Filimaya sighed and looked down at Naeo, who shook her head imploringly.
Ash leaned between them. “If you coop me up here, Filimaya, I’ll make an unbearable nuisance of myself. I’m already planning to set up a pub on the Windrush. ‘Two Sheets to the Wind’ I’ll call it. And that’s just—”
Filimaya raised her hands in surrender. “OK, OK, Ash,” she said. “I’ll talk to Paiscion. Not because of your bluster or because I owe it to you, but because,” she turned and looked at Naeo earnestly, “you really do need some help, and Ash has proven himself a very useful companion to Sylas.”
Naeo groaned, then glared at Ash. “Well, he’d better not get in my way! I’m used to being on my own!”
“Yes, we can all tell that,” said Ash out of the side of his mouth.
“Really?” she said, defiantly.
“Yes, really.”
Filimaya gazed out over the tranquil waterways and sighed. “What have I done?”
“So you see,” said Paiscion, leaning forward and gesturing out of the window, “your journeys are not separate. As you seek Bowe, you must know that Naeo will be in search of your mother – your efforts are her efforts – your travels are entwined.”
The Magruman stood, leaving Sylas staring over the forest to the dark horizon, trying to make sense of his emotions.
“But there is one thing that will set your journeys apart,” said Paiscion, returning to his seat.
“You mean, other than that we’ll be in different worlds?”
“Well, yes, there’s that,” said the Magruman with a shrug. “But there’s also this.” He held out the wooden box that Sylas had seen on the table. “Take it. It’s a gift.”
Sylas glanced up at the Magruman, then reached out and took it. “Thank you,” he said. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
Sylas turned the box between his fingers. It was made of driftwood so worn by its watery travels that all of its surfaces were perfectly smooth and its corners rounded, making it pleasant to the touch. The lid had been beautifully crafted so that at first Sylas could not see the join, but after a few attempts, he managed to position his thumb in the right place and prise it up. It came away with a slight hiss of air and revealed a cushion covered with rumpled green satin.
There, in the centre of the fabric, was a single white feather.
“Do you recognise it?” asked Paiscion, peering keenly through his thick glasses.
Sylas laughed in surprise and delight. “Is it … is it the feather from the Windrush? The one we made dance when you were teaching me Essenfayle?”
The Magruman smiled warmly. “It is,” he said. “But it’s not quite the same as it was. Go on, pick it up!”
Sylas reached into the box and took the feather between two fingers. As he lifted it, he saw a small glass pot of thick black fluid, sealed with a cork stopper. He took a closer look at the shaft of the feather and saw that it had been shortened and cut, so that it looked like the nib of a pen.
He raised his eyes to Paiscion. “You’ve made it into a quill!”
“You have a story to tell and you need the right tools to tell it!” said Paiscion. “I assume you still have the Samarok?”
Sylas nodded and then his eyes widened. “I should write in it?”
Paiscion looked astonished. “Of course you should write in it, Sylas, you are the last of the Bringers! It is you who must write the final chapter of their chronicles.”
“But what would I write?”
“What is to come. You have read the beginning, now you must write the end.” The Magruman frowned. “Oh my, that sounds rather like the inscription on your bracelet, doesn’t it? How strange … it must be on my mind.”
The smile faded from Sylas’s face and his eyes dropped to his wrist. In the short time since the Say-So he had almost forgotten about the inscription. In fact, the gathering had never even discussed it in their excitement about the song in the Samarok.
In blood it began, in blood it must end.
“What do you think it means?” asked Sylas. “‘In blood it must end?’”
Paiscion shook his head solemnly. “I can’t be sure, Sylas, but the song speaks of a war still to come. Wars are never waged without the loss of blood.”
Sylas frowned at the band, trying to see the inscription, only to find that it had vanished. “But why pick those lines in particular?” he asked. “I mean why are they so—”
He was interrupted by the sharp snap of a twig somewhere below the window.
Paiscion launched himself out of his seat and pulled Sylas back into the hideaway, then he whirled about and stood in front of the window. They heard another sharp crack, then a hiss like someone cursing under their breath, and finally a hand appeared on the bottom edge of the window. To the sound of another loud curse a mop of red hair rose into view, followed by a small, weather-worn face.
“Simsi!” cried Sylas, rushing past Paiscion to offer her his hand. “What are you doing?”
Simia glared up at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m here …” she paused to brush twigs and leaves from her hair, “I’m here to say don’t you dare hatch any plans to go without me!”
Sylas gaped at her for a moment and then he laughed out loud. He walked to the window and reached down to haul her up. “Simsi, you got me into this! Do you really think I’m going anywhere without dragging you with me?”
Simia’s pouting lips grew into a wide grin.
“… like the exodus of ancient times, she led them thence, to those fateful plains of Salsimaine.”
THE ANCIENT DOORS OF the Dirgheon thundered as the vast bolts were drawn back, growling their complaint at the city. As they inched open, putrid air gushed through the crack, pooling down the wide steps. The creaks and groans sounded out like a fanfare as the opening grew wide.
And then they came.
First the sounds, not close but somewhere in the depths, out of sight: the quiet chink, chink, chink of chains; the padding of soft feet; the scraping of claws against stone. And then the panting of giant lungs, the hiss of air between teeth, the deep guttural rasps of canine tongues.
Suddenly there was movement in the shadows and they prowled out into the half-light, their gargantuan heads lolling from side to side as they drooled from muzzled jaws, their keen yellow eyes searching the streets below. Chains trailed from wrought-iron collars fastened around their massive, muscular necks. Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty Ghorhund passed in three rows, all straining against their bonds as they paced silently between the gigantic doors. And behind came their handlers: brooding, deadly, marching across the stone in perfect unison, making no sound. At times the Ghor appeared human, but they were too large, too powerful, and they moved with a chilling, predatory ease that betrayed their canine blood.
They were not alone, for they shared their formation with their slighter, sleeker cousins: half-breeds of a new and curious kind – sometimes