crouched in the opening and slipped in. His lightstone ignited at his touch and washed the cave in a steady glow. He made his way to the large inner chamber, pulled his cloak around him, laid on his pack, and before he knew it, went to sleep.

He awoke several hours later quite refreshed and ventured out to check for signs of pursuers. He found none, gathered some firewood, and returned to the cavern. He built a small fire. A crack in the ceiling made a perfect vent. He and Reston never figured out where the smoke went, but it didn’t rise anywhere near the cave. Garrold gulped a handful of refreshing zingolberries. He would need water later, but the juice of the berries was enough for now.

He carefully pulled his maps out of their cases and traced the route to Maghren Butte, site of the Archgate of the Otherworlder. He was headed in the right direction. Greymark Pass, the main route over the Culloden Range, was seven miles north. It led thirty miles down to Tower’s Shadow, a mining town mostly populated by Loth-Vales, but governed by Evinfolk. He could be there in less than two dawns. From there he could get passage on a broon down the Orren and Daebor rivers to the great river port Clefdon, a massive walled and fortified city of the Vales. That would take another two dawns. He could then find a local guide that would direct him the final eighty miles through the treacherous Har Forest in Dyram to Maghren Butte, another two to three dawns. He could be there in six dawns if all went well. If they were already looking for him at Greymark Pass, however, he’d have to slip around another way. That would add another dawn.

Garrold stoked the fire with a few more thick sticks. His thoughts drifted first to his wife. He ached as he imagined the shock she went through in the early hours as the posse pounded on his door, then to find him gone, to find him a fugitive. He never did write that note. He hoped she would understand. Maybe he could contact her through Reston. By now Reston would know his gear was missing and know he took it. He hoped Reston would have Fen contact Elya. That would give her a clue that he was all right. 

He thought of his folks back in Evinglan, opposite the direction he now traveled. He hadn’t seen his mother, father, and sister in over three years. What would they think when they heard? Garrold’s father, Dinnis, was a smart jen, maybe even sharper than Temmolin. Dinnis would be okay. He’d never prejudge his son. He would know there was good reason for his flight from the Bower. He might even take to the road to try to come and help. He wasn’t called Dinnis the Helper for nothing. He was well known and respected in all the trade circles for hundreds, maybe even thousands of miles.

Garrold inventoried his pack and chest. He had enough berries for a few days, he knew where to get water, and his clothes were sufficient for most weather except for extreme cold. He had basic climbing supplies, a net to catch small game, a tinder box for fires, a hunting knife, and a few other odds and ends. He also had his trusty blade, a light-weight, two-edged broad sword, and of course, his Bower orb. He could thrive.

He removed the scrolls, mahogany box, and other items from the pack and returned them to his chest. The clear orb was still in his pocket. He took a felt cloth from his pack and carefully reached into the depths of his robe to remove the orb. He didn’t want to touch it again just yet. He wasn’t so sure he fully trusted it. He had tested it every way he knew and it was powerless, yet on its own it came to life.

Maybe the Imitor had some answers. Perhaps it had evaded the Ravers and was ready to talk to him. Everything had moved so fast that he could hardly remember what the Imitor said that first time on the way home from the Bower. The encounter with the Providers stunned him so much that the message from the Imitor rapidly faded from memory. Then his argument with Elya followed that.

He tried to recall the message of the Imitor. Fragments came. Formed to help you stand against the Dark Heart. Evil power rises in Vikzyrn with Rezkelion, who comes with the hordes. Draws strength from the Tree to give the dark Heart of Morbidity. He must be defeated.

Rezkelion. That was the name. A defector. He who comes with the hordes. It didn’t sound good. And what of the Dark Heart? Why was Garrold to stand against it? Did the Imitor expect him to fight Rezkelion? Surely that’s not what it meant. Garrold shook his head. How had he missed it? The message seemed plain now. The Imitor was made to help him defeat Rezkelion. Help him defeat the enemy of the land and his peoples. Why him?

Dismay welled up in his throat. He shuddered. This couldn’t be happening. Enough was enough. He needed to talk to the Imitor, get straight answers. The Imitor would know. He slipped the felt cloth out from under the clear orb and dropped it into his palm.

Light exploded in his mind. The deep, melodic thrum of Olrhom rushed through him. All else was quiet. No Imitor.

Where are you, he searched. Imitor, come to me. There was nothing. He’d have a look around instead. There was always the danger of getting lost in Olrhom, of not finding your way back into your own mind. The longer you were away, the less likely you were to find your way back. Magnhemists had physically died while their minds roamed in Olrhom. The fragments of their memories were said to have formed into Spectres, creatures of Olrhom similar to the Imitors. Just as with the Imitor, most considered the Spectres to be myth. But Garrold now knew that Imitors were not.

He reached out to view the room where he was. You always started in Olrhom right where you were physically. Normally, you would stay put and use Olrhom to see and work with the power of the Tree. Olrhom revealed things that were impossible to see in the physical world, such as where the power of the Tree was concentrated, where a hidden orb might be, or other Tree goods. To work the power of the Tree, you had to direct the forces present to produce desired effects, if you knew how.

But Olrhom also offered seemingly infinite routes of possibility from there. You could detach your thoughts from your physical self and go roam anywhere in Olrhom if you could figure out how to get there, if you could figure out how to use the portals offered, how to manipulate the Olrhom environment. It wasn’t easy. Ultimately, you would have to find your way back to your physical location so you could get back to yourself. The way scenes and portals changed in Olrhom, hardly anyone ever experimented with looking around, too many never made it back.

Garrold tried it a few times. Not very far. Just enough to experience what it was like. Magna Ulberrin forbad the practice except under authorized conditions, which meant he would choose who could go and when if there was reason or need.

Through the lens of Olrhom, the cave looked the same, only much brighter. Garrold was riveted on one particular bright spot on the floor near the wall, an indication of a concentration of the power, or something made from the Tree. He’d have a closer look after scanning the rest of the chamber.

He rotated right, slowly, methodically, taking everything in. An entire section of the cave wall shone in magnificent brilliance through the lens of Olrhom. A rush of excitement washed over him as he pulled back at the power to dim the view so he could see the details. Bringing it into focus, he saw the shimmering image of a stone archway. He staggered a few steps back as he took it in. He couldn’t believe it. It just couldn’t be. Where there was only rough stone before, the smoothly worked structure of the archgate stood clear.

It was like any stone archway, such as you would find in a citadel, or even in the Bower. But within the arch, rather than an opening through which you might walk, the archgate was solid stone. Engraved in the keystone atop the arch was a symbol of a brilliant sun shining out of the center of a triangle, the same as his peculiar pendant.

A number of loose streams of Garrold’s learning came flowing together into a river of understanding. Bits and pieces he had read in the Writings, in the unofficial histories, and in the books of other magnhemists before him. The Prizmhatic Orbs and Equilaterals, items associated with Archgate Veor, existed in the time of the Ancients when the pathways were open. But they were all thought to have been removed when the Ancients left. Both items were needed to activate Archgate Veor, as was shown on the pendant. But how did the pendant figure into all this?

Garrold received the pendant on his last visit to Evinglan. A minstrahl performed at the Three Peaks, the largest pub in town. His father, Dinnis, loved the minstrahls. In honor of Garrold’s visit, he took the whole family out for the show. After the show the minstrahl introduced himself to Dinnis and asked about his son.

“This is Magnhem Garrold of the Green Bower.”

“Very nice to meet you,” the minstrahl bowed, “so you’re Magnhem Garrold.”

“You know of me?” Garrold asked.

“Indeed, I do, I even sing a song of thee, would you like to hear it?”

Garrold laughed. Surely this was part of the amusement of a minstrahl. To think that there was a song of him. “Sure, go ahead.”

“It’s called The Spor of Many Colors.”

Garrold’s eyes widened but the minstrahl broke into the song before he could interrupt.

There was a jen of Evinglan
A strong-willed jen was he
And all he ever thought of
Was to live magnhemistry.
To live magnhemistry.

The time of his own choosing came
He squeezed the spor with might,
But when he opened up his palm,
The spor was dark as night,
The spor was dark as night.

And in the air the silence hung
For never once this jen was stung
And this is how this song is sung
I sing it with a learned tongue.

He took the matter well in hand
And with his will he won
He scaled the wall erected there
The spor was like the sun,
It shone just like the sun.

Within it every color shone,
From agwin to zateen,
The spor of many colors born
The freedom we have seen,
The land all healed and clean.

And in the air the silence hung
For never once this jen was stung
And this is how this song is sung
I sing it with a learned tongue.

Listen all to what I sing,
The minstrahl’s song is laid
For with the Otherworlder come,
The power is remade.
The power is remade.

The applause went up throughout the entire house. Garrold reddened. The minstrahl bowed and thanked him for being a good sport and for allowing him to sing the song. Then he pulled the pendant out from under his tunic and off of his own neck.

“This pendant is for you, Garrold. It is a token of my appreciation for your song. The pendant is the key to your future. I have carried it with me and waited to meet you these many years. I didn’t expect it would be right here in your home town.”

He placed the pendant in Garrold’s hand. Garrold accepted it of course. Everyone knew the tradition. You never refuse the gift of a minstrahl, just never. The gift of a minstrahl brings joy to a whole community. It is given as the reminder of the power of song to uplift and enlarge the heart, and as a token of future success.

The pendant ended up in Garrold’s mahogany box, and the riddle of the song was never really solved. The nameless minstrahl left town the next day and Garrold never saw him or heard of him again. The Owner of the Three Peaks said the jen simply called himself, The Minstrahl of Ghalensa.

No one else had ever heard of the song, The Spor of Many Colors. Many teased Garrold that he had made the whole thing up, that he’d had too much ale that night. But Dinnis remembered the song, as well as Garrold’s mother and sister, Taura and Drianna. They all remembered and remarked at what a wondrous song it was.

Garrold dismissed the whole incident as the amusement of a minstrahl. The minstrahl probably heard that a Magnhem from the Bower was in town and asked around to hear the story of his Occasion of Choosing. Then he wrote a quick song and saved it for the end of his show to awe his audience with his mysterious wisdom of local history. The pendant was the final touch, the master stroke, the gift from the minstrahl to bring joy to the community.

But with this new evidence of the Archgate Veor, it was obvious there was more to the pendant, the minstrahl, and the song now. He could ask around Clefdon. It was a huge city with a wide array of travelers. Somebody there would know of the song or the minstrahl if indeed he sang it elsewhere.

Garrold could hardly fathom the immensity of being in the presence of an archgate. He pulled himself out of his gawking fixation and finished the scan of the chamber. He returned to the bright spot on the floor. Upon closer examination he was sure it was something made from the Tree, buried about eighteen inches deep under the packed mud. After pinpointing the location, he pocketed the orb. Olrhom vanished and his vision and hearing returned to normal.

He dug with one of the climbing spikes. It was laborious, but in time he exposed a part of the object. With even a point exposed, he knew exactly what it was, an Equilateral. One of the items needed to activate the archgate. He was thrilled with the discovery. Was there also a Prizmhatic Orb somewhere nearby, perhaps in one of the other chambers of the cave? He’d have to go looking later.

He finished excavating it and cleaned it with a cloth dipped in cave water, then he polished it with his robe. There was nothing significant about its design. It was about seven inches tall and an inch thick on all sides. On the interior plane of one side there was a slight depression where the Prizmhatic Orb was to be placed to activate the key to the Archgate of Veor.

There stood the archgate, hidden away behind the cave wall all these years. How many times had he slept next to it, along with Reston and his sons? It was remarkable. And now he had half the key to opening it. Yet, even if he had the Prizmhatic Orb, what reason would there be to open up the pathways? They had been dormant for so long. It would be dangerous to test them. Nevertheless, having the Equilateral thrilled him. An artifact from the time of the Ancients. What might he learn from it?

He set the Equilateral down against his pack and went outside to have a look around, to check for signs of pursuers. Satisfied no one had been in the area, he went to the spring nearby and drank to his full, also filling a waterskin. The hours were passing and he needed to get some rest before departing on his journey. He returned to the cave determined to have a quick look around inside using the crystal-clear orb before getting some sleep. Maybe he would find that Prizmhatic Orb.

He never got out of the main cavern. As soon as he palmed the orb, the Equilateral began to hum and glow an opalescent pink. Intrigued, he reached out and without thinking placed the orb in the depression. Brilliant rays of white light shot from the orb, out of the center of the triangle, and onto the cave wall that concealed the archgate. It turned clear and vanished away, leaving only the archgate beneath. The sound of rushing wind filled the chamber. The interior of the archgate began to move and swirl, like it was being mixed. It moved slowly at first, but then began to increase in speed as it became more and more malleable.

Garrold stood fast, numbed by the remarkable display of power before his eyes. The archgate was opening. Something that hadn’t happened in ages, and he was a part of it. The interior of the archgate lost substance and began to dissipate into a translucent ocher fog that wisped away until the gateway was open, but pitch-black. Light seemed to end at the entrance of the archgate. He thrust his lightstone closer, but it had no effect. He couldn’t see into it.

Incredible implications teased his mind. If he stepped in, where would he go? The Writings taught that all the archgates were connected to the Archgate of the Otherworlder. It was the central hub of the system on Aralon. To go to any other archgate, you had to first go to the Archgate of the Otherworlder. The Archgate of the Otherworlder was in turn connected to the realm of the Ancients, Maghra, the Otherworld, the superior realm from which the Ancients had come. Other archgates went to Ghalensa, the great Tree. When the Ancients departed back to Maghra at the end of the Dire Age, they were supposed to have taken all the keys to the gates with them. The Writings declared that they rendered the gates useless to anyone but themselves, should they ever need to return.

A dog barked, and another. Several of them. Hounds. They’d tracked his scent. He could hear movement outside the cave. He placed the orb and triangle on the floor and sped off to the entry chamber.

“In here,” he heard. “There’s an opening, a cave of some sort. Better have a look.”

Garrold fled back to the large chamber. He would have to hide in one of the smaller holes. He gathered his stuff.

“Looks like there’s a fire burning down here. I can see the orange glow. He must be nearby.”

He was trapped. Nowhere to go. Hiding was useless with the hounds. They’d sniff him out in seconds. He stood erect in the center of the chamber facing the shaft that led up to the cave entrance. He would be captured with dignity. He would–

The archgate was still exposed. He had to turn it off before they came, let it hide itself again. He couldn’t let them find it.

No, there is no way I’m going through that thing, he argued with the thought. Had he really even thought of using the gate to escape? He wasn’t sure. Wasn’t it already out of the question, ruled out as too dangerous? If it malfunctioned, he could be trapped forever in Olrhom.

You can flee now, use it. There it was again. A thought from deep within urging him to try. He had to try. Capture was unacceptable. He had to succeed. Evil could not be allowed to prevail.

He lifted the triangle-orb key from the ground and with all his stuff in tow he walked into the gateway. He may as well have walked into the side of the cave. Some invisible barrier smacked him as hard as solid rock. He bounced back and caught the triangle-orb before it fell and steadied himself. The gate only appeared to be open.

“Get me some hounds in here and pass me a torch,” came the voice of a Bower guard.

All this for nothing. Standing before an activated archgate and no way to enter, no way to evade capture, no way out. This was it. He’d failed again. Every time he seemed close to some breakthrough, all his plans came to naught. No wonder he was never elevated. Another moment of failure.

The time of his own choosing came
He squeezed the spor with might,
But when he opened up his palm,
The spor was dark as night,
The spor was dark as night.

I’d better deactivate the gate. As he bent to drop his pack and chest, the glint of his pendant flashed in his eye as it swung from his neck. He must have put it on while he recalled the minstrahl’s song earlier. It now dangled before him, just as the promise of success had often dangled before him, out of reach.

But no. He had this one. It was around his neck. Success struck him. The minstrahl’s words. The pendant is the key.

Yes, there it was, the pendant is the key.  It bore the image of the triangle and orb. How could he have been so ignorant? He pulled it from his neck, grabbed his pack and chest, and faced the gate.

“Halt!” A barking hound lunged at Garrold choking in its collar, the guard holding fast the leash. Garrold stood. More hounds and guards followed. They stayed clear of Garrold’s glowing triangle.

“Don’t even think about running into that tunnel. We’ll turn the hounds loose. Just turn that thing in your hands off, drop everything, and come with us. We mean you no harm.”

Garrold lifted the triangle toward them and grinned as they all drew back a bit, some in terror.

“If you truly meant me no harm, you would leave. You don’t have a clue what you’re up against at the Bower,” he said, giving the Equilateral another push toward them and watching them back away. “Give this message to Grand Holder Temmolin and Magna Ulberrin, the land is in great peril, beware the False Admonishers.”

And with that he touched the archgate with the pendant. He knew only a blinding flash before his whole world went black.

Open Poetry Forum:  Post poems reminiscent of danger, high adventure, facing dilemmas, taking on challenges, accepting a monumental task.

          Garrold didn’t know whether to be excited, alarmed, or both. To be stealthily accosted within the Bower compound was bizarre; for it to be by Providers, that was from the empty places between worlds. He’d never heard a Provider before, but the written records told of their raspy voices. 

          They pointed out that the Ancients had noted his ability. He wanted that to be good, but it was too good to be true. Questions riddled his mind. How did they know him? Were they Admonishers? False Admonishers, Maghra forbid? 

          Nothing in the Writings supported their actions of stealth and death threats. The Book of Projections specifically asserted that the Ancients would only come in wrath if the Admonishers had not been heeded. No Admonishers had ever been sent. He had to warn Haknem and Kurdevon.

          Garrold reached into the folds of his robe and cupped his orb for comfort. Something about the smoothness and coolness soothed him. It gave him access to the power of the Tree. When he held it, he didn’t feel quite so helpless.

          Power surged in his hand. The familiar thrum reverberated throughout his body as he entered Olrhom, the realm of the orb, the realm between realms. 

          How could this be? He did not activate it. Never had the orb automatically activated before. As he went to drop it back in his pocket he sensed a presence in Olrhom, a sentience of great power. It came with no threat, no confusion, no animosity, no danger, only quiet. The presence sought him.

          Listen Garrold, the words were in his mind. They came with no voice, but it was clear that the sentience spoke. These are the defectors of Ghalensa come to do evil. Malevolence is in motion, and it’s moving fast. The whole world is changing. Evil power rises in Vikzyrn with Rezkelion, a renegade of the Ancients, he who comes with the hordes. He is born of a foul and wretched taint. He quietly draws strength from the Tree waiting to once again give the dark Heart of Morbidity the strength to beat its vile blood throughout the land. He must be defeated.

          “Who are you?” Garrold asked.

          I am a propagation, an energization, a creature formed of the power. I can only live within the power and it is the power that gives me being. It is too much to explain now. I cannot stay in one place very long or I will be found and destroyed.
 

          An Imitor, Garrold thought, a creature of fable.

          We are not of fable, Garrold, but know this, I was formed to help you stand against the Dark Heart, and it is for this purpose I exist. I will speak to you again, and aid you when I can, but for now I must go, the Ravers draw near to terminate me. Speak to no one of my existence.

           “Wait!” Garrold grasped at the creature, “Why me?”

          The voice trailed off, The spor, Garrold, because of the spor, and the prizmhata.

          “But I am nothing,” he objected, “no one listens to me, I have no authority.” There was silence. He stood waiting, squeezing the orb, not wanting to leave Olrhom until the Imitor came back to explain. Nothing came. He returned to the shadowy night of the Bower complex.
 

          The foreboding weight of impending peril descended upon him and he felt helpless. How could he stand against the Dark Heart? He was nothing; one little, unpopular, squelched magnhemist from Rudivia. This exceeded his scope and ability. He could not bear this. Kurdevon would handle it. His wisdom and ability were legendary. He had access to incredible resources. Kurdevon would know what to do.

          The Green Bower revoked Kurdevon from magnhemistry and exiled him from Rudivia years ago out of political expediency and jealousy. A group of preservationists rose up against him and concocted evidence claiming he taught things against the Writings. Temmolin ignored the facts of the defense and passed an unfair judgement against the Seer. In a rare case of injustice, Temmolin sold out on principle to please his constituents. It showed what he was capable of against his personal enemies.
 

          Garrold arrived at home, paused at his door, and took a deep breath to clear his mind. He called out to Elya before entering to avoid startling her. She had been waiting for him and rushed to his side. 
 

          “My heart-holder,” she said “what is wrong? What has shaken you so?” She already knew he was disturbed. She was perceptive that way.
 

          “Oh my love,” he squeezed her in a tight hug, “all is not well in the world.”

          He stepped back rubbing his wiry beard thinking how to say what he needed to say. Elya’s starry green eyes shone intently from deep within their sockets, urging him on. She leaned forward.

          “A few months ago Discerner Jaggeryn reported a problem to the Amalgama Council. He said that he and the Watchers had noted an irregularity in the pattern of the power such as has never been seen before.”

          “What do you mean? What kind of irregularity?”

          “There is a disturbance at the remotest edges of the power, farthest from each Bower and Thole. It is more prominent the farther north you go, away from the Highbower. The power is being drawn away somewhere.”
 

          “From the Bower of Ghalensa?” She queried.

          “Yes, where it exerts its weakest control.”

          “Could they explain it?”

          “No, but they were told to track it and report back as needed.”

          “So what came of it?”

          “With each passing thirdspan, the penetration of the drawing away moves closer to each Bower and Thole. It is stronger in the upper provinces of Covant, Rykor and Brugundia.”

          Her eyes widened. “You mean the Kingdom of Valorda and the Realm of Boravia.”

          Garrold cringed. He hated hearing them called by their new names. “That’s one of the problems,” he said, “there should be no separate kingdoms. They are rightfully provinces of Aralon. They have disturbed the power of the Tree. King Calindred restrains the true magnhemists and runs his own false order. Meanwhile, High Lord Shivaul and his Council of Seven use magnhemistry to support their own rule. That’s why they have been warring against each other for years, there is no order between them.”

          “Have they caused these disturbances?”

          “Maybe. They could have triggered it, or been a catalyst to it.”

          “How bad is it? Are we in danger?”

          “Jaggeryn reports that the drawing away seems to be focused in Vikzyrn just across the Void, somewhere deep in the Spitting Mountains.”

          “What does this mean, Garrold? Why haven’t the Providers responded?”

          “We don’t know, Elya, it’s troubling especially because we don’t have answers. We don’t fully understand it. Though the reach of the draw increases, the magnitude of the power does not. The drawn power is not reorganizing anywhere, it simply seems to vanish into the mountains, like its filling a big empty black hole.”

          “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

          “Well, there’s a lot more to all this.” Garrold stopped to collect his thoughts and figure out how to present it to her. Elya backed into the couch and sat. 
 

          Garrold’s chest heaved. He slowly exhaled the full volume to relax himself, then continued, “I received a dispatch from Haknem telling me that the Seer Kurdevon warned him that there is a taint to it and that some Providers have defected.”

          “You’re not going to talk to that renegade Kurdevon, are you?”

          “Whatever gave you– Elya? You’ve spoken to your father, haven’t you?”

          Elya turned her head away, “He stopped by earlier.”

          Garrold sped across the room, took his wife’s arms, stood her up, and looked her in the eyes, “What did he want?”

          “Oh Garrold, it’s dangerous to meddle where you don’t belong. You could be charged with disrupting the Bower, and your ideas are unpopular. I just don’t want to see you hurt, I love you.”

          “I love you too, Elya, you know that, but I can’t have you consorting with your father behind my back. He is a crafty jen and he fills your head with ideas against me. He brings contention into our home. How can I be sure of your absolute support of me and agreement with me?”

          “I don’t always have to agree with you.”

          “That’s not what I meant.” He let her go and she sat again as he stepped aside. “I don’t mind when you disagree and we discuss matters. I respect your counsel and your views. You have always been a help to me. It’s just that when you talk to him, how can I be sure it is your disagreement and not his? How do I know if you have seen a flaw in my thinking or if it is the flaw your father put there?”

          “I think for myself, Garrold, I don’t just echo him. My ideas are my own. Do you think me a fool?”

          “Elya, no, that’s not it. You don’t get it. I’m not saying that.” He turned toward her, rubbed his face in both palms, dropped his arms, and went on, “He’s crafty. Sometimes he gets me believing something from the three moons. Only after much introspection and self-debate do I even realize how he planted his ideas in my head with craft and guile.”

          “Like how?”

          “Well, like, for instance, he got me believing the other month that I didn’t deserve to be elevated, that others deserved it more and would contribute more to the Bower than I could. I about convinced myself of it until I logically evaluated his arguments. I’m not one to compare myself with others, but I deserve to be elevated. I’ve deserved it for quite some time.”

          “But your thoughts, this progressionist stuff, it gets you into trouble.”

          “So do you think I’m wrong? Do the things I tell you about magnhemistry, about the Bower, about the Writings, do they not make sense?”

          “I believe you have good ideas, but your approach— can’t you be more accepting of the decisions made by the Bower Council? You might gain better access if you were supportive.”

          “I’ve told you before I’d have to compromise on the standards and principles I believe in, my integrity would be breached, and I’d be a politician, not a servant of Rudivia. You know I’m willing to compromise on personal issues and matters of interaction, but not on principles and standards which define what I believe is right.”

          Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re just as pig-headed as he is, Garrold. You and my father, you’re two of a kind. Why are the two most important jennah in my life so much the same and yet wholly against each other? Why can’t you both just get along?”
 

          He tried to pull her up to hug and comfort her as she sobbed into the crook of her arm, but she jerked away. So he eased himself beside her and wrapped his right arm around her. He didn’t know what to say, which was okay, because silence fit the moment better than anything else. He rubbed her back to soothe her and help her get it out. She often cried after a visit from her father. Garrold wished she would recognize it for herself. If he said anything about it they would just end up arguing the point making her cry again.

          This had not gone where he expected. He never got to tell her about the surprise threats from the hooded figures, nor the encounter with the Imitor. He couldn’t add it to this mess now. It would only fuel a fire he did not want to stoke.

          He loved her greatly. She was smart, loving, caring, very resourceful, and very beautiful. Well respected in the Bower, she proved herself a capable jenni. He was a fortunate jen to have such a wife. But her love for her father clouded her thinking, and Temmolin knew it. He despised his gin-son so much that he was willing to manipulate his own daughter against him. What a disgrace.

          “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he finally said.

          “Can you get me some tea?” Her nose sounded plugged.
 

          He agreed and went to steep the tea in hot water from the hearth kettle. He served her and sat quietly in his favorite chair, sipping his own soothing blend. 

          “Is there anything he wanted me to know or anything you think I should know?”

          She sighed and nodded, “Yes, he said some wonderful things are going to happen in the Bower, that he was part of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and that magnhemistry would be healed and unified. He warned me that the renegade Kurdevon was opposed to this opportunity and was already speaking against it to sow discord and disrupt the process. There will be some changes, he said, even as they have already started, and some will not like it. Some will say it is evil and has the taint in it.”

          Garrold gritted his teeth, felt fire rise in his eyes, and fumed out his flared nostrils, but he held his mouth. Something was terribly wrong. The taint was two steps ahead of everybody and everything.

          “Those who openly oppose it will be revoked,” she said and blew her nose. “He said the twilight of progressionist ideology is upon us and a new dawning of preserved magnhemistry will arise to bring new hope to the land. All who help will reap the benefits, the rest will be driven from it. Do you see why I am concerned for you?”

          Her words cut his heart like a sharpened blade, twisting. But they were not her words, they were Temmolin’s. No, not even Temmolin’s, but the hooded messengers of the one who comes with the hordes. 

          Was this it then? Had the Bower already been taken in deceit? Was it time to run? To hide? What treachery had been wrought while magnhemistry slept? How could he have missed it all so completely? Why was the Imitor so late? Who then was on his side and who would take him?
 

          “Oh Garrold, what will you do?”

          Her question lingered in the air. Only then did he recognize something else that also lingered there. Faint, hiding in the background, it was a familiar smell— the smell of Temmolin.

          “I plan to have a part in it,” he said. And with that he drew a long sip from his cup. Somehow, someway, he had to meet with Kurdevon, if he could get there first.

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