Timeee

Austin Ballard
Robert Strobel
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are products
of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be con-
strued as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ALFRED SHORTSTAFF AND THE CAVERN OF TIME
Copyright © 2015 Austin Ballard & Robert Strobel. All rights reserved. Re-
distribution of this e-book is permitted, so long as it is distributed for free.
Edited and typeset by Austin Ballard in the United States of America.

Printed in the Minion Pro, Folkard, and Unzialish fonts.
Map art by Austin Ballard
Cover art by Redge Ballard
pretzel-lectern.blogspot.com
ISBN-13: 978-1518662188
First Edition: 2015

Second Edition: August 2016
11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
Dedicated to our Grandpa Ballard,
who we know would have read our book
cover to cover and put it on display on the
bookshelf,
even if it was the most boring book he
had ever read.
P refaces
ou hold in your hand a great accomplishment. I won’t say it’s
Y even close to being in the ranks with top publishing authors in terms
of plot, writing, characters, or even worldbuilding; but compared to
what Alfred Shortstaff and the Cavern of Time was nine years ago, I’d say
it’s as close to a diamond in the rough as a piece of writing can get.
The origins of Alfred may surprise you. It was first conceived and writ-
ten on an online roleplaying play-by-post forum called “Argaenothruzil”
when my cousin Robert and I were in high school. Robert wrote the
character of Alfred Shortstaff for the fantasy world and mythos I created,
and I played the role of “Fate” in Alfred’s storyline. We took turns each
writing passages of Alfred’s story, not knowing where his choices would
take him or where his journey would end. Robert was the most diligent
of Argaenothruzil players, and his story, Alfred’s Story, was the first to be
finished with a clear beginning, middle, and end.
A few years after graduation, we decided to convert the story to a
Microsoft Word format, edit it, and fix the myriad of problems that had
seeped in as two minds attempted to maintain continuity in one story. It
took hundreds of hours of work, proofreading between classes at college
and on lunch breaks at work, emailing several drafts back and forth, and
taking several year-long hiatuses—not to mention many years of grow-
ing up and learning how to actually write skillfully—but finally, Rob-
ert and I ironed out all (we hope) of the many plot holes, cleaned up
the prose, fleshed out the characters and world, and decided that it was
finally ready to be laid out and published.
It’s a miracle that something so raw that was spawned by two very
different writers’ minds could end up actually becoming something that
makes sense and is fun to read. The changes we made are so extensive
that I decided to add a trivia section to the end of this book to highlight
our favorite plot and character variations between the final product and
its original manuscript.
We hope you enjoy this story that has become a big part of our lives.
Even though it was born with heavily clichéd origins, we’ve really come
to love Alfred and enjoy the way his journey took a life of its own. Thanks
for giving our story a chance!
—Austin Ballard
he year of 2007 was a memorable time in my life. I had just
T completed high school and was attending my first year of college. This
was a pivotal time full of tragedy and trauma. One heaven-send to calm
the stresses of life was the forum Argaenothruzil, created by my cousin
Austin. At first I was slightly hesitant to contribute to my cousin’s blog,
since it used high fantasy elements (which are somewhat toned down in
this version) and I’d felt like I’d moved to something in my own writing
that was darker and more surreal. Nevertheless, my experiences leaked
into the story in multiple ways—mystery and suspense, I feel, are both
key plot elements of this work. The original finished version collected
dust for a while, and it wasn’t until a few years later that we began to work
on it again. This time, we would turn it into a polished book.
Our collaboration can be conceptualized from the beginning as this:
I originally created Alfred, and Austin created the world he lived in.
However, as we continued to write (and especially towards the end), we
became more equal contributors towards the story. Austin created the
missing duke and the Cavern of Time. I created Blacksheath and the
Amber Hand. The Way of Yormoth ended up as a work of both of us.
I was also the one who ultimately wrote the ending, which has always
been gratifying to read, no matter what stage we have been in during the
revision process.
At the beginning, we were on somewhat unequal grounds in writing
skills. Since then, I’ve become a much better writer, but Austin ultimately
got a degree as an editor, and thus will always be the stronger of us. In
the few final stages of the editing, though I gave suggestions towards the
plot, Austin did a lot of the heavy fine-editing, for which I am grateful.
This book ought to be dedicated to him.
—Robert Strobel
Contents
Part I: The Priest 9
Part II: The Timewalker 107
Glossary of Argaenothruzil Lore 242
Alfred’s Origins: Changes in

the Story over Time 249
Part I:
The Priest
Chapter 1
A s the sun rose over the Northern Mountains, two robed

men moved toward the apse of the now-empty Chapel of Ven-
dictes. It was time to provide the morning ritual with the rising of the
sun. The rite was specifically designed to honor the god’s affinity with
both light and time. The taller of the men, Hyron the cantor, was old,
with graying sideburns. It was the year 3g1029, which made exactly thir-
ty years that he had worked as the religious leader of Amber’s Hand. The
shorter priest, who had only arrived a few days before, was named Alfred
Shortstaff. He was brown-haired and brown-eyed, in his early thirties.
Both wore the loose brown robes of their order, and their hair was cut, as
that of all priests of Vendictes was, a short, neat length.
Hyron walked calmly to the altar to get incense as Alfred began to
tend to the fire in the hearth. “An orphan, you say?” asked the cantor.
“Yes. I was raised by the priests of Ae’brinthil. I never asked who my
parents were, because I was always well taken care of,” replied Alfred
uncomfortably, and added, “I’ve never been unhappy.”
“Ah, I’m not questioning your happiness, my boy. You felt the need
to wander here, from Ae’brinthil, your home? Do you have any family
at all?”
Alfred shook his head. “I once had a girlfriend,” he said, “but no one
more.”
Hyron threw the incense into the hearth and said a whispered prayer,
beckoning the day to bring good will to all the devout in Amber’s Hand.
“Alas!” he said, returning to the conversation, “I’m afraid that because
of the recent crusade, Amber’s Hand has left this congregation without
funds. We will not be able to lend all the financial support you need
here. You may have been better off staying in Ae’brinthil.” Hyron looked
apologetically at Alfred. “Of course, if it is the will of the gods that you
remain with us here, then so be it; but you may have to find an extra
source of income.”
11
A. Ballard & R. Strobel
Quietly, they finished the prayer. Hyron made the gesture of Vendictes
to Alfred by touching two fingers of his right hand to his lips, and then
to his heart as he bowed his head. Alfred returned the gesture. “Until
tomorrow, Alfred,” he said. He knelt on the floor before the altar to
meditate.
Alfred stood up and slowly walked toward to the entrance of the
Vendictes chapel, discouraging thoughts running through his mind. He
sighed. Why had he come here if the priests were unable to support him
fully? The impression he had gotten was a clearly discernible voice. “You
are needed at Amber’s Hand,” it had whispered simply.
Despite the power he still remembered feeling, Alfred found himself
doubting as he wandered onto the streets outside. He wandered toward
the fish-yard, where he had met a few gods-fearing fishermen. Perhaps
they could help him with obtaining employment.
Alfred reached the fish-yard and sat on the cold sand with a clear
view of the beach. He watched the sun rise over the waves, and despite
the tranquil view, he could not shake his worries away easily. He was not
versed in any trades or crafts besides priesthood duties. How could he
get a job in a town of anglers and sailors? It didn’t seem right to abandon
his priestly duties to pursue a secular job, either. He had made a vow to
dedicate his life to the gods’ service.
Alfred lowered his head and laid his face onto his clasped hands,
saying a silent prayer to the gods that all would be well.
His meditation was soon interrupted as he felt somebody tap him on
his shoulder.
“Alfred Shortstaff?” said a man’s voice, tinged with Amber’s Hand’s
common northern accent.
“Yes?” Alfred answered, raising his head.
There behind him stood a short, portly bearded man with balding
brown hair and spectacles. He held a small rolled-up sheet of parchment
in his hand. “Ah yes, well, I’ve been meaning to fetch you. My name is
Mr. Fryder. You see, the duke’s councilors have heard of your arrival and
wish to speak with you.”
“The duke’s councilors?”
“Yes, they mentioned you by name. It seems they are rather anxious
to make your acquaintance.”
Alfred stood up and began to follow the man back toward town. The
two men made their way past many trade carts and fishing stalls. Alfred
all the while tried to remember if he had known anyone who had moved
12
Alfred Shortstaff & the Cavern of Time
to Amber’s Hand. If they were councilors, they should be rather well

known.
“What’s the scroll for?” Alfred asked as they made their way toward
the poorer section of town.
“A leaf from the duke’s personal history. It’s a description of you,”
said Mr. Fryder, showing him. It had a highly detailed charcoal sketch of
Alfred, hand-drawn in a striking likeness, as well as a description. “The
councilors gave it to me when they heard you were in town. That’s how I
knew how to find you.”
As Alfred gazed at the picture and handwriting, he immediately knew
whose craft that was.
“He’s one of the duke’s councilors?” asked Alfred in wonder.
“So you do know someone here,” said Mr. Fryder, smiling.
Alfred laughed. “We go a back more than a decade. I was a young lad
then. It was Mendon the Wanderer who took me on the Pilgrimage of St.
Rion before I became a first-order priest of Ae’brinthil.”
Mr. Fryder seemed a bit puzzled at the name “Mendon,” but he shook
his head. Soon they came to a large dome-shaped building next to the
city hall, the residence of the duke.
The spectacled man took out a small key and placed it in the lock. He
opened the door to the duke’s house and stepped aside to allow Alfred
through. Inside was a circular chamber with hallways leading to separate
wings of the building.
Alfred and Mr. Fryder walked through one of the archways, where
a hallway stretched before them with smaller doors on either side. At
the end stood a single, small door with a brass plaque on it that said
entrance forbidden and, in tinier letters under that, privacy and
secrecy reserved by his lordship, the duke of amber’s hand.
Mr. Fryder knocked on the door, and a slot Alfred had not noticed
before slid open. A large brown eye peeked through, and then the
peephole slid shut and the door clicked open.
Alfred and the man walked through the door. The large room inside
was dimly lit by small keyhole-shaped windows on the walls between
marble pillars. In the very center of the room was a round marble table,
with ten or twelve people around it. Two of the chairs were empty.
The large brown-eyed man who had opened the door sat down at
the chair closest to the entrance as all of the councilors looked up at
Alfred. Most of the men had short beards of varying colors. Only one
man did not have any hair at all, and he stood up graciously. “Thank
13
you, Mr. Fryder,” he said in an unbecomingly deep voice. “Have a seat,

Alfred.”
Alfred sat directly ahead of the bald man, scanning the councilors’
faces, but he didn’t see his friend Mendon anywhere.
The man took his seat again. “Forgive me for taking time out of your
day, Alfred,” he said, “but this is a matter of utmost importance. I am
glad that Mr. Fryder was able to find you. My name is Teveris. I am the
head councilor of Amber’s Hand and advisor to his lordship.”
He paused. Alfred shrugged. “Alfred Shortstaff,” he said. “Priest of
Ae’brinthil. But you know that already.”
“Yes, and frankly, we’re glad that you happened to come here.
When we saw your name on the clergy registration list, I remembered
a passage in the duke’s personal history mentioning someone of your
exact description. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me explain our
situation.”
Teveris took a breath. “The duke, as you may know, has been
stewarding Ae’brinthil whilst King Donathan was off on the crusade in
Orovion earlier this year. The king returned nearly two months ago, and
Duke Rothgran presumably made his way on the scenic route through
Waelis to return here, but he is still unaccounted for.” Teveris scratched
his clean-shaven chin. “How did you travel here from Ae’brinthil? By
ship?”
“Yes,” said Alfred, remembering the uneventful trip. “It was only a
three-day voyage.”
“It is only perhaps twice as long of a journey by horse via the path
through Waelis, so he should have arrived here weeks ago. Hence, we are
a bit concerned,” said Teveris. He looked into Alfred’s eyes. “Judging by
the duke’s familiarity with you, Alfred, we were hoping that you might
know something about his whereabouts, or have an idea of where he has
gone.”
Alfred thought a moment. “What did you say the duke’s name was?”
“Oh, why, Duke Rothgran, of course,” said Teveris.
“I don’t believe I know this duke of whom you speak. I was under the
assumption that one of you was my old friend who drew my picture.”
The bald man looked up at Alfred. “What picture?” he asked.
Mr. Fryder held up the parchment. “He means the sketch of him on
the duke’s personal history page.”
“May I see that?” asked Alfred. Mr. Fryder handed it over to him.
Alfred looked at the page. Puzzling. He didn’t know his friend Mendon
14
the Wanderer was the duke. He had known him from his travels as a
hermit who had taken him southward on the pilgrimage. And yet, this
was his handwriting, and anyone who had heard of Mendon knew of his
skill in charcoal illustration. Had he gone on afterward to become the
duke of Amber’s Hand?
Alfred looked at the ceiling. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said,
scratching his chin.
“Why ever not?” asked the bald man.
“I recognize the craft of this illustration. The style of my sketched
portrait, even the handwriting—it clearly was done by a friend of mine,
but his name was Mendon, not Rothgran.”
The bald man suddenly grew tense and exchanged glances with the
other councilors. “Alfred, what connection did you have with Duke
Rothgran? Try to remember exact details.”
Alfred looked up from the page. “I knew him as Mendon the Wanderer.
I chose St. Rion as my patron saint for the pilgrimage that I took to enter
the priesthood.” He sat up in his chair. “Mendon was my guide during
that journey, and we became rather good friends. He was a hermit at the
time, though, not a duke. This was perhaps ten years ago.” He looked up
at their nervous faces. “How long has he been the duke here?”
Teveris stared at the table thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could read what
he had to say about you in his history?” he suggested.
Alfred cleared his throat and began to read, equally intrigued by what
the duke had to say:
Of the four types of magic—Arcane, Chaotic, Sacrum, and

Hothmancy—my friend Alfred Shortstaff is remarkably
adept at the third type. He is a priest, and thus is
naturally gifted as such, but his case is remarkable even
among those of his calling. He simply breathes Sacrum at
his young age. He could be turned into a great tool in the
gods’ hands should he master his powers. Only he could
perhaps learn the secrets of the gods that I crave to know.
If ever I were lost trying to obtain what I was looking for,
he might be the only one that could help me.
Alfred stopped reading, feeling concerned. This history did indeed

point to him as having some sort of role in the duke’s situation. He
looked up at the councilors.
15
“This is clearly Mendon’s handwriting, so if he is the same person as

Duke Rothgran, he must be talking about me.”
Teveris looked at him intently. “Does this mean you are willing to go
looking for him? Do you understand from the history why the duke may
be missing, and why we called you? We have sent forth numerous search
parties, but it is as if he has vanished completely. We have lost all hope in
our own means of searching.”
Alfred nodded. “If Mendon—or Rothgran—is the man I knew him
to be, I know that it would be nearly impossible for him to get lost.” He
looked at the faces of the council. “He was called Mendon the Wanderer
for good reason. He knew his way around Argaenothruzil’s lands like the
world was his personal backyard. This was very clear to me when he led
me on my pilgrimage. If he’s lost somehow, then I wouldn’t even know
where to start. He seemed to have faith in me—that I alone could find
him through the power of Sacrum. Perhaps you gentlemen can help me
start off on the right foot?”
They were silent for a long time. They seemed to be troubled about
something. At long last one of the other councilors, a dwarf who had
a graying but otherwise mud-brown beard got up from his seat and
whispered something to Teveris.
“Very well, Alfred. On behalf of his lordship, Duke Rothgran of
Amber’s Hand, we enlist you in a quest to find him and, if necessary, save
him from danger. We, his loyal council, shall help you begin.” He nodded
to a wispy-bearded man a few places to his left, who pulled a small scroll
from his robe and handed it to him. “Mr. Fryder, escort Alfred to the Red
Kestrel Inn to stay tonight. I shall write a voucher for Ingram. Tell him in
return for lodging Alfred he need not pay taxes this week.”
Teveris scribbled dryly with his quill on the parchment. The wispy-
haired man produced a stick of sealing wax and passed it to him. The
bald man signed the paper, dripped wax on the fold, and pressed a
symbol into it with a ring that was on the table.
“Please come to the main hall tomorrow morning, Alfred, and
we’ll have rations and a horse for your journey. I trust you’ll need
little else, yes?”
Alfred nodded.
“Thank you, Alfred. Mr. Fryder?”
Mr. Fryder escorted him outside without a word.
16
Chapter 2
O nce again, Alfred found himself alone on the street. Mr.

Fryder had gone back to his duties, and the sun was high in the
sky. Alfred looked back at the enormous building. “At least now I don’t
have to get a job,” he mused.
Not having anything else to do at the moment, Alfred wandered back
toward the fish-yard to collect his thoughts. There was a fisherman that
he had befriended a couple of days before whose name was Arvin, and he
decided that he should say farewell to him before he left. Alfred climbed
on the fish quay where he knew his friend would probably be lounging at
this time of the late afternoon. Arvin lived on the boat itself.
Sure enough, there he was, lounging atop his boat with his hat covering
his face. It was late summer, and Arvin, dressed in loose fisherman’s
clothing, was tanned very dark.
“I guess that fishing trip will have to wait,” said Alfred.
Arvin stirred, and then looked up and grinned. “The gods snatchin’
you away from Amber’s Hand already?”
Alfred nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“You know, I thought you seemed like someone people would make
concessions for, not the other way around,” Arvin laughed.
Alfred chuckled a bit. “Well, I guess so, although I’m still not certain
where you get this all from.”
Arvin leaned toward him, focused on him with the wizened eyes of a
man that had seen many years, almost too many.
“I want you to have something for your quest,” he said, digging into
his pockets.
“Quest? How did you—”
“Here you go.” He dropped something cold into Alfred’s hand. It was
a small ceramic figurine of a dolphin, painted blue.
“It’s for good luck,” said Arvin, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.
17
Alfred took the dolphin figurine. “How did you know it was a quest I
was going on?” he asked.
Arvin simply smiled, propped up his fishing rod, and covered his face
with his hat again. Alfred waited for a response, but Arvin was silent. In
time, Alfred heard the man snoring quietly.
“Goodbye then,” said Alfred, looking at the dolphin. One thing was
for certain, there was more to the old fisherman than met the eye.
Remembering he had left his things in the sleeping quarters at the
chapel, Alfred decided to get them and inform Hyron of the news. He took
the main road past the poor shacks down to the good part of the town.
Amber’s Hand was a quiet, yet very prosperous town, and there was
much industry. It was the main export station for eastern Argaenothruzil,
and aside from that, tourists were often docking in the shipyard and
passing through for night or two on their way to see Waelis, the beautiful
county beyond the forest. Amber’s Hand was built in a line that followed
the contour of the coastline, which meant it was easy to navigate as long
as one had the sea in view. Alfred followed the road toward the chapel.
A few people here and there nodded or bowed to him when they noticed
he was a priest.
In time, the houses began to be larger and made with more ornate
architecture. He reached the chapel and went inside, but realized it was
empty except for one or two citizens who were bowing their heads in
prayer in the pews. Hyron was nowhere to be seen. Quietly, he crept
past the pews and the apse, careful not to disturb the patrons, and then
carefully opened the door to the priest sleeping quarters and ducked
inside. There were four straw beds here, all simply laden with linen
sheets. Locating the one he had been sleeping on, he gathered his things
and placed them into his satchel.
Alfred would have liked to stay here longer. He had been looking
forward to a change of scenery without an extensive change of priestly
duties. But the gods had something else in mind for him, and that was
good enough for him. He looked around at the quiet room once more,
and then exited.
Alfred had hoped to run into Hyron entering the chapel on his
way out, but he must have left on an errand of some kind. I must say
goodbye to him in the morning, he thought. He would probably like to
see Alfred off.
Alfred asked a town guard where the Red Kestrel Inn was. It turned
out to be not much farther down a couple more streets. Soon, a painted
18
red inn came into view. From what Alfred could tell, the Red Kestrel
was a luxurious inn that the well-off usually visited. Alfred usually
slept outdoors when traveling, or slept on the customary straw-filled
mattresses of Argae’s monasteries, so he could tell this would be a treat
for him.
Alfred walked up to the heavy wooden double doors and entered.
The inside of the inn was full of sparkling chandeliers and fine carpeted
floors. A couple of people were sitting in chairs in the lounge, where
a warm fire crackled in a marble fireplace. Nearby, a woman played a
soothing tune on a harp. Alfred walked up to the counter, where a thin
man with oiled black hair and a waxed mustache greeted him.
“Welcome to the Red Kestrel Inn,” he said. “Ingram Innskeep, at your
service. Do you have a reservation by chance?”
“Sort of,” said Alfred. He handed the scroll to the man, who tentatively
opened it. Ingram nodded his head slowly as he read it, and then he
smiled. “Well, it has the seal. It looks like you’re staying for free. Supper’s
any time after two o’clock. Just ring the bell if you want anything, it’s all
covered.” This was going to be better than Alfred thought.
Alfred was led by a butler to a luxurious room decorated with intricate
tapestries and a large canopy bed laden with down cushions and silk. The
hearth was being tended by his own personal servant.
Seeing him, the servant stood up. “Welcome to the Red Kestrel, sir.
May I take your things?”
“Thank you,” said Alfred. The man placed Alfred’s satchel on a small
table and hung his cloak on a rack near the door. He showed Alfred
around the room. There was an ornate bookcase by the fire, as well as a
comfortable-looking couch and armchair. On a small table between the
chairs were a tea tray and a bowl of almonds and berries.
“Will you be staying here for the rest of the afternoon?”
Alfred thought. It had been a rather busy morning, and he was still
weary from his voyage. “Yes, I think so,” he said.
“Very well. If you need to run an errand, simply let Master Ingram
know,” said the servant. “May I get you a book to read?”
Alfred nodded. The servant took a few books from the shelf, and
placed them on a tuffet next to Alfred’s couch. The servant waited
expectantly as Alfred began to look at their covers.
“I’m sure one of these is just fine. Thanks very much for the service,”
said Alfred.
19
“Just pull the cord on the wall when you’re ready to sup,” the servant
said, bowing curtly. Then he left Alfred alone.
Alfred was drawn to an oversized book in the pile called World Places.
Alfred had taken geography lessons when he was training to become
a priest, and ever since his pilgrimage with Mendon, it had been a
fascinating subject for him.
Alfred took a few raspberries from the bowl and ate them, turning
the page to a big map of Argaenothruzil. He counted the places he had
traveled in his life—Orovion, the holy city of the crusade; Malgwyr, the
Quarry Kingdom of the dwarves; Ziccao, the city-state where Abelhawk
the Archmage lived; and of course, his home city of Ae’brinthil.
He looked over to Amber’s Hand in the upper-right corner of the map.
It was represented by a picture of the town hall. Funny name, “Amber’s
Hand,” thought Alfred. Most cities he had visited had names in old
tongues—Old Elvish, Old Dwarvish, or Old Argaen. But Amber’s Hand
sounded like it had to be relatively young. Unless it came from an older
root word? Alfred flipped through the index until he found the heading
for Amber’s Hand, and then he followed the reference to the part of the
book about Northern Argae. He found the section, which happened to
show a sketch of the very building he was in. The description read:
Amber’s Hand: A caring community welcomes you. Take

a look at our wonderful chapel, built at the founding of
the city. Take a boat ride around the bay, or visit our
lighthouse, the tallest in all of Argaenothruzil. Then make
a stay at the luxurious Red Kestrel Inn, sipping mulled
cider under the cool sea air on the rooftop balcony.
This book was clearly designed for tourists. Alfred put it back, and
after discarding a couple of daft love novels, he found a book called
The History of Amber’s Hand. Alfred knew he had reached a gold mine
of information. It was only a short book, perhaps fifty pages long,
and seemed to have been recently printed and bound. The beginning
contained a detailed map of the city. Alfred could trace where he had
gone since he had arrived. He was delighted, and started to read at the
beginning.
The city of Amber’s Hand was founded by King Mendon

in the year 3g856, to create a coastal trading hub for
20
northeast Argae, and because he was a great lover of

shrimp. Inspired by the legendary artifact able to protect
people from evil, he named it Amber’s Hand . . ..
Mendon was the same name as his friend, but the town was founded
nearly two hundred years ago. Alfred wondered whether Mendon was
named after an ancestor. The hermit hadn’t seemed like he was of royal
birth, but then, he had to be the current duke of Amber’s Hand. He just
had to. There was no one else who would know him so well.
Alfred let the book absorb him. It was nice to be able to sit and read
for a while without having to travel or wait on someone’s needs. He felt
a bit guilty doing so, but he did have a long journey ahead of him, it
seemed. It would be a long time before he could rest in luxury like this
again—indeed, he might never again get the chance.
After an hour or two of reading, Alfred found his eyelids fluttering.
He yawned and placed the book aside. The room really was magnificent.
The warmth from the hearth, the fine architecture of the room . . . some
people may have thought the atmosphere stifling, but Alfred could not
imagine a more soothing atmosphere. He pulled the string near his bed,
which rang a bell. Soon a meal of finely roasted salmon and peas was
brought to him, followed by a dessert of fresh blackberries and cream.
Finally, with a full, satisfied stomach, Alfred made his way to the
lavish canopy bed in the suite and crawled in between the silk sheets,
where he fell asleep instantly.
***
Alfred woke up sometime in the middle of the night. After a few

moments of dazed confusion, Alfred became aware of a sound. It was no
ordinary creaking of an old building—he heard human footsteps, going
very slowly. Alfred froze. The door to his room was slowly opening.
The hairs on the back of Alfred’s neck stood straight up. His head
was turned away from the door, but his eyes were wide open now, and
his ears searched for the creaking sound. It sounded like a lightweight
person, who was trying very expertly to cover his footsteps—but the
wood in this particular room was too stiff. The footsteps got quieter and
quieter as they advanced in the room, toward the table near the couch.
Eventually, Alfred’s strained hearing no longer heard the creak of wood,
but instead, the rummage of cloth. Alfred feigned a groan, and turned
21
over in his bed toward the table, his eyes closed. As he did so, he heard a
sharp intake of breath from near the table.
Alfred waited for a full minute, his heart beating so hard he was sure
whoever was in the room could hear it. When the cloth sound resumed,
Alfred’s eyes opened slowly. Through the dim moonlight coming through
the window, Alfred saw a tall, skinny silhouette of a person hunched over
his knapsack, glancing nervously toward the door every now and again.
What was this person looking for? Alfred had nothing of value in
his satchel. Suddenly the cloth noise stopped, and Alfred’s eyes blinked
closed. He slowly opened one of them again. The figure was holding
something toward the window, squinting at something in his hands. He
heard the rustle of paper and the palatal sound of a breathed curse from
the man, who put whatever he had back in the knapsack and looked
around. Alfred’s eyes shut closed once again. The floor creaked again,
this time a bit quicker-paced, as the man retreated toward the door. The
latch on the door clicked ever so softly. Alfred groaned again. The man
quickly departed.
Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever that was, he would not be
coming back tonight. He tried to go back to sleep, but his heart was still
pounding a bit faster than usual when a window-shaped orange gleam
appeared on his opposite wall and the bell tower far away near the city
hall chimed six times.
Alfred lay in his bed for fifteen more minutes or so. The councilors
of Duke Rothgran had not specified what time in the morning he was
to come, but somehow Alfred thought it would be early so that he could
have time to get started on his journey. He still wasn’t sure where to start
searching for the duke.
Alfred jumped as the door opened slightly and a voice said, “Would
you like your breakfast now, sir?”
“Oh. Yes, please,” said Alfred. “Come in.” A servant, different from
the one the night before, entered with a small cart laden with covered
dishes. He took the tea tray from the night before and replaced it with a
new one, and then set out some dishes onto the table. “Ring if you need
anything,” he said. Then he left.
Alfred had slept in his clothes, so he reached into his pocket to pull
out the dolphin statuette, which had been rather uncomfortable to sleep
on, now that he thought about it. He got out of bed and took his knapsack
over to the couch. He uncovered the dishes on the table, which were full
of hot buttered biscuits, boiled quail eggs, and sausages. Taking a bite of
22
a biscuit, he opened the satchel to see what the intruder could have taken
from him.
With surprise, Alfred saw that almost nothing at all was gone. His
money bag was still there, with his ten coins. That was odd. Had the
intruder been a thief of any regular sort, he probably would have taken
those, despite the meager amount it was.
Alfred rummaged through his knapsack. Here was his marked print
of the Vendictis Bible, and—wait, his small charcoal drawing of his
former girlfriend, Darla, definitely was missing—But he hadn’t looked at
it in ages anyway. Why had he even kept it in this bag for so long?—his
lantern and tinderbox were here, his pocket knife, and—oh, the duke’s
personal history script was here, rolled up. Alfred hadn’t remembered
taking it, but he must have accidentally put it into his satchel upon
leaving the council. Perhaps it was what the thief had been trying to read
in the moonlight.
Alfred laughed. The thief had left empty-handed, save for perhaps a
picture of his former lady friend. He wished the thief the best of luck in
finding Darla, if that’s what he was hoping for—it had been a tumultuous
relationship anyway. Still, Alfred felt uneasy. What had the thief been
looking for?
Alfred finished his sumptuous breakfast, and then left the room
and went down the hall, the floor creaking noisily with each step. “It
must have been an elf . . .” muttered Alfred. “Too light of step for a
human’s feet.”
He went downstairs to the lounge where Ingram sat at the counter,
filling out ledgers. “You checking out, sir?” asked the innkeeper.
“Yes, I’m going,” said Alfred.
“That’ll be sixty royals, then.”
Alfred hesitated. “The council did pay for it, didn’t they?” he asked.
Ingram looked into Alfred’s eyes, and then smiled. “Ah, that’s right,
and let me off the tax ledgers for a week. Right, then. I hope you enjoyed
your stay.”
Alfred walked toward the door and stopped. “Can I file a complaint?”
he asked.
“A complaint? What for?” said the innkeeper, frowning.
Alfred hesitated. It probably hadn’t been the innkeeper’s fault, but if
the security in the inn was wanting, perhaps it would be best for him to
know. “A man, or more likely an elf, came into my room last night and
searched through my knapsack.”
23
The thin man looked intrigued. “Light on his feet, was he? Steal
anything?”
Alfred shook his head.
“Thanks for letting me know, and I apologize for the bother. I’ll check
through the ledger for elves. Chances are he’s still staying here. There’s no
way he could have entered in the night.”
Alfred left the inn and made his way down the quiet streets of the
wealthy side of town, until he reached the chapel again. Alfred entered
the large doors into the chapel and spied Hyron lighting candles in the
apse opposite the doors. The cantor did not turn around, but quietly
whispered, “I’ve been expecting you, Alfred. You’re not going to stay,
are you?”
Alfred gave him a sad smile, shaking his head.
“I had a feeling that your inspiration to come here would not lead you
to the end, but the means to an end.”
Alfred smiled. “Well, I guess now I can’t address the congregation on
Venday like I was going to.”
The cantor turned around and bowed. “Godspeed, Alfred,” he said
simply, and then knelt to meditate again.
Alfred turned around, rather sad that the conversation had to end
there, and so abruptly, at that. But as he reached the door, he heard Hyron
stand up. “Wait a moment Alfred! Come here to the apse a moment.”
There was worry in his voice.
Alfred walked down to the front of the empty church. The cantor
had finished lighting the candles. He stood with his hands grasping the
sides of the altar, his eyes clenched shut. Alfred paused for a moment,
surprised at Hyron’s appearance. Hyron stood before him, poised in the
exact middle of the apse, his head bowed, as a halo of light shone from
the round window behind him. Finally, the cantor spoke.
“I don’t know why, Alfred, but I’m worried about you.”
These words startled Alfred. Although he had only known this holy
man a few days, he had esteemed him as a very noble person and revered
him highly. To see lines of worry wrinkle on his brow was unsettling. “I
have felt . . . dark . . . these past weeks. As if somewhere, something evil
is happening, and I cannot do anything about it.”
Hyron finally opened his eyes. They were fixed upon the Symbol of
Divinity on the altar. At length, they looked into Alfred’s.
“But perhaps you can,” he said. “Alfred, if anything on your quest feels
wrong at any time, please let the gods be your guide. It is hard for me to
24
let you leave Amber’s Hand so soon—I’ve always wished for a priest like
you to help with our ceremonies.”
Hyron sighed and closed his eyes again. Then his body relaxed and
he walked around to Alfred. “I don’t mean to frighten you or make you
doubt . . . I just feel as though something in the world is amiss. May the
gods grant that you never have anything to do with it, and that it solve
itself in due time, I suppose.” The cantor patted Alfred on the shoulder.
“Just be careful.”
Eight chimes echoed outside. Alfred thanked the cantor for everything,
and offered up one more prayer at the central altar before he left. The
council will surely be upset at my tardiness, Alfred thought as he walked
toward city hall. He looked back at the chapel once more. But stopping
here was more important than they will know.
25
26
Chapter 3
T here was no longer silence in the streets. As Alfred

walked past alleys and shops, he saw all sorts of people tending
to their morning routines. A baker was outside drowsily selling bread.
The town courier had his head leaning on his script-stand. A small boy
was outside chasing a dog with a stick. Alfred shortly arrived at the more
civilized part of town, where merchants and guild leaders were starting
their day’s business.
At last Alfred found himself at the town hall, and made his way to dome-
shaped house next to it. He made his way to the door and tried to turn the
door handle, but it was locked. He knocked on the door, but there was no
answer. Alfred started to grow concerned. Am I too late? he thought.
After several times knocking on the door, the door opened and Mr.
Fryder stood in the doorway looking slightly surprised. “You are very
early, Alfred,” he said. “They weren’t expecting you until at least nine
o’clock. The council are still asleep in their chambers.”
He opened the door to let Alfred in. “I suppose you may wait for them
inside.”
Mr. Fryder pointed to a chair that was in the hall, and left through
some side door. Alfred tried not to scowl as he sat in the chair. Why was
everyone in this town so laid back? From Arvin dozing on the docks to
baker and courier yawning after the sun had come up—it was a wonder
anything got done in this city at all. Naturally, Alfred was in no mood to
see anyone until the council meeting, but as it was the main hall, many
maids and servants passed the hall, all giving Alfred long stares. Finally
a maiden spoke to him. “Sir, can I get you a drink?”
Finally, thought Alfred. Someone hospitable.
The maid let him follow her to a large stall in the hallway, which had
a counter and two cushioned stools. She poured some dark brown liquid
into a cup and placed it in front of him. Alfred thanked her hesitantly. He
did not care much for coffee.
27
He held the handle of the cup, but did not drink. The maid
looked awkwardly at Alfred, as if she was waiting to be excused, or
complimented.
“Thank you,” said Alfred.
“It’s our very finest . . . imported cacao from faraway lands.”
Alfred looked down at his cup, surprised. “Chocolate?”
“Yes. The duke has an import route that goes all the way south along
Argae. One of his traders has an outpost in Huichtli.”
Alfred drank the warm liquid and sighed. He had only tasted that
sweet, buttery flavor once, on the Pilgrimage of St. Rion with Mendon.
It was an interesting thing to recall—If Mendon was Duke Rothgran, it
made sense that he would have imported the drink now after trying it all
those years ago on the cape of Argae. Alfred would have done the same, if
he had settled down with enough money. Chocolate was an exceptionally
expensive drink, as cacao beans were only found in miserably humid
climates, such as the marshy island in far southeast Argaenothruzil.
A sharp ding rang through the hall and the two servants who were
dusting chairs in the room stopped and walked toward the hall. “I must
go,” said the maid. “If you wish to read in the study a few rooms over, you
may. Hopefully you can find something of interest there to occupy you
until nine o’clock.”
Alfred thanked her again, finishing his chocolate, and was left alone
in the hall once more. He took the maid’s advice and made his way down
the hall. He poked his head into several of the doors until he found a room
full of books that could only be the study. It was full of big, handwritten
books, some of which that were probably several hundred years old; and
other books that had been more recently printed.
He browsed the shelf. Most of the tomes were history books, and others
dealt with theoretical studies on war, theology, and economics. Alfred’s
hand stopped on one that looked a bit more worn than the others. He
took it from the shelf and looked at it. It was titled The Timewalkers, and
had no indication of who had written it. There was, however, a symbol
of the ancient priesthood of Ae’brinthil, and judging by the style of the
handwritten script, it must have been written—or at least scribed—by
a monk. Alfred flipped through the pages curiously, and then started
reading at the beginning.
In the dawn of the world, in the midst of First Generation,

when the lands were young and wild and green, Vendictes
28
Virtue-Lord, blessed his name be, sought a way to

prevent disasters like the Succumbing of Elidethnar from
happening again. And so, with his marvelous illuminated
hand, he wound the flow of Time around his finger like a
thread, and with it wove he a Realm of Time. In his holy
hands was the flow of Time itself controlled, as far as his
influence extended. To some, if the ancient works are to
be interpreted correctly, he gave the gift of Timewalking,
that they, through the power of Sacrum, might wayfare
through the ages, mending the tears in prophecy and
ensuring that history ran its course the way it had
been planned by the gods in the beginning. Defeated
armies received one more chance; poor choices were
changed to good ones; natural disasters devoured fewer
lives, ensuring that dynasties and bloodlines remained
uninterrupted. And thus was Vendictes, holiness to his
name be shouted, called Timefather.
To most, this power was kept hidden, until the advent
of the primal wizards in the Age of Magic. These magi
were renegade students of Henaeros Arcane-Teacher,
may his hands craft the clouds in heaven forever,
and they meddled where they ought not, discovering
forbidden secrets between the lines of written divine
laws. Some unlocked the powers of immortality, and
others, powerful magicks of illusion; and still others, the
power to walk through the Realm of Time, outside of the
holy bounds of Sacrum.
Eventually, Timefather Vendictes, light and time and
virtue be embodied forever beneath his crown, discovered
these heretics, who cared nothing of divine law and
order, but only of power. He demanded of them that the
secrets they had unearthed be bound forever away, never
to be abused again. Some were wise and obeyed, atoning
for their misdeeds and vowing that they would never
meddle in the affairs of the forbidden again; but others
were foolish and rebelled against divine mandate. War
was wrought, and the fabric of time betwixt the Virtuous
One’s fingers stretched itself thin, but in the end, justice
prevailed. The rebellious ones were destroyed, and those
29
who were not were banished from Argae forever. And

thus ended the First Generation of time.
Though the secrets of Timewalking were bound
forever, the student of Vendictes Virtue-Sun, may all
creation to him bow, will find peace in learning the
accounts of those who Timewalked under his Sacric
permission. From one, we learn that past, present, and
future can be embodied as—
The clock struck nine, and Alfred was shaken from his reading. He
glanced at the book again, intrigued. Had people really been able to
“walk” through time? None of his studies of Vendictes had attributed the
term Timefather to anything but the theoretically paradisiacal concept
of eternity. He had never imagined that his power could extend even to
altering history. Alfred placed the book on the shelf again and went back
outside in the hall. The hall was empty and quiet now.
The sharp squeak of a door opening rang through the silence of
the echoing hall. Alfred saw Mr. Fryder’s head poke out from a door.
“Alfred?”
“I’m here,” said Alfred. Mr. Fryder disappeared.
Alfred frowned. He was sick of waiting this long. To him, nine o’ clock
did not mean “morning.” Finally the door opened again. Mr. Fryder
stepped out, along with a red-haired, white-whiskered man.
Mr. Fryder moved aside, and the old man walked past him, nodding
to Alfred and leaving down the hallway. “Follow me, Alfred, for some
last-minute instructions,” said Mr. Fryder.
They walked to the council door again. The door opened again
and they entered, the same men in the same places sitting around the
table. Alfred walked to his seat and sat down, eager to go at last. Teveris
spoke.
“Good morning, Alfred. I’ll make this quick. Dackson is fetching you
a horse from the duke’s stables, and a pack of rations. You are to use
them wisely, and not dally on your journey. The people of this town, and
indeed, perhaps the entire—” Teveris shook his head quickly. “Many are
depending on you, Alfred Shortstaff. We believe you are the only one
who can find Duke Rothgran.”
Alfred nodded, feeling the council’s eyes on him. “Very well. I will do
my best for the sake of this comely town, and for my own standing with
the gods of Argae.”
30
“Excellent. We recommend taking the road west, through Waelis

and south through the mountain pass toward Ae’brinthil,” said Teveris.
“Though we have sent search parties along the same route, we know that
he did not go by ship, and therefore we see no better place to start. Do
you have any questions?”
Alfred thought a moment, and then shook his head. “No, but I did
want to return this.” He pulled the duke’s drawing of him from his satchel
and handed it to Teveris, who accepted it.
“May the gods guide you,” said Teveris, and the other council members
nodded at Alfred. He was escorted out by Mr. Fryder.
31
32
Chapter 4
“H er name’s Prisma,” said Dackson, a black-haired civil

elf youth who served as stable boy for the duke’s palace. “One of
the stable’s finest mares. She goes about with her head a bit in the clouds,
but there’s not a sturdier palfrey in Amber’s Hand. She’ll get you to where
you need to go.”
“Thank you,” said Alfred, patting the gray mare’s head. Prisma
nickered and pawed the ground with her hoof. “Did Teveris say you had
some rations as well?”
Dackson nodded, pointing at Prisma’s saddlebags. “A week’s rations,
if you can make it last—hardtack, jerky, dried fruit, that sort of thing.
You used to travel food?”
“No,” admitted Alfred, “but I’ll manage. What about Prisma?”
“She’ll be fine,” said Dackson, waving a hand. “She’s a travel horse, so
she’ll graze while you’re resting. As long as you stop at an inn every few
days and feed her there, she’ll have plenty to keep her going. There are
a few royals in there, too, but try to make them last.” Dackson reached
into one of the saddlebags. “The council also wanted you to have this,” he
said, holding out a sheathed shortsword. “If you end up spending time
in the Sheral Woodlands, you’ll likely have bandits to deal with. It pays
to be armed.”
Alfred took the sword and awkwardly attached the scabbard to his belt.
He had never wielded a weapon before, but it would be comforting to have.
If anything, it might deter people from picking a fight with him.
“Again, thank you, Dackson,” said Alfred. “I’d best be off, then.” He
stepped into a stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Prisma shook her
mane gently. She did indeed feel rather solid, Alfred noticed. Dackson
opened the fence gate, letting horse and rider out onto the road. Alfred
nodded to the stable boy, who bowed curtly. And he was off.
It took Alfred less time to get out of town than it had to travel from
the inn to the duke’s palace. The edge of the city was higher in elevation
33
than the civilized areas, and Alfred paused a moment to turn Prisma
around and look at the city. He noticed some fishing boats in the bay, and
wondered if Arvin was in one of them at that moment.
Alfred was glad that he could make his journey by land—he had
learned on his voyage to Amber’s Hand that he didn’t much have the
stomach for sea travel. Going westward toward Waelis would not only
be easier, it would, as Teveris said, be the most likely direction the duke
had gone.
With a satisfying whoop, he nudged Prisma forward and made his
way out into the forest. He passed several farming fields, as well as an
orchard ripe with apples, before the path gradually became bordered by
a thick forest of wild firs, pines, and spruces.
After a short time traveling the forest path, Alfred saw a figure in a
tattered cloak loitering on the road. Alfred tried to ignore the man, but
as he drew near the man held out a wrinkled hand toward Alfred.
“Perhaps, good master, a slight morsel?” said the man, hunger
showing in his eyes.
A beggar, nothing more, thought Alfred, hesitating.
“Art thou afraid of me?” asked the man quietly.
Alfred pulled his horse to a stop and untied his satchel. “Don’t say
that,” said Alfred. The man didn’t seem to be armed, but Alfred felt
uneasy just the same. He tossed a piece of bread to the man, who merely
smiled, letting it fall onto the ground.
The filthy man bowed clumsily. “Ic thank thee,” he said.
Alfred was anxious to leave, but there was something strange about
this man that intrigued him. For one thing, for all the places in Argae
Alfred had traveled, he had never heard this man’s accent before. “Why
do you call me ‘thou’? I don’t even know you.”
Suddenly a shadow fell over the man’s face, and he said quietly, “Alfred,
be thou cautious on thy quest.”
At first there was a long silence.
“How . . . how do you know my name?” asked Alfred.
“The world hangeth in the balance. The end fast approacheth.”
“Who are you?” Alfred demanded. He felt his heart beat faster.
The dirty man made no expression, and said nothing.
“What makes you think the world is near its end?” questioned
Alfred.
The vagabond looked thoughtful and said, “Hast thou not seen the
signs? It is written of old that the leaderen of the world shall disappear
34
one by one, and be imprisoned in Time. The royal leaderen, we know,

are ordained by heavenly mandate, and thus no longer can keep the holy
fabric of Argaenothruzil together as long as they are lost thither. Thou
wouldst do well to heed my worden.”
“It is true what you say, that the passage you spoke of is written. But
why do you speak of Time as a place?”
“Thou shalt find out soon,” the beggar said, with seriousness in his
voice. He began to turn away, but Alfred called to him to wait. He had to
ask some more questions.
“How do you know about me? What makes you so learned in these
things?”
The man turned around slowly, simply smiling at him. “If thou comest
to the place whence ic come, thou shalt know.”
The man walked a few paces into the woods, and to Alfred’s surprise,
began to change. The man’s long hair turned from gray to dark brown
and shrank into his head. The cloak’s holes and tears mended until the
cloak looked as good as new. The whole image swam before Alfred’s
eyes as a bright light shone out from the man’s form, and when Alfred
blinked, the man had disappeared completely.
Alfred shook his head. Had he seen a ghost, a messenger from the
gods, or a hallucination? He found himself wishing that he had spent
more time in the sun to have something to blame the vision on. Alfred
decided it would be best to take the man’s words to heart and not waste
any more time. He was a firm believer that things happened for a reason,
and he would not let this—whatever it had been—go to waste.
***
Over the next several hours of travel, Alfred struggled to understand

the events that had happened to him. He thought long and hard about
the strange man’s words, and began to think more about time, and the
prophecy about the end of the world. He had never really thought about
the prophecy in detail before—the end of the world had always seemed
so far away. But the duke had disappeared . . . were other leaders to
follow? And how could they be imprisoned in “Time”?
Perhaps Vendictes, the Timefather, had something to do with it. But
why would the benevolent god of virtue imprison the royalty of the land?
Time was not something discussed in common sermons, but the idea
still caused him to wonder. If the rulers were beginning to be trapped
35
in time, and if such an event would cause the end of the world, Alfred
needed to know more.
Alfred thought harder, Prisma treading on pine needles on the path
beneath him. “If someone wanted the world to end, why wouldn’t they
just kill the royalty?” he said to himself. “Why would they trap them
in Time?” Then his eyes widened as he thought of the duke. If he had
already been imprisoned in Time, how would Alfred ever find him? He
remembered the book in the duke’s house he had read that morning
and sighed as he realized he would have been wise to bring it with him.
Perhaps the strange old man was one of the “Timewalkers” it had talked
about.
Alfred saw a few buildings here and there as he traveled. Some locally-
owned farms, a small hamlet or two—likely owned by citizens of Amber’s
Hand and under the duke’s sovereignty. Soon it was suppertime, and as
Alfred’s stomach growled he noticed a small inn with blue shutters on
the side of the path. It had a sign that read “The Jolly Stag.”
Alfred didn’t feel as if he was going to accomplish anything more
tonight, and he was tempted to spend some royals on staying at the inn.
But he knew that if Time itself really was of the essence, every hour could
count. Still, it had been a long day, and he decided it would be all right
if he just took a stop inside to talk to the innkeeper. Perhaps he would
know something useful.
Alfred hitched Prisma to one of the posts in front of the inn and
entered. There was no one at any of the tables, but a large, burly man
was idly napping at the counter. The place seemed clean for a tavern, and
Alfred noticed the curtains were pink and fluffy.
“Nice curtains,” commented Alfred, smiling.
The man sat up, yawning. “My wife . . . my wife made those . . .” he
mumbled. Alfred sat on a stool and dropped his satchel on the floor
beside it. “I heard the duke’s missing. Any news about his whereabouts?”
he asked.
“You’re a traveler, right?” the man said, ignoring his question. He
seemed to be still waking up. “Did you happen to see a stray cow? The
whole village’s been lookin’ for her, but she’s disappeared.”
“Uh . . . No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” said Alfred.
The man scratched his beard. “Unfortunate,” he said idly. Alfred
noticed the man’s ears were slightly pointed at the end. They weren’t
quite as long as an elf ’s—indeed, Alfred realized, he couldn’t be an elf
because of his beard, thin as it was.
36
“I wondered if there were any tidings about the duke,” repeated

Alfred, a bit more slowly. “Or perhaps some way I can be of service to
your village? I’m a priest from Ae’brinthil.”
The man seemed suddenly annoyed. “A priest? Ha! Unless you can
ask the gods to scare away the wolves or to tell you where that cow is, we
don’t need your help. Not much need for priests these days. Now if you
were a mage, that would be something. We could use a little more rain,
too.”
Alfred frowned. “Now, see here, sir. Don’t let me off that easily. I am
only a man, but through the gods I’m sure I can help you more than you
think.”
The man grumbled, but looked less intimidating. Then he chuckled.
“Yeah, I suppose that wasn’t necessary. Look at me, sleepin’ on the job
and tryin’ to start an argument with my first guest in days! Forgive me.”
The man pulled two flagons out from under the counter. “Can I get you
a drink?”
The offer made Alfred realize how thirsty he was. “Erm . . . how
much?”
“On the house,” said the innkeeper. “Consider it an apology for my
thoughtless comment. Pale or dark?”
“Pale, thank you.”
The man smiled. “Ah yes, priestly vows and whatnot, eh? No dark ale,
something like that?” The man poured him a glass, and then filled his
own flagon from a different barrel. He took a swallow.
“News about Rothgran, you ask? ’Fraid not. But I did just get a letter
from my mum in Sylphanos tellin’ me the elf king’s gone missin’ too.
Imagine that.”
Alfred swallowed a sip of ale, remembering the strange vanishing
man and the prophecy. Now that was worrisome. “Really?” he asked.
“Yeah . . . I’m sure you may have noticed I’m a half-elf. My father
was a human who met my mum in the Sheral Woodlands as a squire
to his knight back in the day. He took her as his wife in Ae’brinthil, but
she didn’t want to leave her forest land, so they went and lived in the
forest with the elves. Dad never did get along with them much. I can
understand why now. But that’s beside the point.”
Alfred knew elves and men had never gotten along well, mostly because
of humans’ tendency to expand. The elves had always fought to maintain
their secluded lifestyle in the woods, and hated change. Luckily, the two
races were in a peaceful state now, but racial tension still existed.
37
“Anyway, the Sheral Woodlands have been disputed over for centuries,
as you may know. Ae’brinthil claims they’re the ones who root out the
bandits who go there, and o’ course the elves claim it’s their ancestral
homeland since it extends out of Sylphanos. Recently, though, King
Donathan and the elf king, Anathas, got together to make some joint
laws that would extend over the woodlands and help out elves and men.
“So this letter from Mum tells me King Anathas has been missing ever
since the laws were settled. Some elves and men are thinkin’ it’s foul play
from the top, but me? I think there’s some kind o’ conspiracy goin’ on.
Some human or elf who hates the other side captured ’im, and is maybe
tryin’ to get ’im to repeal the laws so they can go on fightin’ about it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alfred softly, trying to hide his worry. “That must be
hard for you as a middleman.”
The man took another drought from his mug. “It’s bad enough them
woodlands is full o’ human bandits, but the elves are to blame as well,
harrassin’ travelers just tryin’ to pass through from place to place. I
liked livin’ in the city—guess I got that from Dad. But if you ask me, if
someone has views different from yours, you just let ’em be, and expect
them to do the same.”
“It’s strange,” said Alfred, “that two royal leaders have disappeared at
the same time. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, maybe,” said the man, rubbing his beard again. “Hadn’t thought
of it that way. You think there’s somethin’ bigger goin’ on?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Alfred, feeling foolish. The last
thing he needed to do was give people a reason to worry. This was his
quest, after all. As a priest he should fight to bring people hope. “But . . .
have you heard how King Donathan’s doing? I heard he returned from
the crusade safely.”
“You know more than I do, then,” the man said gruffly, after another
drink. “Dad died years ago, so I only really hear news from the elven side
of the world.” He finished his drink, and then watched Alfred finish his.
“I don’t mean to speak out of line again, but where did you say you were
from?” he asked.
“Well, I am a registered priest at the congregation of Ae’brinthil, but I was
called to Amber’s Hand by the gods. Now I am on their errand again—”
“I meant,” said the man, holding up a rough hand, “where were you
born? I could almost swear you look like an elf yourself.”
Alfred hesitated. This thing had bothered him before; wherever he
was, people, especially humans, always thought he might be an elf. On
38
other occasions, in the company of elves, many wondered whether he

was a man or not.
“Honestly, I never knew my parents. The priests were the ones who
raised me. It’s as much a mystery to me as you what I am. I don’t even
have very pointed ears,” said Alfred.
“Yeah, but a mite pointed, they are,” the half-elf said. “You have elf
blood in you, no doubt. Perhaps you and I are not that different.”
Alfred began to feel uncomfortable at the man’s comments, so he said
nothing more.
Two hours later, after all was said about elves and men, and after
Alfred’s stomach was full of chicken stew and carrots he had bought,
Alfred finally had to call it a night and get back on Prisma to find a
campsite. The half-elf had offered him a room for a fairly good price, but
this close to the town Alfred had decided to save his remaining coins for
later in case of an emergency.
Alfred ended up finding a grassy piece of ground near a grove of trees
and sleeping under the stars. It was cold this far north when autumn was
almost there, but the council had packed him a thick blanket, and he
slumbered peacefully. He awoke an hour after dawn, shaking off dreams
of finding the elf king asleep on a bed of crystals.
39
40
Chapter 5
A lfred spent two days on the same westward path. The hours
were long, but he didn’t mind. It gave him time to think, and to
make plans. As he made his way down the road, he passed several farms
built in meadow patches in the forest. The people were surprisingly kind
to Alfred, despite him being a stranger. Some gave him meals in exchange
for a mere blessing upon their fields. One generous dwarf let Alfred sleep
in his barn on a bed of soft straw for the night, asking only that he read
him a chapter from the Vendictis Bible, since he was illiterate.
Alfred also passed many crop carts heading toward Amber’s Hand,
presumably making their way there to trade in the summer’s harvest.
Several carriages also were making their way down the path. Alfred
eagerly peeked into each carriage as it passed, but none of them seemed
regal enough to be that of the duke. He began to wish he had asked more
questions about the duke’s disappearance. Had he wandered off alone
and vanished? Or did his entire traveling group disappear as well?
Sometime after noonday, the trees of the forest began to be taller and
denser, and the light began to dim on the path. Alfred began to be more
cautious, sometimes expecting to be ambushed, but he sang hymns to
himself to remind him of the feeling of protection he had felt the days
before.
The darkness was nonetheless unnerving, however, and the fact that
it filtered out almost all of the warm sunlight didn’t help. Alfred shivered
for hours until he finally began to see brilliant sunshine glowing from a
break in the trees up ahead.
The forest gradually thinned, and as he rode out of the forest, his jaw
dropped. In front of him was the most beautiful landscape he had ever
laid his eyes on. Glorious plains of lush grass, scattered clumps of trees,
and numerous sapphire lakes encompassed his entire view. Deer frolicked
here and there, and flocks of sheep dotted the landscape like clouds in a
green sky. A river cut through the county like a vein of crystal, its waters
41
calmly flowing from a waterfall on the mountains by the northern sea.

By Phroella, thought Alfred, this must be Waelis.
Alfred was still stunned as Prisma slowly trotted down the road.
Never had he seen such a wondrous country. No wonder so many tourists
came from all over Argaenothruzil to simply spend a few days here. Even
the mountains surrounding the valley looked spectacular, framing the
country as if with a powerful embrace. He could see scores of tiny tents
and campsites dotting a couple of the hills, but the only large buildings
in sight were a large waterwheel mill next to the river, what looked like a
small chapel on a hill, and a lodge to the north.
Birds twittered in most entrancing songs above his head. Alfred was
glad it was nearly evening. He would get a chance to sleep here for the
night. He was sorely tempted to relax here for a day, just to enjoy the
beautiful weather and rest from riding in a saddle all day, but he had
promised the council to stay on track with his quest at hand. He crossed
a covered bridge over the river and came to a fork in the road, and took
the one leading to the lodge and the chapel. Alfred knew he would soon
need to rest, and the chapel seemed an ideal place to stay for the night.
He could sleep at the chapel tonight, and take the other road tomorrow
that led to the gap in the mountains.
As he started up the road toward the tourist lodge, Alfred reached
a part of the road where there were many carts and wagons parked in
rows. There were many people here of all races—dwarves, halflings, civil
elves—and all of them seemed to smile and wave at him. “This truly does
seem to be paradise,” he said to himself.
As he dismounted and led Prisma into the chapel’s courtyard, he
noticed that the windows seemed to be shut and there were weeds
infesting the front lawn. There were a couple of splintery hitching posts
here, and as he tied Prisma to one of them, she immediately began to
graze hungrily on the green grass. He tried to open the double doors,
but they wouldn’t budge, so Alfred knocked. The chapel seemed pretty
shabby next to the shiny, well-maintained tourist lodge across the road.
A haggard, unkempt priest opened the door. “What is it?” he asked.
Alfred made the gesture of Vendictes, bowing politely. “Good evening,
father. I am a priest of your order. I require lodging for the night.”
The priest looked Alfred up and down, and then grunted as he waved
him inside. Alfred followed him into a dusty church hall. They both sat
down on the pews.
“Where do you serve?” asked the old priest.
42
“I served in Ae’brinthil, but now I am on a mission for the town of

Amber’s Hand.”
“Did you take a ship there?” asked the priest. “Or have you passed
through here before?”
“I traveled there by ship, so this is my first time in Waelis. It truly is
every bit as beautiful as I’ve heard.”
The man scoffed. “Beautiful. Yeah, sure it’s beautiful. But people
rarely come to this chapel,” he said. “In fact, I’m the only priest here,
and I’m lucky to get more than a handful of people here a month. The
people that tour the country have made time to make the journey here,
but they never make time for the gods. They think it’s wasted time on
their holiday. And the workmen of Waelis don’t come here at all.”
Alfred’s smile faded. “That’s too bad. I thought with so many people
around—”
“Naw, no one here cares. It’s all about themselves, it is. They come
from all over Argae, but can’t take a break from their holiday to worship.
It’s work of the Other Three, no doubt.” Alfred was surprised that the
priest would go so far as to mention the three devils, Rauroth, Khlamul,
and D’nethrokash, especially aloud inside a chapel, but at least the old
priest had referred to them indirectly.
The priest continued. “And the ones that do come to worship only
come to ask Vendictes to bless their carriage with a safe arrival home.
Bah!” the priest almost spat with frustration.
Alfred sat in silence, looking at the dusty pews. “Perhaps if you hired
a groundskeeper, more people would—”
“A groundskeeper?” said the priest, interrupting him again. “Sure, it’d
be great to have a groundskeeper. Or more clergy members to help me
with the services. I don’t even have an altar boy, or a caretaker for the
garden out back. I’m the only one who will give this chapel, if it can even
be called that anymore, any holiness.” The priest glared at Alfred. “Even
you probably just came here because it was cheaper than registering at
the lodge, eh?”
“Um . . .”
“Well, I don’t blame you. Sleep on the grass, and old Tam’ll be there
asking for your counterfoil. In order to avoid being thrown into prison for
a day or two, one must get up early and have a late night,” said the priest.
Alfred frowned. “I assure you, I came here because I thought you
would be hospitable as one of my order. What does the book of Vendictes
say? That if we are all blood-children of the gods, then priests most of all
43
should work to maintain brotherhood. If I’m not wanted here, then I’d
rather pay to sleep elsewhere.”
The priest only scoffed again. “Ha! And pay you would. I’ll let you
stay, because mind you, I’d rather Tam and his workmen not have any
more coins in their fat pockets than they already have. My boy, you’ve
learned a lot when you’ve gotten to my age, and one thing I’ve learned is
to never trust appearances. You think Waelis is pretty? That’s because it
attracts money spenders. Tam and his cronies make sure everybody here
is flawless and perfect so it stays pretty. It’s better for business. If you’re
ugly or unhappy, you’d better have a fat coinpurse and be content with a
bungalow up on the north side of the lakes, whereas if you’ve got a pretty
little family, he’ll put you right along the road to the lodge. And then
there are secrets in Waelis that I dare not utter.”
“People have got to make a living—” reasoned Alfred, but the old
priest kept going.
“Truly, the people of Waelis hate this old chapel. Most likely they
hate me too. Too old and lazy to keep the grounds neat like the fields.
Probably think me creepy and ugly in comparison to oiled-boots Tam
and his crisp-coated blokes. I’d wager that if they didn’t fear the gods’
wrath they would burn this chapel to the ground because a smoldering
ruin would be prettier. They probably hate you too just for walking in
here. Watch their faces and see if they’re nice once you walk out. If they
continue with this attitude here, the only deity that won’t forsake this
country is Phroella, and that’ll only be for the immaculately trimmed
lawns and clean lakes.”
Alfred felt more annoyed with every word the priest said, but he tried
hard not to say anything. The old man was probably just lonely and bitter
that so few people stopped by.
The priest seemed to be done venting, however, because a long silence
soon followed. Alfred finally asked tactfully if there was any food he
could have, and the priest silently led him into the tiny kitchen in the
back of the church.
The old man seemed sleepily silent as he fixed some herbs and broth
for Alfred. There were elaborate old tapestries from older days when the
monastery had had more attendance. Alfred smiled as saw pictures of
monks helping a poor man, feeding a hungry beggar, and raising a small
child who looked much like himself.
“The world needs us,” said Alfred quietly. The priest grunted, but
Alfred thought he saw the old priest’s face soften a bit.
44
The priest stabled Prisma before feeding Alfred a small meal from the
larder, and then led him into a sleeping quarter with about a dozen old
beds. It was soon after that they made their dues to the gods in full before
bed and went to sleep.
45
46
Chapter 6
A lfred awoke the next morning, feeling refreshed but dis-

turbed. He searched his memory for the dreams he had had. He
remembered being inside a sandy coffin, with the sound of rushing water
as it filled up to drown him. That seemed like the source of the unsettling
feelings he felt.
The priest was already awake, and Alfred thanked him for his
hospitality. “Help yourself to anything in the larder for breakfast. I need
to go for a walk. Will I see you when I return?”
“No, I’m sure I’ll be off by then.”
“Well, thank you for staying. It was nice to do the vows with another
priest. Be wary of those Waelis folk. And Vendictes be with you on your
journey.”
Alfred went into the kitchen and fixed himself something to eat. He
wasn’t much of a cook, but there were sufficient ingredients in the larder
for a simple meal that would sustain him throughout the morning.
Alfred stood on the porch and chewed a bite of cured fish, admiring
to no end this beautiful country and its added luster with the brightening
sunrise over the mountains. Surely not all of the people here could be that
bad. I’m sure some would be just like me, simply visiting from faraway
lands, he thought.
Alfred realized that it was perhaps five o’ clock in the morning, the
hour most monks usually awoke to on good days. Perhaps it was the
air about the chapel that had awakened the old habit in Alfred. Alfred
peered out in the distance into the pink sunlight. The priest was standing
near a large patch of dirt, and appeared to be brushing his feet on the
ground near it. Alfred was reminded of the dedication of a grave site, but
it was clearly the foundation of a new building—perhaps a tool shed of
some sort. Alfred began to wonder if the priest was a bit addled in the
head.
When he had finished his meal, Alfred took Prisma from the stables
47
and led her over to the main tourist lodge across the street. The building’s
exterior seemed so clean that it almost gleamed, and the lobby inside had
even finer furniture than perhaps the duke had. The man at the counter
was fully awake, even at this hour. “How may I help you?” asked the man
politely.
“Uh,” Alfred realized he didn’t know what to say. “I was wondering
what you could tell me about the chapel across the street.”
The man said something unexpected. “Oh, that old barn? Most folks
worship down at that hill chapel over there.” The man pointed out the
window to a new, white building gleaming in the early morning light
down a side road Alfred hadn’t noticed. “A nice old priest lives in the
old church, though. Doesn’t come out that often. We think he’s sort of
disappointed that they made a new church, and still stubbornly stays
inside the old chapel.”
Alfred thanked the man and left. He hoped that the priest was just old
and hated change, but he recognized the wisdom in not judging places
or people by appearance.
Still, this country seemed so beautiful that Alfred could hardly
imagine it was the product of snobbish wealth-seekers. Though satisfied
that he had at least got to spend a night in Waelis, he would have liked
to stay longer. He imagined fishing in the lakes, or simply resting in the
soft grass under the clear sky. It was warmer here than it was in Amber’s
Hand to the east, though this may have been because of the wall the
mountains made that blocked the northern winds from the sea. Torn
between his impending quest and the glorious green fields, Alfred at last
decided to take the long path out of the mountain gap to the south.
He passed many families in pavilions, all of which looked as if they
were having the time of their lives. One family offered to let him stay to
break his fast with them, but he declined politely, saying he had already
eaten.
At length Alfred came to the waterwheel mill by the side of the road,
the largest building in Waelis. He stopped to chat for a couple of minutes
with the owner, a kindly middle-aged dwarf, if only to spend a few more
minutes in the center of the camps before the road curved around the
southern hills. The owner hadn’t seen the duke pass through, which
meant that—hopefully—Alfred could find him farther down the path
toward Ae’brinthil.
Alfred left the mill and made his way out of the valley. The priest
had been right about one thing. Whoever “Tam” was definitely focused
48
his groundskeeping on the more populated part of Waelis. As soon as

Alfred had gotten out of sight of the tourist camps, he saw weeds and
rocky earth much more abundantly. When he reached the gap in the
mountains, the lush, soft grass of Waelis turned yellow and bristly, and it
eventually faded to dirt and sagebrush. Even the cobblestone road soon
became unkempt and overgrown.
Here there were no tourists—or anyone, for that matter—anywhere in
sight. The gap in the mountains stood like a portal into another world.
Trees were nowhere to be seen. Only hawks flying around were there
to greet Alfred. By this time the sun had begun to set, and as Alfred
stopped to let Prisma drink from a spring, he puzzled over the dilemma
he now realized he had. “Now what?” he thought aloud, surveying the
path through the gap. “Where to look?”
He almost laughed at the futility of it all. Why had the council chosen
him? Sure, he had known the duke years before, but did he really know
any more than anyone else about where he might end up? According to
the council, the duke’s last known location had been in Ae’brinthil, but
he had presumably gone missing somewhere around here on his way to
Amber’s Hand. Unless the council had accidentally withheld information
from him, this meant that was as much as anyone knew. Rothgran could
be anywhere in the space of hundreds of miles. That is, unless he really
was “trapped in Time” somehow.
Alfred made his way through the gap in the mountains, Prisma clearly
trying not to stumble on the sizeable rocks on the ground. In the orange
light of the setting sun, all he could see was a dense rockland for miles
in every direction. The cobblestones in the path seemed to blend in with
the broken earth all around. Boulders lined the road, and sometimes the
road deliberately bent around larger boulders too heavy to move. Alfred
didn’t know if any bandits could even live out in this rocky wasteland,
but he couldn’t help feeling nervous as the mountains’ shadows stretched
across the landscape. Come to think of it, bandits or not, Alfred could be
in more danger from savage beasts lurking in the shadows.
Despite the late hour, Alfred felt surprisingly awake, so he decided not
to camp for the night. Prisma also seemed like she had the same energy
and urge to leave this desolate area as soon as they could. Besides that,
the moon was out in a waxing gibbous, and he could see rather well in
the moonlight. He decided the path to Ae’brinthil was the best choice—
anything civilized would be compared to this—so he kept following the
road for a few more hours. Eventually, the path rose in elevation to the
49
point where he could see a dense forest where the mountains curved
into the distant southeast, where Ae’brinthil lay about three or four days’
distance by horse. As Alfred urged Prisma forward, drowsiness suddenly
hit him, and his blinks got longer and longer until he was out cold on the
gray mare.
***
Alfred woke up with his head pressed into Prisma’s soft mane, his back
stiff from leaning forward, and his feet sore from being in the stirrups
so long. He vaguely noticed that it was morning. When had the sun
come up?
Suddenly he sat up in a panic. He looked around and realized with
shock that his horse had wandered off the path—probably hours ago.
Shock set in, and Alfred began to pray furiously for guidance. As far
as he could see, there was just dusty outcroppings and rocks in every
direction. The elevation was steep and uneven, so he couldn’t even see
the mountains from here. After a few minutes of scouting in a circular
motion, Alfred managed to find some pine trees on a nearby hill.
The pines stood tall around a large pond of clear water. Alfred
quenched his thirst and washed the sleep out of his eyes. Prisma seemed
eager to take a rest as well. While the horse sat in the shade of the pines,
Alfred tried to decide what to do.
It was unlikely that he would find the path again. Judging by the
position of the sun, it was about seven o’ clock, which meant, if Prisma
had wandered soon after he had fallen asleep, he was hours and hours
away from anything recognizable. Besides, it had been dark last night
anyway. What had he been thinking? Why had he not just taken a break
for the night?
He let Prisma rest for another hour while he prepared a small
breakfast for himself. Now that he was lost, he decided to tighten his belt
and ration the rest, in case he ended up taking longer than he planned.
He roused the mare and let it graze a bit of the tufty vegetation on the
hill, and then set off due east.
It was about ten o’clock when Alfred climbed a taller hill and caught
a glimpse of the mountains between two cliffs ahead. He felt much more
confident, but it was still hard to feel happy traveling in the rocklands.
The jagged, uneven ground reminded him vaguely of the mountains he
50
had passed coming from Amber’s Hand to Waelis, but here things were
much drier than the mountains closer to the coast. Even this late in the
year, the sun made things seem much hotter than they were in the shady
pine forests of the north.
Just when Alfred was starting to get woozy from the heat, he was
relieved to see some clouds beginning to cast shade upon the rockland.
But soon his relief turned to alarm as the clouds began to swirl and
turn black. A tremendous rumble shook the air. In spite of the sunny
morning, a storm gathered rapidly, and thick black clouds began to
cover the rockland in darkness as flashes of lightning seared the sky to
the west.
The rain came like a shockwave, instantly drenching Alfred and
sending Prisma galloping in fear across the rocks. Alfred held tight
to the reins. Rain was rare here in the rocklands, Alfred had heard,
but when it did come, it was a deadly natural force. As the torrents
of rain spattered the dusty earth to a dark brown, Alfred looked up
to the cliffs ahead and saw a black spot that might have been a cave.
Trying desperately to direct his spooked horse, he pulled on the reins
and faced the mare toward the cliff.
It seemed like time slowed down as the rain blew into Alfred like a
waterfall. He couldn’t hear or feel anything. He just focused on getting
to the cave. Luckily, Prisma seemed to spot it, and after what seemed
like hours, they finally reached the opening in the cliff. Alfred led the
dripping wet mare in carefully, shaking rainwater from his own soaked
robe. Prisma was still skittish from the thunder outside, but Alfred was
just glad she had kept her composure long enough to actually reach the
cave without stumbling to the rocky earth. Alfred tied her securely to a
large stalagmite, wrung out his wet clothes, and made a small fire at the
mouth of the cave.
Alfred managed to light the tiny lantern he had brought along and
decided to explore the cave, since there was nothing else to do. Prisma
shivered coldly, shaking droplets of rain from her mane and gazing
forlornly out into the flashing storm.
It was only a minute or two before Alfred reached the back of the
cave, to his relief. No bandits or bears here; not even a bat. He checked
the walls for signs of nomads or brigands, but there was nothing. The
cave appeared as ancient and untouched as when the gods formed it.
Still, there was something that was bothering Alfred, as if there was
something ghostly or mystical lurking between the shadows. Alfred sat
51
down with his back against the cold stone, took out his Vendictis Bible,
and began to read a random passage, just to calm his nerves:
As revenge for their losses in the Great Division, the Other

Three sought to seize the world for their own devices. In
Elidethnar, the other side of the world, was planted a seed
of corruption by the Corruptor. The gods did not notice
it until it had taken deep root and began to spread its
evil spores like choking smoke across the continent. The
skies turned red with ash, the green plants withered and
perished, leaving only crags and scarred earth. In order
to stop the corruption, Henaeros Cloudcrafter wielded
the winds, making swirling barriers that ringed the
world-orb like a halo. These were enough to stop the evil
air that threatened to infect Elidethnar’s sister-continent,
Argaenothruzil, separating the lands forevermore. And
then it was no longer called Elidethnar Noble Diamond,
but Eredathios—Black Possession. The gods lamented
their loss, but to them was still . . .
Alfred started awake, the book open to the third page. When had he
fallen asleep? His lantern had blown out, but the cave was noticeably
lighter than it had been earlier . . . perhaps the rain had stopped.
He got up and stretched, placing his holy book and lantern back in his
knapsack. He would really need to get a good night’s sleep when he got
a chance. Staying up all night had all but erased the rest he had gotten in
the bed at the Waelis chapel.
Alfred turned away from the stone wall and blinked in the bright
light. He vaguely wondered how close he had been to the mouth of
the cave when his eyes slowly adjusted and he gasped. In front of him
was a lit crystal cavern of a million prismatic colors, with three tunnels
branching off in different directions. There was no sign of Prisma, or
even the mouth of the cave for that matter. Merciful Vendictes . . . thought
Alfred. Where have I brought myself?
52
Chapter 7
A lfred was awestruck. He was beginning to feel as though

he had seen this place before, perhaps in a vision or a dream. At
any rate, he was dazzled by the many colors of the fist-sized multicolored
crystals lining every surface of the tunnel walls. Light was everywhere,
and each crystal seemed to glow in a different color. His own body, he
noticed, had many shadows of different colors reflecting off the walls.
Still more light was coming from each of the tunnels.
Alfred rubbed his eyes. There had to be an explanation for this.
Had he gotten turned around? He searched for the stalagmite where he
had tethered Prisma, but he couldn’t find it or the horse. After further
searching, no sign of the fire was there either. The wall he had napped
against seemed to be the same, but it was as if the entrance to the cave
had been completely replaced by the crystal tunnel junction. Fully
expecting to wake up again at any moment, Alfred shook his head again.
Something was definitely magical about this cave. It didn’t appear to be
dangerous, but he decided to stay on his guard just the same.
Alfred picked up his satchel, and then took out his Bible again,
wondering now if the book of the gods had anything in it of use to help
him. The Vendictis Bible had several empty pages set aside at the back.
It was believed that if the priest carrying the book was in dire need of
help, the gods would fill the pages with temporary words of counsel and
aid. Alfred flipped through the pages, and was disappointed. He had
never seen words on these pages, nor had he heard any solid accounts
of it actually happening to anybody he knew. From a religious point of
view, Alfred suspected this meant the book as it stood already contained
the words he needed to hear. Alfred flipped through the pages seeking
comfort, and his eyes caught a specific verse:
As long as you have another breath in your breast, carry on.
53
Alfred looked ahead at the crystal entrances. The one on the left
glowed a warm, reddish color from within, whereas the middle glowed
violet and the one on the right shimmered with a soft blue. “Well, I guess
any of the three is as good as another,” he mumbled, his voice echoing
slightly off the cave walls. Alfred entered the tunnel on the far right.
The tunnel was a straight crystalline tube, wrought as it were with
liquid glass. It was smooth to the touch, and Alfred still couldn’t tell
where the shimmering light from within the blue crystals was coming
from. The many shades of blue dazzled Alfred at first, but after a while,
they seemed to blur together, and Alfred’s mind began to think clearly
again. After what seemed like a mile, it was only natural to feel like a
person was going on forever in a blue sea.
Alfred began to wonder if he should turn back, but for what? He
knew the other way ended in a dead end, and before him the tunnel
continued on, curving slightly here and there so that he could not see
the end of it. Besides, he assumed the cave could only extend so far—
unless it was a dwarven mine, in which case legends stated the origin
could be in the center of the world. But as the crystal cave was going
straight forward rather than down, it already had seemingly ignored
the logic that Alfred should have come out through a side of the cliff in
the rocklands by now.
The hypnotic, shimmering blue walls continued for a half an hour
or so, and just as Alfred began to grow weary again, he noticed that the
tunnel had begun to rise—a sheer impossibility in the cave in which he
had entered that stormy day before. He began to pant stronger as the
tunnel began to get steeper. Just as Alfred was thinking of taking another
rest, the tunnel leveled out again.
Alfred realized he was getting thirsty, but he didn’t want to waste
his only waterskin yet. As he thought this, to his surprise, a crack burst
open in the crystal before his feet, and a clear, glistening stream flowed
out, forming an illuminated puddle. Alfred hesitated, and then stooped
down to drink. The clean, clear water tasted sweet, and made Alfred feel
more awake. After drinking his fill, he topped off his waterskin with the
water, which seemed to glow faintly inside before dimming.
Invigorated by the water, Alfred continued his journey. This time, the
path stayed relatively straight. As he walked, Alfred thought about his
journey thus far, and wished he knew what was going on. He wondered
whether he’d ever get out and, perhaps, whether this were all a dream.
54
Alfred was just beginning to wonder how long he had been walking
when he suddenly stumbled over something and fell to the ground,
barely catching his fall. That was odd. Up until now, the tunnel had been
completely smooth. What had he tripped—
Alfred looked up and realized with a start that there was someone
standing in front of him. A smiling man stood in the tunnel, dressed in
silvery robes and tinted blue in the tunnel’s light. He had strong features
and a thick white beard on his chin.
“Welcome, Alfred Shortstaff,” said the man, waving his hand. His eyes
were illuminated by the crystal walls. “You, my friend, have stumbled
upon the Cavern of Time.” The man spoke with a deep, wise-sounding
voice. “A place only few have entered.”
Alfred blinked, dazzled again by the crystal surface around him. It
seemed to glow even brighter in this hall. “The . . . Cavern of Time?”
“Yes, the hub of all the chronomic energy in Argaenothruzil. Most
people think that time is merely a passing of events, but with the Cavern
as your guide, you will learn that Time is a power, a state of being . . .
even a place.”
Alfred was confused, but he quickly remembered the prophecy
about Time and realized that this could be a very fortunate encounter
indeed. Someone who understood Time would be of invaluable help
on his quest.
“Who are you?” Alfred asked, climbing to his feet.
“My name is Kaiphrose,” said the man. “I am the keeper of this cavern.”
“How did you know my name?”
“All will be explained in time. Here, we have all the time in the world
to talk.”
“You say that Time can be a place . . . Are the leaders of the world
trapped here?”
“Not in the Cavern,” said Kaiphrose, shaking his head. “But they have
all passed through here before. And they have all been rescued close to
here as well. Or shall.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alfred. “Who rescued them?”
The man smiled. “The one who saved them,” he said, “was you.”
Alfred was flabbergasted, but Kaiphrose continued patiently. “You
must understand, Alfred Shortstaff: In these caverns, Time is everything.
Everything that ever will happen already has. And everything that
is happening right now happened eons ago. It is a concept barely
comprehensible by any but my kind.”
55
Alfred had noticed something vaguely different about Kaiphrose,

but now it was clear. His skin was not blue because of the glow of the
crystals—it was naturally blue. And the man’s eyes glowed with power,
not light. The man was a genie, one of the most magical beings on the
world, born of old spiritually from the sands, as legend had it.
“Yes, Alfred. I am a genie. A mastermind of magic. Listen to me. You
are destined to free the kings of this land from the Chronomere, which
can only be accessed in this cavern. That is where they are. Their feet do
not touch the ground of this land. The gods favor you, Alfred. They will
help you find the way to save the royalty trapped within this plane.”
Alfred’s mind was bursting with complex concepts, but he believed
the genie, and waited for him to continue.
“This tunnel is the Tunnel of the Future,” said Kaiphrose. “I knew
your name because to me, time flowed from your future. Since you will
tell me your name eventually, I knew it as if it were a memory of the past.
I also knew to make the spring of water when you needed it.”
“I was thirsty,” admitted Alfred.
The genie nodded, smiling. “You see? Your future to me was as clear
as your past. To me, you have already entered the cave, learned all there
is to know here, and have departed on your quest already—and yet you
are standing here now.”
Alfred scratched his head. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time he
would be doing so.
Kaiphrose smiled again, and then continued. “The tunnel in the
junction to the left is the Tunnel of the Past. There is also the Tunnel of
the Present, the central tunnel. You must use all of them to understand
Time and fulfill your destiny.” The genie gestured around him. “Linger
here as long as you like, if you believe it will help you. Or try one of
the other tunnels. You can return to the junction through the way you
came.”
Alfred’s head was full of questions, but he found some of them easier
to understand, as if they had been explained to him long ago.
After a few paces down the tunnel, Alfred realized he was hungry.
He caught hold of the thought, and was surprised to see suddenly
before him a wooden table laden with his favorite foods: A whole clay
pitcher of chocolate, plates of turkey, bowls of yams and sprouts, and a
loaf of Alfred’s favorite buttered seed bread. This arrangement seemed
completely out of place, and nearly blocked the tunnel entirely.
“Hungry?” asked the genie, smiling.
56
Alfred awkwardly sat down in a finely carved seat, but Kaiphrose

merely stood by.
“It’s, um, a little—”
The tunnel shifted and expanded like a bubble from a glassblower’s
pipe, and Alfred found himself and the genie in a much bigger room.
“—crowded,” said Alfred. He smiled at the genie, and then sat down.
Kaiphrose nodded curtly, taking a seat of his own.
“How did you know these were my favorite foods?” asked Alfred.
“How do you think I knew?” asked the genie, as he cut himself a slice
of seed bread.
“I assume that the subject will eventually come up, and I’ll tell you.”
“Well done,” said Kaiphrose, obviously impressed with how fast Alfred
was getting everything.
Sure enough, after a short conversation about his journey, Alfred
ended up telling why all these things were his favorite foods. They had
a long talk, and the subject of Time was brought up many times. Alfred
did not attempt to discern how much time passed. Perhaps it was an
hour, perhaps it was many years. Many times, he felt as though the
genie’s words brought back a memory from long ago, though he couldn’t
remember ever having discussed the theories of time with anyone else
before.
Alfred learned that until the rocks above the cave had eroded
away, the Cavern of Time had been unknown to men for thousands
of years. Many people had entered this cave in previous times—and
many yet would—and had been caught up in the surreal bliss that it
offered. Kaiphrose had instructed them all in the knowledge of Time,
using his Arcane powers to stabilize their mortal minds as they learned
its concepts, though not all of the travelers ever put the things they
learned to use when they left.
“Do you know whether Duke Rothgran is among those who have
been trapped in Time?” asked Alfred, after the meal had been eaten.
Their conversation had reminded him of the mysterious messenger he
had met outside of Amber’s Hand.
“He is indeed,” replied Kaiphrose solemnly. “I saw him in the Cavern
myself, both in your past and in your future. He is trapped in the Realm
of Time, called the Chronomere, the entrance of which is in this very
cavern. I know everything that has happened or will happen in the
vicinity of the Cavern.”
“Do you know what he’s doing right now? Is he in danger?”
57
“Alas, for the Chronomere runs a timeline completely separate from

Argae’s. Its magical entrance can be opened here in the Cavern, but its
events and happenings are completely unknown to all but those who
enter themselves.”
“How do I enter the Chronomere then?” asked Alfred.
The genie laughed. “There will be time enough for you to find out these
things on your own. I wouldn’t want to spoil the experience of utilizing
the Cavern for yourself. I did, however, see the positive outcome of you
rescuing him, as I mentioned earlier.”
Alfred’s head hurt. He would have to think about what Kaiphrose was
telling him. How could he have already rescued the leaders when he knew
so little? Alfred sighed. He couldn’t imagine finding enough information
to rescue the royalty no matter how long he stayed in the Cavern.
Kaiphrose smiled, as if reading his mind. “I advise you to use the cave to
learn about how time works, Alfred. Since the duke is imprisoned in Time,
you will need to know all you can about it in order to manipulate it.”
“Will you come with me?” asked Alfred.
The genie shook his head. “I am but an adviser to those who enter
here. I will tell you anything you need to know about the tunnels and
their capabilities, but I assure you, I will be of most use to you if I just
stay here in the Tunnel of the Future.”
Alfred nodded. “Make me a place to sleep,” Alfred bade the genie.
Without so much as blinking, Kaiphrose transformed the blue tunnel
into a spacious, high-ceilinged hall, and formed a four-post bed out of
crystalline glass in the center of the room. This would be a suitable place
for Alfred to rest before delving into the Cavern of Time’s secrets. It had
been a long day.
58
Chapter 8
A lfred slept well, fully expecting to wake up in the rock-

lands cave after a long and vivid dream. But when he awoke, there
all around him were the same brilliant blue crystal walls. He got up and
ate a meal that had been waiting for him on the table, and then Kaiphrose
appeared.
“Ready for your instructions?” he asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Alfred. “I still can’t believe this is
real . . . I had never even thought about the concept of time travel until
a week ago.”
“Timewalking is a mind-addling practice at first,” said Kaiphrose.
“But you’ll get the hang of it.”
Alfred lifted his head. “What did you say?” he said.
“Timewalking,” said the genie. And even as Alfred’s mind was
searching for where he had heard the word before, he said, “Yes, as you
read in the book in Amber’s Hand.”
“You mean . . . this is where the wizards learned how to Timewalk?”
“This is the only place where Timewalking can be done naturally by
anyone who enters. But the primal wizards you learned about learned
how to do it wherever they wanted. They hijacked the Sacric powers using
Arcane magic. It was that that caused so much trouble with the gods.”
“How can I Timewalk?” asked Alfred. He felt an eager feeling inside
of him grow. If it was possible, he could find out what to do . . . what
had happened to cause the problems with the duke and, possibly, all the
leaders of Argae.
“You must simply use the tunnels available to you,” said Kaiphrose.
“Past, present, and future are embodied within them. In the Tunnel of
the Future, where we are now, you may go to any event in the future
to see what was yet to happen near the Cavern of Time. The Tunnel of
the Past is the exact opposite. There, you can travel to events that have
already happened in order to learn from them.”
59
“So, since the duke has passed into the Cavern before . . . can I go back
and stop him from being trapped?”
Kaiphrose smiled warmly again. “Why don’t you find out?”
The genie led Alfred toward the tunnel that he had come out of, and
then gestured into it. “Return to the junction, and enter the tunnel on the
left. Once you enter the Tunnel of the Past, all you have to do is think about
what event you want to see that happened near this cave, and you will be
there to witness it. You will never truly leave the cave, so don’t worry if you
lose your way. The enchantment will wear off in time. Good luck!”
Alfred walked into the tunnel. There was a jolt, and Alfred found
himself suddenly back at the multicolored junction of the cave. The blue
tunnel was to his right once again, so he entered the brilliant, crystalline
red one on his left. As he walked, he felt a force pressing upon his mind.
Remembering Kaiphrose’s instructions, he thought about the time when
the duke had entered the cave. A white curtain of sunlight flooded
inward deeply from within the cavern, and he felt himself being tugged
forward. Alfred felt the light suck him into the tunnel, and then he felt
rocks beneath his feet.
***
Alfred exited the cave opening and breathed the fresh outdoor air again.
Despite the restful sleep he had had, he hadn’t realized how much he had
missed feeling wind on his face after an entire day. Or had it been a day?
Now that Alfred thought about it, time seemed to flow differently in the
cave, and it felt as if he had not set foot here in a long time. He looked
around at the rocklands, still desolate and craggy, but different somehow.
He noticed the same jagged stones and cracked dirt outside, but nothing
was at all wet from last night’s . . . from last year’s . . . well, never mind,
thought Alfred. In fact, the sky was clear and blue, and the air felt hotter,
as if it was early summer.
Alfred explored his surroundings, but he found nothing of interest.
In time, a galloping sound caught his attention from what he could tell
was the south.
A lone rider on a royal charger galloped to Alfred’s position. The man
had an elegant beard and curly brown hair to his shoulders. With a jolt
Alfred saw on his tabard the crest of Amber’s Hand! Alfred looked more
closely at his face, and sure enough, though he had not had a beard at
their last encounter, this was definitely Mendon the Wanderer.
60
“Mendon!” Alfred cried. “I’ve been searching all over for you!”
“Um, yes . . . hail, sir,” said the man, slowing down his horse. He
guided his steed close to Alfred, looking at his face with a puzzled look.
“Listen, you’ll have to forgive me, but I am on an important errand at
the moment.”
“Mendon, it’s me, Alfred! Your council showed me your note . . . Don’t
you recognize me?” Alfred was confused. The duke had remembered
Alfred well enough to write about him and draw a picture of him in
his personal history, but he did not seem to recognize him in person
anymore. He seemed far more interested in looking for something.
“I’m sure I know you quite well, it’s just that I am pressed for time at
the moment and cannot dally. There is a specific cave somewhere nearby
in which I have some very important business . . . Ah! Why, it’s right here.
I’m sorry, father priest, but matters in the cave are pressing! I promise to
make haste, and you may tell me all, after I come back. Good day!”
“Wait, Mendon! Don’t go in there!” But the duke ignored him and
galloped inside the mouth of the cave. Alfred frantically ran toward
him, feeling a sense of déjà vu, as if somehow all of this had already
happened.
Oh no, thought Alfred. He could feel the cave’s influence waning.
He knew his ability to change the past would soon be over completely.
Alfred’s mind raced as he thought of what to do, but all he could do was
try to go after Mendon before he entered a tunnel.
Alfred felt his mind start to get cloudy, and his body seemed to be
moving through tar. “No, Mendon! Stop!” he heard himself say. But the
duke ignored him, disappearing into the cave’s depths—
Alfred suddenly opened his eyes, finding himself back in his present
state and body now. He was looking at the sparkling crystal junction
once again. He thought about his experience. He strongly suspected all
past events in the world were contained within the Tunnel of the Past.
Whatever had happened, he had clearly been able to talk with the duke,
and the duke was able to respond, indicating he had in fact been at that
time and place. Then why had Alfred not been able to influence the
duke’s decision? Perhaps it was . . . meant to be somehow? Perhaps some
events cannot be changed, thought Alfred.
Alfred’s head hurt. The experience of being in the past had left him
feeling less than whole. He decided to go back to his makeshift dwelling
in the Tunnel of the Future to rest and speak with the genie again. He
entered the blue tunnel to the right, and this time, it was only a moment
61
before he found himself in front of Kaiphrose once more, who was

sitting in a fine woven-seat chair. He had prepared another seat for him
as well.
“Alfred, sit. Have you learned anything in your experience?” the
genie asked.
“Yes. I’ve learned so far that some things that have already happened
cannot be changed. Some things are inevitable to the fate of the world,”
said Alfred as he sat down.
“Very good, Alfred. I’m impressed.”
“So the duke was meant to be kidnapped . . . but why?”
“Perhaps if he had not, you never would have come here and learned
about Time itself. Perhaps your knowledge gained from this tunnel may
prove inevitable to the world’s success in the future.”
“Perhaps,” said Alfred, although he suspected Kaiphrose was not
claiming anything for certain. He rubbed his head. “That book I read—it
said that Timewalking was a gift given by the gods,” said Alfred. “Does
that mean this Cavern was created by them?”
“Yes,” said Kaiphrose. “It is limited in what it can do, which is why
they have not forbidden its power. They have often prompted their
servants to come here when certain aspects of Time-knowledge need to
be utilized.”
Alfred remembered the freak storm, and how he had come upon the
cave by pure chance, it had seemed, just to find shelter. Perhaps the gods
were having a bigger influence on his journey than he thought. Alfred
decided to move on to another question he had.
“May I step outside into the future world and watch myself rescue the
duke, so I may know how I did it?”
The genie sighed. “The future is more dangerous than the past by
far. Since events have not solidified in Argaenothruzil’s timeline yet, it
is much easier to affect them. You must be especially careful if you are
going to a time when your future self is involved. If you were to interact
with yourself, paradoxes could occur. As an intruder from the past, it is
much easier to change events than as a visitor from the future like you
were when you saw the duke.”
Alfred was stunned and a bit afraid, but he didn’t know what else
to say.
“In other words, yes,” said Kaiphrose. “You can go. As long as you
are very careful. Many a thread of fate has been unraveled by a careless
traveler exploring his own future. Who knows what sort of problems
62
could be created by having knowledge of the future in the present world?

Above all, you must not be seen by yourself.”
“May I wear a disguise?” asked Alfred.
The genie smiled. “What kind of disguise would you like?”
After a moment of thinking, Alfred was suddenly wearing a gray robe,
splotched like the earthy ground of the rocklands.
Kaiphrose gestured around him. “We’re already in the Tunnel of the
Future,” he said. “Simply think of what you’d like to see.”
Alfred thought of the future, when he would return to the cave to
rescue the duke from Time. A light appeared in the tunnel, and Alfred
felt suddenly dizzy. Time suddenly felt starkly different. He had felt, in
the Tunnel of the Past, like he’d been a speeding horse in a tailwind, but
now he felt as if the air had turned to heavy water. For a brief instant,
time was slower and less fluid. Then, as if he were emerging from a wall
of mud, he felt his form suck free as light enveloped him. He opened his
eyes, and found himself once again at the cave’s exit. He stepped outside
into the blinding sunlight and let his eyes adjust.
63
64
Chapter 9
A lfred blinked in the bright light, and then quickly pulled

the gray hood over his head. He wasn’t sure how much time he
would have before his future incarnation would arrive.
Alfred walked around on the rough stones and prickly scrub grass.
He wondered how far into the future he was. The air felt crisp, though
the noonday sun still beat down warmly from above. Suddenly he heard
a voice nearby and jumped as he noticed someone a few dozen yards
away. He silently darted up onto a hill to watch.
What Alfred saw next gave him a strange feeling. The future Alfred
was tying Prisma—future Prisma—to a dead tree, speaking to her softly.
Then he began to make his way toward the mouth of the cave. He pulled
out a scroll from his pocket and read as he walked slowly through the
dusty earth.
Alfred was a bit relieved to notice that the Future Alfred did not look
much older than he was now. That must mean that he would not be on
his quest for much longer than a couple of months. That is, if this were
the coming autumn of the same year.
Future Alfred looked up at the cave entrance, and then suddenly
he smiled and looked around at the surrounding hills. His eyes passed
over the area where past Alfred was hiding in his robe, but Past Alfred
must have been too well hidden. Past Alfred smiled. Future Alfred had
definitely already experienced this once. He was trying to catch a glimpse
of Past Alfred if he could get a chance. Apparently he had forgotten where
he had hidden at that time, however, and soon gave up.
Suddenly the Alfred with the scroll paused, and held up his left
hand, which, to Alfred’s astonishment, was missing three of the five
fingers.
“Alfred, wherever you are,” Future Alfred called, “don’t believe
anything the halfling priest says!” Past Alfred was stunned, but tried
to make note of this. Suddenly, as if a strange power were taking hold,
65
Future Alfred clasped his wrist, and then held out his hand in wonder as
three fingers suddenly grew back in their places.
“Time is on my side. I know you’re here!” laughed Future Alfred. And
then, suddenly, Future Alfred winced in pain as a cut appeared on his
arm. The cut smoldered as the cloth around it burned. The skin looked
red and shiny, as if it had been branded. Future Alfred looked confused,
touching it gingerly and grunting with pain. After a few moments, he
shrugged sadly, and continued toward the cave’s entrance.
Past Alfred carefully crept down the hill, being careful not to disturb
any of the stones on the slope, and quietly followed his future self. If
Future Alfred heard him sneaking behind him, he did not show it. Soon,
both Alfreds entered the shadows of the cave, and Past Alfred lagged
behind as far as he could while still keeping his future self in view. Future
Alfred reached the dead end in the cavern, and placed his hand on the
wall thoughtfully. Then he looked at the scroll. He spoke something,
some sort of incantation under his breath, and right behind Past Alfred
the crystal cavern materialized once again. Frantically, Past Alfred hid
behind a large crystal, but Future Alfred had been temporarily dazzled
by the sudden light anyway.
Future Alfred looked at the junction with a look of satisfaction, but
there seemed to be a bit of sadness and worry on his face. He opened
the scroll he had been carrying. He began to chant some words, and a
mist of white smoke began to come out of the scroll. Then, the white
smoke became a thick black gas, like a cloud of swirling tar. It began to
condense in front of Past Alfred, until it became a large floating round
oval in front of him. Then, unexpectedly, Future Alfred crushed the scroll
into powder. “May Time be locked forever,” he murmured. Future Alfred
immediately leapt into the black portal, disappearing from sight.
***
Before Alfred could blink, his future self appeared inside the cave
again. This time, however, his future incarnation looked worn out and
exhausted, as if he had been in a brutal battle. Around him, Alfred was
surprised to see the duke and several other men who looked like royalty
appear. A few of them Alfred recognized. King Donathan of Ae’brinthil
was there, as well as a tall elf with blonde braids Alfred could only guess
could be Anathas. There was even a halfling with a crown of silver leaves.
They were supporting Alfred’s limp body, carrying him away from the
66
portal. Alfred searched for Mendon, and spotted him lagging behind the
others solemnly, as if embarrassed or ashamed.
The lords were speaking in worried tones. Alfred crept along a low
wall of crystals, straining to hear. They didn’t seem to notice him.
“He sacrificed himself for us,” said the elf king gravely.
Despite their support, Future Alfred soon collapsed from exhaustion
onto the crystalline floor.
The duke caught up with the others, helping them to heft Alfred’s limp
form. “Thank you, Alfred,” he said. “It was your sacrifice that changed
the future of Argaenothruzil forever.”
Future Alfred gasped, but could not speak. Sweat dripped from his
brow onto the cave’s floor. The duke and the others picked up Future
Alfred’s arms and placed them about their shoulders, carrying him
forward. Past Alfred watched them surreptitiously from behind the large
crystal until they had left through the violet tunnel in the middle.
Soon, Alfred found himself alone in the silence of the junction. He
felt a rushing sensation in his brain as the rainbow of crystals around
him turned a bright blue hue. Immediately he found himself in his
makeshift cave home in the Tunnel of the Future again. Kaiphrose was
still here, sitting on his wicker chair, and Alfred found himself a chair
to sit down on too.
“Did you change the future?” asked the genie.
“No. I simply watched it unfold as my future self acted,” said Alfred.
Then added, “Well, I guess I changed a little bit.”
Kaiphrose looked at him.
“The future Alfred sort of told me to.”
Kaiphrose smiled warmly. “Good,” he said. “Then you have learned
from the future without complicating it. In this way, you may yet change
the outcome of what you have seen.”
“I—that is, I in the future—had a scroll that created a portal,” said
Alfred. “Was it a portal into Time itself? Into the Chronomere? The
royalty were there, and I saved them from whatever was inside.”
The genie nodded with a distant look on his face. “Yes, the Chronomere, the
Realm of Time. It is a place outside off this reality, where all temporal events
and happenings funnel to like a whirlpool. Time exists there, but it passes at a
much different pace than here. Years can go by in an instant there.”
Alfred was reminded of the short time Alfred was in the portal before
he had emerged with the royalty. “What is the purpose of the place? Who
created it?”
67
“The gods did, in the beginning,” said Kaiphrose, shifting his weight
on the chair. “It was created as the hub of all Timewalking. As you read
in the book in the duke’s palace, it was the Chronomere that the primal
wizards discovered and exploited in order to change time as they pleased.
It is not easy to access anymore.”
Alfred nodded, remembering the scroll he had seen himself use to
enter it.
“Then . . . why were the royalty placed there?”
“The kings entered willingly, as you saw the duke do. Whether they
were in their right mind when they did so or drawn there by some other
force, I do not know.”
Alfred’s journey to the future had been much more exhilarating
than the past. He was tempted to go through a little bit earlier into the
future and explore where Alfred had gone in his journeys, but the genie
explained that this would not be possible.
“The Cavern of Time can only access events that happened close to
it,” reminded Kaiphrose. “So you wouldn’t be able to follow yourself very
far anyway. Besides, if you were to explore the world of the future again
and again, there would be many versions of yourself wandering around
through the same stretches of time. That would be dangerous, and it
would wear your spirit thin to exist in so many places at once.”
A small table materialized, and Alfred took a slice of seed bread from the
bowl that had appeared on it, chewing thoughtfully. “So . . . how do I leave
the Cavern?” asked Alfred, though a part of him didn’t want to say it.
The genie smiled. “I think you know. You have one more tunnel to
go through, and it is perhaps the most important of all. For what we do
in the present affects that in the future, and is itself affected by what we
have learned from our past. The Tunnel of the Present leads to the exit.
Go forth from what you have learned and free the royal lords.”
Alfred smiled. He realized that, however confusing his experience had
been, he had indeed learned much from his experiences in this cavern,
and he needed more experience to find out how to conjure that portal
and save the royal lords once and for all.
He took his satchel and turned around starting toward the exit, but
suddenly paused, thinking about his provisions. He looked at the genie,
and felt his pack get suddenly much heavier. He smiled. “Thank you,” he
said, “for everything.”
The genie merely nodded, taking out a pipe and beginning to smoke
it. Alfred turned around and made his way out of the tunnel.
68
***
Alfred found himself back at the junction in the cave. He looked at

the middle tunnel, which glowed a bright violet color. Bidding a silent
goodbye to the genie, he took a breath and walked confidently forward.
Violet light enveloped him on all sides, and after a surprisingly short
time, it began to be drowned out by real sunlight—The sunshine of the
present. Alfred wondered exactly what the present was. How long had he
been in the cave? And where was Prisma?
Realizing he was back at the real entrance to the cave, complete with
the remains of the campfire he had once made, he looked behind him
and noticed that all signs of the crystal cavern were gone. In its place
was the same, solid rock wall he had inspected all those days, or weeks,
or years ago.
He frowned, however, as he noticed that the stalagmite he had lashed
Prisma to was bare. He hoped anxiously that she hadn’t wandered off too
far. He would probably need to travel quite far to find out wherever—and
whatever—that scroll was he had seen in his future.
Alfred emerged from the cave, blinking in the midday sun. The
smell of damp dirt encompassed the rocklands. He walked through the
rough earth, past some sparse, skeletal evergreen trees, still wet from the
previous rainstorm. Suddenly, Alfred heard a soft whinny from behind
a boulder. His heart leapt. He had hardly wasted any time at all in the
Caverns of Time. He had come out perhaps an hour or two after he had
fallen asleep. Prisma must have barely escaped from her hold on the
stalagmite minutes ago.
Alfred found her nibbling on a tiny patch of moss in the shadow of
a boulder. Alfred checked his saddlebags and laughed with mirth. He
added the additional provisions he had gotten from the Cavern, careful
to place the seed bread so that it would not crumble. He felt like jumping
up and down and whooping for the world to hear. Time was passing
normally, and it felt wonderful. It also felt good to know what he was to
do next in his quest, even if he had no idea where to find the scroll he
had seen.
Alfred mounted his horse and looked around at the rocklands
surrounding him. Where to go now? As he thought for a moment, a
certain inkling inside himself thought of Ae’brinthil, and the priests’
numerous ancient archives. Perhaps one of them contained the scroll
69
he had seen in the future. Orovion, another ancient city, was another
possibility, but the recent crusade meant that the city would be healing
from war, and not interested in traveling scholars.
He couldn’t think of any better place to start, so he steered Prisma
toward the east. “Ae’brinthil it is, then. Come on, old girl!” Though he
had only been gone a few weeks, it would be good to be home again
anyway.
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Chapter 10
A s the sun was beginning to dip in the afternoon sky, Alfred

crested an outcropping and saw a small village resting at the bot-
tom of a hill. He saw herds of goats being led by olive-skinned men into
their pens. The path was still nowhere in sight, so he decided to try his
luck and speak with them. As he descended to the village below, he heard
strange musical sounds coming from the center of the village. Only a few
of the people were chatting, and Alfred noticed a man near a well was
playing some kind of wide fipple flute.
The buildings were all made of what appeared to be primitive
concrete. The villagers all had dark eyes and black hair, and wore only
simple clothes. Alfred vaguely remembered reading about strange tribes
of herdsmen from the rocklands. Some said they were the descendants of
the very first humans who had been crafted from clay by the gods. Others
claimed they were the survivors of the kingdom that had existed where
the Broken Lands now were. Whoever they were, Alfred merely hoped
that he would be able to at least communicate with them. He dismounted
a ways off and approached them, leading his horse. “Hail to you,” he said,
raising his hands gently.
The music stopped, and the villagers looked at him, seeming to
notice him for the first time. Alfred swallowed. “I just wondered if you
knew which way Ae’brinthil is,” he said. “Is it this way?” he pointed
east.
The villagers stared at him, but did not speak. Eventually, one of them
rose and walked away to enter a hut. Alfred frowned. “Ae’brinthil,” he
said slowly, trying to use as much body language as possible. “Big city.
Large stone gates. Um, teal flags . . . greenish-blue?” He looked around,
wondering if the people even had a word for flags, or colors. Their clothes
were made of undyed wool, and their huts seemed rudimentary, with no
decoration whatsoever.
He took a breath to try and communicate again, but just then the
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villager who had entered the building exited, along with an older man.
Their village elder, perhaps?
The older man walked up to Alfred and stared at him expectantly.
The hair on his head was gray, but he otherwise looked like the other
villagers—still strongly built, and beardless.
“My name is Alfred Shortstaff,” said Alfred. “I’m looking for the path
to Ae’brinthil.”
The man blinked his bright brown eyes, and then finally spoke. “You
sowol expected,” he said.
Alfred looked at the other villagers, who were still staring at him.
“Um . . . what?”
“You,” said the man, pointing, “sowol. Expected here today. Gods
told; expected.” He said something in a different language to the other
villagers that made them perk up. A couple of them who had been sitting
stood and walked closer to Alfred.
“I don’t understand,” said Alfred. “The gods told you what? That I
would be coming today? You were . . . expecting me?”
“Expected,” the man nodded.
“I’m afraid I’m not sure what sowol means,” said Alfred.
“Gods say when perish,” said the elder simply. His dialect was
difficult to follow. He seemed to omit as many words as possible, as if to
conserve strength or something. He must have noticed Alfred’s confused
expression, because he smiled and waved his hand dismissively. He called
to the villager with the flute, beckoning him over.
The villager approached with his wide flute, and the elder spoke to
him briefly. The villager nodded, and then began to play his flute. The
elder reached over and softly closed Alfred’s eyes with his hand.
Alfred found himself alone in his mind, with the music playing in
front of him. He suddenly realized that there was a lot of emotion and
thought put into each note of the flute. He could almost imagine a story
playing out in front of his eyes.
The bumpy, unsteady notes made him imagine a rocky landscape,
and the rhythm was like a horse’s hoofbeats. The pitch of the song made
him think of a man in his thirties riding the horse. Suddenly, the flute
song became violent, and Alfred pictured the rider running for cover in
a storm. Alfred opened his eyes.
“You’re playing about me,” he said to the flute player. “You know about
the storm.”
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The elder nodded, and then took the flute from the villager. “Lie,”
he said.
Alfred was confused. “I . . . I didn’t lie, it’s true . . .” he began, but then
he saw another villager bringing a rolled-up wool blanket to place on the
ground. “Oh, lie. All right,” he said. He laid himself down on the soft,
wiry goat wool, looking at the blue afternoon sky.
The flute music began again, and Alfred closed his eyes. The elder was
even more skilled than the other villager was. Alfred couldn’t believe
how vivid of images the music could bring to mind. And such talented
music overall. He wished that he could remember the tune for later. It
was very catchy and seemed crafted specifically for him.
This tune, however, seemed different than the other had. It had a
lulling quality to it. Despite Alfred’s wakefulness, he suddenly felt very
sleepy. The music seemed to fade away—not in volume, but in placement.
The notes seemed to go beyond simple notes entering his ear and became
as it were threads weaving the fabric of the world around him. It was as if
his entire world was being reconstructed like a dream, so that there was
nothing left of it but the wonderful, enrapturing Song.
What had been images in his mind swam into a clear, vivid memory.
All of a sudden, Alfred saw through eyes that were not his own. He was
in a sunlit room. There was a brown-haired woman with bright eyes
holding a baby. Alfred stepped forward and took the child in his arms.
“Chosen by the gods,” said Alfred in a different voice. He sounded old,
wise. “Do you have elvish blood?” he asked the woman.
“Well, on both sides we have elvish lines,” said the woman nervously.
“Do you often prophesy about babies?”
“No, not normally,” said Alfred through the man’s voice. From what
Alfred could tell, he was an old man wearing a long coarse brown robe.
He must have been of the priesthood.
Alfred spoke again, though he could not control what was being said by
the old man. “But the gods tell me that the future depends on whether this
little one decides to be what the gods created him for.” Alfred’s eyes fell on
the woman. “It is not this boy’s fate to die an untimely death,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked the woman. Then her eyes widened. “You
mean he’s . . . he’s an aelisyn?”
Alfred felt himself nodding. “An Immortal One. Only the gods
themselves can decide when, and how, he will pass from this life. None
can take it from him prematurely.”
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The woman gazed at her baby in wonder, kissing his small, fuzzy
head. “I suppose that lessens my fears for his childhood,” she said. “But
what of his destiny?”
Alfred shook his head. “None can tell. Each aelisyn is chosen for a
specific work. Some have united warring nations; others have banished
armies of demons. Without an untimely death to fear, their faith and
courage is sound. Your little one has been chosen for something great.”
The woman’s eyes glistened with tears, and she blinked them away. “I
wish I could have been his mother,” she said, her voice quivering. “I hate
to leave him here.”
Alfred placed a hand on her shoulder. “You will always be his mother,”
he said. “You should be proud. And the gods will bless you for your
sacrifice.”
As the woman held her child close, Alfred could suddenly feel her
hair against his cheek, as if he were no longer looking through the eyes
of the priest. The images swam once again.
Suddenly, with a jolt, silence shook him as the last, long note of the
song finished.
Alfred sat up on the mat. The villagers had all made a circle around
him now. He looked at the elder, who was smiling again. “You sowol,” he
said again. “Aelisyn.”
Alfred recalled his experience with the half-elf on his way to Waelis,
and countless other times when he had wondered about his heritage and
past. All this time, he had been neither man nor elf . . . he was something
more. It felt good to finally know, but he felt like he still understood so
little. Something in his heart told him that he would find out eventually.
***
The villagers provided Alfred with a simple but filling meal of mutton
and barley. Alfred felt surprisingly drained after the session, so they also
provided him with a soft mattress inside one of the houses on which to
sleep for the night. They also took Prisma to a fenced area with other
horses, feeding and watering her for him.
The next morning, Alfred awoke and emerged from the hut to find
more of the villagers gathered together around the village center. Two
more flute players were there, and the village elder waved him over to
join them. They breakfasted on more barley in silence. The time or two
that Alfred tried to make conversation, the other villagers just nodded in
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a friendly way without speaking.

“I thank you for your hospitality, and what you have shown me,” said
Alfred, standing. “But I must be going now. Are you sure that you don’t
know which way lies Ae’brinthil?”
The elder waved at Alfred to sit down on the wool blanket again. “One
more song,” he said to Alfred.
“Another one? What else do you know about my future?”
The elder looked into his eyes. “Yormoth. Scrolls.”
Yormoth? Alfred scratched his head. He had never heard of such a
thing. But then, he had not known what sowol had meant either. Perhaps
he would learn it soon enough. And if the elder knew something about
ancient scrolls, perhaps he could find out more about the one his future
self had used in the Cavern of Time.
He lay down on the blanket as instructed and closed his eyes.
The song began in a lilting repetition, and Alfred was amazed at how
much depth the two additional flute players added to the melody. At
first, he could not understand what the notes were describing in their
supernatural sort of way, but as the song slowly increased in volume,
Alfred became aware that he was someplace different—In a cave of some
kind, and he was carrying a scroll. Alfred realized that he was no longer
Alfred but another person again, someone old with hairy arms. He was
being followed by a man with graying sideburns holding a torch.
“Why hide them?” yelled the other man angrily.
The man through whose eyes Alfred saw replied in an equally
emphatic manner, “It is the demand of the gods. You would be a fool to
disobey them at a time like this!”
The men continued through the dark until they came to a room with
a stone table in the center. Many scrolls lay on it, rolled in golden rods.
“This is where it ends, then?” asked the man with graying sideburns.
“All our work, all our power, written down and forgotten in scrolls? Are
you sure this is what we should do, Yormoth?”
“I am certain,” said Alfred, through Yormoth’s lips. “We have done
great harm to the world these past years. The only wise thing to do now is
to submit to the gods. I have seen what will happen if we do not hide this
forbidden knowledge.” He looked darkly at the other man. “However,” he
said, “if we do promise to forsake our powers, we will live on, as kings.
It is the consequence of our arrogance. The days of abusing the forces of
Argae are over. Now we must follow order, and ensure that others follow
it more dutifully than we did.”
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“But think of the knowledge and power wasted!” said the other man.
“Sar, we’ve seen already that time—or for that matter, anything—
cannot be changed in the ways we hoped it would. The magic we put
into these scrolls will last until it is needed for the benefit of the world.
Anything else will only bring chaos.”
“It seems disappointing to say the least,” said Sar angrily. “Years
and years of study wasted. Our very lives changed! Couldn’t we just
hide ourselves and the scrolls? We have practically become gods
ourselves. Nobody could ever know we had these powers: not even
the gods could know!”
“A wretched life that would be, to hide from men and gods. And a
short one, compared to the bargain the gods offer. But you have your
own life to live, Sar,” Yormoth said darkly.
Another man entered, but Alfred could not see his face.
“I saw it too, Yormoth.” Alfred was surprised to recognize the voice
as Mendon’s, though he still could not see him in the dark. “And I agree.
The forbidden arts will be hidden from others, but we will still keep our
Arcane powers, and our immortality, if we submit.” He turned toward
the other man. “Sar, do as you please.”
“Mendon, how can you say that?” Sar snarled. The torchlight fell upon
Mendon, and Alfred was surprised to see how young he looked. He had a
mane of brown hair and was wearing a hide tunic. “How can you fear the
gods, after the things we’ve seen? We have experienced true power, not
the limited Sacrum of sages. If we only knew more, we could make our
own world, and rule over it as its deities!”
“Enough!” Alfred found himself saying. The song’s vision was so
real, sometimes he forgot that he was not Yormoth himself, saying the
words. He could feel the anger in Yormoth’s voice. “If you wish to destroy
yourself, so be it. But do not try to drag others down with you! Though
we learned many forbidden things, godhood is not one of them. We were
wrong to stick our noses into the affairs of the divine, and you will only
find endless torment if you pursue them!”
Sar spat at Yormoth’s feet. In a moment of anger, Alfred felt his fist rear
back and strike Sar to the ground. The torch Sar was holding clattered to
the stone floor, sending shadows dancing furiously.
“I know your intentions, and you would do well to abandon them,”
said Yormoth’s voice. “The Chronomere cannot change everything. You
speak of the power of the gods, Sar, but you forget that this power only
rivals that of the devils. The Other Three are more powerful than you’d
76
think. They would take you and never let you come back. You would be
nothing more than a prisoner. For the gods’ sake, Sar! Admit we were
wrong, and live!”
Sar sat, a bruise forming on his cheek. In his eyes Alfred saw pure
hatred. “Pitiful,” he said. Then he stood to his feet and ran out the way
he had come.
Yormoth scoffed. Mendon picked up the torch, and Alfred could see
the firelight reflected in his eyes. “We were wrong, indeed,” said Mendon.
“Wrong and foolish to tamper with tools not meant for us.” He held the
torch higher, and then approached the table. But what of these scrolls
you have been writing? Why preserve the powers we have if they cannot
be used?”
“They are to be used by specific people only,” replied Yormoth. “People
who are destined throughout future history to use the powers for the
gods’ purposes.”
“And what is to stop others from doing what we have done?” asked
Mendon.
“I have not inscribed the arts on these scrolls with ink,” said Alfred
through Yormoth’s mouth, “but with pure knowledge itself. The ideas
and concepts we learned will never enter into another mortal’s mind
again. They will remain only in our minds, and on these scrolls. With the
gods’ help, I will ensure that they are protected.”
“And what of Sar? And Urukain, and the others?” said Mendon.
Alfred could see both concern and interest in Mendon’s face.
Yormoth sighed. “War is coming,” he said softly. He slowly walked
toward the table, his footsteps echoing quietly in the cave. Suddenly,
Alfred realized that Yormoth’s footsteps were the final sharp breaths of
one of the flute players, and he opened his eyes.
He considered sitting up and immediately asking the elder questions,
but instead he looked at the morning sky and let the vision sink in.
Alfred had been indeed intrigued by this vision. Was one of those scrolls
the one he was seeking? Had the scroll been placed there in the past, in
hopes that Alfred could now know where it was so he could retrieve it
for his use in the present?
He blinked, and then frowned. How long ago had his vision taken
place? The Vendictis Bible told of primal wizards forever forbidden to
use magic, but that had taken place eons ago. If that was true, how could
Mendon have been there? Was he an aelisyn too?
Alfred had become accustomed to shaking these perplexing thoughts
77
aside by now, so he focused on how exactly to get the scroll. He thought

about the names of the other men: Yormoth and Sar. Yormoth seemed to
be the leader. Perhaps he should try to learn more about him.
Alfred sat up and looked at the elder. “What happened to those men
in the song?”
“Yormoth die. Sar different song.”
“Well, could you play that one for me?” asked Alfred.
The elder shook his head. “No time. Must go.”
“But how am I supposed to learn these things? I can’t know of the past
without reading or hearing about it.”
The elder whispered two words to Alfred: “Time walk.”
“Excuse me?”
The elder was silent. Was he referring to the Cavern of Time?
“I’ve Timewalked at the Cavern before, elder,” said Alfred. “Was there
something I should have learned there?”
The elder shook his head. “No cavern. Gift.”
Alfred hesitated. “You have . . . a gift for me?”
The elder shook his head again. “Gods,” he said patiently.
“What about them?” Alfred sighed. He was getting frustrated, but he
couldn’t blame the village. They were clearly close to the gods if they
had passed down such songs for him without even knowing how they
would be useful. Besides, the knowledge that he was an immortal gave
him some spark of hope. If eternity was what he had to look forward to,
it would be enough time for him to find the knowledge he sought.
“Thank you,” he said, rising, “very much for your help. Whatever my
purpose is as a . . . sowol, I feel that the gods have helped you to be a part
in blessing me with that knowledge.”
The elder bowed cordially, standing up with him. The elder spoke
with one of the villagers, who left the crowd and made his way toward
the horses.
“Ae’brinthil,” said the elder. Alfred looked up.
“What?” he asked.
The elder was pointing southeast. “Ae’brinthil,” he said again.
Alfred smiled. “Thank you.”
78
Chapter 11
“T imewalking . . .” muttered Alfred as he closed the Ven-

dictis Bible for the seventh time. Nothing. Three days of leafing
through it while riding his mount, and still he had not found any infor-
mation about walking through time, with or without the Cavern. Was
there a technical term for Timewalking? Had he simply missed a sermon
about it when he had been training as a priest? Somehow, Alfred thought
not. It seemed such an abstract concept, walking through time. But the
simple words of the elder had stuck with him. Deep down, Alfred knew
that was what he was supposed to do.
The morning was clear, but Alfred could tell from distant clouds
on the horizon that a gray and rainy afternoon was inevitable. Fall was
coming, and the leaves in the thickening forest surrounding the road had
begun to fade. Many of them had turned brown and fallen already, and
now littered the path on the ground.
Alfred picked up the pace a bit, feeling a little uneasy at the thought of
rain again. It had taken him half a day after leaving the village to find the
path along the road once more. Two days later without event (save for
passing the occasional inn or caravan of tradesmen) had taken him from
the nearly desolate rocklands to the green and rich Sheral Woodlands,
the vast homeland of the wood elves.
Alfred estimated that Ae’brinthil was only two and a half days’ journey
hence, and he sighed in anticipation of the relief he would feel at seeing
Ae’brinthil’s towers. The forest seemed relatively empty, and frankly, Alfred
was lonely. He had not spoken to anyone but busy innkeepers and rushed
travelers since he had stopped at the village, and even that could scarcely be
called much of an encounter with civilization. Alfred had lost some weight
too, he realized, and he looked forward to the cuisine of his home city. But
for now, he was alone, and he rode in silence, the forest deathly quiet.
Quiet? The hairs on the back of Alfred’s neck suddenly stood on end.
Something was not right here. How long ago had the birds stopped
79
singing? With a cold shiver he remembered the warnings of the stable

boy in Amber’s Hand, and of the half-elf innkeeper, of bandits completely
infesting the forests surrounding the city. Prisma, he could tell, was
getting skittish. He drew his rusted shortsword just to feel better.
All of a sudden, with a deafening crash through the trees to his right
came a monstrous creature Alfred had not seen the likes of ever before. It
was humanoid, though gargantuan in size, with yellow skin and scraggly
hair from the top of its head down its back, ending with a lion-like tail.
It reared its broad head, its black eyes wide, opened its gaping mouth,
and let loose a ringing shriek. Prisma bucked Alfred off and fled into the
thick brush.
Alfred sat up on his back in horror as the monstrosity lunged at him.
He fumbled wildly for his shortsword, which had rolled into the grass.
The monster uprooted a small tree from the ground and swung it with all
its might, narrowly missing Alfred and knocking over two more trees.
Alfred finally grabbed hold of the shortsword, realizing with comedic
despair that the tiny sword would probably be useless against the monster.
The creature roared in rage as it swung again. Alfred dove out of the way
just in time as the tree hit a large stone and snapped in half. In a moment
of panic, Alfred decided to sprint after Prisma. The creature took some
time to uproot another small tree, and then bounded after him.
Alfred ran like a madman, but the creature took long, muscular strides
that would soon overtake him. It had almost caught up to him when
Alfred suddenly had an idea. He began to dart back and forth in a zigzag
pattern, and the creature’s agility was soon replaced with clumsiness.
The creature fell on its face and ran into trees several times, stumbling
and tripping over stumps and rocks, and just when Alfred thought he
was safe he realized the thicket he had run into was a spear point into a
large meadow.
When Alfred entered the clearing, it soon became clear that his
maneuvers had lost their advantage now that there were fewer obstacles
on the ground. Alfred considered doubling back, but zigzagging as he
had been doing would be impossible while going straight at the creature.
He had to keep running. Alfred’s panting soon turned to wheezing, and
the beast bore down on him, snarling. Alfred suddenly stumbled, and he
felt his weak knees give out as he fell to the ground. He whirled, raising
his hands uselessly to protect his face, praying wildly.
Suddenly, a shrill whistle rang dryly in the woods and the beast
skidded to a halt, leaving a gouge in the dirt on the ground. The beast
80
looked around, positioning itself with its massive fists, and then galloped
back to the forest a few dozen yards away. There at the meadow’s edge,
Alfred saw a middle-aged wood-elf maiden.
“Garnold,” said the woman. “You know better than to harass travelers!
You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
The beast whimpered in a most un-beastly way.
The woman continued, hands on her hips. “Not everybody is as
defenseless as you think they are anyway. You could get hurt.”
The beast spoke to the woman in an odd, growling language.
“I don’t care if he had a weapon out, and whether he struck at you, you
probably provoked that yourself.”
Alfred by this time had recovered from his shock somewhat, and he spoke
to the woman, still gasping slightly for breath. “Honestly, I’m not really sure
how to use a sword anyway . . . it was given to me to defend myself.”
“Garnold,” chided the elf.
The creature whimpered again, and spoke in dulcet tones to the woman.
“Ever since your daddy died, I’ve been willing to take care of you,
Garnold, but you can’t go on doing this sort of thing, it’s wrong, but you
think it’s good fun. Would your daddy have done something like this?
Scare the wits out of an innocent traveler?”
The beast continued to whimper and speak in soft tones.
The elf-maiden turned to Alfred.
“Garnold says he’s sorry,” she said. “You must realize that Garnold
is, according to his folk, still a whelp, and he’s immature like most
children are.”
The creature grunted at this comment. The woman shot him a look.
“What . . . what is he?” asked Alfred, getting to his feet and brushing
the dirt off his robe.
The elf woman shrugged her shoulders. “The elves call him a
behemoth. His kind have been around this forest for ages—usually keep
to themselves though.”
Alfred shook his head in amazement. “I’ve been through the
woodlands several times, and I’ve never seen anything like him . . .”
“Garnold’s kin are quite rare. The few clans left are around here, near
the northern edge of the forest.”
The beast was becoming impatient with them. The elf shook her head.
“Off with you, and no more trouble, understand?” To Alfred she asked,
“Would you care to sup with me?”
Alfred hesitated, but the woman waved her hand dismissively.
81
“Consider it a peace offering on Garnold’s behalf. I can’t have you

staying all day, though, I’m afraid.”
Alfred followed the elf into the trees until they came upon a rather
wide wooden house built into an enormous tree trunk. In front of the
house, the elf had something cooking in an enormous pot on the fire that
smelled very good. Obviously she was accustomed to making a lot for
Garnold. The elf looked back to the clearing. “I see you there, Garnold!
I said be off! You can eat when the traveler’s gone.” Alfred heard the
behemoth grumble a bit and then lumber off, and then he and the elf
were left alone to talk.
“So, what sort of business does a human priest have this far from
Ae’brinthil?” she asked him, eying his pendant symbol of the gods.
The elf referring to him as a human reminded Alfred of his encounter
with the half-elf. He had felt so confident that he was indeed a human
then, and now he was something else altogether. “Actually, madam, I’m
on my way to Ae’brinthil. I’ve had quite an adventure on my way from
Amber’s Hand to here.”
“Really? How long has your journey been thus far?”
Alfred smiled, thinking of the Cavern of Time. “Honestly madam, I
couldn’t tell you.”
The elven maiden didn’t question him further, and she went to fetch
the pot of food. She stirred it a bit, and then took it off the coals to cool.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Alfred Shortstaff. And yours?”
“My people call me Shenna.”
“Oh.” Alfred was feeling a bit awkward. What was one supposed to talk
about to a strange lady in the middle of nowhere who had a monstrous
beast for a pet?
“So . . . have you always lived here?”
“My parents lived in the south, where most wood elves live now. I
haven’t seen them for years.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m an orphan myself.”
When the pot of food had finished cooling, she took two earthen
bowls from an outdoor cupboard and ladled some steaming food into
each. She laid one bowl in front of Alfred.
“Thank you,” said Alfred. It was unlike any food he had eaten; an
obvious elf-dish. It had some sort of white meat mixed with spicy herbs
and onions. It was extraordinary, and Alfred complimented the elf-
maiden gratefully. “You elves really know how to cook,” he said.
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“Some of these recipes barely exist on Argae anymore,” Shenna said

sadly. “My parents were of a sacred bloodline from the earliest elves in
the world, and I try to preserve their culture as best as I can.”
“Are you a wood-elf then?”
Shenna’s face was blank. “I no longer live in the trees like my kinsfolk,
but mostly, yes. I’m not a civil elf, if that’s what you mean.”
Alfred didn’t know whether to assure her otherwise so as not to
offend her, or assume she already knew. He chose the latter. Besides, it
was obvious by her reddish-blonde hair that she was no sort of civil elf.
Shenna let him have one more bowl of the delicious food, and then
Alfred decided he would bother her no longer. He bid her goodbye
and left to find the path again. On the way out, he saw Garnold messily
devouring half a deer carcass.
Upon seeing him, the beast glared at him and snorted. Bubbles of
blood spattered the grass from his mouth.
“Uh . . . your mistress has some food for you,” said Alfred, trying to
make his voice sound friendly. But the beast ignored him and buried its
face into the deer again. Disgusted, Alfred left the clearing and found the
road again.
Suddenly Alfred started. Prisma. He had been so startled by the
encounter with the behemoth that he had forgotten to go find her before
supping with Shenna. There was no way he would find her now. She
had run into the woods nearly an hour ago. Perhaps her reins had been
fortunate enough to tangle in some brush or something. Alfred hurried
into the woods to search.
After weaving through the trees and looking for hoofprints on the
ground for nearly a half an hour, Alfred decided to give up. He was
tempted to go back to Shenna and enlist her elven abilities for the
search, but the elf woman seemed to have had enough of him already,
and admittedly, he still feared coming close to Garnold. Alfred felt very
sorry for losing his faithful mount, but felt even worse because most of
his belongings had been left in the saddlebags. He had been so close to
Ae’brinthil, too . . .
It would now take him at least a day more to reach Ae’brinthil on
foot. During that time, he doubted he would find much to eat. Alfred
felt his pockets, hoping to find some coins. Perhaps he could hitch a ride
with someone traveling to Ae’brinthil by cart. But all he found was the
dolphin figurine the fisherman Arvin had given him for good fortune.
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“Good luck would be a good thing to have right now,” muttered Alfred
to himself. “But money probably would have been better.” Then a funny
sort of thought struck him. “You know,” he mused, “I can just be grateful
I’m going to live a long time. No matter how many belongings I lose, I
will always have time to replace them.” It was a dismal thought, but it
almost made him chuckle.
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Chapter 12
A fter about an hour walking down the road on foot,

Alfred decided to name off the things he had lost: his store of
food, his pocketknife, his lantern and tinderbox, his picture of Darla—
Alfred shook his head and remembered it had been stolen at the Red
Kestrel Inn—his Vendictis Bible, most regrettable of all, perhaps . . . and
then he had dropped his shortsword in the path. That was just as well. His
encounter with the behemoth had shown how useless of a weapon it was
for him anyway. He thought about how worried he had been for his sur-
vival when Garnold had attacked. What did it mean, exactly, to be an aeli-
syn? Could he be torn apart but still live, albeit in extreme pain? Could
he waste away from hunger and become a living skeleton? His study of
the book of the gods the past few days had not mentioned “aelisyns” or
“sowols” even once either.
Alfred turned his mind away from his earthly possessions and began
to think about how he could find shelter. The sky through the treetops
had been gray all day, and tiny drops of rain were finally beginning to
sprinkle down. The clouds seemed to be getting darker, too. It looked
like a big storm was coming, and Alfred did not fancy getting caught in
one again. If only he had made it to Ae’brinthil earlier!
Alfred still held the figurine in his hand absentmindedly, and looked
down at it. “Make it stop raining, dolphin!” he yelled in frustration.
But the rain kept trickling through the canopy of trees, and Alfred
stuck the figurine back in his pocket.
“Good luck . . . bah!” he scoffed.
Alfred looked around frantically for any sign of shelter, and decided
his best bet was to just to hide under the leafy canopy of a tree. He left
the road and went deeper into the woods. The air’s temperature was
dropping rapidly, but at least the leafy canopy here stopped him from
getting soaked again like he had in the rocklands.
“Do you need help?” asked a gravelly voice. Alfred started and realized
85
that he had caught the attention of several shady looking fellows in the
woods. The man who had talked to Alfred was missing his right eye.
“Rain gets mighty cold around here . . .”
Alfred could almost certainly guess these folks were thieves of a rotten
sort, judging by their tattoos and cruel-looking knives at their sides, but
as he lacked any resources, and the dusty road had dirtied him up quite
a bit, he wondered if he had been mistaken for something other than he
was. It seemed dangerous to disagree, at any rate.
“Do you know of an inn nearby?” Alfred asked, trying to sound
confident.
“We’re headed to one now. Would you like to come with us?” asked
the one-eyed man.
“Yes, I’ll follow you,” said Alfred. Deep inside he felt like it was a
foolish thing to do. Most certainly they would be hoping to rob him
blind. Alfred didn’t know how to feel, since he was, in a sense, already
without possessions.
“I have no money,” commented Alfred, “which is regrettable. I would
have rewarded you for your help.” It would be best to act like a kind
person, he decided, no matter who these men were.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said the one-eyed man. With his good
eye, he exchanged a glance with the others.
A distant crack of thunder echoed beyond the woods. Alfred and the
thieves made their way into a dark thicket of trees. The rain isn’t so bad
under these thick trees, thought Alfred. I should just stay under here. But
he dared not shake off these ruffians so openly, so he decided to keep
following them.
It was only a couple of hundred yards into the thicket that they came
to a large building built on the foundation of an enormous, wide tree
stump. The house’s windows were lit yellow, and smoke was coming
out of a small chimney. One of the thieves, who had a strange-looking
woolen hood on despite being shirtless, knocked roughly on the wooden
door. A visor slid open, and a bloodshot eye looked out. “Password?” the
eye said in a voice that sounded like rusty stones grinding.
Alfred was sure the thief would have said one of the classic strange
passwords he had read about in books, but to his surprise, the thief
simply poked the eye.
“GAARRGHH! You miserable, spineless . . .”
But the door unlocked anyway, and the pungent smell of fern tobacco
hit Alfred, making his eyes water. Inside the building were several tables,
86
each of which at least two shady looking fellows were, smoking pipes
furiously. Alfred could see flagons of dark ale on all of the tables as well,
and a few women wearing black paint on their faces were cowering in
the corner. A couple of men were playing loudly on a drum and a lute,
singing at the top of their lungs.
Alfred was terrified. What were these men going to do to him?
Was this a thieves’ guild? It had to be . . . if only Alfred could have
memorized where he had wandered off the road, he could report this
for the guards to raze. But then again, he thought, how can I even make
it out in one piece?
The man with no right eye motioned to his men and Alfred to sit
down at a table. They seemed to be reluctant to do so, but complied. The
one-eyed man said to Alfred, “Sit here, let me buy you a drink . . . a nice
dark ale will warm you from the inside.”
“I don’t drink,” said Alfred firmly. Dark ale was forbidden by the codes
of priesthood, and if that blew his cover as a simple traveler, so be it. He
needed the gods on his side more than ever right now.
The one-eyed man looked impressed.
“You know, I was going to just mug and beat you and leave you for dead,
because I just happen to do that sort of thing. It’s my career, you might
say,” he said, leering. Alfred’s face paled. “But I like your gumption.”
“Honestly, I don’t even have many possessions,” said Alfred, relieved. “I
just happened to lose my horse on the way here, and the saddlebags—”
“We wouldn’t have cared,” said the one-eyed man with a sneer,
and then he suddenly changed the subject. “I like your gumption, but
something bothers me about you.”
“What’s that?” Alfred was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I’ve never gone soft before. Why
is it I don’t want to leave you for dead just for the fun of it?”
Alfred suddenly realized that the man was going to listen to him.
“Perhaps if I ask about you maybe you can find out more about me. Who
are you?” asked Alfred.
“Everyone calls me Blacksheath. That’s all you need to know.”
“You don’t speak like I would think a thief would speak.”
Blacksheath laughed. “I wasn’t born a nasty fellow.”
“So you claim to be nasty now?” asked Alfred, perhaps a bit boldly.
The conversation was interrupted by one of the other thieves, who
stood up angrily. “Blacksheath, can you stop foolin’ around? What are
we gonna do with him?”
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Blacksheath raised a fist at the thief, who shrank visibly. “We’re going
to converse with him,” he growled, “like the civilized men we are.” Then
he turned back to Alfred, running a finger along his bewhiskered chin. “I
can’t lie, friend—when as many bad things happen in life as mine, there’s
no choice but to be nasty to mankind.”
“That’s not true,” said Alfred.
The one-eyed thief ’s brow darkened. “I’m keeping my knife from your
throat now, mister, but with that sort of manners I might just consider
changing my mind.”
Alfred took the hint and decided he’d better drag out their chat as
long as possible. “All right then, so you are nasty. But why? Give me some
details.”
Blacksheath suddenly became grave. “When I was a lad of seventeen
years I got in a brawl and lost my right eye,” he said, pointing to it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t interrupt. Because of that, I was not able to become a knight
like I’d been trained to do all my life—my father, who was a general, had
died some years before that, and I was not able to support my mother or
our estate in Amber’s Hand any longer. My family became destitute as a
result of my foolhardiness.”
Alfred was beginning to feel sorry for the man.
“So I tried to sell our belongings, but I turned out to be an inept
merchant. The profits from all our riches didn’t go far with me as a
peddler. So I tried sailing. I went onto a ship as a deckhand, and after
several years worked myself up to first mate. Sailors don’t much care if
you’ve got one eye or two, I found out.”
A barmaid laid a tray of ale mugs at the table. The other thieves drank
heartily, and one of them took the one left for Alfred. Blacksheath left his
untouched as he continued his story.
“Then, wouldn’t you know it, one day our ship sailed off course into
the Wind Barriers, and we were shipwrecked. We lived on raw gravel-
crabs on that cold, gods-forsaken island for eight months until we hailed
down a passing fishing ship. I was one of the few crew members to
survive. I returned home vowing to never set foot on a ship again. By
then, who knows where my family went? Likely decided to forget about
me. And who could blame ’em? So yes, I am a nasty fellow. But I got a
blasted good reason to be.”
Blacksheath became quiet, aiming his good eye off at a nearby window.
He seemed reluctant to look at Alfred.
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“Don’t you worship the gods?” inquired Alfred.

“Why, are you a priest?” asked the man sarcastically.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe there are any gods left who would smile upon me,”
said the man bitterly.
“Did I just hear you say you’re a priest?” said the huge man with the
hood. Alfred said nothing. The man bellowed a menacing laugh. “Hey
everybody! Come clear your conscience to this priest! Anyone guilty of
sinning?”
The entire room erupted into laughter. The women in the corner cast
seductive looks at Alfred. Alfred’s brow furrowed in anger.
“Well, priesty, why don’t we see if the gods will help you now!”
The hooded man grabbed Alfred like a rag-doll and threw him to the
floor in the middle of the room. He landed hard on his face and tasted
blood. He fought for air, the wind having been knocked out of him. He
felt rough hands turn him over and strike him in the face. The room was
in a loud uproar of laughter.
“Hey, knock it off, Ingot!” Alfred heard Blacksheath yell. Ingot ignored
him, and Alfred could tell by the rough hands lifting his feet from the
ground and shaking him that they were not going to stop.
Alfred was helpless. No one bothered to help the holy man. Even
Blacksheath gave up trying to force the enormous man and slinked off
into a corner.
***
The next thing Alfred knew, he was waking up in a sticky ale barrel
behind the thieves’ guild. It must have been about seven or eight o’clock
the next morning, judging by the orange light in the far distance under
the thicket. Alfred hurt all over, especially his head. His arms were
bruised, and he had a bruise under one eye. He also had a painful
bump on his forehead. Alfred was furious. The thieves had torn his
robe in half, on top of everything else, and had even taken his religious
pendant symbol.
Alfred’s mind decided to climb out of the barrel, but his body realized
too late that he didn’t have enough strength, so he half-slumped out of
the side of the barrel and landed on the ground in a heap. The ale smelled
terrible, and it was covering the bare skin on his body. Alfred was weak
and nauseated, but he knew he had to get out of here before anyone
89
noticed him. He limped to a tree and sat against it to think.

Here I am, Alfred Shortstaff, beaten mercilessly at the hands of terrible
brigands, but I’m still alive, he thought. I am destined to save the kings and
ultimately, this world. I have another breath in my breast, so I must carry
on. He resolved to have this guild reported and burned to the ground as
soon as he could alert the Ae’brinthil guards.
Alfred had almost dozed off from weakness when he heard a tree
being felled in the distant forest. Perhaps a woodcutter was nearby who
could help him. Alfred struggled to his feet, but then hopelessness set
in again as he realized he wasn’t sure he even had the strength to walk.
What was he going to do, crawl to safety?
“You awoke sooner than I thought.”
Alfred looked behind him—it was Blacksheath, with a woman Alfred
recognized from the day before. Not one of the black-faced harlots,
though . . . A barmaid perhaps?
Alfred sighed, his last bit of hope fading away.
“I was just going to call for help,” said Alfred bitterly.
“Enough of your cheek, priest. I need your help.”
“My help?” Alfred scoffed. “To do what, choose a suitable place to
kill me?”
Blacksheath gave him a cold look. “To put me back into society. Let’s
go. The others in the guild think I’m throwing your body off Beggar’s
Cliff a mile or so from here.”
“They do?” asked Alfred, surprised.
The thief nodded. “I also just came back from stealing some of the
thieves’ money to start me off decently.”
“How did you manage to do that?” asked Alfred.
“All of them are out cold with the usual Moekday morning hangover . . .
worse than the usual, actually. I bribed the barman to drop a little something
into last night’s round.”
“After I help you, will you let me go?”
Blacksheath smiled. “What’s the hurry? We only just met.” He fingered
the pommel of a dagger in his belt absentmindedly.
Alfred sighed, defeated again. “Well, I suppose I have no choice.”
Blacksheath helped Alfred toward a nearby thicket, where a cart stood
filled with some sacks. A mule was hitched to the cart, grazing lazily on
the bushes.
Blacksheath helped the woman into the back of the cart. “This
is Dreana, by the way. She’s done with the thief ’s life as well,” said
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Blacksheath. “We want you to marry us. I’ve built myself a fortune,
and I’m in need of a good priest to establish respectable relations—and
become respectable myself.”
Alfred shook his head. “I honestly don’t know what to think of you,
Blacksheath. First a career brigand, then a man with a tragic past, and
now you want to get married and start all over?”
Blacksheath smiled. “I realized why I felt differently about you, priest.
I . . . I guess I do owe the gods some gratitude.”
Alfred was helped with some effort, as he was very weak, in the back
of the cart with Dreana.
“I mean, I could have died in that shipwreck. Or on that island. One
of the gods had to have sent that fishing ship way out there near the
Wind Barriers to save us. I want to start over. My family might be gone,
but I want to start one of my own.”
Alfred smiled. Blacksheath set a bag of coins in the back with him
and Dreana. In the cart were various other sacks, as well as a large barrel
of water. Blacksheath also tossed a bundle of clothes into the back of the
cart with Alfred.
“What’s this?” asked Alfred.
“Compliments of the thieves’ guild,” he said, grinning. “Nobody will
think you a good priest running around with a torn-up robe smelling
like sin itself.”
The clothes turned out to be a string-tied white linen shirt and some
rough leather breeches and boots. Alfred changed shamelessly in the
back of the cart. What dignity did he have left anyway? He looked at the
priest’s robe he had received in Ae’brinthil. It wasn’t his first one, but he
felt attached to it just the same. Now it was filthy from travel and ripped
down the middle by men who had no fear of the gods. He tossed it out of
the cart, and in doing so heard something hard fall onto the floor of the
cart. Alfred picked up his blue dolphin figurine.
“What’s the holdup?” grumbled Blacksheath, looking back from
hitching up the mule.
“Nothing,” said Alfred. He stowed the dolphin in a pocket in his
breeches.
Blacksheath turned the cart south, and soon they were on their way
through the dark woods. After traveling for a couple of hours, and after
washing himself in a cool pond, Alfred finally felt a little bit better, and
asked Blacksheath if he had any food.
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“Help yourself. There’s some cheese and bread, and a waterskin in the
sack.”
Alfred soon found the food bag, and ate the cheese and bread
voraciously. When he had filled his waterskin from the barrel and gulped
it down, Alfred was beginning to feel like asking some more questions.
“What’s your real name, Blacksheath?” asked Alfred.
“All in good time,” replied Blacksheath.
Dreana laughed quietly, the first sound Alfred heard from the woman
till now.
“You know, there’s a reason beyond the whole ‘thief nickname’ thing
that I’ve kept my name a secret,” said Blacksheath. “I knew one day if
I ever was to come back with wealth and power, I would want my real
name to pass on to my kin. I just needed a priest to start me off on the
right foot. A married right foot. So people can think I’m a respectable
person before I start purchasing assets. The thief ’s life helped me learn
where I went wrong the first time.”
“It’s not really what other people think,” replied Alfred. “It’s what you
believe in.”
“Alas, too late,” said Blacksheath sternly.
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Chapter 13
B lacksheath led Dreana and Alfred southward for two

days’ time, in which he talked little, except about wealth. They ra-
tioned out the rest of the foodstuffs in the cart, and slept on the ground
at night. Before they went down to sleep each night, Blacksheath tied a
rope from Alfred’s ankle to his own. Alfred hardly thought this neces-
sary—Blacksheath was a light sleeper, and Alfred did most of his sleeping
during the day out of boredom anyway. At night, when it wasn’t raining,
he meditated and prayed for guidance while watching the stars in be-
tween branches above.
He felt . . . comforted, for some reason. as if he was on the right path
after all. As odd as it was to consider, perhaps the gods had led him up
to this point. Alfred realized that he really had not had much say in the
matter. Thinking about Garnold’s ambush and the encounter with the
thieves made Alfred wonder if something on a larger scale was afoot.
On the third day of the journey, the forest thinned out and become
a dry plain. On the distant horizon, he could see the sand dunes of the
Ilrauros Desert. Alfred had simply assumed that they were going to a
city down south for Blacksheath to be “civilized” into, but Blacksheath
seemed to ignore the hamlets and towns toward the road to the east, and
pushed southwest.
“Where are we going?” asked Alfred. It had not been the first time,
but Blacksheath had always been vague about it before.
“To my treasure cache. It’s got some valuables of mine,” said
Blacksheath. “After that, we’ll head to the hideout of my friend Gregmir,
where I’ve hidden most of the money I’ve pilfered over the years. After
that, I’ll be making my way the short way to Orovion. With everyone
there recovering from the crusade, it’ll be easy to pose as a rich investor
and build up a new reputation. And if my old ‘friends’ ever track me
there, the man known as Blacksheath will be long gone.”
“Where is this ‘short way’?” asked Alfred.
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“Through the desert,” said Blacksheath.

Alfred sighed. Blacksheath had seemed sincere, albeit a bit threatening,
when this journey had started, but Alfred was having doubts that he had
really changed at all. Alfred had been spared, true, but he doubted that
Blacksheath was going to let him live much longer if he objected to this
trip. If only Blacksheath understood how urgent Alfred’s quest was. But
all he seemed to talk about was riches.
“Are we being pursued?” asked Alfred.
“Perhaps, but they’ll be days behind us. I built myself a fair bit
of reputation at the thieves’ guild. I doubt they suspected that I
actually ran away with their things until days had passed without me
returning.”
That gave Alfred a little bit of courage. Perhaps the cart would be
harder to track after such a number of days on the road. Perhaps he
could find help or escape along the way, but no opportunity had come.
They had seen almost no people on their strange, narrow path through
the woods.
Later in the day, as the dry grass of the plains was rapidly being
replaced by dirt and sand, Blacksheath showed him a map he had of
central Argaenothruzil. “See this long curve in the road? It goes through
the Sheral Woodlands and circles all the way around the desert toward
Orovion. That would take nearly a week.”
“At least it’s paved,” said Alfred. “And safer than crossing the pathless
desert. There are villages along the way, too, but in the desert, what’s
stopping us from losing our way and dying of thirst?”
“Crime and security never mixed,” said Blacksheath coldly. “Besides,
I can’t have you crying for help at every carriage we pass.”
***
The desert was excruciating. After only a day into the sandy wastes,
Alfred began to miss the cool, shady woodlands, even if they had been
rainy during this season. The skies were always clear here, and the sun
beat down on the cart relentlessly. Luckily, Blacksheath had been smart
enough to bring along supplies to erect a tent to sleep in at night, but the
days were still hard on Alfred.
It was two days into the desert that Blacksheath stopped the cart and
began searching in the sand. “I buried it here,” he said, panting in an odd
sort of way. Alfred had begun to notice that Blacksheath did not hide
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anything from him, as if he trusted him greatly. Or perhaps he simply

did not view Alfred as a threat to his secrets.
The one-eyed thief asked for a spade, and Alfred riffled about the busy
contents of the back of the wagon until he found one. Blacksheath used it
to begin digging in the sand.
Alfred sat in awkward silence with Dreana. He realized that Blacksheath
had completely ignored her for the entire duration of the trip. Alfred
was beginning to understand why the other bandits had looked up to
Blacksheath so much. He had an aura that demanded obedience. Dreana
hadn’t spoken a word the entire time. Alfred felt sorry for her. She seemed
to just be a pawn in Blacksheath’s design, just like he was. Except she was
to be his wife, seemingly for reputation only and not for love.
Alfred heard a muffled thud. “Here it is,” said Blacksheath. “Give
me a hand.”
Alfred helped him dig out a small chest and lift it out of the sandy
hole. “What is it?” asked Alfred, wiping sweat from his brow.
“My greatest treasures,” said Blacksheath. “Family heirlooms, and
other things.”
After they reached the cart, Blacksheath produced a key to open the
chest. Blacksheath stood beside Alfred and unlocked it.
Inside the chest were several large gems, some gold, some sheets
of parchment, and a rather crudely-wrought, hand-shaped piece of
translucent amber glass. Blacksheath ignored the other things, and
reverently pulled out the hand figurine. “This thing, whatever it is, has
marvelous powers,” he said. “Though I am not versed in the ways of
Arcane magic, it allows me to act as if I were. I’m not even sure of all
of its capabilities. All I know is that I owe my life and escape from that
island to it.”
Suddenly something from weeks ago popped into Alfred’s head. He
remembered the evening he had stayed in the inn at Amber’s Hand,
when he had read a history of the town in a book. It had said the city was
named after an artifact—but why would a powerful relic of the past be
so ugly and crude?
“I think I’ve heard of that before,” said Alfred.
“You know what it’s called then?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s called the Amber Hand.”
Blacksheath thought for a bit, laughing. “Like the city, eh? Heh heh, I
should have known. It’s amber and it’s a hand, isn’t it?”
He turned it over, and then held it up to the sun, where it gleamed. “It’s
95
really because of this artifact that I want to retire. I knew I must break
away from the thieves before they found out about it. I found it when I
was stranded on that dread island . . . I was searching for shelter in the
rain one day—it was always raining that close to the Wind Barriers—and
I went into a cave. I ended up going too far inside, and I got lost in the
darkness. When I finally lost all hope and curled up ready to die, I woke
up clutching this at the cave entrance. It has great powers, which I have
used many times . . . but finally the other thieves were getting suspicious
of my abilities. There were attempts to steal it. It’s been here buried for
too long. I’ve missed using it.”
Blacksheath blinked as he handed it to Alfred. “What do you say,
priest? Is it the real thing?”
Alfred held the small carving in his hand. It was in the shape of a
right hand with all of its fingers together, as if it were pressed flat
against something. It had a smooth texture like glass, but he could feel
crude whittle-marks from a chisel in it. At the bottom, where the wrist
would be, was a thin handle like a hilt. “I’m not sure,” he said, turning
it over. “It doesn’t appear to have any Sacric power, but I may be wrong.
If it were a blessed relic, you would indeed be fortunate. If the power
within it is Arcane, I have no experience whatsoever in identifying such
enchantments.”
Alfred gave the Hand back to Blacksheath, who gazed at it in
admiration. “Well, it’s a true treasure in any case,” he said.
Blacksheath took one of the pieces of parchment from the chest.
“This,” he said, “is the key to my new life.” He handed it to Alfred, who
looked it over.
It was an official marriage license of Orovion, complete with the
official city stamp. “How did you get this?” asked Alfred. “It even has a
witness signature on it even though the priest’s name field is blank.”
Blacksheath grinned. “Brilliant, isn’t it? I nicked it a year ago. A little
bribery was all it needed to get a signature and stamp forged on it.” He
went to the cart and brought back a frayed quill pen and an inkwell, as
well as a wooden plank. “Fill it out,” he said.
“Here?” asked Alfred.
“Yes, here. I want to make sure your signature’s on it in case you die
of thirst on the way out.”
Alfred frowned. He couldn’t tell if Blacksheath was being serious or
just impatient. But he took the pen and pressed the parchment against
the plank to read. The license certainly looked legitimate. Alfred wasn’t
96
fond of breaking the law in any case, but this time it seemed that doing
so would make a law-abiding citizen out of a thief, so he obliged, filling
out the fields. After a moment, he looked up at Blacksheath. “I’m going
to have to have your real name,” said Alfred.
Blacksheath’s smile faded. “Oh yeah. No sense telling everyone I was
born as ‘Blacksheath,’ right? My name of which my parents of old called
me is Aelthur.”
“Aelthur. And do you have a surname?”
“No, you can put my father’s name down, though. Ambus was his
name.”
Alfred wrote Aelthur son of Ambus down with the pen. “Yes, alright.
And Dreana’s name?”
Blacksheath looked at Dreana. She said something quietly.
“What did you say?” asked Alfred.
“She said her name is Halla, but she doesn’t know what her father’s
name was.”
“That’s fine; does she know where she was born?”
Another mumble.
“In Ae’brinthil, the village of Narrowell,” said Blacksheath.
Halla of Narrowell, Alfred wrote. Soon, the parchment was filled out,
and he signed his name at the bottom of it. “That should do it,” he said,
handing it back to Blacksheath. “If you want a ceremony done when we
get there, we’ll have to make some arrangements. But as far as the city is
concerned, you and Halla are husband and wife as soon as you turn this
into the census office in Orovion.”
Blacksheath looked satisfied. “Great. Thanks, priest. And don’t call us
by our real names. At least until we get there.” He placed the parchment
carefully into the box and locked it, and then placed the box into the cart
snugly between a sack and the water barrel. After Blacksheath took a few
moments to cover the hole he had dug, the group got back into the cart
and began to once again trek across the desert sand.
After another day of travel (making one day shy of a week total since
they had departed), Alfred was beginning to grow weak from the hours
of sun. Blacksheath was taking a seemingly indiscernible path. They’d
packed the Amber Hand away for now, and Blacksheath became deeply
engrossed in pushing forward, to the point of saying about as little as
Dreana was. The sun had become unbearable, and Alfred had little to
do but let the sun burn him up under a blanket he sat under for shade.
Alfred hoped they would reach an oasis soon, because the water barrel,
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filled from a small brook they had crossed before reaching the desert,
was running on empty.
One hot morning, with only a large desert mesa in the distance to
break the monotony of sand dunes, Blacksheath became excited and
started muttering to himself and panting like he had when he had been
looking for his chest.
“What’s going on?” asked Alfred.
“It’s here,” said Blacksheath, smiling.
“What is?”
“The Sanctum Anoton,” Blacksheath pointed to a black slab of rock in
the sand. “My friend Gregmir’s hideout.” The cart made its way through
the sand until it reached the rock. Blacksheath halted the mule, and then
hopped off the cart and began digging at the base of the stone. Soon, he
revealed the lip of a black stone lid, which he slid aside to reveal a round
hole in the rock. “We need to go down here,” said Blacksheath.
“Is . . . is there water down there?” asked Alfred dryly.
“Water? Yeah, of course. There’s plenty of water,” said Blacksheath.
After heaving the lid off, the three all squeezed down the hole, climbing
down indentations in the side like a ladder. Alfred was beginning to
wonder who this Gregmir fellow Blacksheath was talking about, but as
long as there was water eventually, that’s all he cared about now.
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Chapter 14
A lfred squeezed through the hole, his throat dry from

thirst, and proceeded to climb down into the darkness. A couple
of feet down, the smooth, black stone turned to rough sandstone, but the
notches in the side were the same depth, and easy to climb down.
The shade felt wonderful after the hot sun outside. It was even a bit
cold. Alfred’s sweat cooled him comfortably, but he knew that he would
soon shiver with that same cold if they stayed down here too long.
Alfred heard Blacksheath help Dreana down from the rock ladder
below. He helped Alfred next, and Alfred felt his feet land firmly on a grainy
sandstone floor.
“I can barely see . . .” said Alfred, blinking. He seemed to be in a wide,
roughly hewn tunnel in the sandstone. The light from the hole above
illuminated the grainy walls, but in either direction there was utter
darkness.
“Don’t worry, I know the way. Just stick close to me until we can find
a torch,” said Blacksheath.
“Is there any water?” asked Alfred again.
“Yes. All the water you can drink,” said Blacksheath, climbing up the
rock ladder. There was a grinding noise as he slid the lid back into place,
and everything was plunged into blackness. He heard Blacksheath’s
footsteps down the ladder again, and jumped when Blacksheath spoke
again.
“Just grab my cloak and I’ll guide you.”
The three stumbled through the darkness with Blacksheath as their
guide.
The tunnel went down quite steeply, until Alfred began to think that
they must be at least twenty feet underground. “There must be some
shafts to bring in air,” commented Alfred.
“The tunnel’s enchanted,” said Blacksheath. “Wind magic and ley-
lines. Some wizard magicked it long ago to teleport air in and out.” Alfred
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felt him stop and take something from a wall. After a moment, there were
sparks in the dark, and a torch bloomed into light that blinded Alfred
momentarily. Blacksheath was holding it in one hand and the Amber
Hand in the other. “I told you this thing was useful,” he said, his good eye
glinting in the firelight.
There was a door about fifty feet away, and when they reached it,
Blacksheath pulled out a key and unlocked it to reveal a small, empty room,
with nothing in it but a couch. On it lay a beautiful black-haired woman
dressed in a long flowing green dress. She seemed to be in a deep sleep.
“Who is that?” asked Alfred.
“Sathamia,” mused Blacksheath, “the Anoton Matron. There she lies
until the curse can be taken away.”
“Curse?” asked Alfred. “Is she to sleep forever?”
“Yes, she vowed after the king broke her heart that she would lie in
enchanted sleep until he came to himself and released her.”
“How long has she been waiting?” asked Alfred.
“Over five hundred years.”
Alfred laughed. “So much for ultimatums, eh?”
“In her case, apparently,” concurred Blacksheath, rubbing his empty
eye socket. “She was once a sorceress of great power, but her emotions
took hold, and that was her downfall. “
“She’s beautiful,” said Alfred. “What is to become of her now that the
king is long dead?”
“Well, conceivably her true soul mate could wake her. But don’t get
your hopes up. She would’ve already woken if you were the one,” laughed
Blacksheath.
Alfred looked at the woman, and noticed a pained expression on her
face, as if she were having a fitful sleep, though she remained still. To Alfred
it seemed disturbing that somebody perfect for her had never approached
her. Then again, with how hidden this place is, how could they?
“It’s just as well,” mused Blacksheath. “Who’d want to marry a five
hundred-year-old woman anyway?”
An open doorway was on the opposite side of the room, and the three
entered it and walked down another hallway. Soon, another door came
into view, and Alfred began to hear voices.
“Do you hear that?” asked one voice.
“Could be a friend!” said another.
“Nonsense. Gregmir won’t be back for at least another hour. And no
one else knows where this tomb is.”
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Blacksheath opened the door and ducked inside, followed by

Dreana.
“Who have we got here?” said one of the voices.
“If it isn’t a friend, let’sss eat it!”
Alfred waited for Dreana to go through, and then hesitated. Who in
the world did those two voices belong to? One sounded echoey, as if it
were talking underwater, and the other had a strange hiss to its voice,
sounding rather unhuman.
“Come on in, Alfred,” said Blacksheath. “It’s safe.”
Alfred came out into dim light. Amidst piles of bronze jewelry, dishes
and cutlery, he was surprised to see a large, fat, brown lizard sitting in
the corner, next to a gray skeleton with a blue glow emanating from the
skull’s eyes. The skeleton had chainmail armor on and a pot helm, as if
he was once a royal crossbowman. The blue light pulsed brightly, and the
echoey voice spoke out.
“Ah! Three intruders! Who are you all? Who enters the Sanctum
Anoton?”
Alfred was even more surprised to see the lizard speak.
“Friends? Are you friendsss?”
“Breathers, they are, like you . . . probably stupid like you too,” said
the skeleton.
“Calm down, I’m one of Gregmir’s friends. You’ve seen me before,”
said Blacksheath. He stepped over glimmering pitchers and goblets to
a door on the side wall. He placed his lit torch in a bracket and tried to
open the door, but it didn’t budge. He braced his shoulder against it,
straining to get it open.
The lizard looked toward Dreana and Alfred. “Please, ssshare our
treasure. I like it, but you are my friends. Please take sssome!”
“Useless thing, treasure . . .” said the skeleton in a droning voice. “Can’t
make you happy. The only thing I can remember making breathers happy
is water.”
Alfred grinned, now not afraid at all of the two strange inhabitants.
“I’d drink to that,” he said.
The skeleton’s disembodied voice made a gasping sound. “I sense
something about that one . . .”
“Which one?” said the lizard innocently.
“The man.”
“With only one eye?”
“No, the other man.”
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“With the long hair?”

“No, you fool! The male who just came out of the tunnel.”
“The one by the door to the water chamber?”
“That one! In the white shirt.” Alfred started as the skeleton’s arm
glowed blue and rose up to point at him. Then it clattered back to the
sandstone.
The lizard finally noticed Alfred. He bared a row of sharp teeth in a
lipless smile. “Hello!”
Alfred chuckled, the lizard’s appearance comically humanoid.
The skeleton’s voice deepened. “A servant of the gods, that one.”
Blacksheath cursed. “Blast this door,” he said. “Too long since it’s been
opened. The hinges must have rusted.”
“Feel free to use our treasure, friend!” said the lizard.
Blacksheath feigned a polite smile, but still had a frustrated look on
his face. “Do you have anything heavy?” he asked.
The lizard slithered on its belly like a snake, without using its legs, over
to the pile of copper-colored treasure. Then it began rooting through till
it found a large candlestick and rolled it toward Blacksheath. “Will thisss
help?” he asked cheerfully.
“It’s worth a try,” said Blacksheath, who took it from the strangely-
moving reptile. He began to pound the hinges of the door with the
candlestick.
“What exactly . . . are you?” said Alfred, attempting to be polite.
“I’m a friend! A sssandprine,” said the lizard, cheerful again. “And
thisss is my friend Rogul, a revenant.”
The skeleton’s glow sighed, but he kept his silence.
“A revenant . . . I’ve heard of your kind. How much can you move about?”
said Alfred.
“Not much. These bones are not ssstrong enough. He can make his
arms and jaw move a bit though. Go on, Rogul-Friend. Move the jaw.”
“No,” the glow said firmly.
“Aw, come now, go on, Rogul!” The lizard looked at Alfred again.
“He’s upssset because it’sss been a long time sssince he was able to
walk. He’s mending the bones, but he’s not making much progresss. It’s
alright, Rogul-Friend. You’ll be about and walking out of thisss cave in
no time.”
“I’ve made plenty of progress,” said the skeleton indignantly. “I just
don’t see any point in going anywhere. Besides, someone has to be the
brains around here.”
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The sandprine looked at Dreana. “What’s wrong with that one? Don’t
it sssay anything?” it asked. Dreana looked away shyly. The sandprine
made a twitch with its body that may have been a shrug.
“Why are you fellows down here anyway?” asked Alfred.
“A curssse,” the sandprine hissed.
“In other words,” said Rogul, annoyed, “this sandprine accidentally
wandered into this enchanted cave, and developed the ability to speak. As
for me, I’ve been here serving the Anoton family for many generations.”
“Is the cave enchanted because of that lady in the other room?”
“Aye. The enchantress,” said Rogul.
“You mean that ssstatue?” giggled the lizard. “I’ve never ssseen it even
move before! Much like the sssanctum. Not like friends like you!”
Rogul ignored him and continued. “Anyway, she came here to
sleep, and her family descendants are bound to watch over her till she
awakes.”
Alfred turned as, with one final thump, the hinge of the door broke
free, and the door creaked open.
“I’ll come with you,” said the sandprine as he wriggled down to the
floor. Blacksheath threw the dented candlestick into the treasure pile.
“Worth a fortune,” murmured the lizard. “If you want to take sssome
treasure . . .” It lifted a dagger in its mouth expectantly.
Remembering his incompetence with the shortsword and Garnold,
Alfred politely declined. “No thank you, friends,” he said, smiling. “And
I hope you manage to walk about once again, Rogul.”
“And I hope that Gregmir Anoton doesn’t turn out like his forefathers,”
muttered Rogul. It was clear that he did not hold in high regards the
keepers of the sanctum.
Blacksheath beckoned Alfred into the tunnel, and after a couple of
sharp turns, soon they were plunged into utter darkness again with only
their hands to guide them.
“Can sandprines see well in the dark?” asked Alfred.
“Well, but not perfectly. Eyes ssstill need some light . . . this is complete
darknesss. That’sss where my innate sssenssses come about.”
They walked in silence, the incline of the tunnel moving upward.
Alfred could hear the soft patter of Dreana’s feet, the quiet slithering of
the sandprine on the sandstone, and the steady panting of Blacksheath.
Alfred recalled when Blacksheath had been searching for the hole in
the sand, and figured this behavior meant that he was expecting to find
something soon. Finally, when Alfred was about to go mad from the
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dark and his ever-growing thirst, there was a large crash as the three of
them bumped into one another and sprawled onto the floor.
“Hmm . . .” acknowledged the sandprine. “I ssshould’ve warned
you friends.”
Blacksheath grunted. “I forgot it was this close.” Alfred heard the sound
of something stony grinding back and forth on the wall by Blacksheath.
There was a click, and he heard Blacksheath open a door in the wall. A
brilliant beam of light filtered in, dancing as it illuminated floating sand
particles. “Help me!” said Blacksheath, straining.
Alfred grabbed the heavy stone door and helped him push it back as
far as he could. They all squinted into the room, temporarily blinded.
The room was an immense dome, made also of sandstone, but ornate
in the highest degree, almost like a palace. Elegant pillars suspended the
roof, and at the pinnacle was a large circular hole where brilliant sunlight
shone in. Another dazzling effect for Alfred was the rippling lines of light
on the roof caused from sunlight reflecting off of . . . water!
Alfred looked down and saw the stone path connected to the doorway
extending in an immense circle, holding the pillars, and everywhere
else had clear water in it. “Water, at last,” said Alfred. He realized how
painfully parched his throat was, even worse now that he was this close.
Alfred walked slowly to the water’s edge and bent down. Then he
paused and looked toward Blacksheath. “Is it alright to drink?”
The sandprine made what was unmistakably a frown. “Better not
drink too much, or there’ll be none for Abaloochar when he comes.”
“ . . . Abaloochar?” asked Alfred.
The sandprine wriggled on its belly in that odd way over to the water,
and looked in at its reflection. “The Massster of the Water. One-eye
Friend surely knows how to sssummon Water-Massster, yesss?”
Blacksheath glanced at the sandprine. “Yes, I do. Uh, Dreana? Do you
have the rod?” Dreana pulled out of a small satchel a short black rod
with a large, white, oval-shaped gem at the end. “You’re alright to drink,
Alfred,” said Blacksheath quietly. “I think Abaloochar will have plenty.”
Alfred did so, a bit suspiciously, as Blacksheath walked up to the
circle of water. In a small inlet around the edge was a small pedestal.
Blacksheath inserted the rod into a hole in the top of it and rotated it
carefully. Then he stepped back and pulled out the Amber Hand.
“Eh . . . what are you doing, exactly?” asked Alfred. “Who’s Abaloochar?”
Blacksheath ignored him, lifting the Amber Hand to point at the
gem. The Hand began to glow faintly gold, until the light blazed like
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fire. A beam of orange light streaked out of the artifact, hitting the gem
squarely. The gem refracted the beam, bending it to shine into the central
circle of water. Then there was rumbling in the floor, and wild ripples
formed on the still pond . . .
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Part II:
The Timewalker
Chapter 15
A lfred scurried to a wall and braced himself against it.

The song of some massive creature was resonating from the depths
as every part of the water bubbled and foamed. Dreana screamed.
“Blacksheath!” screamed Alfred. “What’s happening?!”
Blacksheath only braced himself against a wall of his own. A
tremendous sound similar to a whistle issued from the center of water.
Blacksheath, Dreana, and Alfred covered their ears as a glowing beacon
of light gleamed from the depths, and an enormous, muscular being
emerged. It was humanoid, whatever it was; and tall, blue in color, and
muscular. Its eyes were white, like glimmering pearls above the water.
“Who disturbs the Pond of Abaloochar?” the creature roared. White
light, identical to that coming from its eyes, shone from deep within its
throat as it spoke. Alfred was reminded for a brief moment of Kaiphrose,
but the resemblance ended at the blue skin and white eyes. If the monster
was a genie, it was not the type Alfred would ever like to sit down to eat
seed bread with.
“Blacksheath, friend of Gregmir,” said Blacksheath, a slight tremor in
his voice. “. . . remember my request, water demon?”
“Have you an offering?” boomed the creature, expressionless.
“Yes,” said Blacksheath. Alfred could hear him trying to sound bold, but
it seemed impossible in front of a being of this power looming from the
glowing pond. He also seemed to be generally more hesitant than usual.
Alfred looked at him. What sort of thing was being offered? The
Amber Hand, perhaps?
“And how will it be sacrificed?” asked Abaloochar.
Blacksheath had an empty look on his face. “By water.”
The water demon, with a grim nod, folded its muscular hands across
its chest and sank slowly back into the water.
Suddenly, to Alfred’s surprise, a loud grinding noise was heard, and
the door they had come out of slid back into its closed position with a
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thud. It clicked loudly into place, blocking their way out.

“What’s going on?” asked Alfred, confused.
The water began to rise in the pond at an alarming rate. Soon it
overflowed over the stone walkway, and within moments the water was
up to the group’s ankles. The sandprine began to kick its stubby legs,
swimming about playfully. Blacksheath absentmindedly took the rod
out of its place on the pedestal and handed it to Dreana, and then looked
at the Amber Hand, deep in thought.
“Could be a trap, you know,” said the sandprine. “It was for the last
ones who came here and summoned Water-Master . . . but I doubt
Abaloochar would trap you friends. You’re much too niccce.”
Soon, the water was up to their waists. “You do realize I can’t swim,
Blacksheath! Do something!” Alfred pleaded.
Blacksheath looked toward the center of the pond, avoiding his gaze.
“This is where I leave you,” he said darkly.
At first Alfred was puzzled. “What? I thought you wanted me to
perform your marriage ceremony.”
Blacksheath’s gaze fell upon the Amber Hand again. “You’ve done
what you needed to do,” he said. “You’ve signed the license.” Blacksheath
glared at Alfred with his one good eye. “But I also needed a priest for
another reason: to sacrifice to the water demon so that I might obtain
wealth to exceed all.”
“That’s not a very friendly thing to do,” said the sandprine coldly, who
was swimming against the rapidly drifting current several feet away.
“What about your new life? I thought you were a changed man,
Aelthur!” cried Alfred in desperation.
“Changed?” he said slowly, the water coming up to his chest. “For the
greater good, yes, changed. To think that the only man who knows both
of my names will soon be dead. Farewell, Father Alfred. Perhaps they’ll
call you Saint Alfred for your sacrifice.”
“But why a priest? Why?!” Alfred shouted.
“Don’t ask me. I just know that’s what Abaloochar wanted in exchange
for a marvelous treasure. He’s never been fond of the gods trapping him
in a pond of water for all eternity, so that might be why. Life is tough, and
then you die. I only do what I’m told!” said the thief.
The water rose to the group’s shoulders. Alfred could feel the swirling
current begin to tug at his ankles, and he fought to stay upright.
Blacksheath raised the Amber Hand out of the water, still looking at it,
as if avoiding Alfred’s gaze.
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“I don’t make the rules of the offering,” he said more quietly.

“So what, then? You sacrifice me and let yourself and your wife die in
the process?”
“Correction—you are going to die here. Dreana and I will survive.”
“How?” asked Alfred, watching the water lap around Dreana’s long hair.
“Like this.” He lifted the Amber Hand out of the water and closed
his eyes. Then, in a burst of orange light, Dreana and Blacksheath were
suddenly gone.
Alfred’s head tilted as he struggled to stay above the water.
Alfred prayed desperately to the gods that he would survive somehow,
but it seemed like it was too late. He was already sputtering water from
his mouth, and it was only a matter of time before the rippling water
would engulf him. What a waste of immortality, he thought. Aelisyn
indeed. He wouldn’t die by old age, but he could still drown. The cold,
wet reality of the world swirled around him darkly.
Alfred saw the sandprine finally reaching him, to try help him above
the water, but it seemed to give up—no doubt because of its tiny size.
Finally, with all the effort he could muster, Alfred took one more breath
of air as his head sank under the dark sheet of liquid.
Coldness enveloped Alfred as he was forced to peer into the depths
of the underwater room. He wondered why he would have to suffer such
a treacherous death, after all the comfort he had felt on this path. Then,
with a tug from a sudden current, he felt his body get sucked down, down
to the bottom of the water demon’s pond.
Time seemed to slow down. It reminded Alfred of going through
one of the tunnels in the Cavern of Time, though he couldn’t remember
which. He realized that it was ironic to die from drowning after he had
hoped so much for water only hours earlier.
Soon, the air escaped from Alfred’s lungs as bubbles to the surface as
black stars danced in front of his eyes. When oblivion had just begun to
take him under its shadowy veil, he heard a beautiful female voice.
“Alfred, help me,” said the female voice.
How? I’m in need of help myself! Alfred thought.
“Relax, Alfred,” said the voice. “It is not your time to die yet. How do
you feel?”
Alfred realized that not only had he not drowned yet, he didn’t seem
to be breathing. In fact, he didn’t feel like he needed to anymore. And yet
he was alive.
I feel like time . . . has stopped, he thought.
111
“You have begun to Timewalk,” said the voice. “You asked for help from
the gods, and here it is.”
Alfred’s thoughts were in a blur. How could he Timewalk without the
Cavern? Had the gods blessed him with a gift like the Timewalkers of
old? But before he could settle on a concrete thought, the voice spoke
again.
“Listen, Alfred. The gods have led you here because there is something in
this sanctum’s past you need—a lineage scroll from the Archives of Anoton.
It will direct you to the place where the Scroll of Time is hidden in Ae’brinthil
in the past. There you will find how to open the portal to the Chronomere
where Duke Rothgran is trapped.”
Wait, there are two scrolls? Who are you?
“I will tell you in good time. Right now, you must focus on helping me
by finding the duke.”
What do you want my help for?
“I am a spirit, bound by enchantment to someone who is in the Realm
of Time. As a Timewalker, you are the only one who can help me.” Alfred
realized he was having to strain to hear the voice. It seemed to be fading.
“I have offered my help for those who are not destined to be prisoners. We
will meet again, Alfred, but my time has run out for now . . .”
Alfred looked around at his position. His skin and clothes seemed to be
transparent, and there was a faint, white glow about them. Alfred tested
his movement, but something was completely different about simply
moving around. He could move—at this point, swim—but he could also
sense another dimension of movement possible. He could rotate his
hand, and move it up, down, side to side, and extend it forward. . . but
he could also do something more. He could project himself forward and
backward . . . in time.
***
Alfred could tell this new form of “Walking” would take some getting
used to, but all he needed to do now was escape. Carefully and slowly, he
warped toward the past, feeling the water drain out around him.
As he emerged from the water, he noticed that the colors around
him were all gone, replaced by shades of gray. As he looked around, he
noticed that the door was unblocked now, but he was more curious as to
where the light from above was coming. Despite not being in the water
anymore, he swam lightly upward through the air like a ghost. Eventually
112
he popped out of the sunlit hole in the ceiling and looked around.
He realized that the hole was an opening in the top of the high mesa
he had seen in the distance earlier. Alfred looked down from the dizzying
height, and could see as a speck in the distance the cart and mule they
had left behind.
Alfred looked around. Save the lone mesa, all around him was dry
desert sand, gray in his Timewalking eyes, as far as he could see. No sign
of water was in sight. He had escaped, but there was nowhere to go.
Alfred was amazed at his newfound power, and he was silently
grateful to the gods for helping him attain it at such an opportune time.
He thought of his present situation. Blacksheath and Dreana most likely
would transport themselves back to the entrance, by the black stone.
He could simply wait until they came and give them a surprise, or he
could go farther back in time and warn himself. But he remembered
Kaiphrose’s words in the Cavern and knew that would not go over well.
Blacksheath had never given him a chance to escape anyway, and who
knew how his past self would react? Alfred suddenly visualized the look
on Blacksheath’s face, dealing with the shock of there being two Alfreds.
It was amusing to think about, but also dangerous. Would his past self
regard him as his future self, or as a hostile hallucination? Somehow, he
could see it going either way.
Hesitantly, looking at the miles of desert in either direction, he
knew the only way he could reasonably survive would be to deal with
Blacksheath after he was betrayed. He floated down from the sandstone
mountain swiftly toward the cart, and suddenly felt very tired and
compressed, as if he were holding his breath.
He relaxed his Timewalking hold, and suddenly felt something
snap. Heat and wetness washed around him as yellow and brown colors
bloomed into his view. He had been levitating a couple of feet above the
ground, and he fell from this low height to land and stumble onto the
sand. As he rose, he noticed that his body was still the present one that
had drunk freely from the water demon’s pool. He felt well enough at
least to jog the rest of the way to the mule cart, though, and the water
from the pool was still clinging to his thief ’s clothes, feeling refreshing
in the hot sun.
When he arrived, he sat against the cart and tried to think of a plan.
He could take the cart and go, but he was afraid Blacksheath would catch
up to him. Besides, he remembered judging by the way time had reversed
itself in the chamber that he had gone back only a few minutes in time.
113
That meant that the group was probably just now entering the chamber to
awaken Abaloochar, so they were due back in about five minutes or so.
Alfred sighed. There was nothing more obvious to follow than cart
tracks in the middle of the desert anyway. Perhaps he could just ride
away on the mule?
It was as good a plan as any. At this point Alfred just wanted to get
away. Who knew what Blacksheath was capable of? Besides, they were
all but out of provisions anyway. The cart was only good for carrying
extra passengers now. Alfred started to unhitch the animal, and then
hesitated.
His old priestly vows came back to his mind. The gods had saved his
life, and it was because of his worthiness that they had done so. Though
he had been tempted to overpower Blacksheath during their journey, he
wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to murder another person. And
this . . . this was still stealing, after all.
Alfred still couldn’t bring himself to rob Blacksheath, even though the
cart wasn’t his and despite his treachery. Besides, without a way to get
out of the desert, who knew how Blacksheath—and Dreana especially,
Alfred realized . . . she hadn’t done much to deserve anything like this—
would survive? Alfred sighed, tying the mule back to the cart. He would
continue being a faithful priest, even it meant his demise. The gods
would sustain him. Who was he to doubt that?
Alfred’s clothes had dried at this point, and he was beginning to feel
hot again in the dry desert sun. He sat in the shade of the cart once more
and began to think. How could he deal with Blacksheath in person? He
was alive and away from the water demon, but that seemed to be his only
resource at this point.
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Chapter 16
I t had only been a minute or two when, in a burst of orange

light, Dreana and Blacksheath appeared near the sanctum’s entrance
in the sand. Alfred peeked out from behind the cart as the couple shook
drops of water from their clothing. Blacksheath looked exhausted and
spent. A surprising look of fear was in his face as he put the Amber Hand
back in his pocket.
“We’ll have to wait a while for Abaloochar to deal with the priest.
That should shut Gregmir up so he’ll let us go,” Blacksheath said gruffly
to Dreana.
“Was it worth it?” said Dreana. Alfred stared. He had not heard her
speak a word louder than a whisper until now. Her voice seemed hoarse,
probably from underuse.
“It will have to be,” said Blacksheath. “No going back now.”
Alfred stood up and, walking toward them, said loudly, “Oh,
I think the gods are always merciful enough to give you one more
chance.”
Blacksheath and Dreana cried out in terror, falling backward onto the
sand at the sight of him. “Are . . . are you some sort of sorcerer as well as
a priest?” Blacksheath stammered.
Alfred smiled grimly. “Who needs magic when the gods are on
your side?”
Blacksheath only glared at him with his one eye, a tortured look
seeming to pass behind his face.
“Why do you need to sacrifice a priest to get a treasure? You seem
to be well off already. Why kill me for some gold? You seem to just be
a perpetual liar, Aelthur. What is your real story? What is the real story
behind that artifact?” Alfred said bravely.
Blacksheath’s brow furrowed, and he crouched down to the hot sand.
He bowed his head, seeming to yield. “I betrayed your trust in regards to
this journey, priest, but I have never spoken a lie to you about myself. I
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did obtain the Hand from a gods-forsaken island years ago. It saved my
life, somehow.”
“It saved you, and you used it in return as a form of murder and
cowardice?” said Alfred angrily. “And after leading us halfway across
Argaenothruzil, no less! Why didn’t you just use it to transport us here
in the first place?”
“The artifact doesn’t work that way! It can go only go backwards in
time. Since Dreana and I were here an hour ago, I just—” Blacksheath
shook his head, looking all the more angry. “Look, priest, it doesn’t
matter. If you must know, there is no treasure. At least, not for me. But
Gregmir . . . you don’t understand! You have to get back down there!” A
look of worry passed over Blacksheath’s face.
Alfred looked at him. “I think it’s time you explained to me who this
Gregmir fellow is.”
Blacksheath growled, running a hand through his dirty hair. “Look,
what I told you about my plan is true. I want to go to Orovion and start
a new life. I want to marry Dreana and start living respectably. For that,
I let you sign our license for us. I meant what I said back at the guild. I
feel the gods’ presence around you. But I had to do it! I owe Gregmir a
debt . . . deeper than I am proud to say. This was the only way I could
make sure that we were square!”
Alfred could not tell what to believe. Blacksheath seemed sincere, like
he had all of the other times. He was even trembling a bit. Either he was
a very good actor, or he was very afraid of something.
“Gregmir’s not like me, alright? He’s much more than a mere thief. All
he wants is power. More than that, he wants to make people suffer. He’s
caused pain in so many people, and I’ve been in his debt for years, never
able to escape. In order for him to spare me, I had to agree to his one last
demand, and I would be free to go.”
Suddenly, the three jumped as the black stone lid in the sand shifted,
and a thin, sandy-haired man emerged.
“Blacksheath, you idiot!” he said in a shrill voice. Annoyance was
clear in his face as he crawled up onto the sand. He was wearing what
appeared to be a robe so soiled that Alfred could not tell what color it had
originally been. “I told you to wait for me at the pond before summoning
the water demon! Is the priest already dead? How am I supposed to
ensure Abaloochar fulfills his side of the bargain?”
Blacksheath gestured to Alfred, fumbling to explain. “The priest is
right here! I only went down to, um . . . to see if the rod worked correctly.
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I hadn’t expected the demon to flood the room. Do you reckon he’ll drain
it so we can have the real offering?”
Gregmir looked at Alfred coldly, and then narrowed his eyes at
Blacksheath. “Idiot. Seems like quite a trip to just be testing the rod,” he
said. “More likely, you were thinking about betraying me, weren’t you?
The priest’s not even in chains! He could run away at any time. I have
no place in my bargain for carelessness, idiot! You’ve waited long for
this, Blacksheath, as well you’ve told me. A shame you seem so intent on
trying my patience. I told you, all the treasure for me, forgiveness and
freedom”—he nearly spat the word—“for you.”
Gregmir pulled one of his sleeves back to reveal a silver bracer on
his forearm, and then made a strange gesture with his hand as the
bracer glowed bright like a hot forge. Suddenly, a circle of sand around
Blacksheath and Dreana glowed red and shimmered like a molten mirror.
Spikes of hot glass erupted from the ground, and the couple cried out,
trying to hop out of the way and dodge their serpentlike strikes. Gregmir
laughed wheezily as he watched them, jabbing his fingers with each strike
of glass. “Dance, dance!” he guffawed. And then his jovial expression was
suddenly replaced with malice. He flicked his hand again, and the glass
crumbled into sand again. Blacksheath and Dreana collapsed, panting.
Alfred noticed spots of blood on their clothing.
Gregmir emerged from the hole in the sand and walked over to
Blacksheath. “I’d appreciate a little less cheek, Blacksheath. You already
deserve to die for your mistakes. However, since every Anoton is a man of
his word, I’ll keep my end of the deal if you’ll keep yours. And this time,” he
said, pulling something from the sleeve of his robe, “You will keep yours.”
Gregmir thrust something small into Blacksheath’s leg. Blacksheath
cried out in pain, clutching the spot. Blood spotted his fingers, blooming
from his trouser leg.
“Get up,” said Gregmir. Despite his wounds, Blacksheath struggled to
his feet. “Grab the priest.” Blacksheath immediately lunged for Alfred,
grabbing him and holding his arms to his sides. Alfred struggled, but
Blacksheath’s strength held.
“Say you’re sorry to me.”
Blacksheath’s teeth gritted, and then he said, “I’m sorry, Gregmir.”
Gregmir grinned, licking his yellow teeth. “Call me ‘master.’”
“I’m sorry . . . m-master,” said Blacksheath.
“Good,” said Gregmir. “Finally some obedience.” He unrolled his
sleeve, obscuring the bracer.
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“I expect you to do it right this time, so listen carefully. Go through

Sanctum Anoton to the chamber of Abaloochar. Wait for me to
arrive, summon Abaloochar, and offer the priest. Toy with me again,
Blacksheath, or take that talisman out of your leg, and your life will be
my payment, not the priest’s. And don’t even think about leaving. I can
see through your eyes.” Alfred started. He swore that he had seen the
man’s deep green eyes flash red for a moment.
Gregmir looked at Dreana and gave Blacksheath a look. “And do us
both a favor, Blacksheath. Leave the wench. She’ll only get in the way.”
The man disappeared in a flash of blue light.
Blacksheath immediately began to push Alfred toward the hole.
“Easy, Blacksheath!” said Alfred.
“I’m sorry,” said Blacksheath, still wincing in pain with each step. “I
don’t have a choice now. I promise I’ll change my ways forever if you
just do this for me. I’ll do a good deed every day. If Dreana and I ever
have children, I’ll send my firstborn to the church to be a priest in your
honor. I’ll even name him Alfred. Is that what you want? More good in
the world? I’ll be a god’s disciple in your name if you just free me from
this madman.”
Alfred was stunned as he saw the glint of a tear in Blacksheath’s good
eye, but his mind raced. What had Blacksheath done to deserve this
treatment? If only Alfred could do something to help Blacksheath and
escape. He wasn’t about to take any risks with Timewalking until he had
a bit more practice. Technically, he would have to obtain the approval of
the gods—that was how Sacrum magic worked—but as long as he kept
their favor and did not toy with serious matters, such as life and death,
he felt that he would be protected.
“Very well, Blacksheath,” said Alfred, as he began to climb down the
hole once more. “I’ll go down one more time. This time willingly. We’ll
see who the gods favor.”
Blacksheath’s eye flickered nervously to his pocket, from which he
took the Amber Hand. Then he handed it to Dreana. He said something
quietly to her and she nodded.
“Not so fast,” said Alfred. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” said Blacksheath. “I was merely
instructing Dreana. As I said, the Amber Hand has the power of recall,
or the power to transport oneself to one’s own footprints on a past track,
which seems to be an ability you pride yourself in . . . Anyway, it also has
the power of summoning. After sacrificing you to the water demon, she
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will simply summon me here to safety.”

Alfred’s eyebrows rose. “Why the difference in manner? Is there
any reason?”
“Yes,” said Blacksheath. “The Amber Hand also acts as an Arcane
catalyst. If you try to teleport again, the ley lines you made will all be
focused on me alone.”
Alfred was puzzled. Blacksheath honestly thought that Alfred was
some sort of wizard? “We can both fight against Gregmir,” said Alfred
hopefully. “We could overpower him together.”
Blacksheath pointed at his leg. “I’m sorry, Alfred,” he said. “If you
don’t let me do this, we both die.” He pulled a knife from his belt and
pointed it at Alfred’s throat.
“I’m going, I’m going,” said Alfred, crawling down the rock shaft.
***
The two men walked silently through the dark hall for the second time.
“So, what did you do to incur such debt with that madman?” said
Alfred.
Blacksheath spat. “I’m done talking with you,” he said simply.
Alfred’s mind was calm. The gods would definitely protect him from
whatever came his way. He could feel it. Even the evil look in Gregmir’s
eyes seemed laughable in comparison to the might of the gods.
“What sort of treasure is Gregmir looking for?”
But Blacksheath was silent. As the darkness closed in on them, Blacksheath
did not even attempt to light a torch this time. It was a dark, cold walk.
Eventually, Alfred knew that they would soon reach the sleeping lady,
and found himself looking forward to seeing her once more.
“Alfred,” a female voice whispered.
“You again?” Alfred whispered.
“Alfred, now is the time to Timewalk.”
“But how?” Alfred breathed.
“Shut up,” Blacksheath growled emptily, looking back at Alfred. “Your
prayers cannot save you now.”
“You don’t have to speak aloud, Alfred. I can hear your thoughts. I will
tell you how to Timewalk back to the time in history of the Archives of
Anoton, and the Scroll of Time.”
Must I do this thing on my own? How far back in time must I go?
thought Alfred.
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“As far back as you can muster. The Scroll existed long ago. Your spirit
will arrive there first, and your body will join you soon after.”
Alfred couldn’t think of any more questions to ask. He tried to focus
the same way when he’d been drowning . . . but he found himself straining
to do it.
I can’t do it! he thought.
“Patience, Alfred. You know how Sacrum works. It will come soon.”
Soon they came to the door to the chamber of the sleeping woman.
Why couldn’t I have Timewalked to the time of the Scroll when I was
drowning? asked Alfred in his head. But the woman’s voice was silent.
Blacksheath opened the far door and they entered the chamber again.
There again was the woman on the couch. Alfred still could not stop
himself from admiring her beauty. Somehow, she seemed to look a bit
calmer than she had the first time.
Finally, they reached the tunnel to the treasure room. Alfred began to
hear voices again.
“He must have disappeared into thin air,” said Rogul’s echoey voice. “I
remember a priest that did that . . . a long, long time ago. Maybe that’s a
talent of priests—getting out of sticky situations.”
Alfred smiled. The light was beginning to filter through the tunnel.
Blacksheath stood up, and Alfred followed next. They were in the same
treasure room now. The sandprine had somehow made it out of the water
room, and it sat glaring at Blacksheath.
“You didn’t tell me that Priessst-Friend couldn’t ssswim,” the sandprine
hissed at Blacksheath. “You drowned my Priessst-Friend. Friends don’t
kill friendsss.”
“Well, he’s still alive,” grunted Blacksheath, as Alfred entered the
room. “See? I suggest you be obedient to your master and stay out of
my way.”
Suddenly, the sandprine coiled its body like a spring, hissing. There
was a flash of brown, and Blacksheath grunted as the sandprine tackled
him against the wall.
“Wait!” yelled Alfred. “He’s not the one you should be attacking!” He
grabbed the sandprine, who had bitten Blacksheath twice on his scalp.
The sandprine relaxed in his grip, and Alfred set him down.
Blacksheath lay unconscious on a pile of bronze coins. “What did you
do to him?” asked Alfred.
“He hit hisss head,” said the sandprine. “But he’ll be alright. What’sss
wrong? He’sss clearly not a true friend for tricking you.”
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“He was following Gregmir’s instructions, nothing more,” said Alfred

distantly. “He didn’t truly want to betray me.”
The sandprine looked at Blacksheath for a moment more, then,
seeming to lose interest, looked up at Alfred. “I’m happy that you
sssurvived, Priessst-Friend.”
Alfred smiled, and then turned to Rogul.
“You said you met a priest before, a long time ago.”
“Yes,” pulsed the blue light. “He looked a lot like you.”
“How did he do it?” asked Alfred.
“What do you mean?”
“How did he disappear?”
“I don’t know the ways of humans, much less priests,” said Rogul.
Alfred thought. “What did the priest do . . . right before he
disappeared?”
“He prayed to the gods,” said Rogul simply.
Alfred thought of his final moments before Timewalking in the pond,
and then smiled. All he needed to do was ask, and it would be granted.
“Thank you for trying to help, little friend,” he said, petting the
sandprine’s scaly back. “Is there anything I can do for you in return?”
“No,” said the sandprine, baring its teeth in an odd grin. “Friends
ssshould help each other without any promissse of reward.”
Alfred looked sadly at Blacksheath. “I couldn’t have said it better
myself,” he said. He noticed a bronze-framed mirror in the pile of treasure
and took it. He held it to Blacksheath’s mouth and saw that the glass
fogged. “I hope Gregmir has mercy on you, Aelthur,” he said quietly. “I
hope you and Halla can start a new life.”
Alfred knelt and began to pray to Vendictes, god of eternity.
“Vendictes Timefather,” prayed Alfred.
Suddenly, there was an odd buzzing sound. Alfred looked toward
Blacksheath, and noticed that something on Blacksheath’s leg was
glowing blue. Suddenly, in a burst of blue light, Gregmir stood in front
of Blacksheath. He looked at the sandprine lividly. “Idiot of a sandprine!
How dare you interfere!” He reared back and kicked the sandprine in the
face. The lizard bounced off of the far wall and lay still.
“Stay there, priest, or I’ll make you beg for a swift death,” Gregmir
growled. He pointed his black scepter at Alfred’s chest, and then bent
down to examine Blacksheath. Alfred’s heart began to pound. In a
moment of desperation, he continued his prayer in his mind. He could
see rays of light begin to swirl around him. Vendictes, please show me the
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way, as thou hast in the past. He closed his eyes and felt a change around
him. A glow began to glimmer behind his eyelids. And as thou wilt in
the future.
Suddenly, Alfred felt light as air. Even his clothes seemed to hold no
weight. He opened his eyes from the prayer. Everything had lost its color
once again. Gregmir was frozen in a shocked expression looking back at
Alfred. The bronze cutlery and candlesticks appeared to be made of iron
in the gray gloom. He had done it.
“Well done, Alfred,” said the female voice, which now seemed to ring
outside of his ears entirely and permeate the air around him. “In order to
Timewalk, you must first be sanctioned by the gods,” said the female voice.
“Prayer doesn’t change their will; it only shows you’re humble enough to ask
for something.”
Remembering that Timewalking had a limit, Alfred wasted no time
in concentrating on going backward in time. In a rapid flicker of images,
he saw Gregmir disappear, then Blacksheath suddenly stand up and
walk backwards out of the room with an image of Alfred. The sandprine
slithered backwards through the door to the pond. As time sped up, he
thought he saw himself and Dreana in the room for a second again, and
then the room began to blur.
He felt like he was sprinting somewhere quickly with all of his
might. Alfred fought to keep going farther back, and felt an odd ripping
sensation across his body. Though he felt no pain, he began to realize he
could no longer feel anything around him.
“You can do it, Alfred,” said the female voice again. “Just a little bit
farther.”
He felt his frame grow ever lighter. He realized, alarmed, that his
whole body was slowly disintegrating. The vortex of time spun faster and
faster in the objects around him as years ticked backward like grains in
an hourglass . . .
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Chapter 17
W hen the familiar exhaustion overtook Alfred, he let

the Timewalking snap like a breath of held air, and every-
thing suddenly went quiet. He looked around. Much had changed in the
treasure room, besides just its newer look. The skeleton that the revenant
had been trying to inhabit was gone, and there wasn’t any cutlery or trea-
sure. Alfred was surprised to see a large, bulky suit of black spiky armor
standing in the corner, and it seemed to be the only thing in the room,
besides a large bank of sand obscuring the stone base on one side. A
hanging lamp Alfred had not seen earlier was illuminating the ceiling.
Alfred looked up as he heard voices coming from the hallway leading
to the sleeping woman’s room. One thing that Alfred noticed in his spirit
form was that he was completely and utterly weightless. Not a single
sinew or muscle pulled the slightest bit to the world’s gravity. It had
been rather like swimming when he had left the water chamber, but this
was something even lighter altogether. There was indeed material to his
spirit form, though its elements were obviously much more refined than
organic flesh. He sensed no color in his form, though. Indeed, he was
obviously invisible to mortal eyes.
“Thither shall she rest till he cometh,” said a man’s voice in an odd
accent. “But six monthen it is been, and still he is not come. Ic fear he
shall not come, not now, nor ever.”
Alfred decided that he had better find the lineage scroll. He floated
across the room to the door leading to the sleeping woman, which
looked significantly newer than it did in the future, and a lock was on
it this time.
As he reached to try and open the door, he smiled as, with amusement,
his hand floated right through the handle. He floated through the door
as if it were made of mist. He followed the hallway, and felt the darkness
encompass him as he slowly made his way toward the sleeping lady’s
chamber.
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Alfred started as he saw two men wearing white robes in front of him
carrying torches. One by one, they walked straight through his spirit in
the hallway. They stopped a few feet past Alfred.
“Didst thou feel something?” one said nervously.
“Nay. What is it?”
“The warm dryness of this cave felt . . . chill for a moment.”
Alfred chuckled to himself, expelling no sound. He continued floating
through the tunnel in the opposite direction.
Suddenly Alfred felt an alarming sensation. He felt as if a heavy net
had been thrown over him, and was about to pull him into the depths
of the earth. The pleasant, peaceful, warm sensation that he had been
feeling suddenly started to disappear, and he began to sink to the ground
with weight. He cried out in a silent call of despair, but the men didn’t
hear him. He felt sharp, tiny spines sticking into him, and then he felt
slimy. Tightening sensations enveloped him like coarse bandages as he
slowly sank to the hard stone ground.
The dry, rough stone. Alfred felt it quite clearly under his knees and
hands. He brought his dusty hands to his face and felt his cheeks. His
hands felt heavy, but he appeared to be getting used to his body quickly.
He heard the door to the treasure room slam. Alfred had a little trouble
getting up, and when he did, he staggered and nearly fell over. He planted
his feet firmly and tried to regain his balance. When he felt like he could
walk again, he made his way down the hallway. After a while, he found
the door to the chamber and opened it, but the room only contained a
few clay pots. Apparently, the woman’s body had been somewhere else
before she had been moved to this room.
Alfred scolded himself as he realized that it would have been better
if he would have stayed put in the treasure room. Then he could have
talked to the men in white. He hadn’t been sure where to look for the
scroll or archives anyway. The woman’s room had just seemed like the
likely place to start.
Alfred made his way back to the treasure room door, and sighed as
he found that the cloaked men had locked it behind them. Alfred put his
ear against the door’s surface. Despite the solid stone form of the door, he
could hear muffled voices. If Alfred was able to hear them from a distant
chamber, then that meant they might be able to hear him from the other
side of the door.
“Hey back there!” he screamed, banging his fists against the solid
stone. “Open the door!”
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No answer.
“Open the door!” screamed Alfred. “Is anyone there?”
He jumped as the door opened, not by the two men in white, but by a
very thin, sandy-haired man dressed in gray robes.
“Who art thou? How didst thou enter hither?!” said the man brashly.
Alfred stood agape, stunned at the anger of the man.
“Who art thou?” the man asked sternly again in his tenor voice.
“Speak!”
“Well, I’m—”
“This sanctum is forbidden to all but the priesten and ic.”
“But . . .” Alfred stopped. “Wait, who’s ‘ic’?”
“Silence. Ic know not how thou didst enter, but go thou back out the
way thou camest! Now!”
To his astonishment, the sandy-haired man slammed the door and
locked it.
Alfred knocked weakly on the door again, but it was no use. Alfred
had no choice but to sit down in the darkness of the hall. Though he was
frustrated with his contact with the people of this century, he understood
their confusion. It most likely mirrored his own.
Alfred realized how hungry he was. He felt like he’d never eaten
before, and ironically enough, he realized, he technically hadn’t. How
had the sandy-haired man entered the room after he left? Had he been
in the chamber of Abaloochar? Perhaps there was something different
altogether back there in this time period.
Alfred sighed, and put his head in his hands. If he was trapped here
until someone came, he might as well rest from his journey of hundreds
of years.
***
It took about a half hour before anybody opened the door. When it was
opened, it was by the two men in white robes he had passed earlier. They
invited Alfred into the room as they unlocked the door.
“How enteredst thou hither?” asked the older of the two men. Alfred
soon realized by the symbols on their cloaks—archaic in style though
they were—that they were not only priests, but high priests of Argae—
the ancient order governing priesthood in the entire continent. Their
High Temple was located in the mountains above Ae’brinthil, where
the future Alfred would go after his pilgrimage with Mendon. Alfred
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noticed that the older of the two men had a white circlet on his brow,
and realized that he was none other than the Vendictis Archbishop of all
Argaenothruzil. They waited for him to answer.
Alfred stammered. “High priests of Argae, forgive me for my intrusion,
but I was transported here from the future.”
The archbishop shook his head. “Of course! Ic forgot about thee.
Alfrec Shortstaff, is it? By the goden, an actual Timewalker, Abron!”
“It’s Alfred, actually. But you know about me already?” said Alfred,
amazed.
“Yea, the goden told me a few nighten ago that thou wouldst come in
the nigh future.” He looked closer at Alfred. “Art thou a priest, also?”
Alfred touched his fingers to his lips, and then to his heart. The high
priests returned the gesture. “How delightful! But pray, why art thou
clothed thus?”
Alfred looked at his dusty linen shirt and leather breeches. “It’s . . . a
long story,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
“We have some extra roben hither in the sanctum,” said the other
priest, apparently named Abron. He was bearded, unlike the archbishop,
and looked only about ten years older than Alfred. “Ic shall fetch them.”
He left through the hallway toward where the sleeping woman would
someday be.
“So . . . what else did the gods say about me?” asked Alfred.
A door opened from another chamber, and the sandy-haired man
entered the room.
“Nothing much else of consequence,” mumbled the archbishop
dismissively, glancing behind him.
The sandy-haired man approached them. “What is happened?” he
said loudly.
“He is Timewalked hither from the future,” said the archbishop,
smiling. “Canst thou not hear the difference in his speech? This one
speaketh Argaen in the way it shall sound in centurien to come.” He
looked at Alfred in admiration.
“ . . . What?” asked Alfred, feeling awkward.
“Forgive us, Alfred, but it is most intriguing to behold a Timewalker.
The texten say that such abilitien are all but nonexistent now.”
Abron entered the room, holding some folded white robes in his
arms. “Ic also noticed that thy symbol is missing,” he said, handing him
a silver pendant. It looked exactly the same as the ones Alfred had seen
in the future.
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Alfred took the folded robes and looked more closely at them. “These
are . . . These are high priest robes,” he said. “I’m not worthy to wear the
attire of your station. Do you have any lower-order robes?”
Ebricus raised a hand, shaking his head. “Worry thou not,” he said.
“The goden understand thine unique predicament.”
“Why art thou come hither, Timewalker?” asked Baros, frowning.
“Now, Baros, pray let him get settled first,” said the archbishop. Alfred
changed in a small chamber with a deep hole in it that was apparently
used as a privy. Alfred wondered exactly how big the Sanctum Anoton
was. He hadn’t thought about the different doorways in the future. Had
all of these even been there in the future? Perhaps they had consolidated
their rooms over the years. Alfred left his thief ’s clothing folded in a
corner in the room, and rejoined the others outside.
“Ah!” said Abron. “What providence! The robe suiteth thee.”
Though the torso was a bit tight, as if the shoulders of the robe weren’t
broad enough, Alfred was comfortable enough, and felt much closer to
the gods with a pendant symbol around his neck again. Though he still
felt a bit disrespectful wearing such a garment.
The archbishop spoke. “Where are our mannern? We have not yet
introduced ourselven,” he cleared his throat. “My name is Ebricus,
archbishop of the Church of Vendictes.”
“And ic am Abron,” said the other priest.
“Ic am Baros Anoton, the caretaker of the Sanctum Anoton,” said the
sandy-haired man. “And who, may ic ask, art thou?”
“Alfred Shortstaff,” said Alfred. “It appears that at least you already
knew that, archbishop.”
“Pray let me explain, Baros,” said Ebricus, in response to the sandy-
haired man’s quizzical look. “A few nighten ago, as ic said, Vendictes,
the god of Eternity, and hence Time, told unto me of a visitor from the
future named Alfred Shortstaff. A great evil shall apparently take over
the world in five hundred yearen, and something from our time period
is to blame. Alfred came hither by their command to help.”
“Yes,” said Alfred as the others looked at him. “That is true, more
or less.”
Baros looked at Alfred up and down. “Well, what is it thou art going
to do?” he said, folding his arms. Alfred suddenly got the impression
that the man was the impatient type . . . or perhaps he just didn’t trust
Alfred.
“Ultimately, I seek the Scroll of Time. The answers to its discovery lie
127
in a certain lineage scroll in the Archives of Anoton,” said Alfred.

“Good, for the Archiven are here, and we know of one scroll of
genealogical nature,” said Ebricus.
The caretaker scowled.
“Is something wrong? What’s the problem?” Alfred looked at Baros
and saw his eyes filled with spite.
“Archbishop, ic believe ic too had a dream the other night,” said Baros
coldly. “Ic dreamed of a madman disguised as a priest burning our
valuable recorden of old.”
Ebricus’s elderly face wrinkled in a frown. “Now Baros, be thou
reasonable. This man is sent by the goden. We can be assured that it is an
inspired commandment.”
“Wherefore would he need to look in the recorden of my family?”
Baros said rigidly.
“The goden work mysteriously, Baros. Pray, give him the record.”
“Nay! Ic am the keeper of this sanctum, and am also bound by
the goden! As ic live, thou shalt not have the record! Ic suggest thou
Timewalkest back to thine own era.”
“Alfred, may ic speak to thee a moment?” said Ebricus, taking him
aside in a low voice. “Ic apologize for Baros’s behavior. Baros is not of
our faith, and is highly suspicious of all people. His aunt adopted him as
a youth, and he taketh his work very seriously. He guardeth the recorden
of his ancestoren with caution, as he feeleth that it is his only real purpose
in life . . . Oh, how daft of me . . . Perhaps thou knowest of this in the
future more than ic do? Well, no matter. Thou shalt have a look at the
record. Ic will make sure of it.”
Ebricus looked at the sanctum’s caretaker, who was very tense at this
moment. “Baros, perhaps he could simply look at it in thy presence.
Thou shalt have no need to worry about it missing, or him Timewalking
away with it.”
“I may not even need to take it at all,” offered Alfred. “If I could just
take a look . . .”
“So thou sayest!” said Baros, angrily. “It seemeth to me that thou
seekest to cover up thine intentionen. Thou seekest to discover the
secreten of my family!”
“Baros. He shall not take any secreten from the record. Ic promise,”
said Abron, annoyed. “Thou canst even order Rogul to watch him while
he readeth, if it pleaseth thee.”
The man seemed to like the idea, though he remained stern. “If thou
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makest one false move with the record . . .” threatened Baros, and then
made a finger motion under his neck. Alfred wondered vaguely how
long that gesture had been around.
***
“Sandprine!” Baros called out, echoing in the room.

From the middle of the bank of sand along the wall of the chamber
slithered a sandprine, thinner and darker colored than the sandprine of
the future, with stripes along its back.
“What isss thy bidding, my liege?” came a surprisingly stern voice,
quite unlike the sandprine of the future.
“Go thou into the Archiven of Anoton and retrieve the record of
lineage,” Baros said.
The sandprine slithered into a small opening in the wall, one that
Alfred had not noticed in the future sanctum. Alfred bent down to
peer inside. The sandprine crawled out of view, and Alfred could
see many glittering objects inside the long hole in the dim light—
necklaces, pottery, small statues, and lots of rolled up sheets of
parchment.
“Those objecten belong to me,” commented Baros, glaring at Alfred
until he stood up again. “Mine aunt bestowed them upon me in my one-
and-twentieth year. Ic happen to come from a long line of historianen.”
The sandprine came back with an old tattered scroll in its mouth,
dropping it at Baros’s feet. “Here it is, massster,” it hissed.
Baros took the scroll, and then pulled back his sleeves to reveal
two silvery bangles on his forearms. To Alfred’s surprise, the bangles
glowed with a flash of blue light, and a table was conjured out of thin
air in the room.
“You’re a mage?” asked Alfred.
“Auntie didn’t leave me ignorant of her skillen,” he muttered as he
replaced his sleeves.
Baros laid the scroll on the table, and then called for Rogul.
“Rogul, see that this man tampereth not with any of the text of the
record. If he doeth this, hold him and call to me.” He looked at Alfred.
“Thou hast twain houren to look at it, no more!”
Baros conjured a chair in front of the table. Alfred sat down, Rogul’s
giant suit of armor hovering behind him.
“The high priesten and ic have business we must conduct,” said Baros.
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“We were planning on doing it in this room . . . but it seemeth our

plannen have changed.”
Both of the priests gave Alfred a look of apology, and exited the room
with the caretaker.
“Wait!” Alfred called. The group reentered. “Do you . . . have any
food? I just realized I’ve technically never eaten before.”
Baros scowled, but the priests laughed. They brought him two skewers
of dried meat and some bread, as well as some watered-down wine.
“Please, let us know if there is anything thou needest, your holiness,”
said Baros scathingly, and slammed the door.
Alfred sighed, looking down at the scroll. Just as Baros had described,
it was a description of his ancestry. Alfred read the introduction:
The first ledger of ancestoren is a Thing of great worth

and value, and You’re guide to the honorable Anoton
line. Looking at this record is thus permitted For
priesten, monken and the family Anoton, and Is to only
be read and studied In placen of holy origin or where The
Anoton Magic is present; its noble Way being taught long
ago, before timen Of the ancient kingly house of noble
Yormoth existed.
A somewhat stuffy introduction, to be sure, but it did mention Yormoth,

so Alfred hoped he was on the right track. He rolled the parchment up
a bit further, and sure enough, after the introduction was a long line of
names. The scroll was a ledger of lineage, just as it purported to be. Alfred
chewed on the salty meat as he skimmed through the ancestors’ names:
Baros Anoton, surrogate-son Tagmir Anoton, son Eteerom Anoton, son
Anoton Jatham, son Anoton Hromicus, son Anoton Aelthur . . . now that
was interesting. Perhaps Blacksheath was related to this line.
The line went on for the entire length of the scroll, all the way back
to “Anoton the Younger, son Anoton.” When Alfred got to the end, he
realized there had been nothing about how to find the Scroll of Time.
What was Baros playing at? Had he given him the wrong scroll? Alfred
rolled the scroll up back to the start of the family line.
The only interesting part after the introduction was the way the
surnames began to be named before the first names. But that was just
ancient custom. In fact—Alfred counted in his head—if this was five
hundred years before his time, as Ebricus had mentioned, then it would
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make perfect sense. Names in all documents were written that way five
hundred and seventy years in the past in the year 2g459, after the Four
Laws were written.
Alfred looked more closely at the names. Was there supposed to be
a hidden code in the scroll? The record of ancestors was very detailed,
and somewhat repetitive. But he didn’t mind; that was how the gods
worked. What was pressing about it was that he was trying to find
information about the Scroll of Time, and it would probably take him
more time than Baros would allow him to make sense of the order of
the names.
“Excuse me, sssir, but thou’st been here for nearly an hour,” piped the
sandprine, as if reading Alfred’s thoughts about time.
“Sandprine, do you know anything about this record?”
“Nay,” said the sandprine. It seemed reluctant to regard Alfred more
than it had to.
“Hmmm . . .” Alfred sighed. “What about you, Rogul?”
The blue light of the revenant’s form didn’t so much as flicker in the
armor. Alfred took the hint that the gods had confidence in him to figure
this out on his own.
Alfred pored over the text once more. This was harder than he
thought. Taking what he knew of ancient riddles, Alfred looked at the
first letters of the names. Perhaps there had been some sort of ancient
naming-rite that formed a pattern. B-T-E-J-H . . . no, there’s no way that
could be a word, even in Old Argaen. And backwards from the end to the
beginning didn’t even begin to form a word either.
Alfred threw up his hands. Frustrated and exhausted, he was about
to call Baros and ask for a different scroll when his eyes fell on the
introduction again. He decided to reread it, and noticed something he
had not realized when reading through the first time.
“The word ‘you’re’ is wrong. It’s supposed to be ‘your,’ not ‘you are.’”
“What?” muttered the sandprine, suddenly alerted from a daze.
“I thought this was just the way Old Argaen was written, but it’s
deliberate!” said Alfred excitedly. “‘You’re’ is just the start. No wonder
the grammar in this thing is dodgy. And the capital letters . . .”
Alfred combed over the introduction again. It was likely that Yormoth
was part of the phrase, since it was the only proper name that was never
mentioned in the line of ancestry. Soon Alfred began to see a pattern.
Every seventh word after the first seemed to fit together in a sequence,
which was easy to follow because of the capitalizations.
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“The thing you’re looking for . . . is in the Way of Yormoth! That’s it!”
he said excitedly.
“Doesss that mean thou’rt done?” asked the sandprine.
“No, there might still be something I can decipher from the
ancestry.”
Alfred began to count the ancestry’s letters again, this time only
counting every seventh letter. But before he could get anything coherent
spelled, Baros and the two high priests entered the room.
“Alright, priest, that’s time enough. Didst thou find out what thou
hadst hoped to find?”
“Yes, mostly. The scroll I’m looking for is in the Way of Yormoth.”
The priests and Baros looked surprised.
“The Way of Yormoth,” whispered Ebricus. “Thou art truly sanctioned
by the goden indeed.”
“How canst thou be sure?” asked Baros, walking over to the table.
“There was a code in the introduction,” said Alfred, pointing to the
capitalized words. “For me, apparently. See?”
Baros eyed the introduction. “Every seventh word,” he said.
“Yes, I was hoping to look at the rest—”
“Sufficient,” said Baros coldly. “Leave thou the record on the table, if
it pleaseth thee.”
Alfred was annoyed by this, but at least he had found out the location
of the Scroll of Time.
Ebricus spoke up. “Alfred, if the Way of Yormoth is what thou seekest,
thou mayest come with us to Ae’brinthil, where it is located. We can help
get thee permission to enter from the bishop and the king. Due to the
nature of the Way, however, according to my limited information about
it, it might be challenging for thee to leave once thou hast entered in.”
“Baros is coming along too,” said Abron. “He shall escort us to
Ae’brinthil proper. Now that Sathamia hath commissioned him to stay
here, he would that his wife and son live here with him.”
“How soon?” asked Alfred
“Immediately. All hath been arranged,” said Abron, smiling. “Thou
arrivedst at the perfect time.”
“Escort them up, Rogul,” said Baros. “Ic shall be up in a minute. Stay
thou here, sandprine.”
The black suit of armor glowed blue from inside the helm, where
Alfred saw the shape of a skull. The group made their way out of the
room and followed the hallways to the stone steps. Soon, they had exited
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the hole into the desert sun. A carriage drawn by two horses was waiting
for them.
Alfred was surprised to see a clearly paved road going through the
desert about a hundred yards away from the entrance to the Sanctum.
It was sandy, but seemed to be rather well maintained for a desert path.
Apparently, the desert was much more traveled in this time period. How
much else had changed?
“What year is it?” asked Alfred suddenly.
Abron smiled and said, “Third Generation, year five hundred one-
and-forty. How many yearen back hast thou Timewalked, Alfred?”
Alfred did a quick calculation. “Four hundred and eighty-eight years,”
he said in awe.
“It must be exciting to come from the future and see how thingen
were in thy time’s past,” said Abron. “What a marvelous historian thou
couldst be!”
“It is rather strange,” admitted Alfred.
“What a great deal stranger it would be to go into the future, nay?”
“I have seen the future before, too. I may know more about time than
I do about my own fate.”
“Ic believe it is safe to say that thou knowest more about time than
anyone ever shall,” said Abron with a smile.
“Yes . . .” said Alfred slowly, thinking about the Cavern of Time. “I
guess I’m the last true Timewalker.”
This seemed to end the conversation for a while. Soon, Baros and the
sandprine exited the hole with some supplies. Alfred helped him load
the items into the carriage which, Alfred noted with relief, was loaded
with several barrels of fresh water. He wondered if it had been taken
from Abaloochar’s pond.
The group entered the carriage, which sagged under Rogul’s weight
slightly. Baros took the driver’s seat, and after directing the horses
through the sand onto the road, soon the carriage was on its way.
In time, the road reached a crossroads where there were several large
tents and hitched camels and horses. People wearing desert cloaks sat
trading at stalls, selling their wares and speaking with each other. The
area was a junction of three paths, one leading to the northeast, another
to the northwest, and another to the southwest. The high priests nodded
at the traders, who waved at them as they passed onto the path to the
northeast. Alfred watched the traders, still amazed at how much the
world could have changed in five hundred years.
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“Where does that road lead?” asked Alfred, gesturing to the path
toward the northwest. He could see it snake off toward the distant sand
dunes.
“To the kingdom of Orthni, naturally,” said Ebricus.
“Orthni?” said Alfred nervously. “I’m not familiar with such a place.”
Both of the high priests looked shocked.
“Tell me thou jesteth!” said Abron, who see med to be managing a
slight chuckle.
“I may have heard its name spoken before, but I’m afraid I can’t think
of where it was . . . is located,” said Alfred, racking his memory.
“Perhaps it was . . . conquered . . . before thy time?” said Ebricus
solemnly.
Baros scoffed. “Orthni could never be conquered. It is a kingdom
of threescore thousand dwarfen and men, and has stood thither for a
thousand yearen. If it ever did fall, it would leave behind a scar so big
that nobody would need to wonder what it was if they stumbled upon
its vast ruinen.”
“Where is it?” asked Alfred.
“It resideth in the far north, touching the northern and western seaen,”
said Ebricus. “Or at least, that is where lyeth the great city of Aktulus,
which is near the Vingomir border. Forgive us, Alfred, but in our time, it
is as familiar a place as Ae’brinthil, and a mighty nation.”
Alfred thought hard of maps in his time; then his heart sank as he
thought about Baros’s use of the word “scar.” The Broken Lands. There
had indeed been a kingdom where the Broken Lands were in Alfred’s
time. It had gone by many names in books, but all of the records wrote
of the same cataclysmic year that rent the land into pieces, sinking every
last inhabitant into the earth and leaving nothing but ruins and miles-
deep canyons behind. Now no one went there, for the jagged earth was
completely impassible to travelers.
“Surely such a great change should have been remembered if Orthni
no longer existeth in thy time!” said Abron, still shocked.
Alfred thought about what he should say. The last thing he wanted
was to be a harbinger of doom to the past. “In the northwest, you say?”
he said. Then he feigned realization. “Ah, Orthni. I forgot that was
its archaic name. Yes, it still exists in my time. Of course. It has since
had its name changed, however. To . . .” his mind raced, “to Amber’s
Hand.”
The high priests looked relieved. “A funny thing, talking about the
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future thus,” laughed Abron. “Ic was about to be worried about what
Brother Harthyl might think.” He nodded at Ebricus, who laughed. “He
is a friend of ours, a monk who was born in Aktulus.”
All of a sudden the sandprine began to retch uncontrollably.
“What is wrong, sandprine?” said Baros, looking back.
“Magic l-leaving me . . .” the sandprine vomited onto the bench it
was sitting on, twitching violently. Baros pulled the carriage to a halt
and came down into the carriage with the others. The sandprine was
breathing quickly, and then suddenly it twitched once more and looked
around, an animal-like feral look on its face. Then it hissed calmly.
Baros’s brow furrowed in anger. “Rauroth’s Eye! Ic forgot that the
intelligence of the sandprine was connected to the Sanctum Anoton’s
enchantment. Ic need to bring him back.”
Ebricus sighed. “Ic fear his personality is lost, Baros. If thou broughtst
him back, he would take on an entirely new personality, and thou wouldst
have need to train him to be loyal to thee all over again.”
Baros cursed profanely. “Off with thee, runt! Thou art no more a
servant of mine!” He opened the carriage door and kicked the sandprine
out. It landed lithely on the sand, shaking its head slightly, and then it
wriggled off into the sand and burrowed out of sight.
Alfred frowned. If he had had any respect for Baros at all to begin
with, he did not know how much more he had left. “What about the
revenant? Is he connected as well?” he asked.
“Nay,” said Baros. “He is bound only to that habitation of his. As long
as he is grounded to the bonen in that suit of armor, he can follow us
anywhere we go.”
Rogul let out a bored sigh.
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136
Chapter 18
I t took the group three days to reach the edge of the desert.
On the way, they passed several carts driven by miners and traders.
Ebricus told Alfred about the rich opal and silver mines in the desert,
which Alfred had never heard of before. Alfred presumed that the re-
sources of the desert would be exhausted in some future century. This
would lead to the road disappearing and the desert becoming nothing
more than a natural obstacle in Alfred’s present time period. Alfred de-
cided not to trouble the high priests anymore with what the future held.
The Sheral Woodlands came into view across several miles of dry
plains, and still the road remained clear and well kept. This road they
stayed on for another three days. By day, they rode in the carriage, and
by night, they pitched comfortable tents and slept peacefully in the
woods. Alfred and the priests spoke no more of the future, and instead
conversed freely about the eternal nature of the gods and their teachings.
They asked about each other’s upbringing and racial ancestry, and Alfred
grew to feel very close to the high priests, as if he had known them his
whole life. Baros was less agreeable as always, going to bed early, saying
little during the daytime, and leafing through old documents in his free
time. But they all ate well from their packed provisions, and the travel
was much more enjoyable than Alfred had dealt with during his journey
in the mule cart with Blacksheath and Dreana. It was also nice to stop
at inns along the way and meet people again, though the high priests
advised Alfred to speak little, lest he draw too much attention with his
futuristic accent.
In the morning on the fourth day in the forest, the forest thinned
rather abruptly, and they emerged into a clearing where Alfred could see
the city of Ae’brinthil in the distance—or the much smaller settlement
it was five hundred years before Alfred’s time. Alfred was somewhat
disappointed to see that the huge stone wall was absent, and the flag’s
color on the topmost building was brown-and-pink-striped, rather than
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teal as it was in the future. The city looked more like Amber’s Hand than
the Ae’brinthil Alfred knew, though it was still big. As they drew closer,
he began to see the city in greater detail. The dwellings were all made of
wood or stone rather than brick as they were in the future. Alfred could
recognize a handful of familiar features, but had he not known this was
a different time period, and had the same mountains not been in view to
the north, he would have thought he was lost.
As the group entered into the outer city, Alfred was amused to see the
keep, which at this time was nothing more than a motte and bailey. The
massive stone castle of the future was obviously going to be built around
this wooden one, as well as around the immense palisade wall encircling
the village. Alfred also noticed the marketplace was in the center of town,
rather than up by the castle courtyard. It was surprising that this city had
existed so far back.
“Now then, where is the Way of Yormoth?” asked Alfred.
“Thou canst enter it not today,” said Ebricus.
“Thou needest permission first from the bishop at the cathedral, then
by the king himself,” said Abron. “It is . . . not exactly a place that lyeth
out in the open. It is a place that is accessed by only a few high ranking
priesten and royalty, and only with leave from both of the leaderen of the
church and kingdom.”
“Worry thou not, however,” Ebricus gestured to the keep. “We as high
priesten are sure to have priority over othern to see the king, so long as it
is of importance. Surely thou shalt be able to access it on the morrow.”
They traversed through the wooden gate into the village square.
“Hold ye!” a guard stepped in front of them, hefting a spear.
Ebricus looked confused. “Surely thou recognizest me . . .”
“Not thee, Your Holiness. Him.” The guard pointed toward Baros, and
then Rogul. “Thou shalt have to be licensed by the archmage to let a
golem like that in the city.”
“This is a revenant, thou simpleton!” said Baros. “Its animation hath
nothing to do with magic.”
“Regardless,” the guard waved an indifferent hand, “no entry without
a permit. Last time we let in a golem, the bugger’s will broke. Put twain
guarden out of commission for a month. We shan’t let that happen
again.”
Baros looked ready to correct the guard again, but seemed to think
better of it. “Very well,” he growled. “Send for the archmage, then. You
gentlemen go on without me. This is where we part ways regardless.”
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“Where will you go?” Alfred asked.

“Ic have a wife and child here in town,” he said. “Ic have not seen them
in some time. Ic will meet with them and pack up our thingen for the
journey back to the Sanctum. That is, if these jolt-headen let me pass.”
Baros turned to Alfred and patted him on the sleeve. “Fare thee well,
priest,” he said. “May thy passage through the Way be successful.”
Alfred was stunned by his friendliness. “Thank you,” he said, managing
a smile. “I hope you and your family travel safely back to the desert.”
The three priests left Baros at the gates as the guards let them pass.
They passed the village square where peasants were doing a typical day’s
work. Their existence seemed almost superficial to Alfred, knowing that
the only thing that remained of them in his time was their descendants.
It made him think more about his immortal lifespan. Soon they
arrived at the cathedral, which seemed more or less unchanged. Alfred
remembered his first time coming here to receive his priest’s tassels.
Perhaps the interior would be redone with marble a couple of times, but
other than that, Alfred felt at home.
They entered the holy halls of the cathedral during a chanting session
of the local monks from the nearby monastery in the hills. Alfred felt
his soul feel comfort in hearing the angelic, deep voices of his brothers
of the priesthood. He was surprised to find himself singing along, and
realized how tremendously old the chants must be. But then, they were
in an ancient language. Alfred had not thought of them like that before,
but they must have been a little less ancient in this time period.
They walked reverently through the main hall and into the chapel.
The bishop was busy sitting up at the front, listening to the choir with
his eyes closed. The trio sat down on a pew amidst a couple of peasants
and waited.
The chanting eventually rose to a beautiful climax that gave Alfred
chills, and then faded away into echoes that rang off the tall ceiling. The
bishop held his palm out toward the three priests, his eyes still closed.
“Why art thou come, Ebricus?” said the bishop, who seemed to be a
bit grave.
“We seek leave to enter the Way of Yormoth.”
“Ah. The Timewalker,” said the bishop.
“Thou knowest?” asked Ebricus.
“The goden told me of him in a dream a few dayen ago.”
The bishop opened his eyelids toward the sun-filtering windows,
revealing blind, milky eyes. Alfred flinched a little bit.
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“And thou, Timewalker? What is thy name?”

“Alfred Shortstaff, father,” said Alfred.
The bishop bowed to Ebricus, giving him the gesture of Vendictes,
and then Abron and the bishop mutually bowed to each other.
“Alfred, this is Father Organon,” said Abron, who clearly admired the
man. “The Vendictis Bishop of Ae’brinthil.”
Alfred clumsily bowed to the bishop in awe, performing the gesture
despite the man’s blindness.
“Ic give thee permission to go to the Way of Yormoth. Ic need ask no
questionen. If the archbishop is on this man’s side, then the goden will it.
Ic give thee my key.”
The blind bishop reached into his pocket to reveal an old key on a
chain. He handed it to Alfred.
“Ic am glad you made it hither safely, Abron and Ebricus. Ic hope that
you will join us in the morn for a prayer.”
“Of course, Organon,” said Ebricus.
“As for thee, Alfred Shortstaff,” said the bishop, “goden be with thee
in the Way.”
***
After finding Alfred a more suitable brown robe at the cathedral, the
high priests soon led Alfred toward the castle. It was getting dark by
now, and Alfred wondered whether they would be able to see the king at
this hour. It was only a short walk, and soon they came to a pair of tall
wooden doors with a slot. Abron knocked on the door.
The slot came open to reveal a pudgy face. “What want ye? His majesty
cannot be seen at this hour.”
“It is urgent. Tell him it is from the high priesten, Abron and
Ebricus.”
The man behind the door squirmed, torn between duties. “Eh . . . well,
it’s just that his majesty—supper—Ic know not . . . If you insist.”
The door opened to reveal a long hall with several corridors.
The butler guided them through what seemed like a maze of dark,
austere chambers, until they found a rather plain room with a long table.
The king was eating a dish of shrimp and greens alone at the head of it; he
seemed younger than he was in Alfred’s time, but Alfred still recognized
him immediately.
“Mendon?” said Alfred, puzzled.
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The king looked up from his meal, raising an eyebrow. “Yea,” he said.
“And thou art . . . ?”
The butler looked angry. “How dare thou speak to His Majesty with
such commonness!”
“Forgive me,” Alfred. “It’s just that I’ve known you before under more
humble circumstances.”
The room was silent, and Alfred realized how odd this must have
sounded. “That is . . . I mean . . .” he stammered. “I’ve come to ask Your
Majesty’s permission to enter the Way of Yormoth.”
The king looked at the two high priests. Ebricus spoke. “This is Alfred
Shortstaff, Your Majesty. He is a Timewalker from the future.”
The king’s eyes widened slightly. He put down his utensils and wiped
his mouth with a napkin. “Have a seat, all of you,” he said, gesturing to
the chairs around his seat. Then he looked at the butler. “Milius? Wait
thou outside the door and lock it. See to it that no one overheareth our
conversation.”
“As thou commandest, sire,” said the butler. He left, the door clicking
shut behind him.
Alfred and the high priests sat. Mendon looked Alfred over. “Thou art
Timewalked here? Then thou hast the Scroll of Time of legend?”
“No,” said Alfred, “I used Sacrum to Timewalk.”
“Curious,” said King Mendon, scratching his beard. “Ic have
heard the legenden of old, of the ancient wizarden who managed to
Timewalk through history, but they did so using a legendary cavern,
and Arcane magic now sealed forever in a scroll. Ic never considered
that the goden would bestow this power upon a mortal after the original
Timewalkern.”
“I am seeking to enter the Way of Yormoth so that I can find the Scroll
of Time,” said Alfred.
“But why needest thou the Scroll? Is the will of the goden to bestow
the power upon othern?”
“No,” said Alfred. “I actually have to destroy it.”
The king was quiet. The priests had remained quiet since sitting down,
letting the two converse.
“You see,” said Alfred, “in the future, you will be in trouble. In order to save
you—and other royalty of Argaenothruzil—I have to enter the Chronomere
once more, and sever any further access to it by destroying the Scroll.”
“Trouble?” asked Mendon. “Are these the thingen of which are written
concerning the end of the world?”
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“Exactly,” said Alfred. “The leaders of the world will be trapped in

Time. That’s why I’ve got to get them out. And you’re one of them.”
The king raised his hands. “Tell me no more about what the future
holdeth. Doing so could cause more problemen than it would solve.”
Alfred nodded. “I must know, though . . . who exactly are you? In
my time I knew you as both a hermit and a duke, and here you are, five
hundred years ago as a king. Are you an aelisyn?”
Ebricus and Abron priests looked astonished at this, and the king
looked equally surprised at Alfred. “How knowest thou of the aelisyn?”
“Well . . .” Alfred debated whether he should keep his immortal status
secret, but realized that he had no greater mark of credibility in his quest.
“I am one.”
Mendon leaned back in his chair, scratching his beard again. “Ic see.
That would explain why the goden would have such security in making
thee a Timewalker. Very well, then, if thou knowest of my kind . . . indeed,
if thou art of my kind, then there shall be no secreten betwixt us.”
He looked at the high priests apologetically. “Ic am afraid ic must
dismiss you both,” he said.
“Of course, Your Grace,” said Ebricus, standing up with Abron. They
soon exited the door out into the hallway.
The king took a drink of wine, and then rested his hands on the
table thoughtfully. “Alfred, ic am one of the primal wizarden of First
Generation. One of the Enlightened, as we called ourselven. Yormoth
was my master. We dabbled in magicken that the goden forbade—we
learned how to walk through Time, and to stop ourselven from ever
aging, among other thingen. As a result of our arrogance, we received the
fullness of the goden’s wrath. Many of my brethren were killed, hunted
by the goden’s disciplen or destroyed in the early waren. Those of us who
survived and atoned for our crimen were granted mercy, as long as we
made a contract with the goden: we would be the world’s kingen and
rulern forever.”
Alfred was stunned. He remembered his vision in the rockland village
of Mendon and Yormoth, but he had not realized exactly what Yormoth
had meant about them being kings until now. “What do you mean
‘forever’? Are you saying that Argae has had the same leaders since the
beginning of time?”
Mendon nodded. “Yea. Behind every new city’s founding was one of
us, volunteering to be its leader and protector. In time, we would feign
our own death by old age, living a life of solitude until we were forgotten.
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Then we would step up as the heir of one of our brethren when they were
ready to pass the city’s sovereignty on to another.”
Alfred sat back in his chair, trying to make sense of it all. “How did
no one figure this out? Even in my time, five hundred years from now, no
one suspects this at all that I know of!”
Mendon shrugged. “We are all wizarden, after all, as well as aelisyn.
Those who actually are interested in politicken serve us their entire liven
believing our illusionen, and those who simply work to make their living
care not who governeth them, as long as they have low taxen and enough
food.
“Some of my brethren change their name every time to hide their
identity. As for myself, ic rotate between a few, saying that ic was named
after kingen who went on before me.” He laughed heartily. “Imagine,
naming thyself after thyself!”
Alfred grinned himself, remembering the instances he had seen so
far of Mendon’s name throughout the history of government. He was
about to ask if it was he who had founded Amber’s Hand under the name
Mendon, but realized that the event had yet to happen at this point.
Instead, he asked, “What happened to Yormoth?”
“Yormoth, the foremost of all the Enlightened, was commissioned to
lock all the secreten of our powern into mystic scrollen. He hid them in
a secret vault, the Way of Yormoth as thou knowest it. It was only to be
accessed by those who had leave by both the goden, through the bishop
of Ae’brinthil, and the king of Ae’brinthil, whichever of the Enlightened
he may be at the time.”
So many tenets and principles that he had learned while becoming a
priest in Ae’brinthil made sense to Alfred now. He was about to ask more
questions, such as whether the bishop knew of the aelisyn’s origin, but
Mendon spoke up.
“Our time is short. Ic have mattern to attend to,” he said, reaching
into his robe. “Alfred, here is the key to the Way of Yormoth. The Scroll
of Time has awaited thee thither since Yormoth wrote it. It is thy right
alone to use these powern that we, thy rulern, alone know of but are
forbidden by the goden to use or talk about. Take only that scroll, and
do not look at the othern. Ic cannot guarantee that all will be well from
that point onward.”
Mendon looked very sad at this moment, and put his hand on Alfred’s
shoulder. “Farewell, Alfred, until we meet again. If what thou sayest is
true, then my brethren and ic will one day be in grave danger. Thou art
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the only one who can put thingen right. Ic apologize for any foolishness
on my part that sent thee on this quest in the first place.” He looked
distant for a moment. “A lot can happen in five centurien.”
The king followed Alfred to the door and let him out. The high priests
were outside the doorway waiting for him.
“Ic thank you for visiting me, and for caring for the Timewalker,” said
Mendon to the high priests. “Your diligence meaneth more than you
may know at this time.”
Ebricus bowed slightly, and then spoke. “Sathamia awaiteth thee in
the Sanctum. All thou needest do is come.”
“Ic know,” said Mendon sadly, looking down. “Ic have obligationen to
attend to before ic can awaken her.”
The king returned to his seat and meal, and the butler escorted them
back toward the entrance doors.
“Farewell, sire,” said Alfred, a bit sadly. Someday, thought Alfred, this
king would be trapped in time.
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Chapter 19
T he Way of Yormoth was in the royal catacombs beneath

the castle, hidden among the ancient burial tombs. Alfred want-
ed to go there immediately, but Ebricus convinced him that he needed
rest first. It had been a long journey, Alfred realized, and he could use
some sleep in a real bed for one night before he faced whatever his des-
tiny was in the Way.
They supped and slept in the cathedral in town, where there were clean
beds for the three of them in the priests’ chambers. Alfred expected to
fall asleep instantly on the soft straw mattress of his bed, but sleep eluded
him for much of the night. He wondered more and more what the Way of
Yormoth contained besides just the Scroll of Time. Was it like the Cavern
of Time? Would he need to prove his knowledge of Timewalking just
to get through it? He still felt so inadequate as a Timewalker. He began
to miss the sweet female voice who had spoken to him in the Sanctum
before. Her reassurance that he was capable of Timewalking had been
all he needed to unlock his powers. She must have been a servant of the
gods—perhaps even an angel. Alfred wondered if it had been her voice
who had directed him to Amber’s Hand all those weeks ago.
Eventually, Alfred slipped away into slumber, and he awoke the next
morning feeling tired but confident. He and the high priests joined the
other priests and monks for a small breakfast, and then assembled in the
chapel hall for a communal prayer.
Father Organon offered it, praying to Vendictes that the will of the
gods would be fulfilled, that evil forces would be thwarted, and that
the servants of the gods—Alfred suspected he had him specifically in
mind—would be guided and protected in their endeavors.
After their morning vows at the altar, Ebricus and Abron escorted
Alfred to the keep again. The bishop had assured Alfred that he would
need no supplies, that the gods would provide for him, and this had
frightened Alfred somewhat. He had meant to ask the bishop how long
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he would be in the Way and how he would get out once he got the Scroll
of Time, but things had been busy among the clergy, and Alfred decided
his passage through the Way would simply have to be a leap of faith.
When they arrived at the royal keep, a servant let them in, and they
made their way down several flights of dark stairs to the entrance of
an ancient crypt. They came to a heavy stone door, which the servant
unlocked. Then, he and the high priests let Alfred go inside alone. “The
goden be with thee,” Ebricus said simply, lines of worry in his face.
“With you, as well,” replied Alfred, exchanging gestures with them. He
realized that, if what he was looking for really was in these catacombs, he
would probably never see these men again.
Alfred entered through the stone door with a torch in his hand, and
closed it behind him. The catacombs were simple enough—a single long
path with stone coffins on either side. Alfred was surprised at how many
there were and how ancient they appeared. How old was Ae’brinthil
exactly? Or perhaps there had been other settlements here before it.
As Alfred walked, he remembered the words of King Mendon the
night before. If the kings really were immortal, then who were buried in
these tombs? Or were the coffins merely empty placeholders, only used
as symbolic markers for the kings’ past lives? Alfred held his torch up to
some of the less faded engravings above the sepulchers and could make
out a few names he thought he had heard before in history books. A few
of them were marked with female names, which intrigued Alfred. Alfred
had seen no evidence of there being any female aelisyn, unless Mendon
had used the term “brethren” in a general sense, so perhaps the kings laid
their consorts here when they passed away.
This notion made the whole aspect of the Enlightened’s immortality
seem a bit sad to Alfred. It seemed almost pointless to wed when
you would inevitably outlive your wife, even if you did enchant your
appearance to mimic her age. Perhaps this was why royal weddings were
so rare. Alfred suspected that many other aspects of royal culture and
society would become clear now that he knew the truth of it all.
Eventually, the long line of stone coffins ended, and Alfred turned
to look back at the rows on either side of the hall. He was afraid that he
would have to read all of the engravings one by one when a particular
stone coffin caught Alfred’s attention. It was exactly like the others, and
it didn’t seem to emanate any sort of a magical or holy radiance, but it
seemed to stand out from the others just the same.
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Alfred walked over to it and held his torch up to check its engraving.
It was heavily eroded, but Alfred squinting in the firelight thought he
might have seen a “Yorm” on there. He tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn’t
budge. He felt his way around the rim, and noticed a small hole in the
side. He examined it more closely, and realized it was a keyhole. He took
out the bishop’s key, but it was too big. The king’s key fit, however, and a
loud click sounded when he turned it. He tried the lid again, and lifted it
aside with some effort.
There was no sign of a corpse or any bones at all inside. In fact, the
sepulcher seemed to lack a bottom at all, plunging deep into the darkness.
Alfred looked down the coffin into the blackness and decided that he
must have to climb down. He felt around with his foot until it touched
an indentation in the stone side. At first he was afraid the thin slab would
crumble, but he exerted all his weight on it slowly and found it was quite
stable. He tried to take the king’s key out, but it seemed to be stuck. That
was just as well—it was best to leave it here for the king to take so that
others could pass through the Way later.
Alfred descended the indentations carefully, realizing how narrow
this shaft was, and felt a bit claustrophobic. When his foot touched
bottom, he turned around and nearly struck his head into a flat stone
face. He crouched and hobbled along under the roof above him, his
torch revealing just how small this passageway was. The flickering light
gave the impression that the tunnel was closing on him.
He burned his way through thick cobwebs. After a short distance, the
tunnel opened up into a small room. At one end, there were three stone
cases with diagonal metal strips forming a sort of mesh in them, like a
wine-rack. In each diamond-shaped hole of the mesh was an aged scroll
on yellowed parchment wrapped with golden rods.
His torchlight fell on three skeletons, their bodies looking like they
had died in madness. At the same time, a stone tile shifted under his foot,
and he heard two metal thuds as two heavy metal racks fell and locked
behind him in the doorway.
Alfred looked at the bishop’s key. “If this key doesn’t work to get
back, it’ll be beyond my immortality to endure a fate worse than death,”
he said.
He looked at the cases up and down, and finally noticed faint etchings
on the wall above the three compartments, which read “the secrete
archiven of yormoth.” He walked to the scroll racks and reached his
hand into the mesh, grabbing a scroll at random. To his surprise, when
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he tried to pull it out, it held fast inside the rack, as if an invisible hand
was tugging back on it. Alfred let go of the scroll, and looked down at the
wall that held the cases. Written diagonally along the metal strip beneath
the scroll, in faint etched letters, read “The Scroll of Apotheosis—for
Saracien.”
So that’s why he couldn’t take the scroll, he realized. Each one was
bound to a different person destined to retrieve it. He read the next
scroll’s engraving: “The Scroll of Immortality—for Cerbius Aelisyn.”
The next scroll slot was empty, but there was still an inscription. It
read “The Scroll of Destruction—for Isica the Green.” Alfred felt a chill,
hoping that that particular scroll would not go into the wrong hands. He
thought of the lost civilization up north, and gulped dryly.
“The Scroll of Creation—for Treborious Lebortsin” . . . “The Scroll of
the End of the World—for Nitsuam Drallabii.” After scanning through
several more on the large shelf, Alfred began to shake in anticipation as
he read the plaque beneath another scroll: “The Scroll of Time—for Alfred
Shortstaff.” Alfred tentatively reached into the compartment, and easily
took out the scroll.
He had been destined to find that particular scroll. There was no
other explanation . . . but who had predicted he would find it? Who
had written these nearly-identical looking scrolls? Had it been the man
Yormoth himself? He thought about the vision he had had with awe. He
frowned as he noticed something strange—the scroll was rolled up with
two rods that seemed to made of gilded wood. The scroll he had seen his
future self use in the Cavern of Time had had no such rods. Was it the
correct scroll?
Alfred thought about this as he turned around to exit the room, and
then remembered the heavy grates blocking the doorway. It seemed that
getting a scroll from the archives, even if you were the one worthy to take
it, was not supposed to be so easy. Trying to not to look at the skeletons
on the floor, Alfred began to feel the walls for some sort of hidden door
frame. At length he found a small hole filled with dust. He blew it out,
and recognized the shape of a keyhole.
He fumbled in his pocket for the bishop’s key. As he predicted, it
opened the door easily. A short corridor met him, and he could see an
opening at the end of it. Leaving the key behind, he reached the end and
came out of a stone archway into an enormous room.
Alfred walked through the hall in silence, and noticed that he was not
the only object in the room. Couches of all shapes and sizes flickered in
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the shadows of his torch, some of them directly in his path. The couches
seemed to be archaic in style, despite the cloth looking brand new and
untouched, and he couldn’t help but admire the handiwork put into
them. Then his heart jumped into his throat as he saw a man sleeping
fitfully on one of the couches. Alfred was reminded of the sleeping
woman, and wondered if this man was in an eternal sleep as well. He
continued onward, and after a few yards, Alfred noticed that most of the
remaining couches seemed to be filled with men and women tossing in
distressful slumber.
Alfred stared at the blank, disturbed faces as he walked. It was oddly
irresistible to watch them, and despite their fearful expressions, Alfred
began to feel sleepy himself. He willed himself to keep walking, trying
to remember why he had even come down here. He somehow knew that
if he lay on one of those couches, he would be sleeping until at least the
end of the world.
Just when Alfred felt he had to rest, he reached a second door at the
end of the hallway. This one was unlocked, and he opened it to find a
square room, wide, with a gigantic water basin in the center. It reminded
Alfred strongly of Abaloochar’s chamber in the future, and made him
uneasy. He could see something faintly glowing at the bottom of the
glassy pond, and just as he bent down to get a closer look, the basin
rippled calmly, and a bright green orb of light rose glimmering out of its
depths. The disturbed surface sent ghostly ripples of light off the ceiling
and walls.
Alfred waited, but nothing happened. “Why was this path built?”
he asked.
“To test and to try those destined to take a scroll,” said an ominous,
deep voice from the green orb.
“Who are you?”
“I am a king trapped in the Realm of Time, entombed for over ten
thousand years now.”
“Are you the voice of someone sleeping in the other room?” asked
Alfred.
“Nay; I come from a land long since conquered.”
Alfred thought back to his vision of the Scroll of Time, and the kings
he would rescue. He wondered if he would see him along with the duke
when he found him.
“Do you know Duke Rothgran?”
“I once did; all I know now is that his fate, and that of the other
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royalty, will be mirrored in the land of Argaenothruzil, for preservation

or destruction. Much the same of what came upon Elidethnar, the land
now known as Eredathios.”
“The legendary land across the sea?” asked Alfred. “Across the divine
Wind Barriers?”
“Surely you should know. That land was once green and beautiful, and
I was king of it, but the Other Three lured me into the Realm of Time.
They destroyed the world I knew, and it had its end. Such a fate is bound
to happen to Argaenothruzil if it is stripped of its royalty.”
“How do you know so much if you are trapped in time?”
“My spirit can walk the material realm if needs be, but my body
remains in Time. This orb is a link betwixt the two worlds. I have one
copy of it, and this is the other. It has been a long time since anyone has
spoken with me.”
This reminded Alfred of the female voice he had heard in his head,
who had helped him Timewalk and led him to the Archives of Anoton,
ultimately bringing him here. He thought about asking about her, but
the orb spoke quickly.
“I will not detain you too long, for I can plainly see trouble coming in the
distance . . . to me, and later to you . . . Farewell, Alfred; my time is up.”
The orb of light became dim, and sank back into the water.
“Wait! Have you no advice for me on how to make it through the
Way?” Alfred called.
“Move forward,” said the voice, echoing in the depths of the water.
Alfred could see the rippling shape of the orb fading into darkness.
Soon, the rippling reflections of his torch went still as the water became
as silent glass. He walked to the other side of the basin, where there was
a door, and opened it.
***
The door creaked open, and a dim gray light fell upon Alfred’s eyes.
Inside was a hallway, like before, opening into another room. As he
entered the bigger hall, he saw a rather lavishly furnished chamber, like
a manor or even a castle. The walls were stone bricks, there were wide,
luxurious carpets on the floor at steady intervals, and the ceiling was
much higher here. Dim chandeliers high above him were the sources of
the flickering gray light that filled the room. What caught Alfred’s eyes
the most, however, were the large picture frames lining the walls.
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Curious, Alfred stopped in front of one to look at it, and realized

that the painting canvas was blank. Just as he was about to turn away,
however, a swirling image formed on the blank canvas. To his surprise,
the painted decrepit form of an old man materialized. He was wearing a
puffy red hat with an elegant feather, and a red jacket over a lavish frilly
white blouse. The old man’s wrinkled face was squinted, but he raised a
nearly-hairless eyebrow and spoke with a voice that was deep, soothing,
and bitter.
“I remember when I explored Argae and mapped it as everyone knows
it today. No one knew it was me. I wrote the first geography book; I drew all
the maps, the charts, the cartography. No one remembers Elstern Graebroc.
There were many explorers in my time, but my ship was the swiftest of all
of them. My longing for discovery led me to my end at the Wind Barriers,
just as it had led other explorers. No one remembers me now, even as they
plan trade and travel, and chart voyages. I did a great work, but now I am
forgotten.”
Alfred thought this a very sad story, and felt a bit guilty himself for
never wondering who had been the cartographer after whom all the
maps he had seen had been based. He felt foolish for taking them for
granted.
All of a sudden, the painting shifted and changed into a picture of
the sea. For a few moments, it appeared as though Alfred was peering
through a window, but then the painting solidified, frozen into a single
picture. On it, a magnificent ship was being lifted by a crashing wave.
Despite the night sky being perfectly clear with stars, lightning was
flashing in it, and in front of the ship was a churning vertical squall like
a curtain of wind. The picture was at night, so Alfred could see pinpricks
of torchlight on the boat’s deck. Alfred could tell by the angle of the wave
and the ship that this painting depicted the moments before the ship was
thrust into the deep forever.
Alfred drew himself away from the painting and walked to another.
This one materialized into an old woman with a weary face. She
had curled red hair, a feathery hat, and wore a velvet dress and corset.
Though old, it was obvious that she had once been stunningly beautiful.
She spoke:
“I remember when the North broke apart. I remember the screams of
terror when my son went mad and split the mountains in half with the
dreaded Corona Blade. I remember the day he was born, and the spirit
of Bezzoan was there to welcome him into the world. We gave birth to a
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seraphaun with yellow eyes who changed the face of Argaenothruzil, and
everyone remembered him. They even sing songs about him now. They also
sing songs about Bezzoan the Conqueror. But everyone forgot about me.
Even my son did. No one realizes that I was the one who gave birth to the
one who shattered Vingomir. Many changes for good came that way, but I
was forgotten. No one remembers Elga Firdethled.”
Alfred was feeling even more depressed about this hall of the forgotten.
He watched as the painting changed to a moving scene of a tower on the
left, with a beautiful young girl weeping from one of its windows. The
right side of the picture was a gigantic, snowy landscape, and in the far
distance, an exploding mountain was sending a shockwave of tectonic
cracks along either side of the icy land. As the mountain burst before
Alfred’s eyes, the paint once again dried, freezing the moment of time
in the painting.
Alfred instinctively walked to another portrait, curious as to what
it would say. A tiny voice in his heart suddenly said, “It is not wise to
dwell on sadness, Alfred. Move on.” The portrait began to shift, but Alfred
looked away and didn’t look back.
Alfred continued through the room, realizing that if he ignored the
paintings, they remained blank. The hall seemed to run on forever, until
finally he saw a door on the far wall. Alfred was relieved, the melancholy
spirit of the room lifting from him like a heavy cloak.
Alfred noticed as he approached the door that it was actually a door-
shaped black painting. Alfred’s relief faded as he stared at it expectantly.
What would this final painting show? He braced himself.
The paint swirled to form a picture of a man in his thirties with a
hood holding a torch. It took several seconds for Alfred to realize that he
seemed to be looking into a mirror, with the image in it made of paint
on canvas. He gasped as he saw himself, but the image did not gasp back.
Instead, it spoke.
“I remember when I saved the royalty from the Chronomere,” said the
Alfred in the painting. “I spent years in the Way of Yormoth being tortured,
one trial at a time. I drank terrible chemicals, fought loathsome beasts, and
resisted temptations of every kind—all for the Scroll of Time. I traveled
through the ages, and then finally to the end of Time itself. There, I fought
for the kings of Argaenothruzil. They thanked me, but they did not speak of
their rescue to anyone else. My name was lost as years passed. Soon, no one
knew my name. My immortality made me outlast every person I loved. No
one remembers Alfred Shortstaff the Last Timewalker.”
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Alfred stood with his mouth agape. What had he gotten himself into?
Years in the Way of Yormoth? He felt his knees wobble weakly, and he
staggered at the reality of it all. No one would remember him in the end.
Despite his immortality, despite Timewalking to the edges of history to
save and restore balance to it all, no one would remember him.
He looked up at the painting once again, dreading what he would see,
and he felt his heart lurch. There, in the painting, was a clear image of
Alfred, weary, bloody, and pale, the Scroll of Time clutched in his hand,
lying against a crystal wall of the Cavern of Time.
“No!” Alfred cried. His torch clattered to the floor, and he fell to his
knees. He felt tears of despair fill his eyes. What was the use of it all? How
could he endure the horrors of the Way if no one would remember his
sacrifice?
He heard a kind, tired-sounding voice sound from the painting. “Stay
here, Alfred,” it said. “There’s no need to run yourself ragged for nothing.
Join us here. We’ve all been forgotten. We will remember your name if
you remember ours. There is unity here. We shall meet, and sup, and
discuss the things that no other souls will speak of again.”
A spectral hand, glowing faintly pink, reached through the painting.
Alfred looked at the hand. It was outstretched, and gestured for him to
take it. “Come. Let the gods do their work alone,” said the voice.
Alfred felt his hand lifting toward the hand in the painting, but then
he stopped. “The gods,” he said aloud.
The hand seemed to relax, and then it gestured more urgently. “Yes,
Alfred, they will find another to do the work. They will not forsake the
world. Better to let someone else be forgotten than you, who have done
so much already.”
“The gods,” said Alfred, who was suddenly aware of his heart beating
in his chest, “forget no one.”
The hand suddenly lashed out toward Alfred, grabbing him by the
arm. He felt it pulling him with an inhuman strength.
“No!” said Alfred, shaking wildly. He stumbled backward, and then
braced himself against the floor to pull his arm free. “Let me go!” he
yelled.
“Forgotten,” said the voice, and it was soon joined by many others
from the paintings around the room. “No one will speak your name.
Forgotten. No one will speak your name . . .”
“The gods will!” said Alfred. The arm struggled harder to pull him
into the painting. Alfred groaned, feeling like his arm would soon stretch
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or be broken in half with the strain. Suddenly, he eyed his smoldering

torch on the ground. In a swift movement, he grabbed the torch’s shaft
and thrust its burning tip into the spectral arm.
The hall rang with screams. The torch stuck in the arm and ignited
it. The arm spasmed painfully, letting go of Alfred and sending him
tumbling backward to the floor. The burning arm tried desperately to
put itself out, slapping against the wall and the painting, but soon the
painting’s canvas caught fire as well. The blaze stung Alfred’s eyes, and he
covered them with his arm. The fire only lasted a minute or so, and then
the smell of smoke met Alfred’s nostrils.
He looked up through plumes of smoke. The dim light from the
chandeliers were all that illuminated the room now—even his torch had
burnt out. Before him was a stone door, outlined by a charred ridge of
burnt wood and canvas.
Alfred got to his feet and dusted himself off, and then opened the
door. “I thank thee, Vendictes,” he said in prayer, “for never forgetting
me. I will always remember thee.”
***
The door shut itself behind Alfred, sealing seamlessly into the wall.
Alfred walked into a wide, brightly lit room. He blinked as his eyes
adjusted, and was surprised to see the room full of people looking at
him. The people were finely dressed men and women, sitting on couches,
making themselves merry and drinking wine. “Alfred!” said a man. “You
completed the trials of Yormoth! Come join us, make yourself happy!”
He was in silk robe and wore golden jewelry. He had a cup of wine in one
hand, and a beautiful woman in the other. “There will be song, dance,
poetry and love!”
Another man spoke with a turkey leg in one hand, grinning joyously
at him. “Alfred, come taste of our fine food! You deserve it, for such an
accomplishment.”
Alfred found himself moving faster through the room. There was
something that made him uneasy about this room, despite the warmth
and the scents of warm food. The room frightened Alfred more than it
enticed him.
A woman with long eyelashes spoke to him in a gushing voice. “We
love you, Alfred! We will all love you. Come, enjoy yourself for a while;
make yourself merry! You belong here!”
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The people beamed at him, their eyes wide and anxious. All of
them in unison reached for him, almost groping at his robes as if in a
trance. Alfred ran through the room, brushing off people until he finally
reached the door, dodging a rather fat man who had his hands weakly
outstretched.
Slamming the door put Alfred in total darkness. Very crafty, Yormoth,
he thought. I should have brought a second torch. Tiny lights in his head
danced before his eyes as darkness thick as a blanket was everywhere
around him. He raised his hand to his face and saw nothing. Alfred
cautiously moved along away from the door, feeling around with his feet.
The floor seemed to be made of polished stone, or marble.
Suddenly Alfred jumped as two green-flamed torches burst into light
on either side of him. Rather than feeling relieved at the light sources,
Alfred actually felt more tense. The flames seemed to have a life of their
own, dancing in slithering movements like eels. He almost immediately
missed the darkness compared to their sinister glow.
He slowly walked along the path between the two torches, looking
around to see dark, empty walls. In the distance the hall seemed to open
up into a taller chamber.
More torches lit all by themselves, seemingly triggered by Alfred’s
approach, before he entered an immense circular room with a dark object
in the exact center. Smaller torches circling the room lit themselves and
then flickered eerily.
Alfred looked ahead at the black object in front of him, and as he
approached it he saw someone appear inside it, flickering in the green
light. Immediately he was on his guard in the deathly silence, but so was
the dark figure as soon as he was. He slowly walked toward him, saying
quietly, with a trembling voice, “What is this room?”
But the moving black figure said nothing. Alfred stopped, and so did
the figure. Alfred lowered his arm, and the figure did the same. With
a wave of relief, Alfred realized that the black object was an immense,
glassy mirror.
He walked up to it, relieved but not amused, and stared into its
polished black surface.
His own face seemed more tired than he had last seen it, with lines on
its brow. He stared into his own brown eyes, and then jumped as he saw
red flames glow behind them.
He tried to step back, but his feet were glued to the floor, his body
paralyzed. He watched as his image’s face twisted into a wicked smile,
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and the torches in the mirror flared up into a ring of fire. The mirrored
Alfred’s robe turned to black smoke, and he grew in size, surrounded by
swirling black mists. Alfred was terrified, but he was frozen in place. He
couldn’t even blink. He had no choice but to watch.
The mirror swirled with the terrible green flames, and he saw a
scene of the priest who had raised him so long ago in a different time
burning in the fire helplessly. Soon other clergymen and cantors joined
the flames, screaming and bellowing in extreme pain. “Why have you
brought us here, Alfred?!” they screamed helplessly. “It was your coming
that teleported us into this torturous mirror!”
Alfred was fearfully realizing that they were indeed the true priests he
had come to revere for so long, now burning inside some realm he could
not enter to help them. Hyron, the cantor of Amber’s Hand; the bishops
of Ae’brinthil, in the past and present; the old priest of Waelis . . . even
Ebricus and Abron! All were screaming in terror. Their skin turned red
and blistered. Their clothes turned to ash. Alfred could do nothing but
stare in horror. He couldn’t even scream.
Suddenly the priests were enveloped in the flames, and a colossus of
billowing blackness towered out from them like greasy smoke. Alfred
screamed in absolute terror inside of himself, as if paralyzed in a
nightmare, as he saw the immense shadowy face of D’nethrokash the
Corruptor, the devil of chaos.
“Alfred Shortstaff . . .” the demon roared in a booming voice of
pure malice. “Congratulations, priest. You have brought me into this
world by sacrificing the lives of those you esteemed the most. Don’t you
see? The Way of Yormoth was created by me! A trap, for you, Alfred.
Now this world is doomed! A new Eredathios will be formed, and the
souls of everyone on Argaenothruzil are mine, thanks to you, Alfred
Shortstaff!” The Corruptor bellowed with hellish laughter and the
entire cavern shook.
The face of the mirror was consumed with a thousand disturbing
images of people being tortured in terrible ways. Alfred’s pale sweating
face could do nothing but watch their terrible anguish. Fire and
brimstone. Floods and monsoons. Lightning and gales. Earthquakes,
volcanoes, the very earth itself splitting in two and all the otherworldly
flames of oblivion consuming the reddened skies. Everything was dying.
The world itself was losing its soul. The seas turned to blood. The gods
themselves were helpless. A million screams of help echoed in Alfred’s
mind over and over. Inside he was screaming No! NO!
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Then something indistinct inside his mind, perhaps the spirit the
gods gave him, questioning the visions provided to him, and he found
strength to speak, though he had almost forgotten who he was.
“Liar!” He managed to croak through his paralysis. Wind swept through
his robe almost toppling his frozen, weakened body over as lightning
and fire burst from the mirror, seeming to envelop him in flames,
“Help me, Vendictes!” he screamed in desperation, barely standing.
“VENDICTES!”
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Chapter 20
W ith a deafening crash, the black mirror shattered.

Alfred fell to the ground with a thump, his eyes stream-
ing. His hands quivered and his lip trembled, his heart beat faster than
it ever had before. His body felt exhausted from adrenaline. He tried to
reassure himself. He had just experienced his worst fears firsthand, but it
had all been just another trial. The green torches lining the room turned
a peaceful blue, which comforted Alfred. Behind the empty frame of the
mirror, Alfred saw a wall sink into the floor with a stony grinding sound.
In the opening it left behind was yet another door.
Alfred stood up, sweaty and his eyes stinging with tears, still trembling
and twitching slightly from fear, his mind still recovering from every
foul thing he had seen. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of
this, but the gods comforted him. He had managed to conquer sloth,
discouragement, temptation, and now, fear. If anything, this was most
likely the worst trial of them all. Whatever came ahead could only be a
fraction of the strain he had suffered in this foul room. At least, he could
only hope it would be.
Alfred wished now that he had his book of the gods, for it would have
brought him solace at a time like this. Perhaps the words of the Vendictis
Bible would have made it possible for him to finish the mirror’s trial
sooner and avoid seeing so many horrible things. But alas, his book
was lost with Prisma somewhere, hundreds of years in the future. The
thought made Alfred collapse on the floor abruptly, lost for strength.
After a few minutes of weary prayer, Alfred got up and half-crawled,
half-walked among the glittering chunks of black glass toward the next
door. Despite the illusion of the previous trial, he somehow felt like a
piece of his soul was missing. Perhaps there was an everlasting price to
pay for safely passing through the Way of Yormoth. He reached into his
robe pocket and clutched the Scroll of Time tightly. He made a vow then
that he would never suffer the torment of choosing wrongly.
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He reached the door and opened it with some difficulty. A large,

square, empty room with burning torches on each of the walls lay before
him. Upon the face of the far stone wall were three doors.
The door in the center was the largest, and was framed with gem-
studded gold. The one to its left was a simple wooden one with iron hinges,
similar to the door he had just entered. The one on his right was scuffed
and dirty, and so small that Alfred probably would have to crawl through
it. Having been well versed in the ways of the gods, Alfred thought that
this room’s concept was rather obvious. He chose the smallest door to go
through, knowing that the humblest, hardest path was usually the most
worthwhile one to take.
He knelt in front of the door on the right and forced its rusted hinges
open, revealing a small cramped tunnel that was completely dark. He took
a deep breath as he left the light again and crawled into the blackness.
The tunnel was rough on his hands and knees, and the foul stench of
mold hung in the air. After what seemed like another eternity after so
many long corridors today, he started seeing a light glimmering far at
the end. As he drew slowly closer, he thought that he could hear pleasant
voices singing. Something about the song made Alfred forget his worries,
and focus desperately on reaching the end where the light was.
The light grew in brilliance, and soon he had to squint his eyes, but
they never left the glorious beacon. The pain of his aching knees and
hands soon faded. He heard some of the words clearly to the song now,
ringing more loudly the farther he crawled forward.
The end nigh approaches, the gods smile on thee;

The demons’ reproaches mere echoes behind.
Though wearied from miles of dire adversity,
Press on through thy grief, hope of Time and mankind!
The light filled his vision, and he looked up to see that the tunnel’s
ceiling had opened up. He saw a great choir of golden-eyed angels singing,
some of their words understandable and others not. He watched the
choir until their song crescendoed into a divine chord that made Alfred’s
heart beat rapidly. His eyes moist, Alfred smiled into the faces of the
angelic choir. Alfred finally exited the tunnel and stood, finding himself
surrounded by bright light on all sides. There were no walls, or anything
to suggest he was still in the Way of Yormoth, or even in Argaenothruzil.
Alfred could see the ground beneath him was crystalline, but as to the
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end or beginning of where he was, he could not tell. Even the tunnel had
disappeared behind him like a memory.
“Alfred, after so long,” said a deep, kind voice.
Alfred raised his eyes, squinting into an aura of light to see a figure on
a throne as he pressed forward. Eventually his eyes adjusted somewhat,
and he looked at the enthroned figure. Before him was a tall, glowing
man with a golden crown and a long, flowing brown robe. His face was
benevolent and luminous. He had a short white beard and a wrinkled
yet youthful face.
“Vendictes?” gasped Alfred, astounded.
Vendictes Timefather smiled. “So you already recognize your
grandfather,” he chuckled.
Alfred found himself praying fiercely that this was not another illusion
after so many. “Grandfather? . . . But . . .”
“Would you doubt the god of virtue? You carry the blood of the gods
in your veins, but not enough to be truly eternal yet,” said Vendictes,
beaming down at him. “It will be a hard road for you, harder than it was
for your father. Do you wonder why the Corruptor hates you so much?
He hates all life, of course, but his hatred toward you is especially fierce,
because of your divine lineage.”
“So my father was a seraphaun?”
“Yes; half god, and half man of some elven lineage.”
“Can I meet my father?” asked Alfred.
“Not yet. All things must have their order. But don’t be discouraged.”
“What about my mother? Where is she?”
Vendictes smiled in a way that reminded Alfred of himself. “She is
with her husband.”
“What is my father’s name?”
“I will answer all the questions you have in good time, but there is
something I can tell you now: despite the divine blood in your veins, you
still have much to learn. Remember that you still have ungodly appetites
just as any other mortal has. You must stay humble, kind, and strong,
Alfred. Learn about love. Beware of dishonest people, for there are many
in Argaenothruzil.”
The conversation seemed to naturally end. “Must I leave now?”
Alfred asked.
“I’m afraid so, grandson,” said the god with a sad sort of smile. “It was
so good to meet you. I will be with you every step of the way, if you but
endure.”
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They looked at each other for a long moment. Alfred wanted to

embrace his grandfather, but he felt that his earthly frame, immortal
though it was, would wither at a touch of such a glorious being. Just as
Alfred was about to say goodbye, the glory of Vendictes shone suddenly
blinding, and when Alfred opened his eyes he found that he was in a
similar room as had been before he had entered the tunnel on the right,
but this time, there was only one door. A lone chandelier hung from
the top of the chamber. The candlelight from it, though merry, seemed
dismal in comparison to what he had just seen.
He walked up to the door and grasped the handle, and then hesitated.
Where would he go now? Was he still in the past? A part of him had
expected to wake up somewhere familiar, but his own personal path
in the Way of Yormoth apparently still had at least one more test in it.
Alfred smiled. Even if what lay beyond were the most difficult trial he
had ever experienced, even if he had to confront the real D’nethrokash
himself, he felt that he had enough light in his heart to conquer all the
darkness in Argae. He opened the door and entered it.
***
To Alfred’s astonishment, the room he entered contained nothing but a

single stone chair in the exact center. The room’s floor formed a perfect
square of marble walls, and an elegant ceiling above curved smoothly
into a dome. There were tiny niches in the wall with brightly glowing
lamps, and marble tiles on every surface. Alfred examined the walls
more closely and noticed that runes lined the baseboards near the floor
all around. He couldn’t read the inscription, except for a few lines that
resembled the Old Argaen word for “destiny,” or perhaps “destination.”
As Alfred advanced into the room, he started as a slab of marble slid
down behind him with a thud, sealing smoothly into the walls on either
side of it. This was the end of the line for sure. He hesitantly sat in the
chair, scroll in hand, and stared straight ahead. Nothing happened. He
took out the scroll from his pocket and looked at it. The Scroll of Time.
Time.
He was finished with his personal way of Yormoth and he had the scroll
he had come for. Now he could move forward to his own era. He closed
his eyes and attempted to Timewalk once more. He felt himself shifting
slightly, and there was faint buzzing sound somewhere in the room. A
burst of blue light flashed behind his eyelids, but nothing happened.
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Suddenly, two enormous metal hands lifted him from the chair and
threw him roughly to the marble floor. Alfred noticed as he opened
his eyes that the attacker was wearing an enormous suit of armor. He
struggled to get to his feet.
“Rogul, be thou ready to kill on my command,” a strained voice
growled. Alfred looked up and saw a sandy-haired man standing near a
wall. Baros! Before him was Rogul, who had his human head-sized metal
fists raised threateningly above Alfred.
“Hear me, priest! Move or pray, and die.”
“Baros . . .” groaned Alfred. “You . . . you followed me?”
“Of course not, thou fool,” Baros snarled. “Thou hast the keyn. I
put a scrying talisman on thy robe when we parted wayn. Ic have been
watching thee the whole time, waiting for thee to reach the end. And,
ironically,” he said, with a wicked glare, “thou hast reached thine.”
Alfred felt around his robe, trying not to make any sudden movements,
and found a small jeweled pin stuck in his sleeve. He pulled it out and
threw it onto the ground. Alfred was disgusted with Baros for defiling
this holy way by peeking in with his magic and trespassing.
“Why have you done this?” asked Alfred.
“Ic know why thou hast come,” said Baros, pacing around Alfred.
“Why else would a man Timewalk to a time in the past? To change his
own future, of course. And now that thou hast the Scroll of Time, thou
wast expecting to do just that.”
“How . . . how do you know about the Scroll?”
“Ic have thee to thank for that,” said Baros, holding out a scroll of
his own.
“What is that?”
“A record from the archiven of my family. Thanken to thee, during our
journey ic used the cipher of seven to find more secreten in the worden
of my family. Which, if it pleaseth thee, are directed to me, of course.”
Alfred calmly raised himself to a sitting position, confused. “What are
you talking about?”
“Fool,” said Baros. “Thinkest thou that the hint to find the Scroll of
Time was directed to thee? Thou hast nary a drop of Anoton blood in
thy body. Ic care not how far hence in the future thou comest. Obviously,
thou wast directed to my line in order to retrieve the Scroll for the benefit
of my family.”
“No,” said Alfred, raising his hands. Rogul reared his own hands back,
and Alfred lowered his gently. “No, Baros. Those words were written for
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me. Besides, you saw everything through the talisman, didn’t you? The
trials in the Way were for me, not you.”
“Yea,” said Baros. “And on the Scroll of Time was indeed thy name
inscribed. However, the knowledge of the Scroll belongeth to my family.
Thou art a tool in the destiny of the Anoton family, nothing more.”
“Baros, you don’t understand what you’re talking about. It is my
destiny alone to use the Scroll of Time.”
Baros let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “And what dost thou expect
me to believe thou wilt do with it? Change thy history? Save countrien?
Educate thine ancestoren? Liar. No one in this world careth about
othern. With power cometh corruption. Thou wilt modify history to
make thyself king, kill thy enemien’s ancestoren so that they are never
born—Make thyself a legend.”
“You don’t understand . . . I wish to save the world with the Scroll.”
Baros laughed again. “Typical of a priest—claiming that thy status
entitleth thee. The goden don’t need priesten. We are all propheten.
Angelen can appear to anyone and dictate the goden’s will. Why would
the goden limit themselven to speaking to only a select few?” Baros
grinned at Alfred, his eyes with a mad look in them.
“Here is what thou shalt do now,” said Baros, continuing to pace.
“Thou shalt use the Scroll of Time to give me the power to Timewalk.”
“What are you talking about?” scowled Alfred, and his incredulity was
sincere. How could Baros think that he knew what the Scroll could do?
Baros leaned in toward Alfred again. “If thou doest this, ic will let thee
go, back to thine own time. We shall part wayn as fellow Timewalkern,
and thou canst do as pleaseth thee till thy dying day.”
“You’re insane,” said Alfred, frowning.
“Dost thou not understand?” said Baros. “Only those who have been
on so-called ‘good termen’ with the goden have been able to Timewalk
throughout history, save the ancient primal wizarden, but they lost
their Arcane powern to foolishness. How can anything get done for the
common man? Well?”
Alfred considered trying to Timewalk, but the Scroll of Time was
several feet away. There was no way he could get out of here without the
scroll, and surely Baros would see him trying to make a grab for it.
“Consider a poor, destitute family, priest. A family with a small boy
who hath not the money to visit the chapel of the goden, milen away, nor
to purchase priest garb to become an holy man himself. Shall he then be
forbidden to Timewalk because he was born to a family who birthed him
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in poverty? What kind of justice is that?!” He spat on the marble floor an

inch from Alfred.
“Look,” said Alfred. “I didn’t choose to be a Timewalker. I didn’t even
know the ability existed until very recently in my life. It’s the gods who
choose their instruments, not us. It is up to us to accept or decline their
will for our lives. And I didn’t need the Scroll to do it!”
“Shut up!” said Baros, baring his teeth. “Again with the thinking thou
knowest all, just because thou hast read a book with one of the goden’s
namen written thereon. The fact is, priest, the goden are just, but the
churchen are not. There is no organization of religion except that which
is created by men. It was men like Yormoth who designated who could
retrieve the scrollen. Now is the day when thou shalt end it. Thou canst
show me the way to use the Scroll, ic am sure of it!”
Alfred wasn’t about to give Baros the powers of Timewalking, even if
that were possible. “Why don’t you use the Scroll yourself?” said Alfred
defiantly.
Baros laughed again. Alfred was really getting sick of the sound he made
when he was mirthful. “Nice try. Ic know from using the cipher on other
documenten that the scrollen of Yormoth are all cursed to smite all but those
who are destined to read from them.” He stopped pacing. “Now then, priest.
Ic shall ask thee a question.” He turned to the revenant towering over Alfred.
“Rogul, if he answereth in the negative, kill thou him.”
“Wait a minute,” said Alfred, trying to think quickly. “You used the
talisman as a beacon to teleport in here, didn’t you? If Rogul kills me,
how are you going to get out of here?”
For the first time since Alfred met him, Baros looked like he had been
caught off guard. “Thou speakest the truth . . .” he said slowly. “For once,
thou hast spoken wisely, priest. Very well. Rogul, if he declineth, tear his
armen from their socketen. Cleanly, if it pleaseth thee.”
Not quite the revelation I had hoped for, thought Alfred.
“Worry thou not. Ic am certain thou shalt not decline. After all, as
they say, time hangeth in the balance now.”
Alfred began to pray. He had made it this far. This was nothing
compared to the other trials. If he could merely Timewalk, he would be
saved.
“Now then, priest,” said Baros boldly, “wilt thou give me the power to
Timewalk?”
Alfred hesitated. Now would be a great time for divine intervention,
or at least an idea of what to do. But he didn’t seem to feel anything.
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“Rogul,” said Baros.

“No!” Alfred yelled. “I-I mean yes. I . . . I’ll do it. Just bring me the
Scroll.”
“Get it thyself,” said Baros angrily. “Rogul, let him get it.”
Alfred got to his feet and picked up the scroll, his body facing away from
Baros. He touched the rough paper, opened it, and pretended to read.
“Come thou hither, priest,” said Baros. “Where ic can see thee.”
Alfred walked over to stand in front of Baros, the giant suit of armor
towering over him. Alfred swallowed. Could he Timewalk away fast
enough?
“Well?” said Baros. He had his arms folded and his fingers seemed to
be twitching with anticipation.
“It’s . . . it’s in a strange language. Let me read it over.”
Alfred felt power surging from the Scroll as he looked at its writings,
and felt that it would be unwise to read it now. Even understanding its
power at this point might give him the ability to accidentally give Baros
the power to Timewalk if he were tortured. It would be best to be as
honestly ignorant of its abilities as possible. He simply had to wait until
he went to the Cavern of Time, but it was difficult to look past the scroll
without noticing words. He decided that he had no choice but to risk
making a run for it. Gods help me, he prayed.
For just a moment, he felt lighter, and the colors around him seemed
to blur slightly. He saw Baros widen his eyes in fury, and then bark a
command to Rogul. Rogul’s hand reached for Alfred with greatly retarded
speed, but before Alfred could Timewalk completely, he felt metal touch
his shoulder and his focus broke.
His attempt at Timewalking did give him time to react, however, and
he dropped to the ground and tumbled out of Rogul’s way.
“Foolish, idiotic jennet of a priest!” Baros roared as Rogul lunged for
Alfred again. But Alfred managed to stay just out of his reach. “Trying
to escape through time, art thou?! Destroy his limben, Rogul! Leave no
bone unbroken but his skull and rib cage! He needeth only his eyen and
tongue to read that scroll . . .”
“Rogul!” Alfred cried as an armored gauntlet narrowly missed his
arm. “Rogul, why are you obeying this man?”
But the revenant in the black armor was marching obediently toward
Alfred, and he seemed to be getting annoyed. He swung his great metal
fist and missed, leaving a large crater in the elegant marble wall.
Baros was laughing.
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“Do not harm this place, it is hallowed beyond what you know!”
Alfred was yelling as he swiftly dodged another of Rogul’s blows. “You
are desecrating it!”
Baros only laughed harder. “Hallowed! Ye priesten and your foolish
notionen! Nothing is hallowed but the realm of the goden. This world
and the churchen thereon are one big desecration. But not for long . . .”
With a throb of pain in Alfred’s head, he heard a clear voice speaking.
He realized that it had been whispering for some time, but he had
noticed until now. “We will help you, Alfred, by the power of Sacrum,”
said the voice. Alfred stumbled to the ground, and then turned around
to look at the immense possessed suit of armor bearing down on him.
Instinctively, he raised his hand toward it, and saw it glow white as he
did. He could see Baros’s shocked face out of the corner of his eye. Waves
of light swirled from his fingertips, and Rogul froze.
“In the name of the gods,” said Alfred, and his voice sounded bold
and unwavering as he said it, “I command you to stop.” The revenant
stood, stunned, for a few seconds, and then the white light faded and he
lowered his fists. The glowing skull in the helmet turned to face Baros
and said, “Ic shall not hurt this holy man.”
Baros exploded with rage and dashed toward Rogul, pulling a small
black scepter from his belt. He drew back with it, red lightning crackling
at its ruby-studded tip. Alfred gaped in horror, and then his brows
furrowed in a scowl. This man was not just a mage, he was a warlock—a
servant of demonic Chaos magic!
Sandy hair thrown back messily, Baros Anoton fired a searing bolt of
red lightning that hit Rogul square in the chest. The chaotic electricity
crackled as Baros fired again and again. Pieces of immense black armor
began to fall apart, and Alfred could hear Rogul screaming in his echoey
voice.
“Thou shalt pay for obeying that priest!” he spat.
Seeing his chance, Alfred ran to the chair and sat in it, praying to the
gods amidst the screams and bolts of lightning.
With a deafening explosion of red light, the suit of armor clattered
apart, revealing a pile of crumbled bones. There in front of Alfred and
Baros stood a blue, person-shaped entity.
Alfred saw Rogul’s spectral face stare at him for a heartbeat, and
then Rogul dissolved into a cloud, flowing into a marble wall. Alfred
wondered if he was returning to the desert.
Alfred felt a light feeling as the power of the gods embraced him.
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Baros drew back and fired. The beam of crackling red lightning arced
toward Alfred, and then it gradually faded to a bright silver. Alfred’s
eyes widened as the energy neared his face, and then they clenched
shut tight . . .
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Chapter 21
A ll was quiet. Alfred opened his eyes to see the world as

a gray painting around him. He started as he saw the petrified
beam of lightning, a web of gray energy hovering mere inches in front
of his face. He saw Baros, devoid of color as everything else was, looking
toward him with an expression of mingled fury and wide-eyed horror.
Alfred forced himself through time as hard as he could—five centuries
forward.
In time, he again felt his body disintegrate, and he was brought to
the peaceful state of being weightless. He could see around him the
same room, though the roof was gone. In its place was a shaft extending
straight up from the chair. He floated about and gave a spectral gasp of
surprise. In the chair sat a perfect marble statue of himself, holding the
scroll, his hand to his face, his eyes clenched shut. It was extravagantly
depicted, as if Alfred was lost in thought. He was pleased with it.
He floated around the room, looking at what else had changed over
the past half a millennium. He still saw the large pieces of armor, now
rusted to the floor, and in one of the corners was hunched a blackened
skeleton in a pile of rotting clothes. The skeleton’s bony hand clutched a
tarnished scepter, the gem ruby at its tip cracked.
The lamps had long since faded and run dry. There were still fist-
marks in the marble, which had lost its polished sheen, but it was still
otherwise unchanged.
Realizing there was no way of getting out once his body arrived, Alfred
directed his ethereal form up the shaft. He rose up the shaft nearly a hundred
feet, reminded of the final trial of the Way of Yormoth and the tunnel of
light. He burst into the sunlight, his ethereal eyes adjusting instantly, and
floated upward. He was in a small courtyard filled with hedges and trees
laden with ripe fruit. In the distance was a large manor, and he realized that
he had just floated out of a circular marble pedestal. Two middle-aged men
arrived, one of them reading to the other off of a piece of parchment.
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“So the monument’s gonna be on this pedestal, eh?” said the grubbier
of the two. He had on a peasant’s hat and wore simple clothing.
“Aye. Perfect place for it. The master’ll be pleased to see his favorite
god depicted in his very yard,” said the other, a clean cut man in a fine
doublet.
“Do you have the first payment with you today?”
“Of course. Three hundred crowns, as agreed.”
“Well, we shall get to work on it immediately. The statue itself has
already been carved. We need only bring in my crew to hoist it on top
and bolt it down.”
Alfred felt himself being pulled disturbingly downward. He floated
quickly away out of sight as corporeality returned to his body and clothes.
Sensation returned as he felt the weight of his clothes and the chill of the
early autumn air.
He was back into his own time and, he noticed, the Scroll was still
clenched in his hand. He looked back at the marble monument. Alfred
was sad to think that he would never be able to see his own statue again
or the remains of the small battle that had taken place again. He chuckled
softly to himself. He had almost died down there. Perhaps he was too
sentimental.
Alfred walked stealthily out of the courtyard, quietly letting himself
out a metal gate next to a large mansion. He made his way down the
orchard-lined highway in front of it, and soon spotted the tall stone walls
of Ae’brinthil about a mile away. He looked down at himself, realizing
how dirty he was. His robe from the past was so tattered he doubted
anyone could even recognize him as a priest. He put the scroll in his
pocket and strode off toward the Ae’brinthil cathedral, where he knew he
could get help. He felt like he hadn’t eaten in five hundred years.
***
The cathedral looked the same as it did five hundred years ago, except for
an annex that had been added some time later. The doors of the cathedral in
his time were often locked when the priests were meditating and praying,
but to Alfred’s luck, the doors easily opened. He made his way to the apse
where the bishop was preaching to several soldiers and peasants.
The bishop of Ae’brinthil in this time period was Alfred’s direct
superior, Artelion. He was a young man for a bishop, only forty-five years
old. Nevertheless, he was regarded among the church as wise beyond
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his years. Alfred sat down in the front pew and listened to the rest of
Artelion’s sermon.
The bishop soon finished and, seeing Alfred, descended the steps
and greeted him.
“Alfred, you look terrible! And you didn’t wait until we were done
to be seated! How impolite.” He shared a chuckle with Alfred as they
exchanged priestly gestures. “Back from Amber’s Hand already, I see,
though you scarcely left a fortnight ago. Did you take one look at
their all-fish diet and leave? Or have you been Timewalking?”
Alfred laughed, as did few nearby priests, though Alfred suspected
they had no idea what the jest had meant. Artelion was usually a
humorous man, but Alfred was unsure whether he had actually been
jesting this time.
“Come, Alfred—have some food and some drink, and—good
heavens—some new robes! Where did you even find this old style?
You’ve obviously had a long day . . . or longer, perhaps. We’ll talk about
it together.”
They waited until the congregation and choir had left the building.
Alfred and Artelion were left alone with several of the priests.
“Cuthbert, please fetch Alfred a fresh robe.”
“Yes, Father,” said a bald priest, bowing.
“And you, Perryn, please direct the cooks to prepare a feast.”
“Yes, Father.”
They were momentarily left alone as the priests were sent to do errands.
“I know where you’ve been,” said Artelion quietly. “It’s in the annals
of the cathedral, which I have read carefully. I’m sure it seems like only
a day ago to you, but I’m afraid you’re ancient history now!” He smiled,
and then his face grew solemn. “I’m sorry to say that Ebricus and Abron
were murdered by Baros in the end, right before he disappeared.”
“The archbishop was murdered?” Alfred asked incredulously.
“It was his time to go, Alfred. I’m sorry. Had the gods wished him
to remain on Argae, they would have saved him, as they did you.” The
bishop nodded as Cuthbert returned with a new, clean brown robe. “He’s
in a better place now.”
“Did you know this all along?”
“No,” chuckled Artelion. “I had indeed read it in the annals before,
but I was only enlightened about it referring to you last night. Imagine—
all your life, an experience you would yet have was written in the very
cathedral you would become a priest in!”
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Alfred smiled. “And what of the Way of Yormoth? Can it still be

accessed?”
The bishop shook his head. “Not by traditional means, I’m afraid. The
king’s key was lost or stolen fifty years after the high priests were killed,
when King Mendon died. Magic protects anyone from opening the Way
again without it. The bishop’s key is safe, however, so at least we know
no one unworthy will enter. We can speculate that the other scrolls of
Yormoth will be accessed by those destined through divine means.”
Alfred accepted the brown robe and went into a small dressing
room, washed himself in a water basin, and changed into the new robe.
He carefully took the Scroll of Time from the old robe, as well as his
dolphin figurine. He smiled as he looked at its familiar gleam. The luck
it contained seemed endless.
It was a half an hour or so until the feast was prepared, and Alfred
used the time to rest quietly on one of the guest priest beds in the
dormitory. In time, Perryn woke him and bid him enter the priests’ mess
hall. Inside, a few smaller tables were lined up, and a merry fire was lit in
the hearth. Goblets full of the finest wine lined the simple wooden dishes
of the priests. A roasted quail was soon cut up and given to all the priests,
as well as bread, turnips, and apples.
As soon as the meal was done, Artelion spoke. “I would offer you a
room here, but a pilgrimage of dwarves from Malgwyr are staying this
week, and we are full up. I’m afraid you will have to stay at a local inn.
However, we can grant you a stipend to get you on your way.”
“Thank you,” said Alfred.
“Will you be leaving in the morning?” asked Artelion.
“I . . . think after what I’ve been through, the gods and the duke will
pardon one day of rest,” Alfred grinned.
Artelion returned his smile. “So I’m sure they will. A fresh start will
help you on your quest anyway. Of course, you’re welcome to study here
if you need to,” he said.
Alfred was given a handful of royals from the tithe coffers. Artelion
asked no questions about Alfred’s divine quest, except how far he would
travel, and he promised to prepare a pack of rations to last him until the
rocklands. Alfred kept the Scroll of Time in his robe, intent on keeping
it safe. He bid Artelion and the other priests farewell, and made his way,
well fed, to look for an inn in town.
When he reached a somewhat humble inn, called the Roc’s Rest, the
sun was setting, and Alfred was nearly collapsing from exhaustion. He
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quickly purchased a room, set his new pack aside, lay on the straw bed,
and fell asleep instantly. It had, in the words of Artelion, truly been a
long day.
***
When Alfred awoke, he saw a dim silhouette of a thin man, etched in

yet another month’s moonlight, searching through his things. Alfred
gasped quietly. It couldn’t be . . . how could it have happened again? At
a different inn, no less! Who had been the other man that had searched
through his things? Had it been the same man? Or a man at all?
The questions seemed to give him courage. He leapt from the bed and
lunged at the thief, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Alfred heard a young male elven voice yell, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” as
he tackled him to the ground.
He rolled the thief over and grabbed his wrists, glaring into his face,
which was filled with fear. He was a civil elf, judging by his brown eyes
and black hair. “You’re the one who tried to steal something last time!”
Alfred growled. “What do you want from me?!”
“I’m sorry!” the elf repeated, his eyes wide with surprise. “It’s not me,
it’s—it’s her! She . . . she’s been . . . I-I can’t tell you . . .” The elf struggled
to escape, but Alfred held him firmly.
“Who are you talking about?”
“She . . . I cannot tell you, sir. Please let me go, I won’t bother you
again! Please, please just . . . do you have the scroll?”
“What scroll?! Why do you not leave me be?”
“She said that you had a scroll—an artifact that would summon
demons into the world. She told me you would have it and to take it . . .
to prevent you from opening the portal.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no such scroll,” Alfred
said truthfully. “You’ve checked my pack twice, haven’t you?”
“I’m sorry!” the elf said a fourth time. “You . . . you’re a holy man,
aren’t you? Have you heard of such an item? I need to—” The man trailed
off pathetically.
“Calm down,” said Alfred, feeling somewhat sympathetic. He loosened
his grip on the elf. “Tell me about this woman you serve.”
“Oh, I can’t, sir,” said the elf, his muscles tensing at the thought. “It’s
best you don’t know either. She’s mad, I tell you. But my family—I’ve said
too much!”
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“I can’t help you unless you talk to me,” said Alfred. He relaxed his grip
more, trying to reassure the elf without giving him a chance to escape.
“I’ve told you all that I will,” said the civil elf. Alfred saw worry
behind his eyes. “She told me that you had a scroll that would summon
demons, and she sent me to retrieve it. When I failed last time, she . . .
I can’t fail again.”
Alfred sighed, looking into the elf ’s eyes. This was no thief, to be sure.
There was sincerity in his worry, not unlike the sincerity Blacksheath
had shown when he had revealed his fear of Gregmir. “I’ll tell you what,”
he said. Come back tomorrow night, and I’ll place a decoy scroll on this
table for you.”
The elf thought for a moment, and then his expression brightened. “A
decoy scroll?” he asked.
“I’ll do my best to make it look like a religious artifact. You are never
to bother me again after that, understood?”
The elf nodded anxiously, his eyes still wide, but he had relaxed
considerably. “I really am sorry about all this, sir. I hate to be meddling
in your affairs and making my problems your own.”
The two stood up, and Alfred saw a small piece of paper sticking
out of the man’s pocket. He snatched it and realized it was his charcoal
picture of Darla that had been taken the last time. He raised an eyebrow
at the elf.
“She’s uh . . . rather fetching,” the elf said embarrassedly.
“Keep it, if you want,” said Alfred, shaking his head. “Listen, I’d suggest
you escape from whoever is trying to threaten you, or get help from the
elf king. He has always stuck up for the elves, even civil ones like you.”
“King Anathas has gone missing, haven’t you heard?” responded the
civil elf, frowning.
Alfred scratched the back of his head, recalling his conversation with
the half-elf innkeeper long ago. How many others had been kidnapped
since then? Alfred then turned to a more pressing matter. “What did
your mistress tell you she would do with the scroll?”
“She told me that she was going to destroy it, for the good of the
world. Please don’t ask me any more questions! You don’t understand
what’s at stake for me!” The elf was becoming frantic again, yelling every
word. Alfred saw in him someone who had been unknowingly a pawn to
mischief at first, but had then become a slave to terror.
Just then the door to the room opened, and there holding a lantern
stood the wrinkly-faced innkeeper, who had messy hair and eyes
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drooping with sleep. “Something . . . going on?” the innkeeper yawned.

“Uh, not at all,” said Alfred. He straightened his posture a bit and shook
the elf ’s hand cordially. “Thanks again for coming on such short notice,
um . . . Aelthur. I’ll send you the details of the contract by courier.”
The elf shook his hand, looking a little nervous, and then passed the
innkeeper on his way out, who still looked blank and half-asleep.
“Goodnight, sir,” Alfred said to the innkeeper. “Sorry for the
disruption.” The innkeeper didn’t respond, so Alfred slowly closed the
door in front of him. Alfred retired to his bed and fell asleep once again,
though not so easily this time.
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Chapter 22
T he next morning after breakfast, Alfred returned to

the Ae’brinthil cathedral, where he requested a private scribing
room. The room was just as large as the others, but the bishop had made
sure that no one else was in it. Alfred took a sheet of parchment as long
as the Scroll of Time, took a goose-quill pen and an inkwell, and began
to write a passage mimicking ancient Argaen prose. He focused on mak-
ing it talk about time, though he was careful not to add any references to
his real experiences with Timewalking. On top of that, he obscured any
specific references with as complex of metaphors and symbolism as he
could think of.
It took all morning and a couple of hours after noonday to finish the
scroll. Alfred sat back and stretched at his desk, rubbing his eyes. He was
exhausted and his hand was cramping. Still, it had been nice to be in a
warm indoor place for one day, and he had done good work. He looked
at the two scrolls. The only visible difference, besides the words, was the
golden rods that rolled up the real scroll. He removed them and glued
them into the false one. He realized now why he had seen no golden rods
in the Scroll in the vision.
Alfred smiled. His quest was nearly complete. Deep down, he realized
that his feelings were bittersweet. The past few weeks—or however long
it had been—had been the most eventful and adventurous of his entire
life. He caught himself, however, and realized that it was not over yet.
Whoever had been looking for the Scroll of Time could still stand in his
way. She must have a significant amount of power at least, for knowing
about the Scroll (or one like it) and also knowing where Alfred had
stayed both nights.
Alfred had just stowed the scrolls and was putting the ink and quills
away when he heard a knock at the door. He opened the door and was
surprised to see no one there. Then he started as he realized a man half
his size—a halfling—was standing in front of him, grinning.
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“Oh, good day!” said Alfred, embarrassed. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Brother Alfred, aren’t you?” said the halfling. He was dressed
in an older-fashioned style of priest robe than Alfred and the other
priests wore.
“Yes, and you are . . .?”
“A humble priest like you,” said the halfling. “Sorry to bother you. Did
I interrupt anything?” He looked into the room behind Alfred.
“No, I was just finishing.”
“Well, forgive me, Brother Alfred, but I overheard that you were going
to the rocklands soon. Is that true?”
“Yes,” said Alfred. “I . . . have some business at a village near there.”
“Well, you’re in luck! I happen to know a local mage who has set up
a ley-line near the rocklands. Would you be interested in getting there
instantaneously?”
“A ley-line?” asked Alfred. “But only mages can use those to teleport.
And only if they’ve set it up personally.”
“That’s the best part,” said the halfling. “It’s a specialized form of
magic. I thought of it as soon as I heard about your plans. It would save
you a long journey. No one else that I know of has bothered to make a
teleportation route there. Too out of the way, you know?”
Alfred was intrigued. If a mage could teleport him, he could arrive at
the Cavern of Time the very next day. Not to mention, he could avoid the
bandits in the woods, and any other problems that came with travel.
“Thank you, brother priest,” said Alfred, smiling. “That sounds like a
great convenience . . .”
Alfred looked down at the short priest and his curly hair, trying to
remember a thought that had just crossed his mind. It had something
to do with the Cavern of Time. What had it been?
“Great!” said the halfling, grinning broadly. “Come with me and we can
talk with the mage immediately. He only requests a bit of gold for his service.”
Alfred took the new satchel Artelion had given him and began to
follow the halfling priest out of the room. Perhaps he would remember
whatever it had been later. “So,” Alfred said as they walked through
the main corridor of the cathedral. “What brings a halfling like you to
Ae’brinthil?”
“Just priestly duties, like all here, I suppose,” said the halfling. “I
followed the dwarven pilgrimage here. They were passing by my village.
You’re not the first one to ask,” he added, laughing. “It’s not every day you
see a halfling priest.”
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Alfred stopped at the cathedral doors. Don’t believe anything the

halfling priest says.
The halfling opened the door, holding it open for Alfred. “Is there . . .
a problem, Brother Alfred?” he asked, still grinning.
“I . . . just remembered,” said Alfred awkwardly. “I can’t go to the
rocklands immediately.”
The halfling laughed, still maintaining his grin. “Why ever not,
brother priest? It’s always better to save time, isn’t it?”
“No, I have to make some stops on the way.”
“Oh, well, that’s no problem,” said the halfling, still holding the door
open. “The mage actually has ley-lines all along the path to the rocklands.
You’d be able to go to any one of them you wish.”
“No, I’d better not,” said Alfred, stepping back. “But thanks just the
same.”
“Wait,” said the halfling his grin shrinking for the first time since
Alfred had met him. “It’s about the price, isn’t it? Look, I know the fellow
really well. We’re good friends. I can talk down the price if it’s too much
to afford.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Alfred. “I just don’t think I’d be comfortable
teleporting. I’ve never trusted Arcane magic that much, and—”
“Ohh, you don’t have to worry about that,” said the halfling, a bit too
loudly. A couple of priests in the cathedral looked back at them, annoyed.
“Arcane magic is as trustworthy as Sacrum, I assure you,” he whispered.
“And much more consistent. The mage will just say the incantation, and
pfft! You’re anywhere along the path you like!”
“I think not,” said Alfred, raising his hands. “I can’t explain it . . .
Call it direction from the gods or what have you, but I’m afraid I must
decline.”
“You don’t trust me,” said the halfling with a sad grin. “How sad,
Brother Alfred. I am a priest of your order, and you can’t even trust me?
I’m trying to help you!” the halfling did the gesture of Vendictes with his
fingers, but Alfred only thought of his alternate self ’s missing ones. “It’s
because I’m a halfling, isn’t it?” said the priest, his face darkening.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Alfred. “The light of the gods shines on all
races. This is just a proposal I feel I should decline this time. But thank
you for your offer.”
“Come now . . .” he heard the halfling say, but Alfred had turned
around and was walking back to the nave of the cathedral. He sat down
in a pew, and then bowed his head, pretending to pray. After a minute or
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so, he glanced behind him. The halfling was still standing at the doors.
His face was darkened with an expression of disdain. He glared at Alfred,
and then exited, slamming the door behind him.
Alfred exhaled. Well that was awkward. There hadn’t seemed to be any
graceful way to get out of that situation. It made sense why the Alfred
incarnation that had gone on before him, whom he had seen in the Tunnel
of the Future, had accepted the halfling’s proposal. Well, whatever would
have happened to injure him so, he would never have to find out.
Alfred meditated and prayed in the nave for an hour or so, asking the
gods to guide him on his quest and protect him on his journey. After a
while, he joined some of the other priests in the cathedral and discussed
the doctrines of the gods together, though the subject of time was never
brought up. He also was able to meet with some of the dwarven priests
on their pilgrimage. They admired his rank and experience and asked
him to explain passages of scripture and give his opinion on them. It had
been a hard few weeks, or even years, and Alfred was surprised how much
peace it brought him just to take a break and enjoy the companionship of
those of his priesthood.
When the sun began to set, Alfred got an idea as he walked around the
gardens surrounding the cathedral. Looking toward the Ae’brinthil castle,
he wondered if King Donathan, being one of the aelisyn Enlightened,
might know anything about Rothgran in this era. As King Mendon of
the past had said, five centuries was a long time . . . perhaps something
had made the duke curious about time travel enough to go searching
for the Cavern of Time. He could also perhaps learn more about the
practices of the Enlightened. Perhaps he could tell him more about the
Chronomere.
Alfred entered the cathedral again and walked to the clergy offices in
the back wings. He knocked softly on Artelion’s door and entered.
Artelion was hunched over his desk, reading forms of parchment
through spectacles. He looked up as Alfred entered and smiled. “It was
so good to have you here, Alfred,” he said, removing his spectacles. “Are
you ready for your journey tomorrow?”
“Nearly,” said Alfred, nodding. “I have a favor to ask you before I go,
however. I know it’s a late hour, but is there any way you could get me
into an urgent meeting with the king?”
“King Donathan?” asked Artelion.
“Yes, I think he may know something about the duke’s whereabouts.
In any case, I’d like to ask him some—”
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“Oh, I’m sorry, Alfred . . . I thought you knew,” said Artelion, putting
down his papers. “I’m afraid His Majesty is gone on a journey of his own.”
Alfred paused. “He . . . what?”
“Yes, word of the duke’s absence reached here a week or so ago, and
four days ago King Donathan put one of his councilors in charge while
he went out and searched for the duke himself.”
Alfred’s heart began to race. Oh, no, he thought. Not him too.
“Is something wrong?” asked Artelion.
Alfred thought about reminding Artelion of the prophecy of the
imprisoned lords, but he realized it would do little but worry him. With
a swift royal carriage like the king’s, Donathan would likely already be at
the Cavern of Time by now, presumably lured there and trapped already,
just like the others. If only he had Timewalked backward a week earlier!
How many leaders were left? Would the world be vulnerable the moment
the final Enlightened stepped into the Realm of Time?
“Alfred?”
Alfred shook the thoughts from his head. “Oh. No. Nothing’s wrong,
Father,” he said, trying to feign a smile. “Perhaps my path and his will
cross on my journey.”
“Yes,” said Artelion, smiling. “With the king himself and a gods-
chosen Timewalker on the search, the duke is sure to be found.”
It was around seven o’clock when Alfred bid Artelion and the others
goodbye. Artelion filled his satchel with trail rations and supplies, and
Alfred returned to the Roc’s Rest. He kept the real Scroll of Time hidden,
but on the room’s table he left the decoy scroll for the elf.
***
Alfred slept soundly that night, and when he awoke, the decoy was gone.
Alfred felt in his robe for the real scroll. He had succeeded in tricking
whoever was looking for it. At least, he hoped so. Still, many questions
crossed his mind. How had the woman tracked him down? Why had she
only caught him in inns?
As he checked out that morning, it struck him to think of the issue
in terms of Timewalking. What if somebody—some other Timewalker,
perhaps?—far in the future was trying to change the past—or Alfred’s
present—by reading old inn ledgers? That way, they could know exactly
what day in the past he would have stayed at the inn. If they had known
that the Scroll of Time was destroyed, they would have known that
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there was a certain span of time in which they could find the Scroll in
his possession. That explained why they had sent the elf to search his
possessions before he even knew about the Scroll. They would have
already known of the Scroll’s existence in the future.
It was a hard idea to believe. Why hadn’t they just sent an assassin to
kill Alfred? If what Baros said was true, only Alfred could read the Scroll
of Time without being subject to the curse, but this “lady” in question
didn’t seem to know that. She had sent a cowering elf—and a rather
incompetent one at that—to simply steal the Scroll and take it to her.
Perhaps she was not at powerful as Alfred thought. But with knowledge
gleaned from the future . . .
Alfred wished that he could test his theory somehow, but since he
had just sent a forged scroll to whoever this lady was, it was unlikely
that he would ever see the elf again. In fact, if she found out it was a false
one, she might take matters into her own hands. Alfred’s heart sank as
he thought of the elf. Had he put the lad in danger? And there was his
own safety he had to worry about, as well as the Scroll’s. Alfred resolved
to avoid inns—or at least give false names on any ledgers of the ones he
did stay at—henceforth until the Scroll of Time was destroyed. Though,
he realized, he probably wouldn’t have the chance to stay anywhere very
populated where he was going anyway.
Alfred had arranged the day before to hitch a ride with a farmer to
the crossroads in the woodlands. Alfred didn’t have enough money to
purchase a horse, but he hoped that he would be able to catch another
ride from the crossroads to the gap and walk the rest of the way. With
the year’s harvest drawing near, someone was bound to be transporting
crops to Amber’s Hand or Waelis. He would have to trust the gods to get
him where he needed to go. They had done so thus far, though the path
was not what he had expected.
The farmer had a cart full of apples, a signature crop of Ae’brinthil’s
orchards, and along with Alfred rode the farmer’s teenage son and a
man-at-arms for protection. They spoke little on the way, which was a
bit of a disappointment for Alfred. It felt like riding with Blacksheath all
over again. Alfred had come prepared with a couple of books, however,
and rather enjoyed reading, meditating, and seeing the trees in their
pre-fall colors pass by on the road. He had searched for a copy of The
Timewalkers at the Ae’brinthil royal library the day before, but had not
been able to find it.
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Alfred had told his party ahead of time that his name was Brother
Gardener, so that he could protect his identity from any further agents
that the mysterious lady might send. They spent two rainy days on the
road (Alfred was glad the cart was covered), stopping at inns in small
hamlets on the way each night. Alfred didn’t have any more encounters
with anyone shifty either time. He wasn’t sure if this was because his
scroll decoy had worked or that his name wasn’t in the ledgers, but either
way, it was comforting to move ahead without any disruption.
Around noon on the third day of the journey, the cart came to the
crossroads in the woodlands, where there was a large village bustling
with traders in a sizeable marketplace. Alfred helped the farmer set
up his trading stalls, gathered his things and bid the group goodbye,
thanking them for the ride. After buying a small lunch of fresh fruit and
vegetables, he made his way down the path westward.
Alfred walked at a brisk pace that day. He hoped that the gods would
provide him with another cart, but until they did, he decided that he
may as well make as good of time as he could on his own. Soon, the sun
sank behind the trees in front of him, and after traveling late into the
night, he found a hiding place and shelter in a giant hollow tree stump.
After setting out his bedroll and saying his nightly vows, he fell asleep
instantly.
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184
Chapter 23
A lfred woke up shivering and parched with thirst. The sun

was already filtering through the trees, but there was a layer of
frost on Alfred’s bedroll and robe. It was getting a bit late in the year to
be sleeping in the shady forest. He sat up, yawning, and realized he must
have slept in, judging by the light. He resolved to take it a bit slower from
now on. Traveling in the early morning would be much more productive
than at night. Easing the pace would also put less of a strain on his feet as
well, he realized, wincing.
Alfred drained the last swig of water from his waterskin, and
scolded himself for not bringing more. He seemed to recall passing
a stream the night before, so he decided to backtrack a bit. Sure
enough, a trickle of water ran through the dirt a hundred or so yards
down the path. He followed it upstream to the south until he found a
large pond of clear water at the base of an outcropping. Beavers had
dammed it from the other side, and there was a deer or two on the
far side drinking. Little brown frogs darted past his feet, preparing
to hibernate for the upcoming cold. Alfred bent down and drank
from the pond, and then filled his waterskin, saying a quick prayer of
thanks to the gods.
Alfred took out some dried apples and hardtack and took a few
minutes to break his fast and admire the scenic area. He had just started
topping off his waterskin a second time when suddenly he heard voices.
Rather than the trade-speak he had been accustomed to passing along the
road, something told him these men were more into the “take without
pay” business. He found a spot in a thicket to hide.
“Speakin’ o’ Blacksheath, where is that git? ’E’s been gone all day. ’E
owes me a hundred royals, and I’ll bet ’e’s buryin’ ’em at Beggar’s Cliff
right now.”
Alfred suddenly realized that he had somehow come into time a
few days earlier than when he had left. Right now, he mused, he was
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overlapping with another Alfred incarnation somewhere in the world,

presumably somewhere south riding in a rickety mule cart.
Alfred was tempted to tell the thugs where Blacksheath was out of
spite, but was a bit hesitant to deal with such thugs. He also thought
briefly of foiling Blacksheath’s plan before he betrayed Past Alfred, but
that would be far too dangerous, and was likely to cause some sort of a
chaotic paradox. If he never made it to Abaloochar’s chamber, he may
never learn to Timewalk at all. Besides, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to
deal with these brigands in the first place.
Alfred rose from the bushes quietly and began to stealthily follow the
dark figures in the dim shadows of the forest canopy. He tried to figure
out exactly at what point he had arrived, whether before or after he had
been mugged, and so forth.
“Blacksheath ain’t at the guild?” said the other brigand, as if to ask
Alfred’s question for him. The odd-looking woolen hood on his head
looked familiar.
“Naw, Trench was awake this mornin’. Said ’e saw ’im and that
Dreana wench leave about six o’clock to dispose of the holy man’s
corpse. Rubbish, I say. Probably just said that to cover ’is tracks.” The
second, shorter man had a voice that was high and mousy. Alfred’s
heart skipped a beat as he listened.
When the first man did not reply, the mousy man said, “It was you
what killed the priest, wasn’t it, Ingot?”
“Aye,” said Ingot, who Alfred was satisfied to notice had a much
less fearsome voice than before. In fact, it sounded rather unconfident
indeed. “But I’m not so sure that was a good idea.”
The mousy man gave out a short cackle. “What’re you talkin’ about,
Ingot? Gone soft, ’ave you? Are you a gods-fearin’ man now?”
Ingot stopped moving, looking around him. Alfred nearly made a
twig snap under his foot as he crouched lower. Ingot lowered his voice
so that Alfred hiding nearby could barely hear. “I had some bad dreams
last night.”
“What?” the mousy man laughed and then trailed off quickly. “Oh.
Eh . . . what do you mean, bad dreams?”
The men started walking again, slowly. “After I killed the priest. I had
some dreams that . . . well, they were blasted frightening, Dirk.”
The mousy man now had a concerned tone in his voice. He seemed
unnerved that a man of Ingot’s strength was actually fearful of something.
“What were the dreams about?”
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“Well, there was this man—a huge man, with a booming voice—who
said, ‘You cannot stop the progression of the gods.’ And he called me by
my real name. He had a crown that burned my eyes, and a flowing brown
robe that coiled around me like snakes. By Moeki, I was . . . terrified.”
Alfred was grinning broadly behind his tree. Seeing this was much
more satisfying than seeing the hideout burned down as he had previously
wanted. Truly, cruelty did not pay.
The men were silent for a long time, and then suddenly something
whizzed through the air and stuck into the ground near the thieves.
“It’s them!” said a high elven voice from high above. “Those are the
men that kidnapped my daughter!”
“Give her back, you bleeding wretch!”
“You elves leave us be!” said Ingot. A knife was suddenly in his hand.
The other thief, Dirk, had two knives brandished as well. Alfred saw an
arrow embedded in the dirt an inch from Ingot’s foot.
“Show us where Ria is and you won’t be smoking fern tobacco through
your forehead!” said another wood elf.
“I said leave us alone, you leaf-lickers! I don’t know nothing about
no daughter of yours. Just flutter back into the trees, and forget you ever
encountered us here. This is our territory, after all.”
“This is no territory of yours as long as you have a wood elf hostage,”
said the wood elf voice. Alfred could see them now, poised on the
branches above, dressed in brown and yellow that blended in with the
changing leaves. There were three of them, each with a nocked bow and
arrow pointed at the two brigands. “You’ve got to the count of three,
human! Will you comply, or die?”
There was a sound of something whiffling through the air, and the
forest was suddenly in an uproar. Alfred dove into a thick bush where
he curled up, covering his head. He heard whizzing arrows and several
cries, whether elven or human he did not know. Alfred heard a thud on
the ground, and then cursing and yelling from above as voices faded
away into the trees. In less than a minute, the battle was over.
Alfred listened, but did not hear any voices at all. Had they all killed
each other? He waited for a minute or so, and then crept out of the bush
quietly and looked around. What he saw made his stomach drop. An elf
was sprawled on the ground with a knife embedded in his chest. Farther
on, there was a human body with large teeth and boils dotting his face
next to a large, familiar shirtless body wearing a hood. Two or three more
throwing knives glinted in the bark of the trees above, and half a dozen
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arrows stood erect in the forest floor. The other elves were nowhere to
be seen.
Alfred walked over to Ingot, who was still moving, though an
arrow was stuck in his shoulder and blood spattered his hairy chest.
The brigand’s eyes grew wide with terror and his face grew paler as he
recognized the man he thought he had killed. “I . . . I’m sorry . . .” he
gasped, and then fell still.
Alfred felt pity well up inside him, but the man was still breathing.
Alfred’s hatred for the man lessened slightly as he remembered the oaths
he had taken as a priest to bind up the wounded whenever the chance
presented itself. Alfred quickly snapped the arrow shaft in two and
tugged out the other side of the arrow from the man’s body.
Ingot’s breath became shallower as Alfred looked through his sack to
find some healing herbs he had taken from the cathedral. Fortunately
for Ingot, they were the exact type that would stop bleeding and prevent
infection. Alfred chewed a mouthful of leaves and put the poultice on
the wound. Then he made a bandage from a strip of the dead elf ’s tunic.
“I was planning on using these in the event of my own injury, you
know,” said Alfred quietly.
Ingot’s breath soon became steadier, but he still looked pale. Alfred
inspected the other bodies, hoping that perhaps another person had
lived, but it was not the case. The boil-faced man had bled out from two
arrows to the stomach, and the elf looked like he had fallen hard on his
head, even ignoring the knife wound.
“These thieves kidnapped and killed elves,” muttered Alfred, finally
coming to terms with the brutal horror which was before him. Suddenly
he wondered whether Ingot had deserved to die after all. Ingot’s breathing
began to be laced with coughing fits, but Alfred only glanced at him this
time.
Alfred heard elven voices from above. When he looked up, half
a dozen bows were pointed at him from branches. The faces of those
wielding them looked stern and angry.
Alfred stood up slowly, raising his empty hands upward.
“Explain yourself, human,” said a voice from the shadowy branches
above.
“An elf and a human dead . . . and the other is dying. There was a
skirmish . . .” blubbered Alfred, the shock of it all weighing on him
suddenly.
“Dead? We can see that. That fallen elf there—did you kill him?”
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“No, I encountered them all after the battle.”

Five of the elves leapt gracefully out of the trees, one by one, landing
lightly on the grass below. The remaining elf kept his bow aimed at
Alfred. Suddenly one of the elves on the ground spotted Ingot’s bandage.
He came to the body of the dead elf, running his hand over the elf ’s
torn brown tunic. “So, using an elf ’s garb to help one of your friends
then?” the elf ’s bright green eyes narrowed menacingly. The elves angrily
grabbed Alfred by his collar. Several of them bound his wrists with vine-
like ropes.
“You will die for helping this man-filth!” said one of the elves.
“I-I had nothing to do with this!” Alfred protested. “I was just trying
to help!”
The elves ignored Alfred, tying his wrists more tightly. Clearly, the elf
people of this region had been rubbing a bitter spot toward the thieves
for far too long. Alfred saw two elves lift Ingot, and then a blindfold slid
over his eyes.
Alfred heard one of the elves chant an incantation, and what he felt
next terrified him. More vines, writhing like snakes, slid around his
shoulders and over his chest like a harness, and he was hoisted off the
ground. He struggled as he felt wind blow through his hair, and then his
stomach plummeted as he felt himself swinging.
For what felt like one hour-long fall, Alfred felt himself being swung
by vines through the air. Any second, he expected to slam into a tree,
or the ground. But he swung through thin air, listening to elf voices
conversing around him calmly, albeit angrily.
At long last, the swinging stopped, and Alfred felt himself dangling for
a moment before brushing something solid beneath his foot. He quickly
knelt to straddle it for support. His wrists were still bound, but he clung
with the rest of his body, feeling exhausted from adrenaline. An elf removed
his blindfold, and Alfred felt another sickening rush as he looked down.
He was straddling a thick branch of a tall tree. He could barely see the
ground from how high up he was, and the forest canopy obscured much
of the earth’s surface below. His vision swam before him, and he vomited
off the branch. The other elves laughed triumphantly.
“The nausea of guilt strikes!” said one who was supporting Ingot. Alfred
looked groggily up at the brigand, who was being suspended like a puppet
by vines from above. He looked up into the forest canopy, but couldn’t see
where his or Ingot’s vines began. He suspected some kind of druidic magic
was being used.
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Alfred looked ahead of him and saw that his branch was sprouting
from a thick trunk that had been hollowed out. Inside the opening were
three living wood chairs, where sat elves with white hair and colored
paint on their faces. There were also several dozen other elves sitting on
branches around the building. They looked at the two bound men, one
dying, and the other looking terrified.
“These human men have committed a crime most heinous to our
race!” said the tallest elf, who had apprehended Alfred. “This man”—he
pointed to Ingot’s suspended body—“shed pure wood-elven blood after
being identified as one of those who kidnapped Ria and sold her to the
thieves’ guild.” He stabbed a finger toward Alfred. “And the other was
caught in the act of saving him from his deserved death!” The surrounding
elves were instantly filled with rage and began to shout.
“Make them suffer!”
“Toss them to their death!”
One of the elder elves raised a hand, and all were silent. “What do you
have to say for yourself?” he said to Alfred.
“I was not involved with the thieves at all,” said Alfred assuredly, trying
to look the elf in the eye and not down. “Priests of Vendictes are sworn to
help the wounded. I came across the aftermath of this battle and decided
to help the only one left alive. I cannot speak for his guilt. But now that I
have saved him, perhaps he can tell you what happened.”
“Liar!” the elves began to heat up in argument again.
“Filthy humans!”
Another elder raised a hand. “Silence! I’m afraid it is your word
against the situation, priest. Why were you near the battle at all? It did
not occur so near to the road for you to hear it. It appears as though you
had business with the thieves’ guild.”
“I assure you, I have no business with any guild near here,” stuttered
Alfred. He considered talking about how they had abducted him and taken
him there, but he was still not sure if that story held contemporary ground.
The elder was about to speak, but then a clear feminine voice rang
out, “The priest is innocent.”
The angry elves all looked around for the sound. An older-looking
elf-maiden with reddish-blonde hair dropped from a branch and stood
before the council.
“This priest was caught helping the enemy, Shenna . . . I suggest
you keep your mouth shut,” said one of the taller elves. The other elves
began to shout assent, but they were all silenced by the third elder, who
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had heretofore remained silent. This elder seemed to command almost

reverence from the other elves. Alfred noticed his milky eyes—he was
blind. Also he, unlike the others, held an ancient carved staff that had
many feathers and shiny stones embossed into it, living leaves and
blossoms sprouting from its tip.
“It seems that you are all leaving the Nature-Mother out of this,”
said the elder in a voice that was extraordinarily deep for an elf. “Is not
Phroella Nature-Mother the goddess of peace? And yet here you go on,
anticipating the torture of a holy man, who may have not known the
circumstances these men have brought upon us, merely doing his duty.”
“We can’t afford to let crimes like this go unpunished,” one of the elves
growled. “King Anathas has already been missing for three weeks. If we
don’t manage the law while he’s gone, the humans will take advantage of
our entire people’s so called ‘peacefulness’!”
“If we are worshipers of Her,” said the druid, “She will bring us order
and guidance. Don’t become so caught up in the divine nature of royalty
that you forget what divinity is. The gods will not let our forests be lost
to one of their own servants.” The tension among the elves lessened as
they listened intently to the druid. He turned his blind face in Shenna’s
direction. “Speak, lady,” he said softly.
The elves in silence turned to Shenna. “I met this man yesterday,”
she said. “He was just traveling east on a journey to Ae’brinthil. That’s
why I was in the area. I was trying to find him to give him back his
horse. In its saddlebags, you will not find a single weapon or bottle of
ale . . . not even any coins. It contains rations for a journey, holy books,
and nothing more.”
Alfred expected the elves to call her a liar, but they remained
respectfully silent this time.
“Shall I fetch the horse to show you? Or will you wisely abandon this
case and let this poor man go?”
After a long moment Alfred began to hear the rustle of leaves as elves
left the scene, scoffing. Soon they all left except Alfred, Ingot, the elders,
and Shenna. Alfred felt the vines on his wrists and shoulders go slack,
and he held onto the tree branch. Ingot was placed gently down as well.
“It was brave of you to come here,” said the blind elder softly. Alfred
opened his mouth to respond, but Shenna spoke instead.
“I was only here to return this gentleman’s horse to him . . . my beast
scared it off,” said Shenna quietly. “When I saw an elf council going on, I
thought I should stay. Am I not still an elf among you?”
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The elder stepped forward and placed his hand on her head. “Of
course, Shenna. I am glad you have lingered here. If it were our way, you
would live here in the trees with the rest of us.”
“It is no longer my place,” she said quickly.
The elder’s hand stood in the air for a moment longer and slowly
lowered to his side. He was still staring straight ahead. After a moment,
he cocked his head to the side, as if hearing some distant sound. Then he
turned his head toward Alfred. “The gods are pleased with you, Alfred
Shortstaff. Do not procrastinate your divine assignment,” he said.
With that, the elf ’s ancient face wrinkled slightly, as if in a slight grin.
Then the elder returned to his chair, using his staff to support himself.
Alfred was about to mention something about Ingot, lying there in
the tree unattended, but before he could speak, another elder said, as if
reading his mind, “You have done all you can. The man will live, thanks
to your forgiveness. However, he will be judged by wood elf laws for his
crimes, and must stay here.”
Without another word, the druid lifted his hand, making strange
gestures with it. Alfred started as he felt the magical vines creep around
his torso once again. He was soon lowered the dizzying hundred or so
feet to the forest floor.
Shenna made her way lithely down the tree, hopping from branch
to branch and at some points running down the tree’s bark in a spiral
like only a wood elf could. When she landed nimbly on the ground, she
began walking through the forest. Alfred followed her in silence.
They walked about a mile or so to the edge of the trail in the woods.
There, Prisma was tethered to a tree branch. She had grazed a visible circle
of grass around its post.
“I saved your life by testifying that you were going to Ae’brinthil,” said
Shenna. “Was I telling the truth?”
“You said I was on a journey,” said Alfred warmly, “and that is true
enough. You have my thanks.” Shenna did not smile, but she nodded to
him, and then ran gracefully into the woods.
Alfred patted Prisma’s neck fondly and sighed. If he didn’t get the
kings back soon, who knew what small spark amid anarchy could ignite
the fires of war?
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Chapter 24
T o Alfred’s relief, he met no trouble during the next four

days of travel. He rode Prisma at a brisk speed west up the road,
toward the rocklands. He met traders on the way, from which he purchased
food in exchange for money and priestly counsel, and he stopped and spent
the night twice at small villages where humans and half-elves lived peaceful
lives. He envied their simple lifestyles after his long journey, but he couldn’t
help but be grateful to the gods for his safety and good fortune.
During the long hours bobbing up and down on Prisma’s back,
Alfred’s mind turned back to his strange and daunting quest. He again
was perplexed by the fact that he had, in another time, already destroyed
the scroll, and yet was on his way there to do so now. And then there
was another incarnation of himself who didn’t even know where to find
the scroll. He also hoped that he would encounter no trouble with the
mysterious woman who had sent the elven thief to the inns.
He spent the monotonous parts of his journey reading the Vendictis
Bible. He was grateful to have it back again with his own personal
markings and notes written in the margins. He was pleased that it hadn’t
gotten wet or smudged during his absence. As he read its verses of hope
and faith, he pressed on with purpose and courage down the road. He
felt as if nothing could stop him now.
On the fourth day from the forest, around six o’clock, the grass turned
brown and sparse, and Alfred could see the edge of the rocklands before
him. He stopped briefly to eat some food from his pack and realized that
he had barely a day’s journey left to go. It had all been a most exciting
adventure, but was it over yet? Indeed, was it even close to being over?
What would happen once he was in the portal the Scroll of Time created?
It was not the first time he had wondered about the Chronomere, and
being this close to it made him nervous, no matter what the Vendictis
Bible said. He could only hope that the gods’ influence extended to the
unknown plane, whatever it might be like.
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Alfred pressed on until it became dark. He remembered from his time

in the Cavern that he would reach the cave and destroy the Scroll around
noon, most likely tomorrow. He sat down and lit a small campfire with
his tinderbox, and was beginning to set out his bedroll when he noticed
a flicker of light in the distance. Curious, he made sure his horse was
secure, and then went to go take a look.
He made his way to the edge of an outcropping, and peered over the
stony hills beyond. In front of him, at the base of a ridge, was a large
mansion surrounded by an iron fence and a fine, wrought iron gate. The
owners of the house were very well off, it was obvious, though it was odd
that they did not enjoy such wealth somewhere more populated.
The windows of the house glowed yellow. People were awake there.
Alfred looked back at the tiny dot that was his campsite back at the
bottom of the hill. He wasn’t sure of the amount of bandit or wild beast
activity in this region, but he was still worried about the Scroll getting
lost in the night when he was so close. Perhaps these people would
give him lodging just for the evening and he could set off tomorrow
well-rested.
He extinguished the fire and nudged Prisma forward over the hill
to the mansion. The gate was open, so he let himself and Prisma inside
the courtyard. Inside was a cobblestone pathway that looked out of
place in the rugged earth around it. There were no hedges here, but a
few statues and empty fountains stood dimly outlined in the gloom. At
the end of the path was the mansion. It looked even more prestigious
from this close up. It seemed to combine rather old architecture styles
with well-maintained modern materials. Beside it was a stable, and he
considered turning toward it before realizing he had better speak with
the owners first.
He approached the door, but before he could knock, the faintest scent
of sulfur made him turn around. Behind him was a short youth, probably
about nine or ten years old, fair-skinned, with dark brown hair. “Good
evening, sir, might I be taking your horse to the stables?” he said.
Alfred noticed with a start that the boy had red eyes. He was a gog.
The sight startled him, but he answered politely, “I do not have an
appointment with your master, boy, but I would like to stay the night, if
that were satisfactory.”
“I don’t have a master, sir, but my mistress would be glad to take
you in.” The boy gently scratched Prisma’s head and began to lead her
to the stables.
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Alfred had never spoken to a gog before. Gogs were a fairly

uncommon folk, for obvious reasons, but he had seen them before, a
brief glance at one or two in Ae’brinthil perhaps. He felt a bit guilty for
being startled. It wasn’t their race’s fault that they were half-demon, after
all. He knocked.
The door opened after a few moments and an immensely tall, gaunt
man stood before him. His short black hair was oiled back, and he wore
an elegant suit.
“Um, good evening,” said Alfred. The man did not answer. “I was
wondering if I could secure lodgings for the night.”
The man did not answer, but instead turned around stiffly and walked
down the hallway into the mansion. When he realized that Alfred was
not following him, he looked behind him.
“Oh! Sorry.” Alfred hefted his pack and followed the man.
They walked through a hall with countless suits of gleaming armor
and glowing chandeliers to a large door, which the butler opened. Then
he gestured inside. Alfred walked in hesitantly and looked around. In
front of him was a large chair facing a crackling fireplace.
“Who is it, Weynon?” said a sophisticated female voice.
The butler let out the deepest rumble of a voice Alfred had ever heard.
“A man who seeks lodging, my lady.”
The silhouette of a woman’s head peered out from in front of the chair.
“Ah, how nice. Come forward, sir,” she said.
Alfred felt slightly out of place here. He had never seen such fine
tapestries, stuffed statuelike beasts, and furniture in all his life as seemed to
occupy every wall and corner of this room. He also felt below the strange
manners of these people, but he walked carefully toward the chair.
When he came to stand in front of the fireplace, he saw a middle-aged
woman sitting in the chair, exquisitely clothed in a flowing dress, her
raven-black hair done up in what seemed like a hundred pins and her
entire form dotted with jewelry and pearls that sparkled in the firelight.
She smiled. “Please, sit down.”
Alfred looked behind him and noticed another chair pointed toward
the fire he had not noticed before. He sat and immediately felt like falling
asleep in its soft upholstery.
“Weynon, please fetch Ifan to stable this man’s horse. I expect you
have traveled here on a horse, sir?” said the woman.
“Milady, if you mean the stable boy, he is already stabling my horse
as we speak.”
195
She smiled again. “Ah, so you have met my son. Such a nice, responsible
boy.” Her dark eyes drew to the fireplace again.
Alfred did not feel threatened here, but he did feel uncomfortable.
And sleepy. He sought to go to sleep soon, but he didn’t know how to
end this conversation.
“My name is Lady Moivette,” said the woman. “What brings you here
to the rocklands? You’re quite out of the way from the path to Waelis.”
“On an errand of the gods, madam,” said Alfred crisply.
Lady Moivette let out a dry laugh. “You serve the gods then? So, you’re
one of those religious fools?”
“It’s not foolish to serve the gods,” said Alfred coldly. He felt anger rise
in his chest. He was not in the mood for another argument like this.
“I take it you must be a gullible fool then too. There are more important
things in this world than the gods. Trust me.”
“I’m afraid I disagree,” said Alfred icily, even though he remembered
what had happened the last time he had defended his faith.
The woman still smiled. “I could tell you things that would make you
wish you had not wasted your life as a priest.”
Something in Alfred, be it his exhaustion or his hardened resolve
he had gained since the Way of Yormoth, made him lose his temper
and throw caution to the wind. “Was your husband a fiend?” he asked
bluntly.
Moivette’s eyes glinted angrily in the firelight. “We do not speak of
him in this house,” she hissed.
There was silence again, and Alfred finally spoke. “Forgive me for my
lack of tact, milady, but I am weary from traveling. Might I please sleep
here for the night?”
She looked at him again. “Of course, sir. I too apologize for calling
you foolish. After all, naïveté is not usually willingly sought.”
Alfred’s face darkened again. Were her snide comments to continue
all night?
“Besides, I’m glad you’ve come, priest, because it so happens that I’ve
come into the possession of an intriguing scroll. I was hoping to run into
one experienced in religious knowledge to make sense of it for me.”
She pulled forth a scroll that, to Alfred’s horror, was the counterfeit
scroll he had left for the elven man. Fighting to disguise his terror as
weariness, Alfred yawned. “An intriguing scroll, you say?” said Alfred.
“Yes. It seems to be one that talks a lot about the concept of Time.”
“You want me to make sense of the text?”
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“If you can,” said Moivette. “It seems to be written in a rather . . .

complex fashion.”
The woman handed Alfred the scroll and he looked at his own
handwriting briefly. His mind raced wildly for the best way to handle
this situation.
“First of all, this must be read in the correct place,” said Alfred matter-
of-factly.
“Where?” asked the lady. “Is it that marvelous Cavern of Time? That
would explain a lot.”
Alfred’s heart skipped a beat, and he began to sweat, despite himself.
He tried to feign ignorance, but he had a feeling she knew exactly who
he was. “What cavern?”
Moivette cackled loudly. “Oh, you can quit with the charade, Alfred
Shortstaff.” Alfred’s blood turned to ice. Trying not to panic, he glanced
around furiously. Could he make a run for it?
Alfred met Moivette’s gaze in the other chair. Her eyes pierced him as
she spoke. “Yes, it was I who was trying to steal the scroll. Yes, I did find
out where you were from the future. The innkeepers gladly handed the
ledgers over once I told them how I could stop you. It took a lot of effort
and travel, but, well, here we are.”
“How did you gain the power to Timewalk? How do you know about
me?” asked Alfred, trying not to shudder.
“Oh, my husband knows the Cavern of Time rather well, and his
powers transcend those found there anyway. And in the future, every
scholar and child knows about you: you used it to destroy Argaenothruzil
and make it like Eredathios beyond the Wind Barriers.” Moivette looked
at him, the fireplace reflected in her eyes.
Alfred turned pale at this comment, but thinking of the vision he had
seen in the cave, he knew it was a lie. “I have no intention of doing that
now. Nor will I ever,” he said, trying to be confident in his eye contact.
The woman laughed with relish. “Regardless of your intentions,
because of you, what’s left of Argaenothruzil is dying. Call it deception
of the gods, but you are no holy priest. I gleaned information from the
future so I could save the past.” The fire took on a greenish glow that
reminded Alfred of one of the trials in the Way of Yormoth. Her voice
suddenly became shrill, and she stood from her chair to face Alfred.
“Give us the real Scroll, Alfred!” she screamed. “We never wanted to kill
you; we just wanted to end what would mean the downfall of the world
as we know it.”
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“You lie,” said Alfred defiantly.

She frowned. “So do you, Alfred. I see we are at an impasse.”
“I will be there and was there when the Scroll was destroyed. You can’t
tell me I used it to summon demons when it crumbled seconds after I
used it to free the kings of the world.”
“Listen to us, Alfred. You don’t know what it’s like a year from now.
Because of your misuse of the Scroll of Time, fiends have overrun the
land. If we could set up a portal to the Chronomere, then all of the people
trapped in time could come to aid us in our fight against them.”
Suddenly Alfred felt a tingling in his head. Power like lightning began
pulsing behind his eyes. His skin and clothes glowed white with power,
and he was filled with wisdom. “You’re still lying,” he said, and his voice
sounded somehow not like his own, “and I know why. The gods reveal to
me what you want to do. Your husband’s not the fiend at all. You are!”
Moivette’s eyes widened. Alfred saw now in the greenish firelight that
they, like the gog-boy’s, were blood red. She stood up from the chair to a
menacing height. Alfred also rose, locking eyes with her boldly.
“Yes,” she hissed. “I suppose I am.”
“Your husband was the good one. You deceived him. You manipulated
him! You destroyed his mind! You are no woman! You are one of them!”
Moivette bared her teeth and made to lunge at him with her clawlike
nails, but drew back, covering her eyes from the light emanating from
Alfred’s body. “You shall not enter the Realm of Time!” the lady shrieked.
“You shall not free the royal ones imprisoned there! Give us the Scroll
of Time!”
Alfred felt something vibrate on his chest. He looked down and
noticed his god’s pendant glowing a bright white. His body grew lighter,
and then golden lightning surged from the pendant, encircling his body.
The woman began to shriek in sheer terror as her whole body began
to smolder with white smoke. The woman’s fair visage was changed to
ugliness and deformity as, to Alfred’s horror, her true character was
revealed. Her eyes melted away to reveal glowing red orbs. Her skin turned
scaly, and horns sprouted from her head. Beams of light surrounded her,
binding her like chains as she shrieked inhumanly.
“By the power of the Sacrum, burn!” said Alfred in a voice that sounded
like his grandfather’s. Then, in a flash of white light, her body shattered
and dissolved like steam in the wind. In a flash, she was gone. A handful
of hairpins, a pile of gold jewelry, and a crumpled dress were all that
remained. All was silent.
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The woman had been the fiend—not her husband. Her unholy form
was no match for the glory of the avatar of light manifest in Alfred. Now
Alfred felt drained as he sat back in his chair. The fire in the fireplace
crackled warmly as it had before.
Alfred held up a luminous hand, and then watched the white light
fade back to normal. His pendant fell still. He had been a vessel of the
gods’ power, and the reality of it dawned on him. He was a bit too tired
to comprehend it fully, though. After a few moments, the butler came in,
holding a bottle of wine. “Would you care for some . . .” He stopped, and
then looked around, confused.
“She’s . . . gone,” said Alfred slowly.
Weynon’s eyes fell upon the pile of smoldering clothing. His expression
was unreadable to Alfred.
“You killed her,” he said simply.
“It wasn’t me,” said Alfred truthfully.
Weynon looked at the chair where the lady had been sitting. “Well, I
can’t complain, really. She always did creep me out. Come. You’d best get
what you came for. A good night’s rest is in order, I think.”
After what had just happened, Alfred felt no fear as he let Weynon
escort him out of the room and down the hall. Another servant led
him upstairs to the guest bedroom. Carefully concealing the Scroll of
Time, he curled up under the silk sheets of his canopy bed and fell asleep
instantly.
***
Alfred awoke early the next morning to dim light shining through the
fine panes of a glass window. He yawned, not remembering for a moment
where he was. Slowly, the memories of the night before came back to
him, but they felt like a dream.
He rose and dressed himself, double checking to see if the correct
scroll was still there. He brought it out, holding it tenderly. How many
more threats would this artifact have to face before he could finally rid
the world of it?
Alfred packed his things and went downstairs. There were no servants
to be seen, including Weynon, so he decided to look for the kitchen to
procure some breakfast before he left. Again he admired the lavishness
of this mansion, and began to wonder about the fiend woman he had
smitten to dust the night before. How long had she been plotting against
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him? It made sense now why she had gone to the trouble of building a
house on the way to the Cavern of Time, though how long it had taken
to cart all of the building materials and fund workers in the dry heat out
here, he had no idea.
Alfred navigated the corridors of the mansion, passing countless
tapestries and suits of armor, trying not to get lost. Eventually he found
a door leading out of an ornate dining room. He opened it and peeked
inside. Sure enough, it was the kitchen. He entered, and then jumped
at the sight of two blood-red eyes gleaming at him. “Have you seen my
mistress, sir?” the lad said, an odd smile on his face.
Alfred hesitated, and then said slowly, “Erm, my boy, your mistress
is . . .” Alfred felt very uncomfortable. “ . . . She’s gone.”
“Gone? To where? I finally finished washing the stables like she
wanted me to, and she said she’d give me my squire sword back when I
was done.”
Alfred didn’t know what to say, so he said, “Where is your sword? I’ll
get it for you.”
“It’s up there, on top of the cupboard. I killed one of her swans out
back a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t mean to. She put it up there and
told me she’d give it back once I cleaned the stables. I spent all week
doing it. I love my sword.”
Alfred walked over to the cupboard on the wall and looked on top,
where a real metal sword, however small, lay. He took it down and
handed it to the boy. “Be careful with it this time,” said Alfred warmly.
“Thanks, sir. But I want my mistress to see what a good job I did on
the stables. Where is she gone to?”
Alfred wished that Weynon would show up soon to help explain
everything, but the servants all seemed to still be asleep. He noticed a
grandfather clock out in the hallway and noted that it was about five
o’clock. The boy swung his sword playfully.
“Hey! Maybe she’s in her favorite chair,” he said, and dashed out of
the kitchen.
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He decided the best
thing to do would be to tell the truth. The boy was bound to find out
anyway. Maybe now he could be moved to a more suitable family.
He followed the gog boy into the den where his mother’s demonic
form had been exorcised. Her dress, now neatly folded, as well as her
pearl necklace, were sitting on the chair. The rest of her remains were
nowhere to be found. Alfred guessed that Weynon and the other servants
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had done some cleaning up last night.

The gog boy stopped and stared at the chair. He walked over to it
slowly, touching the string of pearls.
“I’m sorry, Ifan,” said Alfred. “But she’s gone for good. She wasn’t who
you thought she was.”
The gog boy looked into Alfred’s eyes, and Alfred was alarmed to see
actual flames burning behind the boy’s red irises.
“You killed her,” Ifan said quietly, his eyes swimming with tears,
making the fire in them flicker like a torchlight. “You killed my
mistress.”
“No, son, you have to understand . . . Your mother was a fiend. The
gods, they—”
The gog boy’s lower lip twitched. His brow furrowed in fury. Alfred
felt a tangible heat radiating from his body. The stench of sulfur grew
strong around him. “You killed my mistress. You killed my mother!”
“Ifan, listen to me,” said Alfred firmly, bending down to reassure him.
“I know this is hard for you, but your mother was evil. She was raising
you to be evil too, but you don’t have to be. I’ll bring you to a new family.
One who can—”
“You killed her!” the gog screamed, and Alfred jumped back in fear at
the inhuman tone in his voice. “I’ll kill you!” The gog boy’s skin flushed
an inhuman red color and his body seemed to swell in height. Real
smoke was sizzling from his flesh, coming up in putrid, sulfuric clouds.
“I’LL KILL YOU!”
The boy’s sword burst into green flames, and he lunged toward Alfred.
Alfred managed to duck out of the way and roll to the ground. The sword
cut straight through the wall right where he had been standing, leaving a
smoking slash mark in the polished stone. Terrified, Alfred managed to
hop to his feet and bolt out the door.
The boy chased him, howling in rage, as tears sizzled on his cheeks.
His red eyes seemed to glow with a terrifying light as black veins pulsed in
them. His hair was actually on fire now, glowing like cinders on his scalp
and along his arms. Alfred fled as fast as he could, his heart thumping
hard in his chest. Luckily, there was only one long corridor to the front
door, and he scrambled to it with Ifan hot on his heels.
When Alfred reached the door, he found it locked. He looked back
to see the boy, nearly ablaze in flames, barreling toward him with his
flaming sword. Alfred grabbed his pendant symbol, squeezing it
desperately. Where was the power given to him earlier? He uttered a
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desperate prayer to Vendictes, but soon the gog lunged at him and Alfred
braced himself.
Alfred felt the boy slam into him, and the door broke off its hinges and
fell heavily onto the porch. The force caused the boy to roll to the side.
Even though he had had the wind knocked out of him, Alfred managed
to kick the boy off him and scramble to his feet.
Alfred ran for his life in the early dawn light, never having been so
scared. He had never been this close to a spawn of the thing he feared
most. The gog boy’s form was wreathed in flames, and he was catching up
to Alfred. He felt something hot whizz past his shoulder and realized that
the gog was spitting green fireballs at him. Alfred ducked as flame nearly
hit his head. He prayed again fiercely to Vendictes. “Please, Grandfather,
take this boy’s life. Have mercy on him. He does not belong to this realm
anymore. Take his life before he takes mine.” He waited, expecting a light
to appear or something to aid him at any second, but nothing happened.
The gog boy was gaining on him.
Alfred ran toward the stables, only vaguely considering his plan. If he
could just get on his horse . . .
Suddenly, his foot caught on a broken flagstone, and he tumbled onto
the dusty ground. He sat up, and his heart caught in his throat as the gog
boy bore down on him, brandishing his flaming blade. Alfred raised his
arm in defense, and felt blazing pain as Ifan cut a deep gash into it. He
cried out loudly. This was the end. The royalty would remain stuck in
Time forever. The Other Three had won at the hands of one of their own
brood. Alfred covered his face with his arms, waiting for oblivion.
Suddenly, there was a high-pitched sound like a chime. Alfred winced
as his ears rang, but he looked up at Ifan standing before him and noticed
that he had stopped with a dazed look on his face. Blurry waves like a
mirage were swirling around him, freezing him in place. Had the gods
come to his aid?
“Help me!” yelled a voice, and Alfred noticed that Weynon the butler
standing behind Ifan, straining to hold something steady.
Alfred scrambled to his feet. Weynon was holding a black orb in his
hand that was radiating energy around Ifan’s immobile form. The orb
seemed to be steaming, and Weynon winced in pain, his knuckles white as
he strained to hold it steady.
“The bucket of water!” Weynon cried. “Throw it on him!”
Alfred noticed a large wooden bucket next to Weynon and picked it
up. It wasn’t very heavy, but he staggered as he exerted his burning sword
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wound. He gritted his teeth, tossing the bucket of water over Ifan. There
was a loud hissing sound, and Ifan crumpled to the flagstones in a cloud
of steam.
Weynon shouted in pain as the orb thudded to the ground. He held
his hand tightly, panting. “Thank the gods it worked,” he gasped, pulling
out a handkerchief and binding his hand.
Alfred was stunned. “Is he . . . dead?” he asked, but even as he spoke,
Ifan stirred. The gog boy was naked, his clothes having been consumed
by the blaze. His hair was matted and he was covered with a thin layer of
ash, but he otherwise looked alright.
“He’ll be fine,” said Weynon. “Thank goodness I reached you in
time, priest.”
Alfred was so exhausted from adrenaline that he sat down on the
flagstones to rest. “What happened?”
“That orb belonged to the lady,” said Weynon, crouching next to him.
“It’s a demon artifact, used by fiends to control their inferiors. She would
use it to discipline the boy when he lost control. I stole it once, thinking
it could be used on her, but she was too strong. I’m fortunate she never
found out about that. It appears that she was too powerful to be defeated
by anything but Sacrum itself.”
“Thank you,” said Alfred. “You saved my life.”
Weynon merely waved a hand. “I’m sorry about your arm. If only
I had known you would be awake so early. I actually had the orb and
water bucket ready in case something like this happened. I was foolish. I
should have tended to the boy earlier.”
“You’ve done enough for me, Weynon,” said Alfred. “What of Ifan,
though?”
Weynon stood and walked to Ifan’s side. “Don’t worry, I’ll find a new
home for him. He doesn’t belong with his mother’s kind. He’s a good boy
at heart. If he can learn to suppress his fiendish powers, I’m sure he can
grow up to do a lot of good.”
Weynon began to brush the ash off of Ifan’s back, and then he looked
at Alfred again. “You should be on your way,” he said. “I can’t promise
that your presence will not anger him again. I’m sorry. You really did
the right thing for all of us here. The gods are with you.”
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Chapter 25
A lfred rubbed his arm as he unhitched Prisma from her

stall in the stables. The wound still throbbed with an unearthly
pain. The cloth surrounding the cut was singed, and the flesh around the
wound was a crusted burn wound, red and shiny. It was difficult to ignore
the sting as he led Prisma out of the courtyard and found his way back
to the trail.
He spent the next few hours following it, until he realized that he had
no idea where the cave was. The storm in the rocklands had led Prisma
there for shelter, but the day was clear, and the rocklands looked desolate
as far as he could see. He decided to leave the path, knowing that the
Cavern was somewhere farther west, away from the mountain range that
was in view.
After traveling over a few craggy bluffs, he stopped Prisma and sighed.
What was the use? He reached into his pocket and once again found
the dolphin figurine. He looked at it, noticing the way it gleamed in the
noonday light.
“You’ve given me luck up to this point,” he said aloud. “Which way is
the Cavern of Time?”
The dolphin did not respond, and Alfred chuckled to himself, feeling
foolish. He decided to take a break for lunch, so he took out some jerky
from his satchel and sat in the shade Prisma’s body provided. He had
eaten well, all things considered, ever since he had been reunited with
Prisma. The trail food inside his original satchel essentially doubled his
supply from Ae’brinthil. It was dry and tough food, but at least he didn’t
have to ration it nearly as much.
Alfred looked around, and realized how peaceful it was to be alone
in this place. He had confronted so much and traveled at such a rugged
pace, he had had little time to simply meditate on the majesty of the
world he was trying to save. Though the rocklands were desolate, there
was a beauty to their brown, jagged contrast to the deep blue sky. Alfred
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thought of the fate of the world, and desperately hoped he could make a
difference to the chaos that had taken hold of it.
As he reached for another piece of jerky, his hand brushed the Scroll
of Time in the satchel. He pulled it out and looked at it. “I suppose now’s
as good a time as any to read it,” he said. He unrolled the parchment and
began to read. To Alfred’s surprise, the scroll itself had no written words.
Instead, it was filled with runes and hieroglyphs that Alfred had never
seen in any text before. Alfred realized that he somehow understood
the symbols to represent verbs dealing with time: to wait, to expect, to
anticipate, to remember, to plan for, and to endure.
Just glancing at the symbols and the way they fit together enlightened
Alfred’s mind. He was reminded of all the things he had learned about
time up to this point—things he had learned in the Cavern of Time with
Kaiphrose, things he had learned through experience Timewalking, and
still other things he had suspected were true. The runes spoke of the
intricacies of Timewalking, the nature of eternity, and the vastness of
Argaenothruzil’s history.
It was all incomprehensible to Alfred in the physical sense, but some
power helped him to grasp the meaning of the runes as a whole, as if the
words were pure knowledge that his brain could instantly process. Alfred
soon realized that entire reason he needed to destroy this scroll was that
the regulation of the Chronomere had been tampered with. Time was
once a tool only the gods could manipulate, but primal wizards had
discovered its secrets and abused it for their own desires. As Rothgran
had said, they had been largely stopped, but there was still something
amiss in the Realm of Time that only the knowledge in this scroll could
fix. Only in the Scroll of Time was the knowledge of how to change the
past or future. Alfred thought back to his vision in the rockland village,
and the man Yormoth, who had written the scrolls all those eons ago. No
wonder he would have to destroy this scroll. If it were to fall into the hands
of anyone else, they would be able to know the secrets of Timewalking
even without using Sacrum. Who knows what changes they could make
to Argaenothruzil’s history if they had no limits?
As he continued reading the runes, he found a section that made
his heart beat faster as he absorbed its meaning. It explained through
its metaphysical runic semantics that by speaking an incantation at the
Cavern of Time, where Timewalking was first regulated, one could enter
the place where all time was one: the Chronomere itself. Alfred grinned
excitedly. It was the scroll he had seen in the Cavern, all right. And it
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would lead him straight to the place where the royal lords were being
held. He couldn’t believe after all this time that he had been holding in his
hand the key to the end of his quest—and to the fate of Argaenothruzil.
He winced as the pain from his arm flared up again, and rooted in
his pack for a poultice. If only he had woken up Weynon before he had
gotten up! Still, how was he to know what had awaited him? Perhaps it
had been unwise to give the boy a weapon, but even without it he would
have been a formidable danger.
He chewed some leaves meant for burn wounds and applied them to
the stinging cut, but they did nothing but make it hurt more. It seemed
as if his arm was damaged on a supernatural level—as if his body did
not know how to heal itself where the demonic blade had sliced. Alfred
sighed, and then took a drink from his waterskin. The sun was high
in the sky. He was wasting time. The Scroll had to be destroyed today.
Where was the Cavern?
He mounted Prisma again and kicked her forward, deciding once
again to put his journey in the hands of the gods. He decided to take
a look in the Vendictis Bible again. As the horse’s gait jostled him, he
nearly dropped the book, and it fell open to the blank pages in the back.
Except they weren’t blank this time. Alfred was so surprised at what was
written that he nearly fell off his horse. He quickly pulled on the reins to
stop Prisma, clutching the book, and then looked more closely.
There on a formerly blank page at the end of the Bible was an ornate
map with a compass legend on it. Alfred noticed an inkblot labeled Alfred
and an X labeled Cavern of Time. He quickly looked at the sun to see which
way was north, and then looked again at the map. Before his eyes, the map’s
ink faded into the page, but his sense of direction became perfectly clear in
his head, as if he were going somewhere he went every day.
He began to laugh as he turned Prisma to the side and nudged her
forward. “Thank you, Vendictes! Thank you!” he whooped.
It took only an hour or two more to find the cliff where the cave
entrance to the Cavern lay, its black opening stark against the dusty
crags around it. Alfred smiled all the more broadly, his heart grateful.
But as he urged Prisma forward to gallop toward the cave, he felt himself
slowing her down again. This was it. He had come all this way, done
the impossible, helped some and defeated others, all with the gods’ help.
And now it was time to make his vision a reality.
He reached the mouth of the cave, and then dismounted. He scratched
Prisma’s mane between her ears. “Thank you for all your help, old girl,”
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he said, rubbing the mare’s nose. “We’ve been through a lot together. I’ll
tie you up, since I know I’ll be coming out again. Whether I’m alive or
not, I’m not sure, but at least you’ll be able to help anyone I bring back
with me.” He emptied his saddlebags into his satchel, tied the horse to a
dead tree, and made his way to the cave entrance.
Alfred gulped, trying to find his courage. He knew he had to do this,
and yet he remembered the way the vision ended—with his slumped
body in the kings’ arms. What horrors would he have to face before he
completed his duty to the gods? He pulled out the Scroll of Time again
and read it over, trying to keep his mind focused.
As he approached the cave, Alfred remembered that his past self
must be nearby. He looked around at the rocky crags and smiled. He
remembered this scene rather well, but he couldn’t quite remember
where he had hidden. He couldn’t see anyone, however, and decided it
wasn’t worth worrying about.
Another surge of pain coursed from his arm, and he paused, having
an idea. “Alfred, wherever you are! Wake up the butler when you stay at
the mansion!”
There was a moment of silence, and then one last sting of pain made
Alfred gnash his teeth. Then the cut vanished from his arm. His robe
sewed itself back together as if he had never been cut.
“Time is on my side. I know you’re here!” said Alfred with a grin.
Saying the words felt strange, as if they were echoes from an unknown
past. Suddenly, he felt sharp spasms of pain on his hand, and he gazed at
it in horror as he realized he was missing three of his fingers. He called
out again. “And Alfred! Don’t believe anything the halfling priest says!”
Again, his wounds healed themselves. He braced himself for more
pain, but nothing happened. He sighed with relief. At last, his journey’s
choices were sound.
As Alfred entered the cave, he felt a wave of déjà vu pass over him.
It became dark, and he eventually found the dead end in the cave. He
placed his hand on the wall, trying to remember how he had entered the
crystal cave. Then he remembered that it had been by accident—he had
fallen asleep when it had appeared. He turned around, and then looked
at the Scroll of Time again. Soon, he found an incantation that seemed
to be separate from the rest of the words on the scroll. “Twined fabric of
Argae’s destiny, unfold!” he murmured.
The radiant crystal cave bloomed into being, blinding Alfred
momentarily. He blinked in the dazzling colors once again, and then
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crept toward the conduit holding the Scroll. Memories of his time in the
cave came back to him. He remembered Kaiphrose, and was suddenly
tempted to enter the Tunnel of the Future to visit him. But he knew that
now was the time for only one action. He began to read by the light of
the crystals. Time seemed to slow down as he read aloud each rune,
their ancient pronunciations coming as easily to his tongue as reciting
numbers in a sequence. Just as he remembered, a stream of white smoke
filled the air, which soon changed to something black and tarry. It grew
larger and larger until it became a swirling portal. Alfred thought about
the Scroll of Time and its powers that could ruin the world’s past, present,
and future, and crushed it determinately into powder.
“May Time be locked forever,” he said.
He looked at the portal for a second. Then he took a deep breath.
Here we go, he thought, and then he jumped through.
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Chapter 26
L ights in every color of the rainbow, and then some, were

swirling around Alfred as he felt every fiber of his body turn into
chaos. Alfred did not know how long he was in this state, but when he
came back he was crumpled in a ball in a patch of grass. He felt cold.
“Alfred Shortstaff,” said a thin, slurred voice.
Alfred looked up hopefully. He was in a world of darkness, and yet
he could see objects around him, shadowless and stark against the black
background. What he saw made his stomach drop. Before him was a
humanoid creature with multi-faceted eyes and an inhuman mouth
surrounded by mandibles. Thick, wiry hair covered its face and lined its
chitinous arms. It was dressed in bright green clothing with no visible
places for buttons or anything of the like, or any seams. The clothing was
metallic, as well, and shone oddly in the darkness.
“I am Rhodosene, Chief Guardian of Time,” it said, its mandibles
clicking. “You are under arrest for unauthorized entry into the
Chronomere.”
Alfred struggled to get to his feet, intent on running, but beams of
sickly purple light shot from the creature’s eyes and focused upon Alfred,
and he was instantly paralyzed. Rhodosene picked up Alfred’s limp body
with strong insectoid arms and set him in a strange contraption with
bars, like a cage, floating above the black grassy ground.
“Do not move until you reach the prison,” commanded the creature.
Alfred’s eyes were the only part of him he could move. Alfred tried to
blink, but it was as if his eyelids had turned to stone. He could only roll
his eyes around, trying to take in the sights of this alien plane. Soon, the
carriage began to move, though by what force, Alfred was unsure.
The carriage made no noise as it advanced forward, slowly but
increasing in speed by the second. Alfred would not have known he was
moving at all, except he saw purple and yellow trees on the sides of the
path moving past. Alfred watched the trees for what seemed like years.
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Indeed, as the cage accelerated, they seemed to bloom with odd blossoms
like barnacles, and then grow leaves, which soon fell and left them bare
again. Finally the carriage came to a halt.
Alfred was surprised to see the carriage shrink visibly in size around
him, and his mind turned to where he was. What time period was he in?
It seemed more of a place than a time period. Then he remembered the
words of Kaiphrose the genie from all those eons ago. What had he said
again? That time itself all ran to this period like a whirlpool, culminating
in the events of all the ages in one place and time.
Another creature like Rhodosene pushed the smaller hovering cage
into an empty space next to many other similar cells. In fact, from the
angle Alfred could roll his eyes and look, he couldn’t see an end to the
cages on either side and stacked above his own—it was as if he had been
placed on the bottom shelf of an immense, infinite cupboard.
“Stay here,” the creature slurred. “Your trial will begin shortly.” Then
it slithered away into the darkness.
Alfred’s muscles snapped back into usability, and he relaxed, blinking
and swallowing as if he had never done so before. Still weak, he stood
up. He could see that the cells were all full of dirty, ragged people of
many races, who all looked parched with hunger and thirst. Alfred could
not imagine what had caused them to be trapped here like he was. Were
there other ways to “illegally enter” the Chronomere?
Then he remembered the Enlightened that Mendon had talked
about. Many mortals had been allowed to Timewalk in ages past.
Perhaps this was where the gods imprisoned those who abused their
powers or otherwise corrupted history. There seemed like so many
of them, though . . . Perhaps there were other crimes that could be
committed against the flow of time. In any case, the duke, or any of the
royalty Alfred knew of were not among those in the cells he could see,
which Alfred found disturbing. None of the inmates regarded him.
When he felt strong enough, he began to pace his cell. Oddly enough,
he didn’t feel worried—only angry. He must have somehow missed some
detail in the Scroll. Why did the Scroll need to be destroyed if Time was
guarded so well? Who were these insectoid beings? Were they the ones
who had captured the duke?
Alfred couldn’t believe that he had gotten so far only to reach a dead
end. Perhaps literally. He had outsmarted bandits, gone back in time
five hundred years, and nearly died at the mercy of chaotic magic, elven
bows, and two corporeal fiends, only to end up—presumably—in the
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same place as the man he had been seeking to save was. Even his satchel
was gone . . . it seemed to have disappeared when he entered this plane.
He only had the clothing on his back and his pendant symbol of the gods.
How would his quest end now? What would these monstrous creatures
say in the trial? Would their trial even be comprehensible or just?
Almost immediately after this thought passed his mind, Alfred felt
existence snap around him, and he was suddenly inside a large room
with several of the creatures. He recognized the one that had captured
him, sitting in front of a shimmering metal desk.
“Let the trial begin,” said Rhodosene. “I, Rhodosene, saw this man
create an unauthorized, possibly unstable portal into the Chronomere
by the power of the Scroll of Time. Shortly after creating this portal, this
man destroyed the sacred Scroll, one of the scrolls from the sacred Way of
Yormoth, an irreplaceable relic of the Enlightened. He is also a human,
and therefore has no right to speak. What is his sentence?”
“He must be trapped in Time until the end of the world,” said several
of the others around Rhodosene in unison.
“Done!” said Rhodosene. He took a metal gavel and struck it on
the desk.
Snap. Alfred blinked, and found himself back in his cage again, this
time with his feet shackled to the floor. He was about to scream in rage
and confusion when suddenly a familiar voice spoke that he had not
heard for a long time.
“You made it this far, Alfred . . .”
Alfred looked around, but saw no one but the other strange inmates
who appeared to be asleep. It was the sweet female voice he had heard
when he had first Timewalked.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Sathamia. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Alfred.
It’s much easier now to talk to you when you’re nearer to my realm of
existence.”
“What’s that I heard about there being a connection between this
world and the other? How could you walk in my world and go to this
world? Why can I not do it?”
“I am but a spirit. Your body limits your travel considerably. But now
that it is in the Chronomere, you are closer than ever to saving the lords of
the world, and me.”
“Why would a spirit need rescuing?”
“My living body is trapped in your world, if you must know. My soul cannot
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ascend to Vendictes or any other god while I still have life on Argaenothruzil.
I am neither dead nor alive, and thus cannot progress. Your rescuing the duke
may enable my release, according to the laws of the gods.”
“How can you be neither living nor dead?” Alfred asked.
“Do you remember those sleeping people in the Way of Yormoth?” asked
Sathamia. “Those spirits were still connected to their bodies, and they
wander the world, guiding those who seek their help.”
“What about you?”
“I am one of those sleepers, though I entered the sleep willingly, and not
in the Way. Now my body rests in the Sanctum Anoton. You’ve been there.”
“I have,” said Alfred, nodding. “Blacksheath said you were waiting for
someone.”
The spirit was silent for a moment. “Yes. But that is of no import now.”
Alfred stood up and began to pace again, dragging his chains across
the gray floor of his cage. He soon tired and decided to stop. For some
reason it cost far more energy to move about than it had in his previous
realm.
“So . . . do you know how to get out of here?” said Alfred, not knowing
what else to say.
“Though I can accompany you, Alfred, I am forbidden to interfere with
your choices. I can only give you advice and give you clarifying answers.”
“That doesn’t really help,” said Alfred. He was distraught, feeling
hopeless, and realized that his metabolism must have been sped up here
as well. His stomach lurched with hunger.
“I understand your despair, Alfred Shortstaff, but as long as you allow
the gods to be your guide, all will be well.”
“All will be well? Here I am, doing the gods’ will only to be imprisoned
in some otherworldly plane to be tortured by demons,” he said bitterly.
“Do the gods even have influence in this realm?”
“The gods have influence where there is belief in them. Do you believe
in them, Alfred?”
Alfred thought of Vendictes, his grandfather, who had spoken to him
face to face. It now literally felt like hundreds of years ago—like a legend
he had read somewhere. The doubt that came from remembering was
not a good feeling.
“I used to. And perhaps I still do. I’m not so sure anymore.”
Alfred looked around at the other inmates who were stone still.
“What’s wrong with them?” he said. “Why do they not speak? Why
do they not move?”
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Sathamia said quietly, “I’m sure at some point they were like you. They
can’t hear you, whatever the case. They only exist here as a memory of what
once was.”
“What will become of me?” said Alfred, his eyes moistening.
The spirit was silent, so Alfred prayed to the gods.
“Vendictes Timefather—Grandfather—if it be thy will, deliver me
from this place.”
Alfred’s heart beat in his ears. He neither felt nor heard an answer. He
decided to talk to the inmate in the cage next to him, a dark figure who
seemed to be more coherent than the others, blinking convulsively every
few seconds.
“You there,” he said. The prisoner didn’t move. “How long have you
been here?”
The prisoner still didn’t react. His spasming eyes were empty. “Excuse
me,” Alfred said, and knocked on his cage wall.
Except, his knuckles touched nothing. Then suddenly Alfred’s hand
was jolted backward. “What—?”
Sathamia spoke with a voice that sounded as though it was through
smiling lips. “You are very wise, Alfred.”
“What did I do?”
“All of the prisoners here gave up when they screamed themselves hoarse
and realized that no one would be coming for them—that they would be
here for all eternity. But you asked for help, prayed, and acted in trying to
escape.”
“What does touching have to . . .” Alfred trailed off and gingerly
touched the wall again. It felt like normal metal. “What happened the
first time?”
The spirit was silent. Alfred did not question her further. He touched
the cage again, slowly. Nothing happened. It was hard and cold as lead
in his old realm.
He swung his fist at it defiantly. His hand, wrist, and forearm passed
through the gray metal, hung in the air for an instant, and then he was
thrown on his back.
“Explain this to me! Please, spirit!” Alfred pleaded.
“This realm is a realm that is woven out of Time itself,” said Sathamia.
“Everything it is made of is sluggish in terms of defining itself. In your old
realm, steel was there because it was a solid. Here, those beings who dwell in
this realm crafted this cage to hold mortals, but the metal itself slowly drifts
in and out of existence because its existence in reality fluctuates.”
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“So the faster I strike . . .” said Alfred slowly. He darted his fist in
and out. The jolt came too slow for his hand to be out of the cage in
time. He laughed. He thought he heard a satisfying chuckle from the
spirit.
With all his might Alfred leapt against the prison cage, and in only
a couple of tries he had managed to dart out before the cage snapped
back. The chains on his feet were just as easy to remove, with a few
swift kicks.
“No wonder that trial was so quick,” said Alfred, grinning. “They
seem to know the importance of not wasting time, even in Eternity.” He
looked around the enormous prison at the other captives.
“Pssst!” hissed Alfred to the inmate next to his cage. “All you need to
do is quickly slam yourself through the walls to be free.”
There was no reply from the inmate. He appeared to be an elf with
dark blue skin and long, scraggly white hair. He still had a blank look on
his face despite his twitching blinks.
“It’s hopeless,” whispered Sathamia’s voice. “Their minds have long been
broken. They no longer experience time as a sequence. All is one long breath
to them. As with me, their spirits have long departed their bodies, but they
do not have a chance to recover their bodies, since they will remain here
until the end of Time.”
Alfred shuddered. “A fate worse than death,” he murmured. “Is this . . .
where Duke Rothgran resides?” asked Alfred.
“Yes, though I do not know where.”
“Shall we find out?”
Alfred saw no guards to the prison, so he wandered aimlessly past the
prison’s many cells, looking them up and down. Alas, after a good half a
year of peering at endless cages of mindless men and women, there was
no sign of Duke Rothgran.
Alfred threw his hands in the air. “They’re not here. None of these
inmates look like royalty of any sort. We must leave this place.”
“Very well, then.”
Alfred tried to remember which direction he had originally come
from to the prison, but it was hard to tell in this dimension. Everything
that was not a physical object was black as far as he could see. After
thinking for a day or two, he made his way back to his empty cage, and
then ran perpendicular to it into the darkness.
Sure enough, he soon reached a gate, and through it he could see
the purple and yellow trees he had passed in the cage. He felt the gate
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carefully. It seemed to be like the other one, so he reared back and

shouldered it as hard as he could.
The steel held fast, and Alfred cried out in pain as he fell to the ground.
He could feel a bruise forming on his shoulder. “What is wrong with this
gate?” he asked.
“That door will not open unless I speak the word,” said an unearthly
voice.
Alfred spun. It was Rhodosene towering above him, a strange, bent
sword in his hand. Alfred realized that the gate was nowhere to be seen.
“You passed the test, Alfred,” said Rhodosene.
“I did?” said Alfred, puzzled.
“Yes. You have proven yourself our ally. You have discovered the secret
of the Chronomere and are truly a worthy Timewalker. Now you can aid
us in the battle against our foes. Will you join us against them?”
“I . . . I am but a priest. I only came here to liberate the royalty of
Argaenothruzil. Will you let them free?”
“So you have already made your choice. A hard road then, but not an
eternal one like ours. Our road is to forever fight the evil that encroaches
on your world.”
Alfred saw that Rhodosene had been sharpening his sword with a
whetstone.
“There is something about this sword you should know, Alfred. This
sword will remain unsheathed until all the royalty of your realm enter
here, and afterwards, until our foes be slain.”
“My realm? You mean Argaenothruzil?” asked Alfred
“Do you truly think that your world is alone in the universes?”
“I am not sure that this realm is even under my gods’ domain,” Alfred
frowned. Alfred spoke again, softly, “Your race seems to be of the devils’
creation.”
Rhodosene stood up, brandishing his sword. “If it were not for us,
your world would be overcome by demons as it is! It was us that saved
Argaenothruzil from a fate like Eredathios. We are helping the world,
not hurting it! Do we not prevent those who come to this realm from
traveling through it, altering its timeline as they please?”
“No,” said Alfred defiantly. Rhodosene took a step backward, a
surprised look in his tentacled face. Alfred could feel the gods whispering
in his ears, and he began to glow white, as he had in the mansion all
those decades ago.
“It was not your kind. Do not try to deceive me, fiend. I am a priest,
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and a descendant of the God of Virtue himself. I know that the gods are
above all. It was they who saved Argaenothruzil, and it was they who
ceased the spread of Eredathios’s corruption. The gods are benevolent,
and they love all of their creations. Would a protector of the earth
imprison that which they love to rot forever? Or would they give them
the chance to prove themselves and learn from their mistakes?”
“What do you know of such things?” cried Rhodosene. “I have
existed since before the Succumbing, and what have you done, pitiful
little mortal?”
“Sometimes wisdom does not come with age,” said Alfred. “Sometimes
only blindness and insanity comes with it. Do you honestly think you’re
helping our world by ridding it of its authority? What have you done
with Mendon and Anathas, and all the others?! We need them!”
“Little priest, I tell you to keep silence! Your mortal mind understands
nothing of the intricacies of time. You are meddling in things you know
nothing about.”
“Oh, I know enough, Guardian of Time. I have studied in the Cavern
of Time. I have Walked through the ages of Argaenothruzil, saving my
own future. I know what Vendictes has told me directly. He told me—”
“Silence, I say!” said the creature, angrily.
Alfred perceived a live presence behind him. He looked around and
realized he was surrounded by dozens of the hideous insectoid creatures,
all of them armed with strange-looking, bent swords similar to their
leader’s. Rhodosene snarled.
“No,” said Alfred fearlessly, guessing the creature’s intent, “You know
what to do that is right. You just refuse to act on it. You are too built up
on grudges to see clearly! Is it the gods themselves you seek to foil? Turn
from your evil and see the light!”
Rhodosene’s face contorted in an expression that must have been fury.
His slimy hand clenched his blade. Alfred could see an otherworldly fire
burning behind his compound eyes.
“Were you a real priest, you would know that there are no such things
as evil and good. The only evil to all the worlds is mortals like you who
cannot fathom eternity! We know of your aelisyn immortality, but it
means nothing here. If you will not join our cause, then you must die!”
The beast’s arm twitched so quickly, it seemed as though it had not
even moved. The bent sword flew through the air, zooming toward
Alfred’s stomach, slowly revolving like an oncoming arrow.
Time seemed to slow down again. The sword moved in slow motion
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closer to him, its point gleaming. Alfred tried to move, but his thoughts
seemed faster than his body could react. The alien creatures around him
seemed to be moving in a blur, waggling their arms and bodies so fast it
seemed as though they were dancing in a peculiar, super-speed way.
Alfred’s eyes darted around quickly, but he couldn’t move; his body
seemed to be in a sea of tar. The sword’s deadly tip seemed to stretch
toward him.
Alfred closed his eyes, and felt the sword enter his flesh . . . and exit
the other side of him. He felt no pain.
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Chapter 27
A lfred awoke. He vaguely remembered, several years ago,

when he was younger, coming in conflict with several ugly crea-
tures who tried to kill him. He couldn’t remember the details, for it had
been so very long ago. Perhaps it had not happened at all, but had been
the fragments of a dream he had just had. He opened his eyes slowly, and
realized that he had been standing with his arms outspread for as long as
he could remember.
He searched back in his memory, back the months and years, and
could not remember a time when he had not been in this position. How
many days and weeks? Alfred could not tell. It had been a long time, that
was for sure. He remembered blinking a lot, but not much else.
A wave of déjà vu struck him like a ripple of nausea. He saw the same
creatures from his dream, surrounding him. Alfred decided that he
should try moving. It had been so long since he had, he could hardly
remember how. But he figured he might as well try.
Electrical impulses coursed through his body. He could feel every
sinew of his muscles relax, and then stretch. His fingers were moving.
Within only a couple of days, he could move his arms. It seemed like an
eternity since he had done that. It felt so foreign just to close his mouth
and move his tongue around it. The memories were rushing back to him.
He felt like an explosion going backward. It was apparent that this had
all happened just minutes ago. The thought was mind-boggling, that so
much could have happened in the course of so short of time.
It was beginning to make sense. Ever since the time he had gone in
the crystal cavern, he had not understood time properly, but now he
did. None of it mattered. It was a supernatural fabric. He did not need
a scroll, or even Sacric powers to travel through time. Memories could
easily deceive you. If one wanted to master the future in a simple way,
all one had to do was have meaningful memories that influenced your
choices in the present. The past was over, and he could learn from it, and
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the future could only be modified with what he did now—in the present.
He was strong because he remembered the experiences he had had. If he
forgot them, he would have certainly joined the creatures and become
like them.
Alfred felt the nerves in his body make a smile stretch across his face.
His entire body relaxed. He looked around.
He was still in the Chronomere. The alien beasts stood around him
like statues frozen in scowls of defeat. Behind Alfred was the sword, its
handle hovering over the ground at an acute angle, the blade lifting up
a miniscule torrent of dust where it was touching the black earth. The
blade gleamed. Alfred stood up in the circle of creatures, and felt the
ground under his feet stiffen. He looked down. The dusty earth suddenly
sparkled, and in a wave that resembled pulsing veins of white blood, the
ground began to change. In moments, everything black had changed to
a pearly-white marble surface. The creatures stood frozen in snarls of
shining white. The blade hovered in the air, a mere statuette.
Alfred began to walk away. The world was still changing. The skies
themselves turned a milky-white color. Near the far-off horizon,
something shone that was not white: A dot of gold on a hill. Seeing it
made Alfred smile again. He knew where he must go, but he did not
know why. Only time would tell.
Alfred faced the creatures: “Fiends! Make peace!” he said.
The creatures unfroze from their statuesque forms. The sword
clattered the ground behind Alfred. They bowed to him.
“The Sword of Ages has not destroyed you. We see now that you are
Lord of Time, Alfred Shortstaff, great scion of Vendictes Timefather,”
said Rhodosene. “We shall obey your bidding as your servants. We stand
corrected, for we have heard the Lord of Time’s voice and must obey. We
will no longer imprison those who reside here, but judge them justly and
let them go to their own time if they are not rebellious.”
The creatures were quiet, as if they were deep in thought. Some, despite
their alien faces, seemed to look as if they were filled with shame.
The Sword of Ages rose into the air with a humming sound, and then
flew to Alfred’s hip, where it floated as if inside an invisible scabbard.
“Follow,” said Alfred to the creatures. Somehow he knew that they had a
part to play later. “All is not yet finished.”
Alfred led the creatures forward with him silently. After a month or
two, he soon reached a glowing golden house, two stories high.
This must be where the leaders are! thought Alfred. At last, his quest
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was finally over, but something still disturbed him . . . hadn’t he left the
portal unconscious in the vision? What could possibly happen now?
Alfred knocked on the door anxiously. After several moments, the
door opened. To his surprise, it was Mendon, who had appeared to have
grown his hair out down to his back. Besides that, he did not look much
different from when Alfred had seen him in the Tunnel of the Past. His
countenance was far from excited, however.
“You!” said Mendon in surprise, quickly turning a look of shock into
a smile. “You came! Come in for a while, and let me speak, but leave your
friends behind.”
“No. They must come, Mendon.”
Mendon scowled. “Very well, then. Enter.”
Alfred was puzzled. Why was Mendon not relieved to be rescued?
Alfred shut the door after the creatures had entered, but felt troubled.
Something wasn’t right.
“I know what you’re thinking, Alfred. You’re surprised at my behavior,
but I am not an illusion.” Mendon looked at Alfred intently, with a slight
smirk on his face. “I am the Mendon you knew. Or would you have me
known as Rothgran now?”
The house was much bigger on the inside than it had appeared. The
dozens of time guardians fit without having to crowd. Alfred followed
Mendon-Rothgran into a large room with a hearth and couches; it had
many swords on the walls, as well as charcoal drawings. An easel was set
up next to one of the couches, where charcoal pencils and an unfinished
sketch lay. Around the walls were many paintings of Mendon-Rothgran,
each of them depicting him wearing a different haircut and clothing
style—each of them, Alfred knew, a royal portrait from a period of
Mendon-Rothgran’s sovereignty over the ages.
“Sit down. Your creatures can stand,” said Mendon-Rothgran mildly,
but with a hint of demand in his voice. “I don’t want them to set foot near
me, you know.”
Alfred sat down on a couch and spoke. “Why do you behave this way?
I’ve been through a lot to be here . . . I came to rescue you!”
To his surprise, Mendon-Rothgran laughed.
“Rescue? Rescue me? Ha! Alfred, you really are daft. You didn’t even
see the real me when you knew me. I’ve been watching you through all
your little adventures. This realm offers many ways of finding things
out.” He looked idly out the window at the white landscape. “I am a bit
confused as to how you changed the realm’s appearance, though. No
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man or spirit should have seen this manor. I hid it behind the darkness,
in a sub-realm away from these vile creatures.” He took a drink from his
cup as he scowled in the time guardians’ direction.
“But . . .” Alfred couldn’t think of anything to say.
Mendon-Rothgran sat down on a couch opposite Alfred. In between
them was a table with a bowl lined with shrimp around the rim. He
popped one into his mouth, chewed, and then spoke. “Don’t you see,
Alfred? I’m not in any inconvenience trapped in Time. It was I who let
my wife in from the Dungeon Realm through the very manner you used
to get here; she’s been a great advocate for my cause. Interesting that
fiends can Timewalk, even though the practice was supposedly a gift of
the gods powered by Sacrum . . .”
Alfred’s heart lurched. Moivette’s husband had been Mendon?
“Oh, Alfred, don’t look at me like that,” said Mendon-Rothgran,
chuckling. “You’re still thinking of me as Mendon the Wanderer, aren’t
you? That was not long ago for you, it’s true, but after the eons I’ve spent
on Argaenothruzil and here in the Chronomere, what isn’t a truly long,
long time for me? People change, Alfred.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to change this much,” said Alfred. “What
about your position as duke of Amber’s Hand? What about your council?
They sent me to find you—to rescue you, I thought. That page you wrote
said that only I could—”
“I’ll admit I was a different person when I wrote that page,” said
Mendon-Rothgran. “‘If ever I were lost trying to obtain what I was
looking for . . .’ Well, I have definitely found what I was looking for,
but I am far from lost, Alfred. In fact, for the first time in my ages-
long life, I know what true living is.” He ate another shrimp. “Both
Moivette and I have been shown that life—and time—is about doing
what you please . . . and gaining loyalty from all you associate with. I
was lucky enough to discover immortality and the ability to Timewalk,
but after less than a decade, I was forbidden to ever use that vast power
again! Yormoth, the benevolent old fool, thought I had repented of my
thoughts of using the Cavern, and the gods spared me. For many years
I repented, but with a deep hole in my heart—A great loneliness of
living in a world constantly changing.”
“Even if you knew about the cave, how did you get here?” asked
Alfred, deeply curious.
“The cave? You mean the Cavern of Time? Ha!” laughed Mendon-
Rothgran. “You’re wondering about that measly Scroll, aren’t you? You
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forget that I knew Yormoth. Did you not realize that he was my master,
and he taught me everything he knew? In any case, dear boy, it’s too late
now.
“I believe I already told you all those centuries ago in Ae’brinthil
about the Enlightened, did I not? How I founded Amber’s Hand and yet
was the duke of it two hundred years later? Well, history remembered
the noble Rothgran as the man who ‘stewarded’ Ae’brinthil when King
Donathan led the assault on the demons during the crusade. And now,
at the end of Time, I will be the eternal benevolent ruler of Argae who
freed it from the clutches of superstition and foolishness . . .” He shook
his head sullenly. “What was I thinking when I joined Yormoth? I was
punished regardless of my good motives.”
Alfred shuddered as he remembered the words of the orb in the Way
of Yormoth: Surely you should know. That land was once green and good,
and I was king of it, but the Other Three lured me into the Realm of Time.
They destroyed the world I knew, and it had its end . . .
Mendon-Rothgran took another drink from his cup. “I’ve been there,
you know. To the Dungeon Realm. That’s where I met Moivette. But then
I came here to the Chronomere so that I could watch over everything and
manipulate time. Originally, my counselors thought nothing of me being
missing until it was too late. They trusted me to make it back in due time.
They were the only mortals I trusted with my secret, and knew that I was
protected from mortal danger. I suppose it was my fault for letting them
live with that knowledge. But somehow, Vendictes turned their minds
quickly in the direction of you. And you listened to the gods as well.”
Though frightened as he was at Mendon-Rothgran’s assertions,
Alfred could stand it no longer. “You are like that king who was trapped
in time many thousands of years ago. The king whose disappearance
led to the Succumbing of Elidethnar! How can you stay here while
Argae lacks rulers?”
Mendon-Rothgran laughed bitterly, glancing at the creatures behind
Alfred. “Rulers. Power. You’ve never been to the Dungeon Realm, Alfred.
You’re too goodly, and the demons would scare you too much. But I’ve
seen their influence in the Realm. I braved their terrors, and I have
knowledge and power that you do not now. In any case, as I said, you
are too late. I am who I am! Once the mandated aelisyn rulers are gone,
anarchy will abound, and I will be the one to bring order to chaos.”
Tears rolled down Alfred’s eyes, despite himself. What could he do
now? Was Mendon-Rothgran’s heart set for good? Alfred didn’t know.
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Not knowing what else to do, Alfred spoke about things he did know. “I
do know things can change to how they once were . . . because I know
the gods. Why would you be here, if you could instead go to the future
and enjoy your new world you had made for yourself? Have you seen
into the future? Do you know whether you succeed?” Alfred gestured
around at the lavish room they were in. “Look at yourself! You’re here
enjoying yourself alone, because you’re too afraid to leave this realm and
embrace change, whatever it may be.” Alfred felt a comforting power
course through his body again.
The duke shook his head. “I’m not afraid, you fool. Did you not hear
me before? I have sired a gog with a fiend. There is nothing left to fear.
I’m vastly more powerful than you will ever be! Will faith in the gods
really make you happier? Or will it control and manipulate you to do
something that supposedly fits everyone?”
“There is only one true way to be happy, and that is the way of the
gods,” said Alfred.
“Ha! I wouldn’t expect any other answer from a priest. I remember
thinking the same thing as a pilgrim. Sacrum.” Alfred’s blood boiled
at the irreverent way Mendon-Rothgran spat the word. “The power of
the gods given to man, and yet you must still follow their will? Where
is the power to make things change if you must depend on a higher
power to give it to you? A paltry gift, really, when you can instead be
the higher power.”
Mendon-Rothgran stood up, taking another draught of his drink,
and then looked thoughtfully at the paintings on the wall. “I remember
finding no happiness or satisfaction from doing the gods’ will and being
‘worthy’ of their power. I felt like a slave. Only in omnipotence did I truly
feel like I was living.”
Alfred could only plead with him. “Trust me, Mendon, please . . .
don’t forsake the gods; it will only cause you pain in the end. Perhaps you
have never found out for yourself what the gods intended for you. Maybe
you were afraid of punishment, or thought others around you believed
what you did was the right thing to do.”
“I already have ‘forsaken’ them, so you needn’t be so sentimental,” said
Mendon-Rothgran sharply. “Alfred, we truly had a meaningful friendship
all those years ago when you were a lad, but it’s time for us to part ways.
Begone! Leave and let me do this without your interference, and I will
spare you and give you riches and power in the new Argaenothruzil.” He
glared at Alfred, his eyes darting meaningfully to the door.
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Alfred knew he had to stay. “I’m not leaving, Mendon. Vendictes—”

“So much talk of the gods, and for what?” Mendon-Rothgran shouted,
slamming his goblet onto the table. It startled Alfred—up to this point,
the duke had been disturbingly calm. “Live your fantasies if you wish,
but this is reality. There is only this life to live. You have been blessed
with immortality as I have! Learn to enjoy it!”
“I met you in Argaenothruzil’s past!” said Alfred defiantly. “You were a
good man, a duke, a king . . . beloved and respected by all! You have ruled
Argaenothruzil from the beginning with your brethren! How could you
possibly want more power?”
The duke had a look of annoyance in his face. “Argae’s history was
planned from the beginning by the gods. I had no say in its path, even as
the king over millions. But now I will . . .” He paused and glared at him.
“I grow weary of this conversation. Will you accept the chance to leave
now? Or would you prefer to be, how would you say it . . . martyred?”
“You’re Mendon the Wanderer!” said Alfred, trying to hide the panic
from his voice. “You’re my friend. You can’t kill me!” He silently prayed
for help. Perhaps the power of Sacrum could help him. But deep down
he suspected that the gods had left him on his own to figure things out
this time.
“Watch me,” the duke said with pleasure in his voice.
“Don’t worry, Alfred, I’m here,” said a familiar voice in Alfred’s ear.
He suddenly realized he was not alone, and he knew what he had
to do.
“Guardians of time! Seize that man! He’s the one who has been
controlling you!”
The creatures rushed toward him with their swords, but bolts of red
lightning burst from Mendon-Rothgran’s fingertips. One by one, they
collapsed to the floor in a haze of red light, writhing in extreme agony
as their exoskeletons began to crack. A strange airy essence seeped out
of their bodies.
“You’re blind!” mourned Alfred. “Completely blind! Please,
remember . . . please . . .”
But the duke wasn’t listening. He was directing both hands at the
tortured creatures, felling them as if relishing their screams, a malicious
smile on his face.
When the creatures had all fallen, crumbling into dust, Mendon-
Rothgran looked at Alfred, and raised his hands to point at him as well.
Alfred snatched the Sword of Ages from his side and raised it just as red
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lightning blasted from the duke’s fingertips. The lightning focused on the
blade, which heated rapidly until Alfred’s hands burned and he dropped
it with a clatter.
Mendon-Rothgran chuckled at the sight, and then Alfred felt a current
of Chaotic energy slam into him. He spasmed in agony and collapsed
hard onto the floor. He felt as if a holy shell was keeping his skin from
rupturing as the creatures’ had, but it was not going to last forever. His
mind swam, but somehow he held onto consciousness.
“Please Mendon . . . please . . .” he screamed. “Don’t listen to the Other
Three! Please!”
“I need you to see how serious I am, Alfred,” said Mendon-Rothgran.
His indifference scared Alfred more than his anger had moments ago.
The whole world seared with pain. “Help me! Help me, Sathamia!”
Alfred choked.
His eyesight blurred, and then went blank. He no longer had energy
to even scream properly. Tears were running down his face. He felt the
urge to vomit.
Suddenly the pain stopped. Alfred limply tried to get up but failed.
He was still blind.
“Such a waste of aelisyn blood,” Mendon-Rothgran sighed. “You could
still live forever, you know. It doesn’t have to be this way. You never had
to endure the injustices I’ve had to. I’ll give you one more chance: Will
you admit that what I’m doing is right and leave me alone?”
Alfred took a rattling breath. His bones felt like they had been burned
inside his flesh. He knew that what he said next was all that mattered in
the world now. But despite his fear and agony and sadness and confusion,
he managed to whisper “No, Mendon.”
“Then the solution is simple.”
The red lightning, and searing pain, returned. Alfred choked, his
whole body shaking as fire coarsed through his veins.
As it had done several times before, time seemed to slow down. But
Alfred knew this time it had nothing to do with Timewalking. Scenes
from his life flashed across his vision as brightly as the lightning flashes
did. He could see the bishop who raised him, other priests he had grown
up with, Artelion, Ebricus, and Abron. He could see Darla on the first day
they met at the Ae’brinthil cathedral, and the day he had said goodbye
to her for the last time. Then he remembered the sleeping lady and the
sandprine in the cave, all so long ago. Alfred mused through the fading
pain that this was sort of like one of the trials at the Way of Yormoth,
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though he couldn’t remember which one. But this wasn’t sad or fearful at
all. He was grateful he had been able to live each of the scenes that passed
before his closed eyes. He knew it was the end of making more memories
like them, but for now, they seemed like enough.
Pain was slowly being replaced by numbness, and he opened his
eyes one last time. His blindness ebbed for a moment, and he saw that
Mendon-Rothgran seemed to be fighting someone who looked just like
him. The last thing Alfred saw before oblivion claimed him was one of
the images grabbing the other with the Sword of Ages in his hand . . .
That’s a rather odd thing to happen, thought Alfred. And then there
was nothing.
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Chapter 28
W hen Alfred woke up, he realized that he was being

carried limply by two tall men at his sides. He could hear
other men walking around him, conversing softly.
“The only person that could change Mendon was himself,” said one
of them. “His future self, full of regret, tried to stop his past self from
destroying you. The battle took eons, but in the end he convinced the
present incarnation of the error of his ways. He’s very sorry . . . but must
endure much punishment.”
“By killing us he freed us from our demon bodies of torment,” said
another voice. “We were enslaved for our abilities. The Other Three tried
to make us govern Time instead of our kingdoms. We were slaves of
Mendon’s, but now we can come back, thanks to you, Alfred.”
A familiar voice whispered in Alfred’s ear.
“It’s alright, Alfred. You’re free now, as am I. Mendon was the only one
who could free me. I have spoken with him. He will return.”
Alfred felt confused and sick, so he barely understood what the voice was
talking about. He felt comfort from the voice, not only in what it had said
to him, but simply who the voice was: A gentle whisper of comfort in times
of pain. A murmured warning in dark paths. A word of encouragement in
hard times. A voice of inspiration telling him he was needed at Amber’s
Hand. Alfred knew now that the voice had been with him for a long time.
It was only now that he could recognize its presence.
Alfred found strength to stand and limp as the men guided him to the
place where he had exited the portal. His eyes were blurry, but he could
see that the men who were carrying him were dressed in crowns and
robes of fine cloth. He was still very weak, but finally they made it to a
small cave much like the Cavern of Time.
The black portal he had entered through was still here, swirling
in midair like a tarry vortex. The group helped Alfred through it.
Immediately, Alfred felt familiar sensations in the air. He was home. But
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something wasn’t right. He felt nauseated, and began to lose consciousness

again. It seemed like he would never be fully awake.
Alfred lost all energy even to stand and collapsed.
The kings tried to help him stand, but Alfred’s body was limp. One of
the men spoke gravely. “He sacrificed himself for us.”
One of them approached Alfred and looked into his eyes. Alfred
recognized the blurry visage as Mendon’s. There was a light in his eyes
that looked familiar, warm. “Thank you, Alfred,” he said, helping the
others to support his weak frame. “It was your sacrifice that changed the
future of Argaenothruzil forever.”
Alfred gasped. It was so hard to breathe. He felt sweat drip from his
forehead. He vaguely remembered seeing someone else in a situation just
like he was in, long ago. Mendon and the others that were around carried
him past the cave entrance and laid him onto the prickly scrub grass.
It was a fine autumn day, and Alfred lay motionless, feeling the
sensations of dry wind washing over him. He could feel his nausea
fading. He felt peaceful, like he was about to drift off to sleep after a long,
hard day.
Another of the lords spoke with a quiver in his voice. “He was truly
unselfish for what he has done. Why did he have to die? Why do the gods
will it? It was our mistake to be enticed by the Other Three, not his.”
“Can his aelisyn blood yet save him?” asked another.
“He is indeed an aelisyn,” said Mendon. “And only the gods can dictate
when his soul will be taken.”
“An endless wick may keep a candle burning forever, but it can still be
quenched,” said a dwarven king’s wheezy voice. “His body has endured
too much from your past self.”
Another said, quietly. “I’ve never seen anybody in that condition live
much longer.”
Suddenly Alfred felt an odd sensation that was somehow familiar. It
was a feeling of weightlessness. He drifted into the air, leaving his body
and exhaustion behind. Floating above him in the air was a woman with
flowing black hair smiling at him. She looked familiar, all except her
brilliant silver eyes. As soon as she spoke, he knew who she was.
“Alfred!” said the woman.
“Sathamia,” said Alfred, smiling.
“Your life on Argaenothruzil is finished. It is time for you to join with
your grandfather, and your father and mother, and everyone else who
has died in virtue.”
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Alfred smiled as he felt himself ascending. Death wasn’t so bad after

all. Why did mortals fear it so much?
***
Blacksheath coughed. He was thirsty again. But then, he had been thirsty
as far back as he could remember. “Sandprine!” he called hoarsely. He
heard something slither in the darkness and stop expectantly. He sighed.
“I mean ‘Sandprine-Friend’!”
“Yesss?” The sandprine slid on its belly across the sandstone into
the light.
“Can you get me some water?”
“Sssure, Thief-Friend,” it said, and crawled back the way it came. How
long had it been calling him that? Not long after he had been chained
to this wall after the priest had escaped. Blacksheath shivered. It had
been nearly two months that he had been stuck here in the tomb with
nothing to look at but the same sandstone walls, Dreana chained to the
wall on his left, and Gregmir’s ancestor, Sathamia, asleep on the couch.
Blacksheath had all but forgotten what the sun felt like. He was thin and
pale, and of course, always thirsty.
Blacksheath looked at Dreana now. She was even thinner than he
was, and looked like she was all but wasting away. Her wrists looked like
they could slide through the shackles that held them, if they hadn’t been
magically locked to her body. Her hair had grown an inch or so since
they had been locked here, and hung dirtily from her slumped head
before her body.
Blacksheath grunted. He had gone through fits of rage, pathetic
periods of begging Gregmir for mercy, and even bouts of weeping
openly to himself in the darkness. But none of it had done his situation
any good.
Blacksheath looked down at the glinting object hanging from a rope
around his waist. Gregmir had even let him keep the Amber Hand on his
person, mockingly promising Blacksheath that if the Amber Hand set
him free, he was free to go. Blacksheath had willed the object to function
as it once had, even venturing a prayer to the gods, but it had remained
as dull and still as the piece of chiseled glass it was. Perhaps it had lost its
power. Blacksheath didn’t care anymore. It had got him this far, but not
even it could save him now. He was going to die here. He knew it.
The sandprine returned, awkwardly balancing a clay cup in its mouth.
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Blacksheath winced as precious drops of water sloshed out of it with the

sandprine’s writhing gait. He shifted his weight, groping for the cup with
his manacled hands. They were attached with a short length of chain to a
piton in the wall. For the past month, Blacksheath had not moved more
than a foot or two in any direction. His arms had all but forgotten what it
was like to be lowered below his waist. He grasped the clay cup, carefully
taking it from the sandprine’s mouth. Then he lifted it to his dry mouth
and drank.
The warm water seemed like hardly a mouthful, but it would do for
now. A part of him wondered what the point of even drinking anymore
was. All it did was add another day of misery to his life. He wished that
he could will himself to stop drinking and eating until everything ended,
but his will to live always won out in the end.
“Sssatisssfied?” asked the sandprine.
“No,” said Blacksheath, lowering the cup and dropping it to the floor.
“But thank you anyway, friend.”
“I’m sure Gregmir will let you loossse sssoon, Thief-Friend,” hissed
the sandprine.
Blacksheath didn’t bother scoffing at this. The sandprine always said
things like this, but never bothered to help him otherwise. Its optimistic
view of everyone as a “friend” was limited, he knew . . . he had the scars
on his scalp to prove it. But Gregmir had a control over the creature that
seemed to match the sanctum he had inherited, and the sandprine never
questioned the sorcerer’s decisions, no matter how cruel.
“Ssshall I empty your chamber pot?” asked the sandprine.
“Sure. And while you’re at it, you can toss the contents in Gregmir’s—”
Suddenly, Blacksheath cocked his head as he heard voices behind the
door to the chamber. His eyes widened. Who was here? Gregmir was
deeper into the tomb, and no one else knew about the cave. Unless . . .
“Alfred?” he whispered.
The voices came to the door, and then there was pounding on it.
“Open up, in the name of Duke Rothgran of Amber’s Hand!”
Blacksheath was speechless. Even the sandprine seemed to be caught
off guard.
The door rattled, and then after a few mumbled words, it clattered
to the floor, its hinges smoldering and melted. Several men entered the
room, the foremost of which was a man with brown hair and a beard
wearing shining silvery armor. He pointed his sword at Blacksheath’s
throat.
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“Where is she?” he asked.

“Over here, your grace!” said one of the other men. Blacksheath noted
that the men must be mages. They were all wearing red robes with the
same insignia on them.
The bearded man, Blacksheath guessed the duke, sheathed his sword and
went to the sleeping lady’s couch. He knelt by her side and grasped her hand.
“Sathamia, I’ve come,” he said, simply.
To Blacksheath’s utter astonishment, the lady opened her eyes. She sat
up in the couch and faced the duke.
“Mendon, I have waited so long,” said the lady, frowning.
“I know,” said the duke, clearly embarrassed. “Forgive me. I had every
intention to come for you and wake you, but events kept me detained,
and to be honest, I . . . forgot about you.”
Sathamia’s silver eyes were filled with contempt, though she did not
look hurt at this comment. “Luckily,” she said, “I have not spent these five
hundred years idly dreaming. My spirit has roamed free, as you probably
know, and I was able to have an influence on the events around which
Alfred Shortstaff was placed. I have your tardiness to thank for that.”
Blacksheath’s eyes widened. Alfred?
“I know,” said the duke, “and for that you have my eternal gratitude,
as well as that of all the royalty of Argae.”
Sathamia stood from the bed, still glaring at the duke. “I have kept my
promise these long centuries to wait until you came to awaken me, but
I no longer hold you to our pledge of love and marriage. You have had
wives enough all these years, including a—”
“Enough, Sathamia,” said the duke quickly. “You have my regrets,
but please spare the details of my sins from my closest friends in
this council.” He gestured to the robed men behind him. Sathamia
still looked angry, but she nodded curtly in agreement. “What of the
Chronomere?” she asked.
“Sealed,” said the duke, “forevermore. The Scroll of Time is gone, and
with it the way for mortals to enter. As for us, King Rhodosene guards
the portal with the Sword of Ages, and will maintain the peace the Lord
of Time brought to the realm. He and the other guardians of time will
judge the prisoners that remain there anew. If they are repentant, they
will be allowed to move on.”
Sathamia looked into the duke’s eyes. “I, too, must move on. Because
of your immortality, you are a prisoner, and must remain. Am I correct?”
she said.
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“You don’t need to remind me,” said the duke sadly. “How I wish I
could rest from my weary millennia! I’d give anything.”
“Your time will come,” said Sathamia, her silver eyes cold like polished
metal. “Pray the gods do not forget about freeing you as you did me.” She
looked around at the doors in the tomb’s chamber. “I wish to depart soon.
But first, there is the issue of the house of Anoton, and my descendant.
I’d like to give him a word or two . . .”
“Yes, I too watched him from the Chronomere. He warrants being
dealt with as your final act on Argaenothruzil,” said the duke. He looked
back at Blacksheath. “Who are these prisoners?” he asked Sathamia.
Sathamia looked at them. “Former thieves, who my descendant
enslaved. I watched them in spirit.” She walked gracefully over to
Blacksheath and spoke. “I apologize for the abuse of my descendant.
Whatever you did to deserve this, you have atoned for it,” said Sathamia
to Blacksheath.
She raised a hand, which pulsed blue. Blacksheath’s arms fell to the
ground as the chains and shackles vanished. He felt pins and needles as
blood rushed to his wrists for the first time in a month. He toppled over,
unaccustomed to holding his own weight. He heard the ruffle of cloth as
Dreana also collapsed behind him.
“Get this man and woman water, Teveris. Carry them out if they lack
the strength to walk,” said the duke, as one of the mages, tall and bald,
came to his side. He produced a canteen and helped Blacksheath drink
from it.
A voice called out from the doorway opposite the one the men had
entered.
“Who dares trespass? I’ll have you know you picked the wrong place
to—” Gregmir appeared at the doorway, his sleeves unrolled. He froze,
his eyes darting to the dozen or so men in the room. They raised their
glowing hands to point at his chest.
“How did you . . .” he stuttered, and then noticed the green-clad
woman before him. He shrieked and fell hard onto the sandstone. “Sa-
Sathamia?!”
She towered over him in terrible majesty. Blacksheath had never seen
terror in Gregmir’s eyes until now.
“I bade your ancestors of old care for my body and keep the Sanctum
Anoton safe. Instead, you have made it a prison and a domain of evil.”
“Y-you don’t understand, Matron! These are nothing more than . . .
than thieves! They were going to steal your body, and . . . and—”
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Sathamia turned her head from him. “I have been here in spirit. I know
of your lies, descendant. The water demon, the traps and curses . . .” she
said curtly. “Do with him what you will.”
“Seize him!” said the duke, and immediately ropes materialized
around Gregmir. He screamed helplessly. Blacksheath had expected a
fight, but Gregmir was soon helplessly bound and gagged, and led out of
the room by two of the mages.
Blacksheath finished the rest of the water, and Teveris got out another
canteen to take to Dreana.
“What’s that?”
Blacksheath looked up. The duke was looking at him. Blacksheath
shifted weakly. “Um . . . your eminence?” he said, trying to sound
confident.
“That, around your waist,” said the duke, hurrying over. He pulled the
Amber Hand from the rope and looked at it in wonder.
“That’s mine,” said Blacksheath.
The duke looked at him. “Do you know what this is? This is the Amber
Hand. It has been lost for generations. Legends say it went down with the
ship of King Pelathuzo in Second Generation.”
“Yes, well,” said Blacksheath. “I found it. On an island when I . . . It’s a
long story. But it belongs to me.”
The duke chuckled. “I am the one who made it,” he said. “But I
appreciate you finding it and taking good care of it all these years. What
is your name?”
“Blacksheath.”
The duke smiled. “Sounds like a thief ’s name, all right. Listen, I’m
sure you’ve been through a lot down here, but all that suffering will mean
nothing back in society. I’m willing to help you start a new life . . . in
exchange for this.”
Blacksheath looked at the artifact that had gotten him through
so much. He owed his life to it. Still, maybe after all those weeks of it
dangling uselessly from his belt, it could help him one more time if he
just let it go. He looked back at Dreana, who seemed to be regaining
strength after drinking.
“Who’s the girl?” asked the duke.
“My wife,” said Blacksheath.
“A new life for you and your family. A new name, safe passage to whatever
city you want to start over in. An escort, even. What do you say?”
Blacksheath didn’t argue with that. Suddenly there was a bright flash
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of white in the room, and loud voices of surprise from the robed men.
Dreana pointed weakly and said, “She’s gone.”
The duke and Blacksheath turned around saw that Sathamia had
vanished. But it didn’t matter to Blacksheath now, because, for the first
time in his whole life, his future was his own.
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Epilogue
“H ere it is!”
Edward Shortstaff followed the red-eyed priest up to the
white statue, Dorist and Orotha following behind.
“Your pilgrimage is at an end,” said the priest. “Congratulations!”
Edward smiled as he viewed the magnificent tomb, depicting Saint
Alfred himself in white marble—a robed man holding a scroll and
looking upward toward the heavens in prayer. It stood out like a shining
gem out here in the rocklands. According to the priest, this was the
exact midpoint between the two homes of St. Alfred: Amber’s Hand and
Ae’brinthil.
“It’s amazing,” said Edward. “Why aren’t there more people around
here?”
“You have to be looking for the tomb in order to find it,” said the
priest, whose name was Ifan. “Most people don’t want to venture off
the path out here in the rocklands, so they continue on the path, not
knowing that behind that hill is this wondrous monument of one of the
world’s saviors.”
Edward looked back toward his surrogate parents. Dorist gave a
wrinkly smile, and Orotha waved him on to approach the statue. He did
so, noticing a small bowl at the base of the monument. He cleared it of
dust and a few pebbles, and then placed some incense in the bowl and
lit it. The smoke from the incense wafted into the wind, carried into the
distance over the dusty hills.
“I grew up not far from here, actually,” said Ifan.
“Really?” asked Dorist. “All the way out here?”
“Yes, my mother wanted to be secluded from the world. I never saw
the Cavern of Time, mind you. Who knows where that is, anyhow? But
I did meet Alfred once.”
Edward’s eyes widened, and he turned away from the statue. “You did?”
“Yes,” said Ifan. “I was just a boy then, twenty years ago. But they say
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that was the year he saved the royalty and bound Time forever. Who
knows? He may have been on his way to do just that when he stopped at
my house.”
“Did he speak to you? What was he like?” asked Edward.
“As I said, I was but a lad at the time, so I don’t remember much about
him. He seemed a bit of a nervous man, actually.”
Orotha chuckled. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that about him.”
“Yes,” smiled Ifan. “We often put heroes on pedestals and forget that
they’re people just like you and I. In Saint Alfred’s case, I suppose he
used to be like you and I. Like all saints, he’s supposedly a demigod now,
assisting his grandsire Vendictes Timefather in the affairs of heaven.”
“Thank you for taking us here,” said Edward, kneeling to pray.
Ifan simply bowed. Dorist smiled. He had high hopes for his
adopted son. He and his wife, Orotha, had married after meeting at the
Wizards’ Guild in Ae’brinthil. Being barren, they had adopted Edward
from an orphanage when he was very young. He had followed in their
footsteps to become a wizard himself, and the wizards at the guild were
astounded that the lad had knowledge and skill with both Sacrum and
Arcane Magic.
Edward had made the decision to also join the priesthood of the gods,
and this pilgrimage was his final step in doing so. He had chosen St.
Alfred Shortstaff as his patron saint because he had his same surname
and wanted to know if they had possibly shared a common ancestor.
Though the ancestry of St. Alfred had been obscure at best, Dorist
felt that his adopted son had made the right choice. After visiting the
notable places Alfred’s feet had walked with Edward, Dorist had been
impressed to learn how similar Edward and his patron saint were. Both
were orphans, and both had been highly favored of the gods and graced
with visions of the future and past. Perhaps the two did share a common
ancestor somewhere up the line.
Edward stood up from his prayer, gazing at the statue. He stepped
forward and then hesitated, looking back at his stepmother and
stepfather, and then at Ifan.
“I do not wish to trespass,” said Edward. “But I feel I must touch the
sleeve.”
“Whatever the Sacrum tells you to do,” said Ifan, smiling.
Edward hoisted himself up on the pedestal, and then reached up to
the statue’s left sleeve and ran his finger along the inside edge. There was
a tiny click and a slot appeared, sliding a smooth object into his hand.
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The slot closed seamlessly, and he looked at the object, showing it to his
parents. It was a small ceramic figurine of a dolphin, painted blue.
“I wonder what this means?” said Orotha curiously.
Edward shrugged. “Maybe it’s for good luck.”
THE END
Glossary of
Argaenothruzil Lore
Aelisyn. Used to refer to an Immortal One, or someone who has been
designated by the gods to be immune from an untimely death.
Aelisyn are given this form of immortality so that they may
accomplish a task in their life without fear of death. They stop aging
around age thirty, and only perish when their work is done and
when the gods deem them worthy to pass on.
Angel. A supernatural servant of the gods, generally employed as
a messenger to answer prayers or provide Sacric aid to virtuous
people in need on Argae. All are adept at Sacrum magic, live in
heaven, and generally are humanlike in appearance, with glowing
yellow eyes and luminous white skin. As they lack a corporeal
form, they can enter into virtuous people’s minds and speak to
them mentally, and they can fly effortlessly. Sometimes, angels sire
children with humans called seraphauns.
Arcane Magic. A form of order magic invented and used by the gods
to create the world amid chaos. First channeled through Henaeros’s
genie race, Arcane magic was eventually taught to all other races. It
is the most reliable form of magic and uses a form of inner energy
called “mana” in order to manipulate arcane and elemental essences
that exist in the world. Those who practice Arcane magic are called
mages or wizards. Sorcerers use a more risky form of Arcane magic
that uses bracers and other metal catalysts to amplify the magic’s
power at the cost of stability. Arcane magic usually manifests itself
with a blue glow.
Argaen. The most commonly spoken language on Argaenothruzil; the
mother tongue of the humans, who are the most widespread race.
Argaenothruzil. The continent on which Alfred resides; also used
sometimes to refer to the planet on which the continent is located.
Also called Argae. Meaning “Gods’ Crown” in Old Argaen, this
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continent was one of two first created by the Intelligences who
later became the gods and devils. The other, Elidethnar, was lost to
demonic corruption in First Generation. See Eredathios.
Bezzoan. The god of honor, warmth, and courage. The patron god of
the northern tribes of Vingomir, and the legendary creator of the
human race. Represented as a bearded man with fists of iron.
Chaotic Magic. The oldest form of power and energy that existed before
Argaenothruzil was created. Now, most of the energy is contained
in the Dungeon Realm, from which casters draw the energy and
use it to bring about destructive effects. It is a highly unstable and
unpredictable form of magic, and its effects can vary widely as a
result. Users are called warlocks, and use ruby-tipped metal rods to
channel their spells. As Chaotic magic users channel energy from
the Dungeon Realm, they always run the risk of opening a rift too
wide so that demons escape into Argaenothruzil. Some especially
malevolent and powerful warlocks do this purposefully. See
Crusade and Fiend. Chaotic magic manifests itself as red glowing
energy akin to lightning or electricity.
Chronomere. The plane created by Vendictes to regulate the flow of
time on Argaenothruzil. Its only entrance resides in the Cavern of
Time and can only be accessed by those who have been enlightened
to the concept of Timewalking.
Crusade. A holy war against demons. The most recent crusade took
place in Orovion, where stable portals to the Dungeon Realm
were opened and used to summon corporeal fiends. They were
eventually all destroyed or banished by the armies of Ae’brinthil
and Malgwyr.
Devil. Used to refer to one of the three evil deities, Rauroth, Khlamul,
and D’nethrokash, as opposed to the six gods. See Intelligence.
Demon. See Fiend.
D’nethrokash. The devil of chaos, shadow, and corruption. Also
called the Corruptor. The leader of the Other Three, the creator
of Hodhmancy, the primary force in carrying out the Succumbing
243
of Elidenthnar, and the most destructive and malicious being in
existence. Represented as a cloud of black smoke with violet eyes.
Dungeon Realm. A dimension of chaos created by the devils, where
they and their fiendish minions reside. It is said that souls who
have done more evil than good on Argaenothruzil are sent to this
realm to suffer for eternity. It is the source of power to fuel Chaotic
magic, and with enough power, some warlocks can summon fiends
from this realm.
Dwarf. A hardy, bearded race said to have been forged from the stone in
Argaenothruzil’s core, from which they dug outward and eventually
broke out from the surface. They are skilled metalworkers and
a generally greedy race. Their capital city is Malgwyr, called the
Quarry Kingdom, an immense city carved into a mountain south
of Orovion. Their patron god is Moeki, the god of wealth.
Elf, civil. Elves who have left the woods and abandoned their druidic
religion and culture to pursue life in organized cities. In doing
so, their hair changes from fair and light to black, and their eyes
from green to brown. They value justice and fairness above all else,
preferring diplomacy to combat. Most worship the god Ezrim.
They have no capital city, but fight to maintain political equality in
human cities.
Elf, wood. A race of lithe, light-haired, beardless forest folk with pointy
ears said to be carved of old from trees. They are skilled hunters
and druids who live in the forests, mostly the Sheral Woodlands
south of Ae’brinthil. Their capital is the immense tree Sylphanos,
from which it is said all other trees on Argaenothruzil sprang. Their
patron goddess is Phroella, the goddess of peace.
Elidethnar. See Eredathios.
Eredathios. The sister-continent of Argaenothruzil, once called
Elidethnar, “Noble Diamond.” Elidethnar’s only king was lured into
the Chronomere by the Other Three, and through the resulting
anarchy, D’nethrokash was able to plant a seed of corruption that
spread across the continent, infecting its soil, atmosphere, and all
244
life thereon. Many races died, and others were corrupted. The land’s
name was changed to Eredathios, meaning “Black Possession.” This
event became known as the Succumbing of Elidethnar, and the
corruption was only stopped from spreading to Argaenothruzil by
Henaeros, who created a halo of wind barriers around the planet,
separating the two continents forever.
Ezrim. The god of justice, cities, and law. The patron god of the civil
elves. Represented as a man with gray eyes and clothing holding
a gavel.
Fiend. Also called demons, these are denizens of the Dungeon Realm
and henchmen of the devils. Their influence on Argaenothruzil is
somewhat limited—unless they are physically summoned through
Chaotic magic, they lack a stable corporeal form, so they can only act
through possessing bodies of living souls, generally those disposed
to evil or casters of Chaotic magic. If they are summoned through
a Chaotic rift from the Dungeon Realm, they assume a physical
form. Their appearance varies widely, but they are all fearsome in
appearance, generally having glowing red eyes, horns, scales, and
vicious claws and teeth. Sometimes, fiends can impregnate human
women, who give birth to gogs. See Chaotic Magic.
Genie. An extremely rare race of blue-skinned humanoids said to have
been shaped from the sands of the desert. They are all naturally
gifted with immense intelligence, wisdom, and expertise in Arcane
magic. It is said that mana, rather than blood, runs through their
veins.
Generation. The calendar era by which Argaens measure history. First
Generation theoretically began when the races were created on
Argaenothruzil, and Alfred was born and lived in Third Generation.
Year dates are stated with the Generation number first, and the
number of years following that Generation’s commencement; for
example, 3g1029.
God. One of the six deities revered as good and benevolent, comprising
Vendictes, Phroella, Bezzoan, Henaeros, Ezrim, and Moeki, as
opposed to the three devils. See Intelligence. Most of the days of
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the week are named after the gods; from the first day of the week
to the last: Venday, Marketday, Phroday, Bezday, Henaday, Ezday,
and Moekday.
Gog. The supernatural offspring of a human and a fiend, or in some
cases, of a human and a devil. They are characterized by red eyes,
generally dark hair, and a faint scent of sulfur. Through their
human parent, they inherit a stable corporeal form, and from their
demonic parent, they inherit latent Chaos magic powers unlocked
through rage. Like other races, they are free to choose their own
path; however, due to their tendency toward evil, they are regarded
with much suspicion by most races.
Halfling. A race in appearance very similar to humans, only shorter
in stature. They tend to avoid wearing shoes and live in burrows
in hills, though many are nomadic. They are a rather cunning
race and many are merchants, scouts, spies, or traders. They have
a representative king in Orovion, but no capital city to call their
own.
Half-elf. The fertile offspring of a wood elf or civil elf and a human.
Called “half-humans” by elves. They resemble both of their parents
in the same way pure races do; some may look human with slightly
pointed ears, others elven with humanlike ears, etc. They can be
found in both wood elf forest societies and cities. Other half-races
are rare, and can have no children of their own.
Heaven. The dimension where the gods live with their angelic servants,
and the realm where all virtuous souls go when they die. See
Dungeon Realm.
Henaeros. Also called the Cloudcrafter, the god of order, air, and clouds,
and the inventor of Arcane magic. He is the creator of genies and
the wisest of the gods. It was Henaeros who foiled the Other Three’s
plan to corrupt the world by creating the Wind Barriers to halt the
blight’s spread from Eredathios. He is represented as a man with
blue eyes and windswept hair.
246
Hothmancy. A vile and illegal form of magic involving the manipulation of
dead souls to reanimate corpses, curse others, and otherwise desecrate
life. Practitioners are called hothmancers, and often go mad from the
whispers of the souls of those who they control and wield like weapons.
Hothmantic powers manifest with a black, ultraviolet color.
Human. The most prominent and widespread race, said to have been
sculpted from clay in primordial times (as were the halflings).
Humans are hardy and adaptable, and value expansion and
exploration more than anything else. They have a shorter lifespan
than other races, but make up for it through their spirit and
determination. Their principal capital is the great city of Ae’brinthil.
Humans are the only race that can breed with angels and fiends of
supernatural planes; see Gogs and Seraphauns.
Intelligence. The original term for the deities before they became gods
and devils, before Argaenothruzil was created. Together, the nine
Intelligences created the world and all life on it using the elements,
but a dispute on what the races’ purpose should be created a
division among them. Three became devils and the remaining six
gods, all with intent to have an influence in the existence of their
“blood-children” below. The fifth element, quintessence, of which
the stars are made, flows through their veins instead of blood.
Khlamul. The devil of knowledge, power, and lightning. He is the patron
god of all sorcerers, warlocks, and power-seekers. He is represented
as a bald man with white eyes.
Ley-line. A magical link between two areas in which a mage can teleport.
Creating a ley-line requires that a mage visit both places in order
to create focus points, and then a dimensional “bridge” connects
them that the mage and others he designates can use.
Moeki. The trickster god of wealth, fortune, and luck, and the patron
god of dwarves and halflings. He is the least benevolent of the gods,
said to have joined their side instead of the devils’ because he knew
he would be outnumbered otherwise. He is represented as a short,
smiling man with brown eyes.
247
Other Three, the. A euphemism used to refer to the three devils,
Rauroth, Khlamul, and D’nethrokash. See Devil.
Phroella. The goddess of peace, nature, and water, and the patron deity of
druids and the wood elves. Also called the Nature-mother. Represented
as a woman with green eyes with leaves and flowers in her hair.
Rauroth. The devil of rage, lust, deserts, and fire. He is the patron
devil of gogs who embrace their demonic heritage and all those
who seek vengeance on others. The sun is sometimes referred to as
“Rauroth’s Eye” when it seems particularly hot and scorching. He is
depicted as an angry man wreathed in flames with red eyes.
Sacrum. The form of magic sanctioned by the power and authority of the
gods. Sacrum is used by the anointed servants of the gods—priests,
monks, clerics, and druids—to restore damage, smite evil, stave
off corruption, and be inspired with divine wisdom. The power of
Sacrum depends on the will of the gods, as well as the devoutness
and loyalty of the caster. Sacric acts manifest themselves with a
white glow.
Seraphaun. The supernatural offspring of a human and an angel, or
sometimes of a human and a god. They have golden-yellow eyes
and light countenances, and have an inherent tendency toward
good and virtue. They are naturally gifted with Sacrum and most
tend to see Vendictes as their patron god.
Succumbing. See Eredathios.
Vendictes. The leader of the gods and deity of virtue, light, and eternity.
Also called Timefather, as he created the Chronomere and the ability
of Timewalking. The patron god of all priests, users of Sacrum, and
the race of seraphauns. His is the most organized and widespread
church on Argaenothruzil, led by the archbishop high priest. He is
depicted as a bearded man with a crown and a brown robe.
Wind Barriers, the. A ring of violent, impassable ocean storms along
the meridian between Argaenothruzil and Eredathios. Created by
Henaeros to stop the corruption of Eredathios from spreading.
248
Alfred’s Origins:
Changes in the story over time
A lfred Shortstaff and the Cavern of Time began as an

online play-by-post forum story, written by two completely sepa-
rate authors in staggered sections. This made for an initially plot hole-
ridden and convoluted manuscript, but after years of on-and-off revising
and editing, it was polished into the story contained in this book. Below
are some fun facts and trivia about the original story and this painstak-
ing revision process that may interest you, as well as enlighten you about
the behind-the-scenes writing process. Evolution of characters, concepts,
and even entire plot arcs can change drastically over time.
• The story originally began with Alfred at the docks, lounging around
and trying to figure out how to avoid getting a job.
• Several characters, such as Hyron, Kaiphrose, Teveris, Prisma,
Moivette, and Ifan, did not originally have names.
• The duke’s council was originally much more secretive, not giving
Alfred their names and requiring secret passwords and the like in
order to enter their meeting room.
• Alfred originally saw a vision as he read the duke’s personal history
page. It showed a strange creature that told him to take the right path
rather than the left. This did not end up fitting with his adventure,
however, and having spontaneous visions was never continued as one
of his attributes, so it was eventually scrapped.
• Ingram was originally called Kigaloyd, and then Gevyn, before his
current name.
• The Red Kestrel Inn was originally called the Red Jackal. It was
changed since it was unlikely that jackals would be known of that far
north in Argaenothruzil.
• Originally, Alfred read the tourist book and geographical book in the
duke’s study, not the inn. In the inn, he initially read a book called
Horticulture for Dummies. His interest in gardening is kept in the
book only by his chosen alias Brother Gardener later on.
249
• The concept of the primal wizards (the Enlightened), their rebellion,
and their everlasting role as Argae’s leaders was one of the last things
added to the story.
• The chocolate drink was originally called xiatl, referencing the Aztec
drink xocolatl. It was changed for simplicity.
• The dirty Timewalker on the road was originally just a mysterious
beggar who somehow knew Alfred’s name and was well versed in
prophecies of doom.
• The Jolly Stag was originally called the Blue Cheese Inn. The con-
versation with the innkeeper was more about civil elf persecution of
wood elves—an underdeveloped subplot scrapped early on—than the
vanishing leaders.
• The area surrounding the Cavern of Time was originally called the
“Cursed Path,” and the rockland villagers saw Alfred as a bad omen
for coming back from it alive.
• The concept of Timewalking was once called “entering the Fourth
Dimension.” The term Fourth Dimension was often used to refer to
both the Chronomere and the state Alfred went into when he was
Timewalking. It was deemed too science-fictionesque and was sim-
plified to a more fantasy-sounding term.
• The tunnels in the Cavern of Time were originally called the Tunnel
of Passed, the Tunnel of Passing, and the Tunnel of Yet to Pass, but
the terms were so confusing and similar that they were often mixed
up; Past, Present, and Future were much simpler and were eventually
substituted.
• The Cavern of Time was originally much more complex; the genie
rambled for a long time about theoretical concepts of time, the state
of travelers who had entered the Cavern and left insane, and the
mechanics of using the tunnels.
• In Alfred’s passage through the Tunnel of the Past, the duke origi-
nally entered the Cavern with Teveris, who opened the portal. Their
entrance and entrapment in the Chronomere were more accidental.
• When Alfred had two copies of himself in a time period, the one
that was farther in the future originally felt an uneasy, nauseating,
“stretched” feeling because his spirit was being stretched between two
points. This became too confusing eventually, and the story didn’t
250
suffer at all once it was just taken out entirely.
• Initially, the Future Alfred told Alfred to “not believe anything the
man in green says.” When Alfred left the Cavern of Time, he had to
pass by three masked guardians—one in black, another in red, and
the third in green. They bade Alfred ask them questions to prove his
worthiness, but the whole scene seemed superficial, weird, and too
easy, so the halfling priest scene was created instead.
• The rockland villagers originally had dark brown, then gray, then
finally olive skin.
• The magic flute song was originally not in the story. Instead, con-
fronted by the villagers who said that a mortal man passing through
the Cursed Path alive would pronounce doom on the world, Alfred
simply fainted and had the vision that told him he was an aelisyn.
Afterward, some song players called the Minstrels of the Red came
and played him a song that gave him the vision of the Scroll of Time,
which was much less detailed.
• Shenna’s original name was Rose, and Garnold’s was Arnold.
• Instead of signing a form, Alfred originally married Blacksheath and
Dreana in the desert, complete with a poetic marriage ceremony.
• In the original version, Blacksheath was a bonafide traitor. He greed-
ily tried to sacrifice Alfred to Abaloochar in order to receive treasure,
and he was angry and menacing when Alfred survived. Gregmir was
mentioned, but he only made an actual appearance very briefly at the
end.
• Alfred originally went 1,000 years back in time, rather than 500.
• The Early Argaen dialect of the past (“thou, ye, ic, goden”) was added
very late into the revision process.
• The Sanctum Anoton initially had no name, and was simply referred
to as “the cave.”
• In previous manuscripts, Baros had the Amber Hand, and his name
varied between Baras and Baros.
• There was originally no market or crossroads in the desert, and the
kingdom of Orthni initially referred to an unknown civilization that
Alfred sadly told the high priests he had never heard of.
251
• Alfred’s meeting with King Mendon in the past was originally very
different. The two embraced each other as friends, and Mendon rec-
ognized Alfred because he had Timewalked after they had met in the
present (as Alfred had). Their conversation was also much shorter,
and Baros was present during it.
• Despite Ebricus telling Alfred they could not go into the Way of Yor-
moth the same day they arrived, they originally did go straight to the
catacombs after speaking with King Mendon.
• For some reason, the Archives of Yormoth were called the Archives of
Dorthinian, and the scroll of record Baros let Alfred read was called
the Dorthinian Scroll. It was unclear very early on who or what Yor-
moth was. His importance in the story was added very late into the
revision process.
• The hall of the forgotten (with the paintings) originally ended with
Alfred facing his regrets, rather than fearing being forgotten for his
accomplishments. The end painting was also much less violent, let-
ting him pass when he realized that he should learn from his sorrows
and take the good with the bad.
• As Alfred was crawling through the final tunnel of the Way of Yor-
moth where he would meet Vendictes, he saw Mendon, who tried
to tempt him to join him at a feast rather than press on toward the
light.
• The fight with Baros was much more concise, and there was no con-
versation between them. Baros simply appeared without explanation
and attacked with Rogul.
• In one revision, Baros was transported into the Chronomere and
trapped for all eternity when he tried to read the Scroll of Time him-
self. Alfred later saw him in the Chronomere cell next to him in a
catatonic state.
• The authors’ names are hidden somewhere in the book.
• As mentioned earlier, the halfling priest scene was added in one of
the last manuscripts. Originally, Alfred went to Darla’s tenement to
talk to her and her family instead, but she wasn’t there. A dwarf had
moved in and Darla’s family had moved.
• The scene with Artelion explaining the king’s disappearance was
added in much later, after it was determined that all of the royalty
would be disappearing into the Chronomere along with the duke.
252
• Alfred originally traveled through the Sheral Woodlands toward the
Cavern of Time on foot. It was later realized that it would be impos-
sible for him to get as far as he did in a reasonable amount of time, not
to mention he wouldn’t logically choose to do so if there was a more
convenient alternative, so the farmer cart was added.
• The wood elves were originally enraged that Ingot had “defiled” one
of their daughters, rather than kidnapped her. Their fight was also
started much more suddenly, without any retaliation or insults from
the thieves.
• Originally, the elf council took place at the scene of the crime—an elf
blew a horn and elves from all around gathered to hold an impromptu
trial. This seemed illogical, so the transportation to the elders’ loca-
tion via magical vines was added instead.
• The crusade briefly mentioned a few times in the story originally had
a much bigger role in the plot. At one point, a prologue was included
that took place at the end of the crusade against the demons. This was
later used as a reason for Moivette wanting the Scroll of Time; she
wanted it to change the past so that her fellow race of fiends could tri-
umph in the crusade, rather than simply to stop Alfred from entering
the Chronomere and reaching Mendon-Rothgran.
• It was initially unclear who Moivette’s husband was and how she
knew how to Timewalk. When she was killed, originally she simply
was banished to the Dungeon Realm, rather than being exposed as a
fiend and destroyed.
• The fight with the gog was very different in the early versions of the
book. Ifan killed Weynon with his sword, and the gods destroyed the
gog-boy in an act of mercy. This was deemed too much of a deus ex
machina, especially after Alfred had just destroyed Moivette in a simi-
lar way, so the scene was restructured.
• Because of the difference in Alfred’s experience at the mansion, he
originally told his past self to avoid the mansion entirely, rather than
simply wake up Weynon and enlist his help.
• The Chronomere did not originally have an official name. It was
referred to as the realm of time, Time, the realm of eternal time, the
fourth dimension, and the land of time.
• The cursed insectoid creatures that the royalty were turned into are
called “okrosmos,” though this is never mentioned in-text.
253
• Sathamia was originally named Rodosenn, which was deemed too
close to Rhodosene. Her name was changed to Samaliel, and then
finally Sathamia. Originally, her name was unknown until Alfred
found out who she was in the Chronomere.
• The final encounter with Mendon-Rothgran was somewhat different
in earlier pieces. Though the end result was the same, Mendon-Roth-
gran was much more evil and had hoped that Alfred would have died
on his quest. The scene was fleshed out much more clearly after the
concept of the Enlightened was added to the story.
• The story originally ended with Alfred in spirit form professing to
Sathamia how beautiful she was.
• The scene with Blacksheath at the end was much different in the origi-
nal version. Since Blacksheath was actually a traitor, he and Gregmir
were partners in crime. Their section consisted of them realizing that
Sathamia’s body had disappeared, and that as a result, they could
claim their treasure from Abaloochar without a sacrifice. Abaloochar
told them that they would have to share the treasure with Sathamia’s
descendants, to which they wondered who he referred to.
• The Tomb of Saint Alfred originally was placed in Waelis, and its
explanation was in narrative only. The grown-up Ifan was added in
later as a way to explain things through a character instead, and to
show the gog-boy’s happy fate.
• The story’s setting was influenced by the computer game Heroes of
Might and Magic III, which the authors are very fond of. Alfred’s
appearance was originally imagined as close to that of one of the
game’s cleric heroes, Rion, whose name is used in homage as the saint
Alfred’s pilgrimage is named after. Other miscellaneous characters
share names from this game as well.
• An alternate title considered for the book was The Last Timewalker.
254
About the Authors
A ustin Ballard was born in 1989 in

Rexburg, Idaho. Since his childhood,
Austin has always loved to draw, write, and cre-
ate. From a fifty-page comic strip in fifth grade to
the forum RPG that spawned this novel, Austin is
always looking for new ways to explore new proj-
ects and revel in creativity. He is an active writer
on his project blog, Pretzel Lectern, and is the au-
thor of the fantasy webcomic Knight Guy. He cur-
rently works as an editor in Provo, Utah, with his
wife, Karen, and his three children.
Details about Austin’s projects and work can be

found on his website, pretzel-lectern.blogspot.com.
R obert Strobel (born 1988) is a composer

and closet writer. His blog, The Whited Wall,
contains a series of satirical parodies of news
events, running since 2009 (though first created
under the name The Whited Sepulchre). One of
his fondest memories of this blog was when he re-
ceived a lot of hits from the country of Belgium
for his “Water Buffalo” article. He currently re-
sides in Tallahassee, Florida, where he is pursuing
a doctorate in music.
You can find Robert’s satirical writings at

bobontheluge.blogspot.com, and listen to his com-
positions at www.facebook.com/bobontheluge.

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Austin Ballard

ALFRED SHORTSTAFF AND THE CAVERN OF TIME

Edited and typeset by Austin Ballard in the United States of America.

Map art by Austin Ballard

Cover art by Redge Ballard

First Edition: 2015

Part I: The Priest 9

Part II: The Timewalker 107

Glossary of Argaenothruzil Lore 242

Alfred’s Origins: Changes in

A s the sun rose over the Northern Mountains, two robed

to Amber’s Hand. If they were councilors, they should be rather well

you, Mr. Fryder,” he said in an unbecomingly deep voice. “Have a seat,

Of the four types of magic—Arcane, Chaotic, Sacrum, and

Alfred stopped reading, feeling concerned. This history did indeed

“This is clearly Mendon’s handwriting, so if he is the same person as

O nce again, Alfred found himself alone on the street. Mr.

Amber’s Hand: A caring community welcomes you. Take

The city of Amber’s Hand was founded by King Mendon

northeast Argae, and because he was a great lover of

Alfred woke up sometime in the middle of the night. After a few

T here was no longer silence in the streets. As Alfred

In the dawn of the world, in the midst of First Generation,

Virtue-Lord, blessed his name be, sought a way to

who were not were banished from Argae forever. And

“Excellent. We recommend taking the road west, through Waelis

“H er name’s Prisma,” said Dackson, a black-haired civil

one by one, and be imprisoned in Time. The royal leaderen, we know,

Over the next several hours of travel, Alfred struggled to understand

“I wondered if there were any tidings about the duke,” repeated

other occasions, in the company of elves, many wondered whether he

calmly flowing from a waterfall on the mountains by the northern sea.

“I served in Ae’brinthil, but now I am on a mission for the town of

A lfred awoke the next morning, feeling refreshed but dis-

his groundskeeping on the more populated part of Waelis. As soon as

As revenge for their losses in the Great Division, the Other

A lfred was awestruck. He was beginning to feel as though

As long as you have another breath in your breast, carry on.

Alfred had noticed something vaguely different about Kaiphrose,

Alfred awkwardly sat down in a finely carved seat, but Kaiphrose

“Alas, for the Chronomere runs a timeline completely separate from

A lfred slept well, fully expecting to wake up in the rock-

before he found himself in front of Kaiphrose once more, who was

could be created by having knowledge of the future in the present world?

A lfred blinked in the bright light, and then quickly pulled

Alfred found himself back at the junction in the cave. He looked at

A s the sun was beginning to dip in the afternoon sky, ­Alfred

a friendly way without speaking.

aside by now, so he focused on how exactly to get the scroll. He thought

“T imewalking . . .” muttered Alfred as he closed the Ven-

singing? With a cold shiver he remembered the warnings of the stable

“Consider it a peace offering on Garnold’s behalf. I can’t have you

“Some of these recipes barely exist on Argae anymore,” Shenna said

A fter about an hour walking down the road on foot,

“Don’t you worship the gods?” inquired Alfred.

noticed him. He limped to a tree and sat against it to think.

B lacksheath led Dreana and Alfred southward for two

“Through the desert,” said Blacksheath.

anything from him, as if he trusted him greatly. Or perhaps he simply

A lfred squeezed through the hole, his throat dry from

Blacksheath opened the door and ducked inside, followed by

“With the long hair?”

A lfred scurried to a wall and braced himself against it.

thud. It clicked loudly into place, blocking their way out.

A s the sun was beginning to dip in the afternoon sky, Alfred

R obert Strobel (born 1988) is a composer