Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

Once he was certain his friends had fallen asleep he waved his hand slowly through the air and whispered a few words, ensuring none of them would awaken until well after the midday aven. ‘They need the rest, anyway.’ He reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the leatherbound spell book.

Nearly a thousand Twinmoons later and he still wasn’t ready. He hadn’t lied when he said he had spent all his time since the fall of the Larion Senate studying, preparing himself intellectually and mystically to face Nerak over the Larion spell table one day. And he had, scouring every destroyed university and blasted library, seeking books and scrolls on science, medicine, the arts and especially magic, any remnants that remained. Though there were pockets of renegade scholars, with secret laboratories or hidden libraries, dissemination of their findings was nearly impossible in the occupied nations, so Gilmour was left working with outdated information in a world filled with ageing academics.

He learned to create spells of his own, infusing his existing knowledge of magic with research, but every time he used magic, he had put himself at risk. Nerak knew when Gilmour practised one of the more complicated weaves and invariably sent along bounty hunters, Seron warriors, spies, assassins, even a demon or two, whenever he felt his former colleague experimenting.

So Gilmour had lived a life on the run, moving from place to place, from job to job, learning to move quickly, and knowing every time he worked one of the master spells, Nerak would be after him.

Over time, even with all the difficulties facing him, Gilmour had expanded his work. Was all hope completely lost because he hadn’t studied Lessek’s spell book? Certainly not. The old man stroked his horse’s mane; brushing the long hair until it fell smoothly and he himself was calm again.

Then he bent to retrieve the spell book from the log where he’d placed it, flinching as his fingers closed about the binding in case the tome lashed out at him before he had even opened the cover.

The ash dream, folio one.

What secrets were hiding in these pages? He was certain the book represented a glimpse into Nerak’s power – the dark prince must have cherished the book deeply to have carried it with him when he travelled… or perhaps he had yet to master the magic inside, which was why he had it with him. Gilmour, fervently hoped for the latter.

The ash dream. He studied the first page and wondered if this was Lessek’s handwriting, or if the Larion founder had employed a scribe. Lessek was a scholar. He studied the nature of everything he hoped to incorporate into a spell or an incantation and he used common threads to link one to another, to build ever more complex spells – and eventually to fashion the stone table. I am the same, Gilmour thought; what Lessek had was time.

Gilmour flipped through a few pages: each was lined top to bottom in the fine script, Lessek’s thoughts, ideas and findings. Nothing had happened yet, and Gilmour’s heart began to race. Perhaps this time he would be permitted inside, the moment he had been simultaneously hoping for and dreading. Heartened, he turned back to the opening folios, flattened his palm across the text and began to read.

Ash: of fire and wind. The first spell seemed to be Gilmour’s thoughts eluded him. He swallowed, clearing his throat. It was a spell about – there it was again, a tightening feeling. He tried to unfasten the leather thongs holding his cloak together, but the bow had worked into a knot and he had to put the book down to sort it out. He shrugged the cloak off his shoulders and reached for the book, but this time, his throat closed entirely. An invisible fist came from the book and slammed into his neck, then encircled it with an iron band. He couldn’t breathe, but that wasn’t enough to stop the book’s assault.

As it tightened, Gilmour tried to stay calm and think of a spell that would release him – whatever held him wasn’t trying to suffocate him, for he would be unconscious already. As he felt muscles and tissues collapsing in on one another he realised it meant to rip his head off.

Get out of this body! Find another one, now – there has to be someone around you can take -just this once! Do it!

His eyes bulged and went blind as his cheeks caved in and blood spurted from his nostrils and mouth. Still the grip tightened. As the old fisherman’s larynx caved in, Gilmour panicked; had he been thinking clearly, he would have slipped away, but he hesitated another moment, despite his own best counsel.

A great rush of warm air, redolent of organic decay and death, blew out from between the pages of the old spell book, then it was over. The invisible fist opened and he fell backwards over the log, clawing at his ruined throat, gasping for breath, almost blind in his panic. He knew no one would awake and help him; he had put them into an enchanted sleep himself.

Then a voice inside his head, called, ‘Think, you fool – you’re not going to die!’

Gilmour stopped struggling. Right. That’s right. As he grew calmer, he searched his memory, the great filing system in which he kept most of the magic he knew: a key word there, a memorable phrase here – hundreds of spells at his fingertips. Fix the damage, he chided himself, and mouthed the words that would repair the injuries to his throat. That’s why it tried to pry your head off, stupid. It knew you didn’t have a spell for that.

Gilmour felt the old fisherman’s lungs fill with cold air. He lay there for a long time, his bony knees still draped over the rotting pine trunk, enjoying the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a while he thought of nothing, content instead to bask in the joy of simply being alive: two thousand Twinmoons and still alive.

His thoughts drifted: there was no question now that they had to rely on the key, the spell table and the Windscrolls. The book would be no help. He hoped the faded pages had treated Nerak as inhospitably when the dark prince had endeavoured to read to them. He had no idea how Steven had managed to flip through the spell book so nonchalantly.

Tired now. He realised he hadn’t slept since Steven’s return to Colorado. He reached for his cloak and folded it over himself and drifted off for an aven’s rest. He left the book where it had fallen closed beside the log.

Jennifer’s foot broke through the new snow, leaving her standing knee-deep in the rest area parking lot. The bike path behind a row of evergreens had been ploughed – with nearly three hundred days of sunshine a year, bicyclists in the mountains enjoyed their winter riding and a bit of snow wasn’t enough to interfere with that pastime. Jennifer wasn’t here to go cycling, though: she was meeting David Johnson for a long walk, and maybe a quiet lunch in town.

She had run into him the previous night when she stopped at the grocery store; he had been happy to see her and had insisted that they get together before she left again. ‘Nothing serious,’ he said, ‘but you mentioned you come up here for the walking and, well, I am an exceptional walker.’

‘Oh are you?’ She had been amused.

‘Yes, just watch.’ He turned and strode across the floor, much to the amusement of his employees and customers. ‘See? A veritable world champion.’

She laughed. ‘How are you over mixed terrain?’

David didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’ll have to join me and find out for yourself.’

She gave in gracefully and agreed – she didn’t plan to be in Silverthorn for more than two days, but while here, it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy herself. She had been on the run for the past week, moving from one ski resort town to the next, taking rooms under assumed names and paying cash – trying to remain anonymous. She had twice been back to check Brian’s place, but there was no sign of forced entry. She didn’t want to stay there too long, but the constant moving was growing tiresome and expensive. She needed to find somewhere for a couple of months, but as family and friends were off limits, she was at a loss for where to go.