The gate banged shut behind them with a finality that seemed unnecessarily absolute.
It was more than the sound of metal hitting metal, or the sharp crash that was so heavy with meaning. It was the way that sound seemed to be swallowed by the forest ahead, sucked into the mist, the trees, and the weird cyan-purple glow that reflected colors that weren't found in nature. And the sound of Eryndral, all the hustle, the haggling, the hard-won fight for mere survival, that abruptly ended. Cut off, as if a line had been drawn through reality, this side civilization, that side something else.
Alucent halted briefly, buckling down the straps of his pack. Enough supplies for three weeks. Food that would probably resemble cardboard until the second week. Water purification tablets with a faintly metallic aftertaste. First aid gear, which they hoped they wouldn't need but probably would. Rope. Fire-starting equipment. And other necessary supplies that one usually brings along into a place that might not allow them back.
But the air was different here. There was the damp earth smell, of course, but also something floral that he didn't recognize. Maybe some unknown flowers, or maybe the Vale was responding to the Turquoise Moon in ways that other places didn't. But beneath the smells, woven through them, was a spark of electricity. Ozone, maybe, like the smell that came after a lightning strike: sharp, nose-tingling, as if with warning.
The turquoise moon was still present in the sky, its pale crescent reflected above the treetops. Its color was so cyan that it was as if the entire world was being dyed, with shades of blue, purple, and other colors gathering in all the shadows. Unsettling yet intriguing, something that seemed to define this entire scenario.
"Well, anyway, no going back now," Gryan said, breaking the quiet.
He buckled on his own pack, which was considerably larger than Alucent's, not only holding enough food for him but also the wrapped-up Reed-Pattern Caster, as well as other pieces of mechanical equipment that might be necessary for repairs. His own mechanical arm softly whirred as it shifted its grip on a strap, a soft hiss of hydraulic fluid echoing through Alucent's ears.
There were no words from Raya. She began walking, taking the point without question. Her hand was resting on the hilt of her Weaveblade—not holding it, not drawing it, simply resting her hand on it in the tense, ready position that seemed to be her default. Her sharp green eyes were sweeping the treetops ahead, cataloging dangers and escape routes with a professional efficiency.
But the trade road, leading off from Eryndral, was well kept, at least as it was for the first ways. Packed earth, smoothed over by the passage of many mercantile carts and many traveler boots. But even in this, even along the path, Alucent sensed extraordinary variations from the norm.
The trees along the roadside were ironvine, identified by their descriptions in Father's journal. Huge trunks that would display a straightforward brown bark but beat with a faint biological rhythm in the form of bioluminescence. Not vivid, not spectacular, but merely a gentle pulse that corresponded with their own rhythm. It was like the trees were having heart rates, as if they were alive.
He stopped, focusing on one of the trunks.
'Alucent?' Gryan's voice came from ahead.
"The bark," Alucent said, moving closer for a better look. "It's glowing. Pulsing, really. See that?"
Gryan stepped back, positioning himself alongside him. Narrowed his eyes as he focused. "I see. A rhythmic pulse. About a dozen per minute, maybe. Could be a response to the moon's saturation of the Runeforce, some biological systems compensating for the background energy levels."
"Or mutating," Raya called out from further up the road. She had not halted her progress. "It doesn't matter which. We must move."
She was right, of course. It would not further their aims if they remained behind with daylight fading fast and so much ground still to cover. But Alucent found himself unwilling to leave, unwilling to stop watching. This was empirical evidence, a concrete manifestation of the Beauty factor that Vorn had warned him about, the effect of the Turquoise Moon that caused everything to be more radiant, more full of life, and more beautiful than was right.
A bird perched on a branch above them. A familiar forest bird, something Alucent half-remembered from Eryndral. But its feathers shimmered with a color that was not possible, caught the cyan glow of the moon, and reflected that light back in ways that shifted as the bird shifted. As if its feathers were made of live gemstones, not feathers.
Beautiful. Disturbing.
"Come on," Gryan urged, with a touch of tension in his voice that betrayed the fact that he, like Alucent, sensed the wrongness of this. "Raya's right. We must increase our distance while we still have good light."
They continued.
However, the silence that followed the first hour was more oppressive. It wasn't absolute silence. Not, of course, as there were noises: the wind moving through the trees, the gentle squelching of their boots through the packed earth, and the occasional scurrying of whatever was moving through the bushes. There was, however, no birdsong, no calls of any kind of animals other than the occasional rustling through the bushes. There were no bugs singing or chirping, merely silence. Silence that brings one's own breath, pulse, and bodily movements as a source of sound.
It was as if the forest itself was waiting for something.
Gryan's movements were like clockwork, eyes fixed on the path ahead, searching for likely ambush spots or other dangers. Periodically, every twenty minutes or so, he brought them to a stop, consulted a compass, and compared their direction with the makeshift map Sir Vorn had given them, taking care that they did not wander off the trade road into the unknown, where getting lost would be all too simple.
Raya kept her position, moving with strained energy as if she was ready to strike at all times. Her professional paranoia had to be draining, but she gave no indication of tiring or relaxing. The further they invaded the Vale, the more rigid she appeared.
Alucent was moving between them, taking in all the information: the radiant trees, the colors of the birds, the light reflected in odd tints, and the shock-electrified air that intensified with every step away from Eryndral. It was all information, a sign of system improprieties. The Beautification wasn't merely a pretty thing—it was a sign that something was terribly wrong with the real world.
The Verdant Vale was the heart of Senele, the focus of its feelings, as Father's journal had so often described. But this was clearly a reality that was overreaching for beauty, straining for something that was landing in the realm of the uncanny.
By noon, surprisingly, the cyan light emitting from the Turquoise Moon was more intense despite the sunlight. Shades beneath the trees turned deep blue, approaching purple, making darkness that was more substantial than the usual shade, as if one could fall into it.
"We'd better stop," Gryan indicated a glade off the path. "Refill your canteens, and take a ten-minute rest before continuing."
It led out into a creek, narrow with fast-moving water, its stones evident beneath the surface. It was a good, strong place, with visibility in many directions. Gryan's military skill was evident in their choice of campsite.
Alucent unslung the pack, the weight of three weeks of supplies grudgingly settling onto his shoulders. Alucent would probably suffer from sore muscles during the first few days as he accustomed himself to the weight.
Raya shifted to the edge of the clearing, continuing to scan the tree line.
Gryan pulled their waterskins out, heading towards the stream. Alucent was forced to follow, as they preferred not to remain idle, as they had been for hours. His thoughts were still racing.
At that moment, he noticed that.
The course of the stream was as expected, going west to east, along with the natural slope of the land towards wherever the streams of Verdant Vale flowed. However, there was one place with a course of reverse-flowing water, which was approximately three meters in length.
Alucent halted, eyes fixed on the reversal.
It was neither violent nor dramatic. There was no spraying water that defied gravity. It was merely going the wrong way, effortlessly and quietly, a reversed stream. An area of the stream that had determined that from east to west was preferable to from west to east.
"Gryan," Alucent whispered softly, "look at this."
Gryan shifted position, moving alongside him, his eyes also fixed on the reverse current. He stood there, studying it, going from confusion to intense calculation to frustration.
"That's not. that shouldn't." He muttered, crouching down alongside the creek. "Water doesn't simply flow backwards. At least, not without some outside force. A pressure differential, maybe? An underwater system providing a kinetic sink?"
'In the middle of a wilderness stream?' Alucent crouched down alongside him. 'What mechanism? What would power it?'
"I don't know." Gryan's annoyance was not with Alucent, but with the situation itself, with being forced to deal with something that defied his knowledge of the workings of the world. "Hydraulics don't operate in this manner. Even with Steam-weave enhancement, there would be necessary pumps, pressure chambers, and so forth. You can't force water to climb uphill."
Alucent scooped up a leaf that was on the ground, raised it above the reverse current, and let the leaf fall. It floated downstream for the length of the reverse current, which was probably three meters, or a little shorter, before merging with the regular downstream flow as if nothing had happened.
"It's localized," Alucent muttered, more to himself than Gryan. "A specific area. The water reverses itself appropriately, then proceeds as usual, as if it's within a defined space with its own rules."
"Raya," Gryan shouted, "you better come see this."
She drew near, her hand still resting on the hilt of her Weaveblade. She regarded the stream, the reversed segment, and her face as unreadable as always, merely the same professional opinion rendered every time.
"It's the Weave," she said finally. "The threads are jumbled this way. Like a knot in a rope—the path is all wrong, twisted off course, turned back on its tail."
"Can you fix it?" Alucent asked. It was a sensible question. If this was a Threadweave problem, and if Raya, as a Thread 2 Scribe-Weaver, was able to decode whatever was involved in the reversal, then she might.
"No."
She gave him a positive, absolute reply. This was not a knot that he could simply work loose. This was a structural issue. There was something seriously wrong with the pattern of reality itself. Fixing this would mean rewriting the basic programming, and that was if all went well, because otherwise, she could fix this, and she might very well break everything.
"So we do nothing?" Gryan was clearly uneasy with the choice. "Document it, move on?"
"What else can we do?" Raya looked at them both. "We're not here to solve every glitch we come across. We're here to explore, gather information, and pinpoint the root of this instability. You can't solve a problem without knowing its extent."
She was right. Of course she was right. But Alucent found himself fixating on this reversed flow, the same puzzlement Gryan had shown. Being confronted with the impossible, with something clearly defying the laws of physics, and being left with only the explanation that the Weave is broken was not, really, enough.
This was the alien aspect of the problems within this world, occurrences that wouldn't exist under Earth's law of physics. Here, reality felt flexible, manipulable.
"Fill the waterskins upstream of the reversal," Raya ordered, already moving back to her position along the edge of the clearing. "We don't know if the water in the reversed area is safe to drink. It may be tainted with whatever is causing the phenomenon."
Hearing that, Alucent and Gryan swam upstream, filling their waterskins from the normal-flowing section. The water was cold and tasted clean, with no obvious signs of contamination or wrongness. Just regular stream water, doing what stream water was supposed to do.
They rested for ten minutes, snacking on some of the rations; the dried meat was hard and salty but nutritious. Alucent's mind kept drifting back to the reversed current, trying to reconcile it, failing. And this was the method of their inquiry: finding things that didn't fit, writing them down, then moving on. Amassing a collection of wrongness, though not its reasoning.
Unpleasant, but necessary.
So, they kept walking as the afternoon slid into the evening. The cyan-purple glow intensified as the sun dipped, with the turquoise moon more clearly evident against the gathering darkness. Also, the forest became more crowded, with the trees packing closer together, their shadows being more defined.
Then came the smell.
However, the smell reached them well before they were able to identify the source. It was floral, relaxing, and almost overpowering in its strength. Like walking into a perfume store with all the contents spilled on the floor. Neither desirable nor undesirable, but the strength was enough that they knew whatever was emitting that smell was producing a lot of it.
"Do you smell that?" Gryan asked.
"Yes," Alucent answered, but couldn't place it. Not any flower he recognized from Earth, not any plant Father had mentioned in the journal. Just sweet and calming in a way that felt artificial somehow. Manufactured.
In the distance, through the trees, came light. It was the warm yellow glow of windows, the promise of shelter, heat, and civilization, after a day's march through unsettling wilds.
The Gilded Sprout.
A Steamcottage inn, much larger than any other dwelling in the countryside but built in exactly the same design. Two-story, brass, and wood, with steam pipes running along the top edge of the roof, releasing their slightest wisps. And the sign above the door, painted with a golden seed nestled within a leaf.
These fragrances increased in strength here, coming either from the inn or from some nearby bushes. Alucent's eyes were irritated from its strength.
"Thank heavens," Gryan exclaimed with real relief. "Real beds. And real food that isn't this dried meat. Maybe even a bath if we're lucky."
He stepped forward, already mentally preparing himself for rest. Raya followed, though she kept her hand on the hilt of her Weaveblade.
Alucent remained in position. There was something odd about this inn.
He was not yet able to define it, nor pinpoint the exact stimulus that pulled upon his analytical mind. But something concerning the atmosphere of the inn, the smell that was a shade too strong, and the warm glow that was a shade too inviting, always arriving exactly when they needed a place to rest their heads after a day's journey, was a shade too perfect.
'Alucent?' Gryan noticed hesitation. 'You coming?'
"Just. Give me a moment." Alucent drew closer to the structure, trying to figure out what was troubling him. There was nothing that seemed particularly wrong with the structure, nothing that seemed particularly corrupted. People were moving behind the windows. It was an inn.
But something was off. Something that his subconscious was warning him about before his conscious mind was able to process.
Gryan, with Raya, was approaching the door. Gryan's hand reached out for the doorknob as Alucent whispered, "Wait."
They stopped, turning to him.
"What's wrong?" Raya asked, her tone controlled but tinged with concern.
"I don't know yet."
Alucent slid over to a window, peering within. The commons was exactly as one would expect from a roadside inn: tables and chairs, a bar running along one wall, and a fireplace that provided warmth as well as light. A dozen folk, locals who were farmers, trappers, and people who lived in the Vale, came here for meals, drinks, and fellowship.
Normal. Quite normal.
But then—there was:
Someone, a farmer perhaps, who sat alone near the door, with the spilled ale plain as day on the table, trickling down onto the floor. He didn't move, didn't call attention to the spill, and didn't request a rag. Simply sat, focusing on the spilled ale with a calm, almost blissful smile, as if the mere experience of spilling the beverage was the height of pleasure.
A woman sitting by the fireplace, eyes fixed on the flames, a blank look of bliss on her face. It's not the look of contemplation, but a vacancy of the mind, as if she were somewhere else, having left the body behind, smiling at the fire.
Two men sat on bar stools. One was mid-conversation, with words pouring forth. The other didn't listen, didn't respond, but stared off into space with a calm, happy expression.
Indeed, the innkeeper, behind the bar, was wearing a hollow smile—there, but not there, going through the motions of running an inn.
"See them," Alucent whispered. "Really see them."
Gryan and Raya went to the window along with him.
The common room was warm, secure, and tempting. And yet, there was no tension, no turmoil, no laughter. Only blank, shallow happiness. Smiles that didn't mean a thing, eyes that saw nothing.
In this world that was spiraling apart, this area that was increasingly beset with odd occurrences, a roomful of people that seemed to see nothing was not exactly consoling.
"It's as if nobody here is worried," Alucent whispered, the tone more urgent than he'd intended. "See, look at them. No one is concerned about anything. No fear, no anxiety, no stress. Nothing."