Caswallon thanked him and returned to the mare. Two days later, weary to the inner depths of his soul, he rode back into Citadel town. Not to see Maeg again, and feel the touch of her lips on his. Not to see Donal grow into a fine man. Never to know the fate of his people. Doomed to walk the rest of his life in a foreign land under strange stars.
He sought the Queen, finding her in her private rooms at the east wing of the hall. He told her nothing of the disappearance of the Gates, but questioned her about the priest who had first brought her to the forest as a babe.
‘What of him?’ asked Sigarni.
‘Did he survive?’
‘You know that he did.’
‘I am tired, my Lady, and my brain is weary. Forgive me. Does he still live, is what I meant.’
‘Only just, my love. He is the Abbot of the Dark Woods, a day’s journey to the east. But the last I heard he was blind and losing his wits.’
‘Can you spare a man to take me to him?’
‘Of course. Is it important?’
‘More important than I want to think about,’ said Caswallon.
With two horses each, Caswallon and a rider named Bedwyr rode through the day, reaching the Dark Woods an hour after dark. Both men reeled from their saddles and Bedwyr hammered at the door of the monastery. It was opened by a sleepy monk, whose eyes filled with fear as he saw the armour worn by the riders.
‘Be at peace, man,’ said Bedwyr. ‘We’re not raiders, we ride for the Queen. Does the Abbot live?’
The man nodded and led them through narrow corridors of cold stone to a small cell facing west. He did not tap upon the door but opened it quietly, leading them inside. A lantern flickered upon the far wall, throwing shadows to a wide bed in which lay a man of great age, his eyes open, seeming to stare at the rough-cut ceiling.
‘Leave us,’ ordered Caswallon. Bedwyr escorted the monk from the room and Caswallon heard the rider asking for food, and the monk’s promise that he would find bread and honey. Caswallon walked forward and sat beside the Abbot. He had changed much since Caswallon first saw him; his face was webbed with age and his sightless eyes seemed preternaturally bright.
‘Can you hear me, Astole?’ asked Caswallon.
The man stirred. ‘I hear you, Redhawk, my friend. There is fear in your voice.’
‘Yes. Great fear. I need your help now, as once you needed mine in the forest.’
The man chuckled weakly. ‘There is no magic left, Redhawk. With all the wonders my mind encompassed I can now no longer lift this pitiful frame from the bed, nor see the brightest sunset. By tomorrow I shall have joined my Lord.’
The Gates have closed.’
‘That is ancient history.’
The Middle Gates.’
‘Again? That is not possible.’
‘Believe me, Astole, they have closed. How may I re-open them?”
‘Wait a moment,’ said die old man. ‘When last did you see me?’
‘You were in the forest with the infant Queen.”
‘Ah, I understand,’ said Astole. ‘It is so long since I played with time, and my mind is growing addled.’ His head sank back on the pillow and he closed his sightless eyes. ‘Yes, it is becoming clear. The Farlain is still under threat, the Queen has not yet passed the Gate and you have yet to learn the mysteries. I have it now.’
Then help me,’ urged Caswallon. Tell me how to re-open the Gate. I must lead the Queen through, or my people will perish.’
‘I cannot tell you, my boy. I can only show you, teach you. It will take many years – eleven, if I remember correctly.’
‘I don’t have years,’ said Caswallon, hope draining from him. The old man was senile and making no sense. As if reading his mind Astole reached out a hand and gripped Caswallon’s arm, and when he spoke his voice was strong with authority.
‘Do not despair, my friend. There is much that you cannot understand. I made the Gates in my youth and arrogance. I discovered the lines of power that link the myriad pasts, the parallel worlds, and I made the machines to track them and ride them. It was I who allowed the Great Gates to close. My race were using the universe as an enormous whorehouse. I re-routed the prime power source to feed the Lesser and Middle Gates. But all power sources are finite – even those that flow from collapsed stars and make up the Sipstrassi. It is – in the Now that you inhabit – running to its finish. There are other sources, and I will teach you to find and re-align them, and then the Gates will return. The man you see now is but the last fading spark of a bright fire. He will die tonight, and yet he will not be dead. We will meet again and he shall teach you.