Writing is hard enough when he’s in his own office, with only Linux to . . . with only Linux . . . with only. . . . He shakes his head and clears his throat, and forces his eyes down.
Writing to specification in front of an expectant and eager audience is a thousand times harder. Elgar sips his coffee and taps his lips with the pen.
Think, he scolds himself. Come on, think. You can do this. You need to do this. They need you to do this. Think of Alis. Think of Maddie. Think of Juan. Come on.
Jesus, shut up, don’t pressure yourself.
Fuck, Eglar thinks, pressing the nib of the pen into his leg. The pain is sharp, different from the dull ache that still manages to plague his shoulders and neck despite the painkillers. It helps bring his focus back to the blank page. Then, carefully, pen-stroke by pen-stroke, agonizing over every single word, scratching out more than he keeps, he writes:
Though the Viceroy is a formidable villain, he is no match for the will of the Man Who has Created Him. The Writer, admitting that it was at last time to kill off one of his most powerful, compelling creations, knew that the simplest way is often the best. And so, the Viceroy, who had been so dramatic and so theatrical, clutched at his breast. The breath fled his lungs, and he was unable to Speak Words, nor cast any spells, nor flick any air-runes. He could do no magic. He collapsed to his knees, his lungs refusing to reinflate as his heart began to beat faster, faster, faster in his chest, fluttering like a furious caged fairy. And then suddenly, all at once—it stopped.
The Viceroy, the archnemesis of Kintyre Turn and the only wielder of magic in the Overrealm, fell over dead. Never to be resurrected, by magic or science. Dead. Finally, and completely, dead.
The End
Sweat beading around his hairline, hands shaking, his own heart fluttering in the hollow of his throat, Elgar sets down his pen. There. Done. Just to be sure, he compiles his notes and scraps and copies the two paragraphs onto a fresh sheet of notepaper in a clear, fair hand. At the last minute, remembering Lucy’s directive to make it obvious that the magic has worked, he adds:
Epilogue
Over the city of Seattle, a massive cloud suddenly gathered. A crack of thunder echoed between the buildings, a flash of lightning dazzled everyone who looked up at the sky in stunned awe, and a hard but brief rain began. The Overrealm, overjoyed to be rid of the vermin, wept with joy.
“You can come out,” Elgar calls, standing to stretch out his back and work his way carefully through a few of the exercises the hospital physiotherapist had shown him to ease the pain.
“Are you done?” Forsyth asks as he comes back into the kitchen.
“Yeah.” He moves to the patio door, presses his hand against the glass, and looks up at the sky. The hatefully clear, sunny sky. Still, he looks, strains to see, thinks maybe over there, is that a dark smudge of . . . ? No. Nothing. Nothing, goddamn it.
“Not a fucking cloud in sight,” he groans.
“Cloud?” Forsyth asks, and Elgar hands him the paper. Forsyth reads it aloud, and still, nothing happens. “Ah,” he adds, a sound caught between disappointment and resignation.
“But how could I write you out of the books, if this didn’t work?”
“I cannot say,” Forsyth says. “Narrative convenience, I suppose? Or that Pip and I wanted to leave? Or the Viceroy is somehow blocking us?”
“Maybe because it goes against the story,” Elgar says. “I never planned on killing the Viceroy, not really. The publisher had talked about a ninth novel, but after I wrote the eighth, we agreed it was a good stopping point. So he just . . . stayed.”
Forsyth nods, lips pursed, and then, slowly, says: “It was worth the try.”
“So we’re going to ConClusion?” Lucy asks after a long silence, and Elgar jumps, realizing that Forsyth has put the phone back on speaker.
“We?” Forsyth repeats, eyebrow raised.
“I’m coming with you.” Her tone brooks no argument.
Forsyth tries, anyway. “Pip,” he begins, but she steamrolls over his protests.
“Look,” she says. “I hate this whole creeping around the edges of the adventure crap more than ever. My parents can take Alis.”
“And if the Viceroy comes after her instead of us?”
“He won’t,” Lucy insists. “You said so. You’re never wrong.”
“Rarely wrong,” Forsyth says. “It is not always. I would much rather you—”
“I know you would,” Lucy cuts him off. “But I refuse to just sit here.”
Elgar watches Forsyth working this through in his head.
Forsyth presses his finger to his lips in that comical thinking-pose of his, and cautiously adds: “If something were to happen, I would much prefer that Alis grows up with one parent than none.”
“Forsyth,” she says, like he’s being particularly dense. “If I’m not there, if I stay behind with the baby, don’t you think the Viceroy is going to notice? Don’t you think he’s going to wonder where I am? If I stay here, we’ll be doing the opposite of protecting our daughter. We’ll be painting a target on her.” Her voice crackles, which startles Elgar. Maybe it’s unfair, but he’s never thought of her as the kind of woman who cries. “Bao bei. He’ll find me. He always does.” She doesn’t just sound like she’s crying, though. She sounds shattered.
“Lucy,” Elgar says, at a loss for how to comfort her. “I don’t . . . I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. But I can’t help thinking . . . that maybe he already knows where we are,” Lucy whispers, struggling to raise her voice above the lump in her throat. “Maybe my fears are for nothing, and it’s too late. But he hasn’t come here. Not yet. He’s too focused on his revenge. But believe me, Forsyth, the microsecond he’s done with Elgar and . . . and y-you, if you’re there . .
