“How is it that music captures what cannot be caught: the sound of night and shooting stars, of darkness and the rising moon?”

“WELL, I HAVEN’T ACTUALLY seen it before, no,” said Simia defensively.

Sylas frowned. “But you brought us here,” he muttered. “I thought you knew where you were going.”

“I do know where I’m going!” she snapped, putting her hands on her hips and glaring up at him. “It’s exactly where Filimaya said it would be. I’m telling you – this is it!”

Sylas looked doubtfully over her shoulder towards the river. “Well, it doesn’t exactly look like the home of a–” he lowered his voice to a whisper – “of a Magruman, does it?”

“Well, no. It is a bit disappointing.”

“Disappointing…” murmured Sylas.

He gazed despairingly ahead of him, feeling his body give in to a crushing weariness. He had so wanted this to be an end to his journey – an answer to all his questions. He thought back to the fall of the mill and the terror of the chase, to the cold, bleak days on the Barrens, to Bayleon’s capture and their desperate, exhausting flight from the Circle of Salsimaine. All of that – for this?

His eyes passed slowly over shattered decks, a broken mast that leaned precariously against another; tattered, forlorn-looking sails that hung by threads from the frayed, tangled rigging. The hull of the ship carried the colourful insignia and intricate carvings of grander days, but now the paint was faded and peeling, the proud designs around the fittings were almost unrecognisable and the lovingly chiselled wood was rotting and falling away. Indeed the only ornament that remained almost intact was a faded, lopsided nameplate, whose forlorn letters spelled: the Windrush.

But what was least impressive about this decrepit ship was its positively muddled attitude towards holes. There were no holes where there should have been, for the portholes had been blocked with crudely nailed planks and the entrances on the decks were covered with piles of broken timber and discarded canvas. And yet, most alarmingly, there were very many holes where holes ought not to be, giving the sad vessel the appearance of a capsized Swiss cheese.

There were holes in the deck timbers and holes in the sails, there were holes in the forecastle and there were holes in the hull. Indeed this utterly wrong-headed approach to holes made the ship something of a miracle, as despite the water lapping round its many dark cavities, it remained above the waves. The entire hulk leaned threateningly towards the bank, but nevertheless it rocked and rolled with the gentle motion of the putrid river. It was quite implausibly, but quite undeniably, afloat.

Sylas’s musings were suddenly brought to an abrupt end. With a loud clatter of chains, a section of the hull fell open and landed with a thump on the muddy bank.

They both slithered several paces backwards. They stared fearfully at the wooden ramp, leading to a dark, square doorway.

“It’s a door,” whispered Sylas.

“No kidding,” muttered Simia, glancing at him with narrow eyes.

They stared at it for some moments, waiting for someone to emerge from the shadows within, but no one came.

Sylas took a few steps forward, looking with interest at the ramp. “Do you think we should go in?”

“Maybe. You first.”

Simia stayed well back, poised to run, but Sylas continued to creep forward, still staring at the ramp. His eyes were trained on something carved into the surface – gouged out of the rough, damp wood. The nearer he came to it, the more certain he was that it was a symbol: a collection of strange lines and dashes that shifted a little even as he looked at it.

A Ravel Rune.

He stared at it for some moments until it began to change before his eyes, its many lines turning and contorting until they formed a perfect letter P.

“P!” said Sylas excitedly. “P for Paiscion!”

Simia scowled, peering with some interest over his shoulder.

“Where?”

Before he could reply, the symbol had started to change again, its strokes curling about themselves until something new started to form, something different but just as familiar. Somehow the many markings in the timber of the ramp had morphed before his very eyes until they formed a perfect, delicate shape.

“A feather!” exclaimed Sylas, taking another few steps down the stinking, slippery bank and feeling new hope stirring inside him.

Simia joined him. She peered over his shoulder at the ramp.

“A feather? Where?”

“There!” said Sylas, pointing at the symbol.

“That’s not a feather! It’s just a load of scratches!”

“It’s not! You’ve got to look at it right – it’s a Ravel—”

Are you coming inside, or not?

Sylas stopped, startled.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Simia irritably. “Stop being so weird.”

He turned to look at her. How could she not have heard it?

You’re wasting time. My time. Come inside, or go away.

“There! There it was again!”

Simia stared at him, suddenly looking a little frightened.

“Stop it!” she said reproachfully. “Now you’re scaring me.”

He turned and peered into the dark doorway of the vessel. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he had not heard the voice either – it had been inside his head, just like Mr Zhi’s voice had been when Sylas was standing outside the Shop of Things.

“Come on,” he said firmly. “He wants us to go inside.”

“Oh, really, and he just told you that?” mocked Simia.

Sylas slithered the last few steps down the bank and she realised that he was serious. Her face straightened.

“How… How do you know?”

He stepped on to the ramp and turned to face her, giving her an encouraging smile. “I just do. I’ve seen this magic before. With Mr Zhi.”

Simia looked at him doubtfully, twirling a strand of her red hair round a finger. Reluctantly, she followed him down.

As they stepped into the shadows, the first thing to strike them was the astonishing smell. The foul stench of sewage gave way to the incongruous fragrance of grass and fresh flowers lightly flavoured with woodsmoke. It was as though they had suddenly been transported out of the ship and away from the city to some distant mountain meadow. Almost straight away they started to feel calmed and refreshed. Sylas took a deep breath and felt sweet, wholesome air fill his lungs. He heard Simia step up the ramp behind him and she too gasped as she crossed the threshold.

Watch your backs!

Sylas jumped. The voice was louder and clearer than ever: a sharp, male voice that had the tone of someone who was used to being obeyed.

Without warning, the chains rattled above their heads and the ramp was drawn closed behind them. There was a loud clank as a latch was drawn into place and suddenly they were plunged into pitch-blackness.

“Sylas?” hissed Simia. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“This was your idea.”

“I know…”

Down the steps, please.

A torch suddenly burst into flame above their heads and then another ahead of them, followed by more beyond. They cast an orange, flickering light on a narrow passageway that led to a staircase just a few paces in front of them.

“Come on,” said Sylas, turning to Simia’s wide eyes. “He wants us to go down.”

She arched her eyebrows in the half-light. “Oh. Right. Good then.”

He stepped forward and, feeling for the broken banister, started to lower himself down.

They descended towards a roughly hewn door at the bottom of the steps, the fresh fragrance becoming even stronger as they went. But they hardly noticed the scent any more; instead they were entranced by the faint sound of music. It seemed to be coming from beyond the door.

As they clambered down the final uneven steps, the beautiful sound became louder and louder, echoing between the faded wooden panels of the walls and reverberating within the timber of the door.

“What is that?” whispered Simia at his ear. “It’s beautiful…”

“I think it’s a piano,” he said.

She frowned. “Never heard of it. But it sounds amazing…”

He hesitated for a moment with his hand on the door handle and his face pressed against the wood, listening to the doleful, haunting notes of the piano.

It was beautiful, and yet also unutterably sad. A deep, resonant note chimed every few beats like a call to mourning while above, a triplet of notes repeated over and over, sometimes rising and falling, but always in time with the irregular, heartbreaking chime, like the sound of loss or regret. A simple lilting melody laced the music, but while it was at times light and always gentle upon the ear, it carried tidings of sadness.

The music was washing over Sylas when, to his horror, he heard the creak of the hinges. The door swung open under the gentle pressure of his cheek, and he found himself staring into the open space beyond.

He blinked at the shaft of dusty light that bisected the gloomy room, zigzagging between a number of mirrors about its edge, illuminating a bare, featureless, cold chamber. On the opposite wall, below the single porthole, a series of crooked bookshelves offered the room’s only decoration: a vast collection of papers and books. The sole covering on the rough floorboards was a threadbare rug at one end of the chamber, upon which rested a wooden rocking chair and a low table. The table bore three objects: a tall, fluted glass of wine; a pair of spectacles; and a large wooden box from which rose a graceful, curving brass tube that opened wide at its mouth like the bell of a horn.

“Is that the piano?” whispered Simia, her eyes wide with excitement.

“No, it’s a gramophone,” whispered Sylas.

“I thought you said it was a piano.”

“It is, but—”

“What he means to say is that it is both, and neither,” said a sharp voice that resonated around the room.

A figure moved out of the shadows. The beams muddled around him, making it difficult to see him properly, but as he reached the centre of the room, a bluish light fell directly upon him.

He was not a large man, but the way he carried himself made him seem bigger than he was. He stood perfectly straight with one arm behind him and his shoulders pulled back. His chin was high and the little light that played across his face revealed strong, taut features with a heavy brow and striking high cheekbones. His eyes glinted as they passed swiftly over the two children, tracing their weary faces, their tired limbs, their dishevelled clothes. They lingered a while on Sylas’s wrist.

Sylas glanced down and saw that the Merisi Band was showing and instinctively covered it with his sleeve. A flicker of interest passed over the man’s face, but he quickly looked away.

“This,” he continued in his precise, clipped voice, “is the sound of a piano, which you are hearing through that machine, which is a gramophone. But these are the least interesting things about what you can hear, for in truth this–” he waved his finger in the air, as if pointing at the notes as they drifted across the room–“is the sound of moonlight. It is moonlight curling on a misty lake, sloping through a ruined church, caressing the dew-specked spider’s web. It is moonlight on barren hilltops and ragged cliffs; moonlight in sunken wrecks and forgotten graves. Moonlight captured in a sonata. And the captor, the great genius who thus captured the moon, was a man. He was Ludwig van Beethoven.”

He fell silent, as though to allow the full significance of these words to be discerned and understood.

They listened to the music for some moments, Sylas slowly realising for the first time that this was music of his own world; Simia struggling to understand how something called a piano could be heard through something called a gramophone and what that had to do with the moon.

“Beautiful, is it not?” said the man.

Sylas nodded. “Yes, yes, it is.”

“Of course it is!” snapped the man, as though Sylas was foolish for thinking he needed to answer. “Music is the language of the heavens, the voice of Nature herself! She speaks through such sonatas, such concertos and nocturnes.” He gazed dreamily towards the gramophone. “And in symphonies… well, in symphonies, She sings.”

He let out a long sigh as he listened to the final bars of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’.

The triplet of notes changed into a melody and in its place the low, sad chime took up a new triple beat, ending the piece in a mood of overwhelming melancholy. The final notes tumbled towards their conclusion and, when the gramophone fell silent, the arm of the needle trailed to the centre of the record, clicked, whirred and swung back on to its rest.

There was a brief silence. Suddenly the man turned and clapped his hands together, making them flinch.

“So! I take it that you know who I am; why else would you come to such a godforsaken place? What is far less clear is who – by the sun and the moon – are you?”

He took two quick steps to the rocking chair and flung himself into it, rubbing his hands together as though relishing the mystery. He reached over to the table at his side, picked up the wire-rimmed spectacles and placed them on his nose. The lenses were so thick that they contorted his features, making his quick eyes seem unnervingly large. He flicked them over the two children, squinting a little as though struggling to see. He bore an interested, quizzical expression, as though he was regarding a word that was misspelled or a sum that would not add up.

Both Sylas and Simia were about to answer, but to their surprise the Magruman began to answer his own question.

“You have not known each other for long – that much is quite obvious – and yet… you have experienced a good deal together… interesting, very interesting. I am certain that it is you, young man, who is responsible for the adventures you have undertaken together, for you are quite certainly in the wrong world and by the way you wear the Merisi Band I can see that life as a Bringer does not suit you well–” his eyes narrowed to slits– “if, indeed, you are a Bringer at all…”

Sylas shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he was really that transparent. He felt he should say something, but Paiscion’s magnified eyes had already shifted to Simia and were scrutinising her with interest.

“You have been a good companion, I think… yes, I can see that in you: lively, pugnacious, plenty of spirit… but there’s more than that…” He adjusted his tie, which Sylas noticed for the first time was faded and heavily worn. “Yes… you share something, something important. A loss perhaps… Yes! You have both lost a loved one… a parent… Of course. And that is your father’s coat, for why else would it fit… so… poorly…”

His voice trailed off as he leaned forward to peer at Simia’s coat more closely. She retreated a little into the doorway, bewildered by Paiscion’s forensic scrutiny and by the startling accuracy of his pronouncements.

Suddenly his face softened a little and his lips parted.

“Daughter of Roskoroy, you are most welcome here.”

Simia gasped and stared at him, her mouth wide.

“Your father was a good man… a very good man.”

Simia seemed undone by the mention of her father, but then, slowly, her face brightened and she stepped further into the room.

“He was,” she said, beginning to smile. “I’m... I’m Simia.”

Paiscion sat back in his chair with a look of satisfaction, crossing his legs and gathering his threadbare smoking jacket about him.

“So, Simia Roskoroy, who is your friend?”

Simia placed a hand on Sylas’s shoulder.

“This is Sylas. Sylas Tate. Filimaya said that he should come to see—”

The Magruman uncrossed his legs and sat forward again.

“Filimaya sent you?”

“Yes – it was agreed at a Say-So. She said that—”

“She’s still at the mill?” asked the Magruman eagerly.

Simia hesitated, curling her hair round her finger. “No… we all had to leave. The Ghor came and we had to get out quickly.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes.”

“And Filimaya?” he demanded, a little anxiously. “The Valley of Outs?”

She nodded. There was a short silence. Paiscion reached for his glass of wine and swallowed the contents in one draught, seeming distracted.

“You were telling me who this young man is,” he said, settling back into the chair.

Simia stared at him blankly: “Well… what I was going to say was… I mean, that’s why we’re here. You see… we don’t really know.”

Paiscion frowned and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked from Simia to Sylas. “Well, that is no way to make an introduction! You are aware, no doubt, how strange that sounds?”

Sylas looked sympathetically at Simia and cleared his throat.

“We are,” he said. “Until a few days ago I thought I knew exactly who I was, where I was... but then I met Mr Zhi and everything changed.”

“Mr Zhi, you say?” said Paiscion, his interest piqued still further. He started rocking his chair slowly backwards and forwards and a smile passed over his gaunt features. “My! Haven’t you been keeping good company? Here’s a real mystery!”

He thought for a moment and then gestured to two crates next to the weathered rug. 
“Take a seat, Sylas of Questionable Descent,” he said with a gracious sweep of the hand, his magnified eyes glittering in the feeble light. “Tell me your story. Tell me from the very moment you met Mr Zhi. Tell me everything.”

Sylas and Simia looked at each other uncertainly and then sat down. They were now close enough to see the Magruman properly: his meticulously combed dark hair greying at the sides and thick eyebrows flecked with white; his sallow, colourless cheeks and the black smudges under his glistening black eyes; the deep lines that criss-crossed his forehead and gathered around his eyes and mouth. It was a weary face, a face of care and worry. His clothes were on the one hand immaculate, with a white collar, a tie, tight-buttoned waistcoat and a smoking jacket, but they were all past their best: the collar had been re-sewn along one edge; the waistcoat had lost two of its brass buttons and the tie and jacket were faded. Thus, despite his proud, precise demeanour and his quick, lively features, he gave the impression of a man who had fallen from greatness; who was – if only a little – broken. He sat back in his seat, pushed on the worn heels of his scuffed shoes, and began to rock slowly backwards and forwards.

Sylas started to tell his story. Paiscion listened to this with some interest, and as he told it, the Magruman resumed his rocking, his thick eyebrows knitted tightly in concentration.

In a few moments Sylas had reached his first encounter with Espen. As soon as he started to explain that he was in fact Espasian, Paiscion exclaimed.

“Espasian? Alive? These are good tidings indeed! Continue! Please!”

Sylas lowered his eyes, wondering whether or not to mention Espen’s betrayal, but decided he could only tell the story just as it had happened.

Paiscion slowed his rocking as he heard of Fathray’s capture at the mill, and the fate of many in the boats. Some of the excitement drained from his face and a little of the weariness returned. He waved for Sylas to continue.

The story had reached their escape from the Ghor and Slithen at the bridge and Sylas mentioned his own part in calling upon the life of the river.

“And you did this?” asked Paiscion, with new excitement.

Sylas nodded, feeling a little proud. “It happened just as I imagined it.”

“Indeed!” muttered Paiscion, fingering his tie. “How illuminating! More! Tell me more!”

As Sylas reached the moment when he, Simia, Bayleon and Ash had parted from the others, Paiscion made a slight motion with one hand and suddenly there was a loud, startling rattle above their heads.

Sylas stopped mid-sentence.

Paiscion seemed a little irritated. “Go on!” he cried. “I must hear it all! For better or worse!”

So insistent was he that Sylas continued even as more curious things started to happen: first there was more clanking of chains on the deck and the distant screeches of rusted winches somewhere in the rigging, then the great old framework of the ship began to creak and moan. Finally the whole room heaved and tilted, making everyone reach for something to steady themselves. Sylas found it impossible to continue.

“What’s going on?” he asked, clinging on to the crate as the room lurched again.

Paiscion frowned. “We’re setting sail, of course!” he cried over the sound of a wave buffeting the side of the boat. “You seem to trail trouble wherever you go, and it would seem prudent to stay a little ahead of it. The Ghor will not be far away.”

Sylas looked up at the porthole and, sure enough, he saw the opposite bank of the river tilting out of view, then rising again a few moments later: they were on the move. He glanced up at the ceiling as there was another thump from above.

“Who’s up there?”

Paiscion gave an amused smile and lowered his spectacles on his nose.

“What need of rum-swilling swabbers, young man, when you have a ship as gallant and loyal as the Windrush!” he cried, patting one of the timbers at his side. “Now the rest of the story, if you please!”

Sylas gazed out of the porthole in wonder, then gathered himself and continued with the story, telling of Espen’s reappearance and the chase out on to the Barrens. Paiscion’s face became bright and animated at the mention of his fellow Magruman, and he clapped his hands and made a low whistle as he heard about the fate of the company of Ghor.

“You? Again?”

Sylas shrugged and nodded. The ship was rocking gently backwards and forwards now and he could hear the occasional thump of a wave striking the bow.

As he reached the part of the tale where Espen had betrayed them, Paiscion stopped his rocking altogether and stared at them. His cheeks were drained of colour.

“Is this true?” he asked quietly.

Simia shrugged her shoulders and nodded. “And… Scarpia was there too,” she said. “Espasian was talking to her.”

Paiscion walked to the chair and sank into it, clasping his hands in front of him, his eyes closed. He let out a long sigh. For a while they were all silent, listening to the heaving and creaking of the boat.

Finally Paiscion looked up. “That is hard to believe,” he said. “Espasian is a Magruman of the Suhl and a man of honour. A maverick, but a great man nevertheless.”

“I heard him,” retorted Simia. “I saw him with Scarpia!”

“Indeed you did,” said Paiscion. For some moments he closed his eyes, seeming to retreat into his thoughts.

Suddenly he drew a sharp breath, stood up and walked across the room to the porthole.

“Sylas, bring me the Samarok, if you please. And Mr Zhi’s note.”

Sylas reached into his bag for the Samarok. As he extended his arm, he felt a sharp, shooting pain in his wrist. He gasped and pulled it out, massaging around the Merisi Band.

Paiscion’s gaze shot to the bracelet. “The Merisi Band hurts?”

Sylas nodded. “It’s been hurting on and off since last night. Why, what does it mean?”

Paiscion simply held out his hand. “If you please,” he said.

Sylas reached into his bag with his other hand and felt for the rich leather of the Samarok. He pulled it out, brushed away a thick coating of grey dust and handed it to Paiscion. The Magruman looked at it with quiet admiration before taking it in his small pale hands.

“And the note?”

“Inside. At the page Fathray marked.”

Paiscion let the book fall open in his palm. There was a flurry of pages and it settled on the correct page. The piece of paper still lay tucked into the binding. His quick eyes scanned the lines of runes and a flicker of pleasure passed over his face. It was with some reluctance that he finally looked away at the piece of paper. He perused it for a moment and then nodded, as if to acknowledge that this was indeed the hand of Mr Zhi. His expert eyes moved briskly over the writing, then he frowned and started again at the beginning. He read it through again and looked searchingly at Sylas.

“This is the paper? The one that so interested Fathray?”

Sylas nodded. Paiscion turned his attention back to the tiny creased note and ran his eyes over it again, his face taut with concentration. As he reached a point about halfway down, he stopped and suddenly his eyes moved quickly over the text, dancing about the paragraph. He returned to the top of the scrawl and moved his eyes carefully over the lettering.

Suddenly he met Sylas’s eyes with a long, searching gaze.

“What is it?” whispered Simia excitedly.

The Magruman blinked. “A message from the Merisi.”

“What? What does it say?”

He looked from the paper to Sylas and back to the paper, as though struggling to believe what he had read. Then he drew in a long breath and said: “Sylas, you say you have read Merisu’s poem?”

Sylas thought back to the poem that Espen had showed him when they were on the Barrens. He nodded.

Paiscion handed him the Samarok. “Read it again for me.”

Sylas’s throat was dry and he swallowed nervously before turning his eyes to the page.

 

“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…”

 

Paiscion nodded. “Good. And do you know why there is no rhyme in the final line?”

Sylas thought for a moment. “Espen said it was a fragment… that some of it was missing.”

“Quite right!” cried Paiscion, almost speaking over him in his excitement. “For many years the ending was disputed and so it has never been recorded in the Samarok, but the Merisi believe that it should read:

 

“For then, at last, we may be one.”

 

Sylas looked blankly at Paiscion for a moment, but then tried to think back to the meaning of the rest of the poem. He turned it over and over in his mind: Reach for the silvered glimmer… what had Espen said that meant? “Turn to our own reflection… to another part of ourselves.” Fear not where none have gone… Slowly, hardly believing his own thoughts, he started to understand.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated.

“Go on,” said the Magruman.

“Does it… does it mean that the two worlds… that they can come together?”

A new smile creased Paiscion’s face. “That is what the Merisi believe: that the worlds are two parts of a whole; two parts that perhaps, just perhaps, were never meant to be apart.” He leaned down and added in a whisper: “They believe that this is the natural conclusion of the Glimmer Myth. The conclusion that will one day prove that it was never myth at all, but an astounding, terrifying truth. Someday, somehow, the worlds will be brought together.”

There was a long silence. Simia frowned and shook her head.

“What’s this got to do with Sylas?”

He turned to her and smiled. “It seems, daughter of Roskoroy, that this has everything to do with Sylas,” said the Magruman, turning his eyes slowly to the piece of paper.

Sylas and Simia followed his gaze.

“Mr Zhi’s note…” muttered Sylas under his breath.

“Take it,” said Paiscion, handing it to Sylas. He leaned down and peered over his shoulder. “Now do you see how the paper is smudged? How some letters are faded?”

Sylas looked again at the scrawl, his hands trembling. Sure enough, every now and again, a letter was blurred or discoloured.

He shook his head and looked up. “It got wet in the rain,” he said. “It’s just blotchy.”

“No, Sylas,” insisted Paiscion. “Read them. Read only the fainter letters.”

He turned back to the paper and tried to see it with new eyes. He read slowly, moving carefully from one faded letter to the next.

 

They came from the cool of the sand-scented temples: from the long dark of the coiling passages and the oily flicker of many-columned halls. They rose as leaders of men in that ancient land, men of words and vision whose mystery brought hope to the squalor-born… But while the people lifted their eyes upon the gentle countenance of these blessed men, they saw not the cool and dark of their hearts, nor the oily flicker behind their eyes.

 

He felt the hairs rise on his neck. The more he read, the surer he became: they formed words. Letter by letter, word by word, they started to make sense. In a wavering voice, he began to say them aloud:

“So… at… last… we… may… be… one.”