A gentle drizzle had begun, the raindrops like tiny needles pricking at exposed skin, sharp as the arrows of a hedgehog. The halfling scratched at his neck, the skin already reddening. He sought refuge beneath the curved-sided, gabled roof of a wooden gazebo beside a pond, watching as a solitary black-spotted frog with bright green skin leapt from one water lily to another, seeking shelter from the relentless downpour. Its voice was a tickling croak that echoed down the steep hillside, growing more insistent with each new drop that pelted its back. Suddenly, the rain intensified, as if driven by a stubbornness that defied reason, and the waterfall that had flowed into the pond became a torrent.
Meanwhile, the old man sat cross-legged on the cushioned corner of the gazebo, savoring his tea with a calm that belied the tempestuous weather. Paliborn, on the other hand, could take it no longer. The peace and tranquility that had settled over the scene were anathema to his anxious mood.
"What are we to do, Master Sandman?" he asked, his voice tense and agitated.
"First, Pal, you must calm yourself," Elaphar counseled, his gaze fixed on the halfling. "I have listened carefully to your tale. There is no doubt that some of Lena's actions are...shall we say...questionable."
"Is it evil?" Paliborn asked, his voice dripping with disdain.
"If that is how you choose to view it," Sandman replied. "But you must understand, Pal, that Allendra is a psionic. No telepath leads an ordinary life. It is the curse that accompanies their gift."
"She is only five and a half years old," Paliborn protested. "It's not fair."
"I did my best to reason with her aunt, Pal. What more could I have done? You know that I cannot force them to come here. She had a choice, and she chose the path of darkness," the old man said calmly, pointing a gnarled finger at the halfling.
"But she's taking the girl with her! I have to protect Allendra. At least let me do that," Paliborn pleaded, his voice filled with desperation.
"I cannot fathom your attachment to this girl, my dear Pal. You have only known her for a day and a half. What is it that binds you so tightly to her?"
Paliborn fixed his steely gaze on the old wizard and spoke with conviction, "I am fully aware of your formidable magical abilities, my friend. You could easily locate her whereabouts with a flick of your wrist, but I understand that you have chosen a different path, and I respect that. I will not beseech you to join me in my quest."
He paused for a few seconds and continued, "But I cannot abandon her, Sandman. I made a promise to protect her, and I intend to keep it. That woman is evil, and she will bring irreversible harm to the girl. I cannot allow it. The Quanas Elves will understand. They know the value of a promise," Paliborn declared resolutely.
The old wizard fell silent, stroking his beard as he sipped his tea and listened to the rain. He pondered the situation, considering all possibilities.
"They departed from a port near Arvedan, Pal. I believe they are sailing south across the Infinite Ocean, likely headed west," the old man said, breaking the silence.
"Where are they going? Illinthia?" Paliborn asked.
"Further than that, I suspect. The Awyrgad may have summoned the woman, and she could be taking the girl to him," the old man replied, his voice heavy with foreboding.
"I will not allow it. If necessary, I will enter Romdaht alone," Paliborn declared firmly.
Elaphar looked at the halfling with a mixture of admiration and sarcasm.
"I have no doubt of your determination, my friend. You would follow her to the Nine Hells if need be. Your courage is admirable, if a little crazy," the old sage sighed inwardly.
"Nay, their course cannot be Romdaht. The Awyrgad has no use for her there, not amidst the tumult of Conquest Campaigns," the old wizard sighed and took a puff on his pipe. "Your last dream, my dear Pal, hints at astral-traveling. The girl must have unknowingly provided the channel for such a wondrous feat. It is a rare ability, and I surmise the Dark One wants to test it. He will lead her on different paths."
"But where?" Paliborn asked.
"Ah, a difficult question, indeed," Sarcastic The Wise replied. "The Towers of Myriad, perhaps?"
"But which one? There are countless Monoliths scattered across the land, as you know, Sandman."
"According to an established theory among wizards, Monoliths possess a temporal power, which aligns with the star calendar to create routes. Thus, you need a cartographer with the necessary experience to predict these routes," the old sage explained.
Pal nodded, indicating his comprehension.
"They have a swift ship, manned by a band of mercenaries. But we have the most skilled captain in the world, and we can assemble a crack crew to aid you," Elaphar said.
"Grea, then let's begin to assemble." Pal declared.
"All well and good, my friend, but that is not our primary concern," Sarcastic The Wise replied. "We do not meddle with the wheel of fate unless it's absolutely necessary. As you know, that's the first rule of our secret society. This girl is a fixed noose on the wheel of destiny, and if we misread her path, it may result in unpredictable consequences. Wallace is absent, but we must consult with Roland and obtain his counsel before proceeding."
"Can we not keep him out of this?" Pal muttered.
"I am afraid not, my friend," the old wizard replied with a sigh. "Roland is a crucial member of our order, and we need his expertise to make the right decision. And I wonder why you want to keep him out."
"Bloody damn Roland. He has never been fond of me. That's why." Pal replied with a huge sigh.
"Not at all," Elaphar said with a wry smile. "On the contrary, your presence is cherished by him greatly. It's simply that your unpredictable and capricious nature can stir unease in his heart at times. You have a knack for riling up trouble, and oftentimes, you make even this girl seem tame in comparison."
The halfling's meddling had always brought amusement to the old sage. Memories of the halfling's written passages from his journal, "A Traveler's Notebook," flashed through his mind.
Paliborn took umbrage, reproaching the old man as if he had read his thoughts. "What happened to the Wizard Al Pharruk was not my fault, if that's what you mean."
The old sage raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I didn't say anything of the sort. Nonetheless, I must be alone to contact Roland."
"Very well," Paliborn said with a shrug. "I shall go for a wander, then."
"Take care not to wander too far, Pal. If need be, I may need to summon you," the old sage warned with a sarcasm.
The halfling shook his head in resignation and strode slowly out of the green-roofed, ivy-wrapped gazebo, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. As he stepped outside, he was greeted by a respite from the rain, the sun piercing through the dark clouds and painting the sky with a brilliant arc of colors. The sight of the rainbow over the towering cliffs that surrounded the settlement never failed to fill him with hope.
Paliborn crossed over one of the numerous bridges that spanned the rippling tributaries that branched off from the pond, making his way towards the main building. He was in a high-altitude monk temple perched atop one of the countless hidden valleys of Qui-Sartry, where the Quanas Elves called home. These elves were a secluded race that had lived in the same place for over a thousand years, shrouded in mystery and surrounded by nature's bounty.
Mostly black-haired and slant-eyed, the Quanas Elves could live up to four hundred years, a lifespan significantly shorter than their blond-haired, almond-eyed brethren, the Galanadel Elves, who dwelled in the Galande Forests just north of the Qui-Sartry Mountains.
Both of these elven clans were known for their honorable and solitary lifestyles, and their histories were replete with suffering and misery, all due to their unwavering trust in humans. Thus, these closed-off societies rarely allowed outsiders to bear witness to the breathtaking splendor of their homelands. Pal was one of the fortunate few who had seen both. However, for the opportunity to behold the secret valleys of Qui-Sartry, he owed a debt of gratitude to his old friend, Sarcastic the Wise.