The Runes of Norien

As nightfall cooled the air, making them squeeze even closer together to steal a bit of one another’s warmth, the wildly different companions, children of realms which had never before come together – much less joined forces in a common enterprise – felt for the first time that, no matter how unexpectedly their fates had crossed paths, they were now united as one, embarking on a journey with no discernible return.

  And this feeling in turn bred sudden yet strong alliances amongst them, bonds that, though barely understandable, made their hearts throb with affection. Yodren was thinking of the awkward incident with Harfien, and what it might have led to if he were of the same predilection; it wasn’t desire, for he knew desire even if he’d never shared it with another; but it was nonetheless a sentiment both strong and darkly alluring, which, for no reason he could think of, brought Gallan to his mind: Gallan of the alabaster skin and ice blue eyes, who, from what Yodren understood, should have lain with his sister Raddia, but had never done so out of some profound and powerful aversion.

  Raddia was at the same moment occupying Wixelor’s thoughts. Wixelor, who, though a Dreamer, had scarcely ever made dreams of his own, still less ones involving a woman who would fill the resounding hollow of his loneliness with her love. And now this magnificent creature, small and dainty as a blossom, stood with her back against his knee, hanging on the slanting wooden beam for dear life, and there was nothing Wixelor would like more than have her sit on his knee, and then slowly slide into his lap, while he bent over to bury his face in the smooth, silken nest of her lily-scented hair.

  And little Yonfi, drowsy from the rocking of the flight, was thinking of them all as his new family, who would love him and fulfill his every wish. The Seers were like his parents, always knowing what was going through his mind and yet hardly ever strict with him, Yodren was, well, himself, his beloved big brother who was so clever he could read those funny black things and know what they said, and Wixelor was his – what was the word? ah, yes – a grandfather, an old, wise man who would spoil and spoil him. Of course this didn’t mean he’d forgotten his real family; in fact, it was hard to think of his Mama and Papa and Yofana without tears welling in his eyes, but, like Mistress Raddia said, he was a hero now, and heroes didn’t snivel because they missed their Mama. And since they would all be together again, and soon, there was really no reason to whine like a baby; he was lucky to have this second family, who cherished him so.

  Then the five airborne travellers were suddenly wrenched out of their musings, for with a last beating of its wings the flying machine had crossed to the other side of the foggy bank that hid the Drowning Isles; within moments they’d be right above them.

  By then night had settled, so that only Wixelor, used to peering through the dark, should be able to make out the sharp, barren masses of kelp- and limpet-covered rock. But to their astonishment, where the middle island (or its void) ought to be, there hovered a bright transparent sphere that revolved with a dancer’s languid grace.

  There were odd shapes scattered around it, patches of green and grey and white, but most of it was blue, so much and so intense a blue it felt as though the sphere was an eye before whose gaze they were helpless: they couldn’t escape it, and the closer they got to it the more they felt its draw; and every time they blinked, the blackness of their lids was pierced by countless luminous pinpricks, dazzling and formidable as life.