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self. But his father had been elated.
    â€œWe have a writer in the family,” he told all the neighbours.
    Sarmillion had all but forgotten the incident. But now, as he fled the scene of his own traitorous crime, he realized he had fulfilled Willa’s prophecy.
    Besides, hadn’t he snuck down that very hallway once in his life when the fellow guarding it had slipped away for his nightly nip of mug-wine? The truth was, Sarmillion had gone to seek out that door specifically to read the ancient runes he’d heard had been set into them. He’d never forgotten them; blast it anyway, he’d absorbed the words through his fingertips until they’d sunk into his blood, and wasn’t that why the door-maker had done it? Of course it was.
    Beware this door, beware your soul! May this door never be opened, or the beggar shall be king. Think twice and thrice, for if it be opened, this door can never again be shut.
    Now he remembered another one of Balbadoris’s questions. “How would one rid the world of the Beggar King if ever the circumstances arose?” the old scholar had asked him.
    â€œIf the circumstances arose?” Sarmillion had scoffed. “But they never would. How can you rid the world of an idea?”
    â€œBy drowning it in the River of the Dead,” he’d hollered. Oh, Balbadoris’s ire had been great that day. He did not share Sarmillion’s view that the Beggar King was merely a metaphor.
    But there it was. Sarmillion had considered it silliness then, and he thought it so now. Even if there was such thing as the Beggar King, a person would have to be dead before arriving at the River of the Dead (hence, the name) and so would not be much use as far as drowning was concerned.
    The sound of the river brought Sarmillion back to himself. The Balakan River ran grand, clear and wide, spanned by the twelve bridges which connected the mountain-island city with the rest of Katir-Cir.
    â€œCan I come to Omar with you?” Jordan asked.
    â€œYou most certainly cannot. And if the Great Light knows what’s what, there won’t be a single bridge in Cir that will grant you passage. Now, go back up that road and get to school. Learn something that will make your father proud.”
    He leaned towards the boy and confided, “A Loyalist needs to know his history if he wants to fight with the sharpest weapons.” Then Sarmillion gave a gallant bow. “May the Great Light shine upon you.”
    But something must have occurred to Jordan, for his forehead wrinkled and he asked, “What robes will you wear? What will you do?”
    The undercat shrugged. “I won’t take robes under Brinnian rule. I shall live by my wits, boy, and stout glasses of mug-wine.” It sounded impressive, but in reality Sarmillion didn’t have a single idea what he would do now, and he wasn’t convinced his wits were sharp enough to earn him even a place to sleep.
    He gripped Balbadoris’s varnished oak walking stick and set his foot upon the stone Bridge of Resolve, which admitted him immediately.

Six
S PELLS FOR B OYS
    J ORDAN GAVE S ARMILLION A SAD WAVE as the undercat embarked upon the stone bridge. But as soon as he was out of sight, Jordan moved towards the same bridge. He was going to Omar to find a door-maker named Willa and ask her about a brass door that should have been guarded, but wasn’t. Jordan grimaced. He hadn’t just touched it, he’d opened it — and hadn’t Sarmillion told him about Master Mimosa’s great uncle who had died just because the scholar had touched the door? What if Jordan had doomed his mother? Great Light, what had he done?
    He approached the Bridge of Resolve with a determined stride. But as soon as he tried to put his foot down on the stones, he felt a force like a giant hand push it back and knock him to the ground.
    â€œSlag,” he said as he got up, rubbing his backside.
    Each of the twelve