The lump had been invisible from the street, but inside it was obviously a large body, probably a man, draped with a white sheet – awaiting the arrival of the Clear Creek County coroner, Steven guessed. He stepped over the corpse, reached through Myrna’s window for her bag and as soon as his fingers closed around her car keys he quickly moved towards the side exit, away from the detective who was still gazing towards Chicago Creek Road.
His hand on the doorknob, Steven hesitated, looked back into the lobby and sighed. He had to know.
He peeked out the glass door: the detective was swapping between hand-held radio and cell phone, apparently unconcerned that he had left a dead body lying on the floor of the town bank while he watched a forest fire consume a high school car park. Steven considered snaking his way across the lobby on his belly, then shrugged. No one was interested in the bank right now. He walked across the floor and crouched beside the corpse. He didn’t recognise the man beneath the sheet – death changed facial features – he did recognise the uniform. This man, D. Mantegna, from his breast plate, must have been one of the officers working at Charleston Airport three days earlier. Steven turned away from D. Mantegna’s sallow, sunken visage and looked down at the man’s left wrist. There, a black circle that looked like a third-degree burn, was Nerak’s calling card, the same entry wound the young mother must have been hiding when she boarded the plane with the baby held in the crook of her arm like a football.
The Idaho Springs Police were not waiting for the county coroner. With a dead body in a Charleston International Airport security uniform turning up in a bank eighteen hundred miles from the scene of an apparent terrorist attack, the detective outside would be waiting for the FBI.
Steven stood up and hurried out the side entrance towards Myrna Kessler’s car.
Twilight fell as the four riders carefully navigated the dirt road between vast fields of potatoes, greenroot, onions, carrots and pepper weed. Hannah tried to make out individual smells, but the onion and pepper weed were too flamboyantly aromatic to separate. She slouched in the saddle, resting her back, and waited for Alen to halt them for the dinner aven.
Pacing them were a brigade of horse and mule-drawn flatbed and slat-sided farm carts, dozens of them, stretching from either side of the road. Teams of harvesters, farmhands and children alike, trudged slowly behind the carts, tossing in vegetables in slow rhythm. The scene looked to Hannah like a sweeping Hollywood epic where, as the sun fades to red, the camera pulls back from one toiling child to capture the masses, stretched out to the horizon …
When the wind died for a moment, she could hear their cries: Potato … ho! Carrot and pea … hee! Onion or greenroot … come harvest with me! At first, she thought the cries were filled with sorrow, suffering, as if these people had been enslaved by some heavy-handed plantation owner with a team of whip-wielding overseers, but after several stanzas, Hannah realised the calls and responses were changing, the words moving through a variety of activities: leisure time, cool beer, sex, the coming winter. After a particularly flirtatious verse about women and men, Hannah heard laughter, scattered giggling at the crudity of the text. It was improvisation; they were making it up, keeping the rhythm steady to match the slow gait of their horses. Leaning in the saddle, she tried to make out another verse, but the breeze returned and drowned them in a swirl of onion and pepper weed. Stillness fell over the fields once again; the riders had moved on ahead. Hannah turned to watch the harvesters until they faded from view.
Churn had been doing relatively well most of the day. His first moments in the saddle had been difficult; Hoyt was nursing a painfully bruised shoulder and a ringing ear, the price for keeping the bigger man aloft long enough for him to experiment with Hannah’s sapling strategy. At first, Churn had gripped his friend hard, as if clinging onto life itself, until Hoyt had shrieked for mercy.
Finally Alen and Hannah calmed Churn enough to try the cane idea, and Churn had released Hoyt only when he had the stick in one muscular paw and the pommel grasped with the other. Wide-eyed with terror, the mute had only released the saddle-horn long enough to berate his companions with economic but vituperative insults.
‘Would you look at that?’ Hoyt teased. ‘Which one is the horse?’
With inhuman quickness, Churn cupped his hand for maximum pain and boxed one side of the smaller man’s head, landing a direct hit over Hoyt’s ear and sending his friend reeling to the ground.
Hoyt rolled over in the dirt and shouted, ‘I told you not too hard, you slack-jawed oaf!’
It took a good three avens, but eventually Churn started to relax in the saddle. He was not yet a horseman, but he had not yet fallen either. He jabbed at the ground with Hannah’s cane, and clung hard to both pommel and bridle. They didn’t make particularly good time, but if it took Churn several days to feel comfortable in the saddle, then that’s what it took. Riding was still quicker than walking.
By the dinner aven, Churn had mastered a three-step survival technique. Feeling the rhythm of his horse’s gait, he would use his powerful legs to lift himself in the saddle, step one. Next, he would await the appropriate moment and release his not inconsiderable bulk back into the saddle, step two. Finally, in the beat between sitting and rising again, he would lift and plant his sapling cane, preserving a tenuous connection with the dusty Pragan road, step three.
It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. With darkness closing in about them, Alen quickened the pace slightly in hopes of reaching the edge of the current vegetable farm and finding a grove of trees or perhaps a forest where they could camp. He didn’t relish the notion of sleeping in one of the fields – though he hadn’t detected Malagon’s magicians in three days, the idea of being so vulnerable, especially at night, was too unsettling.
In time, he guessed, he would overcome his fear of sleeping outside, but like Churn, it would not be tonight. He spotted an indistinct blur on the horizon and said, ‘Is that a grove of trees or just a stand of bushes over there?’
‘Trees,’ Hoyt said. ‘It looks like a good place to spend the night – and there’s plenty of food scattered about as well.’
‘Good,’ Alen said. ‘Churn! We’re about done for the day. Congratulations, my old friend. You survived.’
Churn, busy gripping his pommel and sapling, didn’t answer.
After a dinner of fresh vegetable and venison stew, Churn and Hannah moved through the grove collecting enough wood to keep their fire kindled for the night. Hoyt used a whetstone to polish the thin surgical knife he carried and Alen sipped from a wineskin while scraping stew from dirty trenchers.
‘I hate to be the one to bring up another sore issue,’ Hoyt began.
‘But you will,’ Alen could sense a thorough chastising on the horizon.
‘Someone has to,’ Hoyt said, ‘and I’ve known you longest.’
‘And I need to cut back on the wine, right?’ There was no irritation in Alen’s voice.
‘Think about where we’re going. How much confidence would you have if the person to whom you looked for guidance and leadership was ass-over-hill each night?’
‘You’re right,’ Alen said.
Hoyt went on, And where we’re going – Churn and I might be the only two people in Eldarn willing to tag along on this journey. I mean, Hannah has to go, and you have your— your problems to work out, but if you’re getting kicked in the head every night, it won’t bode well for—’
‘I said, you’re right,’ Alen said, a hint of irritation appearing now. ‘I will cut back – some.’
‘Oh.’ Hoyt was genuinely surprised; he had been expecting a harder fight. ‘Oh, well, uh, good. I’m glad to hear that… and I don’t know that you have to quit entirely.’
‘I should,’ Alen said. ‘It’s the only way to be certain it won’t raise its cadaverous head looking for me, especially when things get difficult later on.’
Hoyt had what he wanted: Alen’s commitment. Now it was up to the former Larion Senator. ‘Well, you can address t
hose details as they – sorry – arise. But either way, I’m glad to hear that and I know Hannah will appreciate seeing less of that kind of behaviour as well.’
‘I’m sure she will.’ In a display of good faith, Alen handed the wineskin over.
Hoyt wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he jostled it back and forth between his hands for a few moments, drank a quick slurp as if to say See? This won’t be awkward at all and then set the skin aside, wishing Hannah and Churn would return. ‘Does it affect your abilities?’ he asked.
‘You mean being drunk? Does it impact my ability to work Larion magic? I should say so; although I’m not entirely sure, because I have used so little magic in the last—’ He stopped and thought for a while. ‘I don’t know how many Twinmoons it’s been. I don’t know how many have passed. Isn’t that funny? One can actually drink enough to lose whole Twinmoons. Pissing demons, but I am a sorry sop.’
‘So, it does,’ Hoyt confirmed.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Will you be able to get us inside?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alen answered honestly. ‘I haven’t been to Welstar Palace. I have seen it in visions, when Nerak’s worked various unholy spells, but I didn’t watch with the eye of one planning a covert assault. And to answer your next question, no, I don’t know if I have enough magic left to keep us safe, especially once we get inside. There was – is – a whole team of magicians looking for me and who knows how many more doing other work for our dark prince. It will be my final test, of that I am confident.’
‘But your house,’ Hoyt said, ‘how did you keep your house hidden for so long?’
‘I cast that spell long before your great grandparents were born, Hoyt. If I hadn’t released it on purpose, it would have stayed that way until I died, maybe even longer.’
‘Didn’t that drain you, keeping it going that long?’
‘Not really. You see, magic is kind of like physics: once something gets going, it actually takes more to stop it than to keep it moving. Look at our twin moons. Those two hunks of rock have been spinning around this world since the beginning of the first Age, longer than that. And they are about perfect, meeting in the northern and southern skies with such predictability that we know the day and time, within an aven, when they will align. It’s amazing. Something got them here; something got them started and even something as huge as our own sun, gigantic in the distance, can’t pull them away from each other and from us.’
‘So, the magic keeping your house hidden—’
‘Except for the occasional flicker when a bird would slam into it and perish right there in the sky – that took some quick explaining – but apart from that, my house would have remained camouflaged, people on the street finding it curious but difficult to recall, possibly for ever.’
Hoyt smiled, but his eyes betrayed his trepidation.
‘You don’t have to come along, Hoyt,’ Alen said. ‘Actually, I don’t know why you’re here at all. What have you got to gain by going into Welstar Palace?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe I won’t go in. Maybe just Churn will go with you. He’s wanted to get his hands on Malagon for a long time.’
‘Malagon won’t be there. Of that I am confident.’
Well, anyone, anything, then. Churn has his own ideas for disturbing Prince Malagon’s happy existence,’ Hoyt said.
‘Good. Then he will be welcome to come along – and Hoyt, should you decide to join us, I promise I will keep a clear head and I will use whatever power still remains in this disintegrating old body to see Hannah home, and to see you and Churn safe out again.’
‘Thanks,’ Hoyt said, genuinely relieved. He could ask nothing more. He had the option of abandoning this quest, so it would be his decision, and whatever he decided, Alen would not judge him.
‘Regardless,’ Alen added, ‘we might not make it that far.’
‘Hey, don’t joke. That’s not funny,’ Hoyt said.
‘But it is true.’ Alen pulled a thin scroll from his saddlebag and unrolled a parchment map of northern Praga and the Great Range bordering Malakasia. ‘We have to get through the forest of ghosts, and apart from you leading us, I don’t know how we’ll make it.’
‘Me?’ Hoyt was dubious. ‘Why me?’
‘Because the rest of us have something at stake in this journey. Granted, you hate Prince Malagon and Nerak as much as any freedom fighter, but you participate as you see fit, or as your fortunes guide you. You are a thief, my boy, and I am fiercely proud of you for that. You fight when it’s convenient and sometimes you run. You don’t have to come to Welstar Palace, and perhaps you will decide in the next Twinmoon – or the next aven – that you don’t want to go on, and you won’t. You have no stake in this.’ Alen’s eyes reflecting the firelight gave Hoyt a disconcerting feeling.
‘What does that have to do with the forest of ghosts?’
‘Maybe nothing.’
‘Grand,’ the young healer sighed. ‘Alen, please try to make some sense. If I have to do this and I don’t know how or what to expect, I might lose all of you in there—’
The older man interrupted, And maybe everything.’
‘Go on.’
‘If the forest of ghosts actually works as legends claim, then Hannah, Churn and I will all experience visions. We all have a critical emotional stake in this journey. If the forest targets those who traverse the northern wilderness pursuing their heartfelt dreams, the three of us will be set upon as soon as we breach the first row of trees.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You aren’t on your life’s journey, Hoyt. You are out for a stroll, accompanying friends north to Malakasia. And why? Because there’s nothing more appetising on the Hoyt agenda this Twinmoon. Churn and I are dead set on revenge. We might actually fight each other over who gets to suck the marrow from Malagon’s bones. And Hannah has to get home. If the forest actually assails us – and given the number of travellers who have never made it through those foothills, I believe it will – then Churn, Hannah and I will need you to guide us through.’
‘I don’t know how.’ Hoyt picked up the wineskin again. He wanted something to occupy his hands. ‘I don’t have any magic.’
‘I’m going to try and give you some.’
Hoyt drank deeply and coughed as the bitter tang of a cheap Pragan burned the back of his throat. His mind raced for an alternative to bringing helpless friends into a haunted forest. ‘Maybe we can take one of the western roads. Won’t there be something out that way with a light patrol, something we can handle in a straight fight?’
‘If there was, I would be the first to suggest we go in that direction.’ Alen reached over and took the skin. Corking it, he added, ‘But if even one of those sentries managed to escape, every soldier in southern Malakasia would know in an aven.’
Hoyt nodded disconsolately. ‘You’re right. At least this way, we have an honest shot.’ He sighed. ‘How much time do I have?’
‘At the rate Churn is letting us ride – five or six days before we get there.’
‘All right,’ Hoyt said, determination in his voice overcoming the trepidation, ‘what do I have to do?’
‘Ms Sorenson,’ Steven said, ‘I need your help.’
Jennifer Sorenson’s washing machine churned away downstairs as she browsed the entertainment pages of one of the dozen or more newspapers that had piled up on the steps and lawn in front of her house. She never read headlines since the one had noted, in a good bold font, that the search for her daughter had been postponed until spring due to prohibitively heavy snow in the mountains. So now Jennifer scanned for book and film reviews or even a recipe for those periodic nights when she felt like cooking for one.
When the doorbell rang, she noted her place and went to the door, expecting a mailman burdened with two weeks of letters, bills and junk mail. ‘Just a minute,’ she called and, not bothering to check through the peep hole, she slid the bolt back and opened the door – and there he was, standing
face to face with her, the monster who had taken her daughter. It had taken her a moment to recognise him: he had lost weight, and his last shower wasn’t recent – but it was him, Steven Taylor.
‘Ms Sorenson,’ he looked at her expectantly, ‘I need your help.’
Rage flooded through her, warming her skin and numbing her senses, a mother’s fury: she would beat this man to death, ravage him as every mother who had ever lost a child to a kidnapper or a paedophile dreamed of doing.
Jennifer leaped at him with a growl as adrenalin-fuelled hatred flooded into her bloodstream. She kicked, bit and punched all at once, a wild woman with flailing fists, fingernails, booted feet and teeth. She had dreamed of ripping this man apart and painting her face with his blood, of chaining him in her basement and keeping him there, barely alive, for the next thirty years. She had dreamed of beating him to death with a metal pipe until his body was reduced to bone shards and jelly – but each of those scenarios had required some planning. She had never expected him to come to her; yet here he was, Steven Taylor in person, and all the rage she could summon, all the hatred and fear she had felt from the first time she had ever watched Hannah get into a car and drive off with a young man – Edward Coopersmith, in high school – was focused on him now.
‘I am going to kill you,’ she screamed and managed to get a handful of his hair and the Gore-tex collar of his coat.
‘No – wait – Ms Sorenson, please,’ Steven cried, backing away and bringing his hands up in self defence, ‘I can take—’
Lessek's Key Page 13
