“This is what you call a summer cabin?” Iskvold slowly shook her head, taking in the landscape. The group stood in awe at the gravel entry to the Eldracum country estate. A crushed white stone walkway cut a path beyond the opening in the high privacy hedges of thick green holly. Beyond the hedge, lush, mature gardens lined both sides of the path, welcoming visitors with manicured beds of countless colorful flowers, bushes, and shrubs.
Fifty yards in, the path ended at a covered outdoor sitting area. Open to the garden, the curved stone front, with three integrated steps, transitioned immediately to a living space, complete with divans and chairs, all positioned to take advantage of the surrounding natural beauty. A pitched roof held up by exposed pillars offered protection from the elements while preserving a light and airy aesthetic. Beyond the stone flooring, the entire fa?ade and ceiling were finished in a rich, polished rosewood. The silver Eldracum hallmark—EE— gleamed proudly from the gable.
The rest of the home blended seamlessly into the surrounding stand of towering redwoods, making it difficult to tell where the dwelling ended and the forest began. Segwyn led his horse several steps into the gardens before realizing his friends remained at the hedge.
He turned, a frown of confusion on his face. “Well? Are you coming?”
“This is yours? Are you sure it’s okay?” Lunish asked in disbelief.
“Technically, it belongs to my family, but there’s no one here right now, except the staff, so, yes, it’s totally fine.”
“The staff?” Glynfir scoffed in disbelief, his feet still grounded just beyond the hedge. “Why didn’t you tell us you were rich?”
The ranger’s shoulders drooped as he waggled his index finger between himself and the rest of the group. Here we go again. “Because of this, right here.” He let out a long breath before continuing. “Your impression of me, and as a result, your behavior, changed immediately once wealth came into the picture.” Segwyn turned to face the others. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to outrun the shadow of my family’s money. It’s why I left the family business and became a ranger. I want to be seen for who I am, what I’ve done, without financial preconceptions.”
Iskvold scoffed a non-verbal grunt, subtly shaking her head, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
Segwyn’s chin rose in defiance. “What’s so funny?”
The drow held up her hands in surrender. “It’s just so ironic, how different we are.” She raked both hands through her white hair. “The only thing I’ve wanted, desperately for my whole life, was to find my parents—feel that sense of true belonging that comes from real family, unconditional love.” She swept her arm across the vista of the estate. “You have all that and then some, but want nothing more than to be free of it.” She smiled. “I would literally kill for the very thing you’re running from.”
As the others looked on, it was the ranger’s turn to scoff. “I think this is a conversation better had somewhere more comfortable.” He tilted his head toward the gazebo. “Over a glass of wine on the deck, perhaps? But what I will say is, you’re working from an ideal concept of family. Sometimes, unfortunately, the real thing falls woefully short of those expectations—your mother somehow being wrapped up in the Crimson Dominion, for example.” He spread his arms wide. “All I ask is that you allow my actions to shape your perception of who I am, not this.” He waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the estate.
“Good enough for me,” Bird said with a nod, the gravel crunching beneath the hooves of his mount as he stepped forward. A chorus of confirmations rose from the group as the rest followed. Iskvold, lost in thought, brought up the rear.
Seeing her lag behind, Tsuta waited, silently counting the rivets on his horse’s reins. When she drew even, he put his hand on her shoulder. “You know, Pinky, sometimes the family you find is better than the one you inherit, precisely because you get to choose.”
Lunish stood, arms spread wide, fingers touching multiple plants in Segwyn’s garden. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. The sound of a hummingbird, the scent of fresh lavender, the texture of the leaves and stems against her fingertips, each drew her back, closer to her cosmic center with every breath. The frenetic pace and threat of the last twenty-four hours had exacted a heavy toll. Only now, as the knots in her shoulder slowly unwound, and the muscles in her abdomen finally started to relax, did she recognize the level of burden. Iskvold’s advice from the day before echoed in her mind. This is my inspiration, my distraction. It’s been right under my nose all along!
With a long exhale, she fished the sending stone from her pocket, its smooth surface cool against her skin. Eyes still closed, she concentrated on the stone.
Snuggles, RQ is a lich. Target was a meteorite, amplifies spells by 6x—now secured and hidden. Running for our lives. Any help appreciated.
When the familiar tingle at the base of her skull told her the message had been sent, she opened her eyes, a wide grin forming immediately as she refocused on the magnificence of the surrounding plant life. Exotic and rare botanicals flooded her vision, including some she had never seen up close before. The gnome immersed herself in the lush flora, carefully harvesting leaves, stems, flowers, and berries into her satchel. At one point, she lay flat on her back for several minutes, soaking up the rejuvenating connection to nature.
The others had all found comfortable seats on the deck, watching the druid frolic in the garden.
“So, where exactly are we right now?” Whydah asked.
“About two miles from the town center of Eredmire, in an area called The Old Growth,” Segwyn informed her as he gathered eight ceramic mugs from a shelf on the sidewall. “This neighborhood is mostly larger estates and summer homes.” Placing eight mugs on the table, he stepped to the opposite side of the seating area, carefully lifting an odd-looking ceramic jug from the shelf before setting it next to the mugs. A narrow, corked spout on the top was joined by nine more, protruding from the sides in random positions around the jug’s circumference. Small elven letters were scratched into the ceramic surface next to each corked spout.
Segwyn glanced around his audience of visitors. “Anyone care for a drink?”
“Look at you, going into host mode!” Iskvold teased. “What’s in the jug?”
“Many things,” the ranger replied with a mysterious smile. “We have beer, wine, and water.” He touched different spouts as he continued to itemize the list. “It can also produce honey, oil, vinegar, poison, acid, and, oddly, even mayonnaise.”
“Mmm, nothing like a tall, cool mug of mayonnaise on a warm summer morning!” Tsuta deadpanned. Bird and Glynfir both moved to the table for a closer look.
“Ooh! Is this a Jug of Alchemy? I’ve read about these.” The wizard hovered over the jug, his face beaming. Turning back to the group, he added, “It can magically produce any of those liquids even beyond the natural capacity of the jug itself.”
Bird looked quizzically at the ceramic vessel, lightly dragging his claw over the etched symbols. “What are these markings?”
“Labels,” the ranger confirmed. “Each spout provides a different liquid. My father found that out the hard way. He took a big swig of vinegar, expecting water. After that, we labeled the spouts.”
Bird nodded thoughtfully. “How does it work?”
“I give it the command to fill, and then you uncork the spout for whatever you want, and pour it out,” Segwyn replied.
“And it can make acid and poison, that we could put into vials, for later use?” the tabby pressed.
“I suppose,” the ranger said hesitantly. “We’ve never used it that way, but I don’t see why you couldn’t.”
“Interesting,” Bird drew the word out mysteriously before adding, “Have you got any empty vials?”
“Of course,” Segwyn confirmed, adding with a smile, “But, how about a drink before we start making weapons?” Giving the command, the ranger filled the jug and then seven mugs to order.
“Who’s the eighth mug for?” Whydah asked, nodding toward the extra vessel on the table.
“I’ve invited Eredmire’s lore keeper to join us. I thought he might have learned more about the Red Queen since we were last here, and provide a better understanding of phylacteries, assuming we’re serious about trying to disrupt her immortality?” He raised his eyebrows, seeking any objection from the group. The collective grumbled reply told him no one had come up with a better idea since they left the Luminarium.
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“Master Lyraen?” Bird inquired, referring to the elder he and Segwyn had visited previously, while the others were scouring the Vault.
“The very same,” Segwyn confirmed.
Iskvold’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, how did you invite him over? You haven’t left our sight for more than a minute since we arrived.”
The ranger glanced sheepishly at his boots. “He has a property nearby, so I asked one of the staff to extend the invitation.”
“The staff. Of course.” Tsuta teased with a smile, raising his nose into the air and drawling an accent of Shan nobility. “You must tell me where you source your help. It’s been so difficult to find reliable staff lately, don’t you find, Tiny?”
Whydah giggled, extending her little finger as she raised her mug to her lips, taking a swallow before responding in a much more polished version of the same accent. “Indeed! It’s been positively dreadful these last few years. No one seems to want to work anymore!”
A shared, group laugh rose from the gazebo as Segwyn rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “That’ll be about enough of that, you two!”
Lunish stepped up onto the raised wooden patio, a wide smile on her face. “What’s so funny?”
Glynfir waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, we were just having some fun at Master Eldracum’s expense.” He shot the ranger a grin.
“Feeling better?” Iskvold asked the gnome.
“Yes, very much, thank you!” Lunish nodded toward the drow before exhaling a deep breath, “I think I’ve found my coping mechanism, thanks to you!”
“I’m glad!” Iskvold smiled as she crossed to the table, handing a mug to Lunish. “We took the liberty of pouring you a glass of wine.”
As the druid accepted the glass with a thankful nod, the crunch of gravel turned all eyes to the walkway. A figure dressed in green silken robes, carrying a curved wooden staff, stepped gingerly into the garden.
“Master Lyraen!” Segwyn called. “Thank you for coming!!”
The venerable wood elf strode slowly along the path toward the gazebo. He moved well for his considerable years. As he got closer, Iskvold noticed his skin—paler than anyone she had ever seen before, almost translucent. Piercing bright blue eyes made his elvish heritage unquestionable, but something was definitely different. Perhaps a sign of his advanced age?
The newcomer waited to respond until he approached the seating area, his voice soft and clear. “Mister Bird, nice to see you again.” He gave a polite nod. “Master Eldracum, your message said it was urgent…”
“Yes,” the ranger confirmed. “We seem to have developed a small lich problem.”
Lyraen’s eyes went wide in surprise, his glance darting among the others. Lingering on each of them only momentarily, Glynfir felt as though the old sage could see into his very soul.
Segwyn raised his palm. “Forgive my manners, I’m getting ahead of myself. Everyone, I’d like you to meet Lyraen Arnor, one of the oldest and certainly wisest elders in all of Eredmire. Lyraen is the community lore keeper, historian, and our head horticulturalist.”
Segwyn went around the room, making introductions. Finishing with Tsuta and Iskvold, Lyraen placed his hand on the ranger’s arm.
“You two are from the Luminarium, its only survivors?”
Iskvold nodded. “Not the only ones. Our abbey master—Sifu Haft—and six acolytes also survived.”
The old elf nodded slowly, holding her gaze. “On behalf of the Eredmire council, I would like to offer our deepest condolences for your loss. We were most concerned to hear of demons walking the prime material plane indiscriminately, randomly attacking our neighbors.” He turned back to Segwyn. “And now you say there is a lich involved?”
Segwyn took a deep breath. “You may want to sit down and have a glass of wine. It’s a bit of a long story…”
Bird helped Lyraen into a comfortable chair, pouring him a mug of wine before Segwyn began. The ranger shared all the salient learnings and developments from the last four days. Lyraen closed his eyes, fingers steepled in front of his chest as he listened intently. When the ranger finished, his eyes snapped open, his gaze once again sweeping the room, lingering on each member of the group, his face expressionless.
After a long moment, he spoke. “Just to make sure I have this right, you managed to steal a meteorite from under the nose of the original Red Queen of Siremiria, who you discovered is, in fact, now a lich. In so doing, you prevented her from attaining a level of power that would put the whole of Venn under threat.” His silver eyebrows arched, his eyes fixed to the floor. “And now you find yourselves, because of the stone, the object of her personal wrath as well as that of her mortal followers, this Crimson Dominion.” His head came up, scanning the audience once more. “You plan to destroy her by first removing the source of her immortality and then defeating her in battle, all the while remaining hidden from them and her.”
“When you say it out loud, it does sound insane,” Segwyn admitted. “But that’s the gist of it, yes.”
Lyraen let out a long breath, his cheeks ballooning. “That’s quite a pickle. You realize that merely by being here, you’re putting all of Eredmire in danger? Does she know who you are?”
“We don’t think so,” Glynfir replied before the ranger jumped back in.
“I know. We’re only staying the night, but we needed some guidance to help determine our next step, and I could think of no one better suited to provide it.” Segwyn flattered him.
The old elf grunted, shooting him a wry smile. “You’ve never changed. A silver-tongued boy grew into a silver-tongued man! How can I help?”
Tsuta picked up the question. “We know the phylactery is the key to a lich’s immortality, but we need to find it and destroy it. Where do we start?”
The elder’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Tsuta’s holy symbol. “You’re clerically trained, right?”
Tsuta nodded, his hand unconsciously sliding over his bald head, front to back. “Things just rapidly got out of my depth.”
Lyraen stood, picked up his mug, and stepped to the backside of the table, facing the entire group. “So, you all understand that a phylactery is the vessel that binds a lich’s soul, yes?” Eyebrows raised, he held up his half-filled mug in illustration, and everyone nodded. “Good,” he continued. “Now, to sustain itself indefinitely, a lich must also constantly consume souls–think of it like food or drink.” With a half-smile, he waggled the mug. “This is achieved by magically taking the souls of others and binding them inside the same phylactery, like the wine in this mug.” He drained the glass. “Once the lich has consumed a soul,” he displayed the empty mug to the room with the flourish of a stage magician, “it needs to steal another to continue sustaining itself.”
With a glance at the symbols etched on the jug, Lyraen pulled a cork and refilled his glass. “If the lich is destroyed, its own essence is returned to the phylactery, where the captured energy from stolen souls restores it. That’s what makes it the key to a lich’s immortality.” He sat back down in his chair and took a sip of wine.
“I understand that much,” Tsuta said patiently. “But what does it look like and where can we find it?”
Lyraen pointed his finger at the monk. “That, my bald friend, is the crux of your problem and what makes a lich such a menacing adversary…” He waved his hand dismissively. “…Aside from the insanity and immense magical potency, of course.” The pale elder leaned forward conspiratorially. “The phylactery will always be something important to the lich in life, but it can be virtually any object— a box, a locket, a ring, an amulet, even a painting, anything that can contain the inscriptions of the ritual.”
“Okayyyy,” Tsuta dragged the word out in frustration. “Where is it usually kept?”
Lyraen pursed his lips. “That’s the second piece of the puzzle, and you aren’t going to like this answer either.” Leaning forward, he pinched his thumb and forefinger together, tapping the air with precision as he continued. “Because it’s critical to their existence, liches tend to be very paranoid about their phylactery, keeping it somewhere extremely well protected—like in their lair, or the tomb where their mortal remains were buried. Regardless of where they choose, it will be very inaccessible, and most certainly guarded by magic, traps, and likely some powerful beasties.”
Tsuta let out a deep breath as he took in the long faces of his friends. “Let’s say we figure out what it is and manage to acquire it, then what? How do we destroy it?”
A sympathetic smile split the old elf’s face as he leaned back in his chair, his piercing blue eyes locked on the monk. “And that’s the third leg holding up the stool of your conundrum…You can’t just smash a phylactery with your staff and come home for tea. The means and method of destroying it are unique to each phylactery and known only to the lich and its creator, unless they tell someone, of course.”
Tsuta threw up his hands. “This is even worse than last time. We have to steal the most prized and heavily guarded possession from an undead being that can crush us like a bug, and even if we somehow survive, we don’t know how to destroy it.”
Lyraen nodded slowly. “I did say it was quite a pickle.”
Whydah spoke for the first time in several minutes. “If you were us, where would you start?”
The silver-haired wood elf looked at her, surprised by the insight of the question. He furrowed his brow in thought, his fingers steepled again in front of his chest. After several long moments, he answered. “Two things about liches are universally true—they all need to harvest mortal souls to feed, and they have to use the phylactery to do so.” His eyes narrowing, one translucent finger poked the air between himself and Whydah. “They also can’t do it alone without raising considerable suspicion, and it almost certainly must be taking place somewhere on this plane, where all the food is. So, if it were me, I’d start with this Crimson Dominion you mentioned; they must be involved in the soul-harvesting somehow. In terms of where she keeps it,” he shrugged, “that’s anyone’s guess, but I’d probably start with her mortal tomb.”
Multiple cups of wine were silently drained over the next several minutes before Lyraen rose from his seat.
“If there’s nothing further, I should get back…”
“Yes, of course. Thank you!” Segwyn rose, gripping the old elf’s hand between two of his own.
“Glad to help, young man. By the way, what shall I tell your father?”
Segwyn froze as the others all turned his way. “You can share the high-level details, but please, I don’t want him to get involved. This is my fight, not his.”
“As you wish, though you know if Fenir Eldracum sets his mind on wading into the fray, I can’t stop him.” Lyraen chuckled.
“I know, just please do your best.”
The elder nodded before bidding goodbye to the group. They all watched him depart with the same unhurried pace before turning the corner behind the hedge.
“I was in a good mood before all of that killed my buzz,” Lunish muttered under her breath.
Tsuta looked at Bird. “So? What now?”
“You heard the man,” the tabby drawled, gesturing in the direction of the departed lore keeper. “We grift our way into the Crimson Dominion. All we need is a pawn to help us.”
Lunish’s eyes lit up. She spoke to the group, but her gaze was squarely on Glynfir. “Like someone we know is associated with the symbol, and therefore the Dominion?”
The conversation paused, everyone turning to the gnome in silent anticipation.
The wizard’s mustache drew back in a wide smile. “We know just the guy—Garrett Ferrier—the solicitor who signed the will in Chagrothlond. The symbol was underneath his name!”
The Glimmerstone Enigma and The Siremirian Conundrum?
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