As with restoring Vella, he never had got around to it. There had been so much to learn.
He would regret leaving the timepiece, but it was too big to carry. Beetle contained a small timepiece now, and Vella contained the calculations he’d worked out to keep track of Leratian years if he ever lost Beetle.
He grabbed writing and grooming instruments, a general-purpose knife, small blanket, and the pouches of precious metals, gems, rare spices and scents he took with him to trade in lieu of money when travelling the worlds.
Finally he looked up above the door.
“Beetle,” he said. “In.”
A mechanical whirr and buzz later, the insectoid had settled within the old bag. Tyen tossed in with it a small kit of parts and tools for repair work and modification, and the bottle of paralysing drug he used in Beetle’s stingers.
He slung the bag strap over his head, drew in magic and a deep breath, then pushed away from the world.
Goodbye Liftre, he thought as the room faded. Thanks for the knowledge you gave me. May you be remembered, and one day be revived. Then he touched the rectangular lump under his shirt. So, Vella, what do you think of Tarren’s advice?
As always between worlds, she spoke in his mind, her voice clear and feminine. “From what I read of Tarren, a cycle ago, he would not urge you to approach the Raen if he did not think it the better choice.”
Because I have less chance of surviving if I don’t make a deal with the Raen?
“That is one way to interpret his advice.”
Tyen considered that. Tarren said the Raen would not ask for anything I wasn’t willing to give. What if the Raen’s ways have changed? What if he no longer makes deals?
“I cannot answer that.”
No. You do not have enough information. We should seek answers, but that means breaking the Raen’s law against travelling between worlds. Yet I can’t stay at Liftre. I have no choice but to risk travelling, so I might as well seek those answers. And I may as well warn a few ex-students of the Raen’s return while I’m at it–I guess I’ll do that first and see what I find out about the Raen along the way.
He was surrounded by pure white now. Sensing the pull of the next world, he drew himself towards it. The path was well established. The passing of so many sorcerers fleeing the school had made it as clear as a field trampled by an army. Shadows formed and joined to reveal a city square at night. The arrival place was a dais in the centre, out of the way of the traffic that would normally fill the space. Cold air touched his skin as he arrived. He took a deep breath and more magic, and propelled himself onward.
As he entered the place between again he sought a different path leading away. Following this, he arrived in another city, this time during daylight. The arrival place was an island in the middle of a wide canal, and he glimpsed boats drifting in all directions, some entering or leaving the side canals that formed the streets of the metropolis.
The path he chose next was not as well travelled. The air in the following world was thin and cold. He nodded to the monks guarding the arrival site of the mountainous temple city as he paused to take two extra breaths before moving on.
Dappled light told him he was nearing his first intended destination. It resolved into a curtain of leaves and flowers. Above was the slatted roof of a garden shelter. The sudden, rich perfume was overpowering as he stepped outside and surveyed his surroundings. The shelter was in the centre of a courtyard between several large buildings. Tyen walked across to a grand door, twice his height and painted gold, and knocked.
A man opened the door in livery.
“Tyen Ironsmelter,” he said, his long moustache almost reaching his knees as he bowed. “Welcome back. Young Parel is in the sandery.” He stepped aside.
“Thank you.” Tyen strode inside. The building was several centuries old, and followed an old system of architecture that his former classmate had proudly described in detail many times before Tyen had a chance to visit his home. A “river”–sometimes literally–ran down the centre of the house, crossed by regular bridges. On the left the rooms were private, on the right they were public. In the absence of a flow of actual water, the “river” channel was filled with gardens, baths and other rooms dedicated to pampering. Lesser buildings had no roof over this, but wealthier owners covered theirs with arches of iron, the space between filled in with glass.
The sandery was four rooms down. There he found Parel lying half buried in fine grains of white; a dramatic contrast to his brown-grey skin. The young man’s eyes were closed as servants poured freshly heated sand over him.
“Your father works you hard, I see,” Tyen said, setting down his bag.
One of Parel’s eyes opened, and he grinned.
“Tyen!” he called. “Don’t you know: warm sand is great for your bones. Come down and join me.”