edge, ‘this means it was deliberate.’
Sorchal’s green eyes widened. ‘Who has the power to do that? The Nimrothi Speakers?’
‘I’m pretty sure they could, if they worked together – although I have no idea how they’d reach all the way here to do it.’
Chewing at his lip, Sorchal ran his hands carefully down the edges of the gap in the half-seen fabric. ‘Could it have been cut by something from the other side?’ he asked. ‘Something from the Hidden Kingdom?’
It shouldn’t be possible. In all the years Masen had been Gatekeeper, all the books and lore he’d absorbed during that time, he’d never seen or heard such a thing described. He remembered the hunter he’d seen last year when this sorry story had begun, and the icy knife that lodged in the boundary between worlds when it should have bounced back at the thrower’s feet.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Unlikely, but maybe, if they were strong enough and found a weak spot.’ Even as he said it, though, Masen knew it wasn’t what had happened. His mind raced. This changed everything, made their journey into Arennor even more urgent. If the Speakers had the ability to pierce the Veil, who knew what they could unleash? ‘We must warn the others. How far can you hail?’
‘I don’t know – I’ve never really needed to reach further than the other side of Penglas.’
Masen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Time to start trying. Barin and Eavin need to know what might be coming at them up there.’
He heard Sorchal move away, felt him gather the Song, then put him out of his mind. There was enough to concentrate on with the task at hand. Letting his own Song fill him, he studied the slash in the Veil.
Like any living thing, when it was cut, the Veil would eventually form a scab over the wound, and then, in time, a scar. Scar tissue was thick, and tough, and no matter how carefully he stitched it together, scarred edges would never seal. Sometimes there was no option but to cut out the damage – make the wound bigger in order to help it heal.
‘Goddess, I hate doing this,’ he muttered, and shaped his will into a scalpel.
Night had well and truly fallen by the time Masen coaxed the last fibres of the Veil into position and wove them together with strands of the Song finer than spider-silk. The darkness was hidden once more behind a rippling, shimmering wall of colour, already beginning to restore itself. He caressed it with his fingertips and it thrummed.
There you are, my beauty , he whispered and let the power go.
Exhaustion hit him like a slaughterman’s mallet and he dropped inelegantly onto his rump on the ground. Oh, ye saints, he’d forgotten how much a working of that size and complexity would take out of him. He propped his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees and groaned.
Sorchal hunkered down next to him and proffered a steaming mug. ‘That looked like hard work. Tea?’
‘I could do with something stronger,’ Masen admitted, and the Elethrainian grinned.
‘I found that flask of brandy you keep in your pack and poured about two fingers’ worth into the tea. Get it down your throat and I’ll fetch you some supper.’
‘Bless you, boy,’ said Masen gratefully and cradled the cup to his lips.
It appeared Sorchal had not been idle whilst he was working. There was a fire lit, with a potful of something savoury simmering over it, and the horses and pack pony had been unsaddled and were dozing nearby. Beyond the circle of firelight, the plains were wrapped in velvety darkness, in which Miriel hung quarter full and yellow like a lamp in night’s window. The sun went down quickly and early this far north, but the evening moon so high meant it was pretty late.
His apprentice returned after a minute or two with a bowl and some trail bread for Masen and sat down beside him.
‘It’s only bacon and beans, but it’s hot.’
‘Aren’t you eating?’
‘I had mine about three hours ago,’ Sorchal said, and
Sorchal’s green eyes widened. ‘Who has the power to do that? The Nimrothi Speakers?’
‘I’m pretty sure they could, if they worked together – although I have no idea how they’d reach all the way here to do it.’
Chewing at his lip, Sorchal ran his hands carefully down the edges of the gap in the half-seen fabric. ‘Could it have been cut by something from the other side?’ he asked. ‘Something from the Hidden Kingdom?’
It shouldn’t be possible. In all the years Masen had been Gatekeeper, all the books and lore he’d absorbed during that time, he’d never seen or heard such a thing described. He remembered the hunter he’d seen last year when this sorry story had begun, and the icy knife that lodged in the boundary between worlds when it should have bounced back at the thrower’s feet.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Unlikely, but maybe, if they were strong enough and found a weak spot.’ Even as he said it, though, Masen knew it wasn’t what had happened. His mind raced. This changed everything, made their journey into Arennor even more urgent. If the Speakers had the ability to pierce the Veil, who knew what they could unleash? ‘We must warn the others. How far can you hail?’
‘I don’t know – I’ve never really needed to reach further than the other side of Penglas.’
Masen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Time to start trying. Barin and Eavin need to know what might be coming at them up there.’
He heard Sorchal move away, felt him gather the Song, then put him out of his mind. There was enough to concentrate on with the task at hand. Letting his own Song fill him, he studied the slash in the Veil.
Like any living thing, when it was cut, the Veil would eventually form a scab over the wound, and then, in time, a scar. Scar tissue was thick, and tough, and no matter how carefully he stitched it together, scarred edges would never seal. Sometimes there was no option but to cut out the damage – make the wound bigger in order to help it heal.
‘Goddess, I hate doing this,’ he muttered, and shaped his will into a scalpel.
Night had well and truly fallen by the time Masen coaxed the last fibres of the Veil into position and wove them together with strands of the Song finer than spider-silk. The darkness was hidden once more behind a rippling, shimmering wall of colour, already beginning to restore itself. He caressed it with his fingertips and it thrummed.
There you are, my beauty , he whispered and let the power go.
Exhaustion hit him like a slaughterman’s mallet and he dropped inelegantly onto his rump on the ground. Oh, ye saints, he’d forgotten how much a working of that size and complexity would take out of him. He propped his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees and groaned.
Sorchal hunkered down next to him and proffered a steaming mug. ‘That looked like hard work. Tea?’
‘I could do with something stronger,’ Masen admitted, and the Elethrainian grinned.
‘I found that flask of brandy you keep in your pack and poured about two fingers’ worth into the tea. Get it down your throat and I’ll fetch you some supper.’
‘Bless you, boy,’ said Masen gratefully and cradled the cup to his lips.
It appeared Sorchal had not been idle whilst he was working. There was a fire lit, with a potful of something savoury simmering over it, and the horses and pack pony had been unsaddled and were dozing nearby. Beyond the circle of firelight, the plains were wrapped in velvety darkness, in which Miriel hung quarter full and yellow like a lamp in night’s window. The sun went down quickly and early this far north, but the evening moon so high meant it was pretty late.
His apprentice returned after a minute or two with a bowl and some trail bread for Masen and sat down beside him.
‘It’s only bacon and beans, but it’s hot.’
‘Aren’t you eating?’
‘I had mine about three hours ago,’ Sorchal said, and
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