Nyhm sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff, eyes closed and feeling the fierce mountain wind whip his hair. Try as he might to meditate, peace remained far from his mind, unable to breach the insurmountable chasm of turmoil created by guilt.
His brother was dying, and it was entirely his fault.
Nevermind that he had no way of knowing that the healing potion would only accelerate the disease. It had been his hand that poured it down Raith’s throat before he collapsed to the ground in agony.
I was good for one thing in this world, and now have even failed that.
He opened his eyes, and with the Ring of Surround Sight saw his grandfather approaching from behind. The old man was nimble and strong, picking his way through the rocks. Bald and devoid of facial hair, he had an ageless appearance that might have placed him anywhere between twenty and forty years old if you didn’t already know he was nearly seventy. His eyes were so similar to Nyhm’s mother’s that his heart ached at missing her.
When grandfather arrived, he sat quietly down beside Nyhm, sharing the magnificent view out over the vista below.
“It is a nice spot you have found here, grandson.”
“How is Raith?”
“His condition is unchanged. Thea is helping our healers sort through the Rootmother’s notes. It is well that you came here. The Mirrored Clouds Temple has one of the finest [Herbalists] on Tela. If there is a cure, he will find it.”
A spark of hope ignited in Nyhm’s heart, but he quickly snuffed it out. He didn’t deserve to feel hopeful after what he had done. His grandfather looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and he got the uncomfortable feeling the old human knew what he was thinking.
“Come with me,” grandfather said, giving him a pat on the knee before standing up.
Nyhm reluctantly followed suit. He really didn’t want to be cheered up, and he suspected that’s where this was going.
As they came down the mountain, he could see monks training in the courtyard, sparring in pairs or going through their forms. Exotic weapons and techniques brought over from the corvid lands and adapted to their earthbound forms. Every time he came to this place, he was abashed by the sharp contrast between himself and the monks.
Where their runic tattoos were artistic calligraphy, his were severe and brutal lines. Where their forms were round and graceful, his more resembled the savage attacks of a feral animal.
Which is exactly what he was, because that is what his owners had turned him into.
Grandfather led them to the temple library, a place where he’d spent little time during previous visits. He was relieved that he wasn’t being led to the healer’s building to see his brother, and then horribly ashamed at the cowardice of that relief.
Looking down so he didn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes, he followed the old man through the great hall of shelves lined with ancient corivd martial texts and esoteric philosophy. They entered a room on the other side with a large rectangular table covered in books, scrolls, and loose papers. Thea sat with an elderly man and a young elven woman. They all looked up as the two came in, and the old one spoke.
“Master Brennan, what can I do for you?”
“Nyhm is here to help.”
The elfling didn’t miss the subtle nod and significant look his grandfather gave to the old man seated by Thea. Nyhm looked up at grandfather and shook his head firmly.
“I don’t know anything about cures and potions. I will only be in their way.”
Brennan turned and put a hand on Nyhm's shoulder, forcing him to meet his calm gaze.
“You're only two choices are to do something, or to do nothing. It is hurting you to do nothing.”
It was good that he was hurting. That’s how you’re supposed to feel when you’ve done something so horribly wrong. But he didn’t want to say that in front of these people. He opened his mouth to refuse, but Thea interrupted.
“We could really use an extra set of eyes to go through this stuff.”
Nyhm glanced at her with a small frown. This time, the elderly man spoke. Like his grandfather, the monk was hairless. And while this man still looked vital and healthy, countless years of mountain wind and sun had left a map of wrinkles on his kind face.
“Nyhm, is it? I am Abbot Tukes, and this is my apprentice Sabina. It will take very little time to get you up to speed, and I can always use another pair of young legs to fetch ingredients. You would be doing this old man a kindness to offer your assistance.”
Taking a deep breath, Nyhm looked over to his grandfather again, who gave him an encouraging nod. Thea looked at him hopefully, while Abbot Tukes simply sat there patiently with a serene expression.
There was no way out of this without being rude.
“What do you need me to do?”
The Abbot pulled out the chair next to him and gestured.
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“Please have a seat. My body may not be what it once was, but I think you’ll find my ability to teach the basics of herbal lore remains quite undiminished.”
He gave Nyhm a warm smile.
“We’ll have you helping to save your brother in no time.”
***
Darius slammed the door to the High Emissary’s office. Again.
His daughter was in danger from the Grins, and that cursed man did not care in the slightest. If Venton wanted to claim he didn’t have the authority to authorize lending the Order’s assistance, then he would speak to someone who did.
He stormed down the hallway, hooves clacking loudly against the granite floor.
It was time to do what he should have done the moment he was summoned by that snake. Go see the Archive.
The Emissary sect, headed by the Herald, was seated in the capitol city of Dunhall. While the Eidolon of the Templars was headquartered all the way in the Kingdom of Kendarland. But Beckhaven was ruled by the Loremasters, and he was finished being bullied by that second rate diplomat.
The long walk through the grounds was fortuitous, as it gave Darius time to cool down before approaching his superior. A few odd looks and abrupt changes of direction from colleagues made him aware of the expression he must be wearing.
The Archive was a wise man, but had little patience for fits of emotion. It was a testament to Darius’s brilliance that he made it as far as he had given his propensity for angry outbursts.
Dairus hurried past his own office to the ornate door at the end of the hallway. He rapped firmly on the hard wood and a tired voice bade him to enter. Behind the paperwork covered reception desk in the antechamber sat a young human with short black hair and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He looked up as Darius entered.
“Senior Loremaster Gannon. Is the Archive expecting you?”
“He is not.”
The man gestured to the comfortable chairs in the waiting room and stood.
“If you’ll please have a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The wait was considerably longer than he cared for, but it would do no good to harass the Archive’s overworked aide. By the time he was finally summoned, a bit of his earlier irritation had crept back in.
“The Archive will see you now.”
Darius had neither the desire nor disposition to play the political games necessary to obtain the position of Archive, but he had to admit the office was marvelous.
Elegant scrollwork and carvings of the Weavers decorated all the burnished wood. From the desk, to the shelving, to the long buffet cabinet full of teas and wines. Rare tomes decorated the shelves, chosen more for the artistry of the leather bindings than content. A beautiful stone fireplace and sitting area dominated half of the room, and it was here the Archive waited as Darius stepped inside.
A few wisps of long white hair adorned the man’s mostly bald scalp, but the magnificent beard more than made up for the dearth of hair on top. The Archive’s kindly, wrinkled face made it easy to forget the keenness of his mind and the fact that he was also a powerful [Mage] in his own right.
“Darius, what and pleasant surprise. Please come in and sit. How goes your research into the threads of the True Fae?”
It would never cease to surprise him how this human kept abreast of all of his Loremaster’s studies. As he took a seat across from the Archive, he saw that a cup of tea already awaited him on the table. He inhaled the citrusy aroma, appreciating that his sect leader even managed to remember his favorite tea.
“It goes slowly, your eminence. The fae keep their history shrouded in fable and myth. Written records are scarce. Their threads weave in and out of the dreaming, and are extraordinarily difficult to trace.”
He closed his eyes and took a sip of tea, then gestured with the cup.
“Thank you for this. It has been some time since I’ve enjoyed a good cup of lazza, rare as it is in this part of the world.”
The Archive waved a hand dismissively.
“Think nothing of it. Now, I know you have no patience for pleasantries, so I won’t insist you dither and dally. You are here to discuss your daughter.”
Darius breathed a sigh of relief.
“That is correct.”
“Let us start by telling me all that you know, and I shall decide what needs to be filled in.”
So Darius told him everything. It was only a matter of time before that duplicitous Venton saw an advantage in divulging the incident with the kingsmen, so he even included that. As he finished relating the most recent crisis with the Grins, the Archive nodded thoughtfully.
“I assume you wish to offer our assistance in finding the cure for that young man?”
“Yes, Archive.”
He nodded again and stroked his beard.
“It is only right that the Order should help. Ridding the world of that terrible disease would be a boon to us all. We cannot sit idly by if they are on the cusp of a cure. Please requisition any resources and [Scholars] you require for this task.”
Daruis bowed his head.
“Thank you. I would also like to know why the Order is interested in my daughter’s team in the first place. Is it to do with that noble?”
This time the pause was significantly longer as the Archive stroked his beard.
“We had reason to suspect that the young man who now lies ill with the Grins is cooperating with a rogue godlaced. Perhaps is even one himself.”
“Raith? Impossible, I’ve known that boy since he was a small child and read his pattern myself.”
The Archive nodded in agreement.
“Yes, that does seem to be the correct assessment. I regret not simply asking you earlier, after seeing that your daughter was involved. Alas, there are always dreadful politics at play.”
After some further thoughtful beard stroking, he continued.
“Do you know why the Herald has sent Venton here as Beckhaven’s High Emissary?”
“I do not.”
“Because Beckhaven is far enough away to prevent Venton from stabbing him in the back, but close enough to keep an eye on the ambitious scoundrel.”
Darius couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I’m happy to hear I’m not alone in that opinion.”
“Most assuredly not. It is all I can do to keep his constant scheming from turning the Archduke against us entirely. And there are now rumors of trouble in the south to complicate matters.”
“The giant-kin?”
The Archive raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise.
“Please do not repeat that outside of this room. There is much we do not know at the moment, and the situation is delicate. The Three Kingdoms can ill afford to provoke a conflict with the formorians.”
“Of course, Archive.”
A calculating look came over the old man’s wizened face, and he looked at Darius with all seriousness.
“You are to continue reporting to Venton. Tell him nothing of our discussion, aside from your request to assist with the cure. Advise me of all you can ascertain of his thoughts. Do not be afraid to use those [Skills] of yours on any papers that lie on his desk and let me know of any other visitors who may be present.”
Darius scowled and felt heat growing in his face.
“I am a [Scholar], your eminence. Ill suited to the role of spy. Surely there is someone else…”
The steel behind his kindly facade showed through and he snapped.
“You will do as I ask, Senior Loremaster. In all likelihood, this will be a shortlived assignment. It will not be long before Venton loses interest in this young man and moves on to other machinations. Assuming you are correct and our suspicions are unfounded. In the meantime, I believe you have a disease to cure.”
Recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, the satyr set his tea aside and rose.
“Of course, your eminence.”
Anger rose as he bowed and excused himself. All of these decades he had avoided getting caught up in the Order’s politics, and now he abruptly found himself in up to his neck. Utterly infuriating.
In spite of his monumental irritation, however, Darius did not slam the door on his way out.
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