The boy now known as Jared drifted in a purely sensory, disordered world. At first, they hovered vaguely, just beyond his reach: a swirl of colors, a distant chiming sound, a faint odor of decay. As he floated between sleep and wakefulness they called to him and clamored for his attention.

       At times, the sensations grew solid and as sharp as knives, slicing painfully at his mind, and he lacked the strength to push them away.

       The first time he woke, the small bright disc high above him caught his eye. It sang to him gently; its rays ringing like tiny bells in his ears. He grasped at the colorful light, feeling their burning heat, and with a twist of his will they burst into multicolored prisms in his hand. This bit of effort drained him and hurt the torn places in his mind, and he resolved not to touch anything until he was stronger.

       But as he grew stronger, his Senses became even more sensitive. Sight and sound, scent and touch mingled confusingly in his heightened perceptions. His whole universe had become a chaos of bright lights and colors, each emitting a myriad of sounds that blinded and deafened him. Try as he might, he could not find some measure of control, some sense out of this place of madness. There he lay, immobilized by the power of his own perceptions, drowning in their depths.

       Just when he feared his mind would snap from the strain, the blinding lights and clamoring sounds faded mercifully into waves flowing gently above and below ground, and he would be able to see— and hear— for a little while. In those brief moments his world would become something more than bearable, and if he did not fear it so much it might have been beautiful. The lights and colors separated into brilliant patterns that he could identify, and their muted sounds were a welcome respite.

      During one of those times when his mind was clear, he saw figures hovering over him constantly, and he vaguely remembered being fed and cared for. They spoke to him, their words swallowed by the garble of their mind-voices, impossible to understand. But sometimes, if he tried very hard, he would be able to hear the words.

      These moments of clarity were painstakingly short. Most of the time the colors surged as bright and blaring as ever, dispelling in an instant what little order he had found in his world.

* * * * * * * * * *

       As the sun's final rays filtered through the trees, Healer Calidar carried the boy carefully outside the hut to the clearing, blankets and all. "For him to get some air," he said to Marsh when the younger mandrake returned.

       "I be worried about Sir Arlan, Master Calidar." Marsh told the Healer listlessly. "I be thinking I should not have left his side."

       "Master Arlan can take care of himself, young Marsh, far better than you or I. He is not without considerable abilities," assured Calidar.

       "Ar-lan." Jared said haltingly.

       The Healer smiled at the boy kindly. "Yes, Jared. Arlan Druid. He is not here as of the moment, but he will be back in a few candlemarks. I am Calidar."

       "Calidar." Jared whispered, his clear green eyes fixed on the Healer.

       The old mandrake nodded approvingly, then turned to Marsh. "Talk to him, Marsh. We must teach him all we can when he is able. I am going to brew some of the special herbs I have gathered for Jared. It may be that he will need them this night."

       The Healer went inside the hut, muttering to himself, while Marsh made himself comfortable beside the boy and began 'lessons', accompanied by a lot of miming and pointing: man, mandrake, boy, tree, sky, flower, home, hand, fingers, eat, drink . . .

       As the azure sun sank into the west and Jared showed no sign of fading away as he used to, Marsh's hopes for the boy rose steadily. The lad was as hungry for knowledge as an empty vessel, eager and waiting to be filled. He observed that the effort Jared placed in such a task was considerable— he strained and struggled to hear every word, committing them to memory.

       Marsh beamed at the boy, encouraging him, and with a wide grin pointed at himself. "Happy!"

       Jared smiled at the mandrake, but as he opened his mouth to say the word he suddenly froze, eyes wide with terror, staring beyond at sights he alone could see.

       Marsh went to him anxiously, and the final words he heard from the boy before his eyes glazed over wrenched at his heart:

       "Marsh . . . help—me . . ."

       Jared collapsed in a heap on the ground, clutching at himself, eyes staring sightlessly, teeth clenched in a rictus of pain. Taking one fearful look at the boy, Marsh ran in haste for the Healer.

* * * * * * * * * *

       As nonchalantly as possible, Arlan visited a few more shops, for which he purchased several items they would need for the journey. He also bought changes of clothing for himself and Jared, thick cloaks to stand the coldest nights of northern Mercia, and a fortnight's supply of journey bread, cheese, and dried meat. All the while the sense of being watched remained, but he dared not use either Sight or a Naming— at least, not yet.

       Night was rapidly approaching, shadows lengthened, the cobbled streets taking up a silvery sheen. Glow spheres like tiny moons lit the shops one by one as Oriath sank into the western horizon. In such towns and cities occupied by men, where the plant life was scarce, the hour before nightfall was the darkest hour, before Ervon's large moon rose completely to light up the sky and everything beneath it. In ancient times, it is said that at such an hour the Dark's influence could be felt more readily, so the glow spheres were lit to battle the darkness, to dispel the old, hidden fears in the minds of men. But as the druid rode into the lighted street, he was struck by a wave of negative energy— the heavy scent of fear.

        People went about their business as usual, for most establishments remain open for half the long night, and yet— there was a hastiness, an urgency in their steps that belied their calm exterior.

       The smell of fear ebbed somewhat as silver Ios slowly graced the night sky, dispelling the shadows and the dark corners, but the druid wondered at this unfocused, collective fear. He tested the air discreetly with tendrils of Power, but found no palpable sign of threat or danger to the town.

       The night was supposed to be Ervon's friend, brighter and livelier than the gloomy day. What had changed it?

       Only one way to find out, thought Arlan.

       The druid chose a well-populated inn, aptly named the Crown of Ios. As he dismounted, a stable boy took the reins. He tossed a silver coin to the lad to guard the horses and gear. "Another when I return, boy."

       "Very good, sir!"

       He strode past the lad, still ogling at the silver in his hand.

       Arlan entered the dimly lit room. A few heads briefly turned his way, seeing nothing but a tall, battle-scarred mercenary. The inn was almost filled to the brim with human— and a few not quite human— company. A group of five dwarves sat at one table, nursing heavy tankards of ale, and two ogiers, voices rumbling in heated discussion, sat at a corner table that was built specifically for that giant race.

       The innkeeper bustled busily about, distracted by her other guests. Now, if he walked in wearing the emblem of the Conclave of Druids emblazoned on his tunic, things would be mightily different. The innkeeper herself would bow and scrape to find him the best place, an uncomfortable silence would descend like a pall in the room, more out of fear of him than of respect, and— any information he could covertly garner about the town would be lost. And so, Arlan guided his own way to the bar beside equally rough-looking men, and ordered himself a glass of watered-down wine. 

       'No use getting drunk at a time like this. Or rather,'  he amended, 'foolish would be the word.'

       With barely an effort, he augmented his Hearing to gather the voices in the room, a matter of opening the Inner Senses without the use of Power. He sifted through the conversations, one by one, quickly dismissing most. At times such as this he did not relish his abilities, but he was a Druid first and foremost; any other considerations— moral or amoral— fell beneath their Code.

       Finally, a pair of men seated three tables behind him, farmers by the sound of them, caught his attention.

       "How are yer crops doin', my friend?" The man asked his companion.

       "Fairly well, considerin' the scare n' all," replied the other man. "For several long months I was expectin' my lands would be next. But the blighters seemed to have stopped spreadin', thank the gods. As for the city n' half-a-league aroun' it, the land is as cursed as it's been since that year n' a half ago."

       City? What city? Arlan clenched his glass tensely.

       "Never really knew what happened to Meridien, eh? Them druids sure keep a tight rein on their tongues. And the Emperor, well, what can a senile old man do?" sighed the first man in an exasperated voice.

       "I can still remember that hour—just before nightfall it was, a year past. 'Twas plantin' season, and I was workin' in the fields with the other men when we saw a great darkness cover the city. Mind, our lands were a good couple o' leagues from Meridien, but we could hear the terrible cries. T'would take three candlemarks by fast horse t' get there, with the cliffs n' all, but when we arrived 'twas all over. Nothin' but splashes of blood everywhere, as if whatever those  things were ate only flesh and spit the blood out." The man's voice trembled in remembered terror. "Beg yer pardon, Staven, I know this is not the time to mull over these things, but Meridien keeps comin' back at me like a wakin' nightmare. 'Tis a dead city now, for all only the bravest would risk their necks t' go there."

       "Ever think of settlin' in these parts?" The man named Staven admonished his friend. "The magister is a good man. He be the one who ordered the walls set up aroun' town. The wards on 'em are as thick as his mages can make 'em, and no dark critter is goin' to pass through without a warnin'. Doubled the guards, even."

       "Nay, my friend, I am tied to the land, as is my clan. But if ever the blighters come—"

       Arlan had heard enough. Grimly, he shut his mind from the voices, paid the serving man, and strode out of the inn.