you have a room in this inn?”
The thief hesitated, decided not to respond.
“Now, now, Giorge. I could always reattach the Lamplight spell. It is of little consequence to me one way or the other.”
“Yes,” Giorge said. “I have a room.”
“Good,” Angus said. “Then you can find your way back to it.”
Angus picked up the thief’s knife—a short, thin blade more suitable for puncture wounds than slashing ones—and walked over to the door. He listened carefully for a few moments before lifting the latch and taking a quick look outside. No one was lurking in the hall so he opened the door all the way and moved back to the center of the room.
“Lower your arms and take three steps forward,” he told the thief, “then turn left.” When the thief had done so, Angus moved in behind him and lowered his voice. “Spread the word,” he said. “I am to be left alone. If not,” he moved the Lamplight nearer to the thief’s eyes and squeezed it until it was an intense, red marble that could be felt and seen through his closed eyelids. The thief winced and pressed his head back against Angus’s shoulder and chin. Angus wrapped his hand around the Lamplight, its glow seeping through his flesh to outline the bones of his fingers. He gave the thief a little shove, and Giorge lost his balance, plunging forward until he struck the wall of the hallway across from the door. Angus walked calmly forward, tossed the knife at the thief’s feet, and quietly closed and latched the door.
He expanded the Lamplight spell until it cast a comfortable amount of light and guided it back to the mattress. He lay down, the warm Lamplight near his feet, and went to sleep, leaving only a small part of his mind alert to potential dangers. It was only when he reached that curious state when wakefulness and dreamland merge together that a tiny part of his mind began to wonder. Why did I come to Fenbrooke’s Inn? When did I learn of it? Why was it so easy to identify the thieves? And the guardsmen? They almost seemed to know me? Have I been to Wyrmwood before? When? Why?
Before he could answer any of the questions, the dream began.
He was soaring high above rolling hills, his wings two sails whipping madly about in the wind, his claws cradled around two tasty little morsels.
He looked down at the half-familiar, almost identical slumped forms hanging from his gigantic, falcon-shaped claws.
He licked his lips as he studied them, wondering which one he would devour first….
11
Some time before dawn, Angus left Fenbrooke’s Inn and headed for the south road. At the gate to the second wall, the guard made no effort to prevent him from leaving, and there was no line waiting to come in. Angus stepped through the gate and paused next to the guard. He turned and said, “Good morning.” In the dim light of the lamps, he noted the guard’s droopy eyes, his lethargic posture, and the rumpled hair. Two other guards leaned against the wall not far away.
The guard yawned, nodded, and waved him on.
Angus lingered and asked, “Would you happen to know how far it is to Hellsbreath?”
The guard sighed, stretched, shook himself a bit, and said, “Ten days by foot, if you don’t take any shortcuts.”
“Shortcuts?”
The guard scowled, yawned again, and asked, “First time south?”
Angus nodded.
He sighed. “Well, the road’s built for caravans.”
“Yes?” Angus asked, wondering what he meant.
“It’s nice and wide and hugs the valleys and loops around the hills. It makes it easier for the pack animals than going up over the hills. Carts, too. But it makes for a lot longer trip. If you’re in a hurry, you can climb over the hills, instead of following the road around them.”
“Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”
The guard shrugged. “The patrols don’t go there,” he said. “They keep pretty much to the road. But a lot of people do it. There are tracks.”
“How much time do the shortcuts save?”
The guard sighed, “Maybe a couple of days,” he said. “If you get there.”
“How many don’t get there?”
The guard shrugged. “No way to tell,” he said. “The Tween eats ’em up.”
“The Tween?” Angus asked, a bit alarmed.
“Look,” the guard grumbled. “I’m going off shift in a few minutes. Can’t you wait and pester Dillard?”
Angus half-smiled. “Well,” Angus began. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of The Tween.”
The guard shrugged. “Stick to the road, then. It’s safer. There’s places to camp. There’s patrols. And the things in The Tween stay away from it.”
“The Tween is a place, then? Not a thing?”
The guard sighed and nodded.
“Can you show me where it is on my map?” Angus asked.
“No,” the guard snapped, turning away and hurriedly gesturing to the other two guards. “Snap to it!” he said. “Dillard’s coming.”
The two guards moved quickly, one to either side of the gate, and stood straight, their hands on the hilts of their short swords.
“Shift change,” the guard said to Angus. “On your way now.”
“But—”
“Go!” the guard ordered. “Day shift doesn’t have time to chatter.” He paused a moment, then added, “Dillard is not known for his patience.”
Angus lingered for a long moment before continuing south. As he went through the half-dark streets of the worker’s ring of the town, he wondered why Voltari had left The Tween off his map. It sounded dangerous, and he didn’t think Voltari would have put him in danger without reason. But there was the road, and he could stick to it—at least long enough to find out about The Tween from fellow travelers….
12
Two days later, the road turned sharply southwest and headed straight for the heart of the belching volcanoes. He was still in the dark about The Tween. He had met plenty of travelers on their way to Wyrmwood, but they had simply greeted him and hurried on. The few who came up from behind him were on horses, and they passed him without pausing longer than to acknowledge his presence—if that.
He saw the shortcuts—hard-packed paths that zig-zagged up the hillsides—and thought about taking them, but he wasn’t in a hurry. No sense taking risks. But they were tempting, narrow gaps carved between the thickets, through the grass, and around the occasional rocky outcropping. Most were steep but passable, judging by how much traffic they had had over the years, and he wondered what the danger could be. Whatever it was, a lot of travelers were willing to take it—at least near Wyrmwood. He’d have to wait to see what happened when he got further away from the thriving town.
The road was wide; it could easily allow ten horses to stand abreast in most places. It wound around the hills and kept close to the valley floor, where the slope was slight, making for easy walking. The cobblestones alerted him to travelers on horseback; the clatter of horseshoes hammering against them rang out into the valleys as they passed. At regular intervals, the underbrush and trees next to a stream had been cleared away, and high poles stuck up from the ground like faceless totems. The caravan camp sites the guard had mentioned, by the look of them; there were places to tie up hundreds of horses and ample water. But what were the poles for? Fifty feet high with notches in them for easy climbing. He climbed one, both out of curiosity and to look at the terrain, and there was a large ring and pulley at the top. By the time he was on the ground again, he still didn’t know the answer; it was just one more question to ask, once he found a traveler willing to talk with him.
There were bridges over everything—stream, river, ravine, it didn’t matter; there was a bridge. The base, pillars, and span were carved from polished gray-black granite, but the bed of the bridge continued to alternate between gray-green and reddish-brown cobblestones. All of them were touched by earth magic, the strands knotted gracefully around them, holding the stone of the bridge firmly together. He spent half an afternoon studying one of them, walking over it, going under it, looking at how the k
nots were connected, how they worked together to reinforce the structure of the bridge, and how the threads were held in place against their will. But all he saw was the surface of the bridge, and it was clear to him that the magic had been knitted together while the bridge had been built, woven in-between and around the slabs of granite, with the threads locked in place inside the bridge. He tried to focus on the individual layers of the ridiculously complex spell, but it was too dizzying and he finally had to give up. He rested for several minutes afterward, and then continued on.
Near the end of the second day, the terrain changed rapidly from low, rolling, thicket-encrusted hills to steep, rocky foothills riddled with outcroppings and jagged, bare rocks jutting out. There were still shortcuts, but they were quite steep and clearly used much less frequently than the ones near Wyrmwood; it would take a sure foot to climb them, and many of the town-dwellers would pass on them. Perhaps that was the risk? Treacherous footing? In places, the road was carved into the rock of the hillside to widen it, and near one of these places, a faint, barely noticeable, rhythmic echo crept around it. It wasn’t the steady, methodical, clattering rhythm of a horse’s hooves; the gap between the sounds was different. A loud clank quickly followed by a muffled clank, and then a noticeable pause before it was repeated. Another pause followed, and it happened again.
What is that? Angus wondered, frowning. It sounds metallic. He slowed his pace and moved as far as he dared to the