Prelude

John Ismay’s House, Kinspit

 

Laurence Hardacre stopped for a moment in the hall, checked that Mr Ismay was nowhere to be seen, and then pulled on his gardening gloves. He had about twenty minutes before his master came home from his meeting at the University and he had somehow found time to spend it in the garden. There was so much to do, but at least he could make a start; he could prune back some of the spring foliage and prepare for the summer blooms.

The door opened in front of him and a rather flustered John raced through it. He hurried through the hallway, murmuring ‘stay there for a second, Laurence – I need to show you something… ’ then he disappeared into his study.

Hardacre allowed himself a brief, deep sigh, and began to peel off his gloves. He took a few steps back so that he could see the garden through a side window. It looked rather overgrown but so inviting: he’d got so close.

He forced himself to focus on something else, and so his mind moved on to his travelling clothes – he sensed that he’d need them again very soon. He also remembered with a shock that he no longer had a hyper-dimensional bag and so everything would have to be packed in a conventional one.

John reappeared with a piece of paper.  He was quite breathless. He waved the paper in Hardacre’s face.

‘I think that I’ve tracked down Macrocephalos; but we have to hurry if we want to talk to him. He’s giving a talk in Ponwy tomorrow. So, you’ll have to get your skates on…’

Hardacre’s eyes widened no more than a fraction.

‘I will, will I, sir?’

John nodded.

‘I can’t go – he’ll know immediately who I am…’

‘Will that matter? Why shouldn’t you go to one of his lectures and talk to him?’

‘Ah well, it’s a bit more complicated than that…’

‘And why is that, sir?’

John was still excited, but he hesitated before answering.  

‘Because he’s talking at a secret CRS meeting, we believe’

Hardacre’s face betrayed no emotion.

‘I see, sir. So, you’d like me to spend an evening at a CRS meeting. I’m wondering – should I pack some sandwiches or do you think that a light supper will be provided?’

John wrinkled up his face. He should have realised that this would happen. Once again he had got caught up in the moment and had not thought things through fully.

 ‘I suppose I could find someone else…’ he said, his voice weakening

Hardacre blinked twice and swallowed. His expression changed not one mote but John had learned to recognise all of these tics as indicating extreme shock.  

‘Am I to assume that you have some doubts about my ability to complete this mission, councillor?’

John sighed and glared.

‘Don’t punish me, Laurence – you know how these things work…’

Hardacre turned briskly on his heels and walked towards the stairs. He didn’t look back.

‘I need to go and pack’ he said, and then he was gone.

Chapter one

The Governor’s Complex, Gorodnikov[1]

 

The sun had just begun to lap, unwelcome, at the edges of his window when Dom awoke. It was the first day of May, and, as it happened, the first day of his new job. It wasn’t a job he wanted, or looked forward to in any way, but his arm had been gently twisted and he always liked to be as helpful as possible. The twisting had been done by the Governor himself, and as he had always been kind and generous, and as Dom had always liked him very much anyway, it had been impossible to resist. 

He lay in bed and wondered what it would be like to work for an Imperial elf and, what’s more, one from Ortia of all places. He had spent a lot of his life in Amansk, just a few days ride north of the white city, but he had never visited it and until very recently only a few brave merchants had ever ventured there. That had all changed now, of course, because the Empire was whole again and travel was possible across its entire breadth. The first person to take advantage of the new freedom had been the Emperor himself, Pallatian, who had spent the first part of that year visiting his eastern demesnes and shaking things up. In Gorodnikov this had meant that the Governor had acquired a Deputy Governor (whatever that was) who had been recruited from Ortia. In turn, the Governor, assuming that the Deputy Governor’s only real job would be to spy on him, had set up another new post, Assistant to the Deputy Governor, whose only real job would be to keep an eye on the Deputy Governor. It fell to Dom to do this most thankless of tasks, but he had no idea why.  He couldn’t imagine that much useful work would be done by anyone.      

Just a week ago he had been hoping to escape back to Amansk. He had had to hang around for a long while after his closest friend, Prince Toby, had returned to Amansk from his exile. They had been stuck here for the whole of the winter while the war against the Crimson Flame knights had festered on, and once the city had been relieved by the Emperor, he had assumed that he would be able to go home. However, his old benefactor, the Governor, had had other plans for him.

Another pressing reason to go home was to see Princess Lily, who thought that he was her boyfriend, or at least he thought that she thought that. It was sometimes hard to tell with Lily; she was a quixotic, mercurial sort of person.  The relationship, which had never gone beyond a chaste kiss or two, was doomed, for reasons that he couldn’t hope to reveal to her, but he was fond of her company and had missed her a lot. She had been on a huge, crazy adventure, and he was only just learning about it through her infrequent letters. She had gone to Tlaxaca with the witches and fought alongside them.  Well, that’s what she’d said – it was a great story anyway, even it wasn’t all entirely true.

He’d have to get up soon he knew and dress as smartly as he was able. He had spent the last few days dreading this moment, and now it had come he felt sick and slightly dizzy. What did he know about imperial politics? He hid his face under the blankets for a few seconds and then leapt out of bed, hoping that the physical exertion would energise him. It didn’t, but at least now he was up.

 

***

‘What time is he due here?’ asked Viola. She was sitting on a wooden chair in her new office. The chair and the office were small, but not insultingly so.

‘Oh, I’m not sure, ma’am’ said Potentilla, who was sitting on the edge of the desk in front of Viola.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant’ said Viola, ‘that’s exceptionally helpful…’

Potentilla looked puzzled, but didn’t respond to this at all. She seemed to be concerned about something else.

‘What do you want me to do when he arrives?’

Viola had no idea what etiquette demanded so she trusted her instincts.

‘I’ll introduce you and then you can go’

‘To do what though?’ asked Potentilla, almost looking a little gloomy.

‘To be ready to come back when I need you…’

Potentilla nodded, but she still looked a bit unhappy.

‘I’ll go for another walk round the harbour, shall I?’

Viola sighed – it had seemed like a good idea to bring her old friend with her as a military attaché, but in reality she was only good at fighting and adventuring, and so it was hard to find a suitable niche for her.

‘We’ll get you something sensible to do soon, Tillie, I promise you’

‘Maybe I’d have been better off going back to Veralia, or maybe I should go on to Eth with Kath when she leaves…’ muttered Potentilla.

‘No’ insisted Viola, ‘I need a friendly face…you know that I have no real idea why Pallatian posted me here’

Potentilla smiled and shrugged. Viola gave her a quick hug and then gestured for her to go to the door.

‘See if he’s out there, will you, Lieutenant…’

The western elf walked to the door and opened it. Dom was standing outside.  There was an awkward moment.

‘How long have you been there?’ asked Potentilla, accusingly.

Dom flushed; he had his hand clenched into a fist and was holding it up at about shoulder height. It was unintentional but it looked as if he were giving the elves a strange little wave.

‘I was just about to knock…’

Viola sighed without sound.  She was expected to work with this human, really?

‘Well, Mr Shavosky…’, she said as calmly as she could, ‘you can come in now’    

Dom walked into the room, his worst fears apparently confirmed.  He approached Viola cautiously.  She had already rehearsed in her mind exactly what she was going to say to him.

‘Let me start by introducing you to my aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Potentilla…’

She turned to where Potentilla had been standing but there was now an empty space.

Dom looked puzzled. He wondered for a second if the lieutenant was invisible, but then he snapped back to reality.  

‘I think that she left…’ he said, ‘…and in a bit of a hurry’

Viola mumbled something and then there was silence. They stood, looking at each other, but with no idea what should come next.  Viola knew that it was her move, though.

‘I’m Captain Viola’ she said, ‘from Ortia…sent by the Emperor to help Governor Arbutus’

Dom nodded.

‘I know – although I thought you were a major’

‘I suppose that I am, yes… recent promotion… anyway, I’m the new deputy governor…’

‘Yes, I know’

‘And I’m here in an entirely advisory role’

‘So I was told’

Viola was completely at sea, so all she could do was she plough on with her original plan.  However, a major sticking point was that she had completely forgotten how people greeted each other in Amansk – should she offer her hand to shake? Should she embrace him? Or should she nod solemnly in the Visneorian way? She would have to use some sort of greeting soon, however, and she felt sure that she’d get it wrong.  

Her awkwardness was transmitted to Dom, who had absolutely no idea what was expected of him. His mouth was dry and he felt that the deputy governor must think that he was a complete imbecile.   

‘And I’m very happy to welcome you to work in our little team…’

Dom looked around.

‘Is that just you, then?’ he asked, completely innocently

Viola shook her head.

‘Oh no, there’s the lieutenant as well… of course, but she had to rush off…and there’ll probably be other staff, in time… I think…’

‘What sort of staff?’

‘Well, umm, that will depend on how I decide to fulfil my remit…’

‘What remit, is that, exactly?’

‘To advise the Governor…’

Dom wondered – had they just gone round in a big circle? His fears began to fade rapidly. This seemed to be a bit of a pointless shambles. He saw no point in pretending that he was any more competent.  

He embraced her formally and briefly. Viola smiled in relief – finally they had found something that they both could cope with. Dom grinned.

‘We have absolutely no idea what we’re doing here, Major, do we?’

Viola considered being offended or just ignoring the comment, but she knew that it was true. She smiled, her guard slipping.   

‘No, Mr Shavosky, I’d be foolish to deny it, it seems that we don’t’

---

[1] Gorodnikov – main (and only) Visneorian port on the eastern coast of the Empire. A vital strategic possession, and home to the main Imperial fleet. The only city outside Kinspit to have a roughly equal population of elves and humans.  Liberal, prosperous and cosmopolitan.

Chapter two

Amansk

 

‘I have brought letters’ said Marthian, stiffly, in Visneorian.

Lord Arnon stared at her. He’d never seen this elf before in his life but he knew exactly who she was. She was shorter and slightly more bedraggled than he’d seen her in his mind’s eye but otherwise she was just as he’d imagined.

‘Proconsul Marthian – you are welcome…’ he said, moving to embrace her in formal Visneorian style.

Marthian accepted his embrace and then broke free, grimacing.

‘Ambassador Marthian, my lord, not proconsul’

Arnon looked completely shocked. This was the first that he’d heard of her demotion.

‘I don’t understand….’

Marthian pushed the papers into his hand. He took them reluctantly.

‘I have been… translated…’ explained Marthian, softly.

Arnon remembered something, something from their earlier correspondence.

‘Are you seeking asylum, then… is that it?’

Marthian shook her head.

‘That was my initial intention, but the Emperor rather cleverly finessed me…’

Arnon had no idea what to say. He gestured for his guest to sit down – she looked fairly unsteady on her feet – and she sank into a chair. Arnon sat down too, with his desk to his right.

‘I have been removed from the post of Proconsul, to make way for a more ‘experienced’ westerner’

‘Why on earth?’ exclaimed Arnon

‘It’s all explained in the letters. I must apologise for bringing them myself – circumstances meant that I wanted to leave as soon as possible’

Marthian stopped talking and indicated that Arnon should read the documents that she had brought. So he did, poring over every word on every page as he spread them out on his desk. Marthian waited for him to finish, sitting quietly.  She was beginning to feel the keen pain of exile – the sense of having been uprooted from the walled garden and replanted far away.  She knew that it was best to absorb the pain and not try to avoid it. She also knew that it may never go away, but it might, with luck, diminish slowly.

 

Arnon finished reading. He looked across at his unexpected guest. 

‘Does that mean that you’ve come to take control of the city, my lady?’

Marthian looked surprised and shocked.  She shook her head emphatically.

‘No, no. I have no power and I suspect no real legal role’

 ‘Then why appoint you?’

‘Because then I can’t claim to have run away. It just seems to everyone that I have been given a different job’

Marthian waited for a second.

‘Why would you think that, anyway?’ she continued, ‘why would you think that I’ve come to rule here?’

Arnon glanced up at the door of his office – it was shut. This seemed to satisfy him.

‘May I speak freely, my lady, as a friend?’

‘Of course…’

‘Did you know that there is now a small imperial garrison stationed in the town?’

Marthian shook her head.

‘No – I did not know. That wasn’t included in my scanty briefing. I have been assuming that military matters are no longer my concern’

‘I understand…’ said Arnon, ‘… and I am sorry for it, but, even given that, do you have any idea what that may presage?’

Marthian shrugged.

‘Pallatian is a very ambitious elf’ she said, ‘I am quite sure he would like Amansk to revert back to the Empire. I also think he has grand plans for the cross-continental road. Brand new trading routes – reconnection with Oket  - greater glory of the empire – and so on… and, of course, you are on that route…’

Arnon got up and began to put the Emperor’s letters back into a neat pile.    

‘The Emperor has invited me to discuss matters of transport, commerce and mutual support with you…’ he said

Marthian smiled bitterly.

‘Well, that will be a delight, I’m sure. However, I’m not certain that it will achieve much. He’s probably already made up his mind to bring you back into the fold, one way or another’

Arnon sighed; he had many other questions but he felt like he needed a break. He sat down again and called Viktor, his assistant, to step inside. He ordered him to file the letters and then bring them some wine.  They waited until their glasses were full and Viktor had left before they resumed their conversation.

Arnon drained his wine glass indecently quickly.  

‘It’s nine hundred years since we declared independence! How can he come back and claim anything after all this time?’

Marthian laughed gently.

‘Thirty settings of the sun, but you have aged by only one…  Do you know that old poem, or is it only an Ortian thing?’

Arnon looked confused. Marthian realised that this would need some more explanation.

‘How old do you think I am, my lord?’

Comprehension dawned in Arnon’s eyes. He’d made a rather obvious mistake.

‘I have lived in a human-dominated society for too long’ he admitted, ‘I know little of elves and their peculiar aging habits’

‘Well, we age like humans until our early twenties and then we slow down rapidly…’ she explained, ‘which means , it’s more like thirty years to him – and that’s no time at all in terms of global politics’

Arnon sighed and shook his head in an irritation that was only directed at himself.

‘Yes, of course. Foolish of me not to have worked that out more clearly in my head’

Marthian smiled, a little more brightly than before.

‘I believe that mages call it non-linear aging…’

‘Right’ said Arnon, looking a bit lost again.

‘But the phenomenon might be used to your advantage, perhaps…’

‘How?’

‘You might propose that he temporarily bestows the proconsulship on your familial line.  I doubt that he’ll mind waiting a few more hundred years for your bloodline to die out…’

‘Do you really think that he might agree to that?

‘It might just be worth a try; just don’t tell him that the idea came from me’

Arnon thought about this for a little while, not entirely sure whether Marthian was teasing him:  he found her difficult to read. He decided that it was best to change the subject. 

‘Why was he in such a hurry to eject you?’ he asked

Marthian hardly hesitated – it was obviously a question that she’d considered in depth.

‘For various reasons: First, he doesn’t like or understand Ortia – I think he thinks it’s a bit arcane, a bit esoteric, perhaps even a bit eerie. Second, following on from that - he doesn’t trust anyone in the city, particularly not the High Priestess or me; Third, he wants to impress the High Lord and his faction, and that means moving at human speeds. Fourth, I’m female, and I don’t think he thinks much of “women”, of any species.  Overall, to be honest, I believe that Pallatian is cursed with one strong, unusually human, trait….’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s very intelligent and he’s very well aware of it…’

‘I see…’

‘I’ve learnt an excellent Ethian expression to describe him – one that doesn’t make much sense grammatically, but that I find rather rolls off the tongue…’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s too clever by half…’

Arnon was baffled by the words, but knew exactly what she meant.

Chapter three

An inn, Ponwy, western Eth

 

The rain had eased a little and so the minders were able to hurry their charge out of the safe house, along the damp street and into The Tattered Dragon.  The rain helped anyway, as there were few people milling around.  The sun was close to setting, but it had been a dull day, and so no-one had noticed anything much.

Hardacre appeared on the same streets a few minutes later. He had teleported to the prearranged mark, which had been left by Julian, the Hybitor agent, an hour or so before. He ducked immediately into an alleyway and stared out at the pub. He was here, but he didn’t yet know exactly what he was going to do.

To start with, however, he needed a disguise.  

This was a nasty spell and one that no-one would cast unless they really needed to. It was painful and temporarily scarring; it also required some concentration to maintain. It blurred the face and made it indistinct; however if anyone looked closely at the distorted face they would detect something odd about it and later, they would not be able to describe the features. Among a crowd of CRS supporters it was particularly dangerous, as they would recognise the spelzl almost immediately. However, Hardacre had no intention of hanging around to talk to his enemies.

‘Hysmotyn’ he whispered, holding his hand up to his face. A wave of light passed over it and his features softened into banality. He had to try hard to resist scratching – his face now felt itchy from chin to hairline.

He walked back out into the street in front of the pub. He had never been in the place before, although he knew Ponwy reasonably well – he had grown up in High March, only about fifty miles to the east. The Tattered Dragon was known to be a moderately separatist pub, but not so bad that an easterner couldn’t drink there safely. Hardacre guessed that getting into the place would be straightforward. After that he’d just have to trust his instincts.

 

The interior of the pub is what his father would have called ‘spit and sawdust’; that was probably one of the reasons he had never been inside it before. There was only a single drinking area, with a long wooden bar from which at least a dozen people could be served.   

He walked up to the bar, making his way to the friendliest looking barmaid. It was a long time since he’d done this.

‘Pint of Hen’s Leg, my dear, if it’s not too much trouble’ he said in his best marcher accent.  Several decades ago this was how he actually spoke, but a lot had happened to his voice since then.

‘It’s no trouble at all’ said the barmaid, smiling at him. She began to draw the pint, with a well-practised hand.  The lukewarm brown liquid nestled in the bottom of the pint glass. A flood of memories poured over Hardacre. He had to shake himself free of them.

The barmaid noticed his involuntary shudder.

‘Are you okay?’ she said

‘I’m fine’ he said, suddenly remembering another one of his parent’s expressions, ‘I think someone’s just walked over my grave’

The barmaid laughed and shivered herself, slightly theatrically.

‘Well, some might say this is a witches’ town, so anything is possible’

Hardacre nodded. The barmaid handed him his drink and he paid.

‘What brings you here, then?’ she asked, as he picked up his change.

‘I’m here for a meeting’ he said, ‘one that I believe is being held here tonight’

The barmaid’s eyebrows were raised slightly, but she was still smiling.

‘Well, you’ll need to be asking someone else about that, I’m thinking’ she said, turning to her next customer.

Hardacre wondered who it was that he should ask. He made his way to the back of the pub, sat down, and waited.

 

***

Hardacre had always been able to make a pint of beer last a long time. This time he had to wait about an hour before people began to drift in.  They came in ones and twos, and they were clearly not locals. Each time that they came through the door, a solemn young man approached them and ushered them through a side door and away from the bar.

The greeter seemed to have no list or any other way of recognising the visitors. Hardacre tried to watch how they interacted as closely as possible, but he could see nothing unusual. Perhaps he could just walk in like everyone else?

He got up and moved as quietly as he could round the inside perimeter of the room. Beyond the steady flow of shady looking visitors there were few drinkers. Once he got to the door Hardacre left as quickly as possible and walked quietly down the street for a few minutes until he found a another alley to shelter in. It had stopped raining but now it was dark.

Inside the alleyway he was finally able to scratch his face, which had been itching badly for the last half-an-hour or so. He knew he shouldn’t do this – many witches had ended up seriously scarred by overzealous scratching – but it was impossible to resist.  He would have to keep the spell going for a little while yet.

He shivered in the damp for ten minutes or so and then retraced his steps back to the Dragon. He walked in behind two men and watched them closely as they approached the greeter, making sure that he stood at an angle that allowed him to glance up at their faces. Was there a nod or a hand gesture? He couldn’t see anything. This was it then – he was now committed to going in.

He looked up at the greeter without changing his expression. The man looked completely uninterested and ushered him through just like all the others.

The doorway led into a short corridor and then on to a large room filled with tobacco smoke. The place was half full and filling up rapidly.  Hardacre sat about two thirds of the way back towards the entrance end of the rows of seats.  He knew that he might well have to get out in a hurry.  

He had been to these sorts of meetings before – polemical lectures in farmhouses and drinking dens – but this one was clearly a bit different. Most of the meetings were nationalist anti-easterner rants but without any obvious CRS connection. However, this one, the Hybitor intelligence report suggested, was sponsored by them. or an allied group, and was billed as more of a philosophical talk. What was behind bringing an old elven scholar to this out-of-the-way place was not entirely clear – yet.

Eventually the room was full of bodies and noise. There appeared to be a mixture of the usual dissident westerners and some better organised, slightly better dressed, people who Hardacre assumed were CRS members, although he dare not look round to see if he recognised any of them. He knew that for many of them it would only take a few seconds of snooping round him to realise that he didn’t belong here, and perhaps to identify exactly who he was. He stared intently at the small raised dais at the end of the room, and tried not to think of what might happen if his mask slipped in any way.

 A tall, thin, sandy-haired man swept into the room. He stepped in front of the dais and held his hands up. He didn’t seem at all surprised when the room didn’t immediately hush. His next action was to clap his hands, which was equally ineffective.  His sighed heavily and then shouted, rather too loudly.

‘Quiet! Quiet, now, have some respect! Mage Macrocephalos is a very eminent scholar’

The silence was sudden and profound. The speaker blushed, and seemed to sense that he had been a bit rude.  He lowered the volume and harshness of his voice a notch.

‘Please!’  

There was a more measured silence.   The speaker filled it with some pre-prepared words of introduction.

‘You are all very welcome to this extraordinary meeting of the Radical Numerology Society…’

The speaker’s grinned. This was a moment of theatre that he had clearly been looking forward to greatly.

‘I can tell from the turnout that you are all as intrigued as I am by the speaker and his topic…’

Hardacre felt his hackles rise slightly, but he wasn’t quite sure why.   He set himself to concentrate with all his might.

‘So – let me introduce the most learned and wise, Mage Macrocephalos of Pelagia; former professor at the University of Kinspit, and now visiting Scholar Emeritus in the newly formed Radical Numerology Institute’

An ancient elf began to make his way across to the dais. Applause splashed over him. The sandy haired man waited patiently for the clapping to stop.

‘Tonight Mage Macrocephalos will give a short lecture entitled “The root primes and the limits of the world”. The talk will last for twenty minutes and I’m afraid that there will be no questions’.  

Macrocephalos made his way to the dais. He shuffled his notes on the lectern, looked up at his audience and began.

Chapter four

Neman Forest

 

Celia was sitting on a bench at the edge of the endless woods. Around her there was as a carpet of flowering wood anemones and the oaks above her head cast a light green shadow. She had a small table in front of her and she was playing patience, the cards slowly accumulating.

Bronwyn approached from the main council buildings. She walked slowly across the lawn and down to where Celia was sitting. She was very concerned; Celia had been staying with them for some time. She had needed time to recover physically, but now she was strong and well, but she still lingered on, saying little and seeming unusually fragile. Bronwyn was not only worried about Celia’s state of mind – she also knew that unless Celia showed some improvement soon, her sister would want to get involved, and that she would take a direct approach. Bronwyn had seen Gwyneth do that many times before and it was not at all pleasant to watch.

Celia didn’t look up until Bronwyn was directly in front of her.  She smiled and began to gather up the cards.

‘Did you win?’ asked Bronwyn

Celia began shuffling the cards absentmindedly.

‘I didn’t get to the end’ she said

To Bronwyn she still looked pale and rather sad.

‘Can I sit with you for a while?’

Celia nodded and smiled.

‘Of course…’

Celia put the cards down on the table and moved up to allow Bronwyn to sit comfortably beside her.

‘Will you join us for breakfast, or shall I get something brought out to you?’

Celia shrugged.

‘It’s a lovely day – I think I’ll just stay out here…If you don’t mind…’

‘Of course I don’t – although I would love to have your company’

‘Maybe tomorrow…’

This wasn’t the first time that they had had this conversation. Bronwyn sighed softly and wondered whether, once again, she might be wasting her time. However, Celia was one of her closest friends and one of the most skilful and admired council members.

‘How are you feeling today?’

‘I’m fine, Bron, really I am – I’m still feeling a bit weak…’

Bronwyn nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe that that was true. She would have to try to dig out the truth again. Her voice was soft.

‘You still haven’t said exactly what happened …’

Celia looked away into the deep green centre of the wood.  Her heart wouldn’t admit the truth, because it was too painful to face, too difficult to face the fear and hatred that her enemy had ignited inside her.

‘He damaged me’ she responded after a long pause, ‘and it will take some time to heal’

Bronwyn waited until her friend turned back to look at her. She scanned her face, trying to make sense of what she meant.

‘But you seem well now – you seem healed’

Celia’s eyes misted briefly but then she shook herself.  Bronwyn was quite shocked – this wasn’t like her at all.

‘I don’t think that I can do something like that again, Bron’

Bronwyn was now even more shocked – Celia was about the most undaunted person she had ever met.

‘But you were fabulous! Everyone says so… you defeated him fair and square…’

‘Not really – I was lucky’

Bronwyn was utterly bemused.

‘You can’t defeat an enemy like him with luck…’

‘He was overconfident’ said Celia, her voice trailing off, ‘that’s all it was…’

She looked down on the ground as if searching for a lost pin. She didn’t seem to want to look Bronwyn directly in the eye.

‘I don’t think that I believe that, Celia – you’re the last person qualified to comment on your achievements’

Celia shrugged. She looked uncomfortable, and so Bronwyn decided to change the subject.

‘How’s Owen?’ she asked, thinking that this, at least, was an uncontroversial subject.

Celia looked up, with deep concern on her face.

‘What do you mean?’

Bronwyn smiled to reassure her.

‘Umm, nothing, at all – I was just wondering what he had been up to’

Celia jumped at her.

‘Have you heard that something might be wrong?’

‘No – not at all. Anyway, you’d be the first to know if Owen was in trouble, I’m sure’

Celia’s look sharpened into suspicion.

‘Why on earth do you say that?’

Bronwyn gulped. How had she got to this? And why was she getting such an odd response? She carried on as best she could.

‘Because you’re his best friend, of course…’

‘What makes you think that?’ Celia snapped, ‘don’t go around saying that! He’s just a colleague’

Bronwyn’s heart skipped a beat. How could that be? It had been an open secret that Owen and Celia had had a thing about each other for ages now. They must have fallen out, but this seemed inconceivable; they were about the most harmonious pair she had ever met. Why was Celia saying these things?

‘What’s happened? How did you two…?’

Bronwyn stopped. Celia’s eyes were welling up and she was shaking her head, imploring her to say nothing more. Bronwyn felt her friend’s sorrow seeping over her, as if it was some horrible, dispiriting disease. She put her hand up to her face, stood up and turned to hide her own inexplicable tears.

‘I must go to breakfast’ she muttered, and then she walked rapidly back to the safety of the buildings.

Celia stopped weeping almost immediately, pulling herself together with a considerable effort.   She got up and walked into the woods. They were full of the buzz of spring, and the green of new growth, but it felt as cold to her as if it were December. A deer darted out of the undergrowth, stood twitching uncertainly for a second, and then ran back the way she had come. Celia hardly noticed; her mind went churning on.   

She wandered on, deep in thought, turning over in her mind, for the umpteenth time, her confrontation with the evil witch, Kratos; a victory that she wished had never happened.  Now she had to live with the consequences of her actions, and it had taken a long time to decide what she should do.    

However, now she had a plan and she had every intention of sticking to it, at whatever personal cost. She would have to change her entire life, and that would be unbearable, but it had to be done. She wasn’t quite ready yet, but when she had gained enough courage she knew what she must do. She would retire somewhere where no-one could reach her, do no more magic, and resign from the coven. Only in that way could she protect the dearest thing in her life, by ensuring that she never saw him again. Then, she hoped, no-one would trace the thread of her feelings back to him. She would sacrifice her love for his life. Of course that would also sacrifice his love for her, but that hadn’t occurred to her yet.     

Chapter five

Gorodnikov

 

Viola slept deeply but yet she still dreamed.

She was standing on a hill above a hollow grassy bowl, which filled the space in front of her, like the performing area of a huge amphitheatre which stretched out almost as far as she could see.  The grass seemed to shimmer as she watched it, as if a uniform breeze were blowing through the stalks. She felt compelled to look inside the bowl and concentrate only on the empty grass. Nothing else could distract her.

Without any warning trees began to grow, preternaturally fast, out of the grassy ground. They were apple trees at first, growing straight out of the dry earth. Then there were orange trees, and then birches and then tulip trees. They appeared in clusters, in no obvious pattern, and they all grew to their full height and then blossomed. The smell was intoxicating – it filled her up until she felt overwhelmed. She could not help but breathe it in.   

The patterns that the trees made were in the form of lines and curves, forming two large enclosed areas of differing shapes. They looked very familiar, but what they showed was for ever nudging into her mind and straining to flower into clarity. But it never did, like the name of an acquaintance that you can’t quite recall, even when she is standing right next to you.   

Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, there were green serpents, wriggling up out of the turf in different parts of the bowl, turning their giant heads and tasting the air through their forked tongues. They were massive, wide and bulky, and were all apparently identical. They waited for just a moment and then new trees began to grow around them; nine copses that hide the nine snakes from view. Somehow she knew what species each tree belonged to, even though she had almost no knowledge of the names of plants. Everything seemed complete:  fruits began to form on the trees, birds sang from the canopies, insects called from every bough.  Viola watched transfixed, but she had no idea what any of it signified, if it indeed it signified anything.  

A whirlwind appeared in the centre of the bowl, swirling the air around it viciously and withering the grass as it swept along. Dust flew up into the air, and the sky above darkened but there were no clouds. The air began to smell of smoke.

The whirlwind came upon the copses, one by one, and one by one the hidden snakes came out to combat its power. Each time there was a brief struggle, but the snakes could only delay the end for a little while. One by one they were slain. Every time that a snake was killed the copse began to burn, the trees crackling like discarded paper.  The grass around every copse also began to smoulder and then the trees that defined the boundaries of the two areas began to turn brown. This was the brown of death not of autumn.  And there would be no renewing spring.

Eventually the fire spread and consumed everything. Once it had stopped there was a great roaring and the bottom of the bowl fell away. At first Viola thought it had collapsed into a lake or an ocean. But then she saw, coming out from the bland surface below, strange blue clouds that fed on themselves, like rats biting their own tails. She knew exactly where that was.   

Viola felt a presence beside her. She looked up from her bewilderment - it was Ophia. Once again she was in her southern elf form: dark and small and grave. She nodded solemnly in greeting. Viola turned towards her.  

‘What was the meaning of that, my Lady’ she said, in perfect archaic elven  

Ophia smiled, but she looked somewhat bemused.

‘I have no rank in your world, and I have no desire that you should call me that. It is not a suitable title at all’

Viola could think of nothing to say; her dream state seemed to make everything so very fuzzy. 

‘Did you see it all?’ asked the god

Viola nodded, her face screwed up with concentration.

‘I did, but I could make nothing of it’

‘Good – it is not yet meant to be clear. Clear knowledge can be dangerous, so I have given you hidden knowledge, which at times can be more useful. Clarity will come when it is required’

‘When will that be?’

‘When you know what needs to be done…’

‘Why can you not tell me now?’

‘Because our enemies want to know it as much as you do’

Ophia looked puzzled. Her pale green eyes darkened a little.

 ‘It will be a race, I suppose’ she said gently, ‘but you will just have to be faster’

 Fear gripped Viola, even in her vague dream reverie.

‘How can I do anything on my own?’

Ophia laughed softly.

‘You can’t, foolish elf – but you know that already, don’t you… look to your companions, past and future…’

Viola head buzzed, she heard the harsh cry of a seagull in the real world – the dream was about to end. She struggled to find the right questions in the time that remained.

‘Why can’t you help me directly?’ she asked, feeling the pull of the real world very strongly.

Ophia’s eyes, as green as a forest, shimmered slightly, as if she were finding it hard to see.

‘I have left and gone on into darkness’ she said, ‘I no longer have a part in… your reality’

Once again Viola understood none of this, but nonetheless she knew that right now she had assumed a great responsibility, and she had no idea why.

‘Why do you trust me with this knowledge?’ she asked, ‘how do you know that I will ever know what it means? Or even if I do that I will use it wisely?’

Ophia smiled and touched her hand

‘Because it is you, my dear, and… who else could I possibly trust?’

She bent over and kissed Viola softly on the top of her head. Then she was gone. Everything else disappeared along with her and collapsed back into the formless black. It was time to stop sleeping and to go and act.

 

 

***

Viola woke with a start. She had to write all of this down. She jumped out of bed so fast that she banged her head on the edge of the rather pretentious four-poster bed that Arbutus had kindly provided for her. She pulled on a dressing gown and ran into the sitting room that she shared with her friends.

Kath was in an armchair making notes in a large notebook. She had started working again.

She looked up, rather sourly.

‘What is it now, Vee?’ she asked in Ethian.

‘I had another of my dreams’ Viola replied, in her own tongue.

Kath rolled her eyes and didn’t try to disguise her impatience. She really wasn’t in the mood to talk in the imperial language.

‘Whatever it is, I’m still going home…’ she said, in Ethian

Viola’s eyes darted round the room, startled.

‘No – I need your help’ she said, shifting back to barbarian’s speech

Kath waited a beat.

‘Really? Why haven’t you mentioned that before? I didn’t realise that you wanted help…’

Viola ignored this; perhaps she didn’t even really hear it.

‘About this I mean…’

‘Ah right – so – was it another Quiena dream?’

‘Yes – it was really odd – I couldn’t make any sense of it’

Kath sighed and gestured for Viola to sit down in the chair next to hers.

‘I know I’m going to regret this, Vee, but you better tell me all about it…’

 

‘That’s the worst recounting of a prophetic dream that I ever heard’ muttered Kath, ten minutes later.

Viola looked shamefaced – she’d tried to remember what had happened but the dream had faded even faster than usual. Kath had tried to write everything down in her notebook, but it had been hard work.

‘What have you got?’ asked Viola, hopefully.

Kath read her notes back very slowly.

‘Trees, snakes, Quiena, a big fire, something about the outer void…  Quiena kissed you?’

 Viola hurried to explain this.

‘On the top of my head – on my hair… it was an affectionate kiss, nothing romantic…’

‘That’s a shame’ said Kath, ‘it might be useful to know a god who has a crush on you’

Viola wrinkled her face in embarrassment.

‘It wasn’t like that at all’

Kath glowered at her.

‘I was just teasing…’

Viola shook her head. It seemed to dislodge some cobwebs in her muddled brain.

‘It was more like someone showing affection to a child, to be honest’

Kath had a thought, a very brief extraordinary one, which she immediately dismissed as totally ridiculous.

‘Well, to the gods we must all seem like children…’ she said, going off on another tack

Viola nodded

‘But she clearly likes you well enough…’

Viola shook her head.  She sat in silence, lost in the memory of her rapidly fading dream. Eventually she came to a decision.

‘We need to save the serpents’ she said

‘What?’ spluttered Kath

‘I don’t know why, but I think they are really important. But I have no idea how to even start’

Kath shook her head.

‘No, no, Vee, don’t do this to me again. Don’t suck me into another stupid and dangerous thing…’

Viola’s eyes were as wide and as imploring as Kath had ever seen.

‘But I think the fate of the world may be in the balance’ she said

‘But that’s what you always say!’ groaned Kath

‘Don’t blame me…’ said Viola plaintively, ‘blame my dreams… blame Ophia’

Kath nodded

‘I’ll give her a piece of my mind the next time that I bump into her’

Viola looked puzzled for a second and then grinned.

‘Me too…’

Kath rather theatrically blew air out of her mouth in a huge sigh.

‘Let’s try again, then. Are sure you remember nothing more about the dream?’

Viola thought very hard for a second and then took the notebook from the table. She picked up Kath’s pencil and began to write, slowly but without hesitation. When she had finished Kath took the notebook from her and read it out aloud.

‘Oak, mahogany, date palm, alder, magnolia, walnut, redwood, teak, hemlock’

She put the notebook back down on the table and looked up enquiringly at the elf.

‘What on earth does that mean?’

 ‘I thought you might know’

Kath smarted slightly

‘Since when did I know anything about trees?’

Viola looked very downcast.

‘We need Marthian here…’

‘Yes, very true… but hard to arrange’

They sat in silence for a little while, with Kath wishing that this whole odd thing would just somehow go away. Then Viola smiled unexpectedly.

‘Marthian isn’t the only one who knows about trees, of course…’

Kath shrugged. She really had absolutely no interest in arboriculture.

‘Who do you have in mind?’

‘Mr Hardacre’

‘Laurence? Really? Why would he know anything about trees?’ asked Kath, genuinely bemused.

Viola, who had worked for Marthian for a long time, was used to gardening and plants being exceptionally common topics of conversation. That Kath might not have noticed an equal enthusiasm in Hardacre was astonishing to her.  She stared her impatiently.

‘Maybe you should just go on off to Eth, after all…’ she muttered, almost under her breath

‘You should write to him then’ said Kath, feeling abashed, and trying to be a bit more helpful, ‘do we have any mail paper?’

‘No’ replied Viola, ‘but I know that there are some old mages living in the elven part of the town. They’re sure to have some paper’

Kath was astonished at the insouciance of this remark.

‘That’ll cost twenty elfrounds a sheet at the very least’ she said, wide eyed.

‘I have a budget…’ explained Viola, equally breezily, staring round at her empty office, ‘and I’m not doing much with it at the moment

‘Right…’ said Kath, unconvinced, ‘and this would be a good use of the money, would it?’

Viola nodded. Her smile was unusually steely. She did, however, lower her voice considerably, even though she was the only Imperial subject in the room.

‘Of course it would be.  It seems appropriate that the Emperor should pay; considering the mess he’s made. I’d say that it’s the least he can do’