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So that’s what he had to do, read Lessek’s book, beginning right here at the birthplace of Falkan’s greatest fjord, a fractured bit of Eldarn itself. Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere, he thought, it lies in the Windscrolls. That night Gilmour had gone to retrieve the third Windscroll for Pikan; in his haste, he had overlooked Lessek’s desk – and this book.

Gilmour remembered his dream as he slept on top of Seer’s Peak: Nerak and Pikan, with Kantu lagging behind with an injured ankle… they had discovered something, discussed something; he didn’t know what. Had they tried something creative with the Larion magic? It didn’t matter; what mattered tonight was that Nerak had a weakness. He might have had a thousand weaknesses nine hundred Twinmoons ago, but tonight, he had at least one and Gilmour knew where to find it.

He would study the book until he understood Lessek’s magic, and he would protect himself and his friends from Nerak until he had the third Windscroll in his possession. He was one of the last Larion Senators – only Kantu remained, somewhere in Praga – and protecting Eldarn was their responsibility. Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere: yes, but his strength lies here in this book.

Gilmour thought again of Seer’s Peak. Garec and Steven had dreamed too. Garec had seen wraiths moving through Rona’s forbidden forest, mobilising for an attack, and had been able to use Steven’s magic to ward off the spirit army. That had turned out to be a true foreseeing: Lessek had shown them real images of their journey, things they would need to address if they were to survive. What had Lessek meant them to learn from the dead, arid land that had once been lush Ronan forests? He wondered if saving Rona was going to fall to Garec – if Rona was even particularly at risk. ‘It was King Remond’s home,’ Gilmour murmured, ‘Markon Grayslip’s home too – he called himself a prince to avoid upsetting his family, but Markon was Eldarn’s rightful king.’

And what of Steven Taylor? He had dreamed of a maths problem, of calculus machines and telephone speaking devices – and had he not, he would never have been able to crack the code and open Prince Malagon’s lock-box, his Malakasian safe-deposit box.

So Gilmour’s mission was clear: find the third Windscroll and use it to banish Nerak for ever. It was probably buried under a thousand Twinmoons of debris, but it would be there – and if Nerak had read and understood it, his weakness would no longer exist. ‘Stop procrastinating,’ Gilmour said out loud. ‘Read the rutting book and you will be as strong as Nerak. Stop running and face him.’

The old man took a last swallow from the wineskin, corked it and dropped it to the sand. ‘The ash dream,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s see what’s on the next page.’

Gilmour took the blow on his chest. Sharp and bright, striking brutally hard, like lightning through a rip in the Fold, it pushed him backwards and he felt ribs snap. He struck his head on the ground, and just before he passed out he saw Lessek’s spell book slam shut, seemingly of its own will.

THE REDSTONE TAVERN

Brexan was drunk again, enjoying her second evening beside the fire at the Redstone Tavern. Tonight’s gansel leg – they roasted them perfectly here – the potatoes, bread and glorious cheese (she had eaten another half-block today), combined with the wine to warm her from within, while the fire blazing away ensured there was no trace left of the Ravenian Sea.

The Redstone Tavern was the sort of place Brexan enjoyed; with friends from home, she would be drinking, carousing, making jokes about sundry sailors, stevedores, maybe even a few of the Malakasian officers. But now she ignored the other patrons, a cross-section of Orindale society as, blanketed in sweet tobacco smoke, they yammered loudly to be heard above the din. Periodically they abandoned their conversations to bellow the refrain of some popular song or roar their appreciation of a well-told joke.

Crossing her legs beneath the heavy woollen folds of her new skirt, Brexan sipped at the last of her wine and considered ordering another half-bottle. She had spent her first free day since conscripting herself into the Malakasian Army strolling idly through the city, wandering into shops near the old imperial palace. One wing of the building had been demolished in an unexplained explosion several nights earlier, but the crumbling walls and shattered stained-glass windows didn’t mitigate the beauty of the surrounding boulevards.

She had found her skirt before the end of the midday aven, in a shop several streets away from the waterfront, though it hadn’t been her first choice. A delicate flowing skirt with an embroidered floral pattern and a hem of lace had caught her eye, and, tempted for a moment, she had held the skirt up against her body, against the sailor’s ill-fitting clothes. It was the most feminine article of clothing she had ever seen, let alone worn, and in the middle of a pirouette she had thought of Versen – not that she had forgotten him for a moment, for he was always there, if not in the forefront of her mind. Sometimes he would interrupt her thoughts, cause her to stare distractedly for a moment or two, maybe even make her stumble. Brexan couldn’t decide whether she wanted to live the rest of her life with such a boldly intrusive apparition haunting her, but whenever she thought it might be less unsettling if he were simply to fade away, she found herself reaching out as if to retrieve him, bring him closer.

Versen had been with her that morning, but not until she had twirled the pretentious skirt about the shop had he made his presence felt.

It’s lovely.

‘It’s not me, though,’ she had answered in a whisper, fearing the shopkeeper might overhear the one-sided conversation and toss her into the street.

No matter… things are different now. You should buy it. Versen’s voice had been comforting as she fingered the luxurious fabric.

‘You think so?’

I would love to see you in it – the murmur not of a voyeur, but a lover.

‘But you can’t, can you?’

I can’t. No.

Brexan stood still, hoping that if she remained motionless she would be able to hold him a moment longer. She didn’t have to get back to work yet. This day, the whole day, was for her. It was the midday aven now and she didn’t have to be back on Sallax’s trail until tomorrow. She didn’t have to track down and kill the fat merchant until tomorrow. Today was supposed to have been a gift, a moment’s grace, and the fact that Versen had come was all the more reason to make it last as long as possible.

Pressure built up behind Brexan’s eyes and her head started throbbing. She pinched the bridge of her nose and felt a tear on her wrist. The skirt dangled limply from her hand.

Now, as she leaned into the fire’s warmth, Brexan flinched when she recalled what had happened next.

Standing in the shop, a handful of fabric clutched close to her face, she had suddenly become revolted: the print was unnecessary, the lace hem too feminine – it was all too vulnerable. Her knees threatened to buckle and she had dropped the garment as if it had been on fire.

‘Hey, pick that up,’ the shopkeeper shouted, already on his way across the front room.

Ignoring him, she had reached for a utilitarian garment hanging on a raiclass="underline" the woollen skirt she wore now.

‘Get out of here. I don’t have time for your nonsense. These pieces are expensive-’ His voice faded as he caught sight of the sailor’s silver piece Brexan was displaying. She gave the coin a flip, a gesture that might have said, go scratch yourself, horsecock.

In a breath, the shopkeeper’s demeanour had changed, switching to grovelling obsequiousness as if a second personality had unexpectedly elbowed its way into his head. ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that sometimes… well, you know… with the Occupation-’