Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

Gilmour had apparently been thinking the same thing. ‘There must be – I know there were spells to repair minor breaks, leaks, cracks and so on, and Rodler was unable to get out of the kitchen so the spells securing the doors and windows must still be in place.’

Rodler asked, ‘So what are we doing up here, old man? You’re going to crawl into the scullery to discover for yourself that the palace is impregnable? Call me a madman, but that’s an awfully long, hard trip just to get yourself locked in some dead sorcerer’s kitchen.’

Gilmour peered up at the old keep, awash in sunlight and bearded in unruly tangles of autumn-brown ivy over halfway up to its slate shingle roof. They had done great work in that building, bringing enlightened ideas, innovation and useful technologies to Eldarn. He had been at his best while living here, and Gilmour felt his heart race at the idea of stepping foot back inside once again. He wasn’t young; he would never be young again, but in Sandcliff he would remember what it had been like.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Rodler said. ‘What exactly are you going to do, locked inside the kitchen?’

Gilmour pulled out his pipe and filled the bowl, then, deliberately lighting it without benefit of a flint and steel, he blew a cloud of billowy smoke towards the Falkan smuggler. ‘I think we’ll manage, Rodler,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

‘I knew it! Rutting dogs, but I knew it!’ Rodler twisted so far that he nearly fell off Steven’s horse. ‘You are some kind of magician, a real sorcerer! So with your spells and Steven’s stick, you think you can get inside that old barn and raid the place for all it’s worth? Well, my payment for bringing you up here – all I ask – is a few books. Nothing much, just a couple of satchels full.’

Puffing contentedly, Gilmour didn’t answer.

Rodler thanked the gods of the Northern Forest he’d stayed with them and turned back to look up at Sandcliff Palace. ‘Excellent luck meeting you, just excellent luck,’ he murmured.

‘That will remain to be seen, my friend,’ Steven said caustically, ‘but I wouldn’t count on it.’

They approached cautiously, tethering their horses in the forest as Rodler had suggested. Garec and Steven checked for signs of patrols, until, finding nothing, they motioned the others forward. Gilmour hustled to the front. The stone staircase from the university to the main gate was lined on both sides by a diverse assortment of trees, now leafless, but still imposing. Steven imagined the arboreal corridor had made quite an impression, especially during the peak of autumn’s splendour, but many had grown too large; now inquisitive roots cracked the polished steps.

Halfway up, Steven paused to look at a curious pairing: an old cottonwood had grown so huge that its trunk pressed outward against its neighbour, a birch, hung about with epiphytic clumps of mistletoe. The birch, not to be denied access to the sun, had grown around the cottonwood, like the coiling embrace of a jungle serpent. In their hundred-and-forty-year battle for survival, the trees had grown so intertwined that Steven couldn’t disentangle the upper branches.

Garec and Mark joined him and looked on silently.

‘The battle of two titans,’ Steven said poetically, ‘fighting for the highest point on the hill.’

‘That’s where all the best sunshine falls,’ Garec said. ‘You can’t blame them.’

‘It certainly looks to be worth the fight,’ Mark agreed – but Steven had already left, sprinting up the remaining stairs.

‘What’s wrong?’ Garec asked.

‘The fight for the top of the hill,’ Mark mused, shaking his head – then suddenly his eyes grew wide; he ran after Steven as fast as he could in his effort to reach the gates in time.

Garec heard Steven shouting, ‘Wait! No, Gilmour, stop!’ By the time he reached the top of the great staircase, Garec realised Mark and Steven had been too late.

Steven had taken the stairs two at a time, struggling for breath in the altitude, then leaped from the top step to a stone walkway to the ponderous oak and steel portcullis, shouting, ‘Wait! No, Gilmour, stop!’ Behind him, the slope led down to the relatively flat area where the Larion brotherhood had built their university, and below that, the wintry hills rolled away towards the horizon where the sea met the coast of Gorsk in a sunlit backdrop of blue, green and brown. Had Steven turned to admire the view, he would have found it one of the most beautiful he had ever seen.

‘It’s just up here,’ Gilmour said, leading Rodler along the walkway towards the main gate. ‘Not far now.’ He was almost giddy with excitement, distracted by rich memories and feeling better than he could remember. The old man ran the last few paces, his cloak fluttering out behind him.

‘The gardens are just through here,’ Rodler said, pointing. ‘I don’t think it will take me long to find that drainage ditch. If you don’t mind a tight squeeze, I can get you inside without much trouble.’

‘Nonsense, boy,’ Gilmour said. ‘We’re going in the front gate.’

‘But it’s enchanted – it won’t open for anyone but a Larion Senator, and they’re all dead, so we are out of rutting luck on that point. And all the Larion spells were lost when Prince Marek closed the schools.’ Rodler wasn’t hopeful. ‘I know you have a bit of magic, but you’re talking about getting inside the most protected edifice in the Eastlands – almost as secure as Welstar Palace.’

‘Come, watch this.’ Gilmour raised his hands above his head, faced the portcullis with a broad smile and chanted a simple spell, a quiet curling phrase he repeated three times before lowering his hands. ‘Not much to it really.’

Rodler pursed his lips; still sceptical, he watched the gate, wondering if he had made the mistake of following an insane old codger all the way up this hill just to watch him play pretend sorcerer. When the portcullis slid upwards, as smoothly as if on recently oiled hinges, Rodler gasped.

‘Rut a monk!’ he whispered. ‘Did you see that? Gilmour, how did you-?’

His question was cut off by Steven’s scream. The thin, wild-eyed foreigner was running towards them, the hickory staff raised as if to strike, shouting, ‘Wait! No, Gilmour. Stop!’

As the portcullis disappeared up into the recesses above the granite archway, Gilmour turned. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his eyebrows raised in consternation, ‘what’s happened?’

His chest heaving with the effort, Steven leaned on the staff to catch his breath. Finally he pointed towards the open gate. ‘You just alerted Nerak.’

Gilmour felt the blood rush from his face. His hopeful, nostalgic mood fled, leaving him hollow. ‘Oh dearest gods of the Northern- I can’t believe I did that…’ Dejected, the former master of this palace shuffled his way beneath the archway and into the stone foyer. Without lifting his head even to look around, he climbed the few steps to the great room and crossed to an old wooden bench beside an equally battered table and sat down, burying his face in his hands. This was not the homecoming he had imagined. His failures rushed in to haunt him: here was a third misstep, when missteps were too costly to commit at all.

He was responsible for them; if Nerak arrived in the next aven, Gilmour would face his former friend alone.

Alen awakened and looked about the small tavern. They had come upon the village early that morning, two mud streets crossing in a valley tucked behind the range of hills they had spent the past several days crossing. There were a handful of stone dwellings arranged around the public house, and Alen guessed the village was Malakasia’s southernmost outpost, a mountain hideaway for miners, woodsmen and seasonal trappers.