The Hickory Staff

GREENTREE SQUARE

Several hours had passed since the strange beasts had attacked the Malakasian horses, and neither Mark nor Steven had heard any sound coming from the lower floors of the palace, or outside their window. They had fled the first suite of rooms for another on the same hallway, hoping Sallax and the enemy soldiers would be too busy battling one another to find them.

Brynne, exhausted, had fallen asleep several minutes before, despite the afternoon heat. The two friends whispered to one another, trying not to wake her.

‘You know what’s funny?’ Mark looked over at Brynne’s silent form, then leaned back against the cool stone of the chamber wall.

‘That a teenager who doesn’t know the rules governing the use of a semi-colon will have Asian characters tattooed on her ass?’ Steven replied, managing a smile.

‘No, although that does stagger my imagination,’ Mark chuckled. ‘Think about it. We’re here in another world. With two moons, it has to be another world. We can look back as far as the pyramids at Giza, 2,500 BC, long before there was metallurgy or weaponry of this sophistication in Western Europe, and there is nothing that speaks of two moons.’ He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued, ‘And this language we’ve both apparently learned instantaneously, it’s not a Western language and it’s not a precursor to any modern European language. But these people appear to live in a culture similar to our early Europe. Their features, this architecture, some of their weapons and even their clothes: they all look like they fell right out of a history textbook.’

‘So, what’s your point?’ Steven asked. ‘You don’t think we came back in time. Great. I don’t believe that’s possible. Hell, I don’t believe any of this is possible, but it’s happened.’ He absentmindedly ran one knuckle along a seam between two large stones in the masonry.

‘For all the similarities, there are things missing, though,’ Mark went on. ‘Simple things, critical things we would expect to see in a culture that mirrors early Europe this closely.’ Again, Mark glanced over at Brynne, but she still slept deeply. ‘For example, every western culture dating back centuries has brewed coffee. Can you think of the Ronan word for coffee?’

Steven smiled. ‘In the two days since I fell through an unexplained hole in the universe, located, ironically, in our living room, I have been nearly killed by a bowman sniper, imprisoned, lashed to a stone wall in a crumbling palace and threatened with ancient weapons. I have not, however, at any time during all this excitement, thought about the Ronan word for coffee.’

‘Try it now,’ Mark encouraged.

Steven closed his eyes and relaxed his mind. Ronan words came almost as easily as English for him now, but, despite his efforts, the word for coffee did not emerge. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I can’t get it. I keep coming up with “tecan”, but I don’t think that’s right.’

‘I think that’s more like some sort of herbal tea: jasmine-sleepytime-fruity-zinger tea or some such nonsense,’ Mark replied, ‘but I’m only guessing based on the information that magically appeared in my head when I landed on that beach.’

‘You know what this means?’

‘That our magic tapestry could possibly have brought people from our world to this world long before it brought us,’ Mark said. ‘I can’t think of any other way aspects of this place would so closely resemble our world… only a former version of our world. Culture is a function of any group’s values, traditions, beliefs, myths and behaviours. If cultural values, weapons technology and architecture from early Europe managed to get here, maybe the same way we arrived, those values and innovations might have embedded themselves in the fabric of Ronan life.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Steven interrupted.

‘What did you mean?’ Mark’s analysis was sidetracked momentarily.

‘There’s no coffee here. How in all hells are we going to get by without coffee?’ He laughed. ‘Give this up, Mark. You aren’t going to figure it out trapped in this palace room. We’ll need to get out of here to get home. Hopefully, the answer lies out there somewhere.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ Mark agreed, ‘but there has to be some reason why William Higgins locked that thing in your safe. He must have known about its power, and maybe how to harness it.’

‘We’ll figure it out,’ his friend assured him, then changed the subject. ‘Anyway, we can’t stay here too long. Imagine a world without coffee; you’ll perish. The staff at the cafe has our morning order memorised: one cappuccino and one just-fill-the-damned-cup-right-now-i f-you-want-to-survive-another-minute. If we’re here too long, you’re a goner.’

‘You’re right, and we’ll both be goners if we don’t get out of this ramshackle pile of rocks and find some food. I haven’t eaten since our last pizza.’

‘I haven’t either. Although this whole captive routine is an excellent excuse to avoid steamed vegetables and roasted fish.’ Steven grimaced as he remembered their pledge to eat more nutritiously.

Mark stood up to take another look out the window. He peered towards the sun, checked his watch, shook it several times and held it to his ear. ‘Let’s get out of here, I haven’t heard a sound from the palace in four hours.’

‘You’re right. Unless Sallax is waiting just outside that door, we ought to be able to get away.’ Steven moved across the floor towards Brynne. Switching back to Ronan, he nudged her gently and called, ‘Brynne, wake up. It’s time to go.’

The curtains in the upper room of Mika Farrel’s home remained closed as Gilmour Stow and the five partisans hurriedly planned their next course of action.

‘We can’t go back to the tavern,’ Jerond offered. ‘They’ll have the place surrounded or burned to the ground by now.’

‘Yes,’ Sallax agreed, ‘we have to assume they know who we are, so none of our homes are safe. Mika, Jerond, your parents should lay low for a while as well.’ Brynne and Sallax’s parents had died many Twinmoons earlier; Garec’s family owned a farm half a day’s ride from Estrad Village. Versen had moved to the southern forests from his family’s home in the Blackstone Mountains: although he would try to get word to them, he was not worried about their immediate welfare.

‘With the level of hatred for Malagon growing in Rona, they wouldn’t dare murder four elderly people,’ Sallax continued, ‘but you ought to have them disappear for the time being just to be safe.’

Jerond and Mika nodded in agreement and Jerond rose to leave. ‘I’ll meet you in the orchard at dawn,’ he told them. ‘I can get some silver, and my father has a few weapons hidden in the house.’ Jerond was the youngest of the partisans. He hesitated, obviously nervous. ‘What are we going to do, Sallax?’

‘We’re going on a journey, north,’ Gilmour interrupted. ‘Bring some warm clothing, my boy, and don’t worry. Things are moving along as they should, but let your family know they may not see you for the next few Twinmoons.’

Garec shot the older man a worried look, then turned back to Jerond and reminded him, ‘The orchard at dawn tomorrow, all right?’

He nodded agreement, then crawled through a window at the back of the building, leaped to the ground below and disappeared along a side street into the village. Mika had been listening from the doorway. He quickly descended the stairs to share Gilmour’s news with his parents.

‘I worry about Jerond,’ Garec told the older man. ‘Now, what do you mean by several Twinmoons?’

‘I mean exactly that.’ Gilmour took a long draw on his pipe. ‘We’ll most likely be gone through next summer’s Twinmoon. We have far to go, and not much time to get organised. Now, how many horses can we get before dawn tomorrow?’

‘Plenty,’ Garec answered. ‘Renna is tethered out behind Madur’s farm. He’d sell us a dozen if we can pay.’ As if on cue, Gilmour reached into the folds of his riding cloak and withdrew a small leather pouch.

He tossed it to Garec. ‘That should be enough. See to the horses, fill your quivers and meet us in the orchard tomorrow. We can’t be seen together tonight. It would arouse too much suspicion.’ Garec stood, gathered up his longbow and started towards the window as Gilmour added, ‘Make sure you get three extra mounts.’

‘Why? Madur’s horses are strong enough to carry our gear and bedrolls as well as us,’ Versen said.

‘Brynne and the two foreigners will be joining us for this trip,’ Gilmour answered, as if the reason were obvious. Garec snorted in disbelief, then crawled through the window himself.

‘I’ll need to get back to my cabin and gather a few things,’ Versen said as he clapped a huge hand on Gilmour’s shoulder. ‘See you at dawn.’

Sallax gave the big man a quick wave and watched Versen disappear into the alley.

‘What are we to do?’ Sallax asked Gilmour uncertainly.

‘ We are going to give Namont his rites and then meet your sister,’ Gilmour answered, rising from his chair. ‘But I am not climbing out of that wretched window.’

Brexan watched the attractive merchant exit through the front door of the small house and move along the street as if he had lived there his entire life. She knew the man was a spy, but she didn’t know why he had killed Lieutenant Bronfio. He had arranged for Bronfio’s platoon to enter the dilapidated keep through the western portcullis, and he’d been waiting in the shadows for an opportunity to murder the young officer. But why?

Did he not serve Prince Malagon? Bronfio had been a by-the-book officer, Prince Malagon’s man to the core. She was quite sure he had awakened every morning asking himself how he could best serve the occupation, and how to be the leader his prince expected him to be.

Bronfio often lectured his platoon on the importance of bringing a forceful but familiar occupation to the Ronan people. ‘These citizens need predictability,’ he had said again and again. ‘That’s our job, to be a powerful but steady and predictable occupation army. With that accomplished, we will need to put down fewer insurrections, mark me.’

Killing Bronfio did not make sense. It was essentially an act of war against the occupation forces in Rona. Brexan was determined to discover this traitor’s nefarious purpose and bring him to justice – but her goal was easier said than done. If she went back and forth through Estrad Village too frequently, someone would mark her uniform and ask why she was away from her unit. Disguise was the answer – or at least some form of misdirection. While she waited, she stripped off her Malakasian tabards and markings. The result was not perfect: a black vest over a black tunic, each with regularly-shaped patches of a different colour where the badges had been, but it would give her time to find a change of clothes without interference from her colleagues.

Looking down at the array of torn patches and epaulettes on the ground at her feet, Brexan felt a wave of nausea pass through her, the unsettling feeling of uncertainty that comes in the wake of any drastic measure. ‘Am I insane to do this?’ Brexan asked herself. She would be hanged without trial simply for stripping her uniform, never mind deserting her unit to pursue an alleged traitor.

Some time after the spy entered the building, Brexan watched a young Ronan man, perhaps one hundred and forty Twinmoons old, go in the same door. She didn’t expect to see him alive again.

When the spy exited a few moments later, she knew the Ronan and whomever he had been visiting were dead, victims of the handsome merchant. No one else had gone in or come out. Brexan checked that her sword was loose in its scabbard as she prepared to investigate. She forced herself to count slowly to two hundred before she left the alley, all the while watching the street to ensure the spy had not returned, and that he hadn’t left others behind to note any activity around the house.

Then Brexan walked across the street and entered the home, trying to act as if she were a regular visitor. The sight that met her eyes made her shudder, not because of any outward signs of brutality, but because of the cold efficiency of the murders. The merchant had killed Lieutenant Bronfio earlier with a dagger between the ribs. His tactics here were equally simple. An elderly couple – maybe the parents? – sat bound and gagged in two chairs near a fireplace where a stewpot still simmered.

Both had been run through the heart; the Malakasian solider cringed when she thought of one being forced to watch, helpless, as the other was murdered. There were no signs of a struggle, but the old man’s fingers appeared to have been broken, Brexan guessed during an impromptu interrogation – maybe about his son’s possible espionage activities? There were no bruises betraying harsh beatings and no other broken or severed limbs. The small puncture wounds – made by a rapier, she thought – and unchecked trickles of blood were the only evidence of death. She almost expected them to call out suddenly and beg her to untie their bonds.

Seeing them sitting so quietly together, in what had probably been their favourite chairs, Brexan imagined the old couple spending thousands of avens chatting together in front of the fireplace, planning their lives, teaching their children, entertaining dear friends. All that was over – and for what?

Then she noticed the young man who had come in while she was watching the doorway. He had obviously been killed without fanfare as well: his short sword was still sheathed. There had been no combat, no questions, no broken fingers and no negotiations for life. The spy had waited for the young man to return home and slashed his throat while the boy gaped at his parents’ bodies trussed up like pigs awaiting a butcher. Brexan knew this victim had been taken by surprise, unceremoniously and without a struggle.

She seethed with anger. This was not how an occupation force was supposed to behave, and if this was the method Prince Malagon’s spies employed to gather information, she did not want any part of their cause. Her stomach roiling with revulsion, she climbed a short flight of stairs, located the young man’s bedroom and stole a change of clothes. She was no longer a member of Prince Malagon’s occupation army. Lieutenant Bronfio had believed in their work here in Rona and he was dead, murdered by his own prince’s spy.

Brexan had enlisted in the army to bring order to the nations of Eldarn. Periodically, that meant dealing with a handful of insurrectionists. This elderly couple, tied up and cold-bloodedly murdered in their home, did not represent a threat to Prince Malagon’s throne, and if for some inexplicable reason they had, the spy who uncovered their plot should have brought them to trial.

Her illusions fading like the twilight, Brexan changed into her new clothes, took what food she could find in the pantry and promised the silent corpses that justice would be done.

She would find this spy, track him and observe his behaviour. If he proved loyal to the crown, she would find some way to report his brutality to the prince’s generals in Orindale. If he were not loyal, she would kill him herself.

*

‘So what the hell were those monsters that attacked the horses?’ Mark asked Brynne as they walked towards Estrad Village. She ignored him, staring silently into the distance.

‘C’mon Brynne. I told you we never had any intention of hurting you. We just needed you to get away from the palace.’

Mark reached out for her, but she immediately turned away, ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Leave her alone, Mark,’ Steven suggested in English. ‘She’s not going to help us. Let’s just let her go.’

‘I think we ought to hang onto her. She’s the only one who’s even bothered to try talking to us. Everyone else just starts shooting.’

‘There was that old man,’ Steven said, switching to Ronan. ‘He seemed to know we aren’t spies.’

‘Gilmour,’ Brynne muttered.

‘Gilmour,’ Steven echoed, as if trying out the name. ‘How do you suppose he knew we weren’t from Malakasia?’

Brynne appeared more willing to answer Steven. ‘He knows many things the rest of us don’t understand. We’re lucky to have him with us,’ she said quietly.

‘He’s the leader of your group?’ Mark tried again. ‘He’s organising the Resistance?’

‘There has been little resistance yet,’ she answered, still refusing to look at Mark, ‘but there has been too much oppression and murder. One day, hopefully soon, we will fight to rid our land of Malagon’s army, and perhaps even succeed in freeing all the lands from his occupation forces.’

‘All the lands?’ Steven enquired.

‘Rona, Praga, Falkan and Gorsk, four of the lands of Eldarn. Malakasia has occupied our homeland since Prince Markon died, nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.’ She pulled at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘There was a terrible fire at Riverend Palace… you saw the damage it did, even though it was so long ago. And within the space of two Twinmoons, the royal families of Praga, Falkan and Rona had all been wiped out by a strange disease. Even today no one has any idea what caused it.’

‘What about Gorsk?’ Mark asked.

‘Gorsk has never been ruled by a royal family the way the rest of Eldarn is. King Remond controlled all of Eldarn except Gorsk, and his descendants – all taking the title prince or princess – took on the different lands; Markon, King Remond’s great-grandson, ruled here in Rona.’ She cast a sidelong glance at Mark and continued, ‘Gorsk was different: it was ruled by a congress of scholars called the Larion Senate. Legend has it they were all murdered in a grievous massacre a Moon before the fire that took the lives of Prince Markon’s wife, son and closest advisor.’

‘Why govern Gorsk differently?’ Steven pushed down on a sapling branch to clear a path for Brynne. ‘Why no prince or princess of Gorsk?’

‘The Larions had magic.’ Brynne paused, recognising the scepticism in their faces. ‘They used magic to bring scholarship, medicine and education to the known world. They were a community of servants, brilliant servants, who brought advanced knowledge and research to our hospitals and universities. Their genocide was the first in a long series of tragedies that destroyed the political and social structure of Eldarn. Nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons later, here we are, an occupied nation surrounded by occupied nations.’

Checking his watch again, Mark said, ‘You keep mentioning the Twinmoon. Is that what we saw yesterday, the two moons lining up over the ocean?’

‘That’s right,’ she answered. ‘That alignment occurs about every sixty days, one Twinmoon. We use them to chart time, our lives, the seasons. Gilmour sometimes talks of Eras and Ages, but we’ve got no idea what he means. We have a difficult enough time keeping track of what day it is.’

Looking between his watch and the sun, Mark said, ‘Now that you mention it, I don’t think a day here is the same as ours, unless my watch is broken.’

‘Watch?’ Finally she turned to look at him.

‘Yeah, my watch.’ He held out his wrist. ‘It’s a simple machine that tells what time of day it is.’

‘Why call it a watch? Does it only work when you watch it?’

‘No,’ he answered as Steven laughed. ‘I suppose a more accurate name for it would be timepiece. Look, it now reads four in the afternoon, and here in Rona it’s already growing dark. I believe your day has fewer-’ He stopped. There was no Ronan word for hour.

‘I think you’re right,’ Steven interjected. ‘I noticed this morning it seemed to get light much later than at home.’

Now it was Brynne who was sceptical. ‘I don’t know if I should believe you. This may be some elaborate ruse to get me to reveal details of the Resistance. It won’t work.’

Mark removed his watch and handed it to her. ‘Here, take it. It isn’t doing me any good anyway.’

Cautiously, Brynne reached out and took the watch. ‘How does it attach?’ Mark fastened the band and after a rudimentary lesson in telling time, they continued walking.

‘Thank you, Mark Jenkins.’ Brynne smiled for the first time all day.

‘Just Mark is fine, Brynne. Just Mark.’

The trio continued their journey towards the village, bypassing the road for a narrow path through oak, maple, dogwood, walnut and chestnut trees that were interrupted periodically by a particularly prickly and disagreeable type of cedar marked by thin strands of exfoliated bark. There were other trees as well, trees that didn’t belong in this sort of forest: white birch, rosewood, beech, and several species Steven couldn’t identify.

Steven had many questions for Brynne now that she was willing to talk with them, and the young woman complied as well as she could. So little about this experience made sense; Steven was surprised at how well he and Mark were handling their predicament. Magicians at work, huge ravenous beasts stalking the forest, a battle raging through a crumbling palace and all of it happening around them while he and Mark looked on: Steven felt as though he had fallen headlong into someone else’s dream. Now he was trapped. While the story grew ever more peculiar, he was helpless, unable to grasp, let alone solve, the problems that faced them. All he and Mark could do was to continue walking towards town and hope they would find someone with the knowledge to get them back through that mysterious tapestry and into their living room.

Rona’s southern region felt more like a bayou wetland than a Colorado mountain forest and the two foreigners were sweating openly. Hunger and dehydration were giving Steven tunnel vision. ‘I need to eat something,’ he said, ‘and soon.’

‘You’re right,’ Mark agreed. ‘I could eat health food, I’m so hungry.’ Turning to Brynne, he asked, ‘Is there somewhere we can find something to eat nearby?’

Brynne contemplated her choices for a moment before replying, ‘Greentree Tavern. It’s not far.’ She knew Greentree Square would be packed with Malakasian soldiers, all searching for the band of revolutionaries, but she hoped the confusion that would ensue when she brought the strangers into town would give her an opportunity to escape.

‘This tavern,’ Mark asked, ‘is it safe?’

‘It ought to be… I own it.’

‘You own a bar?’ Steven was incredulous. Brynne nodded. ‘Your own bar?’ he repeated. ‘Where were you when I went to college?’

‘How late is the kitchen open?’ Mark said, almost drooling at the thought of hot food and cold beer – even though he had no intention of going anywhere the young woman suggested once they reached the village.

‘Late enough,’ she said, coyly returning his smile. She resolutely continued her forced march, all the while considering how she might escape from the two foreigners. She hoped against hope that Sallax and her friends had survived the assault on the palace and would be waiting to ambush her captors somewhere between Riverend and Estrad.

Brynne had never known her parents. They had died while she was still an infant; she and Sallax had been brought up in an orphanage in Estrad. The elderly couple who ran the orphanage died fifty Twinmoons later, while Brynne was still a child, so Sallax found a job clearing tables and cleaning trenchers and goblets at Greentree Tavern. It did not pay much, but Sybert Gregoro, the tavern owner, had taken a liking to the siblings and they were given a small room of their own, behind the scullery.

When Brynne was old enough, she began working in the tavern kitchen, preparing food and baking bread for evening meals. She had never been to school and learned to read from an older boy who also worked in the kitchen. His name was Ren and Brynne was smitten with him: the first boy she had ever had a crush on. But Ren had other plans for her.

One night, a wealthy Falkan businessman caught sight of Brynne through the scullery doors. He stayed drinking near the fireplace until the tavern was about to close, then signalled unobtrusively for Ren. When the merchant retired to his room, Ren went back into the kitchen and called Brynne over.

She had no idea what was happening, but Ren grinned at her and gestured that she should follow him up the stairs. Sometimes, when the inn wasn’t full, he’d sneak her into one of the guest bedrooms so she could sleep on a luxury pallet. He was her friend and she had no reason to fear him.

When Ren arrived at the door to the merchant’s room, he knocked once, softly. Cracking the door slightly, the merchant handed Ren a small leather pouch and the boy promptly pushed Brynne into the room, pulled the door shut and disappeared down the stairs.

Brynne’s memory of the night that followed was still clouded by terror. She had spent her life trying to repress the violation; even now, many Twinmoons on, she was confounded by the fact that she had never screamed. Sybert would have heard; she knew he would have come quickly to help. Sallax had been downstairs sleeping in their small room; he might have heard her cry for help.

All she remembered was quietly repeating, ‘No, please,’ over and over again while the Falkan businessman held her tightly by the throat. ‘Let you go? Such a toothsome little morsel, just ripe for the plucking – I think not, my sweet little whore,’ he whispered, ignoring her pleas, and took his time abusing her until sunlight broke through the chamber window. Seeing dawn arrive, the merchant dressed, tossed her a silver piece and left the tavern.

Later that morning, Sybert found her. She had not moved from the floor where the man had thrown her after he had finished raping her. She was lying silently, staring up at the ceiling. Her dress had been ripped away from her body, revealing the depths of degradation her attacker had subjected her to: her slim legs were scratched from thigh to ankle, her barely grown breasts were torn and bitten, bloody toothmarks empurpling her pale skin. Tears trickled silently down her still-terrified face, which was as battered as the rest of her frail body.

The publican groaned out loud, then tore the coverlet off the bed and wrapped her gently in it. He summoned a village woman skilled in healing arts, who nursed her back to health over the next few Twinmoons. Sybert himself made sure Brynne was recuperating, refusing to let her take up her duties until he was certain she had healed.

Several days after Brynne’s rape, Sallax and Ren were sent across the village to purchase flour, eggs and venison for the evening’s meal. Sallax suspected Ren was responsible for taking his sister to the Falkan’s chamber, but he had no proof – until that morning, when Ren insisted they stop at the cobbler’s to look at a pair of fine leather boots displayed in the window. Sallax laughed at the older boy: the boots cost more than either of them made in three Twinmoons, but Ren brandished a heavy leather pouch and insisted on trying them on. When he was sure they fit well enough, he pulled out a handful of silver coins and paid the shoemaker.

As they left the shop, Sallax turned to Ren. ‘If you’ve got silver, there’s something else you should see.’ He led him down a side street to a secluded square, empty of onlookers.

Ren looked around. He couldn’t see what Sallax meant – then, for the first time, he began to wonder if he had been a little stupid pulling out his money in public. But it wasn’t silver Sallax was interested in. Instead, he pushed the older boy up against the wall and, before Ren realised what was happening, Sallax slipped his knife up under Ren’s ribs and into his lungs. Blood, deep red, almost black, flowed from the wound and Sallax sat for several moments savouring Ren’s laboured breathing as his lungs filled with fluid and he died there on the street.

Working slowly and carefully, Sallax removed the leather purse from Ren’s tunic and pulled the boots from the dead boy’s feet. He returned them to the cobbler, saying his friend was too embarrassed to ask for a refund, but the silver belonged to their employer. The cobbler was not happy, but he returned the fee, threatening to take the matter up with Sybert himself if either boy ever tried such a thing again.

When Sallax returned with the provisions, he told Sybert he’d last seen Ren disappearing into an alehouse. When he didn’t return for the evening meal, the innkeeper shrugged. He too had his suspicions about how the merchant had lured Brynne upstairs.

Seeing the look in her brother’s eyes, Brynne knew he was lying about Ren’s disappearance. Strangely, it didn’t make her feel better; she felt empty inside. The thought of Ren lying dead, somewhere in the village, left her a little remorseful.

*

Although she recovered physically, Brynne’s youthful innocence was gone for good. She never saw her rapist again, but in nightmares she remembered his thick, sweaty jowls, the long half-moon scar across his wrist, and an ugly brown, bulbous mole that grew from one side of his nose. A toughness emerged in her, almost overnight, and it wasn’t long before men throughout Estrad knew better than to proposition the lovely but deadly young woman. Twinmoons in the kitchen and scullery had made her quick with a knife, and more than one tavern patron had cause to regret reaching for her bottom as she served drinks. Brynne never maimed them: she just marked them, leaving a half-moon scar across their wrists, a permanent reminder of the man who had so violently destroyed her innocence and broken her spirit.

Thirty-five Twinmoons later, Sybert Gregoro died in his sleep. Brynne sent word to his estranged son, a farmer in northern Falkan, who replied in a careful script that she and Sallax should send along his father’s personal effects and savings but should consider the tavern their own. They kept the letter closely guarded in a strongbox under the bar and left Sybert’s chambers empty for seven full Twinmoons before they felt comfortable taking over.

It was a longer time before she and Sallax started calling Greentree Tavern their own. For many Twinmoons, Brynne expected Sybert’s son to arrive and claim his inheritance, but he never had, and the people of Estrad Village were glad the old man had left his business to the hard-working siblings he had fostered.

It was dark by the time Steven, Mark and Brynne reached the edge of Estrad Village. Steven was glad of the darkness: it would help camouflage their strange-looking clothing.

‘If we’re going to be around here for any length of time, we ought to get some other clothes,’ he observed. ‘Your red sweater stands out like a beacon among all this homespun fabric.’

‘You’re right,’ Mark said, appearing to notice his pullover for the first time all day. ‘But before that, we have to do something with her. Look for something we can use to tie her up.’ Steven pulled the belt from around his waist and, taking his friend’s lead, Mark did the same.

‘What do you mean?’ Brynne implored. ‘Are we not going to my tavern? I can get you food, and Sallax has clothing there that will fit both of you.’

‘Into the lion’s den, my dear?’ Mark asked sarcastically. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll find food and clothing and be back to get you. We need to meet Gilmour, because he’s the only other person who seems to understand we’re not here to overthrow the damned government, or to infiltrate your resistance efforts, but I certainly don’t trust you enough to follow you into town.’ Mark felt a pang of sadness as he watched her frown with disappointment. She was lovely. He fought the urge to gently push her hair back off her face.

‘I don’t want anything to do with you two either,’ she spat. ‘Why will you not trust me to take you to Gilmour now?’

Steven said, ‘Because we don’t believe you know where he is. None of you were expecting that attack this morning, so I don’t suppose your friends are all snugly tucked in their beds. We’ll find food, steal some clothing and be right back for you.’ Brynne struggled against the bonds that held her firmly to a handy tree trunk. They were still several hundred paces from the edge of the village and although screaming would do her no good, Steven was taking no chances; he tore a sleeve from his shirt and tied it tightly across her mouth.

‘Try to relax,’ he whispered as he and Mark turned to make their way stealthily into the village. ‘We’ll be back in a tick.’

Unable to respond, Brynne’s eyes clouded with anger and she lashed out at the foreigners, but her kick sailed wide of its targets.

‘You think she was lying?’ Steven asked a short while later.

‘I’m sure she was lying.’

‘That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to meet a woman who owned her own bar,’ Steven mused.

Mark chuckled. ‘Yeah, me too, but I was hoping mine would be on 17th Street in Denver.’

‘Maybe we can find Gilmour at Greentree Tavern,’ Steven guessed. ‘Why else would she want to get us there?’

‘Sallax,’ Mark commented dryly.

‘Oh, you’re right. He does tend to shoot first and ask questions never, doesn’t he.’ Steven spoke in hushed tones as they approached a row of single-storey stone buildings with clay-tiled roofs. ‘I say we risk it. Maybe he won’t try to kill us if he knows we have her tied up somewhere.’

‘Let’s find clothes first. We certainly can’t ask for directions looking like this.’ Mark crept alongside one of the buildings and peered through an open window to where a family was sitting around a fireplace, talking and laughing together.

‘Not this one,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s keep going.’ They moved to the next window, through which Mark could see a family making preparations for their evening meal.

‘As great as it smells in there, I say we keep looking,’ Mark said.

Steven’s mouth watered at the aroma emanating from the warmly lit kitchen, but he nodded in silent agreement.

Crawling on all fours, they discovered the windows in the next house were covered with pine shutters. Through a small crack between the wooden blinds Steven watched a burly, powerful-looking man don a wide-brimmed hat and exit out the opposite side of the house into the muddy street. Steven watched for a full five minutes, in case the man returned quickly, or other family members turned up. From his vantage point at the window he could see clearly through two rooms, but he wasn’t sure about the rest of the building.

Mark grew uneasy waiting. ‘What do you see?’ he whispered at last.

‘Nothing,’ Steven answered. ‘One big guy went out the front, but I haven’t seen anyone since.’

‘All right, let’s go in.’ Mark began making his way around the side of the house. The front door was made of wood, with a length of hide hanging from a small hole drilled through the centre board. No locks. Pulling down on the leather strap, Steven felt a latching device inside come free and the door swung open easily on its leather hinges.

The two men made their way rapidly through the house collecting food and clothing. It was sparsely decorated but comfortable, with a small stone fireplace in the bedchamber, a pile of logs and kindling next to it.

Mark spotted the straw mattress and, acting on instinct, lifted a corner of the bedding to find a small pouch and a long narrow sword in a smooth leather scabbard. He emptied the contents of the pouch into one hand: silver coins. Although different sizes, they all bore an image of the same man embossed on one side, with an inscription Mark was unable to read on the other.

‘Well, thank God for us some things don’t change,’ he said. ‘People are the same everywhere: the family fortune is stashed under the mattress. I guess they can’t trust the banks here in Rona either.’

‘Hey, you can trust my bank,’ Steven retorted.

‘Sure, the bank you robbed.’ Mark laughed, then changed the subject. ‘I’m taking this sword, too.’

‘What are you going to do with a sword?’ Steven asked, belting a long tunic around his waist and stuffing what food he could find into a cloth pack.

‘Hopefully, protect myself from lunatics like Sallax. You should find some kind of weapon as well, my friend. He doesn’t seem terribly fond of you either.’

Mark moved through the back room towards a row of windows facing the forest. On a plain wooden table was a long hunting knife similar to the one he had taken from Brynne. ‘Here,’ he said and handed the weapon to his roommate. ‘Take this one. I’ll keep Brynne’s.’

Finding nothing more to pillage, Steven and Mark returned to the front door.

‘We should leave him something. I feel bad. We’ve taken everything this guy has,’ Steven said guiltily.

‘C’mon, let’s just go.’ Mark gripped Steven’s shoulder. ‘Of course you feel bad. We’re thieves. We just robbed this guy’s house. It’s not right, but with his help, we might just live through this nightmare.’

Steven moved back through the house, removed two ballpoint pens from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘There, he can make a fortune inventing the disposable writing instrument.’

‘Compliments of the First National Bank of Idaho Springs, I assume?’

‘Home of the lowest interest small business loans on the Front Range,’ Steven said, as if reading a cue card.

‘Great, leave him the phone number. Howard will appreciate that.’ Mark opened the wooden doorway a few inches and peered into the street beyond. ‘We’re clear. Let’s go.’

‘Right.’ Steven moved outside. ‘Now we have to find Greentree Tavern and, hopefully, Gilmour.’

‘If he’s still alive.’ Mark sounded dubious.

The roommates asked directions of an elderly woman, who spent several minutes explaining how to find Greentree Square. Once he’d grasped the directions, Mark tried to interrupt her, but she continued talking as if the two foreigners were the first people with whom she had spoken in half a lifetime.

Steven was feeling stifled, despite a lingering Twinmoon breeze and the evening’s cooler temperatures. He was beginning to regret wearing his tweed jacket under his newly stolen tunic – he’d remove it as soon as they were alone, but for now he had to listen, somewhat impatiently, to the garrulous old woman while sweating through his layers.

Her directions, although lengthy, were easy to follow and they soon reached a busy main street that appeared to run north. Mark suggested they stick to the side streets that parallelled the wide thoroughfare, to avoid Ronan freedom fighters or Malakasian soldiers who might be searching for them. It wasn’t long before the road opened into an expansive trade and commercial area, bigger than they might have expected for a village. Even though night had fallen, carts of dried meats, fresh fish, cheeses, tanned hides and wine still lined the small village common: it looked like a tiny grass island in the centre of a divided highway.

Greentree Square.

The evening breeze caused torches illuminating the area to flicker as if the light itself were alive, and shadows cast by those hurrying through town seemed to move in unnatural ways. Greentree Square bustled with activity, much of it caused by Malakasian soldiers moving deliberately through the buildings and back streets, obviously searching for someone, and the Ronans steering clear of occupation forces by taking shelter in any building that would allow them a quick entry through bolted doors. Locals working their carts raised collars, pulled hat brims down or stepped into shadows as Malakasian patrols crisscrossed the streets.

Mark looked out on the bustling activity for several moments before melting back into the shadows where Steven waited. ‘We can’t go out there,’ he whispered, ‘they’re checking everyone.’

‘Let’s get Brynne,’ Steven said through a mouthful of Ronan bread and cheese he’d pulled from a pocket. The bread was hard, but full of flavour. ‘At least the food’s edible. We can find someplace to spend the night, eat properly, get some sleep, then come back here tomorrow.’

Mark considered the suggestion briefly. ‘You’re right. We have food. We just need a safe place to get some rest. I think-’

Steven abruptly reached out to cover his friend’s mouth as several villagers hurried along the street away from the common. Mark was relieved to see one of them was black. Apparently he was not the only person with dark skin in the village. From the shadows, the Coloradoans could easily overhear their conversation.

‘Well, didn’t you see the smoke?’ a villager asked. ‘It was higher than the tallest spire at the palace, as if the whole place was on fire.’

‘I smelled it all the way down at the alehouse. It was burning pitch, I’m certain,’ another said confidently. ‘I know that smell from that stint I did in the shipyards. It may be Twinmoons ago, but it’s not a smell you forget.’

‘I hear there were grettans in the forest as well, and that ’s why the rutting horsecocks abandoned the siege.’ The first villager laughed, adding, ‘Their horses were tethered in the forest, a right perfect breakfast set out just for them.’

‘Grettans, Dakin?’ a third voice asked dubiously. ‘You’ve had too much wine again. There are no grettans in Rona and you shouldn’t go on spreading such rumours.’ The voices faded as the Ronans moved on and Steven motioned that they should begin heading back the way they had come, away from Greentree Square.

They turned a corner into a dark street that ran between two rows of small businesses, all closed for the evening. This small street was much older, an indication of when Estrad Village had first been built: the buildings were similar to the house they’d burgled out near the edge of the forest, stone, with clay-tiled roofing, but here the foundations had sunk unevenly into the ground. In the darkness, they looked like a row of untended gravestones that had shifted haphazardly in a heavy rainstorm; several had sunk forward, as if they were slowly falling on their faces. Steven looked up: their roof peaks nearly met over his head.

Despite the darkness, Mark knew this street faced south because as soon as they turned the corner, he felt a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. It struck him in the face and brought some small relief from the humid evening.

‘Pass me another piece of that bread,’ he asked softly.

His roommate complied. ‘The food isn’t too bad. That cheese is strong, but not so horrible if you eat it with something. Preferably a decent port. I wonder if they even have drinkable wine in this godforsaken pit?’ There was a short pause as Steven sniffed a piece of dried meat, trying to determine what it was. ‘I’ve no idea what animal this came from – I’ll wait for Brynne to tell us before I try any.’

‘Who knows? Maybe it’s grettan,’ Mark said, echoing the villager who happened by them earlier.

In the distance, two figures entered the side street and turned towards them. One carried a small torch and Steven could see they were shadowed by a large, mangy dog. Even in the dark it looked undernourished. ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned.

‘It should be all right,’ Mark assured him. ‘We’re dressed the part. We can speak the language. We’ll wish them a good evening and continue on our way.’

‘You’re right, I guess.’ Steven was afraid. He had the hunting knife, but he already knew he would never be able to stab anyone. Firing a bow from a distance into a group of attackers, perhaps he could manage that, but just straight-out stabbing someone would be a more difficult undertaking. His life would have to be in immediate danger for him to use a knife in his own defence.

As the two Ronans approached, Mark slowed his own stride noticeably.

‘What’s wrong?’ Steven asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Mark answered, staring into the evening wind. ‘Something seems strangely familiar.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing about this place that’s familiar to me at all.’

Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the sea breeze. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled a sea breeze.’

Steven sniffed the air as well, stopped and sniffed again. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘there is something.’

The strangers were almost upon them when Mark turned suddenly and whispered, ‘The old man’s tobacco.’ He looked anxiously down the street to where the slowly advancing figures had begun to take on a more definite shape. ‘Shit, it’s Sallax and Gilmour.’

Steven started twitching in fright. For a moment he thought of turning to flee, but Mark gripped his upper arm, holding him fast.

‘It’s okay, Steven. We needed to find them.’

Sallax and Gilmour were about twenty paces away when Mark cried, ‘Wait right there!’

Sallax drew his rapier in a fluid motion and was about to charge when Gilmour put a hand firmly on his chest, holding him back.

‘No, Sallax, put that away,’ he said calmly. The tall Ronan thought for a moment about defying the old man, then returned the blade to its scabbard.

‘We mean you no harm,’ Gilmour offered in near-perfect English. ‘Actually, as I started to mention this morning, I have been waiting for you for some time now.’

‘You speak their language?’ Sallax was in shock.

‘Of course,’ Gilmour answered, ‘although it is a difficult language to master: too many odd rules one must break too frequently.’ He turned back to the foreigners. ‘Please, let us approach,’ he asked in English.

‘Come on slowly,’ Mark called back, ‘but remember, we have Brynne.’

‘Of course, of course, my friends,’ Gilmour said genially, ‘I’m certain she’s fine. Please, let’s find a place where we can talk. I will explain as much as I can for you.’

‘Can you get us home?’ Steven asked, feeling more confident.

‘I can help you get started, but the path back home for you will be long.’ As the Ronans drew close, Gilmour reached out one hand.

‘I believe this is how you do it,’ he said, a little uncertain. Steven shook his hand. ‘That’s right… I’m Steven Taylor and this is Mark Jenkins.’

‘I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The old man shook hands with Mark as well. ‘I am Gilmour Stow and this is Sallax Farro.’ Sallax made no move until Steven reached out to him, then he grudgingly copied Gilmour.

‘Where did you learn our language?’ Mark asked, ‘Not that we’re not grateful.’

‘I have learned many languages, over many Twinmoons,’ Gilmour said, ‘but we are being rude.’ He placed a comforting hand on Sallax’s shoulder and switched back to Ronan. ‘We should speak Common.’

‘That’s better, Gilmour,’ Sallax growled.

The dog following them up the street appeared to be a stray out looking for food. It sniffed at the cloth pack Steven carried and, obligingly, Steven gave the scrawny animal a piece of the unidentified dried meat. The dog devoured the morsel in a second and nudged Steven again with its nose.

‘Go on, now,’ Steven told him quietly, ‘go home.’

‘You shouldn’t feed him,’ Sallax spoke up. ‘He will follow you for days.’

‘Too late,’ Steven replied. ‘Well, he can have this meat. We weren’t certain whether it was safe to eat, anyway.’ Steven offered another piece to the dog, but surprisingly, the hungry beast didn’t take it. Steven offered again, pushing the meat towards the dog’s nose, but still the animal ignored him. Suddenly Steven detected a foul odour, a sweetish sickly smell emanating from the animal at his heels. He knelt down and found the dog frozen into immobility.

‘What the hell is this?’ Steven asked, and leapt backwards as the stray began to decompose rapidly, rotting before his eyes.

‘It’s an almor!’ Gilmour cried in alarm. ‘Quick, you must run!’ He grabbed Sallax by the sleeve and shoved him roughly down the street. Neither Steven nor Mark waited around to discover what an almor was: they took off at a full sprint after the fleeing partisans.

Steven had no idea what had just happened, but he was deeply unnerved. He ran as fast as he was able, and soon overtook both Sallax and Gilmour. Mud from the street splattered up his legs. He heard the old man calling, ‘Stay out of the water! It can catch you if you run in the water!’

Steven’s mind raced and he muttered to himself, ‘Is he kidding? The whole goddamned street is mud. There is nowhere to avoid running through water. And what the hell is the “it” he’s referring to?’ He took a vital second to look back: Sallax and Mark were immediately behind him, but Gilmour, although still running, was lagging badly behind.

‘Turn left here!’ Sallax yelled and Steven obliged, running into a drier side street. He risked another look but didn’t see the elderly man make the turn. He started to slow, until he heard Sallax scold harshly, ‘Don’t worry about Gilmour. He’ll be along.’

Steven was beginning to run badly out of breath when he was drawn up short by a blinding flash of light that illuminated the street around them. The brilliance was accompanied by a deafening explosion, the force of which slammed into him and nearly knocked him headlong into the dirt.

‘What the hell was that?’ Mark cried, slowing to a jog.

‘I don’t know,’ Steven answered. ‘It’s as though a bomb went off back there.’

‘Hold on, my friends,’ Gilmour said as he emerged from the darkness. Steven was surprised at how much ground he had made up. ‘We need not run any more, but we ought to get away from this place as soon as possible. The entire Malakasian occupation force will be here shortly and we must be well on our way before they arrive.’

He reached into his tunic and withdrew a pipe. Steven had seen Gilmour drop his pipe before beginning to run – he wondered how many the old man had inside his shirt. It was a little odd that Gilmour did not appear in the least bit winded, while he, Mark and Sallax were breathing heavily and sweating through their clothes.

‘What was that?’ Steven asked through painful breaths.

‘That was an ancient creature we call an almor,’ the older man told him matter-of-factly. He might have reading a feature in National Geographic for all the emotion he showed. ‘It is a demon that travels through a fluid medium and feeds by draining the life force from any living thing. Why it is here, I’m not certain. However, I do know it did not arrive of its own volition. It was brought here by a powerful force, an evil force, and it hunts someone in particular.’ He took a moment to light the pipe with a taper he drew from his riding cloak. A torch hanging from a wall sconce provided the flame. ‘I’m assuming it has been sent here to kill me,’ he finished then, thinking twice, he returned to the torch, pulled it from its sconce on the wall and used it to light their way along the street.

‘I thought they were legends,’ Sallax said. ‘Fabled monsters that lurked in dark alleys or forests. I never imagined for a moment that they were real.’

‘They are very real, and they are the stuff of legends. There was a time, a dreadful time, long before King Remond’s reign, when Eldarn was overrun with almor. It took the combined efforts of numerous forces to rid the world of them.’ Gilmour sighed. ‘Obviously they weren’t all disposed of. An almor will continue to hunt until it finds its target, and nothing will stop it. Time means nothing to it. We will have to beware every moment of every day until we control the force that brought it here.’

‘What’s that?’ Mark asked.

‘Nerak,’ Gilmour answered, drawing on his pipe.

‘What’s a Nerak?’ Mark was riveted.

‘Right now, that’s not what’s important. I will explain when we have time.’

‘Well, what was that explosion then?’ Sallax was not willing to let the conversation end there.

Gilmour eyed Steven’s cloth pack and, seeing the older man’s interest, Steven handed it over. Reaching inside, Gilmour withdrew a wine skin and a loaf of fresh bread. He took a long swallow from the skin and tore a large chunk from the loaf. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and turned to Sallax.

‘I had to throw the almor off our path. The only way to do that was to dry as much of the damp mud behind us as possible. It will not stop it, but it did cause it to lose track of us for the time being.’

‘Magic,’ Mark whispered to Steven.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ Gilmour chided. ‘Explosions aren’t magic. Anyone can learn explosions. Come now, we must collect Brynne. Daylight will soon be upon us.’ He gestured for Steven and Mark to lead the way.

Despite her fury at having been lashed to a tree all night, Brynne remained calm while Gilmour explained what had happened.

‘Then they were telling the truth?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘They really are from some distant land?’

‘We are,’ Mark said, but once again she refused to look at him, as if he were especially guilty of angering her.

The small group made their way cautiously through the predawn light towards the orchard and their rendezvous with the other partisans. They took cover in the underbrush from time to time to avoid Malakasian patrols. There appeared to be soldiers everywhere, yet in a certain amount of disarray, still confused by the events of the previous day. The failed siege at Riverend Palace, the searches throughout the village and the devastating blast in the neighbourhood near Greentree Square had platoons running back and forth across the area in disorganised chaos.

As they approached the orchard, with its trees lined up neatly like sentries on picket, Gilmour, despite Steven and Mark’s incessant badgering, refused to elaborate further on the almor, his apparent use of magic in creating an explosion, or the sinister force he had called Nerak, promising to explain as well as he could as soon as they were safely out of Estrad.

‘You must trust me,’ the old man told them. ‘I will explain as we go, but right now the most important task we face is getting out of here undetected.’

They found Garec and Versen waiting near a large, crooked tree, with seven horses tethered nearby. Heavy dew coated trees and grass alike and clouds of thick fog blew between the trees like shapeless wraiths hunting for lost souls. Versen waved to the small company while Garec, apparently oblivious to their arrival, aimed carefully into the upper branches. He let an arrow fly and a large red apple tumbled to the ground, pierced cleanly. Garec had retrieved apple and arrow and taken a bite before he realised his friends were on hand.

‘Welcome,’ he said, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful and eyeing Steven and Mark with curiosity. ‘I took the liberty of fetching your horses as well,’ he told Sallax and Gilmour. ‘Brynne, I chose a particularly fiery mare for you. She’s been chasing Renna around Madur’s farm for two days.’

‘That seems appropriate,’ Mark commented under his breath and was rewarded with an angry glare from the Ronan woman.

‘I thought so, too.’ Garec nodded at the two foreigners before adding, ‘This time we meet on better terms, I think.’ He showed the Coloradoans to their mounts.

Steven was given a large brown mare with a white patch around one eye and along both forelegs. He patted her affectionately, then picked up a windfall apple and offered it. The mare plucked it nimbly from his outstretched palm; Steven felt they could be friends. He fixed the cloth pack to her saddle, removed his tweed jacket and tied it fast with a leather thong.

Mark stood watching Steven and waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.

‘What’s the matter?’ Steven asked quietly.

‘I don’t know anything about horses,’ Mark answered. ‘I’ve never even been this close to one before – well, unless you count the pony at the Nassau County Fair.’

‘I don’t,’ Steven laughed. ‘Look, it’s easy. Be nice to him, develop a relationship with him and he’ll take great care of you.’

‘A relationship? I don’t even know how you know he’s a him.’ Mark looked doubtful, but gingerly patted the horse’s neck. ‘Okay, I’ve been nice. Now what?’

‘Now you get on him!’ Steven grinned. ‘It’s honestly not as bad as you think. Just put your foot in this thing – it’s a stirrup, you’ve heard of them, right? – and haul yourself up. You’ve seen enough Westerns; use the reins, use your legs, and make the rest up as you go along.’

He turned to Gilmour and asked, ‘Where are we going?’

‘North,’ the older man replied, and then to everyone added, ‘We mustn’t travel by the Merchants’ Highway; it will be too heavily patrolled.’ He looked about on the ground and found an apple, but instead of feeding it to his horse, bit into it himself. ‘We’ll pass through the Blackstone Mountains into Falkan. From there, it will be up to our new friends which direction we take.’

‘Up to us?’ Steven asked. ‘How will it be up to us?’

Gilmour was suddenly quite serious. ‘Do you have Lessek’s Key?’

‘Key?’ Mark asked, fighting to heft himself onto the horse’s back. ‘What key? What are you talking about? We fell through that cloth rug, landed on the beach and then ran into Garec and Sallax. We don’t know anyone named Lessek – do we, Steven?’ On his third attempt, Mark managed to heave himself into the saddle. He sat there wondering what would happen when the horse started to move.

‘Lessek has been dead for many, many Twinmoons,’ Gilmour replied, ‘but his key is critical. If we don’t retrieve it, we are already partially defeated, perhaps even completely.’

‘Defeated in what, Gilmour?’ Garec asked. ‘You’re not making any sense.’

‘It will make sense, Garec,’ Gilmour said sadly. For the first time, he looked and sounded like an old man. ‘There is much to discuss along the way, but you will need a history lesson before our current plight and mission will come fully into focus. But that’s for later.’ He peered furtively around the orchard before giving the order: ‘All right, let’s go.’

‘What about Mika and Jerond?’ Versen interjected. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for them? Although no one had commented on their absence, the partisans were all thinking the same thing: Mika and Jerond were late, and that could mean they had been captured, or even killed.

‘We need to get moving,’ Gilmour repeated. ‘Mika and Jerond will catch up. They know we’re going north, and it’s many days’ ride to Falkan.’

‘What are our options once we reach Falkan?’ Garec asked, climbing easily onto Renna’s back. He scratched the mare affectionately between her ears. ‘You said it was up to Mark Jenkins and Steven Taylor. That must mean there are multiple options.’

Steven reached out and tapped Garec’s arm. ‘It’s just Mark and Steven. That’s all. Not “Mark Jenkins and Steven Taylor”. It looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so let’s drop the formality, shall we?’

Garec shrugged, unconcerned, before turning back to Gilmour. ‘Without Lessek’s Key, we have only one option.’

‘What’s that?’ Brynne was listening intently.

Gilmour tied his riding cloak tightly around his shoulders, as if he felt a sudden chill in the heavy Ronan air. ‘Welstar Palace in Malakasia.’