Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Gilmour watched from above as the folded wrinkles of the Twinmoon Foothills gradually smoothed, trowel-flat, into the frozen Falkan Plain. This far north the arable midsection of the Eastlands, a tapestry of green, gold and earthen brown during warmer Twinmoons, was now a vast carpet of white. Free from the cold he knew he would find were he truly suspended several thousand paces over Falkan, Gilmour nestled deeper into his blankets, deeper into his spell, and turned his gaze west towards the Ravenian Sea and the busy streets of Pellia. He enjoyed the journey.

Finding Stalwick Rees had not been difficult; Gilmour had searched in the hills above Traver’s Notch until he felt a dim flicker of rippling energy slogging through a curtain of freezing rain. He had been as gentle as he could from this distance, but Stalwick still went down as if he had been clubbed.

Realising that he might kill the boy, Gilmour had remained inside his mind for only a moment; his message was brief: March on Capehill now. The Malakasians know of the attack. Brand is coming soon.

Finding Kantu would be more challenging; Gilmour hoped he would succeed before growing too weary and needing to sleep. While Stalwick was a faint but distinct beacon in the forested hills north of Traver’s Notch, Kantu would be a bright light, a veritable signal-fire amongst the crowds in the Malakasian capital – if Kantu was still in Pellia, and if he was still alive.

Gilmour felt himself soar over the Ravenian Sea. Moving quickly now, outdistancing even the trade breezes along the narrow waterway, he honed in on a great throbbing rift in the ambient energy above the waves, a pulsing rhythm he could feel against his flesh, even this imagined flesh. It had to be Kantu; Gilmour grinned. With Nerak lost inside the Fold, there was no one but Mark Jenkins who would radiate such power, but Mark was still close by. Gilmour felt lucky that he had stumbled upon Kantu while the magician was working a bit of sorcery; finding his old friend mid-spell made the evening’s work a bit easier.

He’s on a ship. I’ll catch him there. We’ll meet in Orindale.

But when Gilmour closed in on the schooner, he realised that he had been wrong – it was easy to locate; its power resonated out and up in concentric waves of energy that nearly sent Gilmour spiralling into the water – but it wasn’t Kantu. And it wasn’t heading south to Orindale; the schooner and whoever or whatever it carried was sailing north towards the archipelago, and the few navigable passages to Pellia.

What is that? Gilmour considered breaching the ship’s hull and finding out what was secreted inside, but he pressed on; Kantu might already know what was being shipped. If his old colleague had heeded Gilmour’s advice and avoided Welstar Palace – avoided killing himself – he might still be in Pellia, or one of the towns or villages lining the river between the palace and the capital city. Gilmour noted the schooner’s position and heading, then shifted the locus of his tired consciousness towards Pellia.

Above the city, he felt certain again that he had located Kantu. A steady mystical force, surprisingly strong, drew him towards a comfortable-looking inn, a cosy place a few streets off the east bank of the Welstar River.

There he is, Gilmour thought. That looks a nice enough place. He won’t mind spending the next Moon there. The way he sleeps, he won’t notice much of it passing, anyway. Gilmour dropped from the skies, imagining he could smell the tang of the wharf, the myriad chimneys spewing woodsmoke into the windless morning and the mouthwatering flavour of kneaded dough rising above the hearth.

Kantu. Kantu, wake up. He nudged the silent form with his mind.

He’s sleeping, someone answered from the corner of the room, someone sitting on a second bed, looking out of the window towards the river.

Gilmour reeled as if he had been thumped in the chest by a god. Tumbling backwards out of the guestroom, he turned head-over-heels through the air, fighting to regain control over his transcendental self.

In Wellham Ridge, he stirred for a moment, pulled his blankets up and groaned.

The unfamiliar presence followed. Where are you going? It was an innocent question. Who are you? There was no anger in the voice, merely curiosity.

Gilmour wondered how anyone outside himself or Kantu would be able to communicate this way. There was no one left in Eldarn who knew this spell; not even Steven could perform it.

How are you doing this? he asked, wary, ready to freefall back into Wellham Ridge if necessary. Who is this?

Milla. Who are you? How did you find us?

Milla. Gilmour’s mind raced. It hadn’t been Kantu; he hadn’t found his old friend. Kantu had been there; Gilmour could feel him now, a presence beneath an old quilt. Instead, he had found Milla – but who was Milla? Someone powerful, that was obvious, for her strength eclipsed Kantu’s, buried inside the guestroom.

Milla?

Yes? Hello again.

Hello. May I ask who you are?

I told you already, silly. I’m Milla. Alen calls me Pepperweed, but my real name is Milla. There was a brief silence. Are you Fantus? Or are you Prince Nerak? You don’t sound like him.

Sound? Who was this person? There was no sound here. This was only flat, toneless communication. A few Senators could manage a bit of inflection, even a laugh from time to time, but Gilmour hadn’t been trying for anything more than clarity. Milla. Wracking his memory, he couldn’t call her up. She spoke like a child. He guessed she might be someone Kantu had met on his journey through Malakasia, a prodigy he had discovered in Pellia, or perhaps even- He cast his thoughts back to her. Milla?

What?

It’s Fantus.

I knew it, really. You don’t sound like Prince Nerak. He always sounds mad. I don’t like it when he talks to me.

I don’t either. Can you tell me how old you are?

I’m thirty-one Twinmoons, but another one is coming pretty soon.

Gilmour tried to laugh. It didn’t work. I know, just a few more days. Well, I was trying to find Kantu… Alen… but he’s asleep.

He sleeps a lot.

I know he does, my dear. He’s a boring old grettan, isn’t he?

He’s nice. He just gets tired. Hoyt and Hannah play with me when Alen sleeps.

Hannah, Gilmour thought, good news. He was weakening and felt himself slipping back towards Falkan. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer.

Milla interrupted his thoughts. Do you need help?

What’s that? He was fading, falling fast.

Help, silly. Here, I can help you.

Gilmour felt an invisible band snake around his waist, hug him close and keep him from tumbling backwards over the Ravenian Sea. Milla was powerful. Good lords, my dear, but that is an interesting spell.

Something that sounded like enormous pride reached him across their gossamer lines of communication. I learned that one from Prince Nerak! But he didn’t know I figured it out. Sometimes he liked to talk too long.

Yes, he was full of gret – He was full of fun chatter, wasn’t he? Gilmour felt for the band, wondering whether he would be powerful enough to break it were the child to become angry or hostile. Milla, I need to tell Alen something, but I’m too tired to wake him up now. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I need rest, too.

I can tell him something for you.

Will you remember? Of course she would, he thought. There was nothing this little girl couldn’t do.

I can remember lots of things. Mama used to say I was one of the smartest girls on the whole North Shore.

You’re from Orindale?

I don’t know. We lived by the water. I can’t remember the name.

I thought you said you could remember lots of things.