“Let me give you fair warning, young osprey,” Aumir said as they finished breakfast, gesturing with half a crust still in his hand. “The paths ahead may prove more dangerous than any you’ve walked before.”

  “I’ve known danger before,” Hunter said. He’d told the huntsman about the Blood Grove of the Penitent—not to mention his delve into the depths of the Halls of the Cor Ancestors.

  “You haven’t known danger like this. If you find yourself at death’s door, where we’re going… well, there’s no telling what might happen. All I can say is, you cannot count on your peculiar nature to save you this time, should the worst come to pass.”

  That finally got Hunter’s attention. In his time on Aernor, he’d died three times—once to the spectral huntsmen of the Lord of the Hunt, and twice in the chapel of It That Whispers. Each death had been pure agony, but none of them had stuck; he’d always bounced back, re-materializing at the Place of Power he’d last bound himself to.

  Since then, he’d grown more cautious, though he never shied from risking life and limb, so to speak, when the moment demanded it. Still, he did so with the certainty that, however dire, the consequences wouldn’t be final.

  What Aumir was saying now, however, drastically changed things.

  “Can you walk me through our travel plans again?” he asked, a sudden doubt gnawing at him as he wondered whether following the eccentric huntsman was wise after all.

  “Certainly! First, a few hours’ journey on foot eastward, to where the closest Propylon Arch is hidden. That’s the easy bit, no more taxing than a leisurly stroll through the woods—provided we stumble upon nothing unpleasant near its end.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sometimes the Archs draw the wrong kind of attention,” Aumir shrugged. “Bands of bandits, brigands, highwaymen, the occasional rogue sorcerer or warlock… that kind of thing. I wouldn’t be worried too much about that, though. Vultures, the lot of them—little more.”

  “Alright, if you say so. Then what?”

  “Then comes the tricky bit. Do you know what a Propylon Arch is, young osprey?”

  “That was going to be my next question.”

  “Well… in order to tell you about the Archs, old Aumir will first have to tell you about the Ways. Do you know anything about the Ways?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Let me see how much I still remember from my time back in Usdeneau,” the huntsman furrowed his brow. “The Ways, see, are like the hidden arteries of the cosmos. They are not places in the common sense, even though some of them might look like it. In truth, they’re vast conduits of power, a lattice of unseen roads threading through the Transmundane. Each Way represents a distinct corridor with its own environmental qualities, some navigable and relatively stable, others volatile or hostile to travelers.

  “The Ways, of course, are not opened lightly. To breach their thresholds demands a gate, a frame upon the fabric of the Mundane that can bear their pressure. These gates are the Propylon Arches. Few know much about them other than their intent, for nobody truly knows who first wrought them. What we do know is that Propylon Arches serve as the sole known means of safe entry into the Ways, and, as such, vital for traveling through the Transmundane and reaching other planes of existence. Following me so far, young osprey?”

  Hunter had to frown. In theory, it disn’t sound too complicated; go through some fantastical gate, travel through some dangerous fantastical place, end up at another fantastical place. A staple of fantasy and science fiction, really. The reality of going through that, however, even in a simulated world, gave him pause; especially given what Aumir had said about not being to count on his peculiar nature to save him, should he kick the bucket again.

  An image crossed his mind: his comatose body wasting away in his bed in the Happy Motel, casque covering his face, while his mind was trapped wondering through some impossible place. Was something like that even possible? With Elderpyre, he didn’t know what to expect anymore.

  “Yeah,” he said at last. “Sounds simple enough.”

  “It is, in a way,” the huntsman nodded. “You don’t need to understand everything about the Arches and the Ways to travel through them, especially if it’s someone else that does the opening. In your case, old Aumir. Klothi and I, we ride through them at least once every fortnight. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

  “Let’s hope so. Alright then, we go through the Arch. What then?”

  “We traverse two or three of the Ways, go through two or three other Arches. Most of them are fairly tame. With any luck, we’ll reach Taravus by afternoon.”

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  “Taravus?”

  “The realm where the Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirit Sage resides.”

  “Oh.”

  “Any more questions, young osprey?”

  “Yeah, one. I can’t help but notice you keep saying ‘ride’. What are we supposed to be riding?”

  “Ah yes, that,” the huntsman flashed him a gold-toothed smile. “You’ll see.”

  ***

  The first leg of their journey, the hike eastward, didn’t prove to be much different than any other hike through the Weald, besides the fact they were slowly delving deeper into the ancient woods than Hunter had ever been.

  That didn’t seem to worry Aumir in the slightest; the huntsman kept a breezy pace, singing the occasional bawdy drinking song at the top of his voice.

  “It’s a good way to scare off the nasties,” he’d told Hunter with an exaggerated wink. Whether that was true or one of Aumir’s jests, Hunter couldn’t say. Still, nothing unpleasant crossed their path.

  Fyodor, Biggs, and Wedge were having the time of their life, all too excited to explore new places after staying at the cabin for almost a month. Aumir’s tiny stoat companion, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Klothi’s fast asleep,” the huntman had said when Hunter asked, patting a small lump under his great feathered cloak. “She’s saving her strength for later.”

  After about three hours, the path they were following ended abruptly at the stony face of a tall crag.

  “I guess he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,” said Hunter.

  “No,” said Aumir. “This is the place. Observe.”

  He let his hand rest on the surface of the stone, closed his eyes, and muttered a few phrases in a language Hunter hadn’t heard before. Whatever he said, it must have been the right thing; the surface shimmered with a spectral sheen, and the huntsman walked straight through.

  Fyodor’s eyes went wide with surprise, and he pressed his flank against Hunter’s hip for reassurance.

  “It’s alright, boy,” Hunter patted the direwolf’s back. “It’s probably some kind of illusion.”

  “Of course it is!” Aumir’s voice came from the other side of the now-ghostly-looking stone. “Come, come!”

  Hunter—and Fyodor, with some light prodding and promises of a snack—followed the huntsman through the illusory crag. As it turned out, there was no crag at all; what the illusion concealed, instead, was a large clearing.

  At its center stood the Propylon Arch; it looked like a relic from some forgotten Gothic cathedral, its curving sides meeting at a sharp angle to a pointed crown at the top. Its surface swallowed light, leaving it flat and lifeless to the eye. Hunter might have mistaken the material for some kind of carved stone, but its edges seemed too precise, too perfect to have been cut by chisel. The arch looked less built than grown, as if some intelligence had coaxed raw matter into shape by pure force of will. The whole thing radiated a heavy stillness, muffling the sounds of the forest around them to near-silence.

  “Hile, travelers,” came a voice from… well, nowhere in particular. “Pardon this old man’s bashfulness, if you might be so kind. Who might you be, and what business might you have in this place?”

  It was the voice of a learned man, Hunter thought, courteous and well-mannered, but also reserved. Did it belong to the caster of the illusion? Probably. Unsure of what to do or say, he looked to Aumir.

  “Hile yourself,” said the huntsman, removing his headdress. He didn’t look alarmed. “Aumir of the Krommkhatani is who I might be, and my companions here might be Hunter the Transient and Fyodor the direwolf. Passage is all we seek. And who might you be, kind stranger?”

  “Rowan is what they call me,” said the voice, and its owner shimmered into plain view just a couple dozen feet away. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve been expecting you and your companions, Master Aumir.”

  Far as Hunter could tell, Rowan was an old man, long years weighing on his frame. He wore what looked like a robe, so worn-out and patched it was nearly impossible to tell what it might have originally looked like. His face was completely hidden by the wide brim of a gigantic hat, as old and threadbare as the rest of the man’s attire.

  “Rowan?” asked Aumir. “You wouldn’t happen to be the one they call Widebrim, Master Rowan, would you?”

  “Never heard of him,” the man said with a good-humored sigh. “Nor can I imagine why anyone would call anyone that, either.”

  “Pardon Aumir’s assumption, then. Might I ask how come you’ve been expecting us?”

  “The Spirit Sage, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” nodded Aumir. “Will you be joining us on the road to Taravus, then?”

  “My studies keep me from doing so, I’m afraid,” Widebrim shook his head. “I do plan to pay a visit to the Sage’s abode sometime in the near future, however. With any luck, our paths might cross again.”

  “They might indeed. Will you be helping us with the Arch, then?”

  “Naturally. As I said, I have been expecting you.”

  The old man turned toward Hunter, and the tilt of his absurdly oversized had made the small motion swell into something theatrical.

  “And you, young Master? Has the cat got your tongue?”

  “Ugh, no. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Rowan.”

  “Hmmm…” Widebrim mused, and though Hunter couldn’t see his face, he felt the weight of the old man’s gaze sizing him up. “Yes, yes. Pleased to make your acquaintance, too. You’ll do nicely.”

  “I’ll do nicely… for what, exactly?”

  “All in good time, young Master Hunter. For now, best you get back on the path. Thraggoth stirs, I’m afeared, and you’d be wise to cross his domain before his temper sours further.” He turned back to Aumir. “I trust that you have the means for expedience, should the need arise?”

  “We do indeed,” said the huntsman, gently patting a lump beneath his feathered cloak. “Worry not, Master Rowan.”

  “Good. Well then, let us see you on your way, shall we?”

  Not waiting for a response, Widebrim turned towards the Arch, raised a hand, and started mumbling some kind of incantation.

  The dull material of the Arch came instantly alive, glowing with luminous inscriptions that looked like some kind of eldritch cuneiform. Its aura changed, too; invisible tides of power washed over Hunter, powerful enough to feel them in his bones.

  “I’m opening a gate to Wyland’s Way,” said Widebrim, shouting to be heard above the rumble of the awakening Arch. “Find the next Arch there, then cross over to Inkhollow, and then to Thraggoth’s Run. That’s the shortest path to Taravus.”

  “Your reputation does you a disservice, Master Rowan,” Aumir shouted back, watching the Arch with a gold-toothed smile. “You make this look easy!”

  “Godspeed, now!” Widebrim brushed off the compliment. “Best save your strength for the Run. You might need it!”

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