Guardians of the Gates

Quest of the Messenger

Guardians of the Gates

By Hannah Ross

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, or anything else is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner by any means, known or unknown, without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2015 by Hannah Ross

All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Abeautiful May morning was rising over a remote little valley in the Swiss Alps. After a stormy night, the sunlight broke into a thousand quivering rainbows through beads of shining dew. Fluffy clouds in the tender shade of rosy pink were strewn here and there across the periwinkle blue sky, and the lush young green grass was soft and inviting for bare feet to walk upon. A faint shimmer in the distance indicated the location of a deep and clear mountain lake.

Two women were standing outside a small chalet built of dark brown logs. One was around forty, big and handsome, with her dark hair drawn back in a simple bun. She wore a wide, sturdy home-sewn dress of brown fabric, with the strings of a neat apron criss-crossed upon her back. She was busy drawing water from a well, to cook the morning porridge.

The other was scarcely more than a girl, tall and slim, and from a distance she might have been mistaken for a lad, for she was wearing her brother's old shapeless overalls and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and her black hair was short and shaggy. To the grief of her mother, she had cut off her long thick plait the year before, claiming that it got in the way.

Now she was standing with her hands in her pockets, looking up and squinting.

I think I'll have a look at the roof before breakfast, Mom, she declared. Another night like this, and there won't be a dry spot left in the house.

The older woman turned away from the well and towards her daughter. She was looking troubled as she stared at the girl, who went behind the house to the storage shed, where the tools were kept. She returned minutes later carrying a sturdy wooden ladder which looked far too heavy for her, although she handled it easily in her thin but well-muscled arms. She had gotten used to this kind of work throughout the two years she and her mother had spent living on their own in the chalet.

Claire! her mother protested weakly. This can wait, dear. Antoine is supposed to come along soon, I will ask him to take a peek.

Antoine, their nearest neighbour, was a middle-aged widower who lived at a distance of a thirty-minute brisk walk from them and kept a herd of fine Alpine cows who gave excellent far-famed milk. He was their steady supplier of milk, cheese and cream, from which Margaret, Claire's mother, churned butter.

It might be something simple, Claire said cheerfully, leaning the ladder against one of the house's walls. She grabbed a hammer as she went and began climbing. Her feet were clad in heavy boots, and when Margaret looked at them from below, she saw the thick layer of sticky mud on the soles and sighed inwardly. This was not how she would have wished to see her daughter at this time of her life. In her mind, she had an image of a fine young lady, well-mannered and elegantly dressed… not a girl in torn overalls, with a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Although she had to concede and say it was probably for the best that Claire had adapted so well to the life they were currently leading. After all, what choice did they have?

In most parts of Europe, war was still raging, and while Margaret knew they ought to be grateful – for they were well away from it, and had shelter and plenty of food, which was not something many people could boast of – there were other challenges to be met. Many of the roads were destroyed, the communication systems ruined, everything was in shortage, and the work was hard. All this, though, was nothing next to having to do without the men of the family. It has been two years since they had said goodbye to Margaret's husband and son – Claire's father and elder brother - and more than six months from the last letter they got. It was Edward, Claire's brother, who wrote back then; he assured his mother that both he and his father are well, and that they are going with the armed forces of the European Union which are crossing the La Manche. From this Margaret and Claire concluded that Timothy and Edward must have taken part in the Portsmouth Battle, which was won by the United forces – Ed couldn't have written more clearly, because of the military censorship. But that was long past, and they have checked every published list of the fallen and the survivors they could get their hands on, and nowhere did they see the names of Timothy or Edward Swift. Neither did any notice reach the mail box in the village which they came down to check once in a while, when Antoine could lend them his horse-drawn cart. Gasoline was nearly worth its weight in gold now, and Antoine only took his car out in a case of emergency.

I see it! Claire shouted from the roof. I can fix it… at least I hope so, but that will take the best part of the morning. I'll tackle it after breakfast, she decided and began climbing down. Once she stood on firm ground again, she wiped her hands on her overalls, and Margaret stifled another sigh. Not noticing it, Claire proceeded to take the bag of chicken feed and scattered some on the ground, after opening the door of the chicken coop. The chickens rushed forward, clucking, and began busily pecking at the grain.

Margaret went inside, carrying two full buckets of water, and soon the monotonous sound of the hand grinder could be heard in the yard as she began cracking the grain for the porridge. Claire gathered the morning's eggs and went inside after her mother. She melted some butter in a frying pan and cracked two eggs into it.

The mother and daughter sat down to breakfast at a small, roughly cut wooden table covered by a clean red-and-white checked tablecloth. Margaret put a cup of steaming herb tea in front of each of them. While they were eating, Claire ventured upon one of her latest favorite subjects – buying and keeping a cow.

… or even two, Mom. They will keep each other company, you know. I'm sure Antoine could give us a good price for one of theirs, and if Franc lends me a hand, we can make a paddock of sorts.

Franc was Antoine's only son, and to his father's infinite relief, this fat and timid lad was also lame, the result of a mountaineering accident he had when he was just a boy. This ruined his leg, but saved him from being recruited when all men between eighteen (and Ed had been even younger) and forty were taken away from their homes and to the army. Franc had been making calf eyes at Claire ever since she and her mother came to live in the chalet, which was something she ignored with regal superiority.

But why do we need a cow, dear? Margaret objected in exasperated tones, spooning up some porridge. We get all the milk and cheese we could want from Antoine. I even feel ashamed sometimes, because he almost never accepts any money from me.

Precisely, said Claire. "I don't feel comfortable with accepting favors… and besides, sometimes we can't get even to Antoine's. Remember that time last winter when we were stuck in the house for a fortnight? There was no milk, the hens went off laying, and for two weeks we ate nothing but grain cooked with water, some pickles, and a little moldy cheese – and I don't care what you say, it wasn't ripe, it had simply gone bad. If we had a cow, on the other hand, we could have had milk, cream and butter."

Margaret bit her tongue to keep herself from speaking. The truth was, she did not want her daughter doing more dirty work than she had to. She stole a glance at Claire's hands, which were clutching her cup of tea for warmth. They were rough and callused, and the uneven fringe of black hair fell into her eyes. Claire blew on it impatiently to shake it off. She will cut it off again, Margaret knew. Perhaps she should offer to do it herself this time. At least this way it will come out even.

Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Madame Swift? a rumbling voice sounded. C'est moi.

Margaret rose and went to open the door, smoothing down her apron. A barrel-chested, thick-limbed man stood at the doorframe, his beard and whiskers a mixture of brown and grey.

Bonjour, Monsieur Antoine, Margaret said, a little awkwardly, as ever when she spoke French. Claire was much more fluent in it, as well as in the Romansh that was still spoken in the remote mountains and valleys. Antoine spoke English pretty well, though; once, as a young man, he had lived for a couple of years in London (before the war, obviously; nothing but a pile of rubble remained of the old and proud city of London now).

Antoine brought in two large pails of milk and placed them by the door. I brought you milk, he explained needlessly. Lait, he emphasized, just in case.

Lait, repeated Margaret, needlessly fussing and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Merci… merci beaucoup. Do be seated, Antoine. I fear we ran out of coffee, but… she trailed off.

Who hasn't run out of coffee? Antoine said, sitting down heavily in the crude wooden chair Margaret offered him and accepting a cup of herb tea with a nod of thanks. Margaret pushed the pot of honey towards him. Sugar was in scarce supply as much as coffee, but they still had honey. It was from last year and had partially crystallized, but dissolved in hot tea it was as good as ever.

Bonjour, mademoiselle Claire, Antoine said in his friendly manner. Claire returned his greeting.

Have you been to the village lately, Monsieur Antoine? she asked.

No, but Franc went there two days ago, to sell our milk and cheese. No news from England, I fear. There was something else, though: the first messages in a long time have arrived from Australia.

Australia? exclaimed Claire, disbelieving.

Impossible! protested Margaret. Australia was destroyed a year ago, that is well known.

I thought so as well, Antoine nodded sagely. But it appears some places have survived, as islands – people there lived quietly, and now they have recovered enough to send messages to the outside world.

Well, that is wonderful, Margaret said brightly, putting out on a platter some of the oat cakes she had baked yesterday. Perhaps this mad world is finally on the path of recovery.

I should hope so, Madame, Antoine said politely, taking one of the oat cakes. These were sweetened with honey too, and had currants in them. But the losses have been great, alas… very great. This winter, too, was a harsh one, and spring was late to come. I do not recall so much hardship in one year.

Antoine, with his stout and muscular figure, rosy face and hearty appetite, looked like a man who did not know what hardship was, but Margaret knew appearances were deceitful. He had fought in a war before, lost a wife and a brother, suffered through his son's injury, went bankrupt once. Yet now he was reclining on the chair, tranquil, sipping tea and chewing on an oat cake. This made her feel there is still hope in the world.

And so, Mesdames, he said, looking from Margaret to Claire alternately, how did you go through last night’s rain? Any leaks again?

Actually, yes, admitted Margaret, despite Claire's frown and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. It took quite a while to clear up the flood from the living space this morning.

I'll take a look at that roof later, promised Antoine.

There is no need to, said Claire. Thank you, monsieur, but I already saw what the problem is. I can fix it myself.

Antoine hesitated, as though wishing to say something and not knowing whether he dare. Finally, he plunged onward. I have been wanting to say for a long time, he began, this… this place is not fit for the two of you. Neither for you, Madame, nor for mademoiselle Claire. This is an old house, and not meant to be lived in throughout the winter. And it is too remote. There were spells of snow last winter when I knew you could not get out for weeks at a time, and I worried about you.

You needn't have, said Claire, but Antoine shook his head.

What if something had happened? Where would you have called for help? What if you ran out of food? What if one of you got sick? And there are worse things… true, here we don't have the riff-raff and bandits that wander through other areas of the country, but they might come one day, and find two women on their own. I know it is an unpleasant thought, but you need to consider it for the sake of your daughter, Madame.

I know, Margaret said reluctantly, with a worried frown. Yet what is there to be done, Monsieur Antoine? I have checked before, and the houses in the village are all occupied by other refugees. Even this chalet was a godsend for us.

I have an offer for you, Antoine said. My house is big, too big for only me and Franc. You and mademoiselle Claire could have two good, spacious rooms for yourselves – and we'll leave a message, so that if your husband and son return, they know to look for you there, not here at the chalet.

If, he said, Margaret noted to herself with a bitter pang. Not when. Yet could she blame him? Sometimes, even she doubted that Timothy and Edward were still alive. She wanted to believe, she made herself believe, but sometimes, in the darkest hours before dawn, doubt crept upon her, thick and black, and she tossed and turned in her bed and could hardly wait for the morning to come, to bring relief in work and take her mind off hopeless thoughts.

It would be especially good for Mademoiselle Claire, I believe, Antoine went on. She is all alone here, with no resources, and it's a pity, for she is a talented young woman. In the village, on the other hand, they are organizing… well, I cannot call it a college, but there are some teachers, professors, men of education who are giving lectures on a voluntary basis. More society, too. It's not much, true, but it's better than nothing. Sadly, many things have been cut off by the war, and mademoiselle's education was one of them.

I'm getting all the education that matters for times like these, bristled Claire.

Oui, but we hope these times won't last forever, yes? I pray that you think of it, Madame.

You are too kind, Margaret said, but I fear we are already too much in your debt –

If you felt like it, you could help me, Antoine spoke across her. There is always plenty of work, with the cows and in the garden… you wouldn't be doing heavy work, of course – only what is appropriate for women. And the house, too, is falling into disrepair without the touch of a woman's hand. Just please… he struggled for words. "Don't think I'm trying to hire you as… household help, or… because it's not like that at all. You would be the one doing me a favor, Madam Margaret. And you would be safer and more comfortable this way. As far as I see it, everyone wins if you give your consent."

He was looking directly at Margaret, and she blushed. No, she didn't think Antoine was trying to hire her as a domestic. She knew quite well, in fact, that he had something entirely different in mind.

The truth was, Antoine was still a vigorous and healthy man, young enough to wish to marry again… and she was now considered a widow by almost everyone. I might be a widow, she had to admit. Much might have happened in the time since I last heard of Tim. Yet she would not accept his death without question, not until she got definite proof that he was gone.

On the other hand, Antoine was here, decent and helpful and likeable enough, and such a good neighbour. She knew that without his assistance, they would not be getting on as well as they had. And his offer made perfect sense. It was not an improper suggestion; she wouldn't go to live alone with him, after all – and it seems he had echoed her very thoughts about Claire. This isolation was not right for a young girl.

I will think about what you said, Monsieur Antoine, she promised, placing a warning hand on top of Claire's when she noticed her daughter was about to speak up in protest. Antoine nodded, satisfied, and got up.

I will chop some firewood for you before I leave, he said, turning towards the door.

After the sounds of the axe had stopped, and Antoine called his au revoir through the window and his steps faded away in the distance, Claire rounded on her mother.

"You aren't going to do it, Mom, are you? Dad and Edward will return, I know it, I know it, and when they do they will want to find us here."

"They will want to find us well, stressed Margaret, sighing. I know your father wouldn't want us to – to put ourselves in danger, or to live without the basic necessities out of pride or… well, and after all, Antoine made us a very respectable offer, that was kind of him, truly, he has always been so very attentive to us – "

"So very attentive to you, Claire said mercilessly with a flash of her blue eyes, making her mother blush like a girl. Mom, you can't be blind. He fancies you."

He knows I am married, Margaret said firmly.

He thinks you are a widow. You know that.

There was a long, long silence.

I haven't decided anything yet, Margaret said quietly. Perhaps… perhaps we can carry on by ourselves here for a while, we have held out this long, after all –

I'm sure we can, Claire's face brightened, especially if you listen to me and get that cow. Well, I'm going to fix the roof now, she added, and went out.

Claire spent most of the morning working on the roof, with satisfying results. By lunchtime she announced to her mother that, unless she is much mistaken, there will be no more leaks.

I'm just waiting for another rain to test this, she said while they were eating soup thickened with oats and melted cheese. After lunch Claire ventured out to look for some wild-growing berries; Margaret remained behind to clear the table and wash the dishes. A couple of hours later Claire returned, flushed and triumphant, carrying a basket that was filled to the brim with blueberries. Her mother praised her resourcefulness and set the berries aside. Some of them would be eaten with cream for breakfast, and some used in a jam or a pie.

The long spring day was ending, and while dusk was setting upon the valley, Margaret brought in the chickens and locked them in their coop, then went inside and barred the door and windows. A kerosene lamp was lit, and by its cozy glow the mother and daughter ate their simple supper of bread, milk and cheese. When they were done Margaret took out some stockings to mend and moved closer to the lamp, to have better light for her work. Claire, meanwhile, flipped through some of the few books they managed to obtain, but found nothing to divert her, and instead picked up one of the treasures they had brought with them from home – a family photo album. She sat on the two-seat couch with the faded cover, next to her mother who was busy sewing up a ripped seam, to look through the photographs.

Look, Mom, she said in a soft voice. There are Father and Ed in their uniforms, just before they left for the war… see how proud Ed looks? He kept boasting of how he managed to make them take him, even though he was not eighteen yet.

Margaret nodded sadly. I wish he had remained behind, she said, but I knew he wouldn't. Not when all the men were leaving – and besides, he would never have let his father go alone.

And here is a picture of the four of us, before we had to leave home… and another one, from when Ed and I were little… and here are some older photographs. Doesn't Grandpa look stylish in that white hat? And who is the man next to him?

His father, supplied Margaret, looking at a photograph of her husband's father, "Stanley, and his father, Andrew. And here is an even older photograph, added Margaret, setting her work aside and gently turning the pages until she reached the very beginning of the album. Have you ever even looked here? That is your great-great-grandfather, Septimus Swift."

Claire laughed. What a funny name, she said. He was good-looking, though… in his own way.

I think so too, Margaret nodded, and I see some resemblance between Ed and him.

Claire squinted, looking at the picture. Nothing like it, she declared.

Your father told me that strange tales circulated in the family about his great-grandfather, Margaret went on. All sorts of odd things… some said he was a vampire, for instance, she laughed easily. Hard to believe how silly people can be, isn't it? Even in those days.

Claire contemplated the photograph of Septimus Swift again. It was taken when he was a young man. She looked at the pallid profile, the black hair, the intelligent dark eyes. I can see why they said it, she finally offered, before gently closing the cover of the album. Weary of the day's hard work, she leaned on her mother's shoulder. It began to rain again, a cozy sound against the closed shutters.

See? The rain stays out this time, Claire pointed out proudly. Margaret stroked her daughter's hair affectionately. She is tired, and no wonder, she thought with a pang. At her age, Claire ought to be signing up for college, going out with friends, meeting boys… yet few things were how they should be, either in their lives or the fate of the entire world.

Do you remember Grandma's country house? Margaret reminisced fondly. I can recall it as if it were yesterday… us playing there as children, and later you and Ed. Sometimes I think it is for the best that Mom and Dad died before the war began. She could not have borne everything that had happened.

Do you think we will ever go back there? Claire asked wistfully.

We might try, if and when this war is over, Margaret said doubtfully. I don't know whether the house still stands, though. Sussex suffered heavily from the bombings, and I haven't had any news from there in a very long time. And even if the house survived… you remember how extensive the property is. It would take years to restore it to its former state.

We can do it, Claire said confidently, me and Ed.

If things ever come right, and we are together again, and we return to England, Margaret said cautiously, one of the first things you and Ed will have to do is catch up on your education. You can do an intensive course to complete all the school work you have missed, and later sign up for college.

Claire looked up at her in mild surprise. Why would I want to go to college? she inquired. "I would much rather be doing some real work."

You say so now, her mother contradicted patiently, but when the war is over, things will look different. Education will have much more tangible value once again, and you will see how much you missed out on, in our forced isolation here. You will be free to choose your path in life, and once that happens, you –

She stole a look at her daughter's face and fell silent.

Claire slept.

***

At the very same time in Tilir, in a world separated by an ocean of time and space and magic, dawn was about to break. Clumps of white mist swirled over the surface of a small lake. The color of the sky was a pale pre-dawn blue, and dew lay heavy over the tall grass.

A young man was waiting in a clump of bushes by the lake, still as stone, his eyes fixed intently on a group of wild ducks that were gliding upon the water's surface. Slowly, carefully so as not to make the slightest noise, one of his hands reached for his bow, while the other pulled an arrow out of its quiver.

His name was Jonnar, son of Ohar, son of Kohir, son of Korian, son of Jorrel, of the clan Tionae.

The arrow was already drawn, the aim taken, and he was about to loose when just behind him, a twig cracked, the noise startling in the complete silence of the early morning. One of the ducks let out a warning cry, which was taken up by the rest of the flock – and a moment later they were already flying above the lake, the air ringing with their voices. Jonnar's arrow twanged, but it was no good and he knew it even before he watched the shaft disappear beneath the pale grey surface of the water.

He spun around, annoyed.

Gahrod, he spoke familiarly to the one who intruded upon his privacy. If you had appeared a moment later, I could have invited you to share a good breakfast.

Gahrod was about the same age with Jonnar, but looked a couple of years older. He was rather short, square-built, freckled, with hair the color of rust. Although the blood of many clans mingled in him, he belonged to the Kamtesir.

I did not come to have breakfast, he told Jonnar, crossing his arms upon his chest with a look of displeasure that Jonnar serenely ignored. He laid his bow aside and reached for a fishing rod.

You haven't eaten yet, surely? The ducks are gone and the geese hadn't come, but there must be some fish in this lake, at the very least, he said while he was fixing the bait.

Gahrod spaced his feet slightly, as if to indicate that he would not budge. I came to remind you that the town elders are expecting us both this morning, he said.

I did not forget, said Jonnar. I will come… although I must confess, the matter doesn't make much sense to me.

"It would make more sense if you spent more time in town, instead of casting everything aside to live in a cave," Gahrod remarked scornfully.

Jonnar looked mildly amused. My cave suits me fine, he said, just as it suited my namesake.

Your namesake? Gahrod repeated, looking confused.

King Jonnar the Good. He spent twenty years living in a cave, hunting and fishing and contemplating how the world is run, and later he came out and united the clans of the Eastern provinces into a kingdom – a kingdom that lasted no more than a hundred years, to be sure, but it served to prevent a bloody feud between the East and West.

I have never heard of that, said Gahrod. When did it happen?

About a thousand years before King Alvadon the First.

Ah, Gahrod nodded condescendingly, a legend.

A legend? Why, only because it happened before the Union? The name of Jonnar the Good is written in many ancient scrolls, chiseled upon many stones. He was a great man, for he was content to live a simple life until he knew he was needed.

"Well, now you are needed."

So you said, though I still don't understand what for. Here, he pulled a flapping fish out of the lake and thrust it into Gahrod's hands, you can clean this.

A little while later, the two young men were sitting together on the shore of the lake – one of the few lakes in the vicinity of Rhasket-Tharsanae, their home town. Jonnar had wrapped the fish in leaves and was now baking it over hot embers. He sprinkled sea salt on top of it, and added some wild herbs for flavor.

It was done just as the sky turned gold and pink from the rays of the new sun. Jonnar carefully removed the fish from the fire, unwrapped the half-burned leaves, and offered half of the fish to Gahrod. Eat, Jonnar pressed the other man when he attempted to refuse. You are not known for refusing good food, so why start now?

Gahrod gingerly reached for his fish, careful so as not to burn his fingers, and sucked a morsel of white meat off the bones. "It is good, he said, surprised. I admit I never understood why you choose to fish in the lake when the sea is so near, but this has… a distinct flavor."

Jonnar shrugged. You find out all sorts of things when you get away from the noise and open your eyes and your ears, and learn to use your nose and your tongue properly, he said. Speaking of tongues, you'll burn yours if you eat so fast, Gahrod. What's the rush?

There is no time to waste, Gahrod said decisively through a mouthful of fish. After we are done eating, you are coming with me.

Why? Jonnar replied almost lazily.

"What do you mean why? We just went over this; I promised the clan leaders…"

And I said I would come, but they will not be expecting us so early. Eat without hurry, Gahrod, and then go and leave me in peace for a bit. I promise not to be late, he added under Gahrod's suspicious gaze. Trust me, he went on, attempting to dispel the suspicion he sensed in the Kamtesir man, I don't know why they want me of all people, and why I can't be left out of it, but I gave my word and I will be there. Besides, I need to go into town anyway. It is past time I visited my grandmother.

This, perhaps, served to convince Gahrod more than anything else. He finished the last of his fish and got up.

Thank you for breakfast, he said stiffly. And remember, we are expected two hours hence. Don't be late, or Tor will have my head.

Tor, the Head of the Kamtesir, was well known for his punctuality. Jonnar nodded.

After Gahrod was gone, Jonnar looked about him and felt momentary pity for the day that would be wasted, as he predicted, in some boring matter of the clan leaders. Last time he was summoned in a similar fashion, it was an attempt to recruit him to the City Watch – something he had barely wriggled out of. He wouldn't have hesitated to give up his peace and his freedom, had the town really been in need of more guards; but he knew it was nothing more than the work of his uncle Aldan, Head of the Tionae, who frowned upon his solitary life. He didn't expect something very different this time.

He didn't mean to let this vex him too much, though. The morning was so lovely, and he could almost see the fresh green leaves unfolding all about him. The lake was no longer a surface of steel-grey water and swirling mist; reflecting the sky, it was blue and gold and pink, and when Jonnar probed the water with his toe, it was pleasantly cool to the touch. He peeled off his clothes, cast them aside, stood on a rock he knew well and dived, arms forward, into the lake. A moment later he appeared again, head-first, gasping with cold and laughing with pure joy of living. He pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes. He had hair the shade of dark copper, but when it was wet it appeared almost black. Small fish were nibbling at his feet; he wriggled his toes and swam alongside them, and in the light of the rising sun his skin shone bronze.

All too soon the time passed, and Jonnar knew he had to go as he stared at the sun that already climbed high. He clambered out of the water and sat on the grassy bank of the lake, letting the warm rays of the sun dry him. He shook out droplets of water from his hair and pulled on his clothes. No doubt his grandmother would chide him for not choosing something finer – and cleaner – when he was to stand before all three Heads of the town clans, but he didn't care. This would serve. The Heads were the ones who asked to see him, after all.

His hunting knife was strapped to his belt, as always, but he still made sure to check that it was there. He contemplated taking his bow as well, but decided to leave it behind. It would be of no use, and anyhow he would be back soon.

Going at a good pace but without rushing, he began his way towards the town.

As he walked through the streets, he was recognized by most but greeted by only a few. This did not bother him. He had always been a loner by nature, a trait that was exacerbated by the early deaths of his parents and him being an only child. He never questioned his belonging to the clan of Tionae, naturally, but somehow it worked out in such a way that he found himself apart most of the time.

In the Town Hall, the heads of the clans were already waiting: Tor Kamtesir, wiry and lanky, with his long black and gray beard and twinkling brown eyes; Darreg Kotsar, still young but thick of waist, with powerful arms covered in coarse hair; and Aldan Tionae, Jonnar's uncle, fair of face and dignified-looking. Gahrod was there as well, and although Jonnar could swear he had arrived on time, Gahrod was tapping his foot impatiently and throwing accusing stares at him.

Well, we are all here, said Aldan, bringing his hands together, can we begin?

I see no reason to wait, said Tor, and Darreg nodded. Even though the day didn't promise to be especially hot, a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He wiped it off with his sleeve.

Good, Aldan went on. Help yourselves, he gestured towards a table, on which a pitcher of water, a platter of last season's dried fruit and some cups were waiting. Darreg didn't need to be asked twice. He walked towards the table and chose a prune.

You could have had some wine prepared, he complained to Aldan.

We need clear heads for what we are about to discuss, Aldan said, hardly looking at him. His eyes were all for Jonnar and Gahrod. We have had many years of peace and plenty under the reign of our good King Alvadon, he said, and his royal father before him, and the father of his father before that. Yet it is almost without doubt that we are going to face some… challenges - troubles perhaps.

I am still not convinced of that, mind you, Tor Kamtesir put in. The troubles you speak of do not touch Tilir.

For now, Darreg noted curtly, taking a bite of his prune. Let Aldan go on with this, Tor. The young ones need to be filled in.

"We know what is happening, Gahrod said in offended tones. If you mean the uprising rebellion in Malvia, that is."

Or the earthquake in Selfinor, added Jonnar. Although he wasn't often in town, important news never failed to reach his ears.

"Earthquake is an understatement, grunted Darreg. More like, the earth opened its mouth and swallowed most of Adrinor and Selfinor, and a host of refugees who have lost all they had are currently on their way to Tilir."

What makes them think they will find refuge in Tilir? wondered Jonnar.

Many years past, his uncle said, Princess Maviel of Adrinor sailed to our shores and gave her hand in marriage to the King of Tilir. This is enough for the Adrinorians, at least, to consider Tilir and Adrinor bound by blood forever.

Darreg snorted. This happened before any of our grandparents were even born, he said. And what would we do with all the refugees? Our land isn't vast, and its habitable parts are even smaller.

That is something for the king and his Council to decide, not us, said Tor. What concerns us is quite different, although I cannot help but feel there is a connection of sorts.

Must be a peculiar connection, said Darreg, because I don't see it.

A connection? asked Jonnar, feeling utterly confused. What are you talking about?

The Learned Men have gathered knowledge and observed the stars and consulted one another, said Aldan, and have unanimously decreed that Stormstone is losing its properties.

Jonnar frowned. Stormstone was one of the last remains of tangible magic upon the face of the earth, probably the last material evidence of the Essence of the Spirit that once filled the world to the brim. Yet the sources of Stormstone have been dwindling for ages, the once-strong rocks crumbling… and while he himself was never one of the Learned Men, this saddened him for some reason.

Soon, Stormstone will be no more, continued Aldan, and without Stormstone, there will be no more Stormglass – which, according to the Learned Men, means almost with absolute certainty that the gates to The-World-Beyond will be closed forever.

Why should that bother us? grunted Darreg. No one has traveled to The-World-Beyond, nor came from it for over a century now.

That is true, Gahrod said, surprising everyone. The last man from the Other world who came to Tilir was called Septimus Swift, and that was at the time of my grandfather's grandfather.

I never thought you were so proficient in history, said Tor Kamtesir, whoever remembers the name of that man?

I know of him, because I am directly descended from one Ned Kamtesir, who befriended that man and later wrote in length about him. Anyhow, there was no one from The-World-Beyond after Septimus, and now, if what you say is true, it is likely there won't be anyone else.

The Learned Men are of the opinion, said Aldan, that it is possible to craft one last gate of Stormglass, charged with just enough power for three passages between the Worlds – there and back and there again, enough to bring someone here and then allow them to return.

And what bloody good would that do? snapped Darreg.

The Learned Men believe it is important to take advantage of this chance, said Tor Kamtesir, and so does the king, apparently. It is supposed to have something to do with the Coming of the Messenger.

If the Messenger comes indeed, said Jonnar, no one knows when it will happen.

That is true, nodded Aldan, yet there are legends… prophecies that are supposed to give us clues… and the crumbling of Stormstone and the closure of gates between the Worlds are one such clue. So, it may well be that the Messenger is at our door.

I will believe that when I see him, Darreg said stubbornly.

So, let us say this Stormglass gate is made, prompted Gahrod, what would be done with it?

Here we come to a curious detail, said Aldan. Apparently, since the magic of Stormstone is dwindling, the gate's connection between the worlds will be shaky – but the Learned Men have a theory, according to which it will work better for the direct descendants of this man you mentioned, Gahrod – Septimus Swift. Blood is supposed to have an influence in these matters, and so the sons of his sons of his sons must be found. And this is where you come into the picture, he looked at Gahrod and Jonnar. You two are declared to be by far the best candidates for this mission of traveling to The-World-Beyond.

With his uncle's stare firmly fixed upon him, Jonnar felt a mixture of thrill and fear. The existence of worlds