“Where’d he go bruv?!”

Baris stalked through the grass up towards Aslan, glaring from left to right. Ruslan, silent but shaken, trailed close behind. Most of the apparitions had dispersed, and with them the frost.

“Where’d he go?!”

Aslan sat, propped up on one arm, his legs splayed out before him. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. Droplets of sweat speckled his brow as his grey eyes held fast to an indiscriminate spot on the ground. He didn’t even feel them grab him by the arms and hoist him onto shaky feet.

“Aslan!”

He flinched, his face recognising Ruslan.

“You ok bro?”

He moistened his lips.

“He got away…”

“How?!” said Baris.

Aslan shook his head.

None of it made sense. They were taught that the world beyond the Walls was full of deception, clothed in darkness. And yet—in the midst of that darkness he’d beheld a light. A glimmer in the dark. And it hadn’t come from Almuluk. It hadn’t come from his fellow Masabih. It had come from the Torchbearer.

* * *

The instant Keon’s back hit the grass, he plunged deep into sapphire waters. Awoken from his stupor, he thrashed wildly beneath the depths. Refracted light shimmered through the surface in a kaleidoscope of colours; most familiar, some beyond reckoning. Instinctively, he stroked to right himself—and his feet found the floor. His balance gained, he stood, rising towards the surface.

When he broke it, his lungs drank in a cool, crisp breeze that hovered just over the waters. The temperature seemed to shift around him, flowing from comfortably hot to refreshingly cool. He looked up and suddenly all else faded away. For the first time in weeks, he was under a normal sky; no oceans, just endless baby blue, broken by clouds, twinkling stars, and—nestled within the radiant billows of a cosmic nebula—a planet. A single planet, ocean-less; its surface almost entirely covered by desert sands save for the one green continent spanning the length of its face from top to bottom. He’d seen that landmass before, or one like it; he was sure of it. The way it curved like a giant “C,” almost like—

“Pangaea…” he gasped.

That could only mean—

He turned. The ripples spread about him a few feet before the ocean absorbed them, flat and undisturbed like a perfect pane of reflective glass. A rush of wooziness suddenly flooded over him. Coupled with the buoyancy of the water, it almost felt like he was floating at the centre of a blue globe. He blinked, shook his head and tore his eyes away, looking for something else to anchor and orient himself to. There!

In the distance, a lush, mountainous high island, golden peak soaring from its core, bathed in a warm glow that seemed to fill the horizon. Its gilded slopes ascended the clouds where an orb of light set the sky ablaze. Blinking back the glare, he realised it wasn’t a mountain of gold at all, but rather a city that ascended the steep slopes of the island in concentric circles. Emerald grasslands, as far as east was from west, carpeted the city’s edge, tapering off into beaches of bronze pearls.

“Whoa…”

He lingered a moment longer, then made for the shore.

It wasn’t long before he felt the smooth pearls trickling between his toes. Wait. What happened to his boots? He looked down and recoiled. His armour was gone! As was his shawl, his harness, even his Codex. In their place was a plain white tunic with matching trousers.

Wading through the waters, the outline of the city emerged from the glare. An immense jasper wall, almost translucent, ran around the city. Its seamless surface was disturbed only by three circular gates opening in its midst. He knew those gates, this whole city in fact. It was just like the Eastern Monument, only bigger. Much bigger. That place could host hundreds of thousands. This place could house billions.

He stopped, squinting up at the planet hanging halfway in the sky then back at the island.

“No way.”

He was standing by the shores of Zaphon, the Far Reaches of the North, which meant this was the Empyrean, and that planet—

He looked back at the emerald orb, trying to make the math work in his head. It didn’t compute. He was standing in the same ocean that surrounded Underland; but here—it was inside-out—and right-side up!

How had he gotten up here? More to the point, how would he get back?

“…this way…” came the response.

It seemed to emanate from everywhere yet come from nowhere in particular.

His sweeping gaze fell on a gold-paved path he hadn’t noticed until just then. It traced the edges of a wide river that led from the ocean up the through the central gate of the city walls. A colonnade of trees flanked the river, the branches nearest the river bending to form an archway; the others drooping under the weight of twelve different kinds of glistening fruit. Greener greens, deeper reds and sumptuous purples littered the leaves. Sweet spices and honey-laced fragrances danced on the air as he passed, visible when the light caught at particular angles. As he walked the street, hesitant but mesmerised, he caught glints of gold twinkling between the emerald blades of grass. Soil. Even the soil was made of gold.

As he neared the titanic central gate of the city wall, it threatened to swallow him whole. The gates were as tall as the London Eye, almost twice that of the wall itself. A mile of jasper masonry divided one from the other. Their outer rims were solid gold, encompassing rings of incandescent pearl. Markings in every language and script to ever leave the pen of man traced every inch of the surface, but above the central gate, unmistakable, was a single name—Yehuda.

As he passed through the gate, the street ascended the city via steps towards the shining, cloudy peak. At the top of the stairs, he’d find answers; that much he knew. The thought of climbing all those steps though—

Before he’d had a chance to process the thought, he’d already mounted several steps as though compelled. The more he climbed, the easier it became, time seeming to constrict at his front and swell behind as it flowed around him like the crystalline river running through the city. Ascending the levels felt like sailing through time and space. History and geography. Every level had its own golden architecture; unique spires and domes, roofs, and terraces. He wondered what its streets would look like at night yet knew instinctively that night, like cold, chaos or death, was unknown here. He suddenly wondered if his very presence was staining the streets or smudging their polish. And with that thought came another. This place was completely empty! Though the very floors seemed to hum with a life of their own, there was not a sight nor sound of living things anywhere. Deathly talons of foreboding threatened to claw their way up his spine, quickly swatted away by that same small voice.

“…don’t be afraid…”

He had a witty retort at the ready but audibly swallowed it.

“…good idea…”

He jolted. This wasn’t good. Whoever this was could—

“…read your thoughts like an open book?…”

This was crazy!

To the left, a path broke off from the main one, winding into a labyrinth of familiar streets. He stopped, blinking to make sure he was seeing correctly. He knew those streets! There were echoes of Saint Paul’s, Tower Hill and Old Billingsgate, but also East Village, Bromley and Hackney. It was a city within the City, nestled between what looked like the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. He recognised the misty slopes from that time he’d biked it with Dad and Bella.

In that moment, he had to look away. It was like someone had built the place using snapshots of his own memories.

“…that is not far from the truth…”

Keon’s eyes darted, but he dared not move; trying to suss out the source of the voice.

“What d’you mean?” he finally said.

“…all of this was made for you, Keon…”

He spun round, half expecting to catch the speaker behind him.

“Wait…”

“…this way…”

The voice beckoned him to continue his ascent towards the burning clouds, aflame like the crown of the sun. As he approached, searing white mists embraced him. For a moment he panicked but relented. He allowed it to pull him in. Then the mist began to dissipate.

White marble floors materialised through the haze, gold-tipped, matching pillars on either side. The hall was as much outside as it was in, open to the elements between the columns. An arched ceiling soared overhead, draped in dazzling frescoes that ran all the way to the back wall. There, a tall ivory throne sat atop golden steps, each armrest moulded into the visage of a crowned lion laying with a wounded lamb nestled between its outstretched paws.

The frescoes cascaded like a waterfall off the ceiling down the wall behind the throne. Keon’s mouth unconsciously gaped the nearer he drew to it. It was a man standing on a hill, triumphant radiance billowing around him like ignited golden robes. At his side he held a distinctive, gleaming broadsword—the same one that routed Helel ibn Shakar. On his head were more crowns than seemed reasonable; on his chest, a gold breastplate studded with precious jewels. And his face. Burnished bronze, a thick full beard, locks of ebony and eyes like crooked pools of black coffee.

“Wellworn…”

There wasn’t a scar in sight, his skin almost baby smooth. He still had crazy written all over him, but it was a different kind of crazy. Not the ‘boil you alive and cut you up into a cannibalistic feast’ kind of crazy. It was the ‘Here to slay a beast the size of the equator’ kind of crazy.

“I know what you’re thinking…”

Keon whirled round.

“…the jacket looked better.”

It was him, resplendent and glorious as though he’d stepped right out of the painting. And yet, there was something different about the way he stood; arms clasped behind his back. He seemed to hunch ever so slightly. It made him look shorter. Gone were the scars and the lion’s mane jacket. He wore simple, beaming white robes and sandals. And he was smiling. Keon hadn’t seen him smile so much and never for so long. He looked fresh, like he’d recently taken a shower.

“Wellworn?” Keon glanced around. “How’re you here?”

He took a step forward.

“I can be everywhere I need to be. Though…it’s not quite what you think.”

Keon’s eyes narrowed. The accent was gone. He couldn’t quite place it now; it sounded like he was from everywhere but nowhere in particular. And yet, it felt familiar; almost local; like anyone you would have heard conversing down the street in Plaistow.

“You’re not Wellworn…”

He pursed his lips, head bobbing left to right in thought.

“I am, but I’m not.”

“What?”

“I am the Scribe. His Scribe. The Scribe of the King…” he halted, noting Keon’s confusion. “It’s complicated.”

Keon licked his lips and swallowed, gazing at the hall.

“Am I dead?”

The Scribe chuckled.

“No.”

“But this is where people go when they die, right?”

He raised an eyebrow, nodding in acknowledgment.

“Some people.”

“I mean, the place is empty…”

“They’re here,” he said, glancing around, “We just didn’t want you getting distracted.”

He unclasped his hands and spread his arm wide, beckoning Keon to follow.

“Come. There is much to discuss.”

As they passed through the pillars, the world rolled back like a scroll. They were no longer in the hall but before a vast, white walled labyrinth nestled in the bosom of a mountainous valley stretching as far as the eye could see. The top of each winding wall was filled with crystal clear water that threatened to overrun the edges. From above, it looked like a maze of rivers snaking between an endless marble floor. A long staircase led down into the depths of the maze. Descending the steps, Keon saw that it wasn’t really a labyrinth at all. It was a library! Gargantuan bookshelves dwarfed them on either side, every inch of the glistening marble walls lined with countless volumes from top to bottom.

Keon chuckled inwardly at the thought of where he’d first met Zahara.

He glanced back but couldn’t see the hall they’d come from, a clear sign that he was meant to follow. Scuttling down the remaining steps, he trailed the Scribe as he paced between the towering shelves. A stray book caught Keon’s eye and he spun round to scan the gold cursive script as he passed.

“This one has my name on it,” he said, jolting to a stop directly beneath the deep red book.

“They all do,” said the Scribe, turning back.

“What? Why?”

The Scribe combed the shelves, walked over and slid a random, cloth-bound book off of it, peeling it open with care.

“This entire wing is an exhaustive record of your memories, your thoughts, your dreams; even your fears.”

Keon felt around for the satchel fastened to his back, a sense of emptiness flooding through him when he felt nothing there.

“Codices?!” he said. “These’re all mine?”

The Scribe smiled and slowly nodded.

Keon drank it all in, awed, huffing with gleeful understanding.

“That’s why the pages never run out, isn’t it? I knew you couldn’t fit it all in one book!”

“It’s all here,” the Scribe said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm. “Ready to be accessed as and when it’s needed.”

“Wait.”

Keon stood, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

“Is that how he knows all that stuff about me? Wellworn. Are you, like, his Mirror or something?”

“Ha ha ha! No.”

“Then how?…”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t guessed? We are one—the Heir and I—but our union Is of a different nature.”

“You both talk in riddles man…”

The Scribe placed both hands on Keon’s weary shoulders.

“I am where he is, and he is where I am. I can be anywhere anytime, even if he’s always here.”

“What d’you mean? He’s at the Eastern Monument…”

The Scribe chuckled and shook his head.

“The Heir hasn’t personally set foot in the Lowlands since the days of the Perfect Mirror.”

Keon stared perplexed.

“So, what…he’s not really there?”

“He is, and he’s not.”

“What, are you quantum entangled or something?…”

“Think of the Codex as a doorway, and truth as the key. Wherever truth is written, the door between here and there remains open. Wherever the door remains open, he stands on the other side.”

“Wait, wait, wait! I need a second.”

After far more than just a second, the Scribe took a seat on one of the many benches lining the path between the bookcases.

Keon was pacing, mentally putting the pieces together. He would stop intermittently, ready to pop a question, then turn and continue. Finally, his pacing slowed and he stood drumming his lips.

“You’re the Scribe…so, I’m guessing you have something to do with these books…”

He nodded slowly.

“I’d even go so far as to say you wrote them.”

“Go on.”

“Alright, so…Knowledge. Information. Ideas. They’re all like…tangible here. Like, you write something…and it’s like it comes to life. It becomes real. I write ‘blue’ on a piece of paper, burn it and blue smoke comes out, or ‘boom’ and things…well…explode!”

The Scribe’s grin grew wider as if he were feasting off Keon’s enthusiasm.

“And I’m guessing that’s something to do with you. You like…empower the words or something. You bring them to life. So, anything written about the King. Anything written in Truth, Knowledge and Beliefs…”

The Scribe raised a knowing eyebrow.

Keon paused, mouth gaping, unsure whether to drops his arms or clasp his skull.

“Oh snap!”

He gripped his curly head.

“That’s mad!”

The Scribe’s shoulders shook with silent mirth.

“That’s actually mad, bruv! Son of a b—”

He caught himself when the Scribe fired a warning glance at him.

“…blessed…virgin mother.”

His shoulders rose and fell in a reticent shrug.

“Ok, I think I get it. But like…why am I here? What happened to my Mirror?”

“You are one now, Keon; you and your Mirror.”

“But isn’t that what he wanted? To reunite us?”

“In a manner of speaking, though it wasn’t on his terms, but yours. All your life you have lain at the mercy of his whims. Now he answers to you.”

“But I don’t want that. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“To become a Torchbearer is to become a whole human being, just as the King intended. Your Mirror is a part of you. It always has been, and always will be. One day, it will not war within you anymore.”

“You’re talking about Mirror Mastery.”

“Mirror Mastery is not really the mastery of your Mirror, but rather the mastery of yourself. Taking every thought captive, every whim, to obey the King. Back in the forest, you faced down your Mirror. You looked it in the eye and accepted what you saw.”

“The truth…”

The Scribe nodded.

“You can’t begin to master your heart if you cannot be honest with it.”

The Scribe began to pace a circle around him.

“I won’t lie to you, Keon; the path now laid before you is not easy. Your Mirror can no longer move independently through Underland, but it’s influence on you will be no less potent. What you now possess, however, is the power to resist. That is what you began to feel in the forest.”

“How?”

He reached out and tapped the tip of Keon’s head. As he did, Keon felt a heavy weight descend on his head, pushing him down. He tried looking up between his brows and gingerly touched his forehead. His fingers slid over smooth, warm metal. A crown.

“The door is open, and through it I can work through you. What’s written can now become your strength. Loyalty and obedience; that’s all he requires. You’ll see. He’ll teach you.”

The Scribe turned to walk away.

“Come. Our time is almost up.”

* * *

They worked their way back through the library, up the marble steps and suddenly they were back in the hall by the throne. Keon whipped round, but the labyrinth was gone. He was staring out over the golden city, the shoreline miles beneath.

“Wait!” He said, snapping himself away. “I still have questions.”

The Scribe stopped by the throne and swivelled to face him.

“I know. But that’s not why you’re here.”

Keon flapped a shrug.

“So, why am I here then?”

“To see this,” he said, nodding to the throne.

“Wellworn’s throne?”

His beard rocked as the Scribe chuckled.

“Not Wellworn’s. Yours.”

Keon’s eyes bulged.

“What?”

“One day you will sit on this throne as a joint-heir of Pnūmanora.”

The Scribe gave a moment for Keon to take it all in. He looked back out over the city.

“So, all this…”

“The district you saw on the way up—one day, it will be yours.”

He placed his heavy hands again on Keon’s shoulders.

“This is your inheritance, Keon. The question you have to ask yourself is: knowing that greatness awaits you, what will you do with what lies before you?”

He didn’t expect Keon to have an answer so didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he pulled an iron chest, laced with gold, out of nowhere.

“The other reason you are here is to receive this.”

Inside was a freshly folded shawl. Woven onto the back was the shimmering, embroidered insignia of a Torchbearer; a winged lamp wreathed in olive branches—only now, the lamp was lit. Its threads shimmered and dance in the light like a graceful torrent of flame.

“You are a Torchbearer now, Keon.”

He stared down at the crimson fabric, uncertainty filling him.

“I dunno if I’ve earned it…”

“It was never yours to earn. It is mine to bestow on all who pledge allegiance to the King.”

Keon scoffed and shook his head.

“When did I do that?”

The Scribe’s eyes narrowed with a roguish grin.

“I seem to recall something about a King more powerful than the Powers who came to set everyone free. It was quite an impassioned speech.”

Keon huffed a chuckle, his gaze falling to rest upon the shawl and its glistening insignia. He lifted it out of the chest, holding it aloft, then stopped. There was something else inside.

“Oh yes,” said the Scribe, tilting the box for him to see. “A gift from the King.”

Laid on a silken red cushion was a beautifully crafted short-sword, no bigger than a bread knife. The blade glistened like polished silver, protruding from a brazen, jewel encrusted hilt. It was magnificent—but it was tiny! Keon held it aloft, unconvinced it could slice through butter, let alone pierce flesh.

The Scribe chuckled at his pained expression.

“Surely you know by now that size is not a factor in Underland. She packs quite the punch.”

Setting the chest aside, he gently took the blade from Keon’s hands, balancing it between his index fingers.

“Forged from Sapientium; an unbreakable ore found only in the mountains of the Far Reaches. It can rend the walls of almost any Stronghold.”

“Almost?” Keon frowned.

The Scribe handed the blade back to him.

“Some walls require different methods.”

Keon turned it over in his hands. As he did so, words seemed to dance beneath the blade’s surface as though reflecting another world deep within it. Songs. Poetry. All of it addressed to the King.

“You called it a ‘gift’,” Keon began.

“You’re thinking of Shem and the mustard seeds.”

Keon nodded.

“Gifts are the natural talents and abilities of Torchbearers that have been empowered by the King. In Underland, those gifts take various forms. For some it may be a sword; usually bestowed upon gifted orators.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Particularly the argumentative.”

Keon shuffled sheepishly.

“Others are more subtle. Heightened instincts for born leaders. Unnatural physical strength for those who are nurturers.”

A frown broke across Keon’s brow.

“She doesn’t seem very nurturing.”

The Scribe patted his shoulder and turned him away from the throne as they walked.

“No, not to an outsider. But she’ll have warmed up to you; you’ll see.”

“What about the others?”

“That you will have to discover for yourself.”

The Scribe stopped again, looking down at his own reflection in the blade.

“This blade is the same gift the King gave to your father. It’s how you were set free from your captivity.”

Keon’s eyes shot up to meet his.

“You mean…”

“It may well hold the key to freeing him from his. But, just like a Codex, you must first learn to wield it.”

He took off in a confident stride, Keon scrambling to keep up with him.

* * *

They descended the central street of the city at a speed beyond comprehension. It was like daydreaming on a long journey and suddenly finding you’d reached your destination. Hours seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Keon trailed the Scribe through the gate and out to the colonnade of fruit trees lining the crystalline river. The Scribe came to a stop near the edge of the colonnade, pointing out towards the brazen beaches.

“At last we come to the end, Keon. Your final choice.”

He blinked.

“My final choice?”

“When you descend into the waters, you will decide where you emerge.”

Keon held the blade between his palms, staring down into the encrusted hilt.

“And I can go anywhere?”

“Anywhere you choose. Simply imagine the place you’d like to go and fall back into the waters.”

Keon’s eyes scrambled in thought. He could go straight home and be done with all of this.

“Ah! And one last thing.”

The Scribe reached up to one of the low hanging branches and plucked an emerald leaf off the tree. Gently, he approached Keon—too distracted by his pending choice to notice—and rolled up his sleeve. Keon winced as a sharp pain knifed its way up his arm and into his neck; a fierce reminder of the wound Aslan had inflicted. The Scribe crumpled the leaf in his hand and rubbed something like golden oil over the gash on Keon’s arm. The pain instantly ceased, and with each rub, the cut seemed to scrape away like dried dirt until there was nothing but smooth, honey-brown skin. Keon stared dumbfounded at the arm for several seconds.

“Whoa…can I take some of that with me?”

The Scribe’s shoulders shook.

“I’m afraid not.”

Keon turned towards the beach, took a deep breath and slung the shawl across his shoulders. Adjusting the belt to fit, he strapped the hilt of the short-sword to his side, sheathed the blade and walked towards the pearly sands.

Stopping at the spot where the still waters met the beach, he turned back to the Scribe.

“I’ll see you around?”

He smiled.

“You bet.”

Keon returned the smile with a nod.

“Thank you.”

He waded back into the waters until he was almost waist deep. That’s when he heard it, like a distant roar that seemed to swell and cascade across the sea before lapping up to fill the sky. He stopped and turned. He was too far from the beach to make out the faces that filled the shore, the gates, the entire city. What a second ago seemed like an empty island was aflame with the fires of joyous life, every eye fixed on him, hands upraised in celebration. They shone like stars, each of them; a multitude that no one could number.

“That’s mad,” he chuckled.

As he turned back to the green orb nestled in the sky, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of their presence; of all those who had come before him like an army all around him. And it wasn’t just the multitude gathered on the shore. He felt Shem, he felt Jonas, even Avana. He felt the Millionth and Fifth.

He looked up, shook his head, and pinched his nose.

“Here goes nothin’,” he said.

He rocked on his heels and let himself fall.