The wretched mud-men of Telmos called the pillars pessiyanua. From out the surface of the swamp’s murky waters grew narrow mountains laden with foliage thousands of feet tall. The party encountered the first some distance upstream; the sky was overcast and rain drizzled down onto the evergreen jungle, but then it always rained in Telmos. All was very dark between the twisted, gnarled vines which danced across the wetlands and from every direction came the moans of beasts which basked on rare islets of exposed land and bubbled in the water behind their boat.

At first the pessiyanun pillar seemed just a cliff in the swamp: an obstacle of stone in the direction forward. Its highest reaches shot out infinitely above the weeping canopy. Yet as they drew nearer its base rounded and they passed around its side and they saw the vines which hung down its rocks and the scaled birds dwelling in its alcoves and not far beyond this first pillar there came another, then another, until soon they found themselves lost on the river’s currents, in a forest of stone spires. They were everywhere. As the river broadened the canopy thinned overhead, the trees rescinding to the left and to the right and the gray sky revealing itself and the clouds unimpeached letting slip precipitation into their boat—that was where the pessiyanua appeared in a jungle all their own.

Countless top-heavy pillars, resting on narrow needles for support, shot upward from the water like fingers stuck out into the air by a giant who, with his hand concealed beneath the waves, drowned unseen. Sometimes little more than the space between two fingers was available for them to thread their boat onward.

Eris was not much of a sailor, yet it was left to her to guide the boat—with Aletheia’s assistance. As the pillars came near on either side they withdrew their oars and let their momentum carry them through. Shadow fell. Eris ducked to avoid hanging vines. She reached out to touch the wet stone to the left and let her fingertips trail across the mossy surface. Then they were through. The paddling began once again.

The rain was cool. The swamp was warm. The air was sticky. Beneath the hood of her cloak Eris hardly heard anything except her own thoughts, yet even her thinking drowned as her muscles burned and her attention strained toward the shoreline.

She wore black. Aletheia’s cloak was white. Rook’s was a deep blue: he sat at the bow, between the feet of his two companions, arms wrapped about himself. Shivering. Breathing quickly. Saying nothing.

He was very sick.

They’d left Darom as the monsoon raged. A ship brought them to Patiyali, a flotsam village of submerged ruins and boardwalks and huts on stilts over predator-filled waters. This was no place to spend a fortune, but in the lands of Telmos beyond Eris had reason to believe there stood the ruins of an ancient tower of the Magisters, abandoned and lost to time. A dwarf was recruited to reforge Astera’s oversized Elven armor into attire more fashionable for human company, and now both Aletheia and Rook wore silver mail weaved into their tunics.

A cut for her own figure was offered to Eris, but she declined.

“Not every blow can be warded off with a jade bracelet,” Rook had said.

“Hard mail against bare skin does not sound pleasurable,” she replied.

“Your skin needn’t be bare where the mail would touch.”

She teased him with fingers across the cheek. “Have care when you ask me to cover up, Rook, for you may just get your wish.”

He smiled and let the issue fall aside. They found lodgings in a covered part of town and, again, took stock of all those things which had come into their possession. Aletheia inherited the Seeker’s sword, now her own suit of Elven mail, an Elven bow, and Pyraz’s dagger; Rook’s things were his own, plus a new fitting of armor; which left Eris with the Arktid Chieftain’s hatchet and a jade ward (along with her assortment of enchanted jewelry).

“I will take the dagger,” she said to Aletheia.

Aletheia drew it to her side. “No,” she said quietly.

“You are a child and already laden with magical items. The hatchet may be useful, but ‘tis not enchanted. Give the dagger to me.”

“Astera gave it to me.”

“‘Twas I who found it. This weapon was never Astera’s to give.”

“It’s okay,” Rook said. “Eris has decided there’s use in steel after all. She might have need of that blade someday.”

After a long, and pointless, consideration, the girl relented. Eris slid the dagger into the belt at her waist. She tossed the hatchet away with the rest of their treasure; it wasn’t her style anyway.

She and Rook were still wounded, Rook more particularly, and so for the next weeks they waited to recover. They had no plan to squander their funds on idle luxury, however tempting such waste was—especially now in Rook’s company. This treasure afforded them an opportunity to pursue leads which might not yield great monetary reward yet would advance their ambitions.

With the exception of new scars on her hands—her only scars, since her rejuvenation by Astera cleared all old ones away—Eris healed in full. Yet Rook was not so lucky. The cut on his wrist and at his waist closed, but on his thigh there bubbled an infection. Eris noticed the smell at first one night after Aletheia was asleep, as they ducked away to play together, and was so summarily revolted that even her lust was dispelled.

“We have no Astera to clean our injuries now,” Rook said quietly, as they sat together in the dark. “I took her magic for granted.”

“Is the pain bad?” Eris said.

“No worse than it has been,” he replied with a smile, yet such bravado was not to last long. Over the days that followed, in the constant dampness of the swamp, the infection festered. First into terrible discomfort, then agonizing pain, then a fever. He was incapacitated ere long.

“We have to do something,” Aletheia said. She was panicked. “There has to be a doctor. Someone who can help. We have to.”

Eris was not used to playing caretaker. A child screaming in one ear, a grown man helplessly sick in the other. Aletheia might be pushed into the swamp, but she needed Rook—what was to be done?

She walked a creaky plank that extended between two huge trees and knocked on the door of a nurse. She was a Veshodian, an exile like most others in this place, and at the flash of gold she hurried down at once to look at Rook’s hand.

“The foulness of this place has spread poison in his veins,” she said. “I cannot cure him. Only the Telmoi know the secrets of banishing the pathogens which dwell in this land’s water.”

“This land is nothing but water,” Eris said. “What use are you if you cannot treat him?”

“I will do something to soothe his pain, but I am no healer.”

“Then who is?” Aletheia said.

A moment’s hesitation. “Hebat. She lives far upstream, along the shores of the river, far past what the natives call the fingers of the ancestors—the pessiyanua. She is a priestess and clairvoyant."

“A ‘priestess’ of what, precisely?” Eris said.

The nurse shook her head. “A guide of souls. An avatar for the gods, she channels their divine power for the good of man. Only she might know how to banish an infection so advanced."

The last thing Eris needed in this life was the make-believe magic of superstition in place of real healing power. There were spells that could cure Rook, but she did not know them. A priestess who was not manaseared would not know them either.

Yet as the days passed Rook only grew worse, and all the while the locals swore by the powers of the Priestess who lived deep in the swamps beyond the village. Eris realized there was no choice. If they did not find this Hebat he would die from his fever.

That was why they acquired a boat. That was why they set off upriver while leaving Pyraz in town. That was why they passed through the jungles of pessiyanun pillars and travelled ever farther upstream.

The winds tempered themselves and the rain calmed to a drizzle. By now even enchantments of hydrophobia would have failed Eris’ cloak; she and it both were soaked. She pulled down her hood to free her hair.

“There!” Aletheia said, pointing to the right. “Up the stream, beside the pillar! That’s what she said!”

A pessiyanun with a base so eroded it might tip over at any moment and a top so high that it might have snowed at its peak protruded from one of two small islets. Along with the other opposite it framed a stream that led off into the swamp. Away from the safety of the river. Into the great Telmos wilds.

Eris nodded. The two paddled that way.

In Rytus the wilderness was quiet. In Nanos the Sanguine Forest was loud, yet only at night; in daytime it was serene, marked by the fluttering of birds and the cracking of branches but little else. In Darom it was silent most always. Here it was cacophonous. Water splashed. Frogs and crickets bellowed. The forest about them moaned like the planks of an old ship. Flighted creatures battered wings. Near and far animals snapped and roared and called and did battle, always out of sight. As their boat drifted into the narrow stream they found themselves again in darkness and the padded echoes of a dangerous, untamed land assaulted them from all sides.

In all their journey she saw only two animals worth remembering.

First, early on, a crest glided through the water beside them. Multi-colored, green with scales that glistened pink, a great sail like a fish’s fin. From the place where its ridged spines protruded from algae on the water it extended up higher than her head. Whatever creature owned the crest swam up from behind the boat and pursued them at the side for some distance, before losing interest and passing by. Nothing more came of it.

Later, in the stream swampward, she spotted more than just the shadow of a bird. At first she thought it a giraffe: four legs and a long, thin neck on an animal twelve feet tall, yet soon the wings on its forelegs became apparent, and she saw the gull-like cut of its oversized beak. And what a beak that was. Large enough to fit her and Rook and Aletheia all at once. On top of its head was a triangular pyramid, like it wore an ancient wizard’s hat, and its wings were so enormous that they folded over themselves so that the creature had room to stand upright on all fours. It did nothing except stare as they passed it by.

When finally out of sight, Aletheia said, “They worship lions here?”

Even Eris laughed—for a moment. Lions did seem inconsequential when compared to such fantastic beasts. Yet there was an answer to the question: “The gods of Esenia are far older than the Fall of the Old Kingdom, or indeed the Old Kingdom itself. The beasts of Telmos are not. Religion has not caught up to the times.”

Aletheia considered this. “Who would live out here alone?” she said.

“A fool,” Eris said. “Or one very powerful.”

“Some people are both,” she whispered.

“Such as your mentor, perhaps?”

Aletheia fell silent. For a long way they continued rowing, until she continued, “What magic could a priestess have?"

"She may be a magician who indulges local superstition,” Eris said.

“But what if she really can heal people with help from the gods?”

Eris rowed just slightly harder. “The old gods are not real. They are fantasies of an ancient, deluded people.”

“You don’t know that. If that were true—they would pick new ones.”

“Look up and see the aether. You and I can wield it and touch it and make it our own. Yet no one I know has ever seen the Lady Lioness, or the King Eagle of Darom, or the Prince of the Oceans. Do you know why? Because they do not exist. There was no magic in this world before the Magisters brought it to us. Man was nothing but another animal. Besides, only a child is fit to believe ridiculous stories about giant fish doing battle with prides of immortal lions.”

Eris glanced about the dark swamplands. Such stories did not seem quite so ridiculous anymore, all things considered. Yet she was resolute to disbelieve.

Silence once again. “What about the soul?”

“What?”

“We had souls before the Fall. The Magisters didn’t give us souls. If they didn’t, who did?”

Eris hesitated. She didn’t know. The truth was that she cared little for the mundane; her knowledge of this matter was limited, for she only knew what she had happened upon in her studies accidentally. One did hear stories of ‘magic’ carried out by clerics and priests in the devotion to some cult or another, yet man’s capacity for overimagination was extraordinary. Might it be that faith in the gods, from the days before the Old Kingdom, could imitate the effects of magic? Might that have something to do with the souls inborn into each human being? Aletheia was right, the soul was—if not itself magical, then still magically reactive, still arcanely malleable and still vital when ensorcelling any human.

“We will find out soon enough,” Eris said simply.

The orange glow of a fire gave the hut away. The embers of light in the distance drew them forward like insects, until soon there came into view a simple hut surrounded by enclosures of chicken coops. Twisted trees swept down and surrounded it with their branches like dancers posing their arms on a stage. The two girls with their oars fumbled as they tried to land the boat in the right direction, neither wanting to step into the water’s uncertain depths to guide them in more directly. When such coordination between them proved impossible Eris braced herself in her seat and, with a spell, reached out to a tree, and she reeled all in as if her mind were itself rope.

The boat was run aground and stowed a safe distance from the water. They both helped Rook onto solid ground, heaving him upward. His skin was hot and he was limp in their arms.

“We’re there,” Aletheia said. “We’re going to get you better.”

Perceiving the premises, Eris was not so hopeful. She felt a twist in her heart. Tingling in her cheeks. Why would anyone with real power live in such squalor, among so many dangerous animals, in such a remote wilderness? Rook would find no help here.

“Come,” she said. They carried him by the shoulders to the hut.

Eris ducked beneath a low hanging branch, then heaved Rook back upward. She panted under his weight. Not the first time, she thought, and she hoped not the last. Not just for her sake, but…

They reached the door. Wood on hinges. Nothing more. She went to knock—

An animal hissed and squawked.

Another. Then two more. To her right: in the coop. The pens which surrounded the house had animals, small feathered birds with mouths that opened and closed to show off jaws lined with fangs. Five of them came to the pen’s edge, toward Eris, and hopped and jumped like puppies eager to play—biting all the while. Their wings were underdeveloped, but tipped with hands—lined with claws.

The door to the hut swung open.

A woman of about fifty stood on the other side. Her hair was mostly grayed, once blonde. She was taller than Aletheia yet shorter than Eris and otherwise unremarkable: hardly the cut of a great priestess, or a rogue magician in hiding undercover. Neither fat nor ugly nor suitably witch-like; not radiant and beautiful, like a discipline of Leaina was supposed to be. Simply normal. Like a fishwife.

Her eyes were brown. They were not a magician’s eyes.

She flicked her fingers and leaned over the pen.

“You’ve upset my chickens,” she said.

“Chickens?” Aletheia said.

The woman’s head snapped in Aletheia’s direction. She glared at her. “Yes,” she said, “in Telmos these are chickens. They’re excellent with Veshod bread.”

Her accent was inscrutable. Neither foreign nor familiar, but easy to understand. A particularly brave ‘chicken’ leaped into the air and bit the woman’s wrist. She pulled herself away, laughing.

“Murderous chickens,” Aletheia said.

“Nonsense,” the woman said, “now we know which one is for dinner.” With that she reached into the pen and grabbed the biter by the neck. It squawked and clawed at her, yet she brought it in close to her breast, cradling it so that it couldn’t strike. “Would you please get the door for me, girls?”

Aletheia did so—Eris propped up Rook still—and the woman disappeared inside. She left the door open behind her. The three of them were left to stare at each other. They waited outside for an eternity, listening to the sounds of the protesting chicken as its head was severed on a cutting board, before her face appeared once more.

“You can’t plan to stay out there all day. You’ll soon become as sick as he is.” Seeing no reaction, she made herself clear with a gesture for them to enter: “Come! Come! Inside, before the rain picks up again!”

Talismans hung from every support beam. Runes were carved into the walls. Magical symbols etched everywhere—none of which Eris recognized.

And she felt nothing. Not a hint of mana. No more than was in the air. This woman was just that—a woman. She knew no magic. There was no magic here at all.

“Set him on the bed.” she commanded. There was a small bunk in one corner of the hut, so there Eris put Rook down. He collapsed onto it at once.

“You are Hebat?” Eris said.

“Sometimes, when the wind is northwesterly,” the woman said.

“What is it now?” Aletheia asked.

“A woman may have many names,” Eris said. “If Hebat is sometimes you, then you are always Hebat to us. Barring demonic possession.”

In her kitchen Hebat butchered the chicken. She worked with amazing alacrity. “I see we have a girl who desires to appear wise,” she said.

“And we have a crone who desires to appear enigmatic. You will not fool me.”

She shrugged. “What a dreary fate has befallen this world when the young are no longer willing to have a spot of fun. My mistake. I will let it be known from now on that Eris is too brilliant to play games. The young Aletheia is too scared anyway, and the handsome Rook—he has nearly left this world. He will find no banter charming.”

“How do you—” Aletheia started.

“Perform tricks,” Eris said. “You seek to awe us by knowing our names? You will need to do better than that.”

“You have a particularly charming manner, girl, for earning the favor of the one whose aid you seek.”

“We need nor ask no favors,” Eris said. She pulled her backpack down and showed what she brought—a princely sum. “Cure Rook, ‘tis all yours. Is this language clear enough to you?”

Hebat washed her hands in a basin. “Do I look like I need gold?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Quite a lot of it.”

“Can you do it?” Aletheia interjected. “Can you help?”

She regarded the two magicians. “Perhaps. Your crow has at least until nightfall before his intestines are cooked beyond repair; let us eat first, hm?”

Eris wanted to argue, but she was tired and soaked and hungry. Thus she gave in. They ate in a circle near the fire, not far from Rook, sitting on the floor. Hebat handed him a bowl of broth.

“You must feel very lucky,” she said, “to have travelled so far in the company of two lovely young women.”

“Very lucky,” he managed quietly.

“Indeed they have come far for your sake. Past Patiyali from Arqa, and all the way down from Swep-Nos.”

“So you have spoken to the dwarf in the village,” Eris said. “Your powers are extraordinary.”

“The dwarf Thauom? He who took your fallen companion’s armor and reforged it? No, we have never spoken. Yet we will, I have seen it.”

“Seen it?” Aletheia said.

Hebat nodded. “I see many things as they come to me. As Walwai shows them.”

“Walwai?”

“She means Leaina,” Eris said. “I have always wondered why the ancient worshipped the lioness, when lions are so much more impressive figures.”

“Explain,” Hebat said.

“For one a lion is a leader. He commands many—he is a king. He also commands the adoration of many mates, while being no less capable of survival alone. Yet a lioness is servile. She hunts for others; breeds for them; tends to their cubs. A deity for women, perhaps, yet hardly fit for the chief of any pantheon.”

Hebat smiled. “How flippantly you perceive the duty of care and creation. Are you, Eris, not a woman?”

“If you need ask the question then your eyes have gone, old woman.”

“So they have! Girls often say such silly things; Your opinion will change with time, as the course of life takes its toll.”

“Have you been shown this future, too?” Eris sighed. She took another bite. The chicken was good, if only for the sake of hunger. “I know you are no magician. Even if you were, the power to see the future exists only in myths and playbooks. You expect us to believe a seeress wastes her days in a hut in the swamp, tending undomesticated predators?”

“You may believe whatever you like,” Hebat said. “So long as the conversation fills the silence.”

“The power of clairvoyance does not exist,” Eris reaffirmed.

“Then I suppose I will be of no help to you.”

“No!” Aletheia said. “Please!”

Hebat looked at her. “Do you believe?” With no response she continued, “You know Eris is right. There is no aethereal magic in this place, so you doubt. Yet you see the charms in the air and the markings on the walls. You think back to the predator you saw cut through the water past your boat, and the birds the size of my hut which could topple it in an instant. You know not all is natural, for I could not live in such a dangerous place if it were.”

Aletheia looked away, shrugging. Now this seeress had Eris’ attention. Whether she could sense their thoughts or see the past, whatever powers she invoked were no less real for their invisibility. No one knew the future, but there were spells to see the past, and to read another’s mind. Perhaps it was possible she had some technique…

“This is all talk,” Eris said. “Believe or no, you show us nothing.”

“Much can be shown through talk,” Hebat said. “Allow me.” She looked first to Eris: “You carry with you many secrets. They do not weigh upon your heart, yet you know your companions would never understand should they learn the truth.” To Rook: “You went back up the tunnel. The fighting was over and the air was humid with blood. You told yourself you would find him, yet to see so much death in the light of the flame your knees became weak, and you fled back to the Oldwalls for safety. You were only a boy—yet you will never forgive yourself.”

Rook’s face contorted into queasy fear. His mouth opened, yet before he said anything Hebat continued,

“And the poor abandoned Aletheia. Left to die underground by the one you loved most. You have been truthful: you remember nothing of the perversions which befell your body. You sleepwalked unbeknownst to your soul. Yet you have not told Rook of your dreams. You have told no one about those flickering memories, those distant, fading visions of a journey deep below ground, where—

“Stop!” Aletheia yelled. She was tense and her arms were pulled tightly against her torso. “Why are you doing this? We—we just want your help. We just need Rook to be better.”

“I am sorry,” Hebat said. “Yet it was necessary to show that not all I see is smoke. The power of the one you know as Leaina is true.”

“Then show it,” Eris said. “Cease with these tricks.”

“I will not, for there is nothing I can do.”

Silence.

“What?” Aletheia said.

“All that and you tell us—” Eris started, but the priestess cut her off.

“Yes. The journey you took to me has been for naught. You did not need come. It was a waste of your time, though I am always delighted for the company.”

“But they said—” Aletheia started.

"I cannot control what 'they' say."

"You can't..."

Hebat shushed her. “Do not pout. Your journey has been for naught, because the power to cure your companion has never left his side.”

Eris grew tired of riddles and metaphors. She was convinced now that Hebat was not what she seemed—less so convinced that she would struggle to burn this hut down, if the compulsion overcame her—but she had no patience for this tiresome enigma.

She was slightly horrified to think that this was how others perceived her.

“Enough of this,” Eris said. “Speak plainly or hold your tongue. We will find ourselves as old as you are if we take the time needed to decipher your ramblings.”

“Fine,” Hebat said. “I will be blunt. Your elf gave all she was to bring you back from the other place. Such a transfer of the Essence will leave its mark.”

Aletheia stared at the woman for a long time. A frown slowly spread across her face. And then…

She jumped to her feet and flew to Rook’s side. She put a hand on his leg, and—hesitated. Breathing slowly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I am no magician,” Hebat said, “you will need handle this yourself.”

Eris drew to the girl’s side. “If the indentations of those few spells Astera knew have been transferred into your Essence, then you must cast them as you would move a muscle. ‘Tis as summoning fire. Let instinct take command.”

It was surprisingly easy, offering advice. She had never done it before. She was left wondering if what she said was truly any use.

Aletheia closed her eyes. A deep silence overcame the hut. Even the croaking frogs and snapping swamp beyond hushed. Then Eris felt it, a jolt of mana in the air. The casting was long, longer than necessary, yet when the swell of energy in the air finally subsided, Rook’s breathing slowed. Aletheia fell backward in exhaustion and Eris spared no time in pulling down Rook’s pants to check the wound.

The infection was gone. So too was the smell.

“The fever will take time to pass,” Hebat said. “And the wound still must close on its own. Such healing magic lies in your future, yet today the huntress’ magic must suffice.”

Eris turned to her. This woman’s prophesies were more than mere talk, that much was apparent. Such luck in guessing did not exist anywhere in the world—not even for the Lioness.

“Who are you?” she said. “Do not pretend to be the devotee of ancient superstition. I have met priests; you are not one."

“So you believe after all?” Hebat said. “And why not Walwai?”

“You may as well ask why I am not like to believe your power comes from the dirt underfoot.”

“Is that less likely than magic pouring from the heavens above? Indeed a dwarf might believe so readily.”

Aletheia pulled herself up and hugged Rook at his side. “What do we owe you?” she said.

“Nothing at all,” Hebat said. “My payment is to see the looks on your faces. Ha!”

She rose to return their wooden dishes to her ‘kitchen.’ Eris pursued her.

“I am serious,” she said. “You cannot so casually hint at omniscience without explanation. Tell me who you truly are.”

“I am no omniscient. I know nothing of the news in Telekhasmos and the workings of mathematics have always scrambled my thinking. Yet you,” she looked to Eris, “are one I have seen.”

Eris folded her arms. “So it would seem.”

The seeress glanced over Eris’ shoulder. “You got what you came here for. Why do you follow me so?” When Eris hesitated she continued, “Ah. Might it be that you have received a taste of foresight and cannot stand the thought of parting, without hearing more? It is a most addictive drink.”

That was precisely what Eris was thinking, though on a level beneath her conscious mind. She struggled to reply.

“It is good to see you are at least openminded,” Hebat continued, “when it comes to matters of the supernatural and the beyond.”

“…if there existed such power in the world. before the Magisters, that it might allow an old crone such as you to see the future, then I should wish to at least learn more of it before I depart.”

Hebat frowned. “Your questions will be answered over the course of a long life. There is no need to rush such things now. As for your desire to glimpse the future…” She leaned in. “You will grow old. And you will become ugly. Then you will die!”

She burst into laughter.

“Now that is a fate no little girl should ever want to hear! Yet it is true!”

Eris might have folded her arms again, to gaze judgmentally at the cachinnating crone, but she already had done so; so instead she shifted angrily on her feet and pulled back her hair, still soaked, and scowled. She started to speak, but failed to find the right words.

They were done here. At least for now.

She turned to retreat to Rook, but Hebat called out to her.

“One more thing,” she said. “Your crow will bring you more happiness than you may ever imagine, yet not in the manner you or he ever could imagine. So don’t do anything too hasty, hm?”

By then Eris wasn’t listening. She grabbed Rook by the wrist and pulled him upward. He groaned, but smiled to see her face.

“We are leaving,” she said. “The journey downstream will be an easier one.”

“I found the trip up quite pleasant,” Rook said as he was heaved to his feet. “The mermaids were wonderful guides through the swamp. I especially liked the music they played. Do you think we should see them again on our way back?”

“Those were hallucinations,” Aletheia said.

“Oh,” Rook said. “Even the maiden who climbed aboard and kissed Eris?”

“Or perhaps fantasies,” Eris hissed. “You had better not share.”

He nodded. Together they carried him back to the boat. The chickens growled at them all the way.