Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Chapter 7
In the Halls of the Colonnae

VOID. THE PUREST emptiness. Consciousness remained, but it was a stagnant thing, devoid of external stimuli and of cogent thought. Existence, and nothing more.

Time passed… irrelevant.

Del opened his eyes. Or perhaps they had been open all along and his mind just now caught up with them. Instinctively he clutched at his midsection. Too late, he knew, the bullets had already ripped through his belly.

He lay on his side, shrouded by a thick gray fog. Strangely, he felt no pain. He raised his hands up before his face.

No blood. Had it been a dream? Trembling, he looked down, his breath coming in short gasps as he moved the tattered strands of his shirt aside. A jagged line of scars crossed his belly, the round scars of bullets.

It took him many minutes to steady his breathing.

As he regained control he realized that he wasn’t on the beach, that the floor beneath him was smooth and cool as marble. Struggling against his disorientation and bordering on panic, he forced himself to his feet, but as his head emerged from the waist-deep fog, his confusion only increased, for he stood in a vast dark hall, illuminated in reflections of wispy gray from the transient fog. A seemingly infinite row of huge pillars, glowing blue-white, ran off into the distance at his left. Del saw no walls or ceiling, just the massive columns, each rooted beneath the low-riding fog and stretching upward as far as the eye could see, into the blackness and beyond. Unearthly, beautiful, yet hauntingly surreal.

“I must be dead,” he muttered, staring blankly at the supernatural sight.

“Hardly,” came a voice behind him. He spun to face Martin Reinheiser.

“Del? What happened?” another voice called. Del recognized it immediately, and then saw Billy rising from the mist at his right. “The last thing I remember was those goblins on the beach and getting whomped on the head.”

“Thompson,” Del explained.

“Figures,” Billy replied, shaking his head. “That guy’s got a real problem.”

“He took your weapon and opened up on the rest of us,” Del went on.

“But you two got away.”

“No, I got shot. So did Reinheiser, I think.”

“A dozen times at least,” the physicist confirmed.

Billy folded his arms across his chest and shot them an angry glare. “What?” he demanded, his voice louder.

Del understood his friend’s impatience. Holding Billy’s stare with his own firm but compassionate visage, he slowly pulled the tattered shirt away from his abdomen. Even from several feet away the vicious scars were unmistakable.

Billy’s arms fell unfolded and his eyes bulged in disbelief. “Are we dead?” he gasped.

“You two seem preoccupied with that subject,” Reinheiser said. “These are not the bodies of spiritual entities; we remain flesh and blood. We are not dead!”

“But you just said you got shot,” Billy protested. “Don’t tell me that those goblin things know anything about medicine.”

“Apparently-” Reinheiser began, but Del cut him off.

“Ssh!” he hissed, and he went tense. Billy and Reinheiser also went alert, straining their eyes and ears in search of the danger Del had sensed.

A low growling noise came from somewhere under the fog nearby.

“Bear?” Billy whispered breathlessly. He moved next to Del, half expecting some hideous beast to spring at them from out of the fog.

A second later, though, the growling sounded more like snoring, and Billy and Del looked at each other and smiled. “Mitchell!”

“The captain, too,” Reinheiser said. He stroked his goatee at this new revelation. He knew he had been shot, but since it was the last thing he remembered, he wasn’t sure of the extent of his injuries. Immediate aid might have saved him. The captain was a different story, though. Reinheiser had seen Mitchell blasted apart by a hail of bullets, certainly dead even as he fell to the ground. Nobody could possibly have survived that volley.

Following the thunderous snores, the men had little trouble finding the sleeping giant. Waking him was a bit more difficult, though, for Mitchell was deep into his dreams and didn’t appreciate being disturbed. He flailed and kicked, punched and even tried to bite. Eventually they managed to rouse him, somewhat, for the captain remained groggy and had little recollection of the events at the beach. The others recounted the tale in full, and though Mitchell grumbled about its implausibility, at this juncture, at least, he had no choice but to accept it.

“Let us continue searching,” Reinheiser suggested, “perhaps the doctor is here as well.”

Almost immediately, Billy stumbled over Doc Brady, peacefully asleep under the gray blanket. Before they even woke him, Del pressed on. “That makes five,” he said. “Let’s keep going.” And he started away.

“Do we really want to locate that idiot Thompson?” Reinheiser argued.

“We’ve got to keep looking,” Del pleaded. He wasn’t looking for Thompson at all, secretly hoping that Ray Corbin was there, somehow recovered.

“Del’s right,” Billy agreed. “If Thompson’s out there and he’s got that gun, we’ve got to get him before he wakes up.”

“Then let’s get going,” Mitchell growled, nodding his huge head as he began to remember the pain and shock of the bullets. “I want Thompson found, and then his ass is mine.” The captain grinned wickedly at the notion. It wasn’t often that a dead man had a chance to pay back his killer, and he found the thought of twisting Thompson’s neck quite satisfying.

They searched the immediate area, but the fog remained impenetrable and Thompson didn’t seem to be close by. Frustrated and more than a little fearful of the possibilities-perhaps Thompson watched from a distance even as they searched, a crazed smile on his face and a ready M-16 at his side-Mitchell needed a showdown and began calling out, “Thompson!” The others, except Reinheiser, joined in.

“Wonderful,” Reinheiser muttered, and he crouched low into the safety of the opaque veil. “That lunatic is probably training his rifle on their voices this very minute.”

A tickling breeze, a gentle puff of wind, blew across them, swirling the fog into swaying minarets. And the breeze carried words in its wake, words in the purest tone and timbre that any of them had ever heard, clear as an unblemished bell and, like the great hall about them, supernatural in beauty. “Your Mr. Thompson is not here.”

As one, eyes wide, mouths open, they turned to the voice.

Halfway between the five men and the columns, limned in ghostly evanescence, stood a tall man in a flowing white robe of fine silk. A golden crown adorned his head, and in his delicate hand he held a many-jeweled, golden scepter. Hair of the starkest white, yet thick and rich with vitality, hung loosely about his shoulders, and though his skin was incredibly pale, almost translucent, his presence was undeniably solid and powerful.

Even from a distance the being’s calm demeanor soothed Del’s apprehension, for the creature’s eyes held a flickering blue flame that radiated unbounded knowledge and serenity.

Mitchell stood firm before the wondrous specter, his anger sufficient proof against any feelings of awe. “Then where is he?” he demanded. “And who are you?”

The being made no motion, yet a breeze emanated from him. He did not move his lips, yet the breeze carried words. More than words, actually. Within that gentle wind came emotions and sensations beyond the spectrum of hearing, emanations that the five men felt throughout their bodies and souls. “It is best to say only that Michael Thompson’s destiny followed a different path from yours. As to your second question, I am Calae, Prince of the Colonnae.” The specter then turned from Mitchell to Del, and an even more gentle puff blew by. “Truly I am sorry, Jeffrey DelGiudice, but your friend, Ray Corbin, has indeed passed from this world.”

Del’s eyes widened. The being had just read his mind and answered his unspoken question.

“You still think we’re not dead?” Billy whispered to Reinheiser. The scientist, completely at a loss for an explanation, wasn’t so quick to dismiss the possibility this time, but before he could seriously consider that theory, the breeze came again.

“Take comfort, Billy Shank. I assure you that you are not dead. By the power of the Colonnae, you have passed through the dark realm and are healed. We could not permit your deaths, for this is a time long-awaited, and a great adventure lies before you. Your actions may well determine the destiny of a new world.”

They knew a moment later that their understandable doubts had been foreseen. Calae raised his scepter and permitted the men a glimpse of their recent past, an image that had been mercifully erased from their memories. Each alone in a form not quite corporeal, yet somewhat substantial and inescapable, they walked among black mounds, barrows of broken shale, under unknown stars, and looked upon the shadows of Death’s domain. A lonely journey, an endless trek, for not another being stirred in the never-ending plain, and every horizon promised nothing but continued blackness. Even Martin Reinheiser was stricken dumb, this episode being too far beyond any mortal experience to be believable. Sympathetic to their confused distress, Calae released them from recollections they could not comprehend. “Come,” he said, opening his arms as a father to his children. “Sit by me and I will tell you a marvelous tale that shall answer many of your questions and instill in you many more.”

Compelled by this superior will, the mortals could only comply. Barely conscious that they were moving, they approached and sat before Calae on the cool floor, and the fog in that area wafted away.

Calae closed his eyes and contemplated his tale. He didn’t want to overwhelm the fragile mortals any more than was necessary. The breeze came again. “Let me begin,” it whispered to them, “at what you may perceive to be the end, though it was in fact the beginning. You have been quite perceptive and have already guessed much.” Calae’s eyes softened in sympathy and sadness. “The war long feared by your race came, swift and terrible, a mere fifty years after you departed the sunlit world. Tiny enemies long thought eradicated were awakened once more as weapons and, in the escalation that soon followed, mankind’s terrible machines of destruction wreaked devastation across this beautiful world. Nothing could stand against the fury, the very stones screamed in agony! Nation after nation loosed their weapons in full knowledge that the poisonous wake would leave naught but a barren, unlivable earth.

“Yet they loosed their weapons!” howled a mighty wind. The men cringed as Calae grew suddenly tall and terrible before them.

But then Calae calmed again, a hint of tears rimming his eyes, and he continued, “For in the end it was the folly of man to put country before conscience, pride before pity, might before mercy. Your race was doomed by its own hands, and that was the tragedy.

“Yet know this, mortals, know it as I am the proof: There are powers in this universe far greater than man and far beyond man’s creations. And the beings that looked upon the ravaged earth were saddened, for, though evil dwells in man’s domain, it is not an inherent trait of the race. Even He who is supreme was moved to pity. Thus it was decreed that man be given another chance to survive, to evolve above this fatal flaw of pride. Amidst the devastation, Ynis Aielle, isle of hope, rose from the sea, shielded from the fires by a golden barrier that was His blessing. And He summoned the Colonnae.

“At the time of doom, great ships sailed these waters. Of the hundreds aboard them, only the children and four of the adults were spared. The others had been touched by the killing fire and, more importantly, had tasted of the mighty magic, technology, that had wrought the fire. This knowledge demanded their deaths if the world was truly to begin anew.

“Thus the Colonnae became the guardians of an orphaned people. We guided the ships to this land and set them upon a southern beach. And the four chosen adults came away with us to learn higher levels of consciousness, that they might one day return and help guide the new race of man down a truer path. Under our protection and with our blessings, the children flourished. Soon a large settlement, a city named Pallendara, had grown on Calva, the southern plains of Aielle. A beautiful city she was, a place of art and poetry and true brotherhood, a community untainted by greed and governed by philosophers who followed unerringly the will of the people. Learning stood as the common goal, knowledge gained only to be shared, and the Earth knew its greatest peace since before the Jericho of your history many thousands of years ago.

“The mercy of the One is without bounds, yet it is bestowed upon those who prove themselves worthy. Thus, in the seventh generation of Pallendara, a test was unveiled. Mutated children of irradiated and diseased heritage, the lingering curse of technology, were born unto the innocents.

“Yes,” answered Calae to the question in all of the men’s minds, “these were indeed the forefathers of the creatures you encountered on the beach.

“As the first cursed child breathed Aielle’s clear air into its tainted lungs, our time as guardians was ended. Thus, the Colonnae departed the shining halls of Pallendara. The trials of the One had begun, the time for your race to prove itself capable and worthy.” Calae looked into the fog beyond his audience and smiled fondly at the distant memories of the early days. Again the tears came to his eyes. “It was difficult to leave,” he explained to the men. “We had grown fond of your race, had come to love them as parents do children. Yet we knew they had grown beyond our care; it was time for them to stand on their own. The four we had instructed returned to their people, but we, ever curious, remained close by to observe.

“The curse lasted ten years. Every woman with child prayed to us for the health of her coming baby, but we could only watch helplessly. Cries of dismay in the night oft told neighbors that a new mutant had come among them. One hundred times during that decade of horror a new mother looked upon her child and despaired.

“Yet the Calvans loved and cared for the misshapen babes, for they knew naught but love. In their innocence, they could not perceive that these creatures were the perfect incarnation of all that is evil in your race, an embodied mirror of the darkest errors of man’s past.

“At first the mutants caused only minor problems, but as the years passed, they grew strong. They found each other and forged a brotherhood of evil, bonded together by a common purpose of destruction. They met in shadows, carefully plotting every attack. They were indeed devious, keeping their crimes within the borders of Calvan mercy. The people, ever trusting and forgiving, fell easy prey.

“The crimes worsened as the mutants gained confidence, soon openly roaming the streets at night, cutting a trail of destruction across the city. With great sorrow and disappointment, the Calvans were forced to admit that love and compassion offer no protection against true evil. Three of our students, the fourth having long since departed from the city and the ways of man, joined the Calvan lords at council in the Citadel of Justice to decide the fate of the mutants.

“An angry crowd gathered outside, promising violence if the lords offered no better solution. Inside the chambers raged a similar scene of frustration and rage, for, in truth, the gentle Calvans had no response to the evil that had befallen them. After hours of yelling and angry debate, one of our students, Thomas Morgan, who called himself Morgan Thalasi, offered a solution. ‘I shall lead these foul beasts away from our fair city,’ he said, ‘and far over the plains to a place where they will trouble Calva no more. And I, Thalasi, shall watch over them, that their evilness be contained.’

“He lied. It was our greatest fear that one of the four wizards we had trained would fall victim to the lust for power that had been the foulest bane in your history and had eventually led to the destruction of the original race. And it was to our ultimate distress that it was Morgan Thalasi, mightiest of the Four, who fell into evil ways. The Calvans believed him. They accepted his offer with great joy and praised him for his sacrifice.

“Thus, Thalasi departed with the cursed hundred. He named them ‘talons’ after himself, an arrogant act that hinted at some of the events to come. North they marched and then west to the sea where the wizard wrought Talasdun, bastion of darkness.”

Del recalled the castle he had seen in the mountains. Somehow his vision now was clearer than it had been through the fog, as if Calae’s empathy had enhanced the image to a point more distinct than reality. He saw in his mind black battlements iron strong, and awesome towers spiraling to the sky, extensions of the very strength of the rock mountain in which they rooted. And Del felt, strongest of all, the pervading evil that bound the place together, a force that was still very much alive. A shudder shook the vision from him.

“There Thalasi bred his army, and quickly indeed do talons breed and mature,” Calae continued. “And time mattered little, for the Colonnae had bestowed upon the Four the gift of long years. Thalasi could have spent centuries preparing an army that would have swept everything away before it, but his thirst for power overcame his patience. A mere century after the forging of Talas-dun, Thalasi, the Black Warlock, led the mutants back to Calva.

“The talons could not hope to defeat the more numerous Calvans in open battle, but Thalasi counted on surprise to carry him through to Pallendara. He knew that if he could get to the city and overthrow the Overlord quickly, the scattered hamlets of the plains would not organize against him. And in his arrogance, Thalasi believed the two remaining wizards to be no match for him. Yet the Calvans were not caught unaware. The second of the Four, kindly Rudy Glendower, had privately questioned Thalasi’s motives when the mutants had first been led away. Ever the wary guardian of peace, Glendower anticipated the eventual return of Thalasi and had always kept one eye toward Talas-dun. With his warnings, then, the Calvans had time to assemble a great force. They charged westward across the fields to meet the invaders at the great river Ne’er Ending. Thalasi’s army came on only to find the four bridges that spanned the river blocked by the Calvan force. Ever merciful, the Calvans offered peace, ordering the talons to return to their mountain homeland and demanding Thalasi as a prisoner. But Thalasi’s years of torment had worked wickedly on his charges, and the self-named Black Warlock truly believed himself invincible. Even with the plans for surprise ruined, he attacked. The ferocity of his army was great and at first they drove hard into the Calvan ranks, but Glendower and Perrault, the third wizard, managed to keep Thalasi’s enchantments at bay while the Calvan wave countered, smashing and scattering their ill-bred foes.”

A second image blossomed in Del’s mind as Calae imparted to him the scenes of that fierce battle. The armies clashed upon four arcing stone bridges spanning a shining silver river, though the water steadily reddened with the blood of fallen combatants.

The sheer savagery of the talons appalled Del. With total disregard for their own lives, they launched themselves at the Calvan spearmen, thrashing wildly with their short swords, biting and gouging. They swept through the first ranks, overwhelming the civilized men with demonic ferocity, and pushed their foes back to the end of the bridges. But as the monsters came on, not just killing, but goring and mutilating the men caught in their savage rush, the Calvans, too, turned ugly. Faces twisted in rage, they surged into the mutant throng, matching the talon brutality blow for blow. The defined lines of the opponents disappeared as the battle became an entwined cluster of slashing swords and thrusting spears, and soon the howls of fury were drowned out by screams of agony. Several times man and mutant, grappling in mortal combat, fell from a bridge to the mighty river below. Even then they continued their frenzied struggle, though it meant that neither could escape watery death in the powerful current.

Attrition gradually thinned the smaller mutant force, and as the outcome became obvious, the vision faded from Del’s view. Sweat stung his eyes. He looked to his companions, and their stunned expressions told him they had also witnessed the horror of the struggle.

“Thalasi was thrown down that day and believed killed,” Calae continued when the men regained their composure. “But evil does not die so easily, and the spirit of Morgan Thalasi lurks ever in Aielle, with patience bitterly learned, awaiting a second chance.

“The treachery of Thalasi tolled heavily on the Calvans. Many men died at the Battle of the Four Bridges, and those who survived carried and passed on to their children scars of suspicion and fear. Thus, the new race of man lost its innocence and its trust. And thus it remains today.” Calae paused, his eyes downcast. Obviously, Thalasi’s deceit weighted heavily on him, too.

“This is not the end of my tale,” he continued after a few seconds. “The Battle of the Four Bridges was a long, long time ago. Ten years after the battle, there was born in Pallendara a second mutation of man. Unlike the talons, these children were very beautiful and their joyous smiles curled upward unblemished by evil. Yet the untrusting Calvans were ever wary, and grew fearful as more mutated babes were born. Though these children had committed no wrongs, a time of prejudice and unwarranted anger overtook the city. Once again the council of Pallendara’s lords and the two remaining wizards convened.

“Enduring are the scars of Thalasi’s deceit, and enduring are the tests of the One. With the second mutation, the character of man came to trial again.

“Never has the Citadel of Justice known such a travesty,” Calae declared. “The lord Umpleby, a wretched, gluttonous man who had gained power through deceit, opposed any change, fearful that it might endanger his ill-gotten position. He demanded the deaths of the innocent babes, and his twisted beliefs were not without support among the truly frightened people.

“But Ben-rin, Overlord of the city, was a kinder man. ‘We kill no children,’ he commanded. ‘We have risen above the legacy of our heritage and are not murderers. The children will be watched, but no harm shall befall them!’ And so set was he in his belief that he welcomed no debate.

“Ben-rin’s compassion was admirable and his motives true, but disgusted and enraged by even the suggestion of murder, he had thrown aside due course of Calvan law and had overstepped the bounds of his title. No one man ruled Pallendara, however justified in his actions. There was then a great confusion in the Citadel, for more than the fate of the children had now come to trial. Lord Umpleby was quick to counter, his voice rising above the commotion. ‘Our Overlord,’ he hissed, ‘has declared himself Emperor!’ Ben-rin’s glare came cold and firm, but he knew at once that he had erred in his anger and he dared not command Umpleby to silence.

“Umpleby continued his assault on justice, his raving antics kindling the memories of anger and fear engraved by Thalasi and the first mutation. He knew that his only chance for victory was to entice the others to a level where rash emotions denied mercy. ‘Must I remind you of our past?’ he cried to them. ‘Might it be that you have forgotten the terror in our own streets?’ Angry shouts of agreement gathered about him. ‘My lords,’ he pleaded with mock concern, ‘can we ever wash the stain of blood from the stones of the Four Bridges? These freakish creatures might be worse! For the sake of all that we deem good, I demand their deaths!’

“Umpleby achieved his desired level of chaos. The furor split the council, pitting lord against lord in an angry debate that bordered on violence. Though the emotional tide swept against his cause, Ben-rin remained calm and resolute. ‘We shall kill no innocent children,’ he repeated. But Umpleby had swayed too many, and the Overlord’s edicts would not be enough.

“Across the room, from a forgotten corner of the council table, came an unexpected response. ‘Then I shall kill them.’ All sat in silent shock, and Ben-rin nearly collapsed, for the speaker was none other than the gentle wizard, Rudy Glendower. The other wizard in attendance, Perrault, understood and nodded his approval.

“Perhaps Umpleby, never trusting, also understood, for he confronted Glendower. ‘You?’ He laughed. ‘Once we put our faith in a wizard, and our blood ran freely for it. Yet we are to believe you?’

“Glendower rose tall above the lord. ‘I, too, have felt the stinger of Thalasi,’ he breathed with convincing anger, cold death in his eyes that Umbleby dared not question. ‘Tomorrow, I go north with the children, that there should be no blood in the city, and I shall slay them mercifully.’ Umpleby’s face chalked beneath the glare of the mighty wizard. ‘And you alone shall accompany me!’

“Glendower turned and looked deep into Ben-rin’s eyes, and the Overlord understood and openly agreed, hiding his relieved smile. Thus the council was ended.

“The solemn caravan left Pallendara and traveled in solitude across the rolling plain, shunned by fearful farmers. At nightfall on the seventh day they came to the foothills of the Southern Crystal Mountains, the northern edge of the Calvan fields. ‘We will sleep first,’ said Glendower. ‘And in the dark of the night, that none bear witness, our foul deed shall be done.’ Umpleby found sleep easily, for this task bothered him not at all. And Glendower came to him in his slumber and worked an enchantment upon him. In his dreams, Umpleby stood witness as the wizard slew the mutants one by one on a wide flat rock and buried their bodies in an unmarked grave. In truth, that night Glendower stole away with the children and hid them in the mountains, having already provided for their care with a secret friend. Glendower and the deceived Umpleby returned to Pallendara bearing tidings that the deed was done. Many times during the years of the second mutation, Glendower drove a cart of new mutants north, supposedly to the Justice Stone, as Umpleby had named the flat rock, but actually to the secret refuge.

“By day the children stayed hidden for fear of discovery, but under night’s black veil of protection, they danced joyously. Glendower named them Illumans, Children of the Moon, and their home, Illuma, Lochsilinilume in the tongue of wizards. And that their number might remain small and easily concealed, he, Perrault, and their secret friend joined their powers together and enspelled the children with the gift of long years.

“Villagers of the northern fields told fireside stories of the night dancers of the Crystal Mountains, and legends of the Illumans spread throughout all of Calva. But Ben-rin and then his heirs, with the help of the wizards, had little trouble dismissing the rumors as fanciful children’s tales. In this manner, Aielle remained at peace for many years.

“But,” Calae went on, his voice suddenly grim, “one-score and ten years ago, Ungden the Usurper, a descendant of Lord Umpleby, overthrew the line of Ben-rin and proclaimed himself Overlord of Pallendara. He banished Glendower, for he had somehow guessed the deception at the Justice Stone. With the noble heir of the line of Ben-rin and his supporters killed and Glendower exiled, the only hope for peace in Pallendara was Perrault, who had come to be known as Istaahl the White. But Istaahl, beyond belief, has supported the new Overlord, and war has been averted only through Ungden’s inability to find the secret mountain refuge.”

“You speak of generations and hundreds of years,” Reinheiser interrupted. “How long has it been?”

“More than twelve centuries have passed since you went beneath the sea,” Calae answered.

Mitchell snorted.

“Believe what you will,” Calae replied to him. “But dwell not in the past. Your destiny lies not there, but here in Aielle. A war is soon to be fought. A conflict not of good against evil, as was the Battle of the Four Bridges, but of nation against nation. Aielle is about to fight its Jericho, its first unnecessary war, and if that comes to pass, the new race of man may well embark upon the same path that led your race to its ultimate demise. The lessons of the past may yet save this world, and thus the Colonnae have guided you here.”

“Guided us?” Mitchell exclaimed.

Calae remained silent, letting the men sort things out for themselves. Doubts and confusion closed in on them; all of this was simply too much to digest. They sat with knotted brows, reflecting on the events that had befallen them, searching desperately for a logical explanation. Not Del, though. He leaned back comfortably on his arms and smiled warmly at Calae. He remembered the miracle at the ladder of the sinking Unicorn, and in his heart had known since that moment that someone was looking out for him.

Now he understood the identity of that guardian angel.

At length, Calae’s breeze came again. “A people call out to you,” he said. “Your path lies east, to Illuma.

“But now, sleep, ancient ones, for the road ahead is hard and long, and sorrow and weariness will find you in the days to come.” As he spoke, the mist returned, bringing with it suggestions of slumber the mortals could not resist. They collapsed into a deep and restful sleep.

Calae looked down upon them, mere shadows under the shroud of gray, and realized again that he had grown fond of this being called man and cared deeply about this race’s struggle to find its true path.

“Go, ancient ones,” he said softly. “Go hence to Lochsilinilume. Seek out the Children of the Moon and teach Aielle the lessons of the past.”