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“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.
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“The great Leo Tsu warned us thatthe wayis 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.”
