Llian knew what Karan had been about to ask of him before Cook’s murder. He had been dreading it, but it had to be done. They needed coin urgently and lots of it, though to get it he would have to sell the most beautiful thing he had ever created.

He sat at the battered library table, turning the illuminated pages of his Tale of the Mirror and remembering. His mother, Zophy, whom he had not seen since leaving home at the age of twelve to study at the college, had been a book illuminator. His late father, Llayis, had been a scribe. They had given him their love of stories and storytelling, and taught him their own crafts, ones he practised to this day.

His critical eye saw flaws on almost every page of the Tale of the Mirror, yet it was the most beautiful work he had ever done, and the most important. The story ranked highly among the twenty-three Great Tales created in the four thousand years of the Histories. It was certainly the longest.

It told the tale of the deadly mystery Llian had uncovered twelve years ago, just before graduating from the college. After Shuthdar destroyed the stolen Golden Flute, three thousand years ago, a crippled girl with him had been murdered to conceal another crime.

While Llian had been trying to unravel that mystery he had been thrown together with Karan, who had been forced by Maigraith to steal a corrupt ancient artefact, the Mirror of Aachan, from Yggur. Karan was being hunted relentlessly by Yggur’s servants, the terrifying Whelm, and she and Llian had gone on the run together.

Soon all the great powers on Santhenar – the Aachim led by Tensor, the Faellem under Faelamor, Mendark the age-old Magister, and Yggur – had been drawn into a titanic two-year struggle to get the mirror and crack the coded secret hidden within it – the way to make gates. Tensor had seized the mirror and recklessly freed his mortal enemy, Rulke, from the prison of the Nightland, planning to kill him.

But Rulke had escaped and then, in secret, had built his astounding construct – a flying machine powered by the Secret Art – which could also make gates. He had used it to bring the last of the Charon from Aachan in a desperate attempt to save them from extinction, but had been thwarted by his other enemy, Faelamor.

Llian had finally broken the code of the mirror and solved the mystery. Yalkara, another great Charon, had killed the crippled girl to conceal her theft of the enchanted gold from the destroyed flute, and soon everyone was hunting for it as well.

In the climactic battle, Rulke, Mendark and Tensor had been killed. Faelamor had died soon after and Yalkara had taken the last of the Charon back to the void to die. The Three Worlds had been changed for ever, and Karan and Llian had been at the heart of it.

Every word of the story raised memories of the desperate years he had spent pursuing the tale with Karan, until he finally stood on the stage of the College of the Histories and Master Wistan had grudgingly announced the result of the vote. The sixty-four masters had been unanimous; even Wistan had voted for Llian’s tale.

“The Tale of the Mirror is a Great Tale, the twenty-third.”

It had been the most overwhelming moment of his life, and it was followed by the most devastating – Wistan had banned Llian from practising his art, for corruption.

He turned another page, reading his book for the last time. He had seen the need coming a long time ago and had done everything possible to avoid it; he had even pleaded with Thandiwe for help after promising Karan he would have nothing to do with her. But there was no choice now. He had to sell his Tale of the Mirror.

It was difficult to price a manuscript that was utterly unique, though far lesser ones had sold for a hundred gold tells. His Great Tale had to be worth at least five hundred tells, enough for them to go on the run for a year or two.

Llian knew of three wealthy people who might be interested, but one was half a continent away in Crandor and another in the far east. However Cumulus Snoat lived in Iagador, and his library of rare books was unrivalled in the west, though Llian did not know anything else about him. He wrote to Snoat, describing the manuscript and asking what price he would pay, then gave the letter to Rachis, who was taking a horse and cart to Tolryme.

The manuscript, which no longer felt as though it belonged to him, lay open at the point of Rulke’s death. Thinking about the tragedy and the unexpected discovery that Rulke had been a good man after all, Llian suddenly saw a clue to one of his questions – who the Merdrun were, where they came from and why they looked so like Charon.

As he lay dying, instead of cursing Llian for the fool he was, Rulke had given him a small silver key. My spies told me that you lost a tale, chronicler, he had said. Here is a better! But you’ll have to earn it.

Llian, sick with guilt, had sworn to write the full story of the Charon one day, so their name would live on after they were gone. But researching that story and finding answers to his questions would take him to places only an unstained chronicler could enter. It always came back to the ban.

Taking a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote the date on top, then stopped, thinking about how disappointed Sulien had been in him, and how much it had mattered. Only nine, yet already she knew what a flawed man her father was.

But it had to be done.

As he blotted the page, Sulien burst into the library. “Daddy, Daddy, they’re taking Benie away.”

He ran out. The bailiff from Tolryme was leading Benie down the track. His wrists were enclosed by heavy black manacles and he was escorted by guards twice his size. He did not call for help, nor look back at his lifelong home. Even from the rear he looked broken, uncomprehending and resigned to his doom.

Llian ran after him, then stopped. Benie was the property of the law now and there was nothing he could do. He watched until they disappeared over the rise, then turned back. Tears were running down Sulien’s cheeks. He tried to pick her up and hug her but she threw herself down.

“Where’s Karan?” said Llian, sitting beside her.

“I don’t know.” Sulien stroked Piffle’s head. He licked her nose. “Benie was always nice to me,” she said, her voice aching. “Why is this happening, Daddy?”

Because of the Merdrun and their damned summon stone! Sulien had to be told, soon. But not now, not today. “I don’t know,” he dissembled. “Sometimes bad things… just happen.”

Remembering the letter he had left on the library table, he ran back, but it was gone. Fear closed like a thorny fist around his innards. Karan was bound to take his words the wrong way.

“What’s the matter, Daddy?” said Sulien, who had followed him.

He shook his head. He was a dead man.