The Hickory Staff

GAREC’S FARM

The morning ride was hard on the Coloradoans, even though Steven considered himself a bit of a horseman. He was more tired than he remembered being since college and nodded off several times as they rode north through the forests and small towns that lined the Estrad River. The morning sun brought dappled colour to the forest floor and thick ferns shone bright green where sunlight reached them through the dense foliage. Cresting a hill, Steven caught a glimpse of Riverend Palace in the distance, an abandoned and ramshackle monument to Ronan history.

Versen led the group along paths he found easily, as if he had known them his whole life; Gilmour brought up the rear just behind Mark. Garec was riding in front of Steven, and when the path widened slightly, he pulled alongside.

‘You haven’t had much sleep in several days I’d guess.’

‘You’re right,’ Steven said as he fought off another yawn. ‘I’m not certain I’ll make a full day on this horse.’

‘We won’t ride a full day today,’ the young Ronan answered. ‘We all need rest, and I must warn my parents and sisters, so we’ll be stopping at my family’s farm. It’s not far now.’

‘Thank God. Maybe I can get some sleep then.’

‘That’ll be fine.’ Garec reached across and patted Steven’s horse gently along the neck. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘She’s wonderful,’ Steven said as he ran one hand up the horse’s mane and started patting her vigorously. The mare responded with a toss of her head and a pleasant whinny. ‘Did you choose her?’

‘I did,’ Garec answered proudly.

‘You’ve got a great eye for horses.’

‘I don’t know about that. She did take to you very quickly, though, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, she did,’ Steven said reflectively. He peered at his watch: it was already noon in Idaho Springs, but it had only been daylight here in Rona for four hours.

‘What is that thing?’ Garec asked, curiously eyeing Steven’s wrist.

‘It’s called a watch,’ Steven replied, and briefly explained the instrument and how it worked. ‘As far as I can tell, you have about four fewer “hours” in your day than we have in Colorado.’ He used the English term, because he still could not think of a Ronan equivalent. Unfastening the watch, he offered it to Garec.

‘ ‘‘Hours”?’ He turned the instrument over between his fingers and observed as the second hand made half a revolution.

‘Yes, hours. An hour is one of twenty-four equal portions of one Colorado day,’ Steven explained, then added, ‘and those figures listed around the outer edge represent our number system.’

Garec was fascinated; he endeavoured to find parallels in Ronan time. ‘Your hour is similar to our aven then. There are eight in each day, two from dawn to midday, two between midday and sundown, two from sundown to middlenight and two between middlenight and dawn.’

Steven did the calculations in his head. ‘So an aven is about two and a half hours, assuming there are twenty hours in a Ronan day.’ He showed Garec how to chart one aven on the face of his watch.

‘That’s very interesting, Steven Taylor.’ Garec handed back the timepiece.

‘Oh, that’s okay.’ He waved one hand dismissively at the bowman. ‘You keep it.’

Garec grinned like a schoolboy. ‘Thank you, Steven Taylor. Thank you very much.’ He attached the watch to his wrist before adding, ‘You keep the horse.’

Now it was Steven’s turn to grin. ‘Are you kidding?’ He ran his hand gently through the animal’s mane. ‘Garec, this is too much. I can’t take this horse.’

‘Well, I can’t keep her,’ Garec told him, motioning to his own mount. ‘Rennie would be jealous.’

‘What’s this one’s name?’

‘We’ll call her whatever you wish, Steven Taylor,’ Garec said, matter-of-factly.

‘It’s just Steven, Garec.’ He thought for a moment before asking, ‘Can we call her Howard?’

‘Howard it shall be, Steven Taylor. Sorry, “just Steven”.’ Garec laughed.

Mark, meanwhile, was having a less than easy time with his own mount, a strong-willed animal that would have baulked at commands from an experienced rider. Mark attempted to employ the simple rules Steven had taught him in the orchard, but by midday, when the horse yet again wandered from the path to crop the greenery, he realised the independent-minded beast wasn’t going to pay any attention to him no matter what he did. Finally, Sallax rode alongside and, with a withering look, took the reins from Mark and led the animal himself. Mark was left to balance in the horribly uncomfortable saddle, shattered from two nights without sleep, aching from the awkward motion of the horse’s unfamiliar gait and desperately embarrassed at his inability to control the wretched animal.

By now the only thing keeping Mark awake was the irregular rhythm of the animal’s tread and the throbbing pain in his thighs and lower back. He had tried resting his head on the horse’s neck, but whenever he started to drift off to sleep, the horse would jerk about or shake its head and Mark would nearly fall from the saddle. Eventually he decided to sit up straight and welcome the pain as his only distraction from the overwhelming fatigue.

Gilmour trotted forward and touched Mark gently on the forearm. ‘Excuse me, my friend,’ he whispered, waking Mark from his nearly delusional reverie. ‘If you lean forward slightly and use the stirrups to lift your weight just a fraction with each step, you’ll find the rhythm begins to make some sense. It will alleviate the strain on your back.’ He demonstrated what he meant, then fell back alongside.

‘Try it. I promise you it will help.’

Mark felt a fool, but at this stage he had nothing to lose. He was astounded to find Gilmour had not been exaggerating; the relief was almost immediate.

‘Thank you,’ he said, trying several positions before deciding on one that felt most comfortable, then asked, ‘What is Welstar Palace?’

‘It is Prince Malagon’s home in Malakasia, a particularly dangerous place for us to travel to. But it’s there we’ll find Lessek’s Key, and a passage for you and Steven to return home.’

‘We can get home through Malagon’s palace?’

‘Well, it isn’t really Malagon’s palace any more. Malagon Whitward is long dead. What was Malagon is being controlled, mind and body, by Nerak, an exceedingly evil force that has been plaguing Eldarn for nearly a thousand Twinmoons.’ Gilmour pulled two apples from his saddlebag and handed one to Mark.

‘How will we get in without him – it – knowing we’re there?’ Mark took a bite and waited for Gilmour’s reply.

‘I’m not certain yet, but I can tell you it will be very dangerous for all of us. Just being that close to Welstar Palace can be deadly.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Going inside verges on suicide. I hope to enter with you and Steven alone. If all goes well, we will send you home and I will search Malagon’s chambers for Lessek’s Key.’

‘Does Nerak have a tapestry like the one Steven found at the bank?’ Mark tossed his apple core into the underbrush and wiped his fingers on the tunic he had stolen in Estrad.

‘He does. We call them “far portals”. There are only two in existence now. The one Nerak has at Welstar Palace is not as powerful as the one you used to come here. It was actually Nerak who took that one and hid it in Colorado.’ Gilmour filled his pipe but left it unlit and dangling from the corner of his mouth.

He sighed again, almost to himself, then continued, ‘The Larion Senate in Gorsk used the two far portals for thousands of Twinmoons, travelling back and forth between Eldarn and your homelands, to research medicine, technology and even magic. We used the knowledge we gathered to improve life here in the five nations.’ He ran one hand over his balding pate and scratched vigorously at his beard. ‘The portal hidden in Colorado can pinpoint a location, the beach where you landed, for example. That is its particular strength. So even if the portal in Nerak’s palace is closed, the one you opened will send everyone who comes through to the same place.’

‘That’s why Steven landed on the same beach,’ Mark guessed.

‘Exactly. However, once it’s closed and re-opened, it finds another place. Anyone else coming through could end up anywhere in Eldarn. The far portal hidden in Welstar Palace can’t pinpoint an area unless the one in your home is left open. Otherwise it might drop you anywhere.’

The old man’s words took a moment to register. ‘You mean if someone closes the portal in our house, we might get dropped back anywhere on the planet – and it might separate us from one another? We might end up half the Earth apart?’

Somehow, while Mark was speaking, Gilmour lit his pipe – although Mark was positive he hadn’t struck a match.

‘I’m afraid that’s right,’ Gilmour said. ‘All we can do is hope that while you are with us in Eldarn, no one tampers with the far portal on your floor. But if Nerak decides to travel back to your homeland, his portal will drop him right in the middle of your home town.’

‘Oh God, no.’ Mark had not imagined their situation could get worse, yet here it was. He continued, ‘When you were describing the Larion Senate, you said “we” used the far portals. The other tapestry has been locked in Steven’s bank for over a hundred and thirty years. How old does that make you?’

Gilmour, caught out by the astute foreigner, winked, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘My friends here in Rona don’t know these things, although I fear I may soon have to let them know who I truly am. Mark Jenkins, I am well over fifteen hundred Twinmoons old. When I reached fifteen hundred, I stopped counting. I, like you and Steven, learned languages and cultures by travelling through the far portals many times while I served the known lands as a Larion Senator.’

Mark, somewhat punch-drunk from shock and fatigue, was surprised to find he wasn’t surprised by Gilmour’s confession. ‘So you’ve been to my homeland?’

‘I have never been to Colorado, although I heard much about it on my last trip. No, my last visit to your land ended on 2 July, 1863. It was outside a small town called-’

‘Gettysburg,’ Mark interrupted. ‘Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.’

‘That’s right.’ Gilmour beamed, remembering his younger days. ‘And from what I see from your relationship with Steven Taylor, American culture has come a long way since then.’ He exhaled a cloud of sweetly fragrant smoke that quickly faded on the morning breeze. ‘I am glad to see your society has made such progress.’

‘We have done well, but it’s been over a long period of time and we still have a long way to go. There are still inexcusable things happening that must be addressed.’ Mark paused for a moment. ‘Hold on, wait a moment: you were in Pennsylvania in 1863, and you travelled to our world specifically to bring back innovations and progressive technologies?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where is everything?’

‘Everything?’

‘We’re eating from wooden bowls. Brynne speaks of avens to tell time, but you don’t have any timepieces. There were steam engines and blast furnaces in 1863, hospitals, institutions of higher learning and social movements to improve living conditions and ensure basic human rights. Where are they?’

Gilmour suddenly looked sad; Mark was a little sorry he had asked the question.

‘That, my dear boy, is the tragic history of Eldarn.’ He smoked in silence for a moment, then went on, ‘Imagine a dictatorship, five generations long, that didn’t value progress, education, research or innovation. Imagine a dictatorship that closed universities, sought out and murdered intellectuals, stripped communities of basic health and human services and then stifled every attempt to revive any of it. Imagine that over time. People forget; progress is stalled.’

‘Well, sure, the culture would stagnate somewhat, Gilmour, but surely brilliant people would find a way to-’

The old man interrupted, ‘Brilliant people are terrified, and rightly so. There are a few wild revolutionaries operating outlawed printing presses in barns and abandoned warehouses, but too many of them are found out and executed before any real following can pick up the gauntlet and carry on. Eldarni culture has existed for seven Ages, over twenty Eras, literally thousands of Twinmoons, and I can’t even tell you what Twinmoon it is right now. A culture does more than stagnate in such a dictatorship, Mark, it dies.’

‘So there’s no hope?’

‘There is now, my friend.’

Deciding not to pursue Gilmour’s insinuations right then, Mark diverted their conversation. ‘So, you were at Gettysburg.’

‘I was, but sadly, I could not stay to see how things turned out.’ Gilmour looked up through the low-hanging tree branches and reflected aloud, ‘I was with a young man from Maine named Jed Harkness. His division took up their position at the far end of a long stretch of wooded hill called-’ He paused. ‘I can’t remember its name.’

‘Little Round Top,’ Mark helped him. ‘Harkness must have been a member of the Twentieth Maine.’ Mark was happy to be discussing something familiar. ‘You should have stayed around that day, Gilmour. You missed one of the turning points in the whole war. That group of soldiers from Maine held that flank and, some would argue, saved the Union.’

‘Ah, I’m sorry I missed it, but I was summoned back that morning and soon thereafter, there was a terrible tragedy at Sandcliff Palace. I never returned, but I have often thought about Harkness and how he fared that day.’ He hesitated before asking, ‘Why did they call it a Civil War? It seemed far from civil to me.’

‘That’s one for the ages, Gilmour,’ Mark commented ironically. Then, feeling a numbing wave of fatigue pass through him, he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘I’ve never been this tired before.’

‘We’ll be there soon, and you can sleep the rest of the day away.’ Gilmour reached into his saddlebag and withdrew a small root that looked to Mark a little like ginger, light brown and strangely shaped. The older man sliced a small portion from one of the root’s twisted appendages and handed it to him. ‘Until then, chew on this. It will bring you some much-needed clarity and energy.’

The plant was flavourless, but Mark chewed it doggedly and soon felt much better. His vision cleared; his energy level rose and his wits sharpened. Even the pain in his back subsided markedly.

‘That’s some remedy,’ he said brightly. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Fennaroot.’ Gilmour handed him the curled stem. ‘Some people like to dry it out and smoke it with their tobacco.’

Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, so even here they hit the peace pipe from time to time.’ He sniffed at the root and handed it back.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ the older man said, ‘I do enjoy a bit on my tongue now and again. It does help keep my energy up.’

‘You could market that stuff for a hefty profit.’

‘I suppose so, but I’ve never been much for material things,’ Gilmour said, then changed the subject. ‘How’s your horse?’

‘I’ve chosen a name for him,’ Mark answered.

‘Really? What’s that?’ He sounded genuinely interested.

‘Wretch.’

The riders didn’t go straight to Garec’s family home; Gilmour insisted they make camp in a far corner of the property, in case Malakasian spies had been sent to report their arrival. The farm consisted of several large fields and Steven and Mark could see a number of people harvesting vegetables; one drove a one-horse cart through the field while a team of pickers pulled ears of corn from tall stalks and tossed them into the back of the wagon. From a distance, it was almost impossible to see the workers walking beneath the stalks and Steven smiled as he watched hundreds of ears of corn flying of their own volition into the harvest wagon, like so many salmon leaping and tumbling their way upstream.

‘You two should sleep,’ Garec suggested as he dismounted and tethered Renna to a thin dogwood tree. ‘We’ll stay here tonight and be on our way again before dawn tomorrow.’

‘He’s right,’ Steven agreed. ‘You sleep first. I’ll stay awake.’

‘Why you?’

‘I slept while we were tied to the wall. You’ve been up for almost two full days.’ He watched as Garec made his way into the field. The corn stalks masked his movements and the Ronan revolutionary soon disappeared from view.

Brynne hustled forward to the edge of the field. ‘Garec,’ she called into the corn, ‘bring me some wool hose and a pair of your sister’s boots, please.’

Garec’s disembodied reply came back to them in a sharp whisper: ‘All right.’

‘You both should sleep.’ Gilmour joined the foreigners. ‘Nothing will happen to you. Sleep as long as you like. We have much to do tomorrow.’

Mark had no idea whether he would even be able to get down from his horse, let alone protect himself or Steven should an attack come while they slept. Despite Gilmour’s equestrian coaching, he was contemplating running alongside the animal rather than ever getting in the saddle again. Feeling a spasm of pain shoot across his lower back, Mark finally gave in.

‘Fine,’ he said to Steven, ‘let’s both sleep. If they wanted to kill us, they’d have done it by now.’

‘Good point,’ Steven dismounted smoothly, ‘but I think I’ll take a watch just in case. I want to be able to get you up if that almor thing appears again.’ Mark spread his bedroll on the ground under what looked like a large beech tree and in a matter of moments was sleeping soundly. Steven leaned against the trunk, determined to stay awake. He watched the others bustle about camp, organising supplies, gathering firewood and tending the horses. The quiet rhythm of their movements coupled with his extreme fatigue soon lulled him to sleep as well and he sank down until he was lying beside Mark on the soft earth beneath the sheltering branches.

It was dark when Steven opened his eyes. He woke with a start, but found himself so cramped from sleeping on the uneven ground that he made no effort to get up. Instead, he lay back and observed as his new companions continued working in and around their campsite. Light from a small fire threw huge shadows against the forest backdrop; for a while Steven’s gaze moved back and forth between the Ronan partisans and their shadows looming above in the tree branches. Brynne stacked logs near the fire while Garec mended a tear in a leather pack. Their familiar movements were magnified tenfold when projected on the forest canopy; the comforting motions of people keeping busy with common tasks became ominous when performed by forty-foot-tall obsidian wraiths.

Fear of the unknown and anxiety about how they would ever return home, welled up in Steven again and he closed his eyes to shut out the surreal theatre playing above his head. Shifting his position beneath the beech tree, he soon fell back into a fitful slumber.

Steven woke to find Mark tugging at his ankle. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Steven rose hastily to join him. Their small camp was abuzz with activity; Versen, Garec and Brynne surrounded a newcomer, a man Steven thought he’d seen at Riverend Palace. Gilmour sat near the fire, quietly smoking his pipe. Sallax was nowhere to be found.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked Mark.

‘Apparently, this is Mika, one of their reb-, er, freedom fighters. Someone named Jerond was supposed to be here as well, but he hasn’t shown up.’ Mark knelt alongside his blanket and began folding it into a tight bedroll. ‘Brynne looks worried. I think they think something rotten has happened to him.’

‘Where’s Sallax?’

‘Standing watch in the forest somewhere.’ Mark paused and contemplated Mika’s arrival. ‘It’s a bit odd that he didn’t warn us at all when Mika came through the woods.’

‘Maybe he fell asleep out there,’ Steven said.

‘That doesn’t seem like him.’ Mark was curious now; Steven began to worry that his friend might create more trouble in an already strained relationship with the partisan leader.

When Sallax did return, he immediately wrapped an arm around Mika’s shoulder in relief. When he was told of Jerond’s delay, he suggested they pack up and begin riding north as soon as possible.

‘Great. I have to get back on that reprehensible beast,’ Mark groaned. He stood and began stretching his back. Even fatigued and near collapse, Mark still moved with the economic, angular motion of an athlete.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Steven asked. ‘He looks like a fine animal to me.’

‘I think he has a thought disorder,’ Mark said dryly. ‘And his gait is so uneven, one of his legs must be a good fifteen inches shorter than the others.’ He began collecting their few possessions, rolling them into his bedroll.

‘Come, my friends,’ Gilmour ordered, ‘it’s less than an aven till dawn. We need to get under way.’

Mark caught Brynne staring at him across the fire. She didn’t turn away immediately, and Mark struggled to read her facial expression, but it had grown too dark. All he could be sure of was that she was watching him pack his bedroll while the others made hasty preparations to leave Garec’s farm.

No one spoke as the company made its way through the darkness. Mark’s still-aching back protested from the moment he mounted Wretch, but in the conspicuous silence he elected not to complain out loud. They moved along a narrow trail snaking through the southern forest. Periodically, Mark believed he could hear the muted roar of the Estrad River in the distance. The two moons were now well apart in the pre-dawn sky and both foreigners marvelled at their beauty. One looked smaller, and somehow closer, while the second was a behemoth completing its own stately dance through the heavens, much further away.

Steven noticed Garec’s mare was loaded down with blankets, clothing, additional food and a large saddlebag that looked as if it were filled entirely with colourfully fletched arrows. He had made it safely into his parents’ farmhouse, warned them of the potential danger coming from Estrad, and collected an array of items he considered essential; seeing Renna so heavily burdened with supplies, Steven realised they were facing a long journey to Welstar Palace.

As the sun broke the horizon’s plane, Garec reached into one of the two quivers strapped across his back and withdrew an arrow. He carried a longbow across his lap and appeared ready to fire at any moment. Steven, who now trusted Garec almost as much as he did Gilmour, started to worry: were they being shadowed by Malakasians?

Then Garec drew and fired. A plump rabbit tumbled out of the undergrowth onto the path in front of them.

‘Excellent, Garec, breakfast,’ Gilmour complimented him. ‘I’d love some grouse or perhaps a gansel, a nice chubby male with a soft, tasty breast, if you happen to see one.’

‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ Garec said cheerfully as he dismounted to retrieve the fallen animal. ‘Anyone else like to place an order?’

‘A short stack with bacon and a pot of regular coffee,’ Mark answered in English, unable to come up with a Ronan word for pancakes.

‘I don’t know what that means, Mark,’ Garec called back, ‘but if you see it, point it out and I’ll bring it down.’

‘God, I wish you could – but thanks for the thought, Garec. I appreciate it.’ Mark changed the subject. ‘How long will it take us to get to Welstar Palace?’

Gilmour turned in the saddle. ‘That’s a difficult question. It should take us a Twinmoon or so, but I don’t know how long it will be before we can enter the palace.’

‘Sixty days?’ Mark blurted. ‘Well, I suppose the school board might buy my story, especially if I tell them about being attacked by a life-sucking demon in vivid enough detail. They just might let me keep my job, and they might even understand why I missed all of second quarter without calling in or leaving sub plans.’

‘I’ll get fired, too,’ Steven commented to no one. ‘And I don’t suppose Hannah will think this is very funny, either. That’s too bad. I miss her.’

Mark pressed Gilmour for more information. ‘Why will it take so long to get into the palace?’

At that, even Sallax turned to listen in. ‘Malakasia is patrolled by the largest army in all Eldarn. There are thousands and thousands of soldiers moving throughout the countryside every day. Nerak, in the guise of Prince Malagon, rarely appears to offer any leadership to his people. He rules without advisors and calls his generals and admirals to him only when he has dreamed up another cruelty to enact upon us citizens of the occupied world.

‘Few resist him, because he kills without warning or hesitation. When Nerak tires of Malagon’s body, he will allow it to die just before he takes possession of the next member of the Whitward family, Malagon’s daughter, Bellan. It has happened this way for nearly a thousand Twinmoons. To date, no one has been able to get anywhere near Welstar Palace.’

‘Why have you never tried before?’ Steven enquired.

‘Because, my friend, I have been waiting for someone like you to find the far portal and bring back Lessek’s Key.’ Gilmour used a boot heel to tap the ash from his pipe. ‘With Lessek’s Key there would be no need to travel to Welstar Palace. We could simply go to Sandcliff in Gorsk and try to decipher the spell table Lessek used to harness the power of the far portals all those thousands of Twinmoons ago. It was Lessek who discovered a pinprick in the universe, a tiny opening. It is through this the far portals operate. And it was this pinprick that released the evil which eventually claimed the young Larion Senator named Nerak.’

Gilmour paused for a moment, sighed deeply and continued, ‘I suppose Nerak had it coming. He coveted power, more power than he could ever control, and one horrible night, his dream finally consumed him – literally.’

‘Power over whom?’ Steven was intrigued.

‘Over what,’ Gilmour corrected, ‘power over magic, and the knowledge to employ all its forms at will. Nerak’s dogged pursuit of ever-more-powerful forms of magic drove him insane… although the seeds of his insanity must have been there from the beginning, there is no record that anyone had detected such a problem.

‘Nerak studied Lessek’s writings, and planned what he believed would be an airtight operation by which he would capture the power Lessek released when he opened the path to your world. But Nerak wasn’t prepared for the enormous force waiting therein. It was far worse than even Lessek had imagined, perhaps the very essence of evil itself. It sent only one of its minions to deal with Nerak, and that one disciple has been much too powerful for anyone in Eldarn to defeat for the past nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons.’

‘A disciple of evil’s essence?’ Garec sounded dubious. ‘How can that be? Evil’s not a thing, is it?’

‘Oh, Garec, that is the most difficult question of all.’ The old man organised his thoughts. ‘I suppose one way to explain it is to think of any encounter you’ve had with anything evil, those murderous soldiers at Riverend for example, the ones who killed Namont, rather than taking him prisoner. Something made them act evilly. Often it’s a combination of variables which work together to form exactly the right pattern. We cannot put our finger on evil any more than we can put our finger on truth. There is no universal, static and observable truth. There is only the perception of reality by those contemplating any collection of attributes, values, experiences, traditions and so on. Evil is the same way. It is collection of thoughts, failed dreams, depressing notions, forgotten friends and myriad other characteristics, all of which, when combined together, bring about a radical change in behaviour.

‘We never see the evil; we generally experience only a behavioural manifestation of evil’s power.’

‘Like a soldier swinging a sword,’ Garec guessed.

‘Or a parent beating a child, or a thief murdering an elderly woman. These are all evil acts, but they are not evil itself. No, this is our problem: evil itself does exist, and it has been trapped for much of the existence of this world. It has, from time to time, been able to slip one of its minions into our world, or into Steven and Mark’s world. And its minions are tiny. They are notions of evil, and they bring unbelievable havoc every time they manage to escape. And in all of our recorded history, no one has been able to successfully trap and exorcise one of evil’s minions.

‘And it is one of these minions that controls Nerak – and, in turn, Malagon today. Its goal, like every other that has managed to escape, is to open a path for the essence of all things evil to come unencumbered from its prison inside the Fold.’

‘What’s the Fold?’ Brynne asked, slyly checking to see if Mark was as enthralled with Gilmour’s story as she was. Versen and Sallax had slowed their horses to a walk so they too would not miss a single word.

‘The Fold is the space between everything that is known and unknown. It is the absence of perception, and therefore the absence of reality. Nothing exists there except evil, because the original architects of our universe could not avoid creating it. It was a negative thought, a simple flash of anger or frustration, as insignificant as an ant on a hillside, but it happened. Evil was born and with every negative thought, every angry gesture – most of which were directed at evil’s essence by the creators themselves – it grew more powerful.

‘Steven and Mark came across the Fold when they fell through the far portal into Rona-’ Gilmour broke off for a moment, then clarified, ‘actually, they didn’t come across the Fold per se. Instead, they navigated through a window in the Fold, that pinprick in the fabric of the universe Lessek was able to find and control.

‘When Lessek found his pathway, he created an opening, and it was through that Nerak eventually allowed a minion of evil’s essence to come to Eldarn. Arriving here, it immediately diversified into the millions of thoughts and ideas people – we – construe as evil. It varies wildly: for one person, evil may be murdering another, while someone else may consider lying to a friend is evil.

‘So you see, this minion can exist anywhere, inside any living thing that knows what it means to be evil. For some reason, this notion of evil chose the Malakasian royal family. I am not certain why.’

Steven swallowed hard and asked the question everyone feared. ‘What would happen if one of these minions managed to open the Fold for the essence of evil… this vagrant afterthought of the gods or whatever it is… to escape?’

‘Nothing would survive,’ Gilmour answered calmly. ‘Perhaps even matter itself would come apart. It would take only an instant and we would all be gone. Everything horrifying we’ve ever imagined would become a reality, and then be torn asunder as quickly and irretrievably as we would.’

‘How close has it come to succeeding?’ Versen asked.

‘It knows what Nerak knew – and that is that the collective genius of the Larion Senate exists in Lessek’s spell table. Without Lessek’s Key, the spell table cannot be accessed, not even by a Larion as powerful as Nerak.’

Gilmour paused to refill his pipe with the aromatic Falkan tobacco before continuing, ‘With the key, Nerak might be able to trace Lessek’s original strategy and enlarge the opening in the Fold enough to allow his evil master to escape.’

‘I thought Malagon – Nerak – already had the key.’ Mark was confused. ‘Otherwise why would we be going to Welstar Palace to find it?’ He glanced across at Brynne who quickly looked away, embarrassed at having been caught staring at him twice in one morning. Mark turned back to Gilmour. ‘If Nerak had this key for nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons, why hasn’t he gone to Sandcliff Palace and used this spell table thing to release the evil essence on the universe? Can’t he do that himself?’

‘It’s much more difficult than that, Mark,’ the older man explained. ‘Lessek was enormously powerful, much more powerful than Nerak could ever be, and Nerak knows this. He might begin working with Lessek’s spell table and find he accidentally seals the gods’ evil creation in the Fold for ever. There’s a comprehensive collection of magic and mystical knowledge encoded in that spell table. The Larion Senate was never able to master more than a fraction of its potential. If Nerak taps its power and releases evil on the world, he risks destroying himself in the process. No, I imagine Nerak would keep Lessek’s Key as well protected and hidden from mankind as possible. He will want it somewhere it will neither be found, nor be out of his possession.

‘Nerak has time on his side. He has nothing but time: he can study the magic in the Larion spell table until he has discovered all he needs. When he has learned all that he, Nerak the possessor of souls, rather than he, Nerak the Larion Senator, ever knew, he will take Lessek’s Key back to Sandcliff and endeavour to release his new master on all of us.’

‘Oh God, no.’ Steven barely whispered the words, but Gilmour heard him and looked over expectantly.

‘Are you okay, my boy?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t worry about these things today. It’s been nine hundred and eighty Twin-moons and the rutting horsecock hasn’t been able to figure it out yet. We still have some time.’

‘Tell me how Lessek’s spell table works.’ Steven chose his words carefully.

‘Well, the table is just that, a table, carved from a granite block quarried deep in the Remondian Mountains of northern Gorsk. Lessek himself is said to have constructed it over several Twinmoons.’ Gilmour stopped and checked the position of the sun in the morning sky.

‘The key fits in a particular slot carved into the tabletop,’ he went on. ‘When it’s in place the table transfigures from a stone surface to a bottomless pool of knowledge and mysticism. Much of the knowledge is powerful – fiercely independent – and without proper training and practice, it will leap out or, worse, pull you inside. Nerak never understood the intricacies of the table. He was attempting to work with it when the minion escaped and claimed his soul for all time. He had gone too far. He had planned to use the table to overthrow us, but instead his plan backfired and he was taken first.’

Steven and Garec spoke simultaneously; their words had such an impact on the rest of the small company that each rider reined in and turned to stare back at them in stunned silence. Together, in a nearly incoherent marriage of two simple phrases, Garec and Steven changed the course of all their lives.

Garec, in surprise, turned towards Gilmour and cried, ‘You said overthrow “us”,’ while Steven shouted, ‘I have Lessek’s Key.’

There was a pregnant pause which seemed to last an hour. Then everyone spoke at once.

‘What do you mean, you have Lessek’s Key?’ Sallax asked.

‘Gilmour, why did you refer to the Larion Senate as “us”?’ Garec repeated. ‘How could you have been there?’

The air was buzzing with cries of, ‘What did you mean by that?’ ‘How can that be?’ and ‘I don’t understand.’ After several moments of noisy confusion, Gilmour held a hand above his head in an effort to silence the group and restore order to the discussion.

When they had calmed enough for him to be heard, Gilmour called, ‘Please, everyone, please.’ They quieted further and he continued, ‘I’ll answer a couple of important questions, but then I must insist we push on. We have far to go before making camp tonight. Once we’re settled we can spend as much time as necessary talking this through, but right now we are in great danger.’

He turned first to Steven, his face alight with anticipation. ‘But before we take one more step, we need to hear from you, my boy.’ Trying to control the emotion in his voice, Gilmour asked, ‘How is it that you suddenly believe you have Lessek’s Key?’

Steven inhaled slowly and explained, ‘I knew it when you said the evil minion controlling Nerak would put the key in a safe place until it had enough time to master the spell table in Sandcliff Palace.’

‘That’s right. Why does that make a difference now?’ Everyone was hanging on Steven’s every word.

‘Nerak put it in my bank with the far portal. The key is in a box on my desk in Idaho Springs.’ Even though Steven had no idea what Lessek’s Key looked like, he was willing to bet William Higgins’ stone was the missing piece of the Larion spell table.

‘That rock,’ Mark added under his breath.

‘That’s right,’ Steven agreed, ‘it has to be that rock.’

‘It is a small stone,’ Gilmour explained, ‘about one hand across, and dark, like the land’s deepest granite.’

Versen and Sallax exchanged worried glances while Brynne sat transfixed by the conversation between her new friends and her old mentor.

‘Damnit,’ Mark interjected. ‘Now we have to get back there and get that stone before this Malagon-Nerak-minion character manages to figure out your old spell table.’ He was growing angry and frustrated.

‘You did it too,’ Garec pointed accusingly at Mark. ‘You called it “his” spell table.’ He gestured angrily at Gilmour.

Mark’s mistake didn’t get by Brynne, either. ‘Gilmour, what have you told them that we don’t know? How is it you’re so familiar with the Larion Senate? You speak about them as if you were there.’

Gilmour looked at Brynne and Garec with all the pride and affection of a grandfather. ‘Because I was there. I am one of the two surviving Larion Senators in Eldarn.’

‘How can that be?’ Versen asked, bewildered. ‘That would make you nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons old.’

Gilmour laughed, a bellow that shook his frame. ‘I remember nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons, Versen. I remember it fondly. No, I guess I’m about twice that old.’ And before any of his incredulous friends could interrupt again, he added, ‘Let’s keep moving, please. We’ve learned a lot this morning but nothing that alters our final destination. We have many days’ travel in front of us and we won’t get anywhere sitting here sharing revelations.’

They rode on in silent disbelief, the southernmost edge of the Ronan piedmont rolling along beneath their mounts. A midday meal was taken in the saddle to avoid another break; everyone – even Mark, who was still bitterly uncomfortable – was content to continue riding through the day. On several occasions, one or more of them tried to make small talk, but those efforts invariably collapsed. Until Gilmour explained more fully, no one would be quite comfortable.

Despite the palpable wariness that hung over the company, Versen set a brisk pace through the forest. Bouncing uncomfortably along, Mark once again started counting the minutes until they would stop for the night. His riding skills had improved since the previous day, but he still pined for a less painful form of travel.

After the midday aven, Versen’s horse flushed a pair of grouse that exploded into the air in a startling blur of dark brown feathers. Watching them fly through the trees, Garec saw the birds land in a sun-dappled clearing just off the trail. He and Versen dismounted and stalked the birds through the brush, catching and killing both.

Returning from the underbrush, Garec held one of the limp feathered corpses aloft and called to Gilmour, ‘We’ve filled your dinner order, my exceedingly old friend.’

Brynne chuckled nervously at his attempt at levity.

Gilmour smiled in response to the teasing and happily stuffed the bird into his saddlebag. ‘It appears I will have to learn to appreciate old-age jokes now that my secret is out.’

Garec jumped back astride Renna and, glad for the break in the tension, asked, ‘So, are the stories of farming in Falkan and working with loggers in Praga all lies to cover up your true identity?’

‘Of course not,’ Gilmour answered. ‘My farm produced one of the finest tobacco crops in Falkan, and I can still strip and ride a log down the river with the best. I’ve had a long life since the massacre at Sandcliff Palace. Granted, much of what I have chosen to do has been out of necessity to hide from the bounty hunters sent from Welstar Palace to kill me. But I’ve enjoyed all my occupations over the Twinmoons since I fled Gorsk.’

‘Bounty hunters?’ Mika asked warily.

‘Yes, hideous fellows mostly.’ Gilmour brushed an imagined insect away from his face. ‘They have been hunting me since Prince Draven of Malakasia died nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago. His son, Marek, was the first to send assassins out after me. I can’t say for certain, but I believe Marek was the first of the Malakasians to be taken, mind and body, by Nerak. He was just a boy at the time, and a pleasant one too, before all this happened. I imagine Nerak hid Lessek’s Key and the far portal in Colorado before returning to ravage the royal families of Eldarn.’

‘What happened that night at Sandcliff Palace?’ Mika looked frightened, as if the answer might conjure up even more danger for them to deal with.

Gilmour chuckled amiably and tried to put them all at ease. ‘I’ll make you a deal, Mika. You roast these birds and that rabbit Garec bagged this morning. We’ll open a couple of skins of Garec’s wine and I’ll tell you all about it. There’s a clearing on the river about an aven further north of here, a protected cove where we can camp safely for the night.’

Taking his cue, Versen spurred his horse and led the company further north towards the Blackstone Mountains and the Falkan border.