[Excerpt from the Book of Reckoning]
1 And now the Angel gestured once more, and now I beheld the learned men gathered in their great houses, and in the markets, and in their holy places, and these talkers talked long into the darkening night, talking of those portends that were upon the Earth. 2 And they were sore distressed, for at the last all their learning had failed them, and all their talking was for naught. 3 And the Angel spake then, to scorn the learned men. 4 For the Trumpet had sounded, and the Reckoning was nigh, and all the words of all these men still had not the power to forestall even the small rain from falling down.
In the Magician’s Magnificent Mansion
Valerius, Dominic.
The small, barren cell is brightly lit. There is only a table, a pair of empty chairs, and a small stand on which the raven Noxumbra roosts, her master and Dominic standing nearby.
“I have completed my inquiry, Master,” says Dominic, gesturing to the austere table and the group of items laid out there on an unwrapped oilskin. “Prince Serapis came well arrayed, and we should be able to put many, if not all of these to good use.”
“Well done,” says Valerius, surveying the spread. “Though I do not suspect there is anything here of much interest to me.”
“No, I suppose not,” says Dominic. “Owen has already asked about Brurn.” And here Dominic picks up a slender ruckblade made out of dull grey steel with a reddish brown cast. The blade is jagged and pitted, etched with a swirling, flame-like pattern. “This ruckblade has a fell enchantment on it, making it even more deadly against men. And there is another interesting property, as well: Brurn can store spells cast into it, and release these spells when the wielder wills.”
“Curious,” says Valerius. “I could think of a couple charms that might prove useful for such an application.”
“Just so,” says Dominic. “I have provided Owen with a series of choices, as has Vandoren, and the archer is mulling them over even as we speak.” Dominic sets the blade down, and points to a suit of black lacquered armor. “This suit is much like the one worn by Prince Typhon; I suspect they were made by the same enchanter, perhaps as a pair. Likewise, the protective ring and amulet are both much like ones we have seen worn by the other princes.
“The scroll confirms that Serapis was a spellcaster of at least modest aptitude,” says Dominic. “It contains the formula for the Incantation of Far Transport, which is of course already known to you.”
“And has been, for what seems like a long time, now,” says Valerius, absently. “I can recall when that spell seemed such a great magick to me. And now, it seems but little more than a cantrip.”
“And just how do your current studies proceed, Master?” asks Dominic. “That is, if I may be so bold.”
“You may indeed,” says Valerius. “My studies proceed apace. It seems astonishing that, at long last, I am now privy to the greatest magicks known to mortal minds. Truly, ‘I Hold the Balance of All Things in My Summoning.’ The ability to transform myself into any shape imaginable. To make halt the very stream of time itself, if but for a few heartbeats. To open doors closed since the dawn of creation. To call upon intelligences older than our own race, perhaps older than our world. To remake the very course of history. Think on it, Dominic, the ability to reshape the past according to my will. With such power a man might… a man might change things that had happened. Things that might be regretted. To call back from the dark house old fr. . .”
“Master?” says Dominic.
“Nothing,” says Valerius. “I was simply… speculating. There are divers hard choices before me that I must make.”
“You seem to be of a melancholy humor this evening, Master,” says Dominic.
“Melancholy?” murmurs Valerius. “No, no I. Not tonight. Contemplative, rather. I have been pondering a great many weighty matters. I am now more powerful than each and every mortal magician I have ever met in my life. Did you know that, Dominic? I was but a boy when Dominius took me as an apprentice. Dominius… Dominic… Strange that similitude should never have occured to me before.”
“A… a… mere coincidence, Master,” stammers Dominic.
“What else could it be?” smiles Valerius, without humor. “Though I have found so few things in this life to be coincidence. Dominius finding me when he did, that was not happenstance, chance, the whim of Fortuna… no, that was design, was it not? Patient, silent design. And I was little older than Helena or Hermia—that is, if they were mortal girls. He seemed so powerful then, a true magus, and I was but the novitiate. But in the end, he proved weak, and destroyed for that weakness.
“And years later, to my tyro eyes, the Vavasor seemed powerful, when first we met. I do not think he was utterly corrupted then. Not then, at least. That all came later. But there in that strange little house in Heremac, his magicks seemed so formidable. His library, to my starving mind, was as a perpetual feast. And now? I have devoured all those books, swallowed down all their lore. And still I hunger.
“I have surpassed both of my former masters, surpassed them by far. Where they faltered, I persevered. Where they failed, I have triumphed. And I have even surpassed that demented artificer, Hecatesseus. A pity that he failed to apprehend his superior. I am the first magus since great Tynar fell to command these supreme magicks. Think of it, Dominic. Think! Centuries have passed, whole generations have come and gone since some of these spells have last been uttered. Only the Lady remains above me, for now. And how is she these days?”
“The Lady?” yelps Dominic, with a start. “She… abides. Her Keep is much changed from last you saw it. Towers that once soared into the sky now lie toppled and crumbling. Her great walls are broken and mouldering, her gardens have withered and are overtaken by tares. Her terrible gryphons? Gone now, and in their place great black vultures lurk over her gates. But the Lady abides, though she seems much diminished… somehow smaller, somewhat frail.”
“She is dying,” says Valerius. “Along with the rest of us, I suppose. A great sorrow: for all our mastery of the Art, we cannot defeat time, can we? We cannot hold back that thief for very long. ‘The life so short, the craft so long to learn.’ I am old enough now to have sons of my own, sons that could be old enough to be apprenticed by now. Perhaps I am old enough to have sons with sons of their own. Instead I have only you. And my daughters.”
Noxumbra stirs on her perch and issues a peevish caw.
“And Noxumbra,” adds Valerius, with a wistful smile. “Though I have risen so far in my mastery of the Art, there is still so much to learn. I have been thinking, of late, on an entirely new line of study, one utterly unknown to any of the Adepts of old Tynar. A line of study that one magus could fruitfully pursue for all his lifetime, and for all the lifetimes of all his apprentices, and for the lifetimes of his apprentice’s apprentices.”
“Indeed?” wonders Dominic. “I am intrigued, Master. Pray tell more.”
“I can command the most powerful elemental forces now, the greatest spirits of earth, of air, of fire, of water. And I can command certain of Hell’s stalwarts, darkling princes long fallen from the Five’s grace. But how? My power over these spirits stems from my knowledge of, and my ability to manipulate certain rules, natural and magickal laws, if you will, laws to which all beings in this creation, high and low, without exception, are subject. So is all magick worked. But I have begun to wonder—could not one use these same principles to command the very servants of the Five? Are these celestial beings not also subject to all the same laws of creation that obtain for the rest of us? Certainly this race of beings, or races, as it may be, though perhaps more powerful than any other, could still be commanded by a magus, properly prepared. There are passages in Pentian scripture that suggest such a feat might be accomplished. And thus, what spirits are left for the archimagus to command, but the Angels themselves?”
[Excerpt from the Book of Reckoning]
1 He that have an ear, let him hear of the troubles that shall come in those days of wrath. 2 For all the mighty nations of the earth shall take up arms and strife shall reign over the land. 3 And the high kings and the low kings shall take up swords against one another, and their servants shall take up swords against one another, and so wars shall cover the land with the slain and the seas shall turn red. 4 But those that fall cannot die in these days, though they may cry out for death. 5 And so must the slain wander the earth and weep for their iniquities.
The Camp of the Ebon Quill, Outside Utterbol. III Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Before Dawn.
The sky above is dark and the air is cold and clammy; a heavy fog laps at the edges of the still camp. From within the humble canvas tent of their leader comes a clatter and a cry. The guards outside, nine converted ruck-men wearing plain gray surcoats and bearing spiked clubs, look at each other and leap to their feet. With a roar they rush into the tent.
Standing there in the tent is a ruck-man, noble in bearing. His arms are outstretched and his eyes are wet as if from tears.
“Well met, brothers,” calls the ruck-man. “Well met! Be not alarmed, no, be not! Put down your cudgels, brothers, for I, who once was called Nestor, but now am named Jonam, bring you glad tidings this morn. Rejoice, my brothers, rejoice! For as I slept last night, I was blessed with a vision most wondrous and profound.
“For I dreamt that I saw, as if from a great distance, the Good Friar, he who taught us of the Five and gave us the Word. And the Good Friar came unto me, and spake with me, and told me not to be afraid of the coming battle, and he comforted me with a bit of scripture: ‘When the darkness deepens and the cold bites hardest. Behold, for dawn is now on the horizon and light shall overwhelm all.’
“Many of us shall fall in the coming days, dear brothers. The Friar did not tell me whether or no Utterbol will fall, nor did he say whether or no we shall be victorious. But be not afraid, brothers, for we hath heard the Word, and drank of Their cup, and we are saved, praise Them on high, we are saved. And so shall They fill our hearts with courage, and so shall They fill our arms with strength. And should we fall, They shall raise us up and we shall live on ever more in the Shining City.
“Bow down, brothers, bow down, and let us offer up a prayer to Them, let us thank Them for this great gift, this one great chance to redeem our cursed line before the Reckoning sounds and this wretched world of sin and suffering is unmade.
“Behold, my brothers, behold! Dawn is now on the horizon!”
[Excerpt from the Book of Reckoning]
1 And I beheld the First Angel approach bearing a terrible rod of silver, and before the Angel came the Lamb wreathed all in fire. 2 And as the Lamb passed over the world the dead rose up from where they lay, and the living were sore afraid and cried out before the Throne. 3 And I saw as the Second Angel followed, bearing the three stars and the five swords, and the kingdoms of the Shaithim shook with this passing, and a third of these nations were cast down, their armies swallowed up by the darkening plains. 4 And I saw as the Third Angel rode forth from the Citie, carrying a great trumpet of gold.
The Watchtower at Upchurch, X Frostaire, Nones.
Serjeant Oswald, Jacob, Pyers.
“Now lads,” says Oswald, “I just now come from talking with Father Anselm, who has some news, he does, from Utterbol. The long and the short of it all is this: ye best keep a special sharp eye out on the roads, for the ruck-men will likely be making to raid Upchurch before too long.”
“Me and Jakes, here, always keep a good watch,” says Pyers, nodding his round, red face vigorously. “Don’t we, Jakes?” The younger boy only looks back blankly, and Pyers shrugs and continues. “And what’s up with these rucks, anyway—why are they looking to raid Upchurch? Our lord isn’t here, he’s off fighting at Heremac. Would that I were there, fighting beside Sir Hamral. Then I’d show that Tereus and his rucks a thing or too, mark my words. I’m not afraid of him, no sir.”
“You’d be afraid if ye had any sense in that damn fool head of yours, lad,” says Oswald, sternly. “Scopas and his rucks have pushed Kirke back into the castle, and they’re laying a siege right even as we speak. But it’s cold, and I bet the rucks thought they could capture the castle outright, so they’ve got a long, cold, and hungry winter before them, meaning they’ll be soon needing to scrounge up something to eat and a bit of fuel. Do ye catch my meaning well enough? Soon enow, those ole rucks’ll be turning toward Upchurch. Now ye both know what to do once you’ve espied some rucks?”
Pyers snorts and rolls his eyes. “We’re not little children, are we Jakes? By the Hammer, we’re practically men. We know all about what to…”
“Fine, then,” says Oswald. “Tell me, lad. What are you to do?”
“All right,” says Pyers. “We see the rucks, we’re to blow this here horn—right, Jakes? Three blows, right? Right, then, me and Jacob here are to hustle on down the ladder and make for the manor house at once.”
“That’s right, lad,” says Oswald. “Easy as that. The rest of the men will join us there. Now, when the rucks come, do you think we’ll get any help from those two… those girls?”
“I reckon maybe,” says Pyers, “But then again, maybe not. Hard to say with them, isn’t it Jakes? The Weird Sisters are spending more and more time in the woods, and they seem to be roaming further and farther afield with each day that goes by. I might see them one day out of three, now, if that. But then, even if they were around, who could say if they would even help us? Give me the creeping crawlies, they do. But surely, we shan’t need their help with ruck-men, no indeed. Why, just Jakes and me here could give any twelve rucks an honest fight.”
“Lad, let us get one thing straight,” says Oswald. “I’ve had more than enough of your bluster. If you see a ruck-man, you do just what I’ll do, and nothing else: you’ll run. You understand me? Run.”
“No,” say Jacob.
Oswald and Pyers turn and gawk, open-mouthed, at the slender boy.
“No,” repeats Jacob. “I’ll not run. My lord charged me with defense of his home. And I will not shrink from that. I have seen the Lamarite, at dusk, walking these lands. And I have dreamt of Purer Grundry, the good healer who died beside our lord. I’ll not run.”
Oswald sighs heavily, and shakes his head. “Lad, brave lad, good brave lad. Oh, ye will run, ye will—I’ll see to it personally. And what’s more, Sir Hamral would want ye to. You think he’s never run, with all the dreadful enemies he’s faced over the years? Of course he has. I am here to tell ye so. Mendelor’s told me about more than one occasion, and there’s no shame in it, no. Just plain common sense, to avoid a fight that doesn’t need to be fought. All the women-folk have been evacuated from here, they’re all safe at Utterbol. There’s nothing left here in Upchurch worth dying for. Look around, take a good look from this tower, look all around. What do ye see? Fields, cattle, forest, a few buildings.
“Land is just dirt, it’s not worth a man’s life, much less a brave boy’s life, no. I’d not trade a thousand acres, or ten thousand acres, for a Garnfellow, or for one Leofric, or for one Jacob. Hell, I wouldn’t even trade it all for even a single Pyers.”
[Excerpt from the Book of Reckoning]
1 And the three angels cast wide the round gate that sat at the bottom of the mountain, and from the gate issued a terrible noise like a thousand drums drumming. 2 And from the gate came forth locusts, their shape as great as a warhorse, and they had the faces and hair of women but the teeth of lions. 3 And their tails were like unto a scorpion’s tail, and their sting was deadly, and their number was legion. 4 And they flew out from their prison across the whole face of the world, where they devoured the crops and plagued all living things there for seven times seven days.
Utterbol Castle, XV Frostaire, Vespers.
Lady Isabelle of Derwich, Dame Alice Rowland, Maid Martha, Babe Errol.
Little Errol sighs, blinks twice, and then passes back into sleep. Isabelle hands the small, black-haired baby to Martha, who coos softly and walks him around the cramped castle chamber.
“I have just spoken with our lord the Count,” says Alice, her voice heavy and her careworn face unusually pinched. “It seems that we are safe—for now, at least. Sir Durrell feels confident that Scopas currently lacks the power to breach the walls of Utterbol, and so, for the nonce, the ruckish general is content to simply bide his time.”
“A great relief,” says Isabelle, letting out a sigh.
“But much depends upon how your husband fares at Heremac,” says Alice. “Should Hamral triumph over Tereus and win the city, then Scopas will have no support and will have to break off the siege. But should Hamral fail… Kirke believes that just a few more troops would be enough for Scopas to win through our defences.
“The longer this siege persists, the more desperate the rucks will become, as their stores dwindle and the winter sets in. And who knows what deeds a hungry ruck-man is capable of? A great many of Kirke’s knights fell during the fighting outside Utterbol. Should Scopas storm Utterbol, we must ready ourselves for the possibility that this castle might fall.”
Isabelle looks at Errol anxiously, and Alice nods.
“But I have made certain arrangements,” says Alice, “in case of just such an eventuality.”
“What… what do you mean?” says Isabelle. “What arrangements?”
Alice pauses and moves closer to Isabelle. “There is a girl, a peasant girl from a village just outside Utterbol. She’s been sleeping in the stables, but I have had her moved into the castle, and I have given her some coin. This girl’s name is Anne Browne, and she has a little boy just a month older than Errol.
“Should Utterbol fall, Anne has agreed… she has agreed that we will swap her boy for Errol, and she will try to escape in the confusion. We will stay behind, and hope that the rucks will believe our little ruse.”
“No!” cries Isabelle, bolting up. She rushes over to Martha, snatches up Errol from the maid, and clutches him tight to her chest. The baby, startled, begins to wail. “No,” repeats Isabelle.
“Yes,” says Alice, sharply. “Isabelle, you know what will happen to us if Utterbol falls. Both of us. You know what happened to your parents, to your brothers, when Busirane captured Derwich. That will be our fate, as well, and maybe even worse. Maybe even much worse. Even the lowest ruck-man knows who your husband is, what he has done. They will be pitiless to us. Do you want to watch as the rucks pitch tiny Errol here over the castle walls, or toss him onto the sharp ends of their pikes? I will not see that happen, and you will not, either.”
“No,” says Isabelle, trying to soothe the howling baby. “The rucks will never do to me what they did… what they did… And they’ll never take Errol. Never! First I’ll… I’ll…”
“You’ll do no such thing, you little fool,” says Alice, contemptuously. Isabelle stops in her tracks and stares, shocked, at her older cousin. “That’s right,” continues Alice. “Should Utterbol fall you will exchange Errol for the Browne boy. You will, and thereafter, whatever happens to us, Errol will be safe. He will be safe, and Derwich will be safe. Do you not see?
“My father is long dead, as are all my brothers, and they left no children behind. You are last of my uncle’s children, and your little Errol is the last bit of our line, the sole remaining bit of our grandfather still left on this earth. I know this is hard, child. I know. But we are looking at hard times ahead, times that will require hard decisions to be made. Your father would want this done, as would your husband, Hamral. Do you understand? Utterbol may fall, we may be slain, but Errol will survive. Errol must survive Utterbol.”
Her eyes brimming with tears, Isabelle nods.
[Excerpt from the Book of Reckoning]
4 And the Angel rode before the gates and blew the trumpet once. 5 And at this sound the thunder roared, one third of the stars went dark, and the pillars of the earth trembled. 6 And now cried the angels, ‘Come and see,’ and three stars fell down from the firmament. 7 And the first star fell in the upper air, and there was a great roaring, and the sky became as dark as midnight. 8 And the second star fell in the waters, and all ships at sea were lost, and all the waters became bitter. 9 And the third star fell on the land, and there was a great fire, and all the trees and all the grasses were burnt.
The Crusader’s Camp, Outside Heremac, XX Frostaire, Sext.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, St. James, Ruik.
“By the Hammer, I don’t see why we can’t just sneak into Heremac and then simply have it out with Tereus, once and for all,” says St. James. “I am so sick of blasted sieges and armies and sorties and such. Where’s the fun in all this?”
“Well, there is that little matter of Tereus being impervious to harm from mortal men,” says Vandoren. “Or have you gone and forgotten that little piece of information?”
“Supposedly impervious,” says St. James. “I bet most of the rucks thought Busirane was well nigh impervious, as well. Good thing no one told Mendelor, though. Ha! I say a good piece of steel between the ribs will put a crimp in any ruck-man’s day.”
“We’ve discussed this all before, though,” says Ruik. “And you know how hard it is to get into Heremac, even for just the two of us. I’ve used every trick in the book, and I still almost got caught that last time out. Those ruckish guards are getting better and better all the time at spotting me.”
“And just what is it like inside Heremac?” asks Vandoren.
“A bit gloomy, really,” says Ruik. “Though all things considered, I suppose that the poor carles of Heremac could have it much worse. Tereus has a strict dusk to dawn curfew, and anyone caught violating that curfew is thrown into gaol. During the day the patrols through the city are getting more frequent and better organized. There are a lot more random searches of merchants than there were even just a couple of weeks ago.”
“What is the mood of the ruck-men, I wonder?” asks Vandoren.
“Anxious, I’d say,” says Ruik. “I had a chance to chat up a couple of Cataphracts outside the Bristling Boar. Oh, by-the-by, Dame Ellen wanted me to say hullo to you. In any case, I was dressed as a beggar and I was pretending I had lost a leg, so I had rigged…”
“The Cataphracts,” says Vandoren. “You were speaking of the Cataphracts.”
“Oh, right,” says Ruik. “I can tell you about the disguise another time. So, anyway, it sounded like the ruck-men are getting pretty anxious. Ever since we captured Serapis, I guess Tereus has been even more horrible than ever, and they think he’s ready to blow. They’re afraid he’s going to lose his patience and try to drive the crusaders back from the walls with one big push, whereas the ruck-men are quite content to stay right where they are.”
“A sortie would be risky for the ruck-men,” says Hamral. “Right now they enjoy a superior position, and a sortie would cede that advantage. But if they hit us hard enough… I am not sure how much longer we can hold this army together. With each day that passes, the grumbles in our camp grow louder. These soft Werdrecean nobles lack the spleen needed for a siege. And each morning we seem to find our army a little bit smaller, as shirkers steal away in the night. Time is not on our side here.”
Just then, Mendelor, Owen, and Draak rush into the tent, out of breath.
“My lord,” says Mendelor, quickly kneeling before Hamral. “We came at once.”
“You have found her?” asks the Bailiff of Upchurch, rising to his feet.
“We think so,” says Mendelor.
“Summon the magicians, then,” orders Hamral, casting about for Legrand.
“But my lord, as usual, there are… complications,” says Owen, shaking his head ruefully.
“Damned strange stuff, if you ask me,” says Draak. “I never saw the like in all my days. Strange.”
“We tracked down those rumors,” says Mendelor, “Which led us to a little wood north of the city. I’m sure this is where Gregory has taken Agnes.”
“Did you spy his camp?” asks Vandoren. “Is the Babe safe?”
“Well, it’s not that simple,” says Owen. “We didn’t actually see Agnes, or Gregory, for that matter.”
“Then what makes you so sure this is the place?” demands Hamral.
“Oh, this is the place, all right,” says Mendelor. “I’ll stake my life on it. No mistaking it. This wood… it used to be just a small little cedar copse. But it’s… it’s changed. Transformed somehow, practically overnight, it’s become all strange. Oh, we’ve seen the like before. Far too many times, I fear: witchery, the darkest sort of deviltry is afoot. Where once was a small stand of cedars, now there’s a dark and trackless piece of wilderness that just reeks of the Shaithim. The locals have taken to calling it the Depraved Thicket, and just the name says it all. Depraved Thicket? How could Gregory have taken Agnes to any other place?”
[Excerpt from the Book of Reckoning]
1 And now cried the angels, ‘Come and see,’ and behold, a man came forth who was dressed as a shepherd, but beneath his robes he was as a wolf, and his crook was a sword, and his words were all lies. 2 And the people in their multitudes flocked to this shepherd, and gave their faith unto him and his false words, and so he was raised up high before all other men. 3 And from the Deep there arose a great Beast, crowned as a queen and a mother to blasphemies. 4 And the deceiver told the men to worship this dragon, and said that they should take her mark, for she was most great and those who bore the mark of the dragon would be given much favor.
Heremac, XXV Frostaire, Complines.
Clement, Cynthia.
“You are out of your mind!” cries Cynthia, throwing a plate at Clement. “Utterly. Out. Of. Your. Mind.”
“Cynthia,” says Clement, ducking. “Darling, quiet down, you’ll wake the boys, and at this rate you’ll bring the guard.”
Cynthia stops, another plate in her hand, her face flushed and her chest heaving from the exertion. Clement ducks his head into the side room, and quickly returns.
“The boys are still asleep,” he says with a hushed voice, gingerly approaching his wife.
“Promise me you won’t go,” says Cynthia. “Promise me.”
“Cynthia,” says Clement. “What would you have me do? Those are my friends out there. I’ve known Vandoren since we were both boys. I’ve know Hamral since… since before you and I ever met. I owe them much. You owe them much.”
“Bah,” snorts Cynthia. “I would have escaped those ogres all by myself. It’s a wonder those fools didn’t get us all killed.”
“Perhaps,” says Clement. “But I can’t just stay here, cooped up in the city and patching up all the poor townsmen who have been assaulted by ruck-men. What, you want me to take on Tereus’s brand, carry that damned mark around on my forehead like that fool brother of yours? Cynthia, darling…”
“Clement Barbour, you can’t up and leave me here all alone with the boys. I can’t do this by myself. Baby Dunstan can’t even walk yet, and Little Simon, he’ll be heartbroken if anything happens to you. It’s too dangerous, much too dangerous. Think of how many of your friends have been killed running around with Hamral and Valerius and the like. Remember Shakerly?”
“But darling,” says Clement.
“But nothing,” says Cynthia, drawing in to Clement, her eyes misting over. “But nothing. Please, promise me. Just stay for a little while. Let’s see what happens with this siege. Maybe this will be all over soon. Why take a foolish risk now? Just don’t leave us. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want you to go and get yourself killed for these stupid friends. Promise me.”
Clement sighs and embraces his wife, rubbing her back.
“Fine, darling, fine,” whispers Clement. “Just stop crying.”
After Matins.
The apartment is dark and still, and Clement’s eyes are open wide. Furtively, he steals a glance over at his wife, who lies beside him and snores, softly. Clement sighs and slowly rolls toward her, to kiss her softly on the cheek. Then he kisses baby Dunstan, who sleeps fretfully beside her.
Gently, Clement slides out of the bed and on to the floor. He creeps over to a smaller bed and kisses Simon, pausing to stroke the little boy’s tousled hair. The boy’s eyes open and Clement startles, but Simon only laughs.
“Go back to sleep, now, lad,” whispers Clement.
“Where are you going, father?” asks Simon in a small voice.
“Nowhere,” says Clement. “Now go back to sleep.”
“I’m thirsty,” says Simon. Clement nods, sadly, and then reaches for a cup of ale next to the bed.
“Sip this,” says Clement, and the boy eagerly slurps it down, belches, and then settles back into his bed.
“You are a fine lad,” says Clement. “And I am very proud of you.”
But Simon is asleep. Clement bites his lip, stands up, and then moves over to grab the staff leaning against the wall.
“I love you all, very much,” murmurs Clement, right before he slips out of the window and into the night.