There he is, Gilmour thought. That looks a nice enough place. He won’t mind spending the next Moon there. The way he sleeps, he won’t notice much of it passing, anyway. Gilmour dropped from the skies, imagining he could smell the tang of the wharf, the myriad chimneys spewing woodsmoke into the windless morning and the mouthwatering flavour of kneaded dough rising above the hearth.
Kantu. Kantu, wake up. He nudged the silent form with his mind.
He’s sleeping, someone answered from the corner of the room, someone sitting on a second bed, looking out of the window towards the river.
Gilmour reeled as if he had been thumped in the chest by a god. Tumbling backwards out of the guestroom, he turned head-over-heels through the air, fighting to regain control over his transcendental self.
In Wellham Ridge, he stirred for a moment, pulled his blankets up and groaned.
The unfamiliar presence followed. Where are you going? It was an innocent question. Who are you? There was no anger in the voice, merely curiosity.
Gilmour wondered how anyone outside himself or Kantu would be able to communicate this way. There was no one left in Eldarn who knew this spell; not even Steven could perform it.
How are you doing this? he asked, wary, ready to freefall back into Wellham Ridge if necessary. Who is this?
Milla. Who are you? How did you find us?
Milla. Gilmour’s mind raced. It hadn’t been Kantu; he hadn’t found his old friend. Kantu had been there; Gilmour could feel him now, a presence beneath an old quilt. Instead, he had found Milla – but who was Milla? Someone powerful, that was obvious, for her strength eclipsed Kantu’s, buried inside the guestroom.
Milla?
Yes? Hello again.
Hello. May I ask who you are?
I told you already, silly. I’m Milla. Alen calls me Pepperweed, but my real name is Milla. There was a brief silence. Are you Fantus? Or are you Prince Nerak? You don’t sound like him.
Sound? Who was this person? There was no sound here. This was only flat, toneless communication. A few Senators could manage a bit of inflection, even a laugh from time to time, but Gilmour hadn’t been trying for anything more than clarity. Milla. Wracking his memory, he couldn’t call her up. She spoke like a child. He guessed she might be someone Kantu had met on his journey through Malakasia, a prodigy he had discovered in Pellia, or perhaps even- He cast his thoughts back to her. Milla?
What?
It’s Fantus.
I knew it, really. You don’t sound like Prince Nerak. He always sounds mad. I don’t like it when he talks to me.
I don’t either. Can you tell me how old you are?
I’m thirty-one Twinmoons, but another one is coming pretty soon.
Gilmour tried to laugh. It didn’t work. I know, just a few more days. Well, I was trying to find Kantu… Alen… but he’s asleep.
He sleeps a lot.
I know he does, my dear. He’s a boring old grettan, isn’t he?
He’s nice. He just gets tired. Hoyt and Hannah play with me when Alen sleeps.
Hannah, Gilmour thought, good news. He was weakening and felt himself slipping back towards Falkan. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer.
Milla interrupted his thoughts. Do you need help?
What’s that? He was fading, falling fast.
Help, silly. Here, I can help you.
Gilmour felt an invisible band snake around his waist, hug him close and keep him from tumbling backwards over the Ravenian Sea. Milla was powerful. Good lords, my dear, but that is an interesting spell.
Something that sounded like enormous pride reached him across their gossamer lines of communication. I learned that one from Prince Nerak! But he didn’t know I figured it out. Sometimes he liked to talk too long.
Yes, he was full of gret – He was full of fun chatter, wasn’t he? Gilmour felt for the band, wondering whether he would be powerful enough to break it were the child to become angry or hostile. Milla, I need to tell Alen something, but I’m too tired to wake him up now. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I need rest, too.
I can tell him something for you.
Will you remember? Of course she would, he thought. There was nothing this little girl couldn’t do.
I can remember lots of things. Mama used to say I was one of the smartest girls on the whole North Shore.
You’re from Orindale?
I don’t know. We lived by the water. I can’t remember the name.
I thought you said you could remember lots of things.
Milla laughed; there was no mistaking it this time. You tricked me, silly. The band tightened, and Gilmour tried to remain calm. There was no need to hold his breath. He was perfectly safe; he hoped. Then Milla’s grip loosened – it was a hug, that’s all, a mystical hug imbued with more energy and focused magical power than Gilmour had ever seen in a novice sorcerer, never mind one less than fifty Twinmoons old.
All right, I trust you. Can you tell him to stay in Pellia, right where you are? Tell him that Fantus is coming in the next Moon. Will you remember that?
Of course. He could almost see a smug, pouting toddler with a mop of tousled unruly hair looking back at him in disbelief. That’s not hard.
Tell it back to me, then.
Milla sighed. There was no doubt about it, either. It was a sigh, an impossible sigh, just like her impossible laughter. Larion Senators worked for Twinmoons to be able to do what this little girl had accomplished twice in one spell, never mind her ability to reach up and grasp Gilmour’s essence out of the sky.
I’ll tell him that we have to wait here, right at this place, because Fantus… that’s you… is coming in the next Moon.
Excellent work, Pepperweed.
Are you going to call me that, too?
Do you want me to?
Yeah, I guess so.
Well then, Pepperweed, you should call me Gilmour.
That’s a funny name.
Yes, I suppose it is.
Do you have to go now?
Sorry, but I do. I’m not very good at this, and I will need to sleep for a long time to get my strength back.
Will you come talk to me another day?
Why don’t I come and see you in person?
Milla laughed again, a twinkling of delicate chimes rising from the boarding house to find him hovering outside. That would be nice.
And Milla -
What?
Will you tell Hannah that Steven is coming, too?
I guess so.
Thank you, my dear.
Goodbye Fan – uh, Gilmour.
Goodbye, Pepperweed.
When she released him, Gilmour felt the extent of his fatigue. Nauseous, he closed his eyes, hoped he wouldn’t vomit and tumbled all the way from Pellia to Wellham Ridge.
Erynn brought drinks: beer for everyone, milk for Milla. On her way back to the Wayfarer’s kitchen, she paused to talk with a young soldier, a boy, no more than fifteen or twenty Twinmoons her senior, and looking like a child playing at dressing up in his father’s infantry uniform. He was alone, eating a bowl of stew with a loaf of bread and a tankard of beer. Hoyt watched as he reached out, surreptitiously, to touch the scullery girl’s hand. Erynn turned towards the bar, saw her father, and shifted her tray, effectively pulling herself out of range. The boy slid forward on his chair, said something Hoyt couldn’t hear, smiled, and then shrugged. She checked her father again, frowned, and hurried back to the kitchen, calling out food orders. In her handmade tunic and soiled apron she looked to Hoyt like a girl condemned to being plain for life. The avens, the smoke, the scullery basins and the nimble-fingered drunks had already left irreparable marks.
‘She needs to be careful of that one,’ Hoyt said.
‘What’s that?’ Hannah asked.
‘Erynn.’ Hoyt nodded towards the soldier. ‘That boy over there is practically bursting out of that uniform for her. Gods, look at him in that carnival suit. I have boots older than he is. He looks like he spent all morning… polishing himself!’