Sir Lyman and the Morning Gate

Baited Rose

The day warmed to a pleasant spring afternoon before Hoolie and Sir Lyman encountered anyone on the forest road. A spare fellow of middle years, his simple dress featured a faded yellow sunburst, announcing the pilgrim as a follower of the Radiant Lord. Hoolie inquired about a meadow, marshy with wildflowers, and received directions to a roadside shrine a league distant.

"Does the hermit live in the meadow?" asked Sir Lyman after they had trekked onward for a time.

"Hmm? No."

Sir Lyman exercised his patience, waiting for Hoolie to elaborate.

"He lives near then?" The knight pursued, patience exhausted.

"Not really, no."

"We are going to visit Hoarguard?"

"Eventually, but first I want to capture a butterfly."

"A what?" Sir Lyman stopped dead in the road.

"Butterfly. Surely you've seen one? In a garden perhaps—the Duke's daughter is fond of such diversions I imagine."

"Yes—but why?"

"Oh! I seek an exquisite specimen! When you see it you'll want one for yourself, I have no doubt!"

Sir Lyman folded his arms across his chest. "Perhaps some unlucky butterfly will mistake you for a rumpled rose and alight upon the stick of your nose."

"What a wonderful suggestion!" Hoolie beamed, pleased at the image. "Yes! A touch of ruffling and I might well imitate the rose. A wild, ravishing sort if I may say." Hoolie consulted his inner rose and auditioned a series of rakish poses for the benefit of any lepidopteran onlookers.

Sir Lyman rolled his eyes. "Do butterflies suffer from delusions as do gnomes? If not, I fear your costume will not avail you. Though you may look the rosy fool, your scent is less flowery and will advertise your true identity."

"Too true," agreed Hoolie, sniffing his person. "A patch of honeybrush will have a sweeter smell when we find it."

"Hoolie! My quest is serious."

"A quest of serious passion," corrected Hoolie.

The knight's face colored. "There is a dragon involved."

"Dragons live a goodly number of years. Butterflies do not. My quest presses."

"I did not want to invoke it, but does the name of the Duke mean nothing here?" asked Sir Lyman sternly.

"Well, let us find out, shall we?" Hoolie cupped his hands and shouted into the woods. "Hermits! Come forth! By order of Duke Terwin—he of the rampant swan—show yourselves at once!"

The knight was momentarily startled by the loud call from the little gnome. He recovered and leveled a vexed stare at Hoolie, who was looking about expectantly for a reply.

"I wonder that I got so far without your aid."

"As do I, as do I. Now, will you wait here for the hermits to crowd to my summons? Or will you accompany me on my hunt?" Hoolie flourished his walking stick and prepared to set off again.

Sir Lyman schooled his impatience. His options were sadly limited. This capricious gnome was the first soul who even deigned to recognize the mysterious hermit's name. With a sigh, he trailed after Hoolie.