How could he create a cloaking spell without knowing what a cloaking spell ought to do? Did they need to be invisible? He was certain that was beyond his reach – but invisible to Nerak’s power? That might work. … but how to think it? What to feel? Gilmour was supposed to be the sorcerer, not him.
Well, Steven, get painting. He heard Mark and Garec urging him on, could feel their eyes on him. He felt embarrassed … ‘This isn’t working,’ he sighed.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
He looked around. ‘Let me try it over there. Maybe that’ll help.’ He dismounted and moved off a little way into the woods, away from where the others could watch him so closely. He heard something large and fast rush by overhead – at home, it would have been a low-flying jet, but here – here, he knew it was the dark prince, casting about for them. Hurry up, he told himself, Steven, you’d better hurry up.
He sat down on a moss-covered boulder and focused his attention inward: the wall of fire, Garec’s lung, the great pine in the Blackstone forest – but again he was derailed by his inability to think of how a cloaking device should work. ‘This isn’t going well,’ he called back to the others.
‘Take your time,’ Mark encouraged. ‘We’re fine. We’ll watch and listen. You don’t think about anything but keeping us hidden, protected from his sight.’
Protected from his sight. They needed camouflage. Camouflage, like the absurd head-to-toe drapings Howard used to wear for his annual trip to Nebraska during goose season. He remembered Myrna saying, ‘I can still see you, Howard. You’re still here? I can— oh wait, I almost lost you there for a minute, but there you are. I can still see you.’
Focus, Steven. You’re not focusing. Hidden from sight – how do we get hidden from sight? We need to be camouflaged but not invisible. Howard might have been invisible to the geese, but he was never invisible to Myrna. Myrna. Think, Steven.
Another seeking spell rushed by overhead. Steven recoiled reflexively and opened his eyes. ‘He’s getting closer.’
‘Keep at it! I know you’ll get there.’ Mark’s confidence was infectious, but it didn’t help. It was cold. He wished he had put on the ski jacket from his saddlebag before moving into the brush. He would start wearing it beneath the cloak; that would be warm, as warm as a heavy blanket, a wool—
‘That’s it,’ he cried, looking back at the others.
‘What’s it?’ Garec asked, but Steven didn’t answer. His friends had already begun to come more sharply into view, framed in front of the acrylic canvas of the forest as trees, shrubs, fallen leaves and scattered rocks all began slowly to melt together, to soften into a malleable whole. Reaching out, he could feel the air, that familiar sense that it had grown more dense, as heavy as the most humid day he could remember: Mexico, or New Orleans in the summertime. He wore the air like a glove, a perfect fit, and Steven turned his hand over and over, gaining a sense of how he could push and pull, manipulate and build from this perspective.
Well, Steven, get painting – yes, painting a woollen blanket, one with holes in the weave, holes he could see through, but that was fine, they needed to see where they were going. It was the perfect camouflage – was someone under there? Of course. No one could become invisible … but you couldn’t tell who was hiding beneath that old blanket. Mark had said something about a blanket, the comforting feeling of falling asleep on the floor or the couch and waking up later covered by his mother’s wool blanket. Why had Mark mentioned that? It had something to do with Karl Yasztremski and the Red Sox, with his father and Jones Beach out on Long Island.
Without realising what he was doing, Steven walked back to where his friends watched, thrilled that he had succeeded in calling up the magic, yet still dumbstruck at the breadth of his power. He held aloft the hickory staff and gestured with it from horizon to horizon, east to west, and then north to south. It glowed a faint red where his palms touched it, much as it had the night Gilmour rebuilt it from splinters he found scattered across the ground.
Mark traced the line of the staff in the air; he was looking for something in particular. When he found it, he nodded grimly to himself. Steven was camouflaging them, protecting them from Nerak’s sight.
When he was finished, Steven leaned the staff up against his horse’s flank, turned to the others and said, ‘That should do it. I’m not sure how long it will last, but I think I can do it again if I have to.’
‘What did you do?’ Gilmour asked. ‘I felt nothing, no ripple, no tension, no spark, and if I felt nothing, I’m sure Nerak has no sense at all of what just happened.’
‘I put a blanket over us.’
‘A blanket?’
‘Yeah, an old blanket my mother used to keep draped across the back of the couch.’ He smiled at Mark. ‘It was your idea.’
‘My dad, and those pictures in the hall,’ Mark said. ‘I knew it was working.’
‘How?’
‘Abe is running a sale on Bud and Bud Light. I saw the poster.’
Steven nodded and climbed back into the saddle. ‘Let’s get out of here. Which way, Gilmour?’
‘East, my friends.’ He did not look well, but he patted his horse and led the others through the Falkan forest.
THE GORGE
Hannah was worried about her mother, and worried about Steven and Mark. She wished there was some way to get a message to them, to let them to know she was doing well – still lost, but no longer alone in this curious land. She was certain the two roommates were in Eldarn too, somewhere, and she was still hoping she might encounter them by pure chance – things like that happened all the time; people met longtime friends and lost relatives on beaches and at used car lots, on station platforms and in supermarkets. Well, maybe not all the time, because for all the lost friends one met in the queue at a department store, there were ten thousand who never showed up …
Still Hannah looked closely at every stranger they met on the road, and gazed about as they passed through villages. She sighed to herself, imagining the scenario: Steven and Mark would shout to her through the window of a pub and she would join them for a few drinks. She knew they would pick up where they had left off, as if nothing as improbable as this had ever happened.
She still hadn’t discovered any way of getting a message across the Fold to her mother, either. She didn’t want much, just a momentary tear in the fabric of the cosmos. She had never done well in physics; that was Steven’s forte, and she guessed that even her world’s greatest physicists would be confounded by her current situation, so she hoped for a chance discovery that might allow her to shout, as if from across an airport parking lot, that she was scared but fine, and working on a way to get home.
Hannah and her new friends were still picking their way through the Great Pragan Range, moving slowly north towards the Malakasian border. The forest of ghosts was ample deterrent for most travellers and none of her friends had been this way before; Hannah had realised that no one knew exactly where the border was. Blocking the sun with one hand and peering into the fading daylight, she tried to determine if there was a navigable pass between two hills off to their left. The hills would be considered mountains by most standards, but in comparison with the rest of the sawtoothed Pragan range, these were little more than speed bumps.
This guess-and-check orienteering without a map was really slowing their progress. Twice now they had been forced to backtrack to find a workable pass. Most of the time, though, they had been what Hannah called ‘holy fucking lucky’ – Churn found the notion hilarious, but Hoyt and Alen understood the grave implication of the foreign woman’s joke: winter was upon them and finding a low-elevation passage was critical. Not even a fool would climb the Great Pragans until the high altitude snow melted the following spring. And here they were, moving steadily north
Still squinting into the west, she asked, ‘What do you think?’
‘A pass there? It’s hard to guess,’ Hoyt said. ‘This sloping meadow cuts off too much of our view to be sure.’
>
Hannah sighed. ‘You’re right, I know, but just look at the rest of them. See anything more promising? If we can’t get through there, I foresee a long snowy winter right here in the centre of this frozen field.’
Hoyt shivered. ‘Let’s go.’
The periodic snow on the ground had made it easy for them to follow the route taken by the wagonloads of Seron tree cutters – the noise the carts made gave plenty of notice and they hid in the underbrush until the Malakasians had disappeared – but the previous night the group had taken a wrong turn and a thorough search of the meadow yielded no evidence that the Malakasian transports had come this way.
‘But there couldn’t have been any other way to get those wagons through here,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m sure we’ll pick up their trail between those two hills. It’s the only low-elevation pass along this ridge.’ She gestured west to east, as if Alen couldn’t see for himself that the way was blocked. ‘And I don’t know how the hell anyone in Malakasia thinks they’ll continue to make this journey, either going or coming back, for much longer.’
‘Prince Malagon will have his Seron pick up the wagons and carry them over these passes, and he won’t think twice about it if every last one of them freezes to death – he wants the bark, and it looks like he wants all of it, as much as they can harvest. Lives lost in the process will mean nothing to him.’
Hannah nodded, her lips pressed together against the cold. ‘Cheery thought, Alen. Thanks. Are you ready?’
‘Lead on.’
They moved across the open meadow and into a crowded stand of pine trees, the wind that had been brushing at their hair and tickling the backs of their necks becoming tangled in the branches. Hannah’s heart sank when they emerged and started climbing the slope, for the pines had given away to leafless deciduous tress that offered little shelter from the wind. Without speaking, they hastened on, hoping for better shelter over the rise.
When they reached the rounded hilltop they realised why Prince Malagon’s wagons had taken a different path: below, a river rushed its winding course towards the Ravenian Sea. The pass they had seen from the meadow looked to be a viable alternative to freezing to death, but reaching the base of those hills from their current position would be challenging. The little river cut a canyon two hundred paces beneath their feet, running in a southwesterly direction. At the base of the hill, it curved back on itself, carving a deep gorge into the hillside, and disappeared into the trees. They could clearly see the pass, and given an early start the following morning, they could be well on their way down the opposite side by the midday aven.
Now they had to decide whether to cross the river, at the risk of soaking everything they wore or carried, or backtrack to pick up the Malakasian trail. Crossing the river ran a real danger of hypothermia, and building a large enough fire to dry themselves was another risky proposal – with Seron moving so freely through the country, they would likely be dead by morning. But Hannah didn’t like the idea of going back either; losing another day of travel meant one day closer to real winter setting in.
There was a third option: they could move northwest beneath the hollow edge of the gorge’s lip, hanging on to anything they could to ensure no one slipped down the incline and into the eddy swirling below. It would be difficult for their horses, and Hannah feared that if they lost even one, the remaining animals wouldn’t be strong enough to get them through the mountains and over the border.
With daylight fading, the scene before her took on a grey aspect, presaging a long fall and an icy swim through the turbulent water.
‘We can’t do this,’ she said finally.
‘Actually, I think we can,’ Hoyt said, who had been silently staring across the gorge. ‘Look up there at that slope: it’s gradual all the way around. We shouldn’t organise any dances up there, but if we hold fast to that lip, it’s a good two or three paces wide, and it’s actually fairly level’
‘What about over there?’ Alen pointed to a place along the curved hollow of the gorge where a lone pine with broad branches effectively blocked their way.
‘We’ll have to go above it,’ Hoyt smiled, the reckless smile of a young man who still believed himself invincible.
‘You’re going to get us all killed,’ Hannah said.
‘No,’ Hoyt answered, ‘and look, if it gets too bad, less than halfway around, we can climb up the slope and over the lip.’
‘To find what on the other side, exactly?’ Hannah asked, ‘a good Pragan restaurant? Hoyt, what if we get out there and decide we have to climb over and the other side is worse than this?’
Hoyt smiled again. ‘Hannah, what could be worse than this? I know you don’t want to go all the way back trying to find a wagon track in the dark.’
That much was true, but falling over exposed rocks to land in a freezing mountain river as the sun punched its time card was not the most appetising suggestion either. She turned to look at Alen, her eyes pleading for help.
The old man threw up his hands. ‘It would save time.’
‘Churn?’ For the first time since the argument had begun, Hannah looked at the big mute. He looked as though he might pass out right there and Hannah felt a moment’s guilt: they hadn’t even considered Churn’s fear of heights.
He was still uncomfortable sitting in the saddle all day; right now he was pretty certain he’d be safer walking back and single-handedly grappling with an entire wagonload of Seron, rather than walk around beneath the lip of this gorge. He tried to swallow, and failed; his throat was too dry.
He looked at Hannah and tried to grin. He had survived the forest of ghosts; he had survived being beaten and hanged from the highest branches of his family’s cottonwood tree. He hated high places, but he had survived … and this gorge had a slope and a thin path so there wasn’t a straight fall. There would be places to grab on to, should he slip, and he’d have to slide far through the mud, and then over the rocks, before getting to the edge and falling into the river. This would be a grim few moments – but it wouldn’t be as bad as the forest of ghosts. Nothing could be that bad.
Churn straightened his shoulders and grinned again, a proper smile this time. He took out a length of rope from his saddlebag, tied one end about his waist and handed the other to Hannah, motioning for her to do the same.
‘Yeah, Churn, great idea,’ Hannah said, ‘unless, of course, you fall – then I’m going down like the stern colours on the Andrea Doria.’
Churn grunted. He didn’t understand.
‘Just don’t fall, all right?’ she said, and checked the rope was tied tightly. ‘Okay, guys, Churn has spoken – let’s get going. It’s already getting dark.’ Alen and Hoyt led their horses out onto the narrow sloping ledge encircling the half-moon gorge while Hannah, distracted thinking of the number of ways disaster could find them in the next twenty minutes, didn’t notice Churn facing her, one hand on his hip and one behind his back. She suddenly realised the others were nearly out of sight while she and Churn had yet to leave and, a little irritated, asked, ‘What is it, Churn? We need to move.’
Churn motioned towards his hidden fist.
‘What? Oh, not now – you want to play now? To see who goes first? Are we really going to do this, Churn?’
He didn’t budge.
‘All right, all right,’ Hannah acquiesced. ‘On my count … one, two, three!’ Simultaneously, they both extended their hands, Hannah’s in a fist and Churn’s with two fingers extended. ‘Rock breaks scissors. I won!’ she crowed, exultant, ‘hey, I won, I really won! So what’s the total score at this point – 673 to one?’ She thought on it a moment longer, then asked, ‘But does that mean I have to go first or that I get to choose?’
Churn gestured slowly enough for her to understand. ‘You choose.’
‘Then you go first, my friend, and I will follow along and watch your footing.’
‘Very good,’ Churn signed.
She knew that one. ‘And remember, don’t fall.’
‘I w
on’t.’
‘And try to keep solid footing in case I fall.’
‘I will.’
‘All right, go ahead. Get going.’
‘I’m trying. You just keep—’ Churn checked his own knot a final time, then sighed and led his horse out onto the slope.
Leading her own horse by the bridle, she followed. ‘Thanks Churn,’ Hannah whispered.
Halfway through the gorge, Hannah was seriously regretting letting Hoyt talk her into coming this way and angry at Alen for not backing her. The footing was difficult, and the mud that lined the gorge wall was like hardening paste, making decent handholds rare. She and Churn stopped to watch as Hoyt and Alen led their horses past the lone pine blocking the path. Her heart was in her throat as one of the horses slipped, but it was momentarily and they were soon out of danger. As they headed for the top of the gorge, the two men looked like children racing to be crowned King of the Mountain. Finally Hoyt stood on firm ground and waved back at them. ‘It’s easier going up here,’ he shouted down. ‘Still narrow, but better than along the slope. Come around as far as the tree and then climb out.’
Churn, moving ahead of her, hummed an off-key melody in time to his careful footsteps. He kept a tight grip on his horse’s reins with one hand and used the other to hang on to whatever purchase he could find on the gorge wall. He concentrated on keeping his weight into the wall and pressed his feet firmly into the dirt, ready in an instant to support his weight, and Hannah’s, if necessary – he was quite strong enough to lift her entire body with one arm, should she slide down the slope, but he didn’t want to risk a weak foothold and end up following her into the river.
As he got closer to the tree in the path he began to feel better. He was still afraid of heights – the memory of the cottonwood tree and the carnage below was still too vivid – but helping Hannah had stopped him being paralysed by terror; concentrating on her had distracted him enough to make it through.
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