Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) Read Free Page A

Arramin clever too, as
they knew and intended that the finder must be. Imagine a story, Longsword, and
in that story an obscure reference, spoken by a character perhaps, or mentioned
in prose. An historical reference which would hold no real importance for
anyone save an erudite historian.
    “And in following that reference, another story is found,
containing another reference likewise unimportant except to that historian, his
interest now piqued, and thus the trail followed. A pointer here, a reference
there; Master Arramin was brilliant, Longsword, is brilliant. And yet,
in following the path and his attention fixed upon it unto the discovery of the
casket waiting at its very end, he failed perhaps to notice other, simpler clues
hidden in plain sight.”
    “Unless of course the elders knew that only a dullard D’ith
pat stupid enough to stand in the circles and unleash their unimaginable powers
would be able to spot such simple clues.”
    “Indeed, Longsword. Indeed.”
    Gawain nodded, and felt his stomach sink. “Elayeen said that
time has caught up with us. How many times have I railed against the
eldenbeards, and how many times have you tried to reassure me that my anger was
foolish and misplaced?”
    “Too many to count.”
    “And yet here we now sit, in a vault perhaps of Aemon’s
making, a refuge ancient before Morloch fled the Hallencloister and began the
nightmare. Behind us, hidden in a small chamber, a Morgmetal boxed passed
through the ages to Elayeen, She Who Wears The Horse Though She Be Born of
Tree, and all three of us at the mercy of events foreseen more than
sixty-two lifetimes ago. But I interrupted you.”
    The wizard drew in a breath, gathered his thoughts, and
continued.
    “When the worm began stirring, when it hinted that another
clue or message was hidden within the notes passed to me by Master Arramin, I
began to make notes of my own. You have seen my notebook, Longsword.”
    “Yes. Your scribendana. You spent enough time calling for it
in your misery at the inn at the foot of the Downland Pass the day the circles
afflicted us.”
    “Yes. Mi scribendana. ”
    Gawain smiled, though sadly. “Compindathu.”
    “You named me Keeper of the Staff of Raheen,” Allazar
whispered, with great pride, and great love, and great sorrow.
    “Stick.”
    “Yes. And it was while standing in the puddles in your
father’s hall I saw in the reflection of the staff, black then as it was fresh
from the hand of Salaman Goth, the runes of the three circles, and only then
did I understand something of them, for it is only in the reflection of a
burnished cylinder that they may be read.”
    “Oh such happy days.”
    Allazar snorted, and nodded sadly. “Do you remember how long
I sat upon the dais before the broken thrones, meticulously copying all the
runes and symbols in that dark marble floor? And then you showed me how they
changed, every time someone stepped into them?”
    “I remember everything, Allazar. Sometimes I think it is a
curse that I do.”
    “Well. So then, mi scribendana. My notebook. I began to make
notes concerning the notes Master Arramin sent to me, notes about notes,
looking for the clues which the worms told me were there. But then I became
distracted. In a pause, here, actually, in this vault, sitting at the desk upon
which lies the ancient book intended as a journal for all those who pass
through this refuge. I flicked through my notebook, and saw all the notes I had
made concerning the circles of Raheen.”
    Allazar paused, and extinguished the Light of Aemon, the
cavern lit now only by the dull orange of glowstones in the roof.
    “And?”
    “Hmm? Oh. You recall the goldpaper transliteration Master
Arramin found, and how he sent me a copy of that remarkable artefact? In the
notes, together with the Morgmetal box?”
    Gawain’s heart began to beat a little faster. “I do.”
    “I of course committed it to memory, according to his
advice, the better to aid me should I ever again