Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

His voice echoed back, but nothing else; he was alone. The beer reminded him how much he liked that first drink of the morning; he wanted more before going inside.

Alen put the empty flagon back and placed his palm against the centre of the doors; he whispered a spell and, with his eyes closed, imagined the locking device lifting, releasing an inside latch. It opened with a click, and he cursed under his breath. ‘Too loud, fool.’

He stepped back as the heavy doors swung open without a sound, bathing the passageway in light. Alen knew in a moment that he had found what he was looking for: the light was artificial, sorcerer’s light, and although the bundles resting in the sconces were similar to traditional torches, Alen didn’t have to examine them closely to see that these particular torches would never burn down, or extinguish in water.

A hallway stretched before him, the walls covered with tapestries and thick carpeting under foot. Alen ran through the lexicon of spells he had learned over a thousand Twinmoons, hoping his memory, addled by Twinmoons of alcoholism, did not fail him today. He regretted every slice of fennaroot, every beer, every flagon of wine… even in this young soldier’s body he felt every bit of his two thousand Twinmoons. To Hannah Sorenson, that was around two hundred and eighty years; somehow that sounded better. He scolded himself for procrastinating: Twinmoons or years, it was all the same; he was an old man.

Further down the hall was a room too wide to see across, but there was enough light for Alen to realise that Sandcliff Palace no longer housed Eldarn’s largest library. The floor-to-ceiling racks of books disappeared into the darkness at the far edges of the chamber, the spoils of war as Prince Marek and his army rolled through Praga and across the Eastlands, burning presses, closing universities and confiscating essentially every book in the land.

Alen reached for a book of music tablature: Liber Primus by Valentin Barkfark-Greff. ‘This one came from Sandcliff,’ he murmured, furious. ‘This might even have been mine.’ He pushed it back into place and looked around. ‘Hoyt would give his life to see this place.’ He fought the urge to immerse himself in this horde of stolen treasures and continued down the hall.

He passed several rooms, including an unused kitchen and a nicely decorated sitting room, possibly a reading room for the library; the furniture reminded him of a Larion visit to the land of Portugal.

In another, he found all manner of maps, on parchment, hide, wooden boards, even paper, maps of Praga, Rona and the Eastlands, of the Louisiana Territory, the Mason and Dixon survey, of Lima and St Petersburg; he even found the village they had called home during visits to Larion Isle. Alen was entranced: here was Durham, the city with the old stone castle and the curiously winding river, and Paris, Constantinople and Estrad, with the Forbidden Forest inked out in black crosses. There were charts of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers printed in Vienna, pictorial representations of the ancient cities of Madras and Delhi, from Cairo, and of the great mountains of Tibet. On the walls were maps of islands in the Pacific Ocean, Pellia, Port Denis, and Petropolis in Brasil. On a table in the corner was a piece of buffalo hide with a berry-juice sketch of the Beaver River in Dakota; he stared at this one for a time, entranced.

He promised himself just a few moments more and started picking through scrolls he found organised in cylindrical stacks. Here was his home, Middle Fork in Praga; leaning over the table, he tried to locate his street and nearly toppled the entire collection when he heard a small voice ask, ‘Are you Prince Nerak?’

A blazing attack spell ready at his fingertips, Alen wheeled on the unexpected visitor, preparing to strike a death blow. His curiosity had cost him the element of surprise, but he couldn’t help it now. As he mouthed the words, he readied himself – and then stopped, holding the crippling blast of Larion fire back as he surveyed the little girl in the doorway. She was clad in a filthy dress that might once have been pink, and clutched what appeared to be a stuffed toy dog to her chest.

She looked quizzically up at the man visiting her underground home and asked again, Are you Prince Nerak?’ Her voice was light, sweet; Alen’s eyes widened, for he could feel there was powerful magic in this child.

‘No, my dear.’

‘Are you one of his soldiers? Because soldiers aren’t supposed to come in here.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, shaking her mass of tangled red-blonde curls.

‘Yes, I am one of his soldiers, and I have special permission to be here today. Prince Nerak said it would be all right if I came for a visit.’ Alen moved slowly around the table and approached the little girl with caution.

‘Is he back?’ She walked into the room and climbed into a great armchair by the fireplace, settling the dog in her lap.

The question might be a test. Alen knelt down beside her and answered truthfully. ‘Not yet, my dear, but he’ll be back soon. Why do you ask?

She shrugged. Alen was enchanted. ‘The others are sick,’ she said. ‘Maybe when he gets back he can help them get better.’

‘How long have they been sick?’

‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘A Twinmoon? I don’t tell time as good as them, but it’s a lot of days.’

Alen smiled. ‘How old are you?’

Her face lit up. ‘I am thirty-one Twinmoons. Mama taught me how to count them myself. I’m big.’

‘Yes you are,’ Alen said. ‘Thirty-one whole Twinmoons!’

‘How old are you?’ she asked seriously.

‘I am as old as my nose and a little older than my teeth,’ he answered, remembering his father’s favourite response.

She giggled uncontrollably, wrinkling her nose at him. ‘You’re not that old.’

‘Ah, but I am,’ Alen said. He glanced towards the door. ‘What’s your name, Pepperweed?’

You can’t call me Pepperweed,’ she giggled. ‘That’s not my name. My name is-’

Please, please, please don’t let her say Reia. Please -

‘Milla.’

Alen sighed in relief. ‘Milla,’ he repeated, ‘that is quite the prettiest name I have heard in a long time. Did Mama give you that name?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Milla, where are the others?’

‘Down the hall in the back. They’re sick.’

‘And where is Mama?’

Milla’s face fell and Alen felt his heart wrench. ‘She’s home.’

‘And where is home, Pepperweed?’

Grinning again, Milla said, ‘Falkan. Mama lives in Falkan still, but she said she would come and visit me when she can get across the Rasivian Sea.’

‘Ravenian Sea.’

‘Rasvenial Sea. That’s it.’

‘What does Mama call you?’ Alen glanced again at the hallway door, listening for the sound of anyone moving into position to strike at him.

‘Mama calls me Milly… ’cept if I’ve been bad. Then she calls me Milla in a cross voice. So I don’t be bad because I don’t like her cross voice.’

Alen reached a hand out to her. ‘Can you take me to where the others are, Milly?’

‘Uh huh. C’mon.’ She led him from the room, dragging the dog by its hind leg. As they crossed what looked like a common room, a chill wind blew through; Alen looked up and noticed the fissures Tandrek had mentioned in the rocky roof. Milla looked at the smokeless fires burning throughout the room, and the flames leapt higher. ‘It gets cold in here sometimes,’ she said. ‘That wind is always coming in.’

‘But I see you know how to make it warmer.’

‘Uh huh, and nobody taught me that one,’ she said, proudly. ‘I just could do it when I got here.’

The old Larion sorcerer felt the warm air and wished that time would stop, so he wouldn’t be forced to do what he was about to do. He had visions of making love with Pikan beneath a heavy blanket at Sandcliff Palace, the heady aroma of her body mixing with the dank odour of the coverlet. They had conceived Reia on one of those cold autumn nights, and the following spring they had left her in Durham, the village with the old castle and the curiously winding river. He had walked with her that morning, in the meadow with the wildflowers; the scent had been intoxicating and Alen was certain he would never again see anything so beautiful.