On the edge of town, not far from the workers’ quarter, stood a tavern easily reached through the Western Gate. It was here, in the evenings, that envoys of the various clans of Regerlim gathered—some friendly to humans, others less so. Here, most major deals were struck, both legal and not entirely. Learning the tavern’s name and finding it in the small town posed no difficulty for Petros.

  A suitable candidate appeared quickly. He was a representative of the rather small Wolf Clan, which, unlike many others, dealt little in smuggling. Instead, it conducted vigorous and entirely legal trade with humans, supplying the local Mages’ Guild with ingredients, herbs, as well as furs, pelts, and meat from many forest animals. The druid Petros found had also come solely to trade; however, most of his contracts had already been sealed, and he was preparing to return to the clan’s outpost deep within the forest. The travelers with their aerostat suited his purposes, and he was willing to show them the way to the outpost so they might meet the clan chief. Petros believed the chief could both provide a hired guide and share some knowledge of the regions the scholars intended to explore.

  The druid’s name was Aok.

  ***

  "I know that place," Aok said quietly, leaning over the map. "A bad place. Dangerous. Druids don’t like to go near it."

  "Why?" Petros and Saelin exchanged glances.

  "Ancient magic. Traces of the old peoples. Once, humans and druids worshiped their gods there, but then the humans left, abandoning their treasures—and around them, a strong guard. Whoever approaches that place finds death. That’s what the legends say."

  "But you know the way?" Petros asked.

  "I do. But it will cost you dearly. The Lynx Clan controls the lands around it. I wouldn’t risk going through the forest, but since you have a flying ship, it might be worth a try. Still, first we must stop at my clan’s outpost. I must report to the chief and ask permission to hire on with you."

  "Do you think he might refuse?" Saelin inquired. "Money is no problem. We’ll pay whatever is needed to guarantee our safety."

  "I don’t think the chief will refuse," Aok replied. "He’s always glad of a good bargain. But know this: because of the danger, he’ll wring a triple price out of you. Oh, and by the way: the chief’s name is Brokr. He is my father."

  ***

  The air carried a spicy fragrance of strange herbs, enough to make the head spin. Between the branches of trees, woven into a thick lattice, hung faintly swaying greenish fireflies. Now and then, it seemed as though ripples ran through the air nearby, distorting shapes—perhaps a trick of the eyes, perhaps illusions laid down by the druids’ shamans. Rune magic. The strongest magic in the world; against it, human spells were usually powerless.

  Dozens of druids went about their business around them, casting harsh, unfriendly glances from beneath their thick brows. From afar came the sound of axes striking, saws shrieking, fires crackling, and beneath it all the steady, insistent pounding of drums, drilling into the mind. The outpost was large: everywhere stood wigwams covered in thick hides, barns and storehouses; and in the distance, beyond the huts and trees, a massive central tower rose above everything, the only building of stone. Petros thought that the tower must have stood there long before the druids’ arrival. Perhaps it had been built by the ancient Kalds, or even the old Nocturns.

  They approached the tower. A staircase led up to the high arch of the gate, and on its steps stood unmoving druids with spears and bows. Beyond the arch lay the dimness of a throne hall, lit by a strange green glow. Petros, Saelin, and Nubel entered first. All three let out a gasp of wonder at once.

  The hall was filled with light pouring from huge blossoms, shaped like lilies, whose stalks and green leaves clung to the walls like ivy gripping stone. The stamens inside their foot-wide petals glowed with a bright white light, while the petals themselves radiated a soft green luminescence, bright enough to see the path that led toward the chieftain’s chair, though not enough to reveal the far corners of the hall. The walls were adorned with hunting trophies: snarling wolf heads, the symbol of the Clan, but also the heads of white bears, strange serpents, four-horned land turands, even crucified harpies. Light also entered through windows near the ceiling. Petros craned his neck, trying to glimpse a faded fresco half-lost to damp and time.

  The path to the chair, carved of some strange white material, was strewn with animal hides so thick and soft that boots sank into them. Behind the chair, a closed door led deeper into the tower. In one corner, an altar stood, lit by a few candles. It bore wooden painted totems, pentagrams daubed on bark, and Runes laid out in a special pattern.

  "A place of power," Nubel whispered to Petros, noticing his fascination. "With the right Runes, such places can quickly restore magical energy. The druids’ shamans often make use of them."

  "And how do you know that, genius?" Petros muttered back, shrugging.

  "I studied it. Even wrote a term paper in the Academy…"

  "Welcome to the outpost of Hemelit!" a rasping voice interrupted their whispering. To the guests’ surprise, the clan chief spoke the common tongue almost without an accent. Brokr rose slowly from his throne. His thick dark beard, hair, and mustache were braided into dozens of complex plaits that hung almost to his waist, at which a wolf’s head swung. On his head, he wore a helmet adorned with bird feathers, his clothes were sewn from hides, and on his shaggy feet, he wore wooden sandals. In one hand, he held a staff.

  To the right of the throne, sitting on a bear hide spread across the floor, was another druid, his face hidden by a huge wooden mask painted with black, red, and yellow lines, feathers sticking out at every angle. His arms and legs glittered with hundreds of jeweled golden bracelets. He rocked silently back and forth, slowly fingering a string of prayer beads, as if in a trance. "A shaman," Petros thought.

  "It has been long since we welcomed guests," Brokr rasped, "especially from the human tribes. Most dealings take place in human settlements. This is not the druids’ fault, as you know. It is men who fear to enter our outposts. I am glad that some are able to overcome prejudices that too often stand in the way of mutually profitable relations."

  Petros could think of nothing better than to bow.

  "We are scholars, your majesty," he ventured. "We study a phenomenon known as ‘the crossroads of time.’" The chief’s face remained calm, untroubled. Clearly, he understood the term. "And we must travel to a place deep in the forest. But in our time…" Even the professor’s usual eloquence faltered.

  In the silence that followed, Brokr tapped his staff gently against the armrest. Saelin suddenly stiffened, realizing what strange white substance the chair was carved from. Bone.

  "You are afraid," Brokr said at last, his voice unexpectedly soft, no longer rasping. His eyes glinted oddly beneath his thick brows. Or was it just the strange light?

  "We are," Petros admitted, but the chief had not finished.

  "You fear not only the dangers outside. Not only the clans hostile to men, nor the wild beasts or man-eaters lurking in Regerlim’s darkest corners. Not only the strange, incomprehensible knowledge that sleeps in the ancient temple you seek."

  In the hush that followed, Ashley shivered as if from a chill. Petros bowed his head lower.

  "You fear something among yourselves. Within each of you. A danger far more terrible, waiting to burst forth and take flesh and blood at the worst possible moment. We druids, can sense it. Just as we sense that fear has already taken root in many of you, already opened cracks that may destroy you."

  He fell silent, gazing thoughtfully above the travelers’ heads. Petros straightened slowly, forcing himself to meet his eyes.

  "Brokr," he said at last, steel in his voice. "Your majesty. We ask only for help. Give us a guide through Regerlim. Your son Aok has impressed us greatly, and we would like to hire him."

  "The druids know what place interests you," the chief replied. "There, you will find answers. And I will give you a guide. You will pay in gold. But I must warn you…"

  The masked druid suddenly sprang from his hide, waving his arms, dancing and swaying, moving now fluidly, now with sharp jerks, until he stood before the throne. Brokr clapped his hands. At once, the guards at the arch turned and left. With a soft rustle, the doors closed, cutting off almost all outside light. The blossoms seemed to flare brighter, sharper.

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  Then something happened that froze them all in bewilderment.

  The shaman hissed, croaked, letting out guttural sounds, flailing his arms, twisting his whole body. Suddenly, he dropped to one knee, thrust out his hand, and pointed a long, blackened nail straight at Hector.

  "The place you seek lies within the lands of a clan hostile to us," Brokr said. "They may attack, especially when they see your guide is of the Wolf Clan. But that is not the greatest danger you face…" The chief leaned forward. "Guard this boy. He is bound to that place. And there, he may find either great reward… or great peril."

  In the cold silence, Hector looked wildly around. Clearly, he understood nothing.

  "He is my son!" Saelin’s voice was ice as he stepped forward, planting himself between Hector and the shaman. "I will not allow anyone or anything to harm him! I’ll tear the throat out of any enemy clan, or any other monster in that forest!"

  The shaman slowly lifted his head and sang out a guttural phrase in his own tongue.

  "We can see what is hidden from men," Brokr said, waiting until the chant ceased. "Terrible events are coming, human. Your son has a part to play in them. For good or for ill—it is not for us to decide. But guard him. Guard him from the dangers of that place. And guard him from the other clans. If they learn he is in the forest… they will seek to claim him."

  "What does this mean?" Petros asked quietly, staring at the shaman. "Who is he, Brokr? And how is he connected to the place we are going?"

  "He is the Chosen," the chief replied. "He sees what mortals cannot. And the fate of Elysium rests on his destiny."

  Brokr fell silent, slowly fingering the amber beads of his necklace. To Petros, it suddenly seemed as though the stones glowed faintly from within.

  "Our shamans can feel it," Brokr continued. "Their minds wander between different versions of our world… Someone has altered reality, more than once. Someone has made a crossroads, where the paths of time split apart, and we now walk a road leading into the abyss. It is not yet too late to turn back, but the future of the world depends on this boy. Guard him… and guard yourselves."

  ***

  "What do you think about all this?"

  Saelin swallowed hard. He staggered slightly, paler than usual, his eyes almost bulging—breathing was difficult.

  "I swear to you, Petros, I had no idea what that damn savage said…"

  "You’re lying. Hector! What does it all mean? What do you see that mortals cannot?"

  The boy shook his head. He trembled, fear written clearly in his eyes.

  "Are you forbidding him to speak, Saelin?" Petros asked, almost gently. "Is this your skeleton in the closet? The druid spilled your secret, didn’t he? No need to hide anymore. Hector, tell us exactly what you see. What comes to you in your nightmares?"

  Hector looked at his father. Saelin paled, his face twisting. He nodded slowly. Then the boy spoke, his voice trembling and breaking:

  "I feel like I can see the future."

  ***

  They spent only one night at the Hemelit outpost. By morning, they were airborne again. Axel reveled in the tailwind and the excellent readings on his instruments, praising his craft incessantly. Aok told stories from his life and the tales of hunter-druids, keeping everyone entertained and preventing dark thoughts from settling after the previous night in the chief’s wigwam.

  By midday the next day, the expedition reached the desired location.

  "I’m not flying any further," Axel declared categorically. "I’ve already circled the target coordinates for almost an hour, Petros."

  "No need," the professor waved dismissively. "From here we go on foot. Aok, do you think the hideout is secure?"

  "If you’re outsiders in Regerlim, there are no truly secure hideouts," the druid shook his head. "And if someone wants to find you, they will."

  "Could they have spotted that we landed?" Ashley asked quietly.

  "If they noticed the airship—very likely. But it will take time to determine exactly where we are. Unless their scouts are hiding in the nearest bushes."

  Petros scanned the group.

  "We’ve decided to send only a small team this time," he said. "Following Brokr’s and his shaman’s advice. I’ll go, along with Saelin, Vergilius, and of course Aok. The rest stay here and guard Hector. If anything goes wrong—ascend immediately."

  The gondola was dim inside, smelling of pine and dampness. Outside, the sun shone through a thin veil of clouds. The people left behind watched tensely, anxiety and, for the first time on the expedition, fear plainly visible. Axel frowned at Ashley, Konrad, Nubel, and Hector—those remaining on board.

  "I can make an emergency takeoff in a few seconds," he said finally. "If the ropes don’t snag in the branches. If the balloon holds. If the engines don’t fail under the load. If the druids don’t have arrows or Fire Runes… In short, plenty of ‘ifs’ to convince me not to attempt this. Petros, you’ve dragged us into something dangerous."

  "We’ll be quick," Petros said, and Ashley looked at him skeptically. It seemed to her that the mage’s voice carried a note she had never heard before: uncertainty, almost an apology. "Aok says it’s a stone’s throw from here… there and back. No more than a couple of hours."

  "Get going already," Konrad waved wearily. "The longer you linger, the greater the chance these savages attack. Go, return quickly… and good luck."

  "Break a leg," Nubel added uncertainly.

  "To hell with it." Saelin spat toward the open airship doorway, adjusted the straps of his backpack. They had prepared thoroughly: plenty of potions and elixirs made in advance by Ashley, a thick bundle of torches, food, and properly prepared weapons from the crates brought aboard from Petista. Each carried one of Saelin’s inventions—the rifles—strapped to their chests.

  Aok adjusted the satchel with runes hanging from his belt. Vergilius clasped his hands and closed his eyes, reciting a prayer. Petros gave a brief, dry nod and glanced back at the crew remaining on board: Axel, Ashley, Konrad, Nubel, Hector. Something about their eyes unsettled him, though he could not articulate what.

  He turned and stepped outside, squinting against the bright sunlight.

  A light mist drifted across the hollow, it was warm and humid, carrying all signs of an impending rain. The clearing where the gondola had landed was protected not only by the raised edges of the hollow, nor only by the thickets of thorny bushes, but also by jagged rows of rocks that gradually merged into the terrain of the foothills. Boulders were gray and mossy. Nearby, in thick tree canopies, birds squawked and scuffled. The forest whispered cautiously in the wind. Ahead rose steep, forested hills, their peaks dotted with pines and oaks.

  Aok led the way, glancing at the sun, stepping lightly and silently on grass and dry twigs, probing the path with his gnarled staff. Behind him, Petros, Saelin, and Vergilius followed briskly.

  Reaching the edge of the clearing, ascending a slight rise, and carefully parting the bushes, Aok turned back one last time. Calmly, coldly, he looked at Petros:

  "Alright. If you want to reach the place alive and unharmed, I’ll remind you of some simple rules. In the shrines, you may command as you wish. But while moving through the forest, you are entirely under my guidance. To avoid bringing disaster upon yourselves or me. Any questions?"

  "None," Petros said briefly. The others only nodded.

  "Good. First: move as quietly as possible. No noise. No cracking branches. Do not cut bushes with axes, either go around or gently part them. And do not speak. Not a word."

  Petros nodded, turned back. The airship lay in the distance, its balloon partially inflated, anchored to the upper deck so it could fill with hot gas quickly. The windows stared emptily, lifelessly, though he knew the people inside were restless with worry. He memorized the location of the pines and boulders to find the place easily later. Then he turned and walked forward into the shadowy gloom of the forest, stepping over fallen trees, treading carefully on dry pine needles and broken twigs, through rustling leaves.

  Aok led the way. He kept glancing over his shoulder and freezing, even when, to Petros’ senses, absolutely nothing disturbed the calm and silence. Now he was a true druid. Not the Aok who sat in taverns with humans, negotiating trade, but the one born and raised in Regerlim, who had absorbed the ability to navigate it along with his mother’s milk. Here, far from his home outpost, it was not easy. But the sun shining through the pine crowns helped, along with landmarks known only to him, and his keen sight, hearing, and even his sensitive sense of smell. He led them forward along hidden paths, sometimes standing still for several minutes, choosing the direction.

  Silence reigned.

  The path twisted, delving into a tangled maze of ravines and rises, separated by dense thickets and uniform pine trunks. It was now clear that Aok was leading them toward the hills, gradually veering left, south. At some point, he abruptly stopped and sharply raised his hand. Petros instinctively clenched his staff tighter; Vergilius tensed, gripping his dagger; Saelin reached for his rifle.

  Aok shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. Then he raised his hand and pointed ahead. Petros squinted. At first, he could make out nothing among the thick tangle of branches. Then suddenly he saw it.

  In the crown of an elm, whose branches dipped closer to the path, hung a human skull, blackened and with empty eye sockets, dangling from a thin cord. Nearby, hidden among the leaves, a thin gray thread wrapped around the trunk and descended into the grass.

  "Trap," the druid whispered, barely moving his lips. "We step on foreign ground. Everything here belongs to them, including any prey you might catch."

  He moved forward unhurriedly.

  The trees slowly parted, and the path led the scholars and their guide into a deep ravine stretching ahead, where dark hills rose. The pines here seemed deliberately planted, framing the trail, evenly spaced from one another. All around, hazel, wild rose, and thorny bushes overgrew the ground, snagging on cloaks and scratching at faces. Then Petros finally noticed the first signs that they were approaching the place: a solitary, straight column partially hidden among the bushes, engraved with hieroglyphs.

  This time, they didn’t even approach closer. Darkness deepened as the tree crowns above thickened. Aok suddenly straightened, stepping faster and more confidently, and to the right, another column appeared.

  "Almost there," the druid murmured.

  The sun suddenly blazed brightly, blinding after the soft, cool twilight. Sweat dripped from Petros’ brow—they had been walking briskly for some time. Following their guide, the scholars reached an open area where the path climbed higher. Here began a steep slope, covered with grass and massive mossy boulders. It seemed nearly impossible to climb to the hilltops. Yet here lay the entrance to the new shrine.

  Some trees clustered around, of a type Petros could not recall. Their broad crowns intertwined tightly with the nearest pines, their flaring trunks sank into the ground. Thick roots, forming dense tangles, lay along the earth, snaking forward toward the hill slopes and forming natural steps leading to the high entrance of a stone grotto. There were countless roots. For dozens of yards around the cave’s entrance, their interweaving formed a sort of uneven carpet for pilgrims. The grotto itself consisted of massive black stone blocks, with a passage wide and tall enough for a horse to ride through. Behind these stone gates lay darkness.

  They approached cautiously, stepping over the roots. Their procedure was predetermined and rehearsed. The scholars’ hands reached for the flasks hanging at their waists.

  Petros swallowed. He slowly shook his head, feeling how reactions inside his body began to surge, senses sharpening, everything around shimmering in multicolored hues.

  Aok needed no elixir.

  The druid stepped forward, torch in hand, leading the way onto the path of the unknown.