by Layton Green
They stole what sleep they could on the backs of the simorghs, tucked into thick blankets provided by the Yith Riders. Just before dawn, they touched down on another Yith mountain, trading simorgh mounts in the semi-darkness, gobbling down vegetable pies.
By mid afternoon, after crossing a smaller mountain range, they saw the canvas of the ocean stretched out in the distance. They veered south as they neared the water, soaring over a region of lakes and dry golden hills, then racing above emerald ridges that sloped down to the water, dyed with swaths of wildflowers. Settlements appeared both on and off the coast.
The simorghs slowed as they approached an impressive sight: thousands of colorful tents and pavilions, many of them as tall as small buildings, populating a wide strip of land between a half-moon bay and a line of steep hills covered in fog. To Will, it looked like all of the world’s circuses had convened at this one spot.
“Freetown,” Tamás said, able to speak over the wind once the simorghs slowed to drift downwards. As the ground rose to meet them, Will saw a crush of people and wagons filling the gaps between the tents, as well as more permanent structures: inns, shops, smithies, the whole gamut of commerce expected for a settlement that large. He even saw a few wizard towers poking skyward, topped with circular balconies instead of spires. As they flew over one of the towers, Will noticed the roof was fashioned in the likeness of a wheel.
“I thought the Roma wandered by nature,” Will said, as the simorghs descended towards a square of red and gold patterned mosaic tile, surrounded by whimsically painted wooden buildings.
“We do,” Tamás said. “While Freetown is a permanent settlement, most of the tents you see, especially the smaller ones, come and go throughout the year, trading throughout the Ninth. There are similar cities up and down the coast. Occasionally we venture into the other protectorates, though in the last few years that has become a dangerous undertaking.”
Yasmina was leaning sideways to get a better view, her long hair streaming behind her. “It’s breathtaking,” she said. “Like a fairy-tale city.”
“We’re quite proud of it,” Tamás said, and Will could hear the emotion in his voice at seeing his homeland. It gave him a stab of longing of his own, wondering when he would see New Orleans again. The revolutionary swiveled to regard Will and Caleb, pointing north of the foggy knolls hedging the city. “In that direction lies the Blackwood Forest.”
Will felt goose bumps spread along his arms as he stared down at the cluster of shaggy hills. Was he looking at the birthplace of his ancestors? Did their father truly hail from this mist-draped forest, so far from their own world?
Caleb put his hands on Will’s shoulders from behind, his soft squeeze all that needed to be said. Will felt incredibly grateful he was able to share this moment with his brother, and wished more than anything that Val could be there as well.
The simorghs touched down in the central square, an entire city block filled with minstrels, vendors, street magicians, and pedestrians. Families and friends dressed in Romani attire strolled arm in arm, fathers holding children on their shoulders to see the performers, mothers pointing out dresses to their daughters. It wasn’t just gypsies. Will saw humans of all sorts, dressed in a variety of fashions, as well as a smattering of other races.
Close to where they landed, an elaborate fountain spewed amber-hued liquid from a dozen spouts. People bent to collect the beverage in cups and mugs.
“Is that what I think it is?” Will asked.
Tamás grinned. “Once a month, the municipality provides free ale from sunrise to sunset.”
Caleb looked as if he had just won the lottery. He clapped Will on the back. “I think I’m home, little brother.”
A crowd gathered to observe the simorghs. Children pointed in awe at the regal creatures and the elaborate jackets of the Riders. Someone noticed Tamás, and within seconds a huge cheer arose from the crowd, which turned into a roar and a much bigger crowd. Before Will knew it, the square had filled with legions of people celebrating their leader’s homecoming.
Tamás stood on the back of the simorgh and called for silence, his long hair streaming in the breeze behind him. He gave a speech describing their journey and his companions’ role in his escape. Near the end, he pumped his fist in the air. “The Congregation thought they would break me, but we are not so easily broken! I have returned stronger than ever; we are stronger than ever! The Revolution lives, and I refuse to rest until every clan in the Realm is safe from the horrors of slavery and the Fens, until the bonds of all those who desire freedom are broken!”
It seemed as if the whole city erupted into a wild, spontaneous celebration, feting Will and the others almost as much as Tamás. Will heard numerous cries of “The Revolution Lives!” and “Death to Tyrants!”
The square crackled with energy, alive with music and dance. Will and the others feasted on food and drink brought to them in a continuous stream by everyone from elders to street vendors. A few hours later, long after the Yith Riders and their mounts had returned skyward, Will and his companions had barely moved from the spot where they had landed.
Tamás waved for the core group to gather close. “You must all be very weary. Let me accompany you to an inn I’ve selected for your stay, after which you may continue in the festivities if you wish, retire to your rooms, stroll along the beach—whatever you desire. Tomorrow we will reconvene and discuss the future. But for now, my friends—” he was almost overcome by emotion, and took a moment to compose himself—“I thank you from the bottom of my heart for making this return a possibility. We will never forget your service. As they say in our homeland, there are no friends among Romani. Only family.”
Everyone exchanged emotional embraces. Will picked Tamás up in a giant bear hug and thrust him skyward by the armpits, initiating a new round of cheers and drinks from the crowd.
It was slow going, but Tamás led them through the crowd to a two-story wood and thatch guesthouse a block off the square. It had the cozy feel of an English country inn.
“The best tavern and guesthouse in Freetown,” Tamás said. “The proprietor is expecting you, and your rooms and meals will be provided for as long as you wish to stay.”
They all thanked him. Just before he left, he cast a longing glance back at Yasmina, who had declined his invitation to return to the crowd.
Dalen and Marek stumbled upstairs. Yasmina did the same, exchanging a warm hug with Will and giving Caleb a cold nod.
The brothers climbed the stairs to their own room, which sported wooden ceiling beams, bearskin rugs, two cozy beds, and a view overlooking the celebration raging on the square. Will plopped onto the bed. “I’m spent.”
“Let’s get a nightcap,” Caleb said.
Will recognized the gleam in Caleb’s eye that meant his nightcap would last until the last drink was poured. While his body felt like Jell-O, Will couldn’t deny that he was wired from the excitement. “Yeah, sure.”
“Good man,” Caleb said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tamás would be embarrassed if we didn’t show support for the local brew.”
Will chuckled and led the way to the common room, a sprawling medley of dark wood, worn leather furniture, and tables filled with chattering patrons. The brothers found a place in the corner, next to the fire. Hundreds of empty beers mugs hung on pegs from the walls. Moments after they sat down, a starry-eyed waitress brought out steins of house-made ale. “You’re the fellows flew in with Tamás!”
Caleb cocked a grin. “I’m Caleb, and that’s my brother Will.”
She took their order and gave him a lingering gaze, swaying as she walked away. Will pointed at his brother. “Keep it out of the room, you hear me? I’m not going to spend my first night in a real bed in months listening to my brother get busy with a bar waitress.”
“What if there aren’t any more rooms?”
“Not my problem. Find a woodshed.”
“Can’t you be a team player?” Caleb’s mouth opened to say somet
hing else, then closed. “Besides,” he murmured after a pause, “you might want to rethink that rule.”
“What are you spouting about?” Will said.
He turned to see who Caleb was staring at, sure it was another in an endless string of bosomy barmaids, and then Will’s world shifted on its axis.
Climbing down the stairs to the common room with her self-assured sway, lithe and smooth-skinned as ever, jewelry flashing and curved eyes dancing, was the woman of his dreams.
A woman he thought was lost to him forever.
Mala.
-55-
The star-shaped Observatory came into view. Val flew through the circular opening atop the rotunda. After ensuring the building was empty, he soared down the first of the five black marble hallways, encased in the silence of the empty corridor.
Glow orbs ignited and dulled as he passed. When he reached the end of the hall, he pushed against the marble, testing for an illusion. It didn’t budge.
He tried the other four hallways with similar results. A surge of panic overcame him. Had Gowan been lying?
Val took a deep breath. He didn’t think so. The pyromancer had genuinely feared for his life. Val returned to the end of each hallway again, this time testing the marble walls with magic, just enough to push through a soft illusion. From his classes, he knew illusions could engage all of the senses, not just the visual.
As he stood with his hands against the end of the middle passage, probing with his magic, he felt the barrier lose its integrity, become less substantial. Val kept pushing, and was able to step through the false wall.
And into a stone passage.
The new corridor was short and almost completely dark. It ended at a set of wide granite steps, so old they were spotted with age, leading downward. A hint of residual light from somewhere, he wasn’t sure where, allowed him to inch along. Val took the staircase at least fifty feet down, wondering how such an underground structure could exist in New Victoria, sensing the false wall had transported him to another location, maybe another dimension.
When he finally reached the bottom, he found the source of the illumination: a wall of darkness sprinkled with twinkling stars.
The wall looked insubstantial, as if he could step right through, but when he tried to push his hand into the blackness, it felt as solid as the ancient steps he had just traversed.
Step through and you’ll see a staircase, Gowan had said. At the bottom is a doorway, the entrance to the Planewalk.
This was it, he knew. The entrance to the walk of planes.
You have to use spirit to open the door.
Val placed his hands on the edge of the barrier. He attempted to split it apart in the same way he reached for spirit fire, but felt heavy resistance. The barrier was dense, denser than anything he had ever experienced, and was going to take a far greater influx of power than he was used to. Was it even possible for him to do this? Was this a task for elder spirit mages alone?
He gritted his teeth. He was about to find out.
Reaching as deep as he ever had, pouring every ounce of power he possessed into forcing the doorway open, he felt the essence of the wall start to give. He balled his fists and pushed harder. It could be done. He knew it could.
The problem was, his store of magical energy was drained from using Spirit Fire against Gowan. Val could feel the entrance giving way, but not enough for him to make it through.
He reached for another vial of spirit water. It pained him to use one of the remaining two, but if he never got inside, the trial would be over before it started.
Keeping his will pressed against the wall of stars, holding open the sliver of space, he opened one of the remaining vials and swallowed the slimy substance. Another surge of energy coursed through him. He pushed even harder.
Though he couldn’t see anything, he could feel the entrance opening. Using his magic to grip the crack he had opened in the black doorway, he formed a mental image of prying it apart with his fingers, and thrust it open.
Accompanied by a flash of silver light that robbed his vision, Val felt his entire body vibrate and then dissolve at an incredible speed, every molecule jerked forward. It lasted the briefest of moments, an instant in time—just like when he had gone through the first portal to Urfe with his brothers, using Salomon’s key.
When Val opened his eyes, he was standing on a ray of bluish-white light the width of a balance beam. Thick darkness hovered all around, as if he were suspended in a patch of starless space. At the end of the ray of light, perhaps a hundred feet away—it was hard to judge distance—loomed a doorway-size portal the same color as the beam.
One hundred feet. How hard can this be?
Val tried to take a step, and the room spun around him.
He was falling off the beam, the blackness revolving as if attached to an out-of-control carousel. He reached up to right himself, but his arms wouldn’t move, or his legs, or his fingers. If he didn’t do something quickly, he was going to plummet into the blackness. Into the Void. And he had the innate understanding that he wouldn’t be coming back.
In desperation, he tried to use Wind Push to right himself on the beam. The room rotated back to normal, and he regained his balance. He didn’t think it was that particular spell that did the trick, but rather thinking about standing upright. He tried it again, and confirmed his suspicion: movement responded to thought. He could rotate the angle of the beam just by using his mind.
Having regained his balance, he tried to move forward, but frowned when he couldn’t advance. He turned to look behind him and blanched; the beam extended in a straight line as far as he could see, with no sign of the stone staircase.
Keep calm, Val.
As he debated what to do, a gust of wind caressed his cheek. Though curious, he was too focused on reaching the portal to ponder it. He tried using Wind Push to move forward. No dice. As he pondered what to do, the strange wind grew more forceful, creating a high-pitched keen as the intensity increased.
Val remembered what he had read in the library of Lord Alistair.
The Spirit Bridge must be walked in a continuous motion until the portal is reached. Stopping or leaving the Spirit Bridge will result in buffeting by the astral wind and certain oblivion in the realm of spirit.
Well, that wasn’t good.
The force of the gale strengthened. Growing desperate, Val searched for a solution as the wind howled in his ears and pounded him on the beam, threatening to sweep him away.
It’s a spirit bridge, he thought. Maybe it has to be walked with spirit.
He reached for his magic. Though still difficult, it was easier to access in this place. He tried to propel himself forward along the beam, using spirit as an energy source.
It worked! He moved a foot forward, and then another, and then another. The wind abated with each step, until it died away and Val’s confidence returned. He had figured this out!
Twenty steps later, a fifth of the way to the portal, the thickness of the spirit barrier increased, until he felt as if he were moving through molasses.
A test, then.
He pushed harder. The increased exertion helped, but he was unable to advance more than an inch or two. The astral wind returned, tickling his cheek. Fear arced through him, and he blew out a breath, pushing with body and mind.
It took him long minutes of extreme exertion to break through. When at last he passed the invisible barrier, he was so drained he was feverish and shivering, as if he had succumbed to the flu. When he stopped to catch his breath, the spirit wind picked up.
He had to keep going.
Push, Val.
Moving forward had become much harder, as if he were walking underwater with weights on his feet. Each step became heavier than the last, consuming his final reserves of energy.
When he was halfway to the portal, without warning, he walked right into a filmy invisible substance, like a curtain of gauze. The blackness around him exploded with color.
Simil
ar to the sight of the Grid he had glimpsed when gazing with Alrick, spirals and vortices and multi-dimensional patterns of color extended in all directions, as far as he could see, whorls and pathways and oceans of color, planes and helixes and spirals, hues so brilliant he had to shield his eyes. As he took in the awesome spectacle, a gust of astral wind hit him so hard that he flew off the beam.
In a panic, flying sideways into the rush of color, he reached for the beam with his hands.
And missed.
He was floating away. The astral wind picked up, whistling like an oncoming train as it readied for another assault. Forgetting where he was, Val flailed for the beam with his hands, drifting further afield. He finally remembered to use magic to propel himself towards the Spirit Bridge, which had almost blended into the polychromatic background.
A gust of wind hit him just as his fingers grasped the surface of the blue-white beam. He clung with his magic to its solidity as the wind increased in force, buffeting him with the power of a hurricane.
When it finally abated, Val collapsed onto the walkway. He couldn’t move. His magic was spent.
Shivery with exhaustion, he knew what he had to do. The spirit wind had already picked up again. Terrified even harder tests lay ahead, he consumed the last vial of spirit water. As soon as it slid down his throat he felt renewed, and he took a step forward, determined not to waste another second. He passed through another of the filmy barriers, and the colors disappeared, replaced by blackness. The portal loomed closer than ever, less than thirty feet away.
Prepared to face whatever final challenges were thrown at him, he pushed grimly through another of the gauzy barriers, this one slipping over him like a wetsuit, and then he was in his living room, ten years old, clapping with joy at the new bike beneath the Christmas tree.
“It’s all yours, Val,” his father said. “Go ahead, try it out.”
Val turned from his father, whose warm smile beamed at him from his easy chair by the bay window, to his mother, her slim arms holding little Will in her arms, Caleb hugging his knees at her feet.