J. V. Jones - The Barbed Coil

The Barbed Coil

by

J.V. Jones

J.V Jones was born in Liverpool in 1963. When she was twenty, she

began working for a record label and was part of the Liverpool music

scene of the early eighties. She later moved to San Diego, California,

where she ran an export business for several years and was the

marketing director for an interactive software company. Praise for The

Barbed Coil:

The Barbed Coil is a superb novel, sculpted from colourful vocabulary

and fantastic clarity of thought from an author who is sure to continue

her dazzling literary career. Read it, or regret it later SFX

J.V. Jones was born in Liverpool in 1963. When she was twenty, she

began working for a record label and was part of the Liverpool music

scene of the early eighties. She later moved to San Diego, California,

where she ran an export business for several years and was the

marketing director for an interactive software company. Her interests

include music, history, cooking and computer games.

The Barbed Coil is J.V. Jones fourth novel. Her first three, making up

the Book of Words trilogy, were The Baker's Boy, A Man Betrayed and

Master and Fool. She is currently working on A Cavern of Black Ice,

the first novel in a new fantasy trilogy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe thanks and appreciation to Betsy Mitchell for her invaluable help

and advice, to John Murray, Wayne D. Chang, Russell Galen and Danny

Baror, Man C. Okuda, Sona Vogel, and Daniel R. Home. On matters of

illuminated manuscripts, their painting and preparation, I am indebted

to works by Michelle P. Brown and Janet Backhouse (though I must admit

to inventing a few of the nastier preparations such as ground glass

suspended in a binding mineral pitch myself!). And, as always, thanks

to Richard...

PROLOGUE:

The one who would soon be king ran naked through the woods. Night

birds, night creatures, and night insects traveled with him through the

vein-dark maze. Smells were sharp, the air was thin. The moon was a

blade meant for cutting.

Tree roots thrust like fists through the soil. Tree branches cracked

like whips as he passed. Everything the faraway stars, the

night-tainted clouds, the rain-moistened earth, and the beasts in the

shadows were his for the taking this night.

Five weeks before kingship. Five weeks before the start. Five weeks

to prepare himself to do what must be done.

So much power in the number five, so much ancient and terrible magic.

The one who would soon be king turned his gaze to the west. The Vorce

Mountains were spikes in his mind's eye. The last vestiges of snow on

their peaks were a virgin's colors meant to taunt him. He would enjoy

bloodying the mountain passes; thrusting through the time-worn gorges

to the fertile land beyond.

Garizon had been too long without a saltwater port, too long without a

shore to call its own. But then it had been too long without so much

more as well. Crushed, defeated, subjugated, then forgotten, Garizon

had survived on blood and dirt and bile.

Fifty years had passed since it last had a king. More than enough time

for those to the west to die, or forget, or lose their minds to

syphilis. More than enough time for Garizon to be styled our grain

field in the east and our friend in times of need?

Garizon would soon be no one's friend in need. Ganzon had needs of its

own now. Pride had to be restored. Land had to be reclaimed. A king

had to be crowned with the Barbed Coil of gold.

Fifty years of subjugation versus five hundred years of conflict. The

one who would soon be king smiled to himself as he ran through the

trees. The west had a short memory, and those who failed to remember

were destined to a fate far worse than repeating their mistakes.

San Diego Union-Tribune, March 28

THWARTED BANK ROBBERS MAKE OFF

WITH SECURITY DEPOSIT BOXES

By Jeff Welz

Special to the Union-Tribune

A security officer was shot in the chest and approximately three

hundred safety deposit boxes were stolen in a break-in on Tuesday night

at the La Havra National Bank in Chula Vista.

Samuel Ossaco, 46. is listed in critical condition at Scripps Memorial

Hospital. He was able to alert the police approximately forty minutes

after the robbers left the scene by setting off a manual al ann All

telephone lines appear to have been cut before the break-in.

The robbers attempted to gain access to the main holding safe by using

a mini-incendiary device. Police speculate they broke into the

security deposit vault after this attempt failed. As yet there are no

leads.

This is a very professional job, said Lt. Janile Peralla of the

Special Investigation Division. These men knew what they were doing.

They knew which lines to cut, they knew where all the alarm devices

were situated. They came fully equipped.

George Bonnaheim, president of the bank, has offered a $10,000 reward

for tips leading to the recovery of the security deposit boxes. These

thieves have stolen fragments of people's lives, he said. There's no

telling what is in those boxes? (See BOXES on Page A-3)

ONE

down to enjoy her breakfast, Tessa ettling

McCamfrey skimmed over the first few pages of the Union-Tribune.

Headlines, photo captions, and advertisements were the only things she

stopped for. She could see and read the smaller type of the art ides

and editorials, but she didn't like to concentrate on the characters

for very long. Their size made her nervous.

Leaning over her white, laminated desk, Tessa grabbed her bacon

sandwich from its place by the phone. As always before she bit into

the toasted English muffin, she took a peek inside, checking that

everything was just right. She liked to see the grain of the meat.

Satisfied, she took a bite of the sandwich, then flicked the paper to

the next page. Hum she mumbled to herself as her gaze flicked across

the headline STILL NO SIGN OF THE MISSING BOXES. How long had it been

now? A month? Six weeks? They'd probably never turn up again.

Just as Tessa threw the paper on the desk, the phone rang. Her body

stiffened for the briefest moment. Three more rings, and then the

brand spanking new Sony Deluxe Home Answering System clicked into

action. Cassette wheels turned, appropriate lights blinked, then a

voice that was not Tessa's own advised the caller, Our family isn't at

home right now. Please leave a message after the tone and we will call

you back.

Tessa grimaced. Our family. She really should replace the prerecorded

message with one of her own. Even as the thought occurred- to her, she

knew she'd never change it. She never could bring herself to do

anything that needed to be done.

An efficient beep sounded and was quickly replaced by a soft male

voice. Tessa?... Tessa? Are you there? A pause followed, and when

the voice came again it had lost some of its softness to frustration.

Look, I know you're there. I'm coming over. We need to talk.

Tessa was out of her chair and pulling on her shoes before the last

sentence started. The bacon sandwich was discarded, car keys located,

pocketbook checked for, and wool sweater pulled over her cotton shirt.

It was time to go for a walk.

Tessa hated those end-of-relationship talks. She hated the look in the

man's eyes, hated herself for failing again. All her relationships had

ended the same way, with the same phone call and the same

recriminations and guilt. How could she tell the men she felt nothing

for them yet couldn't understand why?

There was no way to tell them, which was why she spent her money on a

series of successively better answering machines. She couldn't tell

them, so she'd screen them out instead. And if, like Mike Hollister,

they threatened to come round and confront her in person, she'd simply

take off to the woods.

The southern California sun was brighter than Tessa liked. Despite the

fact that it was now May and the temperature was in the low seventies,

Tessa didn't discard her sweater. She always felt too exposed with

just a single layer of fabric be Her yellow Honda Civic was a good

friend. Unlike those tween her and the outside world. f faithless

cars in movies that always stalled when the heroine needed to get away,

the Civic purred into action the moment the key was turned.

Where to go? Tessa wanted to see some green. Not the chemically

enhanced green of land graded and ready for building, or the clipped

and cultured green of the Mission Gorge golf course. She wanted some

real green. Some living green.

Turning the car onto Texas Street, Tessa headed north from University

Heights and east on Highway 8, past lines of hotels, shopping malls,

bowling alleys, and driving ranges. It was early Saturday morning, so

the freeway was a breeze.

The sky was southern California blue: pale, cloudless, hazy. The

sunlight filtering through the driver's side window was warm on Tessa's

hands and face. h some deep and secret part of herself, Tessa was glad

to be on the run. It seemed the only times she was really happy in her

life were when she was on her way somewhere. If she was lucky, there

were minutes, even hours, when the anticipation of arrival was so

overpowering that she forgot about everything except the journey

itself. Without exception, when she finally reached her destination

she was always vaguely disappointed. She never seemed to get just

where she wanted to go.

As Tessa drove she was aware of a mild ringing sensation in her

temples. Shssssh, like fingernails scraped across a chalkboard. Tessa's

heart slowly sank in her chest. Not now. Not today. She'd gone so

long without feeling it, she'd secretly hoped it had gone. Pushing her

foot down on the accelerator, Tessa tried to put some distance between

herself and the noise. From experience she knew the longer and faster

she drove, the less her tinnitus would bother her.

Tinnitus: a buzzing or ringing sound in the ear. Tessa had first been

diagnosed with it when she was five years old, just before her family

had left England for America. She clearly remembered sitting in the

square stretch of grass that passed for their front garden in those

days, pushing her fists into her ears and asking her mother when the

pinging noise would stop. It felt as if a tiny bell had been struck

inside her head.

The noise went on and on. After a week the family doctor was called.

Dr. Bodesill was a large, red-nosed man who smelled of port and had a

peculiar fondness for wearing brightly knitted waistcoats. After much

highly Impressive umniing and aahing he advised Tessa's mother that

Tessa needed to go to London to see a specialist. Ten days later Tessa

was bundled up in a thicic winter coat in defiance of the heat, her

hair was pulled back and her socks were pulled high, and she was

dragged along to the station, protesting all the way.

Tessa liked the train. The rhythmic thug, thug of the metal wheels

skimming over the track and the multi pitched sound of the engine

masked her tinnitus completely during the two-hour journey. So

completely, in fact, that by the time they arrived in London Tessa was

sure the ringing in her ears had gone. Just as they coasted into

Euston Station, Tessa turned to her mother and said, Mummy, the noise

has stopped?

Tessa's mother had looked genuinely distressed at this statement: all

the way to London, a specialist waiting to see them, and now her unruly

and ungrateful daughter had taken it into her head to pronounce herself

cured! Tessa's mother was saved the anxiety of facing the London

specialist with a miraculously and most selfishly cured child by the

approach of a porter with a loud whistle.

In all her life, Tessa would never forget the sound of that whistle.

The train window had been rolled down since Stoke, and it was still

down when the porter walked along Platform 4 and, picking a position

less than three feet away from Tessa's left ear, blew sharply on his

professional stationmaster's whistle.

The sound razored through Tessa's left ear, slicing nerves and tissue

and membranes, setting her whole brain, her whole being, ringing with a

dense clamor of noise. It sounded like a great metal machine clanging

away inside her skull. Tessa remembered screaming hysterically and

begging her mother to make it stop. Hours later she learned that the

sound of her own screams had aggravated her condition further.

By the time they reached Harley Street, Tessa's mother had tied her

daughter's hands behind her back with her yellow nylon scarf. It was

the only way to stop Tessa from beating the noise from her temples.

The specialist, an otolaryngologist named Dr. Hemsch, gave Tessa a

sedative, a glass of lemonade, and a teddy bear to hold during the

examination. Over the course of the following hour, Tessa's ears were

probed with light and cold metal instruments, her hearing was tested by

exposure to series of low- and high-pitched sounds, and urine and blood

samples were taken by a plump nurse with cool hands.

Dr Hemsch explained his conclusions separately to mother and daughter.

Tessa would he forever grateful to him that he spoke to her first.

Tessa, he said, leaning forward and taking off his glasses, revealing

blue and kindly eyes beneath, you have what we call tinnitus. Now what

that means is that you hear buzzing noises in your ears. There will be

times just like today when the porter blew his whistle in the station

when the noises will sound louder than normal. And other times when

you'll hardly hear anything at all.

The doctor touched Tessa on her shoulder. You and I, Tessa, are going

to be a team. We've got to make sure that you stay well away from loud

noises like the porter's whistle, because although we don't know what

causes tinnitus, we know that loud noises make it worse.

Can you make the noises go away? Tessa asked, emboldened by the

exciting thought of her and Dr. Hemsch being a team.

Dr. Hemsch looked her straight in the eyes. I can't do anything to

make the noises go away. I can do things to lessen their effects, and

if the tinnitus doesn't get better on its own account, we will have to

look into those alternatives together.

Tessa smiled, a little sadly, as she overtook a black pickup truck in

the left-hand lane. She and Dr. Hemsch never did get chance to be a

team. Shortly after that first visit, she and her parents had moved to

New York. The tinnitus stopped sometime during the nine-hour flight

and didn't reappear until seven years later, relegating the blue-eyed

doctor and his cool-handed nurse to fond memories in the past.

The driver of the pickup truck hit: the accelerator and roared past

Tessa in the inside lane. As the pickup pulled ahead, Tessa noticed

the bumper sticker I DON'T TAKE IT I CREATE IT spelled out in bold,

black script on the back bumper. Instinctively she eased off the

accelerator.

She knew she drove too fast. She couldn't help herself. During the

summer she learned to drive, her tinnitus reappeared, and-she quickly

discovered that the farther down her foot was on the accelerator, the

more noise the car engine made. The best way to deal with tinnitus was

to mask it: to offset the high-pitched sound in the ears with an

equally loud but low-pitched external noise. The theory was that the

two sounds canceled each other out. Which wasn't entirely true, but it

did help. Sometimes more than others.

Spotting the turnoff for the 1-15 North, Tessa guided the yellow Honda

onto the left lane, slipping directly behind the black pickup. The

brake lights on the pickup flashed the moment her car was in lane.

Tessa's foot found the brake pedal. The freeway was clear, yet the

pickup's lights flashed twice more in rapid succession, forcing Tessa

to slow down. to The 1-15 junction was a third of a mile ahead,

according the California Transit sign. As Tessa's gaze dropped from

the sign back to the pickup, the noise in her ears sharpened. The

brake lights flashed red again. Tessa slammed her foot on the brake.

She felt the force of the seat belt pushing her back in her seat. The

driver of the pickup smiled into his rearview mirror. He had a dark

mustache, a double chin, and a small mouth crammed with teeth. Anger

flared hot in Tessa's sights. She wanted to ram the back of his truck,

ram it, then cut in front and slam on her brakes.

Old words came to her ears, though. Words of caution well worn from

twenty-one years of use: Calm down, Tessa. Calm down. The doctor said

you were never to get excited it might make the noises come back.

A lifetime of- self-control exerted itself over Tessa and she pumped

the brake, forcing the Honda to fall back to fifty five The pickup

shot ahead toward the turnoff. Tessa was shaking. Gray noise ground

through her temples. Suddenly she didn't want to take the 1-15 North.

She didn't want to meekly follow the pickup truck, defeated. Palms

damp upon the wheel, Tessa pulled out of the exit lane and slipped back

onto the 8 East.

Angry at herself now, she felt the tinnitus growing worse. It was

always this way: She wasn't supposed to get excited, yet the very act

of not getting excited agitated her even more.

The Honda sped eastward along the 8, past clinics and strip malls, D1Y

warehouses, and apartment complexes promising Free Move-in and Cable on

worn pastel signs. Back up to seventy now, Tessa tried to relax and

let the engine noise soothe her worn nerves. She no longer knew where

she was going. Mission Trails, with its old oaks and pines and its

hiking tracks leading through shaded valleys and over sandy hills, had

been her intended destination. Now she was simply driving east.

The incident with the pickup had left her shaken. Tessa tried to put

it behind her, but the tinnitus. the ringing in her ears that appeared

and then disappeared in sharp bursts throughout her life was getting

worse.

Soothing music, her last doctor had said, will help whenever the noises

start. Dr. Eagleman had handed Tessa a cassette of something entitled

The Healing Ocean, for which he had billed her $99 one month later. The

cassette turned out to be a mix of waves lapping against the shore,

threaded through with some tinny New Age music that would have sounded

right at home in a small-town airport lobby.

Fumbling in the driver's door pocket, Tessa's hand closed around The

Healing Ocean. She brought it up to the dashboard, took the cassette

from its striped blue box, and yanked on the length of exposed tape.

Streams of shiny brown ribbon raced through the spools and into the

air. Holding the cassette firmly against the steering wheel, Tessa

pulled and pulled on the tape until there was-nothing left of it in the

cassette.

The sight of the tape spaghettied on her lap made Tessa grin. Dr.

Eagleman's Healing Ocean did have therapeutic properties after all it

had just taken her a while to find them. For good measure she tossed

the empty cassette onto the backseat. Yes, she definitely felt better

now.

The Honda Civic sped eastward past La Mesa and the sprawling expanse of

El Cajon. Tessa, her nerves eased by the small act of destroying the

cassette, risked turning up the radio. Something classical was playing

Bach, she guessed. If her father had been with her, he would have

known for sure. Easing back into her seat, Tessa settled down to enjoy

the drive. Hospitals, gyms, and furniture stores gave way to

self-storage units, gun shops, and For Sale signs. The freeway

narrowed to two lanes and began to climb up toward Alpine Heights.

Despite the fact that the Honda was speeding along at seventy, the

shrill, metal ringing increased. The sound was close to the surface

now. Tessa could almost feel it straining to break free of her skin.

She turned Bach up a notch and deliberately shifted her thoughts away

from the noise.

Mike Hollister would be arriving at her door right about now. Always

polite, he would knock softly even after -he realized that she had run

away on him. Tessa felt bad about that. She liked Mike a lot. He was

a kind man, a good father to his four-year-old daughter, and he shared

Tessa's interest in illuminated manuscripts. That was how they had

first met at an exhibition of medieval books of hours given by the San

Diego Museum of Art. Mike was the curator. When Tessa reached out to

touch one of the tiny, leather-bound prayer books, Mike had been the

one to tell her touching wasn't allowed. The penalty was dinner with

him and his daughter.

Tessa smiled as she guided the Honda around the twists and bends in the

road. She couldn't understand why she felt such a great need to break

up with him.

By turns the freeway wound then sliced through the hillside, offering

dizzying views downward one minute and high walls of jagged rock the

next. The way ahead was steep, and Tessa slipped into third. The

gears screeched as they moved into place. Tessa winced. The noise in

her ears sharpened to a high buzz. It sounded like someone

screaming.

Why was it getting worse? She'd done nothing to bring it on. Since

moving to San Diego seven years ago, the only time she had experienced

the sensation was when she attempted to do anything that required great

concentration, like filling out her IRS forms or attempting to copy a

pattern that caught her eye.

Patterns fascinated her: Celtic jewelry, Oriental rugs, Victorian tile

work Roman mosaics anything where shapes and f9ms repeated themselves

to form a design. Whenever she came across a complicated pattern she

tried to copy it. At some point during the process, though when she

became so involved that she began to perceive the strategy behind the

lines and the grid beneath the forms, catching a whiff of the artist's

intent the ringing in her ears would softly start. Gentle as a pulse

felt by hand, but a warning nonetheless. Tessa had long since given up

trying to do anything too ambitious. She allowed herself only to

admire patterns now or trace them idly with little thought.

Tessa yanked the steering wheel left. Her concentration had been

slipping and the Honda had begun to drift to the right. A drop of

sheer shadows had torn chunks from the roadside, narrowing down her

lane and exposing a dark pine wooded valley like a bed of nails below.

THE BARBED COIL 4 ii

The buzz in Tessa's ears extended outward, forming a band of noise

across her forehead. A needling migraine of a noise, a thousand times

worse than any headache. Tessa bit her lip. Her eyes never left the

freeway for an instant.

She was surrounded by a world of green now. Hills and valleys bristled

with pines. Bushes and shrubs crowded close around the road. She hadn't

been this far east on the 8 for nearly a decade. If she remembered

correctly, the freeway led through the center of the Cleveland National

Forest. By the looks of all these trees she must be getting close.

A sign on the left of the road welcomed Tessa to Alpine. The

population was offered beneath, but Tessa couldn't take in the numbers.

The tinnitus was a serrated blade cutting through her thoughts.

Something flashed red in her lap. Glancing down at the ribbons of

cassette tape still coiled there, Tessa saw a drop of blood soaking

into the fabric of her jeans. Quickly she wiped her chin with the back

of her hand. The skin came back bloody. She had bit right through her

lip.

She knew she should stop. Pull into one of the quaint wayside

restaurants with wooden eaves and old-world signs promising fresh pies

and hot coffee, and rest. Take a couple of Tylenol, massage her aching

temples, close her eyes, and wait until the noises subsided.

Tessa didn't stop, though. The distance between knowing what was best

and doing what was best was growing longer with every second. The

ringing in her ears was no longer an irritant, it was a crowbar driving

a wedge between reason and action.

The Honda sped through Alpine and into the wooded hills beyond.

Tessa felt as if the tinnitus were driving the car for her. Bends were

taken sharply, motor homes were passed with rally like precision.

Accelerate, brake, turn. Tessa had little experience driving on

mountain slopes, yet her hands shifted gears with the skill of an

old-timer. When a turnoff came, she took it without question. With

her thoughts ripped to shreds by screaming sirens, questions were the

last thing on her mind.

She drove and drove. No longer on the freeway, Tessa wound inward

toward the heart of the forest. The paved road gave way to a dirt road

and then deteriorated to a hunting track.

Tall gangling pines formed armies to either side of the path, blocking

out light and barricading all exits. Tessa had no choice but to move

forward. When she glanced in the rearview minor, the very forest

itself seemed to have closed in across the road.

Noises hammered through Tessa's temples. Tears swelled in her eyes.

What was happening to her? The noises had never been so bad before.

A grove of oaks and willows appeared ahead. The wide and sloppy trees

looked liked a haven amid the disciplined pines, and Tessa, spying a

fork in the path, steered the Honda toward them.

The temperature in the car cooled the moment she turned the wheel. Once

in the shade, the light level dropped farther and midday took on the

look of twilight. Tessa shivered. The dirt track flared out to form a

semicircle and came to an end. Bringing the Honda to a halt, Tessa

rubbed her throbbing temples. Blood drummed fast and hard against her

fingers. She had to get out of the car. The Honda door squealed as

she opened it another sharp ribbon of noise that bound the tinnitus

tighter. The sound in her ears was unbearable now. Hardly aware of

what she was doing or where she was going, she stumbled through the

trees. The canopy of oaks and willows blocked out the midday sky. To

Tessa's tear-glazed eyes they seemed unnaturally close to each other.

On and on she walked, finding a path then losing a path, through brush

and grass and trees.

The pain in her head was like a wire that pulled her forward. Her feet

took steps that her mind had no part in, and her eyes discerned forms

she was no longer able to name.

The terrible, unbearable noise defined Tessa McCamfrey. She was no

longer a twenty-six-year-old woman with a job at Clairemont Telesales

and an apartment short of furniture and attention; she was a child

seeking comfort. And when she topped a small rise and came upon a

cleared glade, she found what she was looking for.

Lying amid the yellow grass and long-dried-out bushes,

nestling in a collection of positions and angles, like playing blocks

scattered over a nursery floor, were hundreds of dull gray boxes. All

open. Their contents in small piles, flapping gently as their weight

permitted. The minute Tessa saw them the noises in her head stopped.

TWO

eve nc counselor to kings, scholar of the ancient texts and master of

the old patterns, slumped against his scribing desk, clutching his

chest.

A trickle of dark blood ran from his nose. Following the lines of his

much creased face, the droplet slid down to his chin and then splashed

against the illumination that lay beneath his left hand. Blood

spattered both manuscript and skin. Even now Deveric was more than

wise enough to know a message when he saw one. This would be the last

pattern he ever scripted. His last and his best.

Five days and five nights he had worked on it, his old eyes squinting,

his shaking hands stilled first by drugs and then by his assistant.

Every pattern Deveric knew was encompassed in the illumination. Every

rule had been adhered to, every interlacing of animal and plant life

properly separated by the correct set of lines. Everything the

symmetry, the repetition of shape and color, and the mirroring of motif

and symbol had been perfectly rendered down to the last line and

curve.

Great power had been drawn into the illumination. Enough power to tear

through the magic of the Shedding. In that deeply creviced place,

where the debris shed from all worlds accumulated as silently and

inevitably as dust above a mantel, something stirred. Deveric had felt

it building as he worked; each turn of his quill was a summoning,

every scratch of the nib drew forth something extra with the ink.

Patterns so intricate they defied the eye, paired with symbols of such

weight that even to paint them seemed a kind of sacrilege, combined to

make the illumination shine. Not with light, as the word suggested,

but with truth and meaning and might.

The pattern, with its elaborate filigree of loops, shapes,

and colors, was a work of sorcery as much as art. Creating it had

taken everything Deveric had inside him. His heart, his mind, his very

soul, were now lost within the lines.

It was only fitting that his blood was now upon it too.

My lord? came a soft, hesitant voice. My lord, are you all right?

Deveric heard the words, understood the meaning, but was powerless to

reply. His very old heart had beaten for the last time. The second

the final curve was drawn, the instant the pattern was complete, his

heart had broken in two.

He had done his job, drawn forth a chance for hope. The world of warm

sunlight and cool evenings was lost to him now. It was a good life he

had lived, with children and grandchildren and a wife who loved him

dearly. If his sons had only been kinder, he could have asked for

nothing more.

My lord. Wake up! Please, wake up!

Deveric smiled. Emith, the gentle man who was his assistant, whose

love and loyalty could be heard on every breath and whose life for the

past twenty-two years had been dedicated to serving his master, had no

idea of the power that had just been drawn. The tanglings of the

pattern the strands. that twined and're twined across the parchment,

the shapes that chased each other around the borders, and the threads

that brushed quill close yet never met were the key to its drawing. Yet

to Emith they were little more than lines.

Pain cleaved through the collapsed muscle that was now Deveric's heart.

He would miss his old assistant very much.

All he could hope for now was that this final pattern, which in itself

formed part of a larger pattern that he had worked on for the last

twenty-one years, would do what it was scribed for: bring together

those who could set a monstrous wrong to right.

Today a man would crown himself king of a country that lay east beyond

the mountains. Garizon had been fifty long years without a sovereign

and with good reason. The ruling house of Garizon consumed land with

all the mindless greed of a firestorm.

Even now, before the Barbed Coil had been placed upon his head, the one

who would be king was looking to the west.

J. V. Jones - The Barbed Coil

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