Anton saw no harm in giving a truthful answer to that question: “My passengers are here to seek an audience with the Elder Circle.”
The young man smiled a crooked smile. “Good luck.”
“Why?” Anton asked. “What’s the matter?”
The official hesitated. “It’s not my place to gossip about the Emerald Enclave. Just … don’t expect too much. And be careful passing through town.”
Anton grinned. “I never do, and I always am.”
Leaving the mariners to tend the Octopus, he, Stedd, and Umara headed into the city. The rain clattered down hard for a few breaths, then slackened for a while, then repeated the cycle. That, the gloom, the gaunt, haggard faces of passersby, and the empty marketplaces made Anton feel as if the city of his birth had never truly recovered from the night and day demons had burned and slaughtered a path through the heart of it.
But that was nonsense. Sapra had new problems now. He thrust thoughts of the past out of his mind and concentrated on watching for the danger the port officer had led him to expect.
Somewhat to his surprise, he didn’t see any chalked tridents or other signs that Umberlee worship was on the rise hereabouts. Perhaps the Emerald Enclave, druids of Silvanus all, and the secular authorities who looked to them for guidance had taken a stand against Evendur’s agents.
But he did see surly-looking outlanders loitering and sometimes even camped in public places. They all wore blue somewhere about their persons, and some periodically tossed powder into their campfires to make those burn a deep and unnatural azure.
Sitting on the rim of a fountain, five such fellows spotted Umara, Stedd, and Anton going past, conferred briefly among themselves, then rose and sauntered forward. Anton gave them a smile and put his hand on the hilt of his saber. Umara raised an arm gloved in seething shadow. The outlanders stopped short, then turned back around.
“Who are these people?” asked Stedd calmly. Apparently, after all he’d been through, he didn’t find street-corner extortionists especially intimidating.
“Scar pilgrims,” Anton answered. “Folk who willingly visit places like the tainted spot in Gulthandor for the wisdom and power they hope it will bring. Sapra is a way station for those who travel back and forth to the Plaguewrought Lands south of the Chondalwood. Turmishan merchants wring a lot of coin out of them, but we dislike one another even so.”
“Why?” asked Stedd.
“Turmishans worship the Treefather and therefore Nature. Scar pilgrims court a power that poisons Nature. It’s not a good fit.”
To Anton’s disappointment, it proved impossible to hire horses, mules, or even donkeys. Livery stables that still possessed such animals were keeping them close to make sure no one ate them.
He supposed it wasn’t a calamity. The hike was less arduous than some they’d undertaken together, and it remained so even after the Hierophant’s Trail commenced its climb into the highlands called the Elder Spires. Still, he was hungry and footsore when they reached their destination at dusk, and Umara looked as though she felt the same. Only Stedd, who’d walked thousands of miles since the day Lathander first spoke to him, was still fresh enough to gawk at the House of Silvanus with the appreciation the sight deserved.
Situated atop a sort of plateau, the supreme sanctuary of the Emerald Enclave was a structure of rough-hewn granite and wood, roofed but open at the sides. It sat on a little island in the middle of a pool pocked by plummeting raindrops. Hissing, the water plunged away in three places to become waterfalls that in turn gave birth to the Calling, Elder, and Springbrook Rivers.
Accompanying his father, Anton had twice visited the House of Silvanus as a boy, and despite his general boredom with religious matters, the scene had impressed him with its intimations of harmony, serenity, and hidden power. In and of itself, it still did, but the armed company camped near the pool struck a discordant note. A disparate lot, some wore the tabards of Sapra’s city watch, some, the jupons of the Turmishan army, and some, the green and brown of the rangers who patrolled the wild lands in the enclave’s service.
Anton turned to Stedd. “Does Lathander have any information to share about that crew?”
“What?” Stedd said absently. He was still gazing across the water at the sanctuary, and the pirate realized he had yet to notice the warriors.
Anton flicked the tip of his index finger against Stedd’s temple. “Wake up! I know the view looks interesting, and probably more to you than it ever did to me. But there’s something here we didn’t expect.”
“Right.” Orienting on the men-at-arms, the boy frowned. “I don’t know. Nothing’s coming to me.”
Anton sighed. “Of course it isn’t.”
“I see two options,” Umara said. “Walk right up to the warriors and ask why they’re mustering in a sacred, secluded place, or head on into the sanctuary. Either is better that waiting until a druid or ranger accosts us demanding to know why a Red Wizard is lurking about.”
“I agree,” Anton said, “and we came to confer with the chief druids, not their retainers. So …” He walked to one of the strings of steppingstones that meandered across the pool and then, despite himself, hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” asked Stedd.
Anton grinned. “There’s an old story that a guardian spirit will kill anyone who tries to cross with evil intent.”
Stedd cocked his head. “You aren’t evil.”
“Maybe not at the moment. But suppose the water spirit judges folk by their past deeds. Or the color of their mages’ robes.”
“Stop blathering and go,” Umara said.
The stones were flat and close enough to one another to make the crossing easy, and no guardian rose from the water to bar the way. But a druid with a bronze sickle hanging from his belt and a staff in his hand emerged from the interior of the temple to watch the newcomers approach. The staff had ivy coiling up its length.
As Anton stepped onto the island, the druid said, “What do you seek here?”
“An audience with the Elder Circle,” Anton replied.
The druid grunted. “You’ve come at a bad time. They aren’t receiving.” His eyes shifted to Umara. “I mean no offense when I say I doubt they’d want me to admit a Red Wizard at any time.”
“You may have heard something about Lathander’s boy prophet.”
Anton indicated Stedd. “Here he is.”
The druid’s eyes widened, but then he frowned. “Anyone could claim that. I’ve heard of wandering charlatans with child accomplices who have claimed it.”
“You’re a priest,” Anton said. “I trust you recognize holy power when you see it. Do something, Stedd.”
Seemingly seeking permission, the boy looked up at the druid, and the Oak Father’s servant nodded. Stedd stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around those gripping the staff.
Golden light glowed from the point of contact. The druid gasped, and, rustling, the ivy wrapping the staff put forth new leaves.
“Convinced?” Anton asked.
The druid swallowed. “I felt something, certainly. Something … bracing.”
“Good,” Umara said, “because Stedd’s here to help you. As am I, who protected him on his journey.”
“All right,” said the man with the staff. “All three of you can come in.”
Candles and watch lights illuminated the interior of the House of Silvanus. There were no doors or truly enclosed spaces, but the seemingly haphazard arrangement of stone slabs and wooden pillars and screens created something akin to discrete chambers and the possibility of privacy even so. It also made the place mazelike.
Fortunately, the travelers’ guide knew all the twists and turns. With him leading the way, they soon reached a space that might have been a bard’s living quarters, with a collection of musical instruments occupying much of the space and a carving of Silvanus presiding over an altar in the corner. A male half-elf and a human woman sat at a round table drinking from wooden goblets.