stables at the rear of the estate. He shifted his bags
to a more comfortable position and picked up the pace. In a little while, he would climb on a
horse, head for the tunnel, and this change in his life would go past the point of no return.
He concentrated on the sounds and smells, the feel of the night breeze, to keep from
thinking too much--or he might change his mind. He was relieved to find the door into the stable
standing open. All the horses were out of their stalls, saddled for riding or harnessed for carrying
packs. The horses knew him, and only the bay stallion made any noise when Grego walked up
the aisle, heading for the front of the stables. He could just make out the shadowy outlines of
Emrillian and Mrillis standing outside in the moonlight. Grego smiled at the welcoming nicker
from the stallion and allowed himself the luxury of rubbing the horse's nose before moving past
him.
Instead of the blue-white glow of security lights, flames crackled. He smelled wood
smoke and oil, like the torches used during ceremonies for Archaics games. He realized those
were torches, when his eyes adjusted from the stable dimness to the bright yellow light.
Emrillian turned to face him. Her hood slowly slid off her head, revealing long, shining hair in a
simple braid, held in place with a silver headband, ornamented with blue enamel warhawks that
glistened in the torchlight. He thought he caught a glimpse of dull silver mesh at her wrist. Chain
mail. She stepped back. Grego stared, fascinated, as she brushed her cloak aside and rested her
hand on the hilt of the sword at her waist.
Then Mrillis stepped into the open doorway, dressed like a wise man from an Archaics'
role-playing convention. A dark hood framed his seamed, weathered face and dark eyes, and
highlighted his neatly trimmed, silken white beard. It glowed in contrast to the dark material.
Hints of intricate embroidery decorated the long, enveloping robe.
"Ready?" he said.
"I don't think I'll ever be totally ready, but... We have to do this." Grego gestured at the
bags he had dropped in front of a stall. "Where do I put them?"
* * * *
"Are you cold, Emrillian?" Mrillis' voice barely rose above the soft clop-clop of the
horses' hooves in the thick dust of the forest trail as they rode toward the magic-concealed tunnel
entrance.
"Excited, I think. And a little afraid." Emrillian suppressed a shiver and wrapped her
cloak tighter around herself.
"The unknown, even when we are prepared for it, is always frightening." Heavy cloth
rustled as he pulled up the embroidered hood of his cloak. He let go a sigh of weariness. "I shall
miss this place. Your years of growing have been ones of rest for me, despite all our hard
work."
He reached over and squeezed her hand. It helped chase away the chill that gathered in
her bones. She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword and ran her fingers over the engraving.
The Warhawk emblem gave her comfort. She concentrated on it, commanding the feel and
familiarity to give her strength for the days ahead.
"Grandfather, do you think I am ready?" she asked, and relaxed a little when her voice
didn't waver or break.
"You are a source of pride to me."
"That's not the same." She muffled a nervous giggle.
"For what you face...perhaps no one is truly ready. All you can do is prepare yourself as
best you can. Pray for strength and wisdom from the Estall. Give all your heart and mind and
strength to each task as it comes." He paused. When he spoke again, there was a soft sadness of
tender-painful memories to his voice. "That is what your father did."
"Is that it?" Grego asked, and raised his own torch.
"What do you see?" Mrillis asked.
"Light, but not light." He shook his head, his eyes flicking to the side once to meet
Emrillian's gaze. "Those are darker Threads, hiding the mouth of the tunnel?"
"Very good." Mrillis tipped his head back, looking up at the tangle of overgrown
vegetation that seemed to spill over the top of the heap of
to a more comfortable position and picked up the pace. In a little while, he would climb on a
horse, head for the tunnel, and this change in his life would go past the point of no return.
He concentrated on the sounds and smells, the feel of the night breeze, to keep from
thinking too much--or he might change his mind. He was relieved to find the door into the stable
standing open. All the horses were out of their stalls, saddled for riding or harnessed for carrying
packs. The horses knew him, and only the bay stallion made any noise when Grego walked up
the aisle, heading for the front of the stables. He could just make out the shadowy outlines of
Emrillian and Mrillis standing outside in the moonlight. Grego smiled at the welcoming nicker
from the stallion and allowed himself the luxury of rubbing the horse's nose before moving past
him.
Instead of the blue-white glow of security lights, flames crackled. He smelled wood
smoke and oil, like the torches used during ceremonies for Archaics games. He realized those
were torches, when his eyes adjusted from the stable dimness to the bright yellow light.
Emrillian turned to face him. Her hood slowly slid off her head, revealing long, shining hair in a
simple braid, held in place with a silver headband, ornamented with blue enamel warhawks that
glistened in the torchlight. He thought he caught a glimpse of dull silver mesh at her wrist. Chain
mail. She stepped back. Grego stared, fascinated, as she brushed her cloak aside and rested her
hand on the hilt of the sword at her waist.
Then Mrillis stepped into the open doorway, dressed like a wise man from an Archaics'
role-playing convention. A dark hood framed his seamed, weathered face and dark eyes, and
highlighted his neatly trimmed, silken white beard. It glowed in contrast to the dark material.
Hints of intricate embroidery decorated the long, enveloping robe.
"Ready?" he said.
"I don't think I'll ever be totally ready, but... We have to do this." Grego gestured at the
bags he had dropped in front of a stall. "Where do I put them?"
* * * *
"Are you cold, Emrillian?" Mrillis' voice barely rose above the soft clop-clop of the
horses' hooves in the thick dust of the forest trail as they rode toward the magic-concealed tunnel
entrance.
"Excited, I think. And a little afraid." Emrillian suppressed a shiver and wrapped her
cloak tighter around herself.
"The unknown, even when we are prepared for it, is always frightening." Heavy cloth
rustled as he pulled up the embroidered hood of his cloak. He let go a sigh of weariness. "I shall
miss this place. Your years of growing have been ones of rest for me, despite all our hard
work."
He reached over and squeezed her hand. It helped chase away the chill that gathered in
her bones. She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword and ran her fingers over the engraving.
The Warhawk emblem gave her comfort. She concentrated on it, commanding the feel and
familiarity to give her strength for the days ahead.
"Grandfather, do you think I am ready?" she asked, and relaxed a little when her voice
didn't waver or break.
"You are a source of pride to me."
"That's not the same." She muffled a nervous giggle.
"For what you face...perhaps no one is truly ready. All you can do is prepare yourself as
best you can. Pray for strength and wisdom from the Estall. Give all your heart and mind and
strength to each task as it comes." He paused. When he spoke again, there was a soft sadness of
tender-painful memories to his voice. "That is what your father did."
"Is that it?" Grego asked, and raised his own torch.
"What do you see?" Mrillis asked.
"Light, but not light." He shook his head, his eyes flicking to the side once to meet
Emrillian's gaze. "Those are darker Threads, hiding the mouth of the tunnel?"
"Very good." Mrillis tipped his head back, looking up at the tangle of overgrown
vegetation that seemed to spill over the top of the heap of
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