Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2015

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Ian Johnstone 2015

Cover photography © Eliz Huseyin

Ian Johnstone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007491179

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007491209

Version: 2015-06-08

Praise for The Mirror Chronicles series:

“I became totally immersed in an amazing world of painted words … breathtaking and an absolute joy to read. A book that you will reflect on for the rest of your life. Just like when you first read The Hobbit or took your first stroll along the story path of Terry Pratchett … An epic masterpiece.” Mr Ripley’s Enchanted Books

“Johnstone effortlessly conjures up elaborate worlds rich in both magic and fantasy. The Bell Between Worlds has an enchanting quality that is capable of standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of The Chronicles of Narnia and His Dark Materials … The narrative flows with ease and the story maintains excitement right to the end. This highly-charged adventure is a delightful page-turner for both children and adults alike.”

We Love This Book

For Mum and Dad, who let me dream

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Part One: The Valley

1. Safe Harbour

2. Sylva

3. The Valley

4. Sorcery

5. The Garden

6. Born

7. The Merisi Band

8. The Choice

9. Friends

10. Hope and Despair

11. Duty

12. Exodus

13. The Way

14. The Tempest

15. Undone

16. Remember

17. Death

18. The Kraven

19. Never Look Back

20. What You Are Not

21. Doubt

22. Faith

Epilogue

Part Two: The Yin and the Yang

23. What Magic

24. Wonders Scientific

25. Unthinkable

26. The Time Machine

27. War

28. Home

29. Mr Zhi

30. The Lost Legion

31. Things

32. The Black

33. Before The Storm

34. Time

35. The Place of Tongues

36. Ragers

37. The Temple of Isia

38. The Climb

39. Discovered

40. On the Threshold

41. Salve for the Soul

42. The Bond that Binds

43. The Merisi

44. The Glen

Part Three: Knowing

45. The Fruit of the Knowing Tree

46. Trapped

47. The Girl

48. The Beginning and the End

49. Laythlick

50. Good Medicine

51. The Motherland

52. The Silent Surge

53. The Darkling Horde

54. Of Glove and the Hand

55. Isia’s Song

56. A Proposition

57. Surge

58. Sacrifice

59. The Elements

60. Storm

61. Shattered

62. The Source

63. Burdens to Bear

64. Gather the Suhl

65. Journey’s End

66. The Perilous Path

67. The Glimmertrome

68. Our Riven Soul

69. A light in the Darkness

70. At Last

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Books by Ian Johnstone

About the Publisher

“From the frothing talons of tempest a single craft emerged – broken but afloat – drifting wearily to safe harbour.”

THE TWO GIANT TREES towered above the others, their arms outstretched as though claiming the ancient forest as their own. But it was not only their size that made these mighty oaks so magical, nor their drapery of white where the other trees wore thin cloaks of orange and brown leaves. What made them wondrous was their slow graceful motion. Like commanders inspecting their troops they took a stately path between the lesser trees, sweeping this way and that through the vast skeletal canopy.

And so it was that as the forest chattered and rustled and chirped its welcome, the great masts of the Windrush brought it to the end of its long journey.

The captain heaved at the wheel and the battered old ship turned another bend in the river. He brushed back his ragged mop of blond curls and peered through the pockets of evening mist. He frowned and blinked.

“This is it …” he muttered, raising his head to look for his companions. “This is it!”

Simia was sitting with her feet dangling over the side of the ship and did not look up.

“You said that three bends ago, Ash,” she grumbled, throwing a pebble into the river. “And two bends before that.”

“But it really is this time, I’m sure of it! Get Naeo … or Sylas … either – both of them!”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n …” grumbled Simia, giving him a wilting salute.

She made her way to the nearest hatch and disappeared below. Moments later her shock of red hair reappeared above deck and behind her another girl stepped into view. She looked about the same age as Simia but was taller and climbed the ladder lightly, with a longer, more graceful step. Her blonde hair was drawn back and held in place by a criss-cross of sticks, revealing a narrow neck and delicate features. As she stepped on to the deck, she fixed Ash with her piercing blue eyes.

He grinned and stepped down from the helm. “Naeo, look – look at the trees!” he exclaimed, striding past them both to the bow of the ship. “There’s something about them – this has to be it!”

Simia and Naeo walked up and stood at his shoulders, staring out at the forest. Birds flitted from branch to branch as the aged trees hung over the swirling waters, dropping the occasional long-dead leaf. Above, the canopy ascended towards two hills, themselves blanketed in yet more forest. There was perhaps an odd quality to the light, a slight vividness to the mottled browns and oranges, but otherwise everything looked normal.

“Ash, they look just like the million other trees we’ve passed,” said Simia, shaking her head. “Except these ones are getting really close – I mean really close – shouldn’t you be at the wheel?”

The river curved away in a wide bend and the Windrush was indeed drawing ever closer to the far bank. Ash sighed his disappointment, then pushed back from the handrail.

“Don’t!” exclaimed Naeo suddenly. She looked up at him. “Wait.”

She leaned forward and peered into the tangle of branches ahead.

Ash tensed. “If I don’t go now, we’re going to crash straight into—”

“Trust me,” said Naeo, calmly. “We won’t crash.” She turned to them. “Just watch – we’re expected.”

Their eyes returned to the wall of branches, trunks, bushes and shadows that loomed ever nearer. They all took a firm hold of the handrail.

“I hope you’re right about this …” said Ash, wincing.

As he spoke the long arm of the bowsprit passed over the far bank and disappeared into the forest, snapping branches and crashing through twigs as it went, sending down a shower of dried leaves. Ash and Simia exchanged a glance and braced themselves for the shuddering impact with the bank.

Simia pressed her eyes shut. “This is a bad idea!”

“Don’t worry,” came a voice from behind. “It’ll be fine.”

Sylas was standing back along the deck, near the hatch. He did not approach – throughout the journey he and Naeo had sought to be as far from one another as possible – but he smiled at Simia and took hold of the handrail by his side.

Everyone held on tight. A moment passed, then another. They heard the scrape of branches against the hull, felt the cool of the forest as they passed under the overhanging boughs, heard a joist creak beneath their feet. But there was no calamitous crash, no snapping of timbers, no sudden end to their long journey.

The Windrush sailed on.

They looked to their left and right and saw the floor of the forest passing them by: low bushes and huddling plants, saplings and tree trunks. They looked up and saw the canopy high above, brushing past the rigging, crowding the mast. It was as though the wilderness had opened its arms and drawn them in. The keel cleaved through the soft folds of earth and living things as though they were water, bearing its great weight onwards, towards the two hills.

Their eyes were wide with wonder and Simia shrieked with delight.

“How did you know?” she asked Naeo, breathlessly.

“Look …” said Naeo, pointing out into the forest.

They turned to where she was pointing and narrowed their eyes. At first they thought it was just a muddle of light, or perhaps an oddly shaped trunk, but then they realised that they were looking at a human figure. It was a woman leaning against a tree, her body draped in loose garments of the same drab colours of the forest: browns, oranges, greens, limes and yellows. The only part of her that did not blend with the thicket was her pale face, which almost seemed to float in mid-air, smiling at their wonderment.

“They’re everywhere!” shouted Sylas, pointing out over the side of the ship.

Now they knew what to look for, they saw the pale glow of scores of faces, some peering from behind bushes, some high in the branches of trees, but most gathering alongside the great ship, as though guiding it in as it rolled and yawed ever deeper into the forest. They walked in two columns, left and right, stepping lightly between the trees, many peering back to the river as though to check that the Windrush had not been followed, others looking at its path ahead.

Simia ran from the bow and joined Sylas, grabbing his arm. “It’s changing! The forest – look at it!”

Some distance ahead the trees seemed to be thinning, the shadows falling away, the colours brightening. They could see flecks of light between the foliage, scattering beams through the damp air. The ship dipped into the trough of a ditch and mounted the bank beyond like a wave, gaining new height. Every part of the brush was shimmering with the promise of a break in the forest, and as more and more people emerged to walk at the ship’s flanks, they knew that they were nearing their destination.

The four shared excited glances as suddenly the final curtains of green and brown fell away. Evening sunlight poured down upon them, scattering the shadows and bathing the deck in a welcome warmth.

Before them lay all the majesty of Nature.

A huge lake stretched out as far as the eye could see. Its waters were bright and crystal clear and made the air smell sweet, and it was so still that the surface was mirror-like, reflecting the giant canopy of blue sky above. Only in the distance could they see any movement on the lake, for there, fogging the horizon, was a giant waterfall, sending up a smoke of ethereal mist. Rising steeply on either side were the two hills, carpeted with a thick forest that even now, in early winter, retained its green. Birds of all kinds soared above, turning in wide arcs on the gentle breeze, tipping their wings, playing on the thermals, darting between the treetops.

Sylas laughed with delight and grasped Simia’s hand. At that moment the tired joints of the Windrush let out a brief complaint and Simia shrieked as the keel plunged into the cool waters of the lake, sending up a great sheet of spray on all sides. The vessel rocked backwards and lurched a little to one side, then righted itself. They heard a roar and patter, which at first they thought to be the falling water, but when they turned they saw that the bank was now crowded with a great assembly of Suhl, all of them clapping and cheering, smiling and shouting their welcome.

At their centre, one woman stood alone. She did not wear the forest hues of her fellows, but instead a flowing white gown – the gown of a Suhl elder. Her glistening grey hair fell about her shoulders, marked out by a braid of brighter colours. Her beautiful face was full of joy.

Filimaya raised her arms, gesturing to the Valley of Outs, and bid them welcome.

“Sylva is a town as strange and beguiling as any in faery folklore, lost as it is in folds of earth, wrapped in a tangle of trees.”

FILIMAYA EMBRACED SIMIA FIRST, holding her tight and bending down to kiss the top of her head. Then she went straight to Sylas and embraced him too, in a way that surprised him: not a formal greeting, but warm and heartfelt. For a moment he felt awkward, holding his arms at his sides. No one had held him like this since his mother had been taken away. But her warmth was infectious and slowly he drew his arms around her.

“Thank you for returning to us, Sylas,” whispered Filimaya. There was a pause. “And who did you bring with you?”

Sylas turned. There, walking down the gangway from the ship, was Naeo. As was her way, she seemed at ease, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, eyeing the crowd of onlookers and paying little attention to the reunion.

“That’s Naeo,” he said, instinctively taking a step away from the gangway. “I thought … I thought you might know her. She’s Bowe’s daughter.”

Filimaya raised a hand to her lips. “Of course …” she said. She took a step in the girl’s direction. “Naeo, daughter of Bowe, my precious child! We thought you were—”

“Naeo is my Glimmer,” said Sylas, abruptly.

Filimaya froze. The gathering of Suhl fell silent. Everyone turned to face him.

“What was that?” someone hissed behind him, and another: “Did he say his Glimmer?”

There was a gale of hushes, everyone straining to hear what was said next.

But Filimaya seemed lost for words. Her eyes narrowed a little, searching his face; she tilted her head as though struggling to understand. Then she glanced at Naeo, who returned her gaze without expression.

Finally Filimaya smiled. “Well you never cease to surprise us, Sylas!” she said. There were a few nervous laughs from the crowd. “You must forgive my awkwardness. I find myself entirely unsure how to address you both.”

“The same as ever,” said Simia with a careless shrug, as if it was perfectly clear. “Sylas is still Sylas and Naeo is Naeo. The only thing is—”

“We prefer not to be together,” said Naeo. For the first time everyone turned to face her, taking in her slender features and calm, measured voice.

“There’s no reason to treat us any differently,” said Sylas. “It’s just that Naeo and I … find each other … difficult.”

“Madness, isn’t it?” came a voice from beyond the crowd. It was Ash, strolling down the gangway from the Windrush. “All that blasted effort to get them together and now they can’t wait to be apart!” He smiled and nodded at various faces that he knew, clearly enjoying his entrance.

Filimaya paused, clearly still preoccupied by Sylas and Naeo, her eyes shifting between them. Finally she turned to the young man and smiled. “Welcome, Ash. You still have your knack for timing, I see.”

Ash’s arrival was indeed a welcome distraction. Many of the Suhl were soon jockeying for position to shake Ash’s hand, bidding him their personal welcome to the valley, and the same people then naturally turned their attention to the other travellers, swamping them with enthusiastic greetings. Simia in particular seemed to enjoy the deluge of well-wishers and beamed from ear to ear as she realised that she had achieved something approaching celebrity status. She walked around, offering her gracious hand to all who approached and many who did not.

Naeo, however, seemed far less comfortable. She shook hands and gave faint smiles, but she seemed distant and uncomfortable, looking at times tired and at others as though she wished to be anywhere else. Sylas too had slipped back a little into the crowd, distancing himself from Naeo.

Filimaya noticed this and raised her hands to call for silence. It took some while for the gathering to come to order.

“Friends! Friends!” shouted Filimaya. “Our guests have been travelling for days and who knows what perils they have faced. We must show them some hospitality and give them time to rest!”

A small hollow-cheeked man stepped forward. “But Filimaya, surely we can just ask a little of what they have seen?” he protested in a dry, wasted voice. “After all, the things we have been hearing on the winds have us all terribly worried! And just this morning the chatter among the birds has changed. I am no expert, but they would seem to suggest that Thoth is beginning to—”

Filimaya raised her hand in a calming gesture. “I understand your concerns, Dropka, and we all share them. But just look at our visitors! They are pale and they clearly haven’t slept in days. They have come here for sanctuary, not to be interrogated. What kind of hosts would you have us be?”

The man shrank a little. “I don’t mean to be impolite,” he said, dropping his eyes. “It’s just—”

“I understand,” said Filimaya, “of course I do, but there will be plenty of time for us to discuss these things tomorrow.”

There was a general murmur of agreement from the gathering. The man gave a bow and quickly retreated into the crowd.

“Good, then!” said Filimaya brightly. She walked over to Ash, embraced him and gestured to a rather portly woman in the front row. “My dear Ash, please go with Kayla – she’ll show you to some fitting quarters. I will come and see you later.”

Ash nodded and hoisted his pack on to his shoulder. Filimaya turned to Naeo and smiled warmly. “Naeo, your father has become a good friend since the war and he has spoken of you often. I hope that in time we too can be friends.” She held out her hand.

Naeo stared at the hand, then slowly and awkwardly she took it and gave it a quick shake. “All right,” she said.

If Filimaya was surprised by this cool response, she did not show it. “Good!” she beamed. “Now, I take it that you and Sylas would prefer to sleep in different—”

“Yes,” said Naeo and Sylas in unison.

Their abruptness clearly shocked Filimaya, but she quickly gathered herself and nodded politely. “Of course. Naeo, please go with Kayla and Ash. I’ll come and check on you just as soon as I can.” Finally she turned to Sylas and Simia. “You two,” she added with a wink, “you can come with me.”

Sylas and Simia smiled and fell in at her side. Sylas tried not to show his relief that they were not to be separated. After all they had been through together over the past few days, he knew he would feel a little lost without Simia. He saw in her glance that she felt the same.

“Thank you, everyone!” shouted Filimaya.

There were a few disappointed grumbles from the crowd, but soon enough everyone began to disperse, reluctantly and noisily, amid much chatter about the Windrush and its occupants, about the things Dropka had mentioned – the whispers in the leaves and the chatter among the birds – but most of all, about Sylas’s strange declaration.

“Why did you have to mention Glimmers?” murmured Simia in his ear, jabbing him in the side. “Now everyone’s completely freaked out!”

Sylas sucked a breath through his teeth and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just came out!”

Filimaya led them up the grassy bank and into the cool of the forest. Many of the ancient trees were gigantic, with trunks as broad as castle towers and waist-high roots that rumpled the forest floor into a baffling, mossy maze. They crossed dazzling, sun-speckled glades and lively streams that bubbled between stones, singing watery melodies. They waded through seas of delicate ferns, between vast outcroppings of thickly scented bracken, over rich carpets of leaves and nodding flowers. Sylas was struck at once by how vital everything seemed, how full of life, even though the world outside the valley had fallen under the cloak of winter. Yet there was no sign of any of the people who had met them on the banks of the lake. It was as though they had simply disappeared.

Filimaya moved with all the grace and ease that Sylas remembered from his time with her in the Water Gardens; in fact she seemed even more vigorous, even more radiant, as though this magical place had returned to her some of her lost youth.

As they walked, they told Filimaya of their adventures; of their meeting with Espen and their long journey together across the Barrens, ending with Espen’s revelations about the Glimmer Myth. Filimaya nodded as though entirely familiar with the Myth, just as Espen had predicted. They told of Espen’s seeming betrayal at the Circle of Salsimaine and Bayleon’s capture, of their escape to the city and their discovery of Paiscion and the Windrush.

At the first mention of Paiscion, Filimaya turned.

“Was he well?” she asked, anxiously.

Sylas nodded.

“And where is he now? Did he not travel with you?”

“You’re jumping ahead!” scolded Simia. “You need to hear the rest first – you’ll miss the best bit!”

Filimaya sighed. “I don’t know why, Simsi, but I’ve missed you.” She squeezed her arm. “Go on, then, tell me your own way.”

Sylas and Simia took it in turns to finish the story, telling of Paiscion’s astonishing discovery in the note from Mr Zhi, then Sylas’s encounter with Naeo in the Glimmer Glass and Simia’s decoding of the message “So at last we may be one” into Sylas and Naeo’s names. Simia spent some time on this part of the story and rather exaggerated its importance, but even then Filimaya did not rush her.

As they began to tell of Naeo’s rescue from the Dirgheon, Filimaya stopped in wonderment.

“You broke into the Dirgheon?” she blurted.

Sylas nodded. “It was the only way. I had to get to Naeo.”

He described Paiscion’s summoning of the storm, the encounter with Espen, the battle with Scarpia and their final escape, flying high over Thoth’s city, borne aloft by Sylas’s strange birds made from the ruined sails and rigging of the Windrush.

“We really flew, Filimaya!” said Simia. “As high as the clouds – higher even!”

“It sounds magical, Simsi,” smiled Filimaya. She turned to Sylas. “Was it, Sylas? Was it magic? Or was it the science of your world? Of the Other?” She raised an eyebrow. “I ask because you seem to know quite a lot about both.”

Sylas thought for a moment. It was still so strange to hear his own world referred to as “the Other” – if anything was other it was this place – this world – with its magic and its creatures and outlandish people.

“I think it was a bit of both,” he said hesitantly. “Magic and science. The gliders seemed to work, but I don’t think they would have flown like that if Ash hadn’t summoned the winds.”

“And so already the two worlds are becoming one,” said Filimaya, almost to herself.

For a moment they walked in silence, each lost in their thoughts.

Finally Filimaya frowned. “So … you and Naeo are able to be together? You said you held hands. You shared a glider?”

“Then, yes,” said Sylas. “I mean, it felt weird, and it hurt – here, around the Merisi band –” he held up his wrist to reveal the glistening bracelet – “but it was like, in that moment, we were meant to be together.”

“And since that moment?”

“It’s just been … difficult. To be around each other,” said Sylas, shaking his head. “It’s hard to describe why. It’s like I start to feel … like the parts of me – my bones, my insides, even my thoughts … I don’t know …” He trailed off.

Filimaya looked at him with concern.

“I keep telling him, I’m not sure they should still be together at all!” said Simia knowingly. She lowered her voice. “And Naeo’s just a bit—”

“I’m sure Sylas and Naeo will be trying to work all this out themselves in their own good time,” interrupted Filimaya. She put a hand on Sylas’s shoulder. “Come on, it’s this way.”

She led them through a veil of vines towards a denser part of the forest. As they passed through the long dangling strands, Sylas jabbed Simia in the side.

“I told you to keep out of it,” he hissed.

Simia gaped innocently. “I was just being honest,” she protested. “You seemed to think that was a good thing when we got here!”

Sylas said nothing and pushed on.

As the vines fell away they gasped. Here the tree trunks were as wide as houses and soared above them to new heights, like the columns of some grand and ancient citadel. Sylas and Simia craned their necks towards the canopy, trying in vain to see the topmost branches.

“So, tell me,” said Filimaya in a casual tone over her shoulder, “where is Paiscion now?”

Sylas and Simia exchanged glances, as though neither wanted to reply.

“We don’t really know,” said Simia hesitantly. “He didn’t come back to the Windrush.”

“But he said he might not …” added Sylas, quickly. “And he said we shouldn’t worry about him.”

For a moment, Filimaya turned and gazed at them anxiously, as though hoping they would say more, but when nothing came she breathed in deeply and turned her eyes upwards. She watched the path of a fluttering bird until it was out of sight, but in truth, she seemed to be composing herself.

Eventually she looked down again. “Well, young Sylas Tate,” she said, her voice sounding a little forced, “every chapter of your adventure is more extraordinary than the last. I marvel at all you have endured and discovered.”

Sylas smiled, but that too was an effort. “The thing is,” he said, “I still don’t feel we know what we’re doing. I mean, I’ve found out all about the Glimmer Myth, and I get that Naeo and I have … well, everything to do with it. And we’ve even managed to find each other, and to get away from Thoth and the city. But while we were on our way here, all I could think was, what next? Now that we’re together, what do we do?” He frowned. “And the truth is, I still haven’t managed to do the one thing I actually set out to do, which is to find my mum.”

Filimaya regarded him closely for a moment and then raised her hand to his shoulder. “The truth, Sylas, is that you are at the centre of great things, and the greatest of things rarely happen when and how we choose.”

Sylas gave her a pained look. “But it’s all just so …”

“Frustrating? Yes, of course it is.” She smiled and cast her eyes around her. “But you’re here now, in the Valley of Outs, among friends and allies. We will help you to understand and to decide what comes next. I will call a Say-So especially. But right now, Sylas, Simia, you’re exhausted. I’d love to stay with you and ask more, but now you need to go and rest. You can speak to us all, tomorrow, at the Say-So, once you have had a good meal and a decent sleep.”

Sylas shifted his rucksack on his shoulder and allowed himself to feel the weariness in his limbs and the fogginess in his mind. Filimaya was right, of course. They had hardly slept all the way here – keeping watch, talking, going over all that had happened and what might come next. He looked up at her and nodded gratefully. “I’d like that,” he said.

She gestured towards the forest. “So go on!”

Sylas and Simia looked where she had pointed. There was nothing there: just more ferns, bracken and tree trunks.

“Are we … camping?” asked Simia, failing to hide her disappointment.

Filimaya’s laugh rang through the trees. “No, of course not –” she pointed – “that’s where you’ll be staying.”

Sylas and Simia peered past her. She was pointing at a gigantic tree, which towered even higher than those around it and whose massive trunk was at least the width of a small house.

“Come on – take a closer look!” she said, setting out towards it.

They all walked slowly across the clearing, staring at the colossal redwood – its huge roots snaking over the surface like dragon tails; its vast, gnarled limbs reaching up into the canopy as far as they could see. But there was no sign of any shelter.

Then Sylas saw it.

In a fold of the trunk, between the joints of two great roots, there was an opening: a triangular slit where the flank of the tree had naturally grown apart. Sylas and Simia clambered over one of the roots and stood gazing up at the huge entrance, a grin of delight spreading across their faces. The lip around the dark cavern was smooth, almost as though it had been crafted that way, but there were no cuts or straight lines, no joints or nails. They could smell cool air issuing from the living cave, but it was not musty: it smelt fresh and a little sweet, like timber. And there, deep in the hollow, they saw a flickering light. Then another and another: little oil lamps, dotted around what looked like a substantial chamber.

Simia beamed at Filimaya. “We’re staying in there?”

“Why not?” asked Filimaya, smiling. “This is how we live in the Valley of Outs.”

Sylas frowned. “In trees?”

“In trees, caves, dells, on lily-rafts, behind waterfalls, beneath roots and hillocks, among the birds in the canopy. Wherever Nature opens herself to us. She is a very generous host, so there’s never a shortage of places to stay!”

“She makes them for you?”

“Yes, but not at our bidding. We simply find them when we need them. The more we need the more we find, and I daresay that if we all left one day, they would disappear. Nature provides what is needed and nothing more.” She smiled and looked about her. “And such has been our need since the Reckoning that this place has become something of a town. We call it Sylva.”

Sylas looked around him but could see no sign of a town. There were no homes or walkways or streets, not even any people.

Simia could not restrain herself any longer. “I’m going inside,” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “Are you coming?”

Filimaya was already turning to leave. “You’ll find everything you need. Someone will come and get you in the morning,” she said brightly, as she disappeared into the forest.

Sylas turned and eyed the dark opening, wondering at the mysterious forces that had made it. Then he followed Simia inside.

“The spirit of the valley never dies. It is the root of heaven and earth.”

SYLAS STEPPED BEYOND THE threshold and gasped. It looked for all the world like the inside of a house, but instead of walls there were planes of living timber; in place of doors there was a honeycomb of oddly shaped openings, all seeming to be part of the tree, rather than cut by hand. Covering the floor there was a carpet of fine, spongy green moss, which felt luxuriously soft beneath the feet, and the hallway that he was now standing in – for that was what it seemed to be – was lit by lamps set into natural alcoves in the walls, so that it was well lit and cosy.

Sylas and Simia dipped through the nearest opening and saw to their delight a room set out with a table and chairs and alcoves containing cups, saucers, plates and all manner of things they might need to serve a meal. In a recess at their side there was bread and cheese; in another, all kinds of fruits; in another still, what looked like a cured ham wrapped in a waxy cloth. All this was lit by two more lamps and natural light that came in through a large slit high in the external wall. In the far corner, they could hear the tinkle of flowing water coming from a depression in the floor and when they looked they saw the glistening surface of an underground stream. Set neatly to one side was a pitcher and a set of glasses.

They rushed into the next room and found what seemed to be a lounge or parlour, but instead of a sofa the mossy floor was raised in one corner to form a comfortable platform covered with an even thicker layer of moss, to which someone had added a scattering of colourful cushions. They resisted the temptation to jump on it and ran into the next two rooms, where they found similar platforms that had been made into beds, with thick eiderdowns and feather pillows.

“How did they know to get this ready for us?” marvelled Sylas.

Simia lay back on a bed and closed her eyes blissfully. “Filimaya always kept at least one room ready for visitors in the Meander Mill. Not that I was ever allowed to stay in any of them.” She yawned. “Yep, I’m definitely going up in the world.”

Sylas grinned and laid his bag down, before heading to the dining room where he cut himself a piece of bread and ham. He took it with him to the lounge and sat back on the surprisingly soft and warm sofa, biting contentedly into his sandwich. He devoured it in seconds and then settled back to relax.

He smiled to himself as he thought how different this was from Gabblety Row – from the bricks and beams and winding corridors, from the growling roads at its corner and his uncle’s grubby little apartment. He laughed at the thought of his uncle Tobias. What would he make of all this? He imagined that accountant’s brain trying to make sense of it all, make it all add up, like a good tax return. Well, nothing about this world added up. It would defeat his uncle absolutely and completely, and something about that made Sylas happy.

He yawned and put his hands behind his head. What was his uncle doing now, now that he had no one to run his stupid little errands, no one to snipe at, no one to blame?

His eyes were just beginning to close when he heard a movement in the room.

He opened his eyes. Simia was leaning on what passed for the doorframe, chewing on an apple.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked disapprovingly.

“What do you mean? I’m relaxing – I thought that was what you were doing!”

Simia was incredulous. “Isn’t there a curious bone in your body? I mean, here we are in the great Valley of Outs, and all you want to do is have a kip?”

Sylas stared at her for a moment and then managed a weary grin. “Come on then,” he said, hauling himself to his feet and brushing off the crumbs. “Let’s go explore.”

In the forest the sun was just setting, painting the trees with pink and orange, which only added to their magic and beauty. Walking alone they were free to wander and gaze all about them, to take in the sheer scale of the towering trees. But they also tried to look beyond roots and trunks and branches to find any sign of the town Filimaya had mentioned. And the more they explored, the more they discovered.

They saw the first of the townsfolk in the crevices and folds of tree trunks, in dark openings that now, in the failing light, showed themselves to be entrances to warm, glowing sanctuaries, where people sat around tables and laughed and chatted, where children played and argued and readied themselves for bed. And they saw homes in other, more unusual places. Sylas was the first to see one beneath the roots of a grand old tree, partly in the folds of the tree and partly underground. Then Simia saw one high in the canopy, nestled in the crook of four intersecting boughs, wrapped all about with a lattice of branches like a giant nest. But these branches had not been cut or placed or woven. They were alive. They had grown that way.

They walked further into the forest and saw more and more of these strange dwellings high in the treetops, some beginning to glow with flickering lamplight. But what was even more magical was that they saw people walking from one to the other along the tops of the largest boughs, as though ambling through the roof of the forest was the most natural thing in the world. The more they looked, the more people they began to see, until they realised that the entire canopy was connected by a network of walkways. Some people walked quickly along the great branches, rushing to a late appointment or to get home for dinner; others walked beside a companion, chatting or taking in the evening air. One woman even walked along reading a book. But what Sylas found most surprising of all was the sight of children running between these great trees without a care in the world.

“Why aren’t they scared?” he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief.

Simia followed his eyes and shrugged. “Nature wants to help us,” she said matter-of-factly. “Remember what Merimaat told me that time? When I was trying to cross the river on stepping stones?”

Sylas remembered well Simia’s story of Merimaat – the great, lost leader of the Suhl – her strange words sticking clearly in his mind: “They aren’t trying to trip you,” she had said of the stepping stones, “they’re trying to help you.”

“That’s what the Suhl are brought up to believe,” Simia continued, “that Nature is part of us and we are part of Nature. She’s on our side.”

Sylas looked back up into the treetops in time to see an entire family walking almost directly overhead, laughing and joking, the children racing each other to the next trunk.

“Well they believe it, that’s for sure,” he said, under his breath.

They walked on, and as the sky grew darker they began to see a galaxy of orange lamplights dotted throughout the trees, casting a beautiful, magical light across the forest floor.

Soon they had reached the steep incline to one side of the Valley of Outs. They pressed on, hoping to climb high enough to look down on Sylva. At first they made good progress through the tangle of bushes and branches, but then, quite abruptly, the ground levelled off.

Sylas stopped. “This can’t be the top,” he said, glancing about. “We’ve only just started.”

Simia pushed past and parted some branches. The ground ahead fell away. They shared a look.

“Odd,” said Simia.

She pushed through the undergrowth and strode down the slope. “Come on, it must go up again in a bit.”

They set out once more but had only walked a few steps when they came to a halt.

There, beyond a few branches of trees, was the valley they had just left behind. Lamplights blinked in the treetops, the occasional dark figure wandered through the canopy and just ahead was the stream they had crossed only minutes before.

Simia turned on her heel and marched past Sylas with a look of fierce determination.

“We must have circled back somehow. Come on!”

Sylas opened his mouth to say something, but then just turned to follow. They had only walked a dozen paces through the thicket before the ground again seemed to be levelling out. Again they reached a clearing, and again they saw the ground falling away, and as soon as they started down the slope they stopped in astonishment – for there, through the bushes and wood smoke, were the same lamplights, the treetops and the familiar stream, babbling in the half-dark, seeming almost to mock them. They were back where they had started.

“I think I know what’s happening here,” said Simia, smiling suddenly. “You know why they call this the Valley of Outs?”

Sylas shook his head, perplexed.

“Because no one but the Suhl can find their way in. They always find themselves walking out again!”

“Right …” said Sylas, trying to get his head round it.

“Well, isn’t this just the opposite? I mean, we’re inside the valley, and perhaps the same magic that keeps other people out—”

“… is keeping us in!” exclaimed Sylas, a smile spreading across his tired features. “So however many times we try to climb this hill, and whatever point we try from, we’ll always find ourselves walking back into the Valley of Outs!”

Simia put her hands on her hips and grinned. “Exactly.”

Since they had gone as far as they could go, they sat down on a bed of dry leaves and gazed through the branches and bushes to the valley below, framed by the dark silhouettes of the two vast hills. The moon and stars lent everything a trace of silver: the distant hilltops, the curls of smoke rising from hundreds of fires, and somewhere below, only just visible through the fingers of the forest, the glistening surface of the lake.

For the first time they felt the true power of this place: the ancient and unfathomable magic that bound it together, from root, to trunk, to treetop – the magic that now held them close and would keep them safe.

“It’s like a dream,” murmured Simia under her breath.

Sylas nodded and almost without thinking he raised a hand towards the overhanging branches and opened his fingers wide. In the same instant, the twigs and leaves swept aside like the curtains of a stage, revealing the valley, the lake and the twinkling skies in all their majesty.

Simia’s grin flashed in the half-dark. “Show off!”

Sylas laughed and started to close his fingers, but she reached out.

“Don’t,” she said. “Leave it.”

And so Sylas left the branches as they were, framing the most beautiful view either of them had ever seen.

They sat quietly, listening to the birds settling to roost and the animals of the night calling to the rising moon. To their surprise, these sounds suddenly faded, as though making way for something else. A moment later, they heard the sorrowful sound of a pipe. The music came from deep in the forest, and was quickly taken up by hundreds of instruments scattered throughout the treetops of Sylva: pipes, violins, guitars, horns, all playing as one.

Then the Suhl began to sing. Their words seemed to seep from the trees themselves, filling the valley with a mournful chorus:

In far lands of dark and high lands and low,

I hear songs of a place where none ever go;

Locked in the hills, ’midst green velvet folds,

A treasure more precious than gem-furnished gold,

For there dwell the Suhl, the last broken band,

There dwell the lost and there dwell the damned …

The thing throbbed and quivered, its glistening flanks oozing a sickening slime. It was a formless shape, a mess of organic sludge that barely cohered into a single thing. The tiny chamber in which it lived dripped the same oily filth and pulsed to the same quickening rhythm, as though it and the thing were one and the same: one sustaining the other. The air was thick and hot and wet. Trails of vapour rose and formed swirling, putrid clouds beneath the cave-like ceiling.

Suddenly there was silence.

The half-formed heart halted. The vapours ceased their constant movement.

The thing trembled. And then …

THUMP … THUMP …

THUMP-THUMP … THUMP-THUMP … THUMP-THUMP …

The thing swelled and receded. Something inside tensed and then a bulge moved beneath the glutinous surface. Then another: this time distinct and pointed.

The pulse accelerated, gaining volume, building and building, faster and faster until soon it was no longer a heartbeat but a rush of sound, a deafening percussion of panic.

Suddenly the thing erupted in frantic motion, twisting and stretching, turning and bulging. As the jelly was breached, more black mucous flowed down its sides and new vapours palled in the chamber.

And then, with a sudden surge, something forced itself upwards, striking the ceiling with a thud. It slewed to one side and then collapsed, slapping down into the ooze.

The heartbeat steadied and began to return to a measured pace. The walls ceased their throbbing altogether, for their work was done.

Something had been born.

It was partly submerged in the oily mire, so that it could almost not be seen. But in some strange contortion there was an arm and a hand – a human hand – and that hand rested against a human cheek. A woman’s cheek. It twitched, the little finger tapping against the fine dark skin.

And then, slowly, the hand began to clench. The fingers curled, and as they did so there was movement at their tips, beneath the fingernails. Slow and slick, the points of rapier talons emerged into the gloom. They grew and grew, until they were almost half the length of the fingers. Until they scratched the woman’s cheek.

The figure arched in a spasm of pain. She shrieked, her eyes wide and staring, the pupils drawn into narrow slits.

It was not a woman’s shriek. It was the screeching wail of an animal.

“If sorcery itself has form, it is the Black. The Black is all we cannot know; it is enchantment and it is despair.”

IT STARTED BEFORE THE first warming rays, in the darkness: a playful chirrup from a nearby branch, followed by an answering call. Then another, even nearer at hand, and another, building on the first, clamouring to be heard. Soon a mounting chorus filled the forest. Thousands of sparrows and swifts, finches and wrens, kites and kestrels, all raising their heads towards the crowning sun to welcome the new day.

And yet to Naeo, it was a strange, unwelcome sound – even now, even days after her escape. It was too clear and loud and shrill. In her slumber, she pushed at her heels and pressed herself even further back between the two rounded rocks, retreating into the shadows. And as the rays crept down the steps into her cave she coiled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her head, yearning for silence and darkness.

Silence and darkness were what she knew. They were her friends. They kept her safe.

She pulled her knees up a little further, murmuring as she turned her face into the cold stone.

“Naeo?”

It was a gentle, soothing voice.

“Naeo? I’m afraid I must wake you.”

She groaned and twisted between the rocks, grazing her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered and she drew in a lungful of fragrant air.

Suddenly her eyes flew open. She sat up and pressed her narrow shoulders further back into the crevice. She glanced about the room, squinting into the shaft of sunlight, searching for the owner of the voice. But the light was everywhere, zigzagging between a dozen mirrors mounted on the walls, lighting the whole chamber. She covered her face with her hands.

“You’re with friends, Naeo!” came the voice again, calm and warm. “Remember? You’re in the Valley of Outs.”

The beams shifted, turning away from the rear of the cave where Naeo lay, leaving her in shadows. She blinked as her eyes adjusted and then she saw Filimaya, kneeling only a few paces away, her aged face creased with concern.

“Have you slept here all night?” she asked, looking at the made-up bed in the corner of the cave.

Naeo shrugged. “I prefer the floor,” she said. “I’m used to it.” She pushed herself up, rubbing her eyes.

“Was it like that in the Dirgheon?”

“I suppose …” said Naeo, indifferently.

“Of course it was,” said Filimaya. “I should have—”

“What’s going on? Has the Say-So started?”

Filimaya frowned. She wanted to ask more, but thought better of it. “No, but it will be almost under way by the time we get there. We should go.”

“Fine. I’ll just change,” said Naeo. She turned and walked to a driftwood shelf, pulling down the fresh clothes that had been laid there.

Filimaya was about to step outside, but as Naeo pulled off her top she froze.

She raised her hands to her mouth. The girl’s back was terribly disfigured by a single scar, which ran all the way down her spine and across her shoulders. It was shapeless and mottled in the manner of burns, but marked out in greys and an inky black. In places the lifeless pigments seemed only to have stained her flesh, while in others they had pinched and raised the skin in a manner that could only have caused extreme pain.

“For the love of Isia!” breathed Filimaya. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” said Naeo, pulling down her tunic and turning abruptly. “Are we going?”

“Naeo, tell me what—”

“It’s nothing,” said Naeo, emphatically, walking to the steps. She reached down and picked up two short twigs, which she brushed off and then pushed into her hair in a cross, holding her long locks high above her shoulders. She looked back. “Really, I’m fine.”

Filimaya watched her climb out of the cave before setting out after her. When she reached the top step she found Naeo waiting outside.

“Those are the marks of Thoth, aren’t they?” she pressed.

Naeo sighed and nodded.

Filimaya shook her head. “He used the Black, didn’t he?”

Naeo paused. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s nowhere near as bad as what he did—”

She stopped, the words catching in her throat.

“As what, Naeo?”

“As the things he did to my dad.”

Filimaya was aghast. “Oh, Naeo,” she murmured. She reached out, but Naeo stepped away.

“Like I told you, I’m fine.”

“Are your wounds painful? Is there anyth—”

“They’re painful when I’m made to think about them!” For a moment Naeo glared at Filimaya, but then her features twisted with self-reproach. She turned away. “Look, shouldn’t we be going?”

Filimaya looked at her calmly for a moment. “Yes, of course,” she said.

She patted Naeo’s arm and led her out into the dew-drenched forest. They walked over a stream, through a copse of saplings and between a gap in a thick tangle of bushes.

Soon they reached a clearing bisected by the mildewed remains of a fallen tree. Ash was sitting on it, kicking at the crumbling bark with his heels while chatting to Kayla, who had rested her considerable weight on a protruding branch.

“About time!” cried Ash. “It’s freezing!” He breathed a cloud of vapour into the chilly air to emphasise his point.

Filimaya smiled. “The sun’s up, so the valley will warm quickly. A perfect day for a Say-So.” She squinted into the sun’s rays. “Come, we must make haste!”

She led them across a field of drooping flowers, skirted a gully and then began to descend towards the lake. Pockets of mist gathered in the hollows and ditches, roots and dells, and the nearer they came to the water the more these wispy trails started to criss-cross their path, swirling about their ankles. When they finally reached the edge of the forest and gazed over the great lake, they saw nothing but a vast milky blanket, floating eerily over the surface as far as the eye could see. The morning sun had painted a pathway of luminous pink leading down the length of the valley to the gorge at its far end. There, the waterfall fizzed and smoked in front of the rising disc of gold.

“It’s beautiful,” murmured Ash, entranced.

“And more so every day,” said Filimaya, setting off down the bank and into the mist.

Kayla grinned at Ash and Naeo. “OK, you two, time for a leap of faith,” she said, then set out after Filimaya.

Ash and Naeo glanced at one another as the two women waded into the mist up to their waists, leaving twists of vapour in their wake.

“OK then,” Ash shrugged. “I guess we’d better get our feet wet.”

They wandered uncertainly down the slope into the impenetrable carpet of mist, all the while watching Filimaya and Kayla, expecting them at any moment to plunge into the lake. Naeo suddenly cocked her head on one side, then extended her hand out over the mists. The swirls ahead of them gathered, turned and rolled away, opening a path that revealed the mossy shore of the lake and led all the way to the women.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” grinned Ash, clearly impressed.

Naeo gave a slight smile and a mock bow, then strode on.

They quickly made up ground and soon they saw what Filimaya had been heading for: a boat, moored to a stump at the water’s edge. She drew to a halt and turned in time to see the remains of Naeo’s strange pathway. She blinked and frowned, then raised her eyebrows at Ash.

“Ha! Don’t look at me!” he said, nodding towards his companion. “I’m not the only trickster around here, you know.”

Filimaya looked at Naeo and then broke into a smile. “Deftly done, Naeo.” She waited a moment for Naeo to respond, but when there was only an awkward silence, she turned and pointed at the boat. “Well, come along. It’s hardly the Windrush, but our journey is short.”

They all clambered into the rowing boat and had soon seated themselves on the bench that ran around its hull: all but Ash, who volunteered to take the oars. The little boat glided over the glassy lake, mist rising at the bow and spiralling off into the air, catching the golden sunlight in a fiery trail. The passengers were just able to peep above the cloud, allowing them to watch the great valley drift past.

Naeo gazed up at the steep sides of the hills and the luxuriant forest that clung to their slopes. She watched a trio of swans drift over the canopy, then drop slowly into the mists of the lake, before landing softly on the water. She watched the sun climbing in the sky, flecking the treetops with a shimmering gold. She saw all of this beauty, but it felt far away, as though she was looking through a sheet of glass.

“You look sad,” said Filimaya, who had been watching her across the boat.

Naeo gave no answer.

“Is it your father?”

Naeo turned and met her eyes. “He should be here. He should see this.”

Filimaya smiled. “He did,” she said. “Years ago, before the Reckoning.”

“You were here with him?”

“I was. And he fell in love with this place. He found it as welcoming and healing as the rest of us.” She was quiet for a moment. “But it made him curse his Scryer’s eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because Scryers see more clearly here than anywhere else. Bowe used to say that when anyone was near, their feelings got in the way of the view!” she said, chuckling affectionately as she remembered. “He would leave Sylva and walk for hours just to get away from us all.”

Naeo’s face softened, but she said nothing.

“He’ll come back one day,” said Kayla, placing a hand on Naeo’s arm.

Naeo stiffened. “Maybe.”

“Well I for one can’t wait to have a good look around,” said Ash, in a timely effort at good cheer. He looked at Naeo. “Are you up for that? After the Say-So?”

Naeo shrugged.

And then she turned away, looking up at the steep sides of the valley. She pulled a long, well-worn bootlace from her pocket and without looking at it, wove it deftly through her fingers, quickly forming the complex weave of a cat’s cradle between her hands. This simple twine was one of the things that had kept her sane in the long dark of the Dirgheon, taking her away from her thoughts, occupying her hands and her mind. And it showed, because without the slightest effort she threaded it into a web of stunning complexity, her fingers a blur as she gazed out at the valley, taking in its vastness and beauty. How different this place was to that, she thought; how light, compared with that despairing dark.

The valley was full of wonders, more stunning and majestic than she could possibly have imagined. And yet she had the strangest sense that she had already seen so much of it: that she had already walked through the giant redwoods; that she had seen dwellings in caves and dells, tree trunks and bowers; that she had seen all this lit by a thousand lamps in the dying rays of day. They were not memories, not even images in her mind, but fragments, like the elusive traces of a dream.

“ The garden defies expectations, not by breaking its promise, but by keeping it. It has a beauty that breaks the bounds of dreaming.”

SYLAS WADED THROUGH THE mist at the water’s edge, trying desperately to keep up with their guide while daydreaming about the wonders of the evening before. The enchanting sunset over the Valley of Outs and the lamp-lit forest seemed almost unreal, like a dream. Even now they warmed him on this chilly morning.

Their guide moved swiftly despite the thick mist, his long ranging steps more than a match for the quick-footedness of his followers. He never looked back, seeming to know exactly where they were: slowing when they fell behind and striding out when they drew near. He paused a few times to relight his pipe, which seemed prone to going out, but always he stayed well ahead.

Simia pulled at Sylas’s sleeve. “Get him to slow down! I’m exhausted!!”

“Cat got your tongue?” whispered Sylas, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulder. “Why don’t you ask?”

Simia eyed the young man leading them. She seemed unusually reluctant to speak up. “I think he knows that we’re tired –” she narrowed her eyes – “I’m just not sure he cares.”

They both watched their guide as he mounted a boulder and dropped down on the other side amid a cloud of orange pipe smoke. He was not powerfully built, but had a sprightly, lithe figure and his long limbs swept with ease through the undergrowth. He had a perfectly bald head, which glistened a little from his exertions, lending new life to the ring of eyes tattooed into his scalp. They stared back unblinkingly, as though seeing their every move and thought. Sylas remembered the very same kind of tattoos on Bowe’s head, but he was interested to see that there were fewer and that two of them, on one side of his head, were wrinkled and warped. It was as though someone had tried to burn them from his head.

“Stop fretting, we’re nearly there,” shouted the young Scryer, in a rich, accented voice. He did not slow or look around, but puffed out a cloud of orange smoke, which formed bright wisps in his wake.

“Told you!” hissed Simia.

They clambered up a small promontory that jutted into the lake, then skirted a towering cliff face. They became aware of a low rumble, which grew ever more noticeable, and when they looked out at the lake they saw that, although the morning fog was starting to clear, the surface was now clouded by great rolls and swirls of a new, finer mist.

“The waterfall!” exclaimed Simia, looking relieved. “We’re at the end of the valley.”

The young Scryer walked up to a great curtain of weeds and grasses hanging from the cliff face and turned to them. His gloomy features broke into a smile.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked, tapping out his pipe and tucking it behind his ear.

Sylas and Simia looked at each other.

“Ready for … what?” asked Sylas apprehensively.

Their guide pulled back the weeds and waved them into the darkness beyond. “For the Garden of Havens.”

They peered warily into the cave and, to their surprise, saw a passageway sloping downwards to a bright opening, shrouded in more greenery. The walls of the tunnel had been worn smooth by the powerful currents of the river and, like so much in the Valley of Outs, seemed almost to have been crafted to suit its human residents, with a regular ceiling the height of a man and a gently inclined floor to allow an easy descent.

This time their guide let them go first. With growing excitement Sylas made his way down the slope, running his hands over the damp rock to keep his balance, treading carefully on the sloping floor. His hand drifted over empty space on one side and he felt a chilly breeze drifting from an opening. He turned towards it, assuming this was the path, only to find himself grasped by the shoulders and pulled back.

“Not that way!” growled the Scryer.

“Why?” asked Simia, peering into the tunnel. “What’s down there?”

“Just the old mines,” he said, pushing them both onwards towards the light. “They’re forbidden now.”

“Why?” asked Sylas, groping his way down the tunnel.

The Scryer sighed. “Because they’re dangerous,” he said. “Because of the Black.”

Sylas was about to ask what “the Black” was, but as they reached the end of the tunnel the thunder of the waterfall surged, resonating in the rock and his chest. The air too had changed, becoming fresher and sweeter, carrying the fragrance of river silt. He drew up to the veil of weeds, which swung limply in a breeze from the bright world beyond. He paused for a moment, then pushed it aside.

The tunnel opened out into a cavernous bowl of rock, with the sky above and a sandy floor below. Its slick, curved sides rose ever more steeply until at the very top they slightly overhung, trailing grasses and vines into the vast space below. On one side could be seen the passing river as it flowed out into the lake, and beyond the ceaseless tumult of the waterfall.

Sylas’s eyes took in the wonders of the bay before him. The walls were riddled with thousands of tiny rivulets and streams, waterfalls and springs which in places gushed playfully down to the river but in others splashed out over the rocky planes, forming a thin film over the stone. Between this endless motion was a garden of rich flowers and glorious ferns, livid lichens and lustrous bushes. This was a haven for Nature’s most delicate and beautiful gifts.

But her finest creation of all was at the centre: a tree of gigantic proportions, whose ancient, crooked limbs had bowed almost to the ground under the weight of its giant leaves which even now, in winter, showed all the vitality of youth. There was only one sign of its age: dark veins running through its bark, which in places looked almost black, like the first tendrils of disease.

As the sun emerged from behind a cloud Sylas’s eyes were drawn upwards to the myriad beams of sunlight which passed across the hollow a hundred times, rebounding from the smooth, wet surfaces. The light touched the upper reaches of the grand old tree so that it seemed to wear a halo of gold.

“I’ve heard about this tree,” whispered Simia at his side, her eyes wide with wonder. “The Arbor Vital, they call it. The Living Tree. It just keeps going – no one knows how old it is.”

“And yet it may not live much longer …” murmured the Scryer.

“Why?”

“The Black,” he said, pointing to the trunk. “You can already see it.”

“The stuff in the mines?”

He nodded.

“What is it?”

“Your guess is as good as ours,” he said, scowling in distaste. “Think of it as corruption and disease, because whatever it is, it is evil.”

Suddenly there was a sharp hiss above their heads. They looked up and to their surprise, saw a woman sitting on a narrow ledge of the cliff face. Her finger was pressed to her lips.

“Quiet!” mouthed the woman. “Please!”

The Scryer gave a brief bow of apology.

It was only then that Sylas and Simia became aware of the great gathering of people hidden in the folds of the gardens. Hundreds of silent figures were seated on mossy banks and ledges, perched on rocks and promontories in every part of the hollow, all of them looking down towards a figure standing near a boat at the water’s edge. She held her hands aloft, commanding their attention, speaking in a soft but resonant voice that Sylas recognised straight away.

“So, my sisters and brothers, after all these years we have reached the fulfilment of Merisu’s prophecy,” said Filimaya, her voice echoing from the walls so that she could be heard easily. “It is a prophecy that most considered so far-fetched that it passed into the realm of myth. But this is the time that the Glimmer Myth foretold, the time when the separation of our worlds is finally seen for what it is – a rift in our very souls!”

The Garden of Havens rumbled with low mutters and loud complaints. Sylas noticed the perplexity on people’s faces; their worried frowns and troubled glances.

One elderly man sitting near the front rose to his feet. “But, Filimaya, do you really believe that the myth is true? That we each have an identical twin? One of these Glimmers? That one day we might even be made one?” He laughed scornfully. “Surely this is the wildest of fancies! That’s why it’s called a myth!”

There was a rumble of agreement from the crowd.

Filimaya nodded. “I understand your doubts, really I do. But let me say this clearly so that there can be no mistake.” She lifted her eyes to the gathering. “Yes, I do believe the myth. Among others, I have believed it to be true for many years.”

“Which ‘others’ do you mean, exactly?” demanded the old man.

“Well, you now know that Espasian believed, as did Paiscion, and Grayvel and …” She hesitated for a moment, seeming to consider whether or not to continue. “And Merimaat. Merimaat was quite certain that the myth was true.”

Suddenly everyone cried out in astonishment. They turned to their neighbours in disbelief.

“Merimaat believed in all this?” asked the old man, looking more sceptical than ever. “Surely if she did, she would have shared it with us?”

“And so she did, Kaspertak,” said Filimaya. “With some, at least. The Otherly Guild and the Salsimaine Retreat were set up to study the Glimmer Myth.”

The aged man’s mouth fell open. “But … they were going for decades – centuries!”

Filimaya nodded.

“We were told that they were studying the Other!”

“And in a way, they were.”

He shook his head incredulously. “But they created the Bringer-Laws, the celestial maps, the –” a look of realisation formed across his face – “the Passing Bell!”

Filimaya smiled. “And so now you see how significant it was that Sylas was summoned using the bell! Which brings me back to my point. Regardless of who believed the Glimmer Myth before, Sylas and Naeo prove that somehow, for some reason, it is true. They are the living myth. They bring us hope.”

“What hope?” shouted a fat man with red hair. “Forgive me, Filimaya, but what use is all this? How does it help us to know these things when we are here, hiding in the Valley of Outs, surrounded by our enemies? How does it stop the Undoing, or save our friends in the Dirgheon?”

“Haven’t you been listening?” shouted a young woman from high on the cliff face. “Sylas and Naeo have powers beyond our dreams – they managed to escape the Dirgheon and defeat Scarpia. There’s our hope!”

“So they’re here to save us? They’re a weapon?”

“Yes!” cried the woman to a murmur of excitement.

“No!” retorted Filimaya. “They’re nothing of the kind! They’re people, children, not weapons that we may use in our own defence. But they offer us the truth – the truth that we are more than we thought we were.”

“But what does all that mean for us?” appealed the woman, throwing her arms out in exasperation. “We need help, not truths.”

“We need both!” snapped Filimaya. She paused, controlling her rising temper.

Sylas shuffled nervously. This was not going well.

But then a familiar voice spoke up. “I agree with Filimaya. We’re all missing the point.” Ash strode out from beneath the branches of the tree. “We need to remember that before Sylas came, we were desperate. I mean, sure, we had the Meander Mill and some of us were managing to live openly by pretending we weren’t what we are. But what kind of life is that? We had no future. How could we have a future when we had lost all that made us strong – everything that made us who we are?”

“We’ve still lost all those things!” shouted the fat red-headed man.

Just then Sylas noticed something strange. As the debate had become heated, so the light in the hollow had begun to dim. When he looked up, he saw that sure enough the beams of light were weak and faltering, barely reaching the upper branches of the great tree.

Filimaya blinked irritably. “Yes, Glubitch, but that was the old world. That was the world in which Glimmers were a myth. That was the world in which Merisu had broken his promise – in which the Three Ways had defeated the Fourth. Sylas and Naeo have shown us a new world – a world in which anything might happen, where we must question the very fabric of our worlds, and where Thoth’s empire is built on sand.”

“Yes, that’s right!” shouted a stooped old man sitting near Sylas. There was a murmur of approval.

A very large man with a shock of black hair and gigantic sideburns rose from a rock near the river. “Ash and Filimaya are right, of course,” said the man in a deep booming voice. “But we are still left with a question: what do we do with our new-found hope? And how can Sylas and Naeo help us?”

“Yes! Let’s ask them! Where are they?” shouted someone.

“Let’s see what they can do!” shouted another.

Again Sylas shifted anxiously. Naeo retreated beneath the tree.

“Listen! Everyone, listen!” said Filimaya, throwing her hands aloft. “It is up to us to decide—”

“How are we to decide anything without knowing what is possible?” objected the large man with black hair. He stepped forward and waved to the crowd. “We need to see them for ourselves – see all they are capable of – then we can decide a way forward.”

Sylas noticed that the hollow had dimmed even further, so that now the beams of light were hardly visible at all.

“NO!” shouted Filimaya. “Ash has told you what they are capable of, and in any case, Sylas and Naeo have told us that they do not wish to be brought together. The challenge for us now—”

“Surely no harm will come to them?” cried someone from among the crowd. “They’ve done it before, so let us see it now!”

Suddenly the young Scryer pushed past Sylas and stepped out into the gardens. “You don’t know what you’re asking!” he shouted. “If you saw the connection between them with Scryer’s eyes, you would not play with it like a party trick. It is a thing of colossal power – unknowable power!”

This gave everyone a moment of pause. The young man was clearly respected and his warning was taken seriously.

Kaspertak, the old man who had spoken earlier, rose slowly to his feet.

“Triste is of course right to be cautious, but I think on this occasion his Scryer’s eyes cloud his judgement. By all accounts Sylas and Naeo are in control of their power – they have shown that in the Dirgheon. So what have we to fear? I say that we should see them together. Let us question them, at least.” He looked directly at Filimaya. “I say it is so!”

“I say it is so!” shouted the large man with black hair.

“I say it is so!” cried Glubitch, followed by many others.

Suddenly the weight of opinion seemed to shift, and the voices of many uttered the all-important words: “I say it is so!”

For the first time Filimaya hesitated and Sylas’s heart fell. He could see from her expression that she was powerless.

He turned and caught sight of Naeo. She too had paled.

Filimaya shook her head. “I truly believe this to be a mistake!”

“The Say-So has spoken, Filimaya,” said Glubitch.

“Well, yes, I understand that!” muttered Filimaya, shooting him a fiery glance. She sighed. “So be it.” She looked first at Sylas and then at Naeo, her face full of apology. “Sylas, Naeo, could you step forward, please.”

Sylas drew a long breath and glanced at Simia.

“You’ll be OK,” she whispered. “You know what you’re doing.”

Sylas turned and raised his eyebrows. “Do I?”

He stepped out from the entrance to the tunnel and began walking across the floor of the hollow. People turned and moved out of his way, clearing a path to the boughs of the giant tree beneath which Filimaya was now standing. Naeo had already reached Filimaya’s side and stood gazing up at the gathering with a look of defiance.

As Sylas stepped under the branches of the tree, he felt the first pang of nausea, and in the same instant he winced as the pain in his wrist suddenly shot up his arm. He reached down and rubbed the bone around the Merisi Band. Naeo did the same.

He kept walking. As he reached the trunk of the tree, there was a cry from somewhere behind him, and then another to his side.

“Look!” shouted somebody. “Look at the light!”

Sylas glanced up and saw several amazed onlookers pointing at the beams of sunlight that criss-crossed above his head. They were bending and warping, as if distorted by some massive magnetic force, twisted from their natural path.

And then there came another cry, this time above him. A woman began to scramble down from her perch on the cliff face. “The water!” she screamed. “Look! The stream!”

Sure enough, the streams too were being mangled by some unseen force, curving and twisting, turning back on themselves, flowing against the pull of gravity, as if repelled by the two children. A clamour of frightened voices rose from around the hollow as people scrambled out of the path of crazed rivulets and wild waterfalls.

It was as though nature itself was being undone. Sylas felt his insides writhe and turn, his bones slide over each other, his thoughts begin to scramble. He looked down and saw that the Merisi Band was glowing like molten metal, shimmering as it burned into his wrist.

But then something changed. A new light fell on the Garden of Havens. The contorted beams of sunlight suddenly glowed and flared, burning with a new intensity. The shadows stretching across the gardens were dispelled, silencing the crowd. A fresh, white light illuminated the faces of the onlookers, the ancient tree was once again bathed in gold and green, as though it was flooding with new life.

“Stop this!” boomed a hard, male voice.

Standing at the cliff’s edge was a dark figure, silhouetted against the bright blue, arms held high overhead.

Sylas and Naeo hesitated, neither knowing what to do.

“Sylas, Naeo! Move apart!” yelled the stranger.

They happily did as they were bidden, walking quickly to opposite sides of the tree. Instantly the rays of light shifted until they once again formed a web of straight lines, and the streams and waterfalls returned to their natural paths down the gullies and crevices of the cliff.

Filimaya was transfixed by the dark figure. Her hand rose to her mouth, and then she extended the other. Obediently, a beam of light drifted up the cliff face, illuminating the rock like a searchlight, passing over ledge and plant and stream until finally, it lit up the silhouette of the lone figure, bathing it in sunlight.

His robes and hair were a faded black, but his pale, sallow face shone in the ethereal light, revealing striking, high cheekbones, a heavy brow and eyes bright beneath round spectacles.

Filimaya’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Paiscion!” she whispered.

“What weird homunculus is this, born from the Dirgh’s dark potion? It is like the ancient gods, forged of both man and beast, and yet it looks more a thing of hell itself.”

THE GHOR GUARDS STIFFENED and craned their long canine necks, reaching for scythe-like blades. There was a movement at the end of the passageway. The figure was hard to discern in the half-light of flickering torches. One moment it seemed to be human and the next animal; one moment walking and the next prowling, cat-like, with smooth predatory ease, spidering along the floor, riding up the walls. Alarmed by the pace of its approach, the commander swiped its blade over the flagstones, sending a shower of sparks down the passage.

“Who goes there?” it barked. The figure slowed for a moment and then reared up to its full height, its dark face flashing a white smile of long, cruel teeth.

It made a strange sound, a gentle rasp something like a purr.

“It’s Scarpia, you fool!” came the reply.

And with that she was past his blade, gliding between their mighty shoulders and then rising up on her hind legs in front of the huge ornamented door. The guards turned in bewilderment, then stepped back into the shadows and bowed.

Scarpia raised a clawed fist and knocked at the door.

There was no answer, but she cocked her head and listened. She heard a beautiful but doleful music: a cello playing a bewitching lament. Its strains filled the air, the melody seeming strangely out of place in the deathly halls of the Dirgheon.

As she listened, the junior of the two guards quietly lifted its head to look at her – her powerful, feline limbs, part-clad in rich black fur; her crouching stance, halfway between standing and crawling; her long, sinewy neck, still showing the scars of many burns. But what most caught its attention was the distorted face – that disturbing blend of dark skin and black fur, revealing the angular jaw and heavy brow of a predatory cat, and beneath the brow: one human eye, the other pale and green, its pupil not round but drawn into a slit.

The green eye flicked to the young guard and a snarl gurgled in Scarpia’s throat. With a sharp hiss she lashed out with bared claws, tearing savagely at its ear and making it yelp and whimper in submission.

“Do not look at me!” she hissed.

The guards turned obediently away.

In that moment, the cello finally fell silent and an answer came from behind the door. It was spoken with many voices: an unnatural chorus of men and women, young and old, boys and girls, all in perfect unison so that the words resonated down the passageway and sent a chill through those who heard it.

“Enter, Scarpia.”

She did not hesitate but threw her head back and pushed at the door, stepping boldly into the half-light of the Apex Chamber.

The great hall was still, the only movement the flickering flames in four giant urns, one in each corner. Scarpia eyed the furthest one, the one now dented and marked, then recoiled slightly as though remembering her pain.

Her mongrel eyes scanned the room, searching for her master, past the dark pool at the centre of the room, tracing the rich tapestries, the long shelves of books, the great stone table topped with manacles and chains, before settling on an elaborate golden music stand and a lone figure sitting on a simple wooden chair, clasping an exquisitely made cello. Even through the many folds of scarlet robes, he looked cruelly twisted and bent and as he began to play again, his sharp joints protruded at ungainly angles. The hooded head was stooped low over the strings and while an emaciated hand danced the length of the fingerboard, the other guided the delicate bow with precision. The motion never slowed, even when he spoke.

“So, my child,” came the voice of many, “you are reborn.”

Scarpia’s eyes flared. “If that’s what you call this … this –” she gestured to her body with a clawed hand – “this abomination!” she snarled.

The bow halted and there was a brief moment of silence.

“Perhaps you would rather I had left you as you were?”

Scarpia hesitated, then her eyes narrowed and the standing fur on the back of her neck settled into a smooth, feline coat. A gentle purr rose in her throat. “No, my Lord Thoth.”

“I would think not,” was the quick reply. “There was very little left of you worth keeping.”

For a moment Scarpia looked wounded: she sank a little on her haunches and her cat-like ears dropped back on her head.

“You will learn to appreciate your new form,” murmured Thoth, coolly. “You are no less beautiful than you were.”

Scarpia purred once again and lowered her head, as though Thoth were stroking her glossy fur. Instead he resumed his playing, sweeping the bow over the strings. For some moments they were both lost in the strains of the cello.

“Do you know it?” asked her master.

Scarpia’s ears rose and turned towards the cello. “The music? No, my Lord. Is it from the Other?”

Thoth nodded beneath his satin hood. “Their music has always been better than ours,” he said, creating a complex medley of notes. “This is Elgar’s great concerto. They say it is meant for an orchestra, but it is best played alone, don’t you agree?”

He turned his head slightly in her direction, so that the shadow beneath the hood was partly visible.

“When you play, of course,” purred Scarpia, edging towards him on all fours, unconsciously brushing up against a chair. She drew close to his skeletal form and sat on a cushion near him, drawing her tail around her. She eyed the bow as it darted through its final strokes, ending the recital as sombrely as it had begun.

There was a pause as the final strains of the concerto died away. Thoth remained hunched over his cello and for the first time his breathing could be heard: a deep, whistling wheeze.

He drew himself back in the chair and turned to Scarpia. For a moment, a flicker of lamplight penetrated his hood and part of his face could be seen. It was hardly a face at all, but rather a gathering of features, shimmering and shifting in the changing light. It was in constant flux: his narrow jaw suddenly seeming broad and then long and then narrow; the large sockets of his eyes momentarily waning to those of a child, then widening, then falling under an overhanging brow. All this took place in the blink of an eye, so that none of these features reached any definition at all. They were a blur, leaving a vague impression of shaded hollows for eyes, a protrusion for the nose and a wide gash for the mouth.

“And so to business,” he said, his empty features stretching and moving as he spoke. “While you have been sleeping, I have been tireless. I have been reflecting and planning. I have decided that if we must be infected by this child from the Other, this young Sylas Tate, then we will take the good with the bad. We will reach into his mirrored world and take all that is rightfully ours! We will make these children rue the day they opened the way between the worlds.”

A low growl rumbled in the back of Scarpia’s throat and her tail flicked the air. “I want them to pay!” she snarled, baring her teeth and snapping at her own tail, which she then eyed with disgust.

“Oh, they will pay,” murmured Thoth. “But they are strong. We must address our weaknesses, grow our muscle and sinew. And so we will bring forward our plans. We will find strength where they have found it. If they may cheat the division of the worlds, so may we.”

Scarpia’s eyes flared with delight and a purr rattled in her neck. “It is to begin now? All that we had planned?”

The Priest of Souls inclined his head. “It begins now.”

Scarpia clawed the stone floor in excitement. “Tell me what to do!”

Thoth gave a low laugh. “You always were a happy predator, Scarpia.” He gestured at her body with the bow. “Perhaps this is the form you were destined to take.”

She seemed to consider this a compliment. Her scarred lips showed a wicked smile.

Thoth lifted the bow once more and placed it on the strings of the cello. “Do you know what draws me to this concerto?” he asked.

Scarpia looked at him inquisitively.

“War,” he growled. “They say that Elgar wrote it in mourning, at the end of their great war.” A cackle sounded in the void of his throat. “For us, it will be our call to arms!”

Scarpia’s smile widened.

“Meet me in the birthing chambers,” breathed Thoth, beginning to play. “You are not the only thing to have been born today.”

“ The Merisi Band is a clasp of intrigue, enclosing mysteries that only its maker may ever understand.”

WHEN PAISCION FINALLY EMERGED from the tunnel into the Garden of Havens, the gathering was in a frenzy of excitement. As people caught sight of him, there were spontaneous cheers and cries of delight, then unrestrained, joyous applause from all sides.

At last, the Magruman had returned.

But Paiscion himself hardly seemed to notice these attentions. He smiled and nodded politely to all he passed, shaking any hands that were offered and embracing those who lunged at him, unable to contain themselves, but his eyes were fixed on the river’s edge. His eyes were on Filimaya.

For her part, she stood entirely still as she had since she had first seen his face, her fingers at her lips, her eyes on his. When finally he found his way through the last of the crowd, his pace quickened and he half ran beneath the branches of the tree, then pulled up and came to a halt shortly before he reached her. For a moment he simply took in the sight of her, as if hardly believing that she was there, and then he rushed forward and caught her up in a close embrace. They laughed and wept with joy.

Sylas smiled and glanced over at Simia. She was sitting on the side of the boat wearing a crooked smile, tears in her eyes.

“So it’s true,” he said, sitting down next to her. “What they said about Filimaya and Paiscion.”

He waited for the inevitable rolling of eyes and sarcastic “obviously”, but Simia just smiled, still watching the elderly couple.

After a moment she turned and looked Sylas up and down. “So … are you OK?” she asked.

Sylas said nothing, but looked pale and tired.

Simia leaned forward, peering at his wrist. “Did you see what happened to the Merisi Band?” she asked, reaching out towards it. “It was weird! For a moment, I thought it was going to …”

She trailed off and slowly her eyes crept up to his. “Have you seen?”

“Seen what?” He followed her gaze down to the Merisi Band. For the first time he saw that it was still glowing, not with a bright fire like before, but with a dim, rippling light, and running along the circumference of the bracelet was something that he had never seen before, stark and black against the light. It was a string of lettering that made no sense. But as he gazed at them the Ravel Runes began to show themselves, until soon they revealed true letters and words.

He blinked, frowned, then grew pale.

“So? What does it say?” asked Simia.

Sylas turned to look at her.

“It says, ‘In blood it must end’.”

Suddenly the gardens fell silent. Sylas and Simia dragged their eyes from the Merisi Band to see Paiscion with his hands aloft, calling the assembly to order.

“Thank you! Thank you for your welcome,” he shouted over the last excited heckles. “I apologise for my entrance. I had wanted to travel with my friends here, but I had a challenging time getting out of the city. I am sorry to say that there are dark things afoot in the city of Gheroth, and, I fear, throughout these lands. Thoth is gathering his forces and tightening his noose. I have seen new and foul creatures spilling from the Dirgheon, marching I know not where. I have seen messengers dispatched and received. And I have seen new patrols throughout the city, terrorising our poor sisters and brothers in the slums. All this in just the past few days. I need not tell you that such things have not been seen since the Reckoning.”

A new and solemn quiet fell over the gathering. Faces paled and shoulders drooped, as though under some terrible weight.

“This is just what I have been saying!” shouted a tall woman wearing a long purple gown. “The winds, the birds, the waters, all have been telling us of new and terrible things beginning across the Four Lands! And the Black! It’s everywhere – even here, in the Valley! The mines are full of it, and now the tree is infected …”

Paiscion turned sharply and looked towards the tree. His face darkened as he saw the fingers of black spiralling up the rumpled trunk.

“When did this begin?” he asked Filimaya.

“In the past days and weeks,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “It seems to be rising from the mines. Nothing we’ve tried has stopped it – if anything, it gets worse.”

“Indeed,” said Paiscion grimly. “Whatever it is, the Black sinks its claws as deep as evil itself.”

“But now, now we have reason to hope!” shouted someone from high above, to which everyone who heard nodded enthusiastically. “Our Magruman has returned!”

Paiscion frowned and pointed towards Sylas and Naeo. “My dear sisters and brothers, here is your hope! Surely you see that?”

There was only silence.

“But you’re our Magruman!” came the same, anonymous voice from high on the cliff.

Paiscion turned his eyes to every part of the hollow. “I am your Magruman and I will serve you and the Suhl until my final breath. But Magrumen alone are powerless to stop the Undoing – these years of suffering leave us in no doubt of that. Even with the blessing of Essenfayle, we have failed to defend ourselves against our enemy and now, now that Merimaat is dead, the nation is weaker than ever – just as we enter what may be the final crisis.”

A new hush fell over the proceedings, and those who moments before had glowed with excitement became quiet and reflective. Filimaya’s eyes never left Paiscion’s face.

“As you know,” he continued, “since the Reckoning I have lived on the Windrush, in the shadow of our enemy, where he would never think to look. And there I watched and I listened. With the help of our sisters and brothers in the slums, I spied on Thoth and his agents, on the Ghor Command and the legions of the Dirgheon. I studied their plans and their works. I drew maps and kept records. But nothing I saw offered a way to free our people from their torments. That is why I never returned to you. But now, my friends, I am here.” He extended an arm in the direction of Sylas. “I am here because of this boy.”

All eyes turned to Sylas, who found himself shrinking a little between his shoulders.

Simia grinned. “He’s talking about you!”

“You think?” he hissed.

“Let no one be in any doubt,” continued the Magruman. “Sylas Tate changes everything. His arrival offers more hope than I ever dreamed possible in those dark days on the Windrush. He brings a hand of friendship from the Merisi – that sage order that knows many of the secrets of these two worlds and which has been our ally since the birth of our nation. He brings the wisdom of the Samarok and a mastery of Essenfayle that is quite miraculous. But he also offers something quite unexpected. He brings a promise of unity, of togetherness, of an end to the divisions that plague our world and upon which Thoth has built his empire. He shifts the lines of whatever battle may come.”

A murmur of excitement rumbled around the gardens.

“You do all that?” whispered Simia sarcastically.

Sylas felt a little sick.

“But I’m telling only part of the story,” said Paiscion, turning and walking towards Naeo. She looked at him warily, but he simply took her hand and drew her forward, presenting her to the gathering. “Because it was young Naeo here who called Sylas into this world. And for that we owe her an immense debt of gratitude. Not only because of what Sylas brings, but also because of who he is. You see, Naeo has shown almost unimaginable courage in doing what she has done. And that is because Sylas is Naeo.” He turned on the spot, looking at the entire assembly. “Naeo is Sylas.”

A surge of excited energy moved through the congregation and everyone leaned forward to try to improve their view. A thousand eyes shifted between the two children and a thousand minds struggled to comprehend what they were being told.

“But Paiscion, if I might say,” said Glubitch, scratching in his red locks, “the reason we may have failed to appreciate the importance of these children is that it is hard to believe that they are what you say. They look perfectly normal! They don’t even look the same, or behave alike – they’re different. How can they be each other’s Glimmer?”

Paiscion laughed. “I have absolutely no idea!” he cried. “But that makes it no less true. No one can doubt the truth after the events of the past few days.”

Kaspertak stood. “And yet we have not witnessed these events!”

“I know, Kaspertak,” replied the Magruman, “but we cannot ask them to show their gift. You saw what happened to the gardens when we failed to respect their power. If used wrongly, I believe it could cause great harm.”

Sylas and Simia exchanged a look, then their eyes fell on the bracelet. The inscription was fading, but still visible.

IN BLOOD IT MUST END.

Simia looked up. “You have to show him!” she hissed. “It’s important. It has to be!”

Sylas shook his head. “Not now,” he whispered. “Everyone’s already freaked out. This will only—”

“Well if you won’t, I will!” She stood and took a step forward. “Paiscion!” she shouted. “You need to see this!”

“Where is the choice when all must be brought into balance? Which is the righteous path in two opposing worlds?”

PAISCION STOPPED MID-SENTENCE AND looked at her in surprise, then followed her finger to the Merisi Band. He frowned and started to walk over. “This had better be important, Simia Roskoroy,” he murmured.

The crowd began to chatter among themselves.

Paiscion drew up and looked from Simia to Sylas, then down at the Merisi Band. He inclined his head a little.

“When did this inscription appear?”

“Just now,” said Sylas, “when Naeo and I got close. The band started to glow and—”

“The Samarok!” interjected Paiscion. “Do you have it with you?”

Sylas nodded. He reached for his bag, fished inside and drew out the ancient tome.

Paiscion took it carefully in his hands. For some moments he leafed through it, searching for something, apparently at random.

“Blood …” he murmured under his breath, “blood … blood …”

Finally he stopped and furrowed his brow in concentration, apparently allowing the Ravel Runes to work their magic. Sylas saw the writing on the page writhe and shift again and again and again until finally, Paiscion nodded. His eyes snapped up to Sylas’s.

“Here,” he said, handing the Samarok back, open at the page. Then to Sylas’s surprise, he turned on his heel and walked off beneath the boughs of the Living Tree, heading directly for Naeo.

“Important, you see!” grinned Simia, poking a finger in his side.

Sylas was too busy looking at the Samarok to reply. His eyes passed quickly over a page that seemed to be written almost entirely in verse, but before the Ravel Runes had time to reveal their meaning, he heard Paiscion speak.

The Magruman was now beneath the tree, talking to Naeo. There was a quick exchange and then, in some confusion, Naeo raised her wrist. She and Paiscion stared at the other half of the Merisi Band, still glowing faintly in the sunlight. For a moment they were motionless, then Paisicon’s face filled with a knowing smile. Naeo was plainly bewildered. They exchanged a few more words and then the Magruman left her side and walked back out into the centre of the gardens.

By this point the Say-So had reached a high pitch of excitement, so that when Paiscion raised his hands he had to wait for silence.

“Sisters and brothers!” he shouted. “Sisters and brothers! Young Simia here has spotted something that may be very important to these proceedings.” Attention shifted to Simia, who seemed fit to burst with pride. “As you may or may not have heard, when Sylas and Naeo first met, the Merisi Band split in two, forming a new bracelet for each of them. It seems that when Sylas and Naeo drew near one another just now, these two bracelets revealed a message, also in two parts.” Paiscion opened his hands and grinned admiringly. “It is a message intended to reveal the way ahead. It speaks to us in this very moment!”

The Say-So erupted once again in excited murmurings and whisperings, followed by scores of hushes and calls for quiet. Everyone wanted to hear what Paiscion would say next.

“The inscription,” he continued, “is simply this …”

He cleared his throat.

“In blood it began. In blood it must end.”

The gathering was silent long enough for Paiscion’s words to echo from the cliffs and then the whispers began again – whispers filled with fear. Worried looks were exchanged, faces paled, heads were shaken in foreboding.

But the frightened murmurings fell away almost as soon as they had begun.

The Magruman was smiling.

He was standing with his arms crossed, waiting, with a broad grin on his face.

“Forgive me, Paiscion,” protested Kaspertak, “but what is there to smile about? What can this be but a terrible prophecy?”

“It is a clue!” cried Paiscion. “A clue written by Merisu himself, for who but he forged the Merisi Band? And if it is a clue written by Merisu, where should it lead us but to the book he himself began all those centuries ago.” He pointed across the gardens. “It leads us to the Samarok!”

Suddenly the entire Say-So was focused eagerly on Sylas and the book he held before him.

“I have just looked through the Samarok myself,” continued Paiscion. “Using the Ravel Runes, I have searched for that same phrase. References to blood lead to many entries, but blood and beginnings lead to only one. An entry deep in the ancient histories – an entry I have never seen before. Sisters and brothers, it contains the exact message we have found on the Merisi Band!” He paused to allow more excited chatter to die away. “Now, Sylas, as the rightful bearer of the Samarok, perhaps you could read the whole entry to us?”

Sylas closed his eyes to overcome his nerves and to clear his mind. Finally he opened them and focused on the runes at the top of the page. Instantly they started to work their magic, changing from a nonsensical scrawl into intricate Ravel Runes, revealing their true meaning.

He read the first words: “The Song of Isia.”

“Speak up, please!” shouted someone high on the cliff.

Sylas cleared his throat. “It’s a song!” he shouted. “The Song of Isia!”

There was a new surge of excitement, with animated chatter, knowing nods and cries of, “Isia, of course!”

“Quiet, everyone!” shouted Filimaya, clapping her hands. “Let Sylas finish!”

Sylas turned his eyes back to the page, mastered his thoughts and read on:

“She sings from the skies,

Through earth and the sea;

She sings through the lies

To both parts of me.

She tells of old lore,

Of dark and the light;

She tells of a war

Two children must fight.”

Suddenly the gardens were filled with more excited whispers. Sylas waited for them to calm before continuing.

“She sings of two lands,

Though one we can see;

She tells of twin bands,

To set us all free.

She sings of the lines

Of glove and the hand,

She tells of a time

For one final stand.

But this time of sun

Will end all too soon.

Our hope quickly won,

Will die in one moon.

She sings from the skies,

Through bare root and tree;

She sings through the lies

To both parts of me.

In this her sad song

A message she sends:

In blood it began,

In blood it must end.”

He felt a slight shiver as he read the final lines, then looked up from the page to see hundreds of faces staring back. Paiscion was the only one who moved. He nodded quietly to himself, a smile growing on his lips.

“And so there it is,” he said, almost to himself, his eyes bright behind his glasses, “our past, our present and our future!”

There were murmurings from the crowd, then someone cried out: “But I don’t understand!”

Paiscion threw his arms wide. “The song tells us all we need to know!” he cried. “That all is coming to pass just as the great Merisu foretold! That Sylas and Naeo, these two children wearing twin bands, are destined to fight a great war for freedom! A battle to vanquish the lies that have divided our two worlds! Our two selves!”

“You see!” shouted someone by the river. “They are here to fight for us!”

Paiscion shook his head. “Not to fight for the Suhl,” he corrected, “but for all humankind. For the freedom of all. For our right to be whole! The Suhl may be part of this war, but it will not be fought for us.”

There were some whispers, but when no one spoke up, Paiscion turned back to the gathering.

“But the song tells us more than that. It tells us that there is no time to lose, that hope will die in one moon, which can only mean the moon that brought Sylas to us.”

“But it’s only just over two weeks before the new moon!” cried Glubitch, shaking his red locks. “It’s full tomorrow. Surely there’s no time for—”

“It seems that’s all the time we have,” said Paiscion firmly. “We will just have to use it well. Which brings us to the true purpose of the song: to tell us what must be done next.”

“But I didn’t hear any such thing,” grumbled Kaspertak. “It’s the usual Samarok gobbledygook!”

“And yet it was there, in the very title!” cried Paiscion. “Sisters and brothers, this is Isia’s song! Can anyone doubt that she is at the centre of everything? That she was there at the beginning and that she knows the end? And is it really a surprise that she – the Seer of Souls and the one power that Thoth does not control – that she holds the key to this prophecy?”

There were many nods of agreement and for the first time the congregation seemed to be one, muttering their assent.

Sylas listened to all this with growing astonishment and unease – fighting battles for all of humankind? Making the worlds whole? People whole? And in twenty days? It seemed ludicrous. But there was something else: a knot was forming in his stomach – a knot of frustration. The only people not being consulted on what should happen next were he and Naeo. What if they didn’t want to do all this together? What if they just couldn’t? They could hardly bear to be in the same gardens! And in truth, no matter how important all this sounded, he could not – must not – forget that his mother was still alive, languishing in some hospital somewhere in his own world.

“You are of course right,” said an elderly woman near the Living Tree. “Sylas and Naeo should go back to the city and consult with Isia straight away.”

Suddenly Naeo stepped forward. “But what if we don’t want to travel together any more?” she asked abruptly. “What if we can’t? You’ve seen what happens when we’re too close! And it’s getting worse all the time!”

The elderly woman wavered and sat down.

Ash stood and stepped forward. “In any case, I’d say it’s not a great idea for them to move around together,” he said. “Surely that’s just what Thoth will be expecting? He’ll have every Scryer he has looking out for them travelling together.”

“But their power lies in being together!” said Kaspertak. “I thought that was the whole point!”

“Yes!” shouted someone else. “Wasn’t that why Naeo summoned Sylas in the first place? So that they could be together? Change things together?”

“It’s not as though anyone has done this before!” replied Naeo sharply. “How was I to know it’d feel like this? And anyway, who says we have to be together all the time? Why not just when it matters?”

The Say-So grew quiet. Paiscion took off his glasses and rubbed them on his handkerchief, deep in thought. Finally he placed them back on his nose.

“A conundrum,” he said, wagging his finger as though finding his way through his thoughts. “But if Sylas and Naeo cannot do everything together – if they can only be together when it most matters – then perhaps only one of them can go to Isia after all. And if that is the case, I wonder if the other can use their time just as profitably …” He nodded and wagged his finger more vigorously. “I wonder if they can find a way to be together without harm … yes … or apart and together at the same time …”

“Paiscion, but you’re making no sense!” grumbled Glubitch.

“I’m talking about the Merisi,” said Paiscion, excited once again. “After all, the reason the Merisi created the Merisi Band was to keep the wearer from meeting their own Glimmer. And they created the Glimmer Glass – the mirrors that allow them to see their Glimmer!” He looked searchingly around the gardens. “Bringing Glimmers together and keeping them apart! If anyone understands the forces that draw us to and repel us from our Glimmer, it is the Merisi. And if anybody will know how Sylas and Naeo can make use of their gift without needing to be together, it is the Merisi!”

“Those Merisi inventions are mere trinkets,” protested Kaspertak. “Cobbled-together mongrels of Essenfayle and science.”

“How can you say that when you have seen what the Merisi Band can do?” retorted Filimaya. “And there’s so much more! We spoke earlier about the Otherly Guild – they spent years studying the Merisi’s Things. They found them to have extraordinary power!”

Paiscion nodded. “As many of you know, I led the Otherly Guild and yes, among other things, we sought to understand the inventions of the Merisi – their miraculous and wonderful Things. They are more in number and greatness than we were ever able to understand.”

Sylas had been listening to all this with growing realisation. “Things?” he repeated. “You mean the Things that Mr Zhi had when I met him? The ones in the Shop of Things?”

Paiscion grinned. “The very same.”

Sylas’s eyes grew wide. “So … you think if I went back to the Shop of Things, Mr Zhi might know … what? How we can be together while we’re apart?”

“Quite possibly. Mr Zhi is the foremost authority on Things of all kinds, shapes and sizes,” said Paiscion. Then he frowned. “Only I’m not sure that it is a good idea that you should go, Sylas. You are known in the Other and Thoth may expect you to return. In these perilous times, I think we need to do everything to defeat Thoth’s expectations whenever we—”

“But when do we get to say what we want to do?” blurted Sylas, his frustration finally spilling over, his tone harsher than he had intended.

Paiscion blinked at him through his glasses, then he glanced at Filimaya. She simply nodded and crossed her arms.

“Young Sylas, I apologise,” said the Magruman. He looked at Naeo. “Both of you, I’m sorry: this is of course your decision. We certainly don’t mean to take away your freedom to choose your own course.” He looked from one to the other. “So … what is it that you would like to do?”

Sylas hesitated for a moment, still a little surprised by his own outburst. And then something extraordinary happened. As Sylas opened his mouth to speak, so did Naeo.

“Find my mother,” said Sylas.

“Find my father,” said Naeo.

The congregation gasped and looked in wonder at the two children. Though the few words they had uttered were in unison, their two voices had not clashed: they had become one. And what they said was the same, but opposite. The effect was electric.

Perhaps the only people who did not seem surprised were Sylas and Naeo themselves. It was as though they had only heard their own voice.

Paiscion eyed them both with renewed fascination. “Of course!” he said. “Of course your parents are your priority and it is quite natural that you should want to find them.” He frowned in concentration. “Perhaps there is a way that all of these objectives might be combined.”

“I’m not saying that we can’t do these other things as well,” said Sylas quickly, starting to feel rather selfish. “I know it’s important to talk to Mr Zhi – and to see Isia – but I can’t just forget about my mother.”

“And I can’t leave my father in the Dirgheon!” said Naeo.

“Of course you must look for your parents,” reassured Filimaya. “It adds to the challenge, but that is no reason not to try.”

“Really?” said Ash. He walked to the centre of the hollow and looked at Naeo and Sylas. “I’m sorry, but I don’t agree. If you do this – if you set out to find the very people you’re closest to, you’re far more likely to be seen by Thoth’s spies. It was hard enough to get into the Dirgheon last time, and I’d wager my grandmother that he’ll be more prepared now. Added to which, all the Dirgheon guards know what Naeo looks like.”

Sylas and Naeo tensed and prepared for a fight. They knew that Ash was right but this wasn’t rational, it was personal: how were they supposed to discard all the family they had left?

For a moment the meeting seemed to have reached another dead end. Many looked to Paiscion, hoping that their long-lost Magruman would know what to do. But it was not Paiscion who spoke next. Quietly and without anyone noticing, Simia stood up. She glanced anxiously at Sylas and then lifted her head to the great assembly.

“I have an idea,” she said.

“In the Suhl, we have found allies and friends with whom we might change the nature of the world.”

THE THREE PRESSED ON, tracing the fringes of the great lake, heading back towards Sylva. The young Scryer was soon striding out in front, but this time he had not drawn far ahead: Sylas was with him, his face set with determination and his arms pumping furiously at his sides. It was Simia who was lagging behind. She was scuttling on as best she could, but she was no match for the Scryer, nor for Sylas in this mood.

“Oh, come on,” she groaned, drawing to a halt, “slow down!”

Triste hesitated and eased his pace, but Sylas gritted his teeth and stomped on. Then he stopped and turned back.

“I just can’t believe you suggested it!” he bellowed. “I mean, you, of all people! You know how much I want to find my mum. And now instead I have to go back to the city to find Bowe! I thought you were on my side?”

Simia flicked her fiery hair over her shoulders. “I am on your side. And Naeo’s, actually. But you’ve both got a death wish!”

“No, we haven’t. We can look after ourselves!”

“Well, sure, when you’re together! But isn’t that the whole idea? We don’t know what you’ll be like when you’re apart – in different worlds!” She stared at him steadily. “And anyway, the Say-So was never going to agree to you going after your mum – you could see that!”

“We’ll do it anyway. I’m going after my mum and Naeo’s going after Bowe, no matter what the Say-So decided.”

“Then you’re fools,” said the Scryer.

Sylas rounded on him. “Oh really? You think so?” he yelled, his eyes burning.

Triste looked at him calmly, as though considering the question. He pulled the pipe from behind his ear.

He knocked it on the heel of his hand. “The Say-So is right – Thoth will be expecting you to look for your mother, and Naeo her father. He’ll see you coming. And if he doesn’t, his Scryers will.”

“Thoth has his own Scryers?” said Simia incredulously.

Triste shook his head and pushed what looked like green moss into his pipe. “The ones he’s captured and turned.”

“Some of our Scryers are working for Thoth? How could they?”

Triste regarded her coolly with his weary, sunken eyes. “If you’d seen what we’ve seen,” he said, “if you’d seen the Reckoning as we saw it, you might have despaired too.” He puffed at his pipe. “For Scryers, more than any other, wars are a living hell. Too much pain. Too much loss.” He took the pipe from his mouth and inspected the bowl, prodding at the strange tobacco inside. “Anyway, the point is, now that Thoth’s Scryers know what to look for, they’ll see everything I see.”

“And what’s that, exactly?” asked Sylas, still struggling to cool his temper.

Triste winced as his pipe sent up a new pall of orange smoke. “If Naeo nears her father, or if you near your mother, you’ll stand out like a bushfire on a dark night.”

Sylas looked into the Scryer’s large, shadowy eyes, then shot an angry look at Simia. He turned and walked to the water’s edge, staring out across the lake. The mist had burned away now and the Valley of Outs was lit by the morning rays, but he hardly saw the beautiful waters or the majestic forests. He did not even see the small flotilla of boats on the lake, carrying the Suhl back to their homes. His thoughts were far away, with his mother, in another world. He knew that Simia was right – that the Say-So had been right – but that was irrelevant. For a few moments, when Paiscion had talked about going back to Mr Zhi, she had felt so close. Now she felt as far away as ever.

Simia walked up behind him. “I was just worried about you …” she said, quietly. “And I thought, in a way, if Naeo finds your mum – and you find Bowe – isn’t that almost the same thing?”

“No, it’s not,” said Sylas, walking away. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“But you see, that’s the problem,” Simia called after him. “No one knows what it’s like to be you. No one knows—”

She felt Triste’s hand on her shoulder. The Scryer leaned down to her ear. “It’s no good, not while he feels like this. Give him time.”

“But I thought I was doing the right thing,” she whispered, her eyes following Sylas. “I really did.”

“Well, you were being a friend,” said the Scryer. “And that isn’t always easy.”

She turned and looked at him. Her eyes explored his face and then, just for an instant, she looked surprised and confused, as though she had seen something unexpected. She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it and instead she wheeled about and set off alone.

The Scryer watched her go, tilting his head to one side as though trying to make sense of an impossible puzzle.

Then his brow knitted in a frown.

“How inconvenient,” he muttered.

“… there, above her beloved valley, she surveyed all the hope and despair of the world.”

SYLAS WAS UNSURE HOW long he had been walking. For some time he had trailed along the shoreline, following in the footsteps of Triste and Simia. Occasionally he saw them climbing a headland or tracing the edge of the woods, but he made no attempt to catch up. Eventually he left their path altogether, walking into the shade of the forest. He meandered between the trees in the general direction of Sylva, but he was in no rush to get there. He needed to think.

Sure, Simia’s idea made some sense: it would be the opposite of what anyone would expect and the Scryers were much less likely to see any connection – whatever that really meant. But what did all that matter, compared to finding his mother? Being with her, after all this time? Yes, Naeo might go in his place, but that wasn’t the same as finding her himself. In fact if it wasn’t him, would she really be found at all?

No, this wasn’t even a good second best. They didn’t understand.

He sighed. In truth, neither did he.

And these were the thoughts that dogged him as he ambled across the dried leaves on the forest floor and wound between the ancient trunks of the forest: his life … his mother … himself … what did those things even mean when he knew that Naeo was there, just through the forest. Another part of himself? How crazy did that sound!

He was still very far from understanding Naeo. His experience of her was sensation and emotion rather than anything real or tangible. He didn’t even feel like he’d met her, not really. He remembered the feeling of warmth and joy when he had first seen her – of comfort and completeness when he had held her hand. Then the surge of energy – raw power, even – when she had stood at his side, when they had fought their way out of the Dirgheon. But since then, when she drew too near – as she had in the Garden of Havens – there was that awful pain, beginning in his wrist and becoming unbearable. Not like a wound, but more like an ache and the oddest sense that everything inside him was shifting out of place.

And although he had felt these things, these immense forces and feelings, for some reason he had thought very little of her. It was almost as if he didn’t need to think of her, or perhaps his thoughts couldn’t quite grasp her. She was still very much a separate person, and now it was that person, not him, who was going back to the Other.

He picked up a stick and swiped it against a tree trunk. It snapped in half and the crack echoed through the forest.

“What did that tree ever do to you?” asked a voice.

Sylas whirled about, his eyes searching the forest. But he already knew who it was.

The Magruman stepped out from behind a line of bushes. His eyebrows appeared above his spectacles.

“Sorry,” said Sylas.

“Well, don’t apologise to me! You didn’t hit me!”

“Oh … no …” said Sylas. He turned back towards the tree, wondering if he was really supposed to say sorry to the trunk.

Paiscion let out a peel of laughter. “I’m only joking, Sylas!” he said, walking up and holding his hand out in greeting. “I’m sure that old giant can handle a tap on the backside!”

Sylas grinned. “Right,” he said, taking the Magruman’s hand.

Paiscion grasped his shoulder warmly with the other hand. He drew a breath and then looked about him. “Now, how did you find this place? Did someone tell you about it?”

Sylas shrugged. “No, I was just walking.”

“Ha!” cried Paiscion. “Then we shall call it good luck, because you have stumbled on the very corner of the Valley of Outs that I wanted to show you!”

“I have?” asked Sylas, glancing around in surprise. This part looked just like any other.

A mysterious smile spread across Paiscion’s face. “Step this way.”

He led Sylas down a small bank towards the lake, then turned to one side. Ahead was a tree of even greater proportions than those around it, with a vast trunk that soared to an astonishing height above their heads. But it was not just its size that caught Sylas’s eye.

He blinked and squinted. Its aged bark was deeply faulted and gnarled, such that the many ruts in its greyish brown surface coiled and twisted into countless patterns and shapes. But there, a little above head height, were some lines that appeared far from random. There were two gentle arcs, each side of a long, almost-straight furrow. The effect was simple, but unmistakable.

It was a giant feather.

“Do you like to climb trees?”

Sylas drew his eyes away from the symbol and looked up at Paiscion. He frowned. “It’s been a while,” he said, “but I suppose so … why?”

Paiscion lifted his glasses off his nose and winked. “Well, imagine what fun it is when the tree is on your side.”

“What do you mean?”

The Magruman shrugged. “Ask the tree to help you up. Someone with your gift should have no trouble at all.” Then he raised his hands and gestured for Sylas to do the same.

“Now, just ask!” said the Magruman.

Sylas looked up into the great boughs of the tree, his eyes travelling up above the feather, up beyond the mighty trunk and into the heart of the canopy. And then he asked. It was only a thought – a fleeting flurry of words – but instantly the patchwork of orange and brown swayed a little and there was a hiss and swish as though the wind were racing through the leaves.

But there was no wind.

Suddenly, in a motion that was at once natural and utterly peculiar, the drooping branches of the tree swept down to the forest floor. Their powerful joints creaked under the strain, but the lowermost limbs fell with ease, then turned, brushing up their own fallen leaves, sweeping them towards Sylas and Paiscion. They flew up in a rush of yellows and browns, dancing about them in a great muddle of colour, and instinctively Sylas raised his hands to shield his eyes.

He felt something move beneath his arms.

He threw them down, but to his surprise, he felt the woody limbs sliding up into his armpits. Before he knew what was happening, they had taken the weight off his feet.

And then the grand old tree hoisted him into the air.

“Take whichever you want,” echoed the voice of many.

Scarpia lowered her head and prowled across the passage to the nearest doorway. She snarled, dropping a little on her haunches and pressing her ears back against her head. Her sensitive nose had scented the Black and its stench was still strong in her memory. She peered into the chamber, her cat’s eye adjusting quickly to the darkness.

There, in the centre of the stone floor, was a pulsating sack of slime. Protruding from its top was a massive head, half covered with dark fur, half with pale, human skin. Its ears turned at her approach and a low, gurgling growl rumbled in its throat, but its narrow eyes remained closed. It was a mongrel, but its angular, predatory features were clearly feline.

“Made in your own image, my dear,” echoed the voices from somewhere further down the corridor. “For your own little army. You will need more than your mastery of Urgolvane in the Other. It will not be so powerful there.”

Scarpia bowed, then turned and padded down the passageway after her master, zigzagging left and right as she glanced into chamber after chamber, each containing the same half-born forms.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she said. “You are truly the master of Kimiyya.”

“Of course I am!” was the abrupt reply. Then more softly: “Take whatever you need. Take the Scryers, if you wish. Take a Ray Reaper.”

Scarpia’s head snapped around. “A … Ray Reaper? Will it go with me?”

“It will go where I tell it!”

Scarpia recoiled a little, but still seemed unsure. “I would like to take one, my Lord,” she said. “But I worry that … that it may not … obey me. After all, it was once a Priest of Souls, just like you.”

Thoth whipped around, his cloak flying up about him. “The Reapers were NEVER like me! They are infidels and ingrates and fools!” he growled in barks and screams, his frail body seeming to swell. “They DARED to plot against me? To rise against me? The one who had led them to greatness, who had given them their power?” He spat dust from dry, empty lips. “They are lucky that I let them live at all! That I allow them their simpering dance with the sun and the moon!” He wheezed and panted, then lowered his head, seeming to shrink back down to his normal size. “Take Hathor. If nothing else, you will need him at the Circle of Salsimaine.”

Scarpia bowed. “Of course, Great Lord,” she said. “And he will do as I command?”

“He will do precisely as you command,” was the quick reply, “or I will destroy what little of him is left!”

Scarpia purred and flashed a fanged smile. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Do not thank me!” barked Thoth. “Obey me!”

Scarpia bowed her head a little nearer to the flagstones. “I will not disappoint you again, my Lord,” she said. “But do you not want me to leave some of this army with you?” She swept a clawed hand back down the corridor. “For your own … security?”

A dry chuckle sounded in the back of Thoth’s wasted throat. He stepped up to the doors at the end of the corridor, seized the handles and threw them wide.

The whites of Scarpia’s eyes flared. Beyond the doors was what looked like an infinite void – a passageway without end, flanked on both sides by hundreds, perhaps thousands of the same dark little doorways: the gaping mouths of birthing chambers.

Thoth drew the gash of his mouth into a crooked smile.

“I am prepared,” he murmured.

“Just relax!” cried Paiscion. “It won’t let you fall!”

Sylas winced as the crook of the branch swept out from beneath his armpits and dropped him on to a wide bough. He teetered forward, his arms circling in the air. He hardly had time to regain his balance before that bough too was sweeping him upwards, bearing him even higher into the crown of the tree.

He glanced across and saw Paiscion standing on a broad limb, being borne ever higher into the canopy, but that he was entirely relaxed, his arms resting at his sides, watching with amusement as his companion struggled and fretted.

Sylas tried to relax as another branch swept down from above and approached him head-on. Before he knew it, a fork was straddling his chest, lifting him beneath the arms and leaving him dangling in mid-air. Already he was in motion, sailing up between branches and somehow weaving a path between the twigs and leaves. He fought the urge to resist the tree – relaxing his shoulders, dropping his arms – and for the first time looked about him. The canopy was in constant motion, bearing them upwards with the deliberate but graceful path of its limbs, swaying this way and that in such a natural manner that if anyone had seen them from a distance they would have imagined the branches caught by the wind and thought no more of it. When he glanced up he saw to his amazement that he was already nearing the top: he could see a sparkle of daylight between the leaves.

“Nearly there!” cried Paiscion at his side.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Sylas was dropped on to one final limb, which swayed to allow him to gain his balance and then drifted up towards a large bough above his head. As it came level, it slowed and then halted, allowing him to step off.

Panting and sweating, he found himself at Paiscion’s shoulder. The Magruman smiled at him and nodded over the edge of the wide bough.

“Have you ever climbed such a tree?”

Sylas peered over the edge. His head swam as he saw most of the canopy far below him. He could not see the ground at all.

He squatted down and had to resist the temptation to wrap his arms around the bough. “No,” he said, with a dry throat. “I really haven’t.”

Paiscion laughed and slid a hand under his arm, drawing him back to his feet. “The longer the drop,” he whispered in Sylas’s ear, “the greater the reward. Look at that view!”

Ignoring his wobbly knees, Sylas followed the Magruman’s gaze. The rolling roof of the forest was far below, the billowing clouds of orange, green and brown flecked with the golden sun. And there, framed by the leaves of trees and stretching almost as far as the eyes could see, was the vast span of the Valley of Outs.

“I’ve never tired of this view and never will,” said Paiscion wistfully. He drew a long breath. “It reminds me of her.”

Sylas pulled his eyes away. “Her?”

“Merimaat,” said Paiscion, as if it should be obvious, “the mother of our people. This was her retreat, her hideaway.” He nodded along the branch of the tree. “Well, to be more precise, that was her hideaway.”

Sylas turned and his eyes grew wide.

“Wow,” he whispered.

There, crowning the very pinnacle of the tree was what looked like a gigantic nest. But this nest had not been made by the peck and weave of birds, nor by the labour of men, but rather by the tree itself. Each of its uppermost branches had become part of the structure, bending and looping into the floor, walls and roof of a glorious chamber. Its outline matched the curves of the tree, such that from a distance it would look like nothing unusual. But from here, it was a thing of wonder. The branches formed regular, looping beams and curling struts, the leaves blanketing the roof to form a perfect shelter, and some of the branches seemed to have grown in generous, empty arcs, to create two huge windows and a doorway.

“Come along,” said Paiscion, stepping along the bough. “It is best seen from the inside!”

Sylas spread his arms wide and teetered along the branch behind the Magruman, trying not to let his eyes drop into the void below. Finally he stepped with relief into the strange hideaway.

He found himself standing on a soft, springy surface, a tightly woven web of twigs and leaves so dense that there was only the odd gap, through which he spied the long drop below. Around him was a beautiful, domed structure, in which there appeared to be no straight lines, no clasps or fixings. It looked to have just grown that way, weaving around the space as though it contained something precious and untouchable. And yet that space was entirely empty, except for four chairs – two facing out of each huge window – and a table at its centre, which was also bare except for a small wooden box.

“She would often sit there in the morning and watch the sun rise over the valley,” said Paiscion, pointing to one of the chairs at the nearest window. “And in the evening, she would sit and watch the sunset.” He turned to the other window. “Take a look – it’s quite special.”

Sylas walked over the pleasing carpet of leaves to the giant opening. This view was almost as striking as the other, but it was quite different. Below, the beautiful canopy of trees stretched away over to a range of lower hills, where it thinned and darkened. His eyes followed the glistening trail of the river as it snaked through this forest, following the course that he and the Windrush had taken only the day before. The further his gaze travelled, the more he felt a creeping dread and then, sure enough, he saw the dying fringes of the forest bleeding into a vast grey expanse. Parched and hungry, the Barrens sucked the light from the sky so that the entire horizon was a giant, senseless strip of drabness, showing no breaks, no features, no promise of anything beyond.

But then Sylas squinted and leaned forward, peering into the nothingness. There was something. Its sharp peak was just visible through the sickly atmosphere of dust and ash. A perfect triangle of shadow: the apex of a pyramid.

He felt a chill run down his spine. The Dirgheon.

Paiscion sat down in the chair at his side. “‘The hope of the world through one window’, she would say, ‘and its despair through the other’.” He looked grimly towards the horizon. “I hate that view. A wasteland of lives and souls … the place where Merimaat herself would finally lose her life in the Reckoning … and beyond, just there through the endless grey, Gheroth, Thoth’s city.” He glanced at Sylas. “He never used to show it such interest, you know – this city he calls his own and has turned to darkness. Until recent years, he was far more interested in other parts of his Empire. He’s only blighted Gheroth with his presence since the Reckoning, gloating on all he has won, all he has destroyed. Making sure that he finishes the job. I sometimes think he’ll be there in that hideous Dirgheon of his until the last of the Suhl draws their final breath.”

As he listened Sylas found himself back in the stinking dungeons and dank passageways of the Dirgheon, the filth and stench of the thousands of cells, the warren of corridors and staircases leading only into darkness. And he thought of the moment when he and Naeo had reached the pinnacle of the pyramid, when they had seen Bowe reaching up to wave them away while above him, that diabolical figure in crimson robes gazed out at them, peered into them with a blank and empty face …

He swallowed and drew himself back to the present. He walked around the chair and sat down.

“So, why did you bring me here?”

Paiscion glanced across at him. “It’s what she would have done,” he said, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his robe. “Merimaat said this place helped her to see more clearly.”

“See what?”

The Magruman placed the spectacles back on his nose. “To see what was important, and to remind herself that those important things –” he nodded towards the Valley of Outs – “those things we most treasure – that they come at a price. They always come at a price.” He looked back at the Barrens.

Sylas gazed out over the blanket of grey. He could sense where this conversation was going. “You’re not just talking about the valley and the Barrens, are you?” he said. “You’re talking about what was decided in the Say-So. You’re saying that my mum comes at a price too.”

The Magruman inclined his head. “Perhaps my point is rather obvious, Sylas, but it is important.” He turned back to the wastes. “On a clearer day, you know, even this view improves. When the light is just right, when the Dirgheon casts no shadow, you can see the Temple of Isia, glowing in all the grimness.”

“You mean, the place I’m supposed to go,” said Sylas irritably. “The place I have to go instead of finding my mother.”

“Quite a price to pay, you are thinking, aren’t you?” asked Paiscion.

Sylas nodded.

“Well it is a sacrifice – that is for certain – but it may not be quite as heavy a price as you may think. Did you see it on your way through the city? The temple?”

“Yes,” said Sylas trying to lose the edge in his voice. “A white tower – it was strange – sloping sides and two platforms at the top.”

“Strange, and beautiful,” said the Magruman. “It’s modelled on the Djed Pillar, an ancient symbol of stability. Only right, because Isia is perhaps the only stable thing in this world of ours. Many have dreamed of going inside, of meeting Isia. But she rarely shows herself and even then, only on the platform at the top of the temple.”

“So … who is she?” asked Sylas, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

“Well, now we’re getting to it!” said Paiscion with a smile. “No one really knows where she hails from, but she’s been around at least as long as Thoth himself. They say she’s young and beautiful in appearance – and kind, unwaveringly kind – Thoth’s nemesis, if you like. Although she never takes sides – she doesn’t involve herself in the ugliness of the world.”

Sylas frowned. “If she doesn’t get involved, how can she be so good? Why’s she so important?”

“She may not interfere, but that’s not to say that she isn’t at the centre of our lives. There’s something that has always drawn people to Isia – something deeper and more important than our daily lives, than our skirmishes and battles, even the Undoing.”

“So she’s a leader or … what, some kind of … god?”

Paiscion shrugged. “Some people believe that, yes. She certainly has unique insights into the human soul. Much has been made of her teachings, her predictions, her pronouncements. I daresay you will find many of them in the Samarok. She has extraordinary vision.”

“So she sees … like a Scryer sees?”

Paiscion shook his head. “Like a thousand Scryers who never sleep. They say she sees further than the four horizons and deeper than thought or feeling.”

“And you think she knows about the Glimmer Myth?”

“Well, you read the song in that book of yours,” said Paiscion, nodding to Sylas’s bag. “She knows about the Glimmer Myth, certainly. And about your place in it? Quite probably.”

“And you think she’ll speak to me?”

Paiscion laughed. “Sylas, you’re a boy from another world, one half of a reunited soul and the fulfilment of the Glimmer Myth. She won’t be able to resist you.”

“Twelve priests bound by duty to their king, and to each of them, three indentured Magrumen. This is all it took to bring the world to ruin.”

FILIMAYA’S EYES SPARKLED LIKE jewels of the forest.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

Naeo climbed the bank and stepped up to Filimaya’s side. Below, scores of little streams and rivulets wove their way across the forest floor, twisting and turning, rolling and leaping. At the base of the slope they joined the still waters of the lake amidst a great muddle of bubbles and spray, which sent a pleasant mist back up the bank and laced everything in a glistening dew.

“This is what we tried to recreate at the Meander Mill,” said Filimaya. “Did you hear of our Water Gardens?”

Naeo shook her head. They sounded familiar, but she had no idea why.

“Ah well,” said Filimaya, “they’re gone now, like so much else. And so this is it: our last retreat, our patch of things.”

“There are still plenty of us in the slums,” said Naeo, picking up a stick and poking at the bank. “And in the Dirgheon.”

“Yes, there are, but that’s no way to live,” said Filimaya with a sigh. “It sometimes feels as though we are clinging on to this world, doesn’t it? As if we might lose our place in it altogether.”

“Well, that’s just what he wants, isn’t it?” muttered Naeo, swiping the tip of the stick into the nearest stream.

“Yes. Indeed,” said Filimaya wistfully.

She stepped over the torrent and began making her way across the labyrinth of rivulets. After a few steps she stopped and looked back at Naeo. “But that’s part of what makes Sylas so exciting, so hopeful, isn’t it? Like the Bringers before him, he brings us a promise of a world without Thoth, without the Undoing, without all the suffering our people have endured.”

Naeo stepped out to follow. She sensed where this conversation was heading. “I suppose, but that still doesn’t make me want to go to his world.”

“Really? You’re not the least bit curious? A world without Thoth, where you’re entirely free? Like everyone else?”

Naeo shrugged.

“A place without Essenfayle or the Three Ways, where summer is winter and night is day? Where people drive carriages without horses and light torches without flames; where they fly—”

“No! I’m not interested!” snapped Naeo, drawing up sharply. “I don’t care about any of that! My father is still here! And – and worse than that – he’s in the Dirgheon, probably half dead or … or worse.” She paused, her heart thumping and her eyes burning. “And it’s my fault!”

It was a huge relief to say it. She had thought about little else since her escape.

It was her fault. Her fault.

The memories came in flashes: stark and clear. There he was, chained to a stone table, covered in sweat and blood, arching with pain whenever his tormentor drew near, screaming until his voice trailed away. She remembered the few quiet moments, those precious moments of reprieve when Thoth would write, or take up his cello, or even leave the room, when her father would turn to her with those large green eyes.

How she loved those eyes.

And in that generous gaze she had felt him saying it would all be all right, felt his strength, his warmth. But she had seen the tears trickling on to the stone. And she had known their meaning. She had seen the despair in those tears.

And what had she done? She had left him behind, she had taken flight, rising on the magical winds above the pyramid. She had seen him there, on the pinnacle. Her beautiful, strong father, raising his bloodied hand to wave them away. And above him, that murderous figure in crimson robes, that empty, merciless face.

Then she had turned in the night sky, and fled.

She pressed her eyes closed and tried to hold that final moment in her mind. When it became too much, a sob escaped her lips.

An arm curled around her shoulders and drew her close. She pushed away at first: she didn’t want to give in to it – she had to be strong. And she didn’t deserve comfort – where was her father’s comfort? But there was something about Filimaya’s presence that caught her off guard, that made her feel safe. It was almost as though, in some small way, Filimaya brought her father closer.

So she didn’t fight any more.

They stood for some time surrounded by the streams, neither of them speaking: Filimaya holding her, Naeo with her arms at her sides.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” said Filimaya, finally.

Naeo shook her head. “Thoth wouldn’t even care about my father if it wasn’t for me. I should be trying to find him.” She pulled away and looked up at Filimaya. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, not to anyone else. I mean, Espasian and I brought Sylas here so that we could change things, so that he and I might do something important. But the thing is –” her voice broke but she forced herself to finish – “the thing is, whenever I pictured a better world, a world after the Undoing – a world without Thoth – I always pictured seeing it with my dad. I think I did some of this – all of it, maybe – for him. To be with him – safe and free.”

Filimaya drew some strands of blonde hair from Naeo’s face. “I do understand,” she said. “We often say that we would move mountains for those we love. In your case, you have the chance to do exactly that: you have the chance to change the world.” She held out her hand to lead Naeo across the next stream. “Tell me, what do you know about Sylas and his mother?”

Naeo shrugged. “I know she’s in hospital – a place run by the Merisi. And I know that she has something to do with this world.”

“That’s all true,” said Filimaya, stepping on a stone in the middle of a stream. “But you are talking about Sylas’s mother. My question is, what do you know of her and Sylas?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you know that Sylas thought her dead for many years, just as your father thought he had lost you?”

Naeo shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Did you know that she suffered the most appalling dreams and nightmares, so that people thought she was mad? That Sylas had to watch her suffering, and that finally he saw her drugged and taken away?”

Naeo winced and slowed her step. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Did you know that the last time I saw your anguish, the last time I saw that kind of devotion, was when Sylas told me about his mother? When he told me that the only thing that mattered to him was finding her?”

Naeo shifted uncomfortably. “No, I didn’t,” she said. “What are you trying to say?”

Filimaya turned and looked earnestly into her eyes. “I’m trying to say that his love for his mother is your love for your father, that his search is your search, that your lives are the same life.” She took both of Naeo’s hands in hers. “I’m saying, Naeo, that if you find Sylas’s mother, he will find her; and if Sylas—”

“… if Sylas finds my father, I’ll find him too,” said Naeo, shaking her head. “But how? I’ll be in the Other and my father will be here!”

Filimaya placed a hand on Naeo’s cheek and smiled sympathetically. “I don’t quite know, Naeo. These are the things the Glimmer Myth doesn’t tell us.” She paused, considering her words. “What I do know is that you are both one wonderful whole. Your lives are entwined, and if it is not safe for you to go to your father – as it is not – then Sylas may go in your place.”

Naeo looked deep into her eyes. She wanted to argue, to say that she owed it to her father whatever the risks, and that no one, not even Sylas, could take her place in this. But as she opened her mouth to speak the words failed her. Any way she tried to say it, it just sounded hollow and selfish.

Just then she saw a movement ahead. She peered beyond Filimaya and saw Ash’s lithe figure sprawled on the grassy bank on the far side of the waterways. He grinned at her and waved.

“Do you know,” he shouted, getting to his feet, “it’s taken you two longer to cross this dribble than it took Moses to part the seas!”

Filimaya laughed. “Well, we had the saving of worlds to talk about.” She set out over the last of the streams, drawing Naeo alongside her.

“Funny you should say that,” said Ash, rummaging uneasily in his crop of curls, “because I have something I want to talk to you about. Both of you.”

Filimaya narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

Ash beamed. “Really. I just wondered if you had decided who’s going to go with Naeo? Into the Other, I mean?”

“I don’t need anyone to come with me,” said Naeo sharply. “I’ll be fine alone.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you both,” said Filimaya, “because—”

“Uh-uh! I’m going. And that’s final!” cried Ash, wagging his finger in protest. “Naeo, where you’re going, you’ll need someone with … resources, someone who knows their way aroun—”

“But you don’t know your way around, Ash,” said Naeo. “You’ve never even been to the Other, have you?”

“Well, no,” said Ash, grinning and crossing his arms, “but where my kind of cunning is concerned, one world is quite the same as another. And anyway, Filimaya, haven’t I shown myself a worthy travelling companion? Didn’t I get Sylas safely across the Barrens? And I know him – and Naeo – better than anyone else here. Yes,” he said, with a finality that suggested the decision was his own, “if anyone’s going to go to the Other, it has to be me!”

Filimaya sighed and looked down at Naeo, who shook her head imploringly.

Ash leaned between them. “If you coop me up here, Filimaya, I’ll make an unbearable nuisance of myself. I’m already planning to set up a pub on the Windrush. ‘Two Sheets to the Wind’ I’ll call it. And that’s just—”

Filimaya raised her hands in surrender. “OK, OK, Ash,” she said. “I’ll talk to Paiscion. Not because of your bluster or because I owe it to you, but because,” she turned and looked at Naeo earnestly, “you really do need some help, and Ash has proven himself a very useful companion to Sylas.”

Naeo groaned, then glared at Ash. “Well, he’d better not get in my way! I’m used to being on my own!”

“Yes, we can all tell that,” said Ash out of the side of his mouth.

“Really?” she said, defiantly.

“Yes, really.”

Filimaya gazed out over the tranquil waterways and sighed. “What have I done?”

“So you see,” said Paiscion, leaning forward and gesturing out of the window, “your journeys are not separate. As you seek Bowe, you must know that Naeo will be in search of your mother – your efforts are her efforts – your travels are entwined.”

The Magruman stood, leaving Sylas staring over the forest to the dark horizon, trying to make sense of his emotions.

“But there is one thing that will set your journeys apart,” said Paiscion, returning to his seat.

“You mean, other than that we’ll be in different worlds?”

“Well, yes, there’s that,” said the Magruman with a shrug. “But there’s also this.” He held out the wooden box that Sylas had seen on the table. “Take it. It’s a gift.”

Sylas glanced up at the Magruman, then reached out and took it. “Thank you,” he said. “What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Sylas turned the box between his fingers. It was made of driftwood so worn by its watery travels that all of its surfaces were perfectly smooth and its corners rounded, making it pleasant to the touch. The lid had been beautifully crafted so that at first Sylas could not see the join, but after a few attempts, he managed to position his thumb in the right place and prise it up. It came away with a slight hiss of air and revealed a cushion covered with rumpled green satin.

There, in the centre of the fabric, was a single white feather.

“Do you recognise it?” asked Paiscion, peering keenly through his thick glasses.

Sylas laughed in surprise and delight. “Is it … is it the feather from the Windrush? The one we made dance when you were teaching me Essenfayle?”

The Magruman smiled warmly. “It is,” he said. “But it’s not quite the same as it was. Go on, pick it up!”

Sylas reached into the box and took the feather between two fingers. As he lifted it, he saw a small glass pot of thick black fluid, sealed with a cork stopper. He took a closer look at the shaft of the feather and saw that it had been shortened and cut, so that it looked like the nib of a pen.

He raised his eyes to Paiscion. “You’ve made it into a quill!”

“You have a story to tell and you need the right tools to tell it!” said Paiscion. “I assume you still have the Samarok?”

Sylas nodded and then his eyes widened. “I should write in it?”

Paiscion looked astonished. “Of course you should write in it, Sylas, you are the last of the Bringers! It is you who must write the final chapter of their chronicles.”

“But what would I write?”

“What is to come. You have read the beginning, now you must write the end.” The Magruman frowned. “Oh my, that sounds rather like the inscription on your bracelet, doesn’t it? How strange … it must be on my mind.”

The smile faded from Sylas’s face and his eyes dropped to his wrist. In the short time since the Say-So he had almost forgotten about the inscription. In fact, the gathering had never even discussed it in their excitement about the song in the Samarok.

In blood it began, in blood it must end.

“What do you think it means?” asked Sylas. “‘In blood it must end?’”

Paiscion shook his head solemnly. “I can’t be sure, Sylas, but the song speaks of a war still to come. Wars are never waged without the loss of blood.”

Sylas frowned at the band, trying to see the inscription, only to find that it had vanished. “But why pick those lines in particular?” he asked. “I mean why are they so—”

He was interrupted by the sharp snap of a twig somewhere below the window.

Paiscion launched himself out of his seat and pulled Sylas back into the hideaway, then he whirled about and stood in front of the window. They heard another sharp crack, then a hiss like someone cursing under their breath, and finally a hand appeared on the bottom edge of the window. To the sound of another loud curse a mop of red hair rose into view, followed by a small, weather-worn face.

“Simsi!” cried Sylas, rushing past Paiscion to offer her his hand. “What are you doing?”

Simia glared up at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m here …” she paused to brush twigs and leaves from her hair, “I’m here to say don’t you dare hatch any plans to go without me!”

Sylas gaped at her for a moment and then he laughed out loud. He walked to the window and reached down to haul her up. “Simsi, you got me into this! Do you really think I’m going anywhere without dragging you with me?”

Simia’s pouting lips grew into a wide grin.

“… like the exodus of ancient times, she led them thence, to those fateful plains of Salsimaine.”

THE ANCIENT DOORS OF the Dirgheon thundered as the vast bolts were drawn back, growling their complaint at the city. As they inched open, putrid air gushed through the crack, pooling down the wide steps. The creaks and groans sounded out like a fanfare as the opening grew wide.

And then they came.

First the sounds, not close but somewhere in the depths, out of sight: the quiet chink, chink, chink of chains; the padding of soft feet; the scraping of claws against stone. And then the panting of giant lungs, the hiss of air between teeth, the deep guttural rasps of canine tongues.

Suddenly there was movement in the shadows and they prowled out into the half-light, their gargantuan heads lolling from side to side as they drooled from muzzled jaws, their keen yellow eyes searching the streets below. Chains trailed from wrought-iron collars fastened around their massive, muscular necks. Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty Ghorhund passed in three rows, all straining against their bonds as they paced silently between the gigantic doors. And behind came their handlers: brooding, deadly, marching across the stone in perfect unison, making no sound. At times the Ghor appeared human, but they were too large, too powerful, and they moved with a chilling, predatory ease that betrayed their canine blood.

They were not alone, for they shared their formation with their slighter, sleeker cousins: half-breeds of a new and curious kind – sometimes upright, sometimes thrown forward, loping on lithe limbs, their watchful eyes drinking in the darkness, seeing all. Some purred with satisfaction as they saw the city spread out below, while others hissed and prickled at their hound-like companions, baring their claws when they drew too close. And each of these creations grasped the chains of a single Ghorhund, occasionally giving them a vicious yank to keep their charges in check.

This was no ordinary outing, no swift assault upon the slums. It was a quiet, well-planned exodus.

Then there were new sounds: the grating of metal wheels against stone, the clatter of harnesses, the snap of reins and soon a dazzling medley of red and gold passed between the giant doors: a beautiful chariot constructed of ornamental armour, riding on massive, heavy wheels of solid oak. And there, standing resplendent at the reins, was Scarpia, her hood thrown back to reveal her strange, disfigured beauty and her teeth flashing white as she snarled at her newborn horde.

But although she was clearly in command, she was not alone. She seemed to be leaning away from something strange and unearthly at her side, something transparent and ghost-like. The structure of the chariot behind it was still clearly visible and yet it seemed to draw the light, creating an amorphous blur, like a trick of the eye. But what made its presence certain, its being beyond doubt, was its shape. It had all the proportions of a man, standing tall and still at Scarpia’s side.

Then, just for a moment, the light of the moon played across it, tracing its edges in silver. And in that moment the dancing light picked out a face wrapped in rotten rags. The face was flat, revealing no sign of a nose, and its eyes were but empty voids, staring blackly over the city. The wide gash of a mouth lolled open, swinging loose between threadbare bandages.

A Ray Reaper.

Scarpia turned and eyed it with something between fear and distaste, and when it turned towards her she quickly averted her gaze.

Behind came a humbler crowd: men carrying boxes and bags, sleeping rolls and tents, and with them, the lesser beasts – pack-horses and mules, livestock to eat.

As Scarpia’s chariot reached the brink of the steps, she paused. She gazed out over the city – across the huddling pyramids of rooftops, over the cowering slums, through the gathering palls of smoke. She peered beyond, out into the wasteland, into the expanses of the Barrens, to where she knew it lay.

The Circle of Salsimaine: gateway to another world.

She threw her head back and let out a half-human cry that became a wail. As her legion surged ahead, she flicked her tail and the chariot leapt forward, clattering down the steps and careering into the streets below.

It was not so much a chorus as a symphony. Birds of every kind sang to the top of their lungs, each adding a joyous strain to the cacophony of chirps, tweets, squawks and trills. The sound moved in waves across the lake, ebbing and flowing, as though the two sides were vying with one another to raise the more glorious song.

Paiscion closed his eyes and listened, letting it wash over him. To his ears, it was the most beautiful music of all: Nature’s music – the song of life and light. How long it had been since he had heard it, and how it now restored his spirits. He took deep draughts of it, letting it fill him to the core.

So lost was he in the dawn chorus that he did not notice Filimaya coming to sit down on the fallen tree, at his side. She was there for some moments, just enjoying being there with him, until finally she placed a hand on his. He knew her touch at once. He simply turned his hand over and slid his fingers between hers. They sat like that for a while longer, knowing that they may not have many more moments like this. That things were changing. That the Glimmer Myth was finally coming to pass.

That here, in this place, they would make their final stand.

Filimaya gazed at the Windrush, moored against the bank just a few paces away. She looked at its shattered decks, broken hull and shredded rigging and suddenly felt an overwhelming affection. This poor, benighted hulk wore all the scars of her people – all their pain and indignity, their wounds and losses. The Windrush had seen the worst of their horrors, been there on the darkest of days. And despite all her strength and craft and valour, the ship showed it. The woes of the Suhl were etched into her timbers and written on her sails.

“What will you do with her now?” asked Filimaya, breaking their silence.

Paiscion drew a long breath. “I shall make her all she can be.”

She smiled. “Prepare her well, my love. She will be our Ark.”

Suddenly she drew her hair from over her shoulder and ran it through her fingers until she came to the purple braid woven tightly into the silver strands. She began picking at it, unravelling the coloured threads.

Paiscion looked across and frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you something.”

He shook his head. “No, they’re yours to—”

“They mustn’t be hidden away any longer, they should be flown high for all to see.” She pulled them carefully out of her hair. “They will be the first threads of a brave new flag – a flag for our people, for what is to come.”

Paiscion gave her a tender smile. “What do you have in mind?”

Filimaya pointed to the broken ship. “The standard of the Windrush!”

Even as Sylas and Simia stepped out from their tree house, the forest felt different. There was a hush, an expectation, a sense that they were being watched. And of course, they were. Hundreds of eyes peered between branches and through leaves, trying to catch their first glimpse of the travellers. Children sat fearlessly on the boughs, their feet dangling as they pointed and whispered. Many of them looked on enviously, wishing perhaps that they too were allowed to join the adventure, to travel to the great city of Gheroth – perhaps even to meet Isia herself. Most of the adults were quieter and more thoughtful, gazing down with worried expressions at these two tiny children upon whom rested so much.

Triste was leaning up against a tree puffing on his pipe, just as he was the day before, but today he was wearing a heavy coat and as they approached he hoisted a large pack on to his shoulder. He nodded impassively as they approached.

“Are you … coming with us?” asked Simia, completely failing to hide her disappointment.

Triste regarded her through tired, sunken eyes. “I am. Didn’t Paiscion tell you?”

“No,” she said, bluntly. “He just said someone would be coming along.”

Triste shrugged. “Well, it’s me. They thought you might need a Scryer.”

“Sure,” she said, walking past him and on, into the forest.

Sylas watched her go, shaking his head, then turned and grinned. “She’ll warm up. She was like that with me at first.”

“It’s OK,” said Triste, setting off after her. “I see more than you think.”

Sylas frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He sighed, adjusted his own pack on his shoulder and walked after them.

The further they walked, the more faces they saw peering down at them from the canopy, and they began to realise that the entire community had turned out to see them go. Simia threw back her shoulders, drew her huge coat about her and walked as tall as she could, enjoying her place in the lead. Sylas nodded politely to the many children who waved and adults who bowed as they passed. He was struck again by the warmth of these people: the kindness and generosity in their faces, the open innocence of their features. And yet he also saw in them something darker: the sadness and resignation of a people who knew that, for better or worse, their time was drawing near.

He was so busy looking about him that he almost stumbled into Filimaya and Paiscion as they stepped from the trees.

“Morning!” cried Paiscion. “And what an exciting morning it is!”

Filimaya slid an arm around Sylas and Simia. “How are you feeling?”

“Ready,” said Simia boldly.

“And you need to be,” said Paiscion. “Have you said goodbye to Ash and Naeo?”

“Haven’t seen them yet,” said Sylas. Then he paused, lowering his eyes. “But they’re coming.”

He had begun to feel the familiar pang of pain in his wrist, the sickness in his belly, the sense that something was amiss. And sure enough they all soon saw Ash’s full head of blond locks winding between the trees and beside him Naeo’s tall, slim figure, walking with all her usual grace. Both of them were wearing heavy coats and carrying bags over their shoulders.

As they drew closer Naeo slowed and stayed back. Sylas too stepped away and walked to the far side of the group.

“I guess this is goodbye!” cried Ash, striding up to the gathering.

“You remember everything I told you,” said Filimaya, embracing him, “about the Other, and about those tricks of yours. The Three Ways are strictly off limits there. They could get you into—”

“I’ve already forgotten,” said Ash, breaking into a playful grin. He squeezed her hand, then turned to Sylas and Simia. “OK, you two, see you afterwards. I trust you’re going to make as much mischief here as we’re going to make there!” He winked playfully and leaned closer. “But just look after yourselves,” he whispered, glancing at Triste. “I won’t be there, and these Scryers are no match for a Muddlemorph and sorcerer like myself.”

Simia grinned. “You be careful too. And don’t eat their food.” She screwed up her nose. “Like I said to Sylas, it can’t be … natural.”

Ash laughed and patted his stomach. “My diet starts here!”

As everyone said their final goodbyes, Filimaya walked over to Naeo, who was still standing at a safe distance. Before she even drew close, Naeo raised her hand.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just want to go, if that’s what I have to do.”

Filimaya opened her arms and drew her close. “Well, I know you don’t need this, but I do.”

Naeo looked puzzled and awkward, but she returned the embrace.

“Take care of yourself,” said Filimaya, stepping back. “And remember what I told you. Try not to worry about your father. I know that Sylas will do all you would do.”

Naeo looked unconvinced. “I hope so,” she said.

Paiscion wandered over and took both her hands in his.

“Now remember what I said about the Circle of Salsimaine. Get there as quickly as you can – don’t give Thoth any more time than you have to. And when you’re through, remember to look for—”

“You think I’ll just … know what to do?” said Naeo.

“At the Circle?”

She nodded dubiously.

“You’ll know,” he said dismissively. “You summoned the Passing Bell! The Circle of Salsimaine will be no challenge at all. When you’re through, remember to look for our friends – if you don’t find them, they’ll find you. And whatever happens on the other side, remember this: we are in a race against a dying moon. Keep to our plan and do not delay. Is that understood?”

He lifted his glasses and eyed her closely until she nodded.

“Then you’re ready. Filimaya, perhaps you could guide Naeo and Ash out of the valley?”

Filimaya nodded and turned to leave, but Naeo stood rooted to the spot. She was looking across the clearing, searching for Sylas. The impulse confused her. It did not come from a thought, nor a feeling: it was a need – a powerful, consuming need.

Sylas was already looking at her.

It was a peculiar moment, a moment when as individuals they were unsure what to do, but something beyond them, something between them, left no doubt at all.

They each turned and walked towards the other.

Everyone fell silent, transfixed by what they saw. Paiscion opened his mouth to call them away, but stopped himself. The people in the trees craned their necks and leaned over branches to get a better view. Children ceased their chatter and adults held their breath. They, like Paiscion, could see that this was not like the Say-So. There was something different in their manner, in the way they held each other’s gaze. They were single-minded, confident, fearless.

As they drew close they slowed, extending their hand to the other.

Their fingers touched, their palms met and they held on.

The instant they came together the bands of silver and gold around their wrists morphed, losing lustre and form. The edges became blurred as though they were no longer solid but shifting vapour. Then, sure enough, the band around Naeo’s wrist issued a wisp of silver, curling up into the air like a trail of smoke, and in that moment Sylas’s did the same, sending forth a twisting tendril of gold. It was as if the two parts of the Merisi Band were reaching out, trying to become one.

The forest fell absolutely silent. Not a normal quiet – the kind of quiet that consumed the forest at night, this silence was complete: birds ceased their singing; animals stopped their foraging; the breeze fell away. Nothing shifted or called or breathed.

And while the world fell still, in Sylas and Naeo, there was a storm. A violent, ravaging storm like before, when they had met in the Dirgheon. They felt sick to their stomachs and winced from the pain in their wrists, but at the same time something else grew within them, something greater than their physical selves, something that caught them up and consumed them.

It was the knowledge that each was the other. It was a pact – a certainty that one would do for the other whatever they wished for themselves.

But it was also something else.

It was the joy of being whole.

“The great Leo Tsu warned us that the way is shadowy and indistinct, that it is dim and dark. But within, he said, is the essence.”

THIS WAS A NEW kind of forest. It was lower, thicker and darker than the majestic woods in the Valley of Outs and it pressed in on all sides, smothering sound and clawing at clothes. Naeo and Ash pushed on through the dense undergrowth, panting from the exertion. To make matters worse, their route took them across a range of hills: it was only midday and already, this was the fifth they had climbed.

“I’m not saying that Essenfayle isn’t the best of the bunch,” said Ash, pausing for breath and pulling a stray leaf out of his hair, “I’m just saying that the Three Ways have their place too. And together, you have to admit that the Three Ways are more than a match for Essenfayle. The Reckoning proved that.”

Naeo turned to him. “And I’m just saying that you’re very sure of yourself.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I’m sure of myself too. And you’re wrong.”

“Ouch,” said Ash with a grin. “Feisty one, aren’t you?”

Naeo shrugged and carried on climbing.

“I’ve been wondering,” persisted Ash, setting out after her, “how come you’re so pushy? I mean, Sylas is confident in his own way, but—”

Naeo wheeled about. “Did you ask to come because you were short of someone to talk to?”

Ash looked at her blankly and shook his head.

“So stop talking,” snapped Naeo. With that she turned and continued her climb.

Ash pulled a face. “This is going to be such fun,” he murmured.

They climbed for what seemed an age: clambering over tree roots and boulders; squeezing through bush and thicket, scrambling up banks thick with leaves. The forest hummed and squabbled and squawked around them, the air humid and close. This was the highest hill so far, but with ravines and steep slopes on either side, they had no choice but to carry on, no matter how hard the going. At one point they stopped and ate some lunch, but Ash again found his attempts at conversation futile. Naeo ate quickly, then gazed off into the forest, weaving the bootlace between her fingers, crafting her cat’s cradle until he was ready.

As they resumed their climb, Naeo felt a familiar ache inching upwards from her lower back, following the contours of the black scar. The pain was never far away, but it had become more persistent in the past days, and had only worsened with the effort of the climb and the constant rubbing of her pack. She adjusted it so that it hung from her front, but even then, the pat, pat, pat of her loose hair grew unbearable and she soon had to ask Ash to stop. She foraged around in the undergrowth and found two suitable twigs, then coiled her hair behind her head and slid them through it to hold it fast.

“Lovely,” said Ash, sarcastically. “Are we expecting company? Making a public appearance perhaps?” He made a show of looking around.

Naeo gave him a steady look. “Just a sore back,” she said, setting out again.

“Well, of course,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “The wrong hairdo can be a devil for your back.”

It was well into the afternoon before the ground finally started to level off and they allowed themselves to believe that they were nearing the top. They noticed the forest begin to lighten and then, to their relief, they saw a break in the branches and twigs and the grey glow of the open sky. Within moments they were dragging their weary limbs into a clearing and hauling their packs gratefully from their shoulders.

They looked out on a dismal view. Gone was the winter sun and the bronzes and reds of a forest clinging to autumn. In their place they saw a brooding, melancholy scene: a blank wall of grey sky descending to a granite horizon; the rolling, featureless terrain of minor foothills sprawling out on to an empty dust-swept plain as far as the eye could see.

“Ah, the Barrens,” said Ash with a dramatic sigh. “A tonic for the soul!”

Naeo did not smile. The deathly landscape brought back distant memories that were all too real. She remembered the last, terrifying days of war; she saw the surge of armies and the heavens burning with fire; she felt the thunderclap of explosions and the raking sting of howling winds. But most of all she remembered the voices: the screams, the sobs, the last murmurings of despair.

Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

If Ash noticed, he did not show it. He was looking up, trying to make out the position of the sun through the cloud. Finally he shook his head. “We’re going slower than we expected,” he said. “We’ll have to get a move on if we’re to get to the Circle of Salsimaine on time.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Well, we’ll have to pick our feet up, I suppose.”

Naeo crossed her arms and gazed out over the lowland hills, tracing the folds and undulations, valleys and dells. Ash was right, it was their first morning and already they were falling behind.

She rocked thoughtfully for some moments and then she frowned, her eyes exploring the terrain.

“I think we can do better than that,” she said.

Ash raised his eyebrows. “How? Don’t tell me you want to fly. I’m not flying again in a hurry.”

“No need,” said Naeo, walking off down the slope. “We have Essenfayle.”

“Well, yes, we do, but how does that—”

“Stop talking,” said Naeo. “You’ll put me off.”

She drew up short of the fringe of trees where a small stream was bubbling off between the trunks, laid her pack on the floor and rolled up her sleeves.

Ash approached from behind. “What are you doing? Not a Groundrush?” he exclaimed. “It’s not worth it! It’ll only get us to the bottom of the hill.”

“Not just to the bottom of this hill,” said Naeo, confidently. “It’ll get us on to the Barrens.”

Ash chuckled and crossed his arms. “And how exactly will it do that?”

“Remember what you said about Essenfayle?”

Ash shrugged.

“And remember I said you were wrong?”

He nodded slowly.

She raised her arms. “Well this is why.”

In a way, it was beautiful: a sinuous snake of silver winding along the valley floor, bordered on both sides by frosted branches and leaves, which drooped into the water as if to taste the muddy gruel. Its wide arcs cut through the very heart of the forest, carrying the three travellers through its wildest and most secret parts, where animals shrieked, insects scuttled and birds twittered, filling the canopy with a pleasant echo.

But Sylas was thoroughly ill at ease.

It wasn’t just that his back and shoulders were aching or that the canoe felt flimsy and unstable. It was also that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. After a morning of frustrating meanders from bank to bank, he had finally mastered the steering, but even after lunch he was still much slower than the others. He only occasionally saw a flash of Simia’s red hair as she disappeared around another bend and he was certain that he was irritating Triste, who had insisted on guarding the rear and so was always just over his shoulder.

“Use slow, steady strokes,” Triste had suggested. “Hold the paddle lower, around the neck. Dip the blade deeper into the water.”

That had helped, but Simia continued to forge ahead. And then he had an idea. He thought back to the attack on the Meander Mill and their flight in a flotilla of boats, when Filimaya called upon the river to form a mighty wave to carry them all to safety. Why couldn’t he do that? He closed his eyes and extended one hand behind the boat as she had, sending his thoughts down into the waters. He felt their chill creeping into his chest, their dark enclosing his mind, their swell flooding through his stomach. And then he called them up from the deep, up through the swirling currents until they surged behind his boat, rising in a small, perfectly formed wave. He felt a rush of excitement as the canoe lurched forward, borne on by the river itself. And then, even as he grinned in celebration it all went wrong. The sharp bow plunged deep into the waters. The boat came to a sudden halt while the wave continued, lifting the stern and throwing it around in a graceless pirouette. It left Sylas drenched, clinging to the sides and facing completely the wrong way. Facing a very unimpressed Scryer.

“Just use … the … paddle!” said Triste impatiently. “That’s what it’s for.”

“I just thought that Essenfayle might—”

“Your gift isn’t a replacement for a perfectly good paddle.” The Scryer fixed Sylas with an intent stare. “What you have, Sylas – your feel for Essenfayle – is a sacred thing: a thing not to be trifled with.”

“I didn’t think it would do any harm,” Sylas grunted in embarrassment.

“It would if a Scryer’s out looking for you. Don’t forget, we see connections, and those as strong as you are able to create can be seen miles away. Keep your tricks to yourself until you really need them, understand?”

Sylas nodded. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Good then,” said the Scryer, squinting downriver. “In the meantime, you’ll just have to put your back into it. At this rate your friend will be knocking at Isia’s door before dinner.”

Sylas dug his paddle in and turned himself around. Simia was so far ahead he could barely make her out and even as he watched, she disappeared around a bend.

He cupped his hands and shouted: “Simsi! Slow down!”

When Simia showed no sign of stopping they both plunged their paddles deep into the river and set off after her at a feverish pace.

“She’s mad to leave us so far behind,” grumbled Triste. “Mad!”

In truth, relations between Simia and Triste had only become more strained since they had left the valley. At lunch she had continued to talk to him as though he was more hindrance than help and now, even though he had implored her to stay close for her own safety, she seemed wilfully to be extending her lead.

“She’s like this,” said Sylas, panting as he struggled to pick up speed. “Feisty. Always doing things her own way. She has … you know –” he grinned – “sharp edges. But it’s never boring.”

“Well, I’m not against feisty, but I am against stupid,” said Triste archly. “She has no idea what’s around that bend. I can’t Scry so far ahead and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to warn her. She could paddle straight into a shoal of Slithen – or worse.”

Sylas thought back to the hideous reptilian creatures that had chased them from the Meander Mill. “Worse than Slithen?”

Triste looked surprised. “Much worse.”

Sylas glanced into the murk of the river and wished he hadn’t asked.

“I guess she’s just tired of waiting for me,” he said, pulling his eyes away.

“No,” said the Scryer. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“You? Why?”

“Because she doesn’t want to be near me.”

Sylas laughed. “I think that’s a bit—”

“I remind her of her father,” said Triste, stopping his paddling.

“Her father? What makes you say that?” asked Sylas.

“I see it,” said Triste, tapping his tattooed skull. “Whether I want to or not.”

Sylas searched his face. “Is that what you meant this morning … ‘I see more than you think’?”

Triste nodded. “Just bad luck, I suppose. Especially since she was so close to him.”

“She was. Very close,” said Sylas. He gazed ahead. “That’s his coat that she wears all the time.”

Suddenly he felt unforgivably selfish: he had almost forgotten about her father. Over the past few days he had spoken endlessly about finding his mum and Simia had just been doing her best to help – it couldn’t have been easy for her. Was that why she had said nothing to him about Triste? Because he was too wrapped up in his own problems? His own mother? At least his mum was still alive.

Poor Simsi.

As though sensing Sylas’s darkening mood, the bright winter sun faded above their heads, not because it was late but because a blanket of grey cloud had rolled in, obscuring it from view. The forest too seemed drained of its colour, losing it to the thirsty grey skies. Its bare canopy no longer rang with the sounds of its residents, but had fallen silent and still – a stillness that they knew.

The Barrens were drawing near.

“High upon the headland stood a tiny girl, turning Neptune’s own tempest to her will.”

AS SYLAS’S PADDLING FINALLY grew more confident, Triste no longer insisted on following him and drew alongside. When he thought he might not be noticed, Sylas could not resist the occasional glance over at the Scryer – and most of all at the strange tattoos around his scalp. He was drawn to the two mutilated eyes – the ones where the skin seemed to have been burned or twisted until they had lost their shape, almost as though they had been closed behind mangled lids.

“If you’re so interested, you should ask,” grunted Triste without turning.

Sylas dropped his gaze, horrified that he had been seen. But then, of course he had been seen.

“I was just wondering what happened to your tattoos,” he said. “The eyes … the ones that look … burned?”

Triste let out a long sigh. “I tried to close my Scrying eyes. It was the first time I ever used Kimiyya. It’ll be the last, I can assure you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” said the Scryer with a bitter laugh. “I became tired of seeing as a Scryer sees. Like I told Simia, wars are no place for Scryers. Normal people see all the violence and the death and the suffering, which is awful enough. We see great tides of anguish and oceans of hate. We see despair and loss surging like great waves over the battlefield.” He looked at Sylas with his dark, tired eyes. “You see the broken bodies; we see the breaking of hearts again and again and again until the entire world seems full of sadness and pain and grief, until there is nowhere to hide, no hope of sleep. Until all we can dream about is being able to close our eyes.”

Sylas had stopped paddling several strokes back, and now just gazed at Triste as he rowed on. He hadn’t really thought about what had been said by the lake – he had been too consumed by his own emotions – but now he understood. What a torture it must have been to be a Scryer during the Reckoning. He thought back to Bowe at the Meander Mill, struggling with the gathered emotion even of a Say-So … what must it have been like when people were gathered to kill and be killed. He shuddered. How insensitive his question seemed now.

He dug in with his paddle and set out after Triste, but he could not quite bring himself to draw alongside. He felt too ashamed.

They travelled on in silence, passing deeper into the dreary landscape, and only spoke again when they finally caught up with Simia. As they rounded a bend, they saw that she had pulled into the outside bank, her red hair sharp against the drabness of the forest. Sylas noticed how quickly he was gliding between the trees and saw that the entire river was surging forward, swirling and churning as it veered around the bend.

And then they heard the unmistakable roar and thunder of rapids. The air became cool and moist and carried traces of spray, as though to warn them of what lay ahead. When they drew near to Simia, they found themselves having to back-paddle to control their speed.

The river divided, turning slowly away to the right while the left bank fell away down a slope, spilling the winter flood in a deluge of frothing, bubbling water over the rough ground beyond. They could not see all the way down, but even in the topmost stretch there were giant standing waves, deep, churning whirlpools and great eruptions of angry foam.

“This should be a bit more interesting!” grinned Simia over the roar.

“We won’t be taking the rapids,” said Triste firmly. “We’ll follow the meander – the two stretches join up again later.”

Simia’s face fell. “We took the meander on the Windrush – it took ages!”

“The canoes are fast enough. And anyhow, we’re going downstream now.”

“But the rapids will be so much quicker!”

“And much more dangerous,” said Triste, his tone final. “The stakes are too high to take that kind of risk.”

“Well, I’m going down the rapids,” announced Simia, launching herself out from under the trees. She plunged her paddle into the water and wheeled the canoe around. “Sylas, are you coming?”

Sylas dropped his head between his shoulders. “Simia,” he sighed. “Triste’s right, and anyway I’m not as good in a canoe as you are.”

“You’ll be fine. It can’t be very long.” She looked from one to the other. “Look, if you won’t come I’ll go on my own and meet you later.”

“Simsi, it just doesn’t make—”

“Oh, come on, Sylas,” cajoled Simia, pushing back into the main current. “Think of everything we’ve done together! This is nothing!”

Later, Sylas would struggle to understand why he gave in. Perhaps it was because he was still feeling a little guilty about her father, or because he didn’t want her to think him a coward, or because he was genuinely worried that she would attempt the rapids alone. Whatever the case, it went against all his better judgement.

He shrugged and said: “OK.”

Triste whirled about in disbelief. He grabbed Sylas’s boat. “Don’t, Sylas! It’s insane!”

“It’ll be OK,” said Sylas with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll take it one stage at a time. Anyway, you heard her, if we don’t go she’ll try it alone.”

“Let her!” shouted the Scryer. “You’re too important to risk this kind of nonsense!”

“Yeah, because I don’t matter! I’m just here for the ride!” said Simia, with fire in her eyes. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

Triste let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Come on, Sylas, let’s get going,” said Simia, heading off in the direction of the rapids.

Sylas looked from Simia to the Scryer, then dipped his paddle.

Then he said: “Let’s just get this over with,” he said.

It was a tumult of rocks and stones and trees. Naeo was thrown this way and that, hurled from bank to boulder, slammed against tree and trench, as she snaked across the forest floor.

The pain in her back was almost unbearable as the scars were snagged and pummelled, but she closed her eyes and pushed it from her mind. There was no time for pain – no time to think – this was all instinct: instinct for earth and forest.

She felt the ground beneath her and the trees above, the folds of soil and root, the barest beginnings of bank and slope and drop. They were part of her now.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “I see the hearts of men, but you see so much more! You see Nature herself!”

And so she did. It had always been this way, since she could remember. When her thoughts and feelings reached into the world around her, they found their true home. They became lost in the currents of streams, the pulse of animals and the fibre of living things. And yet she did not feel lost. In fact, it was like opening her eyes wide – like seeing the world true and clear, with its thriving mesh of connections: mighty trunk to tiny leaf; raindrop to raging sea.

And she did not just see these connections, she felt them.

The forest wrapped itself around her thoughts and bowed before her feelings. She flew across moss and leaves as though they lay down before her, shaping themselves to her will. The stream carried her at impossible speeds, banking left, then right, then heaving her into the air before catching her on a mossy bank and sending her on, down the hill. Ahead, a constant flux of trees, bracken and bush warped as though seen through a lens: shifting and arching, turning and stretching, drawing her on and on and on.

It was like no Groundrush that Ash had ever seen. Not that he saw much of it, because he spent most of his time on his face, or peering between his knees, or with his eyes pressed closed, pleading for it to end. It was slicker, faster, more savage than anything he and his friends had conjured in their youth. This was no childish toy. This was the unbridled force of nature.

And that was not all. Somehow, by some new trick, Naeo was forging the Groundrush even as they careered down the hillside, feeling out the route in an instant and clearing the path ahead in what seemed the blink of an eye. But there was something else that Ash had never seen before: the Groundrush did not take the quickest path down the slope but traversed it, following not the simplest route but the one that travelled the greatest distance, threading between obstacles, keeping them high, allowing them to whisk along the shoulder of one hill until they joined up with another, avoiding the valleys, hollows and dells.

He was lost in an endless tumult of water, leaves and undergrowth, his limbs flapped about him and his mass of curls were plastered across his face, but Ash knew that everything was as Naeo wished it to be. Somehow, by some miracle of Essenfayle, she was taking them all the way to the Barrens.

Icy waves scythed like teeth, thrashing the side of Sylas’s canoe, sending the bow leaping into the air. Then it turned and twisted, plummeting downwards into a deep grey hole, almost pitching him overboard. As the hull ploughed into the depths, he dropped the paddle and clung to the sides. The river spat him back out, but only sent him lurching backwards into a whirlpool, spinning him round once, twice, and then slamming the boat against a wall of water. He heard Triste somewhere behind him.

“The paddle!” he screamed. “Use the paddle!”

Sylas reached down and grabbed it from the bottom of the boat, but when he jabbed it over the side, it flailed in nothingness – he had been launched high into the air and the paddle simply wafted through the spray. When he looked down the length of the hull, he saw to his horror a gigantic wall of foam. It was the surface of the river, far below him. He felt a sickening sensation of weightlessness, his stomach rising into his chest.

Then a crack on the side of the head.

The last thing he saw was his rucksack flying over his shoulder.

She could see them now – just there, ahead – unfolding in endless waves of grey. The Barrens beckoned like an open grave, calling them on past the last few skeletons of trees. And yet to Naeo, they seemed far away, as though they were behind a sheet of glass, because something was happening to her – something deep inside her. It sucked the air from her lungs and whipped her thoughts into a frenzy. It was a gathering, terrifying, all-consuming panic.

The moment it gripped her, she lost control. The path ahead fogged as quickly as her thoughts, the little stream spilled haphazardly down the hillside, the curtain of shrubs twisted back into shape, the ground once again became rutted and treacherous. And although she saw this, she could do nothing. She was still behind the sheet of glass, her mind and body fighting some unseen horror. She opened her mouth to scream but in that instant her feet caught a rock and she was thrown high into the air, somersaulting over a line of blackened bushes and sent sprawling into the grey mud beyond.

All was silence, blackness and cold. Bone-shattering, skin-pinching cold.

Sylas tumbled in the dark, a massive force pushing him ever downwards. Currents clawed at his clothes and forced water into his mouth and nose. He felt his body flip over and over until something hard and solid smashed against his shoulder. He cried out in a gush of bubbles and then, to his horror, he realised that he had no air in his lungs. He thrashed the water, but it was futile – he had no idea which way was up.

Then, suddenly, a shimmering glow. Not so much light as the promise of it – a lessening of the blackness. And in the midst of the shade and shadow, something sharp and distinct: a hard, black edge.

A shape. A hand.

It grabbed him by the chest – or was it his throat? – he could not tell. All that mattered was that in the midst of the tumult and the horror, something – somebody – had hold of him. He could feel their strength heaving him up, fighting all that would drag him down.

As his lungs were about to burst and his eyes bulged, his world erupted with a blinding light, a rage of noise. But these things he hardly noticed, because at the same moment he heaved air into his lungs – wonderful, beautiful, life-giving air that flooded his floundering body with energy and purpose. He threw his hands up, dug his fingers into something soft, and clung on. As the intensity of the light faded he saw a new shape, a face, peering down at him, shouting something.

“I’ve got you!” said the voice. “I’ve got you!”

Naeo hit the ground hard, slamming her shoulder into the hard-packed earth. She tumbled over and over in mud and twigs and dirt, twisting awkwardly and catching her knee on a stone as she went. She yelped with pain and threw out her hands, clawing at all that flew past, trying desperately to stop.

Finally she slid to a halt, spluttering into the mud, gasping for breath. She lifted her head and heaved air into her lungs.

And then she heard heavy steps pounding the earth behind her. Strong hands turned her over and a face peered down. It was plastered in mud and pale with fright.

“I’ve got you!” Ash panted. “I’ve got you!”

“The Suhl are a people of two parts: of dark and light, of loss and hope. They suffer the Undoing, but they are the last to be undone.”

THEY SAT SHIVERING AT the water’s edge, neither of them saying a word. Simia was hunched forward, her elbows resting on her knees and her wet hair a curtain around her face, hiding her features from view. Sylas simply stared out at the endless bubbling churn that had so nearly taken his life. He felt at once impossibly weary and intensely alive, as though these were the first few moments of a new life: precious and fragile. Even the throbbing pain in his temple was somehow welcome – it meant he was still here. He felt a trickle of blood rolling down his cheek and did not wipe it away. He savoured its warmth, its tickling touch.

He looked upstream and saw the splintered remains of his canoe laid over a boulder, and a little nearer, the wreckage of Simia’s, which barely looked like a boat at all. The only recognisable part was the tip of the bow, hanging from a low-lying branch like lifeless fruit.

He looked over at Simia and saw how she had folded into herself, alone and shivering and full of shame. He knew he should be angry with her but he wasn’t. He was just glad she was there; broken and bruised, but there.

“You have to get warm!” said Triste, emerging suddenly from the bushes. He dumped a load of firewood by their feet and immediately set about making a fire. “Get your heavy clothes off – quickly! Lay them over the rocks by the fire.”

By some miracle, the Scryer’s flint and tinder were dry and within moments he had started the fire. When Sylas and Simia had laid their clothes out on the rocks, they joined him, warming themselves by the flames. Still no one spoke.

When their fingers had warmed a little, they busied themselves checking through their belongings. Sylas found his bag drenched but intact and with a sinking heart he opened the drawstring and reached for the Samarok. The cover felt strangely dry and as he leafed through its pages, he found them surprisingly untouched by the waters.

Finally they all sat back in silence, basking in the radiance of the flames as they grew into a blaze. Simia stared blankly into the flickering light.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, finally. Her voice was just a whisper. She lifted her face and looked at Sylas with tears in her eyes. “So … so sorry.”

Sylas reached across and took her hand. It was as cold as stone. He knew that she had tried to come back for him, that she had only fallen in because she was trying to reach him – Triste had mumbled that much – but he had no idea how long she had been in the water. By the feel of her, it had been far, far too long.

“It’s OK, Simsi,” he said. “We got out of it, didn’t we?”

“Barely,” grunted Triste.

Simia turned to the Scryer. “I’m really sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

“You’d have drowned!” growled Triste, fixing her with his piercing blue eyes. “And the hopes of the Suhl would have drowned with you!”

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