The Arch from which they’d just entered Taravus was at the center of a large courtyard, surrounded by carefully cared-for gardens and a complex of two-story buildings, like a monastery’s cloister. Overhead, the sky was a beautiful, wintry blue. The air was pleasantly chill and crisp. Hunter found it invigorating, a far cry from the deathly stagnant atmosphere in Thraggoth’s Run.

  Fyodor thought so too; the poor thing was battered from his fall and limping, but was already perking up. Biggs and Wedge were pecking at something at a nearby flower bed, their curiosity piqued. Aumir was gingerly cradling Klothi, stroking her fur and whispering praise in her ear. The stoat had returned to her original size. She was beyond exhausted; she’d saved their skins, but it had obviously taken a lot out of her.

  The woman who had opened the portal for them stood a few feet off, leaning on her spear as she gave them a moment to collect themselves.

  “I suppose we owe you our thanks,” Hunter said as he approached. “We’d still be on the other side if not for you, probably cinder and ash by now.”

  “That was mostly the Sage’s doing,” the woman replied. “But your thanks is welcome all the same. They call me Sister Ursa. I serve as this portal’s warden.”

  She spoke with a clipped, lilting accent, the consonants sharp and the vowels drawn out. There was something off about her, some faint dissonance Hunter felt but couldn’t point his finger at.

  “Hunter,” he introduced himself. “I couldn’t help but notice—are you by any chance related to the Brethren of the Cor?”

  That drew another faint smile from her, and he knew he'd guessed right. Her garb and headdress were a dead giveaway, as was her name.

  “In another life, yes. But it has been many long years since I last saw the mists of the Vale of Ghosts. I, in turn, couldn’t help but notice your nature, Transient.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “Oh, no. Far from it. You are as welcome here as any guest of the Sage. We have been expecting you.”

  “And a good thing it is,” Aumir said as he joined them. “Because, worn as he was, old Aumir would never have managed to awaken the Arch in time. We are in your debt, Sister.”

  The woman accepted his thanks with a slight, wordless bow, then turned her gaze to the injured direwolf at Hunter’s side.

  “Rest easy. Your troubles are behind you, for now, at least. The Callanthines are already on their way to take you to the castle. Under the Sage’s roof, you’ll find more than enough hospitality to grant you rest and recovery.”

  As if on cue, a trio of ghostly apparitions appeared from one of the buildings, gliding smoothly on invisible feet. They looked like spectral nuns of some kind, translucent and pale like honeyed milk. Their robes were cut in the style of monastic vestments but flowing as if woven from mist, and their veils shadowed solemn faces that seemed only half-there. Each carried a single candle, its flame steady despite the cool breeze. They stopped before Hunter and Aumir, and bowed their heads in greeting.

  “Honored guests,” they spoke as one in quiet, reverent voices, lips unmoving. “Please follow. We are to lead you to your apartments.”

  “Go,” Sister Ursa said. “They’ll take care of your needs, and the direwolf’s injuries, too.”

  “What about you?” asked Hunter. “Won’t be joining us?”

  “My vigil is far from done, Transient. Have no fear, though. It is not the last you’ll see of me in the coming weeks, if that is what troubles you.”

  Not sure what to make of that, Hunter thanked her again and followed the spectral nuns. They took him, Aumir, Fyodor, and the ravens through the building complex and out to the otherside, to a bridge spanning the width of a roaring river.

  A little to their left, not more than a few paces away, the river hurled itself over a cliff, to make a truly glorious waterfall. Hunter could hear the waters crashing below, creating huge wings of spray. It was a very long fall; even the thought of the height, coupled with the sheer power of the water, made him queasy.

  Straight ahead, dividing the river into two streams, was a small island. It was perched on the very lip of the waterfall, rising like a ship of dark, jagged rock from the raging waters. Encircling the island was a high wall of whitewashed stone, and behind the wall, a small castle, its single tower rising above the spray like a stubby finger.

  “Tor Taravus,” Aumir announced, as much to himself as to Hunter. “The abode of the Spirit Sage.”

  The Callanthines led them across the bridge and through a small gatehouse into a paved courtyard, enclosed on all sides by the halls of the castle. They would be staying in one of the smaller ones: a cozy two-story affair with four bedrooms, a kitchen, a foyer with a large fireplace, and, to Hunter’s amazement, two bathrooms complete with running water and indoor plumbing.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Apparently, the Sage had also appointed the three specters as their personal attendants. If they were in need of anything, the Callanthines informed them before they faded into thin air, all they had to do was call.

  By the time they’d settled down and left their packs and other belongings in their respective bedrooms, food was already waiting for them on the dining table, still hot. Fyodor shared a large hunk of aether-infused mutton with Klothi, then made himself comfortable by the fireplace to take a much-deserved nap. Hunter cracked a window open for Biggs and Wedge to come and go as they pleased, then prepared to log out for a while. The Happy Motel wasn’t much compared to Tor Taravus, but he still had a physical body to take care of.

  “Just make sure to be back by dinnertime, yes?” Aumir said between bites as Hunter was about to excuse himself. “The Sage will be waiting for us.”

  ***

  Something strange happened when Hunter logged back in a few hours later: he woke in the bed of his new room, dressed only in his underwear. Until now, he had always materialized in the exact spot where he’d logged out. He rarely bothered to sit down for the transition, let alone lie down.

  Alarmed, he leapt out of the bed and looked around for his clothes and gear. He was relieved to find it all there, neatly folded and arranged on a nearby dresser. Next to it, he found a set of new clothes: tunic, breeches, doublet, all made of the finest velvet, linen, and silk. A pair of soft leather shoes. A comb. A small bottle of cologne. And atop it all, a note written in a flowing hand: ‘Compliments of the Sage.’

  Hunter’s fashion sense was a far cry from Renaissance-fair chic, but he donned the new outfit all the same. The last thing he wanted was to unwittingly offend his new benefactor. Still, he strapped on his Arsenal Bracer, hung his dirk at his belt, and discreetly pinned a Corpse Hair Charm behind his lapel. Courtesy was one thing; imprudence was another.

  As dinnertime approached, he headed downstairs to the foyer. He found Fyodor, Biggs, and Wedge lounging by the crackling fireplace, while Aumir sat in an armchair with Klothi sprawled across his lap, both absorbed in a book. The huntsman, Hunter noticed, had donned similar finery. He would have expected it to look strange on him, but oddly enough, it suited him perfectly.

  “Evening greetings, young osprey,” Aumir looked up. “You clean up nice. Doesn’t he, Klothi?”

  Instead of an answer, Klothi chirped in annoyance at having her reading time interrupted, which sent Aumir into a hearty laugh.

  “As expected of one born and raised in the studious halls of the High Academy,” he said. “Sometimes I think the only reason she keeps me around is to turn the pages for her.”

  Hunter didn’t even blink. By now, nothing about those two could surprise him.

  “How well do you know this Sage?” he asked.

  “Well enough, I suppose. We’ve been acquainted for the better part of half a century.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Aumir cocked a scarred eyebrow, and his lips split in a gold-toothed smile.

  “Aumir thinks he’d rather let you decide for yourself, yes?”

  When the clock over the fireplace struck five minutes to eight, the specters of the three Callanthines appeared in the doorway.

  “Honored guests,” they intoned, speaking as one. “The hour has come for dinner. We humbly ask that you follow us to the great hall. The Sage requires your presence.”

  “What about—” Hunter began, glancing at the tangle of fur and feathers by the fireplace, but the spectral attendants spoke before he could finish.

  “The Sage’s invitation extends to your animal companions and familiars as well.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  The Callanthines led them across the castle’s courtyard to a tall building far larger than the one that housed their lodgings: Tor Taravus’s great hall.

  It was by far the most grandiose room Hunter had ever set foot in, stretching long and stately, unmistakably designed to impress. High windows draped in heavy curtains lined the walls. A long table, dressed in immaculate white linen, ran nearly the length of the room, set with fine china and polished silverware. The carved chairs that flanked it looked as much thrones as seats, their rich upholstery perfectly matching the patterned carpet underfoot. Overhead, the ceiling was a masterpiece of ornate plasterwork; delicate patterns spiraled outward around a gleaming chandelier of gold and crystal that bathed everything in a warm, almost otherworldly glow.

  Such displays of opulence had always struck Hunter’s decidedly working-class sensibilities as gaudy. Here, though, he had to admit it: the great dining hall of Tor Taravus was nothing short of magnificent.

  A throng of spectral Callanthines in monastic habits glided soundlessly about, still busying themselves with the final touches to the table, flitting to and fro as tirelessly as bees.

  “How many are there?” Hunter asked.

  “Two score and ten,” Aumir replied. “They are the Eternal Order of the Varlet Monials of Aurate Callantha. A rare copy of their abridged history rests in the Tor’s library, should you care to read it. An excellent account, if a touch on the zealous side.”

  Their work done, the Callanthines faded from view. Just in time, too; more of Tor’s inhabitants appeared at the hall’s double doors. Sister Ursa was one of them, followed by four more figures: a thin, somber man in deep navy scholarly robes, a matronly woman with short-cropped, iron-gray hair, a man wearing warrior’s garb and gold-rimmed spectacles, and a serious-looking girl no more than ten years old. They made a motley company, yet moved together with the natural ease of those long accustomed to one another’s presence.

  “I see our guests are here already,” said Sister Ursa. “Greetings.”

  “Sister,” Aumir nodded, then turned to the rest. “Friends. It gladdens Aumir’s heart to see you again.”

  “Welcome back, huntsman,” the robed man offered with a slight smile. “Your presence in the Tor is ever welcome.”

  “Let us move forward with the introductions, shall we?” Sister Ursa said. “This here is D’Alcyian, master of the Colchian hermetic arts. Antonetta is our resident sawbones. Gauffrey is the weapons master of Tor Taravus. And this young breath of spring breeze,” she placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “is Ilwi.”

  “Great to meet you all,” Hunter said, nodding and smiling at each in turn. “Call me Hunter.”

  “We shall have all the time we need to become better acquainted later,” the robed man, D’Alcyian, urged them all toward the dining table. “For now, please allow the Callanthines to conduct you to your seats. The Sage will be joining us momentarily.”

  ?? Thank you for reading Elderpyre!

  If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review—it helps a lot!

  You can also support the story and read 20 chapters ahead on Patreon.