2406 Xavem 2, Velpa

The ring glinted in the faint sunlight sifting though the thick, canvas roof of the caravan. Kymalin clicked her tongue. What has this spirit done in their past life to end up as an unadorned metal band? The High Priestess sure could hold a grudge. Or was it even her who turned this soul into a priestal artifact? Maybe not. How many years has it been since the ring was made?

"Hey, have you served your sentence?" Kymalin muttered under her breath, turning the ring over in the light. Even the inside part of the ring was bland. Not even a hidden inscription in it. Boring. "It sucks to be stuck, right?"

"Who're you talking to, girl?" a voice in the front part of the caravan caught Kymalin's attention away from the ring. "Is there a customer on the back?"

Kymalin pushed herself up slightly, leaning on her arms parallel to the ground. Her soul port bounced against her chest, reminding her of the deal she had to cut just to get to lay in the back of the caravan like this. "Myself!" she yelled back. "I'm talking to myself. Focus on getting there the soonest!"

A tongue clicked in annoyance. "Kids these days turning more insolent!" he cursed. "I don't control these roads, girl! Get that in your head!"

She rolled her eyes. "Do it or you wouldn't get the port!"

The merchant muttered under his breath. It was low enough for Kymalin to understand but judging from the sharp inflections and hissing sounds, he wasn't happy and dandy. She shrugged, plopping back down on the sack of flour she had used as a pillow since she hitched a ride on this bumpy and creaky caravan.

A few days ago, when she appeared in the soul door leading to the backdoor of the Temple just before everything closes down, she just had one goal in mind. She had to look for the quickest way out of Drodham and Carleon altogether before they thought of tracking her soul port. This cursed thing slung around her neck was coded to her soul. A protective measure from ports being stolen, or whatever that practice was. Kymalin hated it. Made running away not an option.

But she did it anyway.

She walked on foot from the Temple of Souls all the way to the nearest town, Gilro Aris. There, it was easy to choose a merchant caravan at random and sneak out of the territory. For a price, of course.

That's where the deal came in. Kymalin snagged a stout merchant who was just a few notches taller than her and presented him with a pregnant offer: help her get out of Carleon the soonest as possible and she would give him her soul port in exchange. He could sell it in the black market or to a desperate collector—throw in an inventor looking to unlock its secrets into the fray—and he would never think about versallis in all his life.

In truth, Kymalin didn't know if it was true but the merchant gobbled it up like a graspel on a vegetarian diet being offered meat. Leave it to the gods to figure out if she lied or not.

So, that's how she ended up as a stowaway at the back of a merchant caravan. Sacks of flour made from several grains and other plant-based materials littered the whole space. The caravan's floor was lined with a thin layer of fine, white dust and Kymalin developed a sudden longing for her thick wool coat.

Cheers to the lucky fellow who would stumble into it when she shed it off as soon as she reached the trading square in Gilro Aris. Kymalin could have used it to shield her legs and butt from being painted white but it looked like she had little to no choice.

That's her life for the last two weeks on the road. She had grown tired of watching endless scenes of canopies whizzing past her and of hearing the numerous bird songs and animal sounds wafting from the shadows of the undergrowth. As every day passed, they began to look and sound the same, anyway.

Kymalin looked down at her body lying flat on the caravan's wooden floor. The fur lining the collar of her dark leather boots waved at her from that distance. It had been a miracle she remembered putting on a reasonable footwear before leaving the Temple instead of just running barefoot in the forest. Her tunic flopped lifelessly around her legs and stopped around her calf. The belt woven from purple, muted orange, and black threads circling her waist reminded her of the huge tapestries hanging from the Temple's halls. It reminded her of home.

She tore her eyes off her clothes. If anything, she looked like a homeless woman from the slums in Gulstead instead of the daughter of a High Priestess. Was it for the best or for the worst? She didn't know. It helped with the journey, at least.

Her breath felt hot against her nose and lips when she exhaled. She let her head flop back to the flour sack. They have passed the borders of Carleon yesterday, according to the merchant, and he will leave her on her own since he would be continuing on to Helinfirth, down the Glass Road. So, it's no surprise now that the weather was beginning to irk her out.

The absence of the misty drafts blowing from the mountains was the first sign jarring Kymalin about her current situation. Next were the fog curling in and out from the bases of trunks and in the undergrowth. Lastly, she wasn't about to get used to having to walk without the ringing of bells in her ear.

She looked at her feet again. The paneldoja was the other thing that has to go when she shedded her coat. Wherever she was going, she didn't need to be announcing her presence at every instance.

Soon, the merchant pulled on his reins, making the dagrinis whine in protest. The caravan lurched to a stop. Several footfalls of boots squelching grass blades and dried soil later, the latch keeping the back wall clinked and clanked. The hinges creaked as the wall fell backwards in front of Kymalin. The fading sunlight was enough to blind her. Oh, damn. She had gotten used to the canvas roof.

"Get out," the merchant snapped. His receding hairline reminded Kymalin of graspel teeth but she decided not to mention that. "This is as far as I could take you."

Kymalin edged out of the caravan by pushing herself forward with her palms. Her boots stirred dust as they stomped down on it when she jumped down. The merchant, still clad in his oversized tunic featuring colorful lines dyed in it, beckoned her forward. "Payment," he rasped.

"Okay, okay," she dusted the flour off her knee-length tunic and her long sleeves. "Hold your dagrinis for a second, yeah?"

She ran a hand over her hair. The clay blue locks had long ago escaped from their braids that she resorted to just let it fall all over to her back. Had she gotten flour on it too? That'd be a hassle to remove, especially if it mixed with her sweat. And it's so damned hot in here.

Wherever here was.

"Where are we?" she knitted her eyebrows.

The merchant scoffed. "You promised to pay me for getting you here," he said. "But not for telling you where we are. Figure that out on your own, kid. You look like you're smart enough for that. Now, pay up."

This bugger. Kymalin gritted her teeth and slipped the soul port off her neck. A heavy feeling settled in her chest as she dropped it into the merchant's waiting hand. It hadn't even touched his skin when she snatched it greedily in the air. "Pleasure doing business," the merchant gave her a mocking bow before running to his cart animals as fast as his short legs could carry him. A flick of the reigns, a high-pitched neigh from the travel-worn beasts, and a chortling laughter later, the merchant and his band of unsold sacks of flour vanished into the distance, leaving Kymalin in the unfamiliar forest.

Why in Rudik's name did Umazure have so much forests?

A few hours later, she had grown tired walking under the canopies which all looked the same. The sky was nowhere to be seen, shadowed by the leaves as if these trees were consipiring to hide it from the people below. Kymalin swallowed her curse and tamped it down. Nothing's going to change even if she cursed the forest.

Her stomach gurgled. How many days has it been since she had eaten? She had forgotten. A fairy potion would be nice for dinner today. But then again, where would she get that?

She settled on gathering berries that didn't look like they would kill her when they touch her tongue. The sweet, sticky juice stained her fingers and the side of her mouth blue. Damn. She needed water now. Was there a brook somewhere around here? Or a river?

Then again, where was here? She still haven't found her answer to that despite the merchant's belief in her.

A bitter laugh rose from her. It's just wonderful. She got out of Carleon, alright. She hadn't counted on being dumped elsewhere with no provisions and without information about her surroundings. This was the worst way to go.

Kymalin dug the ring in the side pocket of her tunic. In the rising moonslight, it looked even drabber. How did banshees use this thing anyway? The corners of her lips curved down as she examined the priestal artifact. Sweat trickled down the side of her face so much she had to wipe it on her sleeve. Wasn't it nighttime? Why was it so hot?

The smell of upturned earth reminded her of the mornings in the Temple after a whole night of rainstorms. It was always wonderful and sickening at the same time. She had been alive for quite some time and she still haven't decided which was which.

Still, Kymalin propped herself upon a rock and turned the ring with her fingers again. More warmth flooded her veins when she called her magic to the surface. That's just great. She rolled her eyes before focusing on the ring. Slowly, she fed her magic into it, letting her synnavaim grasp the trail bleeding off the artifact.

"Scholar," Kymalin murmured, filling her head with images of tomes, starmaps, and naughty students. Nothing happened.

She hummed. "Weird," she tapped her chin. Wasn't that how it was used? Wouldn't summoning be easier with the help of a priestal artifact? Why hasn't she even opened the gate by now?

For the next hour, she tried. And tried. Each attemped seemed to go farther from discovering the method than the last. Finally, after the thirtieth attempt, Kymalin closed her fingers around the ring and clenched her fists in frustration. She wanted to scream but she doubt the creatures of the forest would like that so late into the night.

"Why won't you work?" she shook the ring like it would make a difference. She pursed her lips and slipped the ring into her finger. Of all the things she forgot to bring along, it's the tome detailing how to use this blasted thing. Should she go back to Carleon to get it? She shook her head and cursed. That's idiotic. They would have her in chains once she stepped foot in there.

How was she supposed to find her way to Cardovia then? A groan escaped her lips as her fingers mussed her hair violently. If only she had someone from the organization itself to guide her there.

"You called?"

Kymalin whipped behind her, her heart leaping to her throat. She yelped when her butt slid off the rock and sent her crashing to the ground. Her hand bearing the ring pressed against her chest. Her eyes scanned the darkness until they rested on a lone figure shimmering in the moonslight. She squinted. Was that...?

"My lady, you called?" the spirit said again. The green almost blended with the undergrowth. That's why it made it harder for her to make it out. "I know the way to Cardovia. I can lead you there."

She grunted as she dusted her palms which caught her fall. Thankfully, there were only a few scratches laden with dirt and bits of algae in it. "Who are you?" she said, climbing back into her rock.

"My name is Derke," the spirit touched his chest and gave a deep bow. Kymalin blinked. Was that necessary? "I have been with Cardovia for quite some time."

Kymalin stuck her bottom lip out. "What do I have to do to join them?" she asked.

"Seek out the Ventora estate," the spirit adviced without changing its facial features. Spirits did have that passive charactersitic in them. It seemed like they became incapable of showing emotions after they passed on to the Land of Wonders. "Ask for the master of the house. He should come out to greet you."

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. " 'He'?"

"Felson Ventora," the spirit clarified. "He can get you closer to the Heiress more than anyone."

She bit her lip. Felson Ventora, huh? She committed the name into memory.

"Is my service here over, my lady?" the spirit asked.

Something clicked in her brain. "Actually," she raised a finger in the spirit's direction. "I'd like you to take me there. Show me the way."

The spirit ducked his head. "As you wish, my lady."