Lone Gold, Daring Purple ✓ | Sorcerers, framed, runaway

8: "Partners in crime."

"It's not far from here," Wescherlie whispered, "There's an old tower inside Narrentry."

Into Narrentry Woodland, Cypur let her pull him along. Shoes squished through soggy leaves and ankles hit jutting roots. They plowed through bushes and trampled undergrowth, disturbing small creatures that scurried into deeper shadow or birds that squawked and fluttered. Sunlight streamed down making streaks of rays hit the forest floor like spotlights. Dank and moist soil stung his nose. Tiny white mushrooms covered trees or sat in the curved laps of roots.

Wescherlie took him over a few hills and around a large pond until they came to a drapery of vines covering a rock face. They were both panting by then and Cypur was ready to stop. There was no way forward and she'd led them to a dead end.

"Wait, it's just right here..." Wescherlie rested her hand upon the vines, and it responded to her touch, pulling open. A faint orange glow bloomed behind her hand on the rock face. She muttered a spell in ancient tongue. The vines shivered and curtained open. Behind was a dark gray rock face.

Strings of orange lights cut through the rock making triangles or squares with jutting corners or sunken edges. Like a puzzle, the pieces floated about and shifted. At last, an arched door landed on the ground with a soft thunk.

A handle in the shape of a cat's head emerged and Wescherlie turned it. A whisper of wind came from inside the darkness. Cypur rubbed his arms, feeling warning magick slither about his skin like a snake wrapping around his arm, constricting. It was old and weak, but he held back, hesitating. Something had once been strong enough to ward anyone away. Even a Professor rank Sorcerer, or even higher—an Arch.

Wescherlie let out sigh. "I feel it, too, but trust me, it's fine." She urged him, but he shook his head. Maybe he had saved her life a few times, but that didn't mean he trusted her. He saw her magick. She seemed weakened after that, but she could always recharge.

"What is this place?" he asked, crossing his arms. Wescherlie mirrored his movements and pursed her lips. She muttered something under her breath.

"Well, if you must know, this was his secret study or hideout or whatever. You know Xohr, the twisted mean Kathula that tried to get us all killed? The one that made Rauvuren his servants? Yeah, most of us weren't willingly serving him. Well, he's dead. I'm sure you can feel that, right?"

He nodded. Before he could make any decision, a sudden gush of rain plummeted down on them. With swear words of their own, they both ran into the vines. A tunnel led up to a stairway. Stone steps guided them through drooping trees, something obscuring the way.

Soon, a stone fortress bared their way with a wooden tower peeking peering over the wall like a shy child looking to see who was coming. The stairs ended at a doorway where patches of old blue paint still clung to the wood. A metal railing surrounded the fortress on either side. Intricate floral vines entwined, twisted, looped, or curled, disappearing into the overgrown garden. Moss climbed up the sides of the fortress, slipping over the walls like bold intruders.

"Never knew this was here," he whispered. Old things from the past intrigued him, like the brooch still tucked away in the pocket of his cape. He felt for it, welcoming it's soothing magick, unwilling to give it up, but knowing he had to.

Wescherlie got to work on the lock magick. "The magick hiding it still works, but it could pop. Not today though. At least, not for a while."

He waited for her, taking refuge under the awning to keep out of the rain. From up here, he had a good view of the forest. Shadows had befallen, and famous white mushrooms of Narrentry Woodland glowed in eerie white-blue light. Inedible unless you were a creature of this forest built to resist the poison.