Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘So be it,’ Gilmour said. ‘You used your knowledge and your magic together. That’s how the Larion Senate worked. I wanted you to experience this without my coaching. This day, this exercise will make you more powerful, Steven. Now, set the clock.’

The magic began as a faint tingling. To Gilmour, Steven said, ‘Eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty hours in a year. That’s over four hundred and thirty-three days in an Eldarni year, more than seven Twinmoons. How many days until the next one?’

‘I think eleven,’ Gilmour said, ‘eleven – or maybe twelve…’

‘Eleven.’ Steven went back to his murmuring; the orb constellation grew brighter with the burgeoning magic. ‘That’s about fifty days in this Twinmoon so far. Fifty days. And we’re just past the midday aven today.’

As if hearing him, the aven gear rotated halfway around, pivoting on each metal rod in turn. After passing over the fourth, the entire wheel spun around the rod and returned to its position over the first tile, ready to repeat the morning process. ‘Look at that,’ Steven said. ‘I was right.’

‘Yes, you were,’ Gilmour whispered.

At the clock’s centre, magic radiated between the tiles on the floor and the ones in the ceiling, a powerful current of energy. Steven revelled in it, sensing its response even to his most insignificant commands. This was how magic was supposed to feel, not flailing wild gestures or bombastic explosions, but careful, controlled and powerful – the very energy he had used to heal Garec’s lung, and to locate the almor above Sandcliff Palace.

Now he used it to start time in Eldarn. This was precision, accuracy and skill, and coupled with compassion, Steven felt there was nothing he couldn’t do. This is what the spell book had been trying to tell him; this was the power Lessek’s key had used to trip him on his way into the landfill, and this was how he had managed to defeat Nerak in the glen below Meyers’ Vale. The world around him blurred; it was all inconsequential. He was focusing on the right things: the gears, the cogs, and the rotation of the world itself. Looking towards the Moon wheel, he said, ‘Eleven days until the next Twinmoon.’ The gears complied, rotating until eleven cogs remained on the daily wheel and one bigger cog on the Moon wheel: it would rotate the Twinmoon gear once, and Eldarn would be back to marking her own time.

‘In what Twinmoon did Sandcliff fall?’ Steven called.

‘Third Age, third Era, Twinmoon one hundred and sixty-one.’

‘In eleven days, it will be the third Age, third Era and the one thousand, one hundred and forty-sixth Twinmoon of Eldarn.’

Gilmour was silent for a moment, then he surreptitiously wiped his eyes and whispered, ‘It’s been a long time.’

Beneath the clock, Steven sighed and felt the magic strengthen the bond between the tiles, ensuring the Eldarni timepiece would continue spinning along its inexorable path for ever. He said, ‘They were in that pile when we arrived because they had dropped. They landed in a heap and sat there for almost a thousand Twinmoons.’

‘I like to think there was enough magic left in here to know that eventually someone would get time started again; it was hopeful that one day you would show up.’

Steven pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps.’ He paused, then said, ‘Thank you for an excellent workout… and I think I understand much better what you were trying to tell me earlier.’

‘Powerful feeling, isn’t it?’

‘I just wish I knew as much about other things as I know about maths. Look at what I did today.’ He stood back, admiring the clock and wishing Hannah or Mark, even Howard Griffin, could have been there to see it.

‘You know Mark Jenkins pretty well, don’t you?’

Steven blanched. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘Then this may prove useful in another arena too.’

‘You must have been a good teacher, back in your prime.’

Gilmour forced a smile. ‘I think I might have been.’ He followed Steven out through the dusty antechamber and into the street. ‘We should probably push on. With any luck we’ll find a farm between now and nightfall.’

‘I hate to leave this place,’ Steven said, looking around. ‘For once it feels like I’ve done something important, something permanent, and I’d like to be around it for a while.’

‘Ridding Eldarn of Nerak was something important and permanent.’

‘Yes, but this is tangible. I can go in there and look at it – and I earned this one, in countless maths classes, and countless hours studying the nature of numbers. This one was in my blood.’

‘I understand entirely, my friend, but sadly, the stomach must rule the heart. If we want to eat, we need to get going. This was a good learning experience for you, and if we lost a day, well, we still have eight to reach the rendezvous.’

Steven looked embarrassed – he had forgotten. ‘All right, let’s go.’

‘Actually,’ Gilmour said, ‘I want to see the library again, just out of curiosity.’

‘Again? So you’ve been here before?’ Steven followed him across the street.

‘Long before your grandmother’s grandmother was born. One of my former colleagues was in charge of keeping time for the Larion Senate and the Remond family. He was actually more a maths professor than a sorcerer.’ He led the way up cracked stone steps to the library doors, which were still firmly on their hinges, unlike the clock room.

A teacher instead of a magician,’ Steven mused. ‘Mark would have been proud of him.’

‘Mark’s a good teacher, I assume?’

‘I’ve only seen him teach once,’ Steven said, ‘when I was guest-speaking on the Great Depression and its impact on the banking industry, but his students-’

There was a brief rustle and then a loud squeak, wood on wood, from one of the chambers off the main hallway. Holding up a hand for silence, Gilmour pointed to the dusty corridor, where scores of footprints ran the length of the hall and passed in and out of adjoining rooms.

‘What do we do?’ Steven whispered. ‘I don’t think they’re soldiers.’

Gilmour nodded agreement, then whispered, ‘Let’s go.’

The door was shut but not latched. Gilmour looked at Steven, then knocked.

‘Come in,’ called a hesitant voice, surprising them both.

The room looked like it might once have been a reading room, or maybe a chamber for a small collection. There were six rectangular tables, several wooden benches and a smouldering brazier that lent a bit of warmth to the room. There were no tapestries for insulation, but a few threadbare rugs softened the floor. Fourteen people, men, women and a few young adults, no children, were seated around the tables. They were obviously not occupation soldiers. Some had stacks of paper and parchment; others appeared to be reading from crumbling books. A few were gathered around the brazier. They all wore woollen tunics over thick shirts; their shoes and boots were tattered, some worn quite through. Most had heavy cloaks draped over their shoulders, but even these outer garments looked torn, patched and patched again. They all stared, mute with terror, at the two strangers.

Finally an older man with a distinctive roadmap of bulging veins criss-crossing his wrists got up to greet them. He had a pinched nose in a narrow face, and his scraggly beard was flecked with grey. His eyes were sunken. To Steven he looked simultaneously wise and insane.

‘Are you here for the class?’ he asked, his voice cracking. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide their trembling.

‘No,’ Gilmour replied with a reassuring smile. Steven nodded to a few of the others, hoping to put them at ease as well. ‘Who are you?’

The thin man made a faint gesture towards the assembled group. ‘This is my class.’