By midday, Steven had finished most of a wineskin by himself. He was drunk, not falling-from-the-saddle-drunk, but numbingly, pleasantly drunk. It was a skill he had learned after graduating from college: how to drink just enough to maintain a happy and painless stupor. College had taught him nothing about alcohol except that drinking as much as he could stand inevitably resulted in poor sexual performance, sickening bed spins and powerful all-day hangovers. It took years to learn to slow or stop drinking when he achieved the perfect inebriated state, somewhere between sober and falling down.
His thoughts began to drift back to Colorado, and the many trails, each turn and switchback memorised, that crisscrossed foothills similar to these. Loosely gripping the reins, he imagined himself wandering through Three Sisters Park or along the Mt Evans trail above Evergreen. He could feel glacier snow beneath his boots and smell clouds of pine pollen as spring breezes cascaded along the Front Range. He saw himself break through the tree line above Leadville as he approached Mt Elbert’s peak, and remembered the lush ferns growing near a stream that flowed past the Decatur Peak trailhead.
Decatur Peak. He and Mark had planned to climb it one last time before winter set in. Hannah had wanted to come with them.
He thought of Hannah Sorenson, and the lilac aroma that lingered in the space between her neck and hair. It was like an alcove, a tiny cave where he could hide away, inhale her essence, and close his mind to the frightening and terrible things he had seen and done since his arrival in Eldarn.
He wondered where she was, and if she was worried about him. He imagined her brow furrowed as she leaned patiently on the staff sergeant’s desk at the Idaho Springs police station. Would the officer find that wrinkled brow endearing, or would he simply push a sheaf of papers across the desk at her? ‘Fill these out, ma’am,’ he would say, unconcerned that she might be losing hope, or worse, losing interest. Steven worked to keep his thoughts focused, frightened of the pain that lay just beyond the edge of his consciousness. If he allowed his mind to run its course, he would convince himself that Hannah had become distracted by more important things in her life. She would forget him and move on. Did she not know how he cared for her? If their roles were reversed, he would never stop looking for her.
Then it was too late. He crossed the line and his musings were out of control. He was a murderer, lost and alone in this curious world of terror and hatred, and he had just convinced himself that his girlfriend was already forgetting him. Reaching for the wineskin again, he decided a comfortable, relaxed stupor was not enough to get him through the afternoon. He needed the whole package, the falling-down, blubbering, sobbing, blacking-out inebriation he remembered from his youth. If Sallax and Versen were disappointed in him and his weakness, so be it. They could tie him to the saddle if they were so damned set on getting to Welstar Palace.
‘Good night,’ he called aloud to anyone listening, and was about to take a long swallow from the wineskin when Gilmour interrupted his tailspin.
‘They weren’t human, you know.’ The old man took the wineskin from him and swallowed a mouthful.
‘What’s that?’
‘The Seron aren’t really human.’ Gilmour re-corked the wineskin. ‘You didn’t kill human beings last night, Steven. It was more akin to killing a pack of wild dogs that attacked you in the forest.’
‘No it wasn’t, Gilmour. It was exactly like killing people, because at the time I killed them, I believed they were people.’
‘You make a good point. However, if it’s any comfort, those Seron were denied the opportunity to enjoy a full human life many Twinmoons ago. Look at it as bringing peace to unthinkably tortured creatures.’ He gave Steven a compassionate look before adding, ‘We may face much worse before we reach Welstar Palace.’
‘And even worse when we arrive there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure I can do it, Gilmour.’ Steven tightened his grip on the hickory staff.
‘You rose to the occasion last night.’
‘I was in a blind rage last night. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
Smiling his boyish grin, Gilmour reach over and gripped Steven’s shoulder in a show of empathy. ‘Yes, you did. It’s just that you never realised what it feels like. All rage is blind rage, Steven. Learning to tap it to save yourself or your friends will see you through this ordeal.’
‘I don’t want to learn to tap it; it’s not a tap I can turn on and off.’ He searched for the right words. ‘I’m afraid that if I master that skill, I will lose myself. I will never again be Steven Taylor, the person I was before I unfolded that bloody tapestry, or before I picked up this miserable stick.’
‘I can tell you already, my friend, losing Steven Taylor, the bank employee from Colorado, was done the moment you withdrew Lessek’s Key from the safe.’
‘I’m not ready to accept that, Gilmour,’ Steven said, even now knowing, deep inside, that the old magician was right.
‘You need to get ready. I can’t guess what Lessek will tell you, but I do know we must try to summon him tomorrow night.’
A narrow canyon, invisible from a distance, cut a snakelike path through the precipitous slopes of the Blackstone Mountain range. Brynne squinted against the dwindling sunlight, trying to pick out the pathway Gilmour assured her was there, but she couldn’t see it against the shadowy grey of the cold granite wall before them. Her back was sore from days of hard riding, and she longed to make camp for the night, eat a hot meal, and pass out in her bedroll. The brief but unexpected skirmish with Malagon’s Seron warriors had left her shaken, but she worked to divert her attention to more productive thoughts. Their journey was important to the people of Eldarn, and she knew much more would be expected from her in the coming Twinmoons.
Reflecting on the battle, Brynne found it curious that she had feared more for Mark Jenkins than herself; she’d been deeply relieved when he emerged from the struggle unscathed. Her anxiety grew as she imagined the coming conflict, especially now that she knew she would put herself in harm’s way to protect the charismatic stranger. It was an awkward time to discover she had feelings for him and ironic that her most ardent feelings rarely emerged at a convenient time.
The day passed quietly. Steven Taylor was drunk but rode well enough to keep up with the rest of the group. An air of nervous tension lay over the sober members of the party, and though no one mentioned it, they were all contemplating Gilmour’s disclosure that they had been tracked from Estrad by an unseen enemy. Anticipating another attack at any moment, Garec kept an arrow nocked on the longbow across his lap. Versen held a short battle-axe in one hand, and even Mark had his sword loose in its scabbard.
Despite their exhaustion, Sallax pushed them ever forward, encouraging Versen to find a navigable trail over the last wooded foothill that lay between them and Seer’s Peak. When they finally reached the mountain’s base, just before twilight, Brynne nearly fell from the saddle. Mark had to reach up to help her dismount. He was shattered and there was no affection in his touch; rather, it was a courtesy offered from one spent traveller to another. Steven half-climbed and half-rolled from the saddle, clumsily untied his bedroll and collapsed. Within moments, he was asleep.
Mark felt badly for Steven, but didn’t envy his friend the hangover he would have in the morning. Taking in their surroundings, he noticed the valley they were in was lush with shrubs, ferns, evergreens and the ubiquitous scrub oak. Gilmour told them they would camp here for two nights while he, Garec and Steven climbed Seer’s Peak and attempted to summon Lessek’s spirit. Breathing deeply, Mark smelled the cool mountain air and wished he were in a valley along a stream near home. He found a comfortable place in which to unroll his blankets and was about let sleep take him for the night when Sallax approached across the clearing.