The journey to the Harransee Mountains took Idris back up the road he had travelled in the spring, when his only concern was returning to Veridia with his honour intact. His company was much the same – Kurellan on a warhorse, with Riette riding at his side, Lila and Willard on ponies and Idris in the war-cart. The biggest difference was that Cressida had joined them on this expedition, and she and her horse trotted beside Idris’s vehicle. Thistle slept on Idris’s shoulders like a thick, sentient scarf.

  Lady Eremont rode in the carriage behind.

  Idris and his mother started the journey with a screaming row outside Obsidian Lake’s tavern, when Idris exited the building to see her piling the carriage with travel provisions. It would have come to blows had Riette not intervened. Idris did not want Lady Eremont on the trip; Lady Eremont said he had no right to tell her where she could and could not go, and that it was her carriage and she journeyed where she liked. How she had even found out about the mission was beyond him. Likely, she had spies. It mattered little, because there was nobody who could persuade her out of her course of action, and she insisted that the carriage was non-negotiable. It trundled behind Idris’s cart like a storm cloud on wheels.

  “It might be useful to have a healer with us,” said Cressida lightly. Idris ran his tongue over his false molar.

  “We have a healer. Willard is here,” he said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You are the queen, and you can just order her back to Temple Hill,” he said.

  “Do you think I did not already try that? Your mother is stubborn – and rude, I might add,” she said. “How your uncle put up with her, I shall never know.”

  “Uncle Haylan was patient. It is not an Eremont trait.”

  “Clearly.” She glanced at Idris’s cart. “Do you really need all of this?”

  “Yes. We cannot all stand beside rivers and wave our fingers to make magic,” he said, with a teasing smile. She grinned slyly.

  “Still sore, I see. Well, your mother does not travel lightly, either. Is that an Eremont trait?”

  “It must be.”

  The Harransee Mountains were not like Cresent Crest. Where the Cresentlands were giant and silvery, laid with golden and bronze leaves and filled with waterfall mist, the Harransee sat barren and brown, sprawling with boulders and crags, red with clay. Dragons lived there once, according to the bones explorers had dug up, and it was easy to see why – the Harransee were wide-open, inviting spaces for enormous creatures like dragons, and filled with tunnels and caverns that dove deep into the earth for many miles.

  “The scholars say,” said Cressida as they crossed into its paths, “that the Harransee used to be arable farmland and pastures. The dragons took everything, as dragons are wont to do, leaving us this. It is part of the reason that the knights of old slayed them – if the dragons had been permitted to live, we would have been starved out within a century.”

  “It does seem a remarkable pity,” said Idris, trying to imagine a dragon. “I would have liked to see one.”

  “It would’ve swallowed you without chewing,” said Willard, who loved Cressida’s stories of the old world. “Wouldn’t’ve even thanked you for the meal.”

  “If the old raven is hiding out here,” said Kurellan, “it won’t be easy to find him.”

  “I will find him,” said Idris firmly. “I will make sure of it.”

  “What about the thistle in the back?” said the old judge, jerking his head towards Lady Eremont’s carriage.

  “She does what she wants,” said Idris. “If that includes this suicide mission, she is welcome to it.”

  Kurellan grunted. For some reason, he was the most put-out by Astridia’s insistence.

  Riette directed them to an area she had already scouted for a camp – a low-hanging rock shelf that covered a shallow area of shade, through a narrow road between the boulders. From that spot, sightlines were minimal, as they were penned in by sheer rock walls, so Riette and Kurellan were going to hold positions on either side where the Queen’s soldiers would make checkpoints and watchtowers to look for Layton. The camp was difficult to attack without coming past those points but it was also not easy to leave. The Eremont carriage and Idris’s cart would not go through the pass.

  Lila and Willard began taking parcels off Idris’s cart, while he sifted through what he wanted to leave at the outer camp; he noticed the carriage’s door open in his peripheral vision.

  “Lady Eremont,” said Cressida, jumping off her horse, “perhaps you would do best in the forward camp, where you can set up triage and a treatment tent.”

  Idris did not hear his mother reply. He gritted his teeth and handed Lila a bundle of clothing. Lady Eremont appeared over Lila’s shoulder. Without a word, she picked up Idris’s travel chest which contained his extra prosthetics and followed Willard through the pass.

  “I am going to scream,” Idris whispered to Lila, who gave him a pitying glance.

  “I think she thinks she’s helping, sir,” she said, watching Lady Eremont vanish into the shade.

  “I do not want her to touch my boots, not at all. Do you know what is staying?”

  “Yes, Sir Idris. I can delegate from here. You go.”

  When Idris reached the camp, Lady Eremont was placing Idris’s trunk beside Willard’s medicine chest, which she moved to inspect. Two of the tents were already erected – Cressida’s wide royal tent with its blue bunting and Willard’s lean-to – and the belongings were being sorted by Riette, who saw Idris and jerked her head towards the impending disaster. Idris nodded and approached.

  “Ey, Idris, um…” Willard looked uncomfortable. “Where’d’you want your trunk? Lady Eremont, you don’t need to help, I’m sure this is beneath you –“

  “My lady, your services are not wanted,” said Idris bluntly, taking the handle of his trunk. “Please leave.”

  “A healer’s most important place is the battlefield,” she said, her voice stiff, her hands behind her back.

  “I did not forget, thank you for that lesson,” he muttered, dragging the trunk closer.

  “I would like to do a cursory inspection of my prospective patients, so as to be better informed if the need arises,” she said, as if nothing untoward was happening. “I think the hedge witch has adequate materials for field medicine but I need to know what resources I may require for more serious ailments.”

  “’The hedge witch’ has everything I need,” said Idris, straightening up. “And he has a name and noble blood, you should be more respectful.”

  “It ain’t no bother, Idris,” said Willard quietly.

  “I would like to know what you think you can do that my uncle could not,” said Idris to his mother. “Since I assume the only reason you are here is so you can poke and prod at my leg. Taking the entire chest of another person’s prosthetics is rather ill-advised, Lady Eremont. I need to know where they are at all times, or else I cannot walk, which I would like to do.”

  Lady Eremont sucked her cheeks, now pink, but she kept her face still.

  “Speak plainly or not at all,” Idris said.

  “I would like to examine my only son’s amputation,” she said.

  “Request denied. Leave.”

  She walked away, shaking with forced control; Willard let out a long, tense breath.

  “King and Circle, your ma is something else,” he said.

  “I have three parents and not one of them is compassionate or competent,” said Idris, opening the lid of his trunk to check the contents. The hare’s foot, his riding boot and his war boot were all there, with clean socks and sticky casings. The weaver magic imbued in the trunk’s lining glittered gold. “I am sorry she accosted you, Willard.”

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  “Ain’t nothing.” He patted his chest. “Got everything you need. Guess I’ll see you at sundown, eh?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  At the forward camp, Kurellan was watching the Eremont cohort set up the medical tent with his arms firmly folded and his tongue lodged in his cheek.

  “You will not scare her I am afraid, Your Honour,” said Idris as he passed. “Save your bile for someone else.”

  “Woman’s a liability,” Kurellan said.

  “We have more pressing concerns. Will you watch me while I work?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  “I will assist you,” said Cressida, touching Kurellan’s arm gently. “If the wind blows, Kurellan, your face will stick that way. Make yourself useful and get the watchtower set up, hmm?”

  Kurellan sighed and tutted. “Of course, Majesty. Sir Idris.”

  “Let me protect you, Rissy,” said Cressida, grinning at him. “Come on. Show me what you have been studying all this time.”

  Idris gathered his travel magic pack, along with a shoulder bag filled with his personal artefacts and a couple of select tomes from the Vonner library, and he and the Queen wandered away from the forward camp, out into the wastes of the Harransee.

  “Is there water, here?” Idris asked. Cressida nodded.

  “Look. There are plants.” Between the cracks, there were spindly weeds, scrubby bushes and ground cover. “I can hear the aria well enough. You?”

  “The death aria is the song of this place,” he said, looking into the bright sky. “No wonder he came here.”

  It had been years since Idris and Cressida had walked side-by-side on a field mission, long before the war. He found comfort in it; she had not abandoned him or his cause, and he still intended to do what he always said he would and protect her and her kingdom. She twirled her retractable baton around her fingers as they went, watching the rocks and birds.

  “Rissy,” she said, “when this is over, I think you should spend a year at Summer’s End. Not because I am trying to coddle you,” she added, when he frowned at her. “I think you need a rest. Physically, mentally. You have served queen and kingdom admirably these past two years and you know, most courtiers do not live at the palace all year round. They go to their homes, and have lives, and families, and...”

  “Lives and families are what caused this mess in the first place,” he said, sighing heavily. “But... I will consider it.”

  “For the record, I do think Riette is a suitable match for you.”

  “Cressida,” he said firmly, feeling hot. She blinked, smiled innocently.

  “What? Oh, Idris, come now,” she said, linking their arms and hugging him to her side. “You are funny. Do you think your best and oldest friend in the whole world did not notice the way you look at the big strong handsome Riette? What do you take me for?”

  “She is too good for the likes of me,” said Idris. “And we are just friends, anyway.”

  “Well, if you went courting for a spring and a summer next year and you so happened to invite Riette for a walk or for tea, let us say I will not be surprised.”

  “Cressida, I hate you.”

  “I know, Rissy.”

  “Here will do. We are far enough out, I think.”

  They could almost see the forward camp behind them from the spot Idris chose, but there was a long expanse of empty, rutted rock in front of them, with a few flat rocks of substantial size. Idris checked his position to make sure no fissures would interrupt his lines, and then he selected a piece of red chalk and said to Cressida, “Walk in a straight line from this point. Six steps, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  He followed behind her with the chalk, drawing as straight a line as he could muster, and repeating the process until they had a sizeable pentagon etched onto the ground.

  “Taking some musical direction from your father, hmm?” said Cressida, putting her hands on her hips as she surveyed it.

  “Quite. If he can use the pentagons, then I can use them, too. The question is, how far can I exert my will from this point, without a second pentagon?” said Idris, checking the length of the sides.

  “He used objects, correct?”

  Idris shook the shoulder bag at her. “Correct.”

  He put his bag of knuckle bones at one point, his first prosthetic at another, his grandfather’s stiletto dagger, his bloodied and cut prosthetic garter and the split and burnt blackwood shaft of the destroyed staff he carried into battle against Dravid Orrost at the others.

  “Theoretically,” he said to Cressida as he worked, “the objects I have selected contain elements of myself. While Layton used objects which contained necrotic power, I am using objects which are amplifiers of my will.”

  “So they are symbolic,” she said, frowning.

  “No. They are parts of me. The will I exerted when I wielded these things are contained within them, as if they are thralls I have raised.” He gestured to the wooden foot. “For example, the first foot is a marker of relearning and determination. The knuckle bones are concentration.”

  “I see.”

  “By using objects, I can transfer most of the aria’s load not to focusing myself, but to focusing on what I must do. Thus, projecting my will with greater strength and distance.”

  “I know I mock your study habits, but you really are quite clever, Rissy,” the queen said mildly.

  “It could work with water magic, too,” he said. “Although you would need a different shape.”

  “I do not so much project my will onto individual artefacts, though,” she said. “Water comes and goes. This must be a discipline for less transient arias, hence why it is so complicated.” She let out a breath, smiled at him. “What do you need me to do?”

  He handed her the shoulder bag. “Set up these blocks, for me. We will start with ten feet.”

  “Certainly.”

  Cressida walked roughly ten feet away, stacked the blocks one on top of the other.

  “Should I get out of the way?” she called.

  “Please. I would hate to hit you.”

  The Queen moved to a safe distance, and Idris settled into his Half-Moon stance in the pentagon, being careful to distribute his weight evenly. Already, he could feel heat, even though he was not breathing the aria; it simmered around the edges of him, oozing from his personal effects. The aria was steady, strong, like a lazy stream.

  He breathed deep, let the aria roll through him, tugging at his muscles and tendons, and he focused on the blocks. The pentagon bolstered him. His arm did not shake. The sweat was gentle. He moved fluidly, pulling his left arm in, extending his right, and he formed the spell on his lips.

  “Push,” he said, and it charred, and he felt the aria slam from his left-arm strike with such force that it knocked him off balance. He fell backwards, just caught himself in time, and he looked at the blocks.

  Cressida peered from behind her fingers.

  “Black bells, Idris,” she said. “I felt that from here.”

  The blocks had scattered, flung far from each other.

  “Twenty feet,” he said, his heart pounding with excitement.

  “How did it feel?” she said, moving to collect the blocks.

  “I... strong,” he said. “Focused. It is hard to describe. The physical toll was lessened. And I think the aria is still in me, actually. I did not feel it exit.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “We will find out.” He steadied himself, returned to his stance. “It is quite exhilarating. Like being drunk on peach wine.”

  “As I recall, the evening we were drunk on peach wine, you vomited on the both of us and slept on my bathroom floor,” said Cressida. “Hopefully we will not get a repeat of that.”

  At twenty feet, the strike was just as strong. By thirty feet, Idris had an audience. Willard and Riette stood outside the pentagon, squinting into the late autumn sun. At forty feet, Kurellan said, “Huh,” when Idris struck only the top block off the tower with such precision that he shocked even himself. Forty-five feet was where his control ended, while Riette recorded the results of the experiment in Idris’s journal – after three attempts, not a single block moved.

  “The pentagon works, then, sir,” said Lila.

  “Oh, it works,” he said, breathless and dizzy. “But now... interesting. Now I feel very tired. It seems the aftereffects come all at once.”

  “You gonna faint, Idris?” said Willard, frowning slightly.

  “I think so, yes.” The aria fizzled out of him like adrenalin. “Bells, that is...”

  His vision blurred with dots and he heard Riette say, “Is it safe for us to enter the pentagon? Because -”

  Idris hit a shoulder, rather than the floor, and when he blinked himself back into focus, Kurellan had him up.

  “The fun’s over,” the old judge said. “And I think we can step in the pentagon.”

  “I want to try two pentagons tomorrow,” said Idris, his speech thick and slurred.

  “Don’t think so. Up.”

  Kurellan heaved him to his feet.

  “Do not erase the chalk,” Idris said, as his companions moved to collect his belongings. “Leave it. I...”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Kurellan. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Coming limping and loose back into camp was not how Idris wanted to present himself to his mother, but as the chill came with the loss of the sunlight he saw her at the mouth of her medical tent, watching the Court Judge assist her son back through the newly-constructed barricade. She moved as if to say something, but Kurellan doggedly ignored her and half-carried Idris to his tent in the main camp.

  “What did she do to you?” Idris said, once Kurellan had deposited him on the edge of his cot bed.

  “Hmm?”

  “My mother.”

  “Abandoned her only child for the sake of pride,” he said bluntly, walking out without a backwards glance.

  Idris thought of Kurellan’s wife, his two daughters, the brief glimpse he had of the old man’s personal life at Cressida’s birthday party, and he wondered how much Kurellan had sacrificed to keep them satisfied, to do what a good father should. Did they miss him at special occasions? Did he have to leave in the dead of night to make it to sudden court sessions? Was Lady Kurellan home worrying while he was here in the Harransee?

  Cressida mentioned family with such casual carelessness. What was the point of it? Why should Idris have to build one, only to leave it behind in pursuit of his duty? It seemed cruel, wasteful. Having family and loved ones did not make a person better or less selfish. It simply complicated everything. It made problems. It hurt people.

  Besides, family would mean making more necromancers, and the only thing he had really learned over the last year was that nobody needed another necromancer.

  He kicked off his prosthetic, massaged the muscle above the amputation, noticed how swollen and hot the whole thing was and decided it was hardly worth the effort to medicate it. He was too tired, anyway.

  As he lay down, he heard the bells that Lila had set up outside the tent, twinkling and crying with their arias, and another, stranger noise – a low, sporadic moaning, as the wind blew over the ridges of the Harransee, lamenting the invasion of its home.

  Pentagons were the only thing Idris could think about.