“We won’t lose,” Elgar says, firmly, loudly. He sounds a lot more confident and resolved than he feels. But he can’t stand the sound of Lucy so upset.
“No,” Lucy says, her own determination bleeding through. “No. We won’t lose. And having me there might tip the odds in our favor just that much more.”
Forsyth sighs, and then nods to himself. “Yes, of course. And to be truthful, bao bei, if I am to go to war, I would much rather do so with you at my side.”
Elgar resists the urge to say something snide. Instead, he rips up the paper with his ineffectual scratchings and jams it down the garbage disposal.
Chapter 9 Forsyth
For the next three weeks, I stay in Seattle with Elgar. Pip returns to school, the fits seeming to have subsided for now—I cannot help but worry over what the Viceroy is preparing during this period of seeming absence—and between Mei Fan, Martin, and wai po, Alis is well cared for, if not bounced around and missing her da. I have never been separated from my wife and daughter for so long. Three weeks without them, and I feel as if I have lost a limb.
But in that time, Elgar’s script becomes an actual film. It is a curious process, to see one’s memories transform into someone else’s art. Though we don’t go down to LA to watch the filming personally, it takes place over the second week following our return to Elgar’s home. I do not feel Readers’ eyes on me, or anything so concrete, but there is a sensation of being aware that all eyes are soon to be on my life. Or rather, my brother’s. The filming is done in an LA sound studio, on one of the sets constructed for another fantasy television series whose producer, luckily, is a friend of Gil’s. It is rushed, according to Andy, and he doesn’t have time to finesse it the way he would prefer, but we are on a deadline.
The week following that is dedicated to the post-production process, where effects and dramatic music are added. Luckily, both were already being prepared for the television series itself, so there is a library from which the artisans can draw. I didn’t realize how much thought and diligent work goes into writing, and filmmaking. I have much more respect for Bevel and what he’s created with his scrolls than ever before, especially since he has no software to help him rearrange and rewrite.
In between all of that, Elgar has many doctor’s appointments—physiotherapy, cognitive tests, removal of the stitches, massages to have his lashed neck coerced back into mobility. I sit in the waiting rooms, looking around, watching, waiting for traps that are never sprung, attacks that never come. All in all, it is both one of the most mentally taxing and tense periods of my life.
And in all that time, Finnar is silent. The Viceroy has effectively vanished. The Overrealm is quiet—for a given value of such. The announcement that Reed will be appearing as a last-minute, surprise addition to the guest lineup at ConClusion causes the predictable online outpouring of joy and jubilation from his fans, but nothing out of the ordinary. Even the loathsome troll from Detroit seems to be taking a break from their vitriol.
My influence as a hacker for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service has pull, but not as much as my role as Shadow Hand used to. While I can place the Viceroy on a no-fly list based on his appearance, and try to limit his travel and access to weaponry, the truth is that, if the Viceroy wanted to buy a gun, or hitch a ride, or take a taxi, or buy a bus ticket, none of the law enforcement agencies I could put digital pressure on are impervious. The wily villain has, for the time being, outfoxed me.
And oh, aren’t I galled to have to admit to it.
In my free time, I resume my sword-fighting practice in Elgar’s backyard, with a broom stick of comparable length and weight to Smoke. I confer with Pip about possible methods of trapping the Viceroy, and how he, in turn, may attempt to trap us.
In Victoria, Pip digs our adventuring clothes out of the back of the closet, the leathers we had both been wearing during our first foray through Hain. Through Elgar, I am able to obtain a permit to travel with Smoke. Pip ensures the sword as a prop for Flageolet Entertainment, which makes it permissible in her cabin baggage so long as it is in a case which is locked shut.
She reviews her thesis yet again, and consults the Excel hung in our bedroom for any ideas or revelations they might provide. But this adventure was not Written by Elgar, nor is it occurring within the realm of his imagination. If it is following his typical Seven-Station archetype, neither Pip nor I can decipher what they are, or where in the cycle we stand.
In the evenings, I compose a list of spells and Words that I remember, writing them in a small, cramped hand in a smaller notebook, which I intend to tuck into the knife pouch of my sword belt. I am out of practice with magic, but if the Viceroy is able to use it, then perhaps I will be, too.
Strangely, and against all of my previous desires, I find myself missing my brother fiercely. The Viceroy has always been his enemy, not mine. Not the Shadow Hand’s. While I kept tabs on the rascal, it was never my duty, nor within my purview, to take him down. One rogue warlock was
