‘That’s not how it was!’ he shouted.
Beith’s wails followed him as he turned and ran down the shifting corridor. He was crazed by the vision and desperate to get away, and the hallway stretched out before him, changing in the darkness as he hobbled, part Lionkeep, part library. The screams of his mother fell away behind him as he manoeuvred through the coil halls, turning corners only to see another unfamiliar wall. Soon he was exhausted, and resting against the wall he caught his breath, trying to banish the horrible images. Ruana was talking to him, begging him to breathe. The long hall lead to darkness.
At the end of the corridor, an apparition waited. Gilwyn turned toward it with a moan. His mother Beith waited there, dressed in saffron, her face tranquil and beautiful. She smiled at him, raising her gentle hand to call to him. Gilwyn gripped the stone wall. She was as she had been when she was healthy, before the cancers had eaten her flesh. Like sea foam she floated toward him, the hem of her saffron dress trailing silently across the floor. Gilwyn pulled himself from the wall and drifted toward her, fascinated by the image Kahldris had conjured. He knew she wasn’t real, but in every way she was his mother, picked from his memory and gloriously remade. He remembered the dress she wore, her favourite, and the way she kept her hair, straight and long around her shoulders. The serene expression on her face spoke only of her love for him, the child she missed so sorely.
‘Mother. .’
Beith met him in the centre of the hall, reaching out to take his hands. Her warm touch brought him to tears.
‘My Gilwyn,’ she said, her voice a perfect likeness. ‘I’ve come back to you.’
‘It’s not you,’ sobbed Gilwyn. ‘You’re not real.’
‘I live on, Gilwyn. You know that. I watch you. Everyday I am with you.’
He knew that spirits walked the world; he had learned that much at least in Jador. And the touch of his mother’s soft fingers made her seem so real to him.
‘No,’ he argued. He closed his eyes against the pain. ‘You’re the trick of a demon. I know you are!’
His mother leaned in closer, kissing his cheek. ‘What a fine man you are now! I am so proud of you, Gilwyn.’
‘Stop,’ he begged, falling into her embrace. ‘No more. .’
But his mother held him closer, taking him to her bosom the way she had in his youth, and later in all those dreams when she was dead. Gilwyn sank into her, surrendering, knowing she was made from smoke but unable to resist. So sorely did he miss her, so much had he missed in those years when she was gone. Sickness had taken her, but she was back now, and for a moment he believed.
Gilwyn, stop! cried Ruana. She is a phantom!
Her shout broke his spell, and he pulled himself from the visage of his mother. Looking at her, he watched her eyes began to bubble in her head, the skin on her face falling off in clumps. She screamed, clawing at her body as Kahldris’ magic ravaged her. Bones popped through her skin. The ivory complexion turned to dust. Then, in a heap of wailing flesh, she fell to the floor and shattered to bits.
‘No!’
Horrified, Gilwyn ran. The long halls of Lionkeep became the library again, but he hardly noticed the transformation. Driven by the ghastly images, he dashed from the hall as quickly as his shriveled foot allowed, leaving behind his dead mother and the taunting laughs of Kahldris.
One day’s journey south of Nith, in a valley not unlike the tiny principality itself, Lukien and his cohorts from Jador had reined in their horses to bed down for the night. Dusk had settled over the surrounding hills, casting the long shadows of twilight across the road. In the nearby meadow, only a handful of trees obscured the flat landscape, inviting them to rest themselves and water their horses at a lake of clear water. Alsadair, the most anxious among them to reach Nith, agreed reluctantly to stop for the night, and as he and Lorn watered the horses Ghost and Lukien prepared the fire. The young albino worked fast and diligently, and by the time the others had unpacked their things he had the fire ready for them all, just in time for the encroaching darkness. The four of them went through their usual routine with ease, well-practiced in the tasks of making camp. They had ridden together for many long weeks, and over that time had developed a rhythm to things, each of them taking on their own set of duties. And in less than an hour, they were ready to eat.
Amazingly, cooking their rations fell to Lorn, the only one of them with a genuine talent for it. Despite a lifetime spent being pampered by servants, the last few years of the deposed king’s existence had been marked by doing things for himself. He knew his way around a frying pan like an expert, and whatever meats or vegetables they had managed to find for themselves found their way into Lorn’s oddly capable hands. He was, Lukien had discovered, a man of many surprises.
Tonight, Lukien remained unusually quiet, made thoughtful by their closeness to Nith. Alsadair, who had guided them all the way north, bore an unmistakable smile of anticipation. He had been gone from his homeland for months, but he was near enough to smell it now, and had spent the day regaling them all with the big history of little Nith. And Ghost, who almost always played his flute while they rode, made up ditties about Nith that had them all laughing.
All but Lukien.
The campfire leapt and crackled. On the other side of it, Ghost and Alsadair played cards while Lorn finished making the meal. Lukien watched them through the orange glow, glad that they were with him. In Jador, before he had left to rescue Thorin, he and Ghost had been fast friends. He was more than a companion on their mission — he was a confidant, and the only one of the three that Lukien really trusted. Lukien had grown to like Alsadair during their time together, but Ghost was an Inhuman, and because of that there was a special bond between he and Lukien. They understood the magic of Grimhold better than the others. It made them like brothers.
Lukien relaxed, quietly watching Lorn as he tasted the stew simmering in his iron pot. The old king gave a nod of satisfaction, then caught Lukien staring at him. Without a word Lorn went back to his work. The two of them rarely talked, though to his credit Lorn had tried. It was Lukien who kept the Norvan at arm’s length, because he neither liked Lorn nor trusted him, and he wanted no misunderstanding about that. Lorn had proven useful on the long journey, not only as a cook but also as a scout and a lookout and all the other talents martial men learn. He could fight, too. There was no doubt about that, and having his sword with them gave them all an added sense of security. Still, Lorn had only one mission in life, and it was not to free Thorin Glass.
Above all else, it was this that made Lukien uneasy tonight, and it was this that lead him to step away from the fire. Beside him lay the Sword of Angels, resting inconspicuously in its battered sheath. He retrieved the weapon and got to his feet, eager to be away from the others. Ghost was the first to notice him leaving.
‘Lukien? Where you going?’ he asked, lowering his cards. Alsadair swiveled to give Lukien the same puzzled look.
‘I have something to do,’ replied Lukien vaguely. ‘Eat without me.’
Lorn looked up from his pot but said nothing. Ghost crinkled his white nose. Now that the sun was down he had taken off his protective wraps. His grey eyes danced with firelight.
‘It’s dark out there!’ he shouted after Lukien.
‘Thanks, Mother,’ said Lukien. ‘I’ll be careful.’
It wasn’t lack of appetite that drove Lukien out to the field. He was famished, as they all were, but a nagging feeling sent him away, one that he could not share with the others. So far, he had only spoken with Malator once on the long ride north, just before leaving Ganjor. His Akari had been as silent as Amaraz over the past few weeks, leading Lukien to worry. Now that they were nearing Nith, it would only be a couple of weeks more until they met Kahldris. And then?