Lessek's Key

MEYERS’ VALE

‘What do you suppose happened to them?’

‘He might have thrown them away.’

‘Garec?’ Steven was incredulous. ‘You’ve seen the pride he takes in them – he made them himself; if he truly planned never to fire another shot, he would have given them to you.’

‘He hasn’t said anything.’ Mark checked to be sure Garec was still out of earshot. They were riding south along the river through Meyers’ Vale into the Blackstone foothills. ‘Ever since he got back, he’s been staring into space. Something happened to him, Steven.’

‘Of course it did,’ Steven retorted. ‘He failed to raise a finger to help you and Brand; he knows you’re disappointed with him. We’re within inches of wrapping this whole wretched business up, and he feels like he’s fumbled the ball inside the five – of course he’s embarrassed. But you and Brand aren’t making it any easier for him. Let’s face it: this has been the worst nightmare any of us could ever imagine, and you’re holding an outbreak of honest-to-goodness compassionate conscientious objectorness – or whatever you call it – against Garec. He chose to die rather than to kill; I don’t know if I could have been that brave given the circumstances.’

Mark grimaced. ‘Okay, you’re right. I’ve been a bastard – but I don’t think that’s it. Something happened between there and here.’

‘Ask him,’ Steven said. For a few seconds they were back in Idaho Springs, in a place where things made sense. ‘He’s your friend,’ Steven went on, ‘whether you’re disappointed in him or not. If you think something happened on the way down here that caused him to fire-’

‘Twenty. He had about twenty in his quiver.’

‘Okay, so about twenty arrows… I bet he’ll tell you. Give up the grudge; ask him what’s wrong.’ Steven guided his horse around a tree partially blocking the trail. Mark ducked and rode under it, wondering if there was some Eldarni superstition – seven hundred Twinmoons of bad luck, boils, locusts and flatulence, maybe – that was all he needed to cap a terrifically abysmal few days. He smiled at Steven, then slowed to allow Garec to catch up with him.

‘Hey,’ he said as Garec came alongside.

‘Is that a greeting in Colorado, Mark?’

‘Yep.’

‘A good greeting or a bad greeting?’ Garec looked grim; he slouched in the saddle as if he were carrying the world on his shoulders.

‘One of the best,’ Mark said.

‘Well, hey then.’

In the ensuing uncomfortable silence, Mark thought about dropping it, but finally he said, ‘I’m sorry about the other day. It was wrong of me to expect you to kill if you choose not to.’

‘You had the best interests of the Resistance at heart, Mark. I was the one at fault.’ Garec’s voice was flatly matter-of-fact.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Mark said, ‘I’ve never given a pinch of raccoon shit about the Resistance.’ Garec looked at him, and Mark shrugged. ‘What can I say? I wanted to learn to shoot because I was in love with Brynne and she was taken from me – from all of us – because I wasn’t a killer, I wasn’t in control of those nightmarish circumstances. Well, now I am a killer, and I’m happy to go on killing.’

‘Then I’m sorry for you,’ Garec said. ‘Some day it will catch up with you.’

‘As it did you?’

Garec nodded.

‘It might,’ Mark said, ‘and you’ve been doing it for a lot longer than me, so you’ve probably got some insights into these things that I don’t. I may have found enough rage inside me to kill, but I’m not stupid, so what do I learn from you? I learn that many of the things I had to abandon in myself are still there somewhere, sublimated under five hundred layers of anger, hatred, disgust, whatever. But putting pressure on you to kill those soldiers the other day, that’s about the worst thing I have ever done. It’s far worse than killing people who are attacking me. So I’m sorry, Garec. I won’t let it happen again.’

He looked grim as he continued, ‘I have these hazy memories of living in a place and a time where killing another person would never be a possibility, not in a month – a Twinmoon – of Sundays, and yet here I am, a bloodthirsty monster out hunting for Malakasian soldiers to mount on the wall of my living room.’

‘We all have untapped potential,’ Garec said. Mark felt a chill run up his spine.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So what happened?’

‘It’s not important.’

‘Not important? By my count, you’re down about twenty arrows- and no matter how badly you want to snap that bow in two, you still carry it with you. You didn’t throw those arrows away, Garec; Steven’s right. So what happened?’

Garec reached over and took Mark’s forearm. ‘When the time comes, I’ll be ready. You needn’t worry.’ His eyes blazed, and for the first time that day he sat tall in the saddle, looking deadly dangerous. Mark recoiled slightly; he might think himself a killer, but he would fold were he ever to face Garec one-on-one.

‘You took out a soldier?’

‘Fifteen soldiers, maybe seventeen. They were coming up behind you; there was nothing else I could do.’

‘Good Christ,’ Mark said, ‘why? You could have let them comewe’re on horseback, they wouldn’t have caught up with us.’

‘They were cavalry.’

The enormity of Garec’s accomplishment was not lost on Mark, especially now he had been attacked by a cavalry charge himself. Just the thought of facing them alone made him shudder… Sallax had been right: this young man truly was the Bringer of Death. Mark reached out to take Garec’s hand. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said. ‘This is a hideous time.’

‘Yes, it is, but I will be ready,’ Garec repeated.

Mark took out half his arrows, which Garec accepted without saying a word.

‘My father always used to say that the lowest of low points in his life were always the start of the next good thing,’ Mark said.

‘Did your father enjoy plenty of good things in his life?’

‘I think he did, yes.’

‘Then he must have had plenty of low points as well,’ Garec said.

‘I think he did that too,’ Mark agreed.

‘If we see the other side of this business, I’ll pay for my actions. I’m not sure how, but that day is coming. Perhaps it will be the start of the next good thing.’ Garec was staring straight ahead; Mark wondered if he were talking to himself.

He slapped the bowman on the back. ‘If we see the other side of this business, and you find a way to atone, I’ll go with you and atone as well.’

Finally Garec smiled. ‘That will be fine with me. And I think Brynne would like that too.’

Steven was watching Mark and Garec out of the corner of one eye; he felt the tension ease somewhat when Mark slapped Garec on the back and Garec smiled, however briefly; they would be all right now, both of them.

As he rode in silence beside Gilmour, he took in the wintry beauty of Meyers’ Vale, and thanked God they weren’t attempting to cross the Blackstones during this season. He wondered if any of them would have survived had they begun their journey from Estrad even a Twinmoon later. The terrain had changed now they were off the Central Plain and he was careful to guide his horse around the plentiful rocks and stumps as they followed the river upstream. Gently rolling hills were interrupted periodically by upland meadows; now and then the river widened into bogland and slowed to a more majestic pace.

‘How far was it from the canyon to the place where you think Nerak buried the spell table?’ Gilmour finally broke the silence.

‘It was at least ten days on the Capina Fair, but some of those days were less productive than others. If we keep along this path, I know I’ll recognise that hilltop.’

The old man filled his pipe and began puffing. ‘I ask, because from what Brand says about the underground cavern and the partisans’ caves, we are two or three days’ ride from the canyon you found.’

‘That makes sense,’ Steven said, ‘it’ll be just a day or two before we are well into the foothills, and then maybe another two or three days to the place on the river – although that’s the bit I can’t really predict, because we were on the raft and most days we were happy to be there because the terrain on either bank didn’t look like the most hospitable place to travel – and that was during autumn.’

‘Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find a smooth way through.’

‘Here’s hoping,’ Steven agreed.

‘How are you doing with that spell?’

‘Which one? Our camouflage blanket? I hardly think about it now; it feels almost as though it will just keep itself going until I tell it to stop.’

‘Or until you grow old and die. Many spells are like that. That’s why it was so easy for me to open the doors at Sandcliff, to turn on the fountains and ignite all the torches. Magic is funny that way: once you get it started, it has a wonderful – if sometimes terrifying – propensity to spin itself out over and over again.’

‘As if you change what is real, and then step away,’ Steven mused.

‘That’s exactly right.’ Gilmour patted his horse contemplatively. ‘Sometimes what’s real does change; other times, well, it’s just an illusion. That’s what separates us from carnival magicians.’

‘It’s an emotional undertaking,’ Steven said, wondering if the Larion sorcerer would agree. ‘I mean, I know the staff is more powerful when I’m motivated by the right emotions. Does that make sense to you?’

‘Yes, I think you’re right: the power we wield is so malleable, it can be almost-’

‘Wait,’ Steven cut him off.

‘What is it?’ Gilmour turned in the saddle, checked the forest around them and looked back at the others to see if any of them had detected anything.

‘The trees up there.’ Steven gestured to the edge of a hillside that fell away to an area along the river they couldn’t see.

‘What about them?’ Gilmour raised a hand to stop the others.

‘They’re blurry.’

‘Blurry?’

‘Blurry, melting, you know, like things have been getting ever since Lessek’s key knocked me down at the landfill. They’re softening up, as if, when I get closer, they are going to begin to run together, and-’

‘Critical elements will become clear.’ Gilmour tentatively finished his thought.

‘The magic has been doing that for me ever since Idaho Springs,’ Steven explained. ‘It’s happened a few times; it seems to get rid of everything I can overlook, allowing me to focus on what’s most important.’ His voice faded to a whisper. ‘When you are running, run.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When you are running, run,’ he said. ‘My old cross-country coach was a man of few words.’

The line of trees continued to soften as they approached. Steven dismounted, pushed his way into the undergrowth and dropped to his knees, where he started digging frantically in the snow.

‘What are you doing?’ Mark called.

‘He’s here, just over that hill,’ Steven answered, reaching into his pocket and removing Lessek’s key. He could feel his heart pounding, thrumming in his temples, rushing blood to his cold fingers and causing him to fumble awkwardly with the crooked little stone. He looked up at Gilmour and waited. When the old man nodded, he dropped the key into the hole, covered it with snow and burned a black cross in a nearby tree with one end of the hickory staff.

Steven stood. ‘I don’t know how he could have known we were here.’

Gilmour deliberately tapped the ashes from his pipe and replaced it inside his tunic.

‘Please,’ Steven implored the others, ‘stay here. Don’t come up. Even better, go back to Wellham Ridge and wait there. We were fools to bring you down here.’

No one moved; Steven climbed back into the saddle and rode forward. Gilmour moved to ride beside him. When they reached the top of the short rise, Gilmour said, ‘Yes, you’re right. I can feel him now.’

The hickory staff began to glow, warming Steven’s hands.

The hill sloped down gradually to an irregularly shaped clearing interrupted in several places by isolated clumps of trees. The snow was pristine, with not even animal tracks marring its surface. To the east, the clearing narrowed, and a thin line of snow ran down into the glen and up to the water’s edge. The river there was dark, shadowed, even in the bright midday sun. Several large boulders, some as big as houses, were scattered in the water, creating deep, swirling eddies.

Darkness, deep water, cold shadows, and a wintry clearing that narrowed to a point where rushing water met sedentary earth, and in the middle of it all, a titanic boulder reared out of the water. A young girl sat on top of the boulder, dangling her feet over the edge and gnawing on an apple. She was pretty, with shoulder-length hair, a narrow face and oval eyes set perfectly over the thin bridge of her nose.

‘Who the hell is this?’ Steven whispered.

‘That’s Bellan Whitward,’ Gilmour said, ‘Princess Bellan. Malagon’s daughter. Look at her hands.’

The girl sitting there – she couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old – was wearing black leather gloves. She was already dead, her soul imprisoned alongside her father’s, somewhere in the profound emptiness of the Fold.

‘Welcome Fantus, Steven Taylor,’ she called, her light voice making them all shiver. ‘I must commend you on your powers of deduction, Fantus. I admit, I don’t know how you did it. But given your presence here, I must assume that you have somehow worked out where to find the spell table – maybe you’ve even worked out how to extract it.’

Bellan tossed the apple core into the river, reached inside her tunic and withdrew a red, white and blue pouch of Confederate Son chewing tobacco. She delicately teased out a lump and popped it into her mouth and sat there chewing quietly for a while, savouring the flavour, then she spat bubbly brown juice into the swirling eddy below.

‘I suppose I must blame myself,’ she said. ‘I obviously said too much at Sandcliff, and now here we are.’

Steven rode into the clearing as the trees around him faded from view, melting into one another and leaving just the wintry carpet, the boulder and the girl for him to consider.

Bellan continued, ‘Remind me, Fantus, did I mention the guards?’

Gilmour reined in beside Steven. ‘You said the table was warded by Eldarn itself, and Eldarn’s most ruthless gatekeepers.’

Bellan’s face split in a smile that managed to be both gruesome and coquettish. ‘I did say that, didn’t I? Well, grand. Would you like to meet them, Fantus? Steven? Would you like to meet Eldarn’s most ruthless gatekeepers? Because I have been literally dying to introduce you.’ She giggled and waved a hand; the river started to bubble as small ripples spread across the water, churning white when a number of the horribly familiar bone-collecting monsters tumbled out and skidded across the clearing.

Steven was ready for them. The staff flared to life, glowing red-hot with impatient rage and untapped power. He slid from the saddle, trying not to worry about his horse as the animal reared, whinnied in terror and bolted.

‘I’ll handle these things,’ he said to Gilmour; ‘you keep your eye on Bellan, or Nerak, or whoever it is up there.’

‘Careful, Steven, careful,’ Gilmour warned. ‘There is much more to face here than just these monsters.’

Steven moved purposefully, intent on engaging the bone-collectors before they could reach the slope and his friends, but he was just a few paces away when something inside him – the staff, Lessek’s key, or even some primitive survival instinct – shouted a warning, On your left!

Steven ducked, and whirled to his left, swiping the hickory staff through the air between him and the blurry trees. There was a tear, a rip in the world like those he had seen in the hills above Idaho Springs, and flying out at him was a wraith, one of Nerak’s immortal slaves. He barely brought the staff around in time to slice through the gossamer body and send the ghostly shards reeling through the clearing like so much tobacco smoke; killing it was easy, but there had been something oddly familiar about this wraith and Steven froze as the creature’s wild-eyed, homicidal visage flashed into his mind’s eye.

‘No!’ he screamed, and killed the first bone-collector with a massive bolt from the staff; the subterranean monster exploded in front of him, hundreds of armour-plated legs like so much chitin shrapnel firing through the clearing, into the river and out among the trees.

Steven’s mind raced. It couldn’t be. Please don’t let it be true; not her… please tell me I didn’t just send her soul back into the Fold -

‘When you are running, Steven, run.’ Gilmour’s voice reached through his anguish. ‘When you are running, run, and when you are fighting, fight.’

When you are fighting, fight,’ Steven repeated. ‘When you are fighting, fight.’

We might not make it.

When you are fighting, fight,’ he said again, the rhythm of the words helping him regain his composure.

‘It was her,’ Bellan called sweetly from her perch on top of the boulder, ‘and you just sent her soul back into the Fold for ever. Some friend you are, Steven Taylor. Poor old Myrna Kessler.’

Steven fought to contain his rage. Compassion, Steven. Fight with compassion. It is the strongest emotion in the world: stronger than rage, stronger than fear and stronger than hatred.

‘She will be in there for ever now – and let me tell you, it is an unpleasant place; I’ve been in there once or twice myself,’ Bellan laughed, a cackling chortle that made Steven’s blood rush to his head.

When you are fighting, fight, Steven,’ Gilmour called again. ‘Don’t think about anything else.’

Steven tried to clear Myrna Kessler’s face from his mind, but it burned there, leaving an indelible impression: Nerak had killed her and then sent her against him, and he had damned her soul to the Fold for ever.