Chapter 128: Cartographer’s Warning
"I am Marek Thaleborn."
The older man gave a slight nod. "You are a long way from home, stranger."
"I was told you have maps," Marek said.
"As you can see, young man, I am a cartographer. I have many maps." Eryndor gestured a frail, age-spotted hand at the chaos around him.
"I need one," Marek said, getting straight to the point.
"What specific geography are you hoping to chart?"
Marek stepped closer to the desk but did not remove his hood. "A map that can lead me to Drakwyne."
The change in the room was immediate. Eryndor’s expression shifted from a weary one to a curious look. His gaze focused on Marek with new intensity. He studied the figure under the hood, trying to pierce the shadow and see the face of the man who would utter such a name. The silence stretched.
Eryndor lowered his gaze back to his book. "I do not have such a map," the old man said calmly.
Marek moved closer a bit, his boots making soft sounds on the creaking floorboards. He stopped right at the edge of the desk, looking down at the older man’s white head.
"You’re lying. I know you do. Everyone I’ve spoken to told me the same thing. Eryndor Alistair Vane has maps that can lead a man anywhere. He knows every road, every path, every hidden trail in the realm. He doesn’t just sell maps, he sells destinations." He said, his voice calm.
Eryndor did not look up. He slowly turned a page of his book. "They were mistaken. I don’t have such a map." He repeated, his voice flat and unyielding.
"I don’t believe that."
Eryndor did not respond.
Marek’s hand went to his belt. He pulled a leather pouch free and dropped it on the desk. The weight of the gold inside made a heavy metallic sound against the wood. "I can pay. And I can pay more. Name your price."
The older man finally looked up. He glanced at the pouch, then back at Marek. His expression wasn’t one of greed but deep weariness. Then he looked back at the page.
"I do not have such a map." He said for the third time.
The repetition felt deliberate. Something in Marek snapped. The weeks of exhaustion, the constant fear, the maddening war in his mind, all collided at a blinding point of rage.
Before he fully registered the decision, he lunged forward. His hand shot out and grabbed the front of Eryndor’s robe. He pulled him up from the chair with a strength born of desperation. The older man let out a small gasp, his frail body dangling in Marek’s grip. The chair almost fell backward but steadied. Books and papers slipped off the desk and scattered to the floor.
Marek leaned in close, his face emerging from the shadow of his hood. The older man saw it. "Do not lie to me." He clenched his teeth. "I don’t have time for this! I need the map to Drakwyne. And you are going to give it to me!" he snarled—a pure display of aggression.
Eryndor’s hands gripped Marek’s wrist. He looked afraid, his pale eyes wide. "There...there is a reason...there’s no such map, young man." He stammered, his deep voice even thinner now. "Drakwyne isn’t on any map in the realm. It can’t be drawn; it can’t be charted cause it exists outside our lines and landmarks. It can only be found by—" He coughed.
"Found by who? And how?" Marek demanded, giving him a slight shake.
"By a wanderer’s witch. A pathfinder. One of the old kind. They are the only ones who can feel and find the way."
Marek tried to read his expression for any sign of deception, but he found none. He loosened his grip slightly. His rage receded, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. "Where do I find one of these witches?"
Eryndor swallowed. "Release me...And I will give you a map. A map that will lead you to one. The greatest I know of."
Marek stared at him for a long moment, his breath ragged. Then slowly he opened his hand and let go.
The older man stumbled back into his chair with a thump, his chest heaving. He sat there for a moment, catching his breath, his hand shaking as he adjusted his robe.
Without a word, he picked up his quill, dipped it in a small pot of ink, and scribbled a few lines on a scrap of parchment. He held it out to Marek.
"This is her name. And what you must say when you find her. Do not change the words."
Marek took it. On it was a name: Odhran. Odhran. And below it, a few short sentences. I seek the path to the blighted lands.
"If I say these words, she will know what it means?"
"Yes." The older man pushed himself up from his chair, using the desk for support. He moved towards one of the nearby shelves slowly, shuffling through the maze of his collection, his hand trailing over the spines of books and rolls of parchment. He reached up and pulled down a long, rolled-up map. He brought it back to the desk and spread it open. It was a map of the lands north of Lunareth, a region Marek was unfamiliar with.
Eryndor took his quill again and carefully drew a small ’X’ in a fold of the mountains far from any marked town or road. He traced a route with his finger, then looked up at Marek.
"This map should take you to where she was last seen." He said, his voice steadier now.
Marek leaned forward slightly to see.
"The path is not direct. There are checkpoints along the way. Avoid the main roads. Hunters walk them. These routes should take you to her easily."
Marek looked at the map, then at the scrap of parchment with the witch’s name. He had what he came for. He folded the smaller parchment and tucked it inside his cloak. Then he rolled up the map and secured it.
He pointed to the pouch of gold on the desk. "Keep it," he said.
Eryndor looked at the pouch but did not reach for it.
Marek turned toward the door.
"Young man," Eryndor called out to him.
Marek paused, his back to the older man. His voice was no longer the voice of a frightened older man. It was filled with weight.
"You will not find peace on this path. I see your doom clearly. It hangs on you like a shroud."
Marek said nothing. His hand reached for the door latch.
"You stand between two futures. One leads you back to where you belong. The other leads you to what you think you want. It’s not too late. You can still turn back. You can still return to where you belong."
The cold air rushed in when Marek opened the door.
The older man continued. "What you seek will come with a price. A price you cannot repay. It will cost you more than gold. More than blood. It will cost you everything you are. Forget this quest. Go back to Lycanthria. There is still time."
For a single terrifying moment, the words pierced the fog in Marek’s mind. Aveloria’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. He felt the pull of their bond, the pull of home, a force as strong as the one that was driving him forward—something he could still choose.
Then the other pull tightened in his chest. The need for Rowena roared back to life, drowning everything else. The image of Aveloria faded, replaced by the burning, maddening compulsion to find Rowena.
Without a word, without a backward glance, he stepped out of the building. The marketplace was still active. No one paid him special attention as he blended back into the crowd.
He did not look back at the shop. He did not allow himself to think about the warning. His focus was on the map under his cloak and the name written on the parchment.
If Drakwyne could only be found through a wanderer’s witch, then that was his next destination. And he would reach it.
