The boy looked at Roland reproachfully, and he shut his mouth and climbed after the child. They picked their way through the wreck of weeds and walkways in disrepair, and the boy pushed open a door that was already unlatched and hanging slightly open.
The house smelled like dust, mold, and peeling plaster.
Roland coughed in the dust stirred up by the door. Stray walked slowly past him, looking all around with wide eyes. The doors opened into a hall with sweeping staircases and paintings that were a hundred years or more old. As old as this house and the family that had always lived here. The floor was a mess of plaster chips and straw; some animal had been nesting here—or a whole colony of them. Roland could hear mice in the walls.
A memory of the cantankerous old housekeeper returned to him, and he almost laughed at the thought of her seeing this place now. It hadn’t been empty more than two years, but it looked like the soul of desolation.
It’s lonely, that’s why, Roland thought. This place isn’t supposed to be empty, so it’s falling apart in protest.
“It’s all right,” he said out loud. “We’re here now.”
Stray’s hand tugged at his again. “Come on. Upstairs, remember?”
Roland hesitated another moment and then kicked bits of plaster out of his way as he moved across the floor, up the stairs where everything was brown and sepia, bathed in dusty light from the windows. The hills outside were brown too, beneath patches of green grass and purple thistles. He cast a glance out the dirt-covered window panes, then turned his eyes upstairs.
Halfway up the stairs, his life changed again.
“Roland!” boomed a voice.
Stray was looking knowingly at him when he heard the voice from somewhere in the cobwebs. The voice echoed in the deepest part of his soul and made the stairs shake, though he knew they weren’t really shaking—that it was his inward self that was shaking. Stray’s eyes shone. His face was joyful as Roland came higher, and he hopped from step to step with glee. “Just a little further,” he said.
Roland stopped and looked at him. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
The boy smiled. “Of course.”
“Who was it?” Roland asked.
Stray grinned widely. “It was me,” he said.
“It wasn’t you. You’re right here with me. And that voice wasn’t yours—it was a man’s.”
“I left something here for you,” Stray said. “A long time ago. A gift. You’ll see.”
Roland opened his mouth to protest again. Stray was talking gibberish as he loved to do. But an image from his dream came back to him, of the boy throwing light into the sky and becoming more than a boy. And Roland’s clothes were still damp from running across the water. He experienced a sudden understanding: that the future Virginia Ramsey had promised him was almost here, and this boy was going to give it to him. He cleared his throat. “You did?” he asked.
“Come on,” Stray said. “It’s not much further.”
Shaking his head, Roland finished climbing the stairs. The voice was still echoing through his head, and as he walked the echoes grew in volume and became a lion’s roar.
“Roland!”
This time the voice seemed to pass right into him, to become a part of him. He stopped and held on to a rail as the roar shook the hall where he stood and rattled the paintings on the walls—but no, they were not rattling. It was his insides that were reverberating with the sound.
The roar quieted, and Roland realized he was standing outside a room.
Stray smiled. “Inside,” he said.
Roland pushed open the doors.
The room seemed somehow older than the rest of the house, older and more alive beneath the layers of dust that covered it. On a long table that ran the length of it was a book.
It was an old book, bound in red leather, and Roland’s hands made their own way to it, felt the smooth cover, sensed the age, the significance, the hauntedness of it. And his hands trembled as they opened the cover.
Writing covered the pages, faded in places, smudged in others, here and there stained with ink or with dark spots that looked like blood. The hand was all the same, long and slanted, an elegant hand but a strong one. The words were in a language Roland did not know.
“I can’t read it,” he said, his voice small in his own ears.
“Yes, you can,” Stray said, his voice sounding at once closer and much farther away that it had been.
And as Stray said it, so it became true. The words did not change, but Roland knew them suddenly; they drew him in and made themselves known to him.
I am Aneryn, the Poet; I am Aneryn, the Prophet; I am Aneryn, the Strong…
Roland turned pages and read poetry, prophecy, and the tale of a poet exiled alongside his King in the last days of the Great War. As he read he felt as though he was there, as though he could remember it all happening. As though he was the poet.
Along with the words came the knowledge of his world. He saw, like a story unfolding before him, the way men had driven the King into exile and embraced the reign of death. He saw the founding of the Empire, and he saw the first members of the Order of the Spider reaching through the Veil to take hold of the power of the Blackness, inviting back into the world powers the King had shut away. He saw the way the Empire lied, the way it buried the stories of the King and made the people of the Seventh World think there was no other way to live than to be subject to the Empire’s rule, to drink and carouse like the MacTavish, to go bad like the High Police, and eventually to die. They tried to crush every story of the old world and make sure no one remembered the war, no one remembered the King, no one remembered life.
They were liars and thieves, and the people of the Seventh World believed them and allowed them to take whatever they wished.
But their lies would not always triumph.
Tonight I gazed into the fire to shut out the darkness around me. The flames danced in shapes and whispered words. I, the Poet-Prophet, have seen the future. I have seen the signs of his coming again…
The Gifted ones whom I have seen will walk the earth and awaken it to the King.
Hear, then, what I have heard.
When they see beyond the sky,
When they know beyond the mind,
When they hear the song of the Burning Light;
Take these Gifts of My Outstretched Hand,
Weave them together.
I shall come.
The tremble that had begun in his hands spread through his body as he turned the page once again, and now he saw a sketch: a lion, tawny-maned and fierce; and standing with a hand in its mane, a child with eyes like the sea. And he read more, about Six who would be Gifted, about the King who would return, about lies and death that nearly strangled the Seventh World, and about Blackness that must have its day…
“Roland!”
Once again he heard his name, in a roar, in a voice that broke over him like the ocean’s raging. The sound knocked him backward, and he found himself lying on the floor in the house of Angslie with the book clutched to his chest, eyes wide, soul full of what he had heard. The voice was still in him; pounding in him. And the picture.
Stray was gone. But his voice was still lingering in the house, so strongly that Roland could converse with it.
Do you remember the Seer? Stray’s voice asked.
Roland nodded.
She needs you. So do the others. They are waiting for you and Virginia in the Green Isle. You don’t have much time.
“I don’t understand,” Roland said.
Maybe you don’t, Stray’s voice came. But you need them, and they need you. You have my Gift now—my voice. And it is time for the weaving together. Listen carefully. You must find Virginia and go to the Green Isle. The rest of the Six are there, waiting for you. You do not have much time. Join them, and tell them to come to Pravik. I am going ahead of you there.
“I…” Roland stopped. “I will,” he said simply.
You do know me now, don�
�t you?
Roland swallowed hard. The lion’s voice was still reverberating in him. And the vision of Stray throwing light into the sky. Stray who was not a stray here after all… who was the Heart of the World come home at last. He nodded.
He thought he heard a twinkle in Stray’s eye. Remember, Stray’s voice finished, no matter what happens, I am always a step ahead of you.
* * *
It was nearly nightfall again by the time Virginia, Rehtse, and Kieran reached the harbours of Galce—footsore and wearier than any of them could say. Virginia’s head plagued her from Lord Robert’s blow, and pain from the Spider’s draining still ached in every part of her. Only the strength of her visions and conviction kept her going. She leaned on Rehtse, who grew more and more tired but said not a word of complaint.
“There will be no ships leaving at night,” Virginia said. “We will have to wait till morning.”
Rehtse looked through the trees to the water. The harbour was protected and calm, but she could hear waves crashing off rocks beyond it. Torches cast orange light over the water and into the trees. Men were moving on the docks, their shadows friendly, their voices rough but not menacing.
“I think not,” she said, trying to make her voice sound strong. “They are loading a boat now—perhaps they will take us.”
“No one takes ship at night,” Virginia said. She squeezed Rehtse’s arm and laughed wearily. “But then, I am with you. Your luck has not failed us so far.”
“It is not luck,” Rehtse said. She gently pulled herself free of Virginia. “Wait here,” she said.
Virginia frowned. “It’s not safe,” she said.
Rehtse smiled, though she knew Virginia could not see her expression. “But my leading is not luck. Don’t be afraid.”
She turned and strode out of the trees toward the docks, where three men were loading a fishing boat with small boxes. Nets and hooks hung from its barnacled sides, casting peculiar shadows in the torchlight. The men were talking amongst themselves, the younger two laughing, the oldest adding crusty retorts. It was he who looked up and saw Rehtse approaching, and his bushy white eyebrows shot up. He said nothing.
I am not trusting to luck, Rehtse reminded herself. I pray the King I am not trusting to stupidity either.
“Greetings,” she said.
Her voice rang out over the gentle lapping of the waves, startling one of the younger men so badly that he dropped one of his boxes into the water. He swore and dove in after it. The other peered at her through the shadows.
“Who are you?” he called.
“One needing passage,” she said. “Are you going to Bryllan?”
“Aye, to the Highlands,” the young man who still stood on the ground said. “Home.”
“Have you room for three more?” Rehtse asked. “We are only two women and a boy. We need safe passage—the sooner the better.”
“Ye can’t get there sooner than we can take you,” the young man said. “My wife is due to give me a son any hour now. I want to be home.”
Rehtse smiled. “Then you will take us?”
The old man spoke. “Why should we?” he asked.
“Because we need help,” Rehtse said. “And here you are. It seems the King’s will that you do.”
The youngest man crawled out of the water, heaving the box by a rope. He shook water from his long hair and looked, dripping, to the end of the dock where Rehtse stood. “We’re taking them?” he asked.
The old man nodded. “Clear space. There’s three.”
Rehtse turned to get the others. They had already left the shelter of the trees—Kieran and Virginia stood at the edge of the light, arm in arm. Virginia smiled and shook her head as Rehtse took her elbow.
“It is not luck,” Virginia said. “But it is uncanny.”
Rehtse smiled. “It was not I who brought the wind to our rescue. You also know something of the King’s help.”
“But I rarely throw myself so boldly upon it,” Virginia said.
All three linked arms and stepped onto the floating dock. The men helped them into the ship, where they settled on a pile of nets. Virginia thanked the fishermen softly. The youngest, still dripping, cocked his head.
“Yours is a welcome accent,” he said. “Going home too?”
Virginia turned her head so the salty breeze was in her face. “At long last,” she said. “Yes.”
Rehtse settled into the nets on the bottom of the boat and let sleep come over her. Kieran leaned his head against her shoulder, seeming again to be younger than he looked. The wind in the channel was strong and steady, and Rehtse drank up the scent of salt air and the sounds of wind and wave. She fixed her eyes on the stars above the boat until she slept, and then the boat was scraping gravel, and they were ashore.
Rehtse stood and helped a sleepy Kieran to his feet. They climbed out of the boat with the help of the sailors, who had already helped Virginia down. The shore rose into low mountains, barren and rocky.
The Highlands.
They were not so dark as the forest had been, for the moon reflected off white and grey rocks and pale grass and flowers. A bird was singing its mournful song somewhere nearby, the strains rising above the pounding of the sea. The air smelled of salt and turf, fish and iron.
“It is dark,” Kieran said. “Should we wait for morning?”
“No,” Virginia said. “Time is not on our side. Rehtse, can you see a winding path leading up into the hills toward a jutting peak of rock? There should be a great tree bent over the path.”
Rehtse searched it out and found it, the path just discernible in the moonlight with a willow casting its sorrowful branches over its entrance. “I see it,” she said.
Virginia nodded. “That is the way to Angslie. Lead us on, Rehtse.”
One of the men called after them. “Do ye need help?” he asked.
Virginia smiled and shook her head. “We know the way,” she said.
* * *
For two hours Virginia, Rehtse, and Kieran followed the path into the nearly barren hills. They crested a ridge, and there, under the moonlight, lay a village with its chimneys smoking. Voices and laughter came from an inn close by, along the road to the village.
“Angslie,” Virginia said.
“Might we find room in the inn?” Rehtse asked.
“Best not to,” Virginia answered. “I have few friends here, and more enemies than I care to admit.”
“But this is your home,” Rehtse said.
Virginia shook her head. “I am not sure I have ever had a home other than the hills themselves. Anyway, it is not down toward the village that we want to go. We need to go further into the hills—to the House of Angslie.”
She took a step down the path, but faltered, and she winced as she lifted a hand to her head.
“Virginia,” Rehtse said quietly, “we have come far, and you are still weak from Evelyn’s attack. You need food and drink—we all do. Let me go to the tavern. They do not know me there. I have coin enough for bread. You and Kieran can stay here and rest until I return.”
Virginia nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have thought more of your needs.”
Rehtse just smiled and squeezed Virginia’s hand before squaring her shoulders and heading down the hill to the inn. It was well lit, its courtyard full of horses and men. Eyes turned to follow her as she let herself into the yard, but she kept her head high and whispered a prayer for safety.
When she opened the door to the inn, light momentarily blinded her. She blinked to get her bearings, and her heart sank.
The inn was full of soldiers dressed in black and green. High Police. They were drinking, playing cards, grumbling and laughing. But their heads turned almost as one when she entered. She lifted her chin and refused to look at them straight on.
“Well, looky here,” one of them said.
Rehtse took a few more steps inside, ignoring the commenter and all the rest of the prying eyes, and approached a man sh
e thought might be the innkeeper. He stood, swaying on his feet.
“I’m looking for food and drink,” she said. “Will you sell me some?”
His eyes were unmistakably hostile. “Where do ye come from, foreigner?” he asked.
Behind her, someone said, “Ain’t no one in the yard… she’s alone.”
She turned and bolted.
Strong hands grabbed her arms, though she twisted and fought. Voices laughed. “Leaving so soon?” one voice asked. “Are we such bad company?”
The men hauled her back into the inn.
The innkeeper came forward and looked her over coldly. He was unmistakably drunk, but his wits still seemed about him. He took her purse from her hand and shook it, nodding in satisfaction at the clink of coins.
“Those are mine,” Rehtse said. “Are you a thief?”
He looked her over again. “Ye came here intending to pay me, I’ve no doubt. Well now—my roof is over your head, and my patrons will entertain ye for the evening. Neither service is free. This’ll just about do.”
The soldiers laughed, and one reached out to touch her cheek. Rehtse bit him, and he yelled and shook his hand. Two of them were still holding her arms firmly. A new voice spoke, and a balding man with red hair and an equally red face got up from the corner. He was short but formidable, muscles bulging from his shoulders and arms.
“Leave the girl alone,” he said. “What kind of brigand are ye, MacTavish?”
The innkeeper coloured. “Leave the men to their fun, Cameron Blacksmith,” he said.
“An innocent girl is not their fun,” Cameron answered. He drew nearer. “Now, girl,” he said. “Who are ye? And what is your business here? These parts are not friendly to strangers.”
“I am called Rehtse,” Rehtse answered. “I come—from the east. I want only bread. I am just passing through.”
“Liar,” one of the High Police said. He was a dark-haired man of average height and build, Italyan from his accent, with two day’s growth of beard and an unkempt uniform that bore the insignia of an officer. “I have been posted to this forsaken place three times in my career, and the one thing I know is that no one passes through Angslie. You’re on an island at the end of the world. There is nowhere to get to from here. If you’re here it’s because you meant to come and you mean to stay. And you will stay. Till we get the truth out of you.”
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