OKSA WAS BREATHING IN SHORT, FAST GASPS AS SHE SAT on the edge of her bed with her elbows on her thighs. The nightmare she’d just woken from had really shaken her. She sat there for a few seconds, then stood up and went through the shadowy room to the bathroom. Her Lunatrix sat up in bed.
“Go back to sleep,” murmured Oksa before he had time to ask any questions. “Everything’s fine.”
The little steward looked sceptical, but obeyed without saying a word.
Heated deep underground, the water flowed into the oval bathtub made of bluish crystal. Oksa lit a small candle, took off her pyjamas drenched with sweat and slipped into the water. She poured in a few drops of Nobilis oil, which smelt a little like cardamom and reminded her of those blissful few moments with Tugdual among the roots of the Monumental Tree in Leafhold.
Tugdual had played a starring role in her nightmare during which she’d killed him, guided by Orthon’s cold, implacable hand. She’d seen herself, Granok-Shooter in hand, committing this terrible deed, then collapsing beside her victim’s body as Orthon looked on, his eyes bright with mingled triumph and sadness.
Lying in her fragrant bath, she shook her head to banish these horrible, meaningless images. She closed her eyes and sank lower in the bathtub, hoping to be soothed by the tranquil quiet of the night, but her mind wouldn’t let her relax. She jumped up, splashing water over the Feetinsky-wood floor, and grabbed her dressing gown. Wrapping it around her, she threw herself into her armchair by the bay window.
Tomorrow was another day.
Bring on tomorrow…
The Velosos sped through the corridors of the Glass Column and the streets of Thousandeye City, their long striped legs pumping as if they were clearing hurdles. Their New Gracious had given them a mission—their first—and they were determined not to fail.
The first person to receive a visit from one of these diligent creatures was Abakum.
“A Gracious message for you!” sang out the Veloso. The Fairyman ushered it into his apartment and closed the door behind him.
“I’m listening.”
“Our Much-Loved Gracious wishes to call a meeting of the High Enclave,” announced the messenger. “Gather in the Round Room on the top floor of the Column in an hour, by Outside time, or in twenty grains of the hourglass, by Edefian time.”
Abakum smiled, not at the way the message was conveyed, or at its contents, but in satisfaction.
“You can tell our Beloved Gracious that I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” he exclaimed.
In the next few minutes, all the Servants of the High Enclave received a similar visit from a Veloso and were given the Gracious’s message. Although not a member of the High Enclave, Pavel was also invited to attend as Special Adviser. He finished his steaming drink in a hurry, pulling a face: he’d forgotten to think of his preferred beverage—a strong cup of coffee—and unflavoured Zestillia tasted disgusting.
Exactly an hour later, everyone met in the room that Oksa had discovered and deemed perfect for uses of this sort. Shaped perfectly like a fishbowl, it was at the centre of the fifty-fifth and top floors, between the Memorary and the Gracious’s apartments, which ran around the perimeter of the Column. The honey-coloured glass ceiling softened the light, although traces of the damage caused during the Great Chaos could still be seen. In fact, unlike other parts of the building, this room had been neglected, because Ocious had thought it too plain for a man of his stature. Oksa had immediately fallen in love with its small proportions and intimate feel. The Dirt-Suckers and Lusterers had cleaned the walls from top to bottom, then the Lunatrixes had been given the task of furnishing it with odd, unused pieces of furniture, which gave the Round Room the appearance of a comfy living room rather than an impersonal meeting room.
“There are several questions worrying me,” declared Oksa gravely, sitting in a pinkish snakeskin armchair, her arms on the armrests. Although her father and Abakum weren’t completely fooled by her outward composure, the concern in their eyes gradually turned to encouragement and admiration. They had to admit she had courage. She studied the Servants of the High Enclave grouped around small tables before her and tensely asked point-blank:
“What are we going to do? What should we do?”
Most of the Servants seemed taken aback by her frankness. Some of them squirmed in their seats, while others froze and a leaden silence fell over the room.
“I mean—what do we want to achieve? What do we want?” continued Oksa, her eyes shining.
Abakum cleared his throat, taking his time before replying:
“Sweetheart… my Gracious… what we are able to do depends partly on the Secret entrusted to you in the Cloak Chamber,” he said finally.
“Why?” exclaimed Oksa, tense with incomprehension.
“If Edefia has to remain closed, that will affect what… we do,” replied Abakum carefully. “As well as what our enemies do too.”
No one missed the intense look Oksa gave him.
“Our future depends entirely on the conditions of the Secret.”
“I understand,” Oksa murmured.
She was aware that Abakum knew the gist of the Secret. And she appreciated both his tact and the fact that he’d left her room to manoeuvre. The Graciouses’ Watcher was staying in the background and leaving her in charge of the situation. She took a breath, leant back in the armchair and continued:
“The Ageless Ones couldn’t impose a secret identical to the Secret-Never-To-Be-Told because it no longer exists. That’s why they confided a new one to me: the Ephemeral Secret.”
The Lunatrix, who was standing nearby, hanging on his mistress’s every word and attentive to her every need, twitched anxiously. He was clearly flustered by the very mention of the Ephemeral Secret.
“Like the previous Secret, it’s bound by the rules that govern any secret: it must not be told to anyone,” continued Oksa with an anxious frown. “However, it’s very different. You will have realized from its name that, due to the situation we’re in and the problems we’re facing, it’s a temporary measure.”
Everyone nodded solemnly.
“I can’t tell you everything…”
“Don’t put yourself in danger!” Pavel broke in quietly.
Oksa looked reassuringly at him.
“My life isn’t in danger from the Secret.”
First Pavel, then everyone else, looked immensely relieved.
“Will it be possible to open the Portal again?” he couldn’t help asking.
It was inevitable that someone would ask about opening the Portal if Oksa brought up the subject of the Secret, but it still made her heart pound. She looked to the Lunatrix for comfort; but he was translucent, paralysed with anxiety, while Abakum had closed his eyes. Everyone there was listening intently and trembling with impatience so, in a stronger voice than she would have thought possible, she replied:
“Yes.”
The tension suddenly dissipated. They looked at each other with tears in their eyes, while Oksa struggled to come to terms with the ramifications of this shock revelation. In her mind’s eye she again saw the Spurned on the banks of Lake Gashun-nur. Breathlessly, she shook her head to chase away the flood of painful images, but it was no good, random memories ran through her head. The Russian airport crowded with hysterical passengers, the lemony fragrance of Gus’s hair, the mildewed smell of the house on Bigtoe Square. The despair in her mother’s eyes, her body ravaged by pain.
Nearby, Pavel looked shaken by this news. He slumped down in his armchair as if, freed from doubt, his last ounce of strength had deserted him. Tears began to flow quietly down his face. The other Runaways who’d left behind family members on the Outside—the Bellangers, the Knuts, Cockerell—were even more deeply affected. Oksa couldn’t look at them: the weight of hope she’d rekindled with that simple “yes” was unbearable.
Three little letters—three little letters that would radically change everyone’s future.
Prevented from saying more by the Ephemeral Secret, she looked away in horror, feeling panicky. If she couldn’t tell them everything, she could at least avoid giving most of them false hope.
“It will be possible to open the Portal and it won’t kill me,” she confirmed, doing her best to keep a grip on herself. “But it’s not that simple, there are constraints.”
“You’ve told us the crux of the matter!” interrupted Abakum.
Despite his mild tone, this contribution by the Fairyman, First Servant of the High Enclave, made everyone anxious. What were these “constraints” that he clearly wanted kept under wraps?
“What you’ve told us is crucial, Oksa,” he continued. “Knowing that it will be possible to open the Portal means that we can plan ahead and answer the questions you asked. What are we going to do? What do we want to achieve?”
Oksa looked gratefully at him.
“For the time being, we’re protected by the Aegis and we’re rebuilding Thousandeye City, which represents a tiny part of Edefia,” he went on. “But, like the new Secret, this is only a temporary situation.”
“There are too many of us to live like this for long,” said Sven, the old man with long braids. “We’ll end up running out of space and supplies. The city is largely an urban area with very little arable land and few basic resources. Even if we use them as wisely as possible, we won’t last for long.”
“We’ll soon need Green Mantle and the whole territory,” added Emica. “But we also need to defend ourselves. We’re not ready to fight the Felons.”
“Why not?” Oksa couldn’t help asking.
Nervously, she chewed her nails until her fingers bled.
“We have to prepare as many weapons as possible,” replied Abakum, his short beard rustling under his fingers.
“How long will that take?” continued Oksa.
Everyone looked at each other, their expressions ranging from scepticism to total confidence.
“The time it takes for the Felons to decide to attack,” Naftali said eventually.
“What?” cried Oksa, sitting up straighter. “You mean we’re waiting for the Felons to attack us?”
“That’s right,” admitted the towering Swede.
“But there are far more of us than them!” protested Oksa. “We could crush them like woodlice today, I just know we could.”
Mystia and a few of the other Servants shivered. In Edefia, nothing and no one was ever crushed, not even woodlice. But Oksa was too lost in thought to worry about niceties. She settled back in her armchair and crossed her legs with an annoyed look on her face. Then her slate-grey eyes scanned the small gathering, glowing with new intensity.
“We let them come to us, retaining the advantage of terrain and superior numbers,” she said softly, thinking out loud. “Then we hit them with everything we’ve got and stamp them out once and for all! Sorry about the image.”
“You’ve got it!” said Abakum with a smile.
“It’s a good plan.”
“Irrespective of the conditions governing the opening of the Portal, a clash with the Felons is inevitable,” continued Naftali.
There was a murmur of agreement: everyone seemed impatient to cross swords at last with those who’d kept them down for years.
“Thanks to Abakum’s Tumble-Bawler, we know that all kinds of tensions are putting our enemies at loggerheads,” added Sven.
“I didn’t know you’d sent a spy!” remarked Oksa in surprise.
Sven and the other Servants who weren’t Runaways looked down in remorse.
“It was an excellent move, though,” continued Oksa, discomfited by their reaction. “And what did your spy see?”
“The relationship between Andreas and Orthon appears to be causing conflict,” explained Abakum. “Both of them want to be Ocious’s golden boy and he’d rather let them kill each other than take sides.”
“What a creep!” exclaimed Oksa. “But that plays into our hands, doesn’t it?”
Abakum looked sceptical.
“Yes and no. Any rift between them works to our advantage. However, equilibrium can’t be restored while they’re in a position to harm us and we can’t make any real progress, whether we stay or leave.”
Oksa nodded. Everything he’d said seemed very sensible and the tactful way he’d mentioned the Portal filled her with gratitude. The Portal was important, but they had other priorities.
The Young Gracious shivered, her head filled with contradictory yet complementary feelings of fear and impatience. With her blood racing through her veins and her temples pounding, she asked anxiously:
“Do we know what we’re going to do? Do we have a tactical approach? A strategy?”
The Servants of the High Enclave looked at her with such fire in their eyes that a long explanation was unnecessary.
“Are we ready?” she asked finally with narrowed eyes.
“We become readier with every passing hour,” replied Abakum.
Oksa stood up, her heart thumping, but her head held high. The Felons would soon know whom they were dealing with.