Amidst the soft breezes of a fall morning, Cyrus with his traveling gear stood facing his mother and Saltrio, who had come to bid him farewell.

"You've packed everything? You're sure? Things for cooking? Flint? Extra breeches?"

The boy just smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

The old sage's faced was creased with worry. "Now, you will be careful, my boy? Nothing rash?"

"Nothing rash, Master Saltrio."

"Then, it's time for us to part. Farewell!"

"Farewell!" he cried, and at once set off at a brisk pace. At last, the long awaited day had arrived! He would be free of his mother's overzealous ministrations... and yet, it pained him to leave her, as well as the old sage. He worried, too, about the inscrutable and alarming conversation which he had overheard between the sage and Verbena, the goddess. Cyrus knew far less than he might have liked, and everything had begun to make him uneasy.

Traveling along the path had proven easier than he had expected. Indeed, the path was nearly free of obstruction, but the scholar had described it as trying. Something, then, must surely await him farther along the road -- yet further speculation was useless. He would simply wait and take things as they came.

As he walked along, Cyrus' mind slipped back to earlier in his childhood. Throughout his magical training, he had always found the exercises to be supremely easy. But now, he thought about those who were not as fortunate.

He remembered, now, one small boy who had not possessed any measurable magical talents. His flower had appeared outside the Garden; as Saltrio explained to his pupils, the boy could not practice any magic yet, but they were to treat him as an equal, and he would one day be able to learn alongside them. But the children were too cruel, too unfair. He had watched the boy's torment, but felt powerless to comfort him. The poor child had run away, and was never seen again.

Guilt had wracked him for a long time thereafter, and he was haunted by the boy's mournful eyes peering into his. Though he knew this with his mind, his heart could not accept this cruelest of fates for the unfortunate child. But that was in the past -- no action of his now could save him, so there was no point in regret.

Cyrus ventured farther still on the forest path. He began to perceive about him a slight drooping of the plants; surely the result of a slight chill? But he could not shake the feeling of trepidation that accompanied every step. Were the sage's words about the sun true? Was it really fading, even as he had claimed? Uncertainty swept in once again to make his thoughts turbulent and stormy.

It was in this state that he came upon Melia suddenly, without even realizing that he was approaching it. The town looked fairly hospitable, and he planned to rest there at an inn before continuing along his path.

Immediately upon entering the village, he was accosted by the frantically waving gatekeeper.

"Please, sir, leave at once. We must not have any strangers here, it would not do at all. Please, leave!"

Confounded by this unfriendly reception, Cyrus was entirely unsure how to react; after a moment, he elected cautious diplomacy.

"You see, I'm traveling from the small town of Norven, and must rest a while before returning to the path. Might I not stay in your inn for an evening or two while I recover my strength?"

The leader gave him another inquisitive look, then relaxed slightly. "Sorry, my boy. You see, we've been having a small number of... unfriendly visitors, and we've grown a little wary around travelers. But you are free to come and stay at our inn."

"Many thanks, good sir."

Once inside the village, he found it to be considerably closer to its reputation. The townsfolk were quite amiable indeed, some even offering him a portion of their evening meal. Yet many evinced a strange curiosity in whether he had met anyone along the road. He wondered who their "unfriendly visitors" had been, that they would be so concerned as to the whereabouts of every individual on the paths.

Later that evening, he was relaxing by the fireside within the inn, when he heard the first whispers hinting at who it may have been that had visited the town.

"That man wasn't a gentleman at all. As haughty as you please, and never a word of thanks to anyone."

"'e had a gleam in 'is eye, did'ya see it? A pair of beady eyes set in 'is irritating little face."

"They say he's from that Academy outside Rally. Them folk's a bunch of toffs, if you ask me."

"No one right proper ever came from that city. Bunch of rich toffs bursting with silk and jewelry. I'd like to stuff it down their hoity-toity throats."

Cyrus had never realized that people felt so spiteful towards the graduates of the Accademia di Fiori. Saltrio, for all his minor faults, was certainly a very kindly old gentleman, and no one had ever said a word against him while they were in Norven. Perhaps the rest of them were not as sterling as his former mentor. He insinuated himself into their conversation to sound out the depths of this dislike.

"Pardon me, sir. Did you mention the Accademia di Fiori?"

"What of it, country boy?" the drunkard sneered.

Cyrus flushed, but held his composure. "You think poorly of its scholars?"

The man shifted suspiciously. "Why're you asking so many questions, eh?"

"As a country bumpkin seeing the world for the first time, I'm bound to be curious."

"Fine enough, I'll indulge ye. They're no better than gutter trash, those Accademia fools; think they own everything on account of their education and fancy clothes, always traipsing around and babbling about 'floral potency' and suchlike."

"And how many of them have you actually met?"

"Er... you see... well, just the one, but they're blighted nuisances to the man!" he concluded, as if there were no more to be discussed on the matter.

The boy passed on and retired to his chamber for the night, well-pleased to be rid of the drunkards' abrasive company. He thought towards the upcoming two month trek with apprehension. Living off his own provisions for so long would be quite difficult indeed. No other way seemed possible, though. Slowly, he began to drift into a soothing sleep, dreaming of the ground whizzing by under his feet while he stood stock still.

The next day brought no answers to young Cyrus' pleas, and the weather had grown colder yet. He must press onward, lest he be caught out on the paths when winter finally struck. Bidding goodbye to the innkeeper and those who had shown him extra kindness, he took once more to the roads.

Ennui set in quickly on the easy path through the forest. To pass the time, the boy tried to go over everything he knew about magic.

The lore of the flowers was something that all children learned at a young age. He vividly recalled the first lesson that Saltrio had given on the topic.

"The flower is a representation of one's innermost being; it has both an outward aspect and an elemental affinity. See, my flower is the lotus."

The old master picked up a nearby low basin, and summoned up a perfect replica of a lotus flower from the water before it collapsed once again into formlessness. "My affinity is for water. Now class, can you tell me who the most powerful water practitioner is?"

"Water-lily," the students chorused.

"Very good. The five most powerful magicians in all the world are the Flower Maidens. Each one is actually two beings combined, the Flower Goddess and her priestess. Now who can name all five of the Maidens and their affinities?"

A little boy stretched his hand high into the air. "Rose uses fire, Water-lily uses water, Cherry Blossom uses wind, Verbena uses earth, and Iris uses..." The child screwed up his face in displeasure. "I dunno."

Saltrio laughed. "Excellent! You see, the reason you can't remember is that no one knows what it is that Iris controls. The other Maidens claim that she is the greatest of them all, but even my own teachers cannot guess the extent of her abilities..."

The countryside seemed to pass by swiftly; the youth wondered again at the old man's warning that the path would be difficult. He stopped briefly to examine his surroundings and try to find to what he had referred. He traced the path of the tree roots which surrounded the path with his eyes, and began to notice a distinct pattern. There were many roots which had carved divots into the ground, but they were considerably smaller than they must have been in the past, for the furrows were much larger than the shriveled roots that remained. But this year's rains had been as good as any other for the plants. Perhaps the path was simply more traveled than it had been in Saltrio's prime, and the gnarled roots had been trampled by the passing of many feet. Yet this would not explain why the indentations remained unsmoothed.

Cyrus stopped cold in mid-step. If the sun was waning, the trees would not have enough energy to grow new roots. But surely the people would notice if plants were not thriving as they should. Then again, the signs would be subtle if the decrease was slow. Easily attributed to the cold, such faltering would not be noticeable for a long time yet. Sobered by this realization, the boy walked on pensively, and hardly noticed as night began to fall.

The encroaching darkness finally invaded his awareness, and he shivered slightly in the brisk evening air. It was almost time to make camp, he realized belatedly. Hearing the howling of wolves in the distance, he felt a chill run down his spine. This, it seemed, was not the best place to rest.

Espying the glow of a fire in the distance, he hurried towards the sight; though there were sometimes dangerous folk by the paths, any company would be better than that of the wolves. A warmly lit cottage was there, just to the side of the road. He hastened to knock on the door.

A homely woman wearing a coarse apron greeted him with a warm smile. "Good even to you, young sir. What brings ye to our door?"

"Good evening, ma'am. Well, you see, it's very cold, and I just wondered if I might... be able to stay for the night."

"Of course! Come in, there's a good lad."

A gruff man sitting by the fire looked over and growled, "Marie, we can't have just any old folk lying about in this household what I built with me own two hands. Run along now."

"Harold!" she shrieked. "Have ye no sense?! This boy's traveled far, that's sure, and he's in need of a rest. Besides, if it weren't for me, this cottage would never have been built, thanks to your royal majesty's sloth!"

Harold turned red and stammered, but no retort was forthcoming. The woman turned back to Cyrus with a smile. "Now you go and sleep over there, on the cot." Seeing his hesitation, she added with a glare "And pay no mind to yon half-wit." Her gaze softened. "His tongue may be harsh, but he's a good heart, somewhere in that prideful chest of his."

The man merely grumbled under his breath, but made no further comment. Grateful for her kindness, Cyrus went over to the bed and fell at once into a delicious sleep.

Light from the sun filtered in through the cottage's small windows, and the boy began to stir.

"Good morning, sleepyhead! Here, have a bowl of porridge." Thanking her, he sat down to eat, while she commenced to tell him something of their history.

"Long ago, ere you were as much as a twinkle in your mother's eye, Harold was the strongest boy in the village, and everyone fancied a kiss with him out in the meadow. Back then, I was the prettiest girl around." Her faced was touched by a rueful smile. "It's plain to see that the years haven't improved us any."

As the boy started to protest, she cut him off with an upraised hand. "No need, my dear; I've little wish for illusions nowadays. Life has a way of doing that to a body. In any event, we fell in love very young, and decided to get married as soon as could be. But our parents were against it. They said it was ill fate for a girl of thyme to marry a boy of the thistle. 'The thorns'll scratch you something terrible,' my old mother used to say. But they were all fools, and we two the most of all. Yet we love each other still."

"Harold's a carpenter, you see," she said, gesturing towards scattered tools and assorted bits of wood scrap. She laughed. "Hasn't had a bit of work in years. Mostly, we live off what the land provides; the city life it isn't, but we manage. Don't we, Harold?"

The man grunted assent.

"Anyway, what brings you out so far away from home?"

"I'm on an errand for an old master of the Accademia di Fiori. Do you know it?"

"Oh yes, their people used to pass by all the time on this road. A little peculiar, but good enough folk nonetheless. Haven't seen any for a time, though, now that you mention it. Where are you and this master from?"

"Norven."

"My sister married a man from there. Honest fellow, if a bit daft at times. But what sort of errand is it, my boy?"

He hesitated a moment, and, perceiving his discomfort, she said "Private business, eh? Well, never mind. You'll have to pardon me, I'm a bit too nosy for my own good."

Encouraged by the woman's candor, he decided to tell her. What harm could it do? Leaning closer, he whispered "He's sending me to look for one of the Gardeners."

Marie threw back her head and laughed. "Go on! If you want one of them, you've but to seek them at their Gardens! It's not as if they go out for an ale at the village pub!" Seeing his solemn face, she asked incredulously, "You're serious?"

The boy nodded. "I see," she said, bewildered. "This one is missing, then?" She shook her head. "I never thought I'd see the day when one of them wasn't in his proper place."

"I can't imagine where he could have gone, either, but it's my task to find out. I'm to look around in Rallia for clues to his whereabouts."

"Rallia, eh? That's a dangerous place for one such as you. That place is full of unsavory types, thanks to all the money that's around. I always say that too much money makes you wicked."

"I am determined to fulfill my obligation, nonetheless," the youth declared adamantly.

"Well, at least take a bit of advice, will you? Seek out such folk as will guide you about the city. You'll never last a day without someone to show you their ways."

Proffering his thanks yet again to the kindly woman, he set out once more on the road. Day by day, the weather grew colder and colder, and a fear that winter would come upon him before he was safely arrived in the city grew in his mind. Indeed, the lengthy trek seemed less and less desirable as time went on. Still, it was far too late to turn back now.

Peering at the sun through the gathering mists of a chill evening, Cyrus shivered in spite of himself. He imagined that it was always a little bit dimmer than the day before, but it must surely be a caprice of his overly worried mind. There would be no way to tell until he talked to the Gardener, whose job it was to know such things.

The forest began to thin, and finally to disappear altogether, leaving a series of gently tumbling hills from which the distant city could barely be seen through the dense, pendulous fog. The so-called "Jewel of Cities" was primarily large in breadth, not height, and considered beautiful by few. Indeed, it was not the city itself that was the jewel, but the titanic, crystal-enclosed Garden which was beside it. Its massive land area was covered in low, uneven buildings, whose sea of roofs comprised an irregular patchwork resting over the narrow streets. Cyrus' approach revealed more and more details of the city's architecture, but the size of it failed to impress upon him until he was nearly to the city's wall.

Wrought with anticipation, he timorously walked towards the massive iron gates. High above, in the watchtower to the side, a guard glanced lazily over and rang a bell, whereupon the gates began to slide creakily open. He walked inside, unsure of what might follow.