Lessek's Key

THE LARION SENATORS

The almor screamed from somewhere inside the palace. The shrill echo ran into every corner, violating every space and silence, the terrible cry of a soul sentenced to an eternity in Hell. Mark imagined the flames in the cavernous Larion fireplace cowering, shrinking back from the sound.

Garec jumped at the demon’s shriek. ‘Demonpiss, but I will never get used to that thing,’ he growled.

Mark nodded. ‘Maybe it thinks if we can’t get any sleep, we might make a mistake and drink from a fountain or something.’ He shuddered; he’d seen some hideous things since his arrival in Rona, but Rodler’s death would haunt him for ever.

‘It may not have to wait for us to misstep,’ Garec said. ‘It might just starve us out.’

‘Or keep us here while the army surrounds the palace. That’d be a fun day, huh? Weak from lack of food, we burst through the main gate to deal with a tireless demon-hunter and the legions of soldiers Nerak has sent to make certain we all die.’ Mark slid closer to the fire.

Winter had arrived, imprisoning them at Sandcliff, for the regular snowfall meant the almor could reach them anywhere outside the palace. It was too dangerous to leave the dry stone of the upper levels. Gilmour had shut down the waterwheel feeding the shattered pipes in the north wing, but the halls and chambers had frozen over and the almor was probably lurking up there, waiting for them to make the fatal mistake of trying to pass through.

No one blamed Steven; he had saved them all when he neutralised the acid clouds, and he had beaten the almor, singeing it with acid and leaving it crippled and furious in the damp soil outside – but he hadn’t killed the demon. All he had done was annoy it, and now it reared up periodically to scream a reminder that it was there, waiting, and it would remain until it had sucked each of their emaciated frames to a husk.

Now Garec and Mark sat together in the great hall, feeding what wood they had left into one of the huge fireplaces. They had burned the long-untouched stores of firewood, the empty wine casks Mark discovered in the cellar, and much of the furniture in the hall itself. Soon they would be forced to go foraging for more tables and chairs – there were plenty scattered throughout the old keep, but no one relished the idea of wandering around; it would be too easy to step into a room that had developed a leak and become the almor’s next victim.

‘I wonder why he hasn’t come himself?’ Garec mused.

‘Who, Nerak?’

‘Why haven’t we seen him again?’

‘Maybe because he knows we’re trapped and running out of food. The wine is wonderful, but one cannot live on wine alone. And we can only refill our water when we hear the bastard almor screaming outside. So maybe Nerak hasn’t shown up because he knows this situation is handled.’

‘Or perhaps he’s busy taking care of other business while Steven and Gilmour are locked in here.’

‘Could be,’ Mark agreed. ‘What was his daughter’s name? Malagon’s daughter?’

‘Belle- No, Bella something,’ Garec said. ‘I don’t remember. Do you think he’s gone back to Welstar Palace to take her?’

‘Judging from Eldarn’s history, that’ll certainly be high on his to-do list. People have got to be wondering what’s happened to their dictator, regardless of how nasty the old bastard was. If he’s dead, they’ll want a fresh start; it doesn’t matter how long they’ve toiled under the thumb of a grade-A prick, they’ll all be praying for a new beginning under Whatshername’s rule. If Nerak has any doubts about sorting us out, or working the spell table – wherever that is – he wouldn’t leave Eldarn to flop around like a fish on dry land, will he? He’ll get back there and start running things as Bellawhatshername.’

‘That makes sense,’ Garec said, ‘especially if Malagon’s body came floating up on shore in Orindale. Those generals won’t know what to do, but I’m sure most of them would rather cut off a hand than take orders from a girl.’

Mark laughed. Some things didn’t change, no matter what world you were in. ‘He’ll take her – the poor kid never had a chance – and do something ugly right from the start. They’ll all get the message that Daddy’s little girl is just as cruel as the old man.’

Garec laughed. ‘Imagine being a doll in her dollhouse!’ He looked around. ‘Where are the others now?’

‘Steven is upstairs staring at the wall again, and I don’t know what happened to Gilmour this morning. He’s been in quite a funk,’ Mark said. ‘The fight was good for him; he was almost back to normal, but now he’s reverted to being all wet and beaten up. I suppose he’s spending these days working spells to make up for lost opportunity; I guess he figures Nerak knows where he is so he can make as much mystical noise as he wants.’

‘I’m worried about him,’ Garec agreed. ‘He just about came apart when he saw that empty spell chamber.’

‘Who can blame him?’ Mark sighed. ‘If I were him, I’d be downstairs locked in the wine cellar. It’s probably good that he’s back there blasting away. Gives him a chance to bone up on his skills while we wait.’

‘That is what we’re doing, isn’t it?’ Garec asked, ‘waiting?’

‘I don’t know what else you’d call it. Waiting for someone to figure out where we’re going or what we’re doing, waiting for the snow to melt so we can get past the almor, waiting for Gita and the Falkan Resistance to get to Traver’s Notch, waiting for Gilmour to discover something in that Windscroll he brought down with him? I don’t know, Garec. I wish someone would tell me.’

‘Steven’s not had any luck either?’

Mark shook his head. ‘If he had, he wouldn’t be in there staring at it.’

‘I’m not sure he’s going to get anything out of it.’

‘He hasn’t had a glimmer.’

‘What does it say? I can’t remember it exactly.’

Mark laughed, hollowly. ‘I have it memorised. It says: It’s been gone for a long, long time, Fantus, and you’ll never find it. Eldarn itself wards the spell table for me, Eldarn and Eldarn’s most ruthless gatekeepers. Forget the spell table, Fantus. It’s mine. It always has been mine. Steven wrote it using ashes from the fireplace. That was a bit odd, actually, with all the sealed canisters of ink in the library, but the ashes worked.’

‘He’s still convinced there’s a hidden meaning, even though he’s stared at those words every single day…’ Garec’s voice trailed off as he gazed into the flames.

‘Not so much a hidden meaning. I’m with him on this: Nerak’s a brash sonofabitch, too confident and too certain of victory, and it’s quite possible he said something that will lead us to the spell table. But it’s been what – twenty days? – since Nerak was here and none of us have come up with a damned thing.’ He dipped a ladle into one of the buckets they had drawn from the cistern the evening before, filled a goblet and handed it to Garec, then filled another for himself.

‘Thanks,’ Garec said, then asked, ‘sunonabitch?’

Mark shrugged. ‘Close enough. I add it for colour; it’s one of my favourites.’

‘What does it mean?’

He thought about it, then said, ‘In a literal sense it’s an insult to one’s mother.’

‘Those are always effective.’ Garec drank.

‘But the way I use it is more to say that Nerak is a great pile of cat-shit.’

‘All right, thanks.’ Garec grimaced. ‘You know, there really is nothing worse than cat-shit.’

Mark laughed. ‘How did we get here?’

‘We’re here to save Eldarn and send you back to Colorado. Have you forgotten?’

‘Oh, yes, right, save Eldarn. Of course, I had better write that down. I’ll see if Steven has any ash left. I’ll scrawl it here on my water goblet so I don’t forget.’ He refilled his cup.

Garec reached back for a piece of chair, tossed it on the flames and said, ‘But first we have to figure out how Eldarn itself might ward the Larion spell table.’

‘And then we have to get through Eldarn’s greatest gatekeepers.’

‘Most ruthless gatekeepers,’ Garec corrected.

‘Sorry, most ruthless gatekeepers,’ Mark said.

‘I wonder what aven it is.’

Mark looked surprised. ‘Does it matter?’

‘We’re sitting here drinking water. Whose idea was that?’

‘You think it’s late enough for wine?’

‘We’d have to go back down into the cellar. I don’t like it, but I’ll risk it.’

‘Yeah, I’d hate to get caught down there. Too dark, too many damp places. That miserable almor could be down there anywhere waiting for us. Maybe we’ll stick with water for a while and send Steven down there when he takes a break. At least he’ll have the staff with him.’

‘Right,’ Garec said. ‘We wouldn’t want to get trapped down there.’

Mark had leaned over the water bucket when he heard Garec’s goblet clatter to the floor. The Ronan was already running towards the stairwell at the far end of the great hall. ‘Hey,’ Mark shouted, his echo coming back at him from fifteen stone hallways at once, ‘where are you going?’

‘Sunonabitch!’ Garec called without looking back.

Garec burst into Steven’s chamber without knocking and was surprised to find Gilmour there, considering the crooked ash letters Steven had scrawled on the grey stone wall. ‘I know where this is,’ he panted, heaving in great swallows of air. Gilmour and Steven offered him twin blank stares as he waved a hand at the writing and gasped out again, ‘I know where this is. The spell table, I know where we can find it.’

‘Sit down, boy, relax.’ Gilmour was obviously unconvinced. ‘Get your breath back and tell us how – or rather, where.’ He looked at Mark questioningly as he too ran into the room, but Mark just shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

‘I just figured it out downstairs with Mark. We were-’ He stopped and laughed nervously; he didn’t want to be wrong after bursting into the room like a bad actor in a second-rate melodrama. ‘Well, we were downstairs, drinking water we collected yesterday from the cistern – it isn’t bad, but it tastes like lake water, all full of minerals and fishy things. And we were talking about going downstairs to get some wine, which is a good deal more pleasant, anyway, we decided to wait and send Steven down there, because to tell the truth the almor scares the dog piss out of both of us, and neither of us wanted to go down to fill the flagons.’

‘Gosh, thanks Garec,’ Steven said dryly.

‘Well, at least you’d have the staff with you,’ Garec explained.

‘Oh sure. Talk about hoping someone else will pick up the bar tab.’ Steven grinned. ‘Here at Sandcliff Wine and Ale, drinking really is hazardous to your health.’

Gilmour, clearly not amused, interrupted again. ‘I hate to be such a killjoy, but get to the point, please, Garec. Where is the spell table?’

‘It’s buried beneath a pile of rocks on the bottom of a river flowing out of the Blackstones into southern Falkan.’ Garec found himself squirming under the scrutiny of a Larion Senate leader, not the kindly gaze of his mentor and longtime friend. ‘I wondered if that might be the place where Eldarn itself would ward the table, but when I heard Mark clarify the part about the gatekeepers, Eldarn’s most ruthless gatekeepers, I knew that had to be it.’

Steven turned back to the text he had scrawled on the wall; he had been staring at it for days, vainly hoping some cartoon light bulb would pop on above his head, or the hickory staff would reveal the truth. Now he nodded. ‘That day on the river, yes. Gilmour, you werewell, dead at the time. We were coming downriver on our raft.’

‘The Capina Fair,’ Mark said, as if the name were an important piece of the puzzle.

‘I went swimming, and managed to get myself trapped at the bottom of the river – something grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. Garec came down to help, and soon he was stuck along with me. We used the staff to breathe, sort of, but that’s all it did – we barely got away with our lives.’

Gilmour looked at them. ‘How did you finally break free?’

Steven was quick to answer. ‘I remember this, because it was so odd. I’d been using the staff, blasting away at the river bottom, drilling it with everything I could muster, but it didn’t budge.’

‘Instead, it began to drag us towards this underwater rock formation, Steven by the ankle and me by my wrists,’ Garec said. ‘I thought we were dead. And then it just let go.’

‘Actually,’ Steven interjected, ‘it didn’t – and I’m not certain I’m right on this, but I’ll say it anyway: I believe it had something to do with what I was thinking.’

Gilmour cocked an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

‘At first I was pounding away, all my frustration and fear blasting into the riverbed, and it was pointless, then I forced myself to relax. We were breathing all right, and I knew that even in the cold, we had a few seconds before we started to lose our senses.’ He looked at Garec, checking he wasn’t leaving out any details. Garec gestured for him to continue.

‘It was then that I thought about our goal, to reach the spell table and to defeat Nerak. I focused on it, concentrating all my will on our quest-’

‘And the staff responded,’ Gilmour said.

‘No,’ Steven shook his head. ‘I never landed another blow with the staff. The riverbed just let us go. Maybe it was a coincidence, but if it wasn’t, then something down there essentially read my thoughts and changed its mind about killing us.’

‘Or it was your own power,’ Mark said. ‘Maybe your own magic was stronger than the staff’s that day.’

Steven didn’t answer; he was still uncomfortable when Mark insisted that he was more than just a conduit for the hickory staff, even though Mark had a legitimate argument.

Gilmour asked, ‘What else do you remember?’

He closed his eyes, trying to recall as much as he could. ‘It was so cold. I do remember those rocks.’

‘It was like a cave,’ Garec agreed, ‘an underground cave, and the sand was pulling us towards the opening. Rutting terrifying is what it was, and I was going in head-first.’

‘It was more than that,’ Steven said, pointing a finger at Garec. ‘He’s right, but it was more than that: it was like a sculpture, a perfectly random, natural, flawed, beautiful sculpture – nothing you’d see in a Florence gallery, but perfectly awkward and clumsily done, as if a passionate idiot had built it out of rocks and sticks-’ He paused, certain he was going to sound foolish. ‘It was like an altar. I even kneeled down in front of it, twice. The second time was when it decided to grab me.’

Garec echoed the text scribbled on the wall. ‘Eldarn itself wards the spell table.’

‘Nerak took it from here and buried it there.’ Steven had not yet said as much, but he agreed with Garec.

‘Why not take it to Welstar Palace?’ Mark asked, ‘wouldn’t it be safer there?’

‘It’s too obvious a hiding place,’ Garec answered. ‘If anyone were ever to figure out how to get into Welstar Palace – a challenge, I admit – the spell table would be there. Burying it beneath an Era’s worth of rock, sand and mountain runoff – who would know where to start looking, never mind how to get it out of there? It’s the perfect hiding place: nowhere.’

Mark nodded reluctantly. It made sense, but there were still holes in the argument. ‘So why did it let you go?’ he asked. ‘If it wasn’t your magic, and if Eldarn itself wards the spell table, why did the riverbed let you go when it read your quest?’

‘No idea,’ Steven said, ‘maybe Nerak has cast some kind of spell that keeps the table under close watch – and maybe the river freed us because Eldarn itself wards the spell table, against its will. I want to believe that Eldarn itself wants us to be successful.’

‘That’s awfully presumptuous of us,’ Mark said. ‘And what of the ruthless gatekeepers? Is that the rocks and the dirt as well?’

Garec said, ‘No, the ruthless gatekeepers are those sunonabitch bone-collectors we met in that cavern.’

‘But that was days later – we were much further down the river. That can’t be what he means.’

‘But think about that cavern,’ Garec said. ‘There were hundreds of thousands of bones stacked up against that wall; where do you suppose they came from? There’s no way that many people just wandered into that cavern: those creatures come out and hunt.’

Remembering the huge eyes he hacked out with his battle-axe, Mark said, ‘They must be nocturnal – but some of those bones were ancient. They disintegrated when we touched them. Those things have been gathering bones down there for ages and ages. The spell table has only been gone for a few generations.’

‘So what?’ Steven said. ‘So they gathered bones for ten thousand generations; that doesn’t stop Nerak enslaving them as his gatekeepers nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.’

Mark conceded the point and threw up his hands. ‘Hey, it beats sitting around here waiting for whomever or whatever is next on Nerak’s list to show up and kill us. What do you say, Gilmour?’

‘Can we find it again?’

‘I know right where it is,’ Steven assured. ‘There’s a mountain above the river with a stand of pines growing right out of the rock, sticking out all over, almost marking every point on the compass. I’ve never seen anything like it before. We can’t miss it.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely. I stared at it for what felt like hours while I was lying there thinking the staff’s magic had run out.’

Gilmour was silent, pacing back and forth across the chamber. He looked too thin, too tired and too old for the challenges that lay ahead. He ran a hand over forehead.

Everyone knew he was wishing he had been with them on the river. How much easier this would be if he had not been such a fool as to go to sleep. How many times in the past five hundred Twinmoons had he done that: fifteen? Twenty, maybe? But thinking he should build up some energy for their trip over the pass the following day, he had rolled himself up in his blankets for an aven or two – and why not? Kantu slept all the time – drunk too, mostly – and no one chided him for it. But the first time Gilmour slept in uncounted Twinmoons, an assassin had come into their camp and driven a knife into his chest, a quick, clean killing. He hadn’t seen the man, though he had known someone was following them. He, one of the most powerful sorcerers in Eldarn, had been tricked by a carnival magician’s cloaking spell, and it had cost him dearly.

Now Gilmour wrestled with the uncertainty of leaving again: would his magic wane when he stepped outside his home? Mark was right: there was no point in remaining at Sandcliff, and there was nothing in the third Windscroll other than a protection spell that he thought Pikan had planned to use to protect herself and her team from Nerak when he came through the doorway. Even then, Gilmour had failed, for he hadn’t found the scroll in time and Pikan had not been given an opportunity to use it.

‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s go.’

‘What? When? Now?’ Steven hadn’t expected to leave so suddenly. ‘Don’t you have more work to do with the Windscroll? You’ve been poring over it, and working so many spells in the back hall; are you ready? Do you need more time? Gilmour, as long as we have the key, we control the pace of this horrible cat-and-mouse game.’

‘No, Steven, I’m ready,’ Gilmour said, straightening his shoulders. ‘The Windscroll is an engaging riddle, and I think I’m onto something, but I can keep that research going as we travel south.’ The lie tripped easily off his tongue. He looked at each of them in turn. ‘You’ve all convinced me. Let’s go.’

Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere – he heard Lessek’s voice echo in his memory and worried for a moment that the others heard it too; it was followed by Pikan saying, I need the third Windscroll. It’s in the library near the top shelf behind Lessek’s desk. Why had she wanted that scroll? Did she know – wherever she was – how hard he had worked and how far he had come to get it?

Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere.

‘Where, gods rut it?’ Gilmour barked aloud.

‘Where what?’ Steven asked.

‘Nothing, sorry!’ Gilmour found he had begun to sweat and dragged a sleeve over his brow in an effort to hide his discomfort. The pieces had fallen into place. Nerak’s weakness. Pikan had known what to do; Gilmour had lived with that assumption since those terrifying few moments cowering in the corner of the spell chamber, gripping the pommel of that absurd broadsword.

If Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere, and it doesn’t lie in the third Windscroll, then where in all the wide world does it lie?

Fantus, are you there?

Nerak, you bastard. Where are you? Why don’t you just come and settle this together, face to face, here at home, where we belong?

Fantus, it’s Kantu. Is it you, Fantus?

Gilmour felt dizzy: the voices inside his head had taken on a mind of their own. First Nerak, then Pikan, and now Kantu – what was happening to him? Sweat poured off his forehead and stung his eyes. He mopped repeatedly at his brow and shut his eyes hard, trying to keep the salty sweat from blinding him.

Fantus! It’s me, Kantu. Can you hear me?

He answered, What could you possibly want? To ride along with the others as I lose my mind? And what brings you out at this time of day? I figured you’d be -

Fantus. Shut up and listen!

He was really there. It wasn’t his imagination…

Gilmour tried to relax and to open his mind – as scrambled as it had become in the past half-aven – and allow his old friend to speak with him. Sorry. I’m sorry, Kantu. Give me a moment. I must attend to one thing and then I’ll lie down.

Please hurry. I am in a safe place, but this will tire us both immensely.

Gilmour opened his eyes to find his young companions standing frozen in place, each staring at him with wild-eyed incomprehension. He realised he was gasping for breath, sweating and talking with the demons in his head.

He sent them away, reassuring them he was all right, but pushing them firmly out of the room. ‘I need to be by myself,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll come and find you tomorrow.’

Steven was the first to protest. ‘Gilmour, we don’t think-’

‘Nonsense,’ he cut them off. ‘I’m fine. I have a few things to work out in my mind before we go, and I am going to need quiet for that. I beg you not to worry. I’ll join you all for the midday meal: whatever perishables we have left. Pack for travel, because we need to investigate this river of yours before we do anything else.’

The others eyed him suspiciously, but no one offered another argument. Steven, following Garec and Mark out, asked once more, ‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘Just fine, really,’ he replied. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, midday.’

‘Good night, Gilmour.’

‘Sorry to be so abrupt, but I’ve just figured out a few things that need to happen before we go. I want to take care of them tonight.’

Steven nodded and pulled the door closed as he left.

In the hall, Mark said, ‘What’s with him?’

‘He’s losing his mind,’ Garec said. ‘Did you see him? I thought he was going to fall down.’

‘If he’s not right tomorrow, we’ll insist on staying here for a few more days,’ Steven said.

‘We don’t have food for a few more days – we’re pretty much out of everything, and even drinking the water is dangerous.’ Mark had run out of ideas, so he clung to the notion that they needed to get to the river right away. Of course, there was the problem of the almor waiting for them outside, not to mention an entire army…

Steven read his mind. ‘If he’s in there getting things sorted, then we have to do our part out here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, if he’s working out the details of the Windscroll, whatever he needs to crush Nerak with the spell table, then we need to make certain we’re ready to travel.’

Garec was confused. ‘What? Pack?’

‘Yes,’ Steven said. ‘You two get us packed.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Mark looked sceptically at his roommate.

‘I’m going outside,’ Steven said.

‘Oh, that’s just-’

‘Don’t try to stop me. You know as well as I do that it has to happen. If it doesn’t, then we’re just stuck here staring at the walls and drinking vinegar until Nerak sends something in here to kill us.’ He shouldered the staff. ‘I have to do it.’

Kantu! Gilmour called into the darkness gathering in his mind’s eye.

Fantus! Are you losing your mind, my old friend? Kantu’s voice came to him across the void. Communicating this way was horribly difficult; it required a masterful use of energy to completely empty one’s mind of thoughts or images that might distract one of them and in turn break the connection between them.

For the moment, yes, I think I am. But how are you? Are you in Middle Fork?

I am well, but I am not in Middle Fork. I hoped I would find you at Sandcliff. I felt the gate open during the last Twinmoon and knew it was either you or him. I have not had an opportunity to try and reach you since then. We have been travelling a great deal. In a secluded corner room on the second floor of a surprisingly comfortable inn, Alen Jasper of Middle Fork lay on a straw mattress, apparently fast asleep. Downstairs, his friends were enjoying a fine dinner, with an extra flagon of wine with his compliments.

It was me.

I’m glad.

Where are you?

I’m in central Malakasia, heading for Welstar Palace.

Gilmour’s surprise nearly severed their contact. Great gods, why?

I have business there, Fantus. That’s why I contacted you. I need to know if you have learned anything at all that might get me safely inside.

He pondered this question before responding. I don’t know why you would want to go in there. Nerak is here, not right here, but near here, and he isn’t -

Please, Fantus, anything at all?

I’m sorry. No.

That’s all right. It was a hope; that’s all.

Why are you going there?

Someone has found the key, Fantus. Someone might have brought it back to Eldarn. I have met a young woman who has come across the Fold through our far portal. She found one in Colorado.

I know, I know. Her friends are with me. We have Lessek’s key and the second portal with us.

There was a long silence; Gilmour’s mind was an empty cave. Then Kantu spoke again. The one called Steven Taylor?

You would love him, Kantu. He reminds me of you. And speaking of which, do you have any recollection of a staff? A hardwood staff, hickory, nondescript really, that might have been imbued with something experimental, something powerful? Anyone working with hickory that you remember?

Working with hickory? There was another pause. No. Not that I can remember.

Ah well, it was a hope; that’s all.

Why are you back home, Fantus?

I came for the third Windscroll. I thought it might have some secret to help me defeat Nerak.

The Windscrolls? That’s funny. I was just thinking about those. But why the third? There’s just one spell, isn’t there? A common-phrase weave for protection, right?

Gilmour was growing weary; he felt his body sink comfortably into the blankets. He tried to ignore the fatigue. It’s a protection spell, but I never knew that. And it’s written in Pikan’s hand. Were you not there for that trip?

I was, but I injured my leg and was not able to make the climb with them for the final tests. Pikan kept the records for us that time out.

She did? That’s curious.

Why?

Well, the night that things came to an end here at Sandcliff, she was working the spell table, trying anything to cast Nerak’s demon back into the Fold. When I arrived, she sent me for the third Windscroll. I’ve studied it now for the past twenty days or so and I can’t imagine why she wanted it, except as a last-breath shield for her team.

Kantu was silent again. Gilmour felt rather than heard a heavy sigh resonate sonorously from somewhere far to the west. She would have wanted it for herself, Fantus.

Gilmour didn’t see anything to be gained by passing judgment on a dead magician. We were all scared that night, Kantu. I don’t blame her.

She wanted to live.

So did I.

She wanted it for other reasons.

I don’t understand.

She was a mother. She would have asked for the third Windscroll to preserve her own life. It was her only goal, to get back to the baby.

Taken aback, Gilmour asked, How do you know this?

I was the father.

Gilmour tiptoed towards the edge of the great empty space in his mind, knowing he was about to fall in. So the third Windscroll -

Will offer you nothing against Nerak. I’m sure if she called for it, she was trying to stay alive for the baby, our baby, Reia. This time Kantu did sigh, and it echoed for a moment inside Gilmour’s head.

Don’t go in there, Kantu.

I was going to send Hannah home, but if you have the portal…

Turn back.

Perhaps I’ll go in alone.

You should bring her here. We can send all of them home together.

Do you know that he has had magicians, slaves, I’m sure, searching for me night and day for the past nine hundred Twinmoons? Did you know that, Fantus?

He has done the same with me – except those pursuing me have periodically come wandering in for a visit.

I want to kill him myself.

He’s already dead, Kantu. You can’t kill him.

I’ll find a way.

You’ll get killed, and you know it.

There was a pause, then Kantu spoke again. Where are you going?

Traver’s Notch, to meet with what’s left of the Resistance over here, and then to a valley in the Blackstones. I’m not exactly sure where it is.

Kantu didn’t reply.

Will you bring Hannah here? Will you join us? It would be good to have you here, Kantu, good for me. I have not been very effective recently, but being home has helped me hone some of my skills. It would be nice to work together again.

Kantu ignored Gilmour’s plea. Where is he?

He thinks he has us fooled, that he has hidden the spell table where we won’t find it, but we believe we know where it is. We have the key, so he won’t be far from us, of that I am convinced. He has tried on numerous occasions to get it, but so far, we’ve been lucky.

Lucky?

Absolutely. Gilmour would not take credit for any of the successes his company had experienced in the past two Twinmoons, but he added, Luck, and the hickory staff I mentioned, which has proven both powerful and effective.

First I’ve heard of something like that.

No matter. Gilmour pressed again. Will you contact me from Orindale?

Malagon’s daughter is there.

Who cares?

I care; I had a daughter, Fantus. Reia was my daughter, and I will never forgive him, not ever. I have lived a long time, and I can still feel her there, Fantus. She is as real in my heart as the day she was born, and I will not go on like this one more day. I will never go back to Middle Fork. I am through hiding. For the first time since they began speaking, Kantu’s voice rose. Gilmour was surprised that his friend was able to shout. He did not recall anyone ever being able to yell in this manner before.

Killing Bellan will do nothing to ease your suffering, my friend.

But it won’t hurt.

Don’t risk Hannah for your personal vendetta. That’s not who you are.

You don’t know me any more, Fantus.

Contact me from Orindale, please.

Afterwards, perhaps.

Please.

I may, if I… well, you know.

Thank you.

Keep well, Fantus, and sorry about the Windscroll.

It’s all right. Gilmour lied. It was not all right. He felt the world opening up to swallow him. Fine; let it take me. I need the rest, anyway.

Goodbye, Fantus.

Orindale, Kantu. Contact me from Orindale. Gilmour tumbled backwards, knees over head, into the sorrow and confusion that had welled up to take him. He would remain there for the night and much of the following day, sleeping fitfully. The third Windscroll, held open on his chamber table with two stones and an old inkwell, went unread that evening. Pikan’s thin script noted the common-phrase spell she had hoped to employ in the moments before Nerak broke into the tower that night long ago. As he tumbled away, Gilmour was reminded – from some disembodied spirit of himself lingering in the hollow well of his insecurity – that if Nerak’s weakness really did lie elsewhere, there was no one who had any notion where that might be.

‘I want to go outside with you.’ Garec came up behind him, making Steven jump.

‘Jesus, Garec, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to do that to someone about to challenge a demon to a fistfight?’

‘I want to come.’ He wore his quivers and carried the rosewood bow.

‘I thought you were finished with that thing.’

‘I don’t know when I’ll kill another animal, and I hope to live out my days without ever shooting another person, but this is different. You’re going outside into the snow, Steven, snow. Here in Eldarn, we make our snow out of water.’

Steven chuckled. ‘Yes, us too – but what can you do? Forgive me for being blunt, but you can’t fight it, Garec, and with you out there, I’ll be worried about you and if I’m not paying attention, it may come on us without warning.’

The young man Sallax had once dubbed the Bringer of Death held out his longbow. ‘Remember the cabin? Let’s try again. Maybe it’ll work a second time.’

Steven withheld the magic but reached out with the staff and touched the bow, anyway.

‘Come on,’ Garec chided, ‘do it properly.’

‘I don’t want you out there,’ Steven confessed. ‘This thing is an unholy killer. We already lost Versen to an almor and I’m not about to risk your life, just to have a back up in a one-on-one fight.’

‘Try again,’ Garec insisted, ‘for real this time.’

Steven exhaled and let the magic come; it wasn’t difficult. The staff understood they were about to go into battle and was prepared for his summons. The air around the wooden shaft lit up with mystical energy.

Steven tapped it lightly against Garec’s bow and then against each of the quivers. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

Garec shook his head. ‘Not like before.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t like the idea of you going out there by yourself.’

‘I can only think of about fifteen hundred things I’d rather be doing, but we don’t have a choice. If we leave here tomorrow, it will hit one of us before we reach the top of the staircase. We haven’t been to the stables since this last snowfall. If the horses are still alive, I’d like to know they’ll survive the night as well.’ Steven smiled and said, ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Call out if you need help.’ Garec was serious.

Steven stifled a laugh. ‘Maybe I’ll just toss a few snowballs in that window Gilmour broke when he dived out of here.’

‘Whatever gets our attention.’

‘Good luck.’ Mark came in with Steven’s jacket. He didn’t try to talk Steven out of his decision to face the almor alone. ‘Just remember, you have the magic. I’ve seen it.’

‘Thanks,’ Steven said. ‘Help me with the gate, will you?’

Mark and Garec gripped the wooden handles on either side of the gate that closed the foyer off from the wintry weather, lifted their latches free and pushed, opening a crack just wide enough for Steven to slip out

As the gate slammed shut behind him, Steven took stock. He was protected under a stone archway, his feet safe on dry granite steps. It was too dark to see, never mind to do battle with an otherworldly demon, so Steven gestured with the staff, igniting a bright ball of flame above his head to illuminate the archway and much of the stone walk leading away from the portcullis. A short distance across the lawn he could see a swirling wind pick up wisps of snow, a flurry of tiny tornadoes dancing in the fireball’s light.

All at once he was uncomfortable with what he was about to do – what had seemed like a good idea a few minutes earlier was beginning to unravel in his mind. His clothes were uncomfortable; Howard’s woollen sweater scratched at his neck; it was far too big for him. Even his coat felt like it had grown too large. He thought he might take it off before calling the demon out – one didn’t get in a bar fight in baggy clothes; too much material for some drunk to grip hold of. The almor might somehow grasp the jacket in one of its opaque appendages and use it to hold him fast as it sucked life from his eyes, or maybe out his navel: that was where life first went in, wasn’t it?

He slipped the jacket off carefully, always holding onto the hickory staff, and allowed it to fall to the ground behind him, then repeated the process with the sweater until he stood there in the cotton T-shirt he had bought while racing Nerak across the Midwest. He was confident stripping off the layers had been a wise first move; now he nodded towards the staff, summoning forth the magic.

Nothing happened.

‘Ah, shit, not now,’ he said. ‘Talk about the worst possible time to get stage fright.’

And remember, you have the magic, Steven, I’ve seen it. Mark’s words came back to him, confusing him and leaving him feeling vulnerable.

‘Thanks, buddy,’ Steven said, ‘but that wasn’t at all what I needed to hear.’ He gripped the staff more tightly. ‘Come on, baby, light up for me. Let’s go. You and me. Let’s beat this creepy bastard and get in out of the cold.’

Still nothing came from the staff. Steven shivered, wondering if he ought to knock on the gate and wait for his friends to let him back inside. There would be no shame; he wouldn’t go back with his tail between his legs – it took courage even to step foot outside the palace. He had seen how fast the almor could move, and the snowfall meant it could be anywhere, right at the bottom of the steps perhaps.

Steven stood fast and thought about the landfill above Idaho Springs. It would be burned over now, after the forest fire Nerak had brought down the canyon. He had felt so confident that day, certain he understood the Fold and knew how to manipulate it – paint the damned thing yellow if we want to. Why? What about that day had made such sense? He gritted his teeth: perhaps Mark was right and he was as powerful as the staff, more powerful, even.

It would be down to maths, because mathematics could explain anything in any world. Prince Malagon’s lock-box, his Malakasian safe-deposit box, had proved that, and once he knew enough about the Fold to understand it, he could calculate parameters to define it. There would be compassion, because anything less would mean failure; Nerak – in all his forms – would fail in the face of true compassion and mercy. And there would be magic. But which magic? Him or the hickory staff? Maybe the spell table? That question remained to be answered. It was sufficient now that he knew magic would play a role, had to play a role against the combined strength of the Larion sorcerer and his evil captor.

Maths, magic, and compassion were the variables that came to him that afternoon, and at the time it all made sense. He longed now to feel a similar level of confidence as he stood there freezing, trying to find the courage to step into the snow. The key had knocked him over twice that day, dropping him to the icy pavement until he worked out what he was being told. He wished that something would show him the way here; he needed something to reach over and take his knees out from under him. Then he knew he would be able to connect with the hickory staff and defeat the almor.

Steven watched the snow blowing back and forth across the Larion courtyard and realised his fireball was still burning brightly.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘who turned on the light? Me?’ Did it matter? He had turned the staff in his hands, imagined the size, shape and intensity of the ball, and it had appeared. He had stepped onto the speed bump, and the key had tripped him.

‘Step into the darkness, Steven,’ he smiled. ‘Is it that easy?’

He ignored the cold, took the staff and gestured out of the archway and into the air above the stone walk. The fireball complied, floating effortlessly out until it illuminated the grounds. He knew his ability to see in the dark would have nothing to do with destroying the demon, but old habits died hard; he felt more comfortable risking his life with the lights on.

‘Step into the darkness, Steven,’ he said again. ‘Get the right context, dummy, and don’t trip.’

With that, he breathed out, long and slow, lifted one foot from the safety of the dry stone and stepped into ankle-deep snow. Almost immediately, the staff flared to life and his fireball grew in intensity until he could clearly see the winding staircase, the snowy hillside to the east and the intricate stained-glass window in the huge stone wall that Gilmour had ruined nearly a thousand Twinmoons earlier.

Standing now with both feet in the snow, the glass began to blur, melting before his eyes into a gold and black backdrop, flecked here and there with snowy white. Was this his magic, or the staff’s? Did it matter?

The almor screamed a shrill greeting from somewhere out beyond the fireball’s reach, but this time the demon’s cry didn’t frighten him; instead, he heard the sound of a crying baby, the child that had died in the explosion at Charleston Airport. The young mother had been taken by Nerak before she and the child boarded the plane and the baby had cried from the time they passed down the aisle to the moment the plane exploded around them. Steven seethed with rage, remembering that sound.

‘Come down here!’ he shouted up the snowy slope. In his hands, the staff glowed and the hillside melted away, matching the window’s waxy texture and blurred colour: it would be easy to see the almor. Steven felt it coming now, but he was ready.