Denser sighed and Ciryn looked up, frowning, her finger propping open a scroll, her teeth irritating at her bottom lip.
“Master Denser?”
“Sorry, but I can't make any sense of this.”
“But I'm afraid I think I can,” said the diviner.
“Why afraid?”
“Because you are the child's father. I'll write down the piece I have translated,” said Ciryn.
“No, just tell me,” said Denser.
“Oh. All right.” She took in a deep breath. “I don't think it's a shielding, I think that was the wrong interpretation. But it's a way of bringing a One Mage from Night undamaged.”
“How?” A chance to really help his daughter was there for him to grasp.
“By the father opening his mind to the storm and surrounding his child with the power of his mind, so showing the light the mage needs to complete Awakening.”
Denser felt suddenly cold. “But that would mean I would d—”
“Be irrevocably changed, yes.”
The Circle Seven had taken Denser's words in complete silence the following midmorning. Deep under the Tower of the Lord of the Mount in the Laryon Chamber, they had granted him unwilling audience then sat transfixed as he recounted recent events in Dordover, spoken of Erienne's letter and the work he and Ciryn had completed the night before.
The Circle Seven, Xetesk's Tower Masters, chaired by Dystran, the fortunate incumbent of the Mount, had been expecting more pressure for research. What they heard was a cry for help and the raising of the spectre of a threat from another College.
“How long since her disappearance?” asked Ranyl, an ageing master, hairless and hunched but still vital in his magic.
“More than sixty days.” There was a hiss of indrawn breath.
“And you still hope to find her,” said Dystran. His tenure had aged his young face, his eyes looked heavy and his black hair was shot through with grey.
“Yes,” said Denser firmly. “There seems little doubt who she has gone to.”
Dystran chuckled. “Indeed, but we are now entering the realm of myth and blind belief. And we have no idea where these one-magic mages of yours live, should they turn out to be real.”
“You should read more,” responded Denser. “Ilkar says there's significant evidence that they're on or near Calaius and that's backed up, albeit tenuously, by the leads we found in Dordover.”
“So what do you want of us?” Dystran regarded Denser over steepled fingers, affecting a pose of studied contemplation. Denser almost laughed. This Lord of the Mount was a ridiculous figure who had done nothing but engender political instability since his surprise tenure had begun more than five years before. A bigger surprise was that he remained alive. Ranyl was doubtless the architect of his continued survival. Denser wandered how long it would be before the old man made his move.
“I need Xetesk to keep Dordover away. Their intentions are clear enough and we can't let them take Lyanna back, or worse.”
Dystran's eyes flashed fanatically cold. “Oh we'll keep Dordover away, all right. We can't have them meddle any further with the natural order. And you clearly understand your role. It's certainly fortunate we've delayed implementation of the volunteer release plan your Unknown Warrior so desires, isn't it?”
Denser shuddered. The Protectors would be marching again. The Unknown wasn't going to like it.
Selik rode with a guard of eight Black Wings, his journey from Dordover to Arlen pausing in the ruins of Denebre. He wanted to show his men what it was they were fighting for. Not that they were wavering. It just never hurt to reinforce beliefs.
But what he saw didn't merely do that, it added a whole new dimension. And for Selik personally, it set his anger raging afresh and brought an ache to his dead eye. The nine men rode slowly around the edges of the once beautiful lakeside town. They couldn't even get to what had been the centre; chasms in the earth blocked their way.
And perhaps that was fortunate. The stench of death was everywhere. Above the wind, the buzzing of myriad flies was a warning to keep away and everywhere they looked, rats scurried. Disease would be running into the rivers and soaking into the ground. Selik hated to think about the state of the poor innocents lying dead and unburied.
He could imagine all too easily the panic that had engulfed the town. As the earth heaved and buildings plunged, people would have abandoned everything that was dear to them. Their homes, their possessions. Their families. The air would have been filled with the screams of the terrified and the wounded and dying. Dust would have clogged lungs, chips of stone and glass would have slashed faces and hands; and everywhere they ran, the people of Denebre would have encountered the ground at their feet tearing itself apart, swallowing them whole or ripping their bodies to shreds.
Looking across the ruins it was hard to imagine the life that had been there so recently. Not one building was left standing. On the opposite side of the town, the castle was rubble. Selik could make out parts of the keep, piles of tottering stone and snapped timbers suggested where the walls might have been. But the outer structures were gone. A gash seventy yards wide had driven through the centre of the courtyard in front of the keep and taken it all down.
Nearer to where they sat, mute, the Black Wings couldn't make out a single road or where the marketplace had stood. Debris littered the ground, great boulders and shelves of earth had thrust from below and, here and there, a ragged piece of cloth or the smashed remnants of furniture were all that signified the life that had been so brutally snuffed out.
Selik was amazed that anyone had survived and indeed only a handful had, taking their story to Pontois or Lystern, some south to Erskan. But who was to say it wouldn't happen again in any of those places?
Selik turned to his men, taking in their disbelieving expressions and the hands over their mouths to keep out the worst of the smell that drifted by on the breeze.
“This is why we fight magic,” he said. “This is why we are right. Magic caused all of this, never forget that. It is a force of evil and we are the only ones who can see it. The rest of the world is blind.”
But not for long, he thought. The destruction across Balaia had to change the perceptions of its people. They would demand more control. The mages couldn't be trusted to keep their power benign and innocents were dying in their hundreds and thousands, taken by forces they couldn't understand.
The worst of it was that she was behind it all. The bitch had given birth to the abomination whose mind was destroying the land. All in the cause of greater power, of domination. Selik seethed and as he put his heels to his mount and spurred it on southward, leaving Denebre to rot, he began to imagine the pain he would cause her before he allowed her to die. Justice for the righteous. Agonising death for the mage.
The rain was falling hard on the Balan Mountains when Ilkar and The Unknown Warrior arrived late one evening, tired and hungry, eleven days after parting company with Denser. It was a bleak and cold night following a chill and sunless day. The rain had fallen incessantly and the pair had ridden into the teeth of a biting wind, every part of their bodies soaked despite cloaks and leather. Bemoaning the sharp change in the weather from the sun and warmth of Julatsa, Ilkar was walking his horse and wishing fervently he was caressing Pheone's body when a movement in the rocks above caught his eye.
“Unknown—” he began, but with a shriek, a huge shadow tore through the clouds, sweeping low over them. Ilkar's horse reared and bolted, the elf making no attempt to hold on to the reins. The Unknown was pitched from his, landing in a heap on the ground, a flurry of hooves narrowly missing his head as his mount followed Ilkar's in a desperate attempt to escape.
The dragon banked and turned, its black outline only just visible against the heavy cloud in the darkness. Ilkar, shield spell on lips and heart hammering, moved toward The Unknown as the big man surged to his feet. He was swordless but no less imposing and his face was creased in irritation.
“Hirad!” he bark
ed over the noise of wind, rain and wing. “That is not funny.”
Nos-Kaan flew overhead, heading back to the Choul.
“Can't be too careful,” came the shouted reply. A figure moved down from the rocks above them. He had a few days’ growth of stubble on his chin, long unkempt hair blowing about his head and heavy furs covering his trademark leather armour. He moved quickly and surely over treacherous wet rock, displaying no fear of the steep falls any slip would bring. Ilkar expected nothing less from Hirad Coldheart.
He leapt the last few feet, his tough leather boots smacking in a small puddle, and pulled Ilkar into a rough embrace.
“Gods, it's good to see you, Ilks,” he said. Ilkar pulled away, his nose wrinkling.
“You haven't built the bathhouse yet, then?” he said. Hirad grinned, his teeth white against his dark stubble.
“Sorry, it's these furs. I haven't got much in the way of curing tools up there. I'm taking them to Blackthorne in a couple of days, get them seen to.”
“I don't think so, Hirad,” said Ilkar. The barbarian's smile disappeared and he looked from one old friend to the other.
“This isn't a social call, then?” he asked.
“In this weather?” said Ilkar, wiping a sheen of water from his face.
“We'll tell you all about it once you've found our horses and kit,” grumbled The Unknown. “Was that little display really necessary?”
Hirad's face was sombre. “I can't take chances, Unknown. I couldn't see who it was and neither could Nos until he was closer. The hunters are getting too clever.”
The Unknown nodded. “Later,” he said. “Let's get ourselves out of this rain first, eh?”
It was a beautifully warm sunny day in Dordover, quite at odds with the chill that had swept over the city the day before. The scent of late-flowering blooms hung in the air of the College grounds and the chittering of birds gave an almost spring-like atmosphere. But it was moving toward late autumn and Vuldaroq did not enjoy sweating in the heat during this season. He bustled along the cloister to the Chamber of Reflection where visiting College dignitaries were met, sighing in satisfaction at its cool ambience as he swept in, dark voluminous robes flapping behind him.
The Chamber of Reflection was a room built entirely of polished granite slabs, in each corner of which a fountain or waterfall had been built to engender peace and calm. Woven reed chairs sat about a low marble table and beyond the doors opposite the cloistered corridor was the rock garden. It was a place much loved by mages for its intricate arrangements of pools and plants but hated by Vuldaroq for its ability to trap the sun's heat. He would not be entering it today.
Waiting in the Chamber were two men recently arrived from Lystern, Balaia's fourth and smallest College. Heryst, Lord Elder Mage, and General Ry Darrick, Balaia's brilliant young soldier. He was scowling beneath his mass of light brown curly hair and plainly uncomfortable, shifting his tall frame as if in a hurry to leave as he stood behind the seated Heryst. Three goblets and a jug sat on the low table next to a large wicker bowl of fruits.
“You took your time,” said Vuldaroq, bridling at Heryst's refusal to rise as he entered.
Heryst merely smiled. “There are many issues demanding my attention in Lystern. We travelled as soon as was practicable.”
“Pour yourself some juice, Vuldaroq,” said Darrick. “Sit down. You're looking a little flushed.”
Vuldaroq met Darrick's eyes. The General didn't flinch, staring back placidly until the Dordovan reached for the jug.
“Your Communion was not detailed,” said Heryst. “I take it you have a problem too severe for Dordover to handle alone.”
Vuldaroq eased himself into a chair, his bulk causing the weave to creak and protest. He took a long draw on the cooling mixed apple and orange juice, determining to retain a modicum of control.
“As you may be aware, the child has left Dordover. This would not be a problem in itself but she and her mother have disappeared, to all intents and purposes, and we believe them to have been contacted by servants of the One Way.”
Heryst laughed. “Vuldaroq, you always did have a penchant for the dramatic. For you, the most outrageous of conclusions to any series of events has always been the most likely. No doubt Erienne is relaxing with her husband. Or perhaps she and Lyanna have merely taken a break from the rigours of training. They are not your prisoners, remember; they can go and do whatever they like without your permission.”
Vuldaroq mopped his sweating brow and allowed himself a patronising smile.
“Busy your College may be but it faces inward from dawn ‘til dusk. Lyanna is a child of the One, that much is now achingly obvious, and her effect is already being felt across Balaia. Presumably you are aware that Greythorne Town and Thornewood have been struck by winds the like of which none have ever experienced, and that Denebre has been all but swallowed by the earth.” He leaned back, waiting for reaction. Darrick's shrug disappointed but did not surprise him.
“Portents of some greater doom, are they?” The soldier couldn't keep the cynicism from his voice.
“Absolutely,” said Vuldaroq, hoping his sombre response would disconcert the cocky General. “You are clearly not conversant with the Tinjata Prophecy. Your High Elder Mage, of course, is.”
Heryst was suddenly a shade paler, his swagger gone. Vuldaroq watched him replay the words of the prophecy in his head before he spoke, his voice quiet.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“About what?”
Heryst shrugged. “All of it.”
“How much more evidence do you need? Surely the word is spreading around Lystern as it is here. Denebre has gone, swallowed by the earth. Thornewood has been flattened by a hurricane, we've had reports of flooding from a dozen and more towns, and Blood Lake now covers over twice its original area. Even Korina hasn't escaped. And that's not to mention all the stories of lightning storms, hail lasting days and cloud so dense the sun never penetrates.
“Look, Denser was here a few days ago with Ilkar and The Unknown Warrior. The Raven is reforming to search for her. They share our concerns. This child must be found and returned to the College before more harm is done.”
“And Xetesk?” ventured Heryst.
Vuldaroq blew out his cheeks. “We can expect them to be troublesome. Though they too are at risk from the elemental forces battering Balaia.”
“But surely they believe the outcome will be better for them if the girl is not found and returned,” said Heryst.
“Indeed, so long as the storms cease,” agreed Vuldaroq. “We must be very wary of them.”
“So what do you require of us?” asked Darrick, mindful of Heryst's reaction.
“Both The Raven and the child will need protection. I have people shadowing The Raven. When the time is right, I want you, General, to be in the right place to help them. That could be before or after they find the girl. If Heryst agrees, I want you to lead a force of Dordovan and Lysternan cavalry to achieve that aim.”
“Naturally,” said Heryst. “Anything.”
Vuldaroq smiled. “Thank you, Heryst. Your cooperation will see both of our Colleges remain independent.” Darrick was frowning, looking down at his feet. “General, is anything bothering you?”
“There's something not right about this,” said Darrick. “I don't see why The Raven were called upon so late and I don't see why Xetesk would cause any trouble. Surely they share your—our—interest in the child?”
Vuldaroq's lips thinned. “My dear General, The Raven had retired. And while Denser was fully in support of our early efforts to find Lyanna alone, it subsequently became clear we needed more help, hence The Raven and your good selves.
“And you are right, Xetesk does share our interest, but they have an agenda other than our own. They want to see a return to the One Way of magic and that would spell, if you'll pardon the pun, the end of Dordover, Lystern and, for that matter, Julatsa.”
“I can't see why Xetesk would desire that.
Not now—surely they are as anxious as any of us to maintain equality among the Colleges?”
“Well, that rather depends on whether they feel they can survive and become the dominant force without the need for battle. And I believe that's exactly what they think.”
Darrick nodded, though Vuldaroq could see he remained unconvinced. “And what of Erienne and Lyanna's feelings and desires?”
“They are Dordovans,” said Vuldaroq sharply. “And it is our right as well as our duty to train them in the Dordovan ethic. Lyanna will, of course, be allowed to expand her compass to other disciplines but she should remain, at root, one of ours.”
Darrick raised his eyebrows. “Surely Lyanna is a child of Dordover and Xetesk, at the very least, and perhaps of all Colleges.”
“Ry, please? I'll explain later.” Heryst looked over his shoulder.
Darrick shrugged. “They are my friends, my Lord Mage. I am merely anxious to see right done by them.”
“And it will be,” assured Heryst.
“There is far more at stake here than friendship,” said Vuldaroq.
Darrick regarded him coolly. “No, there isn't,” he said. “Not for me.” He bowed to both mages and left the Chamber of Reflection.
Vuldaroq scowled. “You keep your General in line,” he said. “We've already got The Raven out there and I can't have any more mavericks. This is too big.”
“Don't worry, Vuldaroq. Darrick may be possessed of a big heart but he is also possessed of an unflinching loyalty to Lystern. He'll do as I ask.”
“See that he does.”
Lyanna was walking alone down the corridor to her room as Erienne hurried into the house, a confrontation with the Al-Drechar on her mind.
“Lyanna?” she called, a little more sharply than she'd intended, taken aback that Ren'erei wasn't shadowing her.
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