29

“This is the right thing to do,” Hunter whispered to Fawkes once they had a smidgen of privacy away from the eyes and ears of the Brethren. “It is that thing Arjen asked us to do, silence the whispers or whatnot.”

She gave him a sharp glance, surprised.

“And how do you know that, lad?”

“Transient’s intuition”, he shrugged.

“Of course it is”, Fawkes sighed. “I wonder why do I even bother to ask.”

“So, what do you make of these two?”

Fawkes glanced at Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs, making no attempt at subtlety. They were a couple dozen feet away, and they were themselves pretty blatantly studying their new guests and whispering to one another. Savoir-faire and good manners were relative things in Elderpyre, it seemed–just as they were anywhere else.

“They are in distress” said Fawkes after sizing up the odd pair for a few breaths. “They don’t seem to wish our harm, but they’re definitely hiding something. I wouldn’t trust them any farther than I could throw them, and neither should you.”

“No, I mean… are they Ghost Nation?”

“I guess so. They are Cor, the Brethren of the Vale,” Fawkes shrugged, “whatever that may be. I’m not well versed in the traditional nomenclature of the Brennai, but I’m playing along anyway–and so should you.”

Hunter considered using his Mystic’s Eye ability to learn more about these Cor, or even the Ghost Nation. He’d gained another point of Insight since the last time he’d attempted to use it, and he was itching to see whether that increase would have any effect. Still, given the massive migraine and nosebleed he’d suffered that last time, he quickly reconsidered. Maybe later, he thought, when Fawkes and he would find themselves alone again and in a safe place–preferably away from ancient tombs and mystical-looking locals.

“Arjen aside, why do we have to go through all this song and dance?” Hunter asked, changing the subject. “I mean, can’t they simply tell us where to find Reiner?

“Predictably, they can’t,” Fawkes said. “Not before they have their own troubles solved. That’s how people are, lad. Always the same old, tired story. No matter. I just hope they aren’t stringing us along.”

Yes, Hunter supposed. This rigid tit-for-tat, quid-pro-quo kind of thing reminded him a bit too much of a quest line in an RPG. Well, maybe it was exactly that. Elderpyre, despite all of its verisimilitude, was nothing but another game after all. It shouldn’t surprise him if it followed the same trappings.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, evaporating most of that peculiar Vale mist that clung to the ground. Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs were leading the way. They were taking Fawkes, Hunter, and Fyodor down ancient, half-buried paths that twisted and turned around the many mounds that littered the Vale. No words were traded–only wary, sideways glances.

Since they first sat down to palaver, Hunter had many chances to take a closer look at the two Brethren. They were interesting-looking folk, he had to give them that. In fact, they reminded him a couple of supportive characters in RPG–the fleshed-out, memorable kind, the kind that stuck to his memory long after he’d finished the game and moved on to the next one.

First, there was Brother Aurochs. Almost seven feet tall and built like a brick house, broad-chested and musclebound. He’d give the toughest of the gum freaks that worked as muscle for the clubs back in Alex’s old neighborhood a run for their money and day of the week. Hell, even the carved and decorated buffalo skull he hid most of his face behind would be intimidating enough to give them the heebie-jeebies. He carried himself with a slow, ponderous kind of way that reminded Hunter of big animals. It was the way an elephant would carry himself knowing he’s the absolutely biggest thing in a ten-mile radius.

Then there was Sister Peregrine, and Hunter couldn’t help but gawk. Underneath all the furs and utilitarian hide clothes, the young woman had the lithe and toned body of a gymnast–the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover kind of gymnast. He tried to take a peek at her face, too, but couldn’t see much. Most of it was hidden under the shadows her falcon head headdress cast, which added an air of quiet mystery around her. Despite all her feminine wiles, however–and despite his own decidedly scopophilic male gaze perspective–he suspected Sister Peregrine could probably kick his ass six ways to Sunday. She moved like a predator on the prowl, like a slender but deadly hunting cat.

“Don’t stare, you slobbering fool” hissed Fawkes, clouting him up the head.

“Ouch! I wasn’t–”

“Llerwyn’s breeches, you weren’t. If you offend them and ruin this, I will have your man parts broiled.”

Hunter shut up and rubbed his head. That would probably leave a bump. What had gotten into Fawkes? He’d never seen her let her smooth operator façade slip before–not even in combat. They were getting closer to finding her friend, he realized, and that made her restless. Figures.

They spent the rest of the way to the center of the Vale more or less in sullen, introspective silence. If there were other Cor around, Hunter saw neither them or any signs of their presence. The Vale might have been home to the Ghost Nation once, but now nature had all but reclaimed it. Well, despite its eerie, ghostly atmosphere. Even under the light of day, even with the mists evaporated, that hadn’t changed much.

The mound at the center of the Vale was big enough to conceal the Cor equivalent of a full-sized cathedral. Judging from the ancient building that jutted from its side, it probably did, too. Weather-beaten stairs of grey marble led up to giant double doors the blue-green color of oxidized copper, framed by huge carved stone totems depicting animalistic and shamanic designs. The centuries’ worth of dust, dirt, and verdigris did nothing to diminish the majesty of the monument. If anything, they made it more imposing.

“These are the Halls of the Ancestors,” Sister Peregrine announced, and there was more than just a hint of reverence in her voice. “The once and future beating heart of the Cor, and all life in the Vale. Recognize the honor of laying eyes on these doors for what it is, foreigners, for few are allowed to do so anymore.”

Even if she hadn’t spoken, Hunter would feel it; the air itself was ripe with the humming of spirits and the thrumming of magic–the telltale signs of a Place of Power, only greater, much greater. Overtaken by it, Hunter split from the rest of the group and got closer to the grand doors. Sister Peregrine opened her mouth to say something–probably a harsh warning–but Brother Aurochs stopped her with a light touch to her shoulder.

Hunter laid a hand on the towering doors and felt their patina come alive under his fingertips, flooding him with wave after wave after wave of… something. A presence. An intelligence, almost, thousands of minds and souls melded into one. There were etchings on it, he realized. Words and marks and ideograms in dead languages he’d never even seen before, much less learned to decipher. Still, their meaning became almost clear to him–almost.

Do you wish to anchor yourself to this place of power?

Yes, he willed, and he felt the door’s eldritch presence tug at his core with so much intensity, he almost thought it would tear it from his chest.

You are now anchored to this Place of ower.

You receive the Blessing of the Cor, forever now unseen, but never forgotten. Your Aether quality is now 600. Your Inspiration quality is now 2.

He pulled his hand from the door, gasping for air. This was no place of power. This was a place of POWER, written in all caps and with a goddamn cherry on top. Never mind the massive boost in Aether and Inspiration he’d just received; he’d salivate over those later. Whatever the Halls of the Ancestors hid behind its weather-beaten entrance… it was truly the beating heart of all life in the Vale, and more.

Brother Aurochs walked over to Hunter and put a hand on his shoulder and another on his chest–a gesture of acceptance and respect, Hunter realized. Stunned as he was, he didn’t even think to react. Sister Peregrine studied them both, suddenly interested.

“He is gifted in the ways of the spirit, your friend” she told Fawkes. “Unusually so.”

“He is mai” Fawkes replied, shaking her head. “Maybe those gifts of his may one day bloom, if they don’t first spell his demise.”

Sister Peregrine’s lips, barely visible under her falcon mask’s beak, split in a slight smile.

“That is the way of the mai indeed, Ancestors watch over them.”

That speckle of mirth didn’t last long, however. Not a dozen heartbeats later, Sister Peregrine’s face was darkened by her perpetual half-frown.

“There is something you must understand. What’s beyond these doors was never meant for the eyes of strangers and outsiders,” she said. “It was never meant for the eyes of anyone, for that matter. You have to swear by what you hold dear and holy you’ll never breath a word of what you see and hear in the Halls.”

“By Grimnir’s insight, I swear,” said Fawkes.

“I swear,” mumbled Hunter, still a bit numb from coming in contact with the place of power.

“Your oaths have been witnessed, and taken well. Come. There’s much to be said, much to be done.”