Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

For the next nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons Gilmour had run away. For a time he had harvested tobacco in Falkan. He had been a teacher, a logger, a chef and now he was a freedom fighter – but none of that would have been necessary had he thought to take the book with him when he fled.

He reached over the stern rail for the woollen cloak: he just wanted a peek at the book the founder of the Larion Senate had used to fashion the spell table and tap into magics of worlds beyond the Fold. It was near the start of the Second Age; Lessek had been a young man when he had hewn the granite disk from the mountains of northern Gorsk and carried it to Sandcliff Palace. And Nerak had used this same book to learn everything he needed to know about how to defeat Gilmour, to open the Fold and to allow his evil master to ascend into Eldarn.

Gilmour sighed: he had to learn this book too; it would take hundreds of Twinmoons… He had two, perhaps three, and it wasn’t enough. The old Larion Senator felt a weight pressing against his chest. He drank deep from the wineskin, until he felt he had the strength to stand.

The woollen cloak started to fall away with little coaxing, but as Gilmour gave it a final tug, a corner of the material caught and toppled the book end-over-end onto the deck. ‘Demonpiss!’ Gilmour muttered angrily, ‘Just when I get up the lordsforsaken nerve-’ He bit off the end of his rant and checked furtively to be certain Garec and Mark were still sleeping. The leather covers of the spell book were opened wide, the heavy pages splayed. He had no choice now; he had to pick it up.

Gilmour reached into the boat, grasped the spell book gently by the front cover and returned it to its place on the bench – and nothing happened, there was no magical reaction at all. Tentatively he flipped open the front cover, to read what Lessek had written on the opening folio, but though he strained, he could make nothing out, even after he snapped his fingers to provide a little light. The page was blank.

‘Lessek, you are going kill me,’ the old man muttered and reached out to turn the page. He brought his sorcerous light in closer. ‘The ash dream,’ he read aloud. That was it. He took a moment to admire Lessek’s fine script. The characters were delicately scratched with a sharp quill; smooth and even. Gilmour sighed again; he realised at once that not one page would stand out; there would be no single spell with which to rule worlds beyond the Fold. Each page would be part of a whole, but useless by itself. There would be no scribbles in the margins leading to sudden magical discoveries. This book was one man’s masterwork, and only when read cover to cover, and understood as a whole, would it show how to unleash the force used to create the spell table thousands of Twinmoons ago.

So that’s what he had to do, read Lessek’s book, beginning right here at the birthplace of Falkan’s greatest fjord, a fractured bit of Eldarn itself. Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere, he thought, it lies in the Windscrolls. That night Gilmour had gone to retrieve the third Windscroll for Pikan; in his haste, he had overlooked Lessek’s desk – and this book.

Gilmour remembered his dream as he slept on top of Seer’s Peak: Nerak and Pikan, with Kantu lagging behind with an injured ankle… they had discovered something, discussed something; he didn’t know what. Had they tried something creative with the Larion magic? It didn’t matter; what mattered tonight was that Nerak had a weakness. He might have had a thousand weaknesses nine hundred Twinmoons ago, but tonight, he had at least one and Gilmour knew where to find it.

He would study the book until he understood Lessek’s magic, and he would protect himself and his friends from Nerak until he had the third Windscroll in his possession. He was one of the last Larion Senators – only Kantu remained, somewhere in Praga – and protecting Eldarn was their responsibility. Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere: yes, but his strength lies here in this book.

Gilmour thought again of Seer’s Peak. Garec and Steven had dreamed too. Garec had seen wraiths moving through Rona’s forbidden forest, mobilising for an attack, and had been able to use Steven’s magic to ward off the spirit army. That had turned out to be a true foreseeing: Lessek had shown them real images of their journey, things they would need to address if they were to survive. What had Lessek meant them to learn from the dead, arid land that had once been lush Ronan forests? He wondered if saving Rona was going to fall to Garec – if Rona was even particularly at risk. ‘It was King Remond’s home,’ Gilmour murmured, ‘Markon Grayslip’s home too – he called himself a prince to avoid upsetting his family, but Markon was Eldarn’s rightful king.’

And what of Steven Taylor? He had dreamed of a maths problem, of calculus machines and telephone speaking devices – and had he not, he would never have been able to crack the code and open Prince Malagon’s lock-box, his Malakasian safe-deposit box.

So Gilmour’s mission was clear: find the third Windscroll and use it to banish Nerak for ever. It was probably buried under a thousand Twinmoons of debris, but it would be there – and if Nerak had read and understood it, his weakness would no longer exist. ‘Stop procrastinating,’ Gilmour said out loud. ‘Read the rutting book and you will be as strong as Nerak. Stop running and face him.’

The old man took a last swallow from the wineskin, corked it and dropped it to the sand. ‘The ash dream,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s see what’s on the next page.’

Gilmour took the blow on his chest. Sharp and bright, striking brutally hard, like lightning through a rip in the Fold, it pushed him backwards and he felt ribs snap. He struck his head on the ground, and just before he passed out he saw Lessek’s spell book slam shut, seemingly of its own will.

Brexan was drunk again, enjoying her second evening beside the fire at the Redstone Tavern. Tonight’s gansel leg – they roasted them perfectly here – the potatoes, bread and glorious cheese (she had eaten another half-block today), combined with the wine to warm her from within, while the fire blazing away ensured there was no trace left of the Ravenian Sea.

The Redstone Tavern was the sort of place Brexan enjoyed; with friends from home, she would be drinking, carousing, making jokes about sundry sailors, stevedores, maybe even a few of the Malakasian officers. But now she ignored the other patrons, a cross-section of Orindale society as, blanketed in sweet tobacco smoke, they yammered loudly to be heard above the din. Periodically they abandoned their conversations to bellow the refrain of some popular song or roar their appreciation of a well-told joke.

Crossing her legs beneath the heavy woollen folds of her new skirt, Brexan sipped at the last of her wine and considered ordering another half-bottle. She had spent her first free day since conscripting herself into the Malakasian Army strolling idly through the city, wandering into shops near the old imperial palace. One wing of the building had been demolished in an unexplained explosion several nights earlier, but the crumbling walls and shattered stained-glass windows didn’t mitigate the beauty of the surrounding boulevards.

She had found her skirt before the end of the midday aven, in a shop several streets away from the waterfront, though it hadn’t been her first choice. A delicate flowing skirt with an embroidered floral pattern and a hem of lace had caught her eye, and, tempted for a moment, she had held the skirt up against her body, against the sailor’s ill-fitting clothes. It was the most feminine article of clothing she had ever seen, let alone worn, and in the middle of a pirouette she had thought of Versen – not that she had forgotten him for a moment, for he was always there, if not in the forefront of her mind. Sometimes he would interrupt her thoughts, cause her to stare distractedly for a moment or two, maybe even make her stumble. Brexan couldn’t decide whether she wanted to live the rest of her life with such a boldly intrusive apparition haunting her, but whenever she thought it might be less unsettling if he were simply to fade away, she found herself reaching out as if to retrieve him, bring him closer.