“Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake…”

ASH STIRRED, DRAWING HIS knees up and leaning forward so that he could hear a little better. Bayleon continued to stare into the fire, but his shifting eyes betrayed his interest. Simia shuffled so far forward that she was rather too close to the flames, but in her excitement she seemed entirely unaware of them. Her eyes sparkled expectantly.

“Let’s begin with the easier of the questions,” said Espen, patting his chest. “As Bayleon will tell you, I have not always gone by the name Espen. Like many of our kind, I have had to change my name since the war.” His eyes moved from face to face. “I was once called Espasian.”

Ash sat bolt upright and glanced over at Bayleon, who nodded without raising his eyes from the fire.

Simia’s jaw fell open and for a moment even she seemed lost for words. “Espasian? The Magruman?” she blurted.

Espen nodded.

“But… you were killed,” blurted Ash, squinting a little as he scrutinised the stranger’s face more closely. “I mean... we thought you died at the Reckoning.”

“As did I,” said Espen, arching a scarred eyebrow. “And I should have died. But this brings me to the question of why I am here, and for this you must allow me to tell a little of my story.”

He settled back against the bank and the others leaned in even further.

“After the battle I woke half buried in earth with my shoulder torn open. I lay there, amid the fire and devastation, wondering if this was some terrible perversion of an afterlife, some punishment for Merimaat’s death – for all that we had allowed to happen.” His eyes flicked briefly to Bayleon’s face. “But I should have known better: such abominations are things of this world and not of that. The Ghor soon appeared, picking through the dying and dead, their voices oiled with pride at their victory. And to heap shame upon shame, they found me. Drooling at the glory of it, they gathered me up and hurled me into a cart with a few other unfortunate souls.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed eagerly. “Did you recognise any of them?”

Espen shook his head. “I didn’t see them – we were kept apart.”

Bayleon grunted and poked the fire violently, which sent a shower of sparks crackling and hissing into the air.

“What I do remember is that the Ghor carried Thoth’s standard, so they were almost certainly taking us to the Dirgheon. But I, for one, never reached it. On the second night I escaped from their camp and took to the Barrens.”

“And the others?” asked Ash.

Espen dropped his eyes to the fire. “I don’t know. I only just managed to get myself out before…”

“You’re a Magruman!” interrupted Bayleon, heaving his bulky frame forward so that the flames lit his broad features. “How could you leave your own people in the hands of those animals?”

Espen was silent for some moments, then picked up a dry, rotten stick and tossed it into the fire.

“I was injured and exhausted, Bayleon,” he said. “But it wasn’t just that. It was defeat. The legions, the Spoorrunners, the Scryers, the Casters, the Sea People, the Magrumen, Merimaat herself – all of us – we had all seen the end, watched everything fall. It was all I could do to keep myself alive let alone others. You remember what it was like – we had nothing left. Nothing.”

Bayleon’s brow furrowed and he clenched his hands into fists. He eased himself back into the shadows to rest on the bank. “But we’re not Magrumen,” he growled quietly, sliding his hands behind his head.

Sylas listened to all this in some bewilderment. He had thought Espen to be someone of the Other, of his own world – one of the Merisi perhaps. Now that he knew that the stranger was as much a part of this peculiar place as the rest of his companions, he felt even more alone.

“So why were you in Gabblety Row?” he asked.

Espen was still preoccupied with Bayleon’s remark and took some time to respond.

“When I escaped, I was unsure what to do next,” he said with a resigned sigh. “There was nowhere to run: all of our settlements were gone, most of our hideouts had been destroyed, there was no real resistance to speak of and I couldn’t be sure who, if anyone, had survived. We were starting again – starting with nothing. I couldn’t risk going into towns or happening across any patrols and it was pointless trying to cross borders, so for some days I just stayed here, on the Barrens, trying to regain some strength, to come up with some kind of plan–” he smiled sadly – “trying to imagine what Merimaat would have done. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed obvious that I had to make contact with the Merisi. I knew that they wouldn’t have been caught up in the Reckoning and I hoped that they might be able to help.”

“But how did you get into the Other?” asked Ash, bringing his face closer to the fire. “Hadn’t all the circles been destroyed?”

Espen shook his head. “Not Salsimaine, though they’d made every attempt.”

“Circles?” said Sylas. “What are they?”

“Stone circles,” said Espen.

Sylas looked at him blankly.

“Our ancestors used circles of stone for worshipping the sun by day and its opposite, the moon, by night. Then they found that somehow, because those rings harness both opposites, they have a special power to forge other connections – connections between opposite things. That’s how they finally opened a way into the Other.”

“That kind of stone circle!” said Sylas, his eyes widening. “Like the ones we have in my world?”

“Not like them – identical to them,” said Espen, smiling. “Doorways between the worlds. Salsimaine is one of the biggest.”

Sylas sat back in wonderment. He had visited a huge stone circle with his mother. He remembered the gigantic square-cut stones arranged in perfect arcs for reasons no one really understood, by a people no one really knew. His mother had been fascinated by them.

“On the fourth day,” continued Espen, clearly determined to finish his story, “I managed to make my way to Salsimaine. I found it deserted but for a few sentries who were easily overcome, and I used what little power I was able to muster to make the Passing – to enter the Other. Then I made contact with the Merisi in the usual way.”

“What’s that?” asked Simia, her eyes bright with excitement. “What’s the ‘usual way’?”

“If you don’t mind, Simia, I think we’d better leave such details for another time,” replied Espen dismissively.

Simia’s face fell.

“The Merisi were horrified to hear of the Reckoning. They called a vast gathering of their order, something that they have only done a few times in their long history. It was the grandest Say-So I have ever seen, attended by hundreds of Merisi, young and old, many from faraway lands, wearing strange clothing and speaking tongues I had never heard. All the Bringers of recent years were there: Mutumba and Xiang, Fitz and Veeglum.

“Long discussions followed, some of which I was allowed to hear, some of which were held in secret. Finally they concluded that I should be given sanctuary as long as was needed, but that nothing further could be done without Mr Zhi himself.”

Bayleon drew himself forward out of the shadows to hoist the pot of stew from the fire, a bitter smile across his face.

“Go on, Espasian, tell them,” he said. “Tell them why you were sent to see Mr Zhi. Tell them what took you so far away from our troubles.”

Espen regarded him wearily and dropped his head between his shoulders.

“I am not ashamed of the truth, Bayleon.”

“Clearly not!” retorted Bayleon defiantly. “Tell them!”

Espen’s gaze hardened for a moment, obviously unaccustomed to such a tone.

His response was firm: “I went because of the Glimmer Myth.”

Ash stared at him in disbelief. His face creased into an uncertain smile and then he laughed hesitantly, as though waiting for the Magruman to say that he was jesting.

“The Glimmer Myth?” he cried. “You’re joking! Surely you’re joking?”

There was no humour in Espen’s face. The younger man saw his expression and his smile dropped.

“You’re… you’re not joking. No, I can see that now.”

“What’s the Glimmer Myth?” asked Simia, searching their faces.

Espen regarded Simia distractedly for a few moments, then turned to Sylas. “I had hoped to explain this a little differently, but now it does seem best that we begin with the myth. Where’s the Samarok? We’re going to need it.”

Sylas turned and rummaged in his bag. He felt its reassuring weight in his hand and pulled it out until it was illuminated by the fire. As he did so, Simia darted round the pit and took a seat next to him.

He gave her a questioning look.

“What?” she said defensively. “I missed this at the mill – that’s not going to happen again.”

“Now,” Espen began, eyeing Simia with something between irritation and amusement, “how well can you read the runes?”

Sylas shrugged. “OK, I think. Fathray explained them to me and Galfinch taught me to unravel them.”

Ash and Bayleon exchanged an astonished glance.

“Good. Then I need you to look at two things. The first is at the beginning of the book. Turn to the very first page – the first with writing on it.”

Sylas lifted the front cover and saw that the opening page was blank. He turned it over. The second page contained just three lines of writing, about a third of the way from the top. He remembered looking at these before, when he was alone in his room. He lifted and turned the Samarok so that the page caught the glow from the flames and, as he did so, Simia suddenly lunged across him, throwing herself towards the fire.

He snatched the Samarok out of the way. “What are you doing?” he cried.

“Saving this!” she said indignantly, holding up a small piece of paper.

It was Mr Zhi’s message – the note that he had given Sylas to help him decode the runes. Fathray had inserted it at this very page. This was the one he was supposed to read.

He muttered his thanks to Simia and turned back to the page. He looked hard at the runes in the dancing light, clearing his mind until they started to shift and change. Then, slowly, he began to read:

 

“Reach for the... silvered... glimmer on the lake

Turn to the... sun-streaked shadow in your... wake

Now, rise: fear not where none have gone...”

 

He read it over again in silence, but even then it made little sense. He looked up at Espen who was smiling quietly.

“That,” he said, “is the source of the Glimmer Myth.”

Sylas looked back at the runes, reading them over and over as Espen continued.

“That’s where it gets its name: from the ‘silvered glimmer’,” he said in a low voice. “The myth is ancient. Most believe that it is older than the Merisi or even the Suhl. This is the only surviving fragment of a poem about the myth, a poem written by none less than Merisu, the great father of the Merisi.”

“So they say...” grumbled Bayleon.

Espen ignored him. “As you hear, many of my brethren consider it to be preposterous or dangerous—”

“Or both,” muttered Bayleon.

“... so it is only spoken about quietly,” continued Espen, “in hushed tones, among friends.”

“Good, creepy campfire talk,” interjected Ash, with a grin.

“Quite,” said Espen. “But the Merisi have always seen it quite differently. As you have found, it is very prominent in the Samarok and many Bringers considered it far from mythical. Some even say that the Merisi were founded in order to bring it to light.”

Bayleon shook his head slowly as he stirred the pot of stew, a smile playing on his lips.

“But what is it?” cried Simia impatiently, unable to contain herself any longer.

“You’re right, Simia,” replied Espen, “we’re straying from the point.”

Simia smiled proudly.

“Sylas – read the first line again,” instructed Espen.

Sylas read it out loud: “Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake…”

The Magruman nodded. “What do you think that refers to – the silvered glimmer?”

“I’m not sure,” he said with a shrug. “A reflection?”

“Precisely,” said Espen. “Now read the next line.”

“Turn to the sun-streaked shadow in your wake…” Sylas thought for a moment. “It’s talking about your shadow – you know, your shadow in the sunlight.”

“Exactly. The poem is telling us all to turn to our own reflection, to our own shadow.” He leaned forward so that his face was lit brightly by the flames. “To another part of ourselves.”

Bayleon dropped the spoon and threw his arms in the air. “Oh, this really is too—”

“The myth poses us a question,” continued Espen, speaking over him. “What if each of us has another side? What if there is a part of ourselves that we can turn to – a ‘Glimmer’ of our own being – one that we can reach out and touch?”

Sylas and Simia looked at each other in puzzlement.

“I don’t understand,” said Sylas.

Espen held his gaze. “We all know that our two worlds are connected in some way.” His voice was still quiet but excited. “They have the same hills and mountains, the same rivers and seas, even the same sun and moon. The very seasons are the same, but in reverse – when it is winter here, it is summer in the Other – as though they are the reflection of one another. Just as you see your own image in a mirror or on the surface of a lake: the same, but reversed. Do you see?”

Sylas nodded uncertainly, starting to wonder where this was leading.

“Well, the poem is telling us something even stranger. It tells us that it is not only our two worlds that are twinned – not just the fabric, the things, the places. It tells us something far more profound, something that runs to the very heart of us.” He looked into every face in the circle. “It tells us that we are twinned too. Each of us. All of us.”

Sylas’s eyes searched Espen’s face long after he had finished speaking. Was he serious? Each of us with a person just like ourselves, but different – changed in some strange, unnatural way. Surely it was impossible.

Simia clamped a hand on either side of her head as though to contain the great torrent of thoughts. “But this is all so… so—”

“Ludicrous? Insane?” interjected Bayleon with a bitter smile. “I quite agree. Espasian, you know as well as I that this goes against our whole philosophy! The entire basis of Essenfayle! We believe in connections and togetherness – the bonds that bind all things. How are we to believe that two parts of our own being could be divided and separate? There are good reasons why such ideas have been spoken about in hushed tones: they’re a child’s fantasy! Worse than that, they’re an affront to Essenfayle and all it stands for!”

“And yet we accept that the world itself is divided,” Espen reasoned, his tone conciliatory. “And we accept the divisions between night and day, earth and the air, men and women. The myth simply completes the picture: it is the final piece in the puzzle.”

“No, Espasian, it is fanciful! And dangerous! And wrong!” snapped Bayleon.

He turned away and, as though to signal the end of the conversation, began ladling a portion of stew on to a plate.

Espen looked at him steadily. “But Bayleon, some of the most important people in our two worlds have believed this fancy.”

“People like you, you mean?” scoffed the Spoorrunner.

“Yes, like me.” He paused while Bayleon scoffed again. “And like Merimaat.”

The Spoorrunner froze with the ladle halfway to a plate.

“People like Filimaya and Mr Zhi.”

The camp was suddenly entirely still. Espen turned and looked earnestly at Sylas.

“People like Sylas’s mother.”