Circles of Stone. Ian Johnstone

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      “In the Suhl, we have found allies and friends with whom we might change the nature of the world.”

      THE THREE PRESSED ON, tracing the fringes of the great lake, heading back towards Sylva. The young Scryer was soon striding out in front, but this time he had not drawn far ahead: Sylas was with him, his face set with determination and his arms pumping furiously at his sides. It was Simia who was lagging behind. She was scuttling on as best she could, but she was no match for the Scryer, nor for Sylas in this mood.

      “Oh, come on,” she groaned, drawing to a halt, “slow down!”

      Triste hesitated and eased his pace, but Sylas gritted his teeth and stomped on. Then he stopped and turned back.

      “I just can’t believe you suggested it!” he bellowed. “I mean, you, of all people! You know how much I want to find my mum. And now instead I have to go back to the city to find Bowe! I thought you were on my side?”

      Simia flicked her fiery hair over her shoulders. “I am on your side. And Naeo’s, actually. But you’ve both got a death wish!”

      “No, we haven’t. We can look after ourselves!”

      “Well, sure, when you’re together! But isn’t that the whole idea? We don’t know what you’ll be like when you’re apart – in different worlds!” She stared at him steadily. “And anyway, the Say-So was never going to agree to you going after your mum – you could see that!”

      “We’ll do it anyway. I’m going after my mum and Naeo’s going after Bowe, no matter what the Say-So decided.”

      “Then you’re fools,” said the Scryer.

      Sylas rounded on him. “Oh really? You think so?” he yelled, his eyes burning.

      Triste looked at him calmly, as though considering the question. He pulled the pipe from behind his ear.

      He knocked it on the heel of his hand. “The Say-So is right – Thoth will be expecting you to look for your mother, and Naeo her father. He’ll see you coming. And if he doesn’t, his Scryers will.”

      “Thoth has his own Scryers?” said Simia incredulously.

      Triste shook his head and pushed what looked like green moss into his pipe. “The ones he’s captured and turned.”

      “Some of our Scryers are working for Thoth? How could they?”

      Triste regarded her coolly with his weary, sunken eyes. “If you’d seen what we’ve seen,” he said, “if you’d seen the Reckoning as we saw it, you might have despaired too.” He puffed at his pipe. “For Scryers, more than any other, wars are a living hell. Too much pain. Too much loss.” He took the pipe from his mouth and inspected the bowl, prodding at the strange tobacco inside. “Anyway, the point is, now that Thoth’s Scryers know what to look for, they’ll see everything I see.”

      “And what’s that, exactly?” asked Sylas, still struggling to cool his temper.

      Triste winced as his pipe sent up a new pall of orange smoke. “If Naeo nears her father, or if you near your mother, you’ll stand out like a bushfire on a dark night.”

      Sylas looked into the Scryer’s large, shadowy eyes, then shot an angry look at Simia. He turned and walked to the water’s edge, staring out across the lake. The mist had burned away now and the Valley of Outs was lit by the morning rays, but he hardly saw the beautiful waters or the majestic forests. He did not even see the small flotilla of boats on the lake, carrying the Suhl back to their homes. His thoughts were far away, with his mother, in another world. He knew that Simia was right – that the Say-So had been right – but that was irrelevant. For a few moments, when Paiscion had talked about going back to Mr Zhi, she had felt so close. Now she felt as far away as ever.

      Simia walked up behind him. “I was just worried about you …” she said, quietly. “And I thought, in a way, if Naeo finds your mum – and you find Bowe – isn’t that almost the same thing?”

      “No, it’s not,” said Sylas, walking away. “It doesn’t work like that.”

      “But you see, that’s the problem,” Simia called after him. “No one knows what it’s like to be you. No one knows—”

      She felt Triste’s hand on her shoulder. The Scryer leaned down to her ear. “It’s no good, not while he feels like this. Give him time.”

      “But I thought I was doing the right thing,” she whispered, her eyes following Sylas. “I really did.”

      “Well, you were being a friend,” said the Scryer. “And that isn’t always easy.”

      She turned and looked at him. Her eyes explored his face and then, just for an instant, she looked surprised and confused, as though she had seen something unexpected. She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it and instead she wheeled about and set off alone.

      The Scryer watched her go, tilting his head to one side as though trying to make sense of an impossible puzzle.

      Then his brow knitted in a frown.

      “How inconvenient,” he muttered.