“They mean so well and yet, alas, a meeting of men so rarely involves a meeting of minds…”

The sun dappled the forest floor: here, lighting the browns, reds and yellows of a confusion of leaves; there, falling upon a mossy stone, making it glow greenly. Her figure moved in silence between the arching trees, her white gown a stark contrast to their wintry limbs. The only sound was of leaves rustling on a light wind.

She faced away from him and made no gesture, nor any attempt to turn, but he knew that she wanted him to follow. And that was what he yearned to do, for to stand with her in the light would be to banish all of his cares into the shadows and instead to be at home, to be safe, to be loved. He sensed that all this lay but a few steps ahead – just there, where she now walked slowly across a sunlit clearing, her path strewn with gossamer, sparkling with pearls of dew. But as hard as he tried his feet would not carry him through the forest. With every step, she moved further and further away from him and, as she did so, the shafts of winter sunshine drifted with her, drawing long shadows across his path.

“Mum! Wait!” he cried desperately, but his voice was just a whisper, like the leaves in the breeze.

He cried out again, but still he could not find his voice. She walked on across the clearing, moving slowly towards the thickening woods. Before she reached the first of the trees, she stopped and, turning her head slightly, she spoke. Sylas could not make out her voice as it was only a whisper, but somehow her words formed in his mind, so clear and true that it was as though her lips were at his ear.

“Know me, and you will find me,” she said.

 

SYLAS WOKE GASPING FOR air as though he had been suffocating. His muscles were tense and sore and he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his neck. There was no voice, no forest, no sunshine, indeed there was no light except for a meagre strip of flickering orange leading from the door, which stood slightly ajar. He pushed himself up on the sofa and sat for a moment, waiting for his head to clear.

He thought he heard the sound of leaves in the wind again, drifting from the door, but the more he listened, the more he became sure that the sound was not leaves at all: they were whispers, murmurs and stifled voices. He lowered his feet to the floor and felt the rough floorboards on his toes: his mud-caked shoes and socks had been removed and laid to one side. He stood and stretched, finding his limbs surprisingly refreshed, walked over to the door and pulled it open.

A bright orange light poured into the room; the whispers became a hubbub of chattering voices and the air was filled with a medley of smoky scents that made his head swim – honey, blackberries, plums, fresh grass and sprouts.

“You’re awake! Just in time!”

It was Simia’s voice.

She was sitting on the floor of the gallery, with her legs hanging down below the banister. She had retrieved her coat and was once again lost inside its folds of crude cloth. She grinned over her shoulder and patted the carpet next to her.

“Come and sit here,” she said. “Best seat in the house!”

Still yawning, he stepped forward and peered over the railing. To his astonishment the hall was transformed from the vast, bright, airy space that he had seen earlier in the day. Now the mirrors no longer reflected bright beams from one to the other, but instead were empty and dark. Their light was replaced by flickering lamps hung from countless brackets on the wall, so numerous that the walls and ceiling looked almost like a starlit sky.

The hall was alive with a bustle of people: young and old, women and men, many bearing the traits of some far-flung or foreign place, with dark skin or broad features, high brows or wide eyes, long, slender necks or stout, rounded shoulders. Most were sitting on the circular benches talking agitatedly to their neighbours, but some were still gathered in groups around the outside, in front of the Aquium. All were wearing the same burgundy robes that he had seen on Filimaya, though none seemed to Sylas quite as impressive as hers.

The guests showed signs of great excitement, forming tight huddles where they sat or stood, jabbing at the air and waving their hands about as they made some unheard point or answered some unheard question. Many puffed feverishly at pipes of different shapes and sizes, issuing clouds of flavoured smoke into the towering space above. There was a great confusion of voices, some loud and agitated, others whispering and secretive, many using strange languages and accents, a large number of them elderly, with greying hair.

And below, just visible between Sylas’s feet, a younger congregation of guests gathered round a figure whom he could not at first see, but as the group parted, he saw, to his surprise, that it was none other than Ash, smiling enigmatically as he showed his audience a glass in the palm of his hand, which appeared to be full of pebbles. His incongruous green robe was a confused rumple of creases and his hair looked if anything more untidy than it had been in the inn: now an extraordinary explosion of blond curls.

“Why’s Ash here?” whispered Sylas. “I thought he was a Muddlemorph.”

Simia followed his eyes and shrugged. “He is and he isn’t,” she replied, poking her head between the bars to get a better look. “We’re good at pretending to be whatever we need to be – you know, blending in. Ash is really good at it, though. In fact, sometimes I think he likes being a Muddlemorph more than he likes being one of us.”

At that moment there was a gasp of wonderment from the little gathering as Ash raised the glass into the air. Sylas saw to his amazement that the pebbles had turned into crystal-clear water. The young man lowered the glass, drank down the contents and smacked his lips. “And that,” he cried, “is the perfect cure for gallstones!”

There was a loud chorus of laughter from those around him and they began to applaud, but they were quickly silenced by an older man who turned and snapped at Ash. Sylas noticed that most of the older people standing nearby were also looking at him disapprovingly.

“What did he do wrong?” asked Sylas.

Simia sighed maternally. “He used Kimiyya.”

“One of the Three Ways?”

“Yes, and it’s also a big no-no here. The Suhl are only meant to use Essenfayle.”

“What’s that?”

“There you go again with all your questions,” she sighed, nudging him in the ribs. “Essenfayle is our way. The Fourth Way.”

Just then he saw a slight movement in the shadows further around the gallery. It took his eyes a moment to adjust but, as they did, he saw a large figure standing next to the banister and then the glint of large eyes staring directly at him. A flicker of torchlight illuminated a long face and glinted brightly off a bald head. It was Bowe.

“Why’s he up here?” he asked Simia, pointing. “Shouldn’t he be with the rest?”

She looked up. “Oh no, he always skulks about in the shadows at these things,” she said. “Meetings are difficult for Scryers. Too many feelings and thoughts – connections between people. He says it’s like looking into a blinding light – or everyone shouting at the top of their voice. Too much to bear.”

Sylas looked thoughtfully at Bowe’s stocky figure, his arms crossed in front of him, his sparkling eyes turning slowly about the hall, and for a moment he wondered what it must be like to see the world in that way: all the myriad thoughts and feelings of daily life, one moment admiration, affection, goodwill and the next mistrust, fear, hate – all around him, all the time. A blessing and a curse. He looked at the Scryer with new interest, taking in the deep lines of his face, the heavy brow, the downcast eyes.

“He looks sad,” he said, thinking aloud.

Simia sucked a breath through her teeth. “He has plenty to be sad about. He’s lost more than most of us: his wife and all his brothers... even his daughter. They say she was taken on the last day of the war.”

“Taken prisoner?”

She nodded. “Her name was Naeo. She’s probably dead, like everyone else.”

Sylas shook his head. So that explained the tattoo on the back of Bowe’s head.

His eyes travelled back to Bowe and, to his surprise, he saw that the Scryer was still looking at him. His gaze had the same strange intensity as in the Mutable Inn, his expression quizzical, as though he saw in Sylas something he could not quite understand, or perhaps believe.

A loud clunk reverberated through the hall followed by a metallic rattle.

The many speakers fell silent. All eyes turned to the centre of the chamber, where the two great circular doors in the floor were already sliding back to reveal the darkness of the shaft below. As they shuddered to a halt, a lone figure rose slowly out of the shadows on the platform. Sylas recognised Filimaya’s flowing silver hair straight away, looking even more beautiful in the shifting lamplight. As she ascended, she turned and nodded politely to various people in the room and all smiled warmly and bowed in greeting. The weave of purple strands in her hair shimmered and glistened, lending her an ethereal appearance.

Simia followed his eyes. “They say those are the last threads of the Suhl standard – the flag carried by Merimaat herself.”

The platform came to a sudden halt with a sharp clank. Filimaya paused for a moment while the sound died away and then raised her head to speak.

“Come close and hear me,” she said in a strong but lilting voice.

There was a general commotion as those still standing made their way to various parts of the hall to sit down, jostling one another for the best positions.

Simia leaned over. “That’s how all Say-Sos start. When someone says that, everyone has to shut up and listen.”

She rifled through her coat and brought out a tatty-looking notebook, a pot of ink and a quill.

“What’s that for?” whispered Sylas.

“It’s where I write important things,” said Simia, turning through pages of handwritten scrawl to a clean page. “And this is going to be important.”

Gradually the great hall came to order and Filimaya moved for the first time, turning on the spot so that she could see everyone in the congregation. Seeming satisfied that they were ready to listen, she cleared her throat and began.

“First of all, my good friends, an apology for my dramatic entrance,” she smiled and pointed down to the platform. “I was outside because I had to be sure that we are not being watched. I fear that we now face a greater threat from our enemies than ever before.”

There was a general murmur in the hall, but Filimaya continued without pause.

“By now you will all know my reason for gathering you here. The Passing Bell has brought us a visitor. A Bringer.”

There was another rumble of excitement and a general nodding of heads. Filimaya waited until the hall had fallen silent.

“But that is not all. This Bringer is a boy.”

Suddenly the congregation erupted with cries of disbelief.

“A child Bringer – surely not!” shouted one woman.

“A boy? Nonsense!” bellowed another.

Sylas shifted nervously and glanced at Simia, who muttered something under her breath.

“If I might finish!” boomed Filimaya suddenly, her voice surprisingly resonant in the large hall. “It seems certain that this boy is a Bringer and perhaps even more special than that. He was aided in his journey not only by the Merisi, but by Mr Zhi himself.”

At this the clamour in the hall rose to a new pitch despite Filimaya’s raised hands and calls for calm.

“You can’t believe children’s stories!” cried a man with a shiny bald head and flame-red beard. “Not on matters of this importance!”

“Well, I disagree,” said Filimaya calmly. “But it isn’t just what he says. He wears the Merisi Band.”

There was a collective gasp. The man stared at her long and hard. “And I suppose you know that it’s not a fake?”

“I do.”

“How exactly?”

“Because, Salvo, I can tell that he is a boy who speaks the truth,” said Filimaya. “But if we need proof, I think this will suffice.”

She reached down to a small bag almost hidden beneath her cloak and stood holding her hand aloft. Between her fine fingers she held the Samarok. The entire gathering gasped.

Sylas felt a surge of panic – an overwhelming fear that the book had been taken from him and that he had been foolish to tell these strangers that he had it. The blood was draining from his face as he heard Simia’s voice in his ear.

“She’s only borrowed it. She needed to see it for herself – and she knew that the others would have to see it too.”

Salvo was back on his feet. “Well, all of these Merisi trinkets are very impressive, but he could have been given them by anyone! If this boy really is a Bringer, surely he should be here, now, speaking for himself!” Sylas looked anxiously at Filimaya, praying that she would not look up at him. But already the room was mumbling its agreement and Filimaya seemed to be considering the proposal.

She hesitated, then glanced up with an expression of apology.

“Very well,” she said. “I had hoped to avoid this, but I can see why you need to meet him. Just remember this: he is a boy, and he is our guest.” She looked meaningfully round the room until her eyes rested upon Salvo and then, apparently satisfied that everyone had heard her, she raised her hand and beckoned to Sylas.

“Come down, Sylas,” she said with an encouraging smile. “I’m sure that everyone will make you very welcome.”

 

 

The creature lay entirely still, its body pressed against the smooth grey stone with limbs spread wide, its face against the glass. The only movement was the slow opening and closing of the gills beneath its angular jaws. Its slimy body had taken the colours of the mill wall – granite-grey with a speckled, slightly bluish pigment – making it almost invisible from below. The black orbs of its eyes peered down into the chamber, watching contemptuously as the assembled Suhl talked and gesticulated, rose and retook their seats. It paid Filimaya scant attention, instead searching among the faces, peering into the shadows.

Only when Filimaya looked up into the gallery did it turn back to her, pausing on her for a moment and then following her gaze. It saw the wide circle of the balcony, the banisters and, just visible to one side, a small shaggy-haired boy climbing to his feet. It flicked its tongue across its yellowed, pointed teeth and shifted its head slightly to one side, letting out a low, rasping purr. Its brow furrowed as it took in every detail of its quarry, who now walked nervously to the staircase and began to descend into the chamber.

The creature lifted its reptilian head and sucked in a triumphant breath, turning its eyes to the sprawling town below. For some moments it watched the smoke curling up from chimneys to the evening sky, forming layers of murky bronze in the dying light. Then it looked down to the bank and along the riverside path, checking for prying eyes. There was no movement nearby, but its attention was drawn to a gathering of figures walking along an alley some distance away. It recognised their smooth, effortless gait at once: it was a small group of Ghor, their necks swinging from side to side as they searched doorways and peered in windows. Then it saw another group in the street beyond, moving slowly and deliberately, scouring every alcove and porch, window and opening.

Gradually it became aware of the same silent, creeping motion in every lane and alley, every street and square: hundreds, perhaps thousands of Ghor stealing through the shadows of twilight, swarming through the town. Its frown deepened as it looked up to the hills, to the winding roads, and saw that they were black with a flow of dark figures streaming towards the lights.

Fluttering high above the distant hordes was a regular line of gigantic flags glowing blood-red in the failing light. At their centre, a black, empty face glowered across the open fields and huddling homes. The eyes were hollow and skeletal, but they seemed to see all. As the fabric snapped in the wind, so the deathly visage seemed to flicker with life, scowling at the final glimmer of day.

“Thoth,” gurgled the creature, a shiver running down its protruding spine.