Harry washed and shaved, had a change of clothes, ‘breakfasted’ and contacted E-Branch. He quickly told Darcy Clarke what he’d done, and what he was about to do. Clarke offered a cautionary ‘take care’ and Harry was ready.
He used the Mobius Continuum and went to Ploiesti.
The scene was much the same as it had been eight years earlier: Faethor’s house on the outskirts of the town was one of several burned-out shells lying half-buried in heaps of overgrown rubble, stony corpses in what was otherwise open countryside. It was dark here, around 6:50 p.m. Middle European Time, but there was still enough light for Harry to find himself a tumbled wall and take a seat. And he had remembered the way: he could feel Faethor’s presence lying like a shroud on the place, albeit one which was slowly returning to dust. A very faint nimbus of light glowed on the western horizon, beyond the Carpathians in the direction of home.
All around Harry was desolation, made worse by the feel of winter in the air. He shivered, but entirely because of the chill he could feel slowly working its way into his bones. In summer this place would have a certain wild beauty, when the old bomb craters would be masked by flowers and unchecked brambles, and the skeletal walls covered with lush ivy. In the winter, however, the snow would bring the perspective back to gaunt, monochrome reality. The devastation would be obvious, incapable of disguise. It would always be a reminder, and that was probably why the Romanians would never rebuild here.
One of the reasons, anyway, Faethor agreed. But I have always liked to believe that I was the main reason. I don’t want people building here. Since Thibor destroyed my old place I’ve had several homes, but this was the last of them. This is where I am, so to speak. So now, when people come nosing around and I feel their footfalls –
‘ – You sort of gloom over the place. You exert an influence, your aura.’ You’ve noticed.
Harry shivered again, but still only from the cold. ‘How about your legends, Faethor?’ he said. ‘I don’t like to rush you, but I’ve never yet spoken to one of your sort who told me anything in plain, simple language! And time is precious. It could be that lives are at stake.’
At ‘stake’? An unfortunate choice of words. Do you mean human lives? In that other world? Ah, but they always have been!
‘I mean lives which are important to me. You see, I think people have found a way into that place, that source world. Some of whom are, or were, very dear to me.’
He sensed Faethor’s nod (for the fact is that people nod 417
with their minds as well as their heads). So / have been informed – er, by the dead, of course. Very well, the legends:
‘Wait,’ said Harry. ‘First tell me, what’s in this for you? Oh, I know you’ve said there are no strings attached, but still I can’t imagine you’ll help me out of the goodness of your heart.’
Faethor’s chuckle grew into a laugh. Not a pleasant thing. Ah! – but you know us well, Harry Keogh. Very well, I’ll tell you:
My grandfather, Belos, was exiled from his aerie, his world, his heritage, by the Wamphyri. He had grown too strong. They feared him mightily, and when their chance came they tricked, entrapped, expelled him. His lands and properties were stolen and he found himself here, in this world. He wasn’t the first or the last, and if things don’t change there may well be others still to come. Now I never knew Belos, who was dead before Waldemar passed on his egg to me, but I do know that if he had not been so badly treated then I would now be one of the Wamphyri in my rightful place – in the source world! When they expelled him they not only stole his heritage but denied Waldemar his after him and also mine. For that reason, and despite the years flown in between, Belos is worth avenging.
‘You’re going to help me find my way into that world for revenge?’ Harry frowned. ‘I don’t intend to look anyone up for you, Faethor. As I see it, it will be a case of in, rescue, retreat. I won’t be staying there long enough to write off any old scores.’