Most of all she knew the mountain she was already two-thirds of the way up, its peak rising to the south, the way there traced by a zigzag path through the broken gray shale and brown-green grass, the top shrouded in low cloud, which even as she watched rolled farther down the slope.
The Old Man of Coniston, wreathed in fog.
“You came out of the water,” repeated the man. It wasn’t a question now. “But you’re not wet. . . .”
Susan looked at herself. Not only was she completely dry, her boiler suit was clean again; the tears from the goblin’s sharp nails and the rumpling from the Fenris’s jaws and the stains of wandering through the woods had vanished. Her Docs were polished to a high sheen, which they never were normally; she put dubbin on them and left them dull.
The Grail-Keeper had dressed her up for a visit to her dad. Like she was six years old.
“Yeah,” she said, half in a daze from the sensation of power building up inside her. She looked past the hiker to the sun, which was climbing up, but still low in the sky. It was morning, probably only nine or ten o’clock, but it had been early afternoon when Merlin had led them to the door in the pond. . . .
She’d lost at least a day. Maybe more.
“Uh, and good morning,” added Susan. She started up the path, walking fast. With every step she felt more of the power within the mountain coming into her, but it was only a fraction of what was there, and she also felt a kind of countercurrent, as if something opposed the flow of magic.
Someone was working against her taking up her father’s power. Until she came into her full inheritance she would be vulnerable, even here. But this also puzzled her. She knew deep inside that her father lived; he had not faded away or dissipated or whatever happened to Ancient Sovereigns. Why was his power coming to her now? And who was holding it back?
“Hey, don’t go up!” the hiker called after her. “The weather’s turning! You aren’t dressed for it!”
Susan suddenly remembered Merrihew would be coming after her. She wouldn’t want witnesses.
“You need to get off the mountain!” she called. “Quick as you can.”
The hiker reacted as if he’d been struck by an arrow. He stepped back and grunted, turned on the spot, and ran to the downwards path over broken shale and rocks, leaving his pack, the still-whistling Volcano, and his enamel cup.
“But be careful!” shouted Susan, aware that she had commanded the man. Even if she had not come into her full power, what she had already was sufficient to compel a mortal to do her bidding. At least within the demesne of Coniston Rex.
The hiker slowed in obedience, but did not stop or look around. Susan knew he wouldn’t until he reached the village below, or maybe not even till he hit the shores of the lake itself.
Susan wondered if she had the power to lift the fog on the peak above. She raised her hands and ordered the cloud to dissipate. Nothing happened and she didn’t feel the strange, electric spark that had leaped through throat and mouth when she’d ordered the hiker to leave. The elements, it seemed, were more resistant to persuasion than people. Or that magic was another level of difficulty altogether.
She started up the track again, pushing herself to almost run, pressing down on her thighs as she came to the first section of rough steps. She was surprised she wasn’t out of breath. Despite being reasonably fit, it was a steep climb and she was taking it much faster than she usually would. But the power that flowed into her from the stones beneath her feet also revitalized every part of her. She felt fresh and energetic, undaunted by the climb.
But as she reached the first wispy descending tendrils of the fog, she felt a warning twinge, a sense of wrongness. It dizzied her for a moment, because it came from both ahead and behind, before settling into a definite sense of something bad behind her. A threat.
Something or someone who should not be on the mountain, who wished her harm.
Susan looked over her shoulder. Down below, Merrihew stepped out of nowhere onto the shore of Low Water. She kicked the still-smoking Volcano stove over, and the faint whistle Susan had tuned out finally stopped.
The bookseller looked up at Susan and drew a small pistol—like the one Merlin kept in his leg holster—from under her fishing vest and took careful aim for a moment, then dropped her hand and began to run. Clearly, for even a left-handed bookseller, the range was too great for such a small pistol. But despite being probably ten times Susan’s age, Merrihew ran much faster up the path.
Susan lunged forward, taking the steps almost on hands and knees, pushing herself even harder. She was panting and wheezing now, both from the effort and from fear. She felt her shoulder blades clenching together in expectation of being shot at any moment, and wished the fog would come down faster and get thicker, but there were still only the leading wisps from the greater cloud above.
Soon the path veered to the right and became steeper, but without steps, and it was much rougher and less distinct. Susan had to clamber up amidst tumbled stones and broken slate, and it slowed her down. But the fog did finally begin to thicken, and
