The Keystaff Chronicles Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Luthien laid his fingers upon the cold, still body. Bits of torn flesh and congealed blood dangled from the white bones protruding grotesquely from the man’s body. The man, who had been the local patron’s assistant, had died a terrible and unnatural death. His ribs had been torn from his body by the workings of a dark and devious Art, and Luthien could only pray that the man had not suffered long.

He knew who the culprit was, of course. The murderer had not bothered to hide his Signature; in fact, the use of this particular power, the unique Art of flesh shaping that the murderer shared with Luthien, was his way of announcing himself. It had been five years since the violent and unexpected departure of Lucien Delynd, crown prince of the Achianda Empire.

As if to remind Luthien of that fateful day, the old wound across his chest throbbed. Unbidden, his last memory of image of Lucien came to mind. The image was of his older twin smiling pleasantly at him while he lay in a puddle of his own blood, struggling to breathe through the thick fluids that were quickly filling his lungs, came to mind. That one memory so inflamed the young knight that his ears buzzed from the blood rushing to his head all at once.

The only thing that kept him from cursing out loud was the presence of Lady Ofeera Blaice. The young lady was a talented healer and the daughter of a high-ranking minister in his father’s court. It had been the intention of the Dowager Empress to betroth Ofeera to Lucien when his older twin had been the crown prince, so Lady Ofeera could have very well borne the title of crown princess.

When word reached the Holy Capital that an archmage had been slain and a key staff stolen, Luthien had been dispatched immediately by the Order of Elad, no doubt because of his relationship to the renegade Lucien. Lady Ofeera had volunteered to accompany him on his mission, and despite strong objection from her father, the Holy Father had granted her request because of her renowned healing abilities and her relationship to the wife of the elf lord Theredoniel Gwenevar.
“Your Highness…” Ofeera regarded him with concern in her forest green eyes. She hesitated to finish the sentence though, for she did not know what to say. The gentle healer was well aware of the prince’s feelings for his brother.

Luthien forced himself to smile, though the strained twisting of his mouth seemed more a grimace than anything else, “Please my lady, no titles. You have already seen to the villagers?”

“Thanks be to the Eternal Father that my healing skills were not needed. The great Archmage protected the village well,” Ofeera shook her head a little, “The villagers are devastated by his loss and I pray that the Father will lift up their hearts soon. He was to them a member of their own family. May he rest in peace in the bosom of the Father.”

“Yes,” Luthien concurred, but his brows furrowed in unsuppressed annoyance. The villagers had been most uncooperative when he wanted to examine the deceased archmage’s body, to the point that they were ready to drive him and his knights out with their pitchforks. They had found his magical probing of their beloved patron’s body disrespectful. Disrespectful? The man was dead. His soul had gone to the arms of the Father. They should have been rejoicing instead of mourning. And, more to the point, did they not understand that the more information he gleaned from his examinations, the more likely it was that he would capture the murderers?

And where were his knights? He had sent them to ensure that the archmage’s protective ward had indeed struck down all the walking dead that his brother had dragged from their graves, but that was two candlesticks’ ago, and not one returned with a report! Luthien straightened and walked to the doorway of the temple, his steps brisk and impatient. The temple reeked of burnt wood, stale blood, and vestiges of dark Art. This loathsome combination turned his stomach and soured his mood even more. Waiting was torture. He wanted nothing more than to pursue his brother, but he had been ordered to wait for a mage that the Arcane Order was supposedly sending.

Ofeera watched the agitated young prince and sighed softly. Abihayil had blessed her with the gift of empathy, so she could feel the turbulent emotions roiling inside Luthien keenly. And she understood, for the same jumble of emotions were unsettling her as well.

When she had first set foot on Endhorl, she had recoiled in horror and disgust at the sight of the bodies strewn about just outside the village. Although she did not practice the Arts as her friend Azarielle did, Ofeera knew enough to recognize that these bodies had been dredged up from their graves and made to do unholy and unnatural acts. The part of her that was a healer raged against this cruel indignity. Then, she had gone to temple. What had once been a simple but sturdy structure had been devastated. Pews, broken and smoldering, were strewn about like so much discarded firewood. Parts of the wall had been blown away, leaving behind large holes that seemed like gapping wounds. The floorboards were bloodstained in some areas, while other parts of the floor had been seemingly eaten away by a foul and putrid liquid.
And then, there had been the bodies. The archmage had died from a blow to his head. He had been struck from behind, and Ofeera thanked the Eternal Father again for granting the old man a mercifully swift death. His assistant had certainly not been so lucky. Unable to resist, the young woman glanced at the mutilated corpse of Oritz and shuddered. It was incomprehensible to her how any mind could conceive of such malicious act!

But what saddened her heart the most was the pain of the villagers. Archmage Bartel and his assistant had been much loved, and their deaths had been felt keenly by the villagers they had served. None had been injured in the body, but many had been gravely wounded in the heart. And the heart she could not heal.

“If Abyhayil is good and merciful, why would he have let this happen? Why did he let the patron die?”

A boy had said that to her, and though she had tried her best to explain that evil was wrought by man and not by the Eternal Father, her own rebellious soul had screamed the same question. Why? Why had the merciful Abihayil allowed this to happen to a man who had dedicated his entire life to serving the Eternal Father and following the teachings of the Uncrowned Prince? Why had the Father allowed such devastation to happen that the faiths of these villagers were so shaken? Why? Why?

And why, why did Prince Lucien, the man whom she thought would become her husband, and whom her traitorous heart still loved become so cruel?

“My lady, I will request two of my knights to accompany you in your return home.”

Luthien’s unexpected words made the young healer look up at him in surprise, “Go home? No, I wish to stay, unless I been of disservice to you, sir?”

“My lady’s help in identifying the elf lord’s Signature was invaluable,” Luthien replied, “But the road ahead will be perilous. The… murderers are servants of the Abyssal Ones and powerful workers of the dark Arts. It is I who will be doing a great disservice to the empire if I fail in my duty to protect you.”

“Prin… Sir Luthien’s duty is to capture of the culprits and retrieve of the keystaff,” Ofeera straightened her stance and lifted her head defiantly, “Although I am not skilled in the ways of combat, we healers are the followers of the Uncrowned Prince and the children of Abihayil just as you knights. I take full responsibility for my own actions, Sir. This is my choice, and I feel it is Abihayil’s will that I come along. Please do not command me to leave.”

Luthien’s brows drew together and he opened his mouth to object. However, before he could utter a single word, a loud explosion resounded in the distance. The knight and the healer exchanged alarmed looks as they rushed out of the temple to see what had transpired. As they stepped out onto the temple hill, they saw red gold flames rising high into the air on the other side of the village. The villagers scurried about like mice, some running back into their homes and slamming their doors shut, while the braver ones ran towards the flames, curious to see what had befallen them now. Luthien could see a few white-clad figures of his knights rushing towards the fire.

“My lady, please accompany me!” Luthien exclaimed as he rushed towards the fire with Ofeera following closely behind.

* * * * *

Azarielle coughed and sputtered as the smoke from the fire assaulted her eyes and nose. K’thol had explained that the black clips were to be attached to an item in order to make that item a flight worthy. After much bargaining and cajoling with the half elf, the young mage had acquired a rather old donkey cart, sans donkey, from him. Upon attaching the black clips to the wheels of the cart, the whole apparatus had burst into flames and shot into the air, much to her delight. In fact, Azarielle was of the mind that her flaming cart’s first voyage was quite smooth.

It had been most glorious to soar through the air on the flaming donkey cart. The feel of the wind rushing past her had been exhilarating. And the view! After setting a single roof on fire, which was a minor mishap in Azarielle’s opinion since the roof belonged on an already misshapen building in the Magic Quarter thus ensuring that the owners should not be overly shocked by such magical accidents, the young woman had rapidly ascended high into the blue sky until the building beneath her looked like the small blocks of a child’s toy. Azarielle had been amazed by how blue the Tranquilean Ocean was, and she had marveled at the white sailboats that appeared as clouds floating across an endless blue sky.

To be sure, there had been two other less than fortunate events during her flight. The first occurred about half-way to her destination, when she had decided to perform some aerial maneuvers by dipping between mountain peaks. Azarielle had intended to leave a blazing, yet graceful trail behind her as she weaved through the mountains. Instead, she almost had an unpleasant rendezvous with the very hard face of the mountain, and was chased away by a pair of enraged gryphons that she almost turned into roasted chicken.

Then, there was the landing. The descent started off gradual and well. But either her aerial maneuvers had wasted too much of the clips’ power or K’thol had been careless with his work, for whatever reason, the clips’ levitation capabilities failed. Her flaming cart had dropped from the sky like a rock and now lay on the ground in an impressive bonfire.

On a positive note, it was apparently not Abihayil’s will for her to splatter onto the ground and her shielding bubble had kicked in just in time. After she landed safely, Azarielle had also confirmed that the coat was indeed nicely fireproofed when she released her bubble and not transformed into a human torch.

And had she made it in time? Azarielle looked up and saw that the western horizon had become like a canvas filled with bold colors - fiery crimsons, bright oranges, soft lavenders with bursts of the most incredible blue scattered here and there. The sun, a ruby red sphere that hung low in the sky had just begun to set. She had indeed arrived at the appointed time. All in all, it was not so bad a journey!

The young woman dusted off her coat and stepped out from amidst the bright red flames. She held out her hand towards the fire and murmured words of power. The flames dwindled in size until it was like a candle flame. Then, with one last flicker, it winked out, leaving only smoke rising from the heap of wood that the cart had become. As she waited for the embers to cool so she could retrieve the clips, Azarielle spotted several white-clad forms rushing towards her. She presumed that they must be the knights of Elad.

The knights, she noted with some concern, were wearing upside down smiles. And, they were also brandishing their swords and waving the weapons around in a very unsociable fashion. It was not a good sign.

However, Azarielle was prepared this time. She had drafted a plan of engagement and even made copious notes to ensure that she didn’t say anything incorrectly. The issue the knights had with her was her race, of course. Her coloring - the hair that was as black as soot, the eyes that were a deep, piercing amber, and the pale skin that looked as if it were made of porcelain - was such that it left no doubt where she hailed. And the practices of her people made were such that it was understandable for the Knights of Elad to be wary, even hostile towards her. However, in Azarielle’s mind, if she could convince the knights that she had turned to the saving grace of the Uncrowned Prince, then her fellow servants of Abihayil would cease their inhospitality. And she intended to do so by reminding them that the Uncrowned Prince had come to save all children of Abihayil and not just the citizens of the Achianda Empire.

When she thought the knights were within hearing range, Azarielle cleared her throat (for effect) and began, “Greetings my brothers in faith. May the blessing of Abihayil be upon you.”

In response, the first knight to reach her let out a ferocious cry, “Accursed servant of the Abyssal Ones, I will silence your vile tongue!”

The knight swung his sword in what Azarielle thought was a rather wild and careless arc. And this she dodged quite easily, stepping back and swinging her arms out wide so that they would not be in the way of the blade. While the knight was struggling to regain his balance from that untutored strike, the young mage pointed a finger at him and spoke a single word.

A bubble of a color that could only be described as flamboyant flamingo pink sprung up around the knight, trapping him. The knight let out surprised yelp as he found himself suddenly trapped and floating into the air in a lazy pace. Panicked, he thrashed and struck at the offending inner walls of the bubble. While the walls were soft, they did not break no matter how hard he struggled. In fact, they merely stretched out with great elasticity, and then snapped back into position the moment he stopped exerting force in an area.

“My brother in the faith, I beseech you to hear my words,” Azarielle continued, not breaking with the flow of her practiced speech, “For though you are a branch that grew from the planted prune tree, I am a branch that grew from a wild prune tree…”

Two more knights rushed in, their blades swinging. Azarielle gestured at her giant pink bubble, which promptly bobbed its way cheerfully towards her new assailants. One knight swung his sword at the bubble, but it dropped over him and encased him in its soft pink embrace. The second knight began to pray, his hands extending towards the bubble. But whatever he had intended, he was not given time to finish. The bubble rolled over to where he was and swallowed him as well. Now, there were three knights trapped inside, their limbs and torsos tangled together awkwardly and cursing in a most un-knightly fashion.

Noticing their obvious discomfort, Azarielle made a mental note to herself that she needed to increase the size of her creation, but she continued on unfazed by what had just transpired, “And when the Uncrowned King came, he came to bring all of us into his fold, for such was the will of Abihayil. We the branches from the wild prune tree were drafted onto the planted prune tree. And so, my brothers, what I beg you to understand is the fact that we are all branches of one tree! We are all limbs of one body. Hmm, that does not sound so good; it makes me think of a muti-legged spider, or some terrible monstrous creation. Please ignore that part.”

The last knight did not attack her with his sword. Instead, he stood some distance back and held his hands out to the sky imploringly, “Abihayil, Eternal Father, in the name of the Uncrowned Prince, I pray that you shall cleanse the evil from this place!”

Nothing happened.

The knight gapped at the Azarielle in shock, “What… how?”

Azarielle let out an exasperated sigh and motioned her bubble over to swallow him as well. There must be some illness that afflicted the Order of Elad. Did none of these knights listen to anything she had been saying? Perhaps it was in her delivery, or was it her presence. Maybe the knights were not listening to her because she did not have an imposing form or height.

“Thus, my brothers, I implore you. Do not seek to do me violence. For what good can there be if the left hand of a body gouged out the right eye? Please hear these words of mine,” the young mage decided to finish her speech anyway. Then, as she had seen the patrons do, Azarielle held out her hands in with wide, magnanimous sweep, “Go in peace, my brothers. Or… well, I don’t suppose any one of you will be going anywhere right now. You know, I don’t think I ever anticipated how difficult it was to recite a sermon! I have gained a newfound appreciation for the patrons’ gift of speech.”

The four knights now entangled in the bubble shouted and struggled, their flailing arms and legs striking one another. One of them began to pray for release, while two others continued to curse the young mage. The first knight to be captured by the bubble let out small, pitiful moans for he had ended up at the very bottom of the pile, and one of his colleagues’ knees was digging very painfully into the small of his back.

Azarielle could hear very little of what they were saying since the bubble muffled their voices. It had become evident to her that her plan of engagement had not worked as well as she had hoped. There was another sermon she had memorized about underserved grace, and as the young woman contemplated the merit of reciting that sermon, she idly waved her fingers about. The bubble, of course, continued her movements and bobbed in every which direction, making its unfortunate prisoners quite ill.

Just as Azarielle was about to launch into her second sermon, she saw two more white-clad forms rush towards her.

* * * * *

Luthien rushed towards the hostile mage with his unbuttoned white coat flapping at his back like a cape. From a distance, he had seen her emerge from the flaming wreckage like a wrathful specter with her bright red cloak fluttering about her like a bloodstained banner. He could not make out any features other than the long black hair that hung past her shoulders like smoke.

However, his knights who were much closer to her, had obviously seen something they did not like, for as one, they charged. The red-garbed mage had moved with the swiftness of a striking snake to dodge their attacks before promptly and easily dispatching them with what looked to be an outrageously bright pink bubble.

A few more steps and he was close enough to discern that her eyes were a piercing gold color that was characteristic of a noble of the Dark Empire. The prospect of battle hastened his footsteps. It was almost a relief to enter into battle and unleash that rage and frustration coiled deep inside his belly.

“Well met, my brother in faith…” the mage began in a strangely melodious alto.

Luthien did not give her time to finish, slashing at her midsection with his sheathed sword. As furious as he felt, the mage had not done something deserving of death, and by the laws of his Order, Luthien had to give her a chance to respond. But, she was also a battle mage, and the young prince had fought enough dark mages to know that the only safe battle mage was an incapacitated one.

The young woman barely managed to dodge his lightning fast strike, and without giving her a chance to exercise her Art on him, Luthien struck again, this time aiming for her leg. A glowing shield sprung up between them, throwing him back a step.

Though his instinct was to throw himself back into battle, the young prince stayed his hand. The shield that the mage had created between them gave him pause. It was strong, though not impenetrable, so power alone was not what gave him pause. But what did startle him was the feel of the mage’s power. Luthien had battled mages from the Dark Empire before. And although this one moved with the speed and fluidity of a particularl7 dangerous sect trained in both the Arts and martial combat, her power did not have the loathsome taint of one who had strayed onto the path of the Abyssal Ones. Her power felt…clean. And thought she had entrapped his knights, he could see that they were all still alive, if not overly comfortable.

“Sir Luthien! Azarielle! Stop!” Ofeera’s called out in alarm, gasping for breath as she ran as fast could, “Azarielle is a friend!”

By the time that she had been close enough to recognize Azarielle, Luthien had already been out of earshot. The sight of his subordinates trapped inside a giant pink bubble had spurred him eagerly onto battle. It was truly a blessing that both Luthien and Azarielle had exercised restraint in not seriously wounding one another. She was out of breath by the time she managed to reach the two combatants. Luckily, both Luthien and Azarielle had heard her and ceased their fight. The young mage had even dismissed the shield and was smiling brightly at her.

“Good afternoon, Ofeera!” Azarielle called out cheerily as she watched the young healer trying to catch her breath, “Take deep breaths or you will get the hiccups again.”

“Merci…merciful…Abi…Abihayil,” Ofeera was indeed hiccupping and alternately glaring at the ever-exuberant Azarielle and frowning at the silent Luthien, “I thought you were seriously harm one another! Azarielle, can you please let the knights go?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, I almost forgot,” the young mage turned to Luthien, “Sir Knight, in a gesture of good well towards you, I shall release your grouchy knights. In fact, this is my second gesture of good well.”

The pink bubble popped with a loud bang, scaring all the nearby birds into flight and making Ofeera wince. Luthien’s knights landed onto the ground tangled, undignified, and very much like a pile of discarded ragdolls. But from the groans, and hearty curses, the prince could tell that nothing except their pride had been wounded.

Azarielle watched them struggle to free themselves, “Sir Knights, please allow me to assist! I say this with only the utmost respect, but you remind me of the ‘fresh catch’ the fishmonger sells each morning. You are all sort of, well, flopping about.” To illustrate her point, the young mage made flopping motions with her hand, “See? Like this.”

Ofeera stared at her friend in shocked dismay, though at the same time, she felt an awful urge to laugh. Though she tried her best to suppress the urge, a sound that started off as a giggled and finished up as a hiccup still escaped her lips. For as long as she had known the young mage, Azarielle had been reckless with her words. Her brother-in-law Theredoniel had once wryly informed her that Azarielle’s knack for saying the most inappropriate thing possible at the worst time possible was an unfortunate trait that she shared with his uncle, the mysterious elven mage to whom Azarielle had been apprenticed.

Making good on her word, Azarielle pointed a finger at the knights. As if great invisible birds had them by their collars and were lifting them, the knights were separated from one another and deposited, none too gently, onto the ground.

“Azarielle, please be more gentle!” Ofeera admonished.

Luthien watched the whole proceedings silently. The mage, Azarielle, was unlike any he had encountered in his previous dealings with the Order of Arcane. Aside from the most obvious curiosity of her race, there was the matter of her attire. Most mages belonging to that powerful order proudly wore their blue robes, but she did not. In fact, looking at the almost ostentatiously red coat, Luthien was of the opinion that Azarielle did not even dress like a mage. And then, there was her name. Though Luthien was not fluent in the high elven tongue, he did recognize that her name was elven. The name she bore now could not have been her original name. And then, there was the crown of thorn pendant that she wore around her neck, a sign, at least an outward sign, that she was a follower of Abihayil. What had transpired in her past that would have brought her here now?

As if she had just become aware of his attention, Azarielle turned around and regarded him quizzically for a moment, “Luthien, yes? You are a very curious looking. The white hair; have you colored it, or is it like that because of premature aging? You do seem to frown a lot…”

Curious… she had just told him that he looked curious! Though not vain, Luthien was very much aware of the fact that many found him handsome. The flighty butterflies at court pursued him shamelessly whenever he returned, and he had had to instruct his servants to donate the gifts of ‘love’ piling in the hallways his private residence. Never once had anyone told him that he was curious!

“Are you unwell, Luthien?” Azarielle asked with concern when the prince did not respond, “Your face is as turning purple as an eggplant. Ofeera, is this a sign of high blood pressure?” The patron at the temple she attended had once suggested to her that if she were to make comparisons of a person to another person or an object, it was in her best interest to choose someone or something nice.

Horror warred with mirth as Ofeera struggled not to burst out laughing. She had never seen the stern young prince lose his composure so quickly. In trying not to laugh, she ended up hiccupping even more violently, and though she avoided his gaze, Ofeera knew that Luthien had just given her a sharp and unappreciative glare.

“My goodness Ofeera, you need a drink of water or you are going to choke to death. You are turning a little red yourself you know.”

Exercising all the discipline of her training, Ofeera took a few deep breaths to calm herself and regain her composure, “Azarielle, allow me to formally introduce you to Sir Luthien Delynd.” Though she had not addressed him by his princely title, the healer expected her friend to recognize the royal family’s name of the empire she was now a resident of.

“Good to meet you without you swing your sword at me, Lucien,” Azarielle replied, “Delynd sounds vaguely familiar. Are you some kind of a noble?”

“He is…”

“I am a Knight of the Order of Elad,” Luthien interrupted, “No other titles matter.”

Azarielle nodded, “Right then. Let me go have a quick look around.”

“We do not have time, we must depart immediately,” Luthien replied.

“I don’t really think I am going to be much help if I don’t know what I am up against,” Azarielle pointed out.

The corner of the princes’ lips tightened with displeasure, “We can bring you up to speed on what you need to know. As we speak the servants of the Abyssal Ones are escaping.”

“What if you missed something?” Azarielle shook a disapproving finger at Luthien, “Don’t be so hasty, Luthien. You are a knight, and I am a mage. We look for different things. And, you are making the assumption that these are servants of the Abyssal Ones. Anyhow, I won’t be too long.” With that, she turned and walked towards the villager.

Ofeera watched her friend walk off with amused dismay. From the corners of her eyes, she could see that Luthien’s face had flushed red and the veins at his temples were pulsing with anger. Though she was glad to have her friend here, especially since Azarielle would be more sympathetic towards her brother-in-law, Ofeera could not help but wonder if the unconventional young mage and the serious, hot-tempered prince would mix like oil and water.

“Lady, is your friend a skilled mage?” Luthien asked, spitting the words out between clenched teeth.

“I… I think so,” Ofeera replied hesitantly, “I’ve never seen Azarielle wield her power until today, but my… sister, she told me once that she believed Azarielle has truly been gifted by Abihayil.” The healer was almost tempted to point out how easily Azarielle had handled Luthien’s knights, but unlike her friend, she knew that such opinions would not be appreciated.

Luthien’s scowl did not lessen, “Well, let us hope that the Lady Eowyna spoke truly. Let us go speak with the villagers.”

* * * * *

Azarielle surveyed the corpses laid out before her and murmured a prayer for the dead to Abihayil. The temple reeked of death – both the physical stench of the defiled bodies, and the more nauseating and acrid odor left behind from the workings of the dark Arts. And this particular Art, if the abominable act of twisting flesh and bone could even be called that, left a bitter taste in the back of her throat. She was all too familiar with this rare and terrible Art. Prior to her escape from the Dark Empire, Azarielle had witnessed the Emperor of Peace and Prosperity, ruler of the Dark Empire, punishing those who displeased him by having his son, the Prince of Valor twist and contort their bodies into unnatural forms.

“Theredoniel, you idiot, what have you gotten yourself into?” Azarielle muttered out loud as she looked at the devastation around her. Her last hope that Ofeera had made a mistake had been shattered when she entered the devastated temple. For beneath the vile power that had so horrendously mutilated one of the bodies, she could sense the familiar Signature that had indeed been left behind by Theredoniel. The smell of ozone and the leaves that was the young elf lord’s trademark hung thick in the air, and what troubled her even more was the fact that faint as it was, she was able to sense just the barest traces of a taint in Theredoniel’s once pure power. Her dear friend had already made himself complicit in some misdeed involving the use of his power. The taint came from wielding one’s power in the service of the Abyssal Ones.

What could have led him down this path? As she made her way outside the temple back towards her new traveling companions, Azarielle tried to think back to anything that might have led her teacher’s nephew astray. The last time she had paid them a visit, Thereoniel’s wife, the lovely Eowyna, had gone on a healing mission. Had, Abihayil forbid, something happened to her? Azarielle resolved to speak with Ofeera once they were one their way to… wherever it was the impatient knight, Luthien, wanted them to go.

Azarielle found both Ofeera and Luthien waiting for her at the fountain in the middle of the village square. She had noticed the crown of thorns adorning the top of the fountain when she had passed through the first time. It was this crown, suffused with the faith of believers and endowed with shields of protection that had kept the army of marching dead from reaching the village. She’d seen those bodies scattered outside the village, struck down by the shield before they could set foot in the village. The knights had set the bodies on fire to prevent them from rising again, but even then, she had been able to sense the malevolent Signature still clinging to them. It was the same as the one she’d encountered inside the temple.

“Are you suitably satisfied with your investigation?” Luthien demanded as she came up to him.

“Yes,” she responded with a cheery smile despite her misgivings about the whole unfortunate situation, “We can go charging off into adventure now, if you like.”

Luthien signaled to one of his knights and three saddled gryphons were brought over to them, “Good. We are going to the City of Westshore. Let’s mount.”

“He’s not much of one for words is he,” Azarielle whispered very loudly to Ofeera as she moved towards her gryphons.

The young healer let out a sigh in response.