Darke stepped through the door of a guard shed in Killidane that Poe assured him would lead him back to the Great Library. Instead, he found himself in a verdant forest.
“Poe, this isn’t home. Where are we?” he asked.
The brace on his arm, a technology far beyond his ability to comprehend that he, nonetheless, was entirely dependent on, bleeped and warbled. Its touch screen displayed a great deal of information, but it was clear enough for the traveler to understand where he had arrived.
“Well, Azael,” Darke grumbled. “You weren’t wrong.”
Poe bleeped and replaced her display of information with a warning.
“I know, I know,” he said. “Back-to-backs are dangerous. I’m guessing we have the wizard to thank for the detour.”
Poe warbled once more and a message appeared on her screen. This one, though, was from the wizard.
Don’t hold back when you find the boy.
He more than deserves your scorn.
It could be the all-important first spark.
May the saints save you from all I’ve done.
“How did he input a message on—?”
“I don’t know either,” the traveler replied. “Maybe he remembers more of his time in the Evermore than he let on.”
Darke sighed and pulled the hood of his indigo cloak over his head to conceal his face.
Okay, wizard,” he said, “Let’s see if I can save you from a witch or three…and then, should the saints allow, I can try to save you from yourself.”
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