‘I want to tell you all those things,’ Lorn whispered carefully. His voice barely carried down to the sleeping girl. ‘I want you to know me, and that I thought the best of you.’
In Norvor, when he had been a king, some had argued for her murder. She was a burden, his advisors had told him, and could never be anything more. What kind of princess could she possibly make? Lorn remembered those words now, and how blithely he had said the same himself of other unfortunate infants. They were weak, weren’t they? They couldn’t be Norvans, because Norvans were strong.
‘But you are strong, little Poppy,’ said her father. ‘Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Never think yourself the weaker. You are my daughter. Your blood is my blood, and my blood is like fire. You are born to greatness.’ Lorn placed his palm lightly on the girl’s chest. ‘Don’t forget me.’
Poppy slept, undisturbed by her father’s words. He turned, and to his surprise saw Eiriann standing near the curtain. Her eyes drooped sadly, watching him. She shook her head in sorrow.
‘Why are you leaving us?’ she asked.
She had yet to confront him, but could no longer resist. Inexplicably, she loved him. To Lorn, there seemed no good answer to her query, nothing that could make her understand the need he had to go and fight for Norvor. He shrugged, almost an apology.
‘I am a leopard who cannot change his spots,’ he said.
Eiriann waited for him to say more. When he did not, she nodded and closed the curtain.
Gilwyn sat in the windowless catalogue room, pondering the massive machine sprawling out before him. His oil-covered hands drummed absently on the wooden desk, the portal that unlocked the machine itself. The hard chair beneath his rump creaked as he leaned back in it perilously, just as he had seen his mentor Figgis do a hundred times before. A bank of hastily lit candles illuminated the machine, setting its rods and pulleys aglow. For days now Gilwyn had tinkered with them, trying to figure out the ingenuity of their design. Now, thoroughly vexed, he let out a mumbling groan, not really hearing himself as he stared at the miraculous, confounding catalogue.
‘What in the world makes this thing go?’
The mystery of the machine made the young man bite his lip, mightily wishing he had paid Figgis more attention. Over their years together, Figgis had tried to teach Gilwyn the machine’s intricacies, but Gilwyn had always given up in frustration, sure that only the brilliant Figgis could understand its complexities. The machine had sprung from the genius’ own mind, like a dream made real. He had built the thing with his own feeble hands, somehow cobbling together the remarkable pieces from all across the continent. The catalogue machine was more than just a marvel. Some believed it could actually think, but Gilwyn knew better. To truly bring the machine to life had been the greatest part of Figgis’ ambition, and one he had never achieved. Still, the myth of the catalogue lived on.
For weeks now, Gilwyn had spent time stalling, pretending to try and work the machine in those hours he did not spend with Thorin. Thorin seemed to believe his endeavours, mostly. At least the old baron seemed satisfied. They had been good weeks for both of them, and Gilwyn had tried his best to keep Thorin’s madness at bay. But the catalogue machine still loomed over both of them, a nagging reminder that Malator was still on his way.
‘I think,’ said Gilwyn, ‘that this thing should have died with Figgis.’
He straightened out his chair, lowering his head to the desk and resting his chin atop his clubbed hand. It was hard for him to imagine Thorin ever killing White-Eye, or any of the other Inhumans. Yet that was the baron’s bleak promise. Claiming no choice in the matter, Thorin had told Gilwyn that the Akari — and their hosts — needed to pay for what they had done to Kahldris.
How did one kill a spirit, Gilwyn wondered? Really, wasn’t that what Thorin wanted? The Akari were already dead, and yet somehow Kahldris wasn’t satisfied. He wanted them removed forever from the earth, and there was, of course, only one way to do so. The Akari lived among the living because they had living hosts. Kill them, Gilwyn supposed, and the Akari would flee, leaving the world forever in the hands of the demon Kahldris.
At first, Thorin’s horrible proposition had kept Gilwyn awake for weeks. Thorin — who had once been so gentle — openly planned to do Kahldris’ bidding, surrendering bodily to the spirit. First, though, they would deal with Malator. And that alone gave Gilwyn hope. It gave him time to plan.
‘We’ll find a way, Ruana,’ muttered Gilwyn.
The great, inscrutable machine stretched out before him. With Thorin’s help he had managed to make the machine move, starting up its apparatus so that now it clanked and whistled with life. But that was all, and it frustrated Gilwyn. He did not really believe that the catalogue could help him find a way to stop Kahldris, but he had so few other options. He had combed the library for any scrap of information that might help him, but in all the books and scrolls there was almost nothing about the Akari, just vague references to spirits that might — or might not — live across the Desert of Tears.
Gilwyn, you are tired, said Ruana. Stop now and rest.
Gilwyn spied the food he had brought with him, sitting at the edge of the desk. He had not eaten for hours, and the smell of the cheese drew him to it like a mouse. Karlina, the woman who ran Lionkeep’s kitchen, had taken good care of him over the weeks he had been in Koth, fattening him on hearty cooking and tempting him every night with baked treats. Thinking of her now, Gilwyn smiled.
‘There’ll be raisin cake tonight,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Too bad you can’t have any, Ruana. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
You’ll eat enough for both of us, retorted the Akari.
‘I will,’ Gilwyn pronounced, then sat up to stretch his aching back. He realized that he had already been in Koth for nearly two months, and in that time had made many friends among Lionkeep’s prodigious staff of servants and stable hands. His arrival had lightened Thorin’s mood considerably, that’s what they all claimed, and because of it they were happy to have Gilwyn with them. Karlina was fond of saying that Gilwyn was their charm, like a talisman to ward off the baron’s black moods. Over the weeks he had kept his promise to Thorin, deciding not to abandon him no matter how bad things got. They would get bad, Gilwyn knew, but not yet. For now, life in Koth was good again, and even Thorin seemed better every day.
You are pleased, said Ruana, smiling in Gilwyn’s mind. You should be, Gilwyn. I am proud of the way you have handled Baron Glass.
Gilwyn nodded, feeling proud himself. ‘He is better, isn’t he, Ruana? He really is. I knew he would be. I knew I could reach him.’
Ruana paused. Gilwyn. .
‘I know. There’s still a lot to do. But I am reaching him, and we still have time. There’s no way Lukien could get here before another month or so. By then, who knows?’
I know, Gilwyn. And you know. And Baron Glass knows, too. He has surrendered to Kahldris. He told you so already, many times.
‘I have to hope, Ruana,’ countered Gilwyn. ‘It’s all I have.’
Ruana understood, graciously letting the matter go. You know him better than I do, Gilwyn. If you say that he is better, then it is so.
‘It’s the time we spend together,’ Gilwyn pointed out. ‘It makes him remember the way he used to be. You saw him when we were riding yesterday, Ruana. He was like a kid!’
A very big, demented kid perhaps.
‘No. He’s the way he was, before all of this happened to him.’ Gilwyn sighed, fondly recalling their ride through the countryside. Thorin had even sung while they rode. ‘When was the last time that he sang, do you think?’