Karine said, “I’ll come back in a bit, make sure you’re settling in okay, let you meet the others. In the meantime, don’t let this one talk your ears off. He’s a good man, but he is a bit crazed.”
With a twitch of her hips, she was gone, hooking a foot to pull the door shut after her.
After a moment’s quiet, Ecko said, the words biting, “‘Crazed’ huh? Maybe you’re the one in therapy.”
The Bard picked up a piece of the table, then threw himself down on the couch.
“I was given this building because I believe in a certain future – a vision, I suppose. And when I found you, I brought you in here because I believe that you’re a part of that vision. That future.” He held Ecko’s black eyes for a moment. “I’ve seen you before.”
...A path or a puzzle, something he had to solve or piece together...
A chill of inevitability skittered down Ecko’s spine, then a flare of anger like panic, like the closing of a trap.
“Fantastic. So – what? You gotta prophecy that says I kick the ass of the God of Evil? A Major McNasty that’s about to wake up? How ’bout a World-Shaking War?” His sarcasm was vicious. “Where do I start?”
With a wry chuckle the Bard replied, “Sadly, it’s not that simple. There is no ‘prophecy’ – I wish there was. There is no ‘God of Evil’ – no ‘Major Nasty’ – not really one that does house calls. And the last World-Shaking War was a very long time ago.” He stood up, shot a rueful glance at the remains of the table and then shrugged. “If it’d been that easy, this would already be over.”
“What would be already be over?”
“That,” he said, “is what I’ve spent my life finding out.”
“Jesus shit.” Ecko stared. His stomach grumbled again. He ignored it. “You dunno, do you? Loremaster, my ass.”
Roderick said, “I know enough to know how much I don’t know – and with every return, it becomes clearer. Look, like this...” With a dextrous flick of his fingers, he was holding a flash of metal. “Is this familiar?”
Ecko’s targeters flashed, he was away from the desk in an eye blink. He snatched it from Roderick’s hand. His flicker of inevitability – helplessness, almost claustrophobia – rose to a thunder. A wash of returning nausea made him breathe, breathe.
He looked down at what he’d grabbed.
It was a lighter – heavy, square, chrome plated and, so far, the only piece of metal he’d seen. On one side was engraved the Harley logo. On the other...
On the other, it said: Alexander David Eastermann.
“This is Lugan’s.” He gripped the lighter harder, as if it were the only solid thing in existence. “He lost it, like...”
Like yesterday.
For a moment, the complete insanity of the situation screamed at him – he wanted to push the walls down, like a film set, tear the scene from top to bottom as if it were only fabric, reveal the Bike Lodge that lurked just behind it... didn’t it?
Didn’t it?
But the Bard was still speaking, as if nothing strange had happened.
“The Wanderer finds many things,” he said. “Just like it found you. It’s a portent, I think. And it’s white-metal, muara, extremely rare and of a quality I’ve never seen. Its value is considerable.”
With a sense of absolute surreality, Ecko chinked the lighter open and flicked the wheel. It sparked and died.
“Outta gas.” Somehow that wasn’t the point.
The point was that it was here. Like a swat round the head, Eliza had clearly marked the opening point of the pattern. She’d given him the “Go” signaclass="underline" “Ecko Start Here”. Amid the tension that still thumped in his throat, the thought was fantastic enough to be ludicrous.
“So you’re tellin’ me the adventure starts in the tavern. Cute. I’ll give Collator 86.24 per cent there’ll be giant flying lizards by the end of the week.”
He glanced at the Bard. “Fuck!”
In a flash of frustration, Ecko threw the lighter viciously across the room. He was manipulated, betrayed, powerless, caught like a fucking street urchin. Somewhere, Eliza sat watching this on some huge fractal flatscreen – maybe she was behind the Bard’s violet eyes, maybe she’d be behind the eyes of everyone he passed. Somewhere, Collator calculated odds, mapping, generating, predicting. Every movement Ecko made, every decision, every word he spoke – hell, maybe every thought in his head – was going to ripple outwards to affect the world around him – and those ripples would be broadcasting his behaviour. They’d be analysed, interpreted, judged.
Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?
He wanted to rail against his fate, show that damn psycho-the-rapist bitch who was boss – but she had him by the grey matter and there was no way out of his own head. Bitterly, his mind spat at him: Will you stay with the tavern? Turn to page 102. Will you flee? Turn to page 94.
Or will you torch the place and watch it fucking burn?
The blazing temptation just to destroy everything... because he could. That’d fucking show her. Hell, what did it matter if he trashed cities – none of it was real. Keep your fucking breadcrumbs; I’ll do this my way.
The answering thought was so flawlessly enmeshed, he wondered if it was even his own: Turn back to page 1.
Would they really loop him, endlessly, if he didn’t succeed? Or would they just – Jesus – would they just turn him off...? Could they really do that?
For a moment, his intellect battled his emotional, knee-jerk instinct. Then, slowly, like it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, Ecko walked across the rug and picked up the lighter.
He felt dirtied – like he’d taken the first psychological step to sympathising with his torturer, like he’d already let them beat him.
But he was conceding the battle, not the war. He would so pay them back.
Roderick stood silent amid the shattered remnants of his table. Vocal enhancements or not, he made no attempt to push Ecko’s decision one way or the other.
If Eliza was behind his eyes and had witnessed Ecko’s acquiescence, the Bard did not show it. Yet strangely, his wordless comprehension was almost harder to bear. He held out his hand for the lighter and, with a flash of his more usual cynicism, Ecko brandished it like a dare.
He threw the words. “Only ’til I find the way outta here.”
Remarkably, Roderick managed to say, “Of course,” without sounding remotely smug.
PART 2: RIPPLES
4: THE MONUMENT
THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE
Across the vastness of the Grasslands, the sun was setting.
The low rays were warm on the riders’ backs, around them, the open Varchinde glowed in celebration of a summer’s day done. Soft brown shadows grew from the hooves of the creatures they rode.
Their progress had been steady – they would make the Monument on time.
Around them, insects were beginning to sing. Ears chilled from endless wind, Amethea spat out the stalk she’d been chewing and reined her beast to a patient halt.
“Thea?” In the final stages of his ’prenticeship, Feren stopped beside his tutor.
“Just stretching.” She lifted her pale braid of hair away from her neck. Under her, her heavy, slope-shouldered chearl leaned his ugly head down to snort among the grasses. Tiny flecks of life scattered. “Long day.”