Sir Darius made a face. 'That's not official, Mother. I haven't been sworn in.'
'Rubbish. It's just a formality now!'
He bent and kissed her on the cheek. 'Take everyone to the drawing room, Aubrey,' he said. 'I have something special to help us celebrate.'
Aubrey held out his arm for his grandmother. She smiled at him and together they led the others to Lady Fitzwilliam's drawing room.
When Sir Darius rejoined them, he had a dusty bottle.
'Over a hundred years old, this port,' he said. 'I've kept it for a special occasion.'
Lady Fitzwilliam smiled. 'You didn't have time to go down to the cellar to fetch it. You must have brought it out earlier today.'
Sir Darius smoothed his moustache with a finger. 'I may have had it ready. Just in case.'
'You were confident,' Mrs Hepworth said.
'Of course,' Aubrey put in. 'We were always going to win.'
'Always?' Sir Darius said. He opened the bottle. After an instant, an aroma like dusty, sun-warmed leather filled the room. Sir Darius nodded happily and then poured the port into small crystal glasses.
Lady Fitzwilliam distributed the port and waited for her husband.
'To all of you,' he said, raising his glass. 'To Rose, for your fortitude and love. To Mother, for your high expectations and your understanding. To Aubrey, for your courage and intelligence. To George, for your loyalty and bravery. To Caroline, for your dauntlessness. To Ophelia, for your bravery and in recognition of your loss.'
Aubrey held his glass high. 'And to all of us, to the future!'
'To the future!'
Twenty-Four
AUBREY HUMMED A LITTLE AS HE LOOKED OUT OVER the Hummocks training course. He shifted the straps of his pack so the weight sat more evenly, and he realised he was disappointed that the weather was mild. A breeze blew across the course and the subtle smells of summer turning into autumn came to him – leaves beginning to dry and crisp, the wan scents of the last of the summer roses, acorns ripening.
'Are you ready, Fitzwilliam?' bawled the same Warrant Officer who'd witnessed Aubrey's previous, unsuccessful attempt on the course.
Aubrey straightened. 'Sir!'
Twenty yards away, George was leaning against the fence. He tipped back his hat and mock-saluted. Aubrey grinned.
'Enjoying ourselves, are we?' the Warrant Officer barked. 'Get started, then!'
Aubrey trotted off, the pack settling with each step. He felt good, better than he'd felt at any time since the failed experiment.
He slogged up the first mound and down the other side. While his body worked, his mind was abuzz.
Caroline came first in his thoughts. Aubrey's mother had offered her a position as her assistant, working at the museum on weekends. There was even the prospect of both of them going on an expedition to the polar sea, spending three months looking for new seabird species on the remote, icy islands. He readily admitted – to himself – that he'd miss her.
He was starting to breathe heavily, but he felt none of the telltale signs that meant he was in danger of dissolution. In fact, he was enjoying the strain of his muscles and the gritty discomfort of the uniform. It reminded him of how alive he was. He wondered if his condition had given him an appreciation of small things like that. He had cause to be grateful for much, but it hadn't ever occurred to him before to be grateful for simply being alive.
Halfway through his second lap of the course, Aubrey was not so happy.
The minor discomforts had intensified into throbbing feet, aching shoulders and a feeling of burning exhaustion, to a state where lifting his head to see the course in front of him was a major undertaking.
Nearly there, he told himself, repeating the phrase for the thousandth time. He didn't believe himself, but it had become a chorus, a chant, something to cling to. Nearly there.
Aubrey couldn't hear anything apart from the shuffle of his feet. All that mattered was the small stretch of beaten earth that was the trail he was following. His whole world had narrowed; the only important thing was putting one foot in front of the other.
It was an ordeal, but Aubrey told himself it was only a physical struggle. He could cope. He could succeed. After all he'd been through, he could tolerate mere bodily discomfort. It was torture, but it was tolerable torture.
Aubrey remembered the way he had dragged his soulself against the pull of death. It had been an impossible task, resisting his end like that, but he'd done it by doing it little by little, stubbornly refusing to give in. It was a lesson he'd learned: sometimes the best way to slay a giant was to nibble it to death.
He could do it again.
By this stage, his movements were mechanical. He continued to plod forward, his rifle held extended, the straps of his pack cutting into his shoulders.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle. He gritted his teeth, refusing to surrender.
The path beneath his feet angled upwards. He felt crushed beneath the weight of the pack, but pushed on, lost in the effort.
Downwards, almost slipping, digging in, balancing the weight, pressing on.
Up again, knees bent, leaning forward, elbows spread, ankles aching.
Doing it little by little. Refusing to give in.
A THOUSAND YEARS LATER.
'Aubrey! You can stop now!'
'George?'
'Here, let me help you.'
The weight was lifted from his back and Aubrey almost fell over. He loosened his grip on the rifle and used it to support himself. He looked up. 'I did it?' he croaked.
Atkins, the Warrant Officer, scowled. 'Yes.'
He marched off.
George gripped the pack and thrust a water bottle at Aubrey. He drank, took off his helmet then poured the rest of the water over his head. 'Another trial, George,' he said. 'Another test.'
'Yes. But you did it.'
Aubrey grinned. 'Was there ever any doubt?'
About the Author
Michael Pryor has published more than twenty fantasy books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards, has been nominated for a Ditmar Award and longlisted for the Gold Inky award, and three of his books have been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Books. Michael is also the co-creator (with Paul Collins) of the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles. He is currently writing Time of Triaclass="underline" The Fourth Volume of The Laws of Magic, as well as the final book in the Chronicles of Krangor series.
For more information about Michael and his books, please visit www.michaelpryor.com.au
Read on for a sneak preview of Aubrey and George's adventures in