The capital of Aktida, gleaming with its worldly gloss and noble splendor, luring travelers with the polish of courtly and royal life in the finest of Aktida’s cities, the true city of monarchs, was now behind them. So was the boundless Ilvion, rushing its turbulent waters south toward the sea, along with the bridges from which stone-paved roads ran out in all directions across the vast kingdom. Ahead, through smaller towns, villages, farms, and trade settlements, through plowed and planted fields and gardens surrounding Mainor, stretched one of Aktida’s most important highways.

  It was wide, lined with inns and guardposts, where royal legionaries ensured order along this great artery of commerce. In the forests the road pierced through, wild animals, marauders, and bandits had long since vanished. Spring blossomed warmly all around, carriages rolled steadily northeastward, changing horses and drivers from time to time to avoid long stops. All in all, the road to Petista was scenic, lively… and not particularly long.

  Those who traveled often knew well that the journey from Mainor to the chief city of the Western Province took about three weeks, and saw nothing surprising in it.

  All the paperwork had been settled, and what awaited was only work. Hiring guides, meeting postal wagons with equipment sent from every corner of Aktida—from Nalvin, Asternia, even Boreain, across thousands of miles. Now, no one had the right to delay them or interfere. The funds the Academy of Sciences had allocated to Petros for research awaited in the banks of Petista and Vairad beyond the border.

  Perfect?

  Perfect.

  Ashley swayed in the carriage, bouncing on the velvet-upholstered seats, absently gazing out the window. Petros and Saelin, as usual, smoked their pipes and argued fiercely over some historical matter that no one else understood. Vergilius, with great enthusiasm, explained his inventions to Nubel, who spoke little, mostly listening intently and clearly taking mental notes of everything the older scholars said.

  Ashley had long noticed that this short, slightly plump scholar, whose hair was already thinning and who rarely left his study, seemed shy in the company of his more experienced and famous colleagues. She wanted to encourage him, and she grew angry whenever Petros chose Nubel as the target of his jokes.

  At a stop in Rheinvall—a large town roughly halfway between Mainor and Petista—at the local Mages’ Guild, a messenger caught up with them, carrying a letter from the Eastern Province. The letter was for Ashley, and she read it alone, locking herself away from the men and their lofty problems. It was from Roger, of course.

  Through the lines, which didn’t really describe anything unusual, Ashley could almost see his reproachful gaze. Of course, he could wait, and they both believed that absence only deepened love. But until now they had never been apart for more than a month—and that only when Roger, captain of the Fighters’ Guild, was sent on assignments to remote places. Before their marriage, he had wandered all over Aktida without a permanent home, but in recent years, he had settled firmly in Onklag, rarely leaving.

  And Ashley—though she had lied to Petros with conviction—still longed to leave, at least once more. But she was afraid to admit it, even to herself. In 1425, this desire reached its peak. Ashley endured a long, difficult conversation with Roger, and he, heavy-hearted, let her go. He knew she could not live without travel, without the air of foreign cities and lands, that she would wither away in her white tower of alchemical formulas at just twenty-five years old. And Roger loved her madly.

  She scratched at the paper with her quill for a long time, ruining several dozen sheets before finally finding words she thought worthy of him. Only a few more letters remained to be sent: one from Petista, then from Vairad. After that, the correspondence would break off for a long while before she could return again to the civilized world.

  She ended her letter with a standard phrase, scolding herself for using any cliché, but it still seemed the only right thing to write: "Everything will be fine. I love you. Yours, Ashley."

  They arrived in Petista at the end of April.

  ***

  The air carried the scent of steppe wormwood, cornflowers, and buttercups blooming abundantly across the plains surrounding the city that sat at the center of a vast plateau. And also the smell of horse and human droppings, since travelers rarely bothered to find latrines far from the road.

  The hill crowned by the governor’s palace towers, with its fluttering banners, was visible from afar, serving as a kind of beacon for the endless stream of carriages moving in both directions along the highway. The gates stood wide open: at this time of year, the wall guards were almost idle, unwilling to sweat in their stifling chainmail and breastplates. They sat in the guardhouse in light clothes, drinking beer or playing cards, while the flow of people poured freely into and out of Petista.

  Trade thrived. North of the city, the highway was just as lively. Merchant caravans crossed the border, for in the mountains it was relatively safe this season, and good guides were easy to find.

  "Watch where you’re going, damn you!" a man shouted, darting along the roadside, barely dodging wagons as their daring drivers tried to cut ahead of the main flow by swerving into a side lane. "Look where your horses are running! Easy! Hey, hey!"

  The man was about twenty, with a clean-shaven, sharp chin, a slightly upturned nose, and messy red hair. He wore a light doublet and boots stained with some unidentifiable grime. The drivers shouted back, but he wouldn’t give way, leaping aside again and again, keeping a sharp eye on the road while flinging curses in every direction.

  "Axel!"

  "Petros!" the man exclaimed in delight, pressing himself against the wooden wall of a nearby hut just in time to avoid the wheels of another cart. The driver of the scholars’ carriage whistled, tugged on the reins, and the whole convoy somehow managed to brake without crashing into one another.

  Petros and Saelin were the only two in the group who already knew the guide. They jumped down, hastily shaking Axel’s hand.

  "Thank Aktos, you made it on time," Axel said quickly. "So—how was the road? All right? Didn’t wear out the horses? The weather’s settled fine, so now we’ll check the equipment and… Yes, yes, the wagons arrived before you. Well, except for a few shipments from Nalvin, they’re running a bit late, and we really can’t do without those."

  "That’s fine, we’ll wait," Petros nodded, glancing around. "The rest is already at your place?"

  "Well, not exactly at my house, I had everything moved to a little shed nearby… where I do most of my work, you know. You remember what a wreck my place is, not fit to store so much stuff."

  "By autumn, when we return, you’ll buy yourself a fine two-story mansion right in the center of the city… Weren’t you planning to marry, if I remember right? You can give your bride a wedding gift. Let her know she’s marrying not just some small-timer, but a man who once worked with great scholars."

  "Gentlemen!" That was the driver. "Maybe you could… save the chatter for later, since we’ve got to clear the road? Folks need to pass. Where am I driving next?"

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  "Axel, climb up on the cart," Petros ordered. "Show the way. We gentlemen, know the road well enough ourselves. Nubel, Saelin—let’s go."

  They moved forward at an easy pace alongside the wagons. The horses, snorting loudly, welcomed the slower pace and clopped leisurely over the cobblestones paving the streets. Axel took the reins himself, skillfully guiding the team into a small side street branching off from the main road.

  Here, there were no wagons, only children darting about, almost tumbling under hooves, and bent old women, blindly hobbling from hut to hut in search of alms. Laundry hung on ropes strung between houses, swaying in the fresh April wind, and somewhere a smith’s hammer rang dully.

  The district where Axel lived was poor. Those who couldn’t afford plots or houses in the city center settled here. Mostly children and old folk wandered the streets, while the working-age adults labored in manufactories or served nobles in their mansions. That was the standard way of life for slum dwellers. But there were exceptions, such as Axel, who had chosen work far more dangerous, but better paid and free from routine. He had become a guide.

  The region of the Folkar’s Pass in the Olmaer Mountains still remained a rather treacherous stretch, which had been turned into a trade route only because one didn’t need to climb too high into the peaks. But there were still the occasional avalanches, wild beasts, treacherous ravines into which one could easily fall and be dashed to death. There were no people specially trained to traverse the route, anyone who wished could go into the mountains and attempt the pass on their own. There were plenty of such volunteers, and yet guides were still in demand, especially those who had managed to open their own bureaus and earn a reputation for skill. Axel had both managed and earned. But it was not only his experience that made Petros so readily agree to take Konrad’s future son-in-law on the expedition. Axel had something no other guide could boast of.

  "We’re here," said Petros, recognizing at the end of the lane a small, humble house with a poorly patched roof. The other carriages had gone the long way round to the back yard of the shack, because on that narrow street, crowded with people, the horses simply would not have been able to turn; besides, the equipment they had brought needed to be unloaded, and Axel’s workshop was a little farther off.

  Petros had been here before. He confidently passed through the tiny kitchen and bedroom, opened the back door to the street, and strode toward an empty lot squeezed between shacks and the tall walls dividing the quarters of the poor from those of the merchants. The lot was enclosed by a tight wicker fence, and at its far end, leaning almost against the wall, stood a fairly large shed roofed with iron. It was plain the master stored something important there—the heavy lock on the doors said as much. The carriages rolled up to the fence just then. Axel waved to Petros, jumped down from the box seat, and ran to the doors. He helped Ashley down, gallantly kissed her hand, and exclaimed:

  "Ah! I must pay respect to the only lady who dared to brighten our company of men with her presence! By Aktos, feel yourself at home here, even if I cannot boast of special comforts made for you. What we have, we gladly share. Besides, as I understand, you’ll be spending the night at the inn?"

  "I think so," nodded Petros. Hector and Vergilius climbed down from the carriage. "But now—if you’ll invite us, of course—we’ll sit with you a while, drink some tea… And then you can show us what you’ve already managed to bring. And at the same time, you can demonstrate your marvelous device to Ashley, Vergilius, Hector, and Nubel."

  "Of course." Axel rubbed his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen—this way, please."

  He opened the gate, crossed the lot, and those who had never before been inside the shed hurried after him, while Petros and Saelin, chuckling, brought up the rear.

  Axel quickly unlocked the door, stepped aside to let the lady and guests pass, then slipped in after them—and instantly vanished into pitch darkness. The rest halted, uncertain, not yet knowing what to expect. A flint struck, a faint flame flickered, and the dim light of a lamp flared to life, casting its glow over the room—revealing crates, tables, benches, and something enormous and strange…

  "Mother of all saints!" gasped Vergilius, instantly covering his mouth with his hand. The other guests slowly moved in a circle around the object that took up nearly the entire shed. A vast hull, like that of a ship, was suspended by cables from the ceiling and wrapped with ropes; tiny portholes gleamed, a rope ladder hung down, along with some screws and gears. Around it stood carpenter’s benches with neatly sawn planks, heaps of scattered tools, coils of rope, and stacks of drawings…

  "What is this, Axel?" asked Nubel in amazement.

  "An aerostat," answered Petros cautiously, stepping through the narrow door.

  "A flying machine," Axel hurried to explain, his pride in the creation almost bursting from him. "Above the gondola is a folded air balloon. Inside—there’s a mechanism powered by natural fuel, with a touch of household magic. I use ilmarite crystals, specially enchanted: they’re very light and release a great deal of energy. Hot air rises through a tube, fills the balloon, the balloon lifts into the air and carries the gondola with it, and with the help of screws, I can alter direction. And that’s how it flies."

  "And you sit inside it?!" Ashley asked in shock. "When it… when this thing… rises?! And you’re not afraid?"

  "Not in the least!" the guide shook his head.

  "And you’ve already tested it?" Nubel asked cautiously. "Or is it all still… theory?"

  "You wound me! I have tested it. Only once, true… and not quite legally. For such antics, one could be thrown into prison, on religious grounds. Since, as the saying goes, ‘he who was born to crawl cannot fly.’ It contradicts the teachings of Aktos. But in the dark, when no one’s watching—it’s perfectly safe, so long as you don’t untie the tether. Lord Petros and Saelin can testify that the aerostat is quite capable of flight."

  "It is," Saelin smirked. "I confirm. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here."

  "Saelin…" Ashley gasped. "You can’t mean to say that we are going to… fly? All of us? Together?"

  In the silence that followed, Petros cleared his throat and said quietly:

  "Well then, what problem do you see in that, exactly?"

  ***

  "We’ve ordered several crates of ilmarite from the cities of the Southern Province," explained Petros, setting aside his empty teacup. Axel, who until now had been fussing by the stove, finally came to the table, where the others had already been sitting for some time. "The fuel should arrive in a couple of days. And the delivery of special clothing for mountain work is running late—it’s being shipped from Nalvin. Everything else, I’ve checked, seems to be in place."

  "In place." Their guide flopped onto a stool but did not touch food or drink. "The climbing gear is here… Petros, you have the official list, let’s check it again. So: water and dried rations—purchased, stored in the warehouse, inspected by a commission from the Mages’ Guild, who certified that we shouldn’t be poisoned by anything on the expedition. And hunting, of course, hasn’t been outlawed yet. Magical talismans and all that nonsense for protection from evil spirits and curses—a whole crate from Mainor, though I can’t see why we need them… just extra ballast. Archaeological tools, shovels, brushes, magnifying glasses—check. Bladed weapons. Cooking pots, torches, spare flints. Elixirs, medical kits, and an entire portable laboratory for alchemy."

  "And I’ll continue," Petros nodded with a grin. "A whole packet of documents and sealed papers, to gain access to various libraries, archives, and state repositories. Quills, ink, for notes, and the travel journal. And also—a gift from our mutual friend," he gave a mock bow toward Saelin. "An entire crate of weapons of an absolutely new design."

  "Ahh…" Axel shrugged. "Those iron tubes with all the little mechanisms? Petros, I don’t get a say here, of course—I’m being paid for my work and the aerostat’s use—but still… why in the world do we need so many contraptions for killing? It’s as though you plan to go to war with wild tribes. But in truth, we’re setting out on a purely scientific expedition to study the crossroads of time."

  Petros smiled broadly.

  "Axel, my friend. Strictly speaking, I don’t owe you any explanations, considering the sum of money you’ll receive at the end. But, so there are no misunderstandings or disagreements, I’ll say this. The Academy of Sciences takes the safety of its people very seriously. Even if we were setting off on a light countryside stroll, we’d still be obliged to carry enough weapons to ensure we survive any unforeseen attack. Do you understand? We must be ready for anything. Besides, we calculated the weight of the cargo…"

  "It’s at the limit," muttered the guide. "I’m afraid we won’t be able to gain enough height to clear the mountains…"

  "We’ll manage," Petros said with quiet confidence. "If it comes to it—I’ve already made a list of items we can jettison without pain… But I’ve examined your aerostat, Axel, and I have no doubt it can handle very heavy loads. So don’t worry. Well then, gentlemen. Let us not abuse our friend’s hospitality any further—time to head back to the inn."

  "Petros, if I may…" Ashley said, glancing at Axel. "That is—if our host has no objection. I’d like to stay a while longer and… talk with him."

  "By Aktos, of course!" the guide shrugged. "Stay, I’m always glad of guests. If you wish, I can escort you to the inn later…"

  "No need, I’ll manage on my own. I know where we’re staying."

  Petros only nodded. The guests took their leave, each shaking Axel’s hand in turn before filing out of the hut. Their host followed them with a long gaze; Ashley could see only the back of his head.

  As soon as the door closed, Axel sighed heavily, turned—and the sorceress was suddenly struck by a cold, piercing look that seemed to bore straight through her.