‘What time is it?’ he asked again, but Garec didn’t move.
Lessek’s spell book had lashed out at him; he hadn’t been ready. Gilmour stared up at the sky. If Nerak had mastered the spells in that book, Gilmour would be destroyed. It was that simple. He had made a huge mistake by being too terrified to go back to the scroll library. ‘The ash dream,’ he whispered. The first folio was as far as he had got.
He forced himself to relax: one job at a time. He used magic to heal his fractured ribs, then sat up, groaning – this time in frustration – and shouted, ‘Garec, what time is it?’
‘What-?’ Rudely awakened, Garec yawned widely, then sat up with a start, his eyes wide in sudden realisation. ‘Did you sleep? Demonpiss, Gilmour, I hadn’t expected you to sleep. Are we too late? Did we miss it?’
‘Don’t worry. I think there’s still time.’
Garec studied Steven’s watch with a furrowed brow. ‘We have – ten moments before five clocks.’
‘Minutes.’
‘Yes, right, whatever. Ten. Tecan.’ He walked stiffly to the boat and began rummaging in one of the canvas sacks.
‘Yes, I’ll have some tecan,’ Gilmour said. ‘Make a big pot this morning. I’ll deal with the fire.’ With a wave of his hand he moved several logs from a nearby stack into the fire-pit Garec had dug the previous night and set it alight with a gesture. The flames warmed and woodsmoke curled up and around his face in a gentle caress. For once, he really didn’t know what to do – and he realised how much he missed Steven. ‘How many minutes now?’ he asked Garec.
‘Four mimits, momets, whatever you called them.’ Garec approached from across the campsite, a silent Mark Jenkins in tow. ‘Ah, great fire, Gilmour. I wish you would teach me that one.’
He had no idea how much that stung. Gilmour turned towards the fjord, ostensibly to peer across the water, to keep the others from reading the insecurity in his face. ‘Perhaps I will one day, Garec, but for now, I think I’ll get the far portal ready,’ he said.
Garec filled the tecan pot with water from a wineskin. ‘I’ll let you know when to open it.’ He turned his attention to Mark. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘Can we do it today?’ Mark didn’t look up from the fire.
Garec shrugged despondently. ‘I suppose today is as good a day as any.’
‘Good.’ Mark reached both palms towards the flames. ‘What kind of wood do I need to find?’
‘Several types will work just fine. I use rosewood. The grain is tight, very strong. But mahogany and walnut are excellent as well.’ Garec stirred the tecan with a twig. ‘The trick is not so much in selecting the right wood but rather in shaping the bow. You need a relatively thin length of wood from a thick green branch.’
‘You shave away the outer layers?’ Mark made eye contact with him for the first time in days.
‘Lots of them. The best bows take a great deal of time to shape, because the most resilient, flexible wood is the core. The thicker and greener the branch, the more pliable and strong its core will be.’ He gestured towards the twin hills in the east. ‘When we get up in those woods later today, I’ll show you what I mean.’
‘I think I understand.’ Mark reached over and took the twig from Garec. He stirred the tecan as Garec had done, then looked at Gilmour. ‘You ought to check the time.’
Garec grinned. It warmed his heart to see Mark taking back controclass="underline" the foreigner was a self-proclaimed expert on frenchroastcoffee and regularly criticised the others’ tecan-making attempts. Although Garec had no idea what frenchroastcoffee was, he assumed being an expert had given Mark some deep insight into how to prepare the perfect pot of tecan. Either way, he was excited to see Mark moving back into one of his old roles. Taking over the morning tecan duties was a small step, but in the right direction.
He checked Steven’s watch and called, ‘Five clocks, Gilmour. Open it.’
Four minutes later, as the trio stood around the fire watching dawn over the fjord, Steven Taylor appeared beside the far portal. ‘Hello, boys. Any tecan left?’
‘Great rutters!’ Gilmour shouted, spilling his drink down his tunic. He scurried over to clasp Steven in a bear-hug. Garec followed, while Mark knelt to close the far portal with the twig he was still holding.
‘What happened to you?’ Gilmour asked, holding Steven at arm’s length and checking the lacerations on his head and the burn on his cheek. ‘Are you badly hurt?’
‘No. I’m fine – quite a journey, though.’ He looked around, as if to check they were alone, then continued, ‘But you were wrong, Gilmour. Nerak followed me; he pinpointed my cross-over spot even with the Colorado portal closed.’
Gilmour winced and nodded towards the leather book in the boat. ‘I’m not surprised, Steven, but I’m sorry. And you’re right; I think I underestimated a number of things about Nerak. The fact that he was able to follow you through the weaker portal may be just the beginning of a long list of surprises he has in store for us. But tell us – did you find it?’ The three men were hanging on Steven’s every word now. ‘You managed to get back to the far portal, but Lessek’s key?’
Steven reached into the backpack pocket. ‘Rest easy: I did.’
There was an almost tangible exhalation of relief as he held it out, then Gilmour blanched and waved it away. ‘No, no – uh, you hang onto it.’ The book had just lashed out at him; the key was likely to kill him on the spot. That was naught but the tiniest of tastes, Fantus, drawn from the very furthest reaches of my power.
‘All right,’ Steven agreed, ‘I’ll keep it here.’ He tucked the stone into the pocket of his coat, then, slapping Mark’s shoulder, said, ‘I brought you a few things, partner. Let me get a cup of that tecan, then I can show you what I picked up on my little vacation.’ Steven didn’t notice Mark’s grim features as he walked to the fire, then looked around and asked, ‘Hey – where’s Brynne?’
Nerak took the first person he found, an elderly woman out walking her dog, an irritating Bijon with pink-rimmed eyes and an expensive coiffeur. The portal was closed, and the beacon he had followed was silent. The dark prince slammed into the old woman’s body, killing her instantly as he demanded, ‘Where does Sorenson live, Hannah Sorenson?’
The old woman had nothing in her memory to give Nerak any additional information. He dug deeper. ‘Meyers Antiques? What do you know of Meyers Antiques?’
Dietrich Meyers. He came from Austria. Owned the store over on Broadway. Died last year. It was closed up now. He seemed friendly enough. His wife used to make strudel before she died a long time ago – maybe fifteen years ago. I bought a tea set there once back in the 1970s, a nice floral, something British. Jeffrey broke two cups one morning, and I boxed it up. Ah, but that boy was a wrecking crew.
Nothing. Nerak cursed and left in a rush, ignoring the yammering of the wretched little animal as the woman’s stout body fell in a rumpled heap, her thigh-length support hose exposed as the heavy folds of her wool skirt bunched above her puckered knees.
His next victim was a high school student, in the neighbourhood to catch an art film at a nearby theatre.
Nothing; a waste of time. Nerak left the boy’s body slumped on a bus stop bench, an ad for a massage clinic showing behind the young man’s varsity letter jacket.
A bartender on break, smoking a cigarette out behind a Broadway Avenue tavern, followed. ‘Where does Hannah Sorenson live?’ he asked the dead man’s memories.
Hannah. Pretty girl. Great rack. Saw them once when she leaned over to tie her shoes. Drinks beer, sometimes has wine with her mother. They were working the sale at the old man’s antiques store after he died. She lives over on Grant. Someplace near First.